Sweet Kate

When I took astronomy over interterm my junior year, I had a hard time reconciling the scientific facts about stars (how they begin and end, their development, etc) with the Lewis idea (and to go further back, Dante) that the stars are not necessarily what they are made of. There's the lovely bit in Voyage of the Dawn Treader where Eustace says that 'in our world, stars are flaming balls of gas' and the star tells him that 'even in your world that is not what stars are, but what they are made of.' With such a grounding in Lewis, I shouldn't have had such a difficult time reconciling the two ideas, but I did. I would look up at the stars, and I could see all the constellations with all my knowledge about the specific stars, their composition and so on, or I could see the medieval heavens full of stars moving as intelligent beings (or at least the possibility of the stars as intelligent beings), but I couldn't see both at once. It took me most of interterm to finally be able to see both at once, and reconcile both views. I finally realized (in what is, I suppose, a stunningly obvious epiphany) that astronomy is rather like biology. One may know everything there is to know about the biology of a person, how every cell works at the most basic level, but that is not what a human is; merely what they are made of. In the same way, a star is made of very hot hydrogen or what have you, but it does not follow that this is what a star is in essence (I am not arguing that stars are intelligent, I am merely arguing for the possibility that they might be).

But looking back, I don't think this entire issue, framed as it was with the question of stars, was really about stars. It was about an insidious materialism that I had bought into, and finally found my way out of. I was used to thinking of humans as being more than their physical reality, but I did not extend this any further. I think this materialism (if this is the right word) is very prevalent in our society, with the possible exception of humans. You see it particularly in the instance of animal cloning. There are people who clone their pets in the expectation that a cat with the same physical self will be the same cat. They seem to think that a cat with the same DNA must have the same personality, as though a cat is no more than its DNA. But the truth is that two cats, even if they are exactly, physically alike, are not the same because they have different personalities, and different selves. Animals are easy, I think, because we intuitively grasp that they have personalities.

Stars. Stars are a little harder, because they are not organic, and we don't generally think of them as being alive. (I am not going to make the argument that they are alive, or intelligent, but I think there are no strong arguments against this.) Stars are, on one level, a large sphere of fire, but they are more than this, even if they aren't alive. But I think we have got into the habit of thinking about stars as being only large spheres of fire. This cannot fully explain stars, because it cannot account for the beauty and poetry of stars. Even if stars are not alive, they are beautiful, and a purely physical understanding cannot account for their beauty. Now, I had fallen into the trap of thinking that a star must be one thing or the other. The truth is that it is both at the same time.

Further, I think it is a useful idea to think of the stars as being intelligences moved by love. I am not suggesting that we accept as fact that stars are personalities, the same way that we accept as fact that animals are personalities (the evidence does not seem as conclusive about stars in either direction). But it is a useful thought experiment. Stars are not organic, and do not fit our understanding of what life is (as a sidenote, it would be a lovely sort of irony to find in the end that Mars never had life, which we looked so carefully to find, but that our sun has been alive all along). It is precisely because they are not organic, though, that stars are so useful as a thought experiment. If the stars are intelligences, then to look up at a starry night is not to look out, but to look in (as I think Lewis puts it). We are not looking out from a lone bastion of civilization and life into a universe empty of life, but rather we are looking from a world of imperfection into a universe full of a more perfect life and love. We are looking into the heavens from the silent planet.

Containing MAJOR SPOILERS for Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons six and seven, as well as philosophy, quotes, ghosts, and discussion of the Beautific Vision.




Dante and Spike: The Redemptive Journey of the Soul

I do not imagine that most people who watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer are thinking about its relation to Dante's Divine Comedy. Nor do I think that any of the writers were, in all probability, consciously or unconsciously, trying to incorporate or allude to Dante's work. So, with those disclaimers, I want to propose the following idea. Spike's redemption in the sixth and seventh seasons of Buffy mirrors Dante's redemption in the Divine Comedy in two important ways. First, the general path of redemption, from an awakening, through a purgation, to a final knowledge and vision of Love, is the same in the essentials. Second, that the motivating force for both is a desire for the Beloved.

The Path of Redemption

Dante begins Inferno very simply. He writes, "Midway this life we're bound upon, / I woke to find myself in a dark wood, / Where the right road was wholly lost and gone." This establishes two facts, that Dante is lost, and that he finally knows that he is lost. The fact that he is lost does not mean anything until he realizes it. And, while the entire Comedy may perhaps be described as an awakening, this is the moment that is defined by it. The redemption of Dante has begun.

