Dante on Lust: The Least of Transgressions?

Dante’s Divine Comedy is arguably one of the most thorough and elaborate fictional illustrations of the nature of the universe and God’s plan for our salvation. However, Dante’s cosmology, though beautiful and articulate, is an entirely human creation and therefore cannot be without error. If Dante were a secular author, then we shouldn't be concerned if he were to make an error concerning biblical doctrine. However, since Dante is a Christian author writing a Christian allegory, it would be advisable to examine Dante’s commentary on biblical teachings, such as the gravity of different sins, with more scrutiny. I believe that  one of the ways in which Dante might have erred is in his treatment of the sin of lust. Dante, throughout his Divine Comedy, consistently minimizes the severity of lust, depicting it as the least offensive sin a person can commit. Dante professes that some of the lustful were led to their sin by “sweet and tender thoughts” (Inferno, Canto 5.113). The only souls more innocent than the lustful in Dante’s hell are the virtuous pagans, those who lived lives which were pleasing to God yet who were denied knowledge of God while on earth simply because of the time or place in which they lived. In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the souls of the lustful receive a punishment that is both lesser than and intrinsically different from other punishments. Not only are the tortures of the lustful in both Inferno and Purgatory rather lenient, but Dante also adds little bonuses for these souls to further lessen their pain.

Inside the “broad and easy gate” (Inferno, Canto 5.20) of the lustful, the souls are spun about in a “hellish cyclone that can never rest” (Inferno, Canto 5.31). Yet some lucky shades seem to be allowed to travel through this whirlwind together, such as Paolo and Francesca, who “fly as one and seem so lightly carried on the wind” (Inferno, Canto 5.74-75). Details such as this make the torture of the lustful pale in comparison to that of other sinners in hell. Just one circle down, the gluttonous are forced to lie in a freezing “polluted mix of soul and slush” (Inferno, Canto 6.100-101). One more circle deeper into hell, we find the avaricious souls “howling … popping their chests to roll enormous weights” (Inferno, Canto 7.26-27) with “half the hair ripped from their scalps” (Inferno, Canto 7.57). Dante’s light treatment of the lustful is continued in his Purgatory, as those souls in the highest level of purgatory “greet others with a kiss” (Purgatory, Canto 26.32) and even enjoy “brief festivities” (Purgatory, Canto 26.33), their only punishment being to stand in a ring of purifying fire, which Dante likens to a “friendly gathering” (Purgatory, Canto 26.37). Meanwhile, just one ring down, the gluttonous march “famished...down to the dreary scales” (Purgatory, Canto 23.39), “so wasted dry with hunger” (Purgatory, Canto 26.27) that they gnaw their own limbs. A little farther down the mountain of Purgatory, we come across the envious, with their eyelids “all sutured through and sewn shut with an iron wire” (Purgatory, Canto 13.70-71). The lustful seem to fare the best out of all souls whether they are condemned to eternal separation from God in Hell or on their way to Heaven in Purgatory.

The punishment of the lustful in Hell and Purgatory is not only somewhat laid-back and complete with compensation prizes but is also fundamentally different from the tortures that souls receive for every other kind of sin. In every circle in Hell and ring in Purgatory, souls have their bodies mutilated or violated in some way, whether it be the emaciated, autophagous gluttons in Purgatory or the chest-popped, hair-ripped avaricious in Hell. Every shade in Dante’s afterlife suffers, among the other punishments they receive, the greatest torment men can ever know, the mutilation of their bodies. In contrast, in both Purgatory and Hell, the lustful seem to enjoy complete and healthy bodies throughout eternity. This narrative seems to run directly contrary to the teachings of the Bible. The Apostle Paul writes, “Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body” (1 Corinthians 6:18, NIV). The Apostle Paul tells us not only that lust defiles our bodies, but also in a way that every other sin does not. This scripture teaches in opposition to the way things seem to work in Dante’s cosmology, where every sin except lust is punished by mutilation of the body.

Is lust as trivial a sin as Dante portrays it in his Divine Comedy? Jesus said, “I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28, NIV). Proverbs 6:32 says, “A man who commits adultery… destroys himself” (NIV). The Bible makes it clear that lust is a grave matter, and there are no verses to support Dante’s belief that lust is the least consequential of all sins. If Dante was a devout Christian, why would he seemingly deny Jesus’ and the Apostle Paul’s teaching and make so much effort to underplay the severity of this particular sin in his works? We might be able to get an idea of Dante’s reasons by looking at his love poem, La Vita Nuova. In La Vita Nuova, Dante reveals that his fictional representation of divine revelation, Beatrice, is, in fact, a real person with whom Dante was infatuated. According to S. A. Chimenz’ biography, Alighieri, Dante, Dante was promised in marriage to, and eventually married, Gemma di Manetto Donati. If Dante was in love with Beatrice while being married to another woman, then perhaps his light treatment of the lustful is really a light treatment of himself. Maybe while Dante was writing the Divine Comedy, he knew exactly where he would go when he died and was hoping for as gentle an eternity as possible.

