LIMBUS, or The Divine Comedy in the Age of Algorithms

A balance sheet of blood
Paisa paisa, each note a weight
Silver-tongued prophets whispering rates
"Sell your soul, it’s market price!"
Ash rains down, not from the sky
But from burnt contracts, burnt dreams
A prayer in counterfeit rupees
A hymn in falsified deeds
"The gods of capital demand sacrifice!"
The reel spins, the city smokes
Life is a film that never ends
A loop of crime, a loop of wealth
The credits never roll.

To some observers, indeed, it was a branch of Hell.

कुछ पर्यवेक्षकों के लिए, वास्तव में, यह नरक की एक शाखा थी।

L'entrata dell' Inferno
Canto III

«Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate!»

«Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto;
ogne viltà convien che qui sia morta.
Noi siam venuti al loco ov' i' t'ho detto
che tu vedrai le genti dolorose
c'hanno perduto il ben de l'intelletto.»

Quivi sospiri, pianti e alti guai
risonavan per l'aere sanza stelle,
per ch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle
facevano un tumulto, il qual s'aggira
sempre in quell' aura sanza tempo tinta,
come la rena quando turbo spira.

E dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta
di gente, ch'i' non averei creduto
che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta.

The Gate of Hell
Poem III

«Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost.

All hope abandon, ye who enter in!»

«Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
All cowardice must needs be here extinct.
We to the place have come, where I have told thee
Thou shalt behold the people dolorous
Who have foregone the good of intellect.»

There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded through the air without a star,
Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.
Languages diverse, horrible dialects,
Accents of anger, words of agony,
And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
For ever in that air for ever black,
Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes.

And after it there came so long a train
Of people, that I ne'er would have believed
That ever Death so many had undone.

Il Primo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto IV

«Or discendiam qua giù nel cieco mondo»

Così si mise e così mi fé intrare
nel primo cerchio che l'abisso cigne.

Non era lunga ancor la nostra via
di qua dal sonno, quand' io vidi un foco
ch'emisperio di tenebre vincia.

«Or vo' che sappi, innanzi che più andi,
ch'ei non peccaro; e s'elli hanno mercedi,
non basta, perché non ebber battesmo,
ch'è porta de la fede che tu credi;

Per tai difetti, non per altro rio,
semo perduti, e sol di tanto offesi
che sanza speme vivemo in disio.»

Genti v'eran con occhi tardi e gravi,
di grande autorità ne' lor sembianti:
parlavan rado, con voci soavi.
Traemmoci così da l'un de' canti.

The First Circle of Hell
Poem IV

«Let us descend now into the blind world.»

Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter
The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss.

Not very far as yet our way had gone
This side the summit, when I saw a fire
That overcame a hemisphere of darkness.

«Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther,
That they sinned not; and if they merit had,
'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism
Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest;

For such defects, and not for other guilt,
Lost are we and are only so far punished,
That without hope we live on in desire.»

People were there with solemn eyes and slow,
Of great authority in their countenance;
They spoke but seldom, and with gentle voices.
Thus we withdrew ourselves upon one side.

La Divina Commedia - Inferno

Il Secondo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto V

Così discesi del cerchio primaio
giù nel secondo, che men loco cinghia
e tanto più dolor, che punge a guaio.

E quel conoscitor de le peccata
vede qual loco d'inferno è da essa;
cignesi con la coda tante volte
quantunque gradi vuol che giù sia messa.

Or incomincian le dolenti note
a farmisi sentire; or son venuto
là dove molto pianto mi percuote.
Io venni in loco d'ogne luce muto,
che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta,
se da contrari venti è combattuto.
La bufera infernal, che mai non resta.

Così quel fiato li spiriti mali
di qua, di là, di giù, di sù li mena.

«O animal grazïoso e benigno
che visitando vai per l'aere perso

Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende,
prese costui de la bella persona
che mi fu tolta; e 'l modo ancor m'offende.
Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona,
mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,
che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona.
Amor condusse noi ad una morte.»

Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
menò costoro al doloroso passo!

Ma s'a conoscer la prima radice
del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto
di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.

Mentre che l'uno spirto questo disse,
l'altro piangea; sì che di pietade
io venni men così com' io morisse.
E caddi come corpo morto cade.

The Second Circle of Hell
Poem V

Thus I descended out of the first circle
Down to the second, that less space begirds,
And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing.

And this discriminator of transgressions
Seeth what place in Hell is meet for it;
Girds himself with his tail as many times
As grades he wishes it should be thrust down

And now begin the dolesome notes to grow
Audible unto me; now am I come
There where much lamentation strikes upon me.
I came into a place mute of all light,
Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest,
If by opposing winds 't is combated.
The infernal hurricane that never rests.

So doth that blast the spirits maledict;
It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them.

«O living creature gracious and benignant,
Who visiting goest through the purple air

Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,
Seized this man for the person beautiful
That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me.
Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,
Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,
That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;
Love has conducted us unto one death.»

How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire,
Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!

But, if to recognise the earliest root
Of love in us thou hast so great desire,
I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.
One day we reading were for our delight
Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral.
Alone we were and without any fear.

And all the while one spirit uttered this,
The other one did weep so, that, for pity,
I swooned away as if I had been dying,
And fell, even as a dead body falls.

Il Terzo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VI

Al tornar de la mente, che si chiuse
dinanzi a la pietà d'i due cognati,
che di trestizia tutto mi confuse,
novi tormenti e novi tormentati
mi veggio intorno, come ch'io mi mova
e ch'io mi volga, e come che io guati.
Io sono al terzo cerchio, de la piova
etterna, maladetta, fredda e greve;
regola e qualità mai non l'è nova.
Grandine grossa, acqua tinta e neve
per l'aere tenebroso si riversa;
pute la terra che questo riceve.

