Concepts in Middle Kingdom Funerary Culture: Proceedings of the Lady Wallis Budge Anniversary Symposium Held at Christ’s College, Cambridge, 22 January 2016 9789004399846, 9004399844

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Concepts in Middle Kingdom Funerary Culture

Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Founding Editor M.H.E. Weippert

Editor-in-Chief Jonathan Stökl

Editors Eckart Frahm W. Randall Garr B. Halpern Theo P.J. van den Hout Leslie Anne Warden Irene J. Winter

volume 102

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/chan

Concepts in Middle Kingdom Funerary Culture Proceedings of the Lady Wallis Budge Anniversary Symposium Held at Christ’s College, Cambridge, 22 January 2016

Edited by

Rune Nyord

LEIDEN | BOSTON

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Nyord, Rune, editor. Title: Concepts in Middle Kingdom funerary culture : proceedings of the Lady Wallis Budge anniversary symposium held at Christ's College, Cambridge, 22 January 2016 / by Rune Nyord. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2019] | Series: Culture and history of the ancient Near East, ISSN 1566-2055 ; volume 102 Identifiers: LCCN 2019010104 (print) | LCCN 2019011118 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004399846 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004399839 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Funeral rites and ceremonies–Egypt–Congresses. | Egypt–Antiquities–Congresses. Classification: LCC DT62.T6 (ebook) | LCC DT62.T6 C653 2019 (print) | DDC 393.0931/09013–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019010104

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. ISSN 1566-2055 ISBN 978-90-04-39983-9 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-39984-6 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Preface vii List of Figures and Tables viii 1 Introduction: Egyptian and Egyptological Concepts Rune Nyord

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2 Projection of Self in Middle Kingdom Tombs and Coffins Susanne Bickel

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3 The Concept of ‘Letters to the Dead’ and Egyptian Funerary Culture Sylvie Donnat

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4 How ‘Royal’ (and ‘Mythical’) Are the Coffin Texts? Reflections on the Definition and Function of Some Etic Concepts in a Middle Kingdom Funerary Text Corpus 63 Katja Goebs 5 How ‘Funerary’ Are the Coffin Texts? Alexandra von Lieven

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6 Burial Demography in the Late Middle Kingdom: a Social Perspective Gianluca Miniaci

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7 The Concept of ka between Egyptian and Egyptological Frameworks Rune Nyord

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8 Who Am I? An Emic Approach to the So-Called ‘Personal Texts’ in Egyptian ‘Funerary Literature’ 204 Harco Willems Index of Egyptian Terms in Transliteration General Index 251

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Preface The idea of organizing a series of events as part of the activities of the Lady Wallis Budge Fund at Christ’s College, Cambridge, first came up in a conversation with Prof. Frank Kelly, then master of the College, in the spring of 2014. As further detailed in the Introduction to this volume, the first such event became an Anniversary Symposium in early 2016 commemorating the 80th anniversary of the appointment of the first Lady Wallis Budge Junior Research Fellow at Christ’s College. This volume presents most of the papers given on this occasion. First and foremost, I am very grateful to the Managers of the Lady Wallis Budge Fund for entrusting me with this project, and for generously funding the symposium. I also thankfully acknowledge the additional support of the McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research of the University of Cambridge. The research project Conceptions of the afterlife in ancient Egyptian mortuary religion (University of Cambridge, 2014–2017), which provided the framework for the Symposium, was funded by the Carlsberg Foundation and the Isaac Newton Trust. A number of people contributed to making the day of the symposium an enjoyable and stimulating event. Many thanks go to the speakers and session chairs, including, apart from the contributors to this volume, Prof. Janet Richards (University of Michigan) who presented a paper at the meeting but was unfortunately unable to contribute to the proceedings, as well as Dr Antonio Morales (Freie Universität Berlin) and Dr Janine Bourriau (University of Cambridge) who ably steered discussions in two of the sessions. I am also grateful to Egyptology graduate students at Christ’s College Sergio Alarcón Robledo and Hilary Stewart for capable help with the practicalities before and during the symposium. The event was further supported by the remarkable efforts of the College catering and conference staff, not least Kevin Keohane and Sue O’Donnell. Rune Nyord Atlanta, December 2018

Figures and Tables Figures 3.1 3.2 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 7.1 7.2 8.1

Cairo Bowl (CG 25375) 50 Berlin Bowl (Inv. 22573) 51 Plan of the tombs T 130 and T 131 from the cemetery M.X of Mirgissa 125 Plan of the burial chambers of Neferkhewet and his family 129 Stela of Khonsu from Abydos, Thirteenth Dynasty; Wien ÄS 180 135 Late Middle Kingdom rectangular slab, MMA 65.120.2 137 Schematic representation of estate 1, stratum b/2 at Avaris (Tell el-Dʿaba) 143 Prisoner from the tomb of Rashepses 173 The royal ka as depicted in the White Chapel of Sesostris I (scenes 8 and 26’) 182 Categories and types of Pyramid Texts according to Hays 211

Tables 3.1 5.1 6.1 6.2

Letters to the dead and related documents (6th dynasty—SIP) 47 CT spells with likely non-funerary origins 101 Spatio-temporal relations in multiple burial processes 123 Chronological sequence of ancient Egyptian Letters to the Dead 141

chapter 1

Introduction: Egyptian and Egyptological Concepts* Rune Nyord

The papers collected in this volume were given at the Lady Wallis Budge Anniversary Symposium held at Christ’s College, Cambridge in January 2016. Upon the death of Sir E.A. Wallis Budge, the former Keeper of the British Museum’s Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, in 1934, he bequeathed generous sums for establishing Funds in the memory of his wife at University College, Oxford and Christ’s College, Cambridge to support Egyptological research at these institutions. In 1936, the first two Lady Wallis Budge Fellows were elected, and in the intervening eight decades, the Lady Wallis Budge Funds have provided generous and significant support for the field of Egyptology through Fellowships, Scholarships and grants, allowing very strong Egyptological traditions to develop at the two Colleges.1 This great legacy invites us to look both backwards and forwards, to take stock of what has happened in Egyptology in the time since Wallis Budge, as well as thinking about where we are headed. Wallis Budge himself is a towering, and often controversial, figure in our field. One of the most impressive qualities of his body of work is his extreme productivity and the diversity of areas he contributed to, both in terms of scholarly publications of texts in a number of different ancient languages, and in terms of popular works for the consumption of the educated public. With its extreme breadth, Budge’s work thus offered plenty of possibilities for drawing inspiration for an Anniversary Symposium. In narrowing down the theme for the Anniversary Symposium, I decided to focus on the fact that we must look forward as well as back, and that the Egyptology of Budge’s time in

* This is a significantly expanded version of the brief introduction given at the beginning of the Symposium, informed by discussions with Symposium participants both during and after the event. I am further grateful for the comments and suggestions given by the two anonymous reviewers. 1 A convenient overview of the research undertaken by the Budge Fellows and Scholars of Oxford and Cambridge during the first four decades of the Funds’ activities has been published as ‘The Lady Wallis Budge Fellowships in Egyptology’, JEA 63 (1977), 131–136.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_002

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the late 19th and early 20th centuries had certain characteristics which have since receded into the background of Egyptological concerns, but may be on the way back. I am referring in particular to the ambition of Budge and others to produce results in a dialogue with contemporary developments in other fields, with archaeology, ethnography and Egyptology all being seen as contributing to the same project of elucidating the human condition in a manner intensely relevant to the concerns of a wider educated public. Thus, Budge was clearly influenced by the ideas of contemporary British anthropologists Edward Burnett Tylor and James Frazer, as evidenced perhaps most clearly by the title of one of his last books, From Fetish to God in Ancient Egypt from 1934, which references the ideas of cultural evolution espoused by Tylor and Frazer. But the influence also went in the other direction, when ideas put forward by Budge, such as that of the identity of the tomb of the mythical Osiris with that of the real man King Khent-Amenti, became a cornerstone in Frazer’s later euhemerist theory of the origin of religion.2 Naturally both of the fields have moved well beyond many of the concrete ideas expressed by these scholars—as one would expect from the intervening century of research. For perhaps less obvious reasons, the individual fields have also moved quite far apart through the years, so that it is much more difficult to imagine this kind of crosspollination today.3 The reasons for this are complex and by no means specific to Egyptology, as the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries witnessed an impressive amount of interconnectedness in intellectual and artistic life, evidenced by such famous examples as Sigmund Freud’s anthropologically-inspired book Totem und Tabu published in 1913, or shortly before that what came to be known as Picasso’s ‘African period’ strongly influenced by ethnographic collections. From the Egyptological side of things in more recent times, influences from outside the field have sometimes been conceptualized in terms of foreign conceptual frameworks developed for completely different cultures, and thus posing a threat of distorting the evidence. A recent review article in Chronique d’Égypte even formulated this problem in terms of an almost Manichean battle between ‘a priori theorization’ on the one hand and ‘contributing to the study

2 Cf. Ackerman, R., J.G. Frazer: His Life and Work (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 254. 3 The specific issue of the relationship between Egyptology and anthropology in the past, present and future was the theme of the second Cambridge Budge Symposium held in July 2017, the proceedings of which have been published in a special issue of the Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17 (2018), edited by K. Howley and R. Nyord.

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of Egyptian culture’ on the other, evoking a picture of a field beset by the ‘aridité et dogmatisme’ of researchers inspired by ideas developed outside of Egyptology.4 Such concerns are by no means specific for Egyptology, but are found equally in fields with much stronger reflexive traditions. Thus, the inaugural issue of the anthropological journal HAU recently criticized certain popular trends in anthropological theory by calling for a ‘return of ethnographic theory’5 in a consciously paradoxical formulation—in ordinary parlance, ‘ethnography’ is precisely what anthropologists do when they are not engaged in theory. This idea raises the question of the possibility and status of ‘Egyptological theory’. At first sight, this concept will probably seem every bit as much of a contradictio in adjecto as ‘ethnographic theory’, precisely because of the view just described of theory as by definition coming from outside, and thus being at best mostly irrelevant, and at worst distorting and detrimental, to the concerns specifically connected to the Egyptian material. However, if we take a wider and less restrictive view of ‘theory’—e.g. as defined by Merriam-Webster as ‘the analysis of a set of facts in their relation to one another’—it is clear that we do in fact have plenty of ‘native’ Egyptological theories and concepts— think for example of the concepts and models connected to ‘divine kingship’ or ‘demotisation of the afterlife’. Thus, it is not that there is no such thing as Egyptological theory, rather there is not much tradition of discussing it explicitly and in a reflexive manner. I would suggest that—as is often the case when apparently relevant and important questions turn out to be difficult to debate fruitfully in practice— this is because the question is posed at an inappropriate level of abstraction. Thus, rather than making it a question of ‘theory vs. no theory’ with all the problems and assumptions inherent in that formulation, it seems to be much more fruitful to make the distinction at the level of ‘reflexive engagement with one’s concepts’ (of whatever origin) or not. Apart from the inherent advantages of focusing our attention on a somewhat neglected aspect of our scholarly ‘toolbox’, engaging with Egyptian and Egyptological concepts offers the further benefit of potentially opening them up for comparison with frameworks coming from outside, as an alternative to the largely unproductive framework referred to above where the relationship between different fields is understood in terms of encroachment or colonization. With robustly and pertinently defined etic concepts and finely nuanced 4 Meeks, D., ‘Linguistique et égyptologie: Entre théorisation à priori et contribution à l’ étude de la culture Égyptienne’, CdE 90 (2015), 40–67, quote at p. 67. 5 Da Col, G., and Graber, D., HAU Journal of Ethnographic Theory 1/1 (2011), vi–xxxv.

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understandings of emic ones, it becomes much more feasible to engage constructively with ideas in other fields, focusing on precise causes of similarity and difference, rather than rejecting them wholesale based on the intuitive fear that they will distort the evidence—or for that matter embracing them uncritically because of their prestige in neighbouring disciplines. We will then be in a position to say precisely why a given Egyptological concept may be more appropriate for analysing the Egyptian material than one derived from archaeology or anthropology, and conversely will be able to incorporate insights that genuinely complement ideas developed in Egyptology.

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Egyptian and Egyptological Concepts

The still-useful framework just evoked for beginning to think about the concepts we use was proposed by Kenneth Pike in the 1950s as a distinction between emic and etic concepts.6 Drawing on the linguistic categorisation of phonemics as the distinctive features of a particular language versus phonetics as a universal descriptive framework brought to the analysis by the researcher, Pike extended the dichotomy to cover on the one hand the conceptual framework of the people studied, and on the other that of the scholar studying them. In the study of an ancient culture, the distinction between indigenous (emic) and modern scholarly (etic) concepts tends to be reasonably clear-cut, and it is rarely discussed explicitly. As one might expect from an area study focusing mainly on evidence from one particular culture and less concerned with cross-cultural comparison or theorisation, emic approaches tend to be privileged in Egyptological research, at least when the question is addressed in the abstract. Sometimes this even leads to the idea that emic approaches are ‘good’, while etic ones are ‘bad’, as the latter become tantamount to the application of potentially distorting modern perspectives to the pristine Egyptian material.7 6 A detailed presentation of the framework is found in Pike, K., Language in Relation to a Unified Theory of the Structure of Human Behavior, 2nd rev. ed. (The Hague: Mouton, 1967). Cf. also the different viewpoints on the application of the (originally linguistic) concept to the study of cultures in Headland, T.N., K.L. Pike and M. Harris (eds.), Emics and Etics: The insider/outsider debate (London: Sage, 1990). 7 E.g. van Walsem, R., ‘Sense and Sensibility. On the Analysis and Interpretation of the Iconography Programmes of Four Old Kingdom Elite Tombs’, in Fitzenreiter, M. and M. Herb (eds.), Dekorierte Grabanlagen im Alten Reich: Methodik und Interpretation (London: Golden House, 2006), 281, arguing ‘the fundamental advantage of any cultural exposition which interprets

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However, as indicated above with the reference to Egyptological theories, this view is highly simplified and coloured by a somewhat misleading traditional self-understanding of the discipline. In fact, Egyptology has plenty of etic concepts, and indeed it would be impossible to narrow down such central topics as ‘religion’, ‘art’ or ‘economy’ for study in ancient Egypt without etic frameworks (as the Egyptians apparently had neither explicit concepts for these nor otherwise indicated such domains as distinct entities).8 Thus, some questions are best approached in an etic framework, whilst others are more effectively explored from an emic one, and sometimes fruitful results can be obtained by comparing the results of the two approaches. As we are interested here in concepts specifically rather than more general approaches, it is worth summarising what characterises emic and etic concepts and how they can each be used in methodologically cogent ways. An etic (or second-order9) concept is one belonging to the framework of the modern scholar, and as such it needs to be defined in one way or another to enable a consensus concerning what the concept covers. Such definitions may take different forms,10 with the most common being analytical definitions which state explicitly the necessary and sufficient criteria for inclusion in the category, and conjunctive definitions which provide an exhaustive list of subcategories belonging to the class. Potentially slightly more problematic for delineation purposes, albeit more reflective of how categories tend to work in human cognition,11 are so-called polythetic definitions, where a category is defined in terms of a graded scale of resemblance to a prototype. A number of central notions

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a cultural “information bit” from the inside (= emic position) rather than the outside (= etic position)’. This is not to say that the employment of such categories is necessarily unproblematic; see for example the recent argument against the Egyptological conception of, and approach to, Egyptian ‘art’ by Widmaier, K., Bilderwelten: Ägyptische Bilder und ägyptologische Kunst—Vorarbeiten für eine bildwissenschaftliche Ägyptologie (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2017). In the terminology used e.g. by Satlow, M.L., ‘Disappearing categories: Using categories in the study of religion’, Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 17/4 (2005), 287–298. The terminology presented here follows Seaquist, C.A., Ritual Syntax (PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 2004), 40–43. Cf. e.g. the overview in Lakoff, G., Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 5–154. Cf. also the recent argument by B.-C. Otto that etic concepts more generally can fruitfully be regarded as similarly structured, although Otto would complement the polythetic structure with a set of analytic definitions in what he terms a ‘polysemantic analysis’ (Otto, B.-C., ‘Magic and Religious Individualization: On the Construction and Deconstruction of Analytical Categories in the Study of Religion’, Historia Religionum 9 (2017), 29–52).

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such as ‘religion’ are difficult to define either analytically or conjunctively and tend in practice to be approached polythetically in this way on the basis of resemblance to phenomena counting as prototypically ‘religious’, either in the scholar’s own culture, or informed cross-culturally. Often the work put into developing such definitions of etic categories may be fruitful in itself, since it serves to reveal underlying assumptions or expectations about the phenomenon to be studied, and accentuate which of such expectations are likely to prove heuristically useful. Thus, positing an etic category does not need to entail a claim of the ontological status, unity, and essential qualities of the phenomenon it purports to signify (a ‘true’ or ‘correct’ definition), though it sometimes does.12 As indicated above, one advantage of using etic categories is that we will often be interested in topics for which the Egyptians either did not have a concept, or the concepts they have are too rarely or unclearly attested to be of much use. Since etic concepts generally originate in the everyday language of the researcher, they will usually start their career as an emic concept of the researcher’s culture before being ‘raised’ to the status of an etic concept by being given a considered definition making it applicable to studying other cultures. In contrast, emic (or first order13) concepts are those of the Egyptians themselves. As such they will often correspond to a particular lemma or root of the Egyptian language, and are thus studied on the basis of its attestations and the ways it is characterised, categorised etc. in Egyptian texts. However, an emic concept does not have to be a particular ‘word’ in this sense, as one can often argue that there are underlying concepts exhibited by broader patterns of behaviour that do not necessarily correspond to an attested term, but still shows evidence of emic categorisations or evaluations.14 Emic categories are thus part of the natural language or conceptual framework of the people studied, and as such there is no reason to expect them to be easily captured

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See for example the discussion by Satlow cited in n. 8 above. Cf. n. 8 above. Although in Egyptological practice emic analysis will thus often be dependent on written sources, the emic–etic distinction is most fruitfully made at the level of the overall approach and the research questions rather than at the level of the types of evidence with the emic–etic distinction corresponding to the traditional dichotomy between philological and archaeological sources (as e.g. in the analysis by Miniaci, G., ‘Reuniting Philology and Archaeology: The “Emic” and “Etic” in the Letter of the Dead Qau Bowl UC16163 and its Context’, ZÄS 143 (2016), 88–105). Rather, as long as appropriate sources are extant, both material and textual evidence can be used to answer questions of either an emic or an etic nature, in any combination.

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by formal definitions any more than other natural language categories can.15 However, since the extent of the category is shown by its actual usage in the sources, achieving a consensus about what belongs in the category tends to be much less of an issue than with etic concepts. Instead, to the extent the sources allow it, it will often be of interest to elucidate the internal structure of the concept, e.g. in terms of prototypical and more marginal members of the category and the principles connecting these.16 As can be seen from this brief summary, there are significant differences in how etic and emic terms are approached methodologically. While it stands to reason that it is necessary to establish a consensus about the coverage of a concept for it to be used fruitfully, it is perhaps less clear why this should proceed along the lines established here, i.e. why do etic terms need to be defined, while emic ones should not be approached in this way? The question can perhaps best be elucidated by an example from Egyptological research history of an area where the differences between etic and emic have become highly blurred, leading to a number of methodological problems, namely the category of ‘magic’. The notion of ‘magic’ can be found used in no less than four different senses in mainstream Egyptological literature—often in the same work and in many cases not clearly distinguished from each other—two emic and two etic ones. The first emic use of the notion of ‘magic’ employs it simply as a translation of the Egyptian term ḥkꜣ and thus follows the attestations and use of that word.17 Thus, it can designate a god (when capitalised), a substance in the body, a property or category of particular ritual utterances, etc., as shown by the distribution of the word in Egyptian texts. We can label this the Egyptian emic use of the term. The second emic sense of ‘magic’ is the modern Western one with all the various traditional connotations of private, illicit, impious activities setting the category apart, on the one hand from official religion which offers the antithe-

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Cf. e.g. Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things, 12–57. For these principles in the exploration of lexical semantics in Egyptian, see Nyord, R., ‘Prototype Structures and Conceptual Metaphor: Cognitive Approaches to Lexical Semantics in Ancient Egyptian’, in Grossmann, E., S. Polis and J. Winand (eds.), Lexical Semantics in Ancient Egyptian (Hamburg: Widmaier, 2012), 141–174. E.g. Nyord, R., Breathing Flesh: Conceptions of the Body in the Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2009), esp. 355–381. For some considerations regarding the translation of this Egyptian word, see Pommerening, T., ‘Heilkundliche Texte aus dem Alten Ägypten: Vorschläge zur Kommentierung und Übersetzung’, in Imhausen, A., and T. Pommerening (eds), Translating Writings of Early Scholars in the Ancient Near East, Egypt, Greece and Rome: Methodological Aspects with Examples (Berlin and Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), 270–271.

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ses to these features, and on the other hand from science regarded as the ‘proper’ way to achieve the goals that ‘magic’ purports to reach. While certain features of this latter use of the category of ‘magic’ are often explicitly disavowed in Egyptological approaches, others tend to be tacitly carried over into one or more of the other uses of the concept.18 We will call this use of the ‘magic’-category the Western emic one. The first of the etic usages aims to capture a general principle that corresponds more or less precisely to the modern colloquial (emic) use of the term. An influential tradition in Egyptology focuses on the apparent circumvention of cause and effect, a recent example being Robert Ritner’s analytical characterisation of ‘magic’ as ‘any activity which seeks to obtain its goal by methods outside the simple laws of cause and effect’.19 Such definitions (whatever their precise tenor) can be labelled analytical etic ‘magic’. They tend to be very broad, in recent research explicitly motivating this by the wish to avoid the separation between ‘religion’ and ‘magic’, but in so doing, the category becomes all but redundant (why not just label it ‘ritual’?), and its limits tend to become very blurred (under this definition what is not ‘magic’?). The second etic use is partly separate and concerns ‘magic’ as designation of certain categories of ancient Egyptian objects, ‘magical texts’, ‘magical gems’, ‘magical wands’ and so on.20 While bearing some relation to the first of the etic categories, the second is much more limited in being concerned only with these specific object types traditionally labelled ‘magical’, rather than with a general stance on the purpose of any Egyptian object. While it is problematic 18

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This intuitive concept will tend to underlie any Egyptological use of the ‘magic’ category that does not explicitly position itself in relation to the others, as e.g. in Koenig, Y., Magie et magiciens dans l’Égypte ancienne (Paris: Pygmalion, 1994). Ibid., 69. The strong traditional anchoring of this approach can be seen in its virtual identity to the definition offered by Lexa in 1925 of ‘magie’ as ‘l’ activité tendant à produire l’effet don’t la connexion avec cette action n’est pas subjectivement explicable par la loi de causalité’, in Lexa, F., La Magie dans l’Égypte ancienne de l’ Ancient Empire jusqu’à l’époque Copte (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1925), 17, and its continuance after Ritner, e.g. Raven’s at once more specific and more general definition of magic as, ‘a body of spells and actions that seek to affect fate by supernatural means’, Raven, M.J., Egyptian Magic: The Quest for Thoth’s Book of Secrets (Cairo and New York: American University in Cairo Press, 2012), 12. The notion of ‘performative’ texts or acts is used to a similar effect in other works, e.g. Roccati, A., ‘Qu’est-ce que le texts magique dans l’Égypte ancienne? En quête d’ une définition’, in Koenig, Y. (ed.), La magie en Égypte (Paris: La documentation Française, 2002) 69–79; L. Morenz, Hoffen und Handeln: vom altägyptischen Heka (Berlin: EB-Verlag, 2016), 87–90. This tends to be the main sense in which the word is used in specialist publications of such objects, e.g. Borghouts, J.F., The Magical Texts of Papyrus Leiden I 348 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971).

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as an etic term in not having a specific definition, the second etic use of ‘magic’ is fixed enough in its traditional (de facto conjunctively defined) reference that it is no more problematic than other similar categories such as ‘literature’ for example.21 We can label this use essentialist ‘magic’, as unlike the others, this one ascribes ‘magic’ as an inherent property of particular object categories.22 Some of these usages stand up better to methodological scrutiny, or prove more fruitful in practice, than others, but the fact that a single word can be used in four so different senses clearly in itself poses a significant challenge for the understanding the phenomena it purports to designate. A detailed discussion of the research history of the use of concepts of ‘magic’ clearly falls outside of the scope of this introduction,23 and the more limited aim will be to exemplify the methodological problems arising from the different types of (more a less deliberate) blurring of the four usages of the concept that can be found in the literature. The basic conceptual problems that approaches to ‘magic’ in Egyptology have sought to address have remained more or less the same for at least the last century or so, and the majority of them can be characterised in terms of interplay between, or entanglement of, the four categories of uses of the concept outlined above. An early example, which proposes an approach which is still methodologically tenable, although not perhaps the most heuristically fruitful, is Alan H. Gardiner’s often-cited entry on ‘Magic (Egyptian)’ in Hastings’s Encyclopaedia for Religion and Ethics from 1915.24 Here, Gardiner begins by proposing to base the understanding on ancient Egyptian concepts—in other words, to take what would later be labelled an emic approach. By focusing on the ancient Egyptian concept ḥkꜣ (‘ḥīkeʾ’), he suggests that there is no need to attempt to separate out a particular subgroup of phenomena which are ‘magical’, but not ‘religious’ (as one would intuitively want to on the basis of what

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See e.g. Loprieno, A., ‘Defining Egyptian Literature: Ancient Texts and Modern Theories’, in Loprieno, A. (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and forms (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 39–58. Cf. Otto’s similar notion of a ‘substantieller Magiebegriff’, Otto, B.-C., ‘Zauberhaftes Ägypten—Ägyptischer Zauber? Überlegungen zur Verwendung des Magiebegriffs in der Ägyptologie’, in F. Jeserich (ed.), Ägypten—Kindheit—Tod: Gedenkschrift für Edmund Hermsen (Vienna/Cologne/Weimar: Böhlau, 2013), 45. See e.g. the historical overview in Ritner, R.K., The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago), 1993, 3–28, and for the concept more broadly, see Otto, B.-C., Magie: Rezeptions- und diskursgeschichtliche Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011). Gardiner, A.H., ‘Magic (Egyptian)’, Hasting’s Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, vol. VIII, 262–269.

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we have labelled the Western emic use of the concept), since the Egyptian term falls clearly under the category of religion.25 While he suggests that ḥkꜣ may be the very principle distinguishing ‘ritual from ordinary performances’, Gardiner is careful to note that this is not directly demonstrable in the extant evidence. In the end, he favours an analytical definition of ‘magic’ that offers a compromise between modern English and Egyptian usages and in so doing allows the modern observer to uphold the distinction between religion and magic: ‘those actions which men performed for their own benefit or for the benefit of other living men, and which demanded certain miraculous powers for their performance’.26 In principle there is nothing methodically wrong with such a division, where on the one hand we have the emic concept of ḥkꜣ, which can be studied according to its usage (being careful not to extend this usage beyond the actual attestations), and on the other the analytical etic notion of ‘magic’ defined deliberately to exclude the mortuary and divine cults. The only objection one could make against Gardiner’s scheme is to question whether it is really an advantage to separate ‘magic’ from ‘religion’ in this way if it does not correspond to Egyptian usage, but his definition highlights precisely this fact, so that it is clear both that he is making this separation, and that he does so as a concession to the modern usage (and after all, the English concept was the topic of the solicited encyclopaedia entry). If Gardiner’s approach thus already begins to blur the boundaries between the different senses in which ‘magic’ can be used, this becomes endemic in later scholarship. Thus, Ritner, in his very influential monograph, argues in favour of the identity of the Egyptian concept of ḥkꜣ with the modern Western concept of ‘magic’, whereby the difference between the two emic usages, and to some extent his analytical definition as well, would become effectively obliterated. This move is based on the Coptic translation of the Acts of the Apostles (8:9) and a few other cases where the Greek root mageia is rendered by the word ϨΙΚ (< ḥkꜣ), thereby establishing an indirect, etymological connection between the modern and ancient Egyptian concepts.27 Tempting as it is, this line of argument is not without problems.28 It assumes not only an unchanging meaning of a word from its role in the ancient Egyptian religion from the 3rd millen-

25 26 27 28

Ibid., 263. Ibid. Ritner, The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice, 14. Cf. the detailed critique of Ritner’s conflation in Otto, ‘Zauberhaftes Ägypten—Ägyptischer Zauber?’, in Jeserich (ed.), Ägypten—Kindheit—Tod: Gedenkschrift für Edmund Hermsen, esp. 63–70.

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nium BCE to the understanding by Christians in the 1st millennium AD, but perhaps even more problematically also assumes a single ‘Western’ meaning of ‘magic’ from 1st century Greek to 20th century English. It also assumes that the choice of translators to render a word in a particular context with a specific word in another language automatically entails a global identity between the two concepts. Apart from these empirical problems, in the methodological terms occupying us here, Ritner’s move leads to a very unwieldy object of investigation, and correspondingly it is occasionally unclear which of the four senses of ‘magic’ (with or without quotation marks without discernible difference) the phenomena he discusses in his book should actually be ascribed to. A few examples of the problems this leads to will suffice for the present purposes. Thus, as mentioned above, Gardiner was careful to avoid the tempting universal interpretation that the Egyptian emic notion of ḥkꜣ was the ‘attribute which distinguishes ritual from ordinary performances’, because this idea is not ‘susceptible of absolute proof’.29 However, obviating the distinctions between what is attested in the Egyptian textual record about the emic term and what may be deduced on the basis of other sources, such as the analytical definition of ‘magic’ used by Ritner, enables direct cross-cultural comparisons such as ‘Egyptian ḥkꜣ was of far more exalted significance than its Coptic descendant or Western approximation’.30 This in turn makes it possible to abandon Gardiner’s caution and come to conclusions like the following, which would be difficult to substantiate solely on the basis of extant texts attesting the concept as understood in their cultural context: As the pre-eminent force through which the creator engendered and sustained the ordered cosmos, [ḥkꜣ] was necessarily the dynamic ‘energy’31 which Egyptian religious ritual sought to channel that it might effect its identical goal, the preservation of the creator’s universe.32

29 30 31

32

Gardiner, ‘Magic (Egyptian)’, Hasting’s Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, vol. VIII, 263. Ritner, Mechanics, 247. This metaphor is possibly inspired by Hornung’s analogy of ‘magic’ as the ‘nuclear energy of early civilizations’ in Hornung, E., Conceptions of God in Ancient Egypt: The one and the many, trans. J. Baines (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982), 209. Ritner, Mechanics, 247. In a similar way Kousoulis suggests, largely independent of any actual occurrences of the word, that ‘ḥkꜣ, as a mobilized force within a certain performative environment, could be considered as a personification of the power of ritual’, Kousoulis, P.I.M., ‘The Function of ḥkꜣ as a Mobilized Form in a Theological Environment: The Apotropaic “Ritual of Overthrowing Apophis”’, in Hawass, Z. (ed.), Egyptology at the Dawn of the Twenty-First Century: Proceedings of the Eigth International Congress of Egyptologists, Cairo, 2000 (Cairo and New York, 2004), vol. 2, 368.

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Another frequent challenge, not only in Ritner’s book, but also elsewhere, is the effect of what we have termed the essentialist use of ‘magic’ underlying discussions of the topic in ancient Egypt. Thus, because there are object categories to which the label ‘magic’ is applied in an ostensibly purely descriptive and classificatory use, one can get the sense that there is a ‘real’ phenomenon to which this label can (and should) be applied, irrespective of any definitions. Thus, for example, in discussing whether notions of illegality which have traditionally formed part of the old anthropological understanding of ‘magic’ should be included in a definition applied to ancient Egypt, Ritner notes, ‘However magic may be defined, in Egypt the practice was in itself quite legal’.33 The implication is that unlike an approach based on an etic definition of the object of study, Ritner assumes that a practice of ‘magic’ in ancient Egypt pre-exists independently of our definitions of it.34 Ritner’s Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice is rightly regarded highly as a fundamental work on the aspects of ancient Egyptian ritual practice it takes up, and it is to be commended for its unusually explicit and reflexive approach, and especially in the conclusion it makes a sharp and generally cogent distinction between the etic and emic uses (or ‘senses’) of concepts of ‘magic’. But at the same time, it is important to note that in actual usage throughout the book, it does not quite succeed in disentangling the problematic baggage of the Egyptological notion of ‘magic’, and the main argument for employing the concept in the first place is dubious and seems mainly to be a concession to Egyptological tradition.35 While because of its influential status, it becomes an obvious source of examples of the methodological problems connected to this area, however, such conceptual problems also proliferate elsewhere. Thus, the conflation of ‘magic’ as emic and etic concept leads Alan Lloyd to begin his discussion of ḥkꜣ (‘heka’) by stating: Heka may be defined as the Egyptian conviction that a knowledge of words and actions of power can confer the capacity to alter radically the world of normal experience, whether it be the normal experience of gods or men.36 33 34

35 36

Ritner, Mechanics, 13. Cf. similarly the way in which traditional dichotomies make their way into the practical approach despite being explicitly disavowed in Fischer-Elfert, H.-W., Altägyptische Zaubersprüche (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2005) as shown by Otto, ‘Zauberhaftes Ägypten— Ägyptischer Zauber?’, in Jeserich (ed.), Ägypten—Kindheit—Tod: Gedenkschrift für Edmund Hermsen, 61–62. See also Otto, ‘Zauberhaftes Ägypten—Ägyptischer Zauber?’, in Jeserich (ed.), Ägypten— Kindheit—Tod: Gedenkschrift für Edmund Hermsen, esp. 50–70. Lloyd, A.B., ‘Heka, Dreams, and Prophecy in Ancient Egyptian Stories’, in Szpakowska, K.

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It is immediately clear that such a definition does not do justice to the actual attestations of the word ḥkꜣ, which is much more (e.g. a bodily substance, a god, etc.) than an ‘Egyptian conviction’, if even that. Clearly, then, despite the Egyptian designation, we are not dealing here with an emic concept, but rather with an etic one, somewhat misleadingly given the name of an actual emic concept. Apart from obscuring whether we are dealing with an Egyptian or a modern analytical concept, this gives rise to an additional problem. An approach where the Egyptian designation ḥkꜣ has been co-opted as an etic concept without covering the actual usages of the Egyptian term leaves no room for exploring or acknowledging the ways in which the Egyptian concept differs from the etic one (again for example ḥkꜣ as a powerful substance found in the body). Unless a very elaborate characterisation is arrived at, the practice of ‘defining’ indigenous terms is thus likely to result in impoverished versions of these concepts and no easy way to identify the resulting blind angles.37 The conflation of etic and emic concepts is also found in more subtle ways, as when Jan Assmann notes ‘Dabei hat die Ägyptische Sprache zwar kein Wort für “Religion”, aber ein Wort für “Magie”’,38 hence regarding ḥkꜣ as an Egyptian word meaning ‘magic’ (in the Western emic sense, as always in translations), which can thus speak implicitly to the modern distinction between this concept and that of ‘religion’. A further example is the widespread use of ḥkꜣ to designate ritual practice that might traditionally be labelled ‘magical’ (either in the Western emic or some analytical sense), whether or not there are Egyptian attestations to indicate that they would have used this term in individual cases.39 Thus, despite a growing number of specialist studies of ‘magic’ in ancient Egypt, it is still not clear what exactly characterises the concept of ḥkꜣ as actually

37

38

39

(ed.), Through a Glass Darkly: Magic, Dreams and Prophecy in Ancient Egypt (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2006), 71. This is a good example that Guksch’s suggestion that ‘It is useful to integrate indigenous concepts from ancient Egypt, such as “pharaoh” or “ma’at” (referring to the correct order of the universe), into our critical discourse in order to balance possible misunderstandings that could arise from our own concepts of culture’ (C. Guksch, E., s.v. ‘Anthropology and Egyptology’, in Bard, K.A., (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt (London and New York: Routledge, 199), 136), while well taken, is useful only to the extent the methodology allows them to continue to function as emic terms. Assmann, J., ‘Adolf Erman und die Forschung zur ägyptischen Religion’, in Schipper, B.U. (ed.), Ägyptologie als Wissenschaft: Adolf Erman (1854–1937) in seiner Zeit (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), 106–107, regarding ‘religion’ as more problematic in this regard than ‘magic’. A recent example being Morenz, Hoffen und Handeln, passim (specifically e.g. p. 93 with n. 292, where ‘Heka-Papyri’ is used synonymously with ‘magische Texte’—i.e. in the essential sense as designated here).

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used by the Egyptians, and in particular what (if anything) distinguishes ritual behaviour designated by this term from cases where it is not used. As this brief discussion shows, there is much to be gained from a renewed interest in our use of concepts. The example of ‘magic’ has focused in particular on the importance of upholding the distinction between different types of concepts in order to be able to treat them in methodologically appropriate ways.40 But important results can emerge also from more general rethinking of traditional categories where there is no doubt about their status in terms of the emic–etic distinction. One such example is the recent discussions about the etic notion of ‘democratisation’. Originally developed in the early 20th century as a characterisation of the increased religious privileges of ‘ordinary people’ during the transition from the Old to the Middle Kingdom,41 the once-influential concept has attracted increasing criticism during the last decade.42 The argument was based in particular on the distribution of funerary texts, with the Pyramid Texts

40

41

42

Due to considerations of space, I have deliberately sidestepped the important discussion of whether we actually need any Egyptological concept of ‘magic’ in this day and age (as opposed for example to various subcategories of ‘ritual’), focusing instead on how such a concept should be approached if it is retained. For forceful arguments from the perspective of history of religions in favour of the wholesale abandonment of the category, the reader is referred e.g. to Otto, ‘Zauberhaftes Ägypten—Ägyptischer Zauber?’, in Jeserich (ed.), Ägypten—Kindheit—Tod: Gedenkschrift für Edmund Hermsen, 39–70 and Podemann Sørensen, J., ‘Efficacy’, in Kreinath, J., J. Snoek, and M. Stausberg (eds.), Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, Approaches, Concepts (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006), 523–531. The earliest use of the notion of ‘democratising’ to describe this specific Egyptological idea may be in Breasted, J.H., Development of Religion and Thought in Ancient Egypt: Lectures Delivered under the Morse Foundation at Union Theological Seminary (New York: Charles Scribner, 1912), 256–257, although some of the underlying ideas, such as the related notion of gradual cultural decline, certainly have deeper late 19th- to early 20th-century roots. See further Willems, H., Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture: Religious Ideas and Ritual Practice in Middle Kingdom Elite Cemeteries (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2014), 124–133, and Smith, M., Following Osiris: Perspectives on the Osirian Afterlife from Four Millennia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 167–170, for the history of the concept. See in particular Hays, H.M., ‘The Death of the Democratisation of the Afterlife’, in Strudwick, N., and H. Strudwick (eds.), Old Kingdom, New Perspectives: Egyptian Art and Archaeology 2750–2150BC (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2011), 115–130; Smith, M., ‘Democratization of the Afterlife’, in Dieleman, J., and W. Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles: eScholarship, 2009), online at http://escholarship.org/uc/item/70g428wj; Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 124–229; Smith, Following Osiris, 166–270; Bickel, S., ‘Everybody’s Afterlife? “Pharaonisation” in the Pyramid Texts’, in Bickel, S., and L. Díaz-Iglesias (ed.), Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT: Brill, 2017), 119–148.

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of the late Old Kingdom being the prerogative of the king and his close family, whereas the Coffin Texts show a much wider distribution among non-royals. While the wording of the concept had previously attracted suspicion for some time in its blatant anachronism, the recent criticism focuses in particular on two sides of this question:43 On the one hand it has been shown that the social circles to which funerary texts were disseminated were in fact extremely narrow and restricted to members of the very high elite, so that whatever one wants to make of the phenomenon, it certainly was not a broad ‘democratisation’.44 On the other, it has been argued that only the specific use of funerary texts as tomb inscriptions was a royal prerogative in the Old Kingdom, while indirect evidence can be taken to indicate that much wider circles had access to similar texts for ritual purposes, which would entail that in terms of ‘beliefs’ or ‘access to the afterlife’, there were important continuities between the king and the elite already in the Old Kingdom.45 Willems argues that surrounded by the social and political upheavals following the First World War, Europeans of the time would have been particularly receptive to interpretations of ancient Egyptian history, in particular the First Intermediate Period, as paralleling such changes. Willems demonstrates how the language used in an influential article by Alexandre Moret from 1922 betrays that the inspiration in talking about ancient Egyptian ‘révolutionnaires’ or the resulting social structure as a ‘socialisme d’état’ was profoundly coloured by contemporary European history.46 While Moret appears to have had a certain sympathy for such movements, the aristocratic perspective of Hermann Kees, another highly influential scholar in shaping the ‘democratisation’ framework, tended to see the ancient Egyptian events instead as a deplorable erosion of social fabric and intellectual tradition.47

43 44 45

46

47

See the recent, more detailed overview in Bickel, ‘Everybody’s Afterlife?’, in Bickel and Díaz-Iglesias (ed.), Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature, 123–134. Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture, 165. Thus Hays, ‘The Death of the Democratisation of the Afterlife’, in Strudwick and Strudwick (eds.), Old Kingdom, New Perspectives, 115–130; Smith, ‘Democratization of the Afterlife’, in Dieleman and Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology; Morales, A., ‘Iteration, Innovation und Dekorum in Opferlisten des Alten Reichs’, Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 142/1 (2015), 55–69; Bickel, ‘Everybody’s Afterlife?’, in Bickel and Díaz-Iglesias (ed.), Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature, 119–148. Moret, A., ‘L’accession de la plèbe égyptienne aux droits religieux et politiques sous le Moyen Empire’, in Recueil d’études égyptologiques dédiées à la mémoire de J.-F. Champollion (Paris, 1922), 345, 349. Further similar examples of the vocabulary are provided by Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture, 128–129. Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture, 129–133.

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Willems’s general point in exploring this backdrop for the concept of ‘democratisation’ is that far from being purely incidental details of the personal inclinations of past scholars, the historical contingency lies at the very heart of the Egyptological concept. By the acceptance and perpetuation of the anachronistic notion of ‘democratisation’, the parallels seen very consciously by Moret and Kees have become part of the unseen structure of an apparently objective scholarly term. Although in this particular case, the concept carries this modern inspiration quite obviously on its sleeve, it had not previously been deconstructed and examined in the way done by Willems, meaning that its general assumptions have tended to be accepted without scrutiny—whether or not the term is put in quotation marks, and in fact to some extent even whether the notion is affirmed or (as increasingly in recent scholarship) denied as an accurate account of the evidence. In the most recent contribution to this discussion, Smith has taken the further step towards a deconstruction of pointing out the important way in which the notion of ‘democratisation’ has worked by conflating two different ideas: On the one hand the empirical question of the display of texts and iconography originating in the royal sphere, and on the other the theoretical assumption about differences in ‘access to the afterlife’.48 Although the use of the conceptual model of ‘democratisation’ has seemed to make it so, it is in fact far from obvious that these two ideas should automatically go hand in hand. Even more fundamentally, it might be added, the conceptualisation of funerary religion in terms of ‘access’ (or lack of same) to particular privileges in the afterlife seems to be a metaphor based directly on the notion of ‘access’ to texts and iconography. This conceptual model thus owes much to the notion of ‘democratisation’, but importantly tends to be retained, even when the more superficial entailments of that model are denied. A good example is found in Smith’s most recent discussion, where the notion of ‘democratisation’ is strongly (and justly) criticised, but the corollary notion that Egyptian funerary religion is best captured in terms of access to afterlife privileges is largely retained, albeit often formulated more broadly as ‘afterlife expectations’ or ‘aspirations for the afterlife’.49 On a more fundamental level, Smith thus leaves

48 49

Smith, Following Osiris, 170–172. E.g. ibid., 170–172. For some preliminary remarks on an alternative approach attempting to sidestep such models, in a sense a logical consequence of Smith’s (ibid., 155) well-taken point about the ‘ritual contingency’ of mythological statements made in the funerary texts, see Nyord, R., ‘“Taking Ancient Egyptian Mortuary Religion Seriously”: Why Would We, and How Could We?’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17 (2018), 73–87.

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the main emphasis on the empirical, rather than the conceptual, side,50 aiming to add further evidence of the continuity between royal and non-royal mortuary religion in the Old Kingdom to that previously collected by other scholars such as Hays and Morales.51 The two strands of criticism are not incompatible, but they do rest on rather different approaches to the concept of ‘democratisation’. In the first approach, the main proponent of which is Willems, it is the semantics of the concept itself that is being called into question: There was in fact an empirically-attested dissemination of texts, but it was on much too small a scale to merit the name of ‘democratisation’. In the second, the concept remains unchallenged (i.e. if there had been a dissemination of texts, it might have been a democratisation), and the focus is instead on re-evaluating the empirical side, arguing that the texts and the ideas they expressed were always shared between the king and the elite. It is thus Willems who has offered the most penetrating critique of the notion of ‘democratisation’ on a conceptual level, by not only showing that it is not adequate for explaining the empirical data, but also by going some way towards elucidating the intellectual milieu in which it was formed and its ideological underpinnings, exemplifying a type of conceptual and historiographical critique that remains a great desideratum in Egyptology. In the concrete case of the notion of ‘democratisation’, it is thus worth noting that this specific idea is in fact only one example of a broader tendency in Egyptology (and indeed elsewhere) to interpret and explain historical changes in terms of a proliferation of rights and privileges, with the retrospective deduction that the need and desire for these privileges must have been experienced previously. French theorist Jean-François Lyotard has termed this mode of meta-narrative explanation the ‘narrative of emancipation’.52 It is to be hoped that the criticism of the concept of ‘democratisation’ in Egyptology may provide the impetus for an engagement in the future with this larger framework of which the concept forms part and its intellectual and ideological setting. As can be seen from this summary, while when taken at face value the ‘democratisation of the afterlife’ may indeed be ‘dead’ as proclaimed by Hays,53 its repercussions and conceptual entailments are still with us, and the discussion is very much ongoing. Several of the contributions in this volume use

50 51 52 53

See especially Smith, Following Osiris, 96–101 and 152–155. See n. 45 above. Lyotard, J.-F., The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. G. Bennington and B. Massumi (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984 [1979]), 31–41 et passim. Hays, ‘The Death of the Democratisation of the Afterlife’, in Strudwick and Strudwick (eds.), Old Kingdom, New Perspectives, 115–130.

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evidence from the Coffin Texts to speak directly to this question and move the discussion forward in various ways. Notably, Goebs examines notions of kingship in the Coffin Texts to see if the role of the deceased as king can inform the question of royal or non-royal contexts of the spells, von Lieven argues that a number of Coffin Texts do not originate in a funeral context at all, while Willems questions the received notion of the deceased as ‘speaker’ in the funerary texts. Each in their own way, these arguments concerning the nature of the Coffin Texts will figure into future discussions in the wake of the ‘democratisation’ model and its ostensible demise.

2

Beyond the Emic–Etic Distinction

For reasons illustrated by the case study of Egyptological concepts of ‘magic’, the conflation of, or blurring of the distinction between, the emic and the etic has rightly been regarded as highly problematic. However, certain more recent methodological moves in anthropology and history of religions have explored the heuristic potential precisely of a principled suspension of this distinction. It is worth discussing briefly the thinking behind such new approaches, how they differ from less reflexive attempts in the same direction like those explored above, and what potential Egyptological implementations of such ideas might hold. It is worth noting first of all that the very notion that a researcher can ‘raise’ emic terms from his or her own language to the status of an etic concept by providing it with a definition implies that the shudders between the two categories cannot be entirely watertight. It is thus widely recognised that the ideals connected to etic concepts outlined above are highly culturally specific in their insistence on Aristotelean definitions, etc. In this sense, the forging of an etic concept can be thought of as little more than the explication and motivation of what ultimately remains merely an emic concept of the researcher and his or her colleagues. In a certain sense, the exact opposite approach to concepts and their use is that taken by the so-called ‘ontological turn’ in social anthropology.54 In one of the clearest expositions of the approach to concepts associated with this movement, Eduardo Viveiros de Castro has characterised it as involving a ‘thought experiment’:

54

See e.g. Holbraad, M., and M.A. Pedersen, The Ontological Turn: An Anthropological Exposition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017).

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What does such a fiction consist in? It consists in taking indigenous ideas as concepts, and following through on the consequences of such a decision: to determine the preconceptual ground or plane of immanence that such concepts presuppose, the conceptual personae that they deploy, and the material realities that they create.55 At first view, this might seem similar to what was referred to above as ‘raising’ an emic term to the status of an etic one. This was envisaged above mainly in relation to the researcher’s own emic concepts, which could be made appropriate for use as analytical tools in this way, but one could imagine something similar being done with emic terms from other cultures (despite the practical problems with this as illustrated by the ‘magic’ category above). However, what Viveiros de Castro and other proponents of the ‘ontological turn’ have in mind is something significantly more radical, as already implied by the wording in the quoted passage. The aim is to put indigenous concepts completely on a par with those of the anthropologist:56 In short, anthropological concepts are relative because they are relational, and they are relational because their role is to relate. Indeed, their relational origin and function is marked by the habit of designating them with alien-sounding words: mana, totem, kula, potlatch, tabu, gumsa/gumlao …. Other concepts, no less authentic, carry an etymological signature that evokes analogies between the cultural tradition from which they emerged and the traditions that are their object: gift, sacrifice, kinship, person …. Yet other (and just as legitimate) ones constitute terminological inventions the role of which is to generalize the conceptual mechanisms of the people being studied—animism, segmentary opposition, restricted exchange, schismogenesis …—or, inversely, and more problematically, terms that are deployed in order to inject notions that are already diffuse in our own tradition into the interior of a specific theoretical economy—incest taboo, gender, symbol, culture—so as to universalize them.

55

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Viveiros de Castro, E., ‘The Relative Native’, HAU Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3/3 (2013), 484. The notion found here of concept and associated terminology such as the plane of immanence come from Deleuze, G., and F. Guattari, What is Philosophy?, trans. H. Tomlinson and G. Burchell (London and New York: Verso, 1994 [1991]). Viveiros de Castro, ‘The Relative Native’, HAU Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3/3 (2013), 486 (punctuation original).

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This raises an important question concerning the differences between taking indigenous ideas as concepts in this way on the one hand and the more problematic tendencies to conflate features of the two categories of the emic and the etic exemplified above. One important difference is that the ‘ontological turn’ aims explicitly to take alterity seriously.57 The problems with ‘magic’ seen above tended to arise from attempts to ‘domesticate’ the Egyptian concept of ḥkꜣ in order to subordinate it under a broader (Western) concept of ‘magic’, whether this aimed at getting license to apply such a concept to the Egyptian material in the first place and make it amenable to theological systematisation (Ritner), to compel the Egyptian concept to speak to the Western distinction between ‘magic’ and ‘religion’ (Assmann), or simply to re-forge it as a manageable ‘Egyptian conviction’ (Lloyd). In contrast, an ‘ontological’ approach would aim to bring out precisely the features and ontological consequences of the ancient Egyptian concept that do not correspond to our own (emic or etic) models and assumptions and which have thus tended to fall by the wayside in traditional approaches. In the case of magic, one such focus might be on the embodied nature of Egyptian ḥkꜣ: What would it mean to take seriously a concept of power which is predicated neither on a lack of causality, a distinction from religion, or vague ideas about ‘energy’, but which has precisely the material, experiential and embodied qualities that the Egyptian texts claim that ḥkꜣ has—and what would a world in which such a power subsisted be like?58 As Viveiros de Castro puts it, ‘Treating indigenous ideas as concepts means taking them as containing a properly philosophical significance, or as being potentially capable of philosophical use’.59 In its most radical formulation, this approach to concepts does perhaps not seem likely to come to play a major role in Egyptology. However, it is worth noting that important inspirations from the ‘ontological turn’ are finding their way into Egyptology,60 indicating that engagement with the more conceptual side of the movement remains a possible future avenue of exploration.

57 58

59 60

For this notion as used in the ontological turn, cf. Nyord, ‘ “Taking Ancient Egyptian Mortuary Religion Seriously”’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17 (2018), 73. The conceptual model is sketched in Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 355–381, but the ontological ramifications remain to be explored. For a comparable case of material properties of an apparently abstract concept, see e.g. Holbraad, M., ‘The Power of Powder: Multiplicity and Motion in the Divinatory Cosmology of Cuban Ifa (or Mana, Again)’, in Henare, A., M. Holbraad, and S. Wastell (eds.), Thinking through Things: Theorising Artefacts Ethnographically (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006), 189–225. Viveiros de Castro, ‘The Relative Native’, HAU Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3/3 (2013), 485. E.g. Nyord, R., ‘Permeable Containers: Body and Cosmos in Middle Kingdom Coffins’, in

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Concepts in Middle Kingdom Funerary Culture

Against the background outlined above, it is clear that a renewed focus on Egyptian and Egyptological concepts is highly opportune, both from traditional perspectives such as the emic–etic distinction and from more novel ones such as those articulated by the ‘ontological turn’. But why the focus on Middle Kingdom funerary culture? We have already seen above that this subject area has been the site of one of relatively few genuinely conceptual Egyptological debates in recent years, namely that surrounding the notion of ‘democratisation’. In the wake of this discussion, there is wide scope for questioning many of the associated traditional ideas that touch upon this area. Thus, the Egyptological concept of ‘funerary literature’ cannot remain unaffected by the rethinking of the social setting of the Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts, and indeed several of the papers presented at the Symposium took up associated questions regarding the nature of Middle Kingdom funerary literature, resulting in a re-evaluation of part of what that category entails. As other papers demonstrated, further concepts in the funerary archaeology of the period turn out to be equally amenable to rethinking and nuancing. The general impression is that, as also seen from the examples discussed above, conceptual rethinking may be particularly fruitful in topics connected to ancient Egyptian religion, where our categories are often deceptive in seeming to be neutrally descriptive and sometimes almost unavoidable, whilst actually often carrying significant amounts of unintended and unrecognised baggage. Finally, several of the papers dealt with emic concepts or conceptions, an area in which Middle Kingdom funerary culture is no different from other subspecialisations in Egyptology in leaving plenty of scope in the beginning of the 21st century for nuancing and clarifying the Egyptians’ own categories, be they overt or covert. While the focus is thus on Middle Kingdom funerary culture, it is hoped that the volume will raise questions and provide approaches and methodologies of interest well beyond this more narrow field of specialisation—and in so doing provide a renewed impetus to revisit our concepts. In her chapter ‘Projection of Self in Middle Kingdom Tombs and Coffins’, Susanne Bickel undertakes a comparative study of the presentation of the deceased on the one hand in the texts found inaccessibly inscribed in the coffin and other the other hand those displayed in the open parts of the tomb. Sousa, R. (ed.), Body, Cosmos and Eternity: New Research Trends in the Iconography and Symbolism of Ancient Coffins (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2014), 29–44; Brémont, A., ‘Into the Wild? Rethinking the Dynastic Conception of the Desert beyond Nature and Culture’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17 (2018), 1–17.

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Focusing on the fact that the social actors are to a large extent the same in the two types of texts, and that they share the funerary social setting as well as many concepts, Bickel argues that Coffin Texts and autobiographical inscriptions can fruitfully be regarded as complementary sides of one and the same discourse, allowing each of the two types of texts to be seen in a new light as embedded within their respective social and conceptual settings. Sylvie Donnat revisits a traditional object category under the title ‘ “Letters to the Dead”: Written Administrative Practices and Funerary Culture (Late Old Kingdom–Middle Kingdom)’, examining the research history of the concept and suggesting a set of analytic criteria for its definition, based on the type of speech, the topic, and the material aspects of the letter. This definition identifies a core group of typical ‘letters to the dead’ along with several outliers which fail to live up to one or more of criteria, while fulfilling the rest. This etic definition is then compared with emic considerations, on the one hand of terms that can be connected to the kind of writings exemplified by the ‘letters to the dead’, and on the other of the wider contemporary uses of writing forming the backdrop of the process of writing such letters. In the first of several papers in this volume aiming at reconsidering certain aspects of the funerary texts, Katja Goebs poses the question ‘How “Royal” (and “Mythical”) Are the Coffin Texts? Reflections on the Definition and Function of some Etic Concepts in a Middle Kingdom Funerary Text Corpus’. With inspiration from the ‘democratisation’ debate, Goebs looks for evidence of specifically royal conceptions in the texts, in the first instance by analysing a number of central passages dealing with emic designations of ‘kings’, elucidating the mythological and cosmic settings of the roles of the king. She argues that a great many of the references to kingship have a mythical or metaphorical quality rather than referring to kingship as a political reality, and that this use of the office of kingship as a conceptual model can provide important pointers for the use of myth in funerary texts. Moving beyond the assumption that the nature and conceptual background of the Coffin Texts are adequately captured by their traditional categorisation as funerary literature, Alexandra von Lieven poses the question ‘How “Funerary” Are the Coffin Texts?’. She argues that, while we happen to know the spells of the Coffin Texts only from their use in funerary culture, there are a number of text-internal clues indicating outside origins of many of the spells. By identifying the possible non-funerary backgrounds of such spells, one can get closer to an emic understanding of the texts, including the possible reasons why they may have ended up inscribed on coffins. This picture serves as an important complement to the etic notion of ‘funerary literature’, which thus turns out to be significantly less self-explanatory than it might seem.

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Gianluca Miniaci takes his point of departure in one aspect of the changes of burial practices in the late Middle Kingdom, namely the use of multiple burials. In his chapter ‘Burial Demography in the Late Middle Kingdom: A Social Perspective’, he sets up a detailed etic definition of the phenomenon and argues that this change in burial practice should be seen in the context of wider transformations of social structure indicated by several different contemporary sources, including lexical designations of kin, the layout and contents of cult stelae, and the temporary hiatus in ‘letters to the dead’. From a more theoretical perspective, Miniaci argues that the changes in burial practice involved a renegotiation of the role of the dead body in the burial assemblage and its status as ‘object’, and that this understanding can in turn help explain certain other changes associated with late Middle Kingdom burials. In a chapter dedicated entirely to an emic concept, Rune Nyord takes up a classical Egyptological discussion in examining ‘The Concept of ka between Egyptian and Egyptological Frameworks’. Arguing that previous interpretations have tended towards taking their point of departure in a subset of the evidence while downplaying the importance of the remainder, Nyord suggests an approach based on Egyptian notions of potential and actual existence and the expressions this dichotomy finds in the texts. Ultimately the ka is argued to be understandable as a ‘meta-person’ or ‘condition of possibility’ of a person, and Nyord goes on to show how such an understanding can help make sense of the different roles played by the ka in the sources of the Old and Middle Kingdom. As in Alexandra von Lieven’s chapter, the nature of funerary literature is also the theme of the last chapter in the volume, in which Harco Willems reconsiders the question of whose voice is heard in the Coffin Texts, under the heading ‘Who Am I? An Emic Approach to the So-Called “Personal Texts” in Egyptian “Funerary Literature”’. By combining grammatical features of the texts with an emic perspective formed by various clues to the ritual setting of the spells found in the texts and their rubrics, Willems argues that texts formulated in the first person can be fruitfully understood as having been performed by living ritualists on behalf of the dead, rather than being read and spoken by the dead himself in the afterlife as implied by the traditional concept of ‘Totenliteratur’. Apart from having consequences for the understanding of funerary texts themselves, Willems also demonstrates that his reinterpretation has ramification for wider questions of the continuity of texts from funerary and temple contexts traditionally discussed as a question of ‘mysticism’.

chapter 2

Projection of Self in Middle Kingdom Tombs and Coffins* Susanne Bickel

In the setting of Middle Kingdom upper elite tombs, the biographical inscription or self-presentation in the tomb chapel and the inscriptions on the coffin(s) down in the burial chamber were the only two extensive textual compositions. All other inscriptions are short captions or offering formulae and title sequences. Both the biographical inscription in the tomb’s superstructure and the Coffin Texts in the more inaccessible parts of the tomb focus on a single person. Both text categories are intrinsically bound to the cultural sphere of the tomb and to the social environment of the provincial elite. The following lines seek to compare compositional, semantic and functional aspects of the two text categories and to elicit strategies of self-presentation, claims of status and forms of appresentation of the central person. The latter concept refers to processes of making the invisible—in our case the deceased protagonist—perceptible and present through the effectiveness of words within a specific social and cultural context. The observation of different forms of ego-description and ego-discourse serves here as a case study to explore possibilities of emic and etic approaches. The confrontation between the two approaches broadens our awareness of the possibilities which we have to analyse ancient material within the frame of our system of thought and theory, while at the same time drawing attention to the dangers of looking with too much confidence through the glasses of our own cultural background. Trying to distinguish the emic perspective is of course extremely delicate. How can concepts or threads of thought and action that appear to have been meaningful to the ancient users of funerary culture be evaluated from the vantage point of these users or actors themselves? We can in fact hardly ever pre-

* I thank Rune Nyord for inviting me to participate in this most stimulating Lady Wallis Budge Anniversary Symposium, for prompting reflection around emic and etic concepts, and for discussing a draft of this paper. Part of this contribution also derives from a presentation given at the conference on Ancient Egyptian Biographies organised by Julie Stauder-Porchet, Elizabeth Frood and Andréas Stauder in Basel in May 2014. I also thank the organisers of this meeting. I’m most grateful to Anna Garnet for proofreading the draft of this paper.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_003

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cisely grasp how ancient people thought, what significance and what value they assigned to features—concepts and practices—of their own lifeworldly environment and activities. The problem is, however, not restricted to the analysis of ancient and ‘silent’ cultures, but is likewise faced in contemporary social and anthropological research that aims to map meaning. How can one ever understand the other? The concept of emic approach has been widely discussed in social anthropology and its difficulties and deficiencies highlighted. However, the productive complementarity between the etic perspective of the researcher’s personal and cultural viewpoint on the one hand, and the emic perspective from within a different cultural sphere on the other, has equally been underlined.1 The difficulty of assessing concepts and meaning in ancient or foreign cultural spheres obviously resides in the fact that the external observer has to collect, reconstruct and understand the emic viewpoint, an endeavour that is virtually impossible without external interpretation and influence.2 Emic analysis has nevertheless been developed into an analytical tool that can help to (re)produce an indigenous perspective. The Emic Evaluation Approach (EEA) has been established as a suitable method to apprehend social reality in ethnographic fieldwork.3 It is suggested here that this model can, to a certain extent, be transferred to the analysis of ancient situations such as those involved in Middle Kingdom funerary culture. The Emic Evaluation Approach is a dynamic research process that focuses on the analysis of three interrelated dimensions of social reality, namely the actors, discourse, and social practice. It can be considered as a means of balancing the subjective approach on one hand and the observed actors’ expressed conceptualisations in discourse, as well as active implementation in social practice, on the other. This procedure allows a balanced approach to the meaningfulness of another culture’s thoughts and actions by drawing as much as possible on the inside perspective, but also integrates the observing and, at times interpreting, etic outside perspective. The analysis of the discourse brings us closest to the internal conceptualisations, whereas the assessment of social practices relies 1 For a brief history of methods and debates in qualitative social history see Olive, J.L., ‘Reflecting on the Tensions Between Emic and Etic Perspectives in Life History Research: Lessons Learned’, Forum: Qualitative Social Research 15/2 (2014) (= http://www.qualitative‑research .net/index.php/fqs/article/view/2072, last accessed August 2018). 2 See also Miniaci, G., ‘Reuniting Philology and Archaeology: The “Emic” and “Etic” in the Letter of the Dead, Qau Bowl UC16163 and its Context’, ZÄS 143 (2016), 88–89. 3 Förster, T., ‘Emic Evaluation Approach—Some Remarks on its Epistemological Background’, Basel Papers on Political Transformations 3 (2011), pp. 3–14 (= https://ethnologie.philhist .unibas.ch/fileadmin/user_upload/ethnologie/Publikationen/Basel_Papers_No_3.pdf, last accessed August 2018).

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strongly on external observation. This research method can be started from any of the three spheres of investigation. The transposition of this method to the field of Middle Kingdom funerary culture permits us to consider, to a certain extent, the actors and the contexts of their agency in order to reconstruct some lines of the concepts that guided their actions. It will be suggested here that both the so-called biographical inscriptions and the spells inscribed on coffins should be considered as forms of a single discourse designed to ascertain the deceased’s otherworldly destiny. The analysis will attempt to highlight different strands of a coherent concept. Reconstructing practice is particularly difficult in relation to ancient societies. Not only is participation obviously impossible, but very little information subsides in relation to social—and in particular ritual—practice in contexts that are not themselves part of the funerary discourse. Conversely, most of what we know about practice in the field of funerary culture derives from funerary discourse where practical and ritual aspects, as well as their social relevance and meanings, are only sparsely hinted at.

1

Biographies and Coffin Texts: Commonalities and Differences

The sphere in which the objects to be considered here were produced and used are Middle Bronze Age4 towns, generally regional centres in Middle and Upper Egypt, and their cemeteries which often lay at considerable distance in the desert areas on both sides of the Nile. Cemeteries were generally dominated by elite tombs, which constituted the focal point of elite display as well as important centres within the regional religious or ritual landscapes. So-called self-presentations or biographies were among the key elements of elite tomb decoration with a productive tradition which started towards the end of the Fifth Dynasty.5 The biography could either be engraved on the walls of a rock-cut tomb chapel or in a slightly simpler setting on a stela placed in a mud-brick tomb superstructure. During the Middle Kingdom, biograph-

4 The period encompasses part of the First Intermediate Period as well as the major part of the Twelfth Dynasty (ca. 2000–1800BC). 5 Stauder-Porchet, J., Les autobiographies de l’Ancien Empire égyptien: Étude sur la naissance d’un genre, (OLA 255, Leuven, 2017). I thank Julie Stauder-Porchet for the possibility to consult her manuscript while still in press. For Middle Kingdom biographies see Lichtheim, M., Ancient Egyptian Autobiographies Chiefly of the Middle Kingdom: A Study and an Anthology (OBO 84, Freiburg/Göttingen, 1988); for the slightly later period Kubisch, S., Lebensbilder der 2. Zwischenzeit: Biographische Inschriften der 13.–17. Dynastie (DAIS 34, Berlin, 2008).

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ical inscriptions could occasionally leave the sphere of the tomb and feature on Abydos stelae or temple statues, while always remaining bound to sacred space.6 The second major group of texts attested in the Middle Kingdom funerary sphere are the Coffin Texts7 inscribed on the inner faces of wooden box coffins, and occasionally other objects. Their presence on coffins is equally related to high social status.8 The history of text evolution and transmission is the subject of intense study and remains far from being elucidated. The possibility that certain spells of the Coffin Texts may originally derive from other contexts, such as temple ritual, medicine, ‘magical’ practice etc., does not fundamentally affect their specific function within the text corpus inscribed in a coffin.9 The combination of both text categories was certainly not compulsory: not every elite person had a biography as well as an inscribed coffin or coffin set. This was probably rather an ideal situation aspired to by high status individuals, particularly in provincial centres. As will be argued below, the claim of a prominent social status and a powerful projection of self were central topics in the funerary discourse deployed by biographies and coffin inscriptions. Individuals whose burial setting contained only one of the text categories expressed the expectation of otherworldly integration with the wording and conceptual focus of the respective category. People of lower status probably less emphasised the aspect of integration through status and rather focused on other funerary expectations, such as otherworldly subsistence. Even rather modest funerary equipment with little and standardised textual expression could be combined in meaningful ways to articulate expectations and guarantee essential future requirements.10

6 7

8

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10

Although contemporaneous to the material studied here, Abydos stelae and temple statues have their specific focus and context and are not considered here. I use this term here to refer to the entire text corpus inscribed on Middle Kingdom coffins (de Buck, A., The Egyptian Coffin Texts, Chicago, 1935–1961), including the spells attributed to the corpus of Pyramid Texts, Allen, J.P., Middle Kingdom Copies of Pyramid Texts (OIP 132, Chicago, 2006). On the social environment of Coffin Texts, see Willems, H., Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture: Religious Ideas and Funerary Practice in Middle Kingdom Elite Cemeteries (Leiden/Boston, 2014), 159–165. See von Lieven, A. in this volume; ead., ‘Originally Non-funerary Spells from the Coffin Texts: the Example of CT spell 38’, in Bickel, S., and L. Díaz-Iglesias (eds.), Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature, (OLA 257, Leuven/Paris/Bristol, 2017), 345–354. De Meyer, M., ‘Reading a Burial Chamber: Anatomy of a First Intermediate Period Coffin in Context’, in Taylor, J.H., and M. Vandenbeusch (eds.), Ancient Egyptian Coffins: Craft Traditions and Functionality (BMPES 4, Leuven/Paris/Bristol 2018), 217–230.

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For representatives of the upper elite, who owned large tombs prominently featuring a tomb biography in centres like Beni Hassan, Deir el-Bersha, Deir elGebrawi, Asyut, Thebes or elsewhere, it seems very probable that they were also possessors of high standard coffins. However, in the scattered state of accessible remains, there are very few extant examples of this combination of an inscribed coffin and a biography belonging to the same person.11 The present attempt to investigate the two text categories as part of a common discourse therefore has the character of a simulation. Coffins and biographies were inherently connected to the funerary sphere, and I consider that we can be confident that both text categories were equally determined by funerary needs and perspectives. These future-oriented expectations may be the plot to which both types of text compositions relate: a person’s engagement with his post-mortem existence both in an earthly and an otherworldly social perspective. Beyond the commonality of their embeddedness in the same spatial, social and conceptual contexts, the differences between the two text categories are numerous. To cite only a few dissimilarities: – The biography is inscribed in an accessible space of the tomb, it is meant to be public, turned outwards, whereas the coffin and its inscriptions are hidden, deposited in the inaccessible parts of the tomb, the texts within the coffin box turned inwards towards the body of the deceased. – The materiality of the writing support as well as the script diverge from mostly monochrome (green or blue) hieroglyphs incised into or raised out of a limestone surface for the biographies, to cursive script painted in black on wooden boards for the Coffin Texts. – Whereas high status coffins were quite regularly prepared for women and inscribed with elaborate text compositions in their name, biographies composed for women are most exceptional.12 This difference, however, is probably less relevant for the semantic of biographies and for the comparability

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A possible example is Ahanakhte I from Deir el-Bersha for whom fragments of a biography are known and to whom a coffin set now in Philadelphia (E. 16217a–b and E. 16218a–b; B1Ph and B2Ph; = https://www.penn.museum/collections/search.php?term=Ahanakhte& submit_term=Submit+Query; last accessed August 2018) can presumably be attributed: Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 88, 152; id., ‘De autobiografie van Ahanacht I uit Deir al-Barsja’, in Demarée, R.J., and K.R. Veenhof (eds.), Zij schreven geschiedenis: Historische documenten uit het Oude Nabije Oosten (2500–100 v.Chr.), (MVEOL 33, Leiden/Leuven, 2003), 57–70. I thank Marleen De Meyer and Harco Willems for bringing my attention to this instance during a conference in Leuven. The example of the woman Djehutinakht from Deir el-Bersha seems so far unique, Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 74–75.

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of inscribed coffins and biographies than for the general cultural setting of a high standard tomb. Something like a eulogy, an evocation of moral behaviour and a review of deeds may have also existed for women, perhaps performed orally during the funeral. Much later, the letter written by Butehamun to his deceased wife contains such eulogistic and biographical elements.13 1.1 Compositional Aspects Biographies and Coffin Texts share a number of compositional features that can be enumerated here to further highlight the fact that both text categories are part of a common conceptual frame. – Both text categories are inseparably associated with the same offering formula and are therefore semantically bound to the idea of permanent and enduringly reactivated sustenance. – Biographical inscriptions as well as coffins and individual Coffin Text spells or sequences begin with or are framed by the title string and the name of the person they are destined for. Offering formulae and title strings can occur independently on different parts of tomb wall decoration or on mobile funerary objects, but they are compulsory and crucial constituents of the biography and the decorated coffin. – Both categories are mainly concerned with strategies of self-presentation: after the person’s titles and name they continue in a fluctuation between first and third person, some text categories also addressing the deceased in the second person. The use of the first person pronoun is always an exterior or ascribed first person, laid into the mouth of somebody by the text composer.14 In the case of the Coffin Texts (and perhaps also the biographies), this form of the first person pronoun as well as the shift to the third or second person presumably derive from a performing use where a ritualist enunciated the text on the deceased’s behalf.15 This possible text origin or punctual text use does not (to my understanding) affect the equation of the first person with the central individual, the deceased, whenever the texts stand and function on their own. – Both text categories also share compositional similarities in showing a mixture of particularity and reproduction. Each biography is unique and partic13 14 15

Donnat Beauquier, S., Écrire à ses morts: Enquête sur un usage rituel de l’ écrit dans l’ Égypte pharaonique (Grenoble, 2014), 77–80, 158–163. This does not exclude a possible active involvement of the tomb or coffin owners in the composition or selection of the text material, see below. On this question see the contribution of Harco Willems in this volume.

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ularised, and yet they share stock phrases, clichés and a limited number of similarly formulated topics. Likewise, no two coffins have the same selection of spells, and the particularity and conscious arrangement of text sequences becomes more evident with every case study of a coffin or coffin ensemble that is carried out.16 Close analysis even reveals that what appear to be simple variants in Adrian De Buck’s synopsis, in fact reflect conscious adaptions and integrations of a spell into its sequence and its conceptual and functional environment.17 A coffin and a biography are therefore comparable in being particular and particularised compositions built with predefined textual and topical components. The particularisation or individualisation of each object—coffin or biography—is based rather on the process of selection and on the combination of preconceived notions and formulations than on invention; however, next to largely standardised text material, many objects from both categories also contain clearly individual and utterly unconventional elements. In accordance with the method of the Emic Evaluation Approach, the three spheres of social reality—the actors, discourse, and social practice related to Middle Kingdom funerary culture—will be assessed in the following lines.

2

The Actors

Social hierarchy is strongly reflected in tomb architecture and equipment. Little has survived or is nowadays archaeologically accessible from the simple burial places of the lower strata of communities. What subsists to a certain, although very fragmented extent, are the rock-cut tombs of members of the provincial elites. These elites were primarily involved in administrative and priestly activities on a local or regional level, the higher functions being dependent on royal

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Willems, H., The Coffin of Heqata (Cairo JdE 36418): A Case Study of Egyptian Funerary Culture of the Early Middle Kingdom (OLA 70, Leuven, 1996); E. Meyer-Dietrich, Nechet und Nil: Ein ägyptischer Frauensarg des Mittleren Reiches aus religionsökologischer Sicht (Uppsala, 2001); ead., Senebi und Selbst: Personenkonstituenten zur rituellen Wiedergeburt in einem Frauensarg des Mittleren Reiches (OBO 216, Freiburg/Göttingen, 2006); recent dissertations by Arquier, B., Le double sarcophage de Mésehti S1C (CG 28118)—S2C (CG 28119): Recherches sur l’organisation du décor iconographique et textuel (Montpellier, 2013) (http://www.biu ‑montpellier.fr/florabium/jsp/nnt.jsp?nnt=2013MON30019) and Dahn, J.-M., Die Särge des Karenen (Heidelberg, 2014). Arquier, B., ‘Le double sarcophage de Mésehti: L’espace, le verbe et le temps’, in Bickel, S., and L. Díaz-Iglesias (eds.) Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature (OLA 257, Leuven/Paris/Bristol, 2017), 43–72.

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appointment and orders.18 For this social sphere, the preparation of a tomb and adequate burial equipment was presumably a major concern—financially as well as intellectually—during the time of their professional activity. At the highest levels of society, the preparation of the place in the necropolis could in addition be complemented by the foundation of a chapel (ḥw.t-kꜣ) and one or several statues in the town or temple area.19 Although the major realisations of this cultural activity concerned only the highest-ranking men, participation in the various phases of production and handling of these monuments and goods certainly involved larger numbers of people and undoubtedly had a noticeable economic impact in Middle Kingdom town communities. The precise modalities of interaction between commissioners and producers—workmen, craftsmen, artists, and scribes—as well as their forms of organisation and affiliation, escape our knowledge. Considering the sphere of text production, however, the commission of a biography (and by extension the entire tomb wall decoration) or of an inscribed coffin was presumably addressed to the same limited circle of literate specialists within one town. In the community of a regional centre, it is likely that only a few tens of men were literate, and among those only a limited number were active in text production outside the administrative sphere. Individuals might have specialised in the composition of biographies or in the selection and combining of texts for a coffin. It seems, however, most probable that producers of biographies and of coffins built upon the same training, worked within the same libraries or scriptoria and belonged to the same, numerically very limited, intellectual sphere. Commissioners and producers of these text collections, therefore, belonged to the same milieu, perhaps even family group, whereas the actual executors of coffins and tomb reliefs, the artisans or artists, may have been part of the extended social group. Furthermore, text production within a regional centre probably moved at a rather slow pace, as each generation only comprised a very small number of commissioners of a biography or an inscribed coffin. Bearing in mind the restrictedness of the milieu who had access to material like the Coffin Texts and who were able to compose new biographies, as well as the fact that the commissioners were an integral part of this milieu, also involves considering the potential agency of commissioners. Most commissioners, who ordered and financed the composition of a biography or the creation of an inscribed box coffin or coffin set for themselves or for a close relative, had themselves access to the knowledge 18 19

For a detailed assessment of this social group see Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 4–58. Verbovsek, A., ‘Als Gunsterweis des Königs in den Tempel gegeben’: Private Tempelstatuen des Alten und Mittleren Reiches (ÄAT 63, Wiesbaden, 2004).