Similarly, Spike had that sudden realization, described by Dante as being like waking up. He realizes what he almost did to Buffy, and realizes how completely lost in the dark he is. Of course, the audience has known this for quite some time, as Spike slips further and further into evil, but his redemption cannot begin until he realizes how lost he is.

Both Dante and Spike have to wake up and realize how lost they are, before they can begin to go anywhere. But, interestingly enough, both of them turn for help to what I would call "The Not Good Guys."

Dante turns for help, not to Beatrice, but to the ghost of Virgil. While Virgil may be the best pagan Dante will ever meet, there are two major problems with turning to Virgil for help. First, Virgil is a pagan, and is condemned to hell, even if it is the top level which doesn't seem quite so bad, relatively. Any ghost, not just that of Virgil, would be a problem, for similar reasons. Second, Dante should have turned to Beatrice. Dante is reduced to being guided by a pagan philosopher through hell, because he is so lost that Beatrice cannot go to him.

While Spike does not go looking for guidance from a ghost, he does go straight to a demon. In Buffy, demons are varying levels of evil. The only possible exception to this is a vampire with a soul, such as Angel, but that instance does not count, because at that point it is no longer a demon. Most demons are trying to destroy the world, or Buffy, or both. They are not to be trusted (I will not discuss here the possibility of good demons or half demons, as that is only shown on Angel, and I do not think it strictly applies). Instead of going off to get help from a demon, Spike should have gotten help from Buffy, and it is a measure of how lost he is, that he cannot.

As Dr. Reynolds said, "good Torrey students do not play with ghosts." In other words, Dante should know better than to seek help from a ghost, just as Spike should not be seeking advice from a demon. It is a measure of their respective conditions that they do.

Now there comes a point, for both Dante and Spike, when they are saved. It is no longer in question that they will be saved, but the process of redemption is not yet done.

Dante is saved at the foot of Mt. Purgatory. All the souls on Purgatory, in their various states, are all saved. The souls in Purgatory will not slip back down to hell (Virgil is a special case, and doesn't really count, because he isn't really there, not in the way that Dante is), and Dante is numbered among them. Dante has woken up, escaped hell, and now the real work begins. It is important to see that there is a point when Dante is saved.

There is a similar moment for Spike, which is much more dramatic; Spike receives his soul. At the point in time when he regains his soul, Spike is irrevocably changed. He walks and talks differently, even his facial expressions are somehow altered, even in the midst of insanity, because from that moment on in the story, Spike is saved.

It is not enough that Dante is saved from hell, or that Spike is saved from the nothingness that was his lack of soul. Some stories might end here. But even greater than this is the redemption and transformation that can now begin to occur.

Now we enter the seventh season of Buffy, and begin the climb of Mt. Purgatory.

Purgatory has many meanings, on many different levels, for Dante. But I am only concerned right now with the process of purgation. It can hardly be emphasized enough that Purgatory is not a place of punishment for crimes, but rather a place of cleansing of the soul. It is the habituation of the soul to good; learning virtue rather than vice. Although those in purgatory may be in pain, they no longer suffer. They have a joy, and an expectation of the Beautific Vision, that those in hell cannot even glimpse. It is in Purgatory that Dante is really able to begin the dialectic, and to begin to grow in understanding.

I will freely admit that it is at this point that the parallels between Dante and Spike are hardest to see. Spike regains his soul, but is driven insane, and does not have the clear serenity of the stars that Dante sees. Yet in Spike's insanity, there is clarity. He does not yet fully understand (neither does Dante), but he sees clearly. He is one of the only two to see both Willow and Buffy. He realizes the enormity of all the past evil that he has done. He embraces the cross (which surely has interesting symbolic significance). Spike finally begins to try to be good; to live well. It is perhaps a more violent cleansing, yet it is still a cleansing. Spike struggles with all the villains of the seasons, and must reject them, including what appears to be Buffy.

As a short side note, it is interesting that both Dante and Spike must reject that which has the appearance of beauty. Spike must reject that evil which takes the shape of Buffy (which he surely does while captive in the caves). Dante must reject the Siren. Both appear beautiful, but are deceptive, and would lead to destruction.

The cleansing of the soul, the ridding it of past evil and training it towards good, describe the purgation of both Spike and Dante, leading to the reconciliation with the Beloved.

It is at the top of Mt. Purgatory that Dante is finally reunited with Beatrice. Now he begins that final stage of the journey, towards the Beautiful Vision.

