Reviewed by Zachary Bernstein

The essence of Jared Joseph's A Book About Myself Called Hell, an experimental comic rehashing of Dante's Inferno, comes in the form of three questions asked at the very end, the cap of the book's pop quiz review: "Why are we in hell? And why is it so funny? And why can't I laugh?"

Joseph takes us deep into his own chuckle-inducing interpretation of Dante's journey through hell alongside the great poet Virgil, canto by canto, replete with clever wordplay, comic asides that would make Douglas Adams blush, and generous helpings of modern pop culture references. These references are fairly democratic: highbrow and lowbrow, popular and obscure. While giving a basic overview of Dante's epic poem on the book's first page, Alejandro Jodorowsky's avant-garde cult film Holy Mountain gets a mention, as do Star Wars, the Goodyear blimp, and glamping. If on the first page you already think this jarring juxtaposition of images might not be the most effective way to interpret Dante, buckle up: there are thirty-four cantos to go.

Why of all the classics does Dante's Inferno merit Joseph's scrutiny? A reader could infer that the author thinks, in the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic, that hell is a subject worth revisiting. For sure, there's fun to be had revisiting hell with Dante, Virgil, and the cast of horrific characters they meet along the way:

Dante wakes up and sees new suffering all around. He also sees Cerberus whose three (i think; unspecified) heads are hungry for the forever feasted upon gluttons as well as, apparently, mud; Virgil, an accomplished dart player—hell is the deepest dive bar—flings a clump of mud into each mouth, simultaneously it seems or at least in quick precise succession, and Cerberus, despite having a dog's stomach, is sated and slumps down and turns over and expects a Good boy! Good boyyyyyy! belly rub for the puppy.

But the text is more than just a manically subversive book report on a world classic; it's also a cry for help. Chipping away at the facade of these hedonistic passages are a few personal interludes that sneak into random canto passages without warning, as in the opening of Canto XIX: "My friend died today and i wonder what Dante would say about it: heaven or hell. It must be a comfort to reduce a life to a quantum of categorized act. Take faith, she's heaven-sent. Steel yourself, she's hell-bent. Either way, she is before a gate."

The state of his mother's health also hovers over his words; she is greatly weakened and forever changed by the virus. With the addition of these brief, but heart-dropping moments, a new lens is applied to Joseph's flippant descriptions of the cantos. He spins novelty into levity by inserting his own grief into the picture, so wracked with confusion and hurt that he can't even be concerned with proper rules of capitalization. Suddenly, Dante's Inferno isn't just a classic work of literature to tackle during lockdown; it's a place of solace where one can look for answers.

And does he find any answers? It depends on the questions. Grief makes inquisitors of us all, but the healing from grief isn't in the answers so much as it's in the asking. In Canto V, Dante and Virgil roam the circle of hell reserved for sinners of lust, reminding Joseph at the onset of the pandemic to reach out to his old lovers and make sure they're okay: "I'm texting all of my exes asking if they are alive, got virus'd, and they are, and they haven't, in that order, and apparently we all still care, and we do not dare hell. We only dare Hello each other. Grief is compassionate, and Dante is aggrieved, all is so lamentable he faints again. i sense a pattern, an order. It bores me, through me."

Later, in Canto XVII, Joseph lays his sense of purpose out more plainly while including a passage describing writing in a pandemic diary—what he calls a "Corona Chronicle:" ". . . but i only do as much as when i feel so emotional i must entirely blunt my emotional affect in language. It works. . . . There is no answer to anything. There is no answer to life; you must die, or change. i choose cake. i say simply i must write sometimes, and sometimes i do not feel i must write, that i can simply live, and that all is adequate."

If, however, you read this book to bask in the author's existentialist conundrums, you'd be missing the point. Joseph employs a keen sense of humor to stay sane during a time of particular hardship, and the reader should follow his lead. Just about every page has at least one gold nugget of pure wit. His hot takes on Dante's characters are vivid and memorable.

On Virgil: "Virgil seemed the perfect choice for a dad: he was dead, for one, so he couldn't refuse."

On the Simoniacs: ". . . the most boring bearers of the -iac suffix. . ."

On Satan: ". . . a three-headed animatronic giant installed by Chuck E. Cheese eating Judas, Brutus, and Cassius like they're pizza. He eats Judas crust first."

These passages are the true fabric that quilts together A Book About Myself Called Hell: an outpouring of grief; a stylized CliffsNotes infused with the breath of life; a mini-opus trying to make sense of the pandemic times; a critique on god, suffering, and death. We may not find out why we're in hell, or why it's so funny, but it's nice to know that we might be able to laugh after all.