Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr029 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
Edward Ullendorff (1920–2011)
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Edward Ullendorff, who died at the age of 91 on 6th March 2011, was, at the time of his death, Emeritus Professor of Semitic Languages and of Ethiopian Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Born in Switzerland and educated in Berlin, Jerusalem and Oxford, he was Reader in Semitic Languages at St Andrews University before coming to the Chair of Semitic Languages and Literatures in the University of Manchester in 1959. Ullendorff had had a part in the founding of Manchester’s Journal of Semitic Studies by H.H. Rowley in 1955 and had contributed much to it even before his arrival in Manchester, but he then took a formal role as one of its editors (1961–4) and was later one of the Editorial Advisers (from 1992, when the role of Adviser was created). As one of the Advisers, he contributed to the 2005 Jubilee Volume (JSS Supplement 16) celebrating the journal’s fiftieth year. In 1964 came a move from Manchester to a chair in Ethiopian Studies in London. My own contact with Edward began when I became one of his students at S.O.A.S. in 1972. I was deeply impressed by his scholarship, but his kindly interest in my progress then and later was also greatly appreciated. To end up effectively as his successor in Manchester, responsible in a sense for his Semitics legacy here, was daunting. JSS volume 34/2 (1989) was dedicated to Edward as a Festschrift for his seventieth birthday in 1990 and contained a bibliography of his publications to 1988 compiled by another of his students, Simon Hopkins (pp. 253–89). It also contained a biographical ‘Introduction’ by C. Edmund Bosworth. In JSS 45/1 (2000), 131–6 the bibliography was extended by Dina Ullendorff, Edward’s wife since 1943, to cover the period 1988–99. A further extension appeared in a second Festschrift, Semitic Studies in Honour of Edward Ullendorff (Leiden 2005), edited by another former student, Geoffrey Khan (pp. 4–6). The final entry in this latest listing brought the total number of published items until 2005 to approximately 640. Edward had been elected a Fellow of the British Academy in 1965 and a Socio Straniero of the Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Rome in 1998. i
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OBITUARY PROFESSOR EDWARD ULLENDORFF
He continued until very recently to take an active interest in the Journal of Semitic Studies. Edward’s death marks for JSS and its Editors the end of an era. John Healey Professor of Semitic Studies University of Manchester for the JSS Editors
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr001 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
A SUGGESTION REGARDING THE DERIVATION OF THE HEBREW NOUN MEREA‘ SAUL M. OLYAN BROWN UNIVERSITY
Abstract
The derivation of the Hebrew noun merea‘ (‘friend’, ‘companion’) has been much debated, with no consensus yet evident among scholars.1 Some of the handbooks suggest uncertainty about the noun’s form and origin.2 Others list it under an alleged root r ‘ h (‘probably’ meaning ‘associate with’ according to BDB3) along with the more common noun rea‘, ‘friend’ or ‘compatriot’, either because the authors think there is a relationship between merea‘ and r ‘ h, or because they do not know where else to put merea‘.4 In addition, a number of 1 The word merea‘ occurs in the following passages according to Even-Shoshan: Gen. 26:26; Judg. 14:11, 20; 15:2, 6; 2 Sam. 3:8; Prov. 19:4, 7; and Job 6:14. 2 E.g., H. Bauer and P. Leander, Historische Grammatik der hebräischen Sprache (Hildesheim 1965), 465 (‘unsicher ist auch die Herkunft von merea‘ ’); BDB 946 (‘strange formation; orig. dub.’). Both KBL and Even-Shoshan express uncertainty by not listing merea‘ under any root. D. Kellermann, (‘ רעrea‘’, TDOT XIII: 525) comments on the ‘unusual form’. Note also the early treatment of merea‘ by Julius Grill, who refers to the noun as ‘das fragliche Wort’ (‘Beiträge zur hebräischen Wort- und Namen-erklärung’, ZAW 8 [1888], 265). 3 945. 4 E.g., BDB 946 and Mandelkern Concordance II:1099. At the end of his treatment of merea‘, David Clines cross-references the entry for r ‘ h to volume VII, p. 520 suggesting that he thinks there is a relationship between merea‘ and r ‘ h (DCH V:491). See also Richard S. Hess, who discusses merea‘ in the context of his treatment of r ‘ h, ‘to associate with’ (‘8287 r ‘ h’, New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis III:1144–9).
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The derivation of the Hebrew noun merea‘ (‘friend’, ‘companion’) has been much debated, with no consensus yet evident among scholars. Far from being a difficult or inexplicable form as many assume, merea‘ appears to be a masculine singular Hiphil participle of an otherwise unattested or rarely attested geminate root r ‘ ‘ meaning ‘to associate with’ or the like (cf. meseb from sbb). The meaning of merea‘ can be explained if we assume the form is an ‘inwardly transitive’ or ‘internal’ Hiphil (‘one causing himself to be associated’, ‘one who affiliates’, ‘friend’).
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5 E.g., Bauer and Leander mention two possibilities: partitive min + re‘ay > mere‘ay > merea‘ through backformation from plural to singular; or, a joking refiguring (‘Umbildung’) of the word rea‘ playing on mera‘, ‘evildoer’, from r ‘ ‘, ‘to do wrong’ (Historische Grammatik, 465). See also Kellermann, (‘ רעrea‘’, 525), who lists several suggestions, including that of Grill, who derives merea‘ from an otherwise unknown root mr‘ comparing noun forms such as qereaÌ and pisseaÌ, and determines the noun’s meaning (‘friend’) from its usage (‘Beiträge’, 267–78). Finally, there is the theory of Jonathan D. Safren that mere‘ehû of Gen. 26:26 ought to be read *mar‘ehû, ‘his pasture attendant’, a Hiphil participle from r ‘ h which he argues is cognate to Amorite merÌûm (‘Ahuzzath and the Pact of Beer-Sheba’, ZAW 101 [1989], 195–6). 6 Note also the alternative geminate participle type mera‘, ‘evildoer’, from the root r ‘ ‘, ‘to do wrong’, mentioned in the previous note. 7 The polel infinitive lehitro‘ea‘ (Prov. 18:24) may also bear witness to this root, as Michael V. Fox has suggested, though this remains uncertain, as Fox acknowledges (Proverbs 10–31. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB XVIIIB, New Haven and London 2009], 647). Fox discusses other possible derivations of this form (e.g., from r ‘ ‘, ‘to do wrong’, ‘be bad’ and r ‘ ‘, ‘to break’, ‘be broken’).
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rather speculative explanations regarding the derivation of the noun have been proffered.5 I wish to propose a simpler approach to explaining the origin of this noun. First, I note that the form merea‘ is not as baffling as some scholars have suggested. It looks exactly like a masculine singular Hiphil participle of a geminate root (e.g., meseb from sbb, Jer. 21:4), which suggests to me that it may well be such.6 If I am correct that merea‘ is not a noun of inexplicable form but a masculine singular Hiphil participle from a geminate root, that root must be r ‘ ‘. There are several well attested roots r ‘ ‘ in Biblical Hebrew, but none has a meaning which would relate very easily to friendship (r ‘ ‘, ‘to do wrong’, ‘be bad’; r ‘ ‘, ‘to break’, ‘be broken’). Thus, if merea‘ is a masculine singular Hiphil participle from a geminate root, it suggests the existence of an otherwise unattested or rarely attested root r ‘ ‘ with a meaning related to friendship (e.g., ‘to associate with’ or the like).7 Though speculative, this suggestion is not unreasonable. If the more common noun rea‘, as well as ra‘yah and the verb ra‘ah are derived from a root r ‘ h, meaning something like ‘associate with’ as BDB suggests, the proposed root r ‘ ‘, with a similar meaning, would be related to r ‘ h in the same way geminate qll is related to III weak qlh (‘to be slight’), geminate rbb is related to III weak rbh (‘to be many, great’), or geminate sÌÌ is related to III weak sÌh (‘to be bowed’). Certainly the form merea‘ cannot be derived easily from a root r ‘ h, so another approach is called for. (The masculine singular Hiphil participle of a III weak root would have the form marbeh.)
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Address for correspondence:
[email protected]
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If merea‘ is a masculine singular Hiphil participle from a root r ‘ ‘ meaning something like ‘to associate with’, how do we explain the noun’s evident meaning ‘friend’ or ‘companion’? Should merea‘ not have an object, given that it is appears to be a Hiphil participle? The meaning of merea‘ can be explained if we assume the form is an ‘inwardly transitive’ or ‘internal’ Hiphil where the subject acts upon himself, as in Exod. 14:10 ûpar‘oh hiqrîb, ‘Pharaoh approached’ (lit. ‘he caused himself to be near’); Gen. 44:4 lo’ hirÌîqû, ‘They had not gone far’ (lit. ‘they had not caused themselves to be far’).8 If merea‘ is indeed such a form from a root r ‘ ‘ (‘to associate with’), it would mean something like ‘one causing himself to be associated’, ‘one who affiliates’, ‘friend’. Thus, understanding merea‘ as an ‘inwardly transitive’ or ‘internal’ Hiphil accounts well for the word’s evident meaning ‘friend’, ‘companion’. The derivation of merea‘ proposed here has several advantages: (1) merea‘ is identified with a known verbal noun form (the masculine singular Hiphil participle) and root type (geminate); no speculative explanations for its form are necessary. (2) Its meaning can be explained on the basis of known grammatical usage (the ‘inwardly transitive’ or ‘internal’ Hiphil). The most speculative element in this reconstruction is the positing of a root r ‘ ‘, meaning something like ‘to associate with’, though we probably have a III weak root r ‘ h with similar meaning, and therefore a related geminate root would not occasion surprise, as I have noted. In fact, such a root may well be attested in Prov. 18:24 with the form lehitro‘ea‘, though the understanding of lehitro‘ea‘ is debated.9
8 See Bruce K. Waltke and M. O’Connor who provide these examples (Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax, 439–41); note also the brief discussion of Thomas O. Lambdin, Introduction to Biblical Hebrew (New York 1971), 212. 9 See n. 7.
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr002 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
THE ‘INSTITUTIONS’ OF MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE IN THE HEBREW BIBLE* BERNARD S. JACKSON** LIVERPOOL HOPE UNIVERSITY
Abstract
1. Introduction Can we speak about an ‘institution of marriage’ in the Bible, and, if we can, what kind of institution was it?1 First, we must clarify what we mean by an ‘institution’. The modern philosophical tradition2 (developing a usage from Roman law,
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This article clarifies the concept of an ‘institution’, and distinguishes between social, legal and religious institutions. The attention devoted to marriage and divorce in the Biblical law collections is slim, focusing mainly on prohibited relationships (including adultery). Narrative and proverbial sources suggest that marriage and divorce started as purely social institutions. Two laws concern the interest of the father of the bride in the mohar; a parallel concern apparently also informs the divorce law of Deuteronomy 24. The slavery laws also cast light on different forms of marital relationship. I ask whether marriage appears as a religious institution (involving an attribution of sanctity), and conclude that the evidence for this is weak before Ezra. I conclude that the divine metaphor of God’s marriage with Israel played a role in strengthening the human institution of marriage and laying the foundation for its later, more systematic juridification in the halakhah.
* This article was written in 2005 for a Manchester-Lausanne colloquium on Law in the Bible, and was scheduled to appear in a volume of conference proceedings, since abandoned. I have updated it by reference to my later publications in this area. ** Professor of Law and Jewish Studies, Liverpool Hope University; Professor Emeritus, University of Manchester; Emeritus Professor, University of Liverpool. 1 Cf. the remarks of A. van Selms, Marriage and Family Life in Ugaritic Literature (London 1954), 13; A. Tosato, Il Matrimonio Israelitico (Rome 1982), 67; L.G. Perdue, ‘The Israelite and Early Jewish Family: Summary and Conclusions’, in L.G. Perdue et al., Families in Ancient Israel (Louisville 1997), 163–222, at 182: ‘The Hebrew Bible has no word or laws for marriage.’ 2 J. Searle, Speech Acts (Cambridge 1969), 50–3; D.N. MacCormick, ‘Law as Institutional Fact’, The Law Quarterly Review 90 (1974), 102–29. 221
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particularly Gaius) sees it as a collection of rules which tell us how an institution is created (‘constitutive’ or ‘institutive’ rules), operates (‘regulatory’ rules) and comes to an end (‘terminative’ rules). Such ‘Institutions’, as we find them in the Roman legal texts, are certainly a valuable instrument for the presentation and teaching of rules. But are rules so presented necessarily legal, and is it only lawyers who are capable of conceiving of sets of rules in this way? We commonly speak also of ‘social institutions’ — sets of behaviour patterns, of some degree of normativity (perhaps ‘customary’), understood by people in society as frameworks for understanding and regulating distinct areas of social life. The difference between social and legal institutions is thus, in part, cognitive (how different groups within society make sense of human behaviour) and in part functional (how different groups within society seek to enforce their expectations regarding such human behaviour). And of course, the same institution may be both social and legal, understood and enforced differently by different groups in different contexts. Not only may legal institutions (sometimes) render social institutions more effective at a functional level; they may also contribute to the legitimation of such institutions. And it is here that we may introduce the role of ‘religious’ institutions: they, too, may contribute to the legitimation of both social and legal institutions, by the attribution of the quality of divine origin/ nature/sanction.3 We may, therefore, ask in the present context whether ‘marriage’ represented to the authors of our texts a distinct area of human behaviour; whether, and to what extent, it was conceived to be regulated by rules; and whether these rules were social, legal or religious (or some combination of the three).4 The scepticism implicit in asking whether we can speak at all about an ‘institution of marriage’ in the Bible might appear surprising, in the ancient Near Eastern context: a major section of the Middle 3
I relate this to the metaphor of divine justice in ‘Human Law and Divine Justice in the Methodological Maze of the Mishpatim’, in E. Dorff (ed.), The Boston 2004 Conference Volume (Jewish Law Association Studies 17, Binghamton 2007), 101–22. 4 P. Grelot, ‘The Institution of Marriage: its Evolution in the Old Testament’, in F. Böckle (ed.), The Future of Marriage as Institution (New York 1970), 39–50, briefly explores the dynamic inter-relationship between the social/legal and religious conceptions of marriage, according to the latter a creative and not merely legitimatory role. G.P. Hugenberger, Marriage as a Covenant. A Study of Biblical Law and Ethics Governing Marriage, Developed from the Perspective of Malachi (Leiden 1994), provides the most systematic account of the relationship to biblical theology. 222
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2. Marriage and Divorce as Social Institutions Marriage as a social institution is frequently mentioned in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible,7 even though few of them have marriage as their primary concern. Even so, there is a good deal of information in the texts regarding each of the three sets of rules which make up the social institution of marriage. However, that information frequently differs in both its concerns and content from what we find in the laws. As regards the institutive rules of the social institution of marriage,8 the emphasis is upon negotiations,9 the entry into the husband’s
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Assyrian Laws appears to be devoted to ‘family law’, and we have modern monographs on marriage law at different times and places in the region.5 Yet in other respects, too, in my view, the history of biblical law reveals a development from an early pre-institutional stage in the direction of increasing institutionalization, notwithstanding its ‘piggy-backing’ on the ancient Near Eastern legal tradition in terms of its literary formulation.6 I shall look in turn at the evidence for marriage and divorce as social, legal and religious institutions. However, this in itself begs a question: is divorce to be conceived as an institution separate from marriage, or simply one of the ways in which the institution of marriage terminates? Modern lawyers would certainly view it in the former terms, as a separate institution (notwithstanding its function as terminating marriage); early rabbinic law appears to have reached the same differentiation: the Mishnah already has a separate tractate for divorce (actually, bills of divorce: gi††in). But the evidence in the Bible is mixed, and it may be most convenient to take marriage and divorce together.
5
E.g. R. Westbrook, Old Babylonian Marriage Law (Archiv für Orientforschung, Beiheft 23, Horn 1988); M.T. Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements 7th–3rd Centuries B.C. (Neukirchen-Vluyn 1989). 6 B.S. Jackson, Studies in the Semiotics of Biblical Law (JSOT Suppl Ser 314, Sheffield 2000), esp. chs 3–6; Wisdom-Laws: A Study of the Mishpatim of Exodus 21:1– 22:16 (Oxford 2006), esp. ch. 13. In ‘Human Law’, supra n. 3, I discuss the contribution of notions of divine justice to the increasing institutionalization of the Mishpatim. 7 What follows, however, attempts no comprehensive coverage. 8 For present purposes, we may take together the two stages of betrothal and marriage. 9 Z.W. Falk, Hebrew Law in Biblical Times (Jerusalem 1964), 134, on Gen. 34:8, Judg. 14:7, 1 Sam. 25:39–40, Cant. 8:8. 223
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10
Falk, Hebrew Law, 152, and his account at 140–2 of terminology suggestive of in domum deductio or consummation. 11 E.g. Gen. 29:27–8, Judg. 14:12; Falk, Hebrew Law, 152. 12 M. Burrows, The Basis of Israelite Marriage (American Oriental Series 15, New Haven 1938), 10–15, prefers ‘compensation-gift’ (viewed as originating in barter, before sale for money had developed, and incorporating elements of covenant and inter-family bonding), and is followed in this by D.R. Mace, Hebrew Marriage, A Sociological Study (London 1953), 24f., discussing the institution in the context of evolutionary theory. Aliter, Tosato, Matrimonio, 103–6. 13 Cf. Mace, ibid.; Perdue, ‘Family’, 218 nn. 65, 67. J. Blenkinsopp, ‘The Jewish Family in First Temple Israel’, in L.G. Perdue et al., Families in Ancient Israel (Louisville 1997), 48–103, at 60, notes other instances of negotiability of the mohar: Gen. 34:12 (Shechem), 1 Sam. 18:25 (David’s foreskins), Hos. 3:2 (15 shekels, barley and wine). 14 Gen. 29:27–30. Jacob’s marriages, we may note, were matrilocal: he may thus have been bound to provide services for Laban in respect of the support he himself received from the household, quite apart from any ‘brideprice’. Cf. Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 28f., comparing it to the ‘beena’ marriage in the anthropological literature. 15 Cf. D. Daube, Studies in Biblical Law (Cambridge 1947), 191f.
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premises10 and the celebratory feast,11 rather than upon any particular set of formalities. Those negotiations commonly centre upon financial arrangements, but whereas the laws mention only the brideprice, and seem to present it as a straightforward purchase price,12 the narratives reveal a far more complex range of social realities. The husband may not have the wherewithal to pay an up-front brideprice, and his father may not be available to pay it for him: such was the situation of Jacob, as he negotiated with Laban. As a result, an agreement was made to pay by labour13 — up-front, by seven years’ service in advance, for (what turned out to be) Leah (Gen. 29:19–20); another seven years, but this time on credit, for Rachel.14 As for the deception which Laban practiced upon Jacob, the narrative provides, in Laban’s response to Jacob’s complaint (and Jacob’s apparent acquiescence in this response), an indication of both the possible variability and social force of custom: ‘it is not done in our community (lo ye‘aseh ken bimqomenu)', says Laban, to marry off the younger daughter before the elder (Gen. 29:26). The narrator might be thought to suggest, here, a variation not only between the customs of two communities, but also between their values: whether such a custom could be used as both an instrument and justification of deception. In the overall narrative context, however, Laban’s deception is in fact ‘justified’ on other grounds: Jacob is himself being paid back, in like measure, for his role in the deception of Isaac.15 And he receives this pay-back, appropriately, from the brother of the very
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16
On the primacy of the family, rather than the individual, see Burrows, Basis, 9. On these narratives, and their relationship to the interpretation of Exod. 22:15–16 (MT) and Deut. 22:28–9, see most recently J. Fleishman, ‘Exodus 22:15– 16 and Deuteronomy 22:28–29 — Seduction and Rape? or Elopement and Abduction Marriage?’, in H. Gamoran (ed.), The Jerusalem 2002 Conference Volume (Jewish Law Association Studies 14, Binghamton 2004), 59–73; idem, ‘Shechem and Dinah — in the Light of Non-Biblical and Biblical Sources’, ZAW 116 (2004), 12–32; and my discussion in Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at ch.12. 18 Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 23f., 165f., views this as the only biblical source resembling marriage by capture, and regards it as exceptional. Perhaps his conception of ‘marriage by capture’ is too narrow. Though Amnon did not abduct Tamar, the narrative implies, as argued below, the creation of marriage by non-consensual intercourse. Rabbinic sources are still familiar with kiddushin by biyah (Mishnah Kid. 1:1), but this came to require not only kavanat kiddushin but also the woman’s consent.
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person, Rebecca, who had put him up to deceiving his father. This literary relationship between the narratives should, to be sure, be taken into account in our assessment of our ability to derive from such narratives reliable information about actual social practice. The details may well be manipulated in order to achieve the desired literary effect. However, there must have been limits to the extent to which the narrator could deviate from known social practices, while still presenting to the audience narratives which made social sense. Another issue on which the narratives provide no single account of the institutive rules of the social institution of marriage is that of intercourse between the parties before negotiations between the heads of family.16 Some narratives treat such intercourse as itself constituting a marriage (‘Raubehe’17). The clearest case is that of the abduction of the women of Shiloh by the Benjaminites.18 Following the contretemps regarding the rape and killing of the Levite’s concubine by the Benjaminites, and the consequent ban on intermarriage with the Benjaminites, there is a fear that the tribe of Benjamin will die out completely. The remedy is a strict interpretation of the oath sworn by the other tribes (Judg. 21:18): ‘Cursed be he who gives a wife to Benjamin’. The Benjaminites are therefore advised (vv. 20–1): ‘Go and lie in wait in the vineyards, and watch; if the daughters of Shiloh come out to dance in the dances, then come out of the vineyards and seize each man his wife from the daughters of Shiloh, and go to the land of Benjamin’. In other words, they are advised to contract abduction marriages. The advice does indeed contemplate objections (v. 22) but this may simply reflect the lack of a brideprice. Less noticed in this context is the rape of Tamar by Amnon (2 Samuel 13). On realizing that Amnon (her step-brother) wishes to
17
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19
Cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 128 n. 68. The following verse, which narrates the actual expulsion, is notable for the politeness with which Amnon addresses his servant (shilÌu na) juxtaposed with the contempt with which he refers to Tamar (et zot). 20 Tosato, Matrimonio, 16, sees Shechem’s taking of Dinah as kezonah, but that term is used only when subsequently Simeon and Levi justify their slaughter to their father (Gen. 34:31). Fleishman, ZAW 116 (2004), 26–8, argues that lakaÌ is, inter alia, ‘a legal term for a legitimate marriage’, comparing (at 27) the Akkadian avazu, and claims that even in Gen. 34:2, Shechem grabbed her ‘not to rape her but to transfer her to his possession by marrying her, and afterwards he engaged in intimate relations with her’. But even if the term can carry a technical meaning, it remains to be decided whether it does so in any particular context. Here, in my view, the technical meaning is doubtful. Fleishman cites H. Seebass in TDOT VIII (1997), 19, who provides instances where ‘the term apparently includes the terminus technicus for marriage.’ But Seebass also cites Gen. 34:2 as a text where laqaÌ denotes ‘merely taking a woman … a base act (where) subsequent marriage can rectify the situation’.
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have relations with her, Tamar pleads that Amnon should go to David and negotiate a marriage. Amnon proceeds, instead, to rape her. Here, however, the satisfaction of lust leads not (as with Shechem) to love but rather to hatred, and Amnon tells her: ‘Arise, be gone’ (2 Sam. 13:15). Tamar’s response might appear somewhat odd: ‘No, my brother; for this wrong in sending me away (leshalÌeni) is greater than the other which you did to me’ (2 Sam. 13:16). It becomes understandable, however, when we realize that ‘sending away’ is a normal expression used for divorce.19 Tamar is claiming that the rape did in fact create a marriage, and that Amnon is now publicly humiliating her by divorcing her immediately after he has thus initiated the relationship. On the other hand, the story of the rape (and abduction) of Dinah by Shechem (Genesis 34) seems to presuppose that the rape20 was not understood as constituting a ‘Raubehe’: Hamor, the father of Shechem, approaches Jacob with a proposal for the marriage of the (happy?) couple (and, indeed, a much wider agreement between the two clans). Simeon and Levi engineer this into a means of taking bloody revenge on the Hivite city of Hamor and Shechem. It is not easy to reconcile these narrative sources. We might attempt to do so on the basis of a distinction between insiders and outsiders: ‘Raubehe’ is permitted to members of the Davidic royal family and to the Benjaminites (as a means of removing their then-outsider status) but not to the Hivites. But this hardly makes sense in anthropological terms, where ‘Raubehe’ is, par excellence, a means of contracting marriage with (reluctant) outsiders. The narratives display relatively little interest in the operation of the regulatory rules of the social institution of marriage — its effects
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upon the relations between the parties. Certainly, there is little focus upon the relations between husband and wife, other than the capacity of the wife to produce legitimate offspring; the marriage, in this context, is not only the opportunity for procreation, but also a guarantee of its legitimacy.21 However, even here, the social rules are not entirely clear. There is more than one type of wife, but it is not only the primary wife or wives who are capable of producing legitimate offspring: two of the four ‘wives’ of Jacob were ‘handmaidens’ provided by one or other of the primary co-wives and are described in Gen. 32:23 as the shifÌotav of Jacob.22 Zilpah is described as a shifÌah when given by Laban to Leah, on her marriage to Jacob (Gen. 29:24), and even when she is given to Jacob le’ishah23 by Leah,24 after the latter had ceased to bear Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
21 The view is often taken that such (legitimate) procreation is the main purpose of marriage (thus, the context for implementation of the divine blessing of Gen. 1:28), the woman’s (assumed) sterility being the typical occasion for departure from the practice of monogamy. See, e.g., Grelot, ‘Institution’, 40f., 45. The issue, however, is more complex. See Tosato, Matrimonio, ch. VII, for a full discussion, distinguishing between both immediate and secondary, and between individual (whether of husband or of wife) and institutional objectives, though he too accepts that legitimate offspring is a vital interest of the man in entering into marriage (at 121). 22 Cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 41f., who includes within women taken le’ishah the status of ‘moglie secondaria, come con-moglie di grado inferiore’, which he associates with the term pilegesh. A contrary view is taken by R. Westbrook, ‘The Female Slave’, in V.H. Matthews, B.M. Levinson and T. Frymer-Kensky (eds), Gender and Law in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East (JSOT Suppl Ser 262, Sheffield 1998), 214–38 at 222, 228, 232f., who maintains that only the children of a wife can be legitimate, and thus capable of inheriting from their father, on the basis of LH 170–1: ‘the offspring of a free concubine’, he writes, ‘had no better right to inherit than the offspring of a slave concubine.’ He seeks to apply this principle also to the Bible, attributing the biblical terminology ‘albeit reluctantly’ to ‘an inconsistent narrative’ (at 232f.). In particular, he has to argue that though Hagar, Bilhah and Zilpah remained slaves vis-à-vis Sarah, Rachel and Leah respectively, their relationship to Abraham and Jacob was marital and not concubinage. Indeed, he speaks of the woman’s ‘split legal personality’ in such cases, noting LH 146–7 (at 215) and comparing an explicit formula found in Old Babylonian marriage contracts: ‘To H, W2 is a wife; to W1, she is a slave’. Against this imposition of ancient Near Eastern models, see my Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at 94–102; ‘Gender Critical Observations on Tripartite Breeding Relationships in the Hebrew Bible’, in D. Rooke (ed.), A Question of Sex?: Gender and Difference in the Hebrew Bible and Beyond (Sheffield 2007), 47. 23 Cf. Hagar in Gen. 16:3 and Bilhah in Gen. 30:4. Contrary to common assumptions, this does not necessarily imply a full (or sometimes even any) marital status: see further n. 57, infra. 24 That the marital law relating to a shifÌah is different to that of a wife, at least at the betrothal stage, is indicated by Lev. 19:20–2.
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25
And as pilegesh when she falls victim to the anticipatory attentions of Reuben: Gen. 35:22. On the term, see further Tosato, Matrimonio, 42 n. 125. 26 Leah’s giving of Zilpah follows immediately after that of Bilhah, where the surrogacy relationship is explicit. 27 Gen. 30:11 (Gad), 30:13 (Asher). Cf. Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 229. 28 Thus in Deut. 27:12–13, there is a correlation of children of primary wives with ‘blessings’ and the children of secondary wives with ‘curses’, the two children of primary wives who are ‘demoted’ (to achieve six tribes on Mount Gerizim and six on Mount Ebal) being Reuven (thus punished in a near-talionic fashion for his relationship with Bilhah) and Zebulun (Leah’s youngest son). 29 Cf. J. Fleishman, ‘The Reason for the Expulsion of Ishmael’, Diné Israel 19 (1997–8), 75–100 at 76f. See also God’s reassurance to Abraham (Gen. 21:13): ‘And also of the son of the slave (ben ha'amah; cf. Sarah’s terminology in Gen. 21:9) will I make a nation, because he is your seed’. For F.C. Fensham, ‘The Son of a Handmaid in Northwest Semitic’, VT 19 (1969), 312–21 at 318, ‘Ishmael was, thus, a son of a second-wife with a legal claim on the property of his father, but clearly not with the same rights as the son of the head woman, Isaac.’ The nature of the qualification here is not made clear. In fact, there were circumstances in which a slave might himself inherit (Gen. 15:3), and the wisdom literature raises the issue of inheritance based on merit rather than status: ‘A slave who deals wisely will rule over a son who acts shamefully, and will share the inheritance as one of the brothers’ (Prov. 17:2). 30 We may note that the converse, out-marriage by Hebrew females, is not
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children (Gen. 30:9). Bilhah, similarly, is a shifÌah when given to Rachel by her father on her marriage (Gen. 29:24), but is also termed an amah when Rachel gives her to Jacob,25 this time explicitly for the purposes of surrogacy (Gen. 30:3). Her situation mirrors that of the Egyptian shifÌah, Hagar, given to Abram by Sarai when she despaired of bearing children herself (Gen. 16:1–3) and described as Abraham’s amah in Gen. 21:12. Though Leah already had children of her own when she gave Zilpah to Jacob (though she thought at the time that her childbearing years were over), both the structure of Genesis 3026 and the fact that it is Leah who, with great joy, names the children of Zilpah,27 suggest that these children, too, are regarded as the children of Leah. However, in the pecking order of the twelve tribes, the children of Zilpah and Bilhah do appear to rank below those of Leah and Rachel, though the differentiation appears to be social/political rather than legal.28 Similarly, there is no questioning of the legitimacy of Ishmael, the son of Hagar, and Abraham appears initially quite content to regard him as the instrument of fulfilment of the divine promise (Gen. 17:18).29 In this context, we may note the widespread phenomenon of Hebrew males unproblematically (and without apparent prejudice to the status of their children) marrying non-Hebrew females: e.g. Joseph (Gen. 41:45), Moses (Exod. 2:21), Ahab (1 Kgs 16:31).30
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unproblematic, as witness the story of Dinah; this, of course, is reflective of an original patrilineal principle. On the ban attributed to the period of the conquest (Exod. 34:11–16, Deut. 7:1–5), see infra, n. 125. 31 For older views of the significance of makhar here and in Hos. 3:2, see Burrows, Basis, 28f. 32 Explicitly mentioned in two biblical narratives (Gen. 34:12, 1 Sam. 18:25), but implicit elsewhere; see further Tosato, Matrimonio, 100–9. 33 Cf. Burrows, Basis, 44, 57, and in more detail in ‘The Complaint of Laban’s Daughters’, JAOS 57 (1937), 259–76, comparing the use of the terÌatum as part of the seriktum, and on the development of the mahr from pre-Islamic times; cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 104, though earlier, at 98, he bases the decision of Rachel and Leah on the fact that they had received their ‘dowry’ (in the form of Zilpah and Bilhah) and that this constituted a ‘liquidation’ of any further inheritance rights. Both arguments are supported by the text: the daughters commence by observing: ‘Is there any portion or inheritance left to us in our father’s house?’ (Gen. 31:14). But they continue: ‘Are we not regarded by him as foreigners? For he has sold us, and he has been using up the money given for us.’ On the dowry in biblical times, see further infra n. 60.
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Indeed, questions may even be asked regarding the religious status of the matriarchs themselves. We read that Rachel stole her father’s teraphim (Gen. 31:19). Rabbinic interpretation (e.g. Rashi, ad loc.) insists that they were not for her own use (she, of course, is taken to have converted) but rather that the ‘theft’ was designed to deprive her father of their use, and thus wean him away from idolatry. Relations between husband and wife do, however, appear to concern the narrator at another point in the matrimonial history of Jacob and his wives. When the time arises for Jacob to leave the household of Laban, he calls Rachel and Leah (but not Zilpah and Bilhah) into the field (Gen. 31:4) — presumably, so that the conversation will not be overheard — in order to ask them to accompany him back to the land of his fathers. Jacob pleads with them at length to do so; by implication, he is not entitled simply to order them to pack their bags. Rachel and Leah agree. Their reasons are primarily mercenary: their patrimony, the inheritance they might normally have expected to receive from their father, has, in effect, already been given by divine providence to Jacob, and they are going to follow the money! Moreover, even the price which Jacob had paid for them has been consumed by Laban, and is no longer available for their benefit (Gen. 31:14– 16).31 Here, we have an interesting anticipation, at the social level, of something which enters the legal sources only later: the mohar32 becomes an indirect dowry, designed ultimately for the benefit of the wife and her children, rather than for the father of the bride.33 Yet even this exchange, in its narrative context, is not concerned primarily with the dynamics of husband-wife relations. It, too, con-
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cerns the destination of the children. And when Laban pursues and catches up with Jacob and his entourage, his complaint is that Jacob has carried off ‘my daughters’ (and, by implication, their children). What, we may ask, may be the sense which the audience would have attached to Laban’s apparent claim of right to the wives and their children, not only as here expressed directly, but also as implied by the very lengths to which Jacob went in persuading Rachel and Leah, and the concern of the latter to justify themselves? Arguably, it may reside in Exod. 21:4.34 Jacob may be regarded by Laban as a debtslave, paying a debt of the brideprice by his labour (the seven-year served for each of the two wives is very close to the maximum six years of labour permitted to a debt-slave under Exod. 21:2). If so, any woman given by Laban to Jacob is for temporary companionship only; both she and any children she may breed by him belong to the master (Laban) and do not go out with the debt-slave. Here, then, the interest in the ‘marital’ relationship is not for its own sake, but rather for the implications it may have regarding the ownership (rather than the legitimacy) of the children. And in this context, we may note, the status of the children follows that of the mother. The terminative rules of the social institution of marriage also appear less determinate than those in the laws. The common terminology, that of shillaÌ or garash, denotes expulsion from the matrimonial home, and a clear narrative instance of this is the divorce of Hagar. On other occasions, the parting is less savage. Moses had apparently (the narrative fails to tell us of it at the time) sent Zipporah back35 to the house of her (Midianite) father, Jethro; when she and her children reappear on the scene, in Exodus 18, it appears at first sight to be for family reasons: Jethro is either seeking a reconciliation or maintenance.36 Samson had contracted a matrilocal marriage: when he leaves, in a fit of anger, it becomes a matter of interpretation whether his desertion constitutes divorce. His father-in-law adopts the wrong interpretation, giving Samson’s wife in marriage to 34
Burrows, ibid., and Basis, 39, sees it (as also the marriage of Samson) as corresponding to the errebu marriage, under which a father with daughters only ensured succession to his property through sons born to his daughter by a husband who joined his household. Such a husband paid a terÌatum but forfeited it (as well as his wife and any children) if he later left his father-in-law’s household. But that addresses the historical origins of the story, rather than the perception of the audience in biblical times. 35 Y. Zakovitch, ‘The Woman’s Rights in the Biblical Law of Divorce’, The Jewish Law Annual 4 (1981), 28–46 at 38, notes the rabbinic interpretation of this as divorce, based on the use of the term shillaÌ. 36 It is noticeable that Moses receives Jethro with open arms, but there is no mention of his reception of his wife or children: Exod. 18:6–9. 230
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another man,37 with fatal results. It is, however, significant that a decision on the status of the marriage is made at all by the wife and/ or her father.38 Interestingly, there is no mention in the narratives of either of the two procedures for divorce mentioned in other sources — the formal, oral declaration39 or the delivery of the document of divorce.40 Clearly, it was important that the behaviour of the parties should indicate termination of the marriage but, at the social level, no particular formalities appear to have been required.41 Is divorce a separate institution, at the social level, or simply the means of terminating marriage? That really depends on whether it is seen as having meaningful effects of its own and whether the state it has created can 37
Judg. 14:19–20, 15:1–2. Zakovitch, ‘Divorce’, 36–8, noting also the marriage of David and Michal (1 Sam. 25:44), on which cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 196f. Zakovitch argues that where the wife feared that she had been deserted by her husband, either she or her father might unilaterally terminate the marriage by returning to her original home. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 65, acknowledges sources which record that ‘a woman who could afford to do so simply left her husband (e.g., Judg. 19:1–2; Jer. 3:6–7)’, but maintains nevertheless that ‘it seems that only the husband could initiate divorce proceedings’. One might take this as a reflection of the difference between divorce as a social and a legal institution, but the phrase ‘initiate divorce proceedings’ should not, from its modern connotations, be taken to imply, at this stage, any judicial involvement. Tosato, Matrimonio, 128f., also sees no exception to the indissolubility of marriage by the wife, though later (at 196–8) he speculates, from a range of other considerations, that earlier Israelite custom might have been different. He pairs Judg. 19:2 (the Levite’s pilegesh) with Exod. 21:11 (the amah) in arguing that these are the only texts where a ‘secondary wife’ leaves her husband; because of her status, he argues, this is not divorce but rather abandonment or separation. 39 Reflected in the formula contraria of Hos. 2:4: ‘Plead with your mother, plead — for she is not my wife, and I am not her husband — that she may put away her harlotry from her face, and her adultery from between her breasts', where we may take ‘for she is not my wife, and I am not her husband’ to be an implied threat to utter the formula in the light of the mother’s behaviour. That it is a formula contraria is best seen from the Elephantine marriage contracts. Brooklyn 7, for example, commences by recounting that the bridegroom came to the house of the brother of the bride and declared: ‘I have come to your [hous]e and asked you for your sister the woman Yehoyishma’ (as she is called) in marriage, and you have given her to me. She is my wife and I am [her] husband from this day to eternity. I have paid to you as the bride price of your sister …’ Moreover, the same contract indicates that either party may divorce the other by a declaration in the assembly, that of the husband being ‘I divorce my wife Yehoyishma’; she shall not be a wife to me’, that of the wife being ‘I divorce you, I will not be wife to you’ (Ginsberg’s translation, ANET). 40 Deut. 24:1, 3 (discussed below), cf. Isa. 50:1, Jer. 3.8. 41 Cf. the position in classical Roman law. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 66, comments, as regards both marriage and divorce, that ‘there is very little narrative confirmation of or overlap with the situations assumed to exist in the laws.’ 38
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meaningfully be terminated (other than by death or remarriage)? What would happen to a divorced woman? This would depend upon her age and whether she had children. A young, childless divorcée would typically return to her father’s household; a divorcée with adult children might expect to be supported by them; a divorcée with young children and without a father’s household to return to (like Hagar) had problems. 3. Marriage and Divorce as Legal Institutions
42
Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 58, 63, on the prominence of economic interests in the marriage laws (but noting also the importance of paternity, inheritance and the preservation of a man’s ‘name’ and ‘house’). 43 Cf. Burrows, Basis, 55f., 61, arguing against earlier interpretations. See further my Wisdom-Laws, 376–9. 44 On the view of Fleishman, ‘Exodus 22:15–16’, 63–5, that this provision deals with attempted elopement marriages, see my Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at 373–6. 45 There is debate over whether the 50 shekels is a conventional mohar or a fine: see my Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at 368–71. 46 This is one of only two situations where the Hebrew Bible makes a marriage indissoluble (the other is Deut. 22:19). Why? There is a hint of talionic punishment: he has overridden the will of the woman — or, on Fleishman’s view, ‘Exodus 22:15– 16’, 65, that of her father — as to whether a marriage may be contracted; his will therefore is to be overridden as regards future termination of the marriage. On talionic punishment as particularly associated with divine justice, see Jackson, ‘Human Law’. 47 For other views of the relationship of Exod. 22:15–16 and Deut. 22:28–9, see my Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at §12.1.
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A legal institution, for present purposes, may be defined as an institution expressed in the form of rules (rather than narratives), those rules being set forth as normative. The nature of that normativity is a secondary question: the rules may threaten no sanctions at all; they may threaten secular sanctions; they may threaten religious sanctions. This latter distinction will be addressed in the next section. What, then, are the concerns of the biblical laws on marriage? As regards the creation of the institution, we have no systematic set of rules. Rather, two laws provide for situations where the normal (social) processes go wrong: their concern is primarily with the interest of the father of the bride in the mohar.42 Exod. 22:15–16 (MT) is concerned to protect the father of an unbetrothed virgin against loss of the (normal) brideprice,43 the mohar, if she is seduced;44 Deut. 22:28–9 makes it mandatory for the rapist of a virgin to pay the father 50 shekels45 and marry the girl (here, without any possibility of future divorce46).47 We might be inclined to see here a reaction to the problem seen in the narrative of Amnon and Tamar.
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48
Lev. 18:6–22. One might wonder whether the formula of ‘uncovering the nakedness’ is restricted to marriage; if not, these prohibitions would belong to the law of sexual offences rather than that of marriage. It is, however, noticeable that the terminology changes from v.19, ‘uncovering the nakedness’ not being used for sexual relationships which cannot be marital. 49 See further below, s. 4. 50 Lev. 18:18: ‘you shall not take a woman as a rival wife to her sister, uncovering her nakedness while her sister is yet alive.’ 51 As maintained in traditional Jewish Bible commentaries, e.g. Hertz, ad loc. 52 Tamar is confident that David would agree to the union, if Amnon approached him about it: 2 Sam. 13:13, despite Lev. 18:11: ‘You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father’s wife’s daughter, begotten by your father, since she is your sister.’ Cf. Grelot, ‘Institution’, 42. On the relationship between Leviticus 18 and the marriages of Abraham, Moses’ parents, Jacob, and Judah, see further Tosato, Matrimonio, 139 n. 53; Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 75; Perdue, ‘Family’, 217 n. 62. 53 But see now J. van Seters, A Law Book for the Diaspora. Revision in the Study of the Covenant Code (Oxford 2003), and in this context ‘The Law of the Hebrew Slave’, ZAW 108 (1996), 534–46. Contra, Jackson, ‘Revolution in Biblical Law: Some Reflections on the Role of Theory in Methodology’, JSS 50/1 (2005), 83–105 at 86–98.
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On the definition adopted at the beginning of this section, the elaborate formulations of the ‘prohibited degrees’ in Leviticus 1848 should also be viewed as belonging to the ‘institutive’ rules of the legal institution of marriage. A question might then arise regarding the relationship between them and Deut. 22:28–9. Does the mandatory marriage in case of rape override the prohibited degrees, in a case like that of Amnon and Tamar, and if not how is the rapist dealt with in such a situation? We need not speculate. That is a question which would arise only after canonization, when the two texts would need to be read together and areas of (even remotely possible) conflict would need to be explored. Before then, we may choose to regard them as representing two different streams of tradition. On one definition of the distinction between legal and religious institutions, we may prefer to assign Leviticus 18 to a religious rather than a legal institution of marriage:49 the rules are stated in the apodictic form, with only religious sanctions (karet in v. 29; loss of the promised land in v. 28). They also conflict with the social institution, as reflected in the narratives, not only in respect of Jacob’s marriages,50 which may be argued to precede the Sinaitic ban,51 but also in respect of any contemplated marriage between Amnon and Tamar.52 The rules of slavery might not appear, at first sight, to be concerned with the legal institution of marriage. Nevertheless they do cast light upon it. The opening paragraphs of the Mishpatim, normally regarded as the earliest of the biblical law codes,53 deal with the
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54
Jackson, Studies, 193–7, and in some earlier articles. Deut. 15:12 includes the Hebrew woman slave in the law of release after six years, and provides no equivalent to Exod. 21:7–11. How, then, did Deuteronomy deal with the latter text? Cleverly, the author reconciled the apparent contradiction which he had created by viewing the case of the amah as one where the permanency of slavery was the result of the voluntary act of the slave herself, as (for the ‘eved) in Exod. 21:5–6. For Deut. 15:17, the verse which reiterates the procedure of piercing the ear-lobe with an awl, so as to create the status of permanent slavery, is followed by: ‘and so shall you do to your amah’. This is a most striking example of ‘inner biblical exegesis’, a clear demonstration of the fact that the interpretation, indeed harmonization, of earlier texts began in the biblical period itself. Cf. M. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford, 1985), 211 n. 99. 56 It may, of course, be argued that the husband’s departure from the house is construed as a desertion, which was sometimes regarded as constituting the social institution of divorce (see Zakovitch, ‘Divorce’). But this is unlikely, if not impossible: it would be an involuntary divorce on the part of the husband. 57 Contrary to common assumptions, e.g. Burrows, Basis, 24, arguing from parallels between natan le’ishah and martam ana assutim nadanu and between lakaÌ le’ishah and assatam avazu). Aliter, R. Rothenbusch, ‘Die eherechtlichen Rechtssätze 55
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Hebrew (debt-)slave and the Hebrew daughter sold as an amah (Exod. 21:1–11). Though they are framed by rules concerning liberation and redemption, their juxtaposition indicates a concern to regulate sexual services:54 a male debt-slave may be used, effectively, to breed permanent slaves for his master — without interference with his status (Exod. 21:4). Sexual services are no different from other services in this respect. Exod. 21:7–11 gives us the opposite side of the coin. A (Hebrew) woman debt-slave cannot be used for sexual services unless her status is thereby changed. Sexual activity alters the status of the woman debt-slave, but not that of the male. Unlike the ‘eved ‘ivri, the amah cannot be retained for simple breeding purposes, on terms that she will either abandon her children after the six years or voluntarily submit to having the slavery made permanent.55 If the master wants her as a breeding member of his household, he can only have her on a permanent basis. And if he wants her on a permanent basis, he has to regularize her status from the beginning. This prompts further enquiry regarding the precise status of the breeding relationships contemplated in the two paragraphs. Does the master in Exod. 21:4 really give the debt-slave ‘a wife’, given that the relationship is designed normally to last a maximum of six years, after which the ‘husband’ leaves the household, and the master (presumably) may give the ‘wife’ to the next incoming debt-slave?56 This illustrates the dangers of assuming that ishah in the sexual context always means ‘wife’ (or even that natan/lakaÌ le’ishah, not used in Exod. 21:4, means to give or take ‘as a wife’).57 At the very least, we
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in Deuteronomium 22, 13–29 im Kontext der altorientalischen Rechtsgeschichte’, in G. Braulik (ed.), Das Deuteronomium (Frankfurt am Main 2003), 153–212 at 185: ‘Das Hebräische kennt zwar nicht wie das Akkadische und das Sumerische eine terminologische Unterscheidung in “Frau” … und “Ehefrau”… Für beides wird … אשהverwendet.’ On the application of such expressions to the surrogate ‘wives’ given to the patriarchs (n. 23, supra), see the discussion in s. 2, supra. The most striking illustration of the difficulty of assuming that le’ishah always denotes marriage occurs in the law of the foreign captive, Deut. 21:10–14, where ולקחת אשה in Deut. 21:11 refers simply to the (here, non-consensual) sexual act (despite the RSV interpretation) and once the relationship is regularized ( והיתה לאשה לךin v. 13) the status of ishah is that of slave concubine rather than full wife, since were it not for the rape the master would have been entitled to sell her on as a slave. See further Jackson, Wisdom-Laws, ch. 3, Appendix A. 58 E.g., Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 219: ‘a free woman who has been sold by her father into debt-slavery, as the reference to redemption reveals. The father would normally have the right to redeem his daughter, but that right is lost because her enslavement is for the purpose of concubinage.’ 59 T.J. Turnbam, ‘Male and Female Slaves in the Sabbath Year Laws of Exodus 21:1–11’, in K.H. Richards (ed.), SBL Seminar Papers 1987 (Altanta, 1987), 545–9 at 548, insists that the amah here is given as a wife and not as a concubine, claiming even that she is given the title ‘wife’. In fact, she is sold le’amah, which structurally (on Turnbam’s own argument) must be equivalent to laÌofshi in v. 2. See also Tosato, Matrimonio, 134f., who views the status as that of a secondary wife; A. Schenker, ‘Affranchissement d’une esclave selon Ex 21,7–11’, Biblica 69 (1988), 547–56 at 548f.; J. Fleishman, ‘Does the law of Exodus 21:7–11 permit a father to sell his daughter to be a slave?’, The Jewish Law Annual 13 (2000), 47–64 (discussed further, infra).
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have to recognize that there were different grades of recognised sexual relationship: primary wives, secondary wives, free concubines, slave concubines. These distinctions are more prominent in the narratives, reflecting the social institutions, but they are not entirely suppressed in the laws. That issue arises even more prominently in the paragraph of the amah (Exod. 21:7–11). Debate has raged over her status and that of the relationship she here enters into. While the context certainly suggests a form of slavery,58 the view that we have here a form of marriage has also been advanced.59 And we have seen that the term amah is used in the patriarchal narratives of a handmaid given as a secondary wife. What, then, may be the significance of the fact that the relationship is created by the father’s ‘selling’ (makhar) his daughter as an amah (implying that she did not previously enjoy this status)? Whereas the family of the ‘eved ‘ivri comes about as a result of the husband’s indigence, and thus his need to sell himself as a temporary debt-slave (and he certainly could not afford a mohar in these circumstances), so conversely we may have in the case of the amah a father
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who cannot afford to give his daughter a dowry60 and who therefore is constrained to ‘sell’ her into a form of marriage in which he receives no mohar.61 Both Westbrook and Fleishman see marriage and servility (to the same person) as incompatible. For Westbrook, the amah in Exod. 21:7–11 is a slave concubine, hence not a wife;62 for Fleishman, the
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60 While the biblical laws mention only mohar, bride-price, the narratives provide evidence also of the provision of property to the bride by her father, over which she exercised full control. This was sometimes called shilluÌim, as in 1 Kgs 9:16, where the Pharoah gave his daughter the city of Gezer on his marriage to Solomon. In the purely Israelite context, too, there is one instance of gift of land to a daughter on marriage: Josh. 15:18–19. The ‘handmaids’ given by Laban to Leah and Rachel are gifts of this nature. Given the apparent lack of rights inherently enjoyed in this property by the husband (note especially Abram’s reply to Sarai’s complaint about Hagar’s behaviour after the latter had conceived: ‘Behold, your maid is in your power (beyadeykh); do to her as you please’: Gen. 16:6), it is doubtful whether we should describe it as ‘dowry’. The biblical gifts to daughters on their marriage certainly served the function, however, of providing financial independence for the wife, should she decide that she required it. See also Burrows, Basis, 41–6; E. Bickerman, ‘Two Legal Interpretations of the Septuagint’, Revue internationale des droits de l’Antiquité III (1956), 81–104, reprinted in his Studies in Jewish and Christian History (Leiden 1976), I, 201–24 at 1956: 83, 1976: 202f.; R. de Vaux, Ancient Israel. Its Life and Institutions2, trans. J. McHugh (London 1965), 28; Tosato, Matrimonio, 96–9; L.J. Archer, Her Price is Beyond Rubies: The Jewish Woman in Graeco-Roman Palestine (Sheffield 1990), 166; Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 60; Perdue, ‘Family’, 184. L. Epstein, The Jewish Marriage Contract. A Study in the Status of the Woman in Jewish Law (New York 1927), 89, notes that Genesis Rabbah 45:1 describes Hagar was shifÌat melug. Dowries in the strict sense (granting the husband at least a usufruct in the property) are however found at Elephantine and became popular in the Hellenistic period (Ben Sira 25.21–2: Tobit 8:19–21, Philo, Fug. 29). For the ancient Near East, see literature cited infra, n. 98. 61 Cf. the position of the amah Tamut in Brooklyn 2, married without a mohar, though she does bring a dowry into the marriage: see E.G. Kraeling (ed.), The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic Papyri (New Haven 1955), 140–50; R. Yaron, Introduction to the Law of the Aramaic Papyri (Oxford 1961), 44, 47f.; idem, ‘Minutiae Aramaicae’, JSS 13 (1968), 202–11; D. Piattelli, ‘The Marriage Contract and Bill of Divorce in Ancient Hebrew Law’, The Jewish Law Annual 4 (1981), 66–78 at 71. 62 Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 218f.: ‘…the slave is assigned and taken, but never specifically as a wife, and the relationship is ended by sale or manumission, not by divorce … she is a free woman who has been sold by her father into debt-slavery, as the reference to redemption reveals. The father would normally have the right to redeem his daughter, but that right is lost because her enslavement is for the purpose of concubinage.’ At 236f. he further argues that the mention of rations in Exod. 21:10 also indicates that this law was regulating concubinage, not marriage. Aliter, R. Rothenbusch, Die kasuistische Rechtssammlung im “Bundesbuch” (Ex 21,2–11.18– 22,16) (Münster 2000), 261. For a review of earlier views of the woman’s status, see Fleishman, ‘Exodus 21:7–11’, 48f.
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63
Fleishman, ‘Exodus 21:7–11’, 49f. seeks to establish that ‘the girl cannot be a slave but is instead a free person who is given in marriage by her father’, but at the same time maintains that the lawgiver ‘only permitted a father to give his daughter as a concubine’ (cf. at 63: ‘She remained a free person with the status of a concubine’). He thus regards concubinage as a free status, and a form of marriage. 64 On Fleishman’s argument from the structure of Exod. 21:7–11, see my Wisdom-Laws, supra n. 6 at 117–19. 65 Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 230 invokes ‘the logic of the two institutions’ (marriage and slavery). 66 The woman’s position here differs from that of Hagar, Bilhah and Zilpah in that both aspects of her ‘split personality’ (marriage and servitude) relate to the same person. Pace Fleishman’s argument, we cannot totally neutralize לאמהin v. 7, nor the implications of the comparison in that verse with העבדים. 67 Cf. the woman given to the Hebrew debt-slave in Exod. 21:4 (though not described as amah). 68 Cf. E. Neufeld, Ancient Hebrew Marriage Laws (London 1944), 70: ‘… the status of the bondwoman in the resultant marriage was akin to that of a concubine’ and cf. at 74f. J.M. Sprinkle, The Book of the Covenant - A Literary Approach (JSOT Suppl Ser 174, Sheffield 1994), 51 n. 1, notes that in Genesis every woman called an amah was also a concubine. N. Avigad, ‘The Epitaph of a Royal Steward from Siloam Village’, IEJ III (1953), 137–52 at 143f., argues that amah on a pre-exilic Hebrew tombstone inscription, which says that the bones of the man and his amah must not be disturbed, must be a second-wife: ‘Legally, the amah was a bondswoman, but in practice her rank in the household depended entirely upon the position her master wished to give her.’ See also N. Avigad, ‘A Seal of a Slave-Wife (Amah)’, PEQ (1946), 125–32, on the seal of Alyah the amah of Hananel. 69 For other views as to who may redeem her, see Fleishman, ‘Exodus 21:7–11’, 52 n. 24. 70 There is some parallel here with the position of the ‘surrogate’ amah of the
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granting to her of what he takes to be the privileges of a wife (albeit, most likely, a secondary wife63) entails the view that the law rejects her categorization as an amah, notwithstanding the fact that her father is described as (purporting to) sell her as such.64 In my view both arguments attribute to the biblical sources a stricter ‘logic’65 than is warranted. We should not expect strict consistency of language, concept or practice. Indeed, the position of the amah in Exod. 21:7–11 is difficult to classify in simple terms: she has a servile status within the household of her purchaser,66 but because she was originally a free Hebrew woman who has been purchased for sexual/reproductive services, both her rights and (by implication) those of her children are superior to those of an ordinary amah,67 whom he would be free to dispose of ‘abroad’, and to whom he would have no duties of support. The law gives her a status somewhat akin to that of a secondary wife,68 but the context of debt-slavery continues to inform her situation: ultimately she may well be released (as on the death of the purchaser) and the debtor69 retains a residual70 right at least to
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patriarchal narratives, over whom her mistress retains ‘residual’ (Westbrook’s term: supra n. 22 at 228) rights. 71 As is commonly remarked (pace E. Levine, ‘On Exodus 21,10 ‘Onah and Biblical Marriage’, Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 5 [1999], 133–64 at 160), there is no use of divorce terminology in this paragraph in relation to the cessation of the relationship. Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 218f., sees the references to sale, manumission and redemption as markers of her debt-slave status. Despite his overall thesis that this is not a case of slavery, Fleishman, ‘Exodus 21:7–11’, 52, cites with approval an observation of D. Daube, Studies in Biblical Law (Cambridge 1947, repr. New York 1969), 39, 71 n. 114: ‘Now the root pdh, ‘to redeem,’ as defined by Daube, ‘signifies the ransoming of a man or thing whose fate otherwise would be destruction, consecration or slavery … the saving of a man or things from doom.’ 72 S.M. Paul, ‘Exod. 21.10, A Threefold Maintenance Clause’, JNES 28 (1969), 48–53, and in his Studies in the Book of the Covenant in the Light of Cuneiform and Biblical Law (Leiden 1970), 56–61. See also N.M. Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary. Exodus (Philadelphia and New York 1991), 121: ‘a persuasive, although as yet philologically unsustained, argument’. More strongly supported by Westbrook, ‘Female Slave’, 218 n. 8. 73 Sarna, Exodus 121, notes that Rashbam and Bekhor Shor take it to mean ‘dwelling’, ‘shelter’, which is supported etymologically by the Hebrew ma’on, me’onah. Cf. F. Crüsemann, The Torah. Theology and Social History of Old Testament Law, trans. Allan W. Mahnke (Edinburgh 1996), 157.
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seek to redeem71 her; her children will also be debt-slaves who are not themselves disposable on the market but who gain their freedom on the death of the purchaser. Indeed, we may doubt that the ancients would have posed the question: ‘is this a marriage’? It was simply one in a spectrum of recognized relationships, expressed in concrete terms. Status is still attached firmly to typical personal relationships; it has not yet generated a set of abstract institutions, such that (a single conception of) ‘marriage’ is clearly distinguished from all other relationships. We need not agonize unduly over the fact that it is here that biblical law comes closest to stating a set of regulative rules regarding internal relationships: the woman is entitled to ‘meat, clothes, and conjugal rights’. The translation of ‘onatah as ‘conjugal rights’ is contested. Credible alternatives — either ‘oils/cosmetics’72 or ‘accommodation’73 — have plausibly been suggested. And certainly, we should not read into the euphemistic use here of ‘conjugal’ an argument that this must be a marriage (certainly, a primary marriage): Bilhah and Zilpah were presumably entitled to some attention from Jacob, even though they were not primary wives. Rabbinic tradition, we may note, does regard this passage as indicating the rights of a wife in a marriage (and does understand ‘onatah as ‘conjugal rights’), and the threefold formula is commonly found to this day in Jewish
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74 Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 59, citing A. Rofé, ‘Family and Sex Laws in Deuteronomy and the Book of the Covenant’, Henoch 9 (1987), 131–59 (an earlier Hebrew version appeared in Beth Mikra 68 [1977], 19–36), for the view that the family laws in Deuteronomy should be viewed as moral instruction rather than legislation in the strict (modern) sense. Tosato, Matrimonio, 122f., sees the ban as having a customary existence before it was adopted by the legal sources. 75 The conception of adultery as sin is found also in a number of narratives, notably the (present) conclusion to Joseph’s response to Potiphar’s wife (Gen. 39:9) and David’s response to Nathan in 2 Sam. 12:13. See further Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 245f.; Tosato, Matrimonio, 123f. 76 A. Phillips, Ancient Israel’s Criminal Law (Oxford 1970). 77 E.g. B.S. Jackson, ‘Reflections on Biblical Criminal Law’, JJS 24 (1973), 8–38, at 36–8. 78 Though Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 249, 250, points out that there is not a single instance of the legal penalty for adultery being carried out in the Hebrew Bible. 79 D. Daube, ‘Biblical Landmarks in the Struggle for Women’s Rights’, The Juridical Review 90 (1978), 177–97, s.I; reprinted in C. Carmichael (ed.), New Testament Judaism. Collected Works of David Daube, Vol. 2 (Berkeley 2000), 231–
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ketubot. Whether the amah is a free secondary wife or a slave concubine, her rights are here set out, and it may be reasonable to infer that the rights of a primary wife would have been no less. Perhaps the most prominent regulatory rule of marriage (here including betrothal) is that the husband has an exclusive claim to the sexual activities of his wife. We may therefore take account here of the laws of adultery. But who was to enforce the rules of adultery, and how? Was its enforcement social, legal or religious? Cases can be made for all three answers, in different contexts.74 The prohibition of adultery has a religious significance, of course, by virtue of its inclusion in the Decalogue, and is thus subject to whatever may be the divine sanctions for breach of the Covenant.75 Phillips, for one, regards the Decalogue as the basis of ancient Israel’s criminal law, in that each of its prohibitions is eo ipso a capital offence76 — a view, however, that has not been widely accepted.77 We do, however, find adultery visited with an explicit capital sanction in Deut. 22:22: ‘If a man is found lying with the wife of another man, both of them shall die, the man who lay with the woman, and the woman; so you shall purge the evil from Israel.’ This suggests an institutional (legal) sanction,78 rather than self-help on the part of the aggrieved husband; indeed, it has been argued that this law represents an elevation in the status of the married woman, insofar as she is no longer left to the tender mercies of her husband, applied in private and without regulation, but rather has the protection of a public process.79 Yet even if this is the case, it
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does not exclude the survival of one aspect of an earlier, pre-institutional (social) regulation of adultery, in which punishment is at the option of the husband, who may accept kofer rather than prosecute.80 Indeed Proverbs 6:32–5 appears81 to recognize this institution, but warns the prospective adulterer not to rely upon it: the husband may be so angry that he will refuse any offer of kofer, and insist on due punishment:
33. Similar issues arise in other areas of family law: not only in matters of family discipline — such as the law of the ‘stubborn and rebellious son’, Deut. 21:18–21 (on which see now J.P. Burnside, The Signs of Sin. Seriousness of Offence in Biblical Law [JSOT Suppl Ser 364, Sheffield 2003], ch. 2), and the rules concerning the disciplining of slaves — but also in the role of both the extended family and the elders in the law of the levirate (Deut. 25:5–10) and in problems relating to the administration of family property (including the levirate), as reflected in Ruth 4:1–3 (on the difficulties here, see D.A. Leggett, The Levirate and Goel Institutions in the Old Testament with Special Attention to the Book of Ruth [Cherry Hill N.J. 1974], 209–49). On the general issue, see further A. Phillips, ‘Some Aspects of Family Law in Pre-exilic Israel,’ VT 23 (1973), 349–61; idem, ‘Another Example of Family Law,’ VT 30 (1980), 240–5, now reprinted in his Essays on Biblical Law (JSOT Suppl Ser 344, Sheffield 2002), ch. 6. Phillips maintains that family law was entirely within domestic jurisdiction, except where it involved capital punishment, despite the fact that he had sought earlier (Criminal Law, 117 n. 34) to explain Judah’s order to burn Tamar for her ‘adultery’ (Tamar was in fact a widow, but subject to the law of levirate, and thus arguably ‘betrothed’ to the surviving brother: she is described to Judah by her accusers in Gen. 38:24 as )כלתךas the act of a paterfamilias (rather than an aggrieved husband). 80 Cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 124 n.19, for the narrative sources. 81 The issue has been hotly debated, some arguing that Proverbs counsels the prospective adulterer against seeking to rely on an illegal bribe. I take the view as in the text, now most fully argued by McKeating, in his debate with Phillips: see H. McKeating, ‘Sanctions against Adultery in Ancient Israelite Society, with some Reflections on Methodology in the Study of Old Testament Ethics’, JSOT 11 (1979), 57–72; A. Phillips, ‘Another Look at Adultery’, JSOT 20 (1981), 3–25; H. McKeating, ‘A Response to Dr. Phillips,’ JSOT 20 (1981), 25–6; A. Phillips, ‘A Response to Dr. McKeating’, JSOT 22 (1982), 142–3. For earlier literature, see Jackson, ‘Reflections’, 33f.
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Proverbs 6: 32 He who commits adultery has no sense; he who does it destroys himself. 33 Wounds and dishonour will he get, and his disgrace will not be wiped away. 34 For jealousy makes a man furious, and he will not spare when he takes revenge. 35 He will accept no compensation, nor be appeased though you multiply gifts.
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The Biblical law of divorce deals not with the basic institution,82 but rather with its misuse. Deut. 24:1–4 is notoriously difficult: its concern is with what has been called ‘palingamy’.83 It mentions the possibility of divorce either because of ‘ervat davar84 or, in the case of the second marriage, simply because the husband ‘hates’85 his wife. The law tells us that a divorced wife may not return to her original husband if she has had an intermediate marriage:86
82 Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 65 and 97 n. 33, noting that the interpretation of Deut. 24:1–4 as designed to state the basic law of divorce derives from Jerome’s misunderstanding of its syntax as placing the divorce procedure in the apodosis rather than the protasis. 83 See further literature cited by Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 97 n. 33. 84 Here undefined: the early Rabbis differed over its interpretation: Mishnah Gittin 9:10. Tosato, Matrimonio, 128, correctly observes that it is descriptive rather than prescriptive; see also his comments at 145 n. 33. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 97 n. 37 (and cf. Perdue, ‘Family’, 185f.), judiciously observes: ‘The impossibility of a literal translation (‘nakedness of a thing’) indicates idiomatic usage; it occurs elsewhere only in Deut 23:15 [ET 23:14], with reference to feces or other unclean matter in the camp.’ In the text at 65 he takes it to be something ‘improper, indecent or at least objectionable’ and was ‘probably chosen precisely because it was vague, ill-defined, and nonrestrictive’. But this last observation does not fit well with the judgment that it was idiomatic. Rather, we may take it as alluding to a sociallyknown range of behaviour, which would be quite clear to the audience in respect of typical cases. On the conception of narrative rather than literal meaning underlying this view, see my ‘Literal Meaning: Semantics and Narrative in Biblical Law and Modern Jurisprudence’, International Journal for the Semiotics of Law / Revue Internationale de Sémiotique Juridique 13/4 (2000), 433–57; and Studies, supra n. 5, at 75–82. 85 Sometimes used as a technical term for unilateral divorce. See, however, Zakovitch on senu’ah, infra n. 91. It is quite possible, as is sometimes argued, that though unilateral divorce by the husband without cause was legally possible, this was disapproved of socially, and the social institution of divorce focussed on infertility. See Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 251f., arguing that ‘the Old Testament record provides us with no instances in which a man lightly puts away his wife’. 86 Islamic law, incidentally, has the converse rule: a divorced wife may return to her original husband only if she has had an intermediate marriage: ‘If he divorces her, she is not lawful for him afterwards, until she marries another husband’ (Qur’an 2:229).
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1 When a man takes a wife and marries her, if then she finds no favour in his eyes because he has found some indecency (‘ervat davar) in her, and he writes her a bill of divorce and puts it in her hand and sends her out of his house, and she departs out of his house, 2 and if she goes and becomes another man’s wife, 3 and the latter husband dislikes her and writes her a bill of divorce and puts it in her hand and sends her out of his house, or if the latter husband dies, who took her to be his wife, 4 then her former husband, who sent her away, may not take her
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again to be his wife, after she has been defiled; for that is an abomination before the LORD, and you shall not bring guilt upon the land which the LORD your God gives you for an inheritance.
87
R. Westbrook, ‘The Prohibition on Restoration of Marriage in Deuteronomy 24:1–4’, Scripta Hierosolymitana 31 (1986), 387–405. 88 Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 65f., comparing LH 137–40, and arguing that we ought not to derive from Deut. 22:13–21 any implication that unchastity was a requirement of any divorce. 89 An example occurs in Roman literature: J. Carcopino, Daily Life in Ancient Rome, ed. H.T. Rowell, trld. E.O. Lorimer (Harmondsworth 1962), 110f., notes that the ‘virtuous Cato of Utica, after being divorced from Marcia, felt no shame in taking her back when her private fortune was augmented by that of Hortensius, whom she had married and lost in the interval’ (citing Plutarch, Cato Minor 36; 52). 90 Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 90, sees it as part of a Deuteronomic policy to strengthen the nuclear (as opposed to the extended) family, thus reducing the potential of the latter as a rival locus of loyalty to that of the state. He understands the law (as have many others) as designed to protect the woman’s second marriage by ruling out the possibility of her returning to her original husband. But the ban equally applied where the second marriage ends on the death of the husband (v. 3): this interpretation thus works only on the assumption that the wife might be tempted to murder the second husband in order to return to the first. 91 Zakovitch, ‘Divorce’, 34f., notes the use also of azuvah (but only in Isa. 54:6, 60:15, 62:4) and senu’ah (Gen. 29:31, Deut. 21:15–17, Isa. 60:15, Prov. 30:23),
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Much scholarly ink has been spilled in the search for an explanation. Westbrook87 argues that it is primarily concerned with economics, rather than with the ‘sanctity’ of marriage: the original husband divorces his wife on an allegation of ‘ervat davar, and thus without a financial settlement;88 the second marriage terminates, however, without any such allegation, either by the death of the second husband or by unilateral divorce on his part — in either case (he argues) with a settlement for the wife. The first husband cannot remarry his wife and thus, in effect, take the financial advantage of the second marriage,89 when he himself had terminated the first marriage for free, and on an allegation of ‘ervat davar. This is probably the most attractive of the explanations given so far of this difficult law.90 Beyond this, there is little mention of divorce in the texts of biblical law. But the status of divorcée did have a legal significance, and in this respect we may see the beginnings of the separate institutionalization of divorce: it had legal consequences (regulatory rules) beyond its function of termination of marriage. But this comes about late in the biblical tradition. We may note that despite the common use of the verb garash as denoting the act of divorce, the term gerushah91 (divorcée) is used only five times in the Hebrew Bible, all of
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though he takes the latter to be a woman not yet divorced but whom the husband would like to divorce. 92 Lev. 21:7: ‘They shall not marry a harlot or a woman who has been defiled; neither shall they marry a woman divorced from her husband; for the priest is holy to his God’. 93 Ezek. 44:22: ‘They shall not marry a widow, or a divorced woman, but only a virgin of the stock of the house of Israel, or a widow who is the widow of a priest’. 94 Lev. 21:14: ‘A widow, or one divorced, or a woman who has been defiled, or a harlot, these he [a chief priest] shall not marry; but he shall take to wife a virgin of his own people’. 95 In Leviticus, however, an ordinary priest may apparently marry a widow, though the latter is prohibited to a high priest; Ezekiel prohibits the widow even to the ordinary priest. 96 Num. 30:10: ‘But any vow of a widow or of a divorced woman, anything by which she has bound herself, shall stand against her.’ 97 Lev. 22:13: ‘But if a priest’s daughter is a widow or divorced, and has no child, and returns to her father’s house, as in her youth, she may eat of her father’s food; yet no outsider shall eat of it.’
