Theoretical and Empirical Investigations of Divination and Magic 2021007383, 2021007384, 9789004447578, 9789004447585

Citation preview

Theoretical and Empirical Investigations of Divination and Magic

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Numen Book Series studies in the history of religions

Series Editors Steven Engler (Mount Royal University, Calgary, Canada) Richard King (University of Kent, UK) Kocku von Stuckrad (University of Groningen, The Netherlands) Gerard Wiegers (University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

VOLUME 171

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

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Theoretical and Empirical Investigations of Divination and Magic Manipulating the Divine Edited by

Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen Anders Klostergaard Petersen

LEIDEN | BOSTON

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cover illustration: Clay model of a sheep’s liver, Babylonian Temple School. Credit: Wellcome Collection. Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0). Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Sørensen, Jesper, 1968– editor. | Petersen, Anders Klostergaard,  editor. Title: Theoretical and empirical investigations of divination and magic :  manipulating the divine / edited by Jesper Sørensen, Anders Klostergaard  Petersen. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2021. | Series: Numen book series,  0169-8834 ; volume 171 | Includes index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021007383 (print) | LCCN 2021007384 (ebook) | ISBN  9789004447578 (hardback : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9789004447585 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Divination. | Magic. Classification: LCC BF1773 .T44 2021 (print) | LCC BF1773 (ebook) | DDC  133.3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021007383 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021007384

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 0169-8834 ISBN 978-90-04-44757-8 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-44758-5 (e-book) Copyright 2021 by Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen and Anders Klostergaard Petersen. Published 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. Koninklijke Brill NV reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Contents Notes on Contributors vii 1

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction 1 Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen and Anders Klostergaard Petersen

part 1 Divination 2

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis 23 Corby Kelly

3

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach 41 Jørgen Podemann Sørensen

4

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics 74 Anders Klostergaard Petersen

5

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination 105 Dimitris Xygalatas

6

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices 124 Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen

Magic

part 2

7

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism in Neuro-Cognitive Perspective 153 Edward Bever

8

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic in Medieval Jewish Society 178 Gideon Bohak

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

vi

Contents

9

Demystifying Wittgenstein’s Concept of Magic 205 Lars Albinus and Lars Madsen

10

Controlling the Incontrollable 228 Jörg Rüpke

11

Force and Categorization: Reflections on Marcel Mauss and Henri Hubert’s Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie 246 Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen Index 275

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Notes on Contributors Lars Albinus is associate professor at the University of Aarhus with a special interest in Ancient Greek Religion, The Study of Science, and Philosophy of Religion. He has published monographies within each area. Edward Bever is Professor of History and Director of the School of Professional Studies at the State University of New York College at Old Westbury. He specializes in the history of magic and witchcraft, is the author of The Realities of Witchcraft and Popular Magic in Early Modern Europe: Culture, Cognition, and Everyday Life (2008), and co-editor of Magic in the Modern World: Strategies of Repression and Legitimization (2017). Gideon Bohak holds the Jacob M. Alkow Chair for the History of the Jews in the Ancient World at Tel Aviv University, where he teaches at the Department of Jewish Philosophy and Talmud. His research focuses on the history of Jewish magic and on the magical, mystical, astrological and divinatory texts from the Cairo Genizah. His most recent books include Ancient Jewish Magic: A History (Cambridge, 2008) and A Fifteenth-Century Manuscript of Jewish Magic (Los Angeles, 2014). Corby Kelly is an independent scholar based in Texas. He holds a Ph.D. in Classical Philology from Stanford University. Anders Klostergaard Petersen is senior lecturer in Science of Religion, Aarhus University, specializing in formative Christ-religion and evolutionary approaches to religion. He has recently co-authored with Turner, Maryanski, and Geertz, The Emergence and Evolution of Religion: By Means of Natural Selection. Lars Madsen holds a Master in The Study of Religion and Philosophy. He has written about the intersection between religion and philosophy in Ludwig Wittgenstein’s philosophy and has a special interest in the philosophical implications of The Cognitive Science of Religion.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

viii

Notes on Contributors

Jørgen Podemann Sørensen is emeritus associate professor of History of Religions at the University of Copenhagen, specializing in ancient Egyptian religion, Hermeticism and the comparative study of ritual. He is editor and author of Danish textbooks of History of Religions. Current research topic: the ancient Egyptian roots of Hermetic texts. Jörg Rüpke is a Fellow in Religious Studies and Vice-director of the Max Weber Centre at Erfurt, Germany. He has led projects on Lived Ancient Religion, Religious Individualisation in Historical Perspectives and is now Co-director of the Kolleg-Forschergruppe “Urbanity and Religion” (with Susanne Rau). Rüpke has published widely on Roman religion and ritual. Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen is senior lecturer in Comparative Religion at Aarhus University, Denmark specializing in cognitive and evolutionary approaches to ritual and magic, cognitive historiography and cultural immunology. He is the author of A Cognitive Theory of Magic (2007). Dimitris Xygalatas is an Associate Professor in Anthropology and Psychology at the University of Connecticut, where he directs the Experimental Anthropology Lab. His research focuses on ritual, cooperation, and the things that make us human. He is the author of The Burning Saints: Cognition and Culture in the Fire-walking Rituals of the Anastenaria (2012).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 1

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen and Anders Klostergaard Petersen 1

Concepts in Jeopardy

In his anthropological classic, Evans-Pritchard described how the Central African people Azande explain all types of misfortune as caused by the actions of a witch. Witchcraft, mangu, provides “a natural philosophy by which the relations between men and unfortunate events are explained and a ready and stereotyped means of reacting to such events” (Evans-Pritchard 1937: 63). It is a local explanatory principle that deals with experiences of contingency – the famous “second spear” (umbaga) that, while recognizing the material causes of event (its “first spear”), allows the Azande to moor all unfortunate aspects of events securely to the social realm as ultimately being caused by human agency. However, as a cultural model and an explanatory principle, witchcraft cannot be seen. Nobody is ever observed performing witchcraft, even if anyone can be accused of being a witch. Therefore, in addition to the performative statements involved in accusations, in Evans-Pritchard’s view the stability of the belief depends on two types of concrete practices. The first one is constituted by oracles, soroka, used both to diagnose an event resulting from witchcraft and to identify the witch. The second one is represented by magic, ngua, used as a means to punish the alleged witch in cases where direct physical retribution is not an option. The three institutions, witchcraft, oracles and magic, form a triangle, each one supporting the other two and, thereby, creating a stable pattern of cultural representations and practice. Was, however, Evans-Pritchard really justified in translating these local categories into ‘witchcraft’, ‘oracle’, and ‘magic’? While his meticulous field-studies and acute sense of local conceptual details have rightly placed his work among the all-time classics of anthropology, modern readers will look in vain for explicit reflections on the use of these core categories.1 Since then, much water

1 In chapter two (affixed as an appendix in the abridged reprint), Evans-Pritchard provided a list of Zande categories translated into English, but his reflections upon this process are limited to the dry observation that “I am not anxious to define witchcraft, oracles and magic

© Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen and Anders Klostergaard Petersen, 2021 |  doi:10.1163/9789004447585_002 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 -8

B8 98 578

: :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

2

Sørensen and Petersen

has run under the bridge2 and postcolonial critiques have rightly emphasized the problems involved in such seemingly naïve and biased translations. Critical studies have unearthed the cultural milieu in which key anthropological concepts were conceived. Besides colonialism that influenced much early British and French anthropology, recent scholarship has pointed to a hitherto overlooked context, namely the influence from Western occultism and esotericism, taken in its widest sense, on the formation of scientific and humanist disciplines such as anthropology, the study of religion and, most notably, psychology (Treitel 2004; Owen 2004). ‘Divination’ and ‘magic’ emerged as scholarly categories in an atmosphere where scientific disciplines were yet to crystalize; where the borders between occultism and science were often blurry and contested; and where an uneasy modernity still contained an esoteric third, positioned between traditional religion and materialist rationality (Sommer 2016; Josephson-Storm 2017). So, why publish another anthology on divination and magic, if, in fact, these terms are more or less obsolete categories, used by past and heavily criticized scholars to carve up the phenomenal world into chunks in alignment with established and cherished, but nevertheless incorrect or, at least, outdated theories of religion and culture? Moreover, why have recourse to conceptual categories serving to denigrate and ridicule the world-views and practices of others, while, simultaneously, rectifying one’s own (Western) world as, possibly, the best one? Why flog the dead horses and, once again, reinvestigate cultural practices captured by the concepts of divination and magic? Answers to these questions are many, and several of them are, indeed, touched upon in the subsequent chapters. Modern scholarship is highly cognizant of terminology and sensitive to problematic aspects of the categorial distinctions inherited from our traditions of research – in fact, scholars sometimes become so focused on terminological issues that they are at risk of losing sight of the very phenomena they set out to investigate and for which the categories served as instrumental for the analysis.3 And, indisputably, categories such as magic and, as ideal types of thought, but desire to describe what Azande understand by mangu, soroka, and ngua” (1937: 8). 2 Of particular interest is the role of Evans-Pritchard’s work in the so-called ‘rationality debate’ in the late 1960s and early 70s. For a collection of the key contributions, see Wilson (1970). 3 As regards the recent revitalized discussion of the problems pertaining to the use of the term religion, the focus on the terminological debate really threatens to put the heart of the matter, that is the phenomenon underlying the conceptual use, in the shadow. See, for instance, Brent Nongbri (2015) and Carlin A. Barton & Daniel Boyarin (2016). For criticism of this dimension, see Anders Klostergaard Petersen (2016, 2020, in press).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

3

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

albeit to a far lesser extent, divination had to be, have been, and, indeed, continue to be scrutinized with respect to their role in theories now rejected and laid open for all to see (e.g. Otto 2011, for discussion see Sørensen 2011, 2013). It has for some time been a well-established fact that, for instance, in Victorian evolutionism, magic and divination were understood as practices performed by the underdeveloped Other, whether this convenient civilizational counterpoint was to be found amongst contemporary people, such as the Dyaks of Borneo or Highlanders of Scotland, or in the ancient world as it is preserved in textual sources, such as those from the Mediterranean antiquity or ancient Mesopotamia. The existence, and the obvious problems, related to this ‘anthropological time machine’, in which things from afar and things of old could be conflated into distinct points on a unilineal gradient of human progress, can, of course, be used as an argument to abandon these once-cherished concepts. The idea is to break new ground and start from afresh without the embarrassing ideological baggage of partly obsolete, partly discriminatory concepts. And the ensuing relief is all the greater, if the categories in question are related to or, even better, intimately dependent upon theoretical approaches that have now become suspicious (e.g. the ‘anthropological present’ of ‘structuralfunctionalism’), or as expressions of polemical discourses ‘really’ conveying relations of power (e.g. Protestant use of ‘magic’ in counter-Catholic propaganda). The more dirt, the better, seems to be the rationale underlying many genealogical attempts to unravel the inherent ideology of oppression integral to central categories; but few, if any of these studies, have combined the necessarily critical deconstruction of established categories with a similarly enthusiastic application of new and better ones on the subject matter. 2

Three Different Strategies for Relating to Categories

While criticism of categories is a necessary part of critical scholarship, the price paid for terminological cleansing is, at times, quite high – both in terms of clarity (how we construe our subject-matter) and in terms of scientific integration (how our results engage in broader scientific discussions). To begin with clarity, giving up on categories usually means (a) that we revert to a higher, and more inclusive, classificatory level (i.e. arguing that ‘magic’ is merely a type or an aspect of ‘religion’); (b) that we invent new, technical categories that fragment the phenomena in question differently; or (c) that we refrain from making any (implicit) generalizing assertions by exclusively using local, insiders’ categories, preferably untranslated or even untransliterated.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

4 3

Sørensen and Petersen

The First and Third Strategy: Common Concepts and Insider’s Categories

It is remarkable that the first strategy is quite common given its obvious unfruitfulness. Not only is ‘magic’ merely ‘religion’, but ‘religion’ is just ‘culture’ in this never-ending regress towards the most common and, therefore, most semantically vacant concept, a truly signifiant flottant. It seems self-evident, however, that not all concepts can undergo this treatment in the same text; therefore, one study usually deconstructs only one concept, while, simultaneously, retaining a non-reflexive use of others. Moreover, the consequential lack of analytical strength and ability to differentiate can, of course, be alleviated by the third strategy, that is, the use of insiders’ first-order categories while avoiding to subsume them under either second-order emic generalizations (i.e. observers’ generalization of tradition-specific categories, such as the generalized meaning of hajj in contrast to its meaning specific to the local usage by any particular insider), or third-order etic conceptual generalizations (such as ‘pilgrimage’).4 Such a strategy, however, often suffers from a continuous conflation between or slipping to different orders of language and, thus, demonstrates a lack of clear analysis. Thereby, it becomes theoretically uncertain what exactly is at stake. In a recent article, David Frankfurter astutely exposes such an approach: “To talk about “magic as the Early Christians understood it” involves exactly the deceptive elision of emic and etic that Morton Smith had so much fun with” (Frankfurter 2019, 4).5 But, even in cases, where this combination of the first and third strategy might yield highly context-sensitive case studies, it adds strength to the centrifugal forces that threatens to tear apart the academic study of religion, as it undermines the conceptual apparatus keeping the discipline together. In favor of great philological detail and only related to other fields by the most general and semantically void concepts, 4 For the differentiation of first-, second-, and third-order language over and against the more common distinction between first- and second-order categories, see Anders Klostergaard Petersen (2018, 2020, in press). 5 See also Frankfurter’s acid, but judicious comment on scholars claiming to work on an emic basis, but inevitably eliding the difference between second and third order concepts: “By claiming to study magic as ancient authors imagined the term or idea, these scholars would inevitably shift to talking about magic as a general category – as say, a worldview, or a mode of deception, or rituals of a selfish nature, or a catch-all term for the Greek Magical Papyri, curse-tablets, mystery cults, and fictional images of exotic priests. And behold: no more emic study – suddenly they were not only engaging in etic (second-order, outsider’s) generalization, gathering more and more terms and scenarios under a category magic, but worse, they were channeling the very etic notions of magic promulgated by theologians and Frazer’s Golden Bough” (Frankfurter 2019, 4).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

5

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

it effectively prevents the formulation of mid-level, comparative analyses. A viable discipline depends on an extended and fine-grained vocabulary as the set of tools used to construct its theoretical objects (Jensen 2003), and such generalized categories, in turn, make it possible for highly context-sensitive studies focusing on different areas and periods to engage fruitfully with each other. Besides the meticulous study of individual religious traditions in their local habitat, their ‘natural history’ so to say, a scientific study of religion needs a complimentary ‘morphology’ that designates trans-historical trends, structures, and behavioral attractors by means of generalized categories. This is not different from the study of language in which a general grammar is also a prerequisite for understanding individual uses of terms. 4

The Second Strategy: Neologisms

This brings us to the second strategy according to which we should replace seemingly obsolete categories with newly constructed or imported categories deemed to be better in line with current theories. This, in fact, is an inherent and necessary component of any scientific discipline that pays allegiance to an idea of the incremental increase in knowledge or, phrased differently, the belief that, as a general tendency, present-day scholarship is able to progress towards a more plausible understanding of its subject-matter by building upon prior research, refining its methods and correcting its errors. In fact, any science worth its name should not only pay heed to but make the principle of fallibilism integral to its endeavor. As we see an expansion of the knowledge and understanding of phenomena that are traditionally ascribed to the broad category of ‘religion’ (i.e. being phenomena that can be meaningfully studied by the scholar of religion), new categories are needed that synthesize individual points of observation into generalized classes. If they cannot be simply imported from neighboring disciplines, they must be ‘invented’ either through submitting first and second order categories to a process of abstraction and decontextualization, or by creating neologisms at the third-order level of analysis. Examples of the first option are legio. From its outset, the scientific study of religion has been deeply indebted to categories stemming from Judeo-Christian and Graeco-Roman traditions and the process of disentangling them from both their first and second-order meanings is not finished and, perhaps, will never become entirely accomplished. Thus, at a certain level of abstraction, the exact meaning of categories seems recalcitrant to fixation as their extensions (what is covered by the category – in linguistic terms the thema) and their intensions (how the category is defined – in linguistic terms the rhema) undergo constant

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

6

Sørensen and Petersen

refinements and adapt to new empirical findings. It is, however, not this constant process of re-definition itself but, rather, the loaded heritage of the terms that have provoked the most severe genealogical attacks. It is due to their historical legacies that (some) categories are claimed to be ethnocentric and, therefore, unsuitable for a truly general study of religion. Even if critics, reluctantly, accept some categories already well-established by scholarly tradition, it seems as if new generalized ones will have a hard time if they are extrapolated from Judeo-Christian or Graeco-Roman traditions. De-contextualized non-European categories have not, however, faced a more benign fate. The history of mana, once a cherished wunder-category in the study of religion, testifies to a similar process of criticism and outright ostracism (see chapter 11). Despite the fact that several leading champions explicitly stated that they use mana as a generalized theoretical category, subsequent criticism was not only directed at mistaken applications and understandings of the category at a second-order level (i.e. as a category used to understand certain aspects of Polynesian and Melanesian religion). This laudable endeavor was followed by a less prudent campaign against mana as a third-order, theoretical category on the ground that is was the colonizers’ category that, due to the distortion of its original and authentic first-order meaning, could only tell us something of Western ideologies and scholarly fads, and nothing about the phenomena it was meant to designate (see Meylan 2017, for discussion). Thus, abstracting first-order categories in order to create third-order analytical generalizations seems susceptible to suspicions of Western appropriation and insensitivity to local detail.6 6 Ultimately, such an understanding underlies Frankfurter’s viewpoint. His otherwise incisive article suffers from this fear of succumbing to prejudicial thinking integral to the history of reception of the category of magic. The more so, since Frankfurter places prime importance on mageia and related indigenous categories in conjunction with magic to denote illegitimate or ambiguous ritual practices and performers of such rituals (cf. Frankfurter 10–13). Although, such an understanding is highly meaningful in light of the wirkungsgeschichte of the semantic cluster pertaining to magic and its emic predecessors, we propose to detach the category entirely from this history and accentuate another aspect of the term, that is, ritual efficacy. Paradoxically, Frankfurter comes close to such an understanding, when arguing that: “We might, for example, speak of the magical use of language to highlight the diverse functions of Austin and Searle outlined in speech-acts theory, or the multiple dimensions of ritual speech that Malinowski described in Coral Gardens. Given that a so-called prayer can easily function as a curse, the application of the quality “magical” here does not establish hard and fast distinctions, just tendencies that are inevitable in language and culture: that songs, spoken charms, speech acts, and certain uses of narrative actually work on the world” (Frankfurter 14). We entirely agree with the last part of the argument, but as far as we can tell, Frankfurter despite his excellent reflections never succeed in integrating his two noticeably different views on magic with each other.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

7

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

This predicament is conducive to selecting the second option: creating neologism in order to expand and refine our terminological tool-kit. And, indeed, this seems like a tempting way ahead, promising a fresh approach to our object of study, free of unwanted connotations and ideological luggage, and offering the opportunity to ‘carve nature by its joint’ anew or, less ambitiously, to create better suited and more parsimonious models of our subject-matter. Much can be said in support of such an endeavor and significant progress in understanding has been achieved through the construction of new categories such as ‘liminal space’, ‘counter intuitive agents’, ‘ultimate sacred postulates’, or ‘civil religion’. New categories direct our attention to hitherto overlooked phenomena and enable us to see the already known in a new light. But the devil rests in the detail. As tempting as it is to understand our categories as tools enabling us to dissect the world and to decipher its underlying structure, our categories are as much a means of communication as they are tools of investigations. We need to communicate our findings to both our colleagues in academia – in the study of religion, in adjacent disciplines, and in the wider scientific community – as well as to the general public. Lacking a formal scientific language like mathematics, we have to rely on natural languages, that is, on historically derived systems of reference. Potentially, they can be refined, rationalized, and specialized to suit the needs of particular disciplines – indeed, this is exactly what we claim forms an essential part of development of any scientific discipline – but no one can reconfigure the meaning of all categories all the time. Being themselves constructed out of the brick-a-brac of natural language, neologisms, thus, must find their place within the immediate conceptual environment which consists of already established categories with a potentially problematic past, but also in the sense that both the extensions and the intensions of new categories must be clarified using the natural language with all its shortcoming. For instance, Pascal Boyer’s notion of ‘counter-intuitiveness’ has led to a number of misunderstandings (a fact he has readily acknowledged), but now the die is cast and the category seems to be here to stay (Boyer 2001: 75). The very same scholar, however, has also called for the abandonment of the category of religion due to its impure, that is to say vacuous or even misleading extensions (Boyer 1996), but he has since published several articles as well as a book that carries the category in its title. This might seem like an attempt to score an easy point, but our argument is that it testifies to the fact that not only are neologisms hard to introduce, established categories are hard to live without. When Nietzsche in Die fröhliche Wissenschaft argued that: “die Originalen sind zumeist auch die Namengeber gewesen” (Nietzsche 1985: 81), he overlooked the fact that not every new coiner of terminology is bound to become immortal. There is a gross difference between a new coinage and a re-coinage.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

8

Sørensen and Petersen

This brings us to our last point as regards philosophy of science with respect to categories: that our categories form part of a general scientific discourse. Scholars outside the study of religion and anthropology also utilize categories such as ‘magic’, ‘divination’, ‘religion’, ‘prayer’, ‘priest’, ‘procession’, ‘sacred’, ‘ritual’, ‘god’, ‘demon’, ‘saint’, ‘zealot’, ‘prophet’, ‘sacrifice’, ‘angel’, ‘offering’, ‘heaven’, ‘messiah’, ‘djinn’, ‘monk’, ‘pilgrim’, ‘pious’, ‘holy’, ‘divine’, ‘spell’, ‘miracle’, ‘church’, ‘temple’, ‘spirit’ (feel free to continue). They do so even while they themselves might be concerned with refining their own central categories. Thus, one scientific discipline’s core categories function as mere auxiliary categories in other disciplines, and the pace at which they are refined or even replaced correlates directly with the distance between the disciplines – a parameter that will itself change as disciplines drift through academic space affected by numerous forces of attraction and repulsion. Needless to say, this phenomenon is inevitable: the further apart a category’s ‘discipline of origin’ is from the discipline in which it serves an auxiliary function, the slower becomes the metabolic processes by which categories are replaced in the circulation of knowledge. The frequently heated discussions we have in the study of religion about the relevance and meaningfulness in using a term like ‘religion’ as an analytical category have never had any impact on the prevalent use of the term in, for instance, political science or sociology. Disciplines that abandon too many of their once cherished categories and invent neologisms at too high a pace risk being disconnected from the wider metabolism of the scientific community, as neighboring disciplines cannot always be bothered to invest huge amount of energy to refine or replace categories that merely serve auxiliary functions. The risk, of course, is smaller, whenever a discipline constitutes the scientific avantgarde – that is, functions as the gravitational point to which other disciplines are attracted – but the general rule still applies: inventing a brand-new terminology based on neologisms might bring a discipline into jeopardy as it risks developing into an increasingly constrained conceptual echo-chamber. Recent examples of such developments can be found in certain strands of modern semiotics and poststructural analysis. We also want to point to the palpably self-defeating fact that traditions of postmodernist thinking emerging to be on special guard against rectifications ironically surrender to the very same danger they came into being to combat. Underlying the criticism against time-honored scholarly categories is an essentialization resting on the idea that categories are carriers of static and timelessly well-defined content. However, categories inexorably undergo changes according to the meanings attributed to them by the scientific community in which they function.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

9

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

5

Incremental Progressions

Our underlying motivation in hosting seminars and editing a volume using the age-old categories of divination and magic is that progress of knowledge can only be made by initially accepting the terminology handed down to us, inso-far as it is not directly detrimental to progress of knowledge. Accepting the usefulness of broad categories like ‘divination’, ‘magic’ and, indeed, ‘religion’ does neither entail an essentialist understanding of terminological categories, nor an overly optimistic reliance on nomenclature; that much is gained by their application alone. Our approach is more modest and pragmatic. We well acknowledge the fact that these categories primarily serve communicative purposes and that their analytical value is restricted. Bringing historians, scholars of religion and anthropologists together necessitate a common point of departure, a shared communicative domain that functions as the field upon which distinct empirical and theoretical approaches can enter into joint conversation. The same can be said with regard to an intended reader, who approaches a book based on the (conceptual) territory it claims to map. However, little if any knowledge is gained in itself by claiming that Azande ngua is indeed ‘magic’. Rather, categories such as ‘magic’ and ‘divination’ synthesize a number of phenomena into loosely bounded domains and, thereby, open up vistas of theoretical reflection, which might prove helpful in addressing the subjectmatter under scrutiny. Therefore, no category is any better or more useful than the scope, coherence and fruitfulness of the theoretical reflections it facilitates, the model in which it is embedded, and the method(s) constraining its use. We suspect that the waning of scholarly categories often reflects a scarcity of novel theoretical reflections – that a category appears over-exploited, barren and hence unappealing and unattractive for new explorations – rather than a rational reaction to explicit criticism.7 Theoretical reflections enable categories to develop and to adapt to new circumstances, whether these are produced by new empirical findings, novel models, new methods or new theoretical frameworks. It is our hope that the present volume will contribute to this development.

7 The history of mana illustrates this point, as its demise as a vibrant theoretical category predated its deconstruction by more than two decades.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

10 6

Sørensen and Petersen

Juxtaposing Divination and Magic

Before presenting a short overview of the contributions to this anthology and how they, in each their distinct manner, contribute to a better understanding of particular empirical or theoretical domains, we need to address another question: why juxtapose divination and magic in the same volume? The first answer is based on a simple empirical observation. Practices traditionally specified by these two categories are often found together – in fact, they seem to expose a logical relationship in which the diagnosis or prognosis achieved through divination is both temporarily and logically related to the manipulative, protective or alleviative function of magical rituals. In divination one finds the cause of an ailment or a potential danger, in magic one subsequently acts upon this knowledge (Table 1.1). This, of course, is a far too simple picture that leaves out many relevant cases, but it does have the merit of pointing to an underlying relationship, that can be exemplified by Evans-Pritchard’s Azande study: when specific events are understood to be, at least partially, a result of superhuman, occult, superempirical or non-mundane agencies or forces, it will, evidently, take similar non-mundane and supernatural methods to extract additional, relevant information, and it will take special, non-ordinary and causally opaque actions to respond. We argue, that this observation made by Evans-Pritchard, concerning the lifeworld of the Azande with its intimate relations between witchcraft, oracles and magic, expresses a more general relationship: that when human destiny (to use a somewhat abstruse category) is understood as influenced or even conditioned by non-mundane, supra-human forces or agencies, divinatory practices are likely to emerge as means to acquire information, and magical practices likely to develop as modes of interfering that enables the human table 1.1

Synoptic model of the relation between divinatory and magical rituals

Divination

Diagnostic divination (unveiling the cause of present condition)

Magical means for reacting on the results of divination

Ritual manipulation in the present aimed to overcome the predicaments of a past situation

.8A 8

8 A8

Prognostic divination (unveiling the cause of potential future dangers / obstacles) Ritual manipulation in the present aimed to protect from potential dangers / obstacles unveiled in divination

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

11

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

actor to regain some degree of control. Moreover, we argue that we need not travel to long distant rain-forests or excavate remnants of long-gone empires to find this relation. It happens right outside the doorstep of the citizens inhabiting the modern world, when, for instance, ailments are diagnosed by aurareading and followed by a treatment of ritual healing. This is presumably the point at which we differ mostly from the majority of colleagues working on magic and divination in the ancient world or with indigenous populations outside a modern Western realm. Far from relegating the two phenomena to bygone eras or cultures outside a contemporary Western one, we see – inspired by insights in cognitive science – the continuous prevalence of representations and actions traditionally ascribed to magic or divinatory practices as a ubiquitous phenomenon among humans. We are as humans at particular occasions and in specific situations cognitively disposed to subscribe to types of representations and perform types of behavior on which magic and divination are founded. This is exactly the reason why a category like magic – despite all the problems involved in it – may be elevated to a third order category that allows us to capture a variety of different historical phenomena, modes of behavior and specific ways of thinking, because, ultimately, they exemplify a ubiquitous human way of cognizing and engaging the world (Sørensen 2007). This observation points to a second and more structural reason for bringing divination and magic under the same umbrella. Both may be seen as methods of ‘manipulating the divine’. We are well aware of the potentially misleading aspects of this subtitle of the anthology – its implicit reference to divine beings that need not be either present or represented by participants – but we excuse ourselves as we think it adequately addresses a significant common denominator: that both divination and magic are practices that manipulate a non-mundane, supernatural, or supra-human domain. In the first case with the purpose of extracting otherwise hidden, hard-to-come-by information; the second in order to change aspects of the phenomenal world otherwise beyond the instrumental capabilities of the agents involved. That both divination and magic are best understood as types of practices allow us to investigate both similarities and differences. An obvious commonality is that both of these practices tend to be highly ritualized. The characteristics of ritualization are diverse and treated more thoroughly in several of the contributions to this volume. At this point, we merely wish to direct the attention to one of the effects of ritualization: the displacement of agency, by which other agents than those performing the action are represented as being responsible for the outcome. This, of course, is crucial in divinatory practices, as the represented veracity of the information acquired depends on it as seemingly originating from an external source – and its effect is further amplified by the frequent use

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

12

Sørensen and Petersen

of stochastic procedures. Experiencing randomness has the interesting sideeffect of producing more or less automatic ascriptions of hidden, underlying agency, a fact testified to in the frequent call upon hidden agents found in gambling. The same goes for magic that, despite its apparent ability to empower the performing agent – assuming control over otherwise non-controllable aspects of reality – depends on the activation of agency and force originating outside of the performing agent. In this sense, both divination and magic present us with a paradox: that both practices enable human agents to manipulate the divine, but that this is achieved exactly by ritually displacing the agency normally ascribed a performing agent. This displacement indicates a final commonality between divination and magic that should be mentioned in this introduction: the tendency of both phenomena to develop into particular techniques and their frequently concomitant reliance on special instruments. Both domains of practice are often deeply reliant on particular behavioral techniques that tends to become even more standardized over time. This may be explained by the causal opacity involved: when it is unclear exactly what elements are responsible for success, all can potentially attain importance, and standardization tends to follow. It also relates to the stipulative character of the practices involved. The inability to causally represent how a particular action sequence leads to a particular result and, therefore, the difficulty of identifying the core causal element – what parts of an action sequence is necessary for bringing about a result in contrast to mere auxiliary actions – leads to so-called over-imitation. This is found both among children learning causally opaque action-sequences, but also among grown-ups (cf. Legare & Souza 2012; Legare & Nielsen 2015). A similar argument can be made for the use of special instruments. In contrast to the use of instruments in functional action sequences – i.e. actions with a clearly represented goal-structure – the causal properties of ritual instruments are often unclear (Liénard & Sørensen 2014). Thereby, we do not argue that participants are without representations about what certain instruments might accomplish in a ritual – they often do. Rather, we argue that these ideas are under-determined by the physical affordances of the tool. No inherent material affordance will in itself make the Zande rubbing-board oracle able to reveal if a man has committed adultery, and the ritual power of the sanctified host does not depend on its ability to satisfy hunger. In fact, the material affordances are often downplayed or directly negated in order to facilitate representations that these instruments, indeed, are special, and that they are capable of producing the special results desired – be it knowledge or some concrete change in the object world.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

13

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

Finally, we argue that the collocation of studies dealing respectively with divination or magic, in fact, advances the scholarly discussion of both topics. That by virtue of the juxtaposition of magic with divination, we come to see dimensions of both that we would otherwise have overlooked, that is to say, that by putting the two side by side we not only come to get a better grasp on both phenomena under scrutiny but also that we, thereby, come to see overlaps as well as new aspects. 7

Content of the Book

In line with the arguments concerning the empirical and structural relation between the two major themes, we have divided the book into two main parts each containing five chapters – one dealing with divination, the other with magic. Within each of these, we decided to let chance decide the order of the chapters, and it is for the reader to decide, if the order should be blamed on pure randomness, providence or intervention of superhuman agency. In the first chapter of Part 1, Divination, Corby Kelly discusses the treatment of divination in the fourth-century BCE Pseudo-Platonic dialogue Epinomis – a work that has been neglected in scholarship dealing with the understanding of divination in Greek philosophy. Interpreting Epinomis within a framework of an ongoing naturalization of the understanding of divination in Greek philosophy, Kelly argues that its author enhances the prevalent critique of divination already found in Plato’s writings, by categorizing it together with agriculture, constructive arts and hunting in the class of ‘necessary arts’, that is not conducive to leading to true wisdom. Thus, divination is considered a technique related to the basic means of human survival, rather than a means to obtain knowledge. Kelly finds that Epinomis’ author, thereby, attempts to diminish it influence and prestige in the Greek polis by categorizing it together with other low-prestige, lower-class activities. Moreover, by emphasizing the connection between observation and wisdom, the text further denigrates divination as resulting in uncertain knowledge, based as it is on the mediation of invisible creatures of the aether and air. Focusing on the rhetorical aspects of divination, Jørgen Podemann Sørensen presents a comparative analysis of a number of divinatory practices, such as Christian manna-grains, Yijing, Ifa divination, the Delphic oracle, and modernday Tarot. Podemann Sørensen points to both ritual as well as stochastic characteristics of divination, before turning his attention to four distinct rhetorical devices, relating to authority, act, text and interpretation respectively.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

14

Sørensen and Petersen

He argues that postulates concerning cosmological correspondences are utilized in the authorizing rhetoric that substantiates the very plausibility structure of the ritual. Concerning the act, he claims that “the diviner acts without action” in the ritual (p. 60), meaning that the ritual agent is not represented as responsible for the ensuing result, which, therefore, depending on the underlying system of beliefs can be seen as representing the result of chance, a god, or dao. This points to the role of the rhetoric of the text. Podemann Sørensen applies a broad concept of text, as it can refer to the role of already existing exemplar text, such as the Bible used in manna-grain divination; to specialized divinatory texts such as Yijing; to oral myths in the Ifa or Delphic case; or even to the constantly accumulating body of both written and anecdotal material available for the Tarot diviner. In all these cases, the act of divination produces a text that refers to available general structures of meaning, and the final rhetorical task, the rhetoric of interpretation, consists in the diviner establishing “a convincing continuity between the text and the matter at hand” (p. 68). On the basis of these four rhetorical devices, Podemann Sørensen argues that hidden knowledge is claimed to be revealed as a linguistic sign and is produced through the interpretations of patterns arising from the divinatory practice. A similar focus on the text is found in Anders Klostergaard Petersen’s close analysis of the logic underlying rhapsodomantic practices. Taking his point of departure in the often-noted ability of fictional texts to supply meaning to life, Petersen highlights the importance of practices allowing texts to supply important answers in situations of uncertainty. While noting the difference between the widespread and public use of divinatory practices to make important decisions in Antiquity and its more private and individualized expression in modern society, he emphasizes its more general and ‘natural’ aspects through a relatively modern example: Winston Churchill’s account of his use of rhapsodomantics in decision-making on the verge of World War One. Petersen then points to the role of ritualization and randomness in eliciting representations of some external communicating agency and how the inherent uncertainty involved in the very act of interpreting this communication involves a degree of uncertainty that, in case of failure, helps to stabilize the plausibility structure of the practice. Following these more general points, Petersen turns his attention to the Greek-Roman antiquity and presents a number of cases of rhapsodomantic practices from Aristophanes’ rhapsodomantic use of the Homeric writing in the fifth century BCE to Augustine’s depiction of his conversion in the Confessiones from the very end of the fourth century CE. In his conclusion, Petersen discusses how rhapsodomantic is part of the general class of divinatory practices as a method of attaining stable meanings and securing decisions, but that it nevertheless, due to the interpretational history

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

15

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

of the text applied for mantic purposes, distinguishes itself from related divinatory practices. Remaining in the Greek cultural area, but spanning a history of more than two thousand years, Dimitris Xygalatas commences by tracing the history of Greek divination, from its ancient source in Antiquity, over the Hellenistic period and the introduction of Christianity to its expression as a folk-religious practice in modern Greece. During this period, divination has changed from that of pious to a sinful act, condemned by the Greek Orthodox Church. Turning his attention to modern Greece, Xygalatas describes how divinatory practices nevertheless remain a prevalent part of Greek culture, both in urban and rural environments, and that it has a deeply ambivalent relationship with the established Orthodox Church. On the one hand, it is condemned as pagan or even Satanic, but on the other, many of the practices actively engage supernatural agents, mostly saints, acknowledged by the Church. Moreover, local priests often engage in the practices despite the resistance from more centralized authorities, and participants consider themselves to be pious Christians. This ambivalence can also be found in the two main examples supplied by Xygalatas: First, in the Church’s reactions to the fire-walking rituals of the Anastenaria of Northern Greece. Xygalatas describes how divinatory practices thrive in conjunction with the fire-walking rituals and how, in particular, prophetic dreams play a key role in the local legends surrounding the rituals. Second, in the widespread belief in the evil eye. When people believe they are afflicted, they will turn to local, usually elderly women, who then use divinatory practices to diagnose if the problem is, indeed, caused by an evil eye, before performing a curing ritual. In his conclusion, Xygalatas reflects upon the cognitive attraction of divinatory practices in a modern world infused as it is with choices, and how this continuous practice results in a constant dynamic of active rejection or recalcitrant appropriation of divinatory practices by religious institutions. In the final chapter of Part 1, Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen investigates the cognitive underpinnings of divinatory practices. Seeking to unearth the underlying cognitive processes that constrain divinatory practices worldwide, Sørensen first identifies two analytical variables: a semiotic and a temporal. In terms of the semiotic variable, he argues that divinatory signs can be interpreted either as indices pointing to a state of affair in the world without invoking any superhuman agency (like a barometer), or as symbolic acts of communication, and that these distinct interpretations elicit different types of cognitive processing. With regard to the temporal variable, he points to the often-recognized feature that divination has a twofold function: it is used to identify causes in the past and predict future events. Distinguishing these

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

16

Sørensen and Petersen

into processes of diagnosis and prognosis, each can be shown to expose distinct permutations of an underlying cognitive event-frame relating a sign to an event. Further, such frames can be employed either retrospectively, as a means of explanation, or prospectively as information informing future actions. Specifying three contextual variables – type of information; source of information; and method of gathering information – Sørensen discusses why divination seems to be relevant when encountering specific types of problems, and how ritualization and randomization are crucial methods in eliciting representations of an external source of information as well as ensuring the plausibility of the information acquired. Based on the role of agency in ritual, he hypothesizes that divinatory practices involving more ritualized actions are more likely to elicit representations of superhuman agents communicating information. The first chapter of Part 2, Magic, is by Edward Bever. It constitutes a perfect bridge between the book’s two parts, as it claims that magic and shamanism are means to acquire knowledge and manipulate the world through the alteration of the nervous system of self and / or other. Bever introduces the concept of shamanism, as well as results from numerous investigations into shamanism, in a predominantly historical examination with a primary focus on material from early modern Europa. In his neuro-cognitive model, Bever distinguishes between a fine-tuning of the nervous system, that entails a subtle alteration of consciousness that facilitates access to otherwise unconscious knowledge, and a more comprehensive tuning of the nervous system that entails more fundamental alterations in consciousness (e.g. in ecstatic states), which, in turn, enables a more imaginative and disembodied cognitive style. Bever suggests that understanding shamanism (and here is included both magic and divinatory practices) as culturally derived manipulations of the nervous system enable us to better explain how altered states of consciousness, underlying experiences conveyed by ritual participants around the globe, have been a source of knowledge and power and, therefore, why practices able to bring about such experiences form part of the cultural inventory throughout history. Taking his point of departure in a Medieval Jewish text, a spell to open locked doors, Gideon Bohak takes us into the little-researched domain of Medieval Jewish magic. Through a translation and a detailed analysis of the text, Bohak not only presents new empirical material; he also points to the inherent problem of designating such texts as ‘magic’, as magic was explicitly banned in the Jewish diaspora communities. According to Bohak, the problem is twofold. It concerns a distinction between the emic and the etic perspective, that is, between how the category is used by medieval Jews and modern

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

17

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

scholars respectively, and it concerns the question of whether such a term is used self-referentially or merely functions to denigrate the practice of others. Due to the aforementioned ban on magic, medieval Jews using the spell would not designate the text as magical, even though rationalistic reformers, such as the Karaites, who would never employ such ritual techniques, had no problem designating the text and practice as magical and, thus polemically, condemn its users. From an emic perspective, designating the text as magical depends on perspective. From an etic point of view, however, Bohak insists that it makes good sense to treat the text as magical, as this allows us to compare it with other texts and practices from the same period stemming from areas and groups outside the Jewish communities. Shifting key to philosophical discussions on magic, Lars Albinus and Lars Madsen discuss Wittgenstein’s category of magic as it appears in his comments to James George Frazer’s The Golden Bough. Wittgenstein’s notes on Frazer’s work has long been recognized as containing a number of issues highly relevant, not only to the anthropological or for that matter historical investigation of religion and magic, but also, more generally, to philosophical reflections into the relation between scientific inquiry and its foundational presuppositions. Published as Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough, Wittgenstein’s comments, in fact, stems from two distinct readings of Frazer, one in 1931 and the other sometimes after 1936. Albinus and Madsen argue that conflating the two readings risks occluding how the development on Wittgenstein’s own philosophical thinking exerted influence on his reading of Frazer. Thus, the traditional take on Wittgenstein’s remarks has been that he takes issues with Frazer’s intellectualist account of magic – its primary objective being explanatory and hence instrumental – and that Wittgenstein instead points to its emotional and instinctual aspects, thereby, putting into doubt the very possibility of a scientific explanation of religious phenomena: It contrasts Wittgenstein’s expressivism with Frazer’s intellectualism. Such a reading, however, misses a central component of Wittgenstein’s claim of the inherent intentionality involved in ritual behavior. According to Albinus and Madsen, Wittgenstein finds magic to be exemplary of a form of life deeply ingrained in human attitudes towards the world and, therefore, recognizable in our own doings and ways of thinking, also when it comes explanatory endeavors. In his contribution entitled “Controlling the Incontrollable”, Jörg Rüpke discusses the position of magic relative to other practices available to individuals in the Graeco-Roman world. Based on a close reading of poetic texts of Propertius, and employing philological and historical perspectives, Rüpke examines in what situations people in the ancient world utilized magic and

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

18

Sørensen and Petersen

how they legitimized it. By virtue of being a literary text, Propertius’ work, obviously, cannot function as direct evidence of magical practices, but it nevertheless indicates a prevalent discourse on magic: how important it was regarded, what characterizes its techniques and how it relates to the practices considered ‘sacred’. Rüpke points out that in the works of Propertius, magical practices are closely related, but not identical to, the use of poison as a means to harm an enemy; in contrast to poison, however, it was not illegal. Magic constituted a ubiquitous and legitimate practice, neither socially condemned nor ascribed the non-Roman Other; a practice that a Roman citizen would make use of to further his or her ends, even if it was not something one would publicly admit to be using. Finally, in his second contribution to this volume, Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen analyses Marcel Mauss and Henri Hubert’ classic and seminal work on magic, Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie from 1902–3. Mauss and Hubert’s work has been immensely influential, not only in its discussion of the social origin of magic, but also in its use of mana as an explanatory concept. Following a detailed discussion of Mauss and Hubert’s theoretical argument, Sørensen focuses on their concept of mana before embarking on an investigation into how, and to what degree, cognitive theories of human representations of causality and force might shed light on the universal human proclivity to ascribe special force to certain persons, actions, or objects. Following an examination of recent cognitive theories of causality with a focus on how force representations function to predict interactional properties of elements in the world, Sørensen directs his attention to the question of why this, more or less, automatic ascription in some cases is overlayered by representations of special force. One explanation holds that pre-established authority establishes certain things as special, but in order to understand both spontaneous emergence as well as the social distribution of mana, Sørensen points to how ritualized behavior enables both the generation and accumulation of forcerepresentations and how this spontaneous process should not be understood as an aspect of primitive mentality but, rather, as a universal process taking form after the type of society in which it emerges. At the end of the day, we are happy to express our gratitude to the editors of the Numen book series who accepted the book in the series and to three anonymous reviewers whose comments have greatly improved on the present text. We also want to express our thanks to Aarhus University Research Foundation for financial support for student help with the indices of the book. Finally, we wish to thank the late dean of the former Faculty of Theology, Dr. phil. Carsten Riis, for generous support for the research seminars that underlie the chapters of the book.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

19

Manipulating the Divine – an Introduction

References Barton, Carlin A. & Daniel Boyarin (2016). Imagine No Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities. New York: Fordham University Press. Boyer, Pascal (1996). Religion as an Impure Subject: a Note on Cognitive Order in Religious Representation in Response to Brian Malley. Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 8 (2): 201–213. Boyer, Pascal (2001). Religion Explained. London: Vintage. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. (1937). Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic Among the Azande. Oxford: Clarendon. Frankfurter, David (2019). Ancient Magic in a New Key: Refining an Exotic Discipline in the History of Religions. In D. Frankfurter (ed.), Guide to the Study of Magic, 3–20. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 189. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Jensen, Jeppe Sinding (2003). The Study of Religion in a New Key. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Josephson-Storm, Jason Ā. (2017). The Myth of Disenchantment: Magic, Modernity, and the Birth of the Human Sciences. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Legare, Cristine H. & André L. Souza (2012). Evaluating Ritual Efficacy: Evidence From the Supernatural. Cognition 124 (1): 1–15. doi:10.1016/j.cognition.2012.03.004. Legare, Cristine H. & Mark Nielsen (2015). Imitation and Innovation: the Dual Engines of Cultural Learning. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 19 (11): 688–699. doi:10.1016/ j.tics.2015.08.005. Liénard, Pierre & Jesper Sørensen (2014). Tools for Thought. In A. W. Geertz (ed.), Origins of Religion, Cognition and Culture, 341–364. London: Routledge. Meyland, Nicolas (2017). Mana: A History of a Western Category. Supplements to Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 10. Leiden: Brill. Nietzsche, Friedrich (1985). Die fröhliche Wissenschaft in F. Nietzsche, Friedrich Nietzsche. Werke in vier Bänden, Band IV. Salzburg: Verlag das Bergland-Buch. Nongbri, Brent (2015). Before Religion. A History of a Modern Concept, New Haven: Yale University Press. Otto, Bernd-Christian (2011). Magie. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Owen, Alex (2004). The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Victorian England. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2016). Review of Carlin A. Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016). BrynMawr Classical Review. http://bmcr .brynmawr.edu/2017/2017-06-14.html. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2018). Unveiling the Obvious-Synagogue and Church: Sisters or Different Species? In J. H. Ellens, I. W. Oliver, J. von Ehrenkrook, J. Waddell & J. M. Zurawski (eds.), Wisdom Poured out like Water. Studies on Jewish and Christian

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

20

Sørensen and Petersen

Antiquity in Honor of Gabriele Boccaccini, 575–592. Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Studies 38. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (in press). Carrying Coal to New Castle – or Much Ado for Nothing. In G. van den Hever (ed.), After Religion. Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion. London: Bloomsbury. Sommer, Andreas (2016). Are You Afraid of the Dark? Notes on the Psychology of Belief in Histories of Science and the Occult. European Journal of Psychotherapy & Counselling 18 (2): 105–122. doi:10.1080/13642537.2016.1170062. Sørensen, Jesper (2007). A Cognitive Theory of Magic. Lanham: AltaMira Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2011). Review of Bernd-Christian Otto, Magie: Rezeption- und Diskursgeschichtliche Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit. Berlin: De Gruyter. Numen 60: 484–488. https://doi.org/10.1163/15685276-12341280. Sørensen, Jesper (2013). Magic Reconsidered: Towards a Scientifically Valid Concept of Magic. In B. Otto & M. Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic: A Reader, 229–242. Lancaster: Equinox. Treitel, Corinna (2004). A Science for the Soul: Occultism and the Genesis of the German Modern. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press. Wilson, Bryan R. (1970). Rationality: Key Concepts in the Social Sciences. Oxford: Blackwell.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

part 1 Divination

∵

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 2

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis Corby Kelly 1

Introduction

1.1 ‘Divination’ as an Analytical Concept Before turning to an analysis of the primary text at the heart of my discussion,1 I would like to briefly elaborate on the broader methodological questions raised by the editors in the introduction to the present volume by asking: What are some of the risks and rewards of using ‘divination’ as an analytical concept in the study of ancient Greek religion and philosophy? After all, the cultural practices under discussion in this chapter have readymade, first-order ancient Greek terms that could supply more bespoke conceptual labels. Perhaps the best example of this is the Greek descriptive word mantikê [µαντική], often used by Plato and his fellow philosophical writers to describe a range of practices pertaining to the figure of the mantis [µάντις] (a ‘seer’ or ‘prophet’).2 It would certainly have been possible to re-title the present chapter “Mantikê in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis”, thereby homing in on a more philologically and conceptually fine-grained set of cultural practices. However, resort to this kind of first-order, emic description does not necessarily offer all the advantages it might at first seem to do. For one thing, choosing a particular first-order term like mantikê doesn’t address an obvious problem, namely that ancient Greek philosophical writers themselves had a complex, shifting, and often internally inconsistent set of terms for their own phenomena and cultural practices. While using a first-order Greek term like mantikê may help in a general way by clearly alerting the reader to a focus on the world of ancient Greece, it doesn’t necessarily offer any clarity about the 1 I would like to thank Anders Klostergaard Petersen and Jesper Sørensen for organizing the conference on divination and magic in Aarhus at which this paper was originally presented. Gabe Levy was a wonderful host on that occasion, as well as a great friend and interlocutor (as always). At Macalester College, Joseph Rife, Andrew Overman, and Beth Severy-Hoven were kind enough to listen to and make comments on an earlier version of the conference presentation. I would like to extend great thanks to Jacob Mills for helpful comments on various aspects of this chapter. 2 In fact, an excellent collected volume on Greek divination edited by two leaders in the field of Greek religion (Johnston & Struck 2005) adopted the term Mantikê as its title.