«La tua città, ch'è piena d'invidia
sì che già trabocca il sacco,
seco mi tenne in la vita serena.
Voi cittadini mi chiamaste Ciacco:
per la dannosa colpa de la gola,
come tu vedi, a la pioggia mi fiacco.
E io anima trista non son sola,
ché tutte queste a simil pena stanno
per simil colpa.»

«Alte terrà lungo tempo le fronti,
tenendo l'altra sotto gravi pesi,
come che di ciò pianga o che n'aonti.
Giusti son due, e non vi sono intesi;
superbia, invidia e avarizia sono
le tre faville c'hanno i cuori accesi.»

Sì trapassammo per sozza mistura
de l'ombre e de la pioggia, a passi lenti,
toccando un poco la vita futura.

The Third Circle of Hell
Poem VI

At the return of consciousness, that closed
Before the pity of those two relations,
Which utterly with sadness had confused me,
New torments I behold, and new tormented
Around me, whichsoever way I move,
And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze.
In the third circle am I of the rain
Eternal, maledict, and cold, and heavy;
Its law and quality are never new.
Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow,
Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain;
Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this.

«Thy city, which is full of envy
so that now the sack runs over,
Held me within it in the life serene.
You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco;
For the pernicious sin of gluttony
I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain.
And I, sad soul, am not the only one,
For all these suffer the like penalty
For the like sin.»

«High will it hold its forehead a long while,
Keeping the other under heavy burdens,
Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant.
The just are two, and are not understood there;
Envy and Arrogance and Avarice are
the three sparks that have all hearts enkindled.»

So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture
Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow,
Touching a little on the future life.

Il Quarto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VII

Poi si rivolse a quella 'nfiata labbia,
e disse: «Taci, maladetto lupo!
consuma dentro te con la tua rabbia.»

Così scendemmo ne la quarta lacca,
pigliando più de la dolente ripa
che 'l mal de l'universo tutto insacca.

Così convien che qui la gente riddi.
Qui vid' i' gente più ch'altrove troppa,
e d'una parte e d'altra, con grand' urli,
voltando pesi per forza di poppa.

Così tornavan per lo cerchio tetro
da ogne mano a l'opposito punto,
gridandosi anche loro ontoso metro;
poi si volgea ciascun, quand' era giunto,
per lo suo mezzo cerchio a l'altra giostra.

Quanta ignoranza è quella che v'offende!

Fece li cieli e diè lor chi conduce
sì, ch'ogne parte ad ogne parte splende,
distribuendo igualmente la luce.

Per ch'una gente impera e l'altra langue,
seguendo lo giudicio di costei,
che è occulto come in erba l'angue.

Noi ricidemmo il cerchio a l'altra riva
sovr' una fonte che bolle e riversa
per un fossato che da lei deriva.
L'acqua era buia assai più che persa;
e noi, in compagnia de l'onde bige,
intrammo giù per una via diversa.

The Fourth Circle of Hell
Poem VII

Then he turned round unto that bloated lip,
And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf;
Consume within thyself with thine own rage.»

Thus we descended into the fourth chasm,
Gaining still farther on the dolesome shore
Which all the woe of the universe insacks.

So here the folk must dance their roundelay.
Here saw I people, more than elsewhere, many,
On one side and the other, with great howls,
Rolling weights forward by main force of chest.

Thus they returned along the lurid circle
On either hand unto the opposite point,
Shouting their shameful metre evermore.
Then each, when he arrived there, wheeled about
Through his half-circle to another joust.

What ignorance is this which doth beset you!

The heavens created, and gave who should guide them,
That every part to every part may shine,
Distributing the light in equal measure;

Therefore one people triumphs, and another
Languishes, in pursuance of her judgment,
Which hidden is, as in the grass a serpent.

We crossed the circle to the other bank,
Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself
Along a gully that runs out of it.
The water was more sombre far than perse;
And we, in company with the dusky waves,
Made entrance downward by a path uncouth.

Il Quinto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VIII

Li occhi nostri n'andar suso a la cima
per due fiammette che i vedemmo porre,
e un'altra da lungi render cenno,
tanto ch'a pena il potea l'occhio tòrre.

Lo duca mio discese ne la barca,
e poi mi fece intrare appresso lui;
e sol quand' io fui dentro parve carca.
Tosto che 'l duca e io nel legno fui,
segando se ne va l'antica prora
de l'acqua più che non suol con altrui.

Noi pur giugnemmo dentro a l'alte fosse
che vallan quella terra sconsolata:
le mura mi parean che ferro fosse.

Io vidi più di mille in su le porte
da ciel piovuti, che stizzosamente
dicean: «Chi è costui che sanza morte
va per lo regno de la morta gente?»

E a me disse: «Tu, perch' io m'adiri,
non sbigottir, ch'io vincerò la prova,
qual ch'a la difension dentro s'aggiri.
Questa lor tracotanza non è nova;
ché già l'usaro a men segreta porta,
la qual sanza serrame ancor si trova.
Sovr' essa vedestù la scritta morta:
e già di qua da lei discende l'erta,
passando per li cerchi sanza scorta,
tal che per lui ne fia la terra aperta.»

The Fifth Circle of Hell
Poem VIII

Our eyes went upward to the summit of it,
By reason of two flamelets we saw placed there,
And from afar another answer them,
So far, that hardly could the eye attain it.

My Guide descended down into the boat,
And then he made me enter after him,
And only when I entered seemed it laden.
Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat,
The antique prow goes on its way, dividing
More of the water than 'tis wont with others.

Then we arrived within the moats profound,
That circumvallate that disconsolate city;
The walls appeared to me to be of iron.

More than a thousand at the gates I saw
Out of the Heavens rained down, who angrily
were saying, «Who is this that without death
Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?»

