In the Second Degree: Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Culture and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature

In the Second Degree

In the Second Degree Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Culture and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature

Edited by

Philip S. Alexander, Armin Lange and Renate J. Pillinger

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2010

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data In the second degree : paratextual literature in ancient Near Eastern and ancient Mediterranean culture and its reflections in medieval literature / edited by Philip S. Alexander, Armin Lange and Renate J. Pillinger. p. cm. Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-18773-3 (acid-free paper) 1. Comparative literature—Classical and medieval. 2. Comparative literature—Medieval and classical. 3. Paratext. 4. Middle Eastern literature—History and criticism. 5. Apocryphal books—Criticism, interpretation, etc. 6. Literature, Ancient—History and criticism. 7. Literature, Medieval—History and criticism. 8. Rabbinical literature—History and criticism. 9. Collective memory and literature. 10. Intertextuality. I. Alexander, Philip S. II. Lange, Armin, 1961- III. Pillinger, Renate. IV. Title. PN610.I5 2010 809’.01—dc22 2010036394

ISBN 978 90 04 18773 3 Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

In memoriam Alfred Ebenbauer (13.10.1945–11.08.2007)

CONTENTS Abbreviations ..................................................................................... Preface .................................................................................................

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INTRODUCTION In the Second Degree: Ancient Jewish Paratextual Literature in the Context of Graeco-Roman and Ancient Near Eastern Literature ......................................................................................... Armin Lange

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PART I

ANCIENT JUDAISM Hypertextuality and the “Parabiblical” Dead Sea Scrolls ............ George J. Brooke

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The Book of Jubilees as Paratextual Literature .............................. Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten

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PART II

GRAECO-ROMAN WORLD Trojan Palimpsests: The Relation of Greek Tragedy to the Homeric Epics ................................................................................ Annemarie Ambühl The Homeric Epics as Palimpsests ................................................. Georg Danek

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123

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contents PART III

ANCIENT EGYPT AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST From Ritual to Text to Intertext: A New Look on the Dreams in Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi .................................................................... Beate Pongratz-Leisten

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Priestly Texts, Recensions, Rewritings and Paratexts in the Late Egyptian Period ..................................................................... Sydney H. Aufrère

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PART IV

LATE ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE Rabbinic Paratexts: The Case of Midrash Lamentations Rabba ............................................................................................... Philip S. Alexander

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Some Considerations on Enoch/Metatron in the Jewish Mystical Tradition ......................................................................... Felicia Waldman

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Three Latin Paratexts from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (“Sulpicia,” “Seneca”—“Paulus,” Carmen Νavale) ............................................................................. Kurt Smolak Paratextual Literature in Early Christian Art (Acta Pauli et Theclae) ................................................................. Renate J. Pillinger Paratextual Literature in Action: Historical Apocalypses with the Names of Daniel and Isaiah in Byzantine and Old Bulgarian Tradition (11th–13th Centuries) .............................. Anissava L. Miltenova

219

239

267

ABBREVIATIONS Citations are in accordance with the guidelines of the SBL Handbook of Style. General Abbreviations Bibl. vat. CEU CNI ČSAV IFAO MMA SANU [САНУ]

scil. SUNY

Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vatican library Central European University Carsten Niebuhr Institute of Ancient Eastern Studies Československá akademie věd (Czechoslovakian Academy of Sciences) Institut français de archéologie orientale Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York Serbian Academy of Sciences and National Library [Српска Академијa Наука и Уметности Народна Библиотека ср Среије] namely State University of New York Primary Sources

Galenus In Hipp. Nat. hom. In Hippocratis De natura hominis / On Hippokrates’ Nature of Man Rutilius Namatianus De reditu De reditu suo / A Voyage Home to Gaul Secondary Sources AMS AnnRevSociol AntChrSup APAW

Asia Minor Studien Annual Review of Sociology Antike und Christentum: Supplement Series Abhandlungen der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften

x ASOR.DS BBVO BdE BEFAR BiblAeg BICSSup BNP

BRJL BSFE BT

CASAE CAVT ClAnt CNI CNRS CHOIDR [ЧΟИДР]

CRSAPA CQ CSMSJ CT

abbreviations American Schools of Oriental Research, Dissertation Series Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient Bibliothèque d’études Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca Bulletin for the Institute of Classical Studies: Supplement Series Brill’s New Pauly: Encyclopedia of the Ancient World. Edited by H. Cancik, H. Schneider, and M. Landfest. 20 vols. Leiden, 2002–2010 Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Bulletin de la Société français d’égyptologie Bibliotheca Teubneriana/Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana. Founded by B. G. Teubner. Leipzig et al., 1849– Cahier: Supplement aux Annales du Service des antiquités de l’Égypte Clavis Apocryphorum Veteris Testamenti. Edited by J.-C. Haelewyck. Turnhout, 1998. Classical Antiquity Carsten Niebuhr Institute of Near Eastern Studies Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique Lectures at the Imperial Society for History and Russian Antiquities at Moscow University [Чтения в Императорском Обществе Истории и Древностей Российких при Московсском Университете] Classical Resources Series of the American Philological Society Classical Quarterly Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies Journal The Egyptian Coffin Texts. Edited by A. de Buck, A. H. Gardiner, and J. P. Allen. 8 vols. Chicago, 1935–2006

abbreviations

xi

CurrentBiblicRes Currents in Biblical Research DCLY Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Yearbook Dem. Stud. Demotische Studien E Le Temple d’Edfou. Edited by Maxence de Rochemonteix et al. 15 vols. Cairo, 1892–1985 EB Études balkaniques GOF.K Göttinger Orientforschungen. Second Series: Studien zur spätantiken und frühchristlichen Kunst. Edited by F. Junge and G. Koch, 12 vols. Wiesbaden, 1980–1993 GöttMisz Göttinger Miszellen: Beiträge zur ägyptologischen Diskussion HAW Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft HBS Herders Biblische Studien HSCL Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature ICS Illinois Classical Studies IdF Impulse der Forschung IPr [ИПр] Istoricheski Pregled [Исторически Преглед] JSJSup Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods: Supplement Series JSRI Journal for the Study of Religions and Ideologies LSTS Library of Second Temple Studies Man Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute. London, 1966–1994 MÄS Münchner Ägyptologische Studien MEFRM Mélanges de l’École français de Rome: Moyen Age MGH Bae 1 Monumenta Germaniae Historica—Antiquitates: Poetae Latini medii aevi. Edited by E. Dümmler et al. 9. vols. Stuttgart et al., 1881– MiChA Mitteilungen zur Christlichen Archäologie MIFAO Memoires publiés par les membres de l’Institut français de archéologie orientale NCBC New Century Bible Commentary NCI New Critical Idiom NHL Neues Handbuch der Literaturwissenschaft OrMonsp Orientalia Monspeliensia ÖTKNT Ökumenischer Taschenbuch-Kommentar zum Neuen Testament

xii PdÄ PMAAR RivAC SAE SAPERE SBA SBLSP SBLWGRW SCO SM SIJD SÖAWphil StudPhilon SRB TAPS TSTS WÄS WdF WHB WSt WStSup

abbreviations Probleme der Ägyptologie Papers and Monographs of the American Academy in Rome Rivista di archeologia cristiana Service des antiquités de l’Égypte Scripta Antiquitatis Posterioris ad Ethicam REligionemque pertinentia Schweizerische Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the GrecoRoman World Studi Classici e Orientali Studi Medievali Schriften des Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum Sitzungsberichte der philosophisch-historischen Klasse der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften The Studia Philonica Annual: Studies in Hellenistic Judaism Studies in Rewritten Bible Transcations of the American Philosophical Society Toronto Semitic Texts and Studies Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache. Edited by Adolf Erman and H. Grapow. 7 vols. 4th ed. Berlin, 1992 Wege der Forschung Wiener humanistische Blätter Wiener Studien: Zeitschrift für klassische Philologie und Patristik Wiener Studien Beiheft

PREFACE This volume publishes the proceedings of the first meeting of an international research and teaching network dedicated to the study of ancient and medieval Exegesis and Hermeneutics at the University of Vienna from February 25–27, 2007. The meeting was entitled “Palimpsests: An International Symposium on Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Cultures and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature” and dedicated to the question of Jewish and Christian literature which was written dependent on earlier texts. The international and interdisciplinary width of both the conference and its proceedings has broadened our horizons as organizers of the meeting and as editors of its proceedings. The invigorating experience of gaining new insights into the cultural histories of the ancient and medieval worlds more than made up for the usual disappointments and challenges one experiences in organizing conferences and editing volumes. It is one of the most pleasant tasks in editing a volume to thank all those involved for their support and work. First of all we would like to express our gratitude to the sponsors of our symposium: the Rector’s Office of the University of Vienna in the person of ao. Univ.-Prof. Mag. Dr. Arthur Mettinger, the Deans of the Faculties of Historical and Cultural Studies, o. Univ.-Prof. Dr. Michael Viktor Schwarz, and Philological Cultural Studies, o. Univ.-Prof. Dr. Franz Römer, the municipality of the city of Vienna (MA 7—Abt. Wissenschafts- & Forschungsförderung) in the person of Obersenatsrat Univ.-Prof. Dr. Hubert Christian Ehalt, the Österreichische Forschungsgemeinschaft, and the Austrian Academy of Sciences. We are further indebted to the deans of the University of Vienna’s Faculties of Historical and Cultural Studies and of Philological Cultural Studies as well as to its institute of “Klassische Philologie, Mittel- und Neulatein” for their financial support in publishing this volume. In organizing our conference, we were supported by Dara Fischer, Katharina Gabor, Mag. Johanna Köck, Mag. Alexander Lirsch, Olivia Rogowski, and Matthias Weigold. As so often, without their invaluable help our symposium would never have happened. We would also like to express our thanks and gratitude to our colleagues who attended the symposium and contributed to it with their

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lectures and discussions. It was only because of their willingness to engage with questions far removed from their day-to-day research that our interdisciplinary discourse proved such a success. A special mention should be made of the former rector of Vienna University, o. Univ.-Prof. Dr. Alfred Ebenbauer who participated in the Symposium by offering a stimulating presentation on medieval Germanic paratextual literature and who supported our network beyond this conference contribution. Alfred Ebenbauer tragically passed away shortly before his retirement and is dearly missed both inside and outside the University of Vienna. As a small token of our appreciation this volume is dedicate to his memory. Editing this volume was no less a collaborative effort than organizing the symposium itself. The editors are indebted to Mag. Alexander Lirsch and Mag. Johanna Köck who did most of the redactional work. We are also obliged to Brill publishers and its acquisitions editors for Old Testament, Qumran, and Philosophy, Dr. Machiel Kleemans and Suzanne Mekking, for accepting such an interdisciplinary volume for publication. Vienna and Manchester, February 23rd, 2010, the editors.

INTRODUCTION

IN THE SECOND DEGREE: ANCIENT JEWISH PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE IN THE CONTEXT OF GRAECO-ROMAN AND ANCIENT NEAR EASTERN LITERATURE Armin Lange University of Vienna Before the inauguration of kings in Alexandria and in Pergamon, who competed with each other in gathering old books, there was not a work with a faked title (οὐδέπο ψευδῶς ἐπεγέγράπτο σύνγραμμα). But when those, who offered the relics of some old writer, were rewarded, many works appeared with false titles (ψευδῶς ἐπιγράφοντες) (Galen, In Hipp. Nat. hom. 1.127) (129–216 c.e.).1

Galen’s brief statement is of great interest to the reader of ancient texts. It demonstrates that the ancients were aware of literary forgeries and it provides a reason why and since when these literary forgeries were produced. In his awareness of literary forgeries, Galen is not alone among ancient authors. A similar awareness is evident in a discussion of the Gospel of Peter by the patriarch of Antioch, Serapion (191–211 c.e.): For our part, brethren, we receive both Peter and the other apostles as Christ, but the writings which falsely bear their names (ψευδεπίγραφα) we reject, as men of experience, knowing that such were not handed down to us (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6.12.3).2

Serapion’s statement is widely regarded as the first use of the term pseudepigraphon.3 But the ancient scholars were well aware of the problem of literary forgeries before either Galen or Serapion and designated the phenomenon with various terms.4 In De Anima 1:5, 410

1 Translation according to Jenö Platthy, Sources on the Earliest Greek Libraries with the Testimonia (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1968), 162. 2 Translation according to Eusebius. The Ecclesiastical History. 1932. Translated by J. E. L. Oulton, 2 vols. LCL. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2:41. 3 Cf. e.g. James H. Charlesworth, “Introduction for the General Reader,” in Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments (vol. 1 of OTP; ed. James H. Charlesworth; New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1983), xxi–xxxiv, esp. xxiv. 4 For a list of these terms, see Wolfgang Speyer, Die literarische Fälschung im heidnischen und christlichen Altertum: Ein Versuch ihrer Deutung (HAW 1/2; Munich:

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b 27 Aristotle doubts, for example, that Orpheus wrote some of the orphic tracts. A search in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae database as well as in the famous dictionary of Liddell and Scott5 shows that forms of the adjective ψευδεπίγραφος were used long before both Galen and Serapion to describe literary forgeries. In an inscription from Priene which was written in the beginning of the 2nd century b.c.e. and which describes the settlement of a border-dispute between Priene and Samos, historians are described as ψευδεπιγράφους.6 In the second half of the 1st century b.c.e., Dionysius of Halicarnassus uses the term ψευδεπίγραφους repeatedly to identify works which are wrongly ascribed to famous rhetoricians (Demosthenes 57.14; Dinarchus 10:38; 11:37, 45; 12:45). Serapion in particular was highly influential in modern definitions of pseudepigraphy. Wolfgang Speyer, for example, defines pseudepigraphy as follows: “Als Pseudepigraphen sind diejenigen Schriften des Altertums zu betrachten, die nicht von den Verfassern stammen, denen sie durch Titel, Inhalt oder Überlieferung zugewiesen sind.”7 In contemporary scholarship, pseudepigraphy is regarded as the ascription of a literary work to another author by way of title, content, or tradition. The Galen reference is especially important because Galen takes a different line. Galen offers a theory why literary forgeries came into being. He assumes that the first literary forgeries were produced to satisfy the need of the libraries of Alexandria and Pergamon for books by famous authors.8 With the founding of the library of Alexandria

C. H. Beck, 1971), 16, and Ernst von Dobschütz, ed., Eberhard Nestle’s Einführung in das griechische Neue Testament (4th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1923), 12. 5 Henry G. Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon (ed. H. S. Jones; 9th ed. with a revised Supplement; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 2020. 6 For the text of the inscription, see Friedrich Hiller von Gaertringen, ed., Inschriften von Priene (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1906), 41 no. 37.123. 7 Wolfgang Speyer, “Religiöse Pseudepigraphie und literarische Fälschung im Altertum,” in Pseudepigrapie in der heidnischen und jüdisch-christlichen Antike (ed. N. Brox; WdF 484; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977), 195–263, esp. 195; cf. also idem, Die literarische Fälschung, passim; Josef A. Sint, Pseudonymität im Altertum: Ihre Formen und ihre Gründe (Commentationes Aenipontanae 15; Innsbruck: Universitätsverlag Wagner, 1960). 8 For the library of Alexandria, its canons, and its editions, see Rudolf Pfeiffer, Geschichte der klassischen Philologie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Hellenismus (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1970), 114–285; Edward A. Parsons, The Alexandrian Library: Glory of the Hellenic World: Its Rise, Antiquities, and Destructions (London: Elsevier

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by Ptolemy II Philadelphus, a competition between the Hellenistic kingdoms began to establish glorious institutions of learning. For the acquisition of ancient books, the royal sponsors of the ancient libraries were willing to pay almost any price. Galen even reports that Ptolemy III Euergetes forfeited a large amount of money by not returning the borrowed master copies of the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides to their Athenian owners (In Hippocratis Epidemiarum librum 3.1 Commentarius 2.4). According to Galen it was this lust for rare books which inspired the production of literary forgeries, i.e. books were attributed to other authors for reasons of personal enrichment. Is Galen correct? Did literary forgeries emerge only after the libraries of Alexandria and Pergamon were founded, and were they written for personal gain? To answer these and other questions I will first discuss the issue of ancient pseudepigraphy. Next I will summarize the contributions to this volume and relate them to the question of ancient and medieval texts written in the second degree. In the third part of this introduction (Cultural Memory and Literature in the Second Degree) I will discuss why ancient and medieval cultures produced large numbers of texts in the second degree: what motivates writing in the second degree and what functions does literature in the second degree perform. I will conclude this contribution with some observations on the role literature in the second degree plays in the cultural memory of ancient and medieval societies. I. Pseudepigraphy in the Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Eastern Mediterranean Cultures Although Galen developed his idea about literary forgery only in retrospect—when he wrote most of the earlier Greek pseudepigrapha no longer existed or could not be identified as literary forgeries—it is not by chance that he developed his theory of the origin of pseudepigraphy

Press, 1952); Mostafa El-Abbadi, Life and Fate of the Ancient Library of Alexandria (2nd ed.; Paris: UNESCO/UNDP, 1992); Roy MacLeod, ed., The Library of Alexandria: Center of Learning in the Ancient World (London: Tauris, 2000). For the Pergamean library, see Gregory Nagy, “The Library of Pergamon as a Classical Model,” in Pergamon: Citadel of the Gods: Archeological Record, Literary Description, and Religious Development (ed. H. Koester; HTS 46, Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity International Press, 1998), 185–232.

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with regard to Hellenistic literature. The concept of pseudepigraphy presupposes ideas of individual authorship and literary as well as intellectual property. These concepts evolved in the Greek world. In the 6th century b.c.e., Theognis is among the first to identify himself as an author of a text. In the 5th century b.c.e., the Athenian book-trade made the concepts in question more prominent.9 Another motivation for the Athenians to claim individual authorship might have been the competitive performances of tragedies and comedies during the Athenian Dionysia. It is hence not surprising that modern research views several texts which can be dated before the foundation of the Alexandrian library as pseudepigrapha. In fact, pseudepigraphy is even regarded “as the earliest form of literary work.” Many early cultures assumed the superiority of divine to human authorship (the notion of a god as first cause). This establishes pseudepigraphy as the earliest form of literary work: a god or a divine human of a mythical primeval time is considered author. This form was common in the Orient, but there are also traces in Greece (as, e.g., in laws, oracles, Orphism).10

The Derveni papyrus, which was copied between the years 340 and 320 b.c.e.,11 preserves an allegorical commentary on an Orphic poem. This is a clear example of a copy of a commentary on an Orphic pseudepigraphon that predates the founding of the Alexandrian library. Another example is the oracle collection of Musaeus. Musaeus was regarded as a scion of the Muses and associated with Orpheus. Both Herodotus and Aristophanes quote and/or mention an oracle collection attributed to him (Aristophanes, The Frogs 1033; Herodotus 7:6, 3; 8:96, 2; 9:43, 2). It is furthermore not unlikely that the Catalogue of Women was not written by Hesiod although it was attributed to him later.12 As emphasized above, the concept of pseudepigraphy presupposes the Greek idea of an individual author who is responsible for a given

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Speyer, Die literarische Fälschung, 15–16. Wolfgang Speyer, “Pseudepigraphy,” Pages 111–12 in BNP 12. Edited by H. Cancik, H. Schneider, and M. Landfest. 20 vols. Leiden: Brill, 2008. 11 Theokritos Kouremenos, George M. Parássoglou, and Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou, eds., The Derveni Papyrus: Edited with Introduction and Commentary (Studi e testi per il Corpus dei papyri filosofici greci e latini 13; Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore, 2006), 9. 12 Hans Troxler, Sprache und Wortschatz Hesiods (Zurich: Juris-Verlag, 1964), 125–76. 10

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text. As a Greek concept, individual authorship occurs only relatively late in the literature of the ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian cultures.13 Nevertheless these cultures are not immune to pseudepigraphy. In ancient Egypt, pseudepigraphy can be found in various contexts. Egyptian wisdom instructions are often associated with famous names of the Old Kingdom, e.g. the instruction of Khety. But these ascriptions are far removed from the type of literary forgery Galen had in mind. In fact, the ascriptions of Egyptian wisdom instructions to prominent sages of the Old Kingdom generate a complex network of intertextual relationships. Antonio Loprieno describes this intertextual web as follows: An essential characteristic, which Egyptian wisdom literature shares with similar genres in other cultures of the Ancient Near East, is pseudepigraphy, i.e., the tendency for authors not to “assert” their composition, but rather to attribute it to a prestigious antecedent. The author’s dialogue with the past yields a twofold result: on the one side it creates a set of canonic models of fictionality; on the other it conveys the expectations of contemporary ideology. A literary name like “Khety,” which stands very high in the hierarchy of intertextuality, fulfils a double function: it points back to the Old Kingdom and the First Intermediate Period as the mythical period to which Egyptian culture dated the emergence of autonomous personalities; and by the same token it conveys the canonic encyclopedia of the Middle Kingdom, an encyclopedia that by the time of the Ramesside literati had acquired classical (and even educational . . .) character. Hence, three periods of Egyptian history display intertextual dialogue, thus emerging as the most germane to a hermeneutic definition of literature: (1) the mythical time of Snofru’s reign, of other segments of the Old Kingdom, and especially of the First Intermediate Period, which represents the fictional Sitz im Leben and the cultural identity of the pseudepigraphic literary authors; (2) the canonical Middle Kingdom, during which the most paradigmatic works of Egyptian literature were actually composed; and (3) the Ramesside era with its peculiar dialectic between scriptores classici and scriptores proletarii, which itself is one of the most typical features of developed literary consciousness.14

Another example of Egyptian pseudepigraphy emerged out of ritual role-playing. The Lamentations of Isis and Nephthys from the rituals

13

Texts like the famous travel report of Wen-Amun are exceptions that prove the

rule. 14 Antonio Loprieno, “Defining Egyptian Literature: Ancient Texts and Modern Theories,” in Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms (ed. A. Loprieno; PdÄ 10; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 39–58, esp. 53.

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of the Osiris mysteries (P. Berlin 3008) and the Songs of Isis and Nephthys (P. Brit. Mus. 10188) are cases in point. In both texts, the deities Isis and Nephthys articulate themselves in lamentations or songs. The 4th century b.c.e. Songs of Isis and Nephthys were clearly composed for performance in Osiris temples on certain feast days.15 This means that texts were created for representatives of the deities to perform in temple rituals and were thus attributed to these deities. In the literatures of the various Mesopotamian cultures, the phenomenon of pseudepigraphy was not unknown either. Some of the Mesopotamian historiographic texts are characterized by Albert K. Grayson as “pseudo-autobiographies.”16 Grayson describes these historiographic texts as “first person narrations by kings of their experiences. The phenomena described are historical, legendary, and occasionally supernatural.”17 The term pseudo-autobiographies is also used by Wolfgang Röllig in his description of Akkadian literature.18 Examples include the birth legend of Sargon I and the so-called Cuthean legend. In his work on the inscription of king Idrimi of Alalakh, Jack Sasson describes the genre of pseudo-autobiographies as “simulated autobiography” instead.19 The pseudepigraphic character of the royal autobiographies in question has been variously emphasized.20 As an example, the birth legend of Sargon I will suffice. Although the preserved text of the birth legend of Sargon I does not claim that the king wrote it himself, the first person narrative voice evokes this impression. It is confirmed by the rhetoric of Sargon’s birth legend which recalls royal inscriptions from Mesopotamia.21

15 For the Lamentations of Isis and Nephthys and the Songs of Isis and Nephthys, see Miriam Lichtheim, The Late Period (vol. 3 of Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1980), 116. 16 Albert K. Grayson, Babylonian Historical-Literary Texts (TSTS 3; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1975), 7. 17 Ibid. 18 Wolfgang Röllig, “Literatur: §4 Überblick über die akkadische Literatur,” RlA 7/1–2: 48–66, esp. 52–53. 19 Jack M. Sasson, “On Idrimi and Šarruwa, the Scribe,” in “Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians”: In Honor of Ernest R. Lacheman on His Seventy-Fifth Birthday, April 29, 1981 (eds. M. A. Morrison and D. I. Owen; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1981), 309–24, esp. 311. 20 See e.g. Brian Lewis, The Sargon Legend: A Study of the Akkadian Text and the Tale of the Hero Who Was Exposed at Birth (ASOR.DS 4; Cambridge, Mass.: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1980), 87–88, and Sasson, “On Idrimi,” 312–13. 21 Cf. Lewis, Sargon Legend, 87–88.

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Even though textual damage makes an overall appreciation of the birth legend of Sargon impossible, it can still be observed that the second part of the text contains “reflections at the end of his (scil. Sargon’s) life.”22 The birth story itself would hence serve as an example of the wisdom of Sargon. Another example for a Mesopotamian pseudepigraphon is the socalled Letter of Gilgamesh.23 The text pretends to be a letter written by Gilgamesh, whom the letter describes as the king of Ur, to a fellow monarch. In the badly damaged texts King Gilgamesh seems to demand a tribute and threatens punitive action if it is not paid. Both in Egyptian and Mesopotamian literature pseudepigraphy relates traditional ideas and cultural phenomena to mythical figures of the past or the divine realm. But these attributions are not interested in borrowing the authority of a primeval figure or a deity. On the contrary, attributions of traditional wisdom to mythical figures of the past root the origins of the cultural heritage in question in the mythical beginnings of culture. From its beginnings, Jewish literature was no different from other ancient Near Eastern literary cultures. Before Hellenistic times literary forgeries are relatively rare but not unknown. In preexilic times, Proverbs 10:1 attributes the proverb collection Proverbs 10:1–22:16 to King Solomon.24 In the 4th or 3rd century b.c.e., the Prayer of Nabonidus (4QPrNab ar [4Q242]) is not only attributed to the neo-Babylonian king Nabonidus in its heading but Nabonidus even speaks in the 1st person singular in this text.25

22 Joan G. Westenholz, Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts (Mesopotamian Civilizations 7; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 36. 23 For an easily accessible English translation, see Duane Smith, “The Letter of Gilgamesh: A Translation,” n.p. [cited 26 July 2009] Online: http://www.telecomtally .com/blog/2008/06/the_letter_of_gilgamesh_a_tran.html. For a more detailed study, cf. Fritz R. Kraus, “Der Brief des Gilgameš,” AnSt 30 (1980): 109–21. 24 For the date of Proverbs 10:1–22:16, see Otto Plöger, Sprüche Salomos: Proverbia (BKAT 17; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1984), 119. 25 For the date of the Prayer of Nabonidus, see Armin Lange and Marion Sieker, “Gattung und Quellenwert des Gebets des Nabonid,” in “Qumranstudien”: Vorträge und Beiträge der Teilnehmer des Qumranseminars auf dem internationalen Treffen der Society of Biblical Literature, Münster, 25.–26. Juli 1993: Hans-Peter Müller zum 60. Geburtstag (eds. H.-J. Fabry, A. Lange, and H. Lichtenberger; SIJD 4; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 3–34, esp. 6–8.

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armin lange 1 The words of the p[ra]yer which Nabonidus, king of [Baby]lon, [the great ]king, prayed [when he was smitten] 2 with a bad disease by the decree of G[o]d in Teima. [I, Nabonidus, with a bad disease]26

Other examples of pseudepigrapha in Second Temple Jewish literature include the Letter of Aristeas, Pseudo-Phocylides, and the Book of Qohelet. Given the Greek origins of the concept of individual authorship, it should come as no surprise that the bulk of Jewish pseudepigrapha are found in Greek Jewish literature influenced by (Alexandrian) Hellenism. The few texts mentioned above show that pseudepigraphy existed in the literatures of Mesopotamia and ancient Egypt as well as in ancient Greek and Jewish cultures long before the library of Alexandria was founded. Nevertheless, Serapion’s notion of pseudepigraphy was extremely influential in the study of ancient Jewish literature. On the analogy of the false attribution of various early Christian gospels and apocalypses, ancient Jewish texts not included in any canon of the Hebrew Bible or the Old Testament also came to be designated as pseudepigrapha. This use of the term pseudepigrapha goes back to Johann A. Fabricius, Codex pseudepigraphus Veteris Testamenti27 and was given prominence by translations of ancient Jewish literature such as Emil Kautzsch’s, Die Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments,28 Robert H. Charles’s, The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English,29 and James H. Charlesworth’s, The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha.30 These volumes of translations collect mostly texts which rewrite or expand earlier authoritative literature.

26 Translation according to John J. Collins, “C. Prayer of Nabonidus,” in Qumran Cave 4.XVII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 3 (eds. George J. Brooke et al.; DJD XXII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996): 83–93, esp. 89. 27 Johann A. Fabricius, Codex pseudepigraphus Veteris Testamenti: Collectus castigatus, testimoniisque, censuris et animadversionibus illustratus à Johanne Alberto (Hamburg: C. Liebezeit, 1713). 28 Emil Kautzsch, Die Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments (vol. 2 of Die Apokryphen und Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1900). 29 Robert H. Charles et al., eds., The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English: With Introductions and Critical and Explanatory Notes to the Several Books (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1913). 30 James H. Charlesworth, ed., The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols.; New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1983–1985).

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A good example is the Enochic Book of Watchers (1 Enoch 1–36) which evolved out of Gen 5:21–24. When Enoch had lived 65 years, he begot Methuselah. After the birth of Methuselah, Enoch walked with God 300 years, and he begot sons and daughters. All the days of Enoch came to 365 years. Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him (Gen 5:21–24).31

Out of this brief remark about Enoch, the Book of Watchers developed an extensive tradition of an otherworldly journey. The Book of Watchers begins with a tripartite prophetic oracle in which Enoch announces the coming theophany (1 Enoch 1–5). 1 Enoch 6–11 describe in detail the events of Gen 6:1–4. How the Watchers as a group of angels lust for the beauty of human women, descend to earth, procreate with them and beget the giants. The watchers teach their human spouses forbidden knowledge, while the giants devastate the earth. This devastation leads to the judgment of Watchers and giants alike. 1 Enoch 12–16 describe how the fallen Watchers ask Enoch for help. He ascends to heaven where he encounters God on his heavenly throne and hears the judgment on the Watchers pronounced. 1Enoch 17–36 describe an otherworldly journey in which Enoch sees the place of the Watchers’ punishment and is guided by angels to those parts of the universe which are normally beyond human knowledge.32 To the reader of the English translation it is not obvious how the Book of Watchers could develop the idea of an Enochic otherworldly journey, in which Enoch is guided by angels, out of Gen 5:21–24. The key phrase is “and Enoch walked with God” (‫;ויתהלך חנוך את האלהים‬ Gen 5:22, 24). The Hebrew word ‫אלהים‬, which is used here is a plural form as a divine epitheton. Normally it means “God” and designates usually the God of Israel. Since the 3rd century b.c.e., however, ‫אלהים‬ can also designate angels in Hebrew texts. This meaning is prominent in the Shirot ‘Olat HaShabbat33 and lies also behind the interpretation of Ps 82:1 in 11QMelch II:9–15. In Gen 5:22, 24, the Book of Watchers understood “and Enoch walked with God” (‫)ויתהלך חנוך את האלהים‬

31

Translation according to NJPS. In the present essay I can only discuss the final version of the Book of Watchers. For its complicated history of literary growth see below, pages 30–38. 33 See e.g. 4QShirShabba (4Q400) 1 ii 7; 4QShirShabbd (4Q403) 1 i 32; and Carol Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (HSS 27; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1985), 24. 32

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not as a metaphor for a righteous life but literally: for it Enoch walked with the angels.34 In addition to Gen 5:21–24, the Book of Watchers is based on a number of other sources, most importantly the brief passage about the fall of the angels in Gen 6:1–4 and the flood story in Gen 6:5–9:29. Further examples include Ezek 1; 10; 40–48 (1 Enoch 14:8–23); Genesis 3 (1 Enoch 32:3–6), and an earlier retelling of Gen 6:1–4, the socalled Shemihazah myth which the Book of Watchers incorporates in 1 Enoch 6–11. The author of the Book of Watchers studied a whole range of authoritative texts in order the garner the content of his work. By interpreting numerous authoritative texts he gained new insights into otherworldly realities. Because Gen 5:22, 24 claim that Enoch walked with the angels, it is obvious to the author of the Book of Watchers that already before the flood Enoch saw what he deduced out of various authoritative texts. As fantastic as it might seem today, the Book of Watchers is not a product of fantasy. Its contents go back to careful exegetical work on earlier authoritative literature. The Book of Watchers is not an invention which was attributed to Enoch but it extrapolates its contents by way of exegetical method out of existing texts. When the author of the final form of the Book of Watchers chose the 1st person singular as its dominant narrative voice he was confident he had reconstructed what Enoch once experienced and saw. Out of this confidence he phrased the heading The words of blessing with which Enoch blessed the righteous chosen who will be present on the day of tribulation, to remove all the enemies; and the righteous will be saved (1 Enoch 1:1).35

My brief discussion of the Book of Watchers shows, that it is the result of an exegetical effort. Neither does its author attribute it to a prediluvian hero in order to sell it for a high price—as Galen might have supposed—nor does he want to borrow Enoch’s authority to support

34 Cf. James C. VanderKam, Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition (CBQMS 16; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1984), 114; Maxwell J. Davidson, Angels at Qumran: A Comparative Study of 1 Enoch 1–36, 72–108 and Sectarian Writings from Qumran (JSPSup 11; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press 1992), 35. 35 Translation according to George W. E. Nickelsburg and James C. VanderKam, 1 Enoch: A New Translation (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2004), 19.

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his own message. It is hence, difficult to describe the Book of Watchers as a pseudepigraphon. The example of the Book of Watchers shows that to dub a significant part of ancient Jewish literature as pseudepigrapha ignores the basic character of the texts in question. They were influenced by earlier authoritative literature and employ exegetical techniques to develop their subject matter out of authoritative texts. The result of their exegetical efforts is communicated in the form of a new composition.36 The texts in question do not intend to borrow the authority of highly respected authors but try to update authoritative literature and reapply it to their own times, they are written in the second degree.37 Because pseudepigraphy is hence not an accurate term to describe many of the so-called “Old Testament Pseudepigrapha,” various other terms have been developed in Jewish studies to characterize the literature in question. – Rewritten Bible: The term which was coined by Geza Vermes, is defined by him as follows: “In order to anticipate questions, and to solve problems in advance, the midrashist inserts haggadic development into the biblical narrative—an exegetical process which is probably as ancient as scriptural interpretation itself.”38 Vermes’s rather broad definition was later refined by Philip S. Alexander. “Rewritten Bible texts are narratives, which follow a sequential, chronological order. Their framework is an account of events, and so they may be described broadly as histories . . . They are . . . free-standing compositions which replicate the form of the biblical books on which they are based. Though they make constant use of the words of Scripture, they integrate these into a smooth seamless retelling of the biblical story.”39 Emanuel Tov, on the other hand, defines the

36

For a more recent critique of the term pseudepigraphon, see Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism (JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 1–10. 37 For Gérard Genette and his use of the phrase “In the Second Degree,” see below, 9–11. 38 Geza Vermes, Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggadic Studies (StPB 4; Leiden: Brill, 1961), 95. Vermes develops his definition on the basis of the Sefer haYashar but names the Palestinian Targum, Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities, the LAB, Jubilees, and the Genesis Apocryphon as further examples. 39 Philip S. Alexander, “Retelling the Old Testament,” in It Is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture (eds. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 99–121, 116.

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term by contrast with the authority accorded to biblical manuscripts and witnesses: “a rewritten Bible composition does not constitute an authoritative biblical text, but a new composition based on the Bible.” He illustrates his point by way of comparison with the SP Biblical texts: “The SP group . . . did not add new sections, nor did it change the Bible text freely. The rewritten Bible compositions, on the other hand, freely added new details, and probably were not considered authoritative.”40 This difference between the biblical parent texts and the rewritten composition is to be understood as the characteristic of Rewritten Bible according to Moshe J. Bernstein: Rewritten Bible is “comprehensive or broad scope rewriting of narrative and/or legal material with commentary woven into the fabric implicitly.”41 – Rewritten Scripture: Because of the apparent anachronisms embodied in the term rewritten Bible (see below), George J. Brooke and James C. VanderKam introduced the alternate rhetoric of rewritten Scripture. According to Brooke, “a rewritten scriptural text is essentially a compositions which shows clear dependence on a scriptural text.”42 A more detailed definition was developed by Sidnie White Crawford.43 She includes in this category a whole spectrum of texts ranging “from scriptural texts that are recognizably authoritative across groups” (13) to works that “have a recognizable authoritative base text . . . and rework that base text . . . but . . . do not claim the authority of the base text” (14). According to White Crawford, rewritten scriptures “are characterized by a close adherence to a recognizable and already authoritative base text . . . and a recognizable degree of scribal intervention into that base text for the purpose of

40 Emanuel Tov, “Rewritten Bible Compositions and Biblical Manuscripts, with Special Attention to the Samaritan Pentateuch,” DSD 5 (1998): 334–54, esp. 334 and 354. 41 Moshe J. Bernstein, “ ‘Rewritten Bible’: A Generic Category Which has Outlived Its Usefulness?,” Textus 22 (2005): 169–96, esp. 195. 42 George J. Brooke, “The Rewritten Law, Prophets and Psalms: Issues for Understanding the Text of the Bible,” in The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries (eds. E. D. Herbert and E. Tov; London: The British Library; New Castle, Del.: Oak Knoll Press; Grand Haven, Mich.: The Scriptorium Center for Christian Antiquities, 2002), 31–40; cf. James C. VanderKam, “The Wording of Biblical Citations in Some Rewritten Scriptural Works,” in Herbert and Tov, The Bible as Book, 41–56, esp. 42–43. 43 Sidnie White Crawford, Rewriting Scripture in Second Temple Times (Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2008).

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exegesis. Further, the rewritten scriptural text will often . . . make a claim to the authority of revealed Scripture, the same authority as its base text” (12–13). – Parabiblical literature: The term was introduced by Harold L. Ginsberg:44 “To the question of literary genre, I should like to contribute a proposal for a term to cover works, like GA, Pseudo-Philo, and the Book of Jubilees, which paraphrase and/or supplement the canonical Scriptures: parabiblical literature. The motivation of such literature—like that of midrash—may be more doctrinal, as in the case of the Book of Jubilees, or more artistic, as in at least the preserved parts of GA, but it differs from midrashic literature by not directly quoting and (with more or less arbitrariness) interpreting canonical Scripture.” In the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert (DJD) series, Emanuel Tov later defined parabiblical literature as literature “closely related to texts or themes of the Hebrew Bible.”45 This definition was modified by Florentino García Martínez in his translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls. According to him, parabiblical literature is literature “that begins with the Bible, which retells the biblical text in its own way, intermingling it and expanding it with other, quite different traditions.”46 – Parascriptural literature: The term was recently proposed by Robert A. Kraft in his 2006 presidential address to the Society of Biblical Literature.47 Kraft understands parascriptual texts as literature, which uses antecedent materials or creates alternative tellings.

44 Harold L. Ginsberg, review of J. A. Fitzmyer, The Genesis Apocryphon of Qumran Cave 1: A Commentary, TS 28 (1967): 574–77, esp. 574. 45 Emanuel Tov, “Foreword,” to Qumran Cave 4.VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 1 (ed. H. Attridge et al.; DJD XIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), ix. Cf. Armin Lange and Ulrike Mittmann-Richert, “C. Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert Classified by Genre and Content,” DJD XXXIX (2002): 115–64, esp. 117: “On the basis of biblical texts or themes, the authors of parabiblical texts employ exegetical techniques to provide answers to questions of their own time, phrased as answers by God through Moses or the prophets. The result of their exegetical effort is communicated in the form of a new book.” 46 Florentino García Martínez, ed., The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (trans. W. G. E. Watson; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 218. 47 Robert A. Kraft, “Para-mania: Beside, Before, and Beyond Bible Studies,” JBL 126 (2007): 5–27, 18; cf. Jonathan G. Campbell, “ ‘Rewritten Bible’ and ‘Parabiblical Texts’: A Terminological and Ideological Critique,” in New Directions in Qumran Studies: Proceedings of the Bristol Colloquium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, 8–10 September 2003 (eds. J. G. Campbell, W. J. Lyons, and L. Pietersen; LSTS 52; London: T & T Clark, 2005), 43–68, esp. 66.

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None of these terms is without problems. Terms like rewritten Bible, rewritten Scripture, parabiblical literature, and parascriptural literature imply a special relation to Jewish scriptures. This is problematic because other ancient cultures produced comparable literature as well. The use of the words Bible, biblical, and scripture is also anachronistic because many studies on the canonical history of the Hebrew Bible have shown that neither the canon of the Hebrew Bible nor the concept of Bible existed when texts like the Book of Watchers were written.48 Furthermore the reiteration of 1 Samuel–2 Kings in 1–2 Chronicles shows beyond any doubt that the phenomenon of writing related to authoritative literature can also be observed inside the Hebrew Bible. This would make the Bible in itself parabiblical. Comparable problems exist with the terms rewritten scripture and parascriptural, because the idea of scripture exists only since the Hellenistic religious reforms.49 Furthermore, the words “parabiblical” and “parascriptural” are religious in character and predetermine not only a canonical understanding of the literature in question but also exclude any literature outside the Judeo-Christian heritage which was written in relation to authoritative base texts. II. Literature in the Second Degree But how can texts, which were written in relation to authoritative literature, be described without anachronism and without a theological rhetoric which presupposes a canonical status for the base text? This question is not purely terminological but has wider implications for the understanding of literature in the second degree as a whole. To gain a better understanding of this literature, the Institute of Jewish Studies and the Institute of Classical Archeology of the University of Vienna organized in February 25–27, 2007 an international sympo-

48 See e.g. Natalio Fernández Marcos, “Rhetorical Expansions of Biblical Traditions in the Hellenistic Period,” OTE 15/3 (2002): 766–79, esp. 767; Johann Maier, “The Dead Sea Writings,” in The Encyclopedia of Judaism (3 vols.; eds. J. Neusner, A. J. Avery Peck, and W. S. Green; 2nd edition; Leiden: Brill, 2005),), 1: 563–78, esp. 566–68; Campbell, “ ‘Rewritten Bible’ and ‘Parabiblical Texts’,” 48–53; Kraft, “Paramania,” 10–18. 49 See Armin Lange, “From Literature to Scripture: The Unity and Plurality of the Hebrew Scriptures in Light of the Qumran Library,” in One Scripture or Many? Canon from Biblical, Theological, and Philosophical Perspectives (eds. C. Helmer and C. Landmesser; Oxford and New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 2004), 51–107.

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sium, “Palimpsests: An International Symposium on Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Cultures and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature”. The present volume publishes the proceedings of this interdisciplinary symposium. To avoid both anachronisms and canonical misunderstandings the symposium used the literary theories of Gérard Genette50 in order to compare Jewish literature in the second degree from Second Temple, Rabbinic, and medieval times with other ancient and medieval non-Jewish literatures written in the second degree. In his magisterial study, “Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree,” Genette distinguishes five types of transtextual relationships, namely intertextuality, paratextuality, metatextuality, hypertextuality, and architextuality. – For Genette, intertextuality is “a relationship of copresence between two texts or among several texts: that is to say, eidetically and typically as the actual presence of one text within another.”51 – The term paratextuality was originally used by Genette to describe what he now calls hypertextuality.52 In his book, Palimpsests, Genette redefines the term paratext to designate “a title, a subtitle, intertitles; prefaces, postfaces, notices, forewords, etc.; marginal, infrapaginal, terminal notes; epigraphs; illustrations; blurbs, book covers, dust jackets, and many other kinds of secondary signals, whether allographic or autographic.”53 – According to Genette, metatextuality “is the relationship most often labeled ‘commentary.’ It unites a given text to another, of which it speaks without necessarily citing it (without summoning it), in fact sometimes even without naming it.”54 – Genette defines hypertextuality as follows: “By hypertextuality I mean any relationship uniting a text B (which I shall call the hypertext) to an earlier text A (I shall, of course, call it the hypotext), upon which it is grafted in a manner that is not a commentary.”55

50 Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (trans. C. Newman and C. Doubinsky; Stages 8; Lincoln, Nebr.: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 51 Ibid., 1–2. 52 See Gérard Genette, The Architext: An Introduction (trans. J. E. Lewin; Quantum Books; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1992), 82. 53 Genette, Palimpsests, 3. 54 Ibid., 4. 55 Ibid., 5.

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– The category of architextuality addresses for Genette the world of textual forms, genres, structures etc. “By architextuality I mean the entire set of general transcendent categories—types of discourses, modes of enunciation, literary genres—from which emerges each singular text.”56 The category of hypertextuality is of particular interest for the topic of this volume. In his book, Palimpsests, Genette describes various modern and ancient forms of literature written in the second degree. Among his principle examples for hypertextuality are Vergil’s Aeneid and James Joyce’s Ulysses in their relation to the Odyssey. As hypertexts both the Aeneid and Ulysses depend on the Odyssey as their hypotext and retell or rewrite it more or less closely. In its constant reworking of earlier stages and sketches even the writing and rewriting of texts itself becomes a hypertextual process for Genette: “every successive state of a written text functions like a hypertext in relation to the state that precedes it and like a hypotext in relation to the one that follows. From the very first sketch to the final emendation, the genesis of a text remains a matter of auto-hypertextuality.”57 For Genette though, hypertextuality is not restricted to retellings and reworkings of earlier texts but includes also such diverse literary genres as translation, parody, caricature, pastiche, and digest. The generic diversity of hypertextuality does not imply several different types of hypertexts. Genette distinguished only “between two fundamental types of hypertextual derivation: transformation and imitation.”58 In correspondence, Genette detects only two basic functions of hypertexts, a practical and a sociocultural. The sociocultural function “is, of course, dominant in practices such as the descriptive summary, translation, prosification; it is still largely prevalent in the digest, in the various forms of transmodalization . . ., and in most sequels and continuations. It responds to a social demand and legitimately endeavors to draw a profit from the service it renders: hence its frequent commercial . . . aspect . . . The other function of the serious mode, more nobly aesthetic, is its specifically creative function, whereby a writer leans on one or more preceding works to construct that which will give expression to his thought

56 57 58

Ibid., 1 and 4–5. Ibid., 395. Ibid., 394.

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or his artistic sensibility. Such is evidently the main feature of most augmentations, of some (‘unfaithful’) continuations, and of thematic transpositions.”59 Although Genette recognizes the pastiche as an anthological compilation of texts out of earlier material as hypertextual in character, his basic model of hypertextuality remains the rewording of an underlying hypotext by an overlying hypertext—hence the metaphor of palimpsest in the title of his book. This basic model of hypertextuality is not ideally suited for the description of ancient literature written in the second degree which often goes back to several basetexts and combines them randomly or in intricate organized schemes with each other. During the Vienna conference this hiatus between modern literary theory and ancient and medieval literature led to a discussion as to whether it would be more appropriate to describe literature in the second degree by a term which avoids the implication of a “one-on-one” rewriting. Before he wrote his study Palimpsests, Genette himself suggested using the terms paratextuality, paratext etc. for literature written in the second degree.60 At least in Jewish Studies, this term has the added benefit of continuing the existing but anachronistic terminology of parabiblical literature. The participants of the Vienna conference and the authors for this volume are evenly split as to which term to use for the scholarly description of literature in the second degree. George J. Brooke, Annemarie Ambühl, Georg Danek, Beate Pongratz-Leisten and Sydney H. Aufrère opt for Genette’s language of hypertextuality, while Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, Philip Alexander, Kurt Smolak, Renate J. Pillinger, Anissava Miltenova, and myself prefer the terms paratextuality and paratextual literature as a more accurate description of texts which are written besides or around one or more base texts. Paratextual literature can best be defined as follows: On the basis of authoritative texts or themes, the authors of paratextual literature employ exegetical techniques to provide answers to questions of their own time, phrased, for example, as answers by God through Moses or

59

Ibid., 395. Genette, Architext, 82: “Under transtextuality I put still other kinds of relationships—chiefly, I think, relationships of imitation and transformation, which pastiche and parody can give us an idea of, or rather two ideas, for they’re very different, although too often confused which each other or incorrectly differentiated. For lack of a better term, I’ll christen them paratextuality (which to my mind is transtextuality par excellence), and perhaps some day, God willing, I’ll look into it.” 60

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the prophets. The result of their exegetical efforts is communicated in the form of a new literary work. Most of the articles in present volume focus on individual aspects of paratextual literature or discuss examples which illuminate why individual paratexts were created. After providing an overview of the so-called parabiblical texts from the Qumran library George J. Brooke (“Hypertextuality and the ‘Parabiblical’ Dead Sea Scrolls”) discusses the Qumran literature in the second degree under the categories of Torah, Deuteronomistic metanarrative, and poetic texts. The example of the Torah shows that the rewritten compositions which are based on it were not intended to replace their Pentateuchal hypotext but, in effect, strengthened its authority. Without hypertexts there would have been no authentic renewal of the Torah for each generation. Hypertexts facilitate a renewed appropriation of the Torah in each generation, they make it immediate to each successive age. Although the hypotext of the Torah itself is a closed text its hypertexts provide a continuing reapplication of the Torah for each generation to new contexts. While only very few Deuteronomistic metanarratives are preserved in the Qumran library Brooke’s analysis of poetic pastiches such as 1QHa XII 5–XIII 4 shows that other hypertexts from Qumran facilitate a similar ongoing dialogue between their multiple poetic hypotexts and their audiences. Hypertexts are liminal in two ways. On the one hand, they mediate the hypotext to a new audience and hence stand between the increasingly authoritative hypotext and the community of readers or hearers. On the other hand, they facilitate the transformation of their hypotexts from an authoritative to a quasi-canonical status. Based on the example of how Jubilees 15 rewrites Gen 17, Jaques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten shows how the Book of Jubilees constantly quotes and rewrites its base text in the books of Genesis and Exodus. Jubilees does not want to replace this base text but to interpret it and to demonstrate its authority. The example of Jubilees 15 shows that by reworking and expanding older traditions a new text claims for itself the authority attached to those traditions. By rewriting an earlier base text, a paratext like the Book of Jubilees also associates itself with the setting of its base text and with its base text’s author. The new composition provides the context for the interpretation of the older traditions and gains its authority at the same time. Annemarie Ambühl asks if those Attic tragedies whose subject matter derives from the Trojan wars are hypertexts to the Homeric epics.

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Although Greek tragedies do employ the Iliad as a hypotext, in an intertextual relationship, they depend on the whole of the ancient Greek literary and cultural heritage such as lyric poetry and earlier tragedies which themselves have adapted Homer in turn. Tragedies rewrite these traditions, erasing earlier texts and at the same time transposing and incorporating them into a new context. Ambühl parses her Genettian understanding of Attic tragedies by way of the Euripidean tragedies on the fall of Troy and its aftermath, i.e. Hecuba, Trojan Women, and Andromache. As his central hypotext, Euripides singles out for these tragedies those Homeric passages which view the war from the perspective of the Trojans and the Trojan women. Thereby Euripides changes the interpretation of the Homeric text itself, which in his selective reading becomes a Trojan and even female epic. The Euripidean sequel plays are to be understood in the context of the Peloponnesian wars. In the mirror of the tragic fate of the Trojan women, Athens seems at the same time to be both aggressor—like the Greeks in the Iliad—and victim—like the Trojans and Trojan women in the Iliad. Tragic Troy stands thus not for a historical city but is a transhistorical symbol for the fragility of human existence in the face of war. Georg Danek applies Genette’s ideas of hypertextuality to the Homeric epics. He shows that both the Odyssey and the Iliad go back to the hypotext of the underlying mythic traditions. Some of these underlying traditions were later on collected in the Cypria and other parts of the mythic cycle which were in turn influenced by the Homeric epics as well. Although both the Iliad and the Odyssey presuppose their hypotexts, they rewrite them in a way which more or less erased them from the ancient Greek cultural memory. As opposed to the earlier “Heldenlied”-poems, the Homeric epics interpret the world as a whole. In Homer, the episodic events of the heroic past become an exemplum of the bygone heroic world par excellence. On the one hand, the Iliad shows how the superhuman world of the heroic age may be destroyed by the will of the gods through the impact of war. On the other hand, the Odyssey stresses how after and in spite of war a hero may achieve a happy life with the help of the gods. Beate Pongratz-Leisten applies the question of paratextuality (viz. hypertextuality) not only to Mesopotamian literature but asks also in how far cultural practices can be understood as texts in their own right. Literary texts would in turn be forms of cultural self-interpretation. In this notion she depends on the work of Clifford J. Geertz.

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Pongratz-Leisten shows how cultural practices can thus be hypotexts for literary hypertexts. What distinguishes the Sumero-Babylonian literature from Genette’s material is that in general there is not one but several hypotexts which underlie each hypertext. This is not only the case with written hypotexts—as illustrated by the literary history of the Gilgamesh epic—but also cultural hypotexts. To proof her theory, Pongratz-Leisten shows how the The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer or Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi is a hypertext to several cultural discourses. Sydney H. Aufrère directs the attention of the reader to ancient Egyptian literature and in particular to the priestly literature from ancient Egypt. As in the Mesopotamian literatures discussed by PongratzLeisten, Egyptian priestly literature is often corporate in nature and develops like a rolling corpus—a good example is the Book of Dead. In contrast to other ancient literatures, the evolution of individual texts is explicit in ancient Egyptian priestly literature. Priestly textual compositions echo literary, iconographic and pseudo-historical sources both in temple inscriptions and papyri. The example of the wall inscriptions of the Horus temple in Edfu use rereading, rewriting, arranging tableaux, arranging texts in parallel but different perspectives and even “mise-en-abyme” to present the Myth of Horus. The various modes of interextuality described by Genette and even iconographic reiteration can be observed all in one place. Philip Alexander brings the question of paratext into the realm of Rabbinic commentary. Based on the example of Midrash Eikhah Rabbah (a commentary to the Book of Lamentations), Alexander argues that how Midrash functions as paratext can only be understood by considering its textual evolution, its social origins, its fluctuating intertextual relations to other biblical paratexts, and its function within Jewish thought and religion in the period of its creation. Alexander points out that the first element to emerge of Midrash Eikhah Rabbah was an anthology of proems, which may be based on sermons preached for the Ninth of ’Av. But in its present form Midrash Eikhah Rabbah has not only rabbinized this anthology but added to it a lemmatic commentary on Lamentations, which depends to some degree on the proems. Thus Eikhah Rabbah as a whole is not only a paratext to the Biblical Lamentations, but the commentary is a paratext to the proems. Felicia Waldman surveys the figure of Enoch/Metatron in the Jewish mystical tradition from Late Antiquity to medieval times. She shows that the figure of Metatron combines two different traditions.

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One is related to an angel, Jahoel, and the other to the biblical figure of Enoch. It remains unclear when these two traditions were linked. But out of them emerged a figure which was sometimes called even “the lesser YHWH.” The figure of Metatron underwent a long line of transformations in Jewish mysticism. In medieval Jewish mysticism, the paratextual Metatron tradition evolved in such a powerful way that Shabbatai Zvi saw himself as the earthly manifestation of Metatron. What once was a literary figure developed into a major player in the heavenly world. From there it evolved into the living human being, Shabbatai Zvi. Shabbatai’s student and opponent, Abraham Miguel Cardozo, regarded himself in turn as the Messiah and thus superior to Metatron-Shabbatai Zvi. Kurt Smolak studies three Latin paratexts from late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, viz., Sulpicia’s Complaint on the Situation of the State and the Age of Domitian (Sulpiciae conquestio de statu reipublicae et temporibus Domitiani), a corpus of letters which were supposedly exchanged between Seneca the Younger and Paul, and a Carmen navale. All three texts are part of the cultural rivalry between Christianity and the classical tradition. Sulpicia’s Complaint is related to earlier texts of two poetesses also called Sulpicia. While these earlier texts were dedicated to sexual pleasures, Sulpicia’s Complaint is a satire emanating from the pagan resistance movement. It attacks the political and cultural decline of Rome under Theodosius I as due to Christian influence on the one hand and the eviction of non-Christian philosophers from Rome on the other hand. While the author of Sulpicia’s Complaint created a paratext to earlier Roman literature in order to fight the growing Christian influence on traditional Roman life, the supposed correspondence between Seneca the Younger and Paul does the opposite. As a paratext to both Paul and Seneca the corpus harmonizes the two authors and turns Seneca’s moral letters into an interpretation of Paul’s writings. For the author of the corpus Seneca’s letters to Lucilius gain the quality of rhetorically refined paratexts juxtaposed to the stylistically rough letters of the apostle Paul. In early Carolingian times, the Pseudo-Columbanian poem Carmen navale rewrites an earlier rowing song. In the base text of the ancient rowing song, the power of a god grants a favourable turn of fate without any contribution of man, i.e. it makes the storm cease. But in the paratext the deeds of God are inseparably linked to the deeds of men by way of the monastic metaphor of fighting for the moral perfection of ascetic life.

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Based on the example of the Acta Pauli et Theclae, Renate Pillinger demonstrates the influence of early Christian paratexts on Christian art in late antiquity. Her survey shows furthermore, how the depictions of scenes from the Acts of Paul and Thekla—a paratext to the Book of Acts—become iconic paratexts in their own right. Anissava Miltenova surveys two cycles of historical-apocalyptic works in Old Bulgarian literature. She shows how the Bulgarian texts build on Byzantine apocalypses which in turn are based on earlier Judeo-Christian texts. The examples of Bulgarian apocalypses which were attributed to Daniel and Isaiah point to the historical context in which these Bulgarian paratexts were created, namely, the revolt of Petăr Delyan against the Byzantine empire (1040–1041 c.e.) and his subsequent defeat by Norman Byzantine mercenaries. A purposeful editing of earlier Byzantine apocalypses reworks resistance to Arab invasion of Sicily in the Byzantine base-texts into resistance against the Norman Byzantine mercenaries. The Bulgarians embodied their hopes for liberation from Byzantine rule in these new paratexts. The various contributions to the present volume show that paratextual literature was a widespread phenomenon, which realized itself differently in the various ancient and medieval cultures and performed different functions. Literature in the second degree thrived especially in the cultures of the ancient Near East which did not emphasize the concept of individual authorship. But it also occurred in various forms in the Graeco-Roman and Medieval worlds. The individual studies in this volume also provide hints as to what necessitated the writing of literature in the second degree. To answer this question paratextuality needs to be set in the wider context of cultural memory. III. Cultural Memory and Literature in the Second Degree Many, if not all articles in the present collection emphasize in one way or the other the interpretative character of literature in the second degree. George J. Brooke shows that paratexts do not necessarily replace their base texts but facilitate a renewed appropriation of them in a changed reality. Thus a continuous paratextual rewriting or expansion of e.g. the Torah accomplishes a continuous reapplication and re-appropriation of the Torah in each new generation. Why such a reapplication of authoritative base-texts is necessary becomes appar-

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ent in other contributions of this volume. The articles of Annemarie Ambühl, Kurt Smolak, and Anissava Miltenova point to political, historical, and/or religious crises as one motivation for the creation of paratextual literature. Ambühl shows how Greek tragedy understands the Greek mythic cycle and the Homeric epics in the light of current events. Her examples are the Euripedian sequel plays Hecuba, Trojan Women, and Andromache which reflect on the atrocities of the Peleponnesian wars in the light the Homeric epics. For Euripides tragic Troy becomes a transhistorical symbol for the fragility of human existence in the face of war. Smolak shows how paratexts like Sulpicia’s Complaint on the Situation of the State and the Age of Domitian (Sulpiciae conquestio de statu reipublicae et temporibus Domitiani), a pseuepigraphic correspondence between Seneca the Younger and Paul, or a Carmen navale rewrite their base texts to respond to the transformation from a dominantly polytheistic to a dominantly Christian world. Miltenova demonstrates that medieval Bulgarian Daniel and Isaiah apocalypses rewrite earlier Byzantine apocalypses during Bulgarian uprisings against the Byzantine Empire. The new paratexts express the Bulgarian hopes for liberation from Byzantine rule. But the contributions to this volume show also that literature in the second degree is not only triggered by political or religious crises. The contribution of Georg Danek demonstrate that ethical or philosophical paradigm shifts can engender the production of literature in the second degree as well. Danek argues that while based on material that was later on collected in the Cypria the Homeric epics change the philosophy of these earlier oral myths dramatically and eradicate them almost entirely from the Greek cultural memory. In contrast to the earlier “Heldenlied”-poems, the Homeric epics intend to interpret the world as a whole. Philip Alexander and Felicia Waldman study yet another reason why literature in the second degree was written, namely, the (re-)appropriation of earlier authoritative traditions by religious groups. Alexander shows how as a lemmatic commentary Midrash Eikhah Rabbah can function as a paratext which adapts an earlier anthology to the needs of the Rabbinic movement. Waldman studies how the Enoch/Metatron tradition was adapted to the realities of estranged Jewish mythical groups which diverged from mainstream Judaism. But literature in the second degree is not just a response to various crises, cultural developments, or the needs of religious groups. Literature in the second degree can also contribute to the development of a culture. This aspect is emphasized in the contribution of Beate

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Pongratz-Leisten. Texts like The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer (Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi) are not only based on cultural discourses but develop these discourses in new directions as well. This means, on the one hand literature in the second degree was and is written to adjust earlier authoritative base texts to the ever changing dynamics of evolving cultures and subcultures and on the other hand literature in the second degree creates such cultural changes. To better understand this process, some broad reflections on literature and cultural memory are necessary.61 As one of the earliest cultures, ancient Mesopotamia is a good starting point for this endeavour. The Sumerian populations of Mesopotamia invented writing sometime in the late fourth or third millennium b.c.e. for administrative purposes. Literary texts were rarely written down but mostly transmitted orally. When Sumerian ceased to be a spoken language, the linguistic shift from Sumerian to Akkadian as the dominant spoken language necessitated a paradigm shift in how a vital part of Mesopotamia’s cultural memory was preserved. From the Ur III period (2110–2003 b.c.e.) onwards (e.g. Shulgi-r) more extensive scribal training can be observed. There is little doubt, that the reSumerianizing efforts of the Ur III kings were the major force behind the collection (and adaptation and creation) of Sumerian literary texts at this time. As a consequence, in the subsequent early Old Babylonian and Old Babylonian periods, a more or less fixed curriculum of scribal training can be observed, including numerous Sumerian texts which form today the main body of what is known about Sumerian literature. Therefore, it may safely be concluded that the formation of a “fixed stream of tradition”, e.g. a more or less precisely circumscribed body

61 For the concept of cultural memory, see Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Ideen in frühen Hochkulturen (2d ed.; Munich: C. H. Beck, 1997); idem, Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (Cultural Memory in the Present; Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2006); Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume: Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999); Astrid Erll, Ansgar Nünning, and Sara B. Young, eds., Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Media and Cultural Memory 8; Berlin and New York, N.Y.: Walter de Gruyter, 2008). For a brief history of research about social memory in general, see Jeffrey K. Olick and Joyce Robbins, “Social Memory Studies: From ‘Collective Memory’ to Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices,” AnnRevSociol 24 (1998): 105–40.

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of Sumerian texts, does not only coincide with but was motivated also by the disappearance of Sumerian as a spoken language.62 This means that because the broader public no longer spoke or understood Sumerian, oral transmission could no longer preserve the Sumerian part of Mesopotamia’s cultural identity. A vital part of Mesopotamia’s cultural memory was hence threatened with oblivion. To avoid such a loss of cultural memory and hence cultural identity the oral traditions of Sumeria were written down, that is to say, Sumeria’s oral cultural memory became Mesopotamia’s written cultural memory. This fixation of Sumer’s oral tradition confronted the Mesopotamian culture with new challenges. Caught in the clay of cuneiform tablets the stories of ancient Sumer were preserved, i.e. memorized, in the cultural memory of Mesopotamia—and the perseverance of the clay tablets preserves them to this day—but the fixity of the written texts created new problems. In an oral society, each oral presentation of a given text is also a retelling of this text. I.e., each oral presentation adjusts and updates the presented text by way of dramatization or other approaches to changed circumstances. Hence, in oral transmission, each presentation of a text creates a new paratext. This means, the cultural memory of oral societies is very dynamic and mirrors in its changes the dynamic development of these societies. The constant adjustment of cultural memory in oral cultures aligns it with the dynamic development of these cultures and guarantees its immediacy and topicality. In other words, to avoid a disconnection between a culture and its cultural memory cultural memory needs to reflect the dynamic changes of society. In oral cultures this adjustment is automatic. The fixity of written texts makes such an ongoing adjustment of the written cultural memory of a society to its dynamic changes more challenging. While cultures and societies change written texts do not. When a culture develops but its written cultural memory does not develop with it, literature as the written cultural memory of a society is either readjusted to these developments or becomes obsolete. Literature in the second degree achieves the necessary adjustments. It allows

62 I am obliged to my colleague Gebhard Selz from Vienna University’s Institute of Oriental Studies, who not only walked me through the pitfalls of Sumerian studies but helped me to write this paragraph.

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for a re-appropriation of authoritative texts by a changed culture and realigns its textual traditions with its new cultural realities. The Gilgamesh epic is a good example for this process in the Mesopotamian cultural memory because it underwent several stages of paratextual rewritings and expansions. Beate Pongratz-Leisten summarizes in this volume this process of literary growth and the various realignments of the Gilgamesh epic to the changed cultures of Mesopotamia as follows: The Sumerian tradition, known only from tablets dating probably from the 18th century b.c.e., displays a host of independent narratives revolving around the heroic deeds of Gilgamesh. As they originate presumably in the context of the royal court of the Ur III dynasty (2110–2003 b.c.e.) their thematic similarity with the royal hymns of that period which likewise depict the king as conqueror and hero, comes as no surprise. Probably only with the collapse of the Ur III empire and the emergence of the dynasty of the city state of Larsa in the 19th century b.c.e. is the theme of the experience of death elaborated in the Sumerian poems The Death of Gilgamesh and Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld. The expansion into a new theme might be a reflection of a tendency extant in Old Babylonian wisdom literature which likewise introduces the theme of death as a major topic. Another new theme in the rich tapestry of the Gilgamesh tradition is the topic of the friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, who in earlier texts is still described as Gilgamesh’s servant. The topic of male friendship is anticipated in the Shulgi Hymn O, in which Shulgi calls Gilgamesh “brother-friend” (šeš.ku-li), and it seems to have made its way into the Old Babylonian epic tradition. In the Old Babylonian epic, we find the first attempt to unify the diversity of former independent strands of narratives. Although the Old Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic starts with a praise of Gilgamesh as “surpassing all kings”, the themes of “power and kingship, wilderness and civilization, friendship and love, victory and arrogance, death and life, man and god,”63 now determine the thread of the narrative. The standardized version of the first millennium assigned to the figure of Sîn-lēqi-unninni, a legendary ancestor for the scholarly elites since the seventh century b.c.e., will comprise 11 tablets, of which the Flood Story borrowed from the Atrahasīs Myth, represents the largest addition. Its new prologue starting with “the one who saw the deep” (ša naqba īmuru) sets the stage for the overall theme now dominating the epic which is Gilgamesh’s quest for immortality and knowledge. While he looses the plant of rejuvenation to the snake, he brings back the (secret) message from before the flood and restores

63 Andrew R. George, “The Literary History of the Epic,” in idem, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition, and Cuneiform Texts (2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1: 3–70; esp. 20.

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the ancient cultic rites that the Flood had swept away. Some time during the first millennium, perhaps with the scholar Nabû-zuqup-kēnu in 705 b.c.e., an Akkadian translation of the Sumerian poem Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld was included in the standard version of the epic.64

That the Gilgamesh epic is not an isolated case and that it is not peculiar to Mesopotamian culture is demonstrated by the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the history of its literary growth as described by Sydney Aufrère in the present volume. Like the Gilgamesh epic, the Book of the Dead evolved in several stages. Each stage represents a paratext to an earlier version of the Book of the Dead. The Theban recension (1580 b.c.e.) collated spells in four parts (spells 1 to 162) whose order was progressively established without having yet formed a stable corpus. Terms which related to obsolete realities or which were misunderstood by the scribes were reinterpreted and adapted to changed beliefs. These paratextual rewritings created a new four part model of funerary texts which emphasized (a) the procession of the funeral cortege (spells 1–16), (b) the regeneration of the dead at dawn (spells 17–63B), (c) the transfiguration of the dead (spells 64–129), and (d) the journey of the dead in the underworld (spells 130–162). In the Sais recension (650 b.c.e.), as yet another paratext, additional spells of both Theban and Heracleopolitian origin were added to the Book of the Dead (spells 163–185). These additional spells exalt the personalities of Amon, Osiris and Osiris-Re. The intertextualities which are at work in Egyptian wisdom texts and which were described above point to similar processes of paratextual adjustment of the written cultural memory of ancient Egypt. For reasons of space a comprehensive analysis of the ways in which paratextual rewritings adjusted the cultural memories of ancient and medieval societies to changed realties cannot be undertaken here. Instead, I will offer a single example of this process drawn from the final stage of the ancient Jewish Book of Watchers (1 Enoch 1–36) and its attitude towards mixed marriages.65 64 For the quote from the article of Beate Pongratz-Leisten see pages 140–42 in the present volume. 65 A more detailed version of my work on the Book of Watchers can be found in Armin Lange, “ ‘Your Daughters Do Not Give to Their Sons and Their Daughters Do Not Take for Your Sons’ (Ezra 9,12): Intermarriage in Ezra 9–10 and in the PreMaccabean Dead Sea Scrolls: Part 1,” Biblische Notizen NS 137 (2008): 17–39; idem, “‘Your Daughters Do Not Give to Their Sons and Their Daughters Do Not Take for

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The BW is a paratext to Gen 5:21–24 and Gen 6:1–4. It is preserved in badly damaged Aramaic manuscripts from the Qumran library (4QEna-b ar [4Q201–202]; 4QEnc ar [4Q204] 1 i–xiii; 4QEnd ar [4Q205] 1 xi–xii; 4QEne ar [4Q206] 1 xx–xxii, xxvi–xxviii) and in an Ethiopic translation of the Greek translation of the Aramaic original attested by 1 Enoch 1–36. The earliest manuscript is 4QEna ar. It was produced in the first half of the 2nd century b.c.e.66 Copyist errors and the orthography of 4QEna ar argue for a date of its Vorlage in the 3rd century b.c.e: “4QEna seems to have been made from a very old copy, dating from the third century at the very least; note in this connection the instances of strictly consonated orthography, as ‫ חנך‬in i 1, and also the confusion in the forms of letters: a Pe in the archetype has been read by error as Yod, hence ‫ ביום‬instead of ‫ בפום‬in ii 13.”67 Logical inconsistencies like the absence of Enoch in 1 Enoch 6–11 indicate that the BW is the result of a complex history of redactional growth. As the BW is preserved complete only in an Ethiopic translation of a Greek translation of the original Aramaic, caution is advisable when it comes to the reconstruction of the BW’s redaction history. Parts of 1 Enoch 6–11 seem to preserve the narrative kernel of the BW, which was first enlarged by 1 Enoch 12–19 and later by 1 Enoch 17–19. 1 Enoch 1–5; 20–36 were added to 1 Enoch 6–19 in one or more later redactions.68 Taking the BW’s dependence on various Jewish scriptures from exilic and post-exilic times (see e.g. Ezekiel 1–2; 40–44 in 1 En. 14:8–16:4)

Your Sons’ (Ezra 9,12): Intermarriage in Ezra 9–10 and in the Pre-Maccabean Dead Sea Scrolls: Part 2,” Biblische Notizen NS 139 (2008): 79–98; idem, “The Significance of the Pre-Maccabean Literature from the Qumran Library for the Understanding of the Hebrew Bible: Intermarriage in Ezra/Nehemiah—Satan in 1 Chr. 21:1—the Date of Psalm 119,” in Congress Volume Ljubljana 2007 (ed. A. Lemaire; VTSup 133; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 171–218. 66 Józef T. Milik, The Books of Enoch: Aramaic Fragments of Qumrân Cave 4 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), 140. 67 Ibid., 141. 68 For the literary growth of the BW, see George W. E. Nickelsburg, “Apocalyptic and Myth in 1 Enoch 6–11,” JBL 96/3 (1977): 383–405, esp. 384–86; idem, Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36; 81–108 (vol. 1 of 1 Enoch; Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2001), 165 and ad loc. Cf. also Carol A. Newsom, “The Development of 1 Enoch 6–19: Cosmology and Judgment,” CBQ 42 (1980): 310– 29. For a summary of the various reconstructions of the BW’s redactional history, see Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old and the Day of the End: Zechariah, the Book of Watchers and Apocalyptic (OTS 35; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 152–64.

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and its somewhat intricate redaction history into consideration, it seems highly unlikely that the BW was finalized before the 3rd century b.c.e. while a later date is excluded by Milik’s observations concerning the Vorlage of 4QEna ar. In the final stage of the BW, the intermarriage of the fallen heavenly watchers with human women is a recurring theme. It has been described as “one of the basic oppositions of the myth of the fallen angels in 1 Enoch 6–11.”69 Hence, a brief survey of the Jewish attitudes towards intermarriage in Persian and early Hellenistic times is necessary before I can discuss the BW itself.70 Excursus: Jewish Attitudes to Intermarriage in Persian and Early Hellenistic Times Before the Babylonian exile, intermarriage was not a disputed issue but the diaspora situation of the Babylonian exile led to a strong support of endogamy versus exogamy. The small size of the Persian period territory of Yehud and the Persian resettlement policy for Coele-Syria turned intermarriage into one of the major problems of postexilic Judaism. Rejection of intermarriage in Persian times is based on the idea of a cultic Jewish identity. In the beginning, postexilic prohibitions of intermarriage seem to be restricted to the (high) priests (Lev 21:13–15; Ezek 44:22) as their intermarriages with non-Jews could defile the cult. The core stratum of the BW, the so-called Shemihazah myth, tells the story of the fallen heavenly watchers and their human spouses in order to point to the catastrophic consequences which the intermarriage of heavenly priests with human women had before the deluge. In the context of the 5th century b.c.e., such a story can only be understood as a polemic against priestly exogamy which responds to mixed marriages of Jerusalem priests. But already an early insertion into the book of Malachi (Mal 2:11–12) and the Nehemiah memoir (Neh 13:23–29) attest to a democratization of the priestly marriage prohibition to all Jews, arguing that the cult can be defiled by any of its members. Ezra himself and his so-called marriage reforms are part of this democratization of Jewish polemics against priestly intermarriages, as demonstrated by the purity and defilement rhetoric of Ezra 9–10. The postexilic rejection of intermarriages did not remain undisputed. In support of intermarriages, the Book of Ruth depicts the Moabite woman Ruth as an exemplary member of the Jewish cultic community. This more liberal attitude towards intermarriages is characteristic of the

69 David W. Suter, “Fallen Angel, Fallen Priest: The Problem of Family Purity in 1 Enoch 6–16,” HUCA 50 (1979): 115–35, esp. 122. 70 For a more detailed study of question of intermarriage in Persian and Hellenistic times, see Lange, “ ‘Your Daughters Do Not Give to Their Sons and Their Daughters Do Not Take for Your Sons’ (Ezra 9,12).”

