DANTE ALIGHIERI – PARADISO

Canto I
Before resuming his narrative from Purgatory, Dante invokes the Greek god Apollo to bless his poem. He then
picks up where the previous volume left off: it is noon, and Dante stands with his beloved Beatrice in the
Earthly Paradise atop Mount Purgatory. Beatrice turns her eyes toward the sun, and the two begin to rise into
the sky. Dante, awestruck, wonders whether he is having an out-of-body experience. As they ascend through the
atmosphere, he and Beatrice pass through a layer of fiery light.

Sensing Dante's curiosity about all that is happening, Beatrice offers an explanation. Human souls, she says,
have an innate tendency to rise toward God when they are not deluded into shunning Him. Since Dante has been
purified of his sins in Purgatory, he is now subject to this force of attraction. God draws him upward through the
heavens as naturally and unresistingly as flames rise or water flows downhill. The real marvel, she says, would
be if Dante were "free of all impediment"—as he is now—but somehow remained on Earth.

Canto II
Dante warns his readers of the challenging territory that lies ahead. They will be "wonder-struck," he says, by
the sights and sounds he is about to relate. Rising through the heavens as swiftly as an arrow, he
and Beatrice arrive at the moon, which Dante imagines as a "cloud ... shining and solid, dense and burnished
clean."

Enveloped in this cloud, Dante asks Beatrice why the moon appears to have dark spots when viewed from
Earth. He has heard various explanations, some of them based on folklore and others on (medieval) astronomy.
One explanation attributes the spots to variations in the density of the matter that makes up the moon: where the
moon matter is "rarer" (i.e., less dense), the dark spots appear.

This, says Beatrice, is inaccurate. If the moon varied in density throughout, she explains, the sun would shine
through the less dense regions during an eclipse. Or, if only a portion of the moon varied in density, the dense
portion would reflect the sunlight back uniformly, just as mirrors at various distances reflect a flame with equal
clarity. Instead, Beatrice describes the uneven appearance of the moon as a reflection of the variety with which
God has endowed the physical universe.

Canto III
Still on (or in) the moon, Dante encounters "many faces," shimmering and insubstantial. At first he thinks his
eyes might be playing tricks on him—the faces seem to be present at some moments but vanish at
others. Beatrice instructs him to trust his instinct and speak to the faces. The first "shadow" he addresses is that
of Piccarda, a 13th-century noblewoman and a sister of Dante's childhood friend Forese Donati. The souls in
this level of Heaven, Piccarda explains, are the inconstant: otherwise virtuous souls who betrayed a sacred vow.
Once a nun, Piccarda was taken from her convent by force, violating her vow in the process.

Dante asks whether the souls in this lower sphere of Heaven are not frustrated or dissatisfied, knowing greater
perfection and joy exist further up. No, answers Piccarda, everyone in Heaven is perfectly content with their lot
regardless of rank: they "will / no more than what [they] have, nor thirst for more." Otherwise, she explains, this
would not really be Paradise, since the souls would be opposing themselves to the will of God. Piccarda then
gestures toward Constance, another woman who was forcibly deprived of the "pure, white hood" of religious
sisterhood. This is Constance of Sicily (1154–98), who—according to Dante—left the convent "against her
will" to become the Holy Roman empress. A new question forms in Dante's mind, and he turns toward Beatrice
only to be momentarily blinded by her radiance.
Canto IV
Dante's experiences on the moon have raised two questions in his mind, which Beatrice proceeds to answer
before he can ask them aloud. He is wondering, first, whether the Greek philosopher Plato is correct in writing
that souls "go back to [the] stars" upon death. This is not literally accurate, Beatrice insists, but is partly true if
seen metaphorically. Heaven, she explains, is not really a set of concentric spheres like the planetary orbits
Dante is traversing. Instead, all souls are enthroned in the same "sphere"—the "highest gyre" that exists outside
the physical universe. Thus, souls like Piccarda and Constance in Canto 3 are not physically remote from God.
Rather, the stars-and-planets imagery is God's way of relaying divine truth to the limited "human mind," since
before being united with God humans still are limited in understanding.

Dante's second, difficult question concerns the justice of punishing souls for acts committed against their will. If
Piccarda and Constance were forced to break their vows, why are they held responsible? Beatrice prefaces her
explanation with an acknowledgment "that justice in our realm, to mortal eyes" will sometimes "seem unjust."
Free will, she continues, is paramount and cannot be defeated even by force. Piccarda and Constance could have
resisted those who forced them from their convents, just as early martyrs accepted death rather than betraying
their faith. When "will conjoins with violence," Beatrice maintains, "there is no excuse"—even if the consent is
granted out of fear for one's life, that is not enough.

