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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/1 Spring 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq056 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press ...

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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/1 Spring 2011 doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq056 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.

SEMITIC ROOT INCOMPATIBILITIES AND HISTORICAL LINGUISTICS EULÀLIA VERNET UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

This paper focuses on root incompatibilities in Proto-Semitic and examines the importance of these laws with regard to historical root reconstruction. As is well known, these rules can only be applied to verbal roots, not to derivative forms and affixed forms. The importance of these structural incompatibilities consists, then, in the fact that they reduce the possible number of combinations of the triconsonantal bases. Excluding onomatopoeic roots and loan words, these laws of incompatibility are fully regular in the verbal roots (but not in the nominal ones) and, therefore, do not have exceptions, as in all phonological laws. The structure of the Semitic verbal roots is, then, absolutely conditioned by these restrictions of incompatibility. These rules are universal in character and apply also to the different families of the AfroAsiatic and Indo-European languages. The restrictions of incompatibility are a tool of great importance in the historical reconstruction of the roots (especially, of the verbal roots in Semitic).

Introduction Among the characteristic features of Semitic languages, the laws for the formation of its verbal roots have a special importance. This paper focuses on root incompatibilities in Proto-Semitic and examines the importance of these laws with regard to historical root reconstruction. As is well known, these rules can only be applied to verbal roots, not to derivative forms.1

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Abstract

1

As we will see further on, in his well-known study on the verbal root incompatibilities in Arabic, Greenberg (1950) determined that a contiguous sequence of two similar (homorganic) or identical consonants is only possible if one of them is a nonroot morpheme. That is, two homorganic or identical consonants can be found in positions 1–2 and 2–3, whenever they belong to different morphemes (for example, root and derivation or inflection affixes); the affixes, therefore, allow the presence of a homorganic consonant in an adjacent position (see Frajzyngier 1979: 3–4). This rule has an important role in the historical criteria of verbal root reconstruction. 1

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SEMITIC ROOT INCOMPATIBILITIES AND HISTORICAL LINGUISTICS

To introduce the subject of root incompatibilities, I mention the most important studies written so far, above all since the 1950s, when the subject began to acquire more importance. I compare the incompatibility restrictions of the Semitic roots and the laws for the formation of Proto-Indo-European (PIE) verbal roots: as we will see, these laws are a necessary instrument for identifying the roots etymologically and formally and for solving possible questions in historical linguistics (for example, how to distinguish between roots and loanwords or derivative forms).2

An analysis of the consonant structure of the Semitic verbal roots shows that not all theoretical combinations of consonants are possible. The verbal root structure can be defined through a series of precise laws. The Semitic verbal root, therefore, is a radical morpheme whose constituent elements cannot be combined arbitrarily but are subject to specific combinatory restrictions.3 These restrictions in the potential system of the formation of verbal roots are known, in this specialized field, as ‘incompatibility laws’ (see Petrácek 1964b: 133 and 2

For a concise summary of papers on this subject written during the first half of the twentieth century, see Koskinen (1964: 17). The subject of the root incompatibilities has generated a large bibliography. For Afro-Asiatic, see Bender (1978); Loprieno (1984); Petrácek (1974) and Voigt (1999). For Semitic, see Cantineau (1950 and 1951–2); D. Cohen (1978); Diakonoff (1970 and 1975b); Edzard (1991); Eilers (1978); Frajzyngier (1979); Goldenberg (1994); Greenberg (1950); Herdan (1962); Lipinski (1991); Petrácek (1964b, 1985 and 1987a); Schramm (1991); Stempel (1999: 73); Ullendorff (1958: 74); E. Vernet (2008); Voigt (1981); von Soden (1973); Zaborski (1994). As far as Hebrew root incompatibilities is concerned, see Aescoly (1937–40); Koskinen (1964); Tobin (1990) and Weitzman (1987). For classical Arabic, see Colin (1945–8); Rousseau (1984); Schramm (1962); Weitzman (1987) and Zaborski (1996), among others. A statistical study on root incompatibilities in Ge¡ez is found in Ambros (1991). For root structure in Egyptian in relation to Semitic, see G. Conti (1980); Hintze (1947); Petrácek (1988b); Rocquet (1973); Rössler (1971); Vergote (1975) and Voigt (1999: 366). As we will see further on, the Indo-European languages also show a clear root incompatibility; this fact makes them typologically comparable to Semitic languages. In this regard, cf. Kury¥owicz (1935: 121) and Ammer (1950–2: 211–12). 3 The root must to be understood as a complete phonetic entity, not motivated by any productive or living derivation process, because the root is the morphological and abstract basis of the derivation, that is, the part of a word from which all the historical forms of the Semitic languages can be derived and explained through the established internal laws.


1. Incompatibility Rules and Semitic Verbal Root Structure

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Each Semitic language also has specific laws. In Akkadian, for example, two emphatics cannot be found belonging to the same root, because of the dissimilation law (cf. Hbr. qa†on < qa†un-, but Akk. qatnum; Ar. ∂aba†a, but Akk. Òabatum). 5 Some of these laws were already observed by the Arab and Hebrew grammarians of the Middle Ages. This tradition was used by nineteenth and twentieth century Orientalists, and in fact root incompatibilities have become a question of reference in Semitic historical linguistics (see footnote 1). 6 With regard to ppl roots, Arabic has the noun dadan ‘toy’, probably a child’s term, but this is only a nominal root. Ethiopic also has a few examples with an identical first and second consonant root: these cases are derived from tetraradical forms of a biconsonantal origin, for example Eth. ssl ‘to leave’ < slsl < *sl. The few examples of Ge¡ez do not have correspondence in other Semitic languages. Hebrew has only one example, ddh, a pi¡el form that means ‘to go’. This kind of verb is also very limited in Akkadian: I have found only three examples of primae geminatae verbal roots: ÌaÌû, ‘spitting, to vomit’; lullu, ‘to equip with abundance’ and papatu, ‘breaking a small piece’. In the first example, ÌaÌû seems clearly an onomatopoeic formation (it is a comparatively isolated form). Akk. lullu ( plpl > plp, see E. Vernet 2008: §4.8).7 Two identical consonants (redoubled) in second and third position are frequently found (they are called verba mediae geminatae), but two homorganic consonants are not.8 Consequently, geminated verbs are the best known exception to these incompatibility laws of Semitic roots.9 Liquids l and r cannot be found in first and second root position. Nevertheless, they are found sporadically in first and third position (cf. Ar. rasila ‘to wave’). In connection with plp roots, Semitic languages have very few examples of verbs of this kind. As a matter of fact, Proto-Semitic has only one certain plp verbal root: *ntn ‘to give’ (cf. Phoen. ytn), a possible case of lengthening of a biradical root through the prefixation of a determinative already fossilized in Proto-Semitic. The plp roots are usually of a nominal origin: curiously, Proto-Semitic has a large number of nominal roots with identical first and third radical: *sms ‘sun’, *bwb ‘door’, *†l† ‘three’, *nwn ‘fish’; *tÌt ‘inferior’, *srs ‘root’. With regard to the verbal roots, some of them have a denominative origin (for example Akk. kanaku < kunnukku ‘stamp’; salasu < salas ‘three’) and the others are isolated examples of an individual language and therefore do not belong to common Semitic (Akkadian has secondary formations with a plp structure as a result of an assimilation at a distance between the first and third radicals: sps, < sps, sapasu, sapaÒu, sabaÒu: ‘wrapping’ and sns, < sns, s/sanasu, also sanasu?: ‘to put’. 8 Apart from w and y, there are four sections of homorganic consonants (see Greenberg 1950): the first section is formed by the former consonants (glottal, pharyngeal, post velar and velar series: ¿, h, Ì, ¡, x, g, k, g, q). The second one, by liquid consonants (r, l, n); the third one, by leading consonants (sibilant, dental and interdental series: ∂, s, s, s, z, Ò, t, †, d, †, ∂, tÛ ) and finally the fourth one, by the labial ones (p, b, m). The consonants of each section can be combined freely with those of the other sections when forming the triradical verbal morphemes. 9 The mediae geminatae roots are actually the only ones in which the same consonant occurs in second and third position. A usual way to lengthen a biconsonantal root into a triconsonantal structure is, then, the gemination of the second radical of the root: this is the case of the verba mediae geminatae, which in many cases have expressive or iterative connotations, as for example *¡zz ‘to be strong’ (> Ar. ¡azza ‘to be strong’, Eth. ¡azzaza ‘to be strong’, Akk. ezzu ‘to be angered’, a denominative verbal root possibly: cf. ¡izzu ‘strength’, Hbr. ¡oz ‘strength’); *sbb ‘to go round’ (> Hbr. såbab, Eth. sabba, sababa, Ugar. sbb ‘to turn round’). In the case of verba secundae geminatae, the biconsonantal root is clear for two reasons: due to the existence of irregular forms, on the one hand, and because the last radical can alternate with other consonants (known as complements or Wurzeldeterminativa, see Diakonoff 1988: 49 and Stempel 1999: 73), for the other one (cf. for example the following root variations: Akk. *dbb ‘to talk’ and Hbr. *dbr, or Akk. *sll ‘to capture’ and Ar. slb, etc; there is no reason to see an assimilation or a dissimilation of the third radical in these cases). On this subject, see Eilers (1987: 514), Macdonald (1963–5: 78–9), Moscati (1969: §16.122–16.127), Stempel (1999: 73), Voigt (1981: 149 and 155) and del Olmo (2008: 2), among others. For pll roots in Egyptian, see Greenberg (1950: 181).


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2. On Root Formation Laws and the History of Research The analysis of incompatibility laws that can be found in the verbal roots shows the importance of these laws for determining the etymology and reconstruction of the Semitic roots — see Goldenberg (1994: 37) and Vergote (1975: 198); furthermore, the universal character of these laws is very useful in the historical description of the ProtoSemitic verbal root (see Petrácek 1964b and Goldenberg 1994: 54). With regard to the origin of the incompatibility rules, some scholars claim that Landsberger was the first to identify them, in his paper ‘Die Gestalt der semitischen Wurzel’ (1935). Nevertheless, many of these rules had already been observed by the Arab and Jewish gram10 According to this principle, two contiguous elements of a melody cannot be identical. This rule, then, has a great number of applications — especially regarding the restrictions of the two first radical consonants, as we will see further on — and is useful to explain the structure of the root, its diachronic development and its morphological realizations. 11 For example, in the reconstruction of Indo-Iranian — see Kury¥owicz (1964: 13), Meier-Brügger (20028: 138, §L 347 2) — where Bartholomae’s law was very important when making the reconstruction of the roots. 12 See Bender (1978: 47) and Jucquois (1970–2). For a study of the phonological structure of the Indo-European root, see Petrácek (1982). As for the subject of the root incompatibilities in PIE., see Ammer (1950–2: 211–12). With regard to the incompatibilities in the Wurzelerweiterungen of PIE, see Ammer (1950–2: 202 and 205).


The Semitic verbal root structure, then, is absolutely conditioned by these incompatibility restrictions which, due to their universal character, have also been applied to different Afro-Asiatic families. These restrictions have been treated from the point of view of information theory and from the point of view of the Obligatory Contour Principle (OCP).10 These approaches have been useful in the reconstruction of historical roots. The restrictions in the combination of phonemes are universal in character and can be useful as the basis for a specific statistical typology. These incompatibility laws are, thus, detectable in a great number of languages, such as the Indo-European ones,11 and must be used in a historical reconstruction of a protolanguage, as is the case, for example, for the Proto-Indo-European12 and Proto-Semitic root reconstruction. In spite of the universal character of these laws, root incompatibilities can be an effective criterion to establish differences and analogies between languages.

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I. Consonants of each section (back consonants, liquids, front consonants and labials) can be combined freely with those of any other section in the formation of triconsonantal verb morphemes. II. Different consonants of the same order tend not to appear in the same triconsonantal verb morpheme, except that: a. In the section for back consonants, the velars (k, g, q) occur freely both with the pharyngeals (Ì, ¡) and the laryngeals (¿, Ì); b. In the front section, sibilants occur fairly freely with the dental stops t, d and †. In 1–2 position, the sibilant always precedes the dental (rule of metathesis).


marians of the Middle Ages (see Greenberg 1950: 163 and Rousseau 1984). In the twentieth century, and especially from the 1950s onwards, many Semitists have been involved in this field.13 The most important was Cantineau (1946), who, in his ‘Esquisse d’une phonologie de l’arabe classique’, gave a solid theoretical explanation of the phonetic and phonological incompatibility of the roots. Three years later, Greenberg (1950) made a systematic and rigorous study of the phonological root incompatibilities in Semitic languages. In his paper ‘The Patterning of Root Morphemes in Semitic’, he worked with Arabic data (consulting two dictionaries: Lane 1863 and Dozy 1881), but also with other Semitic languages. In this pioneering work, Greenberg performed a statistical study, from some 3775 triconsonantal verbal roots, of the possible combinatory frequency in Arabic based on each of the possible consonant pairs in each of the positions that they can occupy in the root, that is, 1–2, 1–3 and 2–3 (see Greenberg 1950: 163).14 An alternative statistical study for the positions 1–2 only was proposed by Kury¥owicz (1973), who, unlike Greenberg, excluded the roots with semivowels or geminated consonants and admitted denominative verbs of the basic stem. Koskinen (1964) applied the same statistics to Hebrew: he included nominal roots and excluded mediae infirmae roots. Greenberg’s paper (1950) was actually one of the first studies to investigate this question scientifically. The conclusions that are most relevant to Proto-Semitic reconstruction are:

13

See e.g. Aescoly (1937–40) with regard to Hebrew and Aramaic. ‘The key position in the present study is accorded to Arabic because of the abundance of lexicographical information and the relative archaism of its phonological structure. The composition of 3775 verb roots was investigated based on the lexicons of Lane and Dozy. The results of this study are set forth in the accompanying tables 1, 2 and 3 describing the patterning in positions I–II, and I–III, and II–III respectively’. 14

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III. The above statements can only be applied to the verbal root morphemes. Substantival morphemes frequently violate them. For example, of the numerals from one to ten, no less than four transgress the usual rules applicable to verb morphemes (¿Ìd ‘one’, †l† ‘three’, sd† ‘six’, ts¡ ‘nine’). IV. There are no Proto-Semitic roots with identical consonants in the first and second positions15 and probably none with identical consonants in the first and third positions. On the other hand, identical second and third consonants are very common.

VI. There are no Proto-Semitic verbal roots with liquids in the second and third positions. In positions 1 and 3, roots with initial n and final l can occur in Semitic languages and, therefore, a large number of these roots can be reconstructed for Proto-Semitic. VII. The sibilants and interdentals are not common in Proto-Semitic: there are no Proto-Semitic verbal roots with ∂ and sibilant or with ∂ and interdental. Dental plosive d combined with sibilants is not common. VIII. A definite number of roots can be reconstructed with one sibilant followed by a dental in positions 1+2, but not with a dental followed by a sibilant. Nor can a root with an interdental consonant z followed by a dental in root positions 1 and 2 be reconstructed for Proto-Semitic.

Two years after the publication of Greenberg’s paper, von Soden dedicated a section to the incompatibility rules in Akkadian verbal roots in his grammar Grundriss der akkadischen Grammatik (1952; see GAG: §51). In the 1960s, Herdan wrote his paper ‘The Patterning of Semitic Verbal Roots Subjected to Combinatory Analysis’ (1962) and subjected the possibilities of combination of the Semitic verbal roots to a mathematical analysis. His conclusion (1962: 266) is clear: of the 6332 hypothetical triconsonantal combinatory morphemes (following the rules of triradical verbal roots formation in Arabic), only 3775 (that is, 60% of all the triradical combinations) are used in the lexical formation of the root.16


V. Two similar or identical consecutive consonants occur only if one of them is a morpheme not belonging to the root. That is, two homorganic consonants are possible in positions 1–2 and 2–3 whenever they belong to different morphemes, as for example, root morphemes and affixes of derivation or inflection morphemes; the affixes, therefore, allow the presence of a homorganic consonant in an adjacent position, separated by a vowel or not (see Frajzyngier 1979: 3–4).

15

This is also the case of PIE. See Benveniste (19623: 171). ‘By applying combinatory mathematics in connection with the rules of formation of Arabic tri-literal verbal roots, we thus arrive at 6332 such morphemes. This 16

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means that even with Greenberg’s exemptions from free combination applied strictly — which in reality they are not — there would be about 6332/3775 = 1.68 times as many roots as we actually know. Apart from the rather unlikely possibility of verbal morphemes having been discarded with time to such an extent as to account for the difference 6332 – 3775 = 2557, or that the rules of consonant combinations as given by Greenberg are not exhaustive, the conclusion may be that for positive reasons only 3775/6332 = 60% of all admissible tri-literal combinations are used in word formation’. 17 ‘Whatever one may decide — the evidence from our Tables, the obvious process involved in the development of the quadriliteral, the evidence of the derived verb — all these suggest with some force that there was once a biliteral verb morpheme, possibly many of them, which in the course of development in many regions over millennia brought about a proliferation of triliteral verb morphemes, and some triliterals in turn created quadriliterals in exactly the same way, by extension, and it is to be noted that the quadriliterals and the few quinqueliterals are explained, as D is, mainly by gemination, or addition by insertion of a new element’.


Macdonald applied Greenberg’s study to the practical part of his research. Through the comparison of those triconsonantal verbal roots of Arabic with a geminated radical of the root, he reached the conclusion that all the Semitic roots have a biconsonantal origin (1963–5: 84).17 Petrácek (1964) related Greenberg’s root incompatibilities with information theory (Informationstheorie) previously applied by R. Jakobson and M. Halle (1956) in their binary phonological analysis of morphemes in contact (which acts by opposition), which is universal for all languages. Petrácek’s aim in this paper is to clarify the phenomena of root incompatibilities linguistically (not only to mention the laws concerning root incompatibility, as Greenberg had done in his 1950 study). As a conclusion of his work, Petrácek (1964: 138) notes the importance of Informationstheorie in the reconstruction of the Semitic root. Like Greenberg (1950: 178, §3), he points out that the incompatibility laws apply in contact position 1–2 or 2–3, but they cannot be applied between the first and the third radical (position 1–3). Hence, the contact position between the constituents of the root is of high importance, because each element is conditioned by the one that precedes it. In the early 1970s, Kury¥owicz (1973) developed Cantineau’s phonological incompatibility principles and used Greenberg’s results, refining them with still more rigorous principles. He excluded mediae infirmae roots and denominative verbs, but he did not exclude the onomatopoeic roots. Bender (1978) directed his research to the incompatibilities of the verbal roots in Afro-Asiatic; using the theories of Greenberg (1950)

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18

‘Regarding the first form of negative scoring, Grover Hudson (personal communication) remarked that the true isomorph may be that of having triliteral roots at all. The pattern for all world languages seems to be mono- or bi-consonantal lexical roots: Semitic coped with the rising information load of advancing civilization by adding a consonant, while other languages added a vowel. Regarding the second criterion, the problem of how to interpret consonant clusters arises as a serious problem, especially in such languages as Proto-Indo-European, where only 23 out of 302 verb roots investigated were free of clusters. If Indo-European and Afroasiatic are indeed genetically related, how does one account for the consonant clusters in nearly all PIE verb roots? Is a root of form CCVC or CVCC in PIE to be assumed to be related to one of form CVCVC in Afro-asiatic, or is the development of clusters a purely secondary phenomenon? The fact that so many of the clusters are homorganic nasal or sibilant compounds seems to indicate the latter”. 19 See on this sense Petrácek (1982: 396–7): ‘Dans ce sens les langues indoeuropéennes et sémitiques se dressent les unes à côté des autres et le trait sémitique des incompatibilités spécifiques dans la racine ne peut pas détacher ces langues des autres, le type des incompatibilités sémitiques dans la définition de J. H. Greenberg (position dans les sections de phonèmes destinée par la place d’articulation) étant détectable même dans les restrictions de la racine dans les langues indoeuropéennes traitées des différents points de départ et sous une autre terminologie, sans parler des restrictions directement dans le cadre de la même définition’. 20 With regard to Arabic, see Goldenberg (1994: 54), ‘In Arabic, OCP is employed in arguing that gemination is dictated by the “prosodic template” (McCarthy Prosodic Theory 383–389); also for explaining some restrictions in root-structure, as quoted from J. Greenberg, viz. the impermissibility in Arabic of roots with 1st and 2nd radicals identical (like *ssm) and of roots with adjacent homorganic consonants unless they are identical. If Arabic roots are subject to the OCP, and all autosegmental spreading is rightward, then, as McCarthy suggests, mediae geminatae can be described as outspread biradicals and the incompatibility rules simplified’. 21 ‘As for Semitic, the OCP has been successfully applied to co-occurrence restrictions within the root (C1 ≠ C2; tendency to avoid two adjacent homorganic radicals) as well as to phenomena of ‘antigemination’ in Tiberian Hebrew (cf. McCarthy


he found that isoglosses of incompatibilities also occur in the AfroAsiatic languages, where only the Chadic and Omotic families represent the weak points. He notes that Greenberg’s Semitic incompatibility laws can also be found in the Indo-European languages (1978: 10),18 although they are treated from a different point of view and using a distinct terminology.19 Since the 1990s, the phenomenon of consonantal incompatibility in Semitic has been studied from the point of view of the Obligatory Contour Principle (OCP), formulated by linguists in the 1960s (see del Olmo Lete 2003: 75), and already observed by Petrácek in his Semitic linguistics research (1964b). According to this principle, two contiguous elements of a melody cannot be identical.20 This principle has a great number of applications, especially for those restrictions of the two first radical consonants (see Edzard 1991: 403, n. 7),21 which

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1986 for details). An example for the exceptional case in Tigrinya is the transition from the root *smsm to the root ssm. Examples of the language game in Amharic include the expansions bet → bayt¢t ‘house’, b¢dda → bayd¢d ‘to make love’ etc.”. 22 ‘On the other hand, the conclusions McCarthy has drawn from the “Obligatory Contour Principle” are probably connected with the “Principle” itself as adapted for morphophonological analysis. “The Obligatory Contour Principle” (OCP) requires that multiple occurrences of a consonant in the stem be represented by a single element of the root melody, so the root underlying, say, reconstructed bazzaz (…) is /bz/. The second consonant of this root is spread to fill available slots of the CV skeleton” (McCarthy Chaha 212). The same is assumed with regard to the vowel melody’. 23 ‘All the writers on the subject, including Cantineau and Kury¥owicz, mention a number of exceptions to the incompatibility rules and although it has been recognized that onomatopoeic and borrowed roots may violate these rules, nobody has asked the question whether apart from these exceptions the rules are exceptionless or not’.


are useful to explain the root structure, diachronic development and morphological realizations (see Goldenberg 1994: 54).22 Bohas (1990b, 1991 and 1993c and 1993d) analysed the effect of the OCP on the structure and changes in the Semitic roots and lexicon, especially in Syriac. His internal methodology of reconstruction and conclusive results are useful for applying a comparative method of historical reconstruction in Proto-Semitic. In the 1990s, Zaborski’s research into radical incompatibilities in Proto-Semitic is of great interest. The aim of his paper ‘Exceptionless incompatibility rules and verbal root structure in Semitic’ (1994) is to point out that, loans and onomatopoeic roots excluded, the rules of incompatibility are fully regular and, therefore, have no exceptions (1994: 1).23 As for the ‘exceptions’ mentioned, they must be onomatopoeic roots, or loan words or dialectal and late developed roots. The author highlights that etymological research is necessary to find the exceptions mentioned. Zaborski uses the laws of root incompatibility to find possible solutions related to questions of historical reconstruction (Zaborski 1994: 13); for example, in the reconstruction of the Proto-Semitic phonological system, Zaborski proposes that [g] and [g] must be simple allophonic variants of the same phoneme in Arabic and in ProtoSemitic as a result of the incompatibility of /g/ with /k/ (1994: 2). With regard to the glottal or pharyngeal realization of emphatic consonants in Proto-Semitic, Zaborski also proposes an allophonic solution to explain the different dialects of Proto-Semitic (Zaborski 1994: 11), because of the original incompatibility of the emphatic consonants with a following /¿/ on the one hand, and the incompat-

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a. Late variants (for example, forms of an eighth original conjugation with an infixed -t-) b. Loan words from other languages, or from other Arabic dialects, where the laws of root incompatibility are different (for example, some of the roots described by the Arab lexicographers as ‘Yemenite’) c. Onomatopoeic words, as well as new roots, created by poets for expressive purposes

None of the cases mentioned above can strictly be exceptions, because they are derivative morphemes (especially in the first and second cases) and not root morphemes. Kienast (2001: §51.1) has applied Greenberg’s classical laws of incompatibility to the verbal roots and to the primary adjectives of Akkadian: this case provides more pragmatic evidence of the universal character of these laws. We have seen that the subject of root incompatibilities in Semitic has been studied in depth since the second half of the twentieth century. As we have observed, the restrictions in the combination of phonemes (linguistically speaking, these restrictions are universal) are very useful because they make it possible to reconstruct the roots and


ibility of the other consonants (with the exception of [h/, /Ì/, /¡/, /g/ and /q/] with a following /¿/) on the other. All this suggests that Proto-Semitic originally had a kind of glottalization as a non-distinctive feature, although this does not imply that it was the only differentiating feature of the emphatic consonants. Zaborski believes that there must have been some kind of pharyngealization as well. The most important feature is that there is no phonemic opposition between glottalization and velarization (or, stricto sensu, pharyngealization) in the Semitic languages, and, therefore, this opposition cannot be reconstructed for Proto-Semitic. Zaborski concludes that the velarization and pharyngealization of emphatic consonants in Proto-Semitic is a question that, from the phonemic point of view, cannot be answered: some dialects of ProtoSemitic must have some kind of glottalization as a non-distinctive feature, while other dialects of this protolanguage did not have this feature (Zaborski 1994: 11). In his paper, then, Zaborski (1994) reviews the results reported by Kury¥owicz (1973), and focuses especially on those cases involving incompatibility exceptions of R1 and R2 in Arabic. The author concludes that the exceptions that break the rules of the root incompatibilities are due to the following three factors (1996: 654):

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solve questions in historical linguistics, such as, for example, the reconstruction of original roots and the identification of derived forms (as we have already seen, two homorganic consonants occur in positions 1–2 and 2–3 only if they belong to different morphemes) and the reconstruction of the Semitic phonological system (such as the problem arising from the glottal or pharyngeal realization of emphatics in Proto-Semitic).24

As in Semitic, Proto-Indo-European roots were restrained by a set of dissimilations and assimilations. Not all the consonants of the ProtoIndo-European phonological system can be found in the roots with the same frequency. According to the glottal theory,25 the restrictions are due to three factors: a. two identical consonants cannot occur in positions 1 and 2 b. dissimilation of a sequence of two consecutive glottals c. assimilation of a sonority and no sonority feature 24

For example, when primary roots should be reconstructed and derivative forms should be identified. In this connection, see Frajzyngier (1979: 3–4): ‘There is independent evidence to support this claim in any of the Semitic languages; an examination of affixes, either inflectional or derivational shows that its occurrence is not inhibited by the presence of a homorganic consonant in an adjacent position, whether separated by a vowel or not. A random check in Arabic shows the following: t-∂ in 1–2 position: no occurrences within one morpheme (Greenberg, 1950: 164), but ta-∂arabu; m-f in 1–2 position: within one morpheme, no examples (Greenberg, 1950: 164), but miftaÌ “key” (prefix mi-); d-t in 2–3 position: within one morpheme, no examples (Greenberg, 1950: 166), but lidat ←walada (suffix –at). It is therefore possible to have two consecutive homorganic consonants when they belong to different morphemes, and so on phonological grounds it has been shown that the geminated forms are probably derived. But this argument can be rejected if one shows on independent grounds that in phonological rules two identical consonants do not behave as if they were two similar consonants. For the particular constraint in Semitic, one would have to show that for some reason two identical consonants behave as if they were not homorganic. The reason I mention independent grounds is because one can use the facts discussed in this paper as evidence for the non-operation of the constraint’. 25 The glottalic theory holds that the voiced aspirated stops reconstructed in PIE were actually simple stops; the voiced stops were voiceless glottalized and the simple voiceless were also simple voiceless. With the traditional phonetic reconstruction of the three series, this set of restrictions does not make sense. However, the new definition that propitiates the glottalic theory explains the restrictions perfectly.


3. On Root Incompatibilities in Proto-Semitic and in Proto-Indo-European

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Conclusions This paper has focused on the laws of incompatibilities of the verbal roots in Semitic. I have stressed the importance of these laws for the historical reconstruction of the root. These restrictions are applied only in the verbal root and therefore do not occur in historical derivative and affixed forms.


With regard to the first point, it can be observed that this restriction is applicable to Proto-Semitic — in Egyptian something similar occurs, see Petrácek (1988b) and Voigt (1999: 366). Regarding the other laws, these restrictions affect only stop consonants, even though they are very strict and affect the mode of articulation (we do not know why there is no restriction in the other Proto-Indo-European consonants, or why no emphasis has been placed on their point of articulation, as we see in Proto-Semitic). Regarding the second point, the restriction of two consecutive glottal stops must be explained as a process of dissimilation (this feature often occurs between real languages). Interestingly, in Arabic, following table no. 1 in Greenberg (1950), in position I-II there is no example of † or ∂ followed by an emphatic consonant, although eleven examples of q + emphatic are found (it should be investigated whether these examples can be reconstructed for Proto-Semitic or not). Regarding the third point, the restriction voiced / non-voiced and non-voiced / voiced consonant (assimilation of sonority/no sonority), also occurs in Arabic. In this language the following groups are not found: pf,26 bf, td, dt, gt, tg, gk, kg. That is, there is a strong restriction in the combination voiced / non-voiced and non-voiced / voiced, a fact that contrasts with the high frequency of the stop consonants.27 Actually, the cases above, with the exception of gt and tg, can be explained by means of a restriction already postulated by Greenberg at the beginning of his paper, according to which no homorganic consonant occurs in position I–II. We have seen, then, that two different families share a set of restrictions which, curiously, can only be applied to verbal roots and primary adjectives and which work as laws of dissimilation.

26

In Ar. Proto-Semitic *p > f. In the other cases there are few examples. In the case of bt, 5 cases; bk, 5; dp, 7; dk, 2; gf, 6; fd, 8; fg, 7; tb, 5; kb, 11; kd, 9. All these examples should be compared to other Semitic languages in order to exclude possible loans and innovations of Arabic. 27

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Address for Correspondence: [email protected]

Abbreviations Akk. Ar. Eth. GAG

Hbr. Phoen. PIE. Ugar.

Akkadian Arabic Ethiopic Wolfram von Soden. 19953 (19521). Grundriss der Akkadischen Gramatik. (Rome). Hebrew Phoenician Proto-Indo-European Ugaritic


We have seen, therefore, that the Semitic verbal root is a radical morpheme; its constituent elements cannot be combined in an arbitrary way, but are subject to very specific combinatory restrictions. The importance of these structural incompatibilities consists, then, in the fact that they reduce the possible number of combinations of the triconsonantal bases. We have seen that, excluding onomatopoeic roots and loan words, these laws of incompatibility are fully regular in the verbal roots (but not in the nominal ones) and, therefore, do not have exceptions, as is the case in all phonological laws. The structure of the Semitic verbal roots is, then, absolutely conditioned by these restrictions of incompatibility. These rules are universal in character and apply also to the different families of the AfroAsiatic and Indo-European languages. The restrictions of incompatibility are a tool of great importance in the historical reconstruction of the roots (especially, of the verbal roots in Semitic). The last part of this paper considers the incompatibilities of the root with regard to historical linguistics. We have seen that, in the field of Indo-European linguistics, the laws of formation of the verbal roots have been described in a different way from the Semitic verbal roots, but that in fact they are fully identifiable. In both families of languages the restrictions are useful to recognize their etymological roots, and they can also help to solve problems on questions of historical reconstruction, such as the reconstruction of loan roots and the identification of derived morphemes, since, as we noted above, two homorganic consonants are possible in position 1–2 and 2–3 only when they belong to different morphemes.

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THE CASE FUNCTIONS IN AMORITE – A RE-EVALUATION1 MICHAEL WALTISBERG UNIVERSITY OF MARBURG

The case system of Amorite, a Northwest-Semitic language of the early second millennium BCE in northern Syria, predominantly documented in personal names in Akkadian cuneiform texts mainly from Mari on the Euphrates, shows some idiosyncratic features which are not attested in related Semitic languages and still not explained satisfactorily. This applies in particular to the various functions of the endings -Ø/-a in Amorite (A and S, predicative, genitive). After the presentation of the relevant data, the paper discusses earlier explanations and proposes, instead of the previous functionally oriented interpretations, an approach based on the position of syntactic elements within the clause. Still, some features of the Amorite case functions remain problematic and warrant further investigation. The article is predominantly based on Gelb (1981) and Streck (2000) and uses a set of linguistic concepts different from earlier contributions.

1. Introduction The present article, based primarily on the monograph by Michael Streck (2000),2 aims to re-evaluate Streck’s interpretation of the Amorite case functions. I first became aware of the intricacies of the Amorite case functions when I presented some of my results on the alleged ergativity of Proto-Semitic in Bamberg in 2001 on the occasion of the 28th Deutscher Orientalistentag. When the corresponding article was finally published (Waltisberg 2002) I hinted at the problems of the Amorite


Abstract

1

An earlier version of this paper was presented at NACAL 36 in Chicago, Ill. on March 16th 2008. I thank Christian W. Hess (Leipzig) and Marcus Callies (Mainz) for their valuable assistance in improving the English style of this article. Further thanks are due to Roland Hemmauer (Leiden) and Viktor Golinets (Basel) for their comments. 2 His very short paper (Streck 1998) can be disregarded. 19

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THE CASE FUNCTIONS IN AMORITE – A RE-EVALUATION

case functions (ibid.: 31). The present article resumes the discussion which was begun some years ago. In what follows, I discuss the relevant data as well as previous explanations. At the end of the article, a new proposal for the explanation of the Amorite case functions is presented. Amorite is the oldest Northwest Semitic language, from the early second millennium BCE. It is almost exclusively attested in personal names which appear mainly in Akkadian cuneiform texts from Mari on the Euphrates in eastern Syria. (1) shows the four nominal endings which are documented in Amorite personal names: In names with more than one element, these cases (with the exception of -i) are documented, according to Streck (2000: 259), in any combination. He (ibid.: 288ff.) posits for Amorite, based on Cushitic evidence (Sasse 1984; cf. also Appleyard 1988; Hayward 2003: 836ff.), vestiges of a system with an absolute case -a (‘Absolutiv3Subjekt-System’). According to him, the absolute case has not only predicative, but also, especially for divine names and other theophoric elements, citative and vocative functions. In addition, it is used independently of a specific syntactic function. Streck claims that the ending -a may in some cases be a phonologically conditioned variant of the Ø-case. 2. Methodology I follow Streck (284ff.) in his rejection of most earlier explanations4 for the ending -a such as the ‘Status emphaticus’ as in Aramaic, perfect QaTaLa, diptotic case inflection, derivational suffix /a/ 5, *’ilah besides ’il ‘god’ or functionally undifferentiated vocalic markers. The nominal endings are in accordance with Streck accepted prima facie as case endings. As for methodology, a set of linguistic concepts is used that differs from the one used by Streck. The relational primitives — A, transitive subject; S, intransitive subject and the subject in a nonverbal clause; O, transitive object — along with the parameters of case marking, word order and agreement, are crucial. Furthermore, this paper differentiates between verbal and non-verbal clauses. A serious


(1) Nominal endings of Amorite: -Ø; -a; -i; -u

3 Streck’s idiosyncratic use of the well-defined term ‘absolutive’ (see inter alios Bußmann 2002: 45ff.) is ignored here. Instead, I prefer the term ‘absolute case’. 4 See the references in Streck. 5 This argument is, additionally, to be found in Mugnaioni (2000: 62).

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3. Genitive For genitive function, there are three endings documented: (2) -Ø: Su-mu-el / Sumu-’el ‘descendant of the god’ (ibid.: 266) Mu-ut-sa-lim / Mut-salim ‘man of the amiable one’ (267) 6

According to Knudsen, in the two names Su-ma-la-li-a and Su-ma-li-ka ‘(He gave) offspring to me/you’, the ending -a marks the accusative in O function (pace Streck 1998: 115). But both names can be interpreted differently (S function of su-ma). They are not discussed in Streck (2000). According to Streck (ibid.: 263), the two names Îa-am-mi-is-ta-mar and Su-mu-us-ta-mar may be translated as ‘I have praised my paternal uncle/the name’. The interpretation is not certain, though, and the evidence is therefore ignored by Streck. Note that the second name would in all probability point to the ending -u in O function as against the ending -a with Knudsen. The word order with preposed object may be problematic as well (on word order, see below). 7 But they may appear on the second element of a name the function of which is not under discussion.


methodological problem, though, is the absence of conclusive evidence for O. The very problematic evidence in favour of O that Knudsen (1991: 877) and Streck (2000: 164, 263) briefly discuss is ignored.6 Since the agreement in verbal clauses is with A and S, we are in a position to posit for Amorite an accusative system in accordance with the other Semitic languages. This is further corroborated by the identical marking of A and S in verbal clauses (cf. below). As for relational behaviour, there is no further evidence available because of the lack of O function in Amorite names. For this reason, the parameters ‘case marking’ and ‘word order’ are of no use in this regard. Streck’s (257ff.) methodological principles and his transcription of Amorite are adopted in the present paper. The former applies particularly to the exclusion of names that are influenced by the Akkadian syntax of the context in which they appear. Logographic writings and possessive clitics in a specific function are excluded because of their obvious lack of distinct case marking.7 The deities Dagan and YaraÌ stand out as they never show any case ending at all (257ff.). Also left out are personal names with the emphatic particle -ma ‘really’, since it favours the ending -u, and, more rarely, -a (282ff.). I ignore the construct state as well, since it is irrelevant for the functions of the various case endings (for this, see Streck 2000: 291ff.). Only a selection of Amorite names can be cited in full. Streck’s readings and interpretations of Amorite names are largely followed.

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Su-mu-e-pu-uÌ / Sumu-yipu‘ ‘descendant of the blazing one’ (267) Bi/u-ni-ma-ra-aÒ / Bi/uni-maraÒ ‘son of the sorrowful’ (267)

This ending also appears after prepositions: (3) A-su-ub-la-el / ’Asub-la-’el ‘I turned to the god’ (266)

Secondly, the ending -i is documented:

Note the contrast between the last name and the name with the same meaning cited in (2). This case also appears after prepositions: (5) Ka-zu-ri-Ìa-la /Ka-Òuri-Ìala ‘like a rock is the maternal uncle’ (270)

Thirdly, there is the ending -a: (6) -a: Su-mu-di-ta-na / Sumu-ditana ‘descendant of Ditan’ (274) Bu-nu-i-la / Bunu-’ila ‘son of the god’ (274) Su-mu-ba-la / Sumu-ba‘la ‘descendant of the lord’ (274) Su-mu-Ìa-la / Sumu-Ìala ‘descendant of the maternal uncle’ (274)

As is the case with the other two endings, -a appears after prepositions as well: (7) Ka-zu-ra-DINGIR / Ka-Òura-’el ‘like a rock is the god’ (199).

Note the contrast between this name and the one mentioned in (5). As can be seen from the examples cited above, the two nouns Ìal and Òur have different forms in the genitive function respectively. In addition, the deity ‘Anat has all three endings in genitive function:


(4) -i: Mu-ut-Ìa-li / Mut-Ìali ‘man of the maternal uncle’ (270) Su-mu-Ìa-mi / Sumu-‘ammi ‘descendant of the paternal uncle’ (270) Îa-ab-du-ba-aÌ-la-ti / ‘Abdu-ba‘lati ‘servant of the mistress’ (271) Bi-ni-ma-ra-zi / Bini-maraÒi ‘son of the sorrowful’ (203, 271)

(8) ‘Anat: Îa-ab-du-dÌa-na-at / ‘Abdu-‘anat ‘servant of ‘Anat’ (266) Ab-ta-na-ti, Ab-di-a-na-ti, Ab-ti-a-na-ti / ‘Abdi-‘anati ‘servant of ‘Anat’ (270) A-ab-du-a-na-ta / ‘Abdu-‘anata ‘servant of ‘Anat’ (274)

The marking pattern for the genitive is rather inconsistent despite the fact that the only discernable function of the ending -i in Amorite is genitive marking. 22

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4. Vocative The evidence for the vocative is as follows. Three endings are documented: (9) -Ø: Su-ub-na-il / Sub-na-’il ‘pray, turn, O god!’ (266)

There is also the ending -a:

Finally, there is the ending -u: (11) -u: Su-ub-na-Ìi-lu / Sub-na-’ilu ‘pray, turn, O god!’ (Streck 2000: 232) Su-ub-am-mu / Sub-‘ammu ‘turn, O paternal uncle!’ (Gelb 1980: 362)

Note the verb-initial word order in vocative clauses. 5. Verbal Clauses In verbal clauses, the following case endings are documented for nouns in the A function: (12) -Ø: d Ia-ak-ru-ub-el / Yakrub-’el ‘the god has blessed’ (Streck 2000: 264) Ia-ás-ma-aÌ-ì-el / Yasma‘-’el ‘the god has listened’ (264) Ia-si-su-uÌ / Yassîsu‘ (← yassi’ and yasu‘ ) ‘the helpful one has embraced’ (265) Ia-di-na-Òir / Yayde‘-naÒir ‘the protecting one has realized’ (265) (13) -a: Is-ma-a-da / ’Isma‘-hadda ‘Haddu has listened’ (271) Ir-pa-a-da / ’Irpa-hadda ‘Haddu has healed’ (271)


(10) -a: Su-ub-di-la / Sub-’ila ‘turn, O god!’ (273) Si-ma-i-la / Sima‘-’ila ‘listen, O god!’ (201)

(14) -u: Ia-an-ti-in-Ìa-mu / Yantin-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle has given’ (199) Ia-aÌ-mi-zi-lum / Ya‘mis=ilum ‘the god has carried’ (239) Ia-si-im-Ìa-am-mu / Yasim-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle has put down’ (201) 23

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Several nouns have different forms in the A function. In addition to ’el (cf. 12 and 14 above), see the following examples: (15) ba‘l ‘lord’: Ia-ás-ma-aÌ-ba-al / Yasma‘-ba‘al ‘the lord has listened’ (264) Is-me-ba-la, Is-me-eÌ-ba-la / ’Isme‘-ba‘la ‘the lord has listened’ (272)

It comes as little surprise that nouns in the S function have the same set of endings: (17) -Ø: Ia-ri-im-Ìa-al / Yarim-Ìal ‘the maternal uncle has shown himself noble’ (264) I-Òi-sa-lim / ’IÒi-salim ‘the amiable one has appeared’ (265) I-nu-uÌ-di-ta-an / ’InuÌ-ditan ‘Ditan has calmed down’ (264) Ia-ku-un-ra-bi(-i) / Yakun-rapi’ ‘the healing one has shown himself firm’ (265) (18) -a: Ia-se-re-da / Yaysir=idda ‘Haddu has shown himself righteous’ (271) Ia-te-ir-e-da, Ia-te-ri-da / Yaytir-yidda ‘Haddu has shown himself magnificent’ (271) Ir-Ìa-mi-la / ’IrÌam=ila ‘the god has had mercy’ (239) (19) -u: Ia-ri-im-Ìa-am-mu / Yarim-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle has shown himself noble’ (204) Ia-ú-zi-lum / YawÒîlum (< *YawÒi-’ilum) ‘the god has appeared’ (237) Ta-aÌ-zi-dad-mu, Ta-aÌ-zi-in-ad-mu / TaÌsi’-’admu, TaÌsin’admu ‘Admu has shown herself beautiful’ (220) Ia-ti-ra-mu / Yaytir=ammu ‘the paternal uncle has shown himself magnificent’ (202)


(16) Haddu: Ia-ak-ku-ub-e-da / Yaqqub-yidda (< *Ya‘qub-) ‘Haddu has protected’ (271) Ia-mu-ur-ad-du / Ya’mur-haddu ‘Haddu has watched’ (203)

As is the case with the A function, some nouns have different endings in the S function. Besides the already cited ’il (cf. 18 and 19), there is the noun ba‘l: (20) ba‘l ‘lord’: Ia-mu-ut-ba-al / Yamut-ba‘al ‘the lord has died’ (197) Ia-mu-ut-ba-a-lum / Yamut-ba‘lum ‘the lord has died’ (180) 24

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In contrast to the last-mentioned case, some nouns have the same form in different functions: Note in the A and S functions the forms ba‘al (cf. 15, 20), hadda ~ yidda (cf. 13, 18) and ‘ammu (cf. 14, 19). The word order in verbal clauses is basically verb-initial V-A and V-S respectively. In these clauses, my impression on the basis of Gelb (1980: 552–653) is that the case ending -u predominates for subject function (A/S). There are, in addition, some examples with a preposed subject as well:

Note the ending -a with a preposed subject in the last two examples as against case -u in the previous two names with the deity ’Annu. The noun initial word order is documented with jussive as well: (22) Îa-mu-l[a]-ri-im / ‘Ammu-l[a]rim ‘the paternal uncle may show himself noble’ (Streck 2000: 269)

But otherwise with jussive, there is verb initial word order V-S: (23) La-aÌ-wi-ba-aÌ-lu / LaÌwi-ba‘lu ‘the lord may show himself alive’ (200) La-aÌ-wi-a-du / LaÌwi-haddu ‘Haddu may show himself alive’ (245)

As the examples cited so far show, verbal agreement is with A and S. 6. Non-verbal Clauses


(21) A-V, S-V: A-bi-ia-pa-aÌ / ’Abi-yaypa‘ ‘my father has been ablaze with light’ (Streck 2000: 257) An-nu-ta-al-e / ’Annu-tal’e ‘’Annu has shown herself mighty’ (257) An-nu-ta-ás-ma-aÌ / ’Annu-tasma‘ ‘’Annu has listened’ (257) Îa-ad-na-am?-mu-ur / ‘Adnâmur (< *‘Adna-ya’mur or the like) ‘the bliss has seen’ (Gelb 1980: 581) Îa-ma-iz-ru / ‘Amma-yi∂ru‘ ‘the paternal uncle has sown’ (585)

The case marking of the non-verbal clause shows the same set of endings for the S function as in the verbal clause. As for the interpretation of S and predicative in many of these names, I will follow Streck’s analysis throughout. Additionally, examples which carry an uncertain or ambiguous interpretation of S and predicative are excluded.8 Examples for the S function: 8

Cf. for this problem Streck (2000: 262, 275). 25

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(24) -Ø: A-bi-di-ta-an / ’Abi-ditan ‘Ditan is my father’ (264) Ja-at-ra-il / Yatra-’il ‘the god is magnificent’ (275) d A-sar-na-Òir / ’Asar-naÒir ‘the fortune is protecting’ (269) A-Ìu-el / ’AÌu-’el ‘the god is brother’ (277) Su-um-Ìu-ba-al / SumÌu-ba‘al ‘the lord is magnificence’9 (325)

(26) -u: d Ad-mu-is-Ìa / ’Admu-yis‘a ‘’Admu is helpful’ (268) Îa-mu-ra-ma / ‘Ammu-rama ‘the paternal uncle is noble’ (276) Îa-am-mu-ra-bi / ‘Ammu-rapi’ ‘the paternal uncle is healing’ (277) An-nu-ia-at-ra / ’Annu-yatra ‘’Annu is magnificent’ (268) [Ta]-bu-bu-ba-aÌ-la / Tabubu-ba‘la ‘Tabubu is mistress’ (268) Ì-lí-Ìa-mu / ’Ili-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle is my god’ (Gelb 1980: 594)

Several nouns have different case endings in the S function in nonverbal clauses: (27) ‘Anat: Zi-ik-ri-Ìa-na-at / Δikri-‘anat ‘‘Anat is my remembrance’ (Streck 2000: 264) Zi-im-ri-Ìa-na-ta / Δimri-‘anata ‘‘Anat is my protection’ (272) (28) Ditan: Ì-lí-di-ta-an / ’Ili-ditan ‘Ditan is my god’ (264) Sa-am-si-di-ta-na / Samsi-ditana ‘Ditan is my sun’ (272)

In addition, compare from Ìal ‘maternal uncle’ the example cited in (5) with the following instance:


(25) -a: Ta-pa-as-su-ra / ™aba-’assura ‘’Assur is good’ (259) Sa-am-si-di-ta-na / Samsi-ditana ‘Ditan is my sun’ (272) Si-ik-ri-Ìa-da / Sikri-hadda ‘Haddu is my reward’ (271) Zi-im-ri-e-id-da / Δimri-yidda ‘Haddu is my protection’ (271) I-la-la-i, I-la-la-e / ’Ila-la’i ‘god is mighty’ (278)

(29) Îa-lu-ra-pi / Îalu-rapi’ ‘the maternal uncle is healing’ (277)

Finally, besides the example in (25) above with hadda in S function, there is also the form handu in the same function: (30) Ba-la-Ìa-an-du / Ba‘la-handu ‘Haddu is lord’ (274)

9

Or ‘joy’ according to the glossary in Gelb (1980: 32). 26

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As for the predicative in non-verbal clauses, the same set of endings is documented: (31) -Ø: Îa-am-mi-za-du-uq / ‘Ammi-Òaduq ‘my paternal uncle is righteous’ (327) Ia-Ìa-ad-e-ra-aÌ / YaÌad-yiraÌ ‘YaraÌ is unique’ (275) d A-mu-um-e-su-uÌ / ’Amum-yisu‘ ‘’Amu is helpful’ (268) [A]n-nu-ba-aÌ-la / ’Annu-ba‘la ‘’Annu is mistress’ (268) Ia-tar-Ìa-mu / Yatar-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle is magnificent’ (259)

Note the two forms of the predicative in the identical name ‘AmmiÒaduq(a) in (31) and (32) respectively. Finally, there is the case-marker -u for the predicative as well: (33) -u: Aq-bu-da-du-um / ‘Aqbu-dadum ‘the uncle is protection’ (325) Ba-lu-dUTU / Ba‘lu-samas ‘Samas is lord’ (269) Am-mu-a-da / ‘Ammu-hadda ‘Haddu is the paternal uncle’ (270) La-ú-la-a-da / La’û-la-hadda ‘Haddu is indeed mighty’ (271) Zi-im-ru-Ìa-la / Δimru-Ìala ‘the maternal uncle is protection’ (280)

As is the case with the other functions, there are several nouns that have different forms for the predicative. Besides the name ‘AmmiÒaduq(a) already mentioned, the noun ∂imr ‘protection’ appears as predicative in all three cases:


(32) -a: Sa-am-su-ba-la / Samsu-ba‘la ‘the sun is lord’ (259) Am-mi-za-du-ga / ‘Ammi-Òaduqa ‘my paternal uncle is righteous’ (276) A-bi-†a-ba / ’Abi-†aba ‘my father is good’ (276) Az-za-am-mi / ‘Azza-‘ammi ‘my paternal uncle is strong’ (248) Za-ki-ra-Ìa-mi / Δakira-‘ammi ‘my paternal uncle is remembering’ (258) I-la-nu-nu / ’Ila-nunu ‘Nunu is god’ (274) Zi-im-ra-Ìa-mu-ú / Δimra-‘ammuhu (?) ‘his (?) paternal uncle is protection’ (280)

(34) ∂imr ‘protection’: Zi-me-er-dza-ba4- ba4 / Δimir-zababa ‘Zababa is protection’ (Streck 2000: 267) Zi-im-ra-Ìa-mu / Δimra-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle is protection’ (280) Zi-im-ru-a-ra-aÌ / Δimru-yaraÌ ‘YaraÌ is protection’ (269) 27

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Note the difference of the predicative yatra in (24) with the following example: (35) Ia-tar-dIM / Yatar-haddu ‘Haddu is magnificent’ (268)

(36) Word order in non-verbal clause: S [-Ø; -a; -u] – PRED [predominantly -Ø; -a] PRED [-Ø; -a; -u; prepositional phrase; possessive clitic] – S [-Ø; -a; -u]

As for agreement in non-verbal clauses, it is with gender, as some of the aforementioned examples show: In (31), there is masculine gender in ‘Ammi-Òaduq and, in (26), feminine gender in ’Admu-yis‘a. There is no evidence for the nominal plural in Amorite (Streck 2000: 306ff., 309). 7. Results and Previous Explanations The results of the data presented above can be summarized as follows: (37) Function-to-form: A -Ø; -a; -u S -Ø; -a; -u (incl. non-verbal clauses) O PRED -Ø; -a; -u VOC -Ø; -a; -u GEN -Ø; -a; -i


Also, compare with ba‘l as predicative Ba‘la-handu in (30) and Ba‘lusamas in (33).10 As for word order in non-verbal clauses, there are two patterns, either with a preposed noun in the S function or a preposed predicative. The data at my disposal indicate that a postposed predicative in Amorite basically has the two endings -Ø and -a11, whereas an initial predicative can have any form (endings -Ø, -a, -u; possessive clitic; prepositional phrase). The marking of S shows no peculiarities in both word order patterns. The data of the non-verbal clause are summarized in the following diagram:

10

Other patterns with possessive clitics not cited so far show the ending -u which is conditioned by the particle -ma: Qa-mu-ma-a-Ìi / Qamu-ma-’aÌi ‘my brother is truly standing’ (Streck 2000: 276) and Is-Ìi-lu-ma / ’Is‘îlu-ma, ’Is‘i-’ilu-ma ‘god is truly my help’ (ibid.: 277). 11 For possible exceptions, see below. 28

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(38) Form-to-function: -Ø A; S; PRED; VOC; GEN -a A; S; PRED; VOC; GEN -u A; S; PRED; VOC -i GEN

12

See, for instance, Akkadian (von Soden 1995: 98ff., 234ff.) or Ugaritic (Tropper 2000: 302ff.). 13 Cf. Akkadian (von Soden 1995: 97) and Arabic (Wright 1898: 85ff.). 14 See Akkadian (von Soden 1995: 98, 223ff.) or Arabic (Wright 1896: 234ff.; 1898: 250ff.). 15 Cf. i.a. Akkadian (von Soden 1995: 223ff.) or Arabic (Wright 1898: 99ff., 250ff.). For predicative function of the case -a in Old Akkadian names, cf. Gelb (1961: 146ff.), and in Eblaite, cf. Krebernik (1988: 7ff., 31). 16 See, for instance, Arabic (Wright 1898: 250ff.). 17 The ending -Ø in genitive position, especially after prepositions, occurs in Akkadian as well, cf. von Soden (1995: 97). 18 In Akkadian, some divine names such as Marduk or Samas (often) have Ø-ending in any syntactic function (cf. i.a. von Soden 1981: 1154ff., 1158ff. [as to Samas, samsum]; see also Kraus 1976).


From these charts, the parallel usage of cases -Ø and -a is apparent. What conclusions for the Amorite case system can be drawn based on the evidence presented so far in this paper? Of course, in the usage of Amorite cases, there are some familiar Semitic traits, for instance, the ending -i in the genitive function,12 the vocative with the endings -Ø, -a and -u,13 the case-marker -u in the subject function (A/S) in verbal as well as in non-verbal clauses,14 or both endings -a and -u as predicative markers.15 As for word order, it is a fact familiar from other languages as well that the verb predominantly appears in initial position and that there is greater word order freedom in non-verbal clauses.16 The rules for agreement do not show any discrepancies with the usage of related languages. But there are also some traits of Amorite which are hard to explain, for example the ending -a as genitive,17 the A and S functions of the -Ø and -a cases,18 and the fact that several Amorite nouns appear in certain functions in more than one form. Frequent forms of a word appear in quite a number of different functions, note especially ’i/el in the genitive (cf. 2, 3), the vocative (cf. 9), the A (cf. 12) and the S (non-verbal, cf. 24) functions. Also the form ’ila of the same lexeme is documented in the genitive (cf. 6), the vocative (cf. 10), the S (verbal, cf. 18) and the predicative (cf. 32) functions. For vocative or predicative without ending, we are certainly not dealing with case functions at all, but with the so-called Status abso-

29

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lutus, familiar from Akkadian (cf. Von Soden 1995: 96ff., 121), among other languages. The synchronic facts of Amorite show a system of 3 cases -Ø, -u and -a in any syntactic function, namely A, S and predicative. For the genitive, there are the three endings -Ø, -i and -a. The cases -Ø, -u and -a are the markers of the vocative. The only consistent uses of nominal endings in Amorite are the endings -i which consistently marks the genitive, and -u which has subject19 and predicative functions. So, in the end, it boils down to the problem of the endings -Ø and -a and their functions. In view of the consistent usage of -i as genitive and -u as subject and predicative marker, we would expect the other endings to have consistent functions as well. But this is not the case. Streck (2000: 288ff.) himself hints at a diachronic explanation, based on Cushitic data presented by Sasse (1984): According to this scenario, in Amorite we observe the development from a system with ‘marked nominative’20 and an absolute case as predicative and object marker to the nominative-accusative system familiar from other Semitic languages. The problem with this scenario is the A and S functions of the cases -Ø and -a, the alleged absolute case. These endings should obviously not have subject function; their use in the A and S functions is certainly not archaic. For this reason, the phonological environment cannot be responsible for the preservation of these forms in these functions, as proposed by Streck (2000: 290). Of course, as Sasse (1984: 112ff.) points out, absolute case can have subject function in Cushitic, but only under very specific conditions, especially in focus constructions: ‘A focalized subject appears in the Absolute Case form […] A historical explanation was given by Hetzron […]: the subject focus construction is a fossilized cleft sentence of the type ‘it was the girl who came’ […]’ (ibid.). It seems to me difficult or even impossible to posit special focus or the like generally in Amorite personal names. Methodologically, the introduction of this linguistic concept cannot prove anything, because it would simply be ad hoc. Nor would this scenario explain the many alternative forms in some names. The notion that Amorite personal names are fossilized cleft sentences cannot be proven either, especially in view of the functionally parallel use of the ending -u. Other possible explanations are the following: Do 19

This term is used in accordance with Dixon’s (1994: 124) definition: ‘A and S functions are grouped together as “subject”’. 20 For this term, cf. Dixon (1994: 63ff.). 30

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we observe in Amorite the merger of some of the case markers, for instance, of nominative and accusative which results in an inconsistent use of these cases? The different writings could hint at an undifferentiated final vowel.21 Again, since some endings have quite consistent functions, such a development does not seem very likely. Or are some of the Amorite nominal endings not cases at all, but different nominal suffixes, for example honorifics? As most endings have the same functions, this does not seem very likely. Are there different sociolinguistic registers in Amorite names? This, too, seems unlikely in the onomasticon of a Semitic language. At least no distinction among the names seems apparent. Or can we assume a different chronological documentation? Are the forms of some names younger than others? Since there is no corresponding data available at the moment I cannot answer this question. It would require further research to determine if the chronological documentation of the Amorite names corresponds to the changes in their form. Streck (2000: 290) points to another possible explanation, namely phonological reasons for the preservation of certain forms, especially the alleged absolute case in -a. According to him, roots with identical second and third radical favour this ending, as well as the word for ‘god’ ’il because of a vocalic /l/. First of all, nouns of the root type II=III have the other endings as well. And since the vocalization of the consonant /l/ between two vowels — if I understand Streck correctly — seems highly unlikely, this explanation does not seem convincing. In addition, the relationship between a vocalic /l/ and a specific case ending is not entirely clear. By and large, the conditions when a certain form is used cannot be conclusively determined. In other instances, as Charpin (2005/06: 290) in his review of Streck’s monograph has pointed out, some nouns with a final vowel are indeclinable, for example the deity Kakka which, according to this view, is not an instance of the case ending -a at all. This may be true for some nouns, but certainly not for all. A further explanation is the possibility that the use of Amorite cases in the second part of a name may be either determined by the internal Amorite syntax or attributable to citative function with absolute case.22 Since the conditions for such a change cannot be determined and the different variant forms of many names cannot 21 Similarly, for Eblaite names, Krebernik (1988: 31). The phenomenon may be exclusively graphical. 22 Proposition by Christian W. Hess (Leipzig). Similarly, for Eblaite names, Krebernik (1988: 31).

31

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be explained either, the proposition is to be rejected. It also has to be borne in mind that on the first element of a name, the same markings are used in identical functions. A further problem is the alleged citative function, because it is not entirely clear why Amorite names should have citative form in Akkadian context.23 Since the functionally oriented propositions discussed so far cannot explain the usage of Amorite cases I will propose another approach for its explanation.

The approach taken in this paper proceeds from two general considerations, namely the existence of archaic and innovative features in Semitic personal names in general (see, among others, Streck and Weninger 2002 passim), and the apparent loss of clear syntactic functions of the Amorite cases. The latter circumstance is shown by the fact that the endings -Ø, -a and -u are documented clause-internally in any syntactic function (A, S, predicative). As an alternative to the strictly functionally oriented explanations discussed so far, this paper proposes an approach which focuses instead on the position of a syntactic element in the clause. We turn to the marking patterns in the non-verbal clause documented in the data above.24 The entries are arranged according to case endings and word order (multiple occurrences are due to this arrangement): (39) -a: PRED [-a] – S [-Ø] PRED [-a] – S [-u] PRED [-u] – S [-a] PRED [-a] – S [-a] PRED [POSS] – S [-a] PRED [-a] – S [POSS]

-Ø: PRED [-Ø] – S [-u] PRED [-u] – S [-Ø] PRED [-Ø] – S [-Ø] PRED [POSS] – S [-Ø] PRED [-a] – S [-Ø]

S [-Ø] – PRED [-a]25

S [-Ø] – PRED [-Ø]

-u: PRED [-u] – S [-u] PRED [-Ø] – S [-u] PRED [-a] – S [-u] PRED [POSS] – S [-u] PRED [-u] – S [-Ø] PRED [-u] – S [-a] PRED [-u] – S [POSS] S [-u] – PRED [-Ø]


8. Proposal

23 Additionally, a clear counter-example is number (7) with the name-internal ending -a after a preposition. 24 As far as I see, the index in Gelb (1980: 552–653) does not show any additional patterns. 25 The only possible instance of this pattern in my data is a name with a logographic element: SIN-ki-na / Sîn [or] YaraÌ-kina ‘Sîn / YaraÌ is righteous’ (Streck 2000: 274).

32

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S [POSS] – PRED [-a] S [-Ø] – PRED [-a] S [-u] – PRED [-a] S [-u] – PRED [-Ø] S [-a] – PRED [-Ø] S [POSS] – PRED [-Ø] S [-a] – PRED [-Ø]

S [-u] – PRED [-a]

The marking patterns in these charts are not as random as they may seem at first glance. The following rules emerge:

The first two rules (1.a/b) are given in this way in order to capture the slightly problematic pattern PRED [-u] – S [-u] (see 33 above). The solution proposed in this paper is that the marking of a noun in the non-verbal clause of Amorite does not primarily correlate with syntactic function (subject vs. predicative), but with its position and the interaction with the marking of the other clause constituent. The interplay of archaic and innovative features according to this scenario is as follows. An archaic feature of Amorite is, on the one hand, the predicative function of -Ø and -a, the absolute case, which, probably for this reason, does not have mimation (cf. Streck 2000: 260). Amorite, on the other hand, is innovative in that these endings are used as subject (A/S) and genitive, functions it obviously should not have (cf. recently Satzinger 2007: 65). A possible source for the emergence of the system as sketched above is the fact that in Semitic in general, the three endings -u, -Ø and -a are used in predicative function. By analogy with the case -u which basically has subject function (A/S), the endings -Ø and -a could have adopted the A and S functions as well. This may explain the shift from function to position and the concomitant decay of case functions in Amorite. There are exceptions to the rules in (40) that are not captured by them, namely PRED [PP] – S [-a] (cf. 5 above), PRED [-a] – S [POSS] (cf. 32 above), S [-u] – PRED [POSS] and the somewhat uncertain pattern S [POSS] – PRED [-u]. Examples for the latter two patterns are the following:


(40) Marking patterns in non-verbal clauses: 1a: S has any marking after preposed PRED -u. 1b: But if postposed S is -u, preposed PRED can have any marking. 2: Preposed S has any marking in front of PRED -Ø or -a. 3: Preposed PRED has any marking, if S is -Ø.