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armin lange literature of the late 4th and early 3rd century b.c.e., which often tolerates exogamy. Examples are the Book of Esther—in its MT version probably written at the end of the 4th or the beginning of the 3rd century b.c.e.71—and 1–2 Chronicles.72 The Book of Esther does not need to justify or defend Esther’s marriage with a Persian king but takes it for granted. 1–2 Chronicles deletes the harsh criticism of intermarriages out of its DtrH base-text. Even the many intercultural marriages of Solomon are not criticized, although in the DtrH they serve as an explanation for the division of Israel into a northern and a southern kingdom. 1–2 Chronicles even accepts intermarriages in several cases.73 1 Chr 2:3 notes that the first wife of Judah, Bath-Shua, was a Canaanite who gave him three sons. Furthermore, 1 Chr 2:17 notes an intermarriage between the sister of David and an Ishmaelite. 1 Chr 2:34–35 reports that a man called Sheshan marries his daughter to an Egyptian slave. Subsequently the mixed marriages of king David with a Calebite and an Aramean in 2 Sam 3:3 are reiterated in 1 Chr 3:1–2, and 1 Chr 4:18 claims that a certain Mered married a daughter of Pharaoh, while 1 Chr 4:22 mentions that a person called Saraph married into Moab. Already the 3rd century b.c.e. marks a shift back to the rejection of all Jewish intermarriages. Soon after Judea became part of Alexander’s kingdom and its Ptolemaic successor state an ongoing process of Greek acculturation in Coele-Syria in general and the Ptolemaic province of Yehud in particular can be observed. Examples are the history of the

71 For the date of the book of Esther, cf. e.g. Erich Zenger, “Das Buch Esther,” in idem et al., Einleitung in das Alte Testament (7th ed.; Studienbücher Theologie 1,1; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 2008), 307–08. 72 For 1–2 Chronicles und Ezra-Nehemiah as two separate literary works, see e.g. Sara Japhet, “The Supposed Common Authorship of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah Investigated Anew,” VT 18 (1968): 330–371; idem, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (OTL, Louisville, Ky.: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993), 3–7; Hugh G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Book of Chronicles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 5–82, esp. 70; idem, 1 and 2 Chronicles: Based on the Revised Standard Version (NCBC, Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1982), 5–11; Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 12; New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 2003), 96–100; cf. Georg Steins, Die Chronik als kanonisches Abschlußphänomen: Studien zur Entstehung und Theologie von 1/2 Chronik (BBB 93; Weinheim: Beltz-Athenäum, 1995), 49–82. For a date of 1–2 Chronicles in early Hellenistic times, see e.g. Otto Kaiser, Die erzählenden Werke (vol. 1 of Grundriß der Einleitung in die kanonischen und deuterokanonischen Schriften des Alten Testaments; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, 1992), 147–48; cf. also Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 23–28; Knoppers, I Chronicles, 101–117. 73 For the intermarriages reported in the genealogies of 1 Chronicles and their implications for the Chronicler’s tolerance for intermarriages, see Gary N. Knoppers, “Intermarriage, Social Complexity, and Ethnic Diversity in the Genealogy of Judah,” JBL 120 (2001): 15–30.

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Tobiad family74 and the Book of Ecclesiastes.75 Greek acculturation created a renewed vigor in the rejection of Jewish exogamy, as attested by the final redaction of the Book of Ezra/Nehemiah (Ezra 9–10; Neh 13:23–29), the Aramaic Levi Document (1; 6:1–5),76 the Temple Scroll (11QTa II:11–15; LVII:15–17), the Book of Tobit (Tob 1:9; 3:15; 4:12–13; 6:12–13, 16; 7:10–11), and the Book of the Words of Noah (1QapGen ar VI:6–9, 20).77 Jewish polemics against intermarriages now significantly feature more references to authoritative tradition. Exogamy was rejected and endogamy encouraged by way of reading earlier authoritative literature. The authoritative traditions alluded or referred to in the various early Hellenistic sources are part of the literary embodiment of the cultural memory of Judaism. The turn towards authoritative tradition shows that the early Hellenistic intermarriage polemics of ancient Judaism regard exogamy more as a threat to the Jewish cultural identity than to its cultic one. While Persian rule did not strive to change the cultural

74 For the Tobiad family and its Hellenizing preferences, see Peter Schäfer, The History of the Jews in the Greco-Roman World (London: Routledge, 2003), 18–21. 75 For Greek influence on the Book of Ecclesiastes, see e.g. Rainer Braun, Kohelet und die frühhellenistische Popularphilosophie (BZAW 130; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1973). 76 Chapter and verse numbers of the ALD are quoted according to the edition of Jonas C. Greenfield, Michael E. Stone, and Esther Eshel, eds., The Aramaic Levi Document: Edition, Translation, Commentary (SVTP 19; Leiden: Brill, 2004). 77 For 1QapGen ar V:29–XVIII:? as attesting an independent Book of Noah, see Richard C. Steiner, “The Heading of the Book of the Words of Noah on a Fragment of the Genesis Apocryphon: New Light on a ‘Lost’ Work,” DSD 2 (1995): 66–71; cf. also Michael E. Stone, “The Book(s) Attributed to Noah,” DSD 13/1 (2006): 4–23, 8. The heading ‫ כתכ מלי נח‬is reminiscent of 1 En. 14:1 (4QEnc ar 1 vi 9) where the vision of Enoch is described as ‫ספר מלי קושט]א‬, “The Book of the Words of Truth.” Similarly, in 4Q543 1 1 (par. 4Q545 1 i 1), the Vision of Amram is entitled ‫כתב מלי‬ ‫חזֺֹׁת ̊ﬠמרם‬, “The Book of the Words of the Vision of Amram.” This understanding of 1QapGen ar V:29–XVIII:? has been criticized by Devorah Dimant, “Noah in Early Jewish Literature,” in Biblical Figures Outside the Bible (eds. M. E. Stone and T. A. Bergren; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1998), 123–50, esp. 144–46; eadem, “Two ‘Scientific’ Fictions: The So-Called Book of Noah and the Alleged Quotation of Jubilees in CD 16:3–6,” in Studies in the Hebrew Bible, Qumran, and the Septuagint Presented to Eugene Ulrich (eds. P. W. Flint, E. Tov, and J. C. VanderKam; VTSup 101; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 230–49, 240–42, and M. Bernstein, “Noah and the Flood at Qumran,” in The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls: Technological Innovations, New Texts, and Reformulated Issues (eds. D. W. Parry and E. Ulrich; STDJ 30; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 199–231, esp. 226–31. But both graphical markers and a heading indicate the beginning of a new book. External markers in a manuscript take precedence over textual observations. Furthermore, the discussion whether 1QapGen V:29–XVIII:? preserves an independent literary work should be separated from its identification with the Book of Noah mentioned in later sources as the one does not have to be connected with the other. For an overview of later references to a Book of Noah, see e.g. Florentino García Martínez, Qumran and Apocalyptic: Studies in the Aramaic Texts from Qumran (STDJ 9; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 24–43, and Stone, “Book(s) Attributed to Noah,” 9–23.

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armin lange make up of its conquered societies, the various Hellenistic kingdoms exerted both social and political pressure to Hellenize their subjects. This policy threatened the cultural identity of Jews and Judaism in Ptolemaic Yehud. This threat is comparable to the Mesopotamian diaspora situation. Under the rule of Ptolemaic Egypt, exogamy was regarded as one channel through which Hellenistic culture took hold on Judaism. Intermarriage polemics had an anti-Hellenistic aim and effected the preservation of the Jewish religious-cultural identity. Nevertheless, the Jewish intermarriage polemics of early Hellenistic times are not disconnected from their Persian period predecessors. They exhibit the same rhetoric of purity and defilement as the Jewish rejections of intermarriage in the Persian era. What was regarded as a threat to Israel’s cultural identity was also understood as a threat to its cultic identity.

It is in this context of increased Greek acculturation and renewed rejection of exogamy that the final stage of the BW turns the intermarriage of the fallen heavenly watchers with human women into one of its Leitmotifs. Drawing on Gen 6:1–4, 1 Enoch 6–11 reports how the heavenly watchers recognize the beauty of human women, come to earth, marry them, and procreate with them. This union is qualified in 1 En. 9:9 as defilement. The watchers’ intermarriage has two consequences. On the one hand, they teach their spouses different forms of hidden knowledge and corrupt humanity in this way (1 En. 7:1; 8:1–3):78 You see what Asael has done, who has taught all iniquity upon the earth, and has revealed the eternal mysteries that are in heaven, which the sons of men were striving to learn (1 En. 9:6).79

On the other hand, the Watcher’s offspring, the giants, devastate the earth by devouring it (1 En. 7:3–6). In 1 En. 9:9, this is summarized as follows: And now behold, the daughters of men have born sons from them, giants, half-breeds. And the blood of men is shed upon the earth, and the whole earth is filled with iniquity.80

78 See Klaus Koch, “ ‘Adam, was hast Du getan?’ Erkenntnis und Fall in der zwischentestamentlichen Literatur,” in idem, Vor der Wende der Zeiten: Beiträge zur apokalyptischen Literatur (vol. 3 of Gesammelte Aufsätze; eds. U. Gleßmer and M. Krause; Neukirchen Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 1996), 181–217, esp. 187–94. 79 Translation according to Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch, 202. 80 Translation according to Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch, 202.

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At the end of the myth, 1 Enoch 9–11 describes how the angels which remained in heaven petition God to help his creation, how the deluge will come upon the earth as a just punishment and cleansing, how the watchers will be bound for seventy generations, and how after the day of their judgement a time of eternal righteousness will arise. The remaining chapters of the BW (1 Enoch 12–36) describe how Enoch becomes an intermediary between the fallen Watchers and God, and how Enoch fulfils this function by way of an otherworldly journey. It has been argued that the terminology of defilement as well as the former priestly status of the fallen Watchers would show that the BW attacks intermarriages between priests and Jewish women of non-priestly background.81 While this seems possible for the so-called Shemihazah myth as the earliest stratum of the BW,82 later redaction(s) added considerable amounts of Greek mythology to the narrative and turned it into an anti-Hellenistic text. There is surprising correspondence between various parts of Greek mythology on the one hand and 1 Enoch 6–11 as well as later parts of the BW on the other hand— a correspondence which was already recognized by ancient Jewish authors (cf. Josephus, A.J. 1:73).83

81

See e.g. David W. Suter, “Fallen Angel, Fallen Priest: The Problem of Family Purity in 1 Enoch 6–16,” HUCA 50 (1979): 115–35, esp. 122–24; idem, “Revisiting ‘Fallen Angel, Fallen Priest,” Henoch 24 (2002): 137–42, esp. 140; George W. E. Nickelsburg, “Enoch, Levi, and Peter: Recipients of Revelation in Upper Galilee,” JBL 100/4 (1981): 575–600, esp. 585; Grant Macaskill, “Priestly Purity, Mosaic Torah and the Emergence of Enochic Judaism,” Henoch 29/1 (2007): 67–89, esp. 78–82; Martha Himmelfarb, “Levi, Phinehas, and the Problem of Intermarriage at the Time of the Maccabean Revolt,” JSQ 6 (1999): 1–24, esp. 12. 82 Cf. Ryszard Rubinkiewicz, “The Book of Noah (1 Enoch 6–11) and Ezra’s Reform,” FO 25 (1989): 151–55; and Lange, “ ‘Your Daughters Do Not Give to Their Sons and Their Daughters Do Not Take for Your Sons’ (Ezra 9,12),” 27–32. 83 For the influence of Greek myth on the BW, see Thomas F. Glasson, Greek Influence in Jewish Eschatology: With Special Reference to the Apocalypses and Pseudepigraphs (Biblical Monographs 1; London: S. P. C. K., 1961); Nickelsburg, “Apocalyptic and Myth,” 395–97 and 399–404; idem, 1 Enoch, 191–93; Rüdiger Bartelmus, Heroentum in Israel und seiner Umwelt: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zu Gen. 6, 1–4 und verwandten Texten im Alten Testament und der altorientalischen Literatur (ATANT 65; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1979), 160–66; James C. VanderKam, Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition, 126–28. Nickelsburg claims (“Apocalyptic and Myth,” 396–97; 1 Enoch, 170) that in an early stratum the giants of the BW are a parody on the claims of various Diadochi for divine parentage. If this would be true one should expect the BW to draw more parallels between the giants and the Diadochi. But except for angelic vs. divine parentage there are no further parallels between the two groups, such as e.g. a depiction of the giants as rulers.

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The titan Prometheus teaches forbidden knowledge (Plato, Prot. 320c–322a)

The Watchers teach forbidden knowledge (1 Enoch 7–8; 9:8!)

Prometheus was bound by Zeus (Hesiod, Theog. 521–523)

The Watchers will be bound (1 En. 10:4, 12)

Pandora’s box as humanities’ punishment for Prometheus’ gift of fire (Hesiod, Theog. 570–577)

The Watchers’ teaching as a cause of the Deluge (1 En. 9–11)

The titan Kronos devours all of his children (Hesiod, Theog. 453)

The giants devour everything on earth (1 En. 7:3–6)

The titans are banned to Tartaros (Homer, Il. XIV:279; Hesiod, Theog. 697, 851; Homeric Hymn to Pythian Apollo 335; Pausanias, Descr. VIII:37, 3)

The watchers will be banned to a special place of punishment (1 En. 18:11–19:2; 21)

Other Greek parallels with the partly angelic parentage of the giants include myths about the partly divine parentage of various Greek heroes and a passage from Hesiod’s Catalogues of Women and Eoiae: Now all the gods were divided through strife; for at that very time Zeus who thunders on high was meditating marvellous deeds, even to mingle storm and tempest over the boundless earth, and already he was hastening to make an utter end of the race of mortal men, declaring that he would destroy the lives of the demi-gods, that the children of the gods should not mate with wretched mortals, seeing their fate with their own eyes; but that the blessed gods henceforth even as aforetime should have their living and their habitations apart from men. But on those who were born of immortals and of mankind verily Zeus laid toil and sorrow upon sorrow.84

By combining Greek myth with Jewish myth the BW slanders Greek culture as something that was taught already by the Watchers to their exogamous wives. As a consequence the Deluge came. The implication for a time of increased Greek cultural influence is evident. Greek acculturation is comparable to the teaching of the fallen heavenly Watchers. Its consequences will be as bad as the Deluge was.

84 Translation according to Hesiod. The Homeric Hymns and Homerica. 1959. Translated by Hugh G. Evelyn-White. LCL. London: Heinemann, 199, 201.

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37

But the BW does not only issue a general warning against Hellenism. It is also more specific in its attack on the mixed marriages of Watchers and human women. As the union between Watchers and humans brought forth the giants, mixed marriages between Jews and Greeks will also have terrible consequences and threaten Judaism in its very existence. Greek intermarriage provokes Jewish conversion to Hellenism and thus to idolatry. The consequences for Judaism might be as catastrophic as the Deluge was. Hence, the BW tells the story of the intermarriages between Watchers and humans to counter and fight against Greek influence on Judaism in defence of traditional Jewish culture. This interpretation is confirmed by Uriel’s words about the fallen Watchers in their place of punishment in 1 En. 19:1. And Uriel said to me, “There stand the angels who mingled with the women. And their spirits—having assumed many forms—bring destruction on men and lead them astray to sacrifice to demons as to gods until the day of the great judgment, on which they will be judged with finality.85

In this text, the influence of the fallen Watchers leads to sacrifices to false gods and thus to a loss of the religious integrity of humankind. Vice versa such a loss of religious integrity happens also to the fallen Watchers as a consequence of their intermarriage. 1 En. 9:8, 12:4, and 15:3 all emphasize that the Watchers are defiled due to their sexual union with human women.86 In consequence their religious integrity is lost. For the final stage of the BW, not only priestly intermarriage but all intermarriage is a threat to Israel’s existence. As in the case of the intermarriage of the fallen Watchers, all exogamy leads to the communication of forbidden hidden knowledge, that is to say, to exposure to Greek culture. Greek culture is a distorted version of the hidden knowledge which was once taught by the Watchers to their human spouses. For the BW, Greek-Jewish acculturation represents a threat

85

Translation according to Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch, 276. Cf. Ida Fröhlich, “Mamzēr in Qumran Texts—the Problem of Mixed Marriages in Ezra’s Time: Law Literature, and Practice,” Transeu 29 (2005), 103–15, 113–14; William Loader, Enoch, Levi, and Jubilees on Sexuality: Attitudes towards Sexuality in the Early Enoch Literature, the Aramaic Levi Document, and the Book of Jubilees (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2007), 13–15, 29–30. 86

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to Judaism which can only be compared to the threat which the intermarriage of the fallen heavenly Watchers presented once to the world. As the Watchers and their intermarriage caused the Deluge and universal destruction, Greek-Jewish acculturation will lead to the total destruction of Judaism. The example of the Book of Watchers shows how a changed historical and cultural situation led to a new understanding of an earlier paratext, viz., the Shemihazah myth and its later reworkings. This paratext to Gen 5:21–24 and 6:1–4, became itself a base text and was reworked to address the needs of a new situation. Not only priestly intermarriage but all intermarriage threatens the existence of Judaism at a time of accelerated Greek acculturation. Hence, Judaism adjusted its cultural memory to the changed circumstances of its existence and rewrote the Book of Watchers as a polemic against all intermarriage. V. In Place of a Conclusion: Paratexts and the Mechanisms of Cultural Memory In her groundbreaking work on the mechanisms of cultural memory, Aleida Assmann demonstrates that like individual memory cultural memory depends on forgetting.87 Without the selective process of forgetting both cultural and individual memory would grow into a vast quantity of unsorted data which could not be processed by either an individual or a culture. Forgetting enables not only selective memory but also allows reshaping of a cultural memory according to the changed needs caused by the dynamic development of a culture. While oral societies achieve cultural forgetting in the automatic adjustment of their oral textual traditions by way of ever changing recitals, according to Assmann the archive would fulfill this function of cultural forgetting in literary cultures. A canon would represent the active parts of a cultural memory. In a literary culture, cultural forgetting means to remove a text from the canon to the archives. It is obvious that Assmann’s concept of cultural memory and archive cannot be applied “one-on-one” to ancient pre-canonical cultures. Nevertheless, the

87

Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume, passim, esp. 411; eadem, “Canon and Archive,” in Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (eds. A. Erll, A. Nünning, and Sara B. Young; Media and Cultural Memory 8; Berlin and New York, N.Y.: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 97–108.

in the second degree

39

example of the Book of Watchers and the more general observations about ancient and medieval cultures and literatures in this volume seem to confirm Aleida Assmann. Once the Old Babylonian and later the standardized version of the Gilgamesh Epic replaced the original Sumerian Gilgamesh traditions, both the Sumerian traditions and the Old Babylonian version were only preserved in archives to be discovered two or three millennia later by modern archeologists. The latest Gilgamesh paratext—i.e. the so-called standard version—erased the earlier base texts more or less from the active Mesopotamian cultural memory. In this way Mesopotamian cultural memory adjusted itself to the dynamic developments of the Mesopotamian cultures. Similarly the Homeric epics dislodged earlier mythical traditions almost entirely from Greek cultural memory. For Judaism of Persian and Hellenistic times, the Book of Watchers points to similar yet different mechanisms of cultural memory. On the one hand, the final stage of the Book of Watchers eradicated the Shemihazah myth as its original narrative kernel out from Second Temple Jewish cultural memory—it might be that the Shemihazah myth was preserved in Jewish archives for some time, but in this case these archives are not preserved. The paratext, i.e. the final stage of the Book of Watchers, achieved an adjustment of the Jewish cultural memory. While the Shemihazah myth and later stages of the Book of Watchers were concerned with the question of priestly intermarriages the final stage of the Book of Watchers realigned the Book of Watchers’ intermarriage concerns with the issue of aggressive Greek acculturation in Ptolemaic Yehud by way of rewriting and hence supplanting the earlier version(s) of the Book of Watchers. On the other hand, the principal base-texts of all versions of the Book of Watchers, i.e. Gen 5:21–24 and 6:1–4, were neither archived nor forgotten. On the contrary, the Book of Watchers realigned them with the changed cultural realities of Ptolemaic Yehud and reaffirmed in this way the authority of the Book of Genesis. In other words, the paratext gave new meaning to its base text and so strengthened its authority rather than replacing it (this process has been studied in detail by George J. Brooke in his contribution to the present volume). The example of the Book of Watchers allows us, therefore, to refine Aleida Assmann’s theory about archives and cultural memory. Cultural memory does not only adjust itself to changed cultural realities by way of forgetting and archiving but also by realigning and reaffirming the authoritative parts of a cultural memory by way of paratextual actualization. In the case of the Book of Watchers both mechanisms

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armin lange

can be observed. The earlier literary strata of the Book of Watchers were erased from the Jewish Second Temple cultural memory by way of archiving or otherwise. But the authority of the Books of Watchers’ principal base-texts from the Book of Genesis was reaffirmed by assigning new meaning to them. That is to say, once literatures reached a certain degree of authority and/or canonicity new dynamics develop. Except for decanonization,88 authoritative texts are not moved by their paratextual offspring from the cultural memory of a given society into its archive. On the contrary, in the case of authoritative texts, literature in the second degree does not effect cultural forgetting by way of replacement but rather gives them a new function, a new lease of life. Paratextual retellings or expansions of authoritative base texts realign them with their developing cultures by assigning new meaning to them. In this way, literature in the second degree reaffirms the authority of its authoritative base texts in a society’s cultural memory.

88

For the phenomenon of decanonization, see A. van der Kooij and K. van der Toorn, eds., Canonization and Decanonization: Papers Presented to the International Conference of the Leiden Institute for the Study of Religions (LISOR), Held at Leiden 9–10 January 1997 (SHR 82; Leiden: Brill 1998).

PART I

ANCIENT JUDAISM

HYPERTEXTUALITY AND THE “PARABIBLICAL” DEAD SEA SCROLLS George J. Brooke University of Manchester In memoriam Kurt Schubert (1923–2007)1

I. What Labels are We Using? Like many of the contributions to this volume, which at first was intended to be titled Palimpsests, the thinking behind this essay began with reference to the work of Gérard Genette who has used the term most provocatively. Although in codicology a palimpsest is simply a recycled manuscript in which the most recent text does not necessarily have any relationship to the text over which it is written, the term helpfully suggests how one text may lie on top of another text that has not been entirely erased. Genette used the term metaphorically to express how the text written on top was “literature of the second degree.” Nevertheless, for the purposes of this study I have been on the quest for a more suitable term that without metaphor might describe something of the relationships between the texts of my concern. In relation to much of what is presented in the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Second Temple period Jewish collection of literature from the caves at and near Qumran on the northwest shore of the Dead Sea, my preferred term has become “hypertext.” This choice is indicated trivially by the spell-checker on my word-processing software. The spell-checker does not recognize intertext, paratext, peritext, epitext, metatext, cotext, transtext, architext, or hypotext, but it does seem to know what a hypertext is, suggesting that it knows, for example, of the relationship

1 Professor Kurt Schubert was the leading Dead Sea Scrolls scholar of the first generation in Vienna and established the University of Vienna’s Institut für Judaistik in 1966; he kindly attended and commented upon the first lecture on the scrolls that I gave in Vienna in May 2005 and died shortly before the meeting of the Palimspests symposium.

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between James Joyce’s Ulysses (the hypertext) and Homer’s Odyssey (the hypotext).2 The spell-checker is clearly not at the cutting edge of research into the character of much of the literature that I wish to consider, but it seems to recognize through its lack of erudition that I have a significant problem in labelling that has to be addressed in some way. The accepted significance of longstanding descriptors has to be stretched or qualified in several ways to account adequately for some of the kinds of literary compositions that I will consider in what follows, so it seems preferable to adopt the term hypertext as a useful term because while it forces its user to keep in mind that the text under discussion is dependent in some way on others, it also does not make unnecessary claims about the kind of authority the hypotext might have had. Let us clear the ground immediately. The term “paratext,” preferred by some scholars,3 might be suitable for speaking of some kinds of literary activity, but it is not really adequate for the task of categorizing literary activity that involves imitation and dependence of one sort or another. Although it is certainly the case that it is difficult to describe the many forms of Jewish scriptural rewriting as “parabiblical” because for compositions from the Second Temple period the “biblical” part of the compound descriptor is clearly anachronistic, it is equally problematic to move to the term “paratextual” since that term has been coined by others for other purposes. By paratextuality Gérard Genette indicates all the “liminal devices and conventions, both within the book (peritext) and outside it (epitext), that mediate the book to the

2 Richard Macksey points out that “the hypertextual relationship of Ulysses to Homer’s epic is less than obvious without the novelist’s chapter titles, which Joyce suppressed in the published version of the book. Genette works out the complex network of correspondences between the eighteen chapters of the novel and Homer’s original narrative in a detailed diagram; see Palimpsestes (Paris, 1982), 356” (Richard Macksey, foreword to Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, by Gérard Genette [trans. J. E. Lewin; Literature, Culture, Theory 20; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997], xv.) 3 Including Armin Lange in his contribution to this collection; Lange helpfully outlines the development of the terminology. He seems to have developed his usage of the term as preferable to the somewhat anachronistic “parabiblical” that he has used in several contexts: see, e.g., Armin Lange, “From Literature to Scripture: The Unity and Plurality of the Hebrew Scriptures in Light of the Qumran Library,” in One Scripture or Many? Canon from Biblical, Theological, and Philosophical Perspectives (ed. C. Helmer and C. Landmesser; Oxford and New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 2004), 84.

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 45 reader: titles and subtitles, pseudonyms, forewords, dedications, epigraphs, prefaces, intertitles, notes, epilogues, and afterwords”.4 Some of these items are indeed preserved in the Dead Sea Scrolls, but it is wrong to suggest that the move from parabiblical to paratextual can be made by the scholar of ancient Jewish texts without causing confusion. Thus the label to be preferred is “hypertext;” it is this term that seems to be useful for insisting that texts are related to other texts interpretatively, a fact which can easily be forgotten, as will be indicated in what follows. Hypertexts form the subject of Genette’s Palimpsestes, the “literature of the second degree,” though I do not intend to agree with or adhere to Genette’s detailed categorization of the relationships between “hypertexts” and “hypotexts.”5 II. What Literary Corpus is Being Discussed? In addition to searching for suitable labels, we need to be careful to outline what kind of literary corpus the labels will serve to illuminate. Which literary compositions are we talking about as literature of the second degree? It can be asserted that all texts are related to other texts in one way or another, so it is necessary to limit the scope of this study by proposing that our principal concern will be with some of those compositions in which there was probably a deliberate intention to be interpretative. For the Dead Sea Scrolls, the specific concern of this study, a suitable place to start is the Index volume of Discoveries in the Judaean Desert (DJD). That volume has a fascinating section that presents a taxonomy of the genres of the compositions found in the Qumran corpus by Armin Lange and Ulrike Mittmann-Richert.6 They describe what they label “parabiblical texts” as follows:

4

Macksey, “Foreword,” to Genette, Paratexts, xviii. See the suitable problematisation of Genette’s grid of relation and mood by Armin Lange in this volume. For example it is immediately difficult to suppose that all “serious imitation” of a hypotext must be described as forgery. 6 Armin Lange and Ulrike Mittmann-Richert, “Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert Classified by Content and Genre,” in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the “Discoveries in the Judaean Desert” Series (ed. E. Tov; DJD XXXIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 115–64. 5

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george j. brooke This term as used in DJD, refers to literature “closely related to texts or themes of the Hebrew Bible.”7 On the basis of biblical texts or themes, the authors of parabiblical texts employ exegetical techniques to provide answers to questions of their own time, phrased as answers by God through Moses or the prophets. The result of their exegetical effort is communicated in the form of a new book. Therefore, parabiblical literature should not be understood as a pseudepigraphic phenomenon, i.e. the ascription of a literary work to a biblical author, but as a form of scriptural revelation, comparable to the phenomenon of literary prophecy. For this purpose, the authors of parabiblical literature used different genres: rewritten Bible, new stories or novellas created on the basis of biblical items or topics, different types of apocalypses, and testaments. In addition, parabiblical texts combining different genres can be found. However, it should be noted that a single biblical quotation or allusion, elaborated on in the context, does not necessarily indicate the parabiblical character of a fragmentary manuscript since implicit quotations are also extant in other genres of ancient Jewish literature (e.g. the Damascus Document). Because of these uncertainties, the classification of parabiblical literature is more restrictive than that proposed by the editors in the respective DJD volumes.8

The DJD classification is circumscribed by three factors. First, it is constrained by the fact that already in 1994 the label “parabiblical” had been determined largely in relation to the Reworked Pentateuch manuscripts.9 For continuity’s sake the same label has been retained in the DJD series by the editors of manuscripts of a wide range of subgenres. Second, even if the label is in some ways unsatisfactory, it is defined in a somewhat more restricted way than many contributors to the DJD series have felt bound by. Third, its use makes assumptions about what was of primary authority, especially in the middle of the Second Temple period; one wonders for example whether the Books of Chronicles should be better perceived as some kind of rewritten composition, whereas paleo ParaJoshua, not least because of its paleoHebrew script, was being presented as significantly authoritative by its scribal transmitters; some rewritten texts, such as Deuteronomy, were

7 Emanuel Tov, “Foreword,” to Qumran Cave 4.VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 1 (eds. H. Attridge et al.; DJD XIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), ix. 8 Lange and Mittmann-Richert, “Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert,” 117–18. 9 Emanuel Tov and Sidnie White, “Reworked Pentateuch,” in Qumran Cave 4.VIII, 187–351, for 4Q364–367. 4Q158 is also regularly included as an exemplar of this composition: see George J. Brooke, “4Q158: Reworked Pentateucha or Reworked Pentateuch A?,” DSD 8 (2001), 219–41.

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 47 clearly already authoritative by the 2nd century b.c.e.; others, such as the Books of Chronicles also eventually became part of the canon.10 The use of the label hypertext enables us to avoid all these problems and to begin from the larger perspective of how texts depend upon earlier or contemporary compositions. Whatever the labels, in general we seem to know what kinds of composition we are talking about. I side with Lange and MittmannRichert in supposing that until there is greater clarification through better understanding of what we are considering, it is safer to err on the side of inclusion, rather than to think that we should immediately group texts in smaller well-defined categories. For me this means that even the label “rewritten Bible” should be conceived broadly.11 But, also, for now, leaving behind the label rewritten Bible and talking rather of hypertexts, we may still seem to know what we are talking about in relation to the Jewish literary corpus that has survived in the Qumran caves.12 In the first place, almost all the Pentateuch is represented extensively in these kinds of rewritten paraphrases preserved in the caves. Generally these hypertextual compositions follow the order of the source and often stay very close to its phraseology; sometimes there is greater divergence. For Genesis several compositions belong in this category, such as the Genesis Apocryphon (1QapGen), an Aramaic narrative retelling of large sections of Genesis, whose extant portions are mostly concerned with Noah and Abraham. The fragments of the Exposition on the Patriarchs (4Q464) are probably another such retelling, but in Hebrew, as also the Paraphrase of Genesis and Exodus (4Q422), and the Text Mentioning the Flood (4Q577) and the presentation of

10 On how Chronicles may have been perceived by those at Qumran see George J. Brooke, “The Books of Chronicles and the Scrolls from Qumran,” in Reflection and Refraction: Studies in Biblical Historiography in Honour of A. Graeme Auld (ed. R. Rezetko, T. H. Lim, and W. B. Aucker; VTSup 113; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 35–48. 11 See George J. Brooke, “Rewritten Bible.” Pages 777–81 in vol. 2 of Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Edited by L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam. 2 vols. New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 2000, where I argue for the use of the term as an overarching category. Amongst those who prefer a stricter use of the label for a narrower, more closely defined genre are Moshe J. Bernstein, “‘Rewritten Bible’: A Generic Category Which Has Outlived its Usefulness?,” Textus 22 (2005): 169–96. 12 To find information on the compositions mentioned in what follows see the various reference contributions in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Series (ed. E. Tov; DJD XXXIX; Oxford, Clarendon Press, 2002).

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the flood in Commentary on Genesis A (4Q252 I–II). Testamentary literature, such as the Testament of Judah (3Q7; 4Q484) and related compositions such as the Aramaic Levi Document (1Q21; 4Q213– 214) can also be classified as sapiential or eschatological hypertextual literature. There also seems to be a similar literary phenomenon in Greek (4QpapParaExod gr).13 Association with particular patriarchs is common. For Genesis and Exodus it is widely acknowledged that the most through-going hypertextual reworking is to be found in the Book of Jubilees; this is a Hebrew narrative retelling of Genesis 1—Exodus 15 that introduces various halakhot, notably on the Sabbath, so that the patriarchs are seen to be law-abiding before ever the Law was given. To assert its own authority Jubilees declares that its content was revealed to Moses from the heavenly tablets by the angel of the presence. Also in Cave 4 were up to three manuscripts that contained a composition closely related to Jubilees (4Q225–227). For other parts of the Pentateuch the classic example of so-called rewritten Bible is the Temple Scroll, known in three or more manuscripts (4Q524; 11Q19; 11Q20; 11Q21?); rather than being revealed to Moses by an angel as is the case in Jubilees, the Temple Scroll is made up of speeches addressed to Moses by God himself. The content of the Temple Scroll is of two sorts: in the first part various Pentateuchal laws concerning the tabernacle and sacrifice are arranged and supplemented with texts from Ezekiel, 1–2 Kings, and 1–2 Chronicles (and other sources); in the second part there is an abbreviated hypertextual presentation of Deuteronomy 12 onwards, the law for those who live in the land, which has an expanded section that corresponds with Deut 17:14–20, the law for the king, perhaps an expansion whose contents are directed against some contemporary ruler. Jubilees and the Temple Scroll could also be classed as non-sectarian religious law, though their outlook is taken up in several sectarian compositions; the same goes for the Apocryphon of Moses (1Q22; 4Q375–376; 4Q408). There are rewritten or hypertextual forms for several of the history books too, what later became the Former Prophets. Dependent in some way on the Book of Joshua are the Apocryphon of Joshua (4Q378–379; 13

See Eugene C. Ulrich, “A Greek Paraphrase of Exodus on Papyrus from Qumran Cave 4,” in “Studien zur Septuaginta—Robert Hanhart zu Ehren”: Aus Anlaß seines 65. Geburtstages (ed. D. Fraenkel, U. Quast, and J. W. Wevers; MSU 20; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), 287–98.

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 49 also found at Masada [Mas apocrJosh]), and the Prophecy of Joshua (4Q522); a form of the Apocryphon of Joshua seems to be cited as a scriptural authority in the sectarian Testimonia (4Q175), and so should perhaps be added to the list of books that were deemed of primary authority at Qumran but that did not make it into subsequent Jewish or Christian canon lists. For Samuel there is hypertextual material in the Vision of Samuel (4Q160) and for Kings a paraphrase in the Paraphrase of Kings et al. (4Q382). In some instances it is difficult to tell whether the form in the Qumran library is secondary in every respect. It is possible that the freedom with which the Gospel writers rework their narrative sources is a reflection of the same scribal attitude. There are some hypertextual forms of the prophetic books too, notably the three forms of the Apocryphon of Jeremiah (4Q383; 4Q384; 4Q385a, 387, 388a, 389–390, 387a), the five or six copies of PseudoEzekiel (4Q385, 386, 385b, 388, 391, 385c), and the Daniel Apocalypse (4Q246), Pseudo-Daniel (4Q243–244) and the Four Kingdoms (4Q552– 553). Some poetic materials that are akin to the scriptural psalms could also be categorized as hypertextual or rewritten Bible (such as 2Q22; 4Q371–373; 4Q460). The List of False Prophets (4Q339), the Biblical Chronology (4Q559), and various Narrative works (e.g., 4Q462) can also be classed as non-sectarian hypertextual compositions. I also consider that in its widest usage hypertextuality applies also to a number of poetic and liturgical texts, for which Genette’s understanding of imitation by pastiche is significant as a way of understanding compositional method.14 Amongst such compositions can be put the Apocryphal Psalms, the Non-Canonical Psalms and even the Hodayot. III. Hypertextuality in the Qumran Library What are we to do to make sense of this range of compositions that many have called parabiblical or paratextual but which I am labelling now as hypertextual? With one eye on Genette, I want to concentrate on what I will distinguish as four kinds of hypertextuality, though the issues to be discussed overlap considerably. In a more recent work, L’Œuvre de l’art, Genette has considered the aesthetic status of a work of art, such as a piece of literature, but also has played upon his own 14 By pastiche Genette implies both multiplicity and playfulness in the relation of the hypertext to its hypotexts (plural ).

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title to consider how such artistic pieces “work.” Without reducing the implications of his insights, Genette nevertheless has come to see that “a work of art is an intentional aesthetic object, or, which amounts to the same thing: a work of art is an artifact (or human product) [enlisted] to an aesthetic function.”15 In this, as Richard Macksey points out, Genette underscores the viewer’s or reader’s share in the intentional process. “The work is never reducible to its immanent object, because its being is inseparable from its action.”16 Thus it is to the mixture of form and function that we should turn. Consideration of function takes us away from considering Jewish hypertexts in a political and social vacuum. Since we know that texts demand to have readers and hearers, and are not entities sufficient in themselves, it is necessary to take into account that they “have ways of existing that even in their most rarified form are always enmeshed in circumstance, time, place, and society—in short, they are in the world, and hence worldly,”17 as Edward Said has remarked. Texts disclose power relationships. 1. Seconding Sinai Primordially My first set of hypertext comments refer particularly to those compositions related to the Torah—what can be labeled as Mosaic discourse. I have elsewhere tried to describe how a large proportion of the works in the Qumran library seem to depend in one way or another on scriptural antecedents.18 Even a cursory look at a collection of compositions from the library, such as can be seen in Geza Vermes’s The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English, reveals that the largest listings are for “Bible Interpretation” and “Biblically Based Apocryphal Works,”19 though even that conceals just how much many of the other compositions in the library are literature in the second degree. Within this literature pride of place both in terms of quantity of compositions

15 Gérard Genette, L’Œuvre de l’art: Immanence et transcendance (Collection Poétique; Paris: Seuil, 1994), 10 and Richard Macksey, “Foreword,” to Genette, Paratexts, xvii. 16 From the author’s prière d’insérer for L’Œuvre de l’art. 17 Edward Said, The World, the Text, and the Critic (London: Vintage, 1991), 35. 18 George J. Brooke, “The Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Biblical World (ed. J. Barton; London and New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2002), 250–69. 19 Geza Vermès, The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English (rev. ed.; London: Penguin Books, 2004), vii–xii. One could equally well look at the list, in Lange and Mittmann-Richert, “Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert.”

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 51 and also in terms of quality of interaction with the hypotext goes to works based on the Torah. What is taking place in this Mosaic literature? The model I adopt here is a brief adaptation of some insightful ideas put together very suggestively by Hindy Najman; her ideas have to be adapted somewhat because they do not anchor the text in its function as Genette demands. Najman has proposed that there are four indispensable features of Mosaic discourse in the Second Temple period. a. First, “by reworking and expanding older traditions through interpretation, a new text claims for itself the authority that already attaches to those traditions.” b. Second, such new texts ascribe to themselves the status of Torah, as either heavenly or earthly in origin, but in any event “an authentic expression of the Torah of Moses.” c. “The new text is said to be a re-presentation of the revelation at Sinai.” There is a recreation of the Sinai experience to emphasize “the presentness of the Sinai event.” d. “The new text is said to be associated with, or produced by, the founding figure, Moses,” a claim that serves to authorize the new interpretations as divine revelation, dictation, prophecy, or inspired interpretation, and so to show that the new text is an extension of earlier ancestral discourse.20 For Najman the key to Mosaic hypertexts is a heady mixture of matters to do with authority, authenticity, immediacy, and continuity. I will make a few comments on each of these topics. First, authority: To my mind Najman makes an assumption, perhaps partially unwarranted, about the status of the Mosaic Torah as an authoritative, that is, for her, an authorizing text in the Second Temple period. There can be little doubt that the five books of the Torah occupy some preeminent position for many Jews in the immediate post-Ezra period, but this preeminence is not of the sort that the same text comes to occupy in the canonical period. I have argued elsewhere that one interesting factor in appreciating rewritten texts is the way they not only receive authority from the texts they rework, but they also give it.21 In other words the very activity of hypertextual rewriting is a bestowal of 20 Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism (JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 16–17. 21 George J. Brooke, “The Rewritten Law, Prophets and Psalms: Issues for Understanding the Text of the Bible,” in The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries (ed. E. D. Herbert and E. Tov; London, New Castle, Del., and Grand Haven, Mich.: The British Library, Oak Knoll Press, and The Scriptorium Center for Christian Antiquities, 2002), 31–40.

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authority, perhaps where such authority needed to be asserted because in some way it was lacking. So ongoing Mosaic discourse in the rewritten Torah texts may well be an acknowledgement of the Torah’s authority but it is also an assertion of it, perhaps in the face of those who would challenge it. This is how one can justify the conclusion, correct in my view, that the rewritten compositions were not designed to replace the hypotexts for which they are the hypertexts.22 They are not palimpsests in the sense that they are written over erased or barely legible hypotexts; nevertheless the hypotext would lose what authority it ever had without the presence of hypertexts. Second, authenticity: For Najman authenticity is a matter of status, defined in large part by origin, whether heavenly or earthly. It seems to me that the issue may be more complex. Authenticity in texts would seem to have to do with integrity and truth-claims. The authenticity of rewritten Torah texts is represented in the ways that they offer their own inherently consistent integrity. This is something that belongs where it is brought to birth; it cannot be passed on. It has to be learnt anew in each successive generation; hypertexts enable the authentic renewal of their hypotexts. From one generation to another this might be achieved through redaction. Sometimes such textual redaction creates a system of literary coherence where such was somewhat lacking; compositions may then spawn recensions in textual production. There are also full-blown rewritings and pseudepigraphs. But in any new generation it seems to me that authenticity must be rediscovered. An authentic voice in the Mosaic discourse is one that is in some way limited to a particular setting, in which it is produced and to which it speaks. Third, immediacy: Genette comments that paratextual elements are one of the key ways in which a text is promoted: “Although we do not always know whether these productions are to be regarded as belonging to the text, in any case they surround it and extend it, precisely in order to present it, in the usual sense of this verb but also in the strongest sense: to make present, to ensure the text’s presence in the

22 See, e.g., Philip S. Alexander, “Retelling the Old Testament,” in It is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture: Essays in Honour of Barnabas Lindars (ed. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 99–121, esp. 116: “despite the superficial independence of form, these texts are not intended to replace, or to supersede the Bible.”

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 53 world, its ‘reception’.”23 In stressing the presentness of the textuality of the Sinai event a significant characteristic of rewritten or hypertextual Torah is its contribution to and enabling of the making contemporary of the Torah, and through such a process facilitating its appropriation by the audience, even if the fiction of Israel at Sinai sits uneasily with the realities of the reader’s circumstances. In the post-canonical period it seems to be explicit commentary on the Torah that normally serves this function; in the pre-canonical period it seems as if rewritten scriptural texts were one of the ways in which, through their very authenticity, authentic experience of one particular understanding of the past was created in the present. But this function of making Sinai present is also the undoing of the ongoing authority of these so-called rewritten Bible texts, since their very contemporaneity soon becomes dated. They are like workers on a short-term contract; without a permanent contract in the community based in other matters they are soon replaced with other rewritings. If authenticity is something that cannot be passed on, but has to be learnt again in each generation, then immediacy, like Moses’ shining face, soon fades. Fourth, continuity: Authenticity in particular is discovered and rediscovered in each generation, but in Mosaic discourse and in other discourses too it depends on being recognized as authentic by virtue of its character as hypertext. In other words it stands in relation to a hypotext, namely the Mosaic Torah. Thus part of the character of the rewritten hypertextual Torah compositions is their being recognizable as continuous with the Torah itself. But in fact again it is often and usually more complex than that. The relation of hypertext to hypotext is not a straightforward one in which the hypertext is the literature of the second degree, as Genette would have us believe, since the trick of continuity is often played out in the way that the hypertext might claim to be prior to the text on whose authority it is overlaid. This is what Najman ingeniously calls primordial writing: the Book of Jubilees re-presents what is on the heavenly tablets, the Temple Scroll is constructed with God as the voice of the narrator, and the Reworked Pentateuch manuscripts reflect a redactional coherence that is surely more akin to the character of God himself than the muddle which now makes up the Torah.

23

Genette, Paratexts, 1.

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Another feature of the continuity that is characteristic of the way these rewritten texts take part in the representation of their hypotexts is the way in which by comparison with the closed Torah they retain the character of being open-ended, of being part of a “rolling corpus.”24 The rewriting process goes on from generation to generation and the variety of forms, for example, of the Reworked Pentateuch reflects this ongoing activity. From this point of view to ask whether, for instance, 4Q158 is a version of the same composition as 4Q365 somewhat misses the point. The corpus is on a roll. 2. The Place of the Deuteronomistic Metanarrative The second category of hypertexts in the Qumran collection that I wish to consider briefly are those that are primarily rewritten narrative compositions apart from those that use the narratives of the Torah. As mentioned in relation to those compositions which engage in ongoing Mosaic discourse, I have surmised elsewhere that the existence of rewritten forms of texts, the existence of hypertexts, is one indication amongst others of the emerging authority of the hypotexts upon which they depend. It is intriguing in the Qumran library to notice what is present and seemingly absent in relation to what we now regard as the scriptural narrative materials. An immediate first impression is that there is more extant that relates to prophetic activity than there is in relation to the history of Israel from Joshua to the Exile. The Deuteronomistic history from the early post-exilic period, whatever its precise extent and contents, represents a major attempt at offering Second Temple Israel, emerging Judaism, a metanarrative for explaining principally the Exile itself and Israel’s relation to the Land. For those who collected the Qumran library together, it seems that this metanarrative was both recognized as a suitable theological reading of Exile, since the theology of Deuteronomy is omnipresent in many of the sectarian compositions such as MMT 25 or even, as I

24 To adopt a descriptor used for the development of the Book(s) of Jeremiah by William McKane, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986–1996). 25 “And also the curses [that] came in the days of Jeroboam the son of Nebat until Jerusalem and Zedekiah king of Judah were exiled” (MMT: 4Q398 frgs. 11–13, lines 1–2).

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 55 have written elsewhere,26 in the Commentary on Genesis A. Its presence can be felt too in the community’s rule books of all sorts and in the way it is programmatic in such pre-sectarian compositions as the Temple Scroll. But it seems that while the Deuteronomistic metanarrative was known by those who collected together the Qumran library, it was no longer in wide use; the theology of Deuteronomy persisted in other guises and historiography was pursued in other ways.27 The Qumran community and the wider movement of which it was a part seems to have considered itself as barely coming out of Exile. Although clearly in the land in the late 2nd and 1st centuries b.c.e., it is widely thought that the community felt dis-ease with regard to Jerusalem and its temple. The community and movement were in a kind of liminal borderline state between exile and occupation. Perhaps for some reason the Deuteronomistic metanarrative might not have seemed to be the most suitable paradigm for such a state of liminality. Rather the prophetic reading of history in a variety of forms, periodised and on the way to fulfillment, was what the community looked to for illumination and identity. Thus, although there do seem to be paraphrases of the books from Joshua to Kings in the library, it is the hypertextual prophetic texts for Jeremiah and Ezekiel, even for Samuel and Daniel, that are better preserved and seem more prominent. Such an observation suggests the unsuitability of the Deuteronomistic metanarrative for the community; perhaps part of that unsuitability arose because other sections of Judaism in the late Second Temple period had appropriated that reading of events to assert their own contemporary authoritative positions. Something of the avoidance of such chronicled metanarratives by the collectors of the Qumran library might also be discernible in their attitude to the Books of Chronicles, itself a hypertext in some way related to the Deuteronomistic hypotext. For the Books of Chronicles

26 George J. Brooke, “The Deuteronomic Character of 4Q252,” in Pursuing the Text: Studies in Honor of Ben Zion Wacholder on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (ed. J. C. Reeves and J. Kampen; JSOTSup 184; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 121–35. 27 See George J. Brooke, “Types of Historiography in the Qumran Scrolls,” in Ancient and Modern Scriptural Historiography–L’Historiographie biblique, ancienne et moderne (ed. G. J. Brooke and T. Römer; BETL 207; Leuven: Peeters/University Press, 2007), 211–30.

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the situation in what survives from the library is stark.28 One manuscript (4Q118) has been labelled as a copy of Chronicles;29 it contains remains of two columns of writing, the contents of the second correspond with 2 Chron 28:27–29:3, but the contents of the first have no parallel in Chronicles, Kings, or what may be reconstructed as a Hebrew text based on the Greek translation of Chronicles. It is thus unlikely that 4Q118 is a straightforward copy of the Books of Chronicles. Alexander Rofé has wondered whether in fact like 4Q382 (Paraphrase of Kings) 4Q118 contains “a homiletical revision of the Book of Kings that included a psalm of entreaty similar to the one attributed to Hezekiah in Isa 38:9–20.”30 Beyond the circumstances of the accidents of preservation, what explanations might be offered for this lack of concern for Chronicles in the Qumran community and its parent movement? A general answer might consider that the type of chronicling of events that is to be found in Chronicles was of little concern to these Jews. A more specific answer should consider that there was a deliberate avoidance of such historiography. “The scarcity of Chronicles at Qumran could be by chance, with several other manuscripts being lost. More likely, however, the small number of scrolls is by design, since Chronicles has a strong focus on Jerusalem and the Temple, from which the Qumran community had removed itself.”31 The reasons for such avoidance might be very complicated, but in addition to its overt emphasis on Jerusalem and the Temple could include the real likelihood that works like Chronicles were being adopted and promoted by the Hasmonean priest-kings, for whose outlook the majority of those at Qumran seem to have had considerable antagonism. More particularly, the concern 28 A concise note on Chronicles in the Dead Sea Scrolls, but with little explanation or interpretation is offered, by Julio Trebolle Barrera, “Chronicles, First and Second Books of.” Page 129 in vol. 1 of Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Edited by L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam. 2 vols. New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 2000. 29 See Julio Trebolle Barrera, “118. 4QChr,” in Qumran Cave 4.XI: Psalms to Chronicles (ed. E. Ulrich et al.; DJD XVI; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 295–97. 30 Alexander Rofé, “ ‘No Ephod or Teraphim’—oude hierateias oude dēlōn: Hosea 3:4 in the LXX and in the Paraphrases of Chronicles and the Damascus Document,” in Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume: Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, Qumran, and Post-Biblical Judaism (ed. C. Cohen, A. Hurvitz, and S. M. Paul; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 135–49, esp. 143 with no. 22. 31 James C. VanderKam and Peter W. Flint, The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Their Significance for Understanding the Bible, Judaism, Jesus, and Christianity (San Francisco, Calif.: Harper, 2002), 118.

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 57 in Chronicles for a chastened Davidic model of kingship might have proved an attractive model and tradition to support the Hasmonean rulers; there is nothing in the sectarian compositions at Qumran to suggest that the members of the community supported a re-established monarchy in any form in the pre-messianic era. Thus the absence of obvious manuscript copies of the Books of Chronicles from the Qumran library can be understood in two ways.32 On the one hand, the community which preserved the scrolls may well have been antipathetic to the probable Hasmonaean claims to be heirs to the Davidic tradition.33 On the other, over against Hasmonaean Davidic aspirations, the community kept silent about the Davidic identification of its Messiah of Israel until the end of the 1st century b.c.e.34 The slender presence of some kinds of historical narrative hypertext in the Qumran library allows us to surmise that indeed a composition’s function was so important that the hypotextual preferences of the community and the movement of which it was a part are revealed in what is preserved of its own hypertexual output. 3. Identity as “Pastiche” The third kind of hypertext for brief consideration is the poetry of a wide range of compositions in the Non-Canonical and Apocryphal Psalms as well as the Hodayot. Of those, I shall focus in particular on the Hodayot. Here Genette’s label “pastiche,” a kind of imaginatively creative and playful imitation through anthologisation, seems particularly suitable. Even if one does not subscribe to the approach of Svend Holm-Nielsen, who proposed a very extensive list of scriptural allusions in the Hodayot without asking whether they were either intended or discernible to all readers,35 nevertheless it is clear that there is much scriptural phraseology in these anthologies. They are

32 George J. Brooke, “Between Authority and Canon: The Significance of Reworking the Bible for Understanding the Canonical Process,” in Reworking the Bible: Apocryphal and Related Texts at Qumran (ed. E. G. Chazon, D. Dimant, and R. A. Clements; STDJ 58; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 85–104, esp. 88–89. 33 Cf. 1 Macc 2:57 which can be read as shifting the Davidic inheritance to the Hasmonaean dynasty: Jonathan Goldstein, 1 Maccabees: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 41; New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1976), 240. 34 A more extensive treatment of this can be found in Brooke, “The Books of Chronicles and the Scrolls from Qumran,” 35–48. 35 Svend Holm-Nielsen, Hodayot: Psalms from Qumran (ATDan 2; Aarhus: Universitetsforlaget, 1960).

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imitative pastiches of anthological allusion. Here, I think, is a matter of moving poetically from the universal to the particular. Although this was happening in any case for the Psalms themselves as the paratextual data in the superscriptions was added to the poems themselves, in the Hodayot, without such overt paratextual paraphernalia, there is a move towards the widely used poetry of others for the construction of particular identities. The specific hypertextual function of the Hodayot has been discussed recently in several works. In particular the analyses of Carol Newsom and Julie Hughes highlight what imitative pastiche may be about. In her study, The Self as Symbolic Space,36 Newsom has provided amongst many other things, a fascinating reading of 1QHa XII 5–XIII 4.37 It is intriguing that in attempting to describe and define the meaning and significance of the poem Newsom has presented it through an analysis that is both literary and psychological, rather than hypertextual or theological. It is unclear whether this is a deliberate attempt by her at secularising the poetry to enable its broader universally illuminating human insights to emerge from the dark caves of Qumran or an unintended avoidance of theology to preserve the text from falling into abuse. Nevertheless Newsom’s descriptions have disclosed much of the meaning of the hymn in terms of its social function in the formation of self-identity. As has been noted it is the exposure of the function of texts that is a key role of hypertextual awareness; Newsom intriguingly reaches her functional conclusions without much appreciation of hypotexts and hypertexts. Newsom has recognized that 1QHa contains a complex sequence of poems, each of which has distinctive traits, although there are many shared items as well. For 1QHa XII 5–XIII 4 she has noted that it is particularly closely related, in terms of its “projection of antithetical rival discourses” and its striking similarities of diction, to 1QHa X 3–19 which puts the leader at the centre of things in not initiating conflict with outsiders but in concentrating “on the cultivation of a closed community of truth.”38 Newsom has wondered whether 1QHa 36 Carol A. Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (STDJ 52; Leiden: Brill, 2004). 37 I have engaged with Newsom’s reading in George J. Brooke, “The Structure of 1QHa XII 5–XIII 4 and the Meaning of Resurrection,” in From 4QMMT to Resurrection: Mélanges qumraniens en hommage à Émile Puech (ed. F. García Martínez, A. Steudel, and E. J. C. Tigchelaar; STDJ 61; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 15–33. 38 Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 311.

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 59 XII 5–XIII 4 was conceived as a programmatic development of the closing ideas of 1QHa X 3–19, but because of its ambition she has defined it as “the map of truth,” an attempt to sketch out “a map of an ideology of truth and the kind of identities implied by such an ideology.”39 Here the poem is clearly conceived as more significant for its function for its contemporary reader than in terms of the poetic pieces which make it up. In fact this is so much the case in Newsom’s reading that she has barely mentioned the way the Hodayot are hypertexts based on other literary sources in many ways. In the first part of the poem Newsom has proposed that the overriding concern is a poetic attempt to account for the sectarian community’s rejection by the larger society. The rejection is portrayed in part as nonsensical or irrational (1QHa XII 8), but mostly as the result of seductive villainy perpetrated by those false teachers who are the mirror image of the implied speaker himself. Newsom has understood this as primarily symbolic, though she has not denied the possibility that the poet envisaged actual social rivals. In the first part of the poem the actors are the speaker and his false opponents and the people of God they have led astray. In the second part of the poem the speaker’s own community come into the frame as a counterbalance to the straying people of God of the first part.40 The strategy of the poem is thus to expose the impossibility of resolving the contradictions between the speaker and the false teachers, between the speaker and the seduced people of God, and between the speaker’s followers and the false teachers; the only viable relationship is between the speaker and his followers (“through me you have caused light to shine upon the faces of the many” 1QHa XII 27). Newsom has then described the consequence of this viability as “eschatological salvation”41 which has its counterpart in the eschatological destruction of the false teachers and the people they have led astray. There is thus a present contradiction projected in the poem that is resolved by means of an eschatological perspective; intriguingly Newsom has demonstrated how the poem makes sense of contemporary issues by reference to the eschaton.

39

Ibid., 311. Newsom comments appealingly that “the little drama described in this hodayah is one that in romance novels one would recognize as seduction and betrayal versus redemption through true love”: The Self as Symbolic Space, 320. 41 Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 321, referring to 1QHa XII 24–25. 40

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Newsom’s reading of the poem is intensified through her keen observation that the poem is mostly about a polarisation between the material attached to the use of the two pronouns, predominantly “they/them” in the first half of the poem and “I” in the second half. The opposition is not one of ignorance and knowledge, because “they” are characterized not as the ignorant but as liars, those who understand but who deliberately pervert knowledge, those who know the truth of God but assert their own autonomy over against it (1QHa XII 17–18).42 Over against such double dealing the speaker asserts a kind of self-denial, the recognition of the worthlessness of every being unless fashioned anew through the recognition of God’s power and compassion; such self-abnegation is an act of empowerment as long as strength and comfort is derived from the assertion of divine sovereignty rather than from any sense of self-righteousness. Newsom has caught the force of the final form of the poem in a largely convincing manner but, apart from the motif of “eschatological salvation,” her theological reticence requires some supplementation, not least because it does not disclose how the poem is hypertextual. In part the necessary hypertextual supplementation is provided by the recent analysis by Julie Hughes whose overall assessment of this poem is based largely on appreciating its allusions to scriptural passages.43 Hughes has divided the poem into two sections:44 first, an introduction and complaint against enemies (1QHa XII 5–29a), which has four subunits (an introductory stanza, 1QHa XII 5–6; two sections on the speaker and his enemies, 1QHa XII 6–13 and 14–22, which have together have four “and they” units; and a climactic conclusion, 1QHa XII 22–29); second, a prayer of confession and commitment (XII 29b–XIII 5), whose chief characteristic is the four “and I” subsections.45 Hughes has used two features to discern how the poem is organized and to describe its significance: the poetics of the poem, which includes 42

Ibid., 324. Julie A. Hughes, Scriptural Allusions and Exegesis in the Hodayot (STDJ 59; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 95–134. 44 In the Ph.D. dissertation form of her work Julie Hughes presented a structural analysis closer to the three parts indicated by Jacob Licht, The Thanksgiving Scroll: A Scroll from the Wilderness of Judaea: Text, Introduction, Commentary and Glossary (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1957), 91–98 [Hebrew]: 1QHa XII 5–22; 22–29; 29– XIII 4. 45 I have adjusted Hughes’ numbering of lines to agree with that which is popularly available in Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition: Volume 1 (IQI–4Q273) (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 166–71. 43

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 61 a range of markers, such as the frequent use of pronouns,46 and the use of scriptural allusions, its hypertextuality. For the first section she has noted that the conjunction with the third person plural pronoun is used four times (1QHa XII 6, 9, 13, 16); for her second section she has noted the balancing use of the first person pronoun four times (1QHa XII 30, 33, 35 and probably 39), though she resists seeing anything chiastic in the balancing construction. The mixture of explicit pronouns produces less structural clarity in what she has labelled a “climactic conclusion” to the first part (1QHa XII 22b–29a). For scriptural background Hughes has noted a wide range of texts, distinguishing between those that are very likely to have been in the mind of the poet and those that might possibly also be present. The most likely allusions include the probable appeals to Hos 6:3 in 1QHa XII 6 and Hos 4:14, with its context of God holding the priests and prophets culpable for the people’s lack of knowledge, in 1QHa XII 7. Also highly probable are allusions to Exod 34:29 (1QHa XII 5); Deut 33:2 (1QHa XII 6); Jer 2:11 (1QHa XII 10; with the theme of plotting); Ps 69:21 (1QHa XII 11); Hab 2:15 (1QHa XII 11); Jer 23:9 (1QHa XII 12); Prov 19:21 (1QHa XII 13); Ps 33:11 (1QHa XII 13); Deut 29:17–20 (1QHa XII 14; a key Deuteronomic passage for providing both terms and themes for this poem); Ezek 14:3–7 (1QHa XII 15); Ezek 13:6 (1QHa XII 16); Isa 28:11 (1QHa XII 16); Jer 23:20 (1QHa XII 21); and Ezek 13:10 (1QHa XII 24). In addition to Deuteronomy, Hughes has thus identified a number of allusions to covenantal passages in Hos 4:1–6:3, Jer 23:9–40 and Ezek 13:1–14:11 as structurally significant. This is hypertextual pastiche with a purpose. Given the overall unity of the poem it is worth noting the way in which not only certain scriptural books are alluded to more than once, but also certain verses recur in the poem. Like others before her Hughes has noted the hint of Isa 53:3 in 1QHa XII 8 and 23. Other passages alluded to more than once are Isa 30:10 in 1QHa XII 7 and 10; Isa 57:17 in 1QHa XII 17, 18, 21, and 24;47 Ps 20:8 in 1QHa XII 22

46 In fact, in anticipating the insights of Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 322– 25, she has nicely labelled the poem “ ‘I’ and ‘They’.” See Hughes, Scriptural Allusions and Exegesis in the Hodayot, 95. 47 Menahem Kister has indicated that Isa 57:14–21 provides several items of sectarian terminology: Menahem Kister, “Biblical Phrases and Hidden Biblical Interpretations and Pesharim,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Forty Years of Research (ed. D. Dimant and U. Rappaport; STDJ 10; Leiden: Brill, 1992; Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1992), 32–34.

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and 36; and Isa 42:6 in 1QHa XII 5 and 42:3 in 1QHa XII 25. These may be more important structurally than Hughes has allowed, since she has been guided primarily by the recurrence of pronouns and what she has assessed to be dominant passages of scripture that shape the covenantal concerns of the poem. A combination of the insights of Newsom and Hughes permits the modern reader to appreciate the hypertextual character of the pastiche that makes up much of the Hodayot, to be concerned with the construction of identity by the poet through the carefully structured use of allusion—this is scripture rewritten poetically, anthologically, hypertextually. Identifying the Hodayot, and by implication most of the poetic and liturgical compositions at Qumran, as hypertextual enables one to appreciate how these texts function as part of an ongoing discourse in ways that are not unlike the key motifs of discourse identified with respect to Moses by Najman.48 4. The Liminality of Texts Having considered some aspects of hypertextuality for the Torah, the Former and Latter Prophets and the Psalms in the three previous subsections of this essay, my final category covers all three in a general way and can be put briefly. Genette has used the notion of paratextual liminality entirely appropriately to describe all the elements in a literary work that are on the edges, the items that intervene between the reader and the text and often serve to interpret the text: titles, subheadings, marginalia, colophons, even pagination. My sense is that many texts themselves function as a whole liminally, both spatially and temporally. They are on the borders between states, they are the markers of the transformational processes that are the character of much human existence, they articulate relationship, not least relationships of power. Indeed, as written artefacts they stand at the border between the act of speech and the act of reading, between orality and appropriation. Or, as written artefacts they stand between the author and the reader or hearer. They can even stand between the cooked and the raw, to pick up on Lévi-Strauss.49 There is not space to mine this rich seam of interpretative possibilities.

48 One might consider this discourse as poetically inspired and as revelatory as anything in Mosaic discourse. 49 See, e.g., the reading of the story of Joseph and Aseneth this way in George J. Brooke, “Joseph, Aseneth, and Lévi-Strauss,” in Narrativity in Biblical and Related

hypertextuality and the “parabiblical” dead sea scrolls 63 For “rewritten” scriptural hypertexts this liminality can be seen in the way that they seem to function necessarily as mediating the hypotext to a new audience. Hypertexts stand between the increasingly authoritative hypotext and the community of readers or hearers that through them is enabled to receive the contemporary significance of the earlier signified through the mediating signifier. As such in terms of the Qumran community and the wider movement of which it was or had been a part “rewritten” compositions stand intriguingly between the widely accepted text and sectarian identity. It seems, for example, as if most of the hypertextual texts that I have listed or discussed in this essay are not replete with sectarian traits, though there may be some few of them, such as the jubilee periodisation in the Apocryphon of Jeremiah. If this is accurate as a description of the liminal state of the hypertexts in the Qumran library, as somehow between the general and the particular, then the compositions considered here may be amongst the most important markers for the reconstruction of the historical circumstances of the movement whose identity is expressed in the library, circumstances in the 4th to 2nd centuries b.c.e. when much of this material is being composed. And these “rewritten” hypertexts are liminal in another way as indicated in the earlier subsections of this paper. They facilitate the transformation of their hypotexts from an authoritative to a quasicanonical status.50 It can easily be recognized that the production of these compositions belongs to the period when this hypotextual development is taking place. Although it is certainly the case that hypertexts of all sorts continue to be produced after texts become canonically fixed in the form of their text, the liminal character of such hypertexts is one of maintaining rather than producing canonical authority in the hypotext. In the pre-canonical period, these hypertexts give authoritative identity both to the hypotexts on which they depend and to the community of readers and hearers that adopt and preserve them, perhaps for yet further rewriting.

Texts—La Narrativité dans la Bible et les textes apparentés (ed. G. J. Brooke and J.-D. Kaestli; BETL 149; Leuven: Peeters/University Press, 2000), 185–200. 50 See again George J. Brooke, “Between Authority and Canon: the Significance of Reworking the Bible for Understanding the Canonical Process,” in Reworking the Bible: Apocryphal and Related Texts at Qumran: Proceedings of a Joint Symposium by the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Assosiated Literature and the Hebrew University Institute for Advanced Studies Research Group on Qumran, 15–17 January 2002 (ed. E. G. Chazon, D. Dimant, and R. A. Clemens; STDJ 58; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 35–48.

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In sum, as we reflect on the relationship between hypertext and hypotext in the Qumran library, I propose that part of the project with which this volume of essays may be engaged needs to consider the issues of how hypertexts illuminate matters to do with primordial authority, how they can expose hypotextual preferences not least through the selection of alternative metanarrative, how they function to offer identity through pastiche, and how they work as liminal artefacts. In keeping those kind of issues on the modern scholarly interpretative agenda, the label hypertext is more useful than some of the proposed alternatives.

THE BOOK OF JUBILEES AS PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten University of Groningen I. Introduction The phenomenon of certain texts resonating in, interplaying with, and permeating each other has come to the centre of attention both in literary theory and exegesis. In fact, it reflects an old phenomenon, with this aspect of the interpretation of texts being as old as interpretation itself. Ever since classical antiquity there has been an awareness of verbal and thematic resemblances between texts. Classical rhetoricians felt it important to imitate authoritative texts to the best of their ability, with as little personal contribution as possible. Originality was esteemed less highly than copying, repeating and discovering how others thought. Ultimately, this provided the incentive for one’s own thinking. In classical philology the imitation of earlier texts was a form of self-enrichment through the ideas and formulations of one’s predecessors.1 The literature of the early Jewish and Christian traditions pre-eminently offers an example of the ongoing repetition of texts. The phenomenon of the inclusion of older texts within newer ones can be seen in the Hebrew Bible,2 as well as the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha. In

1 Much has been written on this subject. See, for example, John W. H. Atkins, Literary Criticism in Antiquity: A Sketch of Its Development (2 vols.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934); Arno Reiff, Interpretatio, Imitatio, Aemulatio: Begriff und Vorstellung literarischer Abhängigkeit bei den Römern (Würzburg: Triltsch, 1959); Heinrich Lausberg, Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik: Ein Grundlegung der Literaturwissenschaft (3d ed.; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1990); Felix Claus, Imitatio in de Latijnse letterkunde (Amfitheater; Kapellen: De Nederlandsche Boekhandel, 1977). 2 See, for example, Renée Bloch, “Midrash,” columns 1263–81 in vol. 5 of DBSup. Edited by L. Pirot and A. Robert. 14 vols. Paris: Letouzey & Ané, 1928–; Michael A. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985); Benjamin D. Sommer, A Prophet Reads Scripture: Allusion in Isaiah 40–66 (Contraversions: Jews and Other Differences; Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998); Johannes C. De Moor, ed., Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at

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both the New Testament and rabbinic literature, there are many examples of the insertion of texts from the Old Testament, which find new applications in new situations.3 For this kind of literature the editors of this volume use the descriptive designation paratextual and define this term as follows: “On the basis of authoritative texts or themes, the authors of paratextual literature employed exegetical techniques to provide answers to questions of their own time, phrased, for example, as answers by God through Moses or the prophets. The result of their exegetical effort is communicated in the form of a new book.”4 Different genres can be used—for example, rewritten Bible, or new stories or novellas created on the basis of biblical events or topics. This definition of paratextual literature was developed from the term parabiblical literature, introduced by Ginsberg,5 who used it to refer to a distinct literary genre which covers works such as the Genesis Apocryphon, the Book of Jubilees and Pseudo-Philo, which paraphrase and/ or supplement the canonical Scriptures.6 He excludes works involving explicit interpretation from this category. In the series Discoveries in the Judaean Desert (DJD), Tov used the term parabiblical to refer to literature “closely related to texts or themes of the Hebrew Bible. Some of these compositions present a reworking, rewriting, or paraphrase of biblical books.”7 In his translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, García Martínez also used the term “parabiblical literature.” According to him, it is literature “that begins with the Bible, which retells the biblical text in its own way, intermingling it and expanding it with other, quite different traditions.”8 He differentiates the material in terms of the degree of

the Joint Meeting at the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en Belgie Held at Oxford (OtSt 40; Leiden: Brill, 1998). 3 For a collection of many early Jewish and early Christian texts and traditions connected with the pericopes of the Pentateuch, see James L. Kugel, The Bible as It Was (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997). 4 See the introduction to this volume. 5 Harold L. Ginsberg, review J. A. Fitzmyer, The Genesis Apocryphon of Qumran Cave I: A Commentary, TS 28 (1967): 574–77. 6 This is roughly the same group of texts Vermes described as the rewritten Bible. See Daniel K. Falk, The Parabiblical Texts: Strategies for Extending the Scriptures in the Dead Sea Scrolls (The Library of the Second Temple Studies 63 = Companion to the Qumran Scrolls 8; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 4. 7 Emanuel Tov, “Foreword,” in Qumran Cave 4. VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 1 (ed. H. Attridge et al.; DJD XIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), ix. 8 Florentino García Martínez, ed., The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 218.

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fidelity to the original biblical text. Some texts follow the biblical text more or less closely (for example, Genesis Apocryphon, Jubilees), while others start with a biblical text but result in an independent composition. Lange and Mittmann present an annotated list classifying the Dead Sea Scrolls, and offer some methodological reflections on parabiblical literature.9 Parabiblical literature differs from exegetical texts in that no explicit exegesis of the biblical texts is given. Parabiblical compositions may employ exegetical techniques but this is always done implicitly in the context of the creation of a new literary text. The use of the term “paratextual literature” in this volume is an extension of the use of the term “parabiblical literature.” It attempts to include comparable textual strategies used in different times, cultures and literary corpora. It should be noted, however, that use of the term “paratextuality,” differs from Gérard Genette’s definition which refers to devices that mediate the reception of a book to the reader, such as the title, subtitle, preface, foreword, dedication, epigraphs, intertitles, notes, epilogue, afterword or book cover, and many other kinds of secondary signals, whether allographic or autographic.10 The way the term paratextuality is used in the present volume concurs with Genette’s use of the term hypertextuality, which refers to “any relationship uniting a text B (the hypertext) to an earlier text A (the hypotext) upon which it is grafted in a manner that is not that of a commentary.” In my view, the way the term paratextuality is used in this volume also relates to the term intertextuality, which focuses on the actual presence of an earlier text (the architext) within a later text (the phenotext). II. “Transtextuality” in the Hebrew Bible and Early Jewish Literature An important aspect of any kind of “transtextuality” is the notion that texts are not created in a vacuum, but arise from other texts. The earlier texts are repeated and at the same time responded to. A more

9 Armin Lange and Ulrike Mittmann-Richert, “Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert Classified by Content and Genre,” in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the “Discoveries in the Judaean Desert” Series (ed. E. Tov; DJD XXXIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 115–64, esp. 117–18. 10 Richard Macksey, foreword to Paratexts: Tresholds of Interpretation, by Gérard Genette (trans. J. E. Levin; Literature, Culture, Theory 20; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), xviii.