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them in the context of priestly law (while almanah occurs ten times as frequently, and in the whole range of sources). Three are concerned with restrictions on priestly marriages: neither an (ordinary) priest (Lev. 21:792, cf. Ezek. 44:2293) nor a high priest (Lev. 21:1494) may marry a gerushah;95 the others concern the gerushah’s capacity to make a vow (neder)96 and (if the childless daughter of a priest) to return to her father’s house after termination of her marriage and eat priestly food.97 We have noted in the course of this review a number of instances where the social institution of marriage, as reflected in the narratives, appears to deviate from the legal institution, as reflected in the laws: (i) the narratives unproblematically record marriages between Hebrew males and non-Hebrew females; (ii) the narratives are aware of marriage gifts to brides (if not dowries in the strict sense) as well as brideprice, while the laws make direct reference only to the latter; (iii) the narratives conceive of divorce as being performed by expulsion or desertion while the law assumes that any such expulsion (he ‘sends her out of his house’, Deut. 24:1, 3) is preceded by the writing and delivery of a sefer keritut. There is a common factor to these sets of ‘deviant’ narratives. The social institutions they reflect all involve negotiations between Hebrew families and non-Hebrews: (i) selfevidently; (ii) the amot Laban gave to his daughters and the city given to Solomon’s wife by her Egyptian father; (iii) the expulsion of the Egyptian Hagar, the desertion by Samson of his Philistine wife, Moses’ sending home of his Midianite/Kenite wife. In this way, the Bible itself attests to knowledge of foreign marital practices. And the
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archaeological record of Ancient Near Eastern law provides a wealth of corroboration for the view that family law (both the formation and dissolution of marriage) was conceived primarily in economic terms.98 4. Marriage and Divorce as Religious Institutions Is marriage a ‘religious’ institution? Much depends upon the definition we adopt. Three possibilities may be canvassed:
Stipulative definitions are neither true nor false, but rather more or less (coherent and) useful. For present purposes, I adopt definition (c), because it raises (what I consider) an interesting question, worth exploring. This does not exclude the adoption of other definitions for other purposes: for example, I may wish to adopt (b) for the purposes of investigating such literary-historical questions as the relationship between Deut. 22:28–9 and Leviticus 18, as exemplified by the story of Amnon and Tamar.99 98 Indeed, Louis Epstein, in his classic 1927 book, The Jewish Marriage Contract. A Study in the Status of the Woman in Jewish Law (New York 1927), 53, already argued that certain clauses are common to all ancient, oriental peoples, including a declaration that the mohar was paid and received and enumeration of the dowry received by the husband. As for the latter, interpreters have viewed both the OldBabylonian seriktum (B. Porten, Archives from Elephantine. The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1968), 229 n. 85) and the Egyptian demotic deeds of gift to daughters (G.R. Driver and J.C. Miles, The Babylonian Laws (Oxford 1952–5), I. 272ff., 336) as designed as the daughter’s share in the inheritance, devolving on her death upon her children — like the later benin dikhrin clause found in both the documentary papyri from the Dead Sea caves (P. Mur. 21:12–14, P. Mur. 116:4–7, P. Mur. 115:12–14, P. Yad 10:12–13, P. XHev/Se 2:11–13) and the Mishnah (Ketubot 4:10). Similarly, for the neo-Babylonian period, M.T. Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements 7th-3rd Centuries B.C. (Neukirchen-Vluyn 1989), concludes her analysis of the purpose of the agreements (24–8) by stressing (at 28) ‘the primacy of the dowry in the marriage agreements’: more generally, ‘… the transmission of wealth is the most frequent and probably the most important consideration in the documents we call marriage agreements.’ 99 Supra, 225f.
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(a) An institution is religious if it is mentioned, and to that extent endorsed, in religious texts. (b) An institution is religious if the breach of some of its particular rules is regarded as a religious offence, and visited with religious/ divine sanctions. (c) An institution is religious if it involves an attribution of sanctity to the very relationship regulated by the institution.
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100 Notwithstanding the (tongue-in-cheek?) suggestion by Michael L. Satlow, Jewish Marriage in Antiquity (Princeton 2001), 76, that it may be a loan word from the Greek ekdosis! More significantly, the rules of kiddushin are based on those of kinyan, the acquisition of title to property generally. Compare in particular Mishnah Kiddushin 1:1 and 1:5. 101 Tosefta Kiddushin 1:1 describes the woman’s status, once the groom’s declaration has been made to her, as mekudeshet and not merely (as in Mishnah Kiddushin 1:1) niknit — and this despite the fact that the formula (still used today: harey at mekudeshet li) is only one of three possibilities recognized by the Tosefta. 102 D. Daube, The New Testament and Rabbinic Judaism (London 1956, reprinted New York 1973), 368f., citing Sotah 17a, and the converse: the departure of the shekhinah where there is uncleanness, citing Sifre to Deut. 23:15, ‘… the LORD your God walks in the midst of your camp, to save you and to give up your enemies before you, therefore your camp must be holy, that he may not see anything indecent among you, and turn away from you’, where the same term, ervat davar, is used as in Deut. 24.1. 103 Cf. van Selms, Marriage, 39–41, arguing, in the Ugaritic context, against taking the use of blessings during the wedding ceremony as evidence of a sacral institution: such blessings, in his view, are designed simply to ensure the fertility of the marriage. See also Tosato, Matrimonio, 10f. 104 A. Schenker, ‘What Connects the Incest Prohibitions with the Other Prohibitions Listed in Leviticus 18 and 20?’, in R. Rendtorff and R.A. Kugler (eds), The Book of Leviticus, Composition and Reception (Leiden, 2003), 162–85, at 176–9, 183, rightly emphasises the exceptionality of this, noting that it appears as a motive clause only here and in Lev. 20:22.
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Definition (c) is satisfied when we reach the early rabbinic period, where betrothal is itself termed kiddushin,100 and the wife is mekudeshet to the husband.101 Indeed, Daube goes further, in noting that ‘the Shekhinah’s presence throughout married life is assumed by many Rabbis’.102 The attribution of sanctity to the marital relationship, however, appears to have developed only late in the Hebrew Bible.103 On this definition, marriage is not a religious institution merely by virtue of the Decalogue prohibition of adultery, or even the capital sanction in Deut. 22:22, which itself concludes with a religious motivation: ‘you shall purge the evil from Israel’. The Decalogue also prohibits theft: does that mean that private property was conceived as a sacred institution? Again, the fact that Lev. 18:6–23 provides an elaborate list of forbidden marriages does not entail the view that permitted marriage was regarded as a religious institution, notwithstanding the fact that the prohibitions are supported by an elaborate religious motive clause (Lev. 18:24–30): such behaviour constitutes an ‘abomination’ (to‘evah) which pollutes the land; that was why the original inhabitants were expelled, so you too must avoid such behaviour ‘lest the land vomit you out,104 when you defile it, as it vomited out the nation that was before you.’
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Nor is there anything specifically religious in the marriage or divorce procedures envisaged in the Bible. Deuteronomy 24 appears to presuppose that the delivery of a sefer keritut by the husband is by then normal. The oral formula of rejection (Hos. 2:4) may well have given way to this documentary form,105 not least to avoid the kind of marital complications attributed to both Moses and Samson. Yet the fact that such procedures are presupposed in a text of religious law, and even the fact that the oral formula is used in the marriage metaphor describing the relationship between Israel and God (as well as being evidenced, as we have noted, at Elephantine106), does not in itself entail the view that the basic procedures of marriage and divorce were themselves already regarded as matters of religious law. Deuteronomy 24, as already observed, is not concerned primarily with the criteria of or procedures for divorce, though these are mentioned incidentally. Its object is to ban palingamy, but it supports this with a religious motive clause: the woman is ‘defiled’ and taking her back is an ‘abomination’ which brings guilt upon the promised land. But why is the woman ‘defiled’ and what is the ‘abomination’, and why? Brewer suggests that the ‘abomination’ consists in the moral hypocrisy of the man, in that such a ‘remarriage would involve abrogating a sacred vow’.107 However, he provides no evidence of any such ‘sacred vow’ taken in constituting marriage. The only text suggestive of such is Ezek. 16:8: ‘And when I passed by you, and looked upon you, behold, your time was the time of love; and I spread my skirt over you, and covered your nakedness; yes, I swore to you, and entered into a covenant with you, says the Lord God, and you became mine.’108 But such a later text, standing alone, and reflecting the theological metaphor of marriage, does not appear to be strong evidence.109 105 Perdue, ‘Family’, 186, suggests that the (delivery of) the written document may have been accompanied by utterance of the oral formula, in the presence of witnesses. But there is no evidence to support this. 106 Supra n. 39. 107 D.I. Brewer, ‘Deuteronomy 24:1–4 and the Origin of the Jewish Divorce Certificate’, JJS 44/2 (1998), 230–43, at 234. 108 Falk, Hebrew Law, 148, regards this as reflecting general custom. He cites in support Mal. 2:14, discussed below (which mentions a covenant, but no oath) and Prov. 2:17, where the berit eloheyha which the woman forgets does not appear to be a covenant of marriage. 109 See also the remarks of Burrows, Basis, 32, pointing out the distance between the prophetic metaphor and the social institution, in that any marriage contract was made not with the woman but rather her father or brother.
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110 Cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 145f., noting that the original husband would here be suspected of being complicit in a relationship with the second partner which may have been originally adulterous. Taking this together with the ‘economic’ interpretation favoured above (supra at nn. 87–90), this would indeed come close to the husband’s having ‘prostituted’ his wife, and Tosato, Matrimonio, 142ff., seeks to understand it in that context. 111 Mishnah Sotah 5:1, Sotah 18b, 27b, Ketubot 9a, since she was now sexually forbidden to her husband, though there is no trace of this in the Hebrew Bible: cf. Tosato, Matrimonio, 210. D.W. Amram, ‘Adultery’, The Jewish Encyclopedia (New York 1925), I.217, relates this to the abolition of capital punishment under Roman rule. It is plausibly argued that this is the background to Matthew’s allowing divorce in case of porneia: E. Lövestam, ‘Divorce and Remarriage in the New Testament’, The Jewish Law Annual 4 (1981), 47–65, at 59f., on Matt. 5:31–2, 19:9. Cf., earlier, Mace, Hebrew Marriage, 250. Mace, at 241, goes further, in suggesting that the wife’s adultery originally in itself terminated the marriage, but his argument does not support this conclusion, and ultimately he reformulates it (at 250) as: ‘Adultery … dissolved a marriage by theoretically bringing about the execution of the wife.’ 112 The economic interpretation of adultery itself is emphasised by Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 61f., noting particularly be‘ulat ba‘al in Deut. 22:22.
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Another possibility is that the to‘evah in Deuteronomy 24 is the hypocrisy of the woman, who was initially divorced because of adultery (so interpreting ‘ervat davar), then entered into a second marriage (impliedly, with the lover with whom she committed adultery), and now wishes to return to her former husband,110 perhaps having for this purpose engineered the ‘hatred’ of the second husband. Rabbinic law did later make divorce of an adulterous wife mandatory.111 Should we perhaps argue for a similar motivation for the biblical law: the wife cannot go back to her original husband, to whom she has been unfaithful, simply by the device of contracting an intermediate marriage, particularly one with the lover with whom she had had adulterous relations? But even this would not entail our accepting a sacral conception of marriage at this stage. The ban on remarriage may be viewed simply as reinforcing the traditional authority of the husband: the wife must realize that any infidelity will permanently sever her economic claims on her first husband. Thus, the substantive concerns of Deuteronomy 24, like the other laws already mentioned, are either adultery or economic abuse of marriage.112 The terminology of justification in Deuteronomy 24 is not dissimilar to that in Leviticus 18 in relation to prohibited degrees: the act is an ‘abomination’ (to‘evah) which brings guilt upon the land promised by God as an inheritance. Leviticus 18 spells out the underlying logic more explicitly: Israel is subject to a form of divine talionic justice: just as it expelled the original inhabitants from the land because of their commission of these sins, so too will the Israelites be
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113
Cf. Schenker, ‘Incest’, arguing that the motive clause ‘roots the commandments of Leviticus 18–20 into the Pentateuchal narrative. At the same time it explains why the promise and gift of the land to Israel at the expense of the resident population is not unjust … All this reflects the same conception as Gen 15:16’ (at 177); ‘For this redaction the whole narrative context implied begins with the promise of the land and ends with the land which has vomited out its autochthonous populations …’ (at 183). Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 75, arguing that the priestly definitions of consanguinity and affinity ‘were also dictated by anxiety to make a clean distinction between Israel and its more permissive neighbours.’ 114 Jackson, Studies, ch. 9. 115 Schenker, ‘Incest’, 176–9. 116 Schenker, ‘Incest’, 178. He also argues, at n. 34, that the prohibition of mixed marriages between Israelites and non-Israelites is already implied in the incest prohibitions of Leviticus 18 and 20, ‘since other nations may observe other incest rules, and thus bring sexual relationships into the Israelite families that do not correspond to the Israelite laws’. I do not think we can go that far: even before the ban on such mixed marriages, it is logically possible to permit them subject to the prohibitions of Leviticus 18 and 20. Schenker is right, however, in regarding such mixed marriages as a potential threat to the Levitical prohibitions, so that the latter may form part of the historical background to Ezra’s ban. On Ezra 9:11–12, see further below.
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expelled if they commit the same. Moreover, the narrative theology in the background makes more understandable this link between breaches of family law and expulsion from the land: God’s promise to Abraham was twofold: that there would be a people descended from Abraham, and that this people would inherit the land.113 But the narrative repeatedly stresses that mere descent from Abraham is not a sufficient condition of benefiting from this covenant: in one generation after another, particular groups of descendant are excluded for misbehaviour.114 Misbehaviour which casts doubt on the legitimacy of descent is particularly appropriately visited with withdrawal of the divine promise of land. Schenker has argued recently that the motive clause in Lev. 18:24–32 itself represents a late redaction.115 He notes also that the only other Biblical text which presents the promised land as completely defiled by its earlier residents is Ezra 9:11–12.116 It is thus quite possible to regard both the motive clause of Deuteronomy 24 and that of Leviticus 18 as reflecting the ideology of Ezra’s reform, and dating from that period. An even more direct connection with this theology underlies another aspect of family law, the rules of succession. We have two texts concerning intestate succession, but both, on examination, do not appear motivated by a sense of the religious character of family law as such, but rather by these more particular considerations. The law stated in the case of the daughters of Zelophehad (Numbers 27)
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117
Indeed, the Rabbis themselves conceded that the marital restriction (within the tribe) imposed in Numbers 36 related only to that generation: Baba Batra 120a; Rashbam ad loc. The implementation of the decision, as regards the allocation of the land, is recorded in Josh. 17:3–4. 118 Gen. 48:3–19, 49:3–4; 1 Chron. 5:1–2. Cf. C.M. Carmichael, Law and Narrative in the Bible (Ithaca 1985), 142–5. 119 Hosea’s use of the marriage metaphor may well reflect some aspects of contemporary practice: the woman appears to have the freedom to leave her husband (whether she actually divorces him in this text is less clear), and the procedure is undoubtedly not that of the sefer keritut of Deut. 24:1–3. 120 See further Grelot, ‘Institution’, 45f. 121 Though the use of metaphor as an analytical framework of explanation requires far more nuanced application than it conventionally receives. See further D.H. Aaron, Biblical Ambiguities. Metaphor. Semantics and Divine Imagery (Boston 2002).
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occurs in the context of the imminent entry to and division of the promised land.117 It is not to be assumed, then, that there was originally any religious understanding that the whole of the estate of a deceased should be distributed amongst the sons alone, to the exclusion of the daughters. Recall the conclusion to the book of Job (42:15): ‘And in all the land there were no women so fair as Job’s daughters; and their father gave them inheritance among their brothers.’ Again, the law of primogeniture (Deut. 21:15–17) does not state, straightforwardly, that the oldest son receives a double portion; rather it says that he is not to be excluded from that double portion (in favour of a younger son), merely because he is the son of a wife who is in (relative) disfavour with the husband. In short, we have here a contest between the sons of different co-wives. The situation described by the law fits like a glove that of the succession to Jacob, who passed over his firstborn son (Reuven, son of Leah), in favour of Joseph (son of Rachel), by adopting the latter’s two sons, Ephraim and Menasseh, and giving each a portion equal to that of their uncles.118 Ephraim and Menasseh, of course, figure as two of the twelve tribes. It may well be, therefore, that this law, like that of the daughters of Zelophehad, is concerned primarily with the allocation of the promised land, rather than with the institution of succession in general. Yet despite all this, we do find a certain form of sacralization of the notion of marriage in relatively early sources. Already in the eighth century, Hosea depicts the relationship between God and Israel in terms of a marriage where the wife has been unfaithful119 (but ultimately is forgiven and taken back120). It is understandable that an image of human unfaithfulness is used as a metaphor for unfaithfulness to God.121 But though God’s relationship with Israel
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is here re-established through a berit122 (2:18) — and Hosea (4:2) appears to invoke the Decalogue prohibition of adultery — human marriage is not yet itself conceived in terms of a berit, and certainly not one with sacral connotations. However, the later prophetic use of the marriage metaphor, as we find it in Malachi, is significantly different from that of Hosea: here, the marriage itself is a covenant and God is a witness to it (2:14): Because the LORD was witness to the covenant between you and the wife of your youth, to whom you have been faithless, though she is your companion and your wife by covenant (ve’eshet beriteykha).
For we have forsaken thy commandments, which thou didst command by thy servants the prophets, saying, ‘The land which you are entering, to take possession of it, is a land unclean with the pollutions of the peoples of the lands, with their abominations (beto‘avoteyhem) which have filled it from end to end with their uncleanness. Therefore give not your daughters to their sons, neither take their daughters for your sons…’
The source of this earlier prophetic admonition is not preserved, but Ezra is clearly claiming, like some modern commentators,125 that
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Malachi is often dated to the period of Ezra and Nehemiah,123 and it is there that we find, in the combination of political/juridical and religious authority enjoyed by Ezra, the most likely context for the beginnings of the sacralisation of the institution of marriage itself: with his combination of secular power and religious authority (though he is depicted as using here only the latter), Ezra bans intermarriage124 and requires the divorce of foreign wives. Yet the religious reform of Ezra, prompted by inter-marriage and the religious problems seen to accompany it, is more evocative of earlier biblical tradition than of the future rabbinic development. Ezra confesses to God (Ezra 9:10– 12):
122
Which functions to restore a relationship after a dispute also in other contexts: see Jackson, Studies, 254. 123 Indeed, Perdue, ‘Family’, 187, suggests that his condemnation of the frequency of divorce ‘may be reacting against this endogamous decree’ (of Ezra). 124 Ezra 9–10, cf. Neh. 10:31; some, e.g. Piattelli, ‘Marriage Contract’, 68f., have viewed the story of Ruth as a polemic opposed to this view of mixed marriages. 125 Falk, Hebrew Law, 132–3, citing Exod. 34:11–16, Deut. 7:1–5. In both sources, we may note, the feared intermarriage (with foreign women in Exodus, with foreign men or women in Deuteronomy) is consequent upon entering into a general covenant. We may recall the proposal of Hamor to Jacob in Gen. 34:8–10. Blenkinsopp, ‘Family’, 78, comments on the ‘resistance to marriage with women outside 250
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Address for correspondence:
[email protected]
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there was an ancient ban on (or at least criticism of 126) intermarriage dating from the period of the conquest, and designed to avoid the religious assimilation which intermarriage was feared to bring. Ezra’s approach is still to give a religious sanction, supported by the motivation of retention of the land to which the exiles had now returned, to the breach of an institutive rule of marriage, and he does so not by enacting a new general law of marriage, but rather by accepting the proposal of the community leadership to covenant (Ezra 10:3) to dispense with their foreign wives and their children, a proposal which Ezra accepts by extracting from them an oath (Ezra 10:5).127 Could this covenant then be transformed from the instrument for enforcing a particular prohibition related to marriage into Malachi’s account of the very nature of marriage itself ?128 Or is it Malachi’s conception which has prompted Ezra’s use of a covenant in this context? Clearly, the divine metaphor of God’s marriage with Israel has played a role in strengthening the human institution of marriage and laying the foundation for its later, more systematic juridification in the halakhah. This is no isolated phenomenon. Images of divine justice, I argue elsewhere, play a crucial role in strengthening the institutionalization of human law.129
the kinship group that keeps cropping up throughout the history (e.g., Ex. 24:16; Deut. 7:3–4; Proverbs 1–9).’ Yet the traditions of out-marriage by leading figures (not least, Moses) were not suppressed: supra, at n. 30. See further Tosato, Matrimonio, 210 n.95; Perdue, ‘Family’, 217f. n.64. 126 See Grelot, ‘Institution’, 42, on Deut. 17:17 as directed against the religious problems resulting from foreign wives in the royal harem. 127 Cf. Nehemiah’s use of a curse and an oath, Neh. 10:29, 13:25, in support of an obligation to avoid intermarriage (with both foreign men and women) in the future. 128 On which, see further A. Tosato, ‘Il ripudio: delitto e pena (Mal 2,10–16)’, Biblica 59 (1978), 548–53. 129 ‘Human Law” supra n. 3; ‘Human Law and Divine Justice: Towards the Institutionalisation of Halakhah’, JSIJ 9 (2010), 1–25, available at http://www.biu. ac.il/JS/JSIJ/9-2010/Jackson.pdf. 251
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr003 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
CAN A POSITIVE RHETORICAL QUESTION HAVE A POSITIVE ANSWER IN THE BIBLE?1 ADINA MOSHAVI HEBREW UNIVERSITY
Abstract
Introduction The rhetorical question (henceforth RQ) is a well-known phenomenon in Biblical Hebrew, occurring widely in both prose and poetic texts. A precise description of the rhetorical question distinguishes between semantic, syntactic and pragmatic aspects of the question. From the semantic perspective, a question is a sentence that defines a group of possible answers.2 Questions are ordinarily expressed by the syntactic clause type known as the interrogative. On the prag-
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Rhetorical questions (RQs) function pragmatically as assertions whose content is the implied answer to the question. A cross-linguistic trait of the yes-no RQ also observed in the Bible is the reversed polarity of the implied answer: positive RQs imply negative assertions. There is a small group of positive questions in the Bible that resemble RQs, yet the answer to the question is positive rather than negative. Three theories regarding these questions have been suggested: 1) RQs in Biblical Hebrew need not have reversed polarity; 2) the questions express strong affirmations; 3) the questions have the sense of exclamations. In this paper it is argued that none of these theories is convincing. The concept of the conducive, or biased question is introduced to explain the aberrant questions. Nearly all of the questions are shown to be conducive questions with the functions of seeking confirmation or expressing surprise, and as such are expected to have positive rather than negative answers.
1 An earlier version of this paper was presented at the 25th Meeting of the Israeli Linguistics Society, Bar Ilan University, February 17th 2009. I would like to thank Richard Steiner and Ruth Burstein for reading and commenting on a draft of this article. My thanks also go to Michael Segal for his helpful comments. 2 See R. Huddleston, ‘Clause Type and Illocutionary Force’, in R.D. Huddleston and G.K. Pullum in collab. with L. Bauer et al. (eds), The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language (Cambridge 2002), 865.
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3 See C. Han, ‘Interpreting Interrogatives as Rhetorical Questions’, Lingua 112 (2002), 201; C. Ilie, What Else Can I Tell You? A Pragmatic Study of English Rhetorical Questions as Discursive and Argumentative Acts (Stockholm Studies in English 82, Stockholm 1994), 45; I. Koshik, Beyond Rhetorical Questions: Assertive Questions in Everyday Interaction (Philadelphia 2005), 2; R. Quirk et al., A Contemporary Grammar of the English Language (London 1985), 825; H. Rohde, ‘Rhetorical Questions as Redundant Interrogatives’, San Diego Linguistics Papers 2 (2006), 134–68; J. Schmidt-Radefeldt, ‘On So-Called ‘Rhetorical’ Questions’, Journal of Pragmatics 1 (1977), 376–7. 4 See E.N. Pope, ‘Questions and Answers in English’, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation (MIT 1972), 45; Quirk et al., Comprehensive Grammar, 1478; Rohde, ‘Rhetorical Questions’. 5 See Pope, ‘Questions and Answers’, 46–7; Quirk et al., Comprehensive Grammar, 825; J.M. Sadock, ‘Queclaratives’, in Papers from the Seventh Regional Meeting of the Chicago Linguistics Society (Chicago Linguistics Society 1971), 223–32; P. Siemund, ‘Interrogative Constructions’, in M. Haspelmath et al. (eds), Language Typology and Language Universals: An International Handbook, II (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 20, Berlin 2001), 1026. Siemund writes ‘arguably, rhetorical questions can be found in all languages and they also appear to be functioning in a comparable manner’ (p. 1026). There is a distinctive type of RQ in English whose answer does not have reversed polarity; this is used exclusively as a retort, e.g., ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ The retort implies that the answer to the RQ (‘yes’) is the obvious answer to a previous question. For discussion see D. Schaffer, ‘Can Rhetorical Questions Function as Retorts? Is the Pope Catholic?’, Journal of Pragmatics 37 (2005), 433–60.
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matic level, questions usually function as requests for information. RQs do not differ from ordinary questions on the semantic and syntactic levels, but on the pragmatic level, they are not requests for information, as the speaker already knows the answer to the question and does not expect the addressee to reply. RQs function pragmatically as assertions whose content is the implied answer to the question.3 They convey to the addressee that the answer to the question is, or should be obvious;4 Isn’t the sky blue? is a fine RQ, but Isn’t it going to rain at precisely 3:45 tomorrow afternoon? is not. RQs can be yes-no questions, as in the former example, or content questions, such as Who could do such a thing? A trait of the yes-no RQ that has been observed in many languages is the reversed polarity of the implied answer: positive RQs imply negative assertions, and negative RQs imply positive assertions.5 Thus Are you the president? implies ‘You are obviously not the president’. Yes-no RQs in the Bible on the whole conform to the reversedpolarity rule. E.g., Gen. 30:2 ‘Am I in the place of God?’ implies ‘I am not in the place of God’. There is, however, a small group of biblical questions that resemble RQs in that the speaker already knows the answer to the question, yet the question does not have
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reversed polarity. The following are the most clear-cut instances that have been cited by scholars discussing the phenomenon:6 המן העץ אשר צויתיך לבלתי אכל ממנו אכלת Did you eat of the tree from which I had forbidden you to eat? (Gen. 3:11)7 הכי קרא שמו יעקב ויעקבני זה פעמים Was he named Jacob that he might supplant me these two times? (Gen. 27:36) ובחר אתו מכל:הנגלה נגליתי אל בית אביך בהיותם במצרים לבית פרעה …שבטי ישראל לי לכהן Did I reveal Myself to your father’s house in Egypt when they were subject to the House of Pharaoh, and choose them from among all the tribes of Israel to be My priests…? (1 Sam. 2:27–8)
6
The list has been collated from C. Brockelmann, Hebräische Syntax (Neukirchen 1956), §54a; R. Gordis, ‘A Rhetorical Use of Interrogative Sentences in Biblical Hebrew’, AJSL 49 (1933), 212–17; GKC §150e; P. Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew, rev. Eng. edn (Subsidia Biblica 27, Rome 2006), §161b; R. Meyer, Hebräische Grammatik, III: Satzlehre 3 (Sammlung Goschen 5765, Berlin 1969), §111 2c; L.J. de Regt, ‘Discourse Implications of Rhetorical Questions in Job, Deuteronomy and the Minor Prophets’, in L.J. de Regt et al. (eds), Literary Structure and Rhetorical Strategies in the Hebrew Bible (Assen 1996), 60–4; B.K. Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, IN 1990), 684. Additional, more dubious examples of apparently rhetorical questions cited by these scholars are discussed briefly below. 7 The text for the study is the MT, as represented in BHS. Translations are my own, based primarily on NJPS and NRSV. 8 The question in 1 Sam. 10:24 is asked when Saul stands before the people, head and shoulders above the rest; thus clearly the answer is ‘Yes, we see’. The positive nature of the answer is particularly clear in the verses from Ezek. 8:12 and 15, in which God tells Ezekiel to look at particular objects, Ezekiel looks, and then God says ‘Do you see?’ In 2 Kgs 6:32 ‘Do you see that this murderer has sent someone to take off my head’, it is not entirely clear that the answer is positive, as Elijah is apparently privy to the information by prophecy and has no reason to think the addressees are aware of the information as well. Somewhat different is 2 Sam. 15:27 הרואה אתה, whose syntactic structure and meaning have been the subject of debate. For the various emendations that have been proposed for the verse, and a defence of MT, see J. Hoftijzer, ‘A Peculiar Question: A Note on 2 Sam XV 27’, VT (1971), 606–9. The clause appears to be used in a similar manner to the imperative forms ראו/‘ ראהSee!’ which draw attention to the following remark, as in Gen. 31:50 ‘See, God is witness between you and me’ (Hoftijzer, ‘Peculiar Question’, 608).
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הראיתם אשר בחר בו י׳ Do you see the one whom the Lord has chosen? (1 Sam. 10:24; similarly 1 Sam. 17:25; 1 Kgs 20:13, 21:29; 2 Kgs 6:32; Jer. 3:6; Ezek. 8:12, 15, 17; 47:6.)8
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האתה זה עכר ישראל Is that you, troubler of Israel? (1 Kgs 18:17) הרצחת וגם ירשת Have you murdered and also taken possession? (1 Kgs 21:19) הידעתם כי לנו רמת גלעד ואנחנו מחשים מקחת אתה מיד מלך ארם Do you know that Ramoth-gilead belongs to us, and yet we do nothing to recover it from the hands of the king of Aram? (1 Kgs 22:3)
הבן יקיר לי אפרים אם ילד שעשועים Is Ephraim a dear son to Me? Is he a child I delight in? (Jer. 31:20) הזבחים ומנחה הגשתם לי במדבר ארבעים שנה בית ישראל Did you bring me sacrifices and offerings those forty years in the wilderness, O house of Israel? (Amos 5:25)
In a number of the verses cited the meaning of the question is unclear (Hag. 2:19; Job 41:1).11 In the remaining verses the apparent answer 9
Although the matched-polarity category also includes negative questions with negative expected answers (e.g., Exod. 10:7), I am unaware of any such questions that have been claimed to be rhetorical. 10 For the interpretation of Jer. 31:20 as a reversed-polarity question with a negative answer, see E. Greenstein, ‘Some Developments in the Study of Language and Some Implications for Interpreting Ancient Texts and Cultures’, in S. Izre’el (ed.), Semitic Linguistics: The State of the Art at the Turn of the Twenty-First Century (Israel Oriental Studies 20, Winona Lake, IN 2002), 452; M. Held, ‘Rhetorical Questions in Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew’, Eretz Israel 9 (1969), 79; B. Kedar, ‘The Interpretation of Rhetorical Questions’, in M. Fishbane and E. Tov (eds) with assistance of W.W. Fields, Sha‘arei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon (Winona Lake, IN 1992), 149–50 (Hebr. section); A. van Selms, ‘Motivated Interrogative Sentences in Biblical Hebrew’, Semitics 2 (1971–2), 143–9. For Amos 5:25 as a reversed-polarity question, see Kedar (‘Interpretation’, 150) and de Regt (‘Discourse Implications’, 63–4). For a survey of the interpretations that have been offered for this verse see W.R. Harper, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Amos and Hosea (Edinburgh 1905), 136–7. Other cited instances that may not actually have matched polarity are Jon. 4:4; Job 15:11, 20:4. 11 In Hag. 2:19 the meaning, and similarly the answer to the question, is unclear. Job 41:1 has a positive answer but the meaning is unclear and the text is widely considered difficult.
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In these verses the speaker is well-aware of the answer and does not expect the addressee to reply, but the question as well as the implied answer are positive, i.e., the question has matched polarity.9 Additional questions, mostly from poetic texts, have also been cited as instances of this phenomenon, but these are problematic for various reasons. In some of the verses cited, most notably Jer. 31:20 and Amos 5:25, the question may actually have a negative rather than a positive answer:10
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is positive but is not known without a doubt by the speaker, and hence the question is not even apparently rhetorical (Job 4:2, 6:26, 13:25, 35:2; Ruth 1:19).12 The ensuing discussion is therefore restricted to the clearer instances listed earlier. Although quite rare, apparently rhetorical matched-polarity questions in the Bible have attracted attention since at least the medieval period.13 Three distinct hypotheses regarding the questions can be isolated in the modern scholarly literature: 1) the apparently rhetorical matched-polarity questions are indeed RQs, which in Biblical Hebrew need not have reversed polarity; 2) the apparently rhetorical questions express strong affirmations; 3) the apparently rhetorical questions have the sense of exclamations. In this paper it is argued that none of these theories provides a convincing explanation of the apparently rhetorical questions. The three hypotheses are first shown to be insufficiently grounded from the linguistic perspective. Next, the questions in the list above are examined individually to determine the most plausible contextual interpretation of the question. It is shown that in nearly all cases the questions are conducive, or biased questions. The conducive question is a question which is not neutral, but expects a particular answer.14 Conducive questions can seek confirmation (Has the boat left already?), express surprise (Aren’t you ashamed of yourself∞?), or seek agreement (Don’t you think this is a bad idea?). Although many conducive questions elicit answers from the addressee, others do not, particularly when the speaker is relatively certain regarding the expected answer. Unlike the rhetorical question, which has been consistently shown to have reversed polarity across languages, several types of conducive questions have matched polarity. The conducive question is widespread in Biblical Hebrew and typically attracts little attention; in fact, it has hardly been 12
These belong to the conducive question category, as defined below. Rashi’s commentary on Gen. 17:17 contains the following generalization concerning apparently rhetorical matched-polarity questions: ‘There are questions ([ )תמיהותabout things] which are true’ (translations of Rashi and other classical Jewish commentators are based on the texts in M. Cohen [ed.], Mikra’ot Gedolot ha-Keter: A Revised and Augmented Scientific Edition of ‘Mikra’ot Gedolot’, Based on the Aleppo Codex and Early Medieval MSS [Ramat Gan 1990–2007] [Hebrew]). The comment is restated in his commentaries on Isa. 29:16; Ezek. 14:3; Hab. 1:17, 3:8; the commentary on Gen. 17:17 also cites 1 Sam. 2:27 as an additional example of the phenomenon. It is impossible to tell whether Rashi understood these questions as rhetorical or having some other nuance, since he uses the terms תמיהand תמיהה to refer to ordinary questions as well as rhetorical ones. KimÌi’s and Gersonides’s views on the interpretation of such questions are discussed below. 14 See below for references and further discussion. 13
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discussed as a distinct kind of question in that language. Special factors which seem to have led scholars to view the apparently rhetorical questions as different from run-of-the-mill conducive questions will be discussed in relation to each question, where applicable. The Three Hypotheses
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The Rhetorical Hypothesis The rhetorical hypothesis is presented most fully in Gordis, who notes a number of exceptions to the usual use of the negative RQ to express a positive answer.15 According to Gordis RQs may not have reversed polarity when the speaker has an unusually high degree of certitude regarding the truth of the implied assertion. Such a question may relate to an obvious extra-linguistic situation (e.g., 1 Sam. 17:25 ‘Do you [not] see the man…’), or may express an ‘inner conviction’ of a prophet (e.g., 1 Sam. 2:27 ‘Have I [not truly] revealed myself…’) Meyer’s grammar implies a form of the rhetorical hypothesis, stating simply that a RQ which expects a positive answer may have הלאor ה.16 De Regt states similarly that RQs with הsometimes imply a positive answer, and discusses a number of examples from Job.17 While Meyer and de Regt do not explain why some RQs have matched rather than reversed polarity, Gordis offers a ‘psychological explanation’ of the phenomenon. According to Gordis, a speaker who wishes his question to imply a positive answer inserts the negative particle by convention as a means of manipulating the listener to agree with the assertion. Thus a speaker who wants the listener to agree that the house is beautiful formulates the question as Is not the house beautiful? in order to ‘permit his listeners the pleasurable function of contradicting his superficial statement by replying, in effect; “You imply that the house is not beautiful. On the contrary, it is beautiful.”’ In extreme circumstances, according to Gordis, the reversed-polarity convention is dispensed with: ‘when the speaker is animated by an all-powerful certainty of the truth of his contentions, so that he feels it inconceivable for anyone to differ, he can neglect this sop to the ego of his audience’.18 15
Gordis, ‘Rhetorical Use’, 212, 215–17. Meyer, Hebräische Grammatik, §111 2c. 17 These are 4:2, 6:26, 11:2, 13:25, 15:11, 20:4, 35:3, 41:1, ‘and possibly’ 22:2–3 and 36:19; on these see notes 11–12, above. De Regt admits that Job 6:26 can be seen as having a negative answer on a certain level (‘Discourse Implications’, 62). 18 Gordis, ‘Rhetorical Use’, 214. 16
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The Asseverative Hypothesis A somewhat different treatment is found in GKC. After a discussion of the RQ, a separate remark draws attention to ‘a few passages…in which the use of the interrogative is altogether different from our idiom’.19 The interrogative in these verses according to GKC ‘serves merely to express the conviction that the contents of the statement are well known to the hearer, and are unconditionally admitted by him’. As examples GKC cites a number of apparently rhetorical matched-polarity questions, as well as other questions not of this type.20 Glosses supplied feature modal adverbs expressing certainty, as in Gen. 27:36 ‘Of a truth he is rightly named Jacob’; 1 Sam. 2:27 ‘I did indeed’; 1 Kgs 22:3 ‘Ye know surely…’. A functional distinc19
GKC §150e. Included in the list are clauses with הלאthat appear to be negative questions used as positive assertions, e.g., Deut. 11:30 ‘ הלאthey are on the other side of the Jordan’; 1 Sam. 23:19 ‘ הלאDavid is hiding among us in the strongholds of Horesh’ and the formula ‘ הלאthey are written’ (1 Kgs 11:41, 14:29, etc.) Even on the face of it, these clauses are not relevant to our discussion because they have reversed rather than matched polarity. In fact, these and similar clauses are not questions at all from the synchronic point of view. הלאin these clauses is a clausal adverb with a presentative function, rather than the combination of the interrogative and negative particles; see M.L. Brown, ‘Is it Not?’ or ‘Indeed!’: HL in Northwest Semitic’, Maarav 4 (1987) 201–19; A. Moshavi, ‘Syntactic Evidence for a Clausal Adverb הלאin Biblical Hebrew’, JNSL 33 (2007), 51–63; A. Moshavi, ‘Rhetorical Question or Assertion? The Pragmatics of הלאin Biblical Hebrew’, JANES 32 (forthcoming); D. Sivan and W. Schniedewind, ‘Letting Your ‘Yes’ Be ‘No’ in Ancient Israel: A Study of the Asseverative לאand ’הלֺא, ֲ JSS 38 (1993), 209–26.
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Consideration of this explanation makes it evident that Gordis employs a loose conception of the RQ that does not accord with the definition presented earlier. The question Is not the house beautiful? does not make a self-evident assertion, ‘Clearly the house is beautiful’, but asks a genuine question, i.e. ‘I think the house is beautiful, don’t you agree?’ This is a classic conducive question of the type used to seek agreement (see below). Although the psychological explanation suggested by Gordis is not entirely implausible as applied to the conducive question, it is considerably less persuasive applied to the RQ, which always involves an assertion which is obvious to the speaker. The apparently rhetorical questions with matched polarity do not involve a higher degree of certainty than other RQs with reversed polarity, such as Gen. 18:14 ‘Is anything too wondrous for the Lord?’ Significantly, evidence is lacking in other languages for a phenomenon comparable to the one posited by Gordis.
20
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The Exclamatory Hypothesis Joüon-Muraoka states that ‘ הsometimes has an exclamatory nuance, which on account of its relative infrequency, goes easily unnoticed’.23 The following is a sample of the verses cited, with the glosses given 21
Brockelmann, Hebräische Syntax, §54a. A more extreme form of the asseverative hypothesis was proposed by KimÌi, who writes on Gen. 27:35, ‘The הis for affirmation, like the הof “Have you murdered and also taken possession” (1 Kgs 21:19)’. The formulation suggests, although it is not entirely unequivocal, that KimÌi is positing a separate particle הexpressing asseveration, rather than a specialized use of the interrogative; in that case the asseverative clause is not a question even on the semantic level. In his commentary on 1 Sam. 2:27, written earlier than the Genesis commentary, KimÌi cites the asseverative interpretation only to reject it, arguing instead that the questions are conversation openers, used even in circumstances where the answer is known. Gersonides is more explicit than KimÌi in differentiating an asseverative particle from interrogative ה, stating with regard to 1 Sam. 2:27: ‘This is not interrogative הbut affirmative ’ה. 23 Joüon and Muraoka §161b. The exclamatory use of הis also mentioned in the section on the exclamatory clause (§162).
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tion is apparently intended between RQs, which express obviousness, and matched-polarity questions, which have an asseverative function. A similar view is expressed succinctly by Brockelmann who states that questions with הsometimes express a ‘strong affirmation’.21 From the fact that GKC and Brockelmann discuss the asseverative usage in connection with interrogative ה, it can be assumed that they view asseveration as a specialized usage of the interrogative. Rephrased in contemporary linguistic terminology, it is claimed that the matched-polarity questions are questions on the semantic level but express strong affirmations on the pragmatic level.22 It can be seen that the difference between the rhetorical and the asseverative hypotheses is quite subtle, since RQs also typically express strong assertions, e.g., Gen. 18:25 ‘Shall the Judge of all the earth not do what is just?’ (= ‘Surely the Judge of all the earth shall do what is just’). Given the close relation between the RQ and the asseveration, it stands to reason that if an asseverative usage of the interrogative exists, it would have developed from the RQ by means of a pragmatic shift from the implication of obviousness to the implication of certainty. But in that case it is inexplicable why the asseverative question does not have reversed polarity like the RQ. The lack of a plausible mechanism for the development of matched polarity in asseverative questions makes this hypothesis an unlikely one, in the absence of convincing contextual evidence in its support.
22
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מה טבו אהליך יעקב How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob! (Num. 24:5) איך נפלו גיבורים How the mighty have fallen! (2 Sam. 1:25)26
Given this phenomenon, it would seem a short leap from interrogative ‘ הis it?’ to exclamatory ‘it is!’ Evaluating this proposal requires a closer look at exclamative clauses and exclamations. The exclamative clause is a sentence type 24
Waltke and O’Connor, Introduction, 684. Joüon and Muraoka §161b, n. 3. 26 Exclamative sentences like these are clearly distinguished from the RQ, notwithstanding Joüon-Muraoka’s (§162a) comment that ‘the line between question and exclamation is often ill-defined’. Exclamations do not express a question even on the semantic level, and have different pragmatic implications. The rhetorical ‘How will this fellow save us?’ (1 Sam. 10:27) implies ‘This fellow cannot save us’, while the exclamation ‘How awesome is this place’ (Gen. 28:17) implies ‘This place is very awesome’. Furthermore, there are clear syntactic differences between interrogative and exclamatory מה, as pointed out by Steiner, ‘On the Original Structure and Meaning of Mah Nishtanna and the History of its Reinterpretation’, Jewish Studies: An Internet Journal 7 (2008), 22–3: מהin exclamations functions as an adverb of degree (e.g., Num. 24:5, above), while מהin questions is usually a pronoun (e.g., 1 Sam. 20:1 ‘What did I do?’) or a pro-adverb of manner (e.g., Gen. 44:16 ‘How can we prove our innocence?’)
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there: Gen. 3:11 ‘You have indeed eaten!’; 1 Sam. 2:27 ‘Certainly I have revealed myself to your father’s house!’; 1 Kgs 18:17 ‘Here you are, destroyer of Israel!’; Amos 5:25 ‘Indeed, you offered me sacrifices and oblations in the wilderness!’; Hag. 2:19 ‘Surely the seed is still in the barn!’ Although many of these glosses resemble those given by GKC in that they contain modal adverbs like ‘indeed’ and ‘certainly’, their central facet is an exclamatory sense, indicated by the exclamation point. Joüon-Muraoka’s interpretation is adopted by WaltkeO’Connor, who cite Amos 5:25 as an example.24 Joüon-Muraoka and Waltke-O’Connor do not go so far as asserting that there is an exclamatory הdistinct from interrogative ;הthey apparently view the exclamatory meaning as a specialized usage of the interrogative particle. Joüon-Muraoka justify the exclamatory hypothesis by analogy to exclamative clauses in English and BH: ‘In speech, the same words are quite often used both for a question and an exclamation, e.g., What man? and What a man! How many are already dead? and How many are already dead!’25 They then note that in BH the interrogative pronoun ( מהwith the meaning ‘how’) and the adverb ‘ איךhow’ are used as exclamatory particles, as in the following:
25
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used to express the semantic category of the exclamation. Exclamations ‘express the speaker’s strong emotional reaction or attitude to some situation’.27 Exclamations relate to an extreme value on some scale, and express the speaker’s affective response to that value; for example, What a beautiful day! expresses that the day is extremely beautiful, and simultaneously indicates that the speaker finds this surprising or remarkable.28 The connection noted by Joüon-Muraoka between interrogative pronouns meaning ‘what’ or ‘how’ and exclamative clauses has been observed in a wide variety of languages.29 As Joüon-Muraoka might have additionally pointed out, the English yes-no question has an exclamatory usage that would seem to be an exact equivalent to the hypothesized biblical exclamations: Is it hot? vs. Is it hot!∞30 ExaminaHuddleston, ‘Clause Type’, 922. The element of surprise is seen by many as intrinsic to the exclamatory clause; see E. König and P. Siemund, ‘Speech Act Distinctions in Grammar’, in T. Shopen, Language Typology and Syntactic Description, I: Clause Structure2, (Cambridge 2007), 316; L.A. Michaelis, ‘Exclamative Constructions’, in M. Haspelmath et al. (eds), Language Typology and Language Universals: An International Handbook, II (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 20, Berlin 2001), 1038–41; R. Zanuttini and P. Portner ‘Exclamative Clauses: At the Syntax-Semantics Interface’, Language 79 (2003), 47. It would appear, however, that surprise is too narrow a conception for the attitudes that can be expressed by exclamations. Richard Steiner points out (personal communication) that exclamations like What a pain in the neck you are! seem to express vehemence rather than surprise. 29 Huddleston states that ‘it is a very widespread phenomenon in the world’s languages that exclamative clauses bear strong formal resemblance to open interrogatives’ (‘Clause Type’, 922); see also König and Siemund, ‘Speech Act Distinctions’, 317; J.M. Sadock and A.M. Zwicky, ‘Speech Act Distinctions in Syntax’, in T. Shopen (ed.), Language Typology and Syntactic Description, I: Clause Structure (Cambridge 1985), 162. In English the only interrogative particles that can be used in exclamations are what and how (Huddleston, ‘Clause Type’, 918). Exclamative clauses and interrogative clauses are distinguished in English on the syntactic level, as exclamative clauses do not exhibit the subject-auxiliary inversion found in interrogative clauses: What a game it was! vs. What game was it? (Huddleston, ‘Clause Type’, 920). In addition, exclamative clauses have a falling rather than a rising intonation contour (König and Siemund, ‘Speech Act Distinctions’, 317). On the relation between interrogatives and exclamatives in Biblical and modern Hebrew, see P.-I. Kirtchuk, ‘Question, Exclamation, Negation: Points of Contact’, in Y. Bentolila (ed.), Hadassah Shy Jubilee Book: Research Papers on Hebrew Linguistics and Jewish Languages (Eshel Beer-Sheva Occasional Publications in Jewish Studies 5, Beer Sheva 1997), 263–72 (Hebrew); P. Tromer, ‘Non-Questioning Interrogative Pronouns’, in Y. Shlesinger and M. Muchnik (eds), Studies in Modern Hebrew on the 30th Anniversary of the Israeli Association of Applied Linguistics (Jerusalem 2003), 123–39 (Hebrew). 30 See R. Huddleston, ‘On Exclamatory-Inversion Sentences in English’, Lingua 90 (1993), 259–69. According to Huddleston sentences like Is it hot! are syntacti28
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tion of exclamatory questions in English, however, reveals an important caveat: a yes-no question can be used to express an exclamation only if it relates to an extreme scalar value in the same way that a how/ what exclamative clause does. Is it hot! expresses that the speaker finds the degree of heat remarkable; the same idea can be formulated as an exclamative sentence, i.e., How hot it is!∞31 A glance at the verses cited by Joüon-Muraoka shows that they do not involve scalar values, and therefore cannot be expressed by syntactically exclamative clauses. Without the analogy to the exclamative clause, there is little evidence for asserting that interrogative clauses in Biblical Hebrew can have exclamatory meaning. It is noteworthy that the claimed exclamatory nuance seems artificial in more than a few of the verses cited.
In this section the conducive question type is examined as a prelude to a reexamination of apparently rhetorical questions with matched polarity. As stated above, conducive questions are questions that expect a particular answer.32 Conducive questions are found in most languages, but have been most extensively studied in English.33 Negcally indistinguishable from ordinary interrogative clauses, and are thus exclamatory but not syntactically exclamative; see also Huddleston, ‘Clause Type’, 923–4; Zanuttini and Portner ‘Exclamative Clauses’, 41. 31 Huddleston states that the implied meaning of the yes-no question ‘is close to that of the positive exclamative’ (‘Clause Type’, 923). 32 For the term ‘conducive’ see D.L. Bolinger, Interrogative Structures of American English: The Direct Question (Publication of the American Dialect Society 28, University, AL 1957), 94–164. Conducive questions are also known as ‘biased’ questions (Huddleston, ‘Clause Type’, 879–86; Pope, ‘Questions and Answers’, 48). The conducive question is different from the ‘leading’ question and the ‘loaded’ question which are often discussed in legal contexts. Leading questions are those that suggest the answer that the speaker wants to hear, e.g., ‘Weren’t you at the scene of the crime at 12:00 last night?’ Leading questions involve a desire on the part of the speaker for a particular answer, and are often used to manipulate the addressee’s response; conducive questions, in contrast, merely express the speaker’s prediction as to what the answer will be. Also distinct from the conducive question is the loaded question, which involves an incriminating assumption that has not been admitted to by the addressee, e.g., ‘Are you still beating your wife?’ Although many questions of these two types are also conducive, it is perfectly possible for a question to be conducive without being either leading or loaded. For further references on conducivity see n. 33, below. 33 On the presence of conducive questions in most languages see Sadock and Zwicky, ‘Speech Act Distinctions’, 180. Studies of conducivity in English and its discourse functions include W. Bublitz, ‘Conducive Yes-No Questions in English’, Lin-
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The Conducive Question in Biblical Hebrew
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ative yes-no questions are normally conducive, as in Didn’t he accept the money? (No, he didn’t.)34 Although positive yes-no questions are not marked for conducivity, they too can be conducive in appropriate contexts.35 Conducive questions are used for a number of different discourse functions. A number of functions characteristic of conducive questions in English have been shown to exist in Biblical Hebrew as well.36 Conducive questions frequently seek confirmation from the hearer for information that the speaker suspects or assumes to be true.37 The positive question used for confirmation has matched polarity, expecting a positive answer.38 Examples include:
ויאמר דוד אל עבדיו המת הילד ויאמרו מת And David said to his servants, ‘Is the child dead?’ And they said, ‘He is’. (2 Sam. 12:19) guistics 19 (1981), 851–70; R. Piazza, ‘The Pragmatics of Conducive Questions in Academic Discourse’, Journal of Pragmatics 34 (2002), 509–27; see also R.A. Hudson, ‘The Meaning of Questions’, Language 51 (1975), 17–18; F. Kiefer, ‘Yes-No Questions as Wh-Questions’, in J.R. Searle, F. Kiefer and M. Bierwisch (eds), Speech Act Theory and Pragmatics (Synthese Language Library 10, Dordrecht 1980), 98–9. Burstein discusses conducivity in modern Hebrew (R. Burstein, ‘Questions and Responses in Contemporary Hebrew: A Syntactic-Semantic [and Pragmatic] Approach’, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation [Bar Ilan University 1999], 38–9, 56 [Hebrew]). 34 See Quirk et al., ‘Comprehensive Grammar’, 808; Huddleston, ‘Clause Type‘, 883. 35 See Bublitz, ‘Conducive Yes-No Questions’, 860; Quirk et al., ‘Comprehensive Grammar’, 808. 36 See A. Moshavi, ‘Is That Your Voice, My Son David? Conducive Questions in Biblical Hebrew’, JNSL 36 (2010), 65–81. The discussion below summarizes the findings of that study, which is based on a comprehensive analysis of conducive questions in the prose portions of Genesis-Kings. The functions described here account for all but four questions in the corpus; additional functions identified are seeking agreement (2 Sam. 19:22) and conveying information (Judg. 18:14; 2 Kgs 2:3, 5). These two functions have reversed polarity, in contrast to the types discussed below. 37 Huddleston, ‘Clause Types’, 882; Sadock and Zwicky, ‘Speech Act Distinctions’, 180. 38 See Bublitz, ‘Conducive Yes-No Questions’, 857; Huddleston, ‘Clause Types’, 880. It should be noted that the speaker’s expectation and his desire need not match: the question Are you really going now? carries an expectation that the answer is ‘yes’, along with the hope that it is ‘no’.
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ויאמר המלך היד יואב אתך בכל זאת ותען האשה ותאמר… כי עבדך יואב הוא צוני והוא שם בפי שפחתך את כל הדברים האלה And the king said, ‘Was Joab’s hand with you in all of this?’ And the woman answered, ‘…Joab your servant was the one who commanded me, and he put all these words into the mouth of your servant’ (2 Sam. 14:19)
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Confirmatory conducive question frequently concern the addressee’s identity. Formulas with this function are X ‘ האתהAre you X?’ or X ‘ האתה זהIs that you, X?’39 The former formula is used when the speaker does not personally know the addressee: ויאמר לו האתה האיש אשר דברת אל האשה ויאמר אני And he said to him, ‘Are you the man who spoke to the woman?’ And he said, ‘I am’. (Judg. 13:11)40
The ‘Is that you, X’ formula is used when the speaker is trying to determine whether he has correctly recognized the addressee as someone he is already acquainted with, or at least recognizes by face. The vocative expression X normally consists of a personal name. The speaker must be relatively sure of the identity of the addressee, as the question only makes sense if the addressee is in fact X.
Although Obadiah recognizes Elijah, he asks a confirmatory question to ensure that he is not making a mistake.41 A variation of the ‘Is that you, X?’ formula is found in the question ‘Is that your voice, David’, which occurs twice in similar contexts, as cited below. The twin passages demonstrate that the speaker may or may not expect an answer to a confirmatory question when the degree of confidence in the answer is high: ויכר שאול את קול דוד ויאמר הקולך זה בני דוד ויאמר דוד קולי אדני המלך Saul recognized David’s voice and he said, ‘Is that your voice, my son David?’ And David said, ‘It is, my lord king’. (1 Sam. 26:17)
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ויהי עבדיהו בדרך והנה אליהו לקראתו ויכרהו ויפל על פניו ויאמר האתה זה אדני אליהו ויאמר לו אני As Obadiah was on the way, Elijah met him. Obadiah recognized him, fell on his face, and said, ‘Is that you, my lord Elijah?’ He answered him, ‘It is I’. (1 Kgs 18:7–8)
ויאמר שאול הקלך זה בני דוד וישא שאול קלו ויבך Saul said, ‘Is that your voice, my son David?’ And Saul lifted up his voice and wept. (1 Sam. 24:17) 39
Bolinger notes the same type of conducive question in English: John, is that you? (D. Bolinger, ‘Yes-No Questions Are Not Alternative Questions’, in H. Hiz [ed.], Questions [Synthese Language Library 1, Dordrecht 1978], 88). 40 Other instances of ‘Are you X’ are 2 Sam. 9:2, 20:17, 1 Kgs 13:14. 41 The formula also occurs in 2 Sam. 2:20, and as an unmarked question in Gen. 27:24. When the same formula occurs in an indirect question, however, the personal name does not seem to be a vocative but the predicate of the clause, e.g., Gen. 27:21 ‘that I may feel you, my son, [to know] whether you are really my son Esau or not’. 265
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In the first passage Saul waits for an answer even though he has already recognized David’s voice. Similarly, in the second passage, the preceding speech by David has made David’s identity clear to Saul. Here, however, Saul does not wait for an answer to the question, but begins to weep. A subtype of the confirmatory question is used to draw the addressee’s attention to an object in his or her vicinity or to a fact the addressee is already aware of. Such questions are often used as a preface for what the speaker intends to say next.42 The question often involves the ‘Do you see’ formula. The speaker does not wait for an answer, which is expected to be positive. Examples include: הראיתם אשר בחר בו י׳ כי אין כמהו בכל העם Do you see the one whom the Lord has chosen? There is none like him among all the people. (1 Sam. 10:24)
הראית את כל ההמון הגדול הזה הנני נתנו בידך היום וידעת כי אני י׳ Do you see that great host? I will deliver it into your hands today, and you shall know that I am the Lord. (1 Kgs 20:13)43
Conducive questions are also used to express surprise. Surprised questions are based on a discrepancy between the speaker’s hypothetical and actual expectations: ‘If it were not for present circumstances, I would have expected X to be false; instead, it appears to be true’.44 Like confirmatory questions, surprised questions have matched polarity. Surprised questions are often uttered without the expectation of an answer. Examples include: העודנו חי אחי הוא Is he alive? He is my brother (1 Kgs 20:32)
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הראיתם האיש העלה הזה כי לחרף את ישראל עלה Do you see that man coming up? He comes up to defy Israel. (1 Sam. 17:25)
42
See A.F. Freed, ‘The Form and Function of Questions in Informal Dyadic Conversation’, Journal of Pragmatics 21 (1994), 629; G.M. Green, Pragmatics and Natural Language Understanding 2 (Tutorial Essays in Cognitive Science, Mahwah, N.J. 1996), 629. 43 See also the other instances of this formula, listed above. ‘Do you know’ questions can also be used to draw attention, as discussed below. On a different type of ‘Do you know’ question, see n. 54, below. 44 Compare Leech, who distinguishes between ‘cancelled’ and ‘actual’ expectations (Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, 168). For a somewhat different formulation in terms of ‘past’ and ‘present’ expectations, see Quirk et al., Comprehensive Grammar, 808–9; Bublitz, ‘Conducive Yes-No Questions’. 266
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מה זה היה לבן קיש הגם שאול בנביאים What’s happened to the son of Kish? Is Saul also among the prophets? (1 Sam. 10:11)45
The surprised question often carries an implication of criticism and disapproval: המקנא אתה לי Are you jealous on my behalf? (Num. 11:29) י׳ אלהי הגם על האלמנה אשר אני מתגורר עמה הרעות להמית את בנה O LORD my God, have you brought calamity even upon the widow with whom I am staying, by killing her son? (1 Kgs 17:20)
Another Look at the Apparently Rhetorical Questions with Matched Polarity In this section it is shown that, with one exception, the apparently rhetorical questions with matched polarity listed at the beginning of this paper are best understood as conducive questions of the confirmatory or surprised varieties. Since these types of conducive questions would not be expected to have reversed polarity, the supposed
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Although superficially similar, RQs and conducive questions that do not expect answers have clearly differentiated uses. First, conducive questions do not serve as implicit assertions, unlike rhetorical questions. Replacing a conducive question with an assertion changes the meaning of the utterance: Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? is not equivalent to the assertion You aren’t ashamed of yourself, although a speaker who utters the former may assume the latter to be true. Second, conducive questions do not relate to obvious information, as RQs do, but usually to situations involving uncertainty or surprise.46
45
A similar example is Gen. 16:13, although the exact meaning there is unclear. It is, however, possible for a question to be ambiguous between the rhetorical and the conducive interpretation, e.g., Gen. 18:13 ‘Shall I indeed give birth, old as I am?’ If it is a rhetorical question, Sarah’s question expresses disbelief (‘Obviously someone as old as I cannot give birth!’), but if it is a surprised conducive question, the question is merely sceptical (‘Can it really be that I will give birth? I would not have thought it possible’). God’s criticism of Sarah suggests that the question is rhetorical, although it could be that Sarah is taken to task merely for expressing doubt. In contrast, Abraham’s similar question to God in Gen. 17:17 elicits no criticism and is apparently understood as a surprised question expressing wonder and joy. Additional ambiguous examples are Num. 16:9; 1 Sam. 14:45, 21:16; 2 Kgs 7:2, 19. 46
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anomaly of the matched polarity disappears. The exceptional 1 Sam. 2:27–8 is discussed last. Gen. 3:11 המן העץ אשר צויתיך לבלתי אכל ממנו אכלת Did you eat of the tree from which I had forbidden you to eat?
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The clause is understood as a rhetorical question by Meyer, as an asseveration by GKC, and as an exclamation by Joüon-Muraoka. In the light of the discussion of conducive questions, above, it is clear that God’s question is actually confirmatory: ‘I suspect that you have eaten; is this indeed true?’ The question bears a functional similarity to David’s question to the woman, ‘Was Joab’s hand with you in all of this?’ (2 Sam. 14:19, above). In both questions the speaker attempts to induce the addressee to admit a fact that he or she has been concealing. Moreover, it would appear that, like David, God expects the addressee to answer the question. Although Adam does not do so directly, his reply (‘The woman gave me…’) constitutes a tacit admission of guilt. Thus the question is not even apparently rhetorical. What has probably given rise to the perceived anomaly is that God already knows the answer, and hence should have no need of a confirmatory question.47 This problem is illusory, however, since God often asks questions that He knows the answer to, as in the immediately preceding question, ‘Where are you?’ (v. 9). In the case of 3:11 there is a clear reason for the question with the self-evident answer: God is not seeking new information but rather trying to induce the suspect to confess to an act that He already knows to have taken place.48 When compared to the asseverative and exclamatory interpretations, it can be seen that the conducive interpretation best suits the context, producing a scenario in which God first voices the grounds for suspicion (‘Who told you that you are naked?’) and then asks a confirmatory question, giving Adam a chance to admit his guilt or profess his innocence. In contrast, the asseverative and exclamatory interpretations yield a scenario in which God appears to jump to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence, without affording Adam an opportunity to defend himself. 47
As Kimhi comments on the verse, ‘The intention of the question is not to hear the answer, since the matter is already known before the Lord, Blessed be He’. 48 See, e.g., U. Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, I: From Adam to Noah, transl. by I. Abrahams (Publications of the Perry Foundation for Biblical Research in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Jerusalem 1961), 104. 268
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Gen. 27:36 הכי קרא שמו יעקב ויעקבני זה פעמים Was he named Jacob that he might supplant me these two times?
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Esau’s question is cited by Meyer, GKC and Joüon-Muraoka (§161h) as an illustration of their respective hypotheses. A number of different interpretations of this verse are possible. Points of uncertainty concern the function of כי, the syntactic scope of the interrogative, and the semantic relationship between the two coordinated clauses. GKC renders the first clause ‘Is it so that one names? &c, equivalent to of a truth he is rightly named Jacob’ (§150e). The affirmative question is taken as equivalent to a strong affirmation, thus the paraphrase ‘of a truth’. כי, understood as the subordinating conjunction ‘that’, does not make a substantive contribution to the meaning of the clause, and is dispensed with in the paraphrase. ‘Rightly’ in the paraphrase appears to be a contextual interpretation of the basic affirmation, ‘Of a truth he is named’. Precedent for this interpretation can be found in several of the ancient versions, which translate the verse as a positive affirmation and insert an adverb meaning ‘rightly, justly’; i.e, ‘His name was rightly called Jacob’ (LXX dikaíwv; Vulgate iuste; Onkelos )יאות.49 Given this interpretation of the first clause, the natural interpretation of the second clause is as an evidentiary clause, expressing the grounds for the previous claim.50 This is explicit in Joüon-Muraoka’s gloss: ‘Indeed, he was [justly] named Jacob, and (= for) he has already tripped me up twice’ (§161h). Esau’s utterance here cannot be a rhetorical question, for the implied assertion is not obvious, but rather a thought which has just occurred to Esau in the light of Jacob’s deceit. An asseverative interpretation, as proposed by GKC, is contextually plausible. This interpretation, however, is highly dependent on the adverb ‘rightly’, which has no overt expression in the original and is not really evident from the context. There are at least two other interpretations of the verse which do not suffer from the aforementioned weakness. NJPS renders the verse as an affirmative question: ‘Was he, then, named Jacob so that he 49 These undoubtedly serve as the basis for the NRSV’s translation of the verse, although the כיclause is rendered there by a negative rhetorical question with reversed polarity: ‘Is he not rightly named Jacob? For he has supplanted me these two times’. Notice that the coordinated clause is outside of the scope of the interrogative. 50 On evidentiary כי, see W.T. Claassen, ‘Speaker-Orientated Functions of kî in Biblical Hebrew’, JNSL 11 (1983), 29–46.
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might supplant me?’51 In this rendering the coordinated clause is included in the scope of the interrogative, and expresses result. A similar interpretation is given by Rashi, except that the coordinated clause expresses cause: שמא לכך נקרא שמו יעקב על שם סופו שהוא ‘ עתיד לעקבניWas he called Jacob for this reason, on account of his end, that he would in the future supplant me?’ The question is clearly not rhetorical, for the implied answer is anything but obvious. The most natural understanding of the intent of the question in both renderings is that it expresses surprise: ‘Who would have thought that Jacob’s name had this significance?’ The question is a normal conducive question of the surprised type, and has, as expected, matched polarity.52 1 Kgs 18:17
This clause is cited by Joüon-Muraoka as having exclamatory meaning, but it clearly belongs to the group of confirmatory questions of the form ‘Is that you, X?’ (see above). Admittedly, there is a difference between 1 Kgs 18:17 and the other ‘Is that you’ questions which has probably led Joüon-Muraoka to see the latter as exclamatory. The proper name serving as vocative in Obadiah’s question, ‘Is that you, my lord Elijah’ (1 Kgs 18:7, above), is the cue for a potential addressee who is not Elijah to answer in the negative. In contrast, the vocative in Ahab’s question is a pejorative expression that could be in principle applied to anyone, although clearly intended for Elijah. Since the question does not contain enough information for an addressee who is not Elijah to determine whether the question is in fact intended for him, it would seem to be useless as a confirmatory question. In fact, Ahab is utilizing the confirmatory ‘Is that you’ formula as a vehicle for insulting Elijah. Well aware of the intention underlying the question, Elijah responds to the insult rather than the question itself: v. 18 ‘It is not I who has brought trouble on Israel, but you and your father’s house’.
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האתה זה עכר ישראל Is that you, troubler of Israel?
51 See also E.A. Speiser, Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (Anchor Bible 1, Garden City 1964), 207. 52 See BDB ( כי1d), which understands הכיin Gen. 27:36 as expressing surprise. The sixteenth century Jewish commentator Obadiah Sforno offers an entirely different interpretation of Gen. 27:36, taking כיas the causal particle: ‘Is it because he was named Jacob that he has supplanted me?’ The implied answer to this question is unclear.
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1 Kgs 21:19 הרצחת וגם ירשת Have you murdered and also taken possession?
This verse is cited by Joüon-Muraoka as an example of הwith an exclamatory nuance,53 but it is better understood as a surprised conducive question. God’s question expresses criticism of Ahab’s conduct, like other critical questions such as Num. 11:29 and 1 Kgs 17:20 (above). ‘Do You See/Do You Know’ Questions
ויאמר מלך ישראל אל עבדיו הידעתם כי לנו רמת גלעד ואנחנו מחשים מקחת ויאמר אל יהושפט התלך אתי למלחמה רמת גלעד:אתה מיד מלך ארם And the king of Israel said to his servants, ‘Do you know that Ramothgilead belongs to us, and yet we do nothing to recover it from the hands of the king of Aram?’ And he said to Jehoshaphat, ‘Will you go with me to battle at Ramoth-gilead?’ (1 Kgs 22:3–4)
The question, which is addressed to the king’s servants, serves as grounds for the proposal that the king is about to make to Jehoshaphat.54 What has presumably induced Joüon-Muraoka to single out
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Joüon-Muraoka views all verses with the ‘Do you see’ formula, as well as the ‘Do you know’ question in 1 Kgs 22:3 (see above), as exclamatory. The latter verse is cited as a rhetorical question by Meyer and as an asseveration by GKC. As discussed above, ‘Do you see’ questions are usually confirmatory conducive questions, used to draw the addressee’s attention to a particular object or fact as a prelude to the next statement. The ‘Do you know’ question in 1 Kgs 22:3 functions similarly:
53
It is also mentioned by KimÌi as an example of asseverative ( הsee n. 22, above). 54 Not all ‘Do you know’ questions are attention-drawing; some have the function of providing new information, e.g., Do you know that this has been a record month for snow? (Bolinger, ‘Yes-No Questions’, 88). Questions of this type are common in modern Hebrew, and are discussed in Burstein (‘Questions and Responses’, 132–3; ‘On Interrogatives Which Don’t Ask [Queclaratives]’, in R. Burstein [ed.], Itay Zimran Book: A Collection of Articles Written by Teachers of David Yellin College [Jerusalem, 2005], 471–5 [Hebrew]). As in attention-drawing questions, in information-conveying questions the speaker is not all that interested in whether or not the addressee already knows the fact referenced in the question. The conducive question form serves to arouse the interest of the addressee by implying that the information conveyed is something s/he would want to know, if s/he doesn’t already. Biblical questions of this type are rare; one is 2 Kgs 2:3 ‘Do you know that 271
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the attention-drawing variety of the conducive question is the fact that, as mentioned earlier, in this type of question the speaker is not really interested in the answer to the question. 1 Sam. 2:27–8 ובחר אתו מכל:הנגלה נגליתי אל בית אביך בהיותם במצרים לבית פרעה …שבטי ישראל לי לכהן Did I reveal Myself to your father’s house in Egypt when they were subject to the House of Pharaoh, and choose them from among all the tribes of Israel to be My priests… (1 Sam. 2:27–8)
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This passage is cited as a RQ by Gordis, as an asseveration by GKC and Brockelmann, and as an exclamation by Joüon-Muraoka.55 Of all the examples discussed thus far, this is the only one which cannot be explained as conducive; it does not seek confirmation or express surprise. The question appears in fact to be rhetorical, referring to a well-known historical fact that no-one would deny. The implied answer is clearly positive, and serves as the basis for the following rhetorical question in verse 29: ‘Given that I chose your family to be my priests, why have you chosen to scorn My sacrifices?’. Assuming that 1 Sam. 2:27–8 is rhetorical, its matched polarity demands explanation. Since several of the ancient versions (LXX, Peshitta, Targum) render the verse as a positive assertion, many modern scholars argue that the הis a textual error, resulting from dittography of the הat the end of the preceding verse.56 At least one modern commentary, however, adopts a proposal by the medieval Joseph Kimhi that the scope of the question ‘Did I reveal myself∞?’ includes the rhetorical question in v. 29, i.e. ‘Did I reveal myself to your father’s house, etc., [in order that] you should scorn my today the LORD will take your master away from you?’, and another, probably, is ‘Do you know that in these houses there are an ephod, teraphim, a graven image, and a molten image? Now therefore consider what you will do’ (Jud. 18:14). For further discussion see Moshavi, ‘Is That Your Voice’, 76–7. 55 See also Tsumura, who notes on the particle הin this verse: ‘Usually
, but here ’, citing GKC and Joüon-Muraoka in support of this interpretation (D.T. Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel [The New International Commentary on the Old Testament, Grand Rapids, MI 2007]). 56 Commentaries which advocate emendation include P.K. McCarter (I Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes & Commentary [The Anchor Bible, Garden City, New York 1980]) and H.P. Smith (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Samuel [The International Critical Commentary, Edinburgh 1951]), among others. In addition, a number of modern translations, among them NRSV, NEB and NJPS, render the clause as an assertion. 272
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sacrifices?’57 The implication of the question is thereby changed to a negative assertion: ‘I certainly did not reveal myself so that…’58 Whatever the solution to the problem of its polarity, it is clear that 1 Sam. 2:27 is a singular anomaly that does not belong to any larger group of matched-polarity questions. Conclusion
Address for correspondence: [email protected] Hebrew Language Department, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Mount Scopus, Jerusalem 91905, Israel
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In conclusion, evidence for the three hypotheses regarding apparently rhetorical positive questions with positive answers has been found lacking. The questions that have been cited as examples of the phenomenon are neither rhetorical nor asseverative or exclamatory, but, with one apparent exception, are most plausibly understood as belonging to the larger group of conducive questions. Although many conducive questions expect the addressee to answer, others do not, leading to potential confusion with the rhetorical category. Unlike rhetorical questions, conducive questions do not make implicit assertions, nor do they relate to obvious information. The supposedly rhetorical questions actually have the functions of seeking confirmation or expressing surprise, and as such would be expected to have matched polarity, like other conducive questions with these functions. This conclusion has important ramifications for the exegesis of cruxes like Jer. 31:20 and Amos 5:25. Among the potential candidates for the interpretation of such verses, the positive rhetorical question with a positive answer, not to mention the asseveration and the exclamation, should probably be eliminated from consideration.