Satisfied, Dante thanks Beatrice for her explanation. He then asks a follow-up question: Can souls "make
amends" for a broken or "unfulfilled" vow? As Beatrice turns to answer him, the canto ends.

Canto V
Beatrice now restates Dante's question about broken vows. "You wish to know if, when a vow falls short, /
some other service might be rendered up / to keep that soul secure from legal charge." She comes to the answer
in a roundabout way. Free will, she first explains, is God's greatest gift to humankind, which makes vows—as
sacrifices of one's own will—especially precious to God. To offer up one's will with a vow and then break it is
to "steal" from God something that has already been given. Christians should therefore not make vows lightly.

Her speech concluded, Beatrice and Dante "[run] on swiftly to the second realm," traveling almost instantly
from the moon to Mercury. Here, as on the moon, numerous souls rush forth to greet Dante and answer his
questions. One "holy soul" breaks from the crowd to address Dante and remarks on the rare privilege of visiting
Heaven before one's own death. Dante asks who this "honoured soul" might be, but the important answer is not
given until Canto 6.

Canto VI
The soul speaking to Dante now identifies himself as the 6th-century Byzantine emperor Justinian. He recounts
his conversion from monophysitism, the belief Christ was entirely divine and "not truly man," under the
teaching of Pope Agapetus I. Purged of this error, Justinian says, he went on to do great things in God's name.
He then recounts Rome's glorious history, from its mythological origins through the days of the Republic and
the Western Roman Empire. The reign of Augustus—the first Roman emperor, widely considered the greatest
—contrasts, in Justinian's view, with the dismal and fractious state of Dante's Italy. Justinian is disdainful of the
constant fighting over who will control Rome. The present-day political factions, he suggests, are engaged in
dishonorable squabbling over the mere "Sign" of imperial rule.

Canto VII
Justinian's speech breaks off into a song of praise to God. This is soon accompanied by a flourish of light as
other souls of the second heaven join in. Confused, Dante calls out for Beatrice, who speaks to him about the
nature of original sin, redemption, and Christ's sacrifice on the Cross. She tells him Adam, "the unborn first of
men," "damned all born to him" when he first sinned by disobeying God. Eventually, after many generations,
God came to Earth in human form to set things right. In dying on the Cross, Christ—as both God and man—
settled the debt humankind had incurred through Adam's sin.
Dante, being an educated Christian of his times, already knows all this. What he wants to know is why Christ's
sacrifice was necessary. Such an act, Beatrice says, "was right and finest" because the enormity of Adam's sin
prevented humankind from ever sufficiently atoning by itself. Thus, God was left to remedy the sin "by His own
means." He chose to do so in human form because this not only revealed His humility and generosity but also
restored humanity's dignity.

Beatrice now turns to a related point: the apparent temporariness of the created universe. Physical matter, she
admits, changes and decays, but neither angels nor human souls do so. These immortal creatures, she says, were
made directly by God, whereas plants, animals, and ordinary matter were made indirectly, at His command.
Thus, Beatrice maintains, humankind can expect a bodily resurrection prior to the Last Judgment—the end of
the world—since Adam and Eve's bodies were formed by God's direct intervention.

Canto VIII
Dante now imperceptibly rises toward the third heaven, named for the sweet planet Venus. Here he encounters a
group of swirling lights, which represent the next gathering of blessed souls. One soul glides forward and asks
what Dante wishes to know. "Who are you?" Dante asks, and the soul describes himself as an old friend. He
gradually offers Dante enough geographic clues to identify him as Charles Martel (1271–95), a contemporary
European prince who briefly ruled as king of Hungary.

Grateful to see Charles in Heaven, Dante poses him another question: "How can it be that sweet seed leads to
sour?" In other words, how can it be that the children of a wise and just ruler fail to follow in his footsteps?
Charles is glad to oblige, drawing on his own unfortunate family history of greed and treacheries. Nature, he
says, is guided by divine providence in making people vary in their skills and temperaments, so they can form a
society in which different roles must be filled. Human beings, however, do not always cooperate with nature
and providence. Instead, they often force one another—or themselves—into roles for which they are ill suited.
A man with a warlike nature is made to become a monk or bishop, for example, while "someone who should
preach" is made a king.

