If I became the female self of Dante
I would hope that Hans Rookmaaker would be my Virgil.
Hell then would be a circular art gallery, a gradual, seven story spiral ending in an ice box.
And within the ice box perhaps Monet, paint brush in hand.
Frozen in the act of painting light, a perplexed look on his face.
“Where is the sensation?” — his eyes would ask; sensation being the only reality of life
I would ask my guide if I should tell him that he is dead — and my guild would shake his head,
‘Monet lives at last, he feels the cold of his encased death.’
And my guide would pity me, and take me to my Beatrice — a monk who writes the classics and beautifies the deep well walls of knowledge.
There I would stay never saying I was deeply in love with him.