(41) S [-u] – PRED [POSS]: d Nu-nu-ne?-ri / Nunu-niri ‘Nunu is my light’ (Gelb 1980: 629) Ta-bu-bu-Ìa-aÒ-ni / Tabubu-ÌaÒni ‘Tabubu is my protection’ (ibid.: 643) 33

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(42) S [POSS] – PRED [-u] (?): Îa-li-a-Òi-rum / Îali-‘a∂irum? ‘my maternal uncle is helping(?)’ (Streck 2000: 201, 210) Ti?-im-ri-Ìa-am-mu / Δimri?-‘ammu ‘the paternal uncle is my protection(?)’ (ibid.: 210)

26


It may be that the use of prepositional and possessive phrases allows a rather ‘free’ marking of the other constituent (cf. also the patterns in the table above). Still, the case marking next to a possessive phrase remains problematic. The same applies to the case endings in the verbal clause. Of course, one could assume the marking of its subject was influenced by its form in the non-verbal clause, i.e. by analogy with the nonverbal clause fostered by the fact that there is only one nominal constituent in verbal clauses in Amorite and, therefore, its marking is highly redundant. The lack of conclusive evidence for O is a significant problem in this context. On the other hand, it is rather difficult to give the source for such a development because the simple transfer of noun marking from the non-verbal clause seems problematic. As a working hypothesis, though, it may be acceptable. The Amorite system as sketched here is not wholly typologically isolated. There are languages that show the change of case marking according to position as well as the use of predicative marking instead of subject case.26 In Päri, an ergative Western Nilotic language spoken in southern Sudan, it is possible for a topicalized A to be fronted to the beginning of the sentence losing its ergative inflection in the process (cf. Dixon 1994: 50ff.). In Kolyma Yukaghir, a language genetically isolated or affiliated with the Uralic family that is spoken in Yakutia (Sakha) Republic and in Magadan region, Russia (Maslova 2003:1), S receives predicative marking in focus constructions instead of nominative (ibid.: 89, 91ff.). Granted, these are somewhat problematic parallels in relation to the present context, mainly because topicalization and focus, respectively, are notions that necessarily must be disregarded in connection with Amorite. But it has to be admitted that the possibility of information structure being the source of the Amorite case marking patterns cannot be ruled out completely. But since it is simply not verifiable it is a useless notion in connection with Amorite. Nonetheless, Päri shows that it is possible for a noun to receive its marking according to its position in the clause, whereas Kolyma YukThe reference to the two languages cited below is due to Oliver Wilke, Mar-

burg. 34

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Address for Correspondence: Philipps-Universität Marburg, Centrum für Nah- und Mittelost-Studien, Fachgebiet Semitistik, Deutschhausstr. 12, D-35032, Marburg, Germany REFERENCES Appleyard, D. 1988. ‘The Noun in Agäw’, in M. Bechhaus-Gerst and F. Serzisko (eds), Cushitic – Omotic, Papers from the International Symposium on Cushitic and Omotic Languages, Cologne, January 6–9, 1986 (Hamburg). 357–75 Bußmann, H. (ed.). 2002. Lexikon der Sprachwissenschaft3. (Stuttgart) Charpin, D. 2005/06. Review of Streck (2000), AfO 51, 282–92 Dixon, R.M.W. 1994. Ergativity. (Cambridge studies in linguistics 69. Cambridge) Gelb, I.J. 1961. Old Akkadian Writing and Grammar2. (Materials for the Assyrian Dictionary 2. Chicago) —— 1980. Computer-aided analysis of Amorite (AS 21. Chicago) Hayward, R. 2003. ‘Cushitic’, in S. Uhlig (ed.), Encyclopaedia Aethiopica. Volume 1: A–C (Wiesbaden). 832–9 Knudsen, E.E. 1991. ‘Amorite grammar. A comparative statement’, in A.S. Kaye (ed.), Semitic studies. In Honor of Wolf Leslau. On the Occasion of His Eighty-Fifth Birthday November 14th, 1991. Volume I. (Wiesbaden). 866–85 Kraus, F.R. 1976. ‘Der akkadische Vokativ’, in B.L. Eichler with the assistance of J.W. Heimerdinger and Å.W. Sjöberg (eds), Kramer Anniversary Volume. Cunei-


aghir, in particular, documents the possibility of using predicative marking in subject function.27 There are some areas that certainly need further discussion, for example the problem of mimation which I have not discussed thoroughly in this paper (see Streck’s comments 2000: 259ff.). It cannot simply be dismissed as an Akkadism.28 Another problem that warrants further discussion is the exact relationship between the two endings -Ø and -a. To conclude, Amorite cases have most probably lost their basic meaning to a great extent and cannot be assigned a specific syntactic function anymore, but are rather subject to their position in relation to the other constituent(s) in the clause. The result is a marking pattern that looks highly arbitrary at first. Should this proposal prove to be correct, Amorite with its case ‘system’ as sketched in this paper stands out among the other Semitic languages. Further research, though, especially in view of the heterogeneous cuneiform data at our disposal, is certainly required.

27 This, of course, is also the case in many ergative languages that use zero marking for absolutive case (cf. Dixon 1994 passim). 28 As for mimation, there is no regularity discernible in Eblaite names either (see Krebernik 1988: 31ff.).

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form Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer (AOAT 25, Neukirchen-Vluyn). 293–7 Krebernik, M. 1988. Die Personennamen der Ebla-Texte. Eine Zwischenbilanz (BBVO 7. Berlin) Maslova, E. 2003. A Grammar of Kolyma Yukaghir (Mouton Grammar Library 27. Berlin) Mugnaioni, R. 2000. ‘Note pour servir à une approche de l’Amorrite’, in P. Cassuto and P. Larcher (eds), La Sémitologie, aujourd’hui. Actes de la journée de l’École doctorale de l’Université de Provence du 29 Mai 1997 (Cercle Linguistique d’Aixen-Provence – Travaux 16, Aix-en Provence). 57–65 Sasse, H.-J. 1984. ‘Case in Cushitic, Semitic, and Berber’, in J. Bynon (ed.), Current Progress in Afro-Asiatic Linguistics. Papers of the Third International HamitoSemitic Congress (Amsterdam Studies in the Theory and History of Linguistic Science 28, Amsterdam). 111–26 Satzinger, H. 2007. ‘Absolute state and absolutive case in Afro-Asiatic’, in M. Moriggi (ed.), XII Incontro Italiano di Linguistica Camito-semitica (Afroasiatica). Atti (Medioevo romanzo e orientale. Colloqui 9, Soveria Mannelli [Catanzaro]). 63–9 von Soden, W. 1981. Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. Band III: S-Z. (Wiesbaden) —— 1995. Grundriss der akkadischen Grammatik3, unter Mitarbeit von Werner R. Mayer. (Analecta Orientalia 33, Rome) Streck, M. P. 1998. ‘Das Kasussystem des Amurritischen’, in H. Preissler and H. Stein (eds), Annäherung an das Fremde. XXVI. Deutscher Orientalistentag vom 25. bis 29.9.1995 in Leipzig (ZDMG-Supplement 11, Stuttgart). 113–18 —— 2000. Das amurritische Onomastikon der altbabylonischen Zeit. Band 1: Die Amurriter – Die onomastische Forschung – Orthographie und Phonologie – Nominalmorphologie (AOAT 271/1. Münster). Streck, M. P. and S. Weninger (eds). 2002. Altorientalische und semitische Onomastik (AOAT 296. Münster) Tropper, J. 2000. Ugaritische Grammatik (AOAT 273. Münster) Waltisberg, M. 2002. ‘Zur Ergativitätshypothese im Semitischen’, ZDMG 152, 11–62 Wright, W. 1896. A Grammar of the Arabic Language. Translated from the German of Caspari and edited with Numerous Additions and Corrections. Volume I 3, revised by W. Robertson Smith and M.J. de Goeje. (Cambridge) —— 1898. A Grammar of the Arabic Language. Translated from the German of Caspari and edited with Numerous Additions and Corrections. Volume II 3, revised by W. Robertson Smith and M. J. de Goeje. (Cambridge)

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SYNTAGMEN MIT NACHGESTELLTEM KL IM ALT-, REICHS- UND MITTELARAMÄISCH CHRISTIAN STADEL HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM

The common word kl ‘all, every’, although being widely attested in the Old to Middle Aramaic dialects, has as yet not enjoyed sufficient syntactical treatment. The present article hopes to be a first step in examining its different usages in each dialect as well as presenting a diachronic perspective of these usages. It surveys all those syntagms in each of the mentioned dialects in which kl — mainly with suffixes but also without them — follows a noun and it undertakes to define the grammatical circumstances conditioning them. In comparing the findings for each dialect, the concluding chapter presents their implications for Aramaic dialect geography in general and the evolution of the post-Achaemenid dialects in particular.

Unser Wissen über die alt-, reichs- und mittelaramäischen Dialekte1 hat durch Inschriftenfunde und intensive Forschung stark zugenommen, und für die meisten Textkorpora liegen neuere Editionen und gute, oft rezente Grammatiken vor. Der Teil der Sprache, der vor allem in älteren Publikationen eher stiefmütterlich behandelt wurde, ist die Syntax und Morpho-Syntax. Hier lassen sich durch diachrone Betrachtungen vielfach noch schärfere Beobachtungen treffen, Regelmäßigkeiten herausstellen und Entwicklungen oder Differenzen zwischen den Dialekten aufzeigen.2 Für einen solchen breiten Blickwinkel besonders gut geeignet scheint mir die Syntax des Wörtchens kl, das — häufig verwendet, aber in den Grammatiken relativ wenig beachtet — noch einige Einsichten in die Entwicklung des Aramäischen geben kann. Gegenstand dieses Artikels soll dabei lediglich das Syntagma aus Nomen mit folgendem, oft — jedoch


Abstract

1

Der Terminologie von J.A. Fitzmyer, ‚The Phases of the Aramaic Language’, in idem, A Wandering Aramean: Collected Aramaic Essays (SBL Monograph Series 25, Chico 1979), 57–84 folgend. 2 Ein hervorragendes Beispiel dafür liefert jetzt N. Pat-El, ‚Historical Syntax of Aramaic: A Note on Subordination’, in H. Gzella und M.L. Folmer (Hrsgg.), Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting (VOK 50, Wiesbaden 2008), 55–76. 37

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SYNTAGMEN MIT NACHGESTELLTEM KL

nicht immer — mit Personalsuffix versehenen kl sein, dessen Belege in grob chronologischer Reihenfolge diskutiert und analysiert werden. Dabei werden von Textkorpus zu Textkorpus unterschiedliche Beobachtungen gemacht, die am Schluss zusammengeführt werden. Altaramäisch und Samalisch

3

Die Belege im Alt- und Reichsaramäischen sind D. Schwiderski, Die alt- und reichsaramäischen Inschriften. Bd. I: Konkordanz (Fontes et Subsidia ad Bibliam pertinentes 4, Berlin 2008) entnommen, dessen für diesen Aufsatz relevante Fahnen mir vom Autor vorab zugänglich gemacht wurden, wofür ich ihm herzlich danke. Der Vorteil dieses Werkes gegenüber der Konkordanz B. Porten und J.A. Lund, Aramaic Documents from Egypt: A Key-Word-in-Context Concordance (Winona Lake 2002), die das reichsaramäische Material aus Ägypten erschließt, liegt in der intelligenten, nicht-mechanischen Präsentation des Kontextes, die, soweit dieser sicher ermittelbar ist, immer den ganzen Satzzusammenhang bietet. 4 Belege zusammengestellt in J.A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire2 (BeO 19/A, Rom 1995), 202–3. 5 Zur Lokalisierung der Toponyme vgl. D. Talshir, ‚The Relativity of Geographic Terms: A Re-Investigation of the Problem of Upper and Lower Aram’, JSS 48:2 (2003), 259–85.


Im Altaramäischen, dessen genaue Abgrenzung zum Reichsaramäischen hier offen bleiben kann, da strittige Inschriften wie diejenigen aus Nerab keine Belege von kl liefern, ist das genannte Syntagma nur spärlich belegt.3 In der Inschrift Sefire I (KAI 222A:4) finden wir: w‘dy Ìb[wr](5)w ‘m ’rm klh w‘m mÒr w‘m bnwh ‚und die Vereinbarungen der Îab[uru] mit ganz Aram und mit MiÒr und mit seinen Söhnen’. Es sei vermerkt, dass kl hier einem Landesnamen folgt. In der nächsten Zeile wird derselbe Inhalt, ‚ganz Aram’, anders formuliert. kl steht in der Regel in Sefire voran:4 KAI 222A:5 w[‘m mlky(?)](6) kl ‘ly ’rm wtÌth ‚und [mit den Königen von] ganz Ober-Aram und seinem unteren Teil’.5 Alle übrigen Belege des Syntagmas stammen aus der Tell-Fekheriye Inschrift (KAI 309). Sie stehen im ersten Teil der Inschrift in Titeln, die inhaltliche Parallelen im akkadischen Text haben. In diesem wird aber die entsprechende Konstruktion nicht benutzt, soweit die meist geschriebenen Ideogramme diesen Schluss zulassen. Es sind belegt: wntn r‘y (3) wmsqy lmt kln ‚und Geber von Weide und Bewässerung für alle Bezirke’, wntn slh w’dqwr (4) lˆlhyn klm ’Ìwh ‚und Geber von Ruhe und Schmalkost allen Göttern, seinen Brüdern’, (4) gwgl nhr klm ‚Kontrolleur aller Wasserläufe’ und m‘dn (5) mt kln ‚Fruchtbar-Macher aller Bezirke’.

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6

E. Lipinski, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics, Bd. II (OLA 57, Leuven 1994), 54–6.77–8; idem, ‚Aramaic Broken Plurals in the Wider Semitic Context’, in Gzella / Folmer, Aramaic, 27–40 optiert hingegen für eine Lesung der Formen als gebrochene Plurale, St.E. Fassberg, ‚Kollektivnomen im Altaramäischen’, in A. Maman, St.E. Fassberg und Y. Breuer (Hrsgg.), Sha’arei Lashon: Studies in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Jewish Languages in Honor of Moshe Bar-Asher. Bd. II: Rabbinic Hebrew and Aramaic (Jerusalem 2007), 426–34 (heb.) für Kollektivnomen. 7 Die spätere Konstruktion aus formal determiniertem Nomen mit folgendem kl mit Suffix ist dagegen hyperdeterminiert. Dass diese Hyperdetermination in Tell Fekheriye noch nicht vorliegt, mag auf die zeitliche Nähe der Inschrift zur Einführung des Artikels im Aramäischen zurückzuführen sein. 8 St.A. Kaufman, ‚Reflections on the Assyrian-Aramaic Bilingual From Tell Fakhariyeh’, Maarav 3:2 (1982), 149. 9 R. Degen, Altaramäische Grammatik der Inschriften des 10.-8. Jh. v. Chr. (Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 38:3, Wiesbaden 1969), 83. Dies war kein Proprium des Aramäischen, sondern gilt wohl auch im Moabitischen (ˆlhn im MarzeaÌ-Papyrus, vgl. auch die Überlegungen zur Form in P. Bordreuil und D. Pardee, ‚Le papyrus du marzeaÌ’, Semitica 38 [1990], 49–68, hier 52–3) und vielleicht im Ammonitischen (ˆlm in der Amman-Zitadelleninschrift KAI 307:6). 10 So etwa B7.1:8 kl yrÌn wsnn ‚alle Monate und Jahre’; A4.7:16 kl gbryn (17) zy b‘w ‚alle Männer, die wollten’, letzteres aus einem Brief, die Konstruktion war also kein Proprium der Urkunden. Dies zeigen auch die Belege aus Qumran, etwa 1QGenAp 20:6 kl btwln ‚alle Jungfrauen’; 4QEnc 1 v 7 kwl ’ylnyn ‚alle Bäume’ (Nebenbei weist deren Existenz wiederum auf die Nähe des Qumran- zum Reichsaramäischen; auch das Galiläische ererbte diese Konstruktion, H. Odeberg, The Aramaic Portions of Bereshit Rabba with Grammar of Galilæan Aramaic, Bd. II Short Grammar of Galilæan Aramaic [Lunds Universitets Årsskrift 36:4, Lund 1939], 76, §335; J. Lund, ‚A Descriptive Syntax of the Non-Translational Passages According to Codex Neofiti 1’ [heb.], unveröffentlichte M.A.-Arbeit [Hebräische Universität Jerusalem 1981], 42). Ist das Phänomen im Reichsaramäischen durchaus mit demjenigen aus Tell Fekheriye vergleichbar, so gilt dies kaum für eine formal ähnliche Konstruktion der sprachlich enigmatischen Asoka-Inschrift KAI 279. Der Vollständigkeit halber sei aber darauf verwiesen, dass dort dreimal (2.4.8) klhm ’nsn ‚alle Menschen’ neben der morphologisch determinierten Form (7) klhm ’nsyˆ erscheint. In der Bukan-Inschrift KAI 320:2 finden sich in der Phrase [k]l mh mwtnˆ


Ungewöhnlich sind diese Formen aus mehreren Gründen. Es fällt auf, dass in allen vier Fällen das Bezugswort jeweils formal indeterminiert ist. Nicht nur das, es steht auch mit Ausnahme des zweiten Belegs immer im Singular.6 Die Gründe hierfür sind unklar, mögen aber darin zu suchen sein, dass das nachgestellte kl mit Suffix jeweils die Information über Mehrzahl wie Determiniertheit des Nomens schon enthält, dieses also logisch determiniert ist und im Plural steht.7 Angesichts der Form ’lhyn klm könnte die Markierung des Plurals dann optional gewesen sein.8 Dasselbe Wort, ’lhyn, ist im Altaramäischen als inhärent determiniert anzusehen.9 Für fehlende formale Determination von Nomen im Plural nach kl liefert das Reichsaramäische aus Ägypten zusätzliche Beispiele.10 Ein weiterer Grund für

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Neben diesen altaramäischen sei noch auf zwei Belege im Samalischen der Inschrift Panamuwa II (KAI 215) hingewiesen. Im Gegensatz zu zwei anderen Belegen mit voran stehendem kl erscheint das Wort hierbei jeweils am Satzende, worauf Tropper hinweist:15 (17) wbkyth mÌnt mr’h mlk ’swr klh ‚und es beweinte ihn das Lager seines Herrn, des Königs von ganz Assur’ sowie (18) wbk](19)yh byth klh ‚und es bewein]te ihn sein ganzes Haus’. Im ersten Falle ist das Bezugswort von klh unklar. Ist es Assur, wie in unserer Übersetzung, oder das ganze Lager? Die schon fast formelhafte Verwendung von ’twr klh im Aramäisch der ägyptischen Papyri lässt mich ersteres vermuten. kl steht im Samalischen auch Genitivverbindungen voran (KAI 215:22), und bezöge es sich auf das Lager, wäre eine solche Voranstellung zu erwarten gewesen, anstatt kl erst der dem nomen ‚[jed]wede Seuche’ auch ungewöhnliche Determinationsverhältnisse, jedoch unter umgekehrten Vorzeichen. Die Stelle ist wohl zu emendieren. 11 Kaufman, ‚Reflections’, 153. 12 J. Tropper, Die Inschriften von Zincirli: Neue Edition und vergleichende Grammatik des phönizischen, samalischen und aramäischen Textkorpus (ALASP 6, Münster 1993), 234–5; auch Lipinski, Studies, II 56. 13 A. Lemaire, Nouvelles tablettes araméennes (École pratique des hautes études, sciences historiques et philologiques 2, Genf 2001), 58. 14 Nach E. Lipinski, ‚New Aramaic Clay Tablets’, BiOr 59:3–4 (2002), 255 wäre jedoch klh nicht zu lesen! 15 Tropper, Inschriften, 234–5.


die formale Indeterminiertheit der Nomen, nicht jedoch für die fehlende Pluralmarkierung, mag auch im akkadischen und daher artikellosen Formular der Titel zu suchen sein. Wie auch immer die Besonderheiten der voran stehenden Nomina zu erklären sind, so ist doch auffällig, dass kl in dieser Inschrift immer nachgestellt ist, entgegen den Gepflogenheiten der anderen altaramäischen Inschriften. Kaufman wollte hierfür akkadischen Einfluss geltend machen,11 was von Tropper zurückgewiesen wurde.12 Dass kl gerade in den aus dem Akkadischen übernommenen Titeln erscheint und in der Nähe akkadischer Lehnwörter (mt und gwgl) anzusiedeln ist lässt es ratsam erscheinen, diese Möglichkeit zumindest nicht entschieden abzulehnen. Belege aus späteren Sprachschichten können evtl. helfen, diese Frage zu klären. Wie die Tell Fekheriye-Inschrift stammt auch ein Tontäfelchen mit aramäischer Inschrift (ca. 7. Jh.v.Chr.)13 aus der Habur-Region, weshalb es hier angeführt sei. Auf dessen Zeilen 5 und 6 verso findet sich ein weiterer Beleg von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix:14 ’Ìz br (6) ’Ì spr spr’ klh ‚Ahaz, Sohn des Ah, schrieb die ganze Inschrift’.

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Reichsaramäisch Die Verwendungsweisen von kl im reichsaramäischen Textkorpus aus Ägypten sind schon ausführlich beschrieben worden,17 wenn auch Präzisierungen hier und da noch möglich sind. Nachgestellt erscheint das Wort in drei Formen: als kl’, verbunden mit Personalsuffixen und im st. abs. kl. Die Endung der Form kl’ ist entweder als st. emph. oder Adverbialendung -a aufgefasst worden.18 Die Form ist in zwei unterschiedli16 Auch in der Tell Fekheriye-Inschrift (4) l’lhyn klm ’Ìwh steht kl vor der Apposition, und nicht erst nach dieser. 17 Vgl. J.A. Fitzmyer, ‚The Syntax of ‫כל‬, ‫כלא‬, “All” in Aramaic Texts from Egypt and in Biblical Aramaic’, in idem, Wandering Aramean, 205–17; T. Muraoka und B. Porten, A Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic2 (HdO 32, Leiden 2003), 246–9; M.L. Folmer, The Aramaic Language in the Achaemenid Period: A Study in Linguistic Variation (OLA 68, Leuven 1995), 116–18.684. Die Texte werden zitiert nach B. Porten und A. Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt: Newly Copied, Edited and Translated into Hebrew and English. Bd. A: Letters. Bd. B: Contracts. Bd. C: Literature — Accounts — Lists. Bd. D: Ostraca and Assorted Inscriptions (Jerusalem 1986–99). 18 Für die erste Möglichkeit: Fitzmyer, ‚Syntax’, 214; E. Vogt, Lexicon linguae aramaicae Veteris Testamenti documentis antiquis illustratum (Rom 1971), 83; K. Beyer, Die aramäischen Texte vom Toten Meer samt den Inschriften aus Palästina, dem Testament Levis aus der Kairoer Genisa, der Fastenrolle und den alten talmudischen Zitaten, Bd. I (Göttingen 1984), 606. Für die zweite: J.A. Montgomery, ‚Adverbial kúlla in Biblical Aramaic’, JAOS 43 (1923), 391–5; P. Leander, Laut- und Formenlehre des Ägyptisch-Aramäischen (Göteborg Högskolas Årsskrift 34, Göteborg 1928), 39–40; Muraoka / Porten, Grammar, 93.


rectum folgenden Apposition nachzustellen.16 Für die Analyse des reichsaramäischen ’twr klh wichtig festzuhalten ist jedenfalls, dass ihm offensichtlich samalisches ’swr klh genau entspricht, wo der letzte Buchstabe sicher keinen Artikel, sondern entweder ein Suffix (so Tropper, Inschriften, 234–5), oder eine Adverbial-/Akkusativendung -a bezeichnet. Für das Altaramäische bleibt zu konstatieren, dass, außer in der Inschrift aus Tell Fekheriye, die Syntagmen mit voran gestelltem kl bei weitem überwiegen, was auch die beiden samalischen Belege, wollte man sie diesem Korpus zurechnen, nicht änderten. Die Datenbasis ist zwar äußerst schmal, könnte aber auch im Sinne einer geographischen Verteilung der beiden Konstruktionen gedeutet werden. Nachgestelltes kl mit Suffix erscheint im Osten, in der Habur-Region (Tell Fekheriye und das Tontäfelchen), voran stehendes im Westen.

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19

In A4.7:29 kl’ mly’ ‚alle Worte’ steht kl’ vor seinem Bezugswort, was ich aber mit Fitzmyer, ‚Syntax’, 212 als Fehler interpretieren möchte. Folmer, Language, 584f. hat weitere Indizien dafür zusammengetragen, dass der Schreiber dieses Teils des Briefes unsicher im Gebrauch des Wortes war. 20 Aufzählung: A4.7:12bis; A4.8:22; A6.15:17; A4.8:26, wo kl’ aber auch als Apposition zu yhwdyˆ verstanden werden könnte (eine Liste geht auch den Belegen in A6.2:13.17 in zerstörtem Kontext voraus, die ebenso verstanden werden könnten, vgl. Folmer, Language, 585 Anm. 1190); Relativsatz: A4.7:30; A4.8:16; erweiterte Genitivverbindung: A4.7:11; A4.8:10. 21 Folmer, Language, 585 hatte zuerst diese Verwendung herausgestellt. 22 E.Y. Kutscher, ‚Aramaic’, in idem (Hrsgg. Z. Ben-Îayyim et al.), Hebrew and Aramaic Studies (Jerusalem 1977), 90–155, hier 107 kategorisiert die Formel als östliches Reichsaramäisch. 23 Die Parallelversion weicht in diesem Satz auch an anderen Stellen ab. 24 Alle drei Korpora werden für gutes Reichsaramäisch gehalten. J.C. Greenfield, ‚The Dialects of Early Aramaic’, JNES 37:2 (1978), 93–9, hier 97–8 erkannte in den Urkunden jedoch eine konservativere Sprache, die Züge des standardisierten westlichen Altaramäisch bewahrte. Könnte dies die abweichende Syntax erklären? 25 Vgl. auch lhn klhn pry ‚ihnen allen Frucht’ in D1.17fragb:9. Hieße das erste Wort jedoch ‚aber’, wäre das Syntagma ein anderes. 26 Folmer, Language, 117, Anm. 542.


chen Funktionen belegt.19 Die erste ist resumptiv, wobei kl’ einem längeren Subjekt oder Objekt20 folgt und dieses vor dem Verb wieder aufnimmt und bündelt.21 Illustriert sei dies durch folgendes Beispiel: A4.7:11f w’Ìrn zy tmh (12) hwh kl’ b’sh srpw ‚und das Übrige, das dort war, alles verbrannten sie im Feuer’. Daneben steht kl’ auch in Apposition zu determinierten Nomina, meist solchen im Plural, wie in A3.3:12: slm ’mk wynqy’ kl’ ‚Das Wohl deiner Mutter und aller Kinder’. Bündelnde Funktion vor dem Verb könnte dabei in der stereotypen Grußformel slm (XY) ’lhy’ kl’ ys’lw ‚Wohlergehen fordern alle Götter’ (ähnlich A3.10:1; A3.5:1; A3.9:1 und evtl. D6.13fraga:2)22 und deutlicher bei nsy bytn kl’ ’[bdw ‚alle Frauen unseres Hauses gi[ngen verloren’ in A6.11:2 vorliegen, wo das Wort einer Genitivverbindung folgt. Mit einem Nomen im Singular steht kl’ nur in der formelhaften Verbindung ’twr kl’ ‚ganz Assyrien’ in der Ahiqar-Rahmenerzählung (C1.1:43.61.H1). Ein möglicher Beleg mit einem Demonstrativpronomen in A4.8:29 ist rekonstruiert.23 Bemerkenswert ist, dass kl’ nur in den Briefen und der Ahiqar-Rahmenerzählung vorkommt, nicht jedoch in den Urkunden.24 Als Apposition erscheint kl auch mit Personalsuffixen, so deutlich in den Ahiqarsprüchen C1.1:102 ’nt klk kbn ‚du bist ganz Dornen’.25 Die mehrdeutige Form klh in A2.1:4 und A3.3:6 möchte ich mit Folmer ebenfalls als suffigiert auffassen,26 wenn auch das Bezugswort

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27

In C3.8IIIB:10, D23.1.VI:5 und D23.1.Vb:4 ist aufgrund des fragmentarischen Kontextes nicht entscheidbar, ob die Form mit Suffix als Apposition dient. 28 Folmer, Language, 116–18. 29 Folmer, Language, 117. 30 Ähnlich Muraoka / Porten, Grammar, 248. 31 Als st. emph. endbetont, adverbial nicht? 32 Das Bibelhebräische bietet in Ezek. 36:5 eine interessante Parallele, ebenfalls mit einem Toponym. ’dwm kl’ ‚ganz Edom’ (die Form mit ’ ist hapax legomenon) erscheint in vielen Handschriften als ’dwm klh. 33 So in C1.1H:1; C1.1:43 deutlich aus der Verbform ersichtlich. 34 So ungewöhnlich dies auf dem ersten Blick erscheinen mag, ist es doch nicht einmalig; auch im neusüdarabischen Mehri wird kull mit determinierten Sg.- und Pl.-Nomen unterschiedlich konstruiert, dem Sg.-Nomen steht kull mit Suffix nach, dem Pl.-Nomen bares kull, E. Wagner, Syntax der Mehri-Sprache unter Berücksichtigung auch der anderen neusüdarabischen Sprachen (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Institut für Orientforschung, Veröffentlichung Nr. 13, Berlin 1953), 76 und umfassender zu der östlichen Dialektgruppe J.C.E. Watson, ‚Anne-


in einiger Entfernung steht, also keine Apposition vorliegt.27 In allen anderen Fällen (A2.1:12; B2.6:19; B3.5:20; C1.1:12.55) ist die Form klh sowohl als suffigierte Form als auch als orthographische Variante von kl’ interpretierbar. Folmer hat das Für und Wider in allen Fällen sauber abgewogen,28 eine sichere Entscheidung ist aber nie möglich. Festgehalten werden sollte jedoch zweierlei. Die Form ’twr klh (C1.1:12) neben ’twr kl’ (C1.1:43) in einem Dokument, in dem der Artikel sonst immer mit ’ geschrieben ist,29 deutet an, dass beide Formen — obwohl funktional äquivalent — vom Schreiber unterschiedlich aufgefasst wurden,30 oder dass ’/h hier eben nicht den Artikel bezeichnete. Außerdem fällt auf, dass die Form klh nur nach Nomen im Singular steht, kl’ — von der erwähnten Ausnahme abgesehen — nur nach Nomen im Plural. Wenn diese Verteilung nicht zufällig ist, könnte sie auf eine Reanalyse der Form kl’ hindeuten. Das erst mit allen Nomen als Apposition verwendete kull0/kúlla31 wurde wegen der lautlichen Ähnlichkeit im Laufe der Zeit nach femininen Nomen im Singular als kl mit Suffix kullah/kullaha aufgefasst. Das Syntagma würde sich dann von dort auch auf maskuline Nomen ausgedehnt haben. Ebenso möglich, und vielleicht die beste Erklärung der Verteilung, wäre, dass kl’ mit Nomen im Plural und kl mit Suffix nach Nomen im Singular ursprünglicher Sprachgebrauch war, und in ’twr kl’ eine kontaminierte bzw. reanalysierte Form vorliegt.32 Der Name eines Reiches, wenn auch grammatisch im Singular,33 weckt doch zumindest die Assoziation vieler Menschen und Provinzen und könnte so die Ausnahme erklären. Demnach wären Nomen im Singular und solche im Plural unterschiedlich konstruiert worden, es läge ein gespaltenes Paradigma vor.34

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xion, Attribution and Genitives in Mahriyyot’, in idem und J. Retsö (Hrsgg.), Relative Clauses and Genitive Constructions in Semitic: Typology and Diachrony (JSS Suppl. 25, Oxford 2009), 229–44, nur selten findet sich eine Form kull mit Suffix nach Pl.-Nomen. 35 P. Joüon, ‚Notes grammaticales, lexicographiques et philologiques sur les papyrus araméens d’Égypte’, MUSJ 18 (1934), 1–90, hier 49. 36 Im Falle von A4.7:27 könnten die beiden Versionen aber auch ein unterschiedliches Textverständnis widerspiegeln. Gefolgt von einem bestimmenden Relativsatz steht nämlich im übrigen Korpus der reichsaramäischen Texte aus Ägypten immer kl (ausgenommen ein Beleg mit kl’ in A4.8:29, in der anderen Version fehlt das Wort an dieser Stelle jedoch). Möglich wäre demnach, dass A4.7:27 ’nÌnh wnsyn wbnyn wyhwdy’ (27) kl zy tnh ‚wir und Frauen und Kinder und die Juden, alle die hier sind’ zu übersetzen ist, während in A4.8:26, wo kl’ statt kl steht, ‚wir und Frauen und Kinder und alle Juden, die hier sind’ gemeint war. Nicht-jüdische Bewohner von Syene wären also ausgeschlossen, der Text in A4.8 inhaltlich besser als in A4.7. Die Verwendung von kl als idiosynkratisch zu erklären, ist jedoch ebenso möglich. 37 Folmer, Language, 584–5.


Im Gegensatz zu nachgestelltem kl’ und kl mit Suffix ist kl im st. abs. nur selten belegt. Verwendet wird es wie kl’, was zu der Vermutung Anlass gab, kl sei in diesen Fällen nur eine defektive Schreibung letzterer Form.35 Anderseits hat Folmer herausgearbeitet, dass die Belege von nachgestelltem kl in der Briefversion A4.7 (Z. 14.17.27) sich alle in dem Teil finden, den der zweite Schreiber niederschrieb. Dies deute dann darauf hin, dass der Schreiber im Gebrauch des Wortes kl’ unsicher war.36 Der Schreiber der zweiten Version setzte in diesen Fällen jeweils kl’. Nimmt man dieselbe Konstruktion in der festen Grußformel A3.7:1 ’lhy’ kl ys’lw slmky hinzu, so erwägt Folmer, könne die appositionelle Verwendung von kl womöglich ein Proprium der weniger formellen Sprache sein.37 Das Syntagma scheint jedenfalls eine Nebenform zu sein, sei es eine idiosynkratische, sei es eine aus der gesprochenen Sprache. Im Reichsaramäischen der ägyptischen Texte — Schriftzeugen anderen Ursprungs bieten keine Belege — lassen sich demnach folgende Verwendungsweisen von nachstehendem kl nachweisen. kl’ folgt determinierten Nomen im Plural oder Aufzählungen oder längeren Nominalphrasen. Außerdem ist es in der Verbindung ’twr kl’ ‚ganz Assyrien’ belegt. kl mit rückweisendem Personalsuffix folgt dagegen meist, vielleicht ausschließlich, Nomen im Singular. Die Buchstabenfolge klh, nur nach Nomen im Singular belegt, lässt sich allerdings auf zwei Arten deuten: als orthographische Variante zu kl’ oder als suffigierte Form. Ist sie ersteres, wäre kl’ auch nach Nomen im Singular verwendet worden. Nachgestelltes kl, in wenigen Fällen wie kl’ benutzt, mag eine idiosynkratische oder weniger formelle Vari-

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Bibelaramäisch Das Bibelaramäische, zwar grob dem Reichsaramäischen zuzurechnen, aber doch mit einigen Abweichungen von der Sprache der ägyptischen Texte, kennt nur die Verwendung von kl im st. constr. mit folgendem Nomen. Die einzige Ausnahme begegnet in der Grußformel eines Briefes in Ezra 5:7 ldryws mlkˆ slm’ kl’ ‚Darius, dem König, alles Heil’. Dieser Beleg von appositionellem kl’ wurde mit den Syntagmen der ägyptischen Papyri verglichen.40 Hier folgt kl’ aber deutlich einem Nomen im Singular, wenn auch einem Abstraktum.41 38

Da der Artikel mit ’ geschrieben wird, ist eine Form im st. emph. ausgeschlossen, außerdem ist das Samalische artikellos. 39 Der Ausdruck ’rm klh aus Sfire mag dann wiederum dieses Formular anklingen lassen. Ebenfalls vermutet wurde, dass griechisches koílj Suría auf kl ’swr oder ’rm klh zurückzuführen ist, vgl. Talshir, ‚Relativity’, 282–4 für eine Zusammenfassung der Diskussion. 40 Montgomery, ‚Adverbial kúlla’; Fitzmyer, ‚Syntax’, 213. Dagegen D. Schwiderski, Handbuch des nordwestsemitischen Briefformulars: Ein Beitrag zur Echtheitsfrage der aramäischen Briefe des Esrabuches (BZAW 295, Göttingen 2000), 366–7. 41 Schwiderski, Handbuch, 305–22 führt den Einwortgruß slm, das Grußformular der aramäischen Briefe aus hellenistischer Zeit, auf Einfluss des entsprechenden griechischen Formulars zurück. Zur nur in Ezra 5:7 belegten abweichenden Form slm’ kl’ sieht er Parallelen in griechischen Grußformeln mit adverbieller Erweiterung, aus chronologischen Gründen besonders mit pollà xaírein, dessen adverbielle Form


ante jener Form gewesen sein. Neben diesen nachstehenden sind etwa gleich häufig auch Konstruktionen mit voran stehendem kl mit determinierten Nomen im Singular und Plural belegt. Diese begegnen aber fast ausschließlich in den Urkunden, Abrechnungen und Listen. Die Verteilung könnte also registerspezifisch bedingt sein. Weitet man den Blickwinkel und fragt, wie der Befund im Altaramäischen sich zu dem im Reichsaramäischen verhält, so zeigen sich Gemeinsamkeiten, aber auch deutliche Unterschiede. Beiden Sprachstufen gemein ist, dass im Altaramäischen fast immer, im Reichsaramäischen noch sehr häufig kl einem determinierten Nomen voran steht, nicht ihm folgt. Nachgestelltes kl’ findet sich im Altaramäischen in dieser Orthographie nicht. Immerhin ließe sich klh im Altaramäischen und Samalischen als eine Form mit Adverbialendung -a deuten,38 obwohl es gemeinhin einfach als suffigierte Form angesehen wird. Auffällig ist, dass auch im Samalischen die Wendung ’swr klh ‚ganz Assyrien’ begegnet. Sie könnte feststehend gewesen sein.39 Die Verwendung von kl mit Suffixen nach Nomen im Plural, wie sie in Tell Fekheriye begegnet, findet im Reichsaramäischen keine Parallele.

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Appositionelles kl mit Suffix ist nicht belegt. Die klare Bevorzugung von vorangestelltem kl teilt das Bibelaramäische mit dem Altaramäischen und den Urkunden aus Ägypten, wie auch dem Bibelhebräischen. Zum Reichsaramäischen der ägyptischen Briefe mit seinem nachgestellten kl’ knüpft nur der Beleg in Ezra 5:7 ein zartes Band. Qumran-Aramäisch

auch lautlich an kolla anklingt. kl’ wäre damit gut als adverbielle Ergänzung zum Einwortgruß erklärt und die Interferenz könnte für die ungewöhnliche Syntax verantwortlich sein. Unerläutert bleiben dann aber die unterschiedlichen Determinationsverhältnisse. Ein adverbielles kl’ hätte doch einfach an den st. abs. slm des Standardformulars angehängt werden können. Steht in diesem Fall slm’ im st. emph. weil das folgende kl’ diesen verlangt — so zumindest nach Ausweis des Aramäischen der ägyptischen Papyri — ist wohl davon auszugehen, dass kl’ hier kein Adverb, sondern ein Nomen mit Artikel in Apposition ist. Eine eigenständige Entwicklung scheint dann wahrscheinlicher als griechischer Einfluss, und die Syntax kann nicht auf solchen zurückgeführt werden. 42 Belege wurden den offiziellen Editionen der Texte in der Serie ‚Discoveries in the Judaean Desert’ entnommen, das Material des Bandes 37 jedoch D.W. Parry und E. Tov (Hrsgg.), The Dead Sea Scrolls Reader, 6 Bde (Leiden 2004–5), Material aus dem Genesis Apokryphon J.A. Fitzmyer, The Genesis Apocryphon of Qumran Cave 1 (1Q20): A Commentary3 (BeO 18/B, Rom 2004) und solches aus dem Henochbuch J.T. Milik, The Books of Enoch – Aramaic Fragments of Qumrân Cave 4 (Oxford 1976). Erschlossen ist das Material auch durch das Wörterbuch in Beyer, Texte. 43 Belege mit Nomen im Sg.: 1QGenAp 3:9; 11:12; 19:10 (Fitzmyer, Genesis Apocryphon, 98 liest hier kwl’, Beyer, Texte, I 172 dagegen kwlh’, was auch ich ansetze); 4QEng 1 v 21; 4QEnastrb 6 8; 5QNJ 2 3; 4QNJa 3 iii 19. Mit Nomen im Pl.: 1QGenAp 12:13; 13:10; 22:19; 4QEna 1 ii 9; 4QEnd 2 i 29. 44 Belege mit Nomen im Sg.: 1QGenAp 10:13; 16:10; 4QEng 1 iv 20f; 4QEnastrb 2 ii 5; 8 2. Mit Nomen im Pl.: 1QGenAp 12:10; 4QEna 1 ii 4; 4QEnc 1 i 28. 45 Alle Belege von kl’/kwl’ in diesem Textkorpus sind deutlich nominal, das ’ markiert immer den bestimmten Artikel und das Wort steht nie in Apposition zu einem anderen Nomen. Lediglich in 4QTobc 1 6 ]bkl dy ’mr ’lh[’ kl]’ yt’yyt[’ könnte


Im Aramäischen der literarischen Texte aus Qumran überwiegt bei determinierten Nomen im Sg. wie Pl. deutlich die Konstruktion mit vorangestelltem kl.42 Ebenso kann jedoch kl mit Suffix einem determinierten Nomen nachstehen,43 und es ist sogar die kombinierte Konstruktion sowohl mit vorangestelltem als auch mit folgendem kl mit Suffix belegt.44 Beispielhaft sei hier jeweils ein Beleg zitiert: 1QGenAp 3:9 ‘l ’r‘’ kwlh’‚ auf der ganzen Erde’ für die erste, und 1QGenAp 10:13 ‘l kwl ’r‘’ kwlh’ ‚auf der ganzen Erde überhaupt’ für die zweite Konstruktion. Nicht belegt sind jedoch appositionelles kl’ oder gar kl.45

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an die einen Relativsatz als Objekt vor dem Verb bündelnde Funktion von kl’ — aus dem Reichsaramäischen bekannt — gedacht werden. Die Satzgrenze verläuft aber wohl zwischen Relativsatz und kl’, so dass ‚an alles, was Got[t] sagte. [All]es wird sich ereign[en’ zu übersetzen ist, die genannte Funktion mithin nicht vorliegt. 46 Nebenbei kann die Tendenz des Qumran-Aramäischen, mit dem Wort ’r‘’ nachgestelltes kl mit Suffix zu verwenden, einen Schreibfehler im masoretischen Text von Dan. 4:32 erklären helfen. Dort steht wkl d’ry ’r‘’ klh Ìsybyn, was eigentlich nur als ‚und alle Bewohner der Erde sind wie nicht gerechnet’ verstanden werden kann, weshalb klh stets zu kl’ ‚wie nicht’ emendiert wird. Ein mit aramäischer Literatur wie derjenigen aus Qumran vertrauter Abschreiber wird aber bei der Konsonantenfolge ’r‘’ kl’ unwillkürlich an das häufige ’r‘’ klh ‚die ganze Erde’ gedacht und dann vielleicht den vermeintlichen Rechtschreibfehler „korrigiert“ haben. 47 Zwar sieht Vogt, Lexicon, 83 in der Phrase kl zy ’yty lh ‘l ’npy ’r‘’ klh im reichsaramäischen B2.6:19–20 die gleiche Konstruktion, nahe liegender scheint mir aber, dass sich klh dort nur auf ’r‘’ bezieht. 48 Ch. Stadel, Hebraismen in den aramäischen Texten vom Toten Meer (Schriften der Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg 11, Heidelberg 2008), 24–5.


Die Verwendung von Nomen mit folgendem kl mit Suffix oder der kombinierten Klammerkonstruktion erfolgt überdurchschnittlich häufig, wenn das betreffende Nomen, wie in unseren Beispielen, ’r‘’ ‚die Erde/das Land’ ist. Je etwa die Hälfte aller Belege dieser beiden Konstruktionen (mit Nomen im Sg.) zeigt dieses Wort, wohingegen nur etwa ein Achtel der Belege von kl mit folgendem Nomen im Sg. auf selbiges Wort entfällt. Was immer die Gründe für diese Tendenz sein mögen — man könnte an Einfluss des phrasenhaften ’twr klh des Reichsaramäischen denken — so stellt sie doch deutlich einen kleinen Unterschied zum Bibelaramäischen dar, wo auch ’r‘’ immer mit vorangestelltem kl konstruiert wird.46 Die Konstruktion mit voran stehendem sowie nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix erscheint hier erstmals im Aramäischen.47 Sie ist auch sechsmal im Bibelhebräischen belegt, kann aber kaum als von dort entlehnt bezeichnet werden.48 Bedingungen für die Verwendung der Konstruktion konnte ich nicht finden; dies wohl auch deshalb, weil sie sehr selten ist. Sie erscheint als Subjekt (4QEna 1 ii 4), meist aber als Objekt eines Satzes (4QEnc 1 i 28), und kann nur ein Nomen (4QEng iv 20–1), jedoch auch Nominalphrasen (Nomen mit Demonstrativpronomen: 4QEnastrb 8 2; constructus-Verbindung: 1QGenAp 16:10) umfassen. Bemerkenswert ist ein Beleg in 4QEng 1 iv 20: lkwl bny ’r‘’ klh ‚allen Menschen der ganzen Welt’. Das Suffix des appositionellen klh kann sich offensichtlich nur auf das nomen rectum ’r‘’ beziehen, nicht auf die ganze constructus-Verbindung. Möglicherweise irrte aber das Auge des Kopisten zum Ausdruck kwl ’r‘’ kwlh am Ende derselben Zeile, und es liegt lediglich ein Abschreibfehler vor. Ein ähnlicher Fall, ohne dass allerdings Gründe für einen

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Jüdisch-Palästinisch und Nabatäisch der Schriftfunde aus der Wüste Juda Urkunden in jüdischer Schrift aus der Zeit des Zweiten Jüdischen Aufstandes, aus verschiedenen Grabungsstellen in der Judäischen Wüste nahe dem Toten Meer, liefern einige wenige weitere Belege für Syntagmen mit nachgestelltem kl.52 Das Syntagma mit Suffix 49 Mit L.T. Stuckenbruck in É. Puech (Hrsg.), Qumrân Grotte 4 XXII: Textes araméens, première partie, 4Q529–549 (DJD 31, Oxford 2001), 28. 50 Zumindest dreigliedrige constructus-Verbindungen mit kl als zweitem Wort wie 1QGenAp 10:10 mlk kwl ‘lmy’ ‚König aller Ewigkeiten’ oder 4QEnastrd 1 i 4 ‘ly kwl ’ylny’ ‚die Blätter aller Bäume’ sind jedoch belegt. 51 Etwa ein Sechstel bis Fünftel aller Belege von kl mit Singularnomen sind nachgestellt, aber nur ein Vierzehntel aller Belege mit Pluralnomen. 52 Material veröffentlicht in H.M. Cotton und A. Yardeni (Hrsgg.), Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek Documentary Texts from NaÌal Îever and other Sites with an Appendix Containing Alleged Qumran Texts (The Seiyâl Collection II) (DJD 27, Oxford


Kopistenfehler ersichtlich wären, findet sich wohl in der Phrase bkl [‘‘y] prds’ dn klh ‚an allen [Bäumen] dieses ganzen Gartens’, die aus 4QEnGiantsb 8 6 und 6QEnGiants 2 3 zusammengestellt werden kann.49 Sollte in diesen Belegen aber beabsichtigt gewesen sein, dezidiert beide Nomen mit kl zu modifizieren, ist die Klammerkonstruktion verständlich. Ein hypothetisches *kwl bny kwl ’r‘’ hätte wohl zu sperrig geklungen und konnte durch das nachgestellte kl mit Suffix vermieden werden.50 Wo kl jedoch keine constructus-Verbindung, sondern nur ein einzelnes Nomen umklammert, greift diese Erklärung nicht. Generell unterscheiden die Möglichkeiten der Klammerkonstruktion und des nachgestellten kl mit Suffix die Syntax dieses Wörtchens im Qumran-Aramäischen vom Bibelaramäischen. Wie auch in allen zuvor besprochenen Sprachstufen werden aber determinierte Nomen im Qumran-Aramäischen häufiger mit vorangestelltem kl konstruiert als mit nachgestelltem. Auffallend — und bei der vorhandenen großen Datenmenge wohl kaum Zufall — ist, dass Nomen im Plural seltener mit nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix konstruiert werden als solche im Singular.51 Dieser Befund lässt sich mit demjenigen aus den reichsaramäischen ägyptischen Papyri verknüpfen, wo Nomen im Plural entweder mit voran gestelltem kl oder mit nachgestelltem kl’ vorkommen, nicht jedoch mit nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix. Hier wie dort mag der Grund darin gelegen haben, dass kl mit den schweren Pluralsuffixen vermieden werden sollte.

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1997) und J. Charlesworth et al. (Hrsgg.), Miscellaneous Texts from the Judaean Desert (DJD 38, Oxford 2000). 53 So Y. Yadin et al., The Documents from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters. Hebrew, Aramaic and Nabatean-Aramaic Papyri, Hauptbd. (Judean Desert Studies 3, Jerusalem 2002), 73–4.109, eingeordnet als aramäisch, d.h. hier nicht nabatäisch. Y7 wird jedoch für die Darstellung der nabatäischen Sprache verwendet, ibid. 27! 54 Beyer, Texte, Bd. II (2004), 217.224. 55 Mit Pluralnomen sind die Phrasen bkl tÌwmyh (Y2:5; Y3:28), kl dmy zbny’ ’lh (Y2:15; Y3:45; Y4:16; Y9:8) und kwl dmy ‘rqn’ (Y4:16) belegt. In dem in Quadratschrift geschriebenen Y7:15.52 begegnet außerdem kl ywmy Ìyy.


begegnet in dem Vertragstext Jer2 2:2 ]s†rk kwlh mn[ ‚]deine ganze Urkunde von[’. Der fragmentarische Charakter lässt uns allerdings über die genaue syntaktische Struktur der Textstelle im Unklaren. Die spärlichen Reste, meist von Urkunden, aus dem Massiv Ketef Jericho liefern auch einen Beleg von kl mit folgendem determinierten Nomen in Jer3 r:2. Weitere Belege von nachgestelltem kl finden sich in den ebenfalls in jüdischer Quadratschrift verfassten Urkunden Y7 und Y8. Die sprachliche Zuordnung beider Texte ist aber umstritten. Formal ähneln sie stark nabatäischen Urkunden aus dem gleichen Fundzusammenhang, und auch Sprachliches — etwa arabische Lehnwörter — deutet auf Nähe zum Nabatäischen. Die Sprache der Urkunden ist dann entweder als Jüdisch-Aramäisch mit starkem nabatäischen Einschlag bezeichnet worden,53 oder direkt als Nabatäisch.54 Tatsächlich weist die Verwendung von kl deutliche Übereinstimmungen mit der Verwendungsweise in Urkunden nabatäischer Schrift auf, weshalb ich mich letzterer Deutung anschließe. In den Urkunden in nabatäischer Schrift und Sprache ist von den aus älteren Texten bekannten Syntagmen dasjenige mit nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix belegt. Mit Nomen im Singular begegnet es ausschließlich, mit Nomen im Plural erscheint dagegen nur voran gestelltes kl.55 Belege sind allerdings auf zwei Phrasen beschränkt, die Textbasis ist also schmal. Es sind belegt: Y2:5 und Y3:27 gnt’ hy klh ‚dieser ganze Garten’ sowie Y2:8.29 und Y3:32 ksp’ dnh klh ‚dieses ganze Silber’. Wie im Reichs- und Qumran-Aramäischen wäre auch hier zu erwägen, dass die Verteilung der Konstruktionen auf Singularund Pluralnomen nicht zufällig ist, sondern ihren Grund darin hat, kl mit schweren Pluralsuffixen zu vermeiden. Neben diesem bekannten Syntagma bieten die nabatäischen Urkunden aber auch Konstruktionen mit kl, die aus älterem Aramäisch nicht bekannt sind. Die Form klh steht hier nämlich auch inde-

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56 Vgl. dyn wdbb wmwm’ klh l’ ’yty ‚Gerichtsfall, Anfechtung und irgendeinen Eid gibt es nicht’ im quadratschriftlichen Y7:21. 57 Vgl. ähnliches gny tmryn ’r‘ w’yln klh ‚Dattelpalmgärten, Land und jedweder Baum’ im quadratschriftlichen Y7:4. 58 So in Y1:22.23; Y2:6.26; Y3:35; Y4:15; Y7:4.19.21.21.23.34. Y3:11 ist fragmentarisch, aber wohl parallel zu Y3:35. Eine Ausnahme bildet der Beleg in Y4:11. 59 Die Phrase ist wohl in Y3:12 zu ergänzen, ebenso im quadratschriftlichen Y8:7. Vgl. auch kl ’ns rÌq wqrb im nicht-nabatäischen Y47b:10. 60 Bei dem ebenfalls häufig belegten kl mnd‘m z‘yr wsgy’ ‚jedwedes Ding, klein und groß’ (Y1:31; Y2:7.28.30; Y6:16; Y7:16.27.55) steht jedoch nie klh.


terminierten Nomen im Singular nach und ist dann mit ‚irgendeiner’ oder ‚jedweder’ wiederzugeben. Beispiele für diese Verwendung sind: l’ dyn wl’ dbb wl’ mwm’ klh ‚weder Gerichtsfall noch Anfechtung noch irgendein Eid’ (Y3:35; Y4:15; fragmentarisch auch in Y3:11)56 sowie tmyn wsqmyn w’yln klh ‚Dattelpalmen und Sykomoren und jedweder Baum’ (Y2:6.26).57 Es fällt auf, dass klh fast ausschließlich einer Aufzählung, einer Reihung von Nomina folgt,58 was auch bei der reichsaramäischen Verwendung von kl’ beobachtet werden konnte, das allerdings nur nach determinierten Nomen im Plural steht. War im Reichsaramäischen nicht sicher zu entscheiden, ob klh und kl’ nur orthographische Varianten darstellen, so ergibt sich das gleiche Problem auch im Nabatäischen. In Y4:11 findet sich nämlich die Wortfolge dy ’nws kl’[ ‚von irgendeinem Menschen[’. Hier hat kl’ dieselbe Funktion wie in obigen Beispielen klh. Da nun diese Formen in den nabatäischen Urkunden auf indeterminierte Nomen folgen, halte ich es für unwahrscheinlich, dass ihre Endungen -’ und -h den bestimmten Artikel bzw. ein Personalsuffix bezeichnen, wodurch der Modifikator kl determiniert wäre. Eher ist an eine Adverbialendung -a zu denken, deren Schreibung, weil weder Artikel noch Suffix, oszillierte. Stimmt diese Analyse, ist zu überlegen, ob analog auch die Formen im räumlich und zeitlich weit entfernten Reichsaramäischen aus Ägypten zu verstehen sind. Sicherheit ist dabei aber kaum zu erlangen. kl bei indeterminiertem Nomen kommt in den nabatäischen Urkunden aber auch in einer Klammerkonstruktion, mit voran gehendem kl sowie nachgestelltem klh vor. Gleich viermal ist folgende Phrase belegt: kl ’nws klh rÌyq wqryb ‚jeder Mensch überhaupt, fern und nah’ (Y2:10–1.32–3; Y4:14; Y9:7).59 Die Dopplung von kl, wie auch die nachgestellten komplementären Adjektive ‚fern und nah’, sollen die universale Gültigkeit der Aussage sichern.60 Beim Nomen ’nws war nachgestelltes klh im Nabatäischen der Urkunden offensichtlich phrasenhaft, das Wort erscheint nur im quadratschriftlichen Y7:23.27 zweimal mit voran stehendem kl. Als einziges anderes Wort

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Inschriftliches Nabatäisch Das inschriftliche Nabatäisch bietet trotz des großen Textkorpus nur wenige Belege von kl. Die aus den Urkunden bekannten Syntagmen finden sich auch hier; ausgenommen ist die Klammerkonstruktion. Die meisten Belege stammen aus den Grabinschriften von Mada’in ∑aliÌ, dem größten Textkorpus mit den längsten Inschriften.61 Determinierte Nomen im Plural finden sich ausschließlich mit nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix, dies im Gegensatz zum Gebrauch im älteren Aramäisch und den nabatäischen Urkunden. Belegt sind allerdings nur die folgenden Phrasen: ’lhy’ klhm ‚alle Götter’ (MS11:6.8; CIS 350:3.4, d.i. das Turkmaniye-Grab in Petra), wobei dem Ausdruck mindestens ein namentlich genannter Gott voran steht, und ˆnwshm klhm ‚alle ihre Menschen’.62 ˆnws in der Kollektivbedeutung ‚Menschen’ ist hier mit dem Pluralsuffix konstruiert. In ihrer Morphologie nicht direkt verständlich sind hingegen folgende Belege aus der Fassadeninschrift MS12 aus Mada’in ∑aliÌ: (4) wlgryhm klh ‚und für alle ihre Schutzbefohlenen’ sowie (5) wgrhm klh ‚und alle ihre Schutzbefohlenen’ (abermals in Z. 6 und noch um die komplementären Adjektive dkr’ wnqbt’ ‚männlich und weiblich’ erweitert). Die Belege in Z. 5 und 6 werden gemeinhin so verstanden, dass auf das Kollektivnomen gr ‚Schutzbefohlene’ mit Singularsuffix zurückverwiesen wird.63 Dies ist durchaus einsichtig, auch wenn im


ist ˆtr ‚Ort’ in der Klammerkonstruktion belegt: Y1:30 bkl ’tr [k]lh ‚an jedem Ort [über]haupt’. Es erscheint sonst öfter mit voran stehendem kl (Y2:7.28; Y3:30). Mit der Verwendung von wahrscheinlich adverbielem klh nach indeterminierten Nomen im Singular zeigt das Nabatäische der Urkunden vom Toten Meer ein Syntagma, das in den älteren Sprachstufen keine Entsprechung hat. Immerhin lassen sich aber adverbielles klh mit nachgestelltem klh/kl’ im Reichsaramäischen der ägyptischen Papyri, und die Klammerkonstruktion mit vor- und nachgestelltem kl mit der morphologisch, nicht jedoch funktional ähnlichen Konstruktion im Qumran-Aramäischen vergleichen.

61 Mit dem Kürzel ‚MS’ zitiert nach J.F. Healey, The Nabataean Tomb Inscriptions of Mada’in Salih (JSS Suppl. 1, Oxford 1993). 62 Beleg in M.-R. Savignac und G. Horsfield, ‚Le temple de Ramm’, RB 44 (1935), 245–78, hier 266, Zeile 3 der Inschrift. 63 So etwa Healey, Tomb Inscriptions, 139. Diese Überlegung liegt auch den Ausführungen in J. Cantineau, Le nabatéen: Notions générales, écriture, grammaire, Bd. I (Paris 1930), 65–6 zugrunde.

