Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East

SCHOOL OF ORIENTAL AND AFRICAN STUDIES

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST

The Burney Relief

Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East Edited by

M.MINDLIN M.J.GELLER J.E.WANSBROUGH

SCHOOL OF ORIENTAL AND AFRICAN STUDIES UNIVERSITY OF LONDON Malet Street, London WC1E 7HP 1987

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to http://www.ebookstore.tandf.co.uk/.” © School of Oriental and African Studies 1987 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Figurative language in the ancient Near East. 1. Semitic languages—Figures of speech I. Mindlin, M. II. Geller, M.J. III. Wansbrough, J.E. 492 PJ3051 ISBN 0-203-98498-6 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-7286-0141-9 (Print Edition)

Acknowledgements The symposium on ‘Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East’, which took place on 17–18 November 1983, was achieved with the aid of grants from the British Academy, the Institute of Jewish Studies at University College London, and the School of Oriental and African Studies, with additional support and hospitality from the Warburg Institute and the Department of Western Asiatic Antiquities at the British Museum. The session at the Warburg Institute included papers by Th.Jacobsen, D.O.Edzard and O.R.Gurney; and that at the School of Oriental and African Studies included the papers of W.G. Lambert, K.R.Veenhof, C.Wilcke, J.E.Wansbrough and S.Talmon. All the papers submitted for publication were substantially amplified and revised. The editorial work of Murray Mindlin, including his English translation of D.O.Edzard’s contribution, deserves particular mention, especially in the light of subsequent illness, which compelled his retirement from the project. His death on 8 May 1987 has deprived us all of an energetic colleague and great friend. The editors wish to thank Martin Daly for his wise counsel and the Publications Committee of the School of Oriental and African Studies for meeting the cost of production. Abbreviations The Assyriological abbreviations can be found in the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary and in R.Borger, Handbuch der Keilschrift Literatur (HKL).

CONTENTS Introduction M.J.Geller (University College London) Pictures and Pictorial Language (The Burney Relief) Thorkild Jacobsen (Harvard University emerit.) Deep-rooted Skyscrapers and Bricks: Ancient Mesopotamian Architecture and its Imaging D.O.Edzard (University of Munich) Devotion: the Languages of Religion and Love W.G.Lambert (University of Birmingham) ‘Dying Tablets’ and ‘Hungry Silver’: Elements of Figurative Language in Akkadian Commercial Terminology K.R.Veenhof (University of Leiden) A Riding Tooth: metaphor, metonymy and synecdoche, Quick and Frozen in Everyday Language C.Wilcke (University of Munich) Antonomasia: the case for Semitic’TM J.E.Wansbrough (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) Har and Midbār: An Antithetical Pair of Biblical Motifs S.Talmon (Hebrew University, Jerusalem)

vii 1 11 21 38 69 93 105

INDEXES

Subject

126

Words: Sumerian, Akkadian, Ugaritic, Phoenician, Arabic, Hebrew

134

Primary sources

147

Biblical sources

151

ILLUSTRATIONS Frontispiece: The Burney Relief 1. Mesopotamian seed-plough

70

2. Standard of Ur and wild animal approaching

70

3. Silver handle of dagger ending in lion’s mouth

72

4. Axe blade hanging from lion’s mouth

73

5. Hoe from Urnammu’s stele (with coil of measuring rope similar to one held by Inanna in the Burney Relief)

74

6. Sun god on the gate (photograph C.Wilcke)

83

Introduction M.J.Geller

A group of scholars from Britain, Holland, Germany, and Israel met at the Warburg Institute and the School of Oriental and African Studies in November 1983, to discuss the use of figurative language in Sumerian, Akkadian, Ugaritic, and biblical Hebrew literature. The papers were presented in memory of Henri Frankfort, and consequently also took into account figurative expression in ancient art and architecture. The original impetus for the colloquium came from Thorkild Jacobsen’s extended visit to London as guest of the British Academy, and all of the participants came to honour both Frankfort’s memory and Jacobsen’s presence. This volume represents the fruits of that meeting. Until now, there has been little interaction between Assyriologists, Semitists, and literary theorists, for obvious reasons. Modern studies of structuralism, semantics, and metaphor1 usually begin with Aristotle and then advance abruptly to nineteenth and twentieth century European literature, or following the example of linguistics analyse contemporary language and discourse.2 The current trends away from historical grammar and linguistics have meant that languages such as Sumerian and Akkadian do not feature in studies of metaphor and figurative language. The Semitists, on the other hand, have generally not entered into the arena of semiotics and ‘the meaning of meaning’, because so much of the basic work of lexicography and the production of text editions remains to be done. The present volume should serve to show that both fields can profit from closer contact. The metaphorists may be surprised by the variety of Near Eastern texts in which figurative language regularly occurs. These papers contain examples of tropes from building inscriptions, private letters, and even economic texts, as well as literary compositions such as love poetry. The Assyriologists and Semitists have still to confront the problems posed by semantics in trying to determine whether the usage of a particular word is monistic or dualistic, i.e. whether its metaphoric meaning in a specific context is an integral part of its basic ‘meaning’ or definition.3 The difficulties posed by Assyriology are easy to document. Sumerian includes many words which are ‘compound roots’, combining separate lexical elements to create a new lexeme. Sumerian igi-bar, for instance, literally means to ‘open the eye’, but the combined form corresponds to ‘looking’ or even ‘noticing’, depending upon the context. Similarly ki-ús means to ‘touch the earth’, but becomes ‘reaching’ or ‘arriving’, while one literally ‘throws’ (šub) an incantation, i.e. ‘recites’ it. One hastens by ‘giving the head’ (sag-sum//hiāšu), and prays by ‘raising the hands’ (šu-íl). Likewise in Akkadian, idiomatic uses of combinations of words give quite different meanings from the individual lexical units: the court adversary, or bēl dabābi, is a ‘master of speaking’, and . The modern translator one silences or interrupts by ‘seizing the mouth’ must attempt to apply the ‘basic’ meaning of individual words to the context, and in

many cases he may even be compelled to ignore the dictionary entry, somewhat consistent with the modern theory that words have no meaning, only contexts.4 The complex nature of Sumerian and Akkadian semantics is partially the result of a bilingual literary tradition which is first evident in the third millennium B.C., and continued to thrive at least until the first century A.D. Bilingualism accounts for the fruitful borrowing of words and expressions between the languages, and encouraged the study of grammar and translation in the ancient scribal curriculum. The result is an impressive lexical tradition from Mesopotamia which not only catalogued numerous categories of objects according to genus, but also created bilingual glossaries which could be organized according to words with similar meaning or even root structure, or as homonyms.5 The potential, therefore, for substitution of expressions from one language to another was great. A famous example is the Sumerian political title lu gal kiški ‘King of (the city of) Kiš’, becoming šar kiššati ‘King of the whole world’, as used in later Assyrian and Babylonian royal titles, with the geographical meaning of Kiš being substituted by its logographic use in Akkadian contexts corresponding to akkadian kiššatu ‘entirety’.6 The scope for figurative language in Assyriology and related fields is too broad to be enumerated here, but one intriguing line of inquiry can be opened by way of introduction to the subject. The ‘comparison’ theory of metaphor is ascribed to Aristotle,7 whose succinct insight into figurative language in Poetics 21 still retains its value, and certain of Aristotle’s statements cannot be improved upon. Nevertheless, all the literature cited in this volume pre-dates Aristotle, and one wonders whether metaphor or semantic analogy was ever recognized as such by the ancient scribes, despite the absence of a comprehensive theory. The use of simile and metaphor may not in itself imply an awareness of the role of tropes within the language, since it is conceivable that figurative language was used unconsciously or stylistically, without isolating such usage as a particular phenomenon. One possibility for crediting Mesopotamian scribes with a preAristotelian conception of figurative language is to be found in certain commentaries to lexical texts, which are intended to amplify or explain the glosses of the standard compilations. One such commentary elucidates the following passage of the lexical text Aa III/1 86–88 (MSL 14 320): zi ZI na-da-ru la-ba-bu na-al-bu-bu

(‘to be furious’) (‘to rage’) (‘to be enraged’)

The ancient commentary on this passage (MSL 14 323) explains the terms nadāru (and presumably the adjective nadru) with a citation from a bilingual incantation: ur šu ziga//la-ab na-ad-ru ‘a raging lion’ (cf. CT 16 19:21–22, and CADN1 65a), thus relating nadru ‘raging’, labābu ‘to rage’ and labbu ‘lion’. That this association is intentional can be seen from other similes, such as Sennacherib’s statement that labbiš annadirma allabib abūbiš ‘I was furious as a lion and ferocious as a flood’ (OIP 2 51 25 et al.), which employs the same play on words. The commentary then proceeds to explain nalbubu with a citation from Babylonian wisdom literature (Ludlul I 86): na-al-bu-bu tap-pa-a ú-naq-qar-an-ni ‘the furious friend derides me’, which is followed in turn by nu-ug-gu-ru: explanation of nugguru ‘to deride’ as akāl

; this is an

‘eating in pieces’, i.e. ‘slander’. This

last example is a good illustration of a figure of speech (CAD K 209, 222, also occurring in precisely the same form in Aramaic, cf. Jastrow 63b) used to elucidate a relatively rare word, and the quotation serves to distinguish between labābu ‘to rage (like a lion)’ and nalbubu ‘to be enraged’ (like a human being), i.e. as above, ‘to be outraged’ like a friend. Another example of such conscious word-play occurs in a commentary entry explaining a rare word in Ea II 11 (MSL 14 247): li-id

NI

li-ti-ik-tu

(‘true measure’)

The commentary (MSL 14 268) reads: li-id NI li-ti-ik-tú: gišmaš: a-a den-líl giš[ŠÀ.ME]-da mu-un-D[U…] umun ka-nag-[g]á! [ŠÀ]-ME-da: ma-šú-ú šá kak-ku ŠE.GIŠ.Ì ana da-[…]

giš

The passage should be understood in the following way: (The sign) NI (to be vocalized as) lid (means) litiktu (which means) gišmaš (‘twinrod’). (Quote): ‘Father Enlil carried the lidda(-rod)…, the lord of the land (carried) the lidda(-rod)’.8 (Quote): ‘In order to.[..] the “twins” of lentil9 and sesame.’ This commentary entry contains four separate elements: A=lid//litiktu B=gišmaš C=quotation from an Enlil hymn D=unidentified quotation (twins of lentil and sesame)

A schematic design of the passage would be two-fold: B explains A, and D explains C, but equally A:C as B:D. In other words, gišmaš explains lid (litiktu), and the two quotations from Sumerian and Akkadian literature are offered as further explanations of the word lid (litiktu) and gišmaš. At the same time, however, the word lid relates to the Enlilhymn quotation in the same way that gišmaš relates to the ‘“twins” (māšū) of lentil and sesame’ quotation. The key to understanding the passage is a single lexical entry in Hh VII A 229 (MSL 6 103), which reads: giš

maš=ma-a-šú

The word māšu is only attested elsewhere as the word for ‘twin’, but the supposition is that the gišmaš is a kind of rod (with the wood-determinative giš). This commentary is thus explaining a rare word lid (da) by finding the term used as a type of measuring rod in an Enlil hymn.10 But what exactly is a lid (da)? The commentary relates lid (da) to another rarely attested word, gišmaš, which is translated by Akkadian māšu, ‘twin’, and a passage is cited which is intended to explain the gišmaš as a ‘twin’ or perhaps double measure of lentil and sesame, and may reflect the repetition of the lid (da)-rod in the Enlil passage; such is the rabbinic logic of commentaries. The basis for the comparison, however, is more subtle: the Akkadian translation for lid (da) is litiktu, which is related to the root latāku ‘to check, test’, while a homonym mâšu ‘to check, look over’ appears twice in Neo-Assyrian sources (CADM1 403).

The process of interpretation illustrated by this commentary represents textual criticism based upon the conscious use of metaphor and analogy, and passages have been cited to render new meanings for poorly attested or obscure words. The use of figurative language in Babylonian hermeneutics is reminiscent of Aristotle’s statement that ‘metaphor consists of assigning to a thing the name of something else’ (Poetics 21). The Babylonian scholars knew what they were doing. They were able to compare words and contexts to move from lexicography into semantics. The contributions in this volume highlight various aspects of figurative language, and no attempt was made by the organizers of the colloquium to restrict the discussion to any particular aspect of the subject. As a result, each paper added new insights to completely separate areas of figurative language without repetition or superfluity. Thorkild Jacobsen introduced the subject of ‘Bildsprache’, focusing on figurative imagery as expressed in a single Mesopotamian relief, but in close harmony with thematic expressions in the literature. Dietz Edzard discussed the crucial metaphor of the temple as mountain and bond of heaven and earth, which reflects a basic conception of Mesopotamian religion. Claus Wilcke has extracted from Old Babylonian letters an intriguing riddle of the plough based upon figures of speech. Klaas Veenhof has elaborated the ‘making of money’, the figurative expressions of Old Assyrian businessmen in the course of ancient commerce. Wilfred Lambert has elaborated the language of religion and love in both Mesopotamian and biblical contexts. John Wansbrough explores Ugaritic, Hebrew and Arabic sources for the antonomastic use of asham (guilt offering) in the Canaanite pantheon, producing a model of methodology in his search. Finally, Shemaryahu Talmon explains the biblical references to desert and mountain as extremes of religious imagery. These contributions are intended to serve as a first foray into a rich field of research, although the study itself is not a new one. As George Steiner has recently commented, The disciplines of reading, the very idea of close commentary and interpretation, textual criticism as we know it, derive from the study of Holy Scripture or, more accurately, from the incorporation and development in that study of older practices of Hellenistic grammar, recension and rhetoric.11 The intention of this volume is to push back further the frontiers of reading, interpretation, and textual criticism into the world’s oldest literature. 1

Inter alia cf. J.Culler, Structuralist Poetics (London, 1975), P.Ricoeur, The rule of Metaphor (London, 1978), and A.Ortony, Metaphor and Thought (Cambridge, 1979). 2 Cf. Culler, op. cit. 1–31. 3 Cf. J.J.A.Mooij, A Study of Metaphor (Amsterdam, 1976), 117ff. 4 Cf. Ricoeur, op. cit. 72ff. 5 I.L.Finkel, Introduction to MSL 16. 6 W.W.Hallo, Early Mesopotamian Royal Titles (New Haven, 1957) 21ff. 7 Ricoeur, op. cit. 8ff. 8 The quotation comes from a hymn to Enlil (CT 15 10:23–24), and the full text of this passage in its Old Babylonian version is cited in MSL 14 2689. M.Civil ibid. also identifies gišŠÀ.ME as equivalent to gišŠÀ.DIŠ=litiktu in lexical texts (cf. CADL 216b), although the orthography of this commentary, gišŠÀ.ME-da, suggests a reading gišlidx-da, which is supported by the parallel passage in CT 15 10 23:a-a dmu-ul-líl li-id!-da mah mu-e-DU ‘You, Enlil, carried the august lidda’; cf. MSL 14 op. cit.

9

Cf. MSL 14 2689, in which M.Civil suggests an alternative reading kak-ku ŠE.GIŠ.Ì, ‘head? of sesame’. Not only does kakkû ‘lentil’ make better sense in the context, but lentil and sesame are often paired in economic texts (CADK 58). 10 In the parallel passage CT 15 10 24, Enlil also bears a gi-gur and gisba-tí-ga; cf. MSL 14, op. cit. 11 The Times Literary Supplement, 8 November 1985, p. 1275.

Pictures and Pictorial Language (The Burney Relief)* Thorkild Jacobsen It is a great privilege—and for me a very moving one—to take part in a colloquium in memory of Henri Frankfort, or Hans, as he was always affectionately called. He was and is one of the truly great, shining figures of our field, and he was a wonderful friend. His achievements were fundamental. He introduced dating by pottery into Mesopotamian archaeology and established the first datable series. Later he did the same thing for cylinder seals assigning them to their various periods. His excavations in Khorsabad and the Diyala Region were a model for their time and did much, by their example, to help improving archaeological method in Mesopotamian archaeloogy. It is difficult now, fully to realize how little was known in 1930. The Early Dynastic Period, which Frankfort cleared up and subdivided, was then a dark mystery. It did not even have a name then. Among the many striking finds we owe to him I shall mention only the magnificent horde of early statues, then the earliest ones known, which Frankfort published with his superb feeling for, and insight into, art and its values. Frankfort’s concerns with art and archaeology were in a measure summed up in his book on Art and Architecture, his broader interest in ancient culture bore fruit in his planning of Before Philosophy with his very fine introductory and concluding chapters on Ancient Religion, and his important study of sacral kingship in Kingship and the Gods.1 As a teacher he was electrifying. He conducted the almost legendary seminar that correlated archaeological dating across the ‘Fertile Crescent’ from Egypt in the west to Iran in the east. His range was marvellous. I remember once he took his class in Egyptian Art down to a visiting Picasso exhibition in the Art Institute in Chicago and was as knowledgeable about Picasso’s blue period as about the Ancient Egyptians. The week after that, I think it was, he lectured on cave-art for the Department of Anthropology and raised the question whether it was not, perhaps, too immediate in its rendering to be truly art. He was inspiring to work with, warmhearted and brilliant, uncompromising in his insistence on the highest attainable standards. To work with him in Tell Asmar was for all of us who were there, an experience that proved of decisive and enduring value in our lives. As for this present Colloquium, it seemed to me that I could perhaps honour his memory best by beginning with a problem which he solved in all essentials, but which I think, can be carried a little further toward understanding by the use of materials that were not available to him when he made his identification of the figure in the Burney Relief.2 As Frankfort correctly saw, the figure in the Burney Relief represents a supernatural being called Kilili in Akkadian, and he drew attention to Zimmern’s earlier suggestion of a relationship between Kilili and the Greek Aphrodite Parakýptousa. Following the

Figurative language in the ancient near east

2

consensus of Assyriological opinion as it was then, and still is, he considered Kilili to be a female demon, a kind of Lilith, and it is at that point that I believe we can now see a little more clearly. Size Looking then at the Burney Relief afresh, we may begin by considering its size. It measures 49.5 by 37 cms. and is 2.5–3 cms. thick. Thus, although it is made of clay its size sets it firmly apart from the run of small clay plaques and makes it almost certain, as Frankfort pointed out, that we are dealing with a cult relief. This however, does not fit well with the idea that the relief could represent a demon, for it is precisely the lack of a cult that sets Ancient Mesopotamian demons apart from the gods. The demons could have no cult, for they were completely alien to man and unreachable, no relationship of giving and taking could be established with them. We are told that

Neither male are they nor female, they are ghosts ever sweeping along, are ones who take not wives, to whom children are not born, know not how to show mercy, hear not prayer and supplications3 they are such as

know not food, know not drink, eat not flour strewn (as offering), drink not water poured as libations.4

Horned Crown Against identifying the figure as that of a demon speaks also the fourtiered horned crown it is wearing. The horned crown is an emblem of divinity and the multiple layers of horns indicate a deity of exceptional powers and high rank. We should therefore abandon the idea that the figure represents a demon and assume rather that a goddess is meant. If that is so, however, the lions under her feet become significant, for there is, as far as I know, only one goddess who has lions as attribute, the goddess Inanna, who corresponds to the Akkadian Ishtar. She drives a team of seven lions, lions guard her throne and scare the eagle in the Etana Story, and she was herself originally envisaged in lion shape as shown by her name Labbatu which means ‘Lioness’.5 For our present purposes perhaps the most telling reference is a line (line 23) in the Sumerian hymn to her called Innin-šag-gurra which describes her as ‘seated on crossed lions’.6

Pictures and pictorial language (The burney relief)*

3

Mountains Below the lions is, as you will notice, the conventional design by which the Ancient Mesopotamian artists represented mountains. The scene depicted is thus the mountaintops east of the Mesopotamian plain. This too fits Inanna, for there, on Kur-mùsh, that is to say, on the mountain crests, was her original home. kur means mountain and mùš means ‘crest’, ‘summit’. That she came from there we know from The Lugalbanda Epic, and the epic of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta.7 Wig Returning, then, to consideration of the figure itself, there is underneath the horned crown her hair, which, predictably, can hardly be expected to contribute anything special in the way of identifying marks. Nevertheless, there are some points of interest for fitting the figure in with Inanna that may be worth mentioning. First, what is rendered was most likely not her natural hair but rather a wig. It was customary for the Sumerians to shave the head and to wear a wig for festive occasions when they wanted to look their best. There is in the British Museum a wig of stone meant for the head of a statue of a goddess which is called in the inscription on it ‘her glory of womanhood’ recalling to the modern reader the English expression that ‘the hair is a woman’s crowning glory’ and meaning exactly that.8 In this respect Inanna followed prevailing custom and we are told that when she set out to conquer the Netherworld she wore a ‘kefia’ (túg) and ‘aghal’ (šu-gur-ra) of the desert but carried in her hand ‘the wig of her brow’. Apparently she planned to put that on when she arrived and wanted to look her best.9 The reason why the Sumerians shaved their heads and wore wigs was apparently the same that made wigs popular in Europe in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries: to keep free of lice. The shaved head could be washed and anointed to clean it. Typical wearers of wigs were the priests, the gudu Akkadian pašīšu ‘the anointed one’. The etymology of the Sumerian term is not clear but it is written with two signs, one of which is the sign for ‘louse’, the other for ‘clean’, ‘free of’. That anointing was indeed used to get rid of lice is shown by an incantation which guards against ghosts who may have been nourishing a grudge. One such is of a man who, when alive had begged, ‘in my lousiness let me anoint myself with you’, and had been refused. Anointing thus reveals itself as a means of bodily cleanliness and thus as a necessity for cultic purity. The priest is the pašīšu ‘the anointed’, and when the ruler is anointed that too prepares him for cultic function, just as the promised king and saviour will be a priest-king, a messiah.10 Necklace Returning from this excursus to the figure before us we may skip for the moment her necklace which we shall come back to later, and consider instead the things she holds in her hands, known traditionally as ‘the Rod and the Ring’.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

4

The Rod and Ring What the rod and the ring actually picture is clear, fortunately, from the famous Stele of Urnammu from Ur,11 where the Moon god, the god of Ur, Nanna, is shown handing them to the ruler, Urnammu, who appears on the stele in the role of builder, carrying pick and other building tools. Here, in contrast to later representation, the execution is precise and detailed enough to show that the ring actually is no ring at all but a coil of rope, apparently a measuring-cord for measuring longer distances, while the accompanying ‘rod’ is a yardstick for details. This interpretation is confirmed—as is also the identification of the figure with Inanna—by the myth of the Descent of Inanna, for there we are told that as she dressed for her descent she carried ‘the yardstick of one nindan (length)’ and ‘the pure (measuring) cord of the iku. nindan and iku are units of length and area corresponding roughly to our ‘yard’ and ‘acre’.12 Why Inanna would carry the implements of the builder here, where she is hardly suitably dressed for building, or on her journey to the Netherworld where, likewise, there would seem to be no call for them, is, of course, at first glance puzzling. But here, again, the Stele of Urnammu furnishes the answer. It will be noted that Nanna holds in his hands both a weapon, a battle-axe, and the yardstick and coil, and that it is the latter, not the weapon, that he hands to Urnammu, thus entrusting him with works of peace rather than war; for the task of building temples could be done only in peacetime. The manpower needed for building was provided by the army and it would, of course, be needed for fighting in times of war. Samsuiluna, for instance, had to postpone building the temple for Shamash in Sippar which the god had asked for because a rebellion broke out in the south of the country and had to be put down.13 Thus the yardstick and measuring coil symbolize peace, and Inanna holds them because, as goddess of war she clearly controls also the absence of war, peace. They symbolize one aspect of her powers. Wings and Talons We come next to the wings and bird’s claws of the figure and here the fact that it is flanked by two owls as its attributes clearly indicates that the bird features are meant to suggest specifically owl character. If we are right so far in assuming that the figure represents Inanna, we must ask therefore whether this goddess, besides her lion-form, also could be envisaged under the form of the owl. And that seems in fact to be the case. The Akkadian word for owl, eššebu corresponds to Sumerian ninna ‘owl’ and also to d nin-ninna ‘Divine lady owl’, that is owl goddess.14 This owl goddess Nin-ninna, however, is Ishtar, the Akkadian name of Inanna.15 Besides the translation eššebu ‘owl’ the ancient lexical texts give for Nin-ninna also kilili16 which likewise is known to be a name for Inanna/Ishtar as was shown first by Zimmern who many years ago pointed to an incantation reading ‘Exalted lady Kilili who has rushed at me, great Ishtar who has flung your limbs around me’.17

Pictures and pictorial language (The burney relief)*

5

The name Kilili makes it clear what Inanna’s owl-aspect stands for, for Kilili denotes the harlot who like the owl comes out at dusk. The Sumerian counterpart of Kilili is Abashushu,18 ‘harlot’, literally ‘the one who leans out of the window’, that is, the harlot who leans out of the window of the bordello soliciting custom from the men in the street below. The gesture was a characteristic one. It meets us also in the Hellenistic-Roman world where the goddess of harlots was Aphrodite parakýptousa ‘Aphrodite who leans out of the window,19 and it underlies the familiar pictorial motif of ‘the woman in the window’.20 A description of Inanna in this aspect of her, as harlot and goddess or harlots, we have in the Sumerian hymn to her published by Langdon in Babylonian Expedition 31 no. 12. The section which interests us here21 addresses the goddess directly as follows:

Harlot, you go down to the alehouse, Inanna, you are turning into one leaning out of the window lifting up your voice, Inanna, you are mistress of myriad offices no god compares with you! Nin-egalla, here is your home ground let me praise your greatness. As the beasts are stirring up the dust, as oxen and sheep are returning to byre and fold, you, my lady, have dressed like one of no repute in a single garment, have fastened the harlot’s erimmātu (necklace) around your neck, you are become one who snatches the man from the wife’s embrace, you are the one who is hastening into the embrace of Dumuzi your bridegroom, Inanna, your seven bridallers are bedding you. Inanna, you are mistress of myriad offices, no god compares with you! It is of interest that the text specifically calls Inanna ‘harlot’, kar-kid and ‘one who leans out of the window’, ab-ba-[šú]-šú, which in Akkadian would have been rendered as Kilili. It also mentions Inanna’s necklace, indicating that it identifies her as harlot. That necklace is also listed as part of her attire in

Figurative language in the ancient near east

6

Inanna’s Descent.22 We may therefore, I think, quite reasonably identify it with the necklace the figure on the Burney Relief is wearing and which we delayed commenting on earlier. We may thus sum up: 1. The size of the relief suggests a cult-relief. Since demons had no cult the figure depicted is unlikely to be a demon. 2. The horned crown with four tiers suggests a major deity. 3. The lions suggest Inanna, since she is the only goddess associated with lions. 4. The mountain pattern fits since Inanna’s home was the mountain crests in the east. 5. The yardstick and coil of rope in her hands accord with the description of her in the myth Inanna’s Descent. 6. So does the necklace she is wearing. 7. Finally, the owls and the wings and bird talons of the figure show that Inanna is pictured in her aspect of Owl-goddess and goddess of harlots, Ninnina, in Akkadian Kilili. One may therefore hazard the opinion that the Burney Relief represents Inanna as goddess of harlots and served as a cult-relief at the house-altar of an ancient bordello. If so, that would explain also a last unusual feature of the relief, the nudity of the figure. Nudity is practically never found in monumental art in Ancient Mesopotamia and seems to have been deliberately avoided for reasons of propriety. In a bordello, though, it would hardly have given offence. Pictorial Language Before we can leave the Burney Relief entirely, there remains the question of its revelance to pictorial language and here I would plead that it helps us to see concretely how the Ancients responded to certain terms which from an origin as straightforward descriptive words moved on to become in fact metaphors, mere pictorial language. I am thinking particularly of Sumerian divine names such as An which identifies the god as the sky or Enlil whose name identifies him as the wind, although in historical times both gods were undoubtedly thought of as having human form. We may begin by defining what happens when pictorial language is used, and I follow here Ogden and Richards in their The Meaning of Meaning, who say that the metaphor calls to mind an image from which the hearer is expected to abstract and to concentrate only on such features as are relevant in the context. Thus if one speaks of ‘waves of pain’ only the rhythmic movement of actual waves is to be considered as relevant, while their wetness, dark green colour and so on are tacitly discounted.23 Considering in this light a term, or name, for Inanna such as Nin-nina ‘Lady Owl’, one could well imagine that in historical times, when anthropomorphic forms of the gods had become dominant, the Ancients, on hearing it, would select from it only one feature, appearance at dusk when: The beasts are stirring up the dust, as oxen and sheep are returning to byre and fold.

Pictures and pictorial language (The burney relief)*

7

One could well imagine this; but a look at the Burney Relief will show that the Ancients were, in fact, less radical. ‘Lady Owl’ is essentially ‘lady’ and ‘human’, but not entirely. She retains the owl’s wings and claws reinforcing the aspect of night prowler. In western culture we have a parallel in the imagining and representation of the Devil in human shape except for one foot which has the cloven hoof of the lustful satyr he is. Other cases like that of Lady Owl on the Burney Relief abound. Gudea, who saw the god Ningirsu in a dream, reports that the god had the wings of his original form, the Thunderbird, and ended below in a floodstorm,24 the snake-god Ningishzida has snakesheads protruding from his shoulders.25 Vegetation goddesses sprout grain from their bodies and so on. As Frankfort once vividly summed it up, ‘it is as if their inner being was threatening to break and burst through the human form imposed on it’. What we have then, in terms such as Nin-nina ‘Lady Owl’, is accordingly a metaphor which makes the listener accept rather more from the ‘image’ than will fit cleanly into the context’s demand for a deity in human form of nocturnal habits. It calls up in the mind also the external signs of those habits, the owl’s wings and talons much as the Devil’s cloven hoof is the external sign of inner lasciviousness. We might perhaps call such metaphors in which the image still vigorously resists the process of full abstraction halfmetaphors. One more feature of the Burney Relief might be mentioned, the lions. Here too, as with Nin-nina, we have a pre-anthropomorphic form of the goddess, corresponding to her Akkadian name Labbatu ‘lioness’. Unlike the form of the owl, though, no lion features are observable in the figure, nor would they suit the harlot aspect of Inanna. The lions appear, it would seem, as pure ‘attributes’, having as their only function that of identifying the figure as Inanna. They are, so to speak, mere name-tags. If we seek parallels for this on the linguistic plane I should suggest comparison with the so-called ‘dead metaphor’. In a sentence like ‘The heart of Chicago showed in the generous giving at Christmas’, ‘heart’ is a live metaphor for ‘compassion’, the seat of which is traditionally in the heart. In saying that a house is located in the heart of Chicago, however, ‘heart’ has become a dead metaphor. No image of a heart is called up in the mind, it serves as a simple variant of terms like ‘centre’, ‘midst’. On the Burney Relief the lions are not intended to call up any lion-aspect of the goddess at all. That aspect goes back to her early rôle of roaring goddess of Thunder. They serve only as a variant of her name Inanna, and have, as here used, become a dead metaphor. * The Burney Relief is illustrated in the frontispiece to this volume. 1 Mention should also be made of Frankfort’s important work at El-Amarna and his studies of Egyptian art and Egyptian religion. A complete bibliography of Frankfort’s contributions, compiled by Johanne Vindenaes, may be found in Journal of Near Eastern Studies, xiv (1955), 4–13. 2 ‘The Burney Relief’, Archiv für Orientforschung, xii (1937–39), 128–35. 3 CT, 16. 15 37–45: ù munus nu-meš ù nitah-nu-meš: ul zi-ka-ru šu-nu ul sin-niš-a-ti šú-nu/e-nene-ne líl-lá bú-bú-meš: šú-nu za-qí-qu mut-taš-rab-

/dam nu-du12-a-meš

dumu nu dú-ud-da-meš: áš-šá-tú ul ih-zu ma-re ul al -du nu-un-zu-meš: i-du-u/a-ra-zu siskur-ra nu-tuku-a-meš: ik-ribi taš-li-tú ul i-šem-mu-u. See also the similar description of the demons who accompanied Inanna on her return from Hades. S.N.Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

8

Continued and Revised’ JCS, v (1941), in the following abbreviated as Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent’, 12, lines 285–290 and the description of the captors of Dumuzi op.cit., 14, lines 345–351. Cf. B.Alster, Dumuzi’s Dream, 64f lines 111–116. 4 Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent’ 286–288. ú nu-zu-me-eš a nu-zu-me-eš/ zī dub-dub-ba nu-gu7-meeš/a bal-bal-a nu-na8-na8. 5 The Treasures of Darkness, 136 and n. 228. For the Etana passage see Babyloniaca xll pls. ix– x. 8–13 and E.Speiser in Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts…(1950), 228 C-5, lines 8– 13. 6 A.Sjöberg ‘in-nin šà-gur4-re. A Hymn to the goddess Inanna by the en-priestess Enheduanna’ ZA, 65, 181 line 23 dInanna dúr-ru-né nu-zu ku5-ku5 ‘Inanna, seated on crossed lions, tearing to bits the ones who know not reverence’. Sjöberg’s translation differs slightly, he renders gilgila as ‘harnessed(?)’ rather than as ‘to be crossed’ (itguru) and the remainder of the line as ‘she cuts into pieces (TAR-TAR) him who shows no fear’. 7 See C.Wilcke, Das Lugalbanda epos (1969), 244–296 (repeated in 360–362) ki ud-ba nin9-e5mu kù dInanna-ke4/kur-mùš-ta šà-kù-ga-ni-a hé-em-ma-ni-pà-dè-en sig4-Kul-aba4 ki-šè héem-[ma-ni]-in-ku4-re-en. ‘At that time and place my princely sister, holy Inanna, verily envisaged me from the mountain crest in her holy heart’ and S.N.Kramer, Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta (1952), 20 lines 230–232 nin-gal-an-na (var. dInanna) me-huš-a u5-a kur-mùš-ka bará-kur-mùš-ka še-er-ka-an-du11-ga ‘Heaven’s great queen (var. Inanna), who is highly placed in awesome office, seated on the foothills of the mountain crests, bedight on the throne dais of the mountain crests’. 8 SAK, 194, x, 11 hi-li nam-munus-ka-ni, literally ‘her desirability of womanhood’. 9 Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent’ lines 17–18 túg šu-gur-ra men-edin-na / šu-ba-ni-in-ti ‘kefia and aghal, the headdress of the desert, she put on her head, took in the hand the wig of her brow’. 10 See ‘Ancient Mesopotamian Religion : The Central Concerns’, Proceedings of The American Philosophical Society, 107/6 (1963) 477, n. 11, also in W.L.Moran (ed.) Toward the Image of Tammuz, 41, n. 11. Note also that when Shulgi visits Inanna: ‘a wig as headdress he put on the head’. See Jacob Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns (Bar-Ilan Univ. Press, 1981) 136, line 10. 11 Henri Frankfort, The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient (The Pelican History of Art, Vol. V.London, 1951), 50–51 and plate 53. See also A.Moortgat, The Art of Ancient Mesopotamia (London, 1969), pl. 201 for a detail of the scene discussed. 12 Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent’, line 19 gi-diš-ninda ešé-iku-za-gìn šu mi-ni-in-du8 ‘the yardstick (lit. “reed”) of one nindan (length) and the pure cord of the iku’s he held in the hand’. A nindan measured 5.94m., the iku was the square of a ‘cord’ (ešé), 59.40m) or 3528.36 square metres. In his book The Statue of Idri-mi (London, 1949) 92, Sidney Smith suggested that the cord was ‘the builder’s cord for setting a straight line’ and for such use the measuring cord would of course serve well also. The usual term for the cord for setting a straight line and to guide the masons in laying a straight wall face seems, though, to have been gu rather than ešé if one may generalize from Gudea Cyl. A XX.26–27 uš ki immi-tag/silim mu-sum sig4-ga gu bí-dúb ‘he laid the foundations, set down the walls thereon, gave them a blessing: “The string flips the bricks!”’ i.e. the bricks all touch the guide string. 13 See Sollberger, ’Samsu-iluna’s Bilingual Inscription B’RA, 61 (1967), 39–44 and literature there cited. 14 Ea I 98 (MSL 14 181) nin-na: LAGABXEŠ: [MIN(=la-gab-bu) eš geš-pa MIN (=i-gub): ešše-bu MUŠEN cf. Ea I.119 (MSL 14, 183) ni-in-na: : MIN (=la-gab-bu) MIN (=eš geš-pa) MIN (i-gub): šá dNin-LAGABXEŠ-LAGABXEŠ-MUŠ[EN] eš-še-[b]u and parallel passages quoted in CAD E p. 370 s.v. eššebu.

Pictures and pictorial language (The burney relief)*

9

15

KAV n. 48 ii.5: d[Nin]-ni-na: KI-MIN (=dIštar).

16

Hh XVIII 332–333 MSL 8/2) 147: mušen: MIN (=eš-še-bu)/dNin-LAGABxEŠLAGABxEŠMIN(=ni-in) mušen: Ki-li-li. 17 Zimmern, OLZ 31, 1928.1ff. The passage was published by Ebeling MVAG 23/2, 22 lines 44– 45 and reads ia-a-ši Ki-[li-li] šá ta-šú-ri-in-ni šá-qu-tum be-el- [tum] meš-re-ti-ka ana m[uhhi]-ia taš-pu-ki rabî-tu dIš-tar uk-tap-pira-an-ni maš-maš-ši, ‘Me, Kilili, whom you impaired, upon whom, exalted lady, you let your limbs sink down, me, great Ishtar, my incantation priest has wiped clean!’ 18 Lú Excerpt II.177 ab-ba-šú: Ki-li-li; Igituh App. A.i.38[d]Ab-ba-šú-šú: dKi-li-li. See CAD K, 357 s.v. kilili lex. sect. and cf. ibid. 2 Craig, ABRT I.57.32 [dKi]-li-li šarratu ša apāti dKi-li-li mušîrtu ša apāti, ‘Kilili, the queen of the windows, Kilili, who leans out of the windows’ which translates the Sumerian term into Akkadian. 19 Cf. R.Herbig, ‘Aphrodite Parakýptousa’ OLZ 30, 1927, 917–922. 20 Frankfort, The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient, pl. 170 b. 21 Reverse lines 10–21. It reads: (10) kar-kîd [eš6]-dam-šè mu-un-e11-dè-en (11) dInanna ab-ba[šú]-šú-gù-zu-ra ì-in-ku4-ku4-dè-en (12) dInanna nin-me-šár-ra-me-en dingir nu-mu-e-da-di (13) dNin-é-gal-la ki-ùr-zu

nam-mah-zu ga-an-da-dug4 (14) sahar máš-anše-du8-a-

mu-nu-tuku-gim túg-aš im-me-mu4 ba (15) gud udu tùr-amaš-e gi-a-ba (16) (17) nunuz kar-kid gú-za i-im-DU (18) [ú]r-dam-ta lú mu-dab5-me-en (19) úr-nitalam-[z]ud

Dumu-zi-da-ka (!)-ga-me-en, (20) dInanna nimgir-si-imin-zu ki-nú mu-ed da-ak-e (21) Inanna nin-me-šár-ra-me-en dingir nu-mu-e-da-di. In line 11 gù-zu-ra means literally ‘to throw the voice’, i.e. to raise it so that it will carry far. In line 17 kar-kid represents kar-kid as dam-ta in line 18 represents dam<-ma->ta and dab5 dab5 <-ba->. In line 20 nimgir-siimin is apparently treated as a collective. 22 Kramer, ‘Inanna’s Descent’, lines 20–21 and 106–107 na4-za-gìn-di4-di4-lá gú-na [ba-ni]-in-ìá, ‘the little lapis-lazuli stones she hung around her neck, the twin erimmātu stones she had fill her bosom’. See also lines 137 and 142 na4-za-gìn-di4di4-lá gú-na lú ba-da-an-zé-er, ‘a man slipped off the little lapis-lazuli stones of her neck’ and na4-nunuz-tab-ba-gaba-na lú ba-daan-zé-er ‘a man slipped off the twin erimmātu stones of her bosom’. They show that two separate necklaces are involved, a shorter one of lapis-lazuli circling the neck and a longer one with the erimmātu stones reaching down on the chest. On the Burney relief the divided plaque on the chest of the figure presumably represents the erimmatu stones. 23 C.K.Ogden and I.A.Richards, The Meaning of Meaning (New York, 1923), 213–214. 24 Gudea, Cyl. A iv 14–19 šà-ma-mu-da-ka lú-diš-àm an-gim ri-ba-ni/ ki-gim ri-ba-ni/a-ne dingir-ra-àm/á-ni-šè

(d) mušen-dam sig-ba(!)-a(!)-ni-šè a-ma-

ru-kam/zi-da-gubú-na ì-ná-ná, ‘the first man in the dream—the enormity of him was like the heavens, the enormity of him was like the earth—he, being according to his head a god, according to his wings the Thunderbird, and to his lower parts the Floodstorm—right and left of him lay lions—(bade me build his house)’. The figure is identified later on in col. v.17 as Ningirsu by his sister, the goddess Nanshe. 25 See the representation of him leading Gudea on the relief shown in A Moortgat, The Art of Ancient Mesopotamia pl. 189.

.

Deep-Rooted Skyscrapers and Bricks: Ancient Mesopotamiam Architecture and its Imagery* D.O.Edzard Henri Frankfort, to whose memory this colloquium is dedicated, was Dutch, and it would be appropriate to begin with a quotation from a Dutch poem. In his hymn of praise to Amsterdam, Joost van den Vondel (1587–1679) writes, ll. 3–4:

Amstelredam, die’t hoofd verheefd aan’s hemels as En schiet, op Pluto’s borst, haer wortels door’t moerasch.1 Amsterdam, which raises its head to the axis of heaven And shoots its roots to Pluto’s breast through the morass. If we were to substitute Eridu for Amsterdam, which raises its head to heaven’s axis, and Enki for Pluto, into whose breast the city sinks its roots through the morass, then these two lines could serve as an effortless translation of a Sumerian temple hymn. The idea that buildings ‘raise their heads to the sky’ and that their foundations reach into the subterranean waters strikes us as being authentically Mesopotamian. As is quite obvious, however, van den Vondel could not have had the faintest notion of the Sumerian image of the world. There could well be a millennial tradition behind such parallels. Or—what seems much more likely—these comparisons simply tend to impose themselves on us. There is nothing surprising in the occasional use of figurative language in describing famous buildings. The medieval Persian historian, ‘Ali Yazdī, said, in describing the arch of the main Iwān of the Bībī Hanom Mosque in Samarkand, What a vast building! All heaven’s dwellings proclaim: Compared with heaven’s height they fall far short.2 Procopius (c. 490-after 535), who wrote in Justinian’s reign (527–565), often uses tropes in his ‘Buildings’ (Ktismata, Aedificia). He says of the Hagia Sophia, which was restored under Justinian, that it ‘rises to the height of heaven’ 3

Its dome ‘does not seem to rest on the solid structure, but rather to hang down from heaven like a golden sphere

covering

the

space’ .

