Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
Guy Stroumsa
David Shulman
Hebrew University of Jerusalem
Department of Comparative Religion
VOLUME 6
The Poetics of
Grammar and the
Metaphysics of
Sound and Sign
Edited by
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2007
The JSRC book series aims to publish the best of scholarship on religion, on the highest
international level. Jerusalem is a major center for the study of monotheistic religions, or
“religions of the book”. The creation of a Center for the Study of Christianity has added
a significant emphasis on Christianity. Other religions, like Zoroastrianism, Hinduism,
Buddhism, and Chinese religion, are studied here, too, as well as anthropological stud-
ies or religious phenomena. This book series will publish dissertations, re-written and
translated into English, various monographs and books emerging from conferences.
A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the Library of Congress
ISSN: 1570-078X
ISBN: 978 90 04 15810 8
Introduction ........................................................................................ 1
S. La Porta and D. Shulman
PART ONE
CREATION
PART TWO
CULTURAL ENCODING
PART THREE
SELFTRANSFORMATION
A great thing for them was the voice of the Creator, which shouted out
over the earth,
And he taught them a new book, which they did not know.
As if for children, he wrote a sound instead of letters,
And he caused them to meditate upon those characters concerning the
existence of light.
Like a line he made straight the expression before their sight,
And they began crying, “Blessed is the creator who created the light!”
“Let there be light,” cried the voice which possesses no voice,
And the word issued forth to action without delay.
These verses are from the memrâ of Narsai of Nisibis (399–402) entitled
“On the Expression, ‘In the Beginning’ and Concerning the Existence
of God,”1 one of the most powerful statements about language in the
Syriac Christian corpus. Narsai, the rabban (director) of the school at
Edessa that focused on biblical interpretation, evokes in this passage
the inherent tension between the semantic and trans-semantic modes
of language—language as Creator and created, as sound and symbol, as
model and actualization. Here language is the constructive element of
the universe, its grammar the order and wonder of cosmic operation.
According to Narsai, the creation, already formed by God but hidden
as with a cloak, does not fully come into existence until communication
between God and the intelligible universe begins. The previous verses
of the poem tell us that God has already once exclaimed “Let there be
light”, to which the angels now respond. Although the world has come
into existence by means of God’s initial exclamation, He withholds its
full actualization until the angelic host achieves awareness. It is only
after their acclamation of praise that He once again releases His effectual
pronouncement. The created universe is thus an echo, a reduplicated
sound which refers to itself, but that sound is a voice that has issued
1
Trigg 1988, 213–214; Syriac text and French translation in Gignoux 1968, 570–3,
ll. 249–56.
2 s. la porta and d. shulman
from no-voice, from silence, and only derives its full meaning and effi-
cacy from the angelic antiphonal.
According to Narsai, God exits from his silence into this conversa-
tion in order to teach his remzâ—symbol, sign, mystery, suggestion—to
the angels. In the work of Syriac authors of the 5th and 6th century, as
Gignoux and Alwan have demonstrated, the remzâ also encapsulates
the divine power that creates the universe, holds it together, arranges it,
and refashions it at the eschaton (i.e., the end of days).2 The remzâ is the
ultimate referent but is itself a symbol, transcending linguistic potential;
it is an ineffable sign that refers to something that is beyond reference
and therefore refers only to itself.
The understanding and effectuality of that remzâ in Narsai’s poem,
however, is related to the angelic praise—the actualization of the remzâ
awaits the recognition and praise of the angelic host. It is clear from
this emphasis on ‘praise’ that Narsai is here depicting the first heavenly
liturgy. Through participation in this liturgical praise the angels become
aware of the mysterious sign, the remzâ—‘more beautiful than the light
itself ’—as well as of the universe, from the creation to the end, and of
their own existence. The impact of this sacred act is not limited to the
celestial sphere. As the reflection of the heavenly liturgy, the earthly,
ecclesiastical liturgy partakes of this continuing cosmogonic revelation
of the remzâ, and through communion in this liturgy, its participants
likewise share in the knowledge of the ineffable beauty of the creation
and of themselves. While God thus imparts His remzâ to the angels as a
sound that attains actualization through the angelic echo of praise, He
teaches his remzâ to humanity through scripture, whose fulfillment is
attained through the liturgical act. The complete revelation of the remzâ
transforms both angels and men and, ultimately, the universe itself.
Narsai’s cosmogony of the remzâ exemplifies the kind of problems
with which this volume is concerned. The remzâ is close to what we will
be calling grammar—a paradigmatic mapping or reality made accessible
to the angels as a creative sound functioning as a sign and to human
beings as written signs, actualized in the audible, spoken liturgy. One
could go much further in exploring this particular Syriac grammar; but
in fact sounds and signs are everywhere, in all civilizations, saturated
with metaphysical content. They always tend to be organized in ‘gram-
mars’—sets of rules regulating the relations and transitions between
2
Gignoux 1966; Alwan 1988/89.
introduction 3
3
Patanjali 1962.
4 s. la porta and d. shulman
an inscription with the Greek word ei—‘you exist’ or, maybe, ‘if ’. . . .4 The
word itself is clearly a trigger to altered perception, its grammatical ambi-
guity—verb, conditional particle—instigating theosophical ambiguity.
Such effects may have been a normative component in oracular speech.
Among Christian theologians, there developed a ‘sacred’ grammar in
which the tools uncovered by their pagan predecessors unlocked the
doors to knowledge of the Bible and its Creator. For example, Origen, in
the Prologue to his Commentary on the Song of Songs, regards gram-
mar as an absolutely necessary fundament to any intellectual and spir-
itual progress; grammar permeates all levels of science:
There are three general disciplines by which one attains knowledge of the
universe. The Greeks call them ethics, physics, and enoptics; and we can
give them the terms moral, natural, and contemplative. Some among the
Greeks, of course, also add logic as a fourth, which we can call reasoning.
Others say that it is not a separate discipline, but is intertwined and bound
up through the entire body with the three disciplines we have mentioned.
For this ‘logic,’ or as we have said, reasoning, which apparently includes
the rules for words and speech, is instruction in proper and improper
meanings, general and particular terms, and the inflections of the differ-
ent sorts of words. For this reason it is suitable that this discipline should
not so much be separated from the others as bound in with them and
hidden.5
While it is true that the object of Origen’s discussion is the correct read-
ing and grasping of the biblical text, it is impossible to distinguish his
textual world from the physical one, and thus the latter is equally ame-
nable to a grammatical reading. In ninth-century Latin monasteries,
grammar was the foundation of the liberal arts, the key to understand-
ing the Bible and reality, and an instrument of salvation. Maurus Raba-
nus emphasizes the importance of grammar in the preface to his De
clericum insitutione:
Know, brethren, what the law requires
Which fitly commands us to know the Word of God.
It asks that he who has ears, should hear
What the Holy Spirit speaks in the Church.
Through grammar the Psalmist brings this to the people,
Duly confirming their grasp on the law of God.
4
Plutarch 1969.
5
Origen 1979, 231.
introduction 5
6
Cited in Colish 1983, 64. On the importance of grammar for ninth-century Latin
monasticism, see also Leclercq 1948, 15–22.
6 s. la porta and d. shulman
3. What is Grammar?
7
See S. La Porta’s contribution to this volume as well as Ervine 1995, 158.
introduction 7
iota, just as he imitated all such notions as ψυχρόν (cold, shivering), ζέον
(seething), σείεσθαι (shake), and σεισμός (shock) by means of phi, psi,
and zeta, because those letters are pronounced with much breath. When-
ever he imitates that which resembles blowing, the giver of names always
appears to use for the most part such letters. And again he appears to
have thought that the compression and pressure of the tongue in the pro-
nunciation of delta and tau was naturally fitted to imitate the notion of
binding and rest. And perceiving that the tongue has a gliding movement
most in the pronunciation of lambda, he made the words λει ːα (level),
ὀλισθάνειν (glide) itself, λιπαρόν (sleek), κολλωː δες (glutinous), and the
like to conform to it. Where the gliding of the tongue is stopped by the
sound of gamma he reproduced the nature of γλισχρόν (glutinous), γλυκύ
(sweet), and γλοιωː δες (gluey). And again perceiving that nu is an internal
sound, he made the words ἔνδον (inside) and ἐντός (within), assimilat-
ing the meanings to the letters, and alpha again he assigned to greatness,
and eta to length, because the letters are large. He needed the sign O for
the expression of γόγγυλον (round), and made it the chief element of the
word. Thus the legislator seems to have applied all the rest [of the letters],
making a sign or names for each existing thing out of [these] letters and
syllables; and in like fashion [he seems] then to have formed out of these
[names and signs] everything else—by means of these same [letters and
syllables]. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the truth of names.8
In the conclusion to his list of examples, Socrates says that God or the
divine legislator first created the universe, including apparently its lin-
guistic constituents, then produced names that have an intrinsic relation
to the phonetic materials which constitute them. The process includes
several stages including a final one compounding the coordinated pho-
netic materials to produce further names and signs and the phenomena
construed out of them. Implicit in this view is a strong notion of a gram-
maticalized universe—mostly iconic, logically and syntactically ordered,
and generative. This vision of a linguistically imprinted universe exerts
so powerful a fascination that even Socrates, for all his radical skepti-
cism, seems unable to escape it.
A line leads from this point in the direction of a magical or sympa-
thetic pragmatics such as we see in the Greek and Coptic magical papyri
(circa 2nd c. bc to 2nd c. ad). As Patricia Cox Miller aptly observes,
“when juxtaposed with the magical papyri, the Cratylus reads like the
manual of instructions out of which the authors of those texts worked,
8
Plato 1977, 145–7 (426D–427D). We have altered the last two sentences of the
translation.
introduction 9
patiently dividing language into letters, letters into vowels, and so on.”9
There is an implicit notion of grammar as a systematic mechanics order-
ing the use of these efficacious materials. The papyri do not offer us a
grammar; they presuppose one.
There are still more far reaching possibilities to mention only a few
that are germane to the following essays: We have Abulafia’s theology of
the name as well as Kabbalistic theories of creative sounds and syllables
(as in Sefer Yezˢira); Bhartrˢhari’s vision of a buzzing, humming, inherently
divine linguistic world underlying and predating words and objects; the
Christian apotheosis of grammar in God as Logos; the earlier Biblical
insistence that God is a verb (‘to be’); and Ibn al-ʚArabī’s reading of the
cosmos as an evolution from the divine imperative.10 For all such con-
ceptual models, some notion of grammar, however minimal, provides a
necessary condition for the operation of a linguistic cosmos.
Yet if grammar comes to provide an authoritative paradigm for read-
ing the world, we inevitably find voices that reject or rebel against this
patterning. There are two skeptical approaches to the inherently linguis-
tic ordering of the cosmos, both of which paradoxically end up reaffirm-
ing that very principle. One distrusts language as an accurate medium
for truth without denying the latent grammaticality of reality. In such a
view, ordinary language is incapable of expressing or containing the true
underlying richness of experience. The only hope lies in repackaging
and reordering the linguistic materials, sometimes in a trans-semantic
mode. As M. Finkelberg says in her essay in this volume, “For Plato as
for many others, rather than in language, the true grammar of the uni-
verse resided in the all-embracing harmony of music and number that
represented the world order as it really is.”
A second, more radical and subversive attitude seeks to undermine
and dissolve anything that looks like authoritative syntax or semantics.
There is a continuing tradition of such voices from the Nag Hammadi
codices of Late Antiquity11 to the Dadaist poets of the twentieth cen-
tury. W. Bohn remarks in the introduction to his anthology of Dada
poetry that “opposing discursive and nondiscursive structures to each
other, the Dadaists were among the first to discover that words could be
used to convey information that was essentially extralinguistic.”12 Note,
9
Miller 1989, 492.
10
See S. Sviri’s essay in this volume.
11
See, e.g., Miller 1989, 481–2.
12
Bohn 1993, xviii.
10 s. la porta and d. shulman
however, that this vision, too, ultimately acknowledges and uses the lin-
guistic building blocks that it finds so repulsive.
If even conventionalist and skeptical views cannot avoid conceiving
reality grammatically, it is no wonder that grammar serves as a cultur-
ally privileged mode for cognitive mapping. As such, it is also a good
basis for the cross-cultural comparisons we are attempting here.
1. Creation
Often we find a strong notion of creativity as an inherently linguistic act.
As we saw in Narsai and as we know from other biblical and post-bibli-
cal traditions, God creates the world by speech of one kind or another—
imperative, dialogic, meditative, mantric. In India, too, language is the
creative mode par excellence, embodied in the goddess Vāc (‘voice’),
without whom no cosmos is possible.
Jan Assmann’s article uncovers a differential typology of linguistic
creativity in ancient Egypt. Creation, whether conceived as an ‘intran-
sitive’ cosmogony or a ‘transitive’ intentional act ultimately evolves a
mythology which “shows the structure of the divine world to be pri-
marily linguistic.” In the Egyptian case, this linguistic blueprint for real-
ity materializes itself in the cosmic grammatology of the hieroglyphic
signs. This link between writing and speech or sound is a rich compara-
tive theme in its own right, as we see from M. Kern’s essay on Chinese
bronze inscriptions in section 2 and in S. La Porta’s essay on Armenian
theories of Logos and sign in section 3.
Sara Sviri explores the immense ramifications of a single Arabic word
(spoken by God), namely, kun, ‘be’! This Qur’ānic theme exfoliates itself
in Sufi theories of creation as a divine linguistic imperative, which the
human mystic assimilates and imitates in his own being. As Sviri shows,
the creative power of this single word becomes in Ibn al-ʚArabī the key
to the insoluble but generative “perplexity between the ‘yes’ and the ‘no’,”
which lies at the heart of Ibn al-‘Arabī’s mystic anthropology.
introduction 11
2. Encoding
To postulate grammar as an underlying grid or template allows the
possibility of mapping the cultural topography which is often deeply
encoded. As we stated earlier, visions of culture as grammaticalized
sometimes privileged non-semantic or trans-semantic effects. Language
may operate in a highly regular but non-transparent manner. In all such
cases, the culture will elaborate a set of rules of interpretation, or pro-
tocol of reading—what we would call poetics. In other words, we take
poetics as the hermeneutics of a grammaticalized universe. Since each
culture encodes its grammar differently, distinctive configurations stand
out clearly when we attempt to formulate or formalize such a poetic her-
meneutic in a cross-cultural comparison.
In India, for example, poetics is a natural extension of the gram-
matical sciences whose terminology and hermeneutic procedures it
adopts. Y. Bronner reveals the operation of one primary mechanism,
the simile, that becomes a building block for the logical analysis of figu-
ration. Poetic language, for these poeticians, operates by a set of logical
relations that diverge radically from ‘normal’ speech. Such operations
require decoding and philosophical formulation. In other words, poetics
12 s. la porta and d. shulman
3. Self-Transformation
One of the most striking features of the diverse traditions studied here—
all presupposing a grammatical foundation culturally encoded and
introduction 13
poetically elaborated—is the ease with which they open up the possibil-
ity for existential transformation. Stated differently, the particular poet-
ics of grammar construct a bridge between the structured metaphysical
domain and the individual self. Again and again, our texts offer pro-
grams for potential re-formation of the person who knows the grammar
and the valence of sounds and signs. The final section of this volume
presents four distinct cultural approaches to a language-based pragmat-
ics of self-transformation.
J. Garb focuses on the power of those radically non-semantic aspects
of language, such as voice and breath, in certain strands of Kabbalistic
praxis. Although these aspects have received much less attention than
the powers operative within Hebrew letters and words, they nonethe-
less possess a theurgic potential rooted in the isomorphic relationship
between human and divine breathing. Here we find a grammar of per-
haps the most elemental aspect of language, that is, the breath that pre-
cedes and sustains articulation. The Kabbalist who gains access to this
level of awareness, either individually or as part of a communal voice,
impacts upon the internal composition of the deity and, in consequence,
upon his own state of being. Garb situates his discussion within a com-
parative framework drawing parallels between Kabbalistic and tantric
reflections on the power and uses of non-semanticized speech.
Tom Hunter’s article begins with the theme of encoding, which in Java
takes the form of an ‘orthographic mysticism’. The sheer graphic shape of
the syllables turns out to be pregnant with vast energies available to the
mystic. The grapheme resonates with the sonic levels of reality defined
and contoured by poetry. The guiding principle is one of aesthetic con-
densation of metaphysical forces that, once controlled within the highly
structured domain of kakawin poetry, are capable of revolutionizing the
listener’s self-awareness.
The Javanese example emerges in part from the kind of transforma-
tive linguistic practices that we find in Hindu-Buddhist tantra. David
Shulman attempts to work out a rule-bound semiotic of mantric syl-
lables both in South Indian poetics and in a major text of the Śrīvidyā
cult. The successful application of syllable sequences by a practitioner
who knows and understands their grammar of resonance enables him
or her to materialize the goddess—who is the world—in her full, imme-
diate presence. Readers who want to try it out for themselves should
follow the rules given in the article—carefully.
Finally, the Armenian materials discussed by S. La Porta offer per-
haps the most complete elaboration of a grammar of sound and sign.
14 s. la porta and d. shulman
References
Alwan, K. 1988/89. “Le ‘remzō’ selon la pensée de Jacques de Saroug.” Parole de l’Orient
15: 91–106.
Bohn, W. (tr.) 1993. The Dada Market: An Anthology of Poetry. Carbondale: Southern
Illinois University Press.
Colish, M. 1983. The Mirror of Language: A Study in the Medieval Theory of Knowledge.
Rev. ed. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.
Ervine, R. 1995. “Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i Pluz’s Compilation of Commentary on Grammar
as a starting point for the study of Medieval Grammars.” In New Approaches to
Medieval Armenian Language and Literature, ed. J.J.S. Weitenberg. Dutch Studies in
Armenian Language and Literature 3. Amsterdam, Atlanta: Rodopi, 149–66.
Gignoux, P. 1966. “Les doctrines eschatologiques de Narsaï.” Oriens Syrianus 11: 321–52
and 461–88.
———— 1968. Homélies de Narsaï sur la Création, Patrologia Orientalis 34.3–4. Turn-
hout: Brepols.
Leclercq, J. 1948. “Smagarde et la grammaire chrétienne.” Revue du Moyen Age Latin
4: 15–22.
Miller, P.C. 1989. “In Praise of Nonsense.” In Classical Mediterranean Spirituality, ed.
A. Hilary Armstrong, 489–505. New York: Crossroad.
Origen 1979. “Prologue” to the Commentary on the Song of Songs. In Origen: An Exhor-
tation to Martyrdom, Prayer, and Selected Works. Ed. R. Greer, The Classics of West-
ern Spirituality, New York: Paulist Press.
Patanjali 1962. Paspaśāhnika. Poona.
Plato 1977. Plato: Cratylus, Parmenides, Greater Hippias, Lesser Hippias. Tr. H.N. Fowler.
Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Plutarch 1969. “De e apud Delphos.” In Moralia. Tr. F.C. Babbitt. Loeb Classical Library.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 384–94.
J. Trigg 1988, Biblical Interpretation. Wilmington, Del.: M. Glazier.
PART ONE
CREATION
CREATION THROUGH HIEROGLYPHS:
THE COSMIC GRAMMATOLOGY OF ANCIENT EGYPT
Jan Assmann
1
Freud 2000, 227–34, a short article published in 1910 and based upon K. Abel, Über
den Gegensinn der Urworte, 1884, which in its turn is dependent mostly upon Ancient
Egyptian examples.
18 jan assmann
five children: Osiris, Seth, Isis, Nephthys, and Horus. Horus, however, is
also the child of Osiris and Isis, forming the fourth generation.
Atum is the only god who has no parents and came spontaneously
into being. He is therefore called kheper-djesef, “the self-generated one”,
in Greek “autogenes”. This idea of a self-generated primordial deity per-
sonifying the origin of the universe had an enormous influence not only
within the three millennia of ancient Egyptian cosmo-theological spec-
ulations but far beyond. The terms autogenes and monogenes abound
in the Hermetic, Neoplatonic and related writings. In the Heliopolitan
cosmogony, his mode of generating Shu and Tefnut is depicted as an act
of masturbation and ejaculation, or of coughing and spitting, all of
which are images for the idea of motherless procreation. Since the
Egyptians ascribed the same mode of procreation also to the scarab-
beetle scarabaeus sacer, this animal became a symbol of the “autogenic”
god. Creation through procreation is a “biomorphic” concept, which is
closer to cosmogony than to creation. There is no planning and no goal-
directed activity involved. Also the unfolding of a genealogy in four
generations may be seen as a form of natural growth, rather than of
technical construction.
The gods, however, interfere with creative acts into this natural pro-
cess. Atum, having turned into the sun god Re and ruling his creation
as the first king, decides after rebellious intentions against his rule by
humankind to separate heaven and earth, to raise the sky high above the
earth and to withdraw thither with the gods, leaving the kingship to his
son Shu, who, being the god of the air, is perfectly fit for the task both of
separating and connecting the spheres of gods and humans. The Egyp-
tian story of the separation of heaven and earth has many parallels in the
biblical story of the flood. In both cases, humankind is nearly annihi-
lated and a new order is established which guarantees the continuation
of the world under new conditions: in the Bible under the conditions of
the Noachidic laws, in Egypt under the conditions of the state, which
serves as a kind of church, establishing communication with the divine
under the conditions of separation. The Heliopolitan cosmogony is at
the same time what may be called a “cratogony”: a mythical account of
the emergence and development of political power. At the beginning,
be-reshit, is kingship. Kingship or rulership is conceived of in Egypt
as the continuation of creation under the conditions of existence. It is
first exercised by the creator himself in a still state-less form of immedi-
ate rulership and passes from him to Shu, to Geb and to Osiris. With
Shu, it loses its immediate character and takes on the forms of symbolic
creation through hieroglyphs 19
2
CT VII 464–5; cf. also infra 1.4.
3
Cf. the emergence of the “Eight Heh Gods” on the occasion of a conversation
between Atum and Nun CT II 5–8; cf. Sauneron and Yoyotte 1959, 47.
4
Or, with Zandee 1992, 36f.: “between these” (nn = demonstrative, referring to
“heaven and earth”). The words, jmjtw nn, occur in a similar context in pLeiden I 344v.,
i, 7.
20 jan assmann
5
Zandee 1992, 99, ll. 15–16.
6
BM 29944 ed. Steward, JEA 53,37.
7
Amarna ÄHG no. 92,79.
creation through hieroglyphs 21
The one who created the earth in the seeking (enquiring spirit) of his
heart.8
The one who created heaven and earth with his heart.10
Conspicuously frequent is this motif in hymns to Ptah, the god of
Memphis:
The one who created the arts
and gave birth to the gods as a creation his heart.11
8
Leiden K1.
9
pBerlin 3049,XI,3–4 = ÄHG no. 127B,80.
10
Neschons, 9–10 = ÄHG no. 131,26.
11
Berlin 6910, Ägyptische Inschriften 1913–1924, II:66–7.
12
TT 44(5) (unpubl.).
13
pHarris, I,44,5 = ÄHG no. 199,7.
14
Copenhagen A 719 = ÄHG no. 223,7.
15
pBerlin 3048,III,1 = ÄHG no. 143,22.
22 jan assmann
16
pCairo 58038,vi,3. prr.n must be a mistake; read prrw or pr.n.
17
STG Text no. 188 (e).
18
RT 13, 163.16.
19
Ramses III’s hymn, Reliefs and Inscriptions at Karnak I, OIP XXV pl. xxv = ÄHG
no. 196.
20
Otto 1964, 58ff.; Schott and Erichsen 1954, no. 2,12; Sauneron 1963, V 261 (a).
21
Orph. fr. 28 Abel.
22
Dieterich 1891, 28; Proclus on Plato, Politics 385.
23
Esna no. 272,2–3; cf. also Sauneron 1963, V, 142.
creation through hieroglyphs 23
24
Cairo JE 11509; see J. Assmann 1995, 127.
25
See J. Assmann 1995, 120–5.
26
ÄHG, no. 87C; RuA, pp. 176–177.
24 jan assmann
27
STG, No. 149 p. 188f.
28
Memphite Theology 55; similarly pBerlin 3055 XVI 3ff. = ÄHG no. 122,7.
29
This is true of entities such as “heaven”, “sun”, “moon” “king”, which have to be
understood as one-element classes.
30
Cf. n. 1.
creation through hieroglyphs 25
The Memphite Theology has always been interpreted as the closest Egyp-
tian parallel to the Biblical idea of creation through the word.31
The gods that originated from Ptah/became Ptah (. . .)
originated through the heart as symbol of Atum,
originated through the tongue as symbol of Atum,
being great and powerful.
It came to pass that heart and tongue gained power over all other parts
on the basis of the teaching that it [the heart] is in every body and it
[the tongue] in
every mouth
of all gods, humans,
animals, insects, and all living things,
the heart thinking and the tongue commanding whatever they desire.
In the guise of tongue and heart a portion of Ptah’s original creative
power remains in all living things that have come forth from him. An
anthropological discourse now beings:
His Ennead stood before him
as teeth, that is the seed of Atum,
and as lips, that is the hands of Atum.
Verily, the Ennead of Atum originated
through his seed and through his fingers.
But the Ennead is in truth teeth and lips
in this mouth of him who thought up the names of all things,
from whom Shu and Tefnut came forth, he who created the Ennead.
This section of the Theology has always been interpreted as a polemical
engagement with Heliopolis. However, it seems to me much more con-
vincing to read it as a commentary, in which the ancient, supra-region-
ally valid teachings are specifically related to Memphis. The “seed” and
“hands” of Amun, by which in an act of self-begetting he brought forth
Shu and Tefnut, are interpreted as “teeth” and “lips,” forming the frame
for the tongue that creates everything by naming it:
31
Cf. Koch 1988, 61–105.
26 jan assmann
32
Wb II, 181.2.
33
Wb II, 181.6.
34
Wb II, 181.1.
28 jan assmann
35
Gardiner 1947, I, *1.
36
Iamblichus, De Mysteriis, VII.1.
creation through hieroglyphs 29
much more direct than the relationship of words to what they denote.
To use a term coined by Aleida Assmann, we may speak, with regard to
hieroglyphs, of “immediate signification”.37 The iconic sign immediately
shows what it means, without the detour of a specific language. To be
sure, this is not the way hieroglyphs normally function, but it is a plau-
sible assumption about hieroglyphs, given their pictorial character, and
it is this assumption that underlies the creation concept of the Memphite
Theology. The only difference between a stock of iconic signs and a stock
of existing things is the number. The set of signs is necessarily much
smaller than the set of things. But this is exactly what the late Egyptian
priests and grammatologists strived at correcting. They extended the
stock of signs by approximately a factor 10, turning a well functioning
script of about 700 signs into an extremely difficult and awkward system
of about 7,000 in order to make the script correspond as closely as possi-
ble to the structure of reality: a universe of signs representing a universe
of things, and vice-versa. By approximating the number of signs to the
number of things, the late Egyptian priests stressed the cosmic structure
of their script as well as the grammatological or scriptural structure of
their universe.
However, immediate signification is precisely what the Bible shuns as
idolatry. Already the church fathers recognized the idolatrous character
of the hieroglyphic script and destroyed the Egyptian temple schools
because they considered them to be schools of magic. In the Renais-
sance, Giordano Bruno made the same connection but inverted the
valuation. Hieroglyphs were the superior script because of their magical
power, which derived from their principle of immediate signification:
. . . . the sacred letters used among the Egyptians were called hiero-
glyphs . . . which were images . . . taken from the things of nature, or their
parts. By using such writings and voices, the Egyptians used to capture
with marvellous skill the language of the gods.38
37
A. Assmann 1980. See also Greene 1997, 255–72. In exactly the same sense as
A. Assmann, Greene distinguishes between a “conjunctive” and a “disjunctive” theory of
language. Cf. also Tambiah 1968, 175–208.
38
Giordano Bruno, De Magia (Opera Latina III, 411–12), quoted after Yates 1964,
263. The connection between hieroglyphics and magic is provided by the church his-
torian Rufinus who reports that the temple at Canopus has been destroyed by the
Christians because there existed a school of magic arts under the pretext of teaching
the “sacerdotal” characters of the Egyptians (ubi praetextu sacerdotalium litterarum (ita
etenim appellant antiquas Aegyptiorum litteras) magicae artis erat paene publica schola;
Rufinus, Hist.eccles. XI 26).
creation through hieroglyphs 31
Bruno is clearly thinking of Iamblichus and what he has to say about the
Egyptian ways of imitating in their script the demiourgia of the gods.
Still, one wonders how closely he comes to the Egyptian term designat-
ing the hieroglyphs: md.t nature, divine speech, language of the gods.
Some 150 years later, the Anglican bishop William Warburton made
the same connection between hieroglyphs and idols.39 As Warburton
pointed out, the second commandment forbids not only the represen-
tation of God because he is invisible and omnipresent,40 but also the
making of “any graven images, the similitude of any figure, the likeness
of male or female, the likeness of any beast that is on the earth, the like-
ness of any winged fowl that flies in the air, the likeness of anything
that creeps on the ground, the likeness of any fish that is in the waters
beneath the earth” (Dt. 4.15–18, Warburton’s translation). Images are
idols because by virtue of ‘immediate signification’ they conjure up
what they represent. Hieroglyphs are idols because they are images.
Warburton’s interpretation emphasizes the anti-Egyptian meaning of
the prohibition of idolatry. It is the exact “normative inversion” of the
very fundamental principles of Egyptian writing, thinking, and speak-
ing: “Do not idolize the created world by <hieroglyphic> representation.”
The second commandment is the rejection of hieroglyphic knowledge
because it amounts to an illicit magical idolization of the world.
The second commandment is, at least originally, directed against all
kinds of magic, necromancy, divination and other religious practices
operating with images. Precisely this magical power is connected, in the
Late Egyptian imagination and far beyond, with the hieroglyphic script
which they call “god’s words” or “divine speech”. Their magical power
lies in their “cosmic structure”, corresponding to the “scriptural” or
hieroglyphic structure of the cosmos. This magical conception of hiero-
glyphic writing, the Egyptians handed down to the Greeks who, in their
turn, handed it down to the renaissance and Enlightenment. Hiero-
glyphs were regarded as “natural signs”, a “scripture of nature,” a writ-
ing which would refer not to the sounds of language, but to the things
of nature and to the concepts of the mind. To quote Ralph Cudworth’s
definition: “The Egyptian hieroglyphicks were figures not answering to
sounds or words, but immediately representing the objects and concep-
tions of the mind.”41
39
See J. Assmann 2001, 297–311.
40
Cf. Halbertal and Margalit 1982, 37–66 (“Idolatry and Representation”).
41
Cudworth 1678, 316.
32 jan assmann
42
Festugière and Nock 1945, II:232; Fowden 1993, 37.
creation through hieroglyphs 33
References
Sara Sviri
I. Introduction
* This article is a sequel to Sviri 2002. My thanks go to Prof. Meir Bar-Asher for read-
ing a draft of this paper and for making very useful comments.
1
2
“
”.
See 2:117, 3:47, 3:59, 6:73, 16:40, 19:35, 36:82, 40:68—translation of Qur. verses
by SS.
3
For the Qurʙānic foundation of the discourse on miracles, see Gril 2000; for early
discussions on prophetic and saintly miracles, see Radtke 2000.
4
Sviri 2002, esp. 206ff.
5
Sviri 2002, 216, nn. 38–40.
6
In the context of this presentation I have only sporadically referred to Shīʚite lit-
erature; it is worth noting, however, that the Shīʚite imāms, too, were believed to be the
36 sara sviri
In the process of searching for the literary prooftexts relevant for this
topic, I have come upon material that show that such a claim made,
allegedly, by Sˢūfis of previous generations, is even currently the target
of strong criticism by Muslim spokesmen engaged in an animated com-
bat against Sˢūfism. Thus, searching for kun on the world-wide-web, a
wondrous and powerful linguistic tool in its own right, I came across a
website entitled “antihabashis.com.” This website, it turns out, is devoted
to the repudiation of the Ahˢbāsh, a contemporary Sˢūfi affiliation whose
base is in Lebanon and which sees itself as a new Sˢūfi brotherhood fol-
lowing an Ethiopian-born Sheikh, ʚAbdallāh al-Hˢ abashī.7 In one of the
“pages” of this website, the following critique can be viewed:
The Ahˢbāsh have spent years urging people to read al-Rifāʚī’s The Help-
ful Proof, 8 claiming that it represents the doctrine of Divine Unification
(tawhˢīd). Look at the unification in this book: Among other things, it says
the following: “God enables the awliyāʙ to operate on9 beings; He makes
them say to a thing Be! And it is.”10
Aiming their rebuttal against the allegedly offensive connection of
the Ahˢbāsh with Ahˢmad al-Rifāʚī, a twelfth-century Sˢūfi Sheikh after
whom the Rifāʚīyya Brotherhood is named,11 the authors of this online
rebuke go on to cite various other sources that portray al-Rifāʚī as mak-
ing the same claim and basing it, misleadingly according to them, on
recipients of the power of kun; for the power of the Shīʚite imāms in general, see Amir-
Moezzi 1994, 91ff; see also Amir-Moezzi 2000, 251–86.
7
On the Ahˢbāsh, see Hamzeh and Dekmejian 1996, 217–229. See also Hamzeh
1997.
8
The reference is to Ahˢmad al-Rifāʚī’s al-Burhān al-muʙayyid, al-Rifāʚī 1987/88.
9
The verbal form for “operating on” is sˢarrafa (also tasˢarrafa); ordinarily it means
“to behave, operate, employ” etc., but in Sˢūfi terminology, especially in the infinitive
forms tasˢrīf and tasˢarruf, it often denotes the supernatural power by which the holy man
‘manipulates’, ‘operates upon’, ‘disposes of ’ beings; for an intriguing discussion concern-
ing tasˢarruf by means of names and letters, see Ibn Khaldūn 1959, 53ff; F. Meier, in his
“Introduction” to Najm al-Dīn Kubrā’s Fawāʙihˢ al-jamāl wa-fawātihˢ al-jalāl, translates
tasˢarruf by “Verfügunskraft” = the power to dispose, Kubrā 1957, 233ff. Cf. Meier 1994,
where Meier offers other translations for tasˢarruf: “Machtausübung” (50), “seelisch-geis-
tige Wirkungskraft” (115); see also Meier 1999, 643; also Gramlich 1987, 180–5.
10
!"# ($%&
'")
) +-. /" 0
23% 4%6 8:;
<=>? @”
A
B? C"ED » F GH . . . +JK L' $>-
B"M
.$>-
/$! N2% OL
+JK
.“« #
% PQRSB ? —see al-Rifāʚī 1987/88, 125 (for the full passage,
see Appendix, A).
11
On Shaykh Ahˢmad al-Rifāʚī (d. 1182) and the Rifāʚīyya Sˢūfi brotherhood, see Trim-
ingham 1971, 37–40 passim.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 37
authoritative, even divine, dicta. They point out, for example, that ʚAbd
al-Wahhāb al-Shaʚrānī, an influential Sˢūfi master in sixteenth-century
Egypt, in his hagiographical Kitāb al-t ˢabaqāt al-kubrā (“The Book of the
Great Generations”), ascribes to al-Rifāʚī a citation of a divine tradition
(hˢadīth qudsī) in which God allegedly says: “O, sons of Adam, obey me
and I shall obey you; observe me, and I shall observe you, and I shall
make you say to a thing ‘Be!” and it will be.”12 In fact, on inspection of
the source referred to, one finds a passage which is even more outspoken
than the online excerpt. The passage in Kitāb al-t ˢabaqāt al-kubrā reads
as follows:
He [al-Rifāʚī] used to say: when the worshipper is established in the mysti-
cal states, he attains the place of God’s proximity, and then his [spiritual]
intention (himma) pierces the seven heavens; as for the [seven] earths,
they become like an anklet on his leg; he becomes an attribute of God’s
attributes, and there is nothing that he cannot do. God is then pleased
when he is pleased, and is displeased when he is displeased. He said: what
we say is corroborated by what came down in one of the divine books:
God has said: O sons of Adam! Obey me and I shall obey you, choose me
and I shall choose you, be pleased with me and I shall be pleased with you,
love me and I shall love you, observe me and I shall observe you, and I
shall make you say to a thing Be! And it will be.13
Needless to say that to the pious author/s of the “Antihabashis” website
such claims are absurd, scandalous, and blasphemous; in their opinion
they should, therefore, be strongly refuted and fought.14
12
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13
See al-Shaʚrānī 1887/88, I:141 on Ahˢmad Abū al-Hˢ usayn al-Rifāʚī: :% .B”
8EB 8;
_`:;# 4a -' 8EB 8 F H +"
N3H b@ >? H ^ $`R
c"d 8 e3
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@ W :N\B g! F % :4AQ
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po;qB c"
PRSB P=
=B P=>
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BJtB PR6
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“. . . #
^; note the similarity of this passage with a Rabbinic dictum
from Avot, 2, 4: “Make His will as your will so that He will make your will as His will;
annul your will in front of His will, so that He may annul the will of others in front of
your will,” see Garb 2004, 38ff; I wish to thank Dr. Garb for this reference as well as for
our ongoing exchange concerning power and language in Judaism and Islam.
14
In the homepage of the “antihabashis” website, the al-Ahˢbāsh are described thus:
“they are a lost group which associates itself with ʚAbdallāh al-Hˢ abashī. They have
recently [!] appeared in Lebanon to exploit there the ignorance and poverty in the wake
of the Lebanese civil wars. They propagate the call to revive the ways of the theolo-
gians, the Sˢūfis and the Shīʚites in order to destroy the faith and to break the unity of the
Muslims, and in order to avert Muslims from their essential problems” Z;v^ wc 4kx6)
38 sara sviri
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B NQh
H 4A
`# 4A'? +B"3
Jka H 4y-:;H `
2%$z 8"Q{ T)|
F $`!
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15
For testimonies based on the references mentioned in the “antihabashis” website,
see the Appendix.
16
Note, however, the early anecdote related by Sufyān ibn ʚUyayna (d. 198/813),
a renowned pietist from the town of Kufa; according to this anecdote, recorded in a
3rd/9th-century text by Ibn Abī al-Dunyā (d. 281/894), an anonymous and wondrous
figure delivers several divine messages during the Hˢ ajj. One of these messages is the fol-
lowing: “I am God the King; when I wish a thing, I say to it Be and it is; therefore come
to Me, and I shall make you such that when you wish [a thing], you will say to it Be and
it will be”—see Ibn Abī al-Dunyā 1993, 32 (for the full text, see Appendix G); a milder,
“cleaned up” version of this anecdote appears in the 5th/11th-century compilation Hˢ ilyat
al-awliyāʙ by Abū Nuʚaym al-Isˢfahānī (d. 430/1038–9), Abū Nuʚaym al-Isˢfahānī 1997,
VII:354, no. 10831; the difference in the tenor of the two versions is significant: it indi-
cates the restraint, typical of classical Sˢūfi literature, vis-à-vis the claim of kun for human
beings; such restraint seems to have become more relaxed in later texts; as for the early
text on hand, it seems to have somehow escaped, quite uniquely, possible censoring eyes;
in any case, it obviously shows that in the early formative phases of Islamic mysticism
such ideas were prevalent—can one detect here the echoes of Rabbinic ideas? Cf. above,
n. 13.
17
For a general orientation concerning the Sˢūfi Brotherhoods, see Trimingham 1971;
also Popovic and Veinstein 1996.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 39
That Sˢūfi sheikhs from early on have been endowed with the power to
perform “miracles” is well known; their marvelous and miraculous deeds
are known as karāmāt (literally: graces) or khawāriq al-ʚādāt (literally,
events that are beyond the ordinary). These have been discussed and
recorded in many chapters within classical Sˢūfi compilations18 and have
been collected in a special literary genre known as karāmāt al-awliyāʙ19
as well as in hagiographical works in praise of a particular Sˢūfi master
or group.20 Many miracles have been known to be performed by using
“God’s greatest name” (ismullāh al-aʚzˢam),21 or by special invocations.
The concept of the holy man as mujāb al-daʚwa, he whose call [to God]
is answered, has been, from early on, part and parcel of Sˢūfi vocabulary
and one of the appellations by which the holy man was known.22 Even
the feat of reviving the dead is acknowledged with no apologetics and is
amply recorded in Sˢūfi manuals and in relevant studies thereof.23 But the
use of kun as a creative means employed by humans, albeit superior and
holy ones, is rather more contentious; not only is the mere thought of it
abhorred and vehemently refuted by the adversaries of Sˢūfism, but Sˢūfis
themselves seem to shy away from broadcasting it openly as a holy man’s
feat.24 Speculations as regards kun and anecdotes concerning the holy
men who have used it tend to be phrased, it seems, with circumspection,
18
See, for example, al-Kalābādhī 1935, ch. 26 on “Their Doctrine of the Miracles of
Saints,” pp. 57–66; also “Discourse on the Affirmation of Miracles” in al-Hujwīrī 1911,
218–35; cf. Radtke 2000, 286–99.
19
See, e.g., Abū Nuʚaym al-Isˢfahānī 1997; al-Yāfiʚī 1955; also the fairly late collection,
al-Nabhānī 2001; the most comprehensive study to date concerning the miracles of the
Islamic friends of God is Gramlich 1987; also Badrān 2001.
20
See, e.g., Al-Aflākī 1959–61 (in French: Al-Aflākī 1978; in English: Al-Aflākī 2002);
also al-Rakhāwī.
21
The potency of the Great Name of God used by a walī is displayed, for example,
in the hagiographical accounts on Ibrāhim ibn Adham (2nd/8th century), one of the
earliest protagonists of the Sˢūfi tradition, see al-Sulamī 1960, 15; see also Gramlich
1987,164–6; for a comparative study on “the great name of God”, see Zoran 1996, 19–62;
see also Sviri 2002, 207f.
22
See, e.g., al-Qushayrī n.d., 9, in the section on Maʚrūf al-Karkhī (d. ca 200/815):
“He was one of the great masters, one whose call [to God] is answered and in whose
tomb people look for healing”; see also Appendix, E.
23
See, e.g., Badrān 2001, 150–3; also Balivet 2000, 403; cf. also the literature men-
tioned in previous footnotes.
24
For Sˢūfī reservations concerning the use, or abuse, of kun, see Gramlich 1987,
184f.; also Sviri 2002, 216, n. 39.
40 sara sviri
and their tenor is reserved and cautious. Even Ibn al-ʚArabī, the Anda-
lusian thirteenth-century mystic-philosopher,25 one of the most outspo-
ken Sˢūfi authors, writes that the power of kun, or the fact that inherently
man is a creator (khallāq), should be approached with the reservation
demanded of good manners (hˢusn al-adab, tazˢarruf ) towards God.26
Thus, in chapter Three Hundred Fifty Three of his Meccan Revelations,
“On Knowing the Position of Three Talismanic Secrets,” he writes:
Man inherently has the power of kun, but outwardly he has got only the
passive faculty [of being the object of kun]; yet in the world-to-come man
will possess the power of kun also outwardly. It may happen that some
men are given it in this world, but this is not a universal [human] fac-
ulty. Among God’s men there are those who hold on to it and there are
those who, being courteous towards God, [relinquish it] as they know that
this is not its proper abode . . .27 When God’s men see that in this world
this is not a universal law, they relegate the particular law to the univer-
sal law and leave all in its proper abode. This is the state of the courte-
ous ones among God’s Knowers who are constantly present with Him.
In this world, therefore, the courteous [among God’s men] is a creator by
means of his [religious] deed; not by means of kun, but rather by means
of bismillāh al-rahˢmān al-rahˢīm (= in the name of God the Merciful the
Compassionate).28
25
See on him Addas 1993; also Chodkiewicz 1993.
26
For his prudence, see also n. 55 below; cf. also n. 16 above.
27
An example for an exceptional man who, according to Ibn al-ʚArabī, had relin-
quished the power to operate on existents (tasˢarruf ), is Abū al-Suʚūd ibn al-Shibl, a dis-
ciple of ʚAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī (Baghdad, 12th century); see, e.g., Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, I:
452; Ibn al-ʚArabī 1946, 128–9 (the Chapter on Lot). Ibn al-ʚArabī explains that he him-
self has relinquished the act of tasˢarruf not out of courtesy towards God, but rather out
of his perfect mystical knowledge (kamāl al-maʚrifa), Ibn al-ʚArabī 1946, 129; through
true knowledge one knows that such an act should be employed only when one is forced
to do so by an unavoidable divine command (amr ilāhī wa-jabr), but by no means out of
personal choice; cf. also Appendix E.
28
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, Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, V: 459–60; cf. also Ibn al-ʚArabī’s answer to the hundred
and forty seventh question of al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī: “What is the interpretation of the
formula bismillāh”: “For the worshipper, with regard to bringing something into exis-
tence, this [formula] is like kun for God; by its means certain men bring forth what they
will into existence,” Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, III:222 (for al-Tirmidhī’s spiritual questionnaire,
see Al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī 1992b, 28); cf. also Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, VI:5: “no divine scrip-
ture and no prophetic tradition has come down concerning a created being who has
been given kun apart from man specifically; this happened in the time of the Prophet
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 41
[Muhˢammad], peace be on him, in the battle of Tabūk (9/630): He said, “Be Abū Dharr”
and there was Abū Dharr” (for this tradition, which is well attested to in early historical
sources, see, e.g., al-Tˢabarī 1964, IV:1700; for a discussion on the parity of bismillāh and
kun, see below 53ff.
29
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$%"d iB $`R
$%"d i }f e3
$%"d e3
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+ q i B HB” :
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37, n. 13.
30
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}
B”
“!f N. GH W !f N. H W :%z? \ T
B K C., Kubrā 1957,
87.
42 sara sviri
Speech and words play an important role in Islamic thought and culture.
Speech, kalām, and its cognate kalima, word, are laden with meanings
and ideas analogous to the numerous connotations of logos in other reli-
gious and philosophical systems. Kalāmu Allāh, God’s speech, as we have
seen, is an attribute of the divine creative power by which the world
and its beings are created. Kalāmu Allāh also designates the Qurʙān,
God’s ultimate, non-created and inimitable manifestation; God’s word,
or words, being inexhaustible and unchangeable, kalāmu Allāh signi-
fies also Divine omniscience and immutability.31 In humanity, a species
created in the image of God, it is the power of speech and reason that
singles out man of all other creatures; speech represents language as well
as the rational soul; the two are intrinsically connected. The appellation
mutakallimūn by which the polemicists and theologians of Islam are des-
ignated, refer both to their power of reasoning and to their verbal skills
of putting forward argumentations and rejoinders in defense of creed
and faith. It is, therefore, clear that traditions and speculations concern-
ing speech and language are fundamental to Islamic discourse and are
exhibited profusely in its various literary branches: Hˢ adīth collections,
Qurʙān commentaries, grammar, literature (adab), poetics, theology,
heresiography, philosophy, and mysticism. Moreover, the metaphysics
of that compact cluster—God’s creative power, His speech, His book and
His commanding language—underlie the extraordinary interest in the
sacred text, as well as in language as such, in the quest for uncovering
the blueprint of the Divine design and wisdom. Thus we find that, from
a very early stage in Islamic intellectual history, Islamic mystics and
31
See, e.g., Qurʙān 6:115: “The word of thy Lord finds its fulfillment in truth and in
justice: none can change His Words for He is the One Who hears and knows all” ^B)
.(PAR
_A;
'B ^K $=H i i$B $E ~@ 4.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 43
32
The earliest examples seem to be associated with Shīʚite-Ismāʚīlī circles, see, e.g.,
Kraus 1942, II: 262ff.; Fahd 1960, 375–7; Lory 1996, 101–9.
33
For the ancient, enigmatic Sefer Yetsira (= “The Book of Formation”), see Liebes
2000; for late antique systems in which such theories were expressed, see the papers by
J. Assman, B. Bitton-Ashkeloni, and Y. Garb in this volume.
34
Although Shīʚite-Ismāʚīli speculations are, in general, beyond the scope of this
paper, it is worth mentioning here the significance of kun for early Ismāʚīli cosmology, to
the point of aggrandizing kun to the rank of a “deified” entity, Kūnī, a (feminine?) divine
power by which the world was created; for these early speculations, which are imbibed
with Gnostic and Neoplatonic ideas, see Stern 1983, 3–29.
44 sara sviri
Al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī, a ninth century Muslim ‘gnostic’ from the north-
eastern edges of the Islamic world, builds his mystical understanding of
language, as has already been shown, on the notion of “God’s perfect
word”—kalimatu allāh al-tāmma, or, in the plural form, kalimātu allāh
al-tāmmāt. This expression occurs frequently in supplication formulae;
for example: “by all the perfect words of God, I ask refuge from the evil
that He has created” (aʚūdhu bi-kalimātillāh al-tāmma kullihā min sharri
ma khalaqa). Although the expression “the perfect word” or, in the plu-
ral form, “the perfect words,” does not appear in the Qurʙān, its roots
are Qurʙānic; thus Qurʙān 6:115: “your Lord’s word has become perfect
(or fulfilled) in truth and in justice; no one can change His words”.35 Al-
Tirmidhī ponders the fact that in the first part of the verse “God’s word”
appears in the singular while in the second part it comes in the plural.
Referring to this seeming discrepancy he writes:
Whether one says ‘God’s perfect word’ or ‘God’s perfect words’ both forms
stem from one single notion (maʚnan wāhˢid). The singular refers to the
totality [of God’s words] (al-jumla), and the plural refers to the words
into which this single ‘word,’ at different times, was dispersed and became
many; all, however, go back to one single word.”36
The single word, according to al-Tirmidhī, is God’s existence-bestowing
command kun, the creative logos; the multitude of things and beings
into which kun is dispersed and which come into existence by its cre-
ative potency, they, too, are God’s words—hence the plural side by side
with the singular.37 Ibn al-ʚArabī, who has been inspired by al-Tirmidhī
and, in many senses, has picked up the thread from him several centu-
ries later,38 sums up this powerful idea in the following statement (which
paraphrases Qur. 18:109): “All existents are God’s words which will not
be exhausted; they are from kun and kun is God’s word.”39
35
See above, n. 31; see also Qur. 7:137 and 11:119.
36
See Al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī 1992a, 3, ll. 2–5.
37
Cf. [Pseudo-] al-Tustarī 1974, 368: “The Mother of the Book is the root: it contains
all that was and that will be . . . [then] by means of His saying kun He dispersed them out
of the Hidden” Q
R^
' OL
KB . . . dB . H _AS B NE? 'B +JK U )
(ZAy
H; see also below, 45–46.