There is not nearly as defined a moment for Spike. I would submit that the night he spends with Buffy, simply holding here, is the moment of reconciliation (although I would not hold strongly to it). Spike calls it the happiest moment of his life. The serenity and reconciliation that Spike finds, the happiness in merely watching the beloved, is reminiscent of Dante's reunion with Beatrice having drunk of the two rivers of the garden at the top of Purgatory. It is not necessary, however, to point to one moment, in any case, but to simply say that reconciliation has occurred. Through the rest of Season 7, Spike grows in love.

There is little I can say of the growth of love in Paradise, and what I have to say may all be summed up in that greatest of all happy endings, the Beautific Vision.

The Beautific Vision for Dante is true sight of the Beloved, that is, sight with understanding that moves the soul. Dante writes that "my will and my desire were moved by love / the love that moves the sun and the other stars." Dante's entire being is consumed by love, and there are really no words strong enough to describe this. The entire journey has been about this, and now Dante is finally able to feel love, to breathe it, to think it, to have it completely move him. It is a soaring, breathtaking moment.

Spike is also consumed by love. It is love of Buffy, although she does not love him the way he first desired, that motivates him. It is through her love for him (she believed in him) and his love for her, that he has become a champion. When Spike puts on the amulet, he is consumed by the fire of love, both literally and figuratively. His love has been purified, he has been redeemed, and at this moment, his will and his desire are moved by love of Buffy. It is an impossibly happy moment when Spike is consumed by the fire, because at that moment, he finds true happiness. He gets it, he sees it, even when Buffy doesn't.

Some things are so beautiful that they hurt. When Dante describes the Beautific Vision, it is so beautiful it aches. When Spike gives everything to die happy, consumed by the fire and his love of Buffy, it is so beautiful it aches. And I think it is the same thing, in a way, because it is a glimpse of a vision that takes us beyond words. Perhaps the final happiness is simply to love, fully and completely, the Beloved.

The story itself is extraordinarily powerful, whether it is in the form of poetry or film. This brings me to two related points. First, it shows very clearly and concisely one reason to read a medieval Catholic who wrote epic poetry. If Dante can illuminate something like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, just think what it could do for C.S. Lewis (surely a book in its own right). The story Dante told was the story of redemption, which we are still telling. If the redemption of Spike is powerful, if it is important, then the redemption of Dante through the Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise is even more important, because it shows more clearly.

Second, the image of the fire consuming Spike made me realize something I'd never articulated before. As I have said, it is the terrible beauty that is much like Dante's Beautific Vision. The great stories are not limited to one form. This is obvious. I know this, but now I think that I get it. The form of a story may change, without changing its essence. I will try to explain what I mean. I am not talking about making movie adaptations of a book (an entirely separate question that I am ill equipped to discuss). If someone were to make a movie, and they wanted it to be Narnia-ish, I would expect it to have a certain echo, or taste, of the things of Narnia, without necessarily having any fauns, or dryads, or children from our world entering another world. But it wouldn't be overt, more like about half way through the film I would suddenly sit up and say, "oh, I get it, it's really the story of Narnia." And if it were really good, it would evoke the feel of Narnia while still being itself.

Now I shall move on to my second topic, that I hope to address more quickly, that of

The Desire for the Beloved

The motivating force for both Dante and Spike is a desire for the Beloved. Dante is ever moved by love of Beatrice, and Spike is moved by love of Buffy.

Dante would not have been saved but for his love of Beatrice, and her love of him. It is Beatrice's love of Dante that sends her to the depths of hell to summon Virgil to guide him, it is her love that sends the Lady Lucia, and it is she herself that guides him through heaven. It is Dante's love that ever drives him, when spoken by Virgil it gives him strength in hell, and it is her name that drives him through the final fire at the top of Mt. Purgatory. It is in her eyes that he is drawn ever upwards into heaven, and she ever grows more beautiful.

In a similar way, it is Spike's love of Buffy that drives him, and it is Buffy's love of Spike that saves him. When Buffy begins to love Spike, she stops using him, and is no longer content with what he is. It is her words that she believes in him that give him strength, and she believes in him as her champion. It is Spike's love of Buffy that drives him from the beginning, misguided though he is, he wants to become that which he was to give her what he believes she deserves. But he believes that she deserves to be loved with a soul. It is his love of her that brings him back to his sanity, that allows him to repulse evil. And, at the very end, it is his love of her that leads him to die for her, even with the knowledge that she does not love him in the way that he loves her.