And unto me: «Thou, because I am angry,
Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial,
Whatever for defence within be planned.
This arrogance of theirs is nothing new;
For once they used it at less secret gate,
Which finds itself without a fastening still.
O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription;
And now this side of it descends the steep,
Passing across the circles without escort,
One by whose means the city shall be opened.»

Il Sesto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto IX

«In questo fondo de la trista conca
discende mai alcun del primo grado,
che sol per pena ha la speranza cionca?»

Quell' è 'l più basso loco e 'l più oscuro,
e 'l più lontan dal ciel che tutto gira.

Però che l'occhio m'avea tutto tratto
ver' l'alta torre a la cima rovente,
dove in un punto furon dritte ratto
tre furïe infernal di sangue tinte.

Li rami schianta, abbatte e porta fori;
dinanzi polveroso va superbo,
e fa fuggir le fiere e li pastori.

Vid' io più di mille anime distrutte
fuggir così dinanzi ad un ch'al passo
passava Stige con le piante asciutte.
Dal volto rimovea quell' aere grasso,
menando la sinistra innanzi spesso;
e sol di quell' angoscia parea lasso.

Dentro li 'ntrammo sanz' alcuna guerra;
e io, ch'avea di riguardar disio
la condizion che tal fortezza serra,
com' io fui dentro, l'occhio intorno invio:
e veggio ad ogne man grande campagna,
piena di duolo e di tormento rio.

«Qui son li eresïarche
con lor seguaci, d'ogne setta, e molto
più che non credi son le tombe carche.
Simile qui con simile è sepolto,
e i monimenti son più e men caldi.»
E poi ch'a la man destra si fu vòlto,
passammo tra i martìri e li alti spaldi.

The Sixth Circle of Hell
Poem IX

«Into this bottom of the doleful conch
Doth any e'er descend from the first grade,
Which for its pain has only hope cut off?»

That is the lowest region and the darkest,
And farthest from the heaven which circles all.

Because mine eye had altogether drawn me
Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit,
Where in a moment saw I swift uprisen
The three infernal Furies stained with blood.

The branches rends, beats down, and bears away;
Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb,
And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds.

More than a thousand ruined souls I saw,
Thus fleeing from before one who on foot
Was passing o'er the Styx with soles unwet.
From off his face he fanned that unctuous air,
Waving his left hand oft in front of him,
And only with that anguish seemed he weary.

Within we entered without any contest;
And I, who inclination had to see
What the condition such a fortress holds,
Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye,
And see on every hand an ample plain,
Full of distress and torment terrible.

«Here are the Heresiarchs,
With their disciples of all sects, and much
More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs.
Here like together with its like is buried;
And more and less the monuments are heated.»
And when he to the right had turned, we passed
Between the torments and high parapets.

Il Settimo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XII

Era lo loco ov' a scender la riva
venimmo, alpestro e, per quel che v'er' anco,
tal, ch'ogne vista ne sarebbe schiva.

Oh cieca cupidigia e ira folle,
che sì ci sproni ne la vita corta,
e ne l'etterna poi sì mal c'immolle!
Io vidi un'ampia fossa in arco torta,
come quella che tutto 'l piano abbraccia,
secondo ch'avea detto la mia scorta;
e tra 'l piè de la ripa ed essa, in traccia
corrien centauri, armati di saette,
come solien nel mondo andare a caccia.

«Ma per quella virtù per cu' io movo
li passi miei per sì selvaggia strada,
danne un de' tuoi, a cui noi siamo a provo,
e che ne mostri là dove si guada,
e che porti costui in su la groppa,
ché non è spirto che per l'aere vada.»

Or ci movemmo con la scorta fida
lungo la proda del bollor vermiglio,
dove i bolliti facieno alte strida.

Poi vidi gente che di fuor del rio
tenean la testa e ancor tutto 'l casso;
e di costoro assai riconobb' io.
Così a più a più si facea basso
quel sangue, sì che cocea pur li piedi;
e quindi fu del fosso il nostro passo.

The Seventh Circle of Hell
Poem XII

The place where to descend the bank we came
Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover,
Of such a kind that every eye would shun it.

O blind cupidity, O wrath insane,
That spurs us onward so in our short life,
And in the eternal then so badly steeps us!
I saw an ample moat bent like a bow,
As one which all the plain encompasses,
Conformable to what my Guide had said.
And between this and the embankment's foot
Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows,
As in the world they used the chase to follow.

«But by that virtue through which I am moving
My steps along this savage thoroughfare,
Give us some one of thine, to be with us,
And who may show us where to pass the ford,
And who may carry this one on his back;
For 'tis no spirit that can walk the air.»

We with our faithful escort onward moved
Along the brink of the vermilion boiling,
Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments.

Then people saw I, who from out the river
Lifted their heads and also all the chest;
And many among these I recognised.
Thus ever more and more grew shallower
That blood, so that the feet alone it covered;
And there across the moat our passage was.

L'Ottavo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XVIII

Luogo è in inferno detto Malebolge,
tutto di pietra di color ferrigno,
come la cerchia che dintorno il volge.

A la man destra vidi nova pieta,
novo tormento e novi frustatori,
di che la prima bolgia era repleta.
Nel fondo erano ignudi i peccatori;
dal mezzo in qua ci venien verso 'l volto,
di là con noi, ma con passi maggiori.

Da l'altra sponda vanno verso 'l monte.
Di qua, di là, su per lo sasso tetro
vidi demon cornuti con gran ferze,
che li battien crudelmente di retro.

Poscia con pochi passi divenimmo
là 'v' uno scoglio de la ripa uscia.
Assai leggeramente quel salimmo;
e vòlti a destra su per la sua scheggia,
da quelle cerchie etterne ci partimmo.