Figurative language in the ancient near east

12

The splendour of the columns and stones of Hagia Sophia moves him to say that ‘one feels oneself transported to a meadow with lovely flowers’ . The white pillars and floors of the Akakios Church sparkle so brightly that ‘one has the impression that the whole church is coated with snow.’ . The walls of the imperial palace are described as ‘rising to heaven’ According to Otto Demus the Byzantine church was conceived as ‘an image of the Cosmos, symbolising heaven, paradise (or the Holy Land) and the terrestrial world in an ordered hierarchy, descending from the sphere of the cupolas, which represent heaven, to the earthly zones of the lower parts’.4 In other words, the shrine is a mirror image of the world. We should keep that in mind. In India, the Hindu temple is described as Meru, Mandara, Kailāsa.5 All three are names of the mountain concept which forms the world axis. This is an explicit image, since the temple thrusts upward like a mountain with its ‘broad and lofty spires’6 and it is also a symbol. Let us consider our more specific subject. There is perhaps no other literature in which the description of buildings—sacred and profane, but principally sacred—is so much the subject of figurative language as the Sumerian hymns and monumental inscriptions. At first glance there seems to be a very obvious reason for this, since the ziggurat is again and again described as ‘mountain’, ‘mountain range’. Anyone travelling through flat and level Babylonia and approaching a city would already see from a great distance something high, gigantic, mountain-like rising up. We experience this today when we drive through the ‘steppe’ towards Uruk with its Eanna, or approach Ur with its Ekišnugal, or the ‘Mountain-of-the-Land-of Sumer’, (Inġarra near Kiš). Is not ‘mountain’ then a rather banal image? It seems quite obvious and natural to call buildings ‘mountain range’, ‘peak’ or ‘steps’ when they are visible from a great distance and rise up high above their flat surroundings. Superficially that is how it appears to us. But let us consider the following example. Ekur, Enlil’s main shrine in Nippur: é-kur is a nominal compound, made up of é, ‘house’, and kur, ‘mountain (land)’ (also ‘foreign land’) so that é-kur means ‘house (which is a) mountain’ (under no circumstances ‘house-of-the-mountain’). It corresponds to the compound type dingir-ama (‘deity (which is a) mother’). Now it is by no means a coincidence that the Lord of Ekur, Enlil, has the epithet kur-gal.7 I am not quite sure what this epithet originally implied:8 ‘great mountain’?—kur is no easy word. It can mean any territory in the surroundings of the southern Mesopotamian homeland, whatever is not quite flat. Duplicated, kur-kur are the ‘mountain lands’ but also the ‘foreign lands’. If our Latin transliteration is not misleading us, perhaps there was even in popular etymology (Volksetymologie) a connection seen between kur and kúr, ‘other, foreign, hostile’. In any case, our translation of Ekur, é-kur, as ‘house (which is a) mountain’, can be the original meaning, but it does not have to be. , ‘mountains’, ‘mountain range’, ‘mountain chain’, are related to kur as well, but also to ‘a long stretch of raised land’ (like the ‘mountains’ of nomads). The

Deep-rooted skyscrapers and bricks

ziggurat can be called We find the pompous all lands’ of Assur, kur and

13

, ‘mountains rising by steps’.9 , ‘mountains of the Land of Sumer’, in Kiš.10 In kur-kur-ra, ‘house which is the great mountain of are combined. Šulgi of the Ur III Dynasty

named the tenth year of his reign after the building of the royal , ‘house (which is a) mountain’.11 The following Gudea passage is representative of many similar ones: (19) é im-mú-mú-ne (20) DUGUD-gim an-šà-ge im-mi-ni-íb-diri-diri-ne (21) gu4-gim si im-mi-íb-íl-íl-ne (22) giš-gána-abzu-gim kur-kur-ra sag ba-ni-íb-íl-íl-ne (23) é-e an-ki-a sag an-šè mi-ni-íb-íl. (19) ‘One makes the house grow upwards like a mountain, (20) makes it sail like a cloud through the heavens, (21) makes it lift its horn like a bull, (22) makes it lift its head over all (other) lands, as if (it) (were) the kiškanû-tree out of the Abzu: (23) in heaven and on earth the house has raised its head to heaven like a mountain.’ (Cylinder A, XXI, 19–23) The house ‘embraces the heavens’ (an-da gú-lá-am) (ibid. 15). The vivid ‘surface’ mountain and mountain range imagery and the reference to the heavens have deeper meaning. They describe the cosmic function of the shrine.12 As a ‘mountain’ the temple is a link between heaven and earth: thus dur-an-ki, ‘link of heaven and earth’, is the name of the holy quarter in Nippur.13 Just as the mountains partake of the plain and the clouds in the sky, the ziggurat stands on the earth and reaches up into heaven. But the temple is also a dim-gal, ‘great post’, ‘great mast’. Gudea’s invocation in Cylinder B begins in I, 1–2, with the words é dim-gal-kalam-ma an-ki-da mú-a, ‘House, great post of the Land of Sumer, which grown high (binds) heaven and earth’.14 In Temple Hymn No. 6 the house of Šuzianna is described as a dim-gal-nun-na, ‘a great deep(ly set in, sunken) post’.15 This picture is complex: the emphasis is on the verticality and stability, but also the security that a mooring post provides. It is a painful disadvantage for us that we can no longer see the Mesopotamian temples and ziggurats in their original condition. When we read ancient figurative language we can always retrieve the behaviour of an animal, the shape and colour of a plant or the effect of a whole landscape; we can recover the writer’s intention regarding fauna, flora and environment. But it is not so easy with architecture. Here we are essentially thrown back on our reconstructive imagination. In 1957, in his book Bauwerke in der altsumerischen Bildkunst, Ernst Heinrich collected the then available representations of buildings in glyptic and on votive plaques, as well as models of structures. But these illustrations only communicate a blurred idea of what was actually built. Thus we cannot really reconstruct the skyline of an ancient south Mesopotamian city. But there can be no doubt that such a skyline existed. Otherwise, how could a Sumerian hymn about the Enki Temple E-engura in Eridu say that the city cast its shadow far out to sea (or the hōr)?16 We should add here formulations like éninnu ní-bi kur-kur-ra, túg-gim im-du4, [(The temple)] ‘Eninnu’s aura spread itself like cloth over all (other) lands’ (Gudea, Cylinder A, XXVII, 6–7). Here too, the effect of a sense of great height is alluded to, simultaneously suggesting protection and threat.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

14

Or we think of the opening verses of Enmerkar and Ensuhkešda’ana, where ll. 2–3 read (2) Kul-aba4ki uruki an-ki-da mú-a (3) Unuki-ga mu-bi dtir-an-na-gim, ‘Kulaba, city which reaches from heaven to earth, Uruk, whose name means: (it is) like a rainbow’, and then ll. 11–13 (11) Unuki-ga ka-tar-ra-bi kur-ra ba-te (12) me-lám-bi kù-me-a zi-da-àm (13) Arattaki túg-gim ba-e-dul (variant: bí-in-dul) gada-gim ba-e-búr, ‘Uruk’s renown reached up to the mountains, its radiance—pure unadulterated silver—covered Aratta like a cloth, stretched over it like a length of linen’.17 The title of this paper, ‘Deep-Rooted Skyscrapers’, was not just chosen for the sake of effect. It springs to mind that figurative language on architectural themes is mainly concerned with a vertical dimension. We have so far been speaking of what rises above the earth. But the depths are just as important and figurative language devotes almost as much attention to what is below ground. Once again we can see things realistically at first, ‘from the outside’, and then a cosmically-related ‘deep structure’. The earth’s surface, the ground, is ki: cf. the above-mentioned dur-an-ki, ‘link of heaven and earth’. Apart from the compound an-ki, ki occurs in the compound verbs kiús and ki-gar, ‘to found’) literally: ‘to adjoin the ground’, ‘to butt onto the ground’). Otherwise, the emphasis is on the infrastructure, the foundations. Marduk’s temple tower in Babylon is é-temen-an-ki, ‘house which is the foundation of heaven and earth’. The ziggurat of the moon god Nanna in Ur was é-temen-ní-gúru, ‘house whose foundation instils (awe) and fear’. At the beginning of a building project the foundation site would be dug out. This initial excavation was of great significance for all the following building work. It was described as ‘founding (a building) in the depths’, (nam-nun-da or nam-nun-na ki-garra).18 The Tira’aš shrine in Girsu, already attested in the time of Ur-Nanše of Lagaš, was ‘founded’ (by An) in the depths like the Abzu’ (abzu-gim, nam-nun-nakiim-ma-ni-gar— Gudea, Cylinder A, X, 15–16). In digging out foundations one inevitably strikes ground water, i.e. one reaches that imagined subterranean fresh water sea that is called the Abzu.19 That is probably also why it is said that the foundations carry on a constant intimate conversation (šà-kúš-ù) with the Abzu.20 Since the excavations and the foundations guarantee the stability of the whole structure, one can say that they are rammed in the earth ‘like great post-stakes’.21 In the building foundation context we must make a digression into Sumerian grammar. J.Cooper has translated lines 33–34 of ‘Gilgamesh and Akka’: ‘(Eanna) whose great wall hugs the ground like a fog: (other manuscripts: ‘great wall founded by An’), the lofty residence founded by An’.22 In place of this I should like to suggest: ‘great fortress, fortress founded in heaven, his (Gilgamesh’s) exalted residence, which is set in heaven’.23 That sounds odd and less convincing than Cooper (and Römer). The grammatical question is whether we should, with Cooper and Römer, assume a ‘Mes-ane-pada construction’, i.e. bàd An-néki gar-ra, ‘wall/fortress that An has founded’. That would be quite plausible formally. However, these and related formulations would imply that that remote, still sky god An should actually have been very active, that he repeatedly came down from above in order to found something on earth. I would prefer to avoid such a contradiction, to leave An in heaven and to forego the Mesanepada construction. Admittedly, there are places where we cannot deny An a role as founder, as in the passage quoted above from Gudea’s Cylinder A, X, 15–16. But in many other cases, in my opinion, we are dealing with a very sophisticated reversal of

Deep-rooted skyscrapers and bricks

15

meaning. The verb ki-ús actually means etymologically ‘to bring close to the earth’=‘to found’, in which, as expected, the ground on which something is to be founded is put in the locative-terminative—orthographically (and also formally?) identical with the ergative (an-né =an+e).24 This ‘founding’, however, is reversed into its opposite, since the ‘founding’ took place at the other end of the vertical, in heaven—and that is because the building towered so high upward. Therefore I would not like to interpret an-né ki ús-sa as ‘by An (=ergative) founded’, but as ‘in heaven (=locative-terminative) founded’. One has to suspend judgment, since it is no longer possible for us to establish whether the ancient scribes might have intended to play on the double meaning of an-né=an+e: ergative and locative-terminative.25 With our interpretation we would ‘rehabilitate’ An, so often described as remote, still, ‘quiescens’, because when something is founded ‘in heaven’, ‘up there in heaven’, An himself can really be thought of as the founder. However, we are still left with the decisive difference: the foundation does take place in heaven and not on earth. Similarly, we could then offer a solution for a hitherto, in my opinion, not fully comprehensible phrase in Gudea, Cylinder A, XXII, 14: temen an-na ur-sag-àm. Adam Falkenstein translated this: ‘Die Baugrube ist im Himmel ein Held’, ‘the foundation pit is a hero in heaven’.26 If we turn the ‘foundation’ around 180°, then the foundation (temen) would quite imposingly (ur-sag-àm) be located in heaven (an-na). We leave heaven and earth, the subterranean as well as the link between heaven and earth and shall focus our attention on the basic building unit of any Mesopotamian building, the ‘brick’, in Sumerian sig4 (Emesal še-eb) and Akkadian libittu. For the ‘brick’ is also the rewarding object of figurative language. A building, or a whole city is often simply called sig4, ‘brick’.27 S.N.Kramer, A.Falkenstein and others have rendered it as ‘brickwork’, ‘Ziegelwerk’. The Chicago Assyrian Dictionary, Vol L, has devoted a whole paragraph to ‘brickwork’ as the meaning of libittu (p.178, f.2). If in the first place we accept ‘brick’ as pars pro toto, then one would have to admit that the chosen word indicates a building component of great importance. Could it however be possible that our translation, ‘brickwork’, ‘Ziegelwerk’, obscures or blurs the original meaning? There is no need to explain that many Sumerian nouns can indicate a singular as well as a collective noun: e.g. udu, ‘sheep’, túg, ‘cloth(s)’, ‘fabric’, giš, ‘wood’, ‘tree’, ‘trees’, etc. In this respect, sig4 can mean an individual brick as well as an unspecified number of bricks. But it is also conceivable that behind a ‘surface’ meaning there is a deeper one, that sig 4 in the passage is a fundamental, original brick, a kind of ‘primeval’ brick. I am referring to sig4-nam-tar-ra, the ‘auspicious brick’ of which Ningirsu says at the beginning of Gudea’s Cylinder A (I, 11) é-ninnu me-bi an-ki-a pa-è mu-ak-ke4 (12) énsi lú-géštu-dagal-la-kam géštu ì-gá-gá (13) níg-gal-gal-la šu mi-ni-mú-mú (14) gu4-du7 [m]áš-du7-re6 si im-sá-sá-e (15) sig4-nam-tar-ra sag mu-ši-íb-íl (16) é-kù dù-dè gú-bi muši-íb-zi. (11) ‘I shall make the me(s) of Eninnu appear with full brilliance in heaven and on earth. (12) Wise as he is, the ruler will employ his intellect. (13) He will bestir himself to achieve great deeds. (14) He will bring unblemished sacrificial bulls and he-goats here. (15) Have they not for my sake caused the “auspicious” brick to raise its head? (16) Have they not for my sake taken upon themselves the task of building the bright house?’28 The translation of sig4-nam-tar-ra by ‘auspicious brick’ requires justification; nam-tar is among the most difficult words in Sumerian. In the Jacobsen Festschrift (AS 20) I envisaged the meaning of nam-tar as ‘to have someone cut NAM’ in the sense of

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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‘allowing someone to share in what NAM is’.29 I would like to further clarify it as ‘to hold out a firm prospect to someone’, ‘to promise something to someone’, ‘to grant a wish to someone’.30 The ‘auspicious’ brick returns in Gudea’s second dream: sig4-nam-tar-ra gišù-šub-ba ma-nigál, ‘he (the dream figure=Ningirsu) let the “auspicious” brick be in the mould’ (Cylinder A, V, 7). The aforesaid brick (sig4-nam-tar-ra ù-šub-ba gál-la, ‘the “auspicious” brick located in the mould’) is then called in Nanše’s dream interpretation sig4-zi-éninnu, ‘the right brick for Eninnu’ (Cylinder A, VI, 7–8). At the beginning of Cylinder B Eninnu is itself simply sig4-zi dEn-líl-le nam-du10-ga tar-ra, ‘the right brick which Enlil has beneficiently made auspicious’ (Cylinder B, I, 3). Compare Enlil’s statement at the (15) sig4-é-ninnu-ka

end of Cylinder B: (XX) (14) é-d[a] lugal n[am]im-[mi]-tar-[re] (16) s[ig2 é-ninnu] (17)

(18) sig4-é-ninnu nam

(19) nam-du10 , (14) ‘the “King” rejoiced over the house (15) and at the same time made a firm promise to the brick of Eninnu: (16) brick (of Enninu), (17) I have promised something good, (18) brick of Enninu, I have promised something, (19) have promised something good’. When a temple was destroyed and its deity departed, the essence of the temple was affected together with the brick. Thus I am inclined to see in the ‘Brick of Ur’ (and corresponding material) all structures as well as that primeval brick. With this meaning of sig4-nam-tar-ra in mind we quite unexpectedly find matter of great interest in the ideology and practice of Indian temple building. In the book of Stella Kramrisch (see n. 5) there is a chapter about bricks.31 When a temple was not built of stone (the usual practice) but of brick, the greatest care was devoted to the first brick. The right clay was sought out and tested, it had to be ‘free of gravel, stones, roots, bones, and had to be fine-grained, of a uniform colour and pleasant to handle’.32 ‘The act itself of offering had gone into the making of the brick. It is a rite of identification. The substance of the brick is its carrier, earth and fire33 are the elements which take part in it and help the sacrificer to build his sacrificial body. It is made of bricks…’34 …‘the first brick to be laid anticipates and represents each subsequent one’.35 ‘The first brick is called , “the invincible”’ (ibid.). We feel ourselves at home here; it is as if we were reading a commentary on brick making and laying for building a Sumerian temple. As we learn from Gudea’s statue inscriptions, great care was actually taken to choose the right clay: Statue C, III: (1) im-bi ki-UD.UD-ga-a (2) im-mi-lu (3) sig4-bi (4) ki-sikila (5) im-mi-du8, ‘he…the clay (for the brick in the mould) from a thoroughly cleansed place;36 he shaped the brick out of it in a pure place’. The making of the first brick is described in greatest detail in Gudea, Cylinder A, XVIII, 17–XIX, 19: (XVIII) (17) pisan-ù-šub-ka a-sa-ga î-ak (18) énsi-ra a-dab6 si-im álá mu-na-du12-àm (19) KA.AL-sig4-bi s[a]g im-mi-du8 (20) (21) (22) (23) dusu-kù mu-îl ù-šub-e im-ma-gub (24) Gù-dé-a im ù-šub-ba ì-gar (25) níg-du7 pa bí-è (26) é-a sig4-bi pa-è mu-ni-gá-gá (27) kur-kur-re ì mu-da-sud-e (28) eren mu-da-sud-e (XIX) (1) uru-ni ki-Lagaški-e sig-NI-a (2) u4 mu-dì-ni-íb-zal-e (3) ù-šub mu-dúb sig4 u4-dè ba-šub (4) KA.AL-im-aga-rí-na-ba-šé

Deep-rooted skyscrapers and bricks

(5) igi-zi ba-ši-bar (6)

17

(7) sag im-NI-du8 (8) sig4

ù-šub-ba mu-ni-gar-ra-ni (9) (10) du5-rí zi-ga-na (11) lugal dEn-[ki] n[a]m mu-[x-x-t]ar (12) [x x] mu-gar IGI [x x x] é-a ì-ku4 (REC 56) (13) pisan-ù-šub-ba-ta sig4 ba-ta-íl (14) men-kù an-né íl-la (15) sig4 mu-íl un-gá-na muDU (16) ÉREN-kù dUtu sag bal-e-dam (17) sig4-e é-šè sag íl-la-bi (18) áb-dNanna tùr-ba ÉREN.ÉREN-dam. ‘(17) (Gudea) put the blessed water in the frame of the brick mould. (18) For the ruler drums and kettledrums(?) accompanied an adab song. (19) He set up the appropriate brick stamp so that (the inscribed side) was upwards (?); (20) he brushed on honey, butter and cream(?); (21–22) he mixed ambergris and essences from all kinds of trees into a paste. (23) He raised the impeccable carrying-basket and set it before the mould. (24) Gudea put the clay in the mould, (25) he acted precisely as prescribed, (26) and behold, he succeeded in making a most beautiful brick for the house. (27) Meanwhile, all the bystanders (literally: lands) sprinkled oil, (28) sprinkled cedar essence, (XIX) (1–2) while he let his city and (the whole of) Lagaš (2) rejoice…(?) (3) He struck the brick mould: the brick emerged into the daylight. (4–5) He looked with complete satisfaction at the stamp (impression) on the clay…(6–7) he spread on it cypress essence and ambergris. (8–9) The sun god rejoiced over (Gudea’s) brick, which he had put in the mould (10) which rose up like a swelling river, (11)…‘King’ Enki (12)…(13) (Gudea) raised the brick out of the frame of the mould: (14–15) He carried the brick—a lovely tiara(?) which reached up to heaven—and went among his people. (16) …Utu…(17) as the (further) bricks amassed to make the house (literally: as they raised their heads to the house) (18) they were the cows of the moon god which shine in their pen’.37 However precisely we may have understood this difficult passage, we again see figurative language in the details: the first brick raised high from the mould is compared to a ‘lovely tiara(?)’, and the brick pile in moonlight (if our interpretation is correct) is associated by the poet with the cows of the moon god Nanna, and he simultaneously achieves the contrast with the sun god Utu (l. 16—the comparison there is incomprehensible to me). We would very much like to know whether the first brick had a quite specific and later recognisable place in the bonded wall, or having once been made and laid, disappeared in the anonymity of all the other bricks. The brick referred to in the passage just discussed bore a stamp impression. Obviously it must then have been baked. However, that does not prove that this particular brick was part of a special place, a foundation deposit container.38 But even if that was the case, there was more than one container and for each container more than only one brick. However it may have been, even if each first ‘auspicious’ brick was not identifiable later, that would not in itself deprive the brick of its significance as the embodiment of the whole building. We conclude the theme broached in our title without having exhausted it in the least, and we shall go no further into other architecturally-related comparisons in cuneiform texts, however fruitful that would be.39 Ancient Mesopotamian figurative language offers material for many more articles, books and dissertations. *

For advice about related academic areas I am very grateful to my Munich colleagues Gritli von Mitterwallner (India), F.Brunhölzl (medieval Europe), A.Hohlweg (Byzantium), H.G.Majer (medieval Islam), as well as G.M.Wickens in Toronto. This paper was translated from the German by Murray Mindlin.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

18

1

For wording and verification I am very grateful to Dr. Carel ter Haar (Munich). ziha boland-i bināya ki ġurafhāyi bihišt

2

zirif‘ atiš hama hastand mu‘ tarif Šaraf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, , 145 (ed. ‘Abbāsī, (Tehran, 1336 A.H./1957 A.D.). 3

Procopius, Buildings, I, i, 27; I, i, 46; I, i, 59; I, iv, 25; I, x, 12. Byzantine Mosaic Decorations, (London, 1947), 15. 5 Stella Kramrisch, The Hindu Temple, (Delhi, Varanasi, Patna, 1946; reprinted in 1976), I, 161, with n. 78. This work has proved to be an invaluable treasure trove of information about temple building and ritual. 6 Ibid., 16 1. 7 To my knowledge for the first time verified in the name of Aia(A)-kur-gal of Lagaš, where aia, ‘father’=Enlil. 8 Cf. RlA, VI, 368, ‘Kurgal’. W.Römer, SKIZ, 255, wanted to link the element kur with the secondary meaning ‘refuge’ (?) of the Akkadian šadû; cf. AHw. šadû 11 c, ‘Berg=Schutz, in ON’ (Old Babylonian and later). However, in view of the considerable temporal distance between Aia-kurgal and the late Old Babylonian period, this is improbable. 9 Cf. A.Falkenstein, ZA, 48 (1944), 87, with reference back to B.Landsberger/H.G.Güterbock, AfO, 12 (1937/9), 55 with n. 2; Å.W.Sjöberg/E.Bergmann, TCS, 3 (1969), 50. 10 Cf. R1A, IV, 519 f. 11 See also Temple Hymn No. 9 in Sjöberg/Bergmann (see n. 9), 24. 12 With this I do not want to add any new credence to the idea of the ‘Cosmic Mountain’. So far as Sumerian cosmology is concerned, this is a concept which Thorkild Jacobsen has refuted: JNES, 5 (1946), 141. 13 Cf. Jacobsen, JNES, 5, 136 f. 14 Literally ‘grown together with heaven and earth’. é-dim-gal-kalam-ma was also the name of the Ištaran temple in Der; see Temple Hymn No. 33 (cf. n. 9). 15 See n. 9. For nun, ‘deep’ (juxtaposed to ‘high’), see n. 18. 16 Cf. A.Falkenstein, SAHG, p. 135, No 31, 1.53; A.A.al-Fouadi, Enki’s Journey to Nippur (Dissertation, Philadelphia, 1969), 72, 1.53: Eriduki gissu-zu ab-šà-ga lá-a. 17 A.Berlin, Enmerkar and Ensuhkešdanna (1979), 38. 18 The conception of nun as ‘high’ as well as ‘deep’ (in the sense of the Latin altus) goes back to A.Cavigneaux. 19 In any case, when the foundations of a building are still (or again) situated at ground level and not on accumulated older levels of rubble or ruins. 20 E.g. Gudea, Cylinder A, XXII, 12–13: dEn-ki-da é-an-gur4-ra-ka šà mu-dì-ni-íb-kúš-ù, ‘(the building excavation) carries on an intimate conversation with Enki in the E-angura’. 21 Gudea, Cylinder A, XXII, 11: temen abzu-bi dim-gal ki-a mi-ni-si-si, ‘(Gudea) has rammed the foundation excavation (i.e. its Abzu) like great posts into the earth’. 22 J.Cooper, JCS, 33 (1981), 235; similarly, W.Römer, (see n. 23) whose work Cooper is reviewing there. 23 For the ‘partitur’ of these lines see W.H.P.Römer, Das Sumerische Kurzepos ‘Bilgameš und Akka’ (=AOAT 209/1, 1980), p28, 11. 33–34. Our translation is from Text I: bàd-gal bàd an4

an-né gar-ra-ni. né ki ús-sa, The latest discussion of the ergative and locative-terminative is in M.-L.Thomsen, The Sumerian Language (Mesopotamia vol. 10) (Copenhagen, 1984), 94–96, with Example 169 (p.96), Gudea, Cylinder B, IV, l: é-e dAsar-re šu-si ba-sá, ‘Asar put the house in order’; there both cases, marked with -e, appear next to each other in one and the same sentence. This

24

Deep-rooted skyscrapers and bricks

19

shows that in Gudea ergative and locative-terminative were considered two separate cases. This does not exclude a common origin; cf. n. 25. 25 A.Falkenstein, Das Sumerische (1959), p.39 (e), reckoned that the postposition -e of the locative-terminative was originally identical with the suffix of the ‘agentive’. Cf. with much comparative material: G.Steiner, ZDMG, 126 (1976), 234 f. 26 SAHG, 159. 27 E.g. ‘Lament for Ur’, AS, 12, 23, 1.48: sig4-Úriki-ma; cf. SAHG, 194. 28 Observe the ‘tense’ change from l.14 to l.15. 29 AS, 20 (1976), 72 f. 30 Not cited there (see n. 29) is, in my opinion, one of the most instructive places, ‘Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld’ (see the new edition of W.R.Sladek, dissertation, Baltimore, 1974), ll. 242–243: dingir

inim ga-mu-ra-an-du11, lú-ùlu

nam-zu-ne , ‘if you are gods, I want to direct the word to you, if you are humans, then let something be promised to you’, repeated ll. 269– 270:

inim [ga]-mu-re-d[u11] (M)//ga-mu[-ra-an-du11]-en-

nam ga-mu-ri-ib-tar (M)// ga-mu-ri-ib-tar-enzé-en (T), zé-en (T) ‘if you are gods…, if you are humans, then I shall promise you something’.

A‘determination of fate’ would not make sense here. Ereškigal grants a wish that she must fulfil, and Kurgara and Galatur ask for Inanna’s corpse to resurrect it. 31

Vol.I, 101–107. Ibid., 102, n. 7. 33 In making the comparison one must, however, note that the Mesopotamian building brick was usually unbaked. 34 Ibid., 102 f. 35 Ibid., 104. 36 Cf. Statue E, IV, l: lu ‘to be in several places simultaneously’ and similar cases (W.Heimpel, Tierbilder (Studia Pohl 2, 1968) 218, 222) could refer to the intensive search in different places; in this case the verb ‘to dig up’ could be inferred. On the question of the demarcation of lu from lugx(LUL), lu(-g), ‘living (of animals), grazing’, cf. P.Steinkeller, Studi epigrafici e linguistici 1 (1984), 9 and notes 19–21. Cf. also Statue E, III, 5–8 (ki-UD.UD) and F, II, 16–19 (ki-kù-ga). 37 The commentary must restrict itself here to the essentials. XVIII, 17: Cf. Statue C, II, 20–23: 32

pisan-ù-šub-ba-ka, giš , KA.AL-ka, ùri ba-mul, ‘he affixed a design to the frame of the brick mould; with the help (?) of the brick stamp he made (this design) appear clearly like a standard’ (cf. Statue E, III, 1–4; F, II, 12–16). The following is a shortened version of the passage Cylinder A, XIII, 16–23: (16) pisan-ù-šub-ba-šè máš ba-ši-nú (17) sig4 máš-e bípà (18) KA.AL-bi-šè igi-zi ba-ši-bar (19) sipa…nam-nun-na ì-gar (20) pisan-ù-šub-ba giš ni (21) KA.AL nam-nun-na mu-ni-gar-ra-ni (22) AN.IM.MI.MUŠEN šu-nirlugal-la-na-kam (23) urì-šè bí-mul. (16) ‘On the frame of the mould he made a kid lie down. (17) He performed the omen-kid sacrifice for the brick (literally: he called the brick into the kid). (18) He looked contentedly at the stamp (for the brick). (19) The shepherd…pressed it in deeply. (20) The design he had applied to the frame of the mould (21) (and) the deeply impressed stamp (impression)—(22) that was (in each case) the Anzu bird, the emblem of his Lord. (23) He made it appear clearly as on a standard’…

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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XVIII, 19: s[a]g im-mi-du8, literally: ‘he opened the head by it’— XVIII, 27: the meaning of kur-kur-re is inferred from the context; perhaps it refers to guests from near and far. XIX, 4: Reading du5-rí-na, according to M.Civil, JCS, 25 (1973), 173. To analyse KA.AL(ak) im-durin-a(k-)b(i-)a(k)-šè, i.e. ‘on the stamp (impression) of this clay-of-the-oven(?).’ This would of course assume that the brick had meanwhile been baked and that a stretch of time had passed between XIX, 2 and 3. Or should it after all be read àga-rí(-n)? XIX, 11: Left untranslated, because Enki is not in the ergative, as would be expected if it were the subject for nam-tar. Our translations differ quite often from versions offered by R.S.Ellis in Foundation Deposits in Ancient Mesopotamia (YNER 2, 1968), 171 f. 38

Whilst foundation deposits are dealt with thoroughly in the work by R.S.Ellis (n. 37), there is not, to my knowledge, any comprehensive survey of the foundation deposit containers themselves. According to S.A.Rashid, RlA, III, 657 r., the earliest attested brick-built container, found in Kišh, can be assigned to the Early Dynastic period (‘Ur I’). 39 Among others, the doors and gates of temples with their apotropaic figures; the dark, cool inner rooms; the courtyards and corridors… cf. Edzard in Le Temple et le Culte (=CRRA, 20/1972, 1975), 156–163: ‘Die Einrichtung eines Tempels im älteren Babylonien. Philologische Aspekte’.

Devotion: The Languages of Religion and Love W.G.Lambert Several varieties of figurative language can be distinguished. First, there is the language of emotion, real or pretended, which brings forth verbal expressions beyond the literal. It is thought that the literal does not do justice to the strength of the emotion. Then there is figurative language used to express things beyond our experience or understanding. Religion and magic are spheres where the claimed reality often cannot be expressed in simple, literal terms, though caution is required when considering such phenomena from other or earlier civilizations. What is not literal to us might have been taken as literal by them. Finally there is the figurative language which has become so only as a result of changing customs and circumstances. New York City’s Hacking Authority regulated horse-drawn vehicles when its name was coined, but when the internal combustion engine replaced horses as the means of propelling vehicles for public hire the old name stuck and became metaphorical. Our own venture into figurative language deliberately takes in two aspects of one theme. Devotion is essentially submission to a higher being or cause, which draws its devotees either by its pure attractiveness, or because of its infinitely greater power and other virtues. The attraction may have both emotional and rational bases. In true love one is drawn and submits for, perhaps, a variety of reasons. Fear and dread of the sublime may be mingled with an urge to associate with the inadequately known and indirectly experienced so as to learn more. Religious devotion differs in the greater actual remoteness of the drawing power. It does not have the same physical presence and physical accessibility as a loved one, and the particular emotions evoked are correspondingly different. But in general there is a close similarity. We shall not attempt an exhaustive treatment of this topic in Sumerian, Babylonian and Assyrian civilizations, since that would result in a mass of minutiae more confusing than clarifying the subject. Rather a selection from the major themes will best illustrate the nature of the surviving phenomena. For religion there is a superabundance of evidence (hymns, prayers, myths, prescriptions for rituals) and virtually every kind of text has its religious elements, such as blessings invoked on the recipients of letters. For love the quantity is much less, and much of the literary material is in fact concerned with religion: religious love poetry. The biggest surviving corpus is the Sumerian Dumuzi (Tammuz) texts, which often concern amatory feelings between Dumuzi and Inanna (Ištar in Babylono-Assyrian). While there has been a succession of publications, by H.Zimmern,1 M.Witzel,2 C.Frank,3 S.N.Kramer4 and T.Jacobsen,5 there is still no adequate and reliable corpus to which one may turn, though Jacobsen has such a work in preparation. The tablets on which the texts are preserved all date from the second and first millennia, but no doubt the texts are older, though perhaps in part recast over the centuries. Jacobsen even uses them as evidence for

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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the spiritual life of the fourth millenium B.C.6 The genre is often of high literary calibre, though often difficult for us to understand because of philological problems and ideological deficiencies on our part. It also influenced other literary productions, both Sumerian and Akkadian, including what we would consider secular love poetry. The distinction between sacred and secular in this matter, as in others, is not fully valid for the ancient world, since Inanna/Ištar was goddess of love, and all human love is accordingly an expression of the attribute of this goddess. In Akkadian there is no similarly large genre, but the surviving material is varied. The oldest piece is an incantation designed to help a male lover catch his desired young lady.7 The tablet was excavated in the town of Kish, and probably dates to the latter part of the Old Akkadian dynasty, c. 2200 B.C. The mixture of narration and dialogue relates it very directly to the general Near Eastern love poetry tradition, as does its phraseology. From Old Babylonian times there is an amatory dialogue first published by W.vonSoden in 1950 under the title ‘A Dialogue of Hammurabi and a Woman’,8 in which, according to the editor, this famous king of Babylon was urging a young woman to marry his son. He correctly understood that the text is secular love poetry, but otherwise the general sense was totally misunderstood. A second edition by Moshe Held in 1961,9 entitled ‘A Faithful Lover in an Old Babylonian Dialogue’, correctly saw that the lovers are an anonymous young man and young woman, while the only mention of Hammurabi occurs in an oath formula: at-ma-ki-im dna-na-a-a ù I swear to you by Nanaya and king Hammurabi This at least implies a fixed date of composition. The language is remarkable for its lack of the figurative generally. The most daring item is the use of ‘fruit’ (see below). Next comes a text mentioning , Hammurabi’s grandson, in which the god Mu’ati engages in an amorous dialogue with the goddess Nanaya, and a narrator (the author?) also speaks.10 The divine pair are variants of Tammuz and Ištar. The language is more flowery than that of the secular dialogue from Hammurabi’s reign. A large Middle Assyrian tablet (c. 1110 B.C.) lists incipits of a large number of both Sumerian and Babylonian texts, some clearly amatory.11 In only one case is the whole (or substantially the whole) text of one of these pieces preserved, recently published by J.A.Black in JAOS, 103 (1983), 25ff. It is a Babylonian Tammuz-Ištar text with both narrative and dialogue, and occasionally flowery wording. It is difficult to judge whether this one text (and still more the others known only from their incipits) is of Old Babylonian or Middle Babylonian origin. The tablet of the one is Middle Babylonian. Ištar’s actual love-making is described in Tablet VI of the standard late version of the Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh (edited in the Middle Babylonian period), with appropriate language, though scant in extent. In contrast the incantations, both Sumerian and Akkadian, for reviving sexual vigour: šà.zi.ga=nīš libbi,13 offer little suited to our purposes. The most striking love poetry for boldness of expression occurs in what we have called the ‘Love Lyrics’, texts for recitation in the rites of Ištar of Babylon.14 To the present writer it seems that they could not be older than Middle Babylonian, but our knowledge of Old Babylonian literature is so limited that there can be no certainty. A

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certainly Late Assyrian text is the dialogue between Nabû and Tašmētum, TIM, IX, 54, with language as flowery as the Love Lyrics. In addition to this basic material there are of course odd words and phrases scattered throughout the Sumero-Babylonian literary corpus that are relevant. Outside Mesopotamia the Hebrew Song of Songs is highly relevant, and clearly belongs to the same phraseological tradition as the Sumero-Babylonian texts, but the quite extensive ancient Egyptian love poetry, while expressing the same emotions, is not nearly so closely related, and will not be used here. Our plan is to select particular groups and some individual figurative terms and conceptions, and by comparison of passages to show something of their usages and meanings. In the texts being laid under contribution the commonest semantic group is that of gardens, fruits and salads. There were two literal uses of terms from this group in ancient love-making. First, a garden was often, it appears, a preferred venue for lovers. Secondly, particular fruits were considered to have aphrodisiac properties, and whether for this reason or not, were considered appropriate love gifts. As random examples, note the section of the Babylonian Love Lyrics in which Marduk is described as surrounded by trees full of birds,15 and the Hebrew Song of Songs speaks of lovers making their way to a garden of nut trees, to vines, pomegranate trees, and so on (6:11, 7:11–12, etc.) It is easy to understand the aesthetic attraction of a garden, with its beauty and smells, also the practical advantages of bushes and plants to screen the lovers from vulgar eyes. The aphrodisiac quality of certain fruits is asserted in a šaziga incantation, which speaks of the ‘apple’ and pomegranate as beloved of Ištar, who creates potency. The following ritual prescribes that the woman shall suck the juice of an ‘apple’ or pomegranate, after which she will be able to make love.16 In the Song of Songs the female lover wishes to give her beloved mulled wine and fresh pomegranate juice (8:2). The custom of the man giving certain fruits as a preliminary to intercourse can reasonably be deduced from the Sumerian myth Enki and

, where Uttu, on the suggestion of

, asks and gets from Enki cucumbers (úkuš), ‘apples’ and grapes (gišgeštin) 17 before agreeing to intercourse. Gardens and their produce were, however, the basis of much figurative language about love quite apart from their practical relevance.18 In the Late Assyrian dialogue the goddess Tašmētum says to Nabû, her spouse: qa-ta-pu

ša

in-bi-ka

īnāII-a-a

li-mu-ra…

TIM IX 54 rev. 20–21 cf. 30–31 May my eyes see the plucking of your fruits, May my ears ever hear the twittering of your birds. While the garden here could be literal, the ‘plucking of fruit’ could well have a double entendre, though the ‘twittering of birds’ less easily. This ambivalence is a salutary caution. The ancients’ figurative language is not necessarily exact as to its interpretation. As with some modern poets, pictures are built up from words with much switching from literal to figurative and vice versa, and with much ambivalence in the process. A precise meaning is not necessarily intended. The commonest term here is ‘fruit’ (inbū, normally

Figurative language in the ancient near east

24

used in the plural), and even the staid language of the Old Babylonian secular love dialogue employs it. He says, ‘I have removed my fruit as though it were 3600 leagues distant’ (ki-ma ša-ar bi-ri in-bi-ia ur-ti-iq: iii 10), to which she replies, ‘I seek your fruit,’ inand continues in parallel, ‘My lord, I am deprived of [your] love!’ bi-[ka], be-lí zu-um-ma-a-ku ra-am-[ka]: iii 11–12). In the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic VI 7–9 Ištar addresses the hero as follows: al-kám-ma dgilgameš lu-ú in-bi-ka ia-a-ši qa-a-šu qí-šam-ma at-ta lu-ú mu-te-ma ana-ku lu-ú áš-šá-at-ka Come, Gilgamesh, you be the groom, Give me now your fruit! You be my husband, I will be your wife.18a An Old Babylonian hymn naming Ammi-ditana in an extra final strophe praises the goddess Ištar in the following words: ša-at/iš8-tár za-a’-na-at in-bi mi-ki-a-am ù ku-uz-ba-am RA, 22 (1925), 170, 5–6=7–8 She/Goddess of joy, clothed with love, Adorned with fruit, cosmetics and sex-appeal. While the ‘love’ and ‘sex-appeal’ are abstract, the cosmetics were no doubt conceived literally. The ‘fruit’ here could be either, since in addition to figurative uses just quoted, a statue of Ištar carried ‘nineteen fruits of gold’ (19 : W.F.Leemans, SLB, I/1, 1, 3) along with other ornaments. Another Ištar hymn from ate copies calls her:

KAR, 357, 28=W.Farber, Beschwörungsrituale an Ištar und Dumuzi, 185, cf. 202 Mistress of fruit and The is something worn, explained as ‘belt’ (me-sír-ru) in the ancient synonym list Malku=šarru, II, 230. It can have military associations, and Ištar is a warrior, but in Lú =ša, IV, 195–196:

MSL, XII, 135 kuš. lá means ‘belt’ kuš.lá means ‘something belonging to a prostitute’.

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It is explained in a way better matching the metaphorical ‘fruit’. The only such use of ‘fruit’ in the singular we have noted is Maqlû III, 9=12, where the sorceress takes away the young lady’s ‘fruit’ (i-ni-ib-šá), parallel to the young man’s virility (du-us-su). The meaning of the term in these contexts has been disputed hitherto. W.von Soden, AHw sub voce, followed by W.Farber, op. cit., 202, takes it as ‘sexual potency’, but against this idea it must be noted that in none of the contexts is this meaning positively required, and in the incantations and rituals for restoring lost sexual potency, so far as preserved, inbū never occurs in this usage, though the incantations use very flowery language. Also the development of this proposed meaning does not explain itself. The only other figurative meaning of inbu is ‘offspring’, ‘child’ (cf. the Hebrew perî ‘fruit of the womb’), which is an easily understood and totally separate development. It is also seen in the title of the moon god Sîn: inbu bēl ‘Fruit, lord of the new month’. The new moon is evidence of self-begettal: the child of the old moon of last month. The CAD does not completely exclude the concept of potency, but renders ‘(sexual) attractiveness and power’, which we shall consider later. The fruit-producing trees are also found in ancient Near Eastern love poetry. In the Song of Songs 2.3–4 the male lover is so described:

Like an ‘apple’ tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved among the young men. Longingly I rested in his shade, and his fruit was sweet to my palate. Similarly in a late copy of an Ištar-Tammuz text:19 41 šul mu.ud.na.mu.úr gìr.x.ra.mu.[d]è

42

20 x si.ga

43 šul mu.ud.na.{mu} èm ki mu.ni?.na.ág 44 dinannana zú.lum.ma an.sur.gim nunuz? gúr.rù.e d iš-tar šá ki-ma sis-sin-na su-lu-pu ár-mu-šú 45 ki.sikil! dinannana èm ki mu.ni?.na.ág ar-da-ti diš-tar ki-a-am MIN 46 mu.ud.na.<mu> geštin.gim! pa si.ga.mèn

Figurative language in the ancient near east

26

TCL, 15, pl.xlviii

41 As I go to the young man, my spouse, 42 For my spouse I fill the orchard as if with ‘apples’. 43 Young man, so love the young lady. 44 Inanna, who is like a spadix covered with dates, 45 So love the young lady Inanna. 46 For my spouse I am like a vine sprouting with many shoots. In yet another Sumerian text known from an Old Babylonian copy Inanna describes Dumuzi as follows:

66 67 giškiri6 MI.edin.na.gú.gar.gar.ra.na ša6 .ga.AMA.na.mu 68 69 TCL, 15, pl. lvi, cf. PAPS, 107, 508, 9, 1–4

66 He flourishes, he flourishes, he is lettuce, well watered, 67 My…garden… 68 My barley, growing luxuriantly large in its furrows, he is lettuce, well watered, 69 My ‘apple’ tree which bears fruit at its tip, he is a garden, well watered. Here a whole range of metaphors from the plant kingdom is used. The fruit conventionally translated ‘apple’ in Sumerian, Akkadian and Hebrew is probably wrongly so rendered. The Sumerian corresponding Akkadian

(written MA-gunû: MA is ‘fig’), and the

, was first rendered ‘apple’ by F.Hommel from the

assumed cognate Syriac rā (see A.Boissier, Choix, II, 70). That the two words are cognate is not beyond question, and even if they are, the meaning need not be identical. The main difficulty is that, while in art from ancient Mesopotamia some fruits, for example pomegranates, grapes and figs, are easily identified, apples are nowhere certainly to be found.21 Also note that P.Attinger in ZA, 74 (1984), 22, 166 renders

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by ‘des abricots (?)’. The Hebrew is traditionally rendered ‘apple’, but the matter is not completely clear because the Greek mēlon can be used of other tree-fruits also, and while translators of the Bible have often persisted in using ‘apple’, writers on historical botany have long been pointing out that ‘apple’ is unlikely, though they have been unable to agree on an alternative. The same applies to the rare occurrences of the word in ancient Egyptian, where too the apple is conspicuously absent from art.22 From this brief survey of fruity language in love poetry we suggest that the luscious, natural attractiveness of fruit is the essential factor, and one should not seek too precise an application of the various terms to particular things or aspects of human (and divine) love. Use of ‘honey’ and other terms for sweetness is much the same. They convey the sense of pleasure which they bring, without creating any precise allegory. Note:

S.N.Kramer et al., Belleten, 16 (1952), 362, 2=4 Your sex-appeal is something sweet, it is honey, very sweet. These words are addressed by Inanna to Šu-Sîn, king of the third dynasty or Ur, as though he were an incarnation of Dumuzi, and the theme of sweetness is repeated throughout the poem, and occurs in other cognate Sumerian texts. In Akkadian note: mu-ù’-a-tis du-uš-šu-pu da-du-ú-ka di-iš-pa i-še-e[b-bi ku-zu]-ub ra-mi-ka W.G.Lambert, MIO, 12 (1966), 48 9=10 Muati, passion for you is sweet, The appeal of your love is sated with honey. The goddess Nanai is speaking, and she and Muati form a pair parallel to Inanna and Dumuzi. ‘Plough’ in contrast is fully specific in its figurative use in love poetry. The following lines are excerpted from an Old Babylonian copy of a Dumuzi-Inanna text in which the goddess is praising her vulva:

ii 26 ki.sikil.mèn a.ba.a ur11.ru.a.bi I, a maid, who will plough it? ii 29 30 31 [gal4.la].gá ur11.ru mu.lu šà.ab.gá.kam “Goddess, the king will plough it for you, Dumuzi the king will plough it for you!”

Figurative language in the ancient near east

28

“Plough my [vulva], my beloved.” S.N.Kramer, PAPS, 107, 505 In editing another text of the same type and period Kramer commented that ‘the obscure references to ploughing the šuba23 stones (lines 25ff.) and the na-šuba-stones are probably metaphorical expressions for sexual intercourse’ (op. cit. 495), a point of view which we accept in principle. B.Alster noted a variant duplicate of the relevant lines, PRAK, II C 94 (RA, 67 (1973), 109), which helps with one expression, but does not itself solve the other problems. However, the whole passage is now much clearer, and save for one single word can be translated with confidence:

31 d[am.a.ni nu.u8.gig.ed]ama.ušumgal.an.na.ra gù mu.na.dé.e 32 na4šub[a ur11].ru na4š[u]ba ur11.ru a.ba.a mu.n[a].ur11.ru 33 dama.ušumgal.[an.n]a na[4šuba u]r11.ru a.ba.a mu.na.ur11.ru 34 na4šuba.[nan]a4šu[ba.na] di4.di4.bi ši.pa.ág me.ne.a (v.l.me.ni.[a]) 35 na4šuba.na na4šu[ba.na] gal.gal.bi gaba.kù me.ne.a (v.l. me.ni.a) 36 dama.ušumgal.an.na nu.u8.gig.ra inim mu.ni.ib.gi4.gi4 37 nu.u8.gig.ga.àm dam.mu nu.u8.gig.ga.àm e.ne.er mu.na.ur11.ru 38 kù.dinanna.ke4 nu.bar.ra e.ne.er mu.na.ur11.ru 39 na4šuba.na.ke4 na4šuba.na.ke4 na4šuba.na ur11.ru 40 dama.ušumgal.an.na.ke4 na4šuba.na.ke4 na4šuba.na ur11.ru 41 na4šuba ur11.ru na4šuba ur11.[ru] a.ba.a mu.na.ur11.ru 42 dama.ušumgal.an.na na4šuba ur11.ru a.ba.a mu.na.ur11.ru PAPS, 107, 581

31 [His wife, the holy one], speaks to Amaušumgalanna, 32 Plough the gemstones, plough the gemstones. Who will plough them for her? 33 Amaušumgalanna, plough [the gemstones]. Who will plough them for her? 34 Of her gemstones, of her gemstones, the little ones surround(?) (her) throat. 35 Of her gemstones, of her gemstones, the big ones surround(?) (her) pure breast.

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36 Amaušumgalanna replies to the holy one, 37 For the holy one, my wife, for the holy one, he will plough them. 38 For pure Inanna, the sacrosanct one, he will plough them. 39 You of her gemstones, you of her gemstones, plough her gemstones. 40 Amaušumgalanna of her gemstones, plough her gemstones. 41 Plough the gemstones, plough the gemstones. Who will plough them for her? 42 Amaušumgalanna, plough the gemstones. Who will plough them for her? The structure of the passage is clear. Lines 31 and 36 are standard epic introductions of direct speech, and the rest is made up of couplets, though 32–33, the first part of Inanna’s speech to Dumuzi, is identical with 41–42, apparently part of Dumuzi’s reply. Kramer (op. cit. 495) already observed that the third person element .na. in lines 32, 33, 41 and 42 should refer to Inanna, and so seems wrong. While this is a valid observation, we note the grammatical irregularity of the absence of .ke4 on the subject of 1.36, the misused .ke4 in 1.38, twice in 39 and twice in 40 also, and šuba.na for šuba.ni in 39 and 40. This kind of thing is well known in the less well written Sumerian texts, see Kramer, op. cit. 516 n. 52. However, the third person elements and the repeated couplet may have a different explanation. The following lines refer to Dumuzi’s beard of lapis lazuli, so presumably to a statue of the god. It is well known that statues of Inanna were adorned with jewellery, so the small stones referred to made up a necklace and the large ones a pectoral. Once it is accepted that the text is dealing with statues of Inanna and Dumuzi, not with their persons in their real physical presence, then the consistent third person elements in 32, 33, 41 and 42, and the (to us) impossible repetition of the couplet can be explained as words recited by priestly figures in the course of a ritual, which the compiler has not altered to suit his mythical text. In detail note: 34. ši.(pa.ág) is of course Emesal for zi=napištu (CAD sub voce). 38. nu.bar.(ra) (=kulmašītu) is paired with nu.gig in lists and bilinguals cited by CAD under kulmašītu and qadištu. 34–35. ‘Small’ and ‘large’ šuba stones also occur in lists: MSL X 9 163–4, etc. me.ne/ni.a is provisionally taken as phonetic Emesal for mu.nigin.àm. Note the attested pronunciations of NIGIN: nimi/er, nigi, ninni, nin, rin apud CAD lamû, and compare the rendering of inim. gar in the Akkadian loan i/egirrû. The explanation of this ploughing motif comes from the later Akkadian Love Lyrics, where, in a highly erotic but incomplete passage Marduk speaks, mentioning ‘your (fem.) vulva’ (re-mi-ki) ten times, and once: it-tu-ú-a ì.giš l[u-up-pi-ti] UnDiv 112 ii 5 [Rub(?)] my seeder plough with oil.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

30

The seeder plough is thus a metaphor for the penis, and both the Sumerian nínda and its loan in Akkadian ittû have a meaning ‘father’, a further development, see RA, 76 (1982), 94. This fully explains ploughing the vulva, but not ploughing the gemstones. That is explained by the occurrence of vulva-shaped beads in the adornment of statues of Ištar. Such an Old Babylonian inventory lists one vulva of gold and eight of silver (1 gal4.la , 8 gal4.la : W.F.Leemans, SLB, I01, 1ff. 2 and 26), while two rituals prescribe the dedicating to Ištar of ‘a lapis vulva and a golden star’ (

MUL-ti guškin: W.Farber, op. cit. 128 8) and ‘a vulva of lapis and

[M]UL-tú: op. cit. 185 4 and note on 157f.). a star’ ( Thus this idiom is explicitly erotic: the seeder plough is a figure of the penis which fecundates the vulva. But the stone beads worn by Inanna/Ištar raise questions about what actually happened in the rites. It is generally assumed that actual intercourse took place between the ruler and a priestess, who so impersonated Dumuzi and Inanna. But this text quoted with its mention of large beads and small beads to be ploughed seems to be referring to a symbolism lacking in literal substance. Intercourse may nevertheless have taken place during the rites, but this text does not support the idea. Another image of interest here occurs in the Babylonian Love Lyrics. Marduk, in infatuation for Ištar of Babylon, exclaims:

maš-ku naq-lat ki-ma di-q[a-ri] UnDiv 120 B 15–16 She was white, like a gecko, Her skin was burnt, like a pot. The second word of the second line quoted is difficult, but since nak-lat ‘she was well made’ is improbable, naqlât ‘burnt’ is at least possible when the simile ‘like a pot’ can be explained from Maqlû III, 116 (cf. III, 172): a-leq-qa-kim-ma ša utūni dik-mi-nu ša diqāri I will take against you slag from a kiln, soot from a pot. The diqāru here is clearly a cooking pot which gets coated with soot from the fire, so black colour is implied, which, in the Love Lyrics, forms a suitable (if to us perhaps illogical) contrast to ‘white’ of the preceding line. Dark skin as a mark of beauty may occur in the Hebrew Song of Songs 1.5: literally ‘I am black and comely’, which can equally be rendered ‘I am black but/yet comely’. The two interpretations are of course contradictory, the first implying that the blackness is a mark of comeliness, the other that despite the blackness she is comely. The Love Lyrics support the first, but more evidence is needed. Finally, lovers can be so moved that they see the architecture and furniture participating in the welcome (or grief) over the beloved. Ištar, in proposing marriage to Gilgamesh, promises:

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a-na bīti-ni i-na e-re-bi-ka sip-pu a-rat-tu-ú li-na-áš-ši-qu šēpīII-ka VI 14–15 When you enter our house, May threshold and throne kiss your feet! The Middle Babylonian copy of the Babylonian Tammuz-Ištar text says of the former: e-re-bu-uk-ka sik-ku-ru li-ri-šu-kum-ma dal-tum ra-ma-ni-ši-ma li-ip-pe-ta-[kum]-ma JAOS, 103 (1983), 30 6–7 At your entering may the bolts rejoice over you, May the door open [for you] of its own accord! The Middle Babylonian lament over the destruction of the shrine declares: [i-dam-m]a-am ma-áš-ta-qú i-ba-ak-ki ur-šu [ša i]-na lib-bi ni-te-ep-pu-šu ši-pir kal-lu-ti [ša] i-na lib-bi ni-te-ep-pu-šu ši-pir tar-ta-mi24 MIO, 12 (1966), 54, 54, rev. 12–16 The shrine laments, the bedroom weeps, Wherein we used to perform the wedding rites. The courtyard is in grief, the storehouses sob, Wherein we used to perform the rites of mutual love. The results of this brief presentation of some of the imagery of love poetry can be checked by comparison with the much larger surviving quantity of language expressing religious devotion. First, then, fruits and gardens. Whether there were cultic gardens in Sumer and Babylon for religious devotions is a question in need of careful investigation which cannot be undertaken here. However, the lusciousness of fruit and the sweetness of honey do belong to religious language: [z]a-ma-ar dbé-le-et-ì-lí a-za-ma-ar 25 qú-ra-du ši-me-a

26

CT, 15, li 1–7 (Old Babylonian hymn) I will sing a song of Bēlet-ilī, Pay attention, comrades; listen, warriors!

