Thursday, February 08, 2007

So, cats and kittens, I've been reading Dante for my "Bodies of the Middle Ages" class, and in the course of perusing the internet for a translation (not because I don't have one, but because I want to be able to just search for a word rather than having to comb through the text--why don't all books come with concordances, dammit?) I stumbled upon this test...Apparently I'm lustful. Quelle suprise. And violent--though towards myself, not towards others. Hmmm. Take the test for yourself, or better yet, pick up a copy of the Inferno (why does it seem like no one ever reads Paradiso?) and figure out where you fall on the spectrum of sinfulness.


The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

LevelScore
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)High
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Low
Level 2 (Lustful)High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)Extreme
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Low
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Low


Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

Lately I've been possessed of an incredible urge to write--It's a fever, though that metaphor has of course been overused. Poems, stories, essays, ramblings (isn't that, in essence, what an essay is?)...and yet I can't get my mojo working on a paper that is due this Friday (which would be tomorrow). I'll try to get through it with minimal parentheticals, though that's difficult for me. A communique from me without parentheses is like a day without sunshine...or, in Ithaca, a day without weather so cold it makes your face numb and freezes the condensation from your breath into a solid sheet on your scarf. Maybe that's indicative of the way my mind moves--in jumps, rather than in straight lines; meandering rather than plunging straight to the heart of the matter. Which is not to say that I'm incapable of being straightforward, but rather that I have a sort of sub-subclinical ADD that doesn't exactly derail my train of thought, but--to mix metaphors--makes it skip like an old record that the cat scratched the hell out of once and now goes directly from track 2 to track 5.
Sample internal dialogue: I'll sit down and write this paper for my class. Can't find the book...ooh, there's the yarn I'm going to use to put fringe on my scarf...should I just do that now? No, paper...still can't find the damn book...I'm sure there's a translation online somewhere. It's got to be public domain after 800-odd years. And then I'll be able to use the search function to find what I'm looking for...ooh, look, a quiz...hey, I can post the results to my blog! Awesome! Oh, look, it's almost time for dinner...I heard we're having cabbage rolls; what are those exactly? Like Jewish dolmades, right? I still have to send out the last of my valentines...and once I'm finished with this post I'll hardly have enough time to write much on the paper before dinner...

and FIN.

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