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recent text (text B) is seen to repeat an older text (text A), as well as other older texts. Text B is in itself a significant whole but it gains an extra dimension through the reader’s recognition of its relationship with text A. It is the reader’s task to trace and identify the elements of the architext present in the phenotext. The reader addresses the information within the phenotext but sometimes this information is limited, which makes the recognition, identification and interpretation of earlier elements more difficult. The resources offered by a text to assist in the recognition of an earlier element are called indicators. In modern literature, there are many kinds of indicators such as the use of quotation marks, italic font, unusual or different language, and the citing of sources or authors. Often within the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature, a new work only adapts small parts of an older work. Sometimes the link with the older text is made explicitly, such as in cases where quotations mention a source. For example, some post-exilic texts explain a certain religious practice that it is conducted “as is written in the law of Moses” (see inter alia, Ezra 3:2; 2 Chr 23:18; and cf. 1 Kgs 2:3). In such cases, it is not always clear exactly what the author is referring to. Often the expression “the law of Moses” seems to suggest a book that must have been similar to the Pentateuch. Sometimes this expression refers to the book of Deuteronomy and it is even possible to identify a specific text, as is the case with 2 Kgs 14:6, where the author points us to Deut 24:16. Most references to earlier works in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature are, however, merely implicit. In such cases, it is only on the basis of the author’s choice of words, or sometimes on the basis of subject matter or structure of a text, that it is possible to determine whether a certain architext is present in the phenotext or not. Here the intertext, that element which the architext and the phenotext have in common, itself functions as an indicator. Examples are Mal 1:6–2:9 and Psalm 4, where without the source being mentioned, there is an elaborate use of the priestly blessing (Num 6:23–27). It is clear that in the case of implicit references, a literate reader plays a key role in recognizing the intertextual relationship. Sometimes a new work takes over an older work entirely. In such instances the new text does not point to one or more scattered texts but incorporates large parts of an older work. In the Hebrew Bible, the Book of Chronicles is the best example of this phenomenon as it often more or less literally repeats large parts of the Books Samuel and Kings. We could call this form of implicit referencing “inclusion” or

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“enclosure.”11 It is important to stress that these authors were not writing an interpretive commentary on the earlier texts, but were rewriting these older authoritative texts in order to adapt them to a different context. The result of this textual strategy was a new composition. One can find the same phenomenon in early Jewish literature, in works such as Jubilees, the Genesis Apocryphon and the Temple Scroll, as well as the Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum of Pseudo-Philo. III. The Rewritten Bible The works that entirely adopt an older work are often classified as belonging to a literary genre, namely the “rewritten Bible.”12 This term was coined by Geza Vermes who defined it as a midrashic insertion of haggadic development into the biblical narrative designed to anticipate questions and solve problems in advance.13 The “rewritten Bible” is not an explicit commentary on the earlier text but follows the Scriptures, although it includes a considerable number of additions and interpretative developments.14 According to George W. Nickelsburg, the “rewritten Bible” is “very closely related to the biblical texts, expanding and paraphrasing them and implicitly commenting on them.”15 It has a sequential, chronological order. Although it makes use of biblical words and phrases, these are not set apart by way of quotation or lemma, but are integrated into a seamless retelling of the biblical 11

Sommer, Prophet Reads Scripture, 26. For some recent studies on the rewritten Bible, see Anders K. Petersen, “Rewritten Bible as a Borderline Phenomenon—Genre, Textual Strategy, or Canonical Anachronism?,” in “Flores Florentino”: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino Garzía Martínez (ed. A. Hilhorst, É. Puech, and E. Tigchelaar; JSJSup 122; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 285–306; Erkki Koskenniemi and Pekka Lindqvist, “Rewritten Bible, Rewritten Stories: Methodological Aspects,” in Rewritten Bible Reconsidered: Proceedings of the Conference in Karkku, Finland, August 24–26, 2006 (ed. A. Laato and J. van Ruiten; SRB 1; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 11–39. See also Falk, Parabiblical Texts, 9–17. 13 Geza Vermes, “The Life of Abraham,” Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggadic Studies (ed. G. Vermes; 2d. ed.; StPB 4; Leiden: Brill 1973), 95. Cf. also Charles Perrot and Pierre-Maurice Bogaert, Pseudo-Philon: Les Antiqués Bibliques (2 vols.; SC 230; Paris: Cerf, 1976), 2:22−28. 14 Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 b.c.–135 a.d.) (ed. G. Vermes, F. Millar, and M. Goodman; 4 vols.; rev. ed.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), 3/1:326. 15 George W. Nickelsburg, “The Bible Rewritten and Expanded,” in Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period: Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha, Qumran Sectarian Writings, Philo, Josephus (ed. M. E. Stone; CRINT 2/2; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1984), 89. 12

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story.16 Other scholars do not use the term “rewritten Bible” to refer to a distinctive genre. In their view, it describes a literary strategy that is expressed in various genres within a broad range of interpretative writings.17 In this sense the term does not differ greatly from what is termed parabiblical literature.18 The works of the rewritten Bible indicate the emergence of an authoritative body of Jewish literature after the exile.19 In theory one should be able to distinguish between a pre-existing biblical text and one which has been interpreted implicitly in creating a new work.20 In practice, however, it is very difficult to distinguish between biblical and rewritten biblical works.21 In early Judaism, before the first century of the Common Era, there was no single list of books regarded as authoritative—as the actual word of God—by all Jewish people.22 The Bible as the canon of sacred scriptures did not yet exist. There is enough evidence to suggest, however, that in the last centuries before the common era, there would have been several books that were considered by Jewish groups as divinely inspired, that is, as the word of God, and prescriptive for religious life. There is even evidence that there were already collections of these sorts of books in an early form. 16 Philip S. Alexander, “Retelling the Old Testament,” in “It is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture”: Essays in Honour of Barnabas Lindars (ed. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 116−17. 17 See, for example, Daniel J. Harrington, “Palestinian Adaptations of Biblical Narratives and Prophecies: 1 The Bible Rewritten (Narratives),” in Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters (ed. R. A. Kraft and G. W. E. Nickelsburg, The Bible and Its Modern Interpreters 2; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress Press, 1986) 239–47, 253–355; Betsy Halpern-Amaru, Rewriting the Bible: Land and Covenant in post-Biblical Jewish Literature (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1994). 18 Falk, Parabiblical Texts, 11. 19 George J. Brooke, “The Rewritten Law, Prophets and Psalms: Issues for the Understanding the Text of the Bible,” in The Bible as a Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries (ed. E. D. Herbert and E. Tov; London: The British Library, 2002), 31. 20 Falk, Parabiblical Texts, 13. 21 Michael Segal, “Between Bible and Rewritten Bible,” in Biblical Interpretation at Qumran (ed. M. Henze; Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2005), 10–28; Moshe J. Bernstein, “‘Rewritten Bible’: A Category which has Outlived its Usefulness?,” Textus 22 (2005): 169–96; Brooke, “Rewritten Law,” 31–40. 22 James C. VanderKam, “Revealed Literature in Second Temple Period,” in From Revelation to Canon: Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature (ed. J. C. VanderKam; JSJSup 62; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 1–30; idem, “The Wording of Biblical Citations in some Rewritten Scriptures,” in The Bible as a Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries (ed. E. D. Herbert and E. Tov; London: The British Library, 2002) 241–56.

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However, the exact content of these collections is less clear. It is generally assumed that many of the books that were later incorporated into the canon of the Hebrew Bible were regarded as authoritative at an early stage, but this cannot be said of all of the books collected. Moreover, there is evidence that there were books which were regarded as authoritative by certain groups, but which were not later incorporated into the Hebrew Bible. There is also evidence that not only the extent of the collection, but also the content of the books themselves was not completely determined. There may have been different texts taken from the same book, or an adaptation of the original composition. There was apparently a great deal of freedom in the transmission of sacred texts, something also reflected, for example, in the redaction history of the biblical books. A well-known example is the Book of Jeremiah, a book which has been preserved from antiquity in two different editions.23 A short edition is attested to in the Greek text (the Septuagint), whereas a longer edition can be found in the Hebrew text (the masoretic text). Fragments of both editions were found in Qumran. This means that at least until the second century b.c.e., there was no uniform text of the Book of Jeremiah. The Greek edition is not only about one-seventh shorter than the Hebrew, but also has a different arrangement of chapters. In the Greek text the so-called “oracles against the nations” are placed in the middle of the book, whereas in the Hebrew text they are found at the end. Moreover, the internal structure of these oracles is different in each edition. Finally, for the book as a whole is can be said that the Septuagint is less inclined to include repetitions than the massoretic text. For ancient readers, both versions seem to have the same composition, containing the prophecies and stories related to Jeremiah. The two editions were later included in two different collections of biblical books, but we see that these two different editions and their textual forms were both recognized as authoritative by the same group of people. As copies of both editions were found in Qumran, it should be possible to accept the possibility that when different commentators refer to a particular title, they might nevertheless mean a book with a different contents.

23

For the following see, for example, Segal, “Bible and Rewritten Bible,” 10–28.

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During the centuries before the Common Era there was “canonical and textual fluidity.” What is clear, however, is that at least some books were regarded as authoritative and as setting the standards for religious life. What is also clear is that these books, especially the five books of Moses, with an emphasis on Genesis, were the object of interpretation. The inspired immutable word of God needed explanation. The authoritative texts seemed to contain ambiguities and were open to more than one interpretation. When one realizes that language and culture involve processes of constant change, this is understandable. At the very least, it has provoked a long and rich history of biblical interpretation in ancient Judaism.24 IV. The Book of Jubilees I will now confine myself to one example of early Jewish “paratextual literature” in the sense that this notion is used in this volume—namely the Book of Jubilees. The Book of Jubilees was written somewhere in the second century b.c.e., possibly preceding the foundation of the community of Qumran.25 Jubilees, which is presented as a revelation received by Moses on Mount Sinai, actually consists of a rewriting and interpretation of the biblical narrative moving from the creation (Gen 1) to the arrival of the children of Israel at Mount Sinai (Ex 19). Jubilees is closely related to the biblical material which it represents. It incorporates nearly all the biblical material in one way or another,

24

Kugel, Bible as It Was, 1–49. Fourteen Hebrew copies of the Book of Jubilees were found in Qumran. The oldest fragment (4Q216) may be dated to 125–100 b.c.e. Some scholars opt for a preHasmonean time, since the book does not mention the persecution and decrees of Antiochus IV. See, e.g., George W. E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah: A Historical and Literary Introduction (2d ed.; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2005), 73–74; Michael A. Knibb, Jubilees and the Origins of the Qumran Community: An Inaugural Lecture in the Department of Bible Studies delivered on Tuesday 17 January 1989 (London: King’s College, 1989). A few others argue for a date late in the second century because of the similarities with the Qumran texts. See, e.g., Cana Werman, “The Book of Jubilees and the Qumran Community: The Relationship between the Two,” Megilot 2 (2004): 37–55 [Hebrew]; Martha Himmelfarb, A Kingdom of Priests: Ancestry and Merit in Ancient Judaism (Jewish Culture and Contexts; Philadelphia, Pa.: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 80–83. According to VanderKam, Jubilees antedates the founding of the Qumran community, and exercised strong influence on it. See James C. VanderKam, “Recent Scholarship on the Book of Jubilees,” CurrentBiblicRes 6/3 (2008): 405–31. 25

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but sometimes the author feels free to deviate considerably from his chosen examplar. In the first chapter of the book, Moses is on Mount Sinai.26 The author makes use of a great variety of Scriptural passages. In direct speech, God predicts to Moses that the people of Israel will forget His commandments after they enter the Promised Land. He says they will turn to foreign gods and as a consequence of this they will be sent into exile. After this, however, the people will return to God and a period of restoration and renewed divine mercy will follow. A consequence of this is the second creation, which is the real end of the exile for Israel and is dependent on Israel’s conversion. For the author of Jubilees, this is still in the future. The rest of the book (Jubilees 2–50) contains the extensive revelation to Moses, which is intermediated by the angel of the presence.27 This angel recounts to Moses the most important events of the primaeval history (Jubilees 2–10),28 the history of the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (Jubilees 11–45),29 the people’s exile in Egypt, the exodus and the first part of their wandering in the desert, including their arrival at Mount Sinai (Jubilees 46–50). This account corresponds largely to Genesis and the first part of Exodus. The most important earlier material that is incorporated into the Book of Jubilees is therefore material which can be found in the biblical text (Gen 1 to Ex 19). The material is mostly presented in the same sequential order, and nearly all pericopes can be discerned in the new composition.

26 On the first chapter of Jubilees, see Davenport, Eschatology, 19–31; Betsy HalpernAmaru, “Exile and Return in Jubilees,” in Exile: Old Testament, Jewish and Christian Conceptions (ed. J. M. Scott; JSJSup 56; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 127–44; Knibb, Jubilees and the Origins of the Qumran Community; Ben Z. Wacholder, “Jubilees as the Super Canon: Torah-Admonition versus Torah-Commandment,” in “Legal Texts and Legal Issues”: Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Cambridge 1995. Published in Honour of Joseph M. Baumgarten (ed. M. Bernstein, F. García Martínez, and J. Kampen; STDJ 23; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 195– 211; James C. VanderKam, “The Scriptural Setting of the Book of Jubilees,” DSD 13 (2006): 61–72. 27 On the angel of the presence, see James C. VanderKam, “The Angel of the Presence in the Book of Jubilees,” DSD 7 (2000): 378–93. 28 For a comparison of Genesis 1–11 and Jubilees 2–10, see Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted: The Rewriting of Genesis 1–11 in the Book of Jubilees (JSJSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 2000). 29 For a comparison of the Jacob story in Genesis and Jubilees, see John C. Endres, Biblical Interpretation in the Book of Jubilees (CBQMS 18; Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1987).

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Nevertheless, even a superficial reading of the Book of Jubilees is sufficient to show that there are many differences between the older scriptural text and the version incorporated into the new composition. There are passages that run almost completely parallel in both editions; however, most of these parallel passages in Jubilees are not verbatim quotations from Genesis. There are not only changes in the sequence of events and other variations within the pericopes, but also additions and omissions. It should be acknowledged that other sources and traditions are also incorporated into the book. Firstly, one can point to the addition of material originating from the Enochic corpus (Jub. 4:15–26; 5:1–12; 7:20–39; 10:1–17).30 Some scholars opt for a common source for 1 Enoch, Jubilees and some of the Qumran texts (the so-called Book of Noah).31 Others even consider Jubilees to be an Enochic document in which the so-called Zadokite Torah (that is, Genesis and Exodus) was incorporated into and digested by the Enochic revelation.32 However, most scholars do not go that far, but instead speak about the incorporation of other traditions within the rendering and explanation of the biblical text, or about a fusing together and reconciliation of different Jewish streams in the second century b.c.e. Secondly, one can also point to the influence of other works. It is likely that the author of Jubilees also knew and used the traditions upon which the Aramaic

30 See especially James C. VanderKam, “Enoch Traditions in Jubilees and Other Second-Century Sources,” SBLSP 1 (1978): 229–51; repr. in idem, From Revelation to Canon, 305–31. This work influenced his Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition (CBQMS 16; Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1984), 179–88, and formed the basis of a chapter in James C. VanderKam, Enoch: A Man for All Generations (Studies on the Personalities of the Old Testament; Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 1995), 110–21. See also some of his predecessors: Charles, Book of Jubilees, xliv, 36–39, 43–44; Pierre Grelot, “La légende d’Henoch dans les apocyphes et dans la Bible: Origine et signification,” RSR 46 (1958): 5–26; 181–210; Józef T. Milik, The Books of Enoch: Aramaic Fragments of Qumrân Cave 4 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976). VanderKam is followed by, for example, George W. E. Nickelsburg, A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36; 81–108 (vol. 1 of 1 Enoch; Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2001), 71–76. 31 See, for example, Florentino García Martínez, Qumran and Apocalyptic: Studies on the Aramaic Texts from Qumran (STDJ 9; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 1–44; Michael E. Stone, “The Book(s) Attributed to Noah,” DSD 13 (2006): 4–23. 32 See Gabriele Boccaccini, Beyond the Essene Hypothesis: The Parting of the Ways between Qumran and Enochic Judaism (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1998), 86–98. See also Paola Sacchi, “Libro dei Giubilei,” in Apocrifi dell’Antico Testamento (ed. P. Sacchi; 5 vols., Classici delle religioni. Second Series: La religione ebreica; Turin: Unione Tipografico. Editrice Torinese, 1981–2000), 1:179–411.

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Levi Document is based (see, for example, Jubilees 31–32).33 One can also point to the influence of 4QVisions of Amram (see Jubilees 46).34 V. Jubilees 15 as Paratext of Genesis 17 In the following I will concentrate on a single chapter of the Book of Jubilees, Chapter 15. The text of Jubilees 15 is a very close rendering of Gen 17. There are only a few additions, omissions and variations in Jub. 15:3–23, whereas more substantial additions precede (Jub. 15:1–2) 33 Grelot and others see a dependency of Jubilees on the Testament of Levi. See Pierre Grelot, “Le coutumier sacercotal ancien dans le Testament araméen de Lévi,” RevQ 15 (1991): 253–63, esp. 255; Pierre Grelot, “Le Livre des jubilees et le testament de Lévi,” in “Mélanges Dominiques Barthélemy”: Études bibliques offertes à l’occasion de son 60e anniversaire (ed. P. Casetti, O. Keel, and A. Schenker; OBO 38; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), 109–31. See also, for example, Michael E. Stone, “Ideal Figures and Social Context: Priest and Sage in the Early Second Temple Age,” in “Ancient Israelite religion”: Essays in Honour of Frank Moore Cross (ed. P. D. Miller et al.; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress Press, 1987), 575–86. See also Pierre Grelot, “Quatre Cents Trente ans (Ex 12:40): Notes sur les Testaments de Lévi et d’Amram,” in “Homenaje a Juan Prado”: Miscellania de Estudios Biblicos y Hebraicos (ed. L. Álvarez Verdes and E. Alonso Hernandéz; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 1975), 559–70; Émile Puech, Qumrân grotte 4.XXII: Textes araméens, 1: 4Q529–549 (DJD XXXI; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 285–286; Henryk Drawnel, An Aramaic Wisdom Text from Qumran: A New Interpretation of the Levi Document (JSJSup 86; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 63–75; Jonas C. Greenfield, Michael E. Stone, and Esther Eshel, The Aramaic Levi Document: Edition, Translation, Commentary (SVTP 19; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 19–22; Marius De Jonge, “The Testament of Levi and ‘Aramaic Levi’,” RevQ 13 (1988): 367–85, esp. 373–76 (reprinted in Jewish Eschatology, Early Christian Christology and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: Collected Essays of Marius De Jonge [NovTSup 63; Leiden: Brill, 1991], 244–62). According to Kugler, a so-called “Levi-apocryphon” was the source for both the Aramaic Levi Document and Jubilees; cf. Robert A. Kugler, From Patriarch to Priest: The Levi-Priestly Tradition from Aramaic Levi to Testament of Levi (SBLEJL 9; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholar Press, 1996), 138. According to Becker both the Aramaic Levi Document and Jubilees go back to common oral traditions; cf. Jürgen Becker, Untersuchungen zur Entstehungsgeschichte der zwölf Patriarchen (AGJU 8; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 86. 34 Cf. Józef T. Milik, “4Q Visions de Amram et une citation d’Origén,” RB 79 (1972): 97; Puech, Qumrân grotte 4.22, 285–86, 322–24; Betsy Halpern-Amaru, “Burying the Fathers: Exegetical Strategies and Source Traditions in Jubilees 46,” in Reworking the Bible: Apocryphal and Related Texts at Qumran. Proceedings of a Joint Symposium by the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature and the Hebrew University Institute for Advanced Studies Research Group on Qumran, 15–17 January 2002 (ed. E. G. Chazon, D. Dimant, and R. A. Clements; STDJ 58, Leiden: Brill, 2005), 146–52; Jacques T. A. G. M. Van Ruiten, “Between Jacob’s Death and Moses’ Birth: The Intertextual Relationship between Genesis 50:15, Exodus 1:14 and Jubilees 46:1–6,” in “Flores Florentino”: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino Garzía Martínez (ed. A. Hilhorst, E. Puech, and E. J. C. Tigchelaar; JSJSup 122; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 467–89.

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and follow (Jub. 15:25–34) the rendering of Genesis 17. These additions have no counterpart in the text of Genesis, as can be seen in the following overall comparison of these texts: Genesis 17:1–27 17:1–22 17:23–27

Jubilees 15:1–34 15:1–2 Abraham celebrates the festival of the first fruits Appearance of God 15:3–22 Appearance of God Abraham executes the 15:23–24 Abraham executes the divine commandment divine commandment of circumcision of circumcision 15:25–34 Halakic addition with regard to circumcision

VI. The Chronological System The most striking transformation that is introduced by the author of Jubilees with regard to Genesis and Exodus is the dating of events. The author attaches great significance to a chronological order within which he frames his rewriting.35 He puts the biblical narratives in a continuous chronological system, from the creation of the world to the entrance into the Promised Land, which took place 2,450 years after the creation. This system is characterized by its heptadic arrangement: years, weeks of years, and jubilees of years. Overall, the history is divided into periods of jubilees, with each jubilee consisting of seven weeks of years, that is, seven times seven years. The concept of the jubilee is peculiar, and most probably borrowed from Lev 25, but the author of Jubilees interprets the concept differently.36 In Leviticus, the “jubilee” is the fiftieth year, one in which individual Hebrews could be liberated from slavery and permitted to return to their own property. For the author of Jubilees, the “jubilee” is a period of 49 years. The total chronology of 2,450 years is divided into 50 of these periods of 49 years. The fiftieth jubilee is the climax of the chronology because the Israelites were liberated from Egyptian slavery, after which they could enter the land of their ancestors, which had been their land since the division of the earth following the Flood.

35 Cf. James VanderKam, “Studies in the Chronology,” in idem, From Revelation to Canon, 522–44. 36 Ibid., 540–44.

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What is applied to each individual in Leviticus is, in the Book of Jubilees, applied to the whole people in the fiftieth jubilee.37 Although it is not expressed in Jubilees 15, it is important to mention that the author of Jubilees defends a solar calendar, which is connected to his chronological system. This calendar consists of 364 days rather than 365 days. In this calendar, all festivals fall on the same day each year, because 364 is divisible by seven. In the lunar calendar, which was normative in Judaism, festivals did not have a fixed place in the week and sometimes took place on the Sabbath. However, in the calendar of Jubilees the festivals always took place on the same day of the week, and thereby there could be no conflict between the Sabbath and the festival. In several places in the book, the author stresses the importance of following the right calendar. In the first chapter, not following the right calendar is the reason for the exile: “They will forget all my law, all my commandments, and all my verdicts. They will err regarding the beginning of the month, the Sabbath, the festival, the jubilee, and the decree” (Jub. 1:14). In the rewriting of the first account of the creation, it is said that it is not the sun and the moon which rule over day and night (see Gen 1:16–18), but only the sun: “The Lord appointed the sun as a great sign above the earth for days, Sabbaths, months, festivals, years, Sabbaths of years, jubilees, and all times of the years” (Jub. 2:9). In connection with God’s covenant 37 Scott has put forward a far-reaching interpretation of the chronological system of the book of Jubilees. Cf. James M. Scott, On Earth as in Heaven: The Restoration of Sacred Time and Sacred Space in the Book of Jubilees (JSJSup 91; Leiden: Brill, 2005). He suggests that the chronological system is not restricted to the first 50 jubilees but extends over the whole history, from the creation until the new creation. Scott assumes a tripartite division of world history and argues that the principle of compensatory symmetry is at work. The period of time between the destruction of the first temple and the new creation is more or less the mirror image of the period from the creation to the destruction of the first temple. This means that the destruction of the temple is situated at the exact centre of the history of the world (2940 a.m., which is 60 jubilees after the creation of the world). According to Scott, the author of Jubilees considers the whole history of the world as a period of 5880 years (= 840 weeks of years = 120 jubilees). Because the interval of time between the creation and the first entrance into the Land of Israel is 50 jubilees, the interval of time between the second entrance and the culmination in the new creation must also be 50 jubilees. From this it follows that the interval between the first and second entrance is exactly 20 jubilees. This is 490 years (= 10 jubilees) for the exilic period and 490 years for the post-exilic period. See Scott, On Earth as in Heaven, 73–158. Although it is true that in chapter 1 and 23 Jubilees speaks about a future that extends far beyond the entrance into the Promised Land, the representations of the author about this future are not clear. Apart from the mention of a final judgment and some rather vague representations of the eschaton in these chapters, one cannot read very much about it.

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with Noah, the calendar is written on the heavenly tablets “lest they forget the covenantal festivals and walk in the festivals of the nations” (Jub. 6:35). God foresees that Israel will disturb the calendar by taking observations of the moon into consideration: “There will be people who carefully observe the moon with lunar observations because it is corrupt (with respect to) the seasons and is early from year to year by ten days. Therefore years will come about for them when they will disturb (the year) and make a day of testimony something worthless and a profane day a festival. Everyone will join together both holy days with the profane and the profane day with the holy day, for they will err regarding the months, the Sabbaths, the festivals, and the jubilee” (Jub. 6:36–37). In Jub. 15:1a, the appearance of the Lord and the establishing of the covenant is dated in 1986 a.m. (“During the fifth year of the fourth week of this jubilee”). This date is related to the announcement in Gen 17:1a that Abram was 99-years old, but it is put into the absolute dating system of the world history in years, weeks and jubilees. In Gen 17:24, it is also mentioned that Abram was ninety-nine years old, but this text is not used in Jubilees. In Jub. 15:17d, 21a, the author calculates an age of ninety-nine as it is stated that Abraham will be one hundred years old in exactly one year. The mention of Abram’s age in Jubilees, taken from the text of Genesis, is not in line, however, with the data of the absolute dating system. Since Abram’s birth is put in the seventh year of the second week of the thirty-ninth jubilee, which is 1876 a.m. (Jub. 11:15), Abraham would have been hundred and ten years old at the concluding of the covenant in 1986, and not just ninety-nine years old. In Jub. 14:24 the mention of Abram’s age at Ishmael’s birth and naming is taken from Genesis (“That year was the eighty-sixth in Abram’s life”). This is consistent with the mention of Ishmael’s age in Gen 17:25 (“And Ishmael his son was thirteen years old when he was circumcised”), which is not taken up by Jubilees, but which can be deduced from Abram’s age of ninety-nine years. However, in the absolute dating system Ishmael’s birth and naming is put in the fifth year of the first week of the fortyfirst jubilee, which is 1965 a.m. On the basis of Abram’s birth in (1876 a.m.), he would have been eighty-nine years at that moment and not only eighty-six years! While there is consistency in the explicit mention of Abraham’s age (eighty-six years in Jub. 14:24, and ninety-nine years in Jub. 15:1), this does not match the data of the absolute dating system, since in this system the covenant of circumcision takes

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place twenty-one years after Ishmael’s birth, rather than thirteen. This means that the absolute dating system gives an age eight years greater than the explicit data given in Genesis and taken over by Jubilees. This inconcistency is possibly due to text-critical reasons.38 VII. The Renewing of the Covenant The concept of the making of the covenant between God and Abraham is changed in Jubilees 15 into a renewing of the covenant. It is in fact a renewing of the covenant which God had made with Noah, a topic already introduced in the preceding chapter (Jub. 14:20). It is celebrated on the same date of the year, and at the same festival, and there is also an offering that precedes the concluding of the covenant.39 The conception of the covenant itself, however, does not deviate greatly from Genesis.40 The promises that are connected to the covenant

38 Charles notes that the text should read “third week” instead of “fourth week.” See Charles, Book of Jubilees, 105–06. This emendation also necessitates a change in Jub. 16:15 and 17:1. This would give 1979 a.m. as the date of the covenant, and Abraham’s age as 103 years. See VanderKam, “Studies in the Chronology,” 538–39. VanderKam has suggested that the reading “the fifth year” in 15:1 is possibly influenced by the date in the preceding verse (14:24: “in the fifth year of this week”), whereas the reading of “the fourth week” instead of “the third week” could have originated from a confusion of the forms τρίτὸς and τέταρτος in the Greek transmission. If each of these numbers is reduced by one, it is possible to obtain “in the fourth year of the third week,” which would mean 1978 a.m., and which would be consistent with Jub. 14:24. 39 The renewing of the covenant, which is dated to the middle of the third month and connected to the celebration of the festival of the first fruits, refers back to Jub. 6:17–31. It is also referred to in Jub. 14:17–20; 16:13; 22:1–9; 29:7; 44:1–5. 40 As in Gen 17, “covenant” is also a keyword in Jubilees 15. In Jub. 15:1–24, an equivalent of the word ‫ ברית‬can be found twelve times, of which eight times kidān and four times śәr‘at. At one point the word has no equivalent (Gen 17:10a), probably due to homoioteleuton. It occurs nine times with a possessive suffix (“my covenant”), seven times as kidānya (Jub. 15:4a, 9a, 11b, 13c, 14b, 19d, 21a), once as śәr‘atya (Jub. 15:6a), and once in the construction “my eternal covenant” (śәr‘atya zala‘ām: Jub. 15:11e). The equivalent of the construction ‫“( ברית ﬠולם‬eternal covenant”) is śәr‘at zala‘ām (“eternal covenant”: Jub. 15:9a, 13c), śәr‘atya zala‘ām (“my eternal covenant”: Jub. 15:11e), and kidāna zala‘ām (“eternal covenant”: Jub. 15:19d). There seems to be no difference in meaning between kidān and śәr‘at. Both seem to be a translation of the original Hebrew ‫ברית‬. See William K. Gilders, “The Concept of Covenant in Jubilees,” in Enoch and the Mosaic Torah: the Evidence of Jubilees (ed. G. Boccaccini and G. Ibba; Grand Rapids, Mich., Eerdmans, forthcoming). It is worth noting that the Hebrew ‫ ברית‬in Gen 17:1–27 is consistently translated with the term διαθήκη in the Septuagint. See also Jacques T. A. G. M. Van Ruiten, “The Covenant of Noah in Jubilees 6:1–38,” in The Concept of the Covenant in the Second Temple Period (ed. S. E. Porter and J. C. R. de Roo; JSJSup 71; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 168–70. In the addition

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are formulated in the same way: a) the promise of fruitfulness which YHWH made to Abraham (Jub. 15:4b, 8a; cf. 15:16b, 19b), and which has as its goal Abraham becoming the father of many nations and kings (15:6b, 8bc; cf. 15:16de); b) the promise that God will be the only God for Abraham and his descendants (15:9a, 10b); and c) the promise of the gift of the land (15:10a). The response to the covenant, circumcision (15:11–14), is also adopted. What is different, however, is the fact that the giving of the covenant is preceded by an offering (15:2) and fixed on a specific day of the year, the middle of the third month, on which the Festival of the First Fruits is celebrated. A further deviation in Jubilees 15 is the addition at the end (15:25–34) which contains an interpretation of the narrative, especially with regard to the nature of circumcision and the relationship between God and the descendants of Abraham. In Gen 17 it is God who takes the initiative in establishing the covenant. In Jubilees Abraham acts on his own initiative. Here he is portrayed as a person who fulfils the stipulation of the renewed commandment that he has inherited from Noah. He celebrates the festival of the renewing of God’s covenant on the date specified, and thereby undertakes that which was neglected by Noah’s descendants. An important element of Abraham’s initiative is the bringing of offerings. The Festival of Weeks, which is the festival of the renewing of the covenant, has the character of a harvest festival to which offerings are brought. In Jub. 14, the ambiguous procedure of Gen 15 is made abundantly clear in an offering. In Jub. 15:1–2, the bringing of the offering is added to the text of Genesis. In Jub. 15:2 Abraham’s sacrifice during this festival is described as “a bull, a ram, and a sheep.” This is not in complete agreement with the biblical prescriptions. In

Jub. 15:25–34, the term kidān occurs four times (Jub. 15:26d, 28a, 29a, 34b) and śәr‘at five times (Jub. 15:25c, 26a, 28a, 33a, 34e). Charles, Book of Jubilees, 105–13; Orval S. Wintermute, “Jubilees,” in Expansions of the “Old Testament” and legends wisdom and philosophical literature, papers, psalms and odes, fragments of lost Judeo-Hellenistic works (vol. 2 of The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1985), 85–87; and James C. VanderKam ed., The Book of Jubilees: A Critical Text (CSCO 510 = Scriptores Aethiopici 87; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 87–94, all translate kidān consistently with the terms “covenant” (Berger: “Bund”). Charles, Wintermute and VanderKam translate śәr‘at four times with the term “ordinance” (Jub. 15:25c, 28a, 34e); Charles and Wintermute translate it once using the term “covenant” (Jub. 15:26a) and VanderKam once with “pact” (Jub. 15:26a). Berger, Buch der Jubiläen, 404–09, translates kidān consistently with the term “Bund” and śәr‘at with the term “Ordnung.”

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Lev 23:15–22, the following offerings are mentioned: two loaves of bread, seven unblemished year-old lambs, one young bull, and two rams. Num 28:26–31 mentions two young bulls, one ram and seven unblemished year-old male lambs (with one male goat for a sin offering), while Deut 16:10 speaks of a freewill offering. VIII. The Appearance of God (Gen 17:1–22; Jub. 15:3–22) Only after Abraham has brought an offer, does God appear and speak to him. Jub. 15:3–22 follows the text of Gen 17:1b–22 quite closely. There are some small differences of a grammatical or syntactical nature, such as the use of a personal pronoun, or another form of the verb. Most small deviations in Jub. 15:3–22 from the Masoretic Text of Gen 17:1–22, however, are due to the fact that the author of Jubilees uses a biblical text that is different from the Masoretic. In these cases, deviations in Jubilees vis-à-vis the Masoretic Text can also be found in the biblical texts of, for example, the Septuagint or the Samaritan Pentateuch. We cannot consider these deviations as variations of the biblical text. However, VanderKam has suggested that another biblical text of Genesis-Exodus existed in Palestine which agreed more often with the Septuagint and the Samaritan Pentateuch than with the Masoretic Text, but which was nevertheless an independent witness.41 This is considered generally to concern small variations which I will not deal with here.42 A striking phenomenon in this chapter of Jubilees is the occurrence of a few omissions in the text. In two places, the difference between the Masoretic Text of Genesis and Jubilees is possibly due to text-critical reasons. Either the author of Jubilees made a mistake when he copied his Vorlage, or the mistake occurred later in the textual tradition. I am referring here to the two possible cases of homoioteleuton (words or phrases with the same ending) in Jub. 15:10–11. In such cases, one cannot speak of a Vorlage of Genesis that deviates from the Masoretic Text nor of a certain interpretation by the author of Jubilees. The first 41 See, for example, James C. VanderKam, “Jubilees and the Hebrew Texts of Genesis-Exodus,” Textus 14 (1988): 71–85; repr. in idem, From Revelation to Canon, 448–61, esp. 460. 42 See the notes in VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, 87–91. See also VanderKam, Textual and Historical Studies in the Book of Jubilees (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1977), 142–98.

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case (Gen 17:8a; Jub. 15:10a) is mentioned by nearly all translators, and the missing words are reconstructed.43 Gen 17:7 ends with ‫ולזרﬠך‬ ‫“( אחריך‬to your seed after you”), while Gen 17:8 begins with the same words: ‫“( ונתתי לך ולזרﬠך אחריך‬And I will give to you, and to your seed after you”). A second case of homoioteleuton might be present in Jub. 15:11b (cf. Gen 17:9b–10a), though none of the translations mention this. The first part of Gen 17:9b reads: “As for you, keep my covenant, you and your seed after you” (‫)ולזרﬠך אחריך‬. These words are taken over precisely in Jub. 15:11b. The passage following is omitted (the second part of Gen 17:9b, and the entire sentence in Gen 17:10a). The last words of Gen 17:10a read: “your seed after you” (‫)לזרﬠך אחריך‬. Moreover, the lost part has several words in common with the first part of Gen 17:9b (‫)שמר ;ברית‬. I would suggest that it is quite possible that a part of the text has been lost in Jubilees. It is not necessary to assume intervention by the author.44 There might be a third case of homoioteleuton in this chapter, namely the omission of the last words of Gen 17:23b and the entirety of Gen 17:24–25. Gen 17:23b ends with the words “that very day” (‫בﬠצם היום‬ ‫)הזה‬, the same phrase with which Gen 17:26a begins. It might be suspected that the eye of one of the copyists in the tradition of Jubilees leapt from the one ‫ בﬠצם היום הזה‬to the other. However, the issue might be more complicated, as part of the text between the two occurrences of the phrase is used by the author by way of permutation and variation: ‫“( כאשר דבר אתו אלהים‬as God had told him”) occurs in Jub. 15:23a as “Abraham did as the Lord told him.” This borrowing makes it more difficult to speak of a homoioteleuton, as it is not clear why the author of Jubilees would copy one part of the text found in between the phrases and neglect the rest.45

43

Robert H. Charles, “Mashafa kufale or the Ethiopic Version of the Hebrew Book of Jubilees” (Anecdota Oxoniensia; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1895), 51 no. 31; Charles, Book of Jubilees, 108; Enno Littmann, “Das Buch der Jubiläen,” in: Die Apokryphen und Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments (ed. E. Kautzsch; vol. 2 of Die Apokryphen und Pseudepigrapha des Alten Testaments; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1900), 31–119; repr., Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1975), 66 no. h; VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, 88; Berger, Buch der Jubiläen, 406, note, finds a restoration unnecessary, but his reading is unconvincing. 44 It is of course not possible to attain absolute certainty here. It is also possible that the author felt somewhat uncomfortable with the duplication in the biblical text. 45 Theoretically it is possible that we are here dealing with a phased homoioteleuton within the text of Jubilees. The author adopted the whole text, with the exception of

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If we make the assumption that there is no text-critical reason for the omission, what would then be the reason for the author of Jubilees skipping this section of the text? Perhaps the conflict in dating the events is at stake, as referred to above. Ishmael was born when Abraham was eighty-six years old according to Gen 16:16, a fact that is taken over literally in Jub. 14:24, even though this does not concur with the absolute dating system of Jubilees. In 1876 a.m., the year of Ishmael’s birth, Abraham would have been eighty-nine and not eighty-six. According to Genesis, the circumcision of Ishmael would have occurred thirteen years later. This corresponds with the age of Abraham mentioned in Genesis, namely ninety-nine years. Jubilees 15 does not adopt the age of Abraham according to Genesis, but dates the circumcision according to the absolute system, which is 1986 a.m.. This is, however, twenty-one years later. It is possible that the author of Jubilees 15 omitted mention of Ishmael in order to avoid disagreement between the biblical data and the internal dating system of Jubilees. After all, the mention of Abraham’s age in this part of the text is also omitted. By omitting the first appearance of “that very day” (Gen 17:23b), a slightly different structure is created in Jubilees. This also creates a difference between Jub. 15:23 and Jub. 15:24 as regards to content.46 First it is said that Abraham fulfilled his duty to circumcise everybody in his house (Jub. 15:23), without any specification of the day. Subsequently, it is said that on the very day that the command was issued, Abraham was circumcised and all the men in his house with him, but Ishmael is not mentioned by name (Jub. 15:24). This means that the author of Jubilees might make a distinction between the circumcision of Abraham and the men of his house, and the circumcision of Ishmael. The first takes place on the day the command was issued, the other possibly on another day. One might argue that the suggestion, according to Jubilees, that Ishmael was circumcised on a day other than that on which the command was issued, receives support from a certain tension within the text of Gen 17. The original command with regard to the circumcision (Gen 17:1–14, see especially verse 11–14) requires that all descendants of Gen 17:23c, which he transposed to Jub. 15:23a. It might also be that a transcriber made the mistake of homoioteleuton. 46 Michael Segal, The Book of Jubilees: Rewritten Bible, Redaction, Ideology and Theology (JSJSup 117; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 229–32, 241–43.

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Abraham are to be circumcised. Moreover, those who are circumcised belong to the covenant (Gen 17:11, 13). In the execution of the command (Gen 17:23–27), all the men in Abraham’s house are circumcised, including Ishmael, on the same day as Abraham. However, the text found between (Gen 17:15–22) creates a problem. The covenant, of which the circumcision is the sign, is restricted to Isaac, in other words, it excludes Ishmael. While the latter will receive some of the blessing connected to the covenant (Gen 17:20), it is written that “my covenant I will establish with Isaac . . .” (Gen 17:21). Here, circumcision as such is not a sign of membership of the covenant, since Ishmael is being circumcised, but a sign that he will be excluded from the covenant. Jubilees tries to harmonize this tension found within the text of Genesis, and this is in line with a general tendency of Jubilees. The author tries to explain difficult passages in the text of Genesis and Exodus in order to harmonize contradictory assertions and to solve associated problems, a characteristic shared with many ancient treatments of Genesis. One can raise some objections to this line of argument. Firstly, the halakic addition in Jub. 15:25–34 does not deal with the circumcision on that very day, but with the circumcision “on the eighth day.” Since the circumcision on the eighth day is not at stake in Jub. 15:23–24, the halakic addition does not comment on these verses. The addition refers to the general command to circumcise on the eighth day (Jub. 15:11–14; Gen 17:9–14) and not to the circumcision “on that very day” of the circumcision of Abraham and those of his house. Secondly, this argument does not explain why Ishmael is omitted from Jub. 15:24, while the other males of Abraham’s house are mentioned. If all the men were circumcised immediately after the command was issued, why would the covenant then be restricted to Isaac? It is perhaps more plausible to suggest that the author of Jubilees does not want to overly stress the circumcision of Ishmael, who does not hold a privileged position. Even though he is Abraham’s eldest son, he is not the one with whom God is intending to make his covenant. That will be Isaac, the son of Sarah, as is made abundantly clear in Jub. 15:15–22 (cf. Gen 17:15–22). Gen 17:23–27 mentions three times that Ishmael was circumcised: in Gen 17:23a Ishmael is said to be circumcised together with all the slaves in the house; in Gen 17:25 Ishmael is mentioned separately, and it is said that he was circumcised when he was thirteen; while in Gen 17:26 it is said that Ishmael was circumcised together with Abraham. This all points to the very specific position of

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Ishmael, which is in conflict with the preceding passage. This might be the reason that Jubilees mentions Ishmael only once (Jub. 15:23b) as one of the males who was in Abraham’s house. He is mentioned by name and therefore distinct from the other slaves in the house because he is also Abraham’s son. However, he is not privileged as much as the text of Genesis suggests. IX. Halakic Addition regarding Circumcision (Jub. 15:25–34) The narrative part of this chapter (Jub. 15:1–24) is followed by a halakic addition (Jub. 15:25–34). It questions the status of Israel, which is connected to the commandment of circumcision. The addition as such has no counterpart in the text of Genesis, but one should be aware of the fact that it is closely related to the narrative preceding it. The addition has a tripartite structure: I. 15:25–27; II. 15:28–32; III. 15:33–34.47 In the second and third part, Moses is addressed directly (“you”). In 15:28a he is ordered to command the Israelites to keep the sign of the covenant forever (“Now you command the Israelites etc.”), and in 15:33a the angel (“I”) addresses Moses, predicting the failure of Israel to fulfil the law (“I am now telling you that the Israelites etc.”). In contrast, in the first part (15:25–27) there is no direct form of address. Moreover, in this first part, the law and the covenant are mentioned with regard to an individual (15:26: “Anyone who is born . . . there is no sign on him that he belongs to the Lord . . . he has violated . . .”), whereas in the second and third parts Israel is referred to by the plural forms (for example, 15:28: “. . . throughout their history . . . so that they may not be uprooted . . . so that they should keep it . . .”). The words used point to a comparable subdivision within the three parts. Subunit A (15:25–26; 15:28–29; 15:33–34) contains halakic words such as “law” (ḥ әgg; cf. 15:25a, 33b), “ordinance” (śәr‘at; cf. 15:25c, 28a, 33a, 34e; see also 15:29a), “command” (tә’әzāz; cf. 15:29a; see also 15:28a) and “covenant” (kidān; cf. 15:26d, 28a, 29a, 34b; śәr‘at; 15:25c, 26a, 28a, 33a, 34e). In addition, the word “sign” (tә’әmәrt) occurs in this subunit (15:26b, 28a, 34e), as does mention of circumcision (25:25b, 26a, 33b–d) and the sanction against violation of the law, which have

47 The conjunction ’әsma (“because, for”), which occurs quite often (15:25c, 26d, 27a, 29a, 30a, 30c, 32a, 33c, 34b, 34f), seems not to play a role in the macrostructure of this text.

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as a common factor “being uprooted from the land” (15:26c, 28b, 34f). In subunit B (15:27; 15:30–32), the above-mentioned words do not occur. In this subunit, the author speaks about the election and sanctification of Israel. Moreover, heavenly angels play a role (for example, “angels”: 15:27, 32). The structure can be summarized as follows: I.

A Jub. 15:25–26 An eternal commandment I. B Jub. 15:27 The Lord sanctifies Israel II. A Jub. 15:28–29 Keep the sign as an eternal ordinance II. B Jub. 15:30–32 The Lord sanctifies Israel III. A Jub. 15:33–34 Israel neglects the covenant

The whole addition elaborates the status of Israel, which is connected to obeying the eternal commandment to keep the covenant of circumcision and to the election of Israel. It can be linked with the preceding narrative, especially to the part commanding circumcision (Jub. 15:11– 14; cf. Gen 17:9–14), with particular regard to the time of circumcision and the sanction for not following the command. Meanwhile, the preference for Isaac over Ishmael (Jub. 15:15–22; cf. Gen 17:15–22) also plays a part in the addition, while the promissory aspects of the covenant of land and fruitfulness do not seem to play an important role. However, the relationship between God and the descendants of Abraham (cf. Jub. 15:9b, 10b; cf. Gen 17:7, 8b) does play an important role in the addition. X. Circumcision on the Right Day The first part of the examined text (Jub. 15:25–26) identifies the covenant with the law and stresses the eternity of the law using the reference to the heavenly tables (15:25a, d).48 The eternity of the covenant is also brought up in the preceding narrative (Gen 17:7a, 13b, 19d; cf. Jub. 15:9a, 13b, 19d). This possibly indicates an uncertainty with regard to the precise dating.49 One could, for example, ask whether the law is concerned only with circumcision, or with circumcision at the proper moment, namely on the eighth day. In Jub. 15:26a one can read: “Anyone who is born, the flesh of whose private parts has not

48 See, for example, Florentino García Martínez, “The Heavenly Tablets in the Book of Jubilees,” in Studies in the Book of Jubilees (ed. M. Albani, J. Frey, and A. Lange; TSAJ 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 243–60. 49 Ibid., 256.

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been circumcised by the eighth day.”50 In Jub. 15:25c it is stated that “there is no ta‘adwa of one day from the eight days.” The meaning of ta‘adwa is “to go beyond, step over, pass over, pass by, surpass, transgress, deviate.” The Latin text of Jub.15:25c reads praeterire, which means “to go past, to go by, to skip over, to pass over.” That means that one cannot omit any day from the counting of the eight days. The omission of one of these days would delay the circumcision until the ninth, tenth or eleventh day.51 This would affirm the narrative of Gen 17:1–27, which refers to the proper moment in Gen 17:12 (“A child of eight days”), and this is rendered in Jub. 15:12a as “A child on the eighth day.” It is significant that the reading of Gen 17:14 is rendered in Jub. 15:14 according to the Septuagint and the Samaritan Pentateuch both of which include circumcision “on the eighth day,” whereas the Masoretic Text omits any specification of the eighth day. The meaning of Jub. 15:25b (“there is no circumcising of days”) is difficult to interpret. Rabin proposed to read: “and there can be no reduction in the number of days.”52 VanderKam says it is a “metaphor for shortening the number of days”, and Wintermute’s interpretation is more or less the same.53 In this interpretation, not only is it not 50 The Ethiopic reads “’әska the eighth day,” which means “until, till as far as.” VanderKam translates it as “by the eighth day,” as does Segal, Book of Jubilees, 230. Berger reads “bis zum achten Tag.” Littmann points to the Latin text that has “usque in,” which shows that the Greek text should have had this reading. Charles and Wintermute read “on.” Probably, the Hebrew text of Jubilees read “on the eighth day.” According to Charles ‫ ﬠל‬was misread as ‫ﬠד‬. 51 Also Bernhard Beer, Das Buch der Jubiläen und sein Verhältnis zu den Midraschim: Ein Beitrag zur orientalischen Sagen- und Alterthumskunde (Leipzig: W. Gerhard, 1856), 45: “(Und man darf die Tage nicht ändern), noch einen von den 8 Tagen übergehen”; Berger, Buch der Jubiläen, 408: “und es gibt kein Überschreiten eines (einzigen) Tages von den acht Tagen”; Wintermute, “Jubilees,” 87: “there is no passing a single day beyond eight days”; Segal, Book of Jubilees, 232–33: “and no passing of one day from the eight days.” In contrast, in his translation, Charles reads (Book of Jubilees, 110): “and [there is] no omission of one day out of the eight days,” and he explains that in no case is the circumcision to be performed before the eighth day. See also Paul Riessler, Altjüdisches Schrifttum außerhalb der Bibel (4th ed.; Freiburg: Kerle, 1979): “noch eine Weglassung eines Tages von den acht Tagen”; Chaim Rabin, “Jubilees,” in The Apocryphal Old Testament (ed. H. F. D. Sparks; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 55: “nor omitting of even a single day out of eight.” Also VanderKam, Book of Jubilees translates: “nor omitting any day of the eight days,” but he notes that the text literally says that there is no “passing over” any day of the eight days. Finally, Littmann, “Buch der Jubiläen,” translates: “es gibt keine Übertretung eines Tags von den acht Tagen.” 52 Rabin, “Jubilees,” 55. 53 Wintermute, “Jubilees,” 87, n. g explains that with the expression of the circumcising of days the writer suggests “that no day should be cut off to shorten the total number of days.”

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permitted to wait until after the eighth day, it is also not allowed to circumcise before the eighth day. This would mean that circumcision of the male child should take place on precisely the eighth day. In his text edition of 1895, Charles has included the reading kәtrata (= qәtrata), a reading that occurs in eight Ethiopic manuscripts. It means “a closing.” Although in his 1902 translation Charles writes, “and there is no circumcision of days,” Berger follows Charles’s original reading with “Und es gibt kein Abschliessen der Tage,” and he explains that one may not wait longer than eight days.54 This alternative reading of Jub. 15:25bc has it consisting of two parallel sentences (25b: “There is no circumcising of days”; 25c: “nor omitting any day of the eight days”), and both speak about the law by which the circumcision should take place no later than the eighth day. Charles also reads the two parallel sentences as meaning that the circumcision may not be performed before the eighth day. Most other interpretations read an antithetical parallellism, such that 15:25b says that no circumcision is allowed before the eighth day, and 15:25c that it is not allowed later than the eighth day.55 With the addition related to exegetical problems in Gen 17, the author of Jubilees seems to provide answers to questions originating

54 VanderKam rejects the reading of Berger. In his text-critical edition, VanderKam accepted kәsbata (“circumcision”) because of the paronomasia. VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, 91. 55 Segal has put forward an alternative reading of Jub. 15:25b. Usually one reads a balance between 15:25a (“This law is [valid] for all history forever”) and 15:25d (“because it is an eternal ordinance ordained and written on the heavenly tablets.”), and combines 15:25b with 15:25c. However, Segal states that there is a balance between 15:25a and 15:25b (“There is no circumcising of days”). The circumcision of days is connected in this view with the period during which this law of circumcision is valid, and that is forever. He refers to similar expressions in 33:16–17 (“and as an eternal law for the history of eternity. And there is no completion of days for this law”). Instead of “circumcision,” the word “completion” is used. The Hebrew word for “completion” is ‫מלא‬, and in Qumran orthography the infinitive form of ‫ מלא‬is sometimes written as ‫( מולאת‬cf. 1QS VI, 17–21), even once as ‫( מולות‬4Q511). When one realizes that the form ‫ מולאת‬or ‫ מולות‬is very close to ‫“( מולת‬circumcision”; cf. Exod 4:26), the suggestion of an exchange of both is easily made. Segal therefore opts for an original reading of ‫“( מלא‬completion”) in 15:25b, and combines 15:25b with 15:25a (“This law is [valid] for all history forever, and there is no completion of days”). The law is expressed clearly in 15:25c and can in Segal’s eyes only mean that the circumcision should take place no later than the eighth day. See Segal, Book of Jubilees, 232–36. Segal’s suggestion is very sophisticated. It also does justice to the fact that the collocation “circumcision of days” cannot be found elsewhere in early Jewish literature. Nevertheless this proposal disturbs the chiasticly ordered structure of the sentences in 15:25, in which 15:25a is balanced by 15:25d and 15:25b by 15:25c.

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in his own time. In any case, the discussion of circumcision seems to fit well within the circumstances of the Hellenistic era (cf. 1 Macc 1:15, 48, 60; 2:46; As. Mos. 8:3; Josephus, Ant. 12.241).56 However, the law of Jubilees 15 seems not to be directed against those who refrain from circumcising, but against those who delay its performance. The implication of Jub. 15:25–26 seems to be that children who are circumcised after the eighth day are considered uncircumcised halakically.57 Although there are no contemporary documents reflecting this problem, in rabbinic Judaism there is a tradition that allows, in certain circumstances, the delay of circumcision until the twelfth day (see m. Shabbat 19:5).58 According to Segal, the viewpoint of Jub. 15:25–26 might reflect a polemic against a similar moderate halakic position in earlier times, namely in the second century b.c.e.59 The command to circumcise on the right day requires human action. The neglect of this command will result in the loss of the covenantal relationship: those who have not been circumcised in the proper way do not belong to the people of the covenant (Jub. 15:26a). The circumcision seems then not to function as a sign (Jub. 15:26b). They will become like the rest of the peoples, damned to be alienated from God forever, utterly destroyed and uprooted from the land (Jub. 15:26a, c; cf. also 15:28b, 34f). This aspect refers back to the preceding narrative where it is said that the circumcision shall be a sign of the eternal pact between God and Israel (Jub. 15:11e). This covenant will be in the flesh as an eternal covenant (Jub. 15:13c). Finally, “the male who has not been circumcised—who is not circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin on the eighth day—that person will be uprooted from his people” (Jub. 15:14a). In the halakic addition, this sanction (“that person will be uprooted from his people”) is formulated much more rigorously. This person “does not belong to the people of the pact which the Lord

56

See, for example, Charles, Book of Jubilees, 108–109; García Martínez, “Heavenly Tablets,” 256. 57 See Segal, Book of Jubilees, 236 n. 22. 58 See Beer, Buch der Jubiläen, 45; Charles, Book of Jubilees, 108–109; Louis Finkelstein, “The Book of Jubilees and the Rabbinic Halaka,” HTR 16 (1923), 59; García Martínez, “Heavenly Tablets,” 256. In contrast, the Samaritans have held fast to the severer regulation to the present day. The harsher form of the halaka probably also existed in the 2nd century c.e. (See: Justin, Dial. 27). 59 Segal, Book of Jubilees, 236–37 n. 22, and 242. According to Segal, the legal passage of Jubilees 15 provides evidence of a split in the nation over halakic issues at an early stage. It justifies separation from the rest of the people. See Segal, Book of Jubilees, 245.

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made with Abraham but to the people (meant for) destruction” (Jub. 15:26a). He is meant “for destruction, for being destroyed from the land, and for being uprooted from the land” (Jub. 15:25c; cf. 15:28b). XI. Israel and the Angels The election of Israel is expressed as a dichotomy between those who belong to the covenant of the Lord, and those who are meant for destruction from the land.60 This division exists from the creation onwards. For, as Jub. 15:27 says, circumcision, as a sign of the election of Israel, is connected to the nature of the angels of the presence and of holiness, the two highest classes of angels. The command of circumcision thus exists from the beginning of time onwards. God had chosen these kinds of angels to become members of the covenant already on the first day of creation, which is, according to Jubilees, the day of the creation of the spirits (Jub. 2:2). These angels were apparently created with male genital organs and circumcised.61 The comparison with the angels in Jub. 15:27 not only underlines the importance of the command of circumcision, it also expresses the status of Israel with regard to God. Just as the two leading classes of angels are the closest to God, so is Israel.62 Moreover, with the act of circumcision Israel becomes like these angels.63 If the sign of circumcision is the expression of God’s choice for Israel but dependent on human action, then it is clear that the consequence of ignoring the command of circumcision is that Israel does not become angelic, and thus it is no different from the rest of the world, alienated from God and destined to be destroyed.

60

Ibid., 237. Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, “Angels and Demons in the Book of Jubilees,” in Angels: The Concept of Celestial Beings—Origins, Development and Reception (ed. F. V. Reiterer, T. Nicklas, and K. Schöpflin; DCLY 2007; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007), 585–609. 62 According to Segal, Jub. 15:27 might express a vision of the world that presupposes a dualism in heaven that is similar to the dualism between Israel and the peoples. Does the author presuppose here a separation between the two leading classes of angels and the other angelic beings in heaven? See Segal, Book of Jubilees, 237. 63 Gilders even states that the act of circumcision changes the human body into an angelic body, which means an ontological change in the body. See Gilders, “Concept of Covenant,” in Enoch (ed. G. Boccaccini and G. Ibba; forthcoming). 61

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The angels are also involved in other activities. In heaven, the angels are not only circumcised but also observe the Sabbath and celebrate the Festival of Weeks. By keeping these commandments, the angels observe the laws that are related to the covenant between Israel and God. In Jubilees, there is a correlation between cultic practice in heaven and on earth.64 The observance of the Sabbath is of crucial importance for Jubilees, and it is referred to at the beginning and the end of the book (Jub. 1:14; 2:17–33; 50:6–13). The practice of keeping the Sabbath is not only an imitatio dei (cf. Jub. 2:1: “And he [= the Lord God] kept Sabbath on the seventh day, and sanctified it for all ages”), but also an imitatio angelorum: “He gave us the Sabbath day as a great sign so that we should perform work for six days and that we should keep Sabbath from all work on the seventh day. He told us—all the angels of the presence and all the angels of holiness (these two great kinds)—to keep sabbath with him in heaven and on earth” (Jub. 2:17–18). Later in Jubilees 2 it is stated that just as the angels keep the Sabbath with God, so Israel keeps the Sabbath with the angels. Israel is the only nation permitted to do so (Jub. 2:31), and as such it is said that they will be holy and blessed throughout all times, as are the angels (Jub. 2:28). Immediately after the flood, the rainbow in the clouds was the sign of the covenant. The covenant, however, is eternal, because it also applies to later generations. Therefore, the Israelites have to renew the covenant each year at the Festival of Weeks (Jub. 6:17). In this way, the Festival of Weeks in fact becomes the sign of the covenant. It is fascinating to read that the festival had already been celebrated in heaven from the time of creation: “For this reason it has been ordained and written on the heavenly tablets that they should celebrate the festival of weeks during this month—once a year—to renew the covenant each and every year. This entire festival had been celebrated in heaven from the time of creation until the lifetime of Noah—for 26 jubilees and five weeks of years. Then Noah and his sons kept it for seven jubilees and one week of years until Noah’s death” (Jub. 6:17–18). Circumcision is also initiated in the same sequence as the Sabbath and the Festival of Weeks: first the angels, then Israel. It is also a sign

64 For the synchronization of cultic practices on earth as in heaven, see Scott, On Earth, 1–15. See also Beate Ego, “Heilige Zeit—heiliger Raum—heiliger Mensch: Beobachtungen zur Struktur des Gesetzesbegründung in der Schöpfungs- und Paradiesgeschichte des Jubiläenbuches,” in Studies in the Book of Jubilees (ed. M. Albani, J. Frey, and A. Lange; TSAJ 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 207–19.

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of Israel’s election. The Sabbath is given to the angels in the first week of creation, the circumcision is given to the angels at the beginning of the creation, with their very creation, and the Festival of Weeks is celebrated from the creation onwards. Israel is chosen from amongst all peoples to celebrate the Sabbath with the Lord. The Festival of Weeks is the time that the covenant between the Lord and Israel is commemorated and renewed. So, too, the Israelites are chosen from all peoples to keep the commandment of circumcision. XII. The Election of Israel The specific relationship between YHWH and Israel is expressed most clearly in Jub. 15:30–32. In this passage, the author opposes the treatment of Israel as distinct from the other nations. The election of Israel means that the Lord has adopted Israel for Himself. The other nations belong to God indeed (Jub. 15:31cd: “For there are many nations and many peoples and all belong to him”), but they do not have the same direct relationship with Him as has Israel. The Lord makes spirits rule over the nations and they try to “lead them astray from following him” (Jub. 15:31e). He Himself rules over Israel, and this relationship is the basis for the covenant. The vision that is expressed here comes close to the vision in the song of Moses in Deuteronomy 32:8–9.65 In this song, the author refers to an assembly of gods.66 According to the reading of 4QDeut,j the Most High (Elyon) fixed the boundaries of the peoples “according to the number of the sons of God (El)” (Deut 32:8). In this context, every nation is in the hands of God’s sons, whereas YHWH keeps Israel for Himself (Deut 32:9: “For YHWH’s portion is his people, Jacob his allotted heritage”). There are a few Greek manuscripts of the text of Deut 32:8 that also read “God’s sons” (υἱῶν θεοῡ), whereas most Greek manuscripts read “the angels of God” (ἀγγέλων θεοῡ). The Masoretic Text reads “Israel’s sons” (‫ )בני ישראל‬rather than “God’s sons” (‫)בני אל‬. The reading “God’s sons” is considered as the most original reading.67

65

Cf. Sirach 17:17. Cf., for example, Psalm 82. 67 Rudolf Meyer, “Die Bedeutung von Deuteronomium 32,8f.43 (4Q) für die Auslegung des Moseliedes,” in “Verbannung und Heimkehr: Beiträge zur Geschichte und Theologie Israels im 6. und 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.”: Wilhelm Rudolph zum 70. Geburt66

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In the masoretic tradition this polytheistic reading was rejected by way of a small modification of the text.68 In Jub. 15:30–32 the nations are put into the hands of an angel or a spirit (demon), and not into the hands of God’s sons. However, elsewhere in Deuteronomy 32, demons are related to foreign gods (Deut 32:16–17: “They stirred him to jealousy with strange gods; with abominable practices they provoked him to anger. They sacrificed to demons which were no gods, to gods they had never known, to new gods that had come in of late, whom your fathers had never dreaded”). In Psalms 106:34–39 a connection is also made between the nations and the demons, see especially Psalms 106:36–37 in which the idols of the people are mentioned alongside the demons: “They served their idols, which became a snare to them. They sacrificed their sons and their daughters to the demons.” Jubilees also introduces these aspects specifically in relation to demons. The election of Israel, the separation from the other peoples, is the central issue in Jub. 15:30–32. This unique relationship between God and Israel precedes the covenant,69 forming the basis of it. In the retelling of the story of the creation it is made clear that the offspring of Jacob has the status of God’s first-born son. The election is, as it were, incorporated into the order of creation. The covenant is the expression of this relationship in time and provides the means to sanctify Israel. The ritual is a visible sign of God’s choice.

stag dargebracht von seinen Freunden und Schülern (ed. A. Kuschke; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1961), 197–209; Oswald Loretz, “Die Vorgeschichte von Deuteronomium 32,8f.43,” UF 9 (1977): 355–57; Carmel McCarthy, The Tiqqune Sopherim and Other Theological Corrections in the Masoretic Text of the Old Testament (OBO 36; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), 211–14; Arie van der Kooij, “The Ending of the Song of Moses: On the pre-Masoretic Version of Deut 32:43,” in “Studies in Deuteronomy”: In Honour of C. J. Labuschagne on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (ed. F. García Martínez et al.: VTSup 53; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 93–94; Paul Sanders, The Provenance of Deuteronomy 32 (OtSt 37; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 24–25; 156–58. 68 VanderKam points to the possibility that Deut 32:8–9 refers back to the process of the separation of the people described in Genesis 10 (cf. 10: 5, 10–12, 19–20, 30–31, 32). James C. VanderKam, “The Demons in the Book of Jubilees,” in Demons: The Demonology of Israelite-Jewish and Early Christian literature in Context of their Environment (ed. A. Lange, H. Lichtenberger, and K. F. Diethart Römheld; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 351–54. 69 See Gilders, “Concept of Covenant,” in Enoch (ed. G. Boccaccini and G. Ibba; forthcoming).

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The present paper has looked into the way an authoritative text (Gen 17) was rewritten in Jubilees 15. Interestingly enough, the source text is almost completely rewritten. By way of omissions, variations and additions, the author of the paratext modifies the older text. He interprets the making of the covenant between God and Abraham as a renewing of the covenant, where Abraham acts on his own initiative to fulfil the stipulation of the renewed covenant that he has inherited from Noah. Moreover, the author tries to diminish the tension within the text of Genesis 17 between the requirement that all descendants of Abraham are to be circumcised as sign of the covenant, and the covenant being restricted to Isaac. The addition at the end is related to some exegetical problems in the text of Gen 17, especially to the exact date of the circumcision and the curse related to it (cf. Gen 17:14). It reveals several central concerns of the book—Jubilees stresses that the moment of circumcision (“on the eighth day”) is of the utmost importance. Those who are not circumcised on the eighth day are considered to have not been circumcised. This concern probably reflects an issue prevailing during the author’s time. The exclusive covenantal relationship between God and Israel involves a mutual commitment. This means that there is a sharp division between those elected and the impure gentiles. Both groups have to be kept separate from each other. Those elected were descended from Jacob, Isaac, Abraham, Shem and Noah, and Adam. Everyone outside this pure lineage did not belong to the elected people, even if they were closely related, such as Ishmael and Esau. In this way, the author clearly advocates separatism. For him, the circumcision reflected the special position of Israel which had angelic status, belonging to the Lord and not to the spirits who reign over the other nations. Those who were not circumcised, or not circumcised at the right moment, could not participate in the covenantal relationship. However, there is not only a dividing line between Israel and the nations, but also within Israel, between those who are circumcised at the right moment and those who are not. The latter do not participate in the covenant. The special relationship between God and Israel is stressed throughout the book, but is especially relevant here because of the theme of the covenant and the specific choice of Isaac rather than Ishmael in Gen 17. The reference to the angels and their day of creation also underlines that the election of Israel in fact precedes the making of

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the covenant. Because the covenant between God and Israel is built into the order of creation, Ishmael cannot participate in this relationship despite the fact that he is circumcised. The law and the covenant are thus presented as eternal, dating back to the time of the creation and the earliest patriarchs, which is in line with many other halakic additions in the book, for example, the halaka concerning women giving birth (Jub. 3:8–14), the prohibition against consuming blood (Jub. 6:11–14; 7:29), the keeping of the Sabbath (Jub. 2:17–33; 50) and several festivals, for example, the Festival of Weeks (6:17–22), the Festival of the First Fruits (Jub. 15:1–2), and Pesach (Jub. 49). By reworking and expanding older traditions through interpretation, a new text claims for itself the authority already attached to those traditions. Moreover, the new text ascribes to itself the status of the older work, the Torah. It portrays itself as having a heavenly origin and, moreover, as being an authentic expression of the Torah of Moses. It associates the production of the new work with the setting of the old one (Sinai) and with the same author, Moses. The new composition provides the context for the interpretation of the older traditions, and at the same time it gains its authority through its interweaving of authoritative texts. Jubilees constantly quotes and rewrites the older text of Genesis and Exodus. This is enough evidence to prove the thesis that the text is not intended to replace the earlier text. Moreover, the new composition refers explicitly to the older composition a number of times, for example, Jub. 6:22: “For I have written this in the book of the first law”; Jub. 30:12: “For this reason I have written for you in the words of the law.” Thus it can be argued that Jubilees rewrote the biblical text both in order to interpret this text with regard to apparent inconsistencies, but also to demonstrate the authority of this biblical text. Moreover, we have seen that the author of Jubilees wove elements into the main story line that were not present in Genesis and Exodus but which have often been derived from other Jewish texts and traditions, such as interpretations of law, temple ritual, the calendrical system and the covenant. Despite the high claims for authority, I believe that the author of Jubilees primarily presents the scriptural text in what he considers to be its essence.70

70 Cf. also Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple (JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 46.

PART II

GRAECO-ROMAN WORLD

TROJAN PALIMPSESTS: THE RELATION OF GREEK TRAGEDY TO THE HOMERIC EPICS1 Annemarie Ambühl University of Groningen I. Attic Tragedies as Homeric “Paratexts?”—The Trojan War on the Tragic Stage According to a well-known dictum, the tragedian Aeschylus characterized his plays as “slices from the great banquets of Homer” (Athenaeus 8.347e). Indeed, the myth of the Trojan War, the subject of the Homeric epics Iliad and Odyssey as well as of the cyclic epics complementing them, informs the plot not only of Aeschylus’ own Oresteia, but of almost half of the still extant Greek tragedies. The fifteen Attic tragedies by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides dealing with the Trojan War span the whole range of the war and its consequences, from the pre-war situation to its aftermath, the homecoming of the Greek victors and their further sufferings.2 In view of their performance dates, these tragedies cover a crucial period of Athenian history from 458 to 400 b.c.e., clustering around the period of the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta and their respective allies from 431 to 404. To be sure, these plays represent only a tiny fraction of the original production of tragedies, for during the fifth century b.c.e., every year three tragic trilogies were brought to stage in Athens at the festival of the Great Dionysia. Nevertheless, the high number of fragments and

1 I would like to thank the organizers of the Palimpsests Symposium at Vienna for inviting me in place of Prof. Annette Harder (Groningen), who unfortunately was not able to attend, and all the participants for the stimulating discussion. Philip Alexander kindly corrected my English. 2 The fifteen extant Trojan tragedies (in their narrative order within the Trojan cycle) are: pre-war: Euripides, Iphigeneia at Aulis (406/400 b.c.e.); war: Sophocles, Ajax (ca. 450?), Philoctetes (409), [Euripides], Rhesus (4th century?); aftermath: Euripides, The Trojan Women (415), Hecuba (ca. 426?), Andromache (ca. 425?); homecoming and subsequent generation: Euripides, Helen (412); Aeschylus, Oresteia (Agamemnon, Choephoroi, Eumenides) (458); Sophocles, Electra (?); Euripides, Electra (ca. 417?), Orestes (408), Iphigeneia in Tauris (ca. 413?).

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titles of many more tragedies dealing with themes taken from the Trojan War suggests that the proportions have not been much distorted by the chances of transmission.3 In general, the popularity of the myth of Troy in Greek tragedy reflects the crucial role of the epic tradition in Greek literature and culture embodied in the founding figure of Homer. Are the Attic tragedies dealing with the Trojan War thus Homeric “paratexts” whose existence and meaning depends exclusively on Homer’s authoritative mastertext? There are some important reservations to be made. First, it has to be defined in what sense the Homeric texts are authoritative. Their authority is not religious in the sense of a sacred text, but moral in the sense of an educational function, and aesthetic in the sense of a literary model.4 Although it may be anachronistic to project Aristotle’s views back onto the dramatists of the fifth century, the distinction in quality between the Homeric and the cyclic epics must have been marked (cf. Poet. 1451a16–30, 1459a30–b2). It is precisely their dramatic structure and their high proportions of direct speech that make the Homeric epics appear as an ideal model for the tragedians (cf. Poet. 1460a5–11).5 Second, reviewing the Trojan tragedies’ relationship to the Homeric epics yields an interesting result: Homer functions at the same time as a paradigmatic and as an elliptic model.6 While the dramatists adapted 3 See the statistics in Michael J. Anderson, The Fall of Troy in Early Greek Poetry and Art (Oxford Classical Monographs; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 105. In the context of this paper, I am considering only the tragedies that have been fully preserved, and among them especially the three aftermath plays by Euripides. 4 On Homer’s authoritative status and the reception of the Homeric epics in antiquity see the overviews by Simon Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 138–43; Robert Lamberton, “Homer in Antiquity,” in A New Companion to Homer (ed. I. Morris and B. Powell; Mnemosyne Suppl. 163; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 33–54; Richard Hunter, “Homer and Greek Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to Homer (ed. R. Fowler; Cambridge Companions to Literature; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 235–53. 5 See John Herington, Poetry into Drama: Early Tragedy and the Greek Poetic Tradition (Sather Classical Lectures; Berkeley: California University Press, 1985), 133–44 on tragedy’s relationship to Homer from Aristotle’s point of view; considering that the Homeric epics were regularly recited by rhapsodes at the Panathenaia, the differences between the narrative and the dramatic genres must have been even less conspicuous (cf. ibid. on performance aspects). On the ‘tragic’ characteristics of the Homeric epics see Richard B. Rutherford, “Tragic Form and Feeling in the Iliad,” JHS 102 (1982): 145–60; Yoav Rinon, Homer and the Dual Model of the Tragic (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 2008). 6 On tragedy’s relationship to Homer see the general remarks by John Gould, “Homeric Epic and the Tragic Moment,” in Aspects of the Epic (ed. T. Winnifrith,

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Homeric narrative techniques and alluded to specific passages, with respect to the contents, they generally avoided competing directly with Homer by focusing instead on mythological material treated in the epic cycle. Here it has to be remembered that the Iliad itself forms a highly selective para- or hypertext of the orally transmitted tradition of the Trojan War, focusing on one episode from the tenth year while still incorporating the whole myth of the Trojan War by means of analepses and prolepses.7 Third, instead of viewing the relation of tragedy to Homeric epic in the sense of a narrow paratextual relationship, the terminology of a broader intertext lying in the background of the text and shaping the horizon of the poet and his audience seems more appropriate.8 This intertext is made up by the whole literary heritage of the past, thus not only by the Homeric epics, but also by lyric poetry and earlier tragedies that themselves have adapted Homer in turn.9 In principle, the cultural heritage extends beyond written texts to the orally transmitted mythological tradition as well as to other media of representation such as visual art. To describe this rich fabric of old and new texts interweaving each other, I borrow Genette’s image of the palimpsest:

P. Murray, and K. W. Gransden; London: Macmillan, 1983), 32–45; Lamberton, “Homer in Antiquity,” 40; Barbara Goward, Telling Tragedy: Narrative Technique in Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides (London: Duckworth, 1999), esp. 1–3, 121–29 from a narratological perspective; Hunter, “Homer,” 240–45; and Ruth Scodel, “Tragedy and Epic,” in A Companion to Tragedy (ed. R. Bushnell; Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2005), 181–97; as well as the studies of individual tragedies by Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy, 138–67; Judith Mossman, Wild Justice: A Study of Euripides’ Hecuba (Oxford Classical Monographs; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 19–29; and John Davidson, “Euripides, Homer, and Sophocles,” ICS 24–25 (1999–2000): 117–28. 7 See Georg Danek’s essay in this volume. According to Aristotle, only one or two tragedies could be made out of the Iliad’s plot (Poet. 1459b2–7). 8 For the sake of terminological clarity, in the following I avoid using the term paratext, which is defined by Genette in the restricted sense of “liminal devices and conventions, . . ., that mediate the book to the reader,” Gérard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (trans. J. E. Lewin; Literature, Culture, Theory 20; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), esp. xviii; cf. Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes: La littérature au second degré (Collection Poétique; Paris: Seuil, 1982), 8–12; and apply instead the vocabulary of intertextuality in a broad sense (Genette’s transtextuality); in particular I use Genette’s terminology of hypertextuality in order to describe the relation of a later hypertext (in this case Euripides’ tragedies) to an earlier hypotext (the Homeric epics). 9 On tragedy’s appropriation of the epic and the lyric traditions see Herington, Poetry into Drama, and Richard Garner, From Homer to Tragedy: the Art of Allusion in Greek Poetry (London: Routledge, 1990).

