There is a moment in the Inferno, the first of the three canticles of the Divine Comedy, in which Dante Alighieri, as we would say, “loses it.” This comes directly after the story of Ugolino and the Archbishop Ruggieri, in Canto 33, which takes place largely in Pisa and narrates deeds of pitiless cruelty. “Ahi Pisa, vituperio delle genti,” Dante cries—“Ai Pisa, decried by all the peoples”—thereby beginning a pair of stanzas that have long delighted readers with their unrestrained rage and unintended humor. “May, then, Caprara and Gorgona move/ and build a hedge across the Arno’s mouth,/ so that it may drown every soul in you.” Unlike any other verses in the Inferno, this is, simply, a curse, and moreover a curse called down upon an entire geographical area and every person in it—man, woman, and child. A Christian may not of course deliver a curse—Aquinas is quite clear on that score—and so Dante, by invoking the aid of two islands, Caprara and Gorgona, absolves himself of the charge of resorting to magic. It’s mere invective, we get that, but it’s savage nonetheless.

I mention this in reference to a book by Justin Steinberg titled Dante and the Limits of the Law, which was published in 2013. Steinberg, who is interested in the role of good repute and infamy in medieval jurisprudence, points out that “in many ways the Commediais itself an infamy-making machine, carefully identifying the damned by