38
Consider, for example, the answers that Ibn al-ʚArabī wrote to the “spiritual ques-
tions” laid down by al-Tirmidhī; see the insertion of Ibn al-ʚArabī’s answers (in two
versions) into the fourth chapter of Khatm al-awliyāʙ, Al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī 1965, 142–
326; see also Chodkiewicz 1993, 26ff.
39
See Ibn al-ʚArabī, 1946, 142 (the chapter on Jesus): i -
8. Q. 8S
4. B ! Q
$k^; also Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV, 35 (On Knowing the Breath—
k
4"RH )”.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 45
40
On al-Rāzī (d. 322/934), see Daftary 1998, 43 passim; for the similarities between
al-Rāzī’s work and that of al-Tirmidhī’s and for al-Rāzī’s explicit reference to al-Tirmidhī,
see Sviri 2002, 214, n. 31.
41
By “Gospel” Al-Razi refers to the Gospel of John, but without specifying, or know-
ing of, the authorship of John; or he could have culled his proof-text from the running
Arabic translation (ca. 6th C.), which opens with John; thanks go to my colleague Dr.
Serge Ruzer.
42
.(82: 36) “
% }f "H
” : A:f? Q@ D -
-. "HB
4KB T4K
. $`
” : -3^B +JK B NAh
Y B . . em
ea 4K LQ=
'B TNAh
Y B ' L'—“f N. N= . H L' .Q. A:f? ea 4KB T $!
.
“” ' NAh
Y 8" -
4KB TJt $f V"
OL
"} TV"
eH
N\B g! "H 'B; the connection between God’s word and Jesus is borne out by Qur.
4:171: “The Messiah Jesus son of Maryam is God’s messenger and His word that He had
thrown into Maryam”—(P%"H
'
-.B P%"H l ;} A:;
).
46 sara sviri
from God in order that a thing may come to be. It is the truth of that
thing which comes into being; it is the [divine] Will that it should come
to be, and this is founded on the [divine] encompassing knowledge. The
philosophers name it the nature of the thing. Some of them name it soul
(nafs). All these [names] are related [to one another in the sense] that it
is a divine command which gives forms to the bodies, watches over them,
and protects them from harm.43
On the level of ideas, the spiritual “big kun” of this excerpt, out of
which all existents dispersed, is reminiscent of al-Tirmidhī’s distinc-
tion between the original divine creative “word” in the singular and the
many existential “words” which issued from it. On the level of termi-
nology, however, it is hard to tie the two pieces together. As regards al-
Tustarī himself, this is even more problematic. Such terms as “the truth
of the thing,” “the nature of the thing,” “spiritual form,” “the big kun,”
“philosophers” do not tie in with al-Tustarī’s idiomatic and thought pat-
terns as they transpire from the numerous sources in which his tradition
has been preserved.44
The linguistic, typological and thematic characteristics of the short
epistle from which this passage has been culled call for a review of its
ascription to Sahl al-Tustarī. This, it is hoped, will be dealt with else-
where. It is worth noting here, however, that such speculations as the
Epistle on Letters displays, formulated in a comparable vocabulary, tie in
much more feasibly with ideas and idioms that are found in the writings
of “The Brethren of Purity,” Ikhwān al-sˢafāʙ. This group of theosophists
from tenth century Basra (or earlier) was known for its Shīʚite-Ismāʚīlī
affiliations and for its Neoplatonic, Pythagorean and Hermetic leanings.45
In their encyclopaedic “Epistles” (rasāʙil Ikhwān al-sˢafāʙ) numerous
examples of speculations on language and on kun can be found. In the
concluding and encompassing epistle (al-risāla al-jāmiʚa), for example,
43
$ BB H 4k
JH 4A
zB
/E '
H
L.B L. “” 8 B”
'B
K H 4K ' 4A
zB"
/
~J TN#
OL
“PM!? K” H k
PQR@B T
4RA`6 4kjk
QA;B TpA3
PR
@
K /Y 'B T
4>
“8 _AS H _
H Q
z U;S
H 'i "H
B"H PQ.B ;k
QA;q, [Pseudo-]
al-Tustarī 1974, 367.
44
For a thorough analysis of al-Tustarī’s tradition, see Böwering 1980, 7–42; as for
the Risālat al-hˢurūf (based on Ms. Chester Beatty 3168/3), Böwering expresses some
doubts whether this is an authentic work by al-Tustarī, but is not categorical, 18.
45
The Brethren’s association with Hermetic wisdom is borne out by numerous state-
ments and references they make, see, e.g., the 52nd epistle on Magic, Talismans and
the Eye, Ikhwān al-sˢafāʙ 1928, IV:461f.; references to Pythagoras, Hermes Trismegistos,
Aristotle and other pre-Islamic philosophers are scattered throughout their epistles; for
a general overview on the Brethren of Purity, whose provenance, identity and dating are
still debated among scholars, see Nasr 1964, 25–95; Hamdani 1996, 145–52.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 47
Command and prohibition are in the same position as the heart with
regard to what descends upon it from the spiritual senses, as God has said:
“The trustworthy spirit has brought it down upon your heart that you may
be one of the warners, in a clear Arabic tongue” (26:193–195). The spirit
descends upon the heart, and then the power attaches itself to the tongue,
whose place is the face, and from it, by speech (nut ˢq), commands and pro-
hibitions issue. By command (i.e., by kun) existents come into being, and
by speech sayings which report of what was and of what will be become
articulated. The power which is attached to the heart is similar to the fire
of the word that is united by the command (= the creative kun) with the
Source of Life. When the spirit descended upon the heart by [or with?] the
First Agent (= the active, or universal, intellect), it attached itself to its face;
it then spoke out kun, and what the Creator wished was. Then the first face
shone and executed the command and creation appeared. Then the sec-
ond face took its position (i.e., its rank in the emanative order) and it, too,
spoke out the command that was thrown upon it by the first [face], and
what was below it came to be. Hence the word kun became constructed
of two letters: the kāf is connected with the upper realm within the limit
of the first face, and the nūn descends into the lower [realm of] entities,
which issues from the first one: this is the kāf that brings to completion
(as alluded to by kamāl = perfection, completion?) and which leads to the
best of all states . . .46
46
ZSB ~# .
B TB? $@YB . . . Bgd iB 3% i OL
N\B g! \B ' Rk
NR
. . .
.B T
B S rB
"; . . . f . A:f? ea Q@ -
8 4. _cH d
48 sara sviri
The hermeneutic strategy used at the end of this passage, namely, the
breaking down of kun into its consonantal components in order to
draw out of each component the ‘meaning’ concealed within it, displays
a technique that was widely used by Islamic mystics and exegetes. Al-
Tirmidhī, as has been previously shown, used it prolifically alongside
other techniques in developing the ‘science’ which he named ʚilm al-
awliyāʙ—the science, or knowledge, of the Friends of God. Islamic tradi-
tions in general, not necessarily mystical traditions, show that exegetes,
from early on, used this technique, or referred to it, especially in their
attempts to decipher the enigmatic letters that appear at the beginnings
of certain Qurʙānic sūras.47 In Islam, this hermeneutical technique does
not seem to have acquired a specific technical term; al-Tˢabarī, the most
celebrated Qurʙān commentator of the ninth century, whose commen-
tary adduces much of the exegetical material accumulated up to his time,
mentions several attempts at reading these letters as acronyms and, con-
sequently, of various attempt at deciphering the message encoded in the
acronym. Al-Tˢabarī himself (d. 310/923) does not commit himself to
accepting any one of these propositions, but refers to the letters under
consideration as “lexical letters which, in distinction to ordinary speech
where letters are combined, God left isolated (muqat ˢt ˢaʚa) in order to
The most elaborate system of thought which brings God and man
together in the context of the creative power inherent in language is
offered by Ibn al-ʚArabī in the thirteenth century. Ibn al-ʚArabī’s bold,
often daring, thoughts concerning language, letter mysticism and the
creative power of speech are dispersed in many of his works; occasion-
ally they seem to have been scattered haphazardly, as it were, without
48
See al-Tˢabarī 1988, I:93: CB"> ' -
;
^kH N%B^ O$!
H +
B”
N-
UjK "; QRh [R`@ QR@ N% P
B 4RnH B"> QRS ©¡ N\ PhR
.“$zB RH i /"}2. RH GH C"> Nl 4
i$
Mk@ " g!
? CB"3
49
For the Mesopotamian antecedents of this rabbinic technique, see Liebermann1987,
157–225; my thanks go to Prof. Moshe Idel for this reference.
50
See, e.g., the traditions related by the early exegete Muqātil ibn Sulaymān (d.150/
767) in his commentary to Qur. 2:1, Muqātil ibn Sulaymān 1979, I: 83–7 and especially
85; cf. also al-Tˢabarī 1988, 92–3; for the use of this technique by the early Shīʚites in order
to predict the termination of the Umayyad rule, see Bar-Asher 1999, 212–3.
50 sara sviri
any obvious context, almost as though their author wished to play them
down, or even make them inconspicuous, especially when they could be
understood as related to magical acts.51 Nevertheless, a comprehensive
and systematic discussion on language and its creative power is offered
in chapter One Hundred Ninety Eight of the Futūhˢāt al-makkiyya; it is
entitled “Concerning the Knowledge of Breath.” The breath, nafas, is a
seminal theme in Ibn al-ʚArabī’s system of thought. First and foremost,
it is a divine act; as such, Ibn al-ʚArabī names it the Breath of the Com-
passionate, Nafas al-rahˢmān. God’s Breath is the releasing, merciful act
through which existence burst forth out of the divine Hiddenness. For
Ibn al-ʚArabī creation is seen not only as God’s word, or words, but also
as the product of God’s exhalation: existents, which were held within
God’s Hiddenness in stressful suspension and latency, are released into
existence through his exhaling attribute of rahˢma, Compassion. Inher-
ently, this creative breathing out is associated with the divine kun.
Human speech, in which breath is the operating mechanism, reflects, or
is reflected by, this divine act of breathing out. Thus, in human beings,
too, before letters and words are articulated, they exist as latent essences
within the vapor with which man’s entrails are filled before breath or
language form. Speech, therefore, is the ultimate feature by which man
bears likeness to God: inasmuch as man articulates separate sounds
by breathing them out, and, when combined, these sounds become
meaningful words and statements, so also God “breathes out” creation
through the overflow of generosity and love; hence, as we have seen, the
countless existents are all “God’s words”:
Letters issue from the breath of the human breather, who is the most perfect
of all created formations; all letters appear through him and by his breath.
He is thus on the divine form, namely, [the form of] the breath of the
Merciful. The emergence of the ‘letters of existents’ and [the emergence]
of the ‘world of words’ is the same. He has assigned them to the human
breath as twenty-eight letters which affirm what issued from the breath of
the Merciful: the essences of the divine words are twenty eight; each word
has faces.52 They have issued from the breath of the Merciful, which is the
ʚamāʙ, the fog in which God was before He created creation.53
51
See, e.g., n. 59.
52
The Arabic li-kulli kalima wujūh may, simply, mean “each word has aspects,” that is,
“meanings”—it can thus be understood in the context of semantics; note, however, the
use of “face,” wajh, in the cosmogonic context of the hypostatic series of emanations in
the excerpt from the Brethren of Purity cited above, 47; wajh, face, would thus signify
that each of the twenty-eight hypostatic manifestations “faces” the one above it and the
one beneath it.
53
_AS ;k@B 8"Q{ @B 8v
N. ' OL
;
Y k-
kª ª
H CB"3
S"o”
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 51
56
“jR A:f? PM! 4%Q
. LQ T8K P
CB"3
_AS RS ' 4”;
for the esoteric significance of huwa in earlier Sˢūfi lore, cf. al-Sarrāj 2001, 79: “It has been
said that the Great Name of God is Allāh, for when the letter A is removed, LLH remains
[which means “to God”]; and when the L is removed, LH remains [which means “to
Him”], so the allusion [to God] does not fall off; and when the second L is removed, the
H remains [which is the third person pronoun]—and all secrets are [contained] in the
H, as it means He . . .” B `%
? ! Z'
? PM!? P % N $B)
Q
"? _ASB ' ` "t Uj
! Z' B /fY Z'L^ P
`% Uj
! Z'
.(' RH i
57
SH N. / ;
Y k T0GS? 4AQ
Y 8KB k
4% "tV ;
Y ~#L.B”
“. . . Z^"
_AS P
R
58
“CB"3
N. B
B 8S
N. ;
Y ”, Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:45; for
the significant invisibility of the wāw—the middle letter in the root k-w-n, the verb of
existence—in the imperative form kun, see IV:57; cf. al-Hˢ akīm al-Tirmidhī’s notion of
“deficient letters”, Sviri 2002, 217; cf. Ibn al-ʚArabī 1948, 5: “the wāw contains the char-
acteristics and powers of all letters because, when the air reaches its articulation point,
the wāw does not appear in its own essence only; rather, the air moves through all the
[preceding] articulation points and [the wāw] therefore receives the power of all letters.”
~# % J> \"oH Q
n
$! A! "QM% i
? 'B Q. CB"3
§t B
k)
.(C"> N. / H N3 Q. ¬m
_AS Q
59
“CB"3
NR
C"R% H $! NR
' L.B”, Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:45; concerning
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 53
V. Bismillāh
the efficacy of the wāw, cf. the hint inserted in Risālat al-mīm wal-wāw wal-nūn, Ibn
al-ʚArabī 1948, 10: “he who fathoms the secrets of wāw [knows that, or knows how to
make] the supernal spiritual entities descend by it in a noble way” (" B
k%"f igv^ R
8A
zB"
Q@ gv^ B
); in this interesting Epistle, Ibn al-ʚArabī explains why
he is prudent when it comes to discussing the efficacious aspects of letters, 8.
60
“ GH 4
gv@ R? % GH P; ”. Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:47; see also above,
40.
61
“Presence” translates the Arabic hˢadˢra, which, in Ibn al-ʚArabī’s terminology, refers
to a “level,” “plane,” “domain” of being, see Chittick 1989, 5 passim.
62
When hˢadˢra is introduced on its own with no qualification it, usually, denotes
the Presence par excellence, i.e., the Divine Presence.
63
T“”
/"3
4. 4
gv@ d-# K /"> 4. $`R# 'B P; ~# 4;)
”
54 sara sviri
The somewhat equivocal phrase “in bringing acts into existence” of the
first passage is elucidated by the purport of the second passage: Ibn al-
ʚArabī clearly refers in both passages to the extraordinary ability, dis-
played by certain people—to wit, prophets and the Friends of God—to
bring things into existence through the power of the basmala. However,
from further amplification of prophets’ and holy men’s acts, it becomes
evident that all their activities, be they basic bodily functions, daily acts
of worship, or supernatural feats such as reviving the dead and bringing
inanimate objects to life—all are enacted in an extraordinary, indeed
unique manner. When such men are considered, Ibn al-ʚArabī suggests,
it is evident that all their activities are done through God’s agency. By the
phrase “God is his ears and his tongue” Ibn al-ʚArabī alludes to an extra-
Qurʙānic divine tradition (hˢadīth qudsī), ubiquitous in Sˢūfī writings and
attested also in canonical literature. This tradition is known as hˢadīth
al-nawāfil, the tradition concerning supererogatory acts, and it under-
scores Islamic theory of the Friends of God and their miraculous deeds;
in fact, it offers the key to the extraordinary power displayed by proph-
ets and holy men: since they are utterly devoted to God and absorbed
in His worship, their relationship with God becomes one of reciprocal
love; in this love relationship God, as it were, acts through them in every
sense of the word, in their mundane as well as in their extraordinary
activities.64 It is a mystical union that overrides mystical experiences. In
one of its most authoritative versions, this tradition runs as follows:
. . . My servant does not come close to Me by means of anything I like bet-
ter than the prescribed commandments; yet he goes on coming closer to
Me by means of supererogatory acts until I love him; and when I love him
I become his ears by which he hears, his eyes by which he sees, his hand
by which he hits, his leg by which he walks. If he asks Me for anything, I
shall surely give it to him; if he asks refuge in Me, I shall surely give him
My refuge. . . .65
Q TK Q{ d P; :%
T ! NRk% H Q@ e3^ 4;)
$`R
! NRk
“ ! d H ! T
;
B R e3
. +`3H $E Q@ "s 4> ! =t, Ibn
al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:54f.
64
To this unique love, cf. Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, I:482–3.
65
J> N
+"-% O$`! gd HB T A c"s H
Z> $`!
+"^ HB . . .”
% -
\B Q@ ®n`% -
$%B @ "`% OL
"@B @ _;q OL
R ¯ -`=> T =>
“. . .
L? £@ R-: °
B An!?
B TQ@, see al-Bukhārī 1908, IV:231.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 55
Ibn al-ʚArabī now refers to one of the Qurʙānic passages that relate a
miracle of revival: Jesus’ breathing into an inanimate figure of a bird and
bringing it to life. Verse 110 of Sūra 5 lists, in fact, a series of miracles
committed by Jesus:
Then Allāh said: “O ʚĪsā son of Maryam! Tell of My favors to you and to
your mother: I supported you with the Holy Spirit so that you spoke to
the people in infancy and in manhood; I taught you the Book and the
Wisdom, the Torah and the Gospel; and when you made out of clay, as
it were, the figure of a bird, by My permission, and you breathed into it,
and it became a bird, by My permission; and you healed the blind and the
lepers, by My permission; and you brought forth the dead, by My permis-
sion; and when you showed the Children of Israel clear signs, I restrained
them from [doing harm] to you, but the unbelievers among them said: It
is clear magic.
These undisputed miracles provide Ibn al-ʚArabī with a platform from
which to assert that the recurring Qurʙānic idiom “by My permission”
(bi-idhnī) is, in fact, equivalent to the idiom “by My command” (bi-amrī)
and, evidently, also to the formula “by the name of God (bismillāh), that
is, by “My Name”; and since God’s command, as we have seen, is to
say to a thing Be! (kun) and it is, then this command, when issued by
a tongue which is activated by God—which, in fact, is God’s—has the
same efficacy as when God speaks it directly:
“By My permission” means “by My command”; since I was your tongue
and your eyes, things came to be by you which are not within the power
of the one through whose tongue I do not say [Be!]. In both cases (i.e.,
whether it is directly through My saying or yours), the bringing into exis-
tence belongs to Me. And bismi-llāh is the quintessence of kun.66
The resurrection of the dead and the other miraculous deeds of Jesus
are pondered also in chapter fifteen of Ibn al-ʚArabī’s Fusˢūsˢ al-hˢikam
(“The Gemstones of Wisdoms”), the chapter which is devoted to the
prophetic wisdom of Jesus. The discourse on Jesus revolves around the
Qurʙānic account of his miracles in general, but special place is given to
the revival of the clay figure of the bird. Jesus’ birth is in itself a miracu-
lous event. Naturally, it is associated with the fact that he is God’s Word
66
i
/B$@ ;}
-
A:f? ~!
¢ "@B ~
;
¯
TO"H@ O
@”
“. } P;) T
}
|
d-
T
;
, Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:55; it is worth
referring here to Appendix B, where Ahˢmad al-Rifāʚī is described as reviving fried fish
commanding them to arise “by God’s permission.”
56 sara sviri
and also with the fact that he was breathed into Mary; he is “His Word
that He threw into Maryam and a spirit from Him” (4:171). The asso-
ciation of Jesus with “word” and “spirit” also connects him with God’s
command. “ʚĪsā,” says Ibn al-ʚArabī, “came [out into the world] to revive
the dead, for he was a divine spirit. The revival [however] was God’s and
the breathing was Jesus’. ”67 And also: “The power to revive and heal that
ʚĪsā possessed came from the fact that Gabriel breathed him [while] in
the form of a man, therefore ʚĪsā [too] revived the dead in the form of
a man. If Gabriel had not come in the form of a man but in a different
form, then ʚĪsā would not have revived unless he were clothed in that
form and came out with it.”68 The point that Ibn al-ʚArabī is making
becomes apparent when we juxtapose the statement, “In both cases (i.e.,
whether it is directly through My saying or yours), the bringing into
existence belongs to Me,” with the statement “The revival [however] was
God’s and the breathing was Jesus’.” It also transpires from the statement,
“When he revived the dead, it was said about him ‘he/not he’. ”69
The apophatic statement “he/not he” is characteristic of Ibn al-ʚArabī’s
portrayal of the aporia that arises from the quandary who, in fact, is the
actor in such miraculous deeds. Ibn al-ʚArabī ponders this aporia and
poses the following question: When the creative kun, by which existents
come into being, is performed by a prophet or by a holy man—should
the creative act be ascribed to [the unknowable] God and, therefore, its
quiddity would remain unknowable? Or is it the case that God descends
upon the ‘form’ of him who says kun, in which case saying kun is the ‘truth’
of the human ‘form’ upon which God has descended and in which it has
appeared?70 To put it in a simpler way: who is the one who ‘breathes out’
the existence-bestowing kun? Is it God in His essence—which is hid-
den and unknowable—or is it God in the ‘form’ of the human breather?
Some mystics, says Ibn al-ʚArabī, uphold the first opinion; others uphold
67
“;}R
²k
B >Y .B T'i B
? ^
£A3% ;} ¬"o”, Ibn al-ʚArabī
1946, 139.
68
^
£A3% ;} .B ")
/E N%")\ ²k
4QS "lYB >Y / H . HB”
J> i £A3% i ;} K . . . '"} /E ^B ")
/E N%")\ 8% P
B T")
/@
“Q "QM%B /
~-@ )-%, ibid., 140.
69
“' i ' ^
x> $! % ”, ibid., 141.
70
Z;3@ A
4K Z;v^ NQ . 4. B T ! Q
T$k^ i -
8. Q. 8S
”
/
~-
4> % H /E
R^ ' gv% B TQ-A'H PR^ j A ' H
“Q "Q{B QA
g¤ -
, ibid., 142; note the echoes that one can detect here of the dicta
attributed to Sahl al-Tustarī adduced earlier—cf. above, 45.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 57
the second, and still others remain perplexed and unknowing. In fact,
he says, the truth of this question can only be known and determined by
‘taste’ (dhawq, i.e., by direct mystical experience). To amplify this point,
he relates an anecdote concerning an act of “revival” performed by Abū
Yazīd [al-Bistˢāmī], a celebrated ninth-century mystic. Abū Yazīd, the
story goes, inadvertently killed an ant. Full of sorrow he breathed into
the ant and it came back to life. “He immediately knew,” states Ibn al-
ʚArabī, “who the breather was, so he breathed. Thus he was in the line of
Jesus.”71 Ibn al-ʚArabī’s solution here, as elsewhere, is apophatic. It is both
Abū Yazīd and not-Abū Yazīd who performed the miraculous revival.
Abū Yazīd, indeed, performed the breathing into the dead creature and
it was revived, but it was God’s breath which breathed through him. For
Ibn al-ʚArabī, such an act exhibits the ultimate and most intimate rela-
tionship between man, as the perfect man (al-insān al-kāmil), and God
as Creator. God is, indeed, the breather, and man is the vehicle through
which the divine breath operates in the world; but this does not mean
that the man who breathes is nothing more than a mechanical, instru-
mental vehicle. “He is,” as has been cited above, “on the divine form,
namely, [the form of] the breath of the Merciful.”72 The perfect man is
thus the accomplished human “form” that is “on the divine form.” His
breathing and command, too, acted out in the plane of human existence,
are creative and existentiating; without such “forms,” or, in other words,
without accomplished human beings such as prophets and the friends of
God, divine acts would not be made manifest. In the last resort, the “he/
not he,” according to Ibn al-ʚArabī’s formula, is the core of the science of
the holy men; it is also the solution, hovering in perplexity between the
“yes” and the “no,” to the quandary regarding these extraordinary deeds
performed by extraordinary men via speech and breath.
71
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himself, too, to be a walī in the line of Jesus—on the friends of God who are in the line
of Jesus, see Chodkiewicz 1993, 76ff.
72
See above, 50f., Ibn al-ʚArabī 1994, IV:43.
58 sara sviri
73
See Kraus, 1942.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 59
Appendix
74
References to authoritative Hˢ adīth collections have been probably inserted by the
editor/s or copyist/s.
75
The Qurʙān is considered the most extraordinary and inimitable of all miracles that
were vouchsafed on prophets; this is why, with regard to Muhˢammad, al-Rifāʚī reverts to
talking of a “miracle” (muʚjiza) in the singular; it is obviously the power of this unique
miracle, the Qurʙān, God’s word, which runs through the awliyāʙ and allows them to
commit marvelous deeds, karāmāt.
76
This double-edged theology of miracles and human power is reminiscent of Ibn
al-ʚArabī’s discussion—see above, 53f.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 61
77
This extraordinary revival story is associated, no doubt, with Qurʙān 5:110, where
Jesus’ miracles are enumerated, and where the phrase “by God’s permission” recurs sev-
eral times, see above, 55; clearly, it is also reminiscent of the miraculous revival of the
fish in sūra 18: 61, 63; for al-Rifāʚī’s revival of a child, who was trampled to death by Sˢūfis
dancing in ecstasy, by saying to him: “Arise, man, sit and pray,” see al-Nabhānī 2001,
I:438–9.
62 sara sviri
C. Ibid., p. 145:
Sheikh Ahˢmad al-Rifāʚī said to Sheikh Shams al-Dīn Muhˢammad, may God
sanctify his heart: O Muhˢammad, the seeker will not attain that which he seeks
unless he withdraws from his lower-self, from the acquired habits of the senses,
and from all desires, permitted or otherwise. Then God will give him the power
to operate on the existence of His existents and worlds. When he gives him
power to operate on the existence of His existents and worlds, He gives him
power to operate on absolute existence; and when He gives him power to oper-
ate on absolute existence, then his command becomes God’s command, so that
when he says to a thing Be, it is.
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D. al-Shaʚrānī, ʚAbd al-Wahhāb, Kitāb al-Tˢabaqāt al-Kubrā, Cairo 1305, vol.1,
p. 141:
He [al-Rifāʚī] used to say: when the worshipper is established in the mystical
states, he attains the place of God’s proximity, and then his [spiritual] intention
(himma) pierces the seven heavens; as for the [seven] earths, they become like
an anklet on his leg; he becomes an attribute of God’s attributes, and there is
nothing that he cannot do. God then is pleased when he is pleased and is dis-
pleased when he is displeased.
He said: what we say is corroborated by what came down in one of the divine
books: God has said: O sons of Adam! Obey me and I shall obey you, choose
me and I shall choose you, be pleased with me and I shall be pleased with you,
love me and I shall love you, observe me and I shall observe you and I shall
make you say to a thing Be! And it will be.
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E. Ibid., p. 102
Among them (the Sˢūfī Sheikhs) was Mamshādh al-Dīnawarī.78 . . . He said: For
the last twenty years I have lost my heart with God; and for twenty years, due
to good manners towards God, I have relinquished saying to a thing “Be!” and
it was. . . .
78
Mamshādh al-Dīnawarī (d. 299/911), a Persian Sˢūfi master of the 3rd/9th century;
see on him al-Sulamī 1960, 318–20.
kun—the existence-bestowing word in islamic mysticism 63
79
Not surprisingly, the section on Mamshādh in al-Sulamī’s Tˢabaqāt al-sūfiyya does
not record his kun feats; it does record, however, an anecdote according to which by say-
ing “lā ilāha illāllāh” (“there is no god but God”) to a barking dog, Mamshādh brought
about the dog’s death; curiously, this is an example for the destructive rather than the
creative power of language; for the topic of relinquishing kun out of courtesy towards
God, see above, 40; for the discrimination of classical Sufi literature, see above n. 16.
80
Ibn ʚAjība (d. 1809), an 18th-century Sˢūfī author who wrote a popular commentary
on the Hˢ ikam (= aphorisms) of Ibn ʚAtˢāʙllāh al-Iskandarī, a 13th-century Sˢūfī of the
Shādhiliyya brotherhood; the above passage is culled from the commentary to the 9th
section of Ibn ʚAtˢāʙllāh’s communication with God (munājāt), which is appended to the
end of the hˢikam.
64 sara sviri
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ADAM’S NAMING OF THE ANIMALS: NAMING OR CREATION?
Michael E. Stone
Jewish thought has assigned a major role in creation to speech and lan-
guage. This notion finds its scriptural underpinning in Genesis 1–2.
There are numerous statements in later Jewish thought about how God
creates through speech,1 and equally, since the Torah is divine speech,
about how and why he created with the particular words and letters
actually used in Genesis 1.2 Such statements issue from consideration
of the first two chapters of Genesis so the history and development of
this consideration are of great interest. In Jewish literature of the Second
Temple period, the idea occurs of the active divine word that is fulfilled
in being uttered.3 Things come into being because they are spoken by
God and it is divine speech that created the world. Here, however, we
shall strive to narrow our focus from speech in general or the active
word to the idea of the name and naming.
1
Stone 1990, 183–4 and Index, s.v. This paper is based on research on Adam and Eve
in the Armenian tradition, funded by the Israel Science Foundation.
2
Theodor and Albeck 1965, §1.1 and 1.10.
3
Is. 11.4, Wisd. 12.9, 18.15–16, 1 Enoch 62.2, 2 Thes. 2.8 and Odes of Solomon 29.9–
10: cf. Ps. 46.6. See further Stone 1990, 273 and 385–7.
70 michael e. stone
O Lord Almighty,
God of our ancestors,
of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob
and of their righteous offspring;
who shackled the sea by your word of command,
who confined the deep and sealed it with your terrible and glorious
name.
The actions described after the initial doxology refer to creation. The
Deity shackles the sea, just as in the Ugaritic myth Baal shackles or kills
Yamm.4 He does this by his word of command. In the parallel and, con-
sequently, conceptually identical statement, he shackled the Abyss, the
Tehom, sealing it in with his terrible and glorious name.5 The door of
the sea’s prison cannot be opened, because of the Name’s power.6 This
description of the act of creation draws on mythological sources, yet
it also shows how the name speculation that became so central in later
Jewish mystical thought might have developed.7 God’s word imprisons
Chaos; his name is set on the prison door. This is not just a statement
about the active word, but that the imprinting of the Name creates cos-
mic order. We will trace the rich heritage of this formulation in a more
modest context and a later period.
To this end, we have chosen to look carefully at the way Adam’s nam-
ing of the animals was understood, particularly by the Armenian tradi-
tion. We believe that such an examination will cast light on the ideas of
word-action and of the effective divine name.
Adam was created in the image of God (“And God said, “Let us make
man in our image, after our likeness” Gen. 1:2) and so, Adam’s act of
naming reflects, or perhaps exemplifies, God’s way of naming or creat-
ing, too.
4
Van der Toorn, et al. 1995, 255–63 and further references there; an English transla-
tion of the main text, with interesting notes and commentary, is to be found in Gaster
1961, 114–29 and 153–71.
5
ὁ πεδήσας τὴν θάλασσαν τῷ λόγῳ τοῦ προστάγματος σου‚ ὁ κλείσας τὴν ἄβυσσον
καὶ σφραγισάμενος τῷ φοβεῷ καὶ ἐνδόξῳ ὀνόματί σου.
6
Adam’s tomb is sealed with a triangular seal (suggesting the Trinity), see Life of
Adam and Eve 42 (48):1. Compare Mt. 27.66 and Gospel of Peter 28–34 where there are
seven seals on Christ’s tomb.
7
Scholem 1954, 56; Schäfer 1992, 20–4, 56–8 and see further his Index, s.v.
adam’s naming of the animals: naming or creation? 71
The chief move of Armenian exegesis of this passage, and not just of
Armenian exegesis, is to connect this story with Genesis 1.26–30.9
8
The apparent “differences” or “contradictions” between the two creation stories
were handled in various ways by traditional Jewish and Christian exegesis. For some
examples, see Alexandre 1988, 43–5.
9
Alexandre 1988, 43.
72 michael e. stone
26 And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.
They shall rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole
earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth.”
27 And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created
him; male and female He created them.
28 God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fertile and increase, fill
the earth and master it; and rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and
all the living things that creep on earth.”
29 God said, “See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon all
the earth, and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit; they shall be yours
for food.
30 And to all the animals on land, to all the birds of the sky, and to every-
thing that creeps on earth, in which there is the breath of life, I give all the
green plants for food.” And it was so. (JPS)
This passage introduces the ideas of the creation of Adam in the image
and likeness of God, the creation of mankind both male and female, and
the giving of dominion over all the creatures to mankind. This is the last
act of the scenario of creation, on the sixth day. How did the ancient exe-
gete fit the two passages, Genesis 1–2.4a and Genesis 2, together, despite
the prima facie tensions between them?
The oldest theological treatise in Armenian is entitled Teaching of St.
Gregory, and it is embedded in a history of the conversion of Arme-
nia attributed to Agathangelos.10 There seems no doubt that the work,
which we shall call just “Agathangelos”, was written about the middle of
the fifth century, within half a century of the invention of the Armenian
alphabet.11 In the Teaching of St. Gregory §264, the “image of God” from
Genesis 1.27 is understood to be the breath breathed into Adam accord-
ing to Genesis 2.7. Thus Adam received the image with the following
results. First, he had “discernment, rationality, intelligence, spiritual
breath”; second, he had recognition of God; and finally, he had author-
ity and prescient knowledge.
Focusing on the last phrase first, Agathangelos says that his knowl-
edge is prescient because he recognized each creature and knew its
name.12 The “authority” that Adam had derived from the prototype of
which he was the image, i.e., God, and was expressed in his authority
10
Thomson 2001 translates this text with introduction and annotation.
11
Thomson 1976, “Introduction”. For further bibliography, see Thomson 1995,
90–5.
12
On a similar basis, Teaching §275 speaks of Adam’s recognition of Eve (Gen. 2.23–
24, cf. Mt. 19.56 and Mk. 10.78).
adam’s naming of the animals: naming or creation? 73
over vegetation and animals. God made the animals obedient to man,
and man, by his discernment, recognized the essential character of each
beast and so gave its name. Thus, in Adam’s naming and in the qualities
that make that naming possible, Adam is the image of God.
In his next move Agathangelos moves back to the second fruit of the
spirit that was breathed into Adam, that is recognition of God. He
argues that, because Adam could name the animals, he must first have
known and named—and so proclaimed—the Creator. Thus, and only
thus, could he have known the names of the animals. For this reason,
Scripture says that “God (i.e. the Creator) led all creatures of his cre-
ation to Adam to see what he would call them” (Gen. 2.19). Adam, it
follows, “first named the Creator, because from whose face he received
life, Him he saw before all others; for the creatures were established to
make known to him the Creator” (§273).13 Because God led the animals
to him, he must have recognized God before he recognized and named
the animals. That recognition of God is naming. In other words, as it
is put in §264: “For the Lord introduced knowledge and through his
knowledge recognizing His creatures, he was called similar to Him.”14
So, the second of the gifts of the spirit also reflects Adam’s being in the
image of God.
Here two most interesting notions are introduced. First, that the
divine breath or spirit breathed into Adam gave him discernment, ratio-
nality and knowledge and in this respect he was the image of God. It is
this discernment that enabled him to recognize the animals—not just
to make up their names, but to name them according to their essential
being. This point was stressed repeatedly during the following centuries.
David of Ganjak (1060?–1131), also known as David son of Alavik, says
that “Adam gave names conformable to the nature of each animal and
those were found to be their unchangeable names.”15 The name is an
13
Thomson 2001, 70.
14
Thomson 2001, 66.
15
Abrahamyan 1952, 52. Similarly Gregory of Narek (945?–1003), David’s predeces-
sor, in his Commentary on Song of Songs, stresses this point: “Even after eating the fruit,
he did not totally lose the spirit”. This is shown, Gregory maintains, by the fact that
“he arranged names for each of them (the animals) according to its disposition and
74 michael e. stone
nature” (Grigor Narekac‘i, 1840, 276–7). All translations of Armenian sources are our
own, unless otherwise specified. Compare John Milton, Paradise Lost, 8:352–3. “I nam’d
them, as they pass’d, and understood Thir Nature, with such knowledge God endu’d”.
16
On the importance of naming, see Abba 1962, 500–3, Denny, 1987, 300–1.
17
Gen. 2.19. Xač‘ikyan 1992, 241.
adam’s naming of the animals: naming or creation? 75
18
The phrase is from the Liturgy, from the prayer before the Kiss of Peace: see Nero-
syan, 1984, 68.
19
ױךרמןׯפעױױלפׯפעױנׯנײױן: Nersēs’ remarks on this name “I do
not mean the name of his nature which is glorious and incomprehensible but of his glory
and action.” See Nersēs Lambronac‘i 1842, 81 for both quotations.
20
In NBH 1837, s.v. it is glossed thus: ײפךךשכפ, קךפךחךךר,
ײפױךױׯׯפך, ײפךך, פקמ, “like founder, or bringer here or hither, that is
to say, bringer into being, maker, creator.” Ačar֛yan, in his etymological dictionary, in a
long, detailed article gives an excellent overview of proposed etymologies of the word
supports the Phrygian etymology given above (1971, 1.279–282).
76 michael e. stone
phrase: ἐγὼ εἴμι ὁ ὤν. The word Astuac is introduced into the Armenian
form of the verse where it is not found in the Hebrew or Greek. This wit-
nesses the antiquity and dissemination of this idea.
The same concept was very much to the fore in the thirteenth cen-
tury for, in his Book of Questions, Nersēs’ later contemporary, Vanakan
vardapet (1181–1251), has the following.
QUESTION: How did he (Adam) give the name?
ANSWER: When He (God) breathed into his face, the eyes of his mind
being opened, he saw God and the fiery hosts round about, and he said,
“God!” (Astuac, i.e., bringer forth hither). Then He (God) brought the ani-
mals forward. He (Adam) gave the name. The animal, wondering, looked
at him.21
Vanakan vardapet clearly states the relationship between Adam’s nam-
ing God and God, by or in accordance with the meaning of His name,
bringing forth the animals so that Adam could give them, to their aston-
ishment, their “true” names.
Knowledge or recognition of names, therefore, is a creative act and
the name of God that is known to humans is “Creator”. This name comes
from Adam’s discernment that he is the image of God and the ability to
discern this derives from the inbreathing of the spirit.
In the material we have discussed there, we have ranged from the incep-
tion of Armenian literature to its floruit in the High Middle Ages. It may,
therefore, be appropriate to conclude with two passages from great fig-
ures of the late Armenian Middle Ages. Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i (1344?-1409),
Armenia’s most eminent systematic theological writer, asks in his Book
of Questions (part 53): “Why did Adam give names to all cattle and other
(animals)?” He enumerates a number of answers to this question and we
take up the discussion in the middle:
Answer. . . . Third, because God had given Adam natural wisdom; He com-
mands (him) to give names in order to demonstrate the best offspring of
the Word (i.e., mankind). Fourth, in order to show man to be autonomous;
wherefore he commands him to give whatever names he wishes. Fifth, he
gave these animals as help to man, as servants to the(ir) lord; he had to
21
R. Ervine, personal correspondence.
adam’s naming of the animals: naming or creation? 77
know them by name. Sixth, the beneficent God made Adam companion of
His creation by giving names. Seventh, since he had breathed into him the
breath of grace of various gifts, now he manifested the grace of priesthood
in him. For it is the duty of a priest to give names after the birth in the font.
Eighth, now he manifested in Adam the grace of prudence and speech and
voice and lordship.22
Thus, Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i stresses a series of Adam’s aspects which relate
to his role or status. The issue of Adam’s autonomy is an old one and his
free will is related to his sin as early as The Teaching of Gregory.23 Lord-
ship is also present, but so is the theme of creation. Adam gave names,
which means he created and because he created, he was a companion or
partner of God in creation. Consequently he was lord of the creatures he
named and had authority over them. Moreover, Adam gave names just
as a priest gives names in the baptismal font. Baptism is rebirth so here,
again, the theme of creation and recreation recurs.
In the Adam Book of Ar֛ak‘el of Siwnik‘ (ca. mid-fourteenth century
to ca. 1421) we read:
16 Why did he create Adam later?
And not before everything.
For, if he was image and likeness,
He should have made him first, with Himself.
17 Because, if he had not created the beings first,
Where would the first man have lived?
He formed the earth as a table for him,
And then He summoned and honoured the First one.
18 Then He brought, He set before him,
A thousand sorts of living beings,
So that if he were pleased with them,
He might take a companion, whom he wished.
19 He took no companion from irrational beasts,
For they were not like him.
But he gave names to the cattle,
Thus one turned and looked at him.
20 When he gave them a name,
The fitting one to each,
Lowering their heads to the ground to him.
They passed by obediently. (Recension 1, Chapter 1).24
22
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 219–20.
23
Teaching §§277, 279.
24
The text may be found in Madoyan 1989, 15; cf. Stone 2007, 87–88.
78 michael e. stone
Ar֛ak‘el of Siwnik‘ wrote a long epic poem on Adam and Eve from which
the preceding is an extract. He was both nephew and student of the
great theologian, Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i and his uncle’s ideas about naming
influenced him. What this passage from Ar֛ak‘el’s Adam Book omits
is as intriguing as what it presents. Ideas about naming and creation,
prominent and developing from Agathangelos to Nersēs Lambronac‘i,
are completely absent. Ełišē’s idea that naming is required for existence,
which has many resonances in other writings, is not taken up. From the
beginning, in Agathangelos, Adam’s image had included an aspect of
authority and mastership (so already Genesis 1:28–30). It is this which
Ar֛ak‘el of Siwnik‘ discusses almost exclusively. He passes over notions
such as Adam’s naming as the image of God’s creation, Adam’s naming
the animals as the continuation of his naming of God, naming as bring-
ing into being, and so forth. Instead, he stresses the issue of obedience:
a lord or master names and so naming demands obedience. This is not
a new idea, of course, and Agathangelos’ words about it bring to mind
Isaiah’s doxological cry:
Lift up your eyes on high and see:
Who created these?
He who brings out their host and numbers them,
calling them all by name;
because he is great in strength,
mighty in power,
not one is missing. (Is. 40:26)
The biblical sources, however, are submerged in the background in
Ar֛ak‘el’s poem as he highlights one characteristic of Adam as the image:
his lordly authority. In the search narrative in the apocryphal Peni-
tence of Adam (especially 37(10):1–38(12):3) the beasts’ obedience is
the operative theme. Eve lost it when she sinned, but Seth retained it,
because he was created in Adam’s image and likeness (Gen. 5.3) and so
he could overcome the beast.25 The Penitence of Adam, the Armenian
translation of the primary Adam book, is quite old, and might be of the
sixth or seventh century.26
A final remark touches on Adam’s naming as a sacerdotal function.
In the seventh reason cited by Grigor Tat‘ewc‘i above, he related Adam’s
25
Being in Adam’s image, Seth possessed a measure of the image of God.
26
Anderson and Stone 1997 provide a synoptic edition and translation of the relevant
texts.
adam’s naming of the animals: naming or creation? 79
naming to his priestly role. This point was made earlier by Vanakan
vardapet:
Question: What did he give to Adam?
Answer: Priesthood in the putting of names, for priests seal the believer at
the font, by calling his name.
Priesthood relates on the one hand to the idea of the primordial high
priesthood, passed on by Adam to the subsequent generations. On the
other hand, it takes up themes related to Christ as priest and sacrifice
that are already developed in the New Testament.27 Similar ideas are
expressed by Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i who says that before sinning Adam had
“three gifts: priesthood, royalty and prophecy.” The priesthood, Grigor
says, was expressed by his naming the animals.28
The theme of naming is a rich one, both from the aspect of history
of thought and from that of the investigation of social categories. More
data could be assembled and further avenues of investigation could be
broached. Yet, what has been said here suffices to indicate certain main
lines of development.
References
27
See, for example, Hebrews 2.17–18, 5.1–10.
28
Sermon for the Saturday before the Fast, chap. 60 in Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1998, 275.
The same exact formulation is found in Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i Corcorec‘i 1825, 316.
Compare Vanakan vardapet cited in Ervine 2000, 435 n. 15.
80 michael e. stone
Margalit Finkelberg
1
Nilsson 1949, 73; cf. Finkelberg 1998, 105–8.
82 margalit finkelberg
2
Pl. Symp. 188b6–c1; 202e3–203a4. Tr. B. Jowett – H. Pelliccia, with slight changes.
3
Cf. Plato, Phaedrus 275b: “There was a tradition in the temple of Zeus at Dodona
that oaks first gave prophetic utterances. The men of old, far less wise than you sophisti-
cated young men, deemed in their simplicity that if they heard the truth even from ‘oak
or rock,’ it was enough.” Tr. B. Jowett – H. Pelliccia.
4
Heraclitus B 93 DK. Tr. G.S. Kirk, J.E. Raven, M. Schofield.
greek distrust of language 83
assembly when the response was brought from Delphi is worth being
adduced in full:
When, however, upon their arrival, they [the envoys to Delphi] produced
it before the people, and inquiry began to be made into its true mean-
ing, many and various were the interpretations which men put on it; two,
more especially, seemed to be directly opposed to one another. Certain of
the old men were of opinion that the god meant to tell them the citadel
would escape; for this was anciently defended by palisade; and they sup-
posed that barrier to be the wooden wall of the oracle. Others maintained
that the fleet was what the god pointed at; and their advice was that noth-
ing should be thought of except the ships, which had best be at once got
ready.
The outcome of the debate was decided by the intervention of Themis-
tocles, who persuaded the Athenians that the oracle could only address
the ships, “since they were the wooden wall in which the god told them
to trust.” As a result, the Athenians spent the annual produce of the sil-
ver mines at Laurion on building a fleet of 200 ships, which eventually
defeated the Persian fleet at Salamis. Those few who persisted in literal
interpretation of the oracle stayed on the acropolis after the evacuation
of the city and perished. Herodotus comments on this: “They imagined
themselves to have discovered the true meaning of the oracle uttered by
the priestess, which promised ‘The wooden wall should never be taken.’
The wooden wall, they thought, did not mean the ships, but the place
where they had taken refuge.”5
Now although the decoding of a divine message can in principle be
either correct or not, it is highly symptomatic that rather often than not
human attempts at understanding verbal messages coming from the
gods are treated as fundamentally inadequate and therefore as doomed
to failure. Sophocles’ Trachiniae, a tragedy whose action is focused on
the characters’ misconstruing of an oracle, is especially illuminating in
this respect. Let us throw a closer look at it.
The oracle received by Hercules says that after the completion of his
labours Hercules will either die at the siege of Oechalia or “live a happy
life”. When it becomes clear that Hercules, although he has survived
the siege, is nevertheless dying, the happy existence promised by the
oracle is interpreted as equivalent to death by the chorus and by Hercu-
les himself.6 In fact, however, this interpretation amounts to the logical
5
Hdt. 7.141–44; 8. 51–53. Tr. G. Rawlinson.
6
Soph. Trach. 81, 168, 821–30, 1170–2.
84 margalit finkelberg
II
Let us turn now to the philosophical tradition. In her recent book on non-
discursive thinking in Neoplatonism, Sara Rappe argues convincingly
that “beyond any formal criterion shaping the tradition, Neoplatonists
shared the belief that wisdom could not be expressed or transmitted by
rational thought or language.” Thus, she writes about Plotinus: “Plotinus
suggests that in this kind of thought, genuine self-knowledge, language
arises afterward as an awkward translation of a truth whose essence is
to break free of discursive structures. It is for this reason that the texts
that seek to convey or even to inculcate self-knowledge at once fail to
accomplish this purpose.”8
7
Ibid., 1264–9. Tr. R.C. Jebb.
8
Rappe 2000, xiii.
greek distrust of language 85
9
Hadot 2002, 76, 88.
10
Plut. Mor. 397 BC. Tr. F.C. Babbit.
86 margalit finkelberg
The Phaedrus and the Seventh Letter, the two works in the Platonic
corpus that dwell at length on the shortcomings of language as a vehicle
for expressing the highest knowledge, will allow us to take this discus-
sion several steps further.11 Whereas the Phaedrus invective mainly
addresses writing, the Seventh Letter, explicitly stating as it does that
“no intelligent man will ever be so bold as to put into language those
things which his reason has contemplated,” equally dismisses both the
written and the spoken word.12 Furthermore, as Kenneth M. Sayre has
shown, the view that the ultimate philosophical understanding cannot
be adequately expressed in language is not restricted to the Seventh Let-
ter alone but is also found in Meno, Symposium, Republic, Theaetetus,
Sophist, Philebus, and even in the Phaedrus itself. “Although these pas-
sages range chronologically from the relatively early to the very late dia-
logues, a point advanced by each is that the logos attending knowledge
is in some fashion an intellectual grasp of being. Suppose the logos in
question were a grasp of being, that enables judgment to distinguish
correctly between what is and what is not. Such a logos is not discursive,
being instead the ‘free man’s knowledge’ by which discourse is guided.”13
But it seems to me that it is the Cratylus with its passionate avowal that
under no circumstances can language be regarded as an adequate means
for expressing the true, the good, and the beautiful that is especially rel-
evant here. “How being (ta onta) is to be studied or discovered,” Socrates
says to Cratylus in the concluding part of the dialogue, “is, I suspect,
beyond you and me. But we may admit so much, it is not to be [discov-
ered] from names. No, it must be studied and investigated in itself rather
than by means of names.”14
For Plato, as well as for many others, rather than in language, the
true grammar of the universe resided in the all-embracing harmony of
music and number that represented the world order as it really is. This
is for example how Plato describes the structure of the heavens in the
concluding book of the Republic:
For there are eight whorls in all, lying in one another with their rims show-
ing as circles from above, while from the back they form one continuous
whorl around the stem, which is driven right through the middle of the
eighth. Now the circle formed by the lip of the first and outermost whorl
11
Cf. Finkelberg 1997, 255–61.
12
Pl. Epist. vii 343a, cf. 344c1–8.
13
Sayre 1988, 107.
14
Crat. 439b, cf. 440bc. Tr. B. Jowett, with slight changes.
greek distrust of language 87
is the broadest; that of the sixth, second; that of the fourth, third; that of
the eighth, fourth; that of the seventh, fifth; that of the fifth, sixth; that of
the third, seventh; and that of the second, eighth. . . . The whole spindle is
turned in a circle with the same motion, but within the revolving whole
the seven inner circles revolve gently in the opposite direction from the
whole; of them, the eighth goes most quickly, second and together with
one another are the seventh, sixth and fifth. Third in swiftness, as it looked
to them, the fourth circles about; fourth, the third; and fifth, the second.