Figurative language in the ancient near east

32

To sing of Mamma is sweeter than honey or grapes, Sweeter than honey or grapes, Sweeter than…and ‘apples’, Than the fat of pure butter, Sweeter than…and ‘apples’. This confirms, we suggest, our disinclination to interpret ‘fruit’ etc. in the language of love as a figure for some particular physical aspect of love, while the absence of ‘ploughing’ and ‘ploughs’ as metaphors for ordinary religious devotions similarly confirms the literal anatomical interpretation proposed here. However, the participation of architecture in the mood of rituals of a usual kind is attested:

V R 65 ii 15–17(Nabonidus) When you (Šamaš) enter Ebabbarra…may the gates, entrances, cellas and platforms rejoice in your presence and exult over you as over… The Hebrew Psalter similarly offers:

Lift your heads, gates! Lift yourselves up, everlasting doors, That the glorious king may enter. Psalm 24.7=9 There is, however, one aspect of religious devotion which seems to be lacking from ancient Near Eastern love poetry, namely abject submission. Note how one devotee addresses his god:

ki-i mu-ra-ni dtu-tu a-la-su-um ur-ki-[ka] BMS, 18, 11–12 (prayer)

I will run after you like a puppy, Tutu. This attitude is also attested by the cynic in the Dialogue of Pessimism, who presents an anti-religious view:

ila tu-lam-mad-su-ma ki-i kalbi arki-ka it-ta-na-lak BWL, 148, 60

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You can teach your god to run after you like a dog. A similar subservience is implied in the line immediately preceding BMS, 18, 11–12:

BMS, 18, 9–10

I grasp your hem like a courtier. (See also other similar passages for qanna and sissikta kullu apud CAD qannu B.) While the explicit simile here alludes to the courtier’s obsequiousness, one may suspect that the idiom arose from the dependence of a young child on its parents, and its actually holding on to its mother’s or father’s skirts. In European love poetry the man will often declare his willingness to abase himself in order to win the hand of his beloved, and so it is all the more remarkable that, despite the parallel phenomenon in ancient Near Eastern religious devotion, it is lacking from the love poetry of the same civilizations. One may speculate that the relations between the sexes were so understood that no man would openly confess to servility in his desire for a wife. Or one may wonder whether the genuine equality of Dumuzi and Inanna in the Sumerian texts resulted in this literary tradition’s not accepting male self-abasement as fitting, while the European tradition was based more on real life in which men were socially more equal than women so that a professed inversion of roles could be relied upon to achieve the desired end. Whatever the answer, this very cursory introduction to figurative language, especially in Akkadian and Sumerian literature, at least reveals the potential of such study. Fuller and more sure understanding of the ancient texts will certainly come from it. 1

H.Zimmern, Sumerisch-babylonische Tamūzlieder (Berichte über die Verhandlungen der Königlich Sächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig, Philologisch-historische Klasse, 59, Band (1907) 201–252). 2 M.Witzel, Tammuz-Liturgien und verwandtes (1935). 3 C.Frank, Kultlieder aus dem Ischtar-Tamūz-Kreis (1939). 4 S.N.Kramer, PAPS, 107 (1963), 485–527; The Sacred Marriage Rite (1969); French edition by J.Bottéro: Le Mariage sacré (1983). 5 T.Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness (1976), ch. 2. 6 T.Jacobsen, loc. cit. 7 J.and A.Westenholz, Or., 46 (1977), 198–219. This edition marks a very great improvement on previous attempts at this difficult text, but is not of course final. We make the following suggestions: 4. Why not restore sà-qì-[su/ki]? 5. The translation ‘in fragrance of incense’ is much too free for (literally) ‘spittle of (the specific tree kanaktu)’, and if the exudation of this tree, like that of many other trees, solidified in the air, then 11. 10–11 can be rendered: ‘you scraped off the gum of the kanaktu-tree.’ 12–16. A parallel has just been published in an OB tablet from Isin of mostly Akkadian secular love incantations: C.Wilcke, ZA, 75 (1985), 188ff. As a group they have little figurative language and nothing that requires changes to the body of the present article. However, the following passage is relevant to the Old Akkadian incantation, as shown below:

Figurative language in the ancient near east

34

Or. 46 201 12–16 uk-ta-as-sí-i-ka i-na pî-ia ša-ra-a-tim i-na ú-ri-ia ša ši-i-na-tim i-na ú-ri-ia ša ši-i-na-tim ZA 75, 198, 16–19

I have seized your spittle-laden mouth, I have bound you with my breathladen mouth, I have seized your colourful eyes, with my urine-yielding genitals, I have seized your urine-yielding genitals, with my spittle-laden mouth, with my urine-yielding genitals. The authors Westenholz took ru-GU-tim as ‘distant things’ from ‘spittle-laden’ is obviously right for ‘mouth’. The difficulty in the OAkk text is that it writes the singular ‘spittle’ but the plural ru-ga-tim. There is both a grammatical and an orthographic solution. Interchange of and k in Akkadian is well known though not common, but the question is whether the positional difference of the consonant as between and rukātim explains why the change would note that this consonant was originally gayin, as in Arabic, so that GA could be used for ga, as the Greek gamma is used for the Semitic gayin in the LXX, while was used for ug. Whatever the correct solution, the meaning is not in doubt. The Westenholzs’ ‘your vulva stinking with urine’ is unacceptable for its capricious insertion of ‘stinking and lack of parallels to the abrupt change of sentiment it presents. Wilcke (p. 206) rightly supports E.Reiner’s ‘woher der Urin kommt’. However, Wilcke’s own ‘(mit meinem) haarigen (Munde)’ (=ša ša-ra-a-tim) is impossible, because

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though a man’s facial hair may result in a hairy mouth, the woman speaks these words! Thus šāru ‘wind, breath’ is required, though it is only rarely feminine in the plural. 22–24. kī and ì-tù-ru must of course be read with all four pairs of animals, and not with the first only. In view of the parallel im.ma.an.nigin.e to ì-tù-ru quoted on p. 215, it seems best to take ì-tù-ru from one ordinary Akkadian târu (=nigin!), used in a meaning under Sumerian influence, rather than to invent an otherwise unattested Akkadian verb. The Semitic cognate used to explain si-ir-GU-a in 25 is extremely whimsical, and that similarly used to explain ZA-wa-ar-in 35–36 is perhaps more plausible, but far from certain. Are ‘necks’ put together elsewhere in Sumero-Akkadian love poetry? 29. pu-ti-su is surely as possible as bu-dì-su. The strophic arrangement of the whole poem on p. 202 is advanced as ‘tentative and sometimes arbitrary’, and the present writer would make a totally different one based on the fixed line divisions of later poetry, with some difference for the early date of this piece. 8

ZA, 49 (1950), 151–194. JCS, 15 (1961), 1–26 and 16 (1962), 37–39. 10 W.G.Lambert, MIO, 12 (1966), 41–51. 11 KAR 158, edited by E.Ebeling, BBK I/3. 12 W.G.Lambert, RA 77 (1983), 190–191 has added some extra observations. 13 R.D.Biggs, Šà.zi.ga. Ancient Mesopotamian Potency Incantations. 14 W.G.Lambert, UnDiv 98–135. 15 UnDiv, 118, III, 4–11. 16 R.D.Biggs, op. cit., 70, 1–10. 17 P.Attinger, ZA, 74 (1984), 20, 148–150; 22, 175–177. 18 Note that the Latin hortus is used for the female genitals. 18a Cf. also RA, 65, 126. 18 The original tablet has unfortunately turned to dust, so cannot be collated. There is a (partial?) duplicate in 2N-T 345, which has not been seen. As copied, the passage is full of doubtful and difficult details. 9

20

For this pair of signs see Diri VI E 27 (JAOS, 65, 224, 28=CAD

C, where,

however, it should surely go under A). E.g. E.Bleibtreu, in her Die Flora der neuassyrischen Reliefs, finds evidence for apples and apple trees only in texts according to A.Salonen (pp. 16–17) and freely admits on p. 187 the lack of any certain depictions of apples. 22 W.J.Darby et al., Food, The Gift of Osiris, II, 697–699. 23 The lack of na4 in PRAK II C 94 shows that šuba here is the noun (= Akk. šubû), which in origin was presumably a Sumerian borrowing from the Semitic šūpûm ‘shining’ (note the other Akkadian renderings of šuba) with the ending -a well known from the earliest Semitic loans in Sumerian. This is confirmed by the Ras Shamra gloss to the Sumerian: ša.bi (MSL, X, 42, 126), and its Akkadian equivalent ša-bu, since the -a is acceptable dialectal Akkadian, cf. the Late Assyrian šāpû (R.Frankena, Tākultu, 6, iv, 9). 21

Figurative language in the ancient near east

36

24

Von Soden, AHw 1332, derives this and another passage from ratā-mu, a verb possibly meaning ‘whisper’ (AHw 963), though only known from an incomplete lexical occurrence ([i-s]i-iš A x IGI=ra-ta-[MSL XIV 206 149), which could equally be restored ra-ta-[tu]. Though a nominal form with both a prefixed and infixed t is so far unknown, a derivation of tartāmū from râmu ‘love’ fits the contexts better. The other one, RA, 22, 172, 17–18: ta-arta-mi…te-be-el ši-i-ma ‘She (Ištar) rules…mutual love,’ occurs in an Ištar hymn. Cf. murtâmū ‘lovers’ apud CAD.

25

We take this form from or a variant, see JSS, 27 (1983), 284 ad 1439, and note already the comments of W.H. Ph. Römer, Die Welt des Orients, 4(1967), 21. 26 The ordinary Akkadian -ma on a noun should serve only for emphasis, which seems most unlikely here and in the repetition two lines below. Thus we venture to ask whether it could not be a survival from the original copula wa, attested in Eblaite and once in an Old Assyrian copy of an incantation (see the author, in L.Cagni (ed.), La Lingua di Ebla, 157f,). m for etymological w is rarely attested in Old Babylonian times (W.von Soden, GAG § 21 c). There is unfortunately no other sure case of the copula preserved on the tablet, since ù in i 3– 4 can be ‘or’, as we have taken it.

‘Dying Tablets’ and ‘Hungry Silver’ Elements of Figurative Language in Akkadian Commercial Terminology K.R.Veenhof Trade is old in Mesopotamia. The absence of raw materials in the soil of the alluvial plain and the possibilities of trading agricultural surpluses and products of craftsmanship stimulated commercial activity at an early date. Traders already occur in records of the Early Dynastic period, also in lists of professions (šab.gal, ga.eš8, dam.gàr). Textual evidence on their activities during the older periods, however, is rather limited and when it becomes more abundant is almost exclusively of an administrative nature, consisting of lists, records and balanced accounts.1 Only a few letters provide us with bits of descriptive information for the periods before ca. 2000 B.C. which marks the end of the Ur III period. Thus we do know a great variety of articles of trade and are familiar with some accounting terminology, the so-called ledger-headings of the book-keepers. But descriptions of commercial dealings and financial operations, let alone more personal accounts of activities and experiences are missing. Such evidence can only be expected in the correspondence of traders and it is only after the beginning of the 2nd millennium B.C. that such sources become available. The discovery, in Central Anatolia, of an Assyrian trading colony dating to around 1900 B.C. has provided us with a wealth of material. It permits, for the first time, a more thorough analysis of the terminology and the jargon of the ancient traders and may also contribute something to the theme of this symposium. The concentration on Old Assyrian is the natural consequence of the availability of sources and the competence of the author. There can be no doubt, however, that a comparable and partly identical terminology was in use in Babylonia. Due to the relatively small number of purely commercial Babylonian letters and contracts, our knowledge here is restricted. But we can at least observe a similarity in the terminology which regulates the relations between investor or principal and trader or agent, and also in that which describes financial operations, especially accounting. Commercial terminology The ‘speech of the trader’ was not among the professional jargons studied in the later Babylonian schools, according to the so-called ‘Examination Text A’, which mentions the speeches (lišānu) of priest, shepherd, sailor and silversmith.2 Nevertheless we may assume that this professional jargon was learned, developed and handed down by the traders and their scribes from its rather early beginnings, for the profession was old.

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

39

During the Old Akkadian period we get the first few glimpses of a specific terminology,3 in particular in a number of (short) letters dealing with purchase, sale, consignment, credit, claims and accounting. We note the use of the verb lapātum, with the meaning ‘to book in an account’, well known from Old Assyrian, attested alongside its Sumerian equivalent tag (CT 50, 74; MAD 4, 98:5). We have a well developed terminology for buying and selling number

of

technical

terms

of

, and a the

purussā’u-formation

,

, attested mainly in the legal or contractual sphere. The well known word bābtum, used in OA and OB for outstanding claims resulting from credit sales, lit. ‘what is outside, at the door’, has a full equivalent in Old Akkadian texts (CT 50, 80) in Sumerian sila.a.gál.la, ‘what is in the street’.4 We do not know, however, whether its Akkadian equivalent was already in use and this indicates the possibility that a number of Akkadian terms are early loans, or calques, from Sumerian. An example of such a loan is Old Assyrian šēpum, lit. ‘foot’, meaning the person responsible for a transport, then also the transport itself, obviously a literal translation of Sumerian gìr. Whatever amount of commercial terminology in Old Assyrian may have been handed down from earlier periods, we are still justified in crediting OA traders with some linguistic creativity. We meet quite a number of new, rather technical terms, not, or rarely, attested elsewhere, several of which were probably new: words like be’ūlatum, luqūtum, awītum, šaddu’utum,

, šipkātum; also several new purussā’u—

. New nouns could be created formations, such as uturrā’ū, butuqqā’ū, dunnā’ū by derivation, using the well known patterns of nominal formation, but the situation as to verbs is different. Since derivation resulting in new verbs is rare,5 the requirements of the professional jargon had to be met by semantic extension, which assigns new, rather technical meanings to existing, generally rather common verbs with a generic meaning. This procedure, also attested for specific religious or juridical terminology, is well documented in commercial texts. Examples are6 ezābum, ‘to leave behind’, ‘to sell on credit’; be’ā lum, ‘to get authority over’, ‘to acquire disposal of’ (silver or goods as trust or interest-free loan; a derivative is the noun be’ūlatum, ‘working capital’); kabāsum, ‘to step upon, to trample’, also ‘to violate (interests), to sacrifice one’s interests’, ‘to remit, forgo (claims)’, ‘to deduct, reduce’;7 kašādum, ‘to arrive at, to reach’, also ‘to equal in value’ (with ana), ‘to amount to’, ‘to incur’ (with personal accusative suffix); lamādum, ‘to learn’, also ‘to become liable to’ (expenses, duties; also in the factitive stem); maqātum, ‘to fall’, also ‘to come in’ (frequently in the ventive), used of goods and profit (derivative:

‘profit’);8

, ‘to tear out’, also ‘to levy a tax’

; qiāpum, ‘to trust’, also ‘to grant credit, to extend an interest free, commercial loan’ (used for commission sale); wabālum, ‘to carry, to bring’, also ‘to fetch a price, to yield something, to be worth’, and in the separative Gt-stem ‘to cost’; etc. On a limited scale this was also done by the deliberate use of specific stem formations. Examples are e.g. akālum, ‘to eat’, in the causative stem ‘to satisfy’ (by means of a payment; cf. šabbu’um, ‘to satisfy’, and akālum, G-stem ‘to have usufruct of’); be’ālum,

Figurative language in the ancient near east

40

‘to acquire authority over’, in the passive stem, with silver as subject, ‘to be controlled by others’, ‘to get out of reach’; damāqum, ‘to become good, favourable’, in the factitive Dstem ‘to sell with profit’ (derivative tadmiqtum); epēqum, ‘to become solid, massive’, in the D-stem ‘to compose a solid load’ (of a special type, heavy but not bulky, to be carried by donkeys qualified as upqum).9 Specific meanings in the basic stem or a derived stem may also go back to a more technical meaning of a (verbal) adjective: waqrum, ‘in demand, rare, expensive’ yields šēqurum ‘to attach special value to, to consider expensive’, and batqum, ‘cut off, yielding less than normal, cheap’ (cf. batiq wattur tadānum, ‘to sell with loss or profit, to sell at any price’), yields batāqum with the meaning ‘to go below a certain price’. We also meet a few verbs used in a specific construction, in the third person singular, with an impersonal subject, to denote the incurrence of expenses or the result of accounting. Examples are ikšudka, ‘it amounted for you to…?, iškunam ‘it put own for me/imposed , it became less, was deducted’, upon me (in the accounts)’, ‘it cost me’, and often to be rendered adverbially with ‘minus’.6 A final means of semantic extension was the use of figurative language, in particular certain metaphors in order to describe certain commercial procedures and financial processes. Old Assyrian commercial letters in general are very businesslike, with little room for more personal matters. They do contain a certain amount of figurative language, such as simile and metonymy, in particular when their writers get emotional, but these are hardly typical of their professional jargon. I will mention only a few of them, mainly those related to trade and business. , ‘to drink water at the expense Twice we meet the expression ma’ē šatā’um ina of (someone)’. I do not suggest that this expression, particularly appropriate in a dry climate and among travellers, was coined by Old Assyrian caravaneers, but its concrete meaning ‘to profit by, to take advantage of’ suits a commercial context very well.10 In a rather emotional letter, CCT 6, 14a, a writer uses the expression nēmalam ana kābim diāšum, ‘to tread, trample profit into dung/garbage’, to express his conviction that a certain type of business is hardly worth the trouble: ‘I am moaning here over my merchandise, because he refused to accept silver from me, so that I could not leave for the city; and I am beside myself, because I have to convey one single donkey load of pirikannu-textiles. (But) what profit do pirikannu-textiles yield that I should trade them? May (the gods) Aššur and Šamaš trample such profit into dung!’.11 Typical of the situation of the Old Assyrian traders is the following effusion by someone who had a difference of opinion with his agent or partner over the price of some merchandise: ‘Why should we hurl big words at each other with a sling over a distance of ten double hours?’.12 The traders, separated from their colleagues and agents in Assur or in other parts of Anatolia, very much depended on the exchange of written information by means of letters. But this way of communicating had its limitations as we can observe from groups of letters all needed in order to describe in detail one particular operation or to settle a dispute. Answers to letters, moreover, took many weeks to arrive. No wonder our writer felt as if he were throwing stones from afar instead of having a meaningful dialogue. In what follows I will concentrate on a few metaphors only, mainly those dealing with silver and tablets. This limitation seems justified because both were key elements in the

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

41

commercial system, which occur time and again in letters and records. The metaphors in question, accordingly, were not just interesting figures of speech, original expressions used by creative writers in order to produce certain effects. They originated in a particular cultural, in casu commercial context out of the need to develop the linguistic instruments for describing essential features of the trade, very helpful—alongside the verbal expediencies mentioned earlier—to convey in language what could happen to silver and tablets, what power was inherent in them. The role of silver The importance of silver was conditioned by the nature of the overland trade. It was the beginning and end of the trading cycle: it was invested and used for making purchases in Assur and the merchandise bought (tin and textiles) was eventually converted again into silver in Anatolia (luqūtam ana kaspim ta’urum, ‘to convert merchandise into silver’). This was shipped back to Assur where the same cycle started again. Silver thus secured the flow of goods between various complementary markets with Assur as central place and the Assyrian traders as middlemen. They exploited the differences in ‘price’ or exchange value, in particular of silver, which was ‘cheap’ in Anatolia, following the laws of supply and demand. In the trade silver functioned as money in all accepted meanings, as standard of value (in which prices, wages, loans and credits were rated), as means of payment (for making purchases and investments in the capital of trading firms), and as means of indirect exchange (e.g. silver→tin→copper→wool→silver). No wonder that its vital role gave rise to expressions and metaphors, in part based on its personification, comparable to the ones familiar to us from modern financial terminology. The use of silver was not something new. It had been in use during the preceding centuries, in particular also in trade, as the numerous balanced silver accounts of the Ur III period show.13 But its money character was further developed during the Old Assyrian period, due to the specific type of overland trade and to the fact that Anatolia was a source of ‘cheap’ silver. The fact that during the Old Babylonian period silver still had to compete with a few other ‘quantifiable valuables’, in particular barley, in its function as money,14 supports the view that the situation of the Old Assyrian trade was something special. This makes it likely that at least some of the metaphors we meet are of Old Assyrian origin. But this does not mean that they should be limited to Old Assyrian. I will also quote a few Old Babylonian examples, and it seems rather unlikely that they are independent, parallel developments since Assyria and Babylonia had too close contacts, in particular in the sphere of trade.15 Babylonians may have adopted some of the Assyrian terminology and metaphors, and some may go back to common (still unknown) Sumerian or Old Akkadian precursors. That the role of silver as money was relatively new may be deduced from the fact that two important terms in connection with capital investments in overland trade are metaphors which point to grain as valuta. The trading capital invested by shareholders, is called naruqqum, the word for a large bag, still used in Old Assyrian as a standard measure of capacity for grain, perhaps about two bushels. The word kīsum, ‘purse, money bag’, used in Old Babylonian to designate the trading capital, is not used as such in Old Assyrian. Investments in and perhaps also dividends paid out of this naruqqu-capital are

Figurative language in the ancient near east

42

called šipkātum, ‘what is heaped up, poured out’, a derivative from the verb typically used for heaping, storing grain in a granary.16 Old Assyrian uses it in the Gt-stem, šitapkum, to designate certain investments in the fund of the kārum. While it is possible to explain the use of such terms as metaphors based on the role of silver in the trade (‘stored’ as investment, carried along in a ‘bag’ on a business trip), a historical explanation is more likely. The terms may well refer back to an older phase of trading when barter was common and barley served as valuta and means of payment, possibly on a more local scale. The old terms were maintained and acquired a new dimension after silver had taken over the role of barley, in particular in overland trade, which made long-term investments possible.17 A somewhat comparable case is the use of kārum, originally the quay of a watercourse, the harbour district, also as a commercial quarter or suburb. The Assyrians kept or borrowed the term as a name for their commercial settlements in Anatolia on the basis of a functional equivalency, even though waterways and quays did not enter the picture of Old Assyrian trade. It is not always easy to determine whether a metaphor is involved and, if so, what its referent is. A problematic example is the use of the verb zarû, ‘to sow, to scatter’, in two closely related letters. A trader in need of silver is advised ‘to scatter his tin among friends and colleagues’, that is to sell it (on short credit) in small quantities for quick and easy conversion into silver. The second letter shows him complaining ‘that his silver is still scattered’.18 We might be tempted to translate ‘to sow’ and to discover a metaphor derived from agriculture, possibly coined in a situation where barley functioned as money. We could even suppose that it means that just as the grains sown yield a multiple at harvest time, so the silver invested yields in due course a handsome profit. But this is stretching the imagination and there is also no evidence for a metaphorical use of the verb ‘to harvest’ . It is much more likely that we have to operate with the (better attested) meaning ‘to scatter’, so that the use of zarûm only refers to multiple small investments or credit sales. We note that the verb in this commercial context is used in the D-stem, so far unique, which may well be explained by the fact that the sales were spread out over quite a number of people. Another problem is the use of so-called frozen metaphors, whose origin is not easily recoverable or whose original referent does not play any semantic role once the word has , ‘interest’. Steinkeller19 has become an accepted technical term. An example is recently analysed its complicated history and shown that its original meaning is the ‘increase, growth’ of the herd.20 It is only due to a particular socio-economic context that the word came to mean ‘interest’. Accordingly, we are not allowed to speculate about silver which keeps growing by the addition of interest (in Old Assyrian trade even of compound interest, ), which would imply a certain personification of money.21 But there are metaphors which require this explanation which is also not contradicted by the history and semantic evolution of the term in question. Such metaphors refer in particular to silver and tablets. Personification here is understandable, because they were not just articles of trade, items in the accounts, or records in the archives, but at times were experienced and conceived as agents endowed with a certain power, vital to the flow of goods, capable of doing something, profitable or dangerous according to the situation of the persons affected.

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

43

The ‘death’ of tablets Written documents, in particular bonds and other contracts, according to various Old Assyrian texts can be ‘killed’ (duākum) by human agents or said ‘to die’ (muātum) when no agent is specified. I quote a few examples from the numerous occurrences recorded in the dictionaries. TC 3, 264a:4ff.: ‘You have been satisfied with your silver for which I had become indebted to you. Give me my bonds (lit. “tablets of my debt”), I want to “kill” them’. Šū-Belum answered: ‘Your tablet has (already) been “killed”!’ CCT 3, 45a:1off.: ‘Settle the affair as well as you can and collect the silver (from the debtor). And if he asks you for a tablet with your seal (a receipt), then give him such a tablet until I arrive. And when I arrive I will give him a tablet with my seal and your tablet with your seal can “die”’. CCT 4, 16a: A certain Pūšukēn, indebted for 10 minas of silver, has paid his debt in the absence of his creditor to the latter’s representative. The latter now asks the creditor: (25ff.): ‘Release the bond of 10 minas of silver to Pūšukēn and let this tablet and the quittance for 10 minas of silver sealed by me, let both tablets “die”’.22 The cancellation of records which have become void (sar) after the transactions in question have been completed is a well known phenomenon. It is particularly common in connection with the payment of debts. The scribal material used in ancient Mesopotamia, clay tablets, is responsible for the fact that verbs used for cancelling etc. refer to the physical destruction or obliteration of the tablet. One normally uses ‘to break’ or ‘to rase, blot out’ (pussusum), as we know from the records of court proceedings, which order the cancellation of tablets, and from references to royal promulgations, which imply the cancellation of certain debts. Some of the latter texts also use ‘to throw away’ (tabākum).23 Neo-Assyrian scribes use the verb marāqum, ‘to crush’. Physical proof of another type of cancellation (of private nature?) exists in the form of tablets which have been literally ‘crossed out’, e.g. CT 6 no.6. The typical OA use of duākum with tablets as object could be explained by assuming a more general meaning of the verb, such as ‘to destroy’, which would not require an animate object. This might be suggested on the basis of the Sumerian verb gaz, equated to both duākum and . But the use of gaz for the destruction of tablets is postSumerian and only attested in a few OB texts from Nippur. Sumerian sources normally use zir for ‘to rase, to blot out, to destroy’.24 The conclusion imposes itself that duākum used with tablets as object does not primarily mean physical destruction, but ‘killing’, that is the elimination of their power by rendering them void, cancelling them. The result is that tablets ‘die’, lose their force and efficacy. This interpretation obtains also for the single Old Assyrian occurrence of muātum with awutum, ‘word, affair’ as subject, in BIN 6, 28:40: ‘if the case has “died” and the silver has been paid’.25 There are grammatical reasons for the use of muātum, because the verb gamārum, ‘to finish, to settle’, regularly used in such contexts, did not fit. It is transitive with only a passive stative (gamir, ‘settled’) without attestations of a fientic passive in Old Assyrian. Hence the use of the intransitive, fientic muātum, which we may translate as ‘to come to an end’. But the use of this verb is appropriate because ‘words’, ‘an affair’ are very lively, human matters. Verbs which normally require an animate or human subject or object, can be used metaphorically in many languages of phenomena which seem to possess a power, an energy of their own (fire, wind, rain), but also of phenomena triggered by human activity, which then start a life of their own: anger, a fight, a lawsuit.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

44

Killing or dying of tablets refers to the power inherent in them, the potentially dangerous forces they embody. They could force a debtor, ‘bound’ (rakis) by his contract rakis), to pay (some bonds contain the phrase that the debt is ‘tied upon him’, ina and oblige him, in case of default of payment, to provide securities, even to sell himself as a debt-slave. No wonder he insisted that ‘his’ bond be returned to him upon payment, in order to ‘kill’, to neutralise it. While normally the texts speak of the creditor himself as ‘seizing’ his insolvent debtor, occasionally the liability itself may be the subject of this verb. Codex Hammurabi § 117 mentions the case of an unfulfilled liability which seizes a man , understandable because the obligation is the real cause of what happens. And in a society where financial liabilities were normally recorded in bonds, tablets, the physical embodiment of the obligation may be considered a dangerous power, threatening the debtor. The impression of the debtor’s seal on the bond—in other periods also the impression of his fingernail or the hem of his garment— established an almost physical tie between him and ‘his tablet’, which thus acquired power over him in a way not unlike certain procedures applied in black magic. The power of a bond may have been experienced in particular when it changed hands. This could happen when bonds were pledged, ceded or sold for cash. This was a serious possibility when they were drawn up ‘in the name of the (anonymous) creditor’, which made them a kind of bearer’s cheque, capable of creating a new creditor and liability, perhaps also to the surprise of the debtor.26 This concept of a debt or guilt embodied in a tablet has been taken over for use in religious contexts, where forensic metaphors were adopted rather early. A guilt (arnum), an unfulfilled obligation (e’iltum) of religious nature could seize a person and hold him in their power, just like a curse (mamītum) or demon. But they lost their power when misdeeds, sins and guilt were blotted out (pasāsum, G and D stems), when, as a late text formulates it, ‘the tablet of my guilt is broken’.27 The transfer of the metaphor to a religious level kept the juridical aspect intact while the magical one acquired a new dimension. This development was not limited to Mesopotamia, the same happened in Israel. The difference is that here , ‘to blot out’, is used, a verb not to be connected with the obscure Akkadian verb ma’û,28 but the West Semitic reflex of Akkadian , to dissolve, to dilute’. Its use is understandable because in ancient Israel one did not write with a stylus on clay but with brush and ink on papyrus or sherds. The verb is used in connection with the ritual which a woman suspected of adultery had to undergo. She has to drink ‘bitter water’ into which a curse formula, written out with ink, is dissolved . Occasionally also kāfar has this meaning of ‘wiping off, erasing’ writing, which contributed to it being used as a term for remission of sins and atonement.29 Just as the verb ‘to seize’ can be used not with the creditor but with the liability as subject, so also verbs describing the destruction or cancellation of tablets can be used not with the tablet but with the obligation, the debt, the contract as object. In Old Babylonian one may use expression awatam

tabākum, ‘to throw away debts’, and in Nuzi the , ‘to break a word, contract’, is attested.30

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

45

The opposite of ‘killing’ tablets is not attested in Old Assyrian, but happens to occur in two OB texts, a fact which warns us against claiming such terminology as typically Assyrian. CT 47,63 is a deed which concerns a lady who has lost all her title deeds: old deeds of sale, an inheritance contract, a deed of adoption, a record of a dowry and the record of a lawsuit with some relatives about the ownership of certain possessions which she had won. With the help of statements and testimonies of relatives and former witnesses the authorities of Sippar recover the facts and provide her with a new tablet: anniam (case: pašu anniam ša pī šī .31 The translation may hesitate between ‘brought (back) to life’ and ‘created’. The new tablet records and summarises the essentials of the lost deeds and seems to be a ‘revival’ of them, but it is in fact a new document, not a series of rewritings of the originals. The words quoted, moreover, are only the first part of a longer sentence, linked to by means of the enclitic -ma. It continues: ‘the deed of adoption, the original title deed, and the tablet with a renunciation of claims, which A…had acquired from B (her adoptive mother), wherever they appear, in I’s house or elsewhere, are the property of A, daughter of S’. The connective -ma helps to define the meaning of . It denotes the consequence, the (intended) effect of the previous action and may also indicate—in particular after sentences which mention (the writing of) tablets—the contents or implications of the document in question: ‘stating that, to the effect that’. Our deed, validated by a long series of witnesses, is the official verdict, constitutes written proof that the missing deeds indeed belong to lady , hence, is less the revival of the previous deeds than the ‘bringing to life, calling into existence’ of a valid deed (Assyrian dannutum) which has the power of securing A’s rights and proving her ownership. It has to play an active role in her interest. The second reference, called to my attention by Mr. Ferwerda who also collated the text, is in L.Waterman, Business Documents of the Hammurabi Dynasty (=AJSL 29/30, 1912/1914), no.65, where the situation is comparable to that of CT 47, 63. A nadītum apparently has lost documentary proof of her status and rights and appeals to the judges in order to have them validated and recorded anew. The document issued first states her rights as heiress (rēdêt warkatiša) of another nadītu who must have adopted her. It next mentions a piece of immovable property with its boundaries, possibly also recording its previous owner (?). After some broken lines which may well contain a reference to ‘lost tablets’ (line 12 end could be read as [DI.KUD.ME] Š [š]ar-ri-im i-na

É!

pātum, ‘tablets’), we read in lines 15ff.: d UTU16 [DU]B-pa-am an-ni-a-am17

, ‘the king’s judges, in the temple of Šamaš brought this tablet for her to life’, followed by the mention of the oath by god and king. Whatever restoration is proposed for the broken lines 12–14, it seems clear that there is no room to accommodate the phrases usually recorded in deeds of adoption and inheritance among nadītu’s, such as the actual ‘giving’ of the property mentioned, the having of a title to all possessions of the adoptive mother ‘from chaff till gold’, and clauses about usufruct, support in old age, future heirs, etc. This means that the new document is not simply a rescript of the original deed of adoption and inheritance now lost. It is a new document which seems to record only her status as heiress and her ownership of a particular field. The reason for drawing it up may well have been the contestation of her rights by relatives of her (recently?) died

Figurative language in the ancient near east

46

adoptive mother. In issuing this new deed, sworn by god and king and sealed by witnesses, the judges provide her (note the dative suffix -šī for šim, not used in CT 47,63) with valid written proof, adequate for refuting future claims.31a

These examples bring us to the only two Old Assyrian occurrences of the verb in the basic stem, ‘coming to life’, this time with silver as its subject and when this happens certain tablets ‘die’. The texts belong to the file of a lawsuit between the creditor E and his debtor S, admirably edited by Eisser-Lewy, whose interpretation was improved by Landsberger on the basis of a new source.32 The first text, A, is a verdict of the Assyrian authorities (kārum) which sets forth rules for settling their case. The second, B, is the testimony by the arbitrators who implemented these directives. A:9ff.: ‘From the 1 talent 30 minas of silver, for which E has made out the bond of S, the tin and textiles from

, which E had included in those of his bond, that

merchandise from will be deducted as one brings it in. The merchandise then will belong to E. As for the rest of the silver (debt), as soon as he has given it to him, there will be deducted tin from tin, copper from copper, textiles from textiles, gold from gold, from the 1 talent 30 minas of silver, whereupon E will give S his bond…in order to “kill” it’. The arbitrators report in B:5ff.: ‘We have settled the case. As for the tablet of 1 talent 30 minas 3 shekels of silver, being the debt of S, the silver “came to life” and the tablet, consequently, “died”. . The second occurrence, in the same text, reads: A:3ff.: ‘35 minas, being S’s silver, E will give back (and) the

and the iron which they are bringing will belong to

E.’ The arbitrators, B:13ff.: ‘35 minas of silver, the price of the “came to life”

and the iron

, whereupon S charged to E an amount of 23 minas 10 shekels

of silver…E will take control of the and the iron.’ I will not dwell on the details of these complicated transactions, which have been interpreted in different ways by Lewy and Landsberger, but concentrate on what is important for my purpose. Why does the scribe use

? Lewy in his commentary

explains from Hebrew , ‘to escape’, translates ‘das Silber kam in Sicherkeit’, and assumes that this sum somehow had been endangered (by bankruptcy of S or rival claims?). This is unlikely since we have no evidence for this meaning of the verb and since the texts do not refer to any external threat to the silver. In the main I follow Landsberger in his interpretation. He assumes that the first case concerns a credit granted by E to S, either in the form of silver advanced for a particular operation that included the purchase of tin and textiles in

,

33

or of merchandise given on

consignment. The second case is less clear. E acquires a consignment of and iron that still has to arrive34 and in exchange ‘gives back’ (ta’urum) an amount of silver

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

47

to S. He may have paid in advance (a favourable price?) for the lot or have acquired assets valued at 35 minas of silver as security from S. Whatever the details, it is clear that S did not dispose of silver cash to meet his obligations. What he owned had been invested in trading operations and merchandise— perhaps with the prospect of making a profit and being able to pay his debts with it. The settlement proposed means that E is ready to accept the merchandise ‘as it comes in’ as (partial) payment of his claims: the value in silver of the goods will be deducted from the debt . In the second case this verb is not used; the operation resulted in a claim of S on E, less than the amount of 35 minas of silver mentioned at the start. This means that either S’s claim was reduced by deducting the rest of one of E’s other claims, or that the value or yield of the and iron proved to be higher than the estimated 35 minas so that the balance became positive for S. We have to understand the meaning and use of against this background: a settlement of accounts where silver invested in merchandise is credited, at its silver value, against existing debts. Landsberger already sensed this meaning when he contrasted ‘das Aufleben des Silbers’ with ‘das Sterben der Schuldtafel’, and proposed for ‘aktiv werden’. The silver invested in merchandise, still to arrive, was for the time being ‘dead capital’; upon its arrival it was ‘activated’ at its silver value to be balanced with the trader’s debts. One might compare the use of the word zakûm, ‘clear, cleared, freely available’ (with the verb zakku’um, ‘to clear’) used of merchandise and silver which still has to pass the customs or is among commission agents, not at the disposal of its owner. Or the use of the verb be’ālum, ‘to have control over’, used in the passive stem with an accusative-ablative personal suffix: kaspum ibbe’elka, ‘the silver will be controlled (by others) out of your reach’.35 The use of ‘alive’ and ‘dead’ could be explained from traditional operational devices used in the administration of the herds, where living or newborn animals and dead ones were kept apart as separate categories. Originally when their pebbles or counters were collected in separate jars or bags (the well known , ‘the pouch of the living’, in 1 Sam. 25:29)36 later by marking them in the respective columns of a ledger as ‘living’ or ‘dead’. Whatever the origin of the term, it is clear that in both cases we are dealing with administrative terminology, in the Old Assyrian texts in connection with the settlement of accounts: the handing over of the merchandise to the creditor entails the transfer of items in the account and the ‘death’ of the bond. The translation ‘to become a credit item’, proposed by CAD B, sub voce, does justice to this context and is more or less the equivalent of Landsberger’s ‘aktiv werden’, ‘to become an asset’.

The correctness of this interpretation is borne out by the Old Assyrian occurrences of the , attested a dozen times. The subject normally is a person, the factitive stem object silver or capital goods, and there frequently is a personal dative suffix referring to the person in whose favour the operation is carried out. I quote a number of representative texts.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

48

1 BIN 6, 70:3ff.: ‘W entrusted to me 4 donkey(-load)s under your seal, but he did not settle accounts with me concerning retail goods and pocket money. Let him…to you over there.’ 2 KTS 18:33ff.: ‘We sold (only) two donkeys and I leads 10 donkeys with their harness to you. He took 9 shekels of silver. Let him…to you .’ 3 CCT 4,50b:14ff.: ‘We settled acounts and over there I has…your merchandise to you , but you rose and left. A copy (of the account) is in your house and one is here in my house.’ 4 TC 3, 107:6ff.: ‘They gave(paid) me nothing from your outstanding claims apart from 9 5/6 minas of copper; your employees must to… you .’ 5 TC 3, 180: ‘4 5/6 talents of wool, B’s share, which P took in Karpata, P will…to him , and 30 minas of wool of Š he will…to me .’ 6 BIN 4, 51:15ff.: ‘I took 49 dark textiles, 53 minas 1 shekel of tin, and 1 mina of silver, the price (yield?) of 2 donkeys of our boss. With (ina) the price of the donkeys which Š leads to you I have… and you will balance to me 10 shekels of silver.’ 7 BIN 6, 212:15ff.: ‘(We Said): A paid us the silver, release to him the merchandise of Š; losses, travel expenses…to him (ballissum).’ 8 ATHE 30:17ff.: ‘22 1/2 shekels of silver, the price of 2 1/2 kutānu-textiles of D, which you charged to me, you deducted from my commission. Do not forget it over there, make a note of it! D’s tin and textiles and 6 kutānu-textiles of his sister have been…to you .’ 9 ICK 2, 148:6’ff.: ‘I shall go to Kaniš within 10 days and the 10 minas 25 shekels of silver and 33 2/3 shekels of gold, which he brought to Kaniš—he shall meet with Š and I2, the representative of I3, and shall… silver and gold to I3’s representative (kārum verdict).’ 10 CCT 4, 23a:3ff.: ‘Of the 4 talents of tin under seals of the city, which I brought here, we have… and for…there proved to be per talent 1 1/2 mina extra.’37 The context shows that the verb in several cases refers to clearance operations, the balancing of accounts. Some examples concern caravan transport, where the leader of a caravan, having received a sum of money to meet expenses en route, has to clear accounts with his principal. The transporter of no.1 has failed to do so when handing over his caravan; the one in no.2 has taken for himself some silver from the sale of donkeys. In no.7 the release of a lot of distrained merchandise to its new owner, who has paid its price, entails the balancing of losses and expenses incurred during the caravan trip. Other cases concern the merchandise itself or its yield. No.3 probably deals with the division of a jointly owned shipment between two partners; no.4 with merchandise given on consignment to agents whose (delayed?) payments still have to be collected by the owner’s employees and to be ‘made available’ to him. No.6 concerns a more general settlement where the value of merchandise and the price of donkeys ‘taken’ is balanced with the value of a number of (loaded) donkeys delivered to the owner. Similar balancing operations are meant in no.8, while no.9 refers to a sum of money already delivered in Kaniš, but still to be made available to the (representative) of its owner. No.5 is a typical

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

49

record of the wool-trade, where frequently ‘shares’ in its yield are collected by partners or agents on behalf of the owners or ‘shareholders’, and have to be credited to the latter.38 In nos.1 and 3 there is explicit reference to accounting (nikkassī šasā’um), no.3 mentions a ‘copy’ (of the account tablet) and in no.8 mention is made of ‘deducting’ of debts from credits. This indicates that does refer to the balancing of items as an administrative procedure. This is not surprising as book transfers played a prominent role in Old Assyrian accounting operations. It is difficult to prove that the verb always refers to such operations, since not all occurrences are explicit enough and at times a more general translation, ‘to make available to’, may be preferred, which leaves the question open as to how this was actually done. On the other hand a reference to such administrative balancing of accounts seems to be the only obvious reason why was preferred over other verbs denoting payments, transfer or satisfaction. This would justify CAD’s translation ‘to credit an amount (to a person)’.39 No.10 is somewhat different since the verb lacks a personal dative object and an impersonal accusative object (money or capital goods) is only virtually present in ‘of the 4 talents of tin’, which depends on the verb watārum in line 7 (ina…ītir). The situation, however, is familiar. Tin was shipped from Assur in standard packets weighing a little more than 1 talent (often simply referred to as ‘x talents’). Upon arrival in Kaniš the exact weight was determined, in which connection usually the verbs , ‘to unpack’, and sannuqum, ‘to check’, were used. The result was either a small deficiency or a surplus (ītertum),40 normally specified in minas per talent. The use of in our text may well indicate that the focus was on the accounting or bookkeeping. The weight of the load was ‘assessed’ and the positive result was booked as a credit. This absolute use of the verb in a context of accounting has a few parallels in texts from Mari and Tell Rimah. OBTR 311:10ff. contains the order: ‘Now take your tablets (records) and come here and the accounts/accounting of your barley.’ In ARM 22, 276 iv:41ff., at the end of a long listing of expenditures of sesame and sesame oil, specified per month and quality, we read: ‘In all 34,582 litres of sesame,

of

expenditures of sesame, service of M, clearance of accounts nikkassī) in the office in the palace gate’. A similar account dealing with metals ends with a grand total, specified for the various metals and some metal objects, followed by: ‘ of the expenditures of bronze, service M, over nine months…’ (ARMT 22, 203 iv:8ff.). In these cases an addition and assessment is made of all expenditures and disbursements, no doubt on the basis of the numerous notes and receipts bearing on individual transactions (the ‘tablets’ of OBTR 311). The balance thus drawn up makes it possible to check the stocks and discharge the responsible official in connection with a clearance of accounts, which also allows the elimination of the now useless records of the period covered. refers to this assessment of expenditures, resulting in a final figure on the balance sheet, which is the basis for a clearance of accounts. After the above had been written there appeared an article by J.-M. Durand, ‘Sur un emploi du verbe

,41 which analyses the meaning of our verb on the basis of

Figurative language in the ancient near east

50

ten additional occurrences from Mari, nine of which are in unpublished texts. His conclusion, which fortunately is in substantial agreement with mine, is that ‘“l’opération”, loin de désigner une reddition de compte, est plutôt l’établissement d’un bilan périodique, lequel, éventuellement, peut déboucher sur une opération de reddition de comptes, évidemment’ (p.263). The use of , ‘faire vivre’, should be explained ‘par le biais sémantique de “montrer le déroulement des diverses opérations”, donc “montrer la vie de service”… S’il fallait choisir un terme technique français pour rendre compte de l’opération, je pense que “ventiler” serait un bon candidat.’ (ibidem) The Old Assyrian occurrences do not bear out this etymological explanation, since they seem to point to a more technical, financial meaning, in particular in the use of the basic stem. But the regular use of in OA with a personal dative suffix may well be a typical Old Assyrian development. KAJ 168 This technical meaning of seems not to be attested in texts from Babylonia proper,42 but in Assyria it also occurs in a Middle Assyrian legal text, KAJ 168, generally misunderstood. It deals with a loan of tin (older interpretation: lead) in connection with the purchase of a woman. The texts read: 1 ‘Seal of M (the debtor). 24 talents 20 minas of tin, 3belonging to (lady) U 4daughter of (lady) M, 5wife of I 6the son of A, 7chargeable to M 8son of A. 9He had received (it) and (now) this tin 12has been given to him 11as price/payment for one woman. 13sinništam 14

šīm sinništišu išassiū. 15The rest of the tin 16he will receive.’ (Witnesses and dating follow.) A variety of interpretations has been proposed, all of which take as ‘to keep alive, to provide for’, while reconstructing what actually happens in different ways. David-Ebeling do not offer a comprehensive interpretation.43 Oppenheim interprets as if it were equal to rubbûm, ‘to rear’, and assumes that it was a speculative investment; the child(!), entrusted to the partner designated as debtor, in due time of marriageable age and perhaps trained, could be sold for much more than her original value.44 Durand assumes a loan extended for buying a slave-girl (with a view to marrying her). The creditor is safeguarded against insolvency on the part of the debtor because the girl will serve in the household of the creditor, lady U (this would be the meaning of ), who could always sell her to recover her loan.45 These interpretations are not acceptable and do not make use of Koschaker’s valuable open, he correctly observations on this text. Leaving the meaning of established that KAJ 168, to be compared with KAJ 150, deals with a ‘Verfallspfand’. The difference is that in KAJ 150 the price of the pledged field already had been determined (šīmam šasûm; possibly by means of a public auction), while the price of the pledged slave girl in our text has not yet been fixed.46 This leaves the possibility open that her price surpasses the capital of the loan, in which case the debtor is entitled to a

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

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balance payment . An additional argument for this interpretation is the verbal form il!-ti-qí, in the t-punctual, not normally used in deeds of loan but referring to an action belonging to the past.47 Because of this earlier loan, whose term has passed, the slave-girl now becomes the property of the creditor: the conveyance of the pledge which entails the fact that the money borrowed is ‘herewith’ (the stative in line 12) considered the price of the slave-girl, handed over to the creditor/buyer. intervenes in connection with the fixing of At this point the clause with the price of the pledge. The realisation that the value of a pledge, taken as security, need not be identical with the amount of the debt, has given rise to the wish, most probably in order to protect the insolvent debtor, to assess its value. Instead of a simple conveyance of the pledge to the creditor its value and the amount of the debt have to be balanced, followed by balancing payments. Such a provision is already implicitly mentioned in the Codex Hammurabi (§ 75+e or R, generally misunderstood).48 A comparable provision occurs in Middle Assyrian contracts, as discovered by Durand, in cases where a field that was pledged can be acquired by the creditor from the insolvent debtor kī eqlu illukūni, ‘according to its current value’.49 In our text this value is established by ‘calling the price of his slave-girl’, which could refer, as already suggested by Koschaker, to a public auction or at least some ‘Publizitätsakt’, as is clear from the use of the verb šasûm in comparable situations in Middle and Old Assyrian texts.50 This act is preceded by which must have the technical meaning of ‘to assess the value of’ or ‘to consider an asset or credit’. The pledged slave, in the power of the creditor but not his full property, is in fact ‘dead capital’. Now she is ‘brought to life’, ‘activated’ and her monetary value counts as a credit to the debtor.