Canto IX
Still in the third heaven (Venus), Dante encounters more souls who explain the nature of this level of Paradise.
The souls here, he learns, are those who gave in to their earthly passions—particularly their sexual desires—and
were therefore lacking in the virtue of temperance. He first speaks with one named Cunizza (Cunizza da
Romano, who lived from 1198 to 1279), who admits: "The light of Venus vanquished me." She complains of
the ongoing political strife in northern Italy, but she assures Dante this earthly turmoil is part of a much larger
divine plan. Cunizza then falls silent, and another brilliantly glowing soul approaches. Prompted by Dante, he
introduces himself as Folco of Marseilles, a late 12th-century troubadour who "burned" with lust before
renouncing the world and becoming a monk. The souls in this sphere, Folco explains to Dante, are no longer
saddened by the memory of their past foolishness. "Here we don't repent such things," he says. "We smile ... at
that Might that governs and provides."

Folco, in turn, directs Dante's gaze to another soul who "shines" alongside him. This is Rahab, mentioned in the
Hebrew scriptures as a harlot who helps Joshua's army capture Jericho and thereby saved her family from
destruction. Her inclusion among the blessed is fitting, Folco explains, because she witnessed the triumph of
God's chosen people in the Holy Land. Folco, sharing Dante's craft of poetry, ends his speech by lamenting the
corruption of the popes and cardinals, whose greed has made them wholly indifferent to the teachings of the
Bible.

Canto X
Dante begins this canto with a rapturous meditation on the "clear order" of the created universe. He marvels at
"the skill / the Master [i.e., God] demonstrates" in ordering all things, from the orbits of planets to the
meanderings of thought. Then, turning abruptly back to his narrative, he describes his ascent to the sphere of the
sun, out of Earth's shadow, the fourth level of Paradise. The souls here array themselves around Dante
and Beatrice in a ring or halo, singing a song Dante lacks the words to describe.

The first soul to address Dante in this sphere is Thomas Aquinas (1224–74), the Dominican priest best known
as the author of Summa Theologiae ("Summation of Theology"). Thomas proceeds to identify several
philosophers, theologians, and historians from among the other souls present, briefly noting the achievements of
each. The roster is impressive and wide ranging, including figures from the 4th century and through Dante's
own time.

Canto XI
Moved by these examples of wisdom and piety, Dante lashes out against the "idiotic strivings of the human
mind." It is vain, Dante argues, to seek only secular knowledge, or to seek it merely for the sake of personal
gain. Resuming his speech, Thomas Aquinas tells of two saints who were sent by God to guide the Church on
Earth—to keep the "Ship of [Saint] Peter" on a steady course. He recounts, in terms full of admiration, the life
of Saint Francis, whom he describes allegorically as a "groom" wooing the "bride" Poverty. Other saints, he
notes, have since been moved by Francis's example. Aquinas then much more briefly discusses Saint Dominic,
the founder of the Dominican order. He complains of the laxness of the order's present-day members, whom he
likens to sheep straying from a shepherd.

Canto XII
Dante now finds himself surrounded by two circles of souls, which he likens to a double rainbow. Another soul
—a saint named Bonaventure (c. 1217–74)—speaks up and narrates the life of Saint Dominic, whom
Bonaventure imagines as a "knight" fighting under the banner of Christ. Wedded to Faith at a young age—just
as Saint Francis was wedded to Poverty—Dominic grew up to become a "scholar of great worth" and a rooter-
out of heresies. Meanwhile, Bonaventure laments, the Franciscan order has grown soft and no longer upholds its
commitment to a life of poverty. Bonaventure concludes his speech by pointing out several of the other souls
who occupy the sphere of the sun. Some of these are Bonaventure's fellow Franciscans, but others are Christian
thinkers and preachers dating back to the 4th century.

Canto XIII
The wise souls, still encircling Dante, begin to wheel around him yet again and sing the praises of the Trinity.
Thomas Aquinas speaks once more, taking up a seemingly incidental point he made back in Canto 10. There he
had referred to Solomon as a king unequaled in wisdom. He now explains: Solomon was the wisest king who
ever lived, but not necessarily the wisest person, or the wisest in all ways. Aquinas praises Solomon's modesty
in asking only for the wisdom to govern his kingdom well when he might have asked God for much more. The
wisdom was thus not perfect or infinite as it would be if Solomon were created directly by God, as were Adam
and Christ. He concludes by warning Dante against jumping to conclusions in reasoning about such fine-grained
theological issues.