© Corby Kelly, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_003 .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

24

Kelly

underlying phenomena and cultural practices. ‘Mantikê’ and its ilk were themselves broad, capacious, contested terms, not unlike ‘divination’. While my method in this chapter is mainly close readings of primary Greek texts, rooted in an appreciation for the nuances of first-order terminology, nonetheless I believe framing my discussion as I have done with the more general term ‘divination’ offers some distinct rewards. Considered more narrowly, still today the term ‘divination’ remains the simplest and most effective communicative shorthand among scholars of the ancient Greek and Roman worlds to quickly synthesize a wide, loosely bounded array of phenomena and cultural practices in the ancient world.3 But considered more broadly, in the spirit of the current volume, what my choice of the term ‘divination’ lacks in cultural-specificity it more than makes up for, I would argue, in its potential for generating fruitful communication among scholars working on cultures geographically and chronologically distant from the ancient Greek world. In this regard, the proof of the pudding will be in our ability to recognize “trans-historical trends, structures and behavioral attractors” while simultaneously maintaining a rigorous appreciation for local context. The ancient Greek phenomena and practices under analysis here, pertaining as they do to the acquisition of information in circumstances conditioned by “nonmundane, supra-human forces or agencies”, dovetail well with the broader domain of divinatory practices as outlined by the editors in the introduction to present volume. Up against these potential rewards of using ‘divination’ as an analytical concept, I will put one risk. As the editors mention in their introduction, it is a longstanding trend of Western scholarship that magic and divination “were understood as practices performed by the underdeveloped Other”, a fact which certainly applies to the history of scholarship on ancient Greek and Roman religion. As I will explain below, the pseudo-Platonic philosophical text that is the focus of my chapter takes a harshly critical stance against the value of divination within its contemporary culture. The basis of this critique is to a great extent based on class differences: the author de-values divinatory practices because they are of a piece with lower-class, wage-earning occupations. Given the clear rhetorical bias of the pseudo-Platonic author, it is necessary to guard against inadvertently reinforcing this bias through our choice of scholarly terminology, a terminology which has its own fraught history.

3 To precisely this point, the subtitle of Johnston & Struck (2005) is “Studies in Ancient Divination”. Struck (2016) is titled Divination and Human Nature.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

25

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

1.2 The Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis and Its Relationship to Plato’s Laws The primary text that is the main focus of my chapter is the pseudo-Platonic Epinomis, a fourth-century BCE dialogue that has received relatively little scholarly attention. My present interest in the text, and what I will spend the bulk of my time analyzing here, is its two critiques of ancient Greek divinatory practice. However, in order to contextualize the Epinomis in its proper historical and cultural context, it is first necessary to take a step back and say something about the genesis of the treatise, as well as its relationship to the works of Plato. After addressing these preliminaries, I turn to the question of divination proper. Plato’s last and longest dialogue was the Laws, and like his earlier major work the Republic, the Laws presented a blueprint for organizing and managing a city-state. Unlike the Republic, the Laws eschewed the possibility of achieving an ideal community: the plan that it presents is for a second-best city, that is to say, the best man can do given his practical limitations.4 In his biography of Plato, the third-century CE writer Diogenes Laertius (1972: 310) said that when Plato died he left the Laws in wax (τοὺς Nόµους … ὄντας ἐν κῆρῷ), meaning that he left the work in an unfinished form.5 One of Plato’s students called Philip, from the town of Opus on the eastern coast of mainland Greece, was said to have copied down and edited the Laws after Plato’s death.6 The work that Philip transcribed and edited was a thoroughly oligarchic text, as Plato firmly believed that only a small minority of the population was fit to rule. In the Republic this minority was the group of philosopher kings. In the second-best city of the Laws the most powerful leaders are part of a shadowy organization called the Nocturnal Council, so called because its meetings were to take place before daybreak, when its members were free from other public and private business (961d). This cabal was made up of the most important members of the state, including the oldest guardians of the laws, the supervisors of education, and the auditors of public officials, among others. In order to carry out their responsibilities the members of the Nocturnal 4 A full discussion of the differences between the ideal and the second-best cities is provided by Bobonich (2002: 384–408). The Athenian Stranger (the major character of the Laws) distinguishes ideal, second-best, and third-best cities at 739a–b. References to the Greek text of Plato’s dialogues are cited from J. Burnet, ed., Platonis: Opera, Vols. 1–5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1900–1907). Unless otherwise stated, all translations of Plato and Philip are based on the translations collected in Hamilton (1961), with minor changes in some cases. 5 Ancient writers would scratch their work into wax tablets before having them transcribed onto something more permanent. 6 The complete evidence for Philip as editor of the Laws is collected and analyzed at Tarán (1975: 128–33).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

26

Kelly

Council required the most sophisticated education, and at the end of the Laws Plato sketches out the nature of this education, but he does so in vague terms. It has been suggested (Dillon 2003: 305) that Plato’s vagueness on this matter was intentional, and that he felt information on this important topic should only be transmitted orally. Whatever Plato’s intentions, his student and literary executor Philip saw an opportunity to expand on his teacher’s description of the Nocturnal Council’s education, and in order to do this he composed a coda to the Laws which has come down to us under the fitting title of the Epinomis.7 Like the Laws, the Epinomis takes the form of a discussion among three elderly men, one from Crete, another from Sparta, and a third from Athens. As in the Laws, the Athenian does most of the talking and is clearly functioning as a conduit for the author’s views. The conceit of the dialogue is an investigation of the proper education for members of the Nocturnal Council. At the opening, the Cretan, Clinias, sums up the object of their investigation by asking “what should a mortal man learn in order to be wise?” (τί ποτε µαθὼν θνητὸς ἄνθρωπος σοφὸς ἄν εἴη; 973b2–3). The members of the Nocturnal Council must be educated in this subject, whatever it is, since the members of the Council are the supreme rulers of the state, and only truly wise men are fit to rule. The answer Philip reaches at the end of the Epinomis is a surprising one, as Philip himself admits: the subject that makes a man truly wise, and therefore fit to rule, is astronomy (990a4: ἀστρονοµία).8 In coming to this conclusion, Philip was departing from his teacher Plato in an important way. In the genuine works of Plato, the metaphysical Forms constituted the objects of knowledge and contemplation.9 For Philip, by contrast, the true objects of philosophical contemplation are the physical bodies of the heavens. The divine celestial 7 As Tarán (1975: 7) observes, most ancient authors who refer to passages from the Epinomis present it as having been written by Plato himself. However, there has been a long tradition of modern scholarship that denies Platonic authorship, including Cherniss (1950, 1953: 371–5), Einarson (1958), and Tarán (1975). In general I follow the arguments of Tarán (1975: 133–9), who considers Philip to be the most likely candidate for the author of the treatise but leaves the question open, saying that “since we know little and are ignorant of much about Plato’s Academy, it seems to be preferable not to call Philip the author of the E., but to leave open the possibility that it may have been written by another member of the early Academy”. 8 The best recent discussion of Philip’s treatment of astronomy in the Epinomis and its relationship to Plato is Nightingale (2004: 180–6), discussed in more detail below. 9 The argument that the Forms are the objects of knowledge is advanced in various dialogues, perhaps most attractively in Diotima’s discussion of the Form of Beauty as the supreme object of contemplation in the Symposium (211c1–d1). However, whether things other than Forms can serve as objects of knowledge, and whether someone can have incomplete knowledge of the Forms by way of the observation of particulars, is unclear. For a fuller discussion of these points see Sheffield (2006: 118–29).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

27

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

bodies, moving with perfect regularity and uniformity, presented to man the visual image of a perfectly rational soul. By observing and contemplating the motions of the celestial bodies, man could bring the rational part of his soul, namely his mind, into sympathetic harmony with the perfect rationality of the divine.10 1.3 Divination in the Epinomis It is with the above material as background that I now turn to the question of divination in the Epinomis. Admittedly divination is not a topic Philip spends a great deal of time on in the course of the dialogue (he mentions it in two passages). Nevertheless, Philip’s treatment of divination is interesting for a number of reasons. In part 2 below I discuss how Philip rejects divination as a candidate for true wisdom by including it among the class of ‘necessary’ arts. Philip, unlike Plato, closely associates divination with ‘banausic’ manual and productive labor, like farming and house-building. By doing so, Philip enhances a traditional philosophical critique of diviners and prophets as greedy and in pursuit of personal gain (a critique that appears in Plato and can be traced as far back as Homer). Then in part 3 I go on to discuss Philip’s description of divination as arising from the interaction of humans with the mysterious creatures of aether, air, and water. By focusing on the importance of vision for the production of true knowledge, Philip diminishes and marginalizes traditional Greek religious practices (including divination and prophecy) on the grounds that they arise from interactions with invisible or indistinct beings. In the fourth century BCE divination remained, despite the philosophical critiques of Plato and his ilk, an ever-present and important social practice. What we see in the text of Philip is a new development of the philosophical critique of divination, based on the fundamental importance of empirical visual observation. In this way, we can see the Epinomis as a waypoint on path from Platonic idealism to Aristotelian empiricism. 2

Divination as a ‘Necessary’ Art

In his attempt to answer the motivating question of the Epinomis (i.e. “what should a mortal man learn in order to be wise?” (τί ποτε µαθὼν θνητὸς ἄνθρωπος σοφὸς ἄν εἴη)) the Athenian begins by employing a process of elimination. Three broad classes of activities are discussed and dismissed from consideration because they lack some quality or other that is required for true wisdom. These 10

These points will be discussed in more detail in part 3 below.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

28

Kelly

three classes are the ‘necessary’ arts (974d8–975c8); the ‘fine’ arts (975c8–d8); and the ‘defensive’ arts (975e1–976b4).11 Divination, referred to as the ‘mantic’ and ‘hermeneutic’ art (975c6: µαντική … ἑρµηνευτικὴ [τέχνη]), is included in the first group of ‘necessary’ arts, along with agriculture, ‘constructive’ arts (like house-building), and hunting. Philip’s brief rejection of divination as a source of true wisdom is expressed in the following terms: “The mantic or hermeneutic art … [fails us] entirely; he [who practices these arts] knows only the thing that has been said – whether it is true he has not learned” (οὐ µὴν οὐδὲ µαντική γε οὐδ᾽ ἑρµηνευτικὴ τὸ παράπαν: τὸ λεγόµενον γὰρ οἶδεν µόνον, εἰ δ᾽ ἀληθές, οὐκ ἔµαθεν; 975c). The conventional interpretation of Philip’s rejection of divination is framed in terms of the ‘irrationality’ of divination. In his commentary on this passage Leonardo Tarán remarks (1975: ad 975c6–8) that “µαντική [mantikê] and ἑρµηνευτική [hermeneutikê] are eliminated because of the common Platonic notion that they are based on irrational phenomena”, and Tarán draws our attention to related passages in Plato such as Meno 99c–d. In these passages, Plato uses divination as an analogy to illustrate a point about another kind of activity. The character Socrates is arguing that a particular kind of person – in these cases, poets and statesmen – do not make use of knowledge to do what they do, rather they use well-aimed conjecture or natural talent. To make his point about poets and statesmen, Socrates invokes the example of the prophet [theomantis]) or oracle-monger [chrêsmôdês] who functions in a state of divine possession [enthousiasmos].12 At Meno 99c, Socrates says: “these prophets and oracle-mongers may utter many true things while they are in a state of divine possession, but they nonetheless do not have knowledge of the things they say” (καὶ γὰρ οὗτοι [θεοµάντεις καὶ χρησµῳδοὶ] ἐνθουσιῶντες λέγουσιν µὲν ἀληθῆ καὶ πολλά, ἴσασι δὲ οὐδὲν ὧν λέγουσιν). Socrates makes two related points here: first, in the case of poets and statesmen, as for prophets, there is an epistemological gap between their utterance, on the one hand, and the

11 12

In the genuine works of Plato there are comparable tripartite divisions of the arts. See for example Republic 369e, and Laws 677a–683b, with the remarks of Tarán (1975: 71–3). Plato’s Ion also usefully compares poets and prophets with regard to divine inspiration and rationality (534b3–7): κοῦφον γὰρ χρῆµα ποιητής ἐστιν καὶ πτηνὸν καὶ ἱερόν, καὶ οὐ πρότερον οἷός τε ποιεῖν πρὶν ἂν ἔνθεός τε γένηται καὶ ἔκφρων καὶ ὁ νοῦς µηκέτι ἐν αὐτῷ ἐνῇ: ἕως δ᾽ ἂν τουτὶ ἔχῃ τὸ κτῆµα, ἀδύνατος πᾶς ποιεῖν ἄνθρωπός ἐστιν καὶ χρησµῳδεῖν “For the poet is an airy thing, winged and holy, and he is not able to make poetry until he becomes inspired and goes out of his mind and his intellect is no longer in him. As long as a human being has his intellect in his possession he will always lack the power to make poetry or sing prophecy” (transl. Woodruff, 1983).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

29

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

knowledge of their utterance, on the other.13 Second, the ability of the poet or the statesman to say true things depends on inspiration or natural instinct, and the prophet’s enthousiasmos is a potent illustration of this. In passages like these, the prophet’s enthousiasmos is invoked not as the primary explanandum but as a rhetorically useful comparandum. In attacking the claims to knowledge of certain traditionally successful or authoritative figures, Plato finds it useful to draw comparisons to prophets, who represent for Plato one of the most egregious examples of irrational actors. Though Plato focuses on epistemological issues, the thrust of the comparison is more sweeping: by impugning their claims to knowledge, Plato diminishes their overall prestige and authority as members of the polis community. As Tarán suggests, the Platonic stereotype of the irrational prophet who says many true things but nevertheless is deficient in knowledge subtends the references to divination in the Epinomis. Philip’s statement at 975c that practitioners of the mantic and hermeneutic arts know only what is said (τὸ λεγόµενον γὰρ οἶδεν µόνον) but have not learned whether it is true (εἰ δ᾽ ἀληθές, οὐκ ἔµαθεν) constructs an antithesis between mere words and true knowledge which recalls passages like the one from the Meno above.14 However, seen within the larger context of Philip’s treatment of the ‘necessary’ arts at 974d8–975c8, the rejection of prophecy in the Epinomis goes beyond issues of ‘irrationality’ and offers an interesting departure from, as well as an enhancement of, Plato’s earlier ideas. By including divination among the ‘necessary’ arts, Philip offers a new critique of the prophetic arts which condemns them by association with primitive pursuits unfit for men of elite status. 13

14

This description of divination is similar to the one from Ion 534b3–7 (mentioned above), and also corresponds to Socrates’ comments at Apology 22c. There Socrates’ primary object of criticism is also the supposed knowledge of poets, and he uses divination to flesh out his criticism: ἔγνων οὖν αὖ καὶ περὶ τῶν ποιητῶν ἐν ὀλίγῳ τοῦτο, ὅτι οὐ σοφίᾳ ποιοῖεν ἃ ποιοῖεν, ἀλλὰ φύσει τινὶ καὶ ἐνθουσιάζοντες ὥσπερ οἱ θεοµάντεις καὶ οἱ χρησµῳδοί: καὶ γὰρ οὗτοι λέγουσι µὲν πολλὰ καὶ καλά, ἴσασιν δὲ οὐδὲν ὧν λέγουσι “I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled [the poets] to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they say”. However, the vocabulary in which Philip expresses this antithesis is strikingly different from Plato, specifically Philip’s use of εἰδέναι to describe the prophet’s state of mind. For Plato, to use a form of εἰδέναι is to make a strong claim about genuine knowledge. In similar circumstances, when Plato uses the verb εἰδέναι to claim that someone knows something, what is implied is that the person knows the truth. For Philip, as the statement at 975c makes clear, truth is not necessarily implied in the use of εἰδέναι. For a detailed assessment of Philip’s use of epistemological language here and elsewhere in the dialogue see Müller (1927: 18, 42), cited by Tarán (1975, ad 975c7–8).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

30

Kelly

The class of arts or skills (technai) into which Philip puts divination is referred to as the ‘necessary’ arts because they provide life’s ‘necessities’ (ἀναγχαῖα), including food and shelter (as Philip suggests at 974e1 and 975c9). In introducing these technai Philip conflates the ideas of ‘necessity’ and ‘priority’, in the sense that the ‘necessary’ arts are connected with mankind’s earliest and most fundamental needs. Within this class Philip discusses five sub-classes: (1) the skill that determines which sorts of living things humans ought to consume as food (975a5–b1); (2) the skill of agriculture and produce (975b1–7); (3) constructive skills like house-building, carpentry, and pottery (975b7–c4); (4) hunting (975c4–6); and (5) divination. Both because of and in spite of the fact that the ‘necessary’ arts address long-standing and fundamental human needs, the Athenian condemns them as being beneath the status of a truly educated contemporary man (974d8–975a1). He has his Athenian interlocutor argue (974d–975a): [W]e must observe of those which are mortality’s earliest need that while they cannot be dispensed with and come first in a real sense, though the man who is versed in them may have been counted wise long ago, in the beginnings of things, he has certainly not the reputation today; his knowledge of such things is rather a reproach to him. We will name them, then, with the remark that everyone – I mean everyone who makes it his great concern to be esteemed a man of the best kind – avoids them for the sake of achieving understanding and the exercise of it.15 The Athenian’s condemnation of the ‘necessary’ arts reflects a Platonic background in which the different technai are categorized according to a hierarchical tripartite scheme (‘necessary’ arts, ‘fine’ arts, and true wisdom) which is related to the progressive evolution of the structure of the polis.16 A man who is concerned with these lower sorts of technai is a kind of primitive man who cannot aspire to be considered among the elite of the polis and certainly ought not be considered as a member of its ruling Nocturnal Council. Although the general background regarding the relationship of technai to the evolution of the polis is familiar from Plato, Philip’s inclusion of divination here among the ‘necessary’ arts is a departure from his teacher’s thought. As 15

16

πρῶτον µὲν τοίνυν ὧν πρῶτον δεῖ θνητῷ γένει, ἴδωµεν ὡς εἰσὶ µὲν ἀναγκαιόταται σχεδὸν ἀληθῶς τε πρῶται, ὁ δὲ ἐπιστήµων αὐτῶν γιγνόµενος, εἰ καὶ κατ᾽ ἀρχὰς ἔδοξέν τις εἶναί ποτε σοφός, οὔκουν νῦν γε οὔτε σοφὸς εἶναι δοξάζεται ὀνείδη τε ἴσχει µᾶλλον ἀπὸ τῆς τοιαύτης ἐπιστήµης. ἐροῦµεν δὴ αἵ τ᾽ εἰσὶν καὶ ὅτι πᾶς ἀνὴρ αὐτάς, σχεδὸν ὅσοις ἀγὼν πρόκειται τοῦ δοκεῖν ὡς ἄριστον ἄνδρα συµβῆναι γενόµενον ἄν, φεύγει διὰ τὰς κτήσεις τῆς φρονήσεώς τε καὶ ἐπιτηδεύσεως. See for example Republic 369e, and with Tarán’s analysis (1975: 71–3).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

31

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

Tarán (1975: 73) remarks: “There is no such thing in Plato”. By associating it with other ‘necessary’ and ‘primitive’ technai, Philip aims to downgrade the art of divination and thereby diminish its prestige and power in the polis. We can flesh out the contours of Philip’s downgrading of divination by considering the rhetoric of banausia, which is a crucial subtext for this passage. Banausia (literally translated as ‘handicraft’) has an important role in the Platonic philosophical background to the Epinomis as well as more generally in the self-articulation of the aristocratic culture of classical Greece. Understood most broadly, the rhetoric of banausia was an aristocratic condemnation of those classes of society engaged in any kind of manual or productive labor, often associated with the earning of a wage. Manual, wage-earning laborers were considered, according to this line of thinking, to be unsuitable for participation in the government of the polis. In the Laws Plato employs this aristocratic critique of banausic occupations in a literal way to make the argument for excluding these lower classes from political participation.17 Elsewhere, Plato extends the aristocratic condemnation of banausia beyond its literal range in order to serve other philosophical goals. His critique of “wage-earning” sophists in the Republic draws on this rhetoric in its attempt to diminish the prestige of these fake wise men by associating them with the politically marginalized lower classes; and in his attacks on poets and traditional political leaders he likewise condemns these groups for their tendency to offer their wisdom in exchange for some kind of literal or figurative “wage”. As Andrea Nightingale explains (2004: 125), in the service of defending the pursuit of his brand of philosophy, Plato extends the concept of banausia and uses it as a rhetorical weapon against other aristocratic pretenders to wisdom: “all pursuits are ‘banausic’ and ‘illiberal’ except for that of philosophy”. The class of ‘necessary’ arts that Philip discusses at 974d8–975c8 (which includes agriculture, construction, furniture-making, smithwork, carpentry, and pottery) is clearly banausic in character, and by including divination in this group Philip draws comparisons between divination and wage-earning manual or productive labor. Though not found elsewhere in precisely this form, Philip’s critique of divination as a banausic and ‘necessary’ art harmonizes with wider criticism in the ancient world that presents prophets as seeking after personal, material gain.18 The roots of this critique go back at least to Homer, where in the second book of the Odyssey Halitherses is rebuked by

17 18

See Laws 644a, 741e, and 743d, cited at Nightingale (2004: 123). In contrast, Plato (at Symposium 203a) has Diotima draw a clear distinction between men who practice arts like divination, on the one hand, and ‘banausic’ arts on the other.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

32

Kelly

Eurymachus, who claims that the seer is “hoping for some gift”.19 The theme is developed considerably in the fifth century BCE, particularly in the dramatic genres. In Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, Oedipus lashes out at the prophecies of Teiresias by calling him a “wily beggar who has only eyes for his own gains, but blindness in his skill”.20 Aristophanes gives the same critique a comic inflection, most famously in the Birds, when the oracle-monger [chrêsmologos] who is eventually run off as a charlatan, claims his prophetic books require that he be presented with a good cloak, new sandals, wine, and the entrails of a sacrificial animal.21 Plato imports this critique into philosophical prose at Republic 364b, where Adeimantus condemns “begging prophets” [agurtai] and “seers” [manteis], saying: “[they] frequent the doors of the rich and persuade them that they possess a god-given power founded on sacrifices and incantations. If the rich person or any of his ancestors has committed an injustice, they can fix it with pleasant rituals”.22 Philip’s categorization of prophecy as a ‘necessary’ art adds a new dimension to this longstanding critique which figures prophets as greedy and primarily concerned with their personal material gain. By associating prophecy with banausic activities like farming, smithwork, and house-building, Philip further diminishes the prophet’s skill by characterizing it not only as wage-earning, but also as a primitive, mundane, even servile occupation. 3

Divination as an Interaction with ‘Intermediary’ Creatures

Philip’s second critique of divination comes later in the dialogue and in a much different context, appearing within an extended discussion of the structure of the universe and the organization of living creatures within it. According to Philip, the physical universe is thoroughly stratified, with different kinds of living things inhabiting different regions.23 At one extreme is the region of earth, inhabited by terrestrial creatures (including humans), while at the other 19 20 21 22

23

2.186: σῷ οἴκῳ δῶρον ποτιδέγµενος. The passage is mentioned by Flower (2008: 135). 388–9: δόλιον ἀγύρτην, ὅστις ἐν τοῖς κέρδεσιν/ µόνον δέδορκε, τὴν τέχνην δ᾽ ἔφυ τυφλός. The translation is from Grene (1991). 970–1. ἀγύρται δὲ καὶ µάντεις ἐπὶ πλουσίων θύρας ἰόντες πείθουσιν ὡς ἔστι παρὰ σφίσι δύναµις ἐκ θεῶν ποριζοµένη θυσίαις τε καὶ ἐπῳδαῖς, εἴτε τι ἀδίκηµά του γέγονεν αὐτοῦ ἢ προγόνων, ἀκεῖσθαι µεθ᾽ ἡδονῶν τε καὶ ἑορτῶν. This example, and the one from Sophocles above, are discussed in detail by Dillery (2003: 199). In many details the cosmology Philip lays out in the Epinomis is similar to that which Plato lays out in the Timaeus. However, Philip’s five-part hierarchy is not found in Plato and is in fact a new idea. See my conclusion for further commentary on this idea.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

33

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

extreme is the region of fire, inhabited by the rarified, fiery bodies of the divine stars and planets. Between these two extremes are three additional regions (of water, air, and aether) inhabited by creatures whose bodies are composed of the different respective simple elements. At 985c2–3, the Athenian claims that “prophetic utterances” [phêmas] as well as “powers of divination” [manteias] arise from encounters between human beings and the intermediary creatures of aether and air. These intermediary creatures, which Philip refers to as daimones, serve as the mode of connection and communication between terrestrial humans and the gods who inhabit the outermost region of fire.24 After a brief description of the stars and planets, which Philip considers to be the fiery “visible gods” (984d: θεοὺς … τοὺς ὁρατούς) he describes in some detail the creatures of aether and air: [A]fter [the stars and planets] and below them, come in order the daemons (δαίµονας) and the creatures of air, who hold the third and midmost rank, doing the office of interpreters (τῆς ἑρµηνείας αἴτιον) and should be peculiarly honored in our prayers that they may transmit comfortable messages (χρεὼν χάριν τῆς εὐφήµου διαπορείας). Both sorts of creature, those of aether and those of air … are wholly [imperceptible] (οὐ διορώµενον ὅλον); however close they are to us, they go undiscerned. Being, however, of a kind that is quick to learn and of retentive memory, they read all our thoughts … The universe being thus full throughout of living creatures, they all, so we shall say, act as interpreters (ἑρµενεύσθαι), and interpreters of all things, to one another and to the highest gods, seeing that the middle ranks of creatures can flit so lightly over the earth and the whole universe.25 Given the fact that they naturally inhabit the middle realms of the physical universe, and their bodies are airy and aetherial, these creatures are particularly suited to the role of mediators and interpreters between terrestrial humans and the visible gods who inhabit the fiery upper realm (the ideas of 24

25

Philip is not clear on whether only the creatures of aether should be considered daimones, or whether the creatures of air should be included as well. He lumps them together when discussing the communicative function between humans and the divinities of fire. They are certainly described in similar terms, which has led to the conclusion of some scholars that Philip meant to include both groups under the term daimones. The creatures of water are a different case. While he does refer to them as semi-divine, they are not ascribed any of the communicative functions of the other creatures. One crucial difference is the water creatures are not strictly invisible, like the creates of aether and air. 984d8–985b4.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

34

Kelly

both mediation and interpretation are suggested by the Greek terms ἑρµηνεία [hermeneia] and ἑρµενεύσθαι [hermeneusthai]). This ‘hermeneutic’ function includes the conveyance of prayers and divine messages, but it also extends beyond these traditional forms of human-divine communication to include a more sweeping, constant surveillance. Being invisible and having excellent memories, these creatures closely observe not only our actions but also our thoughts – while the creatures themselves go unobserved – and report their observations to the gods. As Philip explains it, these intermediary creatures are not simply impassive and impartial conduits of information. Rather, they are affected by the moral character of the people they observe, and “regard the good and noble with signal favor, but the very evil with deep aversion”.26 The main themes of Philip’s description of these creatures correspond roughly to Plato’s notion of daimones articulated in the speech of Diotima in the Symposium. In that passage, Plato has Diotima explain to Socrates the nature of Eros, who is a “very powerful daimon … halfway between man and god” (δαίµων µέγας … µεταξύ … θεοῦ τε καὶ θνητοῦ). When Socrates asks what powers these kinds of daimones have, Diotima responds as follows: They are envoys and interpreters that ply between heaven and earth (ἑρµηνεῦον καὶ διαπορθµεῦον θεοῖς τὰ παρ’ ἀνθρώπων καὶ ἀνθρώποις τὰ παρὰ θεῶν), flying upward with our worship and our prayers, and descending with the heavenly answers and commandments, and since they are between the two estates they weld both sides together and merge them into one great whole. They form the medium of the prophetic arts (διὰ τούτου καὶ ἡ µαντικὴ πᾶσα χωρεῖ), of the priestly rites of sacrifice, initiation, and incantation, of divination (καὶ τὴν µαντείαν πᾶσαν) and of sorcery, for the divine will not mingle directly with the human, and it is only through the mediation of the spirit world that man can have any intercourse, whether waking or sleeping, with the gods.27 The idea that daimones move back and forth between humans and gods carrying prayers and messages, and that their activities form the basis for the ‘mantic’ arts, dovetails closely with Philip’s description of the creatures of aether and air.28 Furthermore, many points of Plato’s language are clearly echoed in Philip’s choice of vocabulary (most importantly the echo of Plato’s 26 27 28

985a3–5: τόν τε καλὸν ἡµῶν καὶ ἀγαθὸν ἅµα θαυµαστῶς ἀσπάζεσθαι καὶ τὸν σφόδρα κακὸν µισεῖν. Symposium 202d13–203a8. For background and a broader view of this topic, see Petersen (2003).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

35

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

ἑρµηνεῦον [hermêneuon] in Philip’s ἑρµηνεία [hermêneia] and ἑρµενεύσθαι [hermeneusthai]) creating a tighter connection between the two passages.29 Despite the shared themes and details, Philip’s treatment of these ‘hermeneutic’ creatures is nonetheless quite different from Plato’s. Diotima’s account of the powers of daimones in the Symposium is designed to support a description of Eros which is heavily allegorical and which eventually modulates into a mythological account in which Eros appears as a playful personification of human desire. Plato’s description of the ‘physics’ of daimones – what they are composed of, what kind of environment they exist in, how they move from place to place – is therefore relatively simple, stemming mainly from the idea that daimones exist in a state which is both physically and ontologically between man and god. This middling position can also be seen as a literalizing of Diotima’s epistemological claim that Eros is also “midway between ignorance and wisdom” (203e: σοφίας τε αὖ καὶ ἀµαθίας ἐν µέσῳ ἐστίν). In the Epinomis, by contrast, Philip’s account of the creatures of aether and air is intended to flesh out a complex description of the physical organization of the universe and its inhabitants. The mediating and interpretive functions of these creatures are closely connected to the specific physical properties of the simple elements (aether and air) from which their bodies are composed and which constitute the strata of the universe they inhabit. Philip’s more physically-oriented account of the creatures of aether and air goes hand in hand with the broader conclusions of the Epinomis, which elevate the observation of the physical world to a higher philosophical plane than do any of the genuinely Platonic dialogues. Building an argument in response to the dialogue’s motivating question (i.e. “what should a mortal man learn in order to be wise?”) the Athenian eventually reaches the conclusion that the pinnacle (τὸ … τέλος) of education for members of the Nocturnal Council is in fact the science of astronomy (990a4: ἀστρονοµίαν), which he articulates at 991b6–8 as “beholding” (κατιδεῖν) “the most beautiful and most divine nature of visible things” (τὴν τῶν ὁρατῶν καλλίστην τε καὶ θειοτάτην φύσιν). While vision plays a key role in the development of Plato’s philosophical system, nonetheless, even in his most visually-oriented dialogues (like the Timaeus, which is very close to the Epinomis on these points), Plato is committed to the epistemological pre-eminence of the Forms. As Andrea Nightingale observes, “Philip diverges from Plato by directing the theoretical gaze to the physical heavens rather than the metaphysical Forms” (2004: 5). According to Philip, it is through observing the motions of the heavenly bodies (characterized by 29

For further discussion of the close verbal parallels see the commentary of Tarán (1975, ad 984e2–3).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

36

Kelly

Philip as “visible” gods) that a man can bring his mind into sympathy with the motion of divinity and thus achieve true wisdom. The science of astronomy is not wholly visual; to practice it correctly one must have a sophisticated intellectual training that includes the prerequisite study of arithmetic, geometry, and stereometry.30 Nonetheless, for Philip, the practice of viewing the “visible gods” (as opposed to apprehending the Forms through intellection) is what makes a man truly wise. As we see, the connection between visual observation and wisdom is at the heart of the Epinomis, and when we return to consider the creatures of aether and air vis-à-vis their role in the genesis of “prophetic utterances” (φήµας) and “powers of divination” (µαντείας), we find that visual observation plays a key role. According to Philip’s description, the creatures of aether and air are “wholly invisible” (984e4: οὐ διορώµενον ὅλον), and though they move in close proximity to humans they nonetheless are “not discovered”, or, literally, are “not visible” (984e5: οὐ κατάδηλον … γίγνεσθαι). This emphasis on invisibility also appears in the subsequent description of the fifth type of living being, the creature of water, which though different from the creatures of aether and air is nonetheless referred to as a “demigod” (985b5: ἡµίθεον) and is likewise associated with traditional mantic phenomena. Of the creature of water Philip says (985b6–8) “it is sometimes to be seen (ὁρώµενον), but anon conceals itself and becomes invisible (ἄδηλον), and thus perplexes us by its indistinct appearance (ἀµυδρὰν ὄψιν)”.31 In his account of these three middling types of creature (of aether, air, and water) Philip repeatedly emphasizes how difficult it is to observe them visually. These points about vision lead immediately to broader epistemological points about the unreliability of opinions that come from our interactions with these indistinct creatures. Philip says: Since, then, these five sorts of creatures must surely exist, when it comes to opinions (δόξας) of individuals or whole societies originating in the intercourse of some of them with us – appearances in dreams of the night, oracular and prophetic voices heard by the whole or the sick, or communications in the last hours of life – and these have been, as they will hereafter, the sources of many a widespread cult – when it comes 30 31

Philip discusses these elements of the Nocturnal Council’s education at 990b–991b. Philip has an interesting play on words here, using the adjective ἀµυδρός to describe the appearance of the creatures of water. The word means ‘dim, faint, obscure’, but is clearly related to the word for ‘water’ (ὕδωρ) and thus suggests a dimness due to viewing an object through water.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

37

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

to these, I say, no legislator of even the slenderest sense will presume to innovate, and so divert his city to a devoutness with no sure foundations (ἐπὶ θεοσέβειαν ἥτις µὴ σαφὲς ἔχει τι τρέψαι πόλιν ἑαυτοῦ). Nor yet will he prohibit obedience to the inherited usages about sacrifices, since in this matter he has no knowledge whatsoever, as, indeed, ’tis impossible that mankind should have any (τι τρέψαι πόλιν ἑαυτοῦ: καὶ µὴν οὐδ᾽ ὧν ὁ πάτριος νόµος εἴρηκεν περὶ θυσιῶν ἀποκωλύσει, µηδὲν τὸ παράπαν εἰδώς, ὥσπερ οὐδ᾽ ὂν δυνατὸν εἰδέναι τῇ θνητῇ φύσει τῶν τοιούτων πέρι).32 Invoking a kind of ‘conscious conservatism’ Philip does not explicitly reject traditional religious practices – including prophecy and divination – but he diminishes and marginalizes these practices by employing the epistemological language of opinion (δόξας), clarity (µὴ σαφὲς), and knowledge (µηδὲν … εἰδώς; εἰδέναι). These types of traditional religious practice should have no role in the legislation of the Nocturnal Council because, as the Athenian explains, they can only authorize opinion, not true knowledge. In his description of the creatures that account for these types of traditional religious practices – creatures of aether, air, and water – Philip plays up their visual indistinctness in order to undermine the epistemological value of the beliefs that arise from them. By focusing on visibility and invisibility, Philip connects his treatment of traditional religious practice with his larger concerns in the Epinomis, while also opening up a new avenue for the critique of divination, based on the idea that true knowledge depends on visual observation. 4

Conclusion: Divination in Plato, the Epinomis, and Aristotle

As I mentioned in my introduction, the Epinomis has been generally neglected in the scholarship, a fact which I attribute in large part to its non-Platonic authorship.33 Regarding the specific topic of divination, the work has been likewise overlooked; thus for example in Peter Struck’s excellent recent booklength study of Greek philosophical writing on divination we find that the Epinomis is never mentioned at all. By way of conclusion, therefore, it will be useful to place the Epinomis in its context, by commenting on how the ideas on 32 33

985c1–d4. Very recent scholarship is opening up new and provocative connections between the ideas of the Epinomis and the subsequent philosophical tradition. See for example Lehoux (2020) on the possible influence of the Epinomis on Cicero’s understanding of natural law.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

38

Kelly

divination expressed therein dovetail with trends in the contemporary tradition of philosophical writing. For the sake of clarity and simplicity, I will narrow my focus to the slightly earlier work of Plato and the slightly later work of Aristotle. In a nutshell, the Epinomis makes sense as part of a general movement toward an increasingly naturalized understanding of divinatory phenomena in Greek philosophical writing. As described above, Plato’s ‘physics’ of divination as expressed in the Symposium posits intermediary demonic ferrymen mediating between the celestial and earthly realms. In his later dialogue Timaeus, Plato develops a different line of thinking, in which he connects the power of divination closely to the physical structure of the human soul and body. According to this second explanation, divination is mediated by the liver in the lower part of the soul, and is located there by the demiurge as a kind of compensatory knowledge (since the lower soul does not participate in the divine reason of the upper part of the soul).34 Plato does not give a lot of detail about how the process of divination works (for example, how the liver receives divinatory messages), but he does suggest that divination is only possible when the higher rational faculties are blunted. At 71e he writes: God gave divination [mantikê] to human senselessness, for no one lays hold of inspired and true divination when in his right mind, but when the power of his purposive intelligence [φρόνησις] is shackled during sleep, or when he is in an altered state due to disease or on account of some inspiration.35 In the Symposium and the Timaeus, Plato approaches the phenomena of divination from different angles. In the former, his explanation invokes a kind of folk understanding of the structure of the external universe, with lower (human), middle (demonic), and upper (divine) regions. While in the latter, Plato turns inward, invoking a biological explanation connecting divination to the lower soul and the liver. While the Epinomis does intersect in many places with the Timaeus (for example, in the idea that human rationality is closely connected to the realm of the celestial bodies), its explanation of divination as a function of communication with invisible, intermediary creatures is clearly more closely indebted to the ideas of the demonic in the Symposium. However, we see that in the Epinomis Philip goes one step further than the Symposium by embedding 34 35

Timaeus 71d–e. 71e, translation in Struck (2016: 84).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

39

Divination in the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis

the intermediary, demonic creatures in a generalized understanding of the structure of the physical universe. This is in fact a unique contribution of the dialogue. As Tarán (1975: 46) has observed, the Epinomis presents the first appearance in Greek thought of “the notion of a scale of living beings which dwell in different regions of the universe in ascending order of perfection”. The mechanics of divination, so to speak, are explicable (at least to some extent) in terms of the mechanics of physical bodies, with the creatures of water, air, and aether playing an intermediary role by dint of the physical nature of the substances of their bodies. In a similar way today, we might think of the earth’s atmosphere as serving intermediary functions between the conditions of the surface and the conditions of space by dint of the physical nature of its gases and liquids. While building on the ideas of the Symposium, the Epinomis provides a broader physical context for the nature of the demonic. In the work of Aristotle, the type of divination that gets the most detailed analysis is dream divination.36 Aristotle’s explanation strips away all of the anthropomorphic aspects of demonic communication (for example there are no daimones moving about, thinking, observing and communicating) and employs the causal machinery of the natural world, specifically the physical properties of air as a medium for transmitting sensations. According to Aristotle, it is in fact movements of air, stirred up by faraway physical disturbances, that come into contact with our sleeping bodies and produce dream perceptions. The fact that we are sleeping is crucial, since it is during sleep that the more powerful discursive faculties of our rational souls are disengaged and we are therefore likelier to notice the faint signals transmitted through the vibrations in the surrounding air. Those who are adept at dream divination have a naturally less obtrusive intellectual part of the soul (i.e. they are generally less intelligent), and have a knack for alighting on the correct future outcome from the influx of present sensory data. In this way, for Aristotle, dream divination is like luck, in that it depends on the intervention of a general demonic principle that is beyond rational human control. What emerges, when we put the picture of divination in the Epinomis within the Platonic and Aristotelian context, is a trend toward explaining divination through more general and abstract natural concepts, like the biological explanation of the Timaeus, or the physical substances of the Epinomis and On Divination during Sleep. It is worth noting, in closing, that despite Aristotle’s stripping away of the anthropomorphic aspects of the demonic 36

The treatise in question is his On Divination during Sleep, which is part of the Parva Naturalia. For my interpretation of this treatise here I am heavily indebted to chapter 2 of Struck (2016).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

40

Kelly

in his explanation of divination, nonetheless a more abstract notion of the demonic is still necessary to explain dream divination. Even for Aristotle, the phenomenon of dream divination was sufficiently complex that it could not be explained without the intervention of a demonic force. References Bobonich, Christopher (2002). Plato’s Utopia Recast: His Later Ethics and Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cherniss, Harold F. (1950). Review of A. J. Festugière, La révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste, II. Le dieu cosmique (Paris, 1949). Gnomon 22: 204–216. Dillon, John (2003). Philip of Opus and the Theology of Plato’s Laws. Diotima 31: 69–78. Flower, Michael Attyah (2008). The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley: University of California Press. Grene, David, and Richmond A. Lattimore (eds.) (1991). Sophocles. Vol. 3. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Johnston, Sarah I. & Peter T. Struck (eds.) (2005). Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination. Leiden: Brill. Laertius, Diogenes (1925). Lives of Eminent Philosophers, translated by R. D. Hicks. Vol. 2. Loeb Classical Library, no. 185. Lehoux, Darion R. (2020). Saved by the Phenomena: Law and Nature in Cicero and the (Pseudo?) Platonic Epinomis. Studies in History and Philosophy of Science. Part A 81: 55–61. Nightingale, Andrea Wilson (2004). Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy: Theoria in Its Cultural Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2003). The Notion of Demon: Open Questions to a Diffuse Concept. In A. Lange, H. Lichtenberger, and K. F. Diethard Römheld, Die Dämonen. Die Dämonologie der israelitisch-jüdischen und frühchristlichen Literatur im Kontext ihrer Umwelt / Demons. The Demonology of Israelite-Jewish and Early Christian Literature in Context of their Environment, 23–41. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Plato, and Paul Woodruff (1983). Two Comic Dialogues. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co. Plato, and John Burnet (1900). Platonis Opera. Oxonii: e typographeo Clarendoniano. Plato, Edith Hamilton, and Huntington Cairns (1989). The Collected Dialogues of Plato, Including the Letters. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Sheffield, Frisbee C. C. (2006). Plato’s Symposium: The Ethics of Desire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Struck, Peter T. (2016). Divination and Human Nature: A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tarán, Leonardo (1975). Academica: Plato, Philip of Opus, and the Pseudo-Platonic Epinomis. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 3

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach Jørgen Podemann Sørensen In two earlier papers on ritual in general, I have argued that the basic formal and rhetorical property of ritual is postulated efficacy.1 A ritual may consist in the mere verbal postulate that this (i.e. the recitation of the postulate itself) is the act that accomplishes the purpose stated. In a late nineteenth-century Danish healing spell, the sentence “I command you not to run any more!” (Ohrt 1917: 172) was once considered sufficient to stop bleeding from a wound. Such minimal rituals are, however, extremely rare. It is well known how most rituals mobilize considerable rhetorical apparatus to support their claims to efficacy: Mythical exemplars may serve to situate the ritual act in a primeval context and thus render it creative; liminal symbolism may suggest the almost primeval receptivity or even the not-yet-existence of the ritual object; ritual texts may implicitly dramatize communication with superhuman agencies etc. etc. But all these situating elements are nothing but rhetorical elaborations of the basic postulate: this act works. Divination is certainly part of the general field of ritualistics, and in a manner analogous to what we suggested for ritual in general, the basis of a rhetoric of divination is the postulate that the unpredictable is hereby predicted on the basis of something even more unpredictable: the flight of birds, the work of parasites in a sheep’s liver, random numbers or combinations of yarrow stalks, palm nuts, or cards. Military decisions of the Roman consuls had to be based on the appetite of certain chickens. No professional judgement was allowed to outdo the verdict of the holy chickens, and the most powerful army of the world had to stay at home if the chickens would not eat.2 This is not only a very strange and perhaps counter-intuitive rule; it also claims a competence for the diviner very much like the gross postulates we have found in ritual. The diviner who claims that he sees the prospects for a military undertaking by watching chickens is as pretentious as the ritual healer who claims to stop bleeding 1 Podemann Sørensen (1993, 2003). Cf. also Podemann Sørensen (2006). 2 Dumézil (1966 : 571–572); cf. Cic. De Div. I, 15; II, 34; Liv. X, 40.