But while it is the love of and desire for the beloved that drives both Dante and Spike, there is an important distinction that must be made about the final vision. For Dante, it is not enough to have seen the true beauty of Beatrice. Beatrice is truly beautiful, and worthy of his purified love, but she is an image of the Divine. The Beautific Vision is the culmination of love, but it is not love of Beatrice, which though a great love is not the greatest. It is love of Truth, and Beauty, and Goodness, that is to say, God.

Spike's ultimate love is the love of Buffy. It is a great love, but not so great as Dante's love, for Dante's love of Beatrice led him to a greater love. I find a deep disappointment in Spike's love, for it is a love greater than Buffy, and so should have led him to love that which is greater, without losing the love of that which is lesser. At the end of Paradise, it is not a final vision of Beatrice, and she would not have had it that she was the greatest vision. The entire journey of Dante has been to teach him to love that which is greatest, by first loving deeply and truly that which he already thinks that he loves, Beatrice. Beatrice is ever an incarnation, or an image, of love. I do not think Buffy ever becomes that for Spike.

I do not know that I have any particular conclusions to draw from this, and I doubt my wisdom, but I shall try in any case.

I keep coming back to a simple idea, which comes up again and again in Buffy, and is a central theme in The Divine Comedy. The redemptive, transformative power of love. Dante never fully understands it with his mind, and yet he fully comprehends it. At the final vision, his will and his desire are moved by love. It really is all in Dante. To begin to understand Dante is to begin to understand what he was saying about love, and the story of redemption he was telling. And to begin to understand this image of redemption is to begin to understand and truly see so many other images of redemption. It is a story that continues to be powerful, even if we do not understand why.

May our souls be redeemed, transformed, and moved by love, the love that moves the sun and other stars.

(see also: on why villains monologue)

In the Buffy episode Out of Sight, Out of Mind (season 1), Marcia goes on and on about how she is going to kill Cordelia, and why she is doing it. This monologue is precisely what allows Buffy to free herself, and, of course, defeat Marcia. Why, then, does Marcia go to all that trouble? First, she has a flair for the dramatic. It is not enough that Cordelia should die, or Marcia would simply shoot her and be done with it. Rather, she wants a twisted, poetic justice. She wants Cordelia to suffer in a way that will remind everyone why this happened (thus the large, painted messages "look", "listen", and "learn"). She wants Cordelia to suffer in a way specific to the horrible way she treated Marcia. Cordelia will be well known, if Marcia succeeds, and her face will be remembered, but it will be remembered for the horrible sight of her face brutally cut, with the May Queen crown still on her head.

But this does not explain why Cordelia needs to be conscious for all of this. In these sorts of circumstances, I usually ask myself why the villain does not simply do whatever it is they want to while the hero (or victim) is unconscious. In this particular instance, though, I never asked that question, because it was perfectly clear why Cordelia had to be conscious. It would be a shallow victory if Cordelia did not understand, or feel, what was happening, and why it was happening. Marcia has a deep, personal hatred of Cordelia. She wants Cordelia to suffer, and despair. It isn't enough that Cordelia dies, or that she is hurt. Marcia wants her to know exactly why she is being hurt.

To put it another way, if Inigo simply kills the Count, there is no satisfaction. There is, perhaps, a sort of justice, but there is none of that bittersweet taste of revenge. Inigo must deliver that simple line if the Count is to understand why he is dying, and if Inigo is to feel that his father has been avenged.

Therefore, villains monologue from a desire to watch the hero suffer. It is not smart in one sense; Marcia should just kill Cordelia and not bother with all the drama. But this is precisely what Marcia cannot do. She doesn't just want Cordelia dead; Cordelia must suffer. Her hatred is so great that it overcomes her practical sense of caution. As Buffy says, she is insane.

The trick, I think, is knowing what sort of villains monologue; those personally invested in the suffering of the hero, although this may be for various reasons. The villain may hate the hero and desire some sort of particular revenge (such as the case of Marcia or Inigo). The villain may be proud of their own ingenuity in devising pain (heroes tend to be prone to this sort). The villain may want to prove their superiority (which also applies to Marcia).

The tendency to gloat is very human. Also, not coincidentally, that very human failing is often that which saves the hero. If it is well written, such as the end to LOTR or the Buffy show, it is very good, and does not seem cliched. The idea of "hubris", of the pride of a man being his own destruction, is very old, and yet still powerful. It causes villains to monologue, and gives heroes the opportunity to escape. And it can be done very well.

