Chris Bateman views Alasdair Gray’s translation of Dante as being in the tradition of the best Scottish thinkers from the Enlightenment onwards

In a recent New Yorker profile of the Scottish artist and writer Alasdair Gray, he is described as possessing something of a mercurial quality, a trait which leads to no one ever quite knowing what to expect from him. A look at his oeuvre over a long and varied career would confirm this description. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that for his latest project, the Glaswegian polymath has embarked on a journey into Hell, or more specifically, a reworking of Dante’s 14th century epic poem Inferno into a “decorated and Englished” prosaic version of the original. With the screams of the tormented wailing around us and sulphur fumes filling our nostrils, let’s journey onwards.

Anyone who has encountered Gray’s works will know that describing him as a mere writer (or in this case translator) is to do him a massive disservice. He is as renowned for his art as he is for his writing. Indeed, a wander around his native Glasgow will confirm his reputation for imagining the city on the canvas as much as on the page. His work adorns the city; a large mosaic at Hillhead underground, an entire ceiling of a former church and a recent retrospective exhibition at the Kelvingrove. All of these works speak of the esteem Gray is held in by his native city. However, Gray is no parochial “verbal and pictorial artist” as he has been known to describe himself, and in choosing to rework and illustrate a medieval Italian poem for his latest work, Gray clearly demonstrates that he is not bound by his nationality, nor fixated solely on an introspective assessment of Scotland and her affairs. In the tradition of the best Scottish thinkers from the Enlightenment onwards, Gray looks outwards to the world and explains it back in his own language.

So to Hell, or Inferno as the more traditional translation has it. This reworking is, unashamedly, Gray’s own take on Dante’s journey through the nine circles. Readers expecting a technical or academic reproduction of the original text should look elsewhere. From the outset, we are made fully aware that his intention here is to “paraphrase” the original. While not entirely reimagined, it is not altogether faithful to the original text. The introduction explains that the approach will be true to the author’s own “abrupt North British dialect”, taking us on a decidedly more Scottish trip around the underworld. Gray has always worn his national identity confidently and it is no surprise here to read his description of the terrible racket at Hell’s entrance as a “horrid lamentation… with skirls of rancorous denunciation” – with the use of skirl conjuring up the shrill wailing of badly played bagpipes. Gray’s colloquial word play is evident again in Canto Seven when he considers the senselessness of those who pursue a life of material pleasure “by madly chasing earthly loss and gain”. They are likened to two torrents of water running into each other with “a smashing splash as these two crash… imagine now… this stramash“, – stramash being a Scots word for an uproar or argument. The image here suggesting the futility and pointless nature of running after something that will only ever bring a temporary and fleeting sense of satisfaction.

In other aspects though, Hell remains faithful to the original text, largely employing Dante’s treza rima (the metre developed by Dante for the purposes of conveying the original poem with “three line verses… unified by end-rhymes”) except when internal rhymes come more naturally. On the whole, Gray handles this with skill, and a capacity for flair and wit which can also be found hidden, like the devil itself, in the details of his great paintings.

As mentioned above, any great work by Gray will be as renowned for its art as it is his words. The angular solid jawlines and large questioning eyes are all distinctly Gray. His illustrations grace the cover and feature in the first few pages, but somewhat inexplicably dry up at the beginning of the third canto. If only they were to appear throughout the book, then this work could be considered as much as an objet d’art as it is a wonderful literary endeavour. However, if we consider that for a large part of the first stage of this project (he has promised that the remaining two parts of the Divine Comedy, Purgatory and Paradise are to follow) Gray was wheelchair bound following a fall, then it is only fair to measure his artwork here by its quality and not its limited quantity. Indeed, after such a long and successful career, he is perfectly entitled to take as many liberties as he pleases.

Loathe as this writer is to fall back on such overused phrases as national treasure, Alasdair Gray remains one of the finest writers and artists to ever come from Scotland, and it is fair to recognise his contributions to the literary and artistic landscape. Gray’s work at its finest, both in words and pictures, has spoken of a Scotland reimagined, but that is not to say that he should be exclusively for, and of, the country. It is thrilling that Gray’s originality, vitality and sense of humour remain intact and that he still lets the world in, taking on projects that speak to him, while sharing his enormous talent and ability to reimagine not only Scotland, but all of the world.

Hell by Dante Alighieri and Alasdair Gray is published by Canongate.

Chris Bateman
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