57 S. Bar-Efrat (1 Samuel: Intrdouction and Commentary (Mikra LeYisrae’el: A Bible Commentary for Israel, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem 1996) (Hebrew). The explanation is originally cited by David KimÌi in his commentary on 1 Sam. 2:27 in the name of his father. 58 A different solution is proposed by Rashi, who understands the verse to mean ‘Do you know that I revealed myself’, turning the verse into an attention-drawing question with an expected positive answer. Isaiah di Trani (thirteenth–fourteenth century) takes a different approach, understanding the הas meaningless. This converts the verse into a positive assertion, just as it is understood by those proposing emendation (see n. 56, above).
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr004 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
TEMPORALITY AND ATEMPORALITY IN THE LANGUAGE OF BIBLICAL POETRY TANIA NOTARIUS HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM
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In this paper I claim that, in spite of the tenseless character of the verbal inflection in BH, the temporal interpretation of verbal statements in a poetic text is possible as in any other type of discourse, if we systematically assess the rendering of deictic, anaphoric and sequential times, and take into account the pragmatic principles that control temporal implications of aspectual and modal forms in texts. However, many statements in biblical poetic discourse remain ambiguous as regards their temporal interpretation due to the basic ‘atemporal perspective’ at work. Atemporality in language and discourse correlates with two main phenomena — stativity and illocatability. Stativity in language is associated with such verbal constellations as states and general statives. Stativity in discourse has two sides: there are discourse modes that generally incorporate static entities; some discourse modes demonstrate atemporal text-progression. Illocatability in language is exemplified through the problem of the temporal structure of general statives. Illocatability in discourse is associated with deficiency in the context of deictic and anaphoric elements, necessary for temporal interpretation; in biblical poetry the deficiency of temporal indications can be intensified by poetic terseness and flexibility. Most of the features, associated with atemporal perspective, are not specific to poetic language; they have a universal character and may occur in other discourse types as well. However, the high concentration of all the ‘atemporal’ phenomena and their foregrounded, pragmatically prominent position in a poetic text make biblical poetic speech more ‘atemporal’ than most other speech types. In this paper, I adopt a comprehensive approach to temporality, formulated by Carlota Smith. The investigation is based on the linguistic analysis of poetic fragments from the Torah and Former Prophets (the so-called ‘archaic’ poetry) and the classical prophetic poetry from the books of Amos, Hosea and Isaiah. * First presented at the 15th Congress of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem, August 2009. I thank the participants of the session on Biblical Hebrew, especially Prof. Edit Doron and Prof. Ed Greenstein, for their comments. 275
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1. Introduction: Time in Language and Text Temporality is the information in language and discourse about the temporal location of events and situations; it is essential for language use.1 Temporality in Biblical Hebrew (BH) is traditionally a debated issue. Many scholars characterized BH as a tenseless language, in the sense that the verbal inflection does not obligatorily encode reference to Speech Time.2 Some scholars claim that there is at least one actual tense — preterite wayyiqtol.3 However, even this use has exceptions: e.g., in some types of poetic language wayyiqtol can denote a sequential or contrastive event/situation without a past time reference: (1) Wayyiqtol without a past-time reference
Therefore, the first aspect of atemporality in BH is the tenseless character of the verbal inflection, which does not obligatorily encode reference to Speech Time (ST).5 Most scholars argue for a certain strategy for relative time-marking in BH, either as a part of a relative tense system,6 an aspectual system,7 1
Cf. the definition of temporality in Smith 1997: 97, ‘Temporal information in a sentence locates a situation in time’. On the ‘obligatory’ character of temporality cf. Smith 2008: 227: ‘understanding a sentence requires that the receiver locates an event and state, spatially and temporally: time is one of the basic coordinates for truth conditional assessment’. In modern linguistics there are several leading theories of temporality and different approaches to the syntax of time; see Reichenbach 1947, Comrie 1976, Hornstein 1990, Giorgi and Pianesi 1997, Demirdache and Uribe-Etxebarria 2004 and 2005, just to mention a few. Broadly speaking, most theories modify the (neo)reichenbachian view on time; cf. below. 2 For reviews on BH as a tenseless language see in Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 347, Cook 2002: 74–6. The view on BH as a tenseless language has also entered general linguistic works, see Binnick 1991: 8, 128, 130; Smith 1997: 98. 3 See Joosten 2002: 68–9; on the historical background of this view cf. McFall 1982: 182–4 and Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 466–70. 4 The English Bible is quoted according to NRSV, unless a different interpretation is suggested. 5 Cf. Smith et al. 2007 on Navajo as a tenseless language; the preliminary treatment of tenselessness one can find in Whorf 1956: 57, reviewed in Goldfajn 1998: 37 in application to BH. A more developed typology of languages with regard to tenselessness one may find in Smith 2008. 6 Bartelmus 1982, Zevit 1998, Polak 2008, Cohen 2008. 7 Waltke and O’Connor 1990, Hendel 1996, Gentry 1998, Tropper 1998, Cook 2006.
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מוֹריד ְשׁאוֹל וַ יָּ ַעל ִ וּמ ַחיֶּ ה ְ יְ הוָ ה ֵמ ִמית ‘The LORD kills and brings to life; he brings down to Sheol and raises up’ (1 Sam. 2:6)4
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8
Hatav 1997, Warren 1998, Joosten 2002. Longacre 1989, Niccacci 1990. 10 Cf. Smith 2004: 597, ‘a tense morpheme is generated in each clause’, or Smith et al. 2007: 40, ‘all sentences have a temporal interpretation, direct or indirect’. According to Smith, the temporal information is encoded on three levels: by the inflectional ‘tense', other temporal expressions in the syntactic context, and the mode of discourse in the passage (cf. Smith 2007: 420). Cf. also to FabriciusHansen 1998. 11 See Smith 1997, Smith 2003, Smith 2005, Smith et al. 2007, Smith 2007, Smith 2008. Notice that the approach deals closely with the discourse structure and pragmatic notions therefore fits the purposes of the biblical poetry research as a specific discourse type; cf. Smith 2007: 425: ‘Thus, to calculate temporal location in a given passage one must have access to the discourse mode of the passage… The temporal interpretation can be cancelled or overridden by additional information, so that the interpretive principles are pragmatic in nature’. The approach is rooted in Kamp and Reyle 1993. 12 See Krifka et al. 1995, Dahl 1995 and other publications in The Generic Book, Boneh and Doron 2008 and 2009, Binnick 2005, Bittner 2008, just to mention some. 13 See Smith 2007: 421–2. 14 See Smith 2005, Stowell 2004, Guéron and Lecarme 2008. 15 See Smith 2005: 235. 16 Smith 2007: 424: ‘Situations may be related to each other; to a prior time; or to Speech Time’; cf. Partee 1973 on deixis and anaphora in temporal interpretation. 9
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a modal system8 or a discourse-conditioned system.9 In doing so, biblical scholarship stands in accord with modern linguistics which maintains that any tenseless language is able to express all the temporal meanings, including a ST reference, by means of lexical units and pragmatic inferences.10 Also the BH poetic language provides many indications which facilitate an adequate interpretation of temporality in poetic texts. In this paper, I adopt the comprehensive approach to temporality, formulated by Carlota Smith,11 and expand it by an updated discussion on time in general statives.12 Time in language involves a linkage between three times — Event Time (ET), Reference Time (RT) and Speech Time (ST) and is controlled by three possible relations (anteriority, coincidence, posteriority) within two temporal nodes: (1) ST and RT, (2) RT and ET.13 The temporal system is intrinsically associated with aspectual and modal systems.14 There are three patterns of temporal interpretation in discourse — deictic, anaphoric, and sequential:15 deictic time establishes reference to ST, anaphoric time refers to another, non-ST, contextually established RT, and sequential time builds an autonomous temporal succession of events/situations, usually in chronological order.16
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The three time patterns bracket together with three groups of situation entities that are introduced into the discourse:17 one distinguishes between eventualities, which include specific events (achievements, accomplishments and activities) and states;18 general statives, which are subdivided into generics (kind-generalizations) and generalizing sentences (situational pattern generalizations);19 and abstract entities, which include facts as objects of knowledge and propositions as objects of belief.20 In addition to the time patterns and situation entities, Smith postulates regularities of text-progression:21 text-progression can be temporal through the temporal locations of eventualities, spatial through the spatial locations of states, and metaphorical through the informational space of the text. These three temporal dimensions (time in discourse, aspectual entities in discourse and text-progression) shape the linguistic characteristics of five discourse modes:22 narrative introduces dynamic eventualities within the sequential temporal pattern and is characterized by a temporal text-progression; report introduces dynamic eventualities and general statives within deictic temporal pattern and is characterized by a temporal text-progression; description introduces states, on-going events and activities within the anaphoric temporal pattern and is characterized by a spatial text-progression; information introduces general statives within the deictic temporal pattern and is characterized by a metaphoric text-progression; argument introduces abstract entities and general statives within deictic temporal pattern and is characterized by a metaphoric text-progression. The approach suggests tools for a temporal interpretation of sentences without direct temporal information. When the verbal inflection is not marked for tense and there are no adverbs or other syntactic indications of time in the context, temporal interpretation is available by means of a set of pragmatic inferences of aspectual mean17
See Smith 2005: 225–8. In Smith 2004, general statives are included into eventualities, since both are temporally located. 18 Events and states are temporally located; events are dynamic, while states are not; see Vendler 1957. 19 General statives are temporally located and provoke stative interpretation, even of dynamic verbal constellations; see also Krifka et al. 1995. 20 Abstract entities are not temporally located; see Vendler 1967. 21 The principles of text-progression were fully formulated in Smith 2003 and Smith 2004. Cf. Smith 2004: 606: ‘All texts advance through a structure’. 22 Cf. Smith 2007 and Smith 2008; Smith emphasizes that the list is not exhaustive; conversation and procedural discourse are not included. She concentrates on most common modes of written speech. Cf. also Levinson 1979. 278
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ings in a language: 1. the Deictic Principle ensures that situations are located with respect to ST;23 2. the Bounded Event Constraint ensures that bounded events are not located in the present;24 3. the Simplicity Principle of Interpretation chooses an interpretation that requires the least information added or inferred.25 In fact, the principles work in mutual correlation. The Deictic Principle provides a default ST orientation for statements without other RT. Accordingly, unbounded (static imperfective) eventualities will be taken as nonpast, in the default case as the present with no other RT (e.g. in the past) added following the Simplicity Principle of Interpretation. The Bounded Event Constraint validates that bounded (dynamic perfective) eventualities will be taken as non-present, in the default case as the past with no other RT (e.g. in the future) added following the Simplicity Principle of Interpretation.26 If temporality in texts earned a detailed analysis in linguistics, atemporality was less in focus, although some important remarks were made by scholars. Under atemporality I understand such phenomena of verbal semantics and discourse strategies, as the specific atemporal character of some verbal entities, atemporal frequency adverbs, atemporal metaphoric type of text-progression, and deficiency of an explicit ST or any other RT in the context. Basically, all these phenomena have a general linguistic status and are not restricted to biblical poetry. However, due to their recurrent use and foregrounded position they play an important role in biblical poetic discourse and lead to significant interpretative implications. One may say that a BH poetic discourse, especially some of its modes, is characterized by an ‘atemporal perspective’. Such a discourse situation was intuitively felt by many scholars who labelled it ‘loss of time-distinction’, or ‘chaotic character of tenses in biblical poetry’.27 In this paper, I will try to provide this intuition with an adequate expression in terms of linguistic semantics and pragmatics. In part 2, I will demonstrate how a BH poetic discourse encodes information about the temporal meaning of verbal statements, using 23
See Smith et al. 2007: 45. See Smith et al. 2007: 46. 25 See Smith et al. 2007: 61. 26 See Smith et al. 2007: 65–6. 27 Blau 1977: 24: ‘the various verbal forms are indiscriminately used referring to all possible shades of time’; Fensham 1978: 15–16 speaks about ‘habitual activity’ as a universal interpretation of verbal statements in biblical poetry; Niccacci 1990: 196, ‘verb forms in poetry do not have a fixed tense’; Hatav 1997: 24, ‘Poetry often violates otherwise valid linguistic norms’. 24
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2. Temporality in BH Poetry In spite of the tenseless character of the BH verbal inflection, biblical poetry employs available morpho-syntactic and pragmatic indications that facilitate an adequate temporal interpretation of most sentences. We will consider four types of evidence: (1) deictic time in the context, created by ST indications and the egocentric character of speech; (2) anaphoric time in the context, created by temporal adverbs and other explicit indications of RT; (3) sequential time and temporal text-progression; (4) some temporal inferences of the aspectual and modal meanings of verbal forms.
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different levels of the discourse structure. I assume that the BH verbal inflection does not obligatorily give information necessary for temporal information, and the information from the context is indispensably required. However, a full temporal interpretation of sentences and a comprehensive description of the verbal system in poetic material are out of the scope of the present article;28 I will just comment briefly on how the information from the context contributes to an adequate temporal interpretation of the brought-in examples. The main interest of this paper is to postulate the ‘atemporal perspective’ as a pragmatic notion and discourse device in biblical poetry: in part 3 we will see how different sides of atemporality were treated in general linguistics, and will examine their position in BH poetry. The investigation is based on the linguistic analysis of poetic fragments from the Torah and Former Prophets (the so-called ‘archaic’ poetry) and the classical prophetic poetry from the books of Amos, Hosea, and Isaiah. In the conclusion I will claim that the ‘atemporal perspective’ is a pragmatic notion at work in biblical poetic texts.
28 One may consult Niccacci 1990, Hatav 1997, Joosten 2002 for general treatment of BH verbal system; a sample of TAM interpretation in biblical poetic text is in Notarius 2008. In this essay I use elements of aspectual and modal theories on BH verb (see notes 7 and 8 above). Generally speaking, these two theories agree that perfect qatal and waw-consecutive wayyiqtol embed perfective view-point and participle qotel is a progressive aspect; the main difference between them concerns imperfect yiqtol (and furthermore its counterpart, waw-consecutive weqatal∞): (1) the modal theory define the iterative-habitual meaning of yiqtol as basically modal, while the aspectual system claims for its aspectual imperfective nature; (2) although both systems see the future meaning of yiqtol as inferential, the aspectual theory also treats the epistemic ‘assumptive’ and deonic ‘obligative’ meanings of yiqtol as inferential, while for the modal theory they reflect the basic modal character of the yiqtol form; (cf. the discussion in Joosten 2002 and Cook 2006).
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2.1. Deictic time The deictic time is given within the canonical communicative situation.29 Biblical poetry provides indications, although perplexing, of the conversational register.30 In hymnal and proverbial poetic speech, the direct indication of the speech opening is not always overt, if one excludes the prosaic narrative framework: (2) ST indication in the prosaic framework אמרוּ ֵלאמֹר ְ ֹ ה ִשּׁ ָירה ַהזֹּאת ַליהוָ ה וַ יּ-ת ַ וּבנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֶא ְ ָאז יָ ִשׁיר מ ֶֹשׁה ‘Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song to the LORD and they spoke, saying’ Exod. 15:1; see also Gen. 49:1, Deut. 31: 30, Deut. 33:1–2, Judg. 5:1, 1 Sam. 1, 2 Sam. 1–2.
(3) Explicit ST indication in poetic openings יכם ֶ ִה ָקּ ְבצוּ וְ ִשׁ ְמעוּ ְבּנֵ י יַ ֲעקֹב וְ ִשׁ ְמעוּ ֶאל יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֲא ִב.a ‘Assemble and hear, O sons of Jacob; listen to Israel your father’ Gen. 49:2 אמר ַא ְס ִתּ ָירה ָפנַ י ֵמ ֶהם ֶא ְר ֶאה ָמה ֶ ֹ וַ יּ.וּבנ ָֹתיו ְ וַ יַּ ְרא יְ הוָ ה וַ יִּ נְ ָאץ ִמ ַכּ ַעס ָבּנָ יו.b א ֻמן ָבּם-א ֵ ֹ יתם ִכּי דוֹר ַתּ ְה ֻפּכֹת ֵה ָמּה ָבּנִ ים ל ָ ַא ֲח ִר ‘The LORD saw it, and was jealous he spurned his sons and daughters. He said: I will hide my face from them, I will see what their end will be; for they are a perverse generation, children in whom there is no faithfulness’ Deut. 32:19–20
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An exception is the Blessing of Jacob, an example of proverbial speech, which contains an explicit speech opening (ex. 3a). In contrast, the prophetic poetic speech usually starts with an explicit speech opening (indicated by technical prophetic formulas; ex. 3b and 3c). The explicit speech opening fixes ST as a starting point for the following temporal interpretations:
29
On the canonical communicative situation see Lyons 1972: 638, ‘The canonical situation-of-utterance is egocentric in the sense that the speaker, by virtue of being the speaker, casts himself in the role of ego and relates everything to his viewpoint. He is at the zero-point of the spatiotemporal co-ordinates of what we will refer to as the deictic context. Egocentricity is temporal as well as spatial, since the role of speaker is being transferred from one participant to the other as the conversation proceeds, and the participants may move around as they are conversing: the spatiotemporal zero-point (the here-and-now) is determined by the place of the speaker at the moment of utterance; and it is this, as we shall see, which controls tense’. On the deictic nature of time cf. Comrie 1985; Partee 1973. 30 On the division into three main types of the ‘conversational’ framework in biblical poetic speech — hymnal, prophetic and proverbial, see Notarius 2007: 35ff. 281
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.יִתּן קוֹלוֹ וְ ָא ְבלוּ נְ אוֹת ָהר ִֹעים וְ ֵיָבשׁ רֹאשׁ ַה ַכּ ְר ֶמל ֵ ִירוּשׁ ַלם ָ וּמ ִ יְ הוָ ה ִמ ִצּיּוֹן יִ ְשׁ ָאג.c כֹּה ָא ַמר יְ הוָ ה ‘The LORD roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem; the pastures of the shepherds wither, and the top of Carmel dries up. Thus says the LORD …’ Amos 1:2–3a; see also Isa. 1:2, Hos. 1:2 (although hardly poetic)
The ST reference can be indicated by the quotation framework; sometimes the quotation remains unmarked because of poetic terseness,31 and the ST reference is implied by the direct speech itself (as in 4b): (4) Direct discourse in poetic speech
ִ ק ֶדם ְל ָכה ָא ָר-י ֶ מוֹאב ֵמ ַה ְר ֵר ָ א ָרם יַ נְ ֵחנִ י ָב ָלק ֶמ ֶלְך-ן ֲ ִמ.b וּל ָכה ז ֲֹע ָמה ְ לּי יַ ֲעקֹב-ה יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ‘Balak has brought me from Aram, the king of Moab from the eastern mountains: “Come, curse Jacob for me; Come, denounce Israel!”’ Num. 23:7; see also Num. 23:19–20;32 Judg. 5:23, 28, 29
The quotation framework in 4a ()א ַמר ָ fixes ST as a starting point for the following temporal interpretation: the forms of yiqtol ַא ִשּׂיג,ֶא ְרדּ ֹף etc. (with an imperfective view-point embedded or implied) will refer to the future, especially due to their explicit deontic modality; past time reference is absent and not inferred. Another way to create deictic time in the text is the egocentric character of the speech, produced by first and second person pronominal elements. This device is widely employed in all types of biblical poetry due to the common conversational arrangement of poetic discourse — as a direct address of the speaker to the listener. The use of the first and second person elements inescapably creates a ST reference in the context.33 The addresser and the addressee are commonly concrete and properly identified, as, e.g., Balaam → Balak in 5a, Jacob → his son in 5b, the Lord → ‘cows of Bashan’ in 5c:
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ישׁמוֹ יָ ִדי ֵ תּוֹר ִ ָא ַמר אוֹיֵב ֶא ְרדּ ֹף ַא ִשּׂיג ֲא ַח ֵלּק ָשׁ ָלל ִתּ ְמ ָל ֵאמוֹ נַ ְפ ִשׁי ָא ִריק ַח ְר ִבּי.a ‘The enemy said, “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil, my desire shall have its fill of them. I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them”’ Exod. 15:9
31
See Miller 1996: 21–2 and Greenstein 2005, on the unmarked character of the quotation framework in poetry. 32 On the quoted speech in this passage see Notarius 2008: 62–3. 33 Cf. Smith 1997: 99, ‘The speaker’s centrality enables the identification of time and place’. 282
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(5) Egocentric personified speech וּשׁ ָמע ַה ֲאזִ ינָ ה ָע ַדי ְבּנוֹ ִצפֹּר ֲ קוּם ָבּ ָלק.a ‘Rise, Balak, and hear; listen to me, O son of Zippor’ Num. 23:18b יֶתר ָעז ֶ ְיֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת ו ֶ אשׁית אוֹנִ י ִ אוּבן ְבּכ ִֹרי ַא ָתּה כּ ִֹחי וְ ֵר ֵ ְר.b ‘Reuben, you are my firstborn, my might and the first fruits of my vigour, excelling in rank and excelling in power’ Gen. 49:3; see also Gen. 49:8 ִשׁ ְמעוּ ַה ָדּ ָבר ַהזֶּ ה ָפּרוֹת ַה ָבּ ָשׁן ֲא ֶשׁר ְבּ ַהר שׁ ְֹמרוֹן.c ‘Hear this word, you cows of Bashan who are on Mount Samaria’ Amos 4:1; see also Josh. 1:10
2.2. Anaphoric time The time in the text can be not just deictic, referring to ST, but also anaphoric, referring to other temporal points and intervals in the context.36 Also in biblical poetry, the temporal meaning of a verbal statement can be obtained in reference to the time defined by adverbs or by other statements. Temporal adverbs and other temporal phrases are not so common in the selected corpus. This type of temporal information is more frequent in prophetic speech, but is also likely in other speech types (as in reports in proverbial speech):
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Speaking about deictic time, one should not forget that this temporal pattern is a default option for the temporal interpretation of a statement.34 Linguists argue that in the absence of clear time-references the deictic time will be required.35 In general, this view is valuable for biblical poetic language as well. However, its heuristic value for some modes of biblical poetry will be checked below.
34 Cf. Smith et al. 2007: 43, ‘We assume that temporal interpretation in language is deictic like all linguistic communication. The speaker is the canonical center and Speech Time is the default orientation point’, or Smith 2007: 421, ‘Speech time is the center of the system and is the basic default orientation point for temporal expressions’. See also Fabricius-Hansen 1998: 1000, ‘Tense locates the time of the situation, directly or indirectly, with respect to the time of utterance; this is often termed the “speaker’s now,”’ and this is part of the unique “deictic origo” (“I – here – now”) of an utterance’. 35 See above about the Deictic Principle as one of the pragmatic constraints on temporal interpretation in tenseless language that assures that situations are temporally oriented to ST (cf. Smith et al. 2007). 36 On anaphora in temporal interpretation cf. Partee 1973; see Kamp and Rohrer 1983 on ET becoming RT for other events.
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(9) Temporal adverbs and expressions צוּעי ָע ָלה ִ ְית ִמ ְשׁ ְכּ ֵבי ָא ִביָך ָאז ִח ַלּ ְל ָתּ י ָ תּוֹתר ִכּי ָע ִל ַ ַפּ ַחז ַכּ ַמּיִ ם ַאל ‘Unstable as water, you shall no longer excel because you went up onto your father’s bed; then you defiled it – you went up onto my couch!’ Gen. 49:4; see also Num. 23:23 ()כּ ֵעת, ָ 24:17 ( וְ לֹא ָקרוֹב,;)וְ לֹא ַע ָתּה Deut. 32:7 (וָ ד ֹר- ְשׁנוֹת דּ ֹר,עוֹלם ָ )יְמוֹת, 32:35 (, יוֹם ֵא ָידם,ְל ֵעת ָתּמוּט ַרגְ ָלם ;)ע ִתד ֹת ֲ Judg. 5:6 (ימי יָ ֵעל ֵ ִבּ,ימי ַשׁ ְמגַּ ר ֵ ;)בּ ִ Judg. 5:11 (;)אז ָ 2 Sam. 22:19 (;)בּיוֹם ֵא ִידי ְ Amos 2:16 ()בּיּוֹם ַההוּא, ַ 3:14 ()בּיוֹם ָפּ ְק ִדי, ְ 5:13 (ָבּ ֵעת )ה ִהיא, ַ 5:25 (;)ב ִמּ ְד ָבּר ַא ְר ָבּ ִעים ָשׁנָ ה ַ Hos. 2:18 ()וְ ָהיָ ה ַביּוֹם ַההוּא, 6:2 ( )יוֹם ַמ ְל ֵכּנוּ6:5 ()ע ָתּה, ַ 10:9 (ימי ַהגִּ ְב ָעה ֵ )מ, ִ 10:14 ()בּיוֹם ִמ ְל ָח ָמה, ְ 8:11 (יָמים ָבּ ִאים ִ )הנֵּ ה ִ
(10) Local and other phrases with temporal implication יבה ָ אוּריָך ְל ִאישׁ ֲח ִס ֶידָך ֲא ֶשׁר נִ ִסּיתוֹ ְבּ ַמ ָסּה ְתּ ִר ֵיבהוּ ַעל ֵמי ְמ ִר ֶ ְֻתּ ֶמּיָך ו ‘Give to Levi your Thummim, and your Urim to your loyal one, whom you tested at Massah, with whom you contended at the waters of Meribah’ Deut. 33:8; see also Deut. 33:2 (שׂ ִעיר,י ֵ ַ;)סינ ִ Exod. 15:4 (פּ ְרעֹה, ַ ֶ סוּף- ;)יַ םHos. 13:5 ()א ֶרץ ִמ ְצ ָריִ ם
The local phrases in 10 (בּ ַמ ָסּה, ְ מי ְמ ִר ָיבה-ל ֵ )ע ַ provoke an association with a certain historical account: the location of this account creates RT in the historical past, with which ET of verbal statements (נִ ִסּיתוֹ, )תּ ִר ֵיבהוּ ְ overlaps; the statements are necessarily interpreted in the past. The temporal implication of some phrases can remain obscure to us, if we miss elements of general knowledge necessary for their deciphering: (11) Phrases with an obscure temporal implication
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Sometimes the local phrases or other words accomplish a similar function, since they indicate not just a place, but also an account, which is associated with this place according to the shared general knowledge of the speaker and the listener/reader:
)שׁילוֹ( וְ לוֹ יִ ְקּ ַהת ִ יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה-וּמח ֵֹקק ִמ ֵבּין ַרגְ ָליו ַעד ִכּי ְ יהוּדה ָ לֹא יָ סוּר ֵשׁ ֶבט ִמ ַע ִמּים ‘The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until tribute comes to him [“he comes to Shilo” in the masoretic text]37; and the obedience of the peoples is his’ Gen. 49:10
A very common way to create temporal anaphora in a text is through referring to another verbal statement: its ET becomes RT for other statements, and thus contributes to the temporality in text:38 37 38
On possible emendations of the text see de Hoop 1999: 122–39. See Kamp and Rohrer 1983 on the anaphoric time in text. See also Smith 2007. 284
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(12) Cross-clausal temporal anaphora אתָך ִמ ֵשּׂ ִעיר ְבּ ַצ ְע ְדָּך ִמ ְשּׂ ֵדה ֱאדוֹם ֶא ֶרץ ָר ָע ָשׁה גַּ ם ָשׁ ַמיִ ם נָ ָטפוּ גַּ ם ְ יְ הוָ ה ְבּ ֵצ ֹלהי יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֵ ָה ִרים נָ זְ לוּ ִמ ְפּנֵ י יְ הוָ ה זֶ ה ִסינַ י ִמ ְפּנֵ י יְ הוָ ה ֱא.ָע ִבים נָ ְטפוּ ָמיִ ם ‘LORD, when you went out from Seir, when you marched from the region of Edom, the earth trembled, and the heavens poured, the clouds indeed poured water. The mountains quaked before the LORD, the One of Sinai, before the LORD, the God of Israel’ Judg. 5:4–5; see also 2 Sam. 22:5, 7; Hos. 11:1
2.3. Sequential time and temporal text-progression Sequential time is typical of narrative and thus is virtually absent from BH poetry, except for some rare passages with a narrative perspective. In a BH poetic text sequential time is never given in its pure form, but interferes with the anaphoric and deictic time: (13) Sequential time in swapping with deictic time …ְבּ ַהנְ ֵחל ֶע ְליוֹן גּוֹיִ ם ְבּ ַה ְפ ִרידוֹ ְבּנֵ י ָא ָדם יַ ֵצּב גְּ ֻבֹלת ַע ִמּים ְל ִמ ְס ַפּר ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ְ יִמ ָצ ֵאהוּ ְבּ ֶא ֶרץ ִמ ְד ָבּר ְ …וּבתֹהוּ יְ ֵלל יְ ִשׁמֹן יְ ס ֲֹב ֶבנְ הוּ יְבוֹנֲ נֵ הוּ יִ ְצּ ֶרנְ הוּ ְכּ ִאישׁוֹן ֵעינוֹ ַ ֹ ותי ָא ֶרץ וַ יּ ֵ ֳל־בּמ ָ יַ ְר ִכּ ֵבהוּ ַע אכל ְתּנוּבֹת ָשׂ ָדי וַ יֵּ נִ ֵקהוּ ְד ַבשׁ ִמ ֶסּ ַלע וְ ֶשׁ ֶמן ֵמ ַח ְל ִמישׁ לוֹהּ ָע ָשׂהוּ וַ יְ נַ ֵבּל צוּר ַ ית וַ יִּ טֹּשׁ ֱא ָ ית ָכּ ִשׂ ָ צוּר… וַ יִּ ְשׁ ַמן יְ ֻשׁרוּן וַ ְיִּב ָעט ָשׁ ַמנְ ָתּ ָע ִב יְ ֻשׁ ָעתוֹ ‘When the Most High apportioned the nations, when he divided humankind, he fixed the boundaries of the peoples according to the number of the gods… He sustained him in a desert land, in a howling wilderness waste; he shielded him, cared for him, guarded him as the apple of his eye… He set him atop the heights of the land, and fed him with produce of the field; he nursed him with honey from the crags, with oil from flinty rock… Jacob ate his fill; Jeshurun grew fat, and kicked. You are fat, bloated, and gorged! He abandoned God who made him, and scoffed at the Rock of his salvation’ Deut. 32:8, 10, 13, 15
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In 12 the infinitival phrases (אתָך ִמ ֵשּׂ ִעיר ְבּ ַצ ְע ְדָּך ִמ ְשּׂ ֵדה ֱאדוֹם ְ )בּ ֵצ ְ are interpreted in the past due to the temporal inference of local phrases; they create the necessary temporal anaphora for the temporal interpretation of verbal statements in the matrix clauses (ר ָע ָשׁה,ָ נָ ָטפוּetc.). Moreover, these verbal forms in the perfect tense qatal represent bounded events; therefore they are located in the past and get an episodic interpretation.39
39 The ambiguity of temporal interpretation remains: Boling 1975: 101, 108 suggests similar interpretation, but Soggin 1981 translates in present, taking the statement in habitual present. On the ambiguity of the temporal interpretation in this and other contexts due to the atemporal perspective at work see below.
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In 13, the chain of verbal clauses is taken as sequential in the sense that each new statement will be interpreted as marking an advance on the temporal axis, located in the past; however, the use of forms of the static perfect qatal in 2ms (ית ָ ית ָכּ ִשׂ ָ )שׁ ַמנְ ָתּ ָע ִב ָ marks a shift to the deictic temporal pattern, bringing the audience back to the direct address of the anonymous speaker to his ‘unwise’ generation (cf. in Deut. 32:4–7). Therefore, translating these static perfects in the present seems preferable. (14) Sequential time in swapping with anaphoric time
The causal clause ()כּי ֲא ָפ ֻפנִ י ִמ ְשׁ ְבּ ֵרי ָמוֶ ת נַ ֲח ֵלי ְב ִליַּ ַעל ַיְב ֲע ֻתנִ י ִ and the temporal phrase ()בּ ַצּר ִלי ַ marks RT in the past40 and creates temporal anaphora for the coming verbal statement ()א ְק ָרא, ֶ which itself serves the beginning of a temporal sequence. The temporal text-progression is attested not only in the narrative (cf. ex. 13 above), but also in reports. The difference is that in the narrative the temporal progression shapes an autonomous sequential time, while in report the temporal progression is given in constant reference to ST:41 (15) Temporal text-progression in reports גָ אֹה גָּ ָאה סוּס וְ ר ְֹכבוֹ ָר ָמה ַביָּ ם… יְ הוָ ה ִאישׁ ִמ ְל ָח ָמה יְ הוָ ה-ָא ִשׁ ָירה ַליהוָ ה ִכּי ְתּהֹמֹת.וּמ ְב ַחר ָשׁ ִל ָשׁיו ֻט ְבּעוּ ְביַ ם סוּף ִ ַמ ְר ְכּבֹת ַפּ ְרעֹה וְ ֵחילוֹ יָ ָרה ַביָּ ם.ְשׁמוֹ …יְ ַכ ְסיֻמוּ יָ ְרדוּ ִב ְמצוֹֹלת ְכּמוֹ ָא ֶבן ‘I will sing to the LORD for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea… The LORD is a warrior; the LORD is his name. Pharaoh’s chariots and his army he cast into the sea; his picked officers were sunk in the Red Sea. The floods covered them; they went down into the depths like a stone’ Exod. 15:1, 3–5; see also Judg. 5:4–7
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ֹלהי ַ יְב ֲע ֻתנִ י… ַבּ ַצּר ִלי ֶא ְק ָרא ה׳ וְ ֶאל ֱא ַ ִכּי ֲא ָפ ֻפנִ י ִמ ְשׁ ְבּ ֵרי ָמוֶ ת נַ ֲח ֵלי ְב ִליַּ ַעל קוֹלי וְ ַשׁוְ ָע ִתי ְבּ ָאזְ נָ יו וכו׳ ִ יכלוֹ ָ ֶא ְק ָרא וַ יִּ ְשׁ ַמע ֵמ ֵה ‘For the waves of death encompassed me, the torrents of perdition assailed me… In my distress I called upon the LORD; to my God I called. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry came to his ears…’ 2 Sam. 22:5.7ff
The hymnal conversational framework in 15 (highlighted in bold) constantly overlaps with the pieces of retrospective report, which reveals the hallmarks of temporal text-progression. 40
On the temporal interpretation of the causal clause here see ex. 17 below. In the words of Smith, report develops ‘around ST’; see Smith 2003 and Smith 2007. 41
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2.4. Temporal inferences of the aspectual and modal forms In many verbal statements without explicit temporal hallmarks temporal interpretation can be implied by the modal or aspectual content of the saying. Thus, e.g., blessings, which presuppose volitive modality of verbal statements, even in the absence of egocentric elements, can imply a deictic temporal standpoint:42 (16) Deictic time within volitive modality יהי ְמ ָתיו ִמ ְס ָפּר ִ ִאוּבן וְ ַאל יָ מֹת ו ֵ יְ ִחי ְר ‘May Reuben live, and not die out, let his numbers be few’ Deut. 33:6; cf. also 1 Sam. 2:10b
(17) Non-present meaning of bounded events ֶח ְב ֵלי ְשׁאוֹל ַס ֻבּנִ י ִק ְדּ ֻמנִ י מ ְֹק ֵשׁי ָמוֶ ת.ִכּי ֲא ָפ ֻפנִ י ִמ ְשׁ ְבּ ֵרי ָמוֶ ת נַ ֲח ֵלי ְב ִליַּ ַעל ַיְב ֲע ֻתנִ י ‘For the waves of death encompassed me, the torrents of perdition assailed me; the cords of Sheol entangled me, the snares of death confronted me’ 2 Sam. 22:5–6; cf. also Isa. 1:2b, Amos 4:6–7 and Judg. 5:4–5 (ex. 12) above.
Likewise, statements with an imperfective viewpoint will be primarily located in non-past, future or habitual present, in the absence of any explicit RT, since within the deictic time as a default option this will be the simplest interpretation which demands least inferred or added RTs:44
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Scholars have claimed that bounded events (non-statives given from the perfective viewpoint) usually imply a non-present interpretation.43 Also in biblical poetry, dynamic qatal (a form with an embedded perfective viewpoint) implies an anteriority meaning in most contexts, and in the case of the default deictic time – a past tense interpretation:
(18) Non-past meaning of unbounded events יָבשׁ רֹאשׁ ַה ַכּ ְר ֶמל ֵ ְירוּשׁ ַלםִ יִ ֵתּן קוֹלוֹ וְ ָא ְבלוּ נְ אוֹת ָהר ִֹעים ו ָ וּמ ִ יְ הוָ ה ִמ ִצּיּוֹן יִ ְשׁ ָאג ‘The LORD roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem; the pastures of the shepherds wither, and the top of Carmel dries up’ Amos 1:2 42
On the deictic temporal standpoint of the volitive modality see Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 568. 43 Thus according to the Bounded Event Constraint of C. Smith, that ensures that bounded events are not situated in present (see Smith 2007, p. 422, Smith et al. pp. 45–6), or ‘punctuality constraint’ of Giorgi and Pianesi 2007. 44 Cf. Smith et al. 2007: 60 on the Simplicity Principle of Interpretation. 287
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3. Atemporality in BH Poetry Atemporality is a wide issue and its scope in linguistics has not yet been finally designed.45 If temporality is associated with dynamism and temporal location of eventualities, atemporality will correlate with stativity and the uneven character of locatability. Both stativity and illocatability can be taken either in their morpho-syntactic or discursive facets. On the morpho-syntactic level, stativity characterizes verbal constellations that are states or have a static interpretation, as general statives and abstract entities. On the discourse level, stativity entails the predominance of static entities in some discourse modes and non-temporal text-progression. Illocatability on the morphosyntactic level is triggered by complete or partial lack of spatial-temporal argument in verbal constellations, and, on the discourse level, by the deficiency of temporal information in the context. Therefore, in what follows, I will refer to a range of lexical, derivational, pragmatic, and discursive characteristics, associated with atemporality: 3.1
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In 18 the speech opening (in Amos 1:1) belongs to the prosaic framework and therefore can be virtually ignored in the temporal pattern analysis; in the absence of egocentric elements the deictic time pattern will be a default solution for the passage; in such a situation the habitual present tense interpretation will be the simplest solution, when no other reference times in the context (e.g. in the past) are indicated or inferred. So in biblical poetry, in spite of the ‘tenseless’ character of the BH verbal inflection, there are enough hallmarks of temporal locations — deictic time, anaphoric time, sequential time, principles of temporal text progression, and the pragmatic principles that predict temporal information based on inferences. However, this state of affairs cannot absolutely hide the uneven character of some temporal interpretations generated by the basic atemporal perspective presented in some modes of the biblical poetic discourse.
45
The tenseless character of verbal inflection, which does not obligatorily encode reference to ST, points to just one side of this phenomenon. Apparently, B. Comrie uses the term ‘tenseless’ about E ([time] of event), which is not related to S ([time] of speech) or R ([time] of reference) (cf. Comrie 1998: 998, ‘expressions that refer to a situation without locating it in time’) in the same tense, characterizing the temporal characteristics of inflectional forms, but hardly contextual and discursive properties of atemporality. In this essay I do not intend to exhaust the discussion on atemporality in language and text. On atemporal interpretation of a tense in some contexts cf. Smith 2007: 421, note 4. 288
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will suggest interpretation of verbal constellations that trigger atemporality on one or other level of their structure; 3.2 will describe discourse modes that are controlled by the ‘atemporal’ entities and the ‘atemporal’ rules of text-progression; 3.3 will deal with the problem of deficiency of deictic and anaphoric temporal patterns in some poetic contexts. The present investigation is based on my experience of reading biblical poetry through the eyes of the linguistic theory of temporality and on some assumptions on atemporality made by linguists. The treatment is exploratory and does hide existing challenges and problems. 3.1 States and general statives
46
Although Smith noticed, that abstract entities are basically atemporal, since they are not temporally locatable (according to Smith 2003: 74–5, abstract entities include Propositions and Facts; one can recall the statement of Lyons 1972: 149, ‘propositions … may be regarded as tenseless’; see also Vendler 1967), the linguistic status of this kind of verbal constellation was not enough investigated, and this prevents further generalizations. 47 Cf. Smith 1997: 35–6; Smith 1997: 19, ‘Although states obtain in time, they do not take time’ and 32, ‘States consist of undifferentiated period without internal structure … The initial and final endpoints of a state are not part of the state’; see also Smith 2003: 69, 72–5 and Rothstein 2004: 6–29. 48 On the distinction between individual-level (I-level) and stage-level (S-level) predicates see Carlson 1977; Kratzer 1995; cf. the definition in Chierchia 1995, 176. ‘I-level predicates express properties of individuals that are permanent or tendentially stable. S-level predicates, per contrast attribute to individuals transient, episodic properties’. 49 However, as it has been noticed by Mittwoch, the temporal locatability of the individual-level predicates can be regulated inferentially, namely based on knowl-
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The situation types, that somehow correlate with atemporality are abstract entities,46 general statives (both generics and generalizing sentences, although differently) and states. The present investigation will concentrate on states and general statives. States represent eventualities that are not specific events, since they lack dynamism and telicity. States contribute to the atemporal perspective because of their stativity: they do not impose end-points, do not have stages, and do not mark a change over against dynamic eventualities.47 Moreover, states show interesting regularities regarding their locatability. One may distinguish between states that are individual-level predicates, and those that are stage-level predicates.48 Some scholars argue that states that are individual-level predicates (e.g. ‘She is beautiful’) lack an argument for space-time location, literally they are atemporal (see 19a and 19c below);49 states that are
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stage-level predicates (e.g. ‘She is in the library’) are temporally locatable (see 19b and 19d):50 (19) States ָעזִּ י וְ זִ ְמ ָרת יָ הּ… זֶ ה ֵא ִלי… יְ הוָ ה ִאישׁ ִמ ְל ָח ָמה יְ הוָ ה ְשׁמוֹ.a ‘The LORD is my strength and my might … this is my God … The LORD is a warrior; the LORD is his name’ Exod. 15:2.3; cf. also Gen. 49:3a.9a; Deut. 32:6ba: 28; Deut. 33:22a יָ ְדָך ְבּע ֶֹרף א ֶֹיְביָך.b ‘Your hand is on the neck of your enemies’ Gen. 49:8b ַהצּוּר ָתּ ִמים ָפּעֳלוֹ … ַצ ִדּיק וְ יָ ָשׁר הוּא.c ‘The Rock, his work is perfect … just and upright is he’ Deut. 32:4
Apparently, individual-level static predicates have generic interpretation (cf. to 19a and 19c);51 also stage-level static predicates are natural in generic sayings: cf. Gen. 49:14, 20a, 21, 22a. However, the problem of generic sayings is not limited to states. Activities, achievements and accomplishments are dynamic, they have stages; achievements and accomplishments are, as a rule, telic, impose end-points and mark change.52 Dynamic verbal constellations have an inner temporal structure and they are temporally locatable, naturally being stage-level predicates and necessitating a space-time argument. However, they can participate in general statives and thus contribute to the atemporal perspective in discourse. General statives enclose a habitual-generic operator.53 They are subdivided into generics
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ית ָ ית ָכּ ִשׂ ָ ָשׁ ַמנְ ָתּ ָע ִב.d ‘You grew fat, bloated, and gorged!’ Deut. 32:15ab; see also Gen. 49:5b, 10d; 13bc; Num. 23:21b. 23, 24:5. 8a; Deut. 32:32; Deut. 33:23a
edge concerning the living scope of an individual or object, or other world-knowledge data; on their presuppositional temporal interpretation, rooted in lifetime inference, see Mittwoch 2008. Apparently, in 19a and 19c the inferential living scope will be associated with the divine and its proprieties; the cognitive value of such implications is out of the scope of the present essay. 50 Kratzer 1995: 126, ‘Stage-level predicates and individual-level predicates differ in argument structure. …Stage-level predicates have an extra argument position for events or spatiotemporal locations … Individual-level predicates lack this position’. Cf. Zewi 1999 on the temporal interpretation of BH nominal clauses. 51 Thus also according to Chierchia 1995. 52 On the classification of eventualities see Vendler 1957, Smith 1997: 17–38, Rothstein 2004: 6–29. 53 See Krifka et al 1995 who define genericity in terms of dyadic generic operator. 290
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(kind-generalization) and generalizing sentences (pattern generalization).54 Generics are individual-level predicates and therefore they lack a spacetime argument; in the present corpus I did not find any obvious examples of generics with dynamic predicates (cf. to 19c above). A habitualgeneric operator changes the situation type of a statement and its temporal structure.55 As for the situation type, the habitual-generic operator suggests a static interpretation of statements with dynamic verbs (cf. 20a). As for the temporal structure, the habitual-generic operator introduces Habit Span as an indispensible RT in generalizing sentences. In generalizing sentences, the Habit Span embraces ST and is therefore located in the present,56 while the concrete event occurrences remain unlocated due to the modal epistemic value of the habitualgeneric operator.57 Interestingly, the locatability and scope of the On the structure of generics see Chierchia 1995; on generalizing sentences see Smith 1997: 50–1; cf. 33, ‘Habitual predicates present a pattern of events, rather than a specific situation, and denote a state that holds consistently over an interval’. Actually, generalizations over situation include iterative, habitual, and generic sayings, treated in many approaches as related semantic classes. On the similarity and contrast between them see Dahl 1998: 67, ‘Habitual meaning … should be distinguished on the one hand from iterativity, that is, repeated occurrences of an action on one and the same occasion … and on the other from genericity, that is, the statement of lawlike properties of species and individuals … The borderlines are not very sharp, however, and grammatical markers of habituality may include both iterative and generic uses’. Scholars have pointed to the typological distinction between iterative and habitual types of sayings: iteratives represent event’s multiplicity plus scopal character of RT (see Khrakovskij 1997), while habituals combine event’s multiplicity and scopal character of RT with modal epistemic operator; see Delfitto 2004: 127–8; Boneh and Doron 2008: 338; Boneh and Doron 2010. Carlson 2005 distinguishes between these three categories as follows, ‘Iteratives are a subclass of aspectual operators, and do not produce generic or habitual sentences, but rather are episodic in nature’. See also Hatav 1997: 151 ff. These three uses can get different morphological marking cross-linguistically (cf. Dahl 1995; Dahl 1998: 67; Binnick 2005). In this discussion I concentrate on habitual and generic sayings. 55 On the static interpretation of habitual sayings see Smith 1997: 50–1, Krifka et al. 1995: 36–7. On the temporal and modal structure of habituals see Boneh and Doron 2008: 330–2 and Boneh and Doron 2010. 56 The present overview deals with generalizing sentences in present and excludes generalizing sentences located in past. Past iterative-habitual is a specific inflectional category, widely attested cross-linguistically; its temporal structure is due to special regulations, see Boneh and Doron 2008 and 2010; cf. a note in Dahl 1998: 67, ‘One … often finds “past habitual”, that is, forms or constructions which are used exclusively to refer to habitually occurring events in the past. These seem to be more prone to be expressed morphologically’. 57 See Boneh and Doron 2008: 331 and 338, ‘In the case the real world is not prototypical, a habit may hold in it, but be rarely instantiated, or even wholly unin-
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54
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(20) Generalizing sentences with dynamic predicates וּב ַדם ֲענָ ִבים סוּתֹה ְ )עירוֹ( וְ ַלשּׂ ֵֹר ָקה ְבּנִ י ֲאתֹנוֹ ִכּ ֵבּס ַבּיַּ יִ ן ְל ֻבשׁוֹ ִ א ְֹס ִרי ַלגֶּ ֶפן ִעיר ֹה.a ()סוּתוֹ ‘Binding his foal to the vine and his donkey’s colt to the choice vine, he washes his garments in wine and his robe in the blood of grapes’ Gen. 49:11 ִ ָא ֵשׁר יָ ַשׁב ְלחוֹף.b זְ ֻבלוּן ַעם ֵח ֵרף נַ ְפשׁוֹ ָלמוּת וְ נַ ְפ ָתּ ִלי.יַמּים וְ ַעל ִמ ְפ ָר ָציו יִ ְשׁכּוֹן רוֹמי ָשׂ ֶדה ֵ ַעל ְמ ‘Asher sits still at the coast of the sea, settling down by his landings. Zebulun is a people that scorns death; Naphtali too, on the heights of the field’ Judg. 5:17b–18; see also 1 Sam. 2:4–5 ֲ ַהשּׁ ֲֹא ִפים ַע.c -ל־ע ַפר ֶא ֶרץ ְבּרֹאשׁ ַדּ ִלּים וְ ֶד ֶרְך ֲענָ וִ ים יַ טּוּ וְ ִאישׁ וְ ָא ִביו יֵ ְלכוּ ֶאל וְ ַעל ְבּגָ ִדים ֲח ֻב ִלים יַ טּוּ ֵא ֶצל ָכּל ִמזְ ֵבּ ַח וְ יֵ ין.ַהנַּ ֲע ָרה ְל ַמ ַען ַח ֵלּל ֶאת ֵשׁם ָק ְד ִשׁי יהם ֶ ֹלה ֵ נוּשׁים יִ ְשׁתּוּ ֵבּית ֱא ִ ֲע
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Habit Span can be inferential and depend on nominal arguments, involved in a statement.58 If arguments are concrete, the Habit Span can be limited by their life-time edges and other world-knowledge data associated with their existential status, or even by concrete temporal outlines (as frequency adverbs etc.); such sayings are usually classified as habituals. In 20b below, the scope of the Habit Span is limited by life-time edges associated with the tribe of Asher in a given historical situation; in 20c the Habit Span is designed through the life-time edges of the social elite in Samaria in 8 BCE. If the arguments are bare nouns, abstract notions, or themselves kind-generics, the Habit Span is limited correspondingly; this can provide a very wide, almost unlimited scope. Such sayings are usually called generic, or gnomic, sentences, since they suggest a wider generalization, than habituals. In 20a, the Habit Span is limited by the existential characteristics of the tribe of Judah, not necessarily at a certain historical period:
stantiated’. However, Boneh and Doron are dealing with habituals with an encoded past-time reference, what they labelled ‘prospective habitual’; see also Boneh and Doron 2010. Habituals in general present neutralize the relation of ET to RT even more clearly: as Comrie 1998: 995–6 pointed it out, the habit is related to present, but not the occurrence itself; the occurrence remains unrelated. The impression is that the ET locatability in generalizing sentences is a complicated issue; most scholars tend to interpret it in terms of quantification over branching options (cf. Hatav 1997: 131 ff), rather than in terms of anterior, coincidence, and posterior of ET to RT. For a detailed analysis of the distinctive behaviour of temporal anaphora in habits see Bittner 2008: 373–82. 58 Cf. Binnick, 347, ‘The purported difference in meaning between habitual and generic aspect is in a fact a difference in interpretation, forced by the interpretation of such sentence elements, as subject and object’. 292
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‘They who trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth, and push the afflicted out of the way; father and son go in to the same girl, so that my holy name is profaned. They lay themselves down beside every altar on garments taken in pledge; and in the house of their God they drink wine bought with fines they imposed’ Amos 2:7–8; see also Gen. 49:8, 16, 19, 20, 27; Num. 24:4; Deut. 32:11a, 12; Deut. 33:17b; Judg. 5:6b etc.
(21) Atemporal frequency adverbs יִמֹלְך ְלע ָֹלם וָ ֶעד ְ יְ הוָ ה.a ‘The LORD will reign forever and ever’ Exod. 15:18; see also Deut. 33:12, 2 Sam. 22:51 אכל ַעד וְ ָל ֶע ֶרב יְ ַח ֵלּק ָשׁ ָלל ַ ֹ יָמין זְ ֵאב יִ ְט ָרף ַבּבּ ֶֹקר י ִ ְ ִבּנ.b ‘Benjamin is a ravenous wolf, in the morning devouring the prey, and at evening dividing the spoil’ Gen. 49:27
The adverbs of frequency, constancy, and infinity, appearing as a rule in a hymnal framework, contribute to the general atemporal perspective. Thus, on the morpho-syntactic level, the atemporal perspective is encoded by: 1. stativity of states and general statives; 2. lack of a time-space argument in individual-level predicates; 3. vague locatability of ET within the Habit Span (=RT) in generalizing sentences. One may notice that atemporality is never absolute, but rather partial in all these cases.
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BH poetry widely uses a specific syntactic strategy of generalizing on eventualities — participial phrases (see א ְֹס ִריin 20 a. and ַהשּׁ ֲֹא ִפיםin 20 d).59 Generalizing sentences (both habituals and generic sayings) can interact with such time-space arguments as atemporal frequency adverbs.60 In biblical poetry, the notion of frequency can be also expressed by a merismic combination of two contrastive particularized adverbs (see 21b.):
3.2 Atemporal discourse modes and atemporal text progression As it has been claimed above, besides the dominating patterns of temporal interpretation (deictic, anaphoric, and sequential), texts can 59
On deverbal expressions as typically kind-referring see Krifka et al. 1995: 102. On BH participle phrases cf. Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 617. 60 On atemporal frequency adverbs see Cohen 1999, 126ff; cf. p. 127, ‘Sentences containing frequency adverbs, then, should be represented as probabilities, rather than simple counting of instances’. 293
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differ in two other criteria as for their temporality: (1) the type of entities that shape the text;61 (2) the type of text-progression.62 Some discourse modes choose situation types that correlate with atemporal interpretation on different levels of their structure. Thus, descriptions prefer states and ongoing events, namely static entities (see ex. 22).63 Likewise, information and argument modes introduce general statives and abstract entities into discourse (see ex. 23).64 Text progression is a discourse-linguistic feature that regulates the text moving through its foregrounded elements.65 According to C. Smith, there are two discourse modes with temporal text-progression – narrative and report (see 13, 14, and 15 above).66 In a description, text-progression is spatial through the pieces of the depiction, and the temporal framework is anaphoric; in 22 below, the RT is marked as a stop in the report of Balaam:67
ִכּנְ ָח ִלים נִ ָטּיוּ ְכּגַ נֹּת ֲע ֵלי נָ ָהר ַכּ ֲא ָה ִלים.ַמה טֹּבוּ א ָֹה ֶליָך יַ ֲעקֹב ִמ ְשׁ ְכּנ ֶֹתיָך יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל נָ ַטע יְ הוָ ה ַכּ ֲא ָרזִ ים ֲע ֵלי ָמיִ ם
61
See Smith 2003: 67, ‘The Discourse Modes characteristically introduce different types of situation entities. Passages of the Narrative and Report modes primarily involve Events and States. The Information mode primarily concerns States and ongoing Events. The Information mode primarily has General Statives; the Argument mode primarily has Abstract Entities, Facts and Propositions, and General Statives’. 62 See Smith 2003: 31–4; cf. also Smith 2003: 92, ‘The temporal modes progress with changes in time and space, while the atemporal modes progress with metaphorical changes of location through the text domain’. 63 See Smith 2003: 28, ‘Descriptive passages tend to focus on specifics… Time is static and suspended. There are no significant changes or advancements. The entities introduced in descriptions are usually states, ongoing events, atelic events’. 64 Cf. Smith 2003: 32, ‘The Information mode gives information, presenting it as uncontroversial. Informative passages introduce mainly General Statives – generics and generalizing sentences – into the universe of discourse’; 33, ‘An argument passage brings something to the attention of the reader, makes a claim, comment, or argument and supports it in some way… Passages in the Argument mode are concerned with states of affairs, Facts, and Propositions’. 65 See Smith 2003: 25ff; see 34, ‘information is backgrounded if it fails to contribute to progression’. 66 See Smith 2003: 25. ‘Texts progress according to changes in location, temporal or spatial; or to changes in metaphoric location’. 67 See Smith 2003: 29, ‘The information that tense conveys is anaphoric’. Cf. also note 63 above.
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(22) Description: spatial text-progression within anaphoric temporal framework
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‘How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your encampments, O Israel! Like palm groves that stretch far away, like gardens beside a river, like aloes that the LORD has planted, like cedar trees beside the waters’ Num. 24:5–6; see Deut. 33:12, 17; Isa. 1:5b–7
In argument and information, text-progression is atemporal, namely, metaphoric — through items, symbols, facts and logical connections between them,68 while the basic temporal framework is deictic,69 quite often as a default option:70 (23) Metaphoric text-progression through general statives and abstract entities in argument
In the poetic language, the distinction between description, information and argument is not always clear-cut. 3.3. Deficiency of anaphoric and deictic times in the context In poetry, the anaphoric time usually referred to by adverbs and verbal statements can be inexplicit, contributing to the ambiguity of the temporal interpretation of a statement. This phenomenon is generated by two principles of the poetic discourse — the poetic terseness and syntactic flexibility of the poetic language.71 Poetic terseness eventually provokes gapping of salient elements of the temporal anaphora from the context, because of the limits imposed by the poetic line:
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…ימנָּ ה ֶ יִתנֶ ָחם ַההוּא ָא ַמר וְ לֹא יַ ֲע ֶשׂה וְ ִד ֶבּר וְ לֹא יְ ִק ְ ְוּבן ָא ָדם ו ֶ יכזֵּ ב ַ ִלֹא ִאישׁ ֵאל ו ָ ר ָאה ָע ָמל ְבּיִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל יְ הוָ ה ֱא-א ָ ֹ ה ִבּיט ָאוֶ ן ְבּיַ ֲעקֹב וְ ל-א ִ ֹל .רוּעת ֶמ ֶלְך בּוֹ ַ וּת ְ ֹלהיו ִעמּוֹ ָ מוֹצ ִ ֵאל תוֹעפֹת ְר ֵאם לוֹ ֲ יאם ִמ ִמּ ְצ ָריִ ם ְכּ ‘God is not a human being, that he should lie, or a mortal, that he should change his mind. Has he promised, and will he not do it? Has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it? … One does not behold misfortune in Jacob; nor see trouble in Israel. The LORD their God is with them, acclaimed as a king among them. God, who brings them out of Egypt, has like the horns of a wild ox’ Num. 23:19, 21–2; see also Gen. 49:11–12; Deut. 32:4–6; 1 Sam. 2:2, 3b, 4–5, 6–8.
68
See Smith 2003: 25–6, ‘I propose that we treat the semantic domain of an atemporal discourse as terrain to be traversed: a metaphoric space…The atemporal modes progress by metaphorical changes of location through the information space of the text’. 69 Cf. Smith 2003: 98–9. 70 See Smith et al. 2007 and 2008. 71 On the terseness see Talstra 1999: 113; on flexibility see Notarius 2005: 136–7, Niccacci 2006: 248. 295
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(25) Gapped temporal anaphora .יסם ֵ עם ְבּגוֹי נָ ָבל ַא ְכ ִע-א ָ ֹ יאם ְבּל ֵ ִיהם וַ ֲאנִ י ַא ְקנ ֶ ֵהם ִקנְ אוּנִ י ְבלֹא ֵאל ִכּ ֲעסוּנִ י ְבּ ַה ְב ֵל ַ ֹ יקד ַעד ְשׁאוֹל ַתּ ְח ִתּית וַ תּ ַ > < ִכּי ֵאשׁ ָק ְד ָחה ְב ַא ִפּי וַ ִתּ יב ָלהּ וַ ְתּ ַל ֵהט ֻ ִאכל ֶא ֶרץ ו מוֹס ֵדי ָה ִרים ְ ‘They made me jealous with what is no god, provoked me with their idols. So I will make them jealous with what is no people, provoke them with a foolish nation. < > For a fire will be kindled by my anger, and will burn to the depths of Sheol; it will devour the earth and its increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains’ Deut. 32:21–2; see also Hos. 7:3; Exod. 15:16
(26) Dynamic shift of temporal axes יִתנוּ ַבגּוֹיִ ם ַע ָתּה ְ גַּ ם ִכּי.בּוֹדד לוֹ ֶא ְפ ַריִ ם ִה ְתנוּ ֲא ָה ִבים ֵ ִכּי ֵה ָמּה ָעלוּ ַאשּׁוּר ֶפּ ֶרא ֲא ַק ְבּ ֵצם וַ יָּ ֵחלּוּ ְמּ ָעט ִמ ַמּ ָשּׂא ֶמ ֶלְך ָשׂ ִרים ‘For they have gone up to Assyria, a wild ass wandering alone; Ephraim has bargained for lovers. Though they bargain with the nations, I will now gather them up. They shall soon writhe under the burden of kings and princes’ Hos. 8:9–10; see also Hos. 4:12–13, 16–19; 7:3–7; 8:11– 13; Deut. 32:15–18
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Deut. 32:22 does not contain clear temporal indications; the covered RT of this statement can be postulated as anterior to ST (as implied by perfective verbal forms ק ְד ָחה,ָ וַ ִתּ ַיקד72 etc; in this case v. 22 is a retrospective report) or posterior to ST (as it is may be implied by immediately preceding יאם ֵ ִא ְקנ, ַ יסם ֵ ַא ְכ ִעin v. 21; in this case v. 22 represents a prospective report).73 The flexibility of poetic language can presuppose, among other traits, a dynamic shift from one temporal pattern to another or from one aspectual view-point to another, so that one can vacillate to which of them a certain verbal statement is to be related.74 Such discourse conditions can blur the concrete temporal anaphora:
In 26, the statement with wayyiqtol form ( )וַ יָּ ֵחלּוּcan be interpreted as sequentially following the statements with an explicit past-time reference ( ָעלוּ ַאשּׁוּרetc in v. 12) and thus rendered in the past (‘they 72 The masoretic text has wayyiqtol forms in Deut. 32:22, but Septuagint does not show waw before verbal forms and the translation is in the future. 73 The rendering in future is preferred in many commentators, cf. McConville 2002: 445, or is substituted by generic present, see Nelson 2002: 364, Driver 1895: 354. 74 Dynamic shift of temporal axes can swap with shifts in aspectual view-points and discourse modes.
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(27) Anonymous addresser or addressee ִבּ ְפר ַֹע ְפּ ָרעוֹת ְבּיִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ְבּ ִה ְתנַ ֵדּב ָעם ָבּ ֲרכוּ יְ הוָ ה ‘When locks are long in Israel, when the people offer themselves willingly — bless the LORD!’ Judg. 5:277; see also Exodus 15
(28) Collective speaker מוֹר ָשׁה ְק ִה ַלּת יַ ֲעקֹב ָ תּוֹרה ִצוָּ ה ָלנוּ מ ֶֹשׁה ָ ‘Moses charged us with the law, as a possession for the assembly of Jacob’ Deut. 33:4
(29) Impersonal speech -יפה וְ ד ֵֹרְך ַעל ָ וּמגִּ יד ְל ָא ָדם ַמה ֵשּׂחוֹ ע ֵֹשׂה ַשׁ ַחר ֵע ַ רוּח ַ יוֹצר ָה ִרים וּב ֵֹרא ֵ ִכּי ִהנֵּ ה י־צ ָבאוֹת ְשׁמוֹ ְ ֹלה ֵ ָבּמֳ ֵתי ָא ֶרץ יְ הוָ ה ֱא ‘He who forms the mountains, creates the wind, and reveals his thoughts to man, he who turns dawn to darkness, and treads the high places of the earth–the LORD God Almighty is his name’ Amos 4:13; see also Amos 5:8–9, 9:5–6; Gen. 49:1378; Deut. 33:6, 12, 13–1779; 1 Sam. 2:6–10.
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withered down’, ‘grew weak’ etc),75 or anaphorically referring to the immediately preceding yiqtol ()א ַק ְבּ ֵצם ֲ which is explicitly located in the future.76 The dynamical shift of temporal patterns obscures precise temporal interpretation. The deictic time in biblical poetry, as it has been shown above, is basically marked by verbs of saying, egocentric elements and other deictic elements, which are typical of the conversationally styled framework of most poetic texts (see ex. 3 and 5 above). However, the basically egocentric character of the poetic speech can be covered, producing different ranks of impersonal speech, as anonymity of the communication participants, collectivity of the addresser, whose identity incorporates the addressee, or the impersonal null representation of the participants of the communication. The impersonal character of speech is well attested in hymnal and some types of proverbial speech, but is less common in prophetic speech:
75
This verbal form is obscure as for its meaning; cf. Paul 1986: 197. The future is preferred by Paul 1986: 195–6, Macintosh 1997: 319; Gesenius §111w note 1. Some take the form being erroneously vocalized (Bergsträßer vol. II: 38–9 note a–f) or change it to weqatal (Harper 1994: 319). 77 On the anonymity of speaker in Judges 5 see Notarius 2007: 96–100. 78 On the impersonal character of addresser in most sayings in the Blessing of Jacob see Notarius 2007: 117–22. 79 On the impersonal character of some sayings in the Blessing of Moses see Notarius 2007: 163–70. 76
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These techniques can contribute to the atemporal perspective in the context, since they entail partial or complete elimination of egocentric elements and therefore block out or impede conditions for deictic time. As it has been noticed above, verbs of saying that introduce a conversational framework or quotations are not obligatory (cf. in ex. 4 above). Moreover, as the discourse runs on, the initial connection to the deictic elements in the framework can become very loose, especially if additional temporal references are lacking. Such discourse conditions can provoke uncertainty concerning the ST reference as an explicit starting point for the rest of temporal references and create passages with a vague temporal interpretation. Let us consider several examples:
ארן וְ ָא ָתה ֵמ ִר ְבבֹת ק ֶֹדשׁ ָ הוֹפ ַיע ֵמ ַהר ָפּ ִ יְ הוָ ה ִמ ִסּינַ י ָבּא וְ זָ ַרח ִמ ֵשּׂ ִעיר ָלמוֹ.a )אשׁ ָדּת( ָלמוֹ ֵ שׁדּת ָ ימינוֹ ֵא ִ ִמ ‘The LORD came from Sinai and dawned over them from Seir; he shone forth from Mount Paran. He came with myriads of holy ones from the south, from his mountain slopes’ Deut. 33:2
This verse opens the composition and contains no egocentric or deictic elements. The geographic names can provoke an association with a certain temporal account and the perfective view-point of the dynamic verbal forms in qatal (הוֹפ ַיע ִ , וְ זָ ַרח, ָבּאetc.) implies a nonpresent meaning; as a result, the verse will be interpreted as a report, marked by episodic events and temporal succession. Still, without a clear indication of deictic or anaphoric time such interpretation is not definite: the sayings can be easily taken as generalizing sentences, representing a characteristic pattern of situation, or even kind-oriented generics.
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(30) Vague ST reference
(30) ציד ֹן-ל ִ יַמּים יִ ְשׁכֹּן וְ הוּא ְלחוֹף אֳנִ יֹּת וְ יַ ְר ָכתוֹ ַע ִ בוּלן ְלחוֹף ֻ ְ ז.b ‘Zebulun stays at the shore of the sea; he is a haven for ships, and his border is at Sidon’ Gen. 49:13
Although the Blessing of Jacob starts with the quotation framework (cf. in Gen. 49:2; see ex. 3 above) and the first three sayings (Reuben, Shimon/Levi and Judah) and the closing saying (Joseph) contain numerous egocentric elements and personal curses and blessings, Gen. 49:13 starts a row of habitual and generic sayings (vv. 13–21, 298
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4. Atemporality in BH Poetry as a Pragmatic Notion: Concluding Remarks In this paper I have examined how temporal information is encoded on different levels of the biblical poetic language. It has been claimed that, in spite of the tenseless character of the verbal inflection, the temporal interpretation of verbal statements in a poetic text is possible as in any other type of discourse, if we systematically assess the rendering of deictic, anaphoric, and sequential times, and take into account the pragmatic principles that control the temporal implications of aspectual and modal forms in texts. However, in BH poetry there are phenomena that are consistently associated with atemporality. It has been claimed that atemporality in language and discourse correlates with two main phenomena — stativity and illocatability. Stativity in language was illustrated by such verbal constellations as states, which do not have an inner temporal structure; it was also noticed that general statives, even if they incorporate dynamic verbs,
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excluding v. 18), which are not necessarily connected to the initial quotation framework.80 If the allusion to the egocentric element and volitive modality in the opening is taken as immediate, as some scholars do, the temporal meaning of these sayings can be future (posteriority to ST),81 but if the connection to the deictic element in the framework is loose, present will be a default solution and the sayings are interpreted as habitual-generic.82 Interestingly, the text does not contain clear indications concerning the temporal interpretation of sayings in vv. 13–21. Therefore, the present discussion retains the assumption that if there are no other reference points expressed in the context, the deictic time is a default option and the present tense is a default temporal interpretation. However, one may notice that if the ST reference is more common as a default realization than as an explicit temporal location, it inescapably creates a very vague temporal arrangement of the discourse in general and increases the effect of atemporality.
