This Document Was Recovered from the Notes of Dante

Alighieri

ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.

I’d read those words once. And, even though I wouldn’t admit it to the Judge, that
Minos, I didn’t abandon my hope. I did nothing wrong, I told myself. I’d done right by
God, by enjoying his world. It was a mistake, and soon I’d be traveling up the Heavenly
Planes to Paradise.
But years passed, and the Circle grew more populous with each passing day, and I
watched more and more wayward young souls being led through the depths and back up
again, this one by Virgil, this by Homer, another by Ovid or Avicenna. I got to know
them, briefly, and I was lucky that they still felt pity in my Circle. They didn’t hate me. I
saw some I knew, and I scared or tugged at their heartstrings with my woeful stories.
They wept or fainted, were collected and restored by their guide, moved on. I watched
them go as best as one can while laying on one’s back. I envied them for their movement
—I could never move on. I hated the way they were alive and happy, and wasted it. They
didn’t give thanks, they were tempted. But they would be saved. I hated that the most.
Dear reader, if I sound discouraged, please forgive me. After so many ages of
being rained on by muddy slush and having no one to talk to but Cerberus, who is a truly
non-verbal fellow, one does lose hope, no matter what one thinks. It is God’s will, and it
will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. And Hell, too, but that’s not mentioned in the
prayer.
Reader, I have tales about Hell. So many tales, all full of dread or woe or
ravaging, all strong or despairing enough to bring tears to your living eyes. Those are the
ones I tell to living souls as they pass me by. The best tales, though, are from Earth. But
part of your punishment is that you can’t remember the good details about life: what the
sun felt like on your face, the joy of seeing a fresh, unspoiled crop, the taste of a good
glass of wine...It all disappears, and all you know are generals, as if someone took all
your memories and summarized them for you. I’ll tell you what I know about my life.
I enjoyed life. I loved it. I consumed everything it had to offer, and I don’t just
mean food. I didn’t eat much at all, really, but what I did eat was fine, very fine indeed.
When I was first assigned my Circle, this confused me, because how could I be a glutton
if I didn’t eat much? But another shade was kind enough to tell me that gluttony didn’t
necessarily mean food—to God, it meant consumptive greed of any kind. I had loved
extravagance on Earth, so I saw how this connected to me.
I think this is when I started to abandon my hope.
Anyway, my death came to me gently, whispering in my ear after a night of
feasting and lusting and gambling. “Come on, my dear, it’s about your time, it is.” I
didn’t feel the pain of the artery in my brain exploding, the result of too much drink. By
that point, my death had already taken me by the hand, was leading me away, down
through the invisible layers of the Four Realms to the Gate of Hell. There I was
abandoned to await judgment. I did not want to go.
Reader, a word of advice, should you land yourself in Hell: don’t try to escape.
You won’t. It’s impossible. The Hand of God, which is either the Guardian of your layer
or a manifestation of God’s Justice itself, will pluck you up by your leg like a mouse and
simply put you back. If you’re unlucky enough to be a Glutton, Cerberus won’t be so
kind. He tears you apart, Reader, but because your soul is immortal you’ll just be put
back together again—in agony, of course. There is no respite from Hell.
I feel like I’m running out of things to tell you. I hope I’m not boring you. You
wouldn’t like to hear about Hell, I’m sure, but it’s all I have to tell you about, and it’s
been so long since I had someone to talk to. Please just read for a little while longer,
won’t you?
Circle Three is inhabited by gluttons. I know people on Earth believe this to
include just overeaters, but believe you me, it isn’t. Any overindulgence at all is punished
here. As I say this, I’m lying half-submerged in a pool of sludge made from a charming
mixture of hail, slush and dirty snow, and the hail pelts my body like stones. My
stenographer is a wonderful young poet by the name of Dante. He’s led by Virgil, a shade
I know and respect well. With luck Virgil’s latest charge will record every detail of my
story and report it back to you. With luck he will still feel pity for me even after going
through all the layers. With luck.
Cerberus is approaching. Poor Dante, he looks scared out of his skull! I remember
when I first saw the beast. He greets every newcomer with the same kindly salutation: a
vicious howl, perhaps a few mauls to face or body (to keep the sinner in anticipation of
later torments). Now, this doesn’t sound so bad, but let me put it into context for you,
dear Reader. The howl is loud. Imagine every dog or wolf howling you have ever heard
and imagine listening to them all howl at the same time. Now multiply that by a
thousand. It’s enough to shatter one’s eardrums, if shades had them, and it would
certainly have shattered Dante’s had Virgil not been there to care for his charge.
Unfortunately, shades don’t have Virgils to look after them. We get to listen to this ear-
bleedingly loud roar several times every day.
As if this wasn’t enough, we’re also treated to Cerberus’ daily mauls. He gets just
as bored as the rest of us, you know, but unlike us he can move, being not weighed down
by sin. He’s quite a character, that Cerberus. When he picks you out as his victim for the
day, as he does for everyone eventually, he’ll stand over you, slavering like the giant
monster he is, eyes bright and feral, hot and foul breath sweeping in waves across your
face, for a few minutes until he gets bored of intimidating and decides to begin tearing
you apart.
Dear Reader, the pain—no, the agony—is so terrible I cannot even begin to
describe it, as it would bring you to your knees weeping, and I wouldn’t want to do that at
all. Just be content to know that it’s terrible, and if you are a glutton, now is the time to
repent.
And the boredom! The boredom and the hopeless themselves are enough to
torture a soul for eternity! If you’d ever experienced it, you’d understand why I leap at
the chance to convey my story to the living. On top of that, you’re sunk in mire, covered
in the slop you immersed yourself in throughout life, freezing cold and stinking of rotting
things, seeing nothing but the soft, dirty snow falling from the sky like ash.
It’s truly a depressing picture, Reader, I can tell you. I’m sure Dante will elaborate
on this, too. He is a poet, after all, and having been acquainted with Virgil and the other
literary greats for several hundred years I know what poets can be like.
I’m making myself despair, though, just telling you about this, so now I leave this
account in Dante’s warm, living hands, to pass on to you, dear Reader, in hopes that you
don’t make the same mistakes I did. That you don’t waste your life away in pure
enjoyment, that you don’t become bloated with pleasure and sink into this slop as a result.
I don’t want to see you here one unless you have a virtuous pagan by your side to catch
you when you faint. I’ve never met you, Reader, and I don’t want to, but I care about you,
care about you so much that I don’t want you to end up here. Hell is a miserable place,
and it only gets worse.
Cerberus draws near again, and Virgil is trying to lead Dante away before the
beast gets closer. One last word before we part for eternity, my dear Reader: Dante speaks
the truth.