Wundervölker, Monstrosität und Hässlichkeit im Mittelalter (German Edition)

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Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Inferno by Dante Alighieri as translated by John Ciardi. This blog serves as a guide for those who wish to read the English translation of Dante Alighieri's Inferno. This is the translation of John Ciardi. We hope we can help you in this little way. Credits to Cliffsnotes site. Skip to content. A confusion of tongues and monstrous accents toiled In pain and anger, voices hoarse and shrill And sounds of blows, all intermingled, raised Tumult and pandemonium that still Whirls on the air forever dirty with it As if a whirlwind sucked at sand.

So it ran on, and still behind it pressed A never-ending rout of souls in pain. These wretches never born and never dear Ran naked in a swarm of wasps and hornets That goaded them the more the more they fled, And made their faces stream with bloody gouts Of pus and tears that dribbled to their feet To be swallowed there by loathsome worms and maggots. In despair They blasphemed God, their parents, their time on earth, The race of Adam, and the day and the hour And the place and the seed and the womb that gave them birth.

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Weeping and cursing they come for evermore, And demon Charon with eyes like burning coals Herds them on, and with the whistling oar Flails on the stragglers to his wake of souls. As leaves in autumn loosen and stream down Until the branch stands bare above its tatters Spread on the rustling ground, so one by one The evil seed of Adam in its Fall Cast themselves, at his signal, from the shore And streamed away like birds who hear their call. Dante and Virgil approached the shore of the river Acheron, which forms the boundary of true Hell. Charon, a demon in the shape of an old man, warned the waiting souls of the torments in store for them, and told Dante that he, a living man, could not cross the river.

However Virgil told him that God had willed it, and Charon could not countermand that order. The exhausted, bitter and despairing damned souls were forced by Charon across the Acheron on his boat. Even as the first group of the damned crossed the river, more crowds assembled on the bank, waiting, unable to resist their fate. The earth trembled and Dante, terrified, fell unconscious.

Analysis: The inscription on the gate is the only text Dante reads in Hell. Share this: Twitter Facebook.

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Dante: The Divine Comedy

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Divine Comedy (Longfellow 1867)/Volume 1/Notes

Janet Street-Porter. John Rentoul. Chuka Ummuna. Shappi Khorsandi. Gina Miller. Our view.

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Sign the petition. Spread the word. Steve Coogan. Rugby union. To hear the to-do that is often made over the simple fact that a man sees the image of himself in the outward world, one is reminded of a savage when he for the first time catches a glimpse of himself in a looking-glass. Here we might have excused the counsel from trying this particular literary case. And as we continue to read him, he will continue to be many things to many people—wonderfully so. Speaking to change-makers and ecologists, rainbow-tog Buddhists and curriculum committees, his work is vast in its importance and appeal.

Let us remember, especially, how funny he could be—how alive to the special force of wisecracking wit. I confess I do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsmen who cannot read at all, and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for children and feeble intellects.

We should be as good as the worthies of antiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. We are a race of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper. Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.

I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period of my life; I mean that I had some. Probably I should not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it. The merchants and banks are suspending and failing all the country over, but not the sand banks, solid and warm. You may run on them as much as you please,—even as the crickets do, and find their account in it.

In these banks, too, and such as these, are my funds deposited, funds of health and enjoyment.

Canto III | Inferno by Dante Alighieri as translated by John Ciardi

October 14, There is some advantage in being the humblest, cheapest, least dignified man in the village, so that the very stable boys shall damn you. Methinks I enjoy that advantage to an unusual extent. July 6, I hear the alarum of a small red squirrel. I see him running by fits and starts along a chestnut bough toward me. He finds noise and activity for both of us. It is evident that all this ado does not proceed from fear. There is at the bottom, no doubt, an excess of inquisitiveness and caution, but the greater part is make-believe, and a love of the marvelous.

He can hardly keep it up till I am gone, however, but takes out his nut and tastes it in the midst of his agitation. O dear, what shall I do? He gets down the trunk at last upon a projecting knot, head downward, within a rod of you, and chirrups and chatters louder than ever. Tries to work himself into a fright. The hind part of his body is urging the forward part along, snapping the tail over it like a whip-lash, but the fore part, for the most part, clings fast to the bark with desperate energy.

October 5, Its writers were practitioners of craft above all else. They knew what they were about on every page. More frequently than any American writer of the period—more frequently, even, than Emerson—Thoreau underscored the necessity for persons of genius to incorporate into their style the popular idioms of their own time and culture. The order, shape, and semi-secret palimpsest of meanings matters.

The design matters. That is to say, the art and discipline of literature matters. In our understanding of old Henry, prophetic exponent of simplicity, what seems called for is an injection of salubrious complexity. This was a writer.