One thing that appeals to me in books is a sense of place. This is more subtle than other elements such as voice or characterization, and harder to define. However, I shall attempt to give a basic definition of what a sense of place is in a book.

For some reason, this came up in one of our Dante discussions. Dante manages to give a very good sense of place within his Divine Comedy. How does he do this? Let us take Purgatory as an example, although either of the other two books would work equally well. He gives a very clear organization of Purgatory. It is quite possible to draw maps. Further, the geography of Purgatory is loaded with significance. It really matters which cornice is on top of which other cornice. If he had stacked them just any which way, it would not have been nearly as compelling, or interesting. But he also doesn't spend pages and pages explaining the arrangement of Purgatory; that would be dull. He gives enough of an outline for the reader to understand the basic significance, and leaves the reader to discover the further meaning if they are so inclined.

Another author who is particularly good at giving a sense of place is C.S. Lewis, specifically with the Narnia Chronicles. While the geography is not nearly so significant as in Purgatory, it is still important. Cair Paravel is by the sea, on the East, because it is royal, and associated with the Emperor over the Sea, and Aslan, who is depicted as coming from the East.

So, in order for there to be a sense of place, the geography must matter, and must not merely be a place for things to happen.


Purgatory is also very dependent on time. It is almost unusually dependent on time, in that one can only move upwards during the day, and every day has a specific significance. Because it is so important, it is easier to see the connection. It takes Dante (the character) measurable amounts of time to climb the cornices. It feels like it took him a while to climb Purgatory, rather than just being pushed along to see the particular attractions. It feels kind of like an amusement park. If I want to describe, for instance, Knott's Berry Farm, I shall probably tell you about the rides ("Ghostrider is the best, but Excelerator was cool too"). But this actually gives you a very poor understanding of what the park is actually like. If I want to give you a true understanding of what the park is like, I will give you a rough idea of how it is arranged ("the best rides aren't together, but are kind of spread around, but that let's you go on different sorts of rides, and there are also loosely themed areas, although not nearly as clearly defined as Disneyland"), what the good parts were ("it was a warm day, so we went on the water ride, but I didn't get drenched, even though I wanted to"), the bad bits ("there was a really boring and weird show that we went to, and I don't know why we went to it, except to dry off after that water ride"), and even what the lines were like ("mostly not too bad, and there were some interesting people in line, but there were also those annoying couples who insisted on making out while standing in line, and I was glad when we were no longer in line with them"). This sort of thing gives a much better sense of what Knott's is like.

Tolkien does this particularly well in the Lord of the Rings. The characters seem to go on walking forever. You don't lose the journey for all the exciting bits. It may (or may not) make the journey seem less exciting, but it does make it seem like it actually happened somewhere, instead of just jumping between places (and really missing out on the places in between places). It is really easy to underestimate the signficance of all the walking bits. But I think that we wouldn't appreciate Rivendell, and the Last Homely House, if there wasn't that entire journey from Hobbiton. We wouldn't have a sense of what it means to be the last Homely House, if we felt that there were other houses quite close by on one side, and Lothlorien merely a jaunt away on the other side.

In other words, the journey must take time, and must include all the bits that are like waiting in line for a ride. Sometimes you can just hop right onto the ride, without a wait at all, but most of the time you are in line for much longer than the actual ride. (Of course, a good author makes it just as interesting to wait in line, although in a different sort of way.)


There is more, of course, to what creates a sense of place. But these two ideas, that it must really matter where the story takes place, and that it must take time to get places, are essential. It doesn't fully explain why Narnia is what she is, though, so I shall have to try again in another post, I think, and continue to think about it.

I have often wondered in the middle of a not so great movie, why the villain just stands there, talking, instead of just killing the hero. I thought about it some more tonight while watching one of the older Batman movies. Really, it's all in Dante. At this point I should like to point you to my professor, who wrote a great entry on this topic, but it has disappeared, so I'm afraid that you are stuck with my ramblings.

I should like to try a thought experiment, and I will write it out in the form of a dialog (I will be playing both parts).

( cut to save your friends pages, as the line breaks make it seem long )

Why isn't Susan in Narnia, at the end? This question continues to be a source of discussion among people who like Narnia. Most see it as a weakness of the story. I don't. I think it is purposeful, and successful.