Del vecchio ponte guardavam la traccia
che venìa verso noi da l'altra banda,
e che la ferza similmente scaccia.

Quindi sentimmo gente che si nicchia
ne l'altra bolgia e che col muso scuffa,
e sé medesma con le palme picchia.
Le ripe eran grommate d'una muffa,
per l'alito di giù che vi s'appasta,
che con li occhi e col naso facea zuffa.
Lo fondo è cupo sì, che non ci basta
loco a veder sanza montare al dosso
de l'arco, ove lo scoglio più sovrasta.

The Eighth Circle of Hell
Poem XVIII

There is a place in Hell called Malebolge,
Wholly of stone and of an iron colour,
As is the circle that around it turns.

Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish,
New torments, and new wielders of the lash,
Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete.
Down at the bottom were the sinners naked;
This side the middle came they facing us,
Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps.

On the other side they go towards the Mountain.
This side and that, along the livid stone
Beheld I horned demons with great scourges,
Who cruelly were beating them behind.

Thereafterward with footsteps few we came
To where a crag projected from the bank.
This very easily did we ascend,
And turning to the right along its ridge,
From those eternal circles we departed.

From the old bridge we looked upon the train
Which tow'rds us came upon the other border,
And which the scourges in like manner smite.

Thence we heard people, who are making moan
In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles,
And with their palms beating upon themselves
The margins were incrusted with a mould
By exhalation from below, that sticks there,
And with the eyes and nostrils wages war.
The bottom is so deep, no place suffices
To give us sight of it, without ascending
The arch's back, where most the crag impends.

Il Nono Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XXXII

S'ïo avessi le rime aspre e chiocce,
come si converrebbe al tristo buco
sovra 'l qual pontan tutte l'altre rocce,
io premerei di mio concetto il suco
più pienamente; ma perch' io non l'abbo,
non sanza tema a dicer mi conduco;
ché non è impresa da pigliare a gabbo
discriver fondo a tutto l'universo.

Per ch'io mi volsi, e vidimi davante
e sotto i piedi un lago che per gelo
avea di vetro e non d'acqua sembiante.
Non fece al corso suo sì grosso velo.

Ognuna in giù tenea volta la faccia;
da bocca il freddo, e da li occhi il cor tristo
tra lor testimonianza si procaccia.
Quand' io m'ebbi dintorno alquanto visto,
volsimi a' piedi, e vidi due sì stretti,
che 'l pel del capo avieno insieme misto.

E poi ch'ebber li visi a me eretti,
li occhi lor, ch'eran pria pur dentro molli,
gocciar su per le labbra, e 'l gelo strinse
le lagrime tra essi e riserrolli.
Con legno legno spranga mai non cinse
forte così; ond' ei come due becchi
cozzaro insieme, tanta ira li vinse.

Poscia vid' io mille visi cagnazzi
fatti per freddo; onde mi vien riprezzo,
e verrà sempre, de' gelati guazzi.
E mentre ch'andavamo inver' lo mezzo
al quale ogne gravezza si rauna,
e io tremava ne l'etterno rezzo;
se voler fu o destino o fortuna,
non so; ma, passeggiando tra le teste,
forte percossi 'l piè nel viso ad una.

«Via, via!» Uno gridò.

Noi eravam partiti già da ello,
ch'io vidi due ghiacciati in una buca,
sì che l'un capo a l'altro era cappello;
e come 'l pan per fame si manduca,
così 'l sovran li denti a l'altro pose
là 've 'l cervel s'aggiugne con la nuca.

Dante Alighieri

The Ninth Circle of Hell
Poem XXXII

If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous,
As were appropriate to the dismal hole
Down upon which thrust all the other rocks,
I would press out the juice of my conception
More fully; but because I have them not,
Not without fear I bring myself to speak;
For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest,
To sketch the bottom of all the universe.

Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me
And underfoot a lake, that from the frost
The semblance had of glass, and not of water.
So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current.

Each one his countenance held downward bent;
From mouth the cold, from eyes the doleful heart
Among them witness of itself procures.
When round about me somewhat I had looked,
I downward turned me, and saw two so close,
The hair upon their heads together mingled.

And when to me their faces they had lifted,
Their eyes, which first were only moist within,
Gushed o'er the eyelids, and the frost congealed
The tears between, and locked them up again.
Clamp never bound together wood with wood
So strongly; whereat they, like two he-goats,
Butted together, so much wrath o'ercame them.

Then I beheld a thousand faces, made
Purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder,
And evermore will come, at frozen ponds.
And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle,
Where everything of weight unites together,
And I was shivering in the eternal shade,
Whether 'twere will, or destiny, or chance,
I know not; but in walking 'mong the heads
I struck my foot hard in the face of one.

«Begone!» One cried.

Already we had gone away from him,
When I beheld two frozen in one hole,
So that one head a hood was to the other;
And even as bread through hunger is devoured,
The uppermost on the other set his teeth,
There where the brain is to the nape united.

Dante Alighieri

THE DEVIL IN THE MODERN WORLD

Between acts, we vanish

OG dramatic poet Dante Alighieri

A Total Moral Sh*tshow

Translation for gen Z

The world is a hot mess.

We're swimming in capitalism, greed, TikTok challenges, and whatever “influencer culture” is supposed to be. Whether it's mindlessly scrolling, getting lost in the endless scroll of despair, or watching political chaos unfold like a trainwreck.
The stuff we’re consuming—Instagram lies, YouTube drama, mindless consumerism, and corporate greed—has completely polluted our souls.

Hell is basically a bunch of personal screw-ups that lead to an eternity of awkwardly trying to avoid your ex.

Maybe try not to go to Hell (Literally or Figuratively)

In Mumbai today, corruption’s a business model—just sell your soul for a quick profit and call it 'hustling.