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Tragedies re-write the tradition, erasing earlier texts and at the same time transposing and incorporating them into a new context.10 For the purposes of this paper, I limit myself to the tragedies’ relationship to the Homeric epics, with the aim of studying broader patterns of interaction rather than identifying specific verbal allusions.11 When approaching the Attic tragedies as texts and analyzing them with the instruments of literary criticism, we have of course to be conscious that we miss a crucial aspect of the genre, namely the dimension of oral performance including the visual impact of the staging, the music, and the dancing. Moreover, in the fifth century the performance texts were not yet in a fixed state, as the process of editing and canonizing was completed only around two centuries later in Alexandria, the same mutatis mutandis being true for the text of the Homeric epics as well. Nevertheless, as I would like to show, some of the Trojan tragedies stress their own textuality by explicitly addressing the issue of literary memory and thus implicitly also their relationship to the Homeric epics, so that they may be termed hypertextual in the full sense. The main focus of this paper will be on the Euripidean tragedies depicting the fall of Troy and its immediate aftermath: the Hecuba, the Trojan Women, and the Andromache.12 After briefly sketching their plots, I look at specific passages dealing with the topic of memory and

10

Genette, Palimpsestes. The latter approach is mainly Garner’s, From Homer to Tragedy (see his lists of allusions: 187–221), although he also allows for more open allusions that refer to the Iliad as a whole (184–85). 12 The three plays have been the subject of recent commentaries (Tro.: Shirley A. Barlow, ed., Euripides: Trojan Women (ed. C. Collard; Classical Texts: The Plays of Euripides; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1986); Hec.: Christopher Collard, ed., Euripides: Hecuba (ed. C. Collard; Classical Texts: The Plays of Euripides 6; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1991); Andr.: Michael Lloyd, ed., Euripides: Andromache (ed. C. Collard; Classical Texts: The Plays of Euripides; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1994)), and monographs (Tro.: Neil T. Croally, Euripidean Polemic: The Trojan Women and the Function of Tragedy (Classical Studies; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Barbara Goff, Euripides: Trojan Women (Duckworth Companions to Greek and Roman Tragedy; London: Duckworth, 2009); Hec.: Mossman, Wild Justice; Andr.: William Allan, The Andromache and Euripidean Tragedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000)) that study their relationship to the literary tradition as well as their significance in the contemporary historical context. See also Anderson, Fall of Troy, 133–73; Edith Hall, “Introduction,” in Euripides: Hecuba, The Trojan Women, Andromache (ed. J. Morwood; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), ix–xlii; Froma I. Zeitlin, “Troy and Tragedy: The Conscience of Hellas,” in Antike Mythen: Medien, Transformationen und Konstruktionen (ed. U. Dill and C. Walde; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 678–95. 11

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explore their relationship to the Homeric epics. Finally, I will address the issue of the contemporary significance of the myth of the Trojan War in the historical context of the Peloponnesian War. II. Euripides’ Aftermath Plays: Hecuba, Trojan Women, Andromache The Trojan Women is the only one of Euripides’ three aftermath plays with a secure dating: It was performed in 415 b.c.e. as the last play of his Trojan trilogy that was grouped thematically around the Trojan War from its origins in the judgment of Paris to the fall of Troy. The other two plays, Hecuba and Andromache, seem to have been composed about ten years earlier around the mid-twenties. In the narrative order in which the three plays are situated, the Trojan Women comes first, as it is set on the day after the capture of Troy in full view of its smouldering ruins. The prologue is spoken by two gods, Poseidon and Athena, who leave the destroyed city, but not without announcing that the Greeks will be punished for the sacrileges they committed during the sack of Troy. In striking contrast to the gods, who are far aloof from human suffering, the real protagonists of the play are the captive women who are waiting on the shore to be allotted to the Greek commanders and subsequently shipped away to Greece. The central figure among them is the old queen Hecuba, who remains on stage during the whole play, interacting with the women of her family and the chorus of Trojan women, as well as with the Greeks. In the first scene, Cassandra in a prophetic frenzy celebrates her wedding with Agamemnon that will bring destruction to him and his house. In the second scene, Andromache learns about the Greeks’ decision to kill her infant son Astyanax, the potential heir of Troy. The third scene shifts the focus from the Trojans to the Greeks and the cause of the war, Helen. After witnessing a dispute between Helen and Hecuba over the question of guilt, Helen’s husband Menelaus judges her worthy of death, but is disbelieved by Hecuba, who fears Helen’s erotic power over Menelaus. The Trojan Women assumes the form of an extended lament for the fallen city and its inhabitants, in which the memory of the past, the present despair and the anxiety and lost hopes for the future come together to form an image of Troy that will survive its material destruction. In this sense, the broken figure of the old queen Hecuba symbolizes the essence of Troy, embodying its past glory, its present ruin, and its survival in the memory of future generations.

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In contrast to the Trojan Women, the play named after the queen herself, the Hecuba, is packed with dramatic action. Whereas the Trojan Women is set in the ruined landscape of Troy, the Hecuba plays on the opposite side of the Hellespont, during a temporary stopover on the Greek fleet’s way home. It is a land inhabited by the ghosts of the dead. The prologue speaker is the ghost of Polydorus, Hecuba’s youngest son, who has been treacherously murdered by the Thracian king Polymestor, under whose protection Hecuba had put her child. He announces that his body will be washed ashore so that he can be buried by his mother. However, this is not the only stroke of fate awaiting Hecuba. Polydorus also discloses that the ghost of Achilles has appeared above his tomb, demanding the sacrifice of Polyxena, Hecuba’s daughter. Within a single day, Hecuba will thus be confronted with the death of her last two remaining children. In vain does she appeal to Odysseus to spare her daughter, but finally Polyxena agrees to offer herself. While Hecuba prepares to bury her daughter, a servant brings the body of Polydorus. Guessing the cruel fate he has suffered at the hands of his host Polymestor, she plans an appropriate revenge. Ensuring Agamemnon’s compliance, she lures Polymestor into the camp, and with the assistance of the Trojan women succeeds in blinding him and killing his two small sons. The play can be read as an illustration of the disastrous effects the experience of war has exerted on the victorious Greeks as well as on the Trojan victims, who imitate and even surpass the brutality of the victors. In the Hecuba, the fall of Troy is not as omnipresent as in the Trojan Women, but nevertheless it is evoked in choral odes as a background of the action. Just as in spatial terms the Hecuba is staged in a no man’s land between Troy and Greece, it also plays in a sort of temporal gap between the past and the future, where all rules of civilized behaviour have broken down in the face of the brutality of war. The third play, the Andromache, traces the future destiny of Hector’s widow as a servant in the house of Neoptolemus, Achilles’ son. The plot is continually on the verge of reviving the Trojan past, as Andromache’s son by Neoptolemus is threatened with death by the latter’s new wife Hermione, Helen’s daughter, just as her first son by her former husband Hector, Astyanax, was killed by the Greeks. This time, however, her son is saved. Nevertheless, Andromache seems to live mainly in her memories of the past, lamenting the destiny of Troy and Hector as well as her own enslavement.

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The three plays represent thus three different stages in the aftermath of the Trojan War. The Trojan Women dramatize the immediate post-war situation, when the process of memorizing Troy has only just begun. The Hecuba is a play haunted by the ghosts of the dead and the still recent memories of the horrors of war which provoke different reactions: resignation and acceptance of death in the case of Polyxena over against the desire for violent revenge and the satisfaction of selfadministered justice in Hecuba. More time has passed between the fall of Troy and the plot of the Andromache. Troy has by now become a distant memory that nevertheless still determines the lives of the victors as well as the victims, as the past threatens to repeat itself in the destiny of the next generation. III. Troy as a Lieu de Mémoire—Whose Memory? In the epic and tragic texts focusing on the myth of Troy, multiple layers of memory have assembled upon each other like the different layers that form the material remains of the citadel of Troy. In Attic tragedy, Troy becomes a symbolic place loaded with literary memories, a true lieu de mémoire, which in turn opens the path for the future of the myth of Troy in Roman culture and beyond. Yet Troy’s fame presupposes its destruction. Accordingly, the Ilioupersis tradition, the narrative of the Fall of Troy, figures prominently in Greek literature.13 It not only forms the subject of two cyclic epics, the Little Iliad and the Ilioupersis, but is reflected in Homer as well. Although in the Iliad the fall of Troy lies beyond the scope of the epic, it is anticipated several times by Trojan characters: by Hector, who predicts that the day shall come when Troy will fall (6.448: ἔσσεται ἦμαρ ὅτ᾽ ἄν ποτ᾽ ὀλώλῃ ῎Ιλιος ἱρή), by Priam envisaging his own cruel death as the culmination of the city’s capture (22.59–76), or by Andromache mourning Hector’s death (24.725–745). These Homeric passages foreshadowing the fall of Troy are focalized from the Trojan perspective, thus forming

13 Anderson, Fall of Troy, reviews the Ilioupersis in early Greek poetry and art, mainly in the epic and tragic traditions. See also George M. Paul, “Urbs Capta: Sketch of an Ancient Literary Motif,” Phoenix 36/2 (1982): 144–55 on the development of the motif of the captured city as a rhetorical topos in poetry and historiography throughout antiquity.

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a precedent for Euripides’ tragic characters who look back on the fall of Troy from the reverse temporal angle. In this sense, the premonitions and fears uttered by Hector and Andromache in books 6 (390–503), 22 (477–514), and 24 (723–746) of the Iliad are reworked in Euripides’ Andromache, where Andromache laments the fall of Troy, the deaths of her husband Hector and of her son Astyanax, and her own fate as a slave (1–15, 91–116, 394–403). The Homeric prophecies have now been turned into memories of the past. This hypertextual relationship is signaled within the text by reminiscences of epic diction and metre, and at least in one case (99: δούλειον ἦμαρ) by a pointed verbal allusion to a phrase from Hector’s speech in Iliad 6.463: δούλιον ἦμαρ, the ‘day of slavery’ Hector wished he was able to ward off from his wife—in vain, as the bitter laments of the Euripidean Andromache make clear.14 In the tragedy named after her, her sad fate as imagined by the Homeric Hector has indeed been fulfilled.15 The same passage from Hector’s speech contains another thought that is also taken up in Euripides’ tragedies. The Homeric Hector pictures his own future fame as the best Trojan warrior by means of having an imaginary Greek comment on Andromache’s lot as a slave and recognize her as the former wife of the famous Hector (Il. 6.460–61: “ ῞Εκτορος ἥδε γυνή, ὃς ἀριστεύεσκε μάχεσθαι / Τρώων ἱπποδάμων, ὅτε ῎Ιλιον ἀμφιμάχοντο.”). If already in the Homeric text the topic of the future memory of Troy and its heroes is implied, the three Euripidean aftermath plays explicitly address the problem of memory by dramatizing the very process of remembrance. Following the plot of the Trojan Women, I now look at the ways in which characters’ memories of events within the fictional world of the play may reflect the poet’s memory of earlier texts, so that memory in these plays can also be read meta-poetically as a figure for their hypertextual relationship to the Homeric epics.16

14 On the use of this Homeric phrase as “Euripides’ emblem for the fall of Troy and the fate of its women” in Andr. 99, Hec. 56, and Tro. 1330 see Garner, From Homer to Tragedy, 129; 133; 165. Generally on Homeric reminiscences in this passage of the Andromache see also Lloyd, Euripides, 111–13, and Allan, Andromache, 14–20; 54–57. 15 As Mossman, Wild Justice, 25 puts it: “Homeric imagination has become Euripidean fact.” 16 On memory and forgetting as poetological figures from antiquity to modern literature see e.g. the essays in Anselm Haverkamp and Renate Lachmann, eds., Memoria:

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In the prologue to the Trojan Women, the pro-Trojan god Poseidon in a somewhat nostalgic mood takes leave of the ruined walls that he had once helped to build, but realistically enough comments that in a destroyed city no one is left to worship the altars of the gods:17 λείπω τὸ κλεινὸν ῎Ιλιον βωμοὺς τ’ ἐμούς· ἐρημία γὰρ πόλιν ὅταν λάβηι κακή, νοσεῖ τὰ τῶν θεῶν οὐδὲ τιμᾶσθαι θέλει.

I am abandoning famous Ilium and my altars . . . For whenever the curse of desolation lays hold on a city, religion grows sickly and there is no will to honour the gods. (Tro. 25–27)

The memory of Troy seems forever lost. However, by calling the city κλεινός, “famous,” Poseidon may not only be referring to her past glory, but also to the fame Troy has acquired in the literary tradition. Further, in two lines that have been considered an interpolation by most editors, he refers to the future naming of the Trojan Horse: [ὅθεν πρὸς ἀνδρῶν ὑστέρων κεκλήσεται δούρειος ἵππος, κρυπτὸν ἀμπισχὼν δόρυ.] [As a result it will be called by future generations the Wooden Horse, fraught with hidden spears of wood.] (Tro. 13–14)

In any case, the prologue thus exhibits two contrary moves of memory that will determine also the rest of the play: the backwards mode of remembering and lamenting the past, which is countered by occasional glimpses into the opposite direction by anticipating Troy’s future renown in poetry. There is however a certain paradox inherent in this claim: Troy will of course be remembered in Greek poetry, just as Poseidon’s words have been put into his mouth by a Greek tragedian. But whose memory will these poems transmit? Will it be the point of view of the Greek victors, as the reference to the Trojan Horse seems to imply? Or how Vergessen und Erinnern (Poetik und Hermeneutik 15 Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1993) and Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume: Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999). 17 All quotations from Euripides are taken form the editions by James Diggle, ed., Supplices, Electra, Hercules, Troades, Iphigenia in Tauris, Ion (vol. 2 of Euripides Fabulae; ed. J. Diggle; OCT; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981) and James Diggle, ed., Cyclops, Alcestis, Medea, Heraclidae, Hippolytus, Andromacha, Hecuba (vol. 1 of Euripides Fabulae; ed. J. Diggle; OCT; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), and all translations from Morwood, Euripides.

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can Troy in a Greek poem be remembered by its own inhabitants, especially by its women? Does Euripides give them a voice of their own which is distinguished from the male Greek voice, although in the fictional world of the play the Trojan women of course speak Greek as well and, moreover, are impersonated by male actors? These tensions and contradictions result in an effect of distancing that contributes to the metapoetic dimension of the play.18 In her first entry, Hecuba tries to come to terms with the problem of how to mourn the loss of her country and her family: τί με χρὴ σιγᾶν; τί δὲ μὴ σιγᾶν; τί δὲ θρηνῆσαι;

Why should I be silent? Why should I not be silent? Why should I lament? (Tro. 110–11)

The tension between speaking and silence is resolved in the form of a kommos, a funerary lament for the fallen city of Troy (145, 173–75).19 This is Hecuba’s “Muse,” the song of sorrow she performs as a leader of the chorus: μοῦσα δὲ χαὔτη τοῖς δυστήνοις ἄτας κελαδεῖν ἀχορεύτους.

But even this is music to the wretched— to sing of their joyless woes. (Tro. 120–21)

In a memorable image, she compares herself to a mother bird raising a cry for her young: μάτηρ δ’ ὡσεὶ πτανοῖς κλαγγὰν ‡ὄρνισιν ὅπως ἐξάρξω ’γὼ μολπὰν οὐ τὰν αὐτὰν‡ οἵαν ποτὲ δὴ σκήπτρωι Πριάμου διερειδομένου ποδὸς ἀρχεχόρου πλαγαῖς Φρυγίους εὐκόμποις ἐξῆρχον θεούς.

18 Metapoetic readings of the Trojan Women that also emphasize the play’s selfreflexive dimension are to be found in Justina Gregory, Euripides and the Instruction of the Athenians (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 155–83; Charles Segal, Euripides and the Poetics of Sorrow: Art, Gender, and Commemoration in Alcestis, Hippolytus, and Hecuba (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993), 17–18, 29–33; Croally, Polemic, 235–48; and Oliver Taplin, “Greek Tragedy, Chekhov, and Being Remembered,” Arion 13 (2006): 51–65. 19 On the city lament as a prominent form of lament in the Trojan Women see Ann Suter, “Lament in Euripides’ Trojan Women,” Mnemosyne 56 (2003): 1–28. Philip Alexander suggests possible Near Eastern influences for the genre.

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Just as the mother-bird raises the cry for its nestlings, so shall I begin the chant, a very different measure from that which once I led to honour the Phrygians’ gods as I led the dance with the loud-ringing stamp of my foot while Priam leant on his sceptre. (Tro. 146–52)

The comparison may well allude to a famous passage in the Iliad (2.308–29): the prodigy at Aulis, when a snake, after eating eight young sparrows and their lamenting mother, was turned into stone, which was interpreted by the seer Calchas as an omen for the capture of Troy in the tenth year of the war. The Euripidean Hecuba thus assumes the role of the Homeric mother bird symbolizing the fall of the city. The notion of the lament as a “Muse” uttered by Hecuba is taken up by the chorus in the first choral ode: ἀμφί μοι ῎Ιλιον, ὦ Μοῦσα, καινῶν ὕμνων ἆισον σὺν δακρύοις ὠιδὰν ἐπικήδειον· νῦν γὰρ μέλος ἐς Τροίαν ἰαχήσω, . . . ὡς . . . . . . ὀλόμαν . . .

Sing, O Muse, a new song about Ilium, a funeral dirge accompanied by tears. For now I shall cry out a song for Troy, a song of how I was destroyed, . . . (Tro. 511–18)

Not by chance, the invocation of the Muse reminds of an epic proem. The “new song” announced by the chorus is thus to be a counterpart to the Greek epics that celebrate the fall of Troy from the perspective of the victors. Accordingly, the choral ode describes the celebrations around the Trojan Horse and the night of the conquest from the intimate perspective of the Trojan girls and women who were eyewitnesses of the slaughter and accordingly more reliable narrators than any epic poet could be. The ode’s characterization as a “new song” can by implication be extended to the whole tragedy that in its main structure takes on the form of a funerary lament, a female genre par excellence.20

20 On the function of lament in the Trojan Women and its relation to ritual lament see Suter, “Lament in Euripides,” (with further bibliographical references). On female lament in tragedy see also Segal, Poetics of Sorrow, 13–33; Helene P. Foley, Female

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The tragedy’s relationship to epic is however not to be defined as a simple contrast. Indeed, in epic as well as in tragedy lament is the prime medium of the female voice. As mentioned before, already in Homer’s Iliad there are passages that view the war from the perspective of the Trojans, especially in Book 6, where Hector takes leave from his wife Andromache, and in Books 22 and 24, where Hector’s death and burial are lamented by his father Priam and his female relatives. The female speakers of the sequence of funerary laments for Hector at the end of the Iliad, Cassandra, Andromache, Hecuba, and Helen, all appear in the Trojan Women. By pointed allusions, Euripides singles out these Homeric passages as the central hypotext of his play,21 thereby suggesting that the Trojan women’s perspective on the fall of Troy is the true one. His monopolizing reading of the Iliad thus not only constitutes a highly selective hypertextual relationship, but also changes the interpretation of the Homeric text itself, which in retrospective seems to become a Trojan and even female epic.22 Moreover, Euripides explicitly redirects epic values from the Greeks to the Trojans. In her speech, Cassandra reverses the notion of kleos (κλέος), the fame won by the Greeks through conquering Troy (365– 402). She argues that despite their eventual defeat the Trojans were in fact more fortunate than the Greeks, because the Greek soldiers fought and died in a foreign country, whereas the Trojans defended their own city and were buried by their own families: Τρῶες δὲ πρῶτον μέν, τὸ κάλλιστον κλέος, ὑπὲρ πάτρας ἔθνισκον· οὓς δ’ ἕλοι δόρυ, νεκροὶ γ’ ἐς οἴκους φερόμενοι φίλων ὕπο ἐν γῆι πατρωίαι περιβολὰς εἶχον χθονός, χερσὶν περισταλέντες ὧν ἐχρῆν ὕπο·

Acts in Greek Tragedy (Martin Classical Lectures; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2001), 19–55; Casey Dué, The Captive Woman’s Lament in Greek Tragedy (Austin, Tex.: University of Texas Press, 2006). 21 According to Garner, From Homer to Tragedy, 179, books 6 and 22 of the Iliad are alluded to most frequently by later poets. 22 Therefore I disagree with Davidson’s view (Davidson, “Euripides,” 127–28) that the new song is very much just the old song, although he makes otherwise some nice points in his analysis of the passage and its relation to Homer. David Sansone, “Euripides’ New Song: The First Stasimon of Trojan Women,” in The Play of Texts and Fragments: Essays in Honour of Martin Cropp (ed. J. R. C. Cousland and J. R Hume; Mnemosyne Suppl. 314; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 193–203, also explores the song’s relationship to funeral lament in the Iliad.

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ὅσοι δὲ μὴ θάνοιεν ἐν μάχηι Φρυγῶν, ἀεὶ κατ᾽ ἦμαρ σὺν δάμαρτι καὶ τέκνοις ὤικουν, Ἀχαιοῖς ὧν ἀπῆσαν ἡδοναί.

As for the Trojans, first of all—and this is the noblest fame— they died for their fatherland, and the corpses of any whom the spear took were carried to their homes by their friends. The earth of their native land embraced them and they were shrouded by the hands of their families, as was proper. And all the Phrygians who did not die in battle lived with their wives and their children day after day. These were pleasures which the Achaeans missed. (Tro. 386–93)

The picture sketched by Cassandra might well be seen as an extrapolation from the prominence given to the description of Hector’s funeral at the end of the Iliad (24.695–804). Cassandra goes on to claim that Hector and Paris would not have won fame if the war had not taken place: τὰ δ’ Ἕκτορός σοι λύπρ’ ἄκουσον ὡς ἔχει· δόξας ἀνὴρ ἄριστος οἴχεται θανών, καὶ τοῦτ’ Ἀχαιῶν ἵξις ἐξεργάζεται· εἰ δ’ ἦσαν οἴκοι, χρηστὸς ὢν ἐλάνθαν’ ἄν. Πάρις δ’ ἔγημε τὴν ∆ιός· γήμας δὲ μή, σιγώμενον τὸ κῆδος εἶχ’ ἄν ἐν δόμοις.

And listen to the truth about Hector, whose story seems so tragic to you. He has departed this life with the reputation of the noblest of men, and it was the coming of the Achaeans that caused this. If they had stayed at home, who would have known of his courage? Paris too—he married Zeus’ daughter. If he had not married her, he would have had in his house a wife whom no one talked about. (Tro. 394–99)

As we have seen above, in the Iliad Hector’s only consolation in the face of his imminent death at the hands of Achilles is the thought of his future fame as the best warrior of Troy (6.460–61; cf. 22.304–05: μὴ μὰν ἀσπουδί γε καὶ ἀκλειῶς ἀπολοίμην / ἀλλὰ μέγα ῥέξας τι καὶ ἐσσομένοισι πυθέσθαι). More ambiguously, the Homeric Helen predicts that because of their evil fate, she and Paris will be topics of “a song for men that are yet to be” (Il. 6.357–58: οἷσιν ἐπὶ Ζεὺς θῆκε κακὸν μόρον, ὡς καὶ ὀπίσσω / ἀνθρώποισι πελώμεθ’ ἀοίδιμοι ἐσσομένοισι). Through the mouth of his Cassandra, Euripides thus specifically evokes Homeric passages where the preservation of the

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memory of Troy through poetry already is alluded to in a self-conscious way. In the Trojan Women, a further context where the topic of future memory is addressed is the burial of little Astyanax, whom the Greeks killed from fear that he would grow up to rebuild Troy. Hecuba composes a fictive epitaph for her grandson: τί καί ποτε γράψειεν ἄν σοι μουσοποιὸς ἐν τάφωι; Τὸν παῖδα τόνδ’ ἔκτειναν Ἀργεῖοί ποτε δείσαντες; αἰσχρὸν τοὐπίγραμμα γ’ Ἑλλάδι.

What could a poet write about you on your grave? ‘The Argives once killed this child because they feared him’? An epitaph to bring shame on Greece! (Tro. 1188–91)

Hecuba turns the fictitious sepulchral epigram from a means of praise to commemorate the glory of a fallen warrior into an instrument of blame in order to perpetuate the memory of the Greeks’ war crime from the perspective of its victims. As it is mainly minor heroes who receive such epigrammatic obituaries in Homer—we may think of the particularly devious example of Hector imagining an epitaph on an anonymous Greek warrior killed by himself that will testify to his own fame (Iliad 7.87–91)23—Astyanax is simultaneously attributed the posthumous status of an epic warrior and tragically marginalized in the process, a mere child more feared by the Greeks than the mighty Hector. In a similar way, Hector’s shield is converted from a Greek trophy celebrating Achilles’ victory into a tomb for Astyanax (1136–42) that will forever testify to his and his father’s valor: σύ τ’, ὦ ποτ’ οὖσα καλλίνικε μυρίων μῆτερ τροπαίων, Ἕκτορος φίλον σάκος, στεφανοῦ· θάνηι γὰρ οὐ θανοῦσα σὺν νεκρῶι·

And you, Hector’s beloved shield, once the victorious mother of countless trophies, receive this adornment [i.e. the body of Astyanax]. In dying with this body, you will win immortality. (Tro. 1221–23)

23 On such epigrammatic epitaphs in Homer and their reception in later poetry see Martin Dinter, “Epic and Epigram: Minor Heroes in Virgil’s Aeneid,” CQ 55 (2005): 153–69, esp. 153–56, and Annette Harder, “Epigram and the Heritage of Epic,” in Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram: down to Philip (ed. P. Bing and J. S. Bruss; Brill’s Companions in Classical Studies; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 409–28, esp. 412.

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By having Hecuba appropriate heroic gestures from the epic tradition and reenact her Iliadic laments for Hector in the burial of Astyanax, Euripides points to the continuity as well as to the incongruity between her Homeric role and his tragedy.24 Finally, the fundamental paradox that Troy’s fall ensures its future glory in poetry is summed up in Hecuba’s comment at the end of the burial scene: εἰ δὲ μὴ θεὸς ἔστρεψε τἄνω περιβαλὼν κάτω χθονός, ἀφανεῖς ἂν ὄντες οὐκ ἂν ὑμνηθεῖμεν ἂν μούσαις ἀοιδὰς δόντες ὑστέρων βροτῶν.

Yet if god had not turned the world upside down, we would vanish into obscurity. We would never have given men to come the inspiration to sing of us in their song. (Tro. 1242–45)

For the audience, Hecuba’s prophecy comes true the very moment she utters it on stage, for Euripides’ play testifies that the fame of Troy has indeed been transmitted in the literary tradition. Euripides has Hecuba refer again to the self-reflexive comment of the Homeric Helen that he had used also in Cassandra’s speech (394–99).25 If the allusion is to be read in a pointed sense, Hecuba at last triumphs over her enemy by claiming for the Trojans the glory Helen had prophesied for herself. The passages selected so far might give the impression that Euripides transfers the notion of epic kleos to tragedy without questioning it in the context of the tragic universe. However, in the overall structure of the play the dark picture of Troy’s physical destruction and the suffering of its former inhabitants still prevail. At the very end of the play, the Greeks set fire to the city, while Hecuba and the chorus in a final lament address their home for the last time, until the walls of Troy finally crumble and fall. Here the prospect of future immortality in song gives way to the pessimistic feeling that the name of Troy will be lost forever together with the ruins of the city:

24 On echoes in this scene from Hecuba’s laments over Hector in Iliad 22 and 24 as well as from the scene between Hector, Andromache, and Astyanax in Iliad 6 see Segal, Poetics of Sorrows, 29–32. Also Andromache’s lament for Hector links Astyanax’ tragic fate with the heroic deeds of his father (Iliad 24.732–38). 25 On the allusion to Iliad 6.357–58 (quoted above) see Barlow, Euripides, 225–26 (ad loc.), and Segal, Poetics of Sorrow, 32.

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ὦ μεγάλα δή ποτ’ ἀμπνέουσ’ ἐν βαρβάροις Τροία, τὸ κλεινὸν ὄνομ’ ἀφαιρήσηι τάχα.

Hecuba: O Troy, city that breathed forth greatness once among barbarians, soon you will be stripped of your famous name. (Tro. 1277–78) ... Χο. Εκ.

Χο.

. . . ἁ δὲ μεγαλόπολις ἄπολις ὄλωλεν οὐδ’ ἔτ’ ἔστι Τροία. ὀτοτοτοτοῖ. ‡λέλαμπεν Ἴλιος, Περγάμων τε πυρὶ καταίθεται τέραμνα καὶ πόλις ἄκρα τε τειχέων‡. πτέρυγι δὲ καπνὸς ὥς τις οὐρίαι πεσοῦσα δορὶ καταφθίνει γᾶ.

Chorus: The great city of Troy is destroyed. It is a city no more. It is a thing of the past. Hecuba: Otototoi! Troy blazes. The buildings of Pergamum and the city and the tops of its walls are consumed with fire. Chorus: Like smoke on the wings of the breezes, our land, laid low now in war, now vanishes into nothingness. (Tro. 1291–99) ... Εκ. Χο. Εκ. Χο. Εκ. Χο.

ἰὼ θεῶν μέλαθρα καὶ πόλις φίλα, ἒ ἒ. τὰν φόνιον ἔχετε φλόγα δορός τε λόγχαν. τάχ’ ἐς φίλαν γᾶν πεσεῖσθ’ ἀνώνυμοι. κόνις δ’ ἴσα καπνῶι πτερύγι πρὸς αἰθέρα ἄιστον οἴκων ἐμῶν με θήσει. ὄνομα δὲ γᾶς ἀφανὲς εἶσιν· ἄλλαι δ’ ἄλλο φροῦδον, οὐδ’ ἔτ’ ἔστιν ἁ τάλαινα Τροία.

Hecuba: O halls of the gods and my dear city! Chorus: Ah, ah! Hecuba: The flame of destruction and the spearpoint have you in their power. Chorus: You will soon fall upon the dear earth into anonymity. Hecuba: The dust winging its way to the sky like smoke will mask the house which I shall see no more. Chorus: The name of our land will go into oblivion. All is scattered and gone, and unhappy Troy is no more. (Tro. 1317–24)

The pessimistic ending of the Trojan Women serves as a reminder that memory is never a given fact, but that it has to be renewed and rewritten time and time again. In this sense, Euripides contributes towards the process of memorializing Troy and fixing its place in the literary

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tradition.26 In his aftermath plays, Troy for the first time in European literature becomes a place of nostalgic remembrance, paradoxically not for its own people, but for the Greek audience who to a certain extent will have identified with the perspective of the Trojan women. This feeling of nostalgia is caught in a symbolic picture in the Hecuba, where the Trojan women remember the moment when they for the last time looked back at their city from the Greek ships that are leading them away from their home into captivity and exile: πόλιν τ’ ἀποσκοποῦσ’, ἐπεὶ νόστιμον ναῦς ἐκίνησεν πόδα καί μ’ ἀπὸ γᾶς ὥρισεν Ἰλιάδος, τάλαιν’ ἀπεῖπον ἄλγει, . . .

And while I looked back at the city when the ship set its homeward course and parted me from the land of Ilium, I fainted in my agony of grief, . . . (Hec. 939–42)

Their final look back signals the beginning of their future life in exile. Euripides seems to suggest that the Greek ships together with the Trojan captives have also imported their memories of Troy to Greece, where they have lived on in the Greek poetic tradition and especially in the female genre of lament incorporated in the Trojan Women.27 Euripides has lent the Trojan women a tragic voice of their own as an alternative to the perspective of the Greek victors. Yet in the end, they are still part of an Attic tragedy reflecting specifically Athenian values. This is evident in the positive image of Athens in the choral odes: The captive women hope to come to Athens, which they describe as a kind of paradise, not to Sparta, the home of the cursed Helen (Tro. 208–13; cf. Hec. 466–74). Such a superimposition of a Greek perspective upon the Trojan women appears also in the passages where Euripides has them express feelings of empathy with their Greek fellow

26 Cf. Taplin, “Greek Tragedy,” 56: “Even as they lament the obliteration of the name of Troy, they are in fact perpetuating it. They press delete, and what they do is save.” See also Croally, Euripidean Polemic, 192–94, 247–48 on the emphasis on Troy’s destruction at the end of the play and the reverse mode of memory persisting in lamentation and nostalgia. 27 Obviously, we will never know how the ‘real’ Trojan women—if they ever existed outside the fictional world of the play—would have felt about becoming the subject of their enemies’ poems. Would they have hoped for a genuine Trojan poetic tradition to preserve their memories?

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sufferers, the widows and mothers of the Greek warriors who have fallen before Troy. In the Hecuba, the chorus of Trojan women imagines Spartan women mourning the death of their beloved: στένει δὲ καί τις ἀμφὶ τὸν εὔροον Εὐρώταν Λάκαινα πολυδάκρυτος ἐν δόμοις κόρα, πολιόν τ’ ἐπὶ κρᾶτα μάτηρ τέκνων θανόντων τίθεται χέρα δρύπτεταί τε < > παρειάν, δίαιμον ὄνυχα τιθεμένα σπαραγμοῖς.

And by the fair-flowing Eurotas a Spartan girl laments at home, with many a tear, and a mother beats her grey head with her hand and tears her cheek, rending it with bloody nails, for her children are dead. (Hec. 650–56)

This is a mirroring strategy similar to the one applied to the notion of fame. Greek empathy for the Trojan side is to a certain extent evident already in Homer and in earlier tragedies.28 Euripides reverses the perspective and has the Trojan women pity the Greeks. This unexpected turn makes clear that in his interpretation of the Trojan War there are no victors, but only victims. IV. Contemporary Issues: Troy and Athens—Reflections of War The Euripidean tragedies on the fall of Troy and its aftermath rewrite the Homeric tradition through selecting, re-focusing, and re-interpreting, and even at times self-consciously reflecting on the process. Tragedy’s hypertextual relationship to Homer is however not a mere literary game for the sake of innovation, but closely bound up with the contemporary historical context. By means of various case studies from different periods and cultures, the essays in this volume show how exegetical techniques are applied to authoritative texts in order to answer contemporary questions. What meaning could the memory of the fall of Troy thus have had for a fifth-century Athenian audience?

28 E.g. in the conversation between Priam and Achilles in Iliad 24 (cf. Rutherford, “Tragic Form and Feeling”, 158–60), or in the criticism of the Trojan War implied in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (cf. Gould, “Homeric Epic”; William G. Thalmann, “Euripides and Aeschylus: The case of the Hekabe,” ClAnt 12 (1993): 126–59, esp. 130–36; we may also think of Aeschylus’ Persians with its somber view of Greek victory from the perspective of the defeated.

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Recent research has emphasized the political function of Attic tragedy in the original sense of the word, namely its importance for the forming of collective identity through reaffirming as well as questioning central issues of the polis community in fifth-century Athens.29 Such a political meaning is of course most evident in the case of historical tragedies such as Phrynichus’ Miletou Halosis (492 b.c.e.), a lost tragedy on the recent capture of the rebellious Greek city Miletus by the Persians, or Aeschylus’ Persians (472 b.c.e.) on the defeat of Xerxes’ army in 480. Tragedies on historical subjects form however an almost negligible minority compared to those on mythological themes. Nonetheless, also mythological plays can assume a contemporary political significance, especially since there exists no fixed boundary between history and myth, the latter being regarded as a sort of ancient history with close links to the present. In the twentieth century, the Trojan tragedies by Euripides and especially the Trojan Women have frequently been re-staged as antiwar plays in different historical contexts from World War I and II to the War in Iraq.30 Was this also their original intention? In scholarship, the plays have often been read as political warnings against Athenian imperialism in the sense that Athens may in turn suffer the fate of Troy if it uses its power in the wrong way. It is indeed not far-fetched to see an analogy between Euripides’ focus on the fall of Troy and the Peloponnesian War, where Greek city-states fight other Greek city-states and Greeks are both victors and victims.31 The Trojan Women has even been linked with a specific incident that immediately preceded the production of the play: the invasion of the neutral island Melos by Athenian forces and the subsequent massacre of the male 29 Tragedy’s political function as civic instruction has been emphasized in recent handbooks (Paul Cartledge, “ ‘Deep Plays’: Theatre as Process in Greek Civic Life,” in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy (ed. P. E. Easterling; Cambridge Companions to Literature; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 3–35; Neil T. Croally, “Tragedy’s Teaching,” in A Companion to Greek Tragedy (ed. J. Gregory; Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Ancient History; Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2005), 55–70; Deborah Boedeker and Kurt Raaflaub, “Tragedy and City,” in A Companion to Greek Tragedy (ed. R. Bushnell; Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Ancient History; Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2005), 109–27, and studied with respect to Euripides’ Trojan Women by Gregory, Instruction of the Athenians, esp. 155–83, Croally, Euripidean Polemic, and Zeitlin, “Troy and Tragedy.” 30 For twentieth-century receptions of Trojan Women see Goff, Euripides, 78–135. 31 Euripides’ contemporary Thucydides describes the Peloponnesian War as a kind of civil war (see Jonathan J. Price, Thucydides and Internal War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001)).

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population and deportation of the women and children, as described by Thucydides (5.116).32 However, tempting as it may be to draw links between the plays and contemporary events, there lies a methodological problem in the issue whether individual tragedies reflect political events in a direct manner.33 Rather, the tragedies composed during the Peloponnesian War reflect upon war and its effects on society in a more general way, in the sense that Euripides comments upon the increasing brutality of the war and has the audience ponder the complex moral issues associated with it. With these questions in mind, let us once more review the tragedies’ relationship to Homer with respect to two topics: the depiction and evaluation of acts of brutality and the characterization of Greeks and Trojans. As we have seen, the tragedies by Euripides view the fall of Troy almost exclusively from the perspective of the Trojan women and emphasize the fact that the Trojan War brings death and destruction to both sides, the Greeks as well as the Trojans. This is not a wholly new perspective on the Trojan War, for already Homer’s Iliad shows the disastrous effects of the war for both sides, most prominently by selecting as its main plot the wrath of Achilles that caused many casualties among the Greeks themselves, as announced in the proem (1.1– 7). The difference seems to lie in the fact that in Homer acts of brutal violence committed by Greek warriors are embedded in the context of the ongoing war, although they are not in each case legitimized by the heroic code of behavior, as for example the mutilation of Hector’s corpse by Achilles or his sacrifice of twelve Trojan prisoners of war at Patroclus’ pyre, which mark his excessive rage and grief (Il. 21.26–32; 22.395–404; 23.19–26, 175–83; 24.11–22).34

32 On the chronological problem involved see Anna M. van Erp Taalman Kip, “Euripides and Melos,” Mnemosyne 40 (1987): 414–19 and the more balanced discussions in Croally, Euripidean Polemic, 232–34, Suter, “Lament in Euripides,” 18–25, and Goff, Euripides, 27–35. 33 On tragedy and history see the methodological discussions and case studies in Christopher Pelling, ed., Greek Tragedy and the Historian (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997); idem, Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (Approaching the Ancient World; London: Routledge, 2000), esp. 164–88 and Paula Debnar, “Fifth-Century Athenian History and Tragedy,” in Gregory, A Companion to Greek Tragedy, 3–22. 34 Charles Segal, The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad, Mnemosyne Suppl. 17 (Leiden: Brill, 1971) studies the poetical function of this motif in the Iliad.

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In contrast, the Trojan tragedies by Euripides depict a post-war situation, where violence is directed not against male warriors, but against helpless victims, mainly women and children. In the prologue to the Trojan Women, Poseidon and Athena discuss the sacrileges committed by the Greeks during the sack of Troy. They will be punished for them, as Poseidon states ominously: μῶρος δὲ θνητῶν ὅστις ἐκπορθεῖ πόλεις ναούς τε τύμβους θ’, ἱερὰ τῶν κεκμηκότων· ἐρημίαι δούς <σφ’> αὐτὸς ὤλεθ’ ὕστερον.

The mortal who sacks cities and temples and tombs, the holy places of the dead, is a fool. Having given them to desolation, he himself meets destruction in time to come. (Tro. 95–97)

After the sack, violence directed against the captive women and children is even less justifiable. Although the Greeks try to defend these acts with political reasons, the human sacrifice of Polyxena at the grave of Achilles and the murder of the innocent child Astyanax are not a glorious chapter in the Greek victory over Troy. To be sure, these acts of brutality have not been invented by Euripides. They form part of the epic cycle and have often been depicted in archaic and early classical art.35 However, by changing the focus and viewing them exclusively from the perspective of the victims, Euripides uses the tradition in order to complicate its interpretation. At least in the view of the Trojan women, the Greeks behave in a more barbarian way than the allegedly barbaric Trojans. Andromache protests against the political murder of her son Astyanax: ὦ βάρβαρ’ ἐξεύροντες Ἕλληνες κακά, τί τόνδε παῖδα κτείνετ’ οὐδὲν αἴτιον;

O you Greeks, you who have devised atrocities worthy of barbarians, why are you killing this innocent boy? (Tro. 764–65)

Even Greek characters sympathize to a certain extent with the Trojan women. In the Hecuba, Agamemnon allows Hecuba to execute her cruel revenge on the treacherous king Polymestor who killed her last

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See Anderson, Fall of Troy, especially on the murder of Priam (27–48) and the murder of Astyanax (53–59)—both of them foreshadowed in the Iliad—, the murder of Polyxena (59–61), and iconography (177–265).

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remaining son. In the Andromache, the brave old king Peleus successfully defends Andromache and his grandson against the arrogant Hermione and her father Menelaus, who in an almost ridiculous imitation of the sack of Troy try to kill the helpless captives. Finally, in the Trojan Women the centripetal force of the women’s perspective seems so irresistible, that the only two Greek male characters who appear in the play are drawn into it: The herald Talthybius, who has to announce the Greeks’ decision to kill Astyanax, helps to bury his crushed body (1150–55),36 while Menelaus at least pretends to condemn Helen to death in accordance with Hecuba’s accusations (860–1059)—an outcome disbelieved by Hecuba (891–94, 1049, 1051) and contradicted by the reunion of the couple as presupposed in book 4 of the Odyssey. Does the Homeric text here function as a compulsory corrective, or does the tragedy on the contrary allow for a different ending in which the Trojan women get their revenge on the hated woman who caused the war?37 By various means such as explicit moral comments or the sympathetic portrayal of Trojan characters, the audience is invited to identify with the Trojan side. In this way, Euripides deconstructs the ideological opposition between civilized Greeks and “barbaric” Trojans that had been built up in the wake of the Persian Wars, partly by re-activating the more impartial view of the Homeric epics.38 Euripides’ strategy here may be termed hyper-Homeric rather than anti-Homeric, in the sense that he reads the Homeric epic against the grain while still basing himself on the Homeric text. In his aftermath plays, Euripides’ blending of the Greek and Trojan perspectives precludes any one-sided identification and complicates audience response to the staging of the fall of Troy. In the mirror of the Trojan tragedies, Athens seems at the same time “Greek” and

36

So Barlow, Euripides, 220 ad loc. On the ambiguities and ironies of this scene see Barlow, Euripides, 205–14; Michael Lloyd, The Agon in Euripides (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 99–112, and Croally, Euripidean Polemic, 134–62. Gregory, Instructions of the Athenians, 174 regards the Homeric reference as an unequivocal clue for the audience. 38 On the ‘invention’ of the barbarian in Greek literature see Edith Hall, Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy (Oxford Classical Monographs; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), on the portrayal of the Trojans in Homer cf. Magdalene Stoevesandt, Feinde—Gegner—Opfer: zur Darstellung der Trojaner in den Kampfszenen der Ilias (SBA 30; Basel: Schwabe, 2005). Croally, Euripidean Polemic, 103–15 studies Euripides’ strategy of confusing Greeks and barbarians in the Trojan Women. 37

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“Trojan,” aggressor as well as potential victim. Tragic Troy stands thus not directly for Athens or another historical city, but functions as a transhistorical symbol, a paradigm for the fragility of human existence in the face of war that can only partly be compensated for by the enduring memory in poetry.39

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On the “transhistoricité” of Attic tragedy see Jean-Pierre Vernant, “Le sujet tragique: historicité et transhistoricité,” in idem and Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Mythe et tragédie en Grèce ancienne (2 vols.: Textes à l’appui; Paris: La Découverte, 1986–1989), 2:79–90.

THE HOMERIC EPICS AS PALIMPSESTS Georg Danek University of Vienna In chapter 78 of his Palimpsestes, Gérard Genette describes how the French novelist Stendhal (Marie-Henry Beyle) one day received the manuscript of a novel named Le lieutenant from a certain Madame Gaulthier which he read and sent back to her, full of his disgruntled comments. Madame Gaulthier’s manuscript and Stendhal’s comments have been lost forever, but Stendhal nevertheless was much fascinated by its plot and made it the basic structure of the first part of his novel Lucien Leuwen, which means that—using the terminology of Genette’s Palimpsestes—he reworked his hypo-text just to replace it by the new hyper-text. After reporting these facts, Genette goes on with his analysis: This is the most irritating palimpsest, which forces us to propose conjectures and questions. What is the degree of continuity in the Leuwen, and what is the degree of transformation? [. . .] Now I am surprised by the fact that up to now no aficionado of literary mystifications has made up his mind to fill in this blatant gap by his own hand and to publish this rediscovered Lieutenant together with its whole apparatus criticus. This might be [. . .] the starting point of a career which is almost as multifaceted as hypertextuality itself, namely the production of fictional hypotexts or pseudo-hypo-texts. I wonder who will be the first, like a second Borges or Calvino, to finally confront us [. . .] with the yet unknown source of the Iliad . . .?1

Starting from Genette’s joke of a scholarly career based on the reconstruction of hypo-texts, I might be irritated, since this sounds like a good description of how I started my own career as a Homeric scholar, though without taking into account Genette’s conception of “Palimpsestes”. In my Habilitationsschrift I wrote a whole book to prove the point that the poet of the Odyssey structured the plot of his story against the background of a gigantic hypo-text, namely the whole underlying mythological tradition, in that way achieving the goal of 1 Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes: La littérature au second degré (Collection Poétique; Paris: Seuil, 1982), 435 (my translation).

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outdoing, in a certain sense, this tradition or even replacing it.2 To this end, I was forced to reconstruct most, if not all of that postulated hypo-text, because, as we well know, the Odyssey is one of the first written documents of Greek literature, and not a single one of my reconstructed hypo-texts has been transmitted to us derived from a manuscript written down earlier than Homer. The problems in this case are even worse than with the hypo-text of Stendhal’s Lucien Leuwen. With the Odyssey, in the first place, we have no documents at all to prove the point that there did exist a hypo-text. And, secondly, even if we agree that the Odyssey was indeed based on some kind of sources, the most likely assumption is that these sources never came to be written down in a fixed form, but hovered around only in unstable, ever changing oral variants. Thus we are confronted with the question whether we are allowed to speak of a pre-Homeric hypo-text at all, given the fact that there never existed a “text” in a written version, only oral stories which were told again and again by different singers, because this implies that there were no “authors” of texts as well, as every single singer in every single performance created his own version of the story.3 This is not the proper place to reformulate the theoretical basis of this question. I confine myself to remarking that specialists of oral poetry studies are convinced that we should understand the relationship of oral epic songs to their own oral tradition as a pars pro toto relationship, insofar as every single performance of every single song is some kind of reverberation and representation of the whole narrative tradition.4 This leads to the assumption that the meaning of every single song is contained not only in its own content, but in the evocation of the whole tradition. But we may go on even one step further. We need not limit ourselves to only speaking of a vague, as it was called, “traditional referentiality,”5 but may operate with the concept of intertextual relationships in a 2 Georg Danek, Epos und Zitat: Studien zu den Quellen der Odyssee (WStSup 22; Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1998). I see my basic assumptions, namely that there did exist a hypo-text of the Odyssey, sanctioned by Genette, Palimpsestes, 433, when he states: “. . . it is not very likely that the Iliad, the Song of Roland, or Le Chevalier de la charrette, were not based on a draft, or a precedent . . .” 3 Albert B. Lord, The Singer of Tales (HSCL 24; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960) talks of “Re-creation in performance.” 4 John M. Foley, Immanent Art: From Structure to Meaning in Traditional Oral Epic (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1991). 5 Ibid.

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stricter sense. We are justified to do so, even within a purely oral tradition, as long as we take into account only the contents of the stories, the pre-authorized facts of the myths, and not their exact wording.6 We can better understand the ways Homer worked within the field of the Greek oral epic tradition when we take into account comparable oral traditions, for instance the Bosnian epic tradition, which is better documented than most other oral traditions in the world. Here we find that singers in their songs allude to other stories all the time, in that way presupposing knowledge on the part of the audience.7 This analogy might entitle us to conclude that Homer worked in a similar manner, and even more so, as can be shown in detail for the Odyssey. But as this ground has already been covered at book length, it will be sufficient to present here a short case study, before we switch to the Iliad. The example is taken from the well known story of Scylla and Charybdis, and we may start from the results which I reached in a former paper.8 When we try to reconstruct the simple story which formed the hypo-text of the episode as it is told in Homer’s Odyssey, we might agree about the following version, which works best when it is told in a fairy tale like style:9 Odysseus enters with his ship the straits between Scylla and Charybdis without being forewarned. Suddenly Scylla appears with her loud howling, and starts fishing with her six heads for his companions on board. Odysseus reacts with his typical presence of mind by steering the ship

6 Georg Danek, “Traditional referentiality and Homeric intertextuality,” in Omero tremila anni dopo: Atti del Congresso di Genova, 6–8 luglio 2000 (Storia e Letteratura: Raccolta di Studi e Testi 210; ed. F. Montanari and P. Ascheri; Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2002), 3–19; more explicitly in Georg Danek, “Heldenepos als Medium historischer Erinnerung: Homer und das südslawische Heldenlied,” in 8. Pöchlarner Heldenliedgespräch: Das Nibelungenlied und die europäische Heldendichtung (ed. A. Ebenbauer and J. Keller; Philologica Germanica 26; Vienna: Verlag Fassbaender, 2006), 47–49. 7 Zlatan Čolaković and Marina Rojc-Čolaković, Mrtva glava jezik progovara (Podgorica: Almanah, 2004), 310–11 with my review in: Georg Danek, review of Z. Čolaković and M. Rojc-Čolaković, Mrtva glava jezik progovara, WSt 118 (2005): 278–82. 8 More fully in: Georg Danek, “Odysseus between Skylla and Charybdis,” in “La mythologie et l’Odyssée”: Hommage à Gabriel Germain: Actes du Colloque International de Grenoble, 20–22 Mai 1999 (ed. A. Hurst and F. Léboublon; Recherches et rencontres/Faculté des Lettres de Genève 17; Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2002), 15–25. 9 For the conception of the “simple story” as a hermeneutic tool for reconstructing basic narrative patterns, see Uvo Hölscher, Die Odyssee: Epos zwischen Märchen und Roman (2d ed.; Munich: C. H. Beck, 1989), 25–34.

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georg danek towards the other side of the straits. But exactly at that moment Charybdis becomes active and devours his ship. Odysseus, as the only one standing on deck, reveals his cleverness a second time by grabbing onto an overhanging tree and saving his life. But the ship, together with all companions, disappears from under his feet into the whirlpool.10

This reconstruction offers a “simple version” of the story in which the motif of the “double danger” takes centre stage: Odysseus avoids the one danger but thereby winds up in the other. And we obtain a version in which the typical qualities of the traditional Odysseus-the-Trickster come to light: his skilfulness in all critical situations, as well as his lack of scruples, when he saves only his own life while sacrificing ship and crew to Charybdis. This is in perfect accord with other parts of the basic story of Odysseus, who cheats and lies and stays away from home for ten long years lusting for adventure, only to lose all his companions and come home to kill his wife’s innocent suitors. Now let us see how the story of Scylla and Charybdis is told in our Odyssey. Here things run differently: Odysseus is forewarned about the two monsters by Circe, and he is told that he has to choose between two evils: either he must sacrifice six companions to Scylla, or he risks to get caught in the Charybdis and thus lose all and everything. So Odysseus decides to go for the safe option and steers his ship to the side of Scylla. He gets through the straits offering six men to Scylla and arrives at the island of the sun-god Helios. Here his companions eat Helios’ sacred cows and consequently, when they start again, Zeus strikes the ship with a flash of lighting. The ship gets destroyed, all the companions die, and Odysseus alone survives because he clings to a part of the broken ship. He is driven back to the straits and finally comes to the Charybdis, where he saves himself by grabbing onto the overhanging tree and waiting a whole day until he can evade the whirlpool. So how, and to what ends, has Homer transformed the underlying basic story? In our Odyssey, what is expected of Odysseus is no longer his presence of mind, but rather planning, conviction, subordination to the will of the gods, patience and perseverance, and he feels the need to take responsibility. This holds true for the whole Odyssey, and this came out to be one of the main results of my book: Homer 10 I have tested my thesis against earlier reconstructions of the traditional hypotext, among which cf. Karl Reinhardt, Tradition und Geist: Gesammelte Essays zur Dichtung (ed. C. Becker; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960), 91–92.

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designed his own version of the Story of Odysseus “overwriting” the traditional versions which he and his audience knew. He did this in order to correct the traditional character of his trickster-hero and to replace it with a different Odysseus, whom he fashioned as a hero of a new kind. So Homer’s Odyssey in some way represents the traditional stories about Odysseus, just as every song within an oral tradition must be understood as some kind of pars pro toto of the whole tradition. On the other hand, Homer’s Odyssey tries to replace all these stories by correcting and outdoing them. This aim of our text cannot be understood without the assumption of a hypo-text, and that means a hypo-text that was present in the minds of Homer’s first audience, a hypo-text that could be seen as the over-mighty rival to beat. At this point we should pause for a moment. As a theoretical background to what I have presented so far, I gave a short introduction in my book to problems of “intertextuality,” without taking into account Genette’s theories of Palimpsestes.11 In fact we might ask ourselves if we need Genette’s specific theories to explain the Odyssey’s position concerning its own tradition. What do we gain if we do not just talk of intertextuality, but of, so to speak, a “palimpsestuous” relationship? For that reason, we might first reconsider the specific goals of Genette’s Palimpsestes to better understand his intentions. To do this, we must go back a step further, to the pre-history of Genette’s writings. 1982, the publication date of Palimpsestes, was exactly ten years after Genette had published his vol. 3 of Figures, including a chapter (Discours de récit) that became one of the most influential founding texts of the discipline later known as “narratology.”12 Genette there developed an extremely rigid terminology for evaluating narrative texts in their own right. He asked: What is going on in narrative texts? Which aspects can be defined with a certain amount of precision? Now, what was the intellectual context in which Genette placed his Discours de récit? In 1972 competing theories were already circulating, the heyday of cultural studies was already approaching, including post-modernism, and structuralism was already giving way to poststructuralism and deconstruction. With regard to literary theory, by 11

Danek, Epos und Zitat, 1–28. Gérard Genette, Figures: Essais (vol. 3 of Figures; Collection Poétique; Paris: Seuil, 1972). The Discours de récit was translated into English only in 1980 (German translation only 1994). The term “narratology” figures prominently from Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (trans. C. van Boheemen; 2d ed.; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985) onwards. 12

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that time Julia Kristeva had already formulated her theory of “intertextuality” by which she understood the whole world as an ocean of texts, each and every “text” referring to each and every other one.13 At the same time, Jacques Derrida was already claiming the endless chain of tracings of meaning leading into nowhere.14 So Genette’s Discours de récit (1972) should be seen, from today’s historical perspective, as a kind of revisionist’s reaction to the first wave of postmodernist theories, restricting the scholar’s view of literary texts to categories inside the text, based on close observation and strict definition. To a certain extent, Discours de récit was in this context a regression towards pure structuralist methods, defining the definable and leaving the indefinable aside. But by this method, most of what interested Genette’s contemporaries, namely the connections and interrelationships between single texts, remained strictly excluded from his point of view. Genette concentrated on aspects of single texts which were viewed monolithically as items bearing no cross-references to each other. This led to the consequence that narratologists of stricter observance even nowadays refrain from discussing aspects of texts which point outside the single text (intertextuality). Now we are able to understand why Genette excluded intertextual aspects from his Discours de récit. But there was left the need of a postscriptum, as the question had not been answered as to whether Genette had something to say concerning intertextual relationships, as well. Seen against this background, we can better understand how Genette, when he wrote his Palimpsestes in 1982, reacted to a whole constellation of theories understanding literary texts in a vague way, and he put out this book as an afterthought to his rigid methodology of 1972, trying to define in a precise way what postmodernists claimed to be the most indefinable aspect of literature, namely the relationships between single texts. Genette was challenged by these theories which claimed that literary meaning can never be defined, as it is constructed only in the readers’ minds through a cumulative process of referring the one single written text to all possible other texts of the whole world, using the term “text” in a rather vague way. 13

Julia Kristeva, Sēmeiōtikē: Recherches pour une sémanalyse (Paris: Seuil, 1969). Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie (Collection “Critique”; Paris: Minuit, 1967); idem, L’écriture et la différence (Collection “Tel quel”; Paris: Seuil, 1967). 14

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To avoid this danger Genette once again started from safe ground by resorting to structuralist methods and never losing sight of the textual, i.e. non-factual, nature of texts. He started from a relatively narrow segment of the endless field of intertextuality, concentrating on its apparently easiest definable form: the parody. Here we have a clear hierarchical relationship between a dominating hypo-text and an accompanying hyper-text (and one understands well why Genette first preferred to call this phenomenon “paratextuality”). Here it was that Genette found the highest degree of dependence of a “secondary” text on a “primary” one, a field where it was not necessary to claim the endless world of total intertextuality. Here we find definable texts and an author of the hyper-text who refers to the hypo-text for an easily recognisable purpose. Throughout his whole book, Genette limits himself to using only examples where the relationship between hypo-text and hyper-text is ideally a one-to-one relationship (a text as a whole refers to another text as a whole), so as to exclude partial references concerning just details. Only in the course of his argumentation, does Genette introduce some cases where the hierarchical relationship between first and second text is turned upside down: with parody the hypo-text clearly is the “mastertext” and the hyper-text the “paratext” which sits “beside” its model; it is only secondarily that we are presented with cases where the hypo-text is viewed as being not as important, and the hyper-text in fact replaces its hypo-text (and thus becomes a possible model text for later authors).15 This last variant of Genette’s model explains my interpretation of the Odyssey much better than either postmodernist intertextual theories (“the world as text”) or “soft” versions of intertextuality (“ ‘intertextuality’ as a newly coined label for old fashioned concepts like ‘citation’ or ‘allusion’ ”): we find in Genette a specific variant of palimpsest, with a hyper-text which overwrites and, in that way, aims to outdo and replace its hypo-text. The Odyssey, as I see it, succeeds in doing exactly this. We can prove this point from the history of the reception of the Odyssey tradition: Homer’s Odyssey is the only literary representation of the Odyssey which has survived, up to now. When turning now from the Odyssey to the Iliad, we could perhaps say almost the same about the figure of its main hero Achilles as 15 Genette, Palimpsestes, 500 (my translation): “One hyper-text—it is a well known fact—attracts another hyper-text.”

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we did about Odysseus: in the pre-Homeric tradition Achilles was, I assume, a brute of a hero who excelled by sheer force, and it was only in the Iliad that Homer made him a sensible human being, while, at the same time, explaining why he got so angry on the one occasion against Agamemnon.16 But things are more complicated here, and before we succumb to adjusting Genette’s model until it fits the Iliad too, we should take a closer look at this epic’s narrative structure. For that reason, I would like to discuss first the relationship between the story and plot of the Iliad. The story of the Iliad is centred on a precise narrative motif, the Wrath of Achilles. Achilles, the best hero of the Greek army, and Agamemnon, the leader of the army, start to quarrel over a slave woman. Achilles gets angry and withdraws from fighting. Without their best warrior, the Greeks are thrown back to the ships, until Achilles sends his best friend Patroclus to fight in his own place. Patroclus is killed by Hector, the best fighter of the Trojans, and Achilles is forced to come back to the war to kill Hector. Within the grand narrative of the Trojan War, this story is only a small episode which is located in the tenth year of fighting. We should agree about the fact that the larger story pre-existed in the oral tradition long before Homer was born, even if there is no trace of anything more than a simple narrative theme, a short episode without major consequences for the Trojan War Story as a whole. But many Homerists nowadays think that is was only Homer who transformed this story of the Wrath of Achilles into a plot which makes out of the Achilles story a Troy story, i.e. a story which incorporates the whole Trojan War. Narratologically speaking, this may sound like a paradox: We have a narrow story, the short episode of the Wrath of Achilles, and a large plot, the ten years of the Trojan War. This is quite the opposite of what we are used to dealing with, a large story forming the background of a small plot, the plot being by definition a part of the underlying story. How did Homer manage to create this paradox? The most important factor is the specific structuring of narrative time, i.e. the way the plot of the Iliad is focussed on a small segment of 16 Georg Danek, “Der homerische Held: Zwischen heroischer Monomanie und gesellschaftlicher Verantwortung,” in Helden wie sie: Übermensch—Vorbild—Kultfigur in der griechischen Antike (ed. R. von den Hoff and M. Meyer; forthcoming).

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time, but still represents a wide epic space. The Iliad recounts only 51 days of the tenth year of the war, but leaves us with the impression that we have heard the story of the whole war (ten years). The way of doing this involves including material in the narrative which lies outside the temporal frame of the main story, mostly through evocations, citations and allusions to motifs that belong to the beginning or the end of the Trojan War. Scholars have labelled this way of structuring the narrative time as an important feature of Homer’s narrative technique, and as a Homeric innovation in comparison to the pre-Homeric epic tradition. On the other hand, the most significant motifs of the Trojan War Story are present in the Iliad in a different form, in some kind of projection. They are transformed into parts of the Iliad plot, forming scenes within the tenth year of war which recall—or, in a symbolical way, repeat, or represent—the same or similar scenes that took part at the beginning of the war. German scholars have called this technique “Spiegelung,” which means “mirroring.”17 Mabel Lang coined the phrase of “epic reverberation.”18 For instance, when the Greeks start to fight in the second book of the Iliad, we get a long catalogue of all the contingents, the famous Catalogue of the Ships. This catalogue repeats, and at the same time re-presents, the assembling of the Greeks in Aulis.19 In Book Three, the Trojan elders assemble at the wall of Troy, and Helen explains to them who the most important heroes of the Greek army are (the famous teichoskopia). To most readers this introduction to the Greek personnel gives the impression of being somehow displaced in the tenth year of the war, as it repeats and re-presents the first contact between the Greeks and Trojans. Still in Book Three, Paris and Menelaus agree upon fighting a formal duel, which will decide the outcome of the war. Again, this seems out of place in the tenth year of the war, but it re-presents the basic 17 Antonios Rengakos, “The Smile of Achilles, or the Iliad and its Mirror-Images,” in Contests and Rewards in the Homeric Epics (ed. M. Païsi-Apostolopoulou et al.; Ithaca, Greece: Centre for Odyssean Studies, 2007), 101–10. 18 Mabel L. Lang, “Reverberation and Mythology in the Iliad,” in Approaches to Homer (ed. C. A. Rubino and C. W. Shelmerdine; Austin, Tex.: University of Texas Press, 1983), 140–64. 19 More fully in Georg Danek, “Der Schiffskatalog der Ilias: Form und Funktion,” in “Ad Fontes!”: Festschrift für Gerhard Dobesch zum 65. Geburtstag am 15. September 2004 dargebracht von Kollegen, Schülern und Freunden (ed. H. Heftner and K. Tomaschitz; Vienna: Eigenverlag der Herausgeber, 2004), 59–72.

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conflict which started the whole war. In Book Four, in the same way, the crime of Pandarus who shoots at Menelaus replicates in some way the repeated crimes of Paris, and so on.20 By this method, the poet of the Iliad made those traditional parts of the myth which belonged to the beginning of the War parts of his own story by adapting and including them in the tenth year of the War. By this method he converted the beginning of the Trojan War into the beginning of the Iliad. In the same manner he transposed the end of the Trojan War, i.e. the fall of Troy, into the end of the Iliad, because when Achilles kills Hector, we all know—and the Trojans know as well—that Troy is by now doomed to fall. Thus, the Iliad rewrites the story of the Trojan War, assuming knowledge on the part of its audience and alluding every now and then to its own hypo-text, but correcting and changing it in a consistent way. We may spot this method in yet another motif, the Dios boulē, i.e. the plan of Zeus, the highest god. In the very beginning of the Iliad, in the proem where the narrator explains to us what the Iliad will be about, namely the Wrath of Achilles and its deadly consequences, we are informed in a half sentence that “the plan of Zeus was being fulfilled”. Now, from antiquity onwards, scholars were puzzled about what precisely we should take this plan of Zeus to be. Most scholars agreed that the Plan of Zeus within the Iliad simply means what Zeus plans within the Iliad: He promises to Achilles’ mother Thetis, that he will support the Trojans and throw the Greeks back to the ships. Problems arise only when we detect that there already existed a different plan of Zeus as well. As a traditional motif it consisted of Zeus’s plan to extinguish, by means of the Trojan War, the lives of a lot of men, so as to relieve the earth of its burden. This motif is well attested as part of a non-Homeric epic called Cypria, which must have been written down later in time than the Iliad, but which was based on traditional stories that were already current in the oral tradition many generations before Homer was born.21 We can adduce an impressive number of passages of the Iliad that can best be understood if we read them against this traditional background, namely the all-destructive

20

Georg Danek, “Antenor und seine Familie in der Ilias,” WSt 119 (2006): 8–11. Wolfgang Kullmann, Die Quellen der Ilias (Troischer Sagenkreis) (Hermes Einzelschriften 14; Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1960); Jonathan S. Burgess, The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001). 21

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plan of Zeus.22 So we should assume that the poet of the Iliad took it for granted that his audience would recognize the traditional meaning of the motif of the plan of Zeus. But I would like to go one step further: I think that in our Iliad the traditional conception of the plan of Zeus is not only re-used, but is transformed into something new and different, while alluding to the “original” meaning.23 I believe that the plan of Zeus as it is told in our Iliad, is defined precisely as the planning, plotting and finishing of the Trojan War as it was fixed in its outlines by the epic tradition well known to Homer’s audience. The main point is that Troy will be destroyed, even if only after long struggles and sacrifices on both sides. The wrath of Achilles which had not been an important episode of the war before Homer, and which, as I believe, had nothing to do with the end of the war,24 has become, in our Iliad, a crucial part of the plan of Zeus. Achilles’ wrath and withdrawal results in many heroes fighting and dying, but leads in the end to the death of Hektor and, as a consequence (which lies outside the narrative time of the Iliad), to the fall of Troy. The story of Achilles’ wrath becomes an “Iliad” because the fate of the best of the Greeks is transformed into a small part of the grand plotting of Zeus. The prehistory of the Iliad has been described as a process which could be called “War Story into Wrath Story.”25 But I think we can describe it as well, or even better so, as “Wrath Story into War Story.” Thus, the Iliad simultaneously tells us three stories, at least: first, the story of the Wrath of Achilles which ends with the death of Hektor; second, the general story of Achilles, ending with his death (which traditionally was not a part of the Wrath story); and third, the story of the Trojan War, including allusions to, or symbolical representations of, the beginning, the long duration, and the end of the war. And maybe we should postulate a fourth story as well, namely the Trojan Story in a further different sense, namely the story of Troy from the internal 22 Wolfgang Kullmann, “Ein vorhomerisches Motiv im Iliasproömium,” Philologus 99 (1955): 167–92. 23 Georg Danek, “Achilles and the Iliad,” in Eranos: Proceedings of the 9th International Symposium on the Odyssey, 2–7 September 2000 (ed. M. Païsi-Apostolopoulou; Ithaca, Greece: Centre for Odyssean Studies, 2002), 176–78. 24 Georg Danek, “Intertextualität der Odyssee, Intertextualität der Ilias,” WHB 38 (1996): 33–34. 25 Mabel L. Lang, “War Story into Wrath Story,” in “The Ages of Homer”: A Tribute to Emily T. Vermeule (ed. J. B. Carter and S. P. Morris; Austin, Tex.: University of Texas Press, 1995), 149–62.

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perspective, seen through the eyes of the men and women within the city. Now in the Iliad all these three (or four) stories are presented as one and the same story, and thus the story of Achilles’ wrath becomes the complete story of this hero’s tragic life and death and, at the same time, the complete story of the Trojan War as a whole. The Iliad does not refer to other stories, nor does it oppose itself to other stories; it incorporates other stories, and so makes all the other stories concerning the Trojan War superfluous. But there is still more to be said concerning the Iliad: Even if the Iliad overwrites the traditional Story of Troy, and even if it signals to us that it could hypothetically be appropriate to cover the whole of the tradition, still it cannot, and does not aim to, replace it as a whole. Here we should step back to a narrower model in the panoply of Genette’s Palimpsestes—the hyper-text which evokes its larger hypo-text in its totality, without aiming at replacing it. I also think we should not lose sight of yet another factor, and that is the question of how an epic poet transforms his story about a single hero who does a single heroic feat, into a poem that in some way aims to give an interpretation of the whole world.26 – In the Iliad, the fighting of the Greeks and Trojans is presented as being an apocalyptic end of the war, when all the ethical rules and ritual prescriptions have been swept away, so that the warriors do not even care about the ritual prescriptions given by the law of supplication, until it is finally reactivated when Achilles meets Priamus and accepts his own mortal status. – In the Odyssey, the absence of Odysseus from Ithaca results in anarchy, as Penelope’s suitors do not even respect the law of hospitality, so that Odysseus must re-impose the divine world order.

In both the Iliad and the Odyssey, this kind of interpretation of the heroic action had not been provided by the traditional subject matter as such, but is a re-interpretation of the simple stories which the singer-poets conceived to lend their epics the claim of universal validity. Epic as a genre, in opposition to the “Heldenlied,” intends to interpret the world as a whole. For that reason Homer narrates the episodic

26

I talked about this more fully in Georg Danek, “Developments of Traditional Narrative Techniques: Flashback Accounts in Homer and Avdo Međedović,” in The Selected Epics of Avdo Međedović (vol. 2 of The Epics of Avdo Međedović: A Critical Edition; ed. Z. Čolaković; Podgorica: Almanah, 2007), 615–18.

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actions of the heroic past in such a way that they become an exemplum of the bygone heroic world par excellence:27 – In the Iliad, Homer shows us how even the superhuman world of the heroic age may be destroyed through the impact of war—by the will of the gods. – In the Odyssey we are shown how, after and in spite of war, even an ordinary hero may achieve a happy life—with the help of the gods.

The Homeric epics were hyper-texts at the time when they were composed. Their hypo-text was the whole epic tradition. The aim of rewriting the tradition was a competitive one. But this hypo-text, as it was presupposed by Homer, can be seen now only in fragments and in later adaptations which already reacted on the Homeric adaptations. As with Genette’s metaphor of the palimpsest, this hypotext as it was has disappeared for us precisely because it was wiped out and replaced by the monumental texts which Homer composed, and it cannot be regained except by some kind of alchemy, in this case by philological reconstruction. As is the case with many books—and Genette is quite explicit on this point28—we are nevertheless able to enjoy Homer’s epics without knowledge of their traditional hypo-texts. But if we take into account the hypertextual nature of the Homeric epics, they become richer and more meaningful.29 Intertextual studies have become all pervasive by now. The same is true for Genette’s master study Discours de récit which has become the bible of narratological studies. On the contrary, as far as I can see, Genette’s Palimpsestes has not found any resonance in literary studies of recent years, if not for the title of the book being used as a pointed metaphor which is cited now and then30 but not used in a productive way: narratology still tends to be “more exact”, and to avoid metaphors; many narratologists still avoid talking of relationships between texts, but prefer to stick to a close reading of single texts. This paper may have shown why the conception of Palimpsestes is more useful 27 The Homeric epics as exempla: Gordon J. Howie, “The Iliad as Exemplum,” in Homer’s World: Fiction, Tradition, Reality (ed. Ø. Andersen and M. Dickie; Papers from the Norwegian Institute at Athens 3; Bergen: The Norwegian Institute at Athens, 1995), 141–73; Georg Danek, “Der homerische Held.” 28 Genette, Palimpsestes, 450–51. 29 Ibid., 451: “Thus the hyper-text always wins [. . .] by being perceived as being hypertextual.” 30 I remember that Jean-Jacques Annaud gave his film Le Nom de la rose (1986) the sub-title “un palimpseste du roman d’Umberto Eco.”

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for our fields than a vague idea of intertextuality: we must not confine ourselves to talking just about “citations,” “allusions,” “adaptations,” “borrowings,” and so forth, since Genette has provided us, through the metaphor of the palimpsest, with a methodically exact way of defining intertextual, i.e. hierarchical relationships between texts.

PART III

ANCIENT EGYPT AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST

FROM RITUAL TO TEXT TO INTERTEXT: A NEW LOOK ON THE DREAMS IN LUDLUL BĒL NĒMEQI Beate Pongratz-Leisten Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton1 Clifford Geertz’s metaphor of “culture as text” suggests, on the one hand, that cultural artefacts and practices can be read and translated as texts and, on the other, that literary texts can be seen as forms of cultural expression.2 With the notion of culture as a “montage” or “assemblage of texts” in mind, Stephen Greenblatt and others have defined textuality and intertextuality as the salient features of culture.3 It is exactly this aspect of “montage” which will guide my interpretation of the cultural text in Mesopotamia. A cultural text is always a composition that selects elements out of a variety of systems of orientation and forms. In Mesopotamia any text was considered to have traditional referential quality, a kind of intertextual pre-text or architext4 which formed the building block or “foretext” for any new text.5 The composite structure is a salient feature of texts in Mesopotamia and allows for 1 Preliminary versions of this paper have been presented at the American Oriental Society Meeting in Seattle, 2007 as well as at the Freie Universität Berlin where I could benefit greatly from discussions with my colleagues. The exchange with the participants of the Vienna conference helped refine my methodological approach. Further thanks go to Benjamin Foster who read an early draft and provided helpful comments and to the National Endowment of the Humanities which financed my stay at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, in the academic year 2007/08. Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of the National Endowment for the Humanities. 2 Wilhelm Voßkamp, “Literaturwissenschaft als Kulturwissenschaft,” in Konzepte der Kulturwissenschaften: Theoretische Grundlagen—Ansätze—Perspektiven (ed. A. Nünning and V. Nünning; Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 2003), 76. 3 Stephen Greenblatt, “Culture,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study (ed. T. McLaughlin and F. Lentricchia; Chicago, Ill.; University of Chicago Press, 1990), 225–32. 4 Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (trans. C. Newman and C. Doubinsky; Stages 8; Lincoln, Nebr.: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 5 Herman L. J. Vanstiphout uses the term “stylistic patch-work technique,” in: Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, “The Use(s) of Genre in Mesopotamian Literature: An Afterthought,” ArOr 68 (2000): 703–17, see especially 707–10; see also his critical attitude towards the applicability of the notion of genre to Mesopotamian literature in: Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, “Some Thoughts on Genre in Mesopotamian Literature,” in Keilschriftliche Literaturen: Ausgewählte Beiträge der XXXII. Rencontre Assyriologique

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the transfer of specific passages from one text into the other and the use of structural elements from different text categories. In contrast to our modern understanding of authorship the ancients did not have the notion of forgery. What is more, in contrast to Western literature which is informed by the Aristotelian classification of genres, ancient Near Eastern literature tends to combine all kinds of text categories. Thus denotative text passages such as enumerations from lexical lists might be worked into connotative texts such as poetry, or enumeration as a literary device might even serve as a framework for a literary text.6 Similarly, excerpts from extispicy reports or hymnic passages might be inserted into historiographic texts. Gérard Genette refines intertextuality7 by defining other forms of relationships which he calls “secondary signals” such as the title, preface, dust jacket, drafts, etc. that fall under the paratextual features of a text (in Mesopotamia it would be the shape of the tablet, the arrangement of the text on the tablet, the incipit and subscript), the commentary that enters into a metatextual relationship with a text, and hypertextuality that denotes any relationship uniting a text B (hypertext) with a text A (hypotext).8 The attraction of Genette’s model lies in the definition of these distinct features of hypertextuality. What distinguishes the Sumero-Babylonian material from Genette’s material is that in general there is not only one hypotext but several hypotexts that function as the “architexts” or “foretexts” for the new text. That kind of montage characterizes the textual history of the Gilgamesh Epic which offers an excellent example not only for the change of the compositional structure of the epic but also for the change in major themes and the overall message of the text. Here textual change reaches far beyond editorial modifications. The Sumerian tradition, only known from tablets dating probably from the 18th century b.c.e., displays a host of independent narratives revolving around the heroic Internationale: Münster, 8.–12. Juli 1985 (ed. K. Hecker and W. Sommerfeld; BBVO 6; Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 1986), 1–11. 6 On denotative and connotative texts, see Gonzalo Rubio, “Early Sumerian Literature: Enumerating the Whole,” in “De la Tablilla a la Inteligencia Artificial”: Homenaje al Prof. Jesús-Luis Cunchillos en su 65 Aniversario (ed. A. G. Blanco, J. P. Vita, and J. š. Zamora; Próximo Oriente Antiguo; Zaragoza: Instituto de Estudios Islámicos y del Oriente Próximo, 2003), 197–208; see the reed section in the Sumerian debate poem, The Heron and the Turtle, for instance. 7 For a survey of former approaches see Graham Allen, Intertextuality (NCI; London and New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2000). 8 Genette, Palimpsests, 5.

