for I had lost the path that does not stray

On Dante, translations, and the murky forest of middle age

If self-acceptance is (as I suspect it must be) the slow but rewarding process of learning to embrace one’s innermost nerd with abandon, I think my love of Dante qualifies me as having made it. I could gush here, but it will suffice to share that while I am well aware of Apple Music’s perfectly hype-worthy “2000s Workout” playlist, more often than not if I am on a run or working any other kind of cardio, I opt to listen to Clive James’s very accessible translation of The Divine Comedy on Audible instead: #GymLitNerdsUnite.

So, you can imagine my delight in rediscovering Caroline Bergvall’s very fun (old) project “Via”, which collects 47 translations of the first stanza of The Inferno into one very long and meditative 141-line poem. Admittedly, it’s been a few years since I first read it, but it surfaced again in a bookshelf scan this week so…Voila!

Bergvall is primarily a visual and performance artist so (similar to Jen Bervin who I featured in an earlier post on Emily Dickinson) her use of poetry always has a heavily embodied aspect. In this piece, especially, it’s fascinating to see how she arranges the translations alphabetically by first line to evoke subtle alliteration and assonance that help the repeating and familiar concepts merge with a sonic structure that gives it merit as a standalone work. It is also fascinating to know this unique conglomeration has been variably presented as an audio recording, a live exhibition, and in different forms of print display.

As a quick refresh on Dante, it may be helpful to recall that the poem opens with Dante alone and lost in a dark wood, unsure of which way to turn. These are the three lines Bergvall grabs hold of and presses into:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita The Divine Comedy – Pt. 1 Inferno – Canto I – (1–3)

Soon after, three beasts begin to hunt him — a leopard, a lion, and a she-wolf (representing lust, pride, and greed)— until his beloved teacher Virgil comes to his aid as a guide and friend. Only then do they begin their long and meandering route to Heaven by way of —initially —a descent into the fiery and grotesquely violent pits of hell. Which, side note, is a pretty perceptive take on healing and growth in general: Dante knows that when we have truly lost our way, the path out tends to get a lot darker and more difficult before we start seeing any glimmers of light. (Also, we won’t make it without a friend!)

The alphabetical arrangement works such that the first 3-line stanza translation (by Dale,1996) begins “Along the journey…” followed by Creagh and Hollander’s 1989 “At the midpoint…” and then a few of the various“Half over…” and “Halfway…” translations begin before Sibbald’s 1884 “In middle…” and Wheeler’s 1911 “Midways…” and so forth through to Mandelbaum’s best-known 1980 version “When I had journeyed…”.

I find this poem to be deeply meditative on two fronts. First, I’m fascinated by what it says and invites us to think about the limits and reaches of language and the mystery and wonder of translation. I mean, just consider that since 1805 there have been more than 200 English translations of Dante, all of them, like these, ever so slightly different and nuanced in where they place emphasis and how they draw forth image-pictures in our readerly minds. It’s really quite incredible to think about how flexibly we can convey a similar idea with completely different words, and equally clear to see how and why we can so easily miscommunicate and/or misunderstand one another.

Second, reading Dante’s honest disorientation and woe through 47 distinct voices lends meaningful depth and dimension to the vivid and complex feelings of perplexity that often accompany mid-life. Several years ago Rod Dreher published a series of articles in The American Conservative (since compiled into a book, though I like the originals better) titled “How Dante Saved my Life” which, while melodramatic, gives a sense of just how acute and resonant these feelings can be.

So, at some point as as you have the opportunity, I encourage anyone —at whatever stage of life — to print out this curious collection of familiar, echo-y lines and take a few moments to notice what stands out to you. Do you have a favorite version? One that feels like a miss? Is there a particular phrase that really nails it? As you meditate on these many voices, from many traditions, cultures, and eras you might even consider what “translation” you could offer from your own experience. Do you feel bored by the end or invigorated? What else?

I, for one, am not a die-hard Mandelbaum loyalist as some are, but I do think he gets something important right in his first lines:

When I had journeyed half of our life’s way,
I found myself within a shadowed forest,
for I had lost the path that does not stray.
(Mandelbaum, 1980)

Losing a path is one kind of crisis. Losing *the* path, the one “that does not stray” is much closer to the heart of Dante, and more vital for us as well. I appreciate the nuance he uses to stress the existential scope of Dante’s angst. It helps remind me that while I can easily get caught up in concerns about choosing “the right path” (in terms of work or parenting or relationships or what have you), the more satisfying and relevant question is whether or not I am still upon the path that does not stray, that is, the one that will lead me to a truer, more honest life of freedom and joy.