You’re finally nearing the end of the Holy Highway that leads to gladness and joy. This after so many beginnings. It was six days ago that you found yourself in a dark forest, lost and ready to give up. The Roman poet Virgil arrived, and the two of you traveled through Hell’s nine circles and up Mount Purgatory’s seven terraces to arrive here, where you are now, standing next to Beatrice, Bice, your childhood love.
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Having died when she was twenty-four, she now resides in Heaven. Her very presence next to you makes you think anything is possible—after all, you’re staring at the sun for far longer than you could on earth. Then just like that, without even thinking, you’re on your way back, like a bolt from the blue, to where you first began as a mere idea in the mind of God. Do you still have a body? Or are you nothing but soul?
She explains that the orderly universe is a mirror of God’s well-ordered mind. You’re headed, she says, for the Empyrean—the mind of God and home to nine orders of angels—that joyful target every arrow seeks to reach.
It’s only when Beatrice tells you to thank God for merging you with the moon that you realize exactly where you are. The moon has taken you in the way light becomes one with water. You ask about the fact that on earth some say the moon’s dark spots are Cain, left there to wander forever.
When she asks you what you think, you say the spots are visible because the material that makes up the moon is thinner in some places and thicker in others. She says she’s going to prove you wrong. And she does. If there were holes in the moon, she explains, light would shine through in an eclipse; conversely, if there were varying impediments, it wouldn’t matter because rays reflect the same wherever they come from.
You’re headed, she says, for the Empyrean—the mind of God and home to nine orders of angels—that joyful target every arrow seeks to reach.
Instead, she says, the difference is due to the angelic movers who reflect God’s light. They allot that light differently depending on what any particular matter deserves. That, she says, is the formal principle on which the entire universe is built. The heaven of the moon, since it’s farthest from God, deserves less light—and some areas in it, even less than others—and that accounts for its unevenness.
You think to thank her for her explanation, but you’re suddenly captivated by a group of faces. The first you talk to turns out to be a nun named Piccarda whom you knew back in the day. Wouldn’t she like to be closer to God, you wonder, instead of here in the heaven farthest from Him?
She smiles at your naivete and tells you she and everyone in Heaven find everything to be just as it should be. To be unhappy, she says, would be at odds with the Love that laid out the plan. What God wants, everyone wants. No wish can clash with His will. This is a revelation: in Heaven, one can love what is, even if what is isn’t the same for one and all.
You want to know how she came to be here. She was taken from the convent, she says, by men more evil than good and forced into a marriage. The same, she says, is true for the woman next to her, Constance, who, though also kidnapped from the convent, kept her vows in her heart. And with that, Piccarda vanishes.
Looking now at Beatrice, it’s as if you’re looking at lightning—that’s how bright she’s become. She sees inside your mind the tug-of-war your thoughts are having. Can the actions of others lessen the rewards the women deserve? Is this fair, if their hearts remained pure? You’re also wondering about what Plato wrote in Timaeus—that a soul returns to the star that birthed it.
Beatrice tells you that no one, not Mary or Moses or a single angel, resides anywhere but in the Empyrean. The women you met on the moon were only greeting you there to show you their lesser standing. It’s a necessary illusion that they live on the moon, she says, like giving biblical bodies to archangels. It’s the only way a mortal can conceive of the divine. She says Plato was wrong about stars, unless he only meant that the stars exert some influence on what one becomes.
In response to the other question, she says the women could well have gone back to the convent if their wills had been strong enough. Constance did keep her vows, but fear kept her from exerting her will. There’s one last thing you want to know: can a person ever make up for their lapses and erase the minus sign beside their name? The question causes Beatrice to look at you with so much love that you almost come undone.
She says it depends on what you did with God’s gift of free will. If you squandered it by using it for something that isn’t good, you will have failed to keep an agreement with God; that sort of lapse can never be canceled. In certain other cases, you may be able to convert the substance of what you promised and then failed to deliver—but if so, you have to give back more than you received. That said, there are things of such weight, the loss can never be made up. Therefore, she says, be careful with your promises: your salvation is at stake.
