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226 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 20, 2018
At the same time that the pilgrim feels the order of the heavens, he is also struck by its dazzling brightness. In the medieval world, the spectator delighted in the mere quality of color or light in a way that is hard for us to conceive—we who live in a world flooded by artificial lights. He could almost taste its radiance. ...
What is more, just as we all know that the orbit of the moon affects the tides of large bodies of water, so did medieval people think all heavenly bodies exerted their influence on earth. Looking at the stars wasn't just pretty it was opening yourself to spiritual powers that penetrated your body. Their beauty was spiritually radioactive. For Dante's contemporaries, then, even the basic idea of flying through this place of peace and radiance would have been a wildly exciting, sci-fi journey. The pilgrim visits that region bathed in happiness and light, which flows into his body. It is this visceral feeling for the physical effects of light and music that appears everywhere throughout Dante's final canticle.
And so medieval men and women looked up at the sky and saw it as beautiful, radiant, dazzling, and ordered—or rather, felt it as perfection. It always moved in order, always obeyed, always sang. But although this ordered motion was most perfectly embodied in the starry sky, this order, this love, if you will, also flowed throughout the world, and in fact, was thought to keep everything in motion. It was love that regulated the seasons as they yielded to each other; it was love that ensured that the sea harmoniously lapped the land without overflowing its boundaries; it was even love that bound the soul to the body.