And the spindle turned in the lap of Necessity. Above, on each of its circles,
is perched a Siren, accompanying its revolution, uttering a single sound,
one note; from all eight is produced the accord of a single harmony.15
This is of course none other than harmonia mundi, the Pythagorean
music of the spheres produced by ratios of the four primal numbers,
the Tetrad.16 Yet, although closely associated with the Pythagoreans, this
visage of the underlying harmony of the world is not restricted to this
school alone. In both popular and philosophical tradition, nature, gods,
and men were generally envisaged as belonging to the same whole ruled
by the same eternal laws, which were interpreted not only in terms of
necessity and destiny but also in those of harmony and justice.17 The
continuity between the macrocosm and the microcosm thus produced
allowed the chosen few who made this quest the purpose of their lives
to “know themselves,” that is, to know their human nature, which is the
same as the nature of the universe, to become tuned to the inner har-
mony of the universe and thus to be made one with it.
Accordingly, adequate communication with the divine could only be
obtained through noetic contemplation that transcended language. This
was achieved by abiding by a strict ascetic discipline, which amounted
to reducing one’s own human nature when still alive. The institutional
framework for all activities of this kind was supplied by religious trends
and philosophical schools, each of which offered its own distinctive ver-
sion of restoring the unity between the human and the divine.18 As Wal-
ter Burkert put it in his discussion of ancient Pythagoreanism: “. . . there
is a kind of knowing which penetrates to the very core of the universe,
which offers truth as something at once beatific and comfortable, and
presents the human being as cradled in universal harmony.”19 I know
15
Rep. 616d–617c.
16
Cf. Burkert 1972, 350–68.
17
Cf. Finkelberg 2002, 173–82.
18
Cf. Finkelberg 2002, 175–6.
19
Burkert 1972, 482.
88 margalit finkelberg
References
Burkert, W. 1972. Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism. Cambridge, Mass.: Har-
vard University Press.
Finkelberg, M. 1997. “Plato’s Language of Love and the Female.” Harvard Theological
Review 90: 231–61.
———— 1998. The Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
———— 2002. “Religion and Biography in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus.” In Self and
Self-Transformation in the History of Religions, eds. D. Shulman and G. Stroumsa,
173–82. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press.
Hadot, P. 2002. What is Ancient Philosophy? Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press.
Nilsson, M.P. 1949. A History of Greek Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Rappe, S. 2000. Reading Neoplatonism. Non-discursive thinking in the texts of Plotinus,
Proclus, and Damascius. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Sayre, K.M. 1988. “Plato’s Dialogues in the Light of the Seventh Letter.” In Platonic
Writings, Platonic Readings, ed. C.L. Griswold, Jr., 93–109. New York/London:
Routledge.
20
Pl. Symp. 210e–211b. Tr. M. Joyce.
PART TWO
CULTURAL ENCODING
THIS IS NO LOTUS, IT IS A FACE:
POETICS AS GRAMMAR IN DANˢ Dˢ IN’S INVESTIGATION
OF THE SIMILE
Yigal Bronner
I. Introduction
1
Pollock 2003, 46–47.
2
Thus while Arjunwadker (1996, 23) claims that “no serious student of Sanskrit
poetics can deny that in the absence of the foundations the Vaiyakaranˢas and the
Mimamsakas have laid, Sanskrit theory of poetry would not have scaled the heights it
undoubtedly has, particularly since Anandavardhana,” he hardly addresses the question
of the grammatical nature of the poetic analysis.
92 yigal bronner
3
On the temptation to assume direct correspondence between Danˢdˢin and Bhāmaha
see Gerow 1977, 228. On the resiliency of the old poetic categories see Pollock 2003,
42–3.
4
See Bronner 2002.
this is no lotus, it is a face 93
5
See also Gerow 1971, 35–7.
6
Kāvyālamˢ kārasūtravrˢttirˢ of Vāmana, 4.2.1 (introductory note to the sūtra); 4.3.1.
7
Alamˢ kārasarvasva of Ruyyaka, p. 36.
8
Citramīmāmˢ sā of Appayya Dīksˢita, p. 33: upamâikā śailusˢī samˢˢ prāptā citra-
bhūmikā-bhedān | rañjayati kāvya-ran֛ ge nrˢtˢ yantī tad-vidāmˢ cetahˢ || (All translations in
this paper are mine.) Appayya goes on to compare the relationship between the simile
and the rest of the figures to that of the absolute (brahman) and the phenomenal reality
(ibid. p. 35). For more on his discussion see Bronner 2002.
9
Kāvyādarśa of Danˢdˢin 2.1: kāvya-śobhā-kārān dharmān alamˢ kārān.
94 yigal bronner
is, speaking of things the way they are. Such detailed observations of the
true nature of things are, as far as Sanskrit poetics is concerned, rather
marginal to poetry. As Danˢdˢin concludes, “such factual descriptions of
the nature of an entity—consisting of its genus, mode of action, char-
acteristics, and particular appearance—have science as their kingdom,
even though they may occur in poetry as well.”10
So, having mentioned svabhāvokti as part of his catalogue of poetic
devices, but really setting it aside, Danˢdˢin now turns to the mainstay
of poetic ornamentalism—the description of entities the way they are
not. It is this counter-factual or “crooked” speech (vakrokti) that has
poetry as its kingdom, and all the remaining alamˢ kāras are its instances.
Danˢdˢin later points out that all manifestations of crooked speech are
enhanced by punning, thereby adding another distinction between
them and realistic observations.11 It is this special language—counter-
factual, crooked, punned—that forms the primary focus of the Mirror.
About two-thirds of it, to be precise.
The possibilities of describing something other than the way it is are
numerous, perhaps infinite.12 Of these, the tradition of Sanskrit poetics
is particularly interested in descriptions of one entity as another, through
similarity, identification, and the like. The most paradigmatic trope for
such an expression of a thing not as itself but as another is, as we by
now have come to expect, the simile. It is thus no wonder that having
done away with the topic of naturalistic description, Danˢdˢin immedi-
ately turns to the simile, quite possibly the “seed” (bīja) of all figurative
phenomena to which he has earlier referred,13 and his discussion of the
upamā is by far longer than that of any other figure.14
All this suggests, then, the relevance of Danˢdˢin’s analysis of the simile
to our question. To recapitulate: The things which make poetry beauti-
ful are its ornamental elements, the alamˢ kāras. These have to do with a
10
Ibid., 2.13:
jāti-kriyā-gunˢa-dravya-svabhāvâkhyānam īdrˢśam |
śāstresˢv asyâiva sāmrājyamˢ kāvyesˢv apy etad īpsitam ||
11
Ibid., 2.360:
ślesˢaˢ hˢ sarvāsu pusˢnˢāti prāyo vakroktisˢu śriyam |
bhinnamˢ dvidhā svabhāvoktir vakrotiś ceti vānˢ-mayam ||
12
Ibid., 2.1: kas tān kārtsyena vaksˢyati?
13
Ibid., 2.3. This is the interpretation of all of the commentators, though other inter-
pretations are, perhaps, possible.
14
51 verses are dedicated to the simile. The average for the remaining figures is about
10 verses each. The entire length of the Mirror is 657 verses.
this is no lotus, it is a face 95
Danˢdˢin begins by defining the simile as: “a passage in which some pal-
pable similitude is suggested in whatever manner.” This seems more like
an introduction into an extended discussion rather than a conclusive
definition, and indeed, in what appears to be a direct comment on the
open-endedness of the initial formulation, Danˢdˢin immediately states
his intention to “demonstrate the simile’s vast phenomenology.”15 We
may identify three distinct parts in his discussion. First, he defines and
illustrates thirty-two subtypes of the simile. Then he discusses possible
defects, which hinder its aesthetic effect. Finally, there is an appendix-
like list of language used for expressing similitude. Of the three sec-
tions, the first is the longest, and seems to be the most important, as it
holds the key for what makes an expression of similitude pleasing. After
all, the subtypes chosen must be those which Danˢdˢin considered to
create a special charm. Given the importance of this section, we shall
keep our analysis of it at bay, and follow Danˢdˢin’s discussion from the
middle, leaving our investigation of its first portion to the end.
The middle portion of Danˢdˢin’s discussion of the simile deals with fac-
tors that may obstruct its aesthetic effect. Danˢdˢin is concerned here with
comparisons between entities which disagree in gender, number, and
hierarchical status. His main thrust is to show that such a dissonance
need not necessarily hinder the aesthetic charm. The discussion is there-
fore framed by the question of what does not amount to a fault:16
15
Ibid., 2.14:
yathā-kathamˢ -cit sādrˢśyamˢ yatrôdbhūtamˢ pratīyate |
upamā nāma sā tasyāhˢ prapañco ’yamˢ pradarśyate ||
16
Ibid., 2.51:
na lin֛ ga-vacane bhinne na hīnâdhikatâpi vā |
upamā-dūsˢanˢāyâlamˢ yatrôdvego na dhīmatām ||
96 yigal bronner
17
Ibid., 2.54: saubhagyamˢ na jahāty eva jātucit.
18
Ibid., 2.52 and the Hrˢdayan֛ gama commentary.
this is no lotus, it is a face 97
19
Ibid., 2.56:
īdrˢśamˢ varjyate sadbhihˢ kāranˢamˢ tatra cintyatām |
gunˢa-dosˢa-vicārāya svayam eva manīsˢibhihˢ ||
98 yigal bronner
The last nine verses of Danˢdˢin’s discussion of the simile survey the ways
in which Sanskrit expresses similarity. The close relationship with the
grammatical tradition is at once apparent. The observations of gram-
marians that similitude can be denoted by a specific set of particles (iva,
20
Ibid., 2.56, cf. the Ratnaśrī commentary.
21
Ibid., 3.148: śabda-hīnam anālaksˢya-laksˢya-laksˢanˢˢa-paddhatihˢ |
this is no lotus, it is a face 99
etc.), suffixes (vat, etc.), words (tulya, etc.), and compounding tech-
niques (e.g., bahuvrīhi, -kalpa, etc.), while using various syntactic struc-
tures (x is like y, x is on par with y, etc.), account for a significant portion
of the list. It seems clear that such grammatical categories and insights
are incorporated wholesale into the investigation of poetic tongue.
Yet we may also recognize in this last section of Danˢdˢin’s discus-
sion another layer of expressivity, one which is not a direct product of
Pānˢinian analysis. Here there are words and structures which do not
directly denote similitude but hint to it. Saying that one entity rivals,
mocks, or steals the beauty of another, to give but a few examples, is to
imply that it resembles it. Even the denial of a semblance between X and
Y, argues Danˢdˢin, may serve to indirectly affirm its existence.
What is worthy of note is that there is a division of labor between
these two layers of expressivity, between expressions of similarity which
are in the domain of grammar proper (particles, suffixes, compounding
techniques, syntactical structures) and those which fall in the domain of
pragmatics and suggestion (such as a negation suggesting affirmation,
or rivalry hinting at similarity). For as we shall see, expressive means
belonging in the first layer do not necessarily make for separate sim-
ile subtypes with distinct aesthetic flavors (as in the initial portion of
Danˢdˢin’s simile discussion). One may say that a face is like the moon, or
moon-like (using a nominal ending), or speak of the moon-face (using a
compound), or describe the face as equivalent to the moon, comparable
to it, parallel to it, on a par with it, reaching its status, and being of the
same type, form, color, or kind as it (using a variety of lexical items and
syntaxes). All of these possibilities require mention in Danˢdˢin’s appen-
dix-like list of “words expressing similitude.” But none is worthy of men-
tion as responsible for a unique kind of simile.
The words in the appendix’s other layer, however, are treated dif-
ferently. For instance, as soon as we say that the moon is the “rival”,
“competitor” or even the “enemy” of the face, or that the face “outdoes”,
“mocks” or “defeats” the moon, we immediately enter the domain of
distinctive simile types, wherein similitude is conjured on the basis of
the notion of rivalry or some kind of an evaluative comparison. Such
vocabulary, when properly used, amounts to a unique kind of simile-
making, with a unique aesthetic effect, and hence merits classification
as an independent category of this poetic ornament.
Thus, even in this innocent looking appendix to Danˢdˢin’s discussion,
we find an analytical program which is at once continuous with and dis-
tinct from the grammatical analysis proper. We still need to understand
100 yigal bronner
22
Kāvyādarśa of Danˢdˢin 2.15:
ambho-ruham ivâtāmrāmˢ mugdhe kara-talamˢ tava |
iti dharmôpamā sāksˢāt tulya-dharma-nidarśanāt ||
23
Ibid., 2.16.
this is no lotus, it is a face 101
The six abstracted formulas in the right column of Table 1 should suffice
to underscore Danˢdˢin’s charting of structural factors, such as the order
of the proposition (standard, reversed, or both, repeated in rotation, as
in anyonya simile) or the possible value of its variables (singular, plural,
or nil, as in the case of Z in vastu simile). Here is a formal linguistic
analysis of the poetic language of similitude, indeed a grammar. It is a
descriptive grammar, for it is based, at least partly, on observation of the
poetic practice, as the author himself elsewhere testifies.26 Yet it is also
prescriptive, for as already mentioned, it lists and hence recommends
only those formulations believed to carry a unique aesthetic flavor.
Danˢdˢin rarely specifies the distinct charm of each subtype, but occa-
sionally he does hint at it. Thus we are told that the “mutual” simile (X is
like Y, Y is like X) highlights an outstanding mutuality of the entities, a
reciprocal relationship which is particularly strong; later writers under-
stood this to imply the exclusion of any additional entity.27 Similarly the
24
Ibid., 2.17–18.
25
Ibid., 2.21; 2.40.
26
Ibid., 1.2: pūrva-śāstrānˢi samˢ hrˢtya prayogān upalaksˢya ca |
27
Ibid., 2.18: anyonyôtkarsˢa-śamˢ sinī. In later tradition this is often taken as an inde-
pendent alamˢ kāra called upameyôpamā, the purpose of which is the exclusion of any
third entity from the relationship of similarity.
102 yigal bronner
plurality of standards in the “plural” simile (X is like Y1, Y2, Y3, etc.)
highlights the outstanding quality of the tenor, the softness of the lover’s
touch in Danˢdˢin’s example.28
So here is one way of understanding Danˢdˢin’s poetics as grammar.
Within the confines of literary convention, the author maps and for-
mally analyzes the various propositional varieties of expressing simili-
tude, for which, as we have seen, he later charts the necessary vocabulary
(what we identified as the first layer of his appended list). All subtypes
exemplified above are variations and permutations on the basic formula
“your palm is red-hued like the lotus,” or X is like Y in that both are Z,
and it is this variation that is being meticulously demonstrated.
Danˢdˢin’s meditation on the simile is, however, by no means lim-
ited to purely structural factors. Many of his thirty-two subtypes con-
vey similitude quite differently. Take, for instance, the following three
illustrations:29
Is this a lotus inhabited by a pair of restless bees?
Or is it your face, containing a pair of playful eyes?
My mind constantly wavers.
28
Ibid., 2.40: atiśayamˢ prathayantī.
29
Ibid., 2. 26–7, 36:
kimˢ padmam antar-bhrāntâli kimˢ te lolêksˢanˢamˢ mukham |
mama dolāyate cittam itîyamˢ samˢ śayôpamā ||
na padmasyêndu-nigrāhyasyêndu-lajjā-karī dyutihˢ |
atas tvan-mukham evêdam ity asau nirnˢayôpamā ||
na padmamˢ mukham evêdamˢ na bhrˢn֛ gau caksˢusˢī ime |
iti vispasˢt ˢa-sādrˢśyāt tattvâkhyānôpamâiva sā ||
30
The lotus closes as the moon rises.
this is no lotus, it is a face 103
31
In my use of the term intertextuality I follow Culler 1981.
104 yigal bronner
32
Kāvyādarśa of Danˢdˢin 2. 33–35:
śata-patramˢ śarac-candras tavânanam iti trayam |
paraspara-virodhîti sā virodhôpamā matā ||
na jātu śaktir indos te mukhena pratigarjitum |
kalan֛ kino jadˢasyêti pratisˢedhôpamâiva sā ||
mrˢgêksˢanˢân֛ kamˢ te vaktramˢ mrˢgenˢâivân֛ kitahˢ śaśī |
tathâpi sama evâsau nôtkarsˢīti cat ˢûpamā ||
33
In fact, it possibly activates this basic intertext indirectly, through the “plural”
simile mentioned in Table 1.
this is no lotus, it is a face 105
moon is clearly a liability. So while the lover concludes that the face and
the moon are on par, he implies that the face is prettier. The statement
is thus clever (cat ˢu) flattery, and also a complex act of poetic disguise.
Similitude is concealed as a rivalry, in which the face clearly has the
upper hand, which in turn is concealed as similitude, wherein the two
entities are said to be level with one another. It is Danˢdˢin’s wording and
ordering of his examples which allow us to appreciate the full richness
and intertextual density of this last poetic expression.34
The principle object of Danˢdˢin’s analysis thus seems to be the process
of masking and revealing the basic notion of similitude, which in its bar-
est form rarely appears “on stage.” Each mask has its relationship with
the basic form, be it propositional or notional, direct or indirect, and
there seems to be a special favoring of complex series of disguises of the
sort we have exemplified above. It is, perhaps, this very vision of poetic
analysis that Appayya Dīksˢita, almost a thousand years later, extended
to the role of simile in the entire “theater of poetic language,” as we saw
in the beginning of this paper.
Above we sampled from the discussion on just one alamˢ kāra, albeit a
particularly important one, which is analyzed at unusual length in what
appears to be a formative moment for the discourse of poetics. Obvi-
ously, there are limits to what we can generalize from this study, yet it
may throw some light on the project of the alamˢ kāra tradition, at least
at this early stage.
We have seen that alamˢ kāraśāstra is, in many ways, continuous with
the grammatical tradition. First, it requires a mastery of Pānˢinian gram-
mar as a prerequisite for the study of both poetics and poetry, and builds
upon a great sensitivity to grammatical forms such as case, number, and
gender endings, various compounding techniques, syntactic structures,
and even different phonemes and their distinct qualities. More specifi-
cally, this is a sensitivity to possible harmony or disharmony among and
between these various parts of speech. In short, alamˢ kāraśāstra neces-
sitates not only a grammarian’s knowledge but also a grammarian’s ear,
34
This rich intertextual structure of figuration is seen elsewhere in Danˢdˢin’s work.
See, for example, his set of illustrations for vyatireka (Kāvyādarśa 2.178–183); cf. Bron-
ner 1999, 280–1.
106 yigal bronner
35
On this dual trajectory in grammar see, for example, Houben 1997 and Pollock
1985.
this is no lotus, it is a face 107
36
On the potential of ślesˢa in poetic disguise see Bronner 1999, 475–6.
37
For instance samˢ śaya, or anyonya, later known as upameyopamā.
108 yigal bronner
in later literature between explicit similes and suggested ones. But these
may be viewed as relatively minor changes. It is possible to argue that
the basic analysis of crooked referentiality of the simile has not only
remained intact, but has also been extended to chart larger webs of
intertextuality, among the various alamˢ kāras. Indeed, this may be one
way to characterize the theoretical thrust of thinkers like Ruyyaka,
Appayya Dīksˢita, and others, though this remains to be proved by fur-
ther research.
References
Primary Texts
Alamˢ kārasarvasva of Ruyyaka with the Sañjīvanī of Vidyācakravartin. 1965. Eds. S.S.
Janaki and V. Raghavan. Delhi: Meharchand Lachmandas.
Citramīmāmˢ sā of Appayya Dīksˢita with the commentary of Dharānanda. 1971. Ed. J.C.
Misra. Varanasi: Chowkhamba Sanskrit Series Office.
Kāvyādarśa of Danˢdˢin with the commentaries Ratnaśrī, Prabhā, Hrˢdayan֛ gamā, and
Vivrˢti. 1999. Ed. Y. Sharma. 4 vols. Delhi: NAG Publications.
Kāvyālamˢ kārasūtravrˢtti of Vāmana with the commentary of Gopendra Tripuraha Gopal.
1995. Ed. H. Shastri. 2nd ed. Varanasi: Chaukhamba Surbharati Prakashan.
Secondary Texts
Martin Kern*
* I am grateful to David Shulman and Sergio La Porta for inviting me to the truly
enlightening Jerusalem workshop and for the opportunity to present my work in this
inspiring cross-cultural context. I also wish to thank Wolfgang Behr, William G. Boltz,
Lothar von Falkenhausen, Robert E. Harrist, Jr., David Schaberg, and Ken’ichi Takashima
for their numerous excellent comments that helped much to improve the present essay.
1
Apparently, the first to have claimed the superiority of the “ancient script” (guwen
古文) classics over their more recent “modern script” ( jinwen 今文) counterparts was
Liu Xin 劉歆 (d. 23). He considered the guwen texts more reliable than their jinwen
counterparts because they had been received in writing and were not just recently tran-
scribed from oral tradition; see Hanshu 1987, 36.1968–1971.
2
The traditional (“Confucian”) canon was first carved into stone (and erected outside
the imperial academy) in the late second century ce and then repeatedly through later
imperial dynasties; for a partial list of these occasions, see Nylan 2001, 48–49.
3
See Nylan 1999, 2000; Kern 2001.
4
In Eastern Han times (25–220), the key document expressing this idea is Xu Shen’s
許慎 (c. 55–c. 149) postface to his dictionary Shuowen jiezi 說文解字; see Shuowen jiezi
1988, chapter 15. For the development of the early mythology of the script as it culmi-
nated in Xu Shen’s text, see Boltz 1994, 129–155; Lewis 1999, 241–287. While building
especially on the “Appended Phrases” (“Xici” 繫辭), a late Warring States text associated
with the Classic of Changes (Yijing 易經) that derives the formation of the divinatory
trigrams and hexagrams from cosmic patterns, the Shuowen postface adds decidedly to
this mythology by extending it to the writing system.
110 martin kern
Moreover, ever since the Qin First Emperor’s (r. 221–210 bce) unifi-
cation of the official script soon after founding the empire in 221 bce,
the Chinese writing system has been viewed as the key technology to
administer and culturally unify an empire that in its vast expansion con-
tained numerous varieties of the spoken Chinese language.5 At the same
time, by virtue of the historical stability of the Chinese graphs, which in
general are not affected by phonetic change (although occasional excep-
tions are documented), the writing system has largely obscured the con-
tinuous linguistic developments in lexicon, grammar, and sound over
time.
As a whole, the corpus of written texts has thus created an illusion of
linguistic stability that generated a formidable reality in its own right:
a continuous literary tradition of two millennia where any newly writ-
ten text could be enriched by expressions from various earlier written
texts without necessarily giving the appearance of stylistic antiquarian-
ism or phonetic incompatibility. In this vast imperial tradition of elite
literary writing, the very concept of culture (wen 文) was collapsed into
that of the written text (wen 文).6 This concept of wen gave continu-
ous presence to the past. It generated a cultural history of the written
text together with the institutions to sustain it—first and foremost the
imperial bureaucracy and its civil examination system—that remained
intact and in place throughout the rise and fall of succeeding imperial
dynasties and contributed forcefully to the image (such as Hegel’s) of the
Chinese empire as frozen in time and incapable of historical change.7
5
See, e.g., Gernet 1999, 32–34. Note that the Chinese writing system was also adopted
to the languages of Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese; on these historical developments,
see Norman 1988, 74–82, and Ramsey 1987, 143–154.
6
See, e.g., Kern 2001.
7
One may note that the extreme graphocentrism of imperial China became a veri-
table impediment to Chinese interests in the Chinese language—not to mention interest
in other languages. While in medieval times (ca. 200–900 ce), Buddhism enriched the
Chinese dictionary by thousands of new words, discussion of this influence, or of that
from other languages, remained marginal, compared to the discussion of the Chinese
writing system. As Wolfgang Behr has pointed out to me, the best survey of the lim-
ited evidence of premodern Chinese interest in Sanskrit is still Gulik 1956. The first
grammar of classical Chinese, that is, of the elite written koiné, appeared only in 1898
when Ma Jianzhong 馬建忠 (1845–1900) published his Ma shi wentong 馬氏文通 in an
explicit response to the Indo-European grammatical tradition. By this time, European
scholars had already produced grammars of classical Chinese for almost two centuries,
culminating in Georg von der Gabelentz’s (1840–1893) magisterial Chinesische Gram-
matik mit Ausschluss des niederen Stiles und der heutigen Umgangssprache of 1881. For
Western dictionaries and grammars of Chinese, and for traditional Chinese discussions
the performance of writing in western zhou china 111
The written tradition constituted its own sovereign realm, parallel and
always superior to the reality of imperial rule;8 and ever since the first
century ce, the literary text was explicitly imbued with the capacity to
express not only human emotion and thought, but to reflect the nature
and condition of social and cosmological order.9
In addition to the use of writing in these various contexts, the very art
of writing Chinese graphs ruled supreme. Beginning in the second cen-
tury ce, calligraphy is the first of the visual arts to have been discussed
and evaluated systematically.10 Above and beyond painting, sculpture,
or architecture, calligraphy has always retained its status as “the most
venerated art form in China.”11 Public inscriptions by recent political
leaders amply testify to the lingering cultural status and political author-
ity of the hand-written word—one may only think of Mao Zedong’s cal-
ligraphy for the title of People’s Daily as well as for the name of Peking
University, written on the university’s main gate, or of Deng Xiaoping’s
of language, see Harbsmeier 1998, 8–26, 46–107. For an excellent analysis of the (alto-
gether limited) premodern Chinese reflections on language change, see Behr 2005a.
8
As Lewis 1999, 4, has noted: “[T]he culminating role of writing in the [Warring
States] period, and the key to its importance in imperial China, was the creation of par-
allel realities within texts that claimed to depict the entire world. Such worlds created in
writing provided models for the unprecedented enterprise of founding a world empire,
and they underwrote the claims of authority of those who composed, sponsored, or
interpreted them. One version of these texts ultimately became the first state canon of
imperial China, and in this capacity it served to perpetuate the dream and the reality of
the imperial system across the centuries . . . [T]he Chinese empire, including its artistic
and religious versions, was based on an imaginary realm created within texts. These
texts, couched in an artificial language above the local world of spoken dialects, created
a model of society against which actual institutions were measured.” I agree with two
qualifications: first, the fact that texts maintained the same form over large geographic
distances and several millennia certainly set them in contrast to the synchronic plurality
of dialects and diachronic multiplicity of language change—but this does not mean that
classical Chinese is an artificial language. Second, Lewis’s emphasis on the written text
is to some extent appropriate for imperial China from late Western Han times onward.
However, for the earlier period—the actual focus of Lewis’s book—it exerts considerable
scholastic pressure in order to force a wide and diverse range of cultural phenomena
under the single paradigm of the written text. For extensive reviews of Lewis’s work, see
Nylan 2000 and Kern 2000. A book that pursues a thesis similar to Lewis’s is Connery
1998. Unfortunately, it lacks basic sinological competence.
9
For a compilation of the relevant early texts, see Guo Shaoyu 1988; cf. Liu 1975,
Owen 1992.
10
Remarks about calligraphy begin to surface with Cui Huan 崔瑗 (77–142), Zhao Yi
趙壹 (f. 178), and more substantially, with Cai Yong 蔡邕 (133–192); see Zheng Xiaohua
1999, 46–60; Wang Zhenyuan 1996, 9–24; Nylan 1999a, 46–53.
11
Bunnell and Fong 1999, 9.
112 martin kern
writing of the name of the National Library of China that was inscribed
onto the library’s newly built home in 1987. In highly charged mani-
festations of writing like these, calligraphy has always been regarded as
expressive of exemplary personality and virtuous rulership on the one
hand, and as the public display of civilization and Chinese cultural iden-
tity on the other.12 In such contexts, writing transcends its two basic
functions of storing and circulating knowledge. Or more precisely, the
knowledge that is stored in the public inscription, and that is circulated
to the community in the form of public display, refers not merely to the
meaning of its words but also to the person who inscribed them and
to the cultural status and political authority of public calligraphy itself.
Such calligraphy is an emblem of both culture and sovereignty. The sov-
ereignty extends beyond the social into the natural realm: beginning
with the Qin First Emperor’s seven stone stelae that were erected on
mountain tops during the first decade after the founding of the empire
in 221 bce, texts have been literally inscribed into landscapes, either on
stelae or into the natural stone itself. In these locations, public calligra-
phy transforms a natural site into a site of civilization and human his-
tory. Here, as in the political inscriptions in the capital, the calligraphic
text constitutes the site as what it now is (and has not been before) and
connects it forever to the person of the inscriber.13
In the present essay, I examine such representation in the context of
the early development of Chinese writing, discussing the specific politi-
cal, social, and religious circumstances in which its function of public
display emerged. While inscriptions of ostentatious display are already
documented among the Late Shang (ca. 1200–ca. 1045 bce) oracle
bones,14 my particular focus is on the bronze inscriptions of the Western
Zhou (ca. 1045–771 bce), and here especially on those from the Middle
Western Zhou period (beginning with the reign of King Mu 穆 [r. 956–
918]) and after. These inscriptions not only show an increasingly accen-
tuated use of calligraphy. They also, in a way the Shang oracle carvings
and the very early Western Zhou bronze inscriptions do not, mention
12
“Public display” is Michael Nylan’s term; see Nylan 2005.
13
For the stele inscriptions of the First Emperor, see Kern 2000a. The most important
study of landscape inscription is going to be Harrist, forthcoming. See also Owen 1986,
22–32.
14
This display character manifests itself in some instances of unusually large graphs, in
a sometimes careful pigmentation of the incised writing, and in the commonly observed
approximate symmetry of the text; see Keightley 1978, 46, 54, 56, 76–77, 83–84, 89.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 113
15
See, e.g., Kane 1982–83. In Western Zhou times, the major exception to this are
inscriptions on bells, which are placed on the bells’ exterior. But even these inscrip-
tions are too small to be visible from a distance, and their texts are often arranged in a
rather irregular fashion—even running in different directions wherever there is space
not occupied by ornament—across the body of the bell, including their backside.
16
I leave aside here the complex question of whether or not the bronze inscriptions
were primarily directed not at the living humans (including their descendants) but at the
ancestral spirits; cf. Falkenhausen 1993, 145–152 and Venture 2002.
114 martin kern
and read the inscriptions. It was enough to know about the inscriptions,
and this knowledge certainly existed among the limited “public” of the
elite. It is in this specific sense that I refer to early bronze writing as a
form of “public display.”
Yet in suggesting at all an early origin for the display aspect of Chi-
nese writing, I also do not wish to contribute to the often-encountered
sweeping claims that posit a general continuity in the nature, purposes
and significance of the written text across three millennia. Quite to the
contrary, I believe that in order to put the characteristic uses and spe-
cific prestige of early Chinese writing into focus, we need to first liberate
ourselves from a cluster of later imperial concepts. In imperial times, the
earlier ritual practice that accommodated the most exalted manifesta-
tion of the written text was but memory—indeed a memory scarcely
invoked17—eclipsed by the expansive use and theorization of writing for
a multiplicity of public purposes. Down to the present day, it has proven
difficult to imagine the pre-imperial period as fundamentally different
from later times in terms of the role and significance of writing.18 For
example, the idea that the Zhou “were people who liked to write books,”
first expressed almost seventy years ago, was only recently reiterated.19
17
The only passage explaining the rationale behind bronze inscriptions is a late pas-
sage—pre-imperial or from Han times—in the Liji 禮記 (Liji 1987, 49.378c–379a), ret-
rospectively rationalizing a practice that by the time of the composition of the Liji had
almost completely ceased to exist. According to this passage, “In an inscription (ming),
one appreciates and expounds the virtue and excellence of one’s ancestors; one displays
their achievements and brilliance, their efforts and toils, their honors and distinctions,
and their fame and name (ming) to All under Heaven; and one deliberates all these in
[inscribing] the sacrificial vessel. In doing so, one accomplishes one’s own name (ming)
in order to sacrifice to one’s ancestors. One extols and glorifies the ancestors and by this
venerates filial piety . . . Therefore, when a gentleman looks at an inscription (ming), he
praises those who are commended there, and he praises the one who has made [the
inscription].” (銘者, 論譔其先祖之有德善, 功烈勳勞慶賞聲名列於天下, 而酌之祭
器; 自成其名焉, 以祀其先祖者也。顯揚先祖, 所以崇孝也。。。是故君子之觀於銘
也, 既美其所稱, 又美其所為。 ) It is not possible to date this passage even by a particu-
lar century. Therefore, one might speculate that its discussion of ming 銘 (“inscription”)
and ming 名 (“name”) was, perhaps, still a genuine reflection of an early etymological
figure, and not yet a mere paronomastic pun.
18
A truly splendid example of how Chinese writing is viewed entirely from the impe-
rial perspective has been given in the exhibition (and its catalogue) “L’empire du trait” at
the Bibliothèque nationale de France, March 16–June 20, 2004.
19
See Creel 1937, 255, as approvingly quoted by Shaughnessy 1997, 6. Shaughnessy
has repeatedly expressed his belief in the general prevalence of writing in Western Zhou
culture; see Shaughnessy 1997, 1–12; 1999, 297–299; 2003. For critiques of this approach
to Western Zhou history and its sources, see Falkenhausen 1993, 139–195 and Schaberg
2001, 477–481.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 115
20
Mozi 1986, 2.62, 4.111, 5.119, 7.185–186, 7.196, 8.214–215, 9.250, 9.254, 12.407–
408, 13.431.
21
While the present paper is concerned with the Western Zhou period, one may
also mention the display function of writing as it figures prominently in certain Eastern
Zhou texts. One example is the Zhouli where numerous officers are in charge of reading
out loud various kinds of written texts on specific occasions. Among the officials in the
Ministry of War (“Xia guan” 夏官), the Manager of Rewards (si xun 司勳) inscribes
the names of meritorious persons onto the king’s great standard (taichang 太常).
Among the officials in the Ministry of Justice (“Qiu guan” 秋官), the Chief Judge (shi shi
士師) suspends tablets inscribed with prohibitions from public gates, and the Enforcer
of Agreements (si yue 司約) inscribes legal contracts into bronze vessels for use in the
ancestral temple.
116 martin kern
22
Shuowen jiezi 1988, 3B.20b.
23
The major archaeological evidence comes from the excavated tombs Shuihudi 睡
虎地 (Yunmeng 雲夢, Hubei) tomb no. 11 (sealed 217 bce) and Zhangjiashan 張家山
(Jingzhou 荊州, Hubei 湖北) tomb no. 247 (sealed 186 bce); see Zhangjiashan 2001,
203; Brashier 2003; Xu Fuchang 1993, 8–14, 358–360, 378–382; Hulsewé 1985, 1, 39n4,
87. For detailed discussion, see Kern 2003.
24
See Behr 2005a, 15–18, also Kern 2003.
25
New scholarship on the cosmological nature of the Zhouli is long overdue; for
some concise remarks on how this text provides a comprehensive vision of “the state as
a replica or image of the cosmos,” see Lewis 1999, 42–48.
26
They are mentioned not in the actual descriptions of the various government
offices but merely listed in the introductory summaries of the different ministries; see
Kern 2003.
27
For a treatment of these functions of early Chinese writing, see Bagley 2004.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 117
28
Pace Shaughnessy 1991, 1, passim, and Cook 1995, 252–255, among others.
29
The term was also proposed by Creel 1970, 110. Creel points out that in modern
use, “secretary” refers not only to menial writing but is also used “to denote offices of
great power and responsibility, as in Secretary of State,” and that the term “originally
meant one entrusted with secrets and employed in confidential missions.” However,
since Creel’s work, the term “secretary” seems to have been largely forgotten; the com-
mon English translation is now “scribe.” I consider this a regression, even though for the
Western Zhou period, the relatively neutral “scribe” seems still better than “archivist,”
“secretarial staff,” or “historiographer,” as one finds shi rendered in the other major Eng-
lish language outline of Western Zhou history and culture, that is, Hsu and Linduff 1988,
245–246, 254–255.
30
See the discussion in Zhang Yachu and Liu Yu 1986, 26–36; Chen Hanping 1986,
119–129; Wong Yin-wai 1978, 128–137; Lai Changyang and Liu Xiang 1985; Cook 1995,
250–255; and, most extensively, Xi Hanjing 1983.
118 martin kern
means confined to the clerical work that may be suggested by his desig-
nation; indeed, the two terms may have designated the same office.31
As will be discussed in greater detail below, the available Western
Zhou bronze inscriptions show these functionaries of writing in two
separate capacities: on the one hand as donors of their own sacrificial
vessels, on the other hand as court officials that are mentioned in vessels
of other donors.32 Among the many hundreds of Western Zhou bronze
inscriptions documented and discussed in the monumental compila-
tion prepared by Shirakawa Shizuka 白川靜,33 twenty-two show Secre-
taries or Makers of Records as donors.34 Fourteen of these inscriptions
were cast with their vessels during the Early Western Zhou period end-
ing with King Zhao 昭 (r. 977/75–957 bce);35 for ten of these, the donor
is a Maker of Records;36 for one, it is a Grand Secretary,37 and for three,
a Secretary.38 Eight inscriptions with Makers of Records or Secretaries
as donors were cast during the Middle Western Zhou (956–858 bce)
and Late Western Zhou (857–771 bce) periods. Of these, only one is
a Maker of Records,39 while seven are Secretaries.40 Thus, two thirds of
the vessels cast for functionaries of writing come from the Early West-
ern Zhou period, mostly with a Maker of Records as donor. During the
31
Wang Guowei 1975, 6.5a–6a, identifies the Secretary of the Interior as a top-level
government official (fully supported by the analyses of Zhang Yachu and Liu Yu 1986,
Xi Hanjing 1983, and Chen Hanping 1986, all of them based on a much larger corpus
of inscriptions). According to Wang, zuoce neishi is yet another designation of the office
that is otherwise called either zuoce or neishi. On the origin and function of the zuoce,
the most comprehensive study is Shirakawa 1974.
32
Xi Hanjing 1973, 41–112, lists a total of 129 early scribes by name, 54 of which
occuring in inscriptions, the others in much later received texts.
33
Shirakawa 1962–84. In the following, I cite Shirakawa in the format “Volume.Pages
(# Entry).”
34
In addition, Shirakawa’s collection includes three post-Western Zhou vessels with
Secretaries as donors; see 37.244–253 (# 207), 39.471–473 (# 221), and 39.523–524
(# 226).
35
All dates of Zhou kings after Shaughnessy (1991).
36
Shirakawa 4.167–172 (# 15), 5.236–244 (# 22), 5.245–247 (# 22a), 6.255–275 (# 24),
6.276–309 (# 25), 6.319–326 (# 26), 8.440–449 (# 42), 10.589–596 (# 58), 11.628–646
(# 60c), 13.744–745 (# 64a). Note that sometimes, identical inscriptions are cast on two
or more vessels (or are repeated on the lid of a vessel). In all these cases, I count the
inscription only once.
37
Shirakawa 8.433–439 (# 41).
38
Shirakawa 2.77–83 (# 6), 7.366–372 (# 33), 9.514–518 (# 50).
39
Shirakawa 19.370–376 (# 105).
40
Shirakawa 20.383–390 (# 107), 21.474–478 (# 115e), 21.484–490 (# 117), 24.174–
186 (# 138), 24.186–187 (# 138a), 39.523–524 (# 226), 50.335–369 (hô-# 15).
the performance of writing in western zhou china 119
Middle and Late Western Zhou periods, such inscriptions are signifi-
cantly less frequent (especially considering that the overall number of
inscriptions increased substantially during these periods), and they are
now mostly cast for a Secretary. Considering the accidental and frag-
mentary nature of the archaeological record, we do not know to which
extent the inscriptions compiled by Shirakawa (or those of any other
collection)41 may serve as a representative cross section of the original
totality of Western Zhou bronze texts. If anything, they indicate general
tendencies; they do not lend themselves to statistically valid conclu-
sions. Only with this caveat in mind, it can be instructive to consider the
available inscriptions for what they show, and then to see how mutually
independent sets of data from both excavated and transmitted sources
converge toward a more or less coherent picture. It is in this spirit that
the following observations and suggestions are delivered.
In Shirakawa’s corpus, inscriptions of other donors where shi, nei-
shi, taishi, zuoce, or yin appear as actual functionaries of writing show
the following distribution: in Early Western Zhou times, one finds one
zuoce, one taishi, one neishi, and three shi. In inscriptions dating from
the Middle and Late Western Zhou periods, there are one zuoce, three
taishi, seventeen shi, twenty neishi, two zuoce neishi, eight zuoce yin,
three neishi yin, and eight yin. Judging from the current archaeologi-
cal record, inscriptions for other donors that mention functionaries of
writing increase dramatically in Middle and Late Western Zhou times,
the reason being a probably new type of ritual described on bronze
vessels (see below). Furthermore, matching the survey of inscriptions
with shi or zuoce as donors, it appears that from Middle Western Zhou
times onward, occurrences of shi far outnumber those of zuoce. In par-
ticular, the title of the neishi appears in only one Early Western Zhou
inscription42 but becomes the most prominent one in Middle and Late
41
After the publication of Shirakawa’s volumes, a significant number of inscribed
vessels have been excavated and published in various venues. They do not, however,
change the overall conclusions presented here.
42
Shirakawa 11.591–605 (# 59); for a translation of the inscription, see Dobson 1962,
194–195. The vessel, variously known as “Zhou gong-gui” 周公 , “Zhou gong-yi”
周公彝, “Xing hou-gui” 邢侯 , “Xing hou-yi” 邢侯彝, or “Rong zuo Zhou gong-gui”
作周公 , carries an inscription that is unique in one important point: it mentions
the king addressing the vessel donor Rong together with the Secretary of the Interior. It
closes with Rong saying that he has now “used the bamboo-written royal charge to make
this sacrificial vessel in honor of the Duke of Zhou” (yong ce wang ling zuo Zhou gong
yi 用冊王令作周公彝). I thus take it as a very early, not yet codified representation of
the ceremony that inscriptions from the Middle Western Zhou period onward describe
120 martin kern
both frequently and in a highly standardized format (see below). In the present inscrip-
tion, the Secretary of the Interior is probably not a donor but the functionary who has
presented the written royal charge to Rong.
43
For this development, see also Zhang Yachu and Liu Yu 1986, 29–30, 34–36.
44
While this is now widely assumed, Lothar von Falkenhausen has rightly reminded
me of both the beautiful pre-dynastic (that is, pre-Shang conquest) Zhou oracle bone
inscriptions and the fact that from the beginning, Western Zhou inscriptions differed
appreciably from their Shang dynasty predecessors. Evidently, the practice of Chinese
writing, and also of Shang ritual, was more broadly disseminated among the Zhou (and
perhaps other neighboring peoples?) already before the fall of the Shang, and its general
reception by the Zhou did not entirely depend on the conquest and the subsequent
inheritance of Shang functionaries.
45
See Shirakawa 1974; Xi Hanjing 1983, 20–29; Wong Yin-wai 1978, 100; Shaugh-
nessy 1991, 166–168; Lau 1999, 59, 88. For the appearance of Secretaries and Makers
of Records in Late Shang oracle bone inscriptions, see Chen Mengjia 1956, 517–521; Xi
Hanjing 1983, 20–29. In Chen Mengjia’s survey of Late Shang governmental offices, he
groups the diviners together with the functionaries of writing, making it clear that both
groups were concerned with divination and sacrifice. It is noteworthy that even a full
millennium later, in a Zhangjiashan bamboo manuscript dated 186 bce, the administra-
tive clerk (shi) is discussed together with the invocator or priest (zhu 祝); see Zhangjia-
shan 2001, 203–204; Kern 2003.
46
For a recent example in this tradition, see Kominami Ichirô 1999. Altogether, the
literature on shi is vast; see the bibliographic information in Behr 2005a, 15, Cook 1995,
250–254, Gentz 2001, 9. A good range of graphic interpretations is included in Ma-
tsumaru and Takashima 1994, # 0004, 0024, 3371, 3425, 5881.
47
For discussions preceding Wang Guowei’s, see Xi Hanjing 1983, 12–17, 137–140.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 121
48
Wang Guowei 1975; Shirakawa 1974a; also the earlier Chinese discussion recapitu-
lated by Xi Hanjing 1983.
49
Important studies debunking this approach include Boltz 1994 and Takashima
2000; see also DeFrancis 1984 and Unger 2004.
50
For the hypothesis that Chinese writing first developed in religious contexts and
from there became extended to profane purposes, see also Lewis 1999, 28; for a brief
critique, see Kern 2003; for an extensive discussion of early administrative writing, see
Bagley 2004. I have changed my mind on this point, compared to Kern 1996 and 1997.
122 martin kern
51
Legge 1985a, 322; Karlgren 1950a, 139.
52
Legge 1985a, 399; Karlgren 1950a, 174. Here, shi might indicate a lower-level
clerk.
53
Legge 1985a, 264; Karlgren 1950a, 112.
54
So far, efforts to do so have been impressionistic and methodologically deficient.
For example, no song has to be contemporaneous with the historical situation it seems
to speak about; any song—and any transmitted royal speech—can be a retrospective
creation composed in part or completely of the imagined words of the original situa-
tion. Moreover, linguistic arguments may indicate general tendencies of development
over the course of the Western Zhou period but have not been successful to determine
specific dates of individual texts. Rhyme, for example, occurs already in the earliest
bronze inscriptions (Behr 1996, 86, pace Shaughnessy 1983, 37), and so does—if still
only to a limited extent nowhere near its frequency and regularity in the Odes (Behr
2005, 116)—the tetrasyllabic meter. Likewise, an attempt to establish the third-person
possessive pronoun use of the word qi 其 as a linguistic phenomenon emerging only
in mid-Western Zhou times—so that its occurence in individual received texts may be
taken as a terminus post quem for their composition (Shaughnessy 1997, 165–195)—is
problematic on at least three accounts: first, the sample of texts is both too small and too
homogeneous to be statistically meaningful. Second, as recently excavated manuscripts
of ancient texts—especially the Odes—with transmitted counterparts show, grammatical
particles (xuci 虛辭) like qi were particularly prone to change during the early course of
transmission (Kern 2005). Third, the distinction between an earlier pre-verbal “modal”
use of qi (expressing hope or expectation) and a later pronominal use is linguistically
dubious. As noted by Ken’ichi Takashima (personal communication August 1, 2004),
the two grammatical functions are “in origin the same thing. That is, qi as third-person
possessive pronoun is the earliest and original, and the modal function of it is only an
offshoot of its function . . . We cannot possibly derive the possessive pronominal qi from
the modal particle.”
the performance of writing in western zhou china 123
common division of the Western Zhou dynasty into Early, Middle, and
Late periods remains useful. The three songs that mention the practice
of writing are all in the “Minor elegantiae” (xiaoya 小雅) section of the
Odes anthology and are hence commonly placed either toward the end
of the Western Zhou or later. To phrase things the other way around:
none of the sacrificial “Zhou eulogia” (Zhou song 周頌) that are believed
to come from Early Western Zhou times and none of the “Major elegan-
tiae” (daya 大雅) that may date from the Middle or Late period of the
dynasty contain references to writing.55
In the royal speeches that comprise the early layers of the Documents,
Secretaries and writings on bamboo are mentioned in a number of
chapters.56 In “Jin teng” 金縢 (The metal-bound coffer), the Secretary
initially presents the Duke of Zhou’s 周公 written prayer/invocation
(ce zhu 冊祝); when the writing is later recovered, the Secretariate is
consulted about its contents.57 In “Jiu gao” 酒誥 (The announcement
about alcohol), both the Grand Secretary and the Secretary of the Inte-
rior are mentioned among the high dignitaries, as the Grand Secretary
is mentioned in “Li zheng” 立政 (The establishment of government)
55
I do not include here the self-referential statements by which several Odes point to
their own composition. There are altogether twelve instances of this: two in the “Airs of
the states” (guofeng 國風), the section believed to be the latest of the anthology (Odes
107, 141; Legge 1985a, 164, 210; Karlgren 1950a, 69, 89); five in the “Minor elegantiae”
(Odes 162, 191, 199, 200, 204; Legge 1985a, 249, 314, 346, 349, 359; Karlgren 1950a,
105, 134, 150, 152, 156); and five in the “Major elegantiae” (Odes 252, 253, 257, 259,
260; Legge 1985a, 495, 498, 527, 540, 545; Karlgren 1950a, 210, 212, 223, 228, 230). In
no case does the self-referential statement refer to the writing of a song. The verb com-
monly used is zuo 作 (“to make”), and its object is “song” (ge 歌), “recitation” (song
誦), “ode” (shi 詩), “admonition” ( jian 諫), or “satire” (ci 刺). Of these twelve songs,
four refer to their composer by name. Two of these composers (a Jiafu 家父 in Ode 191
and a Mengzi 孟子 in Ode 200) are otherwise unknown, while Odes 259 and 260 (both
“Major elegantiae”) mention a certain Jifu 吉甫 whom some scholars identify with a
military commander of this name who served under King Xuan 宣 (827–782 bce) and
is mentioned both in Ode 177 and in several bronze inscriptions (Lau 1999, 130). As I
will argue below, the production of written texts fits well into this Late Western Zhou
reign, and it is entirely possible—but not at all certain—that the Jifu of Odes 259 and 260
is the commander mentioned elsewhere. It is worth noting, however, that in both Odes,
Jifu “has made this recitation” (zuo song 作誦) which, if anything, points to the composi-
tion-qua-performance and not—at least not explicitly—to the writing of the song.
56
The Documents chapters discussed here all belong to the authentic “modern text”
version of the text, and within that version, they come from the earlier chapters.
57
Legge 1985, 353, 359–360; Karlgren 1950, 35–36. Here and in the following, refer-
ences to Legge and Karlgren are given for convenience; as will become clear below, I
disagree with many of their translations.
124 martin kern
58
Legge 1985, 410, 515, 557; Karlgren 1950, 45, 68, 71.
59
Legge 1985, 424; Karlgren 1950, 48.
60
Legge 1985, 451–452; Karlgren 1950, 55.
61
Legge 1985, 460; Karlgren 1950, 56.
62
Legge 1985, 549–551, 558; Karlgren 1950, 70–71.
63
Legge 1985, 608; Karlgren 1950, 78.
64
As argued by Shaughnessy 1980–81.
65
Huang Huaixin et al. 1995, 464–465; Shaughnessy 1980–81, 59.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 125
66
This is certainly true even for the larger number of Documents speeches that pur-
port to be early but are clearly much later compositions (to say nothing of the imagined
speeches in the inauthentic “ancient script” Documents). Moreover, the prominence of
speech, and with it the practice of retrospectively inventing speech, is at the core of early
Chinese historiography, as shown by Schaberg 2001 for the Zuo zhuan 左傳 (Zuo Tradi-
tion) and the Guoyu 國語 (Discourses of the States). Note that such invention included
not just the speeches by political sovereigns but also the arguments submitted to them
by their advisors as well as utterances by commoners, including ominous prophecies
and songs. For the latter, see Schaberg 1999 and Kern 2004a.
