Entering Dante Through the Side Door

I have often wondered how one approaches Dante. Not simply how one reads him, but how one enters his world.

Surprisingly, I found my doorway not in a book, but in a film.

Recently I watched Julian Schnabel’s In The Hand of Dante. It is one of those rare films that demands a second viewing—not because it is confusing, but because it is so rich. Each time I watched, another layer revealed itself.

Only later did I discover that Schnabel’s film was itself based on Nick Tosches’s novel In the Hand of Dante. It seemed fitting. Even my path to Dante had taken a winding route.

Until then, I knew remarkably little about Dante himself. My interests had led me in neighboring directions. I had spent time reading about fourteenth-century Florence, the rise of the city-states, and later the Medici family. Like many people, I suppose I knew that Dante loved Beatrice. But beyond that, his political life, his exile, and the profound spiritual journey that gave birth to The Divine Comedy remained largely unknown to me.

Schnabel’s film invited me in through a side door.

Rather than presenting Dante as a distant literary monument, he brought him startlingly to life. The story moves effortlessly between medieval Italy and the modern world, with the same actors inhabiting both centuries. Past and present seem to echo one another until the boundaries begin to dissolve. The effect is mesmerizing. The passions, betrayals, ambitions, and longings of the thirteenth century suddenly feel very familiar. Human nature, it seems, has changed very little.

By the time the credits rolled, I knew I had to read Dante’s masterpiece for myself.

When the volume arrived, however, I confess I was startled. Ninety-nine cantos spread across more than nine hundred pages. I realized immediately that this was not a book to hurry through. It was an invitation to travel slowly.

So I made a quiet promise to myself: one canto each evening.

Even with the remarkable guidance of translators and commentators, The Divine Comedy asks for patience. Dante assumes his readers know the history, politics, philosophy, and theology of his age. More than once I have found myself stopping to look up a forgotten figure or untangle an ancient dispute before continuing on my way. Far from being frustrating, I have come to see this as part of the journey itself. Dante is not simply telling a story; he is inviting us to enter an entire world.

At the moment I am still making my way through Inferno. It is not easy reading, nor should it be. Dante asks us to look unflinchingly at pride, greed, betrayal, violence, and despair—not only in others, but in ourselves. Hell is a place where every soul has surrendered hope. That, perhaps more than the punishments themselves, is what makes it so haunting.

Yet everyone assures me that the climb grows brighter.

Beyond Hell lies Purgatory, where hope returns. Souls still struggle, but they struggle with purpose. They are moving toward something better. That promise alone has been enough to keep me turning the pages.

As I read, I realize that Dante’s great poem is about much more than the afterlife. It is about being human. We all wander into dark forests from time to time, uncertain of the path ahead. We all encounter fears that seem larger than ourselves. The difference is that, unlike the souls Dante leaves behind in Hell, we are free to keep walking.
Perhaps that is the enduring gift of The Divine Comedy. It reminds us that hope is not the certainty that everything will turn out as we wish. Hope is what allows us to take the next step before we know where the road will lead.

Sometimes all we need is a doorway.

Mine happened to be a film.

That doorway turned out to lead farther than I expected. After reading Nick Tosches’s novel and returning again to Dante, I began thinking about what makes these unexpected journeys possible. I continue that thought in Curiosity Needs Spacious Time.