Canto XIV
Dante is thrilled by Thomas Aquinas's exposition of the wisdom of Solomon. Beatrice poses to Thomas another
question:
Tell him: that light in which, as what you are, ...
will that remain eternally with you?
She goes on to ask what will happen to this light when the faithful are resurrected bodily at the Last Judgment.
Won't it be blindingly bright? The souls whirl around in joy at this question, and King Solomon himself offers
an answer. After the resurrection of the body, he says, the light of the blessed will shine even brighter. In their
physically perfect state, however, the blessed will be able to tolerate and even delight in the increased radiance.
Amid a shower of bright sparks, Dante now proceeds to Mars, the fifth level of Paradise and the abode of the
courageous. Here, he sees the souls array themselves in the form of a cross—from which, at the center,
"blaze[s] out Christ" in a manner Dante cannot quite describe. The song sung here, though still too sublime for
Dante to put into words, has an air of conquest and victory to it.
Canto XV
In the sphere of Mars, the souls cease their singing so Dante may speak with them. The soul of Cacciaguida
(1090–1147), a mysterious ancestor of Dante's, joyfully addresses his descendant. He thanks God for gracing
Dante with the privilege of visiting Paradise and gratefully acknowledges Beatrice's role in making Dante ready
for "this great flight." Asked about his own life, Cacciaguida recalls a time—conspicuously unlike Dante's own
—in which Florence "lived on in modesty, chasteness and peace." Those days, when everyone was content with
their lot and social customs had not yet been corrupted by money, are long gone, as Cacciaguida recognizes. He
then describes his own death in the Crusades.

Canto XVI
Dante continues his interview with the soul of Cacciaguida, his great-great-grandfather. Full of pride in his
family, he speaks to Cacciaguida in noble but somewhat archaic Italian and asks about Cacciaguida's own youth
and ancestry. Of his forefathers Cacciaguida says little except that all were Florentines. He then nostalgically
describes the Florence of his boyhood as "pure in blood"; that is, uncorrupted by peasant stock from the
surrounding countryside. "Miscegenation," he says, is the source of "all ills" in a city, as the examples of other
Italian city-states show. Many Florentine families since "destroyed / by their own pride" were still thriving in
Cacciaguida's day, he further reports. Moreover, the ranks of the Church had not yet been as corrupted as they
are in Dante's time.

Canto XVII
After a moment's hesitation, Dante asks Cacciaguida about the misfortunes he will face when he returns to
Earth. The future, Cacciaguida cautions, is not yet written in stone and thus cannot be predicted with perfect
accuracy. Nonetheless, he prophesies Dante will be exiled from Florence and forced to rely on the kindness of
strangers. He will, however, find "refuge" in the generosity of a "great Lombard" (Can Grande della Scala,
1291–1329). Dante resolves to bear his future sufferings bravely, but he worries reporting his visions accurately
will make him unpopular. Revealing who is in Hell and who is in Heaven, he observes, "will leave in many
mouths an acid taste." Cacciaguida counsels him to tell his story clearly and without fear of reprisal, leaving
posterity to judge its merits. He tells him to stick to his own principles and tell the truth of what has led him to
his present condition. The future will bring what they can only foretell and hope for, not actually bring about.

Canto XVIII
Beatrice chides Dante for worrying about his earthly fate when he has been brought so close to God, "who lifts
all wrongs away." Turning to face her, Dante the man is enraptured by her beauty and gazes into her eyes,
unable to look away. Beatrice gently rebukes Dante and urges him to pay attention to his ancestor Cacciaguida.
Resuming his speech, Cacciaguida points out several of the notable inhabitants of this, the fifth sphere of
Heaven. As he calls out their names, the souls blaze brightly and whirl about like shooting stars. Those named
include biblical heroes Joshua and [Judas] Maccabeus, along with such medieval worthies as Roland (d. 778)
and Charlemagne (747?–814). Dante beholds the display with joy and admiration as Beatrice, too, looks on
approvingly.

Now, however, it's time to ascend to Jupiter, the sixth sphere of Paradise. Here, the souls "wing around" like
birds, forming the shapes of Latin letters. Diligite iustitiam, their skywriting reads, qui iudicatis terram: "Love
justice, you rulers of the earth." The "M" of iustitiam then morphs into the outline of an eagle's head and neck.
Rejoicing in this latest marvel, Dante utters a prayer for justice on Earth, where the corrupt Church is leading
the laity (the people of the Church) astray.