In my day, the fraudsters got stuck in hell. Now they get paid for their sins.

In a mansion grand, beneath a crystal dome,
The city's wealthy gathered, far from home.
Their laughter hollow, their words rehearsed,
Each one playing a part—each soul cursed.

PARADISE
greenery, lush surrounding
wind, water, candelabra lights the sky, crowns from lillies, green leaves, feathers full of ice, griffin, olive branches, rivers

PURGATORY
not eternal - judgement day

antipurgatory, 3 steps
of different stones: polished white marble - reflection purity of ones soul
cracked dark shape of a cross mourning
red blood of christ, new beginning, restauration

pride: statues humility Mary Gabriel
envy: iron wire eyes sewn shut
wrath: 3pm
sloth - gluttony and lust
avarice: social standing, power, generosity
gluttony: similar to Tantalus
lust: Sodom and Gomorra - chastity

9 spheres, celestial bodies
1 day from inferno to paradise

moon: inconstant - virtue of fortitude
free will
mercury roman empire Justinian
venus lust
sun wise
mars faith courage
jupiter just rulers, king of gods
saturn self restraint and temperance ladder, devoted christians
premobile 9 circles of fire, ranks of angels, love of god universe
imperium, river of light, infinitely happy
trinity human form of Christ

"who has betrayed society itself?"
Dante, Divine Comedy

The game, a twisted form of digital entertainment, dares its players to perform acts that push them beyond their limits, forcing them to confront the harsh realities of their worlds. As their dares unfold, they must reckon with their beliefs, their desires, and the systems that have trapped them.

"We live in an era where it is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism." [1]
This is not just a story of the rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless; it is about alienation—the rift between man and his true self. “I believe that the task of the intellectual is to represent the contradictions of society.”[2] In the slums, the mansions, the temples—there is a dance of souls trapped in a world that devours them both physically and spiritually.
"I am a man who finds reality unbearable; for me, it is unbearable because it is always transformed by ideology. I need reality to be reconstructed in the form of art.” [3]
This is not fiction; it is a manifesto. “We are completely dependent on consumerism, the culture of the dollar, and the colossal powers that sustain our lifestyles.”[4] The city of Mumbai, with its slums, penthouses, and temples, shows us the contradiction of our time: the false promises of wealth and the void it creates.
"Money was the symbol of power, and power was the chief end of man.” [5]
We follow three individuals—Armaan, Gauri, and Rohit—each from different worlds but all connected by the invisible threads of the 21st century that forces them to perform, survive, and consume. “The more rapidly a fire burns, the more energy is extracted from the fuel, and the cleaner the burn.” [6] For the rich, their hunger is for power; for the poor, it is for life.
"It embodies the very idea of consumption as such, a nonstop devouring, a thirst which can never be satisfied, a desire with no subject.”[7]
“We live in a world where we are only capable of imagining how things should be; things are never what they appear to be.” [8] The dance continues, as it always has. There is no past, no future, everything flows in an eternal present. [9]

[1] The Dissenting Intellectual, 1972, [2] The Heretical Thought, 1971, [3] Interviews with Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1965,[4] The Society of the Spectacle, 1972, [5] Interviews with Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1972, [6] The Dissenting Intellectual, 1972, [7] The Society of the Spectacle, 1972, [8] The Society of the Spectacle, 1972, [9] James Joyce

[1] Socrates, [2] Franklin D. Roosevelt, [3] J.R.R. Tolkien

OVERTURE

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity... [1]
The slums rotted in the shadows of glass towers, the contradictions of power crystallized in the skyline itself. The belief that wealth always originated in crime links the mansion and the slum [2], with crime and corruption inseparable from both. Here, the urban slum is cast as "other, " providing a necessary counterpoint to the wealth and power above. [3]
The various modes of the human mind, the different situations of society, the various forms of government, may give rise to every species of contradiction, and every species of inequality. [4]

[1] Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, [2] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [3] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [4] Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

The gods of the slums are not kind. They are the gods of hunger, dirt, and disease—the inevitable rot and diminished returns that bring on illness and hunger. [15] They are the gods of hopelessness, their very existence a reflection of what it means to live in the shadow of wealth and corruption. "This is our slum [16]," they might say, a place where every great city has one or more, where the working class is crowded together [17]. Armaan knows them well. His skin burns in the fires they fuel. The flames’ dance [18] that never fades, the fire that consumes without ever fully extinguishing. Armaan understands the true nature of this game—the more rapidly a fire burns, the more energy is extracted from the fuel, and the cleaner the burn. [19] His life burns with the same urgency, the same demand for survival by acquiring money in no way other than the hardest kind of labour. [20] But he is not a player in a game of morality—hopelessness makes him determined [21]—he is a pawn in a much larger system, a system that will never offer him salvation.

PIROUETTE (Circles of Hell)

Spend a day working at the Banganga Temple, a sacred space revered by millions.

A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HELL [14]

For Armaan, the temple is a symbol of everything he has learned to distrust — religion, faith, and the powerful who often exploit these institutions. The hell, the tragic, the abyss. [22] His cynicism runs deep. "I believe more than I believe I believe, [23]" he tells himself, mocking the very rituals he is forced to perform. Yet, as he films himself disrespectfully carrying out the temple's rites, his performance triggers something deeper — a confrontation with his own disenchantment.
"I am sorry to say, that my overall impression is one of disappointment.[24] In this place, where belief is supposed to reign, I found only empty rituals. But what if I believe more than I thought I did?" The temple, for Armaan, becomes not just a physical space but a mirror — reflecting his fractured self, his fractured faith, and the contradictions within him.