67
Pace Creel 1970, 449–455, Shaughnessy 1999, 292, passim. As argued in Kern 2004,
I hence see the performances of the royal speeches during the ancestral sacrifice in a
dialogical setting with the sacrificial hymns and bronze inscriptions that were directed
toward the former kings. This conclusion implies a relatively late (not before Middle
to Late Western Zhou) date of the received speeches attributed to the Early Western
Zhou rulers. The first to propose that the early Documents speeches were meant for
performance was Henri Maspero who in 1927 suggested to understand the speeches as
“libretti” that accompanied and guided the dances performed during the sacrifices; see
Maspero 1978, 174–276. One may consider in this context the possible relation between
the Documents chapter “The testamentary charge” and several of the early Odes; see
Wang Guowei 1975a, 2.15b–19a; Fu 1980, 1:204–233; Shaughnessy 1997, 165–195.
126 martin kern
68
My count of “passages” follows their distinction in the Academia Sinica database.
The numbers for the Zhouli refer to the mentioning of shi in specific offices and func-
tions; they do not include the vast number of low-level clerks noted above.
69
For a large collection of passages involving Secretaries and other functionaries of
writing in Warring States texts, and for an analysis of their offices and functions, see Xi
Hanjing 1983. The case of the Zuo zhuan is explicable on account of the overall length
of the text but also, more importantly, by its very nature of scribal self-representation.
As Schaberg 2001a, 257, 267, has noted, the Zuo zhuan authors “could not have failed
to recognize what they had in common with the men whose deeds they were com-
memorating,” namely, the ministers and advisors versed in ritual propriety and textual
learning, and “history writing is a weapon of justice wielded not by the possessors of
power but by the distinct stratum that includes the scribes and the historiographers
themselves.” While the Zuo zhuan is a textual monument dedicated to ritual propriety,
it also elevates writing—and first of all, its own writing—to be itself a superior mani-
festation of such propriety, ultimately balancing the repeated failure of ritual in history
with the perfectly appropriate historiographic account of that failure. This is precisely
the rationale that the early tradition attributed to Confucius’s efforts in compiling the
Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu 春秋) and that is then mirrored in the catechistic
exegesis of this text in the Gongyang Tradition (Chunqiu Gongyang zhuan 春秋公羊傳);
see Gentz 2001.
70
Computing on the basis of several Chinese sources, Shaughnessy 2003 speaks of
more than 13,000 known Shang and Zhou bronze inscriptions, estimating that at least
half of them date from the Western Zhou.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 127
71
Cook 1995, 250.
72
There is no question that in many other inscriptions, Secretaries or Makers of
Records do not identify themselves by their title, but the actual number of these inscrip-
tions is impossible to determine.
73
See Falkenhausen 1993, 152–161. Falkenhausen 2004 has further refined his struc-
tural analysis of Western Zhou bronze inscriptions.
74
Shirakawa 8.433–439 (# 41), “Taishi You-yan” 大史 友甗. Another possible
interpretation is to read you > 友 as 右 and thus as part of the title taishi you 大史
右, that is “Assistant to (or Associate of) the Grand Secretary.” For this interpretation of
the title neishi you 內史友 in the Documents chapter “Announcement about alcohol,”
see Sun Xingyan 1986, 382. What I have translated as “my bright lord-ancestor” has
also been interpreted as denoting the historical Duke of Shao; see the discussion in
Shirakawa.
128 martin kern
1a You-yan. After Rong Geng, Haiwai jijin tulu (Taipei: Tailian guofeng
chubanshe, 1978), 39, plate 12.
It was the nineteenth year; the king was at Gan. Queen Jiang commanded
[me,] the Maker of Records, Huan, to conciliate the Elders of Yi. The
Elders of Yi visited [me,] Huan in audience, presenting [me] with cowries
and cloth. [I, Huan] extol Queen Jiang’s blessings and on account of this
make for [my] Accomplished Deceased Father [of the] gui [day this] pre-
cious, honorable sacrificial vessel.75
In addition to being cast into the wine vessel, the inscription is also
repeated on the inside of its lid, in each location spreading the thirty-
five characters over four orderly lines. Furthermore, a slightly shorter
inscription by the same donor commemorating the same event is cast
inside a separate vessel, a zun 尊 wine container, arranging a total of
twenty-seven characters in four lines. (Here and in the following counts,
characters accompanied by the reduplicative marker “=” are counted as
two.) This inscription is decidedly more personal in tone, containing
two forms of the first-person pronoun [Ill. 3a–b]:
At Gan, the Lady commanded me, the Maker of Records Huan, to concili-
ate the Elders of Yi. The Elders of Yi visited [me] in audience, using cow-
rie and cloth [as gifts]. On account of this, I make for my Accomplished
Deceased Father of the gui day [this] distinguished, precious X.76
A third vessel, this one a gui (簋) food tureen inscribed with only
eight characters, might be by the same donor [Ill. 4]:
[I,] Huan made [this] precious tureen. May it forever be treasured and
used.77
In addition to the “statement of dedication,” the third inscription con-
tains a “statement of purpose” (Falkenhausen), another commonly
found element in Western Zhou bronze texts. It expresses the donor’s
75
Shirakawa 5.236–244 (# 22), “Zuoce Huan-you” 作冊 卣. For an earlier transla-
tion, see Shaughnessy 1991, 174–175. Gui 癸 day is the day within the sixty-day cycle
on which the father receives sacrifices; some scholars, including Shirakawa, believe that
such a designation is characteristic of Shang descendants. My translation differs from
that by others in that I believe that Huan, as the royal representative, receives the Elders
of Yi in his audience, to which they bring gifts, and not that he goes to their (“Elder Yi’s”)
audience. Note that the situation—and the syntax of the inscription—is parallel to that
of the Shi Song-gui 史頌 inscription translated below.
76
Shirakawa 5.245–247 (# 22a), “Zuoce Huan-zun” 作冊 尊. According to Shi-
rakawa, the last character is an undecipherable symbol for a sacrificial vessel known from
a number of other inscriptions. Shaughnessy 1991, 175 takes it as a family emblem.
77
Shirakawa 5.247 (# 22b), “Huan-gui” . If indeed by the same donor, this
inscription would be an example in which a Maker of Records does not identify himself
by his title.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 131
wishes for the future, often in the form of a prayer.78 By contrast, the first
two inscriptions close with the “statement of dedication” which is, how-
ever, in each case preceded by a historical account of the donor’s accom-
plishment. In this “statement of merit,” the Maker of Records presents
himself not as a writer but as a royal diplomat. What the three different
inscriptions share is the “statement of dedication,” that is, the self-refer-
ential formula including both the donor and his ritual object. By con-
trast, the “historical” part of the “statement of merit” is dispensable. This
is clear from the great number of short inscriptions in the format of the
Huan-gui and the Taishi You-yan that do not include information on the
situation that led to the casting of the vessel. Even more compellingly,
the numerous uninscribed bronze vessels suggest that the production
and possession of a vessel itself was of primary significance. While writ-
ing almost certainly enhanced the prestige of these ritual objects, it did
not constitute them in their meaning, purpose, and functionality.
78
See Xu Zhongshu 1936.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 133
The comparison between the Zuoce Huan-you and the Zuoce Huan-
zun further intimates that whatever historical information was related
on a vessel could be put in different ways and significantly abbreviated.
Thus, what seems to be the historical anchor of the Zuoce Huan-you
inscription, namely, the initial statement “It was the nineteenth year; the
king was at Gan” is left out in the Zuoce Huan-zun. At the same time,
the zun inscription does not contribute any additional information; its
purpose rests entirely with the existence of the inscribed vessel itself—
even though Huan’s particular choices in casting the zun vessel might be
somewhat enigmatic. Matsumaru Michio 松丸道雄 has argued that the
you vessel reflects an underlying official text and was probably cast in
the royal foundry (that is, under royal supervision) while the zun vessel,
which is cruder in its execution and “manifestly inferior” (Shaughnessy)
in its calligraphy, expresses a more personal view and was probably cast
on Huan’s own authority at a regional foundry.79 Considering the dic-
tion of the inscription, this is plausible, although it does not explain
why Huan chose to have a more “personal” but inferior zun cast in the
first place (while also owning the you) and why he, despite of his exalted
position as Maker of Records presumably responsible for royal writing,
accepted inferior calligraphy for this purpose. Be this as it may, the cal-
ligraphic difference between the two vessels shows that Huan was not in
charge of the calligraphy carved into the mold of the you vessel (other-
wise, he would have been able to reproduce it on his “private” vessel);
this task was apparently delegated to a subordinate specialist at the royal
court. He may not even have been in control of the calligraphy for his
own more “personal” zun vessel—or his own writing skills were rather
undistinguished. In short, the comparison of the two vessels suggests
that despite their official titles, we do not fully know to which extent,
and in which specific contexts, the high-level Secretaries and Makers of
Records were engaged in the actual clerical work.
Another example of a set of vessels all belonging to the same Sec-
retary shows how variable the expression of donorship was. The Late
Western Zhou gui tureen by Secretary Song 頌 (“Shi Song-gui”
史頌 ) carries the longest inscription of the set—sixty-two characters
neatly arranged in six vertical columns—which is also repeated on three
more tureens (repeated in both the vessels and their lids) and two ding
鼎 tripods [Ill. 5a–b, 6a–b]:
79
Matsumaru 1980, 20–54; Shaughnessy 1991, 174–175. It should be noted, how-
ever, that the question of regional foundries is not sufficiently clear; see Rawson 1999,
365–366, 407, 417.
134 martin kern
5b Shi Song-gui, rubbing of inscription in the lid. After Guo Moruo, Liang
Zhou jinwenci daxi tulu kaoshi (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1957), 2:40a.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 135
It was [the king’s] third year, the fifth month, the day dingsi. The king was
in [the western capital] Ancestral Zhou. He commanded [me,] Secretary
Song to inspect [the area of] Su. [I] led the [local] officers of [royal] rule, the
village eminences, and the noble families [from Su] to assemble and swear
[allegiance] in [the eastern capital] Chengzhou.80 With [royal?] blessing,
[I] accomplished the matter. [The representatives from] Su attended [my]
audience [and presented me with] a jade tablet, four hourses, and auspi-
cious metal. On account of this, [I] make [this] meat-offering vessel. May
[I,] Song [enjoy] ten thousand years without limit, daily extolling the Son
of Heaven’s illustrious mandate! [May] sons of sons, grandsons of grand-
sons, forever treasure and use [this vessel]!81
While this inscription tells about the Secretary’s successfully performed
duty that finally led to the casting of a whole set of vessels, his yi 匜
water container is more laconically inscribed, containing merely four-
teen characters (including two reduplicatives) in three lines [Ill. 7a–b]:
[I,] Secretary Song have made [this] yi. May [I enjoy] ten thousand years!
[May] sons of sons, grandsons of grandsons forever treasure and use [this
vessel]!82
The same text, in the same arrangement, is then repeated on another pan
盤 water basin with only the vessel designation in the first phrase changed
from yi to pan [Ill. 8].83 Even shorter is, finally, the Secretary’s inscription
on a hu 瑚 food vessel, comprising just six characters [Ill. 9a–b]:
[I,] Secretary Song have made [this] hu. [May it] forever be treasured!84
Without doubt, Secretary Song, serving as the royal representative in an
important mission of inspection, was a man of great stature, and he was
richly rewarded for his services. Yet when he, like other men of his posi-
tion, had his accomplishments recognized by the king and was given
permission to have them represented in a bronze vessel, nothing but his
official title as Secretary suggested anything about him being a “scribe”
or “archivist,” or in any way concerned with writing at the royal court.
Indeed, whenever a Secretary or Maker of Records presented his merits
cast in bronze, he never dwelled on his being a functionary of writing.
80
This line is dubious; my translation follows Shirakawa who also discusses alterna-
tives proposed by other scholars.
81
Shirakawa 24.174–184 (# 138).
82
Shirakawa 24.186–187 (# 138b).
83
Shirakawa 24.188 (# 138d).
84
Shirakawa 24.187–188 (# 138c). Shirakawa and others denote the vessel as a fu 簠
food container, based on a confusion that goes back to Chinese antiquarians of the Song
dynasty. For clarification, see Li Ling 1991, 85.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 137
In the sequence I have listed them here (not intending to suggest their
original sequence of production), the Secretary Song inscriptions again
show us a continuous focus toward the irreducible core, that is, the
“statement of dedication.” In fact, the two possible further reductions
would have been, first, to eliminate the final prayer (in the fu inscription
already shrunk to the two characters yong bao 永寶 [“forever treasure”]),
leaving the inscription as a pure statement of donorship; this could then,
second, be limited to the mere name of the donor. However, in keeping
the prayer, the three different inscriptions, cast into a set of at least six
different vessels, adhere to a set of conventions that by Late Western
Zhou times (but apparently not before) had become overwhelmingly
dominant. Note that in the yi and pan inscriptions, this prayer takes up
ten of the fourteen characters.85 While Secretary Song does not refer to
his activities as a functionary of writing, his inscriptions remain strictly
within the confines of the textual and ritual conventions that by Late
85
With these numbers, I follow the convention of counting as two characters those
that are repeated in the inscription, but written out only once, followed by the marker
“=” to indicate their repetition.
140 martin kern
bestowal was pronounced orally and at the same time given out in writ-
ing on bamboo slips (ce ming 冊命/ce ling 冊令; ce ci 冊[易>]賜); the
written charge was then used as the basis for the inscription of a bronze
vessel or bell that was cast for the appointee.90 It is this kind of vessel,
cast not for the king but for the appointee who henceforth used it in
the sacrifices to his ancestors, that furnishes the most elaborate refer-
ences to writing we now have for Western Zhou times. To be sure, royal
appointments were also made during the early reigns of the dynasty, and
sometimes their record was produced in bronze. Yet of eighty Western
Zhou appointment inscriptions noted by Chen Hanping, only three date
from the Early Western Zhou period; none of them gives account of the
elaborate ritual that we see in Middle and Late Western Zhou inscrip-
tions, and none of them involves reference to the written charge (ce).91
By contrast, beginning in Middle Western Zhou times, the represen-
tation of the appointment ceremony in bronze inscriptions—and most
likely the ceremony itself—became thoroughly standardized, regard-
less of the position of the appointee or the particular circumstances of
the charge.92 There are four Late Western Zhou inscriptions that so far
provide the most comprehensive picture of the ceremony: those of the
Song-ding 頌鼎 tripod (ca. 825 bce?; repeated on at least three ding
tripods, five gui tureens and their lids, and two hu 壺 vases and their
lids) [Ill. 10a–b, 11a–b, 12a–b], the X-ding 鼎 (809 bce) [Ill. 13a–b],
the Huan-pan 盤 (800 bce; repeated on at least one ding tripod) [Ill.
14a–c], and the Shanfu Shan-ding 善夫山鼎 (789 bce) [Ill. 15a–b].93
The X-ding inscription comprises 97 characters:
90
Kane 1982–83; Chen Hanping 1986; Wong Yin-wai 1978; Falkenhausen 1993, 156–
167. As pointed out by Falkenhausen, the “statement of dedication” and the “statement
of purpose” (prayer) were not part of the initial charge but later attached to the version
of the charge that was then inscribed.
91
Chen Hanping 1986, 21–25. The three Early Western Zhou vessels are the “Yi hou
Ze-gui” 宜侯 (Shirakawa 10.529–554 [# 52], translated in Lau 1999, 97–104); the
above-mentioned “Zhou gong-gui” (Shirakawa 11.591–605 [# 59], translated in Dobson
1962, 194–195); and the “Da Yu-ding” 大盂鼎 (Shirakawa 12.647–675 [# 61], translated
in Dobson 1962, 221–226, and Behr 1996, 155–159).
92
Chen Hanping 1986, 28–31.
93
The pronunciation of the character (“X”) is unclear; for the text of the X-ding
inscription, see Chen Hanping 1986, 26, and Chen Peifen 1982:17. For the Song-ding
inscription, see Shirakawa 24.165–168 (# 137), with the translation of the gui inscription
in Shaughnessy 1999, 298–299; for the Shanfu Shan-ding inscription, see Shirakawa
26.357–361 (# 154), with the translation in Shaughnessy 1997a, 74–76. For the Huan-
pan inscription, see Shirakawa 29.590–595 (# 177). Shaughnessy 1999, 298, dates the
Song-gui (and by implication the other Song vessels) tentatively to 825 bce. The remain-
ing three inscriptions are fully dated (year, month, day). See also Shaughnessy 1991, 285,
Table A16.
142 martin kern
10a Song-gui. After Wang Shimin et al., Xi Zhou qingtongqi fenqi duandai
yanjiu (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1999), 87, plate 71.
13a X-ding. After Wang Shimin et al., Xi Zhou qingtongqi fenqi duandai
yanjiu (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1999), 45, plate 76.
14a Huan-pan. After Wang Shimin et al., Xi Zhou qingtongqi fenqi duandai
yanjiu (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1999), 155, plate 10.
14c Huan-pan, rubbing of vessel and inscription. After Guo Moruo, Liang
Zhou jinwenci daxi tulu kaoshi (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1957), 1:18b,
plate 158.
It was the nineteenth year, the fourth month, after the full moon, the
day xinmao. The king was in the Zhao [Temple] of the Kang Palace. He
arrived at the Great Chamber and assumed his position. Assisted to his
right by Intendant Xun, [I,] X entered the gate. [I] assumed [my] posi-
tion in the center of the court, facing north [toward the king]. Secretary
Liu94 presented95 the king with the written order. The king called out to the
Secretary of the Interior, Y,96 to announce the written bestowal to [me,] X:
“[I bestow on you] a black jacket with embroidered hem, red kneepads,
a scarlet demi-circlet, a chime pennant, and a bridle with bit and cheek-
pieces; use [these] to perform your service!”97 [I] bowed with my head
94
Chen Peifen 1982, 19, interprets liu 留 as zhou 籀, the name of the Secretary that
only Eastern Han sources—900 years later!—like Ban Gu 班固 (32–92) in Hanshu 1987,
30.1719, or, around 100 ce, Xu Shen in Shuowen jiezi 1988, 15A.11b–12a, ascribe to the
reign of King Xuan (r. 827–782 bce). While the reading of liu as zhou is entirely pos-
sible, and the inscription indeed dates from the King Xuan era, the understanding of liu
as reference to Secretary Zhou (whom the later sources credit with the development of a
new calligraphic style and the compilation of a character list) remains speculative.
95
Reading shou 受 as shou 授, as commonly suggested by Chinese and Japanese schol-
ars; see, e.g., Chen Hanping 1986, 27, on the present inscription; Shirakawa (24.159) on
the Song-hu; Wang Guowei 1975a, 1.18a, on the Song-ding and Huan-pan.
96
Again, the name of this Secretary of the Interior is unclear.
97
I provisionally follow Shaughnessy in the translation of the various paraphernalia.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 149
touching the ground. [May I] dare in response to extol the Son of Heaven’s
greatly illustrious and abundant blessings and on account of this make
for my August Deceased Father, the Elder Zheng(?), and his wife Zheng
[this] precious tripod! May [I enjoy] extended longevity for ten thousand
years! May sons of sons, grandsons of grandsons, forever treasure [this
tripod]!98
This text is extremely similar, in large parts even verbatim identical, to the
other three inscriptions. Regardless of the previous status of the appoin-
tee, and despite the different kinds of new appointments being given, the
list of rewarded insignia, for example, is identical in three inscriptions
and only slightly extended in the Huan-pan. This fact alone testifies to a
written institutional memory at the Zhou royal court of King Xuan 宣
(827–782 bce), considering that the inscriptions date from 825(?), 809,
800, and 789 bce99 and that their bronze carriers were in the possession
of different individuals. However, both the present text and the Huan-
pan are slightly shorter than their counterparts in the representation of
the award ceremony. The Song and Shanfu Shan inscriptions contain an
important additional component immediately before the “statement of
purpose.” In the Song inscriptions, the text reads:
[I,] Song, bowed with my head touching the ground; [I] received the bam-
boo slips with the [written] order and suspended them from my girdle
before exiting. In return, [I] brought in a jade tablet.
In the Shanfu Shan-ding inscription, the corresponding passage goes:
[I,] Shan bowed with my head touching the ground; [I] received the bam-
boo slips with the [written] order and suspended them from my girdle
before exiting. In return, [I] brought in a jade tablet.
It is unclear what the jade tablet refers to. The first part of the passage,
however, is unambiguous: the appointee receives the written charge and
takes it with him (no doubt, a copy was kept in the royal archive). The
98
Chen Peifen 1982, 17–20; Chen Hanping 1986, 26.
99
There might be a more immediate connection between the Huan-pan and the
X-ding inscriptions, namely, that both vessels might have been dedicated to the same
ancestors. In the X-ding inscription, the father’s name is written with a graph that Chen
Peifen has transcribed as and Chen Hanping as . It is not impossible—though quite
speculative—that the graph is a graphic variant of zheng 整, which might be understood
as zheng 正 (“correct”), signifying not a lineage name but a posthumous temple name
(“the Correct One”). This, in fact, is how the graph zheng [奠 >] 鄭 that appears in both
inscriptions as the name of the mother has been interpreted in the case of the Huan-pan
(where it also appears as the name of the father); see Shirakawa 29.594.
150 martin kern
100
For a detailed discussion of this phrase and its ceremonial implications, see
Falkenhausen 2004.
101
Such interaction between the written and the oral is not unusual for complex civi-
lizations where a highly developed ritual system of oral performances becomes com-
bined with writing; for early Greece, see Thomas 1992, 61–65.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 151
loud—the document, thus bringing the appointment under the full rit-
ual force and imposing dignity of the royal ceremony. In a number of
inscriptions, such as in the one on the Shanfu Shan-ding, this force is
further magnified by the king issuing a stern imperative in conjunction
with the appointment: “Do not dare not to be good!” (wu gan bu shan
毋敢不善).102 The written document was important, but it was its ritual
performance, with the king personally present, that sealed its authority.
It is at this point where the function of the Secretary comes in. The king
did not read to the appointee; all he did was to maintain his position.
His chief ritualist and representative read: he led the functionaries of
the written word, but he also was the master of its transformation back
into what was perceived as the original royal speech act. The king, as far
as we can tell from the inscriptions, controlled and approved the docu-
ment—which represented his spoken voice—through his mere presence
at the ceremony when the text was recited to the appointee.
Here, we recognize the ceremony to be not only of ritual but also
of legal significance. Just at the time when the appointment ceremony
became a major part of Western Zhou administration and ritual, that
is, in the Middle Western Zhou period, inscriptions on legal contracts
also appeared in larger numbers.103 One characteristic feature of these
inscriptions is that they meticulously list the names and titles of the
officials that served as witnesses at the time of the legal agreement. I
propose that in the bronze inscriptions representing appointment cer-
emonies, the same logic is in place: especially from the appointee’s per-
spective, it was important that his bronze vessel, which was sanctioned
by the court, included the names and titles of the officials who deliv-
ered the appointment (and hence the right to have the vessel cast). This
record, ceremonial as it was, thus forever related the very existence of
the bronze vessel to the official, bureaucratically verified original event
of the appointment ceremony. This might have been particularly impor-
tant when in later generations, the personal memory of the ceremony
and even of the appointee himself was no longer available, while the ves-
sel was still being used in the family’s ancestral sacrifices. Inscriptions
like those under discussion enlisted both the king and his chief officials
as witnesses of the appointment.
102
See also Kane 1982–83, 16–17.
103
Lau 1999; Schunk 1994; Skosey 1996.
152 martin kern
104
Shaughnessy 1999, 298. Similarly, Shaughnessy 1997, 76, translates the corre-
sponding passage of the Shanfu Shan-ding inscription as “The king called out to Scribe
Hui to record the command to Shan.” The same reading can be found in Wong Yin-wai
1978, 95.
105
It should be noted that Chen Mengjia 1985, 149–160, offered the same under-
standing five decades ago. Likewise, Chen Hanping 1986, 12–20, 116–117, is perfectly
clear. Unfortunately, Western translators of classical Chinese texts, including James
Legge and Bernhard Karlgren, have mostly missed the point. As a result, the misun-
derstanding now even dominates the entry on ce in Schuessler’s widely used dictionary
1987, 55–56.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 153
106
For a faithful rehearsal of these interpretations, see Zhang Yuqiang 1994.
107
Matsumara and Takashima 1994, # 31, 259–262, 585.
108
He Jinsong 1996, 200–205, has argued with particular force that the graph ce 冊
in early oracle bone and bronze inscriptions does not represent bundled bamboo slips
but conjoined wooden palisades, and that ce 冊 is just written for zha 柵. One may not
need to be persuaded by the graphic interpretation (although it seems stronger than in
many other cases) in order to see how it matches the verbal meaning of “to enclose/to
confine.”
154 martin kern
109
Shirakawa 1974, 109–112.
110
Creel 1937a, 38.
111
See Kern 2005; Kern 2003a; Kern 2002.
112
Shuowen jiezi 1988, 2B.32b. Xu likely alludes to the use of bamboo slips as “tal-
lies” ( fu 符) inscribed with an official order on two matching halves; on such tallies, see
Falkenhausen 2005.
113
Shuowen jiezi 1988, 5A.28a.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 155
114
For the sake of space, I will refrain from discussing how I differ from the earlier
Documents translations by Legge and Karlgren.
115
Compare Legge 1985, 353; Karlgren 1950, 35.
116
Sun Xingyan 1986, 13.325. Note, however, that this again confuses graphic deci-
phering with the interpretation of the word.
117
Compare Legge 1985, 451; Karlgren 1950, 55; Dobson 1962, 162.
156 martin kern
command “[to present] the prayer document” (zhu ce 祝冊). The early
commentator Zheng Xuan 鄭玄 (127–200) paraphrases the sentence as
follows: “[The king] orders Secretary Yi to read out loud (du 讀) the
written prayer and inform the spirits . . .”118 Sun Xingyan fully approves,
explicating that Zheng Xuan refers to the speaking of the inscribed prayer
(yan zhu ce 言祝冊).119 As in the previous passage, there is no reason
to doubt that the prayer was indeed inscribed, and that the Maker of
Records was called upon to perform the speech act of addressing it to the
spirits. In the very next— the penultimate—paragraph of the same chap-
ter, the text reads wang ming Zhou Gong hou, zuoce Yi gao 王命周公
後, 作冊逸誥.120 Again leaving considerations about the Duke of Zhou
aside, we turn to the unproblematic phrase zuoce Yi gao 作冊逸誥, “the
Maker of Records, Yi, made the announcement (gao 誥),” showing the
Maker of Records in his usual role as speaking for the king.
The third passage, “The testamentary charge,” reads dingmao, ming
zuo ce du 丁卯, 命作冊度.121 In this sentence, which stands isolated,
zuo ce may best be taken as a verb-object phrase, “to make a bamboo
document.”122 Thus, two days after the king’s death, “an order was given
to make a document [of the deceased king’s testamentary charge] and
[lay out the ritual] regulations.”123 This charge is then mentioned again
later in the text, when the court assembly gathers for the funeral: taishi
bing shu, you bin jieji, yu wang ce ming yue 太史秉書, 由賓階隮, 御王
冊命曰,124 with the final verb yue (“saying”) being directly followed by
the king’s charge. Having ascended the stairs, the Grand Secretary, hold-
ing the testamentary charge of the dead king, turns toward the new king
and—in Zheng Xuan’s paraphrase—“reads out loud” (du 讀) to him the
document of his late father.125 In other words, the Grand Secretary here
118
Sun Xingyan 1986, 19.419.
119
Sun Xingyan 1986, 19.420.
120
Compare Legge 1985, 452; Karlgren 1950, 55.
121
Compare Legge 1985, 549–551; Karlgren 1950, 70.
122
Wang Guowei 1975a, 1.10b, however, takes zuoce as the usual title and du as the
name of the Maker of Records. This would result in “On the day dingmao, one issued a
command to the Maker of Records, Du.”
123
As suggested by Sun Xingyan 1986, 25.487, who surmises that du 度 (“regula-
tions”)—which I take here as a verb “to lay out regulations”)—refers to the funerary and
mourning rites.
124
Compare Legge 1985, 558; Karlgren 1950, 71.
125
Sun Xingyan 1986, 25.501–502; Wang Guowei 1975a, 1.18a. (Wang Guowei takes
issue with Zheng Xuan only on the question where the reading takes place; see also
1.23b–25a.)
the performance of writing in western zhou china 157
still speaks as the representative of his king (now dead), announcing the
charge to the new ruler. Here, we see precisely the formula used in the
bronze inscriptions, that is, ce ming “to announce the written charge” (or
“to command by means of the document”). No passage could be clearer
about the function of the Grand Secretary in Western Zhou court ritual
and about the specific meaning of the technical term of ritual language,
ce ming. With the originator of the charge already dead, and the Secre-
tary holding his written charge in hand, the idea of ce ming as “recording
the charge” gives up the ghost.
The last pertinent passage in any received text of possibly West-
ern Zhou date is found in “The great capture” chapter from Remnant
Zhou Documents: descending from his chariot, the victorious king lets
“Secretary Yi read out loud (繇 > 籀 = du 讀) the written document to
Heaven.”126 Again, the passage is unambiguous: the Secretary announces
the king’s written message, addressing Heaven.
This review of the available early evidence127 should suffice to rec-
tify our understanding of an exceptionally important set of inscriptions
together with some equally important passages from the Documents.
Turning now back to the Western Zhou appointment inscriptions, we
no longer wonder how the Secretary could have been formally “record-
ing” the charge during the apparently quite brief ceremony. We also
do not struggle to reconcile two contemporaneous but entirely differ-
ent images of the Secretary: the one of Secretaries as vessel donors who
never dwell on their accomplishments of writing, and the one of Secre-
taries in appointment inscriptions who do nothing but writing. Instead,
both types of inscriptions consistently show the Secretary as the main
representative of the king. He goes on diplomatic and military missions,
he leads various kinds of rituals, and he announces the royal appoint-
ments. In the broader terms of cultural history, understanding the inter-
play of speech and writing in Western Zhou court ritual is imperative
to a better grasp of this foundational period of the Chinese cultural tra-
dition. Confusion about the single phrase ce ming easily lends itself to
precariously inflated statements about the nature and use of writing.128
126
Huang Huaixin et al. 1995, 464–465; Shaughnessy 1980–81, 59.
127
I have deliberately limited myself to the earliest sources. For a survey of pertinent
passages in Eastern Zhou texts, see Chen Mengjia 1985, 160–164.
128
Cf. the sweeping conclusions advanced in Shaughnessy 1999, 298–299.
158 martin kern
129
I believe it is important to separate these two functions of writing, and types of
literacy, for the pre-imperial period. The fact that a particular clerk could create admin-
istrative records does not mean that he was able to reproduce the language employed in
bronze inscriptions, nor do bronze inscriptions presuppose such clerks as their readers.
130
Rawson 1999, 438; 1990, vol. IIA, 93, 125.
131
Li Feng 1997, 40 has argued that in a number of cases where we have inscrip-
tions of the same text appearing on multiple vessels, the different calligraphic styles are
evidence of different scribal hands. From this, he concludes “that the person who com-
posed the inscription was not the person who inscribed it.” This is certainly true. One
may even go a step further and note that the person in whose name the vessel was cast
(the donor) was not necessarily always the composer of the inscription—he may have
instructed someone else to do this for him, perhaps in a particular diction, on the basis
of the existing bamboo documents or earlier inscriptions. Or, as the uniformity even
of the prayer sections suggest (not to mention the official appointment records), some
centralized guidance was in place.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 159
When thinking about the nature and purpose of writing at the Western
Zhou royal court (including its political extensions), the question to ask
132
Matsumaru 1980, 55–75. The vessels date from the end of the Western Zhou or
somewhat thereafter.
133
Li Feng 1997, 12.
160 martin kern
16a Shi Yun-gui, lid of vessel 1, outside. After Chen Mengjia, Xi Zhou
tongqi duandai (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2004), 2:713, plate 119B.
16b Shi Yun-gui, lid of vessel 1, inside. After Chen Mengjia, Xi Zhou tongqi
duandai (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2004), 2:713, plate 119B.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 161
17c Ke-he, inscription in lid. After Kaogu 1990.1, color plate 3.3.
17d Ke-he and Ke-lei. Rubbings of inscriptions in Ke-lei (left) and Ke-he
(right). After Kaogu 1990.1:25, plate 4.
164 martin kern
is not about the existence of written texts but about how written texts
are part and parcel of the Western Zhou system of elaborate religious
and political court ritual. There is an invisible but unmistakable textual
basis for the highly ritualized manifestations and usages of bronze writ-
ing, furnished by clerks specializing in the production of administrative
and archival documents. But this writing is not representational or self-
referential. It does not explicitly draw attention to its own existence. It
becomes representational, however, as soon as it is transformed into an
item of display, connected to a material artifact of ostentatious prestige,
and integrated in the context of ritual performance. Here, the written
text is more and less than what it says. It is less because it is only one ver-
sion of a text that exists also in other, often even more complete versions,
and because it unfolds its full relevance only in acts of ritualized presen-
tation. On the other hand, it is more: transcending its contents, it ren-
ders visible the prestige of its donor, it assumes the force and authority
that rested with both its precious material carrier and the performance
in which the written text was presented, and it further contributes to the
overall system of Western Zhou public display and cultural memory.
For good reasons, bronze inscriptions recorded not merely the royal
charge but also the original appointment ceremony. Through the use
of the vessel in the donor’s ancestral sacrifices, this royal ceremony
remained present for “ten thousand years” and with “sons of sons, grand-
sons of grandsons” who in later generations sacrificed to the original
donor as their ancestor. That from Middle Western Zhou times onward,
bronze vessels, their inscribed texts, and the calligraphy of these inscrip-
tions became increasingly standardized may be seen as more than just
a phenomenon of mass production (which it certainly also was). From
the royal perspective, it was an expression of a mature political and
ritual system (even while, or perhaps precisely because, actual political
stability was deteriorating) that claimed pious adherence to the model
established by the dynastic founders. From the perspective of the vessel
donor, it integrated his achievements and status into the overall social
and political system of the Western Zhou, representing his duties and
merits as a tangible extension of the royal court itself.
The received Western Zhou literature leaves no doubt about the dis-
play nature of writing in important court affairs. Royal prayers and
charges like those mentioned in the Documents were prepared in writ-
ing and then recited. During the recitation, the written text did not just
serve as an aide-mémoire but was presented and accepted in an expres-
sion of dignified demeanor, emphatically supporting and—attached to
the performance of writing in western zhou china 165
134
Keightley forthcoming. For a similar argument regarding certain types of tomb
manuscripts of late Warring States and early imperial times, see Kern 2005. Historically,
the case of Western Zhou inscriptions fits squarely with the earlier bone inscriptions and
later tomb manuscripts.
135
Falkenhausen 1993, 163–164.
136
For example, the Qin gong 秦公 bells dating from the early seventh century bce
show both ways. The same text of 135 characters was inscribed five times: three times in
full on three bo 鎛 bells and two more times spread across one set of two and one set of
four yongzhong 甬鐘 bells; see Kern 2000a, 65.
137
Li Feng 1997, 26.
166 martin kern
several instances above), the act of repeating the same text did not pro-
vide any additional information. In these series, the particular aesthetic
format of textual multiplication contributed to the display of repetition
of the prestigious bronze objects. It was this format—as opposed to the
text proper—that depended on the prestigious material carrier. Here,
writing transcended its principal functions of storing and circulating
information; instead of conveying a specific account of historical detail
(which was anyway stored on perishable material), it visually displayed
cultural and social accomplishment.
The literary form of bronze inscriptions was guided by historical
thinking. This is evident from its concern with past achievements as
well as from the donor’s expectation, imposed on his descendants, that
these achievements will not be forgotten by “sons of sons, grandsons
of grandsons.” But both the “writing of history” in these texts and the
bronzes’ material promise of imperishable permanence were rhetorical
gestures: as the existence of the text did not depend on its particular car-
rier, so did the memory of the past not depend on the textual format of
the inscription. Archaeology has yielded evidence that inscribed bronze
vessels were often kept for generations before being buried together in
a tomb or a pit.138 While earlier inscriptions thus continuously retained
the representation of earlier accomplishments, the actual knowledge of
their underlying texts was archived and portable.139
What the archival versions of the inscribed text could never achieve,
however, was to transform the singular, ephemeral occasion on which
a vessel was granted into the conspicuous visual display of the donor’s
prerogatives that resulted from that occasion. The prestige of the ritual
vessel became the prestige of the person who had been granted permis-
sion to own it. Just through their material, shape, and decoration, the
elaborate bronze vessels were, “quite probably, the most accomplished,
expensive, labor-intensive, and beautiful human-made things their
owners and handlers had ever seen.”140 Their decoration denoted their
nature as ritual objects,141 and thus signaled the importance of both the
object and its possessor.142 Where a vessel was inscribed, for example
138
Hoards of vessels were buried in pits especially at a moment of crisis, for example
at the end of the Western Zhou, when the vessels had to be saved from invaders.
139
See, for example, the case of inscribed Qin gong bronzes discussed in Kern 2000a,
64–69.
140
Falkenhausen 1999, 146.
141
Rawson 1993, 92.
142
Bagley 1993, 44–45.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 167
143
The four inscriptions discussed above are highly exceptional in giving a more or
less comprehensive account of the ceremony. By constrast, the royal speech act, intro-
duced by “the king said” (or a variation of that formula), was a standard element of these
inscriptions. For a discussion of this speech act, see Falkenhausen 2004.
144
Shirakawa 50.335–368 (hô-# 15); translations in Shaughnessy 1991, 3–4, 183–192;
Lau 1999, 184–204. The date of the vessel is not settled; see Luo Tai 1997.
145
To my mind, Qiang did not produce an historical account (which quite likely
rested in the archives) but a display of his own achievements to be presented in the
sacrifices to his ancestors.
168 martin kern
18b Shi Qiang-pan. After Shaanxi sheng kaogu yanjiusuo et al., Shaanxi
chutu Shang Zhou qingtongqi (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1980), 2:43,
plate 24.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 169
The 275 characters (including nine ligatures [hewen 合文]) are cast
into two beautifully symmetric columns of nine vertical lines each. Each
line comprises fifteen characters that are evenly spaced apart; only in the
final line, the carver of the mold had to accommodate twenty characters.
This slight mark of imperfection testifies to two conflicting goals: first,
it suggests a pre-existing text that when inscribed could not been short-
ened by even a mere five characters. Second, while the carver had suffi-
cient space available to let these characters run into another vertical line,
he chose (or was instructed by Secretary Qiang) not to do so—clearly
in order not to distort the overall balance of the two columns. Striking
a remarkable compromise, he managed to respect both the integrity of
the text and the symmetry of its display. Compared to most other vessel
types that in their appearance are defined by shape and ornament while
more or less hiding their inscriptions on the inside, the form of the
water basin uniquely serves the form of the text. Its nearly flat, widely
open shape, with the customary bird ornament confined to its rather
unobtrusive outside, is entirely dominated by the display of the two
170 martin kern
146
For the reconstruction of the entire rhyme scheme, see Behr 1996, 199–204.
the performance of writing in western zhou china 171
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COUNSELING THROUGH ENIGMAS: MONASTIC LEADERSHIP
AND LINGUISTIC TECHNIQUES IN SIXTH-CENTURY GAZA
Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony
Introduction
1
The Coptic text with French translation known as The Mysteries of the Greek Let-
ters was published and translated by A. Hebbelynck, Les mystères des lettres Grecques
d’après un manuscript Copte-Arabe. Louvain, 1902, 69. The text was first published by
A. Hebbelynck in Le Muséon 1, 1900: 16–36, 105–36, 269–300; 2, 1901: 5–33, 369–414.
2
See, for example, Flusin 1983, 155–214; Brown 1971, 80–101.
3
On the history of this community, see Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky 2000, 14–62;
Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (eds.) 2004; idem 2006, 6–46.
4
Kofsky 2004, 421–437.
178 brouria bitton-ashkelony
5
Rousseau 1999, 45–59, esp. 54, 57. See also Rubenson 2000, 110–39.
6
For a critical edition of the first 124 letters of Barsanuphius and John’s correspon-
dence, with English translation, see D.J. Chitty, Barsanuphius and John, Questions and
Answers, PO 31/3 (Paris, 1966). For a new critical edition with French translation, see
F. Neyt, P. de Angelis-Noah and L. Regnault, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza: Correspon-
dance, Sources Chrétienes 426–27, 450–51, 468 (Paris, 1997–2002). For the complete
Greek text, see the edition of Nicodemus Hagiorites (Venice, 1816 [2nd. rev. ed. cor-
rected by S.N. Schoinas, Volos, 1960]). For a complete French translation of the Greek
text with additions from the Georgian translation, see Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza, Cor-
respondance: Recueil complet traduit du grec et du géorgien par les moins de Solesmes
(Solesmes, 1993, 2nd edition). References are to the SC edition.
7
For the peculiar model of spiritual guidance in seclusion—maintaining contact
with the outside world only through a disciple—in Gaza and in Egypt, see Bitton-Ash-
kelony and Kofsky 2006, p. 83.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 179
8
Questions and Answers 132, 133, 136, 137, 137b.
9
Jerome’s preface to The Rules of Saint Pachomius 9, Pachomian Koinonia II, 144.
10
The pioneering and still classic study on the mystical and magical dimensions of
letters in ancient Greek thought, Gnosticism, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam is Dorn-
seiff 1922. Dornseiff first published his inaugural lecture as a short essay (Dornseiff
1916) in which he outlined his main thesis. See also, Cox-Miller 1989, 481–505.
180 brouria bitton-ashkelony
11
See, for instance, the treatise known as Otiot de Rabbi Akiva, 343–418; Sefer Yetsira
(long version), 251–57 (in Hebrew).
12
For example, the Gnostic Marcus’ interpretation of the Greek alphabet as pre-
served in Irenaeus, Against Heresies I, 14,1–5; Hippolytus, The Refutation of all Heresies
VI, 38–45.
13
Wisse 1979, 101–120. Wisse was inclined to see a relationship between the wide-
spread monastic use of cryptograms in colophons and graffiti in late antique Egypt and
the use of vowel series and nonsense syllables in Gnostic works. This, in his view, is a fur-
ther link between Pachomian monasticism and the Nag Hammadi codices. See, Wisse
1978, 438. Yet all attempts to link these two movements have so far been convincingly
rejected by Philip Rousseau in his preface to the paperback edition of Pachomius: The
Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt (Berkeley, 1999 2nd), pp. XIX–XXV.
14
The Letters of Saint Pachomius, letters 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9A, 9B, 11A, 11B, in Pachomian
Koinonia III, 51–64, 67–69, 72–74; Les mystères des lettres Grecques. Jerome (Ep. 50.3)
also refers to the use of a certain cryptic alphabet in his attack on Jovinian, criticizing
the latter’s habit of circulating among the virgins’ cells and philosophizing on the “sacred
letters” (sacris litteris).
15
The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas 14:3, 6:19, ed. R.F. Hock (Santa Rosa,
Calif., 1995), pp. 132–33. On the roots of this legendary story, see, McNeil 1976, 126–
128. Irenaeus considered this story to be a “forgery.” See Against Heresies I: 20.
16
Questions and Answers 418.
17
Ibid., 753–755.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 181
on the letter eta, and by severing the letter eta from its linguistic affinity,
Barsanuphius was virtually creating a new religious symbol—eta—that
embodied his teachings and built up his self-image. I use the term “sym-
bol” in this context in its unsophisticated Jungian sense—that is, “a term,
a name or even a picture that may be familiar in daily life, yet that pos-
sesses specific connotations in addition to its conventional and obvious
meaning.”18 More precisely, the eta under Barsanuphius’ pen serves as
what Clifford Geertz has termed a “vehicle for a conception,” a tangible
formulation of notions and concrete embodiments of ideas, attitudes,
and beliefs.19 Through the eta symbol, Barsanuphius was in fact present-
ing, in miniature, his summa monastica, all the while laying bare a major
puzzlement prevalent in monastic culture—namely, how a monk knows
he has attained a certain stage of perfection.
Letter 137b stands apart; it is not a typical answer of the Old Man,
nor is it, in a strict sense, an instructive letter, as are the others; it stands
in stark contrast to the intimate tone and direct speech of the rest of
the Correspondence. Barsanuphius’ preoccupation with the inner life is
generally marked by an unsophisticated mode of thought and a simple
method of representation. But in Letter 137b we witness one of the rare
instances in which the Great Old Man treated a topic in a theoretical
and speculative manner, showing his knowledge and mastery of this
traditional lore. It should be stressed that Letter 137b contains noth-
ing new concerning Barsanuphius’ monastic teaching; major themes
that he dealt with frequently in his correspondence with the monks are
discussed here, and educative principles that infuse central aspects of
monastic culture are expressed by the symbol eta as well. Thus what has
to be explained in this article is the reason for Barsanuphius’ transmis-
sion of ascetic teaching through speculation on the letters of the alpha-
bet and the use of cryptic language.
In his preface to Letter 137b the ancient redactor of the Questions and
Answers relates that Barsanuphius conveyed some advice and theologi-
cal doctrines to the fathers in alphabetic order. He sequenced certain
18
Jung 1964, 21.
19
Geertz 1966, 1–46, esp. 5.
182 brouria bitton-ashkelony
words beginning with the same letter (stoicheion), such as eta, and then
developed a detailed exhortation by speculating on each word. Yet as
we shall see, Barsanuphius himself did not strictly follow this method.
The redactor explains that he chose Barsanuphius’ speculations (τω ν
θεωριω ν) on the letter eta to exemplify Barsanuphius’ interpretation of
the whole alphabet. One wonders why the redactor decided to introduce
only part of Barsanuphius’ teachings on the alphabet rather than the
whole treatise and, more importantly, why he chose this particular part
of the composition. This seems to me to have been a deliberate choice.
Letter 137b, which is written in the form of a prayer and in a spirit
of pedagogy, contains five sections starting with the letter eta, each for-
mulated in a similar pattern. In the first the writer states the subject;
in the next he moves to exhortation on it; he then gives signs (σημει α)
by which one can discern the specific spiritual stage he has achieved
in his path toward perfection. By drawing a link between a set of signs
and the symbol eta, Barsanuphius was not merely envisaging a didactic
scheme and representing the harmony of his teaching; given that one
of the most important characteristics of a symbol is the power inherent
within it that distinguishes it from the mere sign, which is impotent
in itself,20 it seems that the main concern of Barsanuphius’ speculation
is the divine dimension of eta. The key to such an understanding is to
be found in the redactor’s declaration that Barsanuphius speculated on
the letters of the alphabet while applying and referring each letter to
God (ἓν ἕκαστον στοιχει ον εἰϚ θεὸν ἐκλαμβάνων);21 By using this prin-
ciple—a principle known also from Jewish texts dealing with specula-
tion on the letters of the alphabet22—Barsanuphius imbued the symbol
eta with divine power, a major step toward divinizing his own teaching
and hence strengthening his image as a quasi-divine guide.
It is not surprising, then, that Barsanuphius began his exposition by
stressing the important role of the spiritual guide: “Eta is hegoumenos.
Hegoumenos is a guide” (᾽Η τά ἐστιν ἡγούμενοϚ. Ὁ δὲ ἡγούμενοϚ ὁ δηγόϚ
ἐστι).23 A guide, according to him, leads one toward the light, not toward
20
As has been observed by Tillich 1960, 75–98, especially 76. On the distinction
between signs and symbols, see Atinga 2004, 146.
21
Questions and Answers 137b, SC 427, 502.
22
See, for example, the late antique Jewish mystical treatise Sefer Yetsira .
23
The term hegoumenos can be translated here as designating specifically the monas-
tic superior. See, ἡγούμενοϚ, in G.W.H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon. Oxford, 1961.
601.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 183
24
For a similar series of opposites, see Evagrius Ponticus, On the Vices Opposed to
the Virtues, 60–65.
25
Questions and Answers 137b, SC 427, 504.
26
As has been argue by Angelis-Noah 1983, 497.
27
Questions and Answers 373, 462.
28
Ibid., 97.
29
Ibid., 693. See also Perrone 2004, 144–48.
30
Questions and Answers 234. Barsanuphius also drew a clear distinction between
commandment (ἐντολή) and advice (γνώμη), thus in certain circumstances he permit-
ted the monk to follow his own will. See, ibid., 56, 64.
184 brouria bitton-ashkelony
is the right side of the Father (τὸ ἠτ α ἡ δεξιά ἐστι του ΠατρόϚ), clearly
alluding to the place of Christ on the right side of the Father (Heb
8:1–2).31 From his discussion of the role of the Father here one can-
not but wonder who the Father is that Barsanuphius had in mind. Was
he disclosing here his self-awareness and relating his interpretation to
the monastic father, thereby further enhancing the status of the hegou-
menos presented in the first section of the Letter? It is worth recalling
here the saying of Evagrius Ponticus (d. 399)—one of the most influen-
tial of the desert philosophers who shaped the monastic culture of the
fathers in Gaza—that the right is the side of divine knowledge, “the one
who alone sits to the right of the Father is the only one who possesses
the knowledge ( gnosis).”32 If one is to the right side of the Father, Barsa-
nuphius declared, then he will not veer to the left and will not lose the
power that surrounds him, since “The right hand of the Lord is exalted:
the right hand of the Lord does valiantly” (Ps. 118:16). The power of
the right side of God is expressed in this section in Evagrian termi-
nology—namely, the generic thoughts (οἱ γενικώτατοι λογισμοί) that
demons insinuate into the monk’s mind: Those who are vigilant, accord-
ing to Barsanuphius, do not risk falling into gluttony (γαστριμαργία),
fornication (πορνεία), avarice (φιλαργυρία), sadness (λύπη), despon-
dency (ἀκηδία),33 anger (ὀργή), temper brought on by the irascible part
of the soul (θυμόϚ), detraction (καταλαλία), hatred (μίσοϚ), vainglory
(κενδοξία), or pride (ὑπερηφανία). Besides introducing the key ele-
ments threatening the monk’s integrity according to Evagrius’ classic
catalogue of eight thoughts (logismoi), Barsanuphius was expanding it
31
On Christ’s place of honour at the right hand of God, see W. Grundmann, “δεξιός,”
in G. Kittel, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Eng. trans. G.W. Bromily
(Grand Rapids, 1964), vol. 2, pp. 37–40. For the background of symbolic associations of
right and left in ancient Greek thought, see Lloyd 1973, 167–86.