© JØRGEN PODEMANN SØRENSEN, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_004 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / -8

AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

42

Podemann Sørensen

without any active dealing with the wound, through words and symbols alone. Just as any ritual claims efficacy for itself, the basic postulate in an act of divination is that, without really interfering with the matter in hand, this act unveils its cause, true significance, and/or prospects. We shall now examine some of the ways in which this basic postulate may be rhetorically elaborated.3 Already the stochastic procedure, the element of randomness involved in the act of divination, may thus be viewed as basic to the rhetoric of divination, since it implicitly postulates that this investigation of something unpredictable will provide the key to the true nature or the prospects of the matter in hand. For the further elaborations, however, we must consider some examples: Up to our own day, movements and groupings on the fringes of the protestant churches of northern Europe have used so-called manna-grains: small pieces of paper with printed numbers of biblical chapters and verses, e.g. Gen. 15, 6. The user draws a number from the collection and looks it up in his bible.4 The pertinent verse will then be God’s answer to the specific question the user had in mind – or God’s choice of a suitable text for to-day’s devotional reading. The biblical passage will then have to be interpreted as relevant to the user’s situation. The ritual, stochastic approach to the bible in which luck, fate or God chooses the text, makes for the relevance of the text and legitimates an interpretation at a very high level of abstraction or even an allegorical reading of the text. At least in principle, a structurally very similar procedure is used in consulting one of the world’s most famous books of divination: the Chinese classic Yijing. The book as we know it today is the product of more than two millennia of elaboration and refinement, but the elementary traits of the divination procedure and the system of divination it codifies date back as early as 1000 BC. The classical method of consulting the Yijing consists in a play with 50 yarrow stalks. According to specific rules, the diviner divides, draws, and counts these stalks in order to arrive at numerical combinations that will generate either an unbroken or a broken line in a hexagram. To obtain a hexagram, the experiment must be carried out six times. Each of the 64 hexagrams has a chapter in the Yijing. When the problem or the question has been carefully stated, the diviner takes his 50 yarrow stalks, returns one to its case and quickly divides the remaining 49 into two heaps. Removing one stick from the left heap, he puts 3 For surveys of divinatory systems worldwide, cf. Loewe & Blacker (1981), Caquot & Leibovici (1968); Africa: Peek (1991); the ancient world: Johnston (2004: 370–391); Johnston & Struck (2005); Annus (2010). Recent cross-cultural approaches: Raphals (2013); Curry (2016); Roth (2018). 4 On manna-grains in Denmark, cf. Balle-Petersen (1982). Today, it is possible to draw mannagrains on the internet: http://www.hapasu.dk/mannakorn/mannakorn.htm. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

43

it between the fingers of his left hand and goes on to remove stalks from the left heap, 4 by 4, until 4 or less are left. This remainder of the left heap he puts between the fingers of his left hand and repeats the same procedure with the right heap. The entire content of the left hand (either 5 or 9 stalks) is then put aside in a new heap, and the whole procedure is repeated twice with the remaining stalks (40 or 44 stalks); both of the resulting two heaps will be 4 or 8 stalks. In this way, three ‘left hand’ heaps (5 or 9 + 4 or 8 +4 or 8) are the outcome of three experiments. The numerical combination created by the number of sticks in each of the three heaps will then generate the bottom line in a hexagram; e.g. 9+8+4 will generate an unbroken yang-line, while 5+8+4 will result in a broken yin-line. In order to obtain a full hexagram, the procedure must be repeated 6 times. It looks rather complicated in a description, but the skilled diviner is able to perform it quickly and elegantly. Of particular significance are the combinations 5+4+4 (conventionally called “nine”) and 9+8+8 (conventionally called “six”). “Nine” will generate what is called an old yang-line, while “six” will produce an old yin-line. Traditional Chinese cosmology regards the world as a constant process of generation and regeneration, in which everything is on its way to be completely reversed. Accordingly, an “old” line is a line which is close to regeneration and reversal. Young lines in a hexagram have their straightforward meanings, but an old yang line must be interpreted as close to becoming a yin-line and vice versa. In interpreting it, the diviner may refer to the hexagram that would have ensued if the yang-line had been a yin-line. The text of each chapter of the Yijing has a general proverbial interpretation of the hexagram. Then follows a section indicating the modifications caused by “old” lines. An example may give an idea of the chapters and the way they may be used. The hexagrams were originally often interpreted as images. Thus no, 50, Ding, is interpreted as a sacrificial vessel, probably one of the huge, square bronze vessels on four legs (Houmowu ding). A “six” in the bottom line will imply that the broken line (the legs of the vessel) is in the process of becoming an unbroken yang line. This in turn may be interpreted as the sacrificial vessel turned upside down, either in a destructive act of sacrilege or in the more positive act of ridding it of decaying remnants of meat. The pertinent text of the chapter runs like this: Initial Six: The cauldron’s upturned legs; Beneficial [to expel] the bad; Getting a consort together with her son; There is no trouble. transl. Shaughnessy (1996: 149)

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

44

Podemann Sørensen

Overturning an important piece of sacrificial equipment might seem rather provocative, but the obvious proverbial sense is that there are times and situations, in which this overturning is exactly the right thing to do. The additional proverb confirms this generalizing interpretation: To take a concubine might seem a voluptuous extravagance, but when it is done with a view to getting an heir it is perfectly legitimate and commendable. As a basis for decisions, both proverbs favour the idea that one should do what is truly necessary and constructive, disregarding superficial indignation. Still another possible source of meaning in interpreting the Yijing is the fact that all 64 hexagrams are combinations of two out of 8 possible trigrams. The trigrams make up a complete cosmology or a system of classification; they denote heaven and earth, fire and water, the corners of the world, family relations etc. etc. Hexagram no. 50 may thus be read as fire over wood. Combined with the interpretation as a sacrificial vessel, this points to the important and pious activity of cooking meat for sacrifice. The pious and wise man who sacrifices is also morally a model of good behaviour, and on that basis the skilled diviner may phrase a lot of pertinent admonitions concerning the problem at hand.5 It is obvious that the complicated procedure employed to arrive at a hexagram and probably the hexagram itself as an enigmatic, non-linguistic sign make for a good deal of basic divinatory rhetoric. To the specialist it may all become routine – although probably never an entirely conspicuous routine. But the person who consults the specialist and his book will certainly experience an act of gradual unveiling: From stochastic procedures through calculations to a non-linguistic and non-pictorial sign, the hexagram, which is then nevertheless somehow interpreted as a picture or symbol and thus changed into linguistic signs. These linguistic signs, i.e. the texts of the chapters, may thus be seen as further elaborations of the rhetoric involved in the divinatory procedure. The final divinatory result, however, is reached in an interpretation of proverbial and exemplar texts in the context of the problem stated at the outset. As we have seen in the case of the manna-grains, the interpretation has authority because it is based on sacred scripture, but also because the particular text it interprets is the choice of chance, fate, or ‘change’, i.e. the eternal, regenerative rhythm of nature in Chinese dynamic cosmology, or God. The point in common is that the exemplar text is not the choice of the diviner, but a matter of agencies beyond human control. While the manna-grains refer to 5 For the classical Yijing divination procedure, I rely on the instructive survey in Blofeld (1969: 59–78).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

45

a text also taken to be normative in other contexts, namely the bible, the text of Yijing is only designed for use in the context of divination. In this respect, Yijing divination is more like the divinatory systems we know from West Africa. The difference is, however, not necessarily a fundamental one; both the Yijing and West African divinatory lore are rich in proverbs, rules of conduct, and exemplar narratives. In West Africa, a divination system very similar to the Yijing has survived till today as oral tradition among the Yoruba, who call it Ifa, and the Fon, who call it Fa.6 In both languages, this word has three meanings: An abstract idea of fate, a god, and the kind of divination we shall now describe. The Fa or Ifa specialist, the bokonon of the Fon and the babalawo of the Yoruba, is consulted in many different matters: at the beginning of planting and harvest, when new land is brought under cultivation, in fact at the beginning of any important undertaking. This form of divination is also used in order to decide whether land should be abandoned or sacrifices made to secure a better outcome, or whether old or new customs should be followed. Most often, however, the decision made is about some sacrifice that the client must carry out in order to succeed in the matter in hand. In its main lines, the procedure is as follows: The diviner takes 16 palm nuts in his right hand; still holding the nuts he places his right hand on the palm of his left hand and loosens his grip a little. One or two nuts will fall out; if one, he will note this with two lines in a tray with sand; if two, he will draw only one line. This experiment is made 8 times and produces what might have been called an octogram. Like the Chinese hexagram, it is a non-linguistic, non-pictorial sign, consisting of 8 entities as shown below: I II I II

II II I I

It is important to notice that two palm nuts generate one stroke, while one nut produces two, as if to avoid any pictorial or linguistic character in the octogram. Both in the Yijing and in Ifa-divination, this non-linguistic, nonpictorial intermediate between the act and the text is an important element in the rhetoric of unveiling. It makes for a continuous process of metamorphosis of the sign from the first experiment to the linguistic level in the text and its 6 Yoruba, cf. Bascom (1969); Olupona & Abiodun (2016); other Nigerian systems, cf. Danfulani (1995); Fon, Cf. Herskovits & Herskovits (1933: 51–56); Herskovits (1938: II, 201–236).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

46

Podemann Sørensen

interpretation. To each of the 256 possible octograms of the Ifa-system corresponds a set of texts, which the diviner knows by heart. Unlike the Yijing, these texts are exemplar narratives, often myths, in which a person seeks divination, receives instructions for sacrifice, carries them out and succeeds in his plans or has unexpected luck. In this way the odu, the recited text, prescribes also the sacrifices to be made by the client. Among the Fon of Dahomey (now Benin) it is possible to show the intimate bonds between divination and worldview.7 Fa is an irresistible fate, laid down from the very beginning as the foundation of the world by the creator god Mawu. In the words of a bokonon: “Fa is the writing of Mawu” (Herskovits 1938: II, 201), i.e. the fixed destiny of everything and everyone. This rather stern belief in fate and predestination is balanced by the idea of Legba the trickster, the youngest and the most spoilt child of Mawu. Legba serves as a mediator between Mawu and the world and between men and Fa. Along with this important position, however, he is very much of an outlaw who may turn everything upside down, even in the relation between men and Fa (Herskovits 1938: II, 203). A more thorough comparison of the systems of divination described till now is bound to reveal a number of differences. Is it possible at all to think of anything more different than 16 palm nuts, 50 yarrow stalks and lots of small pieces of paper? Or the vertical lines in the sand of a West African diviner’s tray, the horizontal lines of the hexagrams, and the printed letters and numbers of manna-grains? Or, take the texts, to which these lines and numbers refer: African myths of animals, gods and humans, extremely abstract Chinese sayings, and biblical narratives, admonitions, and sermons? But to list the differences is also to uncover the structural similarity: There is an experiment, in all three instances a kind of stochastic procedure. The outcome of this experiment is a line or number code that refers to an exemplar text, i.e. a text to be used as a model or at least as a point of departure for the decision concerning the matter in hand. Because this text has been produced or identified through the experiment, it is taken to be relevant and valid in the situation of the client. It may, accordingly, be interpreted ad hoc, i.e. as addressing the issue at hand. These considerations already imply a model for the analysis of divination as a process, a model that may serve as our professional checklist in the study of any future system of divination. As production and interpretation of signs, divination involves a process of metamorphosis, in which the sign originally produced or observed is transformed into authoritative and useful speech. To this process belong 7 Cf. Herskovits & Herskovits (1933: 51–55).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

47

1) an act of experiment or observation, 2) an exemplar text, and 3) an interpretation of this text as applied to the particular case. The act produces the text or some key to identify it in a book or a body of oral tradition, and the text provides the key to the true understanding or prospects of the particular case. Accordingly, the text must somehow be privileged, authoritative speech, and the rhetoric we are searching for will be a rhetoric that serves to establish such an authority for the text. Elements of rhetoric, or elements that situate the text as authoritative, may be found in the text itself and/or in the act that produced it. We may thus conceive of our investigation as (1) the rhetoric of the act and (2) the rhetoric of the text. Since the continuity of the process – from the production of the original sign, through its metamorphosis, to its final interpretation and application to the case in hand – is an indispensable part of divinatory rhetoric, we should also consider (3) the rhetoric of interpretation. But before engaging more closely into a discussion of these three points, we should consider two further, slightly more complex forms of divination. As we shall see, this will serve not only to test the model outlined above, but also to deepen our understanding of the subtle ways in which rhetorical continuity between its three levels may be established. 1

The Delphic Oracle

In the world of classical antiquity, if ever there was a truly privileged situation of speech, it must have been that of Pythia on her tripod in the adyton of Apollo’s temple in Delphi, predicting – and thereby producing – the future. Greek literature is full of evidence of the high reputation of this oracle, also in neighbouring countries. But how exactly is the ritual setting of this authoritative position to be understood? Obviously, the oracular procedure had something of the critical and dangerous character often found in ritual; to consult the oracle, a preliminary sacrifice was necessary. When the libation was poured over the lamb, it would quiver to indicate that the oracle was ready for consultation. Plutarch, who was a priest at Delphi, reports that once when the lamb had been forced to give its consent by excessive amounts of water, Pythia was struck with a dangerous rage, threw herself down, and died a few days later.8 After the initial sacrifice of the lamb, Pythia would take her seat in the adyton of the temple in order to give oracles. We understand from paintings and texts that her seat was on a high tripod. The clients would wait for their answer 8 Plutarch, Moralia 438 B–C.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

48

Podemann Sørensen

in a place very close to the adyton, and they would probably be able to hear what Pythia said and perhaps even to see her. It is not known how the question was put before the oracle, and although quite a number of more or less authentic answers are known, we cannot claim to know precisely how the answer was delivered. It has been suggested that Pythia gave the answers in a state of ecstasy or trance; this is certainly conceivable, even though neither gasses from the earth, of which some sources make mention, nor the laurel leaves she perhaps chewed, are likely to have produced such an altered state of consciousness. It has also been suggested that Pythia uttered incomprehensible sounds, which were then rendered into human speech by oracular personnel, originally in verse, but later, according to Plutarch (Moralia V, 394 D ff.) in prose. On the basis of the extant sources, it is perfectly possible to assume that Pythia did herself deliver the answer, in verse or prose.9 The – more or less authentic – oracular responses that have been recorded leave the impression that the wording of such an oracle had to be interpreted in view of the client’s situation. As is well known, the oracles of antiquity were generally thought to give obscure or ambiguous answers, the true meaning of which would often be unveiled only through later events. Most probably, this reflects that the answers were exemplar texts, useful only when confronted with the matter in hand and interpreted ad hoc. These basic considerations of a few generally acknowledged facts allow the conclusion that the divinatory process in Delphi may be understood in terms of the model we have established: The act of divination consists in Pythia taking her seat as Apollo’s mouthpiece on the tripod in the adyton of the temple. This act produces an exemplar text: the more or less obscure oracular answer, which becomes useful only in an interpretation ad hoc. In order to understand the logic – and the rhetoric – in this divinatory process, we must, however, consider more closely the mythology of the oracle. The Greek myth of Apollo who kills the giant snake Python is, like other Greek myths, extant in a number of different versions. In the mythographic Bibliotheca traditionally ascribed to Apollodorus (first century CE) we are told that Apollo, while he was Pan’s apprentice in mantics, once came to Delphi. At that time Themis gave oracles at Delphi, and the very seat of oracles was that chasma tēs gēs, ‘earth-opening’ also mentioned in other sources, guarded by a snake called Pytho. Apollo killed the snake and took possession of the oracle.10 Hyginus (second century CE) regards Pytho, a giant dragon, as the original 9 10

Maurizio (1995: 69–86). A general survey of sources and opinions concerning the oracular procedure: Parke & Wormell (1956: I, 17–45); Rosenberger (2001: 48–64). Apollodorus, Bibliotheca I, 4, 1.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

49

possessor of the oracle. Python had pursued Apollo’s mother Leto, because of a prophecy that a son of her would become his fate. On the fourth day after his birth, Apollo hastens to Delphi and kills Python in revenge for his mother’s sufferings. He collects the bones of the dragon and keeps them in a receptacle in his temple (Hyginus, Fabula 140). It is, however, the oldest version of the myth, that of the Homeric hymn to Apollo (seventh century BCE), that shows how the killing of the dragon is relevant for the oracle. It narrates how Apollo, looking for a suitable place for his oracle, arrives at Delphi and founds his temple there: But near by was a sweet flowing spring, and there with his strong bow the lord, the son of Zeus, killed the bloated, great she-dragon, a fierce monster wont to do great mischief to men upon earth, to men themselves and to their thin-shanked sheep; for she was a very bloody plague. HH ad Apoll. Pyth. 299–303; transl. Hugh G. Evelyn-White

At this point the myth of Hera who brings her titanic offspring, Typhaon, to the dragon “pairing evil with evil”, is told. The myth then goes on to relate how Apollo killed Python: Whosoever met the dragoness, the day of doom would sweep him away, until the lord Apollo, who deals death from afar, shot a strong arrow at her. Then she, rent with bitter pangs, lay drawing great gasps for breath and rolling about that place. [360] An awful noise swelled up unspeakable as she writhed continually this way and that amid the wood: and so she left her life, breathing it forth in blood. Then Phoebus Apollo boasted over her: “Now rot (pythein) here upon the soil that feeds man! You at least shall live no more to be a fell bane to men [365] who eat the fruit of the allnourishing earth, and who will bring hither perfect hecatombs. Against cruel death neither Typhoeus shall avail you nor ill-famed Chimera, but here shall the Earth and shining Hyperion make you rot (pythein)”. HH ad Apoll. Pyth. 354–367; transl. Hugh G. Evelyn-White

In the Homeric Hymn, Python appears as a proper chaotic being, and the deed of Apollo is exclusively presented as an act that liberates men from a terrible threat, inimical to life and society. In his speech to the dying monster, the first and the last emphasis is on the snake rotting away on the soil. This point is obviously very important, for it is twice repeated in the lines that end the episode:

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

50

Podemann Sørensen

And the holy strength of Helios made her rot away (katapythein) there; wherefore the place is now called Pytho, and men call the lord Apollo by another name, Pythian; because on that spot the power of piercing Helios made the monster rot (pythein) away. HH ad Apoll. Pyth. 369–372; transl. Hugh G. Evelyn-White

This Pythian version of the myth has a close parallel in the Vedic Indian myth of Indra killing the giant snake Vritra (Rigveda I, 32; II, 12). Not only are they variants of the Indo-European myth of a dragon killed by a warlike god, but putrefaction has an important role in both of them. When Indra had killed Vritra, it is told, the gods rushed to the place of his deed, but Vritra was already in an advanced state of putrefaction. According to the Śatapatha Brahmana (4,1,4,10) he was not suitable for sacrifice and not for drinking. The idea of drinking Vritra makes sense only because Soma, the ritual intoxicating drink of Vedic India, is regularly identified with (or sacramentally construed as) Vritra. Thus, the squeezing of the soma plant is construed as Indra killing Vritra, and the soma drink itself is either Vritra or an outflow of Vritra. (Buschardt 1945: 117–118) In the Śatapatha Brahmana, Vayu, the god of the wind, had to vent the carcass a couple of times before Vritra or the rotten outflow of Vritra was transmuted into the tasty ritual soma drink that makes for so many blessings: religious insights, riches, immortality (cf. Rigveda 8,48). Thus, in India the valuable and important ritual substance, the soma drink, has its origin in the very monster that had to be killed in order to defeat chaos and establish the cosmos, and the process leading from original chaos to cosmic order is a matter of stench and putrefaction refined into tastiness and blessings. The structural resemblance of the two myths leaves no doubt that they were genetically related, but what was the role of smell and putrefaction in the Delphic myth? Plutarch (Moralia 438 B–C), who as a priest in Delphi must have had local knowledge, makes mention of a delightful scent sometimes felt by clients and apparently issuing from the adyton of the temple. Since, as we have already seen, the oracle did not always work, Plutarch suggests that this fragrance would be present on days when it did work, i.e. when it would be possible for Pythia to give oracular responses. In spite of his professional relations with the oracle, his interest in it as a writer is much more a matter of natural philosophy. Thus, one of the explanations he suggests is that heat or some other energy is the cause of the waxing and waning power of the oracle as well as the delightful scent. This kind of interest is typical of the late sources. Although often convinced of the extraordinary or even the supernatural powers at work in Delphi, they give priority to physical and technical explanations. Diodorus Siculus, who

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

51

wrote his work of history 60–30 BCE, gives the following account of the origin of the oracle: There is a chasm at this place where now is situated what is known as the “forbidden” sanctuary, and as goats had been wont to feed about this because Delphi had not as yet been settled, invariably any goat that approached the chasm and peered into it would leap about in an extraordinary fashion and utter a sound quite different from what it was formerly wont to emit. Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca 16, 26, 2; transl. C. H. Oldfather

That was the beginning of the Delphic oracle; soon, however, the herdsman of the goats and others discovered that mantic gifts were acquired by approaching the chasm. The rest was a matter of institutionalization: But later, since many were leaping down into the chasm under the influence of their frenzy and all disappeared, it seemed best to the dwellers in that region, in order to eliminate the risk, to station one woman there as a single prophetess for all and to have the oracles told through her. And for her a contrivance was devised which she could safely mount, then become inspired and give prophecies to those who so desired. [5] And this contrivance has three supports and hence was called a tripod … Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca 16, 26, 4–5; transl. C. H. Oldfather

Diodorus describes the origin of the oracle as a local epiphany, and the whole oracular institution, Pythia, and the tripod are seen as the practical and rational follow up of this wonder of nature. Concerning the latter, no details are given. A slightly later author, the geographer Strabo, born 63 or 64 BCE in Asia Minor, does not hesitate to provide the technical explanation: The place where the oracle is delivered, is said to be a deep hollow cavern, the entrance to which is not very wide. From it rises up an exhalation which inspires a divine frenzy: over the mouth is placed a lofty tripod on which the Pythian priestess ascends to receive the exhalation, after which she gives the prophetic response in verse or prose. The prose is adapted to measure by poets who are in the service of the temple. Strabo 9, 3, 5; transl. H. C. Hamilton, W. Falconer

This passage, by a man who admits that he has not seen what he describes, gives exactly that crucial technical detail which makes it possible to unite all

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

52

Podemann Sørensen

the pieces of information we have in a single consistent picture of the oracle. Scholars have been fascinated by the idea of intoxicating gasses issuing from a chasm and Pythia breathing those gasses and uttering oracles on her tripod over the chasm. Modern scholarship has been equally motivated to tear this coherent picture apart, especially under the impression of archaeological and geological investigations at Delphi.11 After all, Strabo’s description looks very much like a learned compilation, an attempt at drawing a coherent picture on the basis of very diverse literary sources. Such a coherent picture might, of course, be true, but the existence of any structure from which gazes or airs issued could hardly have remained unnoticed by Plutarch, who not only lived and worked for some years at Delphi, but was also, as we have seen, highly interested in this sort of explanations. This state of affairs has led some scholars12 to the conclusion that all the exciting intimations about some peculiar oracular procedure are nothing but entertaining fiction, products of a Hellenistic desire for sensations, and that the oracle was simply based on some kind of toss. Recent interdisciplinary research (involving archaeology, geology, chemistry and toxicology) has, however, re-opened the issue, and findings have suggested that geological faults in antiquity might have led (possibly intoxicating) gaseous vents (of ethylene or methane) right into the adyton of the temple where Pythia sat on the tripod.13 What is difficult to imagine is, as Sarah Johnston (2008: 49) rightly pointed out, a concentration of such gazes sufficiently powerful to intoxicate Pythia, but apparently not affecting priests and consultants, who were sitting nearby. And as we shall see, it is possible to understand the Delphic oracle and the role of Pythia entirely on a mythological basis. Concerning the chasm, Georges Roux (1971: 105 ff.) has convincingly argued that the sources do not necessarily speak of a chasm in the rock or even in the ground. The expression they use is chasma tēs gēs, which is usually translated as a fissure or an opening in the ground, may equally well be taken as an opening (in the built basis of the temple) down to the soil under the temple. Roux thinks that in addition, some cavity had been dug into the ground, but this is not what chasma denotes. Chasma tēs gēs means that in the temple, a piece 11 12 13

Cf. Holland (1933) and the precise and apparently definitive account of the question in Amandry (1950: 219–226). Notably Fontenrose (1978: 204–224). Cf. Hale et al. (2003). Full argument and documentation in Hale et al. (2001) and (2002). I am grateful to Anders Lisdorf for having drawn my attention to the work of this interdisciplinary team.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

53

of the original ground was laid bare. Rooted in the soil of that piece of ground one might imagine the laurel known from literary as well as pictorial sources. But apart from the fact that this understanding of the chasm provides a growth medium for the laurel and is not archaeologically or geologically impossible, what sense did it make to have an opening in the basis of Apollo’s temple at Delphi, in which the ground under the temple was visible? The temple is in fact built on soil – the schist is 6 m below the ground. According to the Homeric Hymn it is even built on the very soil on which the putrefaction of Pytho took place. In the passages of the hymn quoted above, this putrefaction is mentioned no less than four times, twice with soil as an essential circumstance. That soil was the pre-cosmic relic kept at Delphi, and the opening in the basis of the temple in which it was laid bare probably made up the adyton. When Pythia sat on her tripod on that primeval piece of ground, she could still breathe the air of chaos and somehow smell – perhaps in the refined form described by Plutarch – the odour of the putrefying carcass of the anti-cosmic monster. Just as Delphi was the navel of the world and kept an omphalos stone, it was also the beginning of the cosmos and kept as a relic the soil that drank the blood and the rotten outflow of the defeated chaotic monster. The Delphic pneuma pythona14 was thus entirely spiritual; it was a matter of mythology and was not in need of obscure chasms or pipelines under the temple as ancient and modern theories suggest. Admittedly, this interpretation depends very much on the parallel Vedic motif: that of the origin of Soma as a product of the putrefaction of Vritra. Just as the Soma drink, an efficacious element in ritual, originates from the chaotic monster killed by Indra, thus we imagine the efficacious element of the Delphic oracle to be derived from an analogous, putrefying monster representing the defeated chaos: Python. And just as Soma, originally an outflow of putrefying Vritra, is refined to the point of tastiness by Vayu, thus the Pythian smell is nowadays, according to Plutarch, a delightful air on the days when the oracle works. Still another parallel is the relation between putrefaction and agricultural productivity: Among the cattle-breeding Vedic Indians, the smell of cattle is the first result when Vayu blows vehemently to vent the putrefying carcass of Vritra. In the Homeric Hymn to Pythian Apollo, Python rots “upon the soil that feeds man”, i.e. virtually as fertilizer. The genetic relationship between the two Indo-European dragon-killing motifs seems beyond doubt, but although the Vedic parallel may guide our interpretation of the Delphic oracle, it will never prove it. In order to show 14

‘The Pythic Spirit’. In the New Testament (Acts 16, 16), this expression is used about mantic gifts.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

54

Podemann Sørensen

the historical relevance of this interpretation we have to argue, on the basis of Greek sources, (1) that the oracular procedure was somehow connected with Python and (2) that chaos as the source of oracles or insights made sense in a contemporary Greek context. (1) No written sources explicitly speak about Python in connection with the oracular procedure. This may be due to the fact that they were often, as we have seen, engaged in finding some technical or rational explanation. Notwithstanding the Homeric Hymn, which explicitly deals with the mythological background, all these sources are from a time that took more interest in natural philosophy than in such commonplace that a sacred place and its cult were connected with a myth. Yet we should notice that in Apollodorus, the killing of Python takes place at the oracular chasm, and that Hyginus, as already mentioned, includes information that relics of Python, viz. its bones, were kept in the temple. The latter particular at least bears witness to the idea that some sort of blessings were to be expected from the last remnants of Python. Of more decisive importance, however, is a passage in Pausanias (X, 13, 9). In his description of Greece, Pausanias deals thoroughly with the treasures and the works of art that could be seen at Delphi. Among these is a golden tripod, a gift from all Hellenes after the victory of Plataeae, “standing on a dragon of bronze”. This tripod is in fact preserved and now stands on the hippodrome in Istanbul. The three dragonheads are broken off, but one of them is preserved and exhibited at the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul.15 If we imagine Pythia on this tripod, she would be sitting above the dragon, almost carried by it. Herodotus (IX, 81) refers to this tripod as a well-known piece of temple furniture close to the altar. If we presume that it was not only widely known, but also generally understood, it follows that Python was somehow, in contemporary Greek ideas about the Delphic oracle, conceived as basic to the oracular procedure. (2) Since Python was a chaotic being, both the myth of the Homeric Hymn and the tripod just mentioned may be taken to imply that, like the cosmos, Delphic oracular answers had their origin in chaos, i.e. that chaos, or the precosmic state of the world, was somehow the source of these oracular insights. This certainly makes sense within the general framework of Greek religion, and in fact we need not travel far to show the more specific relevance of the idea of chaos to Greek oracles. Not very far from Delphi was the oracle of Trophonios. Pausanias tells the story of the hero Trophonios who ended his life when he was swallowed by the earth (Pausanias IX, 37, 3–7) and gives a reasonably thorough description of the oracular procedure (IX, 39, 4–14). The client had to descend to the narrow opening of a subterranean cave. When 15

Arkeoloji Müzesi, near Topkapi Palace.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

55

he began to enter it, with barley cakes in his hands, he would be drawn into the cave as if swallowed by the earth. In the cave there were serpents, and on the whole, it was so full of horrors that the client would usually only regain his senses and faculties after a period of intense care. In Pausanias’ description, which is allegedly based on personal experience, there is an air of the pre-cosmic and the nether-worldly, and it is hardly an exaggeration to say that in the cave of Trophonios, the client is in close contact with chaos. In various ways – some see, others hear – he obtains an answer to his question during this liminal period of what looks like an initiation. The client leaves the cave through the opening by which he entered it, with his feet first, perhaps as a symbolic rebirth following a symbolic death. The descent into Trophonios’ cave is not explicitly viewed as a descent into the Netherworld, but it may at least be said that motifs connected with death and the Netherworld are present in the description. In Greek religion, the Netherworld and the dead are well known – not least from the 11th song of the Odyssey – as sources of divinatory predictions. In a larger perspective, however, these otherworldly motifs may be viewed as signifying the creative and liminal potential beyond the world of men, i.e. as a kind of chaos. In the Theogony, Hesiod presents chaos and Netherworld as related entities. J.-P. Vernant even suggests that his description of Tartaros in 740–745 illustrates the idea of chaos. Like chaos, Tartaros is here the bottomless deep (chasma), but also the source of everything, the very point of departure for cosmogony. In his poetic thought, Hesiod does in fact unite chaos, Tartaros, and Hades (cf. 767–773). It is therefore appropriate to understand what happened in the chasma of Trophonios in a similar broad and inclusive manner. At any rate, the aspect of chaos is important, for it is the ambivalence in the idea of chaos that enables us to view and describe the rhetoric of the oracle. Chaos is the bottomless, disordered, terrifying and bewildering, yet also the beginning of everything, the unlimited potential of creation and renewal. This is why knowledge of the future must be sought in chaos. But did this idea of chaos actually have a role to play in Delphi? Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood (1990) has subjected the myths of the previous owners of the Delphic oracle, Gaia and Themis, to a methodologically updated investigation. She convincingly refutes the idea that these myths really reflect the history of the oracle. Then she demonstrates how the myth of the earlier owners may be seen as a series of variations on a theme. We might call it the dragonkilling theme, for she takes her point of departure in the killing of Python as a typical motif of foundation: a new order prevails over savage nature. When Themis takes over the oracle from Gaia, this is in fact a variation on the same theme. Gaia is closer to savage nature and to a primeval, pre-cosmic age – in

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

56

Podemann Sørensen

fact, closer to chaos – while Themis denotes the law and order of civilization. When Apollo takes over, a masculine rule supersedes the female regime, which to the Greeks seemed closer to Gaia and savage nature. Thus understood, the myth of the previous owners is not a historical explanation of the female priestly office of Pythia (as a survival from the time of Gaia or Themis); it is an expression of the basic tension between the Apollonian, civilizing purpose of the oracle and the ecstasy of Pythia, which is closer to Gaia and savagery. There is much more in the perspicacious analysis of Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, but it is already evident that the dialectic and dynamic tension between chaos and cosmos is the fundamental theme of the myth. Accordingly, savage nature or chaos is a constituent idea in the rhetoric of the oracle. The role of chaos, however, was not limited to this mythological classification of Pythia’s ecstasy. When Pythia sat on her tripod with its dragon feet planted in the soil of the adyton she was, besides being at the navel of the earth, in close contact with the fertile soil in which the putrefaction of Python took place. In the Delphian chasma, she could smell the rich odour of chaos, she was at the very beginning of things and thus in a position to utter oracles that shaped the future. Like every ritual person, she was at the turning point, where things were reduced to their potentiality, and where a future could be produced. The Delphic oracle was not only the most famous divinatory institution of all antiquity; it is also by far the most intensely debated one. We have seen, however, that a consistently rhetorical approach makes it possible to perceive a ritual logic behind the different statements of the sources. We shall presently see that, understood in this way, the Delphic oracle is also a showcase of the continuity of the divinatory process from the not-yet-sign to the linguistic sign claiming relevance to the case in hand. 2

Tarot

A modern, perhaps even postmodern, form of divination is the Tarot. Originally, Tarot denotes a peculiar kind of playing cards with many trumps (Italian tarocchi, hence through French Tarot). Decks of tarot cards are known as early as the fifteenth century, but the idea of using them for divination is hardly older than the eighteenth century. The Tarot divination of today, the aesthetic elaboration of the cards as well as the esoteric meanings attached to them, is, to a very large degree, a product of the London based organization or ‘Hermetic order’ that called itself The Golden Dawn. Two prominent members of this order, Aleister Crowley (1875–1947)

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

57

and Arthur Edward Waite (1857–1942) each designed a deck of cards. The cards of Waite, which are the most widely used, were drawn by Pamela Colman Smith in 1909 and edited in the same year. Crowley’s cards were contemporary in origin, but were only edited as cards after the death of their artist, Frieda Harris, in 1962. They served, however, as illustrations in Crowley’s The Book of Thoth from 1944. Crowley’s contribution to the living Tarot tradition is not so much these cards as his systematization of their references to the sefirot of the Jewish Kabbalah, the Hebrew alphabet, and the classifications of alchemy and astrology. During the first half of the twentieth century, the Tarot system thus assumed a universality and developed a supply of parameters of interpretation that may seem almost post-modern. It is hardly just to credit any single person with this; and besides, both Crowley and Waite write in a style that veils their own creativity and original contributions in dark embroideries. In almost everything they have written, they interpret and utilize secret and inaccessible manuscripts and traditions, of which it is difficult to ascertain the provenience or even the existence or non-existence. As an element in the rhetoric of the Tarot, this way of writing is interesting in itself, and in this chapter, no attempt will be made to write the history of the Tarot or of The Golden Dawn. In what follows, all references to the Tarot are to the Waite cards and to current modern rules for their use in divination. A deck of Tarot cards has 22 trumps which are also called arcana maiora, ‘the greater secrets’. The rest of the 78 cards, the arcana minora, ‘the lesser secrets’, belongs to one of 4 colours: wands, cups, swords, and pentacles. Compared with ordinary playing cards, these colours correspond to clubs, hearts, spades, and diamonds, respectively. Each of the 4 colours has 4 court cards: knight, queen, king and page, and the 10 cards from Ace ( = I) to X. All cards have pictures, e.g. X wands shows a man carrying 10 wooden sticks, and VI pentacles shows 6 big pentacle coins at the upper edge, but the main motif is a man giving 6 small coins to a beggar. The meaning and the divinatory value of each card depend on the picture, which will often appeal to imagination and fantasy, and on the traditions attached to the card. Typically, the latter will be looked up in a handbook. With a deck of cards there follows usually a thin booklet with just a few key words to guide the interpretation of each card. The larger handbooks survey the corresponding cosmological, theological, alchemical, astrological, and psychological systems and the significance of each card in these systems. The cards are, however, never interpreted in isolation. In the act of divination, the cards are shuffled and put down in certain patterns. They may be shuffled in such a

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

58

Podemann Sørensen

way that some of the cards are turned upside down and thus acquire a different meaning. As a rule, a card is first chosen to represent the client, e.g. “The Empress”, if the client is a dignified lady. This card is called the significator. One of the simplest ways of putting down the cards is called “the ten-card spread” or “the Celtic method”: The significator is put with its picture turned up. The 10 cards are taken straightaway from the shuffled heap and then put with their pictures turned up in the following pattern: 1) On the significator: Denotes that which “covers” the client, i.e. his situation. 2) Crossing 1) and the significator: What meets the client or stands in his way. 3) Above the significator: What crowns the client, i.e. the goal of his striving. 4) Under the significator: The basis of the problem at hand. 5) Behind the significator (i.e. to the right): The background or earlier situation of the client. 6) In front of the significator (i. e. to the left): Influences in the immediate future. 7) The client, especially her or his attitude in the situation at hand. 8) The “house” of the client, i.e. immediate environment and social situation. 9) Latent hopes and fears, especially repressed feelings and wishes, anxiety. 10) The final result. In this position, the diviner will need a card that may be understood as expressing a future for the client, which is caused by the influences traced in cards 1–9.16 In this way, each card is read and understood as part of a whole, which must make sense as situations and influences entailing a prediction. The interpretation of the cards is a hermeneutic task, in which the diviner’s understanding of each part and the whole must constantly be adjusted to each other, and in which every single part serves to limit the possibilities of interpretation. Even with the comparatively simple “Celtic method”, Tarot divination is a demanding task. Other patterns have the cards arranged in a circle around the significator, e.g. with 12 cards representing the astrological “houses” or with 7 cards representing sun, moon and five planets, corresponding to the seven days of the week. Most complicated and advanced are probably those patterns that refer to the Jewish Kabbalah and have the cards arranged to represent the 10 sefirot of the so-called tree of life. 16

The book market as well as the internet abound in Tarot handbooks. A classic still in use (and available on www.sacred-texts.com) is Waite (1911). The present account is based on the well informed and carefully elaborated book by K. Frank Jensen (1980).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