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and to the archives or prototypes that allowed the accomplishment of the command. Many owners of these text categories wear priestly titles, often in the highest hierarchical positions. Some inscriptions also refer to their privilege of access to relevant knowledge, such as Iha from Deir el-Bersha: ‘Chief of writing in the House of Life, one to whom all sacred (things/scripts) are opened’.20 Their own erudition and participation in the restricted knowledgeable milieu permitted them to contribute actively to the decisions and choices that led to the creation, or selection and arrangement, of texts or spells. They shaped the funerary discourse to be carried by their monuments just as much as their desire to possess (or offer to close relatives) an inscribed coffin and/or a biography was shaped by the same discourse. As priests, they were also potentially involved in the rituals through which the Coffin Texts were activated during burial ceremonies of their relatives, or members of their community, and the festivals during which biographies were presumably read aloud (see below). The actors themselves, the shaping and propagation of the funerary discourse and its material expressions, and the various aspects of practice— commissioning, selection, performance—were therefore intimately related and mutually dependent within a very restricted social group.21

3

Funerary Discourse

One of the main purposes of the entire tomb setting and its equipment was to enable the deceased’s future existence. Both biography and coffin inscriptions participate in this conceptual frame and aim primarily at establishing a person’s identity. The person’s name, titles and status are crucial in this process. The keynote in both text categories is the necessity of asserting social integration into the spheres of future existence.22 The afterlife was envisaged from an interrelated double perspective: as existence in an otherworldly reality with its own hierarchies and norms, and as existence in the cult activities and memory of the earthly social environment and its future representatives. The successful integration into both spheres was ascertained in elite material expression, 20

21 22

Tomb of Iha, Griffith, F.Ll. and P.E. Newberry, El Bersheh II (London, 1896), pl. 21, l. 3–4; Morenz, L., Beiträge zur Schriftlichkeitskultur im Mittleren Reich und in der 2. Zwischenzeit (ÄAT 29, Wiesbaden, 1996), 84–86. For an in-depth analysis of the restrictedness of this group, see Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 140–165. For clear funerary orientations of a New Kingdom and several Late Period biographies, see von Lieven, A., ‘Zur Funktion der ägyptischen Autobiographie’, Welt des Orients 40 (2010), 54–69.

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primarily through texts of self-presentation, which assisted the constitution of powerful and advantageous identities and ascertained an efficient projection of self into an expected future. Statues of the person in the tomb, the local temple or specific chapels, as well as long-term endowments, completed this deployment and communicated the aspiration to remain part of the society of the living. The establishment of a social and personal identity that was suited to the requirements of a person’s afterlife existence appears as one of the crucial concepts in Middle Kingdom funerary discourse. In this context, identity appears—as is often emphasised in contemporary social science—as a contingent and changing construction which primarily serves to mark differences.23 The biographies of elite men highlight this difference through the evocation of exceptional deeds and privileged relations, while at the same time emphasising integration within the peer group of leaders. One of the main objectives of Coffin Texts was to set up and maintain a new identity for the deceased that was adequate to the existence in otherworldly spheres, in so far as it encompassed divine characteristics and powers. 3.1 Future Integrations The theme of social integration is central in Middle Kingdom biographies: the person is characterised through his actions for and within society.24 He is particularised within a given frame of conventions and the horizontal group of his peers. He is also integrated into the vertical structure of his relation to the king or his superior, as well as to his subordinates. The subject of the biography insists on his merits and achievements in order to preserve his privileged social status. Based on the position he had during his life, he aspires to remain incorporated in the community of future living beings. The biographies also frequently refer to a man’s acquaintance with deities and his experience in contact with the divine acquired during his life, mainly in priestly functions. This earthly experience was certainly considered as a most useful preparation for the integration into the otherworld. Whereas spouse and descendants are featured in the tomb wall decoration in cultic contexts, they are generally excluded from the construction of identity elaborated in the biographical inscriptions. In the Coffin Texts, two types of social integration are at stake: the reintegration of household and family groups and, most importantly, the inte23 24

Knapp, A.B., ‘Beyond Agency: Identity and Individuals in Archaeology’, in Steadman, S.R., and J.C. Ross (eds.), Agency and Identity in the Ancient Near East (London, 2010), 193–200. This aspect is a new dimension of significance of biographies since the First Intermediate Period, Stauder-Porchet, Les autobiographies de l’Ancien Empire égyptien, 308–309.

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gration of a person into the sphere of the gods. The otherworld constitutes a new social context in which the person must find and secure his/her position. At least for some aspects of the afterlife, the point of reference were social conditions of this world. Two sequences of Coffin Texts spells stress the importance of reuniting in the otherworld the ‘family’ or rather the Egyptian ꜣb.t-group that comprised close relatives by blood in their legal and property-transmitting relationship:25 CT spells 131–135 (S1C+S2C; G2T)26 and 136–146 (Deir el-Bersha, Saqqara). This ꜣb.t-group is also sporadically mentioned in First Intermediate Period and early Middle Kingdom biographies.27 Integrating a new social sphere also meant leaving the former one. The topic of succession is developed in the Coffin Texts, whereas the legitimising acts performed by the succeeding son during the funeral are only hinted at in certain parts of the tomb decoration. Funerary spells such as the sequence around CT spell 3828 develop the idea that the deceased and his son could be envisaged, albeit in different spheres, in comparable situations as successor and as Horus. The social group of the deceased’s wife, son and kin can appear in tomb wall iconography, but is marginal in contemporaneous biographies, which focus on the professional extra-household activities and interactions with superiors and peers. The professional and the private social spheres are referred to in two separate text categories; they both pertain in a complementary way to the person and constitute his entire social embedding. The evocations of the superior-peer group on the one hand, and of the ꜣb.t-group and the son on the other, may have been consciously distributed in the two types of inscriptions: the private and legally relevant group was invoked close to the body as it was considered as a man’s inner group of relationships, whereas the superiors and peers are the

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26

27 28

Willems, H., ‘Family Life in the Hereafter According to Coffin Texts Spells 131–146: A Study in the Structure of Ancient Egyptian Domestic Groups’, in Nyord, R., and K. Ryholt (eds.), Lotus and Laurel: Studies on Egyptian Language and Religion in Honour of Paul John Frandsen (CNI Publications 39, Copenhagen, 2015), 447–472. As shown by Goebs, K., Crowns in Egyptian Funerary Literature: Royalty, Rebirth, and Destruction (Oxford, 2008), 315–320, this ꜣb.t-family can also be associated with the evening sun and metaphorically designate the stars. This mythological use of the term might be the reason why no spouse is mentioned among the family members. Willems, in Nyord and Ryholt (eds.), Lotus and Laurel, 457 with reference to D. Franke, Altägyptische Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen im Mittleren Reich (Hamburg, 1983), 287. Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 187–192; see also De Jong, A., ‘Coffin Texts Spell 38: A Case of the Father and the Son’, SAK 21 (1995), 141–157; S. Donnat, ‘Le Dialogue d’un homme avec son ba à la lumière de la formule 38 des Textes des Sarcophages’, BIFAO 104 (2004), 191–205.

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outer group that reflected his social status and to which reference was made in the outwardly turned biography. Both groups were ritually relevant and formed together a man’s enduring of kꜣ-relationships.29 3.2 Prosociality as Argument Another aspect where biographies and funerary texts merged in their purpose, and were complementary in aiming at a similar result, is the valuation of moral behaviour. Acting in accordance with Maat during one’s lifetime was increasingly considered as important for the future destiny and particularly for the expected situation of the funerary tribunal and the obtainment of the status of justification. The theme of moral justification in front of Osiris became prominent in the Middle Kingdom.30 In parallel, the assertion of moral behaviour became a particularly frequent topic in biographies.31 The First Intermediate Period and Middle Kingdom clearly promoted the social and religious value of moral behaviour: the ideal of prosociality was developed into an argument of social value and became religiously reverted into otherworldly individual benefit. The proclamation of caring behaviour at the same time visibly positioned the deceased as an elite man, rich enough to own a boat and to support those in need. 3.3 The Claim of Status and Superiority Among the various strategies of integrating the otherworldly social reality, the claim of status was of utmost importance. Just as the biographies underline the person’s status by highlighting his predominant and respected position in society and presenting his capacities and deeds, the assertion of the deceased’s status emerges as a central topic in many Coffin Texts spells as a crucial factor for realising a successful future existence. The modern concept of social status is considered here in the sense defined already by the Egyptian biographies as a combination of social predominance, social compatibility and acceptance of norms, agency, and moral value. The biographical inscriptions intertwine all these aspects in order to draw a thoroughly positive, commendable and impressive presentation of the person. This

29

30 31

On ka as factor of transtemporal social integration e.g. Loprieno, A., ‘Drei Leben nach dem Tod: Wieviele Seelen hatten die alten Ägypter?’, in Guksch, H., et al. (eds.), Grab und Totenkult im Alten Ägypten (Munich, 2003), 203–207. See also R. Nyord in this volume. Assmann, J., Tod und Jenseits im Alten Ägypten (Munich, 2001), 100–115. Lichtheim, M., Maat in Egyptian Autobiographies and Related Studies (OBO 120, Freiburg/ Göttingen, 1992).

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literary picture was designed both as the basis for future commemoration on behalf of the living and as an identity pass for the integration of the otherworldly spheres. In the coffins, the claim and assertion of status can develop some of the arguments mobilised in the biographies. The deceased’s title string is an integral part of the decorative bands of coffins and is regularly integrated as an identifier into the funerary texts. The outer coffin of Mesehti from Asyut (S2C) presents a line of particularly developed ornamental hieroglyphs that recall formulations from biographies: ‘the imakh, beloved of his city, revered of his nome, Mesehti; the nomarch, chief of priests, great in his functions, noble in his dignity, Mesehti’.32 Unlike the biographies and the title string, most Coffin Texts refer to otherworldly realities and therefore mobilise a mythological and ritual frame of action and speech. The conceptual frame of afterlife envisaged a highly hierarchical, competitive, and often confrontational way of being that specifically challenged the newcomer. Asserting oneself was vital in this environment generally perceived as hostile. In the funerary and otherworldly context modesty was not the ideal, quite to the opposite of what the literary instructions for elite social behaviour recommended.33 The Coffin Texts deploy a variety of rhetorical tactics to proclaim the deceased’s status. They often draw on metaphoric or hyperbolic language and call upon a wide range of cultural knowledge; they activate cognitive associations and regularly use myth as precedent and as a model for the relation of the deceased’s action to an expected result. The precondition of the deceased’s efficient otherworldly behaviour was the empowerment he or she received through ritual actions. This process allowed the deceased to acquire supernatural capacities, to transform into a divine being and thus to project himself into the otherworldly spheres and forms of existence. The possession or representation of status-related items, such as crowns, staffs, or weapons, can be seen as remnants of the original formulation of some of these concepts in the royal context of the Pyramid Texts. However, the affir-

32

33

Lacau, P., Sarcophages antérieurs au Nouvel Empire II (Cairo, 1906), 132; Arquier, Le double sarcophage de Mésehti, 53; Jochem Kahl has pointed out to me that the coffin ensemble of Mesehti probably stems from a tomb without wall decoration, a feature which could explain this exceptionally developed title string on the outer coffin. On contained behaviour as a central value in the literary instruction of Ptahhotep, Junge, F., Die Lehre Ptahhoteps und die Tugenden der ägyptischen Welt (OBO 193, Freiburg/Göttingen, 2003).

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mation of status only to a lesser extent seems to derive from the royal environment of some of the text models. The phenomenon is to be situated much more within the concepts of otherworldly realities rather than within earthly social hierarchies.34 It is therefore by no means sufficient to consider that, as the Coffin Texts are related to and often combined with Pyramid Texts, expressions and claims of social status and power simply originate in the royal context. A specifically royal perspective seems to be a very minor strand within the Coffin Text material.35 The royal status acquired through the identification with Osiris pertains to a mythological role model and to otherworldly forms of hierarchy. Social pre-eminence in the hereafter was conceived to be accessible on the basis of elite status and ritual empowerment. Among the claims of status and superiority expressed in the Coffin Texts, the proclamation of physical power was envisaged as one of the main assets in the otherworld. The expression of physical power implied a wide array of potential advantages, including authority, legal supremacy or ritual predominance. The following passage is an example of the rhetoric of power in the context of a projected confrontation with foes: It is granted that I have power over that foe of mine, so that I may conquer him in the presence of the people who came to contend with me by means of the magic spells which were on their lips. It is as a great falcon that I have appeared, I have grasped him with my nails, my lips are against him as a gleaming knife, my nails are against him as the arrows of Sekhmet, my horns are against him as a great wild bull, my wings are against him as a Ha-bird, my tail is against him as a living Ba, I fly up and alight upon his spine, I cut his throat in the presence of his ꜣb.t-family.36 CT 149 (II 235–240)

This passage is an example of the possible permanence of earthly conflicts in the other life: a phenomenon which we are also aware of through the so-called letters to the dead. The passage equally exemplifies the importance of antag34 35

36

See Katja Goebs in this volume. For the hypothesis that the Pyramid Texts were not originally composed for, but rather were adapted for, the pharaoh on the basis of pre-existing conceptual or textual material see Bickel, ‘Everybody’s Afterlife? “Pharaonisation” in the Pyramid Texts’, in Bickel and Díaz-Iglesias (eds.), Studies in Ancient Egyptian Funerary Literature (OLA 257, Leuven, 2017), 119–148; see also Morales, A.J., ‘Iteration, Innovation und Dekorum in Opferlisten des Alten Reichs: Zur Vorgeschichte der Pyramidentexte’, ZÄS 142 (2015), 55–69. Nyord, R., Breathing Flesh: Conceptions of the Body in the ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (CNI Publications 37, Copenhagen, 2009), 499.

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onism and of self-assertion in conflict. Nonviolence was in this context not a cultural ideal. Fighting out antagonism was demonstrated in several myths to be a crucial mechanism for restructuring a new equilibrium (e.g. the conflict between Horus and Seth) or for achieving cosmic renewal and regeneration (e.g. the conflict between Re and Apophis). Conflict and violence were considered as means to (re)establish Maat. The passage also illustrates the almost unlimited possibilities of transformation in the otherworldly reality and of integrating a body with human as well as animal features that combined to convey overwhelming power. Exaggeration was used as a means of conveying forcefulness; like certain verbal practices related to magic, the evocated actions functioned on the basis of the effectiveness of the word and the induced imagination or interior visualisation. An important means of ascertaining status in the afterlife was through the deceased’s implication into mythical events and the enactment of mythological roles:37 One fell because of me, one withdrew because of me, for I am he of the was-sceptre and of the great sekhem-sceptre of the West. Oh you entourage of Re of the great left-hand and the great right-hand: regard me as one wholly unique, for Re has spoken to me and I have driven off the rebel, I have crushed Apophis … CT 414 (V 245–246)

It is unclear in which wider context this predication is situated, however the mythological setting is evident. The deceased is attributed here with the role of important deities, such as Seth, Isis, and Heka, who were most frequently entrusted with the task of defeating Apophis. This type of mythological assistance on behalf of the deceased seems to have been mobilised as a particularly efficient way of integrating the divine sphere and of assuring a predominant and non-vulnerable position. The large group of transformation spells38 explicitly aims to confer divine status and supernatural powers to the deceased and thereby integrating him entirely into the otherworldly environment and establishing him in a state of being unattainable to the various dangers. The most effective way of claiming this status was the direct self-presentation as a deity. The aretalogy is a text form

37 38

Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 192f. Buchberger, H., Transformation und Transformat: Sargtextstudien (ÄA 52, Wiesbaden, 1993).

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that appears and expands precisely during the Middle Kingdom.39 Through its characteristic introductory jnk-sentence ‘I am god so and so’, the aretalogy is formally associated to the biography. The aretalogical self-description has also been defined as a form of divine biography, a specific description of identity that was adopted by the person to establish and confirm his or her attainment of divine status and permanent integration into the divine society. The proximity between biography and aretalogy as self-presentations on the two levels of future existence is also illustrated by the occasional combination of the two types of identification. In his biography, the First Intermediate Period local potentate Ankhtifi refers to his preeminent position in both his earthly and his otherworldly forms of existence: I am a dignitary, lord of dignitaries. I am Apis, lord of cattle, Seshat-Hor, lord of flocks, Nepri, lord of grain, Tayt, lord of clothing.40 These sentences are clearly integrated into the biography by the masculine form of nb referring to Ankhtifi and not to the goddesses Seshat-Hor and Tayt. By presenting himself as male and female deities, Ankhtifi merges his integration into both divine and human society. He formulates his prosociality in a most original way, caring for his entourage’s needs in food and clothing by assuming the role—and in the funerary perspective even the identity—of the responsible deities. The famous sentences ‘I have given bread to the hungry, clothing to the naked’ are here clearly alluded to and integrated into the funerary perspective ascertaining divine status and the capacity of being a possessor of food and clothing. Sentences resembling aretalogical identification also appear e.g. in the biography of Rudjahau who presents himself in various priestly functions and states: ‘(I am) Thot in judging (matters?), I am an equal of Ptah, the second of Khnum’.41 39 40

41

Assmann, J., s.v. ‘Aretalogien’, in Lexikon der Ägyptologie I (Wiesbaden, 1975), col. 425–433. Ankhtifi, inscription no. 13; Vandier, J., Mo’alla: La tombe d’Ankhtifi et la tombe de Sébekhotep (Cairo, 1950), 242–243; Morenz, L.D., ‘Ein Text zwischen Ritual(ität) und Mythos: die Inszenierung des Anchtifi von Hefat als Super-Helden’, in Dücker, B., Roeder, H. (eds.), Text und Ritual: kulturwissenschaftliche Essays und Analysen von Sesostris bis Dada, (Heidelberg, 2005), 123–147. BM 159, Lichtheim, Autobiographies, p. 71; Hieroglyphic Texts from Egyptian Stelae etc. in the British Museum I (London, 1911), pl. 47, l. 4–5.

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3.4 The Projection of Self Biographies and Coffin Texts participate in a common funerary discourse, which aims at an efficient projection of a person into the future realities. Both categories of text compositions formulate the projection of self within the frames of the Egyptian belief system and the respective anticipated social spheres. They target and prepare the deceased’s integration into the sphere of the living and the sphere of the gods respectively, and formulate the selfdescription according to each of these audiences. The two portraits emphasise the deceased’s identities as beneficent, responsible, leading upper-class men in the biographies, and as powerful and independent divine beings in the funerary texts. The funerary concept developed jointly by the two text categories aims at the sustainable preservation of the person’s self and its intact transposition into the expected forms of existence after death. The self can be considered as being constituted during one’s lifetime by a person’s self-awareness, subjectivity and agency as part of the human condition. In the Ancient Egyptian mortuary sphere, the self was represented by a person’s name, titles, and body. The projection of self into the future existence was guaranteed, in the funerary discourse, through the constitution of several identities that were in accordance with the norms and requirements of the different spheres of afterlife.42 The temporal scope of both text categories—biographies and Coffin Texts— is comparable insofar as past events and actions are appresented: they are made real, present, and meaningful for the future. The process of appresentation also brings absent and invisible beings, such as the deceased or mythological figures and deities, into presence and reality.43 In the biographies, more or less standardised but nevertheless socially relevant events of the person’s earthly existence are evoked, whereas in the Coffin Texts, the deceased is often integrated into mythical events; this was considered as a powerful means of assuring future destiny through the actualisation of divine realities. The mythological setting could function as a ‘disguise’44 or as the means of transposition of social relations and social negotiations in the otherworldly setting. The real-life events and the mythical events are comparable in that they are past but significant for the future; they also share the same tension between exceptional uniqueness and standardisation. Both forms of event partake in a similar social acceptance and valuation.

42 43 44

On the relation between self and plural identities see Sökefeld, M., ‘Debating Self, Identity, and Culture in Anthropology’, Current Anthropology 40/4 (1999), 417–430. Förster, Basel Papers on Political Transformations 3, 9. Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects, 192.

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4

41

Social Practice

The third stage of the research process of the Emic Evaluation Approach focuses on the analysis of social practice. In this, an attempt is made to understand the consequences of socially codified activities and events for the community and to trace the interrelations between actors and discourse in lived experience. In the Ancient Egyptian socio-religious context, the funerary discourse needed social engagement at several levels in order to function as an effective assertion of future existence. One important sphere of social practice was temple activity. The elite men, who can be identified as the commissioners of inscribed tombs and of biographical and funerary text production, would generally have been chiefly responsible for the local temples and libraries during their lifetime. This implies their familiarity with religious and ritual knowledge and with cultic interaction with the gods. Further relevant spheres of social practice, where the textual and conceptual material investigated here was mobilised, were the funeral ceremonies as well as occasional reactivations of memory during seasonal festivals. 4.1 Acquisition and Performance of Knowledge Access to religious texts was correlated with access to the inner parts of temples, to higher cultic functions, and to advanced literacy. Knowledge of religious texts and their contents was therefore intimately associated with social status. A community’s political and social leaders were also the main depositors of religious knowledge and presumably among the main performers of ritual activity in the temples and at funerals. They were also the agents of text transmission and tradition. Knowledge of religious texts was considered as arcane and socially restricted.45 At the same time, the possession of such knowledge was regularly referred to in biographical inscriptions as socially relevant, and funerary texts stress the importance of acquiring knowledge during one’s lifetime for the benefit of the afterlife.46 The following passage is an example of recurrent affirmations of the usefulness of knowledge acquisition during life for the otherworldly existence:

45 46

Baines, J., ‘Restricted Knowledge, Hierarchy, and Dekorum’, JNES 27 (1990), 1–23. On the ambivalence of restrictedness and public display of knowledge, see Bickel, S., ‘Sichtbar und geheim: Aspekte altägyptischer Performanz von Wissen’, in Fuhrer, T., and A.-B. Renger (eds.), Performanz von Wissen: Strategien der Wissensvermittlung in der Vormoderne (Heidelberg, 2012), 11–28.

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As for everyone who knows this, he can transform into a falcon, as the son of Re. Whoever knows this on earth, his ba will never perish, for ever and always. CT 339 (IV 338l–m)

The acquaintance with divine matters and the experience of a cultic relationship with the gods were considered significant factors that prepared the aspired integration in the otherworld. This lifetime experience could effectively be transferred into the afterlife where ritual activity and ritual roles were envisaged as an important means of maintaining meaningful activeness and of integrating mythological schemes and concepts. Playing a ritual role in the otherworldly sphere warranted a respectable and powerful status. 4.2 Ritual Activations One of the widest fields of social practice were the (semi-)public rituals performed during mourning, mummification, the vigils,47 and the actual funeral. In the case of elite funerals, the ceremonies involved not only priests, but also the closer and extended family as well as possibly individuals from the larger community. The addressee of the rituals was the deceased’s body; a group of priests and close relatives were the main executants of ritual actions, whereas the wider family and community participated as carriers of funerary goods and offerings, as mourners, or spectators. Although the exact course of funerary rituals escapes our understanding, it is highly probable that some of the texts inscribed on the coffins, or closely comparable compositions, were recited and enacted during the funerals.48 The funerary discourse was activated and presentified among the core actors—the deceased elite person and his close private and social/professional entourage. The performance, the number of people involved, and the vision of the decorated tomb and high-standard funerary goods such as a decorated coffin, enhanced the display and affirmation of the deceased’s preeminent status. 47

48

Assmann, J., Altägyptische Totenliturgien I (Supplemente zu den Schriften der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften: Philosophisch-historische Klasse 14, Heidelberg, 2002), 39–53. Willems, H., ‘The Social and Ritual Context of a Mortuary Liturgy of the Middle Kingdom (CT Spells 30–41)’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms: Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Leiden University, 6–7 June, 1996 (OLA 103, Leuven, 2001), 253–372; Meyer-Dietrich, Senebi und Selbst, 40–50; Hays, H.M., ‘Funerary Rituals (Pharaonic Period)’, in Dieleman, J., and W. Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles, 2010), http://digital2.library.ucla .edu/viewItem.do?ark=21198/zz001nf65w, last accessed August 2018.

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As well as text material related to the Coffin Texts, the biographical selfpresentations inscribed on the tomb’s walls were presumably also mobilised in this process of ritual activation of the funerary discourse and appresentation of the deceased. Recent research has highlighted that the biographies could have been the focus of some kind of performance.49 They may have been read publicly and ritually inaugurated. Jochem Kahl drew attention to passages in the biography of Djefai-Hapi in Asyut, which state that the self-presentation on the tomb walls was integrated into the city’s festivities for Upuaut.50 During the process of a funeral—and perhaps on other occasions such as seasonal festivals—the biographies and texts from the coffins may therefore have been concomitantly displayed and ritually and semantically merged. One example of possible direct interaction between biography and coffin might be found in Coffin Text spells 1–29 ‘Book of justifying a man in the netherworld’ with its climax in spell CT 7 that contains the enactment of the deceased’s judgment and justification. As Jan Assmann’s analysis of this mortuary liturgy has shown, the connection between a man’s moral behaviour in society and his personal funerary destiny was ritually enacted during the transfer of the deceased from the mummification workshops to the tomb.51 This implies that the texts that could be inscribed on coffins could be recited during the passage of the funerary procession in front of the biography: the assertion of moral behaviour proffered in the biography could therefore be caught up, equated to the mythological setting of the mortuary liturgy, and integrated into the ritual process of the deceased’s empowerment (sꜣḫ) and justification (mꜣꜥ-ḫrw). The aforementioned tomb of Djefai-Hapi also contains in its entrance passage (Siut I, 407) an example of a ritual text otherwise known from the funerary sphere (CT 723 = PT 94–95).52 This is an excerpt of a mortuary liturgy, evoking the deceased’s sustenance with cake offerings destined to grant access to several areas of the otherworld, which was performed at specific seasonal festivals. This example of the transposition of text material that is generally deposited in the secluded parts of sepulchres—coffins or earlier pyramid chambers—onto the walls of the accessible burial chamber, clearly connects the inscriptions on both levels of the tomb structure with actual ritual practice. It also connects and integrates the unique event of the burial rituals with the recurrent yearlong cultic activity of the local community. 49 50 51 52

Baines, J., High Culture and Experience in Ancient Egypt (Sheffield, 2014), 239–241. Conference on Ancient Egyptian Biographies in Basel in May 2014. Assmann, Altägyptische Totenliturgien I, 69–118 (Liturgy I). Kahl, J., Siut—Theben. Zur Wertschätzung von Traditionen im alten Ägypten (PdÄ 13, Leiden/Boston/Köln, 1999), 156–157; Assmann, Totenliturgien I, 469, 490–493.

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In addition to the integrating and sustaining effects of the rituals performed during the mummification process and the actual interment, the recitations and actions executed on the deceased’s body also had essential empowering consequences. The execution of rituals on the deceased was probably considered as a necessary prerequisite to allow his immaterial personality to enter the state of mobility, both in terms of essentiality (forms of being) and in terms of the physical mobility characteristic of otherworldly beings. Beware of me, you gods. I have come and I am great … I have seen the holy things of Anubis and I have come so that I may hear the voice of the monster (hjw); I have broken the bonds and am cleansed in this Lake of the Duat, in this place where I am powerful (ꜣḫ) … Who/What can be against me? CT 891 (VII 101i–r)

These sentences allude to the empowering effects of the funerary ritual and typically transfer the ritual actions into the otherworldly mythological sphere. By referring to the vision of ‘the holy things of Anubis’, the importance of experience and knowledge of sacred matters, acquired either during one’s lifetime or in the ritual process itself, is underlined. The funerary rites functioned as the agents that operated the essential transformation, which in turn allowed the deceased to become an active and agentive being in the future reality. Knowledge of their content or the presence of relevant spells surrounding the person in the coffin reinforced these aspired effects. In terms of social practice, the execution of funerary rituals had a vital and activating effect on the addressee of the rites and spells, but they presumably also conveyed different levels of social meaning for the acting ritualists and living participants.

5

Conclusions

The focus on social actors, funerary discourse and social practices reveals the perfect coherence of these three factors. Middle Kingdom funerary culture—as far as can be accessed through extant elite productions—merges the commissioners and creators of text compositions, the expressed funerary concepts and expectations, and the transmission and ritual performance of the relevant text material into an interconnected, socially and religiously meaningful entity. Biographies and Coffin Texts appear as complementary expressions of the same funerary discourse. They are characterised by their common setting in the tomb context, their common social environment and by a number of com-

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positional similarities. Both biographies and Coffin Texts can be considered as the mediators of the deceased’s self-projection into future realities through the proclamation of suitable identities for both the otherworld and the continued presence on earth. The two text categories share goals and arguments such as the successful integration into the spheres of afterlife, the effective positioning in human and divine hierarchies through claims and assertions of status, or the affirmation of moral values and their otherworldly benefits. Both text categories were at least occasionally part of ritual performances, which aimed at making the absent person present within the community and at the actualisation of prestigious acts and events from the deceased’s real-life or mythological past.

chapter 3

The Concept of ‘Letters to the Dead’ and Egyptian Funerary Culture* Sylvie Donnat

The textual categorization ‘letter to the dead’ has been well known in Egyptology since the publication of the first corpus in 1928 by Gardiner and Sethe.1 These texts, in which a living person presents an incidental problem to a dead (specifically a ꜣḫ) family member (or member of the pr-household), were written in hieratic script on various materials (ceramic, papyrus, stele) and deposited in the grave.2 They are attested from the late Old Kingdom to the 7th century B.C., but the bulk of the corpus comes from late Old Kingdom— Middle Kingdom, the period par excellence of the genre (Table 3.1). There is an abundant literature on these documents, especially considering the known number of letters to the dead to date: we are aware of fewer than 20 documents for the entire 1500-year period.3 For the late Old Kingdom to the early Middle Kingdom period, there are around a dozen. By comparison, there are 37 known demotic letters to the gods from the late period and Ptolemaic period.4 The scientific interest in letters to the dead is consequently not justified by the size of the actual corpus, but of course by the quality of the information

* I would like to thank Rune Nyord and the referees for their precious remarks and comments on a previous version of this text, and Jean-Yves Bart for the revision of the English text. This article received support from the Maison Interuniversitaire des Sciences de l’ Homme d’Alsace (MISHA) and the Excellence Initiative of the University of Strasbourg. 1 Gardiner, A.H. and K. Sethe, Egyptian Letters to the Dead, mainly from the Old and Middle Kingdoms (London, 1928). 2 On the archaeological contexts, see Miniaci, G., ‘Reuniting Philology and Archaeology: The “Emic” and “Etic” in the Letter of the Dead Qau Bowl UC16163 and its Context’, ZÄS 143 (2016), 88–105; Donnat, S., ‘L’écrit comme trace de rituel en Égypte ancienne’, Archimède1 (2014), 88– 95 (http://archimede.unistra.fr/revue‑archimede/archimede‑1‑2014/archimede‑1‑2014‑ dossier‑lecrit‑comme‑trace‑de‑rituel/). 3 For corpus inventories, see footnote 28. 4 Depauw, M., The Demotic Letter: A Study of Epistolographic Scribal Traditions against Their Intra- and Intercultural Background (Demotischen Studien 14, Sommerhausen, 2006), 308– 309. For older letters to the gods, see Lefèvre, D., ‘Épistolographie et diplomatique: La rédaction d’une lettre aux dieux sous la XXIe dynastie’, Semitica et Classica X (2017), 133–157.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_004

47

the concept of ‘letters to the dead’ table 3.1

Letters to the dead and related documents (6th dynasty-SIP) Speech

Themes

Second Epistolary Request person formula for help

Hieratic script

Legal Akh Perback- and/or household ground rituals

Letters to the dead—‘Epistolary corpus’ (6th–12th dynasty) – Cairo Linen (Late 6th dyn.) – Qau Bowl (FIP) – Naga ed-Deir N 3500 (FIP) – Naga ed-Deir N 3737 (FIP) – Hu Bowl (FIP) – Chicago Jar Stand (FIP) – Stele Michael C. Carlos Museum—Emory University 2014.033.001 (FIP) – Louvre Bowl (12th dyn.) – Cairo Bowl (12th dyn.)

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+ + + + + +

+ + + + –/+ +

+ + + + + +

+ + + + + +

+ + + + + +

+ + + + + +

+ + + + + +

+ +

+ +

+ +

+ +

+ +

+ +

+ +

Written communication (FIP)—closely related to ‘epistolary corpus’ – Berlin Bowl

+

–

+

+

+

+

+ (+drawing)

–

–

–

+

+

–

+

+

–

+

–

+

+

+

–

–

–

+

+

+/–

+ (+drawing)

Lists of valuables (6th–11th dynasty) – Qubett el-Hawa Bowl, Caire JE 91740 Postscript (12th dynasty) – Papyrus Berlin 10.482 verso (Sedekh) Written statement? (SIP) – Oxford Bowl

48

donnat

offered.5 The letters to the dead offer original sets of data about religion and mortuary conceptions,6 social and family relationships,7 and literacy.8 The corpus is indeed a key source to understand the relationships between the living and the dead in a pragmatic context, but it is also evidence of the increasing importance of writing in elite funerary culture, from the mid-third millennium onwards.9 Nevertheless, major issues remain under discussion. In particular, the scientific definition of the category ‘letter to the dead’ and its place in Egyptian textual production are still debated.10 In this contribution, I would like to reassess the modern concept of ‘letter to the dead’ in order to point out different approaches proposed by Egyptologists. I then endeavour to evaluate this modern notion by comparing it to what can be understood of the ancient Egyptian perception of the practice of writing to an ancestor during the late Old Kingdom–Middle Kingdom period, in order to highlight its position within Egyptian written culture.

1

The Beginning of the ‘Letter to the Dead’ Category

The textual categorization ‘letter to the dead’ has been well known in Egyptology since the publication of the first corpus in 1928 by Gardiner and Sethe.11 The very beginning of the history of the genre could however probably be dated

5 6 7

8 9

10

11

According to A.H. Gardiner, they were ‘remarkable documents’, Gardiner, A.H., The Attitude of the Ancient Egyptians to Death and the Dead (Cambridge, 1935), 22. Baines, J., ‘Practical Religion and Piety’, JEA 73 (1987), 79–98; O’Donoghue, M., ‘The “Letters to the Dead” and Ancient Egypt Religion’, BACE 10, (1999), 87–104. Moreno García, J.C., ‘Intégration du mort dans la vie sociale égyptienne à la fin du troisième millénaire av. J.-C. II: Élites, réseaux de pouvoir et le rôle du défunt dans la société provinciale égyptienne du IIIe millénaire avant J.-C.’, in Mouton, A., and J. Patrier (eds), Life, Death and Coming of Age in Antiquity: Individual Rites of Passage in the Ancient Near East (PIHANS 124, Leiden, 2014), 188–207. Goody, J., The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society (Cambridge, 1986), 28. Cf. the remarks in Baines, J., Visual and Written Culture in Ancient Egypt (Oxford, 2007), 86. To compare for example with Stauder-Porchet, J., Les autobiographies de l’ Ancien Empire égyptien: Étude de la naissance d’un genre (OLA 255, Leuven/Paris/Walpole, 2017), 15, about ‘l’expansion de l’écrit sur support lapidaire à la Ve dynastie’ in funerary context (cf. also p. 311). See the remarks in Miniaci, G., Lettere ai morti nell’Egitto antico (Brescia, 2014), 16–17, and of course the discrepancies in the inventories of the corpus (Donnat Beauquier, S., Écrire à ses morts : Enquête sur un usage rituel de l’écrit dans l’ Égypte pharaonique (Grenoble, 2014), 21–28; infra, n. 28). Gardiner and Sethe, Egyptian Letters to the Dead.

the concept of ‘letters to the dead’

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back to 1879, when Gaston Maspero published a translation of the Papyrus Leiden I 371.12 In his publication, Maspero did not specifically present the famous Ramesside communication to the excellent spirit (n ꜣḫ i҆qr) Ânkhiry as a letter. He considered it as a kind of legal document (‘une adjuration’, ‘une pièce à conviction’),13 addressed by a widower to his dead wife: ‘I shall plead my case against ⟨you [the dead woman]⟩ in the presence (with) my complaint (md.tr(ꜣ)=i҆), in the presence of the Ennead of the West. And you will be judged (wp) with me and this letter (pꜣy sš), because of the complaint (md.t) and this which ⟨I⟩ have written (hꜣb) about it.’14 The designation of the document as ‘letter’ was in any case accepted in 1913, as shown in Henri Sottas’s book (on the tomb’s protection formula): ‘Je ne puis négliger de rappeler ici la lettre bien connue adressée sous le Nouvel Empire par un mari à l’esprit de son épouse défunte.’15 Gardiner already used the expression ‘letter to the dead’ in his notice on ‘Egyptian magic’ published in 1915.16 Gardiner and Sethe’s work on the corpus began in 1914, when Sethe visited Gardiner in London in early 1914 ‘to discuss a number of different questions of Egyptian philology’.17 As it happens sometimes with scientific finds, the discovery of the existence of an Egyptian custom of writing letters to the dead from the late Old Kingdom onwards was partly incidental. Once the planned work was completed, Gardiner and Sethe ‘were at liberty to employ the few days still available to ⟨them⟩ in reading some new texts together’. Their choice fell first upon the Cairo Text on Linen. They had at their disposal a photograph and a transcription of the letter previously made in Cairo, but the new examination convinced them of the exceptional character of the epistolary text: ‘instead of being addressed to some living person, like the letters which we possess in plenty, it was directed to a dead man’. Gardiner and Sethe quickly made the connection with the Leiden Papyrus translated by Maspero several

12 13 14

15 16

17

Maspero, G., Études égyptiennes I (Paris, 1879), 145–158. Ibid., 158. Translation: Troy, L., ‘How to Treat a Lady’, in Nyord, R., and K. Ryholt (eds), Lotus and Laurel: Studies on Egyptian Language and Religion in Honour of Paul John Frandsen (CNIP 39, Copenhagen, 2015), 407. Sottas, H., La préservation de la propriété funéraire dans l’ ancienne Égypte avec le recueil des formules d’imprécation (Paris, 1913), 40–41. Gardiner, A.H., ‘Magic’, in Hasting’s Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics (Edinburg, 1915), 263 (considering that ‘ḥike was reduced to a minimum’ in case of ‘spontaneous prayer and the letters to the dead’, because the gods and the dead were in that case treated ‘ordinarily’). Gardiner and Sethe, Egyptian Letters to the Dead, ‘Preface’.

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figure 3.1 Cairo Bowl (CG 25375) Photo ©IFAO/A. Lecler

decades earlier, and they looked for similar letters. They found the Cairo Bowl (Fig. 3.1), and the Hu Bowl, but also the Oxford Bowl. They could not however assign with certitude the last document to the category, because of the nature of the text.18 The postponement of the publication, because of the war, gave them the time to include two more documents (Qaw Bowl, Berlin Bowl— Fig. 3.2). The final corpus published in 1928 includes six documents (five from the late Old Kingdom–Middle Kingdom),19 with three documents presented in an Appendix: two hieratic texts on bowls of an ambiguous nature (the Oxford Bowl, and Moscow Bowl—the last one is a letter but could have been addressed to a living person20), and the hieroglyphic Stele Liverpool M 13846 with an Appeal to the Living. Subsequent contributions have expanded the initial corpus. If we look only at the letters dating from the late Old Kingdom—Middle Kingdom, one can mention: Gardiner in 1930 (Chicago Jar Stand),21 Piankoff and Clère in 1934

18 19 20

21

See below. Cairo Linen (JE 25975), Qau Bowl (UC 16163), Hu Bowl (UC 16244), Berlin Bowl (inv. 22573), Cairo Bowl (CG 25375), and P. Leiden I 371. Cf. Verhoeven, U., ‘Funktion altägyptischer Briefe an Tote’, in Wagner, A. (ed.), Bote und Brief (= Sprachliche Systeme der Informationsübermittlung im Spannungsfeld von Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit, Nordostafrikanisch/Westasiatische Studien 4, Frankfurt a. M., 2003), 31, n. 1, and 35. See also the vase M01 111 (SIP—early New Kingdom) found in TT 196: Donnat, S., in Graefe, E., Die Doppelgrabanlage ‘M’ aus dem Mittleren Reich unter TT 195 im Tal el-Asasif in Theben-West (Aachen, 2007), 136–141. Cf. footnote 28 below. Gardiner, A.H., ‘A new Letter to the dead’, JEA 16 (1930), 19–22.

51

the concept of ‘letters to the dead’

figure 3.2 Berlin Bowl (Inv. 22573). Gardiner, Sethe, Letters to the dead, pl. V Courtesy of the Egypt Exploration Society

(Louvre Bowl),22 Simpson in 1966 and 1970 (Papyrus Naga ed-Deir N 3737 and Naga ed-Deir N 3500),23 Wente in 1975–1976 (the ‘Misplaced letter’24); new papyrus fragments that may be letters to the dead are also currently under study.25 In the meantime, the category ‘letter to the dead’ has reached the status of a key concept in Egyptology, through the entry ‘Brief an Tote’ by R. Grieshammer in the first volume of the Lexikon of Ägyptologie (1975).26 It was even popular-

22 23

24

25

26

Piankoff, A., and J.-J. Clère, ‘A Letter to the Dead on a Bowl in the Louvre’, JEA 20 (1934), 157–169. Simpson, W.K., ‘The Letter to the Dead from the Tomb of Meru (N 3737) at Nagʿ ed-Deir’, JEA 52 (1966), 39–52; Simpson, W.K., ‘A Late Old Kingdom Letter to the Dead from Nagʿ edDeir N 3500’, JEA 56 (1970), 58–64. For the problematic Jar Stand of Naga ed-Deir: Simpson, W.K., ‘The Memphite Epistolary Formula on a Jar Stand of the First Intermediate Period from Nagʿ ed-Deir’, in Studies in Ancient Egypt, the Aegean and the Sudan (Boston, 1981), 173–179. Wente, E.F., ‘A Misplaced Letter to the Dead’, OLP 6/7 (1975/1976), 595–600. The stele is now in Michael C. Carlos Museum, Emory University (no. 2014.033.001): http://carlos .emory.edu/items/show/6914 (last visit 15/08/2018). I am indebted to Janet Richards for this information. I also wish to thank Melinda Hartwig for the information she passed on about the object. Regulski, I., ‘Papyrus Fragments From Asyut: A Palaeographic Comparison’, in Verhoeven, U. (ed.), Ägyptologische ‘Binsen’-Weisheiten I–II, (Mainz/Stuttgart, 2015), 322 (fragments Berlin P. 10481, belonging to Sedekh); also papyrus fragments British Museum EA 10901, see: http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_ details.aspx?assetId=378689001&objectId=139754&partId=1 (last visit 25/07/2017). Grieshammer, R., ‘Briefe an Tote’, LÄ 1 (1975), col. 865–870.

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ized earlier by the criminal novel Death Comes as the End of Agatha Christie, inspired by the ‘Dossier of Heqanakhte’, first published in 1944.27

2

Defining the Genre: a Problematic Issue?

The entire corpus is today generally estimated between 12 and 18 documents,28 according to the definition of the category used by the authors, but also according to their analysis of the ambiguous documents (particularly the Oxford Bowl).29 Before discussing the definition of ‘letters to the dead’, it is important to sort some hieroglyphic texts out. In the academic literature, the category ‘letters to the dead’ is sometimes used as a reference for pleas addressed to the dead inscribed in hieroglyphs. One of the two ‘Fertility Figurines’ inscribed (in hieroglyphs) with a prayer asking for a child has been associated to the corpus,30 probably based on a comparison with the Chicago Jar Stand (First Interme-

27

28

29

30

Death Comes as the End, chapter 15 (‘A solemn Letter to the Dead’), and chapter 16. On the novel, see Magen, B., ‘Tatort Ägypten: Die “Lehre des Ptahhotep” in Agatha Christie Kriminalroman “Death comes as the End”’ in Kessler, D., R. Schulz, and M. Ullmann (eds.), Texte—Theben—Tonfragmente: Festschrift für Günter Burkard (Wiesbaden, 2009), 312–318 (with references to further literature). See, for example, the inventories in O’Donoghue, BACE 10, (1999), 87–104 (13 items, Late Old Kingdom–Ramesside Period); Willems, H., ‘The Social and Ritual Context of a Mortuary Liturgy’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms: Proceedings of the international Symposium held at Leiden University 6–7 June, 1996 (OLA 103, Leuven, 2001), 253–372 (12 items, Late Old Kingdom–Middle Kingdom); Verhoeven, in Wagner (ed.), Bote und Brief, 31–51 (16 items, including the dossier CT 38–41 and the literary letter in P. Chester Beatty I, 14,6–15,8); Gestermann, L., ‘Briefe in das Jenseit’, TUAT 3 (2006), 289–306 (16 items, including a ceramic from TT 196 (see footnote 20 above), and Female Figurine Berlin); Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 27–28 (12 items); Miniaci, ZÄS 143 (2016), 89–90 (18 items: including Naga ed-Deir Jar Stand, Papyrus Berlin 10.482 verso, Qubett el-Hawa Bowl, Moscow Bowl). I have argued that the nature of the Ostracon Louvre 682 (written by the scribe Boutehamon to his dead wife), included in the corpus by Frandsen in 1992, is also unclear. For a discussion, see Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 77–80 (doc. 18). The Berlin Figurine: Gestermann, TUAT 3 (2006), 302–303 and 306 (Dok. o ‘Brief auf einer Statuette’). For the other female figurine with hieroglyphic inscription, Louvre E 8000, see Desroches Noblecourt, C., ‘“Concubines du mort” et mères de famille au Moyen Empire: À propos d’une supplique pour la naissance’, BIFAO 53 (1953), 37–40; Tooley, A.M.J., ‘Notes on Type 1 Truncated Figurines: The Ramesseum Ladies’, in Miniaci, G., M. Betrò, and S. Quirke (eds), Company of Images: Modelling the Imaginary World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1500BC) (OLA 262, Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT, 2017), 422, n. 4 and 243, n. 5.

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diate Period) letter, also asking for a healthy male child.31 In the latter case, the request is nevertheless associated with the presentation of a specific problem: the illness of the pregnant woman which is caused by the action of two bꜣk.t-maidservants (probably dead), against whom the akh iqer must stand. The famous hieroglyphic inscription of the Statue of Ahmes Sapaïr (17th dynasty) in the Louvre32 presents traditional offering formulas and dedicatory inscriptions asking for the assistance of the dead. The inscription is said to be ‘conçue comme une lettre au mort’.33 Of course, it is not a real letter,—the use of the hieroglyphs and the writing medium (a statue) are indicative of the special ‘sacralised’ status of the text—,34 but it can be indeed compared to the letters to the dead.35 In that respect, it is important to make the difference between a thematic similarity (texts asking an ancestor for help) and a generic identity. The important difference between the inscription of the statue of Ahmes Sapaïr or the inscription of the Berlin ‘Fertility Figurine’, and letters to the dead is that, in the two hieroglyphic inscriptions, there is no specific crisis situation. They seem to durably (in hieroglyphs engraved in stone) establish good relationships of mutual assistance between living and dead. The requests of the letters to the dead (in hieratic) are, on the contrary, written specifically when this relational frame seems broken and has to be restored. There are arguably two main existing approaches to the genre of ‘letters to the dead’: 1° ‘letter to the dead’ considered as a subcategory of the ‘letter’ textual genre; see for example the above quotation from Gardiner and Sethe 1928, and Grieshammer in 1975: ‘eine spezielle Form der Gattung Brief’;36 2° ‘letter to the dead’ considered as a non-formalized genre, and consequently more widely as a designation for written communications (in hieratic) to the dead.37 31 32 33 34

35 36 37

Chicago OIM 13945. Gardiner, JEA 16 (1930), 19–22, pl. X; Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 41–44 (doc. 3). Louvre E 15682, Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 71–73, doc. 16. Barbotin, C., Les statues égyptiennes du Nouvel Empire: Tome premier, Statues royales et divines (Paris, 2007), 34. Vernus, P., ‘Les espaces de l’écrit dans l’Égypte pharaonique’, BSFE 119 (1990), 35–56; id., ‘Modelling the Relationship between Reproduction and Production of “Sacralized” Texts in Pharaonic Egypt’, in Gillen, T. (ed), (Re)productive Traditions in Ancient Egypt (Liège, 2017), 475–509. See discussion in: Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 72–73. Grieshammer, LÄ 1 (1975), col. 865. See also Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 27–28 et 93–124 (especially 108–120). See Miniaci, Lettere ai morti nell’Egitto antico, 17: ‘chiamare lettere è impreciso perchè, nonostante alcune parole ed espressioni communi, essi non hanno dato origine ad vero

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The first approach is admittedly problematic, precisely because the definition of the ‘letter’ genre is far from clear: there are linguistic aspects (second person speech, epistolary formulas) but also contextual and pragmatic aspects (method of sending). In his study of demotic letters, Mark Depauw pays particularly attention to spatial aspects in his definition of a letter: a ‘letter’ is first a communication medium required by ‘the distance between correspondents’.38 He then recognizes that this feature is more problematic for demotic letters to the gods and questions to oracles. Consequently, he considers letters to the gods as a ‘genre in their own right.’ He nevertheless underlines the fact that ‘some examples are strongly epistolary in character with interior (and exceptionally exterior) address, closing formula, as well as initial and final courtesies.’39 From a linguistic perspective, letters are indeed characterized by second person speech and epistolary formulas for which scribes received special training.40 The formalization of letters varies according to the status of the addressee: it is well-known for example that letters addressed to members of the family could be less formal.41 Yet, the sociological background of the written communications to the dead from the late Old Kingdom to the Middle Kingdom is the pr-household.42 Considering these facts, close examination of ‘written communications to the dead’ prior to the New Kingdom however shows a distinction between strongly epistolary communications and seemingly nonepistolary ones (see Table 3.1):

38 39 40

41

42

e proprio genere formalizzato. Inoltre, gli stessi egiziani non li definivano “lettere” bensi facevano riferimeto a questi come una specie di memorandum, une commicazione orale, un appelo ai morti …’ Depauw, The Demotic Letter, 4. Ibid., 313. See Eyre, C.J., The Use of Documents in Pharaonic Egypt (Oxford, 2013), 94–97. About a potential scribal training for letters to the dead, see Klotz, D., ‘Fish at Night and Bird by Day (Kemyt VIII)’, ZÄS 136 (2009), 136–140, but this argument is not fully convincing (see remarks in Donnat, S., ‘Une éthique de la partialité ou un nouvel exemple de question rhétorique dans deux lettres aux morts’, LingAeg 20 (2012), 34, n. 24). For epistolary formulas in Old and Middle Kingdoms, see Eichler, E., ‘Zwei Bermerkungen zu den hieratischen Briefen des Alten Reiches’, GM 123 (1991), 21–26; James, J.G.H., The Ḥeḳanakhte Papers and Other Early Middle Kingdom Documents (New York, 1962), 119– 130. Donnat, S., ‘Gestion in absentia du domaine familial: À propos des lettres aux morts et des documents d’Héqanakht’, in Gasse, A., F. Servajean, and C. Thiers (eds), Et in Ægypto et ad Ægyptum: Recueils d’études dédiées à Jean-Claude Grenier (Montpellier, 2012), 227– 242.

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– Texts with epistolary formulas: Cairo Text on Linen, Qau Bowl, Ḥu Bowl, Letter on stele, Papyrus Naga ed-Deir N 3737, Papyrus Naga ed Deir N 3500, Louvre Bowl, Cairo Bowl (Fig. 3.1). ⇒ Text with no epistolary formulas but with a characteristic incipit: Chicago Jar Stand (ṯnw-rꜣ pw, see below). – Texts with no epistolary formulas whatsoever: Berlin Bowl (Fig. 3.2), Oxford Bowl and P. Berlin 10.482 verso. ⇒ Berlin Bowl43 is a communication addressed to a dead female (i҆mꜣḫ.t) in second person speech, but the opening formula is not one of the usual epistolary introductions. It appears to be a ritual invocation. The written communication nevertheless presents a problem in the householdpr that the deceased must solve. The dead is explicitly suspected to be guilty, by direct action or simply by indifference. The text could of course be considered as a ‘letter to the dead’ but as a less formal one (like the Chicago Jar Stand). The unique graphic layout (circular writing around an anthropomorphic figure probably representing the deceased, Fig. 3.2) however suggests a kind of performative dimension in the writing itself, less obvious in epistolary texts.44 The probable ‘presentification’45 of the deceased on the bowl raises the question of a potential direct ritual action of writing. Unfortunately, as far as I know, the Berlin Bowl, with its specific graphic layout, is unique, so it is difficult to formulate a definitive interpretation. ⇒ Oxford Bowl: the theme of this text (dating from the 17th dynasty46) is undoubtedly funerary (the affirmation of a right to inherit after having taken care of a burial), but the text is entirely written in the third person: it is definitely not an epistolary communication, and it looks like a ‘statement’.47 ‘On the bottom’, there was also a ‘rough drawing of a coffin’.48 43 44

45 46 47 48

Gardiner and Sethe, Letters to the Dead, 5–7, 21–22, pl. V–Va. See discussion in Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 212–217. To compare mutatis mutandis with hieratic writing on figurines of enemies in execration rituals: Jambon, E., ‘Les mots et les gestes. Réflexions autour de la place de l’ écriture dans un rituel d’envoûtement de l’Égypte pharaonique’, Cahiers « Mondes anciens » [Online], 1 | 2010, published 20 January 2010, last accessed 24 August 2018. URL: http://journals.openedition .org/mondesanciens/158; DOI: 10.4000/mondesanciens.158. About the notion of ‘presentification’ of ancestors or gods during rituals, see Vernant, J.-P., Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs. Études de psychologie historique (Paris, 1996), 340. According to Bommas, M., ‘Zur Datierung einiger Briefe an die Toten’, GM 173 (1999), 53–60, the bowl is older than the inscription. Griffith, F.Ll., ‘A Cup with Hieratic Inscription’, PSBA 14 (1892), 329. Gardiner and Sethe, Letters to the Dead, 26 and pl. IX.1. See the commentary by Griffith, PSBA 14 (1892), 329 (‘faintly visible’).

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⇒ P. Berlin 10.482 verso (12th dynasty)49 is a postscript added after Coffin Texts formula and a list of offerings, and including a final request of intercession (for the birth of children in the pr-household). The text has been regularly included in the corpus since Jürgens pointed out its close resemblance with letters to the dead in 1990.50 However, the text has neither an epistolary formula nor second person speech, except in the very last sentence: ‘May you ask to the gods the birth of children alive, intact, and in good health on earth, who will inherit of my throne on earth’ (col. 8–9, spr=k n nṯr.w di҆=sn ms.t ḫrd.w ꜥnḫ wḏꜣ snb tp-tꜣ i҆wꜥwt(y)=sn ns.wt=i҆ tp-tꜣ). The text is probably rather a dedication accounting for the offering of CT formulas.51 The distinction between written communications with an epistolary formula those without may seem very slight. But, in my opinion, it relates to an ad hoc choice of discursive strategies, and deserves attention, at least for heuristic purposes.

3

Pragmatic Approach and Legal Aspects

The previous paragraph has focused on a linguistic definition of ‘letters to the dead’ (second person speech and epistolary formula). This approach suggests excluding Oxford Bowl and P. Berlin 10.482 verso from the ‘epistolary corpus’ stricto sensu. It also questions the precise ritual nature of the Berlin Bowl. I would now like to adopt a more pragmatic approach. As a written phenomenon, ‘letters to the dead’ from the late Old Kingdom-Middle Kingdom are characterized by the frequency of ceramic as a writing medium (in more than 50% of the ‘epistolary corpus’, see Table 3.1). Using a vessel as writing medium is certainly reminiscent of the importance of offerings in the relationships between the living and the dead. In that respect (writing medium,

49

50 51

For the text see the references cited in Jürgens, P., ‘Der Tote als Mittler zwischen Mensch und Göttern im Berliner Sargtexte Papyrus: Ein Zeugnis inoffizieller Religion aus dem Mittleren Reich’, GM 116 (1990), 58; Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 63, n. 131. A photograph is published by Regulski, in Verhoeven (ed.), Ägyptologische ‘Binsen’—Weisheiten I– II, 320, fig. 7. The author announces a forthcoming full publication of the Berlin Papyri of Sedekh: ibid., 321, n. 77. Willems, in Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 348; Miniaci, ZÄS 143 (2016), 89–90. See the remarks by Regulski, in Verhoeven (ed.), Ägyptologische ‘Binsen’—Weisheiten I–II, 320–321.

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hieratic script), no one could deny that the Berlin Bowl, of course, but also the Oxford Bowl have very close resemblance to ‘letters to the dead’ with epistolary formula. This is also true for another hieratic document (dating from the 6th–11th dynasty): the Qubbel el-Hawa Bowl, which does not present a communication to the dead, but two lists, including a ‘writing of valuable things given to the lord of this tomb’ (sš n(y) ḫtm.t rdy n nb i҆s pn), without any request or sentences expressed in second person speech.52 Beyond that material similarity, the documents also share one thematic feature with ‘letters to the dead’ with an epistolary formula: the Berlin Bowl, the Oxford Bowl and the lists of Qubbet el-Hawa Bowl, all have some sort of legal/official background. The deceased of the Berlin Bowl must forget her potential accusations (srḫ) against the living; the Oxford Bowl is a statement about inheritance rights; the purpose of the lists of the Qubbet el-Hawa Bowl is not explicit but the offerings are obviously recorded to guarantee something in return (payment in return of the permission to bury someone in it).53 In his book on the tribunal of the Hereafter in the Coffin Texts (1970), Grieshammer highlighted the significance of the divine tribunal theme and in particular the legal vocabulary of late Old Kingdom—Middle Kingdom ‘letters to the dead’ (the living often asked for rulings—verbs wpi҆ and wḏꜥ-mdw).54 This legal background of the ‘letters to the dead’ is not very surprising considering: 1) the importance of the divine tribunal in the regulation of the relationship between living and dead and the legal assistance often offered by ancestors to the living who performed rituals,55 2) the written culture of the period. Eyre noted that ‘the purpose of a letter [in general] was not merely to ensure the accurate transmission of instruction, or greater confidentiality than an oral message, but was closely related to that of a document, as authorization and record. It provides

52

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Seidlmayer, S.J., ‘Zum Verständnis der “Liste von Grabbeigaben” von der Qubbet el-Hawa’, GM 208 (2006), 95–103; Edel, E., Die Felsgräbernekropole der Qubbet el-Hawa bei Assuan I (Parderborn, 2008), 407–408; Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 67–68 (doc. 14, with a different translation); Miniaci, ZÄS 143 (2016), 89 (with references). Moreno García, in Mouton and Patrier (eds), Life, Death and Coming of Age in Antiquity, 198–200, especially 200. See also Seidlmayer, GM 208 (2006), 95–103 (‘(…) oder durch Mitgabe der Urkunde in der Bestattung des verstorbenen Vaters diesem ein Dokument in die Hand gegeben, mit dem dieser gegebenenfalls vor einem Jenseitsgericht nachweisen konnte, daß seine Bestattung in dem Grab zu Recht erfolgt ist’, ibid., 102). Grieshammer, R., Das Jenseitsgericht in den Sargentexten (= ÄA 20, Wiesbaden, 1970), 13–18. See also Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 108–114. See for example Coffin Texts 38–41 (below, n. 60) and of course the ‘Appeals to the Living’. Cf. generally Yoyotte, J., ‘Le jugement des morts dans l’ Égypte ancienne’, in Sources orientales 4 (Paris, 1962), 26–33.

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physical evidence of communication, and so can serve as a written instrument, even if this is largely symbolic and not autonomous legal form.’56 As a matter of fact, ‘letters to the dead’ and related material can also be considered as documents, under Eyre’s definition. One of the two letters written upon the Qau Bowl by a man called Shepsi is a very good example: not only does he ask his dead father to render a judgment against his dead brother Sobekhotep acting against the living from the Hereafter, but he also presents a set of arguments including the detailed breakdown (with a list of items) of a debt contracted by Sobekhotep (a ṯꜣb.t-loan57). The text is consequently both a communication and a record of data that can be used in a tribunal.

4

In Search of an Emic Perspective

Here it is very difficult to propose an emic perspective,58 because we know neither prescriptive texts naming such documents, nor descriptive texts with the details of a ritual practice.59 The Coffin Texts 38–41 offer an interpretative framework to understand the psychological, sociological and ritual backgrounds of the ‘letters to the dead’ and related materials.60 But the living–dead communication described in these texts is only oral. These spells are therefore not helpful to our understanding of ‘letters to the dead’ as a written medium of communication. The letters to the dead themselves contain some words that seem to be selfreferential:

56 57

58

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60

Eyre, The Use of Documents, 97. About this word: Meeks, D., ‘À propos du prêt de céréales en période de disette’, in Es werde niedergelegt als Schrifstück: Feschrift für Hartwig Altenmüller zum 65. Geburtstag (BSAK 9, Hamburg, 2003), 275–280; Donnat, in Gasse et al. (eds), Et in Ægypto et ad Ægyptum, 231. For another use of the emic/etic opposition when considering the letters to the dead, see Miniaci, ZÄS 143 (2016), 89–90, who compares emic with philology, and etic with archaeology. For a general and critical discussion on the concept of ‘emic’, see Olivier de Sardan, J.-P., ‘Émique’, L’Homme 38/147 (1998), 151–166. The general ritual context that can be reconstructed is of course the offering ritual. There is also an allusive evocation of what could be a more specific ritual related to ‘letters to the dead’ in the Chicago Jar Stand (col. 3): ‘Behold now there is brought (to thee) this vessel (mnṯꜣ.t) in respect of which thy mother is to make litigation (wḏꜥ-mdw).’ Translation Gardiner, JEA 16 (1930), 20 (and commentary, 22). Cf. discussion in Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 124–144, especially 136–137. De Jong, SAK 21 (1995), 141–157; Willems, in Willems, (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 355–369.

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1)

ṯnw-rꜣ (memorandum) is used four times (Cairo Linen, Qau Bowl inside and outside, Chicago Jar Stand) to characterize the first part of the letter (= an inventory of facts); 2) i ҆ꜥnw (plea, call to benevolent listening) is the designation of two letters (Hu Bowl, Papyrus Naga ed-Deir N 373761); 3) sš, ‘letter, writing, document’ is the general designation of one letter (Pap. Naga ed-Deir N 3500, First Intermediate Period).62 The first two designations refer to oral procedures (that could eventually have been written down) used in the management of a household; they both appeared in other documents with some kind of official background (ṯnw-rꜣ),63 or in the context of relationships between superior and dependant (i҆ꜥnw). It is important to underline here that the sentences with ṯnw-rꜣ and more particularly with i҆ꜥnw are very close in all the letters concerned, despite their geographic distribution: letters with ‘i҆ꜥnw phraseology’ from Hu cemetery and Naga ed-Deir cemetery;64 letters with ṯnw-r(ꜣ) sections from Saqqara, Qau cemetery and probably Abydos district.65 This is an indication that, even if the ‘letter to the dead’ is not a formalized genre, a specific phraseology probably belonging to the argumentative speech was often used by the scribes in the letters. As for the word sš of P. Naga ed-Deir N 3500, it emphasizes, on the contrary, the written aspect of the communication. It seems to be the only term, in the ‘letters to the dead’ corpus, referring to an entire letter. Sš is the current word for ‘letter’ in the Middle Kingdom,66 but, in previous periods, it also regularly held the meaning of ‘document’, or ‘written evidence’. In the case of Sobekhotep against Tshau (papyrus Berlin 9010—late 6th dynasty), one of the litigants, Sobekhotep, brings (i҆ni҆) a document (sš) testifying his right to User’s inheritance. The court asks him to show three witnesses to prove the authentic-

61 62 63

64 65 66

Simpson, JEA 52 (1966), 39–52, pl. IX–X; Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 48–51 (doc. 5). Simpson, JEA 56 (1970), 58–64 and pl. XLVI–XLVIA; Donnat Beauquier, Écrire à ses morts, 51–53, doc. 6. Ṯnw-rꜣ: Vernus, P., ‘La position linguistique des Textes des Sarcophages’, in Willems, H. (ed.), The World of the Coffin Texts: Proceeding of the Symposium Held on the Occasion of the 100th Birthday of Adriaan de Buck. Leiden, December 17–19, 1992 (EgUit 9, Leiden, 1996), 170–172; Donnat, S., ‘Le rite comme seul référent dans les lettres aux morts: Nouvelle interprétation du Cairo text on linen’, BIFAO 109 (2009), 67f. i҆ꜥnw: Donnat, Lingua Aegyptia 20 (2012), 30–31. Ḥu Bowl, P. Naga ed-Deir N3737. Cairo Linen, Qau Bowl, Chicago Jar Stand. Caminos, R.A., s.v. ‘Brief’, LÄ 1 (1975), col. 859. See also the commentary in Simpson, JEA 56 (1970), 59, n. a.

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ity of the document.67 The meaning ‘document’ is also clear in the label sš n(y) ḫtm.t of the Qubbet el-Hawa Bowl. Since ‘letters to the dead’ always present the plaintiff’s defence speech (see comments on Qau Bowl above68), they are consequently not only a communication method, but also evidence (written evidence) brought to the Hereafter, to make the voices of the living heard. Consequently, the relevant category for the entire corpus (‘letters to the dead’ and related material) may be that of a written document (sš). The presentation of documents (rdi҆ sš)—usually different kinds of accounts—to a deceased, former lord of a pr-household, is indeed a frequent icon in the decoration of the funerary chapels of the elite during the Old Kingdom, but also in later periods.69 This icon probably enhances the prestige of the deceased who were able to use (with a team of scribes)70 writing as a managerial tool. The importance of ‘documents’ for the destiny of the dead in the Hereafter is moreover a key feature in funerary texts such as the Coffin Texts, as Eyre asserts: ‘A number of ritual texts clearly assert the use of documents to empower and endow the dead’ (laissez-passer, decrees …).71 For example, the Coffin Texts spells 131–136 (with occurrences of the word ṯnw-rꜣ in CT II, 154e72 et 163d) belong to this category; they refer to ‘the sealing of a decree (ḫtm wḏ)’ in favour of the dead for the assembly of his family (ꜣb.t).73 Somehow, ‘letters to the dead’ and related material (other kinds of written communications, statements, records, all in hieratic) may be considered within this sociological and symbolic background. At this point, I would like to mention an intriguing occurrence of the word sš in the funerary spell Coffin Text 849 (VII 54b–n, Sq6C74). The translation of the

67

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71 72 73 74

See Philip-Stéphan, A., Dire le droit en Égypte pharaonique: Contribution à l’ étude des structures et mécanismes juridictionnels jusqu’au Nouvel Empire (Bruxelles, 2009), 261, doc. 57; Eyre, The Use of Documents, 103–104. See also the analysis of Hu Bowl and P Naga ed Deir N 3737, Donnat, LingAeg 20 (2012), 29–49. Der Manuelian, P., ‘Presenting the scroll: Papyrus Documents in Tomb scenes of the Old Kingdom’, in Der Manuelian, P., and R. Freed (eds), Studies in Honor of William Kelly Simpson (Boston, 1996), 561–588; Donnat, S., ‘Donner à voir la difference: Détail et singularité dans la chapelle de Khoumhotep II à Béni Hassan’, Ktêma 34 (2012), 153–159; Verma, S., Cultural Expression in the Old Kingdom Elite Tomb (Archaeopress Egyptology 1, Oxford, 2014), 122–144. To be compared with the image of the deceased as scribe of the gods in CT: Nyord, R., ‘Scribes of the Gods in the Coffin Texts’, in: Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds.), The World of Middle Kingdom (2000–1550 BC) (MKS 1, London, 2015), 273–307. Eyre, The Use of Documents, 87 (for the quotation) and 86–89. Cf. Vernus, in Willems (ed.), The World of the Coffin Texts, 170, n. 27. Willems, H., Les Textes des sarcophages et la démocratie (Paris, 2008), 193–194. See Molen, R. van der, A Hieroglyphic Dictionary of Egyptian Coffin Texts (PdÄ 15, Lei-

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entire formula is unfortunately not very clear,75 but the title reads: ‘To open the grave and to bring writing to a man in the realm of the dead.’ (Wn ḥꜣ.t, i҆n.t sš n s m ḫry.t-nṯr76). It would be speculation to assume that the word sš is here a direct reference to ‘letters to the dead’ or related material attested by archaeology. However, it is more generally reminiscent of the authoritative and symbolic uses of writing in funerary rituals.

5

Conclusion

As Miniaci has pointed out, the modern textual category ‘letter to the dead’ is a very suggestive one.77 Consequently, we must be careful to avoid confusion with the modern connotations of the term ‘letter’.78 It is essential to consider the specific status of epistolary communication within the history of the written culture of Ancient Egypt. In that respect, I argue that ‘letters to the dead’ and related hieratic material from the late Old Kingdom-Middle Kingdom period belong to the larger category of documents that could have been considered useful in the context of disputes between living and dead arbitrated in the divine tribunals. More generally, they must be considered in connection to the motifs of documents written for the dead in contemporary funerary literature.79 ‘Letters to the dead’ and related material are thus probably among the indications of an increase of the authoritative value of writings before the Middle Kingdom. To fully understand this ritual practice, written communications to the dead must consequently not only be studied as historical sources on Egyptian funerary beliefs, but also as a specific phenomenon of elite Egyptian funerary culture. The same obviously also applies to funerary corpora.80

75

76 77

78 79 80

den/Boston/Köln, 2000), 549, s.v. sš ‘book, register’; van der Plas, D., and J.F. Borghouts, Coffin Texts Word Index (Utrecht, 2000), 266, s.v. sš ‘writing’. To be compared with translations by Barguet, P., Les Textes des sarcophages (Paris, 1986), 368; Faulkner, R.O., The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts III (Warminster, 1978), 34; and Carrier, C., Textes des sarcophages du Moyen Empire égyptien III (Monaco, 2004), 1851. On the expression ‘to bring a document’: Wb I, 90, 12; to be compared with the title of Coffin Text 1023 (CT VII, 244a–s, formula 1023). Miniaci, Lettere ai morti nell’Egitto antico, 16: the ‘potenze linguistica e immaginativa straordinaria untendo un termine legale-giuridico, lettera, con un alto dalle forti valenze anthropologiche e metafisiche, morto.’ See also Donnat, S., ‘Les lettres aux morts de l’Égypte pharaonique: Les bénéfices d’ une communication écrite avec l’ancêtre’, Semitica et Classica X (2017), 125–132. See above, footnote 69. About the status and the pragmatic action of the Coffin Texts as a written artefact, see Assmann, J., Images et rites de la mort dans l’Égypte ancienne (Paris, 2000), 35–36.

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Tomb inscriptions, funerary texts and written communications with the dead are indeed different manifestations of the outstanding role of writing (hieroglyphic but also hieratic) in the funerary culture of the Ancient Egyptian elites. Considering the relatively small number of ‘letters to the dead’ published to date, the forthcoming editions of new hieratic documents81 will certainly shed new light on the practice and on its position within Egyptian funerary customs and rituals. 81

See above, footnote 25.

chapter 4

How ‘Royal’ (and ‘Mythical’) Are the Coffin Texts? Reflections on the Definition and Function of Some Etic Concepts in a Middle Kingdom Funerary Text Corpus Katja Goebs

The exact relationship of the funerary corpus of the Coffin Texts with its royal precursors, the Old Kingdom Pyramid Texts, continues to be a hotly contended topic among Egyptologists.1 Issues debated include 1) The importance of format, such as the different types of text carrier—sunk stone relief on tomb wall vs. (predominantly) painted wooden coffin,2 2) Use and availability—where the observation that a much larger group of individuals, namely members of the high-ranking Middle Kingdom elite, had access to the Coffin Texts has entailed discussions about terms such as ‘democratization’ vs. ‘demotization’,3

1 Good summary in Mathieu, B. ‘La distinction entre Textes des Pyramides et Textes des Sarcophages est-elle légitime?’, in Bickel, S. and Mathieu, B. (eds.), D’ un monde à l’ autre: Textes des pyramides & textes des sarcophages: Actes de la Table ronde internationale, textes des pyramides versus textes des sarcophages: Ifao, 24–26 septembre 2001 (BdÉ 139, Cairo, 2004), 247–262; for a more recent, brief, take on the matter see Willems, H., Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture: Religious Ideas and Ritual Practice in Middle Kingdom Elite Cemeteries (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 73, Leiden/Boston, 2014), 201 with n. 238. An extensive discussion is included in Antonio Morales’ dissertation The Transmission of the Pyramid Texts into the Middle Kingdom: Philological Aspects of a Continuous Tradition of Egyptian Mortuary Literature (PhD Dissertation University of Pennsylvania (= UMI 3565179), Ann Arbor, 2013), in which the transition from Pyramid Texts to Coffin Texts and a number of the dynamics or strategies underlying potential transfers are discussed. 2 Although some Pyramid Texts survive on Middle Kingdom coffins also; synoptic edition by Allen, J.P., The Egyptian Coffin Texts 8: Middle Kingdom Copies of Pyramid Texts (Oriental Institute Publications 132, Chicago, 2006); see also Morales, Transmission of the Pyramid Texts into the Middle Kingdom, e.g. p. 30, where the author posits that about 400 Pyramid Text spells out of a total of 900 were transferred into, and edited for inclusion in, the Coffin Texts. 3 Discussed extensively in Willems, Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture, 124–229, with evidence for both private individuals adopting Pyramid (and Coffin) Texts—commonly religious personnel involved in the cult of Old Kingdom kings’ pyramid cults—as well as quantifications that demonstrate the extremely high status of the persons using the Coffin Texts, especially in Middle Egypt and Thebes. Even more recently, the very

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_005

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and 3) Content—such as the frequent use of captions and glosses in the Coffin Texts, the absence of certain central themes and a much higher incidence of dialogue in that later corpus,4 paired with suggestions that regional religious ideas may be reflected in it. The latter have in turn led to a long-standing debate on the geographic origin of the two corpora in distinct (a northern vs. southern, or Middle Egyptian) cultural settings.5 Many of these issues remain contentious in the scholarly literature and continue to be redefined in light of new findings.6

concept of a ‘trickle-down effect’ in the use of these texts has been questioned on the basis of their including evidence for certain rituals—such as offering formulae—that are also, and earlier, attested in private funerary contexts (thus Smith, M., Following Osiris: Perspectives on the Osirian Afterlife from four Millennia (Oxford/New York, 2017), e.g. p. 51, esp. pp. 95 ff.; id., ‘Democratization of the Afterlife’, in Wendrich, W. and J. Dieleman (eds), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles, 2009), http://escholarship.org.myaccess.library.utoronto.ca/uc/ item/70g428wj). Such a, somewhat superficial, evaluation of the materials should be weighed against the evidence demonstrating beyond any doubt that the funerary text corpora as they are attested today include materials from various contexts and of varying geographical, historical, and functional provenance—a situation that is showcased, among other things, in the fact that no two pyramids or coffins display the exact same selection of texts. Just because an overlap can be observed in the use of some types of text in both the royal and private spheres does not dictate that this overlap extended to all conceptions included in a corpus such as the Pyramid Texts. While Smith acknowledges that both spheres may have drawn upon a common source for the texts that they share (Following Osiris, 154), this scenario to him provides ‘further support for the view that rulers and subjects shared common aspirations for the hereafter during the Old Kingdom’, thereby ignoring a number of conceptions that are in fact not attested in the private sphere. I will return to this point at the end of the discussion. 4 E.g. von Lieven, A., ‘Nun sprach aber Osirtis zu Re … (Götter)Dialoge in den großen Corpora der ägyptischen Funerärliteratur’, in El Hawary, A. (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden: Erzählen für die Ewigkeit (= Naratio Aliena? Studien des Bonner Zentrums für Transkulturelle Narratologie 3, Berlin, 2012), 97–98, who comments on differences between the two corpora, pointing out, for example, that a group of spells commonly known as ‘Abscheusprüche’, meaning ‘Spells of loathing’ or ‘disgust’, are absent from the Pyramid Texts as their royal users did not require them. On the increased use of dialogue in the Coffin Texts see Coulon, L., ‘Rhétorique et stratégies du discours dans les formules funéraires: les innovations des Textes des Sarcophages’, in Bickel and Mathieu (eds.), D’un monde à l’ autre: Textes des pyramides & textes des sarcophages, 119–142. For the phenomenon and forms of dialogue in this corpus see also Bickel, S., ‘Dialoge und das Dialogische in den altägyptischen Sargtexten’, in El Hawary (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden, 65–82. 5 Summary e.g. in Gestermann, L., ‘Sargtexte aus Dair al-Biršā: Zeugnisse eines historischen Wendepunktes?’, in Bickel and Mathieu (eds), D’un monde à l’ autre: Textes des pyramides & textes des sarcophages, esp. pp. 206–207. 6 To cite just one notable example from my own scholarly experience: A paper presented by Isabelle Pierre-Croisiau at a conference held at the IFAO in Cairo in 2001, later published as ‘Nouvelles identifications de textes des sarcophages parmi les “nouveaux” textes des pyramides de Pépy Ier et de Mérenrê’, in Bickel and Mathieu (eds.), D’ un monde à l’ autre: Textes des pyramides & textes des sarcophages, 263–278, identified, among various other CT numbers,

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Within this framework, the present paper concentrates on two of my own research foci. The first is the question of the ‘Royalty’ of the deceased as it is described in funerary texts, and in particular how it relates to the conspicuously non-royal dead buried in the Middle Kingdom coffins bearing the Coffin Texts and hoping to gain access to the afterlife by means of them. One might expect significant changes from the exclusively ‘royal’ precursor corpus both in terms of content—such as many fewer references to royal themes— and form—meaning potential semantic or grammatical shifts, which could prove that the royal prerogatives and terminology were not fully applied to the deceased buried in the coffins bearing the texts. Secondly, if much more briefly, I will comment on the occurrence and use of mythical materials in these texts. By examining definitions of these concepts, as well as evidence from the Coffin Texts that previous scholarship has adduced to justify their use in both describing and analyzing this corpus, I question to what an extent these terms are actually appropriate in this context. Providentially, pertinent evidence for both royalty and myth usually appears side by side in the sources under study.