With that, you’re transported to the next level, the sphere of Mercury, which represents those who were overambitious and allowed the desire for fame to compromise the good they might have done. Of the thousand-plus radiances that come forward to meet you, the first to speak is Justinian I, emperor from 527 to 565.
He recounts the history of the Roman Empire, including the reign of Tiberius Caesar Augustus, who was emperor when God’s divine plan was realized: that is, when Adam and Eve’s sin was avenged by Christ’s crucifixion. Forty-two years after that, Titus captured and destroyed the city of Jerusalem; that act avenged the murder of Christ.
At the end of his history lesson, Justinian touches on the problem you know all too well: the pro-empire Ghibellines are corrupting the imperial standard by using it for their own purposes, and the pro-papacy Guelphs—led by Charles I, his French banner covered with fleurs-de-lis—are doing the same by opposing it. And both groups had better watch out, he says.
The Roman eagle should only stand for just causes. He says his goodness, along with that of all the others associated with this sphere, was diluted by the continual reaching for earthly glory and fame. They are perfectly happy now, however, since their lesser heavenly status is a reflection of divine justice. He says that on earth, those who act against others who are good only end up being damaged by their own shameful deeds. That’s the way divine justice works.
Justinian goes off singing, and you’re left to mull over something he said. Beatrice knows you’re trying to fathom how a just vengeance can be justly avenged. She explains how Adam, in damning himself, damned all who came after. All humans remained sick and suffering until God, out of love, decided to send down the Word in the form of His Son, thereby uniting His divinity with Nature.
God, she points out, had already created Nature, which was pure and good until it took a wrong turn in Eden, resulting in the banishment of Adam and Eve. Their guilt left a gap that could only be filled by suffering. The question God was faced with, she says, was, How could disobedient humans recover from that original sin? They weren’t humble enough to pay back the debt for their waywardness on their own, and pure pardon would have overlooked the gravity of the error.
The only truly fair way for God to restore humans to their potential was for Him to find a means of pardoning that also involved punishment. To that end, he created a flesh-and-blood Son whom he allowed to be sacrificed. The suffering caused by that sacrifice was redemptive.
Beatrice is suddenly even more beautiful, and from that, you assume you’ve seamlessly moved on and are now in the heaven of Venus, the planet paired with the goddess of Love. Those associated with this level were overinvested in loving—people, or objects, or money. Bright lights, all singing Hosanna, come forward and one appears to know you.
He says he was only on earth briefly, but, had he been able to stay longer, he would have loved you even more. It’s Charles Martel of Anjou, king of Hungary. Set to inherit the throne of the kingdom of Naples, he instead died just weeks shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. Now, his brother is ruling, and badly, he says.
At this moment, another splendor comes forward: Cunizza. She’s here, she says, because she was also too free with her love. There’s no need to repent of it now, since in Heaven, all is as it should be. There is nothing to do but be happy and thank the One that made it so. This is the nature of heavenly bliss: to be happy with one’s lot and never look back.
And now you’re on your way to the heaven of the Sun, Nature’s “premier minister,” which imprints the world with Heaven’s worth and measures time with its light. Here, Beatrice is totally eclipsed by the brightness of being inside the sun, and the souls, who on earth were wise, prudent, temperate, and just, all blaze like the sun itself. Singing, they circle you and Beatrice.
One is Saint Thomas Aquinas. He gives you a Cook’s tour of the souls surrounding you. He says God ordained two princes to serve the Church and act as guides: Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Dominic. Francis married poverty, and his followers did the same. They founded the Franciscan order, and after their leader died, “his worthy colleague,” Dominic, founded the Dominican order and tried to continue the work Francis began.