59

Confronted with our simple three-stage-model for the analysis of divination as a process, Tarot divination shows certain complications or, to put it the positive way, elaborations. The act of divination conspicuously consists in shuffling the cards and drawing one after one for distribution in a prescribed pattern. The ad-hoc interpretation is also easily imagined, but where is the exemplar text? That which is interpreted ad hoc is a combination of a picture with names and numbers in a pattern, but in the interpretation also text from a handbook is taken into consideration. We are left free to consider the pictures as text or as the non-linguistic intermediary between the act and the text, very much like hexagrams and octograms. They may obviously play both roles: The diviner may attach great importance to interpreting the picture in itself, or only use it as a link with the text. 3

The Authorizing Rhetoric

We have already suggested that the rhetoric of divination, i.e. the religious expressions that substantiate the authority of divinatory decisions and make for their basis in local cosmology, may be attached to the act of divination and to the exemplar text. At the most basic level, any form of divination implies both a cosmology and a religious authority. For if it is taken to be possible that an investigation of something fortuitous or random will provide indications for use in quite different areas of life, some order of coherence in the world is already presumed. In this most elementary sense, divination is utilization of cosmology, and the act of divination already implies the postulate of possessing a key to cosmological correspondences that are normally hidden. Very much as the ritual formula already mentioned: “I command you not to run any more!” implies the postulate of being able to stop a wound bleeding, but has no further situating elements to make this implicit religious authority plausible, thus any act of divination implies religious authority. In the following pages, we shall, on the bases of the examples we have already dealt with, attempt to account for such further situating elements, i.e. expressions that substantiate the basic divinatory postulate: this act unveils the hidden and shows the true nature and prospects of the matter in hand. 4

The Rhetoric of the Act

The stochastic or fortuitous element in the act of divination is already in itself a powerful rhetorical device. In the case of manna-grains, this element alone

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

60

Podemann Sørensen

guarantees the relevance of the biblical text in the situation at hand. In the historical contexts, in which manna-grains have been used in divination, it is reasonable to imagine that the stochastic choice of a biblical text was somehow taken to be God’s choice of a text to suit the situation. But no such ideas found further expression in the act. As for the Yijing, the stochastic method is likewise the constituent rhetorical device in the act. In fact, different stochastic procedures (e.g. with coins) may be used, but the traditional method with 50 yarrow stalks serves to substantiate and dramatize the stochastic element. For every line in a hexagram, chance, God, or dao is thrice given free scope, viz. the three times the heap of yarrow stalks is divided into two. Everything else is rule-bound and (mathematically) predictable. But between these three properly stochastic decisions and the resulting line there are so many operations and calculations, that one might safely speak of a dramatization of a decision taken without human interference. The trained user of the Yijing is of course able to carry out all these operations elegantly and with perfect ease, but for the client the act of divination appears as one long demonstration of a decision coming into existence without human intervention. The diviner acts without action. The idea of non-action or non-intervention (wu wei) is old in China.17 The Daodejing has the famous passage about non-action or non-doing as a means to secure that nothing is left undone (wu wei ze wu buwei, Chapter 48). But also Confucian literature has the idea that the wise rulers of the past ruled through wu wei, i.e. through non-intervention. Perhaps wu wei, a key idea in Daoism, originally denoted the wonderful way in which ritual creates order without interfering with the matter to be ordered. (Podemann Sørensen 2003: 153–155). Of decisive importance, however, is the fact that the traditional act of divination with the Yijing represents the metamorphosis of the experiment into a linguistic sign by almost insensible degrees, in a kind of ritual slow-motion. At the stage of transition to the linguistic sign, the exemplar text, we find the hexagram, a peculiar non-linguistic, non-pictorial sign, which is never the less to some degree interpreted as a picture. This interpretation or substantiation of the sign then makes up the linguistic sign, the exemplar text, which is to be confronted with the matter in hand. It is remarkable, that the act of divination may entail young or old, i.e. mutable lines. In this way a very characteristic feature of traditional Chinese cosmology is embedded in the process: The world is not viewed as 17

On wu wei in general, cf. Fung Yu-lan (1952: I 330–335); Needham (1956: II, 562–563 and 576–578); as the way the Yijing works: Schwartz (1985: 396); cf. especially the so-called ’Great Appendix’ to the Yijing (Appendix III, Section I, § 62 in Legge (1899), transl. Shaughnessy (1996: 197).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

61

static, but as dynamic change (yi, from which Yijing has its name, or hua, ‘metamorphosis’). The process of divination is itself a metamorphosis, ritually coordinated with the regenerative dynamics of nature, in which everything is on its way to change into its opposite. In Yijing divination, drawing lots is not just an expedient in decision-making; rhetorically, it is a ritual and processual adaptation to the eternal change in nature and cosmos. Although Fa-divination in Dahomey is known only through oral tradition, we are well informed about Dahomean ideas concerning the act of divination and its relations with cosmology. Some of the narratives collected by Frances and Melville Herskovits in Dahomey in 193818 have Fa divination as their main subject. In these narratives, the role and position of divination in mythology and cosmology finds salient expression. Some of them deal with the origin of divination: Two of them (DN 22 and 23), describe divination as mythologically founded, while one (DN 24) appears as a historical account of how Fa was learned and imported from the neighbouring Yoruba in the time of king Agadja (1708–75). In one of the mythological narratives (DN 22), divination or Fa is represented as a hermaphrodite deity called Gbadu, created by the likewise bi-sexual creator god Mawu or Mawu-Lisa, after the gods in charge of the three realms of earth, sky, and sea have come into being. The division of the world in three realms has parallels in other West African cultures, but seems elaborated with radical consequence in Dahomey. Every realm has its pantheon – with its specialized priesthood. Each of the realms has its own language, and they are unable to communicate; it is even said that the priesthoods insist on their specialization and refuse to interfere with each other’s spheres of interest. These difficulties in communication are the mythological raison d’être of Fa-divination. Gbadu has 16 eyes and is seated in a palm tree in order to watch the three realms. When she has slept, Legba has to open her eyes. If she wants two eyes opened, she will give one palm nut to Legba. If she wants one eye opened, she gives him two. The roles of Legba and Gbadu in this text reflect Mawu’s character of a deus otiosus, who governs the world indirectly, without really getting in touch with it. Not only do the three realms speak three different languages, but none of them understands the language of Mawu. Only Legba understands all languages and therefore has to work as a mediator and a messenger between the three realms and Mawu. According to the wish of Mawu, Gbadu is installed as still another intermediate link, and an understanding of the language of Mawu is given to some people on earth. To Gbadu is entrusted the keys to the future, which is a house with 16 doors, corresponding to Gbadu’s 16 eyes. Through the divinatory 18

Published in Herskovits & Herskovits (1958), henceforth referred to as DN no.).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

62

Podemann Sørensen

technique with the 16 palm nuts, men are able to open Gbadu’s Eyes, i.e. the doors of the house of the future, and in this way, they may perceive their fate. The number 16 connects the act of divination with Gbadu, who is the intermediate link between the three realms and Mawu and the link to the house of the future with the provisions of Mawu. Another narrative (DN 24) makes a similar point in speaking of Mawu’s 16 “secretaries”. As for the cosmological role given to Fa, i.e. to divination, in these mythological narratives, it is important to notice that Fa (Gbadu) and Legba, as we have seen, make up an intermediary link between Mawu and the world and thus replace more direct forms of government or intervention. (Herskovits & Herskovits 1958: 173–174) It should also be observed that the task and function of Fa is to bring order. Thus, Gbadu is installed in her divinatory office after Legba has told Mawu, that the three realms are in peril of dissolving, because they do not understand Mawu’s language. Men do not know how to behave, the water of the sea does not know its proper place, and rain does not know how to fall (DN 22). Gbadu as an intermediate link and divination as the key to Mawu’s provisions are the solution of these problems. In a similar manner, another narrative (DN 23) describes how Fa originally came to men in a situation, in which there was not yet any “medicine” and no worship took place, i.e. in a primeval situation without a regulated religious life. Fa brings the necessary regulation and settles the rules of religious conduct for each single person. Through the knowledge of his personal Fa or kpoli, each individual is aware of what to eat, what to do and what to avoid (DN 23, Herskovits & Herskovits 1958: 177). This broad mythological elaboration is no doubt of primary importance in the rhetoric of the act of Fa-divination. Above all the sacramental construction of the 16 palm nuts as the eyes of Gbadu, which correspond in turn to the doors of the house of future, makes up a conspicuously ritual rhetoric. It is also important to notice as part of this rhetoric, that the experiment, exactly as in the case of the Yijing, entails a non-linguistic and non-pictorial sign, which we have called the octogram. In that metamorphosis of the sign, which leads from the experiment to the linguistic sign, i.e. the exemplar text, the octogram is a constituent intermediary link; the act of divination insists on its non-linguistic character by avoiding numerical correspondence between palm nuts and lines: if two palm nuts are released, one line is drawn in the octogram, and vice versa. The Delphic oracle was, as we have already demonstrated, as thoroughly founded in mythology as Dahomean Fa. In the act of divination, Pythia was sitting on a tripod with mythological figures, in close contact with primeval chaos and thus with the beginning of everything. The critical and decisive character of the moment was emphasized by the preceding, ominous sacrifice. In this

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

63

situation she was able to utter privileged speech that decided the future. The rhetoric of the act consists of ritually situating elements of well-known types. If Pythia, as some have suggested, spoke in a state of ecstasy or trance, this would only add to the rhetorical privileges of her speech. As for the Tarot, the act of divination consists in shuffling the cards and putting them down in predefined positions, as a rule related to a significator card representing the client. The stochastic element in this procedure makes up the basic, authorizing rhetoric, but more or less psychologizing ideas about shuffling occur. Thus, it may be recommended that the client do the shuffling and in this way project her or his own unconscious dispositions into the act of divination. The cards with their pictures, numbers and names are very complex signs playing two roles: that of the preliminary, non-linguistic sign (corresponding to hexagrams and octograms), and that of a full exemplar text. The different patterns or methods for laying down the cards have their own rhetorical prestige, often referring to ancient or esoteric lore: Celtic, astrological, cabbalist etc., and it is a salient feature of the Tarot that it tends to absorb any traditional authority that comes its way. E.g. Crowley’s deck of cards was called “the Tarot of the Egyptians”.19 On the whole, decks of Tarot cards and manuals in Tarot divination appear very much as participating in age-old, beneficial secrets. 5

The Rhetoric of the Text

The exemplar text is already privileged speech because it was produced or selected by the act. But most often, it holds authority in itself. This is obviously the case in the various types of biblical divination, where the act is nothing but a stochastic procedure to select a biblical text for the occasion. To those circles in which manna-grains are in use, the authority of the bible as the word of God is usually beyond question, and the very idea of the bible as a canon suggests 19

The subtitle of Crowley’s The Book of Thoth (The Equinox vol. III, No. V, 1944, repr. Crowley (2002)), is A short essay on the Tarot of the Egyptians. Considering this subtitle, references to ancient Egyptian tradition are very few in the book, and it never wholeheartedly argues that the Tarot was invented by ancient Egyptians. On the contrary, the author thinks the whole question of origin quite irrelevant, “even if it were certain” (2002:10). According to Crowley, the true merits of the Tarot are to be found in its systematic properties, which in turn may be identified by considering it a pictorial representation of doctrines of the Kabbalah. In this way, although he abstains from any pseudepigraphic claims to a certain origin, Crowley nevertheless manages to mobilise an impressive amount of ancient and esoteric lore.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

64

Podemann Sørensen

that, in some religious sense, the world is not broader or deeper than foreseen in the biblical text. The sacred book is seen as the universal key to the world, and future events pre-exist, as it were, in its text. Even if these basic ideas are not explicit among the users of manna-grains, we may safely say that in biblical divination, the divinatory decision is situated intertextually, i.e. it stands as a variation on a text that already goes as privileged speech. What divination does is to produce new privileged speech by bringing traditional privileged speech to bear on the situation of the client. Somewhat different are those forms of divination that have created their own literature. The great esteem in which the Yijing is held and the highly ritualized way in which it is approached with incense and gestures of reverence might suffice to account for the rhetorical power of its text. In our comparative investigation, however, it will be far more satisfactory if we are able to point out situating elements, or at least elements that make for the position of divination within a cosmology, in the text itself. And in fact, we have already noticed how the text and the commentaries move from cosmic and ritual constellations to that moral order, in which consultation takes place. The Yijing thus implicitly asserts some version of what has been called ‘correlative cosmology’, a fundamental feature in Chinese thinking, unfolded most explicitly in the socalled yin-yang-school (200 BCE–1000 CE).20 The divinatory decision stands as a substantiation of universal cosmic constellations that change all the time (Yijing: The Book of Change) and thereby correlatively influence the matter in hand and the situation of the client at any given moment. Such a substantiating reading of cosmic influences is in itself privileged speech. It should also be taken into consideration that the Yijing is held in a peculiar, abstract style, which bears some resemblance with that of another Chinese classic, the Daodejing. Abstract words and proverbial phrases dominate this style, and it might be said that both classics follow the rule of Daodejing, chapter 64: “Deal with things in their state of not yet being” (transl. Waley 1968: 221). They are full of words, phrases and sentences that do not yet mean anything distinct and are not yet statements about some subject matter, but only matrices of possible distinct meanings. A proverb is a case reduced to its mere logic and therefore exemplar of all similar cases. The Russian paremiologist G. L. Permjakov (1984a, 255; cf. 1984b) has aptly characterized proverbs or paremia as both signs and models; they denote, but also provide models of or for some distinct situation or relation in real life. As for the two Chinese classics, 20

Cf. Schwartz (1985: 350–382), also suggesting the concept of ‘correlative anthropocosmology’.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

65

their proverbial passages become signs only when confronting the world outside; for the Yijing, this happens in the process of divinatory substantiation. In their context-free not-yet-meaning, its abstract, proverbial statements express the potential that the book possesses as well as the dynamics of the divinatory process in which an experiment generates a not yet linguistic sign which in turn generates a linguistic not-yet-sign, that only through the ad hoc interpretation, i.e. through confrontation with the realities of the world outside, becomes a substantial, useful sign. The commentaries added through 2000 years derive their authority from the basic, proverbial texts, but also add to the authority of the proverbs by demonstrating their cosmological validity. In the case of Ifa divination, the texts are myths or exemplar stories about the first (and therefore exemplar) case of this octogram being cast for a person. In Dahomey, Fa is even called the origin of all the stories of the world and the origin of sacrifice (DN 24). The very comprehensive treasure of narratives used as exemplar texts in divination, usually prescribe a sacrifice to be made in order to succeed in the matter in hand. In the mythological perspective, however, these passages express the organizing and cultivating role of Fa. When ‘all the stories of the world’ are part of the organizing activity of Fa, this is also to be understood in the light of their exemplar character. As already described, these myths and narratives make up the basis of the divinatory decision, and their exemplar authority is emphasized in the assertion that they were brought from heaven by Fa as the orders of Mawu or the writing/scripture of Mawu. The idea of heavenly and mythical archetypes of divinatory decisions is even further elaborated: Everything that happens on earth, has happened in the sky before. So Fa and Legba can advise human beings, because they themselves have discovered how to meet every possible situation in the sky. DN 24

The heavenly and mythical order, ‘the writing of Mawu’ is available on earth through that treasure of myths and narratives, which is administered by the divination. In this way divination becomes cosmology in practice in a double sense: The very experimental technique or the act of divination has its mythical exemplar, and through the experiment the text is found, and with the text also the mythical or heavenly exemplar of the situation or the problem of the client. Exemplar texts, i.e. oracular statements, from the Delphic oracle have not been preserved in large numbers, and what is worse: the authenticity of almost

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

66

Podemann Sørensen

every oracular answer that has come down to us is seriously doubted.21 Perhaps there is not among the oracular statements preserved in literary texts a single authentic one, but it is at least likely that most of the faked or tendentiously edited answers are based on some idea of what a Delphic oracular utterance would be like. Recurring features are ambiguous or puzzling answers, answers expressing a general wisdom, and answers that are not fully understood before the predicted event actually takes place. Heraclitus is probably to the point when he says that the lord of Delphi “neither speaks out nor conceals, but gives a sign”. (Fr. 93). It is hardly wrong to assume that behind the many anecdotes about ambiguous or puzzling answers was a proverbial style in the oracular statements. And it seems very likely that they were designed to exhibit continuity with the act, very much as the non-linguistic signs we have seen as intermediaries between the act and the text in Yijing and Ifa divination. Oracular statements were, admittedly, linguistic signs, but their not fully outspoken character shows continuity with the non-linguistic stage of the divination process. Let us consider a few examples: Among the most famous Delphic answers is the one reported by Herodotus (VII, 140–143). Before the Persian attack on Athens in 480 BCE, a lot of sinister predictions were obtained, but for the children of Athene, ‘the Trito-born goddess’, Pythia’s last statement made positive, if not entirely conspicuous, sense: …A Bulwark of wood at the last Zeus grants to the Trito-born goddess Sole to remain unwasted, which thee and thy children shall profit … Herodotus VIII, 141, transl. G. C. Macaulay

The somewhat enigmatic expression ‘bulwark of wood’ was taken by some as alluding to an earlier fence round the Acropolis, while others thought it meant the ships of the Athenian navy. The latter interpretation proved right, for in the battle at Salamis the Athenians and their allies won the famous victory over Xerxes. There is no reason to consider this oracular statement authentic, but in using an inscrutable wording exactly at the point where a tiny hope is to be given to the Athenians, it does probably reflect a characteristic feature of Delphic oracular statements. In fact, Herodotus’ story would be impossible if everybody knew that Pythia was always quite straightforward in her answers. Equally constructed and inauthentic – and equally instructive – is the answer which legend tells us was given to Aigeus, the king of Athens, when 21

For the evidence, cf. Parke & Wormell (1956); Fontenrose (1978); Andersen (1987).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

67

he asked the oracle for an advice against his childlessness. The oracle offered the following verses: Never release, thou best of the people, the spout of the wine skin Even though greatly it swells, until thou art well home in Athens. On his way home, Aigeus is a guest in the house of Pittheus, whom he tells about the totally impenetrable answer from the oracle. Pittheus is able to appreciate the rather straightforward advice given to Aigeus: to avoid ejaculation of his semen before he is back in the embrace of his queen. He does, however, not impart his understanding to his guest; but his beautiful daughter Aithra and a lot of wine make for the release of the spout and for enduring family bonds between the houses of Aigeus and Pittheus.22 The oracular statement so difficult to Aigeus is obviously a metaphor for what was meant. Just as ‘the bulwark of wood’ it is also a riddle that has to be guessed, and just as the proverbial statements of the Yijing, the oracular answer is a model and not yet a sign. It becomes a sign only when confronted with reality, and this was where Pittheus and Aithra were beforehand with Aigeus. The whole story would be impossible if it was not generally known that oracular answers from Delphi were exactly like that: models, not yet signs. Rhetorically, they are paralleled not only by the proverbial phrases of the Yijing, but also by the mythical-exemplar narratives of the West African systems of divination. What proverbs, exemplar narratives, and riddles have in common, is this character of models that become signs only when interpreted to denote certain features of reality. Obviously the same goes for the biblical texts of manna-grains; like the exemplar narratives of Ifa-divination they are, of course, signs in their own right. In a divinatory sense, however, they become signs only when applied to the situation of the client. As not-yet-signs they rhetorically represent the processual dynamic of divination. As for the Tarot, we have already noticed how, in a truly postmodern way, the act accumulates traditional authority in an almost universalist manner. This cumulative rhetoric is even more apparent when we turn to the text. The exemplar text in Tarot is basically a constellation of pictures with names. The pictures as well as their names are styled to represent an ancient mythological lore and at the same time human emotions, dispositions, functions and abilities. In the arcana major, the summit of society and religion is represented by the emperor and empress, pope and high priestess. But also marginal persons 22

Apollodorus, Bibliotheca III, 208. The verses are my translation. Cf. also Johnston (2008: 52).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

68

Podemann Sørensen

like the fool, the hanged man, the hermit, the magician and the lovers, cosmic entities like the world, the sun, the moon and the stars, abstract ideas like justice, luck, strength and temperance occur as highly suggestive exemplar figures. Death, devil, and doomsday, not to forget a sphinx-drawn carriage and a tower, hit by lightning, complete the picture. The cards seem at the point of bursting with meaning. Considerable credit is, once again, given to the diviner’s spontaneous intuitions from the pictures, but usually this textual basis is extended with a manual, which describes and comments on each single card. In this way, the cards are made to refer to astrology, the Hebrew alphabet and its esoteric values, Jungian psychology, colour symbolism, alchemical stages of transmutation, and the sefirot of the Kabbalah. Guided by all – or his own selection of – these determinants of meaning, the diviner must steer his course towards the true understanding of the situation and prospects of the client. The rhetoric of the text is, however, not only this cumulative exhibition of ageold and honourable lore. It is also the mythological, generalizing character of the pictures and their names that makes for their exemplar value. Very much like figures in myth and motifs in proverbs, these picture-cards are styled as building stones of a cosmology or of a narrative not yet told. The added traditional disciplines like astrology, alchemy and Kabbalah may be regarded as extensions of this cosmological, exemplar rhetoric. 6

The Rhetoric of Interpretation

The rhetorical task faced by the diviner – or the person to whom the interpretation of the exemplar text has been entrusted – is to establish a convincing continuity between the text and the matter in hand. This may imply a considerable amount of analysis and understanding of the situation and the personality of the client – analysis and understanding of a kind that will often make convincing sense even without the divination.23 David Zeitlyn (2001) has shown on a broad ethnographic basis how divinatory text-interpretation is a process of negotiation. In some of the West-African systems dealt with above, the diviner is not supposed to know the situation or the problem of the client. But whenever the question or the situation of the client is stated as part of the act or otherwise known by the diviner, text interpretation becomes a matter of establishing the relevance of the exemplar text for the needs of

23

Struck (2016) makes this aspect the very point, considering Greek ideas of divination a chapter in the history of human attempts to understand ‘cognitive intuition’.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

69

the client. This will often take the form of a dialogue24 with the client, a dialogue that may even lead to the repetition of the act in an attempt to obtain useful and relevant advice. In an instructive discussion of the role of divination in decision-making in the ancient world, Jørgen Christian Meyer (2002) reaches very similar results: In the historical study of ancient decision-making, it would certainly be wrong just to ignore the role of divination. On the other hand, the process of interpreting divinatory texts implied also a consideration of the matter in hand. When the Roman Senate discussed the meaning of a text from the Sibylline Books, its final decision as to what exactly was meant was also a – politically qualified – decision on what to do; the role of divinatory procedures was very much to proclaim that decision a religiously legitimate Roman decision.25 From the description we have already given above, it is easily imagined how the Tarot diviner, who is sometimes also the client, faces a similar task: that of understanding the client and the matter in hand in a way that makes for the relevance of the cards with their rich repertoire of meanings in a coherent interpretation. To the Roman Senate, to be convincing in interpretation meant to be politically convincing (without, of course, violating the authority of the Sibylline Books or other divinatory institutions). To the modern Tarot client, it means above all to be convincing in terms of common-sense psychology. The rhetoric of interpretation is probably always there and always exerted an influence on the historical development of both the act and the exemplar texts. In the end, it all had to be negotiable. On the other hand, it is no longer an exclusively religious rhetoric; it is about real-world plausibility, albeit in the shadow of religious authority, and aims at a kind of shared responsibility for decisions.26 It follows that this rhetoric of plausibility must always to a very large degree depend on the matter in hand. It is a field for specific historical study, in which comparative studies (in terms of a generalized rhetoric of divination) are not likely to take us further. It is never the less an important field, and both the historian and the comparativist should be aware of it.

24 25

26

Cf. also Zeitlyn (1995) and the important considerations in Tedlock (2001). The latter point is an important outcome of Susanne William Rasmussen’s (2003) full study of official divination in republican Rome. An excellent analysis of divination and politics in Julius Caesar’s Rome – in its proper context of authority religious and political – has been given by Bruce Lincoln (1994: 37–53). Cf. e.g. Esther Eidinow’s (2007) fine study of ancient Greek oracle consultations as related to Greek ideas of risk.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

70 7

Podemann Sørensen

Conclusion

Except for the postmodern tendency of the Tarot to absorb and accommodate any divinatory or cosmological system that comes its way, our four examples are basically not related in any genetic sense. This does not, however, entitle us to postulate cross-cultural or transhistorical universals. What we have seen is that in terms of rhetoric, systems of divination from very different cultural contexts may be described as variations within a relatively stable conceptual scheme. And, to return explicitly to one of the issues raised in the introduction to this volume, this should at least convince the public that the inherited concept of divination is academically justified. Like other ritual acts, divination implies a basic postulate: that of unveiling the hidden or predicting the unpredictable on the basis of something even more unpredictable. Our relatively stable conceptual scheme for the rhetorical analysis of divination systems was developed by considering as much as possible in the examples as elaborations of that basic postulate. In a substantial number of cases, we have seen that these rhetorical elaborations are of a kind already known from the general study of ritual: mythical exemplars of the act of divination, the place where it is carried out, the situation of the client etc. – or the exemplar text ritually construed as the speech of gods. In some cases, notably in Yijing divination, we have observed that myth and gods are absent, but rhetorically replaced by a certain cosmicity, i.e. an imitation or an articulation of cosmic order and dynamics. The rhetorical device most proper to and most characteristic of divination is, however, what we have called the metamorphosis of the sign. The act of divination is or produces a sign or rather a not-yet-sign, which the process gradually transforms into a full, linguistic sign. In some systems of divination, the sign acquires its final meaning only when the final decision on the matter in hand is taken. References Andersen, Lene (1987). Studies in Oracular Verses. Concordance to Delphic Responses in Hexameter. Kgl. Da. Vidsk. Selsk. Hist. Fil. Medd. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. Annus, Amar (ed.) (2010). Divination and Interpretation of Signs in the Ancient World. Oriental Institute Seminars 6. Chicago: Oriental Institute. Balle-Petersen, Margaretha (1982). Den brede og den smalle vej: Nogle eksempler på brugen af divination i indremissionske miljøer i Danmark. In Divination.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

71

Religionshistorisk Forenings Symposium 20.–21. Januar 1982, 77–91. Særnr. af Chaos. Copenhagen: Religionshistorisk Forening. Bascom, William (1969). Ifa Divination. Communication between Gods and Men in West Africa. London: Indiana University Press. Blofeld, John (1968). The Book of Change. A New Translation of the Ancient Chinese I Ching With Detailed Instructions for Its Practical Use in Divination. London: Allen & Unwin. Buschardt, Leo (1945). Vrtra. Det rituelle Dæmondrab I den vediske Somakult. Det kgl danske Videnskabernes Selskab. Historisk-Filologiske Meddelelser 30, no. 3. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. Caquot, André & Marcel Leibovici (eds.) (1968). La divination, I–II, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Crowley, Aleister (2002). The Book of Thoth. Stamford, CT: US Games System. Curry, Patrick (ed.) (2016). Divination. Perspectives for a New Millennium. London: Routledge. Danfulani, Umar H. D. (1995). Pebbles and Deities: Pa Divination among the Ngas, Mupun and Mwaghavul in Nigeria. European University Studies, Series 23, Theology, 551. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Dumézil, Georges (1966). La religion romaine archaïque. Paris: Payot. Eidinow, Esther (2007). Oracles, Curses, and Risk Among the Ancient Greek. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fontenrose, Joseph (1978). The Delphic Oracle. Its Responses and Operations with a Catalogue of Responses. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fung, Yu-lan (1952). A History of Chinese Philosophy I–II. Princeton: Princeton University Press/Allen & Unwin. Hale, John R., Jelle Z. de Boer & Jeffrey Chanton (2001). New Evidence for the Geological Origins of the Ancient Delphic Oracle. Geology 29 (8): 707–711. Hale, John R., Jelle Z. de Boer & Henry A. Spiller (2002). The Delphic Oracle: a Multidisciplinary Defence of the Gaseous Vent Theory. Journal of Clinical Toxicology 40 (2): 189–196. Hale, John R., Jelle Z. de Boer, Jeffrey P. Chanton & Henry A. Spiller (2003). Questioning the Delphic Oracle. Scientific American, August 2003: 57–63. Herskovits, Melville J. (1938). Dahomey. An Ancient West African Kingdom, vol. I–II, New York: J. J. Augustin. Herskovits, Melville J. & Frances S. Herskovits (1933). An Outline of Dahomean Religious Beliefs. Memoirs of the American Anthropological Association 41. Menasha, WI: American Anthropological Association. Repr. New York: Kraus, 1964. Herskovits, Melville J. & Frances S. Herskovits (1958). Dahomean Narrative. A CrossCultural Analysis. African Studies 1. Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Jensen, K. Frank (1998). Tarot. Copenhagen: Strube.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

72

Podemann Sørensen

Johnston, Sara Iles (ed.) (2004). Religions of the Ancient World. A Guide. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Johnston, Sara Iles (2008). Ancient Greek Divination. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Johnston, Sara Iles & Peter T. Struck (eds.) (2005). Mantikē. Studies in Ancient Divination. Leiden: Brill. Legge, James (1899). The I Ching. The Sacred Books of the East 16. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Repr. New York: Dover, 1963. Lincoln, Bruce (1994). Authority. Construction and Corrosion. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Loewe, Michael & Carmen Blacker (eds.) (1981). Oracles and Divination. Boulder: Shambhala. Maurizio, Lisa (1995). Anthropology and Spirit Possession. A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi. Journal of Hellenic Studies 115: 69–86. Meyer, Jørgen Christian (2002). Omens, Prophecies and Oracles in Ancient DecisionMaking. In Karen Ascani et al. (eds.), Ancient History Matters. Studies presented to Jens Erik Skydsgaard on his Seventieth Birthday, 173–183. Analecta Romana Instituti Danici. Suppl. XXX. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Needham, Joseph (1956). Science and Civilisation in China. Vol. 2: History of Scientific Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ohrt, Ferdinand C. P. (1917–21). Danmarks Trylleformler, I–II. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Olupona, Jakob & Rowland O. Abiodun (eds.) (2016). Ifa Divination, Knowledge, Power and Performance. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Parke, Herbert W. & Donald E. W. Wormell (1956). The Delphic Oracle. Vol. I: The History, Vol. II: The Oracular Responses. Oxford: Blackwell. Peek, Phillip M. (ed.) (1991). African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Permjakov, Grigoeri L. (1984a). Zur Frage einer parömiologischen Ebene der Sprache. Codikas / Code. Ars Semeiotica 7: 255–256. Permjakov, Grigoeri L. (1984b). Text Functions of Paremias. Codikas / Code. Ars Semeiotica 7: 257–262. Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen (1993). Ritualistics. A New Discipline in the History of Religions. In Tore Ahlbäck (ed.), The Problem of Ritual, 9–26. Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis XV. Åbo/Turku: Donner Institute. Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen (2003). The Rhetoric of Ritual. In Tore Ahlbäck Ritualistics, 149–161. Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis XVIII. Åbo/Turku: Donner Institute. Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen (2006). Efficacy. In Jens Kreinath et al. (eds.), Theorizing Ritual, I, 523–532. Leiden: Brill. Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen (2013). Sortes virtuales. A Comparative Approach to Digital Divination. In Tore Ahlbäck (ed.), Digital Religion, 181–188. Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis XXV. Åbo/Turku: Donner Institute.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

The Rhetoric of Divination: A Comparative Approach

73

Raphals, Lisa (2013). Divination and Prediction in Early China and Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rasmussen, Susanne William (2003). Public Portents in Republican Rome. Analecta Romana Instituti Danici. Suppl. XXXIV. Rome: L’Erma di Brettschneider. Rosenberger, Veit (2001). Griechische Orakel. Eine Kulturgeschichte. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Roth, Mirko (2018). The Medium is the Messenger? Eine kommunikations- und medientheoretische Untersuchung divinatorischer Praktiken. Zeitschrift für Religionswissenschaft 26 (1): 108–141. Roux, Georges (1971). Delphi. Orakel und Kultstätten. München: Hirmer Verlag. Schwartz, Benjamin I. (1985). The World of Thought in Ancient China. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Shaughnessy, Edward (1997). I Ching. The Classic of Changes, transl. with an Introduction and Commentary. New York: Ballantyne Books. Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane (1990). Myth as History: The Previous Owners of the Delphic Oracle. In Jan Bremmer (ed.), Interpretations of Greek Mythology, 215–241. London: Routledge. Struck, Peter T. (2016). A Cognitive History of Divination in Ancient Greece. Journal of the History of Ideas 77: 1–25. Tedlock, Barbara (2001). Divination as a Way of Knowing. Embodiment, Visualisation, Narrative, and Interpretation. Folklore 112: 189–197. Vernant, Jean-Pierre (1992). Greek Cosmogonic Myths. In Yves Bonnefoy (ed.), Greek and Egyptian Mythologies, 65–76. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Waite, Arthur Edward (1911). The Pictorial Key to the Tarot. London: W. Rider & Son. Repr. New York: Dover, 2005. Waley, Arthur (1968). The Way and Its Power. The Tao Te Ching and Its Place in Chinese Thought. (1934) London: Unwin. Zeitlyn, David (1995). Divination as Dialogue: the Negotiation of Meaning with Random Responses. In E. N. Goody (ed.), Social Intelligence and Interaction, 189– 205. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zeitlyn, David (2001). Finding Meaning in the Text: The Process of Interpretation in Text-Based Divination. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.) 7: 225–240.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 4

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics Anders Klostergaard Petersen In an illuminating passage, Umberto Eco emphasises the importance that fiction plays when human beings structure their world and organise their lives.1 According to Eco, fiction has a pivotal role in the construction of human identity since it contributes to provide meaning. He writes: At any rate we will not stop reading fictional stories, because it is in them that we seek a formula to give meaning to our existence. Throughout our lives, after all, we look for a story of our origins, to tell us why we were born and why we have lived. Sometimes we look for a cosmic story, the story of the universe, or for our own personal story (which we tell our confessor or our analyst, or which we write in the pages of a diary). Sometimes our personal story coincides with the story of the universe. Eco 1994: 139

Prior to this passage Eco has underlined the advantages that fiction has compared to the actual world. Contrary to reality in which human beings can never be quite certain whether it possesses meaning or not, fiction has the unambiguous advantage of providing meaning. The meaning inherent in a particular piece of fiction may well be difficult to detect, but it is beyond doubt that by strenuous work a meaning can, in fact, be uncovered:

1 A brief version of this paper was presented at the Copenhagen International conference Unveiling the Hidden. An Interdisciplinary Conference on Divination, 1.–3. of August 2005. The initial inspiration for my study of rhapsodomantics as a particular instance of divination comes from my reading of the Swedish novelist Per Olov Enquist 2001. His novel Lewis’ Rejse (English Lewi’s Journey 2006) is concerned with the formation of the Swedish Pentecostal movement. I became interested in rhapsodomantics as a distinct mantic practice, since the phenomenon plays a decisive role at different stages in the plot of the story. Additionally, I have learned from the seminal essays by Kisch (1970) and van der Horst (2002). For the collection of the relevant sources from antiquity as well as regarding the general discussion of the material, I am indebted to both articles as well as van der Horst (2019). Finally, I want to express my gratitude to John Ranelagh, who apart from improving the English language of the article has made several interesting points to the overall argument which I have benefited from.

© Anders Klostergaard Petersen, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_005 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 -8

B8 98 578

: :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

75

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

But there is another reason fiction makes us feel more metaphysically comfortable than reality. There is a golden rule that cryptanalysts and code breakers rely on – namely, that every secret message can be deciphered, provided one knows that it is a message. The problem with the actual world is that, since the dawn of time, humans have been wondering whether there is a message and, if so, whether this message makes sense. With fictional universes, we know without a doubt that they do have a message and that an authorial entity stands behind them as creator, as well as within them as a set of reading instructions. Eco 1994: 116

The aim of this essay is not to examine the general use of fiction to provide meaning in the lives of people, but to explore a rather radicalised version of this idea, namely one, that is found in the context of divination.2 At the same time, we shall see how this divinatory practice has impingements on our understanding of ritual efficacy and, thereby, is related to magic – understood in the sense advocated by Sørensen and myself in the introduction to this volume as a third order concept designating ritual efficacy. In rhapsodomantics the random opening of texts or the arbitrary pick of textual slips is used not only to provide meaning, but also as a prescriptive guidance for future actions. To embark this Märchengang across one particular set of writings and practices of previous days, however, I shall begin in the present by quoting a passage from the detective or mystery-novel by Iain Pears An Instance of the Fingerpost. In the opening of chapter eight, the author has the narrator ponder on the relationship between contingency and guidance, between apparent randomness and divine providence: What to thoughtless people may appear to be of a coincidental character, are to the cognitively skilled the visible tokens of the revelatory nature of God’s providence:

2 In a recent essay, I explore the relationship between fictional literature and religious narratives pointing to their frequent interchangeable nature. I emphasise how fiction by virtue of a textually staged indexical component and openness in terms of p-s-t-coordinates (the registers of person, spatiality, and temporality) may be imbued with religious character, thus projecting the story world onto an actual landscape and, thereby, undergoing a rapprochement to the institution of pilgrimage. In this way, the symbolic world of the narrative is undergirded by material expressions in the physical world which serve to enhance the verisimilitude of the story-world (Petersen 2016a: 506–09, 516–17). For the examination of text and ritual which is similarly pertinent to the topic of this chapter, see my article (2018: 374–79, 383–84).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

76

Petersen

I have often thought about this phenomenon which occurs so frequently in the lives of all men that we almost fail to notice it any more. How often have I had a question on my mind, and picked a book at random off the shelf, often one I have never heard of before, yet found the answer I seek within its covers? It is well known that men feel impelled to go to that place where they are to encounter, for the first time, that woman who is to be their wife. Similarly, even peasants know that letting the Bible fall open where it will, and putting a finger randomly on the page thus revealed will, more often than not, give the most sound advice that any man could wish to hear. The thoughtless call this coincidence, and I note amongst philosophers a growing tendency to talk of chance and probability, as though this were some explanation rather than a scholarly disguise for their own ignorance. Simpler people know exactly what it is, for nothing can happen by chance when God sees and knows all; even to suggest anything different is absurd. These coincidences are the visible signs of His manifest Providence, from which we can learn well if we will only see His hand, and contemplate the meaning of His actions. Pears 1997: 622–23

In an illustrative manner this passage pertains to the subject matter of this anthology in general and to my subject in particular, that is rhapsodomantics or divination by means of sacred books or writings that are either opened at random or used in order to provide ‘slips’ upon which verses from the books or quotes are written (Pease 1963, 73–74). Occasionally, this divinatory practice is also designated bibliomantics, thus, touching upon the issue raised in Sørensen’s and my introduction on the use of notions with an emic foundation. Rhapsodomantics is the third order category used for this type of divination by Bouché-Leclerq, whereas bibliomantics is the term frequently used by biblical scholars, since this form of divination typically pertains to biblical books. Rhapsodomantics on its side is a sub-variant of the more comprehensive category sortilegium or cleromancy, that is divination based on casting lots (see Luijendijk and Klingshirn 2019a, 2–4, and 2019b, 49–55; and van der Horst 1998 and 2019, 169–70).3 Be that as it may, the randomly chosen passage is secondarily interpreted and explained in terms of a divinely inspired guidance, be it a signal from the gods or a result of fate or destiny. In this manner, the 3 Coinciding with the completion of this essay, Luijendijk and Klingshirn have published a whole anthology on the subject of sortilege. It is a true gem of cleromantic instances and discussions on the legitimacy of this mantic use from antiquity. See Luijendijk and Klingshirn (2019c).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

77

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

slips become an oracle simultaneously providing access to understanding the trans-empiric world as well as it does provide, and this is where my accent is placed, guidance for decision making within particular spheres of the immediate life be it the political, the amorous, the religious, or any other aspect of life assigned particular importance. In cases of uncertainty before grand decisions or at decisive stages of life, one might benefit from rhapsodomantics to gain an idea of what course needs to be taken. Thus, rhapsodomantics is as previously noted a variant of the larger category of cleromantics, whether they be sortilegium (divination by means of lots), astragalomantics (divination by means of throwing dices), or rhapsodomantics.4 In the Graeco-Roman world the range of different divinatory practices by which one could obtain knowledge about particular aspects of the future, the present, or the past that proved to be of special importance for one’s actions in the present was almost infinite. If one browses through the index of Bouché-Leclerq’s classic work on the history of divination in antiquity, one gets the impression that it is imagination only that sets reins on the multifariousness of mantic practices and divinatory media that were used in both private and public contexts.5 In this chapter, however, I shall look at one particular practice of divination only. Rhapsodomantics is particularly interesting for a number of reasons. First, it is a mantic practice that is still in use and, apparently, continues to appeal to a wide segment of people as also indicated by the quote from Iain Pears. Second, it is a peculiar and more complex form of divination by virtue of the fact that the medium used for the divinatory practice conveys a meaning of its own independent of the particular mantic context. The sign produced through the 4 See Pease (1963: 72–74). A more complex form of rhapsodomantics is found in the so-called ‘lot’ books that combine rhapsodomantics with other forms of divination. Bolte (1903, 276–77) gives a historical survey with numerous examples of different lot books that designate: “eine sammlung von prosaischen oder metrischen orakelsprüchen, aus denen der wissbegierige frager einen zu gewinnen vermag, indem er ein nicht von seiner berechnung abhängiges, sondern dem geheimnisvollen walten des zufalls unterworfenes instrument in bewegung setzt” (substantives are not capitalised in Bolte’s text, AKP). Contrary to rhapsodomantics proper, an additional instrument such as dices, small tablets, threads, cards, the movable arrow of a dial, or calculation of numbers is used in the divinatory practice of lot books to obtain the textual passages. Examples of astragalomantics of ancient Greece and Asia Minor are given in Heinevetter (1912). 5 For the importance of divination and oracles in classic Greek religion, see Burkert (1985: 111–118), and Johnston (2008 as well as 2015, 477–489), and for a later period, Lane-Fox (1986: 208–215). For the multiplicity of divination in the Greek world, see Larson (2016: 73–80). A brief survey of divination in the ancient world with important bibliography is found in Bremmer (1997).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

78

Petersen

divinatory ritual has a history of interpretation prior to its mantic use. Third, whereas most divinatory practices from antiquity such as, for instance, alektryonomancy (divination on the basis of observations of sacred chicken), libanomancy (divination that uses the direction of the smoke of incense as a token of the divine world), aleuromancy (divination on the basis of flour), or rhabdomancy (divination on the basis of the direction that a wand falls), may appear rather bizarre and alien to the contemporary reader, rhapsodomantics has the advantage of comprehensibility even to modern Western readers. By saying this, I do not imply that the practice is comprehensible or imitable to modern minds in the sense of being understandable and tolerable from a rational point of view. My point is rather that the propensity to ascribe meaning to phenomena of a purely contingent nature is considerably easier to follow for contemporary readers in the case of randomly chosen texts since modern Western secular people are accustomed to conceive of texts in terms of meaningfulness and intentionality (cf. the previous quotes from Umberto Eco). In spite of the fact that the intentionality attributed to rhapsodomantics is of a quite different nature than the manner in which intentionality is normally conceived, the fact that texts are generally understood as sources of meaningful information makes it easier to identify with this practice than other forms of divination originating in antiquity. In order to examine the naturalness of mantic practices, it is obvious to investigate a phenomenon that continues to exert influence or, at least, is intelligible to modern minds. Fourth, rhapsodomantics is also worth studying since it is a form of divination that is not confined to diviners only. It may be used both by ritual experts and lay people as well as is known from, for instance, the continued practice of the Moravian brothers to publish yearly lot books with biblical verses for each day of the year. Thus, a study of rhapsodomantics in different social and cultural contexts may also shed light on how divination in different settings is used for different purposes. Apart from looking at a few cases of rhapsodomantics, I shall pose a series of simple questions that pertain to divination in general and to rhapsodomantics in particular. To recall Eco’s point, the advantage of fiction compared to the actual world is that one can be certain that it has a message, and that an authorial entity stands behind it as creator. That, of course, makes it obvious to use fiction or pre-existing texts for divinatory purposes. If the text used already from the outset can be expected to have a meaning and to be attributed an authorial entity, it is a small step only to ascribe meaningfulness and intentionality to its use in the mantic context. On the other hand, one can hardly deny the fact that the use of rhapsodomantics to provide meaning in particular cases is a rather strenuous exaggeration of the idea of meaningfulness and authorial entity implied in Eco’s understanding. So, we need to pose a series of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

79

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

questions that balance between the insight of Eco and the peculiar notions of meaningfulness and intentionality implied in rhapsodomantics. How is it, for instance, that the authorial entity entailed in the understanding of fiction in the mantic context can be interpreted as a token of divine guidance? What is it that attracts people to place their fate – or, at least, a significant part of their life – in particular situations in the hands of something that from a rational perspective seems to be of an utterly random nature? How can randomness, in fact, be used in a ritually orchestrated play to overcome contingency? Why in certain cases ascribe to chance an intentional character that can be interpreted as a personal directive? How can intentionality and meaningfulness be attributed to randomness, which under normal conditions is conceived of as diametrically opposite to meaningfulness and intentionality? What is the reason for the apparent widespread inclination to invest chance with meaning, and to elevate the ritually obtained meaning to such a status that it may subsequently be used as a guide for mundane acting? Why in particular situations obtain knowledge in a manner that is conspicuously different from the normal ways in which information is acquired? And why rely on that knowledge as a basis for acting? 1

Rhapsodomantics: A Relic of Times Past and of the Unlearned People Only?