1

Egyptian ‘Kingship’ and ‘Royalty’—Etic vs Emic Concepts

In a volume concerned with questions of etic and emic concepts, I would like to begin by explaining why I view concepts of, and terms used to express, ‘Kingship’ and ‘Royalty’ as applied to the culture of ancient Egypt as etic—at least as a point of departure for my investigation. This is first and foremost due to the fact that many scholars to this day still seem uneasy about applying a straightforward translation of ‘King’ to the Egyptian terms most commonly seen as expressing equivalents to the modern institution. Uncertainty informs studies of both the linguistic (lemmatic, phonetic) derivations and the exact socio-political usage and range of associations.7 The Egyptian title njswt-bjtj (or

a section of CT 1030 and thus a part of the Book of Two Ways in the pyramid of Merenre (ibid., p. 268; PT reference: M/A/N 13–14—corresponding to CT VII, 258a–259c). In this way, from one day to the next, the long-standing interpretation of the Book of two Ways as a local—and late—Hermopolitan creation had been debunked; it had been in question since the mid1990s, when David Silverman published Lower Egyptian attestations (cf. ‘Coffin Texts from Bersheh, Kom el Hisn, and Mendes’, in Willems, H. (ed.), The World of the Coffin Texts: Proceedings of the Symposium Held on the Occasion of the 100th Birthday of Adriaan de Buck, Leiden, December 17–19, 1992 Leiden 1996, 140–141). 7 See Leprohon, R., The Great Name: Ancient Egyptian Royal Titulary (Writings from the Ancient World 29, Atlanta, 2013), 17 for brief summary.

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nsw-bjt) is today most commonly translated as ‘Dual King’8—in particular by those who wish to avoid the geographical connotations of the more traditional rendering ‘King of Upper and Lower Egypt’,9 which is perceived as potentially misleading10 and misrepresenting, among other things, the processes that led to the foundation of the Egyptian state as a straightforward ‘conquest’ of Lower Egypt at the hands of a southern principality.11 Indeed, usage of the term (and its components, njswt and bjtj) in the funerary literature strongly suggests that this older translation does not cover all the potential meanings,12 yet most Egyptologists seem to accept that njswt, bjtj, and njswt-bjtj are titles or epithets that refer to a person who is in many respects comparable to what a modern onlooker might perceive and designate as a ‘king’ or ‘monarch’. The appropriateness of such an approach appears to be validated when one scrutinizes definitions of the most important terms commonly associated with the Egyptian ruler in a few highly regarded dictionaries and encyclopedias. The entry for ‘Monarch’ in the Merriam-Webster’s New College Dictionary, for example, includes the following characteristics: A monarch is the sovereign head of state in a monarchy. A monarch may exercise the most and highest authority in the state […] Typically a monarch either personally inherits the lawful right to exercise the state’s sovereign rights (often referred to as the throne or the crown) […] or is selected by an established process from a family or cohort eligible to provide the nation’s monarch. Alternatively, an individual may become

8

9

10

11

12

As introduced by Baines, J., e.g. in ‘Kingship, Definition of Culture, and Legitimation’, in O’Connor, D. and D.P. Silverman (eds.), Ancient Egyptian Kingship (PdÄ 9, Leiden, 1995), pp. 3–47; esp. 9. This is the way the title was translated into Greek on the Rosetta Stone; cf. e.g. Gardiner, A.H., Egyptian Grammar, Being an Introduction to the Study of Hieroglyphs, 3rd edn., Oxford, 1957, 73. See Leprohon, The Great Name, 17 with references to a few other interpretations; for a relatively recent understanding involving different functions of the office holder see e.g. Kahl, J., ‘nsw und bi҆t: die Anfänge’, in Engel, E.-M., et al. (eds.), Zeichen aus dem Sand: Streiflichter aus Ägyptens Geschichte zu Ehren von Günter Dreyer (MENES 5, Wiesbaden, 2008), 307–351. Classic account in Sethe, K., Urgeschichte und älteste Religion der Ägypter (Abhandlungen zur Kunde des Morgenlandes 18, 4, Leipzig, 1930); summary and contextualization also in Assmann, J., Ägypten: Eine Sinngeschichte (Munich/Vienna, 1996), 43–52. See e.g. Goebs, K., Crowns in Egyptian Funerary Literature: Royalty, Rebirth, Destruction (Oxford, 2008), 376 (also p. 298 n. 658) for a brief discussion of how, at least in the divine and celestial spheres, areas other than terrestrial parts of Egypt inform the use of these terms.

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monarch by conquest, acclamation or a combination of means. A monarch usually reigns for life or until abdication. […]13 The Encyclopedia Britannica’s entry on ‘Sacred Kingship’, defined among other things as a more traditional and older form of monarchy, moreover describes it as: A religious and political concept by which a ruler is seen as an incarnation, manifestation, mediator, or agent of the sacred or holy […] the king, as the personified god, played the main role in the overall, and mostly ritualized cultural pattern. Politically, this entailed the exercise of power of one person over other persons or over a community (local, regional, or imperial) and in early times was general and not divided. Power could be exercised by only one person—one who simultaneously had the necessary physical (individual and corporate) and spiritual (psychic) strength and influence—over both people and objects.14 As regards the processes by which an individual assumed this position we read: The coronation or ascent to the throne by a king is an official act that most clearly shows the sacral character of the kingdom. […]: through ascent to the throne, the king is placed higher than other men, and the act of accession is connected with supernatural powers. […] In becoming someone else (a god), the king receives a new name, a throne name. […] The coronation […] was viewed as a cosmic new beginning, […]. The most important initial actions of sacred kingship—the ascent to the throne and coronation with proper insignia and king’s robes—have remained the same in many modern cultures. The throne, crown, headdress, garment (as sign of dignity), and sceptre (the staff through which the rule is carried out) were originally believed to contain the power through which the king ruled. […]. In many cultures the […] throne, the crown, and the sceptre are viewed as divine and identified with gods and goddesses.15

13 14 15

‘Monarch’, in: Webster’s II New College Dictionary (Boston, 2001), 707. Westermann, C., ‘Sacred Kingship’, http://www.britannica.com/topic/sacred‑kingship; accessed 16 January 2016. Loc. cit. The article mentions some further rituals connected with sacred kingship, including anointment, cleansing, and ritual meals.

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Needless to say, anybody with even rudimentary background knowledge of the Egyptian state and its chief representative will recognize important aspects of Egyptian kingship in this summary, and—rather befittingly—the author of the latter entry proceeds to adduce several examples from ancient Egypt to underpin his arguments. This is significant within the theoretical framework of the present volume because also the single-most cited anthropological works on kingship and its associated rituals, the studies by Arthur Maurice Hocart, Kingship16 and by Arnold van Gennep, The rites of passage,17 draw heavily on Egyptian things. I first came to realize this when, in the course of my research on Egyptian crowns and the rituals associated with their bestowal, I recognized the (typically tripartite) structure of van Gennep’s rites of passage in both Egyptian accession and transfiguration rituals,18 followed by the realization that this coinciding had also been commented on by Hocart.19 A little research on the biography of van Gennep revealed that he actually studied, among other things, Egyptology at the École Pratique des Hautes Études, however,20 and is

16 17 18

19 20

Oxford 1927; second edition 1969. For his discussion of the relationship between earthly and celestial rule of both the gods and the king see, for example, pp. 7–20, 70–98. Chicago 1960; translated from the original French (1909) edition by M.B. Vizedom and G.L. Caffee. Goebs, Crowns, 376–377. The applicability of the tripartite structure of rites of passage has recently been questioned by Harold Hays, ‘The End of Rites of Passage and a Start with Ritual Syntax in Ancient Egypt’, in: Ambos, C. and L. Verderame (eds.), Approaching Rituals in Ancient Cultures (Pisa/Rome, 2013), 165–186, who argued that some Egyptian rituals have more than three parts, and that in some funerary ritual representations there is no clear narrative sequence—for example, when aggregate, complete, stages of a transfiguration can at times be represented at what appears to be the very beginning of such a ritual. There are several problems with Hays’ approach, and this is not the place to discuss them in detail, but I would like to offer two comments: First, it should be kept in mind that the question of where a full ‘part’ of a ritual begins and where it ends, and which sub-sections should be counted towards such ‘parts’, may differ from culture to culture and/or lie in the (etic) eye of the beholder. Secondly, we cannot assume that a tomb representation of what appears to be a ritual sequence represents a true-to-life reproduction of that same ritual, from beginning to end. What is more, it would not have functioned as such a record for the people who were meant to see it—and we have to take their (potential) perspective in viewing these representations into account when trying to interpret. Regardless of whether such images and texts were aimed primarily at the deceased himself or at the visitors to the outer parts of his tomb, the aim of any such representation would have been, at least in part, to reassure these individuals that the deceased’s transformation into an Akh had been successful as a result of due ritual process having been followed. Kingship (2nd ed.), 83–84. Belmont, N., Arnold van Gennep: The Creator of French Ethnography, translated from the French by D. Coltman (Chicago, 1979).

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the co-author of a little-known volume on Egyptian weaving techniques.21 In other words, the at first sight quite abstractly deduced, etic, and hence purportedly objectively developed concept of ritual structures surrounding the institution of kingship, which are presented as near-universal by these comparative studies—and which I myself attempted to apply to the Egyptian evidence and then marveled at how neatly they applied also there—is in essence based upon that very same evidence, at least in part. I, for one, almost fell victim to a veritable circular argument, therefore—a cautionary tale for anybody working with etic models. Whether true emic views can be isolated for ancient Egypt remains questionable, of course, not least since no living members of this culture remain. Anthropologists such as Marvin Harris questioned even the possibility of either truly emic or fully etic models,22 considering it highly unlikely that, even in living societies, there could be any such thing as a ‘cultural authority’ that might be asked to present a ‘true’ image of their culture, and arguing that every observer’s supposedly objective etic model might in fact turn out to be their own emic one. This has led some commentators to conclude that ‘an interplay between what might be considered the emic models of the observer and the observed are as close as we can get to an etic level of analysis.’23 Since we possess plenty of written evidence from Egypt that we know to translate quite well, however, and since—as illustrated above—we certainly have a whole range of our own emic models of kingship, which we can at least try to apply to the terms expressing the emic Egyptian counterparts to see how the two intermesh, the following pages will trace the usage of the Egyptian terms that are commonly translated as ‘king’ in the Coffin Texts and compare the statements they make with those models.

21

22

23

Van Gennep, A. and Jéquier, G., Le tissage aux cartons et son utilisation décorative dans l’Egypte ancienne (Neuchatel, 1916). An English translation has appeared only recently: Cardweaving in Ancient Egypt, translated from the French by B. Shapiro (San Francisco, 2010). E.g. The Rise of Anthropological Theory: A History of Theories of Culture. Updated version (London, 2001), 568–604. Also id., ‘History and Significance of the Emic-Etic Distinction’, Annual Review of Anthropology 5 (1976), 329–350. Barnard, A. and Spencer, J. (eds), Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, 2nd ed. (Abingdon/New York, 2010), 222.

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The Egyptian Terminology of ‘Royalty’

My research produced 41 attestations for n( j)swt24 (Wb25 2, 325.1–329.10; TLA26 number 88040; 851639 if used as the epithet of a deity), a count that disregards the plentiful occurrences of ḥtp-dj-njswt offering formulae.27 It stands against only 3 attestations for bjtj (Wb 1, 435.1–15, TLA 54240)28 and 2 for njswt-bjtj (TLA 88060; both occurring in the same spell, CT 42).29 In addition, there were 2 attestations for nsyt—‘kingship’ (Wb 2, 332.13–333.21; TLA 88090).30 24

25 26 27

28

29

30

I have largely worked with the de Buck edition for this study, which provides an excellent synoptic layout. Most of my findings relate to a number of coffins or manuscripts and I think that conclusions can be drawn and formulated with relative certainty. On occasion I may be missing examples from coffin exemplars that are not included in this edition so that the numbers presented here are not to be understood as absolute. Pyramid Texts on Middle Kingdom coffins have not been included as the purpose of this paper is to assess the significance of the topos of ‘Royalty’ specifically within the funerary culture of the time and, potentially, in contrast to the conceptions encountered in the Pyramid Texts. But see Allen, The Egyptian Coffin Texts 8 for such Pyramid Text copies. Indexes consulted to obtain the cited numbers are Borghouts, J.F. and D. van der Plas, Coffin Texts Word Index (Utrecht/Paris, 1998) and van der Molen, R., A Hieroglyphic Dictionary of Egyptian Coffin Texts (Leiden/Boston, 2000), augmented by my own searches of the texts. I have also benefitted from having my finds confirmed by Doris Topmann of the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften project Structure and Transformation in the Vocabulary of the Egyptian Language, who within this project is in charge of the Coffin Text evidence, as well as from an index of these texts compiled by Wolfgang Schenkel for his personal use—I am indebted to Professor Schenkel for permitting me to view his materials. Erman, A. and W. Grapow (eds), Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache, 7 vols. (Leipzig, 1926–1931). Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae, as produced by the above-cited Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie project, and to be accessed via http://aaew.bbaw.de/tla/servlet/TlaLogin. CT 45 (I, 197f), CT 48 (I, 214f), CT 49 (I, 222/B16C 98), CT 50 (I, 225a), CT 51 (I, 233a), CT 60 (I, 251f), CT 83 (II, 47a), CT 189 (III, 97i), CT 195 (III, 113q), CT 256 (III, 365a) CT 257 (III, 367a, 369a, 370c), CT 279 (IV, 26j), CT 313 (IV, 87m), CT 314 (IV, 94a), CT 317 (IV, 125b), CT 438 (V, 290f), CT 472 (VI, 1i), CT 484 (VI, 60c), CT 531 (VI, 125f), CT 557 (VI, 158k), CT 609 (VI, 223a), CT 629 (VI, 249i, n), CT 647 (VI, 268i), CT 660 (VI, 282d), CT 678 (VI, 305g), CT 695 (VI, 329a), CT 726 (VI, 357e), CT 741 (VI, 369p), CT 787 (VII, 1p), CT 803 (VII, 9p), CT 816 (VII, 15q), CT 826 (VII, 27n, (o)), CT 831 (VII, 31o, p), CT 888 (VII, 100f), CT 926 (VII, 129g), CT 936 (VII, 137i), CT 947 (VII, 163l) (to which may be added CT 301 (IV, 52e), where L1Li miswrites the šmꜥtt of other versions as pr njswt). CT 317 (IV, 113a), CT 665 (VI, 291i), to which can be added an attestation of sꜣty bjtj, ‘The twins of the bjtj’, often an epithet of Shu and Tefnut (see below, 88 with n. 87), in CT 397 (V, 106a). An attestation in CT 695 (VI, 329g) is uncertain—see next note. Version B1Y of CT 60 moreover includes the title ḫtmtj bjtj with the name of the coffin owner in CT I, 253e, 254b. CT 42 (I, 178p, 179a) (B2Bo, B3Bo). CT 695 (VI, 329g) includes the following group: , which could potentially represent a (mis)writing of njswt-bjtj. See also below, 92 with n. 103. CT 49 (I, 222/B16C), CT 313 (IV, 92n); CT 256 (III, 365e) is partially reconstructed and can thus not be considered a reliable attestation; see below, n. 68.

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I moreover searched for ḥqꜣ (Wb 3, 170.23–173.2; TLA 110360, ‘ruler, leader, patron’)—which yielded 23 attestations,31 jty (Wb 1, 143.3–14, TLA 32930, ‘sovereign, ruler, patron’)—17 attestations,32 and jry-pꜥt (Wb 2, 415.15–416.6; TLA 94060 ‘hereditary prince; nobleman’)—17 attestations,33 as well as sr (Wb 4, 188.3–189.9, TLA 138920, ‘nobleman, magistrate, high official’)—18 attestations.34 A survey of context and usage revealed that ḥqꜣ and jty appear to be closely related to the more explicitly ‘royal’ terms, as they are frequently applied to the same entity that is also entitled njswt or bjtj within the same spell (see e.g. CT 45, 51, 313, 317, 647 discussed below). Jry-pꜥt and sr, by contrast, seem to be used differently and, within a given text, frequently appear as epithets of actors distinct from the former group. A good example is the common use, also well attested outside of the Coffin Texts, of jry-pꜥt for Geb,35 who never holds the titles njswt or bjtj in this corpus. In fact, with the exception of a single spell (CT 345), where it is used as an epithet of Thoth, jry-pꜥt exclusively describes Geb in the Coffin Texts. Sr, by contrast is most often used in the plural and then refers to beings in a position of authority, yet secondary to a ‘royal’ figure such as the sun god or Osiris.36 31

32

33

34

35

36

(Incl. pl. forms): CT 45 (I, 199b), CT 50 (I, 225c), CT 51 (I, 237e), CT 75 (I, 398d), CT 228 (III, 285b), CT 313 (IV, 87m), CT 317 (IV, 113a), CT 321 (IV, 146p), CT 325 (IV, 155b), CT 397 (V, 98b, d, f), CT 398 (V, 138b), CT 502 (VI, 87a), CT 554 (VI, 155f), CT 563 (VI, 162t), CT 641 (VI, 262l), CT 720 (VI, 347r, 348f), CT 763 (VI, 393h), (CT 822 VII, 22r?), CT 905 (VII, 111f), CT 1017 (VII, 236b); + fem. ḥqꜣt: CT 157 (II, 347a). CT 60 (I, 248e B10Cb only), CT 268 (IV, 2b B1Bo only), CT 293 (IV, 45f), CT 316 (IV, 106b), CT 319 (IV, 143c), CT 320 (IV, 144e, 145a), CT 321 (IV, 146e, j), CT 335 (IV, 297d, 312a), CT 374 (V, 37c), CT 397 (V, 95g/118), CT 458 (V, 330j), (CT 578 VI, 194f—miswriting for jt, ‘father’), CT 629 (VI, 250e), CT 647 (VI, 268h), CT 1006 (VII, 222k). CT 8 (I, 25b), CT 16 (I, 47b), CT 42 (I, 179j), CT 45 (I, 197f), CT 131 (II, 151c, f), CT 226 (III, 253a, 258c), CT 345 (IV, 369a, 376g), CT 397 (V, 107k), CT 406 (V, 211e), (CT 540 VI, 135f), CT 556 (VI, 156j, m), CT 596 (VI, 214c), CT 917 (VII, 121i). In CT 573 (VI, 177g), S2C miswrites ( j)r(y)-pꜥ(t) for ꜥpr. (Incl. pl. forms and refs. to ḥwt sr): CT 4 (I, 14b B15C only; 15d), CT 7 (I, 22a), CT 132 (II, (151b—reading uncertain), 154d), CT 153 (II, 265e), CT 314 (IV, 94l), (CT 336 IV, 329d, l), CT 343 (IV, 350b), (CT 344 IV, 366b), CT 345 (IV, 376g B1P only), CT 469 (V, 394n B2L only), CT 540 (VI, 136l), CT 587 (VI, 208o, 209b, i), CT 642 (VI, 263e), CT 706 (VI, 337m), CT 836 (VII, 36j), CT 837 (VII, 37g), CT 1024 (VII, 245a). Terms such as nb, ‘lord, master, owner’ (Wb 2, 227.5–230.14; TLA lemma number 81650) or wr, ‘great one, magnate’ (Wb 1, 328.14–329.18: TLA 47280) have not been included in this study as they have a broader spectrum of uses and connotations and are near ubiquitous. See Gardiner, A.H., ‘The Memphite tomb of the General Haremhab’, JEA 39 (1953), 10; Leitz, Chr., et al. (eds), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, VIII (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 116, Leuven/Paris, 2002), 688 O.1. Example e.g. CT 45 (I, 197f) discussed below. A striking case is CT 345 (VI, 376g), where B1P replaces the singular occurrence of the epi-

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Njswt is thus, without a doubt, by far the most important category of ‘king’ in the Coffin Texts. A first, impressionistic, analysis of this evidence might suggest that if a primary concern of these compositions had been to express the cited ‘Dual Kingship’ over two lands or domains on the model of the Egyptian rulers for whom the royal precursor corpus, the Pyramid Texts, were composed (or compiled), we would expect many more references to either bjtj (in the same or in related spells), or to the combined form njswt-bjtj. But this is not the case. Instead, one observes a clear pattern in the use of njswt: In the majority of attestations the title is associated with Osiris, in a smaller but still significant group with Horus (who also once appears as bjtj in this corpus—see CT 665 below). And, as we shall see, in the lion share of cases the title is used within descriptions of cosmic scenarios that have as their theme the seamless transition of the various phases of the solar cycle, which is cast in terms of a succession of celestial rulers.37 In what follows, I present the different areas of use of the titles njswt and bjtj in the—mostly mythical—scenarios described in the Coffin Texts, with a view to establishing whether an overlap or equivalence with modern concepts of royalty, as offered in the cited Encyclopedias, can be proven.

37

thet jry-pꜥt for Thoth in the other versions with that of sr nṯrw m jwnw, ‘Prince/Magistrate of the gods in Heliopolis’. For this mythical concept see also Goebs, K., ‘Njswt nḥḥ—Kingship, cosmos, and time’, in Hawass, Z. and Pinch-Brock, L. (eds.), Egyptology at the Dawn of the 21st Century. Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Egyptologists, Cairo, 2000 vol. 2 (Cairo, 2003), 238–253. For the relationship between myth(s) and funerary texts, especially their performance in the context of funerary rituals, see the musings of Jan Assmann and Martin Bommas, Ägyptische Totenliturgien 1: Totenliturgien in den Sargtexten des Mittleren Reiches (Heidelberg, 2002), 20–37, who speak of the phenomenon of the ‘Statuscharakteristik’, which features prominently in these texts. The authors employ this term to better define the ritual goal of transfiguring the deceased recipient of the cult by asserting his or her identity with a powerful, ꜣḫ-effective, inhabitant of the afterlife world. Such ‘Zielgestalten’ are—by definition—divine and thus are normally well-known mythical actors; as such they ‘function’ (my term) in mythical scenarios and constellations.

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‘Royal’ Concepts in the Coffin Texts

3.1

Ideas and Processes of Succession—the Transition from Night to Day / Day to Night 3.1.1 CT 60 (I, 251f) (B10Ca, b, c, d, B4C, B1Y)38 CT 60 presents an excellent example of a cosmic succession. We witness the appearance of ‘The God in his Shrine’ (nṯr m kꜣr=f )—a common reference to Osiris in other contexts, and the deceased is explicitly called Osiris at the end of the text. This identity is further borne out by the mythical actors and locations enumerated: Geb is his father and protection, Nut has born him, his living soul is in Djedet/Mendes; Seth and company are warded off and afraid. The deceased (as Osiris) then appears to be joined by the ‘One with Fair Face’ (nfr ḥr), Ptah-Sokar, at the prow of his barque. Bastet, daughter and first-born of Atum, is his protection: CT I, 250b: r ḥḏt tꜣ r hꜣt=k r ẖrt nṯr

… until day dawns, until you descend to the realm of the dead.

There follows a brief description of cosmic Maat in terms of all the mythical actors we might expect in such a context. This passage is clearly marked as separate from the rest of the text by being presented as reported speech, addressed to the deceased in his mythical role, and for his benefit. It is here that we understand the particular role of the various mythical actors within this cosmic scenario: CT I, 250g–251f: ḏdt n jmj-kꜣr=f Rꜥw ḏs=f m nb r ḏr dj=f jwt nṯrw m šmsw=f nꜥj wjꜣ jtḥ(w) mty ḥꜣj nṯr r ẖrt-nṯr jb=f nḏm 38

What is said to Him in his Shrine: ‘(When) Re himself is the Lord of All, he causes the gods to come in his following as the barque travels, it being dragged straight on. (But) when the god descends to the realm of the dead contentedly—

For the abbreviations denoting the different coffins and other text carriers see e.g. de Buck, Coffin Texts I, xvii–xviii; Lesko, L., Index of the Spells on Egyptian Middle Kingdom Coffins and Related Documents (Berkeley, 1979), 7–11. Note that, in the translations offered, I do not normally comment on the various grammatical issues and potential alternative renderings.

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Ḥrw m njswt jr.n=f n=f sꜣ ( j-)mr=f

Horus is njswt-king,39 having acted for him as “Beloved Son” ’.

The 2nd person address to the deceased then resumes. While it is not explicit whether the ‘descending god’ is Re or Osiris, the framing statements render it most likely that the deceased as Osiris—the ‘God in his Shrine’—is being presented with the reassuring account of how the solar cycle infallibly works and as such includes Horus, whose roles straddle the solar and Osirian mythical complexes.40 For it is explicitly Horus who steps in as cosmic deputy and successor of his predecessor, and earlier and ensuing passages suggest that this take-over is timed at dawn: Bastet as solar daughter protects the deceased until day dawns and he goes down to the realm of the dead. Later in the text the god’s wryt-hall is ‘what Re made for him for his protection,41 so that he might be in it until dawn’ (wryt=k m ḥwwt nṯr m jrt Rꜥw m sꜣ=k wn=k jm=s r ḥḏt-tꜣ). The Horizon and its various component parts (beams, curtain, etc.) then seem to be shut closed. When the day dawns (wbn hrw) in the east of the sky, it is there that it shines (psḏ) on the breast of the deceased—in a striking verbal description of the widespread icon showing Osiris being revived by means of solar rays. As Osiris, both night and day belong to the deceased ( jw n=k grḥ ntk hrw Wsjr). The spell ends by invoking Horus, who is now the ‘Lord of life’ (Ḥrw nb ꜥnḫ) and travels to numerous locations. For the purposes of our discussion the use of the concept of njswt-king(ship) to indicate life in, and seemingly dominance over, the sky is notable; the epithet nb r ḏr is used in parallel to njswt. When Re rules, the gods follow him and the barque travels properly, but when the god sets in the horizon (and enters

39

40

41

Faulkner, R.O., The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts I (Warminster, 1973), p. 55 translated ‘He is happy for Horus is king’. Horus may appear as njswt nṯrw already in the Pyramid Texts, thus in PT 570 §1458e (P). If we consider that Horus is in many contexts a pre- or early sunrise celestial deity, as unequivocally expressed in the Horian forms Harakhte and ḥrw-dꜣtj, to name but a couple, then both Re and Osiris could be affected by this changeover of rule at the respectively opposite end of the cosmic cycle: Re descends into the d(w)ꜣt at nightfall and Osiris (in his manifestation Orion—which is explicit in many spells from both the Pyramid and Coffin Texts)—at day-break. See e.g. Krauss, R., Astronomische Konzepte und Jenseitsvorstellungen in den Pyramidentexten (ÄA 59, Wiesbaden, 1997), 146–204, who moreover presents evidence suggesting that Horus represents one mythical form of the morning star, see ibid., pp. 216–234; 265–275; summary also in Goebs, Crowns, 19–20. Wb 1, 332.13, as a funerary ritual structure associated with the preparation of the body; see also Guilhou, N., ‘Rituel funeraire au Moyen Empire: L’ouryt et la lutte contre les insects necrophages’, Bulletin Cercle Lyonnais d’Égyptologie Victor Loret 8 (1994), 25–34.

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the realm of the dead), then ‘Horus is njswt-king’—a situation that is later also paraphrased by ‘Horus is the Lord of life’.42 3.1.2 CT 49 (I, 222; B16C 98) A similar succession of celestial rulers involving the title of njswt is envisaged in coffin B16C’s version of a part of CT spell 49. The text describes Isis and Nephthys’ mourning of Osiris,43 who appears as ‘Lord of the White Crown’ (nb ḥḏt)44 and must await the arrival of Horus from Heliopolis. In the meantime, Anubis acts as vizier45—adding nuance to the politically inspired scenario evoked here for the benefit of the deceased. Succession from father to son is once again the decisive episode, with the latter being granted his father’s seat in the celestial barque. This privilege coincides with a royal status: B16C 98 mk sꜣ=k r ḥꜣt (wjꜣ) Behold, your son is at the prow of the barque, dy n=f nst m kꜣr he has been given the seat in the cabin/shrine jw=f grt m njswt and he is thus njswt-king.

CT 787 (VII, 1p; M2NY)—when emended on the basis of the parallel BD chapter 119—may be referring to a similar scenario when it has the speaker first identify as the eldest son of his father, ‘the son of Nut’, and later proclaim that he has ‘arisen as the king of gods’ (ḫꜥ.kj m njswt nṯrw).

42

43

44 45

Note that this spell has been included in the group of spells identified as funerary liturgies, and specifically as forming part of the ‘Liturgie ḫnmw’, by Assmann and Bommas, Altägyptische Totenliturgien 1, 309–332. As I have stated for other contexts (e.g. Goebs, Crowns, 295, 349–350 with reference to the Cannibal Spell), expressing a certain myth, or a group of specific mythemes, does not preclude a text from being used as an accompaniment of rituals, and Assmann’s and Bommas’s understanding does not limit or contradict the analysis presented here for the use of royal topoi in the Coffin Texts. Also they interpret the present text, which in their scheme accompanies the final stage of the hourly vigils of the night (Stundenwachen), as referring to sunrise. See also above, n. 37, for the authors’ understanding of the use of myth in such texts. Assmann and Bommas interpret also this spell, as well as CT 45 and 51 cited below, as part of a performance during an hourly vigil episode in the course of funerary rituals (Altägyptische Totenlitugien 1, 266–276). See the previous note. Goebs, Crowns, 115–118. B10Cb: ṯꜣtj B10Cc, B13C: tꜣjtj ṯꜣtj; B12C tꜣjtj sꜣb ṯꜣty, B16C: ṯꜣ(tj) sꜣb.

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3.1.3 CT 45 (I 197f) (B10Cb, c, B12C, B13C, B16C, B17C, B1Y) As indicated, evocation of the kingship of Osiris is the most prominent use of royal topoi in the Coffin Texts. A good example is CT 609 (VI, 222i–223a), which asserts of the deceased: ‘He is Osiris—he is your njswt-king!’ (Wsjr pw njswt=ṯn pw).46 In some cases the god’s name is not even made explicit—Osiris’s association with the title njswt was apparently so characteristic and innate that further specification was not required, as we shall see. In several spells his legitimate succession of Geb is moreover emphasized. Thus in CT 45,47 where the deceased takes on a variety of divine identities aimed at ensuring his continued existence in the sky. He appears, among other things, as the sun god—Re and Atum, Hathor has anointed him, having given him life daily in the West like Re. He is more ꜣḫ and bꜣ than the southern and northern gods, and the gods of the horizon and crews of the solar barque are invoked. The mythical associations then move over to the Osirian side of the solar cycle.48 Geb, as the deceased’s father, has helped him and has incapacitated (dr) his foes, while Anubis makes his savor sweet. The deceased appears at the prow of the barque ( jw=k ḫꜥ.tj m ḥꜣt wjꜣ), followed by: CT I, 197f ntk njswt sꜣ jrj-pꜥt You are the njswt-king, son of the jry-pꜥt-Prince

—and thus of Geb.49 In conjunction with ensuing references to his being embalmed by Anubis as well as to several Osirian cultic locations, the identity of the njswt in question as Osiris is thus assured; he is moreover invoked as the Lord of all that exists and ruler of all that does not (nb n ntjw ḥqꜣ n jwtjw). Eventually, the speaker reveals himself to be his son Horus ( jnk sꜣ=k Ḥrw) and later also his sꜣ-mr/beloved-son priest, who accomplishes his vindication in the tribunal and endows him with his head at the command of Re. In this way, the

46 47

48 49

S5C, S10C, S11C, S12C, S6P. This spell, like a few others cited here (e.g. CT 42) have been attributed to a ritual sequence that according to some authors may in origin have belonged into a royal coronation ritual by some scholars (see e.g. Faulkner, Coffin Texts I, 35 with n. 1); it also forms part of a spell sequence that Assmann and Bommas have named ‘Liturgie CT.2’ and identified, like a few other texts cited here, as part of the rituals surrounding the hourly vigils (Assmann and Bommas, Altägyptische Totenlitugien 1, 60–68; 233–247). See 75 with nn. 42–43 above and also the discussion of CT 51 on p. 78 below for this issue. See Goebs, Crowns, e.g. pp. 42–44, on the complementary roles of Osiris and Re from the Pyramid Texts onwards. See above, 71 with n. 35.

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deceased can be ‘seen every day’ (mꜣꜣ.t(w) rꜥ nb)—a typical reference to one of the expected outcomes of a transfiguration with ensuing solar or stellar existence in the celestial afterlife.50 Also CT 45 hence uses the mythical topos of Osiris’s kingship to indicate the deceased’s continued control over his desired life-situation, namely entitlement to funerary and other provisions and the resulting continued celestial life as this prototypical ruler of the afterlife. However, the Osirian one is only one of the divine associations mobilized to accomplish this—the others are solar in character and underline the deceased’s wish to be present in the sky, and hence ‘live’, through the diurnal and nocturnal parts of the solar cycle alike. This is equally pronounced in the mythically rather similar CT 50. 3.1.4 CT 50 (I, 225a) (B10Cb, c; B12C, B13C, B16C, B17C) Like CT 45, this long text first describes sunrise but then moves over to Osirian themes. ‘Re rises (ḫꜥj) from the double gates’, Harendotes is glad, and Anubis is in his castle (m ẖnw ꜥḥ=f m wnwt=f nt sḥ-nṯr). The latter attends to the ‘Lord of Gods’, who eventually appears on the throne of Geb and is acclaimed in Busiris. In other words, Osiris is meant also here. The deceased is identified with him and appears at the prow of the barque; most versions then specifically identify him as the njswt-king of the Lower sky (pt ẖrt)—seemingly referring to the old association of Osiris and the constellation Orion: CT I, 225a: mk ṯw grt r/m Behold, you are thus njswt n pt ẖrt the njswt-king of the Lower sky.51

As such he rules (ḥqꜣ) the ones on their thrones—the nighttime inhabitants of the stellar sky52—and this nocturnal scenario is underpinned by mention of the night-barque later on. Seth and the makers of tumult are warded off. Ultimately, the moon god Thoth reveals himself to be the reciter and helper of Osiris, who is responsible for his transfiguration and the warding off of his enemies ( jnk sꜣ sꜣ=k mtwt mtwt=k sbꜣ.n ṯw (m) ẖnw jtn n-mrwt sꜣḫ ṯw sḫr(w) n=k ḫftjw=k). 50

51 52

E.g. Goebs, Crowns, 17 (in connection with the bꜣ), 102–104; for discussion of the theme of restoring the head in the Coffin Texts see Nyord, R., Breathing Flesh: Conceptions of the Body in the Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (CNIP 37, Copenhagen, 2009), 145–149. B12C, B13C, B16C, B17C; B10Cb, c simply write njswt pt. See also the discussion of CT 678 and CT 195 below.

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3.1.5 CT 51 (I, 233a) (B 10Cb, c; B12Ca, b, B13C, B16C, B17C) Also CT 51, which follows on CT 50 on several coffins, demonstrates the essential association of Osiris with the title of njswt. The text begins with an appeal to mourn him: jm ḥr njswt Wail about the njswt-king, nj wnt ky sꜣ Gb for there is no other son of Geb.53

Even though the god’s name is not specified, the surrounding mythemes leave no doubt that Osiris is meant. Injury was inflicted on him by his brother and he is in his hand, but his resurrection follows, of course, and as ‘Lord of the West’ his barque is seen by Re upon his rising in the East of the sky, which yet again implies a changeover from day to night. This is underlined further by declaring him a son of Harakhte and ennobled as the ‘Ruler of the horizon’ (sꜥḥ(w) m ḥqꜣ ꜣḫt). As our discussion is concerned specifically with the question of ‘how royal’ the Coffin Texts are, some interpretations of CT 51, as advanced by scholars such as Raymond Faulkner as well as Jan Assmann and Martin Bommas, should be mentioned. Faulkner took the opening phrase of this spell to indicate that it had in origin been a royal funerary text.54 In this he is followed by Assmann and Bommas, in whose treatment of funerary liturgies in the Coffin Texts CT 51 is a part of their liturgy CT.2. Basing themselves on the work of Peter Jürgens,55 they assert that this liturgy, just like their liturgy CT.1, held a status largely independent from the Pyramid Texts and was likely composed somewhat later. However, they tentatively except CT 51 from this interpretation—exactly because of the opening line jm ḥr njswt, which seems to reveal an older Pyramid Text, and hence royal, context also to them.56 It is my hope that the evidence presented here may serve to demonstrate that themes and associations of royalty appear throughout the Coffin Text corpus and cannot be used as reliable proof of ‘older’ Pyramid Text materials and conceptions. A particularly instructive example of this is CT 313, as it contains various markers of being a later, and specifically Coffin Text, composition (for 53 54 55

56

jm ‘wehklagen’, Wb 1, p. 77.12–13; TLA 24660; discussion also in Assmann and Bommas, Totenliturgien I, 292. Coffin Texts I, 50 n. 1. Jürgens, P., Grundlinien einer Überlieferung der Sargtexte: Stemmata und Archetypen der Spruchgruppen 30–32 + 33–37, 75(–83), 162 + 164, 225 + 226 und 343 + 345 (GOF IV: Ägypten 31, Harrassowitz, 1995). Assmann and Bommas, Totenliturgien I, 66 with n. 105; their translation of the text on pp. 290–292.

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which see below), yet is particularly rich in ‘royal’ associations. In offering the single most elaborate presentation of Osiris’s kingship and of his being succeeded by Horus found in the Coffin Texts, the text situates important episodes of this myth in Herakleopolis Magna—in a manifestly post-Old Kingdom development.57 For the purposes of our discussion, CT 313 moreover adds to the image of royalty sketched so far an illustration of the fact that preeminence in the sky may be expressed, besides by attributing a royal title, also by reference to royal symbols, such as thrones, crowns, scepters, and further items of insignia, and it is hence discussed in a separate section here. 3.2

Coronation and Attribution of Insignia—the Royal Appearance of the Deceased 3.2.1 CT 313 (IV, 87m) (B5C)58 This text is entitled a spell for ‘Transforming oneself into a falcon’ ( jrt ḫprw m bjk) and thus a celestial inhabitant of the sky on the model of the sun god. In describing what appears to be a Herakleopolitan kingship, the text employs the Atef-crown as an item of both Osirian and Horian insignia. Here it is of note that the Atef is not attested in the Pyramid Texts, or any other earlier religious composition.59 What is more, CT 313 includes extensive examples of dialogue, a characteristic marker of Coffin Text compositions.60 Here Osiris speaks to

57

58

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See now Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, L., Naref and Osiris Naref: A Study in Herakleopolitan Religious Traditions (ZÄS Beihefte 3, Berlin/Boston, 2017), 117–119. To what extent royal conceptions of Dynasties 9 and 10 may have contributed to the development of the royal associations of Osiris in the Coffin Texts is an interesting question but has to remain largely speculative; it is investigated by Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, op. cit., 118 and in her paper ‘The role of Osiris in the Mythological Cycle Devised around Herakleopolis Magna and its Territory’, in: Kousoulis, P. and N. Lazaridis, (eds), Proceedings of the Tenth Egyptological Congress of Egyptologists, University of the Aegean, Rhodes 22–29 May 2008 (OLA 241, Leuven, 2015), 1173–1185. For discussion of this text see e.g. Faulkner, R., ‘Coffin Texts Spell 313’, JEA 58 (1972), 91– 94; Buchberger, H., Transformation und Transformat, Sargtextstudien I (ÄA 52, Wiesbaden, 1993), 470–497, Goebs, ‘njswt nḥḥ’, Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, ‘The Role of Osiris’. See Goebs, Crowns; also ead., ‘Crown (Egyptian)’, in: Uehlinger, C., et al. (eds), Iconography of Deities and Demons in the Biblical World (Leiden, Brill, in press); digital pre-publication at: https://www.academia.edu/11958136/Crown_Egypt_for_IDD, p. 10/30. Coulon, ‘Rhétorique et stratégies du discours dans les formules funéraires’, esp. pp. 134–136, who links this characteristic to the development of an ‘art of debating’ in the First Intermediate Period. See also von Lieven, A., ‘Nun sprach aber Osiris zu Re’, 83–104, who notes the declining importance of dialogue in later corpora of funerary texts, which she interprets as being due to those texts having been composed specifically for funerary use while the earlier corpora, from Pyramid Texts to Book of the Dead, were largely derived from originally ritual contexts. As regards the few examples of dialogue in the Pyramid Texts

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Horus about his transformation into, and new identity as, ruler, after Re and Atum, in front of the Enneads, have crowned him with the Atef-Crown.61 Osiris has his uraei on his brow, his Atef on his head, his staff in his grasp and his knife in his grip; Maat is on his shoulder and Isfet under his feet. He exercises many regal prerogatives, which include promoting or advancing positions (sḫnt swt) and obstructing his enemies (wdj sḏbw nw ḫftjw); these are justified by reference to his royal status (CT IV, 87m): ḏr-ntt /// because /// ḫꜥ.kw m ḥqꜣ [//// n pt]62 I have appeared as the ruler [//// of the sky] njswt n tꜣ and the njswt-king of the earth.

Thoth then arrives to assist him at the command of Atum. Later in the text Horus demands the same prerogatives that Osiris had received from Thoth. Among other things, Horus is said to have gone forth (prj) ‘in the (various) manifestations of the kingship’ (m ḫprw nsyt),63 which are then specified further: Like his father, Horus displays all the external markers of the office, including uraeus, Atef-crown, etc. ( jꜥrt=j m ḫnt=j ꜣtf(w)=j ꜥꜣw m tp(=j) …) and appears as a divine falcon, just ‘like the manifestations of Re’ (mj ḫprw nw Rꜥw). There follows a description of the various aspects of Horus’s kingship and these comprise those of all the office holders, of all the divine generations that make up the myth of the complete cosmic cycle: CT IV, 93c–q: ḥqꜣ.n=j jdbwy jwꜥ.n=j nswt Ḥrw jṯj.n=j ꜣḫt Ḫprj

61 62 63

I have ruled the two shores I have inherited the thrones of Horus I have seized the horizon of Khepri and

the author notes that the deceased king in these compositions is treated as much more of an equal of the gods addressing him than he is in the Coffin Texts, where interrogations and the testing of his knowledge is common and the deceased has to prove his worth before he is admitted to the afterlife. Cf. Goebs, Crowns, 62–69. See De Buck, Coffin Texts IV, 87 n. 8*. Note that CT IV, 91f seems to add a further term of royalty, writing what appears to read nsw=j m ꜣḫ-bjt, translating as ‘I am kingly / regal (?) in Khemmis’. In light of the preceding sentence, which speaks of the deceased’s birth by Isis, it is more likely that we are looking at a miswriting for ms(w)=j ‘I was born in Khemmis’, however. Paul Barguet, emending slightly differently, translated ‘elle m’a mis au monde dans Akh-bit’ (Les Textes des sarcophages égyptiens du Moyen Empire (Paris, 1986), 445).

how ‘royal’ (and ‘mythical’) are the coffin texts? ḥms.n=j ḥr st jt=j Wnn-nfr m ḏd Rꜥw m wḏ Gbb m smn Ḏḥwty … pr.kw m Ḥrw mꜣꜥ-ḫrw m ḫprw nw Ḥrw jw rn=j mj rn=f ḫprw=j mj ḫprw=f

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I have sat on the throne of my father Wenenefer according to the utterance of Re, the command of Geb, and the confirmation by Thoth. I have come forth as the justified Horus, in the manifestations of Horus— my name is like his name, and my forms are like his forms.

But not only that—the deceased combines in himself the identity of the most important cosmic actors, identifying not only with Horus but simultaneously with Osiris: jnk Wsjr sꜣ Gbb stj Rꜥw … nj sk(w)=j nj sk(w) rn=j jnk m tꜣ pn ḏt

I am Osiris, son of Geb, and deputy of Re. … I will not perish, and my name will not perish— I will be in this land forever.

Like no other text this spell showcases the philosophy underlying the use of kingship terminology and mythology in the Coffin Texts. The deceased wishes to attain eternal life in the celestial hereafter and envisages his existence there as modelled on that of the most conspicuous, and thus dominant, beings— the frequent references to his being ‘seen’ as well as his assertion that he will not ‘perish’ (skj) underline these aspirations. These celestial actors are conceptualized in terms of a system of political rule and succession on the model of the terrestrial patrilineal succession of a king and his first-born son. Accordingly, and in order to ensure his eternity, the deceased refers to himself as both Osiris, son and successor of Geb—who is at the same time the deputy (stj) of the Sungod when the latter has set—but also as Horus, son of Osiris and Isis. He likens himself to these deities both in terms of their legitimate rule and prerogatives but also in their appearance, adopting the same paraphernalia that mark their pre-eminence and role as rulers over different parts of the cosmic cycle. These royal symbols include thrones, crowns, scepters, and further items of insignia. As I have previously devoted in-depth studies to crowns and headdresses in such contexts,64 I will touch upon this aspect only briefly

64

Goebs, Crowns; also ead., ‘Untersuchungen zu Funktion und Symbolgehalt des nms’, ZÄS 122 (1995), 154–181.

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here—we will see a number of mentions of the White Crown in the materials presented, for example—and add a few references to further regalia and symbols of royalty, especially where they occur in conjunction with other royal terms or topoi. Good examples are found in CT 16 (I, 47a–53c), which identifies the deceased as Horus with his White Crown on his head (ḥḏt=f tp=f ); as such he ‘sits before Geb’—a reference to a typical icon of coronation65—and is given the two staffs ( jꜣty) by his father Osiris. In CT 665 (VI, 291i), further discussed below, Horus appears ‘equipped (ꜥpr(w)) and clad (ḏbꜣ(w)) as bjtj’, highlighting the importance of items of dress and paraphernalia for the royal appearance. A throne is assigned to the deceased when crossing the sky in CT 48 (I, 214f), then ‘purity’ (ꜥbw) is said to ‘belong to the njswt-king’. CT 260 (III 378c–379a) assigns a position of king-like pre-eminence and a throne to the moon god Thoth. The White Crown goddess, a frequent association of the moon,66 appears as an important divine entity in this text, followed by the deceased’s rising as the moon god on his great throne (ḫꜥj=j ḥr nst wrt mnḫ=j jm m Ḏḥwty). As such he illuminates the east ( jrr ḥḏ m jꜣbt) and the horizon dwellers serve him (pẖr). Similar royal associations of the moon are also found in CT 678 and, potentially, CT 660, for which see below. 3.3 Conquest of Territory and Violent Takeover 3.3.1 CT 256 (III, 365a, e) (S1Ca,b S2Ca,b, S3C) Also CT 256 presents an example of cosmic rule, being entitled a ‘Spell for becoming the njswt-king of the sky’. But the royal theme is here augmented by explicitly violent and militaristic overtones that are mobilized in the context of seizing territory. The deceased conquers (dr, jṯj) the horizon with his own hand (m ꜥ=j), the netherworld by means of (or from) the hand of Re (m ꜥ Rꜥw), and the wrrt-crown by means of (or from) the hand of the Ennead. There follows: CT III, 365e–366a dy n=j njswt ḥr swt Ḥrw sšr=f n=j ḫꜣꜣw / (S1Ca: ḫꜣwtjw) … jṯj.n=j ꜣḫt … 65 66

the njswt-king on the thrones of Horus has been given to me, that he may shoot down the slaughterers for me … I have seized the horizon …

See Goebs, K., ‘An Elusive Passage of the Earlier Funerary Literature in its Iconographic and Ritual Context’, ZÄS 136 (2009), 126–130. Goebs, Crowns, 146–151.

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Here the office of njswt is hence explicitly linked with the act of violently seizing and thus conquering a region, and a celestial location is once again envisioned—the sky and later specifically the horizon.67 And yet again, a celestial succession seems to be envisaged, as the former njswt-king ‘on the thrones of Horus’ appears to aid,68 and ultimately yield to (as explicit in the spell title), the deceased in this office. 3.3.2 CT 678 (VI, 305g) (B1Bo) A violent ruler is also described in CT 678, which assigns bloodthirsty characteristics to the deceased as njswt-king (njswt pw N pn)—he is the owner of ꜣt-striking power, sharp-horned (nb ꜣt spd ḥnwty), and said to decapitate beings without any chance of recovery (ḥsq=f nj ṯs tp=f ). Especially the latter two associations are typical of Thoth in religious literature, where his lunar sickle is often envisaged as either a ‘horn’ or a ‘knife’ (ds) used to decapitate stellar beings and solar enemies.69 In CT 678 these nocturnal associations are amplified by having the deceased emerge from the ‘House (pr) of Thoth’, ‘who has broken up the fight’ (sḏ ꜥḥꜣ)—a distinctive reference to this god’s role in the Contendings of Horus and Seth.70 The kingship envisioned in this spell is hence 67

68

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This association continues an earlier Pyramid Text tradition such as expressed in PT 439 (§814c), where the version preserved in (P) declares that the deceased has ‘seized the two lands like the njswt-king of the gods’ ( jṯj.n NN tꜣwy m(r) njswt nṯrw), while the later versions (M) and (N) only write n( j)sw(t) (cf. the writing in (N): ). For the context of the Pyramid Texts, such statements have traditionally been interpreted as attesting to the continued rule and kingship of the former king of the living in the afterlife; cf. Barta, W., Die Bedeutung der Pyramidentexte für den verstorbenen König (MÄS 39, Munich/Berlin, 1981), 116; Windus-Staginsky, E., Der ägyptische König im Alten Reich: Terminologie und Phraseologie (Wiesbaden, 2006), 38. I did consider a miswriting for nsyt and a resulting translation ‘the kingship on the thrones of Horus is given to me’, but the resumptive =f in 366a makes this unlikely, unless it refers to Horus (in which case read: ‘the king(ship) on the thrones is given to me, Horus— he shoots down …’). The meaning of the text would not be substantially altered as the deceased would appear as the successor of Horus in either case. Barguet, P., Les Textes des Sarcophages égyptiens du moyen empire: Introduction et traduction (Paris, 1986), 551 rendered ‘Que soit donnée à moi une royauté sur le trône d’ Horus …’, but the absence of a proclitic and of the passive marker .t( j/w) in what would have to be a subjunctive construction, or, if prospective passive, of the full stem rdy make this meaning unlikely. See also Goebs, Crowns, 78–79 for this issue. Violent associations of Thoth are collected, for example, by Stadler, M.A., Weiser und Wesir. Studien zu Vorkommen, Rolle und Wesen des Gottes Thot im ägyptischen Totenbuch (Tübingen, 2009), 328–333, 386. A luni-royal scenario may be envisaged also in CT 660 (VI 282d) (B1Bo), where the deceased is ‘a njswt-king forthgoing of nose’ (njswt pw pr(w) fnḏ). Faulkner wished to see this as a metaphorical expression for someone who ‘probes’ things, ‘pokes his nose into affairs’ (Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts II, 232, n. 13), but in view of some passages where the

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that of the moon over the many stellar beings of the night, and rule over a group of beings is the theme of a number of other texts also.71 3.4 Rule over a Multitude of Beings and Control of Provisions 3.4.1 CT 195 (III, 113q) (T1L, B4C) CT 195 presents a cosmic scenario encountered during the New Moon festival (psḏntjw). One of the spell’s aims is to ensure the offerings and continued existence of the deceased at this time of the month. The text asserts that he is ‘the njswt-King of those yonder’ (njswt ntjw jm), has come before Ptah, and sits on a throne-dais at the front of the horizon (ḥr ḏbꜣt m ḫnt ꜣḫt). In what appears to be a mythical explanation for why the moon is absent at the New Moon, the deceased then encounters (gm) Khonsu standing in his path as he returns from Punt (m hꜣt=f m pwnt). Khonsu causes him to stand with thousands and sit with hundreds of brethren and citizens (njwtjw), and he eats what these gods eat. The topic in this case is therefore the nocturnal rule over the night-time, stellar, denizens of the sky (called ntjw jm, snw, njwtjw), which moreover entails control of provisions.72 Also CT 816 (VII, 15q; T3B) describes a situation where a njswt-king is in charge of a group of beings that in this case seem to be in his service, however. The text is difficult to understand, but the deceased, after several references to gods such as Anubis and Sokar, addresses a group of celestial inhabitants that appear to represent the dead and are said to be the ‘messengers of the njswt-king of death’ or ‘the dead’ ( j ḥwnw mtw … wpwtjw njswt mt)—

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deceased asserts that he will ‘cut off the heads’ of any opponents in his path, or reference to the ‘knife which is on Nut’, I would rather like to see the characterization as evoking an epithet of Thoth, who can be referred to as fnḏy in BD 125, for example (see Stadler, Weiser und Wesir, 90 with n. 158). A good example is CT 152 (II, 260c–f; all exemplars from Bershe), which does not specify a royal context, however. The deceased addresses a request to the moon, wishing to ascend among his stellar multitude (wꜥ wbn m jꜥḥ … pry=j m-m ꜥšꜣt=k tw r pt). A similar imagery is employed in an explicitly royal context on the early 18th Dyn. stela of Ahmose (Cairo CG 3400, l. 15), which describes this king in terms of various cosmic entities. Among other associations, he is said to appear with his archers by his side ‘like the moon in the midst of the stars’ (mj jꜥḥ ḥrj-jb sbꜣw). For this stela see most recently Stauder, A., Linguistic dating of Middle Egyptian Literary Texts, vol. 2 (Lingua Aegyptia Studia Monographica 12, Hamburg, 2013), 431–433. The New Moon (psḏntjw) is associated with night-time inhabitants of the sky (here ḥḥw— millions and ḥnmmt—sunfolk) and provisions also in the Coffin Text version of the Cannibal Spell, CT 573 (VI, 179j–k); see Goebs, Crowns, 211, 216, 245 with commentary and further literature. The lunar phase between psḏntjw and the Full Moon is the period of renewal within the Egyptian belief system, and offerings are most often presented in this period (Wallin, P., Celestial Cycles. Astronomical Concepts of Regeneration in the Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (Uppsala Studies in Egyptology 1, Uppsala, 2002), 75–89, esp. pp. 87–89).

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Osiris is most likely meant yet again. The same identification seems to apply in CT 189 (III, 97i; B9C, B1L): here the deceased himself identifies as the ‘njswt-king of those yonder’ (ntjw jm) in the context of asserting his right to provisions, a barque, and access to the sky.73 3.5 Serving Royalty Within the Coffin Texts presented up to this point, the use of royal concepts associated with the deceased is arguably not all that different from what we would expect to find in the Pyramid Texts—the associations can perhaps be said to be somewhat more explicit and comprehensive, presenting longer descriptions and elaborations, and at times including certain references or formal characteristics that are not yet attested in the earlier corpus (as particularly explicit in CT 313, for example).74 The idea of identifying or associating the deceased with one of the typical kings or rulers of the sky (or a particular area therein), is the same, however. There are a number of spells in the Coffin Texts that, instead of asserting the royalty of the deceased, present him in the favor of—and thus dependent on—a ‘king’, however. An excellent example is CT 257. 3.5.1

CT 257 (III, 367a) (B2L, B3C); (III, 370c) (B1C)75 / (III, 369a) (B3C; S1Cb, c, S2Ca, b, S3C) This spell is entitled ‘To become an honoured one of the njswt-king of the sky’ ( jmꜣḫy n njswt pt) on three coffins from Bershe; the theme is picked up again within the text proper when the deceased asks that a path be prepared for him, and apparently aims to attain extra impact by justifying his request with the statement that he is an jmꜣḫy-honoured one of this celestial njswt-king. Interestingly, there is some variation in the different versions at this point, with S1Ca inserting Ḫnsw, ‘Khonsu’ instead.76 This luni-royal entity is the source, or basis, from which the deceased then sets out to reach his position next to Ra in the midst of the sky ( jw pr(=j) m rꜣ=f r-gs Rꜥw (S1Ca, c: ꜥḥꜥ (=j)) m ḥrj-jb pt). In

73

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Similar aspirations of the deceased are already encountered in the Pyramid Texts, where they may also be connected with holding the titles njswt-bjtj or bjtj. Thus, PT 426 § 776a– b (P) asserts that the deceased is risen as njswt-bjtj because he is sḫm-powerful over the gods and their kas (ḫꜥj.n=k m njswt-bjtj n sḫm=k m nṯrw kꜣw=sn jsṯ); similar PT 592 § 1626 (M). See Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, ‘The Role of Osiris in the Mythological cycle devised around Heracleopolis Magna’, with n. 17 for summary and earlier literature. The reference to the njswt-king here appears in the spell title, which is attested for the Bershe coffins only and on B1C is continued at the end of the spell. B2L and B1C—despite having the correct spell title—miswrite njswt as snt, ‘sister’ but use the masculine resumptive pronoun in the ensuing clause.

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other words, the njswt-king of the sky is once again a divine entity that marks a particular cosmic situation—whether the mention of Khonsu in S1Ca is a misunderstanding or rather serves to indicate that those two entities are to be seen as identical is unclear, but the deceased can emerge from this being into the celestial realm and right next to the Sun god. Most informative for our examination of the concept of royalty in the Coffin Texts is, however, that the deceased does not claim the kingship for himself here. Rather, he adopts a position that would have seemed much more appropriate for a high official, and one that he would have used many times in his life and in his other funerary inscriptions, such as his tomb autobiography and offering formulae, namely that of jmꜣḫy ḫr njswt.77 Both associations seem to have fulfilled the same purpose in this corpus, which is expressed explicitly in the title of the ensuing spell, CT 258:78 tm sk ḏt, ‘Not to perish, ever’. 3.5.2 CT 531 (VI, 125f) (M16C, M35C, M36C, M2Ann.) A similar dependence on, or inferiority to, the celestial king is expressed in CT 531, where the deceased seems to appear as Horus,79 helper of Osiris, whom Re gave to Osiris to end the injury by Seth and assist him in a variety of ways to ensure that he arrive in the realm of the dead safe and sound. In line with the patterns observed in several of the spells discussed, the deceased also displays clear characteristics of Osiris himself. Within an enumeration of his divinized limbs according to the patterns of a ‘Gliedervergottung’80 his White Crown is identified as Thoth,81 which suggests a broadly nocturnal setting. Eventually we read:

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This status is explicit also in CT 803 (VII, 9p; L2Li), where a rather damaged section appears to refer to the deceased as Wsjr N jmꜣḫ ˹nj˺swt. Even though all other mentions of the deceased’s name in this spell do not sport this specification, this particular example of jmꜣḫy, as well as those in CT 826 (VII, 27n, (o)), should probably be understood as part of the (post-mortem) name of the deceased without any mythological significance. Follows CT 257 on most of the coffins from Assiut. He is referred to with the epithet nfr ḥr, which is commonly used for this god but also for Ptah and Osiris; on the epithet see e.g. Spiegelberg, W., ‘Die Bedeutung von nfr-ḥr’, ZÄS 53 (1917), 115; Altenmüller, B., Synkretismus in den Sargtexten (GOF IV/7, Wiesbaden, 1975), 278 for refs.; see Goebs, Crowns, 147–148 for discussion of this text and additional arguments in favor of identifying the deity in question as Horus in this context. For which see e.g. Quack, J., ‘Dekane und Gliedervergottung: Altägyptische Traditionen im Apokryphon Johannis’, JAC 38 (1995), 97–122; also Assmann and Bommas, Totenliturgien 1, 179–188; Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 510–522, with further lit. For use of the White Crown in this text, and of its lunar connotations, see e.g. Goebs, Crowns, 147–152.

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jw wḏ.n njswt The njswt-king has ordered smꜣꜥ-ḫrw (M36C adds: jmꜣḫy) N pn that N be justified (and honoured) r ḫftiw=f ḫr Ḥrw nb pꜥt. against his enemies before Horus nb pꜥt.

The ultimate aim of the spell, explicit only in M36C, is once again that the deceased endure in the sky (mn) like Re forever. We have two possibilities of understanding the reference to the njswt-king here. It may function as an indicator of the coffin owner’s continued status as an official in royal employ, dependent on his king and lord in death as he was in life, or else the title may once again designate a specific celestial deity, ruling a portion of the daily cosmic cycle. The former situation may be envisaged in CT 472 (VI, 1i; B2L, B1P), for example, where the deceased takes possession of his thrones as powerful lord over his shabtis and is beheld as ruler among his ‘herds’82 ( jṯj.n=f n=f nswt=f ḥqꜣ.n=f m ꜥwt). If he were to be called to work—including various aspects of agricultural or other manual labour— ‘for the current njswt-king’ (n njswt jmj hꜣw=f ), the shabtis will respond on his behalf. In other words: while the deceased holds the role of an enthroned leader or sovereign in this text, reference is made also to a njswt-king who considers him a subject, one who might require him to do manual labor. Two different conceptions, or uses, of ruler- or kingship seem to be colliding in CT 472, therefore, with one potentially referring to an actually reigning monarch whom the deceased would have encountered in his lifetime, and the other expressing his wish to be in control of his own afterlife by adopting a position of regal dominance. The latter conception attests to a quasi-metaphorical use of the terminology of rule, and I will return to this point later. In the case of CT 531, by contrast, it is more likely that njswt refers to a specific celestial ruler, since Horus nb pꜥt is an explicitly celestial god in other contexts.83 Such a situation seems to be envisaged also in CT 279 (IV, 26j; T1L, Sq6C), where the relevant section is much damaged. The deceased appears to arrive in the west, where he receives provisions and ‘settles’ or ‘proceeds’ (sḫn) in the presence of the njswt-king; further in spells such as CT 484 (VI, 60c, B1Bo), where the deceased plainly wishes to be ‘in the retinue of the njswt-king of the sky’ ( jw N m šmsw njswt pt).84 We have seen Osiris designated plainly as ‘njswt’ in a number of spells and this is the most likely interpretation of the royal figure also in these three cases. 82 83 84

Which Faulkner (Coffin Texts II, 107 n. 5) wished to understand as a metaphor referring to his human subjects. Goebs, Crowns, 38–39; see also Altenmüller, Synkretismus, 39. Similar also CT 926 (VII, 129g; M2C), mostly concerned with ritual provisions: the deceased

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3.5.3

CT 317 (IV 125b—njswt) (S1P, S1C, S2C); (IV, 113a—bjtj) (S1P, S1C, S3C) CT 317, a spell about Hapi’s important role in the Egyptian cosmos, displays some ambiguity in its application of royal concepts. In version S1P the deceased as Hapi comes ‘to the njswt-king’ (n njswt) in his dignity (sꜥḥ) and power (sḫm), while version S1C makes Hapi himself into a njswt-king (m njswt) and endows him with royal insignia—sḫm-scepter and sꜥḥ-dignity. Clearly Egyptian n and m are easily and often confused, so a miswriting is likely. S1P’s version, which presents Hapi in a somewhat secondary position, seems to be borne out by another part of the same text, which moreover presents one of the only four attestations for bjtj in the Coffin Texts. There the deceased as Hapi is the one who delivers offerings and provisions to the bjtj-king, who is moreover the ruler (?) of the island of flames ( jnk jn(w) ḥtpw ḏfꜣw n bjtj pw ˹ḥqꜣ˺85 jw ns(r)sr). This setting conveys a scenario of sunrise,86 and the deceased later switches identities to present himself as Khepri. I would therefore like to see the bjtj as referring to Atum as solar creator here. Sꜣty bjtj, ‘The twins of the bjtj’, is a common epithet of this god’s first offspring, Shu and Tefnet.87 Similar to the frequent use of ‘njswt’ as a generic term for Osiris88 also ‘bjtj’ seems to have denoted a specific

85 86 87

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rises ‘in the following of the njswt’ (ḫꜥ.tj m šmsw njswt); in CT 557 (VI, 158k), the deceased arrives to see Osiris—later in the spell ‘the njswt-king descends’; in CT 629 (VI, 250e; S10Cb) he has to report to ‘yonder monarch’ ( jty ntj jm)—likely yet another reference to Osiris. See de Buck, Coffin Texts IV, 113 n. 1*; bjtj unusually determined with the seated god wearing a White Crown. Abbas, E.S., The Lake of Knives and the Lake of Fire: Studies in the Topography of Passage in Ancient Egyptian Religious Literature (BAR IS 2144, Oxford, 2010). Thus for example in CT 80 (II, 32f–g); see already Kees, H., Der Götterglaube im alten Ägypten (Leipzig, 1941), 176 n. 4; also Goebs, Crowns, 53 with n. 82 for further lit., and Windus-Staginsky, Der ägyptische König im Alten Reich, 46–47, for attestations of the royal title bjtj in the Pyramid Texts, most of which pertain to the construction sꜣty bjtj. CT 888 (VII, 100f; S10C) exceptionally appears to present njswt as a generic term for the sun god on his celestial journey, however. Here ‘the njswt-king is on the water’ (that is, has embarked on his voyage), followed by a warning not to oppose the movements of Re in his wsḫt-hall (njswt ḥr mw jm=k jw ḫsf=k šmwt Rꜥw m wsḫt=f ). Barguet (Textes des sarcophages, 44) rather translated ‘le roi est obéissant’, which renders poor sense. CT 947 (VII, 163l; pGard. III) has ‘traps’ (s˹ḫ˺wt) or ‘foundations’ (s˹nṯ˺wt) of (or among?), the njsw(t)kings (or perhaps rather read nsjw, ‘fiery ones’?) set up for the deceased as Wadjit, likely evoking a sunrise scenario. These beings would then refer to the night-time inhabitants of the sky. For a fish-net or -trap as a metaphor for the dawn light in which the stars are trapped and disappear at sunrise see Goebs, Crowns, 220, 257–261: fish and bird are manifestations that a star displays in the course of his life and journey from the dwꜣt to the sky and back, while a ‘fishing net of Wadjit’, which is stretched out between sky and earth, is described in CT 474 (VI, 17b, g), for example.

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mythical (and celestial) actor in some contexts, therefore. A similar pattern can be observed for jry-pꜥt, which, as noted, is near exclusive to Geb in the Coffin Texts. Returning to the discussion of njswt, it is of interest that two versions of the same spell would consider either the njswt-kingship of the Nile god himself or else his serving the njswt-king as perfectly good and effective associations to evoke in a funerary context. And indeed, being of assistance to a deity or king is a common theme in the Coffin Texts. A particularly important god in these texts is Thoth, who, besides appearing in a royal position himself as we saw in CT 678, for example, is invoked as a helper in several spells that have as their theme the correct succession of rulers. We already encountered Thoth in this role in CT 313. 3.5.4 CT 314 (IV, 94a) (B5C)89 The deceased first identifies himself, yet again, as the njswt-king Osiris ( jnk Wsjr kꜣ jmntt njswt jwtjw) but later adopts the role of his helper in the tribunal vindicating Osiris against his enemies ( jnk wꜥ m ḏꜣḏꜣt nt smꜣꜥ-ḫrw Wsjr r ḫftjw=f ). He then specifies further aspects of his role: As the god whom Nut bore he slew the foes of Osiris and imprisoned those who rebelled against him. He also belongs in the company of Horus, however, and has vindicated Horus against his foes on the day of judgment in the ḥwt sr of Heliopolis.90 While the text does not present a straightforward narrative sequence or singular mythological role of the deceased, his primary identification is clearly with Thoth, who plays a fundamental role in the vindication of both Osiris and Horus.91 The spell accordingly ends by asserting that the successful transfer of rule is due to him—it is he ‘who established (or confirmed) the inheritance of the throne of the two shores for the son of its lord’ (smn jwꜥt nst jdbwy n sꜣ nb jry). In choosing this particular association for the deceased, the text’s author moreover picked a

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Note that this text follows on CT 313, with no obvious break between the two, but represents a separate chapter in the Book of the Dead, BD 1. The mythical location where, among other things, the kingship was transferred to its rightful owner; see Goebs, Crowns, 73 with nn. 136–137. This mytheme is transmitted in a direct line from the Coffin Texts, via the Book of the Dead—in chapters such as BD 18—into the Roman Period, where it is still found, for example, in the so-called First Letter for Breathing, a kind of ‘passport’ to enter the afterlife attested mostly in Theban tombs of the Ptolemaic and Roman eras. See e.g. Herbin, F.R., Books of Breathing and Other Related Texts (Catalogue of the Books of the Dead and Other Religious Texts in the British Museum IV, London, 2008), 50–52, 60; Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, Naref, 59–61; see also Stadler, Weiser und Wesir, 327–341. Within the Coffin Texts, CT 339 (esp. IV, 338ff.) is particularly important.

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central and conspicuous actor of the nocturnal cycle as his mythical role model. Other spells evoke such nighttime scenarios by means of different mythical deputies. 3.5.5 CT 647 (VI, 268i) (G1T) A nocturnal stage is the backdrop also in CT 647, where the deceased adopts the role of Ptah (-Nehebkau), who in this text appears as a nighttime deputy of the sun god. As such he is ‘foremost’ of the land (ḥry-tp tꜣ), scribe of the pr-wr, as well as in charge of justice in the tribunal and of order in the solar barque. He has creative faculties—causing fields to green for all humankind—and, as Nehebkau, grants bas and kas as well as appearings (or crowns, ḫꜥw) to the gods in a clear reference to the nightly appearance of stellar deities in the sky. This time-frame is underscored by reference to his steering the night-barque. His royal associations include being called the celestial denizens’ monarch ( jty nṯrw), ‘ruling’ or ‘presiding over’ (sr) the two lands and being the ‘njswt-king of the sky’. I have elsewhere suggested that Ptah is here in the role of the nocturnal creator (of the celestial gods, the stars), but as such is dependent on, and ultimately serves, the solar creator god.92 Ludwig Morenz, by contrast, wishes to see certain parts of CT 64793 as an ‘eigenständigen Mikrotext’ that in his view proves the local (re-)shaping of certain Coffin Text spells. He interprets this text as an adaptation of a scene attested in a chapel of Hathor built at Gebelein by Mentuhotep II, hypothesizing that both sources are in fact based on a hymn to that king—but for which, as Morenz admits, there is no proof.94 While the royal associations of Ptah preserved in this spell are to date singular in the surviving Coffin Texts, this god is commonly attested with royal attributes in later periods95 and the materials presented in the present study demonstrate unequivocally that royal associations of solar deputies—be they presented as Osiris, Horus, Thoth, Ruty,96 or Ptah—are commonplace in this corpus. Constructing a hypothetical, direct, derivation of these concepts from royal sources

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Goebs, Crowns, 70, 331–333; for Ptah as secondary deity and son of the solar creator in the Coffin Texts see also Bickel, S., La cosmogonie égyptienne avant le nouvel empire (OBO 134, Fribourg/Göttingen, 1994), 137–145, esp. pp. 140, 144. Esp. CT VI, 268c–g, the section preceding the clause containing njswt. Morenz, L., Die Zeit der Regionen im Spiegel der Gebelein-Region: Kulturgeschichtliche ReKonstruktionen (Leiden/Boston, 2010), 447–454; the relief from Mentuhotep II’s hathoric chapel comprises fragments Cairo 24/5/28/5 (for which see ibid., fig. 7). Njswt tꜣwy is one of the commonest epithets of Ptah in the New Kingdom; see Sandman Holmberg, M., The God Ptah (Lund, 1946), 83. CT 438 (V, 290f); see below, n. 102.

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outside of the funerary sphere is hence unnecessary, even though such crossfertilization is not in itself implausible.97 3.5.6 CT 665 (VI, 291i) (B1Bo) (bjtj) Within the Coffin Text materials I examined for this study, CT 665 is most expressive in assigning a potentially secondary role to the deceased. It explicitly ascribes the position of scribe to him.98 Moreover, this text offers another one of the only four attestations of bjtj in this corpus. It is Horus who is labelled thus—arguably in reference to the Lower Egyptian kingship associated specifically with this god in several contexts,99 and in iconography and visual language expressed by attributing to the holder of the title the Red Crown (dšrt or nt).100 Within the Coffin texts, a geographical signification of the Red Crown of the bjtj is perhaps signaled in CT 42 (I, 178p, 179a, B3Bo, B2Bo), where the dual kingship of the njswt-bjtj is associated with the White and Red Crowns.101 These appear as the ‘white Eye of Horus’ ( jrt Ḥrw ḥḏt) and, unusually, as what appears to be the ‘Khemmis Eye of Horus’ ( jrt Ḥrw ꜣḫt-bjtj(t)) on coffin B2Bo. This link between the Red Crown and Khemmis alludes to the Lower Egyptian rule of 97 98

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See also Goebs, Crowns, esp. pp. 375–378, where I discuss some of the problems associated with this issue and suggest that the process can work in both directions. See also Nyord, R., ‘Scribes of the Gods in the Coffin Texts’, in Miniaci, G. and Grajetzki, W. (eds.), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550BC): Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources (Middle Kingdom Studies I, London, 2015), 273–308, who presents evidence not only for the deceased identifying as a scribe or other administrator of gods such as Atum, Re, Hathor, or Thoth, but also for his acknowledging his subservient role to these deities. For CT 665 see his p. 286. The so-called Memphite Theology on the Shabaqa Stone is particularly explicit on this point. For an easily accessible English translation see e.g. Lichtheim, M., Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings I, The Old and Middle Kingdoms (Berkeley, etc., 1973), 51–57 (where the text is dated to the Old Kingdom, however); passage in question on p. 52 l. 8. Recent analysis now in El-Hawary, A., Wortschöpfung: Die Memphitische Theologie und die Siegesstele des Pije—Zwei Zeugen kultureller Repräsentation in der 25. Dynastie (OBO 243, Fribourg/Göttingen, 2010). Hatshepsut’s famous coronation sequence, preserved on the so-called Chapelle Rouge at Karnak, is particularly explicit: During her coronation with the Red Crown (block 145), Amun-Re asserts that with this crown he bestows on her the ‘dignity (or role, sꜥḥ) of bjtj’ (Burgos, F. and Larché, F., La chapelle rouge: Le sanctuaire de barque d’Hathsepsout I (Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations), Paris, 2006–2008, 82). The association is also present in funerary literature, where already PT 412 §724b states that the Red Crown (nt) belongs to the bjtj; cf. Goebs, Crowns, 166–167. See also above, n. 10, for literature on some divergent interpretations of bjtj. Note that this is a further spell that Faulkner, Coffin Texts I, 35 n. 1 wished to see as originating in the coronation ritual of kings, remarking that in it the deceased appears to be ‘quite unmistakably promoted to royal rank’.

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Horus, who was nursed in this location before appearing as legitimate ruler.102 Notably, CT 42 is moreover the only spell in the corpus that employs the title njswt-bjtj.103 In line with the use of several royal terms discussed so far it is attributed to Osiris on the throne of Geb, and with Horus as his heir. Returning to CT 665, we see a cosmic scenario rolled out also here: CT VI, 291i–t jy Ḥrw ꜥpr(w) ḏbꜣ(w) m bjtj104 smn˹=f˺ Wsjr m st=f hrw=f pw n ḫꜥw N sš=f Qnqnwy rn(=f ) (…) jw ꜥr=f m sḫm dj swꜣ=f jry=f jrw jry=f sšmw j.jn Wsjr r N pn

Horus arrives, equipped and clad as bjtj,105 that he may install / establish Osiris (…) in his place on this his day of the accession. (…) N is his scribe, Kenkenwy by name. (…) his pen is (as) a sḫm-sceptre, which causes that he move forward/passes on, ‘He will perform deeds and achieve leadership (or: do errands?)’ —so says Osiris of this N.

Later, Osiris asks Re-Atum to let his son, the deceased, pass at the head of all the gods in their places and duties. In this case Horus hence establishes Osiris on his throne, which may imply yet another changeover of power and, at the same time, refers to Horus’s role as helper of his father after his death. As regards the role of the bjtj in this 102

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Already the Pyramid Texts state that Horus/the deceased ‘comes forth from (prj m) Pe’ when he takes over his rule (e.g. PT 555), see Goebs, Crowns, 121 ff., 165. Assumption of the throne and exercising the kingship in Khemmis is found also in CT 438 (V, 290f, B3Bo), where this role is ascribed to (the deceased as) Ruty, however, who is here said to be both in charge of the solar journey of Atum and come into being as Re every day. CT 695 (VI, 129g) may present a garbled writing of the title (see n. 29 above). If so, it refers to a group of inhabitants of the horizon here. Title determined with the seated king with White Crown here; see also CT 317 (IV, 113a)— above 88 with n. 85. The reference to a particular dress and crown associated with the title of bjtj has, besides Hatshepsut’s coronation (n. 100), another parallel in the biography of the 5th Dynasty Sem-priest Rawer (Urk. I, 232), who has left us a rare account of a royal blunder. This occurred during the ritual of seizing the prow-rope of the (divine) barque, when the king’s scepter came into contact with Rawer’s leg and, potentially, made him stumble and fall— interpretations vary on this point (see e.g. Allen, J.P., ‘Re’wer’s accident’, in Lloyd, A.B. (ed.), Studies in Pharaonic Religion and Society in Honour of J. Gwyn Griffiths (EES Occasional Publication 8, London, 1992), 14–20). For our purposes it is of note that king Neferirkare had ‘appeared as bjtj’ (ḫꜥw m bjtj) for this ritual, implying a particular royal role and set of paraphernalia.