Except Thomas, a Dominican himself, says that Dominic’s flock has strayed from the path “where they fatten up, if they don’t lose their way”—meaning, they no longer nourish themselves on spiritual milk.
A second ring of lights now surrounds the first, matching it in motion and in song until it suddenly stops, and from the center comes the voice of the mystical theologian Saint Bonaventure, saying that just as Thomas, a Dominican, praised Francis, he, a Franciscan, will praise Dominic.
As Francis married poverty, Dominic married faith. He became a teacher and traveled throughout the kingdom, preaching and converting and fervently trying to stamp out heresy. Bonaventure says the Franciscans, too, have strayed from the track laid down by their founder and now can’t find their way back.
He then introduces the distinguished souls in his circle, and when he comes to King Solomon, he says, “No second was ever born.” Once the introductions conclude, and the occasion is marked by more sacred singing and circle dancing, Thomas sheds light on his confusing claim that Solomon reigned above all others. He knows you’re wondering, Wasn’t Christ the only one about whom such a thing could be said?
He says he’d only been speaking of kings, and this one, Solomon, asked for wisdom so he’d be up to the task of ruling. Let this be a lesson, he says, to take your time to form an opinion and be willing to change your mind when new evidence is presented. Don’t be a fool and jump to conclusions, especially about people, since people change and you may be surprised to find in Heaven some of those you assumed would go straight to Hell (and vice versa).
Beatrice asks the flames to explain whether they’ll have the same luminosity when the Day of Judgment comes, and if so, how the souls will manage to not be overwhelmed by the light. That’s easy, they say: everything will increase on that final day, and there will be no limitations, sensory or other, only continual bliss.
Now a third circle, too beautiful to be described, manifests itself. Overwhelmed by the brightness, you look away. When you look back again, you find you’ve arrived at the red heaven of Mars, where you will soon encounter those who gave their lives fighting for the faith. Here, the flames appear to form a cross on which the image of Christ flashes. The sights and sounds are such that you’re sure you’ve never been so enraptured.
Of course, you haven’t looked into Beatrice’s eyes since leaving the heaven of the Sun. That pleasure increases the higher you rise and will later exceed what you just saw. A flame darts along the arm of the cross, then settles itself at the foot and speaks.
It’s Cacciaguida, the root of your family tree, your great-great-grandfather, the man from whom your family got its name. He tells you how idyllic Florentine life was in the distant past. Everyone was moderate, honorable, and happy. He followed Emperor Conrad, became a knight, and died in the Second Crusade, his martyrdom earning him his place in Heaven.
You tell him you’ve heard ominous things about your future and want to be better prepared. He says you’ll be forced to leave Florence, after which your compatriots will turn against you. Make yourself a party of one, he says, and speak the truth—that’s why you’ve been shown these lives. And be specific; only then will readers have faith in what you write.
You look at Beatrice and she’s even more beautiful. From this, you know you’ve risen again and have been taken into the white radiance of the heaven of Jupiter, the sphere aligned with just rulers. The lights there sing and form the letters and words of the first sentence of the Book of Wisdom: DILIGITE JUSTITIAM, QUI JUDICATIS TERRAM, Latin for “Love justice, you who judge the earth.”
The lights pause on the crest of the final M, where they form the head and neck of the Imperial Eagle. The eagle speaks and tells you that whatever is consistent with God’s justice will be, although humans can’t perceive that, any more than they can see everything in the sea. It circles and sings of all the failed monarchies across Europe.
The eagle then goes silent and allows the lights to sing with one voice, after which it names the six good kings whose flames make up his eyebrow, two of whom are pagans. You’re amazed that pagans can go to Heaven, but the bird says don’t judge God’s goodness since it’s beyond comprehension.
When you turn to Beatrice, she’s not smiling. She says if she were, you’d be destroyed since you are now in the seventh heaven, that of Saturn, which is associated with those who practiced temperance; here her light is so bright you wouldn’t be able to bear it. She tells you to look away and you, of course, obey. You see lights going up and down the ladder of contemplation.