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64 Cantineau, Nabatéen, I 66. Ein Vergleich mit mlk ’l‘rb klh der en-NemaraInschrift verbietet sich, weil die Phrase weder epigraphisch (J.A. Bellamy, ‚A New Reading of the Namarah Inscription’, JAOS 105:1 [1985], 31–51) noch grammatikalisch (M. Zwettler, ‚Imra’alqays, Son of ‘Amr, King of …???’, in M. Mir (Hrsg.), Literary Heritage of Classical Islam: Arabic and Islamic Studies in Honor of James A. Bellamy [Princeton 1993], 3–37) sicher zu deuten ist. 65 A. Jaussen und M.-R. Savignac, Mission archéologique en Arabie: De Jérusalem au Hedjaz Médain-Saleh, Bd. I (Publications de la Société Française des Fouilles Archéologiques 2:1, Paris 1909), 164, in ihrer Übersetzung spiegelt sich das distributive Verständnis jedoch nicht, vgl. S. 163; Healey, Tomb Inscriptions, 139. 66 Falsch ist sicherlich die Übersetzung im Répertoire d’epigraphie sémitique, Bd. I (Paris 1900–5): ‚Ce mur tout entier’. Demonstrativa stehen nach ihrem Bezugswort, sonst sind sie Subjekt eines Satzes: Cantineau, Nabatéen, I 58.


oben angeführten Beispiel ’nwshm klhm ein Kollektivnomen mit Pluralsuffix konstruiert ist. Divergierender sind die Erklärungen des ersten Belegs. Da der Ausdruck offensichtlich dasselbe meint wie die Belege in Z. 5 und 6, das Nomen aber deutlich im Plural steht, wodurch sich Numerusinkongruenz ergibt, hat Cantineau vorgeschlagen, dass die Pluralform in Kollektivbedeutung morphologisch wie ein Kollektivum, also mit Singularsuffix, konstruiert werden konnte.64 Jaussen und Savignac dagegen wollten klh distributiv verstehen, und Healey schloss sich diesem Verständnis an. Zu übersetzen wäre dann ‚und für ihre Schutzbefohlenen, einen jeden’.65 In diesem Fall würden die beiden zitierten Phrasen, so ähnlich sie sich sind, Unterschiedliches ausdrücken. Die erste Deutung erscheint mir aber sinnvoller. Verwiesen werden könnte auch noch auf kl’, das im Reichsaramäischen meist Pluralnomen folgt. Da sich im Nabatäischen sonst aber keine Belege für dieses Syntagma finden, liegt es auch hier wahrscheinlich nicht vor. Nomen im Singular erscheinen im inschriftlich-nabatäischen Textkorpus nur dreimal mit kl. In der Fassadeninschrift MS31:7f begegnet nachgestelltes kl mit Suffix: kpl dmy ’tr’ dnh (8) klh ‚der doppelte Preis dieses ganzen Ortes’. Dass sich klh nur auf das letzte Glied der constructus-Verbindung beziehen kann, ergibt sich aus dem Sinn der Phrase. Demnach bezeichnet -h ein Suffix. Wegen des fragmentarischen Charakters der Inschrift RES I 90:1 — in einer Mauer in Bosra sekundär verbaut — bleibt der genaue syntaktische Zusammenhang dieses weiteren Beleges unklar: dnh gdr’ klh … ‚dies ist die ganze Mauer …’. Die gegebene Interpretation ist wohl die sinnvollste, möglich wäre aber auch, zwei Sätze anzusetzen, wobei klh mit den folgenden Buchstaben einen eigenen Satz bilden würde ‚dies ist die Mauer; die Ganze und … (baute ich?)’.66 Beim dritten Beleg mit Singular-Nomen aus der Inschrift des Turkmaniye-

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Die gleichen Gründe mögen auch im jüdisch-aramäischen Y50:7 s’r kl pryh ‚der Rest all ihrer Früchte’ gewirkt haben, wenn auch die Konstruktion mit voran stehendem kl in diesem Textkorpus nicht — wie im Nabatäischen — ungewöhnlich ist. 68 Die ergänzten Wörter waren früher besser zu lesen, vgl. Jaussen / Savignac, Mission, I 151.153. Eine ähnliche Konstruktion bietet MS4:5. 69 Ph.C. Hammond, D.J. Johnson und R.N. Jones, ‚A Religio-Legal Nabataean Inscription From the Atargatis/al-Uzza Temple at Petra’, BASOR 263 (1986), 77–80, hier Zeile 1 der Inschrift. 70 Die Phrasen sollen sicherstellen, dass jede wie auch immer geartete Urkunde eingeschlossen ist. Die gleiche Funktion erfüllt in MS36:6 mwhbh ’w ‘yrh das arabische Lehnwort ‘yr. 71 Mehrfach belegt ist auch kl ’nws mit vorangestelltem kl. Meist folgt dieser Konstruktion noch ein Relativsatz (MS19:5.6; MS38:7; in MS19:3 folgt nach der Apposition ein mit dy angeschlossener Subjektsatz; unerklärt bleibt MS9:4, wenn dort nicht einfach die Konstruktion variiert werden sollte), der der Grund dafür gewesen sein mag, dass hier nicht nachgestelltes klh verwendet wurde. 72 So wird auch klh klh in MS12:2f gedeutet, etwa von M. Lidzbarski, Ephemeris für semitische Epigraphik, Bd. III (Gießen 1915), 269; dagegen Healey, Tomb Inscriptions, 139: distributiv. 67


Grabes (CIS 350:3) steht kl seinem Bezugswort voran: ws’ryt kl ’Òl’ dy b’try’ ’ln ‚und der Rest allen Eigentums, das an diesen Orten ist’. Grund für diese im inschriftlichen Nabatäisch einmalige Syntax ist wohl die Bedeutung der constructus-Verbindung s’ryt ’Òl’, bei der aus inhaltlichen Gründen dezidiert nur das nomen rectum von kl regiert werden sollte.67 Alle übrigen Belege von nachgestelltem kl sind mit indeterminierten Singular-Nomen konstruiert. In einigen Fällen, aber bei weitem nicht immer, folgt klh einer Reihe von Nomen, so in MS5:6 mhwb’ [’w ’wgrw] ’w tqp klh ‚eine Schenkungs- [oder Pacht-] oder jedwede Anspruchsurkunde’,68 ebenso in mn ksp wdhb wqrbwn wzwn klh ‚von Silber, Gold, Opfer und jedwedem Versorgungsgut’.69 Der Gebrauch von nachgestelltem klh mit indeterminierten Nomen war, soweit ersichtlich, auf wenige phrasenhafte Ausdrücke beschränkt. Belegt sind tqp klh (MS3:5; MS5:6) und ktb klh (MS4:5; MS8:7; MS19:5; MS34:10), beides Schriftstücke bezeichnend,70 sowie ’nws klh ‚jedweder Mensch’ (MS12:8; MS31:4; MS36:5.6; CIS 350:5).71 Im Gegensatz zu den Inschriften verwenden die Urkunden mit letzterem Nomen meist die Klammerkonstruktion kl ’nws klh. In der Verwendung von nachgestelltem, wahrscheinlich adverbialem,72 klh mit indeterminierten Nomen und in der deutlichen Bevorzugung der Konstruktion aus determiniertem Nomen mit folgendem kl mit Suffix stimmen die nabatäischen Inschriften mit den Urkun-

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den überein. Ein Unterschied begegnet aber bei determinierten Pluralnomen: in den Inschriften sind diese mit folgendem kl und Suffix konstruiert, in den Urkunden jedoch mit vorangestelltem kl. Die adverbiale Verwendungsweise von klh/kl’ im Nabatäischen weist auch auf reichsaramäisches kl’, das im Lichte der nabatäische Belege wohl ebenfalls am besten als Form mit Adverbialendung -a verstanden wird. Palmyrenisch

73

Textbasis war D.R. Hillers und E. Cussini, Palmyrene Aramaic Texts (Baltimore 1995), als PAT zitiert. Von den seit dieser Veröffentlichung publizierten oder neu gelesenen Inschriften liefern nur H.J.W. Drijvers, ‚Greek and Aramaic in Palmyrene Inscriptions’, in M.J. Geller, J.C. Greenfield und M.P. Weitzman (Hrsgg.), Studia Aramaica: New Sources and New Approaches: Papers Delivered at the London Conference of the Institute of Jewish Studies, University College London, 26th – 28th June 1991 (JSS Suppl. 4, Oxford 1995), 31–42 und M. Gawlikowski, ‚Un nouveau temple d’Allat dans une inscription revisitée’, Semitica 51 (2001), 57–64 Belege von kl. 74 PAT 0344:5 mr’ kl (6)[‘lm’] ‚Herr aller [Ewigkeit]’, wenn die Ergänzung stimmt. J. Cantineau, Grammaire du palmyrénien épigraphique (Kairo 1935), 133 wollte noch ‚maître de Tout’ lesen, ebenso F. Rosenthal, Die Sprache der palmyrenischen Inschriften und ihre Stellung innerhalb des Aramäischen (Mitteilungen der Vorderasiatisch-Ägyptischen Gesellschaft 42:1, Leipzig 1936), 52, der auf syrische Parallelen verweist. So oder so war der Titel formularisch, was die Konstruktion erklären kann. Vgl. außerdem Drijvers, ‚Greek and Aramaic’, 36, Zeile 5 der Inschrift: ]bkl gnsh ‚]auf jede Art’ (so Drijvers), oder ‚auf seine ganze Art’(?), wobei die Textlücke vor der Phrase das Verständnis des Suffixes erschwert. Der griechische Text stützt Drijvers Interpretation. Parallelen in anderen Ehreninschriften (etwa PAT 0312:6 bkl gns klh) legen dieses Verständnis ebenfalls nahe, die Syntax wäre dann aber sehr ungewöhnlich, vielleicht liegt ein Abschreibefehler vor, oder mir nicht verständlicher Einfluss der griechischen Vorlage. Ein weiterer Beleg in PAT 0295:5–6 ist nicht sicher. In derselben Inschrift Z. 6 begegnet ’[t]r kl’, was der Form, wenn auch nicht der Syntax nach Parallelen zum Reichsaramäischen hätte, aber auch hier sind Lesung und Verständnis unsicher. 75 Ebenso in PAT 1788:A2; 0523:2


Das Palmyrenische, aus hunderten stark formalisierten Inschriften bekannt, bietet unzählige Belege von nachgestelltem kl.73 Mit determinierten Nomen sind überhaupt nur ein oder zwei vernachlässigbare Belege bekannt, in denen kl voran steht.74 Außerdem begegnet, wie in den nabatäischen Urkunden, die Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminierten Singular-Nomen. Als determinierte Singular-Nomen erscheinen die Gebäudeteile PAT 0029:1 s†r’ (2) klh ‚die ganze Seitenwand’,75 PAT 1561:2 t†lyl’

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76

Wohl in PAT 1562:6 zu ergänzen. Auch in PAT 0305:6; 0331:6; 0347:12; 0557:2; 0560:2; 1131:1; 1540:2; 1561:3; 1562:7; 1671:1; in 0298:4: tÒbythwn klh. 78 Ebenso in PAT 0159:A1; 0159:D1; 0160:1; 0161:A-F1; 0162:1; 0163:2; in 0166:1 wohl zu ergänzen; in 0193:6: m†lt’ dh mÒ‘yt’ klh ‚dieser ganze mittlere Portikus’, wie auch in 0164:1 ergänzt werden könnte. 79 In PAT 0027:1 ’ksdr’ m‘lyk ‘l ymynk klh ‚die Nischenarkade, (bei) deinem Eintreten zu deiner Rechten, die ganze’ steht klh nach einer längeren Nominalphrase und bündelt diese vor dem folgenden Verb, wie oft kl’ im Reichsaramäischen. Parallel: 0028:1. 80 Ebenso PAT 1437:6; in 0327:5 Ìy’ bnyhwn wbythwn (6) klh. 81 Vgl. dazu im Folgenden. 82 Vgl. oben diskutiertes nabatäisches grhm klh in MS12:5. 83 Ebenso oder ähnlich in PAT 0397:3; 1435:7–8; 1446:5; 1448:6; 1452:3; 1900:4f; 1911:6; 1920:5; emendiert 0394:5. 77


klh ‚die ganze Decke’,76 PAT 0060:4 tÒbyth klh ‚seine ganze Dekoration’77 und PAT 0158:1 m†lt’ dh klh ‚dieser ganze Portikus’.78 Nur je einmal belegt sind PAT 0263:3 Ìmn’ (4) klh hw w’trh w’p †ll ’drwn’ (5) klh ‚die ganze Kapelle, sie und ihr Platz, und die ganze Decke des Speisesaals’, PAT 1788:A3 ’ksdr’ klh ‚die ganze Nischenarkade’79 sowie PAT 1130:1 m‘lt’ dh klh ‚diese ganze Vorhalle’. Von Bauelementen abgesehen erscheint in PAT 2743:4.5 st’ klh ‚das ganze Jahr’, in PAT 1666:7 b’tr’ (8) klh ‚an dem ganzen Ort’, in PAT 0292:2; 0317:3 mdnÌ’ klh ‚der ganze Osten’ und in Drijvers, ‚Greek and Aramaic’, 36 Zeile 6: tdmr klh ‚ganz Palmyra’. Ferner wird Haus und Familie bezeichnet in PAT 0355:5 Ìy’ (6) byth klh ‚das Leben seines ganzen Hauses/seiner ganzen Familie’.80 Ähnlich ist auch PAT 0318:4 hw wbny byth klh ‚er und die Kinder seines ganzen Hauses’, wobei der constructus-Verbindung bny byth im Regelfall kl mit Pluralsuffix folgt.81 Das Suffix mag sich daher, wie in der Übersetzung, nur auf das Haus beziehen. In PAT 1784:2 begegnet bny ddhwn wld’ klh dy bny (3) ’‘ylmy ‚die Söhne ihres Onkels, alle Nachkommenschaft der Söhne des ’‘YLMY’. Das Kollektivnomen wld Nachkommenschaft ist mit Singularsuffix konstruiert.82 Pluralnomen nachgestelltes kl mit Suffix erscheint häufig in der Formel bny byth klhn ‚alle Söhne seines Hauses/seiner Familie’, so in PAT 0382:4.83 Das Suffix bezieht sich hierbei auf das nomen regens der constructus-Verbindung, vgl. aber das oben erwähnte bny byth klh in PAT 0318:4. Es begegnen ebenfalls bny ddh klhwn ‚alle Söhne seines Onkels’ (PAT 1787:2) sowie bny XY klhwn ‚alle Söhne des XY’ (PAT 0187:1.4; 0297:2; 0299:3). Auch belegt sind ’ln klhwn ‚sie alle’ mit voran gestelltem Demonstrativpronomen (PAT 0391:11; 1502:2), rÌm[why] klhw[n] ‚alle

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[seine] Freunde’ (PAT 0451:1), msy‘n’ klhwn ‚alle Helfer’ (PAT 2743:9), l’lhy’ klhwn ‚für alle Götter’ (PAT 1929:4), gbl tdmry’ klhn ‚die Gemeinschaft aller Palmyrener’ (PAT 0269:3; 2636:3). In PAT 1584:5 findet sich tgry’ tdmry’ (6) dy b’sp[s]nqr† klhn spwn ‚die palmyrenischen Händler, die in Aspasinkart sind, alle übereinstimmend’, wo zwischen klhn und seinem Bezugsnomen ein Relativsatz eingeschoben ist. kl kann hier, wie oft im Reichsaramäischen, resumptiv interpretiert werden, nämlich als ein aus einer längeren Phrase bestehendes Subjekt vor dem folgenden Prädikat bündelnd. In PAT 1352:3 hingegen steht der Relativsatz nach klhwn: t[g]ry’ klhwn dy bmdynt bbl ‚alle Händler, die in der Stadt Babel sind’. Als einziger Beleg eines Pluralnomens, das nicht Menschengruppen (oder Götter) bezeichnet, ist PAT 0259:II:68 mn gnsy’ klhwn ‚von allen Arten’ aus dem Steuertarif zu nennen. Neben der Konstruktion von determiniertem Nomen mit nachgestelltem kl, die im Palmyrenischen fast ausschließlich begegnet, erscheint auch die aus den nabatäischen Urkunden bekannte Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminiertem Nomen. Sie begegnet vor allem in der formelhaften Phrase spr/‘dr bkl Òbw klh ‚er verschönerte/ half auf jede Art überhaupt’,84 in PAT 0261:4 um die komplementären Adjektive rb’ wz‘r’ ‚groß und klein’ ergänzt, was Parallelen im Nabatäischen hat. In PAT 1415:3 erscheint die Phrase abgewandelt als spr bkl ’Ìydw klh ‚er verschönerte in jeder Funktion überhaupt’, in 0312:6; 1352:4 als spr lhwn bkl gns klh ‚er verschönerte sie auf jede Art überhaupt’, mit dem griechischen Lehnwort gns statt des aramäischen Òbw.85 Außerhalb dieses stark formalisierten Kontextes der Ehreninschriften begegnet die Klammerkonstruktion nur noch in PAT 0295:4; 1929:5 bkl ’tr klh ‚an jedem Ort überhaupt’ sowie im Steuertarif PAT 0259:I:13 klm’ gns klh ‚irgendeine Art’, mit der griechischen Parallele pantov genouv. Die Syntax von nachgestelltem kl im Palmyrenischen gleicht demnach derjenigen im Nabatäischen, wenn sich auch da und dort Unterschiede feststellen lassen. Im Gegensatz zum Alt- und Reichsaramäischen steht kl so gut wie nie determinierten Nomen voran. Wie 84

PAT 0262:4; 0263:5; 0276:4; 1375:2–3; 1395:3; 1409:4; 1411:4–5; zu ergänzen in 1412:6; 1419:5–6; in 1378:6 steht sy¨ für ‚helfen’, in 1550:4 Òbˆ statt Òbw. Soweit datiert sind die Inschriften in der Zeit von 21-199 n. Chr. zu verorten. 85 Beide Inschriften haben eine griechische Parallelversion — nicht jedoch eine wörtliche Übersetzung (so meist in den palmyrenischen Inschriften, vgl. H. Gzella, ‚Die Palmyrener in der griechisch-römischen Welt: Kulturelle Begegnung im Spiegel des Sprachkontaktes’, Klio 87 [2005], 445–58). Nichtsdestotrotz mag Nähe zum Griechischen die Wortwahl beeinflusst haben. 56

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im Nabatäischen der Inschriften — nicht jedoch der Urkunden — folgt kl mit Suffix unterschiedslos determinierten Nomen im Singular wie im Plural. Die im Palmyrenischen verwendete Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminiertem Nomen ist jedoch nur in den nabatäischen Urkunden belegt, und gerade nicht in den Inschriften, in denen bei ähnlicher Phraseologie das voran stehende kl fehlt. Wie in den nabatäischen Urkunden begegnet die Klammerkonstruktion auch im Palmyrenischen meist in feststehenden Formeln.

Spärlich wie die Inschriften dieser Sprachstufe sind auch die darin enthaltenen Belege von kl.86 Indeterminierten Nomen steht kl stets voran. Weitreichende Schlussfolgerungen aus diesem Befund verbieten sich allerdings, da er nur auf 2 Belegen (As55:5–6 und P3:15) fußt. Das Fehlen von Konstruktionen aus indeterminierten Nomen mit folgendem klh wie im Palmyrenischen oder Nabatäischen kann also nur mit Vorsicht als Dialektunterschied verbucht werden und ist vielleicht nur der schmalen Datenbasis geschuldet.87 Determinierten Nomen im Plural hingegen folgt kl mit Suffix, wie in Bs2:5 ybrkwnh ’lh’ klhwn ‚mögen alle Götter ihn segnen’88 und in der oberen Version der Urkunde P3:iii aus Dura Europos wzdqyhwn klhwn ‚und alle ihre Rechte’.89 In einer weiteren Urkunde lesen wir P2:5 ’m’ dmdynt’ klhyn dbyt nhryn ‚Mutter aller Städte von Bet Nahrin’.90 Hier gehört kl mit Suffix entweder zum ersten Glied einer 86

Alle Beispiele sind H.J.W. Drijvers und J.F. Healey, The Old Syriac Inscriptions of Edessa and Osrhoene: Texts, Translations and Commentary (HdO 42, Leiden 1999) entnommen. Zusätzliches Textmaterial in J.F. Healey, ‚A New Syriac Mosaic Inscription’, JSS 51:2 (2006), 313–27 und S. Brock, ‚A Further Funerary Mosaic Inscription From Osrhoene’, ARAM 18-9 (2006–7), 715–21 liefert keinen Beleg für kl. Zur dialektalen Uneinheitlichkeit selbst dieses kleinen Textkorpus vgl. J.F. Healey, ‚Variety in Early Syriac: The Context in Contemporary Aramaic’, in Gzella / Folmer, Aramaic, 221–9. 87 Dass im späteren klassischen Syrisch solche Konstruktionen nicht verwendet wurden, deutet allerdings eher darauf hin, dass sie auch im älteren Syrisch nicht vorkamen. Vgl. aber klassisch-syrisches kl klh ‚überhaupt alles’, dessen h in der Punktation als Suffix ausgewiesen wird, R. Payne-Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus (Oxford 1879–1901), Kol. 1735–6. 88 So wohl auch in As55:7 zu ergänzen. 89 In der unteren Version P3:8 findet sich wzdqyh klhwn ‚und alle seine Rechte’. 90 So übersetzt in Drijvers / Healey, Old Syriac Inscriptions, 240, möglich wäre aber auch ‚ Mutter aller Städte, die in Bet Nahrin sind’, mit assimilierter Präposition b-. D.R. Hillers, ‚Notes on Palmyrene Aramaic Texts’, ARAM 7 (1995), 73–88, hier


Syrisch der ältesten Inschriften

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74–6 hatte auf dieses Phänomen im Palmyrenischen aufmerksam gemacht, vgl. auch Th. Nöldeke, Compendious Syriac Grammar, translated by J.A. Crichton (London 1904), §156, 102 Anm. 1 für das Buchsyrische. 91 Letztere Konstruktion wäre im Palmyrenischen und Nabatäischen nicht ungewöhnlich, erstere schon eher, obwohl sich aus Palmyra analog konstruiertes wld’ klh dy bny (3) ’‘ylmy ‚die ganze Nachkommenschaft der Söhne des ˆŸLMY’ (PAT 1784:2–3) anführen lässt. 92 P2:5 ’m’ dmdynt’ klhyn dbyt nhryn zeigt diese Konstruktion sicher im ersten, vielleicht auch im zweiten Teil. 93 Nach dem Muster von P2:5 oder palmyrenischem PAT 1784:2–3. 94 Denkbar, wenn auch angesichts der erwähnten Genitivkonstruktion mit voraus weisendem Suffix eher unwahrscheinlich, wäre immerhin, dass voran stehendes kl hier noch reichsaramäischen Sprachgebrauch spiegelt. Schließlich knüpfen die Urkunden aus Dura Europos in ihrer Form deutlich an reichsaramäische Traditionen an, zuletzt betont von Healey, ‚Variety’, 225, und sprachlicher Einfluss des Reichsaramäischen lässt sich sowohl in den Inschriften als sogar noch im frühen Buchsyrisch nachweisen, vgl. K. Beyer, ‚Der reichsaramäische Einschlag in der ältesten syrischen Literatur’, ZDMG 116 (1966), 242–54.


Genitivkonstruktion mit d- (mdynt’ klhyn dbyt nhryn), oder ihm folgt ein Relativsatz, wenn dbyt nhryn als ‚die in Bet Nahrin sind’ zu verstehen ist.91 Bei dem einzigen Beleg mit determinierten Nomen im Singular steht kl diesem voran, ganz im Gegensatz zum Nabatäischen, Palmyrenischen und Aramäischen aus Hatra. In der Urkunde P3:14 ist zu lesen: dkl ‘llth d’r‘’ hd’ ‚vom ganzen Ertrag dieses Landes’. Ich neige dazu, diesen einzigen Beleg als Ausnahme zu verbuchen, bedingt durch die Konstruktion der folgenden Nominalphrase. Die Genitivkonstruktion ‘llth d’r‘’ hd’ besteht nämlich nicht, wie im Regelfall, aus zwei Nomen im st. emph., die durch d- verbunden sind.92 Vielmehr ist wohl der letzte Buchstabe des Wortes ‘llth als voraus weisendes Suffix zu deuten. In eine solche Genitivkonstruktion nachgestelltes kl mit Suffix einzufügen,93 ergäbe die hypothetische Phrase *‘llth klh d’r‘’ hd’, in der das Suffix des ersten Nomens auf ’r‘’ hd’ voraus wiese, das Suffix an kl jedoch zurück auf ‘llth. Die tatsächlich belegte Wortstellung mag gewählt worden sein, um solche Kreuzverweise in der Nominalphrase zu vermeiden, und ist als Ausnahme anzusehen. Zwar unbelegt setze ich als Regelfall doch eine Konstruktion wie bei Pluralnomen und wie in den Nachbardialekten an. Dies erscheint mir wahrscheinlicher als die Annahme eines gespaltenen Paradigmas aufgrund eines einzigen, isolierten Belegs, mit unterschiedlicher Konstruktion von Singular- und Pluralnomen, wie im Reichsaramäischen und Nabatäischen der Urkunden.94 Unsicher wie die Ergebnisse aufgrund der schmalen Datenbasis nun einmal sind, lässt sich für die Syntax des Wortes kl im Syrischen

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der frühesten Inschriften doch vorsichtig Folgendes festhalten. Nachstehendes kl mit Suffix erscheint bei determinierten Nomen — sicher bei solchen im Plural, wahrscheinlich jedoch auch bei solchen im Singular. Mit indeterminierten Nomen ist jedoch nur voran stehendes kl belegt. Signifikante Unterschiede zu den Nachbardialekten aus Palmyra und Hatra, und weiter entfernt dem Nabatäischen, lassen sich nicht feststellen. Hatra-Aramäisch

95

Textgrundlage war die Edition K. Beyer, Die aramäischen Inschriften aus Assur, Hatra und dem übrigen Ostmesopotamien (datiert 44 v. Chr. bis 238 n. Chr.) (Göttingen 1998), deren Sigla in K. Beyer, ‚Neue Inschriften aus Hatra’, in W. Arnold und H. Bobzin (Hrsgg.), „Sprich doch mit deinen Knechten aramäisch, wir verstehen es!“: 60 Beiträge zur Semitistik, Festschrift für Otto Jastrow zum 60. Geburtstag (Wiesbaden 2002), 85–9 fortgesetzt werden (ab H1044). Eine weitere Inschrift bietet A.H. al-Jadir, ‚A New Inscription from Hatra’, JSS 51:2 (2006), 305–11. R. Bertolino, Manuel d’épigraphie hatréenne (Paris 2008) bietet eine knappe Skizze der Sprache (37–52), die aber weit hinter der Beyer’schen zurückbleibt. Beyer, Hatra wird zwar auf S. 37 erwähnt, fehlt jedoch, wie auch die beiden genannten Aufsätze, in der Bibliographie. Das Nomen kl, das uns hier besonders interessiert, verbucht der Autor als „adjectif indéfini“ und übersetzt dann „littéralement: « totalité »“, ibid, 42. Das Arsakidische, ein noch weiter im Osten in einem Vasallenstaat der Parther geschriebener Dialekt, erschöpfend behandelt von H. Gzella, ‚Aramaic in the Parthian Period: The Arsacid Inscriptions’, in Gzella / Folmer, Aramaic, 107–30, liefert keine Belege von kl. 96 Voran stehendes kl mit indeterminiertem Nomen ist allerdings nur zweimal in der Phrase kl ywm ‚jeder Tag’ belegt (A20:2; H1040b:1). Ebenso wohl in H342:4 kwl zmrt’ (5) wqynt’ ‚jede Musikantin und Singsklavin’, wo nach Ausweis der Verbformen im folgenden Relativsatz keine Pluralformen gelesen werden können, so dass die Satzlogik dann semantisch indeterminierte Formen verlangt. Vielleicht liegt uns in diesem leider undatierten Text ein erstes Anzeichen für die in späteren ostaramäischen Dialekten vollzogene Aufgabe der formalen Unterscheidung der Determiniertheit von Nomen vor. Die Untersuchung der Determinationsverhältnisse im Targum Jonathan von R.J. Kuty, ‚Determination in Targum Jonathan to Samuel’, AS 3:1 (2005), 187–201; idem, ‚Studies in the Syntax of Targum Jonathan to


Der letzte hier zu behandelnde Dialekt ist derjenige aus Hatra und dessen Umgebung.95 Nachgestelltes kl begegnet darin bei determinierten Nomen, im Singular wie Plural, mit Suffixen sowie in der Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminiertem Nomen. Das erstgenannte Syntagma, bestens bekannt aus den anderen mittelaramäischen Dialekten, wird bei determinierten Nomen ausschließlich verwendet, wohingegen kl indeterminierten Nomen voran steht, wenn nicht die Klammerkonstruktion benutzt wird.96

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Samuel’, unveröffentlichte Doktorarbeit (Universität Leiden, Leiden 2008), 1–44 legt nahe, dass dieses Phänomen bei formal femininen Nomen wie denjenigen aus unserem Text seinen Anfang nahm, wenngleich auch diese nach kl meist im st. abs. stehen, Kuty, ‚Studies’, 37. In Hatra ist das Phänomen aber auch bei maskulinen Nomen belegt, Beyer, Hatra, 136. 97 Teilweise ergänzt in H284:2; H407. 98 Ähnlich H287:7 bnyhy [dd]h klh[wn], und zwar rekonstruiert, aber wohl mit zusätzlichem Verweis auf die Brüder: H403:2 bn[yhy w’Ìyhy] klhn, H1045:7 ’Ìyhwn (8) wdy bnyh]wn klhwn. 99 Ebenso im parallelen H343:3–4. 100 Auch G1:1; G2:2; H23:1; H184:2; H337:3; ergänzt in H17. In H17 und H23 wird vor der Phrase ein Gott namentlich genannt. H325:3 kl ’lh’ klhwn zeigt die Klammerkonstruktion mit determiniertem Nomen, wie sie einige Male im Qumran-Aramäischen belegt ist. 101 Ebenso H52:5; H74:5–6; H151:2.


Es erscheinen hauptsächlich determinierte Pluralnomen, oft Menschengruppen in Gedächtnisinschriften oder Aufschriften, die das Wohlergehen der Gruppe erbitten, die Konstruktion findet sich aber auch in anderen Gattungen. Belegt sind die Phrasen H213:2 Ìbryhy (3) klhwn ‚alle seine Genossen’,97 H79.11 bnyhy klhwn ‚alle seine Söhne’98 und H408:6 bny drh kwlhwn ‚alle Sprösslinge seiner Generation’, die jeweils Parallelen in den palmyrenischen Inschriften haben. Zusätzlich finden sich G2:4 pl†y’ klhwn ‚alle Palastangehörigen’, H336b:4 ‘rby’ (5) klhwn ‚alle Araber’99 und H344:2 Ì†[ry’] (3) klhwn ‚alle Hat[räer]’. Neben Menschengruppen sind auch oft die Phrasen A28a:3 ’lh’ (4) klhwn ‚alle Götter’,100 sowie, H75 smyt’ kwlhwn ‚alle Standarten’ belegt.101 Letztere sind eine Besonderheit der Religion von Hatra und mit den Göttern assoziiert. Gebäudeteile, äußerst häufig in dieser Konstruktion im Palmyrenischen, tauchen nur einmal in der Bauinschrift H408:3 ’syth kwlhyn ‚alle ihre Mauern’ auf. In den Aufschriften, die Wohlergehen erbitten, finden sich auch einige Singularnomen mit nachstehendem kl mit Suffix, so H35:6 ry[s] (7) dyr’ klh gwyt’ wbryt’ ‚Anführer des ganzen Tempelpersonals, innerhalb und außerhalb der Stadt’, wo der Phrase die komplementären Adjektive ‚innere und äußere’ folgen. Solch eine Ergänzung findet sich auch einige Male im Nabatäischen und Palmyrenischen. Außerdem sind belegt H290:7 ‘l Ìy’ byth klh ‚für das Wohlergehen seines ganzen Hauses/seiner ganzen Familie’, was auch oft in Palmyra begegnet, H1054:2 ‘l Ìy’ †hmh klh ‚für das Wohlergehen seiner ganzen Sippe’, und ebenda ‘l slm Ì†r’ klh ‚für das Heil von ganz Hatra’. Daneben erscheint die Konstruktion auch mit einem Klannamen: H408:5 ‘l Ìy’ dmgw kwlh ‚für das Wohlergehen des ganzen DMGW (-Klans)’ bzw. H1053:2 ‘]l Ìy’ dmgy’ kwlh mit

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102

Vgl. nabatäisches gryhm klh in MS12:4. Hingewiesen sei allerdings auf die im östlichen Spätaramäisch belegte Verwendung des Suffixes 3.m.sg. -yh anstelle der erwarteten femininen Form -h, vgl. H. Juusola, Linguistic Peculiarities in the Aramaic Magic Bowl Texts (Studia Orientalia 86, Helsinki 1999), 89–94 für die Sprache der Zauberschalen, M. Morgenstern, ‚Jewish Babylonian Aramaic in Geonic Responsa: Studies in Phonology, Verb Morphology, Pronouns and Style’, unveröffentlichte Doktorarbeit (Hebräische Universität, Jerusalem 2002), 88–90 für das babylonisch-gaonäische Aramäisch. Sollten die Formen -yh und -h die gleiche Lautung widerspiegeln und aus diesem Grund promiscue gebraucht worden sein, könnte erwogen werden, das Phänomen schon im Aramäisch aus Hatra anzusetzen, und -yh als Schreibung von -a zu interpretieren. Diese als Adverbialendung zu verstehen, bliebe dann möglich. Nicht zuletzt angesichts der unterschiedlichen Analyse der Form -yh bei Juusola und Morgenstern ist aber das Verständnis als Suffix 3.m.sg. viel wahrscheinlicher. 104 Vgl. klm’ gns klh im Steuertarif aus Palmyra PAT 0259:I:13. In H74 wird auch kwl mn ’ns statt kwl m’ ’ns gelesen, etwa von Bertolino, Manuel, 80, was, soweit ich sehe, im Alt- bis Mittelaramäisch eine einmalige Form wäre. 105 In variierender Orthographie und mit wechselnden Objektsuffixen: H35:7– 8; H107:8; H389:2; H405:7–8; H1046:4. 103


gleicher Bedeutung. In H408 wird auf den Klannamen mit Singularsuffix zurückverwiesen, ebenso in H1053, wo jedoch nicht der Klanname steht, sondern dmgy’ ‚die DMGW-Mitglieder’. Die Numerusinkongruenz mag durch das erste Formular beeinflusst sein. Kollektivnomen oszillieren nicht selten zwischen morphologischen Plural- und Singularformen,102 allerdings ist der umgekehrte Fall von formalem Singularnomen mit folgendem Pluralsuffix häufiger als der hier belegte. Zwar spärlich belegt findet sich in Hatra aber doch die Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminiertem Nomen: H173:2 kwl ’lh kwlyh ‚jeder Gott überhaupt’. Durch die Pleneschreibung ist deutlich, dass dem nachstehenden kl ein Suffix anhängt und nicht etwa eine Adverbialform auf -a vorliegt.103 Außerdem steht in H74:6 kwl m’ (7) ’ns kwlh ‚jeder Mensch überhaupt’.104 Hat die Form aus kl und Suffix in der Klammerkonstruktion adverbielle Funktion, so findet sich eine vergleichbare Verwendung auch in der in Gedächtnisinschriften mehrfach belegten Formel H20:4 mn drÌym lh klh ‚jeder, der ihn liebt’,105 die oft auch ohne das letzte Wort erscheint (z. B. H34:7–8). klh bezieht sich in diesem Formular auf das indefinite Relativpronomen mn zurück. Die Verwendungsweise hat keine direkten Parallelen in anderen Dialekten. In der Verwendung von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffixen bei determinierten Nomen unterscheidet sich die Sprache Hatras also nicht von den anderen mittelaramäischen Dialekten. Dass die Formulare der Inschriften den palmyrenischen ähneln, ist kein Zufall, sondern

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Überlegungen zur Dialektgeographie des Aramäischen Die in diesem Aufsatz besprochenen Syntagmen von nachgestelltem kl entstammen ganz unterschiedlichen Fundorten, von Hatra im Nord-Osten bis Elephantine im Süd-Westen, und decken mehr als tausend Jahre aramäischer Sprachgeschichte ab, von den ersten Inschriften im 9. Jh. v. Chr. bis ins 3. Jh. n. Chr. Unterschiede in der Konstruktion von kl zwischen den verschiedenen Textkorpora können daher immer als solche in der Zeit oder im Raum erklärt werden. Meist sind beide Faktoren verzahnt. Determiniertes Nomen mit folgendem kl Betrachtet man die Belege von determinierten Nomen mit folgendem kl chronologisch, so zeigt sich eine Zunahme selbiger — absolut und verglichen mit der konkurrierenden constructus-Verbindung. Äußerst seltenen Belegen im Altaramäischen folgen schon einige mehr im Reichsaramäischen, das sich im Bibel- und Qumran-Aramäischen fort-


verdankt sich neben einem gemeinsamen Erbe auch direktem Handelskontakt dieser Karawanenstädte, wie er in dem in der Mitte zwischen beiden gelegenen Dura-Europos belegt ist. Dort fanden sich ein palmyrenischer Tempel und viele palmyrenische Inschriften, aber auch solche in Duktus und Sprache von Hatra.106 Die Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminiertem Nomen ist in Hatra zwar selten, verbindet diesen Dialekt aber ebenso mit dem Palmyrenischen und Nabatäischen der Urkunden. Einzig in Hatra ist allerdings durch die Orthographie belegt, dass das dem Nomen folgende kl ein Suffix trägt, und nicht als Form mit Adverbialendung -a zu interpretieren ist, wie für die anderen Dialekte erwogen. Ob man allerdings aufgrund der einen Form in Hatra analog auch die Formen in jenen Dialekten als Suffix zu verstehen hat, bleibt zumindest zweifelhaft. Möglich wäre auch, dass die suffigierte Form in Hatra auf Reanalyse einer Adverbialform *kulla zurückgeht. Immerhin scheint mir auch die Verwendungsweise von klh in der Phrase mn drÌym lh klh eher auf eine adverbiale Form zu deuten.

106

Dies sind PAT 1067–1121 und D1–4. Außerdem wurde in Hatra ein palmyrenisches Relief mit Inschrift gefunden (PAT 1604), dem hatrische Graffiti hinzugefügt wurden (H411). Die tatsächlichen Fundorte der Inschriften, die — wenn auch einem der Dialekte von Palmyra, Edessa oder Hatra zugeordnet — keineswegs ausschließlich aus diesen Städten stammen, deuten darüber hinaus klar auf ein geographisches Dialektkontinuum. 62

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107

Vgl. die Einordnung als ‚nachachämenidisches Reichsaramäisch’ bei Beyer, Texte, I 32–44. 108 Vgl. M.Z. Kaddari, ‚Construct State and DI-Phrases in Imperial Aramaic’, in Proceedings of the International Conference on Semitic Studies held in Jerusalem, 19-23 July 1965 (Jerusalem 1969), 102–15, hier 103; Folmer, Language, 259–325. 109 Vgl. Rosenthal, Sprache, 75-6; Cantineau, Palmyrénien, 145–6; Beyer, Hatra, 136; im Syrisch der Inschriften bewahren formelhafte Verbindungen den constructus (etwa As7:3 byt ‘lm’ ‚das Haus der Ewigkeit’), sonst erscheinen dy-Konstruktionen. Qumran-Aramäisch ähnelt hingegen hier wie auch sonst eher dem Reichsaramäischen, indem constructus-Verbindungen noch oft belegt sind, vgl. U. SchattnerRieser, L’araméen des manuscrits de la Mer Morte: Grammaire (IELOA 5, Lausanne 2004), 124. Das Nabatäische ist insofern interessant, als die Syntax von kl und diejenige der Genitivverbindungen deutlich unterschiedliche Wege gehen: kl steht determinierten Nomen nach, wird also nicht mehr im constructus benutzt, wohingegen ebendieser constructus im Regelfall das Genitivverhältnis ausdrückt, und die


setzt. Das Reichsaramäische zeigt zusätzlich die Besonderheit, dass hier nach Nomen im Plural nicht kl mit Suffix, sondern eine vielleicht adverbiale Form kl’ belegt ist, ganz im Gegensatz zu früheren und späteren Dialekten. Das Qumran-Aramäische und das Nabatäische der Urkunden aus der Wüste Juda knüpfen insofern an dieses Proprium des Reichsaramäischen an, als auch sie die Tendenz zeigen, kl mit den schweren Pluralsuffixen zu meiden. In allen mittelaramäischen Dialekten, nicht aber im Qumran-Aramäischen, wird die Konstruktion von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffixen bei determinierten Nomen fast ausnahmslos verwendet, die constructus-Verbindung mit voran stehendem kl begegnet, wenn überhaupt, nur in besonderen syntaktischen Umgebungen. Die Syntax des Wortes kl lässt also zwischen dem Reichs-, Bibel- und Qumran-Aramäischen auf der einen, und dem Nabatäischen, Palmyrenischen, Syrischen und Aramäischen aus Hatra auf der anderen Seite einen deutlichen Bruch erkennen. Dieser Bruch macht es unwahrscheinlich, dass die Syntax in den letztgenannten Dialekten eine Weiterentwicklung der aus dem Reichsaramäischen bekannten Syntax ist, und dies obwohl diese Dialekte mehr oder weniger stark auf der reichsaramäischen Tradition fußen.107 Daher ist wohl auch die ansonsten nahe liegende Vermutung zurückzuweisen, die Abnahme von kl in constructus-Verbindungen sei mit dem zunehmenden Rückgang und der Ersetzung dieses Syntagmas durch dy-Konstruktionen im allgemeinen zu verbinden. Es liegt hier nicht dasselbe Phänomen vor. Dies zum einen, weil sich der Rückgang vom Reichsaramäisch, wo die constructus-Verbindung noch am häufigsten ist,108 zum Mittelaramäisch, wo im Osten die dy-Konstruktionen überwiegen, constructus-Verbindungen aber auch belegt sind,109 als lineare Entwicklung auffassen lässt, was bei der Syntax von

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dy-Konstruktion selten ist, Cantineau, Nabatéen, I 110. Wird im Folgenden die Möglichkeit altnordarabischen Einflusses auf die Syntax von kl im Nabatäischen erwogen, könnte die Gegenläufigkeit der Syntagmen aus diesem resultieren, weshalb der Tatsache hier keine weitere Bedeutung zugemessen wird. 110 Vgl. die Beiträge in Watson und Retsö, Relative Clauses and Genitive Constructions in Semitic: Typology and Diachrony. 111 H. Gzella, ‚Das Aramäische in den römischen Ostprovinzen: Sprachsituationen in Arabien, Syrien und Mesopotamien zur Kaiserzeit’, BiOr 63:1–2 (2006), 15–39, hier 22.32–3 mit einer Übersicht, die an Beyer, Texte, I 42–3.46–6 anknüpft. 112 Betont sei, dass die Konstruktion aus Nomen mit folgendem kl und Pluralsuffix im ganzen Alt- und Reichsaramäischen nur in der Inschrift aus Tell Fekheriye belegt ist, und dann erst wieder in den mittelaramäischen Dialekten.


kl wegen der gravierenden Veränderungen schwierig ist. Zum anderen widerspricht dem das mangels umfassender Untersuchungen notgedrungen impressionistische Bild, dass in den Sprachen, in denen die morphologische Kategorie des constructus zugunsten einer analytischen Genitivkonstruktion aufgegeben wurde, sich letztere oft doch in der Syntax einiger weniger Lexeme hält, wozu meist das Wort für ‚Sohn’ in Patronymen und eben auch das Wort für ‚alle, jeder’ zählen.110 Es wäre doch erklärungsbedürftig, dass kl, das in anderen Sprachen vergleichbarer Struktur eine der letzten Bastionen der constructus-Verbindung bildet, im Mittelaramäischen mit determinierten Nomen fast überhaupt nicht mehr in dieser Verbindung gebraucht wird, während diese bei anderen Nomen durchaus noch belegt ist. Ferner spricht der im Mittelaramäischen durchgehende Erhalt der constructus-Verbindung von kl mit indeterminiertem Nomen gegen diese Hypothese. Wie aber kann die distinktive Syntax von kl in den mittelaramäischen Dialekten erklärt werden? Der Zeitfaktor gibt offensichtlich keine Antwort auf diese Frage, der Ortsfaktor hält jedoch eine viel versprechende bereit. Das Nabatäische erst einmal beiseite lassend fällt auf, dass die drei mittelaramäischen Dialekte aus Palmyra, Edessa und Hatra nicht nur in Bezug auf die Epoche ihrer Bezeugung, sondern auch geographisch beieinander liegen und, den Fundorten der nicht aus den Hauptstädten stammenden Inschriften nach zu urteilen, sogar ein aramäisches Dialektkontinuum bezeugen. Ebenso lassen alle drei, das Palmyrenische am wenigsten aber immerhin noch deutlich, die Dialekte aus Edessa und Hatra hingegen massiv, den Einfluss der vor Ort gesprochenen ostaramäischen Idiome erkennen.111 Die Syntax von kl kann also gut als ein ‚areal feature’ dieser Dialektgruppe erklärt werden. Dass dieses schon alt ist und bis in altaramäische Zeit zurückreicht, legen die Belege von nachstehendem kl mit Suffix in der Tell Fekheriye Inschrift und auf dem Tontäfelchen aus der Habur-Region nahe.112 Weder in alt- und reichs-, noch in mittelara-

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113 Drei Belege stehen in der Bukan-Inschrift, die zwar ebenfalls aus dem Osten, nicht aber aus aramäischem Sprachgebiet stammt: KAI 320:2 [k]l mh mwtn’ ‚[jed]wede Seuche’; (3) bkl ’rq’ ‚auf der ganzen Erde’; (13) kl lwÒ nÒ[b]’ znh ‚der ganze Fluch dieser Ste[l]e’. Bemerkenswerterweise ist der erste Beleg zwar morphologisch durch den Artikel determiniert, die Sprachlogik verlangt aber sicher (vgl. die Emendation bei A. Sima, ‚Zu Formular und Syntax der alt-aramäischen Inschrift aus Bukan (um 700 v. Chr.)’, MLR 14 [2002], 113–24, hier 114) ein indeterminiertes Nomen. Dass die Sprache der Inschrift keine nennenswerten Akkadismen aufweist, jedoch mit lÌmh ‚Krieg’ ein Wort, dessen Wurzel hauptsächlich im Kanaanäischen belegt ist (M. Sokoloff, ‚The Old Aramaic Inscription from Bukan: A Revised Interpretation’, IEJ 49 [1999], 105–15, hier 106), verknüpft sie eher mit derjenigen der westlichen altaramäischen Inschriften als mit derjenigen der Inschrift aus Tell Fekheriye, obwohl letzteres geographisch näher liegt. 114 Dass die Trennung in östliche und westliche Dialekte im Aramäischen bis in reichs- und altaramäische Zeit zurückreicht, war u. a. von Greenfield, ‚Dialects’ mit Verweisen auf ältere Literatur herausgearbeitet worden. Für das Altaramäische lag ihm aber noch nicht genug Inschriftenmaterial vor, um zwischen Ost und West zu scheiden. Verbindungslinien zwischen dem alten und den mittelaramäischen Dialekten im Osten hatte schon Beyer, Texte, I 45–6 gezogen. 115 Kaufman, ‚Reflections’, 153. 116 Da die kanaanäischen Sprachen kl generell determinierten Nomen voran stellen, wie auch das westliche Altaramäisch, ist man zwar versucht, diese Syntax als aus einem postulierten Nordwestsemitischen ererbt zu betrachten, und die Syntax im östlichen Aramäisch folglich als Innovation, die einer Erklärung bedarf. Das äußere Kennzeichen der Determination, der Artikel, ist aber sicher nicht aus dem Nordwestsemitischen ererbt, vielmehr kann seine Entstehung im frühen Phönizischen und Aramäischen (das Samalische ist artikellos) nachvollzogen werden. Dass die Syntax von kl von der Einführung dieser die Determination betreffenden Innovation unberührt blieb, ist reine Spekulation, ebenso wie die daran anknüpfende Frage, welche der im westlichen und östlichen Altaramäisch bezeugten Syntax denn nun ursprünglich war.


mäischer Zeit begegnet in dem durch die drei mittelaramäischen Dialekte abgedeckten Gebiet die constructus-Verbindung von kl mit determiniertem Nomen in nennenswerter Zahl.113 Mithin lieg uns in der Syntax von kl ein Merkmal vor, das die ost- von den westaramäischen Dialekten unterscheidet, und dies schon ab der altaramäischen Periode.114 Die ostaramäische Syntax von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix auf Einfluss des Akkadischen zurückzuführen, wie es von Kaufman für die Belege aus der Tell Fekheriye Inschrift erwogen wurde,115 ist zwar verlockend, aber nicht zwingend. Es erscheint mir vorerst weiser, hier nicht von Beeinflussung zu sprechen — und damit in der Frage vom Huhn und dem Ei Partei zu ergreifen — sondern von zwei aramäischen Dialekten, dem im Westen und dem im Osten, die die untersuchten Teile der Syntax von kl jeweils mit ihren Nachbarsprachen Phönizisch und Hebräisch bzw. Akkadisch teilen.116 Haben wir die Syntax von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix im östlichen Altaramäisch und im Aramäischen aus Palmyra, Edessa und Hatra als

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117 Akkadischer Einfluss, bei den anderen Dialekten zumindest möglich, kann hier sicher nicht angeführt werden. Der zehnjährige Aufenthalt des neubabylonischen Königs Nabonid mit seinem Heer in der arabischen Oase Tayma hat zwar im kulturellen Gedächtnis des Alten Orients deutliche Spuren hinterlassen, für eine Zusammenschau vgl. W.W. Müller und S.F. al-Said, ‚Der babylonische König Nabonid in taymanischen Inschriften’, in N. Nebes (Hrsg.), Neue Beiträge zur Semitistik: Erstes Arbeitstreffen der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Semitistik in der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft vom 11. bis 13. September 2000 an der Friedrich-SchillerUniversität Jena (Wiesbaden 2002), 105–22, nicht jedoch sprachliche. 118 So etwa J.F. Healey, ‚Lexical Loans in Early Syriac: A Comparison with Nabataean Aramaic’, Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 12 (1995), 75–84, hier 77; Gzella, ‚Sprachsituationen’, 20–1. M. Morgenstern, ‚The History of the Aramaic Dialects in the Light of Discoveries from the Judaean Desert: The Case of Nabataean’, EretzIsrael 26 (1999), 134*–42* hat hingegen die Arbeitshypothese formuliert, das Nabatäische sei zumindest von einigen Nabatäern auch gesprochen worden, was Abweichungen der Sprache vom Reichsaramäischen erklären kann, die offensichtlich westliche inneraramäische Entwicklungen darstellen. Vor allem Formen der Demonstrativpronomen, die Verwendung der Akkusativpartikel yt und Imperfektformen der Wurzel yhb im Grundstamm deuten an, dass Morgenstern auf dem richtigen Weg sein könnte, auch wenn der Themenkomplex sicher noch genauerer Untersuchung bedarf. Die Syntax von kl im Nabatäischen kann aber kaum mit derjenigen in westaramäischen Dialekten verglichen werden. Westliches Altaramäisch stellt kl voran, Qumran-Aramäisch bezeugt keine nennenswerten Abweichungen von reichsaramäischer Syntax, und die späteren Dialekte zeigen ebenso, wenn die Grammatiken denn Hinweise geben, eher voran stehendes kl. So für das Galiläische Odeberg, Grammar, II 85 (§381); Lund, ‚Neofiti’, 41–2, wo aber der Bibeltext die Übersetzung, und diese dann die Einschübe beeinflusst haben wird. Das Christlich-Palästinische, F. Schulthess, Grammatik des Christlich-Palästinischen Aramäisch (Hildesheim 1982, Nachdruck der Ausgabe Tübingen 1924), 83 (§159.1), zeigt ähnliche Syntax wie das Buchsyrische und wird von dort beeinflusst worden sein, was Vergleiche erschwert. Über die Situation im Samaritanischen geben die Grammatiken keine Auskunft, vgl. aber regelmäßig voran stehendes xull im Neuwestaramäischen, W. Arnold, Das Neuwestaramäische. Teil V: Grammatik (Semitica Viva 4, Wiesbaden 1990), 49.


‚areal feature’ interpretiert, so bleibt hier noch das Nabatäische zu behandeln. Dieses fügt sich nur sehr schwer in dieses Areal ein. Erstens liegt es weit im Westen,117 und zweitens wird meist angenommen, dass Aramäisch bei den Nabatäern — zumindest im Kernland um Petra und weiter im Süden, wohl aber nicht im nabatäischen Bosra und dessen Umgebung — nur Schriftsprache war, wohingegen man im täglichen Leben eine Art (Altnord-) Arabisch sprach.118 Als eng an das Reichsaramäische anknüpfende Schriftsprache erwarten wir beim Nabatäischen dann aber auch reichsaramäische Syntax des Wortes kl, und nicht die bezeugten recht drastischen Abweichungen. Wollte man nicht unbezeugte spät-reichsaramäische Veränderungen in der Syntax annehmen, fällt die Erklärung der nabatäischen Syntax bei Beibehaltung der Hypothese einer Schriftsprache schwer. Da jedoch fast alle

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119 M.C.A. Macdonald, ‚Ancient North Arabian’, in R.D. Woodard (Hrsg.), The Ancient Languages of Syria-Palestine and Arabia (Cambridge 2008), 179–224, hier 214. Das erwähnte ‚Dadanitisch’ entstammt einer Oase etwa 20 Kilometer südlich von Madaîn ∑aliÌ, ist also für unsere nabatäischen Inschriften sehr aussagekräftig, wenn auch aus früherer Zeit als diese. ‚Safaitisch’ hingegen ist im Wüstengebiet im Süden des heutigen Syrien, im Nordosten Jordaniens und im Norden Saudi-Arabiens bezeugt. Dass ‚alle’ im Altnordarabischen in der Orthographie kll erscheint, ändert nichts an der Syntax des Wortes. Man beachte in diesem Zusammenhang, dass für das Nabatäisch der Dokumente aus der Wüste Juda vorgeschlagen wurde, Doppelschreibung eines Konsonanten bezeichne Gemination, Yadin et al., Documents, 30. 120 Das ‚imperfect learning’ der englischsprachigen Kontaktlinguistik. Umgekehrt sind auch zwei mögliche aramäische Lehnwörter im Dadanitischen identifiziert worden, W.W. Müller, ‚Das Frühnordarabische’, in W. Fischer (Hrsg.), Grundriss der arabischen Philologie. Bd. I: Sprachwissenschaft (Wiesbaden 1982), 17–29, hier 22. 121 Vgl. M. Maraqten, ‚The Arabic Words in Palmyrene Inscriptions’, ARAM 7 (1995), 89–108 sowie vielfach arabische Personen-, Stammes- und Götternamen. 122 Safaitische Graffiti sind aus Palmyra (H.J.W. Drijvers, ‚Inscriptions from Allât’s Sanctuary’, ARAM 7 [1995], 109–19, hier 110) sowie anderen palmyrenischen Fundorten bekannt, vgl. PAT 1721 aus Khirbet Abu Duhur.


Belege für nachstehendes kl aus der Oase Madaîn ∑aliÌ im heutigen Saudi-Arabien stammen, ist für diese an der Schriftsprachenhypothese kaum zu rütteln. Wie also erklärt sich die vom Reichsaramäischen so verschiedene Syntax? Die Antwort könnte im gesprochenen Altnordarabisch der dortigen Bevölkerung liegen. Die altnordarabischen Inschriften liefern zwar nur einen äußerst mageren Ertrag für grammatische Studien, und bei weitem nicht alle dieser Inschriften stammen aus dem Herrschaftsgebiet der Nabatäer, trotzdem konnte aber Macdonald in der neuesten grammatischen Skizze dieser Sprachen feststellen, dass kl nur mit Suffixen — und dann teilweise voran stehenden determinierten Nomen — nicht jedoch in constructus-Verbindungen mit determinierten Nomen belegt ist.119 Lernte nun ein altnordarabischer Muttersprachler, der gewohnt war in seiner Rede kl mit Suffix determinierten Nomen nachzustellen, in einer Schreiberschule das Reichsaramäische, so wird man annehmen dürfen, dass der Syntax eines gemeinsemitischen Wortes wie kl dabei nicht viel Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt wurde. Vielmehr blieb dessen Gebrauch dem semitischen Sprachgefühl überlassen, das aber, weil altnordarabisch und nicht reichsaramäisch, in die Irre leitete. Die Verwendung von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffixen im Nabatäischen könnte also als systemischer Einfluss des Altnordarabischen zu erklären sein, zustande gekommen durch ‚unvollkommenes Erlernen’ der Zielsprache.120 Angesichts eines nachweisbaren arabischen Substrats auch in der Sprache Palmyras,121 das am Rande des Verbreitungsgebiet des Safaitischen lag,122 sowie eines arabischen Bevölkerungsanteils in oder um

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123

‚Die Araber’ ¨rbyˆ werden erwähnt in H336b:4 et passim und sind auch durch das Onomastikon bezeugt. Gleiches lässt sich auch von den alten syrischen Inschriften sagen. 124 Greenfield, ‚Dialects’, 96. Auch eine weitere dialektale Untergliederung des reichsaramäischen Materials, wie von Kutscher und Greenfield angedeutet und von Folmer, Language, 714–45 durchexerziert, ergibt in den jeweiligen Textgruppen für die Syntax von kl kein klar west- oder östliches Bild. 125 Folmer, Language, 749. Die wenigen vorhandenen Indizien für den Vorläufer des Reichsaramäischen deuten auf einen Dialekt ähnlich dem des Assur-Ostrakons (KAI 233) aus Babylonien, wie in H. Gzella, ‚The Heritage of Imperial Aramaic in Eastern Aramaic’, AS 6:1 (2008), 85–109, bes. 97–100 dargelegt. 126 Beyer, Texte, I 29.


Hatra,123 könnte man versucht sein zu erwägen, dass in diesen Dialekten wie im Nabatäischen das Arabische Quelle der Syntax von kl war. Da aber beide Dialekte deutlich eine autochthone aramäischsprachige Bevölkerung ausweisen, neben der auch arabische Elemente bezeugt sind, ist die gesellschaftliche wie sprachliche Situation in diesen Städten eine ganz andere als bei den Nabatäern. Ich ziehe daher eine inneraramäische Erklärung des Befundes in Palmyra und Hatra vor. Für das Reichsaramäische ergibt sich bei der Interpretation des Syntagmas als ostaramäisches ‚areal feature’ die Frage nach der Zuordnung des Dialekts zu dieser oder zur westaramäischen Dialektgruppe. Mit dem politischen Zentrum des Achämenidenreiches im Osten scheint eine Verknüpfung des Reichsaramäischen mit den östlichen Dialekten nahe liegend. Die Syntax von kl spricht aber gegen eine solche Zuordnung. Voran stehendes kl neben Belegen von nachstehendem kl mit Suffix deuten vielmehr eher auf eine Dialektmischung aus Ost und West, wie sie etwa Greenfield vermutet hatte.124 Seine Annahme, dass Reichsaramäische sei auf Grundlage der westlichen altaramäischen Schriftsprache geschaffen worden, zeige aber Einfluss des östlichen Aramäisch von Babylon, scheint daher möglich. Herausgestellt werden muss allerdings, dass das Reichsaramäische in der Verwendung von kl’ nach Pluralnomen weder mit dem östlichen Altaramäisch aus Tell Fekheriye noch mit den mittelaramäischen Dialekten übereinstimmt. Unser Befund passt also besser zu Folmers Analyse, die zwar Gemeinsamkeiten des Reichsaramäischen mit älteren Dialekten herausstellt, gleichzeitig aber betont, dass uns sein direkter Vorläufer unbekannt ist.125 Der untersuchte Aspekt der Syntax von kl liefert zusätzlich ein Indiz für Beyers Diktum, dass dem Reichsaramäischen kein gesprochener ostaramäischer Dialekt zugrunde lag,126 denn Einfluss eines solchen sehen wir in der Syntax von kl in Tell Fekheriye und im späteren Mittelaramäisch der Region.

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Indeterminiertes Nomen mit folgendem klh

127

Wie dies etwa E.M. Cook, ‚Qumran Aramaic and Aramaic Dialectology’, in T. Muraoka (Hrsg.), Studies in Qumran Aramaic (AN Suppl. 3, Louvain 1992), 1–21 tut. N.B. Die voran stehende Analyse der Syntax von kl hat einen weiteren Anhaltspunkt dafür geliefert, dass auch die Einordnung des Qumran-Aramäischen in ein solches Dialektkontinuum problematisch ist, weil es noch stark unter dem Einfluss des Reichsaramäischen steht, wohingegen lokale Eigenheiten erst sporadisch durchscheinen. Sinnvoller erscheint es also, das Reichs- und spätere jüdisch-palästinische Aramäisch zum Vergleich heranzuziehen, wie etwa in M. Sokoloff, ‚Qumran Aramaic in Relation to the Aramaic Dialects’, in L.H. Schiffman et al. (Hrsgg.), The Dead Sea Scrolls: Fifty Years After Their Discovery (Jerusalem 2000), 746–54.


Das Phänomen von nachgestelltem kl mit Suffix lässt sich also am besten als ‚areal feature’ interpretieren, dessen Verbreitungsgebiet den Osten des aramäischen Sprachraumes abdeckte, und zwar von alt- bis in mittelaramäische Zeit. Bleibt noch auf eine weitere Gemeinsamkeit vornehmlich der mittelaramäischen Dialekte mit Ausnahme des Syrischen der Inschriften zu verweisen: Die Klammerkonstruktion mit indeterminierten Nomen, bzw. im Nabatäischen der Inschriften die Phrase aus indeterminiertem Nomen mit folgendem klh. Die Verwendung der Phrase ist meist in einem Dialekt auf einige bestimmte Nomen konzentriert und scheint somit formelhaft. Im Reichsaramäischen findet sich kein Hinweis auf diese Konstruktionen, was es schwierig macht, ihr Vorhandensein in den nachachämenidischen Dialekten anders denn als Innovation bzw. regionale Eigenheit zu erklären. Solch eine Erklärung hat aber ihre Probleme. Nimmt man an, dass das Syntagma ein regionales Phänomen war, wird man es wie auch die zu Anfang diskutierte Konstruktion im Osten des aramäischen Sprachraumes anzusiedeln haben. Unerklärt bleibt dann, warum es auch im Nabatäischen belegt ist, das doch — wenn es nicht einfach eine an das Reichsaramäische anknüpfende Schriftsprache war — eher westaramäische Züge zeigt. Einfluss des Altnordarabischen kann in diesem Fall nicht angeführt werden. Wollte man nicht das Nabatäische in ein Dialektkontinuum (von gesprochenen Sprachen) mit den östlichen mittelaramäischen Dialekten einordnen,127 was eine Erklärung für die Gemeinsamkeiten der Schriftsprachen böte, muss man wohl die Entwicklung dieser Konstruktion im noch normativen Reichsaramäisch, jedoch nach den ägyptischen Sprachzeugnissen, ansetzen. Dies ist aber äußerst hypothetisch. Etwas plausibler machen lässt sich diese Hypothese durch Verweis auf zumindest wahrscheinliche morphologische Gemeinsamkeiten zwischen dem Reichsaramäischen und der Konstruktion in den mittelaramäischen

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Als problematisch für die Ermittlung des Verhältnisses der Dialekte zueinander stellte sich für beide diskutierten Syntagmen das Nabatäische heraus. Dies deshalb, weil es in beiden Fällen vom Reichsaramäisch abweichende ostaramäische Syntax zeigt, obwohl es gemeinhin als auf dem Reichsaramäischen basierende Schriftsprache verstanden wird — möglicherweise mit westaramäischem Einschlag. Zwar könnte unter Beibehaltung dieses Verständnisses — wie in den vorangehenden Ausführungen geschehen — das erste Syntagma noch durch altnordarabischen Einfluss erklärt werden, zur Erklärung des zweiten wird aber schon eine weit reichende und unsichere Hypothese notwendig. Nimmt man von der Schriftsprachenhypothese Abstand und ordnet das Nabatäische in ein aramäisches Dialektkontinuum ein, das es mit dem Osten des Sprachraumes verbindet, bedarf es dieser Hypothese und auch des Rekurrierens auf altnordarabischen Einschlag nicht. Für einen solchen Schritt sind zwar die bisherigen Indizien noch nicht tragkräftig genug, nach weiteren zu suchen erscheint mir aber durchaus lohnend. Address for Correspondence: [email protected]


Dialekten. Dass klh in diesen indeterminierten Nomen folgt, macht es unwahrscheinlich, dass das Wort als Form mit Suffix aufzufassen ist, ebenso wie die einmal belegte Variante kl’ in einer nabatäischen Urkunde. Der einzige Beleg aus Hatra, wo die Orthographie recht deutlich — wenn auch nicht absolut sicher — ein Suffix ausweist, mag eine spätere Entwicklung und Reanalyse anzeigen. Läge aber im Palmyrenischen und Nabatäischen keine suffigierte Form vor, wäre das Wort am ehesten als Adverb — nach Form und Funktion — *kulla zu verstehen. Diese Form wird auch das reichsaramäische kl’/ klh wiedergeben, das ebenfalls seinem Bezugswort nachsteht. Die Adverbialform *kulla könnte damit in den mittelaramäischen Dialekten aus dem Reichsaramäischen ererbt sein, wenn sich auch ihre Verwendungsweise änderte.

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WHAT DOES HEBREW MEAN?1 D.R.G. BEATTIE and PHILIP R. DAVIES CHANDLERS FORD

UNIVERSITY OF SHEFFIELD

Abstract

In the New Testament, there are several references to a language called Hebrew. Paul is said (twice in one passage)2 to have spoken Hebrew — as did the voice that addressed him on the road to Damascus3 — but the only words that have been preserved in either case are in Greek. We are told by both Luke4 and John5 that the superscription above the cross was written in Greek, Latin and Hebrew,


In the New Testament, there are several references to a language called Hebrew which can only mean Aramaic. But who were the ‘Hebrews’, particularly in relation to ‘Israelites’ and ‘Jews’? We suggest that the failure on the part of non-Aramaic speaking non-Jews led to the incorrect identification of Aramaic as the ‘Jewish’ language (then known as ‘Hebrew’) and thus of Jews as ‘Hebrews’. Neither the Bible nor (overwhelmingly) the rabbinic literature identify as ‘Hebrew’ the language now known by that name. But the Jewish Bible does mention Hebrews, who are often identified in modern research as ancient Israelites. More probably however, the designation means inhabitants of the area known since neo-Assyrian times as ‘Beyond the River’, TransEuphrates, Aramaic ‘abar nahara, whence the short name ‘Hebrew’ or ‘Transite’. Very many of these Aramaic speaking and circumcizing ‘Hebrews’ were assimilated into the Hasmonean kingdom and thus became identified also as ‘Judaeans/Jews’, while both Israelites (Samarians) and Judaeans were equally part of the ‘Hebrew’ population of Trans-Euphrates. The Bible recognizes the ancestor of this ethnos in Abraham, to whose descendants the territory of Trans-Euphrates was promised. When, then, did ‘Hebrew’ come to be generally adopted as the name for the language of the Bible? This is hard to say, but it may have been as recently as the nineteenth century.

1 This paper is partly based on the ninth annual Semitic Studies lecture, given by D.R.G. Beattie to the Institute of Byzantine Studies, Queen’s University, Belfast, in May 2007. 2 Acts 21:40; 22:2. 3 Acts 26:14. 4 Luke 23:38. 5 John 19:20.

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WHAT DOES HEBREW MEAN?