šīmum ša Apart from the meanings and uses of

(G and D stems) discussed thus far, we

have a number of references of (infinitive or noun) used to qualify a purchase or sale, and provided with a pronominal suffix which refers to the person who derives profit from the transaction (references: CAD B 52, 5). Various constructions are attested: (1) ali/ašar

epāšum, ‘to act in such a way that he “lives”’, ‘to try one’s best

that he may “live”’; (2) luqūtam (etc.) ašar merchandise (to) where he may “live”’; (3) šīmam ša

tadānum/ tabālum, ‘to sell/ship ša’āmum, ‘to make a

purchase which makes him “live”’; (4) kaspum ana , ‘silver for my “living/life”’. CAD B gives as its meaning ‘small profit sufficient only for a bare living’, taking in its basic meaning, but this seems unlikely, in particular when letters contain the request or order to do so. Assyrian traders did not settle, in advance, for such small margins. It is e.g. contradicted by TC 2, 22:26–31, where Kurub-Ištar asks his superiors

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to send him silver, for ‘here I have discovered a buy ša worth 10 or 15 minas of silver and I have borrowed silver at interest to be able to make the purchase’. He seems to have spotted a good bargain. VonSoden, AHw takes noun) as ‘wirtschaftlich gesunder Zustand’ and translates ašar mich günstig ist’. Isolated adi

(I, infinitive used as a with ‘wo es für

in TC 3, 99 L.E.2f. is rendered by ‘zwecks

Sanierung’ (‘do me a favour adi ’).51 Lewy translates construction (3) with ‘ein Kauf seines in Sicherkeit Bleibens’ and describes it as a transaction which has to secure a person’s economic independence which apparently was at stake.52 He refers also to the well known letter VAT 9249 which informs Pušuken that no Akkadian textiles are for sale in Assur because the Akkadians have not come to the city. ‘If they arrive before the winter and a šīmum ša is possible, we will buy them for you and (even) advance the silver out of our own means’ (lines 9ff.).53 Larsen, who translates expression (3) as ‘to buy in a for him profitable way’, assumes that in the texts he is discussing the suffix refers to a person acting as ‘commission agent’, whose own gain from the transaction would depend on the success of his mission to Assur ‘in perfect agreement with the ‘capitalist’ spirit pervading Old Assyrian trade’.54 Are there special circumstances or reasons for this use of e.g. instead of the normal word for profit, nēmelum? Several occurrences are in contexts dealing with the normal sale of merchandise imported into Anatolia, such as those in the correspondence between members of the firm of Aššur-idi and Aššur-nada (TC 3, 42:8; CCT 4, 21c:17; CCT 4, 2b:21ff.; BIN 4:53:21f.). The last two texts, which duplicate each other, ask to bring the merchandise ‘to wherever I can make some profit, be it only 1 shekel of silver’ (ašar kaspum 1 šiqil tabālum). Another letter, TC 1, 21:40f., ends with the request to use the rest of the silver which the addressee still owes to the writer (a small sum) for making a purchase ša .55 In these cases nothing special can be detected and the reference seems to be simply to profitable transactions, to ‘sound business’, to use a comparable metaphor. No emergency is apparent that would justify an interpretation as proposed by Lewy. The use of may have been suggested by the notion discovered earlier: a transaction which in the accounts results in a credit item, yields profit. Perhaps the verbal notion— is an infinitive—made the difference with nēmelum: ‘which yields me a profit’. There is, however, a group of texts that uses expression (3), where something special is at stake. They include the letters TC 3, 67; 69; and BIN 6:31, analysed by Larsen in his Old Assyrian Caravan Procedures (his type 2: nos.1–3). The first one belongs to his ‘standard texts’, but at the end of a penetrating analysis he has to admit (p. 38, n. 56) that these texts probably are somewhat atypical. Similar occurrences are in BIN 4, 224:25–31 and CCT 3, 13:25–29.56 These letters confront us with a person travelling to Assur with a substantial amount of silver for making purchases. But somebody else keeps control of the operation: he has sealed the silver, acts as principal (tamkarum) or warrantor, and has publicly established a claim to the silver (qātam ina kaspim šakānum), which is transferred to the merchandise bought with it. He also takes care that his representatives

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

in Assur assist the person arriving

53

in making his purchases

in order to make certain that they are ša . In some cases the amount of silver is called the ‘trust’ (qīptum) of the travelling trader and he is even said ‘not to be concerned’ during the journey and in Assur.57 It appears that the persons carrying silver have financial problems, are frequently in debt. They have now been granted a special loan or trust by their creditor or warrantor—apparently at the same time their boss or senior partner—for making a business trip to Assur and back to Anatolia, the profits of which have to be used for paying off their debts. The boss/creditor takes care to keep control of the operation and of what is essentially his silver in the ways just mentioned. The trust is also called a maškattum, because a’hand has been laid (šakānum) upon it’, which prevents other creditors from seizing it. The purchase to be made with the trust in Assur should be ša , profitable of course, but in particular (following Lewy’s proposal) such that the debtor is able to stay alive, to avoid bankruptcy, to survive as a solvent, financially ‘sound’ business man. We know from letters and from the so-called ‘Sammel-memorandums’, listing debts from many years, that many traders and agents often were in arrears. In such situations, when a plea like ‘my boss, save me now that it is high time to do so’ was in order, they were effectively saved by enabling them to start an operation ‘which secured their staying alive’. This does not mean that always has such a specific meaning. In BIN 6, 197:13ff. we read: ‘Here there is not even one single shekel of silver for our and (in consequence) the young people are dying of hunger’. We also cannot infer that its opposite muātum/ mētum, ‘to die, dead’, used of traders, means ‘bankrupt’, as suggested by Lewy in at least two cases. The well known Suejja (see above p.000), according to EL no.337:5 is not so much bankrupt as dead, or at least seems to have disappeared without trace. And the trader who settled his accounts ina bāb muātišu in EL no.246 did so not in view of his impending bankruptcy but on his death-bed.58 The death of traders fully engaged in business is frequently mentioned as an unfortunate (la libbi ilim, ‘without the will of the god’) event which entailed a lot of juridical and administrative complications as we know from files of court procedures dealing with such problems.59

ina

u šalmu

The use of in an economic context does not seem to be limited to Old Assyrian. It may also occur in the payment clause of a group of loan documents where the creditor is a god and the debtor only has to pay back ina

u šalmu, ‘when

he is b. and š.’ or ina kašādišu, ‘when he (re)gains . Originally the texts were considered charitable loans extended by temples to people in economic straits,60 to be paid back when they were again ‘healthy’, ‘physically well’

or

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54

‘solvent’ (šalmum). Normally was connected with illness or a temporary disability, while the meaning of šalmum, ‘solvent’, was more or less derived from its use in the ‘šalmu kēnu clause’ (stipulating joint responsibility of a plurality of debtors), where it was interpreted as ‘materiell intakt’, ‘zahlungsfāhig’.61 Later Koschaker suggested considering the loans fictitious, being in reality vows made to a god and recorded as obligations. This interpretation was accepted by R.Harris in her detailed study of the ‘Old Babylonian Temple Loans’, part II,62 where she established the temporal priority of the use of (p.134).

kašādum in the clause, to which šalmum was added later

As regards the interpretation of , and the reasons for making the vows, I quote Miss Harris’s summary: ‘The vower being ill or under some kind of psychological pressure63 or perhaps in some kind of danger turned to the gods for help’ (p. 136). She repeatedly mentions illness as a reason for making a vow (p. 135a, 136a) and translates the payment clauses as ‘when he regains (his) health’ and ‘when he is physically well and solvent’ (where ‘solvent’, šalmum, seems to refer to the positive effect of regaining one’s health and not to a separate or even alternative condition). If this is correct should not be included among my examples of metaphorical language. But is it? An answer to this question would require a full analysis of the relevant texts (including the ca. 30 additional ‘temple loans’ published since), because many questions are interrelated. The interpretation of

e.g. cannot be separated from

šalmu texts are indeed (always) records of vows. A vow the question whether the during illness indeed seems more likely than one made because of economic problems; but of course there could be a connection because illness may lead to poverty and famine to illness. Since a full scale analysis is impossible here I will limit myself to some observations which bear directly on the interpretation of . Miss Harris operates with a rather clear cut division of the ‘temple loans’ into two categories: (a) ‘pure temple loans’, mostly relatively small barley loans ‘undoubtedly taken by poverty-stricken people to tide them over until harvest time. However, a number of loans in which silver is borrowed were taken for the express purpose of business’ (p. 131); (b) vows recorded as liabilities to the god or temple, normally containing the clause and made because of illness and other dangers. But is the division so clear? Some texts included among the second group omit the clause. Several loans of the first group contain the provision that payment is dependent on some measure of financial recovery ‘when the debtor sees silver’, ‘when silver will have become available’, ‘when Šamaš will have given him silver’.64 But we have a few similar clauses in texts of the second group, where the -šalmu condition is followed by: ‘he will pay back the god, his lord, from the profit which the god will give him’ (p. 134). Miss Harris comments on the presence of this clause as follows (p. 134 note 27): ‘It is difficult to know how seriously the clause…was taken. Did it really imply that the vower paid his loan only when he had the means to pay it, and only then? It may also imply that the vower may have been in difficult straits and therefore had made the vow’.65

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

55

Such considerations may have led to a slight revision of her interpretation, since in her book on Sippar (from 1975) she writes: ‘Those who were in economic (italics mine— K.R.V.) or physical distress often promise an offering or ornament to a god.’66 Admitting now economic, financial problems as a possible motive, she maintains that the texts must be vows. This assumption rests basically on two arguments. The first is the supposed correlation between vow and illness, in itself not unlikely. But none of the relevant texts , explicitly mentions illness, which is only deduced from the use of interpreted as ‘health(y)’. The use of this root in other contexts, studied above, allows a less specific, economic interpretation and its feasibility is proved by the fact that some texts add to the clause the words ‘he will pay back with the profit the god will give him’, as noted above. The other argument is that the liability in a number of texts consists not in paying ‘money’ (silver or barley), but in giving a concrete object, a precious ornament, according to one text (YOS 12, 15) ‘to be placed around the neck of the god when he regains (his) ’. We have to admit that in such cases an interpretation as votive gift, a vow, is quite likely.67 But this does not mean that all texts using the clause should be considered records of vows. The categorization is not that simple. This is borne out in particular by VAS 18 no.13. It reads: 12/3 GIN AŠ.ME GUŠKIN 2ša É A.BA 3ša dUTU 4UGU I-din-dMarduk ù Šu-dMAR.TU 5išu 6i-na ba-al-tú 7ù ša-al-mu 8dUTU ú-ba-la-šu-nu-ši!-im!-ma 9dUTU i-palu, ‘one golden sun disc weighing 2/3 shekel, of their father’s estate, which I and Š owe to Šamaš—when they are “sound and well”, (when) Šamaš will bring (it) to them, they will pay Šamaš’. The reading of the verbal form in line 8 is suggested by YOS 13, 303 which records an obligation to give Šamaš silver rings weighing 2 shekels of silver, followed by: dUTU ub-ba-la-a[š-šu(m)-ma] 8kaspam dUTU ippal, ‘(when) Šamaš will bring (it) to him he will pay Šamaš the silver’. The writing here indicates that the form cannot be derived from D (this would provide a strong argument against the supposed illness, because it would be very unlikely that both brothers were ill!). The verb wabālum serves as a synonym to nadānum, used in some other texts (Miss Harris’s groups 1 and 2) to denote that the god gives the debtor silver or profit. The use of the clause according to Miss Harris would assign this text to group 2, also on account of the sun disc considered vowed to the deity. The payment clause, however, mentions as a condition that the god ‘brings (it) to him’, which suggests prosperity, the means to buy the disc vowed, and not ‘healing’, which is an unlikely object of this verb. The obligation, moreover, is said to be one ‘of their father’s estate’, i.e. assumed by their father but not yet paid. There are several parallels to this qualification which Miss Harris treated on p. 133 under the heading ‘Assumption of responsibilities by sons to pay father’s debts’, assigning them (as the last word of the heading shows) to group 1. In YOS 13, 92 too we have this combination of an obligation qualified as KÙ.BABBAR

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É. A.BA, ‘silver of the father’s estate’, with the clause, which cuts through the division into two groups. If that clause referred to recovery from illness it would be surprising that it was maintained at the novation of the deed, probably after the death of the father, because it would not apply to the sons. A reference to financial problems, not ended by the death of their father, seems much more likely. As for the ornaments mentioned in some deeds, we have to realise that in the period in question ‘concrete money’, in the shape of objects made of precious metals (goblets, rings) was not uncommon. Some of the objects due to the temple may have served as such, in particular when meant for the god’s treasure. Having been donated or paid they would become part of the temple funds, designated as ikribū with a reference to their originally being donations and votive gifts. The occurrence of this term together with the clause in one text (RA 13,129) is a further argument for Miss Harris’s interpretation (p.136a). But we know that ikribū acquired a wider meaning, denoting ‘temple property’ in ‘secondary use’, also for making sales or purchases, borrowed or invested in business. This notion, well attested in Old Assyrian,68 is not absent from Old Babylonian. One of the so-called ‘temple loans’ provides a good example, YOS 12,532, which reads: ‘3 shekels of silver, ikribū of Šumum-libši, Šumum-libši owes to (the god) Sîn. When he goes in [his] town he will give the silver.’69 The reference is probably not to a votive gift promised, but to temple funds entrusted to him for commercial purposes (he is away on a trip). Miss Harris in her discussion of the ‘pure temple loans’ mentions another example of such a commercial temple loan (without the use of ikribū, however; p.131b, VAS 9,134) and we should also refer to CT 4,27b, a frequently misunderstood text dealing with a man (an agent?) who had sold an ox belonging to the god Šamaš and taken its price without authorisation. He accepts the obligation to pay the part of the price he still owes to the god ‘together with my many ikribū, the records of which are still in the countryside.’70 Clear proof of commercial investments by the temple comes from CT 48,99, where a certain Ibni-Ea withdraws (šiliptum) part of the business capital which is a common fund belonging to him and the god Šamaš as partners (tappū).71 These references are sufficient evidence that the interpretation of the ‘temple loans’ with the clause as vows made because of illness certainly does not impose itself in many cases. A number of texts indeed record loans and investments and their conditions of payment must refer to financial recovery, the regaining of a healthy economic status, which may be expressed by ina

kašādum, used metaphorically.

The question remains whether this was their original connotation, since kašādum of course primarily means ‘to regain one’s health’. As noted above Miss Harris has shown that the clause we are discussing originally uses only

kašādum and

ina (first years of Samsuiluna). kašādum is also mentioned as condition of payment in a charitable loan (usātum) extended by a private person, YOS 12 no.12, perhaps not to be separated from the ‘temple loans’.72 It is possible that these early occurrences of the clause envisaged primarily recovery from illness, though this is difficult to prove. From the same years we have the two loans extended to a nadītu of

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

57

Šamaš, mentioned in n. 64, where the term of payment is indicated by ūm kašdat, ‘the day she has reached (her goal, silver?)’, perhaps with deliberate omission of

in

formula order to widen the scope of the clause. Some years later the emerges. Šalmu may have been added on analogy with the šalmu-kēnu formula of joint responsibility (which is older) and may have indicated that the condition was a more general recovery and well-being, perhaps primarily being solvent again. The two latest occurrences listed by Miss Harris show two further innovations: the order of and šalmu is reversed and the payment clause now mentions a future payment ‘from the profit which the god will give him’. Financial recovery now clearly is the main condition, and it is possible that the inversion of

and šalmu has to do with it. New

evidence, however, shows that these two occurrences from the time of do not represent a general trend.72a. We also have a text from year 8(?) of the same king which has the old sequence (YOS 13,92, mentioned above) and even a text from the reign of Samsuditana with the original sequence (YOS 13,429, quoted in n. 65), where both the nature of the obligation (1 shekel of silver (=) 1 kor of barley) and the fact that the god is called bēl kaspim, ‘owner of the silver’, point to a true loan.73 We may conclude that in these charitable loans by temples

-perhaps also

kašādum—in particular in combination with šalmum (to be treated as hendiadys) refers in many cases to a ‘financial recovery’, to the regaining of a ‘sound economic status’, to prosperity. This conclusion is not without importance.

,

and occur time and again in wishes and petitions—in the introduction of letters, in prayers, in personal names—frequently in combination with šalāmum or its derivatives. Such wishes look beyond good health and recovery from illness and envisage a more comprehensive ‘well-being’, which includes material prosperity, good business, a healthy position. ‘Hungry silver’ ‘To die’ and ‘to come to life’ are not the only metaphors applied to silver. Its personification stimulated the use of several verbs which normally require an animate subject, such as verba movendi. Silver ‘comes (suddenly) in’ (maqātum, ‘to fall’) or ‘gets out of reach, escapes someone’ (ruāqum, ‘to be far off’).74 The most interesting example of this kind of personification is the use of the verb barā’um, ‘to get hungry’, with silver as subject. It is attested in the letter TC 1, 29:27ff.: ‘You sent me silver saying: “It must not get hungry!” Following your instruction I have bought tin, expensive. And now this tin has become hungry over there. But today tin is available at a price of 16 (shekels) for 1 (shekel of silver) and even more!’.75 Silver was not a goal in itself, but money, a means of exchange to keep the trade going and of making profit. It must be used in order to increase, to yield, by conversion into merchandise and back into more silver. Silver not used in this way, temporarily stored (bašûm N+itti) or kept in one’s money bag gets ‘hungry’, is not productive (enough). In the letter, silver arriving from Anatolia had to be

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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used immediately for making a purchase. Tin was bought when it was in demand, scarce, expensive, which should mean at a price of 12 or 13 shekels for 1 shekel of silver. A little later the price is very favourable, 16 or 17 shekels against 1.76 This means that the amount of tin bought was ca.30% less than had been possible with some patience. The tin shipped to Anatolia is now ‘hungry’ over there: it either has to be kept in store because there is little demand or too much supply or, rather, yields less than normal because of its high purchase price (since expenses were only partly conditioned by the bulk of the merchandise the trader in question may have had to settle for a profit some 50% below normal). The same verb is also used of copper in the letter BIN 4,34:6ff.: ‘Please my father, if you approve of it, the 10 talents of copper which I have acquired (“made”) here—I have it by hearsay that there is upheaval in the country; I wish the country would at last go back to normal, (since) the copper has now become “hungry” twice—if you agree let an instruction from you reach me that I may convert it right here into silver or gold, (but) do not look for an additional one or two minas’.77 The situation is clear: due to political turmoil a large shipment of copper has remained unsold on two occasions and is in danger of remaining so for a third time. Better sell it immediately where it is, even though this implies less profit. A final example of ‘to become hungry’ is perhaps contained in TC 1,21:26ff.: ‘…my records and let your instruction reach me; they should not become “hungry” in addition to/even more than the previous ones’.78 The interpretation is hypothetical only and assumes that the metaphorical use of ‘to become hungry’ can be transferred from the silver itself to the records, bonds, which embody (claims to) silver. It would be a development parallel to the one mentioned earlier whereby ‘to die’ and ‘to live’ are applied both to silver and tablets. The use of this verb with inanimate subjects is not limited to Old Assyrian. We have an Old Akkadian occurrence with a field as subject79 and this use is also attested in the Old Babylonian period. Two letters from Mari (ARMT 3,1:18 and 8:24) connect the verb with lack of irrigation water. The first, ‘if the water is cut off the country of my lord will become hungry’, could be understood as referring to a famine suffered by the people. In the second ‘water’ is the object of the verb: ‘If the work is given up the country of my lord will become “hungry” for water’,80 which shows that not the effect of a lack of irrigation water, famine, is meant but crop failure because the fields dry up. The use of ‘to become hungry’ instead of ‘to become thirsty’ may indicate that the focus is not on lack of water but on the resulting unproductivity. This is borne out by the letter AbB 9,228:11ff.: ‘For a full three years the field has not been “hungry”; I have recovered (?). The field now really is full of barley!’.81 These occurrences indicate that ‘to be hungry’ does not primarily refer to what is lacking (water, food) but to the fact that there is no productivity, no yield: no harvest from the fields, no profits from the investments in trade (silver, tin, copper). We know the same metaphor when speaking of ‘hungry soils’ and ‘hungry ore’, qualifying them as poor, not yielding much. *** Only a few metaphors could be analysed in this paper, mainly those typical of the jargon of the Old Assyrian traders—though not without occasional parallels in texts from other periods. They can only be appreciated and understood within their not always easy

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

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and clear commercial and financial contexts. The metaphors treated were used, at times apparently created, to meet the need for a terminology which could describe some rather technical operations and bookkeeping procedures. As such they have a conditioned, dated origin and function and can be appreciated as marking a particular stage of cultural evolution. Language had to keep pace with such technical evolution, in other areas too, in order to be able to describe the realities of the time. The Old Assyrian traders and scribes—it is at times hard to differentiate between them and we know that some traders could write their own letters—came up with solutions, including metaphors which we can still appreciate today. No wonder then that they not only, as one merchant reproaches his colleague ‘loved money’,82 but also liked ‘to make money’, expressions first found in Old Assyrian texts so far as I know. 1

Various Sumerian literary texts also contain references to trade and traders: proverbs, hymns, disputations, literary letters and even epic and mythical texts. See the discussion by M.Civil, JCS, 28 (1976), 72–81 (note the metaphor in the passage treated on p.76 and the analysis of the meaning of šu.bal.ak on p.79f.), and S.N.Kramer, Iraq, 39 (1977), 59–66. The passages in question use the standard commercial terminology in referring to traders, transport, barter, purchase and sale, and to the use of weights, scales and measures. But they hardly acquaint us with the more technical, idiomatic jargon, of which we know something from the Sumerian columns of ana ittišu (MSL 1), tablet 3,I:48 –II, 28 and

., II:129ff. (MSL 5). See for a general survey of Sumerian and Akkadian terminology G.Steiner, ‘Kaufmannsund Handelssprachen im Alten Orient’, Iraq 39 (1977), 11–17. 2 See Å.W.Sjöberg, ZA 64 (1975), 142ff., lines 21–26. The enumeration of the so-called me’s essential for civilisation, in the myth “Inanna and Enki”, does not include nam.dam.gàr or nam.ga.eš8 in the part devoted to crafts and professions, but dam.gàr occurs in an enumeration in Sumerian proverb collection II:54; cf. G.Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki” (Rome, 1973), 112. 3 See for trade in the Old Akkadian period, its textual sources and remarks on the vocabulary, B.R.Foster, ‘Commercial Activity in Sargonic Mesopotamia’, Iraq 39 (1977), 23–30; cf. also some of the texts published by him in JCS 35 (1984), 147ff. 3a See now I.J.Gelb, ‘šîbût kušurrā’im’, in JNES 43 (1984), 263–276. 4 Bābtum has two Sumerian equivalents (see my Aspects of Old Assyrian Trade and its Terminology (Leiden, 1972), 429ff.) of which dag.gi4.a is the later one, probably a calque on bābtum. The basic notion is that of items away from their owner and still to be collected, hence outstanding claims; its verbal corollary is ezābum, ‘to leave (behind)’, which implies separation from the owner and later collection (cf. Hebrew cizbōnīm, used in Ez. 27 in connection with Tyre’s traders). Sumerian sila.a.gál/sig7.a means ‘what is in the street’ and might refer to what an OB text calls sūq šimātim, a ‘market street’. But, as observed by Foster (op.cit., 40 with n. 118), such a purely commercial meaning (‘on the market, in transit’) does not fit all occurrences and probably is too specific (also in CT 50, 80). The common element is ‘out of reach, still to be collected’. Hallo’s proposal (BIN 3, 11, note ad no.500) to interpret sila.a.sig7.a in a balanced account of livestock as ‘smitten on the street’ is not convincing. This meaning is too specific (alongside general zi.ga) and a derivation from not necessary, since sig7/se12 is the plural stem of the verb denoting ‘to stay, to live, to be’ (Steinkeller, OrNS, 48 (1979), 55 n. 5). There is a lexical attestation of sig7 as plural stem of ti-(1)=wašābum, but it may also function as such of bašûm, equated both with gál and with ti-(1), cf. MSL 15, 251 Ea 11:98. 5 A typically Old Assyrian (new?) verb is adāmum, of unknown etymology (hence also possible), specifically used, always in the stative, in connection

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with investments in business capital (naruqqum), meaning: ‘to own a share in, to be entitled to’. CAD A/I 96 prefers atāmum on the basis of two occurrences of forms other than the stative which, however, are doubtful, see the discussion ibidem. In TCL 19, 53:24 the best solution is to read a-dá-ku-ma, ‘I will give you’; the context of TCL 19, 95:23 seems to exclude adāmum. 6 Examples, with discussion of the verbs and their constructions, mentioned in this and the next paragraphs, are given in my Aspects… (see above note 4), where they can be easily located with the help of the lexical index. I omitted kašādum+ana, ‘to equal (in value)’, recorded CAD K 275b (KTBl 4:21; KTS 14a:25). 7 Fully discussed by K.Balkan, ‘Contribution to the Understanding of the Idiom of the Old Assyrian Merchants of Kanish’, OrNS 36 (1965), 393–415. 8 See K.Balkan, Letter of King Anum-Hirbi of Mama to King Warshama of Kanish (Ankara, 1957), 12ff. 9 See my Aspects…, 3f. with n. 9. An additional example of the verb in CCT 6, 11a:11:…20 TÚG ú-pì-iq-šum-ma12aqqātišu addin, ‘I made for him an upqum-load/packet of 20 textiles and handed it over to him’. That upqum refers to a certain way of packing can be deduced from the unpubl. text kt c/k 450 (courtesy Donbaz): 2 túgkutānia 6ša ina up-qì-im la-wi-ú-ni, ‘two kutānu-textiles of mine which were wrapped in an upqum’. 10

BIN 4, 29:44: Šuruniumma ma-e

lā išatti; unpubl. letter Kayseri (transliteration 20

Landsberger):19f.: mamman ma-e lā išatti (letter to Pūšukēn from Inaja and Kilia). In both letters the context deals with deposits or investments in the kārum-office in connnection with accounting. 11

CCT 6, 14a:47ff.: ina . luqūtia. a-TA-mu-um ú ana 48ša 1 ANšE pirikannī.ušettuqu 49 raminī amašši.mīnum nēmal pirikannīma 50anāku. pirikannī.amakkar.nēmalam.šuati 51 Aššur ú dUTU.a-kà-bi-im. li-dí-šu (collated). 12 Unpublished text from the Kalley Collection, transliteration Landsberger (C 13), lines 30ff.: mīnam awātim rabiātim 31ana eqlim 10 bērē ina 32wasbim lu ni-ta-dí-ma. 13 See D.C.Snell, Ledgers and Prices. Early Mesopotamian Merchant Accounts (New Haven, 1982; Yale Near Eastern Researches 8); earlier: W.W.Hallo and J.B.Curtis, ‘Money and Merchants in Ur III’, HUCA 30 (1959), 103–139. 14 The main study on the question of money and silver during the OB period is the dissertation of R.F.G.Sweet, On Prices, Moneys, and Money Uses in the Old Babylonian Period (Chicago, 1958), which remains unpublished. His main conclusion is (cf. A.L.Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia [Chicago, 1964], 87) that most payments occurred in kind but were expressed in their silver equivalent. Silver passed hands in particular in minor transactions where small amounts were involved. Many payments were also made in barley and sesame oil, but silver was also preferred for payments and purchases over a considerable distance. See for the rather different situation at Mari, at least as far as reflected in the palace records, J.R.Kupper, ‘l’Usage de l’argent a Mari’, in Zikir šumim (Festschrift F.R.Kraus; Leiden, 1982), 163–172. As for the question how private persons could and did dispose of silver, at times in considerable quantities, Kupper writes (p.171): ‘La seule explication possible réside dans les activités commerciales auxquelles devaient s’adonner un certain nombre d’habitants du royaume’. 15 There is Old Assyrian textual evidence for the fact that ‘Akkadians’, i.e. traders from Babylonia, came to Assur to sell their textiles, see simply Aspects…, 98f. Also the measures taken by the Assyrian king Ilušuma imply contacts with Babylonia, see M.T.Larsen, The Old Assyrian City-State and its Colonies (Copenhagen, 1976; Mesopotamia 4), 63ff. 16 See for the institution of the naruqqum and the relevant terminology M.T.Larsen, ‘Partnerships in Old Assyrian Trade’, Iraq 39 (1977) 119–144. Thus far no specific term for ‘withdrawal’ is attested; Old Babylonian uses šiliptum (ina kīsim), cf. AHw 1236a s.v. and

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

61

CT 48, 99:6. In the few Old Assyrian references where the word is attested kīsum does not denote the main business capital brought together by investors and entrusted to a trader, but rather particular sums of silver for specific transactions. 17 A comparable development is embodied in the logogram used for ‘to buy’ (ša’āmum). The grapheme, sa10, actually is a combination of a (measuring) container and the sign for grain. 18

‘C 18’ (unpubl. text, transliteration Landsberger):31ff.:

32 33 leqema ana ú ebrim za-ri-šu-ma 34 kasapšu šuqulšum; L 29–567 HUCA 39 [1968], 22f.):8f.: kaspī ina ki-ta-im 9 za-ru. Both texts belong to a ‘file’ which also includes the letters TC 1, 8 and TC 3, 92. They were combined by Landsberger, WdO, 3 (1964), 66, F (the two texts quoted above are Landsberger’s nos. 18 and 25). za-ri-šu-ma can only be an imperative of the D-stem and za-ru consequently must be parsed as zarru, a D-stem stative. 19 P.Steinkeller, ‘The Renting of Fields in Early Mesopotamia and the Development of the Concept of “Interest” in Sumerian’, JESHO 24 (1981), 113–145. 20

Cf. the use of , ‘to grow, increase’, in the OB herding contract analysed by J.J.Finkelstein in Essays in Memory of E.A.Speiser (AOS 53, New Haven, 1968), 33.

21

Old Assyrian also knows the use of in the combination , with the meaning ‘addition, supplement’. The expression refers to the so-called ‘second page’ of business letters encased in one and the same envelope with the principal letter. I have to apologise for the fact that, having discovered this term, I wrongly identified it as a construct state of zibbatum, ‘tail’ (influenced by the modern concept of an ‘appendix’) and hence am responsible for its inclusion in AHw s.v. zibbatum (p.1524a) B, 7). A good example is also ICK 1, 31a-c:31b is the main letter, 31c the small ‘second page’, and 31a the envelope with the address, which warns the reader (rev.2): an addi]tion to the tablet’.

22

TC 3, 264a: kasapka 5

[ibašši], ‘[there is 6

šabbu'āti 7

8

dinamma 9 lāduk 10umma Šū-Bēlumma 11

12

gumurma u kaspam 13lege ù šumma 14

16

ku’āum

dīk; CCT 3,45a: mala 11tale’û awātim ša kunukkika 15ēriška.adi alākia

ša kunukkika 17dinšum.ù ina alākia 18 20

ša kunukkika limūt; CCT 4,16a:

kunukkia 19laddiššumma u ša 10 mana kaspim 26ana

29 ša šabā’ē.ša 10mana 30kaspim. ša kunukkia 31 Pūšu-kēn 27 waššerma 32 kilallānma limūtū. In the last text the scribe started with two accusatives in lines 27f., perhaps because he had a construction with duākum in mind, and continued with a nominative and muātum in lines 31f. 23 See F.R.Kraus, Königliche Verfügungen in altbabylonischer Zeit (Leiden, 1984), 31, 1 and 82,

B 6. See the evidence collected by A.L.Oppenheim, Eames (1948), 131f.; Falkenstein, NSGU, III,175 s.v. The use of zí-ir for breaking (sealed) tablets is also attested in ana ittišu: tabl.VI, iv:13f.; 26f.; 28f.; see for other bilingual occurrences AHw s.v. pasāsum. The use of gaz with this meaning is not attested during the Ur III period, contrary to S.J.Lieberman, JCS 30 (1978) 91f., whose only parallel (p.93, n. 7) is an Old Babylonian legal text from Nippur

24

(ARN 36:4: dub.ibila.a.ni in.gaz-ma). His statement that the use of Akkadian and dâkum for ‘to invalidate a document…seems to derive from an idiomatic Sumerian locution with gaz’ (ibid.) lacks proof.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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25

šumma awutum imtuatma kaspum ittašqal. Such ‘bearer’s cheques’ replaced the name of the creditor by the statement ‘the creditor has a

26

. Drawing up such bonds was called claim of…upon…’ šumi tamkarim waddu’um, ‘to mark the name (of the) tamkarum’ instead of the creditor’s šūt tamkarum, ‘the personal name. Such bonds were payable to the bearer: wābil bearer/owner of the tablet is the creditor’. The introduction of this type of bond was an expedient for traders in need of cash, away on business trips, wishing to remain the anonymous owners of capital advanced, or faced with complications about the ownership of certain sums. 27

BBR 26 III:5: lū arnia. In Šurpu IV: 79f. such a tablet is to be thrown into the water; a ‘tablet of sins’ occurs also in Anat. Stud. 33 (1983), 77. See CAD A/2, 297b, 2’, for examples with pussusum and arnum as object, and AHw 838b s.v. pasāsum for occurrences

with . As is done in W.Baumgartner e.a., Hebräisches und Aramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament, Lief.II (Leiden, 1974), 537b s.v., on the basis of AHw 637a s.v. ma’û. See for a more recent analysis CAD M/2, 321, s.v. mu’û A, ‘to praise’, and mu’û B, meaning uncertain, with only two occurrences, both in the D-stem. 29 See B.A.Levine in: H.J.Nissen—J.Renger (ed.), Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn (Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 1; Berlin, 1982), Teil 2, 522ff. 28

30

See for

tabākum, Kraus, op.cit. (note 23), the second reference, and for awata in Nuzi, RA 23, 125 no.49:3f. (preceded by ‘to break an agreement’, nabalkutum).

A Neo-Babylonian letter uses the expression dibbē , ‘to break an agreement’, which is paralleled in another letter by ‘to change the agreement, to break the contract’ . These occurrences make it doubtful whether the metaphor still refers to the breaking of the tablet which contained the agreement (as is clear in OB, also from the fact that twice, when the tablet to be broken is absent a clod of earth is broken instead, CT 48, 15:6f. and TIM 4, 40:17f.). The reference is probably to the agreement which ‘ties’ together two partners (riksum; cf. in Nuzi awatam rakāsum, ‘to make (lit. bind) an agreement’, see CAD A/2, 35b lines 13ff.). In that case our ‘breaking one’s word’ would be a perfect parallel, since it also refers to an agreement reached, a promise made which is ‘binding’. That Akkadian is aware of this metaphor is clear from the occurrence of the verb ‘to cut through’, with an oath or treaty as object (AHw 832b s.v.), a verb which is also used in the meaning ‘to cheat’. Cf. Hebrew prr hi. with berīt as object. 31

not with a reference to its female owner; hence ‘this relevant tablet, this tablet in question’. The case states that the testimony of the witnesses was essential in drawing up this document. Since not all details (names and patronymics of the owners of neighbouring plots) could be recovered the text has some blanks (lines 14ff.). 31a uddušum, ‘to renew’, is attested once in OB with a document as object (unpublished text from Eshnunna quoted CAD K 43f.). A mistakenly (?) broken deed of purchase of a house is renewed by the palace official supervising real estate transactions. 32 Eisser-Lewy, Die Altassyrischen Rechtsurkunden vom Kültepe, 3.–4. Teil (Leipzig, 1935; MVAeG 35/3), 109–168, in part. text no. 331= TCL 14, 77, duplicated by Landsberger, ‘Vier Urkunden vom Kültepe’, Türk Tarih Arkeol. ve etnogr. Dergisi, 4 (1940), 7ff., no. 2 (11–20). This new text fills the lacuna in EL no. 331, which makes a continuous line-numbering

‘Dying tablets’ and ‘hungry silver’ elements of figurative language

63

possible: lines x+1 in EL=the end of line 18 in Landsberger no. 2. Note in connection with this group of documents that EL no. 336 can be joined with no. 341. 33

‘To include in’ seems to be the meaning of used in A:14f.; cf. its use in BIN 4, 42:36ff.: ‘x gold, being Z’s debt, has been included in (added to) my debt’; BIN 6, 183:22ff.: ‘x gold being E’s debt they included in/entered upon my tablet (bond)’; ATHE

with more or less the same meaning. 58:5ff. uses In A: 7 Lewy’s source has na-ú-NI-NI, which he interpreted as a personal name (Na(b)û-ili). Landsberger’s duplicate has the same spelling, but kima na-áš-ú-ni in line 17. I follow Landsberger’s emendation in reading ša na-<áš->ú-ni-ni, ‘which they are bringing’ in line 7. 35 See for this use of the verb my Aspects, 409ff. 36 See for the ‘operational device’ A.L.Oppenheim, JNES 18 (1959), 121–128, and for the OT reference O.Eissfeldt, Der Beutel der Lebendigen (Berlin, 1960). 34

37

BIN 4, 199:1–8, not listed above, is difficult. CAD B 62 takes i-té-pá-áš in line 5 as a passive t-punctual, ‘if a tablet (bond) has been made out’, which would make this bond the object of the suffix in , ‘they will make it available to him’. I would rather follow Eisser-Lewy, II, 162 n. a, in taking the verbal form as ītepaš (t-punctual of the basic stem), ‘if the tablet has produced/yielded something’ (epāšum in a commercial sense, comparable to our ‘to make money’, see examples in CAD E 210b s.v.). In that case the

yield, the profit would be the object of , which is ‘made available to, counted as a credit for’ the person involved. 38 See for this aspect of the wool trade my Aspects, 134f. 39

The verbal form in no. 6:20,

, is ambiguous. It can be parsed as

, ‘it has now been credited by me to you’, or as , ‘it now counts as my credit’. The continuation in the next line, ‘so you will have to balance me 10 shekels of silver’ (tanappalam), shows the second interpretation to be the correct one. 40 See my Aspects, 15f., c and d. 41 MARI, 3 (1984), 260–263. The published text is ARM 10, 82:18f., interpreted as ‘I have sent you sealed tablets ša

. The unpublished occurrences refer to

of textiles, wool, wine, barley, water-bags and personnel. Several examples state that the record in question (this should apply also to ARMT 22, 203 and 276) ‘has been drawn up for

’ , and one text (M 14542,

p.261 1, d) even writes ašum

nikkassi ša PN. The reference to an assessment, stock-

taking, balancing is particularly clear in those cases where is the beginning of a phrase and the -ma introduces the (numerical) result of the operation: x jars of wine, etc. (once used to account for one broken wine jar). In M 11500 (p.262, 3a) the operation concerns a large amount of barley ‘written in the record but consumed and (booked) as drawn out on the tablet of the igisā’um-tax’. The note was made ana of the granary. I am not convinced that the verb with this technical meaning is used in ARM 10, 166/167:9 and ARM 10, 3:16, since the normal meaning ‘to keep alive, to sustain’, makes good sense.

Figurative language in the ancient near east

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42

But note AbB 4, 122:14: ‘Don’t you know that the palace here , which Kraus translates with ‘ihn gerade saniert hat’. This means, according to the context, that the person in question got back the fields of which he had been deprived. 43 M.David-E.Ebeling, Assyrische Rechtsurkunden (1929) no. 74, where they fail to recognise the verb leqûm in line 9. The deed is called ‘Verpflichtungsschein’. ‘Das Blei ist für eine is translated with Magd gegeben worden, deren Wert erst abzuschätzen ist’; ‘pflegen’. 44 A.L.Oppenheim, Iraq, 17 (1955), 71ff., in the framework of a discussion of the ‘Nippur siege documents’, where occurs as ‘to keep alive, sustain’. Oppenheim connects our text with KAJ 167 and Middle Assyrian Laws tablet A § 39 (see for this passage now J.M.Durand, Assur, 3/1 (1980), 24 n. 26). Oppenheim considers the verbal form il!-ti-qí in line 9 as ‘added erroneously’. 45 J.-M.Durand, Assur, 3/1 (1980), 25 n. 29. He hesitates about the reading of line 9 and points out that the amount of tin equals the price of a slave girl attested elsewhere. 46 P.Koschaker, NKRU (1928), 105, in the paragraph entitled ‘Verfallspfand’. 47 Deeds of loan always use ilqe, but note exceptional ilteqe in Ass. 11017r, which, however, is preceded by ‘ten years ago’. See for the meaning of the t-punctual in Middle Assyrian G.Kaplan, Drevnii Vostok, 4 (Jerevan, 1983), 298. 48 The insolvent debtor hands over to his creditor movable property of all kinds (bīšum), ‘in the presence of witnesses, according to its value’ (kīma ubbalu). There is no mention of earlier pledging and the goods here are a substitute payment in kind (datio in solutum), before witnesses, as payment of the debt. The correct meaning was also established by M.Stol, Een Babyloniër maakt schulden (Amsterdam, 1983), 17 n. 147. Recent translations require correction, including the one given by H.Petschow (Zeitschr. der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte, Röm. Abt., 99 (1982), 281f.), in an analysis of the datio in solutum. Petschow rightly refuses to accept that the debtor would be obliged to hand over to his creditor all his movable property; ‘wahrscheinlicher genügten wertgleiche Objekte’, exactly what the text states. 49 J.-M.Durand, Assur 3/1 (1980), 10. 50 See for Old Assyrian in particular CCT 1, 36a:14ff. and EL no. 309 rev., in connection with prices and rates of interest, and compare OrNS 50 (1981) ad no. 3:11, ‘to make a public statement of value’, with some additional occurrences. 51 See n. 42 above. Von Soden revised his opinion in AfO Beiheft 19 (1982), 6, k). In TC 3, 99 , qualifying a favour, could mean ‘until I recover’ or ‘in view of my recovery’. 52 EL II p. 155 n. b, and 162 n. a. 53 Quoted ArOr, 18/3 (1950), 422 n. 311. 54 Larsen, Old Assyrian Caravan Procedures (1967), 38. 55 A less clear occurrence is in TC 3, 21:33ff. šumma tamkarum la ša kīma qaqqidiku , ‘if the commissioned agent is not (one whom you can trust) like yourselves do your best that I (still) make profit’ (or: at least make some profit; or: may survive?). It might be an emergency situation where one would settle for a small profit or even playing quits. 56 In BIN 4, 224, a letter addressed to the creditors (bēl kaspim) of a certain A by another creditor of his, A; we read in lines 23ff.: ‘put the silver under seal and send it to Š and to your representatives, and let A join your representatives and then they (together) should make a and let the merchandise (purchased) come up (to Anatolia) and purchase then satisfy yourselves with your silver’. CCT 3, 13:25ff.: ‘with the 10 minas of silver of Š,

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on which your claim rests, he has made a purchase and now your claim rests on the goods purchased’. 57 See Larsen, OACP, 73, where one of the cases is analysed. 58 In both cases the person acting on behalf of the dead person calls himself mer’a mētim, the technical term for the legal successor and executor, attested in many cases where a trader has died and his son(s) have to settle his affairs. The fate of Suejja in EL no. 337 apparently is not clear; he has died or has at least vanished without a trace (lines 5f.: miššu mētum miššu b/parrum, cf. Landsberger, op. cit. (above n. 32) 15 n. 1. In EL no. 338:5 and 340:4 he is said to be šannu (perhaps ‘passed’?). The fact that this statement is introduced by la libbi ilim again points to physical death. As for EL no. 246, other occurrences of ina bāb muātišu (CCT 5, 9b:16; TC 3, 76:6) support this interpretation. 59 Cf. the file studied by L.Matouš, ‘Der Streit um den Nachlass des Puzur-Aššur’, ArOr, 37 (1969), 156–180. 60 B.Landsberger, ZA, 35 (1924), 26f. 61 Ibidem. Subsequently Landsberger revised his opinion, see Ana ittišu (MSL 1), 120ff., stressing the reference to the solidarity of the debtors who are jointly responsible and to the indivisibility of the debt, but abandoning his interpretation of šalmum as “materiell integer”. 62 R.Harris, JCS, 14 (1960), 126–137, esp. 133ff., II. 63 This meaning is deduced from the text Boyer, Contribution 147 (=RA 12, 68), treated on p. 136a which, omitting ina u šalmu, stipulates payment to Šamaš ‘when Šamaš will have had mercy upon him and he will have experienced the compassion of Šamaš (so that) silver will have come into his hands’. There is no need for a psychological interpretation, since Babylonian theology considered both illness and economic disaster as possible punishments by an angry god. In this case a financial crisis seems the most likely reason for what to all appearances is a charitable loan. The substantial amount of 25 shekels is rather , which CAD much for a vow by a ruined man. The amount is qualified as M/2,137a,c takes as ‘equal amount (as fine for a debt past due)’. The text could well record the novation of an earlier loan of money for business purposes (agriculture, commerce, trade); the “charitable” aspect would be the omission of a term for payment, which would only take place after he had made money (thanks to Šamaš’s benevolence and blessing). 64 See Harris p. 132f., ‘special clauses’. Additional examples are JCS 14 (1960), 52a no. 77:6f.; 54a no. 86:6 (ūmi ittabšû); CT 48, 104:6f.: ūm ina qātišu kaspum ibbaššû. In BM 13307 (M.Anbar, RA 69, 116 no. 4): 8 the term of payment (of a temple loan by a nadītu of Šamaš) is ūm ka-an-da-at, probably to be emended to ūm ka-aš-da-at ‘the day she has reached (her goal), she has succeeded’, on the basis of the unpubl. text BM 80952, a similar temple loan by the same nadītu (courtesy M.Stol). The verb suggests some undertaking or business. 65 An additional example is YOS 13,429 (loan of 1 kor of barley, 1 shekel of silver; Sd 12): 8ff.: 9 11 13d ina ù šalmu 10EN? ù libbim(? li-ib-šI) 12 UTU 14 bēlšu ippal, ‘when he is sound and well, (when) the Lord(?) lets him experience joy and satisfaction, he will repay Šamaš his lord’ (EN in line 10 is difficult; perhaps a damaged BURUX, ‘a joyful, satisfactory harvest’?). 66 R.Harris, Ancient Sippar. A Demographic Study of an Old Babylonian City (Istanbul, 1975), 205. 67 Examples in Harris, JCS 14, 135, where, however, several ornaments cannot be identified, and some obligations which include gold are considered vows. Additional examples of the latter kind are VAS 18 nos. 4 and 5; a sun disc is owed in no. 13. 68 See my remarks in Iraq 39 (1977), 113f. 69

4 3 GÍN. KÙ.BABBAR 2ik-ri-bu 3 6 IN.TUKU 7i-na a-li-š[u] 8i-il-la-ak-ma 9KÙ.BABBAR i-na-an-di-in.

5d

EN.ZU

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70

CT 4, 27b:10ff. inūma ana ālia 11[ù] ašria 12atturu itti ikribīa madûtim ša 15

16

d

14

ina

17

libbu mātim šaknū (pagar[šu] UTU i-pa-al). The beginning deals with GUD dUTU.GAL ša dUTU, ’an ox, called Šamaš-rabi, belonging to Šamaš’, misunderstood by W.F.Leemans, JESHO, 11 (1968), 204 and R.Harris, Sippar, 204 n. 261. 71 CT 48,99: 18½ G[ÌN] KÙ.BABBAR 2ŠU.TI. [A Ib-ni-É-a] 3i-na li-[ib-bi/u k]i-si-im 4ša d UT[U ù Ib]-ni-É-a 5tap-pú 6ši-li-ip-ti Ib-ni-É-a 7ki-ma Ib-ni-É-a 8il-qú-ú 9dUTU i-le-eq-qé (time of Samsuiluna). See for another commercial investment by a temple the contract published by Anbar, Israel Oriental Studies, 6 (1976), 61f., as P.2. 72 Edzard, Altbabylonische Rechts- und Verwaltungsurkunden aus Tell ed-Dēr (1970), p. 41, n. 9, noted that some ‘private’ charitable loans (usātum) mentioned gods as witnesses (VAS 7, 81; Riftin no. 7), and this may indicate some relation to the temple. The link could be the ‘agent’ mentioned in several loans in conjunction with the god as creditor (Harris, p. 128b). Edzard’s text no. 16 is a Šamaš loan, which may have belonged to the archive of Anum-pīša if he was associated with a temple, which we might infer from the fact that text no. 12 is a loan extended by him and witnessed by the god Nin-Šubur. A better knowledge of the persons occurring as creditors and debtors could reveal certain patterns. It is possible that charitable (perhaps also business) loans by temples were extended only to certain persons associated with the temple. Harris (134 n. 28) notes that in later texts the god is sometimes qualified as ‘his/her lord’, which she takes as a reference to a religious attitude. It might also be taken as an indication of some relation which made the debtor acquire the loan (new ; YOS 13, 429:13 (Sd 12). The occurrences in CT 48, 96:8 (Ad 11); YOS 13, 92:8 designation of the god as bēl kaspim, ‘owner of the silver, creditor’ is different in YOS 13, 429:5, which does not favour the interpretation as a vow. The findspots of all these ‘temple loans’ are unknown, unfortunately. Note that YOS 13, 11, a ‘pure loan’ of half a shekel of silver from Šamaš, for buying barley, shows that such temple loans were transferable, since it should be paid, at harvest time, ‘to the bearer of his sealed bond’ (ana nāši kanīkišu). 72a Note the temple loan discovered in the archive of Puzurum in Terqa (Bibl. Mesop., 16, 1984, TRF 1.7), which has the

sequence and is dated to the reign of

shortly before ca. 1700 B.C. Another argument for the interpretation as a real loan is the fact that some texts containing the

73

clause stipulate that no interest is due (PBS 8/2, 150:2; UET 5, 400:5). Such a provision seems very strange in connection with vows. The strange amounts mentioned as due in both texts may indicate that interest already had been included in the capital . As such they would be comparable to TCL 1, 188, explicitly qualified as such, which contains the provision that payment is due ‘when Šamaš will have given the debtor silver’ (I owe this observation of M.Stol). The less charitable, more businesslike character of the temple loans attested at Ur was also stressed by K.Butz in E.Lipiński (ed.) State and Temple Economy in the Ancient Near East, I (OLA 5, Leuven, 1979), p. 368, n. 312. Recently J.N.Postgate (Journal of Semitic Studies 28, 1983, 157ff.) suggested the possibility that Mesopotamian temples took part ‘in secular business affairs by using capital deposited with them’ (the latter being called ikribū). 74 In the expression kaspum irtuqanni, with accusative-ablative suffix (e.g. BIN 4, 32:20). Other verbs occurring with kaspum as subject are buārum, ‘to appear’ (e.g. in the expression šumma kaspum illibbi PN ibturam, CAD B 127a, 2’, misunderstood AHw 850a, 11, b, s.v. ); alākum, ‘to travel (overland)’; elā’um, ‘to come up, to emerge’; erābum, ‘to enter, to come in;

, ‘to assemble’.

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75 27

kaspamma 28tušēbilānimma 29umma attūnuma la i-ba-re 30aššumi tērtikunu 31annakam batqam aš’amma 32u ammakam ib-té-re 33ūmam annukum 16. GÍN.TA 34u eliš ibašši. See already Landsberger, JNES 24 (1965), 294 n. 36: ‘to lie idle (literally: hungry)’. 76 See for the purchase prices of tin, fluctuating between 12 and 17 shekels for 1 shekel of silver, Garelli, Les Assyriens en Cappadoce (Paris, 1963), 280. 77

abī attā šumma damqakkum 7erium 10 GUN ša ēpušu annakam 8aštanammema mātum 9 at(!) ammati mātum 10ana ašriša litūr 11erium šinišu ib-té-re 12šumma libbika 13tērtaka lillikamma 14lu ana kaspim lu ana 15 MA.NA 2 MA.NA. DIRIG 18enēka lā tanašši.

annakamma 16lūta’iršu ana kaspim 171

78

[x x] x-ma 27 tērtakunu lillikam 28 paniātim 29la i-ba-re-a-nim. CAD B 120a, 1, restores the broken verbal form in line 26 as [sà-ni-q]á-ma, ‘check’. This dictionary lists the occurrences quoted under a verb barû C, ‘to be available (?), to be on the market (?)’. I have no explanation for ATHE 42:6. The two examples of the D-stem are dubious. bari-a-ma in TCL 20, 99:15 probably is an imperative D-stem of barû A, ‘to check, inspect’, to be connected with bi-ri-a-ma, imperative G-stem, quoted p.117a, 2b. 79 GÁN a ib-ra, quoted MAD 3, 100 s.v. BR’1. I doubt whether ú-ba-rí in BIN 8, 144 I:4 (B.R.Foster, Acta Sumerologica, 4, 1982, 15) allows the interpretation ‘he left hungry (uncultivated)’. 80 ARM 3, 1:17f.: mū ipparrasūma māt bēlia i-bé-er-re; 8:11f.: šiprum innezzebma u māt bēlia me i-bé-er-re. 81

14 ištu ūmī šalāš šanātim 12 eqlum ul be-ri 13anāku eqlum inanna še’am mali. The restored verbal form in line 13, suggested in AbB 9, would be welcome additional

82

proof for the transferred meaning of as argued above. TC 1, 5:8f. kaspam tara’am napaštaka taze’ar, ‘you love money, you hate your life’. Cf. M.T.Larsen, ‘Your money or your life! A portrait of an Old Assyrian businessman’, in Studies in Honour of I.M.Diakonoff (Warminster, 1982), 214ff.