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deeds of Gilgamesh. As they originated presumably in the context of the royal court of the Ur III dynasty (2110–2003 b.c.e.), their thematic similarity with the royal hymns of that period, which likewise depict the king as conqueror and hero, comes as no surprise. Probably only with the collapse of the Ur III empire and the emergence of the dynasty of the city-state of Larsa in the 19th century b.c.e. is the theme of the experience of death elaborated in the Sumerian poems The Death of Gilgamesh and Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld. The expansion into a new theme might be a reflection of the tendency attested in Old Babylonian wisdom literature, which likewise introduces the theme of death as a major topic.9 Another new theme in the rich tapestry of the Gilgamesh tradition is the topic of the friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, who in earlier texts is still described as Gilgamesh’s servant. The topic of male friendship is anticipated in the Shulgi Hymn O in which Shulgi calls Gilgamesh “brother-friend” (šeš ku-li) and seems to have made its way into the Old Babylonian epic tradition. In the Old Babylonian epic, we find the first attempt to unify the diversity of former independent strands of narrative. Although the Old Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic starts with a praise of Gilgamesh as “surpassing all kings” the themes of “power and kingship, wilderness and civilization, friendship and love, victory and arrogance, death and life, man and god,”10 now determine the thread of the narrative. The standardized version of the first millennium assigned to the figure of Sîn-lēqi-unninni,11 a legendary ancestor for the scholarly elites since the 7th century b.c.e., comprised eleven tablets, of which the Flood Story, borrowed from the Atrahasīs Myth, represents the largest addition. Its new prologue starting with “the one who saw the deep” (ša naqba īmuru) sets the stage for the overall theme now dominating the epic, which is Gilgamesh’s quest for immortality and knowledge. While he looses the plant of rejuvenation to the snake, he brings back the (secret) message from before the Flood and restores the ancient cultic rites that the Flood had swept away. Some time during the 1st millennium, perhaps with the scholar Nabû-zuqup-kēnu in 705 b.c.e., 9 Walther Sallaberger, Das Gilgamesch-Epos: Mythos, Werk und Tradition (München: C. H. Beck, 2008), 70–71. 10 Andrew R. George, “The Literary History of the Epic,” in idem, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, critical edition and cuneiform texts (2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1:3–70; esp. 20. 11 Wilfred G. Lambert, “Catalogue of Texts and Authors,” JCS 16 (1962): 59–77, esp. 66 VI 10.

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an Akkadian translation of the Sumerian poem Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld was included in the standard version of the epic.12 However, the Mesopotamian intellectual tradition suggests an even broader understanding of intertextuality as it assumes an inherent connection between divination and writing.13 Mantic signs such as abnormalities, growths and divisions observed in the liver were considered to be messages written by the gods. Likewise celestial signs and the patterns of the stars covering the firmament were understood as heavenly writing. “The image of the heavens as a stone surface upon which a god could draw or write, as a scribe would a clay tablet, complements the metaphoric trope of the heavenly writing.”14 As arrangements of stars were related to the wedges of cuneiform writing, the constellations could be read as a written message. The identical significance of signs in the sky and in the liver again is expressed in the Babylonian Diviner’s Manual: The signs on earth, just as those in the sky, give us signals. Sky and earth both produce portents. Though appearing separately, they are not separate (because) sky and earth are related.15

By widening the notion of text into the notion of “culture as text” and including still other media of cultural discourse such as ritual and mental mapping as it translates into the cultic topography, to name just two examples that will apply to the text to be investigated in the following, we can develop a new approach to talking about texts that seem unrelated to any other kind of what commonly is called “genre.” In this case, “hypertextuality” describes a textual production that goes even beyond the process of standardization as it might be observed for the Gilgamesh Epic. Because of the referential alliances and textual dependencies I will interpret the cultural text as a narrative referential

12 Eckart Frahm, “Nabû-zuqup-kēnu, das Gilgameš-Epos und der Tod Sargons II.,” JCS 51 (1999): 73–90. 13 Francesca Rochberg, “Old Babylonian Celestial Divination,” in “If a Man Builds a Joyful House”: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty (ed. A. K. Guinan et al.; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 337–48; Laurie E. Pearce, “Secret, Sacred and Secular: Mesopotamian Intertextuality,” CSMSJ 1/1 (2006): 11–21; Beate Pongratz-Leisten, “ ‘God’s Writing’: The Legal Aspect of the Written Divine Word,” in I Am No Prophet (eds. A. Lange and R. Styers; Leiden: Brill, in press). 14 Rochberg, Celestial Divination, 339. 15 Adolf L. Oppenheim, “A Babylonian Diviner’s Manual,” JNES 33 (1974): 197– 220; 204 ll. 38–40.

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setting, a hypertext constructed out of hypotexts or foretexts and cultural practices. Mesopotamian textual production has a long history of transmission which reaches from the mid 3rd millennium up to the 1st millennium b.c.e. and this makes it the perfect material for studying the history of textuality. In several cases there is more than one copy of a text dating to the same period. Sometimes various copies of one text exist stretching from the Old Babylonian period (first half of the 2nd millennium b.c.e.) down to the Neo-Assyrian or Neo-Babylonian periods in the 1st millennium. Both cases of transmission provide us with an insight into the history of the textual production which, particularly in the Old Babylonian period, is strongly shaped by local scribal traditions. The relationship between the Mesopotamian concept of the text and its textualization shows an interesting tension that is revealing for the phenomenon of transtextuality in Mesopotamia in general. Among the various copies of one text there is not one copy which exactly resembles the other. These textual variants encompassed a different choice of signs in the writing system, different verbs and nouns to describe certain phenomena, as well as the omission or insertion of whole text passages. This process of textualization forms a strong contrast with the ideological message of the colophons which, informed by a tradition-bound attitude, stress the authenticity and genuineness of the text, and the scribe’s responsibility in keeping to the original: According to its original copied, collated, and properly done.16

Often, divine origin or divine inspiration guarantees the authenticity of the text. In the Old Babylonian period, hymns and incantations are generally said to be of divine origin such as Ammiditana’s praise of Ishtar which has the following section at the end of the text: What she desires, this song for her pleasure Is indeed well suited to his mouth; He performed for her Ea’s own word(s). When he (Ea) heard this song of her praise, He was well pleased with him.17

16 Hermann Hunger, Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone (AOAT 2; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1968), no. 159. 17 François Thureau-Dangin, “Un Hymne à Ištar de la Haute Epoque Babylonienne,” RA 22 (1925): 169–77, esp. 174, ll. 53–55; Benjamin R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3d ed.; Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 2005), 85–88.

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Here the text is considered to have originated with Ea who is pleased with the artfulness of his work.18 A prayer addressed to Marduk which dates from the 1st millennium b.c.e. continues the idea of Ea as the creator of the text and even stresses the written character of the text: Let the text of Ea appease your heart, Let his right wording hold you back on high.19

In the Erra Epic it is the god Erra who reveals the text to the author Kabti-ilani-Marduk in the early morning hours before his awakening who then writes it down for posterity: The composer of its text was Kabti-ilani-Marduk, of the family Dabibi. He (Erra) revealed it at night, and when he (K.) recited it upon awaking, he (K.) omitted nothing at all, Nor did he add a single line. When Erra heard it, he approved.20

In all these instances, the emphasis is on the authenticity of the text in the moment of its creation by a divine text-producer. The divine origin of the text explains further why particular texts could have apotropaic or protective functions for the producers and users of the texts. as told at the end of the Erra Epic: The house in which this tablet is placed, though Erra may be angry and the Seven be murderous, The sword of pestilence shall not approach it, safety abides upon it.21

Mesopotamian understanding of authorship differs profoundly from the modern notion of the author. The so-called Catalogue of Texts and Authors 22 which has been found in the libraries of Niniveh and, consequently, dates to the 7th century b.c.e. lists several classes of authors who are arranged in hierarchical order: The god Ea, the legendary figure Oannes-Adapa who was counted among the Seven Sages associated with Ea, and ordinary humans represented by scholars such

18 Ibid., 87 n. 1 and id., “On Authorship in Akkadian Literature,” AION 51/1 (1991): 17–32, esp. 26. 19 Wilfred G. Lambert, “Three Literary Prayers of the Babylonians,” AfO 19 (1959/ 60): 47–66, esp. 58; Foster, Before the Muses, 614. 20 Erra V 42–45. 21 Erra V 57–58. 22 Wilfred G. Lambert, “Ancestors, Authors and Canonicity,” JCS 11 (1957): 1–14; id., “A Catalogue of Texts and Authors,” JCS 16 (1962): 59–77; see also Francesca Rochberg, “Canonicity in Cuneiform Texts,” JCS 36 (1984): 127–44, esp. 136.

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as exorcists, lamentation singers and haruspices.23 In other words, the general anonymity of the texts takes us back not to individual authors, but to communities and institutions. It seems that by anchoring incantation series, astrological series, epics and myths in the institutional context of scholarship, the texts were assigned some kind of canonical status. This notion of authorship and textual production changes in the 1st millennium b.c.e. at the latest. Acrostics which hide the name of the author in the text, as is the case in the Babylonian Theodicy24 or in Ashurbanipal’s Acrostic Hymn to Marduk,25 seem to be some kind of intermediate solution between anonymity and individual authorship. I have chosen a text hitherto labeled as The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer also known under its incipit Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi26 to exemplify the montage technique of Mesopotamian literature more thoroughly. I will focus primarily on the section of the dreams and the last part of the text concerned with the reconciliation between Marduk and the sufferer. Much research has been dedicated to dreams in the ancient Near East. Leo Oppenheim was the first scholar to pioneer the subject of dreams in his monograph Dreams in the Ancient Near East27 and define it as a field of investigation integral to the culture of Mesopotamia. In the meantime, other studies have been dedicated to the terminology describing the experience of dreams,28 to the dream

23

See Samuel N. Kramer and John R. Maier, Myths of Enki, the Crafty God (New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 1989) 18–19. 24 Wilfred G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 63–89 and pls. 19–26, for a recent translation see Foster, Before the Muses, 914–22. 25 Foster, Before the Muses, 821–26 with bibliography. 26 Foster, Before the Muses, 392–409 with bibliography. 27 Adolf L. Oppenheim, The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East: With a translation of an Assyrian Dream-Book (TAPS. New Series 46/3; Philadelphia, Pa.: American Philosophical Society, 1956). 28 See Sally A. L. Butler, Mesopotamian Conceptions of Dreams and Dream Rituals (AOAT 258; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1998); Annette Zgoll, “Die Welt im Schlaf sehen—Inkubation von Träumen im antiken Mesopotamien,” WO 32 (2002): 74–101; Achim Behrens, Prophetische Visionsschilderungen im Alten Testament: Sprachliche Eigenarten, Funktion und Geschichte einer Gattung (AOAT 292; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002). These dreams were also omitted in Scott Noegel’s studies of puns in ancient Near Eastern dreams because they do not require an interpreter, Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers: The Allusive Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (AOS 89; New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 2007). My thanks go to the author who allowed me to read his manuscript before it was published.

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interpreters,29 to the function of dreams as part of a host of divinatory techniques in the communication with the gods,30 as well as to comparative studies in dreams in the ancient world.31 I want to go beyond Oppenheim’s finding32 and to demonstrate the meaning and function of dreams as elements implanted into the plot of a literary composition. For this kind of investigation I have chosen Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi. Comparative studies contrasted Ludlul with earlier compositions such as the Sumerian Man and His God or later texts such as the Babylonian Theodicy, and the Biblical Job. They concentrated upon the universal problem of suffering and the seemingly arbitrary nature of divine anger.33 These studies, in effect, created a subgenre of wisdom literature on the basis of a perceived common theme, which, in turn, is seen as characterizing these compositions. To my knowledge, little research has been done on decoding the Ludlul text as an integral item of Sumero-Babylonian tradition or even ancient Near Eastern tradition at large. By using the term “tradition” I am reaching beyond a notion of a typology of genres encompassing closely related texts into other media of cultural discourse. I use the terms tradition and cultural discourse indiscriminately to refer to the cultural memory that informs the collectives of the Sumerians, Assyrians, and Babylonians as well as to the dynamics of communication

29 Scott B. Noegel, “Dreams and Dream Interpreters in Mesopotamia and in the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament),” in Dreams and Dreaming: A Reader in Religion, Anthropology, History, and Psychology (ed. K. Bulkeley; Hampshire: Palgrave-St. Martin’s Press, 2001), 45–71. 30 Frederick H. Cryer, Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment: A Socio-Historical Investigation (JSOTSup, 142; Sheffield: JSOT-Press, 1994); Beate Pongratz-Leisten, Herrschaftswissen in Mesopotamien: Formen der Kommunikation zwischen Gott und König im 2. und 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (SAAS 10; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1999). 31 See the bibliography collected by Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers, in his chapter 1.2. See also Frances Flannery-Dailey, Dreamers, Scribes, and Priests: Jewish Dreams in the Hellenistic and Roman Eras (JSJSup 90; Leiden: Brill, 2004). 32 In his study, Adolf L. Oppenheim describes the dreams experienced by the sufferer in Ludlul as connected to the story only on the level of style. He also identified patterns in the elements of the dreams which he labeled as stereotyped; on the whole he described their structural integration into the story as technically primitive, see Oppenheim, Interpretation of Dreams, 217. 33 The literature to the subject is vast. As an introduction to the topic see HansPeter Müller, Das Hiobproblem: Seine Stellung und Entstehung im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament (EdF 84; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978). Recently Jacob Klein, “Man and his God: A Wisdom Poem or a Cultic Lament?” in “Approaches to Sumerian Literature”: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout) (ed. P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 123–43.

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between “authors” and audience participating in the production of culture and making up a discourse community.34 My intention is to look at the text as a narrative setting composed of units of meaning-bearing entities that nourish the process of textualization.35 In other words, I want to treat Ludlul as an intertext or hypertext36 which intentionally reaches out to other discourses. These discourses are evoked by a variety of performative settings which by means of very few formulas reveal the rhetorical persistence of traditional forms; at the same time, these traditional forms are configured in such a way as to generate a new discourse which constitutes the uniqueness of the text of Ludlul.37 Whether this text, which has an anti-institutional message,38 was more prone to the techniques of montage than texts which were anchored in an institutional context remains a question to be solved. Ludlul is cast in the form of a “poetic monologue”39 by a certain Šubši-mašrê-Šakkan. However, the “author” introduces himself with a particular twist, as he “is addressed by name in a dream in the third person, and thus does not introduce himself directly.” “That is,” as stressed by Benjamin Foster, “the most remote modulation of self-naming to be found in all Mesopotamian tradition.”40 Šubši-mašrê-Šakkan can probably be identified with the historical figure of a governor living at the time of the Kassite king Nazimaruttaš who ruled in Babylonia

34 Bennet A. Rafoth, “Discourse Community: Where Writers, Readers, and Texts Come Together,” in The Social Construction of Written Communication (ed. B. A. Rafoth and D. L. Rubin; Norwood, N.J.: Ablex, 1988), 131–46. 35 John M. Foley, The Singer of Tales in Performance (Voices in Performance and Text; Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press 1995), 60–98, esp. 74, looks at tradition within the larger scope of emulating oral performance in writing. 36 Hypertextuality marks a category of literary works the generic essence of which lies in their relation to previous works, see Genette, Palimpsests, 8: “Above all, hypertextuality, as a category of works, is in itself a generic or, more precisely, transgeneric architext: I mean a category of texts which wholly encompasses certain canonical (though minor) genres as pastiche, parody, travesty, and which also touches upon other genres—probably all genres.” 37 John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1998), 22 also favors settings over genre. 38 See below. 39 Foster, Before the Muses, 392. 40 Benjamin R. Foster, “Self-Reference of an Akkadian Poet,” in “Studies in Literature from the Ancient Near East”: Dedicated to Samuel Noah Kramer (eds. J. M. Sasson and S. N. Kramer; AOS 65; New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 1984), 123–30.

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between 1324 and 1298 b.c.e.41 The text begins and ends with a hymn to Marduk.42 The initial hymn is built out of a lengthy litany of epithets extolling the all-encompassing power of Marduk in elaborate opposing couplets, referring to his mercy and devastating wrath in turn. This hymnic portrayal very much reminds one of the Assyro-Babylonian penitential prayers (šuʾillakku) which by means of a series of epithets tend to emphasize the distance and remoteness of the deity. Indeed the first lines resemble the penitential psalm addressed to Marduk,43 which elaborates on the misdeeds and misguided behavior of the supplicant. This is unlike laments in which the supplicant directly addresses the deity for help.44 The author of Ludlul, consequently, chose a specific form of a hymn to set the stage for the narrative to follow, namely the despair of the sufferer abandoned by his god. However, the alternation between the epithets referring to Marduk’s benign character and his wrath is a deliberate choice in this text and leaves the reader to guess about the ending.45 After the introductory hymn, the monologue proceeds to a lengthy narrative describing the suffering of Šubši-mašrê-Šakkan, which results in his social marginalization and physical affliction. Eventually he becomes bedridden, and even extensive consultations with experts in extispicy, dream-interpretation, and purification ritual yield no relief. Being close to death, with his grave already prepared and his funerary goods displayed, he has several dream visions in which various messengers announce relief of his suffering. In the first vision, a handsome young man clothed in new garments comes as a messenger sent by a lady referred to as Bēltīya, who could

41 See the arguments and textual references collected by Wilfred G. Lambert, “Some New Babylonian Wisdom Literature,” in “Wisdom in Ancient Israel”: Essays in Honour of J. A. Emerton (eds. J. Day, R. P. Gordon, and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 30–42, esp. 33–34. 42 William L. Moran, “Notes on the Hymn to Marduk in Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi,” in Sasson and Kramer, “Studies in Literature from Ancient Near East”, 255–60. 43 New edition by Werner R. Mayer, “Das Bußgebet an Marduk von BMS 11,” Or 73/2 (2004): 198–214, for an English translation see Foster, Before the Muses, 680–82. 44 Annette Zgoll, “Für Sinne, Geist und Seele: Vom konkreten Ablauf mesopotamischer Rituale zu einer genrellen Systematik von Ritualfunktionen,” in Ritual und Poesie: Formen und Orte religiöser Dichtung im alten Orient, im Judentum und im Christentum (ed. E. Zenger; HBS 36; Freiburg: Herder, 2003), 25–46, esp. 35. 45 This suggestion was made to me by Peter Machinist during the 216th Annual Meeting of the American Oriental Society (AOS) in Seattle, March 2006.

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be Zarpanītu, the consort of Marduk.46 Presumably, this young man delivered a message, but, unfortunately, this message occurs, as every Assyriologist expects, right where the tablet is broken. A fragmentary passage conveys the sense that the sufferer tried to tell his family of this dream, probably in vain. In a second vision, a cultic functionary with purifying functions (mullilu), introduced as a messenger sent by Laluralimma, a resident from Nippur, washes him with water, pronounces his life-giving incantation, and massages his body. In a third vision, a beautiful young woman, introduced with the Sumerogram ki.sikil which is Akkadian ardatu “young woman,” announces his deliverance with the words “fear not” (lā tapallaḫ). Both the designation of the woman as ki.sikil as well as her address to the sufferer evoke the image of Inanna/Ištar in her function as prophesying deity.47 Hence, we can imply the young woman to be a prophetess of Ištar. The sufferer continues his narrative of this third dream vision with the words: Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi III 37–47 iq-bi-ma a-ḫu-la-pí a-a-um-ma šá ina šat mu-ši ina šutti(máš.gi6) IUr-nin-din-ug-ga eṭ-lu tar-ru mašmaššu(maš.maš)-ma d Marduk-ma ana IŠub-ši-meš-re-e-dŠakkan(gìr) ina qātēII-šú ellēti(kug.meš) a-na mut-tab-bi-li-iá [ina] mu-na-at-ti it-tuš dam-qa-tu

ma-gal šum-[ru-uṣ-ma] ib-ru-u bi-[ra] ¢Tin?Ü.tir? [. . . ] a-pir a-ga-šú na-ši le-¢ʾÜ-[um] iš-pu-ra-an-[ni] ú-bi-la ṣi-i[m-ra] ú-bi-la ṣi-i[m-ra] qa-tuš-šú ip-q[í-id] iš-pu-ra ši-pi[r-ta] nišī(un.meš)-iá uk-t[al-lim]

She indeed ordered my deliverance (with the words): “Most [wretched] indeed he is, Whoever he might be, the one who saw the vision (ibrû bīra) at night.” In (this) dream was Ur-Nindinugga from Babylon? . . ., A bearded young man wearing a tiara, An exorcist, holding a wax tablet: “Marduk has sent me, 46 Jean Bottéro, “Le Problème du Mal en Mésopotamie ancienne, Prologue à une étude du ‘Juste Souffrant,’ ” Recherches et Documents du Centre Thomas More, Document 77/7 (1977): 1–43. Zarpanītu is often referred as Bēltīya in Neo-Babylonian ritual texts. 47 For Inanna/Ishtar in her role as “voice” of the gods, cf. Beate Pongratz-Leisten, “ ‘Sacred Marriage’ and the Transfer of Divine Knowledge: Alliances between the Gods and the King in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in Sacred Marriage in the Biblical World (ed. M. Nissinen and R. Uro; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 43–73).

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beate pongratz-leisten To Šubši-mašrê-Šakkan I have brought a swa[the].48 From his pure hands I have brought a swa[the].” He has entrusted me into the hands of my servant. In the morning hours he sent the mes[sage]. His favorable signs he revealed to my people.

The monologue proceeds by describing the awakening of the sufferer and an account of his rapid recovery. The last tablet opens with Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan’s testimony that it was Marduk who saved him. He apparently goes through a river ordeal to prove himself innocent, and what then follows is a litany detailing the stages of his approach to Marduk and Zarpanitu as he advances towards them through the temple gates of Esagila. He makes lavish thank offerings and throws a banquet. The text closes with a hymn to Marduk praising his healing power. Benjamin Foster has emphasized the extreme erudition of the scholar who wrote this text. I quote from his comments in Before the Muses: “The language of the poem is rich in rare words. The author was steeped in the scholarly lore of his age, including medical texts; some of the pathological terms used are otherwise attested only in diagnostic treatises. The author makes use of every poetic device in the Akkadian repertory. He is fond of wordplays (Tablet I, line 62), alliteration, rhyme, intricate parallelism, inclusion by opposites (merismus . . .). He builds up logical sequences, such as morning, noon, night (Tablet I, lines 51–54), compare lines 105–106 . . . He develops various elaborate over-arching symbolic frames of reference in his text, among them darkness and light, day and night.”49 Rather than looking at the literary form of the text I would like to explore how the author built the plot. I will also investigate the tension between the sufferer’s clearly anti-institutional statement, directed against the experts of divination, that he would turn in vain to the conventional channels of revelation and relief (the diviner, the exorcist, and dream-interpreter), and the fact that he receives a sequence of visions with messages sent by four different authorities predicting his recovery. The four authoritative figures behind the messengers are 48 Wilfred G. Lambert translates ṣimru “treasure,” while Foster, Before the Muses, prefers ṣemru “cloth.” The latter interpretation can be based on the Hebrew cognate ‫ ;צמר‬Willem H. P. Römer and Wolfram v. Soden, Weisheitstexte 1 (vol. 1 of Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen; ed. O. Kaiser; TUAT 3/1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1990), 128 reads ṣi-im-[da] “bandage.” 49 Foster, Before the Muses, 393–94.

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Bēltīya, Laluralimma, Ištar and Marduk. In two cases, the messengers are distinguished by the perfection and beauty of their physical appearance, in the fourth case by iconic signs, such as a beard and tablet, expressing the authoritative grandeur of a sage. These visions are a mixture of image dreams and message dreams that form a whole independent meaning-bearing unit within the compositional structure of the Ludlul text. They prepare the audience for the climax of the reconciliation between god and sufferer. The first vision centering on the young man who probably delivered a message, the text of which is now lost to us, probably set the stage for a communication with the goddess Bēltīya. Female consorts of important gods are generally known to intercede with their spouses in favor of a petitioner.50 Consequently, the first dream can be seen as initiating the future communication between sufferer and Marduk. The second vision, with the cultic functionary who cleanses Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan from his defilements, evokes the performance of a purification ritual preparing the sufferer for his encounter with Marduk. The designation as mullilu strikes us as highly erudite because this term is otherwise only attested in a lexical context with the following entry: abgal sanga2. ma.da: apkallum mullilum ša [. . .] (PBS 1/1 11 iv 96). The third vision, in addition to the appearance of a beautiful young woman, also contains a text message beginning with a formula well known from Ištar’s prophecies: “Fear not!”51 It is, however, the second part of this last vision which forms the climax of the sufferer’s visions. The beautiful woman speaking the words “Fear not!” is not the only one to appear. Her prophetic speech is supported by an additional messenger who performs the function of an exorcist. This exorcist introduces himself with a formula originating in the setting of exorcism, namely, “Marduk has sent me (Marduk išpuranni),” which is used to legitimize the

50 See Beate Pongratz-Leisten, “Sacred Marriage.” The fact is well reflected in a curse formula of the loyalty oath sworn on the occasion of Esarhaddon installing Assurbanipal as his successor. Simo Parpola and Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAA 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), no. 6 417–418: dNIN.LÍL ḫi-ir-tu na-ram-ta-šú a-mat KA-šú / li-lam-mìn-ma-a a-a iṣ-bat ab-bu-ut-ku-un “May Mullissu, his beloved wife, make the utterance of his mouth evil, may she not intercede for you.” 51 Simo Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (SAA 9; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997), 1.1:24’; 1.2:30’; 1.4:16’, 33’; 1.6:30’; 2.1:13’; 2.2:38’; 2.4:17’; 2.5:19’, 29; 2.6:14, 20,30; 4.1:5’; 7:1, r.6.

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authenticity of the spell.52 Thus the utterances of both these messengers imply the imagined setting of prophecy and exorcism in which these utterances, while being efficacious statements, did have illocutionary force.53 Only now does Marduk enter the scene as the authoritative and powerful divine agent behind the scenes. In a most sophisticated way these scenarios of the three dream visions prepare the ground for the future return of the sufferer to communication with Marduk. What characterizes the messengers in the dream visions is that in one way or the other they are anchored in the ritual context: precisely the setting from which throughout the monologue the sufferer complains he had received no relief or help. The combination of prophecy and exorcism created by the author of Ludlul, is highly unusual and must be interpreted as a literary device serving to illustrate the newly established contact between the sufferer and the god Marduk. In addition to the illocutionary performance of the exorcist the author introduces an icon as a signifier for a further ritual setting. The exorcist carries a tablet the content of which can only be the subject of speculation. We can, however, speculate on rather secure ground. First of all, this tablet is designated as lēʾum “wax tablet,” in other words, a tablet the content of which can be changed or destroyed.54 Hence, rather than assuming that the tablet contains the wording for the sufferer’s release,55 I suggest that this tablet serves as an icon for the “tablet of sins,” notwithstanding that it is a wax tablet and not a clay tablet as it is otherwise the case. By means of the visual icon of the tablet, the audience is taken out of the setting of prophecy into the

52 The formula is typical for the “Legitimationstyp”: Adam Falkenstein, Die Haupttypen der sumerischen Beschwörung literarisch untersucht (LSS. New Series 1; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1931), 25. It is also used in prophecies to authenticate the words of the prophet: ARM 26 210:11. 53 John L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words: The William James lectures delivered at Harvard University in 1955 (2d ed.; ed. J. O. Urmson and M. Sbisà; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975); John R. Searle, “A Taxonomy of Illocutionary Acts,” in Language, Mind, and Knowledge (ed. K. Gunderson; Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science 7; Minneapolis, Minn.: University of Minnesota Press, 1975), 344–69; Stanley J. Tambiah, “The Magical Power of Words,” Man 3/2 (1968): 175–208. 54 There were, however, also wax tablets used for storage in the libraries, see Inventory Tablets in Frederick M. Fales and John N. Postgate, eds., Palace and Temple Administration (vol. 1 of Imperial Administrative Records; SAA 7/1; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1992), nos. 49–56. 55 Foster, Before the Muses, 393.

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setting of incubation as well as dream ritual. This intertextuality can be established first from the setting of an incubation as described in a text published by Irving L. Finkel under the title The Dream of Kurigalzu and the Tablet of Sins,56 and second from a dream ritual known under the name Šamaš-šum-ukīn Dream Ritual.57 In the Kurigalzu Text, the Kassite king Kurigalzu undergoes an incubation ritual in Marduk’s temple, Esagila, apparently to seek the reason for the childlessness of his wife Qatantu. In his dream he sees the god Nabû holding the Tablet of Sins (ṭuppi ḫitāti), probably containing a list of his wife’s unwitting misdemeanors that explain her misfortune. Passages from exorcistic rituals, mentioned by Finkel,58 imply that such tablets were broken during a purification ceremony performed on the polluted person. The Šamaš-šum-ukīn Dream Ritual is composed of a šuʾillakku incantation to the moon god, Sin, and a ritual section encompassing offerings for the moon god and the dream god, Anzagar. A passage at the end of the incantation helps to illuminate the function of the exorcist in the Ludlul text: 23–24 May my personal god and, my personal goddess, who have been angry with me for many days, become reconciled with me through my truth and justice. May my way (urḫī) be favorable! May my path be straight! 25 (If ) he (Sin) should send Anzagar, the god of dreams, 26 so that during the night he will absolve me of my sin(s, then) I shall become well (again, and) I shall be cleansed of my transgression. 27 (Then) I will proclaim your (Sin’s) glory for ever!59

Here, the dream-god, Anzagar, as a messenger sent by the moon god, Sîn, performs a purification ritual to cleanse a person from his defilements. The exorcist sent by Marduk in Šubši-mešre-Šakkan’s vision assumes exactly the same role. These texts demonstrate that incubation dreams could serve as a means to relieve a person from his or her suffering generated by misdemeanor or cultic offenses. Parallels to both 56 Irving L. Finkel, “The Dream of Kurigalzu and the Tablet of Sins,” AnSt 33 (1983): 75–80. 57 Butler, Conceptions of Dreams, 379–98. 58 Heinrich Zimmern, Beiträge zur Kenntnis der Babylonischen Religion: Die Beschwörungstafeln: Šurpu: Ritustafeln für den Wahrsager, Beschwörer und Sänger (AB 12; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1901), no. 26 ll. 5–9; Šurpu IV 79–80. 59 Butler, Conceptions of Dreams, 387–89.

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these texts resonate in the vision described in Ludlul with now Marduk taking on the role of the traditional gods of incubations or dream rituals, sending a messenger to the illness-ridden sufferer. Instead of being broken, the wax tablet could stand simply for the mutability of man’s fate which can and will be changed for the better through divine grace and not by means of purification rituals. Hence, the message of the text might have been completely different from the interpretations suggested so far. Instead of portraying the supplicant in the role of the “righteous sufferer,” the opposite might have been intended by the author: presupposing the failure of humankind as well as the arbitrariness of divinely granted affliction and favour, the text might have been an artful, discursive demonstration of divine grace. The author could have ended the text with the section in which the merciful Marduk undoes the evils that befell the sufferer. But his intention went further. The text also intends to show that suffering is only a transitory stage in life. To convey this message fully, the author has to account for the renewed reconciliation between Marduk and the sufferer, and he does so by relying on the performative setting of the ritual gestures normally performed by the supplicant to express his gratitude to the deity. The framework he provides to illustrate Šubšimešrê-Šakkan’s vision of Marduk and his return to divine favor is a ritual performance allegedly set in the cultic topography of the Esagila temple. While passing through temple gates, Šubši-mešrê-Šakkan receives all kinds of divine favors and is released from his suffering, until he reaches the cella of Marduk and Zarpanitu, where he performs lavish offerings and libations. Only the knowledgeable reader, however, will recognize that only some of the gate names denote gates of Esagila; the rest belongs to other temples in Babylon. The author obviously chose these names not because of their location within the temple precinct but rather because their meanings suited his purpose of illustrating the reconciliation between Marduk and the sufferer.60 I quote from the passage: Tablet IV Fragment B According to the numbering of Lambert: 78 [šá ú]-ri-du qab-ri a-tu-ra ana ká du[tu.u4.è] 79 [ina k]á ḫé.gál ḫe-gál-la in-n[a-ad-na-an-ni]

60 Andrew R. George, Babylonian Topographical Texts (OLA 40; Leuven: Peeters, 1992), 91.

from ritual to text to intertext [ina k]á dlamma.ra.bi [ina k]á silim.ma ina ká nam.ti.la ina ká dutu.u4.è ina ká u6.di.babbar.ra ina ká nam.tag.ga.du8.a vina ká ka.tar.ra ina ká a.še.er.du8.ù.da ina ká a.sikil.la ina ká silim.ma ina ká ḫi-li-sù ina su-pe-e ù te-me-qi qut-rin-na ṭa-bu-ú-ti ú-šam-ḫir ir-ba ṭa-ʾ-ti ú-pal-liq le-e ma-re-e at-ta-naq-qi ku-ru-un-nu du-uš-šu-pá 96 šēdu(dalad) lamassu(dlamma)

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80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95

la-mas-si iṭ-ṭe-ḫ[a-an-ni] šul-ma-na ap-pa-l[is] ba-la-ṭu am-ma-ḫi-ir it-ti bal-ṭu-ti am-ma-ni id-da-tu-ú-a im-me-ra iʾ-il-ti ip-pa-ṭir iš-ta-la pi-ia up-ta-ṭa-ra ta-ni-ḫi me-e te-lil-te as-sa-li-iḫ it-ti dMarduk an-na-mir še-ep dZar-pa-ni-tum an-na-šiq ma-ḫar-šú-nu ú-tan-nin ma-ḫar-šú-nu ú-šá-aṣ-li igisê e-ta-an-du-te uṭ-ṭa-bi-iḫ sap-di karāna [i]l-lu

97 [x (x)]x tam-qi-ti 98 [ina ma-ka-l]e-e de-eš-šu-ti

angubbû(an.gub.ba.meš) li-bit é.sag.íl ka-bat-ta-šú-un uš-par-di lib-ba-šú-un ú-šá-li-iṣ

[I who went] down to the grave have returned to the “Gate of [Sunrise].” [In the] “Gate of Prosperity” prosperity was [given me]. [In the] “Gate of the Guardian Spirit” a guardian spirit [drew near to me]. [In the] “Gate of Well-being” I found well-being. In the “Gate of Life” I was granted life. In the “Gate of Sunrise” I was reckoned among the living. In the “Gate of Splendid Wonder” my signs were plain to see. In the “Gate of Released Transgression” my sin was undone. In the “Gate of Praise” my mouth made inquiry. In the “Gate of Release from Sighing” my sighs were released. In the “Gate of Pure Water” I was sprinkled with purifying water. In the “Gate of Conciliation” I appeared with Marduk. In the “Gate of Joy” I kissed the foot of Zarpanitu. I was consistent in supplication and prayer before them, I placed fragrant incense before them, An offering, gift, sundry donations I presented. Many fatted oxen I slaughtered, butchered many [sheep?]. Honey-sweet beer and pure wine I repeatedly libated. The protecting genius, the guardian spirit, divine attendants of the brickwork of Esagila, I made their feelings glow with libation, I made them exultant [with] lavish [meals].

This passage not only indicates the author’s knowledge of Babylonian topography collected in topographical lists such as Tintir.KI or the

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Gate Lists of Esagila.61 It also demonstrates that he is familiar with the ritual procedure to be performed when approaching the deity in the temple. The passage conjures a scene in Gudea Cylinder A which offers a perfect literary “thick description” of how to approach the deity in order to elicit a positive message during an incubation dream.62 Literary units, all in some way concerned with pleasing Ningirsu, are multiplied to prompt the deity to provide a positive sign. Gudea fashions a standard and a harp and offers them as presents to Ningirsu. He tries to eliminate any chance utterances or spells from the streets and then “facing Šugalam, the fearful place, the place yielding judgment, from where Ningirsu surveys all the land,” he provides sheep offerings and incense offerings. While proceeding deeper into the innermost part of the sanctuary, Gudea steps up into Ubšukinna, the place where the gods determine the destinies, and prays to Ningirsu to give an omen. Only then follows the description of the incubation itself. Whether or not the Gudea text was known to the author of Ludlul, and whether or not he wants to evoke the setting of an incubation including the vision of a deity, he does deliberately use this setting to express the sufferer’s reconciliation with Marduk which entails “seeing” the deity. Hence, the text moves from the absolute remoteness of Marduk as represented in the initial hymn through several stages of renewing the communication with Marduk in dream settings to this last scene with the sufferer allegedly approaching Marduk through the temple gates of Esagila. The sufferer’s approach to the deity in the temple which takes him out of the human realm into a world which is not accessible to most ordinary people, consequently, forms the climax of the whole composition. Profound knowledge of traditional compositional techniques enables the author to conjure up textual as well as ritual settings and interweave them into a complex new reality: the direct relationship between Marduk, Zarpanitu and the sufferer. Well aware that the examples I draw on to explain the texture of Ludlul date to a variety of periods ranging from the end of the third millennium up to the first millennium, I want to emphasize that it is the real-life settings of a long-lived tradition that are relevant for my interpretation, not the texts themselves. We 61

Ibid., nos. 1 and 6. Dietz O. Edzard, Gudea and His Dynasty (vol. 3/1 of The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Early Periods; ed. A. K. Grayson; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), Gudea E3/1.1.7.Cyl.A vii 11–xii 11. 62

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do not know exactly when Ludlul was composed. However, one of the most fascinating and ingenious features of this text is the overlap the author makes between ritual, textual and visual media, and the direct personal relationship between god and individual. Cultic settings and cultic topography as well as ritual and prophecy on the one hand and personal piety on the other hand constitute the essential ingredients for the rich tapestry of his discourse. Only a very informed reader will recognize the host of hypotexts that provided for this composition. The great innovation resides in the compositional technique of Ludlul; it rests on the conviction that details of specific settings can represent the nature of a larger whole and that the combination of these settings can create the representation of a new reality. This reality, however, is composed of “variations upon received themes,”63 establishing links between rituals, texts, and the temple as an institution, while the latter parts of the composition all engage with the initial hymnic portrayal of Marduk. It is exactly this pool of settings and received themes, which forms the basis for later apocalyptic texts such as Enoch, not genres such as omina literature or literary prophecies.

63 Stephen Greenblatt, “Culture,” in The Greenblatt Reader (ed. M. Payne; Malden, Mass.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 15.

PRIESTLY TEXTS, RECENSIONS, REWRITINGS AND PARATEXTS IN THE LATE EGYPTIAN PERIOD1 Sydney H. Aufrère Université de Provence (Aix-Marseille, France) The theme of Palimpsests, which recalls the work of Gérard Genette2 and which was purposefully chosen by Armin Lange for this conference, compels us to consider our textual approach to ancient Egypt from an angle different from that adopted by classic Egyptology. It is assumed that the subject matter here relates to Egyptian priestly texts, although from the writing, it can be difficult to distinguish a single author, particularly in the case of a writing process of a text which belongs to a literary tradition requiring a common editorial standpoint. That does not exclude the notion of the author in Egypt. On the one hand, wisdom sayings are instantly identified by a specific paratext—which is in fact an epitext or a pseudo-epitext—such as Beginning of the Teaching written by Untel.3 On the other hand, other works—prophecies and epics—are also signed by their authors or their supposed authors.4 Whatever they are, all Egyptian compositions are based on literary memory and very complex writing mechanisms, and they lead in turn to new perspectives that facilitate paratextual deciphering, codification and reading techniques. With the aim of responding to the question posed by Armin Lange, I intend to recall the general nature of this process, ensuring that I situate my response within the inter-disciplinary framework of this meeting.5 1 The author would like to thank warmly George J. Brooke for translating his text from French into English. 2 Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes: La littérature au second degré (Collection Poétique; Paris: Seuil, 1982). 3 Miriam Lichtheim, ed., Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings (3 vols.; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1973–1980). 4 The poem “of Pentaur”, for example, which tells the story of the battle of Qadesh between the Egyptian troops led by Ramses II and the Hittite army. Cf. Miriam Lichtheim, The New Kingdom (vol. 2 of Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1976), 57–72. 5 In addition to the bibliography contained elsewhere in the footnotes, the following illustrate the richness of texts from the Late Period and its debt earlier periods: Textes et langages de l’Égypte pharaonique: Cent cinquante années de recherches

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Before going into detail on the subject, I will make some general remarks. Hieroglyphic writing, by its very nature and the number of the symbols it uses, provides many possibilities for the written presentation of texts. Because of the complex nature of non-alphabetical writing, it often resorts to using an explicit iconography, which is itself a paratext, itself based on the existence of other textual paratexts.6 Now I will look in detail at the question of the composition of Egyptian priestly texts. My approach will lead me first to examine the transmission methods used by Egyptians in traditional literary production, in particular relating to the funerary texts which constitute the corpus, whose textual mass is undoubtedly the most extensive in ancient Egypt. Then, in the Ptolemaic and Roman periods, I will consider the principle which guided the rewriting of the main priestly texts, taking the example of an important text—the Myth of Horus at Edfu—which led to a mural text which constitutes a multi-dimensional paratextual space. Finally, I will present certain aspects of later documents, from the Jumilhac Papyrus to the Tebtunis Papyri. These latter papyri have generated philological and didactic paratexts. This will lead me to determine the impact of the spoken language on the written language of these periods, by way of a brief analysis of late phonological encodings implying a transliteration transfer.

1822–1972: Hommage à Jean-François Champollion, BdE 64/1–3 (3 vols.; Cairo: IFAO, 1972–1974); Miriam Lichtheim, The Late Period (vol. 3 of Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1980); Aleida Assmann, Jan Assmann, and Christof Hardmeier, eds., Schrift und Gedächtnis: Beiträge zur Archäologie der literarischen Kommunikation (Archäologie der literarischen Kommunikation 1; Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1983); Antonio Loprieno, ed., Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms (PdÄ 10; Leiden: Brill, 1996); Ragnhild B. Finnestad, “Temples of the Ptolemaic and Roman Periods: Ancient Traditions in New Contexts,” in Temples of Ancient Egypt (ed. B. E. Shafer; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1997), 185–237; Marc Depauw, A Companion to Demotic Studies (Papyrologica Bruxellensia 28; Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1997); Joachim F. Quack, Einführung in die altägyptische Literaturgeschichte 3: Die demotische und gräkoägyptische Literatur (ed. L. Gestermann and C. Leitz; Einführungen und Quellentexte zur Ägyptologie 3; Münster: LIT-Verlag, 2005); See also Pascal Vernus, “Les ‘Espaces de l’Ecrit’ dans l’Egypte pharaonique,” BSFE 119 (1990): 35–56. For the transmission of literary texts, see the work of Baudouin van de Walle, La transmission des textes littéraires égyptiens (Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1948). 6 As a consequence, in certain types of compositions, notably in the case of liturgical works, the text can paradoxically be reduced to an epitext—the title—as the iconography which corresponds to a piece of direct speech can replace the text.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 161 The plan will be as follows: I. Funerary texts II. Monumental priestly literary texts III. Texts, scripto-visual apparatus, collations/comparisons and implications in priestly and funerary papyri IV. The impact of the spoken language on the written language I. Funerary Texts Among the funerary texts, it is worth briefly drawing attention to the editorial history of the three principal texts: the Pyramid Texts,7 the Coffin Texts,8 and the Book of the Dead.9 (I open this parenthesis to recall that since their appearance under the reign of Unas [end of the Fifth Dynasty], the Pyramid Texts represent a group of spells, the number of which varies according to the addressee.) The most recent text, the Book of the Dead, entitled the Book of going forth by day, was put together as a group of texts in the 18th Dynasty.10 However, its content is a rewriting based on extracts from two other texts, the Coffin Texts or the Book of proclaiming a man right in the empire of the dead,11 and the Book of the Two paths, i.e. an annotated drawing12—texts written between the first intermediate period (around 2160) and the Thirteenth Dynasty (around 1700). They

7 Editions: Kurt Sethe, Die altägyptischen Pyramidentexte (4 vols.; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1908–1922; repr., Hildesheim, Zurich, and New York, N.Y.: G. Olms, 1987); Jean Leclant, ed., Les textes de la pyramide de Pépy Ier (2 vols.; MIFAO 118/1–2; Cairo: IFAO, 2001). Translation: Raymond O. Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1969). 8 Adriaan de Buck, Alan H. Gardiner, and James P. Allen, The Egyptian Coffin Texts (8 vols.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1935–2006). Translation: Paul Barguet, Textes des Sarcophages égyptiens du Moyen Empire (LAPO 12; Paris: Cerf, 1986); Raymond O. Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (3 vols.; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1973–1978). 9 Among the editions of the Book of the Dead which have a readable format see that by Richard K. Lepsius, ed., Das Todtenbuch der Ägypter nach dem hieroglyphischen Papyrus in Turin (Leipzig: Georg Wigand, 1842). Translations: Paul Barguet, Le Livre des Morts des anciens Égyptiens (LAPO 1; Paris: Cerf, 1967); Raymond O. Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead (ed. Carol A. R. Andrews; London: British Museum, 1985). 10 Barguet, Le Livre des Morts, 6–11. 11 Idem, Textes des Sarcophages. 12 Hans Schack-Schackenburg, ed., Das Buch von den zwei Wegen des seligen Toten (Zweiwegebuch): Texte aus der Pyramidenzeit nach einem im Berliner Museum bewahrten Sargboden des mittleren Reiches (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1903).

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therefore constitute the hypotexts of the Book of the Dead. The split of the Coffin Texts within the framework of a country divided along political fault-lines drawn around literary centres under various banners reveals two groups: Group 1: Heliopolis-Memphis, Heracleopolis; Group 2: Thebes. These two texts—the Coffin Texts and the Book of two paths—are themselves, at any given moment, hypertexts. In fact, they are rearrangements of elements taken from chapters of the Pyramid Texts, in response to a desire to “democratise” funeral rites, for the benefit of the aristocracy. They required access to collections of texts which allowed them, following specialised positioning on the inner walls of the coffins,13 to have efficient spells for use in multiple situations. In addition to the borrowings from the Pyramid Texts, new developments appeared which are truly new literary creations, some of which had already been seen in the pyramid of King Ibi at Saqqarah (8th Dynasty).14 In brief, we have a collection of spells, some of which came from well-identified regions. They each begin with the expression “Spell to/for . . .,” in a way that brings about the creation of a funerary peritext. This presentation was to be taken up again in exactly the same form with the inclusion of the peritext en rubrique in the Book of the Dead. I must add that, unlike the Coffin Texts, the Book of the Dead was the first work to use clarifying vignettes to illustrate the text and iconography to re-express the themes found in the spells. The Book of the Dead was written during two periods, corresponding to: – the Theban recension, from 1580 b.c.e.; – the Sais recension, from 650 b.c.e. The Theban recension is the product of a collation—in four parts—of the spells (Spells 1 to 162) whose order was progressively established so as to become canonical, so to speak, without having yet formed a stable corpus. At that time the text remained fairly flexible, and its 13 Sydney H. Aufrère, “L‘archer’ dans l’au-delà à la Première Période Intermédiaire: Les tombes du Chancelier Nekhty à Assiout (tombe n° 7) et du nomarque Mesehty,” Egypte, Afrique & Orient 19 (2000): 37–48. 14 Gustave Jéquier, Fouilles à Sahara: La pyramide d’Aba (Cairo: IFAO, 1935).

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 163 quality depended on the people copying it. The obsolete terms, those relating to realities that were no longer to be seen, or those misunderstood by the scribes because of poor writing, from the various versions, were reinterpreted to give the text a new meaning, better adapted to the beliefs that were in fashion at the time. Some chapters, which were presumed to be more efficient, occurred more frequently at certain times rather than others. Thus the effect of fashion can be observed. One could say that in general, rewriting had led to a new model of funerary texts in four parts, which emphasised: a. b. c. d.

The procession of the funeral cortege (Spells 1–16); The regeneration of the dead at dawn, in the sun (Spells 17–63B); The transfiguration of the dead (Spells 64–129); The journey of the dead in the underworld (Spells 130–162).

To take just one example, Spell 110 from the Book of the Dead perfectly illustrates this process of rewriting. After an original introduction, it then brings together Spells 464 (CT 5, 336a–348), 465 (CT 5, 348b–351c) and 467 (CT 5, 363a–379b) from the Coffin Texts. The vignette illustrating Spell 110 is an iconographic adaptation of the map of the funerary world as it was imagined to be in the first intermediate period, in the 15th Hermopolite nome. In fact, Spells 464, 465, 467 and 468 and the mythological map— which represents Spell 466—are specific to the coffins discovered in the necropolis at Deir el-Bercheh, in Middle Egypt.15 They depict the god Thot of Hermopolis, whose image is always faithfully preserved when transposing the vignette from the Book of the Dead. The Saite recension of the Book of the Dead is still based on the Theban recension. However, it is called the Saite recension because of specific spells that were added in the Saite period (Spells 163–185), which have both Theban and Heracleopolitain origins, and which exalt in turn the personalities of Amon, Osiris and Osiris-Re. These additional spells are based on tradition, and revive elements from the past. As I said above, the Book of the Dead was the first illustrated book. It contains regular iconography, i.e. a scripto-visual message in the 15 Sydney H. Aufrère, “La ‘Campagne de Hotep’ et la ‘Campagne des Roseaux’ dans les Textes des Sarcophages et le Livre de Sortir au jour,” in La campagne dans l’antiquité: Colloque international organisé par l’Institut Catholique de Paris, l’Université Paris I Sorbonne et les Cahiers KUBABA: Paris, novembre 2004 (ed. M. Mazoyer; Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007), 13–55.

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form of traditional vignettes, which, because of the way in which they explain the text, form a paratext which provides a degree of stability but which, at the same time, depends upon the inspiration of the copiers from the workshops. The collation of texts allows the observation of the difference between the spells from the Coffin Texts— which served as a model—and those from the Book of the Dead, which have already been reinterpreted. The remarks made here could also be applied to a large number of funerary texts—the Book of Amduat, the Book of Caverns, the Book of Day and Night,16 the Ritual of the Opening of the Mouth,17 works known for their later rewritings—as well as to other hypertexts such as the Books of Breathings,18 which have also survived as adaptations, compilations or epitomes,19 and which can well be described as true paratextual literature.20 II. Monumental Priestly Literary Texts Taking into account the subject under discussion, the Myth of Horus at Edfu, engraved under the reign of Ptolemy Soter II (116–108),21 is 16 For these main royal texts, one should first read Erik Hornung, ed., Texte zum Amduat (3 vols., Aegyptiaca Helvetica 3, 14, and 15; Basel: Ägyptologisches Seminar der Universität, 1987–1994). The main royal and civil funerary books are presented in Erik Hornung, Ancient Egyptian Books of the Afterlife (trans. D. Lorton; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1999); idem, Ägyptische Unterweltsbücher (Die Bibliothek der Alten Welt: Reihe der Alte Orient; Zurich and Munich: Artemis Verlag, 1972); Jan Assmann, Death and Salvation in Ancient Egypt (trans. D. Lorton; rev. ed.; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2005). 17 Jean-Claude Goyon, Rituels funéraires de l’ancienne Égypte (LAPO 4; Paris: Cerf, 1972), 87–182. 18 The Books of Breathings are adapted from chapters of the Book of the Dead. See Goyon, Rituels funéraires, 183–285; Marc Coenen, “Books of Breathings: More than a Terminological Question?,” OLP 26 (1995): 29–38; François Herbin, “Une nouvelle page du Livre des Respirations,” BIFAO 84 (1984): 249–302, pl. 49–57; idem, “Trois manuscrits originaux du Louvre porteurs du Livre des Respirations fait par Isis (P. Louvre N 3121, N 3083 et N 3166),” REg 50 (1999): 149–239 pl. 15–22. 19 Jean-Claude Goyon provides a series of abbreviated versions of the Books of Breathings: Cf. Goyon, Rituels funéraires, 297–317. 20 On the subject of this later funerary literature, see idem, “La littérature funéraire tardive,” in Textes et langages de l’Égypte pharaonique, 3:73–81. It includes the earlier books, in particular the Glorifications of Osiris, which are largely based on the Pyramid Texts (ibid., 78–81); idem, “Le cérémonial de glorification d’Osiris du papyrus du Louvre I. 3079 (colonnes 110 à 112),” BIFAO 65 (1967): 89–156 pls. 18–22; idem, Le Papyrus d’Imouthès: Fils de Psintaês au Metropolitan Museum of Art de New-York (Papyrus MMA 35.9.21) (New York, N.Y.: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1999). 21 This is based in part on the analysis of the text and its structure by Maurice Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou au temps des Ptolémées (2 vols.; BdE 20/1–2; Cairo: IFAO, 1949–1954). This corrects the views of Canon Étienne Drioton in Le texte dra-

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 165 undoubtedly, given the current state of Egyptian documentation, in particular from the Late Period,22 one of the most spectacular examples of mythological literature.23 In fact, it provides a particularly interesting structure: a hypertext (as with all mythological texts)24 that is accompanied by various levels of metatexts and paratexts, though care must be taken to avoid separating these categories completely, as noted by Gérard Genette.25 Its structure attracts our attention, firstly because the text is no longer expressed using vignettes on a papyrus, but by tableaux on a monument; and secondly, because those tableaux inscribed on an inner wall of Edfu temple were used in particular to ensure their paratextual nature. The Myth in question recalls the Feast of Victory, celebrated from 21st to 25th of the month of Meshyr,26 which is shown in two registers on the interior wall of the Temple of Horus at Edfu, on the west internal wall, as well as being indicated in the intertextual references to the tableaux—which seem to be additions—on the same wall. Each of the registers corresponds to texts designated by a letter (A and C). 1. Upper Register: Text A The upper register will be known as Text A, in accordance with tradition. It is a mytho-historical text, set in the year 363 while the god Re-Harakhty was in Nubia, which tells of the battle between his champion, Horus, and Seth.27 The latter is referred to in the title of a book: the Book of the Destruction of the Hippopotamus.28 However, contrary

matique d’Edfou (CASAE 11; Cairo: Service des Antiquités de l’Égypte, 1948). None of the earlier works are mentioned, in particular the exegesis of Blackman and Fairman, as it is presented by Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 677–80. 22 However, a lot can be said about the mythological Delta papyrus, notably as published by Dimitri Meeks, Mythes et légendes du Delta d’après le Papyrus Brooklyn 47.218.84 (MIFAO 125; Cairo: IFAO, 2006). 23 See the latest summary of Egyptian myths by Meeks, Mythes et légendes du Delta, 163–70. 24 See Sydney H. Aufrère, Thot Hermès l’Égyptien: De l’infiniment grand à l’infiniment petit (Collection KUBABA: Série Antiquité 13; Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007), 64–65 (“L’hypertexte mythologique”). 25 Genette, Palimpsestes, 16–17. 26 Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 779–803. 27 Ibid., 708, 710 (= Émile Chassinat, Le Temple d’Edfou [ed. Maxence de Rochemonteix et al.; 15 vols.; MIFAO 10–11, 20–31; Cairo: IFAO, 1892–1985], 6:109, 9. See also the beginning of it, in id., Le temple d’Edfou, 13:pl. 518. 28 Chassinat, Le temple de Edfou 6:114, 2; Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 683, 713 and no. 7. See also Siegfried Schott, Bücher und Bibliotheken im Alten Ägypten:

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to the opinion of Maurice Alliot, that book is probably not Text A,29 but rather another text. The mythological Text A, summarised in Text D (see infra), is a large mythological extract from the religious monograph of the 2nd nome of Upper Egypt. Furthermore, Text A bears a relationship to other nomes. It brings together several etiological explanations relating to the 17 elementa sacra which make up the identity card of each Egyptian district (42 in total), and some of the papyri on this subject from the Greco-Roman period were used in the teaching of priests and were reproduced in their entirety.30 It contains a version of the battles of Horus and Re against Seth and his allies, including Egypt and Nubia. Its structure, and the style of the military campaign, are similar to those of the triumphal stela of Piankhi (25th Dynasty)31 or the stela said to be of the Dream of Tanutamon.32 The

Verzeichnis der Buch- und Spruchtitel und der Termini technici (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1990), 108 no. 211. 29 As far as is understood from Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 683. 30 Francis L. Griffith, William M. Flinders Petrie, and Heinrich Brugsch, eds., Two Hieroglyphic Papyri from Tanis: The Sign Papyrus—The geographical Papyrus: Extra Memoir of The Egypt Exploration Fund (Memoirs of The Egypt Exploration Fund 9; London: Trübner & Co., 1889); Jürgen Osing, Hieratische Papyri aus Tebtunis 1 (2 vols.; The Carlsberg Papyri 2 = CNI Publications 17; Copenhague: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1998), 1:40–66; Jürgen Osing and Gloria Rosati, eds., Papiri geroglifici e ieratici da Tebtynis (2 vols.; Firenze: Istituto Papirologico “G. Vitelli,” 1998). See also Vincent Rondot, “Une monographie bubastite,” BIFAO 89 (1989), 249–70; Sydney H. Aufrère, “Les végétaux sacrés de l’Égypte ancienne d’après les listes géographiques d’Edfou et du Papyrus géographique de Tanis et les autres monographies sacrées.” Pages 121–207 in vol. 1 of Encyclopédie religieuse de l’Univers végétal: Croyances phytoreligieuses de l’Égypte ancienne. Edited by Sydney H. Aufrère; 4 vols.; OrMonsp 10, 11, 15, and 16; Montpellier: Université Paul Valéry, 1999–2005; idem, “Les interdits religieux des nomes dans les monographies en Égypte: Un autre regard,” in L’Interdit et le Sacré dans les religions de la Bible et de l’Égypte (ed. J.-M. Marconot and Sydney H. Aufrère; Montpellier: Université Paul Valéry, 1998), 69–113; idem, “Le ‘territoire cultivé’ (ouou) et la ‘réserve aquatique’ (pehou) dans les monographies des nomes de l’Égypte ancienne,” in La campagne antique: espace sauvage, terre domestiquée, Cahiers KUBABA 5 (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003), 9–44; idem, “L’arbre sacré, les buttes arborées de l’Égypte ancienne et la crue du Nil,” in L’arbre: symbole et réalité: Actes des Journées universitaires de Hérisson (Allier) organisées par les Cahiers KUBABA (Université de Paris I) et la ville de Hérisson 21 et 22 juin 2002 (ed. M. Mazoyer et al.; Collection KUBABA: Série Actes 2; Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003), 105–34; idem, “Formation sacerdotale et enseignement traditionnel dans les temples égyptiens à l’époque tardive,” in De l’Antiquité à nos jours: Histoire et Méthodes de l’Enseignement: Actes du 4ème Colloque de l’Abbaye-École de Sorèze, 26–27 octobre 2006 (ed. M.-O. Munier; Toulouse: Centre Universitaire Champollion, 2007), 19–36. 31 See Nicolas Grimal, ed., La Stèle triomphale de Pi(‘ankh)y au Musée du Caire: JE 48862 et 47086–47089 (MIFAO 105; Cairo: IFAO, 1981). 32 Text in idem, Quatre Stèles napatéennes au Musée du Caire: JE 48863–48866 (MIFAO 106; Cairo: IFAO, 1981), 3–20.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 167 war took place in Egypt and the confirmation of royalty depended on the defeat of the opposing party.33 Text A belongs to the same epic genre as certain sections of the Jumilhac Papyrus34—a monograph of the 17th and 18th nomes of Upper Egypt. Also, to a certain extent, in terms of the etiologies it contains,35 its structural composition is similar to that of the Jumilhac Papyrus and the Delta Papyrus recently published by Dimitri Meeks,36 which belongs to a so-called “tribulation” genre. According to Maurice Alliot, Text A has “the nature of a revision adapted to the local theology of Edfu; its style is archaic and its vocabulary unvaried.37” Alliot speaks of a revision, and the two following points show he is correct. Firstly, the ancestral theme which first appeared at the time of the Pyramid Texts38 had already given rise to a popular version in the 19th Dynasty—the Adventures of Horus and Seth of the Chester Beatty I Papyrus39—based on elements taken from earlier literature.40

33

The question of secondary literature, applied to this mythological text, cannot be avoided. I do not believe, as proposed by Philippe Derchain, “Miettes § 4: Homère à Edfou,” REg 26 (1974):15–19, that the myth of Horus is a pastiche of the Iliad, because that text definitely does not date from the period when it was engraved on the interior wall of Edfu, because of its archaic style—in particular certain verb forms—which place it at the time of the 25th to 26th Dynasties. This question of the pastiche is mentioned in Genette, Palimpsestes, 128–65. See also Jean Yoyotte, “Bakhthis: Religion égyptienne et culture grecque à Edfou,” in Religions en Égypte hellénistique et romaine: Colloque de Strasbourg, 16–18 mai 1967 (ed. P. Derchain, Paris: Vendôme, 1969), 127–41. 34 Jacques Vandier, Le Papyrus Jumilhac (Paris: CNRS, 1961). 35 There is nothing there except the banal, since all myths search for explanations and etymological justifications for the highly fortuitous connections. 36 Meeks, Mythes et légendes du Delta. 37 Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 683. 38 We will return to Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts. 39 Alan H. Gardiner, Late-Egyptian Stories (BiblAeg 1; Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1973), 37–60; See the translation of The Contendings of Horus and Seth, from P. Chester Beatty I, recto, in: Gustave Lefebvre, ed., Romans et contes égyptiens de l’époque pharaonique (Paris: Adrien-Maisonneuve, 1949), 178– 203. 40 Thirdly, this papyrus brings together elements which are echoed further in Plutarch, Is Os, 12–20. There is also a demotic version: Karl-Theodor Zauzich, “Der Streit zwischen Horus und Seth in einer demotischen Fassung,” in “Grammata Demotika”: Festschrift für Erich Lüddeckens zum 15. Juni 1983 (ed. H.-J. Thyssen and K.-T. Zauzich; Würzburg: Gisela Zauzich Verlag, 1984), 275–81; François P. Gaudard, “The Demotic Drama of Horus and Seth (P. Berlin 8278a, b, c; 15662; 15677; 15818; 23536; 23537a, b, c, d, e, f, g)” (Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 2005).

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Secondly, it has an intertextual resonance with several compositions in which the myth repeatedly degenerates in local adaptations, particularly in the Jumilhac Papyrus and the geographic Delta Papyrus. The greatest consideration will be given to Text A, a literary text that was born out of the convergence of a series of hypotexts from traditional religious literature to meet the particular needs of the Apollinopolite clergy. Its archaic style, which is in the exact style of the royal monuments of the 25th and 26th Dynasties, and its unvaried vocabulary, gives it a pseudo-authenticity.41 The etiological annotations follow the flight of the falcon from the south to the north and from the north to the south, and establish intertextual links with other theologies. Because of what they add to this text, these segments of etiological annotation create an interreligious framework. The text, in its present state, given the archaic style which characterises it, is without doubt a hypertext written in the Saite period, an era which is popularly revisited by ancient texts. To clarify, the text is distributed across a series of eight tableaux and can be reconstructed from several columns and variable lines spread throughout one or two spaces of these eight units, i.e. below the scene and to its left. Each tableau contains an illustration depicting the images of the protagonists of each scene. These divine and royal images are annotated by columns of texts which identify the characters, detailing their characteristics with the help of epithets. Because of the gap between the our time and theirs, it is possible respectfully to critique the views of earlier scholars in the field: trained in classical studies and far removed from the ideas of Gérard Genette, they chose to isolate the text’s textual mass as if it were a single, individual unit, while steadily ignoring the system of paratexts that also claimed to be metatexts. When it was studied, the paratext was relegated to the mar41 The Memphite theology document (Pierre de Chabaka), with its archaic characteristics, was preserved in the reign of Shabaka (25th Dynasty): Hermann Junker, Die Götterlehre von Memphis (Schabaka-Inschrift) (APAW 23; Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften/Walter de Gruyter, 1939); idem, Die Politische Lehre von Memphis (APAW 6; Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften/Walter de Gruyter, 1941); Erik Iversen, “The Cosmogony of the Shabaka Text,” in “Studies in Egyptology”: Presented to Miriam Lichtheim (ed. Sarah Israelit-Groll; 2 vols.; Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 1990), 1:485–93. See also Horst Beinlich, “Bemerkungen zum Schabaka-Stein,” GöttMisz 122 (1991): 15–20; Jocelyne Berlandini, “Ptah-démiurge et l’exaltation du ciel,” REg 46 (1995): 9–41, esp. 9. On the diversity of loans from one single text from the 26th Dynasty to earlier compositions, see Olivier Perdu, “L’avertissement d’Aménirdis Ière sur sa statue Caire JE 3420 (= CG 565),” REg 47 (1996): 43–66.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 169 gin, all attention being given to the principal text. The paratext formed by the iconography—annotation pairing is essential, not only as an aid to transtextual reading but also as a way of decoding the scenes which lead on from one another. Writing of this nature can only be mastered by following the priest’s instructions. That is because, while the annotated text can repeat certain elements from the text, like an echo, it can also provide information that does not appear in the text. Such an observation shows that there is a real symbiosis between text and paratext, and this symbiosis was probably already found in the document that served as a model for the artist-priests who were responsible for the west interior wall of the Temple at Edfu, just as it is found in the Jumilhac Papyrus, which is a papyrus with vignettes. Take as an example the second scene42 of the upper register (Internal wall, interior face [I’], west wall, 2nd register, 6th tableau).43 Outside the framework which contains the scene, the text comprises the three lines above it and the six columns to the south. It can be observed that each segment of the text is more or less concluded with an etiological play on words, recalling each of the elementa sacra of the 2nd nome of Upper Egypt, which echo small or larger extracts of the monograph on the Mysterious corridor.44 Since then, this systematic play on words, as I have already stated, creates an intertextual dimension: it implies the text is linked to the establishment of the sacred nomenclature of the Edfu district, but also links this same text, in the subsequent tableaux, to the nomenclatures of other districts where various acts of combat took place between the followers of Horus and those of Seth. Each district is thus a witness because of the explicit relationship between its religious nomenclature—its religious identity-card—and the battle which was fought during the time of the Horus movement at Edfu. These etiologies, an echo of an inter-regional religious conviviality, form a kind of literary manufactory that supplies solely priestly texts:

42 The first scene (Chassinat, Le temple de Edfou, 13:pl. 518) begins with the opening of the sky, an action linked to Ptah. Cf. Dieter Kurth, Den Himmel stützen: Die “Tw3 pt-Szenen” in den ägyptischen Tempeln der griechisch-römischen Epoche (Rites Égyptiens 2; Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1975); Berlandini, “Ptah-démiurge.” 43 Chassinat, Le temple de Edfou 13:pls. 518, 521–22; Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 709, 710–12. 44 Chassinat, Le temple de Edfou 1:337, 9–14.

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Annotation

Speech given by king Re-Harakhty: “To your divine ka, O Horus of Edfu son of Re, sublime being of my blood! May the enemy be beaten before you on the field!” (Then) Horus of Edfu flew towards the horizon (âpy~ef er akhet) like a large winged disc (âpy-wr). (Etiological annotation:) That is why they call him: “god lord of the sky” (netjer âa neb pet) to this day.” (description of the scene:) re-harakhty is sat on a throne at the stern of the boat and accompanies the action of horus of edfu with a gesture of protection, in the company of hathor.

Re-Harakhty, great god, lord of the sky, he of the dappled plumage coming out of the horizon.

He saw the enemies from the skies (maa~n=ef sebiw em heret) and swooped down in front of them as a large winged disc. It was then that he deployed a rage against them with the help of his uraeus (until) they no longer saw through their eyes, nor heard through their ears, they were all massacred in the same way in the space of one instant until not one head among them showed signs of life. As Horus of Edfu was coming as a many-coloured falcon like a large winged disc towards the boat of ReHarakhty, Thot said to Re, king of the gods: “The Behedite has come in the form of a falcon and a soaring large winged disc.” (Behedety ii em âkhem âpy wr) (Etiological annotation:) That is why they call Horus of Edfu: “He-the-talons-of-whom-grip-therebels” (âwy~ef medes em khakw-ib) to this day! Re-Harakhty says: “I see Horus” (maa~i Her) (Etiological annotation:) That is why they say of Djeba: “He-who-watches-Horus” (Maât-Her) to this day. It is then that Re holds him by his chest, and Re says to Horus of Edfu: “You have put grapes in the liquid which flows to soothe my heart.” (redi~en=ek i[a]rer er mw per im=es sehetep=ek ib=i her=es)

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 171 (Etiological annotation:) That is why they make the drink herw-â45 for Horus of Edfu to this day, saying “The many-coloured falcon is the lord of all the gods to this day.” Horus of Edfu (then) says: “Re, come and see your enemies beaten under you in this country!” It was then that king Re came, Astarte with him, and he saw his enemies beaten on the ground, heads broken.

Astarte, mistress of the horses, lady of the chariot before Outjeset.

(Description of the scene:) astarte, whip in hand, stands on a battle chariot and knocks down an enemy.46 And Re says (responds) to Horus of Edfu: “It is a place of pleasure” (nedjem-ânkh pw). (Etiological annotation:) That is why they call the palace of Horus of Edfu, “Place of pleasure” to this day.” (djed=tw Nedjem-ânkh en ta-âh en Her behedety her=es) Then Re says to Thot: “It is the punishment (djebâ) of my enemies” (Etiological annotation:) That is why the district is called Djeba to this day.” And Thot says (responds) to Horus of Edfu: “May your protection be great!” (meki=ek âa) (Etiological annotation:) That is why the boat of Horus of Edfu is called “Great-of-protection” (âameki) to this day!”

Hathor, lady of Dendara, lady of movement on the boat.

45 This offering is the object of a long development (Text B) which can be found just south of the first register, entitled “Giving the drink herw-â (a grape wine) to his father” (Chassinat, Le temple d’Edfou, 6:132, 7–136, 9; 13:pls. 534–35). This tableau, together with the text that accompanies it, could be understood to be either a paratext or an intertext of A. It is always placed in a appropriate way just south of Text A, so as to form an extension. See also Chassinat, Le temple d’Edfou, 6:345, 13–17; Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 684. It is quite possible that this tableau was part of the same Apollinopolite monograph as that from which Text A was taken. 46 On the chariot-gods: Jocelyne Berlandini, “Bès en aurige dans le char du dieusauveur,” Egyptian Religion: The Last Thousand Years: Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Jan Quaegebeur (ed. W. Clarysse, A. Schoors, and H Willems; 2 vols.; OLA 84–85; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 1:31–55. Concerning Astarte: Rainer Stadelmann, Syrisch-palästinensische Gottheiten in Ägypten (PdÄ 5; Leiden: Brill, 1967), 101–10; Jean Leclant, “Astarte,” Pages 499–509 in vol. 1 of LÄ. Edited by W. Helck and W. Westendorf. 12 vols. Wiesbaden 1975–1992.

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(Description of the scene:) Hathor, who is not named in the text, provides, with re-harakhty, the protection referred to in the text. she performs the gesture meki “protect” at the height of the neck of horus of edfu.47 Re said to the gods who were following him: “Therefore, we row (khenen=en) in our boat on the water and we rejoice in our enemies beaten on the ground.” (Etiological annotation:) Because the great god rowed there (khen~en netjer âa im=ef ), the (sacred) canal is called “Khenu” to this day. Then, the enemies flowed back towards the water and became crocodiles and hippopotamuses. When Re-Harakhty was aboard his boat and had sailed, the crocodiles and hippopotamuses came and opened their mouths wide to attack the boat of Re-Harakhty. It was then that Horus of Edfu and his escort made up of men with spears came, divine spears and ropes in hand, and each, true to his name, struck the crocodiles and the hippopotamuses, in such a way that 651 enemy creatures were brought back to the field, massacred in front of the hill of Re. Re-Harakhty says to Horus of Edfu: “Here is my aspect in Upper Egypt! This is the one because of whom the palace is powerful!” (nekhet âh pw)

Horus of Edfu, god great lord of the sky, aspect of Re in Upper Egypt, who massacres his enemies in front of his dwelling-place.

(Etiological annotation:) That is why the palace of Horus of Edfu is called the “Powerful palace” (Nekhet-âh en Her behedety) to this day.

All the other tableaux have the same structure, and in all cases, the combined iconography—annotation paratext recalls many of the elements of the text, including the etiologies. 2. Lower Register: Text C Moving on now to the second register, the lower register, which forms Text C. This is a ritual text entitled “Justification of Horus against his 47 The idea belongs in Text F, but the mother of Horus assumes the characteristics of Isis, the figure of whom appears on the boat for the battle; cf. Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 690.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 173 enemies after he came to destroy Seth, judged by the court of Re (Semaâkherw Her er kheftyw=ef ).”48 In contrast to Text A, this title indicates the true beginning of text C: “Beginning of the Book entitled Justification of Horus against his enemies.” Text C is, according to Maurice Alliot,49 a very mixed compilation which blends with highly abbreviated ritual texts of several complementary interpolations. The language is clearly neo-Egyptian; the models seem to have have been established for use by the sanctuaries of the Delta: Mesenet-Sile, Busiris and Buto.