6

John 5:2. John 19:13. 8 John 19:17. 9 Mark 5:41. 10 Mark 15:34. Matt. 27:46 has a variant jlei jlei lema sabaxqanei. 11 Mark 7:34. 12 The giving of this name to a language that is called Aramaic (‫ )ארמית‬in the Bible, just because it is said to have been spoken on one occasion by Chaldeans (Dan. 2:4), must rank as one of the most bizarre achievements of biblical scholarship.


but again the content is given only in Greek. Three place-names — Bethesda,6 Gabbatha,7 Golgotha8 — are identified in John’s Gospel as being Hebrew but all three have a distinctly Aramaic form. The Hebrew for skull is not golgotha but gulgoleth; in Aramaic it is gulgoltha, which is presumably what the gospel cites. Gabbatha, if derived — as seems likely — from ‫גב ביתא‬, mound of the house (temple), has a genuine Aramaic etymology; the equivalent in Hebrew would be ‫גב‬ ‫הבית‬, but the area is known to this day in Hebrew as ‫ הר הבית‬or Temple Mount. The beth of Bethesda could be either Hebrew or Aramaic; whatever the origin of esda (most probably Ìsd, mercy) the a ending reflects an Aramaic emphatic termination like the other two examples. Alongside these references are three in which words spoken by Jesus are preserved in Greek transliteration. In two cases, taliqa koumi, ‘Get up, girl’, the words spoken to Jairus’s dead daughter,9 and the cry from the cross elwi elwi lama sabaxqanei, ‘My God, my God why have you forsaken me?’10 the language is clearly Aramaic; in the third case, effaqa, which is said to mean ‘Be opened’ when addressed to the deaf man with a speech impediment11 some corruption has occurred but restoration to Aramaic can be performed more easily than to Hebrew. These two sets of data, the form of the place-names said to be Hebrew and the language spoken by Jesus, constitute the evidence for a conclusion already reached in the nineteenth century: that the language called Hebrew in the New Testament is in fact Aramaic. In the nineteenth century, of course, what we now call Aramaic was actually called Syro-Chaldee, and believed to be a mixture of biblical Aramaic, which was then called Chaldee,12 and the Syriac of the Peshitta. Indeed, it is worth noting that the Greek word ëbra⁄ov is more likely to have been constructed out of the Aramaic word for Hebrew ‫עבראי‬ than from the Hebrew word ‫עברי‬. But the word Hebrew is not confined in the New Testament to a language. On the one occasion that it is used by Paul, he describes 7

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13 14 15


himself as ‘a Hebrew of Hebrews’.13 This is a somewhat striking usage, unique in the New Testament. We might rather have expected ‘Jew’, Paul’s usual designation.14 However, Paul is recorded as directly naming himself a Jew only in Acts 21:39. His own statement ‘I became as a Jew’15 is less than a self-designation: it might even be a denial of one. In 2 Cor. 11:22 Paul again avoids the label ‘Jew’, declaring himself to be ‘a Hebrew, an Israelite, and the seed of Abraham’, while in Rom. 11:1 he is ‘an Israelite, of the seed of Abraham, [and] the tribe of Benjamin’ — very similar to the full description in Phil. 3:5, in fact: ‘circumcised the eighth day, of the stock of Israel, [and] the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews and a Pharisee’. Are these terms all synonymous, or do they convey different, if overlapping, identities? They seem to express a set of concentric categories, though not in a logical order: seed of Abraham being the largest and Benjamin the smallest, with Israel coming in between. Where do Pharisee and Hebrew stand in relation to this set? The first of these refers, as we know, to membership of a religious party within Israel, but the second is more problematic. It is clearly not the same as Israelite. As already noted, Hebrew in the New Testament mostly designates a language, and we suggest it does so here also, at least in part: it designates a member of a linguistic community or population. A Hebrew, we maintain, is a speaker of the language that is called Hebrew in the New Testament, namely Aramaic. The importance of linguistic identity within Judaism is signified in Acts 6:1, which reports the rise of dissension in the developing Christian community between t¬n ëlljnist¬n pròv toùv ëbraíouv or, as modern English translations recognize, between those who spoke Greek and those who spoke the language of the Jews. There is no reason to suppose it has a different meaning in Paul’s words than in any other New Testament passage. He is therefore designating himself to the Philippians as an Aramaic speaker from an Aramaic-speaking family. From this usage of Hebrew, we suggest, developed what was to become a wide-reaching and long-lasting practice. On the one hand, the name of the language spoken by the Jews (Aramaic) at some point came to designate the (different) language in which the Jewish scriptures were written as well as chronologically later forms of that language. On the other hand, the adjective Hebrew became, in European languages, for non-Jewish speakers of those languages, a Phil. 3:5. Rom. 1:16; 2:9–10, 17, 28–9; 3:1; 10:12; Gal. 2:14; 3:28; Col. 3:11. 1 Cor. 9:20. 73

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surrogate for Jewish. Essential for these developments is a third-language use (Greek), since only speakers of a third language would not recognize that what we now call Hebrew and Aramaic were distinct and that Hebrew did not mean Jewish. Hence, in the Talmud, in the course of discussing whether sacred writings should be saved from a fire on Sabbath one opinion is given thus: ‘If they are written in Egyptian, Median, ‫עברית‬, Elamite, or Greek, though they may not be read, they may be saved from a fire’.16 Our interest here lies of course in the word ‫עברית‬, which we would normally (i.e. elsewhere) understand to mean Hebrew but clearly this cannot be the case here. That what we call the Hebrew scriptures, which are read publicly in the synagogue service, should be saved when necessary from fire needs no discussion. The Soncino Talmud therefore translates ‫ עברית‬here as ‘a trans[-Euphratean] Aramaic’, which is a double translation. It is called Aramaic to make clear that it is not Hebrew, while the gloss ‘trans[-Euphratean]’ correctly (in our opinion, as we shall argue) provides the etymology of the word. But the most significant aspect of this note is its testimony that, at the time of the discussion and of its recording neither the language of the Hebrew Bible nor that of the Talmudic discussion was called Hebrew. The former is mentioned a little earlier in the discussion as ‘the holy language’ (‫ ;)לשון הקדש‬what the latter was called we do not at present know.17 Before considering the usage of the Hebrew Bible, we might consider the Mishnah. Here we again find references to biblical Hebrew as ‘the holy language’;18 these occur in relation to certain rituals that must be performed in ‘the holy language’, the reasoning being that, because the biblical text says ‘you/he/she/they shall say …’ only the actual words used there are appropriate. Elsewhere in the Mishnah, Hebrew and Greek are also mentioned as languages, in terms not unlike New Testament usage, in relation to bills of divorce.19 Since a major point of concern in these cases seems to be the direction of writing, and since in any case the contrast with Greek indicates that it is the alphabet used that is important, ‫ עברית‬may as easily be Aramaic as Hebrew. At this stage of our enquiry it is impossible to decide which is the more probable, although as we are dealing with mun16

b.Shabb.115a. The Jewish writer of 2 Maccabees calls Aramaic ‘Syriac’ — the language spoken by the inhabitants of what Greeks knew as ‘Syria’ (2 Macc. 15:36), but this hardly tells us what Aramaic-speaking Jews called it. 18 m.Yeb. 12:6, m.Sot. 7:2, 3, 4; 8:1; 9:1. 19 M.Gittin 9:6, 8. 17

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20 Perhaps the name Assyrian reflects its introduction to the west by the Assyrians along with the Aramaic language. 21 The Gemara, in commenting on m.Megillah 2:1, expands the statement ‘if he read it …in any other language, he has not fulfilled his obligation’ by using the same list of five languages as is found in b.Shabbath but in a slightly different order into ‘if he read it in Coptic, Hebrew, Elamite, Median, or Greek, he has not fulfilled his obligation’; while the rule ‘it may be read in a foreign tongue to them that speak a foreign tongue’ is expanded into ‘Coptic to Copts, Hebrew to Hebrews, Elamite to Elamites, or Greek to Greeks’, the dropping of ‘Median to Medes’ being presumably accidental. (b.Meg. 18a)


dane usage Aramaic is more likely. There is, nevertheless, one single passage in which ‫ עברית‬must mean (biblical) Hebrew. According to m.Yadaim 4:5, ‘The targum that is in Ezra and Daniel renders the hands unclean. If [this text] is written in Hebrew or Hebrew written in targum, or in Hebrew, it does not render the hands unclean’. The contrast initially made in this passage between ‘targum’ (Aramaic) and ‘ivrit must indicate that the latter means Hebrew. But the distinction is made between Hebrew and targum (Aramaic) as both languages and scripts. Hence a copy of Ezra or Daniel in which either the Aramaic or the Hebrew portion is written in the Hebrew (i.e. palaeo-Hebrew) script does not defile the hands; both must use the Aramaic, or Assyrian (‫)אשורית‬20 or square characters. A similar prescription is laid down in relation to the scroll of Esther in m. Megillah. However, in m.Meg. 2:1 no language, not even ‫לשון הקדש‬, is specified for the scroll. It would almost appear here that ‫אשורית‬ (Assyrian) is the name of the appropriate language.21 The most important element in the Mishnaic passage is the use of ‫ עברית‬in reference to scripture, even if only once. But this is found in a document dated well over a century later than the writings of Paul and the gospels. It is perhaps also significant that the word targum, which properly means translation, should be used in this passage to mean Aramaic whereas it is the word ‫ ארמית‬that appears in the text of Daniel and Ezra at the beginning of the Aramaic sections. This Mishnaic usage might provide a clue to the time at which Hebrew emerged as a name for the ‘holy language’. We can turn now to the Hebrew Bible, where the word Hebrew occurs in 32 places. The most important observation is that it never refers to a language. In the well-known passage in 2 Kings 18 (paralleled in Isaiah 36), where King Hezekiah’s officials request the emissaries of the King of Assyria to speak to them in Aramaic rather than Hebrew, the word translated Hebrew is ‫יהודית‬, ‘Judaean’. A second observation is that almost all of the occurrences fall into one or other of two groups. The smaller group (five occurrences) deals with the

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law of the Hebrew slave. A Hebrew slave must be released after six years’ service, according to Exod. 21:2; when read alongside Lev. 25:39, (‘If your brother becomes impoverished and sells himself to you, you shall not make him serve as a slave’), it becomes apparent that Hebrew is not the same as Israelite. In the larger group of occurrences (twenty-five in all) Hebrew is a term used either by foreigners to designate Israelites or Judaeans, or by Israelites and Judeans when speaking to foreigners about themselves. This group may be further subdivided into an Egyptian and a Philistine context. The former embraces the Joseph stories and the early chapters of Exodus, and it might be argued that there is a certain logic in having the Egyptians know the first generation of Israelites by another name. In the Philistine context of the battles recorded in 1 Samuel during the reign of Saul it might in a similar way be argued that the Philistines use the term Hebrew to withhold recognition of Saul’s kingdom. But another explanation is also possible, that in both sets Hebrew is distinguishable from Israelite. In one passage this distinction is absolutely clear, even though a minor adjustment in the division of words is involved: ‘The Hebrews who had formerly been with the Philistines, and had gone up to the camp with them, turned around to be with Israel who were with Saul and Jonathan’.22 A little earlier,23 in another passage that is also narrative and not speech, it is recorded that Hebrews crossed the Jordan at/from/to (there is no preposition in the Hebrew text) the land of Gad and Gilead, and it has been suggested by Gottwald24 that this is a reference to Ìabiru joining in the battle. In our view the connection between Ìabiru and Hebrew, invoked by Gottwald (and several other scholars) is erroneous. The Akkadian word Ìabiru or ‘apiru describes a group or class of people who appear at various times throughout the second millennium BCE and in various parts of the Fertile Crescent and Mesopotamia. In times of war they would apparently hire themselves as mercenaries; in more peaceful times they would attach themselves to wealthy patrons or even enter into voluntary slavery or service. The term was first encountered in the Amarna letters (fourteenth century BCE). Until recently it was maintained by many scholars that these should be equated with the biblical Hebrews, but this view has recently lost support. One reason is that the Egyptian and the Ugaritic texts both favour the form ‘apiru rather than Ìabiru, though the spelling is not decisive. Another reason 22

1 Sam. 14:21. 1 Sam. 13:7. 24 Norman K. Gottwald, The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Liberated Israel, 1250-1050 B.C.E. (Maryknoll, N.Y. 1979), 423. 23

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is that there is no mention of Ìabiru/‘apiru after about 1000 BCE, and if somehow the term persisted in Israel or Judah, it is unclear to what kind of people it was then taken to refer—and even more uncertain why it should have been used of Israelites (and Judaeans?). The suggestion that historically the Israelites originated as Ìabiru has become more unlikely in recent reappraisals of Israelite origins, which trace the core population of Israel to highland farming villages.25 Two further biblical examples of the use of Hebrew require particular attention: Jonah and Abraham. Jonah identifies himself to the sailors by saying ‘I am a Hebrew’ (Jon. 1:9), while on just one occasion Abraham is described as ‘Abram the Hebrew’ (Gen. 14:13). Here it very obviously cannot be understood, even by the biblical author, as a synonym for Israelite (by contrast, Abraham could be called a Jew when the term has acquired a religious rather than an ethnic designation). We suggest, then, that throughout the period in which the biblical texts were written, Hebrew had a meaning that included Israelite but was not synonymous with it. Although Jonah’s self-description is addressed to foreigners, it is unclear in this context why he would have used it if he meant simply Israelite, which the sailors would presumably have understood. It is perhaps worth considering that the term was used at a certain period to designate a community or population that included both Israelites and Judaeans, who to outsiders did not form a single identifiable people,26 a term that Israelites or Jews could apply to themselves, but also apply to others. How might this population have been identified or characterized? The most obvious answer is the one we have already proposed for the apostle Paul: it refers to the community of native Aramaic speakers. We have seen that among Jews of the first century CE, Aramaic and Greek-speaking Jews differed in more than purely linguistic preferences, such that it is reasonable to consider the distinction as social or cultural. Can it be argued that Aramaic speakers in general were also identifiable as a social or cultural group? Obviously, we are considering the period after the demise of the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah, whose populations did not speak Aramaic as their first language. Our argument entails that the use of the term Hebrew in the biblical texts discussed above reflects Second Temple period usage. It can be argued, however, that the Aramaic-speaking Hebrews came to be regarded, and to regard themselves, as defined by more 25

Israel Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement (Jerusalem 1988). For the argument that the term ‘Israel’ developed after 586 BCE as a religious designation for the Judaean and Samarian ‘children of Jacob’ who worshipped the ‘god of Jacob’, see P.R. Davies, The Origins of Biblical Israel (London 2007). 26

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than language alone. One striking indication of this in the Bible is the figure of Eber, a grandson of Shem, in Genesis 10 and 11. Unfortunately, the information given about him is confusing. In the ‘Table of Nations’ in ch. 10 he and his descendants should represent ethnic or social groups with a designated area of settlement. But only one of his sons, Joktan, is assigned further descendants or territories and these appear to lie in the region of the Arabian peninsula. Nevertheless, according to v. 21 Shem is the ‘father of all the descendants of Eber’, a statement that has the effect of equating ‘Eberites’ with all those descended from Shem, and these descendants are given as the inhabitants of the eastern part of the Fertile Crescent from Elam to Aram. Equally strangely, in ch. 11 Joktan is omitted entirely, while the other son, Peleg, is now furnished with a line of descent that leads to Abram (vv. 16–26). It is possible (if a solution is necessary) to reconcile the conflicting information in the two chapters by assuming that the ‘children of Eber’ were divided into two branches, one inhabiting Arabia, and the other the Fertile Crescent. The two groups together would in fact coincide quite closely with the modern definition of ‘Semitic’, endorsing the statement in 10:21 that Shem was in fact the father of ‘all the descendants of Eber’. The curiosity of the line of descent from Eber to Abram is that while the genealogy comprises peoples to the east of the Euphrates, the immediate family of Abram, and the land that is assigned to him, belong to the west of the river. The verb ‫ עבר‬means (among other things) ‘cross’ and ‘eber can be used prepositionally to mean the region beyond or on the far side of something, usually a river. Thus in Deut. 1:1 ‘These are the words which Moses spoke ‫’בעבר הירדן‬, while in Jos. 24:2–3 we read ‘Your ancestors lived long ago ‫בעבר הנהר‬ … and I took Abraham from ‫’עבר הנהר‬. ‘The river’ in this second passage is almost certainly the Euphrates, and in Genesis Abraham does indeed cross the River from east to west. But the term ‘eber hanahar is also the official designation (Akkadian eber-nari, Aramaic ‘abar nahara’ ) for a clearly-defined territory, identified first under the Assyrians, presumably followed by the Neo-Babylonians, and then made into a political unit (if it was not already such), a satrapy (initially joined with Babylon, later separated) under the Achaemenids. ‘Across the River’ was the home of the speakers of Aramaic, the language also adopted by the Assyrians in the western part of their empire and used also by their imperial successors. The vital connection between the name ‘Across the River’ and the Aramaic language of its inhabitants provides the key to the ancient use of the term Hebrew to designate Aramaic. 78

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The connection between ‘eber ha-nahar and Hebrew is not explicitly made in the Hebrew Bible. But it seems to be acknowledged in various subtle ways. We find references to ancestors living ‘beyond the river’ and crossing rivers in their movement towards self-determination: first the ‘sea of reeds’ and then the Jordan. The phrase ‫ ועברים עברו‬in 1 Sam. 13:7 looks more than a wordplay, but is rather an attempt to explain the one by the other, as though to say ‘Hebrews (are so called because) they crossed the Jordan’. It does not follow that Hebrews and Israel are synonymous here, only that Hebrew is a term that can be applied to Israelites — though the aim is perhaps to supply an indigenous aetiology, to claim the word as originating with Israel itself. The more complicated relationship between Hebrews and Israel emerges when Jonah calls himself a Hebrew. This self-designation is, in our view, evidence that at the time of Jonah’s writing an ‫( עבראי‬the word will have been coined in Aramaic), is a resident of the place called for short ‫( עברא‬the emphatic form being used as is normal in western Aramaic when a noun stands alone). Although in the book Jonah speaks not Aramaic but what we call Hebrew, the situation envisaged in the story presupposes that he uses a lingua franca such as Aramaic (as he perhaps would in Nineveh too). Whether officially introduced by Persian administrators or developed as a convenient shorthand by the residents, the term ‫עבראי‬ (in Hebrew ‫ )עברי‬would not have been coterminous with Jew or Israelite but would have applied to the population of the whole satrapy. And what of the relationship between Jew and Hebrew? Insofar as ‘Jew’ means ‘Judaean’, we conclude that, like Israelites (Samarians), these too regarded themselves as part of the community of ‘Across the River’, and the figure of Eber signifies that allegiance, as does his place in the ancestral line of Abraham, who is also described as a Hebrew. Abraham’s immediate family, from whom his children and grandchildren took wives, lived in a part of Aram by the Euphrates, while his descendants, to whom the divine promises of land are made, cover most of the rest of ‘Across the River’ — the main exception being the Philistines, who represent Greek speakers.27 Thus, Moab, Ammon, Edom, Ishmaelites are all members of the Abrahamic line, all Hebrews. The biblical equations between the land belonging to Israel and the region ‘Across the River’ show on the one hand that the region is being ‘Abrahamized’ but also that as such it can be 27

See Israel Finkelstein, ‘The Philistines in the Bible: A Late-Monarchic Perspective’, JSOT 27 (2002), 131–67. 79

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claimed as part of a ‘greater Israel’ — a claim reflected in the legendary empire of David and Solomon. Reflected in this claim may be something concretely historical — the spread of the cult of Yahweh during the Second Temple period, beyond the boundaries of Judah and Samaria into the Aramaic-speaking region west of the Euphrates. In the book of Ezra (7:25–6), the royal commission is worded as follows:

The application of Jewish law to the entire satrapy need not be taken as reflecting fifth-century Achaemenid policy or reality, but it possibly enshrines the perspective of a later period when the story of Ezra was written and the torah of Yahweh was defining the religious culture of the region.28 Whenever that date was, the Hasmonean rulers, in particular John Hyrcanus and Alexander Jannaeus, extended Judaean rule over most of this region. It was probably this political expansion, aided by Hyrcanus’s destruction of the Gerizim temple, that secured the name Judaism for the Yahweh cult and relegated the cult of Gerizim to a subordinate status. It thus finally established the equation of Jew with Israelite and, to a less dogmatic extent, with Hebrew also; the areas not included within the Hasmonean kingdom were not Aramaic-speaking.29 In our view, it is likely that the signs of a virulent reaction to mixing with gentiles (such as found in Jubilees) are less probably prompted by a so-called Hellenistic crisis in the 160s BCE, than by the expansion of the Jewish population that accelerated drastically under the Hasmoneans who, despite the origins of their dynasty in a nationalistic uprising, followed many of the conventions of Hellenistic monarchy. On Schwartz’s estimate, the Jewish population of Palestine increased by two to five times as a result of this expansion, and


And you, Ezra, according to the God-given wisdom you possess, appoint magistrates and judges who may judge all the people in the province Beyond the River who know the laws of your God; and teach those who do not know them. All who will not obey the law of your God and the law of the king, let judgment be strictly executed on them, whether for death or for banishment or for confiscation of their goods or for imprisonment.

28 On the dubious historicity of Ezra, see P.R. Davies, ‘Scenes from the Early History of Judaism’, in D.V. Edelman (ed.), The Triumph of Elohim (Kampen 1995), 145–82; Lester L. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah (London 1998). 29 The conflation of ‘Judaism’ with the historical territory of ‘Israel’ (Samaria) is reflected in the book of Judith, whose heroine is an eponymous ‘Jew’ but probably of the tribe of Manasseh. The history and geography of the story seem to deliberately confuse Judah and Israel.

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‘I am a Jew, from Tarsus in Cilicia, a citizen of an important city; please, let me speak to the people.’ When he had given him permission, Paul stood on the steps and motioned to the people for silence; and when there was a great hush, he addressed them in the Hebrew language, saying: ‘Brothers and fathers, listen to the defence that I now make before you.’ When they heard him addressing them in Hebrew,


inevitably diluted the character of the cult.30 But that is another topic. As Mendels has argued, however, the notion of Jewish territoriality became one of the main symbols of Jewish nationalism at the time.31 The political convergence of Jew and Hebrew under the Hasmoneans may therefore have provided a basis for the later use of Hebrew to designate the language of the Jewish scriptures and of Jews themselves. But as we have seen, this usage is not reflected in the New Testament. It remains the case that Hebrew is rarely if ever used in Jewish sources in Hebrew or in Aramaic to designate a Jew: the preferred self-designation was ‘Israel’. In the Greek-speaking population, however, the adjective Hebrew continued to be used as a linguistic and geographical one that was not confined to Jews. The process whereby it came to be a synonym of Jew, rather than simply to include Jews, became possible when Judaism became the dominant religion of the area. Herod the Great was, after all, both the king of nearly all of ‘Across the River’ outside the Roman province of Syria, but also the ‘King of the Jews’. Nevertheless, Hebrew did not become synonymous with Jew until later and then, as we have argued, through the agency of Greek speakers, predominantly if not exclusively Christian. In the Gospels îoudaíoi can still be used to mean the residents of Jerusalem, amongst whom the disciples from Galilee feel themselves to be strangers. Even Paul, as noted earlier, does not use the word Jew directly to describe himself, but prefers the term Hebrew or Israelite, the latter perhaps because of his Benjaminite affiliation (underscored by his Hebrew name). But this is hardly because he does not see himself as a Judaean, nor that he is unwilling to acknowledge his parentage. Possibly he is ill at ease with calling himself a Jew in the fully religious sense that it has by now acquired in the diaspora and in the Roman empire generally. The author of Acts, however, has no qualms: he can describe Paul as replying to the Roman tribune thus (Acts 21:40–22:3):

30 Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society (Princeton 2001), 19–99, discusses the character of this ‘Judaism’. On the population increase, see 41. 31 Doron Mendels, The Rise and Fall of Jewish Nationalism (New York 1992 [second edition Grand Rapids 1997]), 99.

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they became even more quiet. Then he said: ‘I am a Jew, born in Tarsus in Cilicia, but brought up in this city at the feet of Gamaliel, educated strictly according to our ancestral law, being zealous for God, just as all of you are today.’


For this author, ‘Jew’ or ‘Jewish’ denoted religious affiliation rather than place of birth or residence, and since Hebrew (Aramaic) was the name of the language spoken in Jerusalem, it was also the language of the Jews. Contrast this with the usage in Jonah, who describes his ethnicity as Hebrew but his religion as the cult of ‘Yahweh the god of heaven’. If Jonah is to be identified with the prophet of 2 Kgs 14:25 he was not, of course, a Jew (Judaean) but an Israelite.32 His ‘Hebrewness’ was not a matter of religion, but of language and geography. To summarize: we suggest that the word Hebrew originated as an abbreviated name for someone from ‘Beyond the River’ or ‘TransEuphrates’, a ‘Transite’ — in Aramaic ‫עבראי‬. The ethnic and geographical character of this territory developed during the Second Temple period and its Semitic population is reflected in the creation of Abraham as a Hebrew (Gen. 14:13) and his promised land, described in Genesis 15, as the entire satrapy. The spread of the cult of Yahweh, which in the book of Genesis is far from being anything like Judaism, but simply the worship of Yahweh, was given a political expression through the Hasmonean conquests, when Judah began to give its name to that cult. While Semitic speakers were aware that Hebrew and Jewish were not synonymous (rather, they were largely co-extensive), Greek-speakers, and especially Christians for whom Judaism was of especial significance, equated Jews with Hebrews and the Jewish language with Hebrew. At some point subsequently the term Hebrew was adopted by and for the language we now know by that name. Despite the adumbration of this change in the Mishna, the two examples of contrary usage in the Gemara make it exceedingly difficult to determine when this happened. It was only in the nineteenth century CE that Hebrew as equivalent to ‘Jew’ made its appearance in the Hebrew language, in the works of Hayyim Nahman Bialik and Yehuda Leib Gordon; and in the words of Eliezer ben 32 In Esther 1:1, where Mordechai is described as a member of the tribe of Benjamin but also a Jew, the meaning denotes not his religion but his nationality, Benjamin being one of the tribes comprising the population of the former kingdom of Judah. Likewise, Tobit is from the tribe of Naphtali and a worshipper of Yahweh, but not described as a Jew. Judith 4:1 also refers to ‘Israelites living in Judah’. The clues to her tribal affiliation (8:1–3; 16:23–4) suggest she was, despite her name, of the tribe of Manasseh.

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Yehuda, when he boxed the ears of young men in Jerusalem while adjuring them, one at a time, ‫‘( עברי דבר עברית‬Hebrew, speak Hebrew!’). All three men were probably using the biblical word in the sense in which they had known it used in Europe. Address for Correspondence: [email protected], [email protected]


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PAST AND FUTURE INTERPRETATION OF WAYYIQTOL1 GALIA HATAV UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

It has been observed that wayyiqtol clauses only report past events in the Hebrew Bible prose but may report future events in prophetic texts. This paper suggests an explanation for the phenomenon. I argue that wayyiqtol is composed of three components: the base verb yiqtol and two morphemes: w and ay. The yiqtol is shown to be modal, involving possible worlds, the ay to pick out (usually) the actual world to anchor the event in it, and the w to build a reference-time. The biblical narrator can only pick out the actual world in the past or the present because regular people cannot see into the future. Since the reference-time of the present is the speech-time, the w disables wayyiqtol from depicting present situations and the narrator can only use wayyiqtol for past events. However, prophets may be shown the actual future by God and be able to use wayyiqtol to report future events.

1. Introduction It is well known that wayyiqtol clauses in Biblical Hebrew (BH) only depict past events in the prose material of the Hebrew Bible. The theory most accepted among contemporary Hebraists to account for this phenomenon follows the comparative-historical approach, which traces the verbal base of wayyiqtol to a Proto-Semitic form they believe to have denoted past (e.g. Blau 1972), preterite (Rainey 1986), or perfect (Hetzron 1969). However, in the prophetic texts, wayyiqtol clauses may also report future events. Rogland (2003), who adopts the comparative-historical approach, suggests the following analysis to deal with the problem. Though Rogland concentrates on the form qatal his claims apply to wayyiqtol, as he sees the latter to be a syntactic variation of the


Abstract

1

This article is a revised version of a paper delivered at the international meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (Vienna 2007). I would like to thank the participants at the conference for their valuable comments. 85

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PAST AND FUTURE INTERPRETATION OF WAYYIQTOL

1. w + ay + yiqtol

Whether it originated in a perfect/preterite form or it was modal all along, synchronically speaking, I adopt the assumption that the base verb in wayyiqtol is the regular yiqtol (cf. Washburn 1994), which I believe is modal in nature. The verbal base, I argue, is preceded by two morphemes. One morpheme is the onset of the first syllable, namely the consonant waw, represented here by w. The


former (p. 11). To explain their use to depict future events in prophetic texts, he makes a distinction between events happening in the real world vs. events happening in somebody’s dream or a prophet’s vision. Clauses in qatal or wayyiqtol appearing in a description of a prophet’s vision, he claims, are to be interpreted as referring to past events, even though in the real world they will take place in the future, because ‘it is the vision itself that lies in the prophet’s past’ (p. 72). I believe Rogland’s explanation is on the right track; however, it is only intuitive, unsupported by other linguistic phenomena. In this paper, I will suggest a formal analysis that deals with the uses of wayyiqtol within the context of the other verb forms. In explaining the uses of the verbal forms in BH, I follow the synchronic approach (Ben Îayyim 1977, Washburn 1994, Hatav 1997), which attempts to analyse them according to their use at the time the Hebrew Bible was written (or edited). Within a synchronic analysis, in Hatav (1997) I show that the verb forms in BH do not encode tenses. Thus, clauses in one of the verb forms yiqtol, qatal, weqatal, or the participial qotel may be interpreted as referring to the past, the present, or the future, depending on the linguistic or the extra-linguistic context.2 To explain why wayyiqtol clauses are limited to past events (in the prose material) in Hatav (2004) I show that it is due to the combination of its components. My main goal in this paper is to show that what explains why wayyiqtol only refers to past events in the prose material also explains why it can refer to the future in the Prophets. In Hatav (2004), I argue that the meaning of wayyiqtol is compositional, calculated from three components, as shown graphically in (1) below:

2

Examples (35), (36), and (38) below illustrate yiqtol clauses locating the situations in the future, the past, and the present, respectively. Examples (24), (27), and (33) illustrate qatal clauses locating the situation in the past, the present, and the future, respectively. Examples (37), (38), and (41) illustrate weqatal in each of three spheres of time. For the participial, see Gen. 16:8 (present), Judg. 6:11 (past), and 2 Kgs 4:16 (future). 86

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2. Yiqtol Hebraists such as Gesenius (1910: sections 107 m-n, s), Joüon (1993: section 113L), Driver (2004: section 25), and Cook (2002: 246) have observed some modal uses of yiqtol, where it registers likelihood, speaker confidence and volition. However, many of the yiqtol uses do not express likelihood or volition, and therefore it is usually not considered modal. Garr (2004: liv) represents this view explicitly, claiming that ‘there is no evidence that this [modal] meaning is inherent in the verb’. Analysing yiqtol within the framework of possible world’s semantics, I have shown in several studies that all of the yiqtol uses are modal, where likelihood and volition only form a subcategory of modals. Accordingly, I have concluded that yiqtol is inherently modal (contrary to Garr’s claim).4 2.1 Modality Linguists such as Jespersen (1924: 313), Lyons (1977: 452) and Palmer (1986: 16) define modality in pragmatic terms, in line with (2) below:


other morpheme corresponds to the rhyme ay of that syllable in the surface structure of the third-person singular masculine, representing the vowel and the gemination of the verb prefixes /y/n/t/, or the lengthening of the vowel when the prefix is /’/. This paper is organized as follows. Section 2 discusses the form yiqtol and section 3 discusses the morpheme ay. I will show that yiqtol clauses indicate modal situations involving possible worlds, and that ay functions to pick out from those worlds a unique one, anchoring the event into it. Section 4 discusses the morpheme w, showing that it functions to build reference-time.3 Section 5 deals with wayyiqtol in the prophetic text. Section 6 summarizes the findings in the previous sections.

2. A pragmatic definition of modality Modality is a volitive property, concerned with the opinion of the speakers, their attitude, wishes, desires, intentions, and the like.

Hebraists such as Waltke and O’Connor (1990: 347, 506, and 564– 5) seem to adopt the pragmatic definition, claiming that the jussive, 3 4

Much of the discussion in sections 2, 3 and 4 is taken from Hatav (2004). See, e.g., Hatav 1997: chapter 4, 2004: section 2.1 and 2006b: section 2. 87

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3. Mary went to the beach 4. Mary must have climbed Mount Toby.6 5. Mary may have climbed Mount Toby.

Sentences such as (4) and (5) may be paraphrased, respectively, as ‘it is necessary that A’ and ‘it is possible that A’, where A is the proposition which is claimed to be necessary (or possible). For instance, (4) and (5) may be paraphrased as (6) and (7), respectively: 6. It is necessary that Mary has climbed Mount Toby. 7. It is possible that Mary has climbed Mount Toby.

Logicians understand ‘it is necessary/possible that’ as modal operators that turn non-modal sentences into modal ones. Since the influential work of Kripke (1959), logicians analyse the modal operators of necessity and possibility as involving possible worlds. A modal sentence corresponding to the general formula ‘it is necessary that A’ is analysed as claiming that A is true in every (possible) world, and a sentence corresponding to the formula ‘it is possible that A’ is understood to be saying that A is true in some worlds.7 The account of modal logic may be summarized by definition (8) below:


the imperative and the cohortative comprise a suppletive paradigm of the modal system in BH. Since yiqtol only meets the pragmatic definition of modality in some cases, it is not considered a modal form traditionally (cf. the citation from Garr above). The pragmatic definition, I argue, is too narrow. A more general definition will show that yiqtol (as well as weqatal ) is a general modal form and that the jussive, the imperative and the cohortative form a subcategory of modals. I suggest replacing the pragmatic definition (2) for modality with a definition of possible worlds semantics adopted from modal logic, which is the most acceptable theory for modality within the framework of theoretical linguistics. Logicians distinguish between sentences like (3) below, on the one hand, and sentences expressing necessity or possibility as in (4) and (5), respectively, on the other hand:5

5

In this paper, I will only discuss modality informally. For a formal analysis, the interested reader is referred to Hatav 1997: chapter 4 and references cited there. A good summary of modal logic is provided in McCawley 1993: chapter 11. 6 Example (4) is taken from Giorgi and Pianesi 1997: 207. 7 The notion of possible world, however, is problematic and has been given many accounts in the logical and the linguistic literature. Intuitively, we may think 88

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8. A semantic (logical) definition for modality A modal sentence has a necessity or possibility operator, involving possible worlds.

9. If John enters this room, he will trip the switch. (From Heim 1982) 10. Beavers build dams. 11. Mia goes to the beach (every Friday). 12. Mary will go to the beach. 13. Turn the light on! 14. Please let me stay.

2.2 The Modal Nature of Yiqtol Translated into BH, a non-modal sentence like (3) will have a verb in the non-modal form wayyiqtol (or qatal, depending on the possibility of building a reference-time; see discussion in section 4 below). Sentences like (4) and (5) with the explicit modal terms, as well as conditionals such as (9), generics (10), habituals (11), and future sentences (12), which contain an invisible operator of necessity or possibility, will have a verb in yiqtol (or in another modal form). The command in (13) would most likely appear in the imperative and the request in (14) in the jussive or the cohortative. However, both (13) and (14) may also be performed by yiqtol (or weqatal ).9 Therefore, I conclude that yiqtol (as well as weqatal ) is a general modal form; crucially, all of its propositions involve possible worlds.10 of a possible world to roughly mean ‘a possibility’. Thus, ‘It is possible that A’ and ‘it is necessary that A’ may be put this way: ‘there is a possibility that A’ and ‘there is no possibility that not A’, respectively. 8 For an elaborated discussion of the different modals, see my works cited in note 4. Since the future is crucial for the points I am trying to make in this article, it will be discussed briefly in section 5, too. 9 For the conditions that determine if the command be performed by the specific imperative or by the general yiqtol (or weqatal) form see Hatav (2006a). 10 Counterfactuals are the only modals that are (usually) not expressed by the modal forms in BH, but by the non-modal form qatal. In Hatav (2008), I attribute


But while (4) and (5) are obviously modal in containing an explicit term of necessity or possibility, linguists have shown that there are other kinds of sentences that contain such a term (often an invisible one): conditionals, such as (9) below, generics (10), habituals (11), future statements (12), as well as commands (13), requests (14), and other volition utterances, which submit not only to the pragmatic but also to the semantic definition of modality.8

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3. The Morpheme Ay

15. Josh. 18: 3–4 wayyo’mer y¢hôsua‘ ’el bnêy yisra’el… habû lakem s¢losâ ’anasîm lassabe† w¢’eslaÌem w¢yaqumû w¢yithallka ba’areÒ w¢yikt¢bû ’ôtah l¢pî naÌalatam w¢yabo’û ’elay Joshua said (wayyiqtol ) to the Israelites… Appoint (Imperative) three men of each tribe; I will send them out (weyiqtol ), they will go through (weyiqtol ) the country and write down (weyiqtol ) a description of it for purposes of apportionment, and then come back (weyiqtol ) to me.’ 16. Josh. 18:9 wayyelkû ha’anasîm wayya‘abrû ba’areÒ wayyikt¢bûha le‘arîm l¢sib‘â Ìalaqîm ‘al seper wayyabo’û ’el y¢hôsua‘ ’el hammaÌaneh siloh So the men went (wayyiqtol ) and traversed (wayyiqtol ) the land; they described (wayyiqtol ) it in a document, town by town, in seven parts, and they returned (wayyiqtol ) to Joshua in the camp Shiloh.

The highlighted clauses within Joshua’s speech in (15) indicate a sequence of events the appointed men will do in the future, and their verbs are in weyiqtol. Later in the chapter, we are told that Joshua’s orders were carried out in the order he intended, as shown in (16). To report this information, the narrator uses wayyiqtol verbs. In other words, the waw in both cases carries the meaning of succession; in section 4, I will show that this is only its derived meaning, where the primary meaning is building a reference-time. Now the modal component yiqtol in weyiqtol is in accord with the text in (15), in which the weyiqtol clauses are understood to refer to


Most scholars believe that the verbal base in wayyiqtol is prefixed by one morpheme only: way (Testen 1998) or wa (DeCaen 1995). However, there is another waw-prefixed verb form whose verb base is yiqtol, namely weyiqtol, where the waw has a shewa and the prefix is not geminated. What is relevant for our current discussion is that the waw in weyiqtol seems to have the same meaning as in wayyiqtol, which suggests that the vowel (as well as the gemination) in the latter may not be part of the first morpheme. Compare the excerpts (15) and (16).

this to the fact that counterfactuals make a direct statement concerning the actual world, namely that the situations reported by the counterfactual do not obtain in the actual world. 90

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the future. But how do we explain the fact that the wayyiqtol clauses in (16) do not express modality? My contention is that wayyiqtol has an infix, I label ay, located between its verbal base and the morpheme w, and this infix is responsible for the non-modal meaning of the form. In 3.1, I will discuss its morphology, and in 3.2 its semantics. 3.1 The Morphology of Ay


The morpho-phonological nature of ay is not clear. One possible hypothesis is that the morpheme is ay not only in the surface but also in the underlying structure; however, I have no independent evidence for this hypothesis. I favour the thesis that the doubling of the prefix (or the lengthening of the vowel) is the morpheme I will still label ay (for mnemonic reasons). In section 3.2, we will see that the semantics of ay in BH is analogous to the semantics of the definite article in language. The morphology of the definite article in Hebrew may suggest that we are actually dealing with the same phenomenon (cf. Testen 1998). Like the waw in wayyiqtol, the definite article h in Hebrew has a pataÌ followed by a dages in the first consonant of the word it is attached to, geminating it. Examples include hattannîn ‘the alligator’ (Isa. 27:1), hayyeled ‘the child’ (1 Kgs 3:25), and hannabî’ ‘the prophet’ (Deut. 13:4). When the noun starts with the consonant /’/, the article has a long vowel qameÒ, e.g. ha’areÒ ‘the earth’ (Gen. 1:1).11 Ullendorff (1965) claims that what constitutes definiteness in Semitic languages ‘is in fact the doubling or lengthening of the initial consonant of a noun which connotes “determination”’. (p. 634), and that the h in Hebrew ‘merely served as a graphic device or vowel carrier…’ (p. 636). Ullendorff’s thesis may find support in the fact that when a proclitic preposition precedes a definite noun, the consonant h is absent and the preposition gets the vowel and gemination of the definite article, as in babbayit ‘in the house’; kazzayit ‘as the olive’; layyeled ‘to the child’.12 But how, then, is the vowel in ay to be derived? There might be a phonological explanation. 11

I only illustrated the appearance of the definite article with nouns beginning with /y, t, n, ’ /, as is relevant for wayyiqtol. The article may, of course, be attached to nouns beginning with other consonants; see Gesenius 1910: section 35, Waltke and O’Connor 1990: section 13.3, Joüon 1993: section 35, and others for a more detailed account. 12 Edit Doron (personal communication) raises the question of why in case of adding the conjunction w ‘and’ to definite nouns, there appears also the consonant /h/, as in w¢hayyeled (not *wayyeled). 91

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McCarthy (1982: 11, 33) claims that Hebrew does not permit tautosyllabic consonant clusters (except in some special word-final cases). Gemination of a yiqtol verb preceded by a waw would yield the impossible form *wyyiqtol, consisting of a tri-consonantal cluster at its onset. It is possible that the vowel /a/ is merely an epenthesis to resyllabify this cluster, yielding a wayyiqtol verb.13 To conclude the current discussion, the exact morph-phonological nature of the morpheme, depicted as ay throughout this paper, is not clear and needs to be investigated further.

Whatever morphology the morpheme ay has, I argue that it is responsible for the non-modal nature of wayyiqtol. In what follows I will propose an analogy between the verbal and the nominal domain. I will first discuss the semantics of definite descriptions (= definite NPs) and the definite article in language (3.2.1); then I will show that the semantics of wayyiqtol is analogous to that of definite descriptions, and that the semantics of ay is analogous to that of the definite article (3.2.2). 3.2.1 The Definite Article in Language14 Platteau (1979) considers the definite article as a function that picks out (a) certain element(s) from a certain set. The purpose of such a function is ‘to divide a set into two subsets, one containing the elements to which the speaker wishes to refer, and another one containing the complement of the first subset’ (p. 115). Compare the noun phrases in (17a) and (17b, c). 17. a. Students work hard. b. The students work hard. c. The student works hard.

The NP ‘students’ in (17a) quantifies over individuals, attributing the property of working hard to every person who happens to be a student. In (17b), the definite article in ‘the students’ picks out a subset


3.2 The Semantics of Ay

13 Idan Landau (personal communication) suggests that it may be the other way. The gemination in wayyiqtol is phonological, and the definiteness is conveyed by the vowel /a/. 14 Since Russell (1905), the notion of definiteness has become central in linguistics and philosophy, with many theories tackling the subject. Here I will only discuss the points relevant to the topic in this section. Readers interested in more detail are referred to the excellent overview of Lyons (1999).

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of the set of students, forming a referent set, say, the set of students now enrolled in the BH course, asserting that its members work hard. The subset picked out by the definite article in (17c) consists of one member only, namely one particular student. Christophersen (1939) has shown that a definite NP such as ‘the student’ may be used only if the individual is familiar. Heim (1982) develops the idea further, showing that familiarity may be achieved in two ways. One way is a previous linguistic context, as in (18). 18. A student gave a great presentation in my class today. The student worked very hard on it.

19. a. [In a room with three doors, one of which is open.] Close the door, please. b. [In a hallway where all four doors are closed. The speaker is dressed in a coat and hat and has a suitcase in each hand.] Open the door, please.

Even though there is more than one door in the house, in both cases the addressee can easily pick out the door the speaker is referring to. In (19a), the most salient door to which the speaker is clearly referring is the open one and in (19b) it is the entrance door. 3.2.2 The Function of Ay in BH I argue that yiqtol clauses correspond to indefinite NPs as they quantify over all (or some) possible worlds, while wayyiqtol clauses correspond to definite NPs, as they apply to one unique world. The parallel nature of definite NPs and wayyiqtol clauses suggests that the definite article and the ay morpheme denote the same operation. I regard ay as a function that restricts the set of worlds the verbal base yiqtol quantifies, to one unique world, the most familiar from the linguistic or the extra linguistic context. Consider first the example in (20).


The first mention of the student in (18) is by the indefinite NP ‘a student’. The second mention is by the definite NP ‘the student’ because now the individual referred to is familiar from the previous mention. The second way an entity is familiar is by saliency, as illustrated in (19a, b) from Lyons (1999).

20. Gen. 40: 9–12 waysapper sar hammasqîm ’et Ìalomô l¢yôsep wayyo’mer lô baÌalômî w¢hinneh gepen ûbaggepen slosâ sarîgim w¢hî’ k¢poraÌat ‘altâ 93

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niÒÒah hibsîlû ’ask¢lotêha ‘anabîm. w¢kôs par‘oh b¢yadî wa’eqqaÌ ’et ha‘anabîm wa’esÌa† ’otam ’el kôs par‘oh wa’etten ’et hakkôs ‘al kap par‘oh. The chief cupbearer told (wayyiqtol ) his dream to Joseph (and) said (wayyiqtol ) to him, In my dream, there was a vine in front of me. On the vine were three branches. It had barely budded (qatal ), when out came its blossoms and its clusters ripened (qatal ) into grapes. Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand; I took (wayyiqtol ) the grapes, pressed (wayyiqtol ) them into Pharaoh’s cup, and placed (wayyiqtol ) the cup in Pharaoh’s hand.

21. Judg. 9: 7–10 wayyaggidû l¢yôtam wayyelek wayya‘amod b¢ro’s har grizzîm wayyissa’ qôlô wayyiqra’ wayyo’mer lahem sim‘û ‘elay ba‘alêy skem w¢yisma‘ ’alêkemêlohîm. halôk halkû ha‘eÒîm limsoaÌ ‘alêhem melek wayyo’mrû lazzayyit molkâ ‘alênû.wayyo’mer lahem hazzayyit …wayyo’mrû ha‘eÒîm latt¢’enâ l¢kî ’at molkî¨‘alênû. watto’mer lahem hatt¢’enâ … wayyo’mrû ha‘eÒîm laggapen … watto’mer lahem haggepen … wayyo’mrû kol ha‘eÒîm el ha’a†ad … wayyo’mer lahem ha’a†ad … When they informed (wayyiqtol ) Jotham, he went (wayyiqtol ) and stood (wayyiqtol ) on top of Mount Gerizim and called out (wayyiqtol ) to them in a loud voice, Citizens of Shechem! he cried, Listen (Imperative) to me, that God may listen (weyiqtol ) to you. Once the trees went (qatal ) to anoint a king over themselves. They said (wayyiqtol ) to the olive tree, Reign over us. But the olive tree replied (wayyiqtol )… So the trees said (wayyiqtol ) to the fig tree, … But the fig tree replied (wayyiqtol ), … So the trees said (wayyiqtol ) to the vine,… but the vine replied (wayyiqtol ),… So the trees said (wayyiqtol ) to the thornbush,… and the thorn-bush said (wayyiqtol ),…


As stated in the first two clauses, this excerpt contains a dream that the chief cupbearer is recounting. He begins by setting up the dream background. Then he recounts the events, with wayyiqtol clauses, as expected. The dream is the unique world in this discourse and is picked out by the ay morpheme. A similar example is (21), which is an excerpt from ‘Jotham parable’.

The parable is set up as the unique world in Jotham’s speech. Thus, all the verbs (of saying) recounting what ‘happened’ in that world where trees talk are in wayyiqtol.15 15

Only the first clause of the parable contains a verb in qatal. Note, however, that it is preceded by the infinitive absolute. The function of the infinitive absolute 94

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4. The Morpheme W Many theories have been suggested to determine the nature of the waw in wayyiqtol and the other waw-prefixed forms.16 One account, represented by Driver (2004), regards it as identical to the conjunction, corresponding to the English ‘and’. However, wayyiqtol clauses may occur also in isolation or at the beginning of a new discourse (Bauer 1910, Washburn 1994, Hatav 1997, Testen 1998). In Hatav (2004), I suggest that the waw in wayyiqtol, weyiqtol and weqatal functions to build a reference-time. In contrast, the freestanding forms qatal and yiqtol are characterized as ‘parasitic’, as they need to borrow a reference-time for their temporal interpretation. Section 4.1 will compare the non-modal forms wayyiqtol and qatal, and section 4.2 will compare the modal forms yiqtol and weqatal/ weyiqtol. 4.1 The Non-Modal Forms: Wayyiqtol vs. Qatal My claim that wayyiqtol always builds a reference-time can best be demonstrated by narrative texts, where its clauses are understood to form a sequence. This may be illustrated by example (16) above.17


Both in (20) and (21), the world picked out by ay is familiar from the linguistic context. In most cases, intuitively speaking, the familiar world is the actual one. Indeed, when there is no reference to a world such as the dream in (20), wayyiqtol clauses are understood to depict events in the actual world (for illustration see example (16) above). The actual world, however, lies not only in the past but also in the present and the future. Yet, wayyiqtol clauses can never report situations in the present and can only report future situations in the prophetic material. I will deal first with their inability to report present time situations, showing that it is due to the morpheme w attached to them (section 4). Then I will suggest an explanation for their ability to depict future events in the prophetic but not in the prose material (5).

is not clear (to me) and therefore I leave this unexplained. (But see discussion on example 32 below.) 16 McFall (1982: 217f) surveys fifteen hypotheses accounting for the waw and its vocalization in the form wayyiqtol. 17 Note, however, that my statistical findings in Hatav (1997: 57, Table 2.1), show that 6 per cent of wayyiqtol occurrences cannot be interpreted as sequential. 95

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The reference-times introduced by the wayyiqtol verbs in (16) are not specified, but are understood to be in general some time after the previous events took place. In (22) below, the reference-time is specified to be ‘at the end of the three days’. 22. Josh. 3:2 wayhî miqÒe sloset yamîm wayyaa‘brû hasso†rîm b¢qereb hammaÌaneh Three days later, the officials went through (wayyiqtol ) the camp.

23. Gen. 22:1 wayhî ’aÌar haddbarîm ha’elleh w¢ha’elohîm nissâ ’et ’abraham Some time afterward, God put (qatal ) Abraham to the test. 24. Gen. 7:11 bisnat ses me’ôt sana l¢Ìayyey noaÌ baÌodes hasenî b¢sib‘â ‘asar yom laÌodes bayyom hazzeh nibq¢‘û kol ma‘y¢nôt t¢hôm rabbâ wa’arubbôt hassamayim niptaÌû In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, on the seventeenth day on that day, all the fountains of the great deep burst apart (qatal ), and the floodgates of the sky broke open (qatal ).

The adverbs in (23) and (24) provide the qatal clauses with their respective reference-time. When there is no explicit adverb, the qatal clause must borrow its reference-time from a neighbouring clause, usually the preceding one. In such cases it may be interpreted as expressing a situation simultaneous with the situation expressed by the previous clause (25 below), or anterior to it (26). 25. Gen. 1:5 wayyiqra’ ’êlohîm la’ôr yôm w¢laÌosek qara laylâ God called (wayyiqtol ) the light day, and the darkness He called (qatal ) night.


While it is optional for a wayyiqtol clause to have an adverb, an adverb may be required for clauses with verbs in the free-standing qatal.

26. Gen. 31:17–19 wayyaqom ya‘âqob wayyissa’ ’et banayw w¢’et nasayw ‘al hagg¢mallîm wayyinhag ’et kol miqnehû w¢’et kol r¢kuso ’aser rakas … w¢laban halak ligzoz ’et Òo’no … Jacob got up (wayyiqtol ) and set (wayyiqtol ) his sons and his wives on camels, and drove off (wayyiqtol ) all the herds and livestock 96

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which he had acquired (qatal ) … and Laban had gone (qatal) to shear his sheep…

A qatal clause may also use the speech-time as its reference-time: 27. Gen. 22:2a wayyo’mer qaÌ na’ ’et binka ’et y¢Ìîdka ’aser ’ahabta ’et yiÒÌaq; (He) said (wayyiqtol ), Take (Imperative) your son, your only one whom you love (qatal ) Isaac;

28. 2 Sam. 12:26 wayyillaÌem yo’ab b¢rabbat b¢ney ‘ammon wayyilkod ’et ‘îr hamm¢lûkâ Joab attacked (wayyiqtol ) Rabbah of Ammon and captured (wayyiqtol ) the royal city. 29. 2 Sam. 12:27 wayyislaÌ yo’ab mal’akîm ’el dawid wayyo’mer nilÌamtî b¢rabbâ gam lakadtî ’et ‘îr hammayim Joab sent (wayyiqtol ) messengers to David and said (wayyiqtol ): I have attacked (qatal ) Rabbah and I have already captured (qatal ) the water city.

Joosten argues that the events reported in (28) are characterized as belonging to the past, while the events in (29) ‘are characterized as relating directly to the time of speaking, i.e., the time of Joab and his King’. (p. 61) In other words, the reference-time of the qatal clauses in (29) is identical to the speech-time, as opposed to the referencetime of the wayyiqtol clauses in (28). Joosten’s analysis finds support in the translation of the NJPS given above. While the clauses in (28) are translated by the simple past in English, the clauses in (29) are translated by the present perfect. However, my statistical findings in Hatav (1997: 57, table 2.1) show that about one per cent of qatal clauses appear in a sequence. In some of those occurrences the conjunction w’Ìr ‘and afterwards’ is attached to the verb, which suggests that it is not the verb but the conjunction that builds a new reference-time. For other occurrences I identify two main kinds of contexts in which they occur: a setting of a narrative discourse and an opening of a direct discourse.


In contrast with qatal, a wayyiqtol clause cannot use the speech-time as its reference-time since it always builds a new reference-time. The contrast is nicely illustrated by the pair in (28) and (29) below, analysed in Joosten (1997: 61).

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Whenever a qatal verb appears in what I identified as a setting, it does not represent a new situation, but repeats an old one: 30. Gen. 39:1 w¢yôsep hûrad miÒraymâ wayyiqnehû pô†îpar … miyyad hayyism¢‘e’lîm ’aser horiduhû sammâ When Joseph was taken down (qatal ) to Egypt, a certain Egyptian, Potiphar, bought (wayyiqtol ) him from the Ishmaelites who had brought (qatal ) him there.

31. Gen. 4:1a w¢ha’adam yada‘ ’et Ìawwâ ’istû wattahar watteled ’et qayin The man knew (qatal ) his wife Eve and she conceived (wayyiqtol ) and bore (wayyiqtol ) Cain.

The event of Adam’s knowing Eve had not been told before chapter 4, but nevertheless the verb reporting it is in qatal. Rashi and IbnEzra claim that the sexual act took place before the exile from the Garden of Eden, which is reported in the last clause of the previous chapter. Rashi even emphasizes that had the action of Adam knowing Eve occurred after the exile, a wayyiqtol form would have been used. If so, the qatal clause does not introduce a new reference-time into the discourse, but uses the one introduced by the preceding clause (cf. example 26 above). Niccacci (1990) claims that sequential clauses within a direct discourse would appear with the verbs in qatal. In Hatav (1997: 181–2), I show Niccacci’s claim to be too sweeping since only the first clause on a direct discourse sequence may not appear in wayyiqtol. Moreover, this usually happens only if that clause is at the opening of the direct discourse (ignoring exceptions such as [21] above). Compare the example given in (20) above with example (32) below. In (20), the first clause in the story told by the chief cupbearer is part of a description. The sequence starts later, and as expected, all its clauses appear in wayyiqtol. In (32), on the other hand, the first clause of the narrative within the direct speech is also the first clause of the direct speech, and therefore its verb is in qatal.


The fact reported in the first (highlighted) clause of Genesis chapter 39 was reported before, in (37:28). This may suggest that the qatal clause in our illustration does not build a new reference-time, but uses the one established in chapter 37. However, consider the following case:

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32. 2 Sam. 1:6–7 wayyo’mer hanna‘ar hammaggîd lô niqro’ niqrêtî b¢har haggilboa‘… wayyipen ’aÌarayw wayyir’enî wayyiqra’ ’elay… The young man who was telling (qotel ) him [the news] said (wayyiqtol ), I happened (Infinitive-Absolute + qatal ) to be at Mount Gilboa … He [Saul] looked around (wayyiqtol ) and saw (wayyiqtol ) me, and he called (wayyiqtol ) me…

33. Lev. 27:24 bisnat hayyôbel yasûb hassadeh la’aser qanahû me’ittô. At the year of the Jubilee the land shall revert (yiqtol ) to the man from whom he had bought (qatal ) it.

Quantification of possible worlds may be obtained for qatal also by a modal particle, such as the conditional word ‘if’. Example (34) illustrates this: 34. Gen. 43:8–9 wayyo’mer y¢hûdâ ’el yisra’el ’abîw silÌâ hanna‘ar ’ittî… ’im lo’ habî’otîw ’elêka w¢hiÒÒagtîw l¢panêka w¢Ìa†atî l¢ka kol hayyamîm. Judah said (wayyiqtol ) to his father, Send (Imperative) the boy with me… If I do not bring him back (qatal ) and restore him (weqatal ) to you, you shall hold me guilty (weqatal ) all my life.


Note, moreover, that it is usually the case that a sequential qatal clause within a direct discourse is preceded by a verb in the infinitive absolute (as in 32). Is it possible that the infinitive is responsible for the introduction of the reference-time? (cf. n. 15 above.) The inability of qatal clauses to build their own reference-time is further manifested by their appearance in the modal material. Being a non-modal form, qatal cannot quantify over possible worlds; yet it appears not only in the non-modal but also the modal material. I suggest that qatal is parasitic not only with respect to its referencetime but also with respect to the world. In (25)–(26) above, for example, the qatal clauses are anchored to the actual world because their antecedents are wayyiqtol clauses. In the following case, the qatal clause is interpreted as modal because its antecedent is a yiqtol clause.

The protasis (the first part) of the conditional in (34) quantifies over possible worlds, restricting them to the worlds in which Judah, the speaker, does not bring his brother back. Although its verb is in the form qatal, which is incapable of quantifying over possible worlds, 99

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the protasis is still modal.18 In this case, too, I suggest that the speechtime is used as the reference-time (cf. the present tense in the protasis of English conditionals). 4.2 The Modal Forms: Yiqtol vs. Weqatal and Weyiqtol


If, indeed, the morpheme w is responsible for building the referencetime in wayyiqtol, we should predict that all the other verb forms with the prefix waw, notably the modals weyiqtol and weqatal, should also be reference-time builders. We should also be able to show that the free-standing modal yiqtol cannot build a reference-time. In section (3) above we considered the form weyiqtol straightforwardly to be composed of two morphemes: the verbal base yiqtol and the morpheme w. The data suggest that our analysis is adequate, and weyiqtol clauses depict (sequential) modal situations (see example (15) above). It is not clear, however, how to analyse the form weqatal. Through the period from the middle ages until the nineteenth century, the common belief was that weqatal has qatal as its basic form. However, as we have seen, qatal is a non-modal form (or at least neutral with respect to modality). McFall (1982) reports Hebraists who argue that the form following the waw in weqatal is different than the ‘free’ qatal. Holmstead (2002) and Cook (2002) hark back to the thesis that there is only one qatal, claiming that what renders its meaning in weqatal into a modal one is the word order (while the word order of the free-standing qatal is SV, that of the waw-prefixed weqatal is VS). Ignoring the problem concerning its verbal base, weqatal is a modal form prefixed by w; and I will show, therefore, that its clauses build new reference-times in modal contexts, similar to weyiqtol.19 In what follows I will discuss both forms together, as opposed to the freestanding modal form yiqtol. As mentioned above, example (15) demonstrates that weyiqtol clauses do, indeed, build their own reference-time. Although there is no adverb (or any other expression) to provide them with a referencetime, the clauses in (15) comprise together a sequence of events, which are to take place in the future. In contrast, the free-standing yiqtol needs an explicit reference-time for the temporal interpretation 18

It is usually the case that the protasis has a yiqtol verb. For a hypothesis to account for the difference between a conditional with a yiqtol versus a qatal protasis, see Hatav 1997: 158–9, example 102. 19 Another puzzle is why there exist two waw-prefixed modal forms, weyiqtol and weqatal. The semantic difference between them is not clear to me. 100

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of its clauses. As in the case of qatal, the reference-time may be provided by an adverb, such as ‘at the year of the Jubilee’ in (33) above, ’in three days’ in (35) below, or ’formerly’ (36); by a neighbouring clause, as in (37); or by the speech-time as in (38). 35. Gen. 40:13a b¢‘ôd sloset yamîm yissa’ par‘oh ’et ro’seka. In three days Pharaoh will raise (yiqtol ) you.

If an adverb is missing from a yiqtol clause, another modal clause may serve as its temporal antecedent, e.g. a clause in weqatal, as illustrated in (37). 37. Gen. 12:12b w¢hargû ’otî w¢’otak y¢Ìayyû They will kill (weqatal ) me and let you live (yiqtol ).

In (37), Abraham tells Sarah about the possible course of events that he fears, in which the Egyptians will kill him but let her live. The possible situation of letting her live is to take place when the possible killing of Abraham happens. In other words, the reference-time built by the weqatal clause reporting the possible killing serves also the following yiqtol clause. If there is no adverb or weqatal clause to provide the reference-time for the yiqtol clause, the speech-time is understood to serve as its reference-time, as demonstrated in (38). 38. Gen. 2:24 ‘al ken ya‘azob ’îs ’et ’abîw w¢’et ’immô w¢dabaq b¢’istô w¢hayû l¢basar ’eÌad. Hence a man leaves (yiqtol ) his father and mother and clings (weqatal ) to his wife, so that they become (weqatal ) one flesh.

The clauses in (38) report a habit of people. Since the habit holds at all times, including the narrator’s time, the speech-time is understood to serve as the reference-time of the habit, locating it in present time. Because it does not build a new reference-time, the verb in the first clause is in the free form yiqtol. However, the second and the third clauses, which also express habits in the present, have verbs in weqatal. Since we understand the habitual events expressed by the weqatal clauses to hold at the present time, it may follow that the speech-time serves as the reference-time of the sequence. In that case,


36. 1 Sam. 9:9b kî lannabî’ hayyôm yiqqare’ l¢panîm haro’eh For a prophet of today was formerly called (yiqtol ) a seer.

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how do the weqatal clauses build new reference-times? If, instead, we conclude that these clauses do not introduce their own referencetime, resulting in a counterexample to the hypothesis advocated here, how can we account for the fact that they build a sequence together? The solution may lie in the fact that the new reference-times introduced by the weqatal clauses are built not necessarily on the actual but on some other possible world. This thesis might find support in examples such as (39).

The clauses with the boldfaced verbs build reference-times on some possible worlds, which, according to the speaker (Nabal), exclude the actual world. As expected, both verbs are in a waw-prefixed (modal) form, i.e. in weqatal. The question that remains is: how do we understand the generic and the hypothetical events expressed by weqatal in (38) and (39), respectively, as referring to the present? Recent semantic studies show that the difference between states and events is due to a semantic property called the DISTRIBUTIVE PROPERTY (Bennett and Partee 1978, Dowty 1979, 1986, Bach 1981, Hinrichs 1985, among others). The distributive property is concerned with the relationship of the situation and any of its subparts. It has been proposed that if a state (or an activity) sentence is true for an interval, then it is true for every subinterval of it. For instance, if John lived in Jerusalem (for ten years), then he lived in Jerusalem during any subinterval of those ten years. In contrast, events are non-distributive. If John drew a circle (say it took him ten minutes), it is not the case that he drew that circle in every subinterval of those ten minutes. (Rather he was drawing a circle, or he was busy drawing a circle). Dowty (1986), Smith (1997 [1991]) and others claim that habituals such as ‘Mia went to Jerusalem every Friday’ are actually states. That is, while each situation of ‘going to Jerusalem’ is an event, the ‘over-


39. 1 Sam. 25:10–11 wayya‘an nabal ’et ‘abdêy dawid wayyo’mer mî dawid ûmî ben yisay hayyôm rabbû ‘abadîm hammitparÒîm ’îs mipp¢nêy ’adonayw w¢laqaÌtî ’et laÌmî w¢’et mêmay w¢’et †ibÌatî ’aser †abaÌtî l¢goz¢zay w¢natattî la’anasîm ’aser lo’ yada‘tî ’êy mizzeh hemmâ Nabal answered (wayyiqtol ) David’s servants and said (wayyiqtol ): Who is David? And who is the son of Jesse? There have been too many (qatal ) slaves nowadays who run away (qotel ) from their masters. Should I take (weqatal ) my bread and water, and the meat that I slaughtered (qatal ) for my shearers, and give (weqatal ) them to men who come from I don’t know (qatal ) where?!

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all’ situation of ‘going to Jerusalem every Friday’ is a state. This double reference may be demonstrated by the fact that the ‘overall’ situation may also be modified by an adverb, as illustrated in (40). 40. a. Last year Mary went to Jerusalem every Friday. b. This year Mary goes to Jerusalem every Friday.


Both (40a) and (40b) express a habit of going to Jerusalem on Friday. The difference is between the time during which the habits are stated to occur: ‘last year’ and ‘this year’, respectively. If (40a, b) are true, then it is also true that in every subinterval of last year and this year, respectively, for example, in February of last year, Mary used to go to Jerusalem every Friday. In Hatav (1997: 122), I see this in a more general way, claiming that in modalities, in general, there are two different situations to which the speaker refers. One situation is, indeed, the (modal) event; the other is the non-modal state of ‘being necessary/possible A’. The intuition that this is a state is given a formal analysis in Verkuyl (1993). According to Verkuyl, a sentence with an NP whose quantity is not specified will be distributive (‘durative’, in Verkuyl’s terms), as opposed to a non-stative sentence with an NP whose quantity is specified. Thus, while John ate three apples is non-distributive, John ate apples is durative because it has a bare plural NP apples, whose quantity is not specified. Verkuyl (p. 272) argues that when a sentence applies to a set of possible worlds, it is durative because the number of the possible worlds is not specified. Accordingly, since must/may sentences apply to sets of possible worlds, we can say that a sentence such as ‘Mia must leave’ expresses a distributive situation in the present, whose reference-time is the speech-time. (The event of leaving itself, however, will take place in the future.) Returning to example (38), which triggered the current discussion, the series of generics attributed to people is true in the (extended) present, and therefore its reference-time is the speech-time. Each of the events will have its own reference-time in its respective world. The time of the state may be made clear by the context. In (38), it is understood to be the present due to the yiqtol clause, which — by conversational implicature — is understood to be the first (generic) event followed by the other two. That it is also the present time in (39) seems to be inferred from the context. In (15), the weyiqtol clauses are understood to refer to the future because they follow the imperative clause, performing a speech act of command. (It is not clear to me whether the imperative refers to the future as part of its semantics or whether this is only one of its felicitous conditions.) 103

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Example (41) illustrates weqatal clauses expressing habituals in the past. 41. Gen. 47:22b kî Ìoq lakkohanîm me’et par‘oh w¢’aklû ’et Ìuqqam ’aser natan lahem par‘oh. For the priests had an allotment from Pharaoh, and they lived off (weqatal ) the allotment which Pharaoh had made (qatal ) to them.

42. 1 Sam. 2:22a w¢‘elî zaqen m¢’od w¢sama‘ ’et kol ’aser ya‘asûn banayw l¢kol yisra’el. Now Eli was very old. He heard (weqatal ) all that his sons were doing ((yiqtol ) to all Israel.

