“Lying in a featherbed will not bring you fame, nor staying beneath the quilt, and he who uses up his life without achieving fame leaves no more vestige of himself on earth than smoke in the air or foam upon the water.”

“The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.”

“There are souls beneath that water. Fixed in slimethey speak their piece, end it, and start again:'Sullen were we in the air made sweet by the Sun;in the glory of his shining our hearts poureda bitter smoke. Sullen were we begun;sullen we lie forever in this ditch.'This litany they gargle in their throatsas if they sand, but lacked the words and pitch.”

“And as he, who with laboring breath has escaped from the deep to the shore, turns to the perilous waters and gazes.”

“And I — my head oppressed by horror — said:"Master, what is it that I hear? Who arethose people so defeated by their pain?"      And he to me: "This miserable wayis taken by the sorry souls of thosewho lived without disgrace and without praise.      They now commingle with the coward angels,the company of those who were not rebelsnor faithful to their God, but stood apart.      The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened,have cast them out, nor will deep Hell receive them —even the wicked cannot glory in them.”

“To course across more kindly waters nowmy talent's little vessel lifts her sails,leaving behind herself a sea so cruel; and what I sing will be that second kingdom,in which the human soul is cleansed of sin,becoming worthy of ascent to Heaven.”

“Here sighs and cries and shrieks of lamentation echoed throughout the starless air of Hell;at first these sounds resounding made me weep:tongues confused, a language strained in anguishwith cadences of anger, shrill outcriesand raucous groans that joined with sounds of hands,raising a whirling storm that turns itselfforever through that air of endless black,like grains of sand swirling when a whirlwind blows.And I, in the midst of all this circling horror,began, "Teacher, what are these sounds I hear?What souls are these so overwhelmed by grief?"And he to me: "This wretched state of beingis the fate of those sad souls who lived a lifebut lived it with no blame and with no praise.They are mixed with that repulsive choir of angelsneither faithful nor unfaithful to their God,who undecided stood but for themselves.Heaven, to keep its beauty, cast them out,but even Hell itself would not receive them,for fear the damned might glory over them."And I. "Master, what torments do they sufferthat force them to lament so bitterly?"He answered: "I will tell you in few words:these wretches have no hope of truly dying,and this blind life they lead is so abjectit makes them envy every other fate.The world will not record their having been there;Heaven's mercy and its justice turn from them.Let's not discuss them; look and pass them by...”