Before looking directly at the problem that Susan's absence provides, I want to first talk a little about Dante. This isn't actually a rabbit trail, as Lewis really liked the medievals, especially Dante. He liked the medieval worldview; their idea of how the world functioned (see The Discarded Image). To take just one example, look at what stars are in Narnia. They are people, different, perhaps incomprehensible in many ways, but they are souls with fiery, corporeal bodies. Dante has the same idea of stars. So, looking at Dante can help us understand Lewis, as well as the other way round.

All the souls in Dante's hell are there because they want to be there (see my earlier post "gollum and hell"). Hell is horrible, but the most horrible thing about it in many ways is that it is a chosen evil. No truly good person can be in hell. They may have appeared good, but in the end they did not choose that ultimate good. Like the animals in the Last Battle, they had that one moment of clearly seeing, they saw Aslan, and they said, "not this." This is a very strange picture of hell. The animals stream away in both directions, some towards the light, but some to be lost in the darkness. Aslan does not judge them. He merely lets them choose whether they want him, or not. As in Dante's hell, the judgment is not what we easily picture. It is merely giving them what they want.

So, if Susan is not in Narnia, the real Narnia, it is not because of some judgment against her, but because she chose otherwise. This is also supported within the book. We are told that Susan is no longer a friend of Narnia, that she no longer wants it, that she prefers other things instead (it does not really matter what other things she chose as much as that choice). She does not come back to Narnia because she does not want to. One objection is that Eustace and Edmund are horrid, and yet they are let into Narnia, although (especially in the case of Eustace) it isn't what they want. There is a difference, though, in type. Neither Eustace or Edmund have, at that point, actually experienced Narnia. They are not rejecting it with the full knowledge of what it is. Susan rejects Narnia having gone there, and having reigned as queen. She experienced it, she lived there, she met Aslan, and yet she still calls it a game. This seems a much more serious offense.

In Lewis, and Susan's defense, I should like to point out that we don't know what happens to Susan in the end. She might find her way back to Narnia. Once a king or queen in Narnia, always a king or queen. She may never find her way to Narnia. But if she doesn't, it will not be for choosing lipstick and flirting with boys. She will not be in Narnia because she didn't really want it. This is still sad, but a different kind of sadness. It is sad, not because lipstick is so bad, but because she would choose anything over Narnia.

That is my response to the problem of Susan. It seems to me to be supported textually and thematically. Is it a satisfying response, or am I missing something in my understanding of the text?

Well, I had my Dante class today. It sounds like it's going to be an absolutely great class, and a whole lot of work. Part of me is still cowering in the corner because apparently one of the guys taking the class knows it well enough to refer back to the original Italian (I don't think he's really proficient, but he obviously knows a lot more than I do). Other than that, though, I'm feeling decently confident.

I have this feeling that as I'm reading Dante, I'll be traveling with him. I don't mean following the story, but actually in some way experiencing it with Dante; underoing the same process of thinking and feeling and being. This is true a little bit when I just read Dante. I have to keep reminding myself during Hell that Purgatory is ahead, and then Paradise. But I think that I will experience it even more taking this class. I'm starting out where Dante is, confused and lost, not sure why I'm here or if I can make it. A bit of hope, though, with the sight of Jerusalem and Virgil, although I've still a long way to go. But I will try to journal it, so that you, gentle reader, may come with me if you so choose.

So, today we talked about the first canto of Hell. Pondered some good questions, such as, why is Dante lost in a dark wood? where is the right road? how does he wake up? We also spent a lot of time talking about Dante's classification of the distinction between virtue/vice as "obvious" (good, virtuous, saintly people don't cheat at cards or commit adultery, these are the types of things that are inherently vice), and "the golden mean" (things that aren't inherently vice, such as eating a candy bar, which can be bad sometimes, and fine other times). That took a while.

We also spent a fair amount of time talking about Virgil. It seems harsh for Dante to put Virgil in Hell, as one of the damned souls. I want to like Virgil, and I want to think that Virgil is good, but Dante is saying that really, he isn't. Virgil is just a ghost, and when Dante first sees him he is mute, no longer a poet or a man.

Out of this discussion, particularly the bit on ghosts, there were a few quotes worth writing down, so I shall share them with you. To fully understand them, it is necesary to note that Dante thought that ghosts were always bad (you have visions of the saints, which is different, because they are still alive and seeing the Good, but ghosts are entirely different because they are the souls from hell, so are always bad). Just pointing that out, so the quotes make sense.

"You should never take candy from a ghost." - Dr Reynolds

"Torrey students shouldn't play with ghosts." - also Dr Reynolds, explaining that we are theologically sound to a non-Torrey grad student

More on Dante when I have the time. Good stuff.