The time in which the habitual events occur is not specified either in these examples. Not specifying the frequency of the habitual event is a possible device for speakers in case they do not know it or choose to ignore it. For example, in (40) above, the time of the habitual event (going to Jerusalem) is specified as every Friday, but in John used to visit his grandmother in Jerusalem when he was a child, the frequency of the habitual event is not specified. As mentioned by Joosten (1992: 4), in the Bible, too, the relevant frequency may be specified by an adverb such as ‘year by year’ as in (43). (For more examples, see Joosten 1992: n. 25.) 43. 1 Sam. 1:3a w¢‘alâ ha’îs hahû’ me‘îrô miyyamîm yamîmâ l¢histaÌâwot w¢lizboaÌ layhwh Òba’ôt b¢siloh This man used to go up (weqatal ) from his town year by year to worship and to offer sacrifice to the Lord of Hosts at Shiloh.


Joosten (1992: 4) analyses this example to illustrate the habitual (‘iterative’, in his terms) use of weqatal. As mentioned by Joosten, for this example one could possibly hold on to the idea that weqatal expresses consequence (as would be done by Joüon 1993). To show that this is not the function of weqatal, Joosten suggests the following example:

I conclude this section with the generalization that the waw in wayyiqtol is a reference-time builder, locating the situation in a definite (usually specified) time in the actual world, while the waw in the modal forms builds its reference-time on some world(s), which may or may not include the actual one. 104

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5. Future Reference of Wayyiqtol

44. Isa. 22:1–11 massa’ gê' Ìizzayôn … wayhî mibÌar ‘amaqayik mal¢’û rekeb w¢happarasîm sot satû hassa‘râ. way¢gal ’et masak y¢hûdâ wattabbe† bayyôm hahû’ ’el neseq bêt hayya‘ar. w¢’et b¢qî‘êy ‘îr dawid r¢’îtem kî rabbû watt¢qabbÒû ’et mêy habb¢rekâ hattaÌtônâ. w¢’et battêy y¢rûsalaim s¢partem wattitÒû habbattîm l¢baÒÒer haÌômâ … wayyiqra’ ’âdonay yhwh Ò¢ba’ôt bayyôm hahû’ libkî ûl¢misped ûl¢qorÌâ w¢laÌâgor saq. A speech of a valley of vision (a spectacle) … Your choicest valleys will be (wayyiqtol ) full of chariots, and the horsemen will set themselves (qatal ) in array at the gate. (He) will discover (wayyiqtol ) the covering of Judah, and you will look (wayyiqtol ) that day to the armour of the forest house. You will see (qatal ) how big the number of the breaches of the city of David was (qatal ) and you will gather (wayyiqtol ) together the waters of the lower


One of the most characteristic properties of the future has been shown to be its open nature.20 Lewis (1991: 50) draws a distinction between the past and the future as follows: ‘We tend to regard the future as a multitude of alternative possibilities, a “garden of forking paths” in Borges’s phrase, whereas we regard the past as unique, settled, immutable actuality’. The open nature of the future means that when speakers utter a future sentence they do not know which of the possible futures will actualize (or even if any of them will). Now since wayyiqtol has the morpheme ay, whose function is to pick out a world, and since (regular) speakers cannot see into the future and pick out the world that will actualize, they cannot use a wayyiqtol verb to refer to the future. This is the reason, I believe, we do not find wayyiqtol clauses that report future situations in the prose material. Unlike regular human beings, however, prophets may be able to see into the future. In case God chooses to show a certain person what is going to happen, that person would be able to pick out the actual world in which those events are to take place and use wayyiqtol clauses to report them. If so, we should predict that a prophet would use wayyiqtol clauses to report future situations only in case God had shown them to him. Our prediction is borne out by the pair (44) and (45).

20

Which, in turn, is responsible for its modal nature (see, e.g., Hatav 2006b: section 2.1.5). 105

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pool. You will count (qatal ) the houses of Jerusalem and break down (wayyiqtol ) the houses to fortify the wall. The Lord God of hosts will call (wayyiqtol ) that day to weeping, and to mourning, and to baldness, and to girding with sackcloth.

The excerpt in (44) opens with the note that the following is a vision shown to Isaiah by God. The vision itself, then, is told not as something the prophet predicts, believes or even knows will happen, but as something that the prophet actually saw happening, although in the real world it has not happened yet; hence the wayyiqtol verbs to report the (sequential) events of the vision.21 Compare (44) to (45).

The prophecy in (45) is not opened by a phrase such as ‘this is the vision’ or ‘this is what I saw’. Clearly, it is a prophecy, or rather a prediction, made by the prophet. Isaiah tries to support his prediction by concluding that this is what God said. I understand this as some summary or conclusion of the prophet, based on what he heard from God, not some view that he actually saw. Since he did not see the actual future he cannot pick it out, which means that he cannot apply the ay morpheme and use wayyiqtol to report the predicted events; hence the use of one of the modal forms – weqatal or yiqtol.


45. Isa. 24: 1–3 hinneh yhwh bôqeq ha’areÒ ûbôlqah w¢‘iwwâ panêha w¢hepîÒ yos¢bêha. w¢hayâ ka‘am kakkohen ka‘ebed ka’donayw kassipÌâ kaggbirtah kaqqôneh kammôker kammalweh kalloweh kannosseh ka’aser nose’ bô’. hibbôq tibbôq ha’areÒ w¢hibbôz tibbôz kî yhwh dibber ’et haddabar hazzeh. Behold, the Lord makes the earth empty and makes it waste. (He) will turn (weqatal ) it upside down, and scatter (weqatal ) the inhabitants thereof. And it will be (weqatal ), as with the people, so with the priest; as with the servant, so with his master; as with the maid, so with her mistress; as with the buyer, so with the seller; as with the lender, so with the borrower; as with the taker of usury, so with the giver of usury to him. The land shall be utterly emptied (yiqtol ), and utterly spoiled (yiqtol ): for the Lord has spoken this word.

6. Conclusions The analysis I have suggested in this paper is based on two general theses I defended in previous studies. First, I adopt the approach that 21

There are also a number of qatal clauses, but the form in these clauses is expected as they are not sequential (see section 4.1). 106

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Address for correspondence: [email protected] REFERENCES Bach, E. 1981. ‘On Time, Tense and Aspect: An Essay in English Metaphisycs’, in P. Cole (ed.), Radical Pragmatics (New York). 63–81 Bauer, H. 1910. ‘Die Tempora in Semitischen’, Beiträge zur Assyrologie und Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft 8.1. (Berlin). 1–53 Ben-Îayyim, Z. 1977. ‘Zemane ha-Po‘al bi-Lshon ha-Mikra u-Masoret ha-Shomronim ba-hem’, in S. Werses, N. Rotenstreich, and C. Shmeruk (eds), Sefer Dov Sadan (Tel Aviv). 66–86 [In Hebrew] Bennett, M. and B. Partee. 1978. Towards the Logic of Tense and Aspect in English. (Bloomington, IN) Blau, Y. 1972. Torat ha-Hege ve-ha-Tsurot. (Tel Aviv). [In Hebrew] Christophersen, P. 1939. The Articles: A Study of their Theory and Use in English. (Copenhagen)


the verb forms in BH do not encode tenses but only aspects. Secondly, I adopt the analysis I suggested for the verb form wayyiqtol in Hatav (2004), namely that it is composed of three components: the verbal base yiqtol, the morpheme w and the morpheme ay. The yiqtol was shown to be a modal form, involving quantification over possible worlds, the morpheme w to function as a reference-time builder, and the ay to pick out the most familiar world in the discourse, anchoring the event in it. The components of the forms predict its temporal interpretation both in the prose and the prophetic material. Clauses reporting situations in the present time do not introduce new reference-times into the discourse because their reference-time is always the deictic speech-time. Since wayyiqtol has the morpheme w, which by definition builds a reference-time, wayyiqtol cannot be used to depict present situations. The combination of the verb base yiqtol and the morpheme ay explains why wayyiqtol clauses can only depict past situations in the prose material, but may depict future time situations in the prophetic text. I have argued that wayyiqtol clauses cannot depict future time situations in the prose texts because the narrator, who is a regular human being, cannot see into the future and therefore cannot pick out the actual world that lies in the future to anchor the reported event in it. Prophets, on the other hand, may be shown the actual future by God, in which case they can pick it out and refer to it. In such case, they can (and probably would) use wayyiqtol to report situations that are to take place in the future.

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Cook, J. 2002. ‘The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System: A Grammaticalization Approach’. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Wisconsin – Madison. DeCaen, V.J.J. 1995. ‘On the Placement and Interpretation of the Verb in Standard Biblical Hebrew Prose’. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Toronto Dowty, D. 1979. Word Meaning and Montague Grammar. (Dordrecht) —— 1986. ‘The Effect of Aspectual Classes on the Temporal Structure of Discourse: Semantics or pragmatics?’ Linguistics & Philosophy 9, 37–61 Driver, S.R. 2004 [1892]. A Treatise on the Use of the Tenses in Hebrew and some other Syntactical Questions3. (Eugene, Oregon) Garr, W.R. 2004. ‘Driver’s Treatise and the Study of Hebrew: Then and Now’, an introductory essay in Driver 2004, xviii–lxxxvi Gesenius, W. (ed. E. Kautsch, trans. A.E. Cowley). 1910. Hebrew Grammar (Oxford) Giorgi, A. and F. Pianesi. 1997. Tense and Aspect: From Semantics to Morphology. (New York) Hatav, G. 1997. The Semantics of Aspect and Modality: Evidence from English and Biblical Hebrew. (Amsterdam) —— 2004. ‘Anchoring World and Time in Biblical Hebrew’, Journal of Linguistics 40, 491–526 —— 2006a. ‘The Deictic Nature of the Directives in Biblical Hebrew’, Studies in Language 30:4, 733–75 —— 2006b. ‘The Modal Nature of TRM in Biblical Hebrew’, Hebrew Studies 47, 25–49 —— 2008. ‘The Modal System in Biblical Hebrew’, in G. Hatav (ed.), Theoretical Hebrew Linguistics. (Jerusalem). 163–91. [In Hebrew] Heim. I. 1982. ‘The Semantics of Definite and Indefinite Noun Phrases’. Ph.D. Thesis, University of Massachusetts at Amherst. [Published in 1988, New York] Hetzron, R. 1969. ‘The Evidence for Perfect *Y’aqtul and Jussive *Yaqt’ul in ProtoSemitic’, Journal of Semitic Studies 14:1, 1–21 Hinrichs, E. 1985. ‘A Compositional Semantics for Aktionsarten and NP Reference in English’. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Massachusetts at Amherst Holmstead, R. 2002. ‘The Relative Clause in Biblical Hebrew; A Linguistic Analysis’. Ph.D. thesis, University of Wisconsin – Madison. Jespersen, O. 1924. The Philosophy of Grammar. (London) Joosten, J. 1992. ‘Biblical weqatal and Syriac waqtal Expressing Repetition in the Past’. Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 5(1), 1–14 —— 1997. ‘The Indicative System of the Biblical Hebrew Verb and its Literary Exploitation’, in E. van Wolde (ed.), Narrative Syntax and the Hebrew Bible: Papers of the Tilburg Conference 1996. 51–71 Joüon, P. (T. Muraoka, trans. and rev.). 1993. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (Subsidia Biblica 14. Rome) Kripke, S. 1959. ‘A Completeness Theorem in Modal Logic’, Journal of Symbolic Logic 24, 1–14 Lewis, D. 1991. ’Counterfactual Dependence and Time’s Arrow’, in F. Jackson (ed.), Conditionals (Oxford). 46–75 Lyons, C. 1999. Definiteness. (Cambridge) Lyons, John. 1977. Semantics. (Cambridge) McCarthy, J.J. III. 1982. Formal Problems in Semitic Phonology and Morphology. (Bloomington, IN) McCawley, J. D. 1993 [1981]. Everything that Linguists have always Wanted to Know about Logic but were Ashamed to Ask, 2nd edn. (Chicago) 108

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McFall, L. 1982. The Enigma of the Hebrew Verb System. (Sheffield) Niccacci, A. (trans. W.G.E. Watson). 1990. The Syntax of the Verb in Classical Hebrew Prose. (Sheffield) Palmer, F.R. 1986. Mood and Modality. (Cambridge) Platteau, F. 1979. ‘Definite and Indefinite Generics’, in J. van der Auwera (ed.), The Semantics of Determiners (London). 112–23 Rainey, A. 1986. ‘The Ancient Hebrew Prefix Conjugation in the Light of Amarnah Canaanite’, Hebrew Studies 27, 4–19 Rogland, M. 2003. Alleged Non-Past Uses of Qatal in Classical Hebrew (Studia Semitica Neerlandica 44. Assen) Russell, B. 1905. ‘On Denoting’, Mind 14, 479–93 Smith, C.S. 1997 [1991]. The Parameter of Aspect2, (Atlanta, GA) Testen, D. 1998. Parallels in Semitic Linguistics. (Leiden) Ullendorff, E. 1965. ‘The Form of the Definite Article in Arabic and other Semitic Languages’, in G. Madisi (ed.), Arabic and Islamic Studies in Honor of Hamilton A. R. Gibb (Cambridge, MA). 631–7. [Reprinted in E. Ullendorff (ed.), 1977. Is Biblical Hebrew a Language? (Wiesbaden). 165–71] Verkuyl, H.J. 1993. A Theory of Aspectuality: The Interaction between Temporal and Atemporal Structure. (Cambridge) Waltke B. and M. O’Connor. 1990. An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. (Winona Lake, Indiana) Washburn, D. 1994. ‘Chomsky’s Separation of Syntax and Semantics’, Hebrew Studies XXXV, 27–46

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ON THE PASSIVENESS OF ONE PATTERN IN JEWISH BABYLONIAN ARAMAIC – A LINGUISTIC AND PHILOLOGICAL DISCUSSION ELITZUR A. BAR-ASHER SIEGAL

Abstract In this paper I discuss the passiveness of one pattern in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, the pattern which consists of the passive participle and the preposition ‘l ’ followed by a pronominal suffix. I will demonstrate that this pattern is indeed a passive construction. For this purpose I will deal with the definition of what a passive construction is in general, then apply this definition to the construction under review, and conclude my discussion by treating some of the possible objections that could be raised against this analysis. As will become clear, this pattern, like similar patterns in other languages, raises the crucial question whether it is possible to have a passive sentence without a clear active partner. This paper will endorse a positive answer to this question.

1. Introduction The purpose of this paper is to discuss the passiveness of one pattern in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic (henceforth: JBA), namely, the pattern which consists of the passive participle and the preposition ‘l ’ followed by a pronominal suffix (henceforth: qtil lî). This pattern appears all over the eastern dialects of Aramaic (including Syriac), and scholars widely accept that synchronically this construction expresses the perfect aspect. Since Kutscher (1965) it is the common


HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM

* I delivered major parts of this paper at Harvard’s Semitic Philology Seminar, April 2005, and a slightly different version is a chapter in my dissertation (Bar-Asher 2009). I wish to thank Wolfhart Heinrichs, Yaar Hever, Larry Horn, John Huehnergard and Malka Rappaport Hovav for reading and commenting on early versions of this paper, as well as the audience of the Harvard workshop for their fruitful remarks; and finally to thank the anonymous readers for some productive suggestions. 111

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ON THE PASSIVENESS OF ONE PATTERN IN JEWISH BABYLONIAN ARAMAIC

2. Definition of Passive 2.1 A discussion as to whether a specific pattern is passive clearly assumes passiveness to be a distinct, cross-linguistic phenomenon.3 We must determine the characteristics of this attribute. Even more fundamentally we must identify to what this attribute applies: should we speak about passive sentences or passive forms? A full account of the definition of passiveness that I am about to use in the following discussion would require a separate study. For the purpose of the present discussion, it must suffice to summarize its basic elements. Among the different definitions for the phenomenon of the passive, some believe that it is primarily a grammatical category, realized mostly by morphology and, in some languages, by syntax. Therefore, 1 Kutscher’s conclusion has been widely accepted by scholars. For a survey regarding the literature about this topic, see Bar-Asher 2007, n. 8. 2 In Bar-Asher 2007: 15–17 I have discussed the structural parallels between the Persian and the Aramaic construction. Since the publication of this paper, Haig 2008 proposed a more detailed description of the Iranian construction which revealed a much deeper structural affinity between the languages. Compare especially his discussion of the use of the genitive (Haig 2008: 55–81) to my discussion of the datival expression in JBA (Bar-Asher 2007: 380–6). Despite these similarities I still believe that these are merely typological similarities and do not attest a borrowing from one language to the other. 3 For justifications of such an approach see inter alia Keenan 1975 and Perlmutter and Postal 1983. Compare Siewierska 1984 who took passiveness in a more general way, and therefore covered more phenomena.


opinion among scholars that this is a possessive construction borrowed from Persian. In Bar-Asher (2007) I refuted both the hypothesis about the origin of this construction and about its typology, arguing that this is a regular passive construction,1 which could have developed naturally within Aramaic.2 In that paper I concentrated mostly on the reasoning behind why this is not a possessive construction, and in this paper I would like to complete the discussion by treating the other side of this topic, by demonstrating that qtil lî is indeed a passive construction. I will begin by defining what a passive construction is in general (§2), then apply this definition to the construction under review, and conclude my discussion by treating some of the possible objections that could be raised against this analysis (§3).

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4 For a list of linguists who hold this position, see Andersen 1991: 6–8. It is important to distinguish between those who define passiveness by the morphology and those who claim that, as a matter of fact, passive constructions without passive morphology do not exist (see for example Haspelmath 1990: 27). According to the latter, this is merely a typological fact which has nothing to do with the definition of passive. 5 See for example Andersen 1991: 112–13. 6 See for example Givon 1979: 186; for a general discussion about the pragmatics of passive constructions see Siewierska 1984: 217–54. It should be noted that ‘focus’ in this context is not accompanied by a prosodic peak or new information; defocusing here means downgrading or deemphasizing. 7 This was the common concept in the Prague school; see for example, Mathesius 1939, and later Halliday 1967: 217, who described it in the following way: ‘the speaker selects the option “receptive” in the transitivity system in order to take as unmarked theme a nominal having a role other than that of actor (one of goal, beneficiary or range), the actor either being unspecified or having unmarked focus within the rhem’. Wright (1862 vol. 1: 52) took a similar direction with regard to Arabic. However, it is worth noting different Semiticists who noted that in the Semitic languages other ways to focus on the patient are very common and therefore argued that in these languages pragmatically passiveness is related to defocusing of the agent (on this topic see Bubenik 1979 and Retsö 1983: 33–7 regarding Arabic, and Taube 1995 regarding Modern Hebrew). 8 In mono-stratal frameworks, such as Lexical Functional Grammar, passive has to do with alternations in mapping from the lexicon to the syntax, and the object of the process is the verb-predicate with its arguments, see Bresnan 2001: 25–30. A similar approach is adopted in Dowty 1982 in the context of Montague grammar. Our approach (below §3.2.3.2) will be close to this position. 9 Perlmutter and Postal 1983 suggested this in the context of a theory of Relational Grammar. 10 Comrie 1977 and others pointed out that some passive constructions, for example the so-called impersonal passives, do not involve promotion of the direct object. It was, therefore, suggested that the promotion of the subject should be considered the main mechanism in producing a passive sentence. For a summary of this debate see Siewierska 1984: 117–24.


the term ‘passive’ is usually ascribed to a linguistic form.4 Others emphasize the semantics of the passive sentence, where the subject of a sentence is the patient of the action,5 or its pragmatic function of defocusing the agent, 6 or focusing on the patient.7 According to some major theories, passiveness is not an attribute, but rather a process8 through which one sentence derives from another by the ‘promotion’ of the object to the subject position9 or the ‘demotion’ of the subject either by relegating it to the periphery of the clause or by deleting it from the clause.10 Instead of describing passiveness as a discrete category, some have proposed a prototypical characterization of the passive including all the different levels of analysis mentioned so far: the pragmatic function of these constructions, their semantic properties, the syntactic

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11

One can find this kind of characterization already in Lyons 1971: 375–8. See also Shibatani 1985, who proposed a well-known analysis along these lines. More recently Haig 2008: 37, suggested a similar prototypical characterization, and applied it in the context of the Iranian languages. 12 This is, for example, the starting point of Taube 1995 in her discussion of Modern Hebrew. 13 I will leave aside the option of treating syntax as a syntactic process, since this paper is not written within the framework of generative grammar. However, it should be mentioned that the criticism of this approach to passiveness applies whether or not one accepts the general methodology. See inter alia Shibatani 1985: 822, and Andersen 1991: 118–36. 14 See among many others Keenan 1981; Shibatani 1985: 822–30; and Haspelmath 1990: 32–7. 15 Among the Semitic languages, for example in Hebrew and in Arabic, there are forms which are exclusively used for the passive (for example in Hebrew the pu‘‘al and hup‘al) and some which are not used exclusively for the passive (for example in Hebrew nip‘al; for discussion concerning Biblical Hebrew see inter alia Jenni 1973; Siebesma 1991; and for Modern Hebrew see Doron 2003, Arad 2005; for a discussion on Modern Arabic dialects see Retsö 1983). 16 In order to deal with the fact that passiveness is not a distinct use of any grammatical category, Andersen 1991: 19–20 suggested using a Peircean theory of semiotics, to treat passiveness as ‘interpretantia’ or a specific use/meaning of a morpheme among its other uses. On the other hand, talking about the use or the meaning entails a clear semantic or pragmatic definition of the passive. 17 In the context of the Semitic languages, this is the approach taken by Reckendorf 1895–8. 18 Dik 1997.


properties of active and passive sentences and the morphological property of the verbs.11 Taking the morphology as the basis of the discussion12 involves two major problems.13 First, it is not clear that morphologically speaking passiveness is indeed a distinct feature.14 Cross-linguistically,15 most often there is no form exclusively used for this function.16 Moreover, arguing in favour of passiveness as a grammatical category assumes some content to this category; or that this category is related to one of the other syntactic phenomena mentioned earlier. Either way, we will still need to define passiveness not independently through the morphology, but through semantics or through syntax. A common semantic characterization of the passive focuses on the fact that subjects of a passive sentence are affected by the action described by the verb;17 or, using a cognitive terminology and avoiding terms such as ‘subject’, passive sentences are described as clauses with patients as the core, or in functional grammar as the element from whose point of view the situation is described.18

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However, focusing merely on such a definition can result in the inclusion under the umbrella of the passive of all sentences with subjects affected by the action of the clause, including even some which do not seem to be passive at all. Most grammars will not consider (1) as a passive sentence, despite the fact that the ‘suffering’ subject is affected by the action. (1) John is suffering from a disease.

(2) (a) How do we identify a ‘passive’? (b) What is a ‘passive’?

While linguists may argue at the level of (2b) and dispute whether we should speak about passivization as a syntactic process or as a pragmatic tool, they seem to agree, to a large degree, about the extent of the phenomenon and to share an answer to (2a). The type of dis19

This is a well known argument against ‘semantic characterization’. See for example Jespersen 1924: 165, who speaks about the lack of correlation between the ‘syntactic’ and the ‘notional’ categories of passive. For a similar line of argument see Siewierska 1984: 255. 20 I assume that a sentence like (1) is not passive. Of course, one can be consistent and claim that it is passive, but such an argument will clearly involve a different notion of passive than the regular one. Being consistent Andersen 1991: 123, claims that since we can add an initiator to these sentences, they are indeed passive, although the form of the verb is active. 21 See, Andersen 1991: 136–49. In fact the centrality of the Indo-European languages in the cross-linguistic typological discussion was criticized in other contexts as well, see inter alia Siewierska 1984: 23.


Similarly we could mention the well-known fact that in some languages the expression for ‘to be killed’ is not passive but active, as âpoqnßÇskw in Greek.19 For this reason the semantic criterion, at least in the way it has been presented here, does not seem to be productive for the current discussion.20 Prototypical characterizations suffer from the regular theoretical problems of mixing different levels of analysis, and the vagueness of descriptions such as ‘partial passive construction’. Moreover, doubts have been raised about the criteria by which the prototype was formulated as it seems to be ‘accidentally’ too close to English grammar.21 Despite the fact that it is hard to pin down the nature of passiveness, nevertheless traditionally there is a common notion of passiveness, applied in the identification of passive sentences. Therefore, it would be preferable to distinguish between two different questions:

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2.2 In order to complete our criteria for defining the passive we have two more tasks ahead of us: (3) (a) To give a clear account of the reasoning behind considering two sentences as a pair of this sort. (b) To define the structural relationship between active and passive sentences.

I will start by proposing an approach to dealing with (3a) and the consequent problems that it generates, and then will return to a standard answer to (3b). Talking about the relationship between sentences, it seems clear that neither syntagmatic nor paradigmatic relationships are relevant. Apparently, this relationship, as opposed to the other two, is not between the signifiers but between the signified of these expressions — their common reference, and in the context of sentences, the reference is to the state of affairs which provides the truth-conditions of


cussion relevant to (2a) can be found either in the typological literature or earlier in the literature of European and American Structuralism. As this paper is aimed at examining the inclusion of a specific pattern under the umbrella of the ‘passive’, we should focus on the criteria of identification (2a) and then examine possible ramifications for the phenomenon itself (2b). For this purpose a safe place to start is the commonly agreed idea that the passive is relevant to discussing relationships between sentences; or, in other words: a passive sentence should have an active partner. Thus, the reason why sentences similar to (1) should be excluded from the passive category has to do with the fact that (1) is not the passive partner of any active sentence. Thus considering a sentence to be passive cannot simply rely on finding its features (morphological or semantic), but only on contrasting it with its active partner. Before continuing it is important to clarify that talking about active and passive as a pair does not necessarily assume a derivational relation between them. In the context of our discussion, we refer merely to a structural, systematic, synchronic relationship between the pairs. In addition, from a historical linguistics point of view, certain sentences might, diachronically speaking, derive from one construction, and be the passive partner of another on the synchronic level.

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the sentence.22 In other words, a pair of sentences which hold the relation of active:passive will have the same truth value. Although it is clear that there will be differences in terms of their ‘conventional implicature’, using Gricean terminology, the truth-conditions of the active-passive pair are the same, and the differences are pragmatic.23 Therefore, we should consider that having the same truth-conditions is a necessary condition24 to constitute a passive-active pair.25 After establishing an approach to what determines a pair of sentences, I return to the second task (3b): defining the relation between the active and the passive.

In (4) we find a close approximation to a ‘relational description’ commonly found in the literature:26 (4) A construction is called passive if: (i) the active subject corresponds either to a non-obligatory oblique phrase or to nothing; and (ii) the active direct object (if any) corresponds to the subject of the passive; and 22 This is, for example, the way Parsons 1990: 91–2 treats the relation between active and passive sentences; Dik 1997: 64–5 speaks about sharing the ‘core predication’ which is representing the state of affairs. 23 Such an idea can already be found in the work of the German philosopher Gottlob Frege (see Frege 1918–19: 295–6). For the connection between Frege and Grice, see Horn 2007. 24 This is also the assumption in a formal semantics approach to the passive. See for example Dowty 1982. 25 The truth value is, however, not always the same, as can be seen in pairs of sentences like ‘Everyone on Comorant Island speaks two languages’, and ‘Two languages are spoken by everyone on Comorant Island’ in which only the second sentence entails that everyone knows the same two languages. This has been considered for a long time an argument for only a weak semantic relation between the two members of the pair (Chomsky 1957: 101). This type of problem, however, should be treated in a different way. Dealing with the semantics of quantifiers is, however, beyond the scope of the current discussion. See also Parsons 1990: 295 n. 19 who eliminates this problem by speaking about the parts which are prior to quantification. For a more general discussion on this see Siewierska 1984: 30–1. 26 Traditionally many definitions of passiveness include a ‘relational’ component regarding the relation between the active and the passive sentences. But these definitions always add another parameter. See for example Jespersen 1924: 164; Lyons 1971: 376; Siewierska 1984: 3, who added, for example, a morphological parameter; later in her book Siewierska 1984: 75 proposed a more ‘relational-only’ definition for the passive. In the context of discussions on Semitic languages, Retsö 1983: 44-6 proposed a somewhat relational definition for the passive in Arabic.


2.3

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[(iii) the construction is somehow restricted vis-à-vis another unrestricted construction (the active), e.g. less frequent, functionally specialized, not fully productive.] (Haspelmath 1990: 27)

(5) (a) ‫המורה לימד את הילד‬ hammore limmed ’et hayyeled DA+‘teacher’ ‘learn’ fact pt 3rd sg m AM DA+‘child’ ‘The teacher taught the child’ b) ‫הילד למד‬ hayyeled lamad DA+‘child’ ‘learn’ pt 3rd sg m ‘The child learned’

Since Haspelmath’s criteria do not include morphological aspects, applying (4), the two sentences in (5) could be analysed as an activepassive pair. Apparently, Haspelmath provides only some of the necessary conditions, but not all of them; and therefore, some type of addition is required. The obvious addition to our definition would be to add the requirement that the pair of sentences which stand in the active:passive relation will share the same predicate. Despite the fact that whenever (5a) is true (5b) should be true as well, this is not enough to regard them as a pair in such a relation. The fact that the two verbs share the same root in Hebrew (in the morphological sense) is not enough for them to constitute the same predicate as well. It can be revealed that they have different predicates by applying the test proposed in Bar-Asher 2009 (§2.3.1) for identi-


Haspelmath’s third condition is put in parenthesis, since this is not a definition but rather a hypothesis which should be examined empirically. As a matter of fact in the following discussion we will encounter a construction, which perhaps fulfils only the first two conditions, but not the last one.27 Although this is a good relational definition, it seems to be too general, since it does not give any account of how to choose a pair of sentences. As a result, it covers examples which are not passive such as the factitive relation, as can be seen in the following example from Modern Hebrew:

27

Hasplemath speaks about ‘frequency’, in line with his approach which rejects the use of ‘markedness’ (see Haspelmath 2006). In my discussion, I will not distinguish between the two options, as it is not directly relevant to the current discussion. 118

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(6) I. At the syntactic level: (a) the active subject corresponds either to a non-obligatory oblique phrase or to nothing; and 28

For a similar discussion, see Siewierska 1984: 77–9. She did not use the notion of different predicates, which seems to be crucial in this context. 29 It is worth clarifying that even if the agent is not overtly mentioned in a passive construction, its existence is assumed. Both grammarians and linguists have noted that this is the case in Arabic, that although the agent is never mentioned in a passive construction, it is covertly in the semantic level present in the sentence. See for example Fleisch 1979: 311–15, who also mentioned the fact that Arabic dictionaries tend to bring alongside the passive sentence its active partner with the indication of the agent. I wish to thank Prof. Wolfhart Heinrichs for providing me with the literature on this topic. See also Bubenik 1979. Retsö 1983: 25–8, 169–97 demonstrated that in fact manifestations of the agent in passive sentences in Arabic do exist. 30 Concerning the status of this root in linguistic theory see recently Arad 2005.


fying the structure of the lexical predicate. In sum, this test relies on the idea of the lexicon as ‘a mental storage’ in which all lexical entries are stored, with the concept of context-free ‘mental storage’ defined by the potential uses of the predicate. If we wish to explore the ‘core meaning’ of a predicate and its argument structure we should reveal the minimal entailments (i.e. whatever is true in all of the applications of a specific lexical entry). Thus, it becomes clear that the two sentences in (5) do not share the same predicate: Considering the second sentence of the factitive relation by itself, there is no reason to assume that there is another argument, i.e. the teacher. By expressing the factitive sentence, the valency increases as the number of the arguments participating in the predication increases (lamad ‘study’ [Studier1, Studied2], limed ‘teach’ [teacher1, studier2, studied2]). In comparison with this, at the semantic level, there is no change in the number of the arguments moving from active to passive and vice versa.28 Even if it is not expressed, or cannot be expressed, the existence of an agent is entailed to be present in the passive sentence. 29 We should not let the morphology mislead us. Although the root (in this context in the phonological/morphological sense)30 in (5a) and (5b) is similar, nevertheless the verbs in each of the sentences are representative of different predicates in the lexicon. This last condition is very important, since it also excludes the ‘middle’ from the category of the passive, since the middle involves a reduction of the number of participants. The fact that the passive and the middle often share the same morphology might indicate that the morphology encodes something other than passiveness. In conclusion, in this paper a construction is identified as passive if:

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(b) the active direct object (if any) corresponds to the subject of the passive. II. At the semantic level: (a) the pair of sentences have the same truth conditions; and (b) share the same predicate.

(7) (a) 31‫ר׳ מאיר סבר לה כרבי יעקב‬ R. Meir saßar lah PN ‘think’ Aptc m sg AM + dem f sg

k-rabbî Ya‘aqoß ‘as’ PN

‘R. Meir agrees in this matter with R. Yaqov’ (b) 32‫סבירא לר׳ מאיר הא דרבי יעקב‬ sßira lrabbî Meir ha drabbî Ya‘aqoß rd ‘think’ Pptc 3 sg f AgM + PN this f sg ‘of’ PN ‘There is an agreement (in this matter) between R. Meir and R. Yaqov’

3. Is the qtil lî pattern a passive construction? 3.1 Before discussing the reasons for supposing that this construction ceased to be passive in JBA, it is worth mentioning the motivations behind the doubts concerning the passiveness of this construction. The primary reason for these doubts has to do with the fact that in JBA this pattern became a regular way for expressing the perfect, and later on, in the north-eastern dialects of Neo-Aramaic (NENA), it became the pattern for the preterite. Based on these facts, and in comparison with similar grammaticalization processes in other lan-


Later we will examine whether (6 IIa) is valid, and to what extent. Tentatively, following this definition, it seems reasonable to consider the following sentences (7 a–b) as a pair which stands in the active:passive relation, and by this to demonstrate the passiveness of the qtil lî pattern:

31

The transliteration of the JBA sentences is according to classical Aramaic. Much of our knowledge of the phonology of JBA is still uncertain. For example, it is not clear whether JBA distinguished phonologically between /a/ and /a/, and whether final /h/ was pronounced at all. 32 In Bar-Asher 2007: 377–9 it has been demonstrated that, in fact, we would find in JBA only sentences like ‘…‫סבירא ליה לר׳ מאיר הא‬.’ 120

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3.2 Three main arguments for the claim that this pattern was no longer passive in JBA 3.2.1 The first argument has been mentioned in the context of Syriac, but it could have been equally presented with regard to JBA. 33

Within the Semitic languages one can think about the preterite in WestSemitic which derives from a verbal adjective in Proto-Semitic, as is still the case in Akkadian. While durum naÒir means in Akkadian ‘the wall is guarded’, its morphological equivalent in West-Semitic means ‘the wall guarded’ and can take a direct object. This is a very common phenomenon in Indo-European languages: it is sufficient to mention modern French and many of the modern German dialects. See Bubenik 2001 and Haig 2008 for the development in the Iranian languages. 34 Bybee and Dahl 1989: 70–3. 35 Dik 1997: 284–9. For more about this see bellow §3.2.3.1. 36 The first to claim that this is a ‘passive construction’ was Nöldeke 1868, 104§: 219–20; on this topic see also Polotsky 1979: 208; Hoberman 1989: 112– 18; Goldenberg 1991: 170–2; Goldenberg 1992: 123. 37 For a recent discussion on some of the NENA dialects see Doron and Khan forthcoming. 38 Bar-Asher 2007: 375–80.


guages,33 linguists expected that it would lose its passiveness. For example, the perfect in many languages, which consists of the possessive verb such as ‘to have’ and the passive participle, was originally ‘object oriented’ and later became ‘subject oriented’ — a process close in character to losing the passive features;34 or in other languages such a phenomenon raised ergative constructions for specific tenses only.35 It should be mentioned that regarding the relevant NENA dialects themselves, it is controversial whether the descendents of this pattern are still passive constructions, or whether they have lost their passiveness. 36 In fact not all the dialects behave in the same way with regard to this feature.37 We should however clearly distinguish between two different inquiries: (1) The relation between the old and the new dialects with respect to the qtil lî pattern; (2) the passiveness of the pattern for each stage of the language at the synchronic level. The first question is fascinating in itself, and since I already discussed it elsewhere,38 I will proceed to the second inquiry, and examine whether this pattern in JBA is indeed a passive construction. As was clarified earlier, on the face of it it fits the typological criterion of passiveness, established in (6). However, in the past literature several considerations were raised for not seeing it as a passive construction. I turn now to examine each of these considerations separately.

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Following Brockelman,39 Gluskina40 argued that the qtil lî pattern became active, since sometimes these verbs have a direct object.41 She adduces the following example: (8)

ka∂ ’asir leh lsa†ana ‘when’ ‘bind’ Pptc sg m AM+prn 3rd m sg AgM ‘Satan’ or: refprn 3rd m sg

According to Gluskina this sentence should be translated: ‘when Satan bound him with chains’. In this translation the verb agrees with the object of the sentence which appears after the preposition l. However, it seems that this is an example of a different phenomenon. This confusion has to do with the fact that the preposition l in Eastern Aramaic had multiple functions: it marks inter alia direct objects, indirect objects and agents of passive sentences. In addition, it can also be the reflexive pronoun which refers to the subject of the sentence. I believe that the leh in (8) does not refer to the object, but rather it is a reflexive pronoun dubbed dativus ethicus by Jan Joosten (1989), who has defined this phenomenon42 and described its uses.43 For this reason it would be better to translate this sentence as: ‘when he is/was bound by Satan’. This dativus ethicus is used also in JBA, as can be seen in (9):44 (9) ‫( עד דמתידע ליה לכוליה עלמא‬Pes. 81b) ‘a∂ dmityadda‘ leh lkulleh until rel + ‘know’ Pptc ms sg refprn 3rd sg m AgM ‘entire’

‘alma ‘world’ ‘Until it will be known by/to everyone’ 39

Brockelman 1913: 127–8. Gluskina 1965: 23. 41 For examples of this phenomenon in modern dialects, see already Nöldeke 1868, §156: 118. 42 Joosten 1996. On pp. 373–4 he gives four formal features of this pronoun, and all of them occur here: 1. it consists of the preposition l- + pronominal suffix; 2. the pronominal suffix refers to the subject of the verb; 3. it is used with intransitive and passive verbs; 4. it always immediately follows the verb-form, no other element can be inserted between the two. 43 Joosten 1996: 138–42. 44 See also Schlesinger 1928, §86: 128–9. 40


bsisalta ‘with chains’

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By referring to this pronoun as dativus ethicus, we imply that these sentences are still passive. There are, however, some examples in the Babylonian Talmud which seem to exhibit the same problem that Gluskina raised. (10) ‫( לא שמיעא לכו להא דא״ר חנינא בר יוסף א״ר הושעיה‬B.Q. 112b)

la smi‘a lÈu lha d’amar R. Îanina neg ‘hear’ AgM prn A+ rel + ‘say’ pt PN Pptc f sg 2nd m pl dem f sg 3rd m sg ’amar R. Hosa‘ya ‘say’ pt 3rd m sg PN

‘It was not heard by you this thing which R. Îanina the son of Yosef said that R. Hosa‘ya said’

In this example, the subject of the verb (lha) is also marked by the preposition l as the direct object. Since accuracy is very important in this context, it is necessary to provide the different versions found in the manuscripts for this phrase:45 (10’) B. Q. 112b Hamburg 165

‫א״ר הושעיה‬ ‫להא דא״ר חנינא בר יוסף‬ Florence 8 ‫אמ׳ ר׳ אושעיא‬ ‫להא דאמ׳ רב יוסף בר חמא‬ Vatican 116 ‫א״ר אושעיא‬ ‫להא דרב יוסף בר חמא דאמר רב יוסף בר חמא‬ Escorial G-I-3 ‫הושעיא אמ׳ רב‬ ‫הא דרב חמא בר בר יוסף דאמ׳ רב חמא בר יוסף‬ Munich 95 ‫א״ר אושעיא‬ ‫הא דרב חמא בר יוסף‬

‫לא שמיעא לכו‬ ‫לא שמיע להו‬ ‫לא שמיע׳ לכו‬ ‫לא שמיעא לי׳ לר׳ אבין‬ ‫לא שמיע להו‬

The version in the Escorial and the Munich manuscripts is also attested in the versions of some medieval interpreters of the Babylo-


bar Yosef ‘son’ gen PN

45

So far there is no account regarding the genealogical relation of the different manuscripts for this chapter of the Babylonian Talmud. Friedman 1996b dealt with the relation between these manuscripts in the sixth chapter of tractate Bava-Metzia, but he informed me (p.c.) that his conclusions are relevant only to that specific chapter and are irrelevant to other chapters in the same tractate. Concerning the value of MS Hamburg 165, which Kutscher 1962: 174–7, believed to be an ‘Ur Text’, see Morgenstern 2005 who reassured Friedman’s 1996 conclusions that it is not an ‘Ur Text’ but rather a secondary source, which is a result of many linguistic changes. 123

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nian Talmud.46 According to the first three manuscripts, the preposition l, as an accusative marker, precedes the subject of the sentence. Similarly, in the following examples we find the preposition l before the grammatical subject in some of the manuscripts: (11) Gi†. 6b Vatican 127 Vatican 130 Vatican 140 Munich 95

‫להא אטו כל דלא שמיע ליה‬ ‫להא אטו כל דלא שמיע ליה‬ ‫לר׳ יצחק אטו כל דלא שמע לי׳‬ ‫הא דר׳ יצחק אטו כל דלא שמיע ליה‬

(13) B.B. 33a and 33b (the same sentence occurs twice) Paris 1337 ‫אביי ורבא לא סבירא להו להא דרב חסדא‬ Escorial G-I-3 ‫הא דרב חסדא אביי ורבא לא סביר׳ להו‬ Oxford 369 ‫הא דרב חסדא אביי ורבא לא סביר׳ להו‬ Hamburg 165 ‫הא דרב חסדא אביי ורבא לא סבירא להו‬ Florence 9 ‫הא דרב חסדא אביי ורבא לא סבירא להו‬ Vatican 115 ‫הא דרב חסדא אביי ורבא לא סבירא להו‬ Munich 95 ‫הא דרב חסד׳ אביי ורבא לא סביר׳ להו‬

So far I have not found any other examples of this phenomenon with the roots ‫ שמע‬and ‫סבר‬, which appear very often in the qtil lî pattern in JBA, and even in these four examples we saw that it occurs only in some of the manuscripts. Therefore, it is very hard to conclude which of the manuscripts accurately preserved the original version. In addition, the fact that in all the examples this pattern has been found only before pronouns suggests that these are local scribal errors. If the manuscripts without the preposition l have the original version, then it is indeed a regular passive construction, and the manuscripts with the preposition l failed to notice that this is a passive construction and followed the active pattern, which is very common in this corpus.47 If the original version had the preposition l, and the manuscripts without it were corrected according to regular grammar, we must explain why there is a ‘direct object’ marker before the subject in the first place. In other words, we have to deal with the pos-


(12) B.M. 93b Florence 8 ‫סבירא להו להא דרבה דאמ׳ לא רב חסדא וברה בר רב הונא‬ Hamburg 165 ‫דרבא לא )ח׳( סבירא להו הא רב חסדא ורבה בר רב הונא‬ ‫דרבא דאמ׳ סביר׳ להו הא לא רב חסד׳ ורב׳ בר רב הונ׳‬ Munich 95 Escorial G-I-3 ‫דרבא דאמ׳ סבירא להו רב חסדא ורבה בר רב הונא לא‬

46

See DS Bava-Qama: 136. For a discussion regarding the interpreters’ versions of the Talmud versus the manuscript, see Freidman 1997: 45–6. 47 See for example Sanh. 14a: ‘…‫’דשמע להא דאמר ר׳ אלעזר‬ 124

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sibility that the qtil lî pattern was no longer perceived as a passive construction. The very fact that we have only a few examples of this phenomenon leads to another explanation, as it can be parallel to a phenomenon found in Biblical and in Mishnaic Hebrew. In these dialects we encounter several examples in which the subject is preceded by ’et the direct object marker. For example: (14) ‫ארבעת אלה ילדו להרפה‬-‫( את‬2 Sam. 21:22)

yulldu lharapa ‘bear’ pss pt 3rd pl m ‘to’ AgM PN

‘These four were born to Harafa’ (15) ‫( הפסח שנזרק את דמו‬Pes. 7, 7)

happesaÌ DA+‘Passover’s offering’

sennizraq rel+‘pour’ pass pt 3rd m sg

’e† AM

damô ‘blood’ + Ps 3rd ms sg ‘The Passover’s offering whose blood was poured’

As Blau noted,48 this ’et occurs (almost) only with passive and intransitive verbs, and Khan added that in all of these examples the subject is a non-volitional one.49 Likewise, Azar reached the same conclusions in the case of Mishnaic Hebrew.50 According to Blau, these examples should be regarded as cases in which the two constructions, the active and the passive, were confused, and that the speaker/writer had in mind one construction, while expressing the verb in the other. This explanation works better for the passive examples and less well for the ones with intransitive verbs. Khan, therefore, suggested that these clauses ‘evince traces of “active”-type (quasi ergative) morphology’.51 Returning to our examples, if these are not just scribal errors, it seems that we are facing the same phenomenon in JBA. If we follow Khan’s explanation, then this is an ‘“active-type” morphology’, and in our case perhaps it is not a ‘trace’, but rather the beginning of a


’e† ’arba‘a† ’elle AM ‘four’ dem pl

48

See Blau 1954; Brockelman 1913: 126–8. Khan 1984: 496–7. 50 Azar 1995: 63–4. 51 For other explanations of this phenomenon see inter alia Brockelman 1913: 126–8, Blau 1978, Macdonald 1964, Saydon 1964, Hoftijzer 1965, Andersen 1971, Muraoka 1985; Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 177–85, Garr 1991, 63–4, Zewi 1997. 49

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new process. However, since we have only a few examples, it is more likely that these examples are confusions between the active and the passive constructions, a common phenomenon, especially in spoken manifestations of languages.52 Another explanation is to assume that in these examples the same NP is both the subject and the object and hence it is marked with both markers (accusative marker and verbal agreement). This option is possible within the context of a theory of grammatical relations developed elsewhere by Bar-Asher (2009), and is beyond the scope of the current discussion.

(16) ‫( הא מילתא מפירקיה דגברא רבה שמיע לי‬B.Q. 42b)

ha mill†a mippirqeh dgaßra dem f sg ‘thing’/‘word’ ‘from’+ ‘public lecture’ rel + ‘man’ + prn 3rd m sg 52

See Sridhar 1979. Schlesinger 1928: 45, mentioned this fact immediately after his claim that JBA reflects the beginning of the process which ended in modern dialects. He did not explicitly argued that this is the beginning of the diachronic process mentioned earlier. 54 This phenomenon is mentioned in the grammar books only with regard to JBA and not in the context of Syriac. While reading in Syriac manuscripts I came across few examples where agreement was lacking. For example in the story of Mar Eulog/Eulogis, I found the following example in the two manuscripts that we have for this story [Harvard Syriac Collection, MS 38 p. 213, MS British Library Add. 12174]: . So far, we do not have enough information about the extent of this phenomenon, and therefore we cannot determine whether it is only in late manuscripts, and perhaps under the influence of later stages of Aramaic. 53


3.2.2 We can move now to the second type of problem pertaining to the passiveness of this construction. Schlesinger, in his discussion about the qtil lî pattern in JBA, noted that in many of its occurrences, there is a lack of agreement between the verb and the subject.53 Due to the lack of cases in Aramaic, the only clear way to distinguish between subjects and objects and consequently between the active and the passive constructions is by the agreement of the verb. Therefore, lack of agreement of the verb in the ‘passive’ construction with the ‘object’ of the active construction can be a strong sign that this construction was no longer perceived as passive.54 For example, in the next phrase, the subject of the sentence ha mill†a ‘this thing/matter’ is a feminine noun, and the verb is a passive participle in the m sg form:

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rabba ‘great’

smi‘ li ‘hear’ AgM 1st sg Pptc m sg

‘This matter was heard by me / I have heard this thing in the public lecture of a great person’

a. By using good manuscripts of the Babylonian Talmud the number of instances in which there is no agreement decreases immensely (apart from the examples which will be discussed later on). b. By examining manuscripts, we realize that the feminine singular form of the participle was often written in a shorthand way. Instead of writing the Aleph at the end of the word, which helps distinguishing between this form and the masculine form, we find hundreds (!) of examples in which an apostrophe is written instead. It is important to emphasize that this apostrophe does not indicate any phonetic change, but is only an orthographic convention. In this case, it is easy to assume that scribes who copied the manuscripts, no matter how familiar they were with the language, dropped this apostrophe and left the feminine form of the passive participle exactly like the masculine form. In example (10’), we saw how some manuscripts have the full form, some have an apostrophe, and others lack any indication of this final vowel, so that the feminine and masculine forms seem the same.


We can tackle this problem in two ways. First, the disappearance of contrast between masculine and feminine in other forms of the verbal system is a well known feature of JBA, presumably due to a phonetic change, the loss of non-stressed final vowels.55 Therefore, assuming that the stress in the passive participle was also on the penult, it is reasonable to believe that the same process happened here as well.56 According to this account, there is no lack of agreement. On the contrary, there is indeed an agreement, but there is a lack of contrast between the masculine and the feminine forms of the passive conjugation (with the strong verbs). Second, it is possible to take a different approach and to suggest three additional reasons to explain whether the evidence we have for a syncretism reflects the original situation or, perhaps, is merely a late distortion at the hands of scribes to whom Aramaic was no longer a mother tongue. Relevant considerations here are:

55 See Kutscher 1962: 246–7; Ben-Asher 1970: 279–81; Kutscher 1971; Morgenstern 2000: 152–3. 56 Juusola 1999: 203–4, proposed a similar explanation regarding the Aramaic of the Babylonian incantation bowls which are presumably from the same dialect.

127

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57

Ashknaz: Meila, MS Florence 7: (‫;רישא פסיקא ליה סיפ׳ לא פסיק׳ ליה )יא ע״א‬ Spain: RH, MS JTS 1608: (‫ ;לא פסיק׳ ליה )ז ע״ב‬Manuscripts from the eastern part of the Mediterranean See (“the fourth group): BB MS Escorial G-I-3: ‫לא שמיע׳ לי‬ (‫ ;כלומר לא סבירא לי )קסה ע״א‬AZ MS Paris 1337: (‫;דסחיפ׳ ליה משכילתא ארישיה )נא ע״ב‬ So far I have not found this shorthand in Yemenite manuscripts. Besides five examples of the root ‫שמ״ע‬, in a specific idiom (see C below), I did not encounter any examples of lack of agreement. 58 Among the examples which were given by Schlesinger the only one in which there is clearly a lack of agreement is also with the verb ‫שמ״ע‬. Another possible example is: ‘‫( ’ולא קטיל לכו כינא אמנא‬Sb 82a, Hu 105b). In regard to this example it should be noted that in MS Vatican 120–1 the version is ‘‫’ולא קטילתו‬. And see also Rashi’s text in Shabbat 82a, in the preceding clause. Regarding the relation between the different versions of this paragraph see Wajsberg 1997: 51. (For his own discussion, see MS Vatican 120–212). ‫‘ כינה‬a louse’ is usually feminine (see Zev. 19a), and compare Sokoloff 2002: 575. In any case, even if the original version was ‫קטיל‬, and ‫ כינה‬is feminine, it is possible to suggest that in this specific example the lack of agreement is due to a local attraction, since it is in a sequence of clauses in the qtil lî pattern in which all the grammatical subjects are masculine. This attraction could happen especially in a word like ‫כינה‬, which does not contain a clear feminine morpheme and appears exactly similar to a masculine noun. 59 Morgenstern 2002: 63, 153, suggests that the form ‘‫ ’מרע‬should be read as [marra] and that this form is a result of the following phonetic process: [marre‘a]> [marre’a]> [marrea]. It is not clear, however, that these are indeed the stages of that process. First, as far as we know, verbs with /‘/ as the third radical were conjugated like those with /y/ as the third radical. That is to say, there was a shift of the entire paradigm (see Kara 1984: 69). Second, it is not clear on what base he established the movement from the second to the third stage, since an intervocalic guttural stop /’/ does not necessarily drop. Despite this minor problem, I think that we should accept Morgenstern’s general suggestion that in verbs with a pharyngeal


It should be noted that this phenomenon occurs in almost every type of manuscript (according to the typology suggested by Friedman [1996]).57 c. Scrutinizing the examples in which there is lack of agreement, it is striking that even in the printed editions and naturally in the good manuscripts, most of the examples are with the verb ‫שמע‬58 ‘to hear’, and especially in the idiom: ‘…‫‘ ’לא שמיע ליה הא ד‬this thing, that… was not heard by him’. If this reflects an original phenomenon, then the many examples of lack of agreement with this specific verb might be explained by the fact that this is a very common root. I would like to propose, however, that in the case of the verb ‫שמע‬ there is a potential phonetic explanation for the discussed phenomenon, and it has to do with the fact that the last consonant of this root is a pharyngeal. It is a well-known fact that the pharyngeal consonants in JBA went through one of two processes: either they are turned into a laryngeal or are syncopated. Morgenstern already noted that the loss of contrast between the masculine and feminine forms is more common in roots with a pharyngeal third radical.59

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3.2.3.1 The last two considerations regarding the passiveness of this pattern have more to do with its own structure. In the previous two discussions it was verified that the ‘patient’ is indeed the subject of the sentence and that as such the verb agrees with it, and it does not have any direct object marking. Finally I will examine an issue that will lead us back to the beginning of this paper, regarding the definition of passive. In Bar-Asher (2007: 374–5) I explained the parallel between the qtil lî construction and the mana krtam construction in Old Persian differently from the way it was previously described by Kutscher (1965) and consequently by other scholars. It is worth mentioning again that the similarity between the languages is both in syntax and in use. More specifically both employ their respective constructions to express the perfect. Based on this resemblance, a discussion of the Persian construction might be relevant to our investigation concerning the qtil lî construction in JBA. Both Gilbert Lazard62 and P. Oktor Skjærvø63 in their respective discussions of this pattern in Old Persian argued that it is hard to refer to this pattern as a passive construction. They assert this argument despite the agreement of the verb with its ‘patient’, since this pattern is used to express the perfect, and there is neither an active


How was this form of the verb ‫ שמע‬pronounced? So far, there is documentation of only one example of a complete loss of the pharyngeal in a feminine singular passive participle of a root with a pharyngeal as the third radical, in a Yemenite manuscript.60 For the root ‫ רבע‬we encounter the form ‫רביא‬, probably pronounced as [rßiya]. Hence it is plausible to assume that ‫ שמיעא‬was pronounced [smiya]. Once we assume this was the pronunciation, the spelling ‫ שמיע‬for ‫ שמיעא‬is understandable.61 These three factors strengthen the possibility that the lack of agreement between the subject and the verb in the qtil lî pattern does not represent the original language of JBA, and therefore should not lead to a re-analysis of the grammatical relations in this construction.

third radical it is hard to know how these words were pronounced by orthography alone. 60 Kara 1984: 239; Sokoloff 2002: 1057. 61 Interestingly enough, we often find the same ‘mistake’ in Modern Hebrew, in words where the pharyngeal consonants are not pronounced as such. 62 Lazard 1984: 241–3. 63 Skjærvø 1985: 221–2, and more recently Haig 2008: 42–4. 129

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partner nor another passive pattern to express the perfect.64 Since we defined passiveness in terms of a relation between two sentences, this observation should be considered carefully. Leaving Persian aside,65 let us discuss whether the same argument would be true in the context of JBA. Since qtil lî functions in JBA to express the perfect, and there is apparently no ‘active’ way to express the perfect, it might be a crucial factor in the characterization of this pattern. Clearly JBA is not like some of the Indo-European languages in which the perfect has both active and passive voices. English, for example, has active-passive pairs, such as (17a–b): a. John has eaten the apple b. The apple has been eaten by John

Likewise in classical Greek, the perfect has two different conjugations according to the different voices, one for the active and another for the middle-passive. Based on the criteria we proposed in (6), this seems to be a crucial problem for defining this construction as passive. Since the identification of passive sentences relied on a relation between ‘the pair of sentences having the same truth conditions’ (6 IIa), this absence of an equivalent active sentence is very significant.66 This question leads us to leave momentarily the question of ‘identification’ (2a) and to approach the ‘bigger’ question of ‘what is “passive”?’ (2b). But before approaching this question, I should explain the motivation for arguing that this is a passive construction. Clearly one could simply stop here and come to the conclusion that, since we cannot identify a pair of sentences, this is not a passive as has been argued in the context of the Old Persian construction. 64 In order to clarify what I mean by another passive pattern, I would like to briefly recall the fact that in some NENA dialects the qtil lî pattern has a periphrastic partner to express the passive. 65 For a similar discussion concerning the Persian construction, see Bubenik 2001, esp. 97–8; Haig 2008: 54. 66 As noted in n.3 a lot of this discussion depends on what is included under the phenomenon of passive. If, for example, ‘impersonal passives’ are included in the phenomenon then it will be difficult to justify the requirement of an equivalent active sentence. The distinction made in (2), however, might be useful, as we are talking in the current discussion only about the identification; thus it might be the case that as a result of such an identification, other constructions with similar morphology (as is the case with impersonal passives) will be included under the discussion as well.


(17)

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In the following section (§3.2.3.2) I will demonstrate why it is important to classify the qtil lî as passive, since with certain verbs in certain functions it does constitute an active:passive relation with another sentence, with an active participle as the main verb, and they both have the same truth value. For this purpose I will devote this section to exploring more about the uses of this pattern. Following this discussion I will return (§3.2.3.3) to the discussion of the definition of passive, as it will become clear that not all passive sentences are members in active:passive pairs.

(18) a. Is there a contrast between the two sentences which establishes an active:passive relation, based on the criteria formulated earlier (6)? b. What is being expressed by this contrast?

By exploring the uses of the qtil lî pattern in JBA, I would like to show how essential it is to distinguish between the classifier question (18a) and the question of the pattern’s function (18b). So far we have followed what is broadly accepted as the main use of the pattern under discussion: to express the perfect.67 We should re-examine, however, whether this is its only function, since, clearly, passive sentences can be used for a variety of functions in one language. It should be kept in mind that the origin of the use of the qtil lî pattern as the way to express the perfect tense has to do with the uses of the passive participle to express the resultative. The expression ‘an 67 One should conduct extensive research to define the functional difference between the uses of the verbs in the suffix conjugation and the uses of the qtil as a perfect. For example, taking the following example in Syriac: ! #$ & (Narsay: 177), at first, "#$"

% & '

( ) ! ! and ) #$ $" in the same way. it seems that we would translate both "# ! Perhaps the use of the qtil lî pattern has to do with the sequence of the verbs in this paragraph, or in other words, it has to do with the imperative which comes right after. It seems that there here is a sort of ‘conditional relation’ between the clauses here (see below [27a] and Veloudis 2003). In the same story, there are many alternations of this sort which are difficult to explain. By the same token, in Ephram’s Hymns it is striking that systematically the first occurrence of a verb in many stanzas is in the qtil lî pattern, and the second occurrence is in the finite form of the same verb. In this case, it seems that there is no pragmatic reason for the alteration, but rather a stylistic habit. See, for example Hymn XXXV, stanzas 8–11.


3.2.3.2 Methodologically, we should distinguish between two different questions:

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(19) ‫ר׳ מאיר סבר לה כר׳ יעקב‬

R. Meir saßar lah krabbî Ya‘ aqov rd PN ‘think’ Aptc m sg AM – prn 3 sg ‘as’ + PN ‘R. Meir agrees with R. Yakov’ (20) ‫ר‘ אליעזר כסומכוס סבירא ליה‬

R. Eliezer k-SummaÈos sßira leh PN ‘as’ + PN ‘think’; Pptc 3rd sgf AgM prn 3rd m sg ‘In this matter R. Eliezer is in agreement with Summaxos’

In the second sentence ‘R. Eliezer’ is dislocated and, for this reason, is not preceded by the preposition l.69 For the reason mentioned above, there does not seem to be any difference in tense or aspect between the two sentences, and this becomes even clearer when the two patterns come in the same context: (21) ‫ וסבר‬,’‫ נזק שלם משלם‬- ‫ ’צרורות‬:‫ רבי אליעזר כסומכוס סבירא ליה דאמ׳‬,‫לא‬ ‫ ‘צד תמות במקומה עומדת‬:‫ דאמ׳‬,‫( ’לה כר׳ יהודה‬B.Q. 18a)

la neg

R. ’Eli‘ezer k-SummaÈos sßira PN ‘as’ + PN ‘think’; Pptc 3rd sg f

leh d-’amarî … wsaßar AgM prn 3rd m sg rel+ ‘say’ pt 3rd m sg ‘and’ + ‘think’ Aptc m sg


eaten apple’, for example, describes the situation of ‘an apple’ in the present based on an action of ‘eating’ which occurred in the past. Thus, it is clear how a sentence such as ‘the apple is eaten’ can be interpreted both regarding the present situation or the past event. This, however, can be true only with ‘result predicates’ which express an action with high transitivity,68 i.e. an action causing changes. This, of course, cannot be the case with transitive verbs which do not express this type of predicate. For example, the verb ‫‘ סבר‬to think’ in JBA with a direct object means ‘to believe or agree on a specific issue’ (depending on context). We can find then the following pair of sentences:

lah krabbî yehuda d’amar … AM prn 3rd f sg ‘as’ PN rel+ ‘say’ pt 3rd m sg ‘No, in this matter R. Eliezer is in agreement with Summachos who said that… and he also agrees with R. Yehuda who said that…’ 68 69

In the sense in which Hopper and Thompson 1980 use this term. See, Bar-Asher 2007: 379. 132

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What, therefore, is the use of the passive construction in this context? In order to answer this question, I examined all 17 occurrences of this root in the Hamburg 165 manuscript of the tractate Bava-Qama,70 which is considered to be a relatively good manuscript,71 and this investigation has shown that aside from one example72 they can be divided into two main groups: (22)

The use of the qtil lî pattern in the protasis of a conditional sentence (22a) can be related to its perfective use. This is also the case in other languages where the protasis of a conditional sentence is in the perfect tense and the apodosis refers to the present or to the future, as it is, for example, in Akkadian in summa clauses.75 So it seems to be the case in JBA as well.76 Thus, even if with this specific verb, there is no ‘perfective’ sense, it is possible to speculate that once the qtil lî pattern was grammaticalized as the ‘perfect’, it became the tense for such conditional sentences. A different reason can account for the use of this pattern in the second group (22b). While examining carefully all the sentences which have a dislocated argument, we realize that they all have something in common in terms of their discourse role. They all stand in contrast to an earlier claim in the context. It should be noted that the 70

18a; 18b; 24a; 27a; 28a; twice in 51a; 72b; 73a; 88b, 93b; 94b; 97a; twice in 100a; 106a; 118b. 71 For the discussion about the quality of this manuscript see above, n.44. 72 The example which is in neither groups occurs in a question: ‫’מיכדי דרב לא‬ ‘…‫סבירא לך‬. In this regard we should also mention that three out of four occurrences of the qtil lî pattern in the root ‫ שמ״ע‬in this manuscript are also in a question. 73 Twice in 51a; 73a; 118b. Many other examples of this phrase are found in the Babylonian Talmud, and the same is true also of the root ‫שמ״ע‬. 74 The exceptions are in 28a, and two examples in 100a in which it is the adjunct: ‘‫ ר׳ מאיר וסבירא לן כותיה‬,‫’ר׳ מאיר ולא סבירא לן כותיה! לא‬. 75 In Old Babylonian for example, the perfect, as oppose to the preterite, is used in summa clauses, when they do not refer to the past, especially in those which refer to the future. On this topic see Maloney 1982: 214–61, (and especially what 231f); and more recently Loesov 2004: 140–6. 76 Currently there is no exhaustive account of the tenses which are used in conditional sentences in JBA, apart from the general survey made by Schlesinger 1928: 269–80.


a. In four examples, this construction appears in the protasis of a conditional sentence: ‘…‫’אי סבירא לן‬.73 b. The other twelve sentences have one argument in extraposition (in most cases the agent, but not always),74 just as we saw in the last example.

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element in the sentence which is the focus of the contrast is neither the element that is dislocated nor the subject, but it seems that the dislocation still emphasizes the contrast. This is not surprising considering the discourse role of dislocation in many of the Semitic Languages.77 For example in the context of (20), we find the following argument (similar to the second part of 20): ‫ורבי אליעזר סבר לה כר׳ טרפון‬

And later when this claim is attacked, it is said:

In the first part, when rejecting an earlier hypothesis the ‘narrator’ of the Talmud uses the qtil lî pattern with the subject of the active construction in dislocation, but in the second part, in the unmarked construction, it is again in the active pattern. We have to admit that the relation between dislocation and the choice of the qtil lî construction is not completely clear. We can speculate though that the choice of this pattern had to do first and foremost with dislocation, and the passive pattern was chosen for the sake of clarity, as a secondary consideration. Putting the agent in dislocation in an active sentence could only be something like (23): (23) ‘…‫’ר׳ אליעזר הוא סבר להא‬

And thus it would not be distinct enough. It should be also noted that it is not common cross-linguistically to dislocate the agent of a passive construction, but this might only indicate that this was not the unmarked construction anymore. The importance of the last discussion lies in the fact that with this verb, sentences with passive participle in the qtil lî pattern clearly have an active variant which together establish an active:passive relationship, and therefore this pattern should be classified as a passive construction. If this is the case, it seems natural to consider all sentences in this pattern as passive sentences, but this brings us back to the problem that when the qtil lî pattern is used to express the perfect it does not have an equivalent active sentence to express the same tense.