This text relates to festivities celebrated from 21 to 25 of the month of Meshyr during which Horus’s victory is celebrated by performing a series of mimetic rites. In the form of a ritual, it alludes to the ten battles led by Horus against the hippopotamus (and the bull of the marshlands) with the help of ten different spears.50 It was enacted as a sacred drama, as Étienne Drioton observed, since, unlike a mythological text, each character is played by an actor directed by a master of ceremonies who plays the role of Horus. It seems to be the booklet for this enacted divine drama which was reproduced, with the royal priest and a master of ceremonies. Whatever it is, and leaving aside its ritual nature, Text C describes a traditional hippopotamus hunt. It was Maurice Alliot who understood that Texts A and C are not the same in nature, and had been placed in such a way as to create, artificially, a principle of correspondence, a kind of metatextual link. In other words, Text C, independent of Text A, is used as a metatext. It follows that Text A—mythological—becomes, in comparison to Text C, a reference-text. One could say therefore that there is a basic mythological text and a practical ritual text, or the difference may even be between a diegesis (something which tells) and a mimesis (something which enacts). I chose not to consider Text B. That text corresponds to the Great offering to Re51 the end of which has a version of another battle led by Horus-son-of-Isis, helped by his mother and Horus of Mesen.

48 49 50 51

Chassinat, Le temple d’Edfou 6:61, 2; Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou, 683, 705–06. Ibid., 683. Ibid., 705–61. Ibid., 683–85.

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3. The paratexts known as Texts F and G Next to what appears a priori to be the main text, at various locations on the west wall, there are other texts which show complementary lateral perspectives: a) Under the geographical characters, a long inscription—Text 52 G —forms the lower band which lies directly underneath Text C (ritual of the feast of Meshyr), which starts to the south, with the scene entitled “Vision of god,”53 and follows it up to the end of the “Procession of Sokaris.” In general it is a summary in which elements borrowed from Text A and Text C can be clearly seen. It is a true paratext, undoubtedly created later than the time of construction of the inner wall, which summarises the scenes relating to the Victory Feast, and which gives coherence to the composition shown by the tableaux on the inner wall as a whole. After having celebrated the metamorphosis of Horus, who had just fought off the enemies of Re in Lower Nubia (Wawat), it retraces the journey of the god between his mesenet of the south (Edfu) and his mesenet of the north (Tjaru-Sile), indicating the places at which he stopped: Tod, south of the district of Thebes; then Khadit, east of the district of Dendara; the east of Hermopolis; near to Kom el-Ahmar (Hebenu); Oxyrhynchus; and Set-Iabi in the district of Heracleopolis. He visited the towns of the Delta from the mesenet of the west to the mesenet of the east (Sile). From there, he returned to Nubia, to Shasheret, then from there went back down the river to Edfu. An examination of the texts shows that there is a reference to the festivities held in his honour, which include the ceremonies of the “Procession of Sokaris”.54 The latter, in other words, at eye level, would allow every priest at Edfu to determine the nature of the exhibited texts and how the scenes play out. b) A tableau entitled “See the god”—Text F55—which recalls that the battle between Horus and Seth took place between Nubia and the Mediterranean, includes a short description of the “Victory Feast.” This text is located on the inner west wall, south of the last tableau containing Text C. Situated just above the beginning of the lower band, this tableau is a moved forward summary of Text A. 52 53 54 55

Ibid., 687–90. Ibid., 691. Chassinat, Le temple d’Edfou 6:136–43. Chassinat, Le temple d’Edfou 6:58–60; Alliot, Le culte d’Horus à Edfou. 686, 690.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 175 All these texts are not isolated on the inner wall. They form a network of intertexts which are echoed by other tableaux claiming to be paratexts that are directly related to various aspects of the celebrations of Meshyr. III. Texts, Scripto-visual Apparatus, Collations and Implications in Priestly and Funerary Papyri The collation of several versions of a single text can, to a large extent, lead to peritexts of an auctorial nature. In fact, the Egyptian priests from the “Houses of Life”—the scriptoria-libraries where the texts were written—in the Late Period, began a significant period of production following the literary renaissance which began in the Saite Period (672–525 b.c.e.) and probably even earlier, in the course of the 25th Dynasty at Thebes. For example, in Papyrus Jumilhac, an acephalous manuscript, which is a religious monograph from the 17th and 18th nomes of Upper Egypt, the copy of which dates from the 30th Dynasty (380–343), marginal texts can be observed, written either in hieroglyphics or in a demotic cursive script, constituting an extralineary peritext. These were placed directly below the columns of texts to which they related. They are either additions and corrections, the text having been collated with its original, or guidelines or annotations that give instruction as to how to read and reread the text correctly, so as to recall not only the main events, but also other mythological events relating to those described in the papyrus. In other words, the text also contains—as was intended when it was planned—a paratextual scripto-visual space in the form of vignettes which illustrate the text and which at the same time explain it. In some cases, the writer of the demotic text (i.e. the author of the epitext) draws a figure in the margin, thereby adding a nuance to the scripto-visual message. It must be said that the demotic paratext largely respresents one way of reading the text, in that demotic script corresponds more closely to the spoken language, whereas hieroglyphics (archaic) correspond to a classic form of the language and are, theoretically at least, more difficult to decipher. The author of the text is obliged, as Philippe Derchain has shown,56 himself to provide etymologies of obsolete Egyptian words, without forgetting, following the guidelines about the author produced 56

Philippe Derchain, “L’auteur du Papyrus Jumilhac,” REg 41 (1990): 9–30, esp. 11.

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by Heinz-Josef Thissen,57 that the writing incorporates demotic compositions which facilitate the reading of the text. In the Jumilhac Papyrus, then, there are four types of paratexts, of which the first is original and the rest marginal: – the vignettes – the corrections – the aides-mémoire – the comments

original paratext extralinear marginal paratexts

The hermeneutical practice of the of the Papyrus Jumilhac to support the interpretation of demotic texts is not specific to this document. One of the two copies of the Ritual of Embalming, which dates to the first half of the 1st century c.e., has several aides-mémoire in demotic script in the upper margin, which briefly summarize the content.58 These notes, which are relatively short, help to locate quickly the parties as the priest/reader carries out the ritual: these are extralinear marginal paratexts. This technique, added to those of the workshops of priest-scribes attached to the “Houses of Life,” allows us to see that in many cases it compensated for the obsolescence of the text. The expert priests restore the meaning of archaic words, or words that have fallen into disuse. The Tebtunis Papyri,59 published by Jürgen Osing in his Hieratische 57 On this point, see Karl-Theodor Zauzich, “Zu einigen demotischen Glossen im Papyrus Jumilhac,” Enchoria 4 (1974): 159–61. 58 Serge Sauneron, Rituel de l’Embaumement: Pap. Boulaq III, Pap. Louvre 5.158 (SAE Service des Antiquités de l’Égypte; Cairo: Imprimerie Nationale, 1952), xiii; Goyon, Rituels funéraires, 22. It is possible to have papyri which are totally bilingual, in hieratic and demotic scripts such as the Rhind Papyri I and II (cf. Georg Möller, Die beiden Totenpapyrus Rhind des Museums zu Edinburg [ed. W. Spiegelberg, Dem. Stud. 6; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1913]). It is an “aide-mémoire for texts” used at the beginning of the Christian era during funerals; Jean-Claude Goyon, “La littérature funéraire tardive,” in Textes et langages de l’Égypte pharaonique, 3:73–81, esp. 76–77. On diglossia (coexistence of two linguistic systems in a given territory) neo-egyptian/ demotic script, see also Pascal Vernus, “Entre Néo-Égyptien et Démotique: La langue utilisée dans la traduction du Rituel de repousser l’Agressif (Études sur la diglossie 1),” REg 41 (1990):153–208; idem, “Langue littéraire et diglossie,” in Loprieno, Ancient Egyptian Literature, 555–64; Karl Jansen-Winkeln, “Diglossie und Zweisprachigkeit im Alten Ägypten,” WZKM 85 (1995): 85–115. 59 For the diversity of content of the library at Tebtunis, see Kim Ryholt, “On the Contents and Nature of the Tebtunis Temple Library: A Status Report,” in Tebtynis und Soknopaiu Nesos: Leben im römerzeitlichen Fajum: Akten des Internationalen Symposiums vom 11. bis 13. Dezember 2003 in Sommerhausen bei Würzburg (ed. S. Lippert and M. Schentuleit; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 141–70.

priestly texts, recensions, rewritings and paratexts 177 Papyri aus Tebtunis,60 demonstrate the interest that expert readers from the “Houses of Life” had in the use of didactic texts for learning and memorizing specific elements of the priestly culture. These texts provide two methods of assisting reading in the form of interlinear paratexts: a. The primary method consists of hermeneutical annotations in a cursive demotic script and hieratics. These are comments or reading aids, variants that are indicated by the expression ky-djed, “that is to say;”61 they also indicate synonyms62 and homophones,63 the latter introduced specifically to avoid confusion between words that sound similar. b. The secondary method consists of phonetic annotations in pre-Old Coptic, real phonetic transcriptions in a script that uses the letters of the Greek alphabet and a choice of graphemes borrowed from demotic for sounds that do not exist in Greek.64 These transcriptions allow us to understand the gap between the written form, the original pronounciation of a word, and its current pronounciation. For example, the word that means a type of antilope, Oryx leucoryx, mahedj is read [ⲙ//] ϩⲧ65 /m[ai]-het/, which confirms certain ptolemaic forms at Edfu, such 66 as or . These are among the first steps towards the creation of Coptic writing.67 In both cases, we have a real attempt to use philology and phonology as a critical apparatus to enrich reading and to assist in the transmission of the priestly culture.

HYtd R

’iYtdR

IV. The Impact of the Spoken Language on the Written Language In the later texts, a real awareness can be observed of the diachronic evolution of the language which shows a desire to understand the 60

Jürgen Osing, Hieratische Papyri aus Tebtunis 1, 1:40–66. Ibid., 1:43. 62 Ibid., 1:44. 63 Ibid., 1:43. 64 Ibid., 1:52–56. 65 Ibid., 1:53. 66 Penelope Wilson, A Ptolemaic Lexikon: A Lexicographical Study of the Texts in the Temple of Edfu (OLA 78; Leiden: Peeters, 1997), 405. 67 Sydney H. Aufrère, “La dernière ronde des hiéroglyphes . . . La mort des écritures égyptiennes traditionnelles et l’émergence des premiers signes coptes,” in Égyptes . . . l’Égyptien et le Copte: Catalogue de l’Exposition (ed. N. Bosson and S. H. Aufrère; Lattes: Imago/Musée Archéologique Henri Prades, 1999), 27–67. 61

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meaning of texts as well as to adapt them. However, it is true that in texts of the Ptolemaic and Roman periods, the majority of words engraved on the inner walls keep their original forms with regard to the declensions that show gender and number. Several years ago, Christian Leitz, in his Die Aussenwand des Sanktuars in Dendara. Untersuchungen zur Dekorationssystematik (2001),68 drew up, in the commentary, a two-page list of terms from the Ptolemaic period that had been modified from the classic writings: they do not reproduce the historic and archaic pronunciation, as you would expect in the framework of a priestly system of writing which differed from one sanctuary to another,69 but instead reflect the way in which the words were pronounced at the time when they were engraved on the inner walls of the temple at Dendara. On the one hand, the spoken language, from which dialectalisation cannot yet be excluded, had a significant impact on the writing of the more commonly-used words, but on the other, this means that the copied texts were often read (out loud, in a whisper, etc.). Of the feminine “t” endings, the median “t” was in fact elided, and similarly the final weak consonants such as “r” became the vowel “e.” Furthermore, a sonourous fricative like “dj” in the final position became a dental “t.” Here are some examples:

„ _¬ , „Ò 66 t_, hereret (18th Dynasty) > ptol. r πr® r Ò_, „ r r / >lSAL ϩⲣⲏⲣⲉ, B ϩⲣⲏⲣⲓ, ⲉϩⲣⲏⲣⲓ, F ϩⲗⲏⲗⲓ, ϩⲣⲏⲗⲓ. Tail, S Á (Pyramid Texts) sed > ptol. tÁ; cf. dem. set; SB ⲥⲁⲧ, ALB ⲥⲉⲧ, SB ⲥⲏⲧ. C , qemyt (18th Dynasty) > ptol., KH‘Ò¬C , and Gum KÂyt¬ Flower

70

71

72

73

in Coptic B ⲕⲟⲙⲓ, ⲕⲟⲙⲙⲉ, ⲕⲙⲙⲉ, ⲕⲟⲙⲏ, ⲕⲏⲙⲙⲉ (cf. κόμμι).74

68

Christian Leitz, Die Aussenwand des Sanktuars in Dendara: Untersuchungen zur Dekorationssystematik (ed. G. Burkard and D. Kessler; MÄS 50; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2001), 168–69. 69 The language at one single temple could show great variances. There is no homogeneity of grammar or spelling; cf. Hermann Junker, Grammatik der Denderatexte (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1906), § 1–3. 70 Wilson, A Ptolemaic Lexikon, 671. 71 Wallis E. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press,1939), 704a. 72 Wilson, A Ptolemaic Lexikon, 973; WÄS 4:364, 4. 73 Jaroslav Černý, Coptic Etymological Dictionary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 163. 74 Crum, A Coptic Dictionary, 110b.

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SÔ μZ¡ n Z n Z Zt Ê Ê

Fear senedj (Pyramid Texts) gives, in the Ptolemaic D 75 or in other words S ⲥⲛⲁⲧ76 in Coptic. period, ¥ , For example, the classic and rather common verb, kheper, “to become, come about”, written, in the Pyramid Texts, (kh + p + kheper + r), is found reduced in later writing to two consonants of its original tri-literary consonant skeleton (kh + p) or (sh + p) or (kh + p). These writings correspond, in Coptic, to writings such as:77

Ku

ÓK

SLO ϣⲱⲡⲉ BF ϣⲱⲡⲓ O ⲥⲱⲃⲓ A ⳉⲱⲡⲉ

K u8r ßK

ß K (sh + p) K u (kh + p)

Hor ϧⲱⲡⲓ In later texts, in particular for the most common words, there was a desire to update the words phonetically by correcting the writing, indicated by the apocope of a weak consonant, or the syncope of a median letter, corrections which recall, from the 3rd century c.e. onward, the dialectal richness of the Coptic language.78 The text is reinvented as a result of the phonetically-updated words in a way that seems to show, within the framework of the Egyptian priestly system, an openness to hypertextuality, since the texts that one would have expected to be fixed in terms of spelling remain alive despite their age. The presence of these updated words shows a reading which aims to adapt older texts from different periods that have not managed to mask their heterogeneity. In the field of priestly literature there is practically no ex nihilo literary creation,79 but, more often earlier textual resources (hypotexts) 75

Wilson, A Ptolemaic Lexikon, 878–79. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary, 346b, rare. 77 Ibid., 577b. 78 For a dialectal panorama, see Nathalie Bosson, “‘Langue copte’, une réalité à visages multiples,” in Bosson and Aufrère, Égyptes . . . L’Égyptien et le Copte, 69–87. 79 We make an exception for the Book of Traversing Eternity; cf. François R. Herbin, Le livre de parcourir l’éternité (OLA 58; Leuven: Peeters, 1994). See also Goyon, “La littérature funéraire tardive,” 73–81, esp. 76. 76

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are used in order to keep the process of literary creation alive. In the end, to summarize the various points dealt with here, this evolution is explicit. Priestly textual composition echoes literary, iconographic and pseudo-historical resources on various surfaces (interior walls, papyri). The example of the Myth of Horus at Edfu demonstrates that the temple priests used various methods: rereading, rewriting, arranging tableaux, arranging texts in parallel, different perspectives and even the use of “mise-en-abyme,” depending on the needs of the local clergy. This method of producing texts generates important paratextual and/ or metatextual literature to which are added, in particular to facilitate reading, systems of secondary paratexts (extratextual developments, summaries). Towards the 2nd century c.e., this traditional system tailed off when large mural compositions disappeared as a result of the extinction of priestly life in the large temples.80 A definitive linguistic split from the past was effected. Only a philological (explanatory) and phonological reading with the systematic use of paratexts—which seem to be necessary at the end of the indigenous dynasties—allow us to restore the meaning of a text.

80 On this period, see Jean Maspero, “Horapollon et la fin du paganisme égyptien,” BIFAO 11 (1914): 163–95, esp. 186–87; Rolf Herzog, “Der Kampf um den Kult von Menuthis,” in “Pisciculi: Studien zur Religion und Kultur des Altertums”: Franz Joseph Dölger zum sechzigsten Geburtstage dargeboten von Freunden, Verehrern und Schülern (ed. T. Klauser and A. Rücker; AntChrSup 1; Münster: Aschendorff, 1939), 117–24; Roger Rémondon, “L’Égypte et la suprême résistance au Christianisme (veviie siècles),” BIFAO 51 (1952): 63–78.

PART IV

LATE ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE

RABBINIC PARATEXTS: THE CASE OF MIDRASH LAMENTATIONS RABBAH Philip S. Alexander University of Manchester I. Midrash as a Paratextual Paradigm Any survey of the phenomenon of paratext which omitted Rabbinic Midrash would be deficient, because in many ways the Midrashim are a paradigm of paratextuality and offer a well-equipped laboratory in which to investigate this phenomenon. Midrash is paratext in the obvious sense that it is commentary on Bible. Running through the Midrashim from end to end is a canonic text, treated as inspired Scripture, to which is juxtaposed exposition. The Midrashim make no effort to conceal their subservience to this base text but flaunt it by adopting the format of “lemma and comment.” In this respect they are typical of the whole of Rabbinic literature which relates its ideas constantly to Scripture, though in Mishnah, Tosefta and Talmud this is achieved not so much through lemmatic commentary as through the endless quotation of Scriptural prooftexts. More widely the Midrashim illuminate the general intellectual world of late antiquity, of which they can be seen as a typical product, because, as Pierre Hadot has persuasively argued, the whole literary culture of that era was fundamentally paratextual, in that ideas tended not to be expounded in their own right, but in relation to canons of authoritative knowledge and doctrine: commentary, in the very broadest sense, was the default mode of intellectual discourse.1 What I shall suggest is that how Midrash functions as paratext can only be understood by considering Midrash in all its aspects—the evolution of its text (which in some cases never reached finality but continued for centuries to be actively reworked, and the relationship of the comment to base-text endlessly re-adjusted), its social origins, its fluctuating intertextual relations to other biblical paratexts, and its function within Jewish thought and religion in the period of its 1 Pierre Hadot, Philosophy As a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault (ed. A. I. Davidson; trans. M. Chase; Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 71–78.

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creation. All this is a tall order for one paper, but I shall try to avoid too much vague generalization by illustrating my main points from a specific Midrash—Eikhah Rabbah to the Book of Lamentations. The importance for textual studies of the phenomenon of Rabbinic Midrash is now widely recognized. When I was a student in the 1960s Midrash was an esoteric subject, even within the field of Jewish studies: as a pupil of Geza Vermes I was aware of it, but I was also aware that few others seemed interested. Midrash, however, was then taken up by New Testament scholarship and exploited to illuminate the use of the Old Testament in the New.2 From there it entered the study of the Old Testament itself where it was deployed by Michael A. Fishbane and others to explain the redactional history of the Torah in terms of inner-biblical exegesis.3 Finally it went mainstream when literary critics such as Harold Bloom and Frank Kermode discovered it, and used it to illustrate the relationship between texts within the western literary canon.4 How mainstream it had become, how much part of the vocabulary of contemporary academic discourse, was brought home to me when I was asked in the late 1990s to provide an entry on “Midrash” for The Routledge Encyclopaedia of Philosophy.5 There are good reasons why Rabbinic Midrash should enjoy this iconic status. The surviving Midrashic literature is extensive, and the quality of its key texts is high. Full of ingenuity and invention, it illuminates the full spectrum of possible ways of reading and using antecedent texts. Moreover unlike some paratexts it tends to make its working clear. That is to say it does not simply present the results of its reading of Scripture: the processes by which it derives itself from Scripture are either explicit, or close to the surface. You are not left speculating how the darshan got his result: he will usually tell you, or at least give you a strong hint. Above all Midrash is a field which has now been intensely studied. Indeed, it is arguable that at the moment the study of Midrash is ahead of other areas of paratextual study in its detailed analysis of 2 One of the pioneers was Geza Vermes. See his Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggadic Studies (StPB 4, Leiden: Brill, 1961). 3 Michael A. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). 4 Harold Bloom, Kabbalah and Criticism (New York, N.Y.: Seabury Press, 1975); Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy: On the Interpretation of Narrative (2d ed.; The Charles Eliot Norton Lectures: 1977–1978; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1979). 5 See Philip S. Alexander, “Midrash.” Pages 353–55 in vol. 6 of The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Edited by E. Craig. 10 vols. London: Routledge, 1998.

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the hermeneutical relationship between the canonic text and the commentaries it has engendered. This can lead to problems when experts in Midrash try to dialogue with colleagues in cognate fields, which may not have reached the same level of analytical precision. Since the time of Isaac Heinemann a parallelism has been noted between the role of Homer in Greek and the role of Moses in Jewish culture in late antiquity, and this sets up the possibility of a comparison between Homeric and Biblical commentary.6 Numerous commentaries on Homer survive from late antiquity, and they have become a focus of interest in recent years. Several fine monographs on them, by David Dawson and others have appeared.7 The Society of Biblical Literature Hellenistic Moral Philosophy and early Christianity Section for years studied the Stoic commentators on Homer,8 but analysis of Homeric commentary seems still at the impressionistic, descriptive stage which the study of Midrash left behind many years ago. I know of no analysis of Homeric commentary

6 Isaac Heinemann, Darkhei ha-Aggadah (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1954) [Hebrew]. Further Philip S. Alexander, “ ‘Homer the Prophet of All’ and ‘Moses our Teacher’: Late Antique Exegesis of the Homeric Epics and of the Torah of Moses,” in The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World (ed. L. V. Rutgers et al.; CBET 22; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 127–42. 7 David Dawson, Allegorical Readers and Cultural Revision in Ancient Alexandria (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1992); R. Lamberton and J. J. Keaney, eds., Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes (Magie Classical Publications; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1992). Over the past decade there has been an upsurge of interest among Classicists in commentary, but for the most part this has been focussed on sorting out and describing the texts and their historical relationship. See Felix Budelmann “Classical Commentary in Byzantium: John Tzetzes on Ancient Greek Literature,” in The Classical Commentary: Histories, Practices, Theory (ed. R. K. Gibson and C. Shuttleworth Kraus, Mnemosyne Supplement 232; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 141–70. Further: Monique van RossumSteenbeck, Greek Readers’ Digests? Studies on a Selection of Greek Subliterary Papyri (Leiden: Brill, 1997); J. E. G. Zetzel, Marginal Scholarship and Textual Deviance: The Commentum Cornuti and the Early Scholia on Persius (BICSSup 84; London: Institute of Classical Studies, 2005); Eleanor Dickey, Ancient Greek Scholarship: A Guide to Finding, Reading, and Understanding Scholia, Commentaries, Lexica and Grammatical Treatises, from their Beginnings to the Byzantine Period (CRSAPA; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Kathleen McNamee, Annotations in Greek and Latin Texts from Egypt (ASP 45; New Haven, Conn.: American Society of Papyrologists, 2007); Han Baltussen, Philosophy and Exegesis in Simplicius: The Methodology of a Commentator (London: Duckworth, 2008). 8 For the first fruits of its labours see: Donald A. Russell and David Konstan, eds., Heraclitus: Homeric Problems (SBLWGRW 14; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2005).

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to parallel the sophistication of the Goldbergian school’s work on Midrash, though such analysis is certainly possible.9 II. Midrash: The State of the Question Though the study of Midrash has advanced by leaps and bounds over the past twenty or so years, the advance has taken place only on certain fronts. Most progress has been made on the micro-forms (the small units that make up the Midrashic texts), on the hermeneutical techniques, and on the manuscripts and the problems of text-editing. Less progress has occurred at the level of the macroforms (the substantial documents we call Bere’shit Rabbah, Eikhah Rabbah, or Sifra), or on the contextual questions of how these came into being, where and for what purpose. For the latter we are still reliant to a surprising degree on the answers proposed by the Wissenschaft des Judentums scholars. On matters of date, provenance, composition and sources, most consult basically Moshe D. Herr’s entries on Midrash and the individual Midrashim in the Encyclopaedia Judaica, or Günter Stemberger’s Introduction to Talmud and Midrash. Both of these are excellent reference works, but they have limited space to devote to any given text, or to methodological problems, and they set out to summarize the status quo. On the broad contextual questions and issues it is striking how few advances they have to report beyond Wissenschaft des Judentums.10

9 See Arnold Goldberg, Rabbinische Texte als Gegenstand der Auslegung (vol. 2 of Gesammelte Studien; ed. M. Schlüter and P. Schäfer; TSAJ 73; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). Scholars working in the same formalist tradition, not all of them Goldberg’s students, are: Alexander Samely, Rivka Ulmer, Lieve Teugels, Doris Lehnhardt. 10 Moshe D. Herr, “Midrash.” Columns 1507–14 in vol. 11 of EncJud. Edited by C. Roth and G. Wigoder. 16 vols. Jerusalem: Keter, 1971–1972; id., “Midrashim, Smaller.” Columns 1515–18 in vol. 16 of EncJud. Edited by C. Roth and G. Wigoder. 16 vols. Jerusalem: Keter, 1971–1972; and the articles on the individual Midrashim; Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (ed. and trans. M. Bockmuehl; 2d ed., Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996). The revised Encyclopaedia Judaica seems to have left Herr’s articles fundamentally unchanged. The bulk of the volume edited by Lieve M. Teugels and Rivka Ulmer, Recent Developments in Midrash Research: Proceedings of the 2002 and 2003 SBL Consultation on Midrash (Judaism in Context 2; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2005) is devoted to questions of text editing, with little on the broad contextual questions. The second volume from the same editors, Midrash and Context: Proceedings of the 2004 and 2005 SBL Consultation on Midrash (Judaism in Context 5; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2007), does, however, mark a turn towards context.

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One of the few scholars to have subjected individual Midrashim as a whole to comprehensive analysis is Jacob Neusner,11 but his approach really only allows him to discover the repertory of themes and microforms within a given Midrash, and to pronounce somewhat impressionistically on the literary coherence or otherwise of the document at hand. Neusner’s analysis raises insistently the fundamental problem of the unity and coherence of the extant Midrashim. Are they delimited, bounded texts, and if so what constitutes their internal coherence? How can we decide whether a given Midrash constitutes some sort of unity, as distinct from being a haphazard miscellany of traditions? Most would now see Neusner’s own attempt to define unity in terms of the repetition of a small repertory of forms and themes as useful but limited, and, as he himself would be the first to admit, his analysis can tell us little about basic questions of date and provenance, or about the Sitz im Leben. What are the parameters for a more nuanced approach to the Midrashim qua documents? What are the questions we need to pose and answer if we are to assess correctly how the Midrashim function as paratexts, and how, as quintessential paratexts, they may contribute to our broader understanding of the phenomenon of paratextuality? III. Form and Genre The first point that has to be considered is the nature of the Midrashim as literary works. From the manuscript evidence it seems obvious that many are “open books.” That is to say they are books which never seem to reach definitive closure. This type of composition is well known in antiquity and in the Middle Ages, and is usually associated with school or scholastic texts. Each scribe or scholar who copies the text does not see any need to reproduce it exactly as he finds it, because it does not have canonic status like a book of Scripture. Rather he “improves” it or adapts it for his own purposes. This process is reflected in the substantial variations between the extant manuscripts of the work.12 The 11 See, e.g., Jacob Neusner, Lamentations Rabbah (vol. 1 of The Midrash Compilations of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries; BJS 187; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1989); Jacob Neusner, Lamentations Rabbah: An Analytical Translation (BJS 193; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1989). 12 One of the most illuminating discussions of the concept of an “open book” is an essay by Israel M. Ta-Shma, “The ‘Open Book’ in Medieval Hebrew Literature:

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phenomenon appears to be reflected in Eikhah Rabbah. There are large variations between the manuscripts. Some contain both the Proems and the verse-by-verse Midrash. Some of those with Proems do not have all the Proems. Some have no Proems at all, just the Midrash. And when we compare Proem with Proem or Midrash with Midrash in the various manuscripts we find significant variations. It has long been recognized that these different text-forms of Eikhah Rabbah fall into two main groups: Group A, an exemplar of which can be found in Cambridge Add. 495, and Group B, an exemplar of which can be found in Parma 2559. The editio princeps, which appeared in Constantinople around 1514, and formed the basis of the Pesaro edition of 1519 (which in turn became the basis of the textus receptus), belongs to Group A. Salomon Buber’s well-known 1899 edition13 contains an eclectic, rather heavily emended text. The commentary proper is basically copied from Casanatense H 3112, which belongs to Group B, but since this manuscript lacked the Petihot (Proems) Buber added these from elsewhere. Petihot 5–36 were taken from British Library 27089, which also belongs to Group B, but this lacks Petihot 1–4, the scribe simply referring the reader to the parallels “in the Pesiqta [deRab Kahana].” Buber took his text for these from the textus receptus, which belongs, as I have just noted, to Group A. From the provenance of the manuscripts, and from citations in later authorities, it is clear that, in the Middle Ages, Group A circulated mainly in north Africa, Spain, and the Yemen, though in the case of the Yemen Lamentations Rabba seems to have been known only in the abbreviated form found in the Pirqei Tishʿah be-’Av, the affinities of which to Group A are clear. Group B circulated mainly in Italy, Provence, northern France and Germany. Alexander Marx in his review of Buber’s edition14 called Group A the Sefardi recension, and Group B the Ashkenazi recension,

The Problem of Authorized Editions,” in Artefact and Text: The Recreation of Jewish Literature in Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts: Proceedings of a Conference Held in the University of Manchester, 28–30 April 1992 (ed. P. S. Alexander and A. Samely; BJRL 75/3; Manchester: John Rylands University Library of Manchester, 1993), 17–24, where it is illustrated by texts emanating from the school of Rashi in northern France in the 11th–12th centuries. 13 Salomon Buber, Midrasch Echa Rabbati: Sammlung agadischer Auslegungen der Klagelieder; herausgegeben nach einer Handschrift aus der Bibliothek zu Rom cod. J. 1.4 und einer Handschrift des British Museum cod. 27089 (Vilnius: Romm, 1899; repr., Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967). 14 Alexander Marx, review of S. Buber, Midrasch Echa Rabbati, OLZ 5/7 (1902): 293–97.

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but Paul Mandel argues the A-text in fact goes back to the Byzantine era, and represents rather faithfully the original work which was compiled in Palestine in late antiquity. The B-text is a version which arose in Babylonia sometime after the Arab conquest.15 The nature of the textual variations is important. I am reluctant to see them in this case as amounting to “recensions” in any strict sense of that term. In textual criticism variations between manuscripts can be deliberate or accidental. Accidental variations are due to mistakes in copying, the most common cause of which is parablepsis in its various forms. One finds in the manuscripts of Eikhah Rabbah the usual crop of involuntary, transcriptional errors, but there are also variations which point to deliberate, conscious change. However, these changes are not, for me, recensional. For the different versions of a work to count as recensions I think a number of conditions have to be met. The changes have to be extensive and systematic, and above all they have to betray a certain Tendenz. The Western and the Yemenite versions of Targum Lamentations, for example fulfil these conditions, and so do constitute recensions. The Yemenite version is a recension of the Western based on three broad principles: (1) the shortening of the expansive Western version to bring it into closer conformity with the Hebrew; (2) the recasting of the Western Galilean Aramaic dialect of the text into the Aramaic dialect of Targum Onqelos; and (3) the substitution of recherché vocabularly by more common synonyms.16 I cannot detect any such Tendenz in the variations between the manuscripts of Eikhah Rabbah. The changes, though deliberate, seem to be random, and to relate possibly to private concerns or inaccessible agendas of the copyist, which may vary from case to case. I can see nothing systematic or planned about them. This sort of deliberate but random variation is for me a classic manuscript footprint of the “open book.”

15 For the textual history of Eikhah Rabbah see Paul D. Mandel, “Midrash Lamentations Rabbati: Prolegomenon, and A Critical Edition to the Third Parasha” (2 vols., Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997) [Hebrew]; idem, “Between Byzantium and Islam: The Transmission of the Jewish Book in the Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods,” in Transmitting Jewish Traditions: Orality, Textuality, and Cultural Diffusion (ed. Y. Elman and I. Gershoni; Jewish Culture and Society 2; New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2000), 74–105. 16 See Philip S. Alexander, The Targum of Lamentations: Translation, Introduction and Notes (vol. 17B of The Aramaic Bible; ed. M. McNamara; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2008).

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philip s. alexander IV. The Question of Date

1. The Problem of the Urtext The state of the manuscript tradition has immediate implications. It radically problematizes the question of the date of the work. When we ask, What is the date of Eikhah Rabbah?, the immediate riposte must be, What form of Eikhah Rabbah do we mean? It is astonishing how regularly this complication is ignored, and how confidently standard reference works offer precise dates, totally discounting the fact that the reworking of many classic Rabbinic texts appears to have gone on right down to the Middle Ages. It is true that the tradition must presumably have had a beginning—a core text which was then altered in transmission. Without that there would be nothing to transmit and nothing to change. Just as a piece of grit is needed to produce a pearl, so there must be some irreducible core round which to crystallize a literary tradition. Peter Schäfer has argued for dispensing with the concept of the Urtext in Rabbinic literature, but I am not persuaded that the manuscript evidence, for all its fluidity, supports his contention.17 I find the idea of an Urtext or a core-text a necessary theoretical postulate, without which the tradition is meaningless. However, I readily concede that the isolation of the core or Urtext is not easy. One cannot predict in advance how big it must have been: even the mightiest rivers begin as trickles on a mountainside. Each case must be examined on its own merits. The obvious place to start is the material shared by all the manuscripts, or by all the major manuscripts, excluding obvious abbreviations or anthologies, but textual criticism on its own is surely not enough. We may have good grounds for thinking when we examine the shared text that it shows signs of having undergone development in the period that lies behind our extant manuscripts, which in the case of the Midrashim are at best centuries later than the probable date of the text’s origin. Textual criticism will have to be augmented by source- and redaction-criticism. I know of no study which has demonstrated how this can be done, nor any Midrash on which the requisite analysis has been rigorously and successfully carried out.

17 Peter Schäfer, “Research into Rabbinic Literature: An Attempt to Define the Status Quaestionis,” JJS 37 (1986): 139–52.

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Take once again the concrete case of Eikhah Rabbah. The substantial agreement between the various manuscripts suggests that the coretext must have been very large, but the manuscript evidence must be balanced against intrinsic literary and structural features. The most striking of these is that Eikhah Rabbah comprises two quite distinct elements: a) the 36 Proems, and b) the verse-by-verse commentary. Herr confidently asserts that “except for some later additions, the entire Midrash, including the proems, is a compilation redacted by a single redactor,” whom he dates to the 5th century c.e.18 I fail to see on what basis such a sweeping assertion can be made, and indeed it strikes me as counter-intuitive. There is unquestionably a relationship between the Proems and the Commentary, but an analysis of the parallels indicates strongly to me that the Proems have priority, and are the source of the parallels in the Commentary. This in turn suggests the hypothesis that Eikhah Rabbah grew in two distinct stages. First someone made a compilation of Petihot for the Ninth of ‘Av, and then someone else recast this effectively in the form of a commentary by redistributing the Proem material, wherever possible, to the verse to which it was most appropriate within Lamentations and then, so to speak, filling in the gaps with further commentary in order to provide a continuous exposition. That these two elements are distinct is reinforced by the fact that the Petihah as a literary form belongs fundamentally to the Beit ha-Knesset, whereas the lemmatic commentary belongs fundamentally to the Beit ha-Midrash. I shall return to this point presently. I can see no reason to assume that these two elements were produced by the same redactor at the same time. This point can be made in another way, namely by comparing Eikhah Rabbah with Shir ha-Shirim Rabbah. It would be unjustified to assume automatically that all Rabbinic texts are “open books.” The contrast between the manuscript tradition of these two Midrashim is startling: where we find textual variety in the case of Eikhah Rabbah we find strong agreement in the case of Shir Rabbah. The uniformity and stability of the manuscript tradition of Shir Rabbah is very striking. Why the difference? Perhaps Eikhah Rabbah was a more used, a more “live” text, and so the copying of it more likely to be engaged and

18 Moshe D. Herr, “Lamentations Rabbah.” Column 1376–1387 in vol. 10 of EncJud. Edited by C. Roth and G. Wigoder. 16 vols. Jerusalem: Keter, 1971–1972.

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to produce “improvements.”19 However, there are grounds for thinking that Shir Rabbah was also popular: we have a fair number of manuscripts of it from all round the Jewish world. But even in the face of this textual stability we have still to ask source- and redaction-critical questions, and, as Tamar Kadari has demonstrated, it is possible to detect a redactional process behind our present text.20 2. Intertextuality There is another implication of the fact that Eikhah Rabbah is an “open book” which has evolved over a long stretch of time. It is that its relationship to other “open books” of the same kind becomes highly complex. The earliest extensive discussion of the “sources” of Eikhah Rabbah is Joseph Abrahams’ dissertation The Sources of Midrash Echah Rabbah, published in 1883.21 Abrahams’ work seems to form the basis on which later scholars assert that while Eikhah Rabbah used the Mekhilta, Sifra and Sifre, it was in turn used by Leviticus Rabbah, Ruth Rabbah and certain other Midrashim.22 I find such claims hard to understand. Having done extensive synoptic comparison of the parallels to Eikhah Rabbah in other Midrashim I do not find that it is at all obvious. It fails to address the fundamental methodological problem that afflicts all such synoptic comparison, amply illustrated by synoptic study of the Gospels, namely that while the parallelism and the interrelationship of the pericopae are obvious, which version has priority is not.23 Even more fundamentally it is predicated on an inappropriate model of text-production, dissemination and transmission. It presupposes that the Midrashim are authored, “closed” books in the normal sense of the term that were available as such to later authors. The question of intertextuality is fundamental to the contextualizing of the Midrashim. There is first and foremost the relationship between the paratext (the commentary) and base-text (the Bible), but 19 It is tempting to argue that Eikhah Rabbah was more “alive” because it was linked closely to a festival—the Ninth of ‘Av—which grew steadily in importance in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, but Shir Rabbah, like Canticles itself, became closely associated with Passover. 20 Tamar Kadari, On the Redaction of Midrash Shir Ha-Shirim Rabbah (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2004) [Hebrew]. 21 Joseph Abrahams, The Sources of the Midrash Echah Rabbah: A Critical Investigation (Berlin: J. Gorzelanczyk, 1883). 22 Cf. Stemberger, Introduction to Talmud and Midrash, 285–86. 23 See: Shaye J. D. Cohen, ed., The Synoptic Problem in Rabbinic Literature (BJS 326; Providence, R.I.: Brown University Press, 2000).

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that is not the end of the story. There is the intertextual relationship between parts of the same Midrash, for example, between the Proems and the Commentary in Eikhah Rabbah. There is also the intertextual relationships between the given Midrash and other biblical paratexts: here overlaps can be important, but lack of overlap may be significant as well. One of the most important of these biblical paratexts is the Targum, and this creates particular problems in the case of Eikhah Rabbah. There are good grounds for thinking that Eikhah Rabbah is earlier than Targum Lamentations, yet there are clearly important Aramaic sources on which Eikhah Rabbah is drawing, and in some cases they offer Aramaic renderings of phrases in the biblical text which are not the same as those in our current Targum.24 My own view of this is that these do not point to the existence of an alternative Targum—one in circulation earlier, but totally supplanted by our present text—but rather reflect ad hoc Aramaic renderings by darshanim. The Aramaic sources of Eikhah Rabbah reflect, I would suggest, a tradition of popular Aramaic preaching, mainly for the Ninth of ’Av, in the synagogues of the Galilee in late antiquity. In integrating the Aramaic sources the compiler of the Midrash made no attempt to translate them into Hebrew. He happily interweaves the Aramaic and Hebrew material in a way that suggests he treats the two languages functionally as one. This phenomenon can be found elsewhere in Rabbinic literature, most strikingly in the Gemaras of the Talmuds.25 V. The Sociology of Rabbinic Literature It is the failure to tackle the question of the historical and social conditions under which texts (oral as well as written) were created and disseminated in Jewish society in Palestine in late antiquity that constitutes the most obvious weakness in the current discussion of the Midrashim. A number of casual, unexamined assumptions are made. The most pervasive of these, put very crudely, is that only the Rabbis created significant religious texts in Palestinian Jewish society in late antiquity. This notion manifests itself in a number of ways, for 24

Alexander, The Targum of Lamentations, 60. Aramaic sources also contributed to other Midrashim, e.g. Bere’shit Rabbah. On the question of Aramaic and Hebrew in Rabbinic texts see Alexander Samely, “Is Targumic Aramaic Rabbinic Hebrew? A Reflection on Midrashic and Targumic Rewording of Scripture,” JJS 45/1 (1994): 92–100. 25

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example in the assumption that everything we find in a classic Rabbinic text is Rabbinic in origin, and testifies to Rabbinic Judaism. Or the assumption that all the major forms of literature that survive from late antique Palestinian Judaism are essentially Rabbinic. The usual treatment of two of these literary forms (both of them paratextual, though in varying degrees) illustrates the point. We have an extensive set of Targumim from late antiquity. Targum as a literary genre is not, to be sure, Mishnah or Midrash, the two quintessentially Rabbinic forms; nevertheless there has been a tendency to treat the Targumim as fundamentally Rabbinic. Why? The tradition that Onqelos produced his Targum under the direction of Rabbi Aqiva may initially have played a part, but it is now conceded on all hands that this tradition does not, in fact, refer to the well known Aramaic version of the Pentateuch, but to the Greek version of Aquila: Onqelos is a Babylonian mangling of the name Aquila.26 More important are the numerous parallels between the Targums and the Midrashim. Where these parallels exist it is assumed that the Midrash has priority, and that the Targum is borrowing from it, not vice versa. Targum is a secondary, derivative kind of literature, dependent on the Rabbinic creativity of the Midrash. This attitude is more common in the work of Jewish scholars (it is epitomized in the writings of Pinchos Churgin and Ezra Z. Melamed),27 and it reflects clearly the hierarchy of literary values within Orthodox Judaism, with Talmud coming first, Midrash second and anything else, including Targum, a distant third. Christian scholars, by way of contrast, are more inclined to treat the Targums as independent, or even to see them as opposed to classic Rabbinic literature. A similar picture emerges when we consider the Piyyutim. A substantial body of these survives from late antique Palestine. Again although Piyyut is not a classic Rabbinic form the tendency has been to assume that the Piyyutim are fundamentally Rabbinic. Why? Because there are extensive parallels between them and the classic Rabbinic texts, and it is assumed that when these parallels exist, the Paytan is quoting from the Rabbinic source, and not vice versa. This principle was clearly enunciated in an article by Steven Fine in the Journal of Jewish Stud26

Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 3a; cf. Jerusalem Talmud, Megillah 1 (71c.10). Pinkhos Churgin, The Targum to Hagiographa (New York, N.Y.: Horeb, 1945) [Hebrew]; Ezra Z. Melamed, Bible Commentators (2 vols.; Magnes Press: Jerusalem, 1978) [Hebrew]; Ephraim Silber, Sedeh Jerusalem: Ein Kommentar zu Targum Chamesch Megiloth (Czernowitz: E. Heilpern: 1883) [Hebrew]. 27

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ies, in which he claims that the essentially Rabbinic character of the piyyutim can be easily verified by examining the standard editions and noting the numerous parallels they quote from Rabbinic texts.28 Even Michael D. Swartz and Joseph Yahalom, whose approach to Piyyut is more nuanced, and who are more inclined to see it as independent of the Rabbis, still fall into this trap.29 They assume that the early Palestinian ʿAvodot which describe the rituals for Yom Kippur in a way that closely parallels Mishnah Yoma are quoting from the Mishnaic text. But why should we assume this? May it not be the other way round, or may not both Mishnah and Piyyut be drawing on a common source? The latter possibility is somewhat strengthened by the fact that Yoma, and indeed some of the other tractates dealing with Temple matters, have long been recognized as displaying a rather different style and language from the standard Mishnaic tractates. VI. Text Creation and Transmission I would argue that we can only begin to understand the origins, literary structure and contents of the Rabbinic Midrashim if we recognize that there were different loci of textual creativity in late antique Palestinian Jewish society, and that not all of them were Rabbinic. On the basis of the surviving evidence I would suggest we can identify at least six. a) The first is the Beit Midrash. This is the Rabbinic institution par excellence, the power base of Rabbinic authority within the community. We should not assume, however, that only the Rabbinic party had Batei Midrash, even post-70, or that everyone called Rabbi necessarily belonged to the Rabbinic movement. The title Rabbi is clearly used before 70 for respected religious teachers who were not Rabbis (Jesus of Nazareth is the most obvious case), and there is no obvious reason why this practice should not have continued after 70, though the Rabbinic movement may have tried to claim it exclusively for its own members. When we find Rabbi on post-70 inscriptions both in Palestine and in the Diaspora we should not automatically assume that the person so titled belonged to the Rabbinic movement, and that 28 Steven Fine, “Between Liturgy and Social History: Priestly Power in Late Antique Palestinian Synagogues,” JJS 56/1 (2005): 1–9. 29 Michael D. Swartz and Joseph Yahalom, eds., Avodah: Ancient Poems for Yom Kippur (The Penn State Library of Jewish Literature Series; University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004).

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this is conclusive evidence for the influence of that movement in that place.30 However, it is probable that most Batei Midrash were Rabbinic. It was in this setting that the Mishnah, the Tosefta, the Gemara, and the major Midrashim originated—all of which are classic scholastic texts. b) The second locus of textual creativity was the Beit ha-Knesset. The most obvious types of text which belong to this context are prayers and sermons. But we may, possibly, assign to it also the Targum and the Piyyutim, both of which were certainly used in this setting. The Beit ha-Knesset was not a Rabbinic institution in origin, and although the Rabbinate tried to control it, by regulating its prayers, its Targums, and its forms of worship, there is no evidence that they dominated it. It must, therefore, be considered a locus of text-creation independent of the Rabbinic Batei Midrash. It may well have been a place where Priests continued to exercise their age-old duty of religious leadership and teaching. I am convinced, along with others, that the priestly class did not abandon its teaching and leadership role in Judaism after 70, but continued to transmit and study its own distinctive traditions. There was a distinctively priestly piety, spirituality and scholarship that continued throughout late antiquity and the particular social setting in which this was exercised was the synagogue. Many hazzanim and paytanim seemed to have been of priestly descent.31 c) The third locus of text-creation was the school, the Beit ha-Sefer. Catherine Hezser is dubious about the levels of literacy in the Palestinian Jewish communities in late antiquity,32 but there does seem to have been some sort of primary school system, though how widespread it was remains in doubt. The basis of instruction was the Hebrew Bible, though, as I have argued elsewhere, this was studied with the use of a Targum, which created a linguistic bridge between the pupils’ vernacular, Aramaic, and the Hebrew text. It is not impossible that this was the original setting in which the Targum first arose. There is some evidence to suggest that schoolmasters were often members of the priestly class. One would expect, though there is no clear evidence for it, that, given the nature of the teaching, this would be a setting 30

Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Epigraphical Rabbis,” JQR NS 72 (1981): 1–17. Philip S. Alexander, “What Happened to the Jewish Priesthood after 70?”: in A Wandering Galilean: Essays in Honour of Seán Freyne (eds. Z. Rodgers, M. DalyDenton, and A. Fitzpatrick McKinley; JSJSup 132; Brill: Leiden, 2009), 5–35. 32 Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (TSAJ 81; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). 31

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conducive to the creation or transmission of aggadot about the heroes of the biblical narrative. d) Fourthly, we should probably identify popular story-telling as a distinctive setting. Institutionally this is one of the vaguest of our settings, but the literary remains strongly suggest that we need to posit it. Folklorists have long recognized significant elements of the textual material that has come down to us from the late antique Palestinian Jewish communities is folkloric in character, and should, therefore, point to a folkloric Sitz im Leben. That is to say it shows the classic structures and motifs of popular storytelling. As I have already noted the social setting of this material is vague. Presumably it was, as with other folktales, essentially passed down from generation to generation by ordinary people, who created, transmitted and reworked it both at times of communal activity (festivals, weddings, marriages and deaths), or on occasions when entertainment was called for, or more didactically, if informally, to pass on information, traditions and values to the next generation. The extent to which this storytelling was professionalized is unclear. There is some evidence for professional story-tellers operating in the Middle East in late antiquity, but there seems to be no way of telling whether they operated specifically within Jewish society.33 e) Another context for the creation of texts is what I would loosely call the “forum.” I am thinking here of apologetic and polemic elements that are clearly visible within surviving Rabbinic literature. Debate and argument between Rabbis was fundamental to text-creation within the Beit Midrash, but these intra-mural exchanges are not what I have in mind here. Rather I am thinking of extra-mural debates with opponents, whether pagan philosophers or Christians. There is a growing body of evidence that debate with Christianity profoundly shaped the Midrashim, though it has been masked somewhat by the reluctance of the Rabbis to name their opponents. These debates are well documented in Christian writings, such a Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho the Jew. I would argue that the Christian texts are reflecting reality: the Jewish opponents are for the most part not “straw men” or

33 Eli Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning (trans. J. S. Teitelbaum; Folklore Studies in Translation; Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1999); Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (trans. B. Stein; Contraversions; Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000). See further n. 39 below.

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figments of the writer’s imagination. It is hard, however, to reconstruct the social settings in which these exchanges took place. We should probably be thinking of public spaces—the forum—which provided the setting not only for the exchange of material goods but of ideas as well. The fora of larger towns may have functioned as the Speakers’ Corners of antiquity, where philosophers and preachers of all kinds peddled their intellectual wares. It seems that the Rabbis also were involved in this dynamic social process. Curiously the public baths feature prominently in Rabbinic stories of these polemical encounters. Loveday Alexander, in an important essay, has discussed the Christian use of public spaces for the dissemination of their ideas.34 This analysis should be extended to the embrace the Rabbinic movement as well. f ) We should consider private reading and study as a possible locus for the creation and transmission of texts. One thing we can say for certain is that it would not have figured as prominently in antiquity as it does today, for the simple reason that the technology of textreproduction was insufficient to sustain anything more than a very rudimentary book-market. Libraries were few and far between, and even scholars would not have owned many books. Nevertheless private study must have taken place. Indeed there is evidence that it did. The texts that serviced it may in some cases have been acquired from the book-table in the market, but more likely they were copies made by the scholar himself, or notebooks in which he excerpted passages which interested him from works which became available to him from time to time. These notebooks would have been at the very heart of the scholar’s library in antiquity. They would have been very personalized and reflect the scholar’s predilections and tastes. As I have already noted, scholars would on the whole have possessed few complete copies of individual works. Their small libraries would have consisted largely of anthologies. Textual creativity in this setting took two main forms: a) the process of anthologizing itself created a new text. Some of these scholarly

34 Loveday Alexander, “ ‘Foolishness to the Greeks’: Jews and Christians in the Public Life of the Empire,” in Philosophy and Power in the Graeco-Roman World: Essays in Honour of Miriam T. Griffin (ed. G. Clark and T. Rajak; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 229–50. She points out, however, that the public spaces in cities were not unregulated, and itinerant teachers and preachers could fall foul of the municipal authorities if they simply assumed they could use them to propagate their ideas. It is interesting how often the exchanges are represented as arising from casual encounters in public space.

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notebooks got into circulation and became copied works in their own right. This is, I would suggest, the origin of the notes on Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations and Qohelet in De Rossi MS 541 in Parma which Salomon Buber published in 1894 under the title Eikhah Zuta.35 These comments, apart from the fact that they are loosely related to the Megillot, seem to be more or less random. They are not fragments of an originally complete work, as Buber seems to suppose: they are best explained as a scholar’s personal jottings which happen to have got into wider circulation. Joseph Kafih published a similar set of rather desultory Yemenite glosses on Lamentations from the modern era in his commentary on Lamentations.36 I think there are far more texts of this kind than we tend to think. b) New texts were also created by scholars through copying of existing texts. I have already noted the tendency of scholars when copying for their own use to edit heavily and personalize the texts they were copying. It is important to realize that it is very difficult to edit the finished copy of an ancient text: there is simply not enough room left in the margins and between the lines to add new material, or even to indicate clearly proposed editorial changes. This suggests that major changes were probably introduced as running changes in the process of recopying.37 There is clearly much more that needs to be said about the sociology of literature in Jewish culture in late antique Palestine, but I hope

35

Salomon Buber, ed., Midrasch Suta: Hagadische Abhandlungen über Schir haSchirim, Ruth, Echah und Koheleth nebst Jalkut zum Buche Echah (Berlin: Itzkowski, 1894). 36 Yosef Qafih, Hamesh Megillot: Shir ha-Shirim, Rut, Qohelet, Ester, ’Eikhah ʿim peirushim ʿattiqim (Jerusalem: Hotza’at ha-’Aguddah le-Hatzalat Ginzei Teiman, 1962), 354–59. 37 Marginal glossing is somewhat easier in a codex than a scroll, but it is still not easy. The contexts listed here still leave some Jewish texts from late antiquity in limbo. What are we to do with the Heikhalot literature, with the Sefer Yetzirah, with the late Apocalypses, with amulets? The Sitz im Leben of the Heikhalot texts may be conventicles of Merkabah mystics who gathered to study and transmit the mystical lore, and to practice trance ascent to the celestial palaces. Amulets and other magical and divinatory texts, such as dream interpretations, are professional products and probably point to guilds of practitioners who passed on this particular knowledge. But what are we to do with the late Apocalypses, or, above all with that most singular of texts, the Sefer Yetzirah? The possibility should not be discounted that even within Palestinian Jewish society some sort of rudimentary book market existed, as it did in the Greek world and among Greek-speaking Jews. This would have allowed individual authors to write books and circulate them to individual readers who would read them in the privacy of their own homes.

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I have said enough to scotch the notion that only Rabbis created texts. Text-creation occurred in all sorts of settings, most of which were not in any strong sense Rabbinic. VII. The Content of Eikhah Rabbah How does this affect our understanding of Rabbinic Midrash? Let me briefly take once again the case of Eikhah Rabbah. When we look at the content of Eikhah Rabbah against the picture I have just sketched it becomes evident that it emerges from very different backgrounds. The lemmatic commentary, as I have already hinted, is easily enough assigned to the Beit Midrash. The form belongs there, and the presentation shows all the hallmarks of technical, scholastic Rabbinic exegesis. The Proems, however, are more at home in the Beit ha-Knesset. This is suggested by a number of considerations. The Proem is a sermon form, and the locus of the sermon is the synagogue. Moreover, it is interesting that significant portions of the Proems are in Aramaic, whereas the lemmatic commentary is in Rabbinic Hebrew. The Aramaic seems to be basically Galilean Aramaic though, like most texts in this dialect, it has suffered the fate of being occasionally “corrected” by mediaeval copyists to conform to the dialect of Onqelos or the Babylonian Talmud. The presence of this Aramaic is most obviously explained, as I have already noted, by supposing it preserves the vernacular in which the sermons were originally preached. As Menachem Zulay showed long ago, there are significant parallels between the proems and the early Palestinian Piyyutim for the Ninth of ’Av.38 This also has the effect of distancing the proems from a Rabbinic milieu and anchoring it more firmly in the Beit ha-Knesset. Embedded in the Proems, as Galit Hasan-Rokem has shown,39 are significant elements of folkloric material. This is hardly surprising: it is not unlikely that the darshanim would have spiced up their sermons with folktales. But the original setting for the folktales was, presum-

38 Menachem Zulay, “An Ancient Poem and the Petichoth of Echa Rabbati,” Tarbitz 16 (1944–45), 190–95 [Hebrew]. 39 Galit Hasan-Rokem, “ ‘Echa? . . . Ayekah?’—On Riddles in the Stories of Midrash Echah Rabbah,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 11 (1988): 531–47 [Hebrew]; eadem, “Perspectives of Comparative Research of Folk Narratives in Aggadic Midrashim—Enigmatic Tales in Lamentations Rabba, I,” Tarbitz 59 (1989–1990): 109–31 [Hebrew].

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ably, not the Beit ha-Knesset: they are borrowings in the sermons. So another locus of textual creativity indirectly betrays its presence. And it is possible that there are polemical elements in Eikhah Rabbah as well, both inner-Jewish polemic against the “Mourners for Zion,”40 and extra-Jewish polemic against Christian polemical use of the destruction of the Temple to justify the claim that God has finally rejected Israel. So some of Eikhah Rabbah’s content may have originated in the “forum.” What is happening here? Several observations are in order. The total ensemble represented by the textus receptus of Eikhah Rabbah can be seen as Rabbinic in the sense that it was transmitted in a Rabbinic milieu and probably put together by a Rabbinic compiler. The first element of it to emerge was the anthology of proems, which is probably based on sermons preached for the Ninth of ‘Av. In its present form this has been rabbinized at least to the extent of having the names of Rabbinic authorities seeded through it, but that a non-Rabbinic anthology may lie behind it cannot be ruled out. The lemmatic commentary was then constructed on the basis partly of the anthology of sermons. This mode of Midrash construction is attested elsewhere. We find it, for example, in Leviticus Rabbah, which is made up clumps of Petihot clustered round the opening verses of the parashiyyot joined one to the other by lemmatic commentaries. A second point that emerges is that the Rabbis in compiling a Midrash like Eikhah Rabbah clearly did borrow from other, non-Rabbinic sources—sermons, folklore and possibly even Targum (as I have noted, there are Targums quoted in Eikhah Rabbah which curiously do not correspond to our current Targum Lamentations). There is, I believe, a discernible tendency in the Rabbinic tradition to be inclusive—to take a “big-tent” approach. I have argued at length elsewhere that Eikhah Rabbah is broadly to be understood as a Rabbinic response to the growing importance of the Ninth of ’Av, linked to a popular upsurge of interest in commemorating the destruction of the Temple. The diversity of the sources and the anthological character of the work which our analysis reveals raises questions about its overall coherence. Does a consistent Rabbinic theology lie behind it? Certainly strenuous efforts seem to have been made to rabbinize the material, but when all is said and done Eikhah Rabbah does contain material which stands

40

See further n. 43 below.

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out within the Rabbinic corpus and has struck many readers as, to say the least, unusual. The most obvious case in point is Proem 24 on the suffering of God—one of the most astonishing theological documents in Rabbinic literature, and the subject of intense debate.41 VIII. Midrash and the Intellectual History of Judaism in Late Antiquity There is one final context in which the Midrashim must be placed— the intellectual history of Judaism in late antiquity. By this I mean the historical evolution of Jewish and specifically Rabbinic theology. Reconstructing this history is problematic and speculative, and there is always the danger of circularity: one constructs a Rabbinic theology from the surviving texts and then takes this as a given to contextualize the literature. It has to be done diachronically, not in the manner of the classic synthetic accounts of Rabbinic thought by George Foot Moore, Ephraim Urbach and others.42 I cannot canvass all the issues here, but for the sake of completeness let me try once again to illustrate succinctly what I mean from the concrete case of Eikhah Rabbah. I would suggest that the primary intellectual setting into which we should put Eikhah Rabbah is the tradition of “Mourning for Zion” in late antique Judaism, and the theology of catastrophe which it engendered. I have sketched elsewhere how the fall of Jerusalem was commemorated within Palestinian Judaism from the late first century to Gaonic times, focussing particularly on the ideas and practices of the “Mourners for Zion”—ascetics who undertook to live a life of penance in mourning for the loss of the Temple and to pray perpetually for its

41 See, e.g., Alan Mintz, Hurban: Responses to Catastrophe in Hebrew Literature (Judaic Traditions in Literature, Music, and Art; Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 1996), 57–62. Further: Peter Kuhn, Gottes Trauer und Klage in der rabbinischen Überlieferung (Talmud und Midrasch) (AGJU 13; Leiden: Brill, 1978); David Stern, “Imitatio Hominis: Anthropomorphism and the Character(s) of God in Rabbinic Literature,” Prooftexts 12 (1992): 151–74; David C. Kraemer, Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature (New York, N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 1995); Tod Linafelt, Surviving Lamentations: Catastrophe, Lament, and Protest in the Afterlife of a Biblical Book (Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 2000). 42 George F. Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era (3 vols.; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1927–1930); Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (trans. I. Abrahams; 4th ed.; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995).

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restoration.43 To cut a long story short, I think a case can be made for seeing Eikhah Rabbah as a belated attempt by the Rabbinate to reach out, embrace and correct elements of popular mourning for Zion, and this explains some of the puzzling “non-Rabbinic” elements in the work. My basic point is that we will not really understand the Rabbinic Midrashim till we have grasped the big picture of how Judaism, and especially Jewish theology, evolved in late antiquity. One of the weaknesses in the contemporary study of Midrash is that it leaves the texts floating in the air, untethered to history, society or tradition. To summarize: Rabbinic culture in late antiquity was deeply paratextual: Rabbinic Jews were the classic “people of the Book” at the centre of whose religious life was the Torah of Moses, the pole star on which everything had to be aligned. Rabbinic Midrash has good claims to be seen as a paradigm of paratextuality. But if this phenomenon is to be rightly understood, if paratextuality is to be more than a statement of the obvious, then it cannot be divorced from the classic historical, critical questions as to form and genre, manuscript transmission, social setting, date and provenance, sources and relationship to other texts, theology. A “pure” uncontextualized analysis of paratext against base-text is meaningless.44

43

Alexander, The Targum of Lamentations, 78–86. There is a real danger that discourse-analysis in its various guises encourages de-contextualization. Much narratology of ancient texts, for example, ignores the classic historical-critical questions, and, in some cases, seems to be a way precisely of bypassing them. It could be argued that discourse-analysis operates at a universal level of human discourse, but few discourse-analysts attempt to justify this theoretical possibility, or to consider the claim that all textual relations are historically conditioned, as also is our understanding of them. 44

SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON ENOCH/METATRON IN THE JEWISH MYSTICAL TRADITION Felicia Waldman University of Bucharest I. Introduction According to Gershom G. Scholem and other scholars who followed his line of reasoning, the first manifestation of an esoteric tradition in Judaism was the emergence, in the 1st century b.c.e., of a special preoccupation with ecstatic ascensions, through various mystical techniques (hymns, prayers, liturgical literature, meditations), to the Divine Chariot and Throne of Glory, called Ma’aseh Merkabah (“The Work of the Wheels”). Texts preserved from this period, usually short and diverse, apparently part of more extensive writings which were, however, lost, describe the “Celestial Palaces” and “Halls” (Hekhalot), which the mystic must cross on the way towards the divine. The source of these texts is to be found in the vision of the Divine Chariot mentioned in Ezekiel 1, which was considered to be a fundamental religious and mystical reality. As God cannot be seen, what the mystic sees on the Throne of Glory, seated on the Divine Chariot, is seemingly a human form (in direct opposition to the biblical affirmation that “man was created in the likeness of God”), surrounded by beings (hayyot) that populate the divine realm. The “gate-keepers,” placed on both sides of the celestial hall’s entrance, have to be presented with a password—a magical seal with a mysterious name on it, designed to keep hostile demons and angels away1. In this type of mystical experience the worshipper’s aim is less to achieve union with the divine than to catch a glimpse of God, to contemplate his majesty and to understand the mysteries of creation.2 Evidently, the “palaces” to be crossed

1 This has a lot to do with Judaic mythology. The relation between Kabbalah and Myth is analyzed in detail by Gershom G. Scholem, On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism (trans. R. Mannheim; 8th ed.; New York, N.Y.: Schocken Books, 1996). 2 Mircea Eliade, A History of Religious Beliefs and Ideas (trans. W. R. Trask; 3 vols.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978–1985).

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are stages of spiritual fulfillment. God is the Holy King,3 residing in the “quiet palaces” surrounded by rivers of fire traversed by bridges. In the seventh palace of the seventh firmament the mystic contemplates the mystical shape of the godhead, the Shiur Qomah, an anthropomorphic representation of the divine.4 As the Merkabah mystic does not try to deny his finite self in the attempt to obtain union with the divine, contenting himself with contemplating it and then returning to his earthly limitations, he does not experience the tension between the celestial and earthly planes. Once in possession of the secret technique, the mystic can use his knowledge “just as if he had a ladder in his house, which he can ascend or descend whenever he wishes.”5 This is a possible explanation of the fact that, by a strange switch of terminology, although described in metaphorical terms of ascension, in Hekhalot Rabbati,6 the path to the Merkabah is called “descent.” Those who undertook this journey, the Yorde Merkabah, used specific physical techniques (fasting, adopting certain positions, reciting formally prescribed hymns), being warned that non-observance of these rules would lead to unfortunate consequences. It is said that while Rabbi Yohannan ben Zakkai and Rabbi Eleazar ben Arak were sitting under a tree discussing the unspeakable celestial secrets, a fire came down from the skies and angels started dancing round them.7 In their turn, Rabbi Yohannan’s disciples, Eliezer and Joshua, were surrounded by flames while studying the Ma’aseh Merkabah. Although the Hekhalot texts have a universal tone, they do not constitute a systematic biblical exegesis, like the Midrashim.8 Practically, this type of texts provided the starting point for a long series of later interpretations and developments, which led many scholars

3 The vision of God as King of the World is analyzed in detail by René Guénon, Le Roi du Monde (Les Cahiers du Portique 3; Paris: Librairie Charles Bosse, 1927). 4 Gershom G. Scholem, Origins of the Kabbalah (ed. R. J. Zwi Werblowsky; trans. A. Arkush; Princeton, N.Y.: The Jewish Publication Society and Princeton University Press, 1987), 18–24. 5 David R. Blumenthal is quoted by Ioan P. Culianu, Out of This World: Otherwordly Journeys from Gilgamesh to Albert Einstein (Boston, Mass., and London: Shambhala, 1991), 168. 6 “The Great Palaces”, see Gershom G. Scholem, Kabbalah (New York, N.Y.: Dorset Press, 1987), 15. 7 Which reminds—though in a different perspective—of the Christian saying, that, when two people speak about God, he descends amongst them. 8 Gershom G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (3d ed.; New York, N.Y.: Schocken Books, 1995).

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to the conclusion that this was not the evolution of an experimental mysticism but of a mystical literature.9 II. The Story of Enoch An important set of texts related to Merkabah mysticism consists of the two-plus-one versions of the Book of Enoch (Ethiopic, Slavonic, and Hebrew)—two-plus-one, because the Hebrew version belongs to the later stratum of Hekhalot mystical literature, and was actually known under the name of Sefer Hekhalot. It was probably written several centuries after Hekhalot Rabbati. It was named Third Enoch or the Hebrew Book of Enoch by Hugo Odeberg, who in his 1928 edition, linked it to the apocryphal works of First (Ethiopic)Enoch (with its controversial Book of Parables)10 and Second (Slavonic)Enoch. As Joseph Dan shows, several reasons, among which is the absence of Greek influences, indicate that Third Enoch must have been written in Babylonia sometime between the 7th and 9th centuries.11 It briefly describes (with some Gnostic overtones, but still remaining within the rabbinical tradition) the ascension of Rabbi Ishmael Kohen ha-Gadol to the Chariot, and continues with Metatron’s long mystical autobiography, which explains, among other things, why he is also called the “Youth” (being a latecomer to the divine realm). Incidentally, while in the Ethiopic Book of Enoch we find a reference to a group of angels called “Princes of the Countenance,” later on Metatron is sometimes simply called “the Prince of the Countenance.” Other later titles for him include “Prince of the Torah,” “Prince of the World”. According to the initial story in the early Enochic tradition, Enoch had a vision in his sleep. He rose up to the skies where he saw a crystal wall, then a crystal palace surrounded by flames and ultimately a fiery palace bathed in an unbearable brilliance, in which he saw God’s Throne. It is generally considered that this vision of the celestial temple actually corresponds to the image of the Temple in Jerusalem.

9 According to Moshe Idel, Kabbalah: New Perspectives (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988). 10 For a debate on the controversy around the Book of Parables see Gabriele Boccaccini (ed.), Enoch and the Messiah Son of Man: Revisiting the Book of Parables (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2007), 11–16, esp. 12. 11 Joseph Dan, The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).

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There Enoch contemplated God’s majesty and received instructions on the secret doctrines concerning the past and future. For his righteousness God turned him into an angel under the name of Metatron and appointed him a mediator between himself and man. Special mention should be made here of the fact that, according to the biblical account, his very ascent seems to have been initiated by God.12 Obviously the figure of Enoch evolved from one Enoch Book to the other. While in Second Enoch the Merkabah-motifs are already visible, especially in the Enoch-Metatron imagery, it is Third Enoch that builds on this to create a much more complex description of the heavenly realm and of Enoch’s presence and roles there. One can find in it the key to many of the notions later developed by the Kabbalists in their mystical experiences and writings. Metatron actually held a special position in the Jewish esoteric tradition from as early as the Tannaitic period. In fact, as Moshe Idel points out, one can describe the evolution of certain significant elements of Jewish mysticism by reference to the development of Metatron’s role and various related phenomena.13 He is mentioned in Tosefta Hagigah 2:4 and parallels, in the legend of the Four Sages who entered the Pardes (Orchard or Paradise), which was to become a paradigm for the study of the mystical lore in kabbalistic literature. Rabbi Akiva, Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma and Elisha ben Abuyah (also known as Aher) entered the Pardes. The adventure had two positive outcomes: Ben Azzai peeked and died, while still remaining loyal (which to some Kabbalists was a good end, as they saw his death as an achievement: he had obtained union with the divine and chose not to return to worldly life) and Rabbi Akiva peeked and came out safely. It also had two negative outcomes: Ben Zoma peeked and lost his mind and Elisha peeked and became a heretic. The explanation given by the Talmud is that upon encountering Metatron (the only angel who could sit because, thanks to his human origin, he had knee-joints), Elisha wondered whether there were not, in fact, two powers in heaven. For misleading the poor mystic Metatron was punished and forbidden to sit any longer. In time

12 Moshe Idel, Ascensions on High in Jewish Mysticism: Pillars, Lines, Ladders (Pasts Incorporated 2; Budapest: CEU Press, 2005), 49. 13 In fact, as Moshe Idel points out, one can describe the evolution of certain significant elements of Jewish mysticism by reference to the development of Metatron’s role and various related phenomena. Id., “Les Anges et la Magie au Moyen Age—Metatron à Paris,” MEFRM 114/2 (2002): 701–16, esp. 702.

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this text was used to reveal the most varied meanings, its interpretation depending largely on the context. If in the Talmudic-Midrashic literature it was used to point out the dangers and achievements that were related to speculation rather than experience, and in the mystical literature it was used to show the dangers that could befall the mystic on his way to God, to the Kabbalists Pardes14 was an unexplained parable for an unrevealed secret. The freedom of manoeuvre in interpretation that this outlook allows is evident. Pardes thus became a generalized metaphor for the dangerzones of religious experience, seen as something which was good for the few, but pernicious for others.15 Another Talmudic mention of Metatron can be found in Bavli Sanhedrin 38b. This is even more problematic because it seems that the original version referred to him as “the lesser YHVH,”16 a title which was later on quite probably removed. The explanation of this epithet given in the Hebrew Book of Enoch (chapter 12) seems an obvious attempt to clarify an earlier tradition, which was no longer in fashion, about the angel Jahoel, of whom the Apocalypse of Abraham (2nd century c.e.) stated that the Divine Name was to be found in him (which is literally true of course!). It thus becomes obvious that two different traditions were combined in the figure of Metatron: one about an ordinary angel (with its source in the angelology of the Hekhalot literature), who, after being identified with Metatron, took over some of Michael’s duties (or perhaps was Michael in disguise!),17 and who can be encountered in certain Hekhalot writings and Kabbalistic texts, where he is called Metatron Rabba, and another related to Enoch, the biblical character. It is still not clear when the two traditions were combined in a single figure character, though some references in the Babylonian Talmud 14 According to the results of Gershom G. Scholem’s research, it seems that the first kabbalistic analysis of the text belongs to Moses of Leon, who apparently wrote a book with this title before 1290, later to be lost. Cf. Scholem, On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism. 15 More on the topic in Felicia Waldman, “Edenic Paradise and Paradisal Eden: Moshe Idel’s Reading of the Talmudic Legend of the Four Sages Who Entered the Pardes,” JSRI 18/6 (Winter 2007): 79–87. Cited 9 December 2008. Online: http://www. jsri.ro/new/?Archive.html. 16 Scholem, Kabbalah, 378. 17 More on this in Philip Alexander, “3 (Hebrew Apocalypse of ) Enoch (Fifth to Sixth Century a.d.)”, in Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; vol. 1 of The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1983), 223–315.

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may indicate a connection was already established by the time that that work was composed. Thus Metatron appears (with no connection to Enoch) in the Book of the Visions of Ezekiel (4th century), where we can also find a list of his other secret names, quoted in later writings (a detailed enumeration can be found in an Ashkenazi treatise by Rabbi Nehemiah, The Seventy Names of Metatron, which gives seventy different names, recalling the seventy languages of the revelation on Mount Sinai),18 and in important pieces of Merkabah literature such as the Sefer ha-Razim (Book of Secrets). He is also associated with secrets in Third Enoch, not only as a writer or knower of them but also as their embodiment.19 A review of Metatron’s roles and titles (done comprehensively if not exhaustively by Andrei A. Orlov in his book on the Enoch-Metatron tradition) allows us to see the figure’s surprising evolution: he develops from being a simple angelic scribe appointed to record both the Jews’ evil doings before the Flood (thus justifying it), and also their merits, to being a heavenly judge with a prominent place in the scheme of divine judgment; from a recipient and sharer of celestial and earthly secrets (concerning both creation and man) to their embodiment (as they are written on his crown by the Lord himself ); from an intercessor before God for various creatures of the lower realms to Israel’s attorney in the celestial court and even a redeemer who takes upon himself Israel’s sins; from a witness of Israel’s deeds to God’s secretary, mediator of knowledge, divine judgment, and God’s presence and authority.20 The most interesting role, however, for this paper is the long-lasting priestly one. Already a high priest in early Second Temple materials, like the Book of Jubilees (2nd century b.c.e.), in Third Enoch Metatron is put in charge of the heavenly tabernacle, placed in the vicinity of the Throne of Glory; this status brings him the title of Prince of the Divine

18

See Joseph Dan, “The Seventy Names of Metatron”, in Division C: Talmud and Midrash, Philosophy and Mysticism, Hebrew and Yiddish Literature (vol. 3 of Proceedings of the Eight World Congress of Jewish Studies: Jerusalem, 16–21 August 1981; ed. D. Krone; Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1982), 19–23. 19 A detailed analysis can be found in Andrei A. Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition (TSAJ 107; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). 20 As Harold Bloom puts it, “God, after the Babylonian exile, reigns over a cosmos of angelic orders, and is no longer the solitary warrior-god, Yahweh, who employed a handful of Elohim as his messengers and agents. Out of Babylon came not only angelic names but angel-bureaucrats, princes and functionaries.” See Harold Bloom, Omens of Millennium: The Gnosis of Angels, Dreams, and Resurrection (New York, N.Y.: Riverhead Books, 1996), 45.