32
Evagrius Ponticus, Kephalaia Gnostica II.89, 96–97.
33
Evagrius stated that “The demon of acedia is the one that causes the most serious
trouble of all”, Praktikos 12, 520–27. He described in detail how the demon of acedia acts.
According to him tears are a remedy against acedia (Praktikos 27,562–63). Evagrius also
advised use of the antirrhetique method, which entails repeating Psalms to expel acedia.
On the nature of the central theme of acedia and its origin, see Questions and Answers
562–64. A distinction is drawn here between two sorts of acedia: physical acedia ensuing
from fatigue and acedia engendered by demons. The Old Men recommended invoking
of the name of God to drive away evil thoughts (Questions and Answers 565). Along
the lines of Evagrius, the Old Men instructed that during the struggle against acedia
the monk should not leave his cell (Questions and Answers 563; Evagrius, Praktikos 28,
564).
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 185
34
Evagrius, Praktikos; To Eulogius: On the Confession of Thoughts and Councel in their
Regard, 310–33; On the Eight Thoughts, 73–90. For an analysis of Evagrius’ theory of
eight thoughts, see Guillaumont 1971, 63–93; Hausherr 1933, 164–75.
35
On the nature of θυμόϚ, see Questions and Answers 245. For the centrality of θυμόϚ
in Evagrius’ teaching, see Ad Monachos 30, 35, 36, 98, 100; Praktikos 11 and 15, 516,
536.
36
The Old Men regularly include hatred among the passions. See, for example, Ques-
tions and Answers 86, 97. See also, Evagrius, Praktikos 6–14, 504–35. Evagrius links
anger and hatred (Praktikos 20 and 76, 548, 664), and he also associates hatred with
wealth (Ad Monachos 16).
37
Questions and Answers 246.
38
Ibid., 462.
39
Ibid., 137b, 506.
40
Ibid., 508.
186 brouria bitton-ashkelony
not surprising for a spiritual guide who united his soul with that of his
disciples,41 perceiving himself in terms of Jesus Christ and once, in the
context of remitting the sins of his disciple, declared “I sacrifice myself
for your soul” (Ph 2:17).42
In his next speculation on the letter eta Barsanuphius states that eta is
the joy of the Father ( Ἠτα ἡ χαρὰ του ΠατρόϚ ἐστιν), saying: “The joy of
the Father is the Son” who delivered the world on the Cross.43 According
to him, one should stay then in freedom [from sin]. The sign that one
has reached this degree of perfection is that he adheres to his acquired
freedom until his last breath, and then, says Barsanuphius: “We are
saints, since He said ‘Be holy as I am holy’. ”44 This interpretation char-
acterized the emotional state of the mystic as an acute sense of joy. Else-
where Barsanuphius alludes to the spiritual life as “the way to joy.” The
Holy Spirit first comes upon a man and teaches him everything: how
one should think about things on high, which, Barsanuphius pointed
out to the monk, to whom he was writing, he cannot now do. Guided by
this flame, the inspired one ascends to the first heaven, then to the sec-
ond; he progresses until he reaches the seventh heaven, and there he can
contemplate ineffable and terrible things (Κἀκει τὸ θεωρησαι ἄρρητα
πράγματα καὶ φοβερά), things of which those who have not reached this
stage of perfection cannot be aware. This stage is reached only by those
who are perfect, those whom God has found worthy. Only those who
have entirely died to the world by suffering many afflictions can attain
this degree of perfection.45
In his final speculation on the letter eta Barsanuphius chooses to link
it to the Hebrew word el (): “eta is el; el is God” ( Ἠτα ἤλ ἐστι. Τὸ δὲ
ἤλ ὁ ΘεόϚ ἐστι). He further explains the Hebrew name Emmanuel by
means of Isa 7:14 and Matt 1:23: “God is with us,” and then he enquires
whether God is with “us” or not.46 Here again Barsanuphius looks for
“the sign that someone has reached this degree” of perfection, declaring
41
On this notion of the union of souls, see Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky 2006,
147–49.
42
Questions and Answers 111.
43
Ibid., 137b, 508.
44
Her he probably alludes to Leviticus 19:2 (You shall be holy for I the Lord your
God am holy).
45
Questions and Answers 186.
46
It is interesting to mention here the interpretation of Les mystères des lettres
Grecques, 144, on the name Emmanuel: In order to explain the Hebrew name Emmanuel
the author proclaimed that Mathieu was written in Hebrew.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 187
that to be far from sin and alien to its master, the diabolos, means to have
God always with you.47
Among the above five interpretations Barsanuphius offers of the letter
ἠτ α, only two discuss words whose initial letter is ἠτ α· ἡγούμενοϚ and
ἤλ. In other words, in his speculation, the letter eta has to some extent
lost its linguistic character yet accumulated latent meanings; he deals
primarily with the essence of the letter, rather than its linguistic role.48
He rendered the eta autonomous, free of any grammatical connotations.
From Barsanuphius’ technique of speculation it appears that he devoted
no attention to the graphic form and sound of the letter eta; neither
did he speculate about its numeric value (gematria),49 as elaborated in
the Epistle of Barnabas (“the Ι is ten and the Η is eight, thus you have
Jesus”);50 nor is there any hint that eta is endowed with a concrete and
immediate efficacy; the letter, has no intrinsic power;51 Barsanuphius’
interpretation has no cosmogonic inclination such as is encountered,
for instance, in the Coptic text known as The Mysteries of the Greek Let-
ters; the supernatural and cosmological are not issues in Letter 137b.
Nor has his interpretation of eta anything in common with the pursuit
of this technique by Jerome, who concentrated on divulging the hidden
spiritual sense of the biblical text and, by means of this scientia scriptu-
rarum, demonstrating its Christian meaning.52
Barsanuphius’ technique of interpretation might be termed symbolic
rather then allegoric. While the basic assumption of allegory is that the
verse, the original text, indicates another reality, the goal of the medita-
tive process in Letter 137b aims to create a symbol, which in its essence
47
Questions and Answers 137b, 508–10.
48
For a similar approach to letters of the alphabet in late antiquity, see Sefer Yetsira,
16–17 (in Hebrew).
49
The numeric value and graphic form of the Greek alphabet constitute an impor-
tant portion of Les mystères des lettres Grecques. On the midrash concerning the graphic
form in Otiot de Rabbi Akiva, 11–16. The description of the letters of the alphabet in this
Midrash is drawn from Ezekiel’s vision of the chariot’s animals (Ezek. 1:13–14). See also,
Midrash Rabbi Akiva: Otiot ktanot, Otiot Gdolot, 478–88.
50
Epistle of Barnabas 8.
51
Such as discussed by Frankfurter 1994, 189–221.
52
In a letter to Paula in 384, Jerome elucidated the etymological and mystical sense of
the Hebrew alphabet. See also, Jerome, Ep. 30.7; Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica X, 5 on
the Greek alphabet’s origins in Hebrew. Eusebius interpreted the Greek letters according
to the Hebrew alphabet and gave their meaning in Hebrew. Thus, e.g., eta is equivalent
to the Hebrew letter and stands for “the living” (ὁ ζω ν ), the Hebrew word for which
begins with this letter.
188 brouria bitton-ashkelony
is a dynamic world, and thus to lead the reader toward the multifaceted
meanings hidden in it. In this symbol the monastic paradigm appears
as a harmony. Yet, more importantly, eta functions as an autonomous
and dynamic symbol arousing Barsanuphius’ disciples to action, a sort
of a call for a journey to the alphabet realm. An additional support for a
functional perspective of speculation on the alphabet in monastic milieu
is provided by the declaration of the anonymous author of The Mystery
of Greek Letters: “Our guide spoke to us through letters and he gave it to
us as symbols.”53 Barsanuphius’ creation of the eta symbol is essentially
a social process; its creation is in relation to his monastic community,
which could identify itself with its values (of this symbol). Furthermore,
as the main function of a symbol in a social context is to involve an
orientation toward action, to cause people to act,54 I perceived the eta
symbol as a “bridging act,” a bridge between outer existence and the
inner meaning of the ascetic life.
There are probably several reasons why Barsanuphius decided to pres-
ent his teaching in such mode. But my point is that Barsanuphius’ use
of the symbol eta was not simply to embellish his didactic scheme. As
mentioned above, the key to understanding Barsanuphius’ intention in
representing his monastic teaching through speculation on the letter eta
lies in the redactor’s statement that Barsanuphius wrote his composition
while “applying and referring each letter (στοιχει ον) to God.”55 By apply-
ing each letter (στοιχει ον) to God, Barsanuphius was in effect divinizing
his teachings. The term stoicheion has a long history in the literary genre
of alphabetic speculation; it means a letter and a sound as well as an
element of the universe, and since the world is composed of elements,
the stoicheia create a meaningful universe. The letter-element idea goes
back to Greek philosophy,56 Gnostic texts,57 the New Testament,58 and
53
Les mystères des lettres Grecques, 69.
54
On this role of a symbol in psychoanalysis and psychology, see May 1960, 11–49,
especially his conclusion: “In its full form the symbol rather presents an existential situ-
ation in which the patient is asking himself the question: ‘In which direction shall I
move’” (ibid., p. 16). According to May this orientation toward movement obviously
involves more than conscious levels of the self. See also, M. Idel’s statement that the Kab-
balic symbol invites one to act rather than to think, in Idel 1993, 236.
55
Questions and Answers 137b, 502.
56
Dornseiff 1922, 14–16; G. Delling, “στοιχει ον,” Theological Dictionary of the New
Testament, vol. 7 (Stuttgart, 1971), pp. 670–87; Cox-Miller 1989, 496–99.
57
See above note 12.
58
Galatians 4:3; Colossians 2:8, 20.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 189
59
The term “letters-elements” ( ) appears in Sefer Yetsira, 16–30. On the
symbolic importance of the letters of the alphabet and their connection with the cre-
ation of the world in the preface of the Zohar (1:26–36), see Oron 1986, 97–109. See
also, Wolfson 1989, 147–81; Scholem 1946, 75–78, 133–38; idem 1974, 21–30.
60
On the ambiguity of the term στοιχει ον, see, Lamberton 1989, 76–77. See also, Les
mystères des letters grecques, 140, here the author plays on the ambiguity of the term
stoicheion as element of creation and of the alphabet.
61
Nag Hammadi Codex I, 3 (= XII, 2). On this passage, see Frankfurter1998, 254.
62
On the biographical details on Zosimos, see Jackson 1978, 1–7; Fowden 1993,
120–126.
63
Fowden 1993, 120.
64
Zosimos, On the Letter Omega, 29. This example is quoted and discussed in Cox-
Miller 1989, 495–96.
190 brouria bitton-ashkelony
composed of four elements from the whole sphere. For the letter [stoi-
cheion] A of his name signifies the ascendant east, and air; the letter D
of his name signifies the descendant west, and earth, which sinks down
because of its weight; . . . and the letter M of his name signifies the meridian
south, and the ripening fire in the midst of these bodies, the fire belonging
to the middle, fourth planetary zone. So, then, the Adam of flesh is called
Thouth with respect to the visible outer mould, but the man within him,
the man of spirit, has a proper name as well as a common one.65
As Patricia Cox-Miller has observed, “From this perspective, the alpha-
bet is a kind of elemental grammar within which the entire cosmos
presents itself in human, earthy terms, as the symbolic body of essential
human being. By making these associations, Zosimos has not reduced
the cosmos to the merely human but has rather divinized the human,
since for him, as for Greek antiquity generally, the cosmos was divine,
the visible body of the gods.”66 This identification of the letters of the
alphabet with the elements of the cosmos, is a widespread phenomenon
in the Mediterranean world of late antiquity and beyond.67 Barsanu-
phius was familiar with this way of thought, though it cannot be argued
with certainty that he was directly influenced by the Egyptian alchemic
corpus or by the philosophical Hermetica to which Zosimos belonged.
However, he made his own configurations for this technique, applying
it to his immediate social framework according to its need. Unlike Zos-
imos, Barsanuphius did not use the technique to divinize the human
body; he used it to divinize his spiritual guidance.
It seems that speculation on letters of the alphabet in the monastic
milieu is a late antique reflection of much older modes of thinking.68
From a literary perspective, the creativity and systematization revealed
in Letter 137b recalls, for instance, the famous Midrash Otiot de Rabbi
Akiva—a late antique speculative treatise on the Hebrew letters—and
65
Zosimos, On the Letter Omega, 28–29.
66
Cox-Miller 1989, 496.
67
See, e.g., Dornseiff 1922; idem, 1916.
68
This technique of speculation on letters of the Greek alphabet was a long-lived phe-
nomenon in monastic circles. See for example, Les mystères des lettres Grecques. This text
was probably composed in a Palestinian monastery no earlier than the seventh century.
For this conclusion, see Amélineau 1890, 176–294, esp. 268–76. Despite the complex-
ity of this text in which a mixture of techniques are used, the theological intent is clear:
the author (or authors) desired to present the creation of the world and its salvation by
Christ in Chalcedonian’s terms, stressing the two natures of Christ and the theotokos
(θεοτὁκοϚ). See esp. 85, 147.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 191
Sefer Yetsira (Book of Creation). Though these Jewish works and Letter
137b share an interest in relating every letter to God, the axis of the Jew-
ish works is cosmology, a dimension totally absent from Barsanuphius’
speculation. His principle interest was to divinize major elements of his
spiritual direction, all the while describing, with the aid of several signs,
a different state of consciousness defined by various aspects of encoun-
tering the divine.
69
Questions and Answers 132.
70
Ibid., 132.
192 brouria bitton-ashkelony
as previously, but only by pondering in his mind (ἀλλὰ μόνῳ τῳ νοῒ
ἐνθυμηθείϚ). Using an “alphabet of the mind,” the monk posed ques-
tions about sleeping problems, weakness of the soul, obtaining salva-
tion, and prayer.71 The next three letters of the Correspondence constitute
Barsanuphius’ responses; yet his answers too were given in riddles (such
as “the first brings loss, the second is beneficial” and “turn not to the
right hand nor to the left, until the two will be in agreement”), which,
according to the redactor, induced embarrassment and frustration in
the monk.72 In the end, Barsanuphius wrote an explicit answer to dispel
these confusions.73 Though it leaves many questions unresolved, this let-
ter provides a glimpse into Barsanuphius’ fundamental attitude to this
way of counseling. At first glance, his stance on the use of cryptic language
in the monastery seems somewhat positive. He declares that it seems to
him good to receive—via God—the monk’s thoughts through enigmas
and to answer him in the same way, since it produces in the rational
soul, especially among the wise, “a spiritual rumination” (μηρυκισμὸν
πνευματικόν). By delving into the enigmas, he says, we find abundant
advantage in them. Nonetheless, drawing on Romans 12:16 (“Mind not
high things, but condescend to men of low estate”), he strictly forbade the
monk to express his thoughts thenceforth in enigmas; instead, he should
bare his thoughts clearly through the intermediacy of another brother
or write them down. Even if the monk acknowledged that he received
charisma from God, it was not profitable, Barsanuphius maintained, to
write or speak always through enigma; one should do so only when it
was a necessity. Yet he did not indicate what in this context should be
deemed a necessity. By exercising lofty powers (διὰ ὑψηλω ν δυναμέων),
said Barsanuphius, both he and the monk were putting their humility
at risk. He thus commanded the monk to do so only rarely. Ultimately,
Barsanuphius complied with the monk’s request and explained his ear-
lier enigmatic answers: “The first letter (132) relates to you and to my
son and servitor, Seridus, the two should be in agreement”;74 the second
letter (133) referred to the body and soul, which should be in agreement.
The monk responded that from then on he would write and speak only
through the intermediacy of the “lord abbot”! In other words, having at
71
Ibid., 133.
72
Ibid., 133, 134, 135.
73
Ibid., 136.
74
Ibid., 136, 498.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 193
first used the code to circumvent his abbot, the monk ultimately became
submissive and accepted Abba Seridus’ authority.
What is important here is not so much that a cryptic language or code
existed in monastic tradition in the sixth century, nor that such a tech-
nique was not known to everyone (in this case not even to the abbot),
but rather the basic tenet underlying this method of approaching Bar-
sanuphius—namely, the monk’s confidence that the Old Man would be
able to decipher the code he had formulated in his mind (ἐν τῃ αὐτου
διανοία). In fact, this exchange of letters between Barsanuphius and
his disciple is one of the rare examples of communication through the
alphabet of the mind. Barsanuphius emerges here as a spiritual leader,
one who had mastered the lore of the alphabet of the mind and sought
primarily to maintain authority and hierarchy in the monastery. His
bolstering of Seridus’ status and his reluctance regarding consultation
through enigma was perfectly in line with his philosophy of guidance
grounded in obedience and humility.
The next story discloses the same stance: John of Beersheba re-
counted to Barsanuphius that one of the monks had asked him about
his own thoughts “not clearly but through enigmas” (οὐ σαφω Ϛ, ἀλλὰ
δι᾿ αἰνιγμάτων). John, who was hesitant about this mode of counseling,
asked Barsanuphius whether the monk had acted rightly.75 Barsanuphius
rejected “interrogation through enigmas,” detecting in this case an indi-
vidualism lacking discernment (ἰδιοσκοπία ἐστὶ μὴ ἔχουσα διάκρισιν)
since, according to him, the signs (σημει α) are intended not for “believers
but for non-believers” (1 Cor. 14:22).76 As one seeking to reduce ambi-
guity in all domains, Barsanuphius certainly could not permit himself to
endorse the use of such an “alphabet of the mind,” which might create a
mysterious atmosphere and bafflement concerning monastic discipline
that could undermine authority within the monastery.
The concept of an “alphabet of the mind” is to be found also in the
collection of sayings of the desert fathers, the Apophthegmata patrum,
One day Abba Arsenius consulted an old Egyptian monk about his own
thoughts. Someone noticed this and said to him, “Abba Arsenius, how is
it that you with such a good Latin and Greek education ask this peasant
about your thoughts?” He replied, “I have indeed been taught Latin and
Greek, but I do not know even the alphabet of this peasant.”77
75
Ibid., 40.
76
Ibid., 40.
77
Apophthegmata, Arsenius 6, PG 65, 88d–89a.
194 brouria bitton-ashkelony
78
Dornseiff 1922, 72.
79
Brown 1988, 229; idem 1992, 73.
80
See, for example, Questions and Answers 45, 55, 119, 125, 126, 191, 256.
81
Pachomian Koinonia III, Letter 6, p. 67.
82
Pachomian Koinonia III, Letters 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9A, 9B, 11A, 11B.
83
The difficulty of deciphering this method was pointed out, for example, by
H. Chadwick 1981, 24; Rousseau 1999, 38; Goehring 1999, 222–23.
84
Chadwick 1981, 24. (emphasis added). For a new tentative to decipher the Pacho-
mian’s letters, see Joest 2002, 241–60.
85
The Ladder of Divine Ascent 26, PG 88, 1017, Eng. trans., C. Luibheid and N. Rus-
sell (London, 1982), p. 232.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 195
86
Such as, Α—obedience (ὑπακοη); Β—fasting (νηστεία); Γ—sackcloth (σάκκοϚ).
87
For instance, Ε—the indwelling of Christ, Η—the outpouring of divine illumina-
tion, Κ—flight from the body, Ν—becoming a fellow worshiper with the angels, John
Climacus, The Ladder of Divine Ascent 26, PG 88, 1017.
88
Questions and Answers 49.
196 brouria bitton-ashkelony
and perceived them as no less significant than the Bible itself. To this
end he used the spiritual exercise of meditation (μελέτη) not so much
as a craft of thinking but rather as a dialogue with oneself, an ongo-
ing endeavor to control the passions.89 Thus Barsanuphius constantly
encouraged his supplicants to meditate on the letters he had writ-
ten them,90 using the same verb (μελεταν) as that for reciting psalms
and reflecting on the Scriptures.91 The things he wrote were sufficient,
he maintained, to guide the monk from the beginning to the end. He
advised meditating on them and memorizing them, since these things
“contain the whole Bible.”92 Relying on Proverbs 4:4 (“He taught me
also, and said unto me, let your heart retain my words, keep my com-
mandments, and live”), for instance, Barsanuphius—in a letter to John
of Beersheba—expressed the wish that his sayings be anchored in John’s
heart and that John meditate unceasingly on the things he wrote to him.
Sharpening his claim through biblical authority, he ordered the monk to
follow his instruction “according to what God said to Moses: ‘And you
shall bind them for a sign upon your hand, and they shall be as frontlets
between your eyes’ (Deut. 6:8).”93 In other words, Barsanuphius was here
presenting his instructions as the new meditative phylacteries (tefillin),
which the monk ought to bind to his heart.
The persistent assurance that “if you meditate on my sayings with-
out ceasing you will not fall” transforms Barsanuphius’ teaching into an
icon, devoid of rhetorical flourishes.94 This does not imply any neglect
of meditating on the Scriptures; rather, it testifies to the almost canonic
status of the Letters and the exalted authority of the writer. The word of
the Old Man was like the word of God. The Letters of Barsanuphius are
the new Holy Scriptures of those who choose the new paideia. It is in this
matter, more than in any other, that Barsanuphius reveals his perception
of himself as a supreme guide, an intimate servant of God.95 He was,
after all, speaking “from God,” deciphering the alphabet of the mind,
89
On the definition of monastic meditation, see Carruthers 1998, 4.
90
Questions and Answers 53, 103. See also, ibid., 239: “meditate these things” (1 Tm
4:15).
91
In Questions and Answers 47 Barsanuphius wrote to John, who was struggling with
his logismoi, to meditate unceasingly on Psalm 106.
92
Questions and Answers 32, “ὅλην γὰρ ἔχουσι τὴν βιβλιοθήκην.” For this expression
as denoting the Bible, see SC 426, pp. 230–31, no. 1.
93
Questions and Answers 11, 19.
94
Ibid., 236.
95
As has been argued in Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky 2006, chapter 4.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 197
and equating his teaching with that given by God to Moses. It remains
to ask how far he could go. Did he envision himself playing a role in the
afterlife and on the Day of Judgment? In a series of letters to the monk
Andrew, who asked Barsanuphius to commend him to the Holy Trinity,
the Old man answered that he had already done just that and, allud-
ing to the eschatological passage in Matt. 25:31–34, drew a comparison
between himself and “the great mediator Jesus,” who forgives sins from
birth to the present.96 Restraining himself, however, Barsanuphius dared
only to say: “Each of the saints bringing to God the sons whom he has
saved says in a clear voice with abundant and great boldness, while the
holy angels and all the heavenly powers wonder, ‘Behold I and the chil-
dren whom God has given me’ (Is. 8:18; Heb. 2:13), and commends to
God not only them but himself also. And then ‘God becomes all in all’
(1 Cor. 15:28).”97
Although Barsanuphius emerges here as a quasi-divine guide who has
creative mind, he was not attempting to develop a theoretical dimension
of the technique of speculation on the alphabet. The novelty of Letter
137b lies in its new configuration of an ancient way of thought; he was
applying an old method to create a symbol for his community and to
represent his fundamental spiritual teaching in a new way. Barsanu-
phius’ total seclusion and invisibility to his acolytes were the most obvi-
ous mis-en-scène for a successful spiritual leader who perceived himself
in such divine terms.
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Word in Egyptian and Greek Traditions,” Helios 21:189–221.
———— 1998. Religion in Roman Egypt: Assimilation and Resistance. Princeton.
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Study of Religion, ed. M. Banton, 1–46. London.
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ert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism. Harrisburg.
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Christiana 30:164–75.
Hebbelynck, A. 1902. Les mystères des lettres Grecques d’après un manuscript Copte-
Arabe, trans. A. Hebbelynck. Louvain.
Idel, M. 1993. Kabbalah: New Perspectives. Tel-Aviv.
Jackson, H.M. 1978. Zosimos of Panopolis on the Letter Omega. Missoula.
Joest, C. 2002. “Das Buchstabenquadrat im Pachomianischen Briefcorpus.” Le Muséon
115:241–260.
Jung, C. G. 1964. Man and his Symbols. New York.
Kofsky, A. 2004. “The Byzantine Holy Person: The Case of Barsanuphius and John of
Gaza.” In Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity, ed. M. Poorthuis and
J. Schwartz , 421–437. Leiden.
Lamberton, R. 1989. Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the
Growth of the Epic Tradition. Berkeley.
Lloyd, G. 1973. “Right and Left in Greek Philosophy.” In Right and Left: Essays on Dual
Symbolic Classification, ed. R. Needham, 167–186. Chicago.
May, R. 1960. “The Signification of Symbols.” In Symbolism in Religion and Literature,
ed. R. May, 11–49. New York.
monastic leadership and linguistic techniques in 6th-c. 199
McNeil, B. 1976. “Jesus and the Alphabet.” Journal of Theological Studies 27:126–28.
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Correspondance, SC 426–27, 450–51, 468. Paris.
Oron, M. 1986. “The Narrative of the Letters and Its Source: A Study of a Zoharic
Midrash on the Letters of the Alphabet.” In Studies in Jewish Mysticism Philoso-
phy and Ethical Literature Presented to Isaiah Tishby on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday,
97–109. Jerusalem.
Pachomius. Pachomian Koinonia II–III, ed. and trans. A. Veilleux. Kalamazoo, 1981.
Perrone, L. 2004. “The Necessity of Advice: Spiritual Direction as a School of Christian-
ity in the Correspondence of Barsanuphius and John of Gaza.” In Christian Gaza in
Late Antiquity, ed. B. Bitton-Ashkelony and A. Kofsky, 144–148. Leiden.
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Omega. Missoula, 1978.
DEVOTIONAL, COVENANTAL AND YOGIC: THREE EPISODES
IN THE RELIGIOUS USE OF ALPHABET AND LETTER FROM A
MILLENNIUM OF GREAT VEHICLE BUDDHISM*
Dan Martin
While it is true that teaching the alphabet to people who already know so
much more would be frivolous if not laughable, in the pages ahead the
alphabet as such will be taken very seriously, and not simply assumed.
Far from being ‘simple,’ it was clear even before beginning the first word
of this article that the topic is far too broad, and lined with intriguing
side paths branching off in many directions. As a time span, a millen-
nium naturally resists encapsulation and invites sketchiness and gener-
alizations which we should do our best to resist, especially during the
process of succumbing. The discussion will be divided into three parts,
roughly dividing the millennium into thirds: [1] the first three centuries
* Although the research lasted many years, this article was put in writing while I was
a member of a research group devoted to Indian poetry, chaired by Yigal Bronner, at
the Institute for Advanced Studies, The Hebrew University, Jerusalem. In keeping with
the academic—not specifically Indological, Tibetological or Buddhological—setting
for which the original paper was intended, Sanskrit and Tibetan terms are kept to a
minimum, and often bibliographical references are supplied with persons who do not
know those particular languages in mind. An attempted synthesis of previous academic
scholarship (I hope that I have not badly misrepresented anyone’s views), there is a
correspondingly lessened emphasis on my own research into the texts in their original
languages. For Tibetan-translated canonical texts, in order to avoid bibliographical
complications, I generally make reference to numbers in the Tohoku (Toh.) catalogue
of the Derge Canon (Hakuju Ui, et al. 1934). Derge Canon (Kanjur and Tanjur) texts
are, in a number of cases, available to me in searchable digital format (thanks to the
Asian Classics Input Project), although the readings were checked against the ‘original’
Derge canon (albeit in the form of microfiche supplied by the Institute for the Advanced
Study of World Religions, Stony Brook). The entire Derge canon has recently been
made available, too, in scanned format (in the form of compact disks from the Tibetan
Buddhism Research Center, New York City).
1
This proverb (or in Tibetan, gtam-dpe, ‘pattern [for] speech’ or perhaps even ‘oral
simile’) is, in one form or another, known to every Tibetan speaker. Several variants of
it are recorded (with no translation provided) in Cüppers & Sørensen 1998, 226, nos.
10218–10222.
202 dan martin
of the common era, [2] the next three centuries, and [3] the following
centuries ending in the vicinity of the eleventh century. Perhaps these
time spans do somehow, or at least well enough for present purposes,
correspond to the three themes of this paper: devotional, covenantal
and yogic.
For the many who in some degree or another appreciate Buddhism
as a philosophy, and dislike what they know as ‘religion,’ no offense is
intended. Of course, Buddhism has much philosophy in any sense of
the term. But for now we will be looking at aspects of Buddhism that
are very likely to be overlooked by the philosophers. Alphabet usages
such as those considered here certainly interconnect in various interest-
ing ways with Buddhist philosophy, psychology, ethics, language science
and so forth, but for economy of time, space and ability, it will not be
possible to say very much along these lines. We will look rather more at
things that might be termed, in the broader and older (and most defi-
nitely not the recent socio-political or journalistic) sense of the word,
‘cultic.’ To emphasize the cultic just means to attempt to explore the
areas surrounding religious practices, and especially practices intended
to honor whatever is most highly regarded in a particular religion. In
the beginning it should suffice to suggest that, as a general principle, the
devotional and other religious usages of letters are in every case some-
how and in some degree tied up with or inspired by the sacredness of
scriptural texts (whether orally recited or written), as well as the sacred-
ness of the figure of the Buddha Himself. At times, like full-blown reli-
gious symbols, or even like physical relics, the letters may place believers
directly in contact with sacramental powers or blessings. But that being
admitted, my own ideas about the general picture are constantly shift-
ing, perhaps even shifting during the act of writing. Nothing is perma-
nent, and least of all, structures.
I. Devotional
2
There is a considerable literature on the identification of ancient Kapilavastu, much
devotional, covenantal and yogic 203
of it published in India and Nepal. For the Nepalese side, identifying it with the extensive
(and inadequately excavated) ruins of Tilaurakot, see for example, Rijal 1979.
3
A late fifteenth century Tibetan-authored biography of the Buddha (Sna-nam
Btsun-pa 1994, 43) gives the schoolmaster Viśvāmitra the additional name Srin-bu-
go-cha (in Sanskrit, perhaps Krˢmivarman, or ‘Bug Armor’). This probably results
from combination with the Abhiniskramana-sūtra (Toh. no. 301, fols. 17–18), where
the Buddha’s school teacher is indeed given this other name. A charming green phylite
relief, kept in the Swat Museum in Pakistan, depicts the young Buddha and a companion
on their way to school riding on two rams, accompanied by two adult guardians, one of
them holding an umbrella above the childrens’ heads, Khan 1993, 71.
4
Lalitavistara Sūtra (Toh. no. 95, fol. 108). English readers will have to content
themselves with the translation (based on the French of E.P. Foucaux, which is not available
to me, but making reference to the Tibetan text) found in Bayes 1983, I 187–195.
5
See Lévi 1905 for a notice of this list of scripts.
204 dan martin
but scripts used in other parts of the universe, and scripts of various
non-human entities. It begins with Brāhmī and Kharost hī, two very
early Indian scripts, but also mentions scripts of south India, what may
be Greek script (Yavana), and so forth. The Sanskrit script as we know
it today, called Devanāgarī, is not to be found among them, and it is
essential to be aware that the Sanskrit letters did not exist in their cur-
rent shapes until relatively recently, and Devanāgarī became the domi-
nant script for writing Sanskrit only in around the 18th century. It is
perhaps worth noting, too, that some very good scholars believe that
the Kharosˢthˢ ī script descended from an eastern Aramaic script. Like
Semitic scripts, Kharosˢthˢ ī was written from right to left. Brāhmī script
is written from left to right.6
John Brough’s 1977 article clearly demonstrated that the earlier of the
two Chinese translations of the Lalitavistara Sūtra, done by Dharmaraksˢa
in the year 308 ce, employs an entirely different alphabet in this passage.
It most certainly is not an ‘alphabet,’ in the sense that it represents all
the letters used to write any particular language. Of the several learned
articles written on what is now known as the Arapacana syllabary, only
the earliest ones called it, inaccurately, the Arapacana alphabet.7
Incidentally, today every Tibetan knows the Arapacana primarily
as part of a mantra invoking the Bodhisattva of wisdom and learning,
Mañjuśrī.8 Several years ago, I spent a summer in Himachal Pradesh, at
the town of Gangcan Kyishong just above Dharamsala and just below
the residence of the His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I remember several
times being awakened in the morning by the sound of a child shouting
very loudly from the rooftop “Omˢ A-ra-pa-tsa-na Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ!
Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ! Dhihˢ!” The syllable Dhihˢ, which was repeated
in shrill and rapid machine-gun-like bursts until the child ran out of
breath, is considered by the experts (not necessarily so by the child) as a
6
On Kharosˢthˢ ī script, see Upasak 2001. On the eastern Aramaic scripts, see Naveh
1997, 132–53. Naveh does not seem to be aware of the existence of Kharosˢthˢ ī as such,
although he does briefly mention Aramaic script use in India (on p. 127).
7
For an excellent list of references on the Arapacana, including some that will not be
mentioned here, see Gyatso 1993, 198. Note the more recent study by Verhagen 2002,
143–9, who quite interestingly tends to the conclusion that the Arapacana was a ‘real’
alphabet of Gāndhārī.
8
Mañjuśrī is a Bodhisattva, depicted with royal ornaments (and not monastic robes),
with a sword lifted as if ready to strike in His right hand, and a book in His left (or
balanced on a lotus held in His left hand). Khettry 2001 has traced images identified
with Mañjuśrī holding the book (but without the sword) to the first centuries of the
Common Era.
devotional, covenantal and yogic 205
9
See Dreyfus 2003, 85, with a general discussion of Tibetan monastic memorization
practices on pp. 85–97.
10
The best listing so far of the many sūtras that have the Arapacana in one form or
another is the one located in Durt 1994.
11
Conze 1984, 160; Wayman 1975, 78–9. I used the Derge Kanjur version of the
Pañcavim śatisāhasrikā-prajñāpāramitā (Toh. no. 9, fol. 344).
206 dan martin
12
The word mātrikā (Pāli mātikā) is also used in Abhidharma texts to refer to lists
of the main elements of Buddhist psychological (and other types of) analysis. These are
lists of words, not of syllables. See especially Gethin 1993.
13
Just like the Tibetan word that was used to translate it, yi-ge. See the discussion of
this point in Hopkins 1985, 76–7.
208 dan martin
that some other translations used in the past are inadequate. This word
mukha may mean ‘head’ (but here ‘face’ would be more accurate) or
‘mouth,’ as others have translated it, but I follow the Tibetan in under-
standing it to mean ‘door’ or ‘gate,’ and a bit more abstractly ‘access point,’
all these translations being indeed possible for the Sanskrit mukha as
well. Meaningful translation of the word dhāranī has proven especially
difficult, so much so that it is generally left untranslated. It shares the
same root {dhr} with the word Dharma. Dharma is the usual word for
Buddhism as a whole, for scriptures [the Buddha’s Word], and for sets of
factors that go together to sustain the vicious circle of everyday suffering
called sam sāra, as well as sets of factors that go together to sustain the
path to the cessation of suffering called nirvāna. In the 19th century it
was usual to translate Dharma as ‘law.’ I think something like ‘sustaining
factor’ could make good sense in many contexts (it also avoids preju-
dicing the very basic Buddhist principle of impermanence). Similarly
dhāranī,14 with the same root, also refers to a kind of ‘holding,’ but in this
case serves as a shorthand for ‘holding in memory.’ To make it simple, a
dhāranī is a string of syllables which, either individually or as a whole,
induce recollection of:
1. particular dharmas as just described,
2. groups of such dharmas as well as dharmas in their entirety,
3. a scriptural text or passage (also called Dharma),
4. a set of Buddhist concepts (which may also summarize a scriptural
text or passage).
One early Great Vehicle scripture, The Teachings by Aksayamati—its old-
est existing Chinese translation made by Dharmaraksˢa in 308—defines
dhāranī as inextricably bound up with memory: “Dhāranī means that,
by virtue of recollecting the virtuous roots that have been accumulated
in the past, one holds the 84,000-dharma heap, one retains all of it, one
does not forget, and one holds it correctly in the memory. That’s what
dhāranī means.”15 It continues by explicitly saying that the Word of Bud-
dhas and Bodhisattvas is what is entirely held in the memory (scriptures
were already indicated, in fact, by the words ‘84,000-dharma heap’).
14
In my estimation, the most valuable modern discussion of dhāranˢīs to be found in
Gyatso 1993.
15
My translation based on Braarvig’s careful edition (1993, I 148); compare Braarvig
1985, 18; 1993, II 556–7.
devotional, covenantal and yogic 209
16
Translation by Mitra 1981, 244, which might be compared to the rather different
translation by Emmerick 1996, 44–5.
17
Braarvig 1985.
18
Note that the Perfection of Insight sūtras come in many sizes, ranging from the
100,000 in twelve volumes (Toh. no. 8) down to the one on the letter ‘A’ in a few lines
(English translation in Conze 1973, 201).
210 dan martin
II. Covenantal
Dhāranī-sūtra titles are the most numerous among the several classes
of scriptures found in the Tibetan scriptural canon. Almost always
extremely brief, they are very often, but not exclusively, devoted to
worldly fears and other rather secular concerns. For example, there are
dhāranīs against snakebite, against backbiting and slander, against high-
way robbers, and so forth. There is even one against hemorrhoids.19 In
general, they take the form of a short story. For example, the Buddha’s
disciple Ānanda has been traveling and is terrified of highway robbers.
The Buddha tells him a story about how highway robbers were once
stopped by saying a string of syllables, a dhāranī.20 What I believe is
going on here is, above all, the sense that the Word of the Buddha has
power and truth. The dhāranī recalls the original incident in the life
of the Buddha, together with the Buddha’s promise that the repetition
of the words will have the required effect. As far as the believer is con-
cerned, the effectiveness is based on something we might almost call a
contract which, once made, remains binding for all time. Well, at least it
would remain binding for those who believe in the power and truth of
the Buddha’s Word.
19
Arśapraśamani Sūtra (Toh. no. 621). A Chinese version also exists, its contents
described by Ratna Handurukande in Malalasekera 1966, 96. We should avoid falling
into the mistaken notion that these types of dhāranˢīs were a Great Vehicle invention.
Although called raksā (‘protection’), rather than dhāranˢī, Elder School (Theravāda) texts
that are very much like dhāranˢīs do exist, and it is remarkable that some of those texts
have been preserved in the dhāranˢī sections of the Kanjur in Tibetan translations, as
Skilling 1992 has demonstrated. Schmithausen 1997 studies several examples including
some against snakebite, together with a good discussion of the protective as well as the
‘contractual’ (or pact of friendship) nature of these types of texts. See also Cousins 1997
for remarkable instances of letter and mantra usages in Southern Buddhism. In Tibet,
dhāranˢī collections called Gzungs-’dus and Mdo-mang (see Taube 1968 and Meisezahl
1968; the Bon religion also has its own versions of these collections), in one or two
volumes, were quite popular, perhaps the most likely book to be found laying on a home
altar. While many of the texts in these collections are found in the canon, some others are
not. It could be said that the dhāranˢī-sūtras have been relatively neglected by scholars,
but it is also true that collecting the bits and pieces published here and there would result
in a very large bibliography, which will not be attempted here.
20
See, for this example, Coravidhvam sana Dhāranī (Toh. no. 629). In the Tibetan
form of the title, ’Phags-pa Mi-rgod Rnam-par ’Joms-pa zhes bya-ba’i Gzungs, we find the
word mi-rgod. While it has the literal meaning ‘wild man,’ some people enthusiastically
endorse the opinion that mi-rgod ought to be a name for the redoubtable Abominable
Snowman. In this particular text, it is clear that mi-rgod are neither hairy humanoid
beasts nor bestial humans, but something unfortunately much less arcane: highway
robbers or bandits.
devotional, covenantal and yogic 211
21
In Tibetan, gzungs-gzhug, on which, see Bentor 1995.
22
Haran 1985, 251, 255 understands this in terms of ancient Middle Eastern practices
connected with sacral deposits in general.
23
Braarvig n.d. and Kapstein 2001, 233–55.
24
This is the Bodhisattvabhūmi (Toh. no. 4037; see Braarvig 1985, 19 for the full
212 dan martin
citation). For an especially valuable discussion of these categories see Gyatso 1993,
175–6.
25
Dam st rasena’s Śatasāhasrikā-pañcavim śatisāhasrikā-ast ādaśasāhasrikā-prajñāpārami-
tābrhat t īkā (Toh. no. 3808, fols. 146–147); Ratnākaraśānti’s Ast asāhasrikāprajñāpārami-
tā-pañjikāsārottamā (Toh. no. 3803, fols. 39–40); two works of Abhayākaragupta, the
Munimatālam kāra (Toh. no. 3903, fols. 230–232) and Ast asāhasrikāprajñāpāramitā-vrtti-
marmakaumudī (Toh. no. 3805, fol. 65); and Jaggadalavihāra’s Bhagavatyāmnāyānuśārini-
nāma-vyākhyā (Toh. no. 3811, fols. 302–303).
devotional, covenantal and yogic 213
3. [Dhāranˢī of Secret Mantra] means to obtain the power over the samādhi
which achieves the blessing power to pacify such things as epidemic
diseases.
4. The fourth [Dhāranˢī for Obtaining Forbearance] has as its cause (or, its
basis) that the one who has insight dwells in solitude and doesn’t say a
word; encounters no one, eats appropriate food thinking little about it,
and sleeps briefly during the night. That is what the Teacher [the Bud-
dha] means by Mantra of Obtaining Forbearance.26
Before moving into the third and final phase under consideration here,
the yogic phase, which I consider to be quite distinct even if in some
ways interrelated (or at the very least conscious of precedent), I would
like not only to summarize, but to add some more further elements and
speculate about a more general picture. Even though the early Perfection
of Insight sūtras speak so much about ‘reading’ and ‘writing’ that we have
to think that they were written down from the very beginning, they still
frequently mention the Dharmabhānaka,27 the reciter of the scriptures.
The reciter was considered a special class within the Buddhist commu-
nity, and we know from early inscriptions that women could and did
serve in this role.28 It appears that a good memory was the primary job
qualification. Anyone who has read the book or viewed the cinematic
version of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, could imagine that his por-
trayal of the post-print culture method of preserving literature was
inspired somehow by the role of the reciter in early Buddhism before
scriptures were commonly committed to writing. I’ll state my general
speculative theory as simply as possible, in the meantime introducing a
little more evidence that may help to support it.
26
The basis for this translation is an Asian Classics Input Project (www.asianclassics.
org) digital text no. SL0070–1, since the work by Gro-lung-pa has not yet been published
in any other form (only a very few woodblock prints survive, in Mongolia, St. Petersburg
and Patna). Composed in around 1100 ce, the title is: Bde-bar-gshegs-pa’i Bstan-pa Rin-
po-che-la ’Jug-pa’i Lam-gyi Rim-pa Rnam-par Bshad-pa, and the passage is located at
folios 285–286. For a brief outline and discussion of this work, see Jackson 1996, 230–1.
Gro-lung-pa’s explanation of the Dhāranˢī for Obtaining Forbearance is quite unique (all
the other ninth- through twelfth-century passages we have mentioned make it first, not
last in the list, and describe it as the ability to withstand Buddhist truths). ‘Obtaining
forbearance’ in Gro-lung-pa’s passage has a technical meaning associated with Great
Vehicle ideas about stages in the Path to Enlightenment. It belongs to a higher stage
of what is known as the ‘Path of Application,’ almost immediately preceding the direct
vision of the Truth. In the Path of Application, various moderately strict disciplines
(such as those mentioned here) are recommended.
27
In Tibetan, Chos-kyi Smra-ba-po. I believe it is significant that the word bhānaka
shares with the word for eloquence that we have already discussed the same Sanskrit
root bhan. For a general treatment on the bhānaka, see Goonesekere 1968.
28
Hirakawa 1990, 30.
214 dan martin
My theory is that there was a code for aiding the memory of the scrip-
ture reciters, that the Arapacana syllabary is an example of it, although
the passage it was meant to preserve has not been identified; also, that
the earliest Great Vehicle scriptures not only preserve a memory of such
codes, they most probably had their own system of memory using key-
syllables. The memory system, whatever its exact details might have
been, itself helps to explain the well-known formulaic and repetitive
nature not only of the scriptures in the Pāli canon,29 but of the Perfec-
tion of Insight sūtras as well, particularly in the more lengthy versions.
There is a small class of Tibetan literature, that has yet to be touched by
scholarship of any kind, which explains to us how the larger Perfection of
Insight sūtras can be generated through a process they call ’gres-rkang.30
The word ’gres is employed in the Tibetan translations of works by
Damˢ sˢtrˢ asena and Jaggadalavihāra already mentioned, although I have
not yet determined what the corresponding Sanskrit word would have
been. ’Gres-rkang refers to a repeated piece of text, into which a long list
of items are to be inserted. The items to be inserted are the two types
of dharmas that were mentioned earlier, the samˢ sāric dharmas and the
nirvānˢic dharmas.
To give a simple example, instead of saying “All dharmas lack self-
nature,” we would say, “The sense of seeing lacks self-nature. The sense
of hearing lacks self-nature. The sense of smell lacks self-nature,” and
so on and so on, slotting in perhaps over a hundred terms into the
same repeated statement. The early pre-Great Vehicle school known as
the Dharmaguptaka had its own version of the monastic code which
has been preserved in Chinese. In this text we find exactly this type of
repeated sentence formula, “The sense of seeing is impermanent, the
sense of hearing is impermanent” etc. This occurs as part of a discussion
of chanted recitations in which the chant leader or the monks in general
may start the first syllable of the phrase, after which the community, or
the laypeople in particular, will join in. Furthermore, it gives the Arapa-
cana itself as an example of a group chanting event, in which monks and
laypersons would chant together, whether in unison or in response.31
It may be surprising to learn that the earliest Tibetan ’gres-rkang
texts, composed in the 11th century, belong to the Tibetan Bon religion.
29
See especially Allon 1997 and literature cited there.
30
I have briefly discussed, and given bibliographical references to, several of these
works in Martin 2000, 66.
31
Lévi 1915, 439–40; Lamotte 1988, 497–8.
devotional, covenantal and yogic 215
Since a discussion would lead us too far astray, I will just say that Bon is
believed to be the original pre-Buddhist religion of Tibet, and it is often
accused (by others, not by me) of stealing its scriptures from the Bud-
dhists by changing a word here and there. I recently edited an 800-page
catalogue of the Bon scripture collections.32 Several years ago in Oslo,
while working together with a committee on the catalogue, I noticed
a very interesting thing about a ten-volume scripture that everyone
agrees in some way or another corresponds to the Buddhist Perfection
of Insight Sūtras. It exists not only in the ten-volume version, but in a
one-volume version as well. Within the latter is a chapter on a dhāranī,
in which each syllable of the dhāranī corresponds to a repeated textual
passage—allowing us to expand the one-volume into the ten-volume
version—but at the same time corresponding to one of the thirty-two
major and eighty minor marks of the Buddha,33 who in this case is
Lord Shenrab, the founder of Bon. (Lord Shenrab is often called by the
Tibetan word for Buddha.) In a rather startling way, this brings together
devotion to the physical form of the Buddha with devotion to His Word.
It reminds us of the Buddha’s own advice, “to see me in the corpus of
my teachings.”34 It reminds us, too, of the episode in the Lalitavistara
Sūtra, among other places, in which the sage Asita came to see the infant
Siddhārtha and examined His bodily signs, finding the thirty-two and
eighty major and minor marks, which indicated that He would be either
a universal monarch or an Enlightened One. Asita exclaimed, “Truly
a great wonder has appeared in the world.”35 Just as, or to the degree
that, the future Buddhahood is predicted through the marks, later on
the marks would allow us to recognize the wonder that was or is the
Buddha or His image.
Seeing this principle of text/image identification at work in the Bon
scripture set off an alarm in my head. First of all, the chapter in the Bon
text on the major and minor marks is located in about the same position
as the chapter in the much better known Buddhist texts. In the 25,000
Perfection of Insight Sūtra, this chapter covers three subjects: major
32
See Martin et al. 2003. The catalogue of the Bdal-’bum volumes, which are the ones
discussed here, may be found in the same volume, pages 253–65.
33
On this subject, see especially Wayman 1957.
34
Boucher 1991, 2, 17 n. 3, has noted a number of Pāli and Sanskrit versions of this
statement. We might add, too, a similar statement in the Vajracchedikā Sūtra (Conze
1972, 63).
35
See de Jong 1954. For the account in the Lalitavistara, see Bayes 1983, I 150–63.
216 dan martin
marks, minor marks, and letters. It is quite mysterious what the letters
have to do with the marks, and why they should make an appearance
immediately after them.36 And the passage on letters is itself mysterious,
recommending that one should be skilled in the forty-two letters, and
meditate on the forty-two letters as contained in one letter, and on one
letter as contained in forty-two letters.37 Since in the Sanskrit alphabet
generally forty-nine or fifty letters are counted, the forty-two letters sim-
ply must mean the Arapacana syllabary. Perhaps the Arapacana is, after
all, the secret reciters’ memory code for the Perfection of Insight Sūtras,
but if so, it has not proven possible to know the specific way in which it
would have been applied. It seems more likely that these sūtras are play-
ing with a mnemonic system that was already well known— most likely
one in use by the Dharmaguptakas for scriptures they were in the prac-
tice of reciting, something like the Arthavarga or the Udānavarga38—
36
One of the latest among the Tibetan Dunhuang documents, probably dating not
much earlier than the early 11th century, somehow correlates the vowels and consonants
(here referred to as a-li ka-li) with the marks and signs (see Verhagen 2001, 30–6 for a long
discussion). It may be interesting to consider the following instance in which Buddha’s
bodily marks are identified with letters. In consecration rituals intended specifically for
scriptural books, we find a recent Tibetan manual suggesting that, after visualizing the
physical book away, it is replaced by Buddha Amitābha in the form of a book. At the same
time, the major and minor marks of the Buddha transform into vowels and consonants
which are then imagined to dwell on each and every page of the scripture (Bentor 1996,
295). Among the preparatory rites that precede the consecration proper, we find letters
being written on a mirror (which reflects the item that will be consecrated), then rinsed
with water which falls on flowers to be used later on, imbuing them with the power of
the letters; letters that have already been empowered by transferring holy words through
a dhāranˢī-thread (Bentor 1996, 116–7). This ritual power-line is, by the way, used in
Paritta ceremonies in Sri Lanka, as well as by Newar Vajrācāryas in Nepal. Different in
the similarity of its consecratory function is the Abecedarium rite which often forms a
part of Roman church dedications. In it, the Bishop writes the letters of the Greek and
Latin alphabet on the floor of the church, using his crosier to draw the letters on small
piles of ashes, creating the overall form of a [St. Andrew’s] cross (Repsher 1998, 50–2,
57, 82–4). To underline the obvious, the letters of Greek and Latin are the ones that
form the holy scriptures, the Septuagint and Vulgate (as I see it, the rite employs the
elements of sacred scripture to make something else sacred), while they also signify the
“beginnings of faith,” just as the alphabet is the beginning of learning. In the Tibetan
case, the primary source of the empowering is the repetition of the “Ye Dharmā,” which
is believed to epitomize the scriptures in a different way (Bentor 1996, 114).