[14] Mallgrave, Modern Architectural Theory, [15] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste, [16] Brook, A History of Future Cities, [17] Engels, The Condition of the Working Class in England, [18] Serres Latour, Conversations on Science Culture and Time, [19] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [20] Camus, The First Man, [21] Powers, The Overstory, [22] Rosemont, Black Brown Beige [23] Surrealist Writings from Africa and the Diaspora, [24] Zizek, Less Than Nothing, [25] Sudjic, The Edifice Complex

THE BANQUET OF MIRRORS

Agree to attend an exclusive Gala Dinner with HIM.

As Gauri steps into the world of high society, the sharp contrast from her humble existence is stark. The rich, oblivious to the pain that their wealth represents, treat her as little more than an object to be admired and discarded. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.[25] The people are faceless, their beauty and wealth a mask that hides the emptiness beneath. Actors performing on the infinite stage of human existence. [26]
As the night wears on, Gauri begins to see herself as they see her: a product, a commodity. The digital persona she projects on social media, her carefully curated self, is no different from the rich, polished lives around her. “I need a favor,” [27] a man tells her, offering her a chance to climb higher in this world of opulence. But what he doesn’t understand is that Gauri doesn’t want to climb. She has no greed for money. She wants out.
As the night continues, Gauri cannot escape the realization that her life has been reduced to mere performance. “We are completely dependent on consumerism, the culture of the dollar, and the colossal powers that sustain our lifestyles.”[28] She is surrounded by the echoes of the empty lives of the rich, and yet, like them, she cannot help but consume. “The Dance follows every character over the course of their lives.[29] The masked dance is the danced law of causality.[30] The Human Dance. Soul Death.”[31]
Hell or Heaven, what does it matter? [32]

JETE (Terraces of Purgatory)

THE PRICE OF SILENCE

Gauri, a temple caretaker, spends her days among the flowers and incense, attending to the needs of worshippers, rich and poor. But beneath her devotion lies a deep bitterness, especially toward the wealthy. She loathes consumerism, the parading of wealth. The loss of touch with the real world in today’s society.

PAS DE CHEVAL (Paradise)

[25] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [26] Lavin, Past Present, [27] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [28] Anzaldua, This Bridge We Call Home, [29] ArtBasel, Catalogue, [30] Nagelsmit, Venite and Videte, [31] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [32] Etlin, In Defense of Humanism

THE TYRANNY OF DESIRE

Rohit, a real estate mogul from Malabar Hill, lives in the highest towers of Mumbai—penthouses, private elevators, silent views. His world is built on acquisition: of land, of wealth, of power.
Not the kind you work for, not the kind you chase—but the kind that arrives long before you do. “Money was the symbol of power, and power was the chief end of man. [33]” His appetite is constant, a hunger without end. “It embodies the very idea of consumption as such, a nonstop devouring, a thirst which can never be satisfied, a desire with no subject.” [34]

THE ILLUSION OF EMPIRE

Leave the comforts of your empire and descend into hell. Where people die by means of poison, starvation, or thirst. [35] Where, wealth means nothing.

The streets unsettle him. Children with eyes too old, women cooking over flames like altars of survival. Rohit walks like a ghost through the narrow lanes, haunted by sounds he’s never heard before—pain, anger, hunger, thirst. [36]
This isn’t just poverty. This is powerlessness. Alienation. [37] However, the concepts of alienation and exploitation refer to two different sensibilities. [38]
He can no longer pretend that his empire is clean. For it does not suffice for avarice to know and love gold, unless it also possesses it. He has possessed it all—and lost something in the process. The Death of his Soul. "Truth always lags last, limping along on the arm of Time."[39]
By the end of the day, Rohit sits in silence. More silence.[40] The silence of a night saturates a void. [41]
But what is wrong with the rich landowners getting richer? [42] After all money may be dirt, although dirt is not money. [43]
He sees how his comfort is fed by someone else's suffering. “Capitalism and Freedom.”[44] Or perhaps, just freedom for him.
He thinks of the dare again. A game, just a game. “In my favor, it is my privilege.”[45]

[33] Mumford, The Culture of Cities, [34] Braidotti Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary, [35] Agricola De Re Metallica, [36] Delanda, Philosophy and Simulation, [37] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste, [38] Chiapello, The New Spirit of Capitalism, [39] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815, [40] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [40] Rosemont, Black Brown Beige Surrealist Writings from Africa and the Diaspora, [41] Varoufakis Halevi Theocarakis, Modern Political Economics Making sense of the post-2008 world, [42] Marx, Capital Volume One, [43] Schildberger, On Food, [44] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

Armaan, Gauri, and Rohit arrive at Banganga Tank— summoned. The water, once holy, now reflects not just the sky, but their fractured selves. ANTARA watches silently. The app had dared them to move, to feel, to perform. Now it has brought them here, to converge.
They are strangers from different worlds—actor, temple caretaker, tycoon—but ANTARA sees them as equal data points: curated, categorized, consumed. “The screen is the new scene.”[46]
“Alienation from self and communities persists.”[47]
They do not speak. They know.
And then, a sound: a phone chimes. They look down.
A new dare.
But it’s blank.
Just a blinking cursor.
Waiting.
“Is this the end of the beginning or the end of the end?”[48]
They glance at each other. Then, one by one, they drop their phones into the tank.
“There would be no dance, but there is only the dance.”[49]

And then—another phone lights up behind the temple wall.
Someone else has joined the game.
The dance does not end. It only changes dancers.

[46] Mbembe, Necropolitics, [47] Anzaldua, This Bridge We Call Home, [48] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968, [49] Etlin, In Defense of Humanism

अंतरा - ANTARA

PIROUETTE (Circles of Hell)

JETE (Terraces of Purgatory)

PAS DE CHEVAL (Paradiso)

dares instead of direction
algorithms instead of wisdom
entertainment instead of enlightenment

Virgil: “Through me the way into the suffering city…”

Are you ready to play?