‫ וסבר לה‬,‫ נזק שלם משלם‬- ‫ צרורות‬:‫ כסומכוס סבירא ליה דאמ׳‬- ‫ רבי אליעזר‬,‫לא‬ … ‫ דאמ׳‬,‫כר׳ יהודה‬

77

See Khan 1988: 132–40, who claims that dislocation is used in critical points of the narrative. I believe that our examples might also be classified under this category. 134

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(24) a. Is it necessary to have an active counterpart in order to be a passive sentence? b. If condition (a) is necessary, must they have the same truth value?

As for (24a) cross-linguistically there are languages in which some passive sentences do not have a corresponding active.79 For example, in Nitinaht (Klokeid 1976: 311) sentences with a 3rd person agent and 1st person patient, the active construction is ungrammatical, and they can be expressed only in a passive construction. Regarding (24b) as mentioned earlier (n.25) and repeated here (25), it is a well-known fact that with modifiers the active and the passive sentences may have different truth values. (25) a. Everyone on Comorant Island speaks two languages b. Two languages are spoken by everyone on Comorant Island

Only the second sentence entails that everyone knows the same two languages. Chomsky considered this fact as an argument for a weak semantic relation holding between the two members of the pair;80 but as we saw without such a criterion it is hard to decide what constitutes a pair of sentences.


3.2.3.3 Once again, in the context of Persian it has been proposed that the perfect is still passive since it constitutes an active:passive pair with active sentences of other tenses.78 But, if having the same truth-value is a condition for constituting an active:passive pair this seems to be a problem since difference in time can affect the truth value of sentences. Since, as we saw in the previous section, there are good reasons to consider the qtil lî pattern as a passive construction, ultimately, we should revisit the requirements mentioned in 6. In fact we should ask two related questions:

78

Bynon 1980: 152 who proposed it, suggested that the equivalent active sentence is the imperfect — since there is no semantic difference between the two constructions, as they both cover the past tense. In the case of Aramaic, it would be possible to think of the suffix conjugation as the equivalent. However, it seems that occasionally there is an aspectual difference in Aramaic, and also the suffix conjugation has its own passive form in one of the t-stems. See also Haig 2008: 44. 79 For a survey of the phenomenon see Siewierska 1984: 30–4. 80 Chomsky 1957: 101. 135

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81 As Siewierska 1984 noted, while many of the current linguistic theories evolved out of different approaches to passive constructions, most of the discussions were focused in the context of arguments for and against the various models, and were less about the constructions themselves, and very often the passive sentences were considered only in order to advance a specific approach. Therefore, I do not pretend that the facts that were brought here cannot be explained by other approaches as well, but I believe that the direction I take seems to solve the problems that we encountered earlier in a very simple way. 82 In contrast to Dik’s 1997 notion of ‘core predication’, this is not a representation of any ‘state of affairs’, since a semantic reference to state of affairs requires other indicators, such as time and location. 83 On the history of the debate of lexical vs. syntactic approaches to the passive, see Siewierska 1984: 7, 76.


Parsons (1990: 295 n. 19) proposed to eliminate this problem by saying that the same truth value is relevant to the parts which are prior to quantification. The idea of distinguishing between different levels of the sentence with regard to the passive suggests that passiveness is relevant not to the actual sentence, but rather to another level of the derivation. One should clarify in what sense we are talking about derivation: syntactically or semantically, which finally forces us to approach the big question of ‘what is “passive”?’ (2a).81 As we saw, Parsons 1990 and others defend the view that the active and passive sentences share the same ‘core predication’, which is prior to other semantic operations (for this matter quantifiers and tenses are the same). Parsons did not define what exactly the content of this core predication is. Elsewhere (Bar-Asher 2009) I defined this concept more accurately, using the notion of ‘linguistic predication’. For our purposes it is sufficient to say that two propositions share the same ‘core predication’ if they share the same predicate and the same arguments.82 Following this direction, it seems natural to consider the passive as relevant to the argument realization of the lexical entry/predicate. In other words, passive sentences do not derive from another, deeper (active) structure, but generate directly from the lexical entry. The difference between active and passive sentences, accordingly, is related to the different ways in which the arguments of the lexical entries are realized. For our purposes, taking a lexical approach to passiveness,83 the fact that a passive sentence does not have an active equivalent, does not pose a problem, since they are not related to each other directly, but only through the fact that both realize the same predicate. Thus, if we return to the qtil lî construction, or to the Persian construction, the fact that there is no active sentence to express the same tense is not a reason not to consider them as passive.

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(26) I. At the syntactic level: (a) the active subject corresponds either to a non-obligatory oblique phrase or to nothing; and (b) the active direct object (if any) corresponds to the subject of the passive. II. At the semantic level The pair of sentences have the same ‘core predication’, i.e. the same predicate and the same participants.

Returning to the qtil lî pattern, the question whether this pattern is a passive construction is different from the question of whether the perfect can be expressed by both active and passive constructions. The first is formal and the second concerns the use of the forms. Only after identifying the contrast between the two sentences that establishes their relation as active and passive sentences, should we ask what the semantic consequences are. One option might be that there


3.2.3.4 Before proceeding, I wish to comment on the ramifications of this discussion for the larger discussion concerning the typology of passive. Earlier I was doubtful about the third element of Haspelmath’s definition of passive (4) stating that the passive is the ‘marked’ construction in the pair (or the less frequent). Clearly the qtil lî construction is the regular way to express the perfect, thus not necessarily the marked construction. Based on our previous discussion this is not a reason not to consider this construction as passive. As argued earlier, Haspelmath’s characterization should be treated as a hypothesis only, and as such it is possible that it may turn out to be wrong because of patterns such as the qtil lî construction in Aramaic. Having a passive construction as an unmarked construction is indeed not common cross-linguistically, and when it exists one can expect that it will eventually be reinterpreted as an ergative construction.84 But, being unmarked is not a reason to change the assessment of this construction as passive synchronically. In conclusion we should change the criterion for the identification of a passive construction, as we should eliminate (6 IIa) and elaborate more in (6 IIb) so that it will capture our observations:

84 As Dik 1997: 284–92 predicts. See, also Bubenik 2001 on this matter. See also Andersen (1977: 324–47) regarding unmarkedness of passive sentences as the origin of ergativity, especially pp. 336–47 why it occurs more often in the perfect tense.

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3.2.4 A Pragmatic note Finally, a note concerning a pragmatic aspect in the use of this construction. In the classical Semitic languages, as is the case in many languages,85 the primary pragmatic function of the passive is to express agentless sentences and impersonal constructions.86 Clearly this distinction is still preserved in the perfect (with the qtil lî construction) as well, in the contrast between sentences without explicit agent (27a, 28a) and those in which it appears (27b, 28b): (27) a. ‫( פסיקא מילתייהו‬Me 21b) psiqa milltayhu ‘cut’ Pptc fm sg ‘matter’ + prn m pl ‘Their matter has been contracted’ b. ‫( רישא פסיקא ליה סיפא לא פסיקא ליה‬Me 11b) resa psiqa leh sepa la ‘head’ ‘cut’ Pptc fm sg AgM 3rd m sg ‘end’ Neg psiqa leh ‘cut’ Pptc fm sg AgM 3rd m sg ‘[The Tana] rendered the former part [of the Mishna] and did not render its latter part’


is a difference in tense or aspect, and that the passive construction is used for the perfect. Thus, even if there is not a way to express the perfect by ‘active’ voice, we can still argue that the perfect is expressed by the passive voice. According to this, the identification is merely a way to determine between two sentences which is active and which is passive. Once we have a lexical definition to passive, passive has nothing to do with any type of relationship with an active sentence. Therefore it can be the case that in specific constructions the passive will be unmarked, and it can even suggest that constructions such as the ‘impersonal passives’ will be considered as passive, if they fit the conditions of a lexical passive.

85

See, Siewierska 1984: 35 for a list of linguists and grammarians who claimed that this is the primary function of the passive cross-linguistically. 86 Regarding Aramaic see Kutscher 1965: 86-7. He also refers to this phenomenon in classical Semitic languages in general. For Syriac, see Joosten 1996: 170-2. In this context it is worth mentioning Retsö 1989: 4, n. 12, who claimed that in Aramaic agents appear in passive sentences more than in other Semitic languages. This is probably also the reason why in Biblical Hebrew when the agent is expressed it is expressed in a variety of ways, as it was never grammaticalized. (For the ways to express the agent in Biblical Hebrew see Sollamo 2003). 138

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(28) a. ‫‘( נהי דלמטה ידיע למעלה מיהא הא לא ידיע‬A.Z. 69b) nhe dlma††a y∂i‘ ‘be’ fut 3rd m sg rel + ‘downstairs’ ‘know’ Pptcf sg lma‘la miha ha ‘upstairs’ ‘at any rate’ dem f sg

la y∂i‘ neg ‘know’ Pptcf sg

‘Granted that it is known on earth, at any rate it is not known in heaven’

‘It’s surely known by/to R. Yehuda’

Thus, from the pragmatic perspective the major function of the passive has been preserved in a different strategy in this part of the linguistic system as well. 4. Conclusions After dealing with the three objections which were raised against its passiveness, and reviewing some of its uses, I believe that we can still consider the qtil lî pattern in JBA to be a passive construction, based, of course, on the definition of passiveness established at the beginning of this paper (6). In the course of this paper it has become clear that it is important to distinguish between the theoretical explanation of the phenomenon of passiveness and the procedure for identifying a passive sentence. In addition, I have demonstrated that it is crucial to separate the formal question regarding the nature of a pattern, (i.e., whether it is active or passive) and the question of the uses and function of this pattern. Consequently, I have shown that the qtil lî pattern can have different functions depending on the predicate and its textual contexts.


b.‫( מידע ידיע לר׳ יהודה‬Pes. 12b) me∂a‘ y∂i‘ lrabbî Yehu∂â ‘know’ inf ‘know’ Pptcf sg AgM PN

Address for Correspondence: [email protected]

Abbreviations AM – accusative marker Ag – agent AgM – agent marker

Aptc – active participle JBA – Babylonian Aramaic DA – definite article 139

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pl – plural Ps – pronominal genitive suffixes PN – proper name Pptc – passive participle Prn – pronoun pss - passive pt – preterit refprn – reflexive pronoun rel – relative pronoun sg – singular

dem – demonstrative pronoun f – feminine fact – factitive fut – future gen – genitive inf – infinitive m – masculine MS – manuscript neg – negation PC – prefix conjugation

Andersen F. 1971. ‘Passive and Ergative in Hebrew’, in H Goedicke (ed.), Near Eastern Studies in Honor of W.F. Albright. (Baltimore & London), 1–15 Andersen, P.A. 1991. A New Look at the Passive, Duisburg Papers on Research in Language and Culture, vol 11. (Frankfurt am Main-Bern-New York-Paris) Anderson, S.R. 1977. ‘On Mechanisms by which Languages Become Ergative’, in C.N. Li (ed.), Mechanisms of Syntactic Change. (Austin), 317–63 Arad, M. 2005. Roots and Patterns: Hebrew Morpho-Syntax. (Dordrecht) Azar, M. 1991. The Syntax of Mishnaic Hebrew. (Jerusalem) Bar-Asher, E.A. (2007) ‘The Origin and the Typology of the Pattern qtil lî in Syriac and Babylonian Aramaic’, in A. Mamman et al. (eds), Sha’arey Lashon: Studies in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Jewish Languages in Honor of Moshe Bar-Asher, vol. II, (Jerusalem). 360–92 —— (2009) A Theory of Argument Realization and its Application to Features of the Semitic Languages, Ph.D. Dissertation, Harvard University. (Cambridge MA) Ben-Asher, M. 1970. ‘The Conjugation of the Verb in “HalaÈot Pesuqot”’, Leshonenu 34, 278–86 Blau, J. 1954. ‘Zum angeblichen von ‫ תא‬vor dem Nominativ’, VT 4, 7–19 —— 1978. ‘On Invariable Passive Forms in Biblical Hebrew and Classical Arabic’, in Avishur and J. Blau (eds), Studies in Bible and the Ancient Near East Presented to S.E. Loewenstamm, (Jerusalem). 85–94 Bresnan, J. 2001. Lexical-Functional Syntax. (Oxford) Brockelmann, C. 1913. Grundriss der vergleichenden Grammatik der semitischen Sprachen, II. (Berlin) Bubenik, V. 1979. ‘Thematization and Passivization in Arabic’, Lingua 49, 295–313 —— 2001. ‘On the Actualization of Passive-to-Ergative in Pre-Islamic India’, in H. Andersen (ed.), Actualization: Linguistic Change in Progress. (Papers from a workshop held at the 14th annual International Conference on Historical Linguistics, Vancouver, B.C., 14 August, 1999. Amsterdam-Philadelphia). 95–118 Bybee, J.L. and O. Dahl, 1989. ‘The Creation of Tense and Aspect Systems in the Languages of the World’, Studies in Language 13, 51–103 Bynon, T. 1980. ‘From Passive to Active in Kurdish via the Ergative Construction’, in E.C.R.L. Traugott and S. Shepherd (eds.), Papers from the 4th International Conference in Historical Linguistics. (Amsterdam), 151–63 Chomsky, N. 1957. Syntactic Structures. (The Hague)


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IMPORTANCE OF SAADIA GAON’S POETRY FOR THE CONSTRUCTION OF A DICTIONARY OF EARLY MEDIEVAL PIYYUT: THE EXAMPLE OF ESSA MESHALI WOUT VAN BEKKUM and NAOYA KATSUMATA KYOTO UNIVERSITY

Abstract The objective of the present study is to show that Saadia Gaon had considerable interest in the lexical values of poetic words and terms involved in the composition of liturgical hymns. The closing section of his polemical piece against the Karaites entitled Essa Meshali (‘Let me take up my discourse’) is Saadia’s attempt to present a poetic vocabulary with a great variety of forms and meanings. The poem reflects Saadia’s interest in the relationship between Hebrew lexicography and poetics, and demonstrates his awareness of the problems existing in Jewish literary circles with regard to the use of the Hebrew language for literary purposes. This specific part of Essa Meshali is presented here for the first time with full vocalization, English translation and explicatory notes.

Introduction: Saadia’s Relevance to a Present-day Dictionary of Piyyut Saadia Gaon undeniably has played a critical role in the transmission of Hebrew poetic tradition from Palestine to Babylonia and, indirectly, to Spain (through both religious and specifically liturgical poetry). This is evident from Menahem Zulay’s publication of Saadia’s liturgical poetry, Nehemiah Allony’s publication of the Egron, and Aharon Dothan’s publication of the remnants of Saadia’s Kitaab Usuul al-Lugha al-‘Ibraaniya.1 In fact, modern scholars of Hebrew


RIJKSUNIVERSITEIT, GRONINGEN

1

M. Zulay, Ha-Askolah Ha-Paytanit Shel Rav Sa’adya Gaon (Paytanic School ) (Jerusalem 1964); N. Allony, Ha’Egron, Kitab ‘Usul Al-Shi‘r Al-‘Ibrani by Rav Se‘adya Ga’on (Jerusalem 1969); A. Dothan, The Dawn of Hebrew Linguistics: The Book of Elegance of the Language of the Hebrews (2 vols, Jerusalem 1997); J. Blau, review, Pe‘amim 72 (1997), 124–38; A. Schippers, review, The Jewish Quarterly Review 91:3–4 (2001), 502–6. 145

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IMPORTANCE OF SAADIA GAON'S POETRY

poetry have found that Saadia discovered, deciphered, reconstructed and redacted thousands of new compositions of liturgical poems — or piyyutim — composed by contemporary paytanim, which has led to the generally accepted conclusion that Saadia wished to play a prominent role in establishing criteria for eloquent Hebrew language and verse. Saadia explicitly mentions five ancient paytanim in the introduction of his book Egron. Each of the five paytanim had a distinct approach to creating poetry, as conceived by Saadia, in terms of the characteristics of their liturgical compositions:

The objective of the present study is to prove—with the aid of Saadia’s composition Essa Meshali — that Saadia had considerable interest in the lexical values of the poetic words and terms involved 2

A. Mirsky, Yosse ben Yosse, Poems (Jerusalem 1977). M. Kober, Zum Machsor Jannai, Neue Texte ediert, übersetzt, erklärt und auf ihre Punktuation hin untersucht (Frankfurt a.M. 1929); M. Zulay, Piyyutei Yannai (Jerusalem 1938); Z.M. Rabinovitz, The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Yannai according to the Triennial Cycle of the Pentateuch and the Holidays (Jerusalem 1985–7). 4 S. Spiegel, The Fathers of Piyyut, Texts and Studies toward a History of the Piyyut in Eretz Yisrael, Selected from His Literary Estate and edited by M.H. Schmelzer (New York and Jerusalem 1996); B. Löffler, ‘Qedushta le-Shabbat Wayyassa‘ leRabbi El‘azar berabbi Qilir’, Yerushaseinu 2 (2008), 223–58; S. Elizur, ‘A Yozer for Shabbat Va-Yasa Signed “El‘azar (Birabi?) Qilir”’, Piyyut in Tradition 4 (2008), 11–35. 5 J. Yahalom, Poetry and Society in Jewish Galilee of Late Antiquity (Tel Aviv 1999), 84–92. 6 S. Elizur, The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Pinhas Ha-Kohen (Jerusalem 2004), 1. 3


1. Yossi ben Yossi composed Avodot describing the creation of the world and world history up to the days of the High Priest Aharon.2 2. Yannai composed Qedushtaot for the weekly Sedarim, emphasizing the narratives surrounding a biblical pericope.3 3. El‘azar composed Qedushtaot for specific Sabbaths and festivals, apparently stressing the special themes surrounding the holidays and special Sabbaths. It is widely accepted that this paytan is the most prolific of the five mentioned.4 4. Yehoshua (ha-Kohen), about whom we have very little information, is the most enigmatic paytan among the five. According to Yahalom, Yehoshua ha-Kohen was the father of a more well-known paytan named Yohanan ha-Kohen, who flourished in Palestine in the middle of the seventh century.5 5. Pinhas ha-Kohen’s oeuvre represents the last stage of Palestinian production of Qedushtaot and the transition to an era dominated by liturgical compositions known as Yozrot.6

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in the composition of piyyutim. The closing section of Essa Meshali is Saadia’s attempt to present a poetic vocabulary with a great variety of forms and meanings, which he conceived as an integral part of the Hebrew poetic lexicon. By and large, this poem is a remarkable piece of Hebrew poetry and reflects Saadia’s interest in the relationship between Hebrew lexicography and poetics. We therefore consider this text to be highly suitable for a demonstration of Saadia’s awareness of the problems existing in Jewish literary circles with regard to the use of the Hebrew language for literary purposes. Much has already been written about this alphabetical poem in the modern literature on Saadia Gaon. However, thus far, this specific section of Essa Meshali has not been presented with full vocalization, English translation and explicatory notes. The future aim of the authors of this article is to construct a ‘Dictionary of Early Medieval Piyyut’. Thus, we employ the closing section of Essa Meshali to illustrate the medieval concern with Hebrew lexicography. We are very fortunate to have access to the Historical Dictionary of the Hebrew Language, which was initiated and redacted by the Academy of the Hebrew Language and is available through the online database Ma’agarim. Indeed, this dictionary has become an indispensable source for modern scholars and researchers studying late antique and medieval Hebrew literature and poetry. With the aid of Ma’agarim, we can reanalyse important poetic texts in terms of the Hebrew poetic lexical items employed by paytanim in the ancient Byzantine and later Islamic stages of Hebrew liturgical poetry.7 Since these items appear frequently in the poems from both these eras, Saadia’s preference for the items from the latter period can be easily discerned. This specifically highlights the piyyutic legacy of Saadia and his fellow poets as well as that of many other paytanim who mainly composed Yozrot; such poets will be listed in due course (e.g. Shelomoh Sulayman and those who flourished in the East after him). Our primary purpose is to progress in our work of constructing a Dictionary of Piyyut based on Ma’agarim, in which we hope to highlight the merits of the paytanic heritage from these periods. 8 7 J. Yahalom, Poetic Language in the Early Piyyut (Jerusalem 1985); J. Yahalom, Poetry and Society; M.D. Swartz, ‘The Power and Role of Hebrew Poetry in Late Antiquity’, in L.I. Levine (ed.), Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (Jerusalem and New York 2004), 452–62. 8 Jacob Kenaani had made an earlier attempt to create a dictionary of piyyut; see J. Kenaani, Lexicographical Dictionary for the Language of the Piyyutim (Jerusalem 1931).

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Language and Content of Essa Meshali

9

For recent scholarly discussions of the doubtful identity of Ben Asher, see Y. Tobi, ‘The Liturgical Poems of Rav Sa’adia Gaon: Critical Edition (of the Yoseroth) with a General Introduction to His Poetic Work’, thesis submitted to the Senate of the Hebrew University (vol. 1, Jerusalem 1982), 47–9. 10 See J. Mann, Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature (Philadelphia 1935), vol. 2, app. XI, 116. 11 A. Maman, ‘Karaite Hebrew’, in M. Polliack (ed.), Karaite Judaism: A Guide to its History and Literary Sources (Leiden-Boston 2003), 485–503, esp. 486. 12 L. Nemoy, Karaite Anthology: Excerpts from the Early Literature (Yale Judaica Series 7, New Haven and London 1952), 71–82. From the Book of the Wars of the Lord, Refutation of Saadia’s Arguments for the Validity of the Rabbanite Oral Tradition: ‘Hearken to my explicit words, reinforced, clad, enveloped, and robed’.


The composition Essa Meshali in its entirety can be understood as a polemical piece against the Karaites in both collective and individual terms: Saadia explicitly addresses a Karaite named Ben Asher as someone whom he intends to attack.9 In our view, each strophe can be regarded as a direct or subtle polemic against the Karaite Ben Asher and Karaism in general, although this aspect is not clearly evident from the poem. Nevertheless, the composition has a religious (nonliturgical) character and is intended to be a reply to the above-mentioned Karaite, who, according to Mann, appears to have composed a poem starting with the words (?‫אשא דעי אני )רעיוני‬. In Mann’s words, Ben Asher provoked Saadia to pose a spirited reply, which the latter did in a series of twenty-two compositions, the first of which begins with ‫אשא משלי ואחוד‬.10 It is thus necessary to consider that a polemical element is involved in Saadia’s compositions, although it has been shown that the use of Hebrew by the Karaites for various purposes like exegesis, grammar, and poetry was not very distinct from that of the Rabbanites.11 We can easily compare this with Salmon ben Yeruhim’s Milhamot Hashem (‫)אליכם אישים אקרא‬, a polemical work in rhyme containing a hymn against Saadia’s Essa Meshali. The former is considered to be as close to biblical language as the latter but Saadia’s composition is interspersed with rabbinic citations and piyyut-like vocabulary.12 In our view, the closing section of Essa Meshali is particularly reminiscent of the style of the ancient paytanim Yannai and El‘azar (Kalir), and it can be assumed that Saadia quite intentionally followed the direction of Kalir’s poetry. However, Zulay was convinced that it is necessary to make a clear distinction between the oeuvre of Kalir and that of Saadia: Saadia developed a consciousness of ‘language

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The Closing Section of Essa Meshali: Word, Meaning and Order The final section of Essa Meshali has several exceptional features: 1. Saadia appears to have attempted to compose an alphabetical lexicon of poetic words and terms in the last section of the poem. He accomplished this by constructing the verses with a particular order of words by means of poetic devices such as alliteration, assonance and rhyme. 2. Saadia’s personal involvement in composing poetry demonstrates his own value-system with respect to the Hebrew lexicon vis-à-vis the Hebrew Bible, rabbinic language and the language used in the works of the ancient paytanim (ash-Shu‘araa al-Awwaaliin) explicitly mentioned by him, namely, Yossi ben Yossi, Yannai, El‘azar, Yehoshua and Pinhas.14 3. As we have stated before, a crucial question remains in connection with the earlier research by Zulay and Abramson:15 Is there proof 13

E. Fleischer, ‘Review of Menahem Zulay: The Paytanic School’, Tarbiz 34 (1965), 382–97. 14 See above, Egron, p. 154. 15 S. Abramson, ‘The Language of Rasag in Essa Meshali’, in J.L. Fishman (ed.), Rav Saadya Gaon: Qovez Torani-Mada‘i (Jerusalem 1943), 683–5; also see B.M. Lewin, ‘Essa Meshali by Rasag’, 481–532, in the same volume. Abramson adduces examples of Yannai on a regular basis; see, for instance, Abramson, op. cit. However, is this proof that Saadia imitated Yannai? Moreover, can we conclude that Saadia was familiar with Yannai’s poetry? Zulay asserts Saadia’s familiarity with the piyyutim of Yannai. Saadia seems to have added more daring words and expressions to the vocabulary in Yannai’s poetry. However, Saadia’s use of exaggerated expres-


purity’ and adhered to that concept in his writings, including in the last section of Essa Meshali. Fleischer, in a review of Zulay’s Paytanic School, has challenged Zulay’s opinion and argued that little difference can be discerned between the ancient piyyutim and the liturgical poetry of Saadia. In the same review, Fleischer noted Zulay’s assertion that Saadia followed a general poetic style; however, Fleischer believed that Zulay failed to consider the fact that each piyyutic genre (like Yozer, Baqqashah, Selichah, and Avodah) demands its own stylistic adaptations.13 This point remains to be resolved by ongoing research — each genre has been defined on the basis of a number of conventions which have possible implications for prosodic and linguistic usages. Nevertheless, this certainly does not exclude the possibility that a personal style is present in Saadia’s oeuvre (including in Essa Meshali).

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that Saadia imitated Yannai or Kalir? Moreover, can we conclusively state that Saadia was at least familiar with Yannai’s or Kalir’s poetry? Abramson has asserted Saadia’s familiarity with the compositions of Yannai. Indeed, Saadia seems to have added newer and more daring words and expressions to the late antique Hebrew vocabulary. However, Saadia’s use of exaggerated expressions to establish neologisms seems to be mainly based on the concept of ‘language purity’ in accordance with biblical standards. Thus, the language employed in Saadia’s piyyut is legitimized in that the daring neologisms are logical consequences of biblical language and lexicon.

Essa Meshali as a Dictionary In comparing the Egron to the final section of Essa Meshali, a number of parallel structures are discernible. However, the Egron is an applied dictionary or applied lexicon which does not illustrate direct contextual meanings through the use of verse examples. In modern scholarship, the Egron is commonly understood as a guidebook composed by the young Saadia with the intention of presenting a revitalized form of biblical Hebrew for the sake of contemporary or future poetry. By contrast, the strophes of the closing section in Essa Meshali are typical examples of poetry, and there is a clear intention to display the contextual meanings of the individual words or terms on the basis of biblical and early piyyutic repertoire. Nevertheless, some of Saa-


In the last section of his composition (though modern scholars still debate whether this section does indeed belong to Essa Meshali), Saadia seemingly wishes to demonstrate the ability of the Hebrew language to ‘invent’ new poetic words in addition to displaying the large treasure of Hebrew vocabulary already in existence. Thus, it may appear as though he deliberately ignored the definite connotations of the rhyming words employed in the verses, which leads to the supposition that for Saadia, creativity prevailed over linguistic and grammatical exactness. However, Saadia — as a grammarian and lexicographer — did not intend to violate (biblical) Hebrew grammar and lexicon. On the contrary, he permitted himself to create the poetic words in some accordance with Hebrew linguistic tradition.

sions to establish neologisms is based on the concept of ‘language purity’ according to biblical standards. Thus, the language employed in Saadia’s piyyutim is legitimized in that these daring neologisms are logical consequences of biblical language and lexicon (Zulay, Paytanic School, 23). 150

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Usually, the root is considered in conventional linguistics with regard to Hebrew grammar during the last thousand years as the basic concept of the language, that is to say, the sequence of three (sometimes four or five) consonants with a basic meaning. We explain verbal and nominal forms as being derived from such roots. Saadia’s approach was basically different: In his eyes the basic component is not the abstract root, but a form truly existing in language called a fundament (yesod or yesodet; however, in Arabic, the word asl denotes the meaning ‘root’ but is employed here in the same way). All forms are derived from a fundament through different stages of ramification and deduction … According to Saadia the fundamental form is always nominal but does not explicitly need to be a noun.16

Modern research has revealed that Saadia’s poetic creativity demands a specific approach. In this respect, we would like to emphasize that his compositions can be taken as a guideline in understanding the development of the language of piyyut within a larger time frame. His interest in the lexicographical values of poetic words and


dia’s words cannot be found in any other works, adding to the impression that the entire composition is an intentional demonstration of the abilities of the Hebrew language and syntax in verse form. Thus, we strongly believe that the lines were not intended for educating contemporary poets in the art of composing the so-called pure Hebrew verse. In this paper, first, we wish to demonstrate that Essa Meshali offers an excellent opportunity to discuss Hebrew poetic forms on their own merits, without the necessity of being too speculative about the roots and root etymologies. In languages such as Hebrew, the concept of a root system has been derived from Hebrew and Arabic grammatical tradition. On the other hand, in this instance, Saadia — as a prolific poet as well as a grammarian — seemingly wishes to employ Hebrew words and forms for the sake of displaying their semantic and aesthetic range within Hebrew verse. Therefore, he composes Essa Meshali with the verses in alphabetical order in an attempt to establish in each strophe a wealth of rhyming words and forms of particular poetical quality taken from the Hebrew language. Our impression is strengthened by the following opinion expressed by Robert Brody in the summary of his study on Saadia Gaon:

16 R. Brody, Rav Se‘adyah Gaon (Jerusalem 2006), 104–5; Y. Tobi, ‘Lexicographical Foundations in the Bible Commentaries of Rav Se‘adyah Gaon’, in M. Bar-Asher and H.A. Cohen, Jubilee Volume for Aaron Dothan (Jerusalem 2009), 316–57, esp. 319.

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terms without direct application to the root system of the Hebrew language leads to a better understanding of Hebrew poetic language as used in the Middle Ages. In this sense, Saadia himself had adduced a considerable amount of relevant material for the future compilation and analysis of lexicon and grammar with respect to medieval Hebrew liturgical verse. Text and Translation with Explicatory Notes of ‫ְתּלוֹף ֶתּ ֶלף‬

[‫תת‬... ֵ ..] ‫ִכּ ְב ַרת‬ ‫[תת‬... ֵ ... ..] ‫הוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫ִבּ ְתּ ָקְך ֶרגֶ ן ְמ‬ ‫[תה‬..] ָ ‫לוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫ָלרוֹס ְל‬

‫אוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫ְתּלוֹף ֶתּ ֶלף ָה‬ ‫פוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫[כּפ ֶֹרת ְל‬... ְ ‫]תּ ִהי‬ ְ ‫סוֹ[תת‬ ֵ ְ‫ י‬...] ‫ַתּ ְח ָרְך‬ ‫שׁוֹתת‬ ֵ ְ‫נוּבְך י‬ ָ ‫ְתּ‬

Arm yourself with arms, O chronicler! A little path (Gen. 35:16) […], To crumble (their words) like frost. […] Your weapon shall break […] in pieces, Already the grumble of a slanderer (Ps. 62:4) has pierced you. Your speech shall flow, To moisten and to malt […] ‫ – תלוף תלף‬Dunash quotes this opening line in ‫ספר תשובות על רס״ג‬, p. 21, no. 72: ‫ועשה התו אשר בתלפיות כי הוא מעיקרה לפי שהשיב על בן אשר ואמר‬ ‫תלף תלף האותת‬.18 ‫ – תלוף תלף האותת‬According to a Judaeo-Arabic commentary on this composition, p. 291: ‫ האותת אלראסם מן‬,‫תלוף תלף מן תלפיות מעניה אלסלאח‬ ‫האותיות‬. ‫ – תלוף‬Imperative form meaning ‘to arm himself’. 17 N. Allony, ‘‫ תלוף תלף‬of Rav Saadia Gaon’, Y. Tobi and R. Attal (eds), Studies in Medieval Philology and Literature, Collected Papers Volume 1: Sa‘adia’s Works (Jerusalem 1986), 283–303 (earlier published in Sinai 14, 28 [Jerusalem 1951], 144–61). This article presents a fragment of a commentary on the last section of Essa Meshali, with some remarks on the first strophe of the last chapter: ‫בשמך רחמנא תפסיר תלוף‬ (291 ‫ תלף )ע׳‬with additional remarks on the sixth (heh), seventh (wav), eighth (zayin), ninth (chet), and tenth (tet) strophes. Allony offers a fragmentary reconstruction of the first strophe ‫( תלוף תלף‬ibid, p. 296). The order of strophes is first strophe tav, second strophe (aleph), third strophe (bet), fourth strophe (gimel), etc. 18 R. Schroeter, Kritik des Dunasch ben Labrat ueber einzelne Stellen aus Saadia’s arabischer Uebersetzung des A.T. und aus dessen grammatischen Schriften (Breslau 1866). Tobi argues that many words discussed by Ibn Labrat are derived from the last section of Essa Meshali, par. 72, explicitly mentioning 3–21 ,‫תלוף תלף האותת‬.


[0. TAV] (based on Allony’s Reconstruction)17

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‫ – תלף‬A nominal form meaning ‘weaponry’. ‫ – האותת‬According to Dunash, p. 23, no. 88: ‫ואותת מן אות‬, signifying the

one who composes the chronicles. ‫ – כפרת‬A form derived from the biblical ‫ כפור‬meaning ‘frost’. Saadia also employs this word in ‫ברכי נפשי‬: ‫הגנזכי כפורת שלג וברד‬, and in his Azharot for Shavuot ‫עמך אצלת‬: ‫( שחורה זכותה תארה ככפרת גשמון‬Siddur Rasag, p. 187).19 This form already appears in Kalir’s Shiv‘ata ‫טל תרופה‬ ‫ אילות טל‬:‫תן וכפורת תגדילי‬. ‫ – לפותת‬A unique form based on the noun ‫( פת‬Ps. 147:17). ‫ – תחרך‬A shortened masculine form ‫ תחר‬of the biblical word ‫( תחרא‬Exod.

28:32, 39:23).

[1. ALEF] (lacking) [2. BET] (lacking) [3. GIMEL] ‫נִ ֵקּף ַחגִּ ים ְלחוֹגֵ ג‬ ‫ַבּ ִצּים ַציָּ ִדים ְלדוֹגֵ ג‬ ‫ְל ֵשׁ ַמע ִשׁיר רוֹגֵ ג‬ ְ ‫ָכּל ִע ָילּה‬ ‫יתה‬ ָ ‫וּשׁ ִח‬

‫גְּ ָדעוּם וַ ֲאסוֹגֵ ג‬ ‫גָּ ְלשׁוּ ֵס ֲע ִפים ְלמוֹגֵ ג‬ ‫גָּ ַרס ָכּל אוֹגֵ ג‬ ‫גְּ ָל ָפהוּ ַה ָצּג ָכּל צוֹגֵ ג‬

They have cut them off, but I will make a fence For the one who let the feasts come around (Isa. 29:1) to celebrate (God). Men of vain thoughts cascaded down to dissolve (the heart), To fish (like) hunters (and fishers) (Jer. 16:16) in fleets. The one who stammers wanted To reverberate a song of intemperance. The one who raises every living substance (God) has carved him With every error and fault (Dan. 6:5).


‫ – יסותת‬Amendment by Allony. ‫ – רגן‬The same as ‫נרגן‬. Compare with Saadia’s Yozer for Behar: ‫התגלע והתעלג‬ ‫ ;והתלעג ברגן מלהים‬see Prov. 18:8. ‫ – תנובך‬A unique form ‫ תנוב‬with the meaning of ‫‘( ניב‬speech’). The same form ‫ תנוב‬shortened from ‫‘( תנובה‬crop’) is more frequently used. ‫ – ישותת‬Derived from Mishnah Ohalot 3,5: ‫דמו שותת‬. ‫ – ללותת‬As in Tosefta Zevahim 10,7: ‫ ללותתן‬and other rabbinic sources.

Introductory note: Here we learn about the Karaites who try to lead the Jews away from rabbinic law, but I, the poet, want to make a gesture in front of God to preserve the tradition of the rabbis (reminiscent of the mishnaic expression seyag le-Torah). 19

I. Davidson, S. Assaf, and I. Yoel, Siddur R. Saadja Gaon, Kitab Gami As-Salawat wat-Tasabih (Jerusalem 1970). 153

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‫ – אוגג‬Documented only here. The word ‫( אגא‬BT Sanhedrin 101b) is understood in the Arukh Dictionary as ‘mocking language’ (‫לשון ליעוג‬ ‫ )שאינו צריך לכך‬or ‘foreign language’ (‫)לשון שאינו עברי‬. Abramson (p. 683): ‫ אוגג‬is derived from ‫ אגג‬meaning ‘stammering language’. ‫ – לשמע שיר רוגג‬Compare Yehoshua bar Khalfa; see S. Elizur (ed.), Poet at

a Turning Point: Rabbi Yehoshua Bar Khalfa and His Poetry (Jerusalem 1994), 274: ‫ותביעו בשפה ]בשניה[ ובפה רוגג‬. ‫ צוגג‬... ‫ – צג‬Wordplay on the basis of ‫צגג‬/‫יצג‬.

[4. DALET] ‫נוֹדד‬ ֵ ‫ִדּ ָירם נצץ‬ ‫נוֹדד‬ ֵ ‫ָדּגְ רוּ ֶדגֶ ר ְל ִה ְת‬ ‫צוֹדד‬ ֵ ‫ַדּ ְרגַּ ת ָעב ְל‬ ‫עוֹדד‬ ֵ ‫ִדּ ְשׁנַ ת ָבּג ְל ִה ְת‬

Their dwelling […] wandering And there is no straggler in his ranks (Isa. 14:31). They gathered together to move to and fro, Everyone who was telling and reciting, To snatch at (those who stand in) the rank of clouds (Israel). He shall gash the daughter of troops (Israel) (Micah 4:14; Gen. 49:19). The fatness of bread to prosper For Torah and for [her] testimony (Isa. 8:20) ‫ – נצץ‬Unclear. Lewin reads this as ‫נצין‬, and suggests that it be changed to ‫( כצין‬as ‫ צנים‬in Job 5:5). ‫ – דגרו דגר‬Combination of a noun and verb and means ‘collection’. Kalir uses the noun form ‫ ֶדגֶ ר‬, see S. Löwinger and A. Scheiber (eds), Genizah

Publications in Memory of Prof. Dr David Kaufmann (Budapest 1949), 22: ‫משכינת דירתי בדגל בדגר‬. ‫ – הוגד וחודד‬According to Dunash (p. 23, no. 88), ‫ חודד מן‬,‫ואמר הוגד מן הגד‬ ‫חדד‬, ‫ הוגד‬can be considered as a derivation of ‫הגיד‬. ‫ – דשנת‬Zulay, Paytanic School, p. 36. This word is one of the examples of Saadia’s predilection for the feminine forms of nouns.

[5. HE] ‫כּוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫וְ לֹא הו ְל ָל ֵאט‬ ‫נוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫רוּצוֹתיו‬ ָ ‫ֶאל ְמ‬ ‫אוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫וּל ַח ְכ ֵמי ֵאל לֹא‬ ְ ‫וְ ִהנֵּ ה ְב ָע ָתה‬

‫גּוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫ֵהל ַה ֵלּל‬ ‫שׁוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫ַה ְפ ַצר ָכּל‬ ‫וּבוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫תּוֹהה‬ ֶ ‫ַה‬ ‫ֹלהה‬ ֶ ‫רוֹתיו‬ ָ ‫ַה ְכ ְמ‬


‫בּוֹדד‬ ֵ ‫מוֹע ָדיו‬ ָ ‫וְ ֵאין ְבּ‬ ‫חוֹדד‬ ֵ ְ‫ָכּל הוֹגֵ ד ו‬ ‫גוֹדד‬ ֵ ְ‫ַבּת גְּ דוּד י‬ ָ ‫ְל‬ ‫עוּד ָתהּ‬ ָ ‫תוֹרה וְ ִל ְת‬

He illuminates the halo, And does not cover (it) by darkness. To entreat everyone who tarries, Longing to rush after Him. 154

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The one who errs and goes astray (Tohu and Bohu), (He) is not heedful of the Sages of God. He mocks at His hidden things (Torah) And behold, terror! (Jer. 14:20). ‫ – הו‬Not clear. Possibly a verbal form of ‫הוה‬. ‫ – התוהה ובוהה‬Genesis Rabba 2,2: ‫ישב לו תוהא ובוהא‬. ‫ – אוהה‬According to Dunash (p. 23, no. 88), ‫ ונפשם לא אההה‬... ‫אוהה מן אהה‬

[6. VAV] ‫וְ ַק ָלּ ֵעימוֹ ֶה ֱעווּ‬ ‫ַרק ָדּ ֲאבוּ וְ ָדווּ‬ ‫ול ֶפּה ָלווּ‬ ְ ‫וּמ ַשּׁאת ֻע‬ ַ ‫יפ ָתה‬ ָ ‫ֶאל ֶא ֶרץ ֵע‬

‫וַ יִּ ְצ ְבּאוּ וְ לֹא נָ אווּ‬ ‫וַ יִּ וָּ ֲעדוּ וְ לֹא ָשׁבוּ‬ ‫וּב ֶשׁ ֶקר ֵעט ִאיוּוּ‬ ְ ‫וְ ָאז יָ ְדעוּ ִכּי ִקיוּוּ‬

They waged war (against us), but did not succeed, And their snipers missed (their aim). They joined together and did not do well, They only caused grief and distress. And the lie of the pen they favoured (Jer. 8:8), And the debt of the poor they seized. Then they knew that they had hoped For a land of gloom (Job 10:22). ‫ – שבו‬To be understood as ‫שוו‬, also in accordance with the rhyme ending. Translated into Judaeo-Arabic as: ‫ולם יסוו‬. ‫ – ומשאת עולפה לוו‬Translated into Judaeo-Arabic as: ‫פאדא בהם קד תסלפו סלף‬ ‫אלתשויש‬. The meaning of this expression is: ‘They were perplexed’.

[7. ZAYIN] ‫מוֹצא וְ גָ זֵ ז‬ ָ ‫ְל‬ ‫וּמ ַפזֵּ ז‬ ְ ‫ְמ ַכ ְר ֵכּר‬ ‫זַ ְרזִ ר ְשׂ ָליוָ ה גּוֹזֵ ז‬ ִ ֳ‫י‬ ‫ופי ָח ְכ ַמת יִ ְפ ָע ָתה‬

‫זַ ְלזַ ל נֵ ֶצר עוֹזֵ ז‬ ‫זוֹז לֹא יָ זֵ ז‬ ‫זַ ְרזִ יף ִמ ְשׁנָ תוֹ חוֹזֵ ז‬ ‫יה בּוֹזֵ ז‬ ָ ‫מוּד‬ ֶ ‫זֵ ירוֹת ַתּ ְל‬


means ‘sorrow and pain’. In a Judaeo-Arabic commentary on Essa Meshali, it was translated as follows, p. 293: ‫ולם ימתהל ויטיע חכמא‬ ‫אלטאיק‬: ‘He was not moderate and did not listen to the Sages of God’. ‫ – הכמרותיו‬Abramson interprets ‫ כמר‬as ‫‘( כמן‬to hide’). Moreover, the expression ‘his hidden things’ is an epithet for Torah.

The offspring strengthens Moza and Gazez (1 Chron. 2:46). He will certainly not move away, The one who dances and leaps (David, 2 Sam. 6:16). 155

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He sends out the raindrop of his Mishnah, Moves forward like a starling (Num. 11:31). He earns the crown of his Talmudim: Beauty, wisdom, and brightness (Ezek. 28:17). ‫ – זלזל נצר‬Combination of two synonyms meaning ‘branch’, an epithet for

the sons of Judah.

See Kalir, S. Elizur (ed.), Qedusha we-Shir, Qedushta’ot le-Shabbatot ha-Nehamah le-Rabbi El‘azar Birabbi Qilir (Jerusalem 1988), 87: ‫זרת‬ ‫מלכים מראשם ישליכו‬.

[8. HET] ‫שׁוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫ַקד ְל ַשׁ ַדּי וְ גַ ם‬ ‫שׂוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ְ‫ִפּ ְל ֵאי ֵאל י‬ ‫צוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫ֲח ִב ָיליו ְל‬ ‫ֲע ָטרוֹת וְ נַ ֲע ָר ָתה‬

‫סוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫ֲחדוּ כֹּל ָבּהּ‬ ‫מוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫ָח ְרבוֹת ֵמ ָחיו‬ ‫פוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫יטיו ְל‬ ָ ‫ֲח ִר‬ ‫תוֹח ַח‬ ֵ ‫ַח ָלּ ִמישׁ ְל‬

Rejoice, everyone who is discussing (rabbinic law), And everyone who is bowing [his] head and worships the Almighty. He sweetens the ruins [gardens] of richness (Isa. 5:17), Conversing about the wonders of God, His clothes to undress, His regions to dry up, The flint to crumble: Atarot and Naarat (Josh. 16:7). ‫ – מוחח‬Verbal form used uniquely in Qal with the connotation ‘sweetening’

or ‘softening’. ‫ – חריטיו‬Derived from the biblical noun ‫( חריטים‬Isa. 3:22). This expression

is used by Saadia to mean ‘clothing’. In Saadia’s Hosha‘not, Siddur Rasag, p. 241: ‫בחריטים משובצים‬. In his Yozer for Pekudey, ed. Tobi, p. 18: ‫חריטי תלבושת‬. ‫ – לפוחח‬Isa. 20:2: ‫ערום ויחף‬, in the Targum: ‫פחיח ויחף‬. ‫ – חביל‬A unique nominal form derived from ‫ מחוז‬,‫חבל‬. ‫ – חריטיו … לתוחח‬According to the Judaeo-Arabic commentary, these lines allude to God, who distinguishes between ‘those who are dressed and those who are bare, between those who live in the plain land and those who live in the dry land, and between the people of rock and the people of soil’.


‫ – זרזיף‬Specific paytanic noun denoting ‘raindrop’. ‫ – חוזז‬Verbal form derived from the noun ‫ חזיז‬meaning ‘thunderbolt’. ‫ – זרזר שליוה‬Combination of two synonyms meaning ‘bird’. ‫ שליוה‬is a feminine form of the biblical word ‫שליו‬. ‫ – זירות‬The noun ‫ זֵ רה‬is a feminine form of ‫ זֵ ר‬meaning ‘bouquet’ or ‘crown’.

156

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[9. TET] ‫רוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ִה ְפנָ ה ָלנוּס‬ ‫תּוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ַבּגְּ ֵדרוֹת יִ ְשׁ‬ ‫עוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ֶט ֶרן ֶח ֶרט ְמ‬ ִ ‫ְכּ‬ ‫לוּבים ְבּגֵ יא ְצ ַפ ָתה‬

‫אוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ַט ְר ֵפּל ֱא ִליל‬ ‫קוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫יִת‬ ְ ְ‫ָט ַחב ו‬ ‫אוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ָטנַ ן ְל ִה ְת‬ ‫מוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫יִת‬ ְ ְ‫טוֹפף ו‬ ֵ

Introductory note: Tarpelite(s) (Ezra 4:9), an ethnic appellation chosen by Saadia with reference to the Karaite(s). ‫ – אוטט‬Isa. 19:3: ‫ודרשו אל האלילים ואל האטים‬. Saadia adapted these synonyms to create a combination of a uniquely coined verb and noun (‫אליל‬ ‫)אוטט‬. According to Dunash, p. 23, no. 88: ‫ואוטט מן אטים‬. The JudaeoArabic commentary explains as follows: ‫אוטט מן האיטים‬. ‫ – טנן‬Derived from the noun ‫טינה‬. ‫ – להתאוטט‬A unique Hitpolel form derived from ‫ אט‬with the meaning ‘slow-

ness’. ‫ – מעוטט‬Derived from the noun ‫עט‬.

[10. YUD] ‫ַא ַעד ַמ ַעד ֶע ְדיִ י‬ ‫יֶתר גּוֹיִ י‬ ֶ ‫ְל‬ ‫יְ דוּתוּן יַ ד ִאיוֻּ יִ י‬ ‫מוּב ִאים ִל ְשׁ ָכּ ָתה‬ ָ ‫ְכּ‬

‫יֶ ֶקת ַק ְשׁ ִתּי וְ ֶת ְליִ י‬ ‫יָ נוּב טוּב ִפּ ְריִ י‬ ‫יְ ָא ְת ַרי ְלוִ יִּ י‬ ‫יוֹסי וְ יַ נַּ אי נוֹיִ י‬ ֵ

The light of my bow and my arrow (Gen. 27:3), I will dress (Job 40:10) my beautiful garment, Taking profit from my good fruit For the remnant of my people (Zeph. 2:9). Yeathray (I Chron. 6:6) is my Levite, Yeduthun is the hand of my desire, Yossi and Yannai are my beauty, Like those who were over the Chamber.


The Tarpelite, who is seeking the idols (Isa. 19:3), Turns himself to flee with fear (Jer. 49:24). He was imprisoned and became low, Ran to and fro by the hedges (Jer. 49:3). He was resentful, and staggered, A ruler who scrapes with a pencil. As he walks, he collapses: Like Luvim in the valley of Zefata (2 Chron. 14:9).

Introductory note: A striking element of this specific strophe is the explicit mention of the two ancient paytanim Yossi (ben Yossi) and Yannai. According to the verse in 1 Chron. 9:26, Saadia prefers to 157

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compare them with the Levites: ‘For these Levites, the four chief porters, were in their set office, and were over the chambers and treasuries of the house of God.’ This reference implies a direct descent from the poet-composers in the Temple to the synagogue composers of the Byzantine period in Saadia’s formulation ‫כמובאים לשכתה‬, ‘like those who were over the chambers’. The expression ‫‘( נויי‬beauty’, ‘preciousness’) is a praise word for the two great hymnists and belongs to the rhyme scheme of the strophe.

Saadia created this verb on the basis of one of the ten names of Moses, namely Yekutiel. Saadia’s choice of the connotation for the verb ‘to fill – with light’, and even for the noun ‘light’, is entirely his personal choice because midrashic sources like Wayyiqra Rabba 1,3 (ed. Margaliouth, p. 9) explain the name Yekutiel as a paraphrase for ‫שעשה את‬ ‫הבנים מקוין לאביהן שבשמים‬, in connection with the root ‫ה‬-‫ו‬-‫ק‬. ‫ – מעד‬Originally a biblical expression from Prov. 25:20 (‫בגד ביום קרה‬-‫מעדה‬ – ‘He that takes away/dresses a garment in cold weather’). This is a grammatical form of Hif’il from the root ‫ה‬-‫ד‬-‫ ע‬which takes two semantic directions according to two identical forms: ‘to dress’, ‘to clothe’, or ‘to take away’. Saadia, in his Arabic translation and tafsir of Proverbs, refers to the verbal form with the meaning ‘taking away’ on the basis of Targum (‫)דשקל‬. In his poetry, Saadia takes this form as a noun in the sense of ‘garment’ and omits the ending; thus, ‫ מעדה‬turns into ‫מעד‬. The same form appears in his Azharot entitled ‫אלהים אצל יום הלזה‬ (Siddur Rasag, p. 186, line 22): ‫בוגדיהם ריקם במעדך‬, where it is also to be understood as a noun meaning ‘garment’. Lewin unnecessarily suggests the emendation of ‫ מעד‬into ‫ מעט‬in the sense of ‫‘( מעטה‬clothing’), ignoring the alliterative effect of this hemistich.

[11. KAF] ‫סּוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫הוּכן ַה‬ ַ ְ‫ו‬ ‫תּוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫ֵמ ִה ְשׁ‬ ‫נוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫ַא ִסּיר ִמ ְת‬ ‫יתהּ‬ ָ ‫ישׁ‬ ִ ‫ְבּ ֶח ֶרב ְשׁ ִל‬

‫תּוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫ותּת ַה‬ ַ ‫ֻכּ‬ ‫בּוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫יִת‬ ְ ‫ְכּ ָא ָבק ַדּק‬ ‫ָכּ ַרע ַתּ ַחת ֶא ֶכְך‬ ‫פּוֹכְך‬ ֵ ‫ַכּ ֲעלוֹתוֹ ְל ִה ְת‬


‫ – יקת‬A neologism coined by Saadia to connote ‘light’. This form also appears as a verb in Saadia’s Seder Dibbarin entitled ‫( וירד אומן הנקוב‬Siddur Rasag, p. 386, line 5) in the sense of ‘to fill with light’ (‫ויאמר יקותיאל‬ ‫‘ – אשר ייקת למו אורה‬And Yekutiel who filled them with light, said’).

The intriguer was smitten, And the screen was prepared (Nahum 2:6). He mounted up like small dust (Isa. 29:5), Without being calmed down. 158

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He bent down under the blows, The afflicted prisoner (Isa. 10:4). When He (God) rises to swing around (Gen. 3:24) The threefold bladed sword (Ezek. 21:19).

[12. LAMED] ‫ָאהֳ ֵלי ַשׁ ַמּאי וְ ִה ֵלּל‬ ‫פּוֹלל‬ ֵ ‫רוֹמת כֹּל‬ ַ ‫ִל ְב‬ ‫תּוֹלל‬ ֵ ‫ִמ ְס‬ ‫ַא ֲח ִרית ְר ָשׁ ִעים נִ ְכ ָר ָתה‬

‫אֹלהים ְשׂאוּ ַה ֵלּל‬ ִ ‫לוֹ ֵל‬ ‫גּוֹלל‬ ֵ ‫ְל ַת ְחתּוֹ ַלכֹּל‬ ‫הוֹלל‬ ֵ ‫לֹא ָל ֶכם ֶא ְת‬ ‫יְמוֹלל‬ ֵ ‫ָל ֶע ֶרב‬

Send praise to Him, to God, Tents of Shammai and Hillel, To the one who spins everything underneath him (the earth), And decrees everything in the height (the heavens). I will not go mad against you (As) an oppressor. By evening he will be weakened (Ps. 90:6), The end of the wicked is cut off (Ps. 37:38). ‫ – לברומת‬Possibly to be understood as an interrupted form in genitive of ‫לברומה‬. ‫ – אתהולל‬Perhaps to be understood as ‫ )ל(התהולל‬in the sense of ‘You do not

have to be afraid of the bad oppressor’ (Lewin, p. 530).

[13. MEM] ‫תוֹמם‬ ֵ ְ‫ַאְך ְל ַבר ו‬ ‫זוֹמם‬ ֵ ְ‫שׁוֹקד הוֹן ו‬ ֵ ‫ְל‬ ‫שׁוֹמם‬ ֵ ‫וּמ‬ ְ ‫ַעל ָצד‬ ‫נְ תוֹק ִשׁית ָבּ ָתה‬

‫קוֹמם‬ ֵ ְ‫כּוֹרת י‬ ֶ ‫ַמ ְשׂ‬ ‫גוֹמם‬ ֵ ְ‫גּוֹרת י‬ ֶ ‫ַמ ְס‬ ‫קוֹרת ֵמ ַה ֲע ֵמם‬ ֶ ‫ִמ ְס‬ ‫אוֹמם‬ ֵ ‫תּוֹרת ָח ֵצר‬ ֶ ‫ִמ ְס‬


‫ – התוכך‬Derived from the noun ‫תככים‬. ‫ – יתבוכך‬According to Abramson and Lewin, this can be understood as ‫ויתאבך‬. ‫ – אכך‬BT Baba Metzia 59b: ‫אך גדול‬. Its interpretation in the Arukh Dictionary is as follows: ‫מכה ושבר גדול‬. ‫ – מתנוכך‬The meaning of this verbal form is taken from ‫ נוך‬and can apparently be linked with ‫נכא‬, as in ‫ נפש נכאה‬,‫רוח נכאה‬. ‫ – להתפוכך‬To be understood as ‫להתהפך‬.

He shall establish a reward, Only for pure and upright ones. He shall ditch a prison hole For the one who purposely covets wealth. 159

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In order not to darken his sight Of the destroyed and desolate (Temple, Zeph. 3:6). The hidden yard (Temple) He will populate In order to break (the decree of) ‘Lay it waste’ (Isa. 5:6).

‫ – ותומם‬Unique verbal form derived from the noun ‫תם‬. ‫ – מסקורת‬Unique noun with the meaning ‘view’ or ‘sight’. Abramson argues that ‫ מסקורת‬is to be taken as a designation for the Temple. ‫ – מסתורת‬From Abitur’s Hosha‘not: ‫‘ – שדי החוקר כל תעלומי מסתורת‬The

Almighty who examines all secrets of the hidden place’ (namely ‘the heart’). This noun appears here as a component of a designation for the Temple (‫)מסתורת חצר‬. ‫ – אומם‬Derived from the noun ‫אומה‬.

[14. NUN] ‫יקּוּדיו ְבּ ִה ְתבּוֹנֵ ן‬ ָ ‫ִפּ‬ ‫ְכּגִ בּוֹר ִמ ְתרוֹנֵ ן‬ ‫נוּדי ֵמ ִה ְתלוֹנֵ ן‬ ֵ ַ ‫ֲא‬ ‫יָתה‬ ָ ‫הוּלת ִמ ְד ָבּר ָה‬

‫נַ ְפ ֵשׁנוּ נְ ַחנֵּ ן‬ ‫נִ ְתנַ ֵער ָאז וְ נִ ְשׁ ַתּנֵּ ן‬ ‫נוּגֵ י ֵמ ִה ְתאוֹנֵ ן‬ ‫נַ ֲהרוּ ֵא ָליו ַעד יְ כוֹנֵ ן‬

To our soul we will do a favour By observing His commands. Then we will awake and become sharp-witted, Like a mighty man who shouts (Ps. 78:65), So that the gloomy will not grumble, And the wanderers will not complain. Flow unto Him until He establishes (Isa. 2:2) (His) abode at the deserted place (Jerusalem, Isa. 64:9).


Introductory note: The four initial words of this strophe establish an inner cohesion. Zulay already hinted that Saadia frequently employed the noun pattern mi/aqtolet and modelled new words in accordance with it (Zulay, Paytanic School, p. 40, with examples like ‫ מאגודת‬and ‫)מחמורת‬. In this strophe, Saadia deliberately seems to involve four introductory words in each hemistich of this pattern, possibly following an earlier example of Yannai in one of his Qedushtaot for Genesis involving two of the following nouns: ‫ויפתח מסגורת מסכורת פעולתה‬.

‫ נודי‬... ‫ – נוגי‬These verbs are to be taken as plural forms.

[15. SAMEKH] ‫קוֹסס‬ ֵ ‫יִת‬ ְ ‫ְבּ ִלי‬ ‫נוֹסס‬ ֵ ‫ַעל ַא ְד ַמת‬ ‫גּוֹסס‬ ֵ ‫ַעד ֲחלוֹף ַה‬ ‫ִכּי נֶ ֱח ָר ָצה נֶ ֱע ָשׂ ָתה‬

‫רוֹסס‬ ֵ ְ‫ַס ְל ַסל גּ ֶֹרן י‬ ‫נוֹסס‬ ֵ ‫ַס ְד ֵסד נֵ זֶ ר ִמ ְת‬ ‫נוֹסס‬ ֵ ְ‫ַסנְ ַסן ַעד י‬ ‫שּׁוֹסס‬ ֵ ‫ַס ְת ֵסת ַה‬

160

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He will moisten the branch of a threshing floor (the Land of Israel) And not cut it off. Establish a crown gleaming Over the land of the one who elevates it (Zech. 9:16). Forever He will raise the twig (Israel) Until death has passed. Strike the plunderer, For that which is determined shall be done (Dan. 11:36). ‫ – סלסל‬A shortened (masculine) form derived from the biblical noun ‫סלסלה‬

(Jer. 6:9).

[16. AYIN] ‫רוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫וְ ִאישׁ ֵר ִעים ְל ִה ְת‬ ‫צוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫יִ דּ ֹף ְבּכ ַֹח‬ ‫נוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫יִת‬ ְ ‫ֶפּן‬ ‫ֶאל נָ וֶ ה ָתּ‬ ‫בוֹאתה‬ ָ

‫זוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫ֲערוֹב ְלטוֹב‬ ‫קוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ְ‫שׁוֹע ו‬ ַ ‫ֶע ֶרב‬ ‫גוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫ֲערוּץ נַ ֲח ֵלי‬ ‫צוֹע ַע‬ ֵ ‫ֶע ְד ָרם וְ ָכל‬

Be sure to do well to the fearful (Ps. 119:122), And a friend merely pretends friendship (Prov. 18:24): Erev, Shoa, and Qoa (Ezek. 23:23). He shall violently drive away the one who proudly walks, Rolling off from the clefts of the river (Job 30:6), Lest he will move around. Their flock and each one scattered (Israel) Will come to the dwelling place (Deut. 33:16). ‫ – זועע‬A unique verbal form taken from ‫זע‬. ‫ – וקועע‬Derived from the biblical name ‫קוע‬. According to Dunash, p. 23, no. 88: ‫וקועע מן פקוד ושוע וקוע‬. Zulay, Paytanic School, p. 152: ‫פקוד וכל קועיו‬. ‫ – צועע‬Possible connections are ‫ צעד‬,‫צעה‬. ‫ – גועע‬Unclear. Probably appearing in Cant. Rabba 4:11: ‫מתג]נ[ועעין היו‬ ‫בעשבי הבאר‬, in S. Dunsky (ed.) Cant. Rabba (Jerusalem and Tel Aviv 1980), 120: ‫מתגעגעין היו‬.


‫ – יתקוסס‬A unique verbal form derived from ‫קסס‬. ‫ – סדסד‬To be linked with ‫יסד‬. ‫ – סתסת‬Derived from ‫סתת‬. ‫ – השוסס‬To be understood as ‫השוסה‬.

[17. PE] ‫יְכוֹפף‬ ֵ ‫ָחרוּל‬ ‫נוֹפף‬ ֵ ְ‫יָ דוֹ ִליסוֹד י‬ ‫יא ֵפף‬ ָ ‫ִא ְב ַכת ֵע ָצם ְבּ ֵה‬ ָ ‫ומּ ָתה‬ ָ ‫פּוּתה וְ ֻשׁ‬

‫נוֹפף‬ ֵ ְ‫ִפּ ְר ָחח י‬ ‫חוֹפף‬ ֵ ְ‫ִפּנַּ ת ַהר ִציּוֹן י‬ ‫טוֹפף‬ ֵ ‫ַפּ ֲא ֵתי עוּגָ ב‬ ‫תּוֹפף‬ ֵ ‫ִפּ ְס ָפּה וַ ֲא ָרה ְל ִה ְס‬

161

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The thorn He will wave, The nettle He will bend, He will overarch the corner of Mount Zion, His hand He will move towards the foundation (Isa. 10:32). He plays the pipe in all its facets, When dust clouds of wood encircle (the Temple): Pispa and Ara (1 Chron. 7:38) to be at the threshold, The Puti and the Shumati (1 Chron. 2:53).

sion, see N. Katsumata, Hebrew Style in the Liturgical Poetry of Shmuel HaShlishi (Leiden-Boston 2003), 181.

[18. TSADI] ‫חוֹצץ‬ ֵ ‫וְ יֵ ֵצא‬ ‫יצּץ‬ ֵ ‫וּפ‬ ַ ‫ֵמ ַח ָדּה‬ ‫בּוֹצץ‬ ֵ ‫גַּ ם ֶסנֶּ ה גַּ ם‬ ‫יא ָתה‬ ָ ‫גִּ ַדּ ְל ִתּי ֱא ִל‬

‫לוֹצץ‬ ֵ ‫ָצק ַבּצֹּק‬ ‫רוֹצץ‬ ֵ ‫ֶצ ֱא ָלה לֹא‬ ‫יְפוֹצץ‬ ֵ ‫צוּרוֹת ֶס ַלע‬ ‫ַציְּ ינוֹ ַפּ ְר ָבּר ְל ַה ִפּ ֵצּץ‬

He will inflict pain upon the mocker, And go forth by bands (Prov. 30:27), The thorny bush He will not smash Of (En-)Hadda and (Bet-)Pazzez (Land of Israel, Josh. 19:21). He will break the rocks into pieces (Jer. 23:29), Both Sene and Bozez (1 Sam. 14:4), When he selects Parbar for Happizzez, Giddalti, Eliata (2 Chron. 25:4). ‫ – צק בצק‬According to Lewin, ‫ ָצק ָבּ ֵצק‬is used to mean ‘poured paste’. ‫ – צאלה‬A singular form derived from the biblical noun ‫( צאלים‬Job 40:21). ‫ – צורות סלע‬A combination of two synonyms (‘rock’). ‫ – פרבר‬The spelling with ‫ בּ‬appears in 1 Chron. 26:18.


