Essays on literary works - 2024

Love That Moves the Sun and the Stars: Dante's Divine Comedy

Okay. So imagine texting your crush “I’m outside” and getting hit back with “I’m in the shower”—but like, metaphysically. That’s the vibe. That’s the central nervous system of this entire literary neurosis.

Let’s talk about love. Not cute, pastel-pink love. Not TikTok-bookstore-date love. Not even messy, crying-in-the-rain Nicholas Sparks love. I mean the cursed, brain-melting, soul-defibrillating kind of love. The one that shows up when you're busy ghosting it—and peaces out the moment you're finally like, “Okay, I’m ready.”

Welcome to the high-drama, celestial heartbreak mashup of Eugene Onegin and The Divine Comedy. Yes, we’re really doing Pushkin x Dante. Yes, we’re drawing parallels between a sad aristocratic f**kboy in 1800s Russia and a medieval Italian simp literally walking through Hell for his feelings. And yes, it all makes sense if you squint and scroll fast enough.

Onegin: The Original Left-On-Read King

Let’s begin in a place colder than your ex’s last text—Russia. Enter Eugene Onegin, Pushkin’s terminally bored anti-hero with commitment issues so severe they could be weaponized. You know that guy who’s too cool to fall in love because he thinks emotions are for peasants? That’s Onegin.

He meets Tatiana, a girl with galaxy-brain feelings and the emotional courage of a YA protagonist on her third heartbreak. She writes him a letter—like a real one, with ink and no TikTok filters—pouring out her soul. What does our man do?

He says “no.” But gently. With a philosophical monologue. The literary equivalent of “it’s not you, it’s me” but with more iambic tetrameter.

Fast forward: years pass, Onegin’s soul goes through a haunted-house maze of regrets and ennui, and Tatiana glows up. She’s married now, powerful, self-possessed, tragic in a way that’s hotter than any Insta filter. And now—now—Onegin’s in love with her. Of course. Because the moment she stops needing him? He crumbles like a cookie in oat milk.

It’s the eternal curse: when you need me, I’m allergic to your vulnerability. But when you don’t want me? Oh god, now I’m obsessed.

Sound familiar? That’s because this isn’t just Pushkin. This is Tinder. This is every “U up?” text. This is ghosting as performance art.

Dante: The Divine Situationship

Now let’s yeet ourselves to 14th-century Italy, where Dante Alighieri is doing the original Sad Boi Hours but on an astral plane.

Beatrice is the woman he’s barely spoken to IRL but has canonized in his soul like she’s the human embodiment of a sunrise. His Divine Comedy? Not just about sin and salvation. It's about a man so deep in his feelings that he invents a whole metaphysical travel blog through Hell just to get closer to a woman he saw, like, three times max.

But here’s the twist: Beatrice is dead.

DEAD.

Which—honestly—is the most goth thing ever. Like, imagine having a crush and instead of just DMing her, you write a 14,233-line poem where you walk through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven to make a point.

She becomes this celestial boss-lady guide in Paradise, guiding Dante with that divine feminine energy—powerful, intimidating, and emotionally out of reach. He wants her. He needs her. But she’s basically like: “Cool that you’re here. Now do better.”

It’s the cosmic version of “I don’t have time for your games—heal yourself.”

And what’s Dante’s whole journey? Wanting to be worthy of the thing he couldn’t have. Beatrice isn’t even fully with him—she’s like a floating moral compass dipped in gold. But the idea of her? It drives everything. It breaks him. Rebuilds him. Leaves him. Saves him.

Pushkin: “I love you now that you don’t love me.”

Dante: “I still love you even though you're literally unreachable.”

Both: “I am unwell.”

Why Are We Like This?

We don’t talk enough about how chronically unavailable the most iconic literary loves are. But here’s the twisty kernel of genius: this isn’t a bug, it’s the whole damn feature.

These stories are about the paradox of desire. That magnetic-pull-me-closer-no-wait-I’ll-die energy. It’s not love as comfort—it’s love as cosmic turbulence. Love that burns you into becoming. A love that demands growth, transcendence, sacrifice—and leaves when you finally think you’re ready.

It’s the emotional equivalent of a spiritual escape room: clues everywhere, no map, lots of mirrors. Sometimes literal Hell.

In Onegin, Tatiana’s “no” at the end is iconic because it’s not revenge. It’s elevation. She still loves him—but she’s become too big for his late-to-the-party affection.

In Dante, Beatrice doesn’t come down to Dante’s level—she makes him rise. Through fire. Through silence. Through self-confrontation so intense it might as well be a therapy session scored by Mitski.

So when Pushkin and Dante whisper: “When you want me, I’ll leave,” they’re not being cruel. They’re just telling the truth about transformational love.

The kind that tests you.

The kind that doesn’t wait.

Modern Love, Same Vibe

Fast forward to now. We’ve got dating apps, trauma memes, and attachment style TikToks. But has anything actually changed?

We still chase ghosts. Still glorify people who don’t want us. Still pretend we’re “unavailable” because vulnerability is terrifying.

We are Onegin swiping past the person who writes us love letters in lowercase. We are Dante walking through internal Hell for someone who made eye contact with us in junior year chem class.

We love what resists us. What improves us. What hurts us, a little.

Because here’s the secret: wanting something that wants you back? That’s easy. Too easy. But wanting something just out of reach? That cracks you open. That makes you feel alive.

And art—good art—doesn’t chase comfort. It chases consequence.

Closing Thought (But Not Really a Conclusion)

What Pushkin and Dante knew—and what TikTok therapists are just starting to repackage—is that sometimes love isn’t supposed to end in “happily ever after.” Sometimes it ends in transformation. Sometimes it ends in “I see you. But I won’t stay.”

Because real love?

It’s not always about being together.

Sometimes it’s about being wrecked into becoming.

And honestly?

That's hotter than any fairytale ending.