37
See Conze 1984, 587, for a complete translation of this passage.
38
Other possibilities that ought to be investigated: There was a list of 42 or 44 mental
states and associated factors in the Dharmaskandha, an Abhidharma text that has been
dated to the time of Aśoka. Perhaps this or another Abhidharma list of these or other
such dharmas are behind the Arapacana. A Sūtra in Forty-two Sections survives in
Chinese translation. One problem is that texts such as the Udānavarga have been re-
arranged, and there is no guarantee, either, that the forms of the texts as we have them
would have been followed in the early recitation practices. The Sanskrit Dharmapāda
devotional, covenantal and yogic 217
while employing a different system of its own. That there was such a
memory code or codes seems certain.
III. Yogic
Now we enter a seemingly alien world, the yogic world, in which the
alphabet occupies a different position. To make a difficult history simple,
elements that make up the Vajra Vehicle (Vajrayāna) emerged in around
the 4th century and slowly coalesced in various ways until emerging in
a fairly full form, with distinctive texts called ‘tantras’, in about the 8th
century (although some would push this back to somewhere in the three
preceding centuries). As such the Vajra Vehicle can only be defined as
a complex of ideas and practices. It has no single defining characteris-
tic. It employs powerful words called mantras, powerful gestures called
mudrās, and special meditation practices that involve intricate visual-
ization processes, and which always employ phonemes and visual syl-
lables for a number of purposes.39 For present purposes we should try to
(itself a form of the Udānavarga) has its first chapter entitled Anitya (‘Impermanent’),
anitya being the word for the first letter, the letter ‘A’, in the Sanskrit Abecedarium of the
later Lalitavistara, as given above (see Bernhard 1965, 95).
39
There is a great deal of Vajra Vehicle letter usage that will not be considered here
in any detail. The first word of every Buddhist scripture, Evam , literally meaning ‘thus’
or ‘just so’, is understood as combining the feminine ‘E’ (standing for the whole string of
vowels), symbol of Insight (prajñā) with the masculine ‘VAM ’ (standing for the whole
string of consonants), symbol of Method (upāya). Kölver 1992 believes this symbolism
is based on the form of the letters as found in early inscriptions from Mathurā and
elsewhere, in which the ‘E’ is shaped like a downward pointing triangle, and the ‘VAM ’
like an upward pointing triangle. I have dealt with some of this sort of letter symbolism,
the evam in particular, in Martin 1987, 197–8. We might point out, well-known as it may
be, that the first words of Buddhist scriptures (‘Just so was it heard by me at one time’)
are not spoken by the Buddha, but probably represent a ritualistic phrase used by the
Dharmabhānaka before beginning each recitation (which doesn’t contradict the idea
shared by many that they are the words of Buddha’s disciple Ānanda). Seed-syllables
(bīja) are used in visualizations to generate divine forms, and it is often the case that
these are based on first letters (for example, the lotus [padma] on which the divine
form is seated is often generated from the syllable ‘PAM ’, the divine form Tārā from
the syllable ‘TAM ’ etc.). In tantras of the Yoga class, such as the Mahāvairocana, there
is a great deal of speculation on the letter ‘A’, which is of cardinal importance for the
Shingon Buddhists of Japan, but also for the Bon and Rnying-ma-pa schools of Tibet.
Another interesting use of the alphabet is in the ‘Mantra Picking’ or ‘Mantra Extraction’
(Mantrodhāra) chapter that one finds in many tantras (see for example Miller 1966,
138–40; the Vowels and Consonants Tantra discussed below also has such a chapter).
Here the alphabet is numerically encoded as part of a method for both concealing and
preserving the letters of the mantras (I believe the intent was to prevent the corruptions
that do all too commonly occur in the scribal reproduction of mantras).
218 dan martin
40
This aspect of Vināpāda, as one of several of the eighty-four Great Siddhas who
experienced one or another form of disability, has been drawn out in an article by a
specialist in ‘Disability Services’ (Cohn 2002). For the Tibetan and Apabhramˢ śa texts of
the song and Munidatta’s Sanskrit commentary on it, I have relied entirely on Kvaerne
1986, 145–50, with its very valuable philological discussions. This is a free and by no
means a ‘final’ translation. It is based sometimes on the Tibetan and sometimes on
the Apabhram śa version, and benefits from consultation with Herman Tieken, for the
Apabhram śa vocabulary, and Tom Hunter, for musicological aspects.
devotional, covenantal and yogic 219
41
For the Parable of the Lute, see Bodhi 2000, II:1253–4. For the parts of the lute, see
Coomaraswamy 1930, 1931a, 1931b, 1937. Unfortunately, Coomaraswamy’s discussions
about the Sanskrit and Pāli vocabulary for parts of the vīnā were not of much help for
understanding those used in the Apabhram śa song which follows.
220 dan martin
channels: the rasanā (‘the taster,’ ‘the rope,’ ‘the bridle’ or ‘the tongue’) on the
right, and the lalanā (‘the tongue’ or ‘the lolling of the tongue’) on the left. The
terms rasanā and lalanā used by Buddhists correspond to the better known
pigalā and idā in Hindu tantras. See the detailed discussion in Bagchi 1975.
In the most elaborate accounts, there may be as many as 72,000 channels in
the subtle body, although the three just mentioned are the main ones.
Oh friend, the vīnā of Heruka* sounds.
The sounds of the strings play themselves [wail] in sympathy [in
play]. \2/
*The Tibetan for Heruka (Khrag-’thung) is interpreted most literally as
‘Blood-drinker,’ a wrathful manifestation of Buddha, including such ‘divine
forms of high aspiration’ as Cakrasamvara and Hevajra.
The continuous sequence [of notes] equals the vowels and consonants.
The ‘best of elephants’* first calculates the precise intervals [that
create] an even tone [equal flavor]. \3/
*The superior musician, perhaps, or the yogin who has overcome duality as
suggested in Munidatta’s commentary. Dasgupta (1976, 98) translates this
verse very differently: “On hearing the tune of the Āli Kāli, the mighty ele-
phant has entered Samarasa [‘equal flavor’].”
and then, when [the musician/yogin] presses the thirty-two strings* down
on the wood and frets,**
that’s when their sounds pervade the whole [instrument]. \4/
*Munidatta explicitly identifies the strings as the thirty-two principle chan-
nels in the yogic body, and the divine forms integrated in the body-manˢdˢala
(compare the Hevajra Tantra; Snellgrove 1980, I 49, 73–74).
**The early vīnā may have been unfretted, and the word translated as ‘fret’
literally means ‘small piece of wood’ (it could conceivably refer to the tuning
pegs, or even the plectrum, which could be made of wood).
The king* does his dance, the goddess[es?] sings her song.
This Buddha dance is particularly difficult to do. \5/
*There are two possible readings of the Apabhramśa original, one meaning
‘king’ (adopted in the Tibetan translation) and the other meaning ‘the one
who has the Vajra.’ In either case Munidatta believes it refers to the author
Vīnˢāpāda, who is celebrating his enlightenment through dance. It is true that the
last lines of other dohā songs usually have an explicit reference to the author.
There is one major scriptural text (even if not included in the Tibetan
canon) called the Vowels & Consonants Tantra,42 which is the one with
42
Phadampa 1979, I:6–114. This work was undoubtedly rare in the past, and this,
rather than any doubts about its authenticity (and I know of hardly any such doubt ever
being expressed in Tibetan literature; one 15th-century scholar named Bo-dong-pa had
brief doubts, but soon realized his error . . .), would sufficiently explain why it was never
included in the canonical Tanjur collection. Another copy has, however, been preserved
within the collected works of Bo-dong-pa Phyogs-las-rnam-rgyal (1375–1451), and
selections from it were published in the late nineteenth century (in the collection known
devotional, covenantal and yogic 221
as the Gdams-ngag Mdzod). It was not entirely unavailable, just difficult to obtain. The
words in the title for vowels and consonants, āli and kāli, are discussed in Miller 1966.
They appear in the first verse of the main Tibetan grammatical treatise believed to have
been written by Thon-mi Sambhot a in the first half of the seventh century. Since the
same words are used by Vīnāpāda and a few other Dohā songs, it would appear that
they are simply Apabhram śa equivalents of Sanskrit ādi and kādi, which mean ‘A-series’
and ‘KA-series’ (so it is not the case that āli and kāli are “not known so far from Indian
sources”—Scharfe 2003, 157). As yet I know of no Indian instances of āli and kāli that
would beyond all doubt predate the tenth century or so (although they do occur in the
Hevajra Tantra, which some date to the eighth century), making their use in a seventh-
century Tibetan work rather puzzling (see Miller 1966, 138 & 146).
43
The Samatāvastupradīpa (Toh. no. 2319). The title could be translated ‘Lamp of the
Expanse of Sameness.’ It is one among nine texts known collectively as the ‘Nine Lamps’
which were transmitted to Tibetans by Phadampa in one of his earlier visits to Tibet.
They were translated by an obscure Kashmiri named Jñānaguhya, who is believed to
have been a pupil who accompanied Phadampa on the same visit.
44
The following three brief texts are located together in the Derge Tanjur: Gandha’s
Ālikālimantrajñāna [or Ālikālimantrakrama?] (Toh. no. 2404), Dhamadhuma’s Kālimār-
gabhāvanā (Toh. no. 2405), and Sāgara’s Samvaracakrālikālimahāyogabhāvanā (Toh. no.
2406). It seems probable, given the names of the authors, that these texts are connected
to Caryā yogis who belonged to the immediate circle or later followers of the Great
Siddha Kānha, based in, but not limited to, northeastern India (Dhama and Dhuma
were two immediate disciples of his; see Templeman 1989, 53).
45
Tucci 1930, 138 ff.
222 dan martin
The point of departure is the sacred Volume. The Teacher, the Bud-
dha, says, “Whoever sees the Volume, their faults are purified, their
qualities completed.”
The audience asks, “What is this Volume?”
Part of His answer: “It is the Volume of mind inscribed with the drawn
[letters] of memory,” and later on the Teacher declares, “All dharmas
are vowels and consonants,” and then, “Their substance is transcendent
insight (its dawning door being the letter ‘A’), their nature is unimpeded
(the dawning door being the ‘OMˢ ’), and their identifying mark is non-
duality (the dawning door being the dhāranī).”
Then the Teacher announces the five aspects of the phoneme and/or
letter:
1. “That of shape that is drawn.” (Both visible letters and the visible
shapes in the world.)
2. “That of material that is amazing.” (Both the writing media and the
elements of the world).
3. “That of meaning that is understood/realized.” (Ordinary communi-
cation as well as the teachings on the Path to Liberation.)
4. “That of words that are illustrative/indicative.” (Mantras, primarily,
are at issue here.)
5. “That of figures of speech (or similes) that are appropriate.”
After saying this, the Teacher smiled and did not say a word.
Chapter Six opens with the Teacher simply pronouncing, fully ampli-
fied “with a lion’s roar,” the fifty letters of the alphabet. The Buddhas in
the ten directions of space respond, each echoing back a different string
of letters. Just to give an example, the Buddhas in the eastern direction
pronounce the letters ka, ca, t a, ta, pa, ya, śa, i, ī, and r. Later on, the ten
blue letters of the air-element are correlated with, among bodily organs,
the intestines and lungs; in the external world, the birds and Asuras;
deities of the Vajra Family; the ritual goal of accomplishing peaceful
results. Still later, the air phonemes that came from the east are qualified
as being fine and stopped up . . .46
46
It was a paper once delivered by David Shulman (Hebrew University, Jerusalem) that
first made me aware that some rather late South Indian theorists of poetics also had ideas
about the meanings of particular phonemes, ideas that may presume prior discussions
on the use of mantras (see, for example, Sarasvati 1963). Although once widespread in
many cultures, theories about the meaningfulness of isolated phonemes have largely
fallen into disrepute. Still, arguments occasionally surface in modern discussions about
devotional, covenantal and yogic 223
the meanings of language (for example, in English language, how many adjectives used
to qualify snakes begin with, or otherwise contain, sibilants?). Their relevance in realms
of poetics and religion could remain regardless of what the linguists and grammarians,
with their different aims, might have to say (compare Padoux’s comments in Alper 1991,
305). One might with reason be reminded of the wondrous ideas of the Irish poet who
went by the name of AE (i.e., George William Russell, in his 1918 book entitled Candle
of Vision, not presently available to me), although it is quite conceivable he was inspired
or influenced by Indian sources.
47
In fact, the lunar vein, the rasanā, is explicitly associated with forward or outward
flowing movements, while the solar lalanā is described as ‘taking in’ (or even ‘eating’).
See Bagchi 1975, 65. The classic work on Indian dramatic sciences, the Nāt yaśāstra,
chapter 8, verses 38–125, has a detailed analysis of dramatic gazes and eye expressions,
enumerating thirty-six types. Bharata’s interest, as a dramatist, is in eye expressions that
convey the actor’s emotional states to the audience, while in yogic contexts the same or
similar gazes are used to control the yogin’s own mental states and subtle physiological
movements associated with them.
48
To my knowledge, the only work which explicitly underlines the continuities
224 dan martin
between the classic work of Indian drama (also including dance, music and aesthetic
theory) by Bharata with the expressive elements of gesture, posture and facial expression
as found in the Buddhist Vajra Vehicle is Bhattacharyya 1987, although there are some
very significant observations, too, in Onians 2002. In my opinion much more thinking
ought to be done along these lines.
49
Mukherjee 1999, 303, gives an example from contemporary Bengal, in which
children are taught the letters by means of an Abecedarium that consists of complete
sentences (not just words) beginning in turn with each of the letters in alphabetic
order.
50
On this point it would be worthwhile to recall the story of Sadāprarudita’s quest
for the Volume of the Perfecton of Insight Sūtra, which after great hardship he finds
enshrined and sealed with seven seals (Conze 1975, 277–99). The text in which this
story is told is the very same text that is found in the story, sealed with the seals.
51
This ought to lead us into a consideration of the age old Buddhist practice of ‘calling
the Buddha to mind’ or ‘recollecting the Buddha’ (Buddhānusmrti), on which see
particularly Harrison 1993. This practice may involve everything from contemplating
the Buddha’s abstract qualities to actual techniques leading to the visualization of the
devotional, covenantal and yogic 225
I believe, led very directly and swiftly into the more contractual form of
the dhāranī-sūtras where strings of syllables perform their work mainly
because of a promise of their effectiveness made by the Buddha in these
same scriptures.
The step from the covenantal to the yogic may seem a simple one
to take, since practically every Buddhologist believes in a rough and
general way that the dhāranī was necessary precursor to the Buddhist
use of mantras.52 However, I believe the crude historical picture might
be finessed and developed in interesting new ways in the future. I do
not want to imply that Buddhists were living in a vacuum, although for
simplicity’s sake we have at times been speaking as if they were. Surely
they received from, as well as contributed to, a broader yogic movement
taking place in India in the last centuries of the first millennium and the
first centuries of the second. The letter-based yogic speculations of the
Vowels & Consonants Tantra are clearly similar in kind to those found in
the Śaivite Hindu tantra called the Mālinīvijayottara, for example.53 Still,
chronological uncertainties prevent us from simple conclusions about
priority. I would say that in the yogic phase of our historical picture,
we may notice some aspects of earlier alphabet usage newly encased in
a yogic context. To give examples, in the Vowels & Consonants Tantra
when the Teacher recites the Sanskrit alphabet, it probably is with good
reason that we are taken back for a moment to the story of the young
Siddhārtha’s visit to school. And when the Tantra speaks of the dawn-
ing of dhāranī access points, or states that “All dharmas are vowels and
consonants,” these seem to be conscious re-articulations of ideas from
the Perfection of Insight sūtras.54 What is freshly expressed is a quite
Buddha’s physical form (including the marks and signs mentioned earlier), as well as
complexes of various such practices.
52
Tucci 1999, 224, for example.
53
This tantra figures very largely in Padoux 1990, a work (originally published in
French in 1964 as a doctoral dissertation) highly recommended for those interested
in investigating or comparing Hindu tantra use of letters and phonemes, as is Muller-
Ortega 1992.
54
And there are a number of excellent reasons for locating Phadampa firmly within
the orbit of the Perfection of Insight sūtras. The Vowels and Consonants Tantra is im-
mediately preceded by the Heart Sūtra (translated in Conze 1972; perhaps one the most
popular among the shorter Perfection of Insight sūtras, it is the very first text in the five
[originally four] volume collection in which this Tantra was preserved). The Tantra is
sealed with seven seals, just as is the Volume in the story of Sādaprarudita’s quest. Pha-
dampa, although apparently born in the coastal part of present-day Andhra Pradesh
in southern India, did his early monastic studies at Vikramaśīla in Bihar, which had
a curriculum emphasizing the Perfection of Insight sūtras and their commentaries by
Haribhadra (late ninth century).
226 dan martin
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PART THREE
SELFTRANSFORMATION
POWERS OF LANGUAGE IN KABBALAH:
COMPARATIVE REFLECTIONS
Jonathan Garb
I. Introduction
1
Stevens 1967, 300.
2
For the methodology of “kinds of power”, which treats power as a varied phenom-
enon, instead of attempting a single definition of this concept, see Hillman 1995. For
“kinds of power” in Kabbalah, see Garb 2001, 45–71.
3
One of the earliest sources of the idea of the power of language is Sefer Yezˢira; on
this book, see Liebes 2001.
4
See Urbach 1975, II:733–40; Scholem 1972, 69–77; Holdredge 1996, 198–201,
317–21.
5
See, e.g., the commentary of Rabbenu Nissim on BT Nedarim 2A, on the conven-
tional nature of languages besides Hebrew. [All translations from the standard Vilna
edition of the Talmud are my own]. Statements such as these underlie numerous legal
discussions relating to the laws of vows, oaths and other “speech acts”.
6
See, e.g., the references to the views of Maimonidies and R. Yehudah ha-Levi (author
of the Kuzari) below.
7
See, e.g., the opinion of Nahmanidies, discussed below.
8
For the modern (19th–20th centuries) Mussar movement, see, e.g., the interesting
discussions found in Bloch 1953, I:41–2.
9
See, e.g., Janowitz 1989; Lesses 1998; Harari 1997/98.
234 jonathan garb
10
However this assumption is not shared by some philosophical writers, most nota-
bly Maimonidies, who held that even the Hebrew language is conventional, and has no
powers beyond the human facility of communication, see Maimonidies 2002, Part 3,
Chapter 8. Cf. the response of thirteenth-century Kabbalist Moses Nahmanidies (1959,
I:492 [Exodus 30, 13]).
11
See Alony 1980.
12
Of course, Jewish discourse on the power of Hebrew cannot be reduced to the
polemic with Muslim ideas of the holiness of Arabic. The roots of the Judaic view of lan-
guage can be traced to early strata of the Bible, such as the account of creation by divine
fiat. These Biblical roots also influenced Christian ideas, as evidenced by the notion of
the Logos in John. However, the idea of the holiness of a particular language did not tally
with later ecumenical trends, so that (as a whole) the idea of a chosen tongue developed
in Islam and Judaism more than in Christianity. On Judeo-Christian views of the power
of language, see Stroumsa 2003.
13
See Scholem 1972; Idel 1992; Pedaya 2001, 73–6, 92–6.
14
These kinds of power have been addressed at length by Moshe Idel (Idel 1992; Idel
1989).
powers of language in kabbalah 235
15
See Idel 2002, 13, 423–7.
16
See Lorberbaum 2004.
17
See Lovejoy 1960. For the Jewish context, see Blumenthal 1987; Mopsik 1993, 402,
435; Idel 2005.
18
See Idel 1988, 173–91, as well Garb 2004, 122–41.
236 jonathan garb
II. Sound
There is nothing in the world which does not have a sound (Zohar 1,
92A).
Our first kind of power is that of Kol—a Hebrew word with two closely
related meanings: sound and voice. In the texts to be examined here,
and others like them, it is important to question which (or possibly
both) meaning is being employed in any given case. A second problem
related to the power of the voice concerns various ideologies crystallized
around the supposedly Jewish approach to the relationship between
sound and power. One such ideology is that of silence: I cannot here
trace the history of the notion (which is not representative in any way
of Jewish writing) that silence is in some way superior to sound.22 Suf-
fice it here to cite a representative modern formulation, that of Edmond
Jabes, who wrote that: “The divine utterance is silenced as soon as it is
pronounced. But we cling to its resonant ring, our inspired words.”23
19
I hope to develop this suggestion at greater length in a future study of power in
modern Kabbalah.
20
See Pedaya 2002, 49–69, 77–8, 86–9, 94–5; Pedaya 2003, 130.
21
See Garb 2001, 67–8. For a detailed discussion of the salience of the visual dimen-
sion in Jewish Mysticism, see Wolfson 1994.
22
Notable representatives of this approach are Maimonidies (see Maimonidies 2002,
Part 1, Chapter 59) and the famous twentieth-century mystic, Rabbi A.I. Kook, in his
commentary on the letters and vowels (Kook 2003, 181. See also Schwartz 2001, 190).
See also the Talmudic statement (BT Hagigah 14A) that the Torah was “given in a whis-
per”. This text seems to go against the general sense that the revelation of the Torah was
a “sound event”, as we shall see below.
23
Jabes 1991, 85.
powers of language in kabbalah 237
Here, words are an attempt to recapture what some modern poets have
described as “the sound of silence”.24 However, again, this claim, which
subordinates sound to silence, is not by any means representative of
Kabbalistic writing, nor indeed of the main body of Jewish writing, in
so far as we can make any general statement with regard to the latter. A
second ideology is that which opposes the voice, or discourse in general,
to power.
As opposed to these ideologies, numerous texts echo the following
claim—powerfully expressed by Paul Valery: The power of poetic lan-
guage (as opposed to abstract thought) is not in its sens (sense) but in
its son (sound).25 This idea is often connected to the Biblical verse: “Kol
Hashem BeKoach”26—the voice of God is powerful, or literally in power.
Here, God reveals himself as voice or sound and as power. It is worth
tracing the subsequent unfolding of this idea through its roots in the
Talmudic/Midrashic literature. An oft-cited Midrash,27 discussing the
voice of God heard at Sinai, uses this verse in order to expound on
the plural nature of revelation: “The voice28 of God in power,29 it does
not say ‘its power’ [i.e. the power of the divine voice] but ‘in power’—the
power of each and every one [. . .] each and every one according to their
power”.
The claim here is that revelation is differentiated according to
subjective capacity.30 The divine voice is not an impersonal power,
which overwhelms the subject 31—as in Otto’s understanding of the
24
The Biblical source is: I Kgs. 19.12.
25
See Greene 1997, 256–7.
26
Ps. 29.4.
27
Exodus Rabbah, 5, 9. See Holdredge 1996, 282–4, 309–10; Heschel 1965, 269.
28
According to the continuation of the Midrash (on three sounds heard throughout
the world: the sea [or sun, depending on how one reads the text], rain, and the soul
when leaving the body at the hour of death. A parallel text [BT Yomah 20B] substitutes
the sound of the masses of Rome (vox populi) as one of the three sounds) kol is under-
stood here more as pure sound than as a voice, which explains the need to modulate it
so as to protect the recipient of this sound.
29
According to various Midrashic texts (e.g. Mechilta De Rabbi Shimeon 19, 16) these
voices described in Psalms were the very voices heard at Sinai.
30
A very similar idea is expressed in visual terms: see Pesikta de Rav Kahana 12, 25,
and Holdredge 1996, 283, 310, as well as Idel 2002, pp. 19–53. Cf. also the images of light
in a parallel in BT Sanhedrin 34A.
31
Cf., however, the reading offered by Gotlieb-Zorenberg 2001, p. 269. Her reading
is somewhat supported by Exodus Rabbah 29, 8, where the divine voice is described as
depleting the power of Israel. This notion may in turn be compared to the idea that the
study of Torah weakens one’s (physical) power, as found for example in a passage BT
Sanhedrin 26B (part of which shall be discussed below).
238 jonathan garb
32
See Otto 1958, 19–23, 190–3. In many ways, Otto’s account does not reflect the
approaches found in numerous Jewish texts.
33
Cf. Song of Songs Rabbah 5, 16, on God “sweetening” his word so that it could be
withstood by the people.
34
Cf. Exodus Rabbah, 4, 1.
35
Jer. 23.24.
36
Midrash Tanhuma, Yitro 11.
37
BT Berakhot 6B.
38
6) 7%3 4-. This can also be rendered as: “neglects five voices”.
39
Jer. 33.11.
powers of language in kabbalah 239
which was given with five voices, as it is written:40 “And on the third day
[. . .] there were voices [. . .] and the voice of the Shofar 41 grew stronger
Moses spoke, and God answered him with his voice [bekol].”
In this text, revelation of Torah, as a plurality of voices, is re-attained
by the individual who adds his voice to a communal celebration. As the
revelation at Sinai is itself described in Talmudic/Midrashic literature as
a wedding celebration,42 the wedding feast is seen as an opportunity to
recapture the moment of individual access to the voices of the Torah.
However, whilst in texts such as these the power of the divine voice
adapts itself smoothly to the capacity of the recipient, this is not always
the case. In what I term the “passive model”43 of the power of voice, the
divine voice powerfully takes over the human voice, creating a posses-
sion-like experience of automatic speech. This model can also be traced
back to Talmudic/Midrashic literature,44 and was subsequently devel-
oped and gradually altered in Kabbalah and Hasidism. A classical45 state-
ment belonging to the passive model is: “The Shekhinah spoke from the
throat of Moses.” Here Moses, as an exemplar of the selected individual,
is a passive medium for the divine voice. The emphasis here is on the
transparency of Moses, rather than on his personal power.46 The divine
voice does not adapt itself to the power of Moses, or to the power of oth-
ers for that matter, but rather overwhelms and possesses him.
This passive model of the power of the voice was especially preva-
lent in the Safedian Kabbalah of the sixteenth century. Within texts
produced by the school of the famous Isaac Luria one can find a rather
sophisticated development of this model. According to one statement
by R. Hayim Vital, the production of voice during study produces
40
Ex. 19.16–19.
41
In this context, I cannot address the numerous discussions of the power of the
voice of the Shofar (see, however, Garb 2004, 140).
42
See, e.g., BT Ta’anit 26B; Exodus Rabbah 52, 5.
43
For the passive model of power, see Garb 2004, 66–71. Cf. the extensive material
discussed in Goldish 2003. In many of the cases discussed in the various articles in this
collection, possession was manifested by a voice—divine or demonic—overpowering
the possessed individual.
44
See Naeh 1993.
45
Though often attributed to the Sages of the Talmud (as in a text by Shneur Zalman
of Liady cited anon), this statement is not found in the Rabbinic texts known to us, and
is in fact found in the “Rayah Mehemnah” section of the Zohar (3, 232A).
46
Cf. Epstein 1993, 51a (another text from this work will be discussed anon), where
there is a description of the Shekhinah speaking from the throat of certain individuals
without their conscious knowledge.
240 jonathan garb
47
See the texts and discussion in Meroz 1980, 43, 45 (I believe and hope that an
expanded version of this important study will be published as a book in the future).
48
See Fine 2003, 293, 295; Idel 2005. Cf. a statement by a contemporary and
interesting Hasidic writer, in the anonymous Sheva Enayim 1998, II:102, on
the “enclothing” of paradisical souls of the righteous in the breath of the righteous
individual.
49
See the text and discussion in Meroz 1980, 46–7.
50
Zeev Wolf of Zhitomir 1954, 141b. For a similar Hasidic move with regard to
Messianism—which is relocated from a unique figure or historical moment to the every-
day religious experience—see Idel 1998, 286–7.
51
This idea of the extension of Moses is a classic topos: see Heschel 1995, 37.
52
Abraham Yehoshua Heschel 1863, 36.
powers of language in kabbalah 241
Until now, we have discussed the descent of the divine voice into human
vessels—which can be experienced either as possession or as part of
a process of mutual empowerment. Now, I wish to turn to the oppo-
site direction: the ascending effect of the human voice or sound on the
divine realm. This direction—which entails the production of power as
a result of human activity—appears already in the Talmudic text on the
wedding sound cited above. This distinction deals less with the nature
of the experience, and more with the direction of the vector of sonorous
power.
The Talmud53 states that whoever recites the liturgical phrase (which
is part of the famous Kaddish prayer) “Amen, may his great name be
blessed for ever and ever” with “all his power” (bekol kocho), merits that
a negative judgment that has accumulated for 70 years will be annulled.
What is important here is that there is a move from the magical or theur-
gical power54 of a chosen unit of language55 to the power of the sound
created by its utterance. This plain interpretation of the text—all (kol)
his power as a loud sound (qol)—is found amongst certain Ashkenazi
medieval commentaries, which reinforce it with a Midrashic parallel.56
Other commentators, most notably Rashi,57 render “all his power” as
“the power of his intent”.58 This move seeks to translate the vocal into the
mental. However, the opposite move is far more prevalent: For example,
an oft-cited dictum is “hakol meorer hakavvanah”—the sound awakens
53
BT Shabbat 119B.
54
See Zohar 2, 128B; 3, 220A, where the recital of this phrase in a loud voice is
described as breaking the powers of evil as well as awakening divine power (cf. 105A).
On the Zoharic model of “awakening” power, see Garb 2004, 123–32. For more exam-
ples of agonistic conceptions of sacral sound as destroying or weakening the power of
the forces of evil, see below.
55
The mystical powers attributed to this particular phrase are evidenced by the law
that even one who is engaged in studying the structure of the divine chariot must pause
when he hears this prayer recited (BT Berakhot 21B).
56
See Tosfot, Kol haʙoneh, ad loc. Cf. Devarim Rabbah, 11,1, where Moses (again) is
described as increasing the sound of prayer upwards. Moses is like the saliach tzibuur, or
cantor representing the praying community, who directs and enhances the communal
sound. Cf. a Gnostic parallel (cited by Idel 1988, 371, n. 147) on the powers sounding
the glory and sending it upwards.
57
Ad loc. See also the commentary of the Meiri, in his Beit Habechirah, ad loc, who
combines the two interpretations. It is interesting that the Lurianic Sʙaar Maamarei
Hazal (Vital 1898, 1B) rejects both the magical possibility that mere sound can annul
decrees without repentance and the possibility that mere intention can annul a decree!
58
This interpretation is also adopted by some Kabbalists, see R. Jacob Ben Sheset,
Meshiv Devarim Nechochim (Vajda 1969, 137).
242 jonathan garb
59
See, however, the opinion of the anonymous eighteenth-century Kabbalistic ethi-
cal treatise Hemdat Yamim (2003, I, 143), that this dictum refers only to the possibility
of avoiding losing one’s place in the sequence of prayer, and that loud prayer is actually
a distraction from deeper intention. This is part of the anonymous author’s polemic
against loud prayer, which is part of a wider dispute in Jewish literature (see below).
60
It is often cited in Halakhic literature as reinforcing the need to recite blessings
with a loud voice (See, e.g., the discussion in Magen Avraham on Shulchan Aruch Orach
Chaim 101, 2, which utilizes theurgical argumentation).
61
Cf. the statement by the sixteenth-century Kabbalist Meir Ibn Gabbai in his highly
influential Avodat Hakodesh [1954, part 2, chapter 4 to the effect that it is sound—not
intent—which is isomorphic to the divine, and can thus have theurgical impact.
62
See, e.g., BT Berakhot 7B–8A.
63
See Idel 2002b.
64
See, e.g., Zohar 1, 210A. See also the interesting comment of the thirtenth-century
Rabbenu Bahye (1972, III:281 [Dt. 6.7]) that the Torah should be studied loudly as it was
given in sound, but prayer should be whispered. For the debate between the Hasidim
and their opponents on this issue, see Idel 1995, 168.
65
As opposed to the differentiation proposed by Rabbunu Bahye (previous foot-
note).
66
See Idel 1995, 180–4.
powers of language in kabbalah 243
67
Shenei Luhot ha-Berith, cited and discussed in Ben Sasson 1959, 19–20; Silman
1999, 100. Cf. the recently published “Writings of R. Menachem Mendel of Shklov”
(a direct student of the nineteenth-century Kabbalist Elijah, the Gaon of Vilna), 2001,
II:218. On the need to employ power in an apotropaic manner so as to combat the pow-
ers of evil, see Garb 2004, 56–7.
68
See, e.g., BT Gittin 6B.
69
Dt. 5.19. On this theme see Silman 1999, 31–3, 99–100, 126 ; Heschel 1995, 36, as
well as Zohar 2, 81A (on the power of this ceaseless voice).
70
On this dual sense of power, see Hillman 1995, 97. For Kabbalistic discussions,
see Garb 2004, 55–6. Cf. Elimelekh of Lisansk N.A, 203 [Likutei Soshanah], where the
verse “the voice of God in power (bekoach)” is interpreted as follows: the voice of God is
potential and is activated by the speech of the righteous.
71
For revelatory experiences facilitated through the union of human and divine
voice, according to an important Hassidic text, see Idel 1995, 181. It is also important to
note that Horowitz’s discussion contains an apotropaic aspect: the “filth of the snake” or
evil power increases every generation, and thus there is a need to activate the stringency
latent in the Law.
72
For this term, see Yamasaki 1988, 105–6, 156, 170; Wolfson 1997, 302; Garb 2004,
34, 266.
244 jonathan garb
III. Breath
Nothing is lost, even the vapor of the mouth has a place and location, and
God makes of it what he does, and even the word spoken by a person and
even a sound is not dispersed in emptiness and all have place and location
(Zohar 2, 100B).
The Talmud73 refers to the Torah as “matters of Tohu (which one should
translate as emptiness, not chaos) that the world is founded on.” This is
a surprising version of the theurgical claim found in Rabbinic literature,
to the effect that the existence of the world is founded on the Torah.74
Rashi’s comment on ‘matters of emptiness’ is “mere speech and reading,
and all speech has no real substance, just like this Tohu, and even so
the world is founded on them.” This commentary expands the Talmudic
saying, which refers to the Torah, into a profound reflection on language
as such: speech is empty of substance, a matter of vapor, and yet it is the
foundation of our human world.
One of these vaporous aspects of language is the breath. According
to another Talmudic saying,75 the world is sustained through the breath
created by children’s study. Here again, the world is sustained by the
Torah, but not by its mental or semantic aspect, but rather through the
breathing process involved in study. The breath of young children (tino-
kot) sustains the world not only because it is empty of sin76 (as the Tal-
mud goes on to say) but also because it is less dependent on meaning
and cognition. The world is animated by pure breath.
According to many Kabbalistic texts, the power of speech lies in the
hevel peh, the immaterial substance created by the act of speech as a
modulation of breath.77 A classical statement on the interrelationship
between breath and sound may be found in the Zohar,78 which proclaims
that every deed produces a vapor (hevel) and every vapor produces a
73
BT Sanhedrin 26B.
74
See BT Nedarim 32A, as well as Idel 1988, 171.
75
BT Shabbat 119B.
76
The theme of the effect of sin on breath recurs in some of the texts discussed
below.
77
This is not the place to attempt to cover the extremely extensive Kabbalistic exege-
sis on the term hevel as it appears in Ecclesiastes. Similarly, I do not propose here to
discuss the history of the relationship between God and air as conceived in Kabbalah, its
sources and parallels. Finally, I do not propose to examine the role of breath in mystical
techniques.
78
Zohar 2, 59A.
powers of language in kabbalah 245
sound, which ascends above and has theurgical impact. A general clas-
sificatory statement on this topic may be found in a statement by the
Safedian Kabbalist, R. Hayim Vital (16th c.), the main student of the
famous R. Isaac Luria. According to Vital,79 there are “three levels”—
breath, speech and sound. That is to say, the act of speech is associated
with two further components, one being sound and the other breath or
hevel.
An extremely influential text, found in Pardes Rimonim—the encyclo-
pedic opus of the Safedian Kabbalist, R. Moses Cordovero (16th c.)—
explains the power of breath as follows:
The letters of the Torah are not conventional but are spiritual, and their
form relates to the internal dimension of their soul. This is why the sages
were careful and exact with the shape80 of the letters [. . .] as they hint at a
given spirituality [ruchaniut]81 of the supernal Sefirot [divine emanations],
and each letter has a spiritual form and an exalted light which emanates
from the essence of the Sefirah and descends from level to level in the
path of the descent of the Sefirot. And the letter is a chamber and dwelling
place for this spirituality. And when a person recites and moves one of the
letters, this necessarily awakens82 the spirituality [ruchaniut] and sacred
forms are formed from the vapor of the mouth which go up and connect
to their root.
Shortly after, Cordovero adds: “Also from it [the pronunciation of the
letter] will form from his breath a spirituality and reality, which is like
an angel which ascends and connects to his root to hurry and act in a
speedy and rapid way.”83
In these texts, the non-conventional nature of language is explained
in the following manner: Speech and breath create a tangible real-
ity, which—through a “chain of being”84—ascends and connects to its
79
See the texts and discussion in Meroz 1980, 45–6. A possible earlier source is Sefer
Yezˢira 1, 8.
80
Cordovero clearly establishes a relationship between the breath and the form of the
letters as two non-semantic dimensions of language. On the latter issue, see the begin-
ning of the next section.
81
For the history of this term, see Idel 1995, 66–7, 156–7, and the sources cited
there.
82
For the “model of awakening” see above, n. 54.
83
Cordovero 1962, Gate 27, Chapter 2. On these texts, see Idel 1995, 165.
84
On this concept in the writing of Cordovero in the context of sound, see Idel 1995,
161 (The text cited there is not a direct quote from Cordovero but rather a citation by
his student Elijah Da Vidas, which most likely represents the opinion of Cordovero. See
Idel, 1995, 346, n. 9).
246 jonathan garb
85
Cordovero utilizes the Rabbinic expression, '%- %6 )4.
86
Pardes Rimonim, Gate 32, Chapter 3. See also Idel 1995, 160.
87
Idel 1995, 92–93, 158–168. Cf. Idel, 2005.
88
Garb 2004, 105–12, 205–19.
89
Azulai 1989, 60 [part 2, Chapter 23].
90
On vitality and vapor, see the later (Hassidic) texts adduced by Idel 1995, 163,
166.
powers of language in kabbalah 247
91
For the role played by this term in Cordoverian and post-Cordoverian thought, see
Idel 1995, 178–80.
92
For the Cordoverian and post-Cordoverian doctrine of the “divine spark” indwell-
ing in the soul, see Sack 2002, 39, 59, 179–80.
93
There is clearly a pun on vapor/breath (%) and cord (%).
94
The source for this mythic description is found in the Zohar: see, e.g., 3, 61A. Cf.
Elimelech of Lizansk N.A., 75 [Slach], on loud voice as overcoming cosmic obstacles.
95
Haver 1995, 56.
248 jonathan garb
96
For a Hasidic development of these ideas, cf. Shneur Zalman of Liady’s famous
Tanya (1985, part 4, chapter 5) on the chain of being and the immanence of the divine
breath of God in man as well as in language as a cosmic force. Cf. Da Vidas 1875, 48
[Gate of Awe Chapter Ten], on God’s breath, animated by the letters of God’s name, as
the source of life, which creates the ethical imperative to re-dedicate each of one’s breath
to God.
97
Azulai 1989, 64 (part 2, chapter 28).
powers of language in kabbalah 249
98
Bacrach 1648, 1. For a discussion of this text, see also Liebes 1993, 105.
99
See Bachrach 1648, 1B, on weakening the powers of impurity by the breath of
prayer, which ‘conquers’ the air.
250 jonathan garb
100
Cf. the discussion of a shorter quote from this text in Idel 2002, 96–98. How-
ever, the reading suggested here does not necessarily support Idel’s assumption that the
model presented in this text is one of a talismanic drawing down of power.
101
The recurrence of the phrase “literally” (mamash) in this and previous texts pre-
cludes reading them as metaphorical. Rather, the stress is on the substantive and con-
crete nature of the entities and processes created by study.
102
See Scholem 1969, 64–5; Idel 1997/98.
powers of language in kabbalah 251
And on this it is said:103 “God gives wisdom from his mouth knowledge
and insight”. For all beings were made from the speech of God [. . .] we
find, that this mouth is the root of all created things, and this itself sustains
them. And the vapor [hevel] which comes out of this mouth, the influence
which extends to all things from the source [. . .] and the wisdom is already
given from God in the hearts of all men, but in order to become powerful
the mouth sustaining it needs to blow with force, and then it also becomes
like the fire, which takes fire when blown on, thus when this influence
descends from the mouth like the breath of blowing, the wisdom takes fire
and the knowledge and insight that are already contained in it will be seen
[. . .] and all these will not act except by means of the power of the blowing
of the supernal mouth [. . .] and this is what Elihu said:104 “indeed it is a
spirit in man, and the soul of the Lord of Hosts will give them understand-
ing”. The term “soul” is [. . .] in the sense of breath [neshima] and not in
the sense of soul, that is the breath of the mouth, for it is this which gives
understanding not days or years.
The structure and phraseology of this text clearly point to the influence
of Azulai. Like the earlier writer, Luzatto stresses the role of repeated
study in drawing down intellectual power. He also discusses at length
the theme of vapor and breath in this process. However, there are several
profound differences between Azulai and Luzatto in this matter: Whilst
the earlier Kabbalist emphasizes the ascent of human breath, which then
draws down divine influence, Luzatto chose to elaborate on the role of
the divine breath, which descends and gives not only existence, but also
understanding.
This is more than a difference in the directions taken by the powers
involved in the process: While Azulai, following Cordovero,105 empha-
sizes the active role of human breath, Luzatto begins by stressing human
intellectual effort, but when he reaches the issue of breath he only men-
tions the divine breath, and not the human act of breathing. It is pos-
sible that this is due to a more intellectualistic approach on Luzatto’s
part: Azulai’s text is more mythical, and includes the agonistic theme of
breaking the obstacle of the husks—which are not mentioned at all by
Luzatto. For all of the latter’s repeated assurances as to the literal nature
of the process he describes, when it comes to human action, he only
refers to intellectual effort, but not to the quasi-magical effect of breath
103
Prov. 2.6.
104
Jb. 32.8.
105
On Cordovero and Luzatto on language, see Idel 2002, 361.
252 jonathan garb
106
The term ‘root’ also appears—in a more cosmological sense—in Cordovero’s text
cited at the beginning of this section.
107
Cf. the comments of Horowitz on the activation of the latent power of the text
(discussed in the previous section).
108
Haver 2000, 427.
109
Ibid., 332.
110
At the same time it also creates a protective wall against negative forces, see ibid.,
p. 331.
111
Yehudah Aryeh Leib 2000, 13 [Devarim].
112
BT Avodah Zarah 19B.
powers of language in kabbalah 253
“Torah” remains in their mouths, and thus permeates even their mun-
dane discourse. This text represents a move from scholastic dimensions
of study to a far more concrete notion of a form of energy produced by
the effort of study, which then extends into the mundane. The focus here
is not so much on the text and its explication but rather on the personal
power of the scholar.
I would like to conclude this section with an analysis of a powerful
text, by the early nineteenth-century Hasidic writer R. Qalonimus Qal-
man Epstein, in his Maor Vashemesh.113 This text pulls together several
of the themes discussed in this section, as well as the previous one:
When a person adheres his thought in the love of his creator and he is
filled with longing and desire to worship God in Torah or prayer, then
from the power of that passion he produces a simple voice from the walls
of his heart,114 and in the vapor that emits from that voice is inscribed
above all the aspect of his thought and any request that is in his heart to
ask according to the aspect of his thought, all is included in that vapor that
arises from his mouth, for the vapor includes the 32 paths of wisdom and
the 5 books of the Torah according to the level of his thought because the
letter he [= 5] of hevel [vapor] hints at the 5 books of the Torah and the bet
[= 2] and lamed [= 30] hint at the 32 paths of wisdom. And when many
of the people of Israel assemble to worship God in communal prayer or
study, then through the vapor which ascends from their mouths the super-
nal worlds are unified. And through this action they draw down influx of
all good things on the community of Israel. And this is the meaning of the
Talmudic saying that the world exists by virtue of the vapor of the mouths
of the young children of the schools.
Rabbi Qalonimus recognizes the import of the Talmudic saying on
the breath of schoolchildren.115 In this text, study and prayer are again
113
Epstein 1993, 31 [Genesis].
114
See below, n. 138.
115
Cf. the following passage from the Eretz Tov (late 18th–early 19th c.): “This is the
secret of the saying of the sages that the world is sustained by the breath of schoolchil-
dren, for when the voice is the voice of Jacob when they study Torah then their breath
sustains the world, for the breath derives from the vitality of the spirit of the mouth of
God [. . .] all creatures and the world were made and formed and created and emanated
by the power of the spirit of the mouth of God, when he pronounced the 22 letters, and
through the power of the 22 letters all was created, and this is the secret of the spirit of
God’s mouth and all depends on the spirit, and through the spirit the power of life was
extended to all creatures,” Yishayahu Jacob Halevi 2002, 20. One should note the con-
nection between spirit, breath and power in this text (in general this Kabbalist accorded
an extremely central place to the concept of power). On the relationship between spirit
and power as part of the ‘phenomenology of the spirit’ in Kabbalah, see Garb 2004,
67–8, and cf. Pedaya 2002, 74, 80, 139, 161, 201, 203.
254 jonathan garb
116
On the heart, see below, n. 138.
117
Cf. the text cited from Cordovero at the beginning of this section, as well as the
Hasidic text by R. Jacob Joseph of Polony, cited in Idel 1995, 74.
118
See Idel 1995, 180–1.
119
For the methodological questions surrounding this move, see Idel 1991; Garb
2004, 44–9, and the sources concentrated there.
powers of language in kabbalah 255
One may find various points of contact between the Kabbalistic views
of sound and breath surveyed here, and similar ideas in Sufi writing (to
mention but one instance of a spiritual system which had rather close
contact with the world of Kabbalah).121 Of course, one can also range
further afield, and consider comparing the non-semantic ideas of lan-
guage discussed here to those prevalent in other spiritual systems which
were in contact with the Jewish world—such as the Hellenistic culture of
Late Antiquity.122 However, for reasons which will soon become appar-
ent, I wish to focus on the comparison between views on the power
of non-semantic dimension of language in Indian and Jewish culture.
The historical contact between the Jewish world and the Indian culture
was less extensive than the extensive ties between Judaism and Islam
or Christianity.123 However, on the phenomenological level, there are
120
The possibility of comparison between mystical traditions belonging to diverse
cultural contexts is of course the subject of an extensive theoretical polemic. For a fairly
recent and comprehensive summary, see Hollenback 1996, 5–17.
121
On breath as the “vehicle” of speech, human and divine, see the views of the thir-
teenth-century master, Ibn al-ʚArabi, as discussed by Chittick 1989, 127. On the power
of words in Sufism, see Sviri 2003.
122
See, e.g., Miller 1989. When examining parallels between Hellenistic non-seman-
tic ideas of language and the Indian ideas discussed below, it is worth recalling the stud-
ies of Dumezil (for all their known problems). See, e.g., Dumezil 1987, 51–9.
123
Though more prevalent than one might at first surmise. On the possibility of
Indian influences in Sefer Yezˢira, see the discussion in Shulman 2002.
256 jonathan garb
124
Holdredge 1996, 213–23, as well as the discussions cited below. Holdredge focuses
on relatively earlier sources belonging to the mainstream theosophical-theurgical school
of Kabbalah, and different results are obtained from consulting a different selection of
texts, as suggested here. For an earlier attempt, see Fluegel 1902, 248–50. For an inter-
esting literary treatment of the resonance between Indian and Jewish mystical practices
related to language, see Goldman 2000.
125
See his preface to Padoux 1990.
126
This is also the case with regard to Holdredge’s book for all of its remarkable scope.
I must add that the findings presented here lead me to take issue with some of Hold-
redge’s more general summaries. Two examples should suffice: Holdredge claims that
“the brahamanical tradition gives priority to the phonic dimension and the rabbinical
and kabbalistic traditions to the cognitive dimension” (Holdredge 1996, 18). The texts
surveyed here show that in the latter traditions, the phonic is at par with the cognitive;
but cf. Holdredge 1996, 218–223, where auditory and visual are added as parallel dis-
tinctions to phonic and cognitive. At the same time, Holdredge (ibid., 214) compares the
composition of the body of Brahaman by 48 sounds to the composition of the body of
God by the Hebrew letters. However, as we shall see in the next section, the latter idea is
visual rather than sonic! (The same reservation applies to the comparison suggested on
p. 215). Here it seems that Holdredge has opted for a ‘structural affinity’ which not only
contradicts her own distinction (which is in itself problematic), but also hardly tallies
with the two structures that she compares.
127
See Padoux 1990, 147, n. 169, where he explicitly states that religious and mystical
practice is not the main concern of his book (see, however, pp. 396, 399). A discussion of
similar (Kashmiri Shaivite Tantric) material which emphasizes questions of practice to
a greater extent may be found in Dyczkowski 1987, 195–204. Dealing with earlier mate-
rial, Holdredge has gone much farther in her discussions (Holdredge 1996, 343–93; cf.
pp. 397–403) of “Veda in Practice” and “Torah in Practice”. However, here too I might
add that Holdredge falls into the same pitfall mentioned just now when she claims (ibid.,
powers of language in kabbalah 257
387–8) that the public recitation of the Torah is primarily aimed at “communication of
content” whilst the parallel Vedic recitation is cosmic maintenance through “reproduc-
ing the primordial sounds of the mantras”. Though Holdredge advances an interesting
proof for her claim from Halakhic literature (I cannot here go into the rebuttal of this
proof), one cannot but note that her description of the purpose of Vedic recitation could
easily fit the discussions of Bachrach and Qalonimus (as well as other texts cited above).
See also Alper 1989.
128
For a comparison between the Indian material on language cited in Padoux’s writ-
ings and Kabbalistic texts on language (those of Abraham Abulafia), see Idel 1989, 148,
n. 80.