By this series of interrelated questions, we have entered some of the complex, precarious, and puzzling problems that pertain not only to rhapsodomantics, but concern the understanding of divination in general. How should we perceive the propensity – apparently not only found in the ‘illiterate masses’ cultivating ‘popular religion’, but also in the cultural and social elites – to enmesh with something that from a rational, scientific perspective seems so utterly to belong to the category of obscurantism and irrationality? One could, of course, argue that it is a rather anachronistic endeavour to judge, for instance, religious mantic practices of Imperial Rome by modern scholarly standards, thereby inferring that although mantic practices in antiquity could also be found at the highest social level, this is not the case today. If one looks, however, to a number of current and fashionable Danish magazines, predominantly directed towards upper-class and culturally well-educated women, they abound with horoscopes, numerological information, and other comparable ‘archaic relics’. This phenomenon marks a rather conspicuous change, since the same magazines during the 1970s and early 1980s had scornfully relegated the religious to the sphere of mumbo jumbo for the illiterate. The very same magazines from

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

80

Petersen

the late 1980s suddenly resuscitated these ‘vestigial’ elements that in the past had been vigorously attributed an abject nature. This development of Danish magazines is hardly specific, but reflects a change that may also be observed in other North Western European countries. One could, obviously, argue that we – with the highly indeterminate concept of the Zeitgeist – are presently witnessing an era characterised by the indulgence of ‘mystic archaic fossils’ or what has occasionally been dubbed ‘new spirituality’. That is that the contemporary experience of ‘religious atavisms’ in intellectual circles is an ephemeral phenomenon only that will eventually vanish. That may well be, just as it is likely that the earnestness attributed to horoscopes and comparanda in many magazines and newspapers today is of a different nature compared with the pious adherence that centuries ago were paid to horoscopes and other mantic devices. Thus, a change of domain has taken place from the religious sensu stricto to the humorous or, perhaps, more precisely to the category of entertainment of a not religiously binding nature. By saying this, I want to emphasise the discontinuity that clearly exists between contemporary examples of mantic practices in the modern Western countries and the forms of divination that thrived in the ancient world. Contrary to, for example, ancient Rome in which mantic practices were used at the societal level as a regularity or norm in political affairs, modern societies do, obviously, not believe that Fortuna or chance can be appealed to or negotiated with or even bribed. Similarly, people who nowadays indulge in mantic practices appear to do it in very particular situations and for their own particular purposes.6 It is certainly not something they could justify to their peers and families for example. And that is a big difference between modern people and people of the past who lived in societies in which divination was institutionally acknowledged at the societal level as a valid form of obtaining information and as a source for acting. 6 What seems to be at stake is the element Paul Veyne with respect to the ancient Greek world has termed ‘Balkanization’, that is the continuous oscillation between different representations of reality with different ontological claims relating to them, or in Veyne’s phrasing the “capacity to simultaneously believe in incompatible truths”, (Veyne 1988: 56, 92). Contrary to Veyne, I think that the pendulation between different representations of reality with concomitantly distinct ontological implications is a prevalent feature of religion. It does not constitute an epistemological exception, but a pervasive phenomenon. The crucial difference between a modern Western context and an ancient Greek one may rather lie in the increasing independence of the various institutions relating to the different spheres characterising clusters of representations and in the enhanced incongruence between these domains of reality. Thus, I consider Balkanization a general feature of human life and not exemplifying a state of mental emergency.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

81

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

On the other hand, it is difficult not to recall Wittgenstein’s succinctly acute criticism of Frazer’s Golden Bough, in which he emphasises the self-reflecting nature of Frazer’s views: “What narrowness of spiritual life we find in Frazer! And as a result: how impossible for him to understand a different way of life from the English one of his time! Frazer cannot imagine a priest who is not basically an English parson of our times with all his stupidity and feebleness” (1979: 5e). In the same vein, Wittgenstein comments on magic that: Fire no more than any other phenomenon is particularly mysterious in itself, but any of them can become so to us, and it is precisely the characteristic feature of the awakening human spirit that a phenomenon has meaning for it. We could almost say, man is a ceremonial animal. This is partly false, partly nonsensical, but there is also something in it. 1979: 7e

One could illustrate the point by using Wittgenstein’s example of a man hitting the ground with his cane.7 That action, of course, from a pure rational perspective appears rather childish and irrational; but, I suspect, few people can deny that they have at different points in their lives indulged in such activity despite its arrant unreason (for a similar elaboration on Wittgenstein’s view, see Albinus’ and Madsen’s chapter in this book).8 7 Cf. Wittgenstein’s comment in the first edition of the Bemerkungen über Frazers »Golden Bough«  – published in Synthese 17 1967: 233–253. Page 244 – that for some reason was not included in the later editions of Bemerkungen: “Wenn ich über etwas wütend bin, so schlage ich manchmal mit meinem Stock auf die Erde oder an einen Baum etc. Aber ich glaube doch nicht, dass die Erde schuld ist oder das Schlagen etwas helfen kann. »Ich lasse meinen Zorn aus.« Und dieser Art sind alle Riten. Solche Handlungen kann man Instinkt-Handlungen nennen” (for a discussion of the text in its various editions, see Rothhaupt 2016). I think Wittgenstein overstates his case in this particular passage by completely ignoring the instrumental effects of the ritual and emphasising its expressive dimensions only. See for more detail my discussion of the text Petersen (2016b: 392–397). Be that as it may, the important thing for my purpose is Wittgenstein’s emphasis on the meaningfulness of actions that from a rational perspective may appear unexplainable. 8 See also Wittgenstein’s Lectures & Conversations on Religious Belief which – similar to the Bemerkungen über Frazers »Golden Bough« – has not been written by Wittgenstein. The lectures were given in Cambridge around 1938 and preserved as notes written down by Wittgenstein’s students Yorick Smythies, Rush Rhees, and James Taylor. In correspondence with the Bemerkungen, Wittgenstein in Religious Belief accentuates religious belief and, thus, religion as being of a very different nature than scientific belief, theorising and hypothesising. In Wittgenstein’s view, religion does not constitute a form of proto-science comparable to the Urdummheit Frazer considers religion and ritual to be (Wittgenstein 2007: 53, 56–57). In their article to this volume, Albinus and Madsen point to a subtle difference in understanding

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

82

Petersen

It is true, however, that Wittgenstein’s example of the man hitting the ground with his cane does not reflect divination or magic properly, although in cognitive terms there is clearly a transference of punishment involved in the action. That may well be, but the example does illustrate an element that is essential to divination and magic. That is the tendency to ascribe meaning to something that under normal circumstances would not be accounted of as either meaningful or as a relevant source of information. So, before we dismiss ‘present fossils’ of past mantic practices as something for the ‘illiterate classes’ only or as ‘atavistic elements’ to the enlightened of today, it may be worthwhile to consider what it is that in particular situations makes it relevant to obtain information by means of divinatory practices. What is, in fact, the naturalness of rhapsodomantics?9 I suppose that quite a few readers will be able to recognise the feeling that the narrator of Pear’s book so wonderfully reproduces. A sense of reliance – in matters entirely determined by contingency and randomness – on the Ergriffenheit by a distant providential instance that will guide one’s immediate course. Simultaneously, it is, of course, a way of removing responsibility for one’s own actions by projecting them onto an allegedly supernatural instance. If you can sympathise with this man, you are ready to join me on the Zaubergang through a number of cases of rhapsodomantics. 2

Churchill and Rhapsodomantics

Perhaps rather surprising to most readers a remarkable case of rhapsodomantics is found in Winston Churchill’s The World Crisis 1911–1918. In the years prior to the outbreak of the First World War, when the perils of a future war appeared increasingly impending to the leading British politicians and members of the admiralty and the General Staff, Churchill, then Home Secretary (1910–1911), recalls a fateful meeting with Prime Minister Asquith. The immediate background was the Agadir Crisis.

represented by the two Wittgenstein texts. This difference, however, does not pertain to the point emphasised here. 9 By referring to the naturalness of rhapsodomantics, I am also alluding to the basic argument of Robert McCauley in a recent book in which he persuasively argues for the naturalness of religious representations in contrast to scientific that are of a more contra-intuitive character. Religious representations, in fact, correlate with some of our basic cognitive dispositions (McCauley 2011, cf. also Guthrie 1993).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

83

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

On the first of July 1911 it was announced by the German Emperor that a German gunboat had been sent to protect German interests in the Moroccan harbour of Agadir. This action was a very strong provocation of French interest – indeed, on the edge of declaring war – since Morocco was in the process of being established as a French protectorate. The Agadir Crisis together with the passing of a number of German fleet laws during the previous years that entailed the building of a strong German war fleet were understood by the British as a threat to the supremacy of British naval power. Churchill had from the beginning been rather reluctant towards the idea of a British naval expansion, but in the wake of the Agadir Crisis he gradually came to change his mind. In early October 1911 he was invited to visit Asquith in Scotland in the vicinity of the Firth of Forth. At the meeting he was asked by Asquith to take over the office of First Lord of the Navy. Churchill recalls how he accepted the invitation with alacrity, since his mind “was full of the dangers of an imminent war”. Then follows an extraordinary passage composed in a mythic-ominous, quasiBiblical language in which Churchill retrospectively describes the events that followed. Before going to bed he recalls how he in the fading light of evening in the far distance noted the silhouettes of two battleships steaming out of the Firth of Forth. He emphasises how he interpreted them to be invested with a new significance for him. Subsequently, he tells how in passing he notices that a large Bible was lying on a table next to his bed and how he was troubled with speculations over the German threat to Britain: My mind was dominated by the news I had received of the complete change in my station and of the task entrusted me. I thought of the peril of Britain, peace-loving, unthinking, little prepared, of her power and virtue, and of her mission of good sense and fairplay. I thought of mighty Germany, towering up in the splendour of her Imperial State and delving down in her profound, cold, patient, ruthless calculations. I thought of the army corps I had watched tramp past, wave after wave of valiant manhood, at the Breslau manoeuvres in 1907; of the thousands of strong horses dragging canons and great howitzers up the ridges and along the roads around Würtzburg in 1910. I thought of German education and thoroughness and all that their triumphs in science and philosophy implied. I thought of the sudden and successful wars by which her power had been set up. Churchill 1938: 49

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

84

Petersen

In this very situation Churchill opens the Bible at random and picks Deut 9:1–5,10 in which the Israelites are foretold that on this day they shall pass over the Jordan in order to go in to dispossess nations greater and mightier than themselves, cities great and fortified up to heaven, and a people great and tall, the sons of the Anakim. They are promised that God as a devouring fire will go before them and that he will destroy the Anakim and subdue them to the Israelites in order that they may drive them out, and make them perish quickly. Churchill concludes the passage by stating that this text “seemed a message full of reassurance” (1938: 50). Regardless of the fact that this recollection of past events by being composed at a later stage has a secondary nature, and, thus, cannot be taken at face value as an accurate historical description, there are several interesting points in the narrative. Even if the story of the portent and the rhapsodomantic oracle is a later construction and as such has the character of an ex post facto prediction, Churchill conspicuously fabricates the story and weaves it into the contemporary political situation. In the narrow context the story is meant to convey to the readers the fateful character of the moment and to emphasise the particular status of Great Britain and, simultaneously, of Churchill conceived to embody the role of God’s elected Israel and prophet in the present. Additionally, the story serves to legitimise the change of attitude of its narrator with regard to British naval rearmament by removing responsibility for it from him. By his previous reluctance Churchill had not misjudged the situation. Rather, it was a change of events the impact of which was revealed to him by an oracle that forced him to change his mind. In this manner, the inclusion of two mantic practices into the narrative is used not only to legitimise the subsequent decision to prepare for war, but also firmly to anchor that conclusion in a trans-mundane world. The reference to the divinatory confirmation of the decision invalidates potential challenges on behalf of the reader. To question the decision taken entails a confrontation with fate or even with God. Churchill recalls how he comes to realise that Asquith had made up his mind about the inevitableness of a future war. In this fateful atmosphere, before a grand decision had to be taken, the world was perceived to be embedded with meaning capable of providing directives to what future course should be followed. The attention is so to say tuned in to seek for potential signs.11 10 11

The solemn character of the rhapsodomantic oracle is emphasised by the typography of the Biblical passage in Churchill’s The World Crisis that contrary to the remaining text is printed with Gothic letters. It has been argued by Guthrie (1993) and Barrett (2000) among others that the proclivity to ascribe to chance an intentional nature is evolutionarily founded in our ancestors’ concern for avoiding predators. The possession of a hyperactive agent detection service (the so-called HADD) makes people alert to potential dangers in their environment. Whether .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

85

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

In this manner, the concern for the situation predates the occurrence of the portent and its subsequent result, namely, the interpretation of the portent as an affirmation to prepare for war.12 The distant battleships are perceived as a portentous confirmation of Asquith’s determination. Simultaneously, they are by implication conceived of as a prediction of Britain’s future arrival on the continent. Thus, the portent includes both a predictive as well as a retrodictive element. The battleships steaming out are susceptible to the portentous interpretation by their iconic as well as symbolic relationship with the referent, that is, the decision to prepare for war. Churchill does not provide an explanation for this alleged causal relationship. He simply takes for granted that the ships should be conceived of as an intentional sign provided by a culturally postulated superhuman agent – be it God or impersonal fate favouring Britain’s role as a watchdog of celestial justice on earth.13 One may, of course, contravene by arguing that this is an over-interpretation, since Churchill does not explicitly speak of agency. That is true, but the notion of agency is implied cognitively by the fact that Churchill attributes intentionality to the random event of the two departing battleships. In order to conceive of intentionality, an element of agency must necessarily be involved. By a conscious act of will somebody has to provide a sign to somebody who decides to interpret the sign in terms of intentionality.14 The interpretation of the omen is, subsequently, underwritten by the rhapsodomantic oracle.

12

13

14

one ends as prey or as a predator has to a great extent in most of human history been evolutionarily dependent on one’s ability to decode the surroundings by interpreting them in terms of agency. That is most likely the reason why humans tend to detect more agency in the environment than is warranted (Atran 2002: 67–79). Although the existence of the HADD is a moot and increasingly questioned phenomenon, one may preferably account for a similar cognitive mechanism by explaining the inclination to accord agency to chance in terms of predictive coding (Frith 2007, Friston 2010, Bar 2011, Friston and Kiebel 2011, Atance & Hanson 2011, Schjødt 2019). For a thorough cognitive discussion of portents, omens, and the Roman prodigy system set up to handle portents, see Lisdorf (2007: 191–224). See, further, the important contribution by Humphrey (1976), in which she discusses the relationship between the different constituent elements of omens, that is, the concern, the portent itself, the possible explanation, and the result. Cf. the passage in which Churchill describes the events immediately predating the final declaration of war against Germany: “Once more now in the march of centuries Old England was to stand forth in battle against the mightiest thrones and dominations. Once more in defence of the liberties of Europe and the common right must she enter upon a voyage of great toil and hazard across waters uncharted, towards coasts unknown, guided only by the stars. Once more ‘the far-off line of storm-beaten ships’ was to stand between the Continental Tyrant and the dominion of the world”, 1938: 186. Cf. Lisdorf (2007). He argues that all divinatory practices involve representations of intentional agents who communicate by means of either material or human media. It is also a basic tenet in McCauley’s and Lawson’s ritual theory (2002) that all religious rituals are .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

86

Petersen

In analogy with the interpretation of the departing battleships, Churchill’s random pick of Deut 9:1–5 is perceived as an intentional sign provided by a superhuman agent. In consonance with the portent Churchill does not explain how the opening of the book can be understood in terms of intentionality. It is taken for granted that the randomness involved in the opening is of an apparent nature only. Behind the seeming arbitrariness of the act is an intentional agent who provides information to the oracular petitioner. Contrary to the portent the rhapsodomantic oracle does not only involve the ascription of intentionality to chance. It also includes the dimension of a special instrument ritual – although not strongly ritualised, since it can be conducted where and when an authoritatively held text is in the proximity – by which a particular sign is produced with the aim in mind to obtain guidance for the particular situation in question.15 In this manner, it is the concern for the particular situation that motivates the divinatory practice and predicts the mind to search for intentionality. The random opening of the Bible is perceived to provide relevant information to Churchill’s particular concern: Should Great Britain prepare for war or not? As already stated, the story has the character of an ex post facto prediction by being told years after the event. At the level of the narrative, however, the rhapsodomantic practice is of a prognostic nature. It is used to obtain knowledge about the future. The sign obtained through the mantic act is thought to be indicative of a future state, an event, a situation, or a decision that needs to be taken. Contrary to non-divinatory rituals that are perceived to cause the effect for which reason they are accomplished, mantic practices are conceived to reflect and not to produce state of affairs. They mirror – as underlined by Sørensen in chapter 6 – a transcendent reality the insight into which is of great relevance to the actions of the mantic petitioners whether it is an individual or a community.

15

characterised by virtue of the fact that they involve transactions with culturally postulated superhuman agents. An increasing body of literature documents the tendency in humans to represent culturally postulated superhuman agents in different contexts and situations. See, for instance, Boyer (2001) and Pyysiäinen (2001). Sørensen, conversely, argues that we need not presume representations of intentional agents held to act in the ritual. The ritual frame suffices to trigger people to interpret the ritual in terms of communication without necessarily subscribing to representations of intentional agency. In Sørensen’s view, the indexical nature of the sign is by virtue of the ritual framing enough to trigger representations about a causal relationship between sign and event (past or future). See Chapter 6 in this volume. The term special instrument ritual designates in McCauley and Lawson (2002: 26), that particular group of rituals in which the most direct contact with the culturally postulated superhuman agent is made through the ritual act, i.e., by way of a special instrument such as is found in many divinatory practices. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

87

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

3

Rhapsodomantics in a Ritual Context

As indicated by the previously quoted passage by Iain Pears any book can in principle serve as an instrument for rhapsodomantic oracles. In practice, however, the medium of this mantic device is confined to sacred texts or canonised books, since they are more likely to be attributed to the involvement of superhuman agency. If the book or text in question already from the outset is understood to relate to a trans-human world – be it through notions of revelation, divine inspiration, or a divinely sanctioned institution mirrored, for example, by the idea of a canon – the more likely it is that the book will be used for mantic purposes and that it will be interpreted in the mantic context in terms of an intentional sign provided by culturally postulated superhuman agents. In chapter 6 of this volume Sørensen argues that randomisation is a likely prerequisite for the tendency to develop representations of culturally postulated superhuman agency in conjunction with mantic practices. In fact, he claims that it is the disconnection of the ritual actors’ own intentions and causal representations that enforces them to interpret the result of the ritual in terms of intentional agency. The random nature of the mantic ritual excludes the petitioners from interpreting it in terms of their own intentionality or in terms of normal representations of causality, but makes them likely to ascribe it to the influence of other agents. The underlying presupposition is, of course, that things do not happen by chance. In this manner, the randomness of the ritual is of an apparent nature only. Since the mantic petitioners by virtue of the ritually orchestrated use of chance are precluded from interpreting the ritual result in terms of their own intentionality, they are primed or, perhaps, even cognitively ‘forced’ to attribute it to other intentional agents. Additionally, the fact that it is the aleatory that is ritually orchestrated may also contribute to remove the focus from the effectiveness of the ritual result. If the divinatory practice were always a secure manner to obtain the desired information, it would be hard to avoid the impression that one could by one’s own intentionality affect the success of the ritual. If, however, as argued by Sørensen, it is the randomness of the divinatory practice that is a crucial presupposition for the attribution of culturally postulated superhuman agency to the ritual, the occasional failing mantic success with regard to the desired result may even be an important prerequisite for the continuous adherence to such practices (cf. Pyysiäinen 2005: 39). In this manner, it is the insecurity pertaining to the obtainment of the desired result that is a presupposition for the continuous ascription of superhuman intentionality to the ritual act. Chance is, thereby, understood as a precondition for the superhuman representations that occur in conjunction with divination. Simultaneously, chance is domesticated by being attributed the status of a token of superhuman agency. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

88

Petersen

Randomness is not what it appears to be, but a means by which one in particular situations can gain an insight into the true state of the world. From an external point of view, one could, in fact, argue that the mantic petitioner in rhapsodomantics, simultaneously, gets his random penny and his providentially dictated cake. Contrary to most forms of mantic practices in which the interpretation of the ritual result is constrained by the laws of the interpreting community only, the medium used in rhapsodomantics can in addition be ascribed a meaning outside the divinatory context. In the case of Churchill, the biblical passage chosen at random is very suitable to an interpretation along the lines of Churchill’s concern. But what would have happened if the textual passage had been one with no or, perhaps, even contradictory relevance to the situation in question? One could imagine that Churchill, for instance, had picked the command to love one’s enemies in Matt 5:43 rather than the passage from Deut. We shall not know, of course, in the case of Churchill, since the oracle is used in the context of an ex post facto prediction. It is quite characteristic, however, that only in a very few cases do the mantic petitioners question or criticise the institutional foundation upon which the principles of the divinatory practice rests. Most often, the mantic petitioners tend to brush aside their own objections by explaining the failing success of the ritual as an interpretational problem on their side. It is not the divinatory practice that is wrong, but the manner in which the petitioners have administered it.16 One of the parameters used by McCauley and Lawson in their ritual theory is what they designate the principle of the immediacy of the superhuman agent’s involvement in any ritual. The idea is that the rituals in which “a superhuman agent is directly involved even in some role other than that of the agent are more essential to the religious system than are those where the superhuman agent appears in the structural description only in some embedded, enabling action that has occurred previously” (Lawson and McCauley 1990: 125–26, cf. McCauley & Lawson 2002: 26–29). Although this principle relates to an evaluation of how different rituals should be understood in relation to each other, I think it can explain also why rhapsodomantics is practically limited in its use of medium to sacred texts or canonised books only. It may well be 16

In Petersen (2003: 11), I discuss a case from the previously mentioned novel by Enquist in which the suitability of the randomly chosen oracle for the concern in question is challenged. In Loane (1928: 186), one also finds a humorous example from Rabelais of a discussion of the suitability of Vergil (the Sortes Vergilianae) as a source for relevant oracles. It turns out that the two friends involved in the divinatory practice, Pantagruel and Panurge, continue to quarrel over the precise interpretation of the obtained oracular texts, since they interpret them in diametrically opposite ways.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

89

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

that the ritually orchestrated randomisation is an essential precondition for the ascription of intentional agency to chance, but I would suggest that the inclination to interpret the texts chosen at random in terms of divine guidance is enhanced by virtue of the text’s alleged sacredness, thereby, priming the mind to interpret the obtained oracle in terms of the sacred realm, that is, by ultimately according divine intentionality to it. The sacredness of the text can as already indicated be thought of in different ways, but the crucial point is that prior to the mantic practice a connection between the trans-human and the human world has already been established. The books or texts ritually used are not any book or text. It is a book or compilation of textual passages that by means of enabling ritual actions have somehow been attributed a divine origin. That is the reason why it seems obvious to ascribe an intentional nature to the random opening of the book or the random picking of a textual slip. Since the text is already perceived somehow to relate to a culturally postulated superhuman world, it is not a wide step to make the second inference that the random opening of the book or the arbitrary pick of a slip is, in fact, guided by a superhuman agent. Therefore, we are now in a position to see how Eco’s emphasis of the importance of an authorial entity in fiction, in the context of rhapsodomantics can be developed to notions of superhuman agency that provide crucial information to the oracular petitioner. The final point I shall emphasise concerns the manner of interpretation. We have already noted how the biblical passage chosen at random by Churchill is very suitable to his concerns. He has no problems in deciphering the oracular message by metaphorically substituting the Israelites with contemporary Great Britain and the Anakim of the Deuteronomy passage with present Germany. In this manner, the decision to prepare for war with Germany is authorised by the highest authority. Divine providence itself has been active in guiding Churchill to make the right choice. It may be a common place, but nevertheless it is conspicuous to see how the oracle is interpreted in the most favourable light to Churchill and to Great Britain. There is, in fact, nothing in the oracular message that dictates that the metaphorical substitution should necessarily be between Great Britain and the Israel of the biblical text. Had a prominent German statesman indulged in the same activities he would undoubtedly have made the opposite metaphorical substitution. In this manner, the concern for a particular situation to a great extent sets the agenda for the subsequent interpretation of the oracular message, a point also emphasised in Podemann Sørensen’s chapter in this volume (Chapter 3). Chance is ritually orchestrated in this mantic practice, but randomness is also reined by the subsequent interpretation that reflects the concern that initially gave rise to the divinatory practice.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

90

Petersen

The ambiguity of the interpretational act, however, points to an interesting aspect of rhapsodomantics that pertains to the right or the ability to interpret the randomly chosen texts. In antiquity rhapsodomantics seems to have existed both in conjunction with institutionally acknowledged practices and as an individual practice. The mantic petitioner could visit an oracular site and randomly pick a text that would subsequently be interpreted by the oracular experts. The practice, however, could also be of an exclusively individual nature. In this case, however, some confusion may arise with regard to the interpretational act since there can be no criterion of correct interpretation. The oracular petitioner is entirely on his own in making the right interpretation, and there is no alternative authority apart from his own reflections he can subsequently consult who can say: “The text really meant A, not B”. That makes a big difference to the official oracle sites in which an oracular petitioner could subsequently be told that he had simply misinterpreted the oracle, Oedipus, of course, being the most notorious example. 4

Some Cases of Rhapsodomantics from Antiquity

The two examples of rhapsodomantics – taken from Iain Pears and Churchill – have pointed to the naturalness of the phenomenon. Behind the apparent peculiar practice to invest chance with meaning and to ascribe to the random nature of the mantic practice the intentionality of a superhuman agent, lies a basic and evolutionarily founded natural tendency to interpret one’s surroundings in terms of intentionality. Since one’s own intentionality by virtue of the ritual’s random character has been decoupled from the action, the intentionality of somebody/something else must be at play. The apparent lack of visible acting agents makes it obvious to interpret the mantic event in terms of superhuman agency that is responsible for the obtained result. We have on the basis of the two examples seen how rhapsodomantics cannot be confined to the past only (see also Podemann Sørensen, this volume). Nor is it a phenomenon that can be limited to special segments of the population either. On the contrary, the two cases have pointed to the tendency in particular situations to interpret particular textual passages chosen at random as a token of divine guidance and, accordingly, as a guide for decision making in the world of mundane affairs. We shall now turn to the question of the historical background of this divinatory practice. When Churchill and Pears call attention to rhapsodomantics they, in fact, inscribe themselves in an ancient Graeco-Roman-Jewish

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

91

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

tradition.17 If rhapsodomantics as a divinatory practice is connected to sacred texts as its ritual medium, it follows that it is a relatively late phenomenon of antiquity only, since it presupposes the existence of authoritatively codified writings. The codification of particular writings as sacred writings or holy books comes – within the Graeco-Roman-Jewish area – relatively late into existence.18 It is predominantly a phenomenon of the Hellenistic era. It may be a slight exaggeration and somewhat misleading to call the Homeric Songs as popular usage will have it the Bible of the Greeks, but there is also a kernel of truth in the statement.19 After all, the authorial instance behind the poems did to a certain extent disclaim responsibility for its own creation by transferring discursive responsibility to a divine instance, the Muse or the goddess. From an early period, the Homeric writings were understood as foundational texts of Greek culture. They were the dominant authoritative writings of the Greek educational system and played a decisive role in religious matters as well (Finkelberg 2003: 96; cf. Petersen 2009: 28–37 for a general understanding of textual authority and processes of canonisation), just as they could be used in the context of politics, moral questions, and technical instruction, particularly within the spheres of housekeeping, warfare, and rhetoric (Verdenius 1970: 15/219). It should, therefore, come as no surprise that Homer was also used for oracular purposes (see Meerson 2019). 17 18

19

The hitherto most extensive treatment of rhapsodomantics in the Graeco-Roman-Jewish world is found in the previously mentioned essay by van der Horst (2002) that I rely on. See also van der Horst (2019) and Luijendijk and Klingshirn (2019b). On this subject, see the discussion in Lang (1990) and the two recently published anthologies by Kooij and Toorn (1998), and Stroumsa and Finkelberg (2003), in which a number of the contributions deal with processes of normativisation, authorisation, and canonisation of particular texts or corpora of texts of the Graeco-Roman-Jewish world of antiquity. Speyer (1995: 39) correctly argues against the idea that the poetry of Homer and Vergil were understood in terms of sacred or holy books. It is true that the Homeric Songs were never ascribed as, for instance, some of the Orphic writings the status of Hieroi Logoi, but that does not exclude that they were attributed an outstanding authoritative position also in religious matters. It is certainly not a coincidence that Homer in later Neoplatonic currents were thought of as the theologian par excellence whose texts possessed the potential to reveal meanings beyond the obvious (Lamberton 1986: 21). One may also recall the words of Socrates to Ion in Ion: “For not by art do they (sc. the poets) utter these things, but by divine influence (theia dunamei); since, if they had fully learnt by art to speak on one kind of theme, they would know to speak on all. And for this reason God takes away the mind of these men and uses them as his ministers, just as he does soothsayers and godly seers, in order that we who hear them may know that it is not they who utter these words of great price, when they are out of their wits, but that it is God himself who speaks and addresses us through them” (534C – transl. by Lamb 1975 LCL-edition).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

92

Petersen

Although oracular uses of Homer are already attested by the end of the fifth century BCE, in the comedy Peace by Aristophanes from 421,20 examples of rhapsodomantics cannot with certainty be attested before the third century CE. In De Homero by Pseudo-Plutarch we are told that “Some use for mantic purpose (pros manteian) the Songs of Homer, as if they were oracles from a god” (II 218, 4). The claim is supported by a notice by Dio Cassius who informs his readers that at an oracle site consecrated to Zeus Belos and situated in Apamea in Syria oracles were provided on the basis of Homeric verses (LXXIX, 8, 6 and 40, 3). Additional evidence is found in the Magic Papyri in which several pay witness to divinatory practices on the basis of Homer.21 One particularly interesting instance is the papyrus known as PGM VII (P.Lond. I 121 and P.Oxy. LVI 3831)22 dating to the third or the fourth century CE. It includes a Homeromanteion consisting of 216 arbitrarily chosen Homeric verses situated in random order.23 Either oracle priests or the oracular petitioner threw three dices whose eyes were meant to correspond with a succinct numbering system of the Homeric verses on the papyrus that even were related to particular hours of the day. Each of the Homeric verses were preceded by a set of three numbers with each column numbered from one to six (running from 1-1-1- to 6-6-6), thus getting the total number of 216 verses. In this manner, an oracular petitioner may, for instance, get a firm answer on how to proceed with his love life. Needless to say, the oracular answer does frequently demand some amount of subsequent exegesis. It is, for instance, not entirely clear if one had rolled the three dices with the following numbers 4-6-4 how one should relate 20 21

22 23

See the discussion in van der Horst (2002:176–77, and the slightly more positive view in 2019: 170). Magic uses of the Homeric writings are testified in several of the Greek magical papyri (See PGM IV 467–74; 821–24; 830–34; VII 1–148; XXIIa). In PGM IV 2145–2240 three magic Homeric verses – when inscribed on a thin sheet of metal or lamella – are assigned the role of the paredros, that is, a supernatural agent, normally an angel or a demon who is supposed to assist the magician in achieving his goal. The papyrus contains both guidelines for the consecration of the lamella as well as directives for how it should be used for specific purposes such as oracles, love spells, for wrecking chariots, etc. If, for instance, a runaway carries the lamella, he can be sure not to be found again. If the lamella is attached to somebody on the point of death, one can get an answer to every possible question. The Greek text is found in Preisendanz (1928: 138, 140), and an English translation is given by Hubert Martin (in Betz 1986: 76–78). For details on this text preserved in three papyrus manuscripts, see Luijendijk and Klingshirn (2019: 50–51). The Greek text is found in Preisendanz (1931: 1–6), and an English translation is given by Hubert Martin (in Betz 1986: 112–119). An additional but less well-preserved Homeromanteion is kept at the Library of the University of Bologna, see the references in Kisch (1970: 343, note 2).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

93

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

a verse like “You lunatic, sit still and listen to the words of others” (Il II, 200) to the progression of one’s erotic undertakings. Or what should an oracular petitioner do if he had received the following numbers 5-3-6 in pursuit of a clear answer to what future course he should take “Keep quiet, friend, and do as I say” (Il IV, 412)?24 Although this divinatory practice strictly speaking represents a blend between astragalomantics and rhapsodomantics, it does point to the importance of the latter. I shall leave the Greek area and turn to Rome. Here we find rhapsodomantics drawn on the basis of the Roman Homer, Vergil. From an early period, Vergil was considered a divinely inspired author.25 Thus, the Aeneid soon became a ‘bible-like-book’ that in the same manner as the Homeric Songs could be used for divinatory purposes. In the Historia Augusta from the fourth century CE we see how different Roman emperors in critical situations could resort to the sortes vergilianae.26 Regardless of the fact whether the Historia Augusta can be used to reconstruct the events they purport to describe, they are in our specific context interesting since at many points they weave references to rhapsodomantics into the stories of the individual emperors. In this manner, the Historia Augusta points to the importance of rhapsodomantics as an acknowledged form of divination by the end of the fourth century CE. We shall look at one prominent example only.27 In the Vita Hadriani it is told how Hadrian upon the death of Nerva in 98 consulted the sortes vergilianae in order to achieve knowledge about his relationship to the newly elected Emperor Trajan. The alleged author of the Vita Hadriani, Aelius Spartianus, had previously described how the brother-inlaw of Hadrian, Servianus, had revealed the extravagance and indebtedness of Hadrian and, thus, stirred Trajan’s anger against him. Subsequent to the death of Nerva, however, Hadrian had succeeded in being the first to bring the message of the emperor’s death to Trajan, whereby his feelings towards him changed to the better. Not surprisingly Hadrian is interested in knowing the exact attitude of the newly chosen emperor towards him in order to navigate 24

25 26

27

Examples of questions posed at oracles are found in Potter (1994: 25–26), with regard to the Sortes Astrampsychi. In Horsley (1982: 42), an extant example of the questions posed to the Sortes Astampsychi is given: “72 Shall I get the allowance? 73 Am I to remain where I am going? 74 Am I to be sold? 75 Am I to obtain profit from my friend?”, etc. For a discussion of Vergil’s status among the Romans, see van der Horst (2002: 183–84). Kisch (1970: 324), points to the importance of the Historia Augusta, since it is the only text preserved from antiquity that give precise information on the use of the sortes vergilianae. The most extensive discussion of the sortes vergilianae in the Historia Augusta is found in Kisch. Other examples are found in the Vita Clodii Albini V, 3–4; Vita Alexandri Severi VI, 6; XIV, 5–6; Vita Claudii X, 2–6.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

94

Petersen

in the most strategic manner. After all, he is a man with great aspirations for the future. Unfortunately, we are not told about the precise form or sequence of events of the oracle. To what extent was it a public event or a private affair? In what manner was the lot drawn? What was the selection of texts, and how had it been prepared? Based on the scanty information of “this lot was given out” (sors excidit) we are only allowed to infer that the lot seems to have been drawn from a box such as, for instance, an urn.28 The oracle that fell to Hadrian’s lot sounds: “Who is yonder man, by olive wreath distinguished, who the sacred vessels bears? I see the hoary head and beard. Behold the Roman king whose laws shall stablish Rome anew from tiny Cures’ humble land called to a mighty realm”.29 The oracle stems from the sixth book of the Aeneid 808–12, in which the predictions of the future king refer to the legendary king, Numa Pompilius. Needless to say, this was hardly the poorest oracle to receive for a man seeking political power who assisted by the oracle can interpret his own future in terms of the glorious king of the past. It is certainly not coincidental that the lot drawn is from the sixth book of the Aeneid, which provides most of the rhapsodomantic oracles given in the Historia Augusta (cf. Kisch 1970: 362). Comparable to the 11th book of the Odyssey, the Nekuia, in which Odysseus descends into the underworld in order to obtain information from the deceased spirits, the sixth book of the Aeneid depicts Aeneas’ journey to the Sibyl of Cumae and subsequent travel through the underworld. At the end of the book Aeneas meets his deceased father, Anchises, who foretells him the entire future of Rome reaching forward to Augustus’ days. The oracular content of the book made it an obvious choice for subsequent rhapsodomantic use. Once again, we see how rhapsodomantics is used at the level of the story as a means to obtain knowledge about the present, but with respect to the future course. In this way, the diagnostic dimension is still at the forefront of attention: What are the exact feelings of the emperor towards Hadrian? At the level of the discourse, however, the reference to the rhapsodomantic oracle is used as part of an ex post facto prediction that accounts for Hadrian’s future assumption of imperial power. Additionally, Hadrian’s concern for the situation dictates the manner in which the reader should understand the oracle as highly favourable to Hadrian. There can be no doubt that Numa Pompilius of the Aeneid in the present context should be substituted with Hadrian, or, 28 29

See the discussion in Kisch (1970: 325–329), who points to a number of parallels in the contemporary literature. Translation by David Magie in the LCL-edition of the Historia Augusta.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

95

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

perhaps, rather that Hadrian’s fate should be seen in light of the fate of Numa Pompilius with regard to his royal position. Comparable to the example taken from Churchill we see how authoritative figures of the past are used in the mantic context to interpret the present. It may well be, as it has been argued by van der Horst, that as early as the late Second Temple Period we find Judean examples of rhapsodomantics as can, perhaps, be inferred from 1 Macc 3:48, 2 Macc 8:23, and 13:15.30 I shall, however, move on to the undoubtedly most famous scene of rhapsodomantics in the great code of Western literature, namely, the tolle-lege-scene in Augustine’s Confessiones modelled on the similarly famous Life of Anthony by Athanasius as its textual predecessor. In this context we do not need to raise the question of the historical accuracy of the description. It suffices to see how Augustine uses a rhapsodomantic oracle to legitimise his conversion. In the eighth book of his Confessiones, Augustine tells how in his heart he struggled against lust and passion. The mutterings of those desires are keeping him in a suspenseful state of hesitation. Good Alypius, however, is there at the side of the wretched and anguished hero silently, but faithfully, attending his inner fight. Crushed by the miserable situation Augustine raises to seek solitude and to weep his anguish. He throws himself down under a fig-tree and exclaims in the words of Ps 6:4 in his affliction: “How long, O lord? How long, Lord, will you be angry to the uttermost? Do not be mindful of our old iniquities. For I felt my past to have a grip on me. It uttered wretched cries: ‘How long, how long is it to be?’ ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow’. ‘Why not now? Why not an end to my impure life in this very hour?’ ” At this point of the narrative, the famous scene of Augustine’s conversion follows: As I was saying this and weeping in the bitter agony of my heart, suddenly I heard a voice from a nearby house chanting as if it might be a girl or a boy (I do not know which), saying and repeating over and over again ‘Pick up and read, pick up and read’. At once my countenance changed, and I began to think intently whether there might be some sort of children’s game in which such a chant is used. But I could not remember having heard of one. I checked the flood of tears and stood up. I interpreted it 30

For an examination of the Judean and later Jewish material including rabbinics, see van der Horst (2002: 160–167, and most recently 2019: 161–166). As regards the examples of 1 Macc 3:48 and 2 Macc 8: 23, van der Horst judiciously states that the two texts need not be understood as exemplifying rhapsodomantic divinatory use since: “… they do not explicitly state that this consultation of the holy book was a random procedure” (1919: 164). That is, of course, correct, but at the same time it does point to the book as being ascribed a prescriptive role for taking subsequent action.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

96

Petersen

solely as a divine command to me to open the book and read the first chapter I might find. For I heard how Antony happened to be present at the gospel reading, and took it as an admonition addressed to himself when the words were read: ‘Go, sell all you have, give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me’ [Matt 19, 21]. By such an inspired utterance he was immediately ‘converted to you’ [Ps 50, 15]. So I hurried back to the place where Alypius was sitting. There I had put down the book of the apostle when I got up. I seized it, opened it and in silence read the first passage on which my eyes lit: ‘Not in riots and drunken parties, not in eroticism and indecencies, not in strife and rivalry, but put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no provision for the flesh in its lusts’ [Rom 13, 13–14]. I neither wished nor needed to read further. At once, with the last words of this sentence, it was as if a light of relief from all anxiety flooded into my heart. All the shadows of doubt were dispelled. Then I inserted my finger or some other mark in the book and closed it. With a face now at peace I told everything to Alypius. Confessiones viii, xii, 29–30, 2; transl. H. Chadwick

In this scene we also find a blend between two mantic practices, namely, cledonomantics, that is, oracles by means of sudden and random sounds, as well as rhapsodomantics. Augustine himself refers to the Life of Anthony as an ideal model for his conversion. In chapter two of the Life of Anthony, Athanasius describes how Anthony upon the death of his affluent Christian parents had inherited a great wealth. Since Anthony, however, was attracted to a simple mode of life the inheritance puts him in an awkward position. Reflecting upon the discrepancy between the inherited wealth and the examples of both the apostles who had given up everything in order to follow Jesus and the people of Acts who had sold their possessions and given them to the needy, Anthony goes into a church. Entering the church, he happens to arrive at a moment when the call to go and to sell one’s possessions and to give them to the poor in order to follow Jesus and, thereby, receive a treasure in heaven (Matt 19:21), is being read aloud. Anthony interprets it as a call that has been read on his account. He quickly leaves the church and gives his possessions to the villagers.31 Similar to this account, Augustine first reacts on what he interprets to be a cledonomantic oracle, namely, the voice of a child that repeatedly says ‘Pick up, and read’. In antiquity there was a tradition that sounds or utterances stemming 31

In the subsequent chapter of the Life of Anthony, Anthony receives in the same manner an additional cledonomantic oracle that forces him to sell the rest of his property and to put his sister into a convent and to initiate his own ascetic mode of life.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