80 This difference between sayings was noticed by the commentators and received several interpretations; cf. the Gunkel’s opinion about some of the blessings (Gunkel 1997: 452): ‘they essentially describe their present. This is also apparent in their form: the prophetic perfect is absent from Gen 49 and the imperfects are mostly to be translated with English present’. 81 Thus De Hoop 1999: 148, or Sarna 1989: 339; cf. also ex. 29 above. 82 Thus Gunkel 1997, or Wenham 1994: 455.
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have a static interpretation. Stativity in discourse has two sides: on the one hand, there are discourse modes (description, information, argument) that generally incorporate static entities, on the other hand, some discourse modes (information and argument) demonstrate atemporal text-progression, therefore reveal stativity on the discourse level. The illocatability in language was exemplified through the problem of the temporal structure of general statives. General statives are subdivided into generics and generalizing sentences. Generics, being individual-level predicates, lack a spatial-temporal argument; their temporal interpretation, however, can be inferential, controlled by life-time edges and other world-knowledge implications. Generalizing sentences, being stage-level predicates, reveal a spatial-temporal argument, but its functioning is controlled by a generic-habitual operator at work: RT necessarily turns into Habit Span and embraces ST. The modal character of the generic-habitual operator predicts that the ET of concrete occurrences is possibly located within the Habit Span; their precise location remains obscure. Moreover, the scope of the Habit Span is not always accurately indicated, and quite often is subject to pragmatic inferences. The pragmatic inferences can be connected to life-time and world-knowledge data regarding the arguments involved into the verbal constellation: concrete arguments indicate a better limited Habit Span and mark habitual sayings; abstract items and bare nouns often imply wider or even imprecise limits of Habit Span and mark generic (gnomic) sayings. Therefore, the probable character of events locatability within the Habit Span and the imprecisely defined limits of the Habit Span in generic sayings give shape to illocatability in language. Illocatability in discourse is associated with the deficiency in the context of deictic and anaphoric elements, necessary for temporal interpretation. In poetry, the deficiency of temporal indications can be intensified by such features of poetic discourse as terseness and flexibility. The pragmatic assumption for such sayings presupposes that the deictic time is a default option and the present tense is a default meaning. However, this pragmatic assumption is not always smoothly applied in biblical poetry, especially when the ST reference is more common as a default realization than as an explicit temporal location.83 Many statements in biblical poetic dis83 The impression is that the ‘atemporal’ features are more characteristic to hymnal and proverbial, than to prophetic poetic speech. The precise statistic analysis of possible distribution of the above mentioned phenomena was not intended in this paper.
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course remain ambiguous as for their temporal interpretation, and the present author did not find efficient constrains to clear up this ambiguity. One may notice that most of the features associated with the atemporal perspective are not specific of the poetic language; they have a universal character and may occur in other discourse types as well. What makes, then, the poetic speech more ‘atemporal’ than most other speech types? In my view, this is the high concentration of all the above-mentioned atemporal phenomena and their foregrounded pragmatically prominent position in a poetic text. The following illustrates (not all the phenomena are equally distributed in this passage):
English translation
Atemporal elements
My heart exults in the states; metaphoric textLORD; my strength is exalted progression; anonymous in my God. My mouth speaker derides my enemies, because I rejoice in your victory.
Hebrew text ָע ַלץ ִל ִבּי ַבּיהוָ ה ָר ָמה ַק ְרנִ י ַבּיהוָ ה אוֹיְבי ִכּי ָשׂ ַמ ְח ִתּי ַ ָר ַחב ִפּי ַעל ישׁוּע ֶתָך ָ ִבּ
There is no Holy One like the generic sayings; metaphoric LORD, no one besides you; text-progression there is no Rock like our God.
ֵאין ָקדוֹשׁ ַכּיהוָ ה ִכּי ֵאין ִבּ ְל ֶתָּך וְ ֵאין אֹלהינוּ ֵ צוּר ֵכּ
Talk no more so very proudly, let not arrogance come from your mouth; for the LORD is a God of knowledge, and by him actions are weighed.
anonymous listener; generics
ַאל ַתּ ְרבּוּ ְת ַד ְבּרוּ גְּ ב ָֹהה גְ ב ָֹהה יֵ ֵצא יכם ִכּי ֵאל ֵדּעוֹת יְ הוָ ה ֶ ָע ָתק ִמ ִפּ וְ לֹא )וְ לוֹ( נִ ְת ְכּנוּ ֲע ִללוֹת
The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength.
generic sayings (proverbs)
ֶק ֶשׁת גִּ בּ ִֹרים ַח ִתּים וְ נִ ְכ ָשׁ ִלים ָאזְ רוּ ָחיִ ל
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(31) Atemporal elements in the foreground: 1 Sam. 2:1–10
ְשׂ ֵב ִעים ַבּ ֶלּ ֶחם נִ ְשׂ ָכּרוּ ְוּר ֵע ִבים ע ָק ָרה יָ ְל ָדה ִשׁ ְב ָעה-ד ֲ ָח ֵדלּוּ ַע וְ ַר ַבּת ָבּנִ ים ֻא ְמ ָל ָלה
Those who were full hire themselves out for food, but those who were hungry hunger no more. She who was barren has borne seven children, but she who has had many sons pines away. 301
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English translation The LORD kills and brings to life; he brings down to Sheol and raises up.
Atemporal elements habitual sayings; metaphoric text-progression through divine attributes; impersonal speech (connection to the egocentric elements in the framework is loose)
Hebrew text מוֹריד ְשׁאוֹל ִ וּמ ַחיֶּ ה ְ יְ הוָ ה ֵמ ִמית וַ יָּ ַעל
וּמ ֲע ִשׁיר ַמ ְשׁ ִפּיל ַאף ַ מוֹרישׁ ִ יְ הוָ ה רוֹמם ֵ ְמ
He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honour. For the pillars of the earth are the LORD’’s, and on them he has set the world.
ֵמ ִקים ֵמ ָע ָפר ָדּל ֵמ ַא ְשׁפֹּת יָ ִרים הוֹשׁיב ִעם נְ ִד ִיבים וְ ִכ ֵסּא ִ ֶא ְביוֹן ְל ָכבוֹד יַ נְ ִח ֵלם ִכּי ַליהוָ ה ְמ ֻצ ֵקי ֶא ֶרץ יהם ֵתּ ֵבל ֶ וַ יָּ ֶשׁת ֲע ֵל
He will guard the feet of his faithful ones, but the wicked shall be cut off in darkness; for not by might does one prevail.
ַרגְ ֵלי ֲח ִס ָידו יִ ְשׁמֹר ְוּר ָשׁ ִעים ַבּח ֶֹשְׁך אישׁ-ר ִ לֹא ְבכ ַֹח יִ גְ ַבּ-יִ ָדּמּוּ ִכּי
The LORD! His adversaries are shattered; the Most High thunders in heaven. The LORD judges the ends of the earth; he will give strength to his king, and exalt the power of his anointed.
impersonal blessing without egocentric elements
)מ ִר ָיביו( ָע ָלו ְ יְ הוָ ה יֵ ַחתּוּ ְמ ִר ָיבו )ע ָליו( ַבּ ָשּׁ ַמיִם יַ ְר ֵעם יְ הוָ ה יָ ִדין ָ יִתּן עֹז ְל ַמ ְלכּוֹ וְ יָ ֵרם ֶ ְַא ְפ ֵסי ָא ֶרץ ו ֶק ֶרן ְמ ִשׁיחוֹ
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The LORD makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts.
The atemporal perspective is not an obligatory, semantically encoded property, but rather a pragmatically inferred discourse device. Address for correspondence: [email protected]
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Bartelmus, R. 1982. HYH, Bedeutung und Funktion eines hebräischen ‘Allerweltswortes’: zugleich ein Beitrag zur Frage des hebräischen Tempussystems. (St. Ottilien) Bergsträßer, G. 1918–29. Hebraeische Grammatik. (Leipzig) Binnick, R.I. 1991. Time and the Verb: a Guide to Tense and Aspect. (New York) —— 2005. ‘The Markers of Habitual Aspect in English’, Journal of English Linguistics 33:4, 339–69 Bittner, M. 2008. ‘Aspectual Universals of Temporal Anaphora’, in S. Rothstein (ed.) Theoretical and Crosslinguistic Approaches to the Semantics of Aspect. (Amsterdam). 349–85 Blau, J. 1977. ‘Marginalia Semitica III’, Israel Oriental Studies 7, 14–32 Boling, R.G. 1975. Judges: Introduction, Translation and Commentary. (Garden City, N.Y) Boneh, N. and E. Doron, 2008. ‘Habituality and the Habitual Aspect’, in S. Rothstein (ed.) Theoretical and Crosslinguistic Approaches to the Semantics of Aspect. (Amsterdam). 321–47 —— 2010. ‘Modal and Temporal Aspects of Habituality’, in M. Rappaport-Hovav, E. Doron and I. Sichel (eds) Syntax, Lexical Semantics, and Event Structure (Oxford Studies in Theoretical Linguistics). (Oxford) Carlson, G.N. 1977. ‘Reference to Kinds in English’. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Massachusetts, Amherst. (Published 1980 by Garland Press, New York) Chierchia G. 1995. ‘Individual Level Predicates as Inherent Generics’, in G. Carlson and F.J. Pelletier (eds) The Generic Book. (Chicago). 176–223 Comrie, B. 1976. Aspect: an Introduction to the Study of Verbal Aspect and Related Problems. (Cambridge) —— 1985. Tense. (Cambridge) —— 1998 ‘Tense’ in J.L. Mey (ed.), Concise Encyclopedia of Pragmatics. (Amsterdam). 994–9 Cook, J. 2002. ‘The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System: A Grammaticalization Approach’. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Wisconsin – Madison —— 2006. ‘The Finite Verbal Forms in Biblical Hebrew Do Express Aspect’, Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 30, 21–35 Cohen, A. 1999. Think generic!: the Meaning and Use of Generic Sentences. (Stanford) Cohen, O. 2008. ‘The Verbal Tense System in Late Biblical Hebrew Prose’. Ph.D. dissertation. Hebrew University of Jerusalem Dahl, Ö. 1985. Tense and Aspect Systems. (Oxford) —— 1995. ‘The Marking of the Episodic/Generic Distincion in Tense-Aspect Systems’, in G. Carlson and F.J. Pelletier (eds), The Generic Book. (Chicago). 412– 26 —— 1998. ‘Aspect’ in J.L. Mey (ed.), Concise Encyclopedia of Pragmatics. (Amsterdam). 64–70 Delfitto, D. 2004. ‘Logical Form of Imperfective Aspect’, in J. Gueron and J. Lecarme (eds), The Syntax of Time. (Cambridge, Mass.). 115–43 De Hoop, R. 1999. Genesis 49 in Its Literary and Historical Context. (Leiden) Demirdache, H. and Uribe-Etxebarria, M. 2004. ‘The Syntax of Time Adverbs’, in J. Gueron and J. Lecarme (eds), The Syntax of Time. (Cambridge, MA). 143–79 —— 2005. ‘Aspect and Temporal Modification’, in P. Kempchinsky and R. Slabakova (eds), The Syntax, Semantics and Acquisition of Aspect. (Dordrecht). 191– 222 303
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Driver, S.R. 1895. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy. (Edinburgh) Fabricius-Hansen, C. 1998. ‘Tense and Time, Pragmatics of’, in J.L. Mey (ed.), Concise Encyclopedia of Pragmatics. (Amsterdam). 1000–1 Fensham, F.C. 1978. ‘The Use of the Suffix Conjugation and the Prefix Conjugation in a Few Old Hebrew Poems’, Journal of North-West Semitic Languages 6, 9–18 Gesenius, W., E. Kautzsch, A.E. Cowley. 1902. Hebrew Grammar. (Oxford) Harper, W.R. 1994. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Amos and Hosea. (Edinburgh) Hatav, G. 1997. The Semantics of Aspect and Modality: Evidence from English and Biblical Hebrew. (Amsterdam) Hornstein, N. 1990. As Time Goes By: Tense and Universal Grammar. (Cambridge, Mass.) Hendel, R.S. 1996. ‘In the Margin of the Hebrew Verbal System’, Zeitschrift für Atlhebraistik 9, 152–81 Gentry, P.J. 1998. ‘The System of the Finite Verb in Classical Biblical Hebrew’, Hebrew Studies 39, 7–39 Guéron, J. and J.L. Lecarme, (eds) 2008. Time and Modality. (Dordrecht) Gunkel, H. 1997. Genesis: Translated and Interpreted by Hermann Gunkel. Translated by M.E. Biddle. (Macon, Georgia) Giorgi, A. and F. Pianesi 1997. Tense and Aspect: From Semantics to Morphosyntax. (Oxford) Goldfajn, T. 1998. Word Order and Time in Biblical Hebrew Narrative. (Oxford) Greenstein 2005. מה היקפם?״ עיוני מקרא ופרשנות- ״דברי איוב הראשונים,א׳ גרינשטין 245–62 עמ׳, תשסה,ז Joosten, J. 2002. ‘Do the Finite Verbal Forms in Biblical Hebrew Express Aspect?’, Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 29, 49–70 Kamp, H. and Ch. Rohrer. 1983. ‘Tense in Texts’, in R. Bäuerle, C. Schwarze, A. von Stechow (eds) Meaning, Use and Interpretation of Language. (Berlin). 250–69 Kamp, H. and U. Reyle, 1993. From Discourse to Logic. (Dordrecht) Khrakovskij, V.S. (ed.). 1997. Typology of Iterative Constructions. (Munich) Kratzer, A. 1995. ‘Stage-Level and Individual-Level Predicates’, in G.N. Carlson and F.J. Pelletier (eds) The Generic Book. (Chicago). 125–75 Krifka, M. (principal author, together with F.J. Pelletier, G.N. Carlson, G. Chierchia, G. Link, A. ter Meulen) 1995. ‘Introduction to Genericity’, in G.N. Carlson and F.J. Pelletier (eds) The Generic Book. (Chicago). 1–124 Levinson, S. 1979. ‘Activity Types and Language’, Linguistics 17, 365–99 Longacre, R. 1989. Joseph: a Text Theoretical and Textlinguistic Analysis of Genesis 37 and 39-48. (Winona Lake) Lyons, J. 1972. Semantics. (Cambridge) Macintosh, A.A. 1997. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Hosea. (Edinburgh) McConville, J.G. 2002. Deuteronomy. (Leicester) McFall, L. 1982. The Enigma of the Hebrew Verbal System: Solutions from Ewald to the Present Day. (Sheffield) Miller, C.L. 1996. The Representation of Speech in Biblical Hebrew Narrative. (Atlanta) Mittwoch, A. 2008. ‘Tenses for the Living and the Dead: Lifetime Inferences Reconsidered’, in S. Rothstein (ed.), Theoretical and Crosslinguistic Approaches to the Semantics of Aspect. (Amsterdam). 167–90 304
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Nelson, R.D. 2002. Deuteronomy: A Commentary. (Louisville) Niccacci, A. 1990. The Syntax of the Verb in Classical Hebrew Prose. (Sheffield) —— 2006. ‘The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System in Poetry’, in S.E. Fassberg and A. Hurvitz (eds), Biblical Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting: Typological and Historical Perspectives. (Jerusalem, Winona Lake). 247–68 Notarius T. 2005. בעיות מתודולוגיות בסיסיות בתיאור: ״בין לשון לשיח,ת׳ נוטריוס 125–38 עמ׳, תשס״ו, מחקרים בלשון י׳,מערכת הזמנים בלשון השירה המקראית״ —— 2007. ‘The System of Verbal Tenses in Archaic and Classical Biblical Poetry’. Ph.D. dissertation. Hebrew University of Jerusalem —— 2008. ‘Poetic Discourse and the Problem of Verbal Tenses in the Oracles of Balaam’, Hebrew Studies 49, 55–86 Partee, B. 1973. ‘Some Structural Analogies Between Tenses and Pronouns in English’, The Journal of Philosophy 70, 213–41 Paul, Sh. 1986. ‘Hosea 8:8–10 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal Epithets’, in S. Japhet (ed.), Studies in Bible (Jerusalem). 193–204 Polak F. 2008. מחקרים, ״מערכת זמני הפועל בסיפורת המקראית הקדומה״,פ׳ פולק 223–44 , תשס״ט, ספר היובל לאבי הורביץ:יב-בלשון יא Reichenbach, H. 1947. Elements of Symbolic Logic. (New York) Rothstein, S. 2004. Structuring Events. (Oxford) Sarna, N.M. 1989. Genesis. (Philadelphia) Soggin, A. 1981. Judges: a Commentary. (Philadelphia) Stowell, T. 2004. ‘Tense and Modals’, in J. Gueron and J. Lecarme (eds), The Syntax of Time. (Cambridge, Mass.). 621–36 Smith, C. 1997 (=1991). The Parameter of Aspect. (Dordrecht, Boston, London) —— 2003. Modes of Discourse: The Local Structure of Texts. (Cambridge) —— 2005. ‘Aspectual Entities and Tense in Discourse’, in P. Kempchinsky and R. Slabakova (eds), Aspectual Inquiries. (Dortrecht). 223–39 —— 2004. ‘The Domain of Tense’, in J. Gueron and J. Lecarme (eds), The Syntax of Time. (Cambridge, Mass.). 597–620 —— 2007. ‘Tense and Temporal Interpretation’, Lingua 117, 419–36 —— 2008. ‘Time with and without Tense’, in J. Guéron and J. Lecarme (eds) Time and Modality. (Dordrecht). 227–50 Smith, C., E. Perkins, and T. Fernald. 2007. ‘Time in Navajo: Direct and Indirect Interpretation’, International Journal of American Linguistics 73, 40–71 Talstra, E. 1999. ‘Reading Biblical Hebrew Poetry - Linguistic Structure or Rhetorical Device’, Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 25, 101–26 Tropper, J. 1998. ‘Althebraeisches und semitisches Aspektsystem’, Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 11, 153–90 Vendler, Z. 1957. ‘Verbs and Times’, The Philosophical Review 66, 143–60 —— 1967. ‘Facts and Events’, in Z. Vendler Linguistics in Philosophy. (Ithaca). 122–46 Waltke, B.K. and O’Connor, M. 1990. An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. (Winona Lake) Warren, A. 1998. ‘Modality, Reference, and Speech Acts in the Psalms’. Ph.D. dissertation. Cambridge University Wenham, G.J. 1994. Genesis. Vol 2: Genesis 16–50. (Waco) Whorf, B.L. 1956. Language, Thought, and Reality. (Cambridge) Zevit, Z. 1998. The Anterior Construction in Classical Hebrew. (Atlanta) Zewi, T. 1999. ‘Time in Nominal Sentences in the Semitic Languages’, JSS 44, 195–214 305
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WHEN WERE THE FIVE GREEK VOWEL-SIGNS INTRODUCED INTO SYRIAC WRITING? J. F. COAKLEY UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
Abstract
The West Syriac tradition of writing and phonology uses a system of five signs $ & ' % +, derived from the Greek letters A E H O OY respectively, to specify vowels more completely than can be done by the alphabet and diacritical points alone. This system of vowel-signs is taught to everyone who learns Syriac in the Western tradition,1 and it is exhibited in many a printed text, starting from the earliest days of Syriac printing in the sixteenth century.2 In the manuscript era, however, the Greek vowel-signs are not so amply attested as a reader of printed editions might imagine,3 being employed by scribes, as a
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It is usually said that the West Syriac vowel-signs, based on Greek letters, were invented in the eighth century. On close inspection, however, the evidence for this early date is insubstantial. Dated manuscripts with the vowel-signs first appear in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Almost all of them contain the so-called West Syrian masorah, and can be located in the region around Melitene in Byzantine territory. There are good reasons to think that the masorah itself was first published there and then (and not in the monastery of Qarqafta further east as has often been supposed), and that the vowel-signs themselves were introduced as part of this scholarly project.
1
Among recent grammars for university students, see most clearly J.F. Healey, Leshono Suryoyo2 (Piscataway, NJ 2005), specifically p. 9. Others use the Greek vowel-signs but modify the resulting system in various ways on the basis of East Syriac phonology. See e.g. C. Brockelmann, Syrische Grammatik4 (Berlin 1925) and my Robinson’s Paradigms and Exercises in Syriac Grammar 5 (Oxford 2002). 2 Especially in earlier texts the ou sign often appears in more etymological forms such as ! or #. For the earliest form of this sign see below. 3 Vocalized scholarly editions, especially of a century or more ago, can give the false impression that the vowels are based on MS evidence. A notable case is the edition of the Peshitta Gospels by P. Pusey and W. Gwilliam (Tetraeuangelium sanctum juxta simplicem Syrorum versionem ad fidem codicum, massorae, editionum denuo recognitum [Oxford 1901]), in which most of the vowels are sup307
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rule, only on rare words and homographs. As a result, their history is not very easy to trace.4 In what follows I shall try to determine with more probability than has been achieved before, when and where the vowel-signs make their first appearance in manuscript writing. This will take us close, if not all the way back, to the moment of their invention. I
plied by the editors on the basis of earlier printed editions, including East Syriac ones (preface, p. vii). 4 It is a curious deficiency of the standard work on Syriac palaeography, W.H.P. Hatch, An Album of Dated Syriac Manuscripts (Boston 1946), that it altogether ignores vowel-signs. 5 So for example T. Nöldeke, Kurzgefasste syrische Grammatik2 (Leipzig 1898), §9 (‘ungefähr seit 700 n. Ch.’); L. Costaz, Grammaire syriaque2 (Beirut 1964), §12; J.B. Segal, The Diacritical Point and the Accents in Syriac (London 1953), 47. 6 ‘The use of % for zqapa is unlikely to have been generally accepted before the eighth century’ (Segal, The Diacritical Point, 46). That is because in the previous century, Jacob of Edessa still distinguishes o and a. Actually, there are some disturbances to the spelling of words in earlier manuscripts which indicate that the vowel-shift of a to o (and o to u) was already taking place; but these do not need to be discussed here. 7 R. Gottheil, ‘Dawidh bar Paulos, a Syriac Grammarian’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 15 (1893), cxi–xviii, specifically cxviii. For his dates see A. Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur (Bonn 1922), 272 and n. 1. 8 ‘Symbolae ad historiam recensionis Karkaphensis’, pp. 149–257, specifically 181–8.
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In works of reference on Syriac grammar, it is commonly said that the Greek vowel-signs first appear in the eighth century.5 This has seemed an agreeable hypothesis on the broadest of considerations. The West Syriac pronunciation of the vowel phoneme /a/ as o , malko) is presumed by the shape of the sign (omicron, as ( will become clear presently) for this phoneme; and this pronunciation had taken hold by the eighth century, but probably not very long before. Yet that consideration gives at best an earliest date for the vowel system.6 In the same eighth century, the West Syriac grammarian David bar Paulos evidently knew nothing of the vowel-signs,7 and on inspection, other evidence that would more positively establish their existence at this time is exceedingly thin. We consider it here under five heads. 1. An early date for the Greek vowels would be secure if their invention could be credited to Jacob of Edessa (d. 708), a hypothesis argued by N. Wiseman in his Horae Syriacae (1828).8
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Jacob’s grammar was edited by W. Wright, Fragments of the or Syriac Grammar of Jacob of Edessa (London 1871). In his edition (p. 4) and afterwards Wright held onto Wiseman’s hypothesis, admitting however that the five-vowel system might have been the product of Jacob’s ‘school’ (A Short History of Syriac Literature, [London 1894 ed.], 152 and n. 1). Against the attribution of the five-vowel system to Jacob see J.P.P. Martin, ‘Jacques d’Édesse et les voyelles syriennes’, Journal Asiatique 6:13 (1869), 447–82; and Segal, The Diacritical Point, 42–4. 10 R. Duval, Traité de grammaire syriaque (Paris 1881), 72 b (§73). Duval echoes a similar statement by Martin, ‘Ponctuation’ (see n. 25 below), 174–5. 11 Bar Hebraeus in Syriac: Chronicon syriacum, ed. P. Bedjan (Paris 1890), 126–7; and in Arabic: Historia compendiosa dynastiarum, ed. E. Pococke (1663), 228. For the date of the death of Theophilos see Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur, 341–2. 12 Latin text in his Catalogus librorum Chaldaeorum…auctore Hebediesu Metropolita Sobensi, Latinitate donatum, et notis illustratum ab Abrahamo Ecchellensi (Rome 1653), 179, near the beginning of a long note on the Syriac points. 13 Assemani, B.O. i. 64. For a list of others affirming this ‘tradition’ down to his own time, see Wiseman, Horae Syriacae, 182, who rejects it. Among later scholars besides Duval, Wright allows Theophilos as one who may have given currency to the system already (in his view) existing (Syriac Literature, 164). 9
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Wiseman’s case was circumstantial, however, and made before the publication of some of the relevant writings of Jacob. It is in particular clear from a fragment of Jacob’s own grammar that he himself distinguished seven vowels in Syriac, not five, and that his own system of representing these vowels was by new alphabetical letters written in the same line as the existing ones, not by signs written above them.9 2. According to Duval, ‘A défaut de meilleures preuves, on devra donc s’en tenir pour les signes-voyelles des Jacobites à l’ancienne tradition qui considère Théophile d’Edesse (†785) comme le premier qui en fit usage dans sa traduction de l’Iliade d’Homère.’10 But it is very doubtful if this attribution can be called a ‘tradition’ at all. Theophilos of Edessa is a figure who appears in Bar Hebraeus’s Chronicle, according to which he was an astrologer in the service of the Caliph al-Mahdi, and the translator of the two books of Homer into Syriac — and a Maronite.11 But Bar Hebraeus does not mention the Greek vowel-signs in connection with him; nor does any other author, as far as I can determine, until we find him credited with the invention by one of the early Maronite scholars in Europe, Abraham Ecchellensis (d. 1664).12 The ‘tradition’ of his authorship of the vowel-signs was then retailed by J.S. Assemani and others after him.13 But there must be a strong suspicion that a Maronite (such as Ecchellensis) has simply seized on an early
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14
Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum (London 1872), index s.v. ‘Vowels, the Greek’, p. 1332b. Some recent scholars have doubted that the vowels and other Greek words in this MS are in fact in the hand of the original scribe, among them Segal (The Diacritical Point, opposite Plate IV), and A. Salvesen (The Books of Samuel in the Syriac Version of Jacob of Edessa [Leiden 1999], xiii); but they cannot anyhow be much later. 15 Namely (1 Sam. 1:2, fol.5a), , , and (1 Sam. 30:28, fol. 88b). Fol. 88b is reproduced as plate vii in vol. 1 of Wright’s Catalogue; and again as Plate IV in Segal, The Diacritical Point. 16 Fol. 83b is reproduced as Plate vi in vol. 1 of the Catalogue. Curiously, in his description of the MS (p. 337) Wright does not call attention to the two words at issue in lines 1 and 23, but only to the words in this section of the MS that have vowels added in a different ink (i.e., by a later hand). The two original vowels are easily overlooked, and I wonder if he only noticed them later. He points out their significance in Syriac Literature, 152 n. 1.
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figure from his own church with some connections to the Greek language and given him credit for this innovation. 3. British Library MS Add. 14429, written in 719 CE or shortly before, is cited by William Wright as exhibiting Greek vowels ‘inserted by the scribe’ (italics his)14. But this famous and beautiful manuscript, embodying Jacob of Edessa’s scholarly version of the books of Samuel, has its own scheme. The vowels occur on just four words in the course of 166 leaves of writing. All four words are proper names:15 they are deliberately spelled in Syriac with extra vowel-letters, and the vowel-letters are superscribed with Greek letters to specify which vowels they are to carry. Then for good measure the words are spelled out in Greek in the margin. For example in Greek e is written above the , i above the , and w above the , and SEFIMWQ is written in the margin. (Notice here also the presence of the letters i and w, which are not part of the five-vowel system that we are looking for.) This manuscript is suggestive of one reason for the eventual adoption of the vowel-signs, namely that diacritical points alone could not help with the pronunciation of foreign words. But here the vowels are limited to names and are not yet part of any system to represent vowels in ordinary Syriac words. 4. Some further putative evidence comes from another somewhat well-known manuscript, British Library MS Add. 17134, considered by Wright to be ‘not improbably’ an autograph of Jacob of Edessa. On fol. 83b of this manuscript, there are two words signed with vowels that are very likely to be in the hand of the original scribe.16 The scribe concerned, however, is only the
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writer of fols 83–5 at the end of the manuscript. These leaves are written in a different ink from the preceding ones and with lines further apart (33–4 lines per page as against c. 42 on previous leaves). More than that: the fact that vowels were added by a later hand to six other words on fols 83–5 only suggests that these leaves were at one time separate from the rest of the manuscript. (They appear to be three single leaves, oversewn in the binding.) In any case it is hard to see why anyone, least of all Jacob, would have avoided writing vowels for 82 leaves on which were plenty of Greek words that might have benefited from them, only to write them on just these two words ݃ܘ17 ܳ ̈ and , neither of which has any obvious need to be signed with a vowel at all. Wright does allow that the scribe of these leaves may ‘perhaps’ have been different,18 although the leaves would still have been ‘certainly written early in the viiith cent.’19 But if the dating of these leaves is not supported by the rest of the manuscript, then Wright’s insistence on this early date does not seem so self-evident. The script is an undistinctive West Syriac estrangela or ‘medial script’, a style of writing that hardly changed over four centuries,20 and in my opinion it would be unsafe to place any weight on a date in the eighth century, rather than, say, the tenth, for these leaves and their two original vowel-signs. 5. Finally, this is the place to remove MS Harvard Syriac 176 as evidence for the Greek vowels in the eighth century. This manuscript was assigned the date 731/2 in Hatch’s Album of Dated Syriac Manuscripts, a date that made it not only the earliest dated codex to be written in the serto script21 but also the earliest by far to exhibit the five Greek vowel-signs. Had Hatch’s plate shown a leaf from the part of the manuscript where the vowels appear then the unlikelihood of this early date might have been clearer from the outset. The form e (where + would be expected) will be discussed below. So his description of items 42–3 in the MS, which are on these leaves (p. 337). 19 Index, s.v. ‘Vowels, the Greek’, p. 1332b. 20 For the ‘medial script’ see A. Palmer, ‘The Syriac letter-forms of Tur Abdin and environs’, Oriens Christianus 73 (1989), 68–89, specif. 77–8. 21 Hatch, An Album, 27 and Plate XCV facing p. 146. According to M. GoshenGottstein (Syriac Manuscripts in the Harvard College Library: a Catalogue [Missoula 1979]) the truth or falsity of this claim is ‘a major point indeed’ and ‘of utmost interest for the paleography of Syriac as a whole’. But since the serto script is quite well attested earlier than the eighth century (see J.F. Healey in JSS 45 [2000], 55–67), it is probably not as important as he thought. 17 18
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In fact, this manuscript can be fairly certainly dated to 991/2, and since this date is significant for the argument below it will be well to demonstrate it here. The scribe wrote a date in his colophon on fol. 87a,22 the relevant part of which reads:
!" # $ %& : '() * **+ , * This gospel-book was written in the year one thousand and ……… and three in the days of Patriarch Mar Athanasius and Bishop Mar Isaac.
II It is in the tenth century that we encounter the earliest dated manuscripts exhibiting the five Greek vowel-signs. Historically, it is no doubt possible that signs invented two hundred years before should have escaped appearing in a datable manuscript in the mean time;25 but it
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The blank space represents an erasure (filled up by a second hand, but that reading is immaterial here). The missing word beginning with might be any of various numbers beginning with - or - or --! or --." . To determine which of these is correct, we can use the information about the patriarch and bishop. The register of bishops preserved in the chronicle of Michael the Syrian makes it possible to look for bishops named Isaac, of whom there are very few who ever served under a patriarch Athanasius; and in fact there is just one who comes into consideration here. A bishop Isaac was consecrated by patriarch Athanasius V ∑alhaya for the diocese of Qlisura.23 Athanasius V (on whom more presently) was patriarch from 1298 to 1314 in Seleucid years. The only year during this interval that ends in ‘and three’ as our colophon requires, is 1303. The missing word is then / and the date in the western calendar 991/2.24
22
Reproduced in Goshen-Gottstein, Syriac Manuscripts, Plate VI on p. 149. Michael, Chronicle (Chronique de Michel le Syrien, ed. J.B. Chabot, vol. 3, Paris 1905–10), appendix 3, table XXX no. 4 (text p. 761/translation p. 467). 24 This date confirms the astute conjecture of Goshen-Gottstein. See his discussion, including his dismissal of Hatch’s date, Syriac Manuscripts, 110–11. 25 This is the rather uncomfortable position at which the Abbé Martin arrived in his fundamental articles ‘Tradition karkaphienne, ou la massore chez les Syriens’, JAs 6:14 (1869), 245–379; and ‘Histoire de la ponctuation, ou de la massore chez les Syriens’, JAs 7:5 (1875), 81–208. 23
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is more natural to consider first whether these later manuscripts may lie close to the origin of the system. The earliest recorded six of these dated — or in one case nearly-datable — manuscripts are the following: Vatican sir. 1426 Vatican sir. 15227 Harvard Syriac 17628 Damascus Patr. 7/1629 Church of Mar Thoma, Mosul30 Brit. Lib. Add. 718331
Four Gospels Masorah Harklean Gospel of John with masorah Masorah Masorah Masorah
dated 956 979/80 991/2 1003/4 1014 1031–4.
‘Masorah’ refers to a composition, usually entitled in Syriac / " /12 , giving the readings of selected words and phrases in the Bible (and sometimes other texts).32 The fact that these six manuS.E. Assemani, Bibliothecæ Apostolicæ Vaticanæ codicum manuscriptorum catalogus (Rome 1756–9), ii. 47–9; Hatch, An Album, plate LXXIV. 27 Wiseman, Horae Syriacae, 161–6; Assemani, Catalogus, iii. 287–92; Hatch, An Album, plate LXXV. 28 Goshen-Gottstein, Syriac Manuscripts, 110; and see the catalogue record at . The only part of the MS with vowels is the masorah on fols 83a–87a. 29 See F.Y. Dolabani et al., ‘Catalogue des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque du Patriarcat Syrien Orthodoxe à Homs’, Parole de l’Orient 19 (1994), 592. A microfilm of the Old Testament part of this MS (siglum 11m1) is in the Peshitta Institute collection in Leiden, misleadingly indexed under ‘Chicago’. The association with Chicago comes from the fact that the MS was brought to the United States in 1929 by Metropolitan Severos (later, Patriarch) Ephrem Barsoum. He allowed it to be photographed at the Oriental Institute in Chicago (J. Dean in Journal of the American Oriental Society 54.2 [1934], 129), and a copy of part of this film is now in Leiden. In the files of the Harvard Semitic Museum I was surprised to find a document captioned ‘A Syriac ms. in the College Library’, containing a detailed description of this same MS. It must be that when Mar Severos visited Boston on the same trip he deposited it, for some reason, at Harvard also. 30 Described by J. Leroy, Les manuscrits syriaques à peintures (Paris 1964), i. 221–2 and plate 50 showing four lines of text. There is a microfilm of the Old Testament part in the Peshitta Institute, unfortunately not clear enough to read many vowels. 31 F. Rosen and J. Forshall, Catalogus codicum manuscriptorum orientalium qui in Museo Britannico asservantur: Pars prima, Codices Syriacos et Carshunicos amplectens (London 1838), 64–71. The range of dates follows from two notes by the scribe. On fol. 23b, ‘Lord have mercy upon your church in the time of Emperor Romanos’ gives the years of Romanos III Argyros, 1028–34. On fol. 60b the scribe has written: ‘The Patriarch Mar John bar ¨Abdun departed this miserable world in the year 1342 on the 3rd of February, being in exile in the imperial city in a monastery of the Greeks. May his prayer be with us.’ This date, i.e. 1031 CE, narrows the interval to the years 1031–4. 32 ‘Masorah’ is a now a conventional name, reasonably calling to mind the sim-
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26
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scripts are all ‘masoretic’ or at least biblical thus immediately suggests — what might have seemed obvious, although it did not appear from the supposed eighth-century evidence — that the vowels were invented to help with reading the Bible. More specifically, these manuscripts prompt the hypothesis that the five vowel-signs first came into use in the written West Syriac masorah in the tenth century. It is clear that this hypothesis can only aspire to a limited probability, partly because our set of early dated manuscripts with vowels is small;33 partly because the very earliest of our dated manuscripts (Vat. sir. 14) is an outlier and not apparently related to the masorah;34 and partly because a tenth-century date for the compilation of the West Syriac masorah is itself hypothetical,35 depending for one thing on
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ilar compilation in Hebrew (although a borrowing in either direction, often sup posed, seems impossible to prove). The actual title /12 / " may mean no more than ‘words and readings’; or it might have a more technical sense such as ‘nouns and verb-forms’ or even ‘words and sentence-accents’. For these possibilities see Martin, ‘Tradition karkafienne’, 290, and G. Diettrich, Die Massorah der östlichen und westlichen Syrer in ihren Angaben zum Propheten Jesaia (London 1899), xxxiv, respectively. A decision is not important here. A manuscript, Brit. Lib. Add. 12138, with this title in the East Syriac script (and vowels) and written in Harran in 899 is the earliest such text, covering just the Peshitta Bible. For a survey of the known masoretic manuscripts in Syriac see the recent thesis of J. Loopstra, ‘Patristic Selections in the “Masoretic” Handbooks of the Qarqapta Tradition’ (diss., Catholic University of America 2009). I am grateful to him for sharing his unpublished work with me. Loopstra cites a more detailed description of all the masoretic (or as he calls them, smahe) MSS: C. Brovender, נתוח טיפולוגי:כתבי יד השמהא הסוריים ( השואתיdiss., Jerusalem 1976), which I have not seen. 33 Of course the possibility that some other MSS might be as early as these six has to be looked at case by case. Some examples were considered above. Another one is MS Brit. Lib. Add. 14469. This was written in Egypt in 936, and exhibits some Greek vowels. These, however, are so scattered that they cannot be part of any scheme by the original scribe. Some of them are obviously later, and very probably all are. Cf. Segal, The Diacritical Point, 46 and n. 8. Yet another is the E. Syriac masoretic MS Add. 12138 dated 899, which has Greek vowels on fol. 1b. But fols 1–2 are later than the rest of the MS, and the vowels probably later yet. A copyist’s note (printed by Wright, Catalogue, 101b) suggests that the double pointing on this leaf was to give a key to the Eastern vowels for Western users of the MS. 34 The vowels in this MS are undoubtedly old (see below) but they are not necessarily original to the MS. I cannot tell from the images supplied by the Library. Although neither Assemani nor Martin (‘Tradition karkaphienne’, 325) mentions the possibility that they were added later, it needs to be borne in mind. 35 A. Juckel (among others) calls the masorah an ‘eighth- or ninth-century compilation’ (‘The “Syriac Masorah” and the New Testament Peshitta’, in R.B. ter Haar Romeny [ed.], The Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy [Leiden 2006], 107–21). If he is referring to the tradition behind the earliest manuscripts, this statement cannot very well be denied. But such dates met with elsewhere are often found to depend upon the doubtful line of reasoning associated with Qarqafta: see n. 53 below. 314
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other early, but undated, manuscripts not being much earlier than the five datable ones. (There are nine or ten of these undated manuscripts, and they will return to the discussion presently.)36 But if it is only a circumstantial case, it seems attractive and worth pursuing. The case becomes more compelling when we consider that the manuscripts listed above (or at least five of the six) cluster not only in time but also in the same region.37 Four of the manuscripts have colophons, which give the following information:
All the places mentioned are in the region of Melitene (modern Malatya) in Cappadocia, a territory that was reconquered by the Byzantine emperor in 934. Starting in about 965, the region was resettled with Syriac Orthodox Christians, who built new monasteries and established new dioceses. Three patriarchs, John VII Sarigta (965– 84/5), Athanasius V ∑alhaya (986–1003), and John VIII bar ‘Abdun (1004–31), resided there. A time of prosperity and intellectual activity ensued that went on for a century, although damped by Melkite persecution especially after about 1004.38 Manuscript writing, which 36
These MSS are: Brit. Lib. Add. 12178, Add. 14667 fols 1–12, Add. 14482, Add. 14684 fols 1–36, Add. 17162, Paris syr. 64, Vat. Barberini orient. 118, Dayr es-Suryan 14 (part of the same MS as Add. 17162), Damascus 12/22. All but one of the undated MSS cohere with the dated ones in their use of vowels, and it seems to me there is nothing physically to set any of them apart. MS Dayr es-Suryan 14 preserves the place of writing, the monastery of Barid (on which see n. 38 below; I thank Dr Sebastian Brock for this information). MS Add. 12178 is sometimes said to be earlier than the other masoretic MSS, but Wright’s palaeographical judgment (‘ixth or xth cent.’, Catalogue, 108) cannot by itself bear the weight of this conclusion. The odd MS is Add. 14667, on which see n. 59 below. 37 The other one, Vat. sir. 14, unfortunately records only its date but no identifiable personal names or place of writing. 38 Studies of this historical episode are G. Dagron, ‘Minorités ethniques et religieuses dans l’Orient byzantin à la fin du Xe et au XIe siècle’, Travaux et Mémoires 6 (1976), 177–216; and T.H. Benner, Die syrisch-jakobitsche Kirche unter byzantinischer Herrschaft im 10. und 11. Jhdt. (Munich 1989). The primary source and basis for both these studies is the Chronicle of Michael, book 13 chs 4–6. The three patriarchs had their official residence in the Monastery of Barid, which was at some
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Vat sir. 152 (fol. 206): ‘in the monastery, or convent, of the victorious, blessed, and holy Mar Aaron of the Conduit in the domain of Qlisura’ Harvard Syriac 176 (fol. 87a): ‘in the days of the bishop Mar Isaac’, sc. of Qlisura, as I have argued above Damascus Patriarchate 7/16 (fol. 215b): in the monastery of the Forty Holy Martyrs on the Dry River, known by the name of Bar Gagi Church of Mar Thoma, Mosul (last fol.): in the pure and holy monastery of the Forty Martyrs, of the Dry River and of the late Bar Gagi.
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had been in decline in the previous century, was revived, as was interest in the Greek language.39 Melitene is specifically mentioned by Bar Hebraeus as the source of vellum at this time for scribes as far away as Tur ‘Abdin to the east.40 The new diocese of Qlisura near Melitene and the monastery of Mar Aaron ‘of the Conduit’ within it, were part of this renaissance.41 The monastery of the Forty Martyrs, also near Melitene, was another of the flourishing convents of this period.42 Finally, a location in Byzantine territory is also clear for the other one of our five masoretic manuscripts, Add. 7183, on account of the marginal notes of its scribe.43 For the present question, the clustering of relevant manuscripts at this place and time is significant. First of all, it is suggested by this evidence that the use of the vowel-signs had not yet spread widely but was still confined to the place where they were invented. More importantly, the learned renaissance around Melitene gives a plausible setting for the pursuit of a scholarly project that would codify the correct reading of the Bible and church fathers. It was precisely such a project that required the vowel-signs. One other consideration further strengthens the link between the vowel-signs and the Byzantine episode of the Syriac Orthodox Church. That is the importance of the Harklean New Testament within the masorah. All the early masoretic manuscripts that cover the New Testament include the Harklean version. The implied need to pronounce the Harklean text correctly, including its extra measure of Greek loan-words (an abundance of which may be seen in two of the illustrations below), suggests that this version had already acquired, or was just then acquiring, a place in the public reading of the church. The Harklean version was originally a scholarly work intended to conform the text of the Syriac New Testament more closely to the Greek, and its use in the liturgy is a curious development which has perhaps not received its due explanation. A likely reason for it can, however, be found at this time and place: the use of a Graecized distance from Melitene (Dagron, ‘Minorités ethniques’, 190), but it is clear from Michael’s narrative that they were closely involved with ecclesiastical life in the city. 39 See the evidence collected by Benner, Die syrisch-jakobitsche Kirche, 72–3; and Leroy, Les manuscrits syriaques, 229. 40 Chronicon ecclesiasticum (ed. J. B. Abbeloos and T. J. Lamy), vol. 1 (Leuven 1872), 417–18. 41 For the Monastery of the Conduit see A. Palmer, ‘The resettlement of Byzantine Melitene after 934’, Oriens Christianus 70 (1986), 32–68, specif. 40–4. 42 Dagron, ‘Minorités ethniques’, 192. 43 For these marginalia see n. 31 above. 316
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biblical text was a gesture on the part of the Syrian Orthodox towards the established Melkite church around them.44 The earliest dated manuscript (999/1000) of a lectionary containing Harklean readings is Brit. Lib. Add. 12139, compiled by Patriarch Athanasius V.45 It may not have been the earliest such compilation, but with just two Harklean lections, it gives the impression of a hesitant innovation.46 (The next earliest dated Harklean lectionary manuscript, written in Melitene in 1055, is wholly from that version.)47 If this is so, that is, if the Harklean was making its first appearance in the liturgy at the time and place of interest to us here, then it is easy to see how the masorah and vowel-signs could have come into use as aids to reading the unfamiliar text.
In focusing on Melitene, our hypothesis is at variance with most other scholarship on the Syriac masorah, which has tended to associate it with the Monastery of Qarqafta, probably near Resh‘ayna, some 230 km away to the southeast (and never in Byzantine territory after the seventh century). It will be appropriate to consider this point here. In three of the early manuscripts of the masorah the text is headed 3 ./ 456 /76 /126 / "6 & / 2*2 / ! 8 ‘volume of words and readings of the Old 44
The Syrian Orthodox seem to have had an eye to winning over Syriac-speaking Melkites. (That local Melkites were speakers of Syriac is clear from Michael, 563–4/142–3, who names two Syriac-Greek translators from Melitene working in Constantinople.) The Melkite metropolitan of Melitene complained against Patriarch John bar ¨Abdun that he ‘attracts even the Greeks to himself’ (Michael, 562/140). 45 According to the colophon on fol. 138b. ‘His disciple and servant Romanos’ was the scribe. Cf. Wright, Catalogue, 154–8, and Hatch, An Album, Plate LXXVII. In this MS are about a dozen scattered words marked with vowel-signs, and it might have been included in the list of dated MSS above; but I am not sure that the vowels are original. 46 Of the goodly number of Harklean lectionary MSS, some undated ones could be as old as this one. Examples are Harvard Syriac 19, 20, 139, and Manchester Syriac 66, 69. It is doubtful if any are much older: the earlier dates assigned to a few MSS in the list of John D. Thomas (‘A list of manuscripts containing the Harclean Syriac version of the New Testament’, Theological Review of the Near East School of Theology 2, 2 [1979], 26–32) should be viewed with suspicion. Likewise, although the Harklean Passion Harmony may come from the ninth century, it does not appear in liturgical MSS until later. 47 MS Damascus Patriarchate 12/8: see Leroy, Les manuscrits syriaques, 225–33.
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III
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and New Testaments according to the Qarqafian tradition’.48 Since the principal function of the masorah is to fix pronunciations, this ‘Qarqafian tradition’ ought to include a specification of vowels. Indeed, the invention of the five-vowel system is explicitly attributed to the 212 (Qarqfaye, ‘Qarqafians’) by Bar Hebraeus in the Introduction to his larger grammar the Book of Rays. He says that the Qarqfaye were responsible for simplifying the more complex vowelsystem of Jacob of Edessa: The Qarqfaye, western teachers, having found that only zqafa and ptaÌa differed (phonemically), while the other (long and short) vowels were in complementary (lit. kindred) pairs, handed on (just) five: zqafa, ptaÌa, rbaÒa, ÌbaÒa, and ‘ÒaÒa, (namely) those in the sentence 9 :*; 2 5 < * . 49
48
MSS Vat. 152, Dam. Patr. 7/16, and Add. 7183. Introduction §3: Syriac text in A. Moberg, ed., Le livre des splendeurs. La grande grammaire de Grégoire Barhebraeus (Lund 1922), 4. For the context of the quoted passage see Segal, The Diacritical Point, 43 n. 1 and 50. 50 MS Paris syr. 259 fol. 3a, quoted in R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, col. 3762 s.v. 2*2. 51 Starting with Martin, ‘Tradition karkafienne’, 365–7. 52 The monastery of Qarqafta was the home of a patriarch according to the Chronicle of Zuqnin (ed. Chabot, CSCO 104, pp. 214, 244); it is mentioned twice in the Martyrology of Rabban Saliba (ed. P. Peeters, Analecta Bollandiana 27 [1908], 139, 143); and it was the place of writing of MS Brit. Lib. Add. 17215pt (dated 839, this MS of course written without vowels). The location near Resh‘ayna is probably to be inferred from a reference in the colophon of MS Vat. sir. 17 to the 4$6 / 2* =* 76 ! A, the ‘Magdalites’ being inhabitants of the town of Magdal near Resh‘ayna (so G. Hoffmann in ZDMG 32 [1878], 745). But it is not quite clear that / 2*2 (without :*6 or :*7) is a proper name, 49
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Bar Hebraeus does not, however, identify the Qarqfaye any further. In fact he adds nothing to what is inferrable from the masorah itself, namely that it is called ‘Qarqafian’ and uses the five vowel-signs. Had he known anything about the Qarqfaye he might have said more than that they were simply ‘western teachers’. One copyist of this passage @ ‘i.e. (those) who > / 2*26 :*4 6 .# has added the gloss =* 7 50 live in the Monastery of Qarqafta’, and the hypothesis that a monastery by this name (meaning ‘of the Skull’ or ‘of Golgotha’) was the home of the ‘Qarqafian tradition’ has been entertained by most scholars who have studied the masorah.51 This hypothesis is reasonable on the face of it, a monastery of Qarqafta being attested in the eighth and ninth centuries, probably near Resh‘ayna. But what is known about this monastery does not connect it particularly with scholarship,52 and the attempt to make a
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and the words might mean ‘blessed [monks] who dwell on the mountaintop of the Magdalites’ (so Assemani, B.O. ii. 78). 53 Deacon Saba (B orB* ) of Resh‘ayna (!.8 ) was the scribe of three MSS in the British Library collection, two of which are dated 724 and 726 (see Wright, Catalogue, 9a, 16a, 25a). According to some MSS of Bar Bahlul’s lexicon he is the source of (a few) readings marked , in the margin of the masorah; and another scholar, San†a or Sa†ana, known as ! A (!), also of Resh‘ayna, is the source of other and much more frequent readings marked A. For all this see R. Duval, La littérature syriaque [Paris 1899], 72–3. This connection — which incidentally tends to remove the masorah, if not also the vowel-signs, back to the eighth century — has been captivating: see e.g. Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur, 259. But its weak links are quite obvious. Even if the curious notice in Bar Bahlul is correct, Saba was not associated with the Monastery of Qarqafta but with a different place, the Monastery of the Watchtower (Wright, Catalogue, 25a), and his manuscripts of course show no vowel-signs. 54 So Assemani, B.O. ii. 283: ‘Traditio Karkaphitarum, hoc est, Syrorum in montanis habitantium’. Admittedly, this is not quite straightforward. In citations in the Thesaurus, / 2*2 in this sense is always qualified by : A6 or some such. 55 For example, the Qarqafian readings call for C with qussaya (in common with the E. Syriac tradition) sometimes where Bar Hebraeus and others have rukkaka (Diettrich, Die Massorah, xli). 56 For the proof of all this, see Loopstra, ‘Patristic Selections’, ch. 11.
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connection between it and the masorah in the person of Saba of Resh‘ayna, a famous scribe of the eighth century, is in my opinion not very convincing.53 An alternative not to be ruled out is to understand / 2*2 as a common noun ‘summit’, in which case Qarqfaye might mean something as general (or anyhow, opaque to us now) as ‘mountaineers’.54 Other attempts to identify the Qarqfaye by Martin and Diettrich, using the internal evidence of the masorah, have suggested that their home was the eastern part of the Syriac Orthodox world,55 and the existence of a parallel masoretic tradition in the Church of the East is suggestive in the same direction. But until these lines of enquiry lead to some more definite result, we have to say that the identity of the Qarqfaye is unknown. In any case, however, it seems to me that the identity of the mysterious Qarqfaye is not of the essence of the hypothesis we are defending about the written vowel-signs. The Qarqfaye did not themselves write the masorah manuscripts: this is clear from the fact that the ‘Qarqafian tradition’ seems to cover only the Peshitta Bible, not the Harklean New Testament or any other part of the masoretic collection. Some marginal readings labelled 212 also suggest that this tradition was on occasion only an alternative to the reading canonized in the masorah.56 ‘We conclude,’ said Gwilliam long ago, ‘that the title employed in some copies of the Syriac Massorah was intended
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to imply that the work was a record of labours pursued long before the actual dates of the copies.’57 It is only the / ! 8 or oral tradition of pronunciation58 using a system of five vowel phonemes that lies behind the masoretic manuscripts and that is attributed to the Qarqfaye. IV
57
‘The materials for the criticism of the Peshitta New Testament, with specimens of the Syriac massorah’, in Studia Biblica 3 (Oxford 1891), 47–102, quotation p. 63. 58 Jacob of Edessa says that the correct reading of a Syriac word could be the result of inference from the context, or of attention to the diacritical points, or it could be ‘by the tradition (/ ! 8) of others who were previously acquainted with the passage and the pronunciations in it and could say the sounds correctly, and who passed them on to others. It is not from correctness of reading (arising from) the letters, for (the letters) do not possess this; but they had it from the tradition of others.’ (Fragments of grammar, %, part of a not entirely clear passage also translated by Segal, The Diacritical Point, 2). Here / ! 8 is precisely oral tradition, distinguished from what is written (in Jacob’s day, the diacritical points). 59 For the undated MSS see n. 37 above. I have left one of these, Add. 14667, out of account here. This MS, a fragment of 12 badly preserved leaves, has different rubrics from the others (e.g. fol. 1b:842 &6 / "6 "6 & D6) and the scribe explains in his preface that it was his own private composition (fol. 1b, as far as I can read this). The sparse vowel-signs are indeed idiosyncratic in one respect: for the vowel o, the scribe uses for the first few lines, then changes to w. 60 I can only report tentatively and on the basis of what I have been able to examine. For a brief session with the masoretic MSS on microfilm at the Peshitta Institute, Leiden I thank Prof. W. van Peursen. 61 MS Vat. sir. 152 is reproduced from Wiseman, Horae Syriacae, frontispiece, and MS Harvard Syriac 176 by permission of Houghton Library, Harvard University. For MS 7813 the required credit-line is: © the British Library Board.
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The final test of the present hypothesis is to account for the way the vowel-signs actually appear in our early manuscripts, dated and undated.59 The following is an attempt to describe this,60 having in mind the question whether the signs look primitive or — which would be less easy on our hypothesis — suggest a prior history of development. My observations are chiefly keyed to the three following illustrations: one page each from the manuscripts Vat. sir. 152 and Harvard Syriac 176, and part of a page from Brit. Lib. Add. 7183.61
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1. The five vowel-signs. The five signs, or anyhow their components, represent the letters a e j o u, not i or w. The signs resemble the Greek letters in approximately the same uncial forms as in the Greek words themselves in the margins of the Harvard and Vatican manuscripts. The shape of the sign " is a plain omicron with no tail (unlike the later form ). The shape of the compound sign a shows its Greek derivation clearly: the u is y-shaped and comes after the o (not as in any of the later transformations of this sign ! # +). The signs are written in all our manuscripts in black (never red) ink but with a different, fine-nibbed pen. They are written generally above the line of letters, but sometimes below, usually when space was crowded above. When written below the line, the signs & and a are not inverted (as often in later manuscripts and print).
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Vat. sir. 152 Masorah to Gen. 50:2–7
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2. Orientation and placement of the signs. In Add. 7183 the vowels are written as if on lines parallel to the Syriac text, with hardly any inclination.62 In other manuscripts, this consistent orientation is absent and the signs are tilted in various ways. The sign ' in Vat. 152 tilts upwards from left to right, but in Harvard 176, downwards. The signs, including not only ' and a but also $ &, are often — not always — placed on, rather than before, vowel-letters. This ܰ happens especially at the end of ܳ ܶ nouns as in Vat. 152 ܳ ܳܐ ̈ ܳ ܬin line 1 and ܶ in line 4; but in other places also, as in Harvard 176 ܐ ܺ ܰܘܗܝin line 1. ܳ Such inexactness extends to other words, for example ܬin line 1 of Harvard 176, and is quite common in all the manu-
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Harvard Syriac 176, fol. 83b Masorah to the Harklean version of John 1:14–3.1
Wiseman (pp. 190–1) maintained that the sign ' was derived from I (with long serifs!), not H; but the clear orientation of the signs in this MS would seem to decide the matter. 62
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scripts, with vowels being placed too late, or occasionally too early. 3. The single vowel-sign e for the vowel u. In MS Harvard 176, see ݅ ܳ ݃ܢ (line 7) and ܳ ܳ ( ݃ ܪlast line), although note ܕܘܬ in line 2 which has the double ou sign. The single sign e is likewise used often and interchangeably with a in MSS Vat. 14, Paris 64, and Add. 14667. In Add. 12178, it seems to be used only in Greek words such as ݆ ܕ ܱ (xlamuda, Mt 27.28 Hkl); likewise in Vat. 152.63 In Add. 7183 I see it only in diphthongs, and in Vat. Barberini 118 and Add. 17162 not at all. 4. Compound signs b d c for the diphthongs -aw, -ew, -iw. Examples ܰ in line 3. of these in Vat. 152 are ܰ ̈ ݇ܘܗܝin line 1 and ݊ ܘ. 63
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Brit. Lib. Add. 7183 fol. 102b2 (detail) Masorah to the Harklean version of Mark 15:21 – Luke 1:5
According to Wiseman, Horae Syriacae, 192. 323
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In Add. 7183 the two signs are written with a different logic, in the Syriac direction rather than the Greek: see for example the aw diphthong in . in line 10 in the illustration, and ew in EA in line 7; but in this word a is correctly understood as a single vowel and written with the signs the usual way round. Double signs for diphthongs in -w (not in -y) are found in most, but not all, of the other manuscripts: they are not used, as far as I can see, in Harvard 176 and Vat. 14.
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The first conclusion to be drawn from these observations, taken together, is that the manuscripts do indeed share the ‘Qarqafian’ system of five vowel phonemes, /o (that is, the old a) a e i u/. Two scribes may perhaps have distinguished a sixth vowel in certain Greek words (which they represented with e rather than a), and some scribes may have considered the diphthongs to be extra phonemes; but neither of these is a fundamental departure from this system. From the first observation, touching the shapes of the signs, use of a fine nib, etc., it is clear that the vowel-signs and the conventions for writing them were the result of specific rules made and promulgated to scribes at some one time and place. There is nothing, at least in this observation, to indicate that this time was much earlier than our manuscripts themselves. The shapes of the signs in particular (especially a) look primitive. The West Syrian ‘masoretes’, we know, formulated rules about the writing of qushshaya and rukkaka,64 and it seems reasonable to suppose that the same set of rules might have laid out the system of vowel-signs for the first time. Observation no. 2, touching the irregular placement of the points, would be, perhaps, consistent with a view that there had by the tenth century been a lapse from earlier and stricter practice. But this is unlikely. The convention according to which a sign always goes on a preceding consonant (with a few exceptions, chiefly that ' and a may move over onto the vowel letters yod and waw respectively) comes later. The more careless placement of the signs has to indicate an earlier moment when they functioned in something of the same fashion as diacritical points: to remind the reader to pronounce the word one way and not another, rather than to document the exact composition of each syllable. But if we then suppose that the hypothetical rules of the masoretes did not insist on the exact placement of the 64 These signs were more ancient, but the masoretes began the practice of writing them in red. Cf. J.B. Segal, ‘Qussaya and rukkaka: a historical introduction’, JSS 34 (1989), 483–91, specifically 487 (but Segal does not emphasize the deliberate innovation by the masoretes).
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signs, neither perhaps did they descend to particulars about their orientation, and scribes felt free to write them at whatever angle they pleased. Our hypothesis has more difficulty with observations 3 and 4 above, that is, those involving the vowel u and the diphthongs, where the tenth- and eleventh-century scribes differed significantly among themselves. However unspecific the masoretes’ rules were, they can scarcely have omitted to prescribe how u was to be signed or whether diphthongs should receive double signs. It is hard not to think that the earliest set of rules would have called for a simple mapping of u onto e, and that the double sign a was a second thought. Probably enough, the same earliest rules called for signing the diphthongs with double signs, and later it was realized that this was incorrect65 or anyhow unnecessary; and it was abandoned. But there is no reason to suppose that the variation in our early manuscripts is the product of a long period of development and change in the conventions for writing the vowel-signs:66 it could be the result of just two specific revisions in the rules — revisions which, however, were not followed by all immediately or consistently, but took some time to settle into the practice of later manuscripts and, still later, print. Our conclusion can therefore be a simple one: scribes working in and around Melitene in the tenth century were the first to use the Greek vowel-signs. They employed them for the specific purpose of recording the oral tradition of biblical pronunciation associated with the Qarqfaye. To be sure, we cannot quite rule out some kind of prehistory for these signs. For all that the word / ! 8 denotes an oral tradition, it is perhaps unlikely a priori that the Qarqfaye would never have had recourse to writing in formulating and passing on their vowel-system. But there is no clear evidence that the Greek vowel-signs appear in manuscripts earlier than the ones we have been considering here. When this fact is understood in the context of the scholarly and specifically masoretic activity around Byzantine Melitene in the tenth century, it becomes likely that we are near, if not at, the moment of the invention of these vowel-signs themselves. Address for correspondence: Faculty of Divinity, West Road, Cambridge CB3 9BS
65 That is: in these diphthongs, what follows the vowel is the glide -w, not a whole vowel u, so that in poetry a diphthong counts as only one syllable, not two. 66 As Martin supposed: ‘Ce travail et ces transformations durèrent près de trois siècles’ (‘Ponctuation’, 170–1).
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr006 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
THE GRAMMATICAL COMPOSITION OF THE EARLY HASIDIC HEBREW TALE LILY OKALANI KAHN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON
Abstract
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This paper constitutes an analysis of selected characteristic morphological and syntactic features attested in two formative collections of early Hasidic Hebrew tales, In Praise of the Ba¨al Shem Tov (1814) and The Tales of Nahman of Braslav (1815). The analysis attempts to reevaluate the common perception that Hasidic Hebrew is largely a blend of ungrammatical Rabbinic Hebrew and Yiddish, proposing instead that its grammar exhibits a more nuanced synthesis of Biblical Hebrew, Rabbinic Hebrew, Medieval Hebrew and Yiddish elements. The paper begins with an examination of key rabbinic elements in the corpus. These consist of qal inifinitives construct from I-nun and I-yod roots such as לידעand לישא, the particles - כשand -ש, and qa†al chains in narrative. It continues with an assessment of biblical features, which frequently appear in close proximity to their rabbinic counterparts. Such features include the qal infinitive construct forms of I-nun and I-yod roots such as לדעתand לשאת, the particles כאשר and אשר, and the wayyiq†ol. It then scrutinizes the Yiddish influence visible in the corpus, consisting chiefly of lexical items and the formation of definite construct chains. The paper concludes by investigating the corpus’ frequent omission of the definite direct object particle את, which may be traceable to both Yiddish and Medieval Hebrew.
1. Introduction The present paper constitutes the first analysis of the morphological and syntactic characteristics of early nineteenth-century Hasidic Hebrew parables and tales. This systematic grammatical examination is necessary because early Hasidic Hebrew, which has immense significance both because it represents one of the few extensive records of narrative and discursive use of the language in traditional nineteenth-century Ashkenazi society and because it is a key link between Medieval and Modern Hebrew, has hitherto remained unanalysed. Moreover, the nineteenth-century maskilic critique of Hasidism has 327
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2. Rabbinic Features Qal Infinitive Construct of I-yod and I-Nun Roots I shall begin with an examination of some of the rabbinic characteristics present in the corpus because the grammatical composition of Hasidic Hebrew is generally understood as deriving primarily from rabbinic literature. This perception is not completely unfounded, as the corpus does contain a large measure of rabbinic morphological and syntactic elements. One such element is the qal infinitive construct with - לof I-yod roots such as .ב.ש. יand .ע.ד. יand I-nun roots such as .א.ש. נand .ן.ת.נ. Such infinitives most typically appear with an initial yod. The selection of this type of infinitive form corresponds to Rabbinic Hebrew, in which the qal infinitive with - לof I-yod and I-nun roots is derived from the third person masculine singular yiq†ol (Schwarzwald 1980: 183; Pérez Fernández 1999: 145). This variant is illustrated in (1)-(4). (1) contains an infinitive construct with - לfrom the I-yod root .ע.ד.( ;י2) contains an infinitive construct from the root .ך.ל.ה, which conjugates like a I-yod root; (3) exhibits an infinitive from the I-nun root .א.ש. ;נand (4) contains an infinitive from the root .ח.ק.ל, which conjugates like a I-nun root.
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given rise to the common notion that Hasidic Hebrew is a corrupt amalgamation of ungrammatical Rabbinic Hebrew and Yiddish calques employed by uneducated Jews and thus not an authentic Hebrew idiom worthy of serious linguistic investigation. This paper provides a more nuanced picture of early Hasidic Hebrew grammar as a rich complex of biblical, post-biblical and Yiddish elements. This analysis is based on examples from two formative collections of Hasidic Hebrew tales. The first, In Praise of the Ba’al Shem Tov, is a compilation of legends relating to the founder of Hasidism and his circle of associates first published at the end of 1814. The second, The Tales of Nahman of Braslav, published in 1815, is the earliest collection of tales composed by a Hasidic master. The paper will examine several noteworthy morphological and syntactic features of the corpus. It will begin with an examination of key rabbinic elements in the corpus and continue with an assessment of its biblical features, drawing attention to the frequent fluctuation between rabbinic and biblical variants of the same form. It will conclude by presenting significant areas of Yiddish influence on the corpus and investigating a feature with possible origins in both Yiddish and Medieval Hebrew.
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(1) ואילו הי׳ נצרך לך לידע חכמה זו ]…[ היתי מזדרז ללמדך And if you needed to know this wisdom […] I would hurry to teach you (Rubinstein 1991: 299–300)
(2) אנחנו יודעים דרך קצרה לילך אל ארץ ישראל We know a short way to go to the Land of Israel (Rubinstein 1991: 52)
(3) אני יכול לישא את כולכם אל האילן I can carry all of you to the tree (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 160)
והנה הרב הנ״ל מעולם לא התפלל בטו״ת שאולים ושלח לחנות ליקח טלית And that rabbi never prayed with a borrowed tallit and tefillin, so he sent for a tallit to be taken from the shop (Rubinstein 1991: 147)
The Mishnaic extracts in (5)–(8) illustrate the correspondence between the two corpora. (5) contains an infinitive from the root .ע.ד.י, while (6) exhibits the root .ך.ל.ה, (7) exemplifies .א.ש.נ, and (8) illustrates .ח.ק.ל. (5) זרק את האבן לבור לידע אם יש בו מים [If] he threw the stone into the cistern in order to know whether there was water in it (mMaksh. 5:5)
(6)
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(4)
הוא מותר לילך He is permitted to go (m‘Eruv. 4:10)
(7) ר׳ אליעזר אומר יכול הוא לישא אשה אחרת Rabbi Eliezer says, ‘He can marry another woman’ (mSo† 4:3)
(8) אינו צריך ליקח לו דרך He does not have to buy [lit: take] a way to it (mB.B. 4:2) 329
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Particles -שכ, -ש The syntactic particles appearing in the corpus are usually rabbinic rather than biblical. One of the most common examples of this tendency is the temporal subordinator -כש, which is one of the more typical ways of introducing temporal clauses in both In Praise of the Ba’al Shem Tov and The Tales of Nahman of Braslav. This particle is directly traceable to Rabbinic Hebrew, in which it serves as a replacement for the biblical ( כאשרPérez Fernández 1999: 205–6). This particle can be seen in (9), while (10) illustrates the rabbinic origin of the form. (9)
(10) כשהיה מתפלל על החולים ואומר זה חי וזה מת אמרו לו מנין אתה יודע When he would pray for the ill and say, ‘This one will live and this one will die’, they said to him, ‘How do you know?’ (mBer. 5:5)
Similarly, the corpus’ frequent utilization of the subordinator -ש, which serves as a relative pronoun and to introduce object clauses, can be traced to Rabbinic Hebrew, in which it is employed instead of the biblical אשרin all contexts with the sole exception of biblical citations and liturgical passages (Pérez Fernández 1999: 50). (11) illustrates the rabbinic subordinator in a relative clause; in (12) it introduces an object clause. The mishnaic citation in (13) illustrates the correspondence between Hasidic and Rabbinic Hebrew in this respect.
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וכשנכנסו לבית הרב הסיר הבעש״ט את המסוה And when they entered the rabbi’s house, the Besht removed the disguise (Rubinstein 1991: 55)
(11) מעשׂה בקיסר אחד שלא היה לו בנים A tale of an emperor who had no sons (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 15)
(12) ואמר ר׳ מענדלי שעלה במחשבתו ג״כ עצה כזו And Reb Mendele said that such a suggestion had occurred to him as well (Rubinstein 1991: 205) 330
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(13) מי שאמר בשעת מיתתו יש לי בנים נאמן He who says at the hour of his death, ‘I have sons’, can be believed (mQid. 3:8)
Qa†al Chains
(14) וכשבא נגד אכסני׳ של הדאקטער ירד מן העגלה ונכנס לבית ונתן לו שלום ושאל אותו מאין יודע דאקטעריי והשיב השי״ת למדני ונסע לביתו And when he came to the doctor’s lodgings, he got down from the wagon and went into the house and greeted him and asked him how he knew medicine, and he answered, ‘The Holy One taught me’, and he went home (Rubinstein 1991: 74)
(15) וראה שם מעדנים ומאכלים טובים ועמד ואכל והלך ושכב בזווית And he saw delicacies and dishes there and he stood and ate and went and lay down in the corner (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 11)
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Much of the narrative in the corpus is composed of sequences of qa†al forms joined by the waw-conjunctive. The use of these qa†al chains to convey sequences of past actions closely resembles Rabbinic Hebrew, in which qa†al chains linked by waw-conjunctives are the standard way of presenting successive past actions. This can be contrasted with Biblical Hebrew narrative, in which the qa†al is not usually employed to express sequential past actions (Eskhult 1990: 22–3); rather, the wayyiq†ol is typically used in such settings. (14) and (15) exemplify this convention: each consists of a past narrative sequence composed of a chain of qa†al forms linked by waw-conjunctives. (16) illustrates the correspondence between Hasidic and Rabbinic Hebrew in this respect: it contains a similar sequence of qa†als with preterite force joined by waw-conjunctives.