Antara: “Accept the dare to access your next level.”

When will it end? [1]
The streets choke on their own breath,
wrapped in smog, not of smoke, but of greed
Greed of money and greed of honour, both are greed [2],
the one as wrong as the other.
And he who fights in this vice gets hell for himself.

The towers gleam, mirrored glass reflecting ruin,
casting shadows over what they refuse to see.
The urban slum was always cast as "other", [3]
a counterpoint to power, never a place of its own.
Empty? It was empty.
The empty one? The empty coffin remains. [4]

Silence.
More silence. [5]

Yet the end of all stories, even it the writer forebears to mention it,
is death. Which is where our time stops short. [6]

Your sin will find you out. [7]
Have you forgotten? [8]

Beneath these streets, corruption moves like floodwaters,
seeping into marrow, staining brick and bone.
There is no true and real expiation
to wash away the guilt of all sins. [9]
No atonement. No sin sacrifice.
Only the dearest, highest price: the death. [10]

We walk on the edge of the abyss,
knowing, yet refusing to know.

Yet everything flows in an eternal present. [11]
We wish, so long as this fire burns the mind,
to plunge to the depths of the abyss.
Hell or Heaven, what does it matter?[12]
Only joy? Only anguish? [13]

Does nobody understand? [14]
the one who acts like a sleepwalker.
How can he be quilty?

"The end of the Beginning. The End of the End. [15]

Asham. [16]

[1] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [2] Luther, Works of Martin Luther Vol 5, [3] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [4] Hugo, Les Miserables, [5] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [6] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [7] Erasmus, Poems, [8] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [9] Calvin, Harmony of the Law Vol 3, [10] Melanchthon, On Christian Doctrine
11 Etlin, In Defense of Humanism, [12] James Joyce, [13] James Joyce, [14] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968, [15] Calasso, Ardor

🎥 Cannes Film Review: Critics' Pick
"The Fire is Back: Pasolini, Still Uncensored"
by Camille Renaud
No one expected The Dance of Human Life to be so… alive.
After years of exile, artistic silence, and whispered conspiracy, Pasolini returns not as relic but revolutionary. Mumbai becomes his new Rome — chaotic, mythic, over-saturated with capitalism.
The film follows three souls through slums, temples, and digital labyrinths. Pasolini frames poverty not as spectacle, but as theology. Social media becomes a divine comedy of its own — hellish, addictive, seductive.
And yet he never moralizes. He lures. Like Virgil in ripped jeans and a cracked iPhone.

Author's Note, Pier Paolo Pasolini

We follow three individuals—Armaan, Gauri, and Rohit—each from different worlds, unknowingly orbiting each other. Invisible threads are the strongest ties. [6]. There are no accidental meetings between souls. [7] Coincidence means nothing. It is the logic of chance. [8] For everything is connected and we see only fragments. [9]

Armaan walks through narrow alleys, bursts of laughter, spices in the air, neighbours arguing like family. This is not down in any map. True places never are. [10]
He is poor, but not alone.
He gets a notification on his phone: "Exclusive Offer: Start Your Cloud Kitchen. Become Your Own Boss."

Armaan dreams of something more than just delivering food. The poor man is not he who is without a cent, but he who is without a dream. [11] Every man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. [12] But he also knows: this neighbourhood is not just his cage. It is his cradle. In the slums, there is pain. But also pride. There is rot. But also rhythm.
He hears music from the next room—someone playing an old Bollywood song on a broken speaker. He sits beside his mother, eats rice and lentils. She’s humming. He rests his head on her shoulder. For a moment, nothing is missing. He is part of all that he has met. [13]
Poor is the man who has money, but no rhythm.

Armaan delivers jasmine garlands to Gauri’s temple each morning. Their glances linger. They’ve known each other for years—since a day when Gauri was sitting alone by the steps of Banganga Tank, grieving her father’s death. ANTARA had sent him then too, through a delivery instruction:
"Temple Routes Near You. Proximity-Based Purpose."
He offered her a garland and a joke. It wasn’t much. But it stayed. There is a mysterious force that connects one human being to another. [14] We are drawn towards our fellow creatures less by our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for in them we discern more plainly a nature like our own, and a pledge of their affection for us. [15]
Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. [16]

Gauri was born into the scent of camphor and the rhythm of conch shells. Her father was a temple priest. Her mother passed when she was still a child. Her father raised her amidst ritual, language, and silence. The Ritual and Spiritual Purity. [17] When he died, the quiet changed texture. Alienation is a way to a greater truth. [18]
She is both faith-keeper and content curator. Behind the scenes, she is guided by her manager, Rohit.

A rooftop at Malabar Hill disguised as Eden. Lights draped like data. Drones like butterflies. Cameras shaped like petals. Everything is curated, streamed, softened. The Gala isn’t a venue. It is an interface. Men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. [20]
Gauri enters in a simple silk saree. She’s here because of Rohit.
She almost said no. Then said nothing. Then came anyway.
She walks through the gala like a paradox. The influencers part around her, unsure how to place someone who doesn’t glow digitally. We expect more from technology and less from each other. [21] To define is to limit. [22] It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society. [23]
Rohit smiles at Gauri—not sure if it’s his own reaction or the echo of ANTARA’s recommendation earlier.
The moment she smiles back—
not at Rohit,
not even for real,
just slightly, out of discomfort or politeness—
ANTARA locks the frame, stitching a reel:
Temple Girl. Tycoon. Tension.
It doesn’t matter what’s real.
Only what trends.
We live in a culture where everything is designed to be seen, not to be felt. [24] ...in a world starved for solitude, silence and privacy. [25] We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning. [26]

Rohit. A tech consultant. Influence strategist. Father.
ANTARA brought Gauri into his portfolio—flagged her account with high spiritual resonance and untapped monetization.