129
For extremely interesting remarks on the relationship between Tantra and ear-
lier sources, both Vedic and post-Vedic, see Padoux 1990, 29–38. This issue resembles
the question of continuity between Rabbinic and Kabbalistic discussions that is raised
here.
130
See, e.g., Padoux 1990, 24, 78, n. 122, 125–7, 405.
131
On p. 37, Padoux discusses “correlation”, “interplay”, “reenactment”, “interconnec-
tion” “identification” and “two movements of the same energy”, however these terms do
not assist in a conceptual analysis of the relationship of the human and the divine.
132
Ibid., xi. Cf. the term “ambiguity” on p. 133.
258 jonathan garb
133
For the specific term “vapor”, see ibid., 301.
134
See Padoux 1990, 26, 382; cf. especially the text by R. Qalonimus discussed at the
end of the last section.
135
See, e.g., Padoux 1990, 37–41. On possession, or what I might term the ‘passive
model’ of power, see ibid., p. 41. On power in speech, see ibid., p. 49. For an interest-
ing discussion of mantra in the context of the relationship between human power and
divine power, see Findly 1989.
136
Padoux 1990, 125–6, 139, 413–5.
137
Ibid., 124–5.
138
One might also mention the idea of the heart as the source of sound, both in sev-
eral of the texts discussed here (see, e.g., above n. 114) as well as in those analyzed by
Padoux (see, e.g., 1990, 128, n. 117, 388, 418).
139
Padoux 1990, 427–8; cf. 78–9, 375.
140
See also Hallamish 1981.
powers of language in kabbalah 259
V. Concluding Remarks
141
See, however, the recent discussion in White 2000. White emphasizes the role of
ritual and even royal specialists in Tantric practice. See also above, n. 127.
142
This question is touched upon in the discussion by White 2000.
260 jonathan garb
143
For a more extensive elaboration on these arguments, see Garb 2004, 270–2.
144
Cf. Foucault’s concept of “discursive practices” (see Dreyfus and Rabinow 1982,
63, 77–8, 82). Cf. also Padoux 1990, 106–9, 269 on the “power of activity”. For a general
statement on the role of ritual in Tantric systems relating to language, see ibid., p. 47.
145
Idel 1995, 166–7.
146
In this sense it is interesting that less communally oriented writers, such as the
anonymous author of Hemdat Yamim (who was probably a secetarian Sabbatean), com-
bined statements such as “the beginning and foundation of all tikkun [repair] is solitude
[. . .] for the company of people is the cause of all iniquity and sin” (Hemdat Yamim 2003,
268) with opposition to loud prayer, as discussed above (n. 59).
powers of language in kabbalah 261
and sound are regarded as two paths for the extension of divine power
and presence into the human world.147 The co-habitation of breath and
sound as two modes of immanence is especially evidenced in much of
Hassidic discourse, as in the text cited above. The possession-like expe-
riences contained within the “passive model” discussed above can be
seen as an extreme case of the descent of the divine through language. In
this context, it is worth noting a text by the founder of the Habad school,
Shneur Zalman of Liady (18th c.):148
The word of God animates and gives being to the great souls [. . .] like the
soul of Adam, about whom it is written: “and God breathed into him a
living soul” [Gen. 2.7] and like the souls of the forefathers and prophets
and so on that were literally chariots for God and literally nullified in their
being in relation to God, as the Sages said: “The Shekhinah spoke from the
throat of Moses”, and likewise for all the prophets and possessors of the
holy spirit, that the supernal voice and speech was literally enclothed in
their voice and speech as the Ari wrote.
Shneur Zalman utilizes the texts belonging to the passive model (dis-
cussed in the first section of the article), such as the description of the
Shekhinah speaking from the throat of Moses, and the Lurianic idea of
the divine voice as ‘enclothed’ in human voice in an interesting manner.
Shneur Zalman’s acosmic mystical theology, which stresses the need for
self-nullification vis-à-vis the immanence of the divine is here framed
within a ‘personal model’, which foregrounds selected individuals and
their souls.149 The select individual here is marked by his passive stance
towards the presence of the divine voice.
However, at this point one must introduce several constraints on the
explanatory move suggested here: Firstly, one should not regard the idea
of divine immanence through sound and breath as necessarily implying
a sense of the full presence of the divine through language. For all of
their belief in the potency and plentitude of language, many Kabbal-
ists were aware that language also limits and restricts. There are several
statements which re-frame actual human language as a limited and
condensed mode of pure sound. Already the twelfth-century Proven-
cal Kabbalist, Isaac the Blind, described the letters as being ‘carved
out’ (hakukot), which denotes limitation, and as an extension of the
147
Cf. Padoux 1990, 131.
148
Shneur Zalman of Liady 1985, Part 4, Chapter 25.
149
The close link between breath and soul surfaced in several of the texts we exam-
ined, and will also appear in some sources cited below.
262 jonathan garb
150
Commentary on Sefer Yezˢira, printed as the appendix to Scholem 1986, 6.
151
Isaac of Berdichev 1958, 2 [Genesis]. Cf. Yishayahu Jacob Halevi 2002, 22–3, who
writes that letters are in fact just breath, and that the differentiation between letters is
the result of the restrictions imposed by the structure of the mouth during the process
of voice production.
152
Tzaddok Hacohen 1973, 29 [Section 7]. Cf. Padoux 1990, 99, 142–3.
153
Cf. the Midrashic statement in Mechilta DeRabbi Yishmael, 92 [Besalach 2].
154
Tzaddok Hacohen 1967, 62 [Section 36].
155
Borenstein 1987, 304 [Toldot].
156
See also Wolfson 2000.
157
For now see the remarks on voice, gender and power in Idel 2005, 26–30, 205–12.
158
In light of this it is somewhat anomalous that in the revelation experienced by
R. Joseph Karo, the speaker (Karo) was male, and the voice revealed to him—the Shekh-
inah or mishnah—was female. At the same time, the Shekhinah used the verse ‘the voice
of my beloved presses”, which refers to the male lover in the Song of Songs. On the gen-
der relations and reversals in Karo’s experience, see Werblowsky 1977, 267–8, 280–1.
159
See, e.g., Ibn Gabbai 1954, part 4, chapter 24.
powers of language in kabbalah 263
found in the Zohar,160 which explains the sin of Eve, who separated the
fruit from the tree of knowledge, as separating sound from speech.161
The Zohar goes on to say that the exilic state is that of silence, which
disconnects speech and voice.162 The Zohar then ascribes the verse, “To
you silence is praise,”163 to this exilic state.164 This appears to be a polemic
against Maimonidies, who used this verse as a proof of the virtue of
silent contemplation.165 To return to the gender issue, it is striking that
the Zohar describes the rite of circumcision as re-connecting speech
and voice and amending the primal sin.166 From a comparative point of
view, it is worth recalling mythic Indian descriptions of the word as a
feminine divine figure—Vac—as well as the descriptions of this figure as
expressing the potency of male deities.167 (On a more sociological level,
one can compare these views of sound and gender to the silencing role
played by the Halakhic prohibition on hearing a woman’s voice, which
has been extensively discussed in contemporary literature on women in
Jewish life).168
A final reservation is that here we have focused on the oral aspect
of non-semanticized language but there are of course non-seman-
tic dimensions of written language which are visual in nature.169 One
example is that of the graphic shape of the letters (mentioned in one
text by Cordovero discussed above). Here, too, the operating principle
is isomorphism: the shape of the letters is seen as isomorphic to the
divine form.170 The possibility of human influence on the divine, which
160
Zohar 1, 36A. On this text, see the important study of the late Charles Mopsik
(1996, 409–410). For the dependence of female speech on male voice, see Zohar 1, 145
A–B.
161
See the graphic description of the snake’s voice conjoining with the female voice
“like a dog mating with a bitch” in Zohar 2, 111A.
162
Cf. Zohar 2, 25B.
163
Ps. 65.2.
164
On exile and language, see the text by Bachrach 1648, discussed above in
Section III.
165
See above, n. 22. Cf. Maimonidies 2002, Part 3, Chapter 32.
166
Zohar 1, 98A. On this text, see Mopsik 1996, 405–6. On circumcision and lan-
guage, see Wolfson 1987.
167
See Padoux 1990, 9–11; cf. 106, 151–2.
168
See BT Berakhot 24A, as well as Hauptman 1998, 24.
169
Cf. Padoux 1990, xiv; see also 86, 110, 113.
170
See Idel 2002, 51–2, 54, 70–4. The most sustained discussion of the power of the
form of the letters is found in the fourteenth-century Byzantine text, Sefer Hatemu-
nah, as well as associated works composed in the circle of the anonymous author. The
texts composed in this circle often refer to the power of the graphic form (tziur) of the
264 jonathan garb
letters (See, e.g., the texts found in manuscript and adduced by Garb 2004, 154). Sefer
Hatemunah itself (1998, 16) clearly states that the tziur or graphic form of the letters is
isomorphic to the tziur adam or the human form. This structure in turn draws on earlier
Kabbalistic traditions—see e.g. the claim of Rabbi Isaac the Blind that man is “built in
the letters”, Commentary on Sefer Yezˢira adduced by Pedaya 2001, 105. See also through-
out the Badei Haaron by R. Shem Tov ibn Gaon (14th c.).
171
BT Shabbat 89A.
172
This is also the opinion of Joseph Dan, Dan 1998, 113–4.
173
See, e.g., the often quoted passage found in the introduction to Ibn Gabbai 1954,
which describes the crowns as the theurgical power of language. Note also the interest-
ing commentary of R. Tzaddok Hacohen of Lublin (1999, 144 [Selach 13]) who writes
that the crowns designate the Oral Torah. This creative misreading leads away from
a text dealing with the power of written language to the theme of the power of voice
discussed above.
174
Haver 1995, 142–3. This understanding of voice as presence and writing as
absence is similar to a central tendency in Western culture, as critiqued by Jacques Der-
rida (1978). See especially his discussion of Judaism—in dialogue with E. Jabes—ibid.,
68–70). However see Pedaya 2003, 130, who claims that the opposite tendency prevails
in the Kabbalah of Nahmanidies. See also Handelman 1982, 175–6, and Idel 2002, 123–
8, 200.
powers of language in kabbalah 265
of the vowels rests on the classical idea that the vowels are the animating
spirit of the letters,175 sometimes compared to breath.176
The possibility of comparison between Kabbalistic views of linguis-
tic power and similar ideas found in other mystical traditions was sug-
gested in the previous section. However, as suggested there, this option is
significantly constrained by several of the cultural tendencies discussed
here—the national character of numerous Kabbalistic statements, the
focus on ritual practice, the emphasis on textual hermeneutics related
to a given literary heritage, as well as a certain construction of gender
relations. Nonetheless, this does not in any way detract from the import
and significance of the findings presented above. Rather these reflec-
tions should be taken as cautions against sweeping universalizing moves
à la Eliade or Jung.
I would like to conclude our discussion with a Midrash on the Tab-
lets of the Law, according to which one third of the tablets were held by
Moses, and one third were held by God.177 The “two hands’ breadth” in
between, also one third of the span of the tablets, remained in the mid-
dle between God and Moses. One can see this image as a representation
of the nature of language as conceived of in Kabbalah. It does not belong
completely to the realm of divine presence, nor to that of human prac-
tice, but rather to the ‘liminal’178 or ‘transitional’179 space in between.
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See Shem Tov Ibn Gaon 2001, 75: “one cannot apprehend the power of the letters
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176
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177
Exodus Rabbah 28, 1.
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THE POETICS OF GRAMMAR IN THE
JAVANOBALINESE TRADITION
Thomas M. Hunter
I. Introduction
1
Anthropologist Hildred Geertz (1994, 1995, 2004) has opened up a new under-
standing of the particular meanings that the term sakti takes in the Balinese socio-
cultural context in a series of insightful and carefully detailed works.
2
This matter is highly contested in contemporary Bali, with some factions claiming
that the entire magical lore of Bali should be opened up for examination and publication,
while others claim that this would violate the very essence of Balinese religious identity.
3
The phrase “the sonic energy active in the syllable” is cited from the call for papers
of the conference leading to this volume.
272 thomas m. hunter
4
The term “alphabet mysticism” has been previously introduced by Rubenstein 2000,
29–65, to describe the types of phenomena for which I use the term “orthographic mys-
ticism”. Rubenstein’s work represents an important contribution to the study of Balinese
literary praxis in general, and to the development of a detailed understanding of the
deeply significant role played by orthography and related disciplines in Balinese theo-
logical and literary traditions. With the work of Zurbuchen 1987, Rubenstein’s work also
sets a high standard in what might be termed a field of “comparative noetics”.
5
The rĕrajahan illustrated in Figure 1 was originally collected in the first quarter
of the twentieth century by the Dutch bureaucrat and researcher, V.E. Korn, it became
part of the Korn Collection of the Library of Leiden University. C. Hooykaas 1980, fig.
40 later published both the Korn collection and the Quindort collection of rĕrajahan in
the collections of the University of Leiden Libraries.
6
After Hooykaas 1980, fig. 40.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 273
7
As we shall see all but one of the elements of the collocation of graphemes in the
rĕrajahan represents a dependent grapheme. This suggests comparison with the “reas-
semblages” of human body parts that in many cases are central to the pictorial aspect of
rĕrajahan. To pictorially reassemble parts of the human anatomy in a rĕrajahan may
parallel the redeployment of the constituent elements of writing in the production of
“sacred characters” (sastra, swalita), especially modre, whose special form makes them
essentially unpronounceable, and open to analysis only to those who have been properly
prepared and initiated The converse of this positive form of “reassembly” is illustrated
in the use of disembodied body-parts, often equipped with wings or eyes, as prominent
among the demons who attack heroes who are described in various Balinese works of art
as meditating in graveyards or cremation grounds in order to acquire the power that will
ensure their ability to master their destiny. For one illustration of this kind of attack by
disembodied body-parts see the “wayang-style” paintings of the “Tale of Father Brayut”
(Gĕguritan Pan Brayut) in the “Floating Pavillion” (Bale Kambang) in Klungkung, Bali.
8
For purposes of this article I have chosen not to retain South Asian spelling for
words like śakti and nisˢkala. In Balinese phonology there is no distinction between sets
like ś-sˢ-s or ñ-nˢ-n, but these distinctions are preserved in Balinese orthography, for
274 thomas m. hunter
The fact that the four heads of the rĕrajahan are at the compass points,
and connected by a series of legs suggests circumambulation, and thus
comparison with Balinese beliefs around the idea of a circuit of spiritual
power. This circuit of power has macrocosmic coordinates in the idea
of pilgrimage to a series of major temples (sad kahyangan) stretched
across the physical landscape of Bali, while its microcosmic coordinates
take the form of a nyāsa-like assignment of a series of “sacred syllables”
(sastra, aksara) to the major organs of the human body.9 The consequent
‘strengthening’ of the body enables the practitioner to absorb the powers
of a series of deities and other elements of Balinese cosmogony and
become the locus of an inner “circulation of the world” (pangidĕr-idĕr
ing jagat), isomorphic with the act of pilgrimage in the exoteric world,
but presumed to be still more powerful in its effects upon the practi-
tioner. Our diagram might thus be said at this point to present a series of
potent signifiers that have to do with a “rotational” gathering of esoteric
power and its confinement within a magically charged space bound on
all sides and impenetrable except by the initiated.
When we turn to the set of written signs framed by this “circuit of
power,” we encounter a series of written characters, something not
uncommon within the practice of rĕrajahan. However, contrary to com-
mon practice, these characters represent neither pronounceable “sacred
syllables” (swalita) that are closely related to the mantra systems of India,
nor the uniquely Balinese “reassemblages” of orthographic elements to
produce unpronounceable “sacred letter combinations” (modre) that are
believed to have special powers “beyond the realm of the senses”. Instead
we find a series of written signs that in large part represent dependent
graphemes, orthographic formants that alter a ‘consonantal’ base to
reasons reviewed in this study. For words like śakti and nisˢkala retention of the Indic
spelling would not present a problem (although the understanding of śakti is certainly
quite different for India and Bali), but for words like sastra, used as a word for “sacred
syllable” the Indian spelling would (falsely) suggest another concept altogether (norma-
tive technical text pertaining to a sacred or mundane science). I have chosen, there-
fore, to use commonly found Balinese words with an Indian origin with a spelling that
reflects their contemporary pronunciation, and is also found commonly in Balinese or
Indonesian works written in romanized form.
9
There are clear resonances here with the technique of nyāsa known from Indian
sources, and indeed the history of these techniques suggests a grounding in nyāsa as
conceived in the traditions of Yoga and early Tantrism. See Goudriaan & Hooykaas
1971, 59–70, for a Balinese example of the placement of a series of deities in the body
facilitated by the use of specific mantra. See Gosh 1989, 238–9, for an explanation of
the “universal tantric rite of nyāsa” in the context of the Pañcaratra school of Vaisˢnˢava
Tantrism.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 275
)
= pĕpĕt, written above a consonantal character to indicate the cen-
tral vowel /ǘ/
= ulu candra, written above any character forming a syllable (either
º vowel or consonant plus vowel) to add the nasal feature (Skt
anusvāra) that defines the production of mantra in Indian and
Balinese convention11
Ù
the Kawi (Old Javanese) language12
= suku kembung, written below a consonantal character to repre-
sent the vowel /u/ when it follows a consonant and precedes a
vowel (u/C_V). Balinese convention, based ultimately on Sanskrit
practices, prohibits hiatus except in a few highly constrained pho-
nological environments; this has led to unique developments in
Balinese orthography 13
10
It is to some degree a misnomer to refer to any Balinese character as ‘consonantal’
as the inherent vowel -a- is assumed unless the character is altered by the addition of
one of the characters indicating another vowel. This means that in their unaltered form
all Balinese written characters represent syllables. A system of altered, or partial, graph-
emes is then used to allow the representation of consonant clusters or combinations of
vowel and semi-vowel. Technically speaking, the Balinese system of writing is thus a
semi-syllabary, in common with other descendants of the Brahmi script of the Ashokan
period.
11
In Balinese texts like the Tutur Aji Saraswati the ulu candra is understood as com-
posed of three smaller formants (arddha-candra, windu and nāda) which respond to
familiar elements of South Asian attribution of the work of creation to the role of pri-
mordial sound (nāda) in the expansion of the cosmos from an origin-point (bindu) of
pure potentiality. In Bali the arddha-candra (“half-moon”) element is identified with
consciousness, thus corresponding closely to South Asian associations of the moon with
soma, the essence of consciousness and the psycho-physical “fluid” that results from the
practice of yoga, especially in Tantric contexts.
12
Since the velar affricate [h] is not found in word-initial position in Balinese pho-
nology, while the character for h is presumed to ‘contain’ the inherent vowel /a/, the
grapheme for ha- is commonly used in Balinese to represent an initial a-.
13
Many Balinese words do have medial vowel clusters, based on the historical reduc-
tion of intervocalic [r] and [h], and this can lead to sequences like -aa-, -uu, -ui- or
-ii-. In order to avoid the appearance of hiatus these sequences may be written with an
epenthetic -h-, -w- or -y-.
276 thomas m. hunter
Î
the vowel /u/
= guwung-r (or r-repha), written below a consonantal character to
indicate the semi-vowel /r/ when it directly follows another con-
î
sonant and precedes a vowel (r/C_V)14
= na-niya + suku ilut, a combination of two characters; the first
(na-niya) is used to write the semi-vowel /y/ when it follows a
consonant and precedes a vowel; the adjoining sign (suku ilut) is
used for the vowel /u/ when it follows an occurrence of the semi-
;
vowel /y/ in na-niya form.
= wisah, written after an “open syllable” (CV) to indicate the con-
sonant /h/ in word-final position; closely related to the grapheme
called wignyan in the Javanese tradition, this character ultimately
originates from visargahˢ of the South Asian tradition.15
o = tĕdong, used singularly to form “long” or “heavy” (guru) syllables
in copying metrical works of the Kawi/Old Javanese tradition, or
in combination with taleng (see above) to form the vowel /o/
= surang, used to form the semi-vowel /r/ when it occurs after a
( vowel and before a following consonant, or a sentence boundary
(r/V_C or r/V_ # #)
There are several remarkable points that come out when we look closely
at this set of characters. The first is that 11 of the characters constitute
the full set of pĕngaŋge sastra, or pĕsandaŋan sastra. Both terms refer
to the “clothing” of written characters, the orthographic formants that
combine with consonantal characters to represent the vowels and semi-
vowels. This suggests that a particular importance is attached to the
dependent vowel and semi-vowel signs in the Balinese system of ortho-
graphic mysticism. We will return to this point.
The second is that we find a special prominence given to the mantra-
forming character ulu candra. Considering the origins of Balinese mys-
tical practices in South Asia, and the close resemblance of the Balinese
ulu candra with the Indian cakra-bindu (which has the identical function
of converting ordinary syllables to their sacred, sonorous counterparts)
this is the least surprising element in the configuration of the rĕrajahan.
The prominence of the ulu candra attests to the remarkable degree to
14
The term guwung refers to the conical shape of baskets (guwung) used as cages for
fighting cocks, while r-repha preservers the terminology of Sanskrit texts on phonetics.
15
Many of the pre-modern writing systems of the Malay-Indonesian archipelago can
be traced back to the Pallava script of South India. De Casparis (1975) used the term
“Kawi” to refer to these scripts, while Kozok (2004) has more recently suggested the
more accurate term “Pallavo-Nusantaric”.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 277
which the Balinese have maintained Indian beliefs around the creative
role of sound in the genesis and regeneration of the cosmos.
Perhaps most remarkable is the occurrence of only one character rep-
resenting a non-dependent phoneme, that is the character used to write
initial a-. We will return shortly to a closer consideration of the charac-
ter for initial a-. First, in order to better elucidate a number of elements
of the graphemes central to the rĕrajahan, I would like to take a moment
to briefly review the more general context of Balinese orthography and
its relation to mysticism as these subjects have been outlined in recent
work by Rubenstein on what she has termed “the magic of letters and
rituals of literacy” (2000:39–65).
It is to Rubenstein’s credit that she has shifted the ground of the phil-
ological project from an earlier preoccupation with minor details of
analysis—and an often condescending attitude towards local knowl-
edge—to the study of the important role played by orthographic rules
in the practice of the poets of the Javano-Balinese tradition of writing
kakawin, roughly comparable to the kāvya, or “court epics” of South
Asia. In part she has based her elucidation of what she terms “alphabet
mysticism” as exemplified in works like the Tutur Aji Saraswati (TAS)
and Swarawyañjana Tutur (ST). However, she has also enriched her
exposition of these texts by incorporating the comments of her teacher
and informant, the late Ida Pĕdanda Made Sideman of Sanur, who was
without a doubt among the foremost masters of Balinese literature in
the twentieth century. In a telling description of Ida Pĕdanda Made
Sidĕmen’s reverence for proper diction and spelling, she notes the imag-
ery of battle he often invoked in describing the fate of misused charac-
ters, and the links this has with Balinese beliefs around the supernatural
qualities of written characters:
His most common declaration . . . is: “many [of the letters] are dead, in great
numbers they have been defeated” . . . The association of spelling with life
and death through the use of metaphors is more than mere convention.
It signifies a belief . . . that letters have a divine origin, are invested with
supernatural life force, and are a powerful weapon that can be employed
to influence the course of events. (Rubinstein 2000, 194)
Beyond a few short comments I will not attempt to rehearse Ruben-
stein’s informative discussion of the prominent role played by adherence
to orthographic, euphonic and metrical conventions among the Bali-
nese literati—not coincidentally a world dominated by “high priests”
(pĕdanda) who hold the highest ritual rank in the Balinese system of
278 thomas m. hunter
16
The yanˢ-sandhi rule is given in Asˢt ˢādhyāyi 6.1.77: iko yanˢ aci, where ikahˢ repre-
sents the set i-u-r-l, yan represents the set y-v-r-l, and ac the set a-i-u-r-l-e-o-ai-au. The
genitival ending -ahˢ of ik tells us that this is the element to be changed, while the locative
ending -i of aci tells us that the process of change of the set ik to the set yan occurs in the
“left context”, that is prior to the set ac.
17
It is unfortunate that Rubenstein (2000) has not provided more information on
the precise ways that Balinese orthographic conventions mirror the conventions of
Sanskrit. The novel ways that rules of Sanskrit origin are used to reanalyze Balinese
words are one example of the many practices that demonstrate the remarkable degree
of Balinese priestly commitment to preserving literary and linguistic practices of the
“Sanskrit ecumene” long after actual contact between the two countries had been cut off
by changes in the politico-economic circumstances of the archipelago.
18
This is slightly incorrect: wyāpaka does not mean “rule over”, but rather “pervade”.
As we shall see this is a more apt description of the role played by a in the many writing
systems of South and Southeast Asian that ultimately trace their ancestry to Brahmi.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 279
19
Generally speaking AN sound systems show no contrast of unaspirated vs. aspi-
rated (or “breathy voice”) consonants, no contrast of retroflex and alveolar-dental stops,
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 281
and only a single sibilant (where Sanskrit has three). Furthermore vowel length is not
marked for quantity as it is in OIA languages, and for that matter the majority of all
South Asian tongues, at least those of the Indo-European and Dravidian families.
20
For a succinct statement of the essentials of the huge field of belief and practice
around mantra in South Asia, see Padoux 1989. His comments on the overwhelmingly
“oral” nature of mantra are particularly revealing in terms of the contrast with Balinese
practice (Padoux 1989, 296–7):
. . . mantras as they exist in actual fact . . . can be properly explained and understood
only within the Indian tradition, with its metaphysical and mythical notions about
speech . . . In this context, it is worth noting that, from the outset, the sort of speech
or word considered all-powerful was not written: All speculations and practices
always concerned, and still concern, the oral field only. Mantra is sound (śabda) or
word (vāc); it is never, at least in its nature, written.
The degree to which this orientation of mantra as speech permeates the Indian tradition
may help to explain why Staal—who has produced articles as perceptive as his (1989)
contribution to the volume from which Padoux’s comments are drawn—is able to ana-
lyze Balinese ritual practice around mantra in terms of speech alone, despite all evidence
to the contrary, in his Rituals on Fire and Water (1987).
282 thomas m. hunter
particular aspects of the physical and human worlds has meant that they
play a special role in mediating energies that can be harnessed for heal-
ing or magical purposes. The roots of this tradition clearly go back as
far as the SHKM and are reflected in contemporary Bali, for example, in
healing rituals concerning the Kanda Mpat, or “four spiritual siblings”.
In fact, a very similar configuration of pĕngaŋge sastra, in this case com-
posed of 14 graphemes, is fairly widely known in Bali under the term
caturdasaksara. This set differs from that of our rĕrajahan only in that
the ulu candra is replaced by the cĕcĕk, a simple slash written above a
character that represents the velar nasal [ŋ], and the addition of the ulu
tĕlinga (or ulu ricĕm) sign used for writing ī. According to a small but
popular booklet published by Nyoka (1994) this set of characters should
be recited on the full moon and dark moon in order to “purify the inner
self ” (bathin, niskala). Furthermore, according to the author, “each of
the letters and its use is given life by a god or goddess, who purifies the
important parts of our body.”21
For the moment let us return to our rĕrajahan. I believe I have shown
that there are special reasons why the character for a- is alone among
the Balinese independent phonemes that have found a place, indeed a
central place at the heart of the rĕrajahan. But what of the dependent
21
The correlations of graphemes, deities and parts of the body purified by the recita-
tion of the graphemes according to Nyota (1994:20–1) is as follows. It is clear that there
is some confusion in the list, possibly reflecting either defects in the written sources used
by Nyota, or an incomplete knowledge of some nyasa-like system that is ordinarily not
shared except with students who have undertaken appropriate study and initiation:
22
For an insightful study of the practice of Balinese traditional architects (undagi),
see Howe 1981.
284 thomas m. hunter
23
A careful reader may note that the word pĕpĕt as a day-name is identical to the
word used to describe a the central, mid-high vowel, which is perhaps perceived as hav-
ing a ‘closed’ sound.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 285
24
The development of OJ as a literary language brought with it an understandable
interest in the tools of the poet’s trade as known from Indian sources. A sizable diction-
ary of Sanskrit and Old Javanese known as the Amarakośa was produced as early as the
eighth century CE, while continuing interest in South Asian handbooks on metrics,
phonetics and poetics is clear from later works like the Wrˢttasañcaya, Chandahˢ-karanˢa,
and Bhāsˢāprānˢa. See Lokesh 1997 for a study of the OJ Chandahˢ-karanˢa and Amarakosa,
Rubenstein 2000 for further studies of the Chandahˢ-karanˢa and related texts, Hunter
2001 for a study of the relationship of the Javano-Balinese and South Asian traditions of
metrical analysis and Radichi 1996 for a study showing that a Javanese treatment of the
Kātantra of Katyāyana that has come down to us in fragmentary form reveals an active
interest in the Sanskrit grammatical tradition.
288 thomas m. hunter
cursory discussion here; for the moment let us say that the typical lin-
guistic form of Western AN languages presents syntactic and semantic
information in a form that lends itself to an intuitive grasp of deriva-
tional and structural principles, and that this may to some extent miti-
gate against the development of grammatical analysis as a formal branch
of scientific analysis. In modern Malay-Indonesian, for example, once
we have internalized the relationship of a number of clearly defined
nominal and verb-forming affixes to various semantically defined
classes of lexemes, we begin to build up a network of meanings that
not only tell us much about the paradigmatic aspects of words, but also
enable us to understand the role words play in the context of structure-
giving syntactic patterns. For example, the (precategorial) word main
(play) gives us words like pemain (player), permainan (plaything) and
memainkan (play something), each of which play predictable roles in
sentence structure: pemain biola itu memainkan biolanya dengan begitu
pandai seakan-akan bagi dia hanya permainan saja, “that violin player
plays his instrument so well it’s almost as if for him it’s just a plaything”.
While it may be that there has been a relative lack of attention to
grammatical analysis in the Javano-Balinese tradition, the same cannot
be said of the development of figural resources, especially those that
depend on a most un-Saussurean insistence on the non-arbitrariness of
the linkages between sonorous and semantic aspects of language. The
roots of this figural tradition lie clearly in the insistence within alamˢ kāra-
śāstra and kāvya on the unity of “sound” (śabda) and “sense” (artha), a
formulation that has informed all the traditions that were influenced by
Sanskrit poetry and poetics, no matter that the exact nature and extent
of the relationship gave rise in South Asia to a lively tradition of discus-
sion and debate.
It is not possible here to attempt even a brief exploration of the figural
resources of OJ that might do justice to its complexities, but it may be
possible to bring out a number of examples that illustrate the general
trajectory of the poetics of OJ. The natural place to begin such a study
is with the “auspicious verses” (maŋgala) that became a requirement of
all well-formed kakawin from the time of composition of the Arjuna
Wiwāha (c. 1036 ce). Zoetmulder (1974) based much of his initial analy-
sis of kakawin poetics on the study of the maŋgala, frequently emphasiz-
ing the relationship of the poet’s attitude to a particular understanding
of the ways that the Absolute manifests itself—always temporarily—in
the everyday world:
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 289
25
See Zoetmulder 1974, 295–98, for a summary of the differences between the SD
and the Kumārasamˢ bhava of Kālidāsa that have led past commentators to assume a
strongly ‘indigenous’ factor in the composition of the SD. This is especially noticeable
in the fact that it is the birth of Ganˢeśa, not Skanda/Kārtikkeya, that is the basis for the
gods’ conspiracy aimed at drawing the ascetic god Śiva out of his eternal meditation and
implicating him in the process of procreation.
290 thomas m. hunter
26
KY37.3a I have based my assumption that the phrase hañja-hañja refers to the idea
of something being “upside-down” on OJED [588] v. (h)añja-(h)añja: “a kind of ghost.
In Bali it is a ghost that walks upside-down . . . KY 37.3.”
KY37.3c The reference to “an ivory-coconut” here may have to do with a custom
still prevalent in Bali in which the remains of the tooth-filing ceremony are buried in a
coconut of the ivory-coconut palm which has been inscribed with a magically-powerful
character (sastra), usually Om. With this understanding I have read maŋ-adĕg as “to
stand up, to reign’. However, there is more than a little chance that the phrase maŋ-adĕg
“stand up, arise, reign” may also be meant to suggest the oŋ-kāra ŋadĕg, the “standing
up” form of the character for Om, that represents the “out-flowing breath”.
292 thomas m. hunter
represent the inflowing breath (am), and is often paired with the oŋ-
kāra ŋadĕg (“standing-up character”) that represents the out-flowing
breath (ah). The unity of the energies represented by these two charac-
ters (especially as attained at the moment of mortal demise) is said to
lead to the state of “spiritual release” (kalĕpasan). The preparatory pro-
cess can be represented graphemically, allowing that kalĕpasan is said to
take place only when the nāda and bindu elements of the two oŋkāra are
fully merged:
Here, in KY 37.1c the incisions made by the writing stylus on the soft
stone surface of the writing board are figured as a pathway in the search
for the absent beloved, for which the writing stylus itself will act as the
guide. Note the prominence of “absence” in this verse, of an unfulfilled
gap between longing and consummation that is strongly reminiscent of
the tradition of South Asian writing around viraha. But in the case of
the kakawin there is an element of transformation into various aspects
of nature—or into the means of writing—that suggests that we may be
looking at a conception of self and other, or self and deity, that is unique
to the ancient Javanese tradition.
V. Traces
a separation of self and other that is played out in the poetics of the
search for beauty.
A similar element of kakawin poetics that is reminiscent of the ter-
minology of deconstruction is the frequent use of the word wĕkas in its
meaning of “traces”, and the derivations of this word that play a promi-
nent role in figures that seem to ascribe an inscriptional role to nature,
or human emotion. Here is an example from the Sumanasāntaka (Sum)
that ascribes the “leaving of traces” to the rain through the use of the
verbal derivative amĕkasakĕn, “to leave as traces”:
Rain-bearing clouds dark as night are enchanting at the beginning of the
fourth month,
The fall of rain leaves as its traces veiling mists in just-blossoming forests,
Kalangkyang hawks have ceased their crying drift lazily in the sky,
Happily expectant, they are forsaken lovers now at the point of a joyful
reunion. (Sum 28.18)
These descriptions of transformations in nature in terms suggestive of
inscription in written or pictorial modes are closely paralleled by figures
that describe emotional modifications in terms of emergence, transfor-
mation and the development of “emotional traces”. A good example can
be found in one of the verses composed by Prince Aja at the “bride’s
choice contest” (swayambara) of Indumatī:
Here, good lady, be seated on my lap,
I have been pining so long for you,
who come to me like a rain cloud,
You are cool mists to my burning longing,
rumbling thunder to my desire,
lightning that illuminates the darkness of my heart,
A veiling cloud of love-sickness that concedes defeat
before the power of love,
and ends in restless heat
that leaves as its traces my heart’s dejection,
You are the fine showers of my poetic rapture,
that disappear when regarded too closely,
but turn into gentle rainfall
when you allow me to take you on my lap. (Sum 103.2)
For our purposes verses like Pārthayajña (Pyn) 11.7 provide especially
telling examples. In this case the “traces” left in the form of writing on
a writing-slate are figured as evoking the play of presence and absence
so potently that they conjure up the specter of death. In this scene the
women of the court are pining for Prince Arjuna, who has left for the
mountains to seek the power of victory over his enemies:
296 thomas m. hunter
More and more they imagined that the one who had caused their pain
might never return,
Some resigned themselves to die on the sleeping mat, taking his every
trace on the writing board as their winding sheet,
Others kept their silence, to await word of the return of the one who had
departed for the mountains,
That was why they collected flower-blossoms, to be a source of comfort in
their sleeping quarters. (Pyn 11.7)
The poignancy of the (b) line is perhaps intentionally overstated, meant
to act as a partial foil to the more subdued reactions of the other women
of the court. At the same time it represents a fine illustration of the
sensitivity of poets of the kakawin to the enigmatic effect of writing,
simultaneously representing the presence of an idealized object, and the
immediate erasure of the signified object in terms of its ‘real’ presence.
lament (lines a–b, the flooding of the princess’ heart with emotion), with the negative
result (line d, mockery) that might occur had the phrasing of Krishna’s words—or the
response of the princess—failed to conform to expected standards. In the case of Krish-
na’s lament a “horizon of expectation” is formed around the question of aesthetic judg-
ment, whether his lament meets courtly standards of poetic achievement; in the case
of the princess’ response, the question turns around the more complex issue of a state
of inner receptivity presupposed of lovers who should “recall” having been lovers in a
series of past lives through the process of jātismāra, “true recollection”.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 299
28
KY 1.2b The gadˢung lily, a creeper noted for its fragrant ivory-colored blossoms,
its large, attractively shaped leaves and its habit of twining around trees and shrubs, is
among the most favored subjects for comparison in the kakawin, second only to asana
in frequency of appearance.
KY 1.2c Vegetative growth is said in the kakawin tradition to be stimulated by the
rumble of thunder, a sound that is also closely linked to the arousal of erotic feelings,
or—in cases of love-in-separation—intense longing.
29
I am endebted to David Shulman and H.V. Nagaraja Rao for identifying the fig-
ure in KY 1.2 as a case of aprastuta-praśamˢ sā, and for their enlightening discussions of
this term.
300 thomas m. hunter
Were it not for the presence of an overt reference to the object of com-
parison in the (a) line of KY 1.3 we might think of this verse too as rep-
resenting a case of aprastutapraśamˢ sā. In this case we would think of the
bees circling restlessly among blossoms of the asana seeking “a single
drop of nectar” as “presented”, while the “unpresented” (but intended)
referent is the poetic enterprise itself, seen from the point of view of the
poets and connoisseurs who most fervently seek the innermost essence
of the aesthetic experience. That those who seek aesthetic rapture are
overtly mentioned in (a), however, suggests that this verse might bet-
ter be classed under the more general form of superimposition that is
described in Sanskrit poetics as rūpaka, a figure with some similarity to
metaphor.
KY1.2–3 provide us with a fine illustration of the synesthetic effects
summed up in the OJ term langö: a temporary erasure of the boundaries
between natural, human and poetic beauty that can be accomplished in
the poetic arts through figuration, control of the sonorous resources of
the language, and the creative use of polyvalent terms like langö, that
stands both for beauty as an object of perception, and as the internal
state of rapture that is called forth by an experience of the beautiful.
VII. Recapitulation
At first glance it may seem that the rĕrajahan we took as the starting
point of this discussion and the poetics of the kakawin are worlds apart.
In the first case we found that a general South-Southeast Asian orienta-
tion towards the “sonic energy active in the syllable” has been realized
orthographically, and in instrumental form. Here the emphasis is clearly
on the control of supra-mundane forces in the quest for a particular
form of spiritual power, called sakti in the Balinese tradition (but clearly
differing markedly with the tradition of śakti in the Indian tradition).
Put somewhat differently, orthographic mysticism is about gaining the
ability to gain control of “metaphysical” (niskala) forces, most often with
specific, instrumental purposes in mind.
In the case of the poetics of the kakawin we began with an example
that illustrates the early emergence of beliefs around orthographic mys-
ticism. However, to a much greater extent, the elaboration of figures in
the kakawin exemplifies continuing efforts to momentarily capture the
traces of an immanent, but elusive, deity in poetic form. I have suggested
a number of formulations for elucidating the particular form taken by
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 301
the kakawin poetics. It may be, for example, that an acute sensitivity to
the play of presence and absence implicit in the act of inscription has
led to a poetics that is naturally inclined towards the elaboration of ele-
ments of play and transformation. The frequent occurrence of figures
based on the elusive presence of objects figured in writing, and on the
elements of “traces” (wĕkas) and “transformations” (tĕmahan) seems to
support this view. Turning to models developed in the alamˢ kāra tradi-
tion of South Asia, I have suggested that an understanding of the the-
matics that merged nature, the human emotions, and the experience of
beauty, or of techniques of superimposition may be appropriate tools for
arriving at a more complete assessment of the poetics of the kakawin.
Whatever else it may have been, the kakawin aesthetic was a locus
for transformative praxis, a medium for poetic endeavor that was self-
consciously formulated in terms of the “translation of metaphysical per-
ceptions into the accessible realm of human reference”.30 At times this
translation of metaphysical energies was figured in terms of the search
for an ineffable natural beauty certain to induce a state of aesthetic rap-
ture in the sensitive observer, at times through the subtle development
of character made visible through the exchange of lyrics saturated with
romantic and erotic longing, at times through the pathos of the play of
presence and absence signed in the act of writing itself. What each of
these cases had in common was the presupposition that aesthetic expe-
rience, either in itself, or as transmuted into poetic language, is charged
with transformative power. In this sense the poet—Sang Kawi—was
simply the Creator—Sang Parama-Kawi—writ small, performing a
function within the courtly and priestly orders that mirrored a higher
order mastery of the “power of sound and sign at the heart of the meta-
physical world”. In the world that produced the kakawin, metaphysical
energies are thus not constituted in terms of a grammatical matrix, but
of a figural matrix.
As history has shown, the socio-cultural formula that produced the
unique aesthetic of the East Javanese kakawin was never fully recover-
able after the decline of imperial Javanese power in the early sixteenth
century ce, though to be sure the Balinese tradition of kakawin compo-
sition remained productive well into the nineteenth century. Nor did the
fall of the Majapahit dynasty (c. 1516 ce) spell the end of a certain view
30
The phrase is cited from the call for papers of the conference leading to this
volume.
302 thomas m. hunter
of the latent energy of the syllable that has lived on in diverse manifesta-
tions among the “contact cultures” of the archipelago, those that were
most profoundly affected by South Asian models of the metaphysical
dimensions of sound, symbol and letter. While the kakawin aesthetic
developed this orientation in terms of a rich field of figuration, Bali-
nese orthographic mysticism has been inclined towards the instrumen-
tal efficacy of written and sonorous symbols of metaphysical energies.
From both these perspectives creation does not proceed from an act of
naming, but is continuous with sonic energies that do not cease playing
a role in cosmogenesis once the original impulse of creation has been
played out. It is for this reason that in the Javano-Balinese tradition the
composer of a kakawin, or designer of rĕrajahan, can hope to gain access
to the realm of metaphysical energies—and thereby to gain the power to
heal, to hurt, or simply to enchant.
References
Braginsky, V.I. 1993. The System of Classical Malay Literature. [KITLV Working Papers,
No. 11], Leiden: KITLV.
de Casparis, J.G. 1975. Indonesian Palaeography, a History of Writing in Indonesia from
the Beginnings to c. ad 1500. [Handbuch der Orientalistik, Vol. II.5.1], Leiden.
Creese, Helen 1996. “Pieces in the Puzzle: The Dating of Several Kakawin from Bali and
Lombok.” Archipel 52, Paris, pp. 143–171.
———— 1998. The Journeying of Partha: an eighteenth-century Balinese kakawin. [Bib-
liotheca Indonesica 27.] Leiden: Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volken-
kunde Press.
———— 2004. Women of the Kakawin World: Marriage and Sexuality in the Indic Courts
of Java and Bali. New York and London: ME Sharpe.
Geertz, Hildred 1994. Images of Power: Balinese Paintings Made for Margaret Mead and
Gregory Bateson. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.
———— 1995. “Sorcery and Social Change in Bali: The Sakti Conjecture.” Paper pre-
sented at the Conference “Bali in the Late Twentieth Century.” Sydney, July.
———— 2004. The Life of a Balinese Temple, Artistry, Imagination, and History in a Pea-
sant Village. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.
Gerow, Edwin 1971. A Glossary of Indian Figures of Speech. The Hague, Paris: Mouton.
Goody, Jack (ed.) 1968. Literacy in Traditional Societies. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press.
Gosh, Sanjukta 1989. “The Pañcaratra Attitude to Mantra.” In Mantra, ed. Harvey P.
Alper. 224–248. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
Goudriaan, Teun and Hooykaas, C. 1971. Stuti and Stava (Bauddha, Śaiva and Vaisˢnˢava)
of Balinese Brahman Priests. Amsterdam, London: North-Holland Publishing
Company.
Hooykaas, C. 1980. Tovenarij op Bali. Magische tekeningen uit twee Leidse collecties.
Amsterdam: Meulenhoff.
Howe, L.E.A. 1981. “An Introduction to the Study of Traditional Balinese Architecture.”
Archipel 24: 137–158.
poetics of grammar in the javano-balinese tradition 303
David Shulman
That language may have more important tasks than “meaning” was axi-
omatic for Sanskrit grammarians and poeticians. A simple, widely cited
tripartite typology of texts corresponds to three distinct formalizations
of linguistic potential. First, there are texts, like the Veda, that are śabda-
pradhāna, that is, their sonar and acoustic properties are primary; such
texts, properly pronounced or performed, work change on the world.
Enormous care must be taken in articulating and preserving śabda-
pradhāna texts; to mispronounce a single syllable, even to make a mis-
take in accentuation, can have fatal consequences, as the tragic example
of the demon Triśiras makes clear.1 Śabda-pradhāna texts may also have
“meaning” of one kind or another—a classic discussion in the Mīmāmˢ sā
decides in favor of the meaningfulness of the Vedic mantras2—but
semantics matters much less, in this category, than the automatic effec-
tual and creative powers inherent in pure sound. Mammatˢa, the twelth-
century Kashmiri poetician who offers one version of this typology in
the introduction to his Kāvya-prakāśa, says that texts in this category
simply command, speaking as a master would to his servants.3 What,
however, is the content of such commands?
Then there are texts that are artha-pradhāna, where meaning (artha)
predominates. Erudite śāstras may exemplify this type; or, for Mammatˢa,
this is the domain of history and ancient lore (purānˢâdîtihāsa). Informa-
tion matters, form much less so, if at all. There are many ways to state
facts or tell a traditional story. Such texts, says Mammataˢ , are like friends
who persuade, argue, explain.
Finally we have poetry, kāvya, in which sound and meaning are equally
dominant (śabdârtha-pradhāna). In poetry you cannot separate mean-
ing from its uniquely suited forms of expression. This Sassurean percep-
tion may, however, give way to another, somewhat surprising one: both
1
Thus Patañjali, Paśpasâhnika.
2
See Śabara on MīmāΥsā-sūtra 1.2.4.31–58.
3
MammaϏa, Kåvya-prakāśa 1.1.
306 david shulman
Consider the following short text, which concludes the famous udgītha
section of the Chāndogya Upanisˢad:
1. ayamˢ vāva loka hau-karahˢ. vāyur hai-kāraś. candramā atha-kārahˢ.
ātmeha-kāro. ‘gnir ī-kārahˢ. 2. āditya ū-kāro. nihava e-kāro. viśvedevā au-ho-
yi-kārahˢ. prajāpatir himˢ -kārahˢ. prānˢahˢ svaro ‘nnam yā vāg virāt ˢ. 3. aniruk-
tas trayodaśahˢ stobhahˢ samˢ cāro humˢ -kārahˢ. 4. dugdhe ‘smai vāg doham.
yo vāco doho ‘nnavān annâdo bhavati ya etām evamˢ sāmnām upanisadamˢ
vedopanisˢadamˢ veda.
4
Ibid.
5
Conversely, Bhartνhari devotes much attention to the question of how “language”—
the primordial, divine hum or buzz of creation—evolves into a semanticized force. See
Vākya-padīya 1.44–58, with vrˢtti. For a grammar of mantra, see Patton 1996.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 307
1. The sound hau is this world. The sound hai is the wind. The word atha
is the moon. The word iha [“here”] is the self. The sound ī is fire. 2. The
sound ū is the sun. The sound e is the invocation. Au-ho-i is the All-Gods.
The sound him is Prajāpati. Sound itself is breath. Ya is food. Language is
Virāj. 3. Then there is the thirteenth sound hum, an interjection that var-
ies, that is what cannot be said. 4. Language milks itself of milk, the milk of
language, for him who has food, who eats food, for him who knows in this
way the Upanisˢad of the Sāman chants, who knows the connection.
Vedic ritual, as is well known, loves mysterious connections (bandhu;
also upanisˢad, brahman).6 The Vedic cosmos is woven together by relat-
ing elements from seemingly distinct levels or domains, and this strong
interweaving—the perception of one thing as another 7—allows the ritu-
alist to generate actual existential transitions and transformations. He
can, for instance, go to heaven, achieve a divine body, and also return
home for a safe landing. Much depends on how much he knows, just
as in the text cited above it is the one who knows—in a certain way,
evam—who has food. And not just any food: language milks itself (actu-
ally herself, since vāc is feminine) as a direct, perhaps automatic result
of the ritualist’s esoteric knowledge. It is as if what he knows is the inner
mechanism of language, or the true, delicious meaning of sounds and
words.
For such a person, language operates in a manner utterly remote from
ordinary reference and denotation. What we hear as phonic matter—
syllables like hau, hai, him, or the string au-ho-yi—has distinct, and
secret, meaning. A whole cosmos is reassembled through these sounds,
whose context is ritual performance with the udgītha recitation at its
center. We can assume that udgītha language is heightened, intensi-
fied, denaturalized, and effectual. It has properties that operate upon
the cosmos through the play of subtle phonic patterns, unintelligible
to our ears but perhaps all the more effective because of this. They do
not, however, appear to work wholly automatically; the epistemic inten-
tion of the singer or speaker makes all the difference between his eating
or going hungry. Language has a hidden core or essence—glossed as
milk—which can be produced by ritual knowledge and its associated
praxis. It also has an internal hierarchy. Some sounds are more useful
6
See Renou 1978.
7
E.g. dawn is the head of the sacrificial horse, the sun its eye, the year its body, and
so on: Bνhad-āraΩyaka Upaniυad 1.1.1. “Seeing (X) as (Y)” is, Yigal Bronner suggests, a
possible translation for the classical trope of utprekυå.
308 david shulman
8
μgVeda 1.164.45.
9
aniruktyād dhiרkārasya câvyaktatvåt: Śaרkara on Chāndogya Upaniυad (p. 386). Cf.
his gloss on 3: anirukto ‘vyaktatvād idaΥ cedaΥ ceti nirvaktuΥ na śakyata iti.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 309
10
See the recent discussion of this passage by Arbatov 2003.
