By Jason M. Baxter.

Flannery O'Connor once said this about writing novels: "Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I'm always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it's very shocking to the system." I don't know of a better description of what it's felt like as I translated Dante's Purgatorio, which was just released by Angelico Press.

Every morning, during the final six-month stage of this project, I followed the same routine: wake up, get coffee, and build up some psychic reserves of energy for the massively depleting experience. Then I went upstairs, spread out my Italian text and commentaries, and attempt - over and over again - to render in English Dante's dense web of music and meaning. And, for this reason, for six months (maybe longer: ask my wife), I've been a zombie, looking with eyes that don't see, listening with ears that don't hear.

Why is translating Dante so psychically depleting? Everyone knows that his poem is an inspiring journey from a "dark wood" that soars up to the Beatific Vision and God Himself. But his language is always working in multiple dimensions. On the most basic and obvious level, Dante is a musician, who wrote in hendecallyables (eleven-syllable long lines) captured well, by iambic verse that's not too stuffy. Dante also uses rhymes, of course, which Dorothy Sayers went all out to capture. In addition to the rhymes, however, Dante used all kind of dense word play, which he can do, in part, because he's working with an inflected language: he can leave the root stable - like an Aristotelian substance - while varying the accidents of his inflections.

But then, he also loves to use, on occasion, a maddeningly difficult syntax, a gnarled, thorny wood of grammar often made even more complicated because of the learned circumlocutions he employs. In all fairness, he warned us about such maddeningly difficult syntax and entangled cosmological grammar:

Reader, I know you see that I am raising

my subject, and thus you will not marvel"

if now I use more art (più arte) to reinforce my poem.

(Purgatorio. 9:70 72)

And what does this look like? Dante loves word play and word art. Those rhetorical tropes and schemes from classical rhetoric that we find repellent, he adores. For instance, at one point, when Dante is being interrogated by Beatrice, "when, by her eyes, my eyes were struck" (33:18), the figure Dante quite deliberately uses is anadiplosis (a rhetorical "doubling back"). A modern translation, to make this line feel more natural for us, kills the rhetorical scheme by translating it: "when her piercing eyes met mine."

Elsewhere, Dante uses chiasmus, an X-like pattern that sets one word on one side of the scale and then balances it out by putting a variant of it on the other side. For instance, at one point, Virgil has intuited that the pilgrim had within him more questions, and then generously proceeds to encourage him to speak forth those hidden doubts. Dante puts it this way: he "by speaking made me bold to speak." (Purgatorio. 18:7-9). That chiasmus becomes this in one recent translation: "that true father. . ./ spoke and gave me courage to speak out."

But what is extraordinary is that Dante has the inverse tendency as well. After passing through the "refining fire" that cleanses the distorted love of the lustful, for instance, Dante, Virgil, and Statius have to pause to wait out the night, resting on the steps of a steep stairwell that goes right up the mountain:

And just like goats in tranquil rumination,

who had been rowdy, capricious among

the hills before they'd found repast,

but now in shade are quiet while the sun is hot,

now guarded by the shepherd, who leans upon

his staff and stands to watch their rest;

or like the watchman who sleeps outdoors

and spends the night beside a somnolent herd

and watches lest a beast should scatter them;

just so were we, all...