A Riding Tooth: Metaphor, Metonymy and Synecdoche, Quick and Frozen in Everyday Language Claus Wilcke This paper’s subject has been internalised by Assyriologists from the beginning of their studies. I sometimes have to admit that this is so much the case that we are no longer aware of it. Let me start with a riddle. Monsters seemingly roamed the fields of Ancient Mesopotamia in autumn and early winter. These are some of the prominent features which distinguish one of them: It has a father and a mother and a wife; it has a head and a tongue and a hand and an arm; it wears a hat and is adorned with rings and earrings; it has an egg, a strangler, a chain and a bolt; a spoon, a chair and a stool, and it carries a yoke; there are boards and bonds, a sight and a ride.1 One should, perhaps, add that for some years the monster was considered to be bisexual, yet, in recent years it has lost its distinctive parts.2

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Fig. 1. Mesopotamian seed-plough The picture in figure 1 taken from A.Salonen’s Agricultura Mesopotamica (p. 73) reveals the monster as a peaceful seeder plough, the parts of which are named metaphorically—by means of catachresis as the ancients would have put it.

Fig.2. Standard of Ur and wild anmial approaching Other tools share this phenomenon. Figure 2 shows a wild animal approaching on paws or claws—at least in Sumerian. The Sumerians called the wheels of wagons or chariots umbin ‘fingernail, claw or paw’. Akkadian differentiates between ‘fingernails, etc.’

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and ‘wheels’ named , the latter showing some assonance to the Sumerian term. If its [mb] sequence is not a product of dissimilation, it betrays the word as of un-Akkadian origin.3 The word is first attested in Old Babylonian times on Elamite soil.4 There is another certainly genuine Akkadian word for ‘wheel’: magarrum, originally: ‘revolving tool’. By means of synecdoche both Akkadian words for ‘wheel’ denote ‘wagon’ and ‘chariot’. The wheel’s hole, where the axle fits in is called in Sumerian igi, in Akkadian īnum, both meaning ‘eye’.5 The same catachrestic metaphor is used for the opening in a fermenting jug for beer production where the liquid drops out: ‘the eye of the gakkul vat’.6 Canals have a mouth and a tail7, the mouth doing just the opposite of what a river mouth in European languages does: Sumerian and Akkadian canal mouths decently drink the water. The words for head, Sumerian saĝ, Akkadian qaqqadum and rēšum, are extremely productive in the metaphoric (catachrestic) creation of new terms. I only refer to the use of ‘head’ for ‘slave’ as in Latin, to saĝ-níĝ-GA-ra=rēš makkūrim for the ‘available capital accounted for’ on account tablets which at least once is referred to in an Old Babylonian letter (in the accusative) as qaqqadī kaspim ‘the heads of (the) silver’.8 Related to this is Sumerian dub—saĝ ‘tablet head’ for the beginning of a cuneiform tablet9, and, once more transferred, used for ‘beginning’ in general.10 The beginning of a period may be called its ‘head’ as in kaqqad ebūrim11, ‘beginning of the harvest time’. In yet another letter we find the head in the adverbial accusative rēšam, ‘in the beginning’.12 An area abounding in metaphoric terminology is the scholarly language of extispicy. On a sheep’s liver we find such structures as a city (or palace) gate with its door jambs and other parts,13 a cattle pen,14 weapons15 everywhere, paths16 and the like. Therefore we may state that metaphors in catachrestic use are very productive in the naming of tools (and their parts) and in scholarly descriptive language. This seems to be a universal phenomenon and is described almost two millennia ago by Marcus Fabius Quintillianus in his Institutionis Oratori Libri XII (viii 6, 5): copiam quoque sermonis auget permutando aut mutando quae non habet, quodque est difficillimum, praestat ne ulli rei nomen deesse videatur, and (viii 6, 35), differentiating between catachresis (abusio) and metaphor (translatio):…abusio est ubi nomen defuit translatio ubi aliud fuit. Instead of listing more cases of figuratively-named tools or parts of them—cf., e.g., the terminology for furniture—let us turn to some items which share the special destiny of being transferred more than once.

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Fig.3. Silver handle of dagger ending in lion’s mouth We have already met the word ‘tongue’ as the name of the plough-share. It is also used for the blades of shovels and spades,17 the tips of lances and arrows and the blades of knives and daggers.18 Therefore we are not surprised by a dagger the silver handle of which ends in a lion’s mouth from which the blade once protruded; see figure 3. A similar motif is found in the Neo-Assyrian lion daggers guarding the entrance of the Adad temple at Tell al-Rimah.19

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Fig.4. Axe blade hanging from lion’s mouth Here the figurative expression in language has been translated into a work of art. These two examples are of relatively recent date. Yet, with another tool we meet it as early as the dynasty of Akkad in the third millennium B.C. The example shown in figure 4 is from the thirteenth century B.C., from the palace of the Elamite king Untaš-napiriša: Sumerians and Akkadians (and, perhaps, Elamites too?) also called the blades of axes ‘tongues’.20 Here again, we find this idea translated into the artistic form given to the tools. Peter Calmeyer called these blades hanging from a lion’s mouth ‘ausgespuckte Klingen’ and linked them to the metaphor of an axe devouring corpses attested in Sumerian literature.21

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The relationship between the art of the coppersmith and the metaphors in language may be even more complicated. It could well be that one called the blades of knives and axes ‘tongues’ because of the impression created by the way they were fixed to their handles in stone age times, the binding resembling an open mouth; this mental picture was then transferred to language and, after the forging technique had been developed, into art. But there may be yet another reaction to this in language. Twice we find pī pāšim, ‘mouth of the axe’, in Old Babylonian documents.22 Having in mind the idea just discussed and looking at figure 4, we immediately know what that means—or, rather, we think we know. But I have no idea as to its real meaning in its context. In both cases it describes a house sold and could refer to its physical appearance, its location, its state of preservation or something else.

Fig.5. Hoe from Urnammu’s stele (with coil of measuring rope similar to one held by Inanna in the Burney Relief) The same happens to us with the ‘tooth of the hoe’. Hoes are provided with heads and teeth, and I am happy to make good part of my sins denounced by M.Civil23 in showing in figure 5 a fragment of the Urnammu stele which depicts a hoe which, as Civil (referring back to F.Thureau Dangin) pointed out, is very similar to Ancient Egyptian hoes. It is easily understood that the part of the hoe that bites into the earth should be called a ‘tooth’. But we are lost again with the description of two houses sold in Old Babylonian times as ‘tooth of a hoe’.24 Whether the metaphor ‘tooth’ could also be used (in catachresis) to name the share of the seeder plough is more an epigraphic than a linguistic problem. The logograms for ‘tooth’, Sumerian zú=Akkadian šinnum, written with the signs KA, and for ‘tongue’, Sumerian eme= Akkadian lišānum, written with the sign KA with an inscribed ME, are of minimal graphic distinction which, perhaps, could be neglected by a scribe in cursive script if the choice of words was fixed by the lexicon. But this issue seems to be somewhat open to subjective judgement. A letter from Yale25 mentions (if we follow the text as written): 36 wooden ‘teeth’ of seeder ploughs, 48 wooden ‘teeth’ of ploughs for breaking the soil and 66 wooden ‘teeth’ of harrows. The editor, M.Stol, translates in all three cases ‘tongues’, evidently taking KA (zú) as a graphic variant of KAxME (eme). R.Frankena26 and the CAD27 do the same in a different context. I agree for the seeder

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plough, but not for the plough for breaking the soil for which we have evidence for a ‘tongue’ (if that is not again a writing error) and its ‘teeth’.28 Harrows are also known to have ‘teeth.29 ‘To break the soil (ploughing)’ is in Akkadian majjāri/majjāram literally ‘to beat the majjārum’ (singular or plural of the object majjārum and the ploughed field in the accusative, too). Knowing all this we may understand what the sender of the letter AbB 6, no. 114 means when he writes: ‘As to the sending of a beater, you wrote me about (referring to) the fields of

and Kikalla: The tooth is riding (sc. over them).

One [beater] to Kikalla and on[e beater to ]-Zababa have [been sent]. They have made the tooth [ride over the field].’30 In this case of the ‘riding tooth’ we encounter a frozen metaphor being part of the lexicon employed to form a new and as it seems free ad hoc metaphor. It differs from the case mentioned in note 7 in so far as a hanging tail in itself is not metaphoric at all. Only the fact that the ‘mouth’ (in European terminology) is called the ‘tail’ of a canal in Sumerian (and Akkadian) and that this is lexicalised makes the hanging of the canal’s tail a metaphor and, perhaps a pun. In our case of the ‘riding tooth’ the noun ‘tooth’ and the verb belong to quite different semantic spheres. The process of ploughing and the verb ‘to ride’ are not very close to each other, either. The idea of riding expressed in Sumerian by the verb u5 and in Akkadian by the verb rakābum is, as is well known, not that of sitting astride on horseback like German ‘reiten’, but rather that of moving along by means of a vehicle or animal, as riding on a bike, in a car or in a boat as in English; it also covers the ingressive action like the French monter. Therefore the ‘riding tooth’ is in all probability to be understood as the share of the plough dragged across the field to break the soil. The use of metonymy, synecdoche and metaphor in idioms stands between the extremes of quick and frozen figurative tropes. We find metonymy in expressions like ‘to hear someone’s lips’,31 ‘to see words’ meaning ‘to look into affairs’32 or ‘to hear a tablet’,33 furthermore in phrases like ‘to enter someone (or something) on a tablet’34 and similarly ‘to pull out (i.e., to remove) a list of names from a tablet’.36 Of course, in both cases (written) names or words are entered or removed, not the persons or things. We may compare Sumerian zi-g ‘to rise, to raise’ in its use as a bureaucratic term for ‘to remove from a given stock’ and ‘to debit to a certain account’. Other examples of metonymy are the use of ‘heat’ for ‘summer’ and, more exactly as L.Cagni understood it, ‘harvest time’, right beside the use of ‘ear’ for ‘attention’ and ‘field’ for ‘crops’ in a letter: ‘Please, may your ear be for the field until the heat; the small cattle must not eat it!’ meaning:

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‘Please, pay attention to the field until harvest time; the small cattle must not eat its crops!’36 The idiom =rēšam kullum (literally) ‘to hold the head’37 may not originally be figurative at all or, at best, a synecdoche. It means ‘to take care of someone (or something)’. But it soon becomes quite independent of the notion that there is a condition to its use: the ‘someone (or something)’ must own a head to be held. Without it, the idiom looks like a metaphor. It is very frequent in letter introductions in the wish: ‘May your guardian god take good care of you’ which occurs in two different formulations. The one I consider original is: ‘May your guardian god hold your head for amenity’.38 The assumed secondary form is: ‘May your guardian god hold the head of your amenity’.39 Both formulae are well attested in late Old Babylonian letters. Perhaps this or a similar shift allowed expressions to originate like, ‘hold the head of my words!’ meaning, ‘take care of my affairs’,40 or ‘May your god Ninšubura hold the head of your convenient ominous uttering(s)’, meaning ‘May your god Ninšubura conveniently take care of the ominous uttering concerning you!’,41 or ‘May they (the beer jugs) hold the head’, meaning ‘May they be ready’,42 or ‘On the field that holds the palace’s head’ meaning ‘on the field that provides sustenance for the palace’.43 The last two items are very clear in that the subject has no hands ‘to hold’ and that there is no head at all that could be held. Another example of a coined phrase turned into a metaphor through emancipation from a restricted semantic field inside which its words can be understood at face value is the idiom ‘to walk behind (or after) some one (or something)’, in the sense of ‘to follow’: warki X alākum. We read in a document about a marital donation:44 ‘At the time of the argument, when the father house of (Miss) Būrtum quarrelled and approached (Mr.) Talīmum, but (Miss) Būrtum gave up (literally: dropped) her father’s house and walked after (Mr.) and (then Mr.)

married her,…’45

We may imagine the girl literally walking behind her suitor and probably fiancé, who had just been told by her family that he could not marry her, on his way back from her family’s house. But we may also consider the ‘walking behind him’ as a metaphor for her taking his side, separating from her family and moving in with him. If Hammurabi writes ‘The man walks after his field’ we can only assume the metaphoric interpretation of the idiom: The man will come under the same authority as his field.46 The uncertainty of a semantic distinction between synecdoche and metonymy (and, to some extent, even metaphor) discussed recently by N.Ruwet47 can be seen with some of the different uses of ‘face’ in various idioms. In Sumerian igi ‘eye’ is a lexicalised synecdoche for ‘face’ and metaphorically used for ‘front side’ of anything. Akkadian uses the pluraliatantum pānū for ‘face’ which sometimes alternates with the singular form pānum ‘front side’.

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The Sumerian phrase igi-niin-ĝar=Akkadian pānī-šu/ša iškun ‘He/She put his/her face’ means ‘he/she appeared’ (in court or with a contracting party),48 a clear synecdoche, the face being the identifying feature of a person. Yet, in the phrase ‘his face is set for ruining his son’49 and similar sentences the face seems to be used as a synecdoche for the eyes aiming at something, and, is then employed in a catachrestic metaphor to fill the gap in the lexicon for ‘zeal’ or ‘intention’. From this then will be derived the expression kīma pānī-ka, literally: ‘like your face’,50 but meaning ‘as (or: if) you like’. Very similar are the formulations ‘if it is your view’51 and the like. ‘To strengthen one’s face’ seems to be basically non-figurative as it means ‘to make a stern face’. But as it is used clearly in the sense of ‘to overcome one’s fears’ we wonder whether the act of ‘strengthening the face’ implies ‘overcoming one’s fear’, thus being metonymic, coming along with it, or whether it is a metaphor—the fear overcome mentally no matter what the face looks like.52 In another case the same idiom is used in the sense of ‘to oppose somebody’53 and again, we may ask the same question. Yet, as in both cases the stern, unmoved face might go along with the intended attitude, I would regard the idiom as bascially metonymic but including the possibility of metaphoric use. ‘To carry somebody’s face’54 means to treat somebody with forbearance. Is this metaphoric for not allowing someone to drown in the muck or morass of his (or her) guilt? I admit that the semantic setting of this phrase escapes me.55 ‘To seize the face of something’, often a group or herd of animals,56 is used in the sense of ‘to take the lead of something’ just as in Akkadian ina pānī means ‘in front of’. In this idiom ‘face’ and ‘to seize’ are used metaphorically. Its opposite ‘to give the face’ has the meaning of ‘to give heed to someone’. Here the word pānū, ‘face’, is certainly a synecdoche for the eyes as the centre of attention. ‘To give’ in this context can only be metaphorical.57 If a face turns black, black stands for dark-coloured—a hyperbolic metaphor58—and the expression may then be understood as a ‘face red with shame’ or ‘red with anger’. Yet, the whole phrase could be a metaphor for shame or anger just as in English one need not blush if one is ‘red faced’.59 F.R.Kraus has studied in extenso the set of idioms pānam išûm/ rašûm/šuršûm referring to oral or written information and meaning ‘to be, to become or to make clear’.60 Here the front side (pānum) is a metaphor for the clearly discernible. One wonders whether the idea of the face as the identifying part of person is not present in this metaphor too. Returning once more to the head, if it is clearly discernible in a crowd its owner may be regarded as an important person, an idea originating in all probability from that of a big animal in a flock or herd, like the Latin egregius, Thus qaqqadānum ‘the one with a (remarkable) head’ is used in this sense in AbB 3, no. 18, 24. This image (a synecdoche) can be linked to that of heaviness in metaphoric use for importance (cf. English ‘to carry weight’) resulting in a ‘heavy head’ that has nothing to do with a hangover.61 Its opposite, the light head, occurs once in a letter referring no longer to a possible owner of a head: ‘Because the head of words without bonds is light, I did not agree’.62

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This is thought to mean: ‘Because business affairs without contracts are regarded as of no importance, I did not agree’.63 Let me end this chapter on idioms with the case of the long bench. Twenty years ago, one found in a book on furniture the entry ariktu ‘lange Bank’.64 It was taken from a Middle Babylonian letter, where one reads, ‘he will drop the work for a length (sc. ot time)’65 translated by the editor with the idiom ‘auf die lange Bank schieben’. In 1974 with R.Frankena’s edition of AbB 6 the idiom was back in Assyriology, this time translating the Akkadian idiom idam šuršûm/rašûm ‘to provide with, or: to get, an arm or a side’67 which was thought earlier to mean ‘to demur’, ‘to raise objection’ or ‘to reject’.68 Kraus later modified Frankena’s idiomatic rendering in translating ‘wenn du zur Seite schiebst’.69 German ‘zur Seite schieben’ looks like an appropriate translation for ‘to provide with a side’, and it was most probably the idea behind Frankena’s translation. But I am not convinced by this new interpretation because I think that idum ‘side’, ‘arm’ in this idiom cannot be separated from its use as a technical term for ‘handle’,70 the handle being called a tool’s or vessel’s arm. This catachrestic metaphor is then used metaphorically for the ‘handle to handle an affair’ meaning ‘legal grounds’, mostly in legal contexts.71 The negative imperative (awātam) idam lā tušarša ‘do not provide (the word=affair) with a handle’ is always followed by a second imperative, e.g., ‘do not write back to me!’72 The positive formulation in the present(-future) tense (used as a conditional clause) is followed by a threat like ‘Give to PN what I wrote to you! If you provide a handle, I shall not release to you the sealed tablet concerning 4 pounds of silver!’73 The positive phrase in the preterite telling what happened is complemented by a second one exemplifying the unfriendly attitude of the actor and in one case showing ‘to provide a handle;’ to be a verbal act.74 To provide a handle to a matter is equivalent to being ready to manipulate it, not to follow orders or instructions as issued: to demur. Any intention to do so is stopped short by the use of idam lā tušarša. Therefore, I propose to maintain the old translation for the idiom. There is an abundance of other examples of rhetorical tropes in Old Babylonian idioms, but I shall leave this track because, on the whole, the borderlines between the different figurae are quite often hard to establish in idioms as soon as they develop the tendency to emancipate themselves from their original semantic field. A second reason is that despite the enormous progress achieved in recent years with our two Akkadian lexica, one of them just finished, the other making good progress, our knowledge of the (Sumerian and) Akkadian lexicon as a whole is still much too limited and, more precisely, we have almost no studies on synchronic levels. Therefore it is quite often impossible to know which meaning is derived from which and whether and when metaphorically-derived meanings became lexicalised.

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This may be exemplified by a special use of the word qinnāzum ‘whip’. With this we shall turn to the free or rather freer use of figurative language in non-poetic texts. To call a certain member of parliament a ‘whip’ is a metaphor. But this metaphor has long been lexicalised. Yet, when the Ancient Babylonians call a man a whip we don’t know whether this is metonymy (the man using a whip in his function as overseer over a group of workers or, perhaps, as an ox driver) or a metaphor. In addition, we don’t know whether the metonymy or metaphor is used more or less spontaneously or whether it is already part of the lexicon. In one letter we read, ‘You are a whip! At whose behest did you detain the 4 police troopers?’75 and in another, ‘Let the men go! Let them return to their earlier whip!’.76a There may be a third occurrence of this use of qinnāzum: ‘The farmers, the working troops of the whip(s) of Emutbalum dispersed into the middle of the land’,76 if this passage is correctly understood.77 If I am right in regarding this use of qinnāzum as metaphoric it is also clear that it cannot be an ad hoc creation of the relevant speakers. It will have to be located somewhere between free invention and frozen, lexicalised use. The same will hold true for the greater part of the somewhat randomly chosen figurative expressions gleaned from Old Babylonian letters listed here: A worried man writes, ‘A creditor may not stand “on your skull”’,78 the expression ‘on the skull’ being idiomatic for ‘on top of’ and the sentence obviously meaning: ‘May you not be harassed by a creditor!’ He continues a little later in the same letter, ‘Do not sow for the birds of heaven! The strong and the weak will be overpowered (sc. by those birds)’.79 This metaphor becomes understandable by the description of what happened to somebody else: ‘At night the wild cows and all day long the qaqû-birds made the field (i.e., its crops) go up to the sky’,80 where we again meet the metonymy ‘field’ for ‘crops’ mentioned above at n. 36. With the next quotation we catch a glimpse of business slang: a man owing 120 kor of barley proposes to his agent to make the creditor agree that half the amount be turned into a loan for temple provisions for the sun god, and he continues, ‘And for the provisions for the sun god we won’t scratch ourselves!’.81 Many of the more freely used metaphors occur in emotionalised, agitated contexts. Thus someone longing for long-awaited news writes:

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‘My heart must not be broken again and again!’.82 The broken heart is an image familiar to us. Another writer who is very badly off, underlines his urgent wish for support with the words, ‘The city-gate man must not be sent away empty (handed). If he comes empty (handed) the dogs will devour me!’.83 A similarly poor man accuses a woman, perhaps his mother: ‘You did not care for me any better than for a dog! My tears and my wailing may run over you! Because I have nobody taking care of me, I will be dead forever!’.84 Here the dog is not a threat to the feeble man as in the last example but one; it is a simile for the utterly despised. The use of alākum ‘to walk’ for running tears is normal in Akkadian but with dimmatum, ‘wailing’, it is certainly metaphoric. The last sentence is rather evident hyperbole. We read about a woman who has ruined a man, ‘She has made your neck reach the soil’85 which reminds us of the Sumerian expression gúki-šèlá ‘to let one’s neck hang down to the soil’.86 Hardship is in one letter described as ‘coming into the rain’, ‘Why do the clouds rain onto me?’.87 and a little bit later in the same letter we find, ‘You bear responsibility (?) for the neglect so that, as for me, the sky rains onto me every day!’.88 An angry man writes about ‘insults unsuitable for smelling’, presenting us with a rare example of synesthesia.89 Another man describes in hyperbolic metaphor how much his opponent has become estranged from him, ‘The breach has become a mile wide!’.90 and in another hyperbolic metaphor a belligerent writer threatens, ‘I will fight over the…and the house! The man will be cut to pieces!’.91 And yet another threat is hurled at a lessee who did not pay the rent for his field,

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‘Come here and satisfy the Šamaš-priestess! If you do not come here no one will be left behind in your house to provide the water libations (for the dead)!’.92 These words may be taken literally as Kraus does, assuming that all male members of the family will be led away. Yet, I think, it might be a metaphor for the total annihilation of the family (kimtum), all possible libation pourers dying off. An infuriated woman describes how she is treated by her husband’s business partners who not only hold back all kinds of commodities she thinks she has a right to but also press her hard for payments. ‘The overseer of the merchants, Minde-ila and Šumum-libši demand and take payments. They are scooping me out as if I were a river. They are encompassing me, yet, they come to me one after the other and triumph over me’.93 There are friendlier pictures, too. oracle concerning him,

is told by his correspondent about an

‘Thus (says) your lady: Both my wings over him are opened as a shield protecting him’.94 I take the word kappum in its meaning ‘wing’ differing from the lexica95 and from B.Landsberger’s opinion quoted and followed by Kraus:96 ‘Folgendermassen (hat) deine Herrin (gesprochen): Meine Hände, die nach ihm (ausgestreckt) sind, sind offen. Sein Schutz ist ein Schild (für mich)’. Any translation of so isolated a divine uttering is a hazard. I hope the somewhat simpler rendering offered above makes sense. Another reference to ominous portents is less clear. ‘Do not be negligent towards yourself! My dreams are strong!’.97 Is this a reference to nightmarish dreams? A very concerned man writing to a woman, perhaps his sister or daughter, about the prolonged illness of her mother, states, ‘Now the lady, your mother, did not change by one single grain. If your mother will have been able to breathe again in ten days from now, I shall come to you. Don’t worry!’98

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The absolute state —Kraus reads ud-di-id assuming a verb he leaves untranslated—underlines the singleness of the grain. The smallest unit in metrology—be it in weight, length (and area) or capacity—functions as a metaphor for the least step in any direction, like, e.g., English and French grain, German Gran, all derived from Latin granum (later granus) used in the same way. The verb napāšum ‘to breathe’ may be understood literally here, the mother suffering from bronchitis, asthma or pneumonia. But, again, I would rather think of a metaphor for recovery. The uncertainty whether we are confronted with metaphor or with something that really took place is obvious in the following examples. A judge who wishes a party to litigation to appear before him complains to this man’s superior, ‘Further, I have seen that he will not be favourably minded towards litigation. I also sent him a letter (literally, my tablet). Thus he (answered): “I have thrown the tablet into the water”’.99 We cannot know whether the man really threw the tablet into the water to let it dissolve (if it was unbaked) or whether he uses this expression as a metaphor for his contemptuous disregard for the letter and its contents—if he really means this letter at all. Similar difficulties occur with a phrase attested in two court documents. According to one of them a nadītum-priestess is proven innocent of having written a fake inheritance document in her own favour. The tablet continues, ‘The judges instructed them (i.e., the parties in the litigation) about the judgement,100 the judg(es) speaking of his (i.e., the main plaintiff’s) punishment, and then one judge threw his garment over him’.101 There is some confusion about the numbers: whether there is one or more judges acting; there is more than one plaintiff.102 It is also unclear whose garment was thrown over the culprit, his own or, as I assume, the judge’s. Has the throwing of the garment saved the plaintiff from the punishment? This may well be so since there is another court document103 with the same group of persons litigating against another, one of whom is the accused in our case. This document refers back to an earlier case. The plaintiffs lose again and one of them, their leader, is severely punished. In another case, after the seller had died, his brothers and sisters claimed a field sold. The judges convinced themselves of the buyer’s ownership by inspecting the sales contract and ‘instructed them (i.e., the parties in the litigation) about the judgement, imposing on them a field like that field. But they had no field like that field, and then the judge(s) threw his garment over them’.104 It seems that this throwing of the garment over the one due to suffer punishment is an act of mercy saving the litigant from the severe consequences of his unjustified suit, perhaps

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the contrary of donning the garment of one’s wrath (see above, n. 32). But was the garment actually thrown, or is this phrase a metaphor? My final example of a phrase that might be regarded as an image comes from two royal letters belonging to a set of (at least) five sent by King during the second half of the fifteenth year of his reign105 to the adminstration of the city of 107

troops

to warn them of the approach of BImatû106 and threatening the city and its cattle. The king orders,

‘The city gate must not be opened as long as the sun (god) has not risen! It must be returned (i.e., closed) from ‘the sun (god) stands’ on!’108 Kraus, in AbB 7, left untranslated109 the phrase I have rendered literally as ‘the sungod stands’. Now, 1985, in AbB 10, he translates ‘sobald die Sonne steht’ and, still puzzled by the absence of the subjunctive in the verb, notes: ‘Was das bedeutet, ist dem Bearb. unbekannt.’110 The lacking subjunctive shows quite clearly that the sentence ‘the sun (god) stands’ is not a subordinate clause. It therefore has to be regarded as a name or a quotation of direct speech. I think it is both, a call sung out by the guards on duty at the city gates or on the city walls functioning as the name of a specific moment in the course of the day. But where is the sun god supposed to be standing? Is it a figure of speech or something that can actually be seen?

Fig.6. Sun god on the gate Figure 6 shows a photograph taken in the spring of 1983 in front of the gates of the excavation house at Isin. For us who know about the earth’s rotation around its own axis and its course around the sun this picture does not show something real; the sun standing on the horizon can only be a metaphor. For the Babylonians this picture was reality. For them the sun god Šamaš really stands here. So let’s obey the king’s orders and close this paper. * The author cannot claim to be an archaeologist. He tries to pay his tribute to Henri Frankfort by linking artefacts and language and by tracing some of the many images used in Old Babylonian letters to get an impression of everyday figurative language. In order to work

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with reasonably coherent source material he has not included the Mari letters and has mainly restricted himself to the series Altbabylonische Briefe, 1–9 (vol. 10 could only be included in the notes) and the Babylon letters in VS 22, all edited so magnificently by F.R.Kraus and his collaborators. If in some instances he offers different solutions to tricky questions, but this in no way minimises the respect and thanks he owes them. Thanks, too, are due to B.Hrouda and K.Stup who kindly provided slides for the lecture and to U.Calmeyer-Seidl who helped find one of the pictures. When, in juggling with metaphors of two different languages (with a mind programmed in a third) the author caught the wrong ball, the editors of this volume kindly put them into their appropriate order. 1 See A.Salonen, Agricultura Mesopotamica under the following lemmata (and check the now available lexica): abu ‘father’, p. 74; ittû (
‘arm’, p. 74; kubšu

‘ring’ (?), p. 94; uzuntu ‘earring’, p. 97;

erimmatu ‘egg’, p. 78; ‘strangler’ (?), p. 79; šeršerratu ‘chain’, p. 94f.; sikkatu ‘bolt’, ‘nail’, p. 92f.; itqurtu ‘spoon’, p. 82 (top); kussû ‘chair’, p. 84f.; littu ‘stool’, p. 85; nīru ‘yoke’ MSL 6, 19 Hh V 166; li’u ‘board’, p. 85f.; kissu ‘bond’(?), p. 83f.; nabrītu ‘sight’ (?), p. 87; rikbu ‘ride’, p. 91. This list is not complete. kissu is rendered by ‘bond’ here because of its Sumerian counterpart dur in gišdur-apin; cf. CAD kīsu B 1 ‘bond’; AHw kīsu III. Because of its correspondence to gišigi-gál-apin I relate nabrītu to barû ‘to look upon, etc.’ The form of the sign nínda (ittû) is that of the funnel of the seeder plough. Its meaning ‘father’ must be secondary; see W.G.Lambert, RA 76, 1982, 94 for ittû as a metaphor for penis. 2 A.Salonen, Agricultura p. 73 (‘Zeichnung 4’) and p. 86f. interpreted gišSAL-la-apin=mu-si-ru (MSL 6, 19 Hh V 161) as ‘vulva’ and giškak-SAL-la-apin=sik-kàt MIN as ‘clitoris’ and his drawing interprets the tube of the seed funnel as ‘penis’ (no Akkadian word given; see end of note 1). His etymology for the alleged *musēru can no longer be upheld. The lexica list this item under mussiru and derive it from esēru ‘to enclose, etc.’. AHw (quoted by Salonen) in transliterating gišgal4-la-apin seems to consider an interpretation as ‘vulva’, too, and translates ‘eine Düse am Saatpflug’; CAD M/2 s.v. mussiru A 1 considers it as ‘a connecting part between team and yoke’. 3 GAG § 51c. 4 AHw and CAD s.v. 5 MSL 6, 13Hh V 93. 6 M.Civil, Studies Oppenheim, p. 70, 59; 83. 7 See the literature quoted in: H.Sauren, Topographie der Provinz Umma, p. 47 and 49, nn. 92 and 104. Urnammu 27 (=SAK 188i=IRSA 3A1g), 14 kun-bi a-ab-ba-ka ì-lá ‘he let its (the canal’s) tail hang into the sea’ uses the frozen (lexicalised) metaphor to create a new seemingly free one. 8 AbB 6, no. 88, 7ff. 9 See ŠL 138, 46; CAD muttu lex. The cylinder W 20475 (see A.Falkenstein, BagM 2, 1963, 50) is headed (I 1) dub-sag. 10

See CAD lex. AbB 1, no. 89, 5–6 ki-ma iš-tu ka-qá-ad/e-bu-ri še-a-am la i-šu ‘(Don’t you know) that since the beginning of the harvest time I have no barley’. 12 AbB 3, no. 11, 6f. re-ša-am i-na La-ga-baki ta-az-zi-iz-[ma]/a-na GÚ i7 11

, ‘In the beginning you served in Lagaba and (later on) I transferred you to the bank of the Tigris’; see R.Frankena, SLB4, 36.

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13

See U.Jeyes, ‘The “Palace Gate” of the Liver’, in: JCS, 30, 1978, 209–233, especially p. 212ff.; VS 22, no. 81, 7. 14 Five circular or oval spaces on the ‘Foie “d‘Orientation”’ (J.Nougayrol, RA 62, 1968, p. 37/39) are identified as

(TÙR), one of them (no. 67) as

‘(cattle) pen for the herd(s)’; see also AHw C. On the ominous phenomenon kakkum occurring on the liver, see St. Lieberman, in Essays…Finkelstein, p. 149f.: the cuneiform sign GAG, Akkadian kakkum identified via homonymy with kakkum ‘weapon’. 16 AHw padānu B; J.Nougayrol, JCS 21, 1967/69, 234. 17 See MSL 6, 117 Hh VIIB 30 gišemee-me-mar=li-šá-nu MIN(=marri) ‘tongue of the shovel’. 18 CAD L lišānu 6b. 19 Studied by J.-G.Heintz, in Recontres de l’École du Louvre: Image et Signification (Paris, 1983), 55–71. 20 CAD L lišānu 6b. 21 See P.Calmeyer, Datierbare Bronzen aus Luristan und Kirmanshah (UAVA 5), 194 top left; 152 for the date of the earliest specimens; 160 for the literary parallels. 22 CT47, no. 44, 1–2:3 ŠAR É du-un-nu aš-lu-ka-tum/pí pa-ši i-na nam-zu-um ‘3 ŠAR of built up farmstead, a barn, mouth of the axe, in the (village?) Namzûm (see R.Harris, Ancient Sippar, 375, and CAD **namzû); BE 6/1, no. 76, 1–2:1 ŠAR É pí-i pa-a-ši-im/i-na KÁ dMa-nun-gal ‘1 ŠAR house, mouth of the axe, in the (city quarter of) the Manungal gate’. 23 In Sumerological Studies…Jacobsen (AS 20), 153, n. 48. 15

24

BE 6/1, no. 95, 1–2:2 ŠAR É ši-in-ni gišAL/i-na Sippirki

rum ‘2 ŠAR house,

tooth of the hoe, in ;’ VS 22, no. 16, tablet 1–2:2/3 ŠAR É ZÚ AL [ru-ug-gu-bu]/ŠÀ URUki GÍ BIL dUTU.[È.A]=envelope 1–3: [2/3 ŠAR É š]i-in-n[i] g iš [ AL]/[r]u-ug-gu-bu/[i-na URUk]i GÍ BIL dUTU.È.A ‘2/3 ŠAR house, tooth of the hoe, roofed, in the Eastern New Town’ (partly misread by H.Klengel, AoF 10, 1983, 20f.). giš

25

AbB 9, no. 4, 9–13: bi-it! (text: IŠ) ku-nu-ki-ja pí-te-ma/36 gišKA.APIN giš

/48

giš

KA.APIN.TÚG.GUR10 /66 KA.GÁNA.ÙR /id-na-šum-ma li-ib-lam ‘Open my storehouse and give him 36 ploughshares, 48 shares for ploughs for breaking the soil (and) 66 teeth for harrows, so that he may bring (them) to me!’. 26 AbB 3, no. 94, 16’ (in broken context): ù 4 gišKA.APIN.TÚG.GUR10 eš-še20-tim ‘and 4 shares for the plough(s) breaking the soil’ (with R.Frankena’s commentary in SLB 4, 254). 27 CAD L lišānu 6c. 28 The OB text PBS 8/1, no. 63, 1 mentions 60? gišEME.APIN. TÚG.GUR10. But the late Babylonian Text TMH 2–3, 140 writes ll. 2f. ši-in-nu ma-a-a-ri; see CAD kilâtu and majāru 1d. In favour of šinnu is also AbB 6, 114 (see n. 30). 29 See CAD M/1 maškakātu lex. 30

AbB 6, no. 114, 4–11: ša ta-aš-[pu]r-am /A.ŠÀ UMBIN-dZa-ba4-ba4 ù Ki-kal-laki/ši-in-nu-um ra-ak-ba-at-ma/ [a]-na Ki-kal-laki/ù i[š-te-en [d]

a-na

ki

UMBIN]- Za-ba4-ba4 / /ši-in-nam [x x x(x x)]/ ú-š [a-ar-ki-bu]. 31 AbB 1, no. 11, 15: ša-ap-ti SAG.ÌR ìš-mu-ú ‘They heard the slave’s lips’. 32 AbB 5, no. 171, 9–22: aš-šum qá-aq-qá-ad10/a-wa-a-tim ša la ri-ik-si /qá-al-l[u (x)]/ú-ul ma15 /i-na Babilimki/i-il-la-ku-niag-ra-a-[ku]/um-ma a-na-ku-[ú]-[ma]/um-mi ù im-ma/a-wa-ti-ja i-im-ma-ru /al-ka-am-ma a-wa-ti-ja/a-mu-ur-ma ri-ik-sú-ú-a 20

/

li-iš-ša-ak-nu-ma/

e-ez-zi-ka/li-it-ba-aš-š[i], ‘I did not

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agree because the “head of words without bonds” is light. Thus I (told myself?): “My mother and will come to me from Babylon and will see my words.” Come here and see my words and one may place my bonds (=contracts) before you and then don the garment of your wrath!’ S ee below with nn. 62, 100–104. 33 AbB 2, no. 161, 33: ki-ma tup-pí te-eš-te-mu-ú, ‘as soon as you have heard my tablet’. 34

AbB 3, no. 3, 15–24: a-na ÉRENmeš mu-ul-li-im/ni-di

la ta-ra-aš-ši/pí-qá-at

/la bé-el iš-di-in/i-na-ad-di-nu-ni-ik-kum tu-ma-al-la-ma20/iš-tu a-na tup-pí-im/tu-te-ri-bu-šu i-na-ad-di-ma /

/bé-el iš-di-in-ma ša

/ka-qá-as-sú la ub-ba-lu mu-ul-li. This is translated literally: ‘Do not get a fall of the arm for the filling of the troops! Perhaps they will give you somebody unreliable? without the two foundations (=buttocks). You will fill (him in), and, after you entered him on the tablet, he will drop (sc. his arm) and get lost. But fill (in) someone with the two foundations at whom you look and who does not bring his head’. Our metonymy is packed into a passage full of figurative expressions. Filling troops means: to bring them to full force; to get a fall of the arm (and, to drop the arm) is to be negligent; the two foundations are the buttocks and an owner of buttocks is not nomadic but settled; to bring one’s head seems to mean ‘to act impudently’ (see CAD qaqqadu 8a1‘a’); see R.Frankena, SLB 4, 15.

TCL 11, no. 200, 16’-24’: ša i-nu-ú-ma /it-ti [(x)]/ 20 ŠEŠ.AD.DA.NI/la zi-zu-ú-ma / a-na tup-pí -šu-nu/la úr-rumeš d bu /i-na mi-it-gu-ur-ti-šu-nu/DUMU I-din- MAR.TU/i-na is-qí-im il-qú-ú ‘(a plot of land) which the sons of Iddin-Amurru took by lot when the estate had not (yet) been divided with his (their?) father’s brother and had not (yet) been entered on their inheritance tablet.’ Cf. also VS 22, no. 83, 16 (see n. 57, below): barley on a tablet. 35

AbB 2, no 36, 10–15: ù MU.DA.SÁ ša-[a]-[ti]/ša a-na MÁ.NI.DUB ta-na-a[d-di-nu]/[š]u-bi-

, ‘Further, send la[m-ma]/[i-n]a DUB MU.DA.[SÁ]/ša AGA.UŠ[meš]/ me the list of these troops which you will assign (literally: give) to the cargo vessel so that it may be removed from the tablet with the list of the constables!’ Of course, the list with the troops for the boat cannot be removed from an existing tablet—being written down on a different tablet. The names could theoretically be wiped out on the tablet of constables, but, in reality, a new tablet would be written without the names of the troops assigned to the cargo vessel. Thus the removal would be one of individual names—most probably not a consecutive list of names—from a list existing in the administration as a mental construct. On the other hand, the list to be sent will be a tablet. 36 AbB 8, no. 13, 20–25: a[p]-pu-tum/a-[n]a GÁNA-li-im/a-[di] um-mi-im/[ú-zu-un]-ka/li-ibla i-ka-la-a-šu. The metaphor ‘ear’ is used here catachrestically for ‘attention’ to ši/ fill the gap in the lexicon; see AHw uznu(m) A7–8. The same transferred use of ‘ear’ is attested in Sumerian in the idiom ‘to set one’s ear’ in epic narratives, e.g., Gilgameš and , l. 1: en-e kur lú ti-la-šè géštu-ga-ni na-an-gub. ‘The lord, toward the land of the living set his mind’ (S.N.Kramer, JCS 1, 1948, 8–9); Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld, l. 1: [an-gal]-ta ki-gal-šè géštu-ga-ni na-an-gub ‘From the [“great above”] she set her mind toward the “great below”. (S.N.Kramer, JCS 5, 1951, 1); cf. also the expression ‘to make something meet the/someone’s ear’ meaning ‘to bring something to someone’s

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attention (*géštu-ga ru-gú) in SAK 64 f II 4–5 alan-e nin-ĝu10 gèštu-ga-ni-a [ ]-mu-nani-ru-gú ‘the statue shall bring me? to my lady, to her attention (literally: ear)’; D.I.Owen, NATN 234, 4 ĝiš-túg-ga ru-gú-dam, ‘It is to be brought to attention’, and similarly 235, 5 ĝišdù-ga ru-gú-dam; 174, 7 gèštu-ga ru-gù; T.Fish, MCS 8, 90: BM 105544 rev. 4 (see T.Gomi, Orient, 27, 1981, 42) giš-túg-ga ru-gú; Gomi, Orient, 16, 1980, 107, no. 172, 4 giš!-túg-ga ru-gú; 109, no. 181, 2 gèštu-ga ru<-gú>. For a similar unorthographical writing of *geštu see H.de Genouillac, Fouilles de Tello II (1936) pl. XL AO 12210, 6’–10’ bur-ba nin-ĝu10/gišdù-níĝ-sa6-ga-ni-a/ ga-a-ti/igi-sa6-ga-ni /mu-bi ‘This vase’s name is: My Lady, I wish to live in/by his?(=the king’s?) favourable attention; may he? look at me favourably!’ A different way to describe ‘attention’/ ‘intent’ metaphorically is the use of ‘eye’/‘face’; see below with nn. 49–51. 37 See CAD kullu lex; MSL 13, 250, 11’ff. 38

AbB 1, no. 7, 7–8: DINGIR-

re-eš-ka a-na da-mi-iq-tim/ li-ki-il.

39

AbB 1, no. 24, 5–6: DINGIR-lum /ri-iš da-mi-iq-ti-ka li-k[i-i]l. AbB 6, no. 104, 16–17: re-eš a-wa-ti-ja/ki-i-il. 41 AbB 1, no. 142, 1–2: ìl-ka dNin-šubura re-eš i-g[i]-ri-ka/da-am-qí li-ki-il. 40

42

AbB 2, no. 67, 11–13:5 š-ši /i-na bi-ti LÚ.TIN.NAmeš ša Sippirki-Am-na-nu le-qé-ama/re-ša-am li-ki-il-lu ‘Take 300 beer jugs from the houses of the brewers of SippirAmnānu so that they may hold the head’. 43 AbB 4, no. 88, 14–20: i-na A.ŠÀ-im/ša re-eš É.GAL-lim ú-ka-al-lu a-na 20 /LÚ.É.DURU5-Šul-gi.KImeš/NÌ.ŠU Ib-ni-dMAR.TU/ki-ma a-li-ik i-di-šu-nu/A.ŠÀ-am i-di-iš-šu-nu-ši-im ‘Give to the 20 cooks, the Kapar-Šulgians under the command of Ibni-Amurrum, a field out of the field that holds the palace’s head, like the cooks their comrades!’—See also AbB 7, no. 49, 4’–6’=10, no. 150, 19–20 said of troops and boats. 44 This document is related to CH § 160–161, especially § 161 (R X 69): YOS 8, no. 141, 31–32 i-na bi-ti [a-bi-i-ša] ú-ul /iq-bu-ú-ma ‘In her father’s house they said: “you will not marry”’. It is older than the CH (dated RS 34) and comes from Larsa. 45

YOS 8, no. 141, 1–8: i-nu-ú-ma

/ša bi-it a-bi-i-ša/ša Burúr-tum 5 I

/ Burúr-tum bi-ti a-bi-i-ša id-du-

/a-na ú-ma/EGER

/il-li-i-ku-ma/

. For the construct state bīti in line 5 (side by side with bīt in line 2) cf. line 31 quoted in n. 44. As this text is only interested in the marital gift of the husband to his wife, it mentions the previous events only so far as they directly pertain to it: the wife has received no dowry from her father’s house because she insisted on marrying her suitor who in all probability was her husband in inchoate marriage but was turned down (see n. 44) in favour of another man. The reasons leading to that decision as well as the legal and financial questions to be solved between the husband and the wife’s family (and, perhaps, the second suitor) were not considered in this document. 46 AbB 2, no. 38, rev. 3’–4’ (in the restoration by F.R.Kraus, note a): a-wi-lum-ma wa-ar-k[i A.ŠÀ-šu]/i-il-la-a[k]. 47 N.Ruwet, ’Synecdoques et métonymies’, in Poétique, 6, 1975, 371–388. (=id., ‘Synekdochen und Metonymien’, in: A.Haverkamp (ed.), Theorie der Metapher, (Darmstadt, 1983), 253– 272 [in German]).

Figurative language in the ancient near east

88

48

A.Falkenstein, Die Neusumerischen Gerichtsurkunden, vol. 1, 60f.; vol. 3, 122.

49

VS 22, no. 84, 12 (see now Kraus, AoF 10, 1983, p. 52f.): a-na 1 DUMU-šu

pa-nu-šu [ša-ak-nu]; cf. AbB 2, no. 90, 11–12: A.ŠÀmeš ša AGA.UŠmeš a-na /pa-nu-šu ša-ak-nu ‘his face is set for ruining the fields of the constables’; cf. 8, no. 99, 29– 30. 50 AbB 4, no. 143, 11–13: ki pa-ni-ka/[a]-na kap-ri-im/pi-ri-ik-ma, ‘If you like, withstand the ki-ma pa-ni-ka/li-il-qú-nim ‘they may fetch

village…’; AbB 7, no. 176, 13–14: fish for me as (much) as you like’. 51

/ [1 míT]a-ri-ba-tum

AbB 1, no. 31, 14–15: i-na-an-na

‘Now, if you see fit to do this, send Tarībatum to me’; cf. n. 53. AbB 1, no. 132, 17–18: [pa]-ni-ja ú-da-an-ni-in-ma/[aš-p]u-ra-ak-kum ‘I made a stern face and wrote to you’. Earlier in this letter, the sender informs the addressee that i-nu-ma a-na

52

Babilimki ta-li-kam-ma5/ [n]i-in-nam-ru ap-ta-la-a a-ma/a-wa-tam qá-ba-am ú-ul eli-a ‘when you came to Babylon and we met each other, I became afraid of you and (therefore) could not say a word’. In AbB 1, Kraus translates very empathetically ‘ich have Mut gefaßt’ for pānī-ja udannin. 53 See Kraus, RA 64, 1970, p. 58f. and especially AbB 3, no. 2, 8–9: pa-ni-ja ú-da-an-ni-in-ma pa-ni-ša ú-ul ú-ul ú-bi-il/ ad-bu-ub, ‘I made a stern face and did not treat her with indulgence (literally: did not carry her face), and I spoke to her as I saw fit’. AbB 7, no. 66, 14–15: pa-ni-ka ma-di-iš/du-ni-in-šu ‘make a very stern face towards him!’ See R.Frankena’s commentary in SLB 4, 7. 54 See above, n. 53; AbB 1, no. 83, 25: i-na du-ul-li pa-ni-ja li-it-ta-ab-ba-al ‘May he treat me with forbearance with regard to the labour’. AbB 3, no. 21–27–28 (see below, n. 99) uses the idiom referring to a judgement. 55 I know of no Akkadian expression like a falling, or, dropping face which could be used in the sense of ‘to lose face’. 56

See CAD

8 (p. 28f.); AbB 1, no. 49, 17–21: [IIb-ni]-dAdad RÁ.GABA/ša Ib-ni-

d

Marduk ša-pir Sippirki/a-na dŠamaš-i-din-nam DUMU!

ni-šu

ki

a-na ša-pir Sippir /

[q]é-ru-um-ma/pa‘Ibni-Adad, the messenger of

the governor of Sippir, Ibni-Marduk, is close to Šamaš-iddinam, the son of . He has taken him along and will bring him near to the governor of Sippir.’ Cf. also no. 83, 15–23. 57 See CAD N/1 p. 52 nadānu 2 (panû b) with the OB reference AbB 5, no. 172, 12; see further VS 22, no. 83, 15b-17 (Kraus, AoF 10, 1983, 50f.): ù aš-šum še-e a-ša-al-šu-ma/um-ma ana-ku-ma še-um ki i-na tup-pí-ja/lu-uš-pu-ur-šum pa-nam ú-ul id-di-nam ‘Furthermore, I asked him about the barley. Thus I (asked): “How much barley is on my tablet? I wish to send it to him!” He did not give heed to me.’ (Kraus does not consider pānum as a (synecdochic?) variant of pānū here.) 58

See CAD 1d’ for the use of the same metaphor in medical contexts. Kraus, AbB 10, p. 131 n. b on no. 147, now links this expression to the consequences of malnutrition.