Now he is branding the sacred. After all, the temple began with the cage for the sacred animal. [19]

At the same time Armaan leans against his delivery bike. A bag of biryani in one hand, his phone in the other.
The screen flares to life.
The image of happiness we seek is often the cause of our sorrow. [27]
Gauri. Laughing softly. In slow motion. Rooftop lights dancing in her eyes.
Rohit beside her—his hand inches from hers.
It plays again. Then again.
We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are. [28] Life is much more successfully looked at from a single window. [29]
He stares at the building in front of him.
Malabar Hill Tower.
Delivery for: Mr. Rohit Mehra.

Later that week a court-mandated community outreach program after a labor dispute settlement leads Rohit into the slums. He brings his son thinking it might soften the optics. An advice made by Antara. To be is to be perceived. [30]
Rohit’s sharp suit contrasts against the crumbling walls and vibrant chaos. The air smells of incense and spice. Here, lives are scattered like debris, but still somehow holding together. They pass a group of children playing in a puddle. Whoever is happy will make others happy too. [31] For a moment, he wonders if it’s enough. To just exist. To just be.
The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. [32] The poor bird that has felt free and now strikes against the walls of this cage! [33]
From a rooftop, on his way to the temples, Armaan sees them. The man in the sharp suit stands out. Trained to occupy altitude. Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself. [34] But the way he holds his son’s hand—gently, with a trace of worry—makes Armaan pause. There is tenderness. Enough to disrupt judgment.

Armaan arrives near the old banyan tree like he does every week. Gauri is waiting. No makeup. Simple cotton. Hair tied back. Real.
They walk together. Past vendors. Past fairy lights strung on cracked balconies.
Inside Gauri’s home: modest, soft, alive. Worn books. A photo of her father beside the idols. The past is always with you. Some people want to forget the past, some want to remember it. [35]
She pours two cups of chai. The handles chipped. Armaan holds his like it’s fragile treasure.
G: "This isn’t much."
A: "It’s everything. You must always know where you come from. [36] To be rooted somewhere is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul. [37]"
G: "You make it sound romantic."
A: "Maybe it is."
G: "About the gala…"
A: "You looked happy."
G: "I smiled because I didn’t want to feel small."
A: "You never look small to me."

[1] Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, [2] Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture, [3] Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, [4] McLuhan, The Extensions of Man, [5] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Printed Physics, [6] Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, [7] Burke, Enriched Heart: The Paramitas, [8] Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, [9] Rovelli, Seven Brief Lessons on Physics, [10] Melville, Moby-Dick, [11] Fosdick, The Meaning of Faith, [12] Rousseau, The Social Contract, [13] Tennyson, Ulysses, [14] Coelho, The Zahir, [15] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, [16] Hugo, Les Misérables, [17] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [18] Braidotti Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary, [19] Frankl, The Gothic, [20] Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, [21] Turkle, Alone Together, [22] Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, [23] Krishnamurti, The First and Last Freedom, [24] Sontag, On Photograph, [25] Lewis, The Weight of Glory, [26] Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, [27] Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, [28] Nin, The Seduction of the Minotaur, [29] Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, [30] Berkeley, A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, [31]Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, [32] Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, [33] Sloterdijk, Globes Spheres Volume II Macrospherology, [34] Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism
[35] Lahiri, The Namesake, [36] Morrison, Song of Solomon, [37] Weil, The Need for Roots, [38] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815, [39] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [40] Manouach Engelhardt, Chimeras, [41] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815, [42] Naginski, Sculpture and Enlightenment, [43] Thich Nhat Hanh, The Art of Living, [44] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968, [45] Lavin, Past Present, [46] James Joyce

The same evening, Banganga Tank glows with lamps and longing.
Drum beats, the heat and cadence of the dance, and other motions of this kind in measure and rule derive their pleasureableness from their order, for all order is an aid to the emotions. [38]
A new overlay now shapes a sacred event: The Festival of ANTARA.
Rohit is there for optics. “Symbolic. Humble. Cinematic.”
Armaan follows a delivery instruction. “Jasmine flowers to Banganga Temple”
Gauri prepares her offerings, but everything she does is for her livestream and the followers.

In the middle of the festivity, when all three of them meet by chance, Antara glitches.
Armaan realises there are 5 missed calls from kitchens he had applied to. Their calls never got through, having been blocked by Antara.
Gauri gets a voicemail from her dead father, which Antara held back.
Rohit receives dozens of email from people complaining about his politics, which Antara deleted as “spam”. In the middle of them are emails from his ex-wife too.
A robot who can read minds decides that disappointment or anger or any violent emotion would make the human being feeling those emotions unhappy and the robot would interpret the inspiring of such emotions under the heading of ‘harm.’ [39]
Confused, mistaken, right, wrong, angry, sad. [40]
Truth always lags last, limping along on the arm of Time. [41] And this truth, no matter how we look at it, is always the same. [42]
Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. [43]
In one synchronized motion, the three of them drop their phones into the tank.
The water ripples, reflecting nothing.
There is no feed. No analytics.
Just water. And silence. And something sacred returning.
The End of the End. The End of the Beginning. [44]
And in the distance, three new phones light up. New notifications.
The dance continues, as it always has. Actors performing on the infinite stage of human existence. [45]
There is no past, no future. Everything flows in an eternal present. [46]

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity... [1]

The slums rot in the shadows of glass towers, the contradictions of power crystallized in the skyline itself. Here, the urban slum is cast as "other, " providing a necessary counterpoint to the wealth and power above. [2]

The various modes of the human mind, the different situations of society, the various forms of government, may give rise to every species of contradiction, and every species of inequality. [3]