(16) אגריפס המלך עמד וקבל וקרא King Agrippa stood and received it and read (mSo†. 7:8)
2. Rabbinic Features Qal Infinitive Construct of I-Yod and I-Nun Roots Despite the large proportion of rabbinic elements in the corpus, it additionally contains certain forms common in Biblical Hebrew but 331
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(17)
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atypical of or unattested in post-biblical strata of the language. Usually these biblical forms appear side by side with their rabbinic variants, and it is often difficult to distinguish a clear reason for the utilization of a rabbinic form on one occasion and a biblical form on another. One striking example of this phenomenon is the fluctuation between rabbinic and biblical variants of the qal infinitive construct with - לof I-yod and I-nun roots. As discussed above, the rabbinic variants are extremely widespread in the corpus; however, on many occasions qal verbs of the same root classes are attested without an initial yod but instead with a final taw. This variant is typical of Biblical Hebrew (see Van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze 1999: 115 and Lambert 1946: 352 for details). There does not appear to be a clear motivation, whether conscious or subconscious, on the part of the authors governing the use of a biblical variant instead of its rabbinic counterpart in any instance. The biblical infinitives do not make up parts of set phrases, neither are they necessarily found in close proximity to other biblical forms. The seemingly arbitrary selection of these forms suggests that the authors may have regarded the biblical and rabbinic variants as interchangeable. (17)–(20) illustrate the biblical variants of I-yod and I-nun infinitives construct. (17) contains the biblical equivalent of the rabbinic לידעshown above. The biblical variant closely follows the typically rabbinic particle -ש, illustrating the mixed character of this language. (18) illustrates the biblical infinitive of the root .ך.ל.ה. As in (17), this form immediately follows a post-biblical expression, גם כן. (19) illustrates the biblical לשאת, which can be contrasted with the rabbinic לישאseen in (3) above. (20) contains the form לקחת, the biblical equivalent of the rabbinic ליקח.
מי שהו׳ חכם )…( יוכל לדעת ממוצא דבר One who is wise (…) can know the root of the matter (Rubinstein 1991: 299)
(18) והרב רצה ג״כ ללכת אחריו And the rabbi wanted to go after him too (Rubinstein 1991: 172)
(19) נתעכבתי מחמת שהייתי צריך לשאת בת מלכה אל הר של זהב 332
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I was delayed because I had to take a princess to a mountain of gold (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 15)
(20) והוטב בעיניו לקחת את האשה הנ״ל לאשה And it seemed good to him to take that woman as a wife (Rubinstein 1991: 147)
(21)–(24) illustrate the biblical origin of these Hasidic forms: (21) ָה ָא ָדם ָהיָ ה ְכּ ַא ַחד ִמ ֶמּנּוּ ָל ַד ַעת טוֹב וָ ָרע The man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil (Gen. 3:22)
וַ יֵּ ְצאוּ ִא ָתּם ֵמאוּר ַכּ ְשׂ ִדּים ָל ֶל ֶכת ַא ְר ָצה ְכּנַ ַען And they set out with them from Ur of the Chaldeans to go to the land of Canaan (Gen. 11:31)
(23) יהם ָל ֵשׂאת א ָֹתם ֶ גוּר ֵ וְ לֹא יָ ְכ ָלה ֶא ֶרץ ְמ And the land in which they were dwelling could not support them (Gen. 36:7)
(24) דּוִ ד-ת ָ וַ יִּ ְשׁ ַלח ָשׁאוּל ַמ ְל ָא ִכים ָל ַק ַחת ֶא And Saul sent messengers to take David (1 Sam. 19:14)
Particles כאשר, אשר
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(22)
Although, as discussed above, the particles employed in the corpus typically belong to the rabbinic stratum of Hebrew, on occasion their biblical counterparts are attested. In some cases it is possible that a sentence-initial biblical form will trigger the use of a biblical particle. Thus in (25), the sentence begins with the biblical ויהיand continues immediately with the biblical כאשר. In instances such as these it is possible that the use of the first biblical form subconsciously prompted the author to opt for the biblical variant of the adjacent word. This explanation seems particularly likely in the present case, as the collocation ויהי כאשרappears on numerous occasions in the biblical corpus and therefore would have 333
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been extremely familiar and natural to the authors of the Hasidic texts. (26) illustrates the similarity between the Hasidic and biblical corpora in this case, as it too begins with ויהיand continues with כאשר. (25) ויהי כאשר נתן הסופר התפילין לידו מיד צעק הרב And when the scribe gave him the tefillin, the rabbi cried out (Rubinstein 1991: 147)
(26)
However, as with the other instances of alternation between rabbinic and biblical variants, in many cases there does not seem to be any clear pattern governing the use of one form instead of the other on any given occasion. Thus, in (27) the biblical relative pronoun אשר appears to be interchangeable with the rabbinic - שdiscussed above, as it is not adjacent to another characteristically biblical form — indeed, it is followed by the typically rabbinic form — שלand there does not seem to be any other clear syntactic or semantic motivation for its selection. Similarly, in (28) the biblical אשרis closely followed by the rabbinic -ש. These citations can be compared with (29), which illustrates the particle אשרin the biblical text. (27) מי הוא זה אשר ישאל פירושו של אותו דבר Who is this one who would ask for the interpretation of that matter? (Rubinstein 1991: 220)
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וַ יְ ִהי ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר ִכּלּוּ ַהגְּ ַמ ִלּים ִל ְשׁתּוֹת וַ יִּ ַקּח ָה ִאישׁ נֶ זֶ ם זָ ָהב And when the camels had finished drinking, the man took a gold nosering (Gen. 24:22)
(28) אני רואה אשר ביום שיעשה הילד בר מצוה יטבע בנהר I see that on the day on which they boy will become bar mitzvah he will drown in the river (Rubinstein 1991: 282)
(29) א ֶשׁר ָע ָשׂה-ל ֲ כּ-ת ָ ֹלהים ֶא ִ וַ יַּ ְרא ֱא And God saw everything that He had done (Gen. 1:31) 334
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Wayyiq†ol
(30) וילך ויעבור עד שבא אל הים And he went and passed on until he came to the sea (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 71)
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Although the Hasidic authors frequently employ chains of qa†als in narrative contexts to convey sequential past actions that advance the main storyline, as discussed above, they commonly utilize the wayyiq†ol in these settings as well. This usage mirrors that of Biblical Hebrew, in which the wayyiq†ol is the standard form used to indicate sequential past actions in narrative contexts (Niccacci 1990: 20, 37; Van der Merwe 2002: 143). The widespread attestation of this typically biblical form in the present corpus is interesting because it clashes with the common perception that the language of these Hasidic tales is based on rabbinic literature, in which the wayyiq†ol is not a productive feature. As in other cases of fluctuation between biblical and rabbinic features in the corpus, the use of the wayyiq†ol instead of a chain of qa†als seems to be arbitrary, suggesting that the authors regarded the biblical and rabbinic constructions as interchangeable. However, Ada Rapoport-Albert (personal communication) suggests that the utilization of the wayyiq†ol in the Hasidic corpus may be attributable to the fact that the authors’ only models for Hebrew historical narrative literature were the Bible and subsequent texts based on the biblical style; thus, it is possible that they associated this literary style with characteristic biblical features such as the wayyiq†ol. (30) and (31) illustrate the typical Hasidic use of the wayyiq†ol in past narrative settings, while (32) contains an exact biblical parallel to the Hasidic construction.
(31) וירץ אליו ויכהו על מצחו וימת And he ran to him and struck him on his forehead and he died (Rubinstein 1991: 40)
(32) ה ַאיִ ל וַ יַּ ֲע ֵלהוּ ְלע ָֹלה ַתּ ַחת ְבּנוֹ-ת ָ וַ יֵּ ֶלְך ַא ְב ָר ָהם וַ יִּ ַקּח ֶא So Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up instead of his son (Gen. 22:13) 335
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Sometimes ויהי, the wayyiq†ol of the root .ה.י.ה, serves to introduce a temporal clause or prepositional phrase followed by a wayyiq†ol sequence. This usage can be traced to Biblical Hebrew, in which ויהי is frequently employed introducing temporal clauses and prepositional phrases preceding one or more wayyiq†ol forms. This practice can be seen in (33). (34) illustrates the similarity between the Hasidic and biblical corpora in this respect: it begins with ויהי, followed by precisely the same nominal construction as that seen in (33), and a subsequent wayyiq†ol. (33) ויהי בדרך ויחלום הרב And on the way the rabbi had a dream (Rubinstein 1991: 147)
וַ יְ ִהי ַב ֶדּ ֶרך ַבּ ָמּלוֹן וַ יִּ ְפגְּ ֵשׁהוּ יְ הוָ ה וַ ַיְב ֵקּשׁ ֲה ִמיתוֹ And [when he was] on the way at an encampment the Lord encountered him and tried to kill him (Exod. 4:24)
3. Yiddish Influence Yiddish Vocabulary In addition to assessing the Biblical and Rabbinic Hebrew influences on the grammar of the corpus, it is important to examine the role of Yiddish. The authors of Hasidic Hebrew tales were all native Yiddish speakers. Moreover, the texts contained in the corpus and other Hasidic narrative literature most likely derive from tales that were passed down orally in Yiddish and translated into Hebrew only when committed to writing (Dvir-Goldberg 2003: 19). In Praise of the Ba¨al Shem Tov exists in both Hebrew and Yiddish versions, and there is uncertainty regarding the initial language of composition (see Ya’ari 1963–4: 261 and Mondshine 1982: 25, 40 for details of this issue). Moreover, The Tales of Nahman of Braslav was originally published in a bilingual Hebrew-Yiddish edition. These factors have resulted in the commonly held view that the Hasidic Hebrew tales contain a strong influence from Yiddish; indeed, Rabin (2000: 80) characterizes the Hasidic Hebrew tale as ‘sometimes nothing but Yiddish idioms with Hebrew words’. However, examination of the two collections in the present corpus reveals that Yiddish influence on the syntax of these Hebrew tales is not overwhelming; rather, their gram-
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(34)
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mar appears to be predominantly based on post-Biblical Hebrew with some noteworthy biblical elements. Conversely, Yiddish influence is strikingly evident in the lexis of the corpus. The Yiddish vocabulary is generally employed with reference to items for which the authors appear to have been unable to find a Hebrew term. In some instances the authors first describe the item in question with a nonspecific Hebrew term and then give the Yiddish gloss for greater accuracy of expression. This can be seen in (35), in which the generic Hebrew word דגis supplemented with the more specific Yiddish term העכט. (35)
By contrast, on many occasions the Yiddish lexical item appears in the middle of the Hebrew text without any introduction. Such items do not seem to be regarded as foreign elements: they are often incorporated into Hebrew grammatical structure, taking Hebrew prefixes. This practice can be seen in (36) and (37), in which the Yiddish words ( זייעגערwatch) and ( שטיוילboots) are prefixed by the Hebrew definite article. (36) ותיקן בתוך כך הזייעגער שלו And he fixed his watch in the meantime (Rubinstein 1991: 98)
(37)
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והביאו דג גדול שקורין העכט And they brought a big fish, which is called a pike (Rubinstein 1991: 179)
וגם העבד שלו שלף השטיויל And his servant also took off his boots (Rubinstein 1991: 177)
In the extracts from The Tales of Nahman of Braslav shown in (38)– (40), the Yiddish influence on the Hebrew text is clearly visible by comparing the Hebrew version with its directly following Yiddish counterpart, as both contain the same Yiddish lexical item. (38) ותיכף בבואו הכירו המיניסטיר רקענְ ט ֶ וִ וי ֶער אוּז גִ קוּמוּן האָט אוּם ֶדר מיניסטר תיכף ֶד 337
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And as soon as he came the minister immediately recognized him (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 62)
(39) (והלכו אחריו לערך חמשה מאות אנשים כולם )ציגיינירס יינוּרס ְ ַערט ִציג ְ אוּנ ֶסע זֶ ענוּן אוּם נָ אְך גִ גַ אנְ גוּן אפשׁר פוּנוּף הוּנְ ֶד And about five hundred people, all Gypsies, went after him (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 117)
(40)
Formation of Definite Construct Chains and Noun/Adjective Phrases Although Yiddish elements do not play an exceedingly large role in the syntax of the corpus, Yiddish influence is clearly visible in one syntactic construction, namely definite construct chains. Typically in the various historical strata of Hebrew, a construct chain composed of a construct noun and an absolute noun is made definite by prefixing the definite article to the absolute noun. This convention is illustrated in (41), in which the definite article - הis prefixed to the absolute noun מלך. (41) ה ֶמּ ֶלְך-ן ַ דּוּע ַא ָתּה ָכּ ָכה ַדּל ֶבּ ַ ַמ Why are you so downcast, O prince [lit: son of the king]? (2 Sam. 13:4)
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ונשא פלעשיל י״ש אוּנ ָהאט גִ ְט ָראגוּן אַה ְפ ֶלעשׁוּל ְבּ ַראנְ טוֵ ויין And he carried a bottle of alcohol (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 119)
By contrast, in the Hasidic corpus there is frequent attestation of definite construct chains in which the definite article is prefixed to the construct noun rather than the absolute one. This practice is not standard in any of the historical strata of Hebrew. Conversely, an explanation for the phenomenon can be found by examining the authors’ native language. The construct chains concerned all exist independently as ‘merged Hebrew’ lexical items in Yiddish, in which they function as compound nouns. Such nouns are made definite by placing the definite article before the first noun in the construction. 338
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The Hebrew extract shown in (42) illustrates this: it contains a construct chain comprised of a construct noun, בן, and an absolute noun, ;מלךthe entire chain is made definite by prefixing the definite article not to מלך, which would be expected, but to בן. This can be contrasted with the similar biblical construct chain shown in (41), בן המלך. Examination of the Yiddish extract in (42) clearly illustrates the direct Yiddish influence on the Hebrew, as the Yiddish version is composed of precisely the same Hebrew construct phrase preceded by the definite article דעם.ֶ (42)
This phenomenon extends to certain Hebrew noun-adjective phrases that are additionally employed as set phrases in Yiddish. When the noun in such Hebrew phrases is definite, the attributive adjective would normally be expected to match the noun in definiteness. However, this rule does not correspond to the norms of Yiddish syntax, in which the definite article appears only before the noun-adjective phrase. This Yiddish usage is employed in the Hebrew version of such phrases, as in (43); comparison with the Yiddish version directly beneath the Hebrew clearly illustrates the exact correspondence between the two languages in this respect. By contrast, the biblical example in (44) exemplifies the standard way of constructing a definite noun-adjective phrase in Hebrew, with both noun and attributive adjective prefixed by the definite article.
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והלך א׳ וגילה הסוד באזני הבן מלך אוּז גִ גַ אנְ גֶ ן ֵאיינוּר אוּנ ָהאט אוֹס גזָ אגְ ט ֶדעם סוֹד ַפר ֶדעם בּן מלְך And someone went and revealed the secret to the prince [lit: son of the king] (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 86)
(43) והיה בידו קשת שהיה מציל עצמו נגד החיות רעות אַקעגוּן ֶ אוּנ ֶער ָהט גִ ַהאט אוּנ ֶדר ַהאנט אַבּוֹגוּן ווָ אס ֶער ָהאט זוְּך מציל גִ וֶ וען דוּא חיוֹת רעוֹת And in his hand was a bow to defend him from the wild beasts (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 71)
(44) דוֹלה ָ ְקוּם ֵלְך ֶאל־נִ ינְ וֵ ה ָה ִעיר ַהגּ Arise, go to the great city of Nineveh (Jon. 1:2) 339
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However, this phenomenon is not completely consistent: in a few cases a Hebrew definite construct phrase additionally existing as an independent lexical item in Yiddish is formed according to the normative rules of Hebrew grammar, with the definite article prefixed to the absolute noun of the phrase rather than the construct noun. This is illustrated in the Hebrew extract shown in (45). It is instructive to compare the Hebrew citation with the Yiddish version shown directly beneath it, because in the Yiddish the definite article precedes the entire construct phrase (as in the preceding Yiddish examples). There do not appear to be any clear reasons for this intermittent adherence to the Hebrew rules of definite construct chain formation. (45)
4. Other Omission of Definite Direct Object Particle את The treatment of the definite direct object particle אתin the corpus constitutes another noteworthy feature of Hasidic Hebrew. This particle, which is a standard feature of Biblical and Rabbinic Hebrew (Rabin 2000: 117), is attested relatively infrequently in the Hasidic corpus. In most cases direct objects are not preceded by any marker. (46) illustrates this phenomenon: the verb is followed immediately by the direct object, which is prefixed by the definite article. By contrast, (47) and (48) illustrate typical biblical and rabbinic definite direct object constructions, in which the marker אתprecedes the direct objects prefixed by the definite article. Although the marker is omitted on occasion, as in (49), this is the exception rather than the norm.
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ואם איני בן המלך ג״כ אינו מגיע לי זאת קוּמט מוּר אוְֹך נוּט ָדס ָדאזוּגוּ ְ אוּנ אַז אוְּך בּוּן נוּט ֶדר בן מלְך And if I am not the prince [lit: son of the king], I do not deserve this (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 88)
(46) וצוה להגבאי שילך ויעקר המנורה שנגד הרב And he ordered the sexton to go and dismantle the menorah opposite the rabbi (Rubinstein 1991: 71)
(47) ֹלהים ֵאת ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִ ם וְ ֵאת ָה ָא ֶרץ ִ אשׁית ָבּ ָרא ֱא ִ ְבּ ֵר In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth (Gen. 1:1) 340
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(48) הכול כשרים להביא את הגט All are fit to bring the bill of divorce (mGit. 2:5)
(49) וּל ָבנָ יו ְ וְ נָ ַת ָתּה ַה ֶכּ ֶסף ְל ַא ֲהר ֹן And you shall give the money to Aaron and his sons (Num. 3:48)
(50) וגזלו התיבה והסוסים ערד ְ עסטוּל אוּנ דוּא ֶפ ְ אבּיוִ ויט ָדאס ֶק ִ אוּנ זֵ יי ָהאבּן ַבּיי אוּם גִ ַר And they stole the box and the horses (NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav 1815: 25)
However, the omission of אתis not limited to Hasidic Hebrew: it is a common phenomenon in various types of post-Talmudic Hebrew prose, including the writings of Rashi, the Seper Îasidîm, and Spanish-Provençal Hebrew. Rabin (2000: 116) suggests that this medieval practice can be traced to the language of the piyyu†îm, and that this in turn is based on Biblical Hebrew poetry, in which אתis much less common than in biblical prose. Alternatively, it is very possible that the medieval authors tended to omit the particle precisely because it was lacking in their own native languages. This medieval practice can be seen in (51):
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It is difficult to be certain of the origin of this practice. The tendency to avoid אתmay be attributable to the fact that the authors’ native Yiddish does not possess an equivalent particle. The similarity between the Hebrew and Yiddish construction of sentences with a definite direct object can be clearly seen by comparing the Hebrew and Yiddish versions of an extract from The Tales of Nahman of Braslav, in which the particle אתis particularly rarely attested. These are shown in (50). The Hebrew direct objects, which are prefixed by the definite article, are not preceded by the particle את. In the Yiddish version the direct objects are made definite by the definite articles ָדאסand דוּאthat immediately precede them. This construction, which constitutes the standard Yiddish way of presenting a definite direct object, precisely mirrors that of its Hebrew counterpart.
(51) שתקבלו התורה עליו That you shall receive the Torah on it (Rashi on Exod. 3:12) 341
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As the Hasidic authors would have been familiar with many of these medieval sources, it is possible that their own usage was shaped by the Medieval Hebrew convention. Alternatively, it is possible that the lack of אתin Medieval Hebrew informed Hasidic usage to some degree and that the fact that Yiddish does not employ such a particle subconsciously reinforced their tendency to omit it. 5. Conclusion
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This study has shown the Hasidic Hebrew tales of the early nineteenth century to display a striking mix of Biblical Hebrew, postBiblical Hebrew, and Yiddish elements. There are many rabbinic features in evidence, including the infinitive construct forms of I-yod and I-nun roots such as לידעand לישא, the particles - שand -כש, and qa†al chains in narrative. However, these forms and usages coexist beside their biblical counterparts, and it is usually difficult to perceive any syntactic or semantic reason for the selection of one variant instead of the other. This suggests that the Hasidic authors regarded biblical and rabbinic forms as somewhat interchangeable, though they generally favoured the rabbinic variants. However, the authors’ occasional use of the wayyiq†ol and ויהיmay indicate that they based their usage at least in part on the model of Hebrew historical narrative literature, which is rooted in the biblical style. The corpus also contains a degree of influence from its authors’ native Yiddish. The most prominent Yiddish element consists of lexical items embedded within the Hebrew text, often naturalized to the extent that they take Hebrew prefixes. Yiddish has additionally had a degree of influence over the grammar of the corpus, as clearly evidenced in the treatment of the definite construct state. Finally, Yiddish influence may account for the frequent omission of the particle את, though the latter phenomenon may be partly or wholly traceable to Medieval Hebrew. Address for correspondence: [email protected] Department of Hebrew and Jewish Studies, UCL, Gower Street, London, WCIE 6BT, UK
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REFERENCES
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Bar-Asher, Moshe. 1999. L’Hébreu mishnique: études linguistiques (Leuven) Brown, Francis, Samuel Rolles Driver, and Charles A. Briggs. 1906. The BrownDriver-Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon. (Oxford) Coffin, Edna Amir, and Shmuel Bolozky. 2005. A Reference Grammar of Modern Hebrew. (Cambridge) Dvir-Goldberg, Rivka. 2003. The Zaddik and the Palace of Leviathan: A Study of Hassidic Tales Told by Zaddikim. (Tel Aviv) (Hebrew) Eskhult, Mats. 1990. Studies in Verbal Aspect and Narrative Technique in Biblical Hebrew Prose. (Stockholm) Haneman, Gideon. 1980. A Morphology of Mishnaic Hebrew: According to the Tradition of the Parma Manuscript (De-Rossi 138). (Tel Aviv) (Hebrew) Joüon, Paul. 1993. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew, trans. Takamitsu Muraoka. (Rome) Lambert, Mayer. 1946. Traité de grammaire hébraïque. Ed. Gérard E. Weil. (Hildesheim) Mondshine, Yehoshua. 1982. In Praise of the Ba¨al Shem Tov: A Facsimile of the Only Known Manuscript and its Differences from the Printed Version. (Jerusalem) (Hebrew) NaÌman ben SimÌah of Braslav. 1815. The Tales of Nahman of Braslav. (New York) (Hebrew) Niccacci, Alviero. 1990. The Syntax of the Verb in Classical Hebrew Prose. (Sheffield) Pérez Fernández, Miguel. 1999. An Introductory Grammar of Rabbinic Hebrew, trans. John Elwolde. (Leiden) Rabin, Chaim. 2000. The Development of the Syntax of Post-Biblical Hebrew. (Leiden) Rubinstein, Avraham (ed.). 1991. In Praise of the Ba¨al Shem Tov. (Jerusalem) (Hebrew) Schwarzwald, Ora (Rodrigue). 1980. ‘Parallel Processes in Mishnaic and Modern Hebrew’, in Gad B. Sarfatti, PinÌas Artzi, Jonas C. Greenfield and MenaÌem Kaddari (eds), Studies in Hebrew and Semitic Languages: Dedicated to the Memory of Prof. Eduard Yechezkel Kutscher. (Ramat-Gan) (Hebrew). 175–88 Segal, Moses Hirsch. 1927. A Grammar of Mishnaic Hebrew. (Oxford) Sharvit, Shimon. 2004. History of the Hebrew Language, the Classical Division, Unit 3: Talmudic Hebrew. (Tel Aviv) (Hebrew) Van der Merwe, Christo H.J. 2002. ’A Critical Analysis of Narrative Syntactic Approaches, with Special Attention to Their Relationship to Discourse Analysis’, in Ellen van Wolde (ed.), Narrative Syntax and the Hebrew Bible (Boston). 133– 56 Van der Merwe, Christo H.J., Jackie A. Naudé and Jan H. Kroeze. 1999. A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar. (Sheffield) Waltke, Bruce K. and M. O’Connor. 1990. An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. (Winona Lake) Ya’ari, Avraham. 1963–4. ‘Two Basic Recensions of “In Praise of the Ba¨al Shem Tov”’. Kirjath Sepher 39, 249–72, 394–407, 552–62 (Hebrew)
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr007 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
THE EARLY DEVELOPMENT OF THE QURANIC ÎANIF* MUN’IM SIRRY DIVINITY SCHOOL, UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
Abstract
1. Introduction The most central question associated with the term Ìanif in the Qur’an has undoubtedly been its meaning and origins. The issue has occupied scholars, many of whom believe that the term has something to teach us about the origins of Islam. Most scholarly works on the term Ìanif pay much attention to the question of etymology and origins, and yet all the discussions and polemics have not resulted in
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This article examines the occurrence of the term Ìanif in the Qur’an. While the Qur’an uses the term Ìanif in a purely monotheistic sense, the Syriac cognate hanpa from which the Arabic Ìanif might possibly be derived denotes ‘pagan’ or ‘heathen’. The first part of the article attempts to reconcile these seemingly contradictory usages between the Quranic Ìanif and the Syriac hanpa by considering the Arabic lexical sources as well as the various Quranic allusions to Ìanif. It is argued that the meaning of Ìanif in the Qur’an is not self-evident, and the fact that the term is used in different contexts seems to support the view that at the time of the Prophet the meaning of Ìanif was not yet stable and could be understood in both polytheistic and monotheistic senses. The second part examines the classical Qur’an commentaries which seem to support that conclusion. By looking closely at the Qur’an and its classical commentaries, this article sets itself to criticize the current scholarship on the Quranic Ìanif.
* An earlier draft of this article was presented at the Middle East History and Theory Workshop (MEHAT) held on 11 January, 2010 at the University of Chicago. I would like to thank especially Professor Fred M. Donner (University of Chicago) for his discussion and encouragement. My thanks should also go to Dr Gabriel Reynolds (University of Notre Dame) who read this article and gave critical comments for improvement. I am indebted to Professors Michael Sells, Wadad Qadi (University of Chicago), Komarudin Hidayat (UIN, Jakarta) and my dear friend Sukidi Mulyadi (Harvard University). 345
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2. Îanif and Syriac Hanpa One of the principal difficulties to be met and overcome is that of the immediate derivation of the word Ìanif, since it apparently has a meaning opposite to that of its cognates in other Semitic languages. Most scholars, including D.S. Margoliouth, C.J. Lyall, Arthur Jeffery, Richard Bell, W.M. Watt, and others, maintain that Ìanif is in fact a loanword from the Syriac hanpa, meaning ‘pagan’, ‘heathen’, which was sometimes used to imply a specifically Hellenistic type of pagan-
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a constructive conclusion as they fail to address the subtle question as to how the term Ìanif is used in the Qur’an, and to what extent we can reconcile the seemingly contradictory usages between the Quranic Ìanif and the Syriac hanpa. As Clare Wilde and Jane McAuliffe put it, ‘The tension between the apparent Quranic meaning and the close Syriac cognate has yet to be explained satisfactorily, particularly with regards to its usage in a Muslim framework.’1 This article discusses the various Quranic allusions to Ìanif with the intention of demonstrating that the term is used in the Qur’an in a somewhat more unstable way than most scholars tend to assume. Since much of the discussion of the Quranic Ìanif is based on the assumption that it means the opposite of its Syriac cognate (hanpa), the first part of the article is meant to show that the Qur’an itself seems not to dismiss the possibility that Ìanif might have two (or more) contradictory meanings. The Muslim historian al-Mas‘udi (d. 345/956) is aware of the Syriac origin of the word, and maintains that Ìanif is an Arabicized word, denoting ‘pagan’ or ‘heathen’.2 In the second part, the development of the meaning of the Quranic Ìanif in the classical exegeses will be discussed. My argument is that the meaning of Ìanif in the Qur’an is not self evident, and the variety of its usages opens the possibility not only for diverse interpretations among the early Qur’an commentators but also for its already being used in both monotheistic and polytheistic senses at the time of the Prophet. It is only in later exegetical works that the word Ìanif acquires a stable, fixed meaning.
1 Clare Wilde and Jane McAuliffe, ‘Religious Pluralism and the Qur’an’, in Jane McAuliffe (ed.), The Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an (6 vols, Leiden 2004), 4: 402. 2 Al-Mas‘udi said: hadhihi kalima suryaniyya ‘urribat. Abu al-Îasan al-Mas‘udi, Kitab al-Tanbih wa-al-ishraf (Leiden 1967), 91. See also Milka Levy-Rubin, ‘Praise or Defamation? – On the Polemical Usage of the Term Îanif among Christians and Muslims in the Middle Ages’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam (2003), 203–4.
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ism.3 While in Syriac documents the form hanpa (pl. hanpé) denotes non-Christian ‘pagan’, in Jewish midrashic literature the Hebrew root h-n-f is associated with heretic.4 François de Blois points out that in Babylonian and Palestinian Jewish Aramaic the root h-n-f carries the meaning ‘to deceive, to flatter’. Outside of Aramaic, de Blois says, we have the Hebrew adjective hanef, mostly translated as ‘godless’ or ‘hypocrite’ (though the precise meaning is debated) and the verb hanef (in the basic form), ‘to be polluted’, and (in the causative form) ‘pollute’ or the like.5 Most scholars believe that Ìanif is not borrowed from Hebrew, but rather from Syriac hanpa. Still it remains to explain how the term took a different form in Arabic. Richard Bell provides a solution to this transference problem:
Along this line, de Blois argues, ‘It is possible that Ìanif is an inherited Arabic word which, in a Christian and Jewish environment, took the meaning of Aramaic hanpa, but it is also possible that singular Ìanif is merely a back-formation from the plural Ìunafa’, which, for its part, could represent a borrowing of the Aramaic plural hanpé, remodelled to fit a regular Arabic plural pattern.’7 N.A. Faris and Harold W. Glidden may have reached the most intriguing solution to date, that Ìanif is ultimately derived ‘from the
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[T]he long vowel of the second syllable of Ìanif is fatal to its derivation from Syriac hanpa in its singular form; but this objection vanishes at once when we look at the plurals. For the Arabic Ìunafa’ is as close a reproduction of the Syriac han‘phé as there is any need to demand. We may therefore assume that the word was borrowed in its plural form, and that the singular Ìanif formed from that in accordance with one of the rules of correspondence between singular and plural forms in Arabic.6
3
D.S. Margoliouth, ‘On the Origin and Import of the Names Muslim and Îanif’, Journal of Asiatic Society, (July 1903), 467–93; C.J. Lyall, ‘The Words “Îanif” and “Muslim”’, Journal of the Asiatic Society (October, 1903), 771–84; Arthur Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qur’an (Baroda 1938), 112–15; Richard Bell, ‘Who Were the Îanifs?’, Moslem World 20 (1930), 120–4; W. Montgomery Watt, ‘Îanif’, in B. Lewis, V.L. Menage, Ch. Pellat, J. Schacht (eds), Encyclopedia of Islam (Leiden 1971), 3: 164–6; Uri Rubin, ‘Îanif’, in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an, 2: 402–3. 4 Ibid., 403. 5 François de Blois, ‘NaÒara and Îanif: Studies on the Religious Vocabulary of Christianity and Islam’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 65:1 (2002), 18–19. 6 Bell, ‘Who Were the Îanifs?’ 120–1. 7 De Blois, ‘NaÒara and Îanif ’, 23. 347
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8
N.A. Faris and Harold W. Glidden, ‘The Development of the Meaning of Koranic Îanif’, The Journal of the Palestine Oriental Society 19 (1939), 12. 9 Ibid., 13. 10 W. Montgomery Watt, Muhammad at Mecca (Oxford 1953), 163. 11 Ibn ManÂur, Lisan al-‘Arab (Beirut 1956), 11:56. See also E.W. Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon, s.v. ‘Îanif ’. 12 Arthur Jeffrey, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qur’an (Leiden 2006) 113. 13 Wa kana ‘abadatu al-awthan fi al-jahiliyya yaquluna naÌnu Ìunafa’ ‘ala dini Ibrahim. See Ibn ManÂur, Lisan al-‘Arab, 11:57. 14 See al-Khalil b. AÌmad, Kitab al-‘Ayn (Baghdad 1981), 3:248; Ibn Durayd, Kitab Jamharat al-lugha (Hyderabad 1926), 2:178; al-Azhari, Mu‘jam maqayis al-lugha (Cairo 1946), II, 110–11; al-Jawhari, Taj al-lugha wa ÒiÌÌat al-‘arabiyya (Cairo 1865), 2:18. Cited by Suliman Bashear, Studies in Early Islamic Tradition (Jerusalem 2004), chapter 14 ‘Îanifiyya and Îajj’, 2. 15 Ibn ManÂur, Lisan al-‘Arab, 11:57.
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dialect of the Nabataeans, in whose language it meant a follower of some branch of their partially Hellenized Syro-Arabian religion’,8 which can be traced back in legend and perhaps in a future historical demonstration to the time of Abraham himself.9 But, as William Montgomery Watt wisely cautions, ‘The question of derivation is a secondary matter, however, and, even if the above view is sound [Watt also cites the aforementioned passage of Faris and Glidden], it does not necessarily follow – indeed it is unlikely – that this adaptation of Hellenism made an important contribution to the permeation of Arabia by monotheistic ideas.’10 Arabic lexical sources point to ‘bending’ or ‘inclination’ as the original meaning of the Arabic root Ì-n-f. The native Arabic Ìanafa, according to Ibn ManÂur (d. 711/1311), means to ‘incline’, ‘lean’, ‘decline from’, arguing that the Ìanif∞∞ is the one who inclines from a false religion towards a true religion.11 Commenting on this, Arthur Jeffery says: ‘The lexicons are quite at a loss what to make of the word. They naturally endeavour to derive it from Ìanafa to incline or decline. Îanafun is said to be a natural contortedness of the feet, and so Ìanafa is used of anything that inclines from the proper standard’.12 I must point out that the Arabic lexical sources are richer than what Jeffrey tends to assume. Ibn ManÂur himself mentions in his Lisan al-‘Arab that at the time of the Jahiliyya, those who considered themselves Ìunafa’ of Abraham’s religion were idolaters.13 A few Arabic lexical sources note that Ìanif∞∞ belongs to the group of a∂dad words (meaning: words that have two contradictory meanings) which also convey the negative meaning of ‘one who inclines’ or even ‘deviates’ (ma’il, munÌarif∞∞ ).14 Abu ‘Amr, as cited by Ibn ManÂur, has said: ‘The Ìanif is the one who inclines from good to evil or from evil to good’.15
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3. Textual Analysis of the Quranic Îanif The word Ìanif occurs in the Qur’an ten times in the singular and twice in the plural Ìunafa’. In eight of its occurrences (2:135, 67; 3:95; 4:125; 6:79, 161; 16:120, 123), it refers explicitly to Abraham. Of the eight verses that mention Abraham, five include the phrase millat Ibrahim18 which might be translated as ‘the religion of Abraham’: Q. 2:135: And they say: Be Jews or Christians, you will be rightly guided. Say: the religion of Abraham as a Ìanif, and he was not of the idolaters. Q. 3:95: So follow the religion of Abraham, the Ìanif, and he was not of the idolaters. Q. 4:125: Who can be better in religion than one who surrenders his whole self to God and follow the religion of Abraham as a Ìanif ?
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From the information provided by some lexicographers, one can easily learn some points of contact and continuity in the development of the meaning of Ìanif from the Jahiliyya to Islam. Abu ‘Ubayda (d.210/825) is quoted as saying that the Jahili idolaters used to claim that they were followers of the religion of Abraham and, since whoever followed that religion was a Ìanif, this was also the epithet given to Muslims.16 We learn from al-Farra’ (d. 207/822) that a Ìanif is one who used to perform circumcision in the Jahiliyya. And al-Akhfash (d. 215–7/830–2), who sets out to explain how Ìanif became synonymous with Muslim, says that people in the Jahiliyya used to call whoever was circumcised and performed the Ìajj to the Ka‘ba a Ìanif, because in the pre-Islamic period the Arabs adhered only to these two practices of the religion of Abraham. With the advent of Islam, al-Akhfash concludes, Ìanifiyya returned to what it had been originally and, hence, a Muslim was called Ìanif.17 As will be seen later, there is a clear correspondence between the above views and the ones which commentators reported from secondcentury exegeses on the Quranic Ìanif. But first let us examine the various ways in which Ìanif occurs in the Qur’an.
16
See ibid. See ibid., 11:57; al-Zabidi, Taj al-‘arus min jawahir al-qamus (Kuwait 1986), 23:170. 18 The term milla is difficult, frequently being taken as the equivalent of din, ‘religion’, but also sometimes seen as more limited: ‘religious belief of a person’. 17
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Q. 6:161: Say: Verily my Lord has guided me to a straight way, a right religion, the religion of Abraham, the Ìanif, and he was not of the idolaters. Q. 16:123: We have revealed to you, ‘Follow the religion of Abraham, the Ìanif, and he was not of the idolaters.’
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There are several important points to note. First, the association of Ìanif with a millat Ibrahim is significant in that these verses envision what may be referred to as ‘an archetypal model’ of Islam. That is to say, that MuÌammad seems to think of Abraham as the founder of the religion of the Ìunafa’. He is portrayed as the Ìanif, par excellence, and in order to prevent misconception, the Qur’an clears him from his possible association with mushrikun (the idolaters). The Ìanifi religion as he founded it was, like all other revealed religions, a pure monotheism. When the Qur’an asks Jews and Christians to turn to the religion of Abraham, it is either because they have corrupted the pure religion of Abraham and therefore the Prophet MuÌammad was assigned, or conceived of himself as commissioned, to restore it, or because the religion of Abraham was earlier in time than both Judaism and Christianity and therefore his religion was purer. In either case, the Prophet is henceforth set, not towards Judaism or Christianity, but towards the assumed pure original of the Arab religion. In other words, the term Ìanif here is used as a description of Abraham who was an adherent of true religion. Second, in four verses (2:135; 3:95; 4:125; 16:123) the milla of Abraham is preceded by imperative verbs, in both singular and plural, which may lead us to the understanding that in these verses the Qur’an is directly confronting Jews and Christians, or, to say the least, in active conversation with them. The polemical context in which Ìanif is used in the Qur’an can be understood by looking at the fact that verse 2:135 is addressed to both Jews and Christians, while verses 3:95; 4:125; and 16:123 are addressed to Jews. There is a strong sense in these verses that the people of the Book do not participate in the religion of the Ìanif, the Ìanifiyya (this term does not appear there, but the idea does). Third, the Ìanifiyya, according to the Qur’an, antedates Judaism and Christianity and, although the Arabs (who according to legend are descended from Abraham) have fallen away, their archetypal model still beckons. Verse 6:161 clearly shows that the religion of Abraham is the right religion (dinan qayyiman), and those who follow it follow the straight path (Òira† mustaqim). The other two verses that mention Abraham without milla are also intriguing: 350
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Q. 3:67: Abraham was neither a Jew nor a Christian, but was a Ìanif muslim, and he was not of the idolaters. Q. 16:120: Indeed, Abraham was an obedient umma to God, as a Ìanif, and he was not of the idolaters.
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Although there is no explicit suggestion, at least not in the Qur’an, that there was ever a group of people, religion, known as Ìanif, these two verses seem to portray the Ìanifiyya as an independent religious movement apart from Judaism and Christianity. While verse 3:67 states that Abraham was neither a Jew nor a Christian, verse 16:120 calls him an umma (community).19 Abraham was an umma and a Ìanif, as has been seen above, obedient to God (qanitan li'llahi ). I would agree with Frederick Denny that there is a kind of religiocommunal dimension in the term Ìanif, as may be seen especially in the legendary pious group of Ìunafa’. Denny concludes: ‘Îanif∞∞ is not an abstract, but one which in its very essence seems to reflect purposeful spiritual and ritual activity’.20 Another interesting point to note is the use of the phrase Ìanifan musliman in 3:67 which has engendered a heated debate among scholars. Based on this verse, Watt argues that ‘first Ìanif and later also muslim are used in the Qur’an for the adherents of the true religion…’.21 K. Ahrens, as cited by Denny, is also of the opinion that ‘Islam as the name of MuÌammad’s religion is late and relatively rare in the Qur’an.’22 Helmer Ringgren disagrees and shows that muslim and aslama occur as early as the first Meccan period (6:163; 39:12) when MuÌammad calls himself ‘the first of the Muslims’. Ringgren prefers to allow the possibility that the word muslim had a technical and exclusive sense (i.e. referring to the followers of MuÌammad’s preaching, or rather those who ‘submitted’ according to and because of it) early in the Qur’an’s record.23 Fred Donner discusses this issue in detail in his fine article ‘From Believers to 19
The use of the word umma in 16:120 is significant but problematic. The difficulty in making sense of calling Abraham an umma in that word’s common meaning of ‘community’ has led both classical Qur’an commentators and some modern interpreters to understand the word as ‘paragon of virtue’ or the like. For a further discussion on this term, see Toshihiko Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qur’an (Montreal 1966), 191–2. 20 Frederick Denny, ‘Some Religio-Communal Terms and Concepts in the Qur’an’, Numen 24:1 (April, 1977), 34. 21 Watt, Muhammad at Mecca, 205. 22 K. Ahrens, Muhammed als Religionsstifter (Leipzig 1935), 112, as cited by Denny, ‘Some Religio-Communal Terms’, 31. 23 Helmer Ringgren, Islam, Aslama and Muslim (Uppsala 1949), 30. 351
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Muslims’.24 For Donner, the word musliman in 3:63 functions as a modifier of Ìanif, and ‘this adjectival or participial function suggests that muslim, in this passage at least, cannot mean a specific religious confession’.25 In line with Donner, I would argue that the technical sense of muslim is the product of a long development in which historical events and MuÌammad’s increasing awareness of founding a new religious community contributed to the progressively exclusive and technical sense of the term. Among the verses that do not explicitly mention Abraham but use the word Ìanif in contexts otherwise similar to those mentioned above are 10:105 and 30:30.
Verse 10:105 is addressed to MuÌammad’s people, beckoning them to be religious in the Ìanifi manner. The above two verses use the same expression aqim wajhaka li-al-din Ìanifan (set your face towards the religion as a Ìanif ) which specifies that man’s proper posture toward God is a ‘turning of the face’ (here the term is semantically enriched by the native Arabic Ìanafa, to ‘lean, incline’ which we have reviewed above). The Prophet is requested to become a Ìanif by setting his face upright towards the true religion, and the same demand is also imposed on the rest of the people. Whether Ìanif derives from the Arabic Ìanafa or, as is more likely, from the Syriac hanpa, it does seem to possess in a strong measure the sense of ‘incline, lean’ in some of the passages where it appears (e.g. 6:79; 10:105; 30:30) and this is an important part of its meaning in the Quranic message. There is also a strong emphasis, especially in the last two verses, on the notion of ‘natural religion’ laid down by God for which humankind have been created. What is striking in these two verses is the way in which Ìanif is connected to fi†ra, a natural tendency. The religion of Allah is ‘natural’ and archetypal, and intimately linked with the Qur’an’s teaching concerning Abraham. This is the archetypal religion that MuÌammad believed God had created for man to follow in obedience, faith, and purity. In other words, the religion of the Ìanif is spoken of as that of man in his primeval condition.
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Q. 10:105: And set your face towards the religion as a Ìanif, and be not of the idolaters. Q. 30:30: So set your face towards the religion as a Ìanif, the fi†ra of God on which mankind was created.
24
Fred Donner, ‘From Believers to Muslims: Confessional Self-Identity in the Early Islamic Community’, Al-AbÌath 50:1 (2002–3), 9–53. 25 Ibid., 15. 352
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26
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The two plural instances (Ìunafa’ ) are 22:31 and 98:5. The formulaic nature of these statements is underlined by the fact that the word, whether singular or plural, occurs always in undetermined accusative case (Ìanifan, Ìunafa’ ). For Christoph Luxemberg, Ìanifan is not an Arabic accusative of condition (Ìal ) as has been understood by most Qur’an commentators. The fact that in the Qur’an this expression is regularly in the accusative form, Luxenberg argues, ‘proves precisely that it had been taken up in its Syro-Aramaic form and become an established epithet for Abraham’.26 We may or may not agree with Luxenberg. The fact of the matter is that the classical commentators displayed some differences of opinion over whether, in the refrain millat Ibrahima Ìanifan, the word Ìanif was supposed to qualify milla or Ibrahim. Al-™abari, for example, suggests that Ìanifan is an adverbial accusative of condition (Ìal) to Ibrahim.27 Fakhr al-Din al-Razi mentions two possibilities: Ìanifan either as a Ìal to the mu∂af, i.e. milla, or to the mu∂af ilayhi, i.e. Ibrahim.28 Still there is another possibility. Al-Qur†ubi attributes to ‘Ali b. Sulayman a statement that it is wrong to suggest that Ìanifan is a Ìal, but rather it is an object of explanatory note ya‘ni: the milla of Abraham, i.e. (or it means) Ìanif.29 One may argue, I think convincingly, that the classical Qur’an commentators are simply ignorant of the discursive context of these Quranic passages, including the possibility of Ìanifan being borrowed from Syriac hanpa. It is worth mentioning that in nine out of the twelve occurrences the Ìanif/Ìunafa’ are contrasted with the mushrikun. One possible explanation of this striking feature is that MuÌammad himself was aware of the fact that Ìanif could be taken to mean ‘heathen’, and therefore he sought to clear Abraham from such a possible association. Not only is the term Ìanif used in the polemical context in the Qur’an, as discussed earlier, but also the word mushrikun is ‘often used as a term in polemic directed against people who would describe themselves as fully monotheistic’.30 As a polemical statement, according to Gerald R. Hawting, the word mushrikun does not necessarily mean ‘polytheists’ or ‘idol worshippers’ in the real sense of the word. Christoph Luxemberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran (Berlin 2007),
55. 27
Al-™abari, Jami‘ al-bayan ‘an ta’wilay al-Qur’an (Riyadh 2003), 2:591. Fakhr al-Din al-Razi, al-Tafsir al-kabir (Beirut 1980), 4:81. 29 Qala ‘Ali b. Sulayman: ∞huwa manÒub ‘ala a‘ni, wa al-Ìal kha†a’. See al-Qur†ubi, al-Jami‘ li-aÌkam al-Qur’an (Beirut 1997), 2:136–7. 30 Gerald R. Hawting, The Idea of Idolatry and the Emergence of Islam (Cambridge 1999), 67. 28
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Assuming that the text has to be read as polemic, it may be argued, makes it possible to read the Qur’an, every time it levels a charge of idolatry or polytheism against its opponents, as not really meaning what it says. Hawting’s arguments urge us to rethink critically our assumption about the emergence of Islam. For him, as a religious system ‘Islam should be understood as the result of an intra-monotheist polemic, in a process similar to that of the emergence of the other main divisions of monotheism’.31 If we take the polemic nature of the statements in the Qur’an (i.e. in the sense that the Ìanif is neither a Jew nor a Christian) into account, we may consider this explanation seriously. Thus the tension between the ‘heathen and heretic’ meaning of the Ìanif on the one hand and the ‘straight and monotheistic’ on the other can be reconciled as follows. If we consider that the term has been used in a somewhat polemical way, then the connotation of Ìanif corresponds to each other’s perspective. There is considerable evidence both from Muslim texts and from external sources that the pre-Islamic Ìunafa’ in Arabia were not directly connected with the institutionally organized Jewish or Christian communities. Hence Jews and Christians would have seen them as heretics. It was the Byzantine church that designated this name to indicate their heresy and non-loyalty.32 From the perspective of MuÌammad and his followers, those who were neither Jews nor Christians, i.e. those who were heretic in the eyes of Jews and Christians, were true monotheists who preserved the archaic religion of Abraham. The Qur’an, working within this ‘polemical milieu’, is concerned to present the Ìanifiyya as marking a difference from both Judaism and Christianity. The controversy over the use of Ìanif in the sense of ‘heathen’ continued to be reflected in third/ninth-fourth/tenth century Christian Arabic sources. The Christian Arabic apologist who is known under the pseudonym ‘Abd al-MasiÌ b. IsÌaq al-Kindi, when invited to join Islam, wrote in answer that ‘Abraham abandoned the Ìanifiyya, which is the worship of idols, and became a monotheist and believer, for we find that Ìanifiyya in the revealed Books of God is a name for the worship of idols’.33 Al-Kindi was probably referring to 31
Ibid., 7. Suliman Bashear says: wa-minhum man i‘taqada anna al-kanisa al-bizantiyya allati a†laqat hadhihi al-tasmiyya al-dalla ‘ala al-inÌiraf wa-al-inshiqaq al-madhhabi. See Suliman Bashear, Muqaddima fi al-tarikh al-akhar (Jerusalem 1984), 116. 33 A. Tien (ed.), Risalat ‘Abd Allah b. Isma‘il al-Hashimi ila ‘Abd al-MasiÌ b. IsÌaq al-Kindi (London 1912), 46. Cited by Watt, ‘Îanif’, 166. See also S.H. Griffith, ‘The Prophet MuÌammad, His Scripture and His Message according to the Christian 32
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the translation of the Scriptures,34 but he might also refer to the way the Qur’an contrasts the religion of Abraham to that of idolaters. Therefore, I do not think it is at all likely that the Prophet simply misunderstood the Ìanif that was in use among Christians or Jews and consequently employed it in exactly the opposite of its correct meaning. It is more likely that the repeated, formulaic statement that Abraham as a Ìanif and ‘not one of the idolaters’ has its basis in preIslamic religious vocabulary. And this is attested by Arabic lexical sources, as Suliman Bashear has successfully demonstrated, which present Ìanif as one of the a∂dad words, i.e. meaning not only a deviator in the negative sense, but also one who is upright.35 Up to this point, it is safe to say that the word Ìanif/Ìunafa’ is used in the Qur’an with different meanings, including the archetypal model of religion, the description of Abraham as an adherent of true religion or the one who is not part of the scriptural tradition, the adherents of any pure and real religion, of the natural religion itself. It is also used sometimes for people who are neither Jews nor Christians. It seems that at the time of the Prophet there was not a single clear conception of what the word meant. The explanation of this ambiguity lies in part because the word itself is not Arabic, and in part because it was not clearly understood in a single meaning. Therefore, the word Ìanif was used loosely as a descriptive title without any clear meaning. According to Toshihiko Izutsu, the semantic meaning of the Quranic Ìanif comprises the ideas of ‘(1) the true religion deep-rooted in the natural disposition in every human soul to believe in the One God, (2) absolute submission to this One God, and (3) being the antithesis of idol-worshipping.’36 It is only in the later development among Muslim commentators that Ìanif acquired a clear and stable meaning. 4. Exegetical Discourses on Îanif The purpose of this section is to assess the post-Quranic understanding of Ìanif by looking closely at how the early Muslim commentators interpret the word. Seven classical tafsirs will be examined, from the earliest Qur’an commentators whose works are extant today, Apologies in Arabic and Syriac from the First Abbasid Century’, in La Vie du Prophete Mahomet – Colloque de Strasbourg (October 1980), 120. 34 On the polemical usage of Ìanif, see Levy-Rubin, ‘Praise or Defamation?’ 35 See Bashear, Studies, especially chapter 14 ‘Îanifiyya and Îajj’. 36 Izutsu, Ethico-Religious Concepts, 191. 355
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the chiefs of Jews, namely: Ka‘b b. al-Ashraf, Ka‘b b. Asyad, Abu Yasir b. Akhtab, Malik b. al-Dayf, ‘Azara, and Humaysha, and the Christians of Najran, namely al-Sayyid, al-‘Aqib and their followers, said to the believers: ‘Be with our religion, because there is no [true] religion other than ours.’ God accused them of lying. He said: ‘Say, no, the true religion is the religion of Abraham, which is islam, the Ìanif, which means: sincere or obedient.’38
While a Ìanif in 3:95 for Muqatil simply means ‘pilgrim’, the next verse 3:96 was revealed against the background of the Muslim-Jewish conflict concerning the position of Mecca versus Jerusalem as the direction for prayer.39 Al-™abari strongly objects to those who say that Ìanif means pilgrim, arguing that ‘if it is true that Ìanifiyya is pilgrimage to the House of God, then those of the people of idolatry who used to perform pilgrimage at the time of the Jahiliyya were Ìunafa’. However, God has refused to call that [pilgrimage] as taÌannuf (an act of Ìanif )’.40 Although al-™abari prefers a particular meaning of
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namely: Muqatil b. Sulayman (d. 150/767), al-™abari (d. 310/923), al-™abarsi (d. 548/1153), al-Razi (d. 607/1209), al-Qur†ubi (d. 671/1272), Ibn Kathir (d. 774/1373) and al-∑uyuti (d. 911/1505). If we take these classical exegeses in chronological order, from Muqatil to Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i, it seems that the earlier mufassirun tend to understand the Ìanif more loosely and open to more interpretations than the later mufassirun. Muqatil, for instance, seems to understand the word Ìanif in the simplest and most neutral way. In all of the twelve passages but one (3:95), he says that the meaning of Ìanif is ‘sincere’ (mukhliÒ). As for 3:95, he simply says Ìanifan ya‘ni Ìajjan (Ìanif means pilgrim).37 Muqatil makes no effort to emphasize or de-emphasize its meaning except by paraphrasing and glossing it the same way as other verses. He highlights some interesting elaborations about the polemical nature of the Quranic allusions to Ìanif. From Muqatil we learn that 2:135 was revealed against the background that
37
Muqatil b. Sulayman, Tafsir Muqatil b. Sulayman (Cairo 1979), 2:291. Ibid., 2:141. 39 Muqatil said: wa-dhalika anna al-muslimina wa-al-yahuda ikhtalafu fi amr al-qiblati; fa qala al-muslimuna: al-qiblatu al-ka‘batu; wa qala al-yahudu: al-qiblatu bayt al-maqdis. Fa-anzala Allah ‘azza wa-jalla inna al-ka‘bata awwalu masjidin fi al-ar∂. Ibid., 2:291. 40 Al-™abari, Jami‘ al-bayan, 2:594: Wa-dhalika anna al-Ìanifiyya law kanat Ìajj al-bayt, la-wajaba an yakuna al-lazina kanu yuhujjunahu fi al-jahiliyya min ahl alshirk kanu Ìunafa’. Wa-qad nafa Allah an yakuna dhalika taÌannufan. 38
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Ìanif, he mentions that the Qur’an commentators (ahl al-ta’wil) have offered five different explanations of Ìanif, all of which are manifestly extrapolated from the contexts in which the word occurs in the Qur’an: first, that Ìanif means Ìajj (pilgrim), or more precisely, the person who performs the Ìajj at Mecca. He mentions that among those people who hold this view are al-Îasan, ‘Atiyya, Mujahid, Dahhak and Ibn ‘Abbas. For them, ‘everyone who goes to the Ìajj at Mecca and performs the manasik (rites) of Abraham according to his religion is a Ìanif ’. Second, Ìanif means muttabi‘ (follower, obedient). Unfortunately, al-™abari does not explain what religion the muttabi‘ follows. Most probably it is simply inferred from the Qur’an wa-ttabi‘ millata Ibrahima Ìanifan (4:125). Third, the religion of Abraham is called Ìanifiyya because he is the first imam to prescribe circumcision (khitan) for worshippers. Anyone who is circumcised the same way Abraham was circumcised is called Ìanif. It seems that, according to the third view, Ìanif means circumcised. Fourth, Ìanif means the person who devotes his religion to God alone (al-mukhliÒ dinahu li’llahi waÌdahu). Fifth, al-Ìanifiyya means al-islam.41 For his part, al-™abari says that Ìanif actually means ‘straight’ (mustaqim, inspired doubtless by 6:161, where the two words occur in some proximity to each other) and he supports this with a decidedly bizarre etymology, connecting it with aÌnaf, ‘having a crooked foot, lame’, whereby he tells us that this quite ordinary word actually means ‘straight’ and is applied to a person with a crooked foot only as a way of presaging his recovery from the ailment. Al-™abari also engages in a critical discussion on the aforementioned views, arguing that it is not possible to call ‘circumcision’ Ìanifiyya because if it is so then the Jews are Ìunafa’, contrary to what God has described them with the phrase ma kana… (it is not). It is interesting to note that while he prefers his own view he does not discuss other alternative meanings such as mukhliÒ and islam itself. However, he does discuss in some detail why the Ìanifiyya is attributed to Abraham exclusively and not to other Prophets as well. His explanation seems to support the possible interpretation of Ìanifiyya as ‘pilgrimage’ or ‘circumcision’. He says: God has not appointed any Prophet before Abraham as imam for the people until the Day of Judgement the same way He did with Abraham. He appointed him as the imam for the rites (manasik) of pilgrimage and circumcision and other shari‘a of islam as the legitimate way to 41
Ibid., 2:591–4. 357
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obey God until the Day of Judgement. So, the people who follow the religion of Abraham are called Ìunafa’.42
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While elucidating the word Ìunafa’ in 98:5, al-™abari reports a narration from the authority of Qatada to the effect that the Ìanifiyya includes: ‘circumcision, restriction of [marrying] mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, and rites’.43 Al-™abarsi, a Shi‘i commentator, also cites the five possible meanings of Ìanif that al-™abari mentioned earlier, although he favours the definition of Ìanif as ‘he who inclines from the false religions to the right religion. For this reason his religion is called Ìanifiyya because he turns away from Judaism and Christianity’.44 He also says that Abraham was not one of the idolaters contrary to what has been claimed by the Arab idolaters. He sometimes makes explicit that Ìanif means ‘he who inclines from all religions to the religion of Islam’.45 If the Ìanif is the one who inclines towards the religion of Islam, then the question is: What does the term muslim mean in the Quranic expression Ìanifan musliman (3:67)? On this issue, al-™abarsi proposes a solution as follows: if the Ìanif and the muslim come together the meaning of the Ìanif is Ìajj, but when they are separated, then the meaning of the Ìanif is muslim.46 Al-™abarsi puts much emphasis on the notion of ‘straight and inclining’. He says: ‘aÒl al-Ìanif al-istiqama wa-innama wuÒifa al-ma’il al-qadam bi-aÌnaf tafa’ulan. Wa-qila aÒluhu al-ma’il fa-al-Ìanif huwa al-ma’il ila al-Ìaqq fi ma kana ‘alayhi Ibrahim min al-shar‘ (the origin of Ìanif is from the straight, and the person with crooked foot is called aÌnaf (straight) as a good omen. It is also said that its origin is from the inclining, thus the Ìanif is the one who inclines towards the truth which is the belief of Abraham).’47 To support this view he relies on the bizarre etymology that al-™abari mentioned earlier with regard to aÌnaf, the crooked foot, and adds that ‘this is the view of many commentators and philologists’.48 From the time of al-™abarsi onward, it seems that the notion of ‘inclining or turning away from the false religions to the right reli42
Ibid., 2:595. Ibid., 24:554. 44 al-™abarsi, Majma‘ al-bayan fi tafsir al-Qur’an (Qum, 1982), 1:215. 45 Ibid., 1:457. 46 Al-™abarsi ascribes this statement to ‘Atiyya: Idha ijtama‘a al-Ìanif wa-almuslim kana ma‘na al-Ìanif al-Ìajj wa-idha infarada kana ma‘nahu al-muslim. Ibid., 5:523. 47 Ibid., 1:476. 48 Ibid.: wa-huwa qawl kathirin min al-mufassirin wa-ahl al-lugha. See also ibid., 2:391. 43
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Wa-allahi law la Ìanifun bi-rijlihi * ma kana fi fityanikum man mithluhu57 By God, had his foot not been crooked * there would be nobody similar (or equal) to your children. 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57
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gion’ becomes somewhat a fixed meaning of the Ìanifiyya, along with the bizarre etymological derivation. Al-Razi, for instance, says qila li-al-a‘raj aÌnaf, tafa’ulan bi-al-salama (the lame is called ‘straight’ as a good omen for his recovery).49 He defines the Ìanif using a variety of expressions, however, all of which lead to the same meaning, such as: al-Ìanif huwa al-ma’il (the Ìanif is the one who inclines),50 Ìanifan ay ma’ilan ilayhi maylan kulliyan (Ìanif is the one who inclines to it with a total inclination),51 and al-Ìanif al-ma’il, wa-ma‘nahu ma’il ‘an al-adyan kulliha li-anna ma siwahu ba†il (the Ìanif is the one who inclines, namely, the person who inclines from all religions because what is other than it is false),52 al-Ìanif huwa al-ma’il ila millati al-islam maylan la yuzulu ‘anhu (the Ìanif is the one who inclines to the religion of Islam to the extent that he does not turn away from it).53 In this last point, al-Razi makes an explicit attribution of Islam as the right religion. Al-Qur†ubi attempts to narrow down the scope of the discussion as to which religion the Ìanif should incline. In one place he says Ìanifan: ma’ilan ila al-Ìaqq (Ìanif: the one who inclines toward the truth),54 in another he says Ìanifan: ma’ilan ‘an kulli din (Ìanif: the one who inclines from every religion).55 He then finds a way to synthesize the two statements by saying that what he meant by the truth (al-Ìaqq) is the religion of Islam: Ìunafa’ ay ma’ilina ‘an al-adyan kulliha ila din al-islam (Ìunafa’ means those who incline from all religions to the religion of Islam).56 As for the linguistic question, al-Qur†ubi cites a number of poems whose authenticity seems to be spurious. For instance, he cites the poem by Umm alAÌnaf (it is not clear if this is a proper name or simply a description of a person who is the mother of a lame person [umm alaÌnaf ]) as follows:
Al-Razi, al-Tafsir, 4:81. Ibid., 8:58. Ibid., 17:173. Ibid., 11:57. Ibid., 20:135. Al-Qur†ubi, al-Jami‘, 7:28. Ibid., 8:344. Ibid., 19:134. Ibid., 2:137. 359
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The issue of the authenticity of these poems is even more questionable as al-Qur†ubi cites a poem attributed to the Prophet’s uncle, Hamza b. ‘Abd al-Mu††alib (d.3/625): Îamidtu Allaha Ìina hada’ fu’adi * min al-ishrak li-al-din al-Ìanifi 58 I praised God when He guided my heart * from the act of idolatry to the Ìanifi (straight) religion.
The fact that the Prophet, peace be upon him, has been commanded to follow the Ìanifiyya religion of Abraham does not imply that Abraham is more perfect than him in it [the religion], for he [MuÌammad] has carried out his religion to such a perfection that no one has ever preceded him in this perfection. Therefore, he is the seal of the Prophets and the chief (sayyid ) of Adam’s descendants.59
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Both Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i reiterate the five meanings of Ìanif. However, like al-™abarsi, al-Razi and al-Qur†ubi, Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyuti give their vote in favour of ‘the inclination from the false religions to the right religion’ as the true meaning of Ìanifiyya. Ibn Kathir often uses the word ma’il for Ìanif, and sometimes he simply says mataÌannif from the same root as Ìanif. As for Ìanif in 3:67, he says Ìanifan ay mutaÌannifan ‘an al-shirk qaÒidan ila al-iman (Ìanif means the one who acts like Ìanif turning away from idolatry towards belief); and on 98:5 he says Ìunafa’ ay mutaÌannifin ‘an al-shirk ila al-tawÌid (Ìunafa’ means those who act like Ìunafa’ turning away from idolatry towards monotheism). It seems that Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i are more concerned with the question of whether Abraham is preferable (af∂al∞) to MuÌammad, than with the meaning of Ìanif. What does it imply when the Prophet was commanded to follow the religion of Abraham? For Ibn Kathir, this does not mean that Abraham is more distinguished than MuÌammad. To this effect, he says:
On the question of the natural purity (fi†ra salima) mentioned in 6:79, Ibn Kathir contends that Abraham undoubtedly was the best of people with natural purity after the Prophet MuÌammad.60 To support this view, he cites a number of Ìadiths, which specify the Ìanifiyya for MuÌammad himself. He narrates a Ìadith on the authority of ¨A’isha that the Prophet has said: ‘Let the Jews know that there is easiness in our religion. Indeed, I am sent with a toler58 59 60
Ibid., 8:344. Ibn Kathir, Tafsir al-Qur’an al-aÂim (Beirut 1998), 3:342. Ibid., 3:262. 360
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Îamidtu Allaha Ìina hada’ fu’adi * ila al-islam wa-al-din al-Ìanifi 64 I praised God when He guided my heart * towards islam and the Ìanifi religion.