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text—the exact meaning of this title remaining, as indicated, disputed in the field106—we can confirm the royal connotations of the title for the present text due to the mention of the day of the accession. Either the enthronement of Horus or that of Osiris could be referred to here. Most interesting for our purposes is, however, the fact that the deceased presents himself as an employee and assistant of Osiris in this spell, rather than as the ‘king of the sky’. His pen is his claim to fame and power,107 and it appears to be his effective administrative skills that ensure his place in the hereafter. While there are already a couple of instances of the deceased taking on the role of scribe or administrator of the sun god in the Pyramid Texts, this particular theme is distinctly more widespread, and covered in a much more nuanced fashion, in the Coffin Texts, illustrating another instance of developing funerary beliefs between the Old and Middle Kingdoms.108

4

Conclusion: Use and Significance of the Concepts ‘Royalty’ and ‘Myth’ in the Coffin Texts

The materials presented in this study show that royal designators in the Coffin Texts normally appear within mythical contexts and are used to describe: – Authority over a region – Authority over a group of people (or other beings) – Authority over resources The office they designate is in most cases: – Attributed to a mythical actor who inherits it from a predecessor – This entity yields it willingly at his own demise or abdication—however one wishes to interpret the setting of a personified celestial body such as the sun in mythical terms. In most cases, the succession is one from Geb to Osiris and from Osiris to Horus, although a few other ‘kings’ feature in the funerary literature, such as Ptah, Atum, Thoth, or Ruty. These deities ultimately act as ‘deputies’ of Re. 106

107 108

For example, Kahl, ‘nsw und bi҆t: die Anfänge’ (cf. n. 10 above), wishes to see bjtj as describing the aspect of the ruler in charge of collecting and redistributing goods. CT spells such as CT 317 (discussed above, pp. 88–89), where the title appears in conjunction with reference to the Island of Fire, suggest certain creative and cosmic associations in the funerary literature. See Nyord, ‘Scribes of the Gods’, 276 for the important role of scribal implements in such texts. Schott, S., ‘Schreiber und Schreibgerät im Jenseits’, JEA 54 (1968), 45–50; Nyord, ‘Scribes of the Gods in the Coffin Texts’, 273–274.

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– In some instances rule is under threat and/or is taken by force. – Assumption of the office is in several cases connected with the adoption of supernatural powers and of items of insignia symbolizing and channeling these, such as thrones, crowns, scepters, or particular garments, which may be viewed as divine and can be personified.109 All of these aspects correspond to the characteristics typically associated with ‘Kingship’ or a ‘Monarchy’ in the above-cited encyclopedias. In the Coffin Texts, the deceased either identifies with the mythical actors holding the cited royal position and its prerogatives and paraphernalia, or presents himself in close association with them. In some cases, he assumes an explicitly subservient position, however, most notably in the spells that present him as an jmꜣḫw110 or scribe of another (normally divine) king. His identification with royal ‘target figures’111 hence alternates, or is intermixed, with his embodying non-royal ones so that the royal signification cannot be cited as a primary concern of these texts. What is more, in the majority of cases the use of royal associations in the Coffin Texts clearly serves a purpose outside of a narrowly defined royal realm. This is perhaps most explicit in a few examples where the royal terminology is simply used to express control, or power, over something or someone. Thus CT 83 (II, 47a), one of the Shu spells, describes the deceased as an ꜣḫ jqr njswt n ṯꜣw nb n pt, ‘Excellent/effective ꜣḫ, King of all the winds of the sky’.112 Most importantly, however, in most texts the purpose of evoking the respective royal associations is plainly to ensure continued life and dominance of the deceased beneficiary in a celestial setting, where the model of the terrestrial royal succession is employed to guarantee an existence over the full length of the cosmic cycle, with all its different parts.113 One may even go so far as to say that the concepts of Royalty or Kingship are ultimately employed metaphorically in these texts, intended to express this desired state of affairs in an easily comprehensible, yet magically effective manner. In English we may think of common expressions such as ‘I’m the king of the road’, or ‘my home is my castle’, to better understand such a metaphorical use of royal terminology. In the Coffin Texts, 109 110

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Particularly common for the crowns—see e.g. Goebs, Crowns, 175–203. Here it is of note that the status of jmꜣḫ appears only once in the Pyramid Texts, in PT 535 §1289a of Pepi I, where it occurs in the compound wtwtj jmꜣḫ ‘revered eldest son’, however (see TLA lemma-no. 51130 for wtwtj). Translating Assmann’s ‘Zielgestalten’; see n. 37 above. The royal reference only on the Bershe coffins: B1C, B2L, B1P, B7C. ‘Involvement in cyclical regeneration’ is also cited by Nyord as one of the most important concerns of Coffin Texts identifying the deceased as a scribe of a deity (‘Scribes of the Gods in the Coffin Texts’, 287).

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the metaphorical complexes employed are ultimately derived from myths— and here of course in particular the royal myths, with those of the Osirian cycle being the most important. Already in the Pyramid Texts, certain deities from this mythical complex appear as ‘the king’, a royal entity par excellence: Thus Horus is njswt nṯrw in PT 570 (§1458e P, M) while PT 650 §§1833a–b (N) equates the deceased with Osiris (Wsjr pw N pn), born by Nut, who causes him to shine forth as njswt-bjtj (N pn ms(w) n Nwt sḫꜥj.n=s sw m njswt-bjtj m sꜥḥ=f nb). Osiris also appears as the son of Geb in this spell so that the typical sequence of legitimate successors is presented. When PT 542 §1335b (P) (however its exact meaning is to be interpreted) speaks of the travelling of the njswt-king past the places of Anubis (nꜥj njswt ḥr swt Jnpw), it is difficult not to think of a Osirian figure; also PT 486 §§1041a–1042d (N), which seems to describe a judgment scenario potentially resulting in the seizing and sentencing of the deceased by a court composed of njswt-king and srw-offcials, seems to fit into this mythical complex. Since the deceased is part of the primordial Helioplitan corporation (wꜥ n ẖt tw ꜥꜣt msyt m bꜣḥ m Jwnw) he will not be seized and taken away, and his enemies will not be found justified against him (nj jṯw NN n njswt nj šdw NN n srw nj mꜣꜥ-ḫrw ḫftjw=f jr=f ).114 And where Pepi I is said not to ‘slander (šnṯ) the njswt-king’, he is clearly speaking of someone other than himself (PT 467 § 892a). However, some Pyramid Texts convey a rather unmediated use of royal titles and terminology and, by extension, highlight the royal origin of the texts in question. Thus, one of Wenis’ versions of PT 23 § 16a simply asserts that Osiris should seize all those ‘who hate the njswt-king’ where all later attestations insert the actual name of the deceased king written in a cartouche—hence attesting to the practice of personalization of an explicitly royal Vorlage-text. PT 435 §§786a–787b sets the deceased Pepi I in relation to Nut, who ‘calls’ (njs) him to herself by enumerating all of his titles and epithets, including that of njswt-bjtj ppj.115 Such cases throw into relief that, while mythical and

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For a (somewhat outdated) early history of the judgment of the dead see Grieshammer, R., Das Jenseitsgericht in den Sargtexten (Wiesbaden, 1970), 2–10; esp. p. 4 with n. 13 for discussions of potential Pyramid Text evidence; for the importance of legal aspects in the Osiris myth see now also Díaz-Iglesias Llanos, Naref and Osiris-Naref, 82–104. Identification of the njswt as Osiris in this context must remain conjectural, of course; reading the passage as a reference to a this-worldly royal court (model) is equally possible. This text is somewhat unusual, in that it incorporates the titulary of Pepi written in much larger signs than those found on the rest of the wall. There have been a number of rather different interpretations of it, with scholars being puzzled in particular by the determinative of a group following the name of Nut, which in transcriptions appears similar to O51—the granary. Both Faulkner (Pyramid Texts, 143) and Allen (Pyramid Texts, 104), fol-

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metaphorical uses of royal terminology played a role already in the Pyramid Texts, essential parts of this corpus express a concern with retaining the Old Kingdom king’s divine status in the afterlife. Such aspirations may then have led to the more mythical spells such as PT 548 §§1343a–b (P) and PT 697 § 2169b (N), which relate the resurrection of the deceased and his being accepted by Geb to the fact that he is ‘great like a njswt-king and distinguished like (or as) Re’ (wr.t( j) mr njswt swt.t( j) m(r) Rꜥw),116 or the above-cited PT 439 § 814c, which has the deceased ‘seize the two lands like the king of gods’ (P), or simply ‘like a king’ (M + N). In light of the many mythical references cited so far, the proposed metaphorical approach to some of the ‘royal’ materials in the Coffin Texts may perhaps also shed some new light on the question of the use and significance of myth in the corpus. The myths employed appear, as many a scholar has noted, in no coherent format, and certainly do not display a ‘beginning and an end’ or a rootedness in time and space that some authors have postulated as inalienable characteristics of myth proper.117 Neither do they present a coherent storyline or theology, even within the various snippets that are used. Solar deities and those of the Osirian cycle appear mixed together and in varying genealogical relationships, and the divine associations of the deceased change repeatedly within the same text. All of this, I submit, is consistent with interpreting them, at least on one level of their meaning and use, as metaphors (or metaphor-

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lowing Wb. 2, 146.13, decided to see (an otherwise unattested) word msnṯt ‘granary’ here. I think that the use of signs normally used to write one of Nut’s typical epithets, ms(t) nṯ(rw) is likely no coincidence, and that the group may designate Nut not as a ‘granary’ but rather a different type of ‘container’—namely one from which the sungod and other deities, including the reborn king, emerge. In later texts, such as the magical Berlin papyrus 3027 for the protection of mother and child, Nut can be both mst nṯrw and a sḥḏt-box ‘in which all gods are’ (sḥḏt … wnnt nṯr nb jm=s; pBerlin P. 3027, vs. l. 5,2–3). Conceivably, njswt could also refer to a particular mythical actor like Horus or Osiris here, as potentially underpinned by the divine determinative in PT 697 § 2169b (N) . See Windus-Staginsky, Der ägyptische König im Alten Reich, 37–39 for further attestations of njswt in the Pyramid Texts; the author maintains, however, that, in most instances, the title njswt as used in the Pyramid Texts refers to the deceased king. Thus the arguments advanced in particular by Jan Assmann (‘Die Verborgenheit des Mythos in Ägypten’, GM 25 (1977), 7–43 (esp. 21); reprinted in id., Ägyptische Geheimnisse (Munich, 2004), 31–57), but later somewhat modified in publications such as Assmann, A. and J. Assmann, ‘Mythos’, in: Cancik, H. et al. (eds), Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe, vol. 4 (Stuttgart/Berlin/Cologne, 1998), 179–200. For summaries of the Egyptological ‘myth problem’ see e.g. Goebs, K., ‘A Functional Approach to Egyptian Myth and Mythemes’, JANER 2 (2002), 227–259, esp. pp. 227–238; Stadler, Weiser und Wesir, 54–63, Goebs., K. and Baines, J., ‘Egyptian Myth’, in Roeder, H. and S. Michels (eds), Handbuch Ägyptische Religion (Leiden, in press).

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ical complexes) as defined in the discipline of Cognitive Linguistics. There, metaphor-formation and use is the process of understanding and describing one domain in terms of another; it consists of a set of conceptual correspondences between two conceptual domains—a source and a target.118 In our case the desire to express (and thus realize) eternal celestial life is described in terms of a never-ending royal succession of celestial (and, for the Egyptians, divine and thus mythical) actors. Interestingly, the most important kingship designator known from the terrestrial, political sphere—njswt bitj—plays no role in these texts, perhaps supporting the point I am trying to make.119 Moreover, in some cases, as we have seen, the deceased quite happily submits to an entity wielding such royal powers and wishes to appear as his jmꜣḫw or even scribe. This state of affairs underlines more clearly than anything else that the primary purpose of these texts was not the expression of royalty—on the model of an old, exclusive, privilege—but rather that of ensuring eternal life. In this interpretation, funerary texts employing such royal and mythical themes can be used by both royal and non-royal persons, although the fact remains that our earliest attestations of such associations pertain to the often explicitly royal world of the Pyramid Texts.120 However, as indicated, certain innovations are introduced in the Coffin Texts. Besides the marked proliferation of spells expressing the deceased’s desire to be a scribe or administrator of the gods we observe a manifest predilection for dialogue, for example, and both these developments may perhaps be taken to reflect the identity, status, and tastes of the Middle Kingdom users commissioning them.121 At the same time, other new compositions entering the corpus involve conspicuously royal elements, such as spells assigning an important role to the Atef-crown as an item of insignia pertaining to both Osiris and Horus (and, by extension, the deceased). This crown is to date not attested in the Pyramid Texts, suggesting

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120

121

E.g. Kövecses, Z., Metaphor in Culture: Universality and Variation (Cambridge/New York, 2005), 26; Feldman, J.A., From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language (Cambridge, Mass, 2008), 194. The Pyramid Texts contain five references to the deceased as njswt-bjtj, of which two describe a scenario of celestial rebirth—PT 650 §1833a–b (N) and PT 435 § 786a–787b, cited above; see also Windus-Staginsky, Der ägyptische König im Alten Reich, 60–61 for njswt-bjtj in the Pyramid Texts. One Coffin Text employing a royal title may potentially be interpreted as deriving directly from a royal funerary context. This is CT 831 (VII, 31o, p; T1Be, T2Be, T3Be), where the offerings of the njswt-king are said to be pure ( jḫt njswt jw wꜥb ḫt nbt jrrt n Wsjr N pn … n kꜣ=f ), which could imply a ritual performed for this king—but equally could refer to a typical offering formula scenario. Both interpretations must remain conjectural. See above, nn. 4, 60.

98

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that also in the Middle Kingdom new ‘royal’ texts or versions continued to be composed or included in order to render the range of potential afterlife scenarios ever more variegated and colourful. So where does this leave us as regards the etic concepts of Royalty, Myth, and—we may add to this—Conceptual Metaphor? Clearly all three can be said to be represented in the corpus of the Coffin Texts as we understand it today. With the exception of the third, however, they were not employed by the Egyptians in a way that a non-Egyptologist might expect or be able to understand at a first glance. Yet, I hope to have demonstrated that the use of such etic concepts nevertheless helps us to analyze and describe the Egyptian evidence in terms that allow us to compare it with that of other cultures—including our own— and thus to better approximate and understand its meaning. In this context, even if it is not all that creative or new an idea, I would like to fall back on a famous (and, NB, highly metaphorical) aphorism by the German philosopher and writer Novalis, who asserted: ‘Hypothesen sind Netze; nur der wird fangen, der auswirft’,122 translating as ‘Hypotheses are nets—only he who casts (one) will catch anything’. The etic concepts discussed here, however faulty and ‘porous’ they may be—net-like also in this respect, perhaps?—should be viewed as equivalent to such (hypothesis-) ‘nets’. They serve the purposes of ‘catching’ more associations, more functions, more meaning than what we would be able to identify without them. This does not mean that they cannot be superseded by newer, more appropriate concepts when the time comes;123 neither that we should not strive to identify their emic counterparts—if this were indeed possible—or at the very least to approximate them. Clear definitions are indispensable in the use of these and any other concepts because the appropriateness for research can only be checked and verified on such an explicit and 122

123

Novalis was the pseudonym of Georg Philipp Friedrich Leopold Freiherr von Hardenberg (1772–1801) of the early German Romantic Movement and Jena School; for this quote see e.g. the collection of his writings Samuel, R., H.-J. Mähl, and G. Schulz (eds.), Novalis Schriften. Zweiter Band: Das philosophische Werk I (Darmstadt, 1965), 668. I would like to acknowledge that I first came across this aphorism in Renate Müller-Wollermann’s dissertation on the state in the First Intermediate Period (Krisenfaktoren im ägyptischen Staat des ausgehenden Alten Reiches, PhD dissertation, Eberhard-Karls-Universität Tübingen, 1986), in which she used a model from Political Science to study the factors of crisis that would have led to the breakdown of the Old Kingdom centralized state. I have since learned that the same precept has influenced other notable scholars in search of (scientific) ‘truths’, having (for example) been chosen as a motto by the philosopher of science Karl Popper, and placed in front of his Logik der Forschung: Zur Erkenntnistheorie der modernen Naturwissenschaft (Tübingen, 1934). As regards the study of the Coffin Texts, we may think of the now highly contentious term ‘Democratization’ which has given way to ‘Demotization’ in many contexts; see n. 3 above.

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firm definitional basis—one that permits other scholars to apply the same concepts and their related theories and methods to their own sources. Once again, these definitions can and must be replaced and superseded by newer, more fitting ones as new evidence comes to light. In some cases such concepts and definitions provide perhaps nothing more than a (however temporary) terminology that allows us to discuss the evidence at hand with one another. And so I close with another quote—this time one by Karl Popper: Theories are passed on, not as dogmas, but rather with the challenge to discuss them and improve upon them.124 124

Popper, K., Conjectures and Refutations: The Growth of Scientific Knowledge (London/New York, 2002 (1st ed. 1963)), 67.

chapter 5

How ‘Funerary’ Are the Coffin Texts? Alexandra von Lieven

The Ancient Egyptians are famous for their so-called ‘funerary literature’.1 One of the most extensive bodies of such ‘literature’ are without doubt the Coffin Texts, so called, because they are mostly attested from the insides of Middle Kingdom wooden coffins. Because they are attested on coffins, obviously they are funerary literature. What sounds logical enough is not as straightforward as it seems if one also takes the contents of the texts into account. When considering emic and etic concepts within the funerary culture of the Middle Kingdom, it needs to be asked how ‘funerary’ the Coffin Texts actually are and why they were used as funerary texts, even if some of their contents are not very ‘funerary’ as such. There can be no doubt as to the fact that in the concrete form in which they are preserved to us today, these texts were funerary. However, in my project on the non-funerary origins of selected spells from the Coffin Texts, I could identify over forty spells with likely or in my opinion sometimes secure non-funerary origins. This project was funded by the German Research Council (DFG) in the framework of a Heisenberg Fellowship,2 for which I would like to thank them very much. Those spells I selected from the entire corpus published by de Buck (see Table 5.1).3 Several points need to be made here. Although of course well known to any researcher in this field, they are still of enough importance to call them to mind explicitly from time to time. Firstly and most importantly, the ‘corpus’ constituted by the edition of de Buck is an entirely artificial collection by modern scholarship. In reality, each coffin only contains a small, individual selection from the complete pool of such texts,4 a pool moreover not necessar1 For a detailed discussion of this concept in general see the paper by Harco Willems in this volume. 2 Reference Li 1846/1–2. The complete results will be published as a monograph. My interpretations of the content of the spells discussed here are founded in my philological analysis there. 3 De Buck, A., The Egyptian Coffin Texts I–VII (OIP 34, 49, 64, 67, 73, 81 and 87, Chicago, 1935– 1961). 4 Lesko, L.H., Index of the Spells on Egyptian Middle Kingdom Coffins and Related Documents (Berkeley, 1979).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_006

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ily exhausted by the material published already. In fact, a few new texts have come to light over the years, which however I did not take into account in my systematic search for non-funerary material.5 table 5.1

CT spells with likely non-funerary origins

Spell number

Subject

30

Way into the West (in sequence with the following, otherwise not clearly non-funerary) Rituals for Osiris in Busiris Destruction of an enemy

31–36 37 38 39 40 41 81

Bringing back a comatose person(?) from near-death Similar to 38 Similar to 38 Similar to 38 Identification with Shu

98 99 100

Protection from ghosts Sending a vision? Sending a vision?

101 102 103 104 115–119

Sending a vision? Sending a vision? Sending a vision? Dream ritual Building ritual

Relevant part of the subscript

Successor in BD

Burying an execration figure from wax

Licking off a drawing daily early in the morning Spitting on a louse from one’s head Drawing a picture on one’s hand

(partially 89, but funerary, with different subscript)

Recite over a [louse?] from the head Doing magic with a statue 119: spell for building a tomb etc.

5 New publications like Lapp, G., Särge des Mittleren Reiches aus der ehemaligen Sammlung Kashaba (ÄA 43, Wiesbaden, 1985) or Polz, D., Für die Ewigkeit geschaffen: Die Särge des Imeni und der Geheset (Mainz, 2007) and Polz, D. and M. Wagner, ‘Dra’ Abu el-Naga, Ägypten: Die Särge des Imeni und der Geheset—Textzeugen an der Schwelle zwischen Sargtexten und Totenbuch. Die Arbeiten des Jahres 2018’, DAI e-Forschungsberichte 2 (2018), 21–27 (https:// publications.dainst.org/journals/efb/2145/6528, urn:nbn:de:0048-journals.efb-2018–2-p21 –27-v6528.1) come to mind, although they seem to have mostly contained texts already attested on other coffins. At least for Imeni and Geheset, though, one has to wait for the final publication. The preliminary reports raise hopes for some new variants or filled lacunae at minimum.

102 Table 5.1

von lieven CT spells with likely non-funerary origins (cont.)

Spell number

Subject

Relevant part of the subscript

Successor in BD

154–160

Knowing the souls of several sacred places

154: achieve long life on earth and power in the necropolis 157: title mentions favour on earth 158: do not recite after having consumed pork! 160: title mentions long life on earth, not dying because of a snake etc. as goals

107–109, 111– 116

161 341

Knowing the Field of Rushes Opening a door during initiation

526 576

Crowning (originally royal context) Potency magic

588 642

Initiation as ‘bald-head of Hathor’ 103 Different end to building ritual: variant for Osirian festival Prolongation of life on New Year’s 71 Day Siring offspring for a dead man (similar to Levirate marriage) Against ghosts at night 742: a man is to speak the spell at night time Making a new-born child breathe Use of the Book of Two Ways (The whole spell is a subscript to the Book of Two Ways, indicating its usefulness to i.a. prepare for a good death during life or even outright avoid death)

691 700 741–742 770 1117

110 Recite over a drawing of 7 wc̣ꜣ̌ .t eyes, rinse off with beer and natron and drink Whosoever knows the spell can have sex regularly and pleasure the woman every time

The only real groupings are certain sequences of spells. Yet, sometimes there are even different such sequences possible.6 This goes to show that the individual spells also had a potential use of their own, with combinations varying according to use and intentions.

6 A particularly instructive example will be discussed below.

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The choice which texts were inscribed on a particular coffin was likely due to many different factors, local tradition and thus geographical provenance being foremost among them.7 Apparently, certain spells were either not available at all in certain places, or there were different ideas about the suitability of a certain text for a certain purpose. This idea of suitability is of course crucial for the question to be tackled here. What is immediately striking about the likely non-funerary texts is their rarity. This concerns not just the fact that only 44 of 1185 spells, i.e. 3.71 %, are within my little sub-corpus, a figure that could of course be slightly altered if I had used somewhat different criteria. The criteria used were either by content of the spell itself (for example, if a text ends with happily stating that one will not die a premature death, it is rather unlikely, that this text had a funerary purpose from the start) or of a possible Nachschrift (for example, if the beneficiary of a spell is to paint something on his8 hand and lick it off daily, it is again obvious that the spell was composed originally for the use of the living. In a funerary adaptation, this could certainly be done by another person in place of the deceased, but I would be adamant about taking the text serious, that at least originally this was intended to be the beneficiary himself). Of course, some texts are not so obviously classifiable, but there is at least a strong likelihood in view of their content, that they contain originally priestly secret knowledge (like the famous spells for knowing the bꜣ.w of certain important places) or speak about temple ritual. Especially for these, their classification as non-funerary in origin could sometimes be debated. Also, I have only taken CT volumes I to VII into account. Obviously, if one would also include the Pyramid Texts from CT volume VIII9 into the statistics, the number could go down even further. As I felt that then one would also need to deal with the Pyramid Texts in general,10 I have refrained from doing this

7

8 9 10

That there could even be various religious traditions within the same necropolis at the same time is pointed out by Morales, A., ‘Tracing Middle Kingdom Pyramid Texts’, in Miniaci, G. and W. Grajetzki (eds.), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt 1: Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources (= Middle Kingdom Studies 1, London, 2015), 221–236. By default, such texts were always written for male users, although in practice, they could also be used by women, if necessary. Allen, J.P., The Egyptian Coffin Texts VIII: Middle Kingdom copies of Pyramid Texts (OIP 132, Chicago, 2006). Sethe, K., Die altaegyptischen Pyramidentexte I–IV (Leipzig, 1908–1922); Faulkner, R.O., The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts Translated into English: Supplement of Hieroglyphic Texts (Oxford, 1969); Berger-el Naggar, C., J. Leclant, and I. Pierre-Croisiau, Les Textes de la Pyramide de Pépy Ier (MIFAO 118, Cairo, 2001).

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for simple working economy. It needs to be stated, though, that this results in a somewhat artificial choice. As the accidents of preservation are artificial as well, this is perhaps less of a methodological problem than it seems. Ultimately, one can only work with percentages and tendencies anyway. Most significant is therefore the number of attestations of a given spell. In this respect, many of the non-funerary ones are attested very rarely, sometimes even only once. In these cases, especially where there is only a single attestation, it is likely that the inclusion of the spell in question was a very individual decision of the owner of the coffin or a particular coffin workshop. They would have had their reasons for doing so, choosing a text from a completely different context, and nobody later replicating their ‘experiment’. To better understand possible reasons and motivations, it is vital to look at the owners of the coffins in question and at their titles, as well as the spell sequences and co-texts in which the non-funerary spells appear. Unfortunately, especially the social status of the owners is most of the time less informative than one would wish. For the relevance of spell-sequences in relation to placement, however, the case of the building ritual detailed below furnishes a good example. Looking through the whole material, it becomes evident that actually many CT spells, including some of a clear funerary character, like the Abscheusprüche, are not that common. Thus e.g. spell 184, the best attested Abscheuspruch, is only attested 6 times from two different places, namely Bershe and Thebes. To the contrary, spell 75, the most prominent one from the group of Shu spells, is attested for parts in up to 20 coffins from at least 7 different places. As the whole group of Shu spells seems to have belonged together, maybe formed a veritable ‘Shu Book’, it needs to be noted that one of its spells, spell 81, clearly attests to a use by the living, as its subscript states that it should be read over a drawing of the eight Heh gods on the ritualist’s hand. As he is further told to lick it off in the early morning daily, a ritual use by a living person seems inevitable.11 However, this particular spell from the group is only attested four times from Bershe. In my opinion therefore, it would be worthwhile to count the absolute as well as the relative numbers of attestations of spells to get an idea about their relevance. Contrary to what one might expect, popularity might not be linked one-dimensionally to supposed suitability to a funerary use. As stated, only very few spells from my sub-corpus are well attested. However, of these, some are in fact even very popular. One of these is the group known as the Spells for Knowing the Souls. This is the group of spells 154–160.

11

Thus already Willems, H., ‘The Shu-Spells in Practice’, in: Willems, H. (ed.), The World of the Coffin Texts (EU 9, Leiden, 1996), 197–209.

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They also constitute a group apart in some other respects, as they do survive into the Book of the Dead as spells 107–109, 111–116. In my opinion, they were originally constituting priestly knowledge that legitimized a priest to enter with the gods and officiate among them. Obviously, something that helps to gain access to the gods during one’s lifetime cannot hurt to have once one permanently enters the world beyond, where company of the gods is as desirable for one’s status as is proximity to the king in the world of the living. A similar intent can be postulated for spell 161, which offers the knowledge about the Field of Reeds, but is only attested once on L1Li, a rather late specimen that has plausibly been called an early Book of the Dead on a late Middle Kingdom coffin.12 It is of course to become BD 110, one of the spells even to be found in the House of Millions of Years13 of Ramses III in Medinet Habu.14 The only other spells from my sub-corpus of 44 non-funerary texts to live on as BD spells apart from the Spells for Knowing the Souls and the Field of Reeds are spell 588, later BD 103 and spell 691, later BD 71.15 Remember that Luise Gestermann could pinpoint Coffin Text forerunners to about a 100 BD spells,16 so the large absence of the ones I have selected as non-funerary in origin is noteworthy. Both spells in question are attested only once, 588 on T1L and 691 again on L1Li. But while spell 691 of the Coffin Texts is attested only once, its almost identical reincarnation known as Book of the Dead spell 71 is attested at least 166 times in Books of the Dead from different periods.17 12

13 14 15

16 17

In the Sackler Lecture for 2014 by Harco Willems (‘The coffins of the lector priest Sesenebenef: a Middle Kingdom Book of the Dead?’). Maybe Gestermann, L., ‘Auf dem Weg zum Totenbuch: von Tradition und Neuerung’, in: Lucarelli, R., M. Müller-Roth, and A. Wüthrich, (eds.), Herausgehen am Tage: gesammelte Schriften zum altägyptischen Totenbuch (SAT 17, Wiesbaden, 2012), 77 therefore does not list CT 161 as forerunner to BD 110, but just CT spells 464–468, as does Hornung, E., Das Totenbuch der Ägypter, Zurich and Munich 1979, p. 482 (compare her note 23 on p. 75 for her sources). She only mentions L1Li there in passing on p. 73. Ullmann, M., Die Häuser der Millionen von Jahren: eine Untersuchung zu Königskult und Tempeltypologie in Ägypten (ÄAT 51, Wiesbaden, 2002). Von Lieven, A., ‘Book of the Dead, Book of the Living. BD Spells as Temple Texts’, JEA 98 (2012), 249–267. In principle also CT spell 100, parts of which survive as the beginning of BD spell 89, but this is only a partial survival and the general gist of the BD version, including its Nachschrift, is very different. Gestermann, ‘Auf dem Weg zum Totenbuch’, in: Lucarelli et al. (eds.), Herausgehen am Tage, 76 lists it, but Hornung, E., Das Totenbuch der Ägypter (Zurich/Munich, 1979), 470 is much more cautious, in my opinion rightly so. Gestermann, ‘Auf dem Weg zum Totenbuch’, in: Lucarelli et al. (eds.), Herausgehen am Tage, 67–78, particularly the list pp. 75–78. According to http://totenbuch.awk.nrw.de/, last accessed March 3, 2017. For a parallel edition of at least some significant attestations see Lapp, G., Die prt-m-hrw-Sprüche (Tb 2,

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Ironically, spell 691 is one of the clearest cases for a non-funerary text being adapted to a funerary purpose at all. It is clearly a ritual for the prolongation of one’s life at the New Year’s Day, as is evident from its final plea to the gods: Command me to the life which is in your arms, to the hail that is in your fists. Assign me to this life of the New Year’s Day! May he (i.e. the Sun God) let descend many years for me in excess of the years of my life, may he let descend many months for me in excess of the months of my life, may he let descend many days for me in excess of the days of my life, may he let descend many nights for me in excess of the nights of my life, until I go and shine in respect of my image. CT VI 323cc–324e

Seemingly, its funerary adaptation was effected to avoid also a second death in the hereafter. Interestingly, the later its BD successors are dated, the more funerary additions they acquire, until they are really a means to ward off Am-mut, the devourer of the dead.18 Spell 588 did not even need much adaptation as its purpose was entering the company of Hathor from the beginning. As Hathor is a deity also important to the dead, the funerary value of the spell is beyond question. Yet, in its original intent it was most likely used for the entrance into the service of Hathor as a very special sort of devotee, namely the bald-heads of Hathor. These are wellknown from statues collected by Clère19 and I myself have argued that they were closely involved with sexual rites for that goddess, a fact corroborated by inscriptions on said statues as well as by some other explicit source material.20

18

19 20

64–72) (Totenbuchtexte—Synoptische Textausgabe nach Quellen des Neuen Reiches 7, Basel, 2011), 322–378. Lapp, Die prt-m-hrw-Sprüche (Tb 2, 64–72), 322–378. While the Nachschrift in pTjenena there p. 378 still clearly retains the usefulness on earth as well as after death, the Late Period and Ptolemaic Books of the Dead (e.g. pIahtesnakht, pRyerson, or pTurin 1791) give the spell a title that explicitly mentions the warding off of Am-mut or similar beings in the Netherworld. For the late versions see now in detail Mosher Jr, M., The Book of the Dead, Saite through Ptolemaic Periods: A Study of Traditions Evident in Versions of Texts and Vignettes Volume 4 (BD Spells 50–63, 65–77) (Prescott, AZ, 2017), 328–353. Clère, J.J., Les chauves d’Hathor (OLA 63, Leuven, 1995). Von Lieven, A., ‘Wein, Weib und Gesang: Rituale für die Gefährliche Göttin’, in: MetznerNebelsick, C., O. Dally, A. Hausleiter, E. Kaiser, H. Peter-Röcher, I. Prohl, J.F. Quack, and F. Rumscheid (eds.), Rituale in der Vorgeschichte, Antike und Gegenwart: Neue Forschungen und Perspektiven von Archäologie, Ägyptologie, Altorientalistik, Ethnologie und vergleichender Religionsgeschichte. Interdisziplinäre Tagung vom 1.–2. Februar 2002 in Berlin (Internationale Archäologie—Arbeitsgemeinschaft, Symposium, Tagung, Kongreß 5, Rahden

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A very nice case for a complete ritual adopted as a sequence of CT spells is the building ritual spells 115 to 119. It is about building a tomb for a man, which explains its funerary use, yet its original use was without doubt the actual process of founding said building. The text clearly names several different types of rods and ropes used to delimit the space and to level the ground (CT II 134d– 135e, 136c–137c, 137h, 138a–e). The sequence 115–119 is attested on the coffins S1C, S2C and G2T. There exists however a variant sequence 116–118+642, which is attested on A1C and G1T. There, it is not a tomb that is built, but the space for an Abydenian Osiris feast centred on a temporary canopy is prepared in spell 642. Again, the funerary connection is not far away from the outset, Osiris being the main god of the dead, yet again the spell sequence is most likely to originate from a real-worldly setting in the first place. The multiple uses of single spells in different sequences are very instructive and can be paralleled by multipurpose offering, cleaning and fumigation spells attested from the Pyramid Texts onwards throughout different temple and funerary rituals.21 What is most fascinating about these two different spell sequences, however, is the fact that they do not simply represent two different local traditions. It is of course true, that the Assuan coffin A1C only has the Osirian feast variant and the Siut coffins S1C and S2C only have the tomb building variant. This may indeed represent a local preference for Assuan and Siut, although the number of attestations is not exactly statistically telling. Be that as it may, what is really significant is the attestation from Gebelein, where G2T has the tomb building and G1T has the Osirian feast variant. And it is not just that the same place knows two different traditions. As a matter of fact, both belong to the same burial, namely that of a man called Iqer. G2T is his outer coffin, G1T the inner one. In other words, on the outer coffin the tomb is built, while on the inner one, a feast for Osiris is being prepared. Clearly, the

21

(Westph.), 2002), 47–55, von Lieven, A., ‘Review of J.-C. Goyon, Le Rituel du sḥtp Sḫmt au changement de cycle annuel d’après les architraves du Temple d’Edfou et textes parallèles du Nouvel Empire à l’époque Ptolémaïque et Romaine’, JEA 96 (2010), 262–263, especially p. 263. Graefe, E., ‘Über die Verarbeitung von Pyramidentexten in den späten Tempeln (Nochmals zu Spruch 600 (§1652a–§1656d: Umhängen des Halskragens))’, in: Verhoeven, U. and E. Graefe (eds.), Religion und Philosophie im Alten Ägypten (Fs. Derchain) (OLA 39, Leuven, 1991), 129–148, Tacke, N., Das Opferritual des ägyptischen Neuen Reiches (OLA 222, Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA, 2013), Pries, A., ‘Standard Rituals in Change: Patterns of Tradition from the Pyramid Texts to Roman Times’, in: Kousoulis, P. and N. Lazaridis (eds.), Proceedings of the Tenth International Congress of Egyptologists: University of the Aegean, Rhodes, 22–29 May 2008 (OLA 241, Leuven, 2015), vol. 1, 1211–1224.

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arrangement is well thought out with the protection of a funerary building outside and the celebration of Osiris inside, close to the mummy of Iqer himself. For similar conceptual progressions from the outside to the inside in much later funerary material see the unpublished coffins Berlin 58 and 1075 (21st dyn.) and the tomb Maison 21 in Tuna el-Gebel (Roman period).22 Apparent local traditions can also be found, especially in Bershe. Spell 341 is attested there three times (B1L, B3L and B1Y). Each time it follows on 337, a spell for vindication against enemies. Then follows 341, designed to open the doors of the great house (343a, pr ꜥꜣ). Later, the portals of the netherworld (344c, sbꜣ.w i҆mḥ.t) are mentioned. Obviously, vindication against enemies is very useful also in the hereafter, be it against enemies in the divine world or against human ones, potentially even still living ones. Tomb inscriptions threatening trespassers with a lawsuit before the gods serve a similar purpose.23 A negative outcome for a living man might very well have taken the form of an illness or the like. The following spell could thus easily also simply concern the beyond, particularly in view of the explicit mention of the netherworld. That spell 341 in any way must have originated in a non-funerary sphere would thus not be immediately obvious nor necessary. Yet, the spell has a rubricized subscript, which makes this assumption inevitable. According to this rubric, the spell is to be recited over seven wedjat eyes in the form of a drawing. These then are to be washed off with beer and natron and to be drunk by the man. In my opinion, rubrics are key to understanding the actual use of a spell. So what to make of this one? The solution lies in the obscure word bś.w. In B1Y and B3L, apparently Isis and Nephthys say about the user of the spell ‘He is like a man who has not yet completed the bś.w’, while in B1L they to the contrary say ‘He is like a man who has completed the bś.w’. At any rate, the ritualist answers by stating ‘I have come here after having completed the bś.w. Anubis is the god who is cleaning me’. The idea of ritual cleaning of course ties in well with the fact that the drawing is to be rinsed off with beer and natron. Natron is the usual cleaning agent used by priests for achieving ritual purity.

22

23

See the discussion in von Lieven, A. ‘Ikonographie und Stil im Spannungsfeld zwischen ägyptischer Tradition und griechisch-römischem Einfluß’, in: Bol, P.C., G. Kaminski, and C. Maderna (eds.), Fremdheit—Eigenheit: Ägypten, Griechenland und Rom: Austausch und Verständnis (Städel-Jahrbuch NF 19, Stuttgart, 2004), 309–316, especially pp. 310–312 with notes 6–12 on p. 317. Morschauser, S., Threat-Formulae in Ancient Egypt: A Study of the History, Structure and Use of Threats and Curses in Ancient Egypt (Baltimore, 1991), 72–76.

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Despite the weird orthography which seems to suggest a connection with a word for an inflamed swelling, I think that bś.w is actually a noun derived from the verb bsi̯ ‘to introduce, to initiate’,24 which already from the Middle Kingdom onwards can be written with the high ś. Thus, it would have a meaning ‘initiation’. The strange orthography would be sort of a cryptography deliberately playing with a writing suggesting something else. Such cryptographic writings I have encountered repeatedly in my studies within the project on the non-funerary Coffin Text and I am convinced that they were used systematically.25 The system is very similar to the cryptographic systems known from the Netherworld Guides as attested from the New Kingdom onwards or the systems used to arrive at new sound values in the late and Greco-roman periods (so-called ‘Ptolemaic’ orthography). If one accepts this explanation, spell 341 is about gaining access to restricted areas during the initiation of a priest. Even more exclusive is spell 526 attested only on S2C, the outer coffin of the nomarch Mesehti. It is linguistically Old Egyptian and just contains speeches by Isis and Nephthys to him stating that they have come and brought Horus and Seth and their respective ‘Great of Magic’ to him. In my opinion, the original setting of this spell would have been the coronation ritual of the king. That precisely a nomarch should have used such a high-ranking spell is not too astonishing.26 Unlike the other cases, here it is just the content, which induces me to assume such a background. There is otherwise no clear indication of a nonfunerary character of this spell. This is clearer in the case of spell 576, again attested three times on coffins from Bershe, namely B1C, B1Be and B1P. The purpose of the spell is clearly stated in the rubricized heading and postscript. It is about having sex regularly and to achieve that ‘the woman’s heart comes below him each time’ (CT VI 191m–n). What does this mean? As the word i҆b ‘heart’ can mean ‘wish’ and even ‘desire’ in Egyptian, I would think this means that the man is able to sexually satisfy his female partner with each intercourse. The fact that the heart is pulsating, as are the genitals during orgasm, only enhances this understanding.

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Kruchten, J.-M., Les annales des prêtres de Karnak (XXI–XXIIImes dynasties) et autres textes contemporains relatifs à l’initiation des prêtres d’Amon (OLA 32, Leuven, 1989). The book publication of this study will give the details for all these writings. The typically elite background of the coffins with CT spells has been pinpointed already by Willems, H., Les Textes des Sarcophages et la démocratie: Éléments d’une histoire culturelle du Moyen Empire Égyptien (Paris, 2008), 131–189.

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While this interpretation seems to be obvious and has also been proposed by Marc Orriols-Llonch,27 Dieter Müller claimed that it referred to a supposed ‘procreation by the heart’.28 According to him, the man would sire offspring with each intercourse. I have to confess that I do not believe this at all. If the Egyptians had meant that, they would have clearly said so. After all, the text is not exactly coy in the words used. There are three clear words for sexual intercourse or ejaculation present in the text and there would have been available unequivocal words for getting pregnant, if indeed that had been the intention. Clearly, this text is rather about the sheer joy of sex, not about procreation. This certainly was of concern to the Egyptians. How else should one interpret the existence of contraceptives in medical papyri,29 if it would always only have been about procreation?30 It is thus much more plausible that this text is indeed a spell of potency magic. Potency spells are also preserved in medico-magical contexts31 but because of a certain bias, they were never taken serious as medical texts, although they are just that. Thus they are not incorporated into the Grundriß der Medizin. However, as potency problems are often rather psychological than physical, addressing them by means of magic (working like a placebo) is not

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Orriols-Llonch, M., ‘Mujer ideal, mujer infractora: La transgresión femenina en el antiguo Egipto’, Lectora: Revista de Dones i Textualitat 18 (2012), 17–40, especially p. 27, n. 42, OrriolsLlonch, M., ‘Sex and Cosmogony: The Onanism of the Solar Demiurg’, GM 233 (2012), 31–42, especially 36, n. 55. However, one should not go as far as him, taking the word i҆b as a term for orgasm, which it is not in itself. Müller, D., ‘Die Zeugung durch das Herz in Religion und Medizin der Ägypter’, Orientalia 35 (1966), 247–274. I do not think that the two (completely different) texts treated by Jansen-Winkeln, K., ‘Das ‘zeugende Herz’’, LingAeg 2 (1992), 147–149, can save Müller’s interpretation, either. Grapow, H., Die medizinischen Texte in hieroglyphischer Umschreibung autographiert (Grundriß der Medizin der Alten Ägypter V, Berlin, 1958), 476–478, von Deines, H., H. Grapow, and W. Westendorf, Übersetzung der medizinischen Texte (Grundriß der Medizin der Alten Ägypter IV,1, Berlin, 1958), 277–278. This is not the space for a general rebuttal of the concept of ‘rebirth’/‘Wiedergeburt’, which has become an explanatory panacea for texts and images alike within Egyptology (especially for the funerary sphere). Suffice it here to quote the well-argued critical article by Buchberger, H., ‘Sexualität und Harfenspiel: Notizen zur “sexuellen” Konnotation der altägyptischen Ikonographie’, GM 66 (1983), 11–43, with which I agree (despite the quick dismissal given it by Derchain, Ph., ‘Der Grossinquisitor oder die hohe Kunst der Kollegenschelte’, GM 73 (1984), 85–87). E.g. in pChester Beatty X and XIII, see Gardiner, A.H., Chester Beatty Gift (HPBM 3rd series, London, 1935), 114–115, 123, pl. 62–63, 69 or pBM EA 10902, see Leitz, C., Magical and Medical Papyri of the New Kingdom (HPBM VII, London, 1999), 93, pl. 52.

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such a ridiculous idea as it might seem.32 Indeed spell 576 does everything to boost the man’s ego, associating him with some of the most potent animals and deities: Mounting again and again (nhp sp 2) by a man (si ҆) in the necropolis. My two eyes are as lions, my phallus is Baba, this N is the Outcast. Semen is in my mouth. My head is towards the sky, my head is towards the earth. To me belongs the breeding bull, to me belongs the herd. This N ejaculates (sči҆) his spell. When I ejaculate, then ejaculates that one, then ejaculates this one. As for any man, who will know this spell: He has sex (nk=f ) in this land night and day. The woman’s heart comes below him each time he has sex. Words to be spoken over a bead of carnelian or amethyst. To be given to the right arm of the effective spirit (ꜣḫ). CT VI, 191a–p

The god with lions as his eyes and semen in his mouth is Atum, the creator, who created the whole world in an enormous orgasm due to his masturbation on the primeval hill. His children Shu and Tefnut, the first sexually differentiated couple of deities, are regularly conceived of as a pair of lions and they are equated with his two eyes. Baba, who is said to be his phallus, is of course a deity about whom there is a myth telling how he had intercourse with a female and was stuck in her for a prolonged time due to a spell cast on him by his enemy, the god Thot. Christian Leitz has convincingly argued that the real-worldly model for this myth is the so-called sexual ‘hanging’ of dogs, where indeed the male gets stuck within the female for up to half an hour due to excessive swelling of his penis.33 Finally, the man is said to be the ‘Outcast’, which is a euphemism for the god Seth, the mythical murderer of Osiris. Perhaps his name was only sanitized out of the funerary adaptation, as Osiris was of course the god of the dead.34 32 33

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Besides, the criterion of inclusion should of course be the emic definition of medicine, which clearly also included magic, not any etic mirage of ‘pure science’ in a modern sense. Leitz, C., ‘Auseinandersetzungen zwischen Baba und Thoth’, in: Behlmer, H. (ed.), … Quaerentes Scientiam: Festgabe für Wolfhart Westendorf zu seinem 70. Geburtstag (Göttingen, 1994), 103–117, especially 104–106. Meurer, G., ‘Die Verfemung des Seth und seines Gefolges in den Pyramidentexten und in späterer Zeit’, in: Felber, H. (ed.), Feinde und Aufrührer: Konzepte von Gegnerschaft in ägyptischen Texten besonders des Mittleren Reiches (Abhandlungen der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig, Philologisch-Historische Klasse 78,5, Leipzig/Stuttgart, 2005), 173–188, Kahl, J., ‘Religiöse Sprachsensibilität in den Pyramidentexten und Sargtex-

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One of Seth’s standard epithets was ‘great of strength’ and he was ascribed an insatiable sexual appetite, a fact that lead to his association with the donkey, an animal widely known for its sexual excitability as well. The bull within his herd of cows completes this picture of excessive virility. One may even wonder whether the reference to Atum and Baba is to imply that the man should manually arouse his erection, but is then able to sustain it for a prolonged time, as were those two deities respectively. Admittedly, the text is framed by saying the man would have intercourse in the necropolis and that the bead should be tied to the arm of the ꜣḫ. However, already Jan Zandee in 1963 assumed this to have been ‘love magic’ from the sphere of the living.35 And indeed, it is not too difficult to see how a text from the real world could simply have become adapted to the funerary sphere by adding m ẖr.t-nčr ‘in the necropolis’ to the title and by changing the neutral si҆ ‘man’ used everywhere else in the spell into ꜣḫ just in the postscript. In fact, the exclusive use of another word there seems rather suspicious of an adaptation, while si҆ is of course the usual word for the patient used in medico-magical texts. That a use of a text by the living does not solve all our problems of understanding, but actually might add some more is finally proven by spell 1117, attested on six coffins from Bershe. It is a part of the famous Book of Two Ways,36 ending one of its sections, and it contains very intriguing information about the latter’s use. The text reads: As for any man who knows the ‘letting pass’, he is more effective there than Osiris. As a matter of fact, he has already passed every judgment council in which Thot will be. However, Thot will be in the judgment council of Osiris. If a man will be on his lake of passing away to the Beautiful West: if the man recites it within the priestly service of the beginning of four days, he will pass away on his fourth day. It is more accurate than anything. If however he wishes to know how to vivify on his two legs (i҆r swt mri̯=f rḫ s:ꜥnḫ ḥr rṭ.wi҆=f ), then he recites it daily after having smeared his flesh with pellets of a sexually stained girl and with the dander of a sexually stained bald-head. CT VII, 448d–450d

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ten am Beispiel des Namens des Gottes Seth’, in: Bickel, S. and B. Mathieu (eds.), D’ un monde à l’autre: Textes des Pyramides & Textes des Sarcophages (BdÉ 139, Cairo, 2004), 219–246. Zandee, J., ‘Seth als Sturmgott’, ZÄS 90 (1963), 144–156, especially 153–154. Backes, B., Das altägyptische ‘Zweiwegebuch’: Studien zu den Sargtext-Sprüchen 1029–1130 (ÄA 69, Wiesbaden, 2005), especially pp. 111, 406–409.

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This spell is of an immense value for the question who used these spells when and for what. Surely, most Egyptologists would declare the Book of Two Ways to be sort of a map of the Netherworld just for the use of a dead person to not take the wrong path. However, spell 1117 informs us that apparently the text should be known already during life-time, because this will mean that he has already passed whatever divine judgment successfully. As several different councils are implied, I think we should not solely think of the well-known judgement of the dead. The following two injunctions clearly show that the spell is useful in two different directions. The first part I understand as meaning that the person is about to die. Reciting the Book of Two Ways for four days, he is apparently preparing himself for death. Understood that way, the text would almost become an Ars moriendi. After those four days he would then die fearlessly, knowing full well that he has already passed through any judgment successfully. Up to this point the text might still be understood as funerary in a sense, although it is quite clear that it is already to be used before the actual death occurring, not afterwards. But the second injunction states beyond doubt the usefulness also for a living person. The fact that the text uses s:ꜥnḫ instead of simple ꜥnḫ, which I have translated as ‘to vivify’ instead of simply ‘to live’, in my view implies that it is precisely the daily recitation of the Book of Two Ways that keeps the man alive, despite the mortal danger in which he had been before. But in this case, he has moreover to smear his body with bodily excretions of participants in ritual sexual intercourse. The bald-heads of Hathor have already been mentioned. The girl would in all likelihood be the one with whom he has slept. The pellets are likely peelings from her skin to match the dander of the bald-head. As women do not have bald heads, one obviously could not have taken dander from that. As sexual activity is a very ‘lively’ action, one can see why just that would serve well as a protection against death. Clearly then, even the Book of Two Ways is not simply ‘funerary’ literature, but was designed for a much more complex and varied use than its well-known attestations on coffins would let assume. In this respect, the leather manuscript of it found by Wael Sherbiny is of major interest. One can only wait for its final publication.37

37

Unfortunately, Sherbiny, W., Through Hermopolitan Lenses: Studies on the So-called Book of Two Ways in Ancient Egypt (PdÄ 33, Leiden, 2017), while making use of it, does not yet contain the full edition of this major new find.

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While it is impossible to discuss all of the texts in detail, the general idea should have become clear nevertheless. What does all of this mean in relation to the question for emic or etic concepts and their potential relationship with each other? The main lesson is that the concept of a full-fledged genre of funerary texts clearly distinguished and thus separable from other types of religious or scholarly literature is an entirely etic one. It arose mainly because of the chances of preservation that have disproportionately favoured everything kept in a tomb in a dry, secure environment, while destroying temple and palace libraries and their fragile contents almost completely. Thus, the texts found in the funerary sphere seem to be so unique and peculiar. In reality, however, there is no such thing as a distinct genre of funerary literature, just texts used for different purposes, which were sometimes more and sometimes less adapted for one or the other use. Many of the texts written on the Middle Kingdom coffins were from the outset intended for a funerary purpose, for example the Abscheusprüche38 against disgusting things that might happen to a person in the hereafter. As people do not walk on their heads and eat faeces in this world, there is a clear setting and use for these spells. This is something that is only to be feared after death and so these spells are only to be found in the funerary sphere. Not surprisingly, the preserved Abscheusprüche from the Coffin Texts are numerous, as this was apparently one of the main fears in this period. A spell to help a new-born child breathe on the other hand is something that is first and foremost a real-life affair. Therefore, already Raymond Faulkner proposed that CT spell 770, entitled ‘To make a child breathe’ (CT VI 405a) was originally written for exactly this purpose.39 As this was most probably a practice not so much performed by learned doctors, but most of the time by women caring for mother and child during the birthing process, it is even likely that such a spell was rarely committed to writing in medico-magical papyri, where one would expect it. Nevertheless, the famous Spells for Mother and Child40 demonstrate that such papyri did exist, even if only rarely41 preserved. But while such a spell was not in the least funerary, it could still be adapted for 38 39 40 41

Topmann, D., Die ‘Abscheu’-Sprüche der altägyptischen Sargtexte: Untersuchungen zu Textemen und Dialogstrukturen (Göttinger Orientforschungen IV, 39, Wiesbaden, 2002). Faulkner, R.O., The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts II (Warminster, 1977), 301, note 1 to spell 770. Yamazaki, N., Zaubersprüche für Mutter und Kind: Papyrus Berlin 3027 (Achet B 2, Berlin, 2003). There is a similar text among the still unpublished medical papyri from Brooklyn, namely pBrooklyn 47.218.2 (information thanks to J. Quack).

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the benefit of a deceased, as the wish for breathing air again after death was of major relevance, next to the wish for food and drink. That nevertheless CT spell 770 is only attested once as a ‘funerary’ text demonstrates well that this was a very individual solution. Other texts were probably deemed more suitable to that purpose for a dead person. Yet the singular case we do have of such a use was not a problem either, which perfectly demonstrates the multiplicity of uses of such spells and the permeability of the boundary between the funerary and the non-funerary sphere in the Egyptian mind. The non-existence of a specific genre ‘funerary texts’ is also nicely underscored by the fact that there is not any emic term for it. What does exist, to the contrary, are terms like ḥkꜣ ‘magic’ or ꜣḫ.w ‘effectiveness’.42 It was mainly these powers an Egyptian wanted to attain, in life as well as in death. This ties in well with the fact that precisely some of the knowledge-centred supposed ‘funerary’ texts explicitly claim their usefulness ‘on earth as well as after death’. Of course, this does not only hold true for the Coffin Texts, but for a considerable number of such texts through the ages.43 This can also explain the perennial popularity of precisely the texts focusing on the power of knowledge (the Spells for Knowing the Souls, for example), in contrast to other, very individual choices attested just once or twice. If we knew more about the coffin owners as individuals, such preferences might become clearer. With the well-attested spells, to the contrary, it is clear that they represent a broad consensus of what might be helpful to know when accessing the divine sphere. That the latter are often texts from a priestly or occasionally even a royal setting is not astonishing in this context. In the real world, it is of course precisely the priests and the king who already during life have constant access to the gods. Resorting to their competences is thus the most promising way to also successfully enter the divine community oneself, even when one was not already a member of this group during one’s life. In sum, it needs to be noted that from an emic view, there was no particular ‘funerary literature’, as also death was just a transitional phase between different phases of life, and not the end of one’s imagined existence. Of course, from the etic view, there is a ‘funerary literature’ in Ancient Egypt in so far as we can clearly pinpoint texts in coffins, on funerary papyri or tomb walls, not intended for a living human reader. This is our observation and as 42 43

Jansen-Winkeln, K., ‘“Horizont” und “Verklärtheit”: Zur Bedeutung der Wurzel ꜣḫ’, SAK 23 (1996), 201–215. Von Lieven, A., ‘Mysterien des Kosmos: Kosmographie und Priesterwissenschaft’, in: Assmann, J. and M. Bommas (eds.), Ägyptische Mysterien? (München, 2002), 47–58.

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such perfectly legitimate. However, it is vital to keep in mind that this is neither the emic view, nor necessarily the origin of all the texts in question. Even the search for origins is very much an etic concern. As a scholarly endeavour of the modern researcher who does not subscribe to the Egyptian worldview and consequently also does not believe in these spells’ effectiveness, this is of course also legitimate, even necessary. For the Egyptians themselves, though, particular use will likely have been much more important than sphere of origin. In the very rare cases where we have an indication of origin in the classic Book of the Dead, it is always a temple and the proximity of a god. The only exception to this where a tomb is named is Book of the Dead Supplementary Spell 166.44 Then again, one may say that the mention of Ramses II in this may also be about proximity to a god, in this case a deified king, as a source of authority of the spell in question. At any rate, all of this is much later. From the Middle Kingdom, which is in focus here, and thus from the Coffin Texts, we do not even have any such indication. There, clearly, the use is dominant, while the individual origins of a text are of no concern. Ultimately, all that counted for the contemporary Egyptians themselves, in life, as in death, was effectiveness. 44

Dahms, J.-M., M. Pehal, and H. Willems, ‘Ramses II Helps the Dead: An Interpretation of Book of the Dead Supplementary Chapter 166’, JEA 100 (2014), 395–420, Quack, J.F., ‘Zur Situierung von TB 166 Pleyte’, SAK 45 (2016), 283–293.

chapter 6

Burial Demography in the Late Middle Kingdom: a Social Perspective* Gianluca Miniaci

Around the late Middle Kingdom, c. 1800 BC, the composition of burial equipment—and consequently also the ideology of the tomb—underwent a profound transformation. With the disappearance of wooden models and Coffin Text decoration on the inside of the coffins, the tomb equipment started to be dominated by objects more connected with practices of the daily life.1 Contemporary objects for the uppermost class burials related to the resurrection ritual, the so-called Osirification regalia, became more widespread, and new sets of funerary items2 started to be specifically produced (including the first prototypes of shabtis3 and heart-scarabs).4 What led to this change has been * In the first instance, I would like to deeply thank Rune Nyord both for organising the seminar in Cambridge and for all his efforts in assembling the volume, certainly not an easy task. I am also grateful to Wolfram Grajetzki for revising the manuscript and Paul Whelan for checking the English. The statistic setting concerning the stela with multiple people is to be credited to Alexander Ilin-Tomich, who kindly shared his data and knowledge. Finally, I also owe to Juan Carlos Moreno García, Christian Knoblauch, Miriam Müller, Nicholas Picardo, Anna Stevens, and Paul Whelan for sharing their articles and information concerning their researches. I am thankful to all the participants to the seminar day for their inspiring presence and fruitful discussion. 1 Cf. Miniaci, G., Miniature Forms as Transformative Thresholds: Faience Figurines in Middle Bronze Age Egypt (1800 BC–1650 BC) (BMPES 7, Leuven/Paris/London, forthcoming); Quirke, S., Birth Tusks: The Armoury of Health in Context—Egypt 1800 BC. Including Publication of Petrie Museum Examples Photographed by Gianluca Miniaci, and Drawn from the Photographs by Andrew Boyce (MKS 3, London, 2016). 2 Grajetzki, W., Tomb Treasures of the Late Middle Kingdom: The Archaeology of Female Burials (Philadelphia, 2014), 147–163. 3 Miniaci, G., ‘The Case of the Third Intermediate Period “Shabti-maker of the Amun Domain” Padiamun and the Change in Conception of Shabti Statuettes’, JEA 100 (2016), 253–282. See also Nyord, R., ‘“An Image of the Owner as He Was on Earth”: Representation and Ontology in Middle Kingdom Funerary Images’, in Miniaci, G., M. Betrò, and S. Quirke (eds), Company of Images: Modelling the Ancient Imaginary World of the Middle Kingdom. Proceedings of the International Conference Held on 18th–20th September in London, UCL (OLA 262, Leuven, 2017), 337–359. 4 Miniaci, G., J. Haynes, and P. Lacovara, ‘Heart-scarabs in the Transition between the Second Intermediate Period and the Early Eighteenth Dynasty: BMFA 72.1346’, SAK 47 (2018), 177–182.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_007

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widely explored from ritual and religious perspectives,5 but it has been less frequently examined from social and economic viewpoints.6 In the logic of burial assemblage, scholars tended to dichotomise the ensemble of the grave into two different broad categories: on the one hand, is the body, and, on the other hand, all of the other countable objects. In this regard, the objects deposited in the grave were often considered the most endemic target to be explored in order to reconstruct the mortuary ideology, frequently used to visually support the relative textual sources.7 Human bodies, the real ontological centre of the burial itself and regulated by physical anthropological dictates, were often either left aside or studied separately, considered more useful for providing information about age, gender, demography, and health issues.8 Ultimately, the correlation between the change in burial equipment composition/funerary beliefs and the number of individuals sharing the same funerary context has received little attention.9 Yet, in ancient Egypt the arrangement of bodies in funerary rooms was not regulated by random circumstances, but rather followed precise rules.10 For instance, an inscription in the Old Kingdom tomb of Merefnebef at Saqqara 5

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Willems, H., Chests of Life: A Study of the Typology and Conceptual Development of Middle Kingdom Standard Class Coffins (MVEOL 25, Leiden, 1988), 240–243; Bourriau, J., ‘Change of Body Position in Egyptian Burials from the Mid–XIIth Dynasty until the Early XVIIIth Dynasty’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms: Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Leiden University 6– 7 June, 1996 (Leuven, 2001), 1–20; Grajetzki, W., ‘Box Coffins in the Late Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period’, EVO 30 (2007), 41–54; Miniaci, G., and S. Quirke, ‘Reconceiving the Tomb in the Late Middle Kingdom: The Burial of the Accountant of the Main Enclosure Neferhotep at Dra Abu al-Naga’, BIFAO 109 (2009), 357–370. Cf. Quirke, Birth Tusks, 577–604; Miniaci, G., ‘Burial Equipment of Rishi Coffins and the Osmosis of the ‘Rebirth Machine’ at the End of the Middle Kingdom’, in Taylor, J.H., and M. Vandenbeusch (eds), Ancient Egyptian Coffins: Craft Traditions and Functionality (Leuven, 2018), 247–273. Cf. Willems, H., ‘The Embalmer Embalmed: Remarks on the Meaning of the Decoration of Some Middle Kingdom Coffins’, in Dijk, J. van (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde (Groningen, 1997), 343–372. Cf. Bush, H., and M. Zvelebil (eds.), Health in Past Societies: Biocultural Interpretations of Human Skeletal Remains in Archaeological Contexts (Oxford, 1991); Meskell, L., Archaeologies of Social Life: Age, Sex, Class et cetera in Ancient Egypt (Oxford, 1999). Cf. recently Willems, H., Les textes des sarcophages et la démocratie: Éléments d’une histoire culturelle du Moyen Empire Égyptien (Paris, 2008), 149–182 and Willems, H., Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture: Religious Ideas and Ritual Practice in Middle Kingdom Elite Cemeteries (CHANEA 73, Leiden/Boston, 2014), 124–229. With several exceptions due to multiple factors, not least personal contingent decisions, cf. Miller, D., Artefacts as Categories: A Study of Ceramic Variability in Central India (Cambridge, 1985); Tilley, C., Metaphor and Material Culture (Oxford, 1999).

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explicitly bans members of his family/household from making their own burial there: ‘the one [Merefnebef] whose servants do not make a burial inside this tomb, the one [Merefnebef] who does not bury any people inside his tomb, neither his children nor his brother nor his ka-servant’.11 In this specific instance, archaeological evidence seems to support what is stated in the textual information, since the plan of Merefnebef’s mastaba shows only a single burial shaft with no space for any other interments.12 Wolfram Grajetzki has already shown that in the Early Dynastic-Old Kingdom,13 single burials represented the preferred (ideal) type of inhumation among Egyptian society:14 a single individual was provided with his own funerary room separated from other inhumations. For instance, in the Old Kingdom provincial cemetery of Nag ed-Deir, the general rule of body interment followed the pattern ‘single grave/structure = single body’. Thus, in area ‘N 3500–5000’, in relation to the type iv graves identified by George Reisner and belonging to the Second-Third Dynasties, 81 individuals were recorded in 81 graves,15 with a rate of ‘1(grave):1(individual)’.16 Although such a strict ratio is rather occasional, it mirrors a general preference towards single interment, which is usually widely altered by several factors, not the least economic, personal, and social needs. In this period, the practice of inhumations in single graves seems to concern both the higher social classes and the officials of middle rank.17 During the late

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Mysliwiec, K. (ed.), Saqqara I: The Tomb of Merefnebef (Warszawa, 2004), vol. I, 80–82. Mysliwiec Saqqara I, vol. II, 506, plan 507, section. Grajetzki, W., ‘Multiple Burials in Ancient Egypt to the End of the Middle Kingdom’, in: Grallert, S., and W. Grajetzki (eds), Life and Afterlife in Ancient Egypt during the Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period (London, 2007), 17–21. For ancient Egypt it is not always possible to differentiate between royal, upper, middle and lower class, since the archaeological documentation available today is rather unbalanced, with a notable predominance in favour of the uppermost levels of society. Anna Stevens, in her study of South Tomb and North Tomb cemeteries at Amarna, has shown how the middle and—perhaps—lower class burial practices may follow rules that completely escape the standards which are instead visible—and thus known to us—in other (higher/richer) contexts, see Stevens, A., G.R. Dabbs, M. Shepperson, and M. King Wetzel, ‘The Cemeteries of Amarna’, in Kemp, B.J., ‘Tell el-Amarna, 2014–15’, JEA 101 (2015), 23– 24. Reisner, G.A., A Provincial Cemetery of the Pyramid Age: Naga-ed-Dêr, Part III (University of California Publications in Egyptian Archaeology 6, Oxford/Berkeley, 1932), 19. For exceptions see Dębowska-Ludwin, J., ‘Multiple and Disordered Burials as Special Funerary Practices in Early Egypt: Examples from Tell el-Farkha’, Folia Orientalia 47 (2010), 371–378. Jánosi, P., ‘“Im Schatten” der Pyramiden: Die Mastabas in Abusir. Einige Beobachtungen zum Grabbau der 5. Dynastie’, in: Bárta, M., and J. Krejčí (eds), Abusir and Saqqara in the Year 2000 (Archív orientální, Supplementa 9, Praha, 2000), 445–466; Jánosi, P., ‘Aspects

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Old Kingdom–early Middle Kingdom, the number of funerary structures containing several burial apartments and therefore including more than one person under their architectonic umbrella rapidly increased in frequency, including also more bodies into a single burial chamber.18 However, in this period the phenomenon of multiple inhumations inside a single grave still tended to remain a marginal custom among the upper levels of society, who privileged individual funerary structures.19 During the late Middle Kingdom, by the time of Senusret III, the practice of multiple burials became more widespread across the whole country and it was more visible at all social levels, reaching also the uppermost segments of society and the royal court (as in Senusret III’s and Khendjer’s pyramid complexes).20

1

Definition of Multiple Burial Types

Although constantly employed, the prenominal attributive adjective ‘multiple’ put in front of the term ‘burial’ increases semantic confusion, above all in Egyptological literature, where there are no specific studies on the subject.21 The degree of variance between different types of multiple burials is remarkable,

18

19

20 21

of Mastaba Development: The Position of Shafts and the Identification of Tomb Owners’, Archív Orientální 70/3 (2002), 337–350. Seidlmayer, S.J., ‘Wirtschaftliche und gesellschaftliche Entwicklung im Übergang vom Alten zum Mittleren Reich: ein Beitrag zur Archäologie der Gräberfelder der Region QauMatmar in der Ersten Zwischenzeit’, in Assmann, J., V. Davies, and G. Burkard (eds.), Problems and Priorities in Egyptian Archaeology (London/New York, 1987), 175–217; Seidlmayer, S.J., Gräberfelder aus dem Übergang vom Alten zum Mittleren Reich: Studien zur Archäologie der Ersten Zwischenzeit (Studien zur Archäologie und Geschichte Altägyptens 1, Heidelberg, 1990), 403–405; Seidlmayer, S.J., ‘Die Ikonographie des Todes’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms: Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Leiden University 6–7 June, 1996 (Leuven, 2001), 211– 231; Donnat, S., and J.C. Moreno García, ‘Intégration du mort dans la vie sociale égyptienne à la fin du troisième millénaire av. J.-C.’, in Mouton, A., and J. Patrier (eds.), Life, Death and Coming of Age in Antiquity: Individual Rites of Passage in the Ancient Near East and Adjacent Regions (Leiden, 2014), 188–202. Grajetzki, W., Burial Customs in Ancient Egypt: Life in Death for Rich and Poor (London, 2003), 39–53; Moreno García, J.C., ‘La gestion sociale de la mémoire dans l’ Egypte du IIIe millénaire: Les tombes des particuliers entre utilisation privée et idéologie publique’, in Fitzenreiter, M., and M. Herb (eds.), Dekorierte Grabanlagen im Alten Reich: Methodik und Interpretation (IBAES 6, London, 2006), 226–231. See for instance Grajetzki, Tomb Treasures, 75. Cf. Seidlmayer, Gräberfelder, 398–430; Grajetzki, in Grallert and Grajetzki (eds), Life and Afterlife.

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yet the definition ‘multiple burials’ is often used unconstrained without any further specification other than the mere numerical relationship: number of ‘individual(s) vs structure’. Therefore, within the large corpus of ‘multiple burials’, deep conceptual differences can be highlighted as a result of the differences in the methodologies used to associate one or more bodies within a grave. Building on Nick Stoodley’s classification for Anglo-Saxon multiple interments,22 I have proposed in a recent article published in the Cambridge Archaeological Journal a more accurate classification of multiple burials in ancient societies based on two main factors, which may have influenced the association of bodies: 1) architecture of the feature; 2) temporality.23 1.1 Architecture of the Feature Architectural isolation represents the conditio sine qua non for the definition of multiple burial. However, architectural isolation is variably changing according to the frame of reference. For instance, a single burial entrance (such as a shaft), with one superstructure and possibly a unique cult place, can lead to several separate burial chambers with each containing a single deceased;24 such architectural features represent an ambiguous case, where the minimum requirement for classification as a multiple burial changes according to the point of view (external = several bodies grouped under a single structure; internal = bodies clearly separated from each other by defined underground architecture). According to architectural isolation criteria, type a. ‘direct multiple burials’, and type b. ‘indirect multiple burials’ can be distinguished. Direct multiple burials indicate more bodies grouped in a single funerary space, which is not only architectonically but also ideologically and intentionally well separated from other burial spaces; e.g. several inhumations in a single funerary chamber blocked by a wall. Indirect multiple burials feature individual interments, which may be separated from each other by an architectural element (such as a door, a wall, earth, or any type of blockade) but which are, nonetheless, intentionally and ideologically connected within a unique funerary space; e.g. single compartments radiating from a unique entrance and each containing an individual deposition.25 22

23 24 25

Stoodley, N., ‘Multiple Burials, Multiple Meanings? Interpreting the Early Anglo-Saxon Multiple Interment’, in: Lucy, S., Reynolds, A. (eds.), Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales (Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 17, London, 2002), 103–110. Miniaci, G., ‘Multiple Burials in Ancient Societies: Theory and Methods from Egyptian Archaeology’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 29 (2018). See for instance Arnold, D., Middle Kingdom Tomb Architecture at Lisht (PMMA 28, New Haven/London, 2007), 83, pl. 159c–e. In the 1800 BC cemeteries of Lisht and Dahshur there are several examples of isolated

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1.2 Temporality Temporality is one of the key factors that regulate funerary processes. An essential division, which involves temporality, is made between ‘primary’ (type c) and ‘secondary’ (type d) burials. In ‘primary burials’ the individuals are deposited in their original place of interment and they were not moved or otherwise manipulated afterwards. In ‘secondary burials’ the individuals had been moved from their original interment location and re-deposited in a different place. To these main temporal aspects can be added also a third division, which straddles primary and secondary depositions: ‘delayed burials’ (type e). The lapse occurring from the death of the individual and the act of interment in the grave can also be protracted in time. Grouped inhumations in individual graves usually stress also other different temporal aspects: simultaneity, consecutiveness, and discontinuity, thus identifying the following types: f. ‘simultaneous multiple burials’, g. ‘sequential multiple burials’ and h. ‘intrusive multiple burials’. ‘Simultaneous multiple burials’ stress temporal immediacy, as a single spot on the timeline: burials containing two or more individuals interred at the same time; this might have been the result of a coincident death-event, such as war, a common disease or epidemic, a ritual killing; the individuals may have died more-or-less at the same time. ‘Sequential multiple burials’ stress instead temporal proximity, defining those graves which were re-opened at some distance in time after their first closure, in order to allow a second, third or even more new interments to be made into existing graves. The lapse of time passing between the original interment and the subsequent reopening(s) should not be too long, otherwise the consecutiveness of the action will have been lost. Two of the main aspects that sequential multiple burials intend to highlight are the intentionality of the re-use of the same funerary space and a common link or a direct connection between the burials. ‘Intrusive multiple burials’ focus on the aspect of discontinuity in time: interments enter an earlier grave either deliberately or accidentally after a break in time, which in most of the cases correspond to a phase of disuse or abandon. In the case of the intrusive multiple burials there is no evident direct link with the original owner or earlier occupants.26

26

inhumations arranged in underground rooms around a unique entrance off the shaft (cf. Arnold, D., The Pyramid Complex of Senwosret I: The South Cemeteries of Lisht 3 (PMMA 25, New York, 1992), 41–46, pls. 52–54; Arnold, D., The Pyramid Complex of Senwosret III at Dahshur: Architectural Studies (PMMA 26, New York, 2002), 69–74, pls. 69–70; Arnold, Middle Kingdom Tomb Architecture, 83, pl. 159c–e). Cf. Wickholm, A., ‘Reuse in the Finnish Cremation Cemeteries under Level Ground: Examples of Collective Memory’, in Oestigaard, T., and F. Fahlander (eds.), The Materiality of Death: Bodies, Burials, Beliefs (BAR International Series 1768, Oxford, 2008), 89–97, for an ideological reuse of Middle and Late Iron Age cemeteries in Finland and Estonia.

a–Direct

SPACE (p1)

b–Indirect

b+c

a+c

c–Primary

b+d

a+d

d–Secondary

Time of body deposition

Spatio-temporal relations in multiple burial processes

Separation

Unity

table 6.1

b+e

a+e

e–Delayed

b+f (+c-e)

a+f (+c-e)

e+f

d+f

b+g (+c-e)

a+g (+c-e)

e+g

d+g

c+g

g–Sequential

f–Simultaneous c+f

Continuity

b+h (+c-e)

a+h (+c-e)

e+h

d+h

c+h

h–Intrusive

Discontinuity

Time-relation among multiple bodies Simultaneity

TIME (p2)

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The Widespread of Sequential Multiple Burials in the Late Middle Kingdom

In the late Middle Kingdom, funerary transformations did not only involve the range of objects deposited in the burial, but also the number of bodies associated in the grave itself. In particular, sequential multiple burials are documented in a high number of sites, being widespread across all Egypt, and for a large part of society, including royalty and the uppermost part of society. It is important to stress that the late Middle Kingdom, in comparison with the previous situation, saw an increase of multiple burials into a single, architectonically isolated, funerary space (‘direct multiple burial’ type).27 This phenomenon is substantially different from the situation registered in the late Old Kingdom and First Intermediate Period, when the number of burials under the same cultic—or symbolic—building (such as the enclosure of a pyramid or of a mastaba) notably increased, as remarked by Seidlmayer,28 but the bodies still tended to be separated in ‘nuclear’ chambers.29 The cemetery M.X of Mirgissa shows rather clearly that shift, through the analysis of documented 168 tombs, whose dating is spanning from the Middle Kingdom to the early New Kingdom: the funerary structures belonging to the first phases privileged rooms created for single interments, while in the latter phases (late Middle Kingdom/Second Intermediate Period) an architectural shift towards larger funerary rooms for a large number of deceased is clearly recognisable.30 For instance, the tomb T 69, found intact by the excavators, contained pottery material which can be attributed to the first phase of use of the cemetery (Ia);31 the tomb is made of a pit hewn into the ground, intended for the interment of a single deceased.32 Tombs T 130 and T 131 (Fig. 6.1), which belong to the immediately following material culture sub-phases (Ib–Ic), are constituted by several funerary rooms, intended for hosting more than a single deceased.33 The architectural change is 27 28 29 30 31

32 33

Richards, J., Society and Death in Ancient Egypt: Mortuary Landscapes of the Middle Kingdom (Cambridge, 2005), 104ff. Seidlmayer, in Willems (ed.), Social aspects. Cf. Callender, V.G., ‘A Contribution to the Burial of Women in the Old Kingdom’, Archív Orientální 70/3 (2002), 308. Vercoutter, J., Mirgissa II: Les nécropoles (Paris, 1975), 31. Labelled as phase Ib by Christian Knoblauch, who is studying the different development phases of Mirgissa material culture. Paper presented at the international workshop ‘Second Intermediate Period Assemblages—The Building Blocks of Local Relative Sequences of Material Culture’, Vienna 22–23 June 2017. Vercoutter, Mirgissa II, 84. Vercoutter, Mirgissa II, 186–200. Phase division based upon the work of Christian Knoblauch.