97

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

from children playing could be attributed portentous value (Courcelle 1963: 137).32 It is also likely that the renowned wording ‘tolle, lege; tolle, lege’ is a fanciful play on a well-known divinatory practice. Tollere is, in fact, a technical term for oracles by means of drawing lots that designates the act of drawing the inscribed lot.33 Similarly, legere designates the reading of the inscribed lot and the subsequent interpretative application of the oracular message on the life of the petitioner (Courcelle 1963: 155). At the level of the narrative, it is conspicuous to see how Augustine’s whole attention is tuned in to seek for signs in the environment. Comparable to Churchill pondering on whether Great Britain should prepare for war or not, Augustine is searching for an answer to his concern, namely, that his present despair and agony be finished so he may begin a new life. At this point, the voice emerges at a very convenient moment. Having reflected upon the meaning of the voice, Augustine soon decides that it should be interpreted in terms of a divine oracle that directs his attention to the Bible as a rhapsodomantic means to obtain a secure answer to his concern. The interpretation is – at the level of the narrative – motivated by Augustine’s recollection of the Anthony story. Anthony’s random hearing of a particular gospel passage and his subsequent interpretation of it as an oracle (oraculum) given at his account, legitimates Augustine to interpret the tolle, lege of the child as a personal directive to him provided by God. Contrary to the oracle given to Anthony, however, Augustine has to interpret the oracle on his own. He returns to Alypius and opens the book of the apostle that he previously had been reading. He happens to come upon the passage in Rom 13:13–14, where Paul exhorts his addressees to live in accordance with the will of God awaiting the impending parousia of Christ. In Augustine’s case, however, the verses are interpreted as an injunction to him – and, additionally, to future readers of the Confessiones – to put down passionate flesh plenteous of desires. Subsequent to his reading, Augustine claims to have been relieved of all the anxiety that had previously flooded into his heart. The conversion story is concluded in the subsequent chapter by an additional partial rhapsodomantic oracle. Augustine tells Alypius about the event and he asks Augustine what he has been reading. Alypius then looks up the passage and reads the words immediately following Rom 13:14, in which Paul enjoins his addressees to “Receive the person who is weak in faith” (14:1). It is said that Alypius applies these words to himself and, 32 33

Courcelle gives numerous examples of children attributed divinatory roles in a wide array of Graeco-Roman, Jewish, and Christian texts (1963: 137–154). “Car « tollere » était l’un des termes techniques en usage pour designer le triage au sort de la tablette (sors) qui constitue la réponse de l’oracle au consultant” (Courcelle 1963: 155).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

98

Petersen

thereby, also to the previous account of Augustine’s conversion. He is, in fact, the elected one to receive Augustine at the stage of his initial faith. In this famous scene we find the same duality that we have also seen in some of the previous examples. At the level of the narrative the oracles are of a prognostic nature. They are used to acquire information about the future relevant to the particular concern in question. At the level of the discourse, however, they function as part of an ex post facto prediction that account for Augustine’s conversion. Simultaneously, they not only underline the importance of the depicted events, but they also – paradoxically – emphasise how Augustine’s conversion did not happen by chance. In spite of the fact that randomness is very much involved in the two mantic practices described, the story is meant to convey to the readers the message that Augustine’s conversion was a result of divine interaction. The fortuitous voice of a child and the random opening of Paul’s letter to the Romans are of an apparently coincidental nature only. Both actions are, in fact, the visible tokens of God’s providence. 5

Conclusion

From a ritual theoretical point of view, rhapsodomantics is an interesting case of ritual fussiness or ambivalence, since it invokes irreversibility and determinism by ritually choreographing contingency and randomness to an utmost extent. It is the aleatory that is invoked in the ritual. Randomness is played out and played with to an excessive extent. What appears to the connoisseur to be of a coincidental nature only is, in fact, a token mediated by the hand of providence itself. Whereas under normal circumstances one cannot have one’s random penny and one’s providentially dictated cake, that is, in fact, what is allegedly taking place in rhapsodomantics. To the expert, rhapsodomantics provides knowledge of the past, the present, or the future by reflecting the irreversibility of the course of the world. Since rhapsodomantics – interpreted in the right manner – is a means by which one can obtain insight into the inescapable course of the world guided by a superhuman providential instance, be it impersonal fate or god, it is also a means by which one can accommodate one’s life to the trans-human world. Rhapsodomantics enables one to adjust to the desires of superior powers that by their very nature reflect the inescapable. Since rhapsodomantics is a typical hybrid of different elements held together by a symbolic coding, it is fortuitously infallible. By its vague nature – frequently reflected in the fact that it requires successive exegetical effort in order to be properly interpreted – it is like most kinds of divination and, possibly, religious practices in general, resistible to empirical verification. If the

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

99

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

outcome of one’s life is not what the oracle promised one it would be, it is not the oracle that is wrong. It is the oracular petitioner who appears as an ignorant interpreter of things hidden to the unskilled exegete. Simultaneously, it may well be that the occasional failure of rhapsodomantics to provide relevant information for a particular situation, in fact, contributes to its continuous use, since it underlines the disconnection of the practitioners’ influence on the obtained result. This point accords well with Jesper Sørensen’s argument that randomisation is a likely prerequisite for the tendency to develop representations of superhuman agency in conjunction with mantic practices. On the other hand, rhapsodomantics differs from most forms of divination by the fact that the sign produced has a history of interpretation independent of its divinatory use. It is likely that the propensity to interpret the texts chosen at random in terms of divine guidance is enhanced by virtue of the text’s predivinatory established sacredness. Since the texts most often used as medium in rhapsodomantics are already perceived to relate to the superhuman world in one way or another, it is not a wide step to make the second inference that the random opening of the book or the arbitrary pick of a slip is, in fact, guided by a superhuman agent. Whereas fiction is generally used to provide meaning in the lives of people, rhapsodomantics represents a rather excessive version of this idea. It is generally assumed – as indicated by the introductory quote from Umberto Eco – that fictional universes embody a message and that an authorial entity stands behind them. In rhapsodomantics, however, this assumption is radicalised to the extent that the message picked at random is perceived to be a textual directive provided by a superhuman being. Notwithstanding the vast differences that exist between mantic practices of the ancient world and the use of particular forms of divination in contemporary Western societies, we have seen how rhapsodomantics both in antiquity and in the present appeal to the inclinations of particular people in ceaseless pursuit of meaning in order to find a place on which to stand in a world that may appear to be captured by unstable symbols. Rhapsodomantics is apparently attractive in situations of uncertainty or great distress before a great decision needs to be taken. It is a way of removing responsibility for one’s own actions by projecting them onto an allegedly supernatural agent. One of the attractions of rhapsodomantics is that it – from the point of view of the implied semantics – gives a glimpse into the promised land of stable meanings sanctioned by the irreversibility of a superhuman instance. Or, as Wotan in Der Ring des Niebelungen forebodes Fafner before his imminent death to Siegfried: “Alles ist nach seiner Art; an ihr wirst du nichts ändern”. In this manner, the divinatory practice signifies the pursuit of stable meanings or rather secure decisions that can be understood to triumph over

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

100

Petersen

contingency and arbitrariness. Incidentally, we may also note that this particular element makes it obvious to refer to rhapsodomantics in particular contexts. Rhapsodomantics – embedded in predictions of an ex post facto character – legitimises the actions taken by indicating their divine support. The paradox of rhapsodomantics is, of course, that it – comparable to other forms of divination – uses chance and randomisation in order to overcome the two. References Albinus, Lars, Josef G. F. Rothhaupt and Aidan Seery (eds.) (2016). Wittgenstein’s Remarks on Frazer. The Text and the Matter. On Wittgenstein 3. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Atance, Christina M. and Laura K. Hanson (2011). Making Predictions: A Developmental Perspective. In M. Bar (ed.), Predictions in the Brain. Using Our Past to Generate a Future, 311–324. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Atran, Scott (2002). In Gods We Trust. The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Augustine (1991). Saint Augustine Confessions. Translated with an Introduction and Notes by Henry Chadwick. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bar, Moshe (2011). The Proactive Brain. In M. Bar (ed.), Predictions in the Brain. Using Our Past to Generate a Future, 13–16. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barrett, Justin L. (2000). Exploring the Natural Foundations of Religion. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 4: 29–34. Betz, Hans Dieter (ed.) (1992). The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation Including the Demotic Spells. Second Edition. Volume One: Texts. Chicago/London: Chicago University Press. Bolte, Johannes. (1903). Anhang. Zur Geschichte der Losbücher. In J. Bolte (ed.), Georg Wickrams Werke. Vol. 4, 276–348. Bibliothek des literarischen Vereins in Stuttgart 230. Tübingen: 276–348. Bouché-Leclerq, Auguste (1963). Histoire de la divination dans l’antiquité. Vol. 1–4. Bruxelles: Culture et Civilisation (Reprint of the original 1879–82 Paris edition). Boyer, Pascal (2001). Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought. New York: Basic Books. Bremmer, Jan N. (1997). Divination. In H. Cancik and H. Schneider (eds.), Der Neue Pauly. Enzyklopädie der Antike, 709–714. Vol. 3. Stuttgart/Weimar: J. B. Metzler Verlag. Burkert, Walter (1985). Greek Religion. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Churchill, Winston S. (1938). The World Crisis. 1911–1918. Vol. 1. London: Odham’s Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

101

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

Courcelle, Pierre (1963). Les Confessions de Saint Augustin dans la Tradition Littéraire Antécédent et Postérité. Paris: Études Augustiennes. Eco, Umberto (1994). Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. Norton Lectures 1993: Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press. Enquist, Per Olov (2002). Lewis’ rejse. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Finkelberg, Margalit (2003). Homer as a Foundation Text. In M. Finkelberg and G. G. Stroumsa (eds.), Homer, the Bible, and Beyond. Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World, 75–96. JSRC 2. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Finkelberg, Margalit and Guy G. Stroumsa (eds.) (2003). Homer, the Bible, and Beyond. Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World. JSRC 2. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Fox, Robin Lane (1986). Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine. London/New York: Penguin. Friston, Karl J. (2010). The Free-Energy Principle: A Unified Brain Theory? Nature Reviews Neuroscience 11 (2): 127–138. Friston, Karl J., and Stefan Kiebel (2011). Predictive Coding: A Free Energy Formulation. In M. Bar (ed.), Predictions in the Brain. Using Our Past to Generate a Future, 231–246. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frith, Chris (2007). Making up the Mind. How the Brain Creates our Mental World. Oxford: Blackwell. Guthrie, Stewart (1993). Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heinevetter, Franz (1912). Würfel- und Buchstabenorakel in Griechenland und Kleinasien. Breslau/Graß: Barth & Comp. (W. Friedrich). Horsley, Greg H. R. (1982). New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity. A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1977. Vol. 2. North Ryde: Ancient History Documentary Centre, Macquarie University. Horst, Pieter van der (2002). Sortes: Sacred Books as Instant Oracles in Late Antiquity. In P. van der Horst, Japhet in the Tents of Shem. Studies on Jewish Hellenism in Antiquity, 159–189. Biblical Exegesis & Theology 32. Leuven/Paris/Sterling, VA: Peeters. Horst, Pieter van der (2019). Sortes Biblicae Judaicae. In AnneMarie Luijendijk and William E. Klingshirn (eds.) My Lots are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity, 154–172. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 188. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Humphrey, Caroline (1976). Omens and their Explanation Among the Buryat. Archives Européenes de Sociologie 17: 21–38. Johnston, Sarah I. (2008). Ancient Greek Divination. Chistester: Wiley-Blackwell. Johnston, Sarah I. (2015). Oracles and Divination. In E. Eidinow and J. Kindt (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion, 477–489. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

102

Petersen

Kisch, Yves de (1970). Les Sortes Vergilianae dans l’Histoire Auguste. Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire LXXXII (1): 321–362. Kooij, Arie van der and Karel van der Toorn (eds.) (1998). Canonization and Decanonization: Papers Presented to the International Conference of the Leiden Institute for the Study of Religions (LISOR), Held at Leiden 9–10 January 1997. SHR 82. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Lamberton, Robert (1986). Homer. The Theologian. Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition. The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 9. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press. Lang, Bernhard (1990). Buchreligion. In H. Cancik, B. Gladigow and K.-H. Kohl (eds.), Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe, 143–165, vol. 2. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Larson, Jenifer (2016). Understanding Greek Religion. London/New York: Routledge. Lawson, E. Thomas and Robert N. McCauley (1990). Rethinking Religion. Connecting Cognition & Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lisdorf, Anders (2007). The Dissemination of Divination in Roman Republican Times: A Cognitive Approach. Copenhagen: Unpublished PhD dissertation University of Copenhagen. Loane, Helen A. (1928). The Sortes Vergilianae. The Classical Weekly XXI (24): 185–189. Luijendijk, AnneMarie and William E. Klingshirn (2019a). Introduction. In A. Luijendijk and W. E. Klingshirn (eds.), My Lots are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity, 1–18. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 188. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Luijendijk, AnneMarie and William E. Klingshirn (2019b). The Literature of Lot Divination. In A. Luijendijk and W. E. Klingshirn (eds.), My Lots are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity, 19–59. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 188. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Luijendijk, AnneMarie and William E. Klingshirn (2019c). A. Luijendijk and W. E. Klingshirn (eds.), My Lots are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 188, Leiden/Boston: Brill. McCauley, Robert N. (2011). Why Religion Is Natural and Science Is not. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McCauley, Robert N. and Thomas E. Lawson (2002). Bringing Ritual to Mind. Psychological Foundations of Cultural Forms. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meerson, Michael (2019). Secondhand Homer. In A. Luijendijk and W. E. Klingshirn (eds.), My Lots are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity, 138– 153. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 188. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Pears, Ian (1997). An Instance of the Fingerpost. London: Vintage.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

103

The Naturalness of Rhapsodomantics

Pease, Arthur Stanley (1963). M. Tulli Ciceronis De Divinatione. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2003). Rhapsodomantik, mannakorn og tommelfingervers. RvT 43: 5–24. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2005). Constraining Semiotic Riverrun. Different gradations and understandings of authoritative writings. In Anders-Christian Jacobsen (ed.), Religion and Normativity. The Discursive Fight over Religious Texts in Antiquity, 22–41. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2016a). The Difference between Religious Narratives and Fictional Literature: A Matter of Degree Only. Religion. An International Journal 46 (4): 500–520. Reprinted under the same title in M. Altena Davidsen (ed.), Narrative and Belief: The Religious Affordance of Supernatural Fiction, 12–32. London: Routledge. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2016b). Wittgenstein’s Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough. An Emotional Philosophical Puppet. In L. Albinus, J. G. F. Rothhaupt, and A. Seery (eds.), Wittgenstein’s Remarks on Frazer. The Text and the Matter, 369–401. On Wittgenstein 3. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2018). Ritual and Texts. In R. Uro, J. J. Day, R. E. DeMarris, and R. Roitto (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual, 370–387. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Petersen, Anders Klostergaard (2020). Carrying Coal to Newcastle, or Much Ado about Nothing. In G. van den Hever (ed.), After Religion. London: Bloomsbury (forthcoming). Plato (1975). Plato in Twelve Volumes, vol. 8, Ion. Translated by W. R. M. Lamb, LCL. London/Cambridge, MA: Heinemann and Harvard University Press. Potter, David (1994). Prophets & Emperors. Human and Divine Authority from Augustus to Theodosius. Revealing Antiquity 7. London/Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Preisendanz, Karl (1928). Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die Griechischen Zauberpapyri vol. I. Leipzig/Berlin: Teubner. Preisendanz, Karl (1931). Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die Griechischen Zauberpapyri, vol. II. Leipzig/Berlin: Teubner. Pyysiäinen, Ilkka (2001). How Religion Works: Towards a New Cognitive Science of Religion. Cognition and Culture 1. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Pyysiäinen, Ilkka (2005). Forestilling og handling. Hvordan rituelle handlinger forstærker religiøse forestillinger. RvT 46: 27–45. Rothhaupt, Josef G. F. (2016). Wittgensteins „Bemerkungen über Frazers Golden Bough.“ Verortung im Gesamtnachlass – Einbindung in die Philosophietradition – Editions- und Publikationsgeschichte. In L. Albinus, J. G. F. Rothhaupt, and

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

104

Petersen

A. Seery (eds.), Wittgenstein’s Remarks on Frazer. The Text and the Matter, 11–83. On Wittgenstein 3. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Schjødt, Uffe (2019). Predictive Coding in the Study of Religion: a Believer’s Testimony. In A. K. Petersen, I. S. Gilhus, L. H. Martin, J. S. Jensen, and J. (eds.), Evolution, Cognition, and the History of Religion: A New Synthesis. Festschrift in Honour of Armin W. Geertz, 364–379. MTSR SS 13. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Scriptores Historiae Augustae (1967). The Scriptores Historiae Augustae, vol. I–III. Translated by David Magie, LCL. London/Cambridge, MA: Heinemann and Harvard University Press. Speyer, Wolfgang (1995). Religionsgeschichtliche Studien, 28–55. Collectanea 15. Hildesheim/Zürich/New York: Georg Olms. Verdenius, Willem J. (1970). Homer, the Educator of the Greeks. Mededelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afd. Letterkunde, New Series 33 (5): 3–27/207–231. Amsterdam/London: North-Holland Publishing Company. Veyne, Paul (1988). Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? An Essay on the Constitutive Imagination. Translated by Paula Wissing. Chicago/London: Chicago University Press. Weber, Max (1920). Zwischenbetrachtung: Theorie der Stufen und Richtungen religiöser Weltablehnung. In Max Weber, Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie I, 536– 573. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1979). Bemerkungen über Frazers Golden Bough. Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough. Edited by R. Rhees. English translation by A. C. Miles revised by R. Rhees. Pockthorpe Cottage, Denton, Harleston, Norfolk: Brynmill Press. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (2007). Lectures & Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief. Edited by C. Barrett. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 5

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination Dimitris Xygalatas 1

A Historical Overview of Greek Divination

Ancient Greek gods were treated as purposeful, personal agents, who took an active interest in the affairs of humans and interacted with them on a daily basis, in private and public matters alike. The mortals engaged in regular exchanges with them, trying to keep them satisfied by performing festivals and sacrifices, writing hymns and uttering prayers, and erecting temples and monuments. They frequently used divination to decipher their plans, and when the situation required it, magic to coerce them into helping them. Divinatory practices are already mentioned in some of the earliest Greek literary texts, such as Homer’s Iliad (1.60–65; 1.90–95; 2.830–835; 11.328–330; 13.65–75; 13.660–665) and Odyssey (1.200–202; 9.506–521). Such practices were attempts to communicate with the divine world in order to make better sense of the world of humans. From this perspective, the universe was interconnected and even the smallest, seemingly insignificant events or actions could reveal important information about the world. Thus, by using the craft of divination (mantikē tehnē), humans could not only predict the future but also ask important questions about the past and present, and more generally expand their knowledge about the cosmos (Flacelière 1976: 1–2; Martin 1987). Upon hearing about ancient Greek divination, most people think of its institutional practice by the oracles. The most important of those was the Delphic Oracle, where the priestess of Apollo (Pythia) communicated with the god in a state of ecstasy and offered divinely inspired prophecies – for an appropriate telecommunications fee. Other prestigious oracles included the sanctuaries of Apollo in Delos and the Ionic cities of Claros and Didyma, as well as those of Zeus in Olympia in the Peloponnese, Dodona in Epeirus, and Siwah in Egypt. However, the demand for divination could not be satisfied by the prophecies of the oracles alone. The Pythia only offered her services on the seventh day of each month between spring and autumn. Consultations had to be planned long in advance and were subject to availability due to the high demand. Other prestigious oracles were also in high demand, and consultation was often not

© Dimitris Xygalatas, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_006 .8A 8 8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

106

Xygalatas

guaranteed even after the long trip (Flower 2008: 2). There were, of course, less prominent oracular sites, but they were not considered equally prestigious – only major oracles like Delphi, Dodona and Olympia were thought to be infallible (see Bonnechere 2007: 147–150). In any case, visiting an oracle involved considerable effort and great financial cost for most people. Divinatory knowledge was urgently needed, and was therefore sough and found, readily and locally. All sorts of seers (manteis) performed divination using all kinds of omens, god-sent signs that appeared random to the untrained eye but could, if interpreted correctly, reveal the knowledge and will of the gods to humans. Some of those experts practiced divination by entering a state of trance or “enthusiasm”: getting possessed by various deities and speaking on their behalf, like the Pythia did, or by communicating with the dead (necromancy). Others derived answers from observing water (hydromancy, lecanomancy), the clouds (nephomancy), the air and other atmospheric phenomena (aeromancy), fire (empyromancy) or smoke (capnomancy), by burning substances such as herbs (botanomancy), laurel (daphnomancy), or salt (alomancy). Yet others sought to gain such knowledge by melting lead (molybdomancy), throwing soil (geomancy) or ashes (tephromancy) against the wind, observing melting candles (ceromancy, lychnomancy), burning straw with a hot iron (sideromancy), broiling a donkey’s head on coils (cephalonomancy), or burning things in general (causinomancy). Divination could also be performed by casting lots (cleromancy) or bones (osteomancy), or by the use of a crystal (crystalomancy), a sieve (coscinomancy), a wand (rhabdomancy), a mirror (catoptromancy), a ring (dactylomancy), an axe or hatchet (axinomancy), finger-nails (onychomancy), flour (aleuromancy), or gemstones (lithomancy). Omens were everywhere. They could be found in the flight patterns or the general behaviour of birds (ornithomancy), especially roosters (alectromancy), or wild beasts (theriomancy); in the entrails of sacrificial animals (hieroscopy); or in chance events, such as the random utterance of words (cledonomancy). And the list goes on and on. In addition, all kinds of unusual or improbable events were often seen as ominous. Natural phenomena such as earthquakes, thunder, lightning and eclipses were often considered as divine signs (Pindar, Paeans IX).1 As the signs of the gods were so abundant, one did not always have to appeal to a specialist to discover them. Indeed, all one had to do was go to sleep, as dreams were one of the most common and ancient means of divination. The importance and prophetic character of dreams is noted already since the time of Homer (Odyssey, 19.560–566). Aristotle dedicated two volumes on dreams 1 For more on the significance of meteorology in Greek divination, see Lebeau (2003).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

107

and divination (De Insomniis; De Divinatione per Somnum), and Artemidorus offered the most extensive treatise on the subject in his Oneirocritica (The Interpretation of Dreams) (Pack 1963). Due to their perceived revelatory potential, people developed techniques of intentionally inviting such dreams, for example by fasting, sleeping with a branch of laurel under one’s pillow, or spending the night in a sacred cave (Dodds 1951: 110–111). Prophetic dreams were particularly associated with heroes, and the practice of incubation (sleeping in a holy place) was often performed in their shrines. This custom gradually became so common than many of those shrines became specialized as incubation oracles. The practice of incubation was particularly associated with Asclepius. By the fifth century BCE, when Asclepius was elevated to the status of a god, his shrines, known as Asclēpieia, became popular centres of incubation. The most famous of those was the Asclēpieion of Epidaurus. Other prestigious incubation centres were the oracle of Trophonius in Levadhia and the sanctuary of Amphiaraus in Oropus. According to tradition, the original chthonic oracle of Delphi was also a dream oracle (Dodds 1951: 110). During the Hellenistic period, the notion of Fate remained a cornerstone of the Greaco-Roman view of the world. Fortune (Fortuna/Tychē), the personification of luck, became a very popular deity and a central concept in the doctrines of all major philosophical schools of that period (Martin 1987; Pachis 2003). Just like Fate, however, Fortune was not merely random chance. On the contrary, she was tied to the interconnectedness of all things, such that everything happened for a reason. Stoic philosophers spoke of a direct causal relation between the macrocosm and the microcosm; the lives of humans were determined by the movement of the stars and Heimarmēne (Nilsson 1949). Astrology thus became one of the most popular religious practices of the Hellenistic period and was considered as the most rational and scientific form of divination, an essential and indissoluble part of astronomy (Cramer 1954: 4; Cumont 1960; Martin 1987). With the advent of Christianity, however, divination progressively turned from an act of piety into an occult and sinful endeavour. All forms of communication with supernatural beings or powers other than those of the established religion were gradually forbidden (Trojanos 2008: 44; Mavroudi 2006). The Synod of Ankara (314 CE) stated that those who performed divination would be excommunicated for five years (canon 24),2 and the Synod 2 Canon 24 reads: “They who practice divination, and follow the customs of the heathen, or who take men to their houses for the invention of sorceries, or for lustrations, fall under the canon of five years’ [penance], according to the prescribed degrees; that is, three years as prostrators, and two of prayer without oblation”.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

108

Xygalatas

of Laodicea (343–381 CE) mandated that they be excommunicated for life.3 Nonetheless, divinatory practices remained popular among early Christians (Magdalino 2006; Tselikas 2008), for example, in the form of incubation in Christian shrines, aimed at provoking dreams or miracles. In the Byzantine world, attitudes toward divination were ambivalent. On the one hand, the Church was hostile towards all forms of divination, considering them as pagan, demonic and evil acts, belonging to the realms of magic and superstition (Magdalino & Mavroudi 2006). On the other hand, divination was popular among elite intellectual circles, whose members studied it and practiced it extensively (Walker 2008). Among the most prominent of these intellectuals was Michael Psellos, who lived during the eleventh century. Psellos promoted divination as a scientific endeavour, which he included in the general category of the occult (apocryphal) sciences and opposed it to magic and superstition (Philosophica minora I.; Epistula 188. See also Magdalino & Mavroudi 2006: 30). That endeavour sought to study the sympathetic and antipathetic forces that pervaded the world and held it together. Thus, for example, divination with the use of shoulder blades (scapulomancy or omoplatoscopy) was a legitimate medical practice, just as astrology was an established part of the science of astronomy. Byzantine scholars meticulously studied Greek, Roman, and late antiquity texts, which were replete with references to mantic practices. Homer’s epics, among the major sources of Byzantine schooling (Wilson 1996; Walker 2008), Artemidorus’ work on dream interpretation, Pausanias’ descriptions of the great ancient oracles, as well the collection of texts known as magical papyri, were some of the works that provided knowledge of ancient mantic traditions. Such knowledge is evident in middle Byzantine references on ancient as well as contemporary divination, which show a large degree of continuity in divinatory practices from archaic to late medieval times (Walker 2008; Greenfield 1988). 2

Divination in Modern Greece

In modern Greece, Orthodox Christianity dominates the religious landscape.4 The Orthodox Church has traditionally been a very potent institution in 3 Canon 36 reads: “They who are of the priesthood, or of the clergy, shall not be magicians, enchanters, mathematicians, or astrologers; nor shall they make what are called amulets, which are chains for their own souls. And those who wear such, we command to be cast out of the Church”. 4 The Greek Church claims that 97% of all Greeks are Orthodox Christians, and this is often depicted in official reports, such as the United States Department of State, 2008 Report on .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

109

Greece and, despite increasing secularization in recent decades, still has great influence at the administrative and political level. There is no separation between State and Church, and the educational system promotes the official dogmas of the Church through mandatory catechism and rituals.5 However, as it so often happens, folk religiosity differs significantly from the official theological doctrines of the Church (Slone 2004). People customize their own versions of Christianity, which often include notions rejected by the Church, such as belief in reincarnation (Stewart 2008a) or ritual practices condemned by the clergy, such as fire-walking (Xygalatas 2012). Similarly, the Church strictly opposes the practice of divination but nevertheless the laity (and even clergy) often blend divinatory notions and practices into their religious repertoire. The concept of Fate (Moira) is widely popular among Greeks (Pew Research Center 2017), who will often say that something happens because “it is written” (einai grafto). Random events are often interpreted as divine “signs” (sēmadia), and dreams are frequently thought to have special meanings. These divine signs require interpretation. And since the Church (officially) refuses to cover the high demand for divination, numerous other professionals offer divinatory services. Astrologers, card-readers, handreaders, psychics, mediums, sorcerers and other magicians advertise on television and print and online media and offer their services in person, over the phone, on the internet, or live television. All those experts, however, require a fee. But divination can also be performed for free, in the comfort of one’s home. Traditionally, one of the most common divinatory practices in Greece is “coffee reading”. It is commonly done by a woman who knows (usually by training passed down by a female relative) how to interpret the patterns of coffee leftovers in the cup after the beverage has been consumed. This is why the practice is referred to as “telling the cup” or “reading the cup” (leo/diavazo to flytzani). The cup most commonly reveals general information about the future, much like the predictions of astrologers, rather than answers to specific questions, like mediums do. Such International Religious Freedom – Greece (19 September 2008). However, this number is greatly exaggerated and is not based on surveys but on old police records, as until the year 2000 it was mandatory to state religious affiliation on identity cards. The de facto practice of police officers was to register everyone as “Christian Orthodox” unless otherwise stated, and most non-Orthodox citizens were unwilling to make such a statement due to discrimination based on religious belief. Although the surveys show these numbers to be significantly lower, Orthodox Christianity is by far the dominant religion in Greece and the overall rate of religiosity is among of the highest in Europe. 5 Greek Educational Law states that one of the goals of education is to “transmit the authentic elements of the Orthodox Christian tradition” (1/1A/1566/85). Orthodox catechism, formally under the guise of religious studies, is the most taught subject throughout the Greek schooling system (see Xygalatas 2012: ch. 8). .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

110

Xygalatas

information may refer to everyday issues, such as love affairs, personal relations, health issues, and professional careers. In addition to these on-demand techniques, a variety of other divinatory customs can be found in rural Greece. Georgios Megas (1988: 221–230) described a divinatory custom called klēdonas, which is practiced in various Greek villages on the summer solstice. This ancient custom6 combines a number of divinatory practices. On June 22, unmarried girls gather in a house and one of them (preferably someone whose name is Maria), is asked to fetch water from a nearby well or spring. This is called the “silent water” (amilēto nero), because the girl is not allowed to speak to anyone until her task is completed. When she returns, the water is poured into a clay bowl and each girl throws in a personal belonging, usually a piece of jewellery. Subsequently, the bowl is covered with a red cloth and left under the starlight overnight. That night, girls are said to have prophetic dreams about their future husbands. Before the sun rises, the pot is brought back into the house, and in the afternoon the girls gather again. Maria uncovers the pot and then, blindfolded with the red cloth, starts drawing the personal items that had been placed in the pot. For each item that is retrieved, a woman recites a randomly selected couplet. The attendants then suggest possible interpretations of the couplet, which is said to have a special meaning regarding the future of its owner. The Church has always condemned the practice of this custom, considering it as “pagan” or even “Satanic” (Agapius & Nicodemus 1864, note 1 on canon 65), which is a standard accusation against most non-Christian traditions in Greece. However, the concurrence of this practice with the day of Saint John Prodromos (June 23rd), who in some places is even called “Saint John Klēdonas”, has made it somewhat more acceptable. While the Church generally rejects divination as pagan and evil, however, folk divinatory practices regularly incorporate elements of Christianity. Nadia Seremetakis has described a divinatory ritual practiced in Mani using the bones of a deceased person (Seremetakis 1991). Three or five years after the burial, the relatives of the deceased proceed to the exhumation of the body, a practice normally performed by the Church (anakomidē). The bones are then cleaned and subject to divinatory “reading” by elder women, who claim to be able to read “letters” on the skull of the dead person. These letters are then interpreted to reveal the moral past of the deceased and his or her current condition. If the reading goes well, the soul of the deceased is thought to have 6 The practice of the klēdonas is based on the ancient practice of cledonomancy. Reports of its practice on the summer solstice and in its present form date back to the 12th century, when it is already condemned by the Church as evil. See Rallis and Potlis (1852: 456–460).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

111

found peace. If not, then prayers must be offered to help their passage to the other world (Green 2008). The Church willy-nilly tolerates such practices and local priests often participate (albeit often begrudgingly) in certain parts of the divinatory process, despite the official Church’s disapproval (Seremetakis 1991: 159–169, 189–195). Folk divination often draws its authority by association with those supernatural agents acknowledged by the Orthodox Church, most commonly the Christian saints. The worship of saints plays a key role in Greek Orthodox religion. Saints are the intercessors between God and humans, and most ritual practices are addressed directly to them. The saints are represented on Earth by their icons, which have special significance in Orthodox religiosity. Despite official Orthodox dogma, they are considered by believers to carry some of the essence and power of the saints they depict, and many of them are believed to be miraculous. These icons are often paraded around Greece’s major cities in elaborate state-sponsored ceremonies, and people travel long distances to visit them with the hope of being cured of some serious illness or receiving some other blessing.7 Not all saints are the same, of course. Each one is different, and they all have their own area of jurisdiction. For example, Saint Barbara is the patron of the Greek artillery and Saint Christoforos the patron of drivers. Saint Filothei protects from magic; and Saint Antonios from temptation; while Saint Xeni is the protector of alcoholics. Similarly, there are saints associated with healing, and they too have their areas of specialty: Saint Antypas is the protector of teeth, and Saint Artemios of testicles; Saint Barbarus protects from skin diseases, Saint Magdalene from hair loss. In addition, all cities, towns and villages have their patron saint. Saint Demetrios is the patron of Thessaloniki, Saint Andreas the patron of Ioannina, and so on. The saints are treated according to the do ut des principle, which involves a relationship of reciprocal exchange. People worship the Saints’ icons, carry amulets with their image, and make material offerings to them (tāmata). These offerings can vary from candles to expensive golden or silver ornaments. They are either given as a return for some perceived benevolence or as advance payment for a requested favour. Similarly, many people go on pilgrimages to 7 A well-known example is the island of Tenos, where it is claimed that the icon of Virgin Mary works miracles. Every 15th of August, day of the Assumption of Virgin Mary, hundreds of pilgrims arrive at the port, most of them going to worship the icon crawling on hands and knees. The church is one kilometre uphill, and temperatures at that time of the year can reach up to forty degrees Celsius. Many pilgrims faint during this painful ordeal, only to resume their journey as soon as they regain their senses and drink some water (Dubisch 1995; Stewart 1997).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

112

Xygalatas

monasteries, especially those that are believed to possess miracle-working icons, in order to ask a saint for help, either for themselves or for their loved ones. In exchange, the saints protect their believers and send them “signs” to guide them. There are local as well as personal preferences over one saint over another, but irrespective of their specific domain any saint can be evoked when help is needed. 3

Divine Revelation among the Anastenaria

Among the communities of the Anastenaria in Northern Greece, the saints of choice are Constantine and Helen (Danforth 1989; Xygalatas 2011, 2012). The Anastenaria are Orthodox Christians, but in addition to the Church rituals they observe a distinct annual ritual cycle focused on the worship of the two saints. The most important event in this cycle is a festival dedicated to those saints, which lasts for three days and includes various processions around the village, an animal sacrifice, music, and ecstatic dancing. The most dramatic moment of the festival is a fire-walking ritual, where participants carry the icons of the saints while dancing over glowing embers. This tradition was started by Greek populations at the Black Sea coast of Eastern Thrace, an area that was at the time part of the Ottoman Empire but today belongs to Bulgaria. After the Balkan wars, the Anastenaria migrated to Greek Macedonia, bringing with them their icons and their rituals. Already from the time of their performance in Eastern Thrace, the Orthodox clergy had persecuted the Anastenaria, accusing them of idolatry, threatening and beating the firewalkers and trying to burn their icons. Therefore, when they arrived in Greece, they performed their rituals in secret out of fear of further persecution. Indeed, when the Church found out, their icons were confiscated; priests and theologians wrote against them in the press; and they were often ridiculed and threatened with excommunication (Xygalatas 2011). Today, the Church is still hostile towards the Anastenaria, claiming that their practices are not in line with the Orthodox religion, and accusing them of paganism. The Anastenaria refute these accusations and declare that they are pious Christians. They believe in the Orthodox tradition and participate in Church rituals. In fact, they tend to be particularly devout, and when their Christianity is questioned, they take offense and argue their case passionately. We are as good Christians as anyone. In fact, maybe more than the others, because we do all the things the rest of the Christians do, but we also

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

113

have this extra [fire-walking]. The priests say we are pagans. But we only worship the icons, the same icons that they have in the churches. And if they call us pagans, then why did they take our icons from us and moved them into their church? Personal interview with an Anastenaris

They say that the Anastenaria are evil. How can they be evil, if we use candles, incense, icons, everything the Church uses? The Anastenaria are Christian. Personal interview with an Anastenaris

The icons of the saints are thought to have special powers and can reveal divine knowledge to those who know how to read them. Divinatory practices are often used in times of illness, misfortune, or danger. In such circumstances, the Anastenaria will often call the elders, who will examine the icons to elicit information about the saints’ will and suggest a solution to the problem. But for those who know, the saints reveal their will and wisdom constantly, through sending them “signs” (sēmadia). The range of those signs appears to be boundless. To an outsider, they might seem as random or ordinary events; but to the Anastenaria, they are meaningful manifestations of the saints’ will. One of the most common forms of signs comes in dreams. Dreams are often considered to have metaphysical significance, especially in times of anxiety or illness (Stewart 1997). They can be prophetic or symbolic of forthcoming events, and people frequently appeal to experts for their interpretation. It is common in Greece to ask someone whether they “know about dreams”, meaning whether they are good at interpreting them. Indeed, several popular editions of books on the interpretation of dreams (oneirokrites) are sold in bookstores and kiosks. Most people will be able to recite some of the countless interpretations that circulate (e.g. if you dream of a boat, it means that you will go on a journey). These interpretations vary locally and are often contradictory. Elders and women are traditionally considered more knowledgeable and reliable when it comes to the interpretation of dreams. The Anastenaria commonly relate dreams to the saints, even if the connection is not immediately obvious. If an unfamiliar man appears in a dream, this is frequently interpreted as being Saint Constantine, while a woman might be taken to be Saint Helen, and any words they utter will be taken to have special meaning. Very often a dream may seem unimportant, but eventually a later event may be considered as relevant and interpreted in terms of that dream. A woman once narrated to me various dreams that she had had, and attributed

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

114

Xygalatas

a meaning related to the saint to each one of them. Finally, she described another dream and told me: This dream I had 20 years ago, and still haven’t been able to find a meaning for it. But I am sure that one day something will happen to me in such a way, that the dream will make sense. Personal interview with an Anastenarissa

Divinatory dreams are a common theme in Greece, especially in rural areas, where local traditions are often formed based on some alleged prophetic dream that occurred in the (often mythical) past. Narratives of these legendary dreams create a framework which effectively conditions subsequent dreams, and thus the different unique narratives of dreams tend to converge into recurrent schemas and motifs. In this way, personal dreams become filtered through the specific social framework of interpretation into patterned narratives (Stewart 1997: 889–890). Charles Stewart (2003) has described how in the 1820s the finding of an icon of the Virgin Mary after the alleged prophetic dream of a nun in the island of Tēnos inspired a series of similar dreams in the nearby island of Naxos. There, at the village of Koronos, another icon was found in 1836 but was stolen shortly thereafter. Almost one century later, in 1930, a young schoolgirl from Koronos had another revelatory dream, which led to the rediscovery of the icon. An epidemic of dreams soon broke out among young schoolgirls in the village, predicting the finding of another icon. Although that icon was never found, the dreams triggered a prolonged and extensive treasure-hunt among the locals, who blasted and dug away much of the mountainside in their search. A millenarian doctrine emerged, and still exists, according to which the finding of the second icon would signal an era of prosperity for the village. In similar fashion, the legends of the Anastenaria recount prophetic dreams that revealed the locations of sacred icons and wells in Eastern Thrace. After the migration of the Anastenaria to Greece and their settlement in five villages of Greek Macedonia, similar occurrences of revelatory dreams emerged in all those communities, which were associated with their icons and sacred wells. While the Orthodox Church opposes the tradition of the Anastenaria, it recognizes the veracity of prophetic dreams involving Christian saints or icons. According to the Christian tradition, Saint Constantine himself had a prophetic dream in which he foresaw his victory over Maxentius (Lactanius, De mortibus persecutorum, 44.5). Finding the icon of a saint after a prophetic dream automatically renders the icon miraculous, and the Church considers

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

115

such icons to be particularly important (and very profitable), often building shrines and churches specially to host them. 4

The Case of the Evil Eye

Thus, the religious establishment has often unofficially tolerated deviations of folk religiosity from its formal dogma. This happened particularly at a local level, where it was easier for community priests to do so without addressing incompatibilities with formal Orthodox doctrine. In fact, the attitude of the local clergy has often come in opposition to the official position of the Church. In several occasions, however, the Church followed an “if you can’t fight them join them” strategy by incorporating beliefs and practices it used to reject. An apt example of this strategy is the concept of the “evil eye”, which is associated with what is perhaps the most common divinatory practice in modern Greece. Belief in the evil eye (vaskania/matiasma) is very widespread in Greece (Pew Research Center 2017), even among those who do not identify as religious. In fact, the majority of Greeks are convinced that there is some vague scientific reason for the evil eye, having to do with some sort of magnetic radiation or some general form of “energy” emitted from the eye. This pseudoscientific explanation, however, is contradicted by its treatment with a religious ritual. The evil eye is frequently evoked as a probable cause of some sudden or inexplicable malady or misfortune in Greece (Veikou 2008; Herzfeld 1981, 1984, 1986; Stewart 1991; Danforth 1989: 79). It can be inflicted not only upon individuals and their loved ones, but even on their livestock or material possessions. The evil eye can be cast, willingly or unwillingly, through intense gaze by someone who feels envious of another person’s physical appearance, material belongings, or professional success. Certain categories of people, like Roma or blue-eyed individuals, are believed to be particularly likely to inflict someone with the evil eye. To protect themselves against this misfortune, many people keep special amulets in their houses and cars, or as pendants. Another apotropaic measure people often use is spitting in the air when they feel that someone is envious of them, or spitting on a person, particularly on small children, when commenting on their good looks, in order to avoid inflicting them with the evil eye. When people believe that they have been struck by the evil eye, they will usually turn for help to an elder woman who has knowledge of the subject. The

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

116

Xygalatas

woman will then make a diagnosis by means of a divinatory ritual. Although there are many variations of this ritual (see Stewart 2008b; Veikou 2008), a typical version involves pouring a few drops of olive oil into a bowl of water while making the sign of the cross and then observing the patterns formed by the oil on the surface of the water. These patterns are thought to reveal the answer. If the patient is indeed diagnosed as suffering from the evil eye, then the woman will perform a different ritual to cure them, usually involving sprinkling some of the oil and water on the person, making the sign of the cross, thinking of a secret prayer and spitting three times into the air. This ritual resembles the official un-bewitching rituals performed by the Orthodox Church, which involve sprinkling of holy water (ayiasmos), and the baptism ceremony, which requires a godparent to spit thrice while denouncing Satan (Stewart 2008b: 91–92). Many elder women in Greece claim to be able to perform such rituals, so the most common person to appeal to for protection from the evil eye is usually one’s mother or grandmother. Some individuals, however, may acquire a reputation for being a particularly adept evil-eye-diviner (xematiastra), and offer their services (typically free of charge) to anyone in need. If a diviner cannot be found in proximity, one may often ask for a diagnosis and treatment over the phone. The concept of the evil eye has a long history in Greece, and the Eastern Mediterranean in general, predating the appearance of Christianity.8 Early Church Fathers rejected this notion as superstition and tried to eradicate it (Stewart 2008b). But as it so often happened with the Orthodox Church, when it was unable to suppress a certain popular practice, it legitimized it and incorporated it into its doctrine. Thus, the Greek Church today officially accepts the notion of the evil eye and attributes it to the work of the Devil and personal sin (particularly envy). To cure it, it offers a formal treatment by means of exorcism with a special prayer, which must be read by a priest (Vaporis 1986). However, the Church offers no special divinatory ritual for the diagnosis of the evil eye, and simply suggests consultation with a confessor. As for the folk rituals related to the diagnosis and treatment of the evil eye, the Church rejects them as equally evil as the targeted force itself.