It is hard to believe that this poem does belong to Hamza not only because there is no authentic source that we may critically examine, but also because there is a fundamental difference between the two versions of the poem. In al-™abari’s version, the second part is ‘an al-ishrak li-al-islam al-Ìanifi, while in al-∑uyu†i ila al-islam wa-al-din al-Ìanifi. It seems that these two versions are of later invention and serve two different purposes. On the one hand, as can be seen in al-™abari’s version, the Ìanif does not constitute a separate religion, apart from Islam. Rather, Islam is portrayed as the Ìanifi religion. On the other hand, al-∑uyu†i’s version envisages two distinct entities between Islam and the Ìanifi religion. Interestingly enough, the cur-
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ant Ìanifiyya’.61 Both Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i narrate a tradition in which the Prophet was asked: ‘What religions are preferred to God? He says: the tolerant Ìanifiyya’.62 This leads us to another characteristic of Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i’s tafsir, that is to say that both tafsirs are full of the traditions attributed to the Prophet as well to the Companions and the Followers. They attempt to supply almost every issue they raise with either Prophetic traditions or testimonies by the Companions. For instance, on the relationship between fi†ra and Ìanif in 6:79 and 10:16, Ibn Kathir and al-∑uyu†i mention the tradition in which the Prophet said in his sermon: ‘Indeed, God has commanded me to teach you what you are not aware of about your religion: [God said] “I have created all my servants as Ìunafa’, but the satans came to them and led them astray from their religion.”’63 It is not surprising that al-∑uyu†i was even able to find the isnad (chain of transmission) of the poem attributed to Hamza b. ‘Abd al-Mu††alib that al-™abari seems unable to trace. From al-™isti on the authority of Ibn ‘Abbas (d.68/687) that Nafi‘ b. al-Azraq (65/685) said to him: ‘Tell me about the word Ìanif in the Qur’an.’ Ibn ‘Abbas said: ‘Sincere in the religion.’ He said: ‘Do the Arabs know about that?’ Ibn ‘Abbas replied: ‘Yes, don’t you hear Hamza b. ‘Abd al-Mu††alib, who says:
61
Ibid., 3:342–3: li-ta‘lama yahudu anna fi dinina fasÌa, inni ursiltu bi-Ìanifiyya samÌa. 62 See ibid 3:343; see also al-∑uyu†i, al-Durr al-manthur fi al-tafsir bi-al-ma’thur (Beirut 2001), 1:306–7. 63 Ibn Kathir, Tafsir, 3:262; al-∑uyu†i, al-Durr al-manthur, 3:277. 64 Ibid. 361
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rent scholarship on the pre-Islamic Ìanif seems to mirror the two versions of the poem. The first tradition of the current scholarship states that under divine inspiration MuÌammad was restoring the religion of Abraham, beliefs and practices presumably present in Mecca from its patriarchal beginnings. The other tradition suggests that there were already in Mecca, among MuÌammad’s contemporaries, individuals who may be described as Ìunafa’, Abrahamic monotheists, distinct from what the Prophet has called for. Some of them, as Uri Rubin and F.E. Peters have demonstrated, openly opposed MuÌammad’s Ìanifi mission.65 While modern Muslim scholars are mostly in favour of the first tradition, the early Qur’an commentators seem to affirm the second. Al-™abari and al-∑uyu†i, for instance, mention the story of Zayd b. ‘Amr (a well-known pre-Islamic monotheist in the Muslim sources) who went to Syria asking about religion. Of course, al-™abari and al-∑uyu†i present this story in what is obviously a schematized setting. On one occasion Zayd met with a Jewish ‘alim (knowledgeable person) and asked him: ‘I may adhere to your religion, could you tell me about your religion?’ The Jewish ‘alim said: ‘You will not be with our religion until you take a portion of God’s anger.’ Zayd said: ‘I will not escape except from God’s anger, but could you let me know what religion is free of that anger?’ He said: ‘I don’t know other than that you become a Ìanif.’ When asked about Ìanif, he replied: ‘The religion of Abraham who is neither a Jew nor a Christian, and he only obeys God.’ Zayd then met with a Christian ‘alim, asked the same question, and got the same answer.66 Although the Zayd story was shaped for a particular purpose (i.e. to indicate that Abraham was neither a Jew nor a Christian), it nevertheless tells us that there were in Mecca and its environs just such monotheists before the advent of Islam. The Muslim historian Ibn IsÌaq (d. 157/767) mentions similar accounts of those pre-Islamic monotheists, including Waraqa b. Nawfal, Ibn Jahsh, ‘Uthman b. Huwarith, and others. On Zayd b. ‘Amr, 65
See Uri Rubin, ‘Îanifiyya and Ka‘ba’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 13 (1990) 86–99; F.E. Peter, The Îajj: The Muslim Pilgrimage to Mecca and the Holy Places (New Jersey 1994), 41–6. Ibn IsÌaq, as cited by F.E. Peters, mentions an interesting report of a direct confrontation at Medina between Abu ‘Amir and MuÌammad: Abu ‘Amir came to the Apostle in Medina to ask him about the religion he had brought. ‘The Ìanifiyya, the religion of Abraham,’ (MuÌammad answered). ‘That is what I follow’, said Abu ‘Amir. ‘You do not’. ‘Yes I do. But you, MuÌammad, have introduced into the Ìanifiyya things which do not belong to it’. MuÌammad said: ‘I have not. I have brought it white and pure’. See: F.E. Peters, MuÌammad and the Origins of Islam (Albany 1994), 123. 66 See al-™abari, Jami‘ al-bayan, 5:486; al-∑uyuti, al-Durr al-manthur, 2:225. 362
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he wrote: ‘Zayd b. ‘Amr stayed as he was: he accepted neither Judaism nor Christianity. He abandoned the religion of his people and abstained from idols, animals that had died, blood and things offered to idols. He forbade the killing of infant daughters, saying that he worshipped the God of Abraham, and he publicly rebuked the people for their practices’.67 The Ìanifi nature of Zayd’s belief is well documented even in the Ìadith tradition.68 This and similar accounts of ‘natural’ Arabian monotheists have not been universally accepted by modern scholars. Richard Bell, for instance, says that the Ìunafa’ ‘were not a sect or party of historical people, but the product of Mohammed’s unresting mind’.69 Along the same lines, Hilmi Bey says: ‘the term Ìanif given by tradition to these persons is neither appropriate nor accurate. They did not originally bear such a title nor did they ever give themselves in real search of Abraham’s religion. In case we have to accept these people as historical persons we have to assume that this title was given to them later on.’70 These suggestions mean that the traditions concerning pre-Islamic monotheistic Ìunafa’ are merely the result of an apologetic projection of Quranic concepts. W. Montgomery Watt goes a step further by suggesting that the term Ìanif in its monotheistic sense was never used before the Qur’an.71 This view seems to totally disregard the Muslim traditions that attribute the title of Ìanif/Ìunafa’ to a group of historical people who seem to have been genuine. Indeed, a closer examination of the Muslim sources seems to indicate that there were historical persons characterized as Ìunafa’, and among those persons whom Muslim sources describe as Ìunafa’ were some bitter opponents of MuÌammad. After examining the religious ideas of the well-known Ìanif opponent of MuÌammad, Umayya b. Abi al-∑alt, Izutsu concludes that ‘religious ideas resembling those of Islam were existent among the pre-Islamic Arabs, and that concepts characteristic of a spiritual religion were not at all unknown and alien to their minds, at least in the period just preceding the rise of Islam. This makes it also understandable why the Qur’an attached the new Islamic movement to the Îanifitic tradition.’72 Ibn IsÌaq cited by Peter, The Îajj, 43–4. For a discussion on this, see M.J. Kister, ‘A Bag of Meat: A Study of an Early Hadith’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 33–2 (1970), 267–75. 69 Bell, ‘Who Were the Îanifs?’, 124. 70 Hilmi Omer Bey, ‘Some Considerations with Regard to the Îanif Question’, The Moslem World 22 (1932), 75. 71 Watt, ‘Îanif∞’, 166. 72 Toshihiko Izutsu, God and Man in the Koran: Semantics of the Koranic Weltanschauung (Tokyo, 1964), 117. 67 68
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As Fück and Rubin point out, the reports concerning these persons must be taken as authentic, because no Muslim could have had any interest in characterizing these opponents of the Prophet as Ìunafa’.73 It is hard to accept Margoliouth’s bizarre theory linking muslim with Musaylima and Ìanif with the Banu Îanifa tribe, since the so-called ‘pseudo-prophet’ Musaylima himself belonged to Banu Îanifa.74 This is a most implausible suggestion. In his correct criticism of Margoliouth, C.J. Lyall argues that ‘Islamic tradition would hardly have been likely to invent texts ascribing doctrines agreeing with Islam to an enemy of MuÌammad’s.’75 Lyall concludes that the basis for ‘the hypothesis that Musaylima, at any time before the prophet’s mission, is likely to have been sufficiently well known as a teacher to give wide currency to important religious terms like Îanif and Muslim, seems altogether inadequate’.76 One Muslim author, ‘Imad ∑ibagh, has done extensive research on the nature of pre-Islamic Ìunafa’ and concludes that those Ìunafa’ mostly belonged to noble families as they were able to travel outside Arabia in the pursuit of knowledge which led them to call for ‘religious reform’ from any type of superstition and liberate themselves and their people from the tradition of paganism.77 ∑ibagh describes them as ‘a group of ascetics who turned away from worshipping the idols and, instead, adhered to the Abrahamic religion by practicing pilgrimage, meditation (taÌannuth), fasting, circumcision, forbidding wine (khamr) and so forth’.78 We should remark, however, that the so-called Ìanifiyya was not a strongly-organized spiritual group movement. It seems that these people stood each one of them alone and isolated in the pagan society. Their aim was strictly restricted to personal salvation, and there are no records even in the Muslim sources of them having propagandized its teachings. There seems to be no reason to doubt that the Ìunafa’ are historical personages, and that their doctrines were known to the Prophet. 73
J. Fück, ‘The Originality of the Arabian Prophet’, in M. Swartz (trans. and ed.), Studies in Islam; see also Rubin, ‘Îanifiyya and Ka‘ba’, 85–6. 74 Margoliouth says: ‘The suggestion which this paper is to put forward is that the names Muslim and Îanif originally belonged to the followers of Musaylima, the Prophet of the Banu Îanifah… [T]he word Îanif might stand for a follower of the religion of a man of the tribe Îanifah, without great straining of the grammatical conscience; different writers speak of the religion as the Îanif religion and the religion of the Îanifah, and the Îanifi religion, which last is right according to the classical grammar.’ See Margoliouth, ‘On the Origin’, 484. 75 Lyall, ‘The Words “Îanif” and “Muslim”’, 774. 76 Ibid., 779. 77 ‘Imad ∑ibagh, AÌnaf: dirasa fi al-fikr al-dini al-tawÌidi fi al-min†aqa al‘arabiyya qabl al-Islam (Damascus 1998). 78 Ibid., 32. 364
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[MuÌammad] now moved toward identifying his movement completely with the religion of Ibrahim, the millat Ibrahim, the Ìanifiyya…. Significantly, the movement took the name of the Îanifiyya now, before becoming known as ‘Islam’…. The old name of the movement, the Ìanifiyya, suggests, besides the originally Meccan religious purification movement against polytheism, a kind of ‘reform movement’ with regard to the ahl al-kitab.82
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The explanation of the basic elements of the Ìanifiyya possessed by the people at the time of the Prophet seems to be more fashionable in today’s scholarship and represents a tendency, on the whole in the right direction, which points to the existence of pre-Islamic monotheism in Arabia.79 I tend to agree with Hamilton Gibb that, by looking at various passages in the Qur’an, ‘the existence of pre-Islamic monotheism is most openly acknowledged and its character most clearly and fully presented’.80 There is no reason to disregard the possibility that those ‘natural’ Arabian monotheists were called Ìunafa’ before the advent of Islam. The fact that the Qur’an uses the word Ìanif in the monotheistic sense does not necessarily mean that such a positive connotation was first invented by the Prophet. We should keep in mind that the Qur’an uses the term within a Meccan (and later Medinan) context in which the term was known and therefore there was no need to have it defined. Thus, it is hard to accept the suggestion that the word Ìanif was simply misinterpreted by MuÌammad, or that the Muslims ‘contrived to make religious virtue of the stigma of their pagan past’ as has been argued by Patricia Crone and Michael Cook.81 It seems more probable that at the time of the Prophet the term Ìanif might already have a kind of monotheistic sense in one of its various meanings. On the basis of information from Muslim sources, some scholars have developed their historical reconstructions of the Ìanifiyya to the extent that they have viewed it as the origin of MuÌammad’s prophetic mission:
79
For a critical overview on the current scholarship, see Irving M. Zeitlin, The Historical MuÌammad (Massachusetts/Cambridge 2007), 50–73. 80 Hamilton A.R. Gibb, ‘Pre-Islamic Monotheism in Arabia’, The Harvard Theological Review, 55:4 (October, 1962), 272. 81 Crone and Cook say: ‘by borrowing a word which meant “pagan”… and using it to designate an adherent of an unsophisticated Abraham monotheism, the Hagarenes contrived to make religious virtue of the stigma of their pagan past’. See P. Crone and M. Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge 1977), 14. 82 Jacques Waardenburg, ‘Towards a Periodization of Earliest Islam according to its Relations with Other Religions’, in Rudolph Peters (ed.), Proceedings of the Ninth Congress of the Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisant (Leiden 1981), 311, 313. 365
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5. Concluding Remarks
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From the above discussion, we can conclude that the meaning of Ìanif in the Qur’an is not self-evident. It has been used in the Qur’an to describe the following peoples or ideals: first, the adherent of any pure and real religion; second, the natural religion itself, not part of scriptural tradition; third, a description of the religion of Abraham as the true religion; fourth, people who are neither Jews nor Christians. The use of Ìanif in these different meanings indicates clearly that there is no exact and clear conception of what it means. In most passages, the word Ìanif or Ìunafa’ is put in contrast to mushrikun, which might lead us to believe that MuÌammad was well aware of the fact that Ìanif could be taken to mean ‘heathen’. The fact that the Qur’an does not define it convinces us that the Qur’an uses the term against the background of the Arabians who knew it in its monotheistic sense. This view does not deny the notion proposed by some modern scholars concerning the close affinity between the Arabic Ìanif and the Syriac hanpa. But, while the Syriac and Christian Arabic use of this cognate simply denotes heathen, Muslim Arabic sources point to certain religious beliefs and practices which characterized an Arab Ìanif in the Jahiliyya, such as circumcision, pilgrimage, praying towards the Ka‘ba, and refraining from marrying close kin. The Qur’an commentators of the classical period reckon the Ìanif to be part of those expressions the precise meaning of which was unknown and the interpretation of which was considered a legitimate subject of scholarly disagreement. This study concludes that the earlier commentators seem to be more open to the possibility of diverse meanings of Ìanif than the later ones. It is only in the post™abari tafsir that the word Ìanif acquires a more stable, fixed meaning as the adherent of the straight and right religion and as the equivalent of ‘Muslim’. Address for correspondence: [email protected]
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr008 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
THE PHARMACOLOGICAL TABLES OF RHAZES* OLIVER KAHL SHEFFIELD
Abstract
1. Introduction Abu Bakr MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi (latinized Rhazes) ranks among the most versatile and most influential thinkers in the history of Islam. Physician, alchemist and philosopher, he also engaged in literature, musical theory and performance, mathematics, and various ‘natural’ sciences such as botany, zoology and mineralogy. Recognized as a genius already by his contemporaries, Rhazes’ lasting fame and historical importance are, above all, due to his achievements in the art of medicine, which he practised with a strong empirical approach, and it is largely in this capacity as a physician that he will occupy us on the following pages.
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This article deals with the 22nd volume of MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi’s (Rhazes, d. 313/925) medical encyclopedia al-Îawi fi l-†ibb. Volume twenty-two is dedicated to pharmacology and pharmacological tables, and introduced by a short treatise in which Rhazes explains his unusual choice of tabular design and terminological arrangement. Following upon a brief bio-bibliographical survey and forming the core of this article, Rhazes’ introductory treatise is re-edited here in the original Arabic and further made accessible through an annotated English translation. Edition and translation, in turn, are followed by a detailed study of both the treatise and the tables, including explanatory diagrams, statistical evaluations, a source-critical analysis, and some observations regarding the tradition of synoptic tables in Arabic pharmaceutical literature — thus gradually emerges the conceptual originality of Rhazes’ implementation, and new light is thrown on his broad linguistic interests and abilities. The article concludes with an excursion into the realm of Persian-Chinese intellectual exchange, suggesting the possibility of a stimulus to Rhazes’ imagination from a remote and otherwise mostly hidden corner.
* The system of transliteration used in this article is that of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft (except for aw/ay and always al-). 367
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1 In those days it seems there existed at least two hospitals in Baghdad — an older one founded by Harun al-Rasid at the beginning of the century, and a very recent one founded by a ‘page’ (gulam) of the caliph al-Mu‘ta∂id (reg. 279–89/892– 902); for these hospitals, as well as the one in Rayy, see D.M. Dunlop, EI 2, I, 1223. 2 Rhazes’ cataracts gave rise to various legends — according to some the cause of his blindness was his habit to indulge in broad beans (baqilla); others say his alchemical experiments gradually brought on the disease; others again maintain he was blinded because he refused to reveal the secrets of alchemy; and some attribute his condition to the lash of a whip that struck his eyes. Rhazes apparently rejected treatment, proclaiming that he had seen enough of this world and that the hour of his death was approaching anyway. 3 For more bio-bibliographical information about Rhazes see Ibn al-Nadim, Kitab al-Fihrist (ed. G. Flügel, 2 vols, Leipzig 1871–2), I, 299–302; Ibn Gulgul, ™abaqat al-a†ibba’ wal-Ìukama’ (ed. F. Sayyid, Le Caire 1955), 77–8; Abu l-RayÌan al-Biruni, Risala fi Fihrist kutub MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi (ed. P. Kraus, Paris 1936), passim; Ibn al-Qif†i, Ta’riÌ al-Ìukama’ (ed. J. Lippert, Leipzig 1903), 271–7; and Ibn Abi UÒaybi‘a, ‘Uyun al-anba’ fi †abaqat al-a†ibba’ (ed. A. Müller, 2 vols, Kairo–Königsberg 1882–4), I, 309–21. For alternative sketches and further literature (primary and secondary) see M. Ullmann, Die Medizin im Islam (Leiden– Köln 1970), 128–36; F. Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums [GaS ] (13 vols, Leiden 1967–), III, 274–94; and L.E. Goodman, EI 2, VIII, 474–7. On Rhazes as an alchemist cf. M. Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im Islam (Leiden 1972), 210–3 and GaS, IV, 275–82 (with the literature quoted there). 4 Ibn al-Nadim loc.cit.: 154 titles; al-Biruni loc.cit.: 184; Ibn al-Qif†i loc.cit.: 133; Ibn Abi UÒaybi‘a loc.cit.: 225. 5 Ullmann, Medizin, 129 observes that many medical titles and topics attributed to Rhazes exactly correspond to those of Galen and therefore that Rhazes attempted to produce an Arabic Corpus Galenianum — this is an unduly dismissive conclusion, considering that Galen wrote pretty much about everything. More interestingly there is no evidence as yet that Rhazes, whose approach to alchemy was remarkably
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Rhazes was born in the year 251/865 in the ancient Iranian city of Rayy, on the southern slopes of the Elburz mountains near present-day Tehran. He received a thorough education, focusing initially on music and alchemy before turning to medicine, and was soon appointed head of the large hospital of his home town. When he was in his ‘early thirties’ (nayf wa-†ala†un), that is around 284/897, he went to Baghdad and there, too, was put in charge of a hospital.1 He probably returned to Rayy sometime between the years 290/903 and 296/909, during which period he wrote a major work dedicated to the then governor of Rayy, the Samanid Abu ∑aliÌ ManÒur ibn IsÌaq. He left his home town a second time for Baghdad but eventually retreated, blind2 and somewhat embittered, to Rayy where he died in the year 313/925.3 Rhazes was a prolific writer. The list of his works (medical, alchemical, philosophical), including also smaller treatises and some abridgements of Galen, is long4 and proves, if nothing else, his wide-ranging intellectual interests and scientific originality.5 Ironically, Rhazes’ single
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rational and pragmatic, would have conceived of the possibility to apply chemical methods to the fabrication of compound drugs, or to link chemical theories to physiological processes. 6 Translated into Latin in 1279 CE as Liber Continens by the Jewish physician Farag ibn Salim (Faragut) for King Charles of Anjou. 7 Compare Ullmann, Medizin, 130–1 and GaS, III, 278–81. 8 For example by Ullmann, Medizin, 130; cf. also my remarks p. 381 below with note 88. 9 Ullmann, Medizin, 130 note 5 lists 39 Arabic manuscripts of the Îawi and 4 extracts; GaS, III, 279–80 lists 45 and 6 respectively. Most of these manuscripts are incomplete but all together they would be more than sufficient to nicely restore the whole text; the fragmentary, or rather eclectic state of so many manuscripts is a reflection of a complaint already made by the great Persian physician ‘Ali ibn al‘Abbas al-Magusi (d. late fourth/tenth century) in the preface to his own medical encyclopedia Kamil al-Òina‘a, namely that Rhazes’ book is too long and should have been trimmed of unnecessary repetitions, such that ‘en perdant une longueur démesurée, il aurait été recherché et transcrit [my italics] et se trouverait dans toutes les mains, tandis qu’on ne le rencontre que chez un petit nombre de savants’ (translation of L. Leclerc, Histoire de la médecine arabe [2 vols, Paris 1876], I, 387).
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most influential and in many ways most important work is a compilation of enormous proportions which he himself did not publish during his lifetime nor, as far as we know, ever intend for publication: it was put together in more than 25 volumes years after his death by some of his pupils, at the instigation of the Buyid vizier Abu l-Fa∂l Ibn al-‘Amid (d. 360/970). The so-called Kitab al-Îawi (fi l-†ibb)∞6 is a huge encyclopedia of medicine, arranged a capite ad calcem and covering pathology and therapy (no anatomy); it is largely based on Rhazes’ extensive private files and sketchbooks (musawwadat) containing thousands of quotations, excerpts he made over decades from numerous Greco-Syriac, Indo-Persian and Arabic sources, but also featuring his own clinical notes and observations (labelled li ‘by me’).7 It is clear that a work of this scope and nature constitutes a supreme source of medico-historical information, and yet for a long time historians of medicine had to make do with one or another print of the Latin translation of the Îawi — an Arabic edition did not exist. In the mid-twentieth century an editorial committee at the Osmania University of Hyderabad began, under the auspices of the Indian government, to tackle an overdue edition of the original Arabic text of Rhazes’ Îawi: a collective effort that was sustained for nearly two decades gradually led to the publication of the whole corpus in 23 volumes, between the years 1955 and 1971 (reprint Beirut 2000). The Hyderabad-edition is based on only two Arabic manuscripts and has often, and rightly, been criticized for its lack of philological rigour.8 Whilst it is true that the Indian editors could have consulted additional manuscripts9 and thereby avoided
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Òaydala (through Òankara) < Sanskrit saμskara ‘putting together, forming well, making perfect’ and thence ‘preparation, correction, purification’, see M. Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit-English Dictionary (Oxford 1964 [reprint]), 1120 (not < candana ‘sandalwood'). 11 In the Hyderabad-edition (hereafter referred to as ‘Ed’), which also features a critical apparatus (hereafter referred to as ‘App’), the treatise covers the pages 61–8. 12 Ed pp. 1–60. 13 For example (p. 1): ‘Even though the knowledge of drugs and the ability to distinguish between good and bad, pure and impure substances is not, as many ignorant people (guhhal al-nas) reckon, absolutely necessary for a physician, it nonetheless befits and graces him’. Or (p. 2): ‘One should not consider pharmacy as something separate from medicine but rather as an ancillary art (Òina‘a Ìadima), since one branch of learning serves another; likewise it is wrong to call even the most experienced pharmacist a physician, for the latter is someone who knows about the effects (afa‘il∞) of drugs on the human body and who, when faced with a substance he has never seen or heard of before, is still able to work out all its obvious properties (afa‘il Âahira) by testing it (min imtiÌanihi iyahu) — and we say obvious because drugs also have hidden properties (afa‘il ba†ina), which are called sympathetica (ÌawaÒÒ) and which the physician cannot explain’. 10
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many a mistake, it is also true that their edition, as it stands, deserves our gratitude because it provides us with a crucial and most welcome tool for further study, especially when considering the enormous task of pulling off a new, revised edition of Rhazes’ gigantic work (Khalid Harbi's efforts notwithstanding). We are here concerned only with the 22nd volume of the Hyderabad-edition, which deals with pharmacology (Òaydala).10 The main bulk of the volume (344 out of 412 pages) is taken up by pharmacological tables (gadawil∞), printed in two double columns and preceded by an introductory treatise written by Rhazes on the ‘derivation of unknown names and weights and measures which occur in medical books’ (istinba† al-asma’ wal-awzan wal-maka’il al-maghula al-waqi‘a fi kutub al-†ibb) — this treatise, as we shall see, is of the greatest importance not only for a proper understanding of the tables but also for a deeper appreciation of Rhazes’ frame of thought, and has been re-edited and translated below to serve as a starting point for our investigation.11 The volume commences customarily with a general essay12 in which Rhazes outlines the principles (qawanin) of pharmacology, including a brief description of the subject, some interesting remarks on its relevance and relationship to medicine,13 and a list of 117 key medicinal drugs, all simples and arranged (with minor variations) according to the sequence of the abgad alphabet. Whilst suchlike expositions belong to the regular inventory of many Arabic medico-pharmacological works, the same cannot be said about Rhazes’ tables, nor indeed about the treatise that introduces them and with which we, too, will begin:
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2. Text مقالة محمد بن زكرياء الرازي في استنباط الأسماء والأوزان والمكائيل المجهولة الواقعة في كتب الطب قال محمد بن زكرياء الرازي :المنفعة المستفادة من تعرف أسماء الأدوية والأدواء والأعضاء والأوزان والمكائيل والصور التي يرسم 14بها بعض المقادير
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الواقعة في كتب الطب عظيمة ،إذ كثيرا ما نجد الدواء الممدوح المتفق على عظيم نفعه مذكورا باسم ليس هو من اللغة التي بها ذكر مدحه ونفعه وكذلك الحال في أسماء الأدوية فإنا كثيرا ما نجد الغذاء والدواء والتدبير الممدوح مجهولا إذا لم يذكر باللغة التي بها ذكر مدح ذلك الغذاء والدواء وربما وجدنا أيضا ذكر
15
دواء معروف لعلة أو علة في عضو باسم مجهول وكذلك نجد مقادير أو أشكالا دالة على مقادير مجهولة تقع في صفات من الكتب ،فإذا كان الأمر كذلك فجمعها جميعا في كتاب يرجع إليه فيها ويبسط فيه علمها نافع ،وإني لما هممت لجمع هذه أردت ألا أودع هذا من هذه الأسماء إلا المحققة على ما لها أن تكون 16في اللغة التي هى منها 17على إحكام من النقط والعجم ،ثم أنه عرض لي في ذلك خلتان مانعتان :إحداهما
18
نقصان حروف هذه اللغة التي عليها أجرينا
كتابنا هذا فإنه ليس فيها حروف تفي بما في الفارسية والهندية والسريانية نحو پ 19
بالهندية
20
بهبل
21
وليس يمكن أن يكتب
چ گ ڤ مثال ذلك أن اسم المر بالعربية محققا لأنه ليس فيها 22صور [24…] 23بل إنما يكتب ثالث الل 25بدلا
ترسم Ed بذكر , Appيذكر Ed يكون Ed منه Ed أحدهما Ed التمر Ed كذا ولعله بالهندية , Appبالفارسية Ed كذا وفي الأصل غير واضح ولعله بهكهل ]?[ , Appىلهل Ed فيه Ed صورة Ed ما هذا بعينه ما في الأصل بل قريب منه , Appبه كه Ed كذا , Appالك Ed
14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25
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منها ،والخلة الثانية أن نفع هذا الكتاب إنما هو أن يستخرج منه الأسماء التي تقع في الكتب مما لا يعرف ولم يتحر أصحاب هذه الكتب والصفات أن يكتبوا أسماء هذه الأدوية محققة على ما هى عليه باللغة التي هى منها 26بل كتبوها على غاية التواني والتساهل وهجوها 27بأنواع من الهجاء مختلفة حتى أن الاسم الواحد منها يوجد مكتوبا على وجوه كثيرة فمتى لم يكن في الكتاب الذي هو كتابك استنباط معرفة هذه الأسماء إلا ]على[ وجه واحد ولو كان ذلك الوجه هو الصواب سقط أكثر الاستخراج عنه وكان أن يكون من أجل ذلك عديم النفع الذي قصدته، فلما أجلت الفكر في ذلك لم أجد منه وجها أبلغ من أن أعمل لذلك جداول فيها سعة وأجمع فيها جميع اختلافات الاسم الواحد مما وقع إلى هذه الغاية ويكون Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
فيها مع ذلك سعة لما يقع بعد هذا فإنه على هذه الجهة يكاد أن لا يفوت الناظر في هذا الكتاب استخراج اسم من أجل اختلاف كتابته ،وينبغي أن يستعان مع هذا على فعل الدواء وطبعه فإن ذلك نعم العون على تحقيق ما يوجد من تفسيره مثال ذلك لنضع أنا قد وجدنا في صفة ما اسما ونحتاج إلى استنباطه في هذا الكتاب ولنضع التمثيل أن هجاء ذلك الاسم كان لينوا فجئنا إلى باب ل فوجدنا في سطر المجهول ليقوا 28وعلمنا أنه قد يقع الاختلاف لكاتبين وغلطهم مثل ذلك هذا أو أكثر منه فنظرنا بحذاء لينوا فكان بحذائه بزر الكتان ونظرنا ما بحذاء ليقوا
29
فكان بحذائه فنجنكشت ووجدنا هذا الدواء المجهول يوجد في ذلك الموضع بأنه ينفخ ويزيد في الباه فاستحققنا عند ذلك أنه إن كان لينوا الذي ]هو[ بزر الكتان أولى منه بأن يكون ليقوا 30الذي هو الفنجنكشت إذ كان الفنجنكشت لا 31
وينبغي أيضا إذا لم
ينفخ ولا يزيد في الباه بل يحل النفخ ويقطع شهوة الباه، نجد الاسم المجهول في بابه أن يطلب أولا في سائر الأبواب الشبيهة الصورة مثال ذلك إذا طلبنا اسما أوله ب في باب ب فلم نجده] 32طلبناه[ في باب 33ت وث ون فإن لم تجده فاطلبه في باب ف فإنه قد يختلف ذلك من أجل الكاتبين وإن لم تجده أيضا فاطلبه في سائر الأبواب لأنه قد يقع في ذلك اختلاف آخر ليس من منه Ed تهجوها Ed لىفوا , Appليفوا Ed لىفوا , Appليفوا Ed ليفوا Ed والأولى أن يكون ويقطع شهوة الباه كما في المفردات ]…[ , Appولا يزيد في الباه Ed يجد , Appنجد Ed ب و Ed +
26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33
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جنس التصحيف لكن من اللغة نفسها مثال ذلك أن الميعة توجد في كتب كثيرة مكتوبة اسطركا 34بالألف وربما وجدت سطركا 35بغير ألف ،وقد تبدل حروف مكان حروف مثال ذلك أن الجيم تبدل بالغين فيقال جالينوس وغالينوس وكالينوس وخالينوس والذال يبدل بالظاء والكاف بالقاف والطاء بالتاء فيقال سطيميا 36وستيميا 37وهو الإ ثمد ويقال حامافيطس وكمافيطس وقلقطار وخلقطار 39 وجلكطار ،وربما أسقطت الألف من أول الاسم كما تكتب اسطركا 38وسطركا وهو الميعة ومثل اغالوجن وغالوجن وهو الدخن ،وأما الياء والألف في آخر الاسم فكثيرا ما تبدلان فإنه قد كتب عردا وعردى 40وهو الكمأة ،والواو أيضا فكثيرا ما تسقط 41الضمة الباقية 42قد تكتب ارسيمون 43وارسيمن 44وهو التوذري ،والألف Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
والهاء مما تبدلان فيكتب اروسيمن سعتر
47
وصعتر،
48
45
وهروسيمن،
46
والسين والصاد فقد يكتب
وربما تسقط الألف والواو من الوسط فقد يكتب سقبينن
49
50
ويكتب ساقابينون وهو السكبينج ،والجيم والكاف قد يكتب زنجبيل وزنكبيل ]و[ قد يكتب فيجن 51وفيكن 52وهو السذاب ،والغين والخاء فيكتب مغرا ومخرا وهو المغرة ،والقاف والفاء فقد يكتب قيسا وفيسا وهو الغصن ،وكذلك ينبغي إذا لم تجد مثل صورة المجهول وجدت شيئا قريبا من هذه الحروف التي ذكرت أن تعلم أنه هو خاصة وإن وجدت صفاته تليق باسمه كما ذكرنا في بزر الكتان، فأما وصفي لهذه الأسماء في سطرين وتركي الاقتداء في ذلك بمن قد تقدمني من
اسطفطاحا , Appاسطفطا Ed سطفطا Ed سطيما Ed ستيما Ed اسطقطا Ed سطقطا Ed عردين Ed زدناها لاستقامة العبارة ]![ , Appو Ed + ىاڡىة , Appباقية Ed كذا والظاهر اوسمون , Appاوسمين Ed كذا والظاهر اوسمن , Appاوسم Ed اورسمن Ed هووسمن , Appهورسمن Ed ساعل Ed في الأصل سعر والتصحيح ]…[ صعتر , Appسعتر Ed سعسر Ed ساعل سور Ed كذا والظاهر جعيا , Appفعيا Ed كعيا Ed
34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52
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واضعي هذه الكتب أعني
53
المسماة فسأبينها :هى إذا كان أكثرهم قد وضعها
في ثلاثة أسطر سطر لليوناني وسطر للسرياني وسطر للعربي ومنهم من قد وضعها في أربعة أسطر وفي خمسة أيضا لأنهم جعلوا الفارسي والهندي سطرين آخرين فإني وجدت أكثر هؤلاء قد يجري وضع أبوابه على اللغة العربية أعني بذلك أنه يكتب مثلا خطمي 54في باب خاء وسعتر 55في باب سين وهؤلاء قوم فيما أرى قوم قد أضاعوا غرضهم منذ أول الأمر وذلك أن الاسم المجهول في أكثر الأمر ليس يرد علينا باللغة العربية وإنما نفع هذا الكتاب وغرضه استخراج الأسماء المجهولة فإذا ورد الاسم باللغة العربية استغنى عن هذا الكتاب إلا في الندرة وإن
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ورد بلغة غيرها رجع 56البيوت على اللغة العربية باطلا واضطررنا الناظر إلى القياس في جميع الأبواب في جميع ما يريده 57وأما الأقل من هؤلاء فقد وضعوا أبوابهم على اللغة اليونانية ولا بد أن يقع أيضا فيما وقع فيه الفريق الأول وإن كان ذلك أقل وذلك أن الأسماء المجهولة ليست ترد علينا كلها يونانية بل سريانية أيضا وفارسية وهندية وعربية أيضا في بعض الأحايين وعند ذلك أيضا يبطل ثبوتها على لغة ما ويضطر الطالب إلى النظر في جميع الأبواب ،ولما أجلت فكري في التخلص من هذا الباب أيضا وإحكامه لم أجد في ذلك وجها من أن أضع سطرين اسم أحدهما مجهول والثاني سطر معلوم وأكتب الاسم المجهول في السطر المجهول يونانيا كان أو سريانيا أو فارسيا أو هنديا أو عربيا وأكتب بحذائه في السطر المعروف وأعلم على الاسم اليوناني ى وعلى السرياني س وعلى الفارسي ف وعلى الهندي ه وعلى العربي إذا كان مجهولا ع ليجتمع لي في ذلك حفظ 58 غرض تبويب هذه الأسماء والغرض الثاني الذي أراده القوم بوضع جداولهم، ومتى كان للدواء أسماء مترادفة لم أزل أقابل بعضها ببعض في سطر في المعلوم والمجهول حتى يأتى عليها أجمع فإنه بهذا الوجه يمكن أن يكون كتابنا أقرب إلى الكتب الصناعية القانونية وبالله أستعين ،ولعل طاعنا جاهلا بغرض هذا الكتاب يطعن علينا بأنا قد كتبنا أسماء كثيرة مجهولة غير محققة باللغة التي هى منها فهو جاهل بمنفعة هذا الكتاب لأنا إذ كنا نصيب هذه الأسماء دائما في كتب
أغنى خطه سعرا رجعت نريده کذا ]و[ في الأصل غير واضح , Appحدودهم
Ed Ed Ed Ed Ed Ed
53 54 55 56 57 58
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العلاج غير محققة فقد اضطرت الحاجة في تحصيلها في الجداول لجميع الضروب التي توجد عليها في الكتب وإن لم تكن محققة وكان الحق واحدا فقط ،لأن قصدنا إلى تعرف ذلك المجهول كيف قدرنا عليه لا إلى حقيقة في اللغة الله عز وجل59فنبتدئ الآن بوضع الجداول والأسماء فيها بمشيئة 3. Translation The Treatise of MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi on the Derivation of Unknown Names and Weights and Measures which Occur in Medical Books Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi says: the benefit that can be drawn from recognizing the names of drugs, diseases, organs, weights and measures, and the graphical forms which some of these quantities assume in medical books, is considerable — for how often do we find a praiseworthy drug, whose usefulness is generally agreed upon, mentioned under a name which is not from the language wherein this praise and usefulness are expressed! The same applies to the names of remedies, and we frequently find that a recommended nutriment, drug, or regimen are obscure because they have no currency in the language wherein this recommendation is formulated; sometimes we even come across an unknown name for a wellknown remedy or for an acknowledged illness; similarly, we find unknown metrological units, or characters that seem to indicate quantities, occurring in the prescriptions of those books. If that is the situation, it would indeed be helpful to assemble all these terms in a book which provides ample information about them, and to which one may refer in this matter. When I decided to put together such a collection, I initially wanted to register only those forms that can be verified in the source languages, and supply them throughout with diacritical points. But I was soon faced by two intrinsic obstacles: first, a shortage of letters with regard to the language in which we were going to compile our book, for here we do not have enough letters to represent what is there in Persian, Sanskrit, and Syriac, such as p c g v 60 — for example, the Sanskrit name for ‘myrrh’ is 59
Ed بمشية Sanskrit ga ca pa va, Persian pe che gaf, and Syriac gamal pe — a list that could easily be extended, not least with regard to the phonology of Greek. 60
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bhbl, which cannot properly be transcribed into Arabic because the latter lacks the graphemes [ ֟֗ ᭮֗ಞ] and hence, only the third grapheme has an equivalent in l.61 The other problem is that such a book is only useful insofar as it extracts unidentified names from the literature, whilst the authors of these books and prescriptions do not care whether they represent the drug names in such forms as can be verified in the source languages — rather they pen them down with utmost negligence and nonchalance and distort them through different kinds of spelling, so that one and the same word appears written in several ways; now, as soon as this book of yours gives a derivation for recognizing these names [on the basis of] merely a single graphic manifestation — even if correct —, it ignores most other extractions and thereby loses all its intended utility. After having thought about this matter long and hard, I could not find a better solution than to produce comprehensive tables and to collect in them all relevant variographs for a single given term, including moreover some additional material62 — that way, the user of this book can hardly fail to see that the extractions of a term are due to variographies. However, one should always consider the effect and the nature of a drug, for this may be extremely helpful in verifying the received information — for example let us say that in some or other prescription we come across a name whose derivation we need to establish through this book; let us further assume that the spelling of this name is linu; so we go to section ‘L’, where we find, in the column of the unknown, another name, liqu; this tells us that there exists a variograph, caused by a clerical error which, in fact, could easily be worse; now we look at what is opposite linu and discover ‘linseed’,63 whereas opposite liqu we see ‘agnus castus’;64 since in the context of our prescription the unidentified drug is said to bloat and 61
This passage, as it stands in the Hyderabad-edition, does not make much sense, and my own interpretation of it is conjectural: bhbl ∞ lege bihbal (approximate transliteration) < Sanskrit vihvala ‘myrrh’, expressed in Devanagari script by three phonological elements (vi·hva·la) of which only the last (la) can be represented unequivocally in Arabic. For vihvala see Monier-Williams, Dictionary, 1003; for alternative suggestions I will be grateful. 62 The phrase ‘some additional material’ (sa‘a li-ma yaqa‘u ba‘d ha∂a) can only refer to the occasional specification of known synonyms, written sources, etymological sigla, and sporadic elaborations on notably botanical or pathological terms. 63 On the equation of linu < línon and bizr al-kattan ‘linseed’ see e.g. W. Schmucker, Die pflanzliche und mineralische Materia Medica im Firdaus alÎikma des ™abari (Bonn 1969), no. 620. 64 On the equation of liqu < lúgov and fangankust ‘agnus castus’ see e.g. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 547. 376
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65 Rhazes, in his massive chapter on simple drugs (adwiya mufrada) which covers two entire volumes of the Hyderabad-edition, says the following: ‘linseed (kattan) — when mixed with honey and pepper and licked frequently, stimulates sexual intercourse and […], when eaten, generates flatulence’, see Îawi, XXI, 327; ‘agnus castus (bangankust) — the pious strew its berries on the bed because they suppress the desire for sex and […], when consumed as food […], powerfully expel trapped wind and flatulence’, see Îawi, XX, 173 and 176. 66 The initial forms of the Arabic letters b t † n (and by extension y) are only distinguished from one another by small dots, whose omission or confusion easily creates variographies; similarly, a handwritten f (and by analogy q), whether dotted or not, may be mistaken for one of the former. 67 For (i)s†uraka (through Syriac es†urka) < stúraz as a synonym of may‘a ‘storax’ see Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 26. 68 All these forms go back to Galjnóv of Pergamon, the famous Greek physician (d. c. 200 CE). 69 st/†imiya ‘stibium’ < stimía ‘powdered antimony’ (i.q. Arabic i†mid∞), see H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon with a Revised Supplement (Oxford 1996), 1646. 70 Ìamafi†us and kamafi†us < xamaípituv ‘ground-pine’, see Liddell/Scott, Lexicon, 1975. 71 galka†ar and Ì/qalqa†ar < xalkitárion ‘chalcite’ (thence ‘yellow vitriol’), see Liddell/Scott, Lexicon Suppl., 311.
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to stimulate sexual intercourse, we can establish at this point that the reading linu, which is ‘linseed’, is better than the reading liqu, which is ‘agnus castus’, because agnus castus does neither bloat nor stimulate sexual intercourse but rather relieves flatulence and suppresses the desire for sex.65 Further, if we cannot find the unidentified name in its section, we must start looking for it in the other sections which resemble its graphical form — for example, if we look for a name that begins with b in section ‘B’ but cannot find it, [we must look for it] in sections ‘T’, ‘™’, and ‘N’, and if it is not there either, we go to section ‘F’, as this variation, too, may have been introduced by the copyists;66 and if you still cannot find the name, look for it in the remaining sections, because it might have undergone another variation, one that has nothing to do with misplaced diacritical marks but rather with the language itself. Examples of this include ‘storax’, which appears written in many books as is†uraka, with alif, but occasionally also as s†uraka, without alif;67 some letters can substitute others, as gim is replaced by gayn, and one says Galinus, Galinus, Kalinus, and Îalinus;68 the letter ∂al may replace the letter Âa’, kaf may replace qaf, †a’ may replace ta’, and one says s†imiya or stimiya, which is ‘stibium’,69 Ìamafi†us or kamafi†us,70 and qalqa†ar, Ìalqa†ar, or galka†ar;71 sometimes, the letter alif∞∞ is omitted from the beginning of a word, just as one writes is†uraka or s†uraka, which is
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72
Compare note 67 above. (a)galugan (through âgáloxon) < Sanskrit aguru, see Liddell/Scott, Lexicon, 5 and Monier-Williams, Dictionary, 4–5; the resinous agarwood is traditionally used for incense and hence described here as a ‘smoke’ (daÌan). Rhazes, in his tables (Ed p. 400), lists ‘ud as a synonym; he further remarks that this fragrant wood is imported from India and that it ‘used to be a rarity for most professionals’ (qad kana nadira fi ka†ir min al-asati∂a). 74 ‘arda/y < Syriac ‘arda ‘a mushroom, truffle’ (i.q. Arabic kam’a), see J. Payne Smith, A Compendious Syriac Dictionary (Winona Lake 1998 [reprint]), 427 and Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 647. 75 irsimu/un < êrúsimon is a synonym of tu∂ari ‘wallflower’, see e.g. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 179. 76 (h)irusimun < êrúsimon, cf. note 75 above. 77 A genuine Arabic word for ‘savory’ which may also be written za‘tar, cf. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 454. 78 saqabinun and saqabinun < sagápjnon, better known under the (arabicized) Persian transliteration sakabinag ‘sagapenum’, see e.g. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 390. 79 zang/kabil (through higgíberiv∞?) < Sanskrit s®ingavera ‘ginger’, see Liddell/ Scott, Lexicon, 756 and Monier-Williams, Dictionary, 1087. 80 fig/kan < pßganon is a synonym of sa∂ab ‘rue’, see e.g. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 557. 81 mag/Ìra are variant spellings of (Arabic) magra ‘red clay’, for which see Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 733. 82 f/qaysa < Syriac qesa ‘a stick, stake’ (i.q. Arabic guÒn), see Payne Smith, Dictionary, 504. 83 See above. 73
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‘storax’,72 and agalugan or galugan, which is a smoke;73 as for the letters ya’ and alif at the end of a word, they often replace each other, and one writes ‘arda or ‘ardy, which is a truffle;74 frequently, too, the letter waw is omitted if it represents a remnant u, so one writes irsimun or irsimun, which is ‘wallflower’;75 the letters alif and ha’ also belong to those that may replace each other, since one writes irusimun or hirusimun;76 likewise the letters sin and Òad, as one writes sa‘tar or Òa‘tar;77 now and then the letters alif and waw are omitted from the middle, and one writes saqabinun or just as well saqabinun, which is ‘sagapenum’;78 the letters gim and kaf may be substitutes, as in zangabil and zankabil,79 or figan and fikan, which is ‘rue’;80 similarly the letters gayn and Ìa’, so one writes magra or maÌra, which is ‘red clay’;81 also the letters qaf and fa’, for one writes qaysa or faysa, which is a twig82 — and this is how, if you cannot find an image of the unknown straightaway, you will find something close among the letters which I told you are special, all the more so if you can correlate the drug’s properties to its name, as described in the case of linseed.83 Regarding my presentation of these names in two columns and my decision not to follow in this matter the example
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of preceding authors — insofar as their books can be taken seriously —, I must explain the following: most compilers place the relevant names in three columns — one for Greek, one for Syriac, one for Arabic —, and some even spread the material over four or five columns by setting up another two for Persian and Sanskrit; I have further noticed that the majority of these writers use the Arabic language as a basis of sequential arrangement, which is to say that they put, for example, the word Ìa†mi∞84 into section ‘Î’ and the word sa‘tar∞85 into section ‘S’. Now, this group of people — insofar as they can be considered a ‘group’ — are missing the point right from the start, because in most cases the unidentified name appears before us in a language other than Arabic whereas the usefulness of such a book, and its sole purpose, lies in the extraction of unidentified names — if a word is acknowledged in the Arabic language, it does not need to be recorded in a book like this, rare exceptions granted; and if it comes from another language, a reference system according to Arabic entries is worthless, since it forces the user to compare all sections for each thing he seeks! There are also a few compilers who base their sequential arrangement on the Greek language but they, too, inevitably make the same mistake as the previous lot, albeit on a smaller scale, and this is so because not all unidentified names are of Greek provenance but rather come from Syriac, Persian, Sanskrit, or indeed Arabic as the case may be — here again it shows that the fixation of lemmata according to a particular language, no matter which, is of no avail, since it generally compels the user to search in all sections. So after having pondered over a feasible solution to this problem, too, I could not think of anything better than to draw two columns — one for the unknown and another for the known; then to write the unidentified name — whether Greek, Syriac, Persian, Sanskrit, or Arabic — into the unknown column, and its identification opposite into the known column; and lastly to furnish the lemmata with tags — Y for Greek, S for Syriac, F for Persian, H for Sanskrit, and, if unidentified, ‘ for Arabic.86 In doing so, I am hoping to achieve my own aim of a coherent terminological arrangement, as much as realize the ambitions of those other tabulators. And whenever I came across synonymous drug names I did not stop collating them with each other until I had registered all of them, the Ìa†mi, a genuine Arabic word for ‘marshmallow’, cf. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 278. 85 sa‘tar, a genuine Arabic word for ‘savory’, cf. Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 454. 86 Y(unani) ‘Greek’, S(uryani) ‘Syriac’, F(arisi) ‘Persian’, H(indi) ‘Sanskrit’, and ‘(Arabi) ‘Arabic’. 84
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known and the unknown, in their respective columns — that way, with God’s help, our book may be ranked among the well-crafted canonical works. But perhaps there is an ignorant slanderer, one who fails to grasp the purpose of this book, and who accuses us of having included a lot of obscure words without verifying them in the source languages — well, such a one knows nothing about the benefit of our work! We constantly stumble upon these unchecked words in therapeutic literature, and it is therefore a highly desirable undertaking to drag them and all their manifestations — even if not verified — out of books and into tables. The truth is only one. We, however, are aiming here, as good as we can, for the recognition of the unknown, not for some linguistic verification. And so we begin to put down the tables and the names therein, God the Powerful and Sublime willing.
So much for Rhazes’ prolegomena. The following diagram, which is based on material exactly as found in the Hyderabad-edition,87 exemplifies how Rhazes practically implemented his ideas: معلوم
مجهول
زعرور
ى
حماض
س
سرخس
ف
مسك
ه
بصل الفار
ع
⎧ ⎪ ⎨ ⎪ ⎩
مسٯٮلا [ ماسٮانvar. ]ماسٮسار ماسعٮلون مسٮلا
⎧ [ ححدعٮاٮاvar. ]حموعٮاٮا ⎨ [ حٮعاٮاvar. ]حمعٮابا ⎩
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4. Discussion
حلداروح
⎧ ⎨ ⎩
[ فلسورٮاvar. ]فسطورٮا فسٮورى عنصل
87
The editors say (p. 68 note 3) that in order to facilitate the task of printing, they slightly (yasiran) modified the tabular arrangement of the base manuscript; from various notes in their critical apparatus it becomes clear that this ‘modification’ mainly consisted of straightening the columns and ensuring formal coherency. The original sequence of the lexical material (abgad∞) remains unaltered. 380
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This diagram can be translated / transliterated as follows: Ed p. 184 Ed p. 125 Ed p. 85 Ed p. 256 Ed p. 247
‘known’
‘unknown’
zu‘rur ‘hawthorn’ Ìumma∂ ‘sorrel’ saraÌs ‘fern’ misk ‘musk’ baÒal al-fa’r ‘squill’
Greek mespílj or mespílon Syriac Ìmu‘†a Persian gil-daru Sanskrit kasturi or kasturika Arabic ‘unÒul
Before we can proceed to more general considerations it is necessary to sacrifice some space to statistics, and also to take a close look at the sources which Rhazes occasionally quotes in his tables. First, statistics: the total number of terms registered by Rhazes is ~7820, of which there are ~1970 ‘known’ and ~5850 ‘unknown’,89 that is a ratio of 1:3 on average; about 9% of the material falls under medicine proper (i.e. pathology or anatomy), virtually all the rest is pharmacological terminology, with substances (vegetable, animal, mineral) accounting for about 88%, whilst products, drug categories, generic names, and — surprisingly — weights and measures make up only 88 According to Rhazes, as we have seen earlier, many medico-pharmacological terms were subjected in the course of time to various distortions and corruptions at the hand of negligent scholars and ignorant scribes — this, of course, also happened when his own tables, which at the time of his death may or may not have transcended the form of a draft, were first put together and then, more crucially, passed down through the centuries by more or less knowledgeable and diligent copyists until they landed, in handwritten reprographies, on the desk of those modern editors. Another problem is that the editors’ choice of manuscripts was unnecessarily restrictive, and that in addition there is little evidence of an application of comparative philology on any serious scale, let alone systematically. Lastly, and here we are gazing at the most problematic feature of the edition, it is almost always possible to swap a main entry in the unknown column for its variant reading in the apparatus without this random act having the least philological implication. 89 Not counting multiple entries for the ‘known’ nor variants in the apparatus for either the ‘known’ or the ‘unknown’.
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The above set of examples, though authentic, is unfortunately not representative of the whole terminological corpus as given in the Hyderabad-edition — the reality is generally much more grim (for a typical page from the Hyderabad-edition see p. 382). This fact is partly due to the nature of the material itself but also, quite significantly, the result of editorial misjudgements.88 For our purposes, however, the diagrams make a good illustration of what Rhazes originally had in mind.
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about 3% altogether;90 2292 or 39.2% of ‘unknown’ terms carry etymological sigla,91 of which — according to Rhazes — there are 49% Greek, 32% Sanskrit, 14% Syriac, 3% Persian, and 2% Arabic; finally, about 45% of ‘known’ terms are genuine Arabic words. As regards Rhazes’ sources, he explicitly quotes the following (in chronological order):
90
Note here an interesting entry whose occurrence in the tables (p. 87) is somewhat unusual: <‘known’> al-qaraba∂in, gami‘ al-adwiya ‘dispensatory, drug compendium’ G[alen] D[ioscorides] | <‘unknown’> Greek dw·a‘ara ()دوىاعارا, corruption of (?) diagrafß ‘register’ or dunámeiv (scil. polufármakoi) ‘collection of formulae, prescriptions’, for which see Liddell/Scott, Lexicon, 392 and 452 respectively. 91 Compare note 86 above. 92 ˆEpidjmíai, see Ullmann, Medizin, 30. 93 Perì diaítjv ôzéwn (better known under the Arabic title Tadbir al-amra∂ alÌadda), see Ullmann, Medizin, 29. 94 Perì âérwn üdátwn tópwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 27–8. 95 Katˆ îjtre⁄on, see Ullmann, Medizin, 30–1. 96 Prognwstikón, see Ullmann, Medizin, 29. 97 Perì líqwn, see Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 111–12. 98 Bolos Democritus is not known to have authored a stone-book; his popular work on sympathetic magic entitled Fusiká, however, contained an important section on minerals, and perhaps this is what Rhazes refers to here, cf. Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 98 and 402–3. 99 For the identification of A†hurusfus with Xenocrates see Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 11 and GaS, III, 57 (I†hurisfus). 100 This must be a reference to Xenocrates’ Perì t±v âpò t¬n hÉçwn Öfeleíav, for which see Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 10–1.
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— Hippocrates (d. c. 375 BCE). Specific quotations: Ab/fi∂imiya pp. 78, 164–5, 319, 323;92 al-Amra∂ al-Ìadda pp. 264, 266;93 Masa’il alahwiya wal-buldan pp. 70, 78, 96 (kitab), 162–3, 323, 376 (kitab);94 Qa†ya†riyun pp. 78, 323;95 Taqdimat al-ma‘rifa p. 74.96 — Theophrastos of Eresus (d. c. 287 BCE). Specific quotation: al-Îigara p. 400.97 — Bolos Democritus of Mendes (fl. 200 BCE). Unspecific quotations: Bulus/s pp. 281, 300, 313. Specific quotations: al-AÌgar / al-Îigara pp. 282, 301.98 — Xenocrates of Aphrodisias (fl. mid first century CE). Unspecific quotations: A†hurusfus pp. 113, 134, 361;99 Kitab A†hurusfus p. 210.100 — Dioscorides (fl. second half of first century CE). Unspecific quotations: D[iyusquridus] pp. 82, 87–8, 94, 114, 128, 181, 188, 192, 229, 265, 333; Kitab D[iyusquridus] pp. 84, 89–90, 98–9, 104, 115, 119, 133, 158, 175, 185, 187, 195–6, 209, 212, 224, 228, 231, 250–1, 253, 257, 269, 275, 281–2, 307–10, 314, 353, 355–6, 359, 363, 365–6, 379–80, 383–4, 388–9, 393–4. Specific quotation: al-
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— — — — — — — —
101 Perì Àljv îatrik±v (usually known under the Arabic title al-Îasa’is fi hayula l-†ibb), see Ullmann, Medizin, 257–63. 102 Perì komid±v paidíou, see Ullmann, Medizin, 74. 103 Criton, who was known to the Arabs as ‘the cosmetician’, wrote a book on skin diseases entitled Kosmjtiká, see Ullmann, Medizin, 71. 104 See W. Smith, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology (3 vols, Boston 1867), I, 142. 105 The Hippocrates-commentator Timaios ‘the Palestinian’, see Ibn al-Qif†i, Îukama’, 94. 106 The Hippocrates-commentator Simplicios (e.g. Ibn al-Qif†i, Îukama’, 94) and his commentary on Perì âgm¬n, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 31; in the Hyderabad-edition read Simliqiyus. 107 This is probably a reference to a book-chapter rather than an independent treatise on hair; for Platon, a somewhat elusive Greek physician, and his (somewhat elusive) writings, see Ullmann, Medizin, 78–9. 108 This is probably a reference to his work Xeirourgoúmena, often quoted elsewhere by Rhazes, see Ullmann, Medizin, 78. 109 The Indian physician Caraka was the main redactor of an old Ayurvedic compendium which became known under the name of Carakasaμhita; this text was translated into Arabic, most probably via a Pehlevi intermediate (Schmucker, Firdaus, 46 note 1), by ‘Abdallah ibn ‘Ali at the beginning of the third/ninth century, cf. Ullmann, Medizin, 104. 110 Perì diagnÉsewv t¬n peponqótwn tópwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 41–2. 111 Perì krásewv kaì dunámewv t¬n äpl¬n farmákwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 47–8.
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Adwiya al-mufrada p. 81. All quotations refer to Dioscorides’ De materia medica.101 Rufus of Ephesus (fl. late first century CE). Unspecific quotations: Rufus/s pp. 74, 95. Specific quotation: Tadbir al-Òibyan p. 322.102 Titus Statilius Criton (fl. 100 CE). Unspecific quotations: Qiri†un pp. 74, 261, 411.103 Amentes (fl. before second century CE). Unspecific quotation: Amin†is p. 89.104 Timaios (fl. before 150 CE). Unspecific quotation: ™ima’us p. 267.105 Simplicios (fl. before 150 CE). Specific quotations: Tafsir li-Kitab al-Îal‘ (wal-kasr) li-Buqra† pp. 167, 326.106 Platon (fl. before 150 CE). Unspecific quotation: Kitab Fala†un p. 335. Specific quotation: Afla†un fi l-sa‘r p. 96.107 Antyllos (fl. second century CE). Unspecific quotation: An†ilus p. 72.108 Caraka (fl. second century CE ?). Unspecific quotations: Sarak pp. 81, 150, 167, 194, 232, 262, 292, 327, 336, 362; Kitab Sarak pp. 150, 336.109 Galen (d. c. 200 CE). Unspecific quotations: G[alinus] pp. 85, 87, 97, 269, 317, 373–4, 412; Kitab G[alinus] pp. 97, 172–3, 227, 253, 310. Specific quotations: al-A‘∂a’ al-alima p. 361;110 al-Adwiya almufrada pp. 89, 95, 123–4, 172, 209, 223 (maqalat al-adwiya), 239–40, 259, 290–1, 303, 373;111 [al-Adwiya] al-muqabila lil-adwa’
384
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—
— —
112
Perì ântidótwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 49. Perì trof¬n dunámewn (better known under the Arabic title Quwa l-ag∂iya), see Ullmann, Medizin, 47. 114 Qerapeutik® méqodov, see Ullmann, Medizin, 45. 115 Perì diafor¢v puret¬n, see Ullmann, Medizin, 42. 116 Pròv Glaúkwna qerapeutiká, see Ullmann, Medizin, 45–6. 117 That is the Alexandrian compilation De morborum causis et symptomatibus libri sex, comprising the following of Galen’s writings: Perì diafor¢v nosjmátwn (part 1), Perì t¬n ên to⁄v nosßmasin aîtíwn (part 2), Perì sumptwmátwn diafor¢v (part 3), and Perì aîtíwn sumptwmátwn (parts 4–6), see Ullmann, Medizin, 42 and GaS, III, 89–90. 118 Perì plßqouv, see Ullmann, Medizin, 43. 119 Perì xreíav t¬n ên ânqrÉpou sÉmati moríwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 41. 120 Perì sunqésewv farmákwn — t¬n katà tópouv, see Ullmann, Medizin, 48. 121 Perì t¬n sfugm¬n pragmateía, see Ullmann, Medizin, 43–4. 122 Perì sunqésewv farmákwn — t¬n katà génj, see Ullmann, Medizin, 48–9. 123 ¨Upotúpwsiv êmpeirikß, see Ullmann, Medizin, 52. 124 Perì qjriak±v pròv Píswna (QayÒar being a corruption of FiÒun), see Ullmann, Medizin, 49. 125 See Ullmann, Medizin, 79 (who also gives a list of other works of Philagrios that were translated into Arabic). 126 Sunagwg® gewrgik¬n êpitjdeumátwn, see Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 429–33; in the Hyderabad-edition read Yuniyus < Vinda(nio)nios. 127 This is probably a reference to Oribasios’ Súnociv pròv Eûstáqion, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 84; cf. also notes 150 and 151 below. 128 Ahron is known as the author of a large (now lost) medical compendium (originally entitled Súntagma ?); what Rhazes probably refers to here are chapters in this book dealing with the liver and the stomach respectively, cf. Ullmann, Medizin, 87–9 and GaS, III, 166–7. 113
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pp. 266, 297, 374, 412;112 al-Ag∂iya pp. 93, 99, 190, 223, 267, 297, 398;113 Îilat al-bur’ pp. 74–5, 100, 164, 211, 235, 320, 332;114 alÎummayat p. 139;115 (I)glawqun pp. 76, 176, 325;116 al-‘Ilal wala‘ra∂ p. 165;117 al-Imtila’ p. 79;118 Manafi‘ al-a‘∂a’ pp. 73, 326–7;119 al-Mayami/ir pp. 80, 122, 180, 188, 193, 209, 320–1, 356;120 alNab∂ al-kabir pp. 73, 326;121 Qa†aganis pp. 264, 407;122 Rasm al-†ibb bil-tagarib p. 72;123 (al-)Tiryaq (ila) QayÒar pp. 241, 375.124 Philagrios of Epirus (fl. first half of fourth century CE ?). Unspecific quotations: Filagriyus pp. 71–2, 78, 82–3, 86, 133, 138, 162, 238 (fi †abt Îunayn), 321, 324, 332; Kitab Filagriyus p. 291. Specific quotation: Mudawat al-asqam p. 192.125 Vindanios Anatolius (fl. fourth century CE). Specific quotation: alFilaÌa p. 84.126 Oribasios (d. c. 400 CE). Unspecific quotation: Uribasiyus p. 131. Specific quotation: al-Gami‘ p. 371.127 Ahron of Alexandria (fl. late sixth century CE). Unspecific quotations: (al-)Ahrun pp. 194, 213, 267. Specific quotations: Ahrun fi ∂ikr / min bab al-kabid pp. 96, 289; Ahrun fi (bab) al-ma‘ida pp. 84, 97.128
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129 Stephanos is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on any of Oribasios’ (d. c. 400 CE) works, for which see notes 150 and 151 below; on Stephanos cf. e.g. Ullmann, Medizin, 82. 130 In the Arabic tradition, Anqilawus was one of the redactors of the Summaria Alexandrinorum, see Ullmann, Medizin, 65; he is also known as the author of a book on coitus entitled Asrar al-Ìarakat (!), see GaS, III, 160. His name appears in the Hyderabad-edition in its notorious corruption Ibn ™alawus. 131 Qerapeutiká, see Ullmann, Medizin, 85–6. 132 This is perhaps another reference to his Kitab fi l-Mushilat, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 92. 133 Author of a medical compendium, see Ullmann, Medizin, 22–3. 134 A Nestorian monk and physician who wrote a medical handbook, see Ullmann, Medizin, 100–1. 135 See Ullmann, Medizin, 23–4 with GaS, III, 206 and 224. 136 See Ullmann, Medizin, 108. 137 On †abt ‘register’ cf. note 146 below. 138 This is probably a reference to YaÌya’s al-Sumumat wa-daf‘ ma∂arriha, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 326. 139 See Ullmann, Medizin, 112.
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— Stephanos of Athens (fl. late sixth century CE). Unspecific quotations: IÒ†afan pp. 208, 288, 297. Specific quotations: IÒ†afan fi Kitab Uribasiyus p. 388; IÒ†afan fi Kunnas al-sab‘ (sic) li-Uribasiyus p. 300.129 — Anqilawus (fl. 600 CE). Unspecific quotation: Kitab Anqilawus p. 274.130 — Alexander of Tralles (d. c. 605 CE). Unspecific quotations: (al-) Iskandar pp. 81, 84, 88, 110, 140, 148, 169, 201, 213, 241, 261, 288–9, 328, 346, 405, 407. Specific quotations: al-Kunnas pp. 266, 339.131 — Abu Gurayg the Monk (fl. first/seventh century ?). Unspecific quotations: Abu Gurayg (al-Rahib) pp. 114, 148, 290. Specific quotation: IÒlaÌ al-adwiya al-mushila p. 334.132 — Theodocos (fl. late first/seventh century). Unspecific quotation: Tiya∂uq p. 358.133 — Sem‘on de-™aybu†a (fl. early second/eighth century). Unspecific quotations: Sim‘un pp. 195, 232.134 — Masargawayh (fl. second/eighth century ?). Unspecific quotation: Masargawayh p. 113.135 — Gurgis ibn Gibril ibn BuÌtisu‘ (d. after 151/768). Unspecific quotation: Gurgis p. 77. Specific quotations: al-Kunnas p. 290;136 ™abt Ibn BuÌtisu‘ p. 96.137 — YaÌya ibn al-Bi†riq (d. c. 199/815). Specific quotation: al-Sumum p. 240.138 — MasiÌ al-Dimasqi (d. after 224/839). Unspecific quotations: (MasiÌ) al-Dimasqi pp. 292, 340; Kitab MasiÌ pp. 104, 292, 316, 407. Specific quotation: al-Kunnas p. 194.139
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140
See Ullmann, Medizin, 112. This is probably a reference to YuÌanna’s Gami‘ al-†ibb mimma gtama‘a ‘alayhi a†ibba’ Faris wal-Rum which, most unfortunately, appears to be lost, see Ullmann, Medizin, 113. 142 See Ullmann, Medizin, 122–3. 143 See Ullmann, Medizin, 265. 144 See Ullmann, Medizin, 199. 145 Also known as Îif al-asnan wal-li†a (var. wa-stiÒlaÌiha∞), see Ullmann, Medizin, 118 and 215. 146 There is a genre of glossographical literature which emerged in the third/ ninth century, if not earlier, as a by-product of the translation movement, and which took the form of synonymic lists or multilingual glossaries. These writings circulated initially under the Syriac title Pussaq smahe ∞‘Explanation of names’, and Îunayn, too, is occasionally quoted as the author of one of those, see Ullmann, Medizin, 236. What Rhazes refers to here as Îunayn’s ™abt ‘Register’ is probably an Arabic title of that same master glossary; in addition to that, Rhazes mentions other registers which Îunayn must have compiled on the basis of specific medicopharmacological works, cf. notes 154 and 155 below; and once, Rhazes quotes a register ‘which Îunayn corrected’, see above s.t. unspecific quotations. 147 See Ullmann, Medizin, 327. 148 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on Dioscorides’ (fl. second half of first century CE) Perì Àljv îatrik±v, though he translated the book into Syriac and collaborated in its translation into Arabic, see Ullmann, Medizin, 258–9. 149 This is probably a reference to Îunayn’s catechistic adaptation of the first five books of Galen’s (d. c. 200 CE) Perì krásewv kaì dunámewv t¬n äpl¬n farmákwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 117. 150 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on any of Oribasios’ (d. c. 400 CE) works, though he is associated with their translation, see Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, I, 292; Oribasios is the author of: Sunagwgaì îatrikaì pròv 141
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— Salmawayh ibn Bunan (d. c. 226/841). Unspecific quotation: Salmawayh p. 173.140 — YuÌanna ibn Masawayh (d. 243/857). Unspecific quotation: Ibn Masawayh p. 243. Specific quotation: al-Gami‘ p. 99.141 — ‘Isa ibn Massa (fl. mid third/ninth century). Unspecific quotation: Ibn Massa p. 100.142 — Îunayn ibn IsÌaq (d. 260/873 or 264/877). Unspecific quotations: Îunayn pp. 99, 126, 150; Kitab Îunayn p. 236; ™abt aÒlaÌahu Îunayn p. 358. Specific quotations a) Independent writings: alAdwiya al-mufrada pp. 167, 242, 260, 374–5;143 al-Ag∂iya p. 317;144 IÒlaÌ al-asnan wal-li†a p. 149;145 ™abt Îunayn pp. 89, 125, 129, 141, 147, 151, 171, 175, 193, 195, 199, 204, 208, 223, 227–8, 231, 238, 243, 248, 264–5, 283–4, 287, 298, 302, 312, 315, 318 (kitab var. †abt), 334, 357, 366–8, 371, 375, 393, 399;146 al-Tiryaq p. 268.147 b) Non-independent writings: Îunayn fi Kitab Diyusquridus p. 372;148 Îunayn fi Kitab G[alinus] fi l-Adwiya al-mufrada p. 375;149 Îunayn fi Kitab Uribasiyus p. 134;150 Îunayn fi l-Kunnas al-sab‘ (sic) li-Urib-
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asiyus p. 265;151 Îunayn fi l-Mayamir pp. 259, 261, 353, 357, 372;152 Îunayn fi Qa†aganis p. 264;153 ™abt Îunayn fi l-‘Ilal Ìasab (sic) ala‘ra∂ pp. 318–9;154 ™abt Îunayn Kitab Iqri†un p. 170.155 — Îubays al-A‘sam (fl. second half of third/ninth century). Specific quotation: al-Qaraba∂in p. 183.156 — Yusuf al-Qass al-Sahir (fl. 287/900). Unspecific quotation: Yusuf alSahir p. 331.157 — Not identified a) People: Agriyus p. 224;158 Îra†n p. 85;159 NuÌ p. 97; Îakim p. 347 (~) Îakim ibn Gubayr pp. 93, 353;160 ‘Isa p. 380 (~) ‘Isa ibn Îabib p. 367. b) Books: al-Adwiya al-mufrada pp. 88, 90, 94, 141, 149, 157, 168, 217, 229, 242, 249, 260, 292, 361, 373;161 Kitab al-‘Ayn pp. 72, 325;162 Kitab al-‘Alamat pp. 69,
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ˆIoulianón, Súnociv pròv Eûstáqion, and Pròv Eûnápion perì eûporístwn, see Ullmann, Medizin, 83–4. 151 This is a reference to Oribasios’ Sunagwgaì îatrikaí (cf. note 150 above) which Îunayn, in collaboration with ‘Isa ibn YaÌya, translated into Syriac, and whose Arabic rendition became known under the titles al-Kunnas or Kitab al-sab‘in (!), because it consisted of seventy books, see Ullmann, Medizin, 83 and GaS, III, 153; Îunayn is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on this work. 152 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on Galen’s Perì sunqésewv farmákwn — t¬n katà tópouv, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 48. 153 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have written a commentary on Galen’s Perì sunqésewv farmákwn — t¬n katà génj, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 48–9. 154 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have established a register (†abt) on the basis of the Alexandrian compilation De morborum causis et symptomatibus, for which cf. note 117 above. 155 Îunayn is not known otherwise to have established a register (†abt∞) on the basis of Criton’s (fl. 100 CE) Kosmjtiká, for which see Ullmann, Medizin, 71. 156 See Ullmann, Medizin, 302–3. Some scholars (e.g. Ullmann loc.cit. or A. Dietrich, EI∞2, XII, 375) pointed out that in handwritten Arabic the name Îubays can easily be confused with Îunayn, and hence that citations of notably Îubays’s dispensatory (qaraba∂in) may actually refer to the work of the same title by his famous uncle Îunayn; before dismissing the former dispensatory we should, however, remember that ambiguities go both ways and, moreover, that the towering figure of Îunayn will naturally (and at times no doubt unduly) have been credited by posterity not only with certain ‘joint’ translations but also with other, original literary productions such as emerged from the small circle of his less prominent collaborators — I believe that cases of doubtful attribution should in fact rather be decided in favour of Îubays. 157 Author of a medical compendium (kunnas∞), see Ullmann, Medizin, 124. 158 The physician Philagrios (cf. above)? 159 The physician Criton (cf. above), or the pharmacist Crates (cf. Ullmann, Medizin, 300), or the herbalist Crateuas (cf. Smith, Dictionary, I, 885–6)? 160 The ‘solution’ suggested in GaS, III, 270 (to read Îakim ibn Îunayn [ibn IsÌaq]) is not very convincing. 161 This could refer to the work of the same name by either Galen or Îunayn (cf. above for both). 162 Considering the character of the two quotations ( < ايولوايداسüaloeidèv [ügrón]: al-ru†uba al-zugagiya i.q. corpus vitreum, and < قرسطالويداسkrustalloeidèv 388
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72, 77, 79;163 Kitab al-Îigara p. 406;164 Kitab Maghul p. 97;165 Kitab ∑urat (sic) al-nugÌ al-hindi p. 96.166 c) People or Books: Dsm (var. Dsty) p. 297;167 Kitab al-Îramy (var. D[iyusquridus]∞) p. 311; al-Mnks p. 354. — Collective references: ahl NaÒibin ‘the inhabitants of Nisibis’ p. 243; al-Îuz ‘the people (scil. physicians) of Îuzistan’ pp. 132, 290, 303.168
[ügrón]: [al-ru†uba] al-galidiya i.q. lens crystallina), this is probably a reference to Îunayn’s famous book Ten Treatises on the Eye, which was heavily influenced by Greek ideas and terms, see e.g. Ullmann, Medizin, 205–6. 163 This is perhaps a reference to the pseudo-Hippocratic Noßmata te kaì sjmeiÉseiv perì hw±v kaì qanátou or Risala fi ‘Alamat al-mawt, a treatise on the prognostication of death, see Ullmann, Medizin, 33–4. 164 On stone-books in the Arabic tradition up to the time of Rhazes see Ullmann, Geheimwissenschaften, 95–117. 165 On this ‘anonymous’ work, most probably a general medical compendium, see Ullmann, Medizin, 92. 166 ∑urat al-nugÌ, a book which Rhazes explicitly calls ‘Indian’, could be a loose translation of Sanskrit siddhisthana, which is ‘place of felicity’ but also the name of the last section on therapeutics in the Carakasaμhita, see Monier-Williams, Dictionary, 1216 and, for Caraka, note 109 above. According to Ibn Abi UÒaybi‘a, Òurat al-nugÌ was the title of an Arabic commentary on the siddhisthana, see ‘Uyun, II, 32 line 24; cf. also Ullmann, Medizin, 105. 167 Considering the context of the quotation (‘an Indian drug’) as well as the given variant, this could even be a reference to the Sanskrit compound dasamula, Arabic transliteration dasmul, for which see, at length, Schmucker, Firdaus, no. 301. 168 The physicians of Îuzistan, that is to say Gondesapur, compiled a medical handbook (kunnas∞) as well as a multilingual glossary (pussaq smahe∞), see Ullmann, Medizin, 101 and 235–6. Their handbook is probably referred to by Rhazes in the first quotation (qalat al-Îuz), unless this is a case of oral transmission; their glossary is cited in the second and third quotation (†abt al-Îuz).
