It has been difficult to write about what it was like to stand at the tomb of Dante, in Ravenna, and to think, and to pray. The tomb is a small 19th century marble mausoleum, the size of a tiny chapel, in fact. When I stood face to face with the grave of the great man, the man whose masterpiece meant so much to me, and helped save my life, I had to fight my standard reaction, which is to immediately try to get outside of myself and to analyze, to write.
I forced myself not to do that, and instead to put myself in his presence, and in the presence of God, and to be fully there. As a result, I can’t remember what was going through my mind in those first moments — and that is a good thing.
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