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figure 6.1 Plan of the tombs T 130 (left) and T 131 (right) from the cemetery M.X of Mirgissa from Vercoutter, J., Mirgissa II: Les nécropoles (Mission archéologique française au Soudan, Paris 1975), figs. 77 and 80

also accompanied by a radical change in the composition of the burial equipment, as in T 130–131 for the first time appear rishi masks34 and new types of pottery. In addition, the increase in the use of multiple burials in late Middle Kingdom seems to involve to a certain extent also the uppermost and royal classes, which had privileged till that moment isolated funerary spaces. Usually the adoption of the multiple burial system may be related to the paucity of resources and/or distance from economic and consumption centres; however, the fact that the late Middle Kingdom cemeteries directly connected with power and religious centres, such as Dahshur, Hawara, Lisht, Harageh, Abydos and Thebes, display a particular response to the practice of multi-

34

Cf. Miniaci, G., Rishi Coffins and the Funerary Culture of Second Intermediate Period Egypt (GHP Egyptology 17, London, 2011).

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ple burials,35 indicates that the pattern of multiple burials is governed by— or maybe more correctly follows—also other criteria than the economic and (human and physical) geographical ones. For instance, in an area strictly connected with the centre of ancient power (the capital Itjtawy) in the late Middle Kingdom cemetery A at Harageh, a total of 63 burials were found containing human ‘countable’ remains of which ca. 54 % hosted more than one body:36 tombs nos. 30, 36, 70, 104, 136 (2M); tombs nos. 114, 134 (2F); tombs nos. 57, 118 (3M); tombs nos. 48, 71 (3F); tombs nos. 55, 62, 107, 117, 124, 133 (1M-1F); tombs nos. 40, 58 (1M-2F); tomb no. 130 (1M-5F); tombs nos. 7, 50, 80–81, 139 (2M-1F); tombs nos. 59, 97 (2M-2F); tombs nos. 82, 141, 132 (2M3F); tomb no. 116 (2M-4F); tombs nos. 28, 131 (3M-1F); tomb no. 56 (4M-6F); tomb no. 91 (1M-1child).37 Other cemeteries connected with prestige and religious centres, such as Dahshur, Lisht, Abydos, and Thebes, show a notable increase in the use of sequential multiple burials in late Middle Kingdom, which becomes more widespread throughout the country in this period.38 Also in non-core areas, the multiple burials became more visible in archaeological records: at Edfu, in the south of the country, in a cemetery datable to the period from the late Twelfth Dynasty to the early New Kingdom, inhumations with more than one body became rather common.39 In conclusion, while before the late Middle Kingdom multiple burials showed a patchiness pattern, varying according to multiple factors, starting from the late Middle Kingdom onwards they became a more frequent component of the burial landscape of ancient Egypt.

35 36

37

38 39

Grajetzki, in: Grallert and Grajetzki (eds), Life and Afterlife, 24–29. Harageh data should be taken with great caution, waiting for more detailed researches; preliminary data may be inaccurate, since the whole area underwent a—documented— phase of disturbance, which could have happened either closer to the time of deposition or in the New Kingdom when the cemetery was still in use. However, most of the burials show multiple or larger funerary rooms, as they were originally planned for hosting more than a deceased. Also the late Middle Kingdom burial equipment seems to point out to multiple interments, cf. Miniaci, G., ‘Collecting Groups: The Archaeological Context of the Late Middle Kingdom Cemetery A at Harageh’, EDAL 4 (2013–2014), 43–60, based on Engelbach, R., Harageh (London, 1928). F and M are used here to respectively label female and male individuals, following the ratio reported by the excavators; nonetheless methods in use at that time to differentiate between women and men can be questionable, see Engelbach, Harageh. Grajetzki, in Grallert and Grajetzki (eds), Life and Afterlife, 24–29. Michalowski, K., C. Desroches, J. de Linage, J. Manteuffel, M. Zejmo-Zejmis, Tell Edfou 1939 (Fouilles franco-polonaises 3, Le Caire, 1950), 61–100. N.b. most of the burials have been found heavily disturbed and further studies are needed.

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According to the French anthropologist Robert Hertz, death did not represent an abrupt withdrawal of an individual from the earth (even the body does not disappear all at once) but rather a ‘changement d’ état d’ un individue’.40 The long funerary rituals performed by ancient societies had the effect of transforming the deceased into a new entity with new—ritually established—social relations. The burial of an individual was a reconfiguration of his identity in order to cope with the physical, emotional, social, and ideological demands of death.41 The impact of an individual on the living did not stop with his/her death but continued afterwards, for an unpredictable period of time, involving an incalculable number of persons: from a few days to centuries, from the tight domestic sphere to a national/international level.42 Therefore, burial demography can also mirror a structural change of society. One of the roots of deep changes inside the demography of death, such as the increase of sequential multiple burials around the first quarter of the Second Millennium BC in Egypt, must be researched also in social transformations. From a purely cognitive point of view, a multiple burial delivers a signal completely different from a single burial; in other words, it mirrors a changed attitude within the society. Such changed social attitudes, apparently imperceptible, can be glimpsed through archaeological, textual and iconographic sources.

3

Setting the Framework: the ‘Household’ Structure in the Middle Kingdom

It has often been postulated that multiple sequential burials (except for the case of intrusive burials) may have represented family interments. However, in the absence of explicit evidence or DNA analysis, any inference of kinship or lineage-based relations can lead to assumptions. The case of the early Eighteenth Dynasty tomb of Neferkhawet and Rennefer discovered by the

40 41

42

Hertz, R., Sociologie religieuse et folklore, 2nd ed. (Paris, 1970), 73. Ekengren, F., ‘Contextualizing Grave Goods: Theoretical Perspectives and Methodological Implications’, in Stutz, L.N., S. Tarlow, and F. Ekengren (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial (Oxford, 2013), 173–194. Donnat and Moreno García, in Mouton and Patrier (eds.), Life, Death and Coming of Age in Antiquity; cf. the indigent man who died and was shortly forgotten by his own family within one generation and king Amenhotep I whose cult endured till the Late Period, Hollender, G., Amenophis I. und Ahmes Nefertari: Untersuchungen zur Entwicklung ihres posthumen Kultes anhand der Privatgräber der thebanischen Nekropole (SDAIK 23, Berlin/New York, 2009), 9–10.

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Metropolitan Museum of Art Expedition in the Asasif at Thebes may be instructive (Fig. 6.2).43 The underground structure, consisting of a rectangular shaft and several side chambers, hosted ten burials. In the western rooms lay the bodies of Neferkhawet and Rennefer, who were in an indisputable conjugal relation attested by documents found inside the tomb itself. In the eastern rooms there were three burials belonging to a daughter Ruyu, a son Amenemhat, a person named Bakamun/Baki, and five anonymous individuals (two young boys, two infants, an adult woman).44 Only one of them, Ruyu, has been plausibly identified from a statue inscription as daughter of Neferkhawet and Rennefer;45 the other individuals could equally belong to either the same or to a different family. Nonetheless, this tomb has often been cited as an emblematic example of ‘a family mausoleum, deliberately constructed to accommodate a sequence of burials and to allow for numerous openings and closings as necessary, over a relatively long span of time’.46 Although the actual reference to this type of burial as a ‘family burial’ is methodologically incorrect, the logic of the ‘multiple and sequential’ inevitably generates in our minds the premise of a close link between the individuals inside a single burial. Therefore, instead of denying such a premise or, even worse, assuming blood lineage links, another social structure may provide a model by which multiple burials can be explored with more caution. The concept of ‘family’ is rather problematic, since it has no clearly defined boundaries, straddling blood, social and economic bonds, and changes over time and across geographical areas, being continuously shaped by different cultural and political milieu.47 In modern perception, the word ‘family’ is mostly related to a conjugal family unit (CFU), where a group of people is affiliated either by consanguinity (= recognised birth) or by affinity (= marriage or any other relationship, such as adoption), and possibly by co-residence (= same house). Also family size may change according to other parameters: a. the simple family, which can be defined as nuclear or biological, comprising the conjugal couple and their children; b. the extended family, including one or more relatives; c. the multiple family including two or more conjugal family

43 44

45 46 47

Hayes, W.C., ‘The Tomb of Nefer-khewet and his Family’, BMMA 30 (1935), 17–36. Dorman, P.F., ‘Family Burial and Commemoration in the Theban Necropolis’, in Strudwick, N., and J.H. Taylor (eds.), The Theban Necropolis: Past, Present and Future (London, 2003), 34–37. Cassirer, M., ‘A Granite Statue Group of the Eighteenth Dynasty’, JEA 41 (1955), 72–74. Dorman, in Strudwick and Taylor (eds.), The Theban Necropolis, 36. Laslett, P., ‘Introduction: The History of the Family’, in Laslett, P. (ed.), Household and Family in Past Time (Cambridge, 1972), 1–89.

figure 6.2 Plan of the burial chambers of Neferkhewet and his family from Hayes, W.C., ‘The Tomb of Nefer-Khewet and His Family’, BMMA 30 (1935), fig. 1

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units co-residing in the same space and under a common head.48 However, although the CFU can be an efficient model for tackling genealogy, inheritance, succession, marriage, post-marital events, and also—though only partially— socio-economic questions, it cannot be the exclusive manner from which to approach societal structure. When unquestioningly applied to the study of a past society, the CFU model reduces research to a rigid lineage-based approach, which cannot fully enlighten us about socio-economic patterns, and, moreover, if not sustained by concrete data, can lead to completely misleading conclusions. In order to contrast the rigidity and the ambiguity of classifying societies according only to their kinship systems,49 anthropologists explored the idea that relational, social, and economic bonds could be structured not merely around blood lineage but also around the material and immaterial networks of the ‘house’. Claude Lévi-Strauss first proposed the model of the ‘house societies’ (sociétés à maisons) intended as a moral person, which encompasses various permutations of people, property and residential buildings. Personne morale détentrice d’un domaine composé à la fois de biens matériels et immatériels, qui se perpétue par la transmission de son nom, de sa fortune et de ses titres en ligne réelle ou fictive, tenue pour légitime à la seule condition que cette continuité puisse s’exprimer dans le langage de la parenté ou de l’ alliance, et, le plus souvent, des deux ensemble50 The household model proposed by Lévi-Strauss is controversial51 as it involves multiple temporalities (its composition and structure may change on a seasonal scale or at any timescales) and the identity of its members and their relationships are rather fluid in time and space, as the same individuals can be associated with more than one household in the same or different times.52

48 49 50 51

52

Laslett, in Laslett (ed.), Household, 28–32, see table 1.1. Cf. Olabarria, L., ‘A Question of Substance: Interpreting Kinship and Relatedness in Ancient Egypt’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17 (2018), 88–113. Lévi-Strauss, C., La voie des masques (Genève, 1979), 47. Allison, P.M., ‘Introduction’, in Allison, P.M. (ed.), The Archaeology of Household Activities (London/New York, 1999), 1–18, esp. 5–6; Alexander, R.T., ‘Mesoamerican House Lots and Archaeological Site Structure: Problems of Inference in Yaxcaba, Ycatan, Mexico, 1750– 1847’, in Allison, P.M. (ed.), The Archaeology of Household Activities (London/New York, 1999), 80–82. Matthews, W. ‘Defining Households: Micro-Contextual Analysis of Early Neolithic Households in Zagros, Iran’, in: Parker, B.J., and C. Foster (eds), New Perspectives on Household Archeology (Winona Lake, 2012), 183–216.

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However, it has the advantage of moving the social organization beyond both the rigid patterns of consanguinity/affinity ties and the material limits of the building itself. The household is a social entity that may use multiple strategies to recruit, retain, and replace members, still functioning on the basis of kinship, but often superseding genealogical ties (for instance, via fictional or metaphorical kinship) when facing economic and political interests.53 Legitimation of its membership is accomplished through a unifying ideology in terms of family— genealogically-based kinship—or alliance relationships, which can develop from economic, juridical, religious, or social factors. This unifying household ideology is materialised in the wealth of its estate, founded in the material substance consisting of its members, its architecture, its fields, the bodies and icons of its ancestors, its places of origin, its origin narratives, and its heirlooms.54 Although research into domestic archaeology of ancient Egypt is still in its embryonic state,55 it does show that archaeological and textual evidence foster the opinion that an economic system based on household principles was in operation besides or strictly interconnected with the central state apparatus.56 During the Predynastic, according to Marcelo Campagno, kinship was probably intended as the main social organisation in village communities, as testified by the clustering of burials within cemeteries at Badari, Naqada and Hierakonpolis.57 Sources from the early to late Middle Kingdom indicate that a system which included not only members biologically related but also non53

54 55

56

57

Gillespie, S.D., ‘Beyond Kinship: An Introduction’, in Joyce, R.A., and S.D. Gillespie (eds.), Beyond Kinship: Social and Material Reproduction in House Societies (Philadelphia, 2000), 15. Beck Jr, R.A., ‘The Durable House: Material, Metaphor, and Structure’, in Beck Jr, R.A. (ed.), The Durable House: House Society Models in Archaeology (Carbondale, 2007), 10. See above all Müller, M., ‘New Approaches to the Study of Households in Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period Egypt’, in Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds.), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550BC): Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources I (MKS 1, London, 2015), 237–255 and Kóthay, K.A., ‘Houses and Households at Kahun: Bureaucratic and Domestic Aspects of Social Organization during the Middle Kingdom’, in Győry, H. (ed.), Mélanges offerts à Edith Varga: ‘Le lotus qui sort de terre’ (Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts: Supplément 2001, Budapest, 2002), 349–368. This may be due principally to the difficulties in setting up a unitary urban archaeology strategy, cf. Moeller, N., The Archaeology of Urbanism in Ancient Egypt: From the Predynastic Period to the End of the Middle Kingdom (New York, 2016). Moreno García, J.C., ‘Households’, in: Frood, E., and W. Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles, 2012), http://digital2.library.ucla.edu/viewItem.do?ark=21198/ zz002czx07. Campagno, M., ‘Kinship and the Emergence of the State in Egypt’, BACE 11 (2000), 35–39; Campagno, M., ‘Patronage and other Logics of Social Organization in Ancient Egypt during the IIIrd Millennium BCE’, JEgH 7/1 (2014), 14–24.

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relational ties was already well in use. Some specific cases testify that society in the Middle Kingdom was partially (?) structured around household principles. A series of early Middle Kingdom (time of Senusret I) letters and accounts concerning family members of the middle-class funerary priest Heqanakht, reveal the composition and functioning of his household: eight family (CFU: extended family) members (his wife, three children, his widowed mother, his younger brother and younger and older sisters); at least ten dependents—functionaries and servants—(the foreman Heti and the steward Merisu with their families, the scribe Sihathor, the farm worker Sinebniut, and two unnamed servants).58 Heqanakht’s social house included also other households (Mentunakht, Tjai’s son Nakht, and Khetyankhef) with whom he maintained relationships with individual persons.59 Similarly, the biographical inscription and painted decoration of Khnumhotep II’s tomb (no. 3) at Beni Hasan includes a large number of individuals apparently without any kinship relationship to him, yet with a remarkable substitution—in comparison with Old Kingdom scenes—of familiar ties with socio-economic relations.60 The household structure is evident also in archaeological remains: in the town of Wah-sut, a state planned settlement attached to the funerary temple of Senusret III at South Abydos, a number of late Middle Kingdom houses seem to have been both domestically oriented, serving as residential housing for one or more families, and officially structured, since a range of institutional activities were carried out inside these buildings.61

4

Social Transformations, 1800–1650 BC

In the late Middle Kingdom (starting ca. 1800 BC), especially under the reign of Senusret III, large administrative reforms can be seen: the centralisation of power with a selective decrease of regional power, the increase of income deriving from military control and exploitation of adjacent areas, all of which

58

59 60

61

Allen, J.P., The Heqanakht Papyri (PMMA 27, New York, 2002), 107–117; Picardo, N., ‘Hybrid Households: Institutional Affiliations and Household Identity in the Town of Wah-sut (South Abydos)’, in Müller, M. (ed.), Household Studies in Complex Societies: (Micro)archaeological and Textual Approaches (Chicago, 2015), 266–268. Picardo, in Müller (ed.), Household Studies, 266–268. Nelson-Hurst, M.G., ‘The (Social) House of Khnumhotep’, in Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550BC): Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources I (MKS 1, London, 2015), 262–263. Picardo, in Müller (ed.), Household Studies, 244f.;—hybrid household—, 258–274.

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must have led to the rise and bustle of social and economic mobility.62 At least four pieces of evidence seem to testify to the depth of, and rather visible change in, social organisation, which can also directly mirror the spread of multiple burials at the end of Middle Kingdom: a) an increase of plurality of people named/represented on stelae; b) a lexical deviation inside the vocabulary related to ‘familial’ groups; c) the interruption in the archaeological record of the texts known as ‘Letters to the Dead’; d) the introduction of a new architectural feature in the eastern Delta, the ‘house of the dead’. 4.1

Targeting the Links between Social Transformation and Changes in Burial Practice 4.1.1 Increase of Plurality of People Named/Represented on Stelae At the end of the Twelfth Dynasty, it can be noticed a drastic increase of the number of person names and representations on the stelae, that gradually declined thereafter.63 For instance, in the early to mid-Twelfth Dynasty (Amenemhat I to Amenemhat II) stelae, the median number of persons named64 is 7 (arithmetic mean: 10);65 while in the late Twelfth Dynasty (Senusret III to Amenemhat IV) stelae,66 the median number of persons named is 14 (arithmetic mean: 16). In the Second Intermediate Period the average number of persons named on stelae progressively decreased: 12 in the Thirteenth Dynasty, 8 in the late Thirteenth Dynasty-Second Intermediate Period, 6 in the late Second Intermediate Period (Sixteenth and Seventeenth Dynasties).67 Also the tradi-

62

63 64

65

66 67

Grajetzki, W., The Middle Kingdom of Ancient Egypt (London, 2006), 57, 139–165; Quirke, S., Titles and Bureaux of Egypt 1850–1700BC (London, 2004); Grajetzki, W., ‘Setting a State Anew: The Central Administration from the End of the Old Kingdom to the End of the Middle Kingdom’, in Moreno García, J.C. (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Administration (Leiden/Boston, 2013), 215–258. Ilin-Tomich, A., From Workshop to Sanctuary: The Production of Late Middle Kingdom Memorial Stelae (MKS 6, London, 2017), 5. Names, and not representations, are taken into account for this statistic; i.e. human figures without labels have been not included in the count; while names without representations and also names in filiation formulae are all taken into account. I am deeply indebted to Alexander Ilin-Tomich for drawing such statistics. Based on non-royal, non-fragmentary stelae (118) from Rita Freed’s workshops 1–10, cf. Freed, R.E. ‘Stela Workshops of Early Dynasty 12’, in Der Manuelian, P. (ed.), Studies in Honor of William Kelly Simpson, vol. 1, (Boston, 1996), 297–336. Based on non-royal, non-fragmentary stelae (199) from Ilin-Tomich, From Workshop to Sanctuary. Cf. Franke, D., Egyptian Stelae in the British Museum from the 13th–17th Dynasties. Vol. I.1: Descriptions, edited by M. Marée (London, 2013); Marée, M., ‘A Sculpture Workshop at Abydos from the Late Sixteenth or Early Seventeenth Dynasty’, in Marée, M. (ed.), The

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tional iconography of private stelae seems to undergo some transformations, as a new type of stelae came into use in the late Middle Kingdom, defined by Evers as ‘chessboard pattern’ type68 and usually improperly labelled in Egyptological literature as ‘Familienstelen’ (Fig. 6.3). They display—besides the owner or the commissioner of the stela—a high number of individuals usually placed in a visually separated sector, forming a sort of chessboard. These persons are usually marked with kinship epithets in relation to the stela owner, i.e. ‘his father’, ‘his mother’, ‘his brother’, ‘his sister’, ‘his wife’, ‘his son’, ‘his daughter’.69 Some of these stelae do not necessarily contain images/visual reproductions of individuals, as in the case of Wien ÄS 195, but they may contain an equivalent morphological display in the form of text, which lists a series of persons with different degrees of relationship to the owner/commissioner of the stela. The term ‘Familienstelen’ is improperly used since it is immediately evident that not all the individuals represented on the stela have direct blood lineage with the main person, but they also include clients and colleagues.70 As noted by Janet Richards, real or fictive kinship networks could have served as ‘a moral economy legitimizing rule’.71 In a social house, ‘kinship or kin-like ties are strategically used to create social relationships and stake out social identities’.72 The chessboard pattern stelae became a common layout type from the reign of Amenemhat III onwards73 (although at least two examples may date back to the time of Senusret III).74 By the end of the Middle Kingdom

68 69

70

71 72

73

74

Second Intermediate Period (Thirteenth–Seventeenth Dynasties): Current Research, Future Prospects (Leuven, 2010), 241–281. Evers, H., Staat aus dem Stein: Denkmäler, Geschichte und Bedeutung der ägyptischen Plastik während des Mittleren Reiches, vol. I (Munich, 1929), 103. Kaplony-Heckel, U., ‘Eine hieratische Stele des Mittleren Reiches (University College London, Inv. Nr. 14487)’, JEA 57 (1971), 20–27. Cf. Stewart, H.M., Egyptian Stelae, Reliefs and Paintings from the Petrie Collection. Part 2: Archaic Period to the Second Intermediate Period (Warminster, 1979), 31–33 [132], pl. 41; Bourriau, J., Pharaohs and Mortals: Egyptian Art in the Middle Kingdom: Exhibition Organised by the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, 19 April to 26 June, Liverpool 18 July to 4 September 1988 (Cambridge, 1988), 63–64 [49], 65 [50]. Fitzenreiter, M., ‘Überlegungen zum Kontext der “Familienstelen” und ähnlicher Objekte’, in: Fitzenreiter, M. (ed.), Genealogie: Realität und Fiktion von Identität; Workshop am 04. und 05. Juni 2004 (London, 2005), 84. Richards, Society and Death, 178. Gillespie, S.D., ‘Lévi-Strauss: Maison and Société à Maisons’, in Joyce, R.A., and S.D. Gillespie (eds.), Beyond Kinship: Social and Material Reproduction in House Societies (Philadelphia, 2000), 35. See also Olabarria, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 17, 88–113. Pflüger, K., ‘The Private Funerary Stelae of the Middle Kingdom and their Importance for the Study of Ancient Egyptian History’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 67 (1947), 132–133. Ilin-Tomich, From Workshop to Sanctuary, 5.

burial demography in the late middle kingdom

figure 6.3 Stela of Khonsu from Abydos, Thirteenth Dynasty; Wien ÄS 180 from Hein, I., Satzinger, H., Stelen des Mittleren Reiches: Einschliesslich der I. und II. Zwischenzeit. Vol. 2 (CAA, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien 7, Mainz am Rhein, 1993), 103–111

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the need to include more people on the stelae became more compelling and visible in archaeological records;75 tantalisingly, this need can be put in connection with the increase of sequential multiple burials.76 In parallel with these ‘Familienstelen’, other diagnostic late Middle Kingdom (arch-topped and rectangular) stelae/slabs show multiple mummiform figures carved in high-relief (Fig. 6.4).77 In particular, the rectangular slabs incorporate a high number of individuals, ranging in number from two up to eight; the inscriptions carved on these figures do not testify for clear familiar relations among all the individuals represented.78 As demonstrated by Paul Whelan, these stelae, usually placed outside the grave, belong to a process of ritual and veneration of multiple deceased.79 The almost synchronic growth of both the number of people represented on stelae and the number of people buried in individual funerary rooms could be linked to analogous processes happening at the level of societal structure, where the one is surrounded—in a closer way—by the multiple. Already in the archaeological documentation, Stephan Seidlmayer identified that one of the major changes in the composition of the social system between the Old and the Middle Kingdoms concerned the development of expanded networks of social affiliation centred around high-status persons.80 Such a phenomenon could have increased, possibly also including further social restructuring/transformation, and became more visible at the end of the Middle Kingdom. 4.1.2

Lexical Deviation inside the Vocabulary Related to ‘Familial’ Groups The social group called ꜣb.t, mainly documented in Old Kingdom legal documents and in First Intermediate Period/early Middle Kingdom biographic 75

76

77

78 79 80

Nelson-Hurst, M.G., ‘The Increasing Emphasis on Collateral and Female Kin in the Late Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period: The Vivification Formula as a Case Study’, in Horn, M., J. Kramer, D. Soliman, N. Staring, C. van den Hoven, and L. Weiss (eds), Current Research in Egyptology 2010: Proceedings of the Eleventh Annual Symposium which took place at Leiden University, the Netherlands January 2010 (Oxford, 2010), 116–123. Leprohon, R.J., ‘The Personnel of the Middle Kingdom Funerary Stelae’, JARCE 15 (1978), 33–38. However, in absence of more in-depth studies, this ‘crowded’ iconography introduced on the late Middle Kingdom stelae should not be indiscriminately read into a pictorial version of the individuals buried in the same tomb. Whelan, P., ‘On the Context and Conception of Two “Trademark” Styles from the Late Middle Kingdom Abydos’, in Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550BC). Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources II (MKS 2, London, 2016), 285–338. Whelan, in Miniaci and Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt, 291–296. Whelan, in Miniaci and Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt, 306–314. Seidlmayer, in: Assmann, Davies, and Burkard (eds.), Problems and Priorities, 206–214.

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figure 6.4 Late Middle Kingdom rectangular slab, MMA 65.120.2 © License under Creative Common

inscriptions, has been variously translated using a wide range of terms in an attempt to encompass an ancient nuance that still now escapes modern conception: from ‘household’ (probably the closest to the meaning of the ancient word) to ‘extended family’, from ‘ancestors’ (‘aïeuls’) to ‘relatives by blood’, from ‘domestic group’ to a generic ‘people’.81 This term is also employed in Coffin Text spells 131–146, which have the specific purpose ‘to reunite a man with his ꜣb.t in the necropolis’. According to Harco Willems, who recently analysed spells CT 131–146, the ꜣb.t seems to comprise some of the closest biological relatives of the deceased (such as his parents, siblings and children), and occasionally the mr.tservants (as an optional category), unexpectedly excluding both the spouse, with presumably all in-laws, and grandparents with all the other ancestors.82 The ꜣb.t seems to have been intended as a corporate body, a legal unit inside the

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Willems, H. ‘Family Life in the Hereafter According to Coffin Texts Spells 131–146: A Study in the Structure of Ancient Egyptian Domestic Groups’, in Nyord, R., and K. Ryholt (eds), Lotus and Laurel: Studies on Egyptian Language and Religion in Honour of Paul John Frandsen (Copenhagen, 2015), 452f., esp. n. 12. Cf. Li, J., Women, Gender and Identity in Third Intermediate Period Egypt: The Theban Case Study (New York, 2016).

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social structure of the late Old Kingdom, First Intermediate Period and early Middle Kingdom. Soon after, this type of ‘familial’ structure rapidly fell into disuse. While the term ꜣb.t appears with some frequency in (auto)biographical texts of the late Old Kingdom–early Middle Kingdom, in fact it is absent from written sources of the Middle Kingdom–Second Intermediate Period.83 Only CT 146, a spell exclusively attested on late Middle Kingdom coffins (time of Senusret II-Senusret III) of the subordinates of the nomarch Djehutyhotep at Deir el-Bersha, offers a completely different picture of the ꜣb.t, which can hardly be aligned with the principles in which this term was used in other earlier contexts (including other CT spells). Under the ꜣb.t-umbrella, CT 146 includes a much larger type and number of persons, ‘father/s, mother/s, children, brother/s, friends, associates, women, concubines, servants, workers and everything belonging to a man in the realm of the dead’ (i҆t, i҆t.w, mw.t, mw.wt, ms.w, ẖrd.w, sn.w, sn.wt, mr.t, dmi҆, ḫms.w, smꜣ.w, mtḥn.t, tꜣy.w ḥm.wt, ḥm.w).84 Harco Willems explained this dissonance with the fact that by the time CT 146 was produced in the late Middle Kingdom, the ꜣb.t was no longer an existing social reality. The composers of CT 146 re-interpreted a social concept that was no longer functioning and may not even have been clearly understood by this time. Therefore, the re-interpretation of the ꜣb.t in CT 146 might reflect a changed social reality that was structured around a larger number of persons who played a more active role in the composition and transmission of the household community. In a formula that explicitly refers to ‘reuniting a man with his ꜣb.t in the necropolis’, it is tantalising to consider the possibility that the composition of ꜣb.t in CT 146 did follow the prevailing societal trend of a greater number of people participating in the socio-economic composition of the household. Although the term ꜣb.t was retained in a conservative religious text such as the theological composition of CT,85 it could have involuntarily or voluntarily incorporate inside a family terminology new emerging social links that, based on kinship or kin-like ties, were going beyond any blood-relations. For instance, Franke argued that the term ẖrd, usually translated as ‘child’ in the early Middle Kingdom, started to be also used to indicate a subordinate in the administration of the Thirteenth Dynasty.86 I have shown elsewhere how

83 84 85 86

Franke, D., Altägyptische Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen im Mittleren Reich (Hamburg, 1983), 287. CT II, 151d [131]; 1521a–b [131]; 154h [132]; 155c–d [132]; 164f [136]; 181c–183a [146]; 184c–189a [146]; 191c–195a [146]; 205b–c [146]; III, 52d [173]. See lists in Franke, Altägyptische Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen, 324. Franke, Altägyptische Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen, 304–308; cf. Grajetzki, W., Two Treasurers of the Late Middle Kingdom (Oxford, 2001), 74–76.

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the title sꜣ nswt shifted from a kinship related-term to an administrative one, primary used for officials and militars, during the passage from the Middle Kingdom to the Second Intermediate Period.87 The ‘adjustment’ of the term ꜣb.t in CT 146 may be also influenced by the need to relocate the protection of the deceased inside a ‘more crowded’ burial demography in the late Middle Kingdom. 4.1.3

Interruption in the Archaeological Record of the Texts Known as ‘Letters to the Dead’ Between the late Old Kingdom and early Middle Kingdom, probably due to the weakening of royal power,88 one of the main concerns of the ancient Egyptians was to keep the relationship between the dead and the living particularly effective in order to allow the deceased to continue to play a cohesive role inside the social and economic fabric.89 Such a need explicitly stands out in some written documents of the period: the liturgical spells (CT 38–41) belonging to the Coffin Text corpus, and a number of letters intentionally addressed90 and delivered to the deceased himself, a corpus known today as Letters to the Dead.91 The aim of the spells CT 38–41 was to guarantee the continued mutual beneficial relationship between the deceased and the living, especially with the deceased’s son who stood to inherit his/her property, and consequently with the members of his/her household.92 Similarly, the aim of the Letters to the Dead is to re-issue social connections among the dead and the living. The letters are not addressed by the living to ancestral figures and they do not come from the desire to communicate with the beloved deceased, but are issued to com-

87

88 89 90 91

92

Miniaci, G., ‘Il potere nella 17a dinastia: il titolo “figlio del re” e il ripensamento delle strutture amministrative nel Secondo Periodo Intermedio’, in Pernigotti, S., and M. Zecchi (eds), Il tempio e il suo personale nell’Egitto antico: Atti del quarto Colloquio, Bologna, 24–25 settembre 2008, (Imola, 2010), 99–131. Baines, J., ‘Restricted Knowledge, Hierarchy, and Decorum: Modern Perceptions and Ancient Institutions’, JARCE 27 (1990), 1–23. Richards, Society and Death, 173–180. On this point see Miniaci, G., ‘Reuniting Philology and Archaeology: The “Emic” and “Etic” in the Letter of the Dead Qau Bowl UC16163 and its Context’, ZÄS 143/1 (2016), 88–105. Gardiner, A.H., and K. Sethe, Egyptian Letters to the Dead, Mainly from the Old and Middle Kingdoms (London, 1928); Donnat, S., Écrire à ses morts: Enquête sur un usage rituel de l’écrit dans l’Égypte pharaonique (Grenoble, 2014); Miniaci, G., Lettere ai morti nell’Egitto antico e altre storie di fantasmi (Flero, 2014). Willems, H., ‘The Social and Ritual Context of a Mortuary Liturgy of the Middle Kingdom (CT Spells 30–41)’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms: Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Leiden University 6–7 June, 1996 (Leuven, 2001), 324–344.

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municate with recently deceased members of the family and to request their tangible support from the netherworld with practical and urgent problems, ranging from illness to disputes over property.93 The dead person is expected to intervene from the afterlife and resolve the writer’s suffering. This practice had the function of bringing back the recently dead individual within the existing social fabric and offer interconnections, extending his/her presence beyond the death. In more concrete terms, such a letter can be considered as a tangible movement towards the deceased, who was called—using a certain degree of forcefulness, due to the act of writing instead of making an oral request94—to play an active role inside the community. Although the Letters to the Dead corpus stretches from the Old Kingdom to the seventh century BC, most of the documents belong to a narrow segment of time, between the end of the Old Kingdom/First Intermediate Period and the early Middle Kingdom.95 In the late Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period there is clear break in our records. In addition, all of the letters from the late Old Kingdom to the early Middle Kingdom share homogeneity in their style and composition. Later examples, issued after the break of the late Middle Kingdom/Second Intermediate Period, instead, show distinct features, separate from the previous letters and closer to literary or rhetorical compositions.96 From Table 6.2, one can see a clear break or interruption in the production of Letters to the Dead from the late Middle Kingdom through all the Second Intermediate Period and beyond. Although this could be due to the patchy and incomplete survival of archaeological data, it must be considered that this absence could be the mark of a change. Letters to the Dead underline features typical of the missives, sharing almost all their diagnostic features: addressee(s), greeting(s), body with the main corpus of the letter, closing, and recipient. They have the epistolary character of real letters.97

93 94

95

96 97

Willems, Les textes des sarcophages, 192–193; Miniaci, Lettere ai morti, 13–20. Donnat, S., ‘Written Pleas to the Invisible World: Texts as Media between the Living and Dead in Pharaonic Egypt’, in: Storch, A. (ed.), Perception of the Invisible: Religion, Historical Semantics and the Role of Perceptive Verbs (Köln, 2010), 51–80. Moreno García, J.C., ‘Oracles, Ancestor Cults and Letters to the Dead: The Involvement of the Dead in the Public and Private Family Affairs in Pharaonic Egypt’, in Storch, A. (ed.), Perception of the Invisible: Religion, Historical Semantics and the Role of Perceptive Verbs (Köln, 2010), 138–139. Donnat and Moreno García, in Mouton and Patrier (eds.), Life, Death and Coming of Age in Antiquity, 184; Donnat, Écrire à ses morts, 150, 167–173. Cf. Wente, E.F., Letters from Ancient Egypt (Writings from the Ancient World 1, Atlanta, 1990).

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burial demography in the late middle kingdom table 6.2

Chronological sequence of ancient Egyptian Letters to the Dead

Document

Provenance

Location

Date

Letter of Irti and Iy to Seankhenptah Letter to Pepyseneb

Saqqara

Cairo JE 25975

Late Old Kingdom

Naga ed-Deir N 3500

UC Berkley

Late Old Kingdom/ First Intermediate Period

Letter of Gef Letter of Heni to Meru Anonymous letter Letter to Nefersekhi Letter of Shepsi Anonymous letter

Sheik Farag Naga ed-Deir N 3737 – Hu Qau –

Boston MFA 13.3791 UC Berkley Chicago OIM E 13945 London UC 16244 London UC 16163 Berlin 22573

Letter to Mereri Letter of Merirtyfy to Nebetitef Letter of Dedi to Intef Letter to Sedekh Letter of Sobekhotep and Waemmut

– –

Louvre E 6134 Harer Family Trust

Saqqara Assiut Qubbet el-Hawa

Cairo CG 25375 Berlin 10438 Cairo JE 91740

Twelfth Dynasty

–

Pushkin 3917

Late Middle Kingdom Second Intermediate Period Late Eighteenth Dynasty

– Thebes ?

Leiden I 371 Louvre N 698

Nineteenth Dynasty Ramesside Period

–

Brooklyn 37.1799E

VII century BC

Letter of Neb to Khnememuaskhet Letter to Ankhiry Letter of Butehamun to Ikhtay Letter of Iruru to Penhy

First Intermediate Period

First Intermediate Period/ early Middle Kingdom

early Middle Kingdom

Therefore, according to the nature of a ‘letter’, this type of document was meant to be delivered to individuals who were not easily within reach: the action of writing a letter to a person implied some distance in communication, which is true today as it appears to have been for the ancient Egyptians. Letters to the Dead were the medium connecting the realm of the dead and the living in form of a written message. The disappearance of this practice in the archaeological record during the late Middle Kingdom and the Second Intermediate Period may be the result of chance survival of archaeological remains, but it may also represent the interruption of a need. The spread of sequential multiple burials meant that tombs became more easily accessible, with manageable entrances to the funerary rooms, allowing them to be continuously opened and reopened, with multiplication of the occasions to see/meet (also figuratively) the deceased, where dead bodies were placed one next to the other.

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The dead community was connected with the living community in a more fluid way; and the dead were also more strongly interconnected with them. Therefore, the need to leave a written message to the deceased began to lose its potency: why write a letter to a person (albeit a dead one) who is easily accessible? The distance ceased to be an issue because the spiritual presence of the deceased was assured by other actions, including the corporeality given by the sequential multiple burials; thus the Letters to the Dead practice may have faded. 4.1.4

Introduction of an Uncommon Architectural Feature in the Eastern Delta, the ‘House of the Dead’ Another practice, documented within domestic contexts, may also reflect the late Middle Kingdom need of establishing more tangible and close (in term of physical distance) links with the dead. Confined only to the late Middle Kingdom and exclusively localised in the northeast of the country, i.e., in the settlement of Avaris (Tell el-Dʿaba), the ‘house of the dead’ (Totenhäuser) represent an unusual architectural element attached to the main buildings of domestic complexes. These houses display a single room which incorporates a tomb in the centre. This type of structure, despite its close proximity to the dwelling rooms (which were often adjunct to the bedroom), was accessible only from an external passageway (outside courtyard) and not from the internal areas of the house itself. The recovery of benches and offering pits with the remains of feasts, together with evidence for the presentation of offerings and pottery used for libations, seems to reinforce the impression that specific cults and ceremonies with a number of participants were held inside these ‘rooms’.98 Miriam Müller has recently advanced, in relation to an in-depth analysis of Estate 1 in the area F/1 at Tell el-Dʿaba (Fig. 6.5), the suggestion that the buried individuals found in the main tomb of these ‘houses of the dead’ may represent the household master. Other people probably connected with him were buried in additional pits/tombs along the sides or in other areas of the estate. It must be acknowledged that the act of burying the deceased within the settlement is uncommon to Egyptian customs, which always tended to separate

98

Kopetzky, K., ‘Burial Practices and Mortuary Rituals at Tell el-Dabʿa, Egypt’, in: Pfälzner, P., H. Niehr, E. Pernicka, S. Lange, and T. Köster (eds.), Contextualising Grave Inventories in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of a Workshop at the London 7th ICAANE in April 2010 and an International Symposium in Tübingen in November 2010, Both Organised by the Tübingen Post-Graduate School ‘Symbols of the Dead’ (Wiesbaden, 2014), 120– 122, fig. 7; Müller, in: Miniaci and Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt I, 250.

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figure 6.5 Schematic representation of estate 1, stratum b/2 at Avaris (Tell el-Dʿaba) (© Bietak, Eigner) from Müller, M., ‘New Approaches to the Study of Households in Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period Egypt’, in Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550 BC): Contributions on Archaeology, Art, Religion, and Written Sources I (MKS 1, London, 2015), fig. 10

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dwelling places and burial spaces.99 More frequently, instead, Near Eastern traditions testify a more fluid space arrangement between areas for the living and the dead.100 Therefore, scholars have suggested that this practice had been ‘imported’ from Near Eastern civilization. However, ‘houses of the dead’ remain unparalleled in the Levantine and Near East environments; the closest parallels known in Levantine area are the vaulted mud-brick chambers in the area of Jericho101—dating to the Middle Bronze Age—and the very visible tombs in the midst of the settlement of Umm el-Marra in northern Syria—dating to the Early Bronze Age–.102 Although attested only in an area exposed to external contact, eastern Delta, ‘houses of the dead’ have been documented only in the late Middle Kingdom strata, and surprisingly in the Hyksos Period are no longer visible in the archaeological record. Therefore, the ‘house of the dead’ could be described as (failed?) tentative of creation of an ‘architectural’ feature to reinforce social memory, possibly to sustain the construction of a mutated late Middle Kingdom household identity. As explained by Miriam Müller, in the multi-ethnic society that was Avaris in the late Middle Kingdom, a visible display of household identity grounded in the aspect of their master’s social identity, had the effect of strengthening the continuity and prosperity of the

99

100

101

102

Cf. burial depositions inside domestic buildings found in the town of Wah-sut at South Abydos, Picardo, N., ‘Egypt’s Well-to-Do: Elite Mansions in the Town of Wah-Sut’, Expedition 48/2 (2007), 39. Infant burials were also commonly found in settlements, see excavation of Lahun town, where the floors of the chambers continuously accommodated babies buried in boxes under them Petrie, W.F.M., Kahun, Gurob, and Hawara (London, 1890), 12, 24; cf. also Tristant, Y., ‘Les enterrements d’ enfants dans l’ Égypte prédynastique et pharaonique’, in Nenna, M.-D., (ed.), L’ enfant et la mort dans l’ Antiquité II: Types de tombes et traitement du corps des enfants dans l’ antiquité gréco-romaine. Actes de la table ronde internationale organisée à Alexandrie, Centre d’Études Alexandrines, 12–14 novembre 2009 (Alexandrie, 2012), 44–49; Zillhardt, R., Kinderbestattungen und die soziale Stellung des Kindes im alten Ägypten: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Ostfriedhofes von Deir el-Medine (Göttinger Miszellen, Beihefte 6, Göttingen, 2009), 58–70. Laneri, N., ‘A Family Affair: The Use of Intramural Funerary Chambers in Mesopotamia during the Late Third and Early Second Millennia B.C.E.’, in Residential Burial: A Multiregional Exploration. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 20/1 (2010), 121–135. Van den Brink, E.C.M., Tombs and Burial Customs at Tell el-Dabʿa and Their Cultural Relationship to Syria-Palestine during the Second Intermediate Period (BÖAIK 23, Vienna, 1982), 70; Nigro, L., ‘The Built Tombs on the Spring Hill and The Palace of the Lords of Jericho (ꜥḏmr rḫꜥ) in the Middle Bronze Age’, in Scloen, J.D. (ed.), Exploring the Longue Durée: Essays in Honor of Lawrence E. Stager (Winona Lake, 2009), 361–367. Schwartz, G., ‘Memory and its Demolition: Ancestors, Animals and Sacrifice at Umm elMarra, Syria’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 23/3 (2013), 495–522.

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household, transforming the tomb into a place of collective memory.103 One of the driving forces for the installation of the ‘house of the dead’ can be sought in a changed burial demography of the late Middle Kingdom. The northern region of Egypt, in close contact with external cultural flows, may have conceived a peculiar way to express such a transformation of society through the need of collective memory placed in the living areas, perhaps greatly influenced by Levantine traditions.104 The ‘houses of the dead’, like multiple burials, stressed close proximity to the dwellings of the living—who probably also conducted rites inside the house—and, above all, social continuity.

5

Bodies as Objects in the Burial Equipment

A grave, although made by several material and immaterial constituent layers including, for instance, objects, architectural structures, funerary rituals and remembrance acts, is pragmatically intended as a place or a container for the conservation of the body. In the logic of burial assemblage, the body (as corpse/identity/accumulation of social relations)105 has been seen as the element that provides the raison d’être for the burial itself; the other elements of the burial are considered secondary additions, intended as radiating projections supporting the body-nucleus. This has created an imbalance in the logic of indexing the different constituents of the grave itself. Therefore, scholars have usually tended to dichotomise the ensemble of the grave into two broad different categories: on the one hand, is the body as the real ontological centre of the burial itself, and, on the other hand, all of the other countable objects, which were influential or created especially for shaping the mortuary ideology. Scholars have mainly focused on an etic analysis of arrangements between objects and the corpse—always imposing a vertical dependence relation type106—but have paid little attention to an insider horizontal perspective: the role of a new body entering with older bodies and of the multiple bodies among them. With the closure of the grave, all the objects in the burial, although visually and typologically separated, became part of the world of the dead, targeting a com-

103 104 105 106

Müller, M., ‘Modelling Household Identity in a Multi-ethnic Society’, Archaeological Review from Cambridge 30/1 (2015), 131–141. Laneri, N., ‘Funerary Customs and Religious Practices in the Ancient Near East’, in: C. Smith (ed.), Encyclopedia of Global Archaeology (Vienna/New York, 2018), 10. Butler, J., Bodies That Matter: On The Discursive Limits of Sex (New York, 1993), 1–23; Sofaer, J.R., The Body as Material Culture: A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology (Cambridge, 2006), 1–11. Ekengren in Stutz, et al. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook.

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mon objective to evoke social identities and images of death through memories and through the materiality of its constituents, including architecture, bodies, artefacts and rituals.107 Although constrained and invested of social relations and identity (re)-constructions, human (dead) bodies are subject to the same analytical processes of other artefacts, sharing the same materiality network, which crosses the biological boundaries between animals, artefacts, and people.108 As other ‘inanimate objects’, human bodies have a direct agency in shaping and transforming people’s lives;109 therefore the boundaries between dead bodies and objects break down as they are mutually entangled in a complex network of relations inside the logic of burial assemblage.110 Therefore, bodies and objects in a burial are part of a common material assemblage and their materiality does not differentiate one from the other.111 The practice of sequential multiple burials reinforces the transformation of dead bodies into part of the burial equipment, subtracting centrality from the role of the body112 and disrupting the narrative tied to individual biographies.113 The passage of time increased the objectification of the body itself (in ancient as in modern times); i.e. the social context in which the body was placed slowly faded out and, with this process, also the body was losing its affective and sensorial links, increas-

107 108 109

110

111

112

113

Ekengren in Stutz et al. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook, 134. Sofaer, The Body as Material Culture. Kopytoff, I., ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as a Process’, in Appadurai, A. (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge, 1986), 64–91; Ingold, T., ‘Situating Action VI: A Comment on the Distinction between the Material and the Social’, Ecological Psychology 8 (1996), 183–187; Gosden, C., and Y. Marshall, ‘The Cultural Biography of Objects’, World Archaeology 31/2 (1999), 169–178; Williams, H.M.R., ‘Introduction: The Archaeology of Death, Memory and Material Culture’, in Williams, H.R. (ed.), Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies (New York, 2003), 1–24. Jones, A., Archaeological Theory and Scientific Practice (Cambridge, 2002); Latour, B., Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (Oxford/New York, 2005); Knappett, C., ‘Photographs, Skeumorphs and Marionettes: Some Thoughts on Mind, Agency and Object’, Journal of Material Culture 7/1 (2002), 97–117; Knappett, C., Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction (Oxford, 2013). Brück, J., ‘Body Metaphors and Technologies of Transformation in the English Middle and Late Bronze Age’, in: Bruck, J. (ed.), Bronze Age Landscapes: Tradition and Transformation (Oxford, 2001), 149–160; Fowler, C., The Archaeology of Personhood (London, 2004). Crawford, S., ‘Companions, Co-incidences or Chattels? Children and their Role in Early Anglo-Saxon Multiple Burials’, in Crawford, S., and G. Shepherd (eds.) Children, Childhood and Society (IAA Interdisciplinary Series Vol. I: Studies in Archaeology, History, Literature and Art; BAR International Series 1696, Oxford, 2007), 89. See the example of the Tollund Man, Hallam, E., J. Hockey, and G. Howarth, Beyond the Body: Death and Social Identity (London, 1999), 91–92.

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ing an ‘artefactual’ perception. For instance, in a multiple grave from Azraq 18 in Jordan in Neolithic contexts with Natufian traditions, complete skulls were removed from the bodies, at the times when fresh interments were being made, exactly as any other object that could have been subtracted during the reopening of the tomb.114 The individuals buried in the Mycenaean Grave Circle A, which was in use till the Late Helladic IIB (ca. 1500 BC), were monumentalised inside a sacred temenos by the later occupation of the site in the Late Helladic III (ca. 1250 BC). The purpose was clear: to transform the dead bodies of Circle A into symbolic objects/monuments that projected a mnemonic reference of a heroic past onto the present.115 Bodies or body parts of individuals have been since antiquity altered, adapted, restored, collected and exchanged, purely like objects, such as the relics of saints circulated in a commercialised spiritual trade in medieval and early modern times.116 The passage of the Tollund Man is particularly instructive: when in 1950, after its discovery, it was ascertained that the dead man unearthed by farmers in Tollund Fen (Denmark) had no relatives or friends remaining to recognize him, and his relics were over two thousand years old, it started to be perceived as a clinical and archaeological object.117 Therefore, the passage of time tend to elide social and affective links and to establish new symbolic values, given by the perception of the body as an object. The objectification of the human body transforms the body and its parts into a referential social value and a symbolic anchor in both time and memory.118 The assemblage of multiple bodies constitutes a ‘political’119 (since it is deliberate, but not necessarily always intentional) mnemonic selection of certain components and the segregation of others: ‘a way of conceptualizing

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Bocquentin, F., and A. Garrard, ‘Natufian Collective Burial Practice and Cranial Pigmentation: A Reconstruction from Azraq 18 (Jordan)’, Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 10 (2016), 693–702. Antonaccio, C.M., An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece (London, 1995), 49–53. Tarlow, S., Ritual, Belief and the Dead in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (New York, 2011), 120–130. Hallam, Hockey, and Howarth, Beyond the Body, 91f. Robb, J., ‘Creating Death: An Archaeology of Dying’, in Stutz, L.N., S. Tarlow, and F. Ekengren (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial (Oxford, 2013), 441–458. Scheper-Hughes, N., and M.M. Lock, ‘The Mindful Body: A Prolegomenon to Future Work in Medical Anthropology’, Medical Anthropology Quarterly 1/1 (1987), 6–41; Duncan, W.N., and K.R. Schwarz, ‘Partible, Permeable, and Relational Bodies in a Maya Mass Grave’, in Osterholtz, A.J., K.M. Baustian, and D.L. Martin (eds.), Commingled and Disarticulated Human Remains: Working Toward Improved Theory, Method, and Data (New York/Heidelberg/Dordrecht/London, 2014), 149–170.

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time through its materiality’.120 Since funerary activities have the specific purpose of projecting and renegotiating new (or existing) social relations onto the living community through the selection of objects disposed in the grave,121 the increase and spread on a preeminent scale of ‘sequential multiple burials’ in the late Middle Kingdom may mirror the need for the renegotiation of the role of the dead body within the burial assemblage and the tomb. The sequential multiple burial becomes a memory container and dead bodies constitute the tangible mnemonic bridge to the past and social identity of the living.122 A changed burial demography at the end of the Middle Kingdom may mirror a changed structure of the social or economic context,123 which aims at emphasising more actively aspects of cohesion and continuity within a—perhaps— larger corporate group (see the increase of people named/represented on stelae). In turn, increased numbers of link inside corporate social groups may be mirrored in the altered burial demography at the end of the Middle Kingdom (see the increase of bodies in sequential multiple burials, but also the lexical changes in the vocabulary relating to the family,124 and the extended social inclusion for the term ꜣb.t in the Coffin Text spell 146). A renewed social structure needs to renegotiate its material bridges with the symbols of its identity: this is not only visible in the change and transformation of the objects in the funerary equipment125 but also in the number of people involved in one

120 121

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Hamilakis, Y., ‘Sensorial Assemblages: Affect, Memory and Temporality in Assemblage Thinking’, CAJ 27/1 (2017), 169–182. Fowler, C., ‘Identities in Transformation: Identities, Funerary Rites, and the Mortuary Process’, in Stutz, L.N., S. Tarlow, and F. Ekengren (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial (Oxford, 2013), 511–526; cf. Ucko, P., ‘Ethnography and Archaeological Interpretation of Funerary Remains’, World Archaeology 1/2 (1996), 262–280. Oestigaard, T., and J. Goldhahan, ‘From the Dead to the Living: Death as Transactions and Renegotiations’, Norwegian Archaeological Review 39/1 (2006), 27–48. See also for the Near East: Laneri, N., ‘Locating the Social Memory of the Ancestors: Residential Funerary Chambers as Locales of Social Remembrance in Mesopotamia during the Late Third and Early Second Millennia BC’, in: P. Pfälzner, H. Niehr, E. Pernicka, S. Lange, T. Koster (eds), Contextualizing Grave Inventories in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Workshop at the London 7th ICAANE in April 2010 and an International Symposiumin Tubingen in November 2010, Both Organized by the Tubingen Post-graduate school ‘Symbols of the Dead’ (Qatna Studien Supplementa, vol. III, Berlin, 2014), 3–11. Cf. Cauwe, N., ‘Skeleton in Motion, Ancestors in Action: Early Mesolithic Collective Tombs in Southern Belgium’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 11/2 (2001), 147–163; Kesnawi, P., Mortuary Ritual and Society in Bronze Age Cyprus (London, 2004). Franke, Altägyptische Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen, 289–301. Miniaci, G., ‘The Collapse of Faience Figurine Production at the End of the Middle Kingdom: Reading the History of an Epoch between Postmodernism and Grand Narrative’, Journal of Egyptian History 7/1, 109–142.

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of the symbolic places of collective memory, the tomb, which brings a living community in close contact with the dead. Strategies of social memory may change across the time. For instance, hundreds of Old Kingdom graffiti found at Elkab126 record the identity of influential local officials through genealogical sequences going back up to six generations, testifying in favour of an ideology of local power grounded on familiar and lineage mechanisms. However, such a strategy does not find an echo in a parallel funerary programme, since decorated tombs belonging to the Old Kingdom officials of Elkab are rather rare or little known at the present.127 In the late Middle Kingdom, the channels of communication changed (see the interruption in the custom of the Letters to the Dead and the attempt at establishing an uncommon type of architecture, the house of the dead, in the Delta), directing their focus also towards the funerary activity. The tomb is the ideal memory container,128 and dead bodies constitute the tangible mnemonic bridge to the past and social identity. Therefore, older bodies, above all those belonging to recently dead individuals, became one of the essential parts of the burial equipment communicative programme, transforming in turn the nature of the tomb itself. In the light of a changed burial demography, the presence of older bodies may have influenced the selection of the range of objects to be deposited inside the burial. In fact, at the end of Middle Kingdom a consistent infiltration of the domestic sphere inside the funerary domain is clearly visible: iconography and artefacts gathered from domestic contexts started to replace or juxtapose those objects produced exclusively for burial.129 Therefore, instead of counting only objects when describing changes in funerary customs, we should start counting objects and bodies together. 126 127 128 129

Vandekerckhove, H., and R. Müller-Wollermann, Elkab VI: Die Felsinschriften des Wadi Hilâl (Bruxelles, 2001). Moreno García, in Fitzenreiter and Herb (eds.), Dekorierte Grabanlagen, 227. Moreno García, in Fitzenreiter and Herb (eds.), Dekorierte Grabanlagen, 215–242. Cf. Grajetzki, Tomb Treasures, 156–167; Quirke, S., Exploring Religion in Ancient Egypt (Chichester/Malden, MA, 2015), 213; Quirke, Birth Tusks; Miniaci, G., ‘Unbroken Stories: Middle Kingdom Faience Figurines in their Archaeological Context’, in Miniaci, G., M. Betrò, and S. Quirke (eds). Company of Images: Modelling the Ancient Imaginary World of the Middle Kingdom. Proceedings of the International Conference Held on 18th–20th September in London, UCL (OLA 262, Leuven, 2017), 235–284.

chapter 7

The Concept of ka between Egyptian and Egyptological Frameworks* Rune Nyord

The virtuality–positivity of which I am speaking is a deeper reality than arbitrary will. We find it also in arbitrary will, or in the will generally, but as an original, intimate, secret cause which sustains and finally constitutes the will itself. It is above all an immediately and intrinsically purposive value, a deep and tenacious faith, which lives in love, in hate, in power … Leone Vivante, A Philosophy of Potentiality (London, 1955), 10

∵ 1

Introduction

It is widely recognised that the concept of ka (kꜣ) is one of the most central in pharaonic Egyptian religion, especially in its earlier phases. However, modern interpretations of the concept have tended to go in one of two directions: either a particular subset of the occurrences of the word is identified as being the most central and a hypothesis based solely on this more limited usage is presented, or (especially in introductions and encyclopaedia entries, etc.) the most frequent uses of the term are simply listed next to each other without any consideration of how they might possibly have been related in the Egyptian view. Methodologically, it seems that the former, more hypothetical, approach * The main ideas of this paper were first presented in an embryonic form at a guest lecture at the Oriental Institute, University of Oxford in February 2012. A Danish summary of the findings was published in ‘“Mennesket” bag mennesket: Det oldægyptiske ka-begreb’, Papyrus: Ægyptologisk tidsskrift 35/1 (2015), 30–37. The current version has benefitted significantly from discussions with Symposium participants. I am grateful to Giacomo Borioni for kindly sending me a copy of his out-of-print monograph on the ka-concept and an unpublished manuscript on the concept in personal names, and to Joanna Popielska-Grzybowska for providing me with copies of several of her articles. I also want to thank the two anonymous reviewers for useful comments and suggestions.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004399846_008

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is the only alternative to the latter, purely descriptive, and the present paper belongs clearly in the tradition seeking a more or less unified general understanding. Important challenges to such attempts in the past lie not only in the singling out of a particular group of sources as the most important from the outset, but equally in a related tendency to sum up (or even ‘define’) the ancient Egyptian notion in terms of one or two modern concepts. In an attempt to avoid these problems, the interpretation undertaken here builds on the one hand on well-attested general Egyptian religious notions, while on the other broadening the scope enough to incorporate all of the main groups of sources in which the term occurs in the Old and Middle Kingdom. The approach taken here differs from previous attempts primarily in its focus on two basic ideas: relationality and ontology. A relational approach to concepts such as the ka focuses less on the traditional idea of the ka as an essential ‘aspect of the person’ and puts more emphasis on ancient descriptions of ka as a relation between different beings (which have been difficult to incorporate in the traditional approaches outlined below). In other words, what kind of relation is expressed between two beings by conceptualising X as the ka of Y? The stress of ontology in the approach argued here is related in the sense that it insists on an understanding of the ka in terms of broader Egyptian ideas about existence as opposed to taking a point of departure in modern concepts such as ‘personality’ or ‘life force’. On the one hand, this approach accords a more central status to certain groups of sources than they have had in previous discussions, but on the other it also makes it possible to draw on the insights of each of the main Egyptological ‘schools’ of thought concerning the nature of the ka-concept.

2

Research History

The history of research into the concept of the ka and its place within overall interpretations of Egyptian religion is long and quite complex. The recent monographs on the ka-concept by Bolshakov1 and Borioni2 as well as an unpublished PhD thesis by Kusber3 have examined the history and development of these Egyptological ideas in some detail, so that it is possible here to focus

1 Bolshakov, A.O., Man and his Double in Egyptian Ideology of the Old Kingdom (ÄAT 37, Wiesbaden, 1997), 123–132. 2 Borioni, G.C., Der Ka aus religionswissenschaftlicher Sicht (Veröffentlichungen der Institute für Afrikanistik und Ägyptologie der Universität Wien 101, Vienna, 2005), 59–74. 3 Kusber, E., Der altägyptische Ka: ‘Seele’ oder ‘Persönlichkeit’? (PhD thesis, University of Tübingen, 2005—defended 19/12 1994), 7–48.

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on some particular features of each of the main ‘schools’ of thought that have proved most long-lived and have been met with most widespread acceptance. Three such ‘schools’ can be identified according to their hypotheses regarding the central meaning of the ka-concept. The first can be termed the ‘doublehypothesis’, an idea with nineteenth-century roots most recently argued by Bolshakov,4 according to which the ka is fundamentally an image or ‘double’ of a person. The second hypothesis, supported most recently by Junge5 and Borioni6 regards the ka as primarily a psychological concept, understanding it as a person’s ‘personality’ or ‘self’. The third main hypothesis has not been espoused in any of the most recent detailed discussions, but has been influential enough to warrant its inclusion here. It sees the ka fundamentally as the ‘vital force’ of a human being, focusing particularly on the processes involving the ka that occur at the death of a person. In the following, each of these hypotheses will be briefly presented along with what I consider to be their main strengths and weaknesses. It should be noted that the brief and focused summaries and discussions given here cannot in all respects do full justice to the complexities and historical developments of each hypothesis, and for a full overview of the research history the reader is referred to the more detailed treatments cited above. 2.1 The ka as ‘Double’ The understanding of the ka as a ‘double’ or image of the human being was first developed in the 1870s, with the most influential early proponent being Gaston Maspero. In an article entitled ‘Le double et les statues prophétiques’,7 Maspero sketches the main lines of the reasoning leading to this idea, which derives not in the first place from ancient evidence, but rather from traditions reported from medieval Egypt. Thus, Maspero notes ‘L’idée que le double humain vivait dans le tombeau ne s’est pas éteinte complètement avec l’ Égypte pharaonique. L’Égypte arabe parait l’avoir conservée en l’adaptant à ses croyances et à ses habitudes’.8 Maspero goes on to illustrate this point with reference to a story recorded by the medieval historian Murtadi. The story describes how king Saurid creates statues to guard three pyramids, and for each statue guardian, a spirit is appointed to serve the guardian, and the spirit becomes attached to

4 Bolshakov, Man and His Double. 5 Junge, F., Die Lehre Ptahhoteps und die Tugenden der ägyptischen Welt (OBO 193, Freiburg and Göttingen, 2003). 6 Borioni, Der Ka. 7 Maspero, G., Études de mythologie et d’archéologie égyptiennes, I (Paris, 1893), 77–91. 8 Maspero, Études, I, 77.

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the statue. Following the lengthy quote of the story Maspero notes: ‘Dans cette forme de la légende arabe, il me semble que tous les traits de l’ antique croyance égyptienne sont reconnaissables’.9 The next step in Maspero’s argument goes back to the ancient evidence, pointing to the word ḥwt-kꜣ, ‘the mansion of the ka’, which is understood to refer to the serdab, the walled-off compartment of an Old Kingdom tomb where the statues of the deceased are kept. This leads to the conclusion that all tomb statues, and by extension statues found elsewhere as well are ‘supports de ka’,10 to which the ka, as in the story recounted by Murtadi, is attached. This leads to the logical conclusion that the statues of gods must play a similar role, consistent with the fact that gods are also said in Egyptian texts to have kas. This argument for the identification of the core nature of the ancient Egyptian ka as inextricably connected to statues thus hinges on two main assumptions: Firstly, that the basic conception of spirits and statues in Murtadi’s story is directly applicable to pharaonic times, and secondly that the word ḥwt-kꜣ refers to the serdab. Neither of these claims in fact hold up to closer scrutiny, which undermines the idea of the ka as Double in important ways. It may be noted first that the reliance on a medieval legend as the main perspective in which ideas that are thousands of years older is inherently problematic. In the case of a concept so frequently attested as that of the ka, it is even more suspect if an interpretation of the very core of the concept cannot be attested with sufficient clarity in contemporary sources. In addition, it should be noted that Murtadi’s story is not in fact particularly informative about the nature of the spirits, so that the main point that can be derived from it in any case is that of the connection between spirit and statue. This leads to the second question, namely whether such a general connection can be established between ka and statue in pharaonic sources. The concept of ḥwt-kꜣ, ‘mansion of the ka’ cited by Maspero has been significantly elucidated since his day. It is now readily apparent that the designation ‘mansion of the ka’ is significantly more general than the specific designation of the serdab suggested by Maspero, as it seems capable of referring to the entire tomb and even to non-sepulchral cult establishments serving the ka of a deceased person.11

9 10 11

Maspero, Études, I, 78. Maspero, Études, I, 80. See the detailed discussion of this point by Fitzenreiter, M., Statue und Kult: Eine Studie der funerären Praxis an nichtköniglichen Grabanlagen der Residenz im Alten Reich (IBAES 3,

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At roughly the same time as Maspero, but probably independently of him,12 the Briton Le Page Renouf made an argument arriving at a conclusion somewhat similar to that of Maspero, but founded on a much broader textual basis.13 Le Page Renouf was rather more explicit about the sources of his inspiration and they can be seen to fall into two groups. First, it is incontrovertible, as will be exemplified further below, that the ka very often occurs as an object of cult, and that in practice Egyptian cult was frequently performed in front of a statue, so that ka and statue are often referred to in the same context, whereby ‘statue’ can make sense as a rendering of the word kꜣ in such contexts.14 The second main group of evidence consists of depictions throughout the Egyptian history of the king’s ka shown as a figure accompanying the king in ways which often appear to indicate that some manner of statue is represented (see Fig. 7.2 for an example). At the same time, however, it was clear to Le Page Renouf that from a textual point of view, the suggested meaning of ka as ‘statue’ was much too limited. For this reason, he went on to extend the meaning of the concept considerably:15 The Egyptian ka was not a mere image; it was conceived as endowed with life, intelligence and will. There is a superabundance of evidence to show how all the religious images and emblems were supposed to be overflowing with divine vitality and energy. Thus, to Le Page Renouf, the two main senses of the ka concept, that of an object of cult and that of a less tangible ‘influence’, are connected through the Egyptian understanding of cultic statues. It will be noted that this understanding of cultic images might also serve as a connection in the opposite direction depending on which primary sense one wishes to attach to the concept of ka, and the importance of the two partly separate groups of evidence will be taken

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Berlin, 2001), 545–548, who also notes that, given this state of affairs, the widespread Egyptological concept of a ‘ka-statue’ does not have any observable correlate in Egyptian thinking. As argued by Bolshakov, Man and his Double, 124. Note that Maspero first presented his theory on the ‘double’ at the Congrès des Orientalistes in 1878 (Maspero, Études, I, vi), the same year as Le Page Renouf’s paper was published. Le Page Renouf, P., ‘On the True Sense of an Important Egyptian Word’, TSBA 6 (1878), 494– 508. And in fact, as Demidchik has recently pointed out, in cultic contexts the word twt, ‘image’ very occasionally occurs as a textual parallel to kꜣ, cf. n. 21 below. Le Page Renouf, TSBA 6, 501 (emphasis in original).

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up in more detail below. Le Page Renouf proceeded to characterise the second, more abstract significance of the ka in the following way:16 The Egyptians moreover believed that the unseen world contained realities exactly corresponding to those of this life, and that among these realities each man had his prototype or living image, who seems to have sprung into existence at the same time with himself under the creative hand of Ptah, to have grown with his growth, and generally to have stood to him in a relation very much resembling that of the genius in the Roman mythology. This much broader idea of what an Egyptian ka is has moved quite far away from the concrete identification with statues, but as has been seen Le Page Renouf still regards the latter as the most important point of reference of the concept. After having been more or less dormant for a long time, the ‘double’hypothesis was revived in a new formulation by Bolshakov, who in a sense took the idea to its logical extreme in suggesting that the ka refers not just to the statue of a person, but to any depiction of a person.17 The rationale behind this idea is that depictions evoke the memory of a person in the viewer, thereby establishing a unique connection between the image and the depicted person. While this intensification offers certain new ingenious possibilities—e.g. that the use of the word ka in speech recorded in tomb scenes of daily life can be explained by the obvious fact that it is depictions of persons that are speaking to and of each other18—it also accentuates the general problems with the ‘double’-hypothesis further. Perhaps the most problematic is that it largely lacks basis in the way in which the word ka is actually used in Egyptian texts, so that whatever merits there might be in Bolshakov’s analysis of Egyptian theories of images, the specific relation to the concept of ka rests on a speculative basis. Correspondingly, as an explanation of the nature of the Egyptian ka, the main thrust of the theory has not been accepted in more recent works on statues and on the ka concept.19

16 17 18 19

Le Page Renouf, TSBA 6, 501 (emphasis in original). Bolshakov, Man and his Double, passim. Bolshakov, Man and his Double, 149–150. Fitzenreiter, Statue und Kult, I, 548; Borioni, Der Ka, 77 and 88. Note however Assmann’s suggested combination of the notion of the ka as image(s) in something close to Bolshakov’s sense with that of the ka as ‘self’ (with inspiration from a passage in Thomas

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Most recently, this shortcoming of Bolshakov’s formulation of the ‘double’hypothesis has been addressed by Demidchik who points to three inscriptions from the Eleventh Dynasty, where it is argued that the word twt, ‘statue’ is used to refer metonymically to the ka, thereby providing some textual basis for the hypothesis.20 While the three texts to which Demidchik refers clearly show a close association between ka and statue cult, which any interpretation of the ka-concept must take into account, none of them compels the conclusion that the ka simply was identical to, or stood metonymically for, the statue. 21 More importantly, though, as will be seen below, there are significant parts of the textual material where the ka has no obvious connection with images, and which the ‘double’-hypothesis thus would not be able to account for, even if Demidchik’s reading of these examples is followed.22

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Mann’s Der Zauberberg), in Assmann, J., ‘Der Ka als Double’, in Stoichita, V.I. (ed.), Das Double (Wiesbaden, 2006), 57–78. Demidchik, A.E., ‘Письменные свидетельства смежности концепта kꜣ и понятия twt «изображение»’ [Written evidence of the continuity of the kꜣ-concept with the notion of twt, ‘image’, ‘statue’], Transactions of the State Hermitage Museum 66 (2013), 68–74, see now also the English version of this paper, ‘Eleventh Dynasty Written Evidence on the Relationship between the kꜣ and the Cult Image’, ZÄS 142 (2015), 25–32. The main textual examples are: (1) Ka-chapel of Mentuhotep Nebhepetre from Dendera, Cairo JE 46068, Habachi, L., ‘King Nebhepetre Mentuhotep: His Monuments, Place in History, Deification and Unusual Representations’, MDAIK 19 (1963), 20, fig. 5b, pl. 4b, which states that the king made his ḥwt-kꜣ ‘for his statue’ (n twt=f ). (2) Stela of Antef son of Myt, British Museum EA 1164, Clère, J.J., and J. Vandier, Textes de la Première Période Intermédiaire et de la XIeme dynastie (BAe 10; Brussels, 1948), 47, where the duties of the ḥm-kꜣ, explicitly contrasted to those of the lector priest, are related to the offerings before the statue (ll. 7–9). (3) Inscription of Mentuhotep Nebhepetre from Abydos, British Museum EA 628 (cited by Demidchik as EA 627), Petrie, W.M.F., Abydos, II (London, 1903), pl. 24, where the traditional offerings are said to be ‘for the statue of the Dual King Nebhepetre’ (n twt n nsw-bjty nb-ḥpt-rꜥ) in the position where the offering formula usually has ‘for the ka of N’ (Demidchik points out that the same phenomenon is attested much earlier in the Fourth Dynasty tomb of Metjen, LD II, pl. 5). Note that in each case, a less inclusive reading than that suggested by Demidchik is possible, so that in (1) the cult statue clearly forms the focal point of the cultic complex of the ḥwt-kꜣ whether the latter is understood broadly or narrowly, and in (2) and (3), the wording could be explained by the fact that the offering service, which is often said to benefit the ka, was clearly in practice presented before the statue, whether or not a direct semantic connection between the words kꜣ and twt was in fact present. This is true also of the further examples cited in the English version of the paper referred to in the previous footnote. In fact, Bolshakov (Man and his Double, 292) acknowledges the existence of such a ‘nonfigurative’ (aspect of the) ka, but insists that ‘[n]o accurate study of the kꜣ is possible without careful division of these two intricately interlaced components, and it is the lack of attention to their heterogeneity which predetermines insufficiency of all existent interpretations of the kꜣ’.

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2.2 The ka as ‘Personality’ A different approach to the concept of ka, and one which also has a long history,23 proposes instead to see the central meaning of the word as ‘personality’, although it often remains much less clearly defined than was the case in the ‘double’-hypothesis. This idea was taken up in two of most recent detailed treatments of the ka concept by Friedrich Junge24 and Giacomo Borioni,25 where the ka is regarded as a primarily psychological notion interpretable as the ‘self’ of a person. Junge bases this interpretation on the occurrences of the term in The Teaching of Ptahhotep.26 The evidence in this important text will be discussed in detail below. Whereas most other studies have taken texts from broadly religious contexts as the basis of an understanding of the ka, the point of departure in a wisdom text (and the scant consideration of other sources) leads Junge to a somewhat different focus in his understanding of the ka concept. Thus, he sums up this understanding in the following way:27 Ka ist der Begriff, mit dem man über die Person, die Personalität, das Selbst der Menschen spricht. Indem Ptahhotep dies tut, betont er aber vor allem auch das ideale, das bessere Selbst: es ist Sachwalter des richtigen Verhaltens, der inneren Autonomie, aber auch der Achtsamkeit für die Mitmenschen in Mildtätigkeit und Gesittung. In Junge’s interpretive framework, the ka as ‘self’ enters into an interplay with two other Egyptian terms also interpreted as psychological entities, namely the predominantly rational jb as ‘Geist’ and the largely irrational and hence negatively viewed ẖt, ‘body’. Junge makes only a brief note in which he suggests that this understanding of the ka as ‘self’ should in principle also be applicable to the role of the ka in the mortuary sphere.28 This idea was taken up shortly afterwards by Borioni who mainly follows Junge’s understanding, but broadens the body of evidence somewhat by also citing the use of the concept in personal names and a few examples from mortuary texts.29 Despite Borioni’s application of the notion of ka as ‘self’ to the mortuary sphere,30 it becomes clear that in this broader con23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Cf. Bolshakov, Man and his Double, 123–132. Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps. Borioni, Der Ka. Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps, 122–126. Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps, 125. Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps, 125 n. 248. Borioni, Der Ka. Borioni, Der Ka, 75–82.

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text, Junge’s interpretation becomes much less useful than was the case for the wisdom literature. For example, the frequent expression of death as ‘going to one’s ka’ (for which see further below) in the psychological understanding of ka as ‘self’ is interpreted by Borioni to stand for ‘ein psychologischer Prozeß des Erwachens des Selbst im transzendenten metaphysischen Jenseits, eine Verwandlung des Seins und ein Wachstumsmoment’.31 While it is not impossible that such a fundamental reinterpretation of many assumptions about the nature of Egyptian mortuary religion and the themes of the funerary literature could be made, the idea is not elaborated further in Borioni’s book. More importantly, from a methodological point of view, we are clearly dealing with an ad hoc hypothesis not developed from a rereading of the mortuary material itself, but rather applied in order to bring it in line with a pre-existing theory. This leaves the general impression that Junge’s predominantly psychological interpretations, while very apt for the practical purposes of translating the Ptahhotep text, fit rather less well when applied to mortuary conceptions. This ambiguity corresponds to a more fundamental problem observable in many previous studies of reconciling the evidence of a quite different nature of the role played by the ka in texts dealing with the living and those presenting the post-mortem role of the ka. An additional problem with Junge’s interpretation is that the notion of ‘self’ is deceptively vague,32 so that the elegance with which it can be employed in glossing the Ptahhotep passages may at least in part be due to the multifaceted (and ill-defined) nature of the modern notion of ‘self’. 2.3 The ka as ‘Vital Force’ A final main trend, which has not, however, been particularly influential in the most recent scholarship,33 sees the ka as a highly abstract notion of ‘vital force’ or the like. This idea was originally suggested without much of a supporting argument by Erman34 and notably forms the basis of the detailed discussion of the ka concept by Frankfort.35 There are a number of cases where the notion of ka seems to designate something less concrete and clearly delineated than 31 32 33

34 35

Borioni, Der Ka, 82. As also pointed out by Stadler, M.A., review of Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps und die Tugenden der ägyptischen Welt (Freiburg and Göttingen, 2003), JAOS 125/1 (2005), 128 f. Nor is it entirely abandoned, as evidenced by its forming the interpretive framework e.g. in Janák, J., ‘Journey to the Resurrection: Chapter 105 of the Book of the Dead in the New Kingdom’, SAK 31 (2003), 193–195. E.g. Erman, A., Die ägyptische Religion, 2nd rev. edn (Berlin, 1909), 102–103. Frankfort, H., Kingship and the Gods: A Study of Ancient Near Eastern Religion as the Integration of Society & Nature (Chicago and London, 1948), 61–78.

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either of the hypotheses of the ‘double’ or the ‘self’ would suggest, and in these cases, a rendering as ‘vital force’ or ‘life force’ often works remarkably well. This is especially true of cases where the transmission of ka is referred to, or in general when ka in the plural seems to designate a more abstract, less clearly countable ‘substance’ than a ‘double’ or a ‘self’. While such a highly abstract meaning makes it possible to translate a wide range of textual examples in a meaningful way, and the idea of a ‘vital force’ in some cases seems to be exactly what is referred to in the texts, it also becomes clear that certain groups of examples once again need to be rather forcedly explained away to retain this hypothesis. This is the case for instance with the broad range of evidence attesting to the idea that death entails a union in one sense or another of the person and his ka, most notably the expression of death as ‘going to one’s ka’ (discussed in more detail below). This clearly fits ill with a notion of the ka as life force, so Frankfort has to insert (as others have done both before and after) a further step without evidential support in the sources, but based purely on deduction from the suggested meaning of ka:36 Death is a crisis during which the vital force, the Ka, leaves the body. However, since the Ka is the force of life, and since man survives death, he is bound to have rejoined his Ka in the Beyond, even though it has left his body. The union of the ka and the person, as will be seen below, is quite amply attested in the sources, but the idea that the ka and the person are together while alive as well as their resultant temporary separation at death follow purely from the ‘life force’ hypothesis, rather than being attestable in the textual evidence. A related case is found with the fact that very often kas are localised in some sense in the ‘beyond’, which again is rather contrary to what one would expect from an immanent life force. In line with the deductive method just exemplified, Frankfort says of such examples: ‘[The dead] may also be called “the Ka’s that are in heaven,” since to live, whether on earth or in heaven, presupposes the Ka, the vital force. The expression is therefore a mere example of pars pro toto’.37

36 37

Frankfort, Kingship and the Gods, 63. Frankfort, Kingship and the Gods, 63.