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Such a wide range of quoted sources is quite remarkable, not least because these references appear to have been added by Rhazes at random, without any pretension to completeness, and certainly not on the grounds of systematic considerations — this fact is a reflection of the very nature of the Îawi and its compositional history, just as it underlines, yet again, the quality of Rhazes’ compilation as a treasure chest not only of medico-pharmacological but also literary information. The preceding list of 34 identified sources shows that Rhazes, unsurprisingly, drew mainly from authors who originally wrote in Greek or Arabic, but that he also on occasion relied on texts which were first formulated in Syriac or Sanskrit; however, almost all ‘foreign’ works were already in Rhazes’ days available in Arabic translations, with the possible exception of the writings of Amentes (Greek) and Sem‘on (Syriac). Most importantly these quotations — like so many others throughout the vast corpus of Rhazes’ encyclopedia —
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contain small but invaluable fragments of works which are otherwise lost or, sometimes, not even documented elsewhere (as in the case of certain writings attributed to Îunayn). Here we can only surrender ourselves to the pointless regret that Rhazes did not take a more consistent approach to his sources, and that Albert Dietrich never realized his plan to subject the entire Îawi to a source-critical analysis.169 The most important question that arises from contemplating Rhazes’ tables is whether and, if so, in which way they differ from other synoptic presentations in medieval Arabic medico-pharmacological literature. The tradition of breaking up specialized texts into their terminological constituents and to arrange and explain this technical vocabulary systematically in tabular form goes back to the beginnings of the translation movement in the late second/eighth century.170 The emergence of synonymic lists and multilingual glossaries is directly related to the problems faced by the first generations of translators, both with regard to translating and disseminating material. The translators of notably medico-pharmacological texts, originally written in languages as diverse as Greek, Syriac, Persian and Sanskrit, created in time a vast body of terminological symbols (words and syntagms) in order to represent items and concepts for which the Arabic language previously had no equivalents, and they accomplished this feat by employing, in principle, four methods of linguistic adaptation: transliteration; loan-translation; paraphrasing; semantic narrowing.171 This process of adaptation through translation, however, was neither uniform nor coordinated, the levels of skill and expertise on the part of the individual translators varied as much as did their preferred methods, the latter in turn frequently overlapped, and the whole enterprise extended and developed over a period of more than two centuries. It soon became necessary to explain this vocabulary to physicians and pharmacists and to clarify for them the exact meaning and correct use of those newly created and ever grow169
Announced in 1970 by Ullmann, Medizin, 130. The following historical sketch is partly based on the very detailed and instructive observations made on the subject by Ullmann, Medizin, 234–9 and 288–92 respectively; on the translation movement in general see the excellent book of D. Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture (London 1998). 171 Some examples from Greek relating to medicine (after Ullmann, Medizin, 234–5): lßqargov ‘drowsiness’ > li†argus (transliteration); karkínov ‘cancer’ > sara†an (loan-translation); tò fúgeqlon ‘a swelling of the glands’ > al-awram allati tusamma fuga†la (paraphrasing); ôfqalmía ‘conjunctivitis’ > ramad [originally ‘an eye disease’] (semantic narrowing). 170
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ing terminological clusters, not least because a fair number of especially medical professionals were Syro-Persian Nestorians and, ironically, more comfortable with Greek, Syriac or Persian than with what must have appeared at the time as ‘synthesized’ Arabic. Synonymic lists and multilingual glossaries were thus compiled not only to serve as auxiliary tools for translators but also, and perhaps primarily, as interpretive aids for practitioners. The philological and practical problems thrown up by translating pharmaceutical literature were notoriously difficult and often impossible to solve. As is generally known, one of the most complicated word fields in any language is that of plant names, alongside the semantics of colours and shapes. This is particularly true for Arabic, because here the problems are aggravated by the fact that the terminology for substances and drugs was more or less simultaneously adopted from a variety of languages, producing a ridiculously high number of synonyms and pseudo-synonyms; further by the fact that the individual names and terms congealed at varying degrees of arabicization; and also because already in the source languages these botanical designations appertained to different linguistic strata (literary, scientific, colloquial, dialectal, popular) and, as a result of being ‘translated’, duplicated or even multiplied their existence. Repeated attempts at identifying pharmaceutical substances, notably those from the vegetable kingdom, were increasingly thwarted by corrupt transcriptions and careless transmissions which, in turn, added a considerable number of ghost words to an already crammed treasury of terms. The earliest examples of this genre of ‘lexicography’, possibly inspired by Galen’s Perì t¬n îatrik¬n ônomátwn,172 ran under the Syriac title Pussaq smahe ‘Explanation of names’ — Rhazes in his tables occasionally refers to them by the Arabic title ™abt ‘Register’.173 These multilingual glossaries, containing medico-pharmacological names and terms in three, four, five, even ten languages,174 were prob172
al-Asma’ al-†ibbiya (lost in Greek), see Ullmann, Medizin, 52. Ed pp. 290, 303 (from Îuzistan); p. 96 (of Ibn BuÌtisu‘); pp. 89, 125, 129, 141, 147, 151, 170–1, 175, 193, 195, 199, 204, 208, 223, 227–8, 231, 238, 243, 248, 264–5, 283–4, 287, 298, 302, 312, 315, 318–9, 334, 357, 366–8, 371, 375, 393, 399 (of Îunayn); p. 358 (anonymous, ‘corrected’ by Îunayn). 174 Focusing generally on synonyms in Arabic, Greek, Syriac, Persian and Sanskrit, but occasionally going far beyond this linguistic range: a classic example is the so-called Kitab al-Musta‘ini written by the Andalusian physician Ibn Biklaris (fl. 493/1100), who gives synonyms for 704 simple drugs in Arabic, Greek, Syriac, Persian, Latin, Byzantine, Berber and Old Spanish (including various dialects), and who additionally provides pharmacodynamic information; his book takes the form of multicolumn tables, and a critical edition, long due, is currently (2009) being 173
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ably from the beginning arranged in tabular or diagrammatic form. It can be assumed that the aforesaid synonymic lists, which equally served as guidelines for translators and instruction manuals for practitioners, originally followed the same pragmatic layout, and it is often impossible to draw a clear line of demarcation between these two lexicographical genres: the Pussaq smahe glossaries of the early Syrian translators were a direct response to the semantic intricacies of precisely the plant and drug terminology. In this context it is interesting to note that Rhazes, too, apparently compiled such a multilingual glossary dealing with medico-pharmacological terms: according to the Arab bio-bibliographer Ibn Abi UÒaybi‘a (d. 668/1270),175 the seventh part of Rhazes’ (lost) medical compendium al-Gami‘ al-kabir176 was dedicated to the ‘explanation of pharmaceutical names and weights and measures as well as the terminology for organs and diseases in Greek, Syriac, Persian, Sanskrit and Arabic, in the style of the books called Pussaq smahe ’ (tafsir al-asma’ wal-awzan wal-maka’il allati lil‘aqaqir wa-tasmiyat al-a‘∂a’ wal-adwa’ bil-yunaniya wal-suryaniya walfarisiya wal-hindiya wal-‘arabiya ‘ala sabil al-kutub al-musammat bussaqsimahi∞) — we will soon see why this is rather surprising. In the treatise which introduces his tables and which has been edited and translated above, Rhazes begins by observing that the technical literature of his days teemed with names and terms for pharmaceutical substances, medical conditions, anatomical matters and metrological units which were not only ambiguous but in many cases completely obscure and hence, meaningless; he proceeds to explain this lamentable situation by referring to the fact that a great many of these words were adopted into the Arabic language from ‘foreign’ sources (Greek, Syriac, Persian or Sanskrit) through transliteration — a valid but phonetically often inadequate method of representation whose shortcomings, to Rhazes, were further compounded by negligence and ignorance on the part of copyists and authors. This observation is true today as much as then, and anyone who has ever worked with medieval Arabic medico-pharmacological texts will readily be able to confirm it. Having given various examples to illustrate prepared by Joëlle Ricordel. On Ibn Biklaris’s important work see Ullmann, Medizin, 275; A. Dietrich, EI∞2, XII, 383; M. Levey, ‘The Pharmacological Table of ibn Biklarish’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences XXVI (1971), 413– 21; and, recently, C. Burnett (ed.), Ibn Baklarish’s [sic] Book of Simples (London 2008), featuring inter alia a comparative study by E. Savage-Smith on the Arabic tradition of synonymatic texts and tabular presentations (pp. 113–31). 175 ‘Uyun, I, 318 lines 4–6. 176 On which see Ullmann, Medizin, 131. 392
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the problem and some instructions as to the correct use of his own tables, Rhazes criticizes the compilers of other, conventional multicolumn lists and glossaries, and attacks them for their insistence on a sequential layout geared to the conveniences of Arabic.177 He advocates a simplified design of only two columns and emphasizes the necessity to organize the lexical material according to graphic rather than linguistic entities — this latter aspect is of the greatest importance because here Rhazes radically deviates from a well-established literary tradition to move into an entirely new direction. The synonymic lists and multilingual glossaries already discussed, no matter how many languages they may have covered, were all arranged according to language entries, normally Arabic,178 and even though this arrangement must have seemed a perfectly reasonable if not inevitable way to proceed, it suffers from the major flaw that ‘dead’ lexical entities, ghost words and skeleton morphemes, fall through the grid — all these elusive and ‘unidentified’ words, for the most part nonsensical and products of uncontrolled spontaneous mutation, can only be captured in a system of formal arrangement whose basis is the dubious vocabulary itself. Rhazes’ idea to arrange his tables in an alphabetical sequence of polygraphic distortions and thereby to organize knowledge in accordance with what is not known, can only be described as brilliant — the fact that his approach appears to have been isolated does not change that. Practically, his tables enable the user, for the first (and last) time, to identify without much effort a vast number of ‘unknown’ words, most of which should not even exist; philosophically, the tables are a painful lesson in the fragility of knowledge transmission. Whether or not Rhazes’ semantic equations always stand the test of medical and notably botanical scrutiny is another matter. We have already seen that in his tables Rhazes added etymological sigla to some 2300 or roughly 40% of ‘unknown’ terms, of which according to him about one half are Greek, one third Sanskrit, one seventh Syriac, and one twentieth Persian and Arabic taken together;179 terms that carry no etymological sigla may come from any of those languages. The number of correct etymological attribu177 The sharpness of this criticism is somewhat unexpected considering that Rhazes himself, as pointed out above, seems to have compiled a pentaglot modelled explicitly after those orthodox wordlists. The piece is now regrettably lost but may well have belonged to an earlier period (or different phase) of Rhazes’ life. 178 There apparently also existed glossaries that ran along (transliterated) Greek lemmata, as Rhazes mentions in passing. 179 For precise figures see p. 383 above.
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tions, or at least good guesses, is remarkably high, especially when considering the enormous difficulties posed by thousands of often undotted glyphs, and also taking into account the fact that in Rhazes’ days ‘regular’ dictionaries other than Arabic-Arabic would have been extremely hard to come by, if they existed at all. This is not to say that these etymologies are completely unproblematic — in fact, I am not even sure why Rhazes would have bothered with etymological attributions in a system of presentation that explicitly disregards etymologies or, as he says, ‘linguistic verification’, and though he mentions this feature in his introductory treatise it is not actually explained. To name some of the problems entailed by Rhazes’ etymological indicators, we can refer first to their frequent absence even in self-evident cases180 and second to their occasional incompatibleness and hence, falsity.181 There are also, understandably, some borderline cases and overlaps, notably with regard to attempted distinctions between Greek and Syriac on the one hand and Persian and Sanskrit on the other hand, and now and then a single term carries two different etymological indicators. On the whole, however, Rhazes’ etymologies, whatever may have prompted them, are quite reliable, if only as cues in the right direction, and where he appears to have failed one always has to allow for deficiencies in the Hyderabad-edition and/or the manuscripts on which this edition is based.182 Rhazes’ etymologies induce the question of which languages he actually knew. No doubt a native speaker of Persian with a firm grasp on classical Arabic, he probably could also read Syriac, a language which in those days was still widely used by many scholars to communicate scientific and philosophical ideas; the often praised excellence of his medical education and the eccentricity of some of his quotations seem to suggest that he had direct access to Greek;183 there is evidence that he was familiar at least with the Devanagari alphabet, if not Sanskrit 180 For example: هوفاريقونis not designated as Greek, عرطنيثاis not designated as Syriac, مورد اسفرمis not designated as Persian, اطموطis not designated as Sanskrit, and عقرب الماءis not designated as Arabic. 181 For example: دوقوسis labelled Sanskrit, its variants دٯواسand دورمare labelled Arabic and Persian respectively (all < daÕkov); <( قىسرkísjriv) is labelled Greek, its variants قىسوراand قمسورare labelled Syriac and Arabic respectively, whilst قىسىوسand قسرىوى, two other variants, remain undesignated. 182 Compare p. 381 above with note 88. 183 The great al-Biruni (d. 440/1048) allegedly went so far as to ascribe to Rhazes certain translations and abridgements from the Greek and even a poem in the Greek language — this, however, is a secondary reference after Lenn Goodman which I have not been able to trace in the original Arabic text of al-Biruni’s Risala (for the latter as well as for Goodman’s article see note 3 above).
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proper;184 and, as we shall see from what follows next, the Chinese writing system, too, was not entirely alien to him. With the obvious exception of Chinese, these conjectures are strongly supported by the overall accuracy of Rhazes’ etymological attributions, as well as by his authorship over a glossary of technical terms in ‘Greek, Syriac, Persian, Sanskrit and Arabic’.185 In conclusion of this article, I would like to venture briefly into the realm of speculation, albeit well-founded, and bring to the reader’s attention a most remarkable story which involves Rhazes, and which is related by the fourth/tenth century bookdealer (warraq) Ibn al-Nadim of Baghdad in his famous bio-bibliographical work alFihrist ‘The Catalogue’ (completed in the year 377/988). The story itself is preceded by a short but noteworthy account of the Chinese script (qalam al-∑in), which runs as follows:186
184 See p. 376 above with note 61. Quite possibly, there also existed Persian translations of some relevant Sanskrit texts. 185 For which see p. 392 above. 186 Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, I, 16 lines 23–9; for a considerably different English translation of the passage see B. Dodge, The Fihrist of al-Nadim (2 vols, New York– London 1970), I, 31. 187 Ibn al-Nadim was fully aware of the existence of non-alphabetic writing systems, as is also documented by his remark about Russian, of which he says he was once shown wood carvings (runes?) ‘without being able to tell whether these were words or individual letters’ (la adri a-hiya kalimat am Ìuruf mufradat), see Fihrist, I, 20. 188 Compare Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, I, 345 and, more specifically, 349–51. 189 For this connotation of gama‘a I see e.g. E.W. Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (8 vols, London and Edinburgh 1863–93), II, 455; cf. also R. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (2 vols, Leyde 1881), I, 213: ‘amalgamer, mélanger’.
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Chinese writing is very much like drawing (naqs∞),187 it troubles a skilled and experienced scribe, and one hears that even a light hand cannot fill more than two or three leaves a day. The Chinese write their religious and scientific books with it on fans (marawiÌ), a number of which I have seen. Most Chinese are dualists (†anawiya) or Buddhists (sumaniya), but I will explore these issues later on.188 In China they have a particular style of writing called ‘drawn-together script’ (kitabat al-magmu‘ ).189 This means that each word (kalima) which is normally written with three or more components (aÌruf ∞) is represented only by one character (Òura) and that the shape (sakl∞) of these word-characters (kalam […] min al-Ìuruf ∞) is drawn out, entailing many different readings (ma‘anin ka†ira) — with this script, if they wish, the Chinese can write the contents of a hundred leaves on one single page.
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MuÌammad ibn Zakariya’ al-Razi said: ‘A man from China came to see me and stayed with me for about a year.192 In five months he learnt to speak and write Arabic, becoming fluent in speech and swift in writing. When he decided to return to his country, he said to me a month in advance: “I will be leaving soon and wish that someone 190
On the origins and the development of Chinese calligraphy up until the late tenth century CE see J. Turner (ed.), The Dictionary of Art (34 vols, London 1996), VI, 735–48; on ‘wild cursive’ in particular see A. Schlombs, Huai-su and the Beginnings of Wild Cursive Script in Chinese Calligraphy (Stuttgart 1998), 40–5 and passim. I also wish to express my gratitude to Prof. Keekok Lee of Manchester, who discussed with me this subject (and its implications) at length. 191 Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, I, 16–7; for a different English translation see Dodge, Fihrist, I, 31. Compare also J. Needham et al., Science and Civilisation in China (7 vols, 24 pts, Cambridge 1954–), I, 219 (based on Gabriel Ferrand’s earlier French translation of the story); ever since Needham published it, the story comes up in popular historical portrayals of ‘shorthand’, so for example in P. James and N. Thorpe, Ancient Inventions (New York 1994), 510. 192 The encounter almost certainly took place in Baghdad, around the turn of the fourth/tenth century — cf. my brief remarks on Rhazes’ life in the introduction to this article.
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Ibn al-Nadim’s account, for all its laconism, is a strikingly astute description of that variety of Chinese calligraphy which is generally known as ‘cursive script’ or ‘grass writing’ (ts’ao-shu). This style, which emerged in China initially as an art form during the fourth century CE, is distinguished by the possibility to join, replace, modify and even omit the individual strokes which make up a character, and further by the option to link two individual characters in a continuous movement of the brush. Since it not only allowed for greater freedom of artistic expression but also for speed, cursive script was soon employed by clerks in the imperial courts to record proceedings and criminal confessions; these ‘drafts’ were then used as a basis for formal transcripts. Scholars, too, widely adopted this style as an ideal means of informal communication. The simultaneous development of cursive script as both calligraphy and stenography culminated in the mid-T’ang period (eighth century CE) with the introduction of the so-called ‘wild cursive script’ (k’uang ts’ao-shu), which enabled the artist-scribe to fuse several characters in one drawing movement, leading to spontaneous and unconventional deformations of the characters and, hence, to considerable ambiguities in their interpretation (for a specimen from the ninth century CE see p. 397).190 It is this style of writing which Ibn al-Nadim had in mind, and it also lies at the heart of that story which he tells next, concerning Rhazes, running as follows:191
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would dictate to me the sixteen books of Galen,193 so that I can write them down”. I told him there was not enough time left for him to copy more than a small part of it, but the chap (fatan) replied: “I beg you to devote yourself to me until I go, and to dictate to me as fast as possible — I can write quicker than you can dictate”. So I got some of my students to join in and we dictated to him as fast as we could, but he kept up with us. We did not trust him, though, until there was a chance for comparison and he proved to us that he had written down everything. I asked him how this could be, and he said: “We have a style of writing (kitaba) known as drawn-together (magmu‘∞), and this is what you see. If we want to write a great deal in a short time, we use this script (Ìa††); then afterwards, if we wish, we transcribe it into plain, ordinary characters (qalam muta‘araf wa-mabsu†)”. And he declared that an intelligent person with a quick grasp cannot master this skill in less than twenty years’.
This story, handed down to us by a reliable source on the authority of the great man himself, is obviously interesting for several reasons: it confirms the existence of a genuine shorthand in late T’ang China;194 193 That is the Arabic translation of the Summaria Alexandrinorum, on which see Ullmann, Medizin, 65–7 and 343. 194 Whether this shorthand was identical with ‘wild cursive script’ or whether it was a variation of that style is a moot point — either way, it allowed the Chinese
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to write incredibly fast. Considering that parallel to speed-writing he had to conceive simultaneous Chinese translations of the Arabic dictations, and further that he had to sustain this level of concentration and dexterity for hours on end over many days if not weeks, one may ask whether such a thing can be done at all? Again, this question is impossible to answer. One has to take into account, though, that the medieval mind was capable of performing tasks which to us seem implausible. Also the Chinese, during his long stay with Rhazes, would surely have acquainted himself with the Arabic texts he was interested in eventually copying down; this familiarity with their contents, plus the fact that classical Chinese is an extremely concise and economical language, could have enabled him to encapsulate a lot of material within relatively few words — which is to say he probably walked away with an abstract made ad hoc rather than a literal translation. Nonetheless, I admit that I do have doubts about the achievability of this feat, but then again so did Rhazes! The Chinese in any case must have been a quite gifted fellow to learn as much Arabic as he apparently did in the course of only a few months. 195 Òura pl. Òuwar, a synonym of sakl pl. askal, primarily denotes ‘a picture, an image’ and thence ‘a mental image of any object formed or conceived by the mind,
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it suggests, if not proves, that there existed a (paraphrastic?) Chinese translation of Galen around 900 CE; and it is a wonderful example of Persian-Chinese contact in the heyday of Islamic civilization, showing also that Rhazes had at least one Chinese student. However, in our context and for our purposes, the most important implication of this tale is the possibility, nay likelihood that the Chinese guest, in the course of conversations he naturally would have had with his host during that year of his stay, might have given Rhazes certain ideas about the Chinese language and script or, in other words, some insight into the semiotics of non-alphabetic writing systems and into the nonfunctionality of sound in symbolic communications. Ibn al-Nadim’s anecdote is in itself a record of an intellectual exchange along those lines. These ideas, in turn, might then have inspired Rhazes to tackle the notorious problem of distorted foreign terms and silenced ghost words in Arabic medico-pharmacological texts from a completely different angle. The fact that his pharmacological tables, in all their bold ingenuity, have no precedent whatsoever in Arabic scientific or linguistic literature is as much an indication of this suggested external influence as is the fact that his approach did not gain general acceptance and was never attempted again — it has, perhaps, been unsuccessful because Rhazes’ peers did not quite understand what he was trying to do. The key, I think, lies in the Treatise edited and translated above, for here Rhazes provides us with a rationale for his particular choice of tabular design. Using Rhazes’ own terminology as found in his treatise, my reading of its conceptual undercurrent is this: signs are ‘characters’ (askal ) or ‘graphical forms’ (Òuwar) which signify meaning;195 pronunciation
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and ‘linguistic verification’ (Ìaqiqa fi l-luga) are independent of meaning and hence irrelevant for the ‘recognition of an unknown word’ (ta‘arruf al-maghul ); different ‘manifestations’ (∂urub) of the same sign, each being an ‘image of the unknown’ (Òurat al-maghul ), are ‘variographs’ (iÌtilafat) of a fictitious core element; the latter reveals itself, and may as such be memorized, by lining up its ‘variographies’ (iÌtilaf kitabatihi ) through a process of systematic ‘derivation’ (istinba† ) or ‘extraction’ (istiÌrag ) — in other words, an obscure graphical entity becomes an extrapolation of a prototype or virtual ideograph which, in turn, becomes actual by establishing its semantic correlate in the target language. I leave the reader to judge for himself whether or not this is a valid interpretation. Address for correspondence: [email protected] Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
an idea’, see Lane, Lexicon, IV, 1745; in philosophy, Òura corresponds to e˝dov ‘form’ (as opposed to hayula < Àlj ‘matter’) and has similar connotations: ‘shape, image, pictorial representation, idea’, see e.g. A.J. Wensinck and T. Fahd, EI∞2, IX, 889–92 — from here it is a very small step indeed to the world of ideographs. 399
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
REVIEWS RANDALL C. BAILEY, TAT-SIONG BENNY LIEW and FERNANDO F. SEGOVIA, They Were All Together in One Place: Toward Minority Biblical Criticism (Society of Biblical Literature Semeia Studies 57). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. xiv + 397. Price: $45.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-245-9.
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This timely compendium originates from the 2003 project ‘Reading the Bible as Black, Asian American and Latino/a Scholars in the U.S.’ Scholarly discourse on identity finds itself in increasingly uncharted waters in the socio-political sphere. The year before the book’s publication, U.S. citizens elected their first African American president; a year later, the leader of a British right wing extremist party became a member of the European Parliament. This volume attempts to bridge a gap, for biblical scholarship is familiar with the rigorous reassessments of the Bible by minority critics. By referring to ‘minority biblical criticism’, the book aims to ‘cross the colour lines’ by bringing non-white/ European biblical scholarship under one umbrella and consider methodologies for biblical interpretation relevant to all minorities. With reference to ‘minority’, of course, the essential issue is not related to numbers but power. Minority criticism, as this volume outlines, encompasses four key strategies; each individual essay is undergirded by one of these strategies and the essays are arranged to reflect this distinction. The first is described as ‘Puncturing Objectivity and Universality’ and consists of ‘foregrounding contextualisation at the level of interpretation or reception alongside its continued pursuit at the level of composition or production’. The process treats the dominant criticism with deep suspicion and as belonging to the age of the text’s production which is to be rejected in the present age of consumption. This reactive hermeneutic is certainly the predominant approach taken by the contributors to this volume. The second is referred to as ‘Expanding the Area of Studies’. By this the editors seek to move past established boundaries of the discipline. This involves breaking the spatial-temporal models of dominant criticism which relate to an underlying European vision, heightening the discourse to bring in disciplines focusing on the problematic of race and ethnicity and desacralizing the text so that criticism is unbound by commitments to defend the text. The third strategy is ‘Problematising the Criticism’, turning the criticism on itself in a quest for self-awareness and self-reflection. Thus, the critic examines his or her own personal and professional dimensions. The fourth critical strategy is the ‘Interdisciplinary Turn’ in which discourses related to the problematic of identity, which all have bearing on Biblical Studies, are pursued. In this collection Cheryl B. Anderson reflects on intermarriage in Ezra; Francisco O. García-Treto considers biblical exile through the eyes of the postcolonial Cuban diaspora; Frank M. Yamada re-reads Genesis 2–3 in light of the internment of Japanese Americans in the 1940s; Gale A. Yee discusses the perception of Asian Americans through the grid of Ruth; Jae Won-Lee argues that Paul upholds ethnic particularity in Romans 14–15; Gay L. Byron uses the Ethiopian eunuch story to demonstrate the racialization of Africans in the New Testament; Fernando F. Sego401
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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr009
ANDREW BOAKYE UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER
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via outlines the salient issues of Latin biblical criticism; Randall C. Bailey discusses issues of ethnicity and sexuality in Esther; Tat-siong Benny Liew analyses transgender implications of the Johannine Jesus as personified Wisdom; Demetrius K. Williams examines the African American rhetoric of equality by examining race, class and gender in Acts; Mayra Rivera Rivera assesses methodologies employed by biblical scholars interested in race and ethnicity; Evelyn L. Parker grapples with how a pedagogy of ‘colour-consciousness’ might challenge the underlying white supremacist ideology of American socio-history; James Kyung-Jin Lee reflects on being an ethnic studies scholar (re)reading the Bible; Segovia finally offers closing thoughts on minority biblical criticism. The editors’ objective to devise a framework for minority biblical criticism proves itself a valuable exercise, though there are notable strengths and limitations therein. To their credit, the contributors to this volume admirably recontextualize the biblical texts through the grid of their cultural experiences, enhancing the rhetorical influence of the texts in highly illuminating fashion. Furthermore, the essays have a subversive streak unrestrained by the watchful glare of the dominant criticism. These readings courageously and insightfully raise important questions of prevailing interpretations. Where this volume is wanting is that the inevitable downplaying of theology within ‘minority biblical criticism’ over-politicizes the texts, leaving them almost bereft of religious import. A number of these scholars have worked as clergy, but it is not immediately clear how (or indeed if) they see their findings functioning within believing communities. The strong identity politics that pervade the Bible challenge faith communities to articulate their own identity; for minorities this presents a more acute tension than it would for a dominant culture. Should minorities identify themselves primarily as members of an ethnic group or by their religious orientation? Is a black Christian fundamentally black and coincidentally Christian or vice versa? Is how the dominant culture answers the question more significant than minority self-understanding? Minority biblical critics emphasize the ‘minority’ aspect because they are principally reacting to dominant biblical criticism. As a transitional phase in aiding minorities to confidently establish their identity, this is laudable. Otherwise the unenviable conclusion is an ethno-racially motivated hermeneutics — if there are, for example, ostensibly ‘black’ or ‘Asian’ ways of interpreting biblical texts, then there are ultimately ‘black’ and ‘Asian’ churches and Christianities.
DIETMAR NEUFELD (ed.), The Social Sciences and Biblical Translation (Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 41). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2008. Pp. ix + 188. Price: $24.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-346-0. What have the social sciences (however understood) to do with biblical translation? Surely, translation has to do with philology and linguistics, not social sciences. The answer given by the contributors to this symposium, members of the ‘Context Group’ of the SBL, is that translation has to do with bridging (or, in one case, not bridging) the cultural gap between the world in which the Bible was produced and the world of today’s readers (assuming that world to be the ‘western’, ‘developed’, world). Of the ten contributions, five are devoted wholly to the New Testament and are therefore, presumably, of less interest to readers of this Journal. One of the essays in the general area of Old Testament/Hebrew Bible, by R.A. Kugler, is con402
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cerned with 4QMMT, and although it is arguably peripheral to the intention of the volume as a whole, it is not without interest. Kugler enlists the socio-linguistic concept of ‘anti-language’, that is, language used by members of dissident groups in order to communicate with each other on issues important to them but in such a way as to conceal their intentions from society at large, and he applies the concept to the interpretation of Lev. 17:3–4, 22:28 and 11:25 in the Qumran text. A good case is made for the potential of this approach. An introductory essay by R.L. Rohrbaugh entitled ‘Foreignizing Translation’ is mainly concerned with the New Testament and the translation theory of E.A. Nida and ‘dynamic equivalence’, but is of wider interest also. Against Nida’s view that the target culture should have preference over the source culture in translating, something that can lead, in Rohrbaugh’s opinion, to ‘ethnocentric violence’ in the treatment of texts, the approach of L. Venuti is advocated. This involves the deliberate ‘foreignizing’ of a translation, that is, ‘to signify the linguistic and cultural difference of the foreign text’. Although the point is well made it does, of course, beg the question of the purpose of a translation. This reviewer is very dubious about the concept of ‘dynamic equivalence’, but if a translation is too ‘foreign’ it may convey so little to readers as to be pointless. In probably the best contribution to the symposium, C. Leeb discusses the translation of the Hebrew phrase dibber ¨al lev, especially in view of the usually adversative sense of the preposition ¨al. She notes that in the nine passages in which the phrase occurs (Gen. 34:3, 50:21, Judg. 19:3, Ruth 2:13, 2 Sam. 19:7, Hos. 2:14, Isa. 40:2, 2 Chr. 30:22, 32:6), the speaker (a male or the deity conceived as male) is in a position of power over against those being addressed. In more than half, the person addressed is female or a nation conceived as female, and in every case the one addressed has been, or is about to be, a victim of debasement or humiliation. It might be argued that this is not true of Ruth 2:13, but the contributor warns against a romantic interpretation. Ruth is being forced to barter her attractiveness for the survival of herself and her mother-in-law. A review of the translation of the phrase in standard versions indicates a preference for renderings in terms of love talk, tenderness or appeal to conscience. It is suggested that something like ‘compel’ would be more appropriate. This leads to a discussion of the implications of the phrase understood as something like ‘compel’, including whether it is appropriate to use the term ‘rape’ in English translations, especially in view of the fact that the concept of rape has recently drastically altered in ‘western’ society, to include violence done within marriage by a man to his wife. There is much food for thought here. The other main essay on the Old Testament is an examination by J.H. Elliott of the word qin’ah, its related verb and its Greek equivalent. Basically, the argument is that while God may be described as capable of jealousy, zeal, ardour or anger, the Old Testament and the early Church never described God as envious. A final essay by J. Sandys-Wunsch, ‘Comments from Someone who once shook hands with S.H. Hooke’ is something of an afterword, but makes the interesting point that what old-timers such as him (S.H. Hooke died in 1968 aged 94, and there cannot be many left who shook hands with him!) thought of as philology, was in fact anthropology. Actually, I doubt this. A lot of what goes on in this volume shows little awareness of the profound study of any of the social sciences; but this is not to detract from the valuable insights that are to be found in it. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr010 J.W. ROGERSON SHEFFIELD
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SILJE ALVESTAD and LUTZ EDZARD, la-Ìsoß, but la-Ìazor? Sonority, Optimality and the Hebrew פ׳׳חForms (Abhandlungen für die Kund des Morgenlandes 66). Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2009. Pp. 304 + 19 illus. Price: /74.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-3-445-05910-7.
a. To refine DeCaen’s proposal by revealing other factors that determine the existence of the epenthetic vowel. b. To elaborate on the relationship between Masora-based forms, found also in ‘normative’ descriptions of Modern Israeli Hebrew [=MH], and the evidence of the living/spoken language. As for the first goal, the authors offer seven factors for consideration: 1) Based on a statistical analysis they revise the sonority scale, with a particular interest paid to their scale for the sibilants. Instead of DeCaen’s scale (s>z, Ò>s>s) they suggest z>s>Ò>s>s (p. 113–17). 2) Verbs and noun of the III-y/’ verbs (strangely, the authors call the former III-h verbs!) have a higher tendency to insert the epenthetic vowel. They explain the insertion of this vowel as an inclination to restore a strong tri-consonantal structure (pp. 76–7, 95–7, 213–14). This could be supported by a similar phenomenon in the III-y verbs, in which a vowel was added in the 3rd f.sg suffix conjugation: banat>bantâ. 3) In the case of the consonants bgdkpt, since their plosive realizations are low in the sonority scale, an insertion of the epenthetic vowel is unexpected, and, consequently, the appearance of their fricative realizations is unexpected. Therefore, examples of fricative forms in which C2 is /b/ or /g/ are explained by the authors as a residue of the fricative articulation in the suffix conjugation (pp. 74–5, 100–10, 213). 4) DeCaen (‘Hebrew Sonority’, 42–3) speaks about a SHEWA EXEMPTION: a prevention of an insertion of the epenthetic vowel when C2 is followed by a shewa mobile (pp. 78–82). In various forms, however, we do find a regular vowel: yeÌezqu instead of the regular form yeÌzqu. The authors demonstrate
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While many aspects of Biblical Hebrew [=BH] are frequently revisited with recent linguistic methodologies, this is rarely the case in the area of phonology. This is mostly because a familiarity with the actual phonetics is required, and with the Tiberian tradition of BH [=TBH], that can be obtained only indirectly. Therefore, a treatment of a phonological question in TBH, using such current linguistic tools as Alvestad and Edzard offer, is much welcomed. This book aims to answer one question: ‘under precisely which circumstances an epenthetic Ìa†ap vowel is inserted after C1=/Ì/ in verbal and nominal forms of the structure CvÌ(v)C2vC3(v:)’ (p.19), or in other words: ‘why does TBH have simultaneously forms such as la-Ìsoß and la-Ìazor?’ Vincent DeCaen (‘Hebrew Sonority and Tiberian Contact Anaptyxis: the Case of Verbs primae gutturalis’, JSS 48/1 [2003], 35–46) proposed once again Theo Vennemann’s Syllable Preference law (Preference Laws for Syllable Structure and the Explanation of Sound Change. [Berlin 1988]) in the context of the Semitic languages (for previous implication see pp. 48–58 and DeCaen, ‘Hebrew Sonority’, 37–8), making the existence of this vowel dependent upon the position of the second-consonant of the root on the sonority scale: the higher C2 is the greater the need to break its contact with the /Ì/ with an epenthetic vowel. With this background Alvestad and Edzard have two goals:
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Thus, we see that these seven factors are a mix of both new considerations and the re-establishment of known facts, but on stronger grounds. Taken together with the relevant statistics, this discussion contributes significantly to our knowledge of this phenomenon and provides the most current and exhaustive analysis on this topic. Looking at the seven factors it becomes clear that one should also propose an algorithm of priorities between the various factors. Clearly, simple neogrammarian sound-shift rules would hardly be sufficient, and, therefore, there is a need for some more recent approaches. Among these approaches the Optimality-Theory is an obvious candidate, as it proposes a model for how various factors should be calculated and its basic assumption is that phonological outputs result from interaction between conflicting constraints, and that the final output is the optimal candidate that incurs the fewest violations. Alvestad and Edzard work in this framework, but they wisely leave the application of this theory to the last chapter. Although they provide a preliminary introduction to this framework, it is unlikely that it would be understandable to someone without a background in this theory. Thus, their decision to provide first a full description of the relevant phenomena makes this book and its theoretical framework accessible to anyone interested in BH. While a list of the constraints is raised in the context of their optimality-theory analysis (pp. 211–16), it is regrettable that they did not also provide some descriptive summary of the various relevant factors, similar to the list provided above, to help the reader to appreciate their contribution. As for the aforementioned second goal, this proves more problematic. Working in a synchronic framework assumes a defined phonological system. In this regard, there seems to be some confusion throughout the book. First, a confusing picture emerges with regards to the authors’ view of TBH. An old debate, to which the authors make no reference, centres on the question of whether TBH is a reflection of some dialectic form of the biblical language or a
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that such forms occur only when C2 is located high in the sonority hierarchy (pp. 92–5). 5) The vowel of the G-stem prefix always undergoes a lowering, with the exception of the verb ÎYY. They propose that in this case there is a lengthening of the i vowel, and the irregularity with this specific verb has to do with its high frequency (pp. 87–9). 6) The authors propose that variations such as the one between naÌla functioning as a participle and naÌala functioning as a noun resulted from a distinction between different grammatical categories (p. 84–5). This is very unlikely, since participles in BH always function as regular nouns. They support the idea that phonological differentiation can serve to distinguish between grammatical categories in TBH based on the fact that stress is phonemic. It is not clear how this is relevant, as in general it does not seem reasonable to assume that a phenomenon that has to do with sonority will be phonemic. It is more likely that this is merely a phonetic issue. 7) Finally, they discuss the role of prosody for this phenomenon. (pp. 86, 120– 5), and conclude that it is very likely that it is a relevant parameter (as already proposed by Ephraim Speiser, ‘Secondary Developments in Semitic Phonology’, The American Journal of Semitic Languages 42/3 [1926], 145–69, p. 153), but they refute DeCaen’s 2003 supposition that it should occur more in Biblical poetry.
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representation of the Masoretes’ language from the end of the first millennium CE. In arguing that sonority played a significant role, it is necessary that the authors answer this question and, therefore, it is striking that they do not do so explicitly. Often it is evident that the authors hold the second approach, as they speak about the Masoretes as if they made decisions between forms (p. 20), a surprising notion in this context. Consequently, they accuse them of not realizing that the fricativization of bgdkpt had ceased being productive already at some time during the biblical period (p. 75); and they also understand why Ì operates in TBH regardless of its origin (/h/ or /x/) as these consonants already merged a long time before the Masoretes (p. 85). In light of this, their inclusion of Biblical Aramaic in the discussion (pp. 128, 136) is justifiable, as it assumes that both languages share the same phonological system: the one of the Masoretes. Assuming that Hebrew was not the native tongue of the Masoretes, should this affect our analysis as we look for the actual phonological substrate? (This is only one reason why it is regrettable that they do not offer a comparison with other traditions of BH). Alvestad and Edzard seem, however, to be inconsistent, as we find in their discussion regarding the consonant /q/ a note concerning its phonetic value in Ancient Hebrew (p. 113), and more importantly they find differences between /s/ and /s/ (pp. 114–15) that clearly merged many centuries before the Masoretes. Moreover, they also examine whether different books behave differently. If not for prosody, this is possible only if we assume different origins (pp. 108–9), an impossible conjecture if the vocalization is merely a reflection of the Masoretes. A larger problem arises considering the inclusion of MH in this discussion. With their synchronic approach it is hard to justify this inclusion. For example, while the letter חin BH represents a pharyngeal consonant, in MH it is a velar with a different location on the sonority scale, and historical Ìa†ap is pronounced in MH like any other vowel. Consequently, phenomena that seem to be related should be explained in a completely different manner. In another example, the authors note that in MH the alleged ‘epenthetic vowel’ appears regardless of the sonority, as one finds in forms such as yaxasod. There seems to be a different reason for this; already in BH while the quality of the vowel of the prefix in the prefix-conjugation was /i/ in general with weak verbs, the vowel is also /e/ and /a/. It seems that some speakers of MH inherited this not phonologically but morphologically as three patterns for the prefix conjugation: yiqtvl, yaqatol and yeqetal, determined lexically (the last two occur only with verbs with a historical guttural as a first consonant). Thus, similarly to ya‘amod ‘he will stand’ for some speakers there is also yaxasod ‘he will suspect’. It is, therefore, not surprising that sonority does not play a role here, and consequently this phenomenon is unrelated to the discussion of this book. However, these methodological problems do not affect the overall significant contribution of this book and its importance in providing a fresh point of view on the study of BH in general and on its phonology in particular. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr011 ELITZUR A. BAR-ASHER SIEGAL HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM
YOO-KI KIM, The Function of the Tautological Infinitive in Classical Biblical Hebrew (Harvard Semitic Studies 60). Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, IN 2009. Pp. xvi + 151. Price: $31.46. ISBN: 978-1-57506-934-0. The work reviewed is a treatment of a Biblical Hebrew syntactic feature which for years has attracted the attention of many scholars: the tautological infinitive. The 406
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book concentrates on the function of this feature in Classical Biblical Hebrew, and it also conveys comparisons with other BH data, Qumranic data, and material from cognate languages. The first of the book’s three chapters is an introduction (pp. 1–22), which surveys the scholarly literature on this topic with an examination of the way several ancient and modern Bible translations process the tautological infinitive. The second chapter (pp. 23–98), entitled ‘Synchrony’, imparts the methodology adopted in this work, including the corpus surveyed (pp. 23–30), and its main body is a comprehensive treatment of the syntax of the tautological infinitive through consideration of grammatical categories, functions, and word order (pp. 31–63). It continues with a discussion of the pragmatics of the infinitive absolute (pp. 64–89), and a detailed analysis of tautological infinitives of several common Hebrew roots in context (pp. 90–8). Chapter three (pp. 99–131), entitled ‘Diachrony’, makes a comparative survey of the use of the tautological infinitive in other parts of the Hebrew Bible, in Qumranic Hebrew and in other Semitic languages. The book ends with a short conclusion (pp. 133–4). There is an extensive bibliography (pp. 135–46) and an index of biblical citations (pp. 147–51). Since the tautological infinitive is usually treated under the term ‘infinitive absolute’ in many grammars and relevant scholarly works, the author right from the start wisely distinguishes the tautological infinitive from the other roles played by the infinitive absolute. He aptly isolates infinitives absolute in combination with a finite verb from all other functions of this form: predicative, coordinated, adverbial and nominal, clarifying that his book concerns only the tautological function (pp. 3–5). As for Bible translations, the author shows (pp. 8–17) that these seem to offer more than one possible way of rendering the tautological infinitive, not always consistently, though a difference is observed between the more literal translations (e.g., the Syriac Peshitta and the Aramaic translations of Onkelos and Jonathan) and more diverse and occasionally freer translations (e.g., modern English). The author is probably correct in stating that the diversity of these translations reflects the difficulty and ambiguity in their grasp of the function of the tautological infinitives (p. 17). The survey of scholarly works on the tautological infinitive (pp. 17–21), though somewhat laconic, can serve as a useful summary and introduction to the various views on this topic for interested readers. The author’s chosen corpus comprises biblical books representing Classical Biblical Hebrew: the prose sections from Genesis to 2 Kings, excluding the priestly material and including the Book of Ruth (pp. 26–8). While this choice is generally reasonable, the priestly source could have probably been part of the corpus without changing the data, since its syntax conforms with Classical Hebrew, as in fact is demonstrated later (pp. 99–101). Inclusion of the Book of Ruth is a good choice, because although numerous scholars date this book to a later period its syntax shows, perhaps imitates, Classical Biblical Hebrew features. These preliminary issues concluded, the author starts discussing in greater detail major interpretations suggested in the scholarly literature for the function of the tautological infinitives. First he examines, and convincingly rejects, the suggestion that tautological infinitives are inner objects (pp. 31–6). Then he suggests that the tautological infinitive can be considered a special type of adverb due to its form and to the way it is combined with a finite verb like regular adverbs (pp. 41–3). Next, reviewing the constituent order of the infinitive and the cognate verb (pp. 44–50), the author concludes that while the tautological infinitive mostly precedes the verb, the occasional reverse order cannot be regarded as conditioned merely by syntactic 407
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constraints, cannot be ascribed to lexical meaning of the verbal root, and finally, because of the small number of examples, cannot easily be explained. Like other writers, the author indicates that negative particles positioned between a tautological infinitive and a following verb represent the unmarked order, while precedence of the negative particle to the tautological infinitive (Gen. 3:4) means negation of a preceding statement (pp. 50–2). In examining syntactic analyses of the tautological infinitive (pp. 52–7), the author surveys Goldenberg’s theory that tautological infinitives can serve as logical subjects or predicates of a clause, and presents some reservations about it. According to Kim, logical subjects in extrapositions are phrasal constituents while tautological infinitives are not (p. 54). He also states that cleft sentences are expected to exhibit formal markers, like relative particles, which they do not in the patterns discussed (p. 55). These reservations, however, can possibly be tackled by referring to the attestation of incomplete constructions of extrapositions and cleft sentences (e.g. Goldenberg, G. 1977, ‘Imperfectly-Transformed Cleft Sentences’. Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies I. Jerusalem: 127–33 = idem. 1998. Studies in Semitic Linguistics. Jerusalem: 116–22). The explanation for the role of the tautological infinitives lies, in the author’s opinion, not in a syntactic solution but in defining its grammatical or functional roles, and he considers the tautological infinitive part of a complex predicate (pp. 56–7). Kim also suggests that there is some resemblance between clausal particles that immediately precede a verb, like gam, and the tautological infinitive (p. 63). Nonetheless, Goldenberg’s theory in this respect is not totally rejected; it is surveyed again on pp. 69–71. Here Kim interprets somewhat differently and expands Goldenberg’s observations on the focal role of certain tautological infinitives, to explain most of its uses. In general, the author prefers to regard the tautological infinitives in Biblical Hebrew as syntactically belonging to Goldenberg’s type C, in which the tautological infinitive does not stand in contrast to the cognate verb as a topic or a focus of the clause, but is combined with it to strengthen the predicate against its possible negation. The tautological infinitive, according to Kim, adds to the verb a pragmatic nuance in terms of ‘a special focus on the factuality of the proposition’ (p. 71). While he admits that several tautological infinitives can serve as contrastive focuses within a clause (pp. 74–5), he takes this as a secondary use, while the common role of the tautological infinitive still remains the focus of factuality. In general, his proposed solution should apparently be rather considered a development of Goldenberg’s theory than a possible substitute. An additional discussion also relates the role of the tautological infinitive to modality (pp. 77–89). This is further demonstrated by examples of tautological infinitives of several common roots (pp. 92–8). The author then moves on to discuss the tautological infinitive in other Hebrew stages than Classical Biblical Hebrew. He notes that in Late Biblical Hebrew its use decreases — still more in Qumranic Hebrew, though it still shows, according to Kim, a certain productivity (pp. 101–11). The author also surveys occurrences of the infinitive absolute in Akkadian, Ugaritic, and Old Aramaic, in the Balaam inscriptions and in Canaanite languages. He concludes that these generally show a correlation between the verbal patterns of the tautological infinitive and the adjacent verb in the common tautological infinitive–verb sequence, and the same function as in Biblical Hebrew in expressing the speaker’s focus on the factuality of the proposition (pp. 112–31). 408
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Regrettably the book has no subject or author index, but this is a minor deficiency. This book is a welcome contribution to Biblical Hebrew research and an interesting fresh attempt to tackle a common, yet not fully understood, Biblical Hebrew construction. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr012
TAMAR ZEWI UNIVERSITY OF HAIFA
NANCY CALVERT-KOYZIS and HEATHER E. WEIR (eds), Strangely Familiar: Protofeminist Interpretations of Patriarchal Biblical Texts. Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. x + 291. Price: $35.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-453-8.
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This volume relates to an SBL-based project on Recovering Female Interpreters of the Bible. The focus is to examine whether certain writers were proto-feminists. This means seeing them as starting up lines of approach which have formed the core activities of second wave feminism in the modern period. As such it is a question not simply of whether these writers address women’s issues, that could make them pre-feminists, but whether their ideas are truly forerunners of later interpretation. Half of the volume is addressed to Old Testament Texts of Terror (a phrase linked to Phyllis Trible’s work) and half to issues in New Testament readings of Paul’s Letters. Two papers deal with the abusive treatment of women by society. Josephine Butler is depicted as a proto-feminist in that her reading of Hagar critiques the use of women as prostitutes to further the aims of powerful figures, male and female. But she does not foreshadow the current turn from viewing Hagar as victim to arguing that she has her own identity even in forced motherhood. The case of Elizabeth Hands’s poem on Tamar’s rape by her brother provides an example of a woman, of the servant class, showing an ability to write serious poetry which subtly comments on male sexual inadequacy and defies convention by openly discussing biblical scenes of violence and sexual abuse. Both women read the Bible through the experiences of women in their time, making of this reading an occasion for critique of social systems of power and control. It is this which the contributors to the volume suggest is the true focus of feminism: its comment not just on this or that particular case but its exposure of inherent abuse of women embedded in human power relations. The case of Jephthah’s daughter offers a possible useful line of enquiry on precisely this issue. The text has been read as urging the role of a dutiful daughter, as portraying a daughter’s anger at her treatment, and ultimately as a woman’s rejection of the position into which her father has put her; thus the Italian nun Tarabotti applied female anger against the father to the enforced entry of daughters to conventual life in early modern Venice. Treatments of biblical law to expose the invalidity of Victorian Church attitudes to marriage and the subordination of wives likewise suggest a link to the modern feminist stance of ‘reading against the grain’ of the text. But responses from Cheryl Exum and Esther Fuchs suggest that the women picked out as proto-feminist by contributors did not, in their view, in fact reach far enough into the depths of systemic evil. Exum points out that the character, God, in biblical texts is not submitted to query, thus allowing the textual deity to remain aligned with the real God, while Fuchs points out that the women examined are Christian readers whose views do not include other women such as Jewish readers of the Hebrew Bible in their time. Yet if feminism is marked by its inclusivity, these other commentaries should 409
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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr013
MARY MILLS LIVERPOOL HOPE UNIVERSITY
CHERYL KIRK-DUGGAN and TINA PIPPIN (eds), Mother Goose, Mother Jones, Mommie Dearest: Biblical Mothers and Their Children (Semeia Series 61). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. x + 232. Price: $30.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-441-5.
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not be left out of a full understanding of how a text such as that of Jephthah and his daughter have been handled in the history of interpretation. The section on Pauline texts which have been used to support a hierarchical view of social structures takes a more historical and less systematic approach to biblical interpretation than that found in the papers and responses of the first part of the book. Antoinette Blackwell and Catherine Booth provide historical examples of how a feminist interpretive style can develop over a lifetime of reflection and action. Their contributions to the growth of a gendered reading of biblical material are analysed here. Gail Hamilton’s work is examined for its theological ideas, stressing that she was more vehement in attacking blood sacrifice and atonement theology than in arguing about Paul’s views on the need for female silence in Christian leadership settings – an idea which she simply stated the text did not support. Ben Witherington’s response evaluates Hamilton as historically interesting but not in the end very significant for the development of feminist thought. Although a number of women denied that Paul meant women should not be preachers and leaders they nevertheless accepted that women’s ministry should be decorous, with an emphasis on the role of mediation. Thus Lanyer’s poem is elite poetry which upholds the social systems of the time even as it sees how Pauline thought engages with the topic of transformation. Women act as mediators within society rather than in open revolt against cultural norms. The responses to this part of the book are likewise of an historical and developmental style, providing a different evaluative tool to that found in the Old Testament section where there is greater emphasis on systematic approaches to the cultural impact of both biblical texts and those who comment on them. Later papers in the New Testament section stress the work of Lucy Jane Rider Meyer in the movement for deaconesses in the Methodist church and the contribution of Mary Baker Eddy. Meyer foreshadows some of the later feminist work of Schussler-Fiorenza in pointing out that the biblical text speaks of women followers of Paul as community leaders. Eddy used Pauline texts against the historical grain of her social world to support a demand for female human rights. The respondents to these readings of women’s interpretation seek to identify the ways in which the interpreters were both innovative and constrained by the overarching cultural models of their time.
This volume examines mother symbolism within US culture and the Christian Bible, noting that the Bible is a literary resource for American societal norms. The aim is to explore the symbiosis between cultural models and biblical texts through readings of selected biblical passages, from Old and New Testaments. The introduction examines three icons of mother in the NW American world: Mommie Dearest, Mother Jones and Mother Goose. The first of these icons suggests that a caring mother is at the heart of family life. The second picks up on Mary Harris, an historical US mother who championed the cause of industrial workers and thus acted as their adoptive ‘mother’. The third links maternal identity with the Mother 410
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Goose of children’s rhymes, a symbolic icon of motherhood as gentle and unassuming. In the light of these icons successive chapters explore the scope of maternal identity, from a model of nurture to the abusive and manipulative. The reality of father/ daughter incest is read in the light of Leviticus 18, a text which sets out the principle that the rights of women in the family should be upheld; the paper calls upon birth mothers and women in care roles with regard to female victims of incest to champion their ‘daughters’ against an aggressive father. McLenney-Saddler notes in this paper that mothers can struggle to stand against domestic violence, while subsequent papers pick up on the liminal position of women, exploring Ruth as a woman who was violently taken for marriage by Judahite males and then set up as a surrogate for Judahite motherhood and Ruth as a woman exposed to risk due to the absence of her own mother in the story — a theme linked with Coetzee’s novel, Disgrace. In these contexts women may become mothers through self-sacrifice, acting in some ways according to Girard’s model of the ‘scapegoat’, while also creating a new identity for themselves as ‘saviours’ of family life. This duality of role produces a nuanced attitude to the impact of motherhood on women’s lives, which contains elements of social subordination as well as establishing individual worth. Mothers move between the function of keeping life in order, being subsumed to patriarchal systems, and yet acting as leaders in the public sphere. Thus Manoah’s wife and her son Samson are read through the lens of The Simpsons, profiling the pattern of faithful mother and wayward son as leading to social chaos. The paper shows how the use of satire and irony can in fact be a means of conservatively endorsing the status quo of domestic systems. The mother as leader must negotiate family dynamics, a topic addressed through a reading of Bathsheba who emerges as a submissive woman who looks passive but who, at the end of David’s life, acts as kingmaker for the next ruler. She might appear to be a Mother Goose character but is really much more vibrant than that image suggests. The dual role of the mother is further explored via the idealization of mother in Proverbs 31, in an image which Kirk-Duggan argues is far from ideal but indicates an abusive control of the family through a compulsive-obsessive pattern of activity. Sexuality and childbirth are central to motherhood and are treated in terms of contemporary medicine and religion. A challenge is presented to Genesis 3’s view that birth is inherently about pain by the development of modern obstetrics. This is in tension with religious readings which continue to stress the birthing of children as a form of female pious action. The Old Testament implies that God has a sexual presence in human mothering, as with Eve in Genesis 4 or Sarah in Genesis 12–24; in turn women mystics have used erotic poetry to address the relationship between God and the soul, a practice carried on in contemporary evangelicalism. This union of a transcendent God with the functions of friend and lover disconnects women from ordinary motherhood at the same time as it also ties Christian women into the social duty of motherhood. Pippin and Aymer explore female imagery attached to the male figures of Jesus and Paul. Pippin finds a sinister content to female bird images attached to Jesus in the Gospels, as in Luke 13, while Aymer argues that Paul in his less powerful community moments appeals to the emotional response that sons make to their mothers. Thus the theme of motherhood emerges from biblical interpretation as nuanced and not always positive. Nonetheless, there is a call to work on the image of mothers as a force for social justice, in the model of Mother Jones. The Responses section at 411
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the end of the book offers suggestions for extending treatment from the heterosexual context of motherhood to homosocial and homosexual settings and for exploring the ‘maternal’ as a social role which can be carried out by both sexes. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr014
MARY MILLS LIVERPOOL HOPE UNIVERSITY
ROMAN VIELHAUER, Das Werden des Buches Hosea: Eine redaktionschichtliche Untersuchung (Beihefte zur Z.A.W., 349). Walter de Gruyter, Berlin 2007. Pp. ix + 272. Price: /74.00. ISBN: 978-3-11-018242-2.
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Vielhauer’s thorough and comprehensive study of the composition of the book of Hosea is based upon a dissertation submitted to the University of Göttingen which he has revised and expanded for publication. Hosea, it seems, was accorded no such opportunity. The book that bears his name is, according to Vielhauer, largely the work of redactors and tradents and the contributions of Hosea himself are represented by a relatively few parochial and politically orientated pronouncements from the eighth century BCE. Vielhauer’s work is, then, very, and even extremely, radical. It belongs to a recent trend (particularly) in German scholarship as represented by, e.g. J. Jeremias (a more restrained pioneer of the approach), S. Rudnig-Zelt and H. Pfeiffer. And from a similar but English-speaking stable is the work of G.A. Yee whose monograph on Hosea has influenced Vielhauer very considerably. It is the apparent terse and multifaceted nature of the material (cf. Jerome’s ‘commaticus’) in the book of Hosea which leads Vielhauer to the conclusion that it represents an amalgam of redactional layers and up-dates (Ergänzungsschichten) belonging to some five centuries, from the eighth century to the end of the third century BCE (Hos. 14:10) and the Wisdom emphases of Ben Sira and Psalm 1. The identification of the layers is done by examination of characteristic vocabulary, by noting stylistic irregularities such as the grammatical change of person within texts, the abrupt changes in form from, e.g., divine to prophetic speech and from woe to weal, by the detection of cross-references, and by assessment of the view point of particular stances (e.g., those of Ephraim and Judah). Vielhauer chooses to make a start in his endeavour with Hosea 11 on the grounds that it contains a succession of divergent strands united in such a way as to cause doubts concerning its literary integrity, and because the chapter occupies a key position in that it contains cross-references to themes from the entire book. His method, first deployed here, is initially to review each portion of text and to establish its likely meaning by the usual and well established methods. The evidence of the ancient versions, the judgments of the standard modern commentators, of lexicographers and philologists is carefully considered and results in an annotated (German) translation. Vielhauer’s judgments in this regard are generally sound, though it may be said that he is inclined to follow what he judges to be the safe majority view. Secondly, each portion of text is subjected to detailed analysis and (very) close reading. Here is the engine-room of Vielhauer’s endeavour and the essence of his intuition and argument. The latter is very complicated and at times it is difficult to follow. The sole reliance on numerical delineation of texts does not help and the use of quasi-algebraic formulae (e.g., ‘V.2bb.g.4bb’, p. 139) to identify as little as single words or phrases may prompt the reader to close Vielhauer’s book in despair. This is a pity because the work is deserving of careful attention and is capable of affording important insights into at least some aspects of the possible transmission and composition of prophetic material, — even for those who will not be convinced by the generality of Vielhauer’s conclusions. 412
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It is not possible here to review the extended and detailed analyses offered by Vielhauer. A few representative examples must suffice. First, in relation to Hos. 11:1, Vielhauer notes that the usual understanding of ‘…from Egypt I called my son’ emphasizes the country and thus forms a reference to the theme of the exodus. The Targum and Peshi†ta, however, suggest that the phrase may be predicative and indicate: ‘When Israel was a child, I loved him and I summoned (him) from Egypt to be my son’. But the possibility is residually awkward and prompts Vielhauer to accept the suggestion that ‘from Egypt’ is secondary and forms no part of the earlier text. That judgment seems then to be confirmed by the resumption of the image of Israel’s adoption to sonship in a subsequent verse (verse 3). Between the two verses is another which, lapsing into the third person plural, creates a reference to Israel’s feckless reversion to Baal worship following the summons from Egypt and the bestowal of sonship. The last words of verse 3, ‘they did not know that I healed them’, in the third person plural and attuned to verse 2, indicate another response to the summons from Egypt and represent a methodical revision of an earlier layer of tradition. This latter, it seems, by reference to the word ‘call’ and to subsequent notices in the chapter, included a proclamation that the future delivery of Israel from Egypt and Assyria was to effect the nations’ status as the adopted sons of Yahweh. Since the notion of sonship belonged properly to Israel’s kingship ideology, its transfer to the people was an example of ‘democratization’ which is likely to have been facilitated by the annihilation of the (northern) monarchy in 722 BCE. The date, then, is likely to have been the seventh century and the original (Grundschicht) of Hosea 11 contained verse 1 (without ‘from Egypt’) with elements of the subsequent verses, 3, 4 and 5. To this a Deuteronomistic supplementary redaction (Ergänzungsschritt) added ‘from Egypt’ to verse 1, characteristically linking the love of Yahweh for his people with the paradigmatic exodus motif and with notices of the nation’s failure to observe his laws. This layer clearly reflects knowledge of the Decalogue as well as of the episode at Marah (Exod. 15:22ff.). A further redactional layer is concerned to proclaim Yahweh’s insistence on granting Israel a new beginning despite a total inability to repent. Here are found the famous words: ‘How can I give you up, Ephraim; how surrender you, Israel?’ Compassion and love on Yahweh’s part bring about an unconditional response of grace in the face of human weakness which constitutes the ‘critical alternative to Deuteronomistic theology’ and accords exactly with, e.g., Jeremiah’s new covenant. The single most significant text is Hos. 5:8–6:6. Here are preserved oral pronouncements from Hosea himself. They are concerned with particular offences such as the breaking of treaties, murder, theft, regicide and highway robbery; with places such as Adam and Gilead, and with groups such as priests and members of the royal court. The revelation of imminent disaster is also typical. Such are of a sort with the general features of ancient Near Eastern prophecy. Certainly there is here no indictment of the combined political and religious status quo of Ephraim. These offences are seen as transgressions against Yahweh, here solely a state God responsible for the preservation of its establishment. Thereafter, and following the fall of Samaria, theological reflection redefined such offences as offences against Yahweh which brought about his unconditional pronouncement of consequent judgment. Here is the first ‘book’ and its period coincides with such passages as Amos 3–6 and Isaiah 6–8. The process continues thereafter with the incorporation of a layer concerned with Judah and the South and then, importantly, with the amalgamation of polemic against the state and the cult in a message directed to a single people of Yahweh, following the demise of the northern kingdom. This level bears all the hall 413
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marks of the Deuteronomists and to it belong also the historical retrospects of chapters 9–13. Perhaps the most surprising and radical element in Vielhauer’s work is his treatment of the introductory material of Hosea 1–3. Here again we are confronted essentially with a Deuteronomistic layer. The accounts of the marriage are artificial, indeed they are ‘fiktiv’ (p. 158). Chapter 2 constitutes the fundamental basis with its pre-exilic theme of the divorce between the land and Yahweh, its owner, as a result of the latter’s judgment against its inhabitants. To this a Deuteronomistic layer was added largely by reference to the imagery of unfaithfulness set out in Ezekiel 16. Chapters 1 and 3 represent other and later developments in Deuteronomistic theology. In chapter 1 this includes a negative reassessment of the orthodox view of Jehu as a true, full-bloodied Yahwist and a retrospective view of the end of the Northern Kingdom. Chapter 3 offers a radical revision of orthodox censure by the promulgation of the unconditional love of Yahweh for his people despite their unfaithfulness. That unconditional love is portrayed in the light of the powerful condemnation of Palingamie, i.e. a husband’s remarriage to a woman who, initially divorced from him, had been another man’s wife (Jer. 3:1–5). Vielhauer adds to his basic work a chapter on the interpretation of quotations from Hosea in the Dead Sea Scrolls on which he had previously worked. He concludes with a well-written and clear summary of the results of his study. Vielhauer’s work is a detailed and thorough application of redaction-criticism to the book of Hosea which will undoubtedly afford some insights into the mode by which prophetic books achieved the form in which we have them. Yet his analysis may pose as many problems as it suggests solutions. The old arguments which emphasized a perceived unity of the book, attributed indeed to the character and consistent message of the eighth-century prophet, will continue to appeal as having some strong residual force. The early Deuteronomists were capable of composing the coherent and straightforward work which bears their name. Why would they resort to the revision and tweaking of older texts which did not much coincide with their views? Why resort to revisions of Machiavellian complexity? Why would they bother to hang their views on a few orally transmitted obiter dicta of a long deceased prophet? If, too, they were masters of writing fiction, why did they not use their gifts to enhance further the status of their great hero, called laconically by the book of Hosea ‘a prophet by whom Yahweh brought Israel from Egypt’ (12:13)? The verse seems to convey an artless understatement intended to hint at what they would have wished to proclaim with loud authority. In the account of Hosea’s marriage we have details, embarrassing details, circumstances and, above all, a woman’s name. These, as in the realm of textual criticism, suggest a difficilior lectio indicating, perhaps, authenticity rather than fiction. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr015 A.A. MACINTOSH UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
MICHAEL R. STEAD, The Intertextuality of Zechariah 1–8 (Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies 506). T and T Clark, London 2009. Pp. xiii + 312. Price: £60.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-56729-172-1. Stead’s revised Gloucestershire dissertation (supervised by Gordon McConville) maintains that Zechariah 1–8 engages in an intertextual dialogue with a wide variety of biblical traditions in an effort to read those traditions in relation to the concerns and setting of the early Second Temple period. Specifically, he aims ‘to 414
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examine the nature, extent and effect of these allusions in Zechariah 1–8’, and he argues that these chapters take up ‘formerly disparate streams of tradition—especially various streams of the prophetic tradition—and creatively combines these traditions in applying them to a post-exilic context’ (pp. 2–3). He claims that the new aspect of his study is the reading together of these disparate traditions which places the different voices represented in these traditions into conversation with each other as ‘melody lines’ rewritten into a symphony with different voices in harmony. Zechariah 1–8 must therefore be recognized as revelatory literature which comes as reiteration of what YHWH has previously said through the former prophets in a radically different context that shifts the application and impact of YHWH’s earlier words. In Stead’s view, Zechariah 1–8 represent an ‘immanent eschatology that does not transfer hope to an eschatological realm as one would expect in apocalyptic literature, i.e., the eschatology of Zechariah 1–8 is about to be realized’. A number of open questions then guide his study: 1) to which parts of the prophetic tradition does Zechariah 1–8 allude? 2) how are the messages of the former prophets applied to the early post-exilic context? 3) what is the rhetorical effect and theological significance of the re-use of texts in Zechariah 1–8? In order to pursue these questions, he calls for an exegetical approach that he labels ‘contextual intertextuality’ (p. 12), which attempts to combine diachronic and synchronic approaches to reading the text of Zechariah 1–8. He recognizes that Zechariah 1–8 must be read in relation to the diachronic (historical) context of ancient Judah in c. 519 BCE and that the text presupposes that former prophets (not to be confused with the canonical segment of the Jewish Bible; simply a reference to prophets that predate Zechariah 1–8) would be known by the audience of Zechariah 1–8. A synchronic reading of the text must therefore be aware of its diachronic dimensions, and yet the text is a gapped text in which the gaps serve as pointers to a web created by the former prophets. The combination of diachronic and synchronic reading strategies indicates his efforts to take seriously the roles of text (author) and reading (reader) in the interpretation of Zechariah 1–8. Stead maintains that Zechariah 1–8 is informed by the (proto-) Masoretic Vorlage of Jeremiah, the book of Ezekiel, including purportedly later passages such as Ezekiel 38–9 and 40–8; Isaiah 1–55 and perhaps also portions of Isaiah 56–66; as well as Job 1–2 and Joel 1–2. Presupposing the well-known distinction between Zechariah 1–8 and Zechariah 9–14, he argues that the former stresses imminent fulfilment of the classical prophets whereas the latter stresses the ultimate fulfilment of the prophets in a more distant future. A major aspect of his methodology is to combine both semantic factors and thematic allusions in his attempts to establish an intertextual relationship between Zechariah 1–8 and its various intertexts. Stead pursues this effort with a new computer search engine dubbed BibleCrawler which he designed himself employing data from the Semantic Dictionary of Biblical Hebrew. BibleCrawler enables him to draw together tradition historical, intertextual, and inner-biblical approaches in reading biblical literature. Before proceeding to his analysis of the various textual blocks that comprise Zechariah 1–8, Stead begins with a discussion of the dating of Zechariah 1–8 and its intertexts. A major methodological problem emerges here. Earlier he had affirmed the interplay between text and reader in the interpretation of Zechariah 1–8 but this discussion makes it clear that only the ancient, diachronically defined reader plays a role in his interpretation of the text. I affirm his focus on the reconstructed historical reader and his attempt to combine synchronic and diachronic approaches, but he seems less aware of his own role as reader in the construction of the text. 415
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Like many modern critics, he presupposes that Zechariah 1–8 must be viewed as a discrete diachronic unit within the book of Zechariah which he then dates to the late sixth century BCE. But recent work on the synchronic form of the book of Zechariah as a whole by Edgar Conrad and the present reviewer has some diachronic implications for the classical critical reading of Zechariah. He is correct to recognize that Zechariah 9–14 must be viewed as a distinct diachronic sub-unit (now dated to the Persian period rather than to the Hellenistic period), but his view (shared with the majority of modern scholars) of Zechariah 1–8 as a self-standing diachronic unit and consequent reading of that unit as a consistent diachronic whole must come into question. A synchronic analysis of the literary structure of Zechariah 1–14 indicates that the literary structure of the book is defined by the chronological statements in Zech. 1:1; 1:7; and 7:1, which points to Zech. 1:1–6; 17; and 7:1– 8:23 as major redactional segments that played a role in bringing the vision accounts of Zech. 1:8–6:15 and the proto-apocalyptic massa’ôt in Zech. 9:1–14:21 together to form the present book as a whole. Indeed, the patterns of intertextual citation and allusion differ in Zech. 1:1–6 and 7:1–8:23 on the one hand and Zech. 1:7– 6:15 on the other hand, insofar as the former clearly presuppose prophetic texts whereas the former presuppose pentateuchal texts as well as prophetic texts. Examples would include the altar law in Exod. 20:21–3 and the altar vision of Zech. 2:1–4; the texts concerned with priestly ordination in Exodus 29; Leviticus 8; and Numbers 8 and the ordination of Joshua ben Jehozadak in Zechariah 3; or the instruction to read Torah to Israel every seven years from the ‘place’ (i.e., the Temple) where YHWH causes the divine name to dwell in Deut. 31:10–13 and the vision of the flying scroll in Zech. 5:1–4 (recognizing that the dimensions of the scroll are identical to the ‘porch’ (Hebrew, ’ûlam) of Solomon’s Temple (see 1 Kgs 6:3). To be sure, Stead discusses some of these pentateuchal intertexts (e.g., the above-noted ordination texts), but he gives pride of place to the prophetic, sometimes on insufficient grounds, which prompts him to overlook the redactional significance of intertextual differentiation within Zechariah 1–8. In an effort to highlight the prophetic dimensions of his intertextual references in the vision accounts, he cites visionary prophetic texts, such as Isaiah 6; Ezekiel 1; Amos 7–9 and others in relation to Zechariah’s visionary texts, but these parallels only point to generic analogues, not specific intertextual citations or allusions like the pentateuchal texts cited above. Likewise, his attempts to relate Job 1–2 to Zech. 1:8–17 and 3:1–10 may be questioned. Is it enough to maintain that the appearance of Satan and the verb hithalek in these texts are sufficient grounds to establish Zechariah’s intertextual dependence on Job 1–2, particularly when there are major questions concerning the date of the Joban text? Or does the correspondence of lexemes merely provide the grounds for a later reader, like Stead, to associate two texts that employ similar terms and yet display little connection that might be construed as dependence of either one upon the other? One would be better advised to argue for a synchronic intertextual relationship in which Job raises questions concerning the correlation of punishment with human wrongdoing advocated in Zechariah or in which Zechariah counters Job’s charges of divine incomprehensibility, based not on diachronic dependence but on the simple fact that both appear within the same biblical canon. Finally, Stead’s attempt to relate MTJer 33:14–26 to Zech. 6:9–15 on the grounds that both take up the Davidic promise to the ‘branch’ overlooks the fact that Jer. 33:14–26 applies the Davidic promise to the city of Jerusalem and the Levitical priesthood (see Y. Goldman, Prophétie et royauté au retour de l’exil 416
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[OBO 118; Göttingen, 1992], 9–64), which would suggest that Jer. 33:14–26 takes Zechariah’s application of the Davidic promise to the priesthood one step further by applying it to Jerusalem as well. I do not mean to be overly harsh on Stead — he has produced a very useful study that identifies and analyses many important intertextual relationships between Zechariah 1–8 and earlier prophetic literature. Nevertheless, some of his methodological assumptions and some of his conclusions based on those assumptions must be questioned. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr016 MARVIN A. SWEENEY CLAREMONT SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY AND CLAREMONT GRADUATE UNIVERSITY
FINN OVE HVIDBERG-HANSEN, ’ArÒû and ‘Azîzû: A Study of the West Semitic “Dioscuri” and the Gods of Dawn and Dusk (Historiske-filosofiske Meddelelser 97). The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, Copenhagen 2007. Pp. 117. ISBN: 978-87-7304-311-0. Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
This little book aims (as is stated in the brief abstract) to follow the ‘twin gods’ of West Semitic religion from Ugarit’s tablets to Palmyra and Nabataea. It is therefore an unfortunate aspect of its structure that while the first two chapters deal with the epigraphic and sculptural evidence from Palmyrene contexts and from the Nabataean and South Arabian lands respectively, it is only in the third and final chapter that this evidence is put in the context of Ugaritic, Biblical and other sources. So, the starting point for H.-H. (though not for his book) is, in fact, the birth of ShaÌar and Shalim as described in a Ugaritic text, two deities who ‘as representing dawn and evening glow and thus corresponding to Phosphorus and Hesperus - are comparable with the Dioscuri Castor and Pollux’ and who are ‘closely associated with their role as the Morning- and Evening Star’ (2). In support of his theory, H.-H. should also have discussed the hypothesis by H.J.W. Drijvers in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.8 (Berlin 1977), p. 834, that the gods of dawn and of dusk were worshipped in the central temple complex at Hatra, in the northern Mesopotamian Jazirah, under the names of Shahiru (who received dedications throughout the city) and Shalman (whose name is attested only in theophoric names). In the first chapter H.-H. discusses the Palmyrene evidence for Arsu and Azizu (theirs are of course the names that form the book’s main title). The main relief for his study, explicitly identifying the gods and showing them as a camel-rider in Roman military costume and a horse-rider wearing indigenous dress respectively, comes from the temple of Bel at Palmyra itself, though it probably could have been emphasized a bit more that nearly all other evidence for couples of riding gods, or Palmyrene ‘Dioscuri’ if one wants, comes from the territory to the northwest of the city (the so-called ‘Palmyrène’). In Palmyra itself a different aspect of Arsu came to be emphasized in the course of his ascent to his new status as one of the gods of the four civic tribes of the city, namely his identification with the Greek war god Ares — perhaps also based on homophony, similar to the Palmyrene identification of the Babylonian Herta with Greek Hera. However, in support of H.-H. one could also think of the bare-chested horse rider that can be seen between the legs of a funerary couch from Palmyra itself (cf. K. Micha¥owski, Palmyre. Fouilles Polonaises 1960 [Warsaw and The Hague 1962], pp. 142–3, no. 15 with fig. 157): regardless of whether one should look for identification with an indigenous deity in this case, in 417
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a funerary context the liminal character of the sons of Zeus may well have been a contributing factor, and it should not be forgotten that they are in this capacity also appearing on the façade of the famous Khazneh (‘Treasury’, but in fact a tomb) at Petra. From Khirbet Semrine, a village in the Palmyrène, comes a fragmentary relief of a typical rider-god with the remains of a Greek inscription identifiying him as [Kas]twr (cf. D. Schlumberger, La Palmyrène du Nord-Ouest [Paris 1951], p. 56, no. 17 with pl. XXI.4), a piece of evidence which H.-H. calls ‘perhaps imported’ (p. 16). According to inscriptions, the main deity at Khirbet Semrine is Abgal, who appears alongside Azizu (both identified as such) on another relief. H.-H. states that, ‘even if Castor might here be thought to refer to Abgal, it will be most natural […] to assume that the Castor of the [other] Semrine relief depicts ‘Azîzû’ (p. 16). This is perhaps typical of the author’s approach. In the end, another relief from Khirbet Semrine shows Abgal and Asar (both identified as such), with stars and serpent, symbols of the classical Dioscuri. In different local and other contexts, different indigenous Near Eastern gods will have been associated with the Dioscuri, and we should not look for absolute consistency. I doubt whether it mattered very much which god ‘was’ either Castor or Pollux. I also doubt whether it mattered whether the Near Eastern versions rode a horse or a camel. On a relief from Dura-Europos, Arsu seems to have been identified explicitly by the accompanying Palmyrenean inscription as ‘camel-rider’ (’rÒw wm†y’), though mention ought to have been made of the fact that others have read this as m†w’ and translated it as ‘lance’ (cf. J. Hoftijzer and K. Jongeling, Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions II [Leiden, 1995], p. 618, s.v. m†y) — which may seem especially pertinent since this particular relief (unlike others) does not show Arsu with the animal, but with a spear! As H.-H. acknowledges (p. 7, n. 12), there is also one relief from the Palmyrène which shows Arsu on a horse instead. And also Munim, with whom Arsu is to be identified according to the author, is shown as a horse-rider on a relief from Palmyra’s hinterland. The above-mentioned identification at Palmyra between Arsu and Ares seems to raise a problem when considering the identifications made by Iamblichos, as transmitted through the fourth oration of the emperor Julian, for the gods of Edessa: ‘Monimos is Hermes and Azizos Ares’. But according to H.-H., this is ‘due to the martial or military functions of the three gods’ (p. 13), i.e. Ares, Azizos and Arsu, and he rightly draws attention to the fact that on Palmyrene tesserae Arsu is depicted on the obverse with Hermes on the reverse (though without implying an explicit identification of the two gods). There are some speculative moments throughout the book in order to make sense of all desirable identifications: Ruda, the name of a North Arabian god, is referred to as ‘originally an androgynous deity’ (p. 36); Azizos’ epithet puer in Latin inscriptions from Dacia and North Africa is linked with the fact that ‘in the Nabataean area there existed an idea of the child of god, here termed Dushares-Dionysos (alias Orotalt-Ru∂â), borne by the heavenly goddess’ (p. 41); and H.-H. proposes to identify the divine name Qsmy (Qismaya?), from a Palmyrene dedication to Arsu, with the goddess Nemesis (pp. 62–3). In any case, the identification made at Palmyra of Poseidon with El-Qonera (’lqwnr‘ ), ‘El the creator’, is wrongly explained ‘from the Ugaritic El’s position as the god of freshwater and salt water’ (p. 60, n. 161). In fact, the association could be made because Poseidon in the Roman Near East was not the sea-god known from Classical mythology, but a more supreme deity. Indeed, his place on the mosaics which show Cassiopeia’s victory over the Nereids (from Palmyra itself and from Apamea) was 418
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taken over on the New Paphos mosaic of the same episode by Aion, the divine personification standing for the permanence of the cosmos (cf. J.-Ch. Balty, in L. Kahil and C. Augé (eds), Mythologie gréco-romaine, mythologies périphériques [Paris 1981], pp. 95–106). The bibliography is sometimes a bit messy, as the order is not always alphabetic (e.g. the titles of Gawlikowski), and the references to Seyrig 1949 (p. 16, n. 48) and Ingholt 1928 (p. 6, n. 9) are missing, with the latter being particularly unfortunate since H.-H.’s study follows in the long-standing Danish tradition of Near Eastern scholarship perhaps best encapsulated by Harold Ingholt’s publications — his Studier over Palmyrensk Skulptur (Copenhagen, 1928), pp. 44–6, also dealt with the main relief of H.-H.’s study. A more serious editorial flaw is the lack of a proper introduction and of any form of indices (neither index of sources nor of names or general terms), which does not facilitate use of the obvious wealth of material which can be found throughout the book. However, despite the various criticisms that are possible, the author deserves to be congratulated on putting together the relevant material and on producing the first overview study of so-called twin gods in Near Eastern religion. TED KAIZER DURHAM UNIVERSITY
HEZY MUTZAFI, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Betanure (Province of Dihok) (Semitica Viva 43). Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2008. Pp. xix + 412. Price: /78.00. ISBN: 978-3-447-05710-3. The Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Betanure is a grammar of the dialect spoken by the Jews who once inhabited the village of Betanure in Iraqi Kurdistan. It is an important addition to the field of Neo-Aramaic in particular and Semitic languages in general. Given the highly endangered status of the Jewish dialects, it is also very timely. Had Mutzafi carried out his research only a few years later he would have missed the chance to collect much highly valuable material, both from the linguistic and ethnographic points of view. The Jews of Kurdistan all left Iraq in the 1950s, mostly settling in Israel, and the dialects are not being passed down to younger generations. Betanure adds to our knowledge of the branch of North-eastern Neo-Aramaic (NENA) that is known as the Jewish North-western Group or, using the speakers’ own label, Lishana Deni, literally ‘our language’. The best known members of this group are Jewish Zakho and Amadiya (or ‘Am¢dya). This group differs in significant ways to other Jewish dialects, such as the dialects spoken east of the Zab river (the Trans-Zab dialects, e.g. Sulemaniyya and Halabja).1 It has, however, relatively high mutual intelligibility with neighbouring Christian dialects. Although work has been done on the Jewish dialect of Zakho (e.g. by Hans Jacob Polotsky, Iddo Avinery, Yona Sabar, Eran Cohen), and Amadiya is represented by two works,2 there was until Betanure no comprehensive grammar published of any of this group of dialects. Mutzafi describes the dialect from a synchronic but strongly comparative perspective, which enhances its usefulness for scholars working on, or with knowledge of, other Neo-Aramaic dialects. There is also a historical perspective throughout,
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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr017
1 Geoffrey Khan, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Sulemaniyya and Halabja (Leiden 2005). 2 Robert D. Hoberman, The Syntax and Semantics of Verb Morphology in Modern Aramaic: A Jewish Dialect of Iraqi Kurdistan (Oriental Series 69, New Haven 1989) and Jared Greenblatt, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Am¢dya (Leiden 2010).