‫ – פרחח‬Job 30:12: ‫על ימין פרחח יקומו‬. Saadia translates as follows: ‫קאמו ען‬ ‫ימיני כאלעכאריש‬. In his commentary, he states as follows: ‫פרחח עכרש הוא‬ ‫ממיני הקוצים‬. ‫ – פספה וארה‬Two biblical names, also found in Shmuel HaShlishi in his Yozer for Behukkotay: ‫ יפונה פספה וארא‬/ ‫שצפון רגע הבהיל‬. For the discus-

[19. QUF] ‫חוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫עוֹלל חוֹק‬ ֵ ְ‫י‬ ‫שׁוֹקק‬ ֵ ְ‫ַרוֹּת ַעם ַבּל י‬ ‫יְפוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫עוֹקר‬ ֵ ‫ַא ָפּם‬ ‫גּוֹע ָתה‬ ָ ‫וְ נָ ַסב‬

‫חוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫דוֹשׁנוּ ָלנוּ ְמ‬ ֵ ‫ְק‬ ‫וּבוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫בּוֹלק‬ ֵ ‫ָק ִמים‬ ‫תּוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫ֶק ֶמר נְ וֵ ֶהם‬ ‫נוֹקק‬ ֵ ‫ַקו ַה ִמּ ָדּה גָּ ֵרב‬

162

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Our Holy (God) is a lawgiver for us, He will glean (like a vine) the one who makes decrees. He makes the enemies waste and empty (Isa. 24:1), To drench the people whom no one shall saturate (Ps. 65:10–11). He [restores?] the dome of their dwelling place, He will tear up the one who is battering them. The measuring line of Garev He will enter, And turn round in the direction of Goa (Jer. 31:38).

16:16).

[20. RESH] ‫דוֹרר‬ ֵ ְ‫חוֹפשׁ ְבּנֵ י ְתמוּת ו‬ ֵ ‫ְל‬ ‫ְל ַס ְת ֵרר ַה ִמּ ְס ָתּ ֵרר‬ ‫גּוֹרר‬ ֵ ‫ַס ַער ִמ ְת‬ ‫ְבּ ִשׁיר ִכּי לוֹ יָ ָא ָתה‬

‫שׁוֹרר‬ ֵ ‫ָרנּוּ ָכל‬ ‫יְפוֹרר‬ ֵ ‫ַר ַהב וְ רוֹגַ ע‬ ‫צּוֹרר‬ ֵ ‫ֶר ֶבְך ָאגַ ר ַל‬ ‫עוֹרר‬ ֵ ‫ַר ְטּשׁוּ ֶר ֶדם ְל ִה ְת‬

Sing with gladness, yea each singer! To the one who redeems and releases mortal men. Rahav He will divide, as well as the stirring (sea, Job 26:12, Isa. 51:15), In order to destroy the ruler. Fiery flames He has reserved for the enemy, A sweeping storm (Jer. 30:23). Sleep will abandon them until reawakening By a song which to Him is fitting (Jer. 10:7). ‫ ודורר‬... ‫ – לחופש‬Two synonyms with the meaning of ‘freedom’ derived from ‫חופש‬ ֶ and ‫דרור‬. ‫ – תמות‬A shortened nominal form of ‫תמותה‬. ‫ – לסתרר‬A reduplicated verbal form derived from ‫סתר‬. ‫ – רבך‬From the biblical verbal form ‫( מורבכת‬Lev. 6:14: ‘mixed with hot

water and oil’). ‫ – רדם‬A shortened nominal form of ‫תרדמה‬. Compare to Kalir in his Shiv‘ata for Shabbat Hachodesh ‫ראשון אמצת‬: ‫אמוץ לעורר מרדם ישנים‬.


‫ – קמר‬A noun form derived from the verb ‫קמר‬. ‫ – תוקק‬Unclear, probably denoting the positive sense of building or restoring in accordance with the noun ‫תיק‬. ‫ – נוקק‬Derived from the biblical expression ‫( נקיקי הסלעים‬Isa. 7:19, Jer.

[21. SHIN] ‫אוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫יבוֹת‬ ֵ ‫ְס ִב‬ ‫יוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫שׂוֹנַ ֲא ֶכם לֹא‬ ‫תוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫וְ גַ ם הוּא‬ ‫וְ ָה ֵאל ָלנוּ ְל ֶעזְ ָר ָתה‬

‫חוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫ְשׁ ָב ַבת‬ ‫בוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫ַשׁיְ ֶכם לֹא‬ ‫רוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ְ‫שׁ ֹד ַשׁ ְל ַמן י‬ ‫פּוֹשׁשׁ‬ ֵ ‫ָשׁ ַרע ָכּל ַה‬

163

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A fiery flame Is burning your surroundings. Your reward will not tarry, Your enemy will not live long. He shall impoverish the spoils of Shalman, And he will weaken himself. Everyone resting slips away, But God is unto us a support (Ps. 44:27).

[22. TAV] ‫חוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫וּבל נִ ָירא ָכל‬ ַ ‫יְתת‬ ֵ ‫ַע ְלוָ ה וְ גַ ם‬ ‫ֶאל ָכּ ֵמ ַהּ בּוֹ ֵתת‬ ‫שׁוּע ָתה‬ ָ ְ‫ָה ֵאל י‬

‫דוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫שׁוּע ֵתינוּ‬ ָ ‫ְתּ‬ ‫כוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫ִתּ ְקוָ ה ִכּי‬ ‫עוֹתת‬ ֵ ְ‫לוֹפת י‬ ֶ ‫ַתּ ֲא‬ ‫סוֹתת‬ ֵ ‫מוֹסת ְלחוֹק‬ ֶ ‫ַתּ ֲע‬

Our deliverance He will command, So that we shall not fear the intimidator, Who would like to dash our hopes: They are Aleva and Yetet (Gen. 36:40). He will direct his teaching To anyone He loves. He will hew a burden to the law: God is salvation (Ps. 68:20). ‫ – דותת‬This verbal form is derived from the noun ‫דת‬. According to Dunash, p. 23, no. 88: ‫ודותת מן דת‬. ‫ תעמוסת‬... ‫ – תאלופת‬These nominal forms are part of Saadia’s predilection


‫ אושש‬... ‫ – שבבת חושש‬All the synonyms denote ‘fire’. The nominal form ‫ שבבה‬is derived from ‫שביב‬. The verbal form ‫ חושש‬is derived from the noun ‫ חשש‬and is also to be understood as ‘fire’; Isa. 5:24: ‫כאכל קש לשון‬ ‫אש וחשש להבה‬. Equally, the verbal form ‫ אושש‬is derived from the noun ‫אש‬. ‫ – יושש‬A derivation of the noun ‫ישיש‬. ‫ – שרע‬Jer. 23:12: ‫ ;לכן יהיה דרכם להם כחלקלקות‬in the Targum ‫בכן תהי אורחתהון‬ ‫להון כמשרועין‬. ‫ – הפושש‬Abramson, p. 685, considers this form to be taken from ‫נפש‬.

for the pattern tif’olet (Zulay, Paytanic School, p. 40). ‫ – יעותת‬Isa. 40:4: ‫לדעת לעות את יעף דבר‬, in Saadia’s commentary (‫כתאב‬ ‫)אלאסתצלאח‬: ‫אדע דבר אשר אלמדהו את היעף‬.

164

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Conclusion

Address for Correspondence: [email protected], [email protected]


Now that we have concluded our presentation of the closing section of Essa Meshali, we would like to close with a remark on our project for the realization of the Dictionary of Piyyut.20 What will a comparison between Essa Meshali and Saadia’s Yozrot and other liturgical poems contribute to our understanding within the framework of such a dictionary? Furthermore, in a general setting and in present-day research, what do we gain in practical terms from the projected dictionary? In the view of both the authors of this article, this can be related with the findings obtained through the spectacular achievements made in research on Hebrew liturgical poetry and poetics in the last few decades. The envisaged dictionary may well demonstrate the inner tendencies of the language of piyyut, which in turn, could help us determine the balance between the conservation and invention of Hebrew lexemes within the context of the poetic employment of Hebrew amidst foreign languages and cultures. Therefore, a Dictionary of Piyyut—containing entries comprising quotations and renditions of connotations—might be very effective in illustrating this inner literary development by emphasizing the special characteristics of piyyutic and paytanic words and terms. Thus, we will provide scholars a beneficial tool with which to explore and compare the paytanic instrumentality of Hebrew and, thereby, its creative enrichment.

20

W. Van Bekkum and N. Katsumata, ‘Toward a Dictionary of Medieval Piyyut: Methods, Motifs, and Materials’, European Journal of Jewish Studies 1:2 (2007), 417–25. 165

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THE USE OF STARS IN AGRICULTURE IN OMAN HARRIET NASH AND DIONISIUS A. AGIUS INSTITUTE OF ARAB AND ISLAMIC STUDIES, UNIVERSITY OF EXETER

In Oman, traditional gravity-fed irrigation systems called aflaj (s. falaj) flow continuously, bringing life to arid areas. The water is used both day and night, and before the introduction of clocks and wristwatches, the sun and stars were widely used to time the allocation of water to farmers. Today, several villages still use the sundial but only a few still use the stars. This paper describes the dying practise of stargazing and presents information on star lore related to agriculture, which is quickly being forgotten. For these reasons it is important to identify any other communities still using stars and to record their star lore before more of Oman’s cultural heritage is lost forever.

Introduction Stars are used for many purposes in the region of the Arabian Peninsula, including for navigation on land and at sea, as markers for the Islamic lunar calendar and determining the direction of Mecca. However, the stars used for agriculture relate to seasons and time and may be different stars or have different names to those used for other purposes. This paper refers only to those used in agriculture in Oman, in particular for timing the allocation of irrigation water at night, a custom that is dying out rapidly. The available literature on the traditional irrigation systems, called aflaj (s. falaj) deals mainly with water resources and provides little detail on the use of stars. The main source for this study is, therefore, information collected in the field, interviewing falaj managers and watching the stars with them. In the period 2005 to 2008, Nash, supervised by Agius, located these villages, recorded the methods of using stars for time keeping and identified the stars used.1 At the


Abstract

1

The three-year Ph.D. study Nash (2009) was part funded by grants from the Seven Pillars of Wisdom Trust in the first year and from the Arts and Humanities Research Council in the second and third years. 167

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Figure 1. Study areas for stars in Northern Oman (Base provided for author by Ministry of Regional Municipalities and Water Resources, Oman)

THE USE OF STARS IN AGRICULTURE IN OMAN

168

15/03/11 10:20


same time she collected information on star lore related to agriculture. Five settlements still using stars were identified: Qarya (Beni Subh) near Al Hamra and Al Fath, Zahib, Sudayra and Barzaman near Mudaybi (Figure 1). Information was also collected on the former use of stars in the vicinity of Qarya: in Al Hamra, Misfa (al-Abryeen) and Qala (al-Musaliha). The Falaj System Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Haifa Library on April 1, 2011

In northern Oman, the Hajar Mountains receive high enough rainfall (c. 350 mm/yr) to provide good quality groundwater and ephemeral wadi flow. It is this water that has allowed the development of irrigated agriculture with traditional gravity-fed irrigation systems called aflaj (s. falaj). In classical Arabic, two of the many meanings for the term falaj, pl. aflaj are running water and to divide into shares (Lane 1968 vi: 2426), and these are the senses in which the term is used in Oman. It is applied to the whole physical system of traditional irrigation by gravity flow, including the water source, the channels which carry the water from the source to the fields, and the water distribution network in the area of irrigation. An inventory carried out by Oman’s Ministry of Water Resources in 1997 identified about 4000 aflaj, of which 3000 were in use (MRMEWR, 2002). They are found more than 100 km south from the mountains, making cultivation possible in an otherwise arid area. Figure 2 shows the area irrigated by the falaj at Barzaman, with the date palms spreading out either side of the main channel. The area of cultivation was once larger, the reduction being attributed to lower falaj flow following the installation of pumped wells in the catchment area. In many places, the water from the falaj provided all of the community water needs, including drinking water for humans and animals, for ablutions at the mosque, bathing and places for washing corpses. The falaj channels are still used for all of these purposes, although only rarely for drinking water now that many houses have a water supply system, often from dug wells. When the water reaches the irrigated areas, the channel is divided to direct the water to the fields, where data palms are probably the most important crop. Movable dams, of stone, metal, wood or cloth are used to block some channels while others are running, so that the land is watered in order, either by position within the irrigated area or according to the ownership of water/time shares. 169

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Each community shares the falaj water. Formerly, they were self sufficient, carrying out or paying for all building and repair works themselves, but now they can usually only afford to carry out routine maintenance and the government helps with major repairs. Timing the Allocation of Water In the study area, the share of water that anyone receives is based on the time that water flows to the fields, not on the amount of water delivered.2 Because the water flows continuously, it is used at night as well as by day so that it is not wasted. There is, therefore, a need to distribute the water at night and, usually, to time the distribution. Like the sun by day, at night the stars appear to circle the earth and their apparent movement can also be used to tell the time. Before the introduction of clocks and wristwatches, the majority of settlements used a sundial and stars to time the allocation of falaj water.3


Figure 2. Layout of the falaj system in Barzaman.

2

Distribution according to volume is/was carried out for aflaj with low flows by filling a tank or cistern with water and then releasing it to the fields. 3 A water clock was also used in a few places. This worked on the basis of the time it took to fill a small bowl with a hole in the bottom by placing it in a larger bowl full of water. 170

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Figure 3. The sundial at Al Fath.

171

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Star Names and Methods of Stargazing Much western knowledge about Arabic star names is based al-∑ufi’s (d. 376 / 986) work ∑uwar al-Kawakib al-Thabita (Images of the Fixed Stars). He used translations (from Greek to Arabic) of Ptolemy’s Almagest, updated it with his own field observations, and also provided older (pre-Islamic) names for stars used in the Arabian Peninsula. Only the brightest stars, then and now, have names, hence there is an international classification usually using a Greek letter followed by the name of the constellation in Latin — in the genitive case — which is unique for each star. Alpha (a) is usually the brightest, b the second brightest and so on. The brightness of a star as seen from the earth is described by its magnitude, according to a system introduced by Hipparchus c. 150 BCE. The brighter the star, the lower the magnitude: a star of magnitude 1 is 2.512 times brighter than magnitude 2, which is 2.512 times brighter than magnitude 3, and so on. Sirius (a Canis Majoris), the brightest star, has a magnitude of -1.42. The human eye can detect objects down to c. magnitude 6, but the faintest stars now regularly visible in the study villages, which are all affected to some extent by light pollution, have a magnitude of about 4.50. Many of the stars used for falaj water timing in Oman differ from those of the same name in the Arabic literature on astronomy (e.g. Badr 1988). Not only are they different stars, but they are found in different constellations. Oman’s al-Janb (the side), for example, is not the al-Janb in the literature (Algenib - a Pegasi) but several stars in the head of the constellation Hydra, and does not have a name in modern Arabic astronomy. Al-Bu†ayn (the little belly) is Zosma (d


The sun is still used by many farmers, even where they have stopped using stars. The sundial (Figure 3) is usually a vertical pole with lines on the ground oriented approximately north-south which divide the day. Farmers come to the dial and wait for the shadow of the tip of the pole to reach a mark showing that it is their turn to take water, when they go to their land and move one or more dams so that the water flows to their fields. A similar procedure is followed at night: when the stars show the correct time, the farmers change the dams to irrigate their fields. The divisions of time/water differ somewhat from village to village, but in most, day and night are each divided into twenty four athars so that over the year, one athar in theory averages half an hour.

172

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Table 1. Star pairs in the Al Hamra area.

Falaj star

Name (ID)

Paired star

Name (ID)

al-Mufi al-janubi 1

‫ الموفي‬Altair ‫( الجنوبي‬a Aquilae)

Qarya al-Mufi

‫ الموفي‬Deneb (a Cygni)

al-∑ara al-Awliyya

al-∑ara ‫ الصارة‬Caph ‫( الاولية‬b Cassiopeiae) al-Awliyya al-janubiyya1

4


Leonis) in Oman, not the al-Bu†ayn that is known in western astronomy as Botein (e Arietis). Star names are rarely unique: in Arabic astronomy there are many hearts and arms, for example, in different constellations, so it is not surprising that stars in Oman differ, especially as the names come from an oral tradition: the stargazers in general do not read books on astronomy. Star pairs are common in Oman and in the literature, with the same name given to two separate stars rising at about the same time. One example is al-Sha‘ra,4 which is often identified as Sirius (a Canis Majoris) in the literature, but Procyon (a Canis Minoris), which rises to the north of Sirius, is also called al-Sha‘ra. The names of such pairs may be qualified: in Oman, Sirius is sometimes called al-Sha‘ra al-Bay∂a’ (white), while Procyon is al-Sha‘ra al-Îamra’ (red); or they may be given the dual form, as with al-Dhira‘ayn (the two arms) for Regulus and Algeiba (a + g Leonis). A few examples of star pairs identified during this study are given in Table 1. The example from Al Hamra, where the use of stars for timing water stopped in 1966, is from a manuscript originally written by Sheikh Sa‘id b. Saleh al-‘Abri (d. 1921), the only example yet found of a written description of falaj stars. It is given for its use of star names for directions: na‘shiyya for north and suhayliyya for south. Al-Na‘sh is ‘the bier’, the four stars (a b g d Ursae Majoris) forming a rough rectangle in the north of the Plough (the Dipper in the USA), a northern group of stars, and Suhayl being Canopus (a Carinae), which is in the south. This usage has only been found in written works to date: it also appears in relation to the location of property in a manuscript on falaj rights from Mudaybi written in 1335 /1917.

‫ الصارة‬Scheat ‫( الاؤلية‬b Pegasi) ‫الجنوبية‬

A common pronunciation in Oman. 173

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Falaj star

Name (ID)

Paired star

Name (ID)

‫ الصارة‬Alpheratz ‫( لاخيرة‬a Androme‫ الجنوبية‬dae)

al-∑ara al-Akhira

‫ الصارة‬Ruchbah ‫( الاخيرة‬d Cassiopeiae)

al-Sha‘ra al-shimali 2

‫ الشعرى‬Procyon ‫( الشمالي‬a Canis Minoris)

al-Sha‘ra al-janubi 1

‫ الشعرى‬Sirius (a Canis ‫ الجنوبي‬Majoris)

al-Dhakarayn al-‘ali 3

‫ الذكرين‬Arcturus ‫( العالي‬a Boötis)

al-Dhakarayn

‫ الذكرين‬Spica (a Aquilae)

al-‘Aqrab

‫ العقرب‬Eltanin (g Draconis)

al-‘Aqrab al-janubi 1

‫ العقرب‬Graffias + ‫ الجنوبي‬Dschubba (b + d Scorpii)

‫ الشعرى‬Procyon ‫( النعشية‬a Canis Minoris)

al-Shi‘ra al-suhayliyya4

‫ الشعرى‬Sirius (a Canis ‫ السهيلية‬Majoris)

Al Hamra al-Shi‘ra al-na‘shiyya4 1

janubi / janubiyya = south; 2 shimali = north; 3 ‘ali = high (north in areas on the south side of the mountains); 4 na‘shiyya = north, suhayliyya = south

Knowledge about the system of stargazing in Oman is passed orally from generation to generation, and the range of local pronunciation means that on the rare occasions when star names are written down, they take a variety of forms. As an example, the different forms found in Oman for al-Sha‘ra in the literature are given in Table 2 with their provenance. The first, al-Shi‘ra, is, in effect, the official literary version. The second and third versions are common in speech and found in lists of falaj stars available in some villages. The fourth on the list is from a description of a copy of the manuscript from Al Hamra, and is probably simply a misspelling of the first, which appears in a different copy of the same manuscript. The fifth has only been found to date in the two references given. The meaning of al-Sha‘ra is obscure, but this particular spelling means literally ‘a hair’, an unlikely name for a star. To give coverage throughout the year, twenty one main stars are used in the Al Hamra area, with approximately 1 hour to 11⁄2 hours between each, and twenty four in the Mudaybi area with approximately 1 hour between them. The methods used range from simply watching the main stars rise above or set below the horizon, to watching a smaller number of stars rising or setting above man-made mark-


al-∑ara al-Akhira al-janubiyya

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Table 2. Variations on the name of al-Sha‘ra in Oman

Star name Transliteration 1 al-Shi‘ra

Examples of Provenance Arabic ‫ الشعرى‬texts on Arab(ic) astronomy eg Badr (1988) ‫ الشعرة‬al-Ghafri (2004: 70)

3 al-Sha‘ra’

‫ الشعراء‬al-‘Abri (c. 1980: 30)

4 al-Sha‘ri

‫ الشعري‬al-‘Abri (c. 1980: 42)

5 al-Sha‘air

‫ الشعاير‬al-‘Abri (c. 1980: 38), al-Ghafri (2004: 71)

ers to indicate the time that a main star has risen above the natural horizon. The first method often includes divider stars to give shorter intervals of time, as in Qarya where a total of more than fifty stars is used. The second method has been found to date only in built up areas, and tops of walls of existing buildings are often used as markers; only a few stars are watched and short intervals can be achieved


2 al-Sha‘ra

Figure 4. The stargazing point in Barzaman. 175

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by the observer standing at different points. In Barzaman, the furthest south of villages still using stars, a method between these two extremes is used, as illustrated in Figures 4 and 5. The twenty four stars are watched rising above a man-made horizon, the wall: the observer moves forwards, stopping at points where the star will rise approximately 1⁄4 hour (1⁄2 an athar) later than at the previous point. These are the official intervals, but people can stop at different points to give shorter intervals, and divider stars are, therefore, not needed. Some 30 years ago, a wall further south was used, but the location was moved to the new village when this developed in the 1970s.

The locations in the sky of the main stars used in Barzaman are shown in Figure 6, where each north-south line is equivalent to 2 hours. They are listed in Table 3 with other stars described as ‘ayyuq, which are not so much dividers as indicators, although most of them rise after the main star that they are attached to. The concept of two stars linked in this way explains why it was sometimes said that a name applies to one star, and at other times to two stars. This concept was not encountered in the other villages included in the study except for Capella (a Aurigae), whose proper name appears as al-‘Ayyuq in most lexica, and which is known by a variant of this name in many villages. In Stall in Wadi Beni Kharus, north of the divide of the Hajar Mountains, this term is applied to only one star: Hamal (a Arietis), which is described as ‘ayyuq al-Kawkabayn, alKawkabayn meaning ‘two stars’ and here comprising Sheratan and Mesarthim (b and g Arietis). In some villages, Capella is known as


Figure 5. The method of stargazing in Barzaman.

176

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Figure 6. Falaj stars used in Barzaman. 177

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‘ayyaq al-Thurayya (the Pleiades), the preceding star, and in others as ‘ayyaq al-Dabran (Aldebaran), the following star. The original meaning of ‘ayyuq or ‘ayyaq is obscure, but the stargazers in Barzaman consider it to have a positive connotation, meaning a helper. Table 3. The stars used for water division in Barzaman in order of rising.

Name

‫ الصارة الاولية‬1 / 2 ‘ayyuq 1

al-∑ara al-Thaniyya

b + m Pegasi

English name Scheat + Sadal Bari

72 Pegasi

‫ الصارة الثانية‬1

a Andromedae

Alpheratz

‫ السعد‬1

b Andromedae

Mirach

‫ الكوكبين‬2

a + b Arietis

Hamal + Sheratan

al-FatÌ

‫ الفتح‬1

b Persei or 41 Arietis

Algol

al-Thurayya

‫ > الثريا‬3

Messier 45

Pleiades

‘ayyuq 1

a Aurigae

Capella

Bu Qabil

‫ بو قابل‬2

a Aurigae a Tauri

Capella Aldebaran

al-Shabik

‫ > الشابك‬3

cluster around i Orionis

Orion’s sword

al-Åalmi

‫ الظلمي‬1 / 2

g Geminorum z Geminorum

Alhena Alzirr

al-Sha‘ra

‫ الشعرى‬1

a Canis Minoris

Procyon

al-Janb

‫ الجنب‬3

d Hydrae + 2

head of Hydra

‫ الذراعين‬2

a + g Leonis

Regulus + Algeiba

al-Sa‘d al-Kawkabayn

al-Dhara‘ayn al-Bu†ayn

‫ البطين‬2

d Leonis +1

Zosma

al-Thaqila

‫ الثقيلة‬1 / 4

b Leonis

Denebola

al-Miyathab

‫ الميثاب‬2

e + g Virginis

Vindemiatrix + Porrima

al-Dhakarayn

‫ الذكرين‬2

a Boötis + a Virginis

Arcturus (N) + Spica (S)


al-∑ara al-Awliyya

No. of Classification stars

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Name

No. of Classification stars

English name

al-Ghafar

‫ الغفر‬1

a Coronae Borealis

al-Åuban

‫ الظوبان‬1 / 2

g Herculis

‘ayyuq 1

b Herculis

Kornopherus

‫ القلب‬1

a Herculis

Rasalgethi

‘ayyuq 1

a Ophiuchi

Rasalhague

‫ الكوي‬1

a Lyrae

Vega

‘ayyuq 1

a Scorpii

Antares

b Cygni + h Aquilae

Albireo + Deneb el Okab

al-Qalb

al-ManÒaf

‫ المنصف‬1 / 2

al-Mufi

‫ الموفي‬2

a + d Aquilae

Altair + Tarazed

al-Ghurab

‫ الغراب‬4

a, b, d +l2 Delphini

Sualocin, Rotanev (a, b)

e Pegasus

Enif

al-Adam

‫ الأدم‬1

The concept of a ‘helping’ star has not been encountered elsewhere: in Qarya, each official divider star is called the manÒaf (divider) of the preceding star, an example of which is Pollux (b Geminorum), which here rises 40 minutes after Alhena (g Geminorum), a main falaj star known as al-Jawza (the couple, as in man and woman). Pollux is brighter than Alhena, but is not given a specific name. Indeed, the farmers generally do not have names for stars that they do not use. The main stars in bold in Table 3 are consistently the same star and used almost everywhere: for thirteen of the twenty four stars there is practically no difference among them in the villages investigated to date, although they are not always known by the same name. Those not in bold differ to a greater or lesser degree in the stars and number of stars used. The Pleiades, Vega and Enif are used everywhere and known by the name given in the table, at least for falaj purposes. However, Aldebaran is more often called al-Dabran, and in the Al-Hamra area, Alhena is called al-Jawza or (more correctly) alJawza’. Given the small sample size, and limited range of topography, affecting the horizon for viewing the stars, it is expected that if data from other villages were available, more differences would be found.


al-Kuwi

Alphecca, Gemma

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One of the stars that differs among villages is al-Shabik, the fishing net (Figure 7). In many places it is Meissa and two nearby stars in Orion, the same stars as one of the Stations of the Moon, al-Haq‘a. However in Barzaman it is further south, as Orion’s sword, there described more accurately as a khanjar (curved dagger). In Al Fath, another of the settlements near Mudaybi included in the study, it is a large part of Orion, seen literally as a fishing net, with Bellatrix being the main star for falaj water timing.

Agricultural Star Lore Despite the paucity of written information concerning stars in Oman, there is a certain amount of folk lore. Some stars are associated with different agricultural activities, associations which now have little practical application. In Barzaman, for example they say:


Figure 7. Stars in Orion known as al-Shabik.

Lam tu†la‘ al-thurayya min al-shayya: yazra‘ al-burr hayya hayya. When it is the time of the rise of Thurayya (the Pleiades), we grow a lot of wheat.

However, the cultivation of seasonal crops such as wheat with falaj water in this village was abandoned in the early 1970s when the flow rate decreased. In Qarya, where seasonal crops are still grown, although water from the falaj is supplemented by wells, different say180

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ings for stars were given, some of which are listed in Table 4. All of these stars/star names are used in the falaj timing system, and several of the associations rhyme — it is likely that originally all such sayings rhymed, but much has been forgotten. Table 4. Sayings from Qarya associating stars with agriculture.

Recording

Rough translation

Month of the year

Al- ‘aÒir fi’l-mufi - ‘aÒir saj- Juice is in Mufi – juice from sugar January jar cane Ya†la‘ fi ghurab jurab

in Ghurab, dates are plentiful February (jurab, more frequently gurab, is the woven bag of date palm leaves made for holding dry dates and full of dates)

Wa ya†la‘ fi’l-sa‘d … juzz If it (the sun) rises in Sa‘d, it is the April al-ja‘d time of shearing Tarikh al-dharra‘ – waqt/ the time for wheat – hot weather – June jaw Ìar – fi’l-debran in al-Debran Lam ya†la‘ fi’l-dabran when the sun rises in Dabran, June akhar layl al-qayr fi kull there are dates (the fruit) in all al-aw†an nations Tarikh al- jizlan - sha‘ra

the time of plenty is in Sha‘ra

Tarikh thum fi – miyathab the time for garlic is in Miyathab

July – August October

Tarikh Òayf al-dhakarin; the time of summer is in Dhaka- October – November mawsim dhakarayn – rayn – the season of Dhakarayn – ma††ar rain

The sayings generally refer to the last star to rise at dawn, i.e. the heliacal rising. For example, when Chuwi, a common pronunciation for Kuwi (Vega, a Lyrae) is the last star to rise at dawn, that is waqt or tarikh Kuwi, the time of Kuwi, currently December to January. The months in the table have been given on this basis, but do not seem to work for all of the sayings. The bags full of dates ascribed to Ghurab (meaning the crow) would be expected in the date harvesting season, which is July to September, partly covered by the time of plenty in Sha‘ra (meaning unknown). It appears that this saying is for the evening rise of the star.


Al-nakhala al-Ìin – chuwi date palms – now – Chuwi, i.e. December – January Kuwi for (planting) date palms

181

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Summary and Conclusions

It is urgent to identify any other communities still using stars and record information from them in a similar manner before the knowledge of folk astronomy is lost forever. Address for Correspondence: Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, Stocker Road, University of Exeter, Exeter, EX4 4ND, UK REFERENCES al-‘Abri, Badr, c. 1980. Al-Bayan fi ba‘∂ Aflaj ‘Uman. (Muscat) Al-Ghafri, Abdullah S. 2004. ‘Study on Water Distribution Management of Aflaj Irrigation Systems of Oman’. Ph.D. thesis, Hokkaido University al-∑ufi, ‘Abd al-RaÌman b. ‘Umar, 995 / 1586. ∑uwar al-Kawakib al-Thabita. Ministry of National Heritage and Culture, Oman, Manuscript Number 1835 Badr, ‘Abd al-RaÌim A. M. 1988. Mawsu‘at Asma’ al-Nujum ‘inda al-‘Arab fi’l-Falk al-Qadim wa’l-Îadith. (Amman) Lane, Edward W. 1968. An Arabic-English Lexicon. (Beirut) MRMEWR, 2005. Water Resources in Oman. (Muscat) Nash, H. 2009. ‘Water Management: the Use of Stars in Oman’. Ph.D. thesis, University of Exeter


The use of stars for timing falaj water in Oman is an art and tradition that is rapidly dying. From the 3000 working systems there are now only about 10 in the whole country using stars,5 and a wealth of knowledge about the stars, the methods of watching them and related star lore has already been lost. With the increasing age of stargazers, the spread of light and dust pollution and a preference in many places for modern practice, it is likely that this tradition will completely die out in one or two decades at the most. Before this study, only a few of the falaj stars were known, but now the majority have been identified and the methods used for time division recorded. The same star may be known by different names in different places and the same name may be used for different stars. A preliminary hypothesis, as a basis for further assessment, is that the similarities point to a common root, and the differences could be due both to: • practicability, i.e. the selection of stars according to what is readily visible and identifiable, and • the former relative isolation of most communities, which were self sufficient since the falaj provided the majority of their needs.

5

To date only eight villages still using stars for irrigation water have been identified: the five in the study, Stall and Hajeer in Wadi Beni Kharus (Al-Ghafri, 2004), north of Al Hamra, and Halam in Wadi Beni Jabr in the west, near Sur. 182

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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/1 Spring 2011 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.

REVIEWS

The poignant verses by Jehudah ha-Levi, ‘My heart in the East’, accompany the first of two volumes dedicated to Maria Luisa Mayer Modena by Francesco Aspesi, Vermondo Brugnatelli, Anna Linda Callow and Claudia Rosenzweig. This contains forty-nine contributions organized according to three sections: eight in English, one in French and the remaining forty in Italian. Mayer Modena’s complete bibliography, compiled by Claudia Rosenzweig concludes the volume (pp. 791– 6). The first section, devoted to Hamitic, Semitic and Indo-European Studies contains eighteen papers. Two deal with retrieval of ancient manuscripts: Fedeli discusses fragments from Qur’an copies and from religious texts, legal documents and medicine texts from a deposit in the Great Mosque in Sanaa, Yemen, restored in 1972. The second, by the late Noja Noseda presents a leaf of the Samaritan Pentateuch in Arabic, written in Samaritan script (Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan). Two papers focus on Egyptology: Piacentini on the idea of borders — on this, the monograph by Galan (1995) — and Roccati on the concept of linguistic and textual community. On Indo-european and Semitics: Borghi, Silvestri; Armenian and Vedic grammar issues, Scala and Vai; oriental onomastics in Mycenean tablets, Milani; a lexical analysis of the Greek term for ‘gecko’ by Arena; Biblical loanwords in Medieval Latin texts are discussed by Biondi, and in European languages, by Bologna; the theme of Moses’ harp in Syriac texts by Vergani. Finally, Giacomelli discusses the work of the twentieth century Italian Glottologist Pier Enea Guarnerio; Della Casa examines Jaina religious precepts and Bonfardini Latinisms in Swiss dialects. Amadasi Guzzo examines a problematic archaic Phoenician one-line inscription on a steatite object from Byblos published by Sader (2005), who originally regarded it as a weight, whereas Amadasi convincingly argues it was part of a ceremonial weapon and dates it to the tenth century BCE on palaeographic grounds — whereas Sader puts it between the eleventh and the tenth century. The script is compared to that of the El-Khadr arrow points. Instead of Sader’s preliminary interpretation yd ‘zb‘l tÒmtn br’s ’bw ‘May the hand of Ozibaal assemble or destroy, by the head of the Father’, Amadasi reads yd ‘zb‘l tÒmtn br’s ’b w ‘May the hand of ‘Oziba‘al break me against the enemy’s head’. Still problematic is the interpretation of the verb Òmt and the last letter, perhaps a waw whose function, in consideration of its different height is that of marking the beginning.


FRANCESCO ASPESI, VERMONDO BRUGNATELLI, ANNA LINDA CALLOW and CLAUDIA ROSENZWEIG (eds), Il mio cuore è a Oriente, ‫לבי במזרח‬. Studi di linguistica storica, filologia e cultura ebraica dedicati a Maria Luisa Mayer Modena (Quaderni di Acme 10). Cisalpino Istituto Editoriale Universitario, Milan 2008. Pp. 816. Price: /38.00 paperback. ISBN: 978-88-323-6091-2. CLAUDIA ROSENZWEIG, ANNA LINDA CALLOW, VERMONDO BRUGNATELLI and FRANCESCO ASPESI (eds), Florilegio Filologico Linguistico. Haninura de Bon Siman a Maria Luisa Mayer Modena (Acta et Studia 4). Cisalpino Istituto Editoriale Universitario, Milan 2008. Pp. viii + 207. Price: /16.00 paperback. ISBN: 97888-323-6098-1.

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REVIEWS


The second section, devoted to Hebrew Philology and Jewish Languages, contains seventeen papers: Zatelli stresses the centrality of linguistic analysis for the study of the Bible; Piotta on the origin of Qohelet 8, 8. Bar-Asher studies Biblical expressions in Tannaitic literature; Bonfil analyses Greek cultural and linguistic loans in Talmudic and Midrashic literature; Somekh on taboo expressions from the Babylonian Talmud. Chiesa discusses the most recent research on the thirteenth-century philologist and lexicographer Tanhum ben Yosef ha-Yerushalmi. Four papers deal with Judaeo-Italian: Ferretti Cuomo on glosses regarding headgear and other accessories in the Arukh; Jerchower on the fifthteenth century biblical glossary Maqre Dardeqe; Ryzhik on changes in Renaissance homiletic sources; Fortis on JudaeoItalian theatre, on the work of Guido Bedarida and bagitto (i.e. Leghorn JudaeoItalian dialect) proverbs and sayings. Henshke on morphological-syntactic changes in Hebrew proverbs in Tunisian Judaeo-Arabic and Schwarzwald on the Ladino translation of Ibn Paquda’s Judaeo-Arabic work The Duties of the Heart. Minervini on Judaeo-Spanish; Bucaria analyses Hebraisms in Medieval Sicilian documents; Sasaki and Turniansky focus on Hebrew and Yiddish. Finally, Bunis on the names of Jewish languages and their implications. The third section, Hebraica, contains fourteen papers spanning from literature to socio-linguistics. Fumagalli on Hebrew books and libraries in Milan; Richler on surviving editions of Ephrahim of Modena’s Sefer ha-Musar; de Angelis on the fifteenth-century learned man Sigismondo Golfo. Three papers focus on modern Jewish literature: the works of Dischereit, by Costazza; Charlotte Delbo’s plays by Mazzocchi Doglio; Trevisan Semi on Gormezano Goren. Paganoni on teaching History of Israel to Italian students; Reshef on teaching English in Israel. Arrigoni on the Italian antifascist Eucardio Momigliano (1888–1970) and on his brief 1958 autobiography Singolare esperienza. On the theme of writing and the Shoah is the interesting paper by Massariello Merzagora on the issue of writing about the lager experience and writing in the lager, with a distinction between clandestine writing by inmates — lists of names of deceased friends and acquaintances; recipes and vocabulary lists; memorial writings hid by members of the Sonderkommando and recently recovered and published (2001) — and the official writing produced by the Nazis — deportation and prisoners’ lists, and above all, tattooed numbers. Chayo discusses anti-semitic prejudices from pre-Christian to present times, drawing as well from personal experience; Moscati Steindler on Israeli Holocaust Drama; Masotti on Medieval and modern Jewish European settlements; Weinstein on honour ethos in Jewish-Italian families from Medieval to modern times. A more private tribute — in the editors’ words — than the lengthier Festschrift discussed above is the second volume. The Judaeo-Italian wish Haninura de Bon Siman ‘affectionate good wishes’ hints at the dedicatee’s main area of research. It contains fifteen papers in Italian (and one in English by Ferrari on Amichai’s minor works) by eighteen authors listed alphabetically, including the editors: Rosenzweig on the early fifteenth century Yiddish knightly poem Bovo d’Antona; Callow on recent studies on the Sefer ha-Kavod; Brugnatelli on Berber uday and on the name Israel in ancient North-African languages; Aspesi on honey symbolism and 1 Samuel 14. Vismara discusses historical implications of the tenth-century Tel Dan Aramaic inscription, with highly questionable palaeographic conclusions on a supposed scribe’s ‘distraction’ (p. 193) to explain the form of kaph. Angelini on fantastic creatures in Biblical sources; Cappelletti on Sukkot in the Egyptian Diaspora. On lexicography: Pasqualini studies milk products in North-West Semitic sources; Mascarino precious stones in the Old Testament; Falcone on Jerome’s interpreta184

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REVIEWS

tions of Hebrew Ariel; Borghi, Dell’Aquila, Iannaccaro on the etymology of baita. On modern Israeli literature: Nahmany on women writers; Magretti on Israeli poetry: Rachel Bluvstein and Zelda Mishkovsky. Frenkel and Guerini Rocco on the recovery of Hebrew medical manuscript fragments in Cremona. Both volumes are a careful effort and an undoubtedly pleasant homage to the dedicatee. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq064

ELEONORA CUSSINI UNIVERSITÀ CA’ FOSCARI VENEZIA

KEVIN M. MCGEOUGH, Exchange Relationships at Ugarit (Ancient Near Eastern Supplement Series 26). Peeters, Leuven 2007. Pp. xviii + 438. Price: /95.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-429-1935-8. Downloaded from jss.oxfordjournals.org at University of Haifa Library on April 1, 2011

‘The primary goal of this study is to outline economic modalities at Late Bronze Age Ugarit’ (p. 8) within the framework of history and anthropology. It is an attempt to apply recent economic theory to an ancient civilization and, as background, the first chapter sets out the formalist-substantivist debate on economics. After examining the various options, Kevin McGeough argues in favour of the network-based model, based on work by F. Fukuyama and others, suitably modified for use with ancient documents. Then comes a brief history of the excavation of Ras Shamra and its immediate vicinity (pp. 39–42), which sets the scene, after which previous explanations of the economy of Ugarit are set out, with a critique, in chapter 2. These attempts include the application of various explanatory models — feudal models, the Asiatic mode of production model and the entrepreneurial and patrimonial household models — to the documents from that city. The next chapter, on ‘The language of the Ugaritic economy’, is a discussion of crucial terms used in the tablets for social classes, occupations and types of land-holdings.1 Chapter 4 sets out the form and function of Ugaritic economic tablets and the next chapter is an overall summary of the previous pages. The information provided by these documents on the kinds of economic activities that took place in Ugarit is the subject of chapter 5. One of the clearest chapters (chapter 6) describes the locations where the tablets were found. It deals with the various archives found in the royal palace, in the so-called northern palace, in the residential quarter and in urban temples and their associated buildings. Most but not all of these documents were found in a royal context. The description of the material remains of the Ugaritic economy (chapter 7) deals with the environment, the economic infrastructure, households and the production of goods. Chapter 8 sketches out economics within and beyond the kingdom of Ugarit. The final summary chapter shows how the network-based model can be applied to the economic modalities of Ugarit and closes with suggestions for future research. After a bibliography up to 2004, indexes of topics, authors, ancient terms and texts are supplied. Although discussed, few texts are actually quoted2 since these are the subject of a second volume, Ugaritic Economic Texts, still in preparation, which ‘will present translations and commentaries of the alphabetic Ugaritic economic texts’ (p. 7). If this companion volume had been published simultaneously with the first, it would have provided written evidence for the theoretical discussions.

1 Incidentally, the cross-referencing could be better, for example the discussion here (pp. 123–7) of Akk. ilku/pilku, a type of obligatory service, makes no mention of I. Márquez Rowe, although his contribution was discussed earlier (pp. 59–60).

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The book has more than its fair share of misprints and mistakes. Many accents are missing or incorrect, particularly in the bibliography. In addition, the following errors have been noted: p. ix (and p. 168): ‘mr‘ ’ for ‘mr’ ’; p. 7: curiously, CTA is missing from the abbreviations; p. 7 (and p. 405): the Manuel d’Ougaritique was edited by both P. Bordreuil and D. Pardee (only the latter is mentioned); p. 30: ‘Noble Memorial Prize’ for ‘Nobel Memorial Prize’; p. 98 n. 61 (on Ug. alit): ‘Watson 1995a’ for ‘Watson 1985’; p. 98 n. 60: ‘alte Freute’ for ‘alte Frauen’; p. 99: ‘Akkadian Ìub†u’ for ‘Akkadian Ìupsu’; p. 118: ‘Watson argues that Ìsn…’ — in fact, this is not my suggestion at all but (as I noted) was originally proposed by M. Liverani;3 p. 116: the comment on Ug. ngr, ‘guard’, should read: ‘In the polyglot, this word is equivalent to Sumerian SES, Akkadian naÒaru, but the Hurrian entry is missing’; p. 119 (and p. 431): ‘ulisparu’ for ‘u/ isparu’; p. 128: ‘KTU 4.638’ for ‘KTU 4.637’; p. 128 n. 275: ‘Rowe 1995’ for ‘Rowe 1995b’; p. 128 n. 276: ‘She’ for ‘He’ (a reference to Ignacio Márquez Rowe); p. 130 n. 288: ‘Brow–Driver–Briggs’ for ‘Brown–Driver–Briggs’; p. 161: ‘cities that rendered †lrbh service’ for ‘cities that rendered service in/for †lrb’, where the final –h is locative; p. 170: ‘Ìmd ’ for ‘Òmd ’; p. 170: tmtt is considered to be a place name, but the generally accepted meaning is ‘crew’; p. 199: in KTU 4.499:3, ‘rbn, ‘guarantor’, is singular not plural; p. 204: ‘lqI’ for ‘lqÌ’; p. 211: ‘sprdn’ for ‘sbrdn’; p. 237: ‘Claude Schaeffer’s observation that of the way the tablets were arranged’ for ‘Claude Schaeffer’s observation of the way the tablets were arranged’; p. 251: ‘stories’ for storeys’; p. 254: ‘quartier residential’ for ‘quartier residentiel’; p. 259: dd does not occur on KTU 4.789 and it is unlikely that qmÌ denotes a measure in that text (it means ‘flour’); p. 259: ‘KTU 4.764’ for ‘KTU 4.765’; p. 270 n. 41: ‘argmn’ for ‘irgmn’ and ‘KTU 4.144’ for ‘KTU 4.390’;4 p. 273: ‘Bibliothèqe’ for ‘Bibliothèque’; p. 284: ‘discreet’ for ‘discrete’; p. 286: ‘vile’ for ‘ville’; p. 339: the last word of the heading under ‘2.’ is missing; in full it should read ‘A Re-evaluation of Models of Near Eastern Economy’; p. 347: ‘KTU 4.35’ for ‘KTU 4.357’; p. 365 n. 60 refers to twenty-three texts that ‘use the language of reciprocity’, without specifying them; similarly, notes 63, 64, 69 refer to texts but do not list them; p. 394: ‘Gernhot [sic], W.’ for ‘Wilhelm, G.’; p. 395: ‘Friedric’ for ‘Friedrich’; p. 405: invert the author’s names (as Bordreuil – Pardee) and note that ‘Parise, N.’ at the end of that entry is in fact the author of the next article listed at the top of p. 406; p. 408 (and p. 429): ‘von Röllig, W.’ for ‘Röllig, W.’; p. 409: ‘ordo liturgica’ for ‘ordo litúrgico’; p. 417: ‘arsenic’ for ‘arsenie’. Some names are missing from the ‘Index of Modern Authors’, including G. del Olmo Lete and J. Sanmartín (whose Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language is cited frequently) and myself and some items are not in the bibliography,5 where curiously, very few scholars have been allowed more than one initial. 2

Brief extracts appear on pp. 91, 111, 131, 145, 162, 171, 202, 377 and elsewhere. M. Liverani, ‘Il corpo di guardia del palazzo di Ugarit’, RSO 44 (1969), 191–8. 4 McGeough may well be correct in positing different meanings for argmn (‘tribute’) and irgmn (‘purple dye’) but unfortunately his argument is blurred by the misprints. 5 For example, J. Sanmartín, ‘Isoglosas morfoléxicas eblaítico-ugaríticas: la trampa lexicográfica’, AuOr 9 (1991), 165–217 (cited on p. 110 n. 157 as ‘Sanmartín 1991’) and W. Thiel, ‘Zur gesellschaftlichen Stellung des mudu in Ugarit’, UF 12 (1980), 349–56. In addition, on p. 412, E.A. Speiser’s article ‘Akkadian Documents from Ras Shamra’, JAOS 75 (1955), 154–65, is wrongly credited to M. Sznycer (misspelt ‘Snyczer’). 3

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NORTHUMBERLAND

Y. LEVIN (ed.), A Time of Change: Judah and its Neighbours in the Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods (The Library of Second Temple Studies 65). Continuum, London 2007. Pp. 288. Price: £75.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-56704-552-2. This important contribution to scholarship may not yet have received the attention it deserves. This collection of articles from different scholars and perspectives is remarkably coherent, although the volume itself is seriously flawed by the lack of a subject index. This reassessment of the social history of the Persian and Hellenistic periods in ancient Palestine is based upon a considerable amount of recent archaeological and


The weakest sections of this book are those on philology, especially chapter 3.6 For example, the survey of meanings of yÒÌ (pp. 115–6) makes no reference to J. Sanmartín, ‘Die Gilde der yÒÌm in Ugarit’, AfO 34 (1987), 54–6, who concluded that they are bronzesmiths (‘Bronzierer’).7 That said, some of McGeough’s own proposals are significant. For example, he argues convincingly (p. 147) that Ug. npÒ, ‘personal belongings’, in the context of tablets listing items belonging to someone, ‘is clear evidence for some notion of private property’.8 In other words, the palace did not own everything, which has a bearing on the whole issue under discussion. The opening chapters on economic theory are very clear and the weaknesses of previous explanations of the economy of Ugarit are made quite evident. Furthermore, McGeough is one of the few scholars working in the field to make an attempt at setting the huge number of tablets found at Ras Shamra and Ras Ibn Hani in their archaeological context.9 Unfortunately, due to lack of accurate recordings by the first archaeologists working on the site, this remains a difficult task. More recent work by the Mission de Ras Shamra has done a great deal to remedy this, which has been taken into account here. By applying a network-based model to the documents under consideration, the author has provided a viable explanation of how Ugarit functioned as a trading city on the coast of the Mediterranean in the Late Bronze Age. A complex chart (p. 353) gives some indication of how exchange relationships within Ugarit functioned according to this model. The palace dominated not because of its status but because of its position at the nodal point where the highest number of relationships met within the network. He concludes: ‘it has become apparent that there was no economy per se’ but rather ‘the emergent effect of a network of contingent exchange relations’ (p. 337). This book represents a considerable amount of work, on the theoretical aspects of an ancient economy, on the archaeological setting of Ugarit, which was difficult to extract from the early reports, and on the tablets that have been unearthed, often very laconic even when not damaged. It is a serious attempt to come to grips with a complex topic that tends to be neglected and makes a fresh and important contribution to the field. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq065 WILFRED G.E. WATSON

6 Note that the discussion of Ug. s/sgr, ‘shepherd-boy’ (p. 117) should now take into account my later study ‘Is Ugaritic s/sgr a loan-word from Akkadian via Hurrian?’, Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires (2002) 81–2. 7 Elsewhere McGeough considers them to be either ‘potters’ (p. 157) or ‘textile manufacturers’ (p. 355 n. 53). 8 Less importantly, ‘fine’ in respect of wine is an excellent translation of Ug. †b, lit. ‘good’. 9 Others who could be mentioned are P. Lombard, W.H. van Soldt, W. Whitt and R. Widbin, all cited in the present work.

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epigraphic finds, and it is the integration of archaeological and textual evidence which makes this volume so useful. For instance, there is general agreement between archaeologists, epigraphers, and historians, that in the Persian period (fifth–fourth centuries BCE) the entire region could be described as a ‘post-collapse society’ (see A. Faust, p. 43ff.), characterized by steep declines in population density and a lack of large urban settlements, a conclusion supported by texts from the region (see I. Stern, p. 214f.). The archaeological and epigraphic evidence (some 800 published Aramaic ostraca, see p. 209 n. 25) supplements our rather meagre historical sources, mostly from biblical books of Ezra and Nehemia (see L. Fried p. 189ff.) and fragments from various prophetic books, with some additional information gleaned from cuneiform sources (see Y. Yevin, p. 246). A convincing argument is made by Levin for the shift to the north of the southern boundary of Judaea in the Persian period (ibid. 243f.), with the separate political entity of Idumea now occupying the Negev. Furthermore, editions and discussion of the Aramaic ostraca from the site of Makkedah by B. Porten and A. Yardeni (p. 125ff.) show how these documents recorded the storage and trade in commodities in a major entrepot, and as such are comparable with contemporary cuneiform business documents from Babylonia. All of this data brings the rather murky history of Judaea during the Persian period into sharper focus. However, this does not mean that all of the assessments of the data presented in this volume can be accepted without challenge. It is tempting to try to squeeze as much information out of new data as possible, but the evidence does not always cooperate in offering what we would like to see. One example of such is the extent of Greek influence in Persian period Palestine. Hanan Eshel has no difficulty in finding a Greek presence in fifth century BCE, based upon a single Phoenician inscription from Jaffa mentioning the god Hermes (p. 116f.). A more sober assessment of the Hellenization of ancient Palestine is offered by E. Ambar-Armon and A. Kloner (‘Archaeologial evidence of links between the Aegean world and the land of Israel in the Persian period’, pp. 1–22), that Greek influences were brought to the region through Phoenician intermediaries who were active in coastal cities at this time. A more difficult problem is posed by the relationship between various ethnic groups living within Judaea and Idumea in the fifth–fourth centuries BCE, based upon the scanty information gleaned from the commodity transactions of the Aramaic ostraca. Questions such as intermarriage between Judaeans and non-Judaeans is of primary interest, although the absence of actual marriage documents does not deter Ian Stern in Chapter 9 (‘The population of Persian-period Idumea according to ostraca: a study of ethnic boundaries and ethnogenesis’, pp. 205–38) from speculating about intermarriage and broader issues of ethnic identification and assimilation. The problem is that most of the evidence identifying ethnicity is based solely upon personal names in the ostraca. Thus, any name containing the theophoric element Qws is assumed to be Idumean, those containing Yhw are Judaean, and names with ‘Baal’ are Phoenician; ‘Arab’ names are usually indicated by a final /u/-ending (p. 210f.). Other names are considered to be ‘West Semitic’ (see the chart p. 213), although the distinction between Phoenician and West Semitic names is far from clear, and the designation ‘Arab’ includes Palmyrene and Nabataean names, without differentiating between speakers of Arabic or Aramaic. This mechanical association of ethnicity with onomastics leads to certain difficulties, since names can be unreliable as a means of ethnic identification. Family or clans, for instance, show a mix188

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq066

MARK GELLER UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON, FREIE UNIVERSITÄT BERLIN

BRAD E. KELLE and FRANK RITCHEL AMES (eds), Foreword by SUSAN NIDITCH, Writing and Reading War: Rhetoric, Gender, and Ethics in Biblical and Modern Contexts (Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 42). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2008. Pp. xii + 265. Price: $34.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983354-8. The vigorous Society of Biblical Literature has set up a ‘Warfare in Ancient Israel Consultation’ with the bold aim of discussing ‘all aspects of ancient Israel’s multifarious war traditions’. The present volume contains a selection of the papers given during recent sessions, arranged under the heads set out in the subtitle. In many ways it forms a useful prolegomenon to the study of war in the Hebrew Bible. Frank Ritchel Ames makes a careful examination of ‘Definitions for the Study of War in Ancient Israelite Literature’. After examining descriptive, moral and theoryladen definitions, he concludes that war is a construct of the academic imagination. This paper should be compulsory reading for everyone who writes on the subject, for we all need to think carefully about what we are discussing. Somewhat in line with this, Victor H. Matthews in his Introduction avoids merely summarizing the articles and sets out his view of six perspectives of war. He then discusses in more detail some theoretical aspects. Megan Bishop Moore draws our attention to the way that war is all-pervasive in the Hebrew Bible, notes that this is not adequately represented in current histories of Israel, and tentatively wonders whether war rather than religion should be seen as the condition that defines the life and community of Israel in future histories. Indirectly this reveals the extent to which secular influences impinge on the writing of histories of Israel. Jacob L. Wright notes that few studies have moved beyond von Rad’s idea of ‘holy war’ or ‘Yahweh war’, and urges the need to compare the ideology of war in whole books of the Hebrew Bible. Michael G. Hasel shows that the Assyrians rarely felled trees during sieges of cities, and when they did so it was only after the cities had been captured. They never used the wood in siege-works. This impinges on the laws in Deuteronomy. Also turning to Assyria and basing his study on its imagery of siege warfare, Jeremy D. Smoak


ture of name types (see the chart p. 223), which either argues against the connection between names and ethnicity or argues for intermarriage between groups (ibid. p. 218). The models for interpreting the data are drawn from African anthropological models which the present reviewer finds unconvincing. An attempt is made to assess the degree of assimilation in Elephantine in comparison with ethnic communities in Idumea and Judea (see p. 233f.), but it is hardly surprising that different inferences can be drawn from the evidence, since the nature of the documentation between Elephantine and Idumea is hardly similar. Idumean ostraca offer little more than names, commodities traded, and dates, while Elephantine papyri offer contracts, business documents, and letters, which provide a much fuller picture of the social environment. The onomastic evidence from Idumean ostraca represents important new data, but this does not entitle us to recreate the social scene and relationships between ethnic groups based upon this evidence alone. We must await further documentation rather than create castles in the sand.

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sees the prophetic curse in Amos 5:11 and elsewhere as originating in vassal diplomacy and Assyrian propaganda. In the second section Brad E. Kelle teases out the ways in which the prophets use the metaphor of a woman for the destruction of cities, pointing out that using feminine pronouns for cities is not personification in itself. With modern sensitivities, he argues that, while still patriarchal, the prophets point to the instability of patriarchy. Rather more convincingly, Claudia D. Bergmann claims that a clear distinction must be made between those passages in which warriors are likened to women giving birth and those where they are likened to women in general, In the first both women and warriors are honoured as bravely facing the crisis of possible death in childbirth or battle, while in the second (applied only to warriors of foreign nations) the contrast is between strong men and the weak women they will become. Alice A. Keefe questions whether the background to Hosea was a fertility cult, and therefore expresses strong doubts about the interpretation of the prophet’s wife as a cult-prostitute. Rather Hosea’s concerns were political and economic. The present reviewer found greatest interest in the third section. In the first paper L. Daniel Hawk questions whether the triumphalism of the sources of Joshua 2–12 is the same as that of later redactors and argues that the latter redefined the enemy by distinguishing between the hostile kings and the ordinary Canaanites, who are humanized. By the time of the redaction ethnic violence had become problematic. Frances Flannery takes a fresh look at the Elijah narratives in 1 Kings 18–19. She finds an elaborate chiasmus in 18:1–19:9a and another in 19:9b–15. These have been reworked into a tightly integrated narrative by additions that disturb the otherwise perfect chiasmus, thus introducing a critique of Elijah’s warlike behaviour by setting out Obadiah’s pacifist defence of Yahwism as an alternative. Elijah is now depicted as a prophet who never sees that mercy outweighs justice. Brian Kvasnica concentrates on the taking of plunder after victory in battle. He contrasts the early acceptance of plundering the enemy throughout the ancient world with a heightened piety that developed, especially in the time of the Second Temple. Thus Judas Maccabaeus in 2 Maccabees forbade plundering on the Sabbath and included the needy among those receiving the booty, Jubilees and Philo found it necessary to explain the plundering of the Egyptians as compensation for the ill-treatment the Israelites suffered, and Josephus considered plunder as forbidden in the Torah, possibly through extending the ‘neighbour’ of the Decalogue to include enemies. Kvasnica offers no criticism of war as such; perhaps he believes there was none. Finally Daniel L. Smith-Christopher notes the way children’s books, Bible Atlases, and some academic studies interpret the miraculous victories in Joshua as clever military strategies. He suggests instead that the narratives should be seen as ritual rhetoric. In the same way, the wholesale slaughter of enemies which is so prominent in the post-exilic books of Esther, Daniel, and 3 Maccabees should be understood as the psychology of grief and the rhetoric of anger, written at a time when the Jews had no chance of carrying out such vengeance on their oppressors. This is a rather different view of Second Temple Judaism from that of Kvasnica. Naturally many issues are omitted in this volume — how could they fail to be within a sample of a dozen papers? — but the overall impression left with this reviewer is that the collection is largely concerned with somewhat peripheral aspects of war (however defined!) in the Hebrew Bible. Moreover, despite the serious efforts of several of the contributors to avoid anachronism, twenty-first century ethical 190

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stances are rarely far away. One final comment may be in place. It is within the Jewish and Christian Scriptures that war is so dominant. We must hope that the ethical problems which this raises will be tackled in future papers. The fact that so many different aspects of war are treated in this book means that a massive bibliography has been collected that will be of great value to those carrying out research. It is a little disappointing that several important British studies have been overlooked. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq067 C.S. RODD EMSWORTH, HANTS

This volume is an edited collection of the essays by Susan Haber, whose doctoral studies at McMaster University were interrupted by her untimely death in July 2006. It is thanks to the dedicated work of Prof. Adele Reinhartz that these essays, some of which were originally published in different journals, have reached the wider reader as a book. The first out of three sections consists of bibliographical studies focusing on the connection between sin and impurity in biblical and Second Temple Judaism. In recent decades the topic has merited renewed scholarly interest, especially following the publication of Jonathan Klawans’s Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism (2000). Here Haber reviews and evaluates a number of contributions to the topic, indicating major trends in research and directions of debate. In addition to the list of scholars reviewed in Klawans (Adolf Büchler, Mary Douglas, etc.), she introduces authors working on purity in the Second Temple writings and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Hannah Harrington, Florentino García Martínez, etc). To differentiate between impurity relating to physical causes and impurity associated with sin Haber employs the terminology of ‘moral impurity’ and ‘ritual impurity’, adopted by Klawans and some other scholars. The manner of her presentation is concise and clear, showing perceptiveness and in-depth understanding of the complex material, with attention to both strong points and the inner inconsistencies of each approach. Thus Haber correctly notes that Milgrom in his treatment of moral impurity in Leviticus sometimes calls it ‘metaphorical’, while in other instances asserts that its force is real. Furthermore, she explains that Jacob Neusner’s ‘Temple-centered perspective on impurity in ancient Israel’ appears to clash with his own ‘detailed description of the biblical laws concerning defilement, clearly pointing out that there are non-priestly and non-temple purity laws’ (p. 39). Haber rightly credits three scholars (Tikva Frymer-Kensky, David Wright and Jonathan Klawans) with arguing firmly that moral impurity is as real as ritual impurity and attempting to describe the relationship between the two. Refraining from passing any definite judgment of her own, for the most part she appears to agree with Klawans that in the Hebrew Bible only three egregious types of sin (sexual sins, idolatry and bloodshed) are capable of generating defilement. These sins polluted the sinner, the sanctuary and the Land and could not be alleviated through purification rituals. With regard to the Dead Sea Scrolls, Haber identifies two main issues dominating scholarly discussion: conflation of the categories of moral impurity and ritual impurity, and centrality of the Temple cult in communal self-identity and


SUSAN HABER, edited by Adele Reinhartz, “They Shall Purify Themselves”: Essays on Purity in Early Judaism (Early Judaism and its Literature 24). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2008. Pp: x + 240. Price: $32.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-158983-355-5.

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world-view. She concludes that the last word on these topics has not yet been said and outlines the directions for future investigation: ‘Is there, indeed, a conflation of the categories of impurity at Qumran, as Klawans and others suggest? If so, to what extent is sin regarded as defiling? And, to what extent is ritual impurity regarded as sinful? Finally, scholars may need to consider if the categories of ritual and moral impurity are, indeed, helpful, or whether we need to be thinking about new ways to approach the concepts of impurity at Qumran’ (p. 70). Had Haber been able to go on with her research, she might have developed an approach of her own, thereby further advancing the discussion. ‘Metaphor and Meaning in the Dead Sea Scrolls’ dominates the second section of the book. Haber addresses the difficult problem of distinguishing between metaphorical and literal usages of language in biblical and other ancient Jewish texts. To provide a theoretical foundation for her analysis she reviews a number of literary theories concerning metaphor, including Paul Ricoeur, Eva Kittay et al. Unfortunately, this excursus does not prove to be very helpful when the author moves on to discussing the concepts of purification and atonement in the Qumran texts. Thus analysing the Hodayot, with their frequent interplay of the language of purification and atonement, Haber, following Klawans, concludes that ‘the image of purification metaphorically describes God’s power to effect atonement’ (p. 99). However, if we accept that sin was believed to have a real defiling power, why does removal of this defilement need to be perceived as a metaphor? More careful exploration of the relationship between the concepts of atonement and purification is required here as well as a reconsideration of whether the category of ‘metaphorical’ can be helpfully applied in this context. Further problems with language of metaphor can be detected in the second part of Haber’s essay, dealing with the idea of community as Temple in 1QS. The author questions rightly, in my opinion, the assumption that the community behind 1QS was conceived as a replacement for the Temple, suggesting that rather the communal lifestyle offered ‘an alternative form of atonement’ (p. 117). However, her statement that in the text the ‘cultic language is a metaphor for the communal form of atonement’ (ibid) comes across as erroneous. In fact, in the core passage for her analysis (1QS IX 4–5), the community’s prayers and righteous living are said to be ‘like’ (‫ )כ‬acceptable sacrificial offerings, which suggests a simile rather than a metaphor. Atonement and re-interpretation of Levitical cult makes a topic of yet another essay, ‘From Priestly Torah to Christ Cultus: The Re-Vision of Covenant and Cult in Hebrews’, which concludes the second section in the volume. Haber shows how the author of the epistle draws comparison between Levitical sacrifices and the Christ cultus, establishing simultaneously the continuity between the two and the ultimate superiority of the latter. In view of the purificatory function of blood, animal sacrifices are exposed as inadequate in contrast to the blood of Christ procuring final purgation of sin. The remaining essays in the middle section discuss various aspects of Jewish practices and interpretations of the law with regard to cult and purity in the Second Temple period, including the New Testament evidence. ‘Living and Dying for the Law’ deals with the images of mother-martyrs in 2 Maccabees, highlighting the role of women in transmitting and preserving Jewish tradition. Haber argues convincingly that this portrayal fits with the agenda of the author of 2 Maccabees, who emphasizes piety and faithfulness of lay-people, in contrast to aristocracy and priestly elite. ‘A Woman’s Touch’ focuses on the story of the haemorrhaging woman in 192

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq068

MILA GINSBURSKAYA CAMBRIDGE

TESSA RAJAK, Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible of the Ancient Jewish Diaspora. Oxford University Press, Oxford 2009. Pp. xiii + 380. Price: £70.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-0-19-955867-4.