8 Belief in the evil eye probably originated in the Middle East, and its spread can be traced historically alongside the expansion of Indo-European peoples. Today, this belief is particularly widespread in the Middle East, the Mediterranean, Latin America, and South and Central Asia (Dundes 1992).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

5

117

Divination in the Oven

While the Greek Church officially rejects divination, there is one notable divination practice that is performed in various parts of the country with the approval and active participation of the Church. This is related to Saint Fanourios and the practice of baking a pie which facilitates the saint to reveal the location of lost things. According to legend, an icon depicting the torturing of a Roman soldier inscribed with the name “Saint Fanourios” was found in Rhodes (or, according to others, in Cyprus) in the sixteenth century. Based on this alleged finding, a narrative with many variants developed around the saint’s name. This narrative includes stories about the saint’s sufferings, his martyrdom defending the Christian faith, and the performance of various miracles. Moreover, Saint Fanourios has become the patron of all things lost and found (an association of unknown origin) which might well be based simply on an etymological similarity (the name Fanourios originates from the verb faino, which means to show or reveal). Therefore, those who lose something valuable often bake a pie called fanouropita and offer it to the saint so that he will help the baker retrieve what has been lost. The offering of the fanouropita traditionally takes place on August 27th, the day of Saint Fanourios, but it is also often baked ad hoc, i.e. when an important possession is lost or a loved person disappears. The pie contains flour, orange juice, sugar, dry fruits and spices, and must not contain eggs or dairy products, although there are local variations in the recipe. It must contain a total of nine ingredients (according to others seven or eleven) and must be baked in a specific ritual manner. Here too, there are local variations. In some places the pie must be prepared with an icon of Saint Fanourios on the table, while in others it must be cooked under candlelight, as the saint is often depicted in icons holding a candle in his hand. Once the pie has been baked, it is taken to the church, where a priest reads a special prayer over it and offers a blessing. He then carves the sign of the cross on the pie with a knife. Subsequently, the pie is divided into 40 pieces and offered to the congregation, or sometimes to passers-by. According to some local variations, it must be consumed by the members of at least seven different families; according to some others, it must be eaten by a woman (or seven women) named Mary. But the entire pie must be eaten and none of it may be thrown away. Those who eat the pie must in exchange ask God to forgive the saint’s mother, who was allegedly a prostitute. When the ritual offering has been made, the saint will either reveal the lost object in people’s dreams or simply allow the donor to find it. For unmarried girls, placing a piece of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

118

Xygalatas

the pie under the pillow may reveal the identity of their future husband in their dreams. 6

The Integrative Dynamics of Greek Religiosity

As we have seen, divination has always been an integral part of Greek religiosity. For the ancient Greeks, the notion of random chance was inconceivable. Everything happened for a reason and everything meant something, even if it was not always obvious. Divination offered a glimpse into the universal scheme of things and the relations between seemingly unconnected events. Roman legislation imposed certain constrains on these activities by outlawing private sacrifices and divinatory rituals, which were deemed as superstitio, but allowing their practice in public, which was then considered religio. The first Christian Emperors gradually reinforced the opposition to magic and divination, and by the time of Emperor Theodosius II (408–450) all forms of divination, private and public, were banned (Bailey 2007: 52–53). However, the appeal of divinatory practices never went away. Orthodox Christianity has very effectively managed to dominate Greek religious life, yet never managed to tame folk religious concepts and accomplish a high degree of theological correctness among its members. Christianity was established by political means and transmitted through widespread and systematic religious training and policing from both Church and State.9 On the other hand, folk religious concepts are popular because they are based on more spontaneous, intuitive reasoning about the world, as opposed to theological concepts, which are the product of intentional elaboration and explicit teaching (McCauley 2011). This situation creates tensions between two different sets of religious concepts that are usually resolved through the gradual, dialectic transformation of both systems. Divination is a widespread and intuitive form of religious reasoning (Boyer 1994). Every day of our lives we need to make countless decisions. Should I buy that expensive dress, or should I save the money? Should I have the cheesecake or the brownie? Should I drink beer or wine? Finding the answer to such mundane dilemmas often seems difficult, as both options seem equally appealing. If only someone would just tell us what to do, it would make things so much easier! As waiters know very well, one of the most common dialogues over dinner tables is: 9 The Greek Constitution establishes the Eastern Orthodox Church as the “dominant religion” (3.1), and this is the only religion in Greece that constitutes a legal person of public law.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

119

What are you having? — I don’t know, how about you? It somehow seems easier to decide by transferring the choice to someone else. This is also the logic behind flipping a coin to arrive at a decision. If we are equally divided between two decisions, then anything that points to one rather than the other will do. So, we decide that we will accept whatever verdict is made by the coin, and this makes our decision a bit easier, as we now have a reason to do so. It may not be a good reason, and we know it, but it is still a reason nonetheless (Dennett 2007: 132–135). However, when we need to make important decisions, tossing a coin is just not good enough. Certain things are too important to be taken lightly. Should I abort or have the baby? Should I risk my money in that investment, or should I keep it in the bank? Should we go to war or negotiate peace? Such dilemmas can be paralyzing, especially when the benefits in choosing one option over the other are unclear. Equally devastating are certain questions regarding our existence in the world and society. Will I live or will I die? Does she love me or not? Who will win the election? Surely, no one would trust such important matters on a mere coin toss. But what about a card-reader, or the stars? What about a spirit or a saint? How does a mere coin toss differ from examining a stack of cards, the movement of Venus, or a spirit in the sky? All the above function in roughly the same way. By resting the decision on an external source, one effectively transfers responsibility for making the decision to that source (Steadman & Palmer 2008: 137–147). However, cards and stars are more important than coins because they carry the implicit assumption that they involve some sort of supernatural agency, whether personal or impersonal. This assumption is often made explicit, when the agent of divination is some deity, which adds to the status of the specific divinatory practice. And when this deity is also one recognised by the established religion, then the idea becomes even more palatable. This appropriation of Christian deities leads to hybrid forms of religious expression. The Church rejects these expressions not because they are so different from its own doctrines and practices, but simply because they do not have its authorization. In the case of astrologers, psychics, mediums or other diviners, this opposition is clear and self-evident. Since they are professionals, such experts constitute a direct threat to the supernatural monopoly of the Church. They are considered not as pseudo-scientists or charlatans, but as being evil or misguided by Evil itself. However, the local divinatory practices of rural Greece offer a different kind of challenge, as they often draw from the established religion in terms of their

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

120

Xygalatas

ritual form and supernatural agents. This process effectively adds to the appeal and authority of those practices and at the same time offers some degree of defence from accusations of idolatry, as their proponents do not accept that their practices are incompatible with membership in the Orthodox Church. The Church may be walking on thin ice when opposing such practices. For if they are performed by Christians, in the name of Christian deities and/or by the use Christian ritual actions, how can they be evil? Moreover, these practices often go back countless generations and carry the weight of tradition, a concept that can sometimes be as important as religion itself (Xygalatas 2021). In many cases, opposing such widely held practices might alienate people from the Church and bring a significant loss of clientele. A more effective strategy is to tolerate these practices locally, discretely consulting believers to avoid customs that are not in line with the official doctrine. But when certain beliefs and practices become so popular that the Church can no longer ignore them, then it often chooses to integrate them to its official doctrine. This dynamic relationship between folk religion and official doctrine has been characteristic of Greek religiosity since the introduction of Christianity. While Christian dogma was imposed by decree, the particular Greek expressions of Christianity developed through local elaboration and have led to a special dialectic relationship between Orthodoxy and rural culture (Stewart 2008b). In this relationship, the dividing line between folk magical and divinatory customs and formal Orthodox practice is significantly blurred. Acknowledgements I would like to thank the Program in Hellenic Studies at Princeton University, where I wrote this chapter while holding a Ted & Elaine Athanassiades Research Fellowship. References Bailey, Michael D. (2007). Magic and Superstition in Europe: A Concise History from Antiquity to the Present. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Bonnechere, Pierre (2007). Divination. In D. Odgen (ed.), A Companion to Greek Religion, 145–159. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Boyer, Pascal (1994). The Naturalness of Religious Ideas. A Cognitive Theory of Religion. Berkeley: University of California Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

121

Cramer, Frederick H. (1954). Astrology in Roman Law and Politics. Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 37. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Cumont, Franz (1960). Astrology and Religion Among the Greeks and Romans. New York: Dover. Danforth, Loring M. (1989). Firewalking and Religious Healing. The Anastenaria of Greece and the American Firewalking Movement. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Dennett, Daniel (2007). Breaking the Spell. Religion as a Natural Phenomenon. London: Penguin. Dodds, Eric Robertson (1951). The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Dubisch, Jill (1995). In a Different Place: Pilgrimage, Gender and Politics at a Greek Island Shrine. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Dundes, Alan (1992). The Evil Eye: A Casebook. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Flacelière, Robert (1976). Greek Oracles. London: Paul Elek. Flower, Michael Attyah (2008). The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Green, James W. (2008). Beyond the Good Death: The Anthropology of Modern Dying. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Greenfield, Richard P. H. (1988). Traditions of Belief in Late Byzantine Demonology. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert. Herzfeld, Michael (1981). Meaning and Morality: A Semiotic Approach to Evil Eye Accusations in a Greek Village. American Ethnologist 8 (3): 560–574. Herzfeld, Michael (1984). The Horns of the Mediterranean Dilemma. American Ethnologist 11 (3): 439–454. Herzfeld, Michael (1986). Closure as Cure: Tropes in the Exploration of Bodily and Social Disorder. Current Anthropology 27 (2): 107–120. Lebeau, Anne (2003). Orages et Embellies chez Euripide. In C. Cusset (ed.), La Météorologie dans l’Antiquité, 264–274. Saint-Étienne: PU Saint-Étienne. Magdalino, Paul (2006). Occult Science and Imperial Power in Byzantine History and Historiography (9th–12th Centuries). In P. Magdalino and M. V. Mavroudi (eds.), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium, 119–162. Geneva: La Pomme d’or. Magdalino, Paul and Maria V. Mavroudi (2006). Introduction. In P. Magdalino and M. V. Mavroudi (eds.), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium, 11–37. Geneva: La Pomme d’or. Martin, Luther H. (1987). Hellenistic Religions: An Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press. Mavroudi, Maria V. (2006). Occult Science and Society in Byzantium: Considerations for Future Research. In P. Magdalino and M. V. Mavroudi (eds.), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium, 39–95. Geneva: La Pomme d’or. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

122

Xygalatas

McCauley, Robert N. (2011). Why Religion Is Natural and Science Is Not. New York: Oxford University Press. Megas, Georgios (1988). Ελληνικές Γιορτές και Έθιµα της Λαϊκής Λατρείας. Athens: Οδυσσέας. Nilsson, Martin P. (1949). A History of Greek Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pachis, Panayotis (2003). Ίσις Καρποτόκος. Thessaloniki: Βάνιας. Pack, Roger (1963). Artemidori Daldiani Onirocriticon Libri V. Leipzig: Teubner. Pew Research Center (2017). Religious Belief and National Belonging in Central and Eastern Europe. http://www.pewforum.org/2017/05/10/religious-belief-and -national-belonging-in-central-and-eastern-europe/. Rallis, Georgios and M. Potlis (1852). Σύνταγµα των θείων και Ιερών κανόνων, vol. II. Athens: Γ. Χαρτοφύλαξ. Seremetakis, Nadia (1991). The Last Word: Women, Death, and Divination in Inner Mani. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Slone, Jason D. (2004). Theological Incorrectness: Why Religious People Believe What They Shouldn’t. New York: Oxford University Press. Steadman, Lyle B. and Craig T. Palmer (2008). The Supernatural and Natural Selection: The Evolution of Religion. London: Paradigm. Stewart, Charles (1997). Fields in Dreams: Anxiety, Experience, and the Limits of Social Constructivism in Modern Greek Dream Narratives. American Ethnologist 24 (4): 877–894. Stewart, Charles (1991). Demons and the Devil: Moral Imagination in Modern Greek Culture. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Stewart, Charles (2003). Dreams of Treasure: Temporality, Historization and the Unconscious. Anthropological Theory 3 (4): 481–500. Stewart, Charles (2008a). Le Diable Chez les Grecs à l’Époque Contemporaine: Cosmologie ou Rhétorique. Terrain 50: 100–113. Stewart, Charles (2008b). Magic and Orthodoxy. In J. C. B. Petropoulos (ed.), Greek Magic; Ancient, Medieval and Modern, 87–94. London: Routledge. Trojanos, Spyros N. (2008). Magic and the Devil. From the Old to the New Rome. In J. C. B. Petropoulos (ed.), Greek Magic; Ancient, Medieval and Modern, 44–52. London: Routledge. Tselikas, Agamemnon (2008). Spells and Exorcisms in Three Post-Byzantine Manucripts. In J. C. B. Petropoulos (ed.), Greek Magic; Ancient, Medieval and Modern, 72–81. London: Routledge. Vaporis, Michael (1986). Daily Prayers for Orthodox Christians: The Synekdemos. Brookline, MA: Holy Cross Orthodox Press. Veikou, Christina (2008). Ritual Word and Symbolic Movement in Spells Against the Evil Eye. In J. C. B. Petropoulos (ed.), Greek Magic; Ancient, Medieval and Modern, London: Routledge.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Evil Eyes and Baking Pies: Aspects of Greek Divination

123

Walker, Alicia (2008). Meaningful Mingling: Classicizing Imagery and Islamicizing Script in a Byzantine Bowl. The Art Bulletin, XC: 1 (March): 32–53. Wilson, Nigel (1996). Scholars of Byzantium. Cambridge, MA: Gerald Duckworth. Xygalatas, Dimitris (2011). Ethnography, Historiography, and the Making of History in the Tradition of the Anastenaria. History and Anthropology 22 (1): 57–74. Xygalatas, Dimitris (2012). The Burning Saints. Cognition and Culture in the Firewalking Rituals of the Anastenaria. London: Equinox. Xygalatas, Dimitris (2021). The Power of Ritual. London: Profile Books.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 6

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen As mentioned in the Introduction, the category of divination has a long and, at times, contentious history in both anthropology and the scientific study of religion.1 It is used to denote a significant number of human practices found in a wide variety of cultures, both historically and geographically. If one consults the standard encyclopaedic entries on divination,2 an extremely muddled picture emerges. Like other broad categories, such as ‘religion’ and ‘magic’, ‘divination’ is used to cover a significant range of behaviours brought together by one simple, but rather abstract denominator: that otherwise undisclosed information is unveiled through extraordinary means. One of the reasons for this muddled picture is that the category of divination is created by a double negation. Not only is divination defined as a process aimed at obtaining otherwise undisclosed knowledge of some sort; the methods used to obtain that knowledge are further understood as being in contrast to ordinary or, indeed, scientific ways of obtaining knowledge. As we shall see, there is some truth to this observation, but it is hardly helpful if left at that. Moreover, when closely examining specific aspects of the practices performed, a number of important differences appear concerning whether: (1) the information obtained is about the future, present or past; (2) the information originates from gods, spirits or ancestors; (3) the practice involves manipulation of animals, inanimate objects or a special technique; (4) individuals are being possessed by superhuman agents; or (5) the practice merely involves the reading of environmental cues. This muddled picture indicates that divination is an ‘impure object’ that cannot be explained by reference to a single theory (Boyer 1994), and the use of divination as an easy-accessible, pragmatically established category referring to a range of phenomena must be supplemented by a closer attention to underlying causal processes. No single theory will be able to explain all divinatory practices. Rather, a number of different hypotheses must be constructed in order

1 The author wishes to thank Anders Lisdorf, Pierre Liénard and Kirstine Munk for helpful comments and suggestions, and to Deborah Licht for improving the language. 2 For example, Hastings (1908) and Eliade (1987). The muddled picture of divination has produced a large number of taxonomies. See Peek (1991) for a condensed overview.

© Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_007 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / -8

AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

125

to address each of the different aspects of behaviour traditionally described as ‘divination’. As noted above, the only common denominator across these different practices is the obtainment of otherwise undisclosed knowledge. It therefore would be a natural step to base an explanation of divinatory practices on what we know about human cognitive processing. Unfortunately, very few studies of divination have been conducted that have incorporated cognitive science (see Boyer 1990; Lisdorf 2004 and Struck 2016, for exceptions). The focus on cognitive underpinnings, however, does not preclude that divinatory practices can have other causes and effects, as for instance those argued by more traditional anthropologically inspired approaches. There is no doubt that divinatory practices can express social power relations, reify religious beliefs-systems, conceptualise Self in relation to Other, and alleviate anxiety or social tension (e.g., Harwood 1970; Park 1963; Peek 1991). It is, however, questionable whether this is always the case, or whether the performance of divination will sometimes have opposite effects. Using these characteristics to explain divination will not enable us to distinguish these practices from other human practices with similar effects. In contrast, divinatory practices, by definition, always use a method to obtain knowledge and information and therefore cognitive theories should naturally play a central role in any attempt to explain this type of human behaviour. A proper understanding of the constraining role of human cognition in turn will make it possible to address the relation between specific types of divinatory practices and their social functions in a more informed manner. The present chapter outlines some of the questions a cognitive approach should address and presents a number of tentative hypotheses. Thus, it should be understood in the spirit of an exploratory survey of problems and preliminary suggestions of how to resolve them. Divinatory practices potentially activate a whole catalogue of cognitive mechanisms. As different kinds of divination are likely to trigger different sets of cognitive mechanisms, this chapter starts with the presentation of two variables that are likely to impact cognitive processing. The first variable is based on the type of signs involved. When obtaining information from the environment, it is of crucial importance to determine what types of signs are involved and how cognitive processing connects signs to events. The second variable is the temporal dimension relevant when the undisclosed information is acquired. This addresses the relative positions of cognising agents in relation to the information disclosed by the divinatory practice and whether the information is about past, present or future events. The focus then is on a central problem of all information gathering: how does the information acquire credibility? As this question is particularly pertinent in divinatory practices, a

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

126

Sørensen

number of contextual variables of divinatory practices are investigated. First, it is argued that information sought for falls within a limited repertoire, namely that of strategic social information (Boyer 2001). Second, representations of the role of the ritual agent play a crucial part when judging the reliability of information. Information should not be represented as coming from the diviner if it is to be considered reliable. Third, the actions performed in divinatory practices are structured in a way that potentially heightens the credibility of the information obtained. Identifying the cognitive processes activated as a result of these variables makes it possible to present hypotheses that would explain why certain divinatory practices are more successfully transmitted and, as a consequence, why divinatory practices seem to cluster around a universal repertoire. The approach presented in this chapter is based on two tentative premises. The first premise is that humans universally need to acquire certain types of information about their physical and social environments, and that this need has led to the development of a range of cognitive mechanisms devoted hereto. The extent to which these mechanisms are the product of innate structures or if they develop through epigenesis as a result of recurrent structures in the environment or, most likely, a combination of the two is of no consequence for the following argument. The second premise is that different types of divinatory practices activate different combinations of cognitive processing. From a cognitive perspective, no special processes are involved in divination. Rather, divinatory practices trigger cognitive systems whose development was prompted by other evolutionary and environmental pressures. Some of these cognitive systems therefore are best conceived of as heuristic means to answer species-specific and environmentally recurrent, adaptive problems (Boyer & Barrett 2005; Tooby & Cosmides 2005). It is important, however, that we distinguish the proper domain of information processing from the actual domain from which the information is retrieved. Whereas the proper domain designates the kind of information that a given cognitive mechanism developed to process, the actual domain specifies the kind of information that merely fulfils the input-conditions of a particular cognitive mechanism (Sperber 1994, 2005). Thus, new types stimuli can be produced that, by virtue of their format, activate pre-existing cognitive mechanisms. Distinguishing between proper and actual domain is relevant in the context of divination for three reasons: First, some of our most fundamental cognitive mechanisms are adaptations that address species-specific problems. Thus, certain kinds of environmental cues recurrently trigger specific types of cognitive processing. When the environment changes, new cues emerge that activate different combinations of evolved cognitive mechanisms. Second, much of the human environment today is ‘cultural’ in the sense of that it is artificial .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

127

or sculpted by humans. Evolved cognitive mechanisms produce a selective pressure on such cultural forms. Those that best fit evolved mechanisms are more likely to be salient and memorable and are therefore more likely to be transmitted (Sperber 1996; Boyer 1994, 2001; Boyer & Ramble 2001). Stable cultural patterns are also likely to feedback into individual’s cognitive make-up establishing certain types of behaviour as frequent and thereby informing the future behaviour of both self and other. But, as this chapter explores universal features of divination, the nature of this feedback will not be discussed (see Sørensen, 2019). Third, (c) present-day human practices need not be adaptive, even if they trigger cognitive mechanisms that serve adaptive functions when addressing their proper domain. Thus, divinatory practices utilise a number of cognitive processes that evolved to address species-specific problems; the most successful practices are the ones that consistently present cues that activate these cognitive systems; and, in contrast to claims based on traditional social functionalism, divinatory practices need not be adaptive or functionally integrative in themselves. They become relevant due to the activation of cognitive processes developed to serve other functions. 1

Two Analytic Variables of Divinatory Practices

Two dimensions are of primary importance whenever humans attempt to extract undisclosed information from the environment. The first dimension is essentially semiotic, as it concerns the types of signs that convey the soughtafter information. At a fundamental level, humans must be able to distinguish between two types of signs: (a) communicative signs, that is, signs based on the intentional reordering of some aspect of the physical world in order to transmit information (e.g., an arrow drawn in the sand); and (b) indexical signs, which by being part of a causal sequence point to other aspects of the sequence (e.g., footprints of a hare), even if such a sign relation was not intended. The second dimension is temporal, as it concerns whether signs are conveying information about the past or about the future and the relative position of the cognising agent. This dimension is crucial for deciding in what way available information can inform future actions. As fundamental aspects of information retrieval, both dimensions are directly relevant when searching for variables that influence the form and function of divinatory practices. 1.1 Communicative vs. Indexical Signs There is strong evidence that distinct cognitive systems are involved in processing communicative and indexical signs. At a minimum, communication involves an agent with communicative intentions and access to information. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

128

Sørensen

This involves complex representations of the intentional state of the communicating agent, of the symbols used to communicate and of the relation between the two. Developmental psychologists argue that during the first four years of life children develop a host of competences often referred to as a ‘Theory of Mind’. On a non-conscious and intuitive level, this ability to read others mind supplies a number of expectations about the behaviour of other agents (Gopnik & Wellman 1994; Leslie 1994, 1995; Frith & Frith 1999; Wellman et al. 2001; Perner & Ruffman 2005; Schaafsma et al. 2015). When faced with another agent, we automatically infer that this person has belief-states guided by perception and we assume, as a default assumption, that an agent’s actions are informed by specific beliefs and desires. Such expectations constrain our understanding of communicative behaviour. Discerning the intentions underlying an act of communication is crucial in extracting its relevant semantic content. Further, it has been argued that human communication is informed by principles of relevance and truthfulness (Grice 1969; Sperber & Wilson 1995). Acts of communication are not only processed as reflecting the communicator’s intentions and beliefs, but as a default strategy we assume that the communicator has the intention of transmitting contextually relevant information. It is hard to imagine how communicative rapport could ever be established without such an implicit assumption of relevancy (why bother to communicate?). We also assume that the information conveyed is true (Gilbert et al. 1990; Gilbert et al. 1993; Bergstrom et al. 2006). Without this default assumption of veracity, communication would not have been established as a stable evolutionary strategy. Thus, consistent communicative deceitfulness is a self-defeating strategy (in the long run), as it undermines its own basis, if communication inflicts more costs than benefits on the organism. This by no means suggests that communication is not sometimes deliberately irrelevant or deceptive, or that we never recognise such deception. In fact, humans might have evolved cognitive systems whose function is to detect deceit (Cosmides & Tooby 2005). Without a consistent background of communicative truthfulness, however, deception would be impossible. Many divinatory practices are based on alleged communication with superhuman agents such as spirits, ancestors or gods. This is clearly the case in divination by means of possession (see Cohen 2007), but some go further and argue that most, if not all, divinatory practices involve representations of intentional agents communicating through some medium, whether material or human (Lisdorf 2004). The assumption is that divination, per definition, is an act of communication with superhuman agents that have access to information otherwise unavailable to the subject. There is no doubt that many

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

129

divinatory processes, indeed, are based on a representation of the involvement of superhuman agents of some sort. At the end of this chapter, I attempt to explain why acts of divination involving ritualised and randomised behaviour make such assumptions attractive to the human cognitive system. Still, it is premature simply to claim that all divinatory practices are based on represented communication. A significant number are more likely to be the result of understanding signs as indexes (Boyer 1990): instances where a given sign (e.g., a footprint) is causally related to an event (e.g., a hare passed by) without involving any representations of an agent intentionally communicating, that is, deliberately producing a sign in order to communicate. Understanding signs as indexes is likely to be the result of very different cognitive processes than is intentional communication. Indexical relations are represented in a number of ways, both causal and probabilistic: smoke indicates the presence of fire; a footprint indicates that a person passed by; water at a specific location indicates that there might be water there in the future; and a ball rolling towards the end of a table indicates that it is likely to fall off. A common feature uniting the examples above is that ascriptions of indexical relations are model dependent (i.e., depend on the existence of a mental model relating some, but not other, perceptual data to each other), and that such models are crucial components in our brains perpetual attempt to predict the immediate future.3 At this point it would be helpful to distinguish between three types of models involved in establishing indexical relations. The first type is based on intuitive causal reasoning. There is growing evidence that, from an early age, children entertain expectations about the causal properties of physical objects, namely so-called ‘naive’ or ‘intuitive physics’ (Baillargion et al. 1995; Spelke et al. 1995, Kubricht, Holyoak & Lu 2017). These, in turn, give rise to more complex predictions about the causal unfolding of events. Causal knowledge of physical objects also pertains to the physical aspects of living things, i.e., bodies and their interactions with the surrounding environment. The footprint of the hare precisely indicates its former presence due to its body’s physical interaction with an imprintable surface. Thus, from an early age, humans entertain a large number of causal and probabilistic models that guide expectations for events in the world. The second type of model is based on associative learning relating contiguous features of the environment to each other. This has been referred to as ‘weak’ or ‘arbitrary’ causal knowledge, in contrast to the ‘strong’ or ‘natural’ causal knowledge described above (Kummer 1995; Premack 1995). This 3 The brain as a prediction machine is a prevalent metaphor underlying much current cognitive neuroscience informed by a predictive processing account, see Clark (2013) for overview.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

130

Sørensen

well-documented aspect of both animal and human learning underlies classical conditioning theory of human learning. Experiments based on the behaviourist paradigm have established that under certain conditions both animals and humans form strong associations between apparently arbitrary perceptual stimuli and these are often related to automatic behavioural responses. A bell can function as an index of food, which in turn will result in salivation, as in Pavlov’s famous experiment. This example points to a strong temporal constraint on this learning process. All relevant stimuli must be both salient (in order to stand out from perceptual noise) and contiguously related in space and time in order for conditioned learning to take place (Kummer 1995). Once in place, however, such associative models can contain persistent indexical connections between otherwise causally unrelated events. This brings us to the third type of model, which can be described as based on cultural learning. Cultural transmission makes it possible not only to transmit models originally established through conditioned learning to an individual not encountering these stimuli, but also to create systems of ‘artificial indexes’, i.e., indexes based on neither intuitive causal knowledge nor associative learning. A barometer can indicate the likelihood of imminent rain. The vial of the barometer and the rain have no direct causal connection, even though both are causally related to a common cause of low atmospheric pressure. This embedded causal structure, however, need not be cognitively represented in order to guide behaviour. In fact, often such knowledge will be utterly superfluous for everyone except for the few individuals constructing the system. Models based on cultural learning make it possible to have a much longer time interval between a sign and an effect than is the case in associative learning. The relation therefore must be established and maintained by other means in order to be transmitted. Recent cognitive theories suggest that the evocation and memory of such culturally learned relations can be developed by different methods, all with particular cognitive effects: by the associations themselves being salient, e.g., by being minimally counterintuitive (Boyer 1994, 2001); by being often repeated and explicitly taught (Whitehouse 2000); or by being linked to individually salient events as exemplars (Bering 2002). These three different types of mental models all contain indexical signs linking events to ‘causal’ scenarios that in turn can be used to inform behaviour. Some divinatory practices are based on indexes related to such mental models. Many instances of so-called ‘mechanical divination’ (Reynolds 1963) fall into this category, even if superhuman agents are evoked to ensure that the process unfolds correctly. Reading tea leaves, throwing dice and sticks, or interpreting the footprints of a fox are all based on relating signs to events based on an established model. This is also the case for the widespread ‘beliefs’

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

131

in and transmission of portents and omens. There is no reason to assume that portents, such as a black cat crossing the road as sign of imminent danger or seven years of unhappiness resulting from breaking a mirror, need involve any representations of a communicating agent. Further, we find many examples of divinatory systems in which a conventionally specified configuration of physical features is understood as indicating some (future) state of affairs. Thus, chiromancy specifies a relation between lines in a person’s hand and specific aspects of his or her (future) life, and astrological systems claim a concordance between patterns of celestial objects and individuals’ destinies. Again, it is questionable whether people automatically represent such signs as acts of communication, even in cases where a more or less explicit underlying ‘lore’ specifies such a connection. Whether these actions are necessarily understood as communicative acts intended by a superhuman agent or as mere conventionalised systems of signs that indicate a specific state of affairs must be decided by means of empirical investigations, such as detailed ethnography and psychological experimentation (Lisdorf 2015). The cognitive constraints underlying this semiotic dimension thus have an important impact on the possible form of divinatory practices. Understanding physical features of the world, whether it be birds’ migratory patterns, lines in the hand or the movements of celestial bodies, as indexes of a past or coming event, need not involve representations of these as communicative signs. Such relations are more easily explained as dependent on intuitive causal reasoning, conditioned learning and cultural learning, which guide probabilistic reasoning about future events and help explain past events. In contrast, understanding signs as communicative will automatically trigger very specific cognitive systems involved in representing the intentions of other agents, in representing how this information has relevance to the subject, and in relating these representations to the signs produced in order to understand their meaning. So, from a cognitive perspective, there seem to be two optimal forms or attractors of divinatory practices: the first is based on mental models allowing a sign to function as an index pointing to a future or past event. No communicative agent is represented. Instead the sign is more or less ‘causally’ connected to the event. The second attractor is based on representations of communicative behaviour. Instead of being directly related to the event, an intentional agent uses a sign to transmit information about a past or future event by means of some system of conventional reference. A preliminary hypothesis therefore would be that a divinatory practice is better transmitted and more easily disseminated if it reliably produces specific cues that trigger either or both of these cognitive modes.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

132

Sørensen

Temporal Orientation: Prognostic vs. Diagnostic and Retrospective vs. Prospective As mentioned above, the goal of divinatory practices is to obtain otherwise undisclosed knowledge. This knowledge, however, can be about past, present or future events (Zeitlyn 2012). In addition, knowledge is not obtained for its own sake, but because it can be used to guide future actions. Divinatory practices therefore must be explained as part of a more comprehensive representation of a number of inter-related event-frames (Fillmore 1982), that is, strings of representations or chunks of events that prototypically involve an agent, an action and an outcome. This analytic variable thus deals with the relative position and orientation of the divinatory practice in a more prolonged unfolding of events. The variable can be described according to two axes. The first axis depicts the temporal relation between a sign and its referent. This relation can be either that of a diagnosis concerning how something came to be (e.g., why a person is suffering from a disease or why the harvest failed) or a prognosis concerning what the future holds, usually in relation to some specific endeavour (e.g., the prospects of submitting a job application). Whereas the diagnostic process is based on a sign pointing backward to a prior event, in prognostic practices participants understand signs as pointing forward to a coming event. The distinction can be illustrated graphically as a temporal relation between a sign and an event (Figure 6.1). In both cases, the event is represented as either ‘producing’ the sign (index) or, alternatively, being a communicative sign that tells the skilled interpreter something that another agent knows. If we first address indexical relations, the logic of the diagnostic frame is quite obvious, as when the footprint is understood as having been produced by the passing hare. Indexical relations in the prognostic frame are more problematic, as it is unclear how a future 1.2

diagnostic EVENT

prognostic SIGN

SIGN

EVENT

TIME

figure 6.1 This figure illustrates the temporal relation between an event and a sign. In the case on the left, the event is seen as temporally preceding the sign and thus as either ‘causing’ its production (index) or prompting its production by an agent’s wishing to communicate its knowledge (communicative). In both scenarios, the sign points to a preceding event. In the case on the right, the sign points to a future event that is somehow represented as either causing or prompting the intentional creation of the prior sign.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

133

event, i.e., an event that has yet to take place, can be seen as ‘producing’ a sign. This apparent contradiction of causal principles (in which an effect cannot be prior to a cause) has led to numerous speculations about the ‘irrationality’, ‘prelogical’ or symbolic mind of people engaged in this sort of practice (e.g., Lévy-Bruhl 1926/1985). This framework of primitivism and exoticism has hindered a proper understanding of divinatory practices as, to a great degree, it is based on a flawed comparison between divinatory practices and causal relations as specified in formal logic. If we instead compare divinatory practices to our everyday cognition of causal relations based on either of the three mental models presented above, this apparent breach of causality becomes less exotic: the sign is embedded in a causal scenario linking specific events; the sign is embedded in a weak causal scenario based on conditioned learning; or the sign is embedded in a cultural conventional model, whether based on a superfluous correlation or unrecognised underlying causal connections. All three models allow the prediction of future events based on perceptions of specific signs. Two further features of event-frames can explain why such models need not entail breaches of causal principles. First, the action can be causally underspecified and accepted solely on the authority of the agent and/or the techniques involved in producing the sign. Second, the signs can be communicative and therefore not directly related to the event, but instead form part of a model involving an agent communicating knowledge of a future event by means of a symbol. Both of these features activate Theory of Mind mechanisms: the first by involving representations of the expert’s knowledge and authority, that is, the metarepresentations involved in evaluating the action (Sperber 1996); the latter by involving an agent’s intentions to use communicative signs to disseminate information. This, however, transforms the problem of prognosis into one of how agents can gain access to knowledge of future events, why they transmit particular types of information, and why the communication takes such strange forms in certain practices (discussed below). Thus, the apparent violation of causal principles can be explained by the three types of mental models that relate signs and events or by the activation of Theory of Mind mechanisms verifying the relation by means of authority or interpreting the sign as communicative. The second axis concerns the temporal position from which this recognition of a relation between a sign and an event is made, i.e., the viewpoint of the subject claiming a connection. In some cases, an omen/portent/sign is seen only retrospectively as a prognosis of an event, i.e., after the event has taken place (e.g., “Wasn’t a black cat crossing the street prior to the accident?” or “God tried to tell me not to go”.). In general, retrospective representations of omens or signs are part of explanatory event-frames. These frames can consist of already

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

134

Sørensen

established cultural models relating specific signs to types of events (black cat crossing ⇒ accident). Alternatively, they are constructed as a need arises, for example when a specific and salient state of affairs is explained by linking it to another salient event reinterpreted as a sign. Anthropologist Gilbert Lewis recounts a telling example of the latter: A Gnau man fell ill with a bad knee. Trying to explain how this had come to be, he remembered that just after the onset of the pain, a cricket had jumped onto the bad knee. This had temporarily coincided with the passing of a young woman outside his hut whose grandfather had died from a leg infection caused by a specific ‘shade’, i.e., a malevolent spirit. Lewis 1995: 560–561

The explanation thus produced indicated that the spirit of the dead uncle had followed the young woman, entered into the cricket, which, upon touching the man’s knee, had alerted the ‘shade’ that then made the knee go bad. At first, this explanatory frame was widely accepted and a number of rituals were performed in order to persuade the ‘shade’ to stop hurting the man. Later this explanation was rejected, as the rituals addressing the shade had no effect on the man’s condition. Besides a number of interesting features of contagious transfer and the relation between diagnostics and ritual action, the example illustrates how a salient event (the onset of knee pain) can be explained by linking it to other salient events (cricket jumping, woman passing by). In contrast to the use of omens as signs that explain specific salient events, divinatory sessions include a type of technical behaviour aimed at producing signs disclosing information about events. They are thus prospective in the sense of a motivated production of signs capable of disclosing information. In contrast to the explanatory status of the retrospective use of omens, prospective divination involves a specific action creating a sign understood as related to an event. In Figure 6.2, both diagnostic and prognostic relations are represented in terms of this distinction between retrospective (explanatory) and prospective (behavioural) aspects of divination. The importance of these distinctions lies in how divinatory practices are related to more comprehensive representations of interrelated events and actions and how they influence the future actions of people. Creating conceptual tools to analyse the position of divinatory practices in the construction of complex representations of events will enable a better understanding of how the information gained can be said to influence human behaviour. Further, when analysing the temporal dimension and the types of signs utilised, we can distinguish between cases of portents and omens, on the one hand, and ritual divination on the other. Omens are more or less stable cultural models or ad .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

135

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

retrospective (explanatory)

prospective (behavorial)

diagnostic

diagnostic

EVENT

SIGN

prognostic

SIGN

S

EVENT

EVENT

S

SIGN

S

S SIGN

prognostic

EVENT

TIME

figure 6.2 In this figure, the circle with an S represents the viewpoint of the agent(s) participating in the divinatory practice. In both cases of explanatory use, the agent retrospectively recognises a relation between a sign and an event. In the case of (prospective) divinatory rituals, the agent’s viewpoint is attached to the sign produced through ritual behaviour.

hoc produced indexical relations used both to predict future states (e.g., birds’ flight indicating a warm summer) and as retrospective explanations (e.g., “The cat crossing the road should have told me I would have an accident”.). Divinatory sessions are always prospective as they involve active behaviour, namely the creation of new patterns of signs (whether this is about past or future events). Disclosure of otherwise hidden knowledge by means of specific techniques is, potentially, a very persuasive practice, as it can be aimed directly at specific but, as yet, undecided questions (e.g., “Should I marry Victoria?”). This contextual embeddedness and specificity have interesting cognitive effects. First, it activates the issue of authority. When the creation of a sign is associated with a specific ‘technique’ or privileged access to information, matters of authority and competence become significant. Even more important, it tends to embed the whole practice in a communicative frame, in which a question is posed and an answer is given. As a default, communication involves the interaction with another agent and, as we shall see below, divinatory practices contain a number of features that potentially strengthen representations of hidden agents. 2

Three Contextual Variables of Divinatory Practices

A central aspect of divination not yet discussed is how the information revealed in divinatory practices acquires legitimacy. Are there any particular features that .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

136

Sørensen

enhance the veracity of information acquired through divinatory practices? Addressing this question might enable us to predict what types of divinatory practices are successfully transmitted. The traditional answer is that superhuman agents guarantee the truthfulness of information disclosed by divinatory practices. However, not all practices involve superhuman agents. Further, this does not explain how and why divinatory practices can affect representations of superhuman agents. Questions concerning veracity and the potential role of superhuman agents can be examined by addressing three contextual variables. First, the reliability of information depends on the type of knowledge that is sought. Therefore, it is crucial to map what information is actually disclosed in divinatory practices. Second, evaluating the source of information is essential in all judgements of reliability. We therefore must investigate the role of individuals participating in divinatory sessions, and in particular the role of the diviner. Finally, the veracity of information depends on the method used to acquire it. We must specify the particular features prevalent in divinatory practices, most notably the central role of ritualisation and randomisation. 2.1 Type of Information At first glance, it seems that divination is used to search for all types of information: whether a journey will be successful, a harvest plenty or a business proposal prosperous; what caused a specific disease, who killed a family-member, or whether a witch has cast a curse on someone. On closer look, however, it becomes clear that the type of information is not random, but falls within a rather limited repertoire. In line with the arguments of evolutionary psychology presented in the introduction of this chapter, humans do not randomly pay attention to all types of input from the environment (at least not until the creation of science). Rather, we are biased towards seeking specific types of information relevant in dealing with recurrent adaptive problems. Divinatory practices overwhelmingly supply two types of information of adaptive value. The first type of relevant information relates directly to the physical well-being of the subject and his or her immediate family. Information about potential dangers to life, potential sources of afflictions and diseases, and the availability of sufficient nutrition and resources can be difficult to obtain but are highly relevant for the survival of an organism. The second type of information has a more indirect impact on the fitness of an organism, as it concerns long-term social interaction within a group. Humans have an endemic interest in strategic social information (Boyer 2001). Knowing who is having sexual relations, who is forming coalitions and who are trustworthy co-operators represent recurrent types of social information of great importance when planning activities involving a social group.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

137

Evans-Pritchard’s list of reasons why Azande use the poison oracle is consistent with these two types (Evans-Pritchard 1937: 261–262). Of the 30 items on his list, 9 are directly related to potential threats to physical well-being and reproduction (conception, childbirth, sickness, death, journey etc.), 16 are about social information (marriage, job, performance of ritual, adultery, sorcery, decision of superiors etc.) and 5 potentially fit both (time of circumcision, war, and journey to collect poison for oracles; see Harwood 1970 for similar results). It is a recurrent finding in both history and ethnography, however, that problems of the first type are very often addressed in terms of the second type. Even when underlying causal relations are recognised, threats to physical well-being and reproduction are consistently explained as caused by malevolent human(-like) agents. The reasons for this curious tendency to understand threats to the organism in terms of actions of intentional agents are complex and cannot be addressed here (see Guthrie 1995; Kelemen 1999, 2004; Barrett 2000; Boyer 2001; Atran 2002). It suffices to point out that representing threats or misfortunes as caused by intentional agents has three effects that might go some distance towards explaining their prevalence: (a) Contiguous events can be understood as linked even when they are causally disconnected. Thus, the representation of a liable intentional agent allows a car accident, the death of a cow and a daughter’s disobedience to be linked into a coherent and meaningful pattern of events (Favret-Saada 1980); (b) Individual or existential aspects of an event (i.e., not why the roof collapsed but why this person was under the roof at the time it collapsed) fit well with an intentional framing according to which events are caused by agents. Thus, addressing the particularity of the situation and its existential relevance and seeing events with social effects as a result of social causes might be a natural response (Evans-Pritchard 1937; Lewis 1995; Bering 2002); and (c) Framing an intangible physical threat in terms of intentional agents moves possible countermeasures from the physical to the social domain and thereby facilitates representations of possible control. Divinatory practices are often an integrated part of a large series of event frames involving ritual actions ‘responding’ to causes revealed through divinatory practices (Sørensen 2007a). Thus, the type of information acquired through divinatory practices is overwhelmingly of a social nature involving the interaction of agents. A hypothesis associated with this would be that culturally successful divinatory practices, i.e., divinatory practices that are faithfully transmitted and whose information is deemed to be reliable, transform threats to individual fitness into previously undisclosed interactions between intentional agents. A further hypothesis would be that the disclosure of otherwise hidden social information makes representations of superhuman agents particularly relevant, as these are

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

138

Sørensen

generally conceived as having privileged access to this type of information (Boyer 2001). The social character of divinatory knowledge and the potential role of superhuman agents lead naturally to questions concerning the source of information. 2.2 Source of Information In contrast to trivial information about the physical world, receiving socially strategic information inevitably makes the receiver judge its source to a greater degree. Being told by Joan to avoid a particular path, as the river has flooded the banks, is easily verifiable. Being told by Joan to avoid Peter, as he is angry with Max, is more difficult to verify and representations of Joan’s social motives and her social relation to both Peter and Max will automatically influence judgements of the information’s veracity. Cases of divination in which the information is represented as a direct indexical reflection of some state of affairs (as when tea leaves indicate a coming misfortune) represent the relatively simple situation in which one person relates a given sign to a specific event constrained by the principles described above. The reliability of the information thus depends on the general reliability of the model and how well the current situation fits the model. When the divinatory practice involves a specific technique and/or a specific instrument, however, there is a widely documented tendency to treat the technique/instrument itself as a kind of agent (e.g., most of the Zande divinatory techniques, the Yijing and the tarot cards). The degree to which these are really cognitively represented as full-fledged agents is debated and is a subject ripe for experimental research. A hypothesis explaining at least aspects of this ‘spontaneous animism’ would be that they are a (superficial) result of the pragmatic situation. A specific question is posed and is subsequently ‘answered’ by means of the oracular techniques/ instrument. This provides cues of a communicative event involving two intentional agents (one posing questions, another giving answers). As only one is present the other is inferred, similar to how automatic responses by Siri on an iPhone or Amazon’s Alexa activates representations of a conscious interlocuter. Another modern analogue would be the experience of overhearing someone on the phone. The existence of an agent at the other end of the line is automatically assumed, even though all cues come from the person present. It is ultimately an empirical question, to what extent communicative cues necessarily lead to the representations of hidden agents in divinatory practices. In cases in which a ritual specialist is involved, the situation becomes more complex. Ritual agents are generally characterised as special because they have knowledge of certain techniques and/or privileged access to special