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2.4 Ways Forward None of the previous treatments of the ka is thus entirely free from problems, although significant advances in the understanding of this concept have been made in the history of Egyptology. The comments made above on the previous interpretations of the ka also show that one of the main problems is finding an interpretation which is at once compatible with the rest of our knowledge of Egyptian ontology and is able to cover and relate a wide range of evidence from different contexts, in particular bridging the gap between the apparently divergent roles of the ka in life and in death. The latter problem was already identified by Bolshakov who points out that the different theories38 are not so incompatible as it might seem at the first casual glance. Erman’s ‘Lebenskraft’ being personified does not differ very much from Steindorff’s ‘Schutzgeist’ who may assume the aspect of a man’s ‘double’ in the spirit of Maspero, involving ‘individuality’ of the man in compliance with Wiedemann. Reconciliation of everything best resulting from these concepts at a radically new level is not only possible, but necessary. Although it does indeed seem intuitively possible to reconcile the various views, it has proven in practice to be much more difficult, and, as has been seen above, the more recent detailed treatments of the ka-concept by Bolshakov, Junge and Borioni have not managed to avoid the pitfall of taking one particular idea or group of data as the primary one, in relation to which the others become problematic and are hence treated as subordinate or even negligible. In summary, the ‘double’ hypothesis is able to account especially for the cultic importance of the ka by positing an intrinsic connection between ka and cult statue which is able to explain in a very concrete way why offerings and other cultic acts are said to be performed ‘for the ka’ of the deceased. However, the great majority of other contexts where the ka plays a role remain unaccountable for, and there is no actual textual support for the concrete identification of ka and statue. The ‘self’ hypothesis can be seen in some ways as complementary to this picture. This hypothesis provides an elegant account for such apparently psychological roles of the ka as are found in wisdom literature and other texts dealing with the thoughts and motives of living people. However, it is unable to explain why the ka would play any role in general after death, and especially the particular roles that we actually find in the texts. While expressions such

38

Bolshakov, Man and his Double, 128f.

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as offerings being ‘for the ka’ of the deceased might be explained away as mere formulae of address,39 more substantial problems are encountered in the complex roles played by the ka in mortuary literature. Finally, the ‘life force’ hypothesis is able to account for cases where the ka appears to be more of an abstract kind of force than the rather concrete, or at least clearly delineated, entity proposed by the other two hypotheses. The problem with understanding the ka as a life force is that its role in texts dealing with the dead appears to be almost exactly the opposite of what would be expected. Thus, whereas a ‘life force’ should be with or in a person while he lives and leave him at death, the Egyptian view seems by all accounts to be the opposite—apart from the special case of the king, the ka is not generally said to be with a living person (although it can certainly interact with the latter), but on the contrary being ‘with’ one’s ka is so characteristic of a dead person that ‘going to one’s ka’ can be used metonymically for dying. Each of the three hypotheses thus succeeds in offering quite attractive explanations for a part of the usages of the word ka in Egyptian texts, but by focusing in this way on a particular body of evidence, each also fails to convince as a general hypothesis of what an Egyptian ka can be. At the same time, the hypotheses are different enough, not only in their focus but also in their underlying assumptions, to make it impossible to perform a simple reconciliation drawing on the strengths of each and dispensing with the weaknesses.40 It is noteworthy that it is especially the role of the ka in mortuary literature that remains problematic in every one of the past hypotheses,41 whereas the cultic, psychological and abstract roles can each be explained relatively satisfactorily— although not all by any one hypothesis. This suggests that the intuitive Western ontology most clearly underlying the ‘personality’-hypothesis, but also playing

39 40

41

As suggested by Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps, 125 n. 248. Although overviews and articles in encyclopedias and the like often (not unreasonably) employ such an ‘additive’ approach where the explanations of each hypothesis are simply combined without any account of the relationship between them, a recent example being Nelson-Hurst, M.G., ‘Ka’ in Bagnall, R.S., K. Brodersen, C.B. Champion, A. Erskine, and S.R. Huebner (eds), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History (Malden, MA, 2013), 3672. The mortuary texts have been made the object of studies of the ka-concept as well, most recently by Lekov, T., ‘Ancient Egyptian Notion of Ka according to the Pyramid Texts’, Journal of Egyptological Studies 2 (2005), 11–38 and Popielska-Grzybowska, J., ‘Atum and Son: Some Remarks on Egyptian Concept of Eternity’, Études et Travaux 26 (2013), 538–546, but the results have rarely interacted with the three main hypotheses, tending instead to stress the primary roles of the ka in such texts such as the deceased meeting (and possibly merging) with his ka, and the ka as creative power passed on from father to son (for which see below).

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a significant role in the two other hypotheses may be the reason it is impossible to reconcile the insights of the various hypotheses. In order to attempt to remedy this, we will turn our attention to a set of mortuary texts which seem particularly promising for developing a framework which is not dependent on traditional notions of ‘aspects of the person’ or personality psychology. One characteristic of the ka-concept which has generally attracted little interest in the past is its relational nature. Especially in the mortuary literature, there is a fair number of examples of one divine being identified as the ka of another. In lieu of attempting to define what a ka is or should be a priori, such passages appear very promising for elucidating the kind of relationship that the concept expresses. Perhaps the clearest example, which will thus provide a good point of departure, comes from the Coffin Texts, spells 761–762.42 CT 761 consists of a spell of the Gliedervergottung type, where each of the body parts of the person addressed (in this case the deceased) is identified with a god, e.g. ‘Your head is Re, you face is Wepwawet’ (tp=k m rꜥ, ḥr=k m wp-wꜣwt),43 etc., ending with the summary ‘There is none of your body parts which is devoid of a god’ (nn ꜥt jm=k šwt m nṯr).44 The mythological role of the deceased is not named explicitly in this passage, but Geb is referred to as ‘your father’,45 thereby providing a clear point of contact with the following spell, CT 762, which begins by stating ‘You are the Allotter of Kas (Nehebkau), the son of Geb’.46 This probable identity between the roles in the two spells becomes the more interesting when CT 762 continues ‘You are the ka of every god’,47 and, paralleling the statement concerning body parts in the previous spell ‘There is no god whose ka is

42

43 44 45 46 47

Cf. Nyord, R., Breathing Flesh: Conceptions of the Body in the Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts (CNI 37, Copenhagen, 2009), 512–518. Note that there are no internal divisions between the individual ‘spells’ of the sequence labelled CT 761–765 (but they are separated as a group from the preceding spells by a horizontal stroke, CT III, 259g [226]), and that de Buck’s division thus rests on his intuition as to what ‘seems to be a separate spell’ (CT VI, 392 n. 1; cf. 392 n. 3, 393 n. 1, 394 n. 2). As the sequence is known from only one MS (T1L), the question whether CT 761–765 were understood as a single spell or a sequence of individual spells thus becomes a moot point, although the lack of formal separation would seem to speak in favour of the former option. In any event, the close phraseological parallelism between ‘There is none of your body parts which is devoid of a god’ (CT VI, 392e [761]) and ‘There is no god whose ka is not (in) you’ (CT VI, 392n [762]) indicates a close conceptual connection, which is the basis of the interpretation put forward here. CT VI, 391i [761]. CT VI, 392e [761]. CT VI, 391d [761]. CT VI, 392h–i [762]. CT VI, 392j [762].

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not (in) you’ (nn nṯr nb jwtw kꜣ=f jm=k).48 Thus, as the deceased is characterised both by all of his body parts being gods and in turn by being the ka of all the gods, it would seem that we have a situation where, expressed more generally, the relationship between a body part and the whole person is parallel to that between a person and his ka: Body part : person :: person : ka The implication of this would thus be that the ka plays the role here as a kind of ‘meta-person’ whose relationship to the ‘possessor’ of the ka is analogous to that between a human being and a body part.49 In itself this parallelism is perhaps not particularly useful for understanding the wide range of roles the ka plays in Egyptian texts, but once the mythological background of the Gliedervergottung spells is taken into account, we can arrive at a more useful formulation. In the Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts, the phenomenon of Gliedervergottung is generally connected with the manifestation of the deceased in the sky.50 The being thus ‘created’ through the divinisation of the body parts is one which incorporates the divine pantheon within his body, a mythological notion connected to the undifferentiated primeval state of the cosmos, and especially with Atum as creator of the world. In some cases, this connection is quite explicit,51 while in others it is more indirect, e.g. through puns52 or mythological allusions 48 49

50 51 52

CT VI, 392n [762]. This raises the interesting, but also very difficult question of the numerical relationship between ka and person. In general, the expression kꜣ=k / kꜣ=ṯ seems to indicate that a single person has a single ka, though other texts (as discussed below) apparently ascribe more than one ka to a person. While this problem has been discussed occasionally in the literature, the converse question indicated by CT 761–762 has hardly been touched upon. Given the relationship body part : person :: person : ka, one would expect that a single entity could be the ka of multiple persons (although it is also entirely possible that the mythological beings described in the mortuary texts possess extraordinary characteristics in this regard), an idea which is very difficult to substantiate conclusively in the texts, but may be of help in making sense of certain of the underlying concepts. Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 512–518 with further references, to which may be added the discussion by Lekov, Journal of Egyptological Studies 2 (2005), 29–33 of the sequence PT 213–222. Pyr. 135a–b [213], where all the body parts are identified with Atum, except the face which is Anubis. ‘Completed ( j.tm.tj) with every god shall you come into being’, Pyr. 147b [215] (cf. CT VI, 391h [761]). Note that Wd has the variant m tmt, with the latter word determined with the head with curved beard used as divine determinative in this monument, apparently understanding the words as ‘as a Complete One (fem.)’ or even ‘as a female Atum’.

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such as the being described in the Gliedervergottung spells having ‘the Twins of (Re-)Atum’ as the eyes,53 a clear reference to the mythology of Atum, Shu and Tefnut.54 This mythological background adds a further dimension to the Gliedervergottung spells in the Pyramid Texts and Coffin Texts, because it allows us to understand the body parts as being hypostases of the whole person in the same sense as the gods (in the first instance Shu and Tefnut, but by extension the whole divine pantheon) are hypostases of Atum as the primeval creator god.55 We can thus add a new relationship to those already paralleled: Body part : person :: person : ka :: hypostasis : undifferentiated potential This full set of relations can lead us to a hypothesis which is at once relational and rooted in Egyptian ontological conceptions (as opposed to modern Western psychological or eschatological expectations): The ka of a person is the undifferentiated potential of which the person is a manifestation, not necessarily as a realisation once and for all, but rather through a continuous process of actualisation. In itself this formulation is very abstract, and it clearly needs to be fleshed out through an analysis of the textual sources, but from the outset it already shows promise in terms of reconciling the problems and contradictions in previous interpretations. A central consequence of this new hypothesis would be that a living person reverts to a purely potential existence at death, and thus it makes good sense that it is the ka, rather than the person him- or herself that dwells in the tomb and is the recipient of offerings, as noted by the ‘double’-hypothesis. There is nothing in principle that makes this new hypothesis contradict the pivotal, more specific, notion in the ‘double’-hypothesis of the close connection between statues and the ka concept, but it can also not be taken for granted and needs to be examined in relation to the sources (which however, as noted by Fitzenreiter,56 tends to lead to a negative result). The ‘personality’-hypothesis as noted above fares quite well in accounting for the apparently ‘psychological’ use of the concept in the wisdom litera53 54

55 56

Pyr. 148c [215], in which spell the ears (148c) and body parts (ꜥwt, 149c) are also identified with the ‘Twins of Atum’; CT VI, 391k [761]. For the conceptual connection between divine body parts and the creation of the (other) gods, cf. also Assmann, J., Liturgische Lieder an den Sonnegott (Münchner Ägyptologische Studien 19, Berlin, 1969), 348. Described especially clearly in the case of Shu, said to ‘have come into being from the body (ḥꜥw) of the god who came into being by himself (i.e. Atum)’, CT I, 318/9b [75]. Fitzenreiter, Statue und Kult, 545–548.

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ture and related contexts, and the present interpretation of the ka as a potential or even ‘meta-person’ has a large degree of overlap with this explanation. At the same time, however, the more ontological nature of the explanation means that we do not have forcedly to extend the apparently ‘psychological’ nature of the ka in this connection to religious contexts where they fit less well. Finally, the present interpretation overlaps to a certain extent with the ‘vital force’-hypothesis, since the understanding of the ka as potential can also account for those more abstract usages that seem to fit an interpretation as ‘vital force’ so well. On the other hand, the problematic reversal of events surrounding death which becomes necessary for the internal logic of the understanding as ‘vital force’ is avoided: If the ka is the potential of which a person is actualised, a return to that potential existence at death is precisely what one would expect. Although this understanding of the ka is new, previous scholars have occasionally made indications in this direction, without, however, following them to an ontological conclusion. Thus, for instance, Wiedemann formulates the correlation between a person and his ka as analogous to the relation of ‘the verbal expression of some tangible reality to that reality itself, or as the name of any one to the person whom it designates’,57 so that in other words, the ka would correspond to the concept of an entity. This idea was speculatively developed further by Sayce who wrote:58 In a sense the Ka was the spiritual reflection of an object, but it was a spiritual reflection which had a concrete form. The ‘ideas’ of Plato were the last development of the Egyptian concept. They were the archetypes after which all things have been made, and they are archetypes which are at once abstract and concrete. In a similar vein, Kees understands the ka in the central case where gods and kings are concerned as ‘alle wesentlichen Eigenschaften, die ihm Kraft und Geistermacht zuerkennen’.59 While clearly on the same track as the point of view taken here, such interpretations nonetheless encounter problems in bridging the apparent gaps between the psychological, theological and ontological domains straddled by the ancient concept, especially in terms of the occasion57 58 59

Wiedemann, A., Religion of the Ancient Egyptians (London, 1897), 240. Sayce, A.H., The Religion of Ancient Egypt (Edinburgh, 1913), 49. Kees, H., Totenglauben und Jenseitsvorstellungen der alten Ägypter (Berlin, 1956), 48 (emphasis original).

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ally high degree of personification exhibited by the ka in Egyptian texts, and the complex role it plays in the mortuary sphere, both of which go quite far beyond what one would expect from such a largely ‘philosophical’ formulation of the concept. To show the way in which the proposed shift in ontological basis can be used to understand the Egyptian notion of ka and to reconcile the apparently very diverse usages of the concept, it will be helpful to provide an overview of the most frequently attested roles of the ka in Egyptian sources along with the ways they be understood in the framework proposed here.

3

Roles of the ka in Egyptian Texts

The overall roles played by the ka in the textual record of the Old and Middle Kingdoms can be categorised under a relatively small number of headings. As has been suggested above, a general distinction can be made between the roles of the ka of living persons on the one hand and that of deceased persons on the other. Within each of these two main categories, a number of further subdivisions can be made to account for the vast majority of the occurrences of the ka concept: 1. The ka of living persons a. Origin of a range of behaviour, such as commanding, wishing, abhorring, as well as more concrete actions b. Qualities of the ka can be recognised in oneself or others c. Occasional references are found to kas being made, typically by a person’s superior d. A number of different personal names make reference to the identity or qualities of the ka e. The ka of the living king is represented on royal monuments accompanying him in various situations 2. The ka of deceased persons a. Upon death, the deceased person ‘goes to his ka’ b. Mortuary offerings are presented to the ka of the deceased—and correspondingly offerings for gods are made for their kas c. Relationships between various divine beings are described in terms of being or having ka d. A number of more specific actions by and relations to kas in the mortuary literature In the following, these roles will be discussed in more detail to show how each of them can be understood against the background suggested here. Given

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the relative frequency of the word, no exhaustive treatment of all occurrences has been attempted, and instead representative and particularly illuminating examples have been selected from the complete corpus of occurrences of the word to show how each group of examples can fit into the new overall understanding of the underlying concept. To the extent allowed by constraints of space, it will be illustrated how the concept can be understood in each of the contexts, and how the contexts in turn can make use of both the core meaning of the term and the relative fluidity of its implications to different ends. 1a Origin of Behaviour In a number of instances, the ka occurs as the origin of actions and other behaviour. This is true especially in the case of the king whose ka is often said to ‘command’ or ‘wish’ certain things or ‘favour’ worthy subjects. Thus, a relatively frequent wish for the king’s subjects is for his ka to favour them, as for example in a letter from a dependent to his master saying ‘Thus, may there be acted accordingly, so that the ka of the ruler may keep favouring you’,60 and similarly, a step down in the hierarchy, a singer is described as relating to his master as one ‘whom he loved and whom his ka favoured every day’.61 The ka can also be said to ‘perceive’ states of affairs that may not be immediately accessible for observation.62 In a more active sense, the actions carried out by the king’s men can be said to reflect the ‘wishes’ of the king’s ka.63 An important step on the way from wish to action is the command, and the orders given by the king are

60

61 62

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Lahun Papyrus UCL 32199, l. 12–13, Collier, M., and S. Quirke, The UCL Lahun Papyri: Letters (BAR International Series 1083, Oxford, 2002) = K. Sethe, Ägyptische Lesestücke zum Gebrauch im Akademischen Unterricht: Texte des Mittleren Reiches, 2nd revised edn (Leipzig, 1928), 97, l. 21. Stela of Nebankh from Abydos (CGC 20809, ANOC 46), Peet, T.E., The Cemeteries of Abydos, II (London, 1914), 117 and pl. 23, 5 = Sethe, Lesestücke, 87, l. 8. Sinuhe B, 205–216, Koch, R., Die Erzählung des Sinuhe (BAe 17, Brussels, 1990), 64–65, cf. Davies, W.V., ‘Readings in the Story of Sinuhe and Other Egyptian Texts’, JEA 61 (1975), 47– 48 for the reading. Sadek, A.I., The Amethyst Mining Inscriptions of Wadi el-Hudi (Warminster, 1980–1985), No. 143, B13, and cf. also the later examples of this cited and discussed by Lekov, T., ‘The Role of the Ka in the Process of Creation and Birth’, Journal of Egyptological Studies 4 (2015), 41–45. Compare further the similar idea in the Coffin Texts, stressing the ability of the ka to dwell where it wishes (CT III, 151a–b [205]; VI, 406s [772]), or the tomb owner ‘doing what his ka wishes’ in a marsh scene (Davies, N. de G., The Tomb of Antefoker, Vizier of Sesostris I, and His Wife, Senet (London, 1920), pl. 5), and the negative correlate where an action does not occur because it is the abomination (bwt) of the ka (CT VII, 412c–413a [1099]).

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often said to be the commands of his ka.64 Accordingly the king’s courtiers are occasionally presented praising the king by saying ‘What happens (ḫpr) is what your ka commands’.65 The latter expression stresses the potency of the king’s will and the unique creative power that allows it to come to fruition. However, the close connection between the notions of ka and actualisation (ḫpr) is relevant also for nonroyals. Thus, in the Teaching of Ptahhotep, one passage out of several of central importance for the understanding of the ka concept deals with how one should act in the presence of a nobleman from whom a favour is hoped for:66 In case a nobleman is at bread, his behaviour is according to the command of his ka (wḏ kꜣ=f ). He is going to give to him whom it favours. Actualisation (ḫpr) is a nocturnal propensity (sḫr n grḥ): It is the ka that stretches out his hands. A nobleman gives without anyone asking. This passage contains a number of revealing remarks on the role of the ka. Ostensibly, the passage deals with the rather prosaic topic of table manners. The passage warns that it is evidently considered bad form to ask the nobleman presiding at a meal for bread—instead, it is the duty of the noble to pass out bread to those around him without it being requested. This apparently banal rule of etiquette is however substantiated with much more profound considerations concerning the nature of actualisation and the role of the ka.67 Thus, first it is said directly, as might have been surmised from the role of the king’s ka referred to above, that the nobleman’s behaviour ‘is according to the command of his ka’. In comparison with the more concise statement that the commands of the king’s ka are actualised, this passage introduces a further step. Here, the nobleman’s ka makes a command which in turn conditions the nobleman’s behaviour. As the following sentence specifies, it is not the whims of the nobleman directly, but rather the favour of his ka, that determines who will receive boons. This leads to the most abstract formulation of the question in this pas64 65

66 67

E.g. Urk. I, 38, 8–10. Neferhotep Abydos inscription, l. 6 (Helck, W., Historisch-biographische Texte der 2. Zwischenzeit und neue Texte der 18. Dynastie, 2nd edn. (Wiesbaden, 1983), 22); sim. Urk. I, 109, 11; Koptos stela of Rahotep, l. 3–4 (Helck, Historisch-biographische Texte der 2. Zwischenzeit, 59). Ptahhotep 135–140, Z. Žába, Les Maximes de Ptaḥḥotep (Prague, 1956), 26–27. As Willems, H., Historical and Archaeological Aspects of Egyptian Funerary Culture (Leiden and Boston, 2014), 208–209, has recently pointed out, the passage involves a very lofty parallelism between the nobleman in the passage and the god, presumably as the ultimate origin of the boons the nobleman bestows.

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sage: ‘actualisation is a nocturnal propensity’. In the context of this passage, it seems that what is meant by this is that the vectors and processes leading to actualisation are shrouded in darkness and thus beyond mundane influence. The origin of this mysterious dynamic is the ka, so that in the concrete case, ‘it is the ka that stretches out his hands (to give bread)’. The passage ends by characterising the special qualities of a nobleman, namely that he ‘gives without anyone asking’. It is immediately obvious how passages like this can give an impression that the ka is a kind of ‘self’, understood here as the condition of a person’s behaviour. What is at issue is clearly the autonomy of the nobleman over against potential manipulation by his underlings. However, the passage also stresses the opposition between the nobleman’s ‘self’ and his ka when emphasising that ‘it is his ka (rather than the nobleman himself) who stretches out his hands’. The broader idea seems to be that whereas the nobleman, as any human being, is potentially open to being manipulated, there is a deeper origin to his generous behaviour that is beyond the reach of mundane influence. That it is something rather more profound than simply a ‘self’ beyond the ‘self’ is shown by the abstract substantiations that lead to the very core of the mystery of actualisation. This important passage thus shows that the previous examples should probably also be seen in a different light. Rather than being the ‘self’ of a person, it seems that the ka can be better understood as a kind of meta-person forming the condition of possibility of a person’s behaviour. Another passage from the Instruction can serve to cast additional light on the other side of a similar social situation, as the pupil being instructed is now placed in the role of the nobleman handing out boons to those who need it. In this position, he is told:68 Gratify your dependents with what has accrued (ḫpr) for you, as it has accrued (ḫpr) for one favoured by the god. Regarding one who is depleted from satisfying his dependents, one says, ‘That is a generous ka’.69 One

68

69

Ptahhotep 339–347, Žába, Ptaḥḥotep, 43. See also the detailed discussion of this passage by E. Oréal, ‘“Bienvenue!” (Ptahhotep, Maxime 22)—Répartition des biens et salut individuel’, RdÉ 59 (2008), 335–356 with references to earlier translations and interpretations. The first part of this sentence is usually understood as referring to a failure to carry out the advised action, e.g. ‘Quand à celui qui manque de donner satisfaction à ses intimes’, Vernus, P., Sagesses de l’Égypte pharaonique (Paris, 2010), 94, or ‘Of the man who fails to gratify his close friends’, Parkinson, R., The Tale of Sinuhe and Other Ancient Egyptian Poems 1940– 1640 BCE (Oxford, 1997), 257. Correspondingly, the second part has either to be understood

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cannot know what will happen (ḫpr) when he perceives tomorrow. The upright ka from which people are gratified is a (real) ka. When occasions of favour happen (ḫpr), it is the dependents who say ‘Welcome!’ This passage can be used to elucidate further the close connection between ka and ḫpr. The beginning of the passage describes the (probably predominantly material) goods that have accrued for a person as coming ultimately from the favour of the god, thus positioning the affluent individual in a hierarchy of actualisation between the god and those dependents to whom riches can be transmitted. The role of a person in this position is thus, according to the text, precisely to pass on his riches. The two passages from the Teaching of Ptahhotep quoted here can thus be read in tandem as descriptions of generosity as seen from the two different sides of the social hierarchy. For the receiver, the task is to trust in the generosity of the ka to provide for him, while for the giver, the challenge is to become the conduit or manifestation of precisely such a ‘generous ka’. The second part of the passage is slightly less clear, but seems to deal with the gratitude shown by the dependents favoured.70 The most important statement in this part of the passage for our purposes is that ‘The upright ka from which people are gratified is a (real) ka’. The role of the ka here is exactly the same as in the previous passage where the ka was said to ‘stretch out his hands (to give bread)’. Again, the ka is the condition of possibility of behaviour, espe-

70

ironically, e.g. ‘they say “Isn’t he a lovely spirit?”’, Parkinson, Tale of Sinuhe, 257; or a negative meaning of ꜥꜣb(t), otherwise meaning something like ‘pleasing’, with a more frequent nominal root referring to a kind of gifts or offerings, cf. Wb. I, 167, 7–8 and 10–12, must be supposed (finding some support in the L1 variant of the present passage, which has ꜥwꜣ, ‘robbing’), e.g. ‘On dit: “C’est un ka égoïste!”’, Vernus, Sagesses, 94, and cf. the most recent discussion in Davies, V., Peace in Ancient Egypt (Harvard Egyptological Studies 5, Leiden, 2018), 74 n. 47 (translating simply ‘He is selfish’). However, the collocation šw m, ‘empty of’ seems generally to take as an object either a general abstract quality (e.g. jw, ‘injustice’ in Khakheperreseneb vs. 2, Parkinson, ‘The Text of Khakheperreseneb: New Readings of EA 5645, and an Unpublished Ostracon’, JEA 83 [1997], 58) or a concrete thing (e.g. ‘bread for the mouth’ in Ptahhotep 102, Žába, Ptaḥḥotep, 24), which is not possessed by the entity described. It does not otherwise seem to be used of specific actions that the entity avoids or fails to carry out (probably because the basic metaphor of containment is less compatible with this idea). For this reason, a non-collocational understanding has been preferred here. Either way, because the overall sense of the passage is so clear, the role of the ka as instigator of action, and the process of deducing qualities of the ka based on observable behavior, are evident whether the description in this sentence is understood to be positive or negative. Cf. the recent interpretation of this line as referring to postmortem rituals in Oréal, RdÉ 59 (2008), 335–356.

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cially (at least in the case of the nobleman discussed here) the generosity that passes on riches and sustenance from the noble to his dependents.71 While, probably due to some extent to the nature of the sources, a great many examples of the ka as origin of action concerns generosity and favour from people higher in the socioeconomic hierarchy, other types of behaviour originate in the ka as well. Thus, a prince is greeted by a wise man with a series of wishes for his wellbeing, including ‘May your ka vent its anger against the enemy’.72 The ka may also have occasion to ‘rejoice’,73 and a letter writer sending his best wishes hopes that the ka of the recipient will ‘know welfare’.74 When taken together, these instances of ‘perceiving’, ‘wishing’, ‘commanding’ as well as more direct actions exhibit a quite advanced degree of personification of the ka, crediting it with both perception and will, and the means to carry out its will. At the same time, however, texts also stress the inaccessible nature of the ka, and several of the descriptions imply that the general mode of actualisation of a ka (and its ‘wishes’, ‘commands’ etc.) goes through the behaviour of the ka’s possessor. The ka thus comes to function as the hidden and mysterious source of royal favours but also more generally as a tendency to behaviour sometimes explicitly presented as belonging to a deeper layer than the more readily accessible personal inclinations that we might term ‘self’ or ‘personality’. At the same time, the close connection to the notion of ḫpr also shows that the ka is characterised above all by a kind of excess of affects (in Baruch Spinoza’s sense of ability to affect or be affected)75 capable of becoming actualised in various ways. In the examples above, these affects have resulted primarily in the behaviour of the human being whose ka is talked about, but as will be seen below, they hold a somewhat broader potential.

71 72

73

74

75

The same basic role of the ka is behind Ptahhotep Maxim 26 (388–398 = Žába, Ptaḥḥotep, 47), explicitly playing on the connection between kꜣ and kꜣw, ‘provisions’. pWestcar 7,25, Blackman, A.M., The Story of King Cheops and the Magicians: Transcribed from Papyrus Westcar, Berlin Papyrus 3033 (Reading, 1988), 9, 14–15. For the reading ḫftj without the 2nd pers. pronoun, see Lepper, V., Untersuchungen zu pWestcar: Eine philologische und litteraturwissenschaftliche (Neu-)Analyse (ÄA 70, Wiesbaden, 2008), 66. Hymns to the Diadem 14,5, Erman, A., Hymnen an das Diadem der Pharaonen: Aus einem Papyrus der Sammlung Golenischeff (Berlin, 1911), 46; Herdsman l. 14 (in the plural), Gardiner, A.H., Die Erzählung des Sinuhe und die Hirtengeschichte (Leipzig, 1909), pl. 16. Bakir, A.-el-M., ‘The Middle-Kingdom Cairo Letter: A Reconsideration (Papyrus 91061 = CGC No. 58045)’, JEA 54 (1968), pl. VII, vso 1 = James, T.G.H., The Ḥeḳanakhte Papers and Other Middle Kingdom Documents (New York, 1962), pl. 27, 1. Cf. Massumi, B., ‘Notes on the Translation and Acknowledgements’ in Deleuze, G., and F. Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. B. Massumi (Minneapolis, 1987), xvi.

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1b Qualities of the ka As was seen in the previous section, since the ka is the origin of a wide range of behaviour, qualities of the ka of other people can be deduced from the tendencies exhibited by their actions. We have already encountered the example from the Teaching of Ptahhotep where a person tending to pass on his riches to sustain his dependents can be deduced to have ‘a generous ka’.76 Such ascriptions of qualities to the ka of a person is likely to underlie the various examples of personal names incorporating the word discussed under heading 1d below. Additionally, some of the qualities ascribed to the ka, notably ḥtp, conventionally glossed as ‘satisfied’, are found mainly in connection with cultic services for the ka of a deceased or a god, and will correspondingly be discussed in section 2 below. A single further example should be discussed in more detail at this point. In the tomb of Rashepses at Saqqara, a wall scene shows prisoners being brought forward (Fig. 7.1). Among the brief exclamations made by the persons depicted is the profession: ‘Truly, my ka is perfect! What have I done?’.77 It is highly tempting to connect this with the very similar wording that might be used by a modern person in an analogous situation, ‘My conscience is good’. Indeed Erman, one of the early commentators on this inscription, notes that ‘danach entspräche der Ka auch dem Gewissen’.78 As has been seen, however, whereas conscience in the modern sense is a reaction to the memory of deeds carried out in the past, the ka rather plays the role as the origin of particular acts. This is what results in the slightly misleading similar wording, since conscience can be ‘good’ if no evil has been committed in the past, whereas a ‘good’ or ‘perfect’ ka means that no evil can be committed, since the ka is the condition of possibility for behaviour. The depicted prisoner, then, probably means not so much ‘I didn’t do it’ as ‘I just don’t have it in me’ or ‘I could never do something like that’. It is likely that the same role of the ka as tendency to behaviour is referred to when a Middle Kingdom official refers to himself using the laudatory phrase ‘repeater of his ka’.79 While the exact meaning of this epithet is uncertain, it fits in the context of the examples discussed here as a designation of one who continuously allows his ka to manifest, either through behaviour as in the examples above, or possibly by means of progeny, as will be discussed further below. The 76 77 78 79

Ptahhotep 342, Žába, Ptaḥḥotep, 43. LD II, 63, reproduced here as Fig. 1. Erman, A., Reden, Rufe und Lieder auf Gräberbildern des Alten Reichs (APAW 15, Berlin, 1919), 51. Stela Louvre C15, l. x+5, Gayet, A.-J., Stèles de la XIIe Dynastie (Paris, 1889), pl. 54.

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figure 7.1 Prisoner from the tomb of Rashepses redrawn by Henrijette Vex Nyord after LD II, 63

positive sense of this phrase most likely lies in the fact that unlike the case of the prisoner, the nature and quality of the ka of the official is beyond doubt. 1c Creation of and by the ka As has already been seen, the notion of ka is intimately connected to the transmission of riches through the hierarchical Egyptian social structure. In the Ptahhotep passage quoted above, this connection was substantiated by referring to riches as ultimately being a result of divine favour, a favour accrued precisely by fulfilling one’s role as a transmitter. This hierarchy of responsibilities means that ultimately a person’s ka—in the first instance in this specific sense of the origin of one’s fortune, but probably also more generally—is fundamentally dependent on his superiors. One way in which this idea can be expressed is by a dependent referring to his master as the ‘one who made his ka’.80 Such ideas, where the notion of ka comes to play a role as a kind of mortar of a tiered society, are comparatively rare in the Old and Middle Kingdom, but appear to develop into a full-fledged socio-religious model in the Amarna period several centuries later.81 80 81

Griffith, F.Ll. and P. Newberry, El Bersheh, II (London, s.a.), pl. 21 below, l. 15. Cf. Nyord, R., ‘Døden i Akhetaton’ [Death in Akhetaten], in Manniche, L., and B.D. Hermansen (eds), Fokus på Amarna: Akhenaton og Nefertitis Univers (Aarhus, 2008), 116–118.

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In mythological terms, however, the gods can also be said to be responsible for the creation of the ka, as evidenced by a childbirth incantation.82 The heading of the spell in question has been lost, but it is evidently meant for expediting a difficult birth and begins with a speech addressed to the birth-goddess Meskhenet. The passage concerning the ka is difficult and ambiguous, but the spell makes reference to the involvement of both Meskhenet (treated in this spell as a counterpart to the sky-goddess Nut) and Geb in the creation of the ka of the child while it is still ‘in the belly of this woman’.83 The rationale of this reference appears to be that while the child has not yet been born and thus exists only in a hidden and potential form, the gods have already created its ka, thereby affirming and delineating its tendency to being. According to the logic of the spell, this apparently entails that the successful birth is inevitable, just as the second part of the spell draws on the parallel of the daily birth of the sun from the sky-goddess to make the successful birth take place with the same certainty.84 The spell thus indicates that the ka of a child is created, at least in this particular instance, while the child exists in a potential form inside the womb of the mother and that once the ka is created, its imminent manifestation is more or less secure. A different perspective on the role of the ka in relation to childbirth is offered by another frequently-cited passage from the Teaching of Ptahhotep:85 If you are a successful man, you should beget a son to please the god. If he is upright and follows your character, and he looks after your property in the right way, then you shall do everything good for him: He is your son, whom you ka has begotten for you. Do not turn your heart away from him. But one’s seed can also cause quarrels: If he goes astray and transgresses your counsels and disregards everything that is said, and his mouth runs over with despicable words,

82 83 84 85

Mutter und Kind, spell F (V,8–VI,8); Yamazaki, N., Zaubersprüche für Mutter und Kind (Achet Schriften zur Ägyptologie B 2, Berlin, 2003), 24–26. Mutter und Kind V,10–VI,1; Yamazaki, Mutter und Kind, 24. For the mechanism, see Podemann Sørensen, J., ‘The Argument in Ancient Egyptian Magical Formulae’, AcOr 45 (1984), 5–19. Ptahhotep 197–214, Žába, Ptaḥḥotep, 31–32.

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while his face is far from what is in his hands, then cast him away: he is not your son! It is not to you that he is born. The importance of this passage for the present purposes lies in the role ascribed to the ka of the father in relation to the child (note that, unlike the birth spell just discussed, the ka of the child is not explicitly referred to here).86 The passage operates rhetorically with two different senses of the word ‘son’, distinguished precisely by the involvement of the ka. In the first case, the true son who takes after his father is characterised as being ‘begotten’ by the ka, whilst the second case has a son who shows by his behaviour and incompetence that the father’s ka cannot have been involved.87 As such the ka becomes here an expression of the classificatory kinship between father and recognised son, and the nature of this connection is characterised in explicitly procreative terms. 1d Ka in Personal Names The word ka occurs quite frequently as a part of personal and royal names, offering a potential source of great importance for understanding the concept.88 However, the interpretation of personal names in Egypt is hampered by several factors.89 First, the lack of knowledge of the context of Egyptian naming practices means that the referents of the components of personal names often remain unclear. Some names appear to refer in one way or another to particular situations, perhaps that of birth or a connection to a particular deity, while others seem to be less context-bound statements of philosophical or 86 87

88

89

Cf. the recent detailed discussion of this aspect of the ka in Lekov, Journal of Egyptological Studies 4 (2015), 31–48. For the possible intertextuality between this passage and the similar wording in the Semna stela, see Hagen, F., An Ancient Egyptian Literary Text in Context: The Instruction of Ptahhotep (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA 2012), 159–160. An overview and discussion of the material is found in Schweitzer, Der Ka, 20–39 and most recently Scheele-Schweitzer, K., Die Personennamen des Alten Reiches: Altägyptische Onomastik unter lexikographischen und sozio-kultureller Aspekten (Wiesbaden, 2014), 101–107. G. Borioni, in an unpublished manuscript entitled ‘Der Begriff Ka in altägyptischen Namen und seine Deutung als das Selbst des Menschen’ kindly shared with me by its author, has interpreted the use of the ka-concept in private names along the lines of Junge’s understanding of the ka as ‘Selbst’. Cf. the recent overviews in Vittmann, G., ‘Personal Names: Function and Significance’ and ‘Personal Names: Structures and Patterns’, in Frood, E., and W. Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles, 2013), online at http://escholarship.org/uc/item/ 7t12z11t and http://escholarship.org/uc/item/42v9x6xp.

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theological significance. This problem is exacerbated by the second main challenge, namely that personal names are often written ambiguously (especially regarding the distinction between participles and relative forms and the possible presence of first person pronouns, but also more general cases of ellipsis), so that a given name will often be open to several different grammatical interpretations. For these reasons, using personal names as a source will often to some extent enable a researcher to corroborate his or her notions both of naming practices and of whatever particular concept is being investigated. Thus names are best used with some caution, and not as the main approach to a particular question. What can be done, however, is to examine what other concepts co-occur with the ka in naming practices, without initially prejudging the questions of reference, context and grammar referred to above. The material collected by Schweitzer on the basis of Ranke’s Personennamen,90 and the additional attestations in the most recent treatment by Scheele-Schweitzer,91 are of considerable interest from this perspective. The qualities associated with the ka in personal names can be grouped into a few general categories. The first is the association of the ka with creation, using such verbs as qd, ‘form’, jrj, ‘make’, wtt, ‘beget’ along with more sustained activities such as rnn, ‘nurse’, ḏfꜣ, ‘nourish’ and sꜣj, ‘sate’.92 This idea fits well with the creative or engendering role of the ka found elsewhere, and makes good sense given that such names would presumably have been given shortly after the birth of the child resulting from the ka’s engendering activity. Another group consists of expressions of the ka moving or being conveyed, including expressions with jj/jw, ‘come’, sšm, ‘lead’, sḏꜣ, ‘cross over’, šms, ‘follow’, ẖnn, ‘convey’ and jnj, ‘bring’, and possibly the verbs wṯs, ‘lift up’ and ṯnj, ‘raise up’ also form part of this group,93 which can generally be understood as an expression of the human being as the manifestation of the ka who thus brings the ka into existence.94

90 91

92 93 94

Schweitzer, Der Ka, 20–39. Scheele-Schweitzer, Die Personennamen des Alten Reiches, 101–107. As this work groups the names mainly according to suggested syntactic properties, the earlier semantic categorisation by Schweitzer (cited in the previous note) is generally followed here instead. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 35 and 36. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 34–37. Names such as ẖnw-kꜣ makes it difficult to know if the ka should be understood as subject (‘(My) ka conveys me’, understood thus by Scheele-Schweitzer, Die Personennamen des Alten Reiches, 103) or object (‘Conveyor of the ka’). Both interpretations would in principle make sense from the perspective taken here (as from a number of others), though the sense attached to the verbs of movement would be slightly different in each case. The existence of such a name as ẖrt-kꜣ, ‘She who carries ka’ (Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37 = Ranke,

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Similarly, the close association between ka and ‘life’ (ꜥnḫ) expressed in various ways95 is easy to understand in the context of naming a new-born child, either from the perspective taken here or from the ‘vital force’-hypothesis discussed above. This background may also be the reason why a few otherwise exceptional references to the ka ‘fighting’ (ḥwj, ꜥḥꜣ)96 are found in personal names—while this remains pure conjecture, it is easy to imagine such names referring to a difficult birth where the ka had to fight to come into existence.97 Another set of ontological expressions usually taken to refer to birth as the manifestation of the ka consists of the verbs wḥm, ‘repeat’ in the sense of becoming manifest again, mn, ‘firm’, a general expression of a stable manifestation, msj, ‘be born’, as well as two expressions referring to the event of actualisation as an act of ‘finding’ (gmj) or ‘catching’ (ḥꜣm) the ka.98 Other metaphors likely referring to the same process of actualisation are that of becoming ‘united’ (dmḏ) as well as a set of expressions of ‘waking up’ (rs) and correspondingly not ‘sleeping’ (sḏr).99 The close connection between ka and person along with the high degree of personification of the ka can explain the use of personal names in which the ka is associated with terms of familiarity and affection. Thus, expressions of ‘love’ (mrj) are found,100 along with characterisations of the relationship between person and ka in terms of ‘fraternising’ (snn), ‘companionship’ (smr) and ‘comradeship’ (rḥw).101 Given the close connection between ka and paternity elsewhere, a name like kꜣ=s-m-jt=s, ‘Her ka is her (fore)father’102 may either belong in the same general group, or possibly give another example of this more specific association. Other examples of such asymmetrical relations identify the ka as ‘lord’ (nb) or ‘protector’ (sꜣw?).103 A number of attestations refer to the spatial location of the ka, the precise relevance of which unfortunately remains largely obscure no matter which

95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103

PN, I, 277, no. 5) corroborates an interpretation where the person conveys the ka in the sense of being its manifestation and thereby actualising it, but it cannot be ruled out that some of the other expressions with verbs of movement should be understood the other way around. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37. Whereas the ‘self’-hypothesis could ascribe such names to the bellicose character of the person, giving a somewhat different interpretation. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 35. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 35. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37 (Ranke, PN, II, 70). Schweitzer, Der Ka, 35.

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interpretive hypothesis is followed.104 Some of these spatial expressions are very general such as m-ḥꜣt, ‘front’, m-ḥꜣ, ‘behind’, m st(=j?), ‘in (my?) place’, ḥr st(=j?), ‘on (my?) seat’, while others refer to cosmological locations of the ka, such as m ꜣḫt, ‘in the horizon’ or m ꜥḥ, ‘in the palace’, with m ḥb, ‘in festival’ as a slightly different related case. Others refer to the location of the ka inside the body, more specifically the interior ( jb) or the feet (rdwj). A final group places the ka ‘foremost’ with one of a variety of different expressions from the roots tp, ‘first’, ḫnt, ‘foremost’ or ḥꜣt, ‘front’. The precise meaning of such expressions, apart from the generally honorific associations with being in front, is difficult to discern. It is, however, worth noting that a number of the expressions in this category are found also with deities other than the ka, indicating that their meaning should be sought in a more general religious framework than the one occupying us here. Another group of names identify a particular god as being or having ka.105 In such cases, it is difficult to determine whether the general word kꜣ should be read or whether the names should be understood as referring specifically to the ka of the bearer of the name, thus reading kꜣ(=j).106 Since in other sources, notably the mortuary literature, the status of having a god as ka is generally restricted to other mythological beings, it is perhaps most likely that such names should be understood generally as statements to the effect that a particular god has or is ka-power than as a specific identification of the ka of a particular person, which would thus put such names on a par with other theophoric names which make general theological statements about the god in question.107 A similar ambiguity is found in the final group of names, which ascribe particular qualities to a ka. Here the parallelism between the qualities ascribed to the ka of gods108 and those ascribed to a ka with no designation of the owner109 raises the question whether the latter type of names should be understood as abstract designations of ka-power in general, or if a nfr-ḥr construction should be understood or a first person pronoun be supplied, making the name 104 105 106 107

108 109

Schweitzer, Der Ka, 37. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 30–32. As generally preferred by Schweitzer, ibid., and Scheele-Schweitzer, Die Personennamen des Alten Reiches, 102. Cf. Vittmann, ‘Personal Names: Structures and Patterns’, in Frood and Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, 5, and the discussion of this point concerning royal names in von Beckerath, J., Handbuch der ägyptischen Königsnamen (Mainz, 1999), 22– 25. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 32–33. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 39.

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into a specific statement about the ka of the name-carrier. This question is more difficult to answer in general, so here as well we will content ourselves with grouping the qualities ascribed to the ka according to their semantic domains.110 The majority of the qualities ascribed to the ka in personal names belongs to what I have termed the ‘vocabulary of manifestation’ elsewhere,111 including such domains as size (ꜥꜣ, wr), power (wꜣš, wsr, nḫt, sḫm), wellbeing (nfr, wḏꜣ) and purity (wꜥb), as well as more specifically ontological key concepts such as ꜥpr, ‘be equipped’, wꜣḥ, ‘endure’, mnḫ, ‘be efficacious’, ḫꜥ, ‘become manifest’, and ḥtp, ‘rest’. From the perspective taken here, such designations can be understood as characterisations of the manner of the manifestation of the ka, and as such become exactly the kind of statements one might expect in the hypothetical post-natal naming situation. Royal names offer a particular range of such qualities ascribed to the ka,112 sometimes in the form of participles where the king is credited with endowing the quality in question to the ka of the god.113 It is also worth noting that a number of these terms recur in the mortuary texts as qualities ascribed to the kas of various beings, as detailed in section 2d below. In conclusion, while the onomastic material does not offer much evidence for or against particular hypotheses, because its ambiguity means that it can be made to fit with most interpretations, when read in the light of the interpretive framework developed here it does offer some interesting expressions about the roles of the ka that are not found elsewhere. The overarching concern in names appears, not surprisingly, to be the manner and nature of the manifestation of the ka evidenced by the birth of the child and its circumstances. In addition to the notions of creation, begetting and the like, as well as much more general expressions of might, power, purity etc., the onomastic material offers a few metaphorical expressions not found elsewhere, notably the expressions of ‘finding’ or ‘catching’ the ka, emphasising an otherwise not particularly wellattested active role undertaken by living humans in making the ka manifest, as well as the metaphor of ‘waking’ vs. ‘sleeping’ expressing the dormant character of the ka in its potential state in opposition to the better-attested notion of the activity of the ka of living persons.

110 111 112 113

Cf. Scheele-Schweitzer, Die Personennamen des Alten Reiches, 104. Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 518, and cf. ibid., 48 for the notion of manifestation. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 26–27. Schweitzer, Der Ka, 29–30.

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1e The Royal ka In many ways, the royal ka plays the same roles as those of non-royal people, as has been seen above. At the same time, related to the hierarchical role of the ka as elucidated above, a few expressions are found indicating the role of the king as the ka of his subjects par excellence. Thus, in the Loyalist Teaching it is said simply that ‘The king is ka’,114 the following lines stressing the actualisation of this ka-power of the king along the lines examined above. Similarly a royal epithet characterises the king as being ‘foremost of the kas of all the living’,115 while a Middle Kingdom variant specifies that it is the king and his ka together who are thus placed in front of all the kas of the living.116 In one respect, however, the king’s ka differs in that it is frequently depicted as accompanying the king in various situations. The ka is shown in these cases as a standard with ka-sign embracing the ‘Horus’-name of the king. This standard can be located on the top of a pole with added human arms and occasionally other iconographic features, or it can be fully personified as a male anthropomorphic deity wearing the standard as a headdress. In either case, one of the arms often carries a pole with a bust of a human wearing the royal nemescloth. Both of these ways of representing the royal ka go back to the late Old Kingdom, but they are illustrated here with better-preserved examples from the White Chapel of Sesostris I (Fig. 7.2).117 Early commentators saw in this phenomenon the ka as a double of the king,118 and scenes such as this played an important role in the development of the ‘double’ theory of the ka as presented above. It is important to note, however, that the ka is not generally depicted as identical to the king, as one would expect if the role of the ka as a ‘double’ in the strict sense were central. This is most obviously the case in the more abstract renderings of the ka as a standard with human arms, but even when depicted in fully anthropomorphic form, the ka differs from the king in terms of dress and iconography.

114 115 116 117

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Cairo CG 20538, Sethe, Lesestücke, 68, 19. Cf. also Pyr. 149d [215], ‘You shall not perish, your ka shall not perish, you are ka’. E.g. Borchardt, L., Das Grabdenkmal des Königs Sꜥaḥu-Re, II (Leipzig, 1913), 80, pl. 5; 83, pl. 8; id., Das Grabdenkmal des Königs Nefer-Ir-Ke-Re (Leipzig, 1909), 28 f. Lacau, P., and H. Chevrier, Une chapelle de Séstostris Ier à Karnak (Cairo, 1956), I, 131; II, pl. 39, right. Cf. Hirsch, E., Die sakrale Legitimation Sesostris’ I: Kontakphänomene in königsideologischen Texten (Königtum, Staat und Gesellschaft früher Hochkulturen 6, Wiesbaden, 2008), 47–49. Cf. Maspero, Études, I, 47 n. 3.

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The iconography of the depicted royal ka marks it as belonging to a group of beings sometimes referred to as divine personifications. In the terminology developed by Baines,119 the royal ka either occurs as an ‘emblematic personification’ in the form of a divine standard carrying the Horus-name of the king, personified with the addition of anthropomorphic arms, or as a ‘general personification’ with human body and head marked as divine by its beard, its carrying ankh-signs etc., but which can only be identified more specifically due to hieroglyphs on its heads or in captions (Fig. 7.2).120 In other words, the royal ka is clearly not the double of the king in terms of iconography, but is rather shown as a divine being accompanying the king. It will go far beyond the purposes of this overview to discuss in detail the nature of the scenes in which the ka is shown behind the king.121 The overall picture is that it occurs with some frequency in ritual scenes, but that may simply reflect that such scenes account for the vast majority of 2-dimensional depictions of Egyptian kings in general. Given the roles of the ka in general, and the king’s ka in particular, as the origin of behaviour in written texts, it would be tempting to speculate on the meaning of the standard with the bust of a human with royal insignia often held in the ka’s hand, which with very few exceptions appears to be found only in this connection.122 The possibility presents itself that the origin of this standard may be a metaphorical description of the relationship between ka and person.123 With the ka as origin of behaviour or tendency to action in some sense existing at a deeper or less readily accessible and observable level than the actual individual, the idea of the person as a puppet held on a stick controlled or strongly influenced by its divine origin seems very apt indeed. While such a description would thus be quite fitting in relation to many of the roles of the ka in written sources, without any Egyptian texts elucidating the significance accorded to the standard, this idea remains pure conjecture and is best set aside for the time being.

119 120 121 122 123

Baines, J., Fecundity Figures: Egyptian Personification and the Iconology of a Genre (Oxford, 1985), esp. 37ff. Baines, Fecundity Figures, 38–41. For depictions of the royal ka in New Kingdom ritual scenes, see Bell, L.D., ‘Luxor Temple and the Cult of the Royal Ka’, JNES 44 (1985), 251–294. Kusber, Der altägyptische Ka, 82; Barguet, P., ‘Au sujet d’ une representation du ka royal’, ASAE 51 (1951), 205–215. Erman, A., Aegypten und aegytisches Leben im Altertum (Berlin, 1885), vol. II, 414, already pointed out that given the royal iconography, the head should most likely be understood as that of the possessor of the ka.

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figure 7.2 The royal ka as depicted in the White Chapel of Sesostris I (Left: scene 8; Right: scene 26′) Redrawn by Henrijette Vex Nyord after Lacau, P. and H. Chevrier, Une chapelle de Sésostris Ier à Karnak (Cairo, 1956), II, pls. 15 and 39, collated with photos in Arnaudiès, A., N. Beaux, and A. Chéné, Une chapelle de Sésostris Ier à Karnak (Paris, 2015), pls. 15 and 39

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One exceptional case of a depiction of the royal ka should be mentioned here, which is often referred to, but in many cases without pointing out its unique nature. This is the wooden statue now in the Cairo Egyptian Museum of the royal ka of king Auibre Hor (CG 259),124 depicted as a striding man exhibiting otherwise unremarkable divine iconography with wig and beard. What sets this statue apart is the presence of a large, sculpted ka-hieroglyph on the head of the statue. The presence of a hieroglyph on the top of the head is a frequent means of identifying deities in Egyptian iconography by spelling their name or an important part of it, so there is little doubt that this statue does in fact represent a ka, and the original gold leaf text bands (now lost) on both sides of its shrine characterise the king as ‘beloved by the Living Ka presiding over the pr-nw-shrine’ (left side) and ‘beloved by the Living Royal Ka presiding over the pr-nw shrine’, respectively.125 This is a frequent way of indirectly identifying a represented divine entity, so we are on firm grounds in concluding that the statue depicts this ‘living ka’. The statue is one of a pair both carrying the ka-hieroglyph on the head, although the second, smaller statue is very badly preserved.126 It is tempting in this light to surmise that the second statue would have been associated with the pr-wr-shrine which is the southern counterpart of the northern pr-nw-shrine identified in the shrine inscription, thus making the question of their precise role in the tomb assemblage more complicated than it might appear at first.127 The fact that the tomb contained a pair of ka-statues, perhaps aligned respectively with shrines of Upper and Lower Egypt, makes it likely that their role is more specialised than that of ‘ordinary’ cult statues. Combined with the exceptional nature of the explicit identification of the statues as representing the royal ka, it becomes far less likely that Hor’s statue should be taken to indicate that all tomb statues in fact depict the ka, especially since Auibre Hor’s statue follows the conventions of 2-dimensional representations by depicting the royal ka, not as a ‘double’ of a king with royal iconography, but rather with general divine iconography.

124 125 126 127

Borchardt, L., Statuen und Statuetten von Königen und Privatleuten im Museum von Kairo (Berlin, 1914), I, 166 and pl. 56. de Morgan, J., Fouilles à Dahchour, mars-juin 1894 (Vienna, 1895), 93, figs. 214–215. de Morgan, Dahchour, 95. Aufrère, S.H., ‘Le roi Aouibrê Hor: Essai d’interprétation du matériel découvert par Jacques de Morgan à Dahchour (1894)’, BIFAO 101 (2001), 21–24.

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2 The ka of Deceased Persons As seen above, the main roles of the ka of living persons, be they royal or nonroyal, is that of a condition of possibility of, or a tendency to, behaviour or, differently put, a kind of meta-person. For obvious reasons, this role is not very pronounced when it comes to the ka of dead persons. Instead, the general picture presented by the sources dealing with the dead is a complementary one, showing that the role as condition of possibility of behaviour is just a subset of the role of the ka, which seems to be more precisely characterised as a person’s condition of possibility of, or tendency to, being. 2a Death as ‘Going to One’s ka’ The first indication that the ka concept is broader than just the tendency to behaviour discussed so far is found in a series of expressions of the fundamental transformation of the relationship between person and ka at the death of the former. One frequent way of expressing this change is the often-quoted phrase saying that the person ‘goes to his ka’. That this refers to the death of a human being is made clear for instance by tomb dedications made for an ancestor after his death, e.g. ‘As for this (false door), it was his eldest son N who made (it) for him, while he was in the West, having gone (ḫpj) to his ka’.128 Other good examples of this expression come from the spell comments found in mortuary literature which deal precisely with the situation where a person has ‘gone to his ka’, such as ‘As for him who knows this spell, he shall be at the portal in the sky when he has gone to his ka’129 or ‘As for him who knows this spell in the Field of Offerings, he can do anything he wishes like when he was on earth, though he has gone to his ka’.130 The basic idea that the person undertakes a movement with the ka as goal can be understood as a spatial expression of a conflation of the ontological distance between the ka and its manifestation, the person. The distance between person and ka in life thus becomes an expression of the continuous actualisation of the person, and the return of the person to the ka dissolves that actualisation. In terms of vocabulary, the expressions of ‘going to one’s ka’ vary slightly around the basic notion of undertaking a movement that puts a person in the vicinity of his or her ka.131 The most usual verb is zbj, ‘depart’, ‘go away’, fol128 129 130 131

Urk. I, 227, 6–7; sim. Urk. I, 34, 4–6; Kanawati, N., The Rock Tombs of El-Hawawish: The Cemetery of Akhmim 7 (Sydney, 1987), fig. 11, ll. 4–5, p. 21 (with the verb zbj). CT IV, 50l [297]. CT VI, 343d–g [712]. Examples have been conveniently collected in Kusber, Der altägyptische Ka, 139–144 (cf.

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lowed by the preposition n, ‘to’.132 In an often-cited passage found both in the Pyramid Texts and the Coffin Texts describing various gods who have gone to their kas, with whom the deceased is paralleled, we find instead the preposition ḫr, ‘to (a superordinate person)’,133 while a variant consistently uses the preposition ḥnꜥ, ‘with’ instead.134 At least in the final case, the idea seems to be that the gods are moving along with, rather than towards, their kas, since the expression is followed by a passage indicating that the person and the ka are together, or have even merged completely (see below for further references to this basic idea): ‘O N, the arm of your ka is before you; O N, the arm of your ka is behind you; O N, the leg of your ka is before you; O N, the leg of your ka is behind you’.135 Some of the examples cited above of monuments made after the death of their owner136 use the verb ḫpj, ‘walk’, followed by the preposition n, ‘to’ instead, showing that this can mean the same thing. Expressions with other verbs of movement are found only in less clear contexts where it is not certain that they mean the exact same thing, although in cases like šm n/ḫr, ‘go to’, referring to a group of gods who have gone to their kas, this seems quite likely.137 Other examples,138 like those just discussed of the expression zbj ḥnꜥ, ‘go (away) with’ are

132 133 134 135 136 137 138

also Hannig, R., Ägyptisches Wörterbuch I: Altes Reich und Erste Zwischenzeit (HannigLexica 4, Mainz am Rhein, 2003), 1348), but his argument against understanding zbj n/ḫr as a movement towards the ka rests on the questionable premise that all expressions involving movement in relation to the ka must have the same meaning, and for this reason ultimately fails to convince. While the verb zbj is not part of her material, StauderPorchet, J., La preposition en égyptien de la première phase: Approche sémantique (Basel, 2009), has shown the allative meaning of n followed by an animate noun with other verbs of movement ( jwj: 103; prj: 172; šm: 214–215), and that the preposition ḫr has a similar meaning with the added notion of deference towards the being towards whom the movement takes place ( jwj: 106). Against this background there is little reason to doubt that zbj n/ḫr kꜣ is also an example of the prepositions expressing movement towards an animate noun, although the use of the preposition ḥnꜥ and other expressions discussed below show that a deceased person could also be conceived of as travelling together with his or her ka (possibly as a subsequent stage after having first gone away to join it). E.g. Urk. I, 50, 15, ‘the property of one who has gone to his ka’. Pyr. 826a–b [447]; 832a–b [450]; 1431a–b [568]; CT VII, 22f–j [821]. Pyr. 17a–c [25], CT VII, 142q–v [936]. Pyr. 18a–b [25], cf. CT VII, 137k–l [936]. See n. 128 above. n: Pyr. 598c [359]. ḫr: Pyr. 829d [447], 836d–e [450]. Cf. the very similar reference using the expression zbj n, Pyr. 948b [475]. Notably the remainder of the examples discussed by Kusber, Der altägyptische Ka, 141–144.

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best interpreted as referring to a different situation, probably to be understood as a subsequent stage after the meeting of the person and the ka, at which point they can carry out various activities together, including ones expressed by verbs of movement. There are several variants of such expressions, some of which stress simply the spatial proximity of person and ka after death, as when it is stated in a very frequent formula found both in the Old and Middle Kingdoms that the person ‘is accompanied by his ka(s)’139 to a range of cosmic destinations that vary somewhat between the different instances of the formula,140 e.g. ‘to the pure places in the sky’,141 ‘to the places where the provided walk’,142 or, revealingly for the underlying ritual context ‘to his/her tomb of the necropolis’.143 Less frequently, the kas are said to ‘lead’ (sšm) rather than ‘follow’ (šms) the person,144 the locations however being very similar such as ‘on the perfect roads of the West’145 or ‘to the perfect West’.146 Very occasionally other verbs expressing the same basic idea are found, making it less likely that the reversion of roles is due to a simple phonetic metathesis (šms > sšm).147 Instead, it would seem that the main point is that the person and the ka are travelling together, with less importance being attached to whether it is the one or the other who leads or follows.148 This impression is corroborated by other expressions, such as the ka of the deceased ascending by the deceased’s side.149 The actual

139

140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147

148

149

Barta, W., Aufbau und Bedeutung der altägyptischen Opferformel (ÄF 24, Glückstadt, 1968), Bitte 33. Always with ka in the plural in the Old Kingdom, while Middle Kingdom occurrences sometimes have ka in the singular, cf. Lapp, G., Die Opferformel des Alten Reiches (Mainz, 1986), 76. For the Old Kingdom, see Lapp, Opferformel, 76–86. Kamal, A.B., ‘Fouilles à Deir Dronka et à Assiout (1913–1914)’, ASAE 16 (1916), 77. Kamal, A.B., ‘Rapport sur les fouilles executes dans la zone comprise entre Déirout au nord et Déir-el-Ganadlah, au sud (suite)’, ASAE 12 (1912), 99. Lapp, Opferformel, 85. Otto, Opferformel, Bitte 37. Firth, C.M., and B.G. Gunn, Teti Pyramid Cemeteries (Cairo, 1926), 122. Ibid., 230. sḫ⟨p⟩, ‘guide’, in Saleh, M., Three Old Kingdom Tombs at Thebes: I, the Tomb of Unas-Ankh No. 413; II, the Tomb of Khenty No. 405; III, the Tomb of Ihy No. 186 (Mainz am Rhein, 1977), 20 and pl. 6.3. Based on the sequence of the offering formula, Lapp (Opferformel, 86) has suggested that the two actions may refer to different, sequential stages of the journey, which is certainly possible. Pyr. 456d [301].

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meeting of the person and the ka(s) can be expressed as ‘May his hand150 be taken by his forefathers, by his kas’.151 A similar idea can be expressed by stating that the deceased carries out actions or achieves states accompanied by his ka, expressed most generally simply as ‘his ka being with (ḥnꜥ) him’,152 ‘his kas being around him’,153 ‘living with his ka’,154 ‘spending the day with his ka and going to bed with his ka’,155 or more specifically as carrying out particular actions or having achieved particular states ‘together with his ka’.156 The tendency to personify the ka which has already been seen above means that it is particularly apt to describe this relationship in social terms, e.g. the deceased partaking of meals with his ka.157 Elsewhere the idea is taken to what may be regarded as its logical consequence, namely an actual unison between the person and the ka: ‘Take N’s hand and navigate him ⟨to⟩ the Wall so that he may join with his ka (dmḏ=f ḥnꜥ kꜣ=f ) as God of the Field’.158 The overall scenario in terms of the spatial relationship between the person and his or her ka thus seems relatively clear: At death, the person undertakes a

150

151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158

It has been argued that the word ꜥ here should be understood as meaning ‘document’, cf. Lapp, Opferformel, 81–82 (with references to previous discussions), mainly on the basis of occasional writings of the word in this phrase with the scroll determinative (Y1). While the verb šzp, ‘receive’ is ambiguous in this regard, it should be noted, however, that the verb nḏr also used in this context seems to refer centrally to corporeally grasping and holding something in the hand, rather than a social act of accepting something into one’s possession, making it a somewhat unlikely candidate to express the delivery of a document. Thus, the verb is used of grasping persons (with direct object generally denoting a hostile act, and the partitive preposition m indicating a friendly or helpful act) or their body parts (e.g. the tail in Pyr. 543c [334], the head in Pyr. 739a [415], the tips of one’s own breasts in Pyr. 1282a [535], both hands in Pyr. 1405b [562]), but not of the transfer of an object from one person to another. While it can be used as a parallel of the more neutral verb šzp, ‘receive’ in other contexts as well, it is characteristic that this is only possible when body parts are concerned (e.g. Pyr. 1261c–1262a [532]), indicating the limited overlap in the meanings of the two verbs. Finally, the periphrasis with direct object and the preposition ḥr, ‘taking (someone) by (a body part)’ in very similar contexts of welcoming and leading another person (e.g. Pyr. 1115a [508]) shows that ‘grasping the hand’ is the most likely meaning, even if the writings occasionally point in a different direction. Urk. I, 189,14; 190,10. Barta, Opferformel, Bitte 36; Lapp, Opferformel, 81–82. Koefoed-Petersen, O., Les stèles égyptiennes (Copenhagen, 1948), pl. 9, l. B6. Pyr. 396a [273]. Pyr. 908b [469]. Pyr. 894a–b [468]. Pyr. 338a [263] (ḥnꜥ); CT VII, 128e [925] (ḫr); 137k [936] (ḥnꜥ). Cf. Greven, Der Ka, 24–25 for further examples from the Pyramid Texts. Pyr. 564b [347]; 789b–c [436]; CT IV, 58d [304]. CT VI, 303f–h [674].

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passage to the place where the ka is (a passage so characteristic that it becomes possible to use it to refer metonymically to death more generally), resulting in the meeting between the two parties. Having thus met, the person and his or her ka(s) can then be said to undertake a number of different actions together, generally the same ones which the deceased can also be said to undertake himself, e.g. in offering formulae, such as being involved in various cosmic journeys. A few further details about the interactions between the person and the ka can be used to flesh out this basic scenario. The ka is sometimes accorded a more active role, so that it is the ka which moves in order to reach the person rather than the other way around,159 which can also be expressed as the ka being brought to the person by someone else.160 Another variation is that messengers are sent out from the ka to the person as intermediaries.161 As part of the bodily reconstitution of Osiris by Horus, the ka can be said to be given to Osiris,162 and similarly as part of a list of reconstituted aspects of the deceased, it is said that ‘your ka is your protection’163 or ‘your ka belongs to you’.164 2b Ka as Recipient of Offerings to the Dead and the Gods Without a doubt, the most frequent role ascribed to the ka is that of the recipient of the traditional formula listing mortuary offerings. Such lists end, sometimes in the Old Kingdom and generally from the Middle Kingdom on, with the words ‘for the ka of N’, thus designating the ka of the deceased as the recipient of mortuary offerings.165 It has been argued that the role of the ka as recipient of mortuary offerings should not be taken too literally. Thus Junge suggests that: In den Anredeformen, insbesondere von Grabinschriften und Graffiti (n kꜣ n NN), ist somit natürlich auch nicht jemand als Verstorbener charak-

159 160 161 162 163 164

165

Pyr. 373b, 375a [268]. CT VI, 259d [636], where the person subsequently brings his ka to the sky himself. Pyr. 136b [214]. CT VI, 404e [769]; the broken passage in CT VI, 398i–j [767] appears to be similar. CT VII, 45i [840]. CT VII, 46r [840]. Cf. also the notion of ‘gathering kas’ as a reconstitutive act in CT V, 66j [392], although as noted by Faulkner, R.O., The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts, II (Warminster, 1977), 19 n. 4 ad loc., the word kas here seems to be a secondary reinterpretation of an original qsw, ‘bones’. Hannig, Ägyptisches Wörterbuch I, 1348–1349 id., Ägyptisches Wörterbuch II: Mittleres Reich und Zweite Zwischenzeit (Hannig-Lexica 5, Mainz am Rhein, 2006), II, 2547–2553. Cf. Lapp, Opferformel, 208 (§355).

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terisiert, sondern es ist eine respektvolle Form der Anrede: ‘für die Persönlichkeit des NN’, ‘der Person des NN’, ‘zu Ehren von NN’.166 This is certainly correct to the extent that living persons clearly also had a ka, so that the simple fact that something is said to be done ‘for the ka’ of someone may not strictly have entailed a status as deceased—although empirically this happens to be the dominant situation in which such expressions are found. However, the idea that ‘for the ka’ is simply a respectful way of referring to the person has a body of evidence against it that shows that not only does the ka occur as recipient of offerings and other ritual acts, but such acts have the capacity to influence and change the status of the ka, precluding a role as a mere figure of address. Thus for instance, mortuary rituals can be characterised as things that are done ‘to make perfect167 his ka’168 or described in general terms as ‘satisfying (sḥtp) your ka’,169 a notion which is also expressed indirectly as the ka becoming ‘satisfied’ (ḥtp) in the connection of receiving offerings.170

166 167 168

169

170

Junge, Die Lehre Ptahhoteps, 125 n. 248. nfr, presumably in the sense of ‘perfectly manifest’, though revisiting the lexicography of this central term as an ontological concept falls outside the scope of this paper. Moussa, A.M., and H. Altenmüller, Das Grab des Nianchchnum und Chnumhotep (Archäologische Veröffentlichungen 21, Mainz am Rhein, 1977), 63, and cf. pl. 16, third register for the location of the graffito. Mogensen, M., Le mastaba égyptien de la Glyptothèque Ny Carlsberg (Copenhagen, 1921), 19–20. As with nfr (see n. 167 above), the root ḥtp is another one that should be reexamined in the light of our growing understanding of Egyptian ontology and human conceptual structure more generally, though again this is beyond the purposes of this paper. Note the similar motivation behind Lekov’s suggestion of understanding ḥtp as referring to ‘merging’ in many such cases, JES 2 (2005), 22–24. Because of its primary focus on ḥtp as meaning ‘peace’ with related emotional and social associations, the recent monographic discussion of the meaning of root by Davies, Peace in Ancient Egypt leaves some scope for exploring such nuances in future work. E.g. setting up a stela for a god, ‘in order that his ka may be satisfied’, Hammamat inscription 192, 6 (Couyat, J., and P. Montet, Les inscriptions hiéroglyphiques et hiératiques du Ouâdi Hammâmât (MIFAO 34; Cairo, 1912), 98 and pl. 37), or the exhortation in the context of the mortuary cult to ‘Act for your ka, so that it may be satisfied (by it)’ (CT I, 156g [37]; 178a [42], cf. Willems, H., ‘The Social and Ritual Context of a Mortuary Liturgy of the Middle Kingdom (CT Spells 30–41)’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms (Leuven/Paris/Sterling, Virginia, 2001), 253–372 for the context of this spell sequence, and ibid., 311 n. 243 for the ascription of the clause in question to this liturgy). The expression is found especially frequently in stela inscriptions where the stela owner claims access to ‘offerings coming forth from before the Great God after his ka has been satisfied with them’ (e.g. British Museum EA 159, l. 3, Faulkner, R.O., ‘The Stela of Rudjꜥaḥau’, JEA 37 (1951), 48, l. 3; Cairo CG 20514, l. a3; Cairo CG 20548, l. a5).

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Other passages emphasise the interactional nature of the offerings, as when one ritual specialist describes himself as one ‘who presents the ka with what it loves’,171 and sometimes kas are explicitly said to ‘receive’ the offerings.172 Examples such as these show that the ritual actions were understood not only to be ‘for’ the ka in fairly literal sense, but also that the ka itself wished for the offerings, received them, and subsequently benefitted or even changed as a result, thus playing a role going well beyond a simple honorific periphrasis as suggested by Junge. While offerings are by far the most frequent cultic act performed for the ka, it is not the only one. Thus, the ka can also be the beneficiary (expressed with the dative) of such acts of the mortuary and divine cult as ‘music’ ( jḥj),173 ‘singing’ (ḥst)174 and ‘ululation’ (hn).175 2c Interrelatedness of Divine Beings in Terms of ka The notion of Atum or Atum-like beings as the ‘ka of all the gods’ was discussed in some detail above, where this relationship was explained by the ka constituting the potential of which a person or god is the actualisation. In a certain sense, the same can be said about the relationship between a father and a son, with the father embodying the existential potential of which the son is the manifestation.176 This idea was explored above (section 1c) from the perspective of the living in a passage from The Teaching of Ptahhotep, but it is also expressed often in the mortuary literature, especially the frequent identification in the Pyramid Texts of Osiris being or ‘containing’ the ka of his son Horus.177 This

171

172 173 174 175

176 177

Stela of Nakht, Metropolitan Museum of Art 11.155.1, Hayes, W.C., The Scepter of Egypt: A Background for the Study of the Egyptian Antiquities in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 1953–1959), I, 332, fig. 220. Berlin 7294, Roeder, G., Aegyptische Inschriften aus den Königlichen Museen zu Berlin I (Berlin, 1913), 202, A4. Clère and Vandier, Textes de la Première Période Intermédiaire, 10, 11 (§ 15). Cairo CG 1778, Borchardt, L., Denkmäler des Alten Reiches II (Cairo, 1964), 200, pl. 106. Pyr. 354b; 356d; 357d [265]; 361b [266]; 704a [405]. Compare also the apparently ironic use by a man beating two prisoners with a stick, depicted in the tomb of Khentika with the inscription ‘Perfect offerings for your ka: The like has not happened’, James, T.G.H., The Mastaba of Khentika Called Ikhekhi (London, 1953), pl. 9 (Text 60). I am grateful to one of the anonymous reviewers for this reference. Cf. Popielska-Grzybowska, Études et Travaux 26 (2013), 538–546 for this connection in the Pyramid Texts. Expressed with the particle js (Pyr. 63b [93], cf. most recently Oréal, E., Les particules en égyptien ancien de l’ancien égyptien à l’égyptien classique (Cairo, 2011), 106–107 for this usage marking identity rather than comparison), the preposition m, ‘in/as’ (582d [356], 647d [370]; with the verb ḫpr in 1609b [589]), or a nominal sentence (587b [357], 610d

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phenomenon is probably also the reason why it is not only Atum who can carry the epithet ‘ka of all the gods’, but also his heirs Geb and Osiris. Thus, in another Pyramid Texts spell, it is Geb as the primordial king and heir of Atum of whom it is said, ‘You are the ka of all the gods. In order to take them and give them life have you fetched them’.178 This logic may also explain that the heir of Geb to the throne, Osiris, can in turn become ‘the ka of every god’179 once again in the specific context of the transfer of rulership entailing that ‘Geb has given you [all the gods of the Nile Valley and the Delta]’.180 Elsewhere this connection between the ka and the father is expressed more indirectly, as in the passage ‘The messengers of your ka have come to you, the messengers of your father have come to you, the messengers of Re have come to you’.181 A similar case of parallelism is found in a phrase from the offering formula already cited above reading ‘may his hand be grasped by his forefathers, his kas’,182 also suggesting a close association, if not identity, between the deceased ancestors welcoming the deceased in their company and the kas of the deceased.

178 179 180 181 182

[364]). In the light of such statements, it is highly likely that the short offering text in PT 176, stating simply ‘O Osiris N, you are his ka’ (Pyr. 102b [176]) refers to Osiris as the ka of Horus, although Geb is mentioned last in the previous spell (Pyr. 102a [175]), making Faulkner, Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts, 33 n. 1 ad loc. suggest that the pronoun refers to this deity instead. Apart from the several examples just cited where Osiris is clearly identified as the ka of Horus, cf. also the surrounding spells (Pyr. 101e [173], 103c [179]) where the recipient of the offerings is identified as the ‘father’ of Horus in parallel expressions. Even more difficult problems are found in CT VI, 100d [520], where Horus tells his son Imseti, ‘You are his (sc. Osiris’s) ka’, thus very surprisingly identifying the ka with the grandson. The canopic chest spells, of which CT 520 forms part, suffer from considerable confusion in the pronouns (and/or unexpected and unmarked changes in the speech situation), occasionally making them difficult to understand (as noted by Faulkner, Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts, II, 149, n. 5 ad loc. and Lüscher, B., Untersuchungen zu ägyptischen Kanopenkästen: Vom Alten Reich bis zum Ende der Zweiten Zwischenzeit (Hildesheim, 1990), 72). Thus, the spells as transmitted offer incongruous designations of kinship such as Horus apparently addressing his sons Hapi (CT VI, 112e [521]) and Qebehsenuf (CT VI, 116a–b [523]) with the words ‘You are my father’. However, a partial parallel to this passage from Harageh seems to have a less corrupt version, and here Imseti says to Osiris, ‘Horus has protected you, you whom he loves, for you have become [his] ka (ḫpr.tj m kꜣ[=f ])’ (Engelbach, R., Harageh (BSAE 28, London, 1923), pl. 70, west side, column 1), giving the expected relationship between the participants. Pyr. 1623a–b [592]. Pyr. 1831d [649]. Pyr. 1830a [649], restored from the Middle Kingdom copies in CT VIII, 412. Pyr. 136b [214]. E.g. Urk. I, 189,14; 190,10.

