In between two canti devoted to the making of love poetry, Purgatorio 24 and 26, Purgatorio 25 is devoted to the making of bodies—human bodies. Cradled between two canti devoted to poetic creation is a canto devoted to biological creation: the process that leads to the generation of a human embryo.
The souls on the terrace of gluttony are emaciated. They suffer a punishment that involves immense craving for the fruit of the trees that they can never eat. This linkage between desire felt by the soul and emaciation experienced by the body was already flagged as a thorny issue upon first encountering the emaciated souls of the terrace of gluttony, in Purgatorio 23:
Chi crederebbe che l’odor d’un pomo sì governasse, generando brama, e quel d’un’acqua, non sappiendo como? (Purg. 23.34-36)
Who—if he knew not how—would have believed that longing born from odor of a tree, odor of water, could reduce souls so?
It is no less a thorny issue when the bodies at issue are virtual bodies. In fact, the question will prompt not only a discussion of the divinely-governed biological creation of physical bodies, but also of the divine creation of virtual bodies. As they climb up to the seventh terrace Dante-pilgrim asks how one who does not need nourishment can be made thin:
Allor sicuramente apri’ la bocca e cominciai: «Come si può far magro là dove l’uopo di nodrir non tocca?». (Purg. 25.19-21)
Then I had confidence enough to open my mouth and ask him: “How can one grow lean where there is never need for nourishment?”
In other words: how can a virtual body—a not-real body, a body that does not need to eat—become thin? What is the link between the physical torment these souls experience and their non-physical bodies?
Dante asks his guide, Virgilio, who answers him intuitively and by analogy, with recourse to the Ovidian myth of Meleager and to the link between a body and its image in a mirror (one thinks of Lacan’s “mirror stage”):
«Se t'ammentassi come Meleagro si consumò al consumar d’un stizzo, non fora», disse, «a te questo sì agro; e se pensassi come, al vostro guizzo, guizza dentro a lo specchio vostra image, ciò che par duro ti parrebbe vizzo. (Purg. 25.22-27)
“If you recall how Meleager was consumed,” he said, “just when the firebrand was spent, this won't be hard to understand; and if you think how, though your body’s swift, your image in the mirror captures it, then what perplexed will seem to you transparent.
The story of Meleager is in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: when her son was a week old, Althaia learned of a prophecy that he would die when a particular piece of wood was consumed by fire. The worried mother carefully saved the wood in a chest, but when she learned her son had killed her brothers, she took it out and burned it, thereby killing her son.
Virgilio’s comments frame the problem beautifully, letting us see it as one of selfhood (the Introduction to Inferno 13 broaches a similar set of issues). Why does Meleager’s self come to an end when the brand that “represents” him—or should we say the brand that is him?—is thrown into the fire? And why, turning to our own experiences, does our image in a mirror move when we move, making it difficult to disambiguate the mirrored self from the “true” self?
Stazio now steps up to answer (thus replacing Virgilio as the guide with the answers) with a technical and “scientific” explanation of how human embryos are formed. He begins in the natural/scientific domain, starting with the work of male sperm and continuing to describe the male and female contributions to the formation of the embryo (Purg. 25.37-51): the male is the active generator and the female contributes the “natural vasello” (natural receptacle [Purg. 25.45]). Stazio describes the process whereby the embryo develops, following Aristotle, as first a vegetative and then a sensitive soul:
Anima fatta la virtute attiva qual d’una pianta, in tanto differente, che questa è in via e quella è già a riva, tanto ovra poi, che già si move e sente, come spungo marino; e indi imprende ad organar le posse ond’è semente. (Purg. 25.52-57)
Having become a soul (much like a plant, though with this difference—a plant’s complete, whereas a fetus still is journeying), the active virtue labors, so the fetus may move and feel, like a sea-sponge; and then it starts to organize the powers it’s seeded.
Stazio ultimately moves to the metaphysical moment when the intellective soul is created directly by God. The First Mover “breathes new spirit” into the soul, a new spirit that pulls the different parts of the soul (vegetative, sensitive, and intellective) into one substance, one soul that lives and feels and self-consciously reflects itself upon itself (as though in a mirror!):
Apri a la verità che viene il petto; e sappi che, sì tosto come al feto l’articular del cerebro è perfetto, lo motor primo a lui si volge lieto sovra tant’arte di natura, e spira spirito novo, di vertù repleto, che ciò che trova attivo quivi, tira in sua sustanzia, e fassi un’alma sola, che vive e sente e sé in sé rigira. (Purg. 25.67-75)
Open your heart to truth we now have reached and know that, once the brain’s articulation within the fetus has attained perfection, then the First Mover turns toward it with joy on seeing so much art in nature and breathes into it new spirit—vigorous— which draws all that is active in the fetus into its substance and becomes one soul that lives and feels and has self-consciousness.
When we read the beautiful words “e spira / spirito novo” (Purg. 25.71-72), we do well to remember the use of the verb “spira” in the previous canto: Dante’s description of how Love breathes into him and “in-spires” the sweet new style (Purg. 24.53) is echoed by the spirare of the divine principle that creates the human soul.
The concluding section of Stazio’s discourse on the body treats the virtual bodies of the afterworld. This is of course a key issue for one who constructed a “virtual reality” in his poem: indeed, the subtitle of The Undivine Comedy in Italian is “Dante e la costruzione di una realtà virtuale”.
Dante has in some fashion anticipated our expression “virtual reality” in his description of the “virtual” bodies of the souls in the afterlife:
così l’aere vicin quivi si mette in quella forma ch’è in lui suggella virtualmente l’alma che ristette . . . (Purg. 25.94-96)
so there, where the soul stopped, the nearby air takes on the form that soul impressed on it, a shape that is, potentially, real body . . .
Purgatorio 25 concludes with the arrival of the wayfarers at the seventh and last terrace, the terrace of lust. The narrator explains that the mountain shoots forth flames on the seventh terrace, and that the terrace creates a wind that keeps the flames contained (Purg. 25.112-14). There is a narrow perimeter, where the travelers walk single-file, the pilgrim fearing the flames on one side and the precipice on the other. He sees spirits walking within the flames and hears their voices calling out examples of chastity.