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Presence. References to him in this position can also be found in other mystical texts, such as Merkabah Shlemah and Numbers Rabbah. The Zohar itself (II, 159a) mentions that Moses saw Metatron ministering as High Priest,21 and similar information is given in the Cairo Genizah materials, one of which also reminds us of his seventy names and of his gematria-based relation to the divine name Shaddai (“whose name is like your master’s”).22 But in certain texts Metatron is more than High Priest, he is also the leader of the celestial liturgy, master of ceremonies and conductor of the choir. Such references can be identified in Hekhalot Zutarti (Synopse 390) and in Shiur Qomah texts. In Sefer Haqomah for instance it is stated that he could invoke in song God’s name in seven voices. In Harold Bloom’s words, “One can venture that Metatron gathers up all those images of God that normative Judaism tended to reject but that nevertheless could not be excluded from Jewish traditions.”23 Interestingly later mystical literature also made an issue of the name’s spelling: in Shiur Qomah Metatron appears in two forms, with or without yod (6 or 7 letters respectively), which to the Kabbalists signified two different prototypes, based on the earlier differentiation between the two traditions—the seven-lettered Metatron was the supreme emanation from the Shekhinah (sometimes called Metatron Rabba), while the six-lettered one was Enoch. This is not something unusual in the Kabbalah. We should recall here, for instance, the story of Lilith, another character of Jewish lore who crossed the border into religion. One can find in the kabbalistic texts references to Lilith the Elder, wife of Samael (later Satan in the Christian tradition), and Lilith the Younger, wife of Asmodeus (King of the Demons). It should be mentioned that the Kabbalah in fact purposefully reintroduced mythology into religion, in its constant pursuit of symbols to “reveal,” in reality to obscure, the secret meanings of the sacred text. III. Reverberations of the Metatron Tradition in Kabbalistic Writings As previously underlined, Merkabah mysticism, which evolved into the ecstatic type of kabbalistic writings and ritual practices, dealt with 21

Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition, 115. Ibid. According to the Jewish numerology, Metatron and Shaddai share the same number: 314. 23 Bloom, Omens of Millennium, 206. 22

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the mystic’s ascension to the divine realm, initially just to contemplate the Throne and Chariot, but later, starting with Abraham Abulafia, to try and obtain unio mystica. For the Yorde Merkabah Metatron was, then, a model, an aspiration; but also a “friend at court,” as Philip Alexander puts it. To many mystics he served as a maggid, a celestial guide. That is why references to him appear in medieval ecstatic mysticism but also in magical practices (where his career rose to new heights). As far as medieval ecstatic mysticism is concerned, it is worth noting that, distancing themselves from the Hekhalot literature, some Kabbalists, like those in the ʿIyyun-circle, saw Enoch, like Elijah, as the mortal who had obtained eternal life as the result of a successful unio mystica: he had become an angel because his soul had merged with the Holy Name (incidentally it was this line of thought that turned Ben Azzai in the Talmudic story of the Four Sages who entered the Pardes into a model). And this attribute [Middah] was transmitted to Enoch, son of Jared, and he kept it, and would attempt to know the Creator, blessed be He, with the same attribute. And when he adhered to it, his soul longed to attract the abundance of the upper [spheres] from the [sefirah of] discernment, and the two of them became as one thing. This is the meaning of what is written, ‘And Enoch walked with God.’ And it is written in the Alpha Beta of Rabbi Akiva that he transformed his flesh into fiery torches and he became as if he were one of the spiritual beings.24

On the other hand, in 13th century Ashkenazi esotericism, Metatron was seen as “the righteous” (and according to a text by Rabbi Nehemiah ben Shlomo “the righteous are greater than the ministering angels”),25 and the cosmic pillar that held up the world. Again two different traditions are brought together by, among other sources, the Slavonic Book of Enoch, which speaks of the righteous [tzadik] as a cosmic column, one of the seven pillars that sustain not only the Earth but also the seven firmaments.26 To Rabbi Ezra of Gerona27 it was clear that one had to direct one’s intention to pray to Metatron, in his (earlier mentioned) position of

24

Quoted by Moshe Idel, Ascensions on High in Jewish Mysticism, 43. Moshe Idel, Ben: Sonship and Jewish Mysticism (ed. M. Fisch et al.; The Kogod Library of Judaic Studies 5; New York, N.Y.: Continuum, 2007), 646. 26 Idem, Ascensions on High in Jewish Mysticism, 76. 27 Idem, Ben, 657. 25

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“lesser God,” a religious view which Moshe Idel has called “hierarchical ditheism.”28 It was not by chance that Enoch was sometimes compared (or even considered one and the same) as Atlas.29 In this view it was Enoch’s righteousness that made God turn him into an angel. This perspective can be found in the Zohar, which reflects a high appreciation of him, and was later followed by important kabbalists of Safed, like Joseph Caro, Moses Cordovero and Isaac Luria himself. In his Pardes Rimmonim, Moses Cordovero, for instance, saw Metatron as the garment [levush] of the Shekhinah, and the Shekhinah conceals herself within him and demonstrates her actions through his agency. When this happens, his name becomes Metatron with a yod; the letter yod [= ten] indicating the Shekhinah that is constituted of ten [Sefirot]. [ . . . ] All the Sefirot become incorporated [mitlabbeshot] within Metatron, in order to act in this world through Metatron’s agency, and that is why the Shekhinah must be included within him.30

Furthermore, Cordovero saw the angel Metatron (in the seven letter spelling of his name) as the “corporeal righteous male” (tzadik gashmi) who assumed the role of the female waters below, for he induced the overflow of the male waters from the tzadik above (Yesod).31 Another interesting case, worth mentioning in this context, is a tradition ascribed to the Spanish Rabbi Shlomo Molkho, which regarded Metatron and Enoch as two distinct entities: representing the last Sefira, Kneset Israel, Metatron actually incorporated the mortal Enoch after his ascent. A note to Genesis Rabbah written by Molkho describes Enoch in both positive and negative terms, and Metatron as the “Prince of the Face.” Both of them were part of the sacerdotal ritual of benediction: the manuscript speaks of the two faces of the

28

Idem, Ascensions on High in Jewish Mysticism, 85. Idem, Ben, 647. 30 David J. Halperin, “Sabbatai Zevi, Metatron, and Mehmed: Myth and History in Seventeenth-Century Judaism,” in The Seductiveness of Jewish Myth: Challenge or Response? (ed. D. S. Breslauer; SUNY Series in Judaica; Albany, N.Y.: SUNY Press, 1997), 271–308, esp. 302. 31 This view of Metatron corresponds to the phallic dimension of the tzadik in which the Shekhinah is garbed during the week so there is unity between the male and female. See Elliot R. Wolfson, “The Engenderment of Messianic Politics: Symbolic Significance of Sabbatai Zevi’s Coronation,” in Toward the Millennium: Messianic Expectations from the Bible to Waco (ed. Peter Schäfer and Mark R. Cohen; SHR 77; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 203–58, esp. 220. 29

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“Prince of the Face,” corresponding to the good and evil qualities of Enoch (fallen angel/risen god).32 More exciting is, naturally, the case of magical practices. As Joshua Trachtenberg shows, medieval Jews believed in an especially vigilant Providence which presided over the most intimate and minute details of human life, and which operated through the angels. Viewed in this light the angels were the mechanism through which God maintained a close contact with His universe. But these angelic intermediaries could carry messages both ways, and the ancient practice of calling upon the angels rather than God directly in prayer became very widespread during this period. Indeed, the whole force of the mystical movement which stressed the secret values hidden in the letters and the words of the liturgy was directed toward bringing into rapport the angels who could most effectively reach the ear of the heavenly court.33

This was valid for many mystics. Famous Kabbalists like Eleazar of Worms or Joseph Caro took pride in their intimacy with various celestial beings. In their turn, the Cohen brothers (Isaac and Jacob) and Moses de Leon left us entire lists of demonic angels. However, important to these mystics were not the angels themselves, but their names and functions, because they could be used for magical ends. Here we find an element that later became crucial to kabbalistic thinking: the controlling factor was the angel’s name, which became more important than his personality. Trachtenberg identifies two categories: one comprises the true angels as tradition depicted them, the other comprises a vast multitude of mystical names, designated as angels and in theory accepted as such, but actually significant only for the mystical powers inherent in the name itself. In his words, The angels, of course, are legion, and, in the practice of magic, the more that are set to work, the merrier. There are ‘seventy names of angels which are good for protection against all sorts of dangers’ (the figure seventy occurs often, as for instance, the seventy attributes of God, the seventy names of Metatron, etc.); a typical incantation opens with fifty-six angelic names, and contains twenty-one more besides. Often, names of angels and of God are lumped together in one charm in grand profusion.34

32

Idel, Ben, 658. Joshua Trachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion (New York, N.Y.: Behrman’s Jewish Book House, 1939), 75–76. 34 Ibid., 98. 33

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Though present in many texts, it was in the Ashkenazi tradition that Enoch drew special attention in his capacity as a mortal turned angel. According to an anonymous Ashkenazi manuscript, which obviously reflects an older oral tradition, the man who knew the seventy names of Metatron could obtain anything his heart desired, since the angel would reveal to him all the secrets of the Torah.35 It is thus the more surprising to read, in a French text written by a certain Rabbi Samuel ha-Navi (as quoted by Moshe Idel),36 describing an event that supposedly took place in the early 13th century in Paris or Rouen, that, upon being summoned (which implies that he could not resist invocation), Metatron delayed his descent on various pretexts, including the claim that he was scared by Moses’ presence amongst the audience! Such references show how widespread magic was not only among the kabbalistic but also among the rabbinic elites. They also prove that efforts were made to give respectability to these practices, which most often (though not always) combined astral angelology with linguistics, seen as a theoretical means to control reality. In this respect it should be recalled here that the magical activities did not pursue only individual prosperity but the communal good as well. Interestingly Enoch’s celestial experience continued to excite Jewish mystics for a long time. We find him in all his glory as late as the era of Hassidism, when, because of his supreme religious achievements, he served as a model for the Baal Shem Tov’s mystical endeavours. However, not all mystics were so in awe of him. The case of 17th century Kabbalist Abraham Miguel Cardozo provides us with a different picture. Born in 1627 to a Marrano family in Spain, Cardozo openly returned to Judaism while still under the strong influence of Christian ideas and beliefs. This resulted in strange theories based on a mixture of the two traditions, which forged interesting connections between, for example, the worship of Mary and of the Shekhinah. He was undoubtedly a keen Kabbalist, with a deep knowledge of magic and—what is more important—a follower of Shabbatai Zvi. As such messianism loomed

35 This view was also present in an earlier text, the Shimushei Torah (“Theurgic Uses of the Torah”). See Michael D. Swartz, Scholastic Magic: Ritual and Revelation in Early Jewish Mysticism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1996), esp. 180–81, 228. 36 Idel, “Les Anges et la Magie au Moyen Age,” 706–07.

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large in his thought, leading him to consider himself a Messiah at a later point in his life. Cardozo is known till today for his “mending-rites” (tikkunim), texts in which he gives recipes for the rituals to be followed in order to restore the original order and harmony in both the celestial and the human worlds. We must recall here that the Kabbalists thought that Adam had broken the balance between the two worlds and as such men had an important role to play in restoring it. However, as with most mystics after Isaac Luria, in the case of Cardozo the emphasis is laid not so much on the physical side of the rite but on the kavanot, the mental intentions, and on the biblical verses and prayers to be recited. Cardozo was a Sabbatean and to Sabbateans Shabbatai Zvi was the earthly representation of Metatron. In Cardozo’s own words (in a long and detailed Autobiographical Letter to his disciples): “If Sabbatai Zevi told us once,” said [Rabbi Ezra Halevi], “he told us a hundred times”—“us” meaning me and all the rabbis who were in his presence—“if he told us once he told us a hundred times that he was destined to be administrator of the upper and the lower realms, raised higher than Metatron. And from these words they inferred that he would be raised to the rank of Divinity.”37

This, however, should be understood precisely in relation to Zvi’s apostasy: in Sabbatean thinking and symbolism Metatron preserved his two earlier sides, of fallen angel and risen god, so as to explain Zvi’s duplicity. In fact, Cardozo reports his own visionary experiences of the relationship between the two in an epistle to his disciples in Smyrna sometime after 1700: When Metatron departed and descended to talk to me, he left his place to Shabbatai Zvi, may his splendor be elevated, [and he adorned him] in a turban (bemishnefet), and to Roshi, who was my angelic mentor (maggid), in a hat called sombrero, and they extended the discussion with me for about half an hour.38

This passage is obviously meant to relate Zvi’s apostasy to Cardozo’s own Marrano history (the turban and the sombrero), though in his

37 Abraham M. Cardozo, Selected Writings (trans. David J. Halperin; CWS; New York, N.Y.: Paulist Press, 2001), 280. 38 Wolfson, “The Engenderment of Messianic Politics,” 219.

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case the evolution was exactly the opposite: he had in fact returned to Judaism. But the most striking example, provided by the same Autobiographical Letter, goes as follows: You are yourself witness to that which is known to most of the Diaspora: that I alone am wisely, intelligently, knowledgeably revealing the Divinity of God, drawing upon Torah, Prophets, and Writings, Mishnah, and Gemara. I have never made any of my students take an oath to keep the mystery hidden. Quite the contrary, they are to tell others what I have made known to them. This knowledge comes through the religious tradition and not in accord with what spirit-guides have told me. They have learned from me, indeed, that in matters of theology I do not trust any spirit or any angel, not Elijah, not Metatron . . .39

This passage was obviously written at the time when, disappointed with Zvi’s activities, Cardozo came to think he was himself the Messiah, called to bring things back to order and to reveal the secrets of the Torah to the entire world. As such, he saw himself as superior to any celestial being, including Metatron. Although an extreme case, who, like Shabbatai Zvi, combined (it still remains to be established to what extent) a lot of knowledge with a lot of self-exaltation (not to say madness), Cardozo is still representative of the evolution of Jewish mysticism on the eve of the modern age. IV. Conclusion Thus it may be seen that despite the fact that from a certain point on Metatron lost most of his Enochic component, and some of his earlier roles, which became less and less relevant to the mystics, he still managed to survive for almost two thousand years. We can even go further than that and say that he survived until today, as we can see him playing a leading role in the famous film Dogma.

39

Cardozo, Selected Writings, 306–07.

THREE LATIN PARATEXTS FROM LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (“SULPICIA,” “SENECA”—“PAULUS,” CARMEN NAVALE) Kurt Smolak University of Vienna In this contribution I would like to discuss three Latin paratexts of late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, which give insight into the process of the fusion of traditional classical culture and Christianity, a process on the one hand formative for the spiritual and intellectual development of Europe and, consequently, of the New World, but on the other painful for those who were not prepared to accept the changes.1 I will begin with an unusual Latin poem of seventy verses—more precisely hexameters. For a long time this poem has been known from certain Renaissance editions of the works of Ausonius, a Gallo-Roman poet of the 4th century.2 In addition, it was found in the collection of the so-called Epigrams from Bobbio, Epigrammata Bobiensia, which were not discovered until the middle of the last century in a Vatican manuscript, along with classical and chiefly post-classical epigrams.3 As far 1 For general information see Manfred Fuhrmann, Rom in der Spätantike: Porträt einer Epoche (Munich: Artemis & Winkler, 1994); Richard Klein, ed., Das frühe Christentum im römischen Staat (WdF 267; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971); idem, Symmachus: Eine tragische Gestalt des ausgehenden Heidentums (IdF 2; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971); Josef Vogt, Der Niedergang Roms: Metamorphose der antiken Kultur (Kindlers Kulturgeschichte; Zurich: Kindler Verlag, 1965); Henri-Irénée Marrou, Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique (BEFAR 145; Paris: De Boccard, 1938). 2 Georgius Merula, ed., Venice 1498; Angelus Ugoletus, ed., Parma 1499. Yet Rudolf Peiper’s Ausonius-edition contains Sulpicia’s poem: Rudolf Peiper, ed., Decimi Magni Ausonii Burdigalensis opuscula (BT; Leipzig: Teubner, 1886), 413–16. 3 The first edition of the Epigrammata Bobiensia was published by Franco Munari, ed., Epigrammata Bobiensia (2 vols.; Storia e Letteratura 58–59; Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1955), followed by Wolfgang Speyer, ed., Epigrammata Bobiensia (BT; Leipzig: Teubner, 1963). The piece to be analysed is contained as number 37. The text, established with many conjectures, was also published together with a German translation and a (too) rich apparatus fontium by Harald Fuchs, “Das Klagelied der Sulpicia über die Gewaltherrschaft des Kaisers Domitian,” in “Discordia concors”: Festgabe für Edgar Bonjour zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 21. August 1968 (ed. M. Sieber; 2 vols.; Basel: Verlag Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1968), 1:32–47; cf. also Scevola Mariotti, “Epigrammata Bobiensia.” Columns 37–64 (esp. 62) in vol. 9 of PWSup. Edited by K. Ziegler. 15 vols. Stuttgart: Alfred Druckenmüller Verlag, 1962.

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as its literary genre and its contents are concerned, the item under discussion is not an epigram, but a kind of satire. In the Vatican manuscript and other text-witnesses it bears the title Sulpicia’s Complaint on the Situation of the State and the Age of Domitian (Sulpiciae conquestio de statu reipublicae et temporibus Domitiani). The epoch of Domitian, the last emperor of the Flavian dynasty, who ruled between 81 and 96 c.e., entered the collective memory of later generations as a period of tyranny and despotism, primarily because it served as a foil for the reigns of his “good” successors, Nerva and Trajan. In the creation of this tradition, renowned men of letters had a considerable share—on the one hand Pliny the Younger in his panegyric to Trajan of 100 c.e., which had enormous impact as a fine example of rhetoric,4 on the other the satirist Juvenal, whose poems were also highly esteemed in late antiquity.5 Though the latter did not publish his biting satires— both those against social ills (such as the immigration from the east, especially of Egyptians and Jews), and those against the moral decadence of the Roman upper classes—until the first decades of the 2nd century, he explicitly refers to conditions in the age of Domitian (e.g. in his fourth satire),6 in other words, to the recent past. Proceeding in this way, in his view, was obviously politically less dangerous. It was only toward the end of the 4th century that a new interest in the satires of Juvenal arose. At that time, the first critical edition was issued, as far as we can tell at present.7 The choice of the typically Roman genre of hexametrical verse satire, like the resort to other literary genres which had become obsolete, was an expression of the so-called réaction payenne, a movement which originated in conservative Roman circles and 4 On Domitian’s bad reputation in Roman literature (Pliny, Tacitus, Suetonius) see Werner Eck, “Domitianus,” Columns 746–50 (esp. 747–48) in vol. 3 of DNP. Edited by H. Cancik and H. Schneider. 16 vols. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1997. 5 See Ulrich Knoche, Handschriftliche Grundlagen des Juvenaltextes (Philologus Suppl. 33/1; Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1940), 36–40; Michael von Albrecht, Geschichte der römischen Literatur von Andronicus bis Boethius: Mit Berücksichtung ihrer Bedeutung für die Neuzeit (2 vols.; Munich: K. G. Saur Verlag, 1992), 2:817. 6 The satirist is to be added to the authors referred to in n. 4; his fourth satire deals exclusively with the deplorable circumstances under Domitian’s tyranny (4.37: Cum iam semianimum laceraret Flavius [= Flavius Domitianus] orbem); see also the introduction to satire 4 in Edward Courtney, A Commentary on the Satires of Juvenal (London: The Athlone Press, 1980), 195–200. 7 In this connection the revival of the so-called Satura Menippea, a mixture of prose and verse (Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, Boethius, De consolatione Philosophiae), and of the Roman love-elegy (Maximianus, Elegiae) should be mentioned.

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continued into the first decade of the 5th century.8 Sulpicia’s satirical poem about Domitian’s time, which is the topic under discussion, can also be regarded as a product of this intellectual and patriotic trend. For this there is clear proof both from the language and style and from the context of the manuscript-tradition. One might also add a striking parallel between an idea expressed in lines 21–24 of the poem and a passage from a work of fictional literature from late antiquity, the socalled Augustan History (Historia Augusta), which offers an apology for the pre-Christian Roman empire, presented as a series of sometimes fictitious biographies from Hadrian down to the year 283 c.e., as Johannes Straub showed long ago.9 This topic will be dealt with later on. First of all, attention has to be paid to Sulpicia, the authoress mentioned in the title. In two epigrams Martial, an older contemporary of Juvenal, tells us about a female writer of the very same name, living in the time of Domitian. She is reported to have written lyrics praising, without restraint, her sexual pleasures with her husband Calenus.10 It was possibly not by chance that two verses of this Sulpicia have been preserved in a gloss to a verse of Juvenal.11 Calenus is also referred to in the satire under discussion, as is the legendary second king of Rome, Numa Pompilius.12 This shows that both the pseudonymous author, whether male or female, and other Latin writers of late antiquity, 8 Useful surveys are given by various authors, in: Lodewijk J. Engels and Heinz Hofmann, Spätantike: Mit einem Panorama der byzantinischen Literatur (ed. N. Altenhofer; vol. 4 of NHL; ed. K. von See; Wiesbaden: Aula-Verlag, 1997), 1–88. 9 Johannes Straub, Heidnische Geschichtsapologetik in der christlichen Spätantike: Untersuchungen über Zeit und Tendenz der Historia Augusta (Antiquitas. Fourth Series: Beiträge zur Historia Augusta-Forschung 1; Bonn: Rudolf Habelt Verlag, 1963). 10 Martial 10.35 (the poet exhorts young ladies, who want to charm their husbands [uni . . . viro, an allusion to the old Roman ideal wife, the univiria], to read the love poems of Sulpicia, which are at the same time chaste and lascivious); 10.38 (Martial addresses Calenus congratulating him on fifteen years of sexual pleasure with his wife who died recently, as it seems). 11 Scholion to Iuvenal 6.537, contained in the commentary of Lorenzo Valla: . . . unde ait Sulpicia: si me cadurci[s] restitutis fasciis / nudam Caleno concubantem proferat. Cf. Paul Wessner, ed., Scholia in Iuvenalem vetustiora (BT; Leipzig: Teubner, 1931), 108. For the text see Edward Courtney, ed., The Fragmentary Latin Poets (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 361; Jürgen Blänsdorf, ed., Fragmenta poetarum Latinorum epicorum et lyricorum praeter Ennium et Lucilium post W. Morel et K. Büchner (3d ed.; BT; Stuttgart: Teubner, 1995), 334–35. 12 62–63: Romana Caleno / moenia ‹sunt› iucunda (cf. Martial 10.35.21: erepto . . . Caleno); 67: nam laureta Numae fontisque habitamus eosdem /. . . / et comite Egeria ridemus inania coepta (cf. Martial 10.35. 13–14: tales Egeriae iocos fuisse / udo crediderim Numae sub antro).

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had access to the same information on Sulpicia we have nowadays. In parenthesis: either the authoress of Domitian’s time, in her turn, chose to use a pseudonym or Martial hid her real name under that of a previous Roman female poet, a possibility not considered in scholarly research so far, for a female writer of the first half of the first century bears the same name, Sulpicia. Choosing the genre of Roman erotic elegy, this Sulpicia also describes rather openly her passionate relation to her lover Cerinthus.13 His name, sufficiently attested in other instances, may have served as a model for Martial’s Calenus, Sulpicia’s husband, given that the initial letter of Calenus is identical with that of Cerinthus, the name is also trisyllabic, and it fits well in love poetry, since it calls the reader’s mind to calor, a term of some importance in the elegiac genre. By way of contrast the later Sulpicia would—via a paratext—direct her love into the morally blameless channels of the married state. But it is time to return to the topic: the third Sulpicia, in whose name the poem from late antiquity was composed, uses the person of the second Sulpicia, because she or probably he wants to contrast the poems of the latter about her fulfilled private live with a satire on the deplorable public circumstances of the present. Moreover, the fictitious assumption is supported by the fact that, within the epic appeal to the Muses in lines 4–5, “Sulpicia” also mentions those lyrical metres the poetess of the time of Domitian may have used: phalecei, iambi and so-called choliambi.14 By way of contrast, the poem under discussion is twice called a fabella (2, 58), a diminutive of fabula, the Latin equivalent of the Greek μῦθος, which in some cases characterizes the genre of heroic epic. Here, however, the word can only refer to the epic metre, the hexameter (which is also the metre of classical Roman satire, chosen for this genre because it is close to prose),15 with a view to dissociating the present piece from “Sulpicia’s” previous lyrical poems. A dissociation from various earlier works of poetry as far as contents are concerned, takes place in lines 7–9, where we come across an allusion to a well known statement of the rhetorician Quintilian, 13 On Sulpicia, the niece of Messala Corvinus, see Michael von Albrecht, Geschichte der römischen Literatur, 1:607. 14 In fact, the only fragment of Sulpicia’s lyrics, quoted in n. 11, consists of two iambic trimetres. Furthermore, both epigrams in which Martial deals with Sulpicia (10.35, 10.38), are written in Phalecean verse, perhaps a compliment to her. 15 See Scholion to Horatius, Sermones 1.4.48, where fabula denotes prose in contrast to poema.

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a contemporary of Domitian that the erotic elegy and the satire are originally Roman;16 these two genres, however, also go well both with the first Sulpicia, the writer of elegies, and with the “wit and salt” of the satirical genre, to which the author of the poem in question refers as a work of the second Sulpicia. So the fabella presents itself as a satire, imbedded in a dialogue between the pseudonymous poet and her or his Muse, Calliope. Sulpicia complains to Calliope about the political and cultural decline of Rome, at the root of which she sees not only a peace that has lasted too long and so lacks any mental challenge, but also the expulsion of the Greek philosophers from the capital. Considered superficially, this will of course be associated with the expulsion of the Stoic philosophers from Rome under Domitian, as reported by the historian Suetonius.17 In late antiquity, however, it can only refer to the persecution the pagan elite had to suffer at the hands of a Christian emperor, who is called rex in line 35. Though this accords with Late Latin usage, the term has not lost here the negative connotations it had in the classical period, as is evident from the context. In a comforting answer the Muse finally foretells the end of the tyrant—the very word tyrannus,18 is used—in the near future and the restoration of literary culture. The prophecy is intimated in a subtle way by the mentioning of the laurel grove, sacred to Apollo, the god of poetry, in line 67, and by the reference to the “Roman Apollo,” who guarantees the cultural revival at the end of the poem, together with Calliope herself and the other Muses.19 This culture, however, is intimately linked with pagan Roman religion, as is indicated by the mention of its legendary founders, Numa, the second king of Rome, and his mistress, the naiad Egeria, in lines 67–68. The negative significance of one’s own time as seen against the background of an idealized past—and Sulpicia frequently mentions the epoch of the Roman Republic,20 that is to say the period when the empire expanded, which, for her, was a great one from a 16

Quintilian, Inst. 10.1. Suetonius, Dom. 10.3. 18 Here tyrannus is evidently used in its classical meaning (tyrant, wicked ruler), which goes back to Plato, not according to Late Latin terminology (“usurper”). 19 70: Musarum spondet chorus et Romanus Apollo, probably a hint to Roman literary culture as well as to the “Golden Age” of Latin poetry under Augustus, whose favourite god was Apollo; cf. also Virgil’s prophecy in Ecl. 4.10: tuus iam regnat Apollo. 20 41–48; referring to the “heroic” age of the (early) Roman Republic was, it seems, common usage in pagan Latin rhetoric in late antiquity; cf. the famous third relatio 17

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cultural and a military viewpoint—is characteristic of Juvenal’s satires, too, and of the nostalgic pagan reaction of the second half of the 4th century.21 For the families of the Roman aristocracy the connection between literary culture and paganism was self-evident. If one considers the facts mentioned above, and the similarity between a passage from the poem and the pagan Historia Augusta, mentioned above, it is highly probable that Domitian served as a cipher for the emperor Theodosius I. The rigorous anti-pagan laws, passed by the latter between 380 and 394 c.e.22 drove the heathens of Rome into such distress and tribulation that they supported a usurper, called Eugenius, a rhetorician, that is to say a representative of Roman eloquence and literary culture. Accompanied by gold plated statues of Jove, Eugenius led a revolt against Theodosius, who in turn inflicted a crushing defeat on him in September 394 c.e. near the river Frigidus in Northern Italy. Eugenius was killed in battle and one of the most active defenders of paganism, the historian Nicomachus Flavianus, committed suicide.23 It might well be that the paratext under discussion, focusing on the satirist Juvenal and the two female writers of Symmachus, the pagan prefect of Rome, who applied to the Christian emperors for restoration of the altar of the goddess Victoria in the Roman curia in 384 c.e. 21 Cf. Symmachus, Relatio 3.9; for an interpretation see Fuhrmann, Rom in der Spätantike, 59–80, esp. 73–77. 22 On Theodosius’ severe measures against public and private paganism see Adolf Lippold, Theodosius der Große und seine Zeit (Urban-Bücher 107; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer Verlag, 1968), 17–24, 38–43. Wolfgang Speyer, “Sulpiciae conquestio.” Columns 1096–97 in vol. 11 of DNP. Edited by H. Cancik and H. Schneider. 16 vols. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1996–2003, suggests it is Theodosius’ younger son, Honorius, who is attacked by “Sulpicia;” of course, this cannot be excluded either, but Honorius’ measures were certainly less fundamental than those of his father. In this connection the hypothesis of Fuchs, Das Klagelied der Sulpicia, 34, should be discussed, who proposed a dating not prior to the 5th century. But line 52: suadet amor patriae et captiva penatibus uxor, which he believes to be an imitation of the early 5th century poet Rutilius Namatianus, De reditu 1.247: qualis in Euboicis captiva natatibus unda, in all probability alludes to the classical poet of love elegies, Propertius, who, by the way, belonged to the same literary circle as Sulpicia, the niece of Messala Corvinus; Propertius 4.4.23–24 reads: o utinam vestros sedeam captiva penatis, a lament uttered by the Roman heroine Tarpeia, who had fallen in love with Titus Tatius, king of the Sabins, when he was besieging Rom; that means: Tarpeia’s desire was to act contrary to amor patriae, when she wanted to be at least a captiva of the enemy of her people. Thus “Sulpicia” referred to Propertius by using a “Kontrastimitation,” a device not uncommon in Late Latin poetry. In consequence the captiva penatibus uxor should be interpreted as the figure of anticipatio: the warrior fancies his wife being captured by the enemies of the Romans, most probably Germanic invaders; and it is this imagination together with his amor patriae that makes him fight successfully. In consequence, Fuchs’ dating cannot be proved on this basis. 23 See Lippold, Theodosius, 41–42.

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called Sulpicia, and imbibing the spirit of the pagan resistance movement, originated shortly before this event, so bitter for the conservative nobility of Rome. A totally different atmosphere pervades the corpus of paratexts I am going to deal with in the second part of this article. This small collection, as far as the antagonism between paganism and Christianity is concerned, is representative of the opposite party, namely the Latin Christians and their efforts to adjust their tradition to the parameters of the aesthetics and intellectual demands they inherited from pagan culture. In other words, we now look at the other side of the coin. A remarkable amount of attention, not all of it by any means recent, has been paid to a set of letters, which, from a literary point of view, have no significance at all. This correspondence, which also originated in all probability in the late 4th century and focuses on the city of Rome, was classed as authentic by no less a person than the churchfather Jerome in his catalogue of saints, as he calls it, that is to say in a list of Latin Christian writers.24 Though Erasmus of Rotterdam showed the corpus under discussion to be forged,25 Ezio Franceschini, a 20th century scholar of medieval culture, expressed some doubts as to its pseudepigraphic character.26 I refer to the collection of letters supposedly exchanged between Seneca the Younger and Saint Paul, a collection which has come down to us only in Latin.27 The extant version, 24 Jerome, Vir. ill. 12: epistolae . . . quae leguntur a plurimis, Pauli ad Senecam aut Senecae ad Paulum, in quibus, cum esset Neronis magister et illius temporis potentissimus, optare se dicit eius esse loci apud suos cuius sit Paulus apud Christianos. 25 Erasmus Roterodamus, ed., Lucii Annaei Senecae Opera et ad dicendi facultatem et ad bene vivendum utilissima (2d ed.; Basel: Frobenius & Herwagius, 1529), 679–82. 26 Ezio Franceschini, “È veramente apocrifo l’epistolario Seneca—S. Paolo?,” in “Letterature comparate”: Problemi e metodo: Studi in onore di Ettore Paratore (4 vols.; Bologna: Pàtron Editore, 1981), 2:827–41. 27 The text of the epistles with a profound introduction, a German translation, notes and additional texts was recently published by Alfons Fürst et al., Der apokryphe Briefwechsel zwischen Seneca und Paulus (ed. A. Fürst; SAPERE 11; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); critical editions were established by Claude W. Barlow, Epistolae Senecae ad Paulum et Pauli ad Senecam (PMAAR 10; Rome: American Academy, 1938); Laura Bocciolini Palagi, Il carteggio apocrifo di Seneca e San Paolo (Accademia Toscana di Scienze e Lettere “La Colombaria”: Studi 46; Florence: Olschki, 1978); eadem, Epistolario apocrifo di Seneca e San Paolo (Biblioteca patristica 5; Firenze: Nardini Editore, 1985) with introduction and Italian translation. See also Johannes Divjak, “Pseudo-Seneca: Briefwechsel mit Paulus,” in Restauration und Erneuerung: Die lateinische Literatur von 284 bis 374 n. Chr. (vol. 5 of Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike; ed. R. Herzog and P. Lebrecht Schmidt, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1989), 404–07 § 571.1; a short introduction and a German translation by Alfons Kurfess is

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which probably developed in two phases, comprises fourteen letters, some of which are extremely short. Eight pretend to be addressed to the Christian missionary by the Roman philosopher and six vice versa. Nowadays no serious-minded scholar any longer defends the authenticity of theses letters, which show little linguistic elegance, but reflect the doctrine of rhetoric of Late Antiquity at a rather low level. One of their main characteristics is the avoidance of any philosophical or theological profundity. This is strange, considering the two supposed writers, but is typical of epistolography in late antiquity, the aim of which, according to an outspoken comment of Symmachus, is to encourage social contact, particularly among the upper classes.28 Another trait of the corpus is the reference to historical events from the fictional time of composition, a well known phenomenon in literary forgery: in this case it is to the great fire of Rome in 64 c.e. under Nero.29 In addition we would expect paratexts to remind the readers of the language and style of the putative author or authors, but in our corpus the echoes are of Paul alone. Consequently, scholars have doubted whether the forger was familiar with Seneca’s writings at all.30 Most certainly he had read Seneca’s letters to Lucilius, grosso modo at least, which Aulus Gellius quoted as Moral Letters (Epistolae morales), as early as in the 2nd century. There are three passages that prove this. First, the author has his Seneca mention Lucilius in connection with the followers of Paul’s doctrine, i.e., Christians, right at the beginning

contained in Apostolisches, Apokalypsen und Verwandtes (vol. 2 of Neutestamentliche Apokryphen; ed. Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher; 3d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1964), 84–89. For a survey of the status of research on the topic see Alfons Fürst, Pseudepigraphie und Apostolizität im apokryphen Briefwechsel zwischen Seneca und Paulus (JAC 41 (1998): 77–117, esp. 77–80. 28 Symmachus, Epist. 7, 119. The whole letter (three lines in print) consists of only one sentence, in which the author does not tell any news, but periphrases the classical introductory formula of Latin epistolography, salutem dico, and the usual final request to continue the exchange of letters in order to keep social contact. See Michaela Zelzer, “Der Brief in der Spätantike: Überlegungen zu einem literarischen Genos am Beispiel der Briefsammlung des Sidonius Apollinaris,” WSt 108 (1995): 541–51, esp. 544. 29 Although the pseudonymous author apparently refers to the fire of 64 c.e. in Epist. 11 (14), he speaks of frequent fire (constantly using the singular!), probably in order to have an occasion to extend the narration of Tacitus, Ann. 15.44.2, who only speaks of Christians as suspected arsonists, to the Jews: Incendium urbs Romana manifeste unde patiatur constat . . . Christiani et Iudaei quasi machinatores incendii— pro!—supplicio adfecti fieri solent. There is no need to delete this passage as a later addition, as Bocciolini Palagi, Epistolario, did. 30 See Fürst, Pseudepigraphie, 82–83.

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of the first letter.31 Then he states that Seneca was reading some of the apostle’s letters together with Lucilius and Paul’s disciples, which dealt with the ethical conduct of life in an admirable manner.32 Finally Seneca, along with Lucilius, appears as the sender of the sixth letter. Furthermore, there seems to be an obvious reference to Seneca’s Natural Questions (Naturales quaestiones), for in the short ninth letter, the philosopher asks Paul’s pardon for mistakes committed in the past: from now on he knows for sure that, through science, man is distracted from the liberal arts and from ethical conduct. This statement might, first of all, refer exclusively to Seneca’s work just mentioned, the Naturales quaestiones, but it can also refer to Paul’s warning in his letter to the Colossians, that one should not be deceived by philosophy according to the “tradition of men”, by the elements of the world (elementa mundi), which do nothing but lead people astray.33 It would not be a coincidence that the Latin words rerum natura, which the forger used as a synonym of elementa mundi,34 exactly reflect the title of the didactic poem composed by the Epicurean Lucretius in the first century c.e., whose presumed atheism was often attacked by Christian writers.35 Thus, Seneca is introduced as correcting himself, whereas Paul’s letters appear as moral epistles in the true sense of this term, which provided a sort of incentive for Seneca to write his own Epistolae morales to Lucilius, as may be deduced from letters 1 and 6. In terms 31 Epist. 1: Credo tibi, Paule, nuntiatum quid heri cum Lucilio nostro de apocrifis et aliis rebus habuimus. 32 Epist. 1: litteras (sc. Pauli) mira exhortatione vitam moralem continentes. 33 Col. 2:8: videte, ne quis vos decipiat per philosophiam et inanem fallaciam secundum traditionem hominum, secundum elementa mundi et non secundum Christum. 34 Epist. 9: the term natura rerum has to be understood in its common meaning, that is (material) “nature,” which consists of the four Empedoclean elements; it is correctly translated by Boccolini Palagi, Epistulario, with “natura delle cose,” erroneously by Fürst, Der apokryphe Briefwechsel, who does not seem to be aware of the Pauline text, with “natürliche(n) Veranlagung.” Moreover one should take into consideration that the pseudonymous author may have referred to a topos, which goes back to the Socratic replacement of physics by ethics and was also common in Christian literature: see the so-called Sancti Paulini Epigramma 45–51. For further information cf. Astrid Schuller, “Das sogenannte Sancti Paulini Epigramma: Einleitung, Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar” (Ph.D. diss., University of Vienna, 1999), 108–11. 35 Cf. Ps.-Hilarius, In Genesin 7–31; see Gottfried E. Kreuz, Pseudo-Hilarius— Metrum in Genesin, Carmen de Evangelio: Einleitung, Text und Kommentar (Veröffentlichungen der Kommission zur Herausgabe des Corpus der lateinischen Kirchenväter 23 = SÖAWphil 752; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006), 165–97; cf. also Claudius Marius Victorius, Alethia 1.22–23 and 44–45; see Kurt Smolak, “Unentdeckte Lukrezspuren,” WSt 86 (1973): 217–39, esp. 236–37.

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of content, these letters should be equal to those of the apostle; in terms of style they should be superior to them. This can be deduced from the fact that in two passages the forger makes Seneca express his criticism of Paul’s use of Latin, if only in a restrained way and linked to praise of the contents. It was not considered that the latter wrote in Greek, so that the linguistic flaws could be blamed on the translator. Thus, Seneca in letter nine mentions a book On rich vocabulary (Liber de verborum copia), apparently sent to Paul by him, and in letter thirteen he offers his assistance in correcting Paul’s style, for “his love of Latin” as he says. What stands behind these remarks, is the uneasiness educated Christians felt facing the Old Latin Bible, the so-called Vetus Latina, which did not meet their standards of linguistic aesthetics at all. Jerome and Augustine express exactly the same uneasiness in well known passages of their writings.36 In letter fourteen the apostle gratefully accepts Seneca’s offer to present Paul’s ethical doctrine in elegant Latin. At the same time, he warns against heathens and Jews and appoints the philosopher, his temporary protector, to be a missionary at Nero’s court. The translation of the decisive sentence runs as follows: “Make yourself to a new writer by conveying the blameless philosophy of Jesus Christ, which you have almost completely absorbed, in the shape of a rhetorically perfect message, to the worldly king (that is to say Nero), his courtiers and faithful friends, though it will be hard and troublesome to convince them, since most of them will hardly allow themselves to be changed by your teaching. If the word of God has been instilled in them as the basis of life, it brings forth a new man, free from depravity, and an eternal soul, rushing from this world towards God.”37 The role that is attributed here to the emperor’s former tutor and adviser, could be derived without much trouble from the final message of greeting in Paul’s letter to the Philippians (4:22), where the apostle gives his regards from Rome to the addressees “on behalf of all the saints and, in particular, from those who are from the imperial court.”

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Jerome, Epist. 22, 29–30, 6; Augustine, Conf. 3.4.7–3.5.9. Epist. 14: novumque te auctorem feceris Christi Iesu, praeconiis ostendendo rhetoricis irreprehensibilem sophiam, quam propemodum adeptus regi temporali eiusque domesticis atque fidis amicis insinuabis, quibus aspera et incapabilis erit persuasio, cum plerique illorum minime flectuntur insinuationibus tuis. Quibus vitale commodum sermo dei instillatus novum hominem sine corruptela perpetuum animal parit ad deum istinc properantem. 37

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Combining the references to Seneca’s letters to Lucilius mentioned before, one may arrive at the following indirect message of the entire corpus: the Epistolae morales of the Roman philosopher should be brought into relation with Paul’s authentic letters, a relation which differs from that of the inauthentic texts, the apocrypha, about which— according to the first letter—Seneca and Lucilius had a discussion with Christians from Paul’s circle in the famous gardens of Sallustius in Rome. This aspect of the forger’s intention escaped Alfons Fürst in his thorough study of the corpus of letters under discussion.38 On the one hand he correctly deduced that the purpose of these letters was to promote the authority of Seneca, who was highly esteemed by the Latin Christians of the patristic epoch, by fabricating a close connection between him and the apostles. On the other hand, he underrated the biographical and literary points of contact between the two men, stating that the author might have chosen any apostle as Seneca’s correspondent, and that the connection with Paul was based simply on an argument of probability, derived from a couple of passages of the New Testament.39 One must not forget, however, that both Seneca and Paul were regarded as Nero’s victims,40 a fact which creates an inner correlation; both presented themselves as moral philosophers, Seneca as a Stoic, Paul as a Christian who seems to have adopted a considerable number of Stoic ideas;41 and finally, both presented their doctrines in the form of letters, and, what is more, utilized the same sub-genre of epistolography, the philosophical didactic letter, a genre which had its origins in the forged letters of Plato and reached its climax in the letters of Epicurus. Another element Seneca and Paul have in common is produced only by the forger: In one letter apiece each writer 38

See fn 27 above. Fürst, Pseudepigraphie, 116. 40 For this tradition, which is not attested in the canonical writings of the New Testament, see Hans Hübner, “Paul I,” Pages 133–53 (esp. 148) in vol. 26 of TRE. Edited by G. Müller. 41 vols. Berlin and New York, N.Y.: de Gruyter, 1996; on the probably real martyrdom of Paul in Jerusalem see Günther Bornkamm, Paulus (4th ed.; UrbanTaschenbücher 119; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1979), 117–20, who, anyway, has no doubts about the apostle’s sojourn in Rome. 41 It was Eduard Norden, Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede (6th ed.; Stuttgart: Teubner, 1913; repr., Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1974), 240–50, who first supposed that Acts 17:28a has to be traced back to Stoicism; for a discussion of this thesis and its tradition in earlier Greek literature see Alfons Weiser, Kapitel 13–28 (vol. 2 of Die Apostelgeschichte; ÖTKNT 5/2 = Gütersloher Taschenbücher Siebenstern 508; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1985), 462–63. 39

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is accompanied by a pupil: Paul directs the sixth letter to Seneca and Lucilius, Seneca the seventh to Paul and Theophilus. It is to Theophilus that the writings of St. Luke, his Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, are dedicated; he appears also in the apocryphal third letter of Paul to the Corinthians.42 One might also suppose that the forger confused Theophilus and Timothy, to whom some of the canonical letters of Paul are directed. However, the parallel of two addressees and two senders, respectively, makes Lucilius appear on the same level as the receiver of a letter of the apostle, which comes close to an indirect praise of Seneca’s moral teaching contained in his epistles. To sum up: the Christian forger’s corpus of letters consists of paratexts of a kind that, by means of private letters serving to supplement the didactic epistles of Seneca and Paul, reveal historical and biographical details with a view to demonstrating the close relationship between the missionary and the erstwhile pagan philosopher. Consequently, Seneca’s letters to Lucilius gain the quality of rhetorically refined paratexts juxtaposed to the stylistically rough letters of the apostle of the nations. According to the fourteenth letter, the transformation of Seneca into a “new man” (novus homo), in the sense of Pauline soteriology, comes about as a transformation into a new, that is to say, a Christian author, who spreads Paul’s doctrines in an aesthetic language, a novus auctor, so to speak. In the third and last example I will pass from late antiquity to the early Middle Ages. In that period, of course, cultural antagonism between Christians and pagan traditionalists did not any longer exist. The author of the paratext to be analysed now rather aims at giving a higher spiritual quality to a non-Christian text by interpreting it allegorically in order to enlarge its applicability to mankind in general. A similar process can already be observed in patristic poetry: I am referring to Prudentius, who lived about 400. In the fifth hymn of his cyclus Cathemerinon, he created a paratext to Horace’s Ode 4.5 by composing a liturgical eulogy on the salvation of man by Christ’s resurrection to surpass the Roman poet’s praise of the emperor Augustus, who had been responsible for the welfare of only one nation, the Romans.43 So it is clear that even the kind of paratext which will be 42 On this apocryphal text, which has close links with the Acta Pauli, see Hennecke and Schneemelcher, Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, 2:234–36. 43 See Kurt Smolak, “Horazische Lyrik zwischen Ablehnung, Anverwandlung und Travestie: Ein Rezeptionsparadigma,” Ianus: Informationen zum Altsprachlichen Unterricht 15 (1994): 26–38, esp. 28–34.

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discussed now originates in the cultural rivalry of Christianity and classical tradition. The sailors’ shout “heia,” “ahoy,” is twice testified in antiquity, first in Greek and secondly in Latin literature, namely in Aristophanes’ comedy The Peace (lines 459–519) and, about 800 years later, in a metrical Latin rowing song, called by the Greek term celeuma. This anonymous poem, comprising 16 or possibly 17 hexameters and probably taken over from a 5th or 6th century anthology, has been transmitted only in the Berlin manuscript Dietz B 66, which goes back to the 8th or 9th century. Its wording is in a deplorable condition.44 This song of the oarsmen begins with the shout “heia” intended to encourage the crew. Within the poem this verse is repeated after every third line, as is common in popular songs, a genre to which work songs also belong.45 Moreover, in the latest edition by Shackleton Bailey this very verse has been added—reasonably, in my opinion—as a final line to the poem in order to give a kind of frame to this short piece. The scenario of the rowing song that we have to imagine is as follows: a storm at sea has just calmed down and the boatmen can continue their voyage under double power, that is to say, by means of oars and under full sail, as the poet puts it, thus presupposing favourable wind-conditions (lines 2–3). In the very last unit of verses, 14–16, which, unfortunately, appears linguistically badly corrupted in the manuscript, the order “right ahead” is given once more, as if full of confidence. The powerful rowing is to be accompanied by the continuous shouting of “heia.” The activity of the rowers, which permeates the whole poem and creates a positive atmosphere, reflects the “cheerful face of the ruler

44 David R. Shackleton Bailey, ed., Carmina in codicibus scripta: Libri Salmasiani aliorumque carmina (vol.1/1 of Anthologia Latina; BT; Stuttgart: Teubner, 1982), 296 no. 384; see also Kurt Smolak, “Ruderlied (Celeuma),” in Herzog and Schmidt, Restauration und Erneuerung, 268 with § 553.2. 45 Cf. Virgil, Ecl. 8, which deals with popular magic practises, the Pervigilium Veneris, a late antique poem on a feast in honour of Venus in Sicily (Crescenzo Formicola, ed., Pervigilium Veneris [Studi Latini 28; Napoli: Loffredo Editore, 1998]), and also the trinitarian prose hymns 2 and 3 by Marius Victorinus against the Christology of Arius, which in spite of their highly theological contents, intentionally imitate Christian popular songs (Paul Henry and Pierre Hadot, ed., Opera theologica [vol. 1 of Marii Victorini opera; CSEL 83/1; Vienna: Hoelder-Pichler-Tempsky, 1971]), and, last but not least, Augustine’s Psalmus contra partem Donati, a composition in popular verse to be sung by catholic communities against the heresy of Donatus. Cf. Michael Petschenig, ed., Scripta contra Donatistas: Psalmus contra partem Donati (vol. 7/1 of Sancti Aureli Augustini opera; CSEL 51/1; Vienna: Tempsky, 1908).

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of the widely spread sea” (arbiter effusi late maris ore sereno / placatum stravit pelagus posuitque procellam). This picturesque, but vague expression can only refer to a deity, Neptune or Oceanus personified, as he can frequently be found on mosaics of late antiquity.46 By the way, Oceanus is also addressed in an anonymous short prayer in verse which goes back to the same epoch as the rowing song, the 4th century in all probability, and belongs to a similar context of textual transmission, namely a poetic anthology. It is the only Latin prayer addressed to this male personification of a part of nature. But let us return to the song of the sailors: certain expressions in line 7 reflect the language of religion; e.g. the verb “to give” (dabit), in the sense of “to grant”, is a term typical of both Greek and Latin prayers.47 Moreover, the concept of fair weather as the “harmony of heaven” (concordia caeli), which stands for a balanced state of elements that are actually diametrically opposed, like hot and cold, dry and wet, lexically fits well into the context of deities: for Harmony, Concordia, the personification of social peace within the Roman res publica,48 is also the name of a typically Roman abstract deity, to whom an outstanding temple in the city was dedicated. As is characteristic of classical hymns to personified powers of nature, and actually the rule in connection with the transition from primordial chaos into a well organized universe, a cosmos, here both a male and a female deity, are designated with great subtlety as the agents of the fair weather which has finally arrived. For the audience of those days this was more obvious, as the dreaded return of chaos was frequently mentioned in poetic descriptions of storms at sea,49 whereas at the end of the poem under discussion we meet with 46 An outstanding depiction of the head of Oceanus can be found in the mosaic from the Great Palace of Constantinople, which is preserved in situ and most likely dates from the second half of the 5th to the first half of the 6th centuries. See Fatih Cimok, ed., Mosaics in Istanbul (2d ed.; Istanbul: Turizm Yayınları, 1998), 22–23 and cover; see also Giacomo Caputo and Abdelaziz Driss, Tunis. Alte Mosaiken (UnescoSammlung der Weltkunst 18; Paris: Piper, 1962), table IV; the mosaic (2nd century A.D.) was found in Boutria (Acholla) and is now kept in the Bardo-Museum, Tunis. 47 Two examples should suffice: the first can be found in the prayer of the 4th century poet Tiberianus, Carm. 2 (4), 28: da pater (Courtney, The Fragmentary Latin Poets, 431–37, with an English translation), the second in the only prayer to Oceanus in Latin, Ad Oceanum 25: da pater in Giovanni Battista Pighi, ed., La poesia religiosa romana (Bologna: Nicola Zanichelli Editore, 1958), 212–13 (with an Italian translation). 48 See Klaus Thraede, “Homonoia (Eintracht),” RAC 16 (1991): 176–289, esp. 199–201, on cosmic harmony, and 229–35 on various aspects of Roman political concordia. 49 Virgil, Aen. 1.124, 133 (keyword is miscere), and, most impressive, Lucan, De bello civili 5.634–44.

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bright weather, which is ideal for seafaring and consequently comes close to a new cosmos. The poem just analysed was the basis of an early medieval paratext, namely one of the poems which according to tradition were attributed to the Irish monk Columba, later called Columbanus, who founded monasteries and acted as a missionary on the European continent in the 6th and early 7th centuries. He died in 615 a.d. in Bobbio in Northern Italy, his last foundation. For a long time the authenticity of this little corpus of five poems was the centre of emotional discussions among scholars of Medieval Latin.50 Since this paper is not the place to discuss all the arguments in detail, it should only be mentioned, that in this case the present author is convinced we are dealing with a poem dating from Carolingian times. Four of these poems have in common the use of metrical forms of the classical era and of late antiquity on the one hand, and quotations from Latin poets of the periods just mentioned on the other hand, above all from Virgil, the satirical poems of Horace and short poems collected in anthologies.51 The poem under discussion bears the title Sailors’ Song (Carmen navale).52 It consists of 24 hexameters, thus being considerably longer than the text to which it alludes. The reason for this is that the early medieval poem interprets navigation as an

50 It should be sufficient to give a short bibliographical outline: Johannes Wilhelmus Smit, Studies on the Language and Style of Columba the Younger (Columbanus) (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1971), 212–53 first argued against the authenticity of the Carmina Columbani; he was sharply contradicted by Ludwig Bieler, “Adversaria zur Anthologia Latina 676: Mit einem Anhang über die Columbanus-Gedichte,” in “Antidosis”: Festschrift für Walther Kraus zum 70. Geburtstag (WStSup 5; ed. R. Hanslik and W. Kraus; Vienna: Böhlau, 1972), 41–48; the same opinion is held by Franz Brunhölzl, Von Cassiodor bis zum Ausklang der karolingischen Erneuerung (vol. 1 of Geschichte der lateinischen Literatur des Mittelalters; Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1975), 184–86, whereas Michael Lapidge, “The authorship of the Adonic verses Ad Fidolium attributed to Columbanus,” SM: Third Series 18/2 (1977): 249–314, esp. 299–313 expresses serious doubts (he argues in favour of Columbanus of St. Trond); so does Peter Christian Jacobsen, “Carmina Columbani,” in Die Iren und Europa im früheren Mittelalter (2 vols.; ed. H. Löwe; Munich: Klett-Cotta, 1982), 1:434–67, who maintains that at least some of the poems in question may belong to an otherwise unknown Irish author of the early Carolingian period, named Columbanus. 51 See Kurt Smolak, “Auri sacra fames in dem Columbanus-Gedicht an Fidolius,” SCO 30 (1980): 125–37; id., “Orazio satiro: Zur Horaz-Rezeption im Mittelalter,” WHB 35 (1993): 21–39. 52 George S. M. Walker, ed., Sancti Columbani opera (Scriptores Latini Hiberniae 2; Shannon: The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, Irish University Press, 1957), 190–92 (with an English translation).

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allegory of human existence, which, threatened by dangers, depends on Christ for help. Even in pre-Christian texts life was compared to a voyage—a comparison that could sometimes be reduced to a metaphor according to Quintilian’s well known definition.53 In the 4th century, e.g., Ausonius, in his poem on a voyage on the River Moselle, entitled Mosella, in describing the vinyards and the vintners at work—a traditional symbol of a peaceful afterlife—alludes to the Elysian Fields, and, as the final destination of the journey, that is to say, as the aim of an honest man’s life, his spirit, not his physical body, returns to his hometown of Burdigala and his native country of Aquitaine, referred to at the beginning, which gains qualities that Christians probably would have interpreted as features of the spiritual Jerusalem in heaven.54 On the other hand, Christian exegesis is also familiar with the metaphor in question, namely in the explanation of the pericope of the storm on the Lake of Gennesaret.55 According to these interpretations the lake, also called the Sea of Galilee, stands for the danger by which man is threatened in this world. Rescue from this threat comes from Christ sleeping in the boat, who finally calms the storm, which is to be understood metaphorically. By the way, the cross, the symbol of Christ, was sometimes allegorically interpreted as the mast of the ship named church.56 In order to interpret the ancient rowing song as an allegory of human existence in this life and its goal in the world to come, the pseudonymous author had to modify the imaginary scenario of the oarsmen. Whereas the ancient poem starts out in fair weather after a storm at sea, the Christian rowing song begins with a journey across the mouth of the river Rhine (and consequently in the Atlantic Ocean) in storm and heavy rain: “the winds raise their blasts, the dread rain

53

Quintilian, Inst. 6.8: “metaphora brevior est similitudo.” See Wolf-Lüder Liebermann, “D. Magnus Ausonius,” in Herzog and Schmidt, Restauration und Erneuerung, 299; Michael Roberts, “The Mosella of Ausonius: An Interpretation,” TAPA 114 (1984): 343–53, esp. 352. 55 Matt 8:23–27; Mark 4:35–40; Luke 8:22–25; for an allegorical explanation of this pericope see Ambrosius, Expositio evangelii secundum Lucam 6, 39–43. Cf. Markus Adriaen and Giovanni B. Coppa, eds., Opere esegetiche 9/2: Expositionis evangelii secundum Lucam libri (vol. 12 of Sancti Ambrosii Episcopi Mediolanensis Opera; Milano: Biblioteca Ambrosiana, 1978), 35–40 (with an Italian translation). 56 See Ps.-Hieronymus (Cummeanus?), Expositio evangelii secundum Marcum 15, an Irish text dating from the first half of the 7th century, in Germain Morin, “Expositio evangelii secundum Marcum 15,” RBén 27 (1910): 352–62. 54

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works its woe” (extollunt venti flatus,57 nocet horridus imber) (line 4). So the refrain of “heia,” taken over from the text of reference, does not betoken here a speedy trip as it does in the earlier model, but the troubles that have to be taken to prevent the ship from capsizing, the pain that will lead to gain, as one can read in lines 7–8: “Thus torrential rain gives way to effort, the storm calms down, endeavour overcomes everything, hard work is victorious everywhere” (. . . cuncta domat virtus, labor improbus omnia vincit) (line 8). Here the author adopts a moralizing tone, the final climax of which is a proverbial quotation from Virgil’s didactic poem on agriculture, the Georgics.58 He possibly aims at a contrast, since farmers and mariners traditionally stood as representatives of diametrically opposed ways of life.59 Line 11, however, quoted in full from Virgil’s Aeneid 1.199, was left in its original context: “O you, who had to bear even worse things, some god will put an end to your present misfortune, too” (o passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem). With this very sentence Virgil makes his hero Aeneas address his comrades after his shipwreck near the shore of Carthage, where a violent storm had cast them. Even the verse which precedes the quotation in the medieval boat song, is taken from the same scene of the Roman epic. It runs: “Hold out to the end and save yourselves for happier times” (durate et vosmet rebus servate secundis [Aen. 1.207])! In the early medieval rowing song, elements of the encouraging speech with which Virgil’s Aeneas addresses his still frightened comrades only after the disastrous storm are transferred to the threatening scenario of the storm itself. So here, there is the certainty of rescue already in the midst of danger. Only towards the end of the first half of the poem, referring to the real storm, that is to say in line 11, quoted before, the Christian God appears in the disguise of a quotation of Virgil to help the mariners in their physical efforts. This is the most striking modification of the text of reference, in so far as the power of God has stopped the storm without any human help. Virgil’s vague expression “god” (deus), which, in accordance with the usage of classical prayer, means “whatever god it may be,” could at any time be used for the one God of Christianity or 57 Perhaps one should change flatus, which in some respect is a synonym of venti, to fluctus—a slight conjecture, which makes good sense; cf. Corippus, Ioannis 1.354; similar also Statius, Achilleis 1.92 and, in spite of a different wording, even Seneca, Ag. 489. On the other hand, (ex)tollere flatus cannot be paralleled. 58 Virgil, Georg. 1.145–46. 59 Cf. Horace, Carm. 1.1.11–18.

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for Christ himself, due to the fact that Latin lacks definite articles. This very application of the antique rowing song to Christ is clearly indicated in the second half of the poem, which comprises twelve lines as well. By means of a particle of comparison, “so” (sic), which introduces the allegorical part, the tempest is interpreted as a metaphor of the enemy (inimicus), that is to say the devil. Consequently the heia-line now appears in a modified version: “Let your mind, my men, recalling Christ sing out Ho” (vestra, viri, Christum memorans mens personet heia)! Both verses, the one taken from the text of reference as well as the modified one, are reported three times in their respective halves, by no means un-intentionally, because, from time immemorial triple repetition has been believed to confirm a statement.60 In the allegorizing half of the poem the appeal to hold on, and the confidence in one’s own physical strength, seem to encourage one’s moral strength and firm belief. He who fights the enemy in this manner will be assisted and finally rewarded by “the Lord of Virtues, the source of things and the highest power” (rex . . . virtutum, rerum fons, summa potestas) (line 22), that is to say by God himself. Whereas a bright universe newly created out of the chaos of the storm is intimated at the end of the ancient rowing song, the medieval paratext ends with a hint at the perfection of man, made possible by Christ, the “new Adam” of Paul’s soteriology.61 One is confronted here with a highly remarkable transformation of the ancient rowing song: by means of the typically monastic metaphor, expressed in Pauline language,62 of fighting for the moral perfection of the ascetic life, which can only be reached through hard labour turned on oneself, the deeds of God are inseparably linked to the deeds of men. In the ancient poem, by way of contrast, the power of a god grants a favourable turn of events, without any human contribution, by making the storm cease of his own will. The medieval paratext, or to be exact its exegetical part, can also be seen as an example of the technique of allegorizing non-Christian texts. Using this device, the reading of certain pagan texts, including Ovid’s love poetry, which

60 For the importance of a threefold repetition of an oath in order to give it efficacy see Rolf Mehrlein, “Drei,” Columns 269–310, esp. 284–85, in vol. 4 of RAC. Edited by Th. Klauser et al. 22 vols. Stuttgart, 1950– 61 1 Cor 15:22. 62 Cf. Eph 6:11–17.

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aroused the suspicion of monastic educational institutions, could finally be accepted. This is most clearly expressed in poem 45 of the Carolingian poet and theologian Theodulf, bishop of Orléans, where he justifies his predilection for classical poetry by demonstrating his way of interpreting it allegorically.63

63 Theodulfus, Carm. 45, 19–62. Ernst Dümmler, ed., vol. 1 of MGH, Poetae Latini aevi Carolini (5 vols.; Berlin: Weidmann, 1884), 543–44.

PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE IN EARLY CHRISTIAN ART (ACTA PAULI ET THECLAE) Renate J. Pillinger University of Vienna This paper will address the influence of paratexts1 on early Christian art2 as exemplified by the Acta Pauli et Theclae, the Acts of Paul and Thekla. The Acts of Paul incorporates the autonomous tradition of the Acts of Paul and Thekla in its third chapter. This separate tradition of the Acts of Paul and Thekla later circulated independently from the Acts of Paul. While the original text was most likely written in Greek, the spectrum of its versions—Greek,3 1 For terminology see Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (trans. C. Newman and C. Doubinsky; Stages 8; Lincoln, Nebr.: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 2 For a general overview see especially Ulrich Fabricius, Die Legende im Bild des ersten Jahrtausends der Kirche: Der Einfluß der Apokryphen und Pseudepigraphen auf die altchristliche und byzantinische Kunst (Kassel: Oncken, 1956); David R. Cartlidge and James K. Elliott, Art and the Christian Apocrypha (London and New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2001), and Joshua R. Porter, Die verworfenen Schriften: Was nicht in der Bibel steht (trans. Reinhold Fillinger; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2004). 3 Cf. BHG no. 1710. The only dependable textual edition, though in need of revision, remains that of Ricardus A. Lipsius and Maximilianus Bonnet, eds., Acta Petri. Acta Pauli. Acta Petri et Pauli. Acta Pauli et Theclae. Acta Thaddei (vol. 1 of Acta apostolorum apocrypha; ed. R. A. Lipsius; Leipzig: Mendelssohn, 1891; repr., Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1959), XCIV–CVI and 235–72; see also Carl Schmidt and Wilhelm Schubart, Πράξεις Παύλου: Acta Pauli: Nach dem Papyrus der Hamburger Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek (ed. C. Schmidt; Veröffentlichungen aus der Hamburger Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek 2; Hamburg: J. J. Augustin, 1936), which includes a translation. Additional translations by Carl Holzhey, Die TheklaAkten: Ihre Verbreitung und Beurteilung in der Kirche (Veröffentlichungen aus dem Kirchenhistorischen Seminar München. Second Series 7. Munich: Lentner’sche Buchhandlung [E. Stahl Jun.], 1905), 3–19; Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, eds., Apostolisches, Apokalypsen und Verwandtes (vol. 2 of Neutestamentliche Apokryphen; 6th ed.; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1997), 193–243, with primary texts in translation and secondary literature (henceforth cited as Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, eds., Writings related to the Apostles, Apocalypses and related subjects [vol. 2 of New Testament Apocrypha; trans. R. McL. Wilson; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1991]); Anne Jensen, Thekla—Die Apostolin. Ein apokrypher Text neu entdeckt (Frauen—Kultur—Geschichte 3; Freiburg, Basel and Vienna: Herder, 1995), 17–39; Eugen Sitarz, ed., Die Taten der Thekla: Geschichte einer Jüngerin des Apostels Paulus (Ostfildern: Schwabenverlag, 1996); Willy Rordorf, “Actes de

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Syriac,4 Coptic,5 Latin,6 Armenian,7 Old Slavonic,8 Ethiopic9 and Arabic10—attest to its wide popularity. We are fortunate to have a nearly contemporary reference to the text of the Acts of Paul and Thekla by the North African apologist Tertullian. In his treatise on baptism, he writes: But if certain Acts of Paul, which are falsely so named, claim the example of Thekla for allowing women to teach and to baptize, let men know that

Paul,” in Écrites apocryphes chrétiens (ed. F. Bovon and P. Geoltrain; 2 vols.; Bibliothèque de la Pléiade 442; Paris: Gallimard, 1997–2005), 1:1129–42; Martin Ebner, ed., Aus Liebe zu Paulus? Die Akte Thekla neu aufgerollt (Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 206; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005), with bibliography, see esp. 12–29, Elisabeth EschWermeling, Thekla—Paulusschülerin wider Willen? Strategien der Leserlenkung in den Theklaakten (Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen NS 53; Münster: Aschendorff Verlag, 2008), and Jeremy W. Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thekla (WUNT Second Series 270; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009. Further, see Ricardus A. Lipsius, Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und Apostellegenden: Ein Beitrag zur altchristlichen Literaturgeschichte (2 vols.; Braunschweig: Schwetschke, 1883–1890; repr., Amsterdam: APA–Philo Press, 1976), 1:242–43; 2:424–67. Compare with Carl Schlau, Die Acten des Paulus und der Thecla und die ältere Thecla-Legende (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1877). 4 See William Wright, Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (2 vols.; London: Williams & Norgate, 1871), 1: xii–xiii; 2: 116–45, as well as Catherine Burris and Lucas Van Rompay, “Thecla in Syriac Christianity: Preliminary Observations,” Hugoye 5/2 (2002) n.p. [cited 7 December 2007]. Online: http://syrcom.cua.edu/Hugoye/Vol5No2/ HV5N2BurrisVanRompay.html, and eadem, “Some further notes on Thecla in Syriac Christianity,” Hugoye 6/2 (2003) n.p. [cited 7 December 2007]. Online: http://syrcom. cua.edu/Hugoye/Vol6No2/HV6N2BurrisVanRompay.html. 5 For details see Carl Schmidt, ed., Acta Pauli aus der Heidelberger koptischen Papyrushandschrift Nr. 1: Übersetzung, Untersuchungen und koptischer Text (Veröffentlichungen aus der Heidelberger Papyrus-Sammlung 1; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1904), and idem, ed., Acta Pauli: Übersetzung, Untersuchungen und koptischer Text: Zusätze zur ersten Ausgabe (2d ed.; Veröffentlichungen aus der Heidelberger Papyrus-Sammlung 2; Leipzig : J. C. Hinrichs, 1905; repr., Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1965). 6 For the Latin see Oscar von Gebhardt, ed., Passio S. Theclae virginis: Die lateinische Übersetzung der Acta Pauli et Theclae nebst Fragmenten, Auszügen und Beilagen (TUGAL 22/2 = New Series [N. F.] 7/2; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1902). 7 Extensive details in Frederick C. Conybeare, ed., The Apology and Acts of Apollonius and Other Monuments of Early Christianity (London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co, and New York, N.Y.: MacMillan & Co, 1894), 49–88 and Valentina Calzolari, “Notes sur la traduction arménienne du texte syriaque des Actes de Thècle,” in Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference on Armenian Linguistics 1995 (ed. D. Sakayan; Delmar, N.Y.: Caravan Books, 1996), 233–43. 8 Compare Frans Vyncke, Jan L. Scharpé and Josef Goubert, eds., Mučenye svetyje Thekli (Passio S. Theclae): Editio princeps e Cod. Gand. 408 (Mededeling 10 = Orientalia Gandensia 3; Gent: Rijksuniversiteit Gent, 1967). 9 In Edgar J. Goodspeed, “The Book of Thekla,” AJSL 17 (1901): 65–66. 10 According to Josephus S. Assemanus, ed., De scriptoribus Syris Nestorianis 1 (vol. 3 of Bibliotheca orientalis Clementino-Vaticana; Rome: Typis Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide, 1725; 2d repr., Hildesheim and New York, N.Y.: G. Olms, 2000), 286 Bibl. vat. cod. Beroeen 1, 586.

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in Asia the presbyter who compiled that document, thinking to add of his own to Paul’s reputation, was found out, and though he professed he had done it for love of Paul, was deposed from his position.11

According to this statement the Acts of Paul were composed in Asia Minor; which is confirmed by the narrative’s references to places exclusively in Asia Minor, such as Iconium, Antioch in Pisidia, Myra and Seleucia. Moreover, Tertullian’s citation offers a terminus ante quem for the text. Since the composition of De Baptismo is placed between 196 and 206 c.e., and the work was already known in North Africa in that decade, it follows that it must have been written one generation earlier at the very latest, thus around 160 c.e. Tertullian names a presbyter as the author who composed or “assembled” (Latin construxit), the narrative; the presbyter apparently was not the originator of the Acts of Paul, rather he compiled the tradition(s) and appended Paul’s name. At that time, this was a thoroughly common, even praiseworthy, enterprise. This, however, is also the reason why Tertullian speaks of “the Acts of Paul, which are falsely so named.” The presbyter’s motive for the narrative composition is cited as “his love for Paul.” Despite his ostensible dedication to the apostle he was deposed from his clerical office, but apparently was not dismissed from the Church. Also noteworthy is the characterization of the writing as scriptura. This points to its quasi-canonical status and suggests that it could have been received as a text of biblical stature. It is likely that hyper- and hypotext12 frequently stood, more or less equally, side by side, and were occasionally not even acknowledged or distinguished as such. 11 Tertullian, Bapt. 17.5: quodsi quae Pauli perperam scripta sunt—exemplum Theclae—ad licentiam mulierum docendi tinguendi defendant, sciant in Asia presbyterum, qui eam scripturam construxit, quasi titulo Pauli de suo cumulans, convictum atque confessum id se amore Pauli fecisse loco decesisse. See further in Anthony Hilhorst, “Tertullian on the Acts of Paul,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla (vol. 2 of Studies on the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles; ed. J. N. Bremmer; Leuven: Kok Pharos, 1996), 150–63; Willy Rordorf, “Tertullien et les Actes de Paul (à propos de bapt. 17, 5)” in “Autour de Tertullien”: Hommage à René Braun 2 (eds. J. Granarolo and M. Biraud; Publication de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de Nice 56; Nice: Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de Nice, 1990), 151–60; alternatively “Lex orandi, lex credendi”: Gesammelte Aufsätze zum 60. Geburtstag von Willy Rordorf (Paradosis 36 = Publications de la Faculté de Théologie de l’Université de Neuchâtel 11; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1993), 474–84 and Jeremy W. Barrier, “Tertullian and the Acts of Thecla or Paul? Readership of the Ancient Christian Novel and the Invocation of Thecline and Pauline Authority,” (paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL, Washington DC, November 20th, 2006). 12 See note 1.

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The text records the apostle’s story, offering a narrative report of his travels with novelistic additions which supplement the canonical account. Prolific though her story may have been in antiquity, the text in itself cannot prove Thekla’s historicity. The central theme pervading the entire narrative, with a special focus on Thekla’s example, is that of sexual abstinence. If we attempt to discover what disturbed Tertullian about this work we come to the realization that it is not the text itself, but rather the teaching presented in it, and his only criticism of that is the custom it records of permitting women to teach and to baptize. The latter is probably also the reason why Tertullian’s accusation against the Asia Minor presbyter’s text is addressed in De Baptismo. With this brief introduction we can now turn to the text of the Acts of Paul and Thekla and its relationship to early Christian art. As we read along, we pause in chapter three of the Acts, which offers a description of the Apostle Paul: He [Onesiphoros] saw Paul coming, a man small of stature, with a bald head and crooked legs, in a good state of body, with eyebrows meeting and nose somewhat hooked . . .13

This is the earliest description of Paul’s physical appearance. Yet how should it be evaluated? Does it simply describe a stereotypical Jew? This would be highly improbable for antiquity, since this stereotype does not emerge until the Middle Ages. On the other hand, it is unlikely that the text is purely an imaginative invention. Another possibility is that the author himself knew Paul, and so was able to provide an authentic portrait of the apostle. Yet analogous literary traditions and very similar descriptions also existed in more or less contemporary sources. Suetonius’s description of Emperor Augustus offers a direct parallel:14 13

Εἶδεν δὲ [Onesiphoros] τὸν Παῦλον ἐρχόμενον, ἄνδρα μικρὸν τῷ μεγέθει, ψιλὸν τῇ κηφαλῇ, ἀγκύλον ταῖς κνήμαις, εὐεκτικόν, σύνοφρον, μικρῶς ἐπίρρινον . . . The Eng-

lish translation in Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, eds., Writings related to the Apostles, Apocalypses and related subjects (vol. 2 of New Testament Apocrypha; trans. R. McL. Wilson; Cambridge: James Clarke, 1992 and Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 213–70. 14 Suetonius, Aug. 2.79.2: . . . supercilia coniuncta . . . nasum et a summo eminentiorem et ab imo eductiorem . . . staturam brevem . . . Latin text and English translation available in Suetonius. 1913–2001. Translated by J. C. Rolfe. 2 vols. LCL. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Compare also Robert M. Grant, “The Description of Paul in the Acts of Paul and Thecla,” VC 36 (1982): 1–4; Abraham J. Malherbe, “A Physical Description of Paul,” HTR 79 (1986): 170–75 or ibid., Paul and the Popular

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. . . his eyebrows met . . . and his nose projected a little at the top and then bent slightly inward. . . . He was short of stature.