310 david shulman
for example, to bring a goddess into being, or to wake her up from her
slumbers in the depths of one’s own body, something more may be
required. A graphic, visual dimension becomes integral to the intra-
linguistic, sonar process. The complex arrangement of encoded sound
patterns in multi-sequential, modular constructs has visible conse-
quences. In this context, properly poetic considerations also come into
play. Thus historically the way to the phonic activation or actualization of
Tantric deities goes through certain prevalent features of poetic praxis in
Sanskrit (also later in the regional languages). The most salient of these
features emerge in what is known as citra-kāvya, “picture poetry.”11
Citra-kāvya is first fully grammaticalized by Danˢdˢin in his Kāvyâdarśa,
a text which inspired spin-offs in Tamil, Tibetan, and other regional
languages. Danˢdˢin defines several types of citra verses based on com-
plex forms of phonetic-syllabic repetition, including regular alternation
between repeating and non-repeating syllables, palindromes, double
palindromes, rotating sequences, and other geometric patterns.12 He
acknowledges that even the simpler types of such verses are difficult to
produce (dusˢkara, 78). Danˢdˢin’s discussion very naturally moves from
citra poetry to riddles (prahelikā, 3.96), which he classes as “amuse-
ments” in learned assemblies (krīdˢā-gosˢt ˢhī-vinoda). No one who has
tried to decipher citra verses will deny this playful aspect. On the other
hand, here, as in other south Asian domains, playfulness is perhaps
an index of the truly serious. Later poeticians such as Mammatˢa and
Vidyānātha expand the discussion of citra to include well-known dia-
grams (citra-bandha) formed by plotting the syllables of the verse onto
spatial grids so that visual images (a sword, a lotus, a drum, a wheel, the
track of a cart, and so on) emerge—once again, through various patterns
of syllabic repetition.13 Such a verse, that is, both unfolds its (often rather
secondary) verbal-semantic burden and, graphically enacted on palm-
leaf or paper or, perhaps, in the mind’s eye, describes a concrete object
composed of patterned combinations of recurring and non-repeating
phonemes. In this latter function, the verse—both in its phonematic
progression and its tangible “meaning”—can actually be seen; very
often, it is visualized in movement, as if the phonetic materials one hears
11
Other possible translations include “flashy” or “special effects” or “virtuoso”
poetry—see Tubb forthcoming, and cf. Latin carmina figurata.
12
Kāvyadarśa of DaΩͯin 3.78–83.
13
See examples in MammaϏa 9.85 (pp. 529–34); Pratāpa-rudrīya of Vidyānātha,
5.11–13 (pp. 249–52); also Ingalls 1989.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 311
14
The text is mentioned by the commentator AϏiyārkkunallār (13th century). On the
dating, see Zvelebil 1975, 192–93.
15
TaΩϏiyalaרkāram, 3.2.1.
16
In “Caרkam” poetry, akam poems, the so-called “inner” category, focus on love
relationships.
17
Compare such well-known examples of evening love-sickness in the mullai region
as Kuρuntŏkai 66 and 234, and NammāΝvār’s reworking of this theme in Tiruviruttam 68;
also discussion in Ramanujan 1981, 158–59.
312 david shulman
18
As John Marr 1985 has shown, Tamil metrics are classically based on ictus.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 313
19
See Tubb 2003, 8.
20
See discussion of this term in Handelman and Shulman 2004, 178–79.
21
Gerow 1971, 181.
314 david shulman
22
madano madirākυīΩām apâרgâstro jayed ayam/
mad-eno yadi tat-kυīΩam anaרgāyâñjaliΥ dade//
23
Ingalls 1989, 571–72.
24
Gerow, loc. cit.
25
One should pay particular attention to the cumulative and contrasting effects of
the liquids and nasals—l, Ν, Ϋ, m.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 315
26
Ingalls 1989, 570.
27
Exodus 20:14.
316 david shulman
poems are anything but descriptive. They tend, rather, to the effectual or
efficacious and may, indeed, have originated in precisely such practical
(“magical,”28 “religious,”29 personally useful)30 contexts.
28
Gerow, 178.
29
Ibid., 177.
30
Smith 1985, 135: “The origin of this fashion was almost certainly the writing of
verses on weapons.” Smith also notes the strong relation between citra-bandha verses
and the battle sections of mahā-kāvya—where geometric military formations are de
rigueur. But if we extend the range of our observations backward into the late-Vedic and
early-epic layers of the tradition, we will discover complex geometric patterns govern-
ing the narrative structure of major texts. Citra-kāvya makes such effects conscious and
explicit and packs them into the frame of the individual verse. See Brereton 1997.
31
More precisely, verses 1–41 of this text, the so-called Ānanda-laharī (see below),
derive from this Kaula system in relation to Kubjikā (of the “Western Tradition”,
paścimâmnāya): see Sanderson 2002, 1–3, especially n. 24. I am grateful to Professor
Sanderson for discussions of dating and lineage in these texts. See also Michael 1986.
318 david shulman
the other. It also integrated into a Smārta, orthoprax domain strong ele-
ments of what Sanderson calls “erotic magic.”32 The SL, a relatively late
text—perhaps twelfth or thirteenth century33—is without doubt one of
the most beloved and popular of all Śrī-vidyā literary works. Its verses,
composed in a highly distinctive Sanskrit style, are, indeed, “magical.”
Many worshippers of the goddess recite the entire set of one hundred
verses every day upon waking.
The tradition itself, however, correctly sees this book as combining
two distinct parts—verses 1–41, the so-called Ānanda-laharī (“Wave of
Joy”) and verses 42–100, the Saundarya-laharī proper.34 The first seg-
ment in fact builds an image of the goddess as a cosmos in her own
right and as the creator of the cosmos we inhabit, whose inner workings
are explained in terms of the well-known series of six subtle psycho-
physiological cakras or bodily centers. This part of the text is clearly
aimed at practices of visualization and mantric exercises, as we will see;
eventually, if properly put to use, it allows the female and male elements
within this goddess-informed cosmos to recombine, thereby reversing
the standard direction of cosmogonic deterioration (see verse 9). From
verse 42 onward we have an exquisite, lyrical description of Tripura-
sundarī, limb by limb, no doubt also aimed at visualization but lacking
the mantric, pragmatic aspect of the first part of the poem.
This division is emphasized and explained in popular stories about
the composition of the text. Some, says Rāma-kavi, the author of the
Dˢ inˢdiˢ ma commentary on SL, attribute the book to Śiva himself; others
claim the author was Śanˆkara, an avatar of Śiva; still others assert that
it emerged from the radiant teeth of the goddess Lalitā, the Ādi-śakti or
primeval goddess.35 But even those who think Śanˆkara was the author or
direct recipient of the text describe a somewhat traumatic and truncated
process of composition and transmission. Śanˆkara, dressed in his ascetic
robe, was visiting Śiva’s home on Kailāsa; there he noticed the book of the
mantra-śāstra, which the goddess had left lying on Śiva’s throne. All too
32
Sanderson 1990, 156.
33
Almost certainly composed in south India.
34
W. Norman Brown, who edited and translated the text, somewhat unconvinc-
ingly takes the final nine verses as a separate segment, the poet’s prayer to the goddess:
Śankarācārya 1958, 1. These truly astonishing verses—filled with metapoetical statements—
seem to me to emerge very naturally out of the preceding description.
35
ͮiΩͯima-bhāυya, opening verses 3–4. All references to the SL and its commentaries
refer to the edition by Kuppuswami 1991.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 319
36
Ibid., v; Subrahmanya Sastri and Srinivasa Ayyangar 1948, x.
37
Kuppuswami, vi.
38
I thank Jan Assmann for remarks in this vein.
320 david shulman
39
Ānanta-lahari, sauntarya-lahari of Vīrai Kavi-rāja PaΩϏitar, verses 3–4. yāmaΙai taΫ
pĕrum pukaΝaiy āti maρai nālin vaϏitt’ ĕϏutta nūlai/ nāmakal ˢ taΫ pāϏal it’ ĕΫρ’ araΫarkku
navila avar nakai cĕyt’ aΫρe/pāmakaΙaiy aruk’ aΝaittup paruppatattiρ pŏρitt’irunta paricu
kāϏϏuñ/cema-niti pāϏalaiy ĕΫ puΫ kaviyāρ kŏΙvat’ avaΙ tiρamaiy aΫρe//
40
Hara = Śiva.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 321
magic,” but she also embodies the icchā-śakti or “potential for wanting”
inherent in the godhead. On the other hand, visualization of this sort
can have very immediate uses (prayoga). As the verse literally states,
a man who accomplishes the ritual meditation can make women fall
in love with him without delay. He can even make the goddess herself,
the object of his worship, who is none other than the total reality of the
cosmos, dizzy with passion for him. Modern commentators find such
promises embarrassing: A. Kuppaswamy, the learned and careful editor
of SL, assures us that “this verse could at best be deemed as having refer-
ence to the taming of a shrewish wife.”41
Very much in keeping with what we saw in the case of citra-kāvya,
this verse expands the overt, explicit level of denotation in far-reaching
ways. Its straightforward promise, while providing an essential founda-
tion for what is being said, requires decoding from the opening phrases
of the text. Words mean much more than they seem to say. The bindu-
dot that becomes the face of a goddess is the central, focal point, a state-
ment of infinity, of the Śrī-cakra yantra, the geometric model that serves
the Śrī-vidyā. A series of nine triangles, four with apex pointing upward
and five pointing downward, surround the bindu and are themselves
encompassed by a series of lotus flowers, circles, and an outer square.
Beneath the bindu we are meant to find a pair of breasts—apparently
the two horizontal points of the first upward-pointing triangle; but we
learn later in the verse that the breasts of the goddess are the sun and
the moon, which inhabit the Śrī-cakra, as they inhabit the cosmos, the
cosmicized body of the goddess, and the mantric sequence of sounds, in
ways that can easily be specified (see below). Still further down, there is
the “half of Hara/ha-ra”: Laksmī-dhara, who will be our guide on this
tour, tells us that this means trikonˢa, “triangle,” and that this triangle is
the triangular yoni, the genital organ of the goddess we are busy imag-
ining and thus creating. One triangle subsumes the ramified series of
triads and superimposed triangles so characteristic of the Śrī-vidyā. We
are thus meant to visualize the goddess from face (or mouth, mukham)
down to genitals. According to Laksˢmī-dhara, the exercise activates the
Māra-bīja or “death-seed” (also “seed of desire,” since Māra can refer
to both these forces, which are anyway one), and the result is that the
practitioner achieves a state of total identity with this beautiful goddess
41
Kuppaswamy 1991, translation and notes, 41.
322 david shulman
42
Brown insists (Śankarācārya 1958, 20–21) that the SL itself knows nothing of the
identification of the subtle psycho-physiology of the goddess—the six cakras—with
the practitioner’s own body along the standard lines of macro-microcosmic analogy.
In Lakυmī-dhara, such correspondences are axiomatic. For Lakυmī-dhara’s dates see
Goudriaan and Gupta 1981, 147–48.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 323
the phoneme ha, we tend to forget that ravi—this one specific term for
the sun among many—is its actual denotation. The adept, fortunately,
is guided by the SL to the contextually appropriate meaning. But this is
only the first step. Ravi has 4 elements—r, a, v, and i, two consonants
and two vowels. But the verse wants us to use only half of them (the
principle of “halving” is seen as generalized at this crucial point), so
naturally we erase the consonants (consonants are anyway embedded
pieces of death in this esoteric phono-metaphysics, as we see already in
Chāndogya Upanisˢad 2.22.3).43 This leaves us with a + i. As Pānˢini tells
us, these two simple vowels coalesce into the diphthong e—which hap-
pens to be identical in its graphic shape to what we got earlier when we
shaved off the upper half of the grapheme ha, i.e., the yoni. Notice how
operations on the aural level correspond precisely, in this world, with
operations on the level of writing.
There is more. Kaivalyâśrama offers us yet another reading that, not
surprisingly, leads to virtually the same result. Ha also “means” hamˢ sahˢ,
“goose” (in the nominative singular). Removing half of hamˢ sahˢ by delet-
ing the two death-dealing consonants, we are left with amˢ + ahˢ [in Deva-
nagari script: ٦ ذ+ ٥]ر. I hope you have already noticed the three bindu
dots (one nasalizing a[m], the other providing visarga aspiration to a[hˢ]).
Now the verse really makes sense. One dot becomes the goddess’s face;
two others, placed beneath it, are her breasts. Beneath these three we are
instructed to find that half of ha + ra which makes e, i.e. the yoni—and
we already know how to do this. There is no rule in this “grammar” that
limits operations to a single application.
So, as the commentor remarks, the ha phoneme is thrice useful, each
time through cutting it in half—first as Śivā, the goddess herself (that is,
the phoneme e); then as ravihˢ; finally as hamˢ sahˢ. You will be relieved to
learn that none of these phonetic identifications is particularly mysteri-
ous; all of them, says Kaivalyâśrama, in conclusion, are prakat ˢa, “obvi-
ous.” The deeper meaning of the phoneme ha is, however, a secret that
can only be learned from the mouth of one’s teacher; it should definitely
not be publicly unveiled, which is why he, Kaivalyâśrama, stops at this
level of explication (vastuto hakārârtho gupto guru-mukhād avagamyahˢ.
tat-prakāśane mahad an-isˢt ˢam iti na prakāśitahˢ). Still, there is one more
way to unpack the verse: the first bindu-dot is the sun, i.e. the face of
the goddess; moon and fire are the two lower dots, i.e. her breasts,
43
See Padoux 1990, 17.
324 david shulman
beneath which we, once again, find the yoni in the form of the syllable
ha.44 In short, however we read this small piece of the verse, we end up
with a lucid cosmogram in the visible image of the delectable goddess.
Moreover, this visual image is what the various sounds actually mean,
although they have to be decoded if one is to know this consciously. “Half
of Hara/ha-ra” does mean “goddess.” In fact, it expresses this meaning
in a remarkably overdetermined way, since the goddess is iconographi-
cally half of Śiva, as we know, and since the phonemes pronounce her
into existence through the automatic operation of their internal forces,
combined according to the mechanical laws of this new science of astro-
phonetics. To understand the verse is thus not to piece together its
overt semantics, although without their existence nothing may happen.
Understanding is the actual materialization of this divine presence, its
activation as a revolving or “dancing” being 45 and, as Laksˢmī-dhara has
told us, the complete transformation of the mantra-chanter or practitio-
ner into this goddess. That, we can conclude, is what language is for.
We have lingered over this single poem in order to attune our ears
to its way of speaking, to encounter its peculiar lexicon in a relatively
unambiguous context, and to observe inductively the primary princi-
ples of the grammar that serves its medieval commentators. Each verse
like this one becomes, in fact, a grammatical essay in its own right. I
want to stress again that such a grammar entails very powerful graphic
and visual components; we cannot begin to describe morphology and
syntax without addressing the projected images of the divinities who
are brought into being by every sentence. As for poetic effect—and the
SL is definitely experienced by connoisseurs as great poetry—think
what it means for a poem to be able to turn its listener into a goddess
and, at the same time, to put this newly emergent goddess-self into rapid
movement.
We can now turn to verse 32, where the principles outlined above come
most fully into play. This verse, as explicated by Laksˢmī-dhara, assumes
awareness of the subtle physiology outlined in SL 9: the body of the
44
Saubhāgya-vardhanī, 194.
45
Cf. SL 41.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 325
goddess, who is the universe, contains six cakra energy-sites, each linked
to one of the elements.46 Beginning at the bottom, at the base of the spine,
we have the mūlâdhāra, connected to earth; above it is the water-bound
manˢi-pūra; then the fiery svâdisˢt ˢhāna;47 then the heart cakra, elsewhere
referred to as anāhata (the “unstruck” sound at the edge of silence),
where there is air or wind; then viśuddhi, in the area of the throat, the
site of ākāśa, “space;” and finally, between the eyebrows, ājñā, where the
mind, manas, dwells. Above this vertical column is a thousand-petalled
lotus, sahasrâra-padma, the place of the goddess in her holistic, lumi-
nous form, united with her consort, Sadā-śiva; here she is the ultimate
part (kalā) of herself, that complete part that is defined as awareness per
se, cit, and that is reflected downward onto the lower cakras when the
cosmos begins to evolve.48 However, the very bottom of the column is
no less her home (bhūmi): here she makes her own “self ” into a serpent
(bhujaga-nibham adhyusˢt ˢa-valayamˢ svam ātmānamˢ krˢtvā)—called the
Kunˢdˢalinī, “coiled”—and here she sleeps in a hollow cavity (kula-kunˢdeˢ
kuharinˢi, 10). In a sense, the life of this goddess is lived between these
two ends of the vertical pole that gives shape to her body—between the
upper limit of playfulness and integral awareness and the lower end of
sleep, unactivated potentiality, and dream. This picture of her ongo-
ing inner life also inheres in the Śrī-cakra diagram and in the mantric
sequence we are about to study, and it definitely allows, indeed demands,
a highly active role for each person who comes to her via our text. Such
a person is called upon to decide whether to wake the goddess or to let
her sleep—or to put her back to sleep.
Verse 32 reads as follows:
śivahˢ śaktihˢ kāmahˢ ksˢitir atha ravihˢ śīta-kiranˢahˢ
smaro hamˢ sahˢ śakras tadanu ca parā-māra-harayahˢ/
amī hrˢl-lekhābhis tisrˢbhir avasānesˢu ghat ˢitāhˢ
bhajante varnˢās te tava janani nāmâvayavatām//
We will need two translations to begin with:
46
Brown, Śankarācārya 1958, 13–16, reads the cakras as successive stages in the cos-
mogonic process.
47
The order of these last two is reversed in SL compared to “standard” Tantric Yoga
physiology. See discussion by Brown, Śankarācārya 1958, 14.
48
For this reflection, chāyā, see Lakυmī-dhara on SL 32, 277 (and see discussion
below).
326 david shulman
(A)
Śiva, Śakti, the Love-God, the earth,
then sun, moon, Memory,49 goose, Indra
and then the Supreme Goddess, Death,50 and Hari51—
these phonemes, combined with the three
heart-syllables at the ends52 form the elements, Mother,
of your name.
(B)
[The words] śiva, śakti, kāma, ksˢiti, then ravi, śītakiranˢa,
smara, hamˢ sa, śakra, followed by parā, māra, and hari—
these phonemes, combined with the three
heart-syllables at the ends form the elements, Mother,
of your name.
Version A gives us a strangely beautiful, somewhat surreal concatenation—
a universe, apparently linguistic in nature (since all its elements are
classed as phonemes), in which various deities, heavenly bodies, desire,
and one lonely goose seem scattered randomly in perceptual space. The
last two quarters of the verse explain that this set of elements actually
makes up the parts, avayava, of the goddess herself, or of her name
(nāma). By gathering them together, we must be gathering her together,
perhaps in the classical manner of Vedic ritual, whose major goal was
to reassemble the diffuse, disarticulated parts of the creator, Prajāpati.
Clearly, the name is critical to this enterprise. It is, however, also pos-
sible to read nāma as an independent exclamation or indeclinable,53
so that the final statement could mean simply, “these phonemes . . .
constitute [or, alternatively, become] your parts.” In any case, on the level
of primary denotation, we have a statement about the phonematic for-
mation of the goddess as a recognizable, present entity. In short, a mantra
is being evoked, as is also suggested by the previous verse (31): Paśupati-
Śiva brought down the tantra-teaching of the goddess at her insistence
(tvan-nirbandhād). To know more about this teaching, encapsulated in
verse 32, or about the mantra that embodies it, we will need the help of
Laksˢmī-dhara.
In version B, the usual referents of the various lexical items listed—
śiva, śakti, and so on—are of little interest. These are to be replaced
49
Another name for Kāma, the god of love.
50
Or, again, a name of Kāma.
51
= ViυΩu.
52
Of each respective group.
53
Thus Subrahmanya Sastri and Srinivasa Ayyangar 1948, 125.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 327
54
Or any of its synonyms—although this rule does not apply evenly throughout.
Note kāma = i but smara, normally a synonym of kāma = ka.
328 david shulman
55
The 15-syllable mantra has its own uses, however. As Śoͯaśâksarī (“the 16-
syllabled”), the goddess is also pictured as a perpetually 16-year-old girl.
56
On the granthis, see Gupta, Hoens and Goudriaan 1979, 175.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 329
57
See Ānanda-laharī-Ϗīkā, 294; Kuppuswamy, 57.
58
And note that this direction runs against Mallinātha’s well-known prescription (ad
Kumāra-sambhava 1.33)—that deities are to be described from the feet up.
59
Or, for that matter, in terms of technique, to anyone who has studied the bandhu-
correspondences in Vedic ritual, as in the Chāndogya passage cited earlier.
330 david shulman
involved, one that goes far beyond mere statements of esoteric equa-
tions and correlates. The mantric unfolding of Tripura-sundarī requires
a highly dynamic, systemic vision. The mantra works not through the
intentionality of its reciter, not by “knowing thus,” in the Upanisˢadic
mode, and not by a principle of sympathetic (magical) analogy, as is
often thought to be the case.60 There is nothing symbolic about this pro-
cess at any point. Similarity is not its organizing concept. Rather, in a
world composed of language, in the deepest sense—a vibrating or hum-
ming arena of musical, rhythmic energies that can be seen no less than
heard—the patterned repetition of carefully selected, scientifically com-
pressed, modular sound-sequences activates powerfully transformative
forces. These sound-sequences resonate with one another, augment-
ing, enhancing, catalyzing or contrasting with one another in regularly
repeating ways, whether they are released in the mantra, by the interplay
of celestial bodies or, if we could but hear them, by the subtle buzzing
and throbbing of our own arteries and veins. Still, “resonance”61 alone
cannot explain the system.
Here is a much reduced restatement, after Laksˢmī-dhara, of the mech-
anisms involved. The moon waxes and wanes, either gaining or losing
one digit (kalā) every day. More precisely, the first kalā emerges from the
sun on the day after new-moon day (śukla-pratipad) and rejoins the sun
on the first day of the dark half of the month (that is, the day following
full moon). Similarly for each of the other kalās. There are 16 such kalās
(15 lunar days, tithis, in each half-month, plus the 16th which remains
always on Śiva’s head62 or which resides, as the cit-form of the goddess,
on the thousand-petalled lotus at the top of her [and our] subtle body).
Each kalā is also a goddess in her own right, one of a set of 16 Nityās.63
You will recall that our mantra has 16 syllables.
On full-moon day (paurnamāsī) the sun and the moon are most dis-
tant from one another (and the moon has absorbed the maximum of
solar energy it can hold); on new-moon day (amāvāsya), the sun and
moon are closest, actually conjoined (atyanta-samˢ yoga). Exactly the
same process is going on continuously in the subtle body: the moon
60
On the conceptual and logical structure of verbal magic, see the classic discussion
by Tambiah 1968.
61
anuraΩana, a term more at home in Abhinavagupta’s poetics than in his Tantric
metaphysics.
62
My thanks to H.V. Nagaraja Rao.
63
On the Nityā series, see Gupta 1:13.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 331
and the sun are active in the invisible channels called Idˢā (on the left)
and Pinˆgal ˢā (on the right), respectively.64 The moon is constantly sprin-
kling the amrˢta-elixir (liquified by the absorption of solar energy) into
the 72,000 subtle channels (nādˢī) that course through this subtle physi-
ology, and this soothing intravenous drip ultimately reaches the pit
(kunˢdaˢ ) in the mūlâdhāra-cakra at the base of the spine, where the
Kunˢdˢalinī is sleeping. The sun, on the other hand, soaks up and takes
away the amrˢta.65 These processes, though unceasing, are asymmetrical
and dynamic, as anyone can see by looking at the changing phases of the
moon. Moreover, just as the sun and moon come into close conjunction
in the heavens on new-moon day, so they are conjoined on this same
day in their physiological trajectories. Thus, as Laksˢmī-dhara very elo-
quently states,
When the moon and the sun come together (samāveśa) in the mūlâ-
dhāra, the amāvāsya (new-moon) day is born. Similarly, the days of the
dark half of the month are born.66 At that point, through contact with the
sun’s rays,67 the Kunˢdˢalinī is sleeping in the pit of the mūlâdhāra, which
is filled with elixir dripping from the waning moon. Her sleeping state
is what is called “the dark half of the month.” When the Yogi who has
concentrated his awareness (samāhita-citta) is able to block up the moon
in the moon channel (Idˢā) and the sun in the sun channel (Pinˆgal ˢā) by
means of his breath (literally wind, vāyu), the moon and the sun, thus
trapped, are unable to sprinkle the elixir or to suck it up, respectively. At
that moment, when the inner wind fans the flames of fire burning in the
svâdhisˢt ˢhāna-cakra, the pit of elixir dries up and the Kunˢdˢalinī, starved (of
elixir), wakes and, hissing like a serpent, breaks through the three knots
and bites the orb of the moon moving in the middle of the thousand-pet-
alled lotus (above the set of cakras). As a result, streams of elixir are set free
and flood the moon-sphere above the ājñā-cakra—and then they flood the
entire body.”68
This exquisite experience, in the lunar mode, is one of full self-awareness
(tat-kalā cin-mayī ānanda-rūpā ātmeti gīyate). Indeed, it defines the self,
ātman, as such. It is also defined as the goddess, Tripura-sundarī (saiva
tripura-sundarī), present, active, and now entirely awake.
64
These channels also divide up their activity between night and day and, on another
level of the cycle, between the 6-month southern and northern courses of the sun (pitν-
yāna and deva-yāna).
65
The description fits a pervasive conceptual pattern built around giving forth and
taking away: see Handelman and Shulman 2004, 216.
66
On this puzzling statement, seemingly out of sequence, see below.
67
Which, as mentioned above, apparently melt the cool or even frozen amνta.
68
Lakυmī-dhara on SL 32, 278–79.
332 david shulman
69
See also ibid., 282.
70
See Padoux 1990, 126. For the process of articulation as vivakυā fanned into
flame by the internal breath or wind, see PāΩinīya-śikυā 4–7; also Saרgīta-ratnâkara of
Śārרgadeva, 3.4.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 333
give it our attention (and thus waste the moment). Language, in normal
use, does not. Everyday speech (vaikharī, as Bhartrˢhari, and following
him the Śākta Tantrikas, call it) is diffuse and dispersed. It also tends to
be overburdened with those distracting residues of reality that we call
“meaning,” in the more trivial sense of the word (as in our translation A
of SL 32). To stick with this level of language is to condemn ourselves,
and the Kunˢdˢalinī, to continuous coma. For this very reason we need
the mantra, which translates a low-level semantics into the rhythms and
cadences of the cosmos. Thus the 15 + 1 lunar days (tithi), which embody
the 15 + 1 parts (kalā) of the goddess (as 15 + 1 Nityās),71 thereby unroll-
ing her before our eyes, unroll on our tongues as 15 syllables moving
precisely toward the Amāvāsya moment of awakening (syllable 16).
This temporal rhythm is built into the mantra and enables its efficacy.
The primary logic is one of systemic compression and expansion, or of
miniaturization and inflation, an accordian effect that preserves the vital
configuration of active forces at every level of expansion, from the most
condensed to the most extended.
It is of some interest that this sequence runs its course, if read for-
ward in its own terms, during the dark half of the month, as the moon
wanes while amrˢta-elixir is still dripping into the pit at the base of the
spine. One strives toward Amāvāsya, from which point on—and only
from that dark point—can the Kunˢdˢalinī be awakened. The mantra itself
takes us in this direction, syllable by syllable, tithi by tithi. This means
that, recited backwards, as time moves toward the full moon, the same
mantra will put the goddess back to sleep. You have your choice. The
forward recitation must thus run contrary to the actual flow of time dur-
ing the preferred period of recitation (as the moon waxes). Indeed, as we
know, Tantric praxis is classically meant to reverse the course of time.
Perhaps this explains the otherwise somewhat out-of-place statement
by Laksˢmī-dhara that “the days of the dark half of the month are born”
after the new moon. They are indeed born—through the Yogi’s reversed
recitation which brings the goddess (or the cosmos) into visible being as
a sequential descent through the cakras, from her head to the base of her
spine, from full moon to new moon, this being the necessary prelude to
waking her.
71
Also, elsewhere, as 16 tuϏis, “breath-moments”: Tantrâloka of Abhinavagaupta
6.63; Padoux 1990, 234.
334 david shulman
72
There is, however, no implication that SL is in any way paradigmatic for stotra
literature, which clearly ramifies into many distinct types.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 335
73
This reading of verse 32, beginning with the syllable with ha, is seen as embody-
ing the hâdi-vidyā and contrasting with the kâdi-vidyā, which is then produced by
one decoding of verse 33. This is not the place to go into this distinction in detail, but
Kaivalyâśrama relates the kâdi-vidyā to pleasure- or power-oriented effects in the cos-
mos ruled by saΥsāra. The hâdi-vidyā, by implication, leads to release.
336 david shulman
74
See Lakυmī-dhara’s rich discussion at the bottom of p. 279.
75
See Padoux 1990, 96–105.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 337
76
See discussion in Kunjunni Raja 1977, 254; Lakυmī-dhara, 277.
77
As the grammarians say, bhāva-pradhānaΥ ākhyātam: see Kāśikā ad PāΩini 1.3.1,
following Patañjali’s discussion in Mahābhāυya on this sūtra.
338 david shulman
78
See Malamoud 2002.
79
After the model of PāΩini 1.1.68: svaΥ rūpaΥ śabdasyâśabda-saΥjñå.
80
For a modern expansion of citra-style poetry, see the remarkable work by the nine-
teenth-century Sanskrit poet, U. Ve. Sundapalayam Tirumalai Rāmabhadrâcāri 2000.
81
See Granoff.
how to bring a goddess into being through visible sound 339
the outset, there is a point where the Vedic rˢs ˢi, hearing and recording
mantras, and the classical kavi, producing kāvyas or stotras, may meet.
There is also, I think, a movement through the centuries toward ever
greater or deeper musicality, in the practical sense just implied. Were
we to extend the continuum as far as the complex Sanskrit songs (krˢti or
kīrtana), many of them Tantric in import and method, by Muttusvāmi
Dīksˢitar (from late 18th-century and early 19th-century Tiruvārūr in
the Tamil country), we would see, as Harold Powers cogently says, that
“grammatical and syntactic continuity, semantic content, and melodic-
rhythmic continuity are carefully coordinated.”82 On the other hand, we
would also certainly notice that
however much one’s attention may focus on the outward meaning of the
songs, thence on to their esoteric allusions, soon enough the semantics
begins to be overshadowed by the pure sound of the words, which take
on independent life as carriers of musical rhythms and shapes. Then one’s
concrete perceptions of the specific rhythms of a particular song begin
to fade too, to merge into an abstracted awareness of the general melodic
shapes that those rhythms enliven, until finally one is absorbed in con-
templation of the ideal and unmanifested configuration, the soundless
sound. . . .83
Strangely, in the case of the SL, such soundless sounds have a clearly
visible, even tangible (mostly triangular) shape. Moreover, this sound-
lessness turns out to be rather noisy. In any case, for texts such as those
we have been studying, we might want to posit a pragmatic poetics in
which to wake the Kunˢdˢalinī requires a semantics of an altogether dif-
ferent order—mathematical, geometric, musical, and at the same time
wholly and necessarily concrete.
References
Abhinavagupta 1987. Tantrâloka. Ed. R.C. Dwivedi and N. Rastogi. Delhi: Motilal
Banarsidass.
Arbatov, S. 2003. “Vedic Sacrifice in the Upanisˢads.” M.A. thesis, Hebrew University.
Bhartrˢhari 1971. Vākya-padīya. Ed. K. Raghavan Pillai. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
Brereton, J.P. 1997. “ ‘Why is a Sleeping Dog Like the Vedic Sacrifice?’ The Structure of a
Vedic Brahmodya.” In Inside the Texts, Beyond the Texts, ed. M. Witzel. Cambridge,
Mass.: Department of Sanskrit and Indian Studies, 1–14.
Brˢhad-āranˢyaka Upanisˢad (with commentary of Śanˆkara) 1983. Madras: Samata.
82
Powers 322.
83
Ibid., 336.
340 david shulman
Sergio La Porta
Armenia had for quite some time existed in between the cultural spheres
of the Greek and Iranian worlds, but had always leaned more towards the
latter.1 The conversion from Zoroastrianism to Christianity was as much
1
See, for example, Garsoïan 1976, Garsoïan 1982, Russell 1987.
344 sergio la porta
2
Thomson 1988/89; Russell 1987.
3
Ananean 1961; Thomson 1988/89.
4
Thomson 1988/89, 35–36.
5
Koriwn 1985, 40; Movsēs Xorenac‘i 1991, III:47.
6
Thomson 1988/89, 37.
7
Peeters 1929, Koriwn 1985, xxix–xxxi; Thomson 1988/89, 37, n. 36; Russell 1994,
Stone et al. 2001.
8
Koriwn 1985, 48; cf. Movsēs Xorenac‘i 1991, II:53. For a treatment of the mystical
elements in this effort, see Russell 1994, 322–25, 327.
9
There is a large literature on the history of the (two) Armenian translations of the
Bible; in general see Lyonnet 1935, Leloir 1960, Cox 1982, Tēr-Petrosyan 1984, Mahé
1988, Cowe 1990/91.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 345
10
Thomson 1988/89, 37.
11
Mahé 1988, Weitenberg 1997.
12
Koriwn 1985, 74–6.
13
Koriwn 1985, 52; Thomson 1982, 140; Maksoudian 1998, 27.
14
Koriwn 1985, 56.
346 sergio la porta
15
Manandian 1928; Mercier 1978/79; Terian 1982; Mahé 1988; Zuckermann 1996;
Weitenberg 1997.
16
Adontz 1970.
17
Ervine 1988, 53–4.
18
Many of the points discussed below have been explored in greater detail by Ervine
1995.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 347
CREATION/GENERATION
Dawit‘ Anyałt‘ (6th c.) Grammar is art. Art is a composite instructed
by tradition concerning things useful in this
life—a composite because it is made up of
many things, by analogy with weaving.
Nouns derive from nouns like plants from the
earth, light from sun, smell from flowers.
Movsēs K‘ertoł (7th c.) Nouns derive from nouns as intelligence from
man or sensation from object.
Grigor Magistros (11th c.) Sounds are unembodied because they are
offspring of the spirit, and it is necessary that
the offspring of that which is incorporeal be
incorporeal as well.
EMBODIMENT
Dawit‘ Anyałt‘ (6th c.) Sound and letter correspond to body and
soul.
19
In the subsequent chart, I have listed only the first time a notion appears. The tradi-
tion as it evolved in the middle ages was cumulative. Each notion is usually continued
and sometimes adapted in the later commentaries.
348 sergio la porta
MICROCOSM
Dawit‘ Anyałt‘ (6th c.) Consonants correspond to parts of the body.
CURATIVE
Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i (13th c.) According to an unknown source: Grammar
is to be compared to medicine. The task
of the grammarian is to preserve in health
the power of the writings of the poets and
prose writers; or to cure, by paring and
discrimination and judicious examination,
the errant and those enervated as though
through illness.
Towards the end of the grammatical tradition, the great monastic theo-
logian, Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i (1344–1409), included the observations of the
commentators within his magnum opus, the Book of Questions (֯פ
ּ)ׯךך.20 The work, completed in 1397, is composed of ten volumes
or books and was a handbook of Armenian Orthodox theology, but it
20
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993; on Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i’s life and the composition of the Book
of Questions, see La Porta 2001, chs. 1 and 2.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 349
21
La Porta 2001, pp. 5–6; Spuler 1955, pp. 107–15.
22
La Porta 2006a.
23
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 154–226.
24
This transition from contemplation to meditation to praise or prayer resembles
Bonaventura’s treatment of the birth of Christ in his The Tree of Life, see Cousins 2000,
127. While there is no evidence of a special exercise equivalent to the lectio divina in
Armenian monasticism, it is clear from medieval monastic writing that such prayerful
reading of the scriptures was practiced by Armenian monks; see also La Porta 2006a. On
the lectio divina, see Leclerq 1988, 72–3, Cousins 2000, 124–7.
350 sergio la porta
25
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 177.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 351
of despair, however, he holds forth hope. In his fourth and fifth points,
Grigor notes that it is through the written word that we can reach the
divine word. Through the Incarnation of the Word, God has reversed
our lengthening distance. Writing, originally a symbol of man’s trans-
gression and perdition, is transformed into the means of his salvation.
26
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 177.
27
That is, ( פלgir) is the actual shaped letter, as opposed to ( ךtarˆ), which is
the name of the letter. In his commentary, Dawit‘ Anyałt‘ already established the link
between writing and scratching or drawing through a Volksetymologie from the similar-
ity between the three words: “And it is called writing ([ פלgir]) because it is formed by
scratching ([ ץממk‘erel]); that is the letter comes from scratching and drawing (ץמקל
[gcel]).” Hamam preferred the Volksetymologie from drawing to scratching, “because
scratching means to erase or efface, while drawing is to inscribe or sculpt,” Ervine 1988,
267.
352 sergio la porta
28
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 143; La Porta 2001, 200. Tat‘ewac‘i notes that mankind is
in need of writing because he possesses sense whereas the angels are free from such
intermediaries.
29
Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i 1993, 177–8.
30
La Porta 2006a, La Porta forthcoming (a).
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 353
31
Cf. the Syriac ascetical writer, Isaac of Nineveh (7th c.), who describes the angels as
“the uncompounded spirits which are luminous and incorporeal, which speak without
(needing) a mouth, which see without (needing) any eyes, which hear without (needing)
any ears, which fly, without (needing) any wings, which perform without needing hands
354 sergio la porta
all the activities of the (various) limbs—without having any limbs,” Isaac the Syrian 1995,
46. It is tempting to suggest that Tat‘ewac‘i has adapted Isaac’s portrayal of the angels and
applied it to the letter ayb. As both the angels and the letter are revealers of secrets, the
transposition is fitting and powerful, once again underlining the celestial provenance of
the letters. Exactly how Grigor may have been acquainted with Isaac’s works, however, is
not known as no Armenian translation of the Syriac monk’s work has come to light. It is
uncertain, and rather unlikely, that Tat‘ewac‘i read Isaac in the original Syriac.
32
Cf. Daniel.
33
According to a tradition recorded by the historian, Step‘anos Tarōnec‘i Asołik
(11th c.), seven letters of the Armenian alphabet, presumably the vowels, were divine
in nature, while the twenty-nine consonants were adapted by Mesrop from an earlier
script, Russell 1994, 326 citing Nersoyan 1985/6.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 355
34
This is a Volksetymologie of ayb < Heb. abba, ‘father’.
356 sergio la porta
The letter ‘a’ (‘[ כךayb’]) possesses characteristics both of the Creator
and of the created. Ayb reflects the mystery of Triune divinity as well as
each of the persons. Its relationship to the Trinity is explicitly made in
IV in which the letter’s shape, ך, is indicative of the God’s Trinitarian
nature.
Grigor elicits sympathies between the letter ayb and the person of the
Father in particular. This is clearly expressed in V through a Volksety-
mologie of ayb (< ‘abba, Heb. ‘father’) and in theological language
normally reserved for the Father. So, in II, the letter ‘a’ is said to ‘engen-
der the word’ ([ ׯׯךכן פׯךׯקcnani zbann]), a phrase, if taken indepen-
dently, is evocative of the Father’s generation of the Logos.
In III, the letter ayb’s quality as a ‘begetter’ again clearly draws the
parallel to God the Father. In this instance, Tat‘ewac‘i avails himself of
the Neoplatonic language of emanation found in the works attributed to
Dionysius the Areopagite. These texts formed part of Grigor’s schooling
and he was well-versed in them. Tat‘ewac‘i dedicates volume III of the
Book of Questions to an explanation of the theology of Dionysius and
provides the exact same example of the monad culled from the Divine
Names (II,11 and XIII,2) in chapter six to clarify how the divinity is
both one and multiple.35 The analogy to ayb is apposite as the letter ‘a’ in
Armenian was also used to express the number one.
Grigor also employs Dionsyian terminology in II when noting that
the letter ‘a’ ‘echoes a sound’ ( [ נײׯש ׯךתjayn hnč‘ē]). In volume III
of the Book of Questions, Tat‘ewac‘i cited Dionysius to explain that the
grace of God is delivered differently to many people “according to the
sound of an echo” ([ פׯךת ׯךײׯש סĕst hnč‘man jayni]). In the way
that the sound emitted from a speaker is one, but people hear it differ-
ently according to whether they are near or far; likewise, people receive
the gift of God differently according to their ability to hear.
The letter ‘a’, then, symbolizes the procession and remaining of the
divinity; its unity and transcendence as Creator and its simultaneous
multiplication and participation in the creation. This creates a powerful
connection between the Creator and the created, further strengthened
by the ayb’s mirroring not only the divine but also the human. The ayb
through conjunction gives birth to words as human couples do; and
words in being formed from a consonant and vowel possess a similar
body-spirit or matter-form dichotomy as the other creations [II]. The
35
La Porta 2001, 140, cf. also 132.
358 sergio la porta
tri-linear shape of the ayb itself conveys the division of man into body,
soul, mind as elaborated by Nemesius of Emesa; while the three let-
ters comprising the name ayb—a vowel, semi-vowel, and consonant—
resemble the tripartite composition of the human soul as described by
Gregory of Nyssa [V].
This connection grants letters the power to communicate divine
mysteries to humanity as in the incident of the handwriting on the
wall in Daniel alluded to by Grigor. Likewise, the numeric quality of
the letters is useful for accounting purposes [IIId]. On the one hand,
Tat‘ewac‘i is referring to actual royal accounts; but more immediate to
Tat‘ewac‘i’s monastic audience would be the register or book of life in
which God keeps His accounts of men’s conduct. The reckoning of one’s
conduct written in the book of life does not allow the thief to escape
unpunished.
In their divine and human existence, the letters reflect the Incarna-
tion itself, the Word enfleshed and are thus the means, the wisdom,
through which humanity can be redeemed, as Grigor makes clear in VI
and VII. It is through the written word that man is restored to his pre-
lapsarian existence. It is through the written word, the Logos incarnate,
that “we recognize God, and we hope for the kingdom, and are afraid
of judgment.” It is with that wisdom that “we rule the sea and dry land,”
thereby recapturing man’s pre-lapsarian authority. It is this wisdom that
is man’s greatest gift, for it, like the Incarnation itself, “descended from
God to man”.
Tat‘ewac‘i concludes with the simple declaration that “ayb is the
mother and beginning of this wisdom.” In the Christian tradition of the
conceptio per aurem, Mary conceived Jesus at the Annunciation through
her ear, undoing Satan’s suggestion planted in Eve’s.36 Grigor here elabo-
rates upon this tradition. The ‘ayb’ functions as Mary, the Mother of
God, who reverses the sin of Eve, the Mother of all living (Gen. 3.20),
and defeats Satan, to whom Tat‘ewac‘i refers elsewhere as the inventor,
sower, and mother of evils.37 It is Mary’s conception of the Logos incar-
nate, the written word, that reverses the serpent’s unwritten whispering.
The letters, as the begetters of wisdom, recreate that salvific birth and,
similar to the Eucharistic offering, provide a constant reminder of God’s
love and sacrifice for humanity.
36
On the tradition, see Urbaniak-Walczak 1992, Anderson 2001, 92–3.
37
La Porta 2001, 209.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 359
38
We may note the same focus on the written or incarnated form of a sound as
opposed to its disembodied sonal quality in Grigor’s treatment in the Book of Questions
[vol. IV, ch. 13.2] of ( פלgir) and ( ךtarˆ) cited above in b). Tat‘ewac‘i establishes the
( פלgir) or written form of the letter as the basis of all speech, addressing it before the
( ךtarˆ), which he denotes as merely the name of the letter. By contrast, the Armenian
version of Dionysius Thrax’s Ars Grammatica treats ( ךtarˆ), which it understands as
the immaterial sound of a letter, prior to ( פלgir), its written form. According to the
commentary of Dawit‘ Anyałt‘, Dionysius addresses ( ךtarˆ) before ( פלgir) “as an
example according to honor, as the unembodied spirit is better than the physical body.”
And according to an unknown source cited by Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i, “the ( ךtarˆ) is
immaterial, like the meaning of the word, for by letters one sets up the word— like ayb
is by a. As when you see the name of a in three letters a-y-b, you pronounce it as ayb.”
Tat‘ewac‘i has diminished the importance of the ( ךtarˆ), reducing it from the imma-
terial meaning and essence of a letter to its name.
360 sergio la porta
Grigor Narekac‘i lived in the second half of the tenth century and died
in 1003. He was dedicated to the church as a child and was a monk at
the monastery of Narek near Lake Van. Towards the end of his life, at
the insistence of his monastic brethren, he composed his most famous
work, the Book of Lamentation ()ׯךמעױלמכׄ ׯךמך׀, more famil-
iarly known as the Narek.39 The work is a composition of 95 penitential
chapters or prayers.
39
The significance of this work in Armenian literary and popular culture cannot be
stressed too much. Down to the modern period the Narek was believed to possess magi-
cal powers, and chapters were recited or placed under one’s pillow, or eaten in order to
protect one’s home or cure one from a illness. The fact that the book is composed in a
difficult classical Armenian and was largely unintelligible to the vast majority of these
people likely only heightened its status.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 361
The entire composition may be divided into three parts which reflect
the tripartite horizontal structure of a church (narthex-nave-altar) as
well as the three vertical parts of the ecclesiastical incense burner (tray-
coal-lid); and Narekac‘i plays upon both images throughout the work.40
As the reader physically moves through the book, one’s soul travels
through these images, from the narthex through the nave to the altar,
from the incense pan through the censer out of the domed lid. Spiritu-
ally, one is transferred from damnation through expiation to redemp-
tion. We may once again detect the influence of the works attributed to
Dionysius the Areopagite in this tripartite structure as it replicates the
Areopagite’s triad of purification, illumination, and perfection effected
through the rites of baptism, eucharist, and anointment. The culmina-
tion of the Book of Lamentation in a hymn to the myron, the holy oil or
chrism used at anointment, provides fitting testimony to the Dionysian
paradigm for the work. The architecture of the poetic compilation mir-
rors the process of return to the Godhead and the perfection of the indi-
vidual outlined in the Dionysian corpus.
It is a particular passage in the hymn to the holy oil or myron that
I wish to focus upon here. In Christianity, the myron is used to anoint
the candidate at the time of baptism and seals the new Christian in
the name of Christ. The oil’s mundane uses, such as fuel for light and
heat and as a physic, combined with its ritual function in the anoint-
ment of kings and priests, made it an object of profound speculation.
Furthermore, the holy oil’s composite nature of spices and fragrances
was likened to the composition of the Incarnated Christ. This vision of
the oil found support in verse 1:2 of the Song of Songs: “the oil poured
forth is your name.” Thus, true anointment was a form of divinization or
theosis, a real process of Christianization, for Christ is joined to the
initiate. Through the rite, the candidate is transformed into a Christ-
like being, his anointment reenacting the Incarnation of Christ and
the redemption of humanity. According to Narekac‘i, this experience
of union and redemption through anointment is constantly available to
the Christian through repentance.
In section twenty-two of the hymn,41 Grigor explains how the oil
works, how this process of transformation takes place, and the central
role of language in that transformation:
40
See, Russell 1990/1, 135; J.-P. and A. Mahé 2000, 174–6; La Porta forthcoming (b),
La Porta 2006b.
41
Grigor Narekac‘i 1985, 654.
362 sergio la porta
42
On the symbolism of numbers in Armenian see, Thomson 1976.
43
This is also noted by Awetik‘ean 1859, 534, n. 136; by P. Xač‘atryan and A. Łazinyan,
Grigor Narekac‘i 1985, 1121, n. 87; and by J.-P. and A. Mahé 2000 in their translation
of this passage.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 363
44
Grigor’s reference to twenty-four letters clarifies that he is referring to the Greek
alphabet employed for writing and not the twenty-seven letters of the Greek alphabet
reserved for numerical purposes. The three extra letters are the digamma, the qoppa,
and the sampi. Either Narekac‘i was unaware of the Greek numerical alphabet or he pur-
posely avoided using it because it would not produce the equivalents he was seeking.
45
As the first letter of the Armenian alphabet, ֭/ך, is also the first letter in the Arme-
nian word for God, ֭קךױ, the Armenian alphabet fulfills the declaration of Christ
Himself that, “I am the alpha and omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the
end” (Rev. 22.13).
46
Awetik‘ean 1859, p. 509, n. 2, thinks this to be a translation of Cyril’s third Mysta-
gogical Catechesis, though he notes that the latter work was intended as an instruction
and not as an offering. See also Russell 1997, 96–7, n. 12.
364 sergio la porta
V. Conclusion
47
See Eco 1998, 28–9.
armenian meditations on the metamorphic power 365
and word, subject and object, and signifier and signified, but only the
unity and harmony of love. It is a translation achieved through laborious
meditation and penitence, ceaseless prayer and worship. It involves the
death and regeneration of the individual through a spiritual conversion
and transformation—a true metanoia—resulting in the full restoration
of man’s glory.
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———— 2006b. “A Theology of Mysticism: The Vision of God and the Trinity in the
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cio Istituto Orientale, 83–97.
———— Forthcoming (a). “To walk in the footsteps of Christ: Grigor Tat’ewac’i’s exhor-
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———— Forthcoming (b). “The Image of the Beloved in Grigor Narekac’i’s Book of
Lamentations.” In Proceedings of the International symposium on the Millennium of
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Leclerq, J. 1988. The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Cul-
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Lyonnet, S. 1935. “Aux origines de l’église arménienne, la traduction de la Bible et la
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Mahé, J.-P. 1988. “Traduction et Exégèse: Réflexions sur l’Exemple Arménien.” In Mélanges
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INDEX OF NAMES
Zhou dyansty 12, 112, 114–27, 130, Zohar 189, 236, 239, 242–44, 247,
133, 136, 139–41, 149–51, 153, 155, 263
157–59, 164, 165, 167, 170, 171 Zosimos 189, 190
Zhouli 115, 116, 126 Zuo zhuan (Zuo Tradition) 125, 126
JERUSALEM STUDIES IN RELIGION AND
CULTURE
The JSRC book series aims to publish the best of scholarship on reli-
gion, on the highest international level. Jerusalem is a major center for
the study of monotheistic religions, or “religions of the book”. The
creation of a Center for the Study of Christianity has added a signifi-
cant emphasis on Christianity. Other religions, like Zoroastrianism,
Hinduism, Buddhism, and Chinese religion, are studied here, too, as
well as anthropological studies of religious phenomena. This book
series will publish dissertations, re-written and translated into English,
various monographs and books emerging from conferences.
Volume 2 Homer, the Bible, and Beyond. Literary and Religious Canons
in the Ancient World. Edited by Margalit Finkelberg & Guy G.
Stroumsa. 2003. ISBN 9004 12665 1