59

AbB 1, no. 79, 15–18: ù a-na

/la te-eg-gi/pa-nu-šu la

/2 SÌLA

KAŠ li-iš-ta-at-ti, ‘Furthermore, don’t be negligent towards . He must not blush! He should have a regular (i.e., daily?) ration of 2 litres of beer!’. AbB 7, no. 35, 11b–12: pa-

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89

nu-ja/la ‘may I not blush!’. (Kraus: ‘Ich will mich nicht blamieren’ [italics: FRK]). 60 RA 64, 1970, p. 55–59; see, e.g., also AbB 9, no. 156, 17–19; 10, no. 5, 20; 182, 9; VS 22, no. 83, 12–13 (Kraus, AoF 10, 50f.). 61 AbB 1, no. 52, 6–7 DINGIRlu dZa-ba4-ba4 ša-ar [i]-na-an-na/ ka-qá-ad-ka li-ka-bi-it 3, no. 40, 6–7 dMarduk ša-ar i-na-an-na/ qá-qá-ad-ka li-ka-ab-bi-[i]t ‘May the god, Zababa (/may Marduk) instantaneously make your head heavy’; AbB 3, no. 52, 6–7 dMarduk ša-ar i-na-anna qá-qá-dam ka-ab-tam/li-iš-ku-un-ka-ma, ‘May Marduk instantaneously provide you with a heavy head!’ See especially AbB 3, no. 22, 12–18a aš-šum la ta-am-ši-a-an-ni-ma šu-mi ti/ú Gú-du8-aki a-lim ša la i-de-a-an-ni/ qá-qá-di du-ú/iš-tu MU.20.KAM i-na I ki-ma ša-me-e/tu-ka-ab-bi-tu/ In-bi-ì-lí-šu wa-ra-ad-ka/ i-da-ab-bu-ba-am…(28–31)/[i]-[n]a a-lim ša al-li-kam-ma qá-qá-di tu-ka-ab-bi-tu/ka-ab-tum ù ra-bu-ú-um ma-am-ma-an/ša la ú-ša-qá-ra-an-ni ú-ul i-ba-aš-ši/e-li pa-na-nu-um qá-qá-di ka-bi-it, ‘Your servant Inbi-ilišu tells me that you did not forget me and (still) know my name, that for twenty years you and Kutha, a town that does not know “made my head heavy like the skys” in me…(28–31) There is no heavy (i.e., important) or great (man) in the town to which I came and where you had “made my head heavy” who does not hold me in esteem. My head is heavier than before’. See further CAD kabātu 3b and 5; but in medical texts the heavy head is regarded as painful (CAD kabātu 2b2’). 62 AbB 5, no. 171, 9–12: aš-šum qá-aq-qá-ad/a-wa-a-tim ša la ri-ik-si/ qá-al-l[u (x)]/ú-ul ma-agra-a-[ku]; see above, n. 32. 63 So Kraus’s translation. For qalālum/qullulum ‘to become/make light’ said of heads as the opposite of the heavy head, i.e., honoured status, see CAD qalālu 2b and 4b. 64 A.Salonen, Die Möbel des Alten Mesopotamien (1963), 203. 65 PBS 1/2, 41, rev. 11’–12’ du-ul-la a-na a-ri-ik-ti/i-na-an-di. 66 H.Waschow, MAOG 10/1, 65f. 67 AbB 6, no. 10, 17: idam la-a tu-ša-ar-ša-ma, ‘Schiebe die Sache nicht auf die lange Bank’; see below, n. 72. 68 Cf. A.Ungnad, VAB 6, 243f.; AHw s.v. idu(m) 8; CAD s.v. idu B b. 69 AbB 7, no. 172, 16. Now, AoF 10, 56 no. 4 (VS 22, no. 86), 30, he translates: ‘Verhältst du dich ablehnend’ (for: i-dam tu-ša-ar-ša-ma). 70 AHw idu(m) 3; CAD idu A 3. 71 Especially in the expression ina lā idim ‘without (legal) grounds’; see AHw idu(m) 7b; CAD envelope 21; no. 63 tablet 49=envelope 51. idu B a and, e.g., CT 47, no. 31 tablet 18 Kraus, AbB 10, no. 13, 19–20 now translates ‘ohne Absicht’ (italics: FRK), but ‘without legal grounds’ would fit the context well. 72 AbB 6, no. 10, 17–18=213, 15–16=217, 23–24: i-dam la(-a) tu-šar (/ša-ar)-ša(-am)-ma la(-a) ta-ša(-ap)-pa-ra-am, ‘do not provide (the matter) with a handle, don’t write (back) to me’; , ‘do not no. 209, 13–14: a-wa-ta-am i-da-am la tu-ša-ar-ša/ provide the matter with a handle, pay him quickly!’ 73 VS 22, no. 86, 28–32 (now, Kraus, AoF 10, 56, no. 4): ša aš-pu-ra-ak!-kum/a-na dNin-si4-anna-ba-ni i-di-in/i-dam tu-ša-ar-ša-ma/ ka-ni-kam ša 4 ma-na KÙ.BABBAR/ú-ul ú-ma-ašša-ra-ak-ku. Similarly AbB 7, no. 172, 15–18: a-na ša aš-pu-ra-ak-kum/i-dam tu-ša-ar-šama/i-na Babilimki/a-pa-li-ja ú-ul te-le-i, ‘(If) you provide a handle to what I have written to you, you will be unable to answer (or: pay?) me in Babylon.’ (Note the apparent plural accusative of the infinitive.)—2, no. 101, 29–30: a-wa-tam i-dam tu-ša-ar-ša-ma/gi-me-er isi-im-ma-ni-ka ú-pa-a[r-ra-ak] ‘(If) you provide the matter with a handle, I shall bl[ock] all your provisions.’

Figurative language in the ancient near east

90

74

AbB 2, no. 172, 13–19: [i-n]a pa-ni-i-[tim]/[i]-nu-ma a-na Babilimk[i ta-li-a]-[am]/aq-bi-kumma/i-dam tu-ša-ar-ši-ma ta-pu-la-an-ni/i-na-an-na…i-di-in-ma/a-na Babilimki li-ib-lam, ‘Earlier, I talked to you when you came up to Babylon and you “provided a handle” and answered me back. Now give…and he shall bring it to me to Babylon.’—7, no. 173, 3– 9:…aq-bi-kum-ma/a-an-na-am ta-pu-la-an-ni/a-na Sippirki al-li-kam-ma/i-dam tu-ša-ar-ši-ima/ú-ul tu-ub-lam/a-na Babilimki ta-li-a-am-ma/ú-u[l] t[a-a]l-qé-a-am/…, ‘I talked to you (about a millstone) and you answered me “yes”. I went to Sippar and you provided a handle and did not bring (it) to me. You came up to Babylon and did not take (it) along to me…’ 75 AbB 2, no. 153, 11–13: qí-na-az at-[t]a/a-na qá-bé-e ma-an-ni-im/ 4 ÉREN AGA.UŠ ta-paad. 76 AbB 5, no. 32, 3’–5’: a-wi-le-e wu-[u]š-ši-ir-ma/a-na qí-in-na-zi-šu-nu pa-ni-tim/li-il-li-ku. 76a AbB 4, no. 82, 4–7: ÉNSI ÉREN kušÙSAN[meš?]/ša E-mu-ut-ba-l[um] a-na li-ib-bu ma-tim . Here qinnazātim could be regarded as troops equipped with whips. Kraus, AbB 5, 15 note a on no. 32 assumes a meaning ‘Dienstgruppe’, ‘Einheit’, ‘Abteilung’ (reading qinnazzum); similarly CAD qinnazu 2. In AbB 10, 9 note f on no. 5, 25 Kraus regards the word as denoting a ‘vermutliche Organisationsform (…) der Lehnsbauern’. Kraus and CAD do not include in the discussion our first reference, AbB2, no 153; CAD treats under this heading besides examples from broken contexts also AbB 9 no. 116, 7 and 9, where the editor, M.Stol, quite plausibly regards ‘whip’ as the leather instrument itself. Note that in AbB 10, no. 5, 25 Kraus transliterates ‘kuš usan3-šu’ (T.Fish’s copy has kušusàn!su).

77

78

VS 22, no. 89, 6’: UM.MI.A i-na la iz-za-a-az; see now Kraus, AoF 10, p. 59f. no. 7, who in his comments on this line refers back to AbB 2, no. 141, 14 (correcting the transliteration).

79

VS 22, no. 89, 11’–13’: a-na ša-me-e/la ta-za-ar-ru/le-ú [ù la] le-ú i-le-i?. This reading of the last sign has the difficulty that until now no N-stem of le’û is attested. Kraus, in AoF 10, 59, reads the last sign as -kam (‘the strong and the weak have come here’) and links it to the following question: ‘Why did you not stir yourself?’

80

AbB 6, no. 179, 16–19: mu-ši-tam /ka-la u4-mi-im /A.ŠÀ-am a-na š[a-m]e-e/uš-ta-li-a. 81 AbB 7, no. 167, 28: a-na ŠUKU dŠamaš la nu-ta-ak-ka-ak (see Kraus’s comments, 145 note g to no. 167). 82

AbB 3, no. 80, 11’ [l]i-ib-bi la 4, 230; cf. AbB 10, no. 28, 9.

and the parallels quoted by Frankena, SLB

83

AbB 2, no. 83, 26–28:1 DUMU KÁ.GAL /re-qú-us-sú i-il-la-kam-ma/ka-al-bu i-ik-ka-lu-ni-in-ni. 84 AbB 5, no. 160, 6’–9’: ki-ma ka-al-bi da-a’-ti ú-ul ta-ša-li/di-im-ti ù di-ma-ti e-li-ki/li-li-ik aššum pa-qí-dam/la i-šu-ú a-di ul-la-ma am-tu-ut.

Since the writer of these lines seems to be still alive, I assume the perfect amtūt to be a futurum exactum (see WO 9, 1978, 208 n. 6). 85

AbB 7, no. 187, 6–7: ù ki-ša-ad-ka ka-aq-qá-r[a]-am/ uš-ta-ak-ši-id-m [a]. See A.Falkenstein, ZA, 57, 1965, 97.

86 87

AbB 6, no. 93, 8–9: am-m[i-nim i]-na

88

/ú-pu-ú i-z[a-nu-nu-m]a.

ibid., 20–23: i-da-at šu-ta-i-im/ta-na-aš-ši-a/ša a-na-ku ú-mi-ša i-na ú i-za-nu-nu.

/ša-mu-

A riding tooth

91

89

AbB 2, no. 115, 11–14 ù ja-a-ši-im/ma-ag-ri-a-tim/ bu-ub, ‘and to me he spoke insults that are unsuitable for smelling’.

90

AbB 3, no. 52, 29:

/id-

bi-ra-am ir-ta-pí-iš; Frankena, SLB 4, 171f.

91

AbB 6, no. 200, 11–14: a-na-ku i-na/

/

/a-wi-lum is-sa-la-at. AbB 7, no. 67, 13–18: al-kam-ma LUKUR dŠamaš/a-pu-ul-li/ú-ul ta-al-li-kam-ma/n[a]-aq mee/i-na bi-ti-ka/ú-ul i-zi-bu-ni. 93 VS 22, no. 83, 32–36: UGULA.DAM.GÀR Mi-in-de-AN ù Šu-mu-um-li-ib-ši/ú-us-sà-ru-ma i92

le-eq-qú-ú/ja-a-ti ki-ma I7

/la-muKraus,

AoF 10, 50, reads in l. 33: ‘werden ein Verhör anstellen’ (see AHw II D referring back to esēru III D) and leaves much of this passage untranslated. I assume in l. 35 the verb law/mûm and in 1. 36 an emotionally distorted . (In l. 14 I propose to read i-na Ì.[G]IŠ it-ti-ja/ ú-ul tap-pa ‘He is not my partner in the oil business’; l. 42–43 could perhaps be restored as: an!-nu-ú/ù an-nu-ú ki!-ma ka-an-ku-ma ša‘this and that is as it is sealed and written down’.)

This letter from Mrs. Uqnītum to her ‘lord’, i.e., most probably her husband Kurû, son of Sinatum (cf. no. 61, 3–5) about (among others) Mrs. Minde-ila, wife of another Kurû, son of Pani(gin)garra-abī, a merchant (no. 54, 4–8; see above, line 32) can be dated shortly after Samsuditana 16 IV 26 by means of the document VS 22, no. 72 which names two of the persons mentioned in the letter (Šallūrum and Šūzubum), talks like the letter about a consignment and lists the same 75 litres of green barley (line 12 0; 1.1.5 ; cf. zi-in) which recur in line 29 of our letter. line 19 94

AbB 4, no. 137, 11–13: um-ma be-le-et-ka-ma/ka-ap-pa-a-a ša

/tu-uk-šu-um . AHw petû 16b and CAD kappu A2a take kappu in the meaning of ‘arm’, ‘hand’. Yet, the eagle simile used by Esarhaddon (quoted by CAD just before our reference) makes it plausible to assume that kappā-ja in the OB letter is metaphoric just as in the Esarhaddon reference where it is once replaced by idā-ja ‘my arms’. 96 AbB 4, p. 87 n. a to no. 137. 97 VS 22, no. 85 (Kraus, AoF 10, 55, no. 3) 27’–28’: a-na ra-ma-ni-ka la te-eg-gu/šu-na-tu-ja da-an-na. 95

98

AbB 5, no. 255, 11–17: i-na-an-na a-wi-il-tum/um-ma-ki / ú-ul ik-ki-ir/iš-tu i-naan-na U4.10.KAM/šum-ma um-ma-ki/it-ta-pu-uš a-la-ka-ki-im/mi-im-ma la ta-na-ku-di. 99 AbB 3, no. 21, 27–32: ù ki-ma pa-ni di-ni la ub-ba-lu/a-mu-ur ù tup-pí ú-ša-bi-il-šum-ma/umma šu-ú-ma/tup-pa-am a-na me-e/ad-di. See Frankena’s commentary in: SLB 4, 69 and 71. 100

dīnam (sometimes: dajjānūtam ), a key phrase in court documents, is mostly rendered as ‘to grant a legal procedure’; see J.G.Lautner, Die richterliche

Figurative language in the ancient near east

92

Entscheidung…(Leipzig, 1922), 25ff. CAD 5 s.v. dajānūtu and dīnu translates ‘to arrange judicial procedure’, ‘to try a case’ and ‘to conduct a trial’. These interpretations of the phrase cannot be easily linked to other meanings of

and its causative

which seem basically centred around ‘to (let) learn, or, experience something’. in our phrase belongs to the sphere of instruction, too: to I therefore assume that inform the parties about the judgement (which, in general, becomes legally binding after the oath(s) is/are taken). As far as I can see, this meaning fits all contexts in which the phrase occurs. 101

CT 2, no. 47, 25–28 (collated): DI.KU5meš/ ti-ma/DI.KU5 a-na ar-na e-mé-di-šu/iq-bu-ú-ma DI.KU5 TÚG-sú e-li-šu id-di. Note that R.A.Veenker’s proposal to read the signs transliterated here as TÚG-sú as ‘esír.ra’ (HUCA 45, 1974, 8, n. 35) is ruled out here and in CT 48, no. 3, 22 definitely by collation. 102 It is evident from CT 45, no. 18, 27–31 (see n. 103) that only one of the plaintiffs, a man called Nidnuša, was really active in these legal procedures. It is consequently he who is being punished. The tablet names five judges (11. 38–41) and another person whom the plaintiffs approached to start the litigation. It is only one judge—and it is not said which one—who throws his garment over the culprit. See Lautner, op.cit. (n. 100) 68ff. 103 CT45, no. 18. 104

CT 48, no. 3, 19–22 (collated): di-nam

/ A.ŠÁ ki-ma A.ŠÁ

(Text: BA) e-li-šu-nu id-dii-mi-du-šu-nu-ti-ma/A.ŠÁ ú-ul i-šu-ma/DI.KU5meš ma. Here again we meet a confusion of numbers, the subject ‘judges’ in the plural, but the possessive pronoun and the verb in the singular. (Note that of these lines there are only very few signs preserved on the envelope.) The easiest way out of this dilemma seems to be the assumption of the sign group DI.KU5.MEŠ being so standard in the scribe’s inventory of writings that he falsely uses it where a singular is needed. 105

AbB 7, no. 47

; AbB 1, no. 2

; AbB

10, no. 150 ; AbB 7, no. 49 and no. 50 (both dates broken away). 106 Only preserved in AbB 10, no. 150, 11 in the writing ša ÉREN BI MA-ti-i; in AbB 1, no. 2, end of line 8, H.H.Figulla’s copy in CT 43, no. 2 suggests a restoration [ù ÉRE]N M[A?-t]i-i. There seems to be no room for the BI of AbB 10, no. 150. Could one perhaps read ÉREN {BI} Qú!-ti-i? 107 AbB 1, no. 2, 6–7 (according to the copy in CT 43, no. 2) mentions the names of the leaders of these troops as Puzur4-d[D]a-ga-al Sa-[a]mù Ka-a[š-t]i-il DUMU Be-[e]lšu-nu, of which the first one shows the variant form of the name of the god Dagān attested in the Amarna version of the šar epic. AbB 7, no. 50, 8’–9’=10, no. 150, 16–17: KÁ.GAL a-di dŠamaš la iš-qá-a-am la i(-ip)-pé-ette/iš-tu dŠamaš iz-za-a-az lu tu-ur-ra-at. The first of the two sentences is also preserved in AbB 1, no. 2, 14 (followed by the prohibition of any troops leaving the city) and (partially) in AbB 7, no. 47, 16 (before a lacuna). 109 AbB 7, p. 37, n. a on no. 49: ‘Herkunft und Bedeutung der Verbalform, die im Subjunktiv stehen sollte, dem Bearb. unklar’. AHw izuzzu(m) I 2b; 5a; 7a lists forms with ‘plene writing’ of the middle vowel; see further WO 8, 1976, p. 261–262 b; A; E (and one fragmentary occurrence); note 78 above. 110 AbB 10 p. 133/135 n. e on the translation with p. 134 n. a on the transliteration. 108

Antonomasia : the Case for Semitic ’ John Wansbrough From the earliest stages of its discovery and decipherment Ugaritic literature has been scrutinised for the presence of figurative language. Much of the search, indeed, was dictated by the very problem of decipherment and, as might be expected, is characterised by dominant reliance upon the heuristic powers of analogy. No portion of the Semitic lexicon has been neglected, or itself failed to benefit from nourishment provided by Ugaritic roots. The tangible product is a massive inventory of mooted rhetorical device: from parallelism and chiasmus to alliteration, anaphora and anadiplosis. Genre conventions and formulaic patterns have been discovered in abundance and though to attest to a widely diffused currenty of literary usage in the Ancient Near East. Occasionally a voice of protest can be heard, say, in favour of polygenesis as opposed to diffusion, or against the circular argument that interprets X in terms of Y and Y in terms of X. It must be admitted, however, that the harvest gleaned from Ugaritic is a rich one, especially perhaps in the field of poetic diction and structure.1 One significant result of the many etymological investigations so far undertaken is the attention addressed to metaphor, not merely as rhetorical embellishment but also as a common means of lexical extension. Transcending by far the boundaries of poetic expression, this application of metaphor entails recognition of its productive role in all discourse, of which poetry exhibits an important but after all minor register. Modern scholarship has emphasised that role by demonstrating the ineluctability of metaphor and reducing to a kind of absurdity the ‘cratylic’ delusions of some earlier lexicography, e.g. the semantic, even phonetic, impossibility of a one-to-one ratio of word to phenomenon, hence recourse to analogy, to simile and eventually to metaphor. One is thus confronted with the now familiar distinction between ‘reference’ and ‘information’ and the need to describe movement of words from one category to the other. The ‘live’ metaphor is of course suspended precisely between the two, a posture usually defined as ‘splitreference’, while the ‘dead’ metaphor is relegated finally to the category of ‘information’ and burial amongst the lemmata of standard dictionaries.2 For the ancient Semitic literatures it is the movement itself of metaphor that is difficult to pinpoint, a consequence of their discrete and random witness. At what stage, for example, does Hebrew kefir include the notion of ‘prince’ as well as of ‘lion whelp’, or kena‘nī that of ‘merchant’ as well as of ‘Canaanite’? If metaphor is not simply the equivalent of polysemy, the difference between them must be somehow located in context, a factor which hardly allows of diachronic reconstruction. And such instances of ‘dead’ metaphor as ‘table leg’, ‘river mouth’ and ‘light wave’, immediately intelligible even without context, exhibit only a trace of the analogy which generated them. On the other hand, idiomatic use of ‘legman’, ‘mouthpiece’ and ‘wavelength’ requires at least a minimal context to be effective, and thus indicates a scale of interpretative aids that could permit plotting the comparative ‘vitality’ of metaphor. Some such scale is now standard

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procedure in all discourse analysis, and it is in this respect that the discrete character of ancient source materials is most acutely perceived. As tentative remedy to this predicament, I intend here to examine the semantic behaviour of a single Semitic root in what appears to be a manageably uniform context. , the context is that of (ritual) expiation, and the metaphorical relation The root is between them the trope listed in manuals of classical rhetoric as antonomasia.3 Derivations of the root are attested in Ugaritic, Aramaic, Hebrew and Arabic, but the extent to which these are semantically cognate depends of course upon their respective contexts. Etymological correspondence is a necessary but not a sufficient condition for the allocation of signs to referents. A kind of control may be found in the operations of rhetoric, where the ‘naming of parts’ is, if somewhat mechanical, at least explicit. Thus, antonomasia describes the ‘use of an appellative or epithet in place of a proper name’, e.g. ‘father of gods and king of men’=Jupiter/Zeus ‘prince of Roman orators’=Cicero ‘lawgiver of the Jews’=Moses Conversely, the same trope may designate ‘a proper name in place of an appellative or epithet’ e.g. Solomon=wise David=minstrel Midas=charmed In these examples, the originally erudite context required for the coinage has been attenuated, even defaced, by circulation. Instances of less venerable origin like ‘city hall’, ‘chief executive’, and ‘Watergate’ may evoke more readily the metaphorical process, and certainly demonstrate its productive character. Constraints do not altogether vanish: ‘pasteurise’ has not become a synonym of ‘sterilise’; ‘crack of the willow’ refers to cricket but not to baseball; and ‘Midas’ will in some contexts allude to folly or greed. A further operation of the trope is exhibited in the field of theophoric nomenclature. While such predicates as martius and mercurialis are thought to derive from the names of known deities, it is the common noun ‘saviour’ that generated the epithet in Zeus Soter.4 Function and denomination would thus be reciprocal, a feature of antonomasia that accommodates without solution the problem of priority. A euhemerist view will always favour hypostasis of the common noun, the finite verb, or the neutral name, but that is a methodological decision to be justified in each case. Wellhausen’s theory of the origins of Arabian monotheism contained a plausible instance of antonomasia, i.e. ilāh (god)→al-ilāh (the god) →Allāh (God).5 But etymology is a well known minefield. Interpretation of Ugaritic Ilib as ‘El of the father’ (ancestral→local deity) must, as Lambert has shown, account for the Old Akkadian god Ilaba and thus reflect the name of a known deity.6 Again, if Hebrew ’ašērah= ‘sanctuary’ exhibiting the standard Akkadian, Aramaic and Phoenician usage, the Ugaritic goddess hypostasis, but hardly benefits from a putative etymology:

may be read as ym= ‘she who treads the

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sea’.7 It will in any case be the chronological distribution of relevant references that weighs in favour of either hypostasis or derivation. For the Ugaritic deity the sources are admittedly exiguous, but collation of these with the cognate literatures may well shed some light on the process by which the extensive pantheon at Ugarit was composed. To my knowledge, the most recent statement is found apud RSP III ad line 9 verso of RS 24.643:8 (8) (9) (10) [ ]š ršp. idrp. š Though broken, the context, apparently a list of (sacrificial) offerings (š=ram/sheep), certainly suggests the name of a god. A kind of corroboration has been adduced from the Punic onomasticon, viz. ‘bdšgr, itself dependent upon Hebrew šeger (litter, brood, whelp), to make of the phrase a binomial Šgr , and with that operation the name has passed into the Ugaritic pantheon.9 It must seem inevitable that šeger= ‘offspring’ generated the notion of a fertility god, which has in turn had some influence on the interpretation of

. Extrapolating from a very problematic Sabaean root ’

(apud

no. 752 line 11) conjecturally identified with an even more , de Moor has proposed ‘firm-fleshed (cattle)’ for and questionable Arabic thus produced a tidy pastoral image appropriate to his typology of Ugaritic divinities.10 That neither the Sabaean nor the Arabic term is in fact attested in this meaning ought surely to be mentioned, if only to signal the hazards inherent in etymology.11 It is, rather, context that determines usage: in the only other occurrence of Ugaritic šgr (CTA 5 iii lines 16/17) both that term and 9/10, 18/19, 25/26):12

(!) are embedded within a thrice uttered refrain (lines =For I will call Mot…

ydd. bqrb[

=The beloved within…

Šgr and (line 24) in initial position seem to be apostrophic, and may thus exhibit break-up of a stereotype collocation.13 If so, they would be proper names and thus constitute a second instance of the divine pair attested in RS 24.643. But long before detection of the binomial and appeal to Hebrew šeger, efforts to identify the second component had adduced a wide range of comparative Semitic materials. These include divine names, theophoric elements in proper names, and common nouns, most of which find mention in RSP III (loc. cit.). Though the initial impulse may have been prompted by what has since been demonstrated to be a Hurrian in CTA 168/169/180) and consequently discarded, the problem of the verb form ( remains unsolved.14 There are, indeed, two problems: (1) its etymology, Ugaritic root and (2) its referent in the divine onomasticon. That solutions to these may be linked by

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the rhetorical figure antonomasia is, of course, the argument of this essay. Let me first of all consider the evidence for divine and proper names. In the Hebrew Bible the only likely candidates are Ašīma (2 Kings 17.30) and Ašmat Šomron (Amos 8.14). While the latter is probably best read as a punning allusion to the former (pagan deity=‘guilt’),15 there seems to be a consensus that Ašīma, whatever its etymology and history, exhibits an authentic god-name.16 Etymological speculation tended earlier on to favour the root šm (name), while historical conjecture proposed affinity to the Aramaean theophoric names at Elephantine (see below) and to the Phoenician deity Ešmun.17 The phonetic and morphological data recruited in aid of such hypotheses (e.g. prosthetic alef and afformative -ūn) are plausible but of themselves inconclusive.18 More recently, the name Ešmun has been interpreted from the root šmn (oil)19 and Ašīma related to ’šm, which with alef as radical permits juxtaposition with Ugaritic .20 Now, in the Elephantine papyri ’šm appears only as a bound form: either as head of a verbal phrase (-ram, -šezib, -zebad) or in construct with a substantive (

, -kudurri, -byt’l).21 On the analogy of similar constructions with ‘nt and

, it has been proposed that ’šm, if not in fact the name of a deity, might at least be interpreted as a ‘theophorous’ element in compound names.22 The origin of that element might well be šm (name) since it is always initial and since, as in Phoenician, the prosthetic alef is attested in Aramaic.23 The evidence of Hebrew Šemeber and Šemida‘, of Phoenician Šemzabal and of Palmyrene Šemrape could be taken together, though the latter two suggest the absence of prosthetic alef in construct.24 An alternative, of course, is to read the alef as radical and, so with Ašīma, to interpret Elephantine ’šm- in the light of Hebrew āšām.25 Such accords with the Ugaritic data, where alef, at least as expressed in writing, appears to be etymological.26 It was this perception that provoked in the first place comparison with the Hebrew and Arabic cognates. Reluctance to pursue that line of inquiry is readily understood: nowhere attested as even part of a proper name, theophoric or is Hebrew āšām or Arabicn otherwise. In both languages the term is cultic and signifies trespass upon sancta and/or transgression of holy law.27 For Hebrew āšām, the compensatory or ‘consequential’ sense can hardly be disputed: usage implies not only trespass but reparation, not only crime but punishment.28 Its Biblical contexts have been the object of exhaustive analysis, with respect in particular to a distinction between āšām and , but also between these and qurbān, in which the notion of ‘sacrifice’ as indemnity is dominant. Such passages as

Jer. 51.5 kī artzam mal’ah āšām comprehend a range of referents from ‘sin’ to ‘guilt’ to ‘expiation’. Collocation with the finite verb hešīb (Num. 18.9) is significant: in the story of the capture of the ark by the Philistines āšām is the reparation payment which accompanied its return to Israel 1 Sam. 6.3 kī hašēb tašībū lo āšām

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a gesture recommended by their own priests and expressed as a homeopathic symbol (rats and tumours modelled in gold) of their affliction.29 The term āšām as fungible property occurs also in sacrificial contexts, e.g. 2 Kings 12.17 kesef āšām ve-kesef

…la-kohanīm

and in the cultic prescriptions of Leviticus: Lev. 5.15 ve-hebi’ et-āšāmō lyhwh ayyil tamīm min ha-tzōn be-‘erkeka kesef šeqālīm bešeqel ha-qōdeš le-āšām. Explicit reference to commutation (‘erek=assessment) might be thought to posit a general sense of dues or tribute, to some extent supported by its use with reference to the Philistine apotropaic offering.30 Though within the specific context of expiation, the Arabic cognate of āšām was recognised early on in the works of the Jewish lexicographers.31 Al-Fāsī, for example, gives (ad loc.) ‘sacrifice’ (qurbān), ‘repentance’ (nadāma), and ‘punishment’ (‘uqūba), on the basis of Hebrew usage. In Muslim scripture Arabic ambivalence of trespass and reparation, e.g.

exhibits a similar

Q.5.29 with which may be compared Lev.5.15 (above) ve-hebi’ et-āšāmo. In the frequent locution:

‘alayhi (Q.2:203 et passim),

may be rendered ‘crime’ or

(!) in

‘guilt’, but also ‘punishment’, while the hapax Q.25.68

must appear clearly to represent ‘reparation’. For this passage, Al-Zamakhsharī paraphrases

i.e. ‘retribution’.32 Now, it is precisely this notion

which seems to operate in a series of contexts where alternates with jizya (also, incidentally, a scriptural hapax: Q.9:29) as designation of the penalty/tribute to be imposed upon enemies of Islam. The standard phrase appears in the Prophet’s letters to several territorial rulers summoning them to conversion (da‘wa), failing which (jizya) would incur: fa-in abaytahu fa-innamā ‘alayka

al-majūs

with such variants as tawallayta/abayta,

and as attribute: etc.

33

Certain passages of the Sīra

Figurative language in the ancient near east

might equally bear the interpretation recurrent formula of the Umma document:

98

, as for instance the

i.e. ‘right conduct obviates reparation’;34 or the treaty formula:

i.e. ‘this document does not obviate reparation’.35 Or, further, in the prayer addressed by its custodian to the goddess Al-’Uzzā just prior to her destruction:

i.e. ‘then make swift reparation or find help.36 Finally, I should be inclined to read the phrase in R.Nissim’s

Yafeh:

as ‘free of all penance’, in this case possibly a calque of āšām.37 Thus, the semantic overlap of the two cognates is perhaps even greater than perceived by the medieval lexicographers. If the sense of ‘tribute’ is evident, it must also be stressed that the cultic context is similarly so. That these terms may be related to Aramaic Ešem and Ašimā, possibly to Phoenician Ešmūn, and almost certainly to Ugaritic , is the thesis here proposed. The Ugaritic evidence may be elaborated. In addition to the offering list RS 24.643, I have mentioned the mythological text CTA 5iii, in which Šgr occurs twice (lines 16/17) and once (line 24). The context is Baal’s invitation to Mot for a feast of appeasement, and the words (names?) are in each instance followed by the refer to letters mu [ (‘abundance’?) but in lines impossible to restore. Unless Šgr and the deity in question, as suggested above, they might well signify ‘offering’.38 In RS 24.252, apparently a mythological text depicting an assembly in the presence of Rpu, the occurs isolated in the broken line 14. Again, in the context of a feast and term participation of Anat, it would be possible though admittedly not necessary to interpret as ‘her offering’.39 The only other occurrence of the root

, in RS 18.137, provides what

seem to be three examples of the finite verb (Gt stem: (lines 2/3) and (line 5)) in a context alluding to livestock (alpm, ) and remittance (ksp, yšlm), but too broken to admit of reconstruction. Though published as an economic/ administrative text, this is far from certain: the verb may signify ‘payment’, ‘tribute’ or ‘offering’.40 There is at least no obstacle to collocation of the Ugaritic with the Hebrew and Arabic lexica so far adduced. But the god-name as such is of course not attested in those two languages. The link between them via hypostasis (i.e. sin → guilt → expiation → recovery → healer-god)

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proposed by Astour may seem simplistic.41 An approximate process for Aramaic Ašīmā and Ešem from Hebrew āšām has been mooted by Silverman and Levine.42 It must appear that deities so engendered might proliferate unduly, and some such impression is indeed conveyed by the ample pantheon at Ugarit. The careful analysis undertaken by de Moor provides abundant material for a typology.43 That has been tabulated according to several criteria: (a) the nature of the deity (b) the context of its occurrence (c) the syntax of the god-name of which (a) contains 24 categories, (b) nine types of text, and (c) six grammatical constructions. The spectrum of (a) ranges from abstract concepts (justice, grace, wellbeing) and cosmological phenomena (heaven, earth, sun, moon) to household effects (table, chair, cauldron, censer) and musical instruments (lyre).44 A total of some 265 names is attested, of which, however, only a tenth (ca 28) is thought on the basis of proper ‘lists’ to constitute the ‘canonical’ pantheon.45 The excess may exhibit local proliferation of tutelary deities (lares), a surmise corroborated by the number of compounds with il, ilt, and b‘l. In respect of criterion (b) the distribution of names in texts other than lists is remarkable: it is precisely the offering ‘inventories’, such as RS 24.643, that contain the largest number of otherwise unattested deities, that is, a total of 117 of which 54 appear only in that context.46 These documents, by far the most extensive source of divine names, must represent very localised and limited phenomena. But it is criterion (c) that furnishes the strongest evidence in this regard: grammatical variations include singular/plural, masculine/feminine, status constructus, apposition, juxtaposition, and conjunction.47 While the number and gender morphemes are for the most part clear, distinction between construct and apposition (or predication?) is more difficult. Whether, for example, the second component of such combinations as ršp idrp, ršp gn, and ršp is to be read as substantive, participle, or finite verb is a problem insoluble without attendant vowels.48 For the contrast juxtaposition: conjunction, the token itself (w-) is, of course, discernible, but its function disputed, fluctuating between conjunctive, disjunctive, and explicative.49 Certainty is likely to be achieved only where adequate semantic information becomes available. While there is no particular reason for supposing that w- is not the standard correlative , the 33 examples of this construction conjunction in the uniquely attested Šgr assembled by de Moor are less straightforward.50 Where, for instance, the elements may be reversed, as in

, or where it seems to be optional, as in

and , the particle might be thought to serve some other purpose, say, predicative or appositional (i.e. X who is Y; Y who is X; X=Y → XY/YX). The evolution could be from two distinct units via hendiadys to a single concept, but also the reverse, since the relative chronology of these attestations (pace de Moor loc. cit.) is difficult to establish. Such binomials are of course attested elsewhere, and whatever the direction of the process at Ugarit, the evidence indicates some flexibility within the divine onomasticon.51 It was of course the syntactic criterion which produced from Šgr a ‘fertility god’.52 Hebrew usage could hardly have generated that notion, but combined with the Punic

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construct ‘bdšgr (see above) the interpretation must have been thought unavoidable. The proper name is thrice attested at Carthage and, in the light of other such instances of ‘bd (servant) in status constructur, šgr could be read as a deity, as an appellative of deity, or as the name of a (royal) personage. But of the 97 examples adduced from the Phoenician/Punic onomasticon, so many remain unexplained (e.g. -’bk, -’rmy, -k‘, -k‘l, ss, -ssm, -p‘m, etc) that there is in fact no compelling evidence to read šgr=deity.53 It may, indeed, be merely a proper name. Another reading may be proposed: ellipsis of a longer phrase containing the name of an attested deity. Metonymy would thus account for phrases such as ‘bdbt or ‘bdšmr(’), where ‘temple’ or ‘custodian’ respectively have as implicit complement a god-name.54 Even closer to the šgr construct is Punic ‘bd’š, where ‘gift’ may be amplified by the name of a deity.55 A parallel formation is found in Arabic theophoric names in which aws (gift) stands for aws allāh.56 In these the apocopate probably exhibits an implicit reference to divinity, e.g. ‘abd al-bayt=‘abd bayt allāh or ‘abdūs=‘abd aws allāh. From such analogies it could be supposed that Punic šgr refers to a cultic accessory of some sort, even perhaps the intended offering.58 It might seem that this ‘fertility god’ is a very hypothetical deity indeed.59 And what of the ‘god’ As already acknowledged, the notion of hypostasis is not impossible.60 It would account for that proliferation of deities at Ugarit exhibited particularly in the offering texts. On the other hand, it would not be unreasonable to discern there the operation of a purely linguistic process. Here, the distinction between autonomous epithets and appellatives on the one hand, and theophorous elements on the 63 may other, is eminently useful.61 Emergence of such deities as Soter62 and surely be ascribed to the hypostasis of epithets originally coined for other gods (respectively Zeus and El). Their transfer from bound attribute to independent entity may be difficult to document, but is usually inferable from the linguistic character of the

epithets themselves. Other terms, like ašerah,64 mesgida’65 and ,66 may be patient of a different exegesis. It is impossible not to suspect that these originally bound forms, signifying ‘sanctuary/altar of…’, owe their separate existence to metonymy. That rhetorical figure is a prime mover in the process of antonomasia, by virtue of which an element originally bound and specific achieves independent and general validity, as for example, the ‘wisdom’ of Solomon, the ‘minstrelsy’ of David, and the ‘spell’ of Midas. While it would be difficult to insist that the catalyst is always and everywhere ellipsis, this seems likely. Wellhausen’s parsing of Allāh does not in fact require it, but construct of ilāh with a toponym is attested.67 That the local dimension of a deity should be so well known as not to need expression would be one way in which the generic application of names or epithets is assisted. Together with the different but related phenomena of theocrasy, syncretism and hypostasis, the tendency I have described as antonomasia is evident in the evolution of the genre ‘god-list’.68 Proliferation may well be balanced by coalescence. It will be recalled that at Elephantine the Aramaic bound form ’šm-was ambivalent: as head of a verbal phrase it is probably a name, in construct with a substantive it would appear to be a cultic property.69 At Ugarit the linguistic data is similarly ambivalent. In and šgr exhibit a binomial and a single deity; another (CTA one context (RS 24.643) 5 iii) might just be read as the names of two; in the third (RS 24.252) and fourth (RS 18.137) the root

appears respectively as substantive with pronominal suffix and as

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finite verb. For the latter two contexts an interpretation ‘offering’ was proposed on the tenuous basis of Semitic cognates. Reading Šgr as consequence of ellipsis, metonymy and antonomasia does not, admittedly, identify the god-name with which they must originally have been connected, but does provide an explanation of how they could be at once the product and the recipient of a sacrificial offering. 1

Some of the best, and the worst, of the method(s) employed in this field may be found in the three volumes of Ras Shamra Parallels (RSP) edited by L.R.Fisher (I: Rome 1972; II: Rome 1975) and S.Rummel (III: Rome 1981); cf. S.E.Loewenstamm, ‘Ugarit and the Bible’, in Comparative Studies in Biblical and Ancient Oriental Literatures, AOAT 204 (NeukirchenVluyn, 1980), 473–95; J.C.de Moor and P.van der Lugt, ‘The Spectre of Pan-Ugaritism’, BO, 31, 1974, 3–26; J.Wansbrough, ‘Metra Ugaritica: pro et contra’, BSOAS, XLVI, 2, 1983, 221–34; the most recent, and probably exhaustive, analysis of a comparatist nature must be Y.Avishur, Stylistic studies of word-pairs in Biblical and Ancient Semitic Literatures, AOAT 210, (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1984). 2 See P.Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor (London, 1978), esp. 65–100 (‘Metaphor and the semantics of discourse’) and 216–56 (‘Metaphor and reference’); S.Sacks (ed), On Metaphor (Chicago, 1979), esp. 11–28 (P.de Man: ‘The Epistemology of Metaphor’), 165–72 (K.Harries: ‘The many uses of Metaphor’), 175–80 (N.Goodman, ‘Metaphor as Moonlighting’); J.Barr, Comparative Philology and the text of the Old Testament (Oxford, 1968), 115–21, 291–3. 3 H.Lausberg, Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik (Munich, 1960) para. 580–1; Quintilian, (ed. H.Butler), Institutio Oratoria (London, 1920), Bk VIII. 29–30; Longinus, (ed. D.Russell), Peri Hypsous (Oxford, 1964), Ch 9.9 & commentary 92–4. 4 See H.Usener, Götternamen: Versuch einer Lehre von der religiösen Begriffsbildung (Frankfurt, 1947 (1895)), esp. 216–47 (‘Sondergötter als Beinamen’). 5 See J.Wellhausen, Reste Arabischen Heidentums (Berlin, 1961, (1887)), 218–9: ‘Die Sprache ist es wol überhaupt gewesen, die Allah zunächst geschaffen hat, ich meine nicht bloss das Wort, sondern den Gott selber.’; cf. J.Teixidor, The Pagan God (Princeton, 1977), 125–6, 153 n.35; J.Henninger, Arabica Sacra (Göttingen, 1981), 26–30, who would invest the rhetorical figure with tangible historicity. 6 See W.G.Lambert, ‘Old Akkadian ILABA=Ugaritic ILIB?’, UF 13, 1981, 299–301; cf. RSP III, 342–3 (IV 3 ad Ilib). 7

See E.Lipinski, ‘The goddess

in ancient Arabia, in Babylon, and in Ugarit’, OLP, 3,

1971, 101–19, esp. 110–11; cf. RSP, III, 346–7 & 477 (IV 8 ad & V 3 ad Ašratu); Teixidor, op. cit., 71–2 (Tayma); J.C.L.Gibson, Canaanite Myths and Legends (Edinburgh, 1978), 46, n.4. 8

RSP III, 344–5 (IV 6 ad ), 415–6 (IV 27 ad Šgr); for the text of RS 24.643, see Ugaritica V (Paris, 1968), 581–4 (KTU 1.148): the relevant locution is verso line 9. 9 See Z.S.Harris, A Grammar of the Phoenician Language (New Haven, 1936), 130, 149=W.Gesenius, Handwörterbuch 808 s.v.; J.C.de Moor, ‘The Semitic pantheon of Ugarit’, UF, 2, 1970, no.215. 10 See de Moor, art. cit. 224–5 (n); idem, review of Ugaritica V, in UF1, 1969, 178, repeated in The Seasonal Pattern in the Ugaritic Myth of Ba‘lu, AOAT 16 (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1971) 181. 11

A.Jamme, Sabaean Inscriptions from Bilqis (Baltimore, 1962), 223–4 (no. 752 line 11), to which de Moor refers, is less confident: the term in question, apparently a hapax, is usually (despite Jamme’s options) analysed as

with the not

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unexpected assimilation of n; c.f. A.F.L.Beeston, Sabaic Grammar (Manchester, 1984) para. 2.6; Beeston et al, Sabaic Dictionary (Louvain, 1982), 7 s.v. (citing Jamme, loc. cit.); J.C.Biella, Dictionary of Old South Arabic, Sabaean Dialect (Harvard, 1982), 31 s.v. (citing only Jamme, offers in addition to ‘female’ with assimilation, the meaning ‘large’ or ‘good =‘stone’ or sized’ without documentation); in the standard Arabic lexica ‘packed/pulverised earth’ (e.g. Lisān al-‘Arab XII 629 s.v.); it may be added that ‘female’ Bilqis no. 752. fits admirably the context of Cf. Gibson, op. cit. 70–1; C.H.Gordon, Ugaritic Textbook (Rome, 1965), para. 19.2384. 13 See E.Z.Melamed, ‘Break-up of stereotype phrases as an artistic device in Biblical poetry’, Scripta Hierosolymitana, 8, 1961, 115–53; but cf. C.F.Whitley, ‘Some aspects of Hebrew poetic diction’, UF, 7, 493–502. 14 UT 27, 34, 45 (=Gordon, Ugaritic Textbook)=CTA 168, 169, 180 (= A.Herdner, Corpus des tablettes en cunéiforms alphabétiques (Paris 1963)); cf. E.Laroche, apud Ugaritica V, 513–4 12

= ‘repose-toi(?)’. ad Hurrian See B.Porten, Archives from Elephantine (Los Angeles-Berkeley, 1968), 175–6, M.H.Silverman, ‘Aramean Name-types in the Elephantine documents’, JAOS, 89, 1969, 691–709, esp. 703. 16 Silverman, art. cit. 709; N.Aimé-Giron, Textes araméens d’Egypte, (Cairo, 1931), 113–17; M.Astour, ‘Some new divine names from Ugarit’, JAOS, 86, 1966, 282; M.Noth, Die israelitischen Personennamen, (Hildesheim, 1980 (1928)), 124; see RSP III 344–5, but cf. also J.H.Tigay, apud Encyclopaedia Judaica III, 711 (Ašīmā=Ašērah!). 17 M.Lidzbarski, Ephemeris für semitische Epigraphik III (Giessen, 1909–15), 260–5; Noth, op. cit. 123–5; but cf. E.Lipinski, ‘Eshmūn, “Healer”’, AION, 33, 1973, 161–83, esp. 163–4. 18 See Lidzbarski, loc. cit.; Noth, loc. cit.; Harris, Grammar 33 (para.5). 19 Lipinski, art. cit. (supra n.17), 174–5; but cf. B.Levine, In the Presence of the Lord (Leiden, 15

1974), 132; see also Gordon, UT, 19.101 , but rejected by Astour, art. cit. (above n.16), 282 n.55. 20 Astour, art. cit. 281–2; Silverman, art. cit. (above n.15) 708. 21 Porten, op. cit. (above n.15), App. V; Aimé-Giron, op. cit. (above n.16), 110; cf. W.Kornfeld, Onomastica Aramaica aus Ägypten (Wien, 1978), 42 and refs s.v. ’šm-. 22 Silverman, art. cit. 704: with reference to H.Huffmon, Amorite Names in the Mari Texts (Baltimore, 1965), 98–101. 23 See J.C.L.Gibson, Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions II (Oxford, 1975), 24 & 43 (Sefire), 62 & 73 (Zenjirli). 24 Noth, op. cit. 123. 25 Aimé-Giron, op. cit. 115 proposes, eccentrically (?), Arabic wasm. 26 See Z.S.Harris, Development of the Canaanite Dialects (New Haven, 1939), 26; J.Blau and S.E.Loewenstamm, ‘Zur Frage der Scriptio Plena im Ugaritischen und Verwandtes’, UF, 2, 1970, 19–33, esp. 24; but cf. Astour, art. cit. 281 n.42 (ad ugbl=gbl); and UT, 19.426 27

See D.Kellermann, TDOT I, 1974, 429–37 s.v. ’āshām; idem,‘ ’Āšām in Ugarit?’, ZAW, 76,

1964, 319–22; J.Milgrom, Cult and Conscience: the and the priestly doctrine of repentance (Leiden, 1976), 3 nn.6 & 7. 28 Milgrom, op. cit. 3–12. 29 Levine, op. cit. (above n.19), 92–4. 30 Ibid. 95–101: table of commutation Lev. 27 and M.Arakhin; but cf. Milgrom, op. cit. 142–3. 31 E.g.Judah ben Quraysh (fl. 880), Al-Risāla (ed. D.Becker, Tel-Aviv, 1984), 310 no.459; David Al-Fāsī (fl. 970), Kitāb Jāmī‘

(ed. S.Skoss, New Haven, 1936) I 161; Jonah ben

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(fl. 1090), Kitāb (ed. A.Neubauer, Oxford, 1875); Ibn Barūn (fl. 1120), Kitāb al-Muwāzana (ed. P.Kokowzoff, St. Petersburg, 1893=trans. & comment. P.Wechter, Philadelphia, 1964) 72 & 196 n.385; cf. J.Blau, JJS, XVI, 1965, 75–9. 32

Zamakhsharī, Al-Kashshāf ‘an al-tanzīl (Beirut, 1967), III, 294 ad loc.; cf. M.M.Bravmann, The Spiritual Background of Early Islam (Leiden, 1972), 79–80; H.Ringgren, apud Temenos, 2, 1966, 101–3.

33

Qalqashandī, al-a‘shā (Cairo, 1913–19), VI, 377–82; cf. M.Hamidullah, ‘La lettre du Prophète à Héraclius et le sort de l’original’, Arabica, 2, 1955, 97–110; Idem, ‘Original de la lettre du Prophète à Kisrà’, RSO, 40, 1965, 57–69 & Pls. I-IV; ad jizya see the studies by F.Rosenthal, C.Cahen, M.M.Bravmann, and M.J.Kister apud R.Paret (ed), Der Koran (Darmstadt, 1975), 283–303.

34

Ibn 503–4.