Mark 5:24–34 who is instantly healed by touching Jesus’ garment. Haber points out that in the Markan account it is a miraculous healing and not the issue of impurity that occupies the central place. Once the woman is healed, her impurity resulting from the disease can be removed through an appropriate purification ritual. According to the author, the narrative ‘recalls Jesus’ ministry to women and affirms that they, like their male counterparts, may gain access to his power’ (p. 141). Impurity is of a secondary concern and there is no evidence of Jesus abrogating purity laws. The final two essays in the volume are dedicated to purification practices in connection with the Temple and synagogues. The author reviews textual evidence as well as archaeological data and provides references to scholarly discussion. ‘Going up to Jerusalem’ deals with ritual purification prior to sacrificial offerings at the Temple during annual pilgrimages. In this connection Haber raises the question of whether Jesus, whose pilgrimage to Jerusalem is attested in the gospels (one occasion is mentioned in the Synoptics and four in the Gospel of John), observed purity laws, and answers it positively. In ‘Common Judaism’ Haber puts forward a thesis that Jewish worshippers in the land of Israel did not necessarily purify themselves before entering synagogue, while Jews in the Diaspora did. According to Haber, the reason for this is that in the land of Israel ‘the idea of the sanctity of the early synagogue was not as highly developed and may have been a temporary quality associated with the performance of Torah rituals’ (p. 178). This conclusion appears to me somewhat forced and not strongly substantiated by the literary and archaeological data discussed in the essay. There is no reason to assume that even prior to the destruction of the Jerusalem temple synagogues in the land of Israel were not conceived — at least partly — after the model of a Temple, as a sacred space of worship. In that case achieving an extra degree of ritual purity before entering this space (as indeed the evidence on the Essenes suggests) would be a logical requirement. Altogether, the volume is a rich source of material and highly stimulating reading for any student of purity in biblical and Second Temple Judaism. It contains summaries of complex scholarly debates presented in clear and accessible language as well as original and provocative arguments. The seemingly disparate essays come together in a puzzle, illuminating various aspects of the topic across the variety of literature and historical periods. It is with a feeling of gratitude, and also sadness over the death of the author, that I closed this book.

This book tells the story of the Greek Bible as used by the Diaspora Jews and partially created by them. The translation was created by ‘Greek-speaking Jews … inhabiting, mainly, the Greek cities of the eastern Mediterranean’ (p. 3). The title of the book, Translation and Survival, needs some explanation, for which we can quote Rajak’s own words: ‘The interpretation offered here of the Greek Bible translations as a mechanism for cultural survival in the face of powerful forces’ (p. 9). With the birth of Christianity and its ‘takeover’ (or ‘appropriation’, see pp. 279–81) by early Christianity, the Greek Bible was possibly doomed to cease to exert any influence on Judaism but that did not happen. The Greek Bible survived, states 193

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Rajak throughout the book, from the introduction to the last paragraph of the book (p. 313), which actually serves as a conclusion to the book as a whole rather than to its final chapter (chapter 9 ‘The Septuagint between Jews and Christians’). The Jews never abandoned their first translation and they never engaged in any official act of rejecting or abandoning the Greek Bible (pp. 288–90, 313), in the ‘Synod of Jamnia’ or elsewhere. Hence, there is no room for what Rajak calls ‘the abandonment theory’ (p. 288). On the positive side, the Greek Bible ‘survived’ by way of the Christian community that took over a Jewish cultural product. The author does not say whether this takeover was an expected development or a coincidence of history. Be that as it may, the Greek Bible did survive, and it influenced the culture of the Jewish people in the Hellenistic era (chapter 6) and to a minor extent also the literature of the Greeks and Romans in that period (chapter 8). In Rajak’s own words, ‘The Greek Bible had served … as a bridge for Jews to the Greek cultural mainland, even if it was a bridge which most often carried one-way traffic’ (p. 7). At the same time, the most pervasive influence was on Christianity. According to the author, ‘[t]he Septuagint was willy-nilly a common possession of Jews and Christians for several centuries after Justin’s challenge to Trypho’ (p. 313). However, in this reviewer’s view, at that time the Jews ceased to be interested in the LXX, turning instead to the younger translations (revisions of the LXX). This difference in opinion may well be semantic, and the fact remains that the LXX survived almost solely thanks to Christianity. The nine chapters of this very fine study are devoted to what in Rajak’s view are the key elements of the creation, transmission and survival of the Septuagint, but they can also be appreciated without connection to the overall theory. In careful and extremely elegant formulations, the author guides us through various areas of investigation of the LXX. The research concerns areas surrounding the LXX and only secondarily focuses on its internal analysis. Few scholars know the Jewish-Hellenistic culture that created, used and transmitted the Greek Bible so well as Rajak. A key element in this description is the Letter of Aristeas, in which the author identified several historical elements (chapter 1, ‘The Letter of Aristeas between History and Myth’; chapter 2, ‘Going Greek: Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Alexandria’). The background of the translation is described in chapter 3 (‘The Greek Diaspora in Graeco-Roman Antiquity’), while further elements are described in chapters 4 (‘Language’, see below) and 5 (‘Representing and Subverting Power’). Chapter 3 contains excellent background information on the cultural milieu of the translation, contributing to our understanding of many aspects of the translation enterprise (nature of the Diaspora; life, ideology and religious practice in the Diaspora, interaction with non-Jews, etc.). Through this description, I learned about several studies that were unknown to me. I wonder whether the reader of this book will be led into believing that the LXX was created only in the Diaspora. This is the implication of the analysis on p. 3, where, beyond Alexandria, the author mentions only Syria and Asia Minor as possible places of origin of Greek translations. A chapter or section on the creation of LXX books in ancient Israel and the influence of Jewish-Palestinian wisdom and Bible exegesis on the LXX may have been in order in the present context. Rajak continues her analysis of the interaction between the LXX and the outside world by describing first the ‘Uses of Scripture in Hellenistic Judaism’ (chapter 6). Next, she reviews the use of the LXX in Greek and Roman literature (chapter 8). The references are not numerous and not all instances of assumed quotation are 194

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certain, but the LXX was known in these cultures and was quoted, positively and negatively. Rajak discusses the parallel position of the Bible in Jewish culture and that of Homer in the tradition of the Greeks (pp. 239–41 in chapter 7, ‘Parallels and Models’). Finally, she discusses ‘The Septuagint between Jews and Christians’ (chapter 9) as mentioned above. All these chapters, representing the bulk of the book, focus on the creation and transmission of the Greek translations, considering them as finished products. The aforementioned analysis of the LXX is based on external evidence as opposed to an internal examination of the vocabulary and translation technique of the translation itself. The only chapter that examines such internal evidence is chapter 4 (‘Staying Jewish: Language and Identity in the Greek Bible’). For Rajak, the importance of the investigation in chapter 4 is at the cultural level, as the Septuagint language ‘encapsulates the paradox of its successive communities, poised between two worlds’ (p. 126). The wish to understand the world of the translators through their language leads to various investigations around the Hebraisms and Septuagintal vocabulary as well as more philosophical subjects such as the possible translation model the first translators may have had in mind, influence of the sanctity of the Hebrew text on the translators, and the idea that the translation was meant to be used in conjunction with a Hebrew text (‘the interlinear theory’). The topic of the book is the Greek Bible, as its subtitle indicates. The investigation pertains to the complete corpus of the Greek translation of the Bible, including books originally written in Greek. Rajak does not like the name given to this corpus in the Christian tradition, the ‘Septuagint’, since that name originally pertained only to the Greek Pentateuch (p. 16). Nevertheless, she finds herself using the term ‘Septuagint’ anyway, alongside that of ‘Greek Bible’, both referring to the same entity. Rajak’s study refers to the LXX as a whole, occasionally quoting from all segments of the Greek Bible. There is no source index in this book, but the attentive reader will realize that there is a paucity of quotations from the LXX books. It is remarkable that no concentrated attention is given to the translators of the books beyond the Pentateuch. True, there is no external evidence regarding these translators, parallel to the description of the Letter of Aristeas of the creation of the Pentateuch translation. Nevertheless, some conclusions may be drawn on these translation units, such as described in the literature since Thackeray. Modern research as summarized in Harl–Dorival–Munnich, La Bible grecque (1988) offers even more opportunity for obtaining glimpses of these translators. Or, if the author does not accept what has been researched so far, the reader could have been alerted to the difficulty in assessing the nature of the post-Pentateuchal translations. These issues are also related to ‘survival’. Other issues that come to mind as possibly relating to the topic of the book are indications of the dates of the various books, a more detailed discussion of the linguistic and translational peculiarities of the various books, the pre-Christian revision activity indicating a new approach to Bible translations, and Byzantine Greek Bible translations indicating the continuity of the tradition. I know, it is never fair to suggest more topics for research after an author has given us so many fine samples of his/her excellent research woven into a harmonious whole, but possibly these suggestions may be taken into consideration in continued research. Tessa Rajak expresses her thoughts with exemplary clarity and in beautiful, often poetical English. She also frequently quotes poetry. It must have been a pleasure to listen to her Grinfield lectures (the ‘Grinfields’ as she calls them) on which the present book is based. In the wake of the Rev. Dr Edward Grinfield himself, who 195

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founded the Grinfield lectures at Oxford University and whom she quotes much (pp. 286–7), Tessa Rajak has identified the elements in the LXX that led to its survival. The author probably would not want to be compared with her predecessor (and mine also, 1982–8), whom she described as ‘something of an eccentric’ (p. 287), and for whom the LXX was a praeparatio evangelica. However, they share the same passionate interest in the survival of the LXX. (Rajak describes Grinfield, author of Apology for the Septuagint [London, 1850] as ‘passionate’ and ‘enthusiastic’, pp. 286– 7). This is a very fine and beautifully written study from which I learned much. It weaves the author’s insights into a harmonious picture that incorporates the very best and latest research by others. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq069

EMANUEL TOV HEBREW UNIVERSITY

This is the latest in a sequence of volumes arising from conferences held at Princeton University focussing on aspects of identity, chiefly religious identity, in Late Antiquity. These conferences, and hence the list of contributors to the volume, include established scholars based at Princeton, graduate students also from Princeton, and other visiting academics elsewhere, including some who themselves did their graduate work at Princeton and even edited earlier volumes in the sequence. Clearly this ‘tradition’ is proving successful in producing graduates who are sought after for posts elsewhere in late antique religions. To some extent perhaps we should also speak of an emerging ‘school’, for this is a broadly consistent interest and methodology, adopting a rhetorically-critical reading, primarily of literary texts, in order to explore aspects of that many faceted and not as yet exhausted theme of the construction of identities. Here the theme is the appeal to and the interpretation of the distant past, with three temporal foci, the late Hellenistic and early Imperial period, the fourth century, and the fifth to sixth centuries. Although eleven of the thirteen contributions do address the ‘Jewish and Christian’ of the title, one examines Roman responses to the destruction of the Temple of Jupiter in 83 BCE (Harriet I. Flower), while a second uses a fourth-century CE mosaic from Cyprus to explore the vibrancy of ‘pagan’ images in a time of confrontation with ascendant Christianity as well as their power for the latter also (Elizabeth Kessler-Dimin). This latter piece is nicely balanced by Lee I. Levine’s authoritative survey of the types of Jewish art in this period and his very clear discussion of the problems in their interpretation, not least of the extent to which they are to be read as a response to Christian models and to a Christian ‘threat’. What these last two examples already illustrate is the careful negotiation that is needed to articulate the co-existence of the conscious preservation of a distinctive memory and heritage with a nexus of relationships with other contemporaneous currents in society. So, too, Steve Mason compares Josephus’ treatment of the past, especially in the War, with Greek models, and rejects any interpretation only in terms of ‘Hellenization’ or a ‘Greek veneer’: Josephus participates confidently in the ‘poisonous rivalry that characterized the Greek renaissance’ (p. 130). In a different way Doron Mendels seeks to understand the absence of what we might recognize as ‘history writing’ among the rabbis alongside the variety of modes of preserving


GREGG GARDNER and KEVIN OSTERLOH (eds), Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World (TSAJ 123). Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen 2008. Pp. viii + 475. Price: /109.00. ISBN: 978-3-16-149411-6.

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq070


the past in the Hellenistic world, while Holger M. Zellentin, in a somewhat circuitous piece, attempts to locate Artapanus more precisely in his social and political context in Egypt. Two further pieces treat rabbinic attitudes to the past: Peter Schäfer examines the fate of Aaron in midrashim and in Pirqe Avot in order to argue that the rabbis rewrote the role of the priests to bolster their own image in the present and anticipated future; Moulie Vidas undertakes a detailed, and not always easily followed, analysis of the treatment of m.Qidd. 4.1 in the Talmudim against a setting where those responsible for the Bavli had to deal with the intense concern for genealogical stratification, and the challenges posed by this for contemporary Jewish society. Two pieces address the ‘post-history’ of the Jerusalem Temple, demonstrating the enduring power of its memory. In a substantial essay (46 pp.) Ra‘anan Boustan traces the different uses of the fate of the vessels taken from the Temple after its destruction by the Romans within mainly Jewish texts, from 2 Baruch through to the Byzantine period; he argues that these should not be understood merely in terms of establishing continuity through preserving memory but as a device for articulating a complex set of relationships with contemporary imperial (including eventual Christian) power. Yannis Papadoyannakis introduces a little studied excerpt from a sixth-century text (ps.-Kaisarios), a vehement demonstration of the finality of the destruction of the Temple and an ensuing ‘diatribe against the Jews’; Papadoyannakis argues from this for the continuing anxieties regarding Jerusalem and the Temple in the political situation of the period which provoked the need to ‘conjure up’ the Jews ‘to suffer defeat and humiliation over and over again’ (p. 381). Other articles champion representations of the past alternative to what was to become the dominant Christian narrative particularly in the West. Anette Yoshiko Reed adds to her previous studies of the pseudo-Clementine literature by comparing the accounts of the apostolic past, particularly of the roles of Paul, Peter, and Simon (Magus), therein and in Eusebius, and seeks to locate these in actual conflicts of self-understanding among Christians in Syro-Palestine in the fourth century. G.W. Bowersock unravels the legitimating function for monophysite Christian Ethiopia of the horse’s bridle Helena was supposed to have crafted out of the nails of the true cross, which features both in their foundational book, the Kebra Nagast, and in the apocalypse of pseudo-Methodius. In the final essay of the volume — the others have not been treated consecutively here — Adam Becker takes as his starting point the Christian communities now known as ‘the Assyrians’, and uses it to explore different attempts in east Syria to reclaim an ‘Assyrian past’ conceptualized in scriptural terms already before the sixth century CE. As will be evident, the essays are wide-ranging in their interest; they also vary considerably in their length and, inevitably given the different levels of experience of their contributors, in their control of material and of argument. The editorial Introduction does a good job in exercising some overall control over what is to come. A number of the essays deserve to become standard contributions in future discussion, as too does the general conception of the volume. It would have been helpful if there had been cumulative or end-of-essay bibliographies, alongside the useful index of sources and of subjects and names. JUDITH LIEU UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE

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DANIEL RYNHOLD, An Introduction to Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy, I.B. Tauris, London, 2009. Pp. xiii + 272. Price: £16.99 paperback. IBSN: 978-1-84511748-1.


The first thing to be said is that this is a very good book, and thoroughly to be recommended, both to the general reader and to the person studying religion and/ or philosophy: advanced as well as introductory students will all find something of value. But it is not really an introduction to mediaeval Jewish philosophy. It is up to a point an introduction to the Aristotelian tradition (admittedly the most important tradition) in medieval Jewish philosophy, and Saadia, Judah Halevi, Gersonides and Crescas are all discussed on some issues. But really it is an introduction to Maimonides, who appears in every chapter of the book, contrasted each time with one or two of the others. There is also an appendix on the very interesting question as to whether Maimonides should be read as having an esoteric doctrine, hinted at but not plainly stated. It is true that the other philosophers are treated as being important in their own right, and their views are taken entirely seriously, especially those of Gersonides. But the lion’s share of the book goes to Maimonides. The book is, though, genuinely an introduction. It explains both the Jewish and the Aristotelean backgrounds, and sets out doctrines and arguments for and against them clearly and without unnecessary jargon. But much is required of the reader: the explanations, though clear, are brief, and complex issues are not over-simplified. A person with no previous knowledge can certainly follow what is going on, but only if they are prepared to work hard at it. Indeed, even the philosophically trained will have to work hard. The great merit of the book is that it is a work of philosophy, not merely of the history of ideas. It assumes that what Maimonides (and others) said is still both relevant and important, certainly (but not only) for the believing Jew, and that it is worth our while not merely to learn what they said, which already requires us to understand the philosophical context, e.g. the meanings of technical terms, the assumptions, scientific and philosophical, that they made, the views they were replying to, and the problems they were trying to solve, but also to understand how they sought to justify their views, and above all to consider what in them is true. In keeping with this, the book is very sensibly arranged by topic, and not by philosopher, though there is a brief and useful historical survey in the introduction. Throughout we are presented not simply with the conclusions reached by the philosophers, but with the arguments for them, and the author’s evaluation of the arguments. There are eight topics, with a chapter on each. First, there are the arguments for the existence of God in Halevy and Maimonides, with the methodology as well as the arguments themselves being instructively compared. The second chapter is on the issue of God’s relation to Creation, and the manner of creation: here it is particularly Maimonides and Gersonides who are discussed, and there is an explanation of how early mediaeval Aristoteleanism was influenced by neo-Platonism. The third chapter is on the attributes of God, and in particular how anthropomorphism in Scripture is dealt with. The chapter on prophecy once again contrasts Maimonides and Halevy, the one seeing prophecy as something as requiring an essentially natural, though very difficult, development of a person’s moral and intellectual powers (though prophecy is not necessarily granted to all those equipped for it), the other as something supernatural and possessed only by (some) Jews. There are then chap198

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UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER

GEOFFREY KHAN, The Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Barwar (Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1 The Near and Middle East). Brill, Leiden 2008. Pp. Vol. 1: xxxviii +1028; Vol. 2: viii + 430; Vol. 3: x + 685. Price: /495.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-90-04-16765-0. GEOFFREY KHAN, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic of Urmi (Gorgias Neo-Aramaic Studies 2). Gorgias, Piscataway, NJ 2008. xviii, Pp. 624 Price: $157.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-1-59333-425-3. In the past thirty years, the field of Neo-Aramaic has gone from one of the most neglected areas of Semitic Studies to an area of abundant publication. Perhaps the most prolific scholar of Neo-Aramaic is Geoffrey Khan of Cambridge University, who, in the winter of 2008–9, published his fourth and fifth grammars of a NeoAramaic language. The first of these new grammars treats the Christian dialect of Barwar. Barwar is a district in the far north of Iraq, very close to the Turkish border. There were once about thirty-five villages in the area that were inhabited by Aramaic-speaking Christians, and though these survived the upheavals of World War One, they were all destroyed by the Iraqi army in the 1970s and 1980s. The largest of these villages was called ’En Nune, which was home to approximately 140 families prior to its destruction in 1988. Because of this history, the speakers of Barwar Neo-Aramaic are now mainly to be found elsewhere, though a few Christians have returned to the area since the Gulf War. Like his previous grammars, Khan’s grammar of Barwar Neo-Aramaic is based on his own fieldwork, in this case conducted in Europe, North America, and Australia. The material collected was so abundant, that the resulting work is divided into three volumes, for a total of over 2100 pages! This amount of material is staggering, when we think about the lack of published information on Neo-Aramaic just a generation ago, not to mention the fact that Khan has published four other Neo-Aramaic grammars, and he has more in the works. The first of the three volumes includes a detailed grammatical sketch, following essentially the same format


ters on the rational basis of the mitzvot, as discussed by Saadia and Maimonides, and on the ways in which these philosophers tried to reconcile God’s omniscience with human freewill: here Saadia, Gersonides and Crescas all appear as well as Maimonides. The chapter on ‘The Good Life’ particularly discusses the view of Maimonides, who, like the Aristotle of the Nichomachean Ethics, holds that the highest good is intellectual perfection, which is held to be even better than good moral and political activity. The final chapter is called in contrast ‘The Bad Life’, and deals not only with the problem of evil, but also with the notion of immortality, and particularly the intellectualist view of immortality in Maimonides and Gersonides and the criticism of it by Crescas. The book concludes, apart from the appendix, with what can be read as an exhortation to take seriously the view that all these thinkers shared, that reason and religious belief are consistent with each other, and can be shown to be so if one thinks things out properly: ‘neither religious nor intellectual integrity need necessarily be sacrificed’ (p. 231). One might or might not agree with their conclusions — and they themselves markedly disagree with each other — but much good might come from studying their work and, as best one can, following their example. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq071 A.H. LESSER

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as his previous grammars; the second volume includes the text corpus on which the grammar is based; and the third includes a lexicon. The grammar is generally easy to use. There is no index, but the table of contents is very thorough and clearly laid out, and usually one can find what one wants without much trouble. The lexicon is divided into three parts: a list of words according to semantic field; a glossary of verbs arranged by root; and a general glossary of all lexemes other than verbs. Entries in the verbal glossary give the principal parts for each verb and sample phrases to illustrate each meaning. In the general glossary some entries are brief — giving just the gender, plural form and gloss — while others also include illustrative sentences. Borrowings from Arabic, Kurdish, Persian, or Turkish are marked as such. Words are listed alphabetically (i.e., not by root). It is worth mentioning (since it caused the reviewer a moment’s confusion) that e, e, and ¢ are treated as separate letters in terms of alphabetical order, so for example, beqa ‘house’ comes after beza ‘muslin’ and before b¢d ‘about’. The glossary volume also includes thirty pages of handy illustrations of the various tools and utensils listed in the glossary. As with the glossaries in his other grammars, there is no English-Aramaic wordlist. This would have been nice, but one can hardly complain in this case, when there is already over two thousand pages of material to work with. The list of words according to semantic field can serve as a partial substitute for finding unknown Aramaic words. Khan’s fifth grammar of Neo-Aramaic is on the Jewish dialect of the town of Urmi (also called Urmia or Orumieh), in northwestern Iran. The town was once home to a large Jewish community, but many fled following the Turkish invasion during World War One; the majority of the remaining Jews emigrated in the 1950s, mainly to Israel, and all but a very few of those left fled in the years immediately following the Iranian revolution. The dialect of Urmi was the subject of earlier studies, most notably that of Irene Garbell (The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Persian Azerbaijan, Mouton, 1965). However, Garbell’s study, while important, suffers from a number of gaps and serious flaws. Khan’s grammar is primarily based on his own fieldwork done in Israel, but he notes that Garbell’s work was used in compiling the glossaries. This grammar is much shorter than the Barwar publication, though at 624 pages, it is by no means short. Included in the volume is the grammar itself, about fifty pages of original texts, and two glossaries (one devoted to verbal roots only, and one general glossary). Like in the Barwar volumes, there is also a list of words according to semantic field, but this runs to only about ten pages (versus about sixty pages in the Barwar lexicon volume). The comments given above on the grammar and glossaries of the Barwar volumes apply equally to the Urmi volume. In general, the glossary entries are briefer in the Urmi volume. Since books on two different Neo-Aramaic dialects are being reviewed here, it seems worthwhile to include some comparative discussion of the dialects to point out some of their similarities and differences. Both the Christian Barwar (CB) and Jewish Urmi (JU) dialects show many shared inherited lexemes and morphemes that are fairly easily recognizable as Aramaic, such as: CB JU gloss resa resa ‘head’ ’i∂a ida ‘hand’ kalba kalba ‘dog’ germa garma ‘bone’ t¢mm¢l t¢mmal ‘yesterday’ tre tre ‘two (masc.)’ ’aw o ‘he’ 200

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There are also basic differences of morphology and syntax. For example, in JU, the infinitive pattern of the basic stem is CaCoCe, as in damoxe ‘to sleep’, while in CB, the infinitive of the basic stem has the pattern CCaCa, as in xzaya ‘to find; see’. The pattern of the JU form has been remade on analogy with the derived stem infinitive pattern maCCoCe, e.g., mastoxe ‘to find’. In CB there are two derived verbal stems, called Stem II (historically the D-Stem) and Stem III (historically the C-Stem); in JU there is just one derived verbal stem called Stem II, resulting from the collapse of the D- and C-Stems. In CB all the forms of quadriliteral verbs contain the prefix m-, just like Stem II verbs (see above). In JU, however, quadriliteral verbs (save a few rare verbs) are missing the prefix m- in all forms, unlike Stem II verbs. Compare CB mkankose ‘to drag’ and JU partofe ‘to throw’. In CB it is possible to express a past tense verb with a pronominal object by means of a particle q¢m- + the present tense + object suffix, e.g., q¢m-paq¢xle ‘he opened it’. This construction is much more common than the alternative, which is attaching an object suffix directly to the past tense, e.g., p¢qixle-lle. In JU, however, the innovative construction with q¢m- does not exist. There are also differences between JU and CB in the realm of historical phonology. For example, in JU, the reflex of earlier Aramaic *q (originally an allophone of t) is normally l, as in bela ‘house’ (< *bayqa) and xel ‘under’ (< tÌeq). This is sometimes also the case for earlier Aramaic ∂ (originally an allophone of d), as in sahla ‘witness’ (< *sah∂a). The shift of q and ∂ to l is common to the Jewish dialects of Neo-Aramaic spoken east of the Great Zab River. Actually, the shift is even more widespread in other Jewish dialects than in JU, where *∂ often shifts to d, rather than l; cf. JU ida ‘hand’, but Jewish Arbel and Jewish Sulemaniyya ’ila. In CB,


The two share a number of phonological developments. For example, in the realm of sound change, we find intervocalic b > w in both CB gawra and JU gora (< *gawra). In terms of shared morphological developments, both show a preterite formed from the original passive participle + l- + pronominal suffix, e.g., CB xille, JU x¢lle ‘he ate’. Both also share the development of a new future tense from an original construction ba‘e d- ‘wants that’ (or possibly b‘e d- ‘it is desired that’), reflected in the CB prefix b¢d (often > b- or d-) and JU b-. While the preterite form is a development common to all of Eastern Neo-Aramaic, the future tense with b(¢d)- is common only to some Northeastern Neo-Aramaic (NENA) dialects. In both CB and JU, verbs of Stem II (historically the D-Stem in CB, the D- and C-Stem in JU) show a prefix m- on all forms, even where it was not present historically, e.g., on the imperative and infinitive. This also is common only to a subset of NENA. There are also a number of basic differences between CB and JU. At the lexical level we can point to differences like: CB JU gloss t¢mm¢l baqatta ‘tomorrow’ b-oma xena lalummal ‘day before yesterday’ m¢n (or m-) gal ‘with’ k¢s g¢b ‘at the home of’ dax(i) ma-jur ‘how?’ †risa samina ‘fat’ ceri pay¢z ‘autumn’ spay jwan ‘well’ (adv.) bar¢xmaya axon baxti ‘wife’s brother’ xzaya mastoxe ‘to find’ (infin.)

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PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY

ZIAD ELMARSAFY, The Enlightenment Qur’an: The Politics of Translation and the Construction of Islam. One World, Oxford. 2009. Pp xiv + 269. Price: £19.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-85168-652-0. Elmarsafy teaches English literature at the University of York, UK although his sources for this book are mainly French, with some German and Latin. Exploring the politics of Qur’an translation, he focuses on the eighteenth century. ‘Past studies’ deal with ‘other centuries’, he says, hence the choice of a chronological period. However, he also chose the eighteenth century because, he argues, the Qur’an was an important stimulus for Enlightenment thought. Aware that Europeans demonized Islam well before the Enlightenment, Elmarsarfy says that some Enlightenment thinkers broke new ground. Depicting Muhammad as a great man, the Qur’an as an inspirational text, they challenged traditional calumny. He develops this thesis in seven chapters and an Afterword. If the Qur’an did play a major role in making Europe and the West what it is today, the ‘Islam as a threat to Western values’ thesis become less easy to sustain. Chapter One offers a useful historical overview, beginning with Robert of Ketton’s pioneering Latin translation, ending with George Sales’s ‘astonishing translation’. Commissioned by Peter the Venerable, the ‘hyperactive Abbot of Cluny’, Ketton’s work was more paraphrase than translation, making extensive use of Muslim commentaries. On the one hand, it started the trend of seeing the Qur’an mainly as a source of law. On the other hand, Ketton managed to convey a real sense of the fact that the Qur’an was a religious book, not a profane one (p. 2). Later translations, such as Alexander Ross’s English rendering of Du Ryer’s French


unlike these Jewish dialects, the interdental fricatives q and ∂ have been preserved, as seen in beqa ‘house’ and sah∂a ‘witness’. This, however, is also true of some Jewish dialects situated nearer to Barwar. There are many more interesting ways in which JU and CB are similar or different. Comparison of the Neo-Aramaic languages is fascinating, and discussion of above-mentioned features and others can be found in these new volumes published by Geoffrey Khan. Comparative Neo-Aramaic studies are really only just beginning, and thanks to the amazing wealth of data provided by Khan and other scholars in Europe, Israel, and the US, Semitists and linguists are now in a good position to undertake such studies. Khan’s books are valuable not only for their linguistic data, however. The texts alone are of tremendous importance, as they record many details about the culture and customs of a world that no longer exists. The JU texts include a few folktales, but most discuss topics like weddings, holiday celebrations, Jewish professions and education. The CB texts, totalling almost 700 pages, also include folktales, histories, and discussions of customs and daily life, as well as songs, riddles, and proverbs. The volume of CB texts, even without the accompanying grammar and lexicon, is an impressive work of great importance. Speakers of JU will cease to exist in the next generation, if not sooner, and CB will probably not fare much better. These volumes are records not only of fascinating languages, but also of the lives and stories of their speakers. We look forward to the next grammar by Khan, and we are grateful for the abundance of material he has already given us to work with. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq072 AARON D. RUBIN

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version, appear to have added anti-Muslim statements ‘to foil any censors’ (p. 9). Those who became intimate with the Qur’an could not but question the assumption that Islam was a monstrous, unmitigated evil. Even Marracci, whose work (also in Latin) aimed to refute Islam, went to inordinate length to depict Islam as ‘the religion any rational person would choose’. He produced what Elmarsafy describes as a ‘thick description’ of a Quranic verse, only to refute this with a ‘thinning agent’ consisting of a multi-page refutation (p. 41). This begs the question, why did he bother with the former? This is an interesting application of anthropological concepts to the process of Quranic translation and commentary. Chapter Two is a more detailed comparison of Sale and Marracci. This comparison continues in Chapter Three with a case study of their treatment of material on Jesus and Christianity. Sale’s Muhammad was sincere, not the traditional imposter of European writing. Thus, although less literal than Marracci’s translation, his English rendering was ‘more faithful’. Sale was able to ‘own’ what Marracci held at a distance. Marracci always tried to undermine what he read (p. 47). On Jesus, Sale tried to reconcile Qur’an and Bible, seeing the former account as culturally conditioned. Marracci dismissed the former as absurd, ridiculous, frivolous and false (p. 75). Like John Toland, Sale thought in terms of religious co-existence, Marracci of truth and falsehood, good and evil. Chapter Three is a concise, insightful treatment of a complex comparison, easily valuable as a free-standing contribution to Christian-Muslim relations and how Quranic material impacts this. Chapters Four and Five take us to the heart of Enlightenment thought, represented by Voltaire and Rousseau. Humanism takes the centre here, not theology. Voltaire was initially negative about Muhammad. Later, he rehabilitated him (p. 81). His approach fluctuated from negative to positive. Yet, regardless of the phase, his ‘position’ was ‘defined with respect to Islam and Muhammad’ (p. 82). Much data here is from Voltaire’s annotations to his copy of Sale (p. 84). Muslim law conforms to nature, not like that of other nations (p. 109). Muhammad surpasses Moses, whose people achieved little by contrast to Muhammad’s, who civilized ‘vast tracts of the globe’ (p. 114). Muhammad changed history (p. 119). He accomplished super-human deeds. Voltaire did not totally remove God from the equation; he rejoiced in a God who helps those who, like Muhammad, help themselves. Moses passively waited for God’s intervention. Elmarsafy comments that Voltaire had an anti-Semitic tendency (p. 103), though he probably means anti-Jewish, since Arabs are also Semites. Rousseau was less interested in Voltaire’s ideas about great men, whose humanity leads to great deeds. He was interested in great legislators. How might great legislators raise society to new levels of achievement? A great legislator may be sincere or insincere. What counts is the result (p. 126). Rousseau may not have read the Qur’an. However, he would have been familiar with its ideas, then ‘sufficiently widespread’ not least of all due to Sale’s ‘Preliminary Discourse’ (his detailed prefix) (p. 121). Even myths, such as Muhammad training a bird to peck seed from his ear in imitation of the agent of prophecy, ‘prove Muhammad’s greatness’, since ‘anyone can fool an audience with clever tricks’ but ‘few can write laws that stand the test of time’. ‘Muhammad learned from experience how to govern well’ (p. 121). Rousseau stressed the persuasiveness of the Qur’an’s message, which he thought was aided by Arabic’s rhythmic quality. Arabic is ideal for speaking ‘the wisdom of the ages’ (pp. 125–6). Far from expressing alien ideas, at odds with European thought, the Qur’an speaks universal truths. 203

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq073


Chapter six, which analyses Napoleon’s Egyptian expedition, is a fascinating literary case study. Few readers are likely to be aware of the details of Napoleon’s knowledge of Qur’an, Islam and Muhammad’s life. Here, the Qur’an not only shapes intellectual thought but events as well, impacting Enlightenment, indeed world history. Napoleon shared Muhammad’s mission of disseminating a common legal code. He compared himself with Muhammad. Like Muhammad, he would change history. Napoleon’s Muhammad was ‘a great man, an intrepid soldier … eloquent, a man of state’ (p. 150). Napoleon set out to liberate Egypt’s ‘third estate’ from oppression. The expedition’s proclamations cited Qur’an and sunna extensively (p. 154). The ‘great man’ and ‘great legislator’ coalesce in Napoleon’s Muhammad, inspired by his reading of the Qur’an. Chapter Seven turns to a man who met Napoleon, Goethe. Goethe set out on his own ‘more peaceful globalizing project’ (p. 157). Goethe situated the Qur’an in the context of ‘world literature’ and ‘universal humanity’ (p. 177) obliterating the ‘us’-‘them’ distinction that posits irreconcilable difference between the Muslim and European mind. Imagination, poetry, literature — not religion — motivates and inspires great men and their deeds. Elmarsafy says that Goethe, who also modelled himself on Muhammad, was the anti-Napoleon, who saw the Qur’an as an example of what words not war could achieve (p. 177). Interestingly, Goethe saw German as the pre-eminent language, around which all humanity is destined to meet, a claim Muslims make for Arabic. Erudite, meticulously referenced and footnoted, thought provoking and informative, this book is a valuable addition to scholarship on the Qur’an’s reception in non-Muslim space. Indeed, Elmarsafy challenges the contention that the Qur’an has found European space quite as inhospitable and hostile as has been depicted. Constant oscillation between ‘Qur’an’ and ‘Muhammad’ could suggest that the book’s title should be ‘The Enlightenment’s Muhammad and Qur’an’. In fact, prophet and book are intimately related. However, more could have been explained here. The book takes knowledge of Muslim belief about the Qur’an’s origin, compilation, preservation and Muhammad’s role for granted. Lack of a summary of this might handicap some readers. More also could have been said about the claim that the ‘Arabic Qur’an exists in a privileged language’ yet is ‘at the same time intended for all humanity’ (p. 175). Much of what Elmarsarfy says about how even hostile translators were impacted by the Qur’an’s message or quality links with the claim of inimitability, which Elmarsafy does reference. However, again, more could have been said. Brief reference to the eloquence and style of Arabic (see especially p. 191) might have been expanded, perhaps linked with more material on the task of translation itself and on Muslim thought about this. On a critical note, told that, ‘translation is the most political art’, not much material on politics is actually included. What political backdrop might have contributed to Sale’s astonishing openness? Nor do we learn much about the political landscape in which the French writers operated. The ‘Enlightenment’ is neither explained historically nor ideologically, leaving readers to provide this for themselves. Overall, however, this is a groundbreaking, innovative and important book. It sets out to challenge ‘clash of civilizations’ predictions. The Afterword suggests that nineteenth century imperialism’s resurrection of the ‘us’-‘them’ divide set the clock back. Enlightenment thought was more enlightened, willing to see the Qur’an as a ‘thing of beauty in the world’, the world as one world for a single humanity (p. 189). CLINTON BENNETT STATE UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK AT NEW PALTZ

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MASSIMO CAMPANINI, An Introduction to Islamic Philosophy, translated by Caroline Higgitt, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh 2008. Pp. xiv+186 Price: £18.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-7486-2608-3.


One would wish that a benevolent deus ex machina would impose a moratorium on the publication of ‘introductions’ to or brief ‘histories’ of philosophy in the premodern Islamic world. There are enough of them out there, ranging in quality from bad to adequate, and adding to their number, at the present state of research, is unconscionable from a scholarly point of view, even if publishers might view it as profitable (one wonders — is it really?). There would be two main reasons for the moratorium: first, scholarship has not advanced to the stage where the subject can be treated with anything approaching the requisite documentation, appropriate coverage, and analytical depth, and second, previous scholarship has established dogmatic, and hence dysfunctional, approaches to the field, which will require some time before they are completely discredited by recent, historical and analytic, methods; accordingly, writing even more such ‘introductions’ on their basis would tend to perpetuate them. Philosophy in the pre-modern Islamic world has a history of close to ten centuries (ninth to the eighteenth), and printed editions (let alone critical editions), reliable and annotated translations, and monograph studies of the works of most major and all minor philosophers are still tasks for the future. In their absence, any single author working on such an ‘introduction’ or ‘history’ will necessarily have to either work critically with the available printed versions of the philosophical texts, and especially from the manuscripts of those not printed, or, what has been invariably the case, present a skewed picture of his subject based on a selection of the works that have been published and translated, and on previous scholarship, with all its imperfections. This skewed picture will be further distorted when the author adopts some or all of the dysfunctional approaches that were dominant in the twentieth century.10 The book by Massimo Campanini, published originally in Italian in 2004, is a good case in point for this latter state of affairs. In the first of the two parts into which the book is divided, he gives a ‘brief sketch’ (p. 34) of the first four out of the ten centuries of this philosophy (up to the time of Averroes,11 with a passing but inevitable nod, following Corbin, to Suhrawardi and Mulla ∑adra) — all very derivative (mostly from Fakhry’s History)12 and largely outdated — and discusses for the nth time the appellation of this philosophy (Arab? Islamic? etc.), the relation of philosophy and religion in Islam (yet another tired, and basically irrelevant, discussion for the subject being treated), and the twentieth century approaches to it I mentioned earlier. In the second part, he attempts to make a virtue of the selective treatment of subjects, without explanation. Although he states ‘that major themes such as logic and natural philosophy’ have been excluded from his book, he asserts 10 Which I discuss in ‘The Study of Arabic Philosophy in the Twentieth Century. An Essay on the Historiography of Arabic Philosophy’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 29 (2002) 5–25. 11 The nineteenth century European ideological fixation that philosophy in Islam came to an end with Averroes finds expression in Campanini’s incredibly obtuse statement, ‘It cannot be denied that Averroes was the last in the Islamic world to support his ideas by the application of rigorously demonstrative, Aristotelian and syllogistic methods’ (p. 26); one should have a look, among countless others, at Ibn Kammuna’s (d. 1284) treatises on the soul, which carry Aristotelian syllogistic argumentation to extremes. 12 M. Fakhry, A History of Islamic Philosophy (New York 11970, 21983, 32004).

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq074

DIMITRI GUTAS YALE UNIVERSITY

PATRICIA CRONE, From Arabian Tribes to Islamic Empire: Army, State and Society in the Near East c.600–850 (Variorum Collected Studies Series CS 895). Ashgate, Aldershot and Burlington 2008. Pp. 320. Price: £65.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-07546-5925-9.


that ‘it would seem possible, nevertheless, to establish a systematic reconstruction of Islamic thought’ (p. viii). This he does by implying, in the rest of the paragraph, that what he presents in the second part of the book as the interrelated subjects of the oneness of God and his omnipotence and freedom, and cosmology and man’s place in it as a rational being with a political dimension, exhaust that reconstruction! And both parts are written from the essentialist Orientalist point of view that ‘Islam’, and its ‘burning passion for the Oneness of God’ (p. 75), are in essence what ‘Islamic’ philosophy is all about13 — a claim which could be made just as well of Plotinus, something which Campanini fails to recognize though he actually refers to it: on p. 44 he says that Farabi’s emanationism is ‘reminiscent’ of Neoplatonism, but on the very next page he states that Farabi’s idea of God ‘draws its inspiration from the Islamic principle of tawÌid ’! Sadly the book is also marred by numerous errors of fact — e.g., Farabi wrote no book with the title Political Science (pp. 10, 81, 103, and 109), Îubaysh was not Îunayn’s ‘grandson’ (p. 36), the title of the Rasa’il IÌwan aÒ-Òafa’ is not their Encyclopaedia (p. 14), calling Avicenna a ‘mere cataloguer’ (p. 16) is at least ludicrous, etc.14 — and an incompetent English translation, made by someone unfamiliar with Islamic subjects, which further detracts from whatever value the book might have had in Italian: the translator fails to make a distinction between Arab (ethnicity) and Arabic (language), which wreaks havoc in the discussion on pp. 35–8; renders some Italian abstract words by coining barbaric English neologisms (hypothesisation, p. 64; dialecticisation, p. 72); falters in the rendition of some technical terms (‘Ishmaelism’ instead of Isma‘iliyya or Ismailism, p. 20; ‘prophetism’ instead of prophecy, p. 53; ‘finalistic’ instead of final, p. 106; ‘possible’ intellect instead of potential, or at least passive, p. 108; etc.); and commits an egregious error in the translation of the verb invertire (p. 168 n.16) as ‘pervert’ instead of reverse, which is the meaning of ‘to turn the clock back’ that I had originally written in English in the article referred to by Campanini. Readers of Italian are in the fortunate position of being able to read a balanced and up-to-date account of the subject (though again up to Averroes) in C. D’Ancona’s Storia della filosofia nell’ Islam medievale (Turin 2005). An English translation of this book would serve the needs of a wider reading public until the next ‘introduction’ or brief ‘history’ is written — much, much later, one hopes, when scholarship has considerably advanced.

Patricia Crone’s career began with a series of now well-known monographs and joint-authored works, published between 1977 and 1987. Much of her recent 13

To say nothing of such reifying concepts as ‘Muslim mentality’ (p. 24) along which Campanini still thinks, in 2004. 14 To say nothing, again, of Campanini’s failure to understand what some of his sources say: on p. 95 of my book which Campanini quotes on p. 42, I do not say that al-Ma’mun’s approach to Greek philosophy was political ‘and intended to bolster up Islam’, as Campanini claims, but to bolster up the political authority of the ‘Abbasid rulers, which is a completely different thing. 206

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But there is something uncomfortable about a reconstruction in which a concept is born with its [later] classical meaning so that evidence for the century after the Prophet’s death must relate to a diversion rather than the development from which the classical concept emerged.

The ‘classical concept’ under consideration here is hijra, or ‘emigration’: either ‘the Emigration’, from Mecca to Medina in the 620s, or ‘emigration in general’ to any settlement for military service, as instituted by the caliph ‘Umar. In classical thought, the former was the ‘original’ and pre-eminent hijra, and the latter a secondary and somewhat illegitimate version. The classical hierarchy is encapsulated in a Prophetic saying that rules out the second version completely: la hijra ba‘da ’l-fatÌ (‘There is no hijra after the Conquest [of Mecca]’). Crone’s hypothesis is that this classical idea of hijra was a later formulation that emerged from a two-stage process in the seventh and eighth centuries. First there were efforts by the caliphs to settle nomadic tribesmen in the conquered provinces,


research has been published as journal articles, which have revised, refined and expanded upon earlier work. In 2005, Ashgate published a first collection of her articles, on medieval Near Eastern political thought (published between 1980 and 2001). This second volume, From Arabian Tribes to Islamic Empire, contains another 12 articles (published between 1989 and 2006). They serve as a reminder, if one is needed, of the range and incisiveness of Crone’s work on early Islamic history. They also sit together well, presenting a coherent set of perspectives on the problem implied in the book’s title — that of the political consequences of the Arabian origins of Islam. For Crone, much of what is distinctive about the course of early Islamic history derives from Islam’s fusion of Arabian tribal culture with Judaeo-Christian monotheism. The exclusive and independent political values of the Arabian tribesmen came into tension with monotheism’s inclusive and universalist potential: ‘as tribesmen, the Arabs were prejudiced against foreigners; as Muslims, they were minded to invite them in’ (XII, 113). From this problematic of Arabian culture and Near Eastern monotheism stem the concerns of each article: Crone examines the analytical utility of the term ‘tribe’ (I, II) and the consequences of the lesser status of non-Arabs in an early Islamic empire dominated by ideas of Arab ethnic and cultural superiority (V, VI, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII). These tensions between Arab hegemony and more universalist ideas found their most important expression in the ‘Abbasid Revolution’ of 750 CE, and so the causes (in both senses of the word) of this successful rebellion against the Umayyad caliphs are a third major theme (IV, VI, VII, VIII, IX, XI). With transformations in the composition of the Muslim community came transformations in the community’s historical memory; this is the fourth subject of the articles (especially III, X, XI, XII). It makes sense to start with the historiography. Crone builds on the source-critical legacy of earlier Islamicists, seeing in the formation of the later ‘classical’ Islamic tradition an evolution: ‘the Muslim recollection of the Prophet reflects the lives and thoughts of all the believers who created a new civilization in allegiance to him, not just those of Muhammad himself’ (III, 387). Her particular theoretical contribution is to question the tradition’s presentation (also accepted by earlier Islamicists) of an ‘orthodoxy’ established by the Prophet, abandoned by his successors (especially the Umayyads), and then restored during and after the eighth and ninth centuries. She sets this out clearly in ‘The First Century Concept of Higra’ (III, 353):

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which generated a number of Prophetic traditions about the connection between hijra and jihad: proper Muslims were those who emigrated and settled; to leave one’s garrison town was also to apostatize. Second, there was then the abandonment of the obligation to ‘migrate’ once the army had ceased to be composed of nomads (and when most Muslims were no longer soldiers anyway). Thus, the ‘secondary’ definition of hijra as migration to a town for military service (first Medina, then the garrison towns in the provinces) was the original meaning of the term; only later, when the conquests had ended, was it necessary to limit the hijra to the era of the Prophet, through means such as the la hijra… tradition. This re-reading of the Islamic tradition underpins Crone’s evaluation of the other themes of the collection: the tensions between Arabian tribal exclusivity and universalist Islam, as played out in the status of non-Arab converts and ultimately in the Abbasid Revolution. For Crone, the negative reputation of the Umayyads was not so much a function of Abbasid hostility but a result of the Umayyads having taken ‘the blame for the inevitable transformation of Arab into Muslim society’ (p. x). That the Umayyads, coming into possession of an empire, had to become tyrannical ‘kings’ (as opposed to just ‘caliphs’) has been long understood. Where Crone’s argument is much more interesting is in her view of Umayyad history as colonial history. The Umayyads ruled an empire based on conquest by Arab tribesmen and, ‘colonial rulers … do not normally welcome the prospect of sharing their power, wealth and ideological leadership with the conquered population, let alone of abandoning these assets to them’ (p. x). However, by the middle of the eighth century, Arab settlers were under pressure from non-Arab converts (mawali). More inclusive interpretations of Islam were, unsurprisingly, popular among these mawali, as well as among non-Muslim non-Arabs (dhimmis) — conversion could mean access to the resources of empire. Evolving ethnic tensions are also the basis for Crone’s discussion of representations of ‘Umar as oppressor of the mawali and of ‘Ali as their champion. She finds it most unlikely that Shi‘i support for the mawali in reality dated back to midseventh century because there were, as yet, very few mawali. Both ‘Umar and ‘Ali, she suggests, would in fact have seen non-Arabs as inferior; only with growing adoption of Islam by non-Arabs did the ‘Ali of Shi‘i memory begin to espouse ethnic inclusivity. She also shows how the later adoption of Shi‘ism by non-Arabs as the language of political resistance explains why the Abbasid Revolution depended upon armies recruited from the native ‘Persians’ of Khurasan; in turn this explains why these armies sought not a restoration of Persian monarchy but rather the replacement of the Umayyad house of ‘Abd Shams with a member of the Prophet’s tribe of Hashim. The explanatory power of Crone’s reading of Islamic history is very impressive. Her work takes early Islamic history seriously as history, where social, political, economic and ideological tensions function as engines of change. History is somewhere else, but nonetheless within reach — a matter of ‘immersing oneself in bygone modes of thought’ (IV, 20). This is history as social science, with a concomitant philosophical positivism: one can ‘immerse oneself in bygone modes of thought’. There is a resistance to the excesses of post-structuralism: ‘… all human societies are strung around figments of the human imagination … It does not imply that kinship or tribes are less real … let alone that they only exist in the human mind’ (II, 359). At times this near-scientific perspective leads to a certain theoretical expansiveness — evolutionary theory is used neatly as a metaphor for political change over millennia in a review article on ‘Tribes and States’ (II, 365–6). Also 208

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq075

ANDREW MARSHAM UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH


as in science, old interpretations can be improved: postscripts indicate changed positions since first publication. In a note to ‘The First Century Concept of Higra’ (1994), she acknowledges that the Quranic text is early and associated with MuÌammad; Wansbrough’s experiment does not solve, ‘the enigmatic relationship between the Qur’an and the tradition’ (III, 353f.). Elsewhere (IV) she points out a ‘major publication’ by Eva Orthmann on the nature of tribal identity in early Islam which significantly advances on her own work. That historical research can generate improved explanations of the past appeals strongly to this reviewer. Nonetheless, it may be that some post-structuralist ideas might contribute more to these interpretations. In ‘The First Century Concept of Higra’, Crone remarks that, ‘the material clearly reflects a debate, not developments in the thought of an individual’ (III, 374). Rather more might be made of debate here: the meaning of a concept might be seen not just as a progression from one meaning to another but also as an array of meanings in a discourse, each of varying salience through time. After all, one can posit a real break in Islamic history with ‘Umar’s conquests outside Arabia, and it may be that this triggered an on-going dispute about the meaning of hijra, which we can now see clearly only in a slightly later form (perhaps, as Madelung suggests, a dispute with a geographical dimension alongside its chronological one). However, this is by no means to suggest that we should abandon the project of seeking to understand and explain early Islamic history better. This collection is a reminder of Crone’s great contribution thus far to that endeavour.

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Journal of Semitic Studies LVI/1 Spring 2011 © The author. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester. All rights reserved.

SHORT NOTICES HARRY A. HOFFNER JR, Letters from the Hittite Kingdom (Writings from the Ancient World Series 15). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2009. Pp. xvii + 450. Price: $49.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-212-1.


The correspondence of the kings of Hatti with their officials, vassal rulers, and foreign peers provides one of our most important sources of information on the history and administration of the Hittite world, and the royal court’s diplomatic relations with its Near Eastern contemporaries. The majority of the letters, inscribed in cuneiform on clay tablets, have been unearthed in various depositories on or near the acropolis of the Hittite capital Hattusa. But in recent years, substantial numbers have come to light in tablet-finds from Hittite provincial centres, particularly the site of Ma≥at (ancient Tapikka) which lay northeast of the Hittite capital. To date, the most comprehensive corpus of Hittite correspondence is A. Hagenbuchner’s Die Korrespondenz der Hehtiter (Heidelberg), published in 1989. It includes many fragmentary letters and is intended primarily for specialist scholars. Hoffner’s book is of a different order. While an important addition to Hittite scholarly literature in general, its particular value lies in its contribution to the spread of knowledge about the Hittite world to a wider reading public, via a study of the most historically informative of the letters. The lengthy Introduction serves as a useful general source of reference on letterwriting in the ancient Near Eastern world. Its contents include discussions of the training of scribes, the extent of literacy in the Late Bronze Age, the role of private and official messengers and letter-carriers, the contents and style of the letters, address and greetings formulas, envelopes and sealings, the logistics involved in conveying letters to their destinations, and the question of who actually read the letters. The main section of the book contains a selection of letters from the Hittite corpus, the selection confined largely to those letters whose contents are, for the most part, still reasonably intact. The translation of each text is complemented by a transliteration of it. This feature substantially increases the book’s value for scholars and students who wish to read the texts in the original, without detracting from its appeal to more general readers. In fact the paired texts may well encourage a number of general readers to try their hand at learning Hittite. Each letter is prefaced with references to its text number, details of copies, find-spot, the dating of the text, and a bibliography of editions and discussions of it. Commentaries attached to each text contain historical and philological notes. Hoffner’s selection includes a number of important letters that have not yet appeared in any general corpus of Hittite texts. Notable among these is the letter written by Hattusili I to King Tuniya of Tikunani (pp. 75–80). First published by M. Salvini in 1994, it provides valuable new insights into the history of the Hittite Old Kingdom. Letters from the Ma≥at archives figure prominently in the selection. The emphasis Hoffner gives to these is understandable since they are relatively new to the Hittite corpus, and comparatively few have been translated or discussed since they were first published by Alp in 1991. Their particular importance lies in the fact that they provide information about the relations and communications between the 211

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Hittite king and his regional officials that is not known to us from other sources. Many are brief bulletins, trimmed of the usual diplomatic protocol, which contain up-to-date reports on enemy movements and other activities in and around the provincial centre. A feature of some of them is the ‘piggy-back’ epistle, in which ‘royal scribes often hitched a ride for their own personal letters on the letters they wrote for their royal patrons’ (p. 72). These often add a personal touch to what are otherwise terse, official communiqués (e.g. no. 26b, p. 133). Letters from the Hittite Kingdom is an impressive contribution to the WAW series. Its author is a distinguished Hittite scholar, whose skills as a philologist, epigraphist, and historian are well represented in a book that should have much appeal to both a scholarly and a general reading public. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq076 TREVOR R. BRYCE NANCY C. LEE and CARLEEN MANDOLFO (eds), Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (Society of Biblical Literature, Symposium Series 43). Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta 2008. Pp. xii + 274. Price: $37.95 paperback. ISBN: 978-1-58983-357-9. This rich and stimulating volume gathers fruit from almost a decade’s sessions of the Society of Biblical Literature’s section on ‘Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Contexts’, inaugurated in 1999 and developing later into the ‘Lament in Sacred Texts and Cultures’ section. Part 1 focuses specifically on the biblical book of Lamentations, with essays by noted specialists on ‘Writing a Commentary on Lamentations’ (Adele Berlin), ‘Lamentations from Sundry Angles: A Retrospective’ (F.W. Dobbs-Allsopp), ‘Voices Arguing about Meaning’ (Kathleen O’Connor), ‘The Singers of Lamentations: (A)Scribing (De)Claiming Poets and Prophets’ (Nancy C. Lee), ‘Talking Back: The Perseverance of Justice in Lamentation’ (Carleen Mandolfo), and ‘Surviving Lamentations (One More Time)’ (Todd Linafelt). Part 2 deals with aspects of biblical lament as a whole, with contributions on ‘Lament and the Arts of Resistance: Public and Hidden Transcripts in Lamentations 5’ (Robert Williamson Jr), ‘The Priceless Gain of Penitence: From Communal Lament to Penitential Prayer in the “Exilic” Liturgy of Israel’ (Mark J. Boda), and ‘The Articulate Body: The Language of Suffering in the Laments of the Individual’ (Amy C. Cottrill). Then Part 3 broadens the canvas and looks at lament across cultures, considering ‘Praise in the Realm of Death: The Dynamics of Hymn-Singing in Ancient Near Eastern Lament Ceremony’ (Erhard S. Gerstenberger), ‘Engaging Lamentations and The Lament for the South: A Cross-Textual Reading’ (Archie Chi Chung Lee), ‘The Revival of Lament in Medieval Piyyutim’ (William Morrow), ‘The Lament Traditions of Enslaved African American Women and the Lament Traditions of the Hebrew Bible’ (Wilma Ann Bailey), ‘Selections from Between Despair and Lamentation’ (Borislav Arapovic), ‘Lamenting the Dead in Iraq and South Africa: Transitioning from Individual Trauma to Collective Mourning Performances’ (Kimberly Wedeven Segall), ‘The Poetry of Job as a Resource for the Articulation of Embodied Lament in the Context of HIV and AIDS in South Africa’ (Gerald West) and ‘A Lament for New Orleans’ (Clyde Fant). The volume is rounded off in Part 4 (‘Retrospective/Prospective, Continuing Relevance’) with an essay on ‘Lament as Wake-Up Call (Class Analysis and Historical Possibility)’ (Walter Brueggemann). This volume is warmly welcomed and commended. An important part of its value is precisely that it spans both biblical and non-biblical


UNIVERSITY OF QUEENSLAND

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material, highlighting both affinities and distinctiveness. Moreover, in addition to the scholarly essays listed, the volume also contains a small amount of original lament poetry, from the Sudan, New Orleans, Iraq and Croatia. There is a bibliography and also indexes of ancient sources and of modern authors. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq077 PAUL M. JOYCE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

ISABELLE ASSAN-DHÔTE and JACQUELINE MOATTI-FINE, La Bible d’Alexandrie Ruth (La Bible d’Alexandrie 8). Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 2009. Pp. 118. ISBN: 978-2-204-08831-2.

UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH

CHARLOTTE ELISHEVA FONROBERT and MARTIN S. JAFFEE (eds), The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge Companion to Religion). Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2007. Pp. xx + 412. Price: £18.99 paperback. ISBN: 978-0-521-60508-3. The fifteen articles of this book constitute a compelling portrait of different contemporary interpretative approaches to the Talmud and rabbinic literature. As is made clear by the editors this is neither a handbook nor an introduction: a basic knowledge of individual rabbinic texts and early Jewish history is in fact taken for granted. That said, the book may be of interest to both students and scholars in both rabbinic literature and cognate fields. In the Introduction, Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee briefly lay out the key features of rabbinic textuality and of its historical contexts of production. They also highlight the main issues confronting the modern reader. Among these is the fact that rabbinic texts are difficult to locate in time and space, that they defy genre classification, and that in most cases it is not possible to reconstruct their literary process of production. The book, which offers both a brief timeline of rabbinic literature and a glossary, is divided into three parts.


This slim volume contains much that is of interest to the reader of Greek Ruth. About half of the book is devoted to the introduction and the other half to the French translation and notes. In the first part of the book, Isabelle Assan-Dhôte and Jacqueline Moatti-Fine provide an admirable discussion of the place of the book of Ruth in the canon of the LXX, its association with the feast of weeks, the textual history of its Greek text, the characteristics of the translation, the readings offered by this version, and the ancient Jewish and Christian readings of the text. The literal, but not slavish, translation of the Greek is rendered into French that highlights the clarifications and euphemisms used by the version. The footnotes accompanying the French translation, taking up three quarters or more of each page, constitute in effect a running commentary on the Greek text, how it translates and interprets the MT, and selected scholarly discussions. A significant omission is the lack of a discussion or even reference to the substantial body of scholarly work that interprets the book of Ruth from a feminist perspective. It would have been useful to know how Greek Ruth would support or otherwise provide a corrective to feminist hermeneutics. E. Levine’s work is wrongly given the title of ‘Armenian’ rather than ‘Aramaic’ (p. 10), and Yair Zakovitch’s commentary on Ruth from a Jewish perspective, which appeared in Hebrew (1990) and German (1999), is missed. doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq078 TIMOTHY H. LIM

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SHORT NOTICES

doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq079

ROCCO BERNASCONI UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER

FEDERICO CORRIENTE, Dictionary of Arabic and Allied Loanwords: Spanish, Portuguese, Catalan, Galician and Kindred Dialects (Handbook of Oriental Studies/ Hanbuch der Orientalistik, Section 1: The Near and Middle East 97). Brill, Leiden 2008. Pp. xciv + 602. ISBN: 978-90-04-16858-9. In many ways, writing a review for this type of publication is to jump the gun. The proof of the pudding will be in at least a decade, when, well-thumbed and heavily cited, its spine no longer in the first flush of youth, the true weight of its near sevenhundred pages will be closer within our grasp. At present, then, one may only marvel at this treasure-trove of lexical items, and rejoice in the introductory essay on the grammar of Arabic loanwords in Ibero-Romance, with its study of the various means by which Andalusian Arabic generated various Romance words (sometimes even starting from a Late Latin original, passing through either Berber or Arabic and returning to its closer cousin in one (or several) of the Romance dialects of the Peninsula). The introduction is rounded off by a useful index of Romance lexical items (keyed to section); it is a pity, however, that the dictionary entries do not also maintain some cross-reference to the introduction. The story of Arabic loanwords is one of decreasing frequency and marginalization within the language: as Islam declined from superior to inferior culture, so Arabic borrowings became limited often to slang (particularly in dens of thieves), children’s language and rhymes, and names for, and activities associated with, the pudenda. But it is the dictionary itself which is the volume’s real meat (or perhaps the bejewelled treasurechest would be better). The aim is to provide a diachronic vision of those words adopted from Arabic (and dialects, such as Morroccan during military adventures of the twentieth-century), Hebrew and, in the case of Portuguese, Malay and Hindi,


The first part, entitled ‘The Conditions of Rabbinic Literary Activity’, comprises four essays which address questions related to different social (J. Rubenstein), political (S. Schwartz), historical and ideological (M. Jaffee and E. Shanks Alexander) circumstances that influenced the production of rabbinic texts. The second part which includes six essays is entitled ‘The Genres of Rabbinic Literary Composition’. The articles present rabbinic literary output in the light of different forms of literary production in Late Antiquity. For instance, S. Fraade presents the similarities and differences between rabbinic Midrash and other exegetical traditions such as that of Qumran and of Hellenistic Judaism. Y. Elman considers how the legal traditions of the Babylonian Talmud may have been influenced by the Pahlavi legal tradition and more in general by the culture of the Sasanian Empire. The five essays of the third part, entitled ‘Hermeneutical Frames for Interpreting Rabbinic Literature’, consider topics which are present in rabbinic texts though not explicitly thematised as such. These include the rabbinic representations of the ‘other’ (C. Hayes) and of the ‘self’ (J. Schofer), gender relations and representation of women’s bodies (C. Fonrobert), and the rabbinic understanding of the past (I. Gafni). The volume concludes with D. Boyarin’s article which reflects, among other things, on Hellenistic and Christian influences on the Babylonian Talmud. This is a stimulating and engaging collection of essays, which is able to make the complexity of rabbinic literature intelligible to a modern reader as well as to raise questions that can open the way to new directions of research.

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doi: 10.1093/jss/fgq080

ANTHONY JOHN LAPPIN UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER


dating from the origins of the romance languages up to the present. My bedside reading for the past couple of weeks, it has illuminated my understanding of some words I knew (or thought I knew), introduced me to many words I did not know, and provided a remarkable, although obviously fragmentary, insight into medieval Arabic culture. The author is to be saluted in his Herculean labours, and for presevering in the face of threatening anonymous phone calls and the remarkable insouciance of the Real Academia de la Lengua regarding Arabic etymology, who refused to allow a revision of the Arabic loanwords in their Castilian dictionary since ‘there was no time for this, as the issuing of that work was too urgent’ (p. viii). That mistaken decision, at least, will ensure that Corriente’s Dictionary will remain essential for a long period of time. ‘Albíxeres (Catalan, with the variants albíxena, albaixinia, albexenia, ambíxeres, etc.), alvíçaras or alvíssaras (Portuguese), albízaras (Galician), alv(er)ísyas (Judeo-Spanish), albricies (Asturian, also albízoras […]) and albricias (Castilian and Aragonese) “(reward for) good news”: from an Andalusi Arabic pronunciation bísra of Arabic busra, with intra-Romance adoption of the plural, probably by attraction of noticias “news”’ (p. 65, the numerous abbreviations have been silently expanded). Good news, indeed, and rewarding, too.

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