Canto XIX
The so-called Justice Eagle—the huge bird shape formed from the individual souls of the just united into one
voice—now addresses Dante, who immediately gives vent to his own longing for justice on Earth.
The Eagle tells Dante not to despair. Although justice may seem to be denied, the Eagle continues, it is in fact
only hidden, like the depths of the ocean. Therefore, humankind should not, in its ignorance of God's plan,
complain about the seemingly unjust nature of the world. The Eagle then speaks of the sentences to be meted
out on Judgment Day, when unjust rulers will have their wickedness exposed for all time. They are named
specifically in a list of evildoers, and their future punishments enumerated.

Canto XX
The Eagle falls silent, but the individual souls within it join in a song of praise. Dante is enraptured by the
song's beauty but cannot recall it in any detail—it "glides like falling leaves from memory." The Eagle (symbol
of both Rome and St. John the Evangelist) speaks again, commanding Dante to look it in the eye, where the soul
of King David sits at the center of the pupil. Five other rulers make up the Eagle's eyebrow and are named in
turn. First to be identified is the Roman emperor Trajan (53–117), followed by Hezekiah, king of Judah, who
lived in the late 8th and early 7th centuries BC. Next comes Constantine (280?–337), Rome's first Christian
emperor, at the apex of the eyebrow's arch. The remaining two souls are William II of Sicily (1153–89), about
whom relatively little is known, and Ripheus, an ancient Trojan hero mentioned in Virgil's Aeneid.

Dante is flabbergasted to see two "pagans"—Trajan and Ripheus—among the blessed in Heaven. "What is all
this?" he blurts out before he can stop himself. The Eagle, however, patiently explains both these men were
saved by God's will in direct divine intervention. Trajan was brought back to life just long enough to be
baptized and therefore saved. God "opened Ripheus's eyes," centuries in advance, to the coming of Christ, and
Ripheus was therefore able to convert to Christianity. Both cases illustrate the inscrutable nature of God's will,
which does not depend on man.

Canto XXI
Beatrice has now grown so beautiful she must refrain from smiling, lest she burn Dante to ashes on the spot.
The two arrive at Saturn, the seventh heaven and the abode of the contemplatives. These are souls who,
exemplifying the virtue of temperance on the cold planet, devoted themselves in life to prayer and penance.
Dante beholds a golden ladder "stretching upwards" into space. Souls—or, as Dante now calls them,
"brilliancies"—descend the ladder and wait for Dante's questions. The light nearest to Dante begins to shine out
with a special brightness, beckoning Dante to speak. Why, Dante asks, has this soul deigned to approach so
near, and why is there no music in this sphere, as there is elsewhere in Paradise?

In answering Dante's first question, the soul engages him in a discussion of providence and predestination,
ultimately concluding these are mysteries too sublime for human minds. His second question—why no music?
—is easier to answer: music is present in this sphere, but it is too heavenly to be perceived by Dante's mortal
ears. Finally, the soul introduces himself as Peter Damian (c. 1007–72), a monk and Church reformer known for
his ascetic lifestyle. After some sharp words about the luxurious living of "modern" clergy, Peter falls silent.
The other souls, glowing like flames, circle around him and utter a piercing cry. Dante ends the canto in a state
of perplexity.

Canto XXII
Seeing Dante's fear and astonishment, Beatrice consoles him: "Do you not know that you're in Heaven now?"
The cry he heard in Canto 21, Beatrice now explains, was a prayer for vengeance upon those who are corrupting
the Church. The prayer, she adds, will be answered during Dante's lifetime. Another radiant soul introduces
himself as Benedict (c. 480–c. 547), founder of the Western monastic tradition in the first religious order ever
established in Europe and based on simple work and prayer. He explains the significance of the ladder, which
represents the contemplatives' endless ascent toward true knowledge of God. But nobody on Earth, Benedict
complains, can now be bothered to climb such a ladder. Instead, monastic orders—including the Benedictines—
have become corrupt and venal institutions, overly concerned with material wealth.