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whereby the modern forms are compared to their cognate forms in earlier Aramaic varieties, making it an excellent reference for scholars of old Aramaic or other Semitic languages. References are also made where appropriate to languages in contact with the dialect. Kurdish, in particular, has had considerable influence on this dialect, on the morphology as well as the lexicon, e.g. the diminutive suffix -¢kqa (from Kurdish -ik and Neo-Aramaic feminine suffix -qa, e.g. ?en-¢kqa ‘little spring’), and the suffix -ki on language names, e.g. sur¢qkí ‘Christian Neo-Aramaic’ (p. 110). The Introduction gives in exhaustive detail the background of the dialect: its speakers, their village of Betanure and its history. The earliest record of the village and its community dates to the sixteenth century, although the next information on it, from a traveller, dates to 1848. Mutzafi uses sources both written and oral, not just from within the community but also from their Christian neighbours. This documentation of oral history is valuable in itself but also gives a vital context to the linguistic facts. The registers of the dialect are also discussed: not only the everyday vernacular language, but also the literary register that was used for translating the Bible and other religious texts. Of particular interest is a ‘cryptic jargon’ that used code-words which would not be understood by Kurds or Christian Neo-Aramaic speakers. This can be compared to other ‘argots’, or secret languages, used by groups to exclude outsiders, such as those spoken by Klezmer musicians, Irish travellers, Karaite goldsmiths in Cairo3 and so on. The Introduction goes on to present Betanure in its dialectal context, demonstrating that it is part of the Lishana Deni group of Jewish dialects spoken in Northwestern Iraq and adjacent parts of Turkey. It also touches on inter-dialectal borrowings, an area of NENA dialectology which would reward further attention. In the Research Methodology section Mutzafi briefly discusses the informants consulted, who were five altogether, with particular reliance on the two who are named. Such small numbers are not unusual in Neo-Aramaic dialectology, where for some dialects only a very few good quality informants are now available. Mutzafi describes his approach as mostly synchronic, but accompanied by comparative and historical comments. A helpful list is given of the sources he has drawn upon for the comparative aspect of his work. Part I deals with Phonology and Morphology. The Phonology section begins with inventories of consonants and vowels, making a useful distinction, in the case of consonants, between phonemes inherited from Aramaic strata and phonemes overwhelmingly found in loanwords, some of which are rare and marginal. There is little detail on phonetic realization or allophonic variation, but thorough coverage of distribution and morphophonemic rules. Word-stress is also treated. Aspects of the diachronic development of the phonology are covered, especially with regard to the reflexes of the earlier Aramaic pharyngeals and diphthongs. Mutzafi brings in other dialects where they can cast light on Betanure, but without getting bogged down in a general comparison. The morphological description includes the following sections: Pronouns and related particles, Verbal System, Nouns, Adjectives, Derivational Suffixes, Numerals and Particles. Of these the verbal system forms the largest section. Firstly the components of the verbal system are outlined: the inflectional verbal bases, the verbal ‘stems’ (equivalent to Hebrew binyanim or Arabic ‘forms’), the subject suffixes and the copula. Unfortunately there is as yet no consensus on labels for the NENA 3
Geoffrey Khan, ‘A note on the trade argot of the Karaite goldsmiths of Cairo’, Mediterranean Language Review IX (1995–7), pp. 74–6. 420
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verbal bases and affixes. Mutzafi uses the labels introduced by Hetzron4 and followed by Hoberman (with the exception of ‘Jussive (J)’ which he replaces with ‘Subjunctive (S)’), rather than those used in the publications of Khan or Talay. For a newcomer to Neo-Aramaic the variety of labels can be very confusing: one verbal base is labelled Jussive, Subjunctive or Present Base, according to the author. The pronominal inflections deriving from earlier Aramaic gender/plural suffixes and enclitic pronouns have an even greater variety of labels: respectively ‘Set f ’ (Hetzron), ‘A set’ (Hoberman), ‘Prädikativflexion’ (Jastrow, Talay), ‘S-suffixes’ (Khan) and ‘E-type suffixes’ (Mutzafi). It is to be hoped that a consensus may eventually be found in the field of Neo-Aramaic. The following section covers the Tense-Mood-Aspect system: constructions are listed and their functions briefly described. On p. 65 a synopsis of the verbal system is given, which, given the complexity of NENA verbal systems, is a very useful overview for the reader. A section on passive constructions is of interest: Betanure lacks the periphrastic passive construction with pys (‘to become’) found in many NENA dialects (e.g. p¢sle q†ila ‘he was killed). It retains the synthetic passive formed from the preterite base (earlier Aramaic passive participle in the absolute state), e.g. gris(¢n) ‘it was pulled’, which in many dialects is marginal or lost altogether. Passives are also formed, as in many dialects, with the copula and perfect base, e.g. ?ile wida ‘it has been made’. Another passive construction is formed from the verb ?qy ‘to come’ + (l-)Infinitive, e.g. qele (l¢-)gnawa ‘it was stolen’. This is found in some other dialects, both Jewish and Christian, including Jewish Zakho (p.c. Illan Gonen) and Christian Aradhin,5 and appears to be modelled on a similar passive construction in Kurdish. Weak and irregular verbs, in which NENA dialects are rich, are covered fairly thoroughly. The rules of inflection are given, with few complete paradigms. It is an economical system but more paradigms would have made the information easier for the reader to digest. The system of conjugating all three stems (binyanim) of a root together (rather than having separate sections for each stem) is also open to debate but might be preferred by some. Following weak and irregular verbs is a section on verbs with object affixes. These are fairly typical of many NENA dialects. An interesting feature of the dialect is the use of L-type suffixes (-le, -la etc.), marking a dative object on the Preterite, which already has L-type suffixes marking the subject: many NENA dialects do not allow L-type object suffixes on this tense. This construction is restricted to the verbs ?mr ‘to say, tell’ and yhwl ‘to give’, e.g. m¢ˆrrele (<m¢r-lesubj-leobj) ‘he told him’. A section on verboids, i.e. forms that function as verbs but have unusual inflection, follows: these are quite prominent in NENA, e.g. the existential verboid ?iq and the possessive construction based on it. Some listed here might be considered true verbs rather than verboids, e.g. gbasm0walu ‘they enjoyed it (f.)’, lit. ‘it (f., referring to Òloqa f. ‘prayer’) pleased them’ (p. 89).6 In the section on nouns a comprehensive list of plural affixes is given, with examples and discussion of their distribution: NENA dialects are particularly rich in plural morphology and there is some variation in this area between dialects. 4 E.g. Robert Hetzron, ‘The morphology of the verb in modern Syriac (Christian colloquial of Urmi)’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 89, No. 1 (1969), pp. 112–27. 5 Krotkoff, A Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Kurdistan: Texts, Grammar, and Vocabulary (American Oriental Series, Vol. 64. New Haven 1982), p. 39. 6 According to Mutzafi it is a fossilized 3sg.m. or 3sg.f. form of base S, but the examples given agree in gender and number with their subject, so appear to be inflected normally.
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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr018
ELEANOR COGHILL UNIVERSITÄT KONSTANZ
KEES VERSTEEGH ET AL., (eds), Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics 4: Q–Z. Brill, Leiden 2009. Pp. x + 770. Price: /198.00/$267.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-04-14476-7. KEES VERSTEEGH ET AL., (eds), Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics 5: Index. Brill, Leiden 2009. Pp. iv + 288. Price: /139.00/$205.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-04-17484-9.
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The grammatical sections are well referenced: all examples are sourced, so that the reader can refer to the relevant text. Syntax is not given a separate section and is not extensively covered. What syntax is covered is included in the Morphology section. A particular strength of the book is the large and varied (oral) text section (recorded and transcribed by Mutzafi), which forms Part II. This includes a large number of texts of many different types. They are extremely rich in ethnographic material, covering, for example, the activities of the different seasons, children’s games, religious observance, pregnancy and birth. There is also a good deal of historical information on the village and its Jewish community. There are stories and legends: about Betanure itself, about the Jews’ relationships with Kurds and Christians, also Bible stories, folktales and comic stories. This text corpus is a highly valuable resource, not only for Neo-Aramaicists and other linguists, but also for anthropologists and sociologists, scholars of oral literature, historians and others. Finally the book includes a large glossary (Neo-Aramaic-English). Its usefulness to the reader is enhanced by the notes on etymology that are given for each word. Unlike in some grammars of Neo-Aramaic (such as those of Khan), the glossary combines verbs (listed by tri-consonantal root) with other parts of speech: thus, for instance, bqr B ‘to ask’ is followed immediately by brata ‘daughter’. The system of separating the two into different glossaries is perhaps preferable, given that they are not comparable: brata is an actual word, while the root bqr is an abstraction (underlying actual forms such as mbaq¢r ‘ask!’). However, the eye is aided to make the distinction by the verbal entries being marked in bold. There are a few typographical mistakes in the book, but not such as to lessen its clarity. The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Betanure is a highly important contribution to Neo-Aramaic dialectology and to the documentation of endangered Semitic languages in general. Meticulous work has gone in to producing a thorough description of the dialect that is of great value to linguists. The large collection of fascinating texts will also broaden the book’s attraction beyond linguists to anthropologists, historians and others interested in the culture of the Jews of Kurdistan.
The two volumes under review mark the completion of the Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics (EALL), which began appearing in 2006. Volume 4 is the final content volume, while Volume 5 is a comprehensive index to the previous four volumes. The range of topics covered in the EALL, along with the high quality of the articles, makes these volumes a goldmine of information for the Arabist, Semitist, or general linguist. Volume 4 contains about 135 articles, written by 119 different authors from around the world. The articles cover a wide variety of topics, touching on many different areas of modern linguistics (phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics, 422
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socio-linguistics, historical linguistics, language contact, language acquisition, writing, etc.), as well as concepts from the medieval Arabic linguistic tradition. As with the other EALL volumes, one of the most valuable features is the wide coverage of Arabic dialects. Volume 4 contains several articles devoted to individual dialects or types of Arabic, including ‘∑an‘ani Arabic’, ‘Sinai Arabic’, ‘Tripoli Arabic’, ‘Tunis Arabic’, ‘Uzbekistan Arabic’, ‘Wadi Îa∂ramawt Arabic’, and ‘West Sudanic Arabic’. These articles all contain very handy grammatical sketches and substantial bibliography. The fact that information on some of these dialects is not easy to come by elsewhere makes these entries all the more useful. Related to the field of dialectology are the entries on ‘Secret Languages’, ‘Sign Languages’, and ‘Slang’. The discussion of Arabic slang includes some interesting etymological discussion. Arabic Sign Languages are understudied and so the inclusion of this topic in EALL is very welcome, as are the many photographs embedded in the entry. It is a bit disappointing and somewhat surprising that no mention was made of Arabic Sign Language used in Israel, nor of any studies on the topic that have been made in Israel. An article related to the field of dialectology is ‘Thamudic’. At the beginning of the article, the author (Ernst Axel Knauf) says that the entry ‘covers the same ground as [the article] Old Arabic (epigraphic), but from a different perspective’. He defines Thamudic as a generic term for a number of Ancient Arabic scripts and languages, and in the article frequently uses the term Ancient Arabic, which he distinguishes from Old Arabic. Since the article ‘Old Arabic (Epigraphic)’ in Volume 3, expertly written by M.C.A. Macdonald, covers all varieties of preIslamic Arabic, it is not immediately clear what Knauf is distinguishing by the terms Ancient Arabic and Old Arabic. The terms Thamudic and Ancient Arabic are actually being used by Knauf to refer to Ancient North Arabian, which is the preferable designation for those epigraphic Arabic dialects that contrast with Old Arabic, the ancestor of Arabic. That this is the case is supported by the fact that other North Arabian dialect names are cross-referenced with Thamudic. For example, we find the cross-references ‘LiÌyanite → Thamudic’ in Volume 3 and ‘∑afaitic → Thamudic’ in Volume 4 (other expected cross-references, like ‘Dadanitic’ are lacking). Knauf’s article contains interesting data, but the difference in terminology between his article and Macdonald’s, and the resulting uncertainty of the corpus under discussion, does not help the reader. The use of the term ‘Thamudic’ to refer to all of Ancient North Arabian is outdated, and it is odd that the article was titled this way. A number of articles in Volume 4 are devoted to regions in which Arabic is or was spoken, including ‘Saudi Arabia’, ‘Senegal’, ‘Sicily’, ‘Somalia’, ‘South Africa’, ‘Sudan’, ‘Syria’, ‘Tunisia’, ‘Turkey’, and ‘Yemen’. The articles dealing with Arab countries either provide an overview of dialect geography within each country (Saudi Arabia, Syria, Yemen), provide a grammatical sketch (Sudan), or focus on socio-linguistic issues (Tunisia). The articles dealing with non-Arab countries focus on the history of the use of Arabic in these areas, both as a spoken and literary language and as a language of scholarship. A few of these articles also include some discussion of linguistic phenomena. For example, in the article ‘Senegal’, there is some discussion of Arabic loanwords in Senegalese languages. In the article ‘South Africa’, we read mainly about the representation of Afrikaans in Arabic script. Numerous articles focus on the relationship of Arabic with another language or language family, all but two of which are non-Semitic. These are ‘Slavonic Lan423
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guages’, ‘Somali’, ‘Songhay’, ‘South Arabian Loanwords’, ‘South Arabian, Modern’, ‘Swahili’, ‘Tajik’, ‘Tamil’, ‘Tatar’, ‘Telugu’, ‘Thai’, ‘Turkish’, ‘Turkish Loanwords’, ‘Urdu/Hindustani’, ‘Uyghur’, ‘Uzbek’, ‘Wolof’, and ‘Yoruba’. These articles mainly discuss loanwords and calques (usually with Arabic as the source language), including the phonological and morphological treatment of loanwords. The article ‘Turkish’ mainly discusses Arabic loanwords into Turkish, while the article ‘Turkish Loanwords’ discusses Turkish loans into Arabic (mirroring the articles ‘Persian’ and ‘Persian Loanwords’ in Volume 3). Most of these articles make important, original contributions to their respective fields. For example, Antoine Lonnet’s superb article ‘South Arabian, Modern’ focuses on the issue of Arabic influence on the Modern South Arabian languages, a topic on which extremely little has been written in the past. Of the articles in this group, only for ‘Urdu/Hindustani’ and ‘Uyghur’ do we learn something about the use of the Arabic alphabet in writing these languages. Moreover, the article ‘South Africa’, mentioned above, is more comprehensive regarding the Arabic script than any of these articles. For some of the other languages (e.g., ‘Swahili’, ‘Tatar’, ‘Turkish’, and ‘Uzbek’) similar discussion regarding the adoption of the Arabic script would have been a valuable addition. Two articles deal with Arabic in connection with the wider Semitic family. These are ‘Semitic Languages’ and ‘South Semitic Languages’. The term ‘South Semitic’ is a controversial one, and one that is normally used to imply a genetically distinct subgroup of the Semitic family (traditionally including Arabic, Ethiopic, Epigraphic South Arabian, and Modern South Arabian). However, many modern scholars reject this subgroup, and the idea of ‘South Semitic’ altogether. Indeed, no South Semitic group is included in the Semitic family tree presented in the article ‘Semitic Languages’, authored by Rainer Voigt (p. 171). The author of the article ‘South Semitic Languages’ (Anna Belova) does acknowledge the controversy over including Arabic in South Semitic, but seems to see the existence of South Semitic as a given. Over two dozen articles are devoted to linguistic terms and concepts from the Arabic grammatical tradition, such as ‘Qiyas’, ‘∑ifa’, ‘Ta‘addin’, and ‘Tanwin’. These articles will be of interest mainly to the Arabic specialist, but are still of value to the Semitist or linguist who wants to learn more about the traditional study of Arabic grammar. A few other article titles contain Arabic terms, such as ‘Qaf’ (which deals with the Arabic phoneme /q/), ‘Qur’an’ (which deals with various Quranic grammatical features), and ‘Ruq‘a’ (a variety of the Arabic script). Many, if not most, articles in Volume 4 are devoted to modern linguistic topics. These are obviously the articles that will be most useful for the general linguist. There are articles that tackle general linguistic fields, like ‘Second Language Acquisition’ and ‘Syntax’, but most are not quite so broad. There are articles that focus on linguistic models (e.g., ‘X-Bar Syntax’), lexical categories (e.g., ‘Quantifier’, ‘Verb’, ‘Toponyms’), grammatical categories (e.g., ‘Reciprocals’, ‘Tense’, ‘Voice’), linguistic processes (e.g., ‘Reanalysis’, ‘Semantic Bleaching’, ‘Vowel Harmony’), socio-linguistic topics (e.g., ‘Substrate’, ‘Youth Speech’), and more. Some of these articles are not universal linguistic topics, but rather deal with linguistic features pertinent to the Semitic family, like ‘Root’ and ‘Weak Verbs’. Volume 5 of EALL, the Index Volume, is certainly not as valuable as the previous four volumes of EALL, but it is still useful. Before the actual index, there is a list of the more than 500 total EALL entries in alphabetical order, from ‘Abbreviations’ to ‘Youth Speech’ (pp. 1–12). The author of each article is also given. This lemma list 424
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PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY
ZYGMUNT FRAJZYNGIER and ERIN SHAY (eds), Interaction of Morphology and Syntax: Case Studies in Afroasiatic (Typological Studies in Language 75). John Benjamins Publishing Company, Amsterdam 2008. Pp. 234. Price: /110.00/$165.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-272-2987-8.
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is helpful mainly because it might make the reader aware of an article that he or she had not noticed while browsing one of the content volumes. The remainder of Volume 5 (pp. 13–287) comprises the index. The index includes subjects, names of scholars mentioned in the entries (not including bibliographies), and article authors. So, for example, under the name Geoffrey Khan, the reader is referred not only to the articles authored by Khan (‘Judaeo-Arabic’ in Vol. 2 and ‘Presentatives’ in Vol. 3), but also articles in which Khan is cited or discussed (e.g., ‘Neo-Aramaic’ in Vol. 3, written by Werner Arnold). In some places the index is not especially intuitive, or at least is a bit lacking. For example, neither the index entry ‘loanwords, Arabic in French’ nor ‘loanwords, French in Arabic’ makes reference to the article in Vol. 2 entitled ‘French Loanwords’. Instead, the former refers only to the entry ‘English’ (Vol. 2), and the latter only to the entries ‘Algiers Arabic’, ‘Baghdad Arabic Jewish’ [sic], ‘Cairo Arabic’, and ‘Code-switching’ (all in Vol. 1). The index is certainly extensive, but it seems most advisable to look for a desired article title first, and only then look in the index for additional entries that might mention a given topic. I should add that all references in the index are to volume and page number(s), not to article titles. I must again stress the usefulness and high quality of the EALL. Many articles include tables and charts, several of the articles devoted to Arabic dialects contain maps, and a few (most notably, ‘Sign Language’) also include photographs. Kees Versteegh and the associate editors — Mushira Eid, Alaa Elgibali, Manfred Woidich, and Andrzej Zaborski — are to be commended for their excellent work. The only disappointment is the extremely high cost of the set ($267.00 each for Volumes 1–4; $205.00 for Volume 5), which makes it essentially unaffordable to the individual scholar. However, the cost is somewhat understandable given the size of the volumes and work that went into coordinating them. Brill is currently producing the Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics, which is sure to be equally as valuable, and we can only hope for such reference works on other Semitic languages, like Aramaic, Akkadian, or Amharic. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr019 AARON D. RUBIN
Most works and conferences dealing with Afroasiatic tend to focus on the better known Semitic languages. This book, which emerged largely from a conference on the typology of Afroasiatic languages held in Boulder, Colorado in April 2006, by contrast lays the main focus on Chadic and Cushitic, with single chapters for each of Berber (Kabyle) and Semitic (Ethiosemitic). The importance of this well-edited work — few such works include author, language and subject indices as this does — lies in the fact that all but one of the chapters deal with typological issues that have either not been raised elsewhere, or are considered here from a significantly different perspective. Of the three chapters dealing with Chadic, Christopher Ehret argues that verbfinal consonants in the Central Chadic language, Mafa, can be analysed as extensions and demonstrates in well laid-out tables for each consonant a specific function. This work provides more substantial evidence for the biconsonantal analysis of roots 425
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than earlier works — for example, Zaborski (1991)1 and the extremely controversial biradical etymon argument postulated by Bohas (1997)2 and Bohas and Saguer (2006)3 — and raises the issue again of whether a system of extensions can be postulated not only for Mafa, but also for Proto-Chadic and potentially for ProtoAfroasiatic. Zygmunt Fragzyngier examines one type of clause in the Central Chadic language, Wandala, in which the subject is marked by the same preposition that precedes the nominal dative/benefactive argument. He proposes the use of this preposition is connected with the discourse function of the subject and not, as has been argued for dative subjects in other languages, with the semantic role of the argument or the nature of the verb. Erin Shay’s chapter contributes to the typology of pronoun functions, arguing that the position of the subject pronoun with respect to the verb in East Dangla marks a clause as expected or unexpected. Of the three chapters dealing with Cushitic, Maarten Mous examines agreement patterns in two Cushitic languages, Iraqw and K’abeena, to argue that the category ‘plural’ in Cushitic should be considered a gender rather than a number category. The two other chapters on Cushitic examine clause linking in two East Cushitic languages, and show very different types of linking — Highland East Cushitic Kambaata, which makes very extensive use of relative clauses (Yvonne Treis), and East Cushitic Gawwada, which uses relative clauses very sparingly (Mauro Tosco). Amine Mettouche examines the interaction between case marking and word order in the Berber language Kabyle, spoken in northern Algeria. Kabyle is traditionally described as a VSO language with SVO variations, but Mettouche argues here that word order choice is related to contrasts in the system of information structure while absolute versus integrative case encodes functions in semantic and other domains. In contrast to the other contributors who focus on one or two related phenomena, Grover Hudson examines several morphosyntactic features typical to Ethiosemitic, some of which he argues to be unique to this branch of Afroasiatic. These include the distinction between geminating and non-geminating verbs, two types of causative constructions, copulas conjugated with object suffixes, and rich verb-object agreement in topicalisation. The typological issues examined in this volume have significance for research both on Afroasiatic — for example, Ehret’s chapter on verbal extensions — and on general linguistic typology — for example, Fragzyngier’s study of dative subjects in Wandala, Shay’s chapter on subject pronouns in East Dangla, Mettouchi’s chapter on the relationship between word order and information structure in Kabyle, and Mous’s chapter on number as an exponent of gender in Cushitic. The contributions deal with the interaction between morphology and syntax, but several, with their focus on information structure, discourse and, in Shay’s case, marking of the unexpected, have implications that go well beyond the realm of morphology and syntax. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr020 JANET C.E. WATSON UNIVERSITY OF SALFORD
1 Zaborski, A., ‘Biconsonantal roots and triconsonantal root variation in Semitic: Solutions and prospects’, in A.S. Kaye (ed.), Semitic Studies in Honor of Wolf Leslau on the Occasion of his Eighty-fifth Birthday, Vol. 2 (Wiesbaden 1991), 1675–703. 2 Bohas, G., Matrices, étymons, racines: élements d’une théorie lexicologique du vocabulaire arabe (Leuven 1997). 3 Bohas, G. and A. Saguer, ‘Sur un point de vue heuristique concernant l’homonymie dans le lexique de l’arabe’ in L. Edzard and J. Watson (eds), Grammar as a Window onto Arabic Humanism. A collection of articles in honour of Michael G. Carter (Wiesbaden 2006), 130–54.
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SIMA, Mehri-Texte aus der jemenitischen Sarqiyah. Annotated and edited by Janet C.E. Watson and Werner Arnold, and in collaboration with ‘Askari Îugayran Sa‘d. (Semitica Viva 47). Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2009. Pp. xi + 588. Price: /58.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-3-447-05947-3.
ALEXANDER
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This collection of texts published by Janet C.E. Watson and Werner Arnold is of enormous value for the study of Mehri, the most widely spoken of the Modern South Arabian languages, yet one of the least studied languages of the Semitic family. These texts were collected by Alexander Sima in the Sarqiyah, also called (al-) Îawf, a small coastal area in the far southeast of Yemen that encompasses several villages. This is a rather isolated area,1 whose dialect(s) of Mehri form a sub-type of Yemeni Mehri. Sima began collecting the texts in Yemen in September 2001, and was even able to bring an informant to Heidelberg for a prolonged period of study. He published several important articles on Mehri based on his fieldwork, including a collection of proverbs (Zeitschrift für arabische Linguistik 44 [2005]: 71–93). Sadly, Sima died in an automobile accident in Yemen in September, 2004 at just thirtyfour years old. Janet Watson and Werner Arnold took over the considerable task of editing and publishing Sima’s texts, with the help of additional interviews with Sima’s main informant, ‘Askari Sa‘d. The resulting publication is a great tribute to the talent and hard work of Alexander Sima. The volume begins with a preface by the editors (in German), which briefly describes the background of Sima’s work, followed by acknowledgements. Next comes a lengthy introduction (in English) by Watson (pp. 1–27). She describes some of the issues faced by the editors, but most of the introduction is dedicated to a description of Mehri phonology. The transcription system used in this volume (in particular with regard to vowels) differs a bit from previous works on Mehri, and the phonology of the Sarqiyah dialect(s) differs a bit from other dialects, and so this introduction is an important companion to the texts. Overall, a wealth of information is packed into just two dozen or so pages. Following Watson’s introduction is a short introduction (in German) written by Sima himself, which outlines the contents and method of the text collection (pp. 29–35). The volume contains 110 Mehri texts, seventy-five in the dialect of the village of Jodäb (also known as Jadib) and thirty-five from the village of Rehän, all with facing-page German translations. That the texts were separated in this way is fortunate, since the dialects of these two towns are not identical, even if they are extremely close. Within the two sections (Jodäb and Rehän), texts are grouped by the name of the informant, another very helpful decision made by the editors. At the beginning of each sub-set of texts, biographical details are provided for each informant, normally including his or her full name, date of birth (or current age), and residence background. Not only is this information beneficial to the researcher, but knowing the identity of each narrator gives a more personal flavour to each of the stories. There are a total of seventeen informants (including one female!), with the number of texts per informant ranging from one to thirty-five. Having worked very closely with the Omani Mehri texts collected by T.M. Johnstone and edited by Harry Stroomer (Mehri Texts from Oman, Wiesbaden 1999) — by sad coincidence, another posthumously published collection — and having written a grammar based on these texts (The Mehri Language of Oman, Leiden 2010), I was most interested in the many differences between the Mehri of the 1
A description of Sima’s difficulty in arriving there can be found on the University of Heidelberg Semitic Studies website: http://semitistik.uni-hd.de/sima/. 427
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Sarqiyah and the Omani Mehri with which I am far more familiar. In fact, I was quite surprised at the number of differences, especially in the realm of morphology. I was aware of a few phonological differences and of many lexical differences, but I did not expect to see such divergence in, for example, the conjugation of verbs and the use of pronominal object suffixes on verbs. Overall, the differences between the Mehri of the Sarqiyah and Omani Mehri are numerous enough and interesting enough to warrant a separate study (see my article, ‘Mehri Dialect Studies' in Zeitschrift für arabische Linguistik, to appear in 2011). As already mentioned, the Mehri of the Sarqiyah is not completely uniform. There are differences, if slight, between the dialects of Jodäb (texts 1–75) and Rehän (texts 76–110). For example, ‘he wants’ in Jodäb is Ìom (as in Omani Mehri), but in Rehän it is xom (as in Hobyot, a neighbouring Modern South Arabian language). A number of other phonological differences are mentioned in Watson’s introduction to the texts. Sima notes that the influence of Hobyot is particularly strong on the dialect of Rehän (cf. pp. 31–2). These texts are an excellent, long awaited source of data on the Mehri spoken in the easternmost part of Yemen. The linguistic data provide much new information on Mehri; in many places they verify the data collected around the turn of the twentieth century by the Viennese expedition to South Arabia (the only other major source of Yemeni Mehri texts); and they provide opportunities for comparison with other Mehri dialects. In addition to providing such an important witness to the Mehri dialect of the Sarqiyah, and to the Mehri language in general, this volume of texts is also witness to the lives and culture of Mehri speakers. Many of the texts are descriptions of daily activities. Others are stories, both fictional and real. At least two stories have parallels in Johnstone’s collection: Sima’s text 38 is very similar to Johnstone’s text 20, and Sima’s text 73 has parallels to Johnstone’s texts 1 and 36. Both of these texts involve Ba Newas, a favourite character in Mehri tales, who is usually involved in some sort of trickery. As already mentioned, one of the informants was female. This is Nwer, wife of Sima’s primary informant, ‘Askari Sa‘d. There are four texts that record her speech, all of which were the product of joint interviews with her husband. It has been historically quite difficult for a male foreigner to interview a female informant in this part of the world, so the inclusion of Nwer’s texts is marvelous. Moreover, she discusses some issues pertaining to women (clothing, for example) that are of cultural interest. Reading these texts, one certainly wishes for a companion glossary and a reference grammar, both of which would be tremendously useful. The Mehri lexicon published by T.M. Johnstone (Mehri Lexicon and English-Mehri Word-List, London 1987) is based on Omani Mehri, and is missing many words found in Sima’s texts. A. Jahn’s dictionary (Die Mehri-Sprache in Südarabien, Vienna 1902) is quite helpful, but still lacking many items. At the end of her introduction to Sima’s texts (p. 26), Watson mentions that she and Werner Arnold hope to soon produce a companion glossary, which is good news. Watson is also working on a grammar of Sarqiyah Mehri, which will undoubtedly be very valuable, not in the least because it will be the first major work on the grammar of Yemeni Mehri in over fifty years. In the meantime, the world of Semitic scholarship must be extremely grateful to the late Dr Sima for compiling this fine collection, and to the editors of the volume for making these texts available to the world. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr021 AARON D. RUBIN PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY
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BERNARD COMRIE, RAY FABRI, ELIZABETH HUME, MANWEL MIFSUD, THOMAS STOLZ and MARTINE VANHOVE (eds), Introducing Maltese Linguistics: Selected papers from the 1st International Conference on Maltese Linguistics, Bremen, 18– 20 October, 2007 (Studies in Language Companion Series 113). John Benjamins Publishing Company, Herndon, VA 2009. Pp. xi + 422. Price: $158.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-272-0580-3.
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Introducing Maltese Linguistics is a coordinated exposition of the state-of-art research into Maltese linguistics. The book, which includes eighteen carefully edited articles, is certainly the most comprehensive scholarly work on Maltese linguistics and is the result of the First International Conference of Maltese Linguistics, held in Bremen in October 2007. Whereas most linguistic and philological studies on lesser used languages either tend to present a given language from a popular scientific point of view (for Maltese see F. Miller et al. Maltese Language [Mauritius 2009]) or deal with grammar issues (see the complete grammar of M. Azzopardi and A. Borg, [Maltese, London 1997] or M. Mifsud’s outstanding descriptive study of loan verbs [Loan Verbs in Maltese: A Descriptive and Comparative Study, Leiden 1997]), the compilation of contributions which make up the volume offers a wide cross-section of the Maltese linguistic data and modern research. Topics covered include typology, phonology, syntax, lexicon and electronic resources, language change and contact and sociolinguistics. Nevertheless, the book is neither a comprehensive nor a general introduction to Maltese linguistics nor is it truly appropriate for linguistics students. Since Introducing Maltese Linguistics is written in English and adapted to the linguistics needs of a scientific readership unacquainted with the Maltese language, the book is not primarily aimed at Semitists but at general linguists interested in exploring this ‘fascinating field of (linguistic) research’ (p. ix). The title of the volume has thus to be understood as an overview of up-to-date topics in Maltese linguistics. The book opens with Comrie’s article on the typological structure of Maltese. The contribution, which can be regarded as an introduction to the articles covered, places Maltese on the basis of the cross-linguistic data provided by Haspelmath’s World Atlas of Language Structures (Oxford 2005) between Arabic and Spanish, showing the constitutive importance of Maltese-Romance language contact for Maltese. The following two contributions focus on phonology. The first one deals with vowel duration as a consequence of a disappeared voiced pharyngeal approximant. The findings could have been somewhat relevant for Maltese phonology if the corpus did not just include two native speakers repeating 214 monosyllabic and bisyllabic words. Vella’s article on Maltese prosody provides a state-of-the-art description of the annotation analysis of spoken Standard Maltese undertaken by the author as part of the project Speech Annotation for Corpora of Maltese. Methodically Vella builds upon previous research on intonation analysis and establishes a set of tones, adding that further research is needed in order to ‘formulate and test hypotheses on issues related to the prosody of Maltese’s which are still unclear’ (p. 65). One of the more extensive sections of the volume is dedicated to Maltese syntax. Borg and Azopardi concentrate on the importance of intonation patterns in the topicalization of objects, subjects and nominal sentences. The authors illustrate various types of topicalized expressions with a few self-built examples. Although the conclusions drawn by both grammarians are certainly pertinent and for the general 429
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linguist especially interesting above all regarding the topicalized treatment of adverbial expressions, maybe a corpus-based exploration of the issue would have contributed to a statistically reliable analysis. Stephan Müller outlines in his article a Head-Driven Phrase Structure Grammar for Maltese. As one of Europe’s more active HPSG researchers, Müller tries to extend the implementation of the grammatical framework he is working with since his doctoral thesis to other languages than English and German like Maltese (or Persian). Even if the average reader (like myself) only has a superficial knowledge about this theory based on the explanatory importance of structure phrases for the syntactic description, we should recognize the importance of applying existing syntactic theories to lesser studied and lesser used languages like Maltese. Even if due to space limitations numerous topics are not contemplated in the paper, Müller’s contribution can be considered as a first schematic introduction to a HSPG for Maltese. Maas’ article on complex predicates presents a ‘preliminary sketch of work in progress’ (p. 114) regarding the formation of co-verbs in Maltese. He argues that in the Indo-European languages the common term of ‘auxiliary verb’ is not applicable to Neo-Arabic varieties. Using field data from Moroccan and Tunisian Arabic, Egyptian Arabic and Maltese, Maas shows that Maltese co-verbs do not differ greatly from those found in other Modern Arabic dialects, although the use of co-verbal modifiers is not so extensive. Thomas Stolz’ contribution deals with the possibilities of breaking the verb chain in Maltese. Aided by an impressive corpus of 1,850 pages of prose, Stolz concludes that the Maltese verb chain is a relatively loosely knit unit and that insertions tend to take place in the second position of the verb chain. Another study dealing with verbs is Peterson’s. The author conducts a data-based investigation on non-verbal (co)predicates called ‘pseudo-verbs’, which appear to be quite common in Maltese. From a general linguistic point of view the most important finding of the study is the fact that the logical subject of Maltese pseudo-verbs is always an object. An interlingual comparison between this interesting feature of Maltese and similar ones of other Neo-Arabic dialects as well as of Romance and Germanic languages could have been of importance and would have connected this informative and well structured contribution with Romance and Germanic verb constructions. The fourth part of the book, ‘Lexicon and Electronic Resources’, contains one classical article on word formation and two cutting edge contributions on visual lexical decision and electronic language resources for Maltese. Fabri’s article examines and classifies adjective-noun compounds from a purely synchronic perspective. Modern Maltese word formation has scarcely attracted the attention of linguists. This contribution is maybe the first attempt to fill partially this research gap. The analysis carried out identifies and describes briefly several compound types, examining the grammatical status of adjective-noun compounds. The next paper, ‘Auditory and Visual Lexical Decision in Maltese’, explores the organization of the Maltese mental lexicon by exposing a small but adequate number of undergraduate students to given stimuli to different verbal classes and prosodic shapes. The results obtained from these two psycholinguistic experiments support ‘a word base approach to lexical storage’ (p. 242) and contribute to a better knowledge of lexical retrieval in Maltese. Rosner’s article on electronic resources explores the possibilities computer programs offer to develop suitable software for managing a computer-based corpus for 430
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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr022
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Maltese. Since lesser used languages often lack such language-enabled programs, this contribution should be regarded as a welcome exception. The most practical applications are undoubtedly the adapted tag set for Maltese and its defining labels. The following five contributions stick to a long-established area of study in Maltese linguistics: language change and contact. Yoda analyses the vowel system of the oldest known literary text in Maltese, Pietru Caxaro’s Cantilena. Mori works with a larger but also historical corpus of Maltese text exposing the influence of Italian on Maltese during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that has shaped Maltese as a ‘mixed language’. The next article focuses on a regular opposition in Maltese adjective-noun compounds of Romance origin: some adjectives ending in -i (>Italian -e or Sicilian -i) have cognate nouns showing no final vowel. Mifsud draws the attention of the reader to this inflectional subsystem of Maltese that nobody has discussed so far and which he explains historically. Christel Stolz explores in her paper gender assignment strategies for Romance and English loan nouns. With the help of dictionary data Stolz comes to the conclusion that whereas Italo-Romance loan nouns follow in their overwhelming majority the gender assignment of Italian (and Sicilian), inanimate English loan nouns are predominantly masculine. Nouns referring to humans follow the natural gender principle. The article's main achievement is the provision of a model for studying loan word gender which is not only applicable to Maltese. Caruana’s contribution to the volume highlights a well known lexical phenomenon in lesser used languages: the amount of loan words is much higher in formal or, in this case, institutional information, than it is in informal oral and written speech. Two articles on sociolinguistics round the book up. Grima’s empirical investigation on the status of the Gozo dialect in schools points out that Gozitan dialect varieties ‘occupy a privileged position’ in comparison to other Maltese dialects (p. 383), so that they are used even in formal settings. Bonnici’s contribution, the last one presented in the volume, does not belong properly to the study scope of Maltese linguistics. Its inclusion in the book could only be justifiable as a means of analysing the sociolinguistic situation of Maltese in comparison to English (and maybe Italian). As a whole, the volume presents the latest developments in key topics of Maltese linguistics. Most articles should be approachable by anyone with a reasonable background in general linguistics. Some of the contributions, particularly those dealing with syntax, will be the first choice for Maltese grammaticians. Maybe some of the contributors to the volume will publish in future the needed comprehensive (and not just a ‘snapshot’ like Fabri et al. [Maltese Linguistics: A Snapshot. In Memory of Joseph A. Cremona (1922–2003). Bochum 2009]), albeit not so in-depth introduction to the Maltese language. RAÚL SÁNCHEZ PRIETO UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA
CHRISTINA ÁLVAREZ MILLÁN and CLAUDIA HEIDE (eds), Pascual de Gayangos: A Nineteenth-Century Spanish Arabist. Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh 2008. Pp. 256. Price: £50.00. ISBN: 978-0-7486-3547-4. Christina Álvarez Millán and Claudia Heide’s edited volume Pascual de Gayangos: A Nineteenth-Century Spanish Arabist is the outcome of a conference commemorating the 200th anniversary of one of Spain’s most well-known Arabists and biblio431
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philes. Gayangos was born in 1809 and died in 1897. The present volume includes an introduction and ten chapters written by scholars from different disciplines, and the text covers topics such as philology, international relations, Spanish politics and the birth of the academic branch known as Hispano-American studies. Even though all contributions focus on the life and work of Pascual de Gayangos, the book leaves the reader with an impressionistic final result. In making this criticism, I am not saying that this is an uninteresting volume — on the contrary — but it is very difficult to find a coherent structure that holds the book together. The book is divided into four sections: (1) the biography of Gayangos; (2) ‘Arabism’; (3) ‘Gayangos and the English-speaking World’ and (4) ‘Gayangos and Material Culture’. While the first section of the book is focused on the political milieu of Gayangos and his position in the political context of nineteenth-century Spain, the following sections are mainly focused on his relationship with the Anglo-American world. Like so many contemporary scholars, Gayangos built his career around the study of languages, international relations and contacts with scholars outside the Iberian Peninsula. Besides a profound knowledge of Spanish, French and English, he studied Arabic with Silvestre de Sacy in Paris. Soon Gayangos was employed by the Department of Language Interpreters as translator of Latin, German, English, French, Portuguese and Provençal documents. But after his marriage to Frances Revell, Gayangos kept up close relations with London and the English-speaking world, living and working in London for long periods. However, his importance for Spanish history has mainly to do with his organization and cataloguing of Spanish libraries, a work that he carried out for the Real Academia de Historia in Madrid. In order to understand fully the history of the Iberian Peninsula, its language and literature, it was essential for him to incorporate the Arabic heritage and include Arabic sources. Unlike many contemporary scholars who were engaged in writing the history of Spain, Gayangos was an excellent scholar of the Arabic language. His translation of the Arabic historian Al-Maqqari’s work NafÌ al-†ib, published for the first time in 1840–3 with the title History of the Mohammedan Dynasties in Spain, is still an essential work for the writing of the history of al-Andalus. Because of his ability to access Arabic sources, he was able to make an essential contribution to the writing of Spanish history. Compared to his contemporary colleagues, he was also able to view the sources in a more critical and nuanced way. Because of his international contacts, language skills and thorough knowledge of the sources of medieval Spain, Gayangos soon became an indispensible source for international scholars dealing with the medieval history of the Iberian Peninsula and the Spanish conquest of the New World. Consequently, several of the chapters in the book deal with how Gayangos helped international scholars such as Reinhart Dozy, George Ticknor and William Hickling Prescott to collect and acquire books and sources in order to help them publish important work on Spain and Latin America. One of the most interesting aspects of Christina Álvarez Millán and Claudia Heide’s edited volume is that it provides the reader with important insights into the conditions in which historical and linguistic studies were carried out in the nineteenth century. Without international connections, cooperation and book collections, it was almost impossible to do medieval studies at this time. From this point of view, Gayangos is a scholar of international importance, and his contribution to the study of Spanish history is often neglected. By reading this volume, the reader will also acquire an important and critical perspective on current academic discus432
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sions that stress international cooperation, exchange programmes and the importance of international publications. Without downplaying this trend, it is obvious for the modern reader that today most sources are available through research libraries and online editions, and it is not hard to get hold of most manuscripts. From this point of view, it is clear that the conditions for academic research have changed to the better, making the importance of Gayangos’s work even greater. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr023
GÖRAN LARSSON UNIVERSITY OF GOTHENBURG
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 20110 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
SHORT NOTICES LOREN R. FISHER, The Many Voices of Job. Cascade Books, Eugene, Oregon 2009. Pp. xx + 112. Price: $16.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-60608-656-8.
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This book is a fresh translation of the book of Job with a distinctive theory as to the way the book came together and should now be read — in four acts. Fisher essentially puts forward the theory of two Jobs. Job I is an ancient folktale that circulated originally in oral form and is from the time of David around 1000 BCE to which Sumerian, Babylonian and Ugaritic parallels are to be compared. The main evidence for this, outside literary-critical reconstruction, is the reference in Ezek. 14:14, 20 that already knows of a righteous Job. Job I consists of chapters 1, 2, 27, 29–31, 38–42. Job II is ‘the rebel Job’, an anti-monarchical piece which was hidden by the orthodox within Job I. It consists of Job 3–26 and comes from an author in the Jerusalem academy. The prologue to the ‘rebel Job’ is now missing. There are then two other later additions –— Job 28, which is brought into agreement with Job I by verse 28’s pious editor and the Elihu speeches which represents the majority opinion of the state and altar organization versus the rebel Job and hence is a late commentary on Job II. This adds up to a view of Job as a drama in four acts that evolves according to these different recensions. Fisher sees this in terms of different voices in the four parts, the rebel’s voice being ‘180° removed’ (p. xvi) from the other three. Even more ‘voices within the voices’ are also to be heard, e.g. the Satan’s voice in the Prologue (those sections of which he regards as later additions). The scribes have even eliminated some voices in the possible lost sections, e.g. there should perhaps be more at 2:11–13, and disruptions, e.g. chapter 42 cannot, he says, refer to the three friends of the dialogue. On this scheme, whilst the voices of the original three friends cannot be recovered, we have Job’s angry response to them and his wife in Job 27. Fisher writes of the lost friends, ‘whoever silenced them caused a great deal of confusion’ (p. xvii). Fisher wishes to restore the rebel Job to his rightful place in our view of the book. He points out that translation has often been used in the service of promoting the view of Job I, for example the KJV of Job 13: 15 reads, ‘Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: But I will maintain mine own ways before him’. Fisher on the other hand translates, ‘So he will kill me; I have no hope. Yet I will argue my case to his face’. He opposes the reading of Hebrew lî followed by KJV as opposed to lô here, and as followed in most standard modern translations (e.g. NRSV). He writes, ‘The rebel Job is so surrounded by verbiage and hate that his gift to us has been lost’ (p. 101). He admires the play JB as a modern retelling of the Job story in dramatic form and suggests that it could even form an Act 5 of the book. He calls for the need to reinstate the rebel Job so that he speaks to us anew. This book is a refreshing read and the translation is a lively one with useful notes. However, the heavy emphasis on matters of redaction does have a dated feel to it, and does mean that the whole reconstruction depends upon premises about the process of composition. Furthermore, the idea of Job as a drama is a path that scholars have trodden before, but phrasing it in terms of ‘voices’ is an interesting variation. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr024 KATHARINE J. DELL UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
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LOVE L. SECHREST, A Former Jew: Paul and the Dialectics of Race (Library of New Testament Studies 410). Continuum, London 2009. Pp. xiii + 262. Price: £65.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-567-46274-9.
doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr025
ANDREW BOAKYE UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER
JOHN CASEY, After Lives: A Guide to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory. Oxford University Press, Oxford 2010. Pp. viii + 468. Price: £22.50 hardback. ISBN: 978-9-19509295-0. Strikingly, this book’s dust jacket has the same medieval ladder-to-heaven painting as Alan Segal’s Life After Death (Doubleday, 2004). Striking, but unsurprising, since the two volumes address the same issues over the same eras in the same cultures. But there the similarity ends. This is by far the superior, with better structure, greater erudition and less polemic. Starting with James Joyce’s evocative account of traditional Catholic preaching on hell (in Portrait of the Artist), Casey addresses first ‘Dark Futures’ in the ancient and classical worlds, the New Testament and Church Fathers, Dante, the Reformation era, and on to the modern ‘Decline of Hell’. After a brief middle section on Purgatory as ‘Rome’s Happiest Invention?’, the second half explores Heaven, again from early civilisations, through Dante (clearly the author’s favourite muse), Humanists, Protestant and Catholic apologists, Swedenborgism and its offspring Spiritualism, to today’s secular optimism. Casey is a longretired Cambridge academic, evidently at home in classical literature and traditional Christian theology, and well read in most other areas. He is less familiar with the early material, as he acknowledges, and relies on other, often older scholarship. Unfortunately the brief sections on ancient Israel are probably the weakest: the first is mostly on Job, largely follows Brandon (though once cites Levenson) and at one point sinks to uncharacteristic despair (‘Who can decide, where doctors disagree?’, n. 44 p. 412); the second simply summarizes Lang’s four-stage view of afterlife development. A minor irritation concerns ancient texts, with use of the very dated AV/KJV and inconsistency in furnishing translation of other texts. Nevertheless, for the most part, Casey is a well-read and sure-footed guide, with a keen analytic mind
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Dr Love Sechrest is one of a number of scholars attempting to challenge anachronistic definitions of race and ethnicity in order to forge a framework through which Pauline conceptions of Christian identity might be articulated. By a detailed and thorough examination of Jewish and Greco-Roman texts from antiquity, Sechrest demonstrates the discontinuity that exists between ancient and modern notions of ethno-racial classification — most importantly how the modern tendency to overcompartmentalize ethnicity and religion as categories obscures Jewish identity. In so doing, Sechrest proposes that within a Pauline theology of identity, embracing Christian faith amounted to a change of racial identity. Her findings may strike a chord of some controversy amongst identity theorists and commentators of JewishChristian relations alike, but there is, nonetheless, a very clear strength to this work, inasmuch as Sechrest quite convincingly accounts for the often disparate fashion in which Paul elaborates how Israel relates to the church in his arguments. The fluid dynamics of the resultant paradigm Sechrest espouses, which centralises the place of religion (specifically Torah) within Jewish identity, permits a reading of Galatians where Spirit is quite correctly shown to be the index of group membership. This very strong thesis could be enhanced by further development of the significance of Abraham within Pauline ethno-racial dynamics.
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SHORT NOTICES
and a neat turn of phrase, e.g. Overton’s display of logic as ‘sprightly’ (p. 322) or Watts’s heaven containing ‘a celestial colonial civil service’ (p. 326). His own view is only fully apparent in the book’s concluding sentence: ‘Our image of heaven and hell is finally an image of how we judge ourselves.’ I look forward to rereading much of this at leisure. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr026
PHILIP JOHNSTON HUGHES HALL, CAMBRIDGE
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr027 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
BOOKS RECEIVED
Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Toronto Library on August 17, 2011
Youssef H. Aboul-Enein, Militant Islamist Idology: Understanding the Global Threat. Naval Institute Press, Annapolis, MD 2010. Pp. xvii + 252. Price: $37.95 hardback. ISBN: 978-1-59114-001-6. Anthony Bale, Feeling Persecuted: Christians, Jews and Images of Violence in the Middle Ages. Reaktion Books, London 2010. Pp. 254. Price: £29.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-1-86189-761-9. Alejandro F. Botta and Pablo R. Andinach, The Bible and the Hermeneutics of Liberation (Semeia Series 59). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. xii + 259. Price: $31.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-241-1. Yehudah B. Cohn, Tangled Up in Text: Tefillin and the Ancient World (Brown Judaic Studies 351). Brown University, Providence, R.I. 2008. Pp. xi + 202. Price: $32.95 hardback. ISBN: 978-1-930675-56-8. Philip Davis, Bernard Malamud: A Writer’s Life. Oxford University Press, Oxford 2010. Pp. xxii + 377. Price: £12.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-19-957147-5. Maribel Fierro (ed.), Judíos y musulmanes en al-Andalus y el Magreb: Contactos intelectuales (Collection de la Casa de Velázquez Volume no. 74). Casa de Velázquez, Madrid 2002. Pp. xiv + 254. ISBN: 84-95-555-23-9. Steven Fine, Art & Judaism in the Greco-Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2010. Pp. xxv + 271. Price: £21.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-521-14567-1 Muriel R. Gillick, Once They Had a Country: Two Teenage Refugees in the Second World War. The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa, AB 2010. Pp. 224. Price: $19.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-8173-5620-0. Lester L. Grabbe, An Introduction to Second Temple Judaism History and Religion of the Jews in the Time of Nehemiah, the Maccabees, Hillel, and Jesus. T & T Clark, London 2010. Pp. xvi + 150. Price: £16.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-567-55248-8. International Review of Biblical Studies/Internationale Zeitschriftenschau für Biblewissenschaft und Grenzgebiete/Revue Internationale des Études Bibliques Volume 55 2008–2000. Brill, Leiden 2010. Pp. xiii + 530. Price: /142.00/ $210.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-90-04-18134-2. Julie Kalman, Rethinking Antisemitism in Nineteenth-Century France. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2010. Pp. xii + 234. Price: £55.00 hardback. 9780-521-89732-7. Ralph Keen, Exile and Restoration in Jewish Thought: An Essay in Interpretation (Continuum Studies in Jewish Thought). Continuum, London 2009. Pp. x + 171. Price: £65.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-8264-5308-2. Edward Kessler, An Introduction to Jewish-Christian Relations. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2010. Pp. xix + 243. Price £17.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-521-70562-2. Steven L. McKenzie, Introduction to the Historical Books: Strategies for Reading. Wm. B. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids 2010. Pp. vii + 169. Price: $18.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-8028-2877-4. Thomas F. Michel, edited by Irfan A. Omar, A Christian View of Islam: Essays on Dialogue (Faith Meets Faith). Orbis Books, New York 2010. Pp. xvii + 214. Price: $34.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-57075-860-7. 439
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BOOKS RECEIVED
Alan Mittleman, Hope in a Democratic Age. Oxford University Press, Oxford 2009. Pp. viii + 298. Price: £20.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-19-929715-3. Anita Norich and Yaron Z. Eliav (eds), Jewish Literatures and Cultures: Context and Intercontext (Brown Judaic Studies 349). Brown University, Providence, R.I. 2008. Pp. xi + 260. Price: $39.95 hardback. ISBN: 978-1-930675-55-1. Old Testament Abstracts. Volume 33:2 (2010) ISSN: 0364-8591. David T. Runia and Gregory E. Sterling (eds), The Studia Philonica Annual: Studies in Hellenistic Judaism Volume XXI, 2009. Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. viii + 161. ISBN: 978-1-58983-443-9. Jan G. Van der Watt (ed.), Review of Biblical Literature 2009. Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. vi + 574. ISSN: 1099-0046.
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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/2 Autumn 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgr028 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.
JOURNAL OF SEMITIC STUDIES VOLUME LVI (2011) INDEX ARTICLES
ELITZUR A. BAR-ASHER SIEGAL, ‘On the Passiveness of One Pattern in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic – a Linguistic and Philological Discussion’ 111 D.R.G. BEATTIE and PHILIP R. DAVIES, ‘What Does Hebrew Mean?’
71
J.F. COAKLEY, ‘When were the Five Greek Vowel-Signs Introduced into Syriac Writing?’ 307 GALIA HATAV, ‘Past and Future Interpretation of Wayyiqtol’
85
BERNARD JACKSON, ‘The ‘Institutions’ of Marriage and Divorce in the Hebrew Bible’ 221 OLIVER KAHL, ‘The Pharmacological Tables of Rhazes’
367
LILY OKALANI KAHN, ‘The Grammatical Composition of the Early Hasidic Hebrew Tale’ 327 HARRIET NASH and DIONISIUS A. AGIUS, ‘The Use of Stars in Agriculture in Oman’ 167 ADINA MOSHAVI, ‘Can a Positive Rhetorical Question have a Positive Answer in the Bible?’ 253 TANIA NOTARIUS, ‘Temporality and Atemporality in the Language of Biblical Poetry’ 275
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WOUT VAN BEKKUM and NAOYA KATSUMATA, ‘Importance of Saadia Gaon’s Poetry for the Construction of a Dictionary of Early Medieval Piyyut: The Example of Essa Meshali ’ 145
SAUL M. OLYAN, ‘A Suggestion Regarding the Derivation of the Hebrew Noun merea‘ ' 217 MUN’IM SIRRY, ‘The Early Development of the Quranic Îanif ’
345
CHRISTIAN STADEL, ‘Syntagmen mit Nachgestelltem kl im Alt-, Reichsund Mittelaramäisch’
37
EULÀLIA VERNET, ‘Semitic Root Incompatibilities and Historical Linguistics’
1
MICHAEL WALTISBERG, ‘The Case Functions in Amorite – a Reevaluation’
19
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REVIEWS
Christina ÁLVAREZ MILLÁN and Claudia HEIDE (eds), Pascual de 431 Gayangos: A Nineteenth-Century Spanish Arabist (Göran LARSSON) Silje ALVESTAD and Lutz EDZARD, la-Ìsoß, but la-Ìzor? Sonority, Opti404 mality and the Hebrew פ׳׳חforms (Elitzur BAR-ASHER SIEGAL) Francesco ASPESI, Vermondo BRUGNATELLI, Anna Linda CALLOW and Claudia ROSENZWEIG (eds), Il mio cuore è a Oriente, במזרח לבי. Studi di linguistica storica, filologia e cultura ebraica dedicati a Maria Luisa Mayer Modena; Claudia ROSENZWEIG, Anna Linda CALLOW, Vermondo BRUGNATELLI and Francesco ASPESI (eds), Florilegio Filologico Linguistico. Haninura de Bon Siman a Maria Luisa Mayer Modena 183 (Eleonora CUSSINI)
Nancy CALVERT-KOYZIS and Heather E. WEIR (eds), Strangely Familiar: Protofeminist Interpretations of Patriarchal Biblical Texts (Mary MILLS) 409 Massimo CAMPANINI, An Introduction to Islamic Philosophy (Dimitri 205 GUTAS) Bernard COMRIE, Ray FABRI, Elizabeth HUME, Manwel MIFSUD, Thomas STOLZ and Martine VANHOVE (eds), Introducing Maltese Linguistics: Selected papers from the 1st International Conference on Maltese 429 Linguistics, Bremen, 18–20 October, 2007 (Raúl SÁNCHEZ PRIETO) Patricia CRONE, From Arabian Tribes to Islamic Empire: Army, State 206 and Society in the Near East c.600–850 (Andrew MARSHAM) Ziad ELMARSAFY, The Enlightenment Qur’an: The Politics of Transla202 tion and the Construction of Islam (Clinton BENNETT) Zygmunt FRAJZYNGIER and Erin SHAY (eds), Interaction of Morphology 425 and Syntax: Case Studies in Afroasiatic (Janet C.E. WATSON)
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Randall C. BAILEY, Tat-siong Benny LIEW AND Fernando F. SEGOVIA, They Were All Together in One Place: Toward Minority Biblical Criti401 cism (Andrew BOAKYE)
Gregg GARDNER and Kevin OSTERLOH (eds), Antiquity in Antiquity: 196 Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World (Judith LIEU) Susan HABER, edited by Adele Reinhartz, “They Shall Purify Them191 selves”: Essays on Purity in Early Judaism (Mila GINSBURSKAYA) Finn Ove HVIDBERG-HANSEN, ’ArÒû and ‘Azîzû: A Study of the West 417 Semitic “Dioscuri” and the Gods of Dawn and Dusk (Ted KAIZER) Brad E. KELLE and Frank RITCHEL AMES (eds), Writing and Reading War: Rhetoric, Gender, and Ethics in Biblical and Modern Contexts 189 (C.S. RODD) 444
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Cheryl KIRK-DUGGAN and Tina PIPPIN (eds), Mother Goose, Mother Jones, Mommie Dearest: Biblical Mothers and Their Children (Mary 410 MILLS) Geoffrey KHAN, The Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Barwar; Geoffrey KHAN, 199 The Jewish Neo-Aramaic of Urmi (Aaron D. RUBIN) Yoo-Ki KIM, The Function of the Tautological Infinitive in Classical 406 Biblical Hebrew (Tamar ZEWI) Y. LEVIN (ed.), A Time of Change: Judah and its Neighbours in the 187 Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods (Mark GELLER) Kevin M. MCGEOUGH, Exchange Relationships at Ugarit (W.G.E. 185 WATSON) Hezy MUTZAFI, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Betanure (Province 419 of Dihok) (Eleanor COGHILL)
Michael R. STEAD, The Intertextuality of Zechariah 1–8 (Marvin A. 414 SWEENEY) Tessa RAJAK, Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible of the Ancient 193 Jewish Diaspora (Emanuel TOV) Daniel RYNHOLD, An Introduction to Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy 198 (A.H. LESSER) Alexander SIMA, Mehri-Texte aus der jemenitischen Sarqiyah (Aaron 427 D. RUBIN) Kees VERSTEEGH ET AL., (eds), Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics 4: Q–Z; Kees VERSTEEGH ET AL., (eds), Encyclopedia of 422 Arabic Language and Linguistics 5: Index (Aaron D. RUBIN) Roman VIELHAUER, Das Werden des Buches Hosea: Eine redaktion412 schichtliche Untersuchung (A.A. MACINTOSH)
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Dietmar NEUFELD (ed.), The Social Sciences and Biblical Translation 402 (J.W. ROGERSON)
SHORT NOTICES
Isabelle ASSAN-DHÔTE and Jacqueline MOATTI-FINE, La Bible d’Alexandrie Ruth (Timothy H. LIM) 213 John CASEY, After Lives: A Guide to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory 436 (Philip JOHNSTON) Federico CORRIENTE, Dictionary of Arabic and Allied Loanwords: Spanish, Portuguese, Catalan, Galician and Kindred Dialects (Anthony 214 JOHN LAPPIN) Loren R. FISHER, The Many Voices of Job (Katherine J. DELL)
435
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Charlotte ELISHEVA FONROBERT and Martin S. JAFFEE (eds), The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (Rocco 213 BERNASCONI) Harry A. HOFFNER JR, Letters from the Hittite Kingdom (Trevor R. BRYCE) 211 Nancy C. LEE and Carleen MANDOLFO (eds), Lamentations in Ancient 212 and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (Paul JOYCE) Love L. SECHREST, A Former Jew: Paul and the Dialectics of Race 436 (Andrew BOAKYE) REVIEWERS
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Bar-Asher Siegal, E.A., Alvestad and Edzard Bennett, C., Elmarsafy Bernasconi, R., Fonrobert and Jaffee Boakye, A., Bailey, Liew and Segovia, Sechrest Bryce, T.R., Hoffner Coghill, E., Mutzafi Cussini, E., Aspesi, Brugnatelli, Callow and Rosenzweig, Rosenzweig, Callow, Brugnatelli and Aspesi Dell, K., Fisher Geller, M., Levin Ginsburskaya, M., Haber Gutas, D., Campanini Johnston, P. Casey Joyce, P., Lee and Mandolfo Kaizer, T., Hvidberg-Hansen Lappin, A.J., Corriente Larsson, G., Millán and Heide Lesser, A.H., Rynhold Lieu, J., Gardner and Osterloh Lim, T.H., Assan-Dhôte and Moatti-Fine Macintosh, A.A., Vielhauer Marsham, A., Crone Mills, M., Calvert-Koyzis and Weir, Kirk-Duggan and Pippin Rodd, C.S., Kelle and Ames Rogerson, J.W., Neufeld Rubin, A.D., Khan, Sima, Versteegh et al., Versteegh et al. Sánchez Prieto, R., Comrie, Fabri, Hume, Mifsud, Stolz and Vanhove Sweeney, M.A., Stead Tov, E., Rajak Watson, J.C.E., Frajzyngier and Shay Watson, W.G.E., McGeough Zewi, T., Kim 446
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