Perhaps our author utilized such literary models. What is more, one must also remember that antiquity’s ideals of beauty sometimes diverged greatly from those of our age. Thus in antiquity joined eyebrows were considered a symbol of beauty and a hooked nose regal. In the remains of the visual art of late antiquity we find the apostle portrayed according to the above description. While initially none of his characteristic traits was strictly prescribed, around the mid-fourth century he is commonly rendered with these features. In the Roman catacombs, for instance, we see Paul depicted with a receding brow, a long pointed beard, wearing a tunic and pallium, and holding a scroll in his hands (as seen in the images from the catacombs of Domitilla, Saints Marcellinus and Peter, Pretestatus and in the Via Latina [fig. 1]). The same is true for sarcophagi and Roman glass (Zwischengoldgläser), such as the specimen in the Museo Sacro of the Vatican (inv. 60691 [fig. 2]).15 Among the sarcophagi, the finest and most significant example, with an inscription that securely dates it to 359 c.e., is that of Junius Bassus. A detail of the sarcophagus (fig. 3) illustrates Paul’s arrest by two Roman soldiers; the plant shown in the background indicates the arrest takes place by the River Tiber. The head of the apostle, nearly fully carved, displays the expected features. These are even duplicated in Ravenna, as clearly demonstrated by the portrait in San Vitale (fig. 4), which acts as a prototype for other images of Paul. We likewise find this physiognomy in all other genres of art up to the time of manuscript illumination, as illustrated in the work of Cosmas Indicopleustes. His image of Saint Paul’s conversion (fig. 5) shows Jerusalem on the left, Damascus on the right, and Paul on the road in between the two cities. The brilliant ray of light from heaven shines on the left, while Paul is kneeling on the ground. To the right Paul is being led by Barnabas; in the center he is depicted as the apostle, holding the Gospel in his hands. Philosophers (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 1989), 165–70 and János Bollók, “The Description of Paul in the Acta Pauli,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla (vol. 2 of Studies on the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles; ed. J. N. Bremmer; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 1–15. 15 Additional examples offered in Angela Donati, ed., Pietro e Paolo: La storia, il culto, la memoria nei primi secoli (Exhibition Catalogue; Milan: Electa, 2000), with literature.

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Fig. 1 Rome, New Catacombs of the Via Latina, Room I (in Antonio Ferrua, Katakomben: Unbekannte Bilder des frühen Christentums unter der Via Latina [Stuttgart: Urachhaus, 1991], Fig. 112)

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Fig. 2 Città del Vaticano, Museo Sacro: inv. 60691 (in Angela Donati, Pietro e Paolo: La storia, il culto, la memoria nei primi secoli [Milano: Electa, 2000], 162)

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Fig. 3 Città del Vaticano, Tesoro: Sarcophagus of Iunius Bassus (Detail) (in Edward Schillebeeckx, Paulus—Der Völkerapostel [Freiburg: Herder, 1982], 132 Fig. 67)

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Ravenna, S. Vitale: Detail (postcard)

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Fig. 5 Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca: cod. vat. gr. 699, 83v (in Welt und Umwelt der Bibel 20 [2001], 7)

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Another strand of the inconographical tradition employs the conventional image of the philosopher.16 Among several examples, an ivory pyxis17 in the Berlin museum (inv. 563 [fig. 6]) illustrates clearly this convention. Holding a rotulus and seated to the right of Christ, Paul’s depiction mimics the figure of Socrates. Such images demonstrate that visual representation contributed to the conventional understanding of Paul’s physical features. But literature also described his appearance: emerging from the canonical text, the paratext of the Acts of Paul and Thekla, for example, seeks to answer the question of how he looked. This phenomenon is further illustrated by a fresco, which the author discovered in 1998 in the so-called Cave of St. Paul (fig. 7), a cavechurch on the slope of Mount Bülbül at Ephesus.18 Here Paul wears

16 For further information see Hans P. L’Orange, “Plotinus—Paulus,” in Likeness and Icon: Selected Studies in Classical and Early Medieval Art (Odense: Odense University Press, 1973), 32–43 and Paul Zanker, Die Maske des Sokrates: Das Bild des Intellektuellen in der antiken Kunst (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1995). 17 In Wolfgang F. Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten der Spätantike und des frühen Mittelalters (3d ed.; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1976), 104 no. 161 pl. 82, with additional literature. 18 For details see Renate Pillinger, “Recente scoperta di antiche pitture ad Efeso,” Eteria 4/18 (1999): 64; eadem, “Neu entdeckte antike Malereien in Ephesus: Eine Darstellung des Apostels Paulus,” Welt und Umwelt der Bibel 15/1 (2000): 282; eadem, “Neue Entdeckungen in der sogenannten Paulusgrotte von Ephesos,” MiChA 6 (2000): 16–29; eadem, “Wandmalereien und Graffiti als neue Zeugnisse der Paulusverehrung in Ephesus,” in Mit den Augen des Herzens sehen: Der Epheserbrief als Leitfaden für Spiritualität und Kirche (ed. Michael Theobald; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2000), 213– 26; eadem, “Paolo e Tecla ad Efeso: Nuove scoperte nella grotta (chiesa rupestre) sul Bülbüldağ,” in Atti del VIII Simposio di Efeso su S. Giovanni Apostolo (ed. L. Padovese; Turchia: La Chiesa e la sua storia 15; Roma: Istituto Francescano di Spiritualità, Pontifico Ateneo Antoniano, 2001), 213–37; eadem, “Paolo e Tecla a Efeso,” Eteria 7/31 (2002): 26–37; eadem, “Discovery of St. Paul’s Grotto in Ephesus: Some Recent Archaeological Findings,” The Pauline Cooperator 3/2 (2002): 20; eadem, “Das frühbyzantinische Ephesos: Ergebnisse der aktuellen Forschungsprojekte. Die sogenannte Paulusgrotte,” in “Neue Forschungen zur Religionsgeschichte Kleinasiens“: Elmar Schwertheim zum 60. Geburtstag gewidmet (ed. G. Heedemann and E. Winter; AMS 49; Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt, 2003): 158–163, figs. 20–25; eadem, “Neues zur sog. Paulusgrotte in Ephesos,” Mitteilungen der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Christliche Archäologie 21 (2005): 5–6; eadem, “Vielschichtige Neuigkeiten in der so genannten Paulusgrotte von Ephesos (dritter vorläufiger Bericht, zu den Jahren 2003 und 2004),” MiChA 11 (2005): 56–62; eadem and Erkan Eseroğlu, “Efes’te 2000 yıllık bir mağara,” Rehber Dünyasi 37 (2005): 67; eadem et al., “Die Wandmalereien in der so genannten Paulusgrotte von Ephesos: Studien zur Ausführungstechnik und Erhaltungsproblematik, Restaurierung und Konservierung,” AÖAW 143 (2008/1): 71–116; eadem, “La cosiddetta grotta (chiesa rupestre) di S. Paolo ad Efeso,” in “Paolo di Tarso. Archeologia, Storia, Ricezione” ( a cura di Luigi Padovese; 3 vols.; Cantalupa: Effatà Editrice 2009), 1: 21—29 and 587—595 and eadem, “The So-called Cave of St. Paul in Ephesus, ” in

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Fig. 6 Berlin, Museum für Spätantike und Byzantinische Kunst: inv. 563 (in Meisterwerke aus Elfenbein der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin [Berlin: Staatliche Museen, 1999], 29)

a tunic and pallium, and is seated with an open book on his lap. His right hand is raised in the gesture of speech directed towards an aedicula, where we see the head of a young woman in a window and a green tree next to the house. Another female figure with her right hand raised stands to Paul’s left. All three figures are clearly identified by inscriptions. From left to right they are: Thekla, Paul and Theokleia.

“Wall Paintings at Ephesus. An Art History from Hellenistic to Byzantine Times” (eds. Norbert Zimmermann and Sabine Ladstätter [forthcoming]).

Fig. 7

Ephesos, so-called Cave of St. Paul: West Wall (Photo: Nikolaus Gail)

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This painting illustrates a scene from the seventh chapter of the Acts of Paul and Thekla:19 And while Paul was thus speaking in the midst of the assembly in the house of Onesiphorus, a virgin (named) Thekla—her mother was Theocleia,—who was betrothed to a man (named) Thamyris, sat at a nearby window and listened night and day to the word of the virgin life as it was spoken by Paul; and she did not turn away from the window, but pressed on in the faith rejoicing exceedingly. Moreover, when she saw many women and virgins going in to Paul she desired to be counted worthy herself to stand in Paul’s presence and hear the word of Christ; for she had not yet seen Paul in person, but only heard his word.20

Since the text does not (yet) refer to Thekla as a Christian, this excerpt must recount her conversion to Christianity. The central character of the Ephesian fresco appears to be Paul since he, despite his seated position, is portrayed nearly as large as the house in which we see Thekla. He is even isocephalic with Theokleia, who is probably standing. Paul’s split-beard is a noteworthy feature, which may point to the stereotype of the Jewish scribe. His head, shown frontally, is depicted with large eyes looking into the distance, and he has a receding hairline. Paul’s right hand is raised in a gesture of speech which, together with the open book, conveys the idea that the apostle is preaching. A brick house with a gabled roof stands to the apostle’s right. Through the darkened opening of the window we see an unveiled young woman with an inscription bearing her name—Thekla. This figure also faces frontally, her large eyes apparently directed at Paul— although the textual version of the story clearly states that she had not seen Paul, but had only heard him preaching. Like Paul, her eyelids and cheeks are highlighted with red color. The green tree painted next to the house is puzzling. Perhaps it is meant to indicate narrative sequence, and represents Thekla’s next encounter with Paul at the tomb of Onesiphorus (Acts 23). The tomb lies on the road to Daphne, which in Greek means “Laurel tree.”

19 Καὶ ταῦτα τοῦ Παύλου λέγοντος ἐν μέσῳ τῆς ἐκκλησίας ἐν τῷ ’Ονησιφόρου οἴκῳ, Θέκλα τις παρθένος Θεοκλείας μητρὸς μεμνηστευμένη ἀνδρὶ Θαμύριδι, καθεσθεῖσα ἐπὶ τῆς σύνεγγυς θυρίδος τοῦ οἴκου ἤκουεν νυκτὸς καὶ ἡμέρας τὸν περὶ ἁγνείας λόγον λεγόμενον ὑπὸ τοῦ Παύλου· καὶ οὐκ ἀπένευεν ἀπὸ τῆς θυρίδος, ἀλλὰ τῇ πίστει ἐπήγετο ὑπερευφραινομένη. ἔτι δὲ καὶ βλέπουσα πολλὰς γυναῖκας καὶ παρθένους εἰσπορευομένας πρὸς τὸν Παῦλον, ἐπεπόθει καὶ αὐτὴ καταξιωθῆναι κατὰ πρόσωπον στῆναι Παύλου καὶ ἀκούειν τὸν τοῦ Χριστοῦ λόγον· οὐδέπω γὰρ τὸν χαρακτῆρα Παύλου ἑωράκει, ἀλλὰ τοῦ λόγου ἤκουεν μόνον. 20

Hennecke and Schneemelcher, Writings related to the Apostles, 240.

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To Paul’s left is the painting of Thekla’s mother, Theokleia. This image of her is entirely unique in ancient visual art. In the text of the Acts she is mentioned immediately after the scene of Thekla listening to Paul’s preaching (Acts 8–9). The Acts read: (8) Since however she did not move from the window, her mother sent to Thamyris. He came in great joy as if he were already taking her in marriage. So Thamyris said to Theocleia, ‘Where is my Thekla, that I may see her?’ and Theocleia said: ‘I have a new tale to tell you, Thamyris. For indeed three days and three nights Thekla has not risen from the window either to eat or drink, but, gazing steadily as if on some joyful spectacle, she so devotes herself to a strange man who teaches deceptive and subtle words . . .’ (9) . . . ‘You must’ he says, ‘fear one single God only, and live chastely.’ And my daughter also, who sticks to the window like a spider, is (moved) by his words . . . ’21

In the Ephesian fresco Theokleia’s raised right hand, which like her eyes, have regrettably been gouged out and burned, probably indicates her address to Thekla, who, as we have already seen, is portrayed at the oft-mentioned window. Theokleia’s head also faces frontally. As befits a married woman, her head is covered by a hood and a maphorion; she is not wearing jewelry. Like Paul and Thekla, the mother’s chin, cheeks and eyelids are highlighted with red color, lending her a surprisingly youthful appearance. At this stage of excavation, the dating of the fresco can only be estimated by a relative chronology. Several additional layers are recognizable in the cave, some of which are painted. Relative to the cave’s other layers, this fresco can be placed roughly at the end of the 5th century c.e. Other depictions of Thekla’s story are not nearly as elaborate from the narrative perspective. Instead, they show only the main characters, Paul and Thekla. On one panel of an ivory box, for example, housed

21

‛Ως δὲ οὐκ ἀφίστατο ἀπὸ τῆς θυρίδος, πέμπει ἡ μήτηρ αὐτῆς πρὸς τὸν Θάμυριν· ὁ δὲ ἔρχεται περιχαρής, ὡς ἤδη λαμβάνων αὐτὴν πρὸς γάμον. εἶπεν οὖν ὁ Θάμυρις πρὸς Θεοκλείαν Ποῦ μού ἐστιν ἡ Θέκλα; Καὶ εἶπεν ἡ Θεοκλεία Καινόν σοι ἔχω εἰπεῖν διήγημα, Θάμυρι. καὶ γὰρ ἡμέρας τρεῖς καὶ νύκτας τρεῖς Θέκλα ἀπὸ τῆς θυρίδος οὐκ ἐγείρεται, οὔτε ἐπὶ τὸ φαγεῖν οὔτε ἐπὶ τὸ πιεῖν, ἀλλὰ ἀτενίζουσα ὡς πρὸς εὐφρασίαν, οὕτως πρόσκειται ἀνδρὶ ξένῳ ἀπατηλοὺς καὶ ποικίλους λόγους διδάσκοντι, . . . φησίν, ἕνα καὶ μόνον θεὸν φοβεῖσθαι καὶ ζῆν ἁγνῶς. ἔτι δὲ καὶ ἡ θυγάτηρ μου ὡς ἀράχνη ἐπὶ τῆς θυρίδος δεδεμένη τοῖς ὑπ’αὐτοῦ λόγοις κρατεῖται ἐπιθυμίᾳ καινῇ καὶ πάθει δεινῷ. English translation from Hennecke and Schneemelcher, Writings related to the

Apostles, 240.

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London, British Museum: inv. 56.6–23,8 (in Edward Schillebeeckx [as in fig. 3], 66–67 fig. 28)

in the British Museum (inv. 56.6–23, 8 [fig. 8], 9, and 10),22 the apostle is represented, easily recognizable with his pointed beard and receding hairline, wearing a tunic and pallium, and seated on a stone (?). Paul is shown in profile, holding an opened rotulus in his hands. In front of him stands a wall resembling a battlement, with a partially opened gate and a two-story tower; a female figure stands (?) inside, her left hand placed under her chin, her right hand reaching over the wall. This image also conveys a scene from the Acts of Paul and Thekla. Several details, however, diverge from the previous image. First, Paul 22 In Wolfgang F. Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten, 83 no. 117 pl. 61 (with additional literature). The left frontal wall of the Orpheus arcosolia in the Domitilla Catacombs depicts a male figure wearing a tunic and pallium and standing with his right hand raised, pointing to a structure (see Umberto M. Fasola, Die Domitilla-Katakombe und die Basilika der Märtyrer Nereus und Achilleus [3d ed., Römische und italienische Katakomben 1; Città del Vaticano: Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Sacra, 1989], 63 fig. 23). Whether this man represents, as Norbert Zimmermann maintains, Paul preaching in the house of Onesiphoros remains an open question, since the fresco has been destroyed beyond recognition in some places, and Paul is usually shown seated with a codex or a rotulus.

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is shown in profile, clearly turned towards Thekla. Second, Paul is shown reading, not speaking. In addition, Thekla is not depicted in the window, as described repeatedly in the text of the Acts and as shown in the Ephesian fresco; rather she gazes across the edge of a slightly curved, brick balustrade, and the position of her left hand suggests a contemplative pose. It is noteworthy that Paul—unlike all (!) other representations—is not sitting on a stool; rather, the apostle sits on a rock, next to a column whose capital is capped by a sundial (a similar image of a seated figure next to a column with a sundial is found on folio 33 of the Vienna Genesis, which illustrates the imprisonment of Joseph in Egypt). This scene undoubtedly reflects Paul’s imprisonment, as told in Acts of Paul and Thekla 17–18: (17) . . . when the governor heard this, he commanded Paul to be bound and led off to prison . . . (18) But Thekla in the night took off her bracelets and gave them to the doorkeeper, and when the door was opened for her she went off to the prison. To the gaoler she gave a silver mirror, and so went in to Paul and sat at his feet and heard (him proclaim) the mighty acts of God.23

It is clear that several elements of the narrative have been summarized in this image: Thekla’s deliberation and her flight from home—suggested by the partially opened gate—as well as Paul’s imprisonment.24 Immediately to the right, the same panel depicts a man wearing a tunic and a pallium. He is holding two stones in the fold of his cloak and one in his raised right hand, poised to hurl it at the figure kneeling on his right. A figure rendered as the apostle Paul, with his receding hairline and beard, raises his right hand in a protective gesture. Depicted here is the stoning described in 2 Corinthians 11:25a (“Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning,” NRSV) and Acts of the Apostles 14:19b (“Then they stoned Paul and dragged him out of the city, supposing that he was dead,” NRSV).

23 ‛Ο δὲ ἡγεμὼν ἀκούσας ἐκέλευσεν δεθῆναι τὸν Παῦλον καὶ εἰς φυλακὴν ἀπαχθῆναι, . . . ‛Η δὲ Θέκλα νυκτὸς περιελομένη τὰ ψέλια ἔδωκεν τῷ πυλωρῷ, καὶ ἀνοιγείσης αὐτῇ τῆς θύρας ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὴν φυλακήν· καὶ δοῦσα τῷ δεσμοφύλακι κάτοπτρον ἀργυροῦν εἰσῆλθεν πρὸς τὸν Παῦλον, καὶ καθίσασα παρὰ τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ ἤκουσεν τὰ μεγαλεῖα τοῦ θεοῦ. English translation from Hennecke and

Schneemelcher, Writings related to the Apostles, 242. 24 This possibility suggested by Claudia Nauerth and Rüdiger Warns, Thekla: Ihre Bilder in der frühchristlichen Kunst (ed. F. Junge; GOF.K 3; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1982), 2–4.

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Thus we see here hypertext and hypotext adjacent to one another on an ivory panel. Such equivalence not only provides an explanation for the designation scriptura for the Acts of Paul in Tertullian’s De Baptismo 17:5, but perhaps also explains why the image of Paul at Ephesus reflects the paratext of the Acts of Paul rather than the canonical Acts of the Apostles. Unfortunately the provenance of the small ivory panel is as uncertain as is its dating. It is widely assumed that it dates to the early 5th century, specifically between 420 and 430 c.e. What it was used for remains an open question. Rome is customarily cited as the place of manufacture on the basis of the scenes of Peter on the box’s other panels: these illustrate the resuscitation of Tabitha according to Acts of the Apostles 9:36–43 and the “Quo vadis?” scene (according to PseudoLinus), with Peter’s miracle of the water springing from the rock.25 The latter, incidentally, demonstrates again the intermixture of a canonical writing with its paratext. A further example hails from Egypt. A ceiling fresco in the so-called Chapel of Peace in El-Bagawat (fig. 9)26 depicts two seated figures sandwiched between other images of biblical scenes with human figures. The two figures are named in inscriptions: to the left, Thekla, and to the right, Paulos—though interestingly Paul is not portrayed with his typical attributes of receding hairline and beard. The figures are facing one another, sitting cross-legged on stools; Thekla’s stool has a pillow. She wears a greenish tunic with red clavi and a large white maphorion draped over her long blonde curls. In her left hand she holds a writing tablet, in the right a stylus. Paul is dressed in a tunic, with a pallium draped over his left arm. His head is also covered with a large white cloth. Holding a stylus in his right hand, he gestures towards Thekla; in his left hand he holds an inkpot. This scene possibly refers to Acts of Paul and Thekla 41, where Thekla is commissioned as a missionary. Paul’s words here, “Go and teach the word of God!”,27 may rest on the canonical commissioning of the

25 Compare also Paul van Moorsel, “Il miracolo della roccia nella letteratura e nell’arte paleocristiana,” RivAC 40 (1964): 221–51. 26 For details see Mahmoud Zibawi, Koptische Kunst: Das christliche Ägypten von der Spätantike bis zur Gegenwart (trans. K. Pichler; Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2004), 31–38, and idem, Bagawat. Peintures paléochrétiennes d’Égypte; Paris: A. & J. Picard, 2005), 95–132, with additional literature. 27

‛´Υπαγε καὶ δίδασκε τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ.

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Fig. 9 El-Bagawat, so-called Chapel of Peace: Detail (in Mahmoud Zibawi [cf. n. 26], 36 fig. 28)

apostles as described in Matthew 28:18–20. In Thekla’s later Vita,28 this commissioning underscores her equal status with respect to the other apostles. This may explain why she is shown here in El-Bagawat in the form of a writer, in the same way as Mark is portrayed in Codex Rossanensis. A comparable image can be seen in Armenia, in the form of a relief on the northern, external wall of the cathedral in Etchmiadzin (fig. 10).29 In the left arcade stands Thekla, wearing a long, belted (?) tunic; to the right is Paul, seated on a faldistorium, and cross-legged

28

In Gilbert Dagron, Vie et miracles de Sainte Thécle: Texte grec, tradition et commentaire (Subsidia Hagiographica 62; Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1978). 29 Nauerth and Warns, Thekla, pl. 2.4 published a sketch. The photo is only found in Jean-Michel Thierry, Armenien im Mittelalter (trans. H. Goltz; Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner) 25 fig. 12.

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Etchmiadzin, Cathedral, Relief on the northern external wall (in Jean-Michel Thierry [cf. n. 29], 25 fig. 12)

with a suppedaneum. The figures are turned towards one another and clearly identifiable by the inscriptions of their names. Paul is also recognizable by his receding hairline and beard. Thekla appears to hold her left arm behind her back and her right hand in front of her chest, and also has a nimbus (?). Her short hair is difficult to decipher on account of the relief’s coarse style, as on the sketch, yet perhaps it is meant to depict her meeting with Paul at Myra as described in the Acts of Paul and Thekla 40:

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So she (Thekla) took young men and maidservants and girded herself, and sewed her mantle into a cloak after the fashion of men, and went off to Myra, and found Paul speaking the word of God and went to him.30

Chapter 22 of the Acts describes Thekla’s first martyrdom on the funeral pyre in Iconium. It reads, . . .and making the sign of the Cross she climbed up on the wood. They kindled it, and although a great fire blazed up the fire did not touch her. For God in compassion caused a noise beneath the earth and a cloud above, full of rain and hail, overshadowed (the theater) and its whole content poured out, so that . . . the fire was quenched and Thekla saved.31

A fresco in the Exodus Chapel of El-Bagawat (fig. 11)32 illustrates precisely this episode. There Thekla, wearing a tunic and identified by an adjacent inscription, is portrayed as the text describes: she stands in the form of a cross on a pile of branches, her arms raised and stretched out in the orans position, while a cloudy sky showers rain upon her. According to the Acts chapters 28–36 Thekla’s second martyrdom takes place in Antioch of Pisidia. A man named Alexander falls in love with her. When he is rejected, she is condemned to be thrown to the lions and bears—none of which harm her. A number of ampulles offer a visual rendering of this story: there is, for example, one in the Louvre under inv. MCN 1926 (fig. 12), which identifies the figure as Thekla by an inscription.33 Shown frontally is a female figure in long attire, with a lion on her right and a bear on her

30 Καὶ λαβοῦσα νεανίσκους καὶ παιδίσκας, ἀναζωσαμένη καὶ ῥάψασα τὸν χιτῶνα εἰς ἐπενδύτην σχήματι ἀνδρικῷ ἀπῆλθεν ἐν Μύροις, καὶ εὗρεν Παῦλον λαλοῦντα τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ ἐπέστη αὐτῷ. English translation from Hennecke and Sch-

neemelcher, Writings related to the Apostles, 246. 31 Ἡ δὲ τὸν τύπον τοῦ σταυροῦ ποιησαμένη ἐπέβη τῶν ξύλων· οἱ δὲ ὑφῆψαν. καὶ μεγάλου πυρὸς λάμψαντος οὐχ ἥψατο αὐτῆς τὸ πῦρ· ὁ γὰρ θεὸς σπλαγχνισθεὶς ἦχον ὑπόγαιον ἐποίησεν, καὶ νεφέλη ἄνωθεν ἐπεσκίασεν ὕδατος πλήρης καὶ χαλάζης, καὶ ἐξεχύθη πᾶν τὸ κύτος, ὡς . . . τὸ πῦρ σβεσθῆναι τὴν δὲ Θέκλαν σωθῆναι. English trans-

lation from Hennecke and Schneemelcher, Writings related to the Apostles, 243. 32 Additional details in Zibawi, Koptische Kunst, 25–31, and idem, Peintures paléochrétiennes, 36–94. Unfortunately the inscription with it’s image is no longer legible. Compare also Tomb 49 from the necropolis of Thessaloniki in: Ευτερπη Μαρκη, Η νεκροπολη τῆς Θεσσαλονικης στους υστερορωμαïκους καὶ παλαιοχριστιανικους χρονους (μέσα του 3ου έως μέσα του 8ου αι. μ. Χ.) (Αθηνα: Ταμειο αρχαιολογικων πορῶν και απαλλοτριωσεων 2006), 144 σχεδ. 79. 33 In Catherine Metzger, Les ampoules à eulogie du Musée du Louvre (Notes et documents des Musées de France 3; Paris: Réunion des Musées nationaux, 1981), 39 no. 97.

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Fig. 11

El-Bagawat, so-called Exodus Chapel: Detail of the cuppola (in Mahmoud Zibawi, 2004 [cf. n. 26], 27 fig. 19)

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Fig. 12 Paris, Musée du Louvre: inv. MCN 1926 (in Catherine Metzger [cf. n. 33], Cover)

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left. Her arms are tied behind her back. The inscription on both sides of her head reads “The Holy Thekla.” Another less well-preserved example, housed in Berlin under inv. 6004 (fig. 13),34 portrays Thekla standing frontally, with a naked torso and her hands tied behind her back, a bear (right) and lion (left), as well as two bulls. This image draws on the Acts of Paul and Thekla 35: And they bound her by the feet between the bulls, and set red-hot irons beneath their bellies that being the more enraged they might kill her. The bulls indeed leapt forward, but the flame that blazed around her burned through the ropes, and she was as if she were not bound.35

All the artefacts with the martyrium show the saint in the archetypal form of the πότνια θηρῶν, as a guardian of animals (fig. 14),36 much in the way Artemis is often portrayed.37 Thus it is possible that, in accordance with the recently discovered frescoes presented at the beginning of this paper, the place where the narrative written “out of love” by the presbyter of Asia Minor was composed was Ephesus. This would also explain why the paratext enjoys precedence over the canonical writings. I would like to close this paper with an example of how ancient tradition was received in the Middle Ages. It is the Gothic retable of the high altar in the cathedral of Tarragona (fig. 15).38 This portrays Thekla

34 Compare Janette Witt, “Zwei Menasampullen,“ in Ägypten: Schätze aus dem Wüstensand: Kunst und Kultur der Christen am Nil: Exhibition catalogue (eds. M. von Falck and F. Lichtwark; Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1996), 165 no. 142b. 35 Καὶ ἔδησαν αὐτὴν ἐκ τῶν ποδῶν μέσον τῶν ταύρων, καὶ ὑπὸ τὰ ἀναγκαῖα αὐτῶν πεπυρωμένα σίδηρα ὑπέθηκαν, ἵνα πλείονα ταραχθέντες ἀποκτείνωσιν αὐτήν. οἱ μὲν οὖν ἥλλοντο· ἡ δὲ περικαιομένη φλὸξ διέκαυσεν τοὺς κάλους, καὶ ἦν ὡς οὐ δεδεμένη.

English translation from Hennecke and Schneemelcher, Writings related to the Apostles, 245. 36 See, among others, Chryssanthos A. Christou, Potnia Theron: Eine Untersuchung über Ursprung, Erscheinungsformen und Wandlungen der Gestalt einer Gottheit (Berlin and Thessaloniki: Ernst Wasmuth Verlag, 1968). With respect to Thekla compare Annewies van den Hoek and John J. Herrmann, “Thecla the Beast Fighter: A Female Emblem of Deliverance in Early Christian Popular Art,” in “In the Spirit of Faith”: Studies in Philo and Early Christianity in Honor of David Hay (eds. D. T. Runia et al.; StudPhilon 13 = BJS 332; Providence: BJS, 2001), 212–49. 37 Details in Karl Hoenn, Artemis: Gestaltwandel einer Göttin (Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1946). 38 Details in Rüdiger Warns, “Weitere Darstellungen der heiligen Thekla,” in Studien zur frühchristlichen Kunst 2 (ed. G. Koch; GOF.K 8; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1986), esp. 112–31. Compare also Horst Schneider, “Thekla und die Robben,” VC 55 (2001): 45–57.

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Fig. 13 Berlin, Museum für Spätantike und Byzantinische Kunst: inv. 6004 (in Martin von Falck and Friederike Lichtwark, eds., [cf. n. 34], 165 fig. 142b)

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Fig. 14 London, British Museum: Guardian of animals (in Egon Bauer, Die sieben Weltwunder: Die Rätsel der Antike: Archäologie und Mythos [München: Orbis Verlag, 2001], 68)

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Fig. 15 Tarragona, Cathedral’s high altar: Detail (in David R. Cartlidge, “Thecla: The Apostle Who Defied Women’s Destiny”, BR 20/6 [2004]: 30)

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baptizing herself in the pool of seals, as described in the Acts of Paul and Thekla 34. Her long curls are framed by a large nimbus, her right hand crosses her naked torso and a cloth drapes her hips. She stands in water swarming with snakes and fish but, notably diverging from the textual account, it emerges from a rock cave. On both sides of the water we also see a tree, on the left with a beautiful woman beside it (probably Thekla’s protector Tryphaena) and on the right with a sardonic looking man (probably the angry Alexander).39

39

I would like to thank Alexander Lirsch of Vienna for procuring images for this paper, Elisabeth Esch of Münster for sending me an unpublished manuscript, Ruth Ohm of San Francisco for the translation into English and for sending two unpublished manuscripts, and Elisabeth Lässig of Vienna for proofreading.

PARATEXTUAL LITERATURE IN ACTION: HISTORICAL APOCALYPSES WITH THE NAMES OF DANIEL AND ISAIAH IN BYZANTINE AND OLD BULGARIAN TRADITION (11TH–13TH CENTURIES) Anissava L. Miltenova Bulgarian Academy of Sciences Byzantine chronography, which influenced Old Bulgarian historical letters, provides the most authoritative source on the formation of the Christian view of world history. Translated texts are more common than original Bulgarian works, and, unfortunately, no chronicle has been found conveying a national-historical narrative.1 This is why the collection of documents known as historical apocalypses is of particular importance to scholars.2 Such texts, which constitute a paratextual literature,3 reflect the Bulgarian perspective on historical events in Bulgaria and the Balkans from the 11th through 12th centuries, the period of Byzantine rule, as well as from the 13th–14th centuries, the time of the Second Bulgarian Kingdom. Historical-apocalyptic works in Byzantium are in fact a continuation of an apocalyptic tradition, based on late antique and earlier models,

1

If any such chronicle does indeed exist, we are unaware of it. Paul J. Alexander, “Medieval Apocalypses as Historical Sources,” AHR 73/4 (1968): 997–1018; idem, “Historical Interpolations in the ‘Zbornik Popa Dragolia’,” in Actes du XIVe Congrès International des Études Byzantines: Bucarest, 6–12 Septembre 1971 (ed. M. Berza and E. Stănescu; 3 vols.; Bucarest: Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste România, 1974–1976), 3:23–38 and Vassilka Tăpkova-Zaimova and Anissava L. Miltenova [Василка Тъпкова-Заимова и Анисава Л. Милтенова], Historical-Apocalyptic Literature in Byzantine and Medieval Bulgaria [Историко-апокалиптичната книжнина във Византия и в средновековна България] (Sofia: St. Kliment Ohridski University Press [София: Университетско издателство “Св. Климент Охридски”], 1996), 16–27. 3 Armin Lange and Ulrike Mittmann-Richert, “Annotated List of the Texts from the Judaean Desert Classified by Content and Genre,” in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the “Discoveries in the Judaean Desert” Series (ed. E. Tov; DJD XXXIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 117; Armin Lange, “PreMaccabean Literature from the Qumran Library and the Hebrew Bible,” DSD 13/3 (2006): 277–305. 2

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going back to Jewish sources of the Second Temple period. The Biblical prototype of Byzantine apocalypses reflecting historical events is the Book of the Prophet Daniel (chapters 2 and 7).4 A typical example of an Old Testament apocalypse, this book contains both historical and political elements. It expresses messianic ideas current in Judean society in it day—the Day of Judgment, and the eschatological victory of the Messiah, which will be followed by the coming of “the Kingdom of God on earth.” In the first centuries c.e. messianism was linked with chiliasm, teachings about the “millennial kingdom of God,” which later spread widely in the Byzantine-Slavic world. Both in Byzantium and among the Slavs literature involving political prophecies and predictions emerged in times when the state was threatened by foreign enemies or internal strife. Historical-apocalyptic works stand for the idea of the eschatological expiation that awaits the individual and the entire community on Judgment Day. Naturally most of the prophecies are interpreted in the literary tradition only after the predicted events have already taken place, i.e., they are “vaticina ex eventu.” Byzantine texts of this type have been published many times and been subjected to research for almost a century,5 more recently by

4 Klaus Berger, Die griechische Daniel-Exegese: Eine altkirchliche Apokalypse (StPB 27; Leiden: Brill, 1976); Gerhard Podskalsky, Byzantinische Reichseschatologie: Die Periodisierung der Weltgeschichte in den vier Grossreichen (Daniel 2 und 7) und dem tausendjährigen Friedensreiche (Apok. 20): Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Münchener Universitätsschriften: Reihe der Philosophischen Fakultät 9; Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1972); idem, “La Profezia di Daniele (cc. 2 e 7) negli scrittori dell’Impero Romano d’Oriente,” in Popoli e spazio romano tra diritto e profezia: Atti del 3 Seminario Internazionale di Studi Storici Da Roma alla Terza Roma: Roma, 21–23 Aprile 1983 (Da Roma alla Terza Roma: Studi 3; Napoli: Edicioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1986), 309–20; David M. Olster, “Byzantine Apocalypses.” Pages 48–73 in vol. 2 of The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism. Edited by J. J. Collins, B. McGinn, and S. J. Stein. 3 vols. New York, N.Y., and London: Continuum, 1998; complete survey by Lorenzo DiTommaso, The Book of Daniel and the Apocryphal Daniel Literature (SVTP 20; Leiden: Brill, 2005). 5 Émile Legrand, Les Oracles de Léon le Sage—La Bataille de Varna—La Prise de Constantinople: Poëmes en Grec vulgaire publiées pour la première fois d’après les manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Nationale (Collection de monuments pour servir à l’étude de la langue Néo-hellénique. New Series 5. Paris: Maisonneuve et Cie, 1875); Frédéric Macler, Les Apocalypses apocryphes de Daniel (Paris: Imprimerie de Charles Noblet, 1895); Alexander A. Vassiliev, “Medieval Ideas of the End of the World: West and East,” Byzantion 16 (1942–1943): 462–502; Ernst Sackur, Sibyllinische Texte und Forschungen: Pseudomethodius, Adso und die Tiburtinische Sibylle (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1898; repr., Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1963), and many others.

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Alexander Lolos,6 Hans Schmoldt,7 Klaus Berger,8 David Aune,9 Cyril A. Mango,10 and Paul J. Alexander.11 Their Slavic translations and versions, however, are less well known. After Vassiliy M. Istrin’s undoubted contribution at the beginning of 20th century,12 most significant are the publications of Paul J. Alexander, who placed a new stress on the analysis of Slavic historical-apocalyptic works.13 Also noteworthy are studies by Vassil Gyuzelev,14 Miliyana V.

6 Anastasios Lolos, Die Apokalypse des Ps.-Methodius (Beiträge zur Klassischen Philologie 83; Meisenheim am Glan: Hain, 1976); idem, Die dritte und vierte Redaktion des Ps.-Methodius (Beiträge zur Klassischen Philologie 94; Meisenheim am Glan: Hain, 1978). 7 Hans Schmoldt, Die Schrift “Vom jungen Daniel” und “Daniels letzte Vision”: Herausgabe und Interpretation zweier apokalyptischer Texte (Ph.D. diss., Universität Hamburg, 1972). 8 Klaus Berger, Die griechische Daniel-Exegese. 9 David E. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1983). 10 Cyril A. Mango, Byzantium and Its Image: History and Culture of the Byzantine Empire and Its Heritage (Collected Studies Series 191; London: Variorum Reprints, 1984). 11 Paul J. Alexander, The Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). 12 Vassiliy M. Istrin [Василий M. Истрин], Revelation of Methodios of Patara and Apocryphal Visions of Daniel in Byzantine and Slavo-Russian Literature [Откровение Мефодия Патарскаго и апокрифическия видения Даниила в византийской и славяно-русской литературах] (4 vols., CHOIDR [ЧΟИДР] 181–184; Moscow: University Press [Москва: Университетская типография], 1897–1898), 1:133–62. 13 Paul J. Alexander, The Oracle of Baalbek: The Tiburtin Sibyl in Greek Dress (Dumbarton Oaks Studies 10; Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Center for Byzantine Studies, 1967); idem, “Medieval Apocalypses as Historical Sources,” AHR 73/4 (1968): 997–1018; idem, “Les débuts des conquêtes arabes en Sicile et la tradition apocalyptique byzantino-slave,” Bollettino del Centro di Studi Filologici e Linguistici Siciliani 12 (1973) 5–35; repr. in Religious and Political History and Thought in the Byzantine Empire: Collected Studies (London: Variorum Reprints, 1978), XIV; idem, “Historiens byzantins et croyances eschatologiques,” in Actes du XIIe Congrès International d’Études Byzantines: Ochride, 10–16 Septembre 1961 (3 vols.; Beograd: Nauchno Delo, 1963–1964), 2:1–8 and 8a; repr. in Religious and Political History and Thought in the Byzantine Empire: Collected Studies (London: Variorum Reprints, 1978), XV; idem, “Historical Interpolations in the ‘Zbornik Popa Dragolia’;” idem, “The Medieval Legend of the Last Roman Emperor and Its Messianic Origin,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 41 (1978): 1–15. 14 Vassil Gyuzelev [Васил Гюзелев], “The Resumption of the Bulgarian Kingdom in Middle Bulgarian Literary Tradition [Възобновяване на българското царство в среднобългарската книжовна традиция],” in Medieval Bulgaria in the Light of New Sources [в Средновековна България в светлината на нови извори] (Sofia: Narodna Prosveta [София: Народна Просвета], 1981).

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Kaymakamova,15 Angel Nikolov,16 Vassilka Tăpkova-Zaimova,17 and Anissava L. Miltenova.18 Dating of the individual works, linguistic analysis and identification of the historical personages or events alluded to, show that two cycles of historical-apocalyptic works in Bulgarian tradition can be discerned:

15 Miliyana V. Kaymakamova [Милияна В. Каймакамова], “Two Old Bulgarian Chronicles of the 11th Century“ [Две старобългарски летописни съчиненя от XI в.],” IPr [ИПр] 32/5 (1976): 86–96; eadem, Bulgarian Medieval Historiography (from the End of the 7th century up to the first quarter of the 15th century) [Българска средновеовна историопис (от края на VII—до първата четвърт на XV в.)] (Sofia: Nauka i Izkustvo [София: Наука и Изкуство], 1990); eadem, The Value of the ‘Bulgarian Apocryphal Chronicle’ in Historiography [Историографската стойност на ‘Български апокрифен летопис’],” in “Civitas Divino-Humana”: In honorem annorum LX Georgii Bakalov [в “Civitas divino-humana”: В чест на професор Георги Бакалов] (ed. T. Stepanov and V. Vachkova; Biblioteka Bălgarska vechnost 60; Sofia: Tangra TanNakRa IK [съст. Ц. Степанов и В. Вачкова; Библиотека Българска вечност 60; София: Тангра ТанНакРа ИК], 2004), 47–441. 16 Angel N. Nikolov [Ангел Н. Николов], “Observations on the Cycle of HistoricalApocalyptic works of the 9th to 10th centuries [Наблюдения върху цикъла историкоапокалиптични творби от X–XI в.],” Palaeobulgarica [Старобългаристика] 21/1 (1997): 91–107; idem, Political Thought in Early Medieval Bulgaria (Middle of the 9th–End of the 10th centuries) [Политическа мисъл в ранносредновековна България (средата на IX–края на X век)] (Sofia: Paradigma [София: Парадигма], 2006). 17 Vassilka Tăpkova-Zaimova, “Byzantine and Bulgarian State Ideology in the Eschatological Literature and in the Prophecies,” in Typologie raně feudálních slovanských států: Sbornik příspěvků z Mezinárodní Konference k Tématu ‘Vznik a Rozvoj Slovanských Raně Feudálních Států a Národostní ve Strědní a Jihovýchodni Europě’: Praha, 18.–20. listopadnu 1986 (ed. Josef Žemližka; Prague: Ústav Československých a Světových Dějin ČSAV, 1987), 147–73; eadem and Anissava L. Miltenova, “Political Ideology and Eschatology: The Image of the King-Saviour and Concrete Historical Personages,” in Relations et influences réciproques entre Grecs et Bulgares, XVIIIe–XXe siècle: art et literature, linguistique, idées politiques et structures sociales: cinquième colloque organise par l’Institute des études balkaniques de Thessaloniki et l’Institut d’études balkaniques de l’Académie bulgare des sciences, à Thessaloniki et Jannina: Thessaloniki, 27–31 mars 1988 (Institute for Balkan Studies 225; Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1991), 65–75; eadem and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature in Byzantine and Medieval Bulgaria. 18 Anissava L. Miltenova [Анисава Л. Милтенова], “Medieval Apocalyptic Texts in the Context of Bulgarian Cultural Anthropology,” Balkanistica 13: Special Millennial Issue (2000): 105–12; eadem, “The Historical-Apocalyptic Texts as a Literary and Historiographical Phenomenon [Историко-апокалиптичните съчинения като литературен и историграфски феномен],” in “Tangra”: Collected Studies in Honour of the 70th birthday of Vassil Gyuzelev [в “Тангра”: Сборник в чест на 70-годишнината на акад. Васил Гюзелев] (ed. M. V. Kaymakamova; Sofia: St. Kliment Ohridski University Press [съст. М. В. Каймакамова; София: Университетско издателство “Св. Климент Охридски”], 2006), 847–68 and cited bibliography.

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1. A cycle which emerged in the second half of the 11th century (not before 1040–1041 and not later than at the end of the century) consisting of the following works: Isaiah’s Narration (an original Bulgarian work), Vision of Daniel, Interpretation of Daniel (a compilation), Interpretation of the Prophecy of Pseudo-Hippolytus, Prophecy of St. Hypatius of Ephesus, Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, and Bulgarian Apocryphal Chronicle (an original Bulgarian work). The chronology of the texts enumerated above is determined by the historical events reflected in them: the rebellion of Petăr Delyan against Byzantine rule, and the crushing of this rebellion, as well as the invasions of Uzes, Pechenegs and Turkic tribes south of the Danube during the second half of the 11th century. It is a characteristic of the works of this cycle that they are based on earlier translations, probably done in the 10th century.19 2. A cycle which was composed from the end of the 12th century up to the seventies of the 13th century. This reflects events from the Crusades and above all the fall of Constantinople to the Latins in 1204, and the struggle of the Bulgarian state for the consolidation of its independence after the rebellion of Petăr and Assen of 1185. This cycle comprises various genres and genre-forms: 20 a) Prophecies with the names of Daniel and Isaiah: The Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel (two translations and a compilation), The Vision of the Prophet Isaiah for the Last Time (a compilation); b) Apocalypses: Apocalypse of St. Andrew the Fool (a translation) and Story about Antichrist (an original work);

19 Anissava L. Miltenova and Miliyana Kaymakamova, “The Uprising of Petăr Delyan (1040–1041) in a new old Bulgarian source,“ Byzantinobulgarica 8 (1986): 227–40; Annisava L. Miltenova [Анисава Л. Милтенова], “The Cycle of HistoricalApocalyptical Works in the Miscellany of Pop Dragol: Origin, Sources, Composition [Цикълът от историко-апокалиптични творби в Драголовия сборник: произход, източници, композиция],” Starobălgarska literatura [Старобългарска литература] 25–26 (1991): 135–44; Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 109–206; Miltenova, “The Historical-Apocalyptic Texts,” 850–60. 20 Vassilka Tăpkova-Zaimova and Anissava L. Miltenova [Василка ТъпковаЗаимова и Анисава Л. Милтенова], “The Visions of Prophet Daniel in Byzantium and in Medieval Bulgaria [Виденията на пророк Даниил във Византия и в средновековна България],” Palaeobulgarica [Старобългаристика] 14/4 (1990): 39–46; Eadem, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 207–308; Miltenova, “The HistoricalApocalyptic Texts,” 860–67.

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c) Aphoristic predictions about towns, tribes and peoples: The Prophecy of Leo the Wise (a translation) and The Prophecy of Pandeh (an original work); d) Predictions in the form of questions and answers: RazumnikUkaz (original work) The “real” historical-apocalyptic works usually consist of two parts: the chronicles and the apocalypses. In the cited works historical reality is interpreted according to the biblical model of prophetic revelation as found in early Christian and Byzantine genres but applied to a local tradition.21 The characteristics of the anonymous works and their approach to sources are typical of how oral traditions or written sources are organically merged, in a way that subordinates their overall structure to political concerns. I. Historical-Apocalyptic Works with the Name of the Prophet Daniel Paratextual historical-apocalyptic works linked to the name of the prophet Daniel were widespread in the literature of the Middle East and the Mediterranean: we know of Greek, Jewish-Arabic, Syrian, Persian and Armenian examples. Here I shall not dwell on the translations of the biblical Вook of Daniel in the Slavonic world, nor on its interpretations (for example, the translation of Hippolytus of Rome’s commentary was very important), which found their way into Slavonic manuscripts at a very early date, probably immediately after the arrival of the disciples of Cyril and Methodius in Bulgaria at the end of the 9th century. It is assumed that the oldest original of the apocryphal book of Daniel in Greek originated not before the end of the 7th or the beginning of the 8th century. The 9th century already knew several versions of the work in Byzantium. The text designated in the Byzantine indexes of Forbidden Books as ∆ανιήλ ψευδεπίγραφα, has a direct relation to this tradition but is absent from the Slavonic indexes. The main versions of the Visions of Daniel attested in Slavonic manuscripts are as follows:

21 John J. Collins, “The Apocalyptic Genre,” in The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (2d ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans: 1999), 1–42.

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1) A translation of a Greek text (Visio Danielis slavice, designated in CAVT under no. 265), made in Bulgaria in the 10th century. The Greek text, which has not reached us, originated on the basis of a Book of Daniel composed in Sicily around 827–829. The Old Bulgarian translation, which Paul J. Alexander used to reconstruct the original,22 keeps the toponyms and the description of events related to the Arab invasions of Sicily in the 8th–9th centuries. I should add that on Greek soil the Apocalypse of Daniel, compiled in Sicily, was further contaminated by fragments of the Revelations of Pseudo-Methodius, to judge by the versions published by Athanasy A. Vassiliev (α and β).23 But let us return to the 10th century Slavonic translation of the Visio Danielis, whose fate deserves special attention. The earliest copy of this can be found in a miscellany from Hilandar monastery (no. 382/453) from the end of the 13th or the beginning of the 14th century.24 It consists of three main parts: monastic florilegia (excerpts from the works of the Church Fathers and anonymous authors), a copy of the Old Bulgarian translation of the “Σωτήριος” miscellany,25 known as the First Simeon Miscellany (Izbornik of 1073), and a translation of selected sermons of John Chrysostom, known as Chrysorrhoas (Zlatostruy). The two latter—the translation of the exegetical miscellany “Σωτήριος” and of the sermons of John Chrysostom—are unanimously dated to the time of the Bulgarian Tsar Simeon I (893–927), who organized remarkable literary activity in the capital of Preslav at the beginning of the 10th century. Unlike the Izbornik and Chrysorrhoas, the monastic florilegium (the first part in the Hilandar manuscript) bears the features of so-called “Late Preslav,” i.e., it is assumed to have been translated from Greek at a later date, in the time of Tsar Petăr I (927–969).26 Together with the translation of Apocalypsis Pseudo-Methodii in the same Hilandar manuscript no. 382/453, the translation of Visio Danielis can be dated within the first half of the 10th century. As already 22

Alexander, “Les débuts des conquêtes arabes en Sicile.” Athanasy A. Vassiliev, Anecdota Graeco-Byzantina: Pars Prior (ed. S. I. Sobolevsky; Collection of Monuments of Byzantine Literature [Сборник памятников Bизантийской литературы]; Moscow: Universitas Caesareae, 1893), 33–47. 24 Dimitrije Bogdanovich [Димитрије Богдановић], Catalogue of the Cyrillic Manuscripts of Hilandar Monastery [Каталог ћирилских рукописа манастира Хиландара] (2 vols.; Belgrade: SANU [Београд: САНУ], 1978). 25 Douwe T. Sieswerda, “The Σωτήριος, the Original of the Izbornik of 1073,” SacEr 40 (2001): 293–327. 26 Nikolov, Political Thought in Early Medieval Bulgaria, 245–68. 23

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mentioned above, it has preserved well the peculiarities of the Greek archetype from Sicily. The text circulated under the title The Prophet Daniel’s Vision about the Kings and the Last Days and Doomsday, with the incipit: “The Archangel Gabriel came to the Prophet Daniel and said: Holy Daniel, I have been sent to thee to announce and show thee the last days.” God revealed to Daniel (in the vision of the four beasts) the most important historical events in the history of mankind (in this case, in Byzantine history, in which the iconoclastic movement and iconoclast rulers held the most important place).27 Further on, the text lists a number of rulers in the “last times” whose names are concealed in anagrams (for example, “his name shall make a sum of three hundred”) or in symbols (for example, Leo the Isaurian [717–741] is designated with the expression “ruler with the name of a beast”), and describes the nature of their rule and the events that will occur in their time. The work ends with the picture of the Second Coming and the Final Judgment. The contents are characterized by mixing events from the Hellenistic period (for example, related to Alexander the Great and his successors) with events from the history of the Byzantine East in the 9th century, which the Bulgarian translator obviously referred to the Balkans. 2) The initial translations of both Visio Danielis and Apocalypsis Pseudo-Methodii remained in existence into the 11th–12th centuries, when the Bulgarian territories were under Byzantine rule. In the first half of the 11th century several uprisings were organized against Byzantine authority, including that of Petăr Delyan (1040–1041), which affected most of the area between Sredets (Sofia), Skopje and Salonica. It was crushed with great cruelty by the Byzantine state, which used Norman mercenaries under the command of the famous Harald Hardråda against the insurgents. The suppression of the revolt left permanent traces in popular memory. It was precisely then, in the second half of the 11th century, that the earlier translation of the Visio Danielis served as the basis for a purposeful editing of the text in which the resistance against the Arab invasion of Sicily is reinterpreted as resistance against the Norman armies. Along with the Sicilian toponyms, Bulgarian names of settlements and localities were interpolated into the text: Sredets, Glavinitsa, Pernik, Danube, Mrakata, Velbuzhd 27 Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, “Visions of the Prophet Daniel;” Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 109–24; Lorenzo DiTommaso, The Book of Daniel, 145–51.

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(today’s Kyustendil), Strumitsa, Salonica and others. The picture of the battles between the insurgents and the Normans is drawn, the latter being called the “blond beards” (a reinterpretation of τα ξάνδα γένη) who were known for their cruelty. In addition, the Bulgarian version from the 11th century adds the names of two Bulgarian rulers: Gavril Radomir (1014–1015) and Ivan Vladislav (1015–1018). The first is presented as heir to the tsar who “as he fights will become too weak, a tsar who will give up his soul in badly weakened state”. In this case, the ruler in question is Tsar Samuil (997–1014) who died at the sight of the blinded Bulgarian soldiers. The second (Ivan Vladislav) was the last Bulgarian tsar before the country finally fell under Byzantine rule. This is the only case where this ruler is mentioned in Bulgarian literature. The names of the two Bulgarian tsars again link the compilation of the edition of Visio Danielis with West Bulgarian territories where the memory of the independent Bulgarian state was kept the longest. 3) In the second half of the 11th century, another work was written entitled Interpretation of Prophet Daniel, beginning with: “As it has been prophesied from Genesis to the End, to the coming of Antichrist, thus they ruled on earth and thus it will be.”28 The text, which is a continuation of the Visio Danielis, was compiled on the basis of several main sources: the Commentary on the Apocalypse by Andrew of Caesarea, the Byzantine legend about the “last saviour king” and the Apocryphal Apocalypse. The borrowing from Andrew of Caesarea’s Commentary on the Apocalypse consists of the division of world history into seven periods, related to seven kingdoms, which are marked with the names of their rulers: “first, Nin (in the text Senil) among the Assyrians; second, Avrak (in the text Avarak) among the Medes; third, Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon; fourth, Cyrus among the Persians; fifth, Alexander among the Greeks; sixth, Romulus in Rome; seventh, Constantine in Constantinople.” To these kingdoms, which were ordained by God, we are added the Bulgarian kingdom: “and Michael Kaghan will rise among the Bulgarians” and will establish his kingdom, “and the Bulgarians were not given their kingdom but they acquired it by force”. Here the name “Michael Kaghan” denotes Boris-Mihail (852– 889) who converted the Bulgarians to Christianity and who afforded his Proto-Bulgarian title “Khan” (here Kaghan”). The sequence of rulers after this includes Simeon I and Petăr I, described in a definitely

28

Ibid., 125–34.

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positive light. The unrest after the end of Petăr’s reign is noted with the topos, “then brother against brother will fight, and city against city, and country against country.” The anonymous author has appropriated a large portion of the apocalyptic elements in the Byzantine legend of the “last saviour king,” transferring his victories to the victor over the Normans (the “blond beards”) in the 11th century.29 Textological analysis of the four existing copies shows that the Interpretation of Daniel originated first and after that a number of Bulgarian toponyms were added to the Vision of Daniel. The Slavonic version of the two works features the overlapping of historical, legendary, folkloric and apocalyptic motifs and ideas very typical of this genre. They use the biblical model as a framework into which they “transplant” Bulgarian historical reality. 4) The Greek text of The Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel was translated into Bulgarian several times. The first, chronologically earliest translation actually represents a compilation comprising parts of the Byzantine Visio Danielis de tempore novissimo et de fine mundi30 and another text, compiled by a Bulgarian writer. The work reflects historical events from the beginning of the 13th century and is known from a single copy in the so-called Miscellany of Father Dragol from the third quarter of the 13th century (MS no. 651 in the National Library in Belgrade).31 The text originated directly after the conquest of Constantinople by the Latins in 1204.32 Like its Greek source, it begins with an exclamation full of pathos, “Oh, woe to you, seven-peaked Babylon!”, mourning the fate of the Byzantine capital. Byzantine sovereignty is likened to a “snake hissing against the murderous lion”, with the “lion” designating the crusaders. In this work they are called the “blond people” who will “rise from four directions and will turn their faces to the West to the Seven-hilled [city]”. An apocalyptic picture is drawn of the devastation of the sacred city, which will come as a punishment for the numerous sins of its inhabitants (the parallel with Jerusalem is obvious). The invincible might of the crusaders is underscored and the cruelty of the battle against them: “the people of 29

Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, “Political Ideology and Eschatology.” Cf. CAVT no. 257; BHG no. 1872; Berger, Die griechische Daniel Exegese; Schmoldt, Die Schrift “Vom jungen Daniel.” 31 Miltenova, “The Cycle of Historical-Apocalyptical works in the Miscellany of Pop Dragol.” 32 Charles Diehl, “De quelques croyances byzantines sur la fin de Constantinople,” ByzZ 30 (1929–1930): 192–96. 30

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Baldwin (Baldwin IX Count of Flanders) will defeat eighteen enemy armies and every one will defeat the other. And there will be a great battle, such as has never been before, and seven by seven thousand honest souls will fall [in battle].” Directly after this prophecy there is a text, relatively short, which has no parallel in Greek sources. It is compiled on the basis of individual images from the biblical Book of Isaiah, from the Revelation of St. John the Theologian and from the Prophecies (the so-called χρήσμοι), attributed to Leo VI the Wise (886–912).33 The narrative concentrates on the forthcoming battle with the Crusaders, which will decide the fate of Constantinople. In an elevated tone, the text tells us that the “cut beards flee,” that the Golden Gate, the Gates of St. Romanos and St. Nicholas (among the main entrances to the city) lie open, and that the “Lord’s throne is waiting.” To judge by the general drift of the text, one can assume that it reflects the successful actions of the Bulgarian Tsar Kaloyan (1197–1207) against the Latin Empire: the battle of Adrianople (1205), the war in Thrace and around Salonica. These historical events are described in metaphors that are an amalgamation of biblical imagery and folklore: “Here the old woman with the bag, gathering wheat, straw with barley, locusts will take the wheat from now, of everything mixed with three bloody vessels, torn from the roots and placed on a shield;” “Maria (i.e. Theotokos) drags a threshing-board upside down to Constantinople; King Avron (possibly from the Greek αὔριον) shoes his stallion again and makes stacks from the vineyards; and he who finds a cave shall be saved!”34 The form of the text illustrates very well the mentality of the anonymous Bulgarian author. 5) The second and third Middle Bulgarian translations of the Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel35 follow the Greek text entirely, reflecting as it does the restoration of state power in the Byzantine capital by Michael VІІІ Palaeologos in 1261. The translations probably originated almost simultaneously in different locations on Bulgarian soil in the last decades of the 13th century. We know of more than 20 copies both in Bulgarian and in Moldavian, Russian and Ukrainian manuscripts from the 14th–17th centuries. We also know of a Slavonic copy 33 Legrand, Les Oracles de Léon le Sage; Jeannine Vereecken and Lydie HadermannMisguich, Les Oracles de Léon le Sage illustrés par Georges Klontzas: La version Barozzi dans le Codex Bute (Ἐλληνολατινική Ἀνατολή = Oriens Graecolatinus 7; Venice: Institut Hellénique de Venise & Bibliothèque Vikelaia d’Hérakleion, 2000). 34 Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 207–36. 35 Schmoldt, Die Schrift “Vom jungen Daniel.”

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of Apocalypsis Danielis graeca (Diegesis Danielis).36 In addition, the visions of Daniel are contaminated from other works. For example, it is accepted that the text of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius in some versions is intertwined with that of the Vision of Prophet Daniel (Apocalypsis Pseudo-Methodii).37 Like other texts of this type, the historical-apocalyptic visions with the name of the Prophet Daniel have an important cultural and historical significance because they not only record the “theology of world history,”38 but various aspects of medieval thinking within paratextual literature among the Slavs. They reflect the political concept of power, the order of the kingdoms and the place of the Bulgarian kingdom among them. There is a characteristic intertwining of historical events—in the way they are described by Byzantine chroniclers—with brilliant apocalyptic imagery and local oral tradition. II. Historical Apocalyptic Works with the Name of the Prophet Isaiah The popularity of the Prophet Isaiah in Bulgarian lands is explained by scholars in different ways. Some connect it with the early translation into Old Bulgarian of Ascensio Isaiae,39 which was disseminated widely (some scholars posit a connection with Bogomilism), others with the legend that the relics of the prophet are in the Osogovo (Sarandapor) monastery (in present-day Macedonia).40 The abundance of manuscripts of paratextual works bearing the name of Isaiah is truly impressive. This tradition may also reflect a number of unknown and hitherto unpublished Greek texts which are yet to be studied. Research on the sources has established that two original works were written in the 11th–12th centuries, which contain political prophecies about the fate of the Bulgarian people in the name of Prophet Isaiah. 1) The so-called Isaiah’s Narration (“Story of the Holy Prophet Isaiah about the Years to Come and the Kings and the Antichrist”) 36

CAVT no. 253. CAVT no. 254. 38 Agostino Pertusi, “Le profezie sulla presa di Costantinopoli (1204) nel cronista veneziano Marco (c. 1292) e le lori fonti byzantine (Pseudo-Costatino Magno, Pseudo Daniele, Pseudo-Leone il Sago),” Studi Veneziani NS 3 (1979): 13–46. 39 CAVT no. 218. 40 Yordan Ivanov [Йордан Иванов], Bogomil’s Books and Legends [Богомилски книги и лгенди] (Sofia: Pridvorna Pechаtnitsa [София: Придворна Печатница], 1925), esp. 163. 37

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originated in the second half of the 11th century and is a work based on both Greek and domestic sources.41 It reflects the same historical events that found a place in the Vision of the Prophet Daniel and the Interpretation of the Prophet Daniel mentioned above—the revolt of Petăr Delyan in 1040–1041 and its subsequent defeat. Unlike the texts with the name of the Prophet Daniel, Isaiah’s Narration omits the sequence of Byzantine emperors and the realia related to Byzantine history. Following the biblical motif of the calamity that will come upon the heathen peoples in “the last times,” developed most completely by the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, the Bulgarian author transfers the events to Bulgarian territory. The first ruler mentioned in the text is called Gordius, nicknamed Chigochin. His name is related to the Proto-Bulgarian chieftain Grod (Gord) during the reign of Emperor Justinian (527–565), and his nickname is a modification of the expression of “chigot by rank”—a Proto-Bulgarian title known from a number of Greek sources. The mention of this title is evidence of the continuing fame of the Proto-Bulgarians in the 11th century. The next story in Isaiah’s Narration is the coming of king Gagen (again Proto-Bulgarian title Kaghan, Khan), nicknamed Odolyan, i.e. Petăr Delyan, here a collective image of the true historical personage and of the legendary king-saviour who vanquished the “blond beards.” The story follows the battles between the two armies in the Pet Mogili locality (near Sofia), in the plains of Graovo Pole and Ovche Pole, while Zemen and Pernik are given as strongholds of the insurgents. In spite of the legendary form of the historical-apocalyptic work, it is a valuable historical source about the development of the uprising. More precise chronology regarding the origin of the text is made easier by the mention of the invasion of non-Christian peoples from the north after the death of Petăr Delyan—more particularly the Uzes, who are called Vugri in the text, who succeeded in three, 60,000-strong hordes in crossing the Danube around 1064 and heading for Salonica. It is precisely this invasion, which is related to the motif of the “Ishmaelites” who will emerge in the time before Doomsday.

41 Kaymakamova, “Two Old Bulgarian Chronicles”; Miltenova and Kaymakamova, “The Uprising of Petăr Delyan”; Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 139–60.

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2) The so-called Bulgarian Apocryphal Chronicle is also associated with the name of Prophet Isaiah.42 In this original work, the memory of the independent Bulgarian kingdom is given its most detailed expression, and the characterization of the rulers is most complete. The text begins with an introduction in which the Prophet Isaiah “by God’s will” ascends to the seventh heaven to receive a special revelation from God. He is chosen to lead the Bulgarians and to found their state in the northeastern lands of the Balkan Peninsula: “Isaiah, thou prophet beloved by Me, go west of the uppermost lands of Rome, split off the third part of the Cumans, called Bulgarians, and settle the land of Karvuna, which the Romans and Greeks have left.” It is stressed that at that time the Bulgarians remained heathen “for many years.” The introduction is borrowed from a Greek source and is aligned with the intention of the anonymous author to endorse the claim that the Bulgarian people are God’s chosen ones. Messianism is a distinctive feature of all historical-apocalyptic paratextual works that originated in the period of Byzantine rule. 3) Several more works with the name of the Prophet Isaiah were translated in the 13th century, the most popular of them being The Prophet Isaiah’s Story about the Last Times.43 As in the case of the Visions of Daniel, this text refracts historical facts through the motif of the invasion of the “Ishmaelites,” the legend of the last king, the coming of the Antichrist and the Last Judgment. Its historical part covers a long period—from the fall of Constantinople to the conquest of the crusaders in 1204 and the reinstatement of the city as the capital of the Byzantine Empire in 1261. I shall dwell on an interesting point in the text, viz., the special significance given to the so-called “land of Mezina,” i.e. Moesia. In the Middle Ages this toponym was frequently used to designate Bulgarian lands or the Bulgarian state. The Prophet Isaiah’s Story about the Last Times says that this is a land chosen by God through which the river called “hidden Eden” passes (a mixture of the Danube and the mythical heavenly river, which is known from other written sources). There the “staff from Jesse’s root”—in other words the most pious, the kingdom of Christ—will flourish. It is also

42 Kaymakamova, “The Value of the ‘Bulgarian Apocryphal Chronicle’ in Historiography”; Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 192–206; Miltenova, “Historical-Apocalyptic Texts.” 43 Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 227–40; Miltenova, “Historical-Apocalyptic Texts.”

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stressed that there—in the “land of Mezina”—the last world kingdom will be in the “last times”: “when you see the end of the kingdom in the land of Mezina then there will be no more kings of this line”. Probably the Greek source at this point initially featured the expression “land of Moses” which was turned into “land of Mezina.” The ideas in the text are in harmony with other contemporary works which underscore the primacy of Bulgarians in the sphere of Orthodoxy—the Story about the Sybil (a compilation based on the one of the versions of the Tiburtine Sybil)44 and Razumnik-Ukaz.45 The development of the messianic idea is of special interest, as it characterized the Bulgarian people as “a people chosen by the Lord” and as alone carriers of the true belief (viz. Orthodoxy). In conclusion I would like to emphasize that the influence of Old Testament tradition on the Bulgarian literature of the 11th–12th centuries cannot be denied. It is obvious both in relation to the ideas and to the style and imagery which follow prophetological topoi, representing the model of prophetic speech and prophetic formulae.46 Messianic expectations, dominant for historical-apocalyptic literature, are an important and characteristic feature of the original works. Productivity is expressed not only in the reception of Byzantine texts, but also in their transformation, and in the creation of original works in impressive quantities. The Bulgarians embodied their hopes for liberation from Byzantine rule, expecting their anointed king—the saviour in the “last times”—like the Jews in the Babylonian Exile. They believed they were a “chosen people,” called upon to fulfill their eschatological mission. In this respect, Bulgarian historical-apocalyptic literature is a unique phenomenon, which has no analogue in the remaining Slavonic literatures. In later translations, or works compiled later, towards the 12th and 13th centuries, the messianic idea takes on a new meaning: a number of texts emphasize that the Bulgarians have primacy in the sphere of Orthodoxy. To a certain extent this idea was a consequence of the

44 Alexander, The Oracle of Baalbek; Anissava L. Miltenova, “Problems of Old Bulgarian Translation of the ‘Skazanie za Sybila’,” EB 3–4 (1992): 72–76. 45 Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 277–308; Anissava L. Miltenova [Анисава Л. Милтенова], Erotapokriseis: Short Questions and Responses in Old Bulgarian Literature [Erotapokriseis: Съчиненията от кратки въпроси и отговори в старобългарската литература] (Sofia: Damyan Yakov [София: Дамяан Яков], 2004), 259–62. 46 Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity, 88–101.

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Crusades and the fall of Constantinople under the rule of the Latins in 1204. However it expresses the striving of the Bulgarian state to play a leading role in the Balkans under the new political realities. In The Story about the Sybil and Razumnik-Ukaz we find that “in the Bulgarian kingdom is the Holy Spirit,” Bulgarians embody all the medieval virtues, and this is why “they will pass on the righteous creed to God, standing above the whole world.” There is also a new element in the Razumnik-Ukaz: not only are the various Eastern-Orthodox kingdoms classified according to their holiness, but also according to the “orthodox books,” in some copies the Bulgarian book being cited deliberately first, once again emphasizing the Bulgarian contribution to the spiritual sphere.47 The idea of the kingdom “chosen by the Lord” (a specific feature of historical-apocalyptic letters) is important also in connection with East Slavonic literature. Some Old Bulgarian texts transmitted to the east were used to bolster Russian claims that Moscow was the “Third Rome”. Although such an idea comes ultimately from the religious doctrine of the Byzantine Empire, its roots are visible in the 13th–14th centuries in medieval Bulgaria. Gerhard Podskalsky raised the question, “eschatology or (state) ideology?,” when he examined these works.48 I would note that this question is of great importance in establishing the characteristics of political thought, where a social consciousness has crystallized—in the case of the Bulgarians and other Balkan nations alike.49 Functioning within a broad framework of “popular” literature, texts reveal the interplay of paratextual apocalyptic literature with folklore and mythological tradition. Evidently, whenever the philosophy of historical events in the Balkans has to leave the concrete historical plain, it finds other “popular” forms of interpretation, based on currently functioning mythologemes. Moreover we have established not only that the myth reproduces itself, but also expands and re-emerges after a while—and again it is an active participant in the structuring of the philosophy of history.

47

Tăpkova-Zaimova and Miltenova, Historical-Apocalyptic Literature, 277–308. Podskalsky, Byzantinische Reichseschatologie, 70–76. 49 Paul Magdalino, “The History of the Future and its Uses: Prophecy, Policy and Propaganda,” in “The Making of Byzantine History”: Studies Dedicated to Donald M. Nicol on his seventieth Birthday (ed. R. Beaton and C. Roueché; Aldershot: Variorum, 1993), 3–34. 48

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III. An Attempt for an Overall Picture of Paratextual Literature in Medieval Bulgaria Historical apocalypses with the names of Daniel and Isaiah are usually included by scholars among the Slavonic pesudepigrapha and apocrypha. We can determine four stages in the translation and dissemination of this paratextual literature with no absolute limits between them: 1) A first stage in the 10th century (possibly after 927), when the Book of Enoch, the Revelation of Baruch, the Testament of Twelve Patriarchs, the Paralipomena of Jeremiah, the Apocalypse of Abraham, the Story of Adam and Eve etc. were translated. These are now preserved predominantly in Russian copies of the 13th and 14th centuries. The best example of an archaic South Slavic anthology of apocrypha (together with vitae, sermons and paraenetic texts) is the well-known manuscript no. 34 from the 12th–13th centuries in the monastery of St. Catherine at Sinai, and three fragments in St. Peterburg (no. grech. 70, no. Q.п.I.63 and no. Q.п.I.64),50 as well as in Sinai (no. 18/N)—the latter identified by Anatoliy A. Turilov.51 I suppose that at the end of this early stage the primary versions of the apocrypha about Abraham and David had already been made, despite our lack of surviving copies of them. 2) A second stage at the time of Byzantine rule in Bulgaria in the 11th–12th centuries, when not only translated texts, but many original parabiblical texts appeared and were disseminated. At this period this type of literature is dominant in South Slavic manuscripts. Its popularity is based on specific features of the period, in which the official language and liturgy are Greek. Bulgarian written tradition was preserved among the lower orders of the priesthood and the monks. This is why the series of apocrypha was created and disseminated in miscellanies with catechetical and exegetical functions. 3) A third stage at time of the Second Bulgarian Kingdom, 13th– 14th centuries, when the content of the manuscripts was re-edited and 50 Vjacheslav M. Zagrebin [Вячеслав М. Загребин], “About the Origin and Fate of some Palimpsests in Sinai [О произхождении и судьбе некоторых славянских палемпсестов Синая],” in idem, Studies on the Monuments of South Slavic and Old Russian Literature [Исследования памятников южнославянской и древнерусской письменности] (Moscow and St. Peterburg: Al’jans-Arheo [Москва и С. Петербург: Альянс-Архео], 2006]), 215–31. 51 Ioannis C. Tarnanidis, The Slavonic Manuscripts discovered in 1975 at St. Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai (St. Catherine’s Monastery, Mount Sinai 3; Thessaloniki: Hellenic Association for Slavic Studies, 1988), 144–47.

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new translations added. At this stage concrete texts and cycles about Adam and Eve, Abraham, David and Solomon acquired new details together with a new structure. Serbian and Russian copies from this period are also preserved, containing important evidence for the textual tradition of this parabiblical literature. 4) A fourth stage, during the period of Ottoman rule in Bulgaria, 15th–17th centuries, when miscellanies of mixed content with a predominance of apocrypha are widespread in the Balkans. At this stage both primary and secondary versions of the various cycles are disseminated in specific types of manuscript. Manuscripts with mixed content, collecting sermons, vitae, question and answers, interpretations, instructions, etc., are very popular for reading outside the church, and for educational purposes. The largest part of their content—the apocrypha—served as a source of knowledge about the more important events of biblical history and the main biblical personages. It is important to underline that at none of these stages does the Old Testament parabiblical literature—for the most part—contain any expression of extreme heretical belief or traces of use by heretical communities. The real function of these texts was to augment the Holy Scriptures: apocryphal and canonical concepts and narratives, far from clashing, complement each other. Good examples of how Old Testament apocryphal and canonical traditions can sit happily side by side, without coming into conflict with each other, can be found in a number of miscellanies from the 13th and 14th centuries: MS no. 48 of the State Library in Berlin, MS no. 651 (of Pop Dragol—Serbian, with traces of an Old Bulgarian archetype) of the National Library in Belgrade, MS no. 29 of the monastery “Savina” (Serbian, with traces of an Bulgarian archetype), MS no. 104 of the National Library in Belgrade (Serbian, burned during Second World War), MS no. 1700 of the Mazurin collection in the State Historical Museum in Moscow (Middle Bulgarian), MS no. 109 of the monastery of St. Paul on Mount Athos (Middle Bulgarian), etc. In these the apocrypha are found in the context of other narratives—miracles, sermons, and other paraenetical works, as well as vitae of saints. In many cases we could suppose that this sort of content—known as “dushepoleznoe chtenie (spiritually beneficial tales)”—were used in the Middle Ages for educational and catechetical purposes in very broad circles of literates and illiterates. In this respect, I think, Old Bulgarian literature does not differ very much from the broader literary practice of the ancient Near Eastern and ancient Mediterranean cultures.