Benedict's soul then flares out and whirls back up the ladder. Beatrice and Dante follow it, making their ascent
with miraculous speed under the constellation sign of Gemini, Dante's own, having been born in late May 1265.
Before they approach the next sphere of Heaven, however, Dante turns back and looks down at the planets. He
sees Earth now as a "small and cheap" thing compared with the vastness and grandeur of God's universe. Earth's
glories and hardships, Dante recognizes, need to be kept in perspective.
Canto XXIII
Reaching the Fixed Stars—the eighth sphere of Paradise—Dante beholds the saints in triumph. At the head of
the procession is Christ, imagined as a light too pure and bright for Dante's eyes to behold. This temporary
blinding has a side effect, however, as Dante can now tolerate the comparably mild radiance of Beatrice's smile.
Beatrice gently reproves him for staring.

Looking back over the rejoicing crowd of saints, Dante is still unable to find fitting words for what he beholds.
Grasping for images, he likens the sight to a field of flowers, a sea of torchlights, and a "swirling crowd of
splendours / flung out like thunderbolts." The angel Gabriel is heard singing a hymn of praise to the Virgin
Mary, its refrain taken up by the other blessed souls: Regina Coeli, "Queen of Heaven." Dante marvels at the
atmosphere of exultant love that seems to pervade this layer of Paradise.

Canto XXIV
Beatrice calls out a greeting to the souls in the Fixed Stars and asks them to answer Dante's questions. The
souls, as a show of goodwill, whirl about like comets. One, which stands out for its exceptional brightness, is
recognized by Beatrice as Peter. She invites him to question Dante about the virtue of faith. "What is this faith?"
Saint Peter asks. Dante replies with a quote from Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews: "Faith is substantial to the
things we hope, / the evidence of things we do not see."

Peter, however, will not let Dante off so easily. He next asks Dante why Paul used the words substance and
evidence to describe faith. Faith, Dante deftly responds, is the substance of things hoped for because it is the
sole means by which the living can participate in the "deep mysteries" of Heaven. It is evidence, he adds,
inasmuch as it provides the basis for theological reasoning. Peter congratulates Dante on his understanding and
then asks where Dante's faith comes from. From the Bible, answers Dante: "The rain ... of the Holy Ghost that
flows / between the leathered texts, both old and new."

Why trust the Bible? Peter retorts. Dante cites the miracles recorded there as proof of the strength of the
Christian faith. To this Peter objects that the miracles, being asserted in the Bible itself, cannot be cited as proof
of its accuracy. Dante replies it would, paradoxically, be even more miraculous if Christianity had flourished
without any real miracles to sustain it. As the choir of saints cheers Dante on, Peter tells him: "Say what you
believe, / and say what source first gave this faith to you." Dante replies with a brief creed in which he professes
belief in "one true God, / sole and eternal" and in the "three eternal persons" of the Trinity. It is his extreme
statement of Faith in a canto devoted to that, and certified by Saint Peter himself.

Canto XXV
Dante begins this canto by wistfully reflecting on the possibility that the Divine Comedy will win him enough
fame to be welcomed back to Florence. Should this happen, he says, he will accept his laurels (the poet's badge
of honor) at the baptismal font of his Church. A new light moves toward Dante and is readily identified
by Beatrice as "for whom the pilgrims travel to Galicia (in Spain)": James (Saint James the Greater). Turning to
face Dante, James asks him to "say what hope is, and how, within your mind, / it comes to flower, and how it
came to you."

Beatrice answers the second question on Dante's behalf, vouching for his status as a "child ... full of hope." She
then leaves Dante to answer the first and third of James's questions. "Hope," Dante begins, "is that sure
expectation ... of glory that will come." He then cites the psalms of King David, "that highest singer of the
highest Lord," as the source of his own Christian hope.

Canto XXVI
Struck blind by the radiance of Saint John, Dante hears the saint beginning to question him about the virtue of
love. "Say," John commands, "what point the soul of you / is aiming at." God, Dante replies, is the "Alpha and
Omega" of all his desires, the supreme "Good" he seeks to attain. John presses him to be more specific: How
did Dante arrive at this love of God? Human intellect, Dante answers, is naturally inclined to seek out good
things, and its "aim" is sharpened by the guidance of the scriptures.

Refining his questions further, John likens love to a system of gears and pulleys that gradually draw the soul
upward. He asks Dante about the other "gears" and "ropes" that have drawn his soul toward God. Dante cites his
own life experiences, Christ's death and resurrection, and the Christian faith he shares with others as
inducements to love God. In approval of his answer, the blessed souls burst into song—"Holy, Holy, Holy,"
they proclaim. Dante is shocked to find his eyesight suddenly restored by Beatrice, better than it was before, as
he rises higher each canto.