Consolation of Solitude

It’s hard to be alone,

But it’s even harder to try to find a home.

Home is wherever my friend is.

Never finding a friend, I don’t care when the end is.

Or how.

Creator? If you’ve never listened before, will you listen to me now?

It’s easier to be alone.

‘Cause every time I think I’ve found a friend. A special, wonderful, heaven sent God-send.

It ends.

Every one I’ve ever known.

I’d rather wander forever, never find a home.

It’s easier to be alone.

I’ve made some rules for my heart.

It’s been broken again and still tearing apart. But it’s there for me.

So I’ll follow the rules and pretend that you might still care for me.

Never say “Hi,” never call someone’s phone.

Keep to yourself, don’t wave, just leave them alone.

Never let anyone do anything for you,

You already owe them.

You’re just giving them a chance to ignore you—don’t act like you know them.

You don’t.

You think you’re better off in torture than ignored?

Well the reason they hate you is that you torturously bored them.

I give up.

Every time I might have chosen not to be lonely, I flinched.

My shaking speech was pain enough to slow me, they lynched

Me.

I’ve already carved, marked the heading on my gravestone,

“I wanted to be happy, but it was easier to be alone.”

4:32 A.M. I picked up my alarm clock and stared at it. The light, although dim, hurt my eyes. I wished that I could drift back to sleep and forget, just for a few hours, the words that were pounding in my head. Alone. Lonely. Rejected.

I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I didn’t want to see anyone, but my visitor came in anyway. He looked like a child, about seven years old, but his eyes were not a child’s. His eyes were swollen, wrinkled and tired. I knew who he was. Solitude. I wondered why he was here. “Was it to suffer with me?” (7).

“H-h-h-i…” he stammered.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“I cry a lot,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Be sorry for yourself. I cry for you.”

“Why do you cry for me?”

“Because you don’t like me.”

I got out of my bed and knelt down to try to comfort him, but he ran into a corner of my room.

I wanted to say that I did like him, but I knew it wasn’t true. I hated him.

“You always ignore me. You’re always talking to someone. Why don’t you want to spend time with me?”

“I did spend time with you. All the time, when I was little. When I folded paper to make animals, drew pictures, and made little stick-men fight in animations. I spent almost all of my time with you. Then I grew afraid of you. Because you changed. You started to show me things I didn’t want to see. So I tried to escape you.”

“You hate me now!” He started to cry.

“Please don’t cry! I don’t hate you!” I looked around for a tissue to offer him.

“You can’t lie to me,” he sobbed. “I’m as old as man himself.” He looked away for a moment. “Adam.” He sighed. “‘How happy were men long ago, when they were content with nature’” (47).

“I’m sorry. I’m just afraid of you. I see what happens to other people when they welcome you. They stay in their houses and take care of many cats.”

He started to laugh a little. “Among other things, I guess,” he agreed.

I tried to hand him a tissue but he refused.

“Do you ever consider the fact that maybe these people you talk to when you’re escaping me don’t want to talk to you?”

“See what I mean?!” I lamented. “‘Do you need to ask such questions?’” (10).

He continued anyway. “Maybe they really want to spend time with me, and you’re keeping them from me.”

“Please stop!” I knew he was right. “This is why I hate you: you always tell me things I don’t want to hear!”

“Don’t you remember the fun we had together?” He stepped out of his corner of the room towards me. “We would fold paper for hours and hours, then build computers, then guitars. No one could stop us.”

“I wanted them to.” I felt horrible saying these words to him. “I really did. I didn’t want to be alone with you. I wanted someone to come and fold paper with me.”

“Why?” He started to cry again. “Why can’t you see how much we can do together?”

“Like what? What would I ever want to do with you instead of with someone else?”

“What about when we’re watching a sunset? Nobody ever wants to look at it for more than a second with you.” He wiped his eyes. “But I do. Some days we’d watch the evening sun together from when it first turns red to when it tucks itself snugly below the horizon, and the first stars come out. We used to walk through the woods together. You’d always look for animals.” He laughed again. “You always wished you could talk to them. Don’t you remember these times?”

“I do.” I wiped a tear from my own eye. “I loved those times.”

“Do you remember when we would wake up long before everyone else on camping trips and watch the mist drifting over the waters? Then we’d get a campfire started so that your friends would have warmth when they woke up.”

“You’re right. I’ve always liked doing those things with you.”

“You can’t do those things with anyone else.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” I held out my arms. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sadly, no. I can’t touch anything.” He dropped his head down. “Can we hang out sometimes, though?”

“That would be great.”

“Like we used to?”

“Yeah, just like we used to.”