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An oft-quoted passage from PT 600 can help us elucidate the interrelationship between the ka-concept and (cosmogonic) filiation: Atum Beetle, as a mount have you mounted, as the Benben-stone in the Mansion of the Benben in Heliopolis have you risen. You have spit out Shu, you have expectorated Tefnut. You have placed your arms around them as the arm of a ka, so that your ka may be in them. Atum, you have placed your arms around this N, around this building, around this pyramid as the arms of a ka, so that the ka of N may be in it, thriving unchangingly. O Atum, set your protection over this N, over his pyramid, this building of N’s, so you may prevent anything bad from happening to it unchangingly, just like the setting of your protection over Shu and Tefnut.183 That Atum is the ka of Shu and Tefnut, as we would expect from the parallel case of Osiris and Horus, is not stated directly here, but is perfectly in line with the explicit analogy between Atum’s bodily gesture and that of the ka.184 However, it is also clear that the role of the ka here is precisely that of transcending the gap between the generations, so that rather than Atum being the ka of Shu and Tefnut, we find the expression of Atum’s ka being in Shu and Tefnut, a state of affairs effected, however, precisely by Atum acting as a ka by putting his arms around those to whom the ka is transferred. So far, the passage thus fleshes out just the relationship we have come to expect in a bit more detail, and in so doing provides us with an interpretation of the outstretched arms of the kasign. Characteristically for this kind of analogies, however, the conceptual pattern is twisted slightly in the second part of the passage quoted, to make it fit to the ritual situation of the royal funerary monument. It is clear that the deceased king in principle plays the role of Shu and Tefnut who are under the protec-

183 184

Pyr. 1652a–1654d [600]. It is difficult on the basis of the extant material to answer the question of how expressions of someone’s ka being inside someone else relate to the notion of someone being the ka of someone else. In the quoted passage, it seems reasonable to assume that Atum’s ka being in Shu and Tefnut amounts to more or less the same thing as Atum being the ka of the two gods, and something similar may be the case in CT VI, 413f–i [783], ‘May Horus receive his thrones, and Osiris N, he forms him, so that his ka may be there. O Osiris N, it is your son Horus who has formed you, and your twins Shu and Tefnut who have formed you’. In other cases however the question is less clear, e.g. in CT VI, 83i [500], ‘You kas are with you, which are in every god’, which may or may not be related to the expressions of a god being ‘the ka of every god’ discussed above.

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tion of Atum through his embrace. But rather than the ka of Atum being in the funerary monument, as one might have expected from the mythological precedent, it is the ka of the deceased which is located there, although still as a result of Atum’s embrace. Strictly speaking, this breaks the logic of the first part of the spell, where the ka is transferred to subsequent generations through the embrace. However, it is not difficult to see how this glide can occur, as the text (the main theme of which is not cosmogony, but protection of the pyramid) expertly blends two different aspects of the ka-concept to achieve its ritual effect, one being the role of the ka in filiation, and the other being the ka as a ritual entity encountered in the cultic installations of the funerary monument. Apart from this explanation in terms of ritual structure, it is possible to speculate, of course, that given the parallelism between the deceased and Shu and Tefnut, the idea may be that the ka of the deceased is identical to the ka of Atum (due to its transfer across generations), so that this implicit intermediary might be the reason why Atum can transfer the ka of the deceased to the pyramid through his own embrace. Apart from such direct examples of the ka of one being identified with or located inside (an)other being(s), a number of examples are found where the ka occurs as an intermediary between different beings conceptualised in more social terms. A detailed description of this is found in a passage from a mortuary liturgy preserved in the Coffin Texts, dealing with the danger that the ritualist may not be able to return from his visit to his deceased ancestor in the realm of the dead:185 The mats of Thoth are laid out in the House of the Magistrate which is in Heliopolis by the gods, the lords of Maat at the Great Palace, in order to consult the Primeval Ones of the land, the superiors of the Primeval Ones of the land, and those who are upon their coils, those who give council, so that the journey from the Island of Fire may be reversed. There, together with them, my ka has been found, while ⟨I⟩186 live amongst the living on earth who are in the Island of Fire. From the mouth of the Shapes it has heard that that father of mine who is in the West has called upon me to fetch me and bring my days in this land of the living to an end, before I have raised my fledglings, before I have hatched my eggs, before I have

185 186

For which, see Willems, in Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 253–372. Following the minimal emendation suggested by Willems, ibid., 330, to avoid the contradiction that the ka is located both in the tribunal in Heliopolis and amongst the living in the Island of Fire, two locations otherwise clearly contrasted by the text.

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attained my lifespan, before I have eaten the cake of my wet-nurse, before I have drunk my gruel to the full, before I have furnished my life of the living in the Island of Fire.187 The recent interpretation of this spell by Willems has gone a long way towards clarifying this somewhat convoluted passage.188 The underlying situation is that of a council discussing a reversal of the ‘journey from the Island of Fire’, which in this text refers to the land of the living as the final clause of the quoted passage shows. Willems connects this with the return of the officiating son from the journey to the realm of the dead which the mortuary ritual has constituted—a return which is evidently not guaranteed, since the deceased ancestor wants to keep his descendant with him, but is subject to the decision by a council of primeval (i.e. potential) beings. The role of the ka in this situation is complex and revealing. It is said to be together with the council members discussing the issue, and furthermore because of this position, it has heard about the wishes of the deceased’s father. We thus get a very concrete picture where the ka plays the role of an observer on the divine council, being able to report back to its owner, and presumably in some sense representing his interests in the beyond. While the conceptualisation is unusually concrete, the distribution with the ka in the ‘beyond’ among other potential beings while the person is living his life on earth is precisely what one would expect from the formulation of the ka suggested in this paper. It is worth noting that in this case, no direct connection between the father and the ka is expressed, perhaps because the conflict of interests which has arisen between the living son (and his ka) on one side and the deceased father on the other makes the ontological connection between them much less relevant in this case—though of course it may be implicitly behind the wishes of the father to bring father and son together. Another case where the ka acts as protector of the person from forces to which it is closer than the person himself is found in the brief invitation for the deceased to ‘invoke your ka, i.e. Osiris, that he may protect you from the wrath of the dead’.189 Though clearly related, the situation seems to be slightly different in PT 440, where the ka arrives in the sky before the person and speaks on his behalf before introducing him to the great god.190 The notion of a person 187 188 189 190

CT I, 166a–168c [39]. Willems, in Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 330–332 (esp. n. 309) and 337–344. Pyr. 63b [93]. Pyr. 816d [440].

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and his or her ka as ‘allies’ is expressed in different ways as well, for example when a text parallels ‘his enemies’ with ‘the enemies of his ka’,191 the difference presumably being the deeper, more ‘ontological’ enmity in the latter case, although the point seems to be here that the designations refer to the same group. An additional aspect of the transgenerational nature of the ka is found in CT 313. Here, Osiris begins by presenting his power by saying ‘I fix [kas], I promote positions, and I place obstacles for those who might come to oppose me’.192 A little later, addressed to his son Horus, he says, ‘I am indeed your father, O offspring upon earth. May you establish my kas, and may you promote my rulership(?)193 among those who allot their kas [for you] and promote their rulership for you, and may you butcher and place obstacles for your enemies and mine’.194 The notion of ‘alloting kas’ is dealt with in more detail in section 2d below, and the primary importance here is to note the role of the living son as ‘making firm’, i.e. manifesting, the kas of the father. In some cases, certain beings are said to have authority over kas without specifying whose kas they are, such as Sia being ‘in charge of kas’ (ḥrj kꜣw),195 a title which also occurs elsewhere.196 Similarly Osiris and other beings are designated as ‘lord(s) of kas’, unfortunately without the context clarifying what this status entails.197 2d Miscellaneous Roles of kas in Mortuary Literature Fairly frequently in the mortuary texts, the ka of the deceased is said to be pure or to become purified. Often this is said of the person and the ka in parallel, so that the main sense seems to be a total purification.198 In the similar case of 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198

CT VI, 289j–k [663]. CT IV, 87k–l [313]. Following Faulkner’s suggestion that ḥqꜣt here is a cryptographic writing for the word for ‘rule’ (Faulkner, Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts I, 235 n. 2 ad loc.). CT IV, 88c–e [313]. Pyr. 267a–c [250]. CT III, 78f [183] (the scribe of the Field of Offerings); VI, 15c [473] (feminine variant of the same title). CT II, 162a [136]; III, 262d [227] (B2L); 388b [261]; IV, 7a [269]; VI, 198u [581]; VII, 2d [789]. Pyr. 28a–b [36] (cf. CT VI, 120b–d [528]); 683a [390]; 789b [436]; 841a [452]. In Pyr. 837b–c and 839a–b [451], the person and the ka are said to be pure along with the ba and the sḫmpower. Two variants which seem to apply to the same situation of purification and mean more less the same thing read, ‘The pure one is pure for his ka, this N is pure for his ka’ (CT VI, 121a–b [530], sim. VII, 17h [818]) and ‘He will wipe the flesh of N’s ka (and?) of his body (ḏt)’ (Pyr. 372d [268])—for the latter, unfortunately unclear, connection between ka and body (ḏt), cf. Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 348.

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being true of voice, the person and his or her ka also occur in parallel, showing that the same quality applies to both of them.199 Likewise, the fact that neither the deceased person nor his ka shall perish is predicated ultimately on their identity (‘You are the ka’).200 Another recurring quality associated with the ka is that of sḫm, ‘power’.201 It is occasionally made explicit in this case as well that having power over someone’s ka means by definition also having power over the being itself,202 a full list reading ‘for you have power over the gods, i.e. their kas, their inheritance, their provisions and all their possessions’.203 Here, ka and inheritance can be seen as the two opposite directions of ontological extension of a being, so that the list incorporates more or less the full ontological ‘sphere of belonging’204 of the beings controlled. If a ka is the potential of which a being is the manifestation as suggested here, it makes sense that interactions between kas will have effects on the beings manifested from them. A dramatic example of this is found in the act of eating the kas of other beings, thereby incorporating their potentials within one’s own.205 On the other hand, destroying or driving away206 kas is a certain way to utterly annihilate the beings manifested from the kas in question. Similarly, ‘destruction’ (ḥḏ) of kas is a dangerous threat associated especially with the hostile serpents in the Coffin Texts.207 In the pre-cosmogonic state of the world, it is said that the ‘million kas’ of Atum were ‘the protection of his herd (wnḏwt)’,208 and that Shu is the one who united them for this purpose.209 In a different version, the solar creator god has ‘his million kas inside his mouth’.210 The notion of kas being united thus seems to refer to a state of potentiality, an impression corroborated by the deceased identified with Re who describes his regenerated power in terms of the unit199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210

Pyr. 361c [266]; 929a, 935a [473]. Pyr. 149d [215]. CT III, 20b [167]; 115a [196]. Pyr. 776b [426]. Pyr. 824a–c [444]. In the sense of Assmann, J., The Search for God in Ancient Egypt (Ithaca and London, 2001), esp. 101f. CT VI, 335d [703]; VII, 236c [1017]. For the conceptual background of the notion, see Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 381–392. Pyr. 653c [372]. CT V, 41i; 42d–e [378]; 44c [381]; 287a–b [436]; VI, 206l; 206p; 207c; 207n (parallel to dn kꜣw, ‘the cutter of kas’) [586]. CT III, 383e [261]. CT I, 376/377c [75]. CT VI, 270g [648].

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ing of ‘the kas of the gods who are in the sky’.211 The rationale may be similar in an obscure mythological reference to ‘the day on which Atum joined (dmḏ) the quartet of my kas’.212 Another way of expressing the uniting of kas from ‘millions’ back into a primeval unity (or in this case duality) is the ‘cannibalistic’ metaphor of swallowing one’s predecessors found in the description of two astronomical entities ‘who have swallowed millions, who live on their kas and who feed on Hu’.213 The opposite movement can be expressed as ‘sending out one’s ka’,214 which in the case of the creator god appears to refer to the differentiation, and corresponding actualisation, of the potential he embodies. One of the passages that has otherwise remained obscure but takes on a new meaning under the perspective developed here comes from the group of spells for ‘Joining the riverbanks’,215 dealing with the establishment of contact between two banks of a river to enable the beings on each side to interact with those on the other. The nature of this mythological river is hinted at in a passage describing the results of the joining of the banks as ‘a complaint ( jꜥnw) crosses over towards Nun, while the kas cross over towards earth’.216 The word jꜥnw is difficult to narrow down, especially as the usage here as noun embedded syntactically in a sentence (as opposed to an independent interjection) is very unusual.217 All the same, it is clear that the removal of the obstacle by joining the riverbanks enables a two-way traffic between the two end points of Nun and the earth, which can be readily seen as a spatial metaphor for the ontological movement between the pre-cosmogonic unity (Nun) and the differentiated myriads of the created world (‘earth’). Donnat Beauquier has pointed out that the word jꜥnw refers to either ‘la plainte ou la détresse qui en est la cause’, making it a good candidate for the movement leading away from the world and towards Nun, i.e. the ‘destructive’ side of the cycle. The role of the ka in this 211 212 213

214 215

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CT IV, 343g [341]. CT VI, 333m [701]. Possibly related to the Memphite notion of the four kas of Ptah, cf. Meeks, D., ‘Les “quatre ka” du demiurge memphite’, RdE 15 (1963), 35–47. CT V, 394n–395b [469]. For the broader context, cf. the discussions in Goebs, K., Crowns in Egyptian Funerary Literature: Royalty, Rebirth, Destruction (Oxford, 2008), 204–358 (esp. 265–278 for CT 469) and Nyord, Breathing Flesh, 381–388. CT VI, 207o–p [586]. For which, see most recently Willems, H., ‘High and Low Niles: A Natural Phenomenon and its Mythological Interpretation According to Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride 38 and Coffin Texts Spell 168’, JEA 100 (2014), 488–493, where a different understanding of the significance of the spells is presented. CT III, 38c–39a [170], cf. the variant ‘the god is ferrying kas’ in CT III, 40l [170] (B2Bea). Cf. the most recent discussions of the word in Allen, J., The Heqanakht Papyri (New York, 2002), 22 and Donnat Beauquier, S., Écrire à ses morts: Enquête sur un usage ritual de l’ écrit dans l’Égypte pharaonique (Grenoble, 2014), 112–114.

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system, on the other hand, is precisely what we have come to expect: They are moving towards ‘earth’ in the sense of manifesting their inherent potential in the shape of living human beings (and perhaps other beings as well, a question which the terse formulation of the spell does not allow us to answer).218 In the same way, we find an interesting reversal of the usual expressions of ‘going to one’s ka’ discussed above, when it is said of the deceased, identified with the god Hetep, that ‘he guides the kas to (or: of) those who know him’,219 with the identity of the latter group being clarified in the variants as ‘the living’220 or ‘the possessors of sustenance’.221 The activities in the Field of Hetep generally seem to establish celestial or ‘ideal’ prototypes for what happens on earth among the living,222 and it thus makes sense that Hetep is said in this explicit way to be responsible for the manifestation of the kas, once again using the spatial metaphor of a journey towards the land of the living. This may also be the background of the otherwise slightly unusual emphasis on the ability of the ka to move freely which is found in a single Coffin Texts spell.223 Another central notion in the mortuary texts is that of ‘allotting kas’ (nḥb kꜣw).224 In administrative contexts as analysed by Moreno García the verb nḥb refers to: le fait d’octroyer certains biens en dotation à un particulier ou à une institution, qui s’occupaient de leur gestion et qui devaient verser une partie

218

219 220 221 222

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As will be clear, the spells for joining the riverbanks are deserving of a reexamination under the ontological perspective suggested here, and the author hopes to present such a study in the future. CT V, 381c [468] (B1Bo). CT V, 381c [468] (B3L). CT V, 363d [467]. Described e.g. as ‘He does everything in it like what is done in the Island of Fire’ (CT V, 350e–351a [465]). For the group of spells in general, see most recently Aufrère, S., ‘La “campagne de Hotep” et la “campagne des Roseaux” dans les Textes des Sarcophages et le Livre de Sortir au Jour’, in Mazoyer, M., J. Pérez Rey, F. Malbran-Labat, and R. Lebrun (eds.), L’homme et la nature: histoire d’une colonisation; actes du colloque international tenu les 3 et 4 décembre 2004, à l’Institut catholique de Paris (Paris, 2006), 13–55. A similar idea may be behind the expression ‘island of ka’ in the Shipwrecked Sailor, 114 (= Blackman, A.M., Middle Egyptian Stories (BAe 2, Brussels, 1932), 44, 15), where the abundance of the island over and above that of the world from which the sailor stems is stressed. CT III, 364b [255]. The spell is meant for ‘Advancing (sḫnt) a man’s ka (for him) in the necropolis’ (CT III, 359d [255]). Shorter, A.W., ‘The god Neḥebkau’, JEA 21 (1935), 41; Goebs, Crowns, 322–333.

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de la production à la personne ou l’institution propriétaire de ces biens, que ce soit un particulier, un temple ou l’Etat.225 As an ontological metaphor, this notion of delegation offers a striking expression of the way in which a ka exercises control over the actualised person as seen above, so that one would expect someone who ‘allots kas’ to control their deployment, possibly in the sense of deciding which kas are to be actualised and how. The choice of this particular expression could be motivated by the fact that allotting or lending a ka to someone not only enables them thereby to become manifest, but also at the same time, by delineating their potential, defines the possibilities of what that being can be or become. The notion is often contrasted to that of ‘removing (nḥm) kas’ to express the power of the deceased to distribute kas as he sees fit (with the contrast also corroborating the basic meaning of nḥb as suggested by Morena García).226 The notion that ‘allotting kas’ is connected to the purposeful actualisation of a potential is found in CT 313 in the passage cited above,227 where the parallel between the son establishing the kas of the father and the group of beings ‘allotting their kas’ is clear. In the context of the deceased’s access to offerings, he says, ‘my ka is allotted on this perfect day in the Tjenenet-shrine’,228 no doubt a reference to his cultic presence before the offering table. Otherwise the act of ‘allotting kas’ is particularly connected with the god carrying this precise designation, Nehebkau, although none of the texts develops this notion beyond the idea that this god is responsible for the allotting (or removal) of the kas of the other gods.229 A variant has Nehebkau placing (rdj) ‘bas, manifestations (ḫꜥw), kas and beginnings (šꜣꜥw)’,230 generally confirming the area of responsibility of this god as that of the manifestation of potentials. It is worth noting that CT 762 discussed above makes a further connection between Nehebkau and the status of being ‘the ka of every god’,231 and indeed the association between having the power to deploy the kas of the gods and actually embodying them does seem very close. 225 226

227 228 229 230 231

Moreno García, J.C., ‘Administration territoriale et organisation de l’ espace en Egypte au troisième millénaire avant J.-C. (V): gs-pr’, ZÄS 126 (1999), 130. Pyr. 161b [218]; 311a [258]; 315b [259]; cf. 512d [318], where ‘driving away might (wsr)’ is paralleled to ‘allotting kas’, and similarly CT II, 53b–c [86] (taking away ꜣḫw-power) and V, 37j [374] (nṯrj, ‘divine status’). CT IV, 88b–d [313], see p. 195 above. CT III, 9b [165]. CT II, 52e; 52i; 53b; 53d [86] = Pyr. 512d [318]. CT VI, 268j [647]. CT VI, 392j [762].

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As seen in section 1 above, among the living the role of the nobleman is to be a ‘transmitter’ of ka, a notion clearly related to that of ‘allotting kas’, and thus it is not surprising to find this expression also in an autobiographical inscription among the services of the stela owner for his community.232

4

The ka-concept in the Old and Middle Kingdoms: an Overview

As seen above, each of the previous main hypotheses about the central meaning of the ka-concept has been able to account well for a particular part of the evidence, but in each hypothesis it is at the same time necessary to reinterpret forcedly, or simply disregard, other substantial parts of the written evidence. It was suggested that these problems may in part be due to the reliance on intuitive Western categories in the formulation of the hypothetical core of the kaconcept. This is perhaps most obvious in the ‘personality’-hypothesis but also clearly present in the dualistic ideas about perception underlying Bolshakov’s most recent formulation of the ‘double’-hypothesis and the vaguer notion of a ‘vital force’ in the third hypothesis. As an alternative to this, the approach argued here takes its point of departure in well-attested ancient Egyptian ideas about actual and potential modes of existence—even if they naturally, at least at the present stage of research, still need to be shoehorned into more or less equivalent concepts derived from Western philosophical traditions to communicate the interpretations. This approach makes it possible to account for the full range of the written evidence without the need to radically reinterpret or disregard any particular subset. The key to bridging the apparent gap between the role of the ka of living and dead persons respectively is the Egyptian idea that the world is not created once and for all, but is instead in a continuous process of becoming. In this way, the intuitive distinction between the ka as tendency to being on the one hand and as tendency to behaviour on the other is dissolved, which makes it possible to offer a unified interpretation of the concept covering all of the domains (such as psychology, fertility, cosmology, eschatology, etc.) in which it occurs.

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Cairo CG 20001, l. 3, ‘I was a great pillar of the Theban nome, one who allotted his kas (nḥb kꜣw=f ) in the Southern District’. The variant nḥb n=f kꜣw špsw in Griffith, F.Ll., The Inscriptions of Siûṭ and Dêr Rîfeh (London, 1889), pl. 16, l. 3 and 9, could be taken to indicate that nḥb should be understood as passive in this title, ‘whose kas are allotted’, resp. ‘one for whom noble kas are allotted’ (thus e.g. Moreno García, ZÄS 126 (1999), 129), which would also make sense, although the role of the referent would be a little different in this case.

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The examination of evidence from a wide range of textual sources from the Old and Middle Kingdoms confirms the usability of the understanding of the ka advocated here as the potential of which the person is an actualisation. In referring to living persons, the ka was seen to exhibit a wide range of emotional and mental behaviour, which in such cases generally functions as the origin or instigator of observable behaviour in the human being. A special case is found with the king, for whom the automatic actualisation of the wishes or commands of the ka is often stressed. Because of this interplay, the nature of the ka can be judged from the behaviour of a person. Moving away from this one-way connection between an individual person and his or her ka, to the ka as characterising relationships between entities, it is especially the role of the ka in generative matters that becomes of interest. As the potential side of a person, the ka is both guarantor of the person’s actualisation (a fact which can be utilised in birth magic) and the creative source from which offspring is drawn. Personal names were seen to be somewhat problematic as independent source material, but it was shown that the general vocabulary employed in the onomastic material was at least broadly consistent with the view of the ka advocated here, which in a number of cases allowed for a slightly different understanding of individual personal names than the previous hypotheses. The depictions of the royal ka were seen to speak clearly against a literal understanding of the ka as a ‘double’, characterised as it is by general divine, not royal, iconography. The discussion of the other side of the life–death divide naturally centres on a few frequent formulaic notions, notably death as ‘going to one’s ka’ and mortuary offerings being presented ‘for the ka’ of the deceased. Both of these ideas were seen to conform well with the view of the ka presented here. As the potential aspect of a human being, it makes very good sense that the ka of a person can be said to receive the deceased and that they subsequently are seen as being together or even understood as merging, since this range of expressions can be seen as personified conceptualisations of the human being reverting to a purely potential existence. For the same reason, the ka as recipient of offerings is also far from unexpected. As with the onomastic material, neither of these notions can be said to offer independent evidence in favour of the understanding of the ka espoused here, but again they can be seen to fit with it without the need for ad hoc hypotheses. In the realm of mythology, and especially when dealing with cosmogonic themes, the ka functions naturally as an expression of the creative potential inherent in gods of the older generations (closer to the unitary creative potential) which is actualised in subsequent generations. In the Coffin Texts, the ka

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was even seen to play the role of an advocate of the living human, looking out for his interests in a council of primeval beings. A number of other, less frequent and often somewhat less clear, roles of the ka in the mortuary texts were also seen to be generally compatible with the presented understanding of the ka, in some cases arguably helping to make better sense of the passages than previous suggestions. On a more general level of ancient Egyptian anthropology, the notion of the ka suggested here can in fact be seen as a kind of reciprocal entity to the other main Egyptian ‘soul’-concept, the ba, as analysed by Žabkar, and subsequently generally understood in Egyptology: with respect to the gods, the deceased king, the living king, and inanimate objects the meaning of the Ba is essentially the same, signifying either the manifestation of the power of a being or a being whose power is manifest (…) [The Ba in the mortuary literature] is not a part of the deceased but is in effect (and as referred to in some texts) the deceased himself in the fullness of his being, physical as well as psychic.233 If the ba is thus the manifestation or actualisation of a being in a particular context, we could say that the ka is correspondingly that ‘power’ or ‘entity’ of which a particular person is a manifestation. In a slightly different wording, Smith has recently said that ‘The ba is not an element or component of an individual. Rather, it is the whole person, but as seen from a particular aspect: the form in which that person was manifested in the physical world posthumously’.234 An immediately comparable wording of the ka concept might then be that the ka is that which is seen as a whole person from a particular aspect. Or, to use a modern mathematical metaphor, we could say that if the ba is the ‘derivative’ (differential) of a person, the ka would correspondingly be the ‘antiderivative’ (integral).235 The understanding of the ka presented here opens a number of interesting new avenues of research. Some of the most obvious ones are questions that have deliberately been sidestepped here to keep the focus on the fundamental nature of the concept. One such question is that of numbers in relation to

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Žabkar, L., A Study of Ba Concept in Ancient Egyptian Texts (SAOC 34, Chicago, 1968), 161f. Smith, M., ‘Democratization of the Afterlife’, in Dieleman, J., and W. Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology (Los Angeles, 2008), 3 (http://escholarship.org/uc/item/ 70g428wj). Inspired by G. Deleuzes ontological understanding of calculus in Difference and Repetition.

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the ka.236 Most obviously, as has been seen above, many references to the ka have the noun in the plural, and it would be of great interest to explore what the precise difference, if any, is between one ka and several kas, and whether it is in general true that a person can be thought of as having more than one ka. One possibility would be to understand the plural in such cases either as a ‘false plural’ marking a more abstract use of the concept, or, more philosophically, an acknowledgement of the fact that the ka as pure potential is notionally inherently multiple, as only part of it is ever actualised. This is a question that could be elucidated by re-examining the distribution of singulars and plurals. The opposite question is more difficult to solve in practice. From the mythological role of a creator god as the ka of all the gods, one would expect that a particular entity could be the ka of more than one manifestation. If this notion can be generalised, that might mean that modern concepts of individual, soul, personality etc. have misled us to assume a one-to-one relation between ka and person. While I do not know of any references outside of the mythological sphere that could ascertain this question more generally, it is a possibility worth keeping in mind in future interpretations of the nature of the Egyptian ancestor cult and Egyptian understandings of human nature more generally. Finally, this study has deliberately left out the question of diachronic developments, examining evidence from the Old and Middle Kingdom together and largely ignoring later evidence. While the fairly unified emerging picture vindicates this decision to some extent, it is clear that more detailed studies of the diachronic changes of the concept become of great interest against the background developed here, both within the time period covered by the present study and during the declining importance of the concept in later times. 236

A topic which has not been a centre of attention in most of the previous discussions, but which has been treated briefly in Kusber, Der altägyptische Ka, 116–118.

chapter 8

Who Am I? An Emic Approach to the So-Called ‘Personal Texts’ in Egyptian ‘Funerary Literature’* Harco Willems

To the rites they perform for the dead belongs this one as well: They take the (canopic) vase in the hand and address Helios as a witness, the embalmer speaking words in the place of the deceased. Porphyrios, De abstinentia IV,10

∵ 1

Introduction: the Classification of ‘Funerary Texts’ in Current Egyptology

In 1931, Kurt Sethe published a study on what he called the ‘funerary literature’ (‘Totenliteratur’) of the ancient Egyptians.1 He argued that originally, all funerary texts included among the Pyramid Texts had been ritual texts. Apart from some texts addressing the deceased in the second person singular, they had originally been formulated in the first person singular, and they were uttered by a priest who spoke in the name of the deceased.2 However, perhaps as a * The author is preparing a more extensive discussion of the use of the ‘I-texts’ in Egyptian funerary literature in collaboration with Joachim Quack. He expresses his gratitude both to this scholar and to René Preys for commenting upon an earlier version of this article. 1 Sethe, K., Die Totenliteratur der alten Ägypter: Die Geschichte einer Sitte (SPAW, phil.-hist. Klasse 1931 XVIII, Berlin, 1931). 2 Thus Sethe, Totenliteratur, 11, on texts originally formulated in the first person singular but reformulated in the third person singular: ‘So, wie die Texte in den Pyramiden stehen, lesen sie sich … ganz so, als ob ein Priester sie an Stelle des Toten für ihn spreche, wie das vor ihrer Anbringung in den Pyramiden aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach auch wirklich geschehen sein wird …’. Sethe’s formulation leaves somewhat unclear whether the priest recited the text in the first person singular (although the wording ‘an Stelle des Toten’ suggests as much), or already in the reworked third person singular version. However, the end of his study leaves no room for doubt that he assumed that the priest spoke his words as representing the deceased himself (Sethe, Totenliteratur, 38).

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measure to counter the possibility that the priests would sooner or later fail to do their work, the texts were presented to the deceased in the form of ‘funerary equipment’ which he might use himself by reading the texts.3 Such texts were inscribed on the walls of burial chambers in pyramids, initially, but later also elsewhere, like the Coffin Texts and the Book of the Dead. Due to their secluded location, no earthly ritualist could read these texts. Therefore, Sethe argued, they had lost their ritual nature, being transformed into books of knowledge the deceased could consult. Ritual recitations for the deceased had become ‘funerary literature’.4 Sethe was also the first to observe the remarkable phenomenon that the first person singular formulation was obviously not desired in the Pyramid Texts, as almost every text of this kind has been recast in the third person singular in the versions inscribed on the pyramid walls. Admittedly, in some cases the original first person version had effectively been carved, but it was corrected later into the third person singular. Traces of this re-editing on the pyramid walls themselves have often been observed. Moreover, in cases where the king is referred to by name, it occasionally occupies syntactic positions that might be expected for personal pronouns, but not for nouns and personal names. Therefore, the original versions of the texts must have used personal pronouns, and Sethe assumed they were first person singular pronouns.5 Sethe was much puzzled by this marked preference for third person formulations, even in texts that had originally been phrased in the first person, and scholars still have not been able to advance viable explanations of the phenomenon.6 The present article will not be able to solve this thorny issue, but it will address the dichotomy between texts supposedly intended for use in funerary liturgies, and others used as ‘funerary literature’, in which the issue of whether a text is written in the first, second or third person is of some importance. 3 For the texts being read by the deceased himself, see Sethe, Totenliteratur, 8–10. 4 This view is the one still most generally held in Egyptology; see the overview in Quack, J.F., ‘Wenn die Götter zuhören: Zur Rolle der Rezitationssprüche im Tempelritual’, in El Hawary, A. (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden: Erzählen für die Ewigkeit (= Narratio Aliena? 3, Berlin, 2012), 134–135. Against it, Quack advanced the idea that the Pyramid Texts in the pyramids do not serve the purpose of being read by the tomb owner, but to be heard by him, and that these texts are, as it were, recordings of ritual recitations. This new interpretation comes close to the hypothesis I will develop on the following pages. 5 Sethe, Totenliteratur, 10–11. It should be noted that in fact, only the first part of this reasoning holds. It is not necessarily true that the pronoun was always that of the first person singular. Yet this assumption is prevalent in studies of the Pyramid Texts. 6 He sought to find explanations (Sethe, Totenliteratur, 12–13), but none of them seems to have convinced even Sethe himself.

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Although the dichotomy between ‘ritual’ texts and funerary ‘literature’ continues to dominate Egyptological thinking concerning the vast mass of Egyptian funerary texts, some basic tenets of Sethe’s study have come to be understood in a different way. Sethe seems to have assumed that the liturgical texts were originally spoken in the first person singular by a priest substituting himself for the deceased, while the third person formulations inscribed on pyramid walls would characterize a major part of the ‘funerary literature’. More recent scholarship follows an inverse reasoning.7 Jan Assmann’s seminal studies on funerary texts in many regards follow in Sethe’s footsteps.8 Like Sethe, he argues that many of these texts had been written to serve as ritual recitations, a class of text for which Assmann coined the designation ‘mortuary liturgies’ (‘Totenliturgien’). However, texts applied to the inaccessible walls of burial chambers or coffins, or to papyri buried with the deceased, were inaccessible to ritual use, and could only be read by the deceased. Just like Sethe, he referred to this group as ‘Totenliteratur’. The place where they were inscribed thus defined whether they belong to this category. In some cases, these texts were literal copies of texts originally composed for a ritual use, which had become decontextualized, or rather, re-contextualized for use by the dead occupant of the tomb. Such instances thus retain the dialogue structure9 of the original Totenliturgien, which is recognizable by a format which refers to the deceased in the second person singular (2), the ritualist

7 In what follows we will focus on the ideas voiced by Jan Assmann and Harold Hays. A further scholar who has addressed the issue was Winfried Barta. He distinguished ritual ‘glorification’ spells formulated in the second person singular and texts formulated either in the second or the third person singular, which are not ritual spells, but which ‘confirm’ the effects of the glorification spells (Barta, W., Die Bedeutung der Pyramidentexte für den verstorbenen König (MÄS 39, München/Berlin, 1981), 148). Since he accordingly bypasses the issue of texts formulated in the first person singular, this book is not relevant to the present study. 8 His most notable publications on this issue are Assmann, J., ‘Egyptian Mortuary Liturgies’, in Israelit-Groll, S. (ed.), Studies in Egyptology Presented to Miriam Lichtheim (Jerusalem, 1990), 1–45; id., Altägyptische Totenliturgien I. Totenliturgien in den Sargtexten des Mittleren Reiches (Supplemente zu den Schriften der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-hist. Klasse 14, Heidelberg, 2002), 13–37; id, Tod und Jenseits im alten Ägypten (München, 2001), 321–333 and passim. 9 We use the term ‘dialogue structure’ to refer to the structure of all statements in funerary texts, regardless of whether the text makes explicit the identity of different interlocutors. Even if a speaker does not use the word ‘I’, the slot of this person will be logically implied in the case of statements of the kind 0:1, 0:2 or 0:3 (see below for the notation). And even if texts do not make explicit whether anyone is listening to what is being said, we assume that a listener is implied in ritual communication.

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reciting the text either not being referred to at all (0) or by means of the first person singular (1). The ensuing dialogue structure can accordingly be rendered in a formulaic form as 0:2 or 1:2. This format is according to Assmann characteristic of the sꜣḫ.w spells,10 in which an officiant, who mostly remains unidentified (0) is addressing the beneficiary of the ritual, using the second person singular (dialogue structure: 0:2).11 However, in texts in the antechambers of pyramids,12 the deceased often uses a different format: he speaks about himself in the first person singular (1) or is spoken about in the third person singular (3), the audience being assumed to be inhabitants of the netherworld. This produces dialogue structures like 1:0, 1:2 or 0:3.13 In such texts the deceased often assumes divine attributes which enable him to function in the netherworld. These texts are what Assmann calls ‘knowledge texts’ (‘Wissenstexte’), providing the deceased with insight in the world where he had ended up after his death.14 They are composed on the one hand of ritual texts (which can retain their original form or be reformulated in the first person singular), or first person ‘Statuscharakteristiken’ describing the position of the deceased in the netherworld.15 An important group of these texts are the transformation spells of the Coffin Texts and the Book of the Dead, in which the deceased, speaking in the first person singular, claims identity with deities and other beings in the netherworld. Assmann’s views have gained wide acceptance, but in a number of recent studies, the late Harold Hays, following a similar kind of reasoning, developed a

10

11 12

13

14 15

Often, but inappropriately, translated as ‘glorification spells’ or, in German, ‘Verklärungen’. This translation is based on the erroneous assumption that the verb sꜣḫ is a causative of the verb (i҆)ꜣḫ ‘to shine; to radiate light’. On the etymology of the verb ꜣḫ in sꜣḫ, see JansenWinkeln, K., ‘“Horizont” und “Verklärtheit”: Zur Bedeutung der Wurzel ꜣḫ’, SAK 23 (1996), 201–215. See beside Assmann’s studies already referred to also Assmann, J., s.v. ‘Verklärung’, LÄ VI, col. 998–1006. Actually, Assmann’s argument is based on one source only: the pyramid of Unas; for the disposition of the texts there, Assmann made use of Osing, J., ‘Zur Disposition der Pyramidentexte des Unas’, MDAIK 42 (1986), 131–144. Assmann apparently overlooks the fact that texts of the types 1:0 or 1:2 are in reality hardly attested in the Pyramid Texts (with the exception of some in the pyramids of Neith and Ibi; e.g. the ferryman spell in Ibi cols. 587–602); their presence can, as explained above, only be inferred from edited carving traces and passages mentioning the name of the deceased in an ungrammatical position. E.g. Assmann, J., Altägyptische Totenliturgien III (Supplemente zu den Schriften der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-hist. Klasse 20, Heidelberg, 2008), 33. Assmann, Totenliturgien I, 23–29.

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rather different interpretation of the facts.16 To him, ‘ritual’, at least in its institutionalized form, presupposes the involvement of a larger community. Therefore ritual texts from this context are meant for what Hays calls a ‘collective setting’, and he assumes that in this context, specialist actors (priests) direct the event and perform the most important acts. These include the recitation of ritual spells, and these texts according to him have a performance structure he refers to as that of ‘sacerdotal texts’. According to Hays, the appropriate text formats in this context are recitations addressing the deceased (of the type 0:2 or 1:2) or speaking about him (of the type 0:3 or 1:3).17 These texts include first person speech, but such pronouncements are uttered by the officiant, not by the beneficiary of the ritual. However, texts presenting the deceased as the speaker would not be appropriate to such a context.18 In Hays’s terminology, these are ‘personal texts’ intended for an ‘individual setting’.19 In such texts ‘the speaker addresses himself to another, and he secures the benefits of the recitation of the text through his own performance of it. Casting the beneficiary in the first person, the recitation of Pyramid Texts like this one20 may be said to possess a personal structure’.21 16

17 18

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Hays, H.M., The Typological Structure of the Pyramid Texts and its Continuities with Middle Kingdom Mortuary Literature (PhD, Oriental Institute Chicago, 2006) (I express my gratitude to Harold Hays for placing a copy of this unpublished dissertation at my disposal); the definitive version of this work is Hays, H.M., The Organization of the Pyramid Texts: Typology and Disposition (PdÄ 31, Leiden/Boston, 2012). Numerous other works by the same author exist: id., ‘Old Kingdom Sacerdotal Texts’, JEOL 41 (2009), 47–94; id. and W. Schenck, ‘Intersection of Ritual Space and Ritual Representation: Pyramid Texts in 18 Theban Tombs’, in Dorman, P.F. and B. Bryan (eds.), Sacred Space and Sacred Function in Ancient Thebes (SAOC 61, Chicago, 2007), 97–115; id., ‘The Entextualization of the Pyramid Texts and the Religious History of the Old Kingdom’, in Der Manuelian, P. and T. Schneider (eds.), Towards a New History for the Egyptian Old Kingdom: Perspectives on the Pyramid Age (Leiden/Boston, 2015), 200–226. Hays, Typological Structure of the Pyramid Texts, 33–38 and passim; id., JEOL 41 (2009), 47–94; id., The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 22–34. Neither Hays nor Assmann clarify why funerary texts formulated in the first person singular and featuring the deceased as a speaker cannot have been used in collective rituals. Exception must here be made for Hays’ latest contribution to the issue, where he explains that the deceased, being dead, ‘has no speaking part’ (in Der Manuelian and Schneider (eds.), Towards a New History for the Egyptian Old Kingdom, 212). I followed the same reasoning in Heqata, 377. We will see below that this point of view, obvious though it may seem, misses the point. Hays, Typological Structure of the Pyramid Texts, 38–41 and passim; id., The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 35–44. Referring to PT utterance 227. Hays, Typological Structure of the Pyramid Texts, 40. In a recent contribution, J.F. Quack

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In one important regard, Hays’ interpretation of these ‘I-texts’ differs markedly from the ideas expressed by Sethe and Assmann. To them, the texts inscribed in burial chambers served as reading matter for the deceased, who, by reading this ‘Totenliteratur’, acquired the knowledge required to survive in the hereafter. While the knowledge aspect is equally important to Hays, the mechanisms involved to acquire it would be very different. To make his point clear, he analyzes the postscripts to the Book of the Dead chapters in the 18th dynasty Papyrus of Nu,22 most of which are formulated as ‘I-texts’.23 Hays assumes that the patterns discerned in these particular texts are also at work in other ‘I-texts’ in the Book of the Dead and the Coffin Texts, and also in the Pyramid Text spells that were originally formulated in the first person singular. The postscripts to several of the spells in the papyrus of Nu state that the papyrus owner should recite the texts to his own benefit, and that the performance should take place ‘on earth’, i.e. while Nu was still alive. Such statements not only occur in Nu’s papyrus, but for instance also in a 19th Dynasty papyrus, where the postscript of Book of the Dead chapter 70 reads: ‘as for the one who knows this book on earth (tp tꜣ), he goes out by day, going upon earth like all the living’.24 Clearly this text refers to knowing the text ‘on earth’, i.e. during life. Hays comments on this: ‘To paraphrase, the one who learns the book in life is supposed to pass out of the netherworld upon death and therefore exist among the living’.25 Some texts, moreover, suggest that the benefits from learning these texts on earth will not only arise after death, but already in this life.26 In postscripts to some other texts, this recital during life is advised to be done in secret. Thus, the postscript to Book of the Dead chapter 148 in the papyrus of Nu advises the papyrus owner: i҆mi҆=k i҆ri҆.w ḥr rmṯ⟨.t⟩ nb.t wpw-ḥr ḥꜥ.w=k ḏs=k ‘may you not do (this; i.e. the recitation of the text) on behalf of anyone but yourself’.27 Passages like this suggest to

22 23 24 25 26 27

advanced significantly beyond Hays’ interpretation of the ‘I-texts’, but he retains the view that the occupant of the tomb is recipient and beneficiary of the funerary texts (Quack, in El Hawary (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden, 135). As we will argue in this article, this point of view needs to be nuanced. Lapp, G., Catalogue of the Books of the Dead in the British Museum I. The Papyrus of Nu (BM EA 10477) (London, 1997). Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 41–51. TbNaville Kap. 70, 4–5, cited by Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 46. Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 46; similarly idem, in Der Manuelian and Schneider (eds.), Towards a New History for the Egyptian Old Kingdom, 217. This is for instance how Hays reads the postscript to Book of the Dead chapter 19; see Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 42. Lapp, Catalogue of the Books of the Dead in the British Museum I, pl. 32, spell 148, postscript col. 7.

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Hays that these personal recitations are done, not in the context of a communal cult, but in private, at home, with at most some close relatives being present.28 This is an interesting and new explanation. According to it, the ‘I-texts’ are as ritual as the ritual texts expressed in the second and third person singular; but it concerns a private ritual enacted by a living person for his own benefit. He performs it at home, and in secret, in the hope of acquiring benefits both in this life and in the next. Such a Sitz im Leben in a private cult is then assumed to be the explanation of the ‘personal texts’ in the Pyramid Texts as well. In this monumentalized ‘entextualization’, however, the texts can according to Hays no longer be regarded as ritual manuals, but as non-performative expressions of the effects of the rituals for the deceased. It is the aim of this paper to take issue both with Assmann’s hypothesis and Hays’s new interpretation of the facts concerning the ‘I-texts’. But before addressing the points where I disagree, let me first specify what I consider the strengths of their studies. Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, and the Book of the Dead have long been understood as different text genres that characterized different cultural periods: the Old, the Middle and the New Kingdoms. For instance, the Old Kingdom Pyramid Texts were considered to be texts serving the afterlife of the king. The fact that the later funerary text corpora (CT, BD) are by contrast mostly inscribed for private persons was considered a major distinguishing feature. However, the distinctions are really very vague,29 and certain types of texts prevalent in one corpus can often be found in the other as well, as the offering spells in the Pyramid Texts and the Coffin Texts prove. Therefore, it is now widely accepted 1) that the three text corpora are not different text genres, 2) that text genres can actually be discerned within the corpora, and 3) that these latter transcend the categorization into PT, CT and BD. Assmann developed a powerful system of classifying text genres based on dialogue structure combined with certain sets of formulaic specifics. On this basis, for instance, he was able to propose clear-cut and verifiable criteria for the class of sꜣḫ.w texts.

28 29

Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 11, 36, 206, 255, and passim. E.g. Mathieu, B., ‘La distinction entre Textes des Pyramides et Textes des Sarcophages est-elle légitime?’, in Bickel, S., and B. Mathieu (eds.), D’ un monde à l’ autre: Textes des Pyramides et textes des Sarcophages. Actes de la table ronde internationale « Textes des Pyramides et Textes des Sarcophages » Ifao—24–26 septembre 2001 (BdE 139, Le Caire, 2004), 247–262.

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figure 8.1 Categories and types of Pyramid Texts according to Hays after Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts II, 314, fig. 18

Hays worked along similar lines, but was the first to base his argument on an encompassing inventory of texts. He first determined which combinations of texts appear in recurrent ‘sequences’ and ‘subsequences’.30 He also catalogued the motifs present in each sequence31 and identified its dialogue structure. The outcome of this analysis was that among the sacerdotal texts (i.e. those deploying dialogue structures 0:2 or 1:2 and 0:3 or 1:3) two categories of texts can be recognized (offering texts and priestly texts), and three in the personal texts or ‘I-texts’ (transition texts, provisioning texts, and apotropaic texts). This result is rendered in schematic form in our Fig. 8.1. Hays correctly perceives a certain dialogue (or monologue) structure in the texts, and the main criterion on which he bases their classification is this structure. Texts in which a deceased is spoken to or is spoken about are attributed to cultic practice, cases where he is speaking himself provide the content of private recitations a person can learn to recite during life in the hope of remembering this after death.

2

Aims and Methods of the Present Study

Perhaps as a result of the elegance of Hays’ presentation, it easily escapes notice that something in his account is not as it should be. The analyst develops a classification of dialogue structures in the texts, a classificatory process which by its very nature can only result in an etic description. However, these dialogue structures are subsequently assumed to explain how the texts were deployed in practice by the Egyptian users of the texts. This suggests that Hays’ etic

30 31

These sequences are catalogued in Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts II, 432– 486. See Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts II, 487–637.

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classification is understood to correspond directly to the emic classification of the users. The same could be said about Assmann’s account. He, as well, directly deduces ritual action patterns supposedly deployed by the users from dialogue structures recognized by the researcher.32 The reasoning followed by these two scholars is hardly acceptable without prior demonstration that the emic and etic classifications do run parallel. The point is that this demonstration is nowhere provided. Hays and Assmann tacitly assume that the dialogue structure of a text immediately can be raised to the level of a functional interpretation of a text’s use in practice. This is what the present article will argue against. It will take up the debate at the point neglected by the authors mentioned. What it will attempt to do is to collect evidence from the Egyptian texts themselves on how (representatives of) different text categories were used in practice.

3

Inconsistencies in the Use of Dialogue Structure

That matters may not be as simple as Assmann and Hays suggest can be shown by the unexceptional example of CT spell 225. Different versions of this spell show a surprising degree of inconsistency in the dialogue structure that, according to them, is so crucial in distinguishing text categories. For instance, different versions of the passage CT III, 228/229b [225] read ‘(Oh N,) may you exert powers over rivers’,33 or ‘May this N exert powers over rivers’,34 or ‘May I exert powers over rivers’.35 Between different versions of the same text, it was clearly possible to swap between the second, third and first person singular without much difficulty. That the different dialogue structure implied a functional differentiation to the users is a conclusion I have some difficulty accepting, as what happens here, is not uncommon in funerary texts. Although a change of grammatical person could have been motivated by functional adaptations of a text, the transmission is often remarkably inconsistent even within single sources. This is again shown by some of the different sources in which spell 225 is transmitted. De Buck split up his presentation of each individual spell in distinct phrases designated on each page by let-

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Admittedly, Assmann does relate the observed phenomenon in 0:2 texts to an emic category: the sꜣḫ.w spells. CT III, 228/229b [225]/B2Bo, M2NY, T1L, T9C, T2Be. CT III, 228/229b [225]/B4Bo. CT III, 228/229b [225]/S2Ca, Pap. Berl., Y1C.

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ters. Counting all these phrases for spell 225 in all sources, one arrives at a total of 586 phrases where the grammatical person is indicated. Of these, 474 are formulated in the second person, and ten of the twenty-four sources are entirely written in the second person singular.36 Yet examples formulated in the first and third persons are not at all exceptional. Four sources are almost entirely formulated in the first person singular (B1Y, S2Ca, P. Berlin and Y1C). Arguably, the cause might be an adaptation to a different function. However, in these sources, some passages yet deploy the third person on occasion.37 Moreover, all these sources feature passages deploying the vocative particles i҆ or hꜣ, in formulations like i҆ in҆ k or hꜣ i҆nk ‘Oh I!’,38 formulations characteristic for Assmann’s sꜣḫ.w liturgies, which always use a second person address. Therefore, even though deploying the first person singular, the text is marked as an address, showing a degree of fluidity in the use of grammatical person. In terms of function, no change has occurred here despite the change in person. In many other coffins the formulations vacillate within single documents between the second and third persons, and in some cases this is quite frequent.39 If transgressions against classificatory criteria are so easily committed in funerary sources, one might assume that respect for the criteria may not always have been felt to be overwhelmingly important in that context. The preceding account shows on the one hand that different sources can offer divergent dialogue structures in single passages of one and the same spell, and on the other that, within single manuscripts, the dialogue structure may vary as well. Although the case of CT spell 225 shows that the dialogue structures recognized by Hays and Assmann are certainly valid and powerful analytical concepts from a statistical perspective, scribes inscribing individual sources seem not always to have bothered all that much about these differences. Within this emic perspective, dialogue structure was not always very consistent, and I doubt very much whether a change in this regard implied that the spell was differently conceived of by their users. How to address this problem? Of course one might take recourse to the assumption that the many incongruities are simply errors. But if a better explanation can be found in which the texts as

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M2NY (24 passages), M25 (4), B2L (33), B1C (31), B10C (5), Sq4C (18), S1Cb (24), T3Be (14), T2Be (25) and S1Ca (11). CT III, 222c [225]/Pap.Berl. (3rd person and 1st person sing.); CT III, 224c [225]/Pap.Berl. (3rd person and 1st person sing.). hꜣ i҆nk: CT III, p. 220b [225]/ S2Ca, Pap. Berl., Y1C; i҆ i҆nk: CT III, p. 214a [225]/B1Y, S2Ca, Pap. Berl., Y1C. In order of declining proportion of the third person: B4Bo third person 19/second person 6; B4C: 6/13; T9C: 4/20; T2L: 2/13; T1L: 5/47; B1L: 2/45; T1Be: 1/25; B2Bo: 1/30; MC105: 1/33.

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they stand are on the whole understood as being acceptable and correct to their users, this is obviously to be preferred. This article will propose such an explanatory model.

4

Three Problems with the Concept of Hays’s Personal Texts

We have seen above that Hays works from a number of assumptions concerning what he defines as ‘personal texts’. They are recitations uttered by a person 1) for his or her own benefit; 2) who learns them by heart while still alive, on the one hand 3) intending to achieve the benefits during life, and on the other 4) intending to remember the content after death; 5) and reciting in private, at home. The following pages will adduce indications to the effect that points 1–4 are not, or not exclusively, valid. With point 5, however, it is observed already now that Hays nowhere in any of his publications provided factual supportive evidence (see further below). Therefore, the assumption that ‘personal texts’ were originally recited in private, and at home (as distinct from sacerdotal texts being recited in the context of collective ritual practice) goes entirely unsupported. The only texts that Hays does cite refer to so-called personal texts being recited in secret. But secrecy is not the same as privacy,40 and we will see below that there are other, and more viable explanations. A second issue is that Hays argues that the funerary versions of the personal texts had an earlier life before they were adapted to a use for a dead beneficiary. He convincingly argues that the re-contextualization of the texts in many regards entailed a shift in focus. In one regard, however, the possibility of such a shift taking place is not considered in any way: Hays assumes that the personal texts in funerary sources focus on the deceased and that this also had to be the case in the prior earthly context of use. This is possible, but the axiom does not hold unless it is proved to. The present paper attempts to show that the matter is more complex than Hays thought. A third issue regarding the personal texts concerns the apotropaic spells in the pyramids, which consist of magical spells directed against snakes and other obnoxious animals (see Fig. 8.1). Hays is certainly right in assuming that these texts originally had a non-funerary function in everyday magic before they were 40

For instance in Papyrus Salt 825, VII,4, very similar expressions are used for secrecy in a clearly collective setting (Derchain, P., Le papyrus Salt 825 (BM 10051): Rituel pour la conservation de la vie en Égypte (Bruxelles, 1965)).

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inscribed on the pyramid walls.41 Since he arranges them among the personal spells, he clearly understands them as texts an individual recites in private for his or her own benefit. In the edited third-person funerary adaptation of these texts in the Pyramid Texts this would then lead to formulations stating that the king in the third person singular takes action against the snake.42 It is however questionable whether the dialogue structure of the texts implies that the speaker was also the beneficiary.43 It is certainly true that magical spells exist where the recitant seeks to safeguard himself from snakes, and in these cases he may be referring to himself in the first person singular.44 But in other cases the person uttering the spell is clearly distinct from the beneficiary.45 Therefore, Hays’s conclusion that the snake spells in the PT are personal texts deserves close attention. In the case of some apotropaic spells in the PT (§ 424a, § 439a–b, and § 495b– c), B. Mathieu has suggested that the name of the king goes back to an original ‘I’, who is the speaker but not the beneficiary.46 To me this interpretation seems entirely acceptable, and there are more cases. Utterance 288 (§ 429b) contains the injunction: ‘Oh eye of king Unas, do not look at it (i.e. the snake)!’ If this would really go back to a personal text, the original formulation would have been something like ‘Oh my eye, do not look at it!’ However, it seems unlikely that a magician would be addressing his own eye, as for a person combating a snake it would hardly be advisable not even to look at the opponent. It hence stands to reason that in the original formulation, a magician different from the beneficiary is addressing the eye of the endangered person. And PT § 419c can be read as ‘I cause king Unas to be protected!’47 Here, the person speaking in the

41 42 43

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Typological Structure, pp. 220ff. Hays, Typological Structure, 195–229; id., The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 107–108; 205–208; 275–282. As far as I have been able to determine, Hays has not clearly motivated that the dead king (or more generally: the beneficiary) is the actor in these spells, but the same view is found with other authors as well: Leitz, C., ‘Die Schlangensprüche in den Pyramidentexten’, Orientalia 65 (1996), 385 and passim; Meurer, G., Die Feinde des Königs in den Pyramidentexten (OBO 189, Freiburg/Göttingen, 2002), 269–315. Thus for instance P. Tur. 54003, 13–17 (see Roccati, A., Papiro ieratico n. 54003: Estratti magici e rituali del primo Medio Regno (Torino, 1970)). For instance in the famous spell containing the Story of the Isis and the Secret Name of Re in P. Tur. 1993 (see Möller, G., Hieratische Lesestücke für den akademischen Gebrauch II (Leipzig, 1927), 29–32; for the recently published transcription, see Roccati, A., Magica taurinensia: Il grande papiro magico di Torino e i suoi duplicate (Roma, 2011), 68–71 and 165–167; reference due to Joachim Quack). Mathieu, B., ‘Modifications de textes dans la pyramide d’ Ounas’, BIFAO 96 (1996), 291. Reading after Sethe, K., ÜKP II, 180 and 182.

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first person singular is unlikely to be identical with the beneficiary.48 Moreover, as Hays points out, first person formulations were retained in the apotropaic texts in no fewer than eleven cases, whereas texts were edited away from the first person to the third (referring to the dead king) in the case of only four spells!49 Are the eleven cases errors, where the carvers forgot to change the first person into the third (= the king), as one would have expected in the PT? Is it not more likely that the first person was not changed into the third (= the king) because the first person did not refer to the king, but to a magician acting on behalf of him? In his speech, the magician would be referring to himself in the first person singular. In this group of apotropaic spells it is therefore at least possible that the speaker is not acting for his own benefit in the context of a ‘personal text’, but that he is reciting magical spells for an endangered other person. Therefore some or all of the snake spells may not form part of the category of the ‘personal spells’. With Hays and others I assume that inscribing the originally magical apotropaic spells in the subterranean rooms of the pyramid served the purpose of protecting the king buried there. Based on the texts analyzed above, however, this suggests a situation in which a magician is protecting the king.50 The null hypothesis which Hays should have proved wrong to uphold his theory, but which he has not addressed, would have been: ‘Snake spells were recited in magical rituals in which the beneficiary was never identical with the

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Mathieu has argued that cases where the first person is retained in the Pyramid texts often refer to the officiant, not to the beneficiary, although even here, some versions reveal that ‘I’ has been changed into the name of the king (BIFAO 96 (1996), 291–292, on PT utterances 283 und 311). Similar cases are quite common, e.g. §216a–b; § 227c; § 775a; § 1800b; § 1994a– 1995a based on the version in CT VIII, 425, n. 1; probably § 473a as well, even though Sethe here assumes ‘I’ refers to the deceased (ÜKP II, p. 280). Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 279, n. 989. Compare for this background Stela Ny Carslberg Glyptothek ÆIN 974 (Mogensen, M., La Glyptothèque Ny Carlsberg: La collection égyptienne (Copenhagen, 1930), no. 764), concerning the protection of the shelter of the corpse of Osiris (see Borghouts, J.F., Ancient Egyptian Magical Texts (NISABA 9, Leiden, 1978), no. 121). To this can be joined stela fragment BM 190, with extensive texts indicating that the beneficiary is being acted for by someone else (Osing, J., ‘Zu einigen magischen Texten’, in Luft, U. (ed.), The Intellectual Heritage of Egypt: Studies Presented to Lászlo Kákosy by Friends and Colleagues on the Occasion of his 60th Birthday (Budapest, 1992), 476–480 (reference to this article due to Joachim Quack)). In a paper presented at the Colloque International sur les Textes des Pyramides, le Caire, 23–25 octobre 2016, Nathalie Beaux has argued that the recitant of the apotropaic texts in the western gable of the burial chamber of the pyramid of Unas might be an ancestor of Unas (paper entitled ‘L’encerclement magique du sarcophagi d’ Ounas’).

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speaker’. Since Hays failed to address this point, his idea that the apotropaic texts are personal texts are no more than an unsubstantiated opinion. These observations have grave consequences. Firstly, something may be wrong with Hays’s interpretation as tabulated in Fig. 8.1, as one of the text types he attributed to the ‘personal texts’ may (partly) have their place among the sacerdotal texts, with ‘I’ referring to the officiant (cf. p. 208 above). Moreover, Hays has tabulated which themes appear in different types of texts, arriving at the conclusion that the motifs in sacerdotal texts differ markedly from those encountered in personal texts. However, now that one of the three categories of personal texts may actually be part of the sacerdotal texts, the classification underlying Hays’ subdivision in motifs is beginning to show serious flaws. While it is impossible to undertake a reassessment of his statistics in this article, it is not exaggerated to conclude that Hays’ simple categorization of the PT and later text groups, suffers from some very basic uncertainties. And there is the more fundamental question, which neither Assmann nor Hays has even asked, whether the difference between ‘Totenliturgien’ and ‘Totenliteratur’, or between personal texts and sacerdotal texts, is at all justified. This is the major question this article will address.

5

Dialogue Structure versus the Pragmatics of Performance

The heart of the problem lies in the repeated but insufficiently substantiated statements in Hays’s book to the effect that ‘personal texts’ are in the first person singular because ‘they were performed by the one who himself expected to benefit most from them’.51 The tacit assumption here is that dialogue structure = performance structure. Even a cursory look at textual expressions from our own culture reveals that this does not have to be the case. Take this example. If a boy says to his girlfriend: ‘I love you’, he is using the first person singular because he wants to express the sentiments he personally feels for her (and of course because he anticipates the personal benefit of her attention). However, if an actor, playing the role of Romeo, says ‘I love you’ to an actress playing Juliet, he in no way wants to convey the impression that he is in love with the actress. The two only impersonate a loving couple, which is a very different thing. Note that in terms of discourse structure nothing distinguishes the two options. In both, a boy loves a girl and says so to her. But in terms of pragmatics, everything is different. The actors impersonate absent, in fact non-existent persons,

51

Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 11.

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and express the feelings of those persons. By analogy, I want to argue that if in a funerary text the deceased exclaims: ‘I am the scribe of Khonsu’, this does not have to be interpreted along the lines advocated by Assmann or Hays. In the pragmatic structure of the ritual performance, the deceased may be unable to speak because he is dead, but it is at least conceivable that a priest is speaking as a substitute for him. This proposal is not new; it is in fact identical to a suggestion made in 1860 by de Rougé, the one independently brought forward in 1931 by Sethe,52 and, again independently, in 1968 by R. Merkelbach.53 But these scholars represent exceptions and their remarks have been nearly forgotten since. However, one aspect of the issue, viz. that priests could effectively play the role of absent personalities, should be plain to all. In the daily temple ritual, the officiating priest represents the king, and if he says ‘I’, the idea is that the king says ‘I’.54 In some passages of the Amenhotep ritual, there is an interesting variant to this: here the officiant says ‘I’ in the name of Amenhotep I, who might have been dead for centuries at the time the priest was substituting for him.55 In embalming rituals, priestesses playing the roles of Isis and Nephthys

52 53 54

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See E. de Rougé, ‘Études sur le Rituel Funéraire des anciens Égyptiens’, Revue Archéologique, N.S. 1 (1860), 73 and p. 204 , n. 2 of this article. See n. 102. See e.g. Assmann, J., Ägyptische Hymnen und Gebete (Zürich/München, 1975), 19; Dunand, F., and C. Zivie-Coche, Hommes et dieux en Égypte 3000 a.C.–395 p.C. (Paris, 2006), 139f.; Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts, 24; Quack, in El Hawary (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden, 141; Braun, N.S., Pharao und Priester: Sakrale Affirmation von Herrschaft durch Kultvollzug. Das tägliche Kultbildritual im Neuen Reich und der Dritten Zwischenzeit (Philippika 23, Wiesbaden, 2013), 291–303. In these texts, the priest representing the king continually uses the first person singular. Some of the formulae contain explicit statements to the effect that the king has ordered the priest to carry out the ritual (see Guglielmi, W. and K. Buroh, ‘Die Eingangsriten des Täglichen Tempelrituals nach Papyrus Berlin 3055 (I,1-VI,3)’, in van Dijk, J. (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde (Egyptological Memoirs 1, Groningen, 1997), 126, n. g). Although in many passages one could therefore argue that the speaker is simply a priest, his words also include statements like ‘Pharaoh has arrived in your presence, oh masculine god …’ (P. Berlin 3055 VI,4; XIII,9; XV,8; XVII,10; see Hieratische Papyrus aus den Königlichen Museen zu Berlin herausgegeben von der Generalverwaltung I. Rituale für den Kultus des Amon und für den Kultus der Mut (Leipzig, 1901), pl. VI, XIII; XV and XVII). Clearly the priest here stands for the king. See Tacke, N., ‘Das Opferritual des ägyptischen Neuen Reiches’, in Metzner-Nebelsick, C. (ed.), Rituale in der Vorgeschichte, Antike und Gegenwart: Studien zur Vorderasiatischen, Prähistorischen, und Klassischen Archäologie, Ägyptologie, Alten Geschichte, Theologie und Religionswissenschaft. Interdisziplinäre Tagung vom 1.–2. Februar 2002 an der Freien Universität Berlin (Rahden, 2003), 32; id., Das Opferritual des ägyptischen Neuen Reiches (OLA 222, Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA, 2013), 288–290; 295–296.

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refer to themselves in the first person. This is for instance clearly expressed in the Late Period Papyrus Bremner-Rhind,56 but also in Coffin Texts spell 74, featuring priestesses who exclaim to Osiris: ‘I am Isis, I am Nephthys’.57 And BD spell 151g, concerning one of the magical bricks in the burial chamber, should according to its postscript be recited over the brick carrying an Anubis statuette. But in this spell, it is Anubis, i.e. the statuette, who speaks in the first person through the mouth of the priest.58 These randomly chosen examples show that priests can speak as substitutes for other entities: for kings, for dead kings, for gods, and even for objects. In terms of ritual pragmatics, there would be nothing unusual about a priest saying ‘I am the scribe of Khonsu’ en lieu of a dead person. There would in this case be a shift of focus, however. If the priest speaks for the king, for a god or for an object, he is impersonating that king, god or object, but the personalities he assumes are not the beneficiaries of the ritual. In temple cult, for instance, the beneficiary can be Amun-Re of Karnak, and if the priest impersonates the king, he does not stand for the beneficiary, but for a pharaoh carrying out the cult for the beneficiary. In the case of the personal texts studied by Hays, or the Totenliteratur studied by Assmann, however, ‘I’ is usually supposed to be the beneficiary. We should therefore determine whether priests can also impersonate dead beneficiaries and say ‘I’ in their place. For the time being we will approach the issue in this way, although at the end of this study we will see that the identity of the beneficiary should be rather more subtly conceived of.

56

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The songs of Isis and Nephthys in P. Bremner-Rhind I,1–XVII,12 (Faulkner, R.O., The Papyrus Bremner-Rhind (British Museum No. 10188) (Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca III, Bruxelles, 1933)). In the introduction to this text it is stated that these songs are to be sung by two young women, on whose shoulders the names of the goddesses Isis and Nephthys have been inscribed. In a recent study A. Kucharek has convincingly argued that variants of the same ritual feature the women in a slightly different role. Here they are present, or represented by figurines, while other (often male) recitants utter the words they are supposed to say. Here the pattern we are trying to describe receives an additional layer: the goddesses are represented by women/figurines (physical form) and recitants (vocal aspect) (Kucharek, A., ‘Frauen im Tempel: Zur Frage der Ritualakteure in de “Klageliedern von Isis und Nephthys”’, in Quack, J. (ed.), Ägyptische Rituale der griechisch-römischen Zeit (ORA 6, Tübingen, 2014), 185–199). CT II, 73a–313c [74]; for the cited expression, see CT II, 307g; 308i; 309g; 310a and j; 313c [74]. Similarly also in the Amenhotep ritual, where the priest identifies himself as Thoth or Horus (see Tacke, Opferritual II, 302). Lüscher, B., Untersuchungen zu Totenbuch Spruch 151 (SAT 2, Wiesbaden, 1998), 24 f.; 271f.; 198–204.

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A very telling example of a ritualist substituting for the deceased can be found in the harper’s song in the Ramesside tomb of Inherkhaw, TT 359.59 This song is a version of the song of the harper known as the ‘Antef song’, and a variant of which is the Harper’s song of Neferhotep I. In these texts, the deceased is referred to in the third person singular as ‘this magistrate’ (sr pw).60 In the tomb of Inherkhaw, this person is also mentioned in the words of the harper. The musician is singing: ‘I am this magistrate, in reality this man in the good fate bestowed by his god …’ (i҆nk sr pw ⟨n⟩ wn mꜣꜥ m šꜣ.w nfr i҆ri҆.n nṯr=f …). Miriam Lichtheim has commented as follows on the use of the first person singular in this passage: ‘The dependence of this song on the text of Antef and Neferhotep I is obvious. But the changes are significant, and the whole is not without originality. As usual, the dead man is introduced in the beginning. Strangely enough he speaks himself instead of being addressed by the harper’.61 But the use of the first person may be not so strange at all if we assume that, just like an actor may lend his mouth to Romeo to say ‘I love you’ to Juliet, the harper may here put his vocal chords at the disposal of the dead Inherkhaw. In other words, Inherkhaw is speaking, but because he is not physically able to do so himself, the ritualist vocally substitutes for him. A similarly interesting case was recently pointed out by Julie StauderPorchet. In her monograph on the origin of the Egyptian tomb autobiography, she points out that this genre goes back to two different types, of which one, the idealizing autobiography, came to be preferentially located near the cult place of the tomb. Moreover, it was often associated with offering formulae, thus underscoring the connection with the offering cult.62 Although StauderPorchet does not explicitly state as much, this could indicate that idealizing autobiographies (which are formulated in the first person singular) were part of cultic recitation. Concerning the autobiography of Debehni, which is formulated in the first person singular and offers a mix form of the idealizing autobiography and the ‘autobiographie événémentielle’, she makes the following important observation: ‘La 1ère personne dans la partie principale de Debeheni est posthume, potentiellement de plusieurs décennies. C’ est en effet le fils qui, 59 60

61 62

Bruyère, B., Rapport sur les fouilles de Deir el-Médineh (1930) (FIFAO 8,3, Le Caire, 1933), 69–70, pl. XXIII. Antef song (see P. Harris 500, VI,2–3; Budge, E.A.W., Facsimiles of Egyptian Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum II (London, 1923), pl. XLV; transcription: Fox, M.L., The Song of Songs: Ancient Egyptian Love Songs (Madison, Wisconsin, 1985), 378); Neferhotep I (Hari, R., La tombe thébaine du père divin Néferhotep (TT 50) (Genève, 1985), 37–38 and pl. XXVI, line 2). Lichtheim, M., ‘The Songs of the Harpers’, JNES 4 (1945), 201. Stauder-Porchet, J., Les autobiographies de l’Ancien Empire Égyptien: Étude de la naissance d’un genre, 179–183 (§6.2.1) and 311–316.

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non seulement parle à la fin (col. 16–…), mais encore, en faisant l’ inscription, fait parler son père (col. 2–16)’.63 Stauder-Porchet here argues that the son allows his father to speak through the words he had applied to the tomb walls. But conceivably, this carved record might reflect a text initially intended for recitation, as well. Examples like the above suggest that rituals in which a ritualist speaks en lieu of a dead beneficiary might in fact exist. This is a very important point, for in principle, it is therefore conceivable that all or a large part of the ‘Totenliteratur’ in the first person singular consists of this kind of texts.64 In this paper I can only cite only a few cases to clarify the scope of this insight. 5.1 Texts Concerning the Presentation of Amulets to the Mummy There is currently a tendency to nuance the idea that the PT, CT and BD are exclusively mortuary texts. Just like Sethe long before him, Harold Hays extensively argued that the religious spells now known as PT had a life before they were inscribed on pyramid walls. For him, the dichotomy is between texts of mortuary ritual and personal texts for private religious purposes. John Gee and Alexandra von Lieven recently wrote two articles arguing that some Book of the Dead chapters actually have their background in temple cult.65 This not the 63

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Stauder-Porchet, Les autobiographies de l’Ancien Empire Égyptien, 85. She is here referring to the text published in Urk. I, p. 18,8–21,15, but supplemented with fresh observations on some important readings. In fact, H. Hays admits this possibility in passing. In the PhD version of his work, he refers to P. Ebers I,1–11 (where the magician treating a patient speaks in the first person singular in the name of this person, Hays, Typological Structure, 38, n. 19) and a small number of BD chapters. But he does not really investigate the consequences of this possibility for his argumentation. He included a slightly longer account of it in his The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 56–58. Here he again refers to the P. Ebers passage and a few CT and BD passages. He argues that such cases of what he calls ‘proxy performance’ are highly exceptional and restricted to cases where there would be a high degree of intimacy between the deceased and the person speaking in his name. He also states, without really going into the matter, that all examples ‘concern the talismanic charging of an image or inscribed amulet’. Considering the very thorough and detailed way in which he approached other aspects of funerary texts, it seems as though he bypassed giving the matter the attention it would have deserved. The remark about the required ‘intimacy’ between speaker and beneficiary is not supported by any evidence, and even if the point would be accepted, it would not bear the implication that proxy performance could not have been the modus operandi of the personal texts. Gee, J., ‘The Use of the Daily Temple Liturgy in the Book of the Dead’, in Backes, B., I. Munro, and S. Stöhr (eds.), Totenbuch-Forschungen: Gesammelte Beiträge des 2. Internationalen Toetnbuch-Symposiums 2005 (SAT 11, Wiesbaden, 2006), 73–86; von Lieven, A., ‘Book of the Dead, Book of the Living: BD Spells as Temple Texts’, JEA 98 (2012), 249–268 and ead, this volume.

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right place for assessing what proportion of the texts found in funerary contexts may have such an origin.66 But some texts were clearly written with a funerary purpose in mind. A case is offered by CT spell 304: As surely as I have become efficacious, I have become venerable: My ba is with me, My heart is inside my body, and my corpse is in the ground. I will not weep about it as long as my ba is with me; It will not remove itself from me as long as I have magic in my body, And it will not be taken away! My efficacy belongs to me, my form belongs to me, So that I may eat my things together with my ka, which is in this land of mine. I will go to rest after having been seen and rejuvenated. Postscript: To be said over an Upper Egyptian papyrus amulet once it has been placed for an akh at his neck.67 There is no room for doubt here that the speaker is no longer alive. He has a ba, an aspect of the personality almost exclusively referred to in regard of dead people. And he has a corpse. Since the combination of ba and corpse is entirely specific of the dead, a dead man is certainly speaking here. However, the postscript states that this text should be recited after an amulet has been applied to the neck of the corpse. This is, in other words, a real recitation, recited for the dead person. But within it, the deceased himself is speaking. Since this is physically impossible, the only likely solution is that an officiant is speaking in the first person singular for the dead beneficiary. The case in BD spell 160, also concerning the application of a papyrus amulet to the neck of a dead person is similar, and also formulated in the first person singular.68 An

66

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Elsewhere in this volume, A. von Lieven estimates that about 3.71 % of the Coffin Texts were of this kind, but she stresses it is still very hard to assess the correct percentage. A group of texts not included by her in the group of texts used on earth may be those identifying the speaker as the scribe of a deity (see recently Nyord, R., ‘Scribes of the Gods in the Coffin Texts’, in Miniaci, G., and W. Grajetzki (eds.), The World of Middle Kingdom Egypt (2000–1550 BC) I (London, 2015), 273–308). CT IV, p. 57d–58g [304]. Although there is a mineral wꜣḏ šmꜥ (Bartel, H.-G., and J. Hallof, ‘Über den “oberägyptischen Grünstein” wꜣḏ-šmꜥ und die Eigenschaft šmꜥ’, GM 148 (1995), 23–27; reference due to Joachim Quack), reading the present text like this would only mention the material, but not the kind of the object, which would be unexpected in a postscript. The text is introduced by ‘saying words by Osiris N’, and is accordingly the speech of the

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amulet of this type was actually found at the neck of Tutankhamun’s mummy and other corpses, confirming that the prescription given by the postscript was actually followed.69 In the examples discussed, the context of use is the application of an amulet to the body of a dead person. The act is therefore likely to have taken place in the place of embalmment. Similar instances are the Shu spells (CT spells 75–83), concerning a lion amulet,70 CT spell 508, concerning a ‘west’-amulet,71 BD chapter 89,72 concerning the application of a ba-amulet, or Book of the Dead 30B,73 said to be recited over a heart amulet. All four amulets are said to be attached to the neck or breast of the deceased, something that is widely attested archaeologically. I see no reason to doubt that the instruction to recite such texts over the amulet once it had been attached to the corpse is similarly realistic. Accordingly these spells must relate to rituals in the place of embalmment. And there are many more cases of this kind.74

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deceased. This is usually interpreted in the sense that the deceased should read this himself, but this interpretation would not oppose our idea that a priest could ‘lend his voice’ to the deceased. See the conclusions, sub 1. Note that in BD 160, the relevant postscript is only attested in papyri from the Late Period and later. Žabkar, L.V., ‘Correlation of the Transformation Spells of the Book of the Dead and the Amulets of Tutankhamun’s Mummy’, in Geus, F., and F. Thill (éd.), Mélanges offerts à Jean Vercoutter (Paris, 1985), 375–388; Beinlich, H., ‘Das Totenbuch bei Tutanchamun’, GM 102 (1988), 11; comparable archaeological attestations: Taylor, J.H., ‘Set of amulets’, in D’Auria, S., P. Lacovara, and C.H. Roehrig (eds.), Mummies and Magic: The Funerary Arts of Ancient Egypt (Boston, 1988), 181–182. Willems, H., ‘The Shu-Spells in Practice’, in Willems, H. (ed.), The World of the Coffin Texts: Proceedings of the Symposium Held on the Occasion of the 100th Birthday of Adriaan de Buck, Leiden, December 17–19, 1992 (Egyptologische Uitgaven 9, Leiden, 1996), 197–209; id., The Coffin of Heqata (Cairo JdE 36418): A Case Study of Egyptian Funerary Culture of the Early Middle Kingdom (OLA 70, Leuven, 1996), 273–286. Some manuscripts featuring the Shu spells deploy the first person singular, other texts the third person singular. According to P. Jürgens’ text-critical analysis, the versions formulated in the first person singular are those closest to the original (Jürgens, P., Grundlinien einer Überlieferungsgeschichte der altägyptischen Sargtexte (GOF IV,31, Wiesbaden, 1995), 152 ff.). CT VI, 94j [508]. Budge, E.A.W., The Chapters of Coming Forth by Day or the Theban Recension of the Book of the Dead II (London, 1910), 53. For the actual amulets, see Žabkar, in Geus and Thill (ed.), Mélanges offerts à Jean Vercoutter, 375–388; Beinlich, GM 102 (1988), 11; Illés, O., ‘Single Spell Book of the Dead Papyri as Amulets’, in Backes, B., I. Munro, and S. Stöhr (ed.), TotenbuchForschungen (SAT 11, Wiesbaden, 2006), 124. Lüscher, B., Die Mund- und Herzsprüche (Tb 21–30) (Totenbuchtexte 9, Basel, 2016), 155–175. Instances are BD chapters 29B, 158, and 160 concerning the application of amulets to the body of the deceased (see Žabkar, in Geus and Thill (ed.), Mélanges offerts à Jean Vercoutter, 375–388; Beinlich, GM 102 (1988), 9–16; Illés, in Backes, Munro, and Stöhr (ed.), Totenbuch-Forschungen, 124).