Saint Benedict comes down from the others and tells you how his followers, too, have gone astray. He and the others then rise like a whirlwind. Beatrice tells you to look down to see how far you’ve traveled. You see all seven of the planetary spheres and marvel at how like a little nothing the big blue marble looks.
When you look back to Beatrice’s beautiful eyes, you realize you’ve entered the heaven of the Fixed Stars. Beatrice appears to be waiting for something wonderful. When it arrives, you see it’s Christ and the hosts of His triumph: Mary—the Mystic Rose, brightest of all—and the Apostles.
Beatrice tells you that the things you’ve seen have made you strong enough to withstand the light of her smile. You know you will never forget this moment and the immense gratitude you feel. Mary rises, at which point all the others sing “Queen of Heaven” and stretch their flames toward her. That’s when you see Saint Peter, holder of the keys.
Beatrice asks Peter to test you on the matter of faith. You tell him that faith is the substance of things hoped for and proof of what you can’t see, which is the same as what Saint Paul said when he was here on earth. You answer the rest of the questions and pass the test. Peter is so pleased he circles you three times, the numerical equivalent of a hug.
You, Beatrice, and Peter are then joined by Saint James, who has come to test you on hope. What is hope? How does it flourish in you? From where does it come to you?
Beatrice jumps in to say that no one has more hope than you, which is why you’ve been allowed to come here before your service on earth is over. This is an act of kindness to keep you from having to brag. You go on to say that hope is being certain of the glory of Heaven, which is given through God’s grace. He asks what hope promises you, and you point to the hope of resurrection found in the Scriptures.
At this, the test is over and another light comes to join your group. This is the Apostle John, and because you had always heard he brought his mortal body with him to Heaven, you try to see it through the flame. He sets you straight: his body, he says—like that of everyone except Christ and Mary—is still on earth. Looking into the light, however, has exhausted your seeing and when you look back at Beatrice, you know she’s there but you no longer see her.
John examines you on the subject of love: what do you love and why? You say the scriptural evidence of God’s love has taught you everything you need to return God’s love.
Fine, he says, but let’s have some clarification. You tell him you also learned from Aristotle and the early Christian theologians that all who understand God’s great love will love Him in return. John says you’re right, and you’ve used both reason and faith to grasp that there is no purer love than God’s. At this, everyone, including Beatrice, sings “Holy, Holy, Holy!”
Suddenly, you see the book of triune love. Its pages—which contain all matter and all action—are scattered through the universe.
As your sight returns, you notice that another light has joined the group. Beatrice tells you it’s Adam. You ask him his age, how long he was in Eden, the cause of the Fall, and what language he spoke. Adam says the problem wasn’t the apple per se but that they didn’t obey God’s one prohibition.
In terms of his age, and how long he was in Eden, he explains that he is basically 6,498 years old. He says his language became extinct before Nimrod attempted to build the Tower of Babel and that he lived in the garden for just seven heavenly hours. You hear “Gloria Patria” being sung above you, and right in front of you, Adam blazes even brighter.
Peter then turns red with indignation. He says his papal seat is as good as vacant given the current pope’s wickedness. At that, they all rise like snowflakes that fall up instead of down. Beatrice tells you to look below and see how far you’ve come. You do as she says and when you look back at her smiling eyes, that power propels you into the ninth sphere, the Primum Mobile.
Now you don’t know where you are, since there is no there there; there’s no matter—so, no landmarks—only a crystalline transparency. The only where here is God’s divine mind. The motion of the other spheres is determined by the Primum Mobile.
After gazing into Beatrice’s eyes, you turn and see a point of light so bright it can’t be endured. The point is surrounded by nine circles of fire: the one closest to the point moves the fastest, and each subsequent circle moves more slowly, depending on their love for God. These are the angelic intelligences; each group influences a different heavenly sphere, and each is defined by the degree to which their sight penetrates the Truth.