He now sees a new, fourth figure among the souls of the three saints. This, Beatrice says, is Adam, the "first of
souls." Addressing his ancient forefather, Dante asks Adam to speak with him. Adam begins answering Dante's
questions before he has even heard them. He tells of his time in the Garden of Eden, of his earthly life after that,
and then of the four millennia he spent in Limbo awaiting the resurrection of Christ. He explains the language
spoken in Edenic times was extinct in the time of Nimrod, a mighty hunter mentioned in the book of Genesis.

Canto XXVII
As Adam concludes his speech, Heaven erupts into another hymn of praise. For Dante, the sound is "the
laughter of the universe," a song of joy untainted by any sorrow. Suddenly, the soul of Saint Peter turns from
white to red and begins uttering a harsh speech against the modern papacy. As the heavens redden around him
and Beatrice blushes, Peter recounts the great sacrifices of the early popes, many of them martyrs. He complains
of the "ravening wolves" who have occupied the papacy and other high Church offices in Dante's time. God, he
reassures Dante, will soon right these wrongs.

With this, the souls change their hue again and sweep upward like flakes of snow. Dante follows them with his
eyes until he loses sight of them entirely. He then, at Beatrice's instruction, once more turns down toward Earth
to see how far the Fixed Stars have turned since he arrived. While he is looking back at the solar system, he
ascends to the Primum Mobile, the outermost sphere of Heaven. This, Beatrice explains, is the invisible sphere
moved directly by the will of God, setting into motion all the rest—stars, planets, sun, and moon. She ends the
canto with a speech lamenting humankind's fall from innocence in great detail, which she construes as a loss of
spiritual sight.

Canto XXVIII
Dante gazes upon the Primum Mobile. A point of light, impossibly fine and bright, sits at its center, surrounded
by nine concentric, halolike rings. These, Beatrice explains, are the nine choirs of angels, with the innermost
ring representing the highest rank (the seraphim). Dante is confused: Shouldn't the outermost and largest circle
be the highest ranking? In the celestial heavens, which Dante has only recently left behind, the outermost orbits
are "more divine" than the inner ones.

Beatrice offers to "untie" the "knot" of Dante's perplexity. In the physical universe, she concedes, greatness is
associated with physical extent, so bigger often means better. Here, however, the ranks of angels are ordered in
the opposite way. Those closest to God (the center point) are those who "know" God the most intensely and
therefore show the greatest love for Him. Satisfied—indeed, elated—with this answer, Dante looks back at the
rings and sees how numerous they are. The individual angels, which appear as "glints" and "sparks,"
"outnumbered far / progressive doubling of the chessboard squares."

Beatrice proceeds to name the ranks of angels in descending order: seraphim, cherubim, and thrones in the first
and innermost triad, followed by dominations, virtues, and powers. In the third and outermost grouping are the
principalities, archangels, and a ninth rank known simply as the angels. In between, Beatrice elaborates on the
significance of the different choirs: all ranks of angels "have their delight / according to how deep their sight
goes down / into the truth that calms all intellect." In other words, seeing God more clearly is a prerequisite to
loving Him more deeply and thus enjoying His presence more fully.
Canto XXIX
Beatrice now gives an account of the Creation. God, she declares, created the universe in an act of pure
expansive joy, not to meet a need or satisfy a preexisting desire. Angels were created at the same time as the
physical universe, but the Fall began with a rebel angel (Lucifer), humankind becoming involved only later.
Then, weighing in on a contemporary theological dispute, Beatrice describes some aspects of angelic
consciousness. Angels, she says, have intelligence and free will—but not memory, which would be superfluous
since they live in eternal contemplation of God.

Having shed light on these mysteries, Beatrice speaks out against theologians and preachers who are "swept /
along by show and love of showy thoughts." These would-be philosophers, she charges, are so preoccupied with
trivial theological issues that they neglect the message of the Gospels. Worse, they turn their sermons into
performances designed to amuse or impress, perverting Christian preaching from its true purpose. She closes
her speech with some remarks on the innumerability of the angels.

Canto XXX
Dante and Beatrice now arrive at the Empyrean, the "highest" level of Paradise. Unlike the nine lower levels,
which are imagined as physical places, the Empyrean exists outside time and space. As Beatrice ascends, her
beauty and splendor shine forth ever more strongly, and Dante gives up trying to describe how lovely she is.