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A similar case is BD chapter 100, but here the action takes place just after the mummification process has ended. In the text the deceased speaks in the first person singular, describing himself as a crew member of the solar bark. The vignette depicts this mythical vessel. The postscript makes clear that spell 100 should be recited over a drawing on a sheet of papyrus to be placed on the mummy wrappings without touching the body.75 The text was clearly recited during a ritual, and since the deceased is speaking here, the likelihood is that an officiant did so for him. 5.2 Texts Recited during the Funeral CT spell 599 also relates specifically to a funerary ritual, but to a different phase of the events. The background is not the application of amulets to the body of the deceased, but the presentation of funerary equipment to him.76 The text itself includes no explicit information on the recitational context. But it is part of the spell group 589–606, which in its entirety concerns the presentation of funerary equipment and this must also be the case in spell 599. In this text, concerning the offerings depicted on the coffin wall, the deceased is presented as speaking in the first person singular. That he is the dead beneficiary is clear from statements like ‘provisions of offerings are in front of me’, referring to the picture of an offering table on the coffin panel facing the mummy. Since many spells of this group include the ritual prescription ‘saying words’, the texts are intended for recitation. And as the deceased is the speaker, it stands to reason that someone else uttered these words in his place. CT spell 111 seems to concern the burial of the deceased, since the text unequivocally addresses ‘Anubis, who buries me in this great hill’. The deceased is again the speaker. The postscript states the spell should be recited over sand from the temple of Anubis, which should then be heaped around the deceased. ‘This is a burial in the west’.77 Clearly the recitator substitutes himself vocally for the deceased.

75

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Budge, BD II, 76f. In the version from papyrus OIM 9787, LXXI, 19–24 the drawing is said to be placed at the feet of the mummy (see Allen, T.G., The Egyptian Books of the Dead Documents in the Oriental Institute Museum at the University of Chicago (OIP 82, Chicago, 1960), 175; pl. XXVIII). Compare chapter 130, which has a similar postscript and is formulated partly in the first, and partly in the third person singular. CT VI, 215f–j [599]. CT II, 125a–126c [111].

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5.3 Texts Recited in the Framework of the Mortuary Cult CT spell 472 = BD chapter 6 constitutes a similar case. This is the shabti spell. Although the version published in the CT uses the third person singular, the occasional use of the dependent pronoun wi҆ ‘me’ instead of the expected sw ‘him’ suggests that the original version was in the first person singular, as is the case in late Middle Kingdom versions and in the BD.78 In this spell the deceased is speaking in the first person singular to his shabti. But according to the postscript it should be recited over the statuette during a ritual in which it will be deposited in a chapel. I have argued elsewhere that the occasion may be that of celebrations in the forecourt of the tomb, not in connection with the funeral, but in connection with a mortuary festival.79 On this occasion an officiant may have recited the spell in the name of the deceased. Another case of this kind is provided by CT spells 30–41. Elsewhere I have argued at length that this group of texts constitutes a liturgy recited during the mortuary cult in the tomb of a dead person.80 Throughout, the speaker is the son (A) of a deceased (B) portrayed as his dead father. The ritual text makes clear that B descends into the netherworld after having received his offerings during the offering cult in his tomb. It is B’s aim to reach a place located close to the eastern horizon where the body of his dead father Osiris (C) is lying on its bier. Before his arrival there he meets a group of deities D, who are apparently guarding Osiris’ resting place. The goddess ‘Beautiful West’ (E) also plays a role, as intermediary between Osiris (C), the gatekeepers (D), and the deceased (B). Since E is said to be the female partner of Osiris (C) she is a form of the goddess Isis. Since she is also said to be the mother of the deceased (B), the latter is cast in the role of Horus. In this liturgy all parties appear as speakers, giving rise to real dialogues among them. Of course neither the deceased nor the gods and goddess are able to speak in reality, but in many places it is clear that the officiant (A), who is at the same time the son of the deceased (B), realizes their speeches in ritual. The 78

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For the spell, see CT VI, 1a–2k [472]; Schneider, H.D., Shabtis: An Introduction to the History of Ancient Egyptian Funerary Statuettes I (Leiden, 1977), 45–77; Vernus, P., ‘Une formule des shaouabtis sur un pseudo-naos de la XIIIe dynastie’, RdE 26 (1974), 108; Schneider, Shabtis III, Fig. 3. Willems, H., ‘Carpe diem: Remarks on the Cultural Background of Herodotus II.78’, in Claes, W., H. De Meulenaere, and S. Hendrickx (eds.), Elkab and Beyond: Studies in Honour of Luc Limme (OLA 191, Leuven, 2009), 519. Willems, H., ‘The Social and Ritual Context of a Mortuary Liturgy of the Middle Kingdom (CT Spells 30–41)’, in Willems, H. (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms (OLA 103, Leuven, 2001), 253–372.

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liturgy on the one hand describes the netherworld landscape where his father (B) resides, but the speaker (A) also provides information to his father (B) or to the deities (D), and voices the reaction this stirs from the deities and his father in a dramatic speech. We will here confine our analysis to spell 33, which offers the most encompassing account of the personal relationships. The passages between brackets are not present in the original, but clarify the dialogue structure to the reader. The parts in bold provide information on the interrelationships between the parties involved. (1. A is addressing the group of gods D:) Oh gods who are in Endlessness! Oh Ennead which is in Hiddenness! See him, you gods, even this divine spirit, which Osiris has conceived, and which Isis has conceived as his child (B)! Oh you two crews, give adoration to him! Rejoice at meeting him, now that she has travelled, even she, the person of the West herself (E), towards that father of mine (etc.), who is in the west! (B)81 (2. E is speaking to B:) She (E) says to him (B): ‘Be welcome in peace, oh son whose horn is raised (B)! Travel in peace! I will protect you! Osiris (F) has commanded (thus)!’82 (3. A is speaking to E:) Be greeted, Beautiful West! Look, that father of mine (…) has come to you that he might greet you every day. For he is your son, which you have borne for Osiris (…).83 (4. B is speaking to E and D:) Meanwhile he (B) has spoken accordingly to [them]:84 ‘Be greeted, Beautiful West in the Following (of Osiris) (E); be greeted oh Following in Beautiful West (D)! I have come hither just because I wished that I might remove the injury of Osiris and that I might dispel his enemies!’85

81 82 83 84 85

CT I, 111c–114a [33]. CT I, 115a–c [33]. This sentence presupposes an earlier speech from Osiris (C) to E, which, however, is not made explicit in the recitation of spell 33. CT I, 115d–117a [33]. The personal pronoun between brackets appears in only some sources. In the others, read ḫft(.w) ‘accordingly’. CT I, 119c–120f [33].

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(5. E is speaking to B:) ‘Travel in peace, while I protect you’, says Beautiful West to that father of mine.86 The metatextual passages make clear that the spell addresses two different spheres of reality. On the one hand passages 2, 4 and 5 present a dialogue taking place in the netherworld between Beautiful West (E), the gods (D), and the deceased (B). On the other hand the living son (A) is in dialogue with beings in the netherworld. In passage 1 he is addressing the gods (D) and in passage 3 the goddess (E).87 In this dialogue structure, the speakers are accordingly gods, a deified deceased, and a ritualist. From a reading of the entire group of spells 30– 41 it is clear how this should be conceived of. We are not facing a real dialogue, but a liturgical ‘dramatic’ monologue, in which the ritualist voices not only his own statements, but also those of his dead father and the gods. Stated differently, a distinction should be made between the conceptual reality conjured up by the text (where gods, a deceased and a living human being are interacting), and the performative context. Since gods and the dead are unable to speak in ritual, the officiant does so for them.88 This brings us to our real concern. All of the above statements said to be uttered by the interlocutors in the netherworld are ‘I-texts’. The male ritualist saying ‘I’ in these passages, accordingly is not designating himself, but voices the words of a female deity, a group of deities, or his own dead father, the latter being the beneficiary of the performance. Moreover, the content of statement 4, in which the dead father is nominally the speaker, is important. It has the structure of an address to beings in the netherworld, followed by the statement ‘I have come hither’, and a statement of the purpose for which he has come (i҆-nḏ ḥr=k X i҆i.҆ n=i҆ ꜥꜣ + statement of purpose). This format is encountered many dozens of times in the ‘I texts’ in the CT and the BD.89 Conceivably these parallels have a comparable ritual background.

86 87

88 89

CT I, 121a–b [33]. That a ritualist is speaking, and not, for instance, a further deity, is clear from the fact that the speaker refers to the deceased as ‘that father of mine’. In our group of spells the speaker also lends his voice to Osiris (CT I, 106d–107b [32]) and to the gods of the horizon (e.g. CT I, 93c–94c [30]). For the details of this argumentation, see Willems, in Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture. Some instances: CT II, 52d–e; 53a–b [86]; 55b–e [89]; III, 268/9a–274/5b [228]; 294a– 297d [229]; 307a–310c [237]; 311h–315a [237]; 320a–322d [239]; 351e–c [252]; 382b–389a [261]; IV, 49m–r [296]; 60j–o [306]; 252/3c–256/7c [335]; V, 320 [451]; VI, 272d–h [650]; 314m–n [685]; 317m–o [687]; 321i–l [690]; VII, 2a [789]; 85f–h [876]; 118b–c [914]; 132f–133a

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Comparable cases occur in other parts of our CT liturgy. For instance, CT I, 93c–94c [30] presents a divine speech voiced by the officiant, in which the gods invite the deceased in the following terms: ‘Go and row in the Field of Reeds towards the inner parts of the Island of Heaven’. This is a literal citation of PT §284b–c. The passage is part of PT utterance 254, which, just like CT spells 30–41, is structured as a dialogue.90 There are numerous literal parallels among both texts. The theme is identical as well: the deceased is welcomed by Beautiful West and other deities and is being ushered in to Osiris. It is likely that PT utterance 254 has the same ritual background as CT spells 30–41.91 If correct, this hypothesis has significant consequences, for PT utterance 254 is inscribed in the antechamber of the pyramid of Unas, a location where Assmann would expect non-liturgical ‘Totenliteratur’, and where Hays would expect personal texts. If this does not hold for the present text, the question arises to what extent the traditional non-ritual hypothesis concerning these texts is justified. For as has been shown elsewhere, CT spells 30–41 (and perhaps PT utterance 254 as well) were used as recitations accompanying the offering ritual in the tomb chapel (see n. 78). The Graeco-Roman Papyrus Harkness is in some ways comparable. It is a ritual text which, according to Mark Smith’s impressive study, is recited by a father for his deceased daughter during a ritual of the Stundenwachen type. This ritual is interpreted by Smith as including not only the nightly vigil in the place of embalmment, but also subsequent actions taking place in the course of the funeral proper. Moreover, he argues that, while this text admittedly is the ritual

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[932]; 372d–374a [1094]; TB 79 (Lüscher, B., Die Verwandlungssprüche (Tb 76–88) (Totenbuchtexte 2, Basel, 2006), 176/177a–186/187e), etc. The same holds true for CT spells 622, another variant of this PT utterance. CT spell 556 (see Willems, in Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 322; here the officiant voices the words of a god) and 312 (= BD chapter 78) may have similar backgrounds (ibid., 370–372). Spells 30, 31 and 32 are moreover frequently combined with spells 345 and 609. The latter has a similar dialogue structure to the spells we are discussing. In CT VI, 222c [609] it is said that the deceased (who appears either in the first or the third person singular) has arrived from the Island of Fire. In CT spells 30–41 this is continually said about the deceased. For this reason it seems possible that in the cited passage the speaker is speaking as a proxy for the deceased. Admittedly the subsequent passages are all formulated in the third person singular. CT spell 628 also concerns key themes of CT spells 30–41: the reception of the deceased by Beautiful West. The text is structured as a dialogue, with statements of the goddess and of the deceased. One version of the spells is formulated in the third person singular, another in the first. Spells 313 and 665 have a similar dialogue structure.

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accompaniment of a funeral, it might possibly also have been used in a cyclic fashion during the mortuary cult, in the course of which the mummification and burial were mimicked.92 In this text, the ritualist addresses different persons. Mostly, the addressee is the deceased, in some cases it is her tomb (which is somehow identified with her), but in section g (P. Harkness IV,11–V,32) he also addresses gatekeepers and deities in the netherworld, urging them to receive his daughter well. In one part of the text, the daughter herself speaks, addressing her surviving relatives (section c = P. Harkness II,2–10). Commenting on this passage, Smith remarks: ‘it is difficult to imagine a ritual context in which such an address could have been made. Perhaps (…) these lines record a text which was inscribed on a stela or the walls of some part of her tomb that was accessible to the public, and do not form part of the ritual sequence of P. Harkness’.93 However, this solution does not really explain why this document, which is liturgical from beginning to end, would have been interrupted by a text of a non-ritual nature. Moreover, Smith himself points to the existence of a similar ‘I-text’ in P. BM 10507, II–III, which is ‘specifically designated as a ritual utterance’,94 and he therefore does not rule out the possibility that the same might be the case in P. Harkness as well. However, he does not elaborate on how this recitation should then be conceived of. In line with what precedes, I suggest that the officiant reciting the text of P. Harkness would in section c speak as a substitute for his dead daughter. Following this interpretation, the papyrus would become a coherent ritual recitation. 5.4 Initiatory Texts The situation is different in texts like CT spell 341. Here, the speaker is addressing a number of gatekeepers, referring to himself in the first person singular (1:3): ‘I am Re!’95 A dialogue with the gatekeepers ensues, who ask themselves: ‘Is he one of us, is he like a man who has accomplished the initiation?’96 The speaker answers: ‘I have arrived here after having completed the 92 93 94 95 96

Smith, M., Papyrus Harkness (MMA 31.9.7) (Oxford, 2005), 21–41. Smith, Papyrus Harkness, 35–36. Ibid., referring to Smith, M., The Mortuary Texts of Papyrus BM 10507 (Catalogue of the Demotic Papyri in the British Museum, London, 1987), 22–24. CT IV, 343c [341]. CT IV, 343h–i [341]. R.O. Faulkner hesitantly translates the word with ‘discharging (?)’ (The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts I (Warminster, 1973), 275). P. Barguet offers a similar rendering: ‘putréfaction (?)’ (Textes des Sarcophages égyptiens du Moyen Empire (Paris, 1986), 588), while C. Carrier proposes ‘décomposition’ (Textes des Sarcophages du Moyen Empire égyptien I (s.l., 2004), 851). However, the word as written in version B1L

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initiation’.97 The postscript to this text reads: ‘A man utters this spell98 over seven udjat eyes in the form of a drawing. It should be rinsed off with beer and natron; it should be drunk by the man’.99 Here the context is apparently that of a religious initiation, in which the initiate should drink the liquid with which the drawing has been rinsed off. This postscript only makes sense if a living initiate performs the act himself, and if he also recites the text, which casts him in the role of a deity. I assume we are here looking at the initiation of a priest.100 The fact that the text as we know it is inscribed on a coffin, however, suggests that initiation of a man to the role of a priest was here secondarily used to initiate a dead person into the netherworld. In this situation, however, the deceased would not be able to speak himself. Arguably, a ritualist would utter the words for him. Such transfers of texts used on earth to a funerary use are well known. One of the clearest cases occurs in the colophon of the version of BD supplementary chapter 162. This text features the deceased, who identifies himself with the Heavenly Cow, and is speaking in the first person singular.101 According to the postscript the text should be recited over an image of the Heavenly Cow, which should then be placed under the head of the deceased in order to heat the dead body.102

97

98 99 100 101

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( ) is clearly bsi҆.w ‘initiation’, as the scroll determinative is attested with the verb bsi҆, or rather its earlier variant i҆bs (Wb. I, 473). Sign , which appears as a determinative in version B3L, is probably a mistake, as in hieratic it is closely similar to , the normal determinative of bsi҆.w (cf. Möller, G., Hieratische Paläographie I (Leipzig, 1927), Nos. 255 and 582). Our translation follows version B1L. Variant B3L reads i҆w=f mi҆ s n km.t=f bsi҆.w, which has the opposite meaning (‘he is like a man who has not yet completed his initiation’). Both versions make good sense if they are translated as interrogatives. For the meaning of the terms bsi҆ and i҆bs, see Kruchten, J.-M., Les annales des prêtres de Karnak (XXI–XXIIImes dynasties) et autres textes contemporains relatifs à l’ initiation des prêtres d’Amon (OLA 32, Leuven, 1989), 147–204. CT IV, 344a [341]. This passage of spell 341 was already interpreted in this way by Federn, W., ‘The “Transformations” in the Coffin Texts: A New Approach’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 19 (1960), 251. The word for ‘spell’ has been inadvertently omitted in B3L. CT IV, 345g [341]. Alexandra von Lieven offers the same interpretation in her contribution to this volume. Similar interpretation with Wüthrich, A., ‘Untersuchungen zu den Zusatzkapiteln 162 bis 167 des Totenbuchs: Erste Bemerkungen’, in Backes, Munro, and Stöhr (eds.), TotenbuchForschungen, 368. The situation in this spell is highly complex, as the beneficiary of the ritual is not the Heavenly Cow, identified with the deceased, but the sun god (with whom the deceased will himself later be identified himself in the colophon). I will investigate the meaning, use and function of this text in greater detail elsewhere. Hieratische Papyrus aus den Königlichen Museen zu Berlin II. Hymnen an verschiedene Götter: Zusatzkapitel zum Totenbuch (Leipzig, 1905), Zusatztafel II (P. Berlin 3031 II,7–III,4).

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Although this is obviously a funerary recitation, the text suggests it originally had another purpose. At the end it adds a stage direction, which includes an additional recitation. It states that this addition should only be deployed when the text is used for the benefit of a dead person. By implication, without the additional recitation it could also be used for a different purpose. The variant on P. OIM Chicago 9787, col. CLVII,19–33103 clarifies this point, stating that the text had originally been made by the Heavenly Cow herself for her son Re to protect him at sunset. This is followed by the statement: If you have placed this goddess104 at the king’s throat upon earth, he shall be like a flame in the face of (variant: in pursuit of) his enemies on earth. If you have placed her at his throat (variant: at a man’s throat) after death, he shall be divine in the necropolis and he shall not be kept from the gates of the netherworld. The postscript clearly implies that the text should be recited over an amulet suspended from the neck of the king ‘on earth’; the context must be a ritual profiling him as the son of the Heavenly Cow, and arguably this could also be considered a kind of initiation. But the text could also be applied to a dead person’s body, in which case it began to function as a funerary text. Clearly, a ritual text used by the king on earth is here adapted to a role in the rituals performed in the place of embalmment, when the amulet is attached to the body (of the type of text group 1). The implication is, of course, that the deceased might enjoy similar benefits in the hereafter as the king did on earth. What matters for the issue discussed in this article is that the king would of course have been able to pronounce the spell himself, something the deceased could not have done. Here one may assume that someone else uttered the words in his stead. Probably the best known case of a transferal of a text written for temple initiations to a funerary use can be found in Book of the Dead spell 125. This is the well-known text in which the speaker, speaking in the first person singular, addresses 42 gods and denies having committed any evil act: the Negative Confession. However, it has been shown long ago that this text effectively originates in initiation rituals in temples: the denial by the prospective priest to have committed transgressions of sacred rules constitutes a step in preparing

103

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Allen, The Egyptian Books of the Dead Documents in the Oriental Institute Museum, 285; pl. XLIX. Same conclusion drawn by Gee, in Backes, Munro, and Stöhr (eds.), TotenbuchForschungen, 77. I.e. the amulet representing her.

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him for gaining the right to enter the temple. This initiation ritual is then secondarily taken over by the deceased, in the form of BD spell 125.105,106 The Graeco-Roman funerary papyrus Rhind I includes an interesting version of this text. It contains a collection of recitative texts to be used during the funeral. However, column VII,7ff. urges the priest to say: ‘You (the priest) will call as loudly as you can: Oh lord, my father Osiris, I was a man with a straight heart. I have not transgressed …’ (follows the negative confession, entirely formulated in the first person singular).107 Clearly, this is part of the liturgical text 105

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Merkelbach, R., ‘Ein ägyptischer Priestereid’, ZPE 2 (1968), 7–30 and 136 was the first to argue that Greek versions of the Negative Confession in BD 125 were used in temple initiations; see also idem, Die Unschuldserklärungen und Berichten im ägyptischen Totenbuch, in der römischen Elegie und im antiken Roman (Kurzberichte aus den Giessener PapyrusSammlungen 43, Gießen, 1986). Grieshammer later showed that some texts inscribed near gates in Greaco-Roman temples have a similar context (Grieshammer, R., ‘Zum “Sitz im Leben” des negativen Sündenbekenntnisses’, in Voigt, W. (ed.), XVIII Deutscher Orientalistentag vom 1. bis 5. Oktober 1972 in Lübeck: Vorträge (ZDMG Supplement 2, Wiesbaden, 1974), 19–25). The initiation text studied by Merkelbach was later shown to be the Greek translation of a passage in the ‘Book of the temple’ (Quack, J., ‘Ein ägyptisches Handbuch des Tempels und seine griechische Übersetzung’, ZPE 119 (1997), 297–300). Supplementary evidence for the use of BD chapter 125 in temples was recently shown to occur in the temple of Hathor at Dayr al-Madīna (von Lieven, JEA 98 (2012), 263f.). Quack, J.F., ‘Concepts of Purity in Egyptian Religion’, in Frevel, C., and C. Nihan (eds.), Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism (Dynamics in the History of Religion 3, Leiden/Boston, 2013), 150 has called attention to a passage in the postscript of BD chapter 125, according to which the initiate ‘will be a confidant of the king and his royal court’. From this he deduces that, originally, the text was a court ritual. This may be true, but the text does not explicitly say so. It does refer to intimacy with the king, but in the same vein to receiving offerings from the offering table of ‘the great god’ and to gaining access to the west. Therefore the passage seems to refer to a quite general range of positive consequences of the initiation. Only after this article had been finished, the editor of this volume informed me of the existence of a recent contribution by M. Stadler, arguing that the funerary use of texts resembling BD 125 was original. The later temple initiations would be secondary adaptations to a use in temple initiations (‘Judgment after Death (Negative Confession)’, in Dieleman and Wendrich (eds.), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, http://escholarship.org/uc/item/ 07s1t6kj). This reasoning is based on the chronological distribution of the sources. Considerations of textual content, as well as the likelihood that large parts of the Book of the Temple, cited above, are probably much older than their currently known attestations, suggest to me that the initiatory interpretation advocated above has the greater likelihood. Möller, G., Die beiden Totenpapyrus Rhind des Museums zu Edinburgh (Leipzig, 1913), 34– 37 (this example was brought to my attention by Joachim Quack), see the comments by Merkelbach, R., ‘Diodor über das Totengericht der Ägypter’, ZÄS 120 (1993), 79. Similarly, a passage of Porphyrios would according to Merkelbach refer to a ritual during which a priest recited a text in the name of the deceased (Merkelbach, R., ‘Porphyrios über das Totengericht der Ägypter’, ZÄS 127 (2000), 181–182).

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as well, but this liturgical text features the deceased as speaking. The ritualist is uttering the Negative Confession for the deceased, speaking in the first person singular. Such initiatory texts are frequently said to serve the introduction of a person to the temple during lunar festivals. Instances are BD chapters 128, 133, 135, 136, 140, 141, 148, and 190. Some of these texts feature the dead initiate speaking in the first person singular: BD chapters 128, 135, 136 (= CT spell 1030), and 148. As in the cases cited previously, reciting the funerary versions of these texts (the only ones to have survived) cannot have been realized by the dead speaker, and a living person may have done so for him. It is particularly in these initiation texts that references are made to the ritual being performed in secret. As was noted above, Hays understood this as implying that the texts were used at home and for private purposes, but this is not what the postscripts suggest. He based his view primarily on an analysis of texts in the Book if the Dead papyrus of Nu. However, this document itself explains in BD chapter 190 that ‘you (i.e. the initiate) should act without letting anyone see it, except for the one whom you really trust (i҆m.y i҆b=k mꜣꜥ) and the lector priest, without letting any other face see it, without a servant entering from outside. You are to act inside a pavilion made of cloth and studded all over with stars’.108 Two points must be highlighted here. Firstly, the presence of a lector priest is clearly required for the act, and it suggests the event takes place under the auspices of such an already initiated temple official. Secondly, the event is situated in a tent studded with stars, a rather specific structure one would not expect in a domestic context. The initiate is here neither in the temple nor at home. I would suggest he is in a temporary, heaven-like structure specifically erected for the rite of passage he has to go through before being allowed to act in the temple.109 The texts we have cited all derive from funerary sources, but the postscripts allow us a glance at the prior use of these texts in temple initiations. Meanwhile, however, evidence for initiatory texts from non-funerary contexts is also mounting. J.-M. Kruchten has extensively studied the form of initiatory texts

108

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Lapp, Papyrus of Nu, pl. 45, chapter 190, col. 4. The tent-like structure is not referred to by Hays. Chapter 190 is not a real spell, but a compilation of postscripts presumably from different spells. Whatever the origin of this particular passage may have been, it is similar in tone to other postscripts in texts of the initiation genre. Similar cases occur in BD chapters 141–142, where the postscripts accompany a real spell. Von Lieven, A., ‘Mysterien des Kosmos: Kosmographie und Priesterwissenschaft’, in Assmann, J. and M. Bommas (eds.), Ägyptische Mysterien? (München, 2002), 55 also associates the star-studded tent with temple initiation.

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such as were used in the Third Intermediate Period in the Amun temple in Karnak, and they turn out to be quite similar to Hays’s personal texts. For instance, in a text from Karnak, the initiate exclaims: ‘Oh my heart, oh my heart! What you have desired has come to pass when I witnessed the secret shape of the one who is in Thebes! I have seen the one whose places are venerable, just like his disc which is in heaven’.110 The ‘Book of Thoth’ has been recognized by Joachim Quack as an initiatory text for a (temple) scribe, and in it, the candidate being initiated bears testimony of his encompassing knowledge of the divine world, and is formulated in a way that has reminiscences to what we know as funerary texts.111 The same holds true for the texts used in the initiation of sculptors working in the ‘House of Gold’.112 Alexandra von Lieven has also argued that numerous so-called books of the netherworld are likely to have been initiatory texts for solar priests.113 Not all initiatory texts are formulated in the first person singular, but this is quite common. In such cases, the texts look like ‘Statuscharakteristiken’ in the sense of Jan Assmann (see p. 207), and they are formally indistinguishable from what Hays would have called personal texts. However, the postscripts to such texts make explicit that the secrecy involved in their recitation cannot be explained in terms of domestic privacy, as Hays would have it. In some cases the recitations are said to take place in a tent decorated with stars, and under the supervision of a temple priest. The initiate is involved in a rite of passage which will transform him into a priest able to perform in the temple himself. Accordingly, these personal texts are at the same time sacerdotal texts, and they are used in a collective setting. 5.5 Texts from the Daily Temple Ritual Before being allowed to function in the temple, ritualists had to be initiated, and as we have seen this implied that they gave testimony of religious knowledge not accessible to others. It is therefore likely that they also needed this knowledge for, and used it during, the daily performance of their task. For this reason, it is a priori likely that texts rooted in temple ritual reflect the same background. 110 111

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Kruchten, Les annales des prêtres de Karnak. For the cited passage, see pp. 36–38. Quack, J., ‘Die Initiation zum Schreiberberuf im Alten Ägypten’, Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 36 (2007), 249–295. Quack has also suggested the Book of Two Ways in the Coffin Texts might be an originally initiatory composition ( Journal of the American Oriental Society 126 (2006), 595). Von Lieven, A., ‘Im Schatten des Goldhauses: Berufsgeheimnis und Handwerkerinitation im Alten Ägypten’, SAK 36 (2007), 147–156. Von Lieven, in Assmann and Bommas (eds.), Ägyptische Mysterien?, 47–58.

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The book of the daily temple ritual as transmitted in Papyrus Berlin 3055 and its parallels contains numerous texts addressing the temple deity in the second person or speaking about him in the third, which Hays explains as sacerdotal texts. But very often, the priest also figures in these texts, referring to himself in the first person singular. One example of this among many dozens will convey an impression of these recitations: The spell of striding towards the sacred place. To say words: ‘Oh Souls of Heliopolis, as surely as you prosper, I prosper, As surely as I prosper, you prosper! Your ka prospers, while my ka prospers in front of the ka of all those alive. As surely as all114 are alive, I am alive. The two mnsꜣ containers of Atum are the protection of my members. May Sakhmet, the great, the beloved of Ptah, place for me life, stability and happiness around all my flesh for the life of Thoth. I am Horus who is on his papyrus, A lord of fear, one great in respect, With high feathers, a great one in Abydos. An offering that the king gives. I am pure’.115 Hays makes explicit reference to this text, arguing it is a sacerdotal text used in a collective ritual, where the priest is speaking about himself in the first person singular.116 I could not agree more. But if this text would be found in a context different from this daily temple ritual papyrus, for instance in a BD papyrus, and if it would lack its title (as would often be the case in a funerary text), no one would consider it to be in any way out of place. This is an important point, as it demonstrates that there are no formal criteria that would allow one to dif-

114 115

116

Here the adjective nb is used independently, a highly exceptional use. P. Berlin 3055, II,4–7 (Hieratische Papyrus aus den Königlichen Museen zu Berlin I, pl. II; most recent translations and comments: Guglielmi, and Buroh, in van Dijk, J. (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde, 113–116; Braun, Pharao und Priester, 102– 105). Other first person singular passages in the same ritual and self-referentially pronounced by the priest are found in the conclusion of many spells ‘I am pure’ and in I,5; I,6–7; II,1; III,4–5; III,6–7; IV,6–7; IV,7–9; V,1–2; V,3–5; V,6–7; V,8; VI,1–3; VIII,7; VIII,9– IX,5; IX,8–10; XI,4–5; XI,6–7; XI,8–9; XI,10–11; XII,1–2; XII,3; XII,4–6; XIII,4; XIII,8; XX,3; XXVI,4–5; XXVI,8–9. See also the highly relevant remarks on the linkage between such selfpresentations in the daily temple ritual and funerary texts, Quack, in El Hawary (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden, 127f. Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 31.

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ferentiate a first person collective text in Hays’s sense from a personal text. In any case Hays makes no effort to define such criteria. Here one should recall that the texts from the daily temple ritual bristle with versions of PT utterances.117 In fact, the identification with ‘Horus who is on his papyrus’ in the passage cited above also occurs in funerary texts: CT II, 347d– 348a [157] = BD 112.118 The fact that this text is likely to derive from a temple context119 only supports the point of view taken here. Since it is quite clear that ‘I-texts’ used for the initiation of priests could be used as funerary texts, I see no reason why the same could not hold true for the ‘I-texts’ used in the daily temple ritual. In this case at least some personal texts would (contrary to Hays’s contention) not reflect a private ritual, but a collective setting. And since Hays fails to adduce a single case that indubitably proves personal texts were used in private settings, this is a rather damaging argument against his interpretation of these texts. 5.6 The Earthly Use of the Personal Texts Although Hays nowhere really demonstrates that personal texts were written with the principal aim of serving a beneficiary who is identical with the speaker, he certainly marshals arguments for the hypothesis. Of these, the assumption that personal texts were recited in private has been shown above to be unsupported by any evidence (see p. 214). But there is no denying that the postscripts of many of Hays’ personal texts refer explicitly to their use on earth and to benefits not only for dead people, but also for living ones. Following in the footsteps of W. Federn and E. Wente, he argues that such statements imply that personal benefit on earth was the primary purpose of the texts (even though this includes acquiring knowledge of textual content of which the effectiveness would continue after death). And like his precursors, he calls this ‘mysticism’.120 Several scholars including myself have long ago argued at length against the hypotheses proposed by Federn and Wente.121 Hays remarks about this crit117 118 119

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As recognized by Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts, 22. Budge, BD II, 106. This is one of the ‘Sprüche für Kennen der Seelen der heiligen Orte’; for some of these, J. Yoyotte has suggested an initiatory function (‘Héra d’ Héliopolis et le sacrifice humain’, Annuaire EPHE 89 (1980–1981), 85–87). Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 49–50; cf. Federn, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 19 (1960), 241–257; Wente, E.F., ‘Mysticism in pharaonic Egypt?’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 41 (1982), 161–179. Willems, Heqata, 279–284. Similar criticism (but based on entirely different sources) was expressed by Assmann, J., ‘Unio Liturgica: Die kultische Einstimmung im götterweltlichen

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icism that it was ‘only a dispute over terminology, with the effect of leading the discussion away from the role and place of this activity in society’. He also claims that the ‘the word mysticism is quite broad in meaning, and that would undermine arguments against its application here’.122 By qualifying the entire debate as quibbling over words, Hays overlooks the real point I was trying to make, which concerns precisely ‘the role and place of the texts in society’. I was not arguing against a ‘broad’ use of the term mysticism, but against Wente’s strictly defined understanding of it as a process of a human individuals merging with the divine, which was accessible to a select group of persons possessing the required mystical knowledge, and who aspired personal benefit. My reaction implied that this definition of mysticism does not do justice to the primary aim of the texts, which I linked to what Hays would have called a collective setting. In other words, my interpretation implied a fundamentally different approach to the use of the texts, an approach Hays has avoided commenting upon. I therefore will not go over this debate again, but it is of interest here to discuss how the personal benefits of the use of texts on earth might be understood. That there are ‘I-texts’ of which the speaker is the beneficiary cannot be doubted. Magical spells formulated in the first person singular such as mentioned in n. 64 are certainly of that kind.123 Since funerary texts are frequently adaptations of texts originally made for another purpose, the possibility of magical ‘I-texts’ ending up there cannot be ruled out in principle. There are a few cases where this is in fact quite likely. The most convincing one is CT spell 228, of which the original purpose was to enable a person to ‘complete 110 years in life’.124 But on the whole there are only very few indubitable cases of personal texts composed for a use in personal life being recast for a funerary purpose.125 Therefore, that an ‘I-text’ is a personal text in Hays’s sense cannot be maintained simply on the basis of the grammatical person the text deploys. It should be clearly demonstrated in each individual case. The point that postscripts frequently imply that texts were used on earth is valid, but it is not in itself a counterargument against the hypothesis I have

122 123 124 125

Lobpreis als Grundmotiv “esoterischer” Überlieferung im Alten Ägypten’, in Kippenberg, H.G. (ed.), Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern religions (Leiden/New York/Köln, 1995), 37–60. See also Smith, M., Traversing Eternity: Texts for the Afterlife from Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt (Oxford, 2009), 617. Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts I, 49. For another case, see Quack, J.F., ‘Magie und Totenbuch: Eine Fallstudie (pEbers 2,1–6)’, CdE 74 (1999), 7. CT III, 266/267a–293e [228]. The text is formulated in the first person singular. Willems, in: Willems (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture, 338, n. 361.

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been developing on the preceding pages. My interpretation in fact implies the very same thing, for in case a priest speaks by proxy for a dead person who is no longer able to do so himself, the context of use is clearly situated on earth. Matters only become complicated where such a performance is said to be beneficial for the performer. Cases where this happens are not exceptional.126 It is clear, however, that such earthly benefits are usually mentioned together with benefits in the hereafter. Therefore it is probably fair to say that these texts bear fruits in both spheres of existence. I would argue that the earthly benefits are dependent upon those in the netherworld. To understand this point, it is necessary to envisage the performance structure that I have proposed for the ‘I-texts’. If a priest says ‘I’ for a dead person, he does so to place his capacities of speech at the disposal of someone who no longer has them. This implies, however, that the division of identities over individuals becomes somewhat blurred. If a priest utters words that are really meant to be statements of someone else (the king, a deity, a ritual object, a dead person), then one could say that the former acts as a substitute A′ for the latter (A). This substitution is a matter of ritual pragmatics, but in terms of religious discourse, it is A who is speaking. In this ritual constellation A and A′ therefore do not occupy the same level. A′ is technically performing a ritual which conceptually enables A to act within the ritual. What happens here is not the same as what happens within the transformation spells and other ‘I-texts’. Here as well the distinction between identities is blurred, but the underlying motivation is entirely different. The issue here is that an individual A assumes the identity of another person of a higher level of existence (B). A typical example is ‘I am the ba of Shu’. Here the deceased A takes over the identity of god B: A = B. In his study of the transformation spells, H. Buchberger qualifies category B as the ‘Transformationsziel’: A wants to acquire the qualities of B.127 Of course, when a ritualist A′ acts as a vocal substitute for A and in this capacity says ‘I am B’, this does not mean that the aim of the act is the transformation 126

127

The list in Gee, in Backes, Munro, and Stöhr (eds.), Totenbuch-Forschungen, 75–79 includes a number of examples. Not all of the cases cited there are, however, equally convincing. The colophon to BD 17 concerns rituals performed on earth for a dead person. The text in BD 18 concerns prospering ‘on earth’, but it is not clear whether it is a dead or a living person that prospers; for dead persons returning to the earth to enjoy the presence of their family on earth, see Assmann, J., Tod und Jenseits im alten Ägypten (München, 2001), 285– 318. Buchberger, H., Transformation und Transformat: Sargtextstudien I (ÄA 52, Wiesbaden, 1993).

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A′ = B. Yet the ritual context to an extent reduces the distinction between A and A′. This implies that, secondarily, the priest may perceive the event in the sense that he is himself assuming the qualities of B. This is clearly the case in the daily temple ritual, where priests, as we have seen, frequently assume divine roles. In this institutionalized context, the aim is certainly not that the priest does so because it is a personal ambition to merge with the divine. The evident purpose of this context is that he substitutes himself for the king, in this role merges with the divine for the duration of the performance of cult, and as a god carries out ritual acts for the god of the temple. From a theological perspective, this is the task of the ritualist.128 Thus, following a terminology proposed by Jan Assmann, the performer does not achieve an unio mystica with the divine, but an unio liturgica. The ritualist will know this as well, and accept it, but this does not rule out the likely psychological effect that he will perceive the capacity to merge with the divine as a deeply religious personal experience.129 Also, this has certain social consequences; for due to their intimate involvement with the divine, priests are for instance able to transmit oracular decisions. Therefore, acquiring knowledge to be initiated into temple cult, and maintaining and using this knowledge in cult are highly valuable for those involved, and it is not strange to find this fact acknowledged in the postscripts to the texts. Yet this does not mean that this is the reason why the texts were written in the first place.

6

Summary and Conclusions

The aim of this paper has been to offer a new interpretation explaining what motivated the texts often referred to as funerary literature, and particularly of the class of I-texts with this background that Hays coined personal texts. The most central results are: 1) Hitherto it was assumed that if in a funerary text the deceased says ‘I’, he is speaking himself, reading the texts inscribed in his tomb as ‘Totenliteratur’. Hays adds to this the ingenious possibility that the speaker might learn the texts

128 129

Assmann, in Kippenberg, Secrecy and Concealment, 37–60; Braun, Pharao und Priester, 292–293. This point was explicitly accepted by Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts, 24. See also Quack, in El Hawary, A. (ed.), Wenn Götter und Propheten reden, 136, who remarks about the priests while liturgically reaching identity with the divine: ‘sie erfahren eine vorübergehende ontologische Transformierung’ (italics mine).

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already during life, recite them then for benefits before death, and remember them after for benefits in the netherworld. He argues these recitations were done in private, and are therefore distinct from ritual texts recited collectively in temple or tomb. The present article has produced evidence for a hitherto neglected, but fundamentally different, third possibility. What remains unchanged is that the speaker is the individual for whom the funerary texts were written down and that he refers to himself with the first person singular. But this is the case only on the level of the dialogue structure of the texts. On the practical level of their performance, the speaker is a living person (A′) speaking instead of the deceased: A′ realizes the speech of the dead person A, so that, when A′ speaks, A is considered to be speaking. As a result, an indication that has always been considered crucial in supporting the earlier hypotheses can no longer be accepted as such. Many spells in the CT and the BD are introduced by stage directions like N ḏd=f ‘N says’ or ḏd mdw i҆n N pn ‘saying words by this N’. The fact that the dead owner of the funerary document is here said to be the speaker is generally accepted as proof of the idea that the deceased recited the text in the netherworld, or used it there after having learned it on earth. Our new hypothesis gives a fresh twist to the interpretation. Since the ritualist A′ lends his voice to the deceased A, the remark ‘N says’ could refer to a statement the deceased makes after his death through the ritualist’s mouth. There is no necessary implication here that the dead had to personally read the texts from the walls of the coffin or burial chamber, or from a papyrus. They are not ‘Totenliteratur’, but ritual recitations. This article has produced several examples demonstrating that this interpretation is realistic, but it has not proven that the solution holds for most or all ‘I-texts’. Yet this possibility cannot be ruled out. 2) Because texts looking exactly like Hays’s personal texts were also used in temple initiations and in the daily temple cult, there are no formal criteria to distinguish the one from the other. Moreover, the text of the daily temple ritual is pervaded with passages of which versions are also known in the PT or the BD,130 and we have shown there is no clear cut evidence for the private use of the personal texts. Therefore, the above pages developed the idea that temple texts and funerary texts constitute a continuum, also in the case of the 130

Smith reckons with the existence of ‘texts which could be recited for either a divine or a human beneficiary as circumstances required’ (Smith, M., ‘Bodl. MS. Egypt.a.3(P) and the Interface between Temple Cult and the Cult of the Dead’, in Quack, J.F. (ed.), Ägyptische Rituale der griechisch-römischen Zeit (ORA 6, Tübingen, 2014), 150). Elsewhere in this volume, A. von Lieven argues similarly.

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‘I-texts’. Therefore a strong point can be made for personal texts effectively having been composed for use in the collective setting of temple or mortuary rituals. If this idea is correct, funerary texts might be sacerdotal throughout, regardless of whether the deceased is being referred to in the first, second, or third person singular. 3) Yet Sethe, Assmann and Hays have demonstrated that texts deploying the first person singular do constitute a significant class of texts different from those deploying the second or third persons. If dialogue structure is not the essential difference setting them apart, the question must be asked what is. I believe the distinction lies less in the grammatical person deployed than in the degree of active involvement in the action implied by the grammatical person. In the case of texts addressed to a dead person, or speaking about him, the person is not acting himself, but is the object of actions and utterances focusing upon him. However, where the dead person speaks himself (even though to this end he has to use someone else’s mouth), he is performing actively. This distinction between activity versus passivity may be crucial. In temple ritual, the person saying ‘I’ is usually not the beneficiary of the ritual; that is the god venerated in the temple. The person who says ‘I’ is the priest, who is performing the cult from which the passive deity benefits. The first person ‘Statuscharakteristik’ pronounced by the priest has the function of identifying him with divine actors who might interact with the divine beneficiary on an equal footing. In funerary religion, the distinction between active and passive roles is equally significant.131 Sometimes the deceased is identified with Osiris or another dead father-god. Where this happens, he characteristically appears in a passive role, being brought to life by others acting to his benefit. In many other texts however, the deceased is portrayed as being alive. In this role he usually features as an active solar deity, or as an active deity in the role of the son (and the two characteristics can come to a fusion). In texts of this latter kind, the journey of the deceased (identified with the filial or solar divinity) to his dead or sleeping father is a very central concept, and texts featuring the deceased are very often formulated in the first person singular. Almost all transformation spells, in which the deceased identifies himself with a god (‘I am the ba of Shu!’) and claims to be acting as one, are of this kind.

131

Willems, H., ‘The Embalmer Embalmed: Remarks on the Meaning and Decoration of Some Middle Kingdom Coffins’, in van Dijk, J., (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde (EM 1, Groningen, 1997), 343–372.

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An element specific to funerary texts must here be highlighted. Just as in temple cult the priest approached the shrine of the god, a funerary officiant would approach the cult place of the deceased; this is what is clearly happening in CT spells 30–41, studied above. However, as a result of the revivifying acts of the officiant, the deceased was assumed to come to life in the netherworld, and there the story repeated itself. The resuscitated deceased actively approached his dead father (Osiris, for instance), to bring him back to life. He was doing precisely the same kind of thing the officiant had been doing for himself in his tomb, and very similar things to what the priest was doing in the temple. As a result, ‘I-texts’ could be equally applicable in all three contexts: with reference to the priest in the temple, with reference to the officiant in the tomb chapel, and with reference to the resuscitated deceased who had turned into an officiant acting in the netherworld. It is undoubtedly for this reason that temple texts and funerary texts can be so deeply similar in tone and content, and that so many texts also known as PT or BD spells were adopted in temple ritual. But with a difference: In temple ritual and mortuary cult, the priest or the funerary officiant could pronounce the appropriate ‘I-texts’ himself. The deceased profiling himself in the netherworld as an officiant for the father god, could no longer vocally do so. We have argued that the ritual technique of ‘speaking by proxy’ for the deceased by an earthly priest could have been the mechanism to overcome this obstacle. 4) In this latter case, the pragmatics of the use of the text led to an interesting fusion of roles. Regardless of whether the deceased was speaking, was being spoken to, or spoken about, the technique remained the same. In none of these cases the deceased was really speaking himself; in all cases, the officiant was speaking. Even where the deceased said ‘I’, this extraneous person effectively had to pronounce this word. Looking at the situation from the point of view of the performer, it mattered little which grammatical person he was deploying; in all three cases he was referring to a person not physically identical with himself. From this perspective it is understandable that a speaker who should say ‘I’ unthinkingly switched to a different grammatical person, for instance replacing ‘I’ with ‘he’. Seen through the eyes of the performer, nothing fundamental changed, even though the dialogue structure did. This ‘pragmatic fluidity’ of grammatical person may explain why funerary texts are very inconsistent in the use of the first, second or third person As an example, the case of CT spell 225 has been studied above, but the phenomenon observed there is in fact common in funerary texts. By contrast, no such degree of inconsistency in dialogue structure is encountered in the texts of the daily temple ritual, where the role division was apparently more clearly defined. The inconsistency

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of funerary texts in terms of grammatical person is understandable if the texts are approached from the pragmatic perspective of speaking by proxy. 5) In the above, the similarity of texts used in funerary and temple rituals has been duly noted. However, there may be other text types that were integrated in funerary literature. The case of BD supplementary spell 162, which may have had its origin in royal cult, is a case in point. It has also been suggested that magical texts inspired funerary texts,132 as is in fact the case in the apotropaic texts in the pyramids. I consider highly likely that funerary texts, temple texts, magical texts, and texts used in royal cult constituted different, but communicating text pools which mutually influenced each other. I see no reason to suspect unidirectionality here (for instance by assuming that all versions had their roots in temple cult, fanning out from there to other spheres of religious activity133). The underlying action patterns are so similar that it is as likely that a temple text was re-used as a funerary one, as the other way around. The direction of inspiration can only be determined in individual cases, based on the internal evidence provided by each source. 6) Focusing now on the specifically funerary texts, or texts from other contexts being used as such, I have argued that reciting ‘I-texts’ by proxy took place in different funerary contexts. It happened when the mummy was supplied with amulets in the place of embalmment, it happened when the tomb equipment was being brought to the tomb, it may have happened during the Stundenwachen, and it happened during the ensuing mortuary cult. The recitation context of texts inspired by temple initiations would perhaps find their most logical place during burial, but I have no specific information to confirm this point. The fact that many BD spells refer to recitations during religious festivals might suggest that the celebration of such festivities in the context of the mortuary cult was the occasion when this happened, but this issue has not been investigated here. The same is the case for texts that may be related to the daily temple cult. 7) In the case of recitations uttered by temple staff, the priest saying ‘I’ is not the beneficiary of the ritual performance, and the same is true for the first person officiant acting during the funeral or in mortuary cult. In both cases, the beneficiary is the silent deity or deceased. In case of a dead person saying ‘I’, the matter 132 133

Quack, CdE 74 (1999), 5–17; von Lieven, this volume. The matter is different with the Late and Graeco-Roman Period Osiris rituals used as mortuary papyri.

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is less clear cut. Based on the argument we have been developing, it could be said that the deceased A pronouncing his ‘I-text’ through A′’s mouth is holding his self-presentation to justify himself to become active in the netherworld, similar to the priest or officiant justifying themselves to act in temple or tomb chapel. In this case the beneficiary is a deity (e.g. Osiris) being approached by the deceased (for instance in the divine role of Horus). In J. Assmann’s terms, this is the ‘Horus-Konstellation’, in which the deceased travelling through the netherworld is approaching ‘einen noch jenseitigeren Vater’.134 This is what many funerary texts imply.135 However, funerary inscriptions were written with the primary aim, not to support a distant deity, but the dead owner of the text. I have argued elsewhere that the deceased in funerary texts assumes both passive and active roles. In the passive role he is the dead person being resuscitated by rituals performed by others. In the active role he is performing such revivifying acts himself for a dead deity different from him. The one is necessary for the other to be effectuated.136 Therefore, in the dialectics of these texts, the deceased uttering his ‘I-text’ is, through a curious twist, ultimately also a beneficiary. 8) However, in this regard, he resembles the temple priest to a certain extent. I have argued above that to become a priest, a person had to pass initiatory rites which would confirm he was entitled to serve as one. The institutional aim of the initiatory process must have been to provide the temple with priests having the theological competence required for their task. This functioning implied that the priest would, for the duration of the ritual, become a player in the divine world of the beneficiary of the temple cult (unio liturgica). And it is likely that the same happened during funerary and mortuary rituals, when the funerary officiant, for instance, assumed the role of a Horus to communicate with his Osirian father. For the ritualist to execute his task, he must have acquired knowledge of a number of sacred texts and of how to use them. Even though the assumption of divine roles by living persons was not the primary aim of the performances, I do not doubt that this unio liturgica was experienced as a privilege of deep religious value. This psychological motiva-

134

135 136

Assmann, J., ‘Das Bild des Vaters im Alten Ägypten’, in Tellenbach, H. (ed.), Das Vaterbild in Mythos und Geschichte: Ägypten, Griehcenland, Altes Testament, Neues Testament (Stuttgart, 1976), 29–46, citation from 33f. E.g., Willems, Heqata, 374–384; id., in van Dijk, J. (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde, 357–369. Willems, in van Dijk, J. (ed.), Essays on Ancient Egypt in Honour of Herman te Velde, 357– 369.

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tion may underlie postscripts of funerary texts, to the effect that knowledge of the use of a text may have implied personal benefit during life. Although I ultimately accept an element in Hays’s reasoning therefore, the essential difference remains that for me that the ‘I-texts’ are primarily there for the benefit of someone different from the speaker. In earthly performances, the officiant might expect personal benefit as well, but it would be a derived and secondary benefit. In funerary texts, where the deceased aspires to reach the state both of active and passive divine entities, the two are, however, compounded in one person. The postscripts occasionally added to funerary (and other) texts are a treasure trove for the student of ritual pragmatics. It is important, however, not to lose sight of the fact that they are by far not always added to these texts. The composition of the text of the recitation was, moreover, a process independent of the formulation of the postscripts. This is manifest from the fact that the addition of postscripts was clearly not mandatory, and that different postscripts added to the same text may show considerable divergences. An important corollary of this observation is that, whereas postscripts inform us of how texts could be used, they cannot be expected to inform us of all possible uses of texts. The use of ritual texts must have been as dynamic as the rituals themselves. The example of the postscript of BD supplementary chapter 162 shows how a recitation used in royal cult could be redirected to a funerary use. There is no space here to investigate the issue in detail, but such a dynamics is clear in many other BD spells. The different motivations of the performers may well have impacted on which aspect was highlighted in the postscripts. As we have argued, the primary aim of the rituals echoed in the funerary texts was determined by institutionalized use in the funerary or mortuary rituals.137 We have also seen, however, that the privilege of knowing and using such texts, and of the ritual assimilation of divine roles which was implied in the process, was probably highly valued by the individual performers. This psychological motivation may explain cases where postscripts highlight this personal ‘benefit’ for the performer beside the funerary aim, or where the latter is even omitted. From here, it is only a small step to the assumption that the persons who had learned during life how to use ritual texts for beneficiaries different from themselves, would hope they could also use them for themselves in the nether-

137

We will here not go into the institutionalized use in magic, temple ritual or royal cult, but things worked in the same way there.

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world. In this case, the equation A′ = A = B would in fact hold. This interpretation would explain postscripts such as the one of BD 70 which we have discussed above: ‘As for the one who knows this book on earth (tp tꜣ), he goes out by day, going upon earth like all the living’. The reader understanding this as my argument coming full circle to Hays’ interpretation, has misunderstood an essential part of this article. His hypothesis that personal texts were conceived for non-cultic use and for personal benefit implies that these texts derive from an entirely different context from those formulated in the second and third persons. This also keeps alive the idea that inscribing texts on tomb walls and funerary papyri implies a loss of rituality. This same idea also underlies the distinction between funerary liturgies and funerary literature. Hays’ hypothesis (as well as those of his precursors Federn and Wente) is moreover problematic in generating a self-focused and non-institutionalized form of religion for which he fails to adduce any likely Egyptian context. Perhaps it reflects a frame of mind that forces the format of individual ‘belief’, with which modern Europeans and north-Americans are familiar, on the Egyptian evidence. In my view texts in the first person singular can be differentiated from those in the second and third persons, but they were all conceived for collective ritual settings. This is the primary context they derive from. In case the ritualist uses the first person, he is introducing himself as a sacred player in the ritual drama. In funerary religion this role-playing can be adopted also by the deceased. Since he cannot physically speak, the act is taken over by a ritualist speaking for him. The funerary texts therefore represent funerary and mortuary rituals;138 the category of funerary literature is redundant. The psychological motivation that according to Hays underlies what he called personal texts is real. I accept that point. However, the hypothesis proposed here provides a realistic socio-religious context that is lacking in Hays’ study. It is the context of ritual specialists using texts to the benefit of a god, king or deceased, but who understand this at the same time as being personally beneficial as well. Perhaps, as suggested by Hays, they may have expected to memorize the texts they had learned during their priestly careers for their own use after death. 9) Here, the aspect of the deceased reading the texts may be thought to return through the back door. If it is true that rituals converted a dead person into a

138

Which may include borrowings from other ritual contexts.

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ritualist acting in the netherworld, then he might desire the mental support of written versions of texts to facilitate his performance there. There is, however, no evidence from the texts themselves to support this idea. The only indication that comes to mind is an observation made by Sethe in the study that formed the starting point of this article. He stated that texts on pyramid walls and in coffins are usually orientated towards the head of the deceased. He explained this from a desire to make texts easily ‘legible’ from his perspective.139 This observation is correct, but it does not imply the conclusion that the deceased was consulting—reading—funerary literature. Perhaps the aim was only to establish a connection between him and the texts surrounding him. The mechanism that comes to mind is what H.G. Fischer coined ‘vocative reversals’.140 This term refers to individual hieroglyphic signs or complete words being orientated counter to the normal writing direction in a text, with the aim to express interactive patterns between parts of the clause. The phenomenon observed by Sethe results in hieroglyphs facing the deceased’s head.141 I would suggest that the purpose of this is not to emulate the idea that the deceased is reading the texts, but that they express a form of ‘interaction’ with him.142 The interpretation proposed on these pages suggests that this interaction was of a ritual nature. In the terms of J. Quack’s article cited in note 4, I would agree to regard the texts as an eternal ‘recording’ of a ritual reality. The simple presence of this recording of the act might be conceived to have been enough to realize its objectives of its own accord.143 If, following this interpretation, texts in tombs are conceived of as collections of ritual texts, it is better no longer to use the term funerary literature. 139

140 141 142

143

It should be pointed out that in pyramids this rule frequently holds, but was not consistently adhered to (see the wall schemes in Hays, The Organization of the Pyramid Texts II, 648–674). The North and South walls (to which Sethe seems to be explicitly referring) are most consistent in this regard. Middle Kingdom coffins, where the sides are more intimately related to the body of the deceased, are more consistent in this regard (see Willems, Chests of Life, 119). See also Fischer, H.G., Egyptian Studies I: The Orientation of Hieroglyphs. Part 1. Reversals (New York, 1977), 36–40. Fischer, Egyptian Studies I, 49–62. And ‘head is front’ in Egyptian texts, see Fischer, Egyptian Studies I, 38. This hypothesis has the effect of transforming the corpse of the deceased in a conceptual sense into a hieroglyph. Many other examples of this are known (Fischer, Egyptian Studies I, 38–40. Although nothing can be considered certain in this debate, I consider less likely Quack’s suggestion that the aim of the ‘recording’ was to enable the deceased hearing it.

Index of Egyptian Terms in Transliteration ꜣb.t 34, 37, 136, 137, 138, 139, 148 ꜣḫ 47, 49, 207 ꜣḫt 178 i҆ꜣḫ 207 i҆ꜥnw 59 i҆b 109–110, 157, 178 i҆bs 230n i҆mꜣḫ.t 55 jj/jw 176 jꜥnw 197–198 jnj 176 jrj 176 jry-pꜥt 72–73, 76, 89 jḥj 190 jty 71, 88, 90 ꜥ 187n ꜥꜣ 179 ꜥꜣb(t) 169–170n ꜥpr 179 ꜥnḫ 177 ꜥḥꜣ 177 wꜣḥ 179 wꜣš 179 wꜣḏ šmꜥ.w 222n wꜥb 179 wpi҆ 49, 57 wnḏwt 196 wr 179 wḥm 177 wsr 179 wtt 176 wṯs 176 wḏꜣ 179 wḏꜥ-mdw 57 bꜣk.t 53 bsi҆.w 229n bś.w 108–109 m-ḥꜣ 178 m-ḥꜣt 178 mꜣꜥ-ḫrw 81, 87, 95

mn mnḫ mrj msj

177 179 177 177

nb nfr nḥb nḫt

177 179 198–199 179

rnn 176 rḥw 177 rs 177 rd 178 hn 190 ḥꜣm ḥwj ḥst ḥqꜣ ḥkꜣ ḥtp ḥḏ

177 177 190 71, 80 7–14, 20 179, 189 196

ḫꜥ ḫꜥw ḫpj ḫpr

179 199 184, 185 168, 169–171

ẖt 157 ẖnn 176 ẖrd 138 zbj 184–186 st 178 sꜣ nswt 139 sꜣj 176 sꜣw 177 sꜣḫ 207, 212n smr 177 snn 177 sḥtp 189 sḫm 179, 196 sš 49, 57, 59, 60

250 sšm sḏꜣ sḏr šꜣꜥw šw šm šms

index of egyptian terms in transliteration 176, 186–187 176 177 199 170n 184 176, 186–187

gmj 177 twt 154n, 156 ṯnj 176 ṯnw-rꜣ 59 dmḏ 177

qd 176 ḏfꜣ 176

General Index A1C (coffin) 107 Abscheusprüche 104, 114 Abydos 125, 126, 132, 132n, 135 actualisation 164–165, 168–171, 177, 180, 190, 197, 199, 201, 202–203 affect 171 afterlife 32–34, 36, 38, 40–42, 45, 76, 95 Ahanakhte 28 akh 47, 49, 53 Am-mut 106 Amenemhat I 133 Amenemhat II 133 Amenemhat III 134 Amenemhat IV 133 Amenemhat (private individual) 128 Amenhotep I 127n, 218 Amenhotep Ritual 218 amulets 221–224, 231, 243 Amun-Re 91 Ankhtifi 39 Antef Song 220 anthropology 2, 18–20 antiderivative (integral) 202 Anubis 44, 75–77, 84, 95, 219, 224 in his castle / god’s shrine 77 as vizier 75 Apis 39 Apophis 38 apotropaic texts 211, 214, 215, 216, 217, 243 appresentation 24, 40, 43 aretalogy 38–39 ars moriendi 113 Asasif 128 Assiut see Asyut Assuan 107 Asyut 28, 36, 43, 107, 141 Atum 73, 76, 80, 88, 91–93, 111–112, 163–164, 190–193, 197, 235 commands that Thoth help 80 as bjtj / father of the ‘Twins of the bjtj’ 88 Re-Atum 92 Auibre see Hor Avaris (Tell el-Dʿaba) 142, 143, 144 autobiography 22, 220

B1Be (coffin) 109 B1C (coffin) 109 B1L (coffin) 108 B1P (coffin) 109 B1Y (coffin) 108 B3L (coffin) 108 ba 37, 42, 202, 222 ba-amulet 223 Baba 111–112 Badari 131 Bakamun/Baki 128 barque travelling in sky 75–76 prow of barque 75–76 Bastet 73–74 as firstborn of Atum 73 Beautiful West 225–228 Beni Hassan 28, 132 Bershe see Deir el-Bersha biography 24–45 Book of the Dead spell 1 89 spell 6 225 spell 17 238n spell 18 89, 238n spell 19 75 spell 29B 223n spell 30B 223n spell 70 209, 246 spell 71 105 spell 78 228n spell 79 228n spell 89 223 spell 100 224 spell 103 105 spells 107–109 105 spell 110 105 spells 111–116 105 spell 112 236 spell 119 75 spell 125 84, 231–232 spell 128 233 spell 130 224n spell 133 233 spell 135 233 spell 136 233 spell 140 233

252 spell 141 233 spells 141–142 233n spell 148 209, 233 spell 151g 219 spell 158 223n spell 160 222, 223 spell 190 233 supplementary spell 162 230–231, 243, 245 supplementary spell 166 116 Book of the Temple 232n Book of Thoth 234 Book of Two Ways 112–113, 234n Budge, E.A. Wallis 1–2 Busiris 77 Butehamun 29 child-birth 114–115 Circle A (Mycenaean) 147 Coffin Texts 15, 18, 21, 22, 24–45, 56–61, 70– 71, 162–164, 185, 193, 196, 198, 201 spells 1–29 43 spell 7 43 spell 16 82 spell 30 101 spells 30–41 225–228, 242 spells 31–36 101 spell 37 101 spell 38 34, 101 spells 38–41 58, 139 spell 39 101, 193–194 spell 40 101 spell 41 101 spell 42 70, 91–92 spell 45 71, 76–77 spell 48 82 spell 49 (B16C 98) 75 spell 50 77 spell 51 71, 78 spell 60 73–75 spell 75 104 spells 75–83 223 spell 80 88 spell 81 101, 104 spell 83 94 spell 98 101 spell 99 101 spell 100 101 spell 101 101

general index spell 102 101 spell 103 101 spell 104 101 spells 115–119 101, 107 spells 131–135 34 spells 131–136 60 spell 146 138, 139 spell 149 37 spell 152 84 spells 154–160 102, 104 spell 161 102 spell 170 197–198 spell 184 104 spell 189 85 spell 195 77, 84 spell 225 212, 213, 242 spells 236–246 34 spell 256 82 spell 257 85–86 spell 258 86 spell 260 82 spell 279 87 spell 312 228n spell 313 71, 78–82, 85, 89–90, 228n spell 314 89–90 spell 317 71, 88–89, 92–93 spell 337 108 spell 341 102, 108, 228n, 229–230 spell 345 71 spell 399 (IV, 338) 42 spell 414 (V, 245–246) 38 spell 438 90, 92 spell 472 87 spell 474 88 spell 484 87 spell 520 191n spell 526 102, 109 spell 531 86–87 spell 556 228n spell 557 88 spell 573 84 spell 576 102, 109–112 spell 588 102, 105, 106 spells 589–606 224 spell 609 224n spell 622 228n spell 628 228n spell 629 88 spell 642 102, 107

253

general index spell 647 71, 90–91 spell 660 82–83 spell 665 82, 91–93, 228n spell 678 77, 82–83, 89 spell 691 102, 105–106 spell 695 92 spell 700 102 spell 723 43 spells 741–742 102 spells 761–762 162–164 spells 761–765 162n spell 770 102, 114, 115 spell 787 75 spell 816 84 spell 831 97 spell 849 60–61 spell 888 88 spell 891 (VII, 101) 44 spell 947 88 spell 1030 233 in Pyramid Texts 64–65 spell 1117 102, 112–113 Coffin Texts vs. Pyramid Texts 63–65, 70, 72, 78–79, 83, 85, 93, 95–97 collective setting 208, 236–237 concept etic and emic 65, 68–69, 98; see also the individual terms etic and emic first order see emic second order see etic conscience 172 coronation 67, 76, 79, 91–92 corpse 222 crown 66–67 Atef 79–80, 97 Red 91 White 75, 82, 86, 88, 92 wrrt 82 Dahshur 121n, 125, 126 daily temple ritual 218, 234–236, 239, 240, 242 dawn 73–74, 88 Debehni 220 definition, types of 5–6 Deir el-Bersha 28, 32, 34, 104, 108, 109, 112, 138 Deir el-Gebrawi 28 Deir el-Medīna 232n

democratisation 14–18, 63–64, 98 Deputy of Re 74, 81, 83, 90, 93 derivative (differential) 202 dialogue in Coffin Texts 64, 79, 97 structure 206, 207, 211, 212, 217, 240 differential see derivative Djefai-Hapi 43 Djehutyhotep 138 Djehutynakht 28 document 49, 59–60 double, ka as 152–156 Early Dynastic 119 Early Middle Kingdom 120, 132, 136, 138, 139, 140, 141 Edfu 126 effectiveness 115, 116 Eighteenth Dynasty 127, 141 elite (Middle Kingdom) 24, 26–28, 30, 32– 33, 35–37, 41–42, 44 Elkab 149 embalming ritual 218 emic 4–7, 21, 23, 212 Emic Evaluation Approach 25, 30, 41 ennead 226 of Heliopolis 80, 82, 95 epistolary formula 47, 49, 54–57, 61 eschatology 164 etic 4–7, 22, 23, 211, 212 family 31, 33–34, 37, 42 ferryman spells 207n fertility figurines 52–53 Field of Reeds 105, 228 First Intermediate Period 124, 136, 138, 140, 141 Fish-net/trap of Wadjit (= dawn light) 88 funerary culture 24–26, 30 funerary discourse 26–27, 32, 33, 40–44 funerary equipment 224 funerary literature 21, 22, 23, 204, 205, 206, 209, 217, 219, 221, 228, 239, 240, 246– 247 funerary liturgies 206, 217, 246 G2T (coffin) 107 Geb 71, 76–78, 81–82, 89, 92–93, 95–96, 162, 174, 191

254

general index

as jry-pꜥt 71, 76, 89 throne of 77, 92 Gebelein 90, 107 Gliedervergottung 86, 162–164 graphic layout 55

of the island of flames 88 of those who are not ( jwtjw) Hu (god) 197 Hu (site) 141 hypostasis 164

Hapi (Nile god) 88 Harageh 125, 126, 126n Harakhte 74, 78 harper’s songs 220 Hathor 76, 91, 106 chapel of, at Gebelein 90 Hawara 125 heart-amulet 223 Heavenly Cow 230–231 Heka 38 Heliopolis 72, 75, 89 Heqanakht 132 Herakleopolis 97, 85 Hetep 198 Hierakonpolis 131 Hor (Auibre) 183 Horus 34, 38, 72, 74–76, 79–83, 86–87, 89– 93, 95–97, 109, 188, 190, 192, 195, 225, 235, 244; see also Harakhte arrives from Heliopolis 75 Beloved-Son-Priest of Osirian deceased 76 bjtj-king 72, 91–92 eye of 91 Harendotes 77 helper of Osiris by the grant of Re 86 justified (mꜣꜥ-ḫrw) as king 81 lord of life 75 nb pꜥt 87 njswt-king 74, 75 of the dwꜣt 74 royal model for deceased 81 throne of 80, 82–83, 89(?), 92 Horus constellation 244 Horus name 180, 181 House of Gold 234 house of the dead 133, 142, 143, 144, 145, 149 household 119, 127, 130, 131, 132, 132n, 137, 138, 139, 142, 144, 145; see also perhousehold ḥqꜣ (‘ruler’) 71, 80 of the horizon 78

I-texts 209, 210, 211 Ibi (pyramid of) 207n identity 32–33, 36, 39 Iha 32 individual setting 208 Inherkhaw 220 initiation 108–109 initiation tent 233 initiatory texts 229–234, 243 integral see antiderivative Isfet 80 Isis 38, 80–81, 218, 219, 225–226 and Nephthys mourning 75 Island of Fire 228n Itjtawy 126

76

jmꜣḫ-status 85, 87 singular occurrence in Pyramid Texts jry-pꜥt (‘hereditary prince’) 72–73 as epithet of Geb 72–73, 76, 89 jty (‘sovereign’) 71, 88 of the gods 90 judgment in the afterlife 76, 95 ka 23, 35, 150–203 royal 180–183 Karnak 234 Khemmis 80, 91–92 Khepri 80, 88 Khetyankhef 132 Khnum 39 Khnumhotep II 132 Khonsu 84–86, 135 returns from Punt 84 miswriting for njswt 86 king 65–99 bjtj 66, 70–72, 88, 91–93 Twins of the bjtj 70, 88 njswt 66–99 as designation of gods 87; see also under individual deities’ names current (njswt jmj hꜣw=f ) 87 deceased subservient to 85–93

94

255

general index in Pyramid Texts’ ‘Vorlage text’ 95 of the dead 84–85, 89 of the gods 72, 74, 75, 83 of the sky 77, 85–87, 90 of the wind 94 offerings for 97 violent 83 njswt-bjtj 65–66, 70, 72, 85, 92, 95, 97 as title retained by deceased king in Pyramid Texts 95 entails sḫm power over gods and kas 85 kingship 22, 65, 67–70, 72, 76–77, 79–81, 83, 86–87, 89, 91–92, 94, 97 metaphorical use of terms for 74, 96–97 sacred 67 knowledge 31–32, 36, 41, 44, 205 Knowledge Texts 207 L1Li (coffin) 105 Late Helladic II B 147 Late Helladic III 147 Late Middle Kingdom 117, 120, 124, 125, 126, 131, 132, 134, 136, 136n, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 148, 149 Late Old Kingdom 141 letter to the dead 22, 46–62, 133, 139, 140, 141, 142, 149 Lisht 121n, 125, 126 liturgy 43 Loyalist Teaching 180 Maat 35, 38, 73, 80 magic 7–14, 20 magical bricks 219 magical texts 215–216, 237, 243 Medinet Habu 105 Mentunakht 132 Merefnebef 118, 119, 119n Mesehti 36 Meskhenet 174 metaphor 86, 88, 97–98, 170n, 177, 179, 181, 197–199, 202 mythical 94, 96–97 Mirgissa 124, 124n, 125 multiple burial (sequential) 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 128, 136, 141, 142, 146, 148

Murtadi 152–153 mysticism 23, 236–237 Myth 65, 72, 75, 78–82, 93, 95–96, 98 and ritual 72 Contendings of Horus and Seth 83 cosmic 77, 80 metaphorical use of 96–97 mytheme 75, 89 mythical analogy through target figures / Zielgestalten 72, 94 Osiris myth 75, 86, 95; see also Osiris, Horus, Seth, Isis, Nephthys political myths 75 royal and succession myths 75, 76, 79– 82, 92, 95, 97; see also Geb, Horus, Osiris solar myths 73–74 Nachschrift see postscript Nag ed-Deir 119, 119n, 141 Nakht 132 name, personal 175–179 Naqada 131 Neferkhawet 127, 128, 129 Negative Confession 231–233 Nehebkau 162, 198–199 Neith (pyramid of) 207n Nephthys 218, 219 Nepri 39 New Kingdom 124, 126, 126n New Year’s day 106 Nile god see Hapi Nineteenth Dynasty 141 Novalis (von Hardenberg, Georg Philipp Friedrich Leopold Freiherr) 98 Nun 197 Nut 73, 75, 85, 89, 95, 174 as container of the gods 95–96 offering formula 220 offering table 224 offering texts 211 Old Egyptian 109 Old Kingdom 118, 119, 120, 124, 132, 136, 138, 139, 140, 149 ontology 151, 160–166, 177, 179, 184, 196, 197, 199 ontological turn 18–20, 21 Osirification regalia 117

256 Osiris 2, 35, 37, 71–82, 85–93, 95–97, 107– 108, 111, 112, 188, 190–191, 192, 194, 195, 216n, 225–228, 232, 242, 243, 244 complementary role to Re 76, 78, 81 deputy of Re 81 of Herakleopolis 85 Lord of the White Crown 75 njswt king 72, 75–76, 78, 87, 89 njswt-bjtj 95 royal model for deceased 81 throne of 81 Papyrus Berlin 3027 96 Papyrus Berlin 3031 230n Papyrus Berlin 3055 218n, 235n Papyrus BM 10051 see Papyrus Salt 825 Papyrus BM 10507 229 Papyrus Bremner-Rhind 219 Papyrus Chicago OIM 9787 231, 224n Papyrus Ebers 221n Papyrus Harkness 228–229 Papyrus Harris 500 220 Papyrus Rhind I 232 Papyrus Salt 825 214n40 Papyrus Turin 1993 215n44 Papyrus Turin 54003 215n43 per-household 46, 47, 54–56, 59–60 performance structure 217 personal texts 208, 211, 214, 215, 216, 217, 219, 228, 236, 239, 246 personality see self Porphyrios, De abstinentia 204 postscript 103; 109 potency magic 109–112 Predynastic 131 priest, priestess embodying deity 218, 219 priestly texts 211 private ritual see ritual prosociality 35, 39 provisioning texts 211 psychology 152, 157–158, 161–162, 164–165 Ptah 39, 84, 86, 90, 93, 235 njswt tꜣwy 90 Ptah-Nehebkau 90 Ptah-Sokar 73 Ptahhotep, Instruction of verses 135–140 168

general index verses 339–347 169–170 verses 197–214 174–175 Punt 84 Pyramid Texts 14–15, 21, 36–37, 163, 164, 185, 190, 191 M/A/N 13–14 65 spell 23 95 spells 94–95 43 spell 227 208n spell 254 228 spell 283 216n spell 288 (§ 429b) 215 spell 311 216n spell 412 91 spell 426 85 spell 435 95, 97 spell 439 83, 96 spell 467 95 spell 486 95 spell 535 94 spell 542 95 spell 548 96 spell 555 92 spell 570 74, 95 spell 592 85 spell 600 192–193 spell 650 95, 97 spell 697 96 Qau 141 Qubbet el-Hawa 141 Ramesside Period 141 Ramses II 116 Ramses III 105 Rashepses 172, 173 Rawer, autobiography of 92 Re 38, 42, 74, 76–82, 86–88, 92–93, 96, 162, 164, 231 complementary role to Osiris 76, 80–81 crowns Osiris 80 decrees succession 81 model of continuity for deceased 87 njswt king 88 orders bestowal of post-mortem head 76 rises 77–78 travelling 88 recitations (ritual) 204, 206

257

general index relationality 151 Rennefer 127, 128 ritual 26–27, 32, 35–37, 41–45, 47, 55–61, 67–69, 72, 74, 76, 79, 87, 91–92, 97, 208, 210 coronation 76, 91 correct sequence 68 for the prolongation of one’s life 106 funerary 67–69, 74, 87 private 231 rites of passage 68–69 seizing of the prow-rope 92 Rudjahau 39 Ruty 90, 92–93 Ruyu 128

spells for Joining the Riverbanks 197–198 spells for Knowing the Souls 103, 104–105, 115 spells for Mother and Child 114 sphere of belonging 196 stars as fish and birds 88 multitude of celestial inhabitants 84 statue 152–156, 160, 164, 183 status 24, 27, 28, 32, 33, 35–39, 41–42, 45 Stela Cairo CG 3400 84 Stela London BM 190 216n Stela Ny Carlsberg Glyptothek AEIN 974 216n Stundenwachen 228, 243

S1C (coffin) 107 S2C (coffin) 107, 109 sꜣḫ.w spells 207, 210, 212n, 213 sacerdotal texts 208, 211, 214, 235, 241 Saqqara 34, 118, 119n, 141 scepter 79, 81, 88, 92, 94 sḫm 88 Scribe of the gods 91–94, 97 Second Intermediate Period 124, 133, 138, 139, 140, 141 Sekhmet 38, 235 self, ka as 152, 157–158 self-presentation 24–45 Senusret I 132, 180, 182 White Chapel of 180, 182 Senusret II 138 Senusret III 120, 132, 133, 134, 138 Seshat-Hor 39 Sesostris see Senusret Seth 38, 73, 77, 83, 86, 109, 111–112 shabti 87 spell 225 Sheik Farag 141 Shu 111, 164, 192–193 Shu spells 104, 223 Sia 195 Siut see Asyut sky, lower 77 snake spells 215, 216 Sokar 84 solar bark 224 Souls of Heliopolis 235 spell sequences 102

T1L (coffin) 105 Tayt 39 Tefnut 111, 164, 192–193 Tell el-Dʿaba see Avaris text genre 210 Thebes 28, 104, 125, 126, 128, 141 Theban Tomb (TT) 359 220 theory 3 Thoth 39, 71–72, 77, 80–84, 86, 89–91, 93, 112, 235 breaks up the fight (between Horus and Seth) 83 cuts off heads 83 House of 83 long-nosed 83 sharp-horned 83 throne of 82 Throne 66–67, 77, 79–84, 87, 92, 94 throne dais 84 Tjenenet-shrine 199 Tollund Man (Denmark) 147 tomb (elite) 24–45 Totenliteratur see funerary literature Totenliturgien see funerary liturgies transformation spells 38, 207, 241 transition texts 211 Twelfth Dynasty 126, 133, 141 Unas 207n, 228 unio liturgica 239, 244 unio mystica 239 Upuaut see Wepwawet Uraeus 80

258 Verklärung 207 vital force, ka as 152, 158–159 Vizier 75 vocative 213 reversals 247

general index Wadjit 88 Wepwawet 43, 162 west-amulet 223 World War I 15 writing 46–62 Zielgestalten 72, 94