Or, How to Sing Your Way Out of Hell
by Anthony Esolen
A red light glares over the broken city. The ground everywhere is buckled, deformed by a strange pressure from within and without, humped and hollowed as mudflats by the sea. Objects stick out of it at odd angles. They are open tombs, their slabs hanging beside.
All life here is dead, and death alone lives. Still, prompted by man’s hunger to know, which is also a natural expansiveness of the heart, the traveler asks his guide whose tombs they are and whether he can peer within or speak to any of the imprisoned souls. The wise Virgil replies that they are in the cemetery of the heretics, and that each tomb is crammed full of men wh . . .