At first, the Empyrean blinds Dante with its sheer radiance. Then, however, his vision adjusts, and he sees a
supernally bright landscape of spring-green hills and ruby-red flowers. A river of pure, sparkling light flows
through the middle of the scene. This imagery, Beatrice explains, is God's way of accommodating Dante's
limited mortal mind, as he is not yet ready for the full experience of Paradise. The river, the grass, the flowers—
all are "shadowed prefaces" of the true joys of Heaven.

Drinking of the river, Dante finds his sight growing still clearer. He now beholds the saints and angels arrayed
in concentric rings around the "Splendor of God," which appears as a white light at the center. The whole
"gathering," he says, is like a vast, pure-white rose with thousands of petals. Beatrice reminds Dante he will
share in this glory someday. She then points out an empty spot in the celestial choir. She prophesies it will soon
be occupied by Emperor Henry VII (c. 1269–1313), "who came to rule an Italy unready for him yet."

Canto XXXI
Dante continues to take in the supernatural beauties of the Empyrean. As he gazes upon the concentric tiers of
saints, he notices angels whizzing back and forth like bees within the "great flower" of God's splendor.
Overcome with awe, he reflects on the difference between Heaven's peaceful kingdom and the strife and
corruption of his home city of Florence. Turning around to ask Beatrice a question, he meets instead with "an
elder, robed ... in glory." This is Bernard, a saint who will guide Dante through the last few moments of his
journey.

Beatrice, meanwhile, has taken her seat among the choirs of the blessed. Dante sees her and spontaneously
offers up a lyrical prayer of thanksgiving for all she has done. Beatrice, he now acknowledges, has freed him,
starting from Inferno, from his own sinful ways and given him a new chance at salvation. He promises not to
squander this gift, but to rejoin her someday in Heaven. Bernard now directs Dante's gaze to the Virgin Mary,
who sits as Queen of Heaven at the top of the outermost circle of saints. In silent reverence and delight, Dante
looks upon what his faith tells him is the Mother of God.

Canto XXXII
Saint Bernard now points out other notable figures in the court of Heaven, whose ranks are divided into two sets
of hemispheres. Women, including not only Mary, but Eve, Rachel, and other biblical figures, sit above the
divine presence at the circles' center. Men are enthroned below it. Laterally, the court is divided between "those
who showed belief in Christ to come" and "those / who turned their countenance to Christ now come." The
ranks of the former—the faithful from before the coming of Christ—logically are now full, with no room for
new additions. The ranks of the latter still contain some vacancies. The souls of baptized children, "spirits
loosed from earth / before they ... could conceive free choice," sit along the midline.

Expecting Dante to take issue with the justice of saving some children and not others, Bernard prepares an
answer. In the earliest days, he says, children of the faithful were saved automatically, but since the coming of
Christ baptism has been requisite for salvation. Unbaptized souls from this time onward have been allocated to
Limbo, a painless border region of Hell. This fate cannot be understood rationally, Bernard warns, but must be
chalked up to the mysteriousness of God's will. Bernard next directs Dante's gaze once more to the Virgin
Mary, who—he says—is alone able to make Dante fit to look upon God. As Dante watches, the archangel
Gabriel flits through the heavenly court singing Ave Maria gratia plena—"Hail Mary, full of grace."

Canto XXXIII
In a long and lyrical prayer, Saint Bernard implores the Virgin Mary to
free [Dante]
from all the clouds of his mortality,
so highest happiness be shown to him.
In other words, he asks her to make Dante pure and worthy to directly behold God's presence. Mary accedes to
the saint's wish, and Dante finds his eyesight made still purer and clearer than ever before. Gazing into the
center of the heavenly court, he sees creation, in its myriad causes and effects, "bound up and gathered in a
single book." Although the light itself does not change, Dante finds himself discerning more and more as he
gazes on. Eventually he sees the Trinity made manifest as three luminous spheres, a sight that prompts him to
rhapsodize about God's infinite self-sufficiency. "Eternal light," he marvels, "you sojourn in yourself alone."
The spheres seem, without losing their shape, to take on a human form, but the image is too much for Dante to
make sense of. Overawed by what he has seen, Dante concludes the Divine Comedy after 15,000 lines of
rhymed poetry with praise for the "love that moves the sun and other stars." The same word stars (thought to be
the reflected light of the sun) is the same fitting word that closed the other parts of Hell and Purgatory.