So, it’s vision, Beatrice points out, that is the defining factor; love follows after. All the angels are drawn toward God, and as they gaze upward, they draw up those beneath them. Beatrice says God created the universe complete, not out of need but out of love. There was no before and no after, but everything blazed into being at once.
An order was created and the angelic beings were arranged. Impatient, Satan refused to wait to receive God’s light, so he fell and is now buried under the weight of the world. The angels who remained received God’s illuminating grace and, as a result, their will and His are one. They never look away from Him, so remain ever-present with no need for memory.
Then the angels, which seem to enclose that which encloses them, fade from view, and when they do, you turn your eyes back to Beatrice. Her beauty is beyond what mortals can know. She says you are now in the heaven of pure light, which is filled with love. Here you’ll see the two militias: one made up of saved souls, the other composed of angels. At that, you’re wrapped in light and transformed: there is no light too bright for you to see.
Sparks emerge from a red-gold river and settle themselves in flowers that line both banks. Even so, Beatrice says, they are only a preface of their true natures, which you will be able to see once you visually “drink” the water of the river. As you do, the river becomes a circular disc, and before your eyes, the sparks and flowers become the two courts of Heaven.
You take in the endless tiers of an amphitheater lined with thrones, on which figures in white clerical stoles are seated. Only a few are still empty. A crown sits above one empty throne. Beatrice says that it’s waiting for Henry VII, who will try, but fail, to fix Italy. She says the pope who will refuse to help him won’t last for long before being sent straight to Hell, where he’ll land on top of the previous pope.
The amphitheater holding Christ’s holy militia looks like a gigantic rose. The other militia, the angels, looks like a swarm of bees that fly up to God with golden wings and return with the peace and love they gain on the way; they then descend into the rose and offer their gifts.
You turn to ask Beatrice something and, in her place, there’s an avuncular elder. It’s Saint Bernard. Where’s Beatrice? you ask, and he says she’s returned to her assigned seat, third row down, just below Eve. She asked him to help you finish the course. To prepare your eyes to follow the divine ray of light that will lead you to God, look all the way up, he says, until you see Mary.
Bernard begins to name the women on one side: Mary at the top; beneath her, Eve; on the third level, Rachel sitting beside Beatrice; below those two, Sarah, then Rebecca, then Judith, then Ruth. The next seven levels, like the seven above, are occupied by other Hebrew women of the Old Testament, each defining the lateral layers of the rose.
On one side of the rose are only those who anticipated the coming of Christ, and on the other side, where there are still some vacancies, those for whom Christ has already come. Mary and those below her form a lengthwise dividing line. Opposite Mary is John the Baptist, and those below him form the other longitudinal dividing line.
From the midpoint down, between those two lines, are those who were absolved before they could ask for absolution, in other words, little children; they are arranged in the order of excellence bestowed by God when He created their souls. To the left of Bernard are Hebrew children; to the right are the Christian children who were baptized (the unbaptized being in Limbo).
When Bernard asks Mary to give you the requisite grace, she turns her loving eyes to God. You look up as well and your sight enters into the brightest possible beam. Suddenly, you see the book of triune love. Its pages—which contain all matter and all action—are scattered through the universe.
The light acts on you and as it does, it becomes three circles of three colors; the third circle is made of fire breathed out by the other two; inside it, of the same color, is a human figure. You so want to know how the image and the circle fit inside each other and become one, and then, like lightning, you do know, and just as quickly, it’s over, the story you’ve been telling yourself.
But none of that matters because what you want, and your will, are now turned as one toward God—”the love that moves the sun and the other stars.”
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Introduction to Dante’s Paradiso copyright © 2025 by Mary Jo Bang. Reprinted from Paradiso, translated by Mary Jo Bang, with the permission of the author and Graywolf Press. All rights reserved.