, Al-Sīra al-Nabawiyya (l’ibn Hishām), ed. M.al-Saqqā et al., (Cairo), 1955), I,

35

Ibn Sa’d, , ed. E.Sachau (Leiden, 1905-), I, 2, 26ff.= Wellhausen, Skizzen und Vorarbeiten IV no.39 apud J.Sperber, ‘Die Schreiben Muhammads an die Stämme Arabiens’, MSOS, XIX, 1916, 8, n.1; cf. W.M.Watt, Muhammad at Medina (Oxford, 1956), 354–5 (Excursus F no.2).

36

Ibn Sīra II 437; see E.W.Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (London, 1863–77), I, 270–1 s.v. bā’ bi-. 37 Apud J.Blau (ed), Judaeo-Arabic Literature: selected texts (Jerusalem, 1980), 170, line 6; cf. translation apud W.M.Brinner, An Elegant Composition…Nissim ben Jacob (New Haven, 1977), 9, line 14 (“sins”). 38

Above n.12; Jirku’s reading (Kanaanäische Mythen, 59 line 24) of =existential verb+enclitic mem (cited with approval by Kellermann, ZAW, 76, 1964, nn.29 & 35 (above n.27)) is both unhelpful and unlikely; see also de Moor, Seasonal Pattern, 181 (above n.10). 39 RS 24.252=Ugaritica, V, 551–7 (KTU 1.108); cf. de Moor, UF, 1, 1969, 178 (above n.10); ad Rpu see RSP, III: IV 41 & V 43; D.Pardee, ‘Visiting Ditanu: the text of RS 24.272’, UF, 15, 1983, 127–40, esp. 133, nn.21–2. 40 RS 18.137=PRU V 104; cf. UT 19.422. 41 Astour, JAOS, 86, 1966, 281–2 (above n.16). 42 Silverman, JAOS, 89, 1969, 704–9 (above n.15): on the distinction between a ‘god-name’ and a ‘theophorous element’, cf. Levine, op. cit. (above n.19), 128–32. 43 de Moor, UF, 2, 1970 (above n.9), 187–228. 44 Ibid., 224–5 (para. 10). 45 Ibid., 204, 216–7; see J.Nougayrol, ‘RS 20.24 Panthéon d’Ugarit’, apud Ugaritica, V, 42–64. 46 de Moor, art. cit. 188–9, 223. 47 Ibid., 225–8; I have reorganised slightly the author’s categories. 48 Ibid., 196=nos. 209, 211, 212. 49 Ibid., 228 n.69; cf. UT 12.1; J.Aistleitner, Wörterbuch der ugaritischen Sprache (Berlin, 1967), no.863; M.Dahood, Ugaritic-Hebrew Philology (Rome, 1965), 35 (12.1); Idem, Proverbs and Northwest Semitic Philology (Rome, 1963), 59 ad Pr.30:16; Idem, Psalms III (New York, 1970), 402 s.v. waw explicativum ‘functioning as a relative pronoun’(!) 50 deMoor, art. cit. 227, para.14: esp. nos. 11 & 127, 132 & 133. 51 Ibid., 227 n.64: D.O.Edzard, ‘Pantheon und Kult in Mari’, apud La Cvilization de Mari (XV RAI, Liège, 1966) (Paris, 1967), 51–71, esp. 57 & 70; but see also J.Nougayrol, art. cit. (above n.45), 48–50 ad line 11 and 52–4 ad line 18; J.Teixidor, op. cit. (above n.5), 41–2 (Phoenicia), 119–20 (Palmyra). 52 RSP III 415–6, and below n.59.

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53

See F.L.Benz, Personal Names in the Phoenician and Punic Inscriptions, (Rome, 1972), 162 (=CIS 2988.4, 3993.4, 4514.5–6), 413–4; cf. 148–64 (97 examples), 229–30 & 369–71 (‘bd in stat. const.). 54 Ibid., 154 and 294 (‘bdbt), 370 (as title!), 164 and 421–2 (‘bdšmr(’)). 55 Ibid., 149 and 277–8 (e)=CIS 329.2, 3343.3 (‘bd’š); cf. Dahood, Ugar-Heb Phil. 52 ad UT 19.392 (išb‘l). 56 See Wellhausen, Reste (above n.5), 6–7; H.H.Bräu, ‘Die altnordarabischen kultischen Personennamen’, WZKM, 32, 1925, 86; L.Caetani and G.Gabrieli, Onomasticum Arabicum (Rome, 1915), I para. 44, 47, 49. 57 Wellhausen, op. cit., 2–4; Bräu, art. cit., 96–107. 58 Cf. šlm=‘offering’: Astour, art. cit. (above n.16), 281, nn.40–41; Nougayrol, art. cit. (above n.45), 60–1; de Moor, art. cit. (above n.9), 196, nos. 217 & 218; cf. Hebrew šelemyah(u); possibly Punic šlmb‘l (Benz, op. cit., 180). 59 See M.Delcor, ‘Astarte et la fecondité des troupeaux en Deut.7, 13 et paralleles’, UF, 6, 1974, 7–14; and above n.52. 60 Above n.42. 61 Above nn.22, 42. 62 Above n.4. 63 See J.M.Lindenberger, ‘The Gods of Ahiqar’, UF, 14, 1982, 105–17, esp. 109–11 n.31; for some Muslim haggada see J.Wansbrough, Quranic Studies (Oxford, 1977), 122. 64 Above n.7. 65 See Porten, op. cit. (above n. 15), 155–6; Teixidor, op. cit. (above n.5), 85–7. 66

Teixidor 86; de Moor, art. cit., 194 no. Above n.5; cf. Teixidor 83 and 92 (Nabataean). 68 RLA III 473–9 s.v.Götterlisten (W.G.Lambert); Teixidor 143–63. 69 Above nn.22 and 42. 67

; and refs. above n.21.

Har and Midbār An Antithetical Pair of Biblical Motifs Shemaryahu Talmon I Figurative Language The term ‘figurative language’ lends itself to two quite disparate interpretations, especially in reference to the cultures of the ancient Near East. It is mostly understood as a literary mode which uses vivid imagery as a means of ‘concretising’ matters of intellectual comprehension rather than visual impressions. But by ‘figurative language’ one could also describe a specific genre of Ancient Near Eastern art which may be defined as ‘narration in pictures’. It is best illustrated by the technique of ‘registers’ which prevails in Egyptian or Mesopotamian pictorial or sculptural representations: the dynamism of consecutive events or consecutive stages in one event, is captured in a succession of ‘stills,’ comparable to a running series of slides or a filmstrip.1 Now, in view of the biblical injunction against making images and the concomitant reluctance to pursue the visual arts altogether, it cannot surprise us that ‘figurative language’ of the ‘pictorial narration’ type did not take root in ancient Israel. However, it appears that the lack of this medium was set off, to a degree, by the comparative richness of the ‘verbal’ type of ‘figurative language’ which marks biblical literature. Using to advantage the ‘dramatic’ qualities inherent in the Hebrew language, which has complete speech units consisting of one verb (in diverse conjugations and with affixes), a string of verbs, unbroken by other morphemes, will create that impression of ‘motion’ which ‘pictorial narration’ achieves by stringing progressive, partial depictions of a comprehensive action. An outstanding example of this narrative technique is the terse account of Esau’s conduct in the episode of his selling ‘the right of the first-born’ to his younger brother, Jacob: ‘he ate and drank, got up and went’ (Gen.25.34). Another example is the poetic description of Sisera’s death at the hand of Jael: ‘At her feet he tumbled, he fell, he lay [dead]…’ (Jdg.5.27). When figurative language is used to concretise abstract notions, static situations or physical characteristics, rather than dynamic action, biblical writers will predominantly have recourse to prototypes derived directly from nature or else from artifacts which one encounters in everyday life, and not from their representations in works of art. To give one or two examples: divine protection is likened to a mother bird’s hovering over her fledglings, her outstretched wings shielding them from danger and from hazards of weather (Ps.17.8; 36.8; 57.2; 91.4; Ruth 2.12); or it can be figuratively visualised as an (overhanging) rock which provides shelter from sun and rain and serves as a bulwark against enemies (Deut. 32.15, 18, 37; 1 Sam.2.2; 2 Sam.22.2=Ps.18.3; 2 Sam.22.32, 47; 23.3; Ps.27.5; 31.4=71.3; 42.10; 62.8 et al.). The same notion can be expressed by

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depicting God and his saving power as migdāl, a ‘tower of strength’, ‘fortress’ or ‘stronghold’ (Ps.61.4; Prov.18.10 et al.), that is to say by means of man-made artifacts. A quite different aspect of the migdāl image is invoked in extolling the beauty of a maiden whose ‘breasts are like turrets on a city wall’ (Cant.8.10), and whose ‘neck is [straight] like the Tower of David’ (ibid. 4.3), a prominent structure with which the author’s audience would be well acquainted. In that very same context, figurative language derived from natural phenomena is applied in the depiction of the beloved’s eyes that are like those of doves, her hair as a ‘flock of goats streaming down Mount Gilead’, her teeth like ‘a newly shorn flock of ewes’, and the rosiness of her cheeks like ‘a pomegranate cut open’ (ibid. 4.1–3). Instead of ‘narrating in pictures’, the Hebrew writers used language exclusively to convey vivid impressions of both concrete matters and abstract notions by what may be called ‘painting in words’. This verbal type of ‘figurative language’ emerges in biblical literature in a variety of forms, culminating in intricate patterns and conventions with which even involved cogitation and speculative thought can be expressed ‘figuratively’.2 One of these literary patterns is the ‘motif’. My ensuing presentation is intended to help elucidate the employment of motifs in biblical literature generally, and of the antithetical pair har, ‘mountain’, and midbār, ‘desert/wilderness’, in particular. II Literary Patterns and Speculative Thought 1. It may be considered a characteristic of biblical literature that rarely, if ever, will an author present his reflections on conceptual matters in a systematic fashion. The modern reader, trained to express his own ideas in a sequential, structured and methodical discourse and expecting others to do the same, is at times perplexed by the almost total absence of any noticeable attempt in that corpus of ancient Hebrew writings to formulate in. a comprehensive, systematic way whatever aspect of human thought was current in that age.3 I do not propose to try to explain here the genesis of this phenomenon and its reasons, which have indeed attracted the attention of scholars. Nor shall I step into the slippery arena of comparative studies,4 so as to probe the question of whether we are concerned in this matter with an idiosyncrasy of biblical authors or of ancient Israelite culture altogether, or whether this trait was shared by other literati in the Ancient Near East and left its imprint on other civilisations in that area. A synoptic view of the papers in this volume may possibly provide the launching pad for tackling this rather involved issue. But for the present, I shall content myself with highlighting a dilemma which results from this characteristic of biblical literature and is the common experience of students of the Old Testament: the scholar who sets out to propose an integrated theology, anthropology, sociology, theory of literature, or any other aspect of the biblical world of concepts, must conjoin fragmentary bits of information, extracted from a diversity of texts, so as to achieve some, even though only partial, measure of systematisation. More often than not, the resulting picture will resemble a mosaic in which many pieces are missing. At times, some blanks can be partly filled in by weaving into the web strands of knowledge derived

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from extraneous, that is extra-biblical sources,5 or by resorting to constructions which reflect the conceptual world of the scholarly analyst rather than the thought patterns of the ancient writers. The practically total absence of systematisation in biblical thought engenders the surmise that this ‘deficiency’ cannot be mere chance but seems to be rooted in the biblical authors’ basic mode of thinking. One is led to conclude that, on the whole, they consciously abstained from abstractions. They preferred to encapsulate their ad hoc reflections in the very recording of ‘historical’ events, and to register their appreciation of and reactions to them. The conceptualisation that there is, does not surface in the texts in the form of abstract thought. It is not the fruit of the ancient authors’ deliberate efforts to transcend ‘factuality’ by the endeavour to extract from the sources their ‘essence’ and to present this essence in the form of a theory or theories. As a result, it remains the task of the scholar to distil from the reported ‘facts’ bits and pieces of the conceptualisation toward the revelation of which his search is directed. In the end, it must be realised that the Hebrew Bible is not a Lehrgebäude. At times, some measure of comprehensiveness can be achieved by the accumulation and interweaving of diffuse fractions of ‘abstract’ thought which a thorough investigation may bring to light in the available records. In a way, the modern student of the Hebrew Bible is called upon to emulate the ancients’ modes of thinking ‘conceptually’ by association rather than by systematisation.6 2. I am inclined to assume that the posited ‘deficiency’ in ‘conceptual thought’ can be made up for, to some extent, by giving adequate attention to the special ways of employing literary patterns in the Hebrew Bible. The term literary patterns obviously covers a wide spectrum of tropes and topoi which cannot be submitted here to a satisfactory analysis. Therefore, I shall restrict my ensuing comments only to some of these patterns. Above all, attention will be given to the illustration of the employment of motifs as condensed expressions of conceptual thought in the biblical writings. Again, motif cannot be defined by hard and fast rules. Nor can clean demarcation lines be drawn between motif and other literary conventions which abut on and partly overlap with it. A perusal of pertinent literature reveals the exceeding difficulties which stand in the way of any attempt to achieve scholarly consensus regarding the circumscription of this and related terms which come under the overall heading of literary tropes or patterns or figurative language.7 Without purporting to contribute significantly to the resolution of the debate on the plane of literature generally, I propose to use motif in the present discussion in a sense attuned to its use in biblical literature. Whether motif can also be applied thus to other Ancient Near Eastern writings must be left open to discussion. 3. Before submitting a definition which will serve as a guideline, it may be useful to sketch in rough outline the history of the application of motif to the study of literature generally, and especially to biblical literature. The term was introduced into the analytical study of the fine arts in the second half of the eighteenth century ‘mit dem in Frankreich ausgebildeten (Sinn) eines kennzeichnenden inhaltlichen Bestandteils vor allem in der Malerei oder einer kleinsten melodischen Einheit musikalischer Formen; in dieser Bedeutung verwandte es Goethe am Ausgang des 18. Jhdt. wiederholt’.8 On the English scene the term motif seems to have been employed first around the middle of the nineteenth century. The OED records that in 1851 it was defined in a

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handbook for painters as ‘the principle of action, attitude and composition in a single figure or group…’9 By 1860, John Ruskin speaks of a ‘leading emotional purpose, technically called its motive…in…any great composition’.10 Some years later (1887), motif is used in the realm of musical theory to describe by it ‘the sort of brief recurring fragment in the operas of Richard Wagner (1813–83) which Wagner called a Grundthema’.11 Within a short time, the term established itself as the prevalent designation of a recurrent theme in a work of art, whether musical, verbal or visual. In 1897, motif was applied to the literary analysis of the Book of Ruth. Since then, individual motifs in literature generally, as well as in biblical literature, have been prolifically researched.12 4. The investigation of discrete motifs, their circumscription, and the analysis of their employment, did not remain restricted to particular national literatures in isolation. Nascent comparative studies—which found their salient expression in J.G.Frazer’s The Golden Bough,13 and in respect to the biblical writings even more so in his Folk-lore in the Old Testament14—triggered an intensified search for themes and motifs which can be distilled from diverse literatures emanating from a great variety of unconnected civilisations. Pace Marc Bloch: ‘The basic postulate of this method as well as the conclusion to which it constantly returns, is the fundamental unity of the human spirit.’15 But this postulate calls for some qualification, since it tends to underplay the diversity of forms which that ‘fundamental unity’ takes on in different cultures.16 In reference to the trope ‘motif, these efforts culminated in Stith Thompson’s monumental work Motif-Index in Folk-Literature.17 As its very title implies, that compendium is dedicated solely to the listing of motifs in oral (folk) literature. This raises the question of its usability for the investigation of biblical motifs in a comparative analysis with presumed parallels in other literary settings. In their tradited form, the biblical records must undoubtedly be viewed as written literature, even though the question is still debated in Old Testament scholarship when these compositions, in toto or in parts, were first written down. But this problem does not really affect the present discussion. It appears that the presumed differences in texture and literary modes between oral tradition and written transmission have been overemphasised.18 In respect to the employment of motifs in biblical literature, they are of only marginal import. It follows that in the comparative study of biblical motifs, Thompson’s Index of motifs in folkliterature, is not less valuable than the listing of motifs collated from written literatures.19 These brief remarks concerning some aspects of contemporary motif research are solely intended to underline the prevalent understanding of motif as a preponderantly, even exclusively, literary-aesthetic means in the arsenal of professional techniques which musicians, painters and writers use to enhance the quality of their works. Thus, motif, like any other literary pattern, by right belongs in the wider frame of aesthetics, serving as a vehicle for the conveyance of beauty, in whatever form. Concomitantly, motifs are not considered a prominent medium for transmitting ideas and concepts whose frame of reference are cognitive thought and intellect. In contradistinction, it is the thrust of my paper that in biblical literature, motifs are often employed to fulfil exactly that latter task: they serve authors as a means for conveying concepts to their audience, regardless of whether it is made up of readers or listeners. But it should be stressed that being carriers of ideas and concentrated expressions of concepts,

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in no way diminishes the artistic value, i.e. the aesthetic essence of biblical motifs, literary patterns and figurative language. 5. For the purpose of the ensuing discussion, I propose to define motif in reference to biblical literature as follows: a motif is a representative complex theme which recurs in the Hebrew Bible in varying forms and configurations. Motifs are rooted in and arise out of existential situations, not necessarily experienced by the author himself as an individual, but rather arising out of common experience, and being implanted in the collective (synchronous and diachronous) memory of the group or audience whom an author addresses. In this respect, motif resembles symbolic acts which, pace Tillich, ‘are understood as long as the reality they stand for is experienced by the community’.20 A motif can be of an anthropological nature. In this case it pertains to the individual or a nuclear family unit. Or else, it is of a historical character. Then it relates to a social entity, foremost a clan or tribe, or to a comprehensive body politic, like ‘The People of Israel’. Examples of the former type in the Bible, are the motifs of ‘The Barren Wife’, c aqārâh, or ‘The Successful Exile’; of the latter, the contrastive motifs har-midbār, ‘Mountain’ and ‘Desert’, to be discussed below.21 In its literary setting, which by definition is secondary, a motif constitutes a concentrated expression of the essence which inheres in the original situation. The biblical writers make use of motifs with the express purpose of providing their audience with tools designed to bring about a reactualisation of the intrinsic sentiments and reactions shared by the individuals or groups who had experienced the original situation. They are recaptured in the motif as in a literary capsule. A motif stands for the essential meaning of a situation or an event, not for the facts themselves. It is not intended to bring to the mind of the listener or reader only the memory of the original situation or to effect a mere reiteration of the sentiments which it had evoked in those who were immersed in it. Rather is it. meant to produce in the author’s audience an intensified identification with the sensations to which the original participants in the event had been subjected. It seems appropriate to quote at this juncture Peter Berger’s definition of ‘religious motif’, which derives from the ‘so-called Lund school of Swedish theology, especially the work of Anders Nygrén and Gustav Aulén’.22 The concept of the (religious) motif, which can be used with advantage in any phenomenological approach to religion [or any other sphere of spiritual life, S.T.], outside as well as inside the Christian [or, mutatis mutandis, the biblical, S.T.] tradition, refers to a specific pattern or gestalt of (religious) experience, that can be traced in a historical development. Once this fundamental pattern is understood, as it continues over a period of time, the totality of the (religious) experience being investigated can also be understood, and the central and ephemeral elements in it distinguished. It is clear that such a conceptualisation will always be an abstraction from the reality of the experience, and in a certain sense a violation of it.23

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By expanding the scope of this definition as indicated above, int. al. by deleting the restrictive adjective ‘religious’, it can be applied to advantage also to the study of biblical motifs and similar literary patterns. In the light of the foregoing remarks, it may be said that a systematic examination of central biblical motifs will help the student of the Hebrew Bible to gauge the intellectual faculties of biblical man, and the extent of the theological, societal, historical, etc., knowledge with which, not only the ancient writers, but also their audiences were imbued. Unless an author could expect his audience to grasp instantaneously the intrinsic meaning and the message of a motif which he introduced into his discourse, its employment would lose its very raison d’être. Like similes, metaphors and other tropes of a ‘representative’ character, motifs are effective tools in the hands of authors only as long as they evoke a clear echo in their audiences’ minds. 6. In keeping with its ‘composite’ nature, pointed out above, a motif can be adapted to entirely new literary settings. It lends itself to, even tends to be amalgamated with other motifs, themes and literary patterns. Thus, the actual manifestations of a motif in a given corpus of writings, in the present instance the Hebrew Bible, can turn up in modifications which, at a coup d’oeuil, appear to be quite removed from its presumed initial formulation, as far as this can still be recovered. Often, only a minute analysis can bring to light (some of) the intermediate stages of development, which are indispensable for making manifest the connection between the ultimate literary configuration(s) and the primal shape of a motif, if this can be ascertained at all. Because of its complexity (a feature which sets it off, e.g. vis à vis the image which is usually of a simple nature) a motif cannot be adequately evaluated in isolation. For gauging its full intrinsic meaning, a motif should be viewed in conjunction with synonymous and against the background of antinomous themes and literary patterns with which it can be linked in variable combinations. 7. It is suggested that some literary motifs, themes and patterns encapsulate sentiments and ideas which diverged from, or went counter to, established norms in the Israelite society of the biblical era. At times, literary tropes disclose an empathy with situations of the individual and with societal phenomena which appear to stand in opposition to standards laid down in codified biblical law. Illustrative of this type is the motif of The Barren Wife’, which I shall discuss in detail in a separate publication. It constitutes the core of five biblical narratives (Gen.16–18; 21; 25.19–34; 29.31–30.24; Jdg.13.1–7; 1 Sam.1). A sixth shares with them basic notions but differs in terminology and in that ‘childlessness’ there is not traced to the wife’s being ‘barren’, but rather to the husband’s inability to procreate because of his advanced age (2 Kings 4.1–37). In every single instance, the deficiency is remedied by direct (prayer) or indirect (angel, prophet) divine intervention: a son is born, destined to become a leader of his people (with the exception of 2 Kings 4). It should be pointed out that the (temporary) denial of offspring is recorded matter-offactly, and is in no way seen as a punishment inflicted on the wife, or both the wife and the husband, in retribution for a transgression. Quite to the contrary the ‘barren wives’ manifestly attract divine benevolence, have the sympathy of the author and, by inference, of the audience. Ultimately they are invariably blessed with male offspring. Indeed, on the level of abstraction, the (temporarily) ‘barren wife’ is extolled above ‘the mother of many sons’ (1 Sam.2.5; cp. Isa.54.1). The empathy with childless women, conspicuously

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displayed in biblical narratives, is in glaring contrast to the high appreciation of ‘fruitfulness’, which numerous texts of the ‘normative’ or legal literature eulogize, even prescribe (see e.g., Gen.1.28; 9.1; 35.11; 48.4; Exod.1.7, 12; Lev.26.9; Isa.56.3–5; Jer.23.3; Ps.128.3 et al.). Similarly, the motif of the youngest, or a younger, son, who rises to prominence over his older brothers, is counterposed to the law and the norm which accords precedence to the firstborn and bars the father from preferring the later-born son of a ‘beloved wife’ (Deut.21.15–17). While the ‘firstborn’, like the ‘fruitful wife’, did not attract the storytellers’ attention, tales about the ‘ascending late- or last-born son’, like about the ‘barren wife’, abound in the Hebrew writings. Almost all biblical figures of renown are presented as younger or the youngest sons of their fathers, who in the course of their life history, unfailingly surpass their older brothers. It must suffice to mention here only some of the more famous instances and reserve the detailed discussion of this motif for another occasion: Isaac/Ishmael (Gen.16.1–18.15; 20.1–21; 22.1–19); Jacob/Esau (Gen.25; 27); Joseph-Benjamin/Ruben (Gen.49.1; cp. 1 Chr.5.1–2); Ephraim/Manasseh (Gen.48.13– 20); Moses/Aaron; David (1 Sam.16.11–13; 17.12–14)24 and his house (Mic.5.1) et alii. The norm advocates primogeniture; narrative literature champions ultimogeniture. Such motifs seemingly function as safety-valves for the release of pent-up tensions, desires and concepts for which the established norms did not make any provision. Viewed thus, such literary patterns seem to disclose deviations from sanctioned societal norms and to favour suppressed popular sentiments. Thus, they indirectly evince the intellectual diversity which obtained in ancient Israelite society but did not find an adequate expression in the ‘official’ complex of the biblical books. 8. On the basis of this description of the functions which motifs fulfill in biblical literature, the following working hypothesis is put forward. The analysis of pivotal motifs and literary patterns in biblical literature, employed by diverse authors in different literary types or Gattungen and chronological settings, and in ever-changing combinations with synonymous motifs and antinomous themes, may lead to the discernment of major traits in the ancient Israelites’ conceptual universe. By collating and coordinating the information gained from a study of recurring motifs and literary patterns in their permutations, new perspectives may be achieved relative to the Hebrews’ understanding and evaluation of history, of society and man in society; in other words, relative to biblical anthropology and sociology. Restrictions of time and space do not permit these hypotheses to be tested, in the present framework, by a socio-literary analysis of a variety of diverging or antithetical pairs of literary patterns or motifs,25 such as patterns relating to ‘time’ and ‘chronology,’ which are understood to reflect some aspects of biblical Israel’s ‘historical horizon’.26 We can only examine one particular set of antithetical motifs. III The Antithetical Motifs midbār and har We can now proceed to apply the above definitions to the elucidation of the antithetical motifs midbār and har in biblical literature. I shall refer to the motif employment of

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midbār solely in the connotation of ‘desert’, ‘wilderness’ or ‘wasteland’, to the exclusion of passages in which it is used in the sense of trift, i.e. ‘grazing-land’.27 I shall, however, include in the survey uses of the complex-midbār motif in which both these aspects are intertwined. I shall explore the thesis that: a. The analysis of the har-‘mountain’,28 and midbār-‘wilderness’, shows them to be literary embodiments of existential attitudes and concepts relative to the biblical writers’ understanding of Israel’s history, its societal and religious life. At the same time, the inquiry puts in relief the ancient Hebrews’ conception of an ideal future age, commonly subsumed under the designation Old Testament eschatology.29 b. In this conceptual framework, the wilderness motif represents the negative pole in the biblical value scale, whereas the mountain motif gives expression to affirmed, positive, socio-religious values in the Israelites’ world of ideas. It must be stressed that har and midbār do not constitute an entirely balanced contrastive-motif pair. Both exhibit a spatial, i.e. a geographical, topographical or ecological, dimension. But in about one-half of its uses in the Old Testament, midbār also has an unmistakable, specific, temporal connotation, relating to the period of Israel’s ‘wandering forty years in the desert’, between the Exodus from Egypt and the Settlement in the Land of Canaan. Some such temporal dimension attaches also to har in the equation of Mountain of Israel with Land of Israel, when the term refers to the period between the initial Settlement in Canaan (13th century B.C.E.) and the Exile after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 B.C.E. But this time-aspect inheres in the har motif only implicitly and is not explicated in the Hebrew scriptures. IV A Characterisation of the Content of the midbār Motif in Biblical Literature 1.a. I can briefly indicate the prevailing negative aspects of wilderness. The desert or wilderness is a place of utter desolation: a vast void of parched land, with no streams or rivers to provide sustenance for plants and wildlife, except for a very few species (Jer.2.24). It is a place unfit for human habitation (ibid.9.11; 50.40; 51.43; Job 38.26), the few wandering nomads, carābîm, being the only exception (Jer.3.2; 9.25). b. Due to its remoteness from settled areas, the wilderness can become the refuge of outlaws and fugitives, who will prefer an off-chance of survival in exceedingly adverse circumstances, to the calamities which are certainly to befall them from the hands of their pursuers. Hagar flees into the desert, to escape the anger of Sarah (Gen.16.6–14). There, her son Ishmael becomes the prototype of the marauding Nomad: ‘He lived in the wilderness and became a bowman’ (ibid. 21.20). David takes to the Judean desert in his flight before Saul: ‘And everyone who was in distress and everyone who was in debt, and everyone who was discontented, gathered to him; and he became captain over them’ (1 Sam.22.2). In repairing to the midbār, Elijah tries to save his soul when Jezebel plans to kill him: ‘He saw [or: was afraid], arose and went [ran] for his life, came to Beer Sheba, which belongs to Judah, and left his servant there. But he himself went a day’s journey

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into the wilderness’ (1 Kings 19.3–4). ‘Flee, save yourselves’, is the prophet’s advice to the Moabites, ‘Be like a wild ass in the desert’ (Jer.48.6). And the psalmist ‘would wander afar…would lodge in the wilderness’ to find shelter from his enemies (Ps.55.7– 8). c. This aspect of refuge gave rise to an incipient positive image which is derived from wilderness language, the employment of desert as a figure for retreat; thus in Jeremiah’s famous lament: ‘O that I had in the desert a wayfarer’s lodging place, that I might leave my people and go away from them’ (Jer.9.1). But this theme was not further developed in biblical literature. Even in the Jeremiah passage the ‘positive’ aspect is subsidiary. The prophet is not drawn into the desert, as it were, to come there face to face with his God. He does not seek there communion with the Deity, but rather longs to dissociate himself from his contemporaries. The utilisation of the midbār as a refuge, by one who had been forced out of society, may have been conducive to another concept: the desert as the locus of a seemingly voluntary retreat. However this positive image remains peripheral to the preponderantly negative qualities of midbār in the Hebrew writings. d. The connotation of midbār as a barren, awe-inspiring, howling wilderness is intimately related to yet another aspect of its use as a motif. There are to be found in the Bible residues of a mythical conception of wilderness, which is more fully developed in ancient Semitic mythology30 and also in post-biblical, midrashic literature. ‘In Arabic and Akkadian folklore, the desert is the natural habitat of noxious demons and jinns.’31 In Ugaritic myth it is Mot, the god of all, that lacks life and vitality, whose ‘natural habitation is the sun-scorched desert, or alternatively, the darkling region of the netherworld’.32 Mot is the eternal destroyer, who periodically succeeds in vanquishing Baal, the god of fertility and life, and in reducing the earth temporarily to waste and chaos. It may be due to this identification of desert and darkness with Mot in Canaanite myth, that an equation of YHWH with the wilderness is anathema to the biblical writers. Have I been ‘a wilderness unto Israel or a land of thick darkness’ (Jer.2.31), demands YHWH, so that Israel might have reason to reject me? e. These mythical visions of midbār-wilderness are mirrored in biblical pronouncements which show the desert to be populated by phantom-like creatures, alongside the scanty animal population. Thus, while looking after asses that were grazing in the midbār, Zibeon’s son Anah captured (rather than ‘found’) the yemîm (Gen.36.24), whom the midrash identifies as demonic beings. ‘There [in the desert] ostriches dwell, and satyrs [secîrîm] dance’ (Isa 13.21). The presence of such monsters indicates that a place has been reduced to the primeval state of chaos: ‘An unknown, foreign and unoccupied territory (which often means ‘unoccupied by our people’), still shares in the fluid and larval modality of chaos’, says Mircea Eliade.33 Such will be the future fate of Edom: The hawk and the porcupine shall possess it, the owl and the raven shall dwell in it. He [God] shall stretch the line of confusion [tôhû] over it, and the plummet of chaos [bôhû] over its nobles’ (Isa 34.11). ‘Wild beasts shall meet with hyenas, the satyr shall cry to his fellow; there shall the night hag [lilît] alight and find for herself a resting place’ (ibid.34.14). The midbār plays a prominent part in Psalm 29, which brims with mythical creation terminology in a historicised setting: The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire. The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness [midbār], the Lord shakes the

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wilderness of Kadesh. The Lord ascends to his throne [la-mabbûl],34 the Lord sits enthroned as king forever.’ f. It is this mythic aspect of midbār which is retained in the ritual of the driving out of a goat [sacîr] into the wilderness to Azazel as an atonement offering (Lev.16.7–10, 22). Subsequently it became permanently associated with the rites of the Day of Atonement (ibid. 16.29). g. In sum: the predominant aspects of midbār-wilderness in the Bible bear witness to the unfamiliarity with and the loathing of the desert which were typical of the ancient Israelites. They reflect the attitude of the city-dweller, the farmer, the semi-sedentary shepherd, even the assnomad, who may traverse the desert on beaten tracks, but would not venture into its depths by free choice. 2. So far, I have dealt with perspectives of midbār in its overall spatial connotation. We can now turn to what was termed its ‘temporal-historical’ connotation. As is well-known, in a large number of occurrences in biblical literature, midbār serves as a designation of the clearly circumscribed period which followed upon the Exodus and preceded the Conquest of Canaan. This period falls roughly into two unequal periods. One, spanning the first two years, includes the events from the Crossing of the Red (or Reed) Sea to the Sinai theophany. The other extends from that point (when the Israelites were encamped in the Paran desert) to the war with the Midianites (their last skirmish against desert people), after which Israel enters the territories of the TransJordanian states. This period encompasses most of the remaining 38 years. Those were the years of the desert trek proper, the wanderings which were imposed upon Israel as a divine punishment for their sins and for their doubting God’s power to lead them safely into the Promised Land of Canaan (Deut.2.14–16). The episodes of this period are surveyed comprehensively in what may be called ‘The Book of Israel’s Failings’. It comprises Numbers 11.1–31.20 (or possibly 31.54), with the exclusion of 26.1–30.17, which appear to be a secondary intrusion. The incidents related in this literary unit, and the atmosphere which pervades it, have decisively determined the image of the desert period in subsequent biblical writings. 3. We can now establish the themes and ideas which emanated from the story of the desert trek, and the moods and reactions which it could be expected to evoke in the audience exposed to it. The ancient Israelites’ encounter with this account was achieved either by a recital of the story, most probably in a cultic setting, or else by the secondary employment of the trek experience as a literary motif. We may presume that such derivative use requires an historical and sociological disengagement from the historical trek itself and an ontological perspective toward desert conditions. Therefore, it can cause no surprise that figurative desert language is not used at all in the historiographic portions of the Pentateuch, nor in early biblical historiography. Here, desert language refers to the thing itself, not to its image. Also in Wisdom Literature, which is non-historical in character, the desert trek does not serve as a source from which literary motifs are drawn, excepting some instances of midbār imagery which are anchored in the wilderness aspect (e.g. Job 1.19; 24.4), or the creation-myth setting (e.g. Job 38.26). a. The desert-trek motif makes its first appearance in attempts to recapture the quintessence of the trek experience, and presents it as the typological crystallisation of the immanent relation between the nation and God (Deut.32; cp. Pss.78 and 106). An extensive employment of the desert motif is found in the books of the pre-exilic prophets

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and in the Book of Psalms. Thus, the midbār theme is in fact concentrated in bibilical literature which is seen as having originated in the period of the First Temple. With the end of the monarchy, the use of the desert motif abates, possibly due to the re-experience of actual wilderness-desolation conditions (e.g. Mal.1.3). In references to the postmonarchical era, it is replaced by new themes, which represent similar ideas and notions and which emanate from events and situations which are set in the period of the kingdom. b. Two major themes emerge from the traditions pertaining to the Wanderings in the Desert. The first part is dominated by the only positive aspect of this entire period, which is significantly the theophany on Mount Sinai in which YHWH revealed himself to Israel and reaffirmed the covenant with his people. The second part of the Wanderings, on the other hand, is characterised by two mutually complementary strands of significance which run through the account: YHWH provides Israel with sustenance and guides his people in the chaotic wilderness. In his benevolence he shields them from danger, although the wanderings in the desert had been appointed by him as a punishment for Israel. But the people, stubborn and without remorse, continue flagrantly to disobey the Lord and to kindle his anger. Worse than in the future days of the Judges, the desert period is typified by Israel’s wickedness, by an uninterrupted sequence of transgressions. It lacks even the relieving moments of temporary repentance which ameliorate the biblical verdict on the times of the Judges. c. The theme of ‘disobedience and punishment’ has much greater impact on the subsequent formulation of the desert motif in biblical literature than has the concept of the desert as the locale of Divine revelation and of YHWH’s love for Israel. The idealisation of the desert, which scholars perceived in the writings of some prophets, derives from an unwarranted isolation of the ‘revelation in the desert’ theme from the preponderant ‘transgression and punishment’ theme with which it is closely welded in the Pentateuchal account of the desert trek. The widespread opinion that ‘the pre-exilic prophets for the most part [sic!] interpreted the forty years as a period when God was particularly close to Israel, when he loved his chosen people as the bridegroom his bride’,35 in the last analysis rests on the slender evidence of two passages, Hosea 2.17 and Jer.2.2, which are discussed outside the wider context of the prophets’ message. A closer analysis of this theme, viewed in relation to other concepts and motifs in biblical, and especially in prophetic, literature, indicates that it is of minor importance. In no way can it be construed to serve as the nucleus of a reputed ‘desert ideal’. d. The experience of a theophany in the desert is not an intrinsic feature of prophecy as such, but rather a particular instance in the life of some prophets. Nor can it be presented as a fundamental aspect of YHWH, as has been proposed. In fact, one witnesses attempts to establish a phenomenological relationship between the Yahwistic religion and the desert. Max Weber’s conclusion, presented as a result of empirical studies, that a provenance from the borderland between desert and cultivated land (Grenzgebiete des Kulturlandes im Übergang zur Wüste) is characteristic of the biblical prophets,36 is but a phenomenological axiom in a geography of religion.37 The desert is elevated to the position of an especially ‘geeignete Offenbarungsstätte des wahren Gottes’.38 Bedouin life and Jahwism are conceived of not only as historically related, but as existentially consanguineous. They were most fruitfully mated in the prophetic experience of the desert deity YHWH in his presumed natural setting.39 Such regional determinism cannot be squared with the prevailing prophetic idea of YHWH as an omnipresent deity who

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defies any geographical or conceptual circumscription. In revealing himself in the desert, to the prophet as an individual, or to his people as a group, YHWH accommodates himself to the actual habitat of the recipients of this revelation. What the Temple is to Jeremiah and Ezekiel, priests, and to Isaiah, a citizen of the metropolis, the midbār is to Moses and Amos the herdsmen, and to Elijah who also lived in the borderland between ‘Kulturland und Wüste’. Not in search of God but out of fear of Jezebel, Elijah went into the desert. That he experienced there a theophany is accidental, not predetermined by YHWH’s desert character. The theophany in the desert does not reveal the nature of YHWH, but rather the existential setting of the men who experienced him there. Being a historical deity and not a nature god, and being invested with geographically and otherwise unrestricted power, YHWH could permit men to experience him in their own existential framework.40 For this reason the desert is the exclusive locale of Divine revelation in the limited period of the Wanderings in the Desert. With the settlement in Canaan, the Israelite concept of YHWH became charged with new imagery. During the conquest of the central mountain ridge, YHWH was identified as a ‘mountain deity’. In this identification we may perceive a variation on the YHWH image of pre-Conquest times, with its specific attachment to Mount Sinai and Mount Horeb. This concept lingers on among surrounding nations, like the Arameans, who conceive of Israel’s God as ’elohê hārîm (1 Kings 20.23). It becomes the dominant motif in biblical religion and is carried over into prophetic eschatology, in which not the ‘desert god’ but rather the ‘mountain god’ motif is reflected, as remains to be shown. V A Characterisation of the Content of the har-Motif in Biblical Literature41 The above explications provide the transition to an appreciation of the figurative use of har as a contrastive positive foil to midbār. The motif dimension of har is rooted in and arises out of biblical Israel’s historical experience, from the conquest of Canaan to the fall of the Kingdom of Judah in 586 C.E., reverberating also in the period of the restoration after the Babylonian Exile. 1. The biblical historiographies inform us that the Landnahme in Canaan which followed immediately upon the Desert Period could initially be realised only in the hill country, on the central mountain-ridge which rises between the Jordan valley to the east and the lowlands along the shores of the Mediterranean to the west, due to the Israelites’ military inferiority vis-à-vis the indigenous population. Being only footsoldiers, their forces were no match for the Canaanites’ chariotry (see e.g. Jdg.1.27–34; 3.1–3; 4.3; cp. Josh.11.1–5). The Israelites also lacked the heavy equipment—catapults and batteringrams—without which frontal attacks on the fortified cities in the plains, from the outset were doomed to failure. The biblical authors never tire of bemoaning these adverse circumstances. However, once the Israelites had established themselves in the hill country, often settling there on previously unoccupied sites, a positive evaluation of the highlands developed. This did not abate in the monarchical period, when Israel succeeded in

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conquering the more fertile lowlands. Several considerations may have induced the change from the complaint about the initial conquest of ‘merely’ the hill area (Josh. 17.14–18), to a distinct appreciation of the advantages it gave to the people settled there. Elevations could be better defended in times of war. Slopes could be utilised as bases for man-made fortifications. By building settlements on the less fertile hill-tops where irrigation was quite a problem, the arable land in the foothills and valleys could be exploited for agricultural purposes. 2. As in the case of midbār, the theological values (and mythological undertones) associated with har and some of its synonyms must be discussed within the framework of the Hebrew conception of space. The geomorphological and territorial nature of the SyroPalestinian landscape resulted in mountains taking on two apparently opposite, but in reality complementary, significations. On the one hand, their imposing height, especially in the case of isolated peaks, led men to think of them as the focal point of the surrounding lowlands; on the other, as in Mesopotamia or Egypt,42 mountains or ranges delimit the extent of a specific ethnic, political, or cultic territory.43 As a result, in the Hebrew Bible mountains are viewed as both focal points and perimeters.44 This notion finds its most striking expression in the description of Jerusalem and its holy Mount Zion as being surrounded by a series of concentric mountain ranges, from the nearby hill of Judah (Ps.125.1ff.) to the surrounding nations and their lands (Ezek.5.5) and to the ends of the earth (Ps.42), which was apparently conceived as a disk (Isa.40.22; Job 22.14; 26.10; Prov.8.27) or quadrangle (Isa.11.12; Ezek.7.2; Job 37.3; 38.13). Mythological thought assigned a special significance to both ordinary and unusual places, a significance that can be traced to the meaning of spatial phenomena in accounts of primeval history and above all in cosmogonies. In the biblical notion of space such mythological concepts played a formative role, but were effectively transformed and finally superseded by historico-theological and cultic notions that continued to evolve during the biblical period. The biblical thinkers rejected the mythological notion of space as being unalterably holy. With respect to the theological implications of har, the tension between the two modes of thought is illustrated on the one hand by the idea of a mountain as the chosen dwelling place of a god, and on the other by the distinctly different statement that ‘the whole earth is full of his glory’ (Isa.6.3; Ps.138). There is no place, not even a mountain, that is sacred in and of itself. Only an association with the God of Israel makes a region or space holy. This confluence of mythological thought with strictly biblical notions and expressions must be taken into account when the theological dimensions of har in the OT are being examined. Mountains represent—not in Israelite thought alone—the axis mundi. They are the connecting link between heaven and earth. Their foundations reach down into the subterranean waters (Deut.32.22; Jonah 2.7; Ps. 104.6–8). Thus, mountains are seen as primordial structures which constitute the pillars of the universe, binding together its three great strata: netherworld, earth and heaven (Exod.20.4; Prov.8.22–29). The Hebrew Scriptures contain clear allusions to the Ancient Near Eastern notion of mountains as the dwelling places of deities or the place where the gods assemble.45 In Isaiah’s oracle against the King of Babylon, the cosmic mountain is manifestly viewed as heavenly, not earthly: ‘You said in your heart, “I will ascend to heaven; above the stars of God I will set my throne on high; I will sit on the mount of assembly in the far north”’ (Isa.14.13). The same is true of Ezekiel’s lament over the King of Tyre, who had

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arrogated to himself the role of an angelic being on the holy mountain of God (Ezek.28.14ff.). The two usurpers of divine status are punished by being hurled from the heights of heaven into the depths of the underworld (Isa.14.15, 19) or ‘to earth’ (Ezek.28.17). Another tradition in Ezekiel’s oracles against Tyre charges its king with having laid claim to divinity (Ezek.28.1–10) and thus having usurped, as it were, the throne of the gods in the midst of the seas (ibid.28.2), probably the underground mountain on top of which El dwells.46 As punishment the king will be cast down to the base of the mountain, the domain of Mot (Ezek.28.8). A similar idea lies behind the tradition of the Tower of Babel (Gen.l 1.1–9), where the tower serves as a man-made substitute for a mountain. To build a tower whose top reaches to the heavens (11.4) is equivalent to the attempt to attain the sphere of the gods by ascending a cosmic mountain. 3. In the Israelite predilection for locating ‘sacred space’ on mountains or identifying it with mountains, we can recognise a fusion of mythological motifs with notions derived from the geographical and geophysical realities experienced by the Hebrews in the initial stages of their contact with the land of Canaan, and which were reinforced by economic and military considerations. In depicting the period between the Exodus and the Settlement in Canaan, an early, poetically framed tradition describes how the God of Israel went from south to north with or before his people, from mountain to mountain, with or without a man-made temenos. There are references to Mount Seir (Jdg.5.5; cf. Ps.68.8; 18.8; 77.19), Teman (Hab.3.3; cf.Ps.89.13), Paran (Hab.3.3), Sinai/Horeb (Exod.3.1; 18.5; 19:20; 24.13; Jdg.5.5; 1 Kings 19.8ff; Ps.68.9), Ebal and Gerizim (Deut.l 1.26–29; 27.11–14; Josh.8.30–35). Other references include Bashan (Nah.1.4; Ps.68[67].16); the har where the Gibeonites executed Saul’s sons in a cultic ceremony ‘before God’ (2 Sam.21.6–9), which is certainly to be identified with the nearby Gibeah of Saul,47 and the mountain of Bethel (Gen.28.10–22; 1 Sam.13.2 et al.). Finally, Mount Moriah must be mentioned, where Isaac was to have been sacrificed by his father (Gen.22.1–19); tradition identified this mountain with the future site of the temple. Because of this association of the God of Israel with a series of mountains (Hab.3.10; Gen.31.54 et al.) that had an aura of sanctity about them or came to be viewed as ‘holy mountains’ on account of this association, YHWH appeared to the non-Israelites to be a typical ‘mountain-god’ (1 Kings 20.23–28). In tradition, then, mountains appear as the preferred sites for theophanies (Gen.22.14; Exod.3.1; 4.27; 18.5; 19–20; 32; 34; Deut.4.11; 5.4; 9.15; 1 Kings 19.11–14; Mic.1.3; Ps.18.7ff.; 97.4ff.; etc.) and as places where God establishes his covenant with individuals (e.g. Gen.31.54) as well as with his people. Because of this development, ‘sanctuary’ and ‘mountain’ became conceptually identical, as is illustrated by the location of the earliest Israelite sanctuaries upon mountains: Gilgal, Bethel, the twin peaks Ebal and Gerizim, Shiloh, and finally the election of Zion and Jerusalem. These places represent the stage in the development of Israelite religion in which the permanence of the divine dwelling place had already been accepted. After all previously chosen places had been rejected (Ps.78.67; 68.15–17), God’s presence finally and definitely came to rest upon Zion (Ps.68.16ff.; 78.67ff.; 132.13ff.), ‘his holy mountain’ (Isa.11.9; 27.13; 66.20; Jer.31.23; Joel 2.1; 4.17; Zech.8.3; Ps.3.5; 43.3; 48.2; Dan.9.16, 20), ‘his own mountain’ (Exod.15.17), which he

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had created for himself (Ps.78.54). The formative influence of historical fact on the cultic, ideological, and mythological appreciation of mountains becomes fully apparent in the traditions of Zion and Jerusalem. Mount Zion, in its majestic height (if not geographically, at least in the minds of the devout) is seen to tower above all the other mountains of Canaan and the lands around it (Isa.2.2 [=Mic.4.1]; 10.32; Ezek.17.22ff.; 20.40; 40.2; 43.12). The complex ideas associated with ‘mountains’ in the history of Israel, which culminated in the Zion traditions, were drawn upon to a significant extent to develop the vision of the future, which illustrates the fundamentally restorational and historical attitude of the biblical vision of an ideal future time.48 Once again, cosmic-mythological, physical, and (meta)historical features coalesce in the mountain imagery of that future age.49 Hebrew Scriptures speak of the mountains of Canaan as being well-watered. Since they are close to the heavens, the peaks get the first benefit of rain (Ps.104.13 et al.). At the same time, brooks and springs flow from and between the mountains (Ps.104.10ff.; Deut.8.7). These features are reflected in the description of the days to come, when ‘upon every lofty mountain and every high hill there will be brooks running with water’ (Isa.30.26). Jerusalem, the Mount of Olives, and the temple mountain are the focal points of visionary scenes: ‘A fountain shall come forth from the house of YHWH’ (Joel 4.18); ‘On that day living waters shall flow out from Jerusalem, half of them to the eastern sea [i.e., the Dead Sea] and half of them to the western sea [i.e., the Mediterranean]; it shall continue in summer as in winter’ (Zech.14.8), so that the drought of summer is miraculously overcome. The abundance of water will produce a luxuriant growth of fruit trees (Ezek.36.8). ‘The mountains shall drip sweet wine, and the hills shall flow with milk’ (Joel 4.18; cp. Amos 9.13: ‘all the hills will be fertile’). This symbolises the future restoration of Israel’s ancient fortunes (Amos 9.14ff.). The mountain (of Zion) will once more be the pride of the Davidic ruler, whom YHWH ‘will plant on the mountain height of Israel’ (Ezek.17.22ff.). Restoration of Israel’s political fortunes is associated with the Day of Judgment. On the mountains of Israel the final battle against Gog will be fought (Ezek.38ff.). Then (as in the past) YHWH will defeat the nations upon the Mount of Olives (Zech.14.3ff.; cf. Joel 4.1–17). In these battle scenes, where the wrath of God is turned against the nations, ‘the mountains shall flow with their blood’ (Isa.34.2ff.), an antithesis to the image of the ‘hills that flow with milk’. On this canvas of future events is portrayed as well the great banquet that God will prepare upon his mountain for all nations (Isa.25.6–8; Ezek.39.17– 20).50 From a mountaintop the liberation of Israel is proclaimed (Isa.25.9ff.; 40.9ff.; 52.7ff.). All this prepares the way for the final reconciliation, which in cosmic dimensions has as its focal point the Temple Mount of Israel’s God, the biblical ‘holy mountain’ par excellence (Isa.2.1–4=Mic.4.1–4; Isa. 11.6–9=65.25; Jer.31.6; Zech. 14.16). Thus, it cannot cause surprise that the Desert and anything related to the period of the Wanderings in the Desert do not figure at all in biblical visions of the future. Their déclassement also affected the Stellenwert of Moses, Mount Sinai and the Sinai Theophany. In the portrayal of the ideal world to come, all matters pertaining to the midbār-period were exchanged for ‘values’ derived from Israel’s existential experience of settled life as a sovereign body politic: the city of Jerusalem, signifying the Land,

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replaces the Desert; Mount Zion takes the place of Mount Sinai as the locale of the ‘New Giving of the Law’ (Isa.2.3=Mic 4.2); the Davidic King, not Moses, is centre stage (Isa.11.1–10; Jer. 17.14–26; 22.1–4; Hos.3.5; Amos 9.11–15; Mic.5.1–2 et al.). VI It is now appropriate to consider the Stellenwert of the midbār-period in the biblical understanding of Israel’s socio-religious history and of the wilderness-motif in biblical literature. The analysis of the meaning and content-value of midbār in Old Testament literature (based on geographical and ecological, i.e. on ‘spatial’ criteria has brought to light biblical man’s definite lack of appreciation of the ‘wilderness-desert’. Existentially, midbār (like its synonyms carābâh, , šemāmâh, horbâh, et al.) signifies the negative pole of human experience, with har constituting the opposite, positive pole. Viewed as a phenomenon relating to ‘time’, the days of the Wanderings in the Desert are considered a low point in Israel’s history. In contradistinction, Israel’s Settlement in the jisrā’ēl—often identified with har jisrā’ēl, represents the height of achievement, the realisation of the divine promise. A close reading of the pertinent texts reveals that neither in its space nor its time dimension is the desert considered a value per se. It is not presented as a goal towards which Israelite society strove in past history, nor which it expects to attain in some future age, as one school of biblical theologians would assert. In past history, the desert-trek served merely as a rîte de passage, a preparatory transition stage between the nadir of enslavement in Egypt and the apex of settled life and sociopolitical autonomy in the Promised Land. This mere transitional character of the desert-trek experience finds its literary expression in a ring-composition which brackets it in between the Passahcelebration in which Exodus culminated (Exod.12) and the observation of the Passah in Gilgal which symbolises Israel’s taking root in Canaan (Josh.5.10–12). The subordinate status of the desert-experience in biblical thought is accentuated by the short time-span which tradition accords to it: a mere ‘forty years’ (Exod.16.35; Num.14.33; 32.13; Deut.1.3; 2.7; Josh.5.6; 14.10; Amos 2.10; 5.25 et al.), the (schematic) life-span of one generation (Num.32.13=Deut.2.14; 1.35; 32.5; Ps.78.8; 95.10; cp. Jdg.3.11; 5.31; 8.28; 13.1; 1 Sam.14.18 et al.). In contrast, infinitely greater importance attaches to the era of Israel’s existence as a settled people in ‘the Land’. Tradition has it that between the Exodus from Egypt and the building of Solomon’s Temple, 480 years passed (1 Kings 6.1), i.e. the schematic life-span of twelve generations, of which only one experienced the wilderness-trek. In parentheses we may add that a rabbinic tradition (which lacks, however, any biblical support) reports the Temple to have stood for 410 years until its destruction in 586 B.C.E.51 The quite incomparably shorter extent of the Desert-Period vis-à-vis the Settlement-Era conveys a clear impression of the minimal weight assigned to the wilderness experience in the biblical scheme of Israel’s history. It is considered to have been of a provisional and transitional character in all its aspects. For these reasons alone, one cannot ascribe to it the value of a precious experience to be relived in a future age, even less a present desertexistence, as the cherished ideal framework of Israel’s social and religious setting in the visionary future, as is implied by advocates of the ‘Nomadic Ideal in the Old Testament’.

