To what shall I compare this my native land, as I draw near the latter end of my seventh decade on earth?
Evening has fallen upon the mountain of Purgatory, as Dante and his guide Virgil, still climbing, have not yet arrived at the entrance to that great infirmary and exercise ground of purgation and spiritual recovery, wondering which way to take to make the quickest progress up the mountain. For it is no smooth and well-worn slope they are climbing. It is rocky, riven with fissures, and studded with overhangs, without a road to go by. That will change once they enter Purgatory proper; then the mountain will, like many such in Italy, be scaled by a road winding about it like a corkscrew. But for now, the two must rely on the position of the sun, on their own wits, and on what others they meet there tell them.
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