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VII The ‘Forty-Years’ Concept in Relation to har and midbār Let us recall that biblical tradition consistently presents the period of the Wanderings in the Desert as having lasted for 40 years=one generation. In comparison, the preceding era of bondage in Egypt lasted for three generations. The fourth generation was expected to be delivered and to ‘return here’, to the Land of Canaan (Gen.15.16). Since that generation was doomed to perish in the Wilderness, it follows that in the ‘four generations’ schema, the Desert Wanderings take up only one part, whereas the era of the Egyptian Bondage takes up a full three. Tradition obviously gave more weight to the three-generations-period of serfdom in Egypt than to the Wanderings in the Desert which only lasted for one generation. Even more impressive is the comparison with the length of time schematically ascribed to the Settlement (in the Land) in the calculation of historical periods by generations of 40 years each. Biblical tradition does not provide any chronological assessment of the entire era of Israel’s implantation in the Land, from the Conquest to the Destruction of the Temple and the ensuing Exile. But it does give some stereotyped figures for the first part of that era, and these are rather revealing. As said, the Book of Kings reports that Solomon built the Temple in the fourth year of his reign, ‘four hundred and eighty years after Israel had come out of Egypt’ (1 Kings 6.1). This figure obviously stands for a block comprised of 12 generations of 40 years each. Similar results are achieved by adding up the schematic units of chronology detailed in the account of the period of the pre-monarchic (great) saviours who judged over and/or achieved peace for Israel: Othniel-40 years=one generation (Jdg.3.11); Ehud-80 years=two generations (ibid.3.30); Barak-Debora–40 years=one generation (ibid.5.31); Gideon–40 years=one generation (ibid.8.28); Samson–40 years=one generation (twice 20, ibid.15.20; 16.31). Likewise, David was king over Israel for altogether 40 years (1 Kings 2.11). These items add up to 280 years, equalling seven generations. Discounting the exact figures adduced for the rule of the ‘Minor Judges’ (Jdg.10.1–5; 12.8–15) and for Jephtah (ibid.12.7) which do not tally with the generation schema, we have still to account for five generations between Moses and David, whose years of rule are not given: on the one hand, the generations of Joshua and the ‘Elders’ who came after Moses (ibid.2.6; cf. Josh.24.31); on the other, those of Eli, Samuel and Saul, who preceded David. Assuming that their periods of office were reckoned according to that same generation schema, the sum total of these five generations amounts to 200 years. Together with the seven generations of saviours, totalling 280 years, this set of data also mirrors the tradition which calculates the time elapsed between the Exodus and Solomon’s reign at 480 years, shared between 12 generations. Of these, only a part of the first, that of Joshua, stands for the Desert Period; the remaining eleven represent the era of Israel’s settlement in the Land. The unequal length of time apportioned to the one and the other underlines the great importance which the biblical model of history accorded to settled life in the Land of Israel, compared with which the Desert Period appears to be of little account.

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This investigation of the application of the motif or pattern ‘one generation=40 years’ to the depiction of history in progress reveals the contours of biblical Israel’s vision of the perfect politeia. It does not exhibit even a vestige of wilderness imagery, nor of a presumed ‘Desert Ideal’. Rather is it clearly fashioned after the image of the imperfect nation-state, actually experienced in the fertile and secure Mountain Land of Israel. VIII After the analysis of one pair of antithetical biblical motifs or themes, I would like to stress some points of more general import which arise. 1. ‘Motif-research’ cannot be viewed as an alternative for other, well-established methods in the modern study of the Old Testament. It can serve as an added exegetical tool which may help in recovering salient aspects of the biblical authors’ literary technique. 2. In the biblical writings, motifs, themes, and patterns do not serve solely as means for enhancing the aesthetic value of a given piece of literature. The study of such literary tropes shows that often they are also condensations of the biblical authors’ ideas and thoughts. Thus, a thorough analysis of central motifs, themes and patterns can enrich our comprehension of biblical man’s conceptual universe. It can offer a partial compensation for the lack of systematisation and theories which typifies Old Testament literature. 3. In a way, such research forces the scholar to emulate the thought processes of biblical man: thinking conceptually by association and accumulation, rather than by systematisation. It offers valuable insights into the biblical view of man’s role in the universe, and in society, the Eigenverständnis of biblical Israel. Thus, it comes close to what may be termed ‘inner-biblical exegesis’. 4. Motifs, themes, patterns and other literary tropes are facets of biblical literature generally. They transcend the peculiarities of this or that individual author, of one or another literary stratum or literarhistorische Quelle. They over-arch the dividing lines which modern OT scholarship has established between diverse components that make up the Bible, that compendium of ancient Hebrew writings. The analysis of literary tropes discloses what is common to that literature as a whole. Thus, it acts, to a degree, as a countermeasure to the fragmentation which resulted from its being submitted to an investigation based on the exegetical methods adopted in the contemporary study of the Old Testament. 5. Finally, two avenues for further and intensified study in this area, suggest themselves: a. The theoretical bases of the investigation of literary patterns which can be identified in the biblical writings need to be clarified and buttressed, foremost by having recourse to procedures and methods established in literary research generally. b. A sizable corpus of central motifs, themes and patterns, pertaining to the realm of religion, society, history, etc., should be submitted to a detailed analysis in the framework of the entire corpus of biblical literature. A synthesis of the results may provide an heuristic instrument for an attempt to trace the outlines of the ‘speculative thought’ of biblical man. 1

A good illustration of ‘pictorial (or figurative) narration’ is provided by the Burney Relief, discussed in this volume by Th. Jacobsen.

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See H. and H.A.Frankfort, J.A.Wilson, Th. Jacobsen, and W.A.Irwin, The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man: An Essay on Speculative Thought in The Ancient Near East (Chicago, 1946). 3 The issue cannot be pursued here in detail. The reader is referred, int. al. to Joh. Pedersen’s fine discussion of biblical man’s thinking, in: Israel, Its Life and Culture, tr. A.Moller, vols. I–II; III–IV (London/ Copenhagen, 1926 and 1940). 4 See S.Talmon, The Comparative Method in Biblical Interpretation: Principles and Problems’, SVT, XIX, Göttingen Congress Volume (Leiden, 1978) 320–356. 5 In bringing extra-biblical information to bear on biblical phenomena, one should keep in mind H.Frankfort’s caveat: ‘It should be plain that the borrowed features in Hebrew culture, and those which have foreign analogies, are least significant’, (Kingship and the Gods-A Study of Ancient Near Eastern Religion as the Integration of Society and Nature (Chicago, 1948) 339). 6 In essence, this characterisation is applicable also to rabbinic literature. 7 See int. al. E.Frenzel, Stoff- Motiv- und Symbolforschung, Realienbücher für Germanisten (Stuttgart, 2d ed., 1963); idem, Stoff- und Motivgeschichte (Berlin, 2d ed., 1974); H.Lausberg, Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik (München, 1960); K.Burke, ‘Four Master Tropes’, A Grammar of Motives (New York, 1946) 503–517; R.Wellek & A.Warren, A Theory of Literature (Harmondsworth, 1963) 174–211; M.Bodkin, Studies of Type Imagery in Poetry, Religion and Philosophy (Oxford, 1951); E.Auerbach, Typologische Motive in der mittelalterlichen Literatur (1953); D.Ben Amos, ‘The Concept of Motif in Folklore’, Folklore Studies in the Twentieth Century (ed. V.Newall; London, 1980) 17–36 (a concise survey of major publications and developments in the definition and the application of the term). 8 Frenzel, Stoff- Motiv- und Symbolforschung, 1. 9 A New English Dictionary, VI (ed. J.A.M.Murray; Oxford, 1908) 695. 10 Ibid. 11 Frenzel, Stoff-Motiv und Symbolforschung, 32. 12 Some motif studies were published in: Biblical Motifs-Origins and Transformations, Studies and Texts III (ed. A.Altmann; Cambridge, Mass., The Philip L.Lown Institute of Advanced Judaic Research, Brandeis University, 1966). Further examples are: F.C.Fensham, ‘The Destruction of Mankind in the Ancient Near East’, Annali dell’ Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli N.S. XV (1965), 31–37; idem, The Obliteration of the Family as a Motif in the Near East’, ibid., N.S. XIX (1969), 191–199; B.S.Childs, ‘The Enemy From the North and the Chaos Tradition’, JBL, 63 (1959), 187–198; C.L.Kessler, The Memory Motif in the God-Man Relationship in the Old Testament, Ph.D. Dissertation, Northwestern University (1956); D.Daube, The Exodus Pattern in the Bible (London, 1963); A.Lauha, ‘Das Schilfmeermotiv im Alten Testament’, SVT, 9 (1963), 32–46; G.Cook, ‘The Israelite King as Son of God’, ZAW, 73 (1961) 202–225; Z.Weismann, ‘Anointing as a Motif in the Making of the Charismatic King’, Biblica, 57 (1976), 373–383; R.Polzin, The Ancestress of Israel in Danger’, Semeia, 3 (1975), 81–98; Th. Lescow, ‘Das Geburtsmotiv in den messianischen Weissagungen bei Jesaja und Micha’, ZAW, 79 (1967), 172–207; H.Ringgren, ‘Der Kelch des Zornes’, Svensk Exegetisk Arsbok, 17 (1952), 19–30; D.R.Hillers, ‘A Convention in Hebrew Literature: The Reaction to Bad News’, ZAW, 77 (1965), 172–207; R.Alter, ‘Biblical Type Scenes and the Use of Convention’, The Art of Biblical Narrative (London, 1981), 47–62; idem, ‘How Convention Helps Us Read: The Case of the Bible’s Annunciation Type-Scene’, Prooftexts, 3 (1983), 165–177; L.Alonso-Schökel, ‘Imagenes’, in Estudios de Poetica Hebrea (Barcelona, 1963), 269–308; W.E.Staples, ‘Cultic Motifs in Hebrew Thought’, AJSL, 55 (1938), 44–55; idem, ‘Epic Motifs in Amos’, JNES, 25 (1965), 106–112; J.Blenkinsopp, ‘Theme and Motif in the Succession History and the Jahwist Corpus’, SVT, 15 (1966), 44–57; D.B.Bedford, ‘The Literary Motif of the Exposed Child’, Numen, 14 (1967), 209–228.

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13

J.G.Frazer, The Golden Bough (London, 1890). Idem, Folk-lore in the Old Testament (London, 1918). 15 Apud A.J.F.Kobben, ‘Comparitivists and Non-Comparitivists in Anthropology’, in: A Handbook of Method in Cultural Anthropology (ed. R.Naroll & R.Cohen; New York, 1970), 590. 16 See S.Talmon, ‘The Comparative Method’, above n. 4. 17 Stith Thompson, Motif-Index in Folk-Literature (Copenhagen, 2d. ed., 1955–1958). 18 Regarding the issue of ‘oral’ vs. ‘written’ literature, see int. al. B.Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript (Uppsala, 1961); E.Nielsen, Oral Tradition: A Modern Problem in Old Testament Introduction (London, 1954); H.Ringgren, ‘Oral and Written Transmission of the Old Testament’, StTh, 3 (1950/51), 34–59; G.Widengren, ‘Oral Tradition and Written Literature Among the Hebrews in the Light of Arabic Evidence, With Special Regard to Prose Narrative’, AcOr, 23 (1959), 201–262; D.M.Gunn, ‘“The Battle Report”: Oral or Scribal Convention’, JBL, 93 (1974), 513–518; A.N.Wilder, Early Christian Rhetoric-The Language of the Gospel (Cambridge, Mass., 1971); A.B.Lord, The Singer of Tales (New York, 1970). 19 See e.g., E.Frenzel, Motive der Weltliteratur (Stuttgart, 1976); idem, Stoffe der Weltliteratur (Stuttgart, 1976); A.de Vries, Dictionary of Symbols and Imagery (London, 1957). 20 Cf. the definition offered by Coleridge: ‘A symbol…always partakes of the Reality which it renders intelligible’, quoted apud T.R.Henn, The Bible as Literature (Oxford/New York, 1970), 63. 21 See S.Talmon, ‘The “Desert Ideal” in the Bible and in Qumran Literature’, in Altmann, Biblical Motifs (above n.12), 31–63. 22 A.Nygrén, Agape and Eros, tr. P.S.Watson (London, 1953); G.Aulén, The Faith of the Christian Church, tr. E.H.Wahlstrom (rev. ed., Philadelphia, 1960); further: B.Erling, Nature and History-A Study in Theological Methodology With Special Attention to the Method of Motif Research, Studia Theologica Lundensia 19 (Lund, 1960). 23 P.L.Berger, ‘The Sociological Study of Sectarianism’, Social Research, 21 (1954), 467 ff. 24 The theme is fully elaborated in an extra-canonical autobiographical psalm from Qumran, said to have been composed by David in gratitude for having been chosen as king over Israel: 14

25

Hallelujah of David the Son of Jesse. Smaller was I than my brothers and the youngest of the sons of my father, So he made me shepherd of his flock and ruler over his kids…. He [God] sent his prophet to anoint me, Samuel to make me great; My brothers went out to meet him handsome of figure and appearance. Though they were tall of stature and handsome by their hair, The Lord chose them not. But he sent and took me from behind the flock and anointed me with holy oil, And he made me leader of his people and ruler over the sons of his covenant” (J.A.Sanders, ed., The Psalms Scroll of Qumran Cave 11, DJD IV, PS 151 A (Oxford, 1965) 54–60).

See the item mentioned above, n.21. In a separate paper to be published shortly, I discuss literary patterns which disclose biblical man’s conception of history. 27 For a discussion of this aspect, see Talmon, ‘The “Desert Ideal” in the Bible and in Qumran Literature’, above n.21, 40–41 44–46; further, idem, 26

ThWat, IV (1983), 660–696. 28

See S.Talmon, Mich., 1977), 427–447.

TDOT, III (rev. ed.; Grand Rapids,

Har and Midbar 29

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See S.Talmon, Eschatology and History in Biblical Judaism, Occasional Papers No.2, Ecumenical Institute (Tantur/Jerusalem, 1986); idem, ‘Biblical Visions of the Future Ideal Age’, King Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel [=KCC] (Jerusalem, 1986), 140–164. 30 See A.Haldar, ‘The Notion of the Desert in Sumero-Accadian and West-Semitic Religions’, Uppsala Universitets Arsskrift, 3 (1950), 1–70. 31 Th.Gaster, Thespis (rev. ed., New York, 1961), 132, n.19. 32 Ibid., 125. 33 M.Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane (New York, 1961), 31. 34 For this understanding of the word, see Y.N.Epstein (Tarbiz, 12 [1942] 82 [Hebrew]). 35 G.H.Williams, Wilderness and Paradise in Christian Thought (New York, 1962), 15–16. 36 M.Weber, Ancient Judaism, trans. from the German by H.H.Gerth and D.Martindale (Glencoe, I11., 1952). 37 G.Lanczkowski, Altägyptischer Prophetismus. Ägyptologische Abhandlungen IV (Wiesbaden, 1960), 52–57. 38 R.Kittel, Gestalten und Gedanken in Israel (Leipzig, 1926), 42. 39 S.Nyström, Beduinentum und Jahwismus (Lund, 1946). 40 See S.Talmon, ‘Revelation in Biblical Times’, Hebrew Studies XXVI:1(1985), 53–70. 41 For a more detailed discussion of har-‘mountain’ in the Hebrew Bible see Talmon (‘hargibecâh’, above, n.28). 42 See R.J.Clifford, The Cosmic Mountain in Canaan and in the Old Testament. Harvard Semitic Monographs 4 (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 10. 43 See Y.Aharoni, ‘Mount Carmel as Border’, Archäologie und Altes Testament. Festschrift K.Galling (1970), 1–7. 44 A combination of geographical characteristics and mythic and cultic notions caused mountains, like rivers and lakes, to be thought of as territorial boundaries. The impregnable massifs of the Lebanon and Antilebanon, together with Hermon, and likewise the mountains of Gilead, Moab, and Edom, define the northern and eastern boundaries of the territory that Israel considered the ideal extent of its land, as realised historically in the Davidic empire. To the west, the Mediterranean constituted the boundary, and to the south the great desert. Within the land, too, mountains were considered boundaries. 45 See E.D.van Buren, ‘Mountain Gods’, Or, 12 (1943), 76–84. 46 Mbk nhrm qrb ’pq thmtm-CTA, 3 [V AB], V, 13–16, 4 [II AB], IV, 20–24; 6 [I AB], I, 32–36; Ugaritica, V, 564: RS 24, 244 line 3. Cp. R.E.Whitaker, A Concordance of the Ugaritic Literature, s.v. mbk (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 410–411. 47 On har/gibecâh see Isa. 10.32. 48 S.Talmon, ‘Types of Messianic Expectation at the Turn of the Era’, KCC (n.29), 205–212, 218–220. 49 H.Gressmann, Der Ursprung der israelitisch-jüdischen Eschatologie, FRLANT 6 (1905), 113– 118. 50 In these themes we catch an echo of the banquets on Mount Zaphon given by El (CTA, 4 [II AB], IV, 30–37), and by Baal (CTA, [V AB], I, 1–22) after having vanquished his enemies, or after having built his house (CTA, 4 [II AB], V, 106–220; VI, 38–59). 51 Midr.Eliyahu Zuta, ed. Friedmann, 185. Cp. also Matt.1.17. Fourteen generations passed from the time of David to the Babylonian Exile.

SUBJECT INDEX Abzu 16 Aharoni, Y 141 Aia-kurgal 21 Aimé-Giron, N 113 Aistleitner, J 115 Alonso-Schökel, L 139 Alster, B 8, 32 Alter, R 139 Altmann, A 139 Amaušumgalanna 32 An 17f. analogy xii, 103 Anat 109 Anbar, M 73 antithetical motif 125 antonomasia 104, 106 antonym 124 apple 27, 30f. Aratta 16 Aristotle ixf. assonance 78 Astour, M 113 Attinger, P 30, 39 Auerbach, E 139 Aulén, G 122 Avishur, Y 112 Baal 108 Balkan, K 65 Barr, J 112 Baumgartner, W 68 Bedford, D B 139 Beeston, A F L 113 Ben Amos, D 139 Benz, F L 115 Berger, P L 122, 140 Berlin, A 21 Biella, J C 113 Biggs, R D 38f. Black, J 26 Blau, J 114 Bleibtreu, E 39

Subject index

Blenkinsopp, J 139 Bloch, Marc 120 Bodkin, M 139 Boissier, A 30 Bravmann, M M 114 brick 18ff. van Buren, E D 141 Burke, K 138 Butz, K 74 Caetani, L 115 Cagni, L 39, 83 Cahen, C 114 Calmeyer, P 80, 93 catachresis 78, 81, 86 Cavigneux, A 21 Childs, B S 139 Civil, M xiii, 23, 64 Clifford, R J 141 collective memory 122 coming to life 50ff. commercial terminology 41ff. compound roots ix Cook, G 139 Cooper, J 17, 22 cosmic mountain 21 Culler, J xiii Curtis, J B 66 Dahood, M 115 Darby, W J 39 Daube, D 139 David, M 70 dead metaphor 7, 103f. death of tablets 46ff. Delcor, M 115 Demus, O 14 Der 21 devotion 25 dualism ix Dumuzi, Tammuz 25ff. Durand, J-M 70f. E-engura 16 Ebabarra 36 Ebeling, E 9, 70 Edzard, D O 24, 73, 115 Egyptian 31 Eisser-Lewy 69 Eissfeldt, O 69 Ekišnugal 14

127

Subject index

Ekur 14 El 105, 111, 132 Elephantine 106, 111 Eliade, M 141 ellipsis 110 Ellis, R 23 Enki 15, 20, 27 Enlil xiff., 14 Epstein, Y N 141 ergative 17 Eridu 16 Erling, B 140 Esau 117 etymology 14, 104ff. al-Fāsī 107 Falkenstein, A 17, 68, 93, 97, 100 Farber, W 29 Farber-Flügge, G 65 Fensham, F C 139 Finkel, I xiii Finkelstein, J J 67 Fish, T 95, 100 Fisher, L 112 Foster, B R 65 al-Fouadi, A 21 Frank, C 25 Frankena, R 82, 85, 94f., 97, 101 Frankfort, H 1, 9f., 92, 138 Frazer, J G 120, 139 Frenzel, E 138f. fruit 26ff., 35 Gabrieli, G 115 garden 27, 35 Garelli, P 74 Gaster, T 141 Gattung 124 Gelb, I J 65 Gerhardsson, B 139 Gibson, J 112f. Gilgamesh 17, 28 Girsu 16 Gomi, T 95f. Goodman, N 112 Gordon, C H 113f. Gressmann, H 142 Güterbock, H 21 Gudea 7

128

Subject index

Yafeh 108 Hagia Sophia 13 Haldar, A 141 Hallo, W W xiii, 65f., 74 Hammurabi 26 harlot 5 Harries, K 112 Harris, R 72f., 93 Harris, Z S 112 Haverkamp, A 97 Heimpel, W 23 Heinrich, E 15 Heinz, J-G 93 Held, M 26 hendiadys 110 Henn, T R 140 Henninger, J 112 Herbig, R 10 Hillers, D R 139 horned crown 2 hungry silver 62ff. Hursagkalamma 14f. hyperbole 88 hypostasis 104f. Ilaba 105 Ilib 105 image 20, 30 Inanna/Ishtar 2ff., 26ff. incantation 26f. India 14 information 103 Ištaran 21 Jacob 117 Jacobsen T 8f., 21, 25 Jamme, A 113 Jeyes, U 93 Kaplan, G 71 Kellerman, D 114 Kessler, C L 139 Kilili 1f., 5f. Kish 15 Kister, M J 114 Kittel, R 141 Klein, J 9 Klengel, H 94 Kobben, A J F 139 Kornfeld, W 113

129

Subject index

Koschaker, P 70 Kramer, S N 18, 25, 32, 64 Kramrisch, S 19, 21 Kraus, F R 68, 70, 85, 88 Kulaba 16 Kupper, J-R 66 Lagaš 16 Lambert, W G 38, 92, 112, 116 Lanczkowski, G 141 Landsberger, B 21, 66, 69, 74, 89 Larsen, M T 66f., 75 Lauha, A 139 Lausberg, H 112, 138 Lautner J G 101 Leemans, W F 29, 73 Lescow, Th 139 Levine, B A 68, 113 Lidzbarski M 113 Lieberman, S J 68, 93 Lilith 2ff. Lindenberger, J M 116 lion daggers 80 Lipinski, E 112f. literal (meaning) 25 locative-terminative 17, 22 Loewenstamm, S E 112, 114 love lyrics 27f., 33f. van der Lugt, P 112 de Man, P 112 Marduk 16, 27 Matouš, L 72 Melamed, E Z 113 Mes-ane-pada construction 17 metaphor x, 30, 33, 35, 78ff., 103, 123 metonymy 43, 82f., 86f. Milgrom, J 114 monism ix monsters 77 Mooij, J xiii de Moor, J C 109f., 112, 114f. Moortgat, A 9, 11 Moran, W L 9 Mot 108, 126f., 132 motif 118, 121ff. mountain 3, 130ff. Mu’ati 26, 31 myth 126f. Nabû 27f.

130

Subject index

Nanna 4, 16, 20 narration 117 necklace 3ff. netherworld 132 Nielsen, E 140 Ningirsu 7, 11 Ningišzida 7 Ninhursag 27 Nippur 15 Nissim, R 108 Noth, M 113 Nougayrol, J 93, 115 Nygrén, A 122, 140 Nyström, S 141 Ogden, C K 6, 10 Oppenheim, A L 66, 68 oral tradition 121 Ortony, A xiii Owen, D 95 parakýptousa 2, 5 Paret, R 114 Pedersen, J 138 Petschow, H 71 pictorial language 6 poetic diction 103 polysemy 103 Polzin, R 139 Porten, Z 113 Postgate, J N 74 Procopius 13 Quintillianus 79, 112 111 Rashid, S 23 reference 103 representative trope 123 rhetoric 86, 104 Richards, I A 6, 10 Ricoeur, P xiii, 112 Ringgren, H 139f. Römer, W 22, 39 Rosenthal, F 114 rod and ring 4 Ruwet, N 84, 97 Šamaš 36 Šulgi 9, 15

131

Subject index

Šuzianna 15 Sacks, S 112 Salonen, A 78, 92, 98 Sauren, H 93 seeder plow 78 semiotics 1 silver 44ff. Silverman, M 113ff. simile 43, 103, 123 Sjöberg, A 8, 21, 64 slang 87 Smith, S 9 Snell, D C 65 von Soden, W 26, 29, 39, 71 Sollberger E 9 Soter 104, 111 Sperber, J 114 split-reference 103 Staples, W E 139 Steiner, George xiii Steiner, Gerd 22 Steinkeller, P 23, 65, 67 Stol, M 71, 74, 82, 100 subterranean water 132 Sweet, R F G 66 symbolism 11 synecdoche 78ff. synesthesia 88 synonym 124 Talmon S 138ff. Tašmētum 27f. Teixidor, J 112, 116 Thompson, Stith 121, 139 Thomsen, M-L 22 Thureau Dangin, F 81 Tillich, Paul 121 tongue (axe) 80, 82 tooth of the hoe 81 Tower of Babel 132 Ungnad, A 98 Untaš-napiriša 80 Urnammu Stele 4, 81 Uruk 16 Usener, H 112 Uttu 27 Utu (Šamaš) 20 Veenhof, K 65f., 70 Veenker, R A 102

132

Subject index

Vindinaes, J 8 van den Vondel, J 13 de Vries, A 140 Wagner, Richard 120 Wansbrough, J 112, 116 Warren, A 139 Waschow, H 98 Watt, W M 114 Weber, Max 141 Weismann, Z 139 Wellek, R 138 Wellhausen, J 105, 111ff. Westenholz, A and J 37 Whitley, C F 113 Widengren, G 140 wig 3 Wilcke, C 8, 37 Wilder, A N 140 Williams, G H 141 wings and talons 4f. wisdom literature 128 Witzel, M 25 woman in the window 5 written transmission 121 Yazdī, A 13 Al-Zamakhshari 108, 114 ziggurat 14ff. Zimmern, H 9, 25

133

SUMERIAN WORDS ab-ba-šú-šú 5 an 17 an-ki 16 dag-gi4-a 65 dam-gàr 41, 64f. dim-gal 15 dim-gal-nun-na 15 dingir-ama 14 dub-sag 78 dur-an-ki 15 é-dim-gal-kalam-ma 21 é-hur-sag-gal-kur-kur-ra 15 é-kur 14 é-ninnu 18 é-temen-an-ki 16 é-temen-ní-gùru 16 eme 81f. ga-eš8 41 gakkul 78 gal4-la 33 gaz 47, 68 gìr 42 giš dam 92 giš dur-apin 92 giš geštin 27 giš -ù-šub-ba 18 giš 18 gú-lá 88 gudu (pašīšu) 3 hašhur 27, 30 hur-sag 14 igi 78, 84 igi-gar ix, 84 iku 4, 9 inim-gar 33

Sumerian Words

KA 81f. kar-kid 5, 10 ki 16 ki-gar 16 ki-ús ix, 16f. kúr 14 kur(-kur) 3, 14 kur-gal 14 kuš-lá 29 lid xi lugal x giš

maš xif. mùš 3

nam-dam-gàr 41, 64 nam-ga-eš 41, 64 nam-nun-na 16 nam-tar 18f. nínda 33 NIGIN 33 nin-ninna 4f. nindan 4, 9 ninna 4 nu-bar 33 nu-gig 33 nun 21 sa10 67 sag 78 sag-ha-za 83 sag-níg-GA-ra 78 sag-sum ix se12 65 sig4 18 sig7 65 sila-á-gál-la/sig7-a 42, 65 šà-kúš-ù 16 šà-zi-ga 27 šab-gal 41 šu-bal-ak 64 šu-gur-ra 3 šu-íl ix šub ix šuba 31ff. tag 42 temen 17 túg 3, 18

135

Sumerian Words

u5 82 úkuš 27 udu 18 umbin 78 ur-sag 17 zi xf., 33 zi-g 82f. zir 47, 68 zú 81f.

136

Sumerian Words

137

AKKADIAN WORDS abu 92 adāmum 65 56 aguhhu 29 ahu 92 akālum 43 alākum 74, 88 56 ana nāši karīkišu 73 ana šīmē nadānum/mahārum 42 ariktu 85 arnum 48, 68 d ašratu 105 awata hepûm 68 awatam hepûm 49 awatam rakāsum 68f. awītum 42 awutum 47 bābtum 42 49ff., 52ff., 70ff. 58f barā’um 62ff. barû 74, 92 bašûm 65 bašûm N+itti 63 batiq wattur tadānum 43 batqum 43 bēl dabābi x bēl kaspim 73 be’ālum 42f., 51 be’ūlatum 42 bīšu 71 buārum 74 61f. 61f butuqqā’ū 42 damāqum 43 dannutum 49 dīnam šūhuzum 101f.

Sumerian Words

dibbē hepûm 68 dimmatum 88 diqāru 34 duākum 46f., 68 dunnā’ū 42 dūtu 29 e’iltum 48 egirrû 33 emû 92 epāšum 69 epēqum 43 erābum 74 erimmātu 5, 10, 92 46 eššebu 4f. ezābum 42 ezēbum 65 gamārum 47 girgultu 92 hanniqu 92 hepûm 47, 68 hiāšu ix hubullī tabākum 49 huluqqā’um 42 idam šuršûm/rašum 85f., 99 idum 85, 99 ikribū 61 48 ina šahat PN izēzum 57 inbu 28ff. īnum 78 itertum 54 itqurtu 92 ittû 33, 92 kārum 45, 50, 53 kabāsum 42 kanaktu 37 kappum 89 kaqqad ebūrim 79 kašādum+ana 42, 65 56 kaspum ibbe’elka 51 kaspum irtuqanni 74 kī eqlu illukūni 56

138

Sumerian Words

kīsum 45, 67 kilili 5 kimtum 88 kiššati x kissu 92 kubšu 92 kulmašītu 33 kussû 92 kušurrā’um 42 labābu xf. labbatu 2, 7 labbu xi lamādum 42 lamû 33 lapātum 42 latāku xii leqûm 55, 70 li’u 92 lišānum 41, 81, 92 litiktu xif. littu 92 luqūtam ana kaspim ta’urum 44 tadānum/tabālum 56 luqūtum 42 mâšu xii māšū xii 43 ma’û 48, 68 magarrum 78 mahāhum 48 65 82 mamītum 48 maqātum 42, 62 marāqum 47 maškattum 58 mer’a mētim 71 miqittum 42 mitharum 72 mu’û 68 muātum 46f., 50, 58 muhurrā’um 42 murtâmū 39 mussiru 92 42, 54 nabrītu 92

139

Sumerian Words

nadānum 60 nadāru xf. nadru xi nalbubu xf. napāšum 89 napištu 33 naruqqum 45, 65f. nasāhum 42 nēmalam ana kābim diāšum 43 nēmelum 57 nīru 92 nīš libbi 27 nikkassī šasā’um 53 54 nishatum 42 nugguru xi x pānam išûm/rašum/šuršum 85 pānū 84 pānum 84 pahārum 74 69 pasāsum 48, 68 54, 74 pī pāšim 81 pussusum 47 qadištu 33 36 qaqqadānum 85 qaqqadī kaspim 78 qaqqadum 78, 92 qātam ina kaspim šakānum 57 qatāpu 28 qīptum 57 qiāpum 42 qinnāzum 86f. râmu 38 rakābum 82 rakāsum 48 rēšam kullum 83 rēš makkūrim 78 rēšum 78, 79 rēmu 33 rikbu 92 rittu 92 ruhtu 38

140

Sumerian Words

ru’ubbā’um 42 ruāqum 62 rubbûm 55 rugummā’um 42 ruhtu 38 sannuqum 54 sarru 47 sikkatu 92 sissikta kullu 36 48 51 53 43 46, 67 92 78 78 ša’āmum 67 šaddu’utum 42 šadû 21 šakānum 43 šalmu kēnu 58 šalmum 58f., 72 šannu 72 šapākum (šitapkum) 45 šāpû 39 šēpum 42 šēqurum 43 šeršerratu 92 56 šīmam šasûm 55f. šiliptum 61, 67 šinnum 81 šipkātum 42, 45 šubû 39 šūpûm 39 69 târu 38 ta’urum 51 tabākum 47 tadmiqtum 43 tamkarum 57 ummu 92 upqum 43, 66

141

Sumerian Words

usātum 61, 73 uturrā’ū 42 uzuntu 92 89 wabālum 42, 60 waqrum 43 warki…alākum 83 67 wašābum 65 zakku’um 51 zakûm 51 zarûm 45f. zibbatum 67

142

UGARITIC WORDS 104, 106 105 105, 108ff. 106 c

110

nt 106 rpu 109 ršp 110 105, 108ff.

šm 106 š 105 110

PHOENICIAN WORDS Ešmun 106, 108 c bdšgr 105, 110 Šemzabal 106 Šgr 110

ARABIC (and SABAEAN) WORDS 105 ilāh 105 106f. 105 jizya 108

HEBREW WORDS ’lhy hrym 130 127 ’šymh 106 ’šm 106ff. ’šrh 105 bryt 69 bwhw 127 107 hr 119, 122, 125, 131ff. hrbh 135 kefir 103 kenacnī 103 llyt 127 mbwl 127 mdbr 119, 122, 125ff. mgdl 118 48 qrh 122 c rb 126 c rbh 135 c rk 107 c zbwnym 65 c

51 prr 69 29 qrbn 107 135 52 Šemeber 106 Šemidac 106 scyr(ym) 127 šgr 105f. šmmh 135 šmn 106 30 twhw 127 ymym 127 ysr’l 135

PRIMARY SOURCES AbB 1 no. 11 15 94 AbB 1 no. 132 17–18 97 AbB 1 no. 142 1–2 96 AbB 1 no. 2 6–7 102 AbB 1 no. 24 5–6 96 AbB 1 no. 31 14–15 97 AbB 1 no. 49 17–21 97 AbB 1 no. 7 7–8 96 AbB 1 no. 79 15–18 98 AbB 1 no. 83 25 97 AbB 1 no. 89, 5–6 93 AbB 2 no. 115 11–14 100 AbB 2 no. 153 11–13 99 AbB 2 no. 161 33 94 AbB 2 no. 172 13–19 99 AbB 2 no. 36 10–15 95 AbB 2 no. 38 rev. 3’–4’ 97 AbB 2 no. 67 11–13 96 AbB 2 no. 83 26–28 100 AbB 2 no. 90 11–12 97 AbB 3 no. 11 6f. 93 AbB 3 no. 2 8–9 97 AbB 3 no. 18 24 85 AbB 3 no. 21 27–32 101 AbB 3 no. 22 12–18a 98 AbB 3 no. 3 15–24 94 AbB 3 no. 52 6–7 29 98, 100 AbB 3 no. 80 11’ 100 AbB 3 no. 94 16’ 94 AbB 4 no. 122 14 70 AbB 4 no. 137 11–13 101 AbB 4 no. 143 11–13 97 AbB 4 no. 82 4–7 99 AbB 4 no. 88 14–20 96 AbB 5 no. 160 6’–9’ 100 AbB 5 no. 171 9–22 94, 98 AbB 5 no. 255 11–17 101 AbB 5 no. 32 3’–5’ 99 AbB 6 no. 209 13–14 99 AbB 6 no. 10 17–18 (=213 15–16=217 23–24) 98f. AbB 6 no. 104 16–17 96 AbB 6 no. 1144–11 94 AbB 6 no. 179 16–19 100

Primary Sources

AbB 6 no. 200 11–14 100 AbB 6 no. 88, 7 93 AbB 6 no. 93 8–9, 20–23 100 AbB 7 no. 167 28 100 AbB 7 no. 172 15–18 99 AbB 7 no. 173 3–9 99 AbB 7 no. 176 13–14 97 AbB 7 no. 187 6–7 100 AbB 7 no. 35 11b–12 98 AbB 7 no. 49 4’–6’ (=10 no. 150 19–20) 96 AbB 7 no. 50 8’–9’ (=10 no. 150 16–17) 102 AbB 7 no. 66 14–15 97 AbB 7 no. 67 13–18 100 AbB 8 no. 13 20–25 95 AbB 9 no. 228 11ff. 63, 75 AbB 9 no. 49–13 94 ARM 10 82 18f. 70 ARM 31 17f. 74 ARM 22 276iv 41ff., 203 iv 8ff. 54 ATHE 30 17ff. 52 BagM 2 (1963) 50 93 BBR 26 iii 5 68 BE 31 no. 12 5, 10 BE 6/1 no. 95 1–2 93 Belleten 16 (1952) 362 2 31 BIN 4 199 1–8 69 BIN 4 224 23ff. 71 BIN 4 29 66 BIN 4 34 6ff. 63, 74 BIN 4 51 15ff. 52 BIN 6 70 3ff.; 212 15ff. 52 BMS 18 11–12; 9–10 36 BWL 148 60 36 CCT 4 50b 14ff.; 23A 3ff.; 16a 52, 67 CCT 6 11a 66 CCT 6 14a 47ff. 66 CH § 161 96 CT 15 1 i 1–7 35 CT 15 10 23–24 xi, xiii CT 16 15 37–45 8 CT 2 no. 47 25–28 101 CT 4 27b 10ff. 73 CT 45 no. 18 27–31 102 CT 47 no. 44 1–2 93 CT 48 99 61, 73 CT 48 no. 3 19–22 102 CTA 5 iii: 16/17 105 CTA 168/169/180 106

148

Primary Sources

149

EL no. 337 5f. 71 Enmerkar and Ensuhkešda’ana 2–3, 11–13 16 Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta 230–32 8 Frankena SLB 4 94f. Genouillac Telloh II pl XL AO 12210 6’–10’ 96 Gilg. Epic vi 7–9, 14f. 28, 34 Gilgamesh and Huwawa 1 95 Gud Cyl A i 11–16 18 Gud Cyl A v 7, vi 7f. 18 Gud Cyl A x 15–16 16 Gud Cyl A xiii 16–23 23 Gud Cyl A xviii 17–xix 19 19 Gud Cyl A xxi 19–23 15 Gud Cyl A xxii 11, 12–13 22 Gud Cyl A xxii 14 17 Gud Cyl A xxvii 6–7 16 Gud Cyl B i 1–2 15 Gud Cyl B i 3 18 Gud Cyl B iv 1 22 Gud Cyl B xx 14–19 18f. Gud Stat C ii 20–23 23 Gud Stat C iii 1–5 19 Gudea Cyl A iv 14–19 10 Gudea Cyl A xx 26–27 9 ICK 2 148 6’ff. 52 Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld 1, 285–290; 17–19; 20–21 9f., 95 Inanna’s Descent (Sladek) 242–3, 269–70 22 Inninšagurra 23 (ZA 65) 8 IRSA 3A12g, 14 (Urnammu 28) 93 JAOS 103 30 6–7 34 KAJ 168 55 KAR 357 28 29 KAV no. 48 ii 5 9 KTS 18 33ff. 52 Lugalbanda Epos 244–296, 360–362 8 Maqlû III 116 34 MIO 12 (1966) 48 9, 504 rev. 12–16 31, 35 MSL 14 181 (Ea I 98), 247, 268, 320 x, xi, xiii, 9 MSL6 117 (HhVIIb 30) 93 MSL 6 13 (Hh V 93) 92 MSL 6 19 (Hh V 166) 92 MSL 8/2 147 (Hh xviii 332–33) 9

Primary Sources

OBTR 311 10ff. 54 Or. 46 201 12–16 37 PAPS 107 505, 581 31f. 31f. PBS 1/2 41 rev. 11’–12’ 98 PBS 8/1 no. 63 1 94 PRAK II C 94 109 32 PRU V 104: RS 18.137 109 VR 65 ii 15–17 35f. RA 22 170 5f. 28 RA 23 125 no. 49 3f. 68 RSP III RS 24.643:9 105, 108 SAK 194×11 9 SAK 64 f ii 4–5 95 Studies Oppenheim 70 59; 83 93 TC 1 21 26ff. 63, 74 TC 1 29 27ff. 62, 74 TC 1 5 8f. 75 TC 3 107 6ff.; 180 52 TC 3 264a 4–32 67 TCL 11 no. 200 16’–24’ 95 TCL 15 pl xlviii 41–46 29f. TIM IX 54 rev. 20–21 28 TMH 2–3 140 94 Ugar V 42–64 : RS 20.24 109 Ugar V 551–7 : RS 24.252 109 UnDiv 120 B 15–16 34 VS 18 13 1–9 60 VS 22 no. 83 15b–17 97 VS 22 no. 83 32–36 100 VS 22 no. 84 12 97 VS 22 no. 85 27’–28’ 101 VS 22 no. 86 28–32 99 VS 22 no. 89 6’, 11’–13 100 YOS 12 532 61, 73 YOS 13 429 8ff. 72 YOS 8 no. 141 1–8, 31–32 96 ZA 75 198 16–19 37

150

BIBLICAL SOURCES Amos 2.10; 5.25 135 Amos 8:14 106 Amos 9.11–15 134 Cant 8.10; 4.3; 4.1–3 118 1 Chr 5.1–2 124 Dan9.16, 20 133 Deut 1.3; 2.7, 14; 1.35; 32.5 135 Deut 11.26–29; 27.11–14; 4.11; 5.4; 9.15 133 Deut 2.14–16 128 Deut 21.15–17 124 Deut 32.15, 18, 37 118 Deut 32.22 132 Exod 1.7; 12 124 Exod 15.17 133 Exod 16.35 135 Exod 20.4 132 Exod 3.1; 18.5; 20; 24.13 133 Ezek 17.22ff.; 20.40; 40.2; 43.12 133 Ezek 28, 2, 8, 14, 17 132 Ezek 36.8; 17.22ff.; 39.17–20 134 Ezek 5.5 131 Ezek 7.2 131 Gen 1.28; 9.1; 35.11; 48.4 124 Gen 11.1–9 132 Gen 15.16 136 Gen 16.6–14; 21.20 126 Gen 16–18; 21; 25.19–34; 29:31–30; :24 123 Gen 16:1–18:15; 20.1–21; 22.1–19 124 Gen 25.34 117 Gen 25; 27 124 Gen 26:10 106 Gen 31.54; 22.14; 31.54 133 Gen 36.24 127 Gen 48.13–20 124 Gen 49.1 124 Hab 3.3, 10 133 Hos 3.5 134

Biblical Sources

152

Isa 11.12; 6.3 131f. Isa 11.9; 27.13; 66.20; 2.2; 10.32 133 Isa 13.21; 34.11; 34.14 127 Isa 14.13, 15, 19 132 Isa 2.1–4; 11.6–9; 11.1–10; 2.3 134 Isa 30.26; 34.2ff.; 25.6–9; 40.9ff. 52.7ff. 134 Isa 40.22 131 Isa 54.1 124 Isa 56.3–5 124 Jdg 5.27 117 Jdg 5.4–5 133 Jdg 1.27–34; 3.1–3; 4.3 131 Jdg 13.1–7 123 Jdg 3.11; 5.31; 8.28; 13.1 135 Jdg 3.11, 30; 5.31; 8.28; 15.20; 16. 31; 10.1–5; 12.8–15; 12.7; 2.6 136 Jer 2.24; 9.11; 50.40; 51.43; 3.2; 9.25 126 Jer 2.31 127 Jer 23.3 124 Jer 31–23 133 Jer 31.6; 17.14–26; 22.1–4 134 Jer 48.6 126 Jer 51:5 107 Jer 9.1 126 Job 1.19; 24.4 128 Job 22.14; 26.10 131 Job 37.3; 38.13 131 Job 38.26 126 Joel 2.1; 4.17 133 Joel 4.18; 4.1–17 134 Jonah 2.7 132 Josh 11.1–5 131 Josh 24.31 136 Josh 5.6, 10–12; 14.10 135 Josh 8.30–35 133 1 Kgs 20.23 130 1 Kgs 19.3–4 126 1 Kgs 19.8ff.; 19.11–14; 20.23–28 133 2 Kgs 4.1–37 123 1 Kgs 6.1 135 1 Kgs 6.1; 211 136 2 Kgs 12:17; 17:30 106, 107 Lev 16.7–10, 22; 16.29 127 Lev 26.9 124 Lev 5:15 107 Mal 1.3 128

Biblical Sources

153

Mic 1.3 133 Mic 4.1–4; 5.1–2 134 Mic 5.1 124 Nah 1.4 133 Num 11:1–32:20 128 Num 14.33; 32.13 135 Num 18:9 107 Num 5.23 48 Prov 18.10 118 Prov 8.27; 22–29 131f. Ps 125. 1ff.; 104.6–8; 131f. Ps 128.3 124 Ps 17.8; 36.8, 57.2; 91.4 117 Ps 18.3 118 Ps 27.5; 31–4; 71.3; 42.10; 62.8 118 Ps 55.7–8 126 Ps 61.4 118 Ps 68.8f., 77.19; 89.13; 18.7f., 97.4 133 Ps 78.67; 68.16–18; 132.13ff.; 3.5; 43.3; 48.2; 78.54; 104.13 133f. Ps 78.8; 95.10 135 Ps 24:7 36 Ruth 2.12 117 1 Sam 1 123 1 Sam 14.18 135 1 Sam 16.11–13; 17.12–14 124 Sam2.2 118 Sam 2.5 124 Sam 22.2 126 1 Sam 25.29 52 1 Sam 6:3 107 2 Sam 22.2, 22.32, 47; 23.3 118 Song of Songs 2:3–4 29 Song of Songs 1:5 34 Song of Songs 6:11; 7:11–12; 8:2 27 Zech 14.16 134 Zech 14.3, 8 134 Zech 8.3 133