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

139

instruments necessary to produce specific patterns of signs. In addition, they are often the only ones that can ‘read’ the result of the divinatory action – they are represented as having the hermeneutical keys necessary to relate signs produced by a ritual technique to past or future events. In many cases, these special abilities are represented as stemming from a more or less direct contact with superhuman agents. But, even when this is not the case, humans tend to understand social categories as reflecting essential differences. Accordingly, diviners are represented as belonging to a delineated social category of persons with a number of specified essential qualities and the performance of a diviner is measured against a model containing a number of expectations for his or her behaviour and abilities (Boyer 1994, 2001; Hirschfeld 1995). Further, ritual agents are automatically represented through a number of Theory of Mind mechanisms. In line with other agents, diviners have representational states, beliefs, desires, intentions and so forth, and these are generally assumed to guide their behaviours. A number of factors, however, modify representations of ritual agents in the context of divinatory rituals. First, diviners have a special relation to the knowledge produced. The clients assume as a default that the diviner is ignorant of the desired knowledge prior to the divinatory session. A number of ritual techniques exist to ensure such representations. In the most extreme cases, the ritual agent ‘disappears’, i.e., is possessed by another agent with access to the information sought after (Cohen 2007). In other cases, diviners are imported from far away, thus ensuring their ignorance of local affairs (e.g., Harwood 1970). Even if these examples appear rather dissimilar, both signify that the concrete ritual agent, with potential interests in a local situation, does not influence the result of the divinatory session. The prevalence of these practices indicates that clients are worried about the role of the ritual agent and the possibility of manipulation and hidden motives. The problem with the veracity of social strategic information is also manifest in the special relation between the ritual agent and the divinatory practice. The pattern of signs resulting from the ritual technique is generally represented as being beyond the control of the diviner (otherwise there is no reason to perform the action). Whether the spirit communicates through a possessed ritual agent, or a pattern of sticks indicates the identity of a witch, the signs produced through a divinatory session should indicate some true state of affairs rather than the intentions of the diviner (cf. Boyer 1990). Preliminary experimental results confirm this. In an experimental setting, participants consistently rated information created through actions beyond the intentional control of the diviner as more credible than information received through patterns intentionally created by the diviner (Lisdorf 2015).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

140

Sørensen

This does not mean that diviners never have access to relevant knowledge prior to the ritual performance, or that they never intentionally or unintentionally influence the result of an otherwise random process (Swancutt 2006). The point is that successful divinatory techniques will employ a number of cues that makes it likely for the client to think the diviner has no prior knowledge and that he or she does not influence the result of the divinatory practice. One hypothesis would be that the diviner’s authority and, ipso facto, the long-term cultural transmission of the divinatory technique is dependent on the diviner disclosing relevant information despite not knowing anything in advance and not intentionally controlling the actions he or she performs. The disengagement of divinatory actions from the intentionality of the diviner can be understood as leaving room for representations of other intentional agents. As mentioned above, divination has traditionally been conceived as a practice of communicating with gods, spirits or ancestors. This would establish the truthfulness of the signs because they originate from a, presumably, reliable superhuman agent. As we have seen, however, divination is not dependent on such representations of communication, but can work on established indexical connections. But even if superhuman agents are not necessary, we still need to explain why representations of gods, spirits and ancestors are so prevalent in divinatory practices. Perhaps it is the result of the communicative frame mentioned above. Seeing divination as a questionanswer sequence automatically leads to representations of an agent supplying the answer, and what could be more natural than inserting a reliable superhuman agent as the missing part of the dyad? This would be further prompted by the fact that the social information acquired is ‘hidden’ and therefore must stem from agents with special access to social strategic information. Another possibility is that superhuman agents are primarily evoked to authorise knowledge already acquired. They are not part of the process of acquiring information itself, but are effective guarantors for the veracity of the information and the appropriateness of the methods used to obtain it (Sperber 1996). Both of these possibilities go some way to explain the role of superhuman agents in divinatory actions. In the final part of this chapter, I explore a third possibility: that certain features common in the methods of divination make representations of superhuman agents relevant. 3

The Method of Gathering Information

As mentioned in the introduction, one of the only commonalities of divination is that the knowledge sought after is acquired by ‘extraordinary’ means. This

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

141

raises an intriguing question. If the knowledge is acquired in a special way, do features of the actions themselves add to the veracity of the information obtained? At this point, it is important to emphasise that ‘special’ or ‘extraordinary’ should not be confused with their cultural rareness or local participants’ surprise at the methods and content of the session. Divinatory practices (i.e., the prospective creation of signs) are part of daily life in many cultures where their performance hardly raises any interest in people not directly involved. Rather, what is intended is that both observer and practitioner understand divination as a special way of gaining knowledge, used in special situations in order to gain specific kinds of otherwise non-available social information. Most divinatory practices are thus classified in the vernacular, sometimes even distinguishing between different types. The ‘oddness’ of divination cannot be explained (away) as a product of the scholar’s cultural background. Two special features are often mentioned in the literature as setting divinatory practices apart. First, divination is often described as a type of ritual action. Second, a large number of divinatory practices involve some degree of randomisation. This combination of ritual and randomness might seem rather surprising. Whereas ritual actions are generally understood as involving a fairly fixed set of actions that must be performed in the right sequence (i.e., they are stipulated), randomness introduces disorder and unpredictability into the action. The conflict, however, is only superficial. Randomness is only allowed to enter at specific points in the divinatory session. Further, investigations of the potential cognitive effects of both ritualised actions and randomness point to common characteristics. Even if not all divinatory sessions are considered rituals, there is no question that divinatory practices often involve some degree of ritualisation. The problem of specifying the sense in which divinatory practices are types of ritual is aggravated by the notorious difficulty in achieving a scholarly, accepted definition of ritual and ritualisation (for recent attempts, see Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994; Rappaport 1999; Liénard & Boyer 2006; Boyer & Liénard 2006; Sørensen 2007b; Legare et al 2012). However, a number of recurrent features seem to be widely recognised and, of these, two are especially important for the present argument. First, ritual actions are causally underspecified. This means that the very actions that constitute a ritual sequence are not causally related to each other or to their overarching goal. No domain-specific, intuitive causal assumptions relate eating sanctified bread to receiving grace, or a specific configuration of cards to a future event. This causal underdetermination is in contrast to cognitive representations of ordinary actions that entail strong expectations of the causal relations between individual sequences of an action (e.g., putting money in a pocket; riding a bike to the bakery) as well as between

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

142

Sørensen

individual actions and an overarching intention (buying a cake; see Sørensen 2007b, for discussion and Nielbo & Sørensen 2011; Nielbo, Schjødt & Sørensen 2013, for experimental evidence). One might argue that understanding divination as a communicative act solves this problem. Just as there is no intrinsic relation between a word and the thing it denotes, divinatory signs communicate by means of a symbolic language with conventional references. This explanation, however, transforms rather than solves the problem. If divination is a type of communication, why does it consistently violate ordinary expectations of communication? Distorted language, formations of geometrical figures, random configurations of sticks or cards, cracks on the bones of animals or footprints of a fox are all far from the prototype of intentional communication – spoken language. Even when the oracle has the form of a linguistic encoded message, this is more often than not put in a cryptic form that sets it apart from ordinary linguistic interaction (see Klostergaard this volume). In order for divinatory practices to serve as communication, an expert interpreter is needed to link the sign to the meaning. This is similar to the process of more pragmatically oriented ritual actions, in which the purported effects of the ritual actions are specified by explicit and often conventionalised interpretations. The second relevant feature of ritualised actions is that the actions performed are underspecified by the intentions of the agent. The violation of causal connections between action and effect mentioned above means that ritual actions have a mechanical and stipulated character (cf. Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994). This is by no means confined to ritual actions. If I have no clue why a sequence of actions, say baking a cake, has a particular effect, I better perform it in strict adherence to available instructions. Similarly, if a ritual action sequence is said to produce a specific result and there are no implicit cues relating the actions performed and this result, the best strategy would be to stick to the stipulated action. This fixation to the behavioural sequence endows the whole procedure with an ‘objective’ feeling. Actions are not causally specified by the intentions of the actor, but learned as a fixed sequence (if you receive the Holy Communion do X, if you want to know who cursed you do Z). However, as the actions nevertheless activate cognitive mechanisms involved in processing actions, this might lead to an automatic search for an agent, whose intention can specify the causal and the intentional relation between the actions performed and the purported result (Lisdorf 2004; Sørensen 2007a, 2007b). Thus, the particular form of a divinatory ritual is not specified by the intention to acquire a specific type of information (as when looking for signs of a prey). Rather, they are conventionalised, and sometimes

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

143

ritualised, actions subsequently used to acquire the types of information described above. A claim following the argument above is that ritualisation enhances representations of the diviner as not influencing the result of the action. Ritualisation thus ensures that the information acquired reflects ‘reality’ rather than the diviner’s intentions. A further claim is that ritualised actions in general have the additional effect of making representations of superhuman agencies directly relevant: (a) they supply a causal link specifying how the signs produced by the ritual performance can be informative (either by directly being controlled by the superhuman agent, or by this agent specifying a definite indexical relation between the sign and the event); (b) they supply an intentional link between the actions and results, specifying whose intentions defines the actions performed (Sørensen 2007b). One prediction would be that representations of superhuman agents are more likely found in divinatory sessions with a high degree of ritualisation than they are in similar divinatory practices with a low degree of ritualisation. Predicting the future by casually turning a card from a deck of tarot, is less likely to produce representations of intervening superhuman agents than is the same practice when embedded in a ritualised action sequence specifying exactly how the cards should be mixed and placed, lighting seven candles on a round table, specifying the bodily posture of the diviner etc. Reading the astrological column in the daily newspaper is less likely to produce representations of intervening superhuman agents than is participating in an astrological session. Further, representing some involvement of superhuman agency could potentially enhance the transmission of a divinatory practice, as this would vouch for the accuracy of the divinatory technique and certify the veracity of the information disclosed. This brings us to the issue of randomisation. As mentioned above, there is a superficial contrast between the stipulated character of ritualised actions and the random actions present in numerous divinatory rituals. The poison oracle can either make the fowl die or live (Evans-Pritchard 1937) and, as such, the actions are not strictly stipulated. This discrepancy might be explained by reference to the overall pragmatic purpose of the ritual action, which imposes an overall structure on the action sequence. Due to their causal underdetermination, rituals that aim to have a specific result (e.g., ensuring an abundant harvest or appeasing the gods) will have to stipulate the central actions necessary to produce the desired effect. By contrast, the purpose of divinatory rituals is to create signs that relay information about certain states of affairs. A degree of flexibility in the possible results therefore is called for. As mentioned above, the diviner should not influence the result and the primary function of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

144

Sørensen

randomisation is to achieve this effect. Randomising the very method of producing a sign effectively inhibits representations of the diviner as having intentional or even unintentional control over the result.4 However, research into the psychology of gambling indicates that randomisation has additional cognitive effects. When a gambler throws his or her dice, there is a ‘withdrawal’ of intentionality, i.e., the gambler cannot intentionally control the outcome of the action. This, however, tends to make gamblers have more or less explicit representations of other intentional agents able to influence the result. So-called ‘gamblers’ superstitions’ involve representations of special agents able to influence the result of random games.5 In fact, by making the randomness of the action more explicit, these representations seem to be strengthened, whereas ‘illusions of control’ (the illusion that the gambler can influence the outcome of a random game) seem to diminish (Bersabe & Arias 2000). One might predict therefore that divinations involving randomised actions would be more likely to produce representations of superhuman agents than would otherwise similar divinations involving less randomised actions. Astrology, with its deterministic discourse, has little randomness and is, therefore, less likely to produce representations of superhuman agents than tarot with its high degree of randomness. Accordingly, the main purpose of both ritualisation and randomisation is to bar the diviner from having any (intentional) influence on the actions. Both, however, have the additional effect of making representations of other agents able to control the outcome of the actions more relevant. If this view is correct, representations of superhuman agents should be seen as a potential side-effect of aspects of divination that serve other purposes. Once in place, however, they are likely to strengthen the impact and diffusion of the practice by adding extra credibility to the performance. 4

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have argued that we need to pay close attention to the cognitive mechanisms underlying different aspects of divination. Divination is not a pure category but consists of many different types of practices that each must be explained independently before attempting any synthesis. When focussing 4 See Andersen et al. (2018) for an account of the joint creation of a sense of agency (i.e. a ghost) in a Ouija-session. 5 For instance, entities such as Fate, the Game and Fortune are represented as intentional agents able to influence the outcome of these otherwise random games. See Wohl & Enzle (2002) and Wood & Clapham (2005).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

145

on the semiotic dimension, i.e., what types of signs are employed, we must distinguish between indexical and communicative signs as these are based on very different types of cognitive processing. Indexes rely on the construction of mental models of events, whereas communicative signs or symbols activate Theory of Mind mechanisms. Given this distinction, successful divinatory practices (i.e., those that are culturally transmitted) are expected to employ cues triggering either type of cognitive processing. Further, we need to look at the temporal dimension involved: first, whether the sign follows the event or if it is understood as pointing to a subsequent event; second, whether the sign-relation is used retrospectively to explain the relation between events, or if it is used prospectively to produce signs that can reveal information about specific questions. Specifying this temporal dimension allows us to specify more precisely how divinatory practices are embedded in more comprehensive sequences of actions and events, and how they inform explanations of the past as well as predictions about the future. Following this, we turned to a central question: how can information received through divination be represented as truthful? In order to address this issue, three contextual variables are critical. First, by paying close attention to the type of information that is sought, it is apparent that this information is constrained to a rather limited repertoire of knowledge with potential impact on individual fitness. Further, this information tends to be framed in terms of interactions in the social realm, i.e., as involving intentional agents. Moreover, it was hypothesized that divinatory practices involving social strategic information are more likely to spread than are practices treating other types of information. In regards to the role of participating agents in divinatory practices, a number of factors constrain representations of the diviner. He or she should not be represented as either having relevant knowledge prior to the divinatory session, nor as able to influence the configuration of signs produced in the session. Divinatory practices involving these features are judged as more reliable by clients and therefore will have a selective advantage in cultural transmission. This leads to the final variable that concerns the method of acquiring knowledge. Divination is recognised by observer and participants alike as a special method of acquiring knowledge. Two features seem particularly relevant: ritualised and randomised actions. The reason for employing ritualised and/or randomised actions is that both effectively ensure that the information is not represented as stemming from the diviner. Divination is therefore not primarily about acquiring knowledge from or communicating with gods, spirits or ancestors. Rather, divinatory practices involve established models or signs produced by a specific practice that reveals relevant but otherwise inaccessible knowledge. However, a number of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

146

Sørensen

recurrent features of divinatory actions make concurrent representations of superhuman agents particularly relevant. Divination is about acquiring undisclosed social strategic information and superhuman agents are generally represented as having privileged access to this (the gods/spirits/ancestors know what you did, even if no one else does). The social groups of diviners are generally set apart, and often have their authority due to special relations to gods, spirits and ancestors. Finally, the veracity of divinatory knowledge is ensured by cues that the diviner does not have prior knowledge of the information requested, nor can s/he manipulate the production of the relevant signs. Just as an investigator’s ability to influence the outcome of a scientific experiment must be limited, the diviner’s role as an agent is severely limited. In contrast to scientific experiments, however, the methods used to ensure this ‘impartiality’ and ‘objectivity’ in divination involve ritualised and/or randomised actions, both of which make representations of superhuman agents highly relevant. If this is true, superhuman agents’ involvement in divinatory ritual should be conceived as a side effect of features that have other original functions. Future studies must address to what extent representations of superhuman agents facilitate the success and diffusion of divinatory practices, or whether they are a spurious effect. References Andersen, Marc, Kristoffer L. Nielbo, Uffe Schjoedt, Thies Pfeiffer, Andreas Roepstorff & Jesper Sørensen (2018). Predictive Minds in Ouija Board Sessions. Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences 18 (3): 577–588. doi.org/10.1007/s11097-018-9585-8. Atran, Scott (2002). In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Baillargeon, Renée, Laura Kotovsky & Amy Needham (1995). The Acquisition of Physical Knowledge in Infancy. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack (eds.), Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 79–116. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Barrett, Justin (2000). Exploring the Natural Foundations of Religion. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 4: 29–34. Bergstrom, Brian, Bianca Moehlmann & Pascal Boyer (2006). Extending the Testimony Problem: Evaluating the Truth, Scope and Source of Cultural Information. Child Development 77: 531–538. Bering, Jesse (2002). The Existential Theory of Mind. Review of General Psychology 6 (1): 3–24. Bersabé, Rosa & Rosario Martínez Arias (2000). Superstition in Gambling. Psychology in Spain 4 (1): 28–34.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

147

Boyer, Pascal (1990). Tradition and Truth and Communication: A Cognitive Description of Traditional Discourse. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boyer, Pascal (1994). The Naturalness of Religious Ideas: A Cognitive Theory of Religion. Berkeley: University of California Press. Boyer, Pascal (2001). Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought. New York: Basic Books. Boyer, Pascal & H. Clark Barrett (2005). Domain Specificity and Intuitive Ontology. In D. M. Buss (ed.), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, 96–118. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Boyer, Pascal & Pierre Liénard (2006). Why Ritualized Behaviour? Precaution Systems and Action Parsing in Developmental, Pathological, and Cultural Rituals. Brain and Behavioural Sciences 29: 595–650. Boyer, Pascal & Charles Ramble (2001). Cognitive Templates for Religious Concepts: Cross-Cultural Evidence for Recall of Counter-Intuitive Representations. Cognitive Science 25: 535–564. Clark, Andy (2013). Whatever Next? Predictive Brains, Situated Agents, and the Future of Cognitive Science. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 36 (3): 181–204. Cohen, Emma (2007). The Mind Possessed: The Cognition of Spirit Possession in an Afro-Brazilian Religious Tradition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cosmides, Leda & John Tooby (2005). Neurocognitive Adaptations Designed for Social Exchange. In D. M. Buss (ed.), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, 584–627. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Eliade, Mircea (ed.) (1987). Encyclopaedia of Religion. New York: Macmillan. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. (1937). Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Favret-Saada, Jeanne (1980). Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fillmore, Charles (1982). Frame Semantics. In The Linguistic Society of Korea (ed.), Linguistics in the Morning Calm, 111–137. Seoul: Hanshin Publishing Co. Frith, Chris D. & Uta Frith (1999). Interacting Minds: A Biological Basis. Science (N.S.) 286: 1692–1695. Gilbert, Daniel T., Patrick S. Malone & Douglas S. Krull (1990). Unbelieving and Unbelievable: Some Problems in the Rejection of False Information. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 59 (4): 601–613. Gilbert, Daniel T., Romin W. Tafarodi & Patrick S. Malone (1993). You Can’t Not Believe Everything You Read. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 65 (2): 221–233. Gopnik, Alison & Henry M. Wellman (1994). The Theory Theory. In L. A. Hirschfeld & S. Gelman (eds.), Mapping the Mind: Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture, 257–293. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

148

Sørensen

Grice, Paul (1969). Utterer’s Meaning and Intentions. The Philosophical Review 78: 147–147. Guthrie, Stewart (1995). Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harwood, Alan (1970). Witchcraft, Sorcery and Social Categories Among the Safwa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hastings, James (ed.) (1908). Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics. Edinburgh: T. T. Clark. Hirschfeld, Lawrence A. (1995). Anthropology, Psychology, and the Meaning of Social Causality. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack. Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 313–344. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Humphrey, Caroline & James Laidlaw (1994). The Archetypal Actions of Ritual: A Theory of Ritual Illustrated by the Jain Rite of Worship. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kelemen, Deborah (1999). Why Are Rocks Pointy? Children’s Preference for Teleological Explanations of the Natural World. Developmental Psychology 35: 1440–1453. Kelemen, Deborah (2004). Are Children “Intuitive Theists”? Reasoning about Purpose and Design in Nature. Psychological Science 15 (5): 295–301. Kubricht, James R., Keith J. Holyoak, Hongjing Lu (2017). Intuitive Physics: Current Research and Controversies. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 21 (10): 749–759. Kummer, Hans (1995). Causal Knowledge in Animals. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack. Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 26–36. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Leslie, Alan M. (1994): ToMM, ToBy, and Agency: Core Architecture and Domain Specificity. In L. A. Hirschfeld & S. Gelman (eds.), Mapping the Mind: Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture, 119–148. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leslie, Alan M. (1995). A Theory of Agency. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack. Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 121–141. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien (1926/1985). How Natives Think. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lewis, Gilbert (1995). The Articulation of Circumstance and Causal Understandings. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack. Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 557–574. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Liénard, Pierre & Pascal Boyer (2006). Whence Collective Rituals? A Cultural Selection Model of Ritualized Behavior. American Anthropologist 108 (4): 814–827. Lisdorf, Anders (2004). The Spread of Non-Natural Concepts. Journal of Cognition and Culture 4 (1): 151–173. Lisdorf, Anders (2015). Why the Ouija Board Seemed to Take on a Personality: The Effect of Ritual Action on Evaluation of Credibility in Divination. Unpublished manuscript downloaded from: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/279293798.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Cognitive Underpinnings of Divinatory Practices

149

Nielbo, Kristoffer L. & Jesper Sørensen (2011). Spontaneous Processing of Functional and Non-Functional Action Sequences. Religion, Brain & Behavior 1(1): 18–30. Nielbo, Kristoffer L., Uffe Schjødt & Jesper Sørensen (2013). Hierarchical Organization of Segmentation in Non-Functional Action Sequences. Journal for the Cognitive Science of Religion 1(1): 71–97. Peek, Phillip M. (1991). Introduction: The Study of Divination, Present and Past. In P. M. Peek (ed.), African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, 1–22. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Perner, Josef & Ted Ruffman (2005). Infants’ Insight into the Mind. How Deep? Science 308: 214–216. Premack, David (1995). Cause / Induced Motion: Intention / Spontaneous Motion. In J.-P. Changeux & J. Chavaillon (eds.), The Origins of the Human Brain, 286–308. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rappaport, Roy (1999). Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reynolds, Barri (1963). Magic, Divination and Witchcraft among the Barotse of Northern Rhodesia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schaafsma, Sara M., Donald W. Pfaff, Robert P. Spunt & Ralph Adolphs (2015). Deconstructing and Reconstructing Theory of Mind. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 19 (2): 65–72. Sørensen, Jesper (2007a). A Cognitive Theory of Magic. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2007b). Acts that Work: A Cognitive Approach to Ritual Agency. Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 19 (3–4): 281–300. Sørensen, Jesper (2019). Ideology, Prophecy and Prediction: Cognitive Mechanisms of the ‘Really Real’. In A. K. Petersen, I. S. Gilhus, L. H. Martin, J. S. Sinding & J. Sørensen (eds.), Evolution, Cognition and the History of Religion: A New Synthesis. Festschrift in Honour of Armin W. Geertz. Leiden: Brill. Spelke, Elizabeth S., Ann Phillips and Amanda L. Woodward (1995). Infants’ Knowledge of Object Motion and Human Action. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack, Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, 44–78. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sperber, Dan (1994). The Modularity of Thought and the Epidemiology of Representations. In L. A. Hirschfeld & S. Gelman (eds.), Mapping the Mind: Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture, 39–67. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sperber, Dan (1996). Explaining Culture: A Naturalistic Approach. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Sperber, Dan (2005). Modularity and Relevance: How Can a Massively Modular Mind Be Flexible and Context-Sensitive? In P. Carruthers, S. Laurence and S. Stich, The Innate Mind: Structure and Contents, 53–68. New York: Oxford University Press. Sperber, Dan & Deidre Wilson (1995). Relevance: Communication and Cognition. Oxford: Blackwell.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

150

Sørensen

Swancutt, Katherine (2006). Representational vs. Conjectural Divination. Innovation out of Nothing in Mongolia. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 12 (2): 331–353. Tooby, John & Leda Cosmides (2005). Conceptual Foundations of Evolutionary Psychology. In D. M. Buss (ed.), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, 5–67. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Wellman, Henry M., David Cross & Julanne Watson. Meta-analysis of Theory of Mind Development: The Truth about False Beliefs. Child Development 72 (3): 655–684. Whitehouse, Harvey (2000). Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Wohl, Michael, J. A. & Michael Enzle (2002). The Deployment of Personal Luck: Sympathetic Magic and Illusory Control in Games of Pure Chance. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 28 (10): 1388–1397. Wood, W. Scott & Maria M. Clapham (2005). Development of the Drake Belief about Chance Inventory. Journal of Gambling Studies 21 (4): 411–430. Zeitlyn, David (2012). Divinatory Logics: Diagnoses and Predictions Mediating Outcomes. Current Anthropology 53 (5): 525–546.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

part 2 Magic

∵

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 7

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism in Neuro-Cognitive Perspective Edward Bever 1

Introduction

This chapter explores the relationship of magic and shamanism in order to show how manipulation of the nervous system to alter consciousness facilitates access to knowledge and powers that are inaccessible in normal waking consciousness.1 It starts by showing that while there are multiple definitions of shamanism, they all have in common the altering of consciousness to access normally inaccessible knowledge and abilities. It proceeds to develop a neurocognitive model that distinguishes between fine-tuning the nervous system, what it proposes to call shamanistic practices, that entail subtle alterations of consciousness in the practitioner and/or others, and more comprehensive tuning of the nervous system, which it proposes we call shamanic practices, that entail more fundamental alterations in consciousness, ecstatic or trance states. By altering consciousness, both shamanic and shamanistic practices facilitate access to otherwise inaccessible knowledge and powers, while the former additionally facilitate subsequent performance of the latter, and also induce the perception of spirits, autonomous consciousnesses manifested as disembodied voices, external entities, or intrusive agents that bestow knowledge and cause effects. Understanding shamanism and magical practices as manipulations of the nervous system enables us to better understand why ritual beliefs and practices recognizing and seeking the extraordinary knowledge and abilities they engender form part of the cultural inventory of societies around the globe and throughout history.

1 The substance of this chapter was drawn from Edward Bever, The Realities of Witchcraft and Popular Magic in Early Modern Europe, 2008, Palgrave Macmillan and is used with permission.

© EDWARD BEVER, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_008 .8A 8 8

A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

154 2

Bever

Definitions and the Problem

“Shamanism” is a term that is used in a variety of ways (Hutton 2001: vii, 124, 145; Hultkranz 1989: 44–46). First, at its most restrictive, it refers to the practices of certain members of certain Siberian tribes who conduct performances in which they appear to enter an altered state of consciousness, an ecstatic trance, in which they claim to experience the flight of their soul to the spirit world so that they can gain information and influence the spirits on behalf of other members of their community, primarily to heal them (Kehoe 2000: 59, 70). Second, what is probably the most common use of the term refers to practices in a wide variety of hunting, pastoral, and agricultural societies scattered around the world in which specialist practitioners enter an altered state of consciousness in order to “fly” to the spirit world on behalf of their communities (Hutton 2001: 187). Under this definition, in the nineteenth century shamans were found in Asia, North and South America, and Southern Africa, but not in the rest of Africa, which had mediums, specialists who entered altered states of consciousness in which spirits possessed them, or in the Mediterranean and European worlds, whose spiritual practices were dominated by priests and a mixture of mediums, mystics, and ritual magicians. The third definition, which is somewhat broader and is also broadly used, includes any practices in which practitioners enter into an altered state of consciousness in order to contact spirits, and thus includes African spiritual specialists along with those of the Mediterranean and European areas (Hoppál 1992: 129; Stutley 2003: 3, 28–29; Winkelman et al. 2004, p. 11; Price 2001: 6; Townsend 1997: 431, 433). Fourth, at its broadest, shaman is used to refer to virtually anyone who alters their consciousness and conveys some sense of insight from the experience or manifests some sort of unusual power during it (Samuel 1990: 106–107; Flaherty 1988: 214). These definitions clearly span a very broad range, but they do have a common denominator. What links them is that they all involve a practitioner deliberately altering his or her consciousness in order to access knowledge or powers not accessible in ordinary waking consciousness. Similarly, while magic is at least as difficult to define, I think it is safe to say that it involves the manifestation of what are considered to be extraordinary powers, both the ability to exert extraordinary influence on the physical world and living beings and the ability to acquire knowledge via extraordinary channels. Thus, there is a parallel between magic and shamanism: both involve extraordinary knowledge and power, knowledge and power that are ordinarily inaccessible, but which can be deliberately released or tapped under certain special circumstances. At first glance, this relationship may seem unproblematic: shamanism appears to

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

155

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

simply be a form of magic, or, perhaps more precisely, a means of practicing magic, with the shaman entering an altered state of consciousness and doing extraordinary things, like healing the sick by recovering their spirits from the spirit world, or conversing with the dead to gain their knowledge about distant affairs among the living. Upon consideration, though, certain problems raised by the connection appear. Most basically, why should altering consciousness facilitate magical performance? Furthermore, in many shamanic cultures, shamans learn in the spirit world while in a trance arts they will use when they return to the human world, which raises further questions about the relationship of altered states of consciousness and the acquisition of extraordinary knowledge and abilities; in other words, the relationship of shamanism and magic. 3

Magic without Shamanism and Shamanism without Magic

Before investigating these questions, it is important to emphasize that to point to their commonalities is not to imply that magic and shamanism are one and the same. To begin with, while shamanism under its first three definitions is overwhelmingly magical, under its broadest definition it includes many things that are not magical (except in the most metaphorical sense), like enhanced artistic creativity, musical ability, psychological insight, and intellectual inventiveness. On the other side, magic includes a variety of phenomena that are not part of shamanism by any definition. For one thing, shamanism does not include magical, or extraordinary, processes that occur without human involvement. For another, it doesn’t include extraordinary powers or knowledge gained while in an ordinary state of mind, and, thirdly, it doesn’t include extraordinary knowledge or powers gained or exerted spontaneously. However, since we are interested primarily in magic here, the non-magical aspects of shamanism broadly defined need not concern us, while closer examination of each of the exceptional areas of magic indicates that the first two are relatively unimportant, so only the third constitutes a significant form that does not connect directly with shamanism. To begin with, the existence of magic without human involvement is problematic. If a star were to suddenly shift its location inexplicably, or if all the vegetation in an uninhabited valley were to die for no apparent reason, would we consider it magic? I would argue that while an animistic worldview might consider these to be caused by some supernatural conscious force or being, magic would only come into play when people attempt to influence it. In other words, magic is the subset of the supernatural that involves peoples’ attempts to manipulate it.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

156

Bever

As far as magical powers manifested or knowledge gained magically while in normal consciousness is concerned, in theory there may be nothing to prohibit it, and there are indeed stories of people overtaken by a mystical revelation, confronted by a spiritual presence, or able to exert extraordinary powers while going nonchalantly about their daily business. However, these are generally spontaneous occurrences, and therefore more properly considered instances of the third area of divergence, which I will discuss below. Deliberately performed magic almost inevitably alters consciousness, for any action we undertake affects the functioning of our nervous system to some degree or another, and so any magical activity will alter the practitioner’s consciousness to some extent. Of course, it could be argued that magical activities can in theory be undertaken in a perfectly normal state of mind, like someone reading Tarot cards while folding laundry, or casting a death spell while grocery shopping, but the incongruity of these examples suggests that in practice magical activities generally involve separating the practitioner from daily routine and competing mental activity, inducing a particular frame of mind thought conducive to or even essential for tapping extraordinary powers. The third form of magic outside the overlap with shamanism, spontaneous manifestation of extraordinary power or acquisition of knowledge, does involve a significant number of magical phenomena: spontaneous visions, sudden hunches, lucky shots, and witchcraft as the Azande and Evans-Pritchard define it, the spontaneous projection of hostile feelings to cause harm via an inherent power possessed by the witch (Callow 2006: 329). These are indeed important forms of magic, and they along with the non-magical elements of shamanism mean that shamanism and magic are not co-extensive and one does not encompass the other. 4

Alterations of Consciousness, Manipulations of the Nervous System, and Magical Powers

Nevertheless, these exclusions still leave an extraordinarily large overlap between magic and shamanism. Under the most restrictive definition of shamanism given above, a form of North Asian healing ritual, it involves the magical process of the shamanic performance and presumed imaginal experience of flight into the spirit world while in an ecstatic trance to promote the recovery of the patient. Under the second definition given above it includes a wide variety of other forms of imaginal soul flight, like, for example, Polynesian shamans who experience the flight of their spirits across vast stretches of ocean to reconnoiter weather and other conditions along the planned route of an

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

157

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

impending voyage (Perkins 1997: 48), and also the benedanti of the Fruili region of Italy, who experienced regular battles in spirit with witches that they understood would determine the fate of the harvest (Ginzburg 1983: 2–17). Under the third definition, above, it includes practitioners like Spiritualist mediums who acted as conduits for the spirits of the dead, and Medieval necromancers who summoned spirits through arcane rituals in order to compel them to do their bidding. And under the fourth, broadest definition above, it includes an array of practitioners of magic who do not perceive spirits or even assume that ethereal conscious entities are responsible for the efficacy of their practices, like one early modern young woman in Württemberg who recited a lengthy spell in order to be able to spook horses, other girls who learned what they called a “grass spell” in order to avoid detection by the ducal forest ranger while sneaking around in the ducal preserve, and cunning men who gazed into mirrors in order to see and thereby identify witches and thieves, a technique called scrying (Bever 2008: 161–166, 222–30). The first two spells did invoke the Devil, but it was to tap his power rather than summon his presence, and in the third case the source of divinatory power was not specified. All these practitioners appear to have expected their ritual actions to cause hidden knowledge to be imparted to them, in the last case, or affect the perceptions, behaviors, and emotions of the targets, in the first two, without having any direct contact with any spirit involved. While these last three cases are far from the classical definition of shamanism, they involve relatively straightforward links between alterations of consciousness and access to extraordinary knowledge and power, and so it seems useful to start by considering them. Scrying, for example, involved staring into a reflective surface like a mirror, piece of glass, crystal ball, or even water in a bucket until an image that supplied the desired information appeared. Naturally, an unscrupulous practitioner could merely pretend to see an image to support a conclusion he or she has already reached consciously, but if undertaken earnestly such scrying has the potential to reveal genuine insights. Since “the brain knows more than the conscious mind reveals” (Hollan 2000: 540)2 and “much of what we know can’t be stated” (Nørretranders 1998: 300), scrying can bring out unconscious knowledge by altering the practitioner’s consciousness and prompting visual hallucinations because gazing steadily induces a focused concentration and dissociation similar to hypnosis (Neher 1990: 54; Hutton 2001: 96). In this state, “subconscious neural processing can dominate mental activity, producing … unusual … thoughts and images” and “an occasional … flash of insight” (Neher 1990: 37; also Winkelmann 1990: 323). 2 Quoting Antonio Damasio, Descartes Error (New York: Avon Books), 1994, p. 42.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

158

Bever

Gazing into a reflective surface promotes visual hallucinations in particular because it focuses attention on visual processing, and the ambiguous visual experience this creates provides a favorable visual field onto which internally generated images can be superimposed, for even a clear mirror creates a disjunction between the reflection and the background imagery, and many of the types of surfaces used, like windows or water, introduced distortion to the reflected image itself as well. Vision routinely integrates incoming sense data, recent visual memory, and internally generated imagery based on expectations and older memories, and the latter can be superimposed on the former to create powerful visual experiences that manifest internally generated elements in apparently external perceptions (Bever 2008: 30–31). Most if not all people are capable of attaining at least fleeting impressions in this manner, and roughly one person in 20 can generate not just a fleeting impression, but actually a sustained moving image (Tuczay 2005: 225, 230n12). Why should drawing out unconscious knowledge provide credible evidence of who committed a theft? While it was certainly not infallible, in the early modern context theft often involved a certain amount of deception on the part of the thief because most theft in villages and small towns was by people who were part of either the same community as the victim or one nearby. Of course, some missing items were undoubtedly simply misplaced, but they tended to be valuables that people would pay special attention to, and there is no reason to doubt that many items that disappeared were in fact stolen. Some may have been taken by the vagrants who drifted across the countryside, especially during and after wars, and who would not hesitate to burglarize a house if the opportunity arose, but by and large such raids were both infrequent and, when they occurred, obvious, for the presence of the vagrant in the neighborhood would likely be noticed, and the house would likely be ransacked. The kind of thefts people consulted cunning folk about were the mysterious disappearance of specific items, which were most likely taken by people with ready access to the house and knowledge of the members’ possessions and routines. The thief would then have to live with the victim, and perhaps even rebuff inquiries and accusations, all of which required deception and lying. Lying presents a complex social-psychological problem, for “there is ample evidence that people behave differently when they are lying than when they are telling the truth” and these “differences in behavior … alert targets … that a lie is being perpetrated upon them”, yet the evidence suggests that people are relatively bad at consciously recognizing that they are being lied to (Anderson et al. 1999: 375, 382). Perhaps because “lying is a fact of daily life”, for “on average people tell at least one lie a day, and one lie in every five of their social interactions”, accurately recognizing lies and calling people on them would simply be

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

159

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

too disruptive socially (Anderson, et al. 1999: 377–378). People had recourse to divinatory techniques like scrying because if more mundane clues or proof that a particular person had stolen something from them were not available, it could confirm their awareness of or bring to consciousness their unconscious knowledge of who in their immediate social circle was displaying involuntary signs that they were lying about it. In the case of the “grass spell”, the purpose of the magic was not to create perceptions, but to block them, to keep the practitioner from being detected by the ducal officials while sneaking about. Forests in early modern Europe were subject to complex and overlapping concepts of ownership and usage, with local communities traditionally using them to pick berries and mushrooms, graze pigs, gather firewood, harvest lumber, and hunt game; the upper classes, and the rulers in particular, using them to hunt game; while merchants used them as a source of lumber. As the countryside became more crowded, usage was subject to increasing regulation (Warde 2006: 175–212; Ernst 1955–7: 260–263). Individuals, and even communities, however, continued to make illicit use of the woodlands in a variety of ways, leading to chronic conflicts between them and forestry officials. Incanting a spell could not, of course, make someone invisible in an objective sense, but it could help a trespasser remain unnoticed – become invisible in practical terms. In mottled light and tangled undergrowth, stillness is often the best camouflage. Small animals freeze when they become aware of a predator nearby, because even if they are in its field of vision, they may escape notice, whereas flight virtually guarantees pursuit (Meerloo 1971: 15). For a poacher trying to avoid forest rangers, the greatest danger was over-activity, and an incantation could help avoid this in several ways. First of all, it would reassure her intellectually with the faith that she would not be seen or caught, so if a ranger was nearby there would be no need to run; “intensifying self-confidence” is one way that magic “can actually influence reality” (Lissner 1961: 245). Secondly, it would give her something to do with her mind, so instead of anxiously miscalculating her changes of escape, she could preoccupy herself with remembering and reciting the incantation. Thirdly, the cadence of the words would itself produce a calming effect. Oral recitation imposes control over breathing, and experimental studies have demonstrated that even purely mental activities can produce physiological states of greater relaxation (Tart 1969: 485; Kamiya 1969: 510; Kasamatsu 1969: 501). Spells can be thought of as a form of “psycholinguistic programming” that entrain cognitive and emotional neural networks in ways that “can provoke profound physiological changes” (Winkelman 2000: 72, 146). The effective agent in this form of magic was the person taking control of their own nervous system, not only to manage their own behavior, but also to thereby affect

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

160

Bever

the perceptions of others. It is a commonplace to acknowledge that magic can have real effects on a person who believes in it, but it is less widely appreciated that it can have effects on other people regardless of their beliefs. By controlling their own thoughts and behaviors, the early modern poachers were able to manipulate the patrolling watchmen’s perceptions to keep them from seeing what was really there. The third incident, the spell to spook horses, shows even more strongly how manipulation of one nervous system can affect others. The case began when a seventeen year-old servant girl named Maria Magdolena Gekin bragged to a number of people that she could work magic and, more specifically, bewitched a horse so that it would not eat, a claim her previous employer later seconded. She had also demonstrated her ability to disturb animals to a young man by spooking his horse. When asked how she did this, she said that “she had prayed a prayer all day, from morning to evening” (Bever 2008: 164). Maria later conceded that she did not repeat her incantations all day, but she insisted that she did practice this simple magic involving the prolonged repetition of the incantation, and, as the witnesses had confirmed, she did seem to be able to spook horses. Maria’s incantation could have had a strong effect on her own nervous system since it was structured using epistrophe, the “rhetorical device” of ending successive phrases with the same word, which is “a classical hypnotic induction” technique “effective for inducing trance” (Wier 1996: 113). With the cadence of the spell creating a trance state in the person incanting it, the linguistic message establishes its “set”, the emotional tenor which molds the person’s facial expression and body language (Ekman et al. 1992: 62, 64–65; Ekman et al. 1983: 1208). It is well known among veterinary researchers that threatening displays by humans can have profound effects on domesticated animals, triggering their stress response and thereby affecting their health, reproduction, growth, and, in the case of chickens and cows, production of eggs and milk (Bever 2008: 37–38). Since one of the effects of the stress response is to decrease digestive activity and suppress hunger, displaying threat to a horse and thereby inducing stress in it could well prevent it from eating for a time. For such communication to take place would not require that the animal in any sense understand the linguistic content of the spell, or even the specific intent of the person. Nor would the interaction need to be long or the person’s behavior blatantly demonstrative; the practitioner’s expression, posture, and gestures would simply need to communicate threat to trigger a generalized stress reaction that would affect the animal’s appetite as one of its normal metabolic effects (Olsen 2001: 213; Winkelman 2000: 254).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

161

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

While Maria claimed only to be able to spook horses, the same process could be used to affect another person. Laboratory experiments have shown that, “an actor can manipulate elements of the stress response in another person through nonverbal signals” like eye contact, posture, gestures, and tone of voice (Mazur 1980: 72, also 50, 64; Mazur 1985: 377), and the stress response can be responsible for ailments ranging from conversion symptoms like paralyzed limbs through psychophysical reactions like headaches to reduced immune competence leading to infectious disease or even cancer (Bever 2000: 579–80). While many witch suspicions are clearly groundless, some reflect real injuries to people and animals caused or contributed to by spontaneous expressions of anger, what Evans-Pritchard called witchcraft; others are caused intentionally by dramatic displays of hostility like curses, which were one form of what he called sorcery; and Maria Gekin’s case indicates that another form of sorcery, surreptitious incantation, could be used to generate or amplify subtly threatening expressions and thereby cause the same sorts of harms. In other words, by using an incantation, “psycholinguistic programming”, to alter to alter her consciousness and pattern her brain activity and bodily expression, Maria was able to access a form of power not accessible to her in her normal waking consciousness. While the foregoing examples present evidence of a variety of ways in which shamanism under its broadest definition is related to magic, they do not show how shamanism according to the more limited, and more familiar, understandings of the term, those that involve spirit encounters in ecstatic trance states, are related to it, either in terms of the magical effects that are thought to be achieved during the encounters or the knowledge that is said to be retained for use afterwards. To look at these connections, I will start by considering the neuro-cognition of ecstatic trance, and then discuss its relationship to the apprehension of spirits and the acquisition of the ability to perform magic. 5

The Neuro-Cognition of Ecstatic Trance

Ecstatic trance appears to be a particularly dramatic alteration of consciousness that results from a what has been called “tuning the nervous system”, a process which involves activating both the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems simultaneously (Lex 1974: 820; Laughlin 1992: 147, 276, 323; Newberg 2001: 39). Normally, the systems work in a complementary way, with one dominant and the other quiescent. However, if the nervous system is

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

162

Bever

subjected to either overstimulation, leading to an overload of the sympathetic system, or under-stimulation, leading to an overload of the parasympathetic system, it responds by triggering the other system while the overloaded system remains active. The result is a hybrid state of consciousness characterized by some features of sleeping, particularly REM sleep, and some features of waking (Winkelman 2000: 130, 133, 135). This state of consciousness can be induced by a wide variety of stimuli, or drivers, and can occur spontaneously or as a result of deliberate induction (Winkelman 1997: 403; Winkelman 2000: 77, 128, 148–152; Laughlin 1992: 143, 317; Locke et al. 1985: 37). Stimuli that are particularly likely to generate trance spontaneously include personal stress, traumatic or disorienting events, sex, acts of violence, hunger and nutritional deficiencies, high altitudes, severe physical injury or illness, and near-death experiences (Persinger 1987: 31–2; Austin: 445–446; Locke et al. 1985: 21, 27, 30, 35). Stimuli that tend to be used deliberately include repetitive rhythmic activities like drumming, dancing, and chanting; music and singing; sensory deprivation, meditation, or deep hypnosis; direct electrical stimulation of the brain; and the ingestion of hallucinogenic substances (Hoppál et al. 1989: 16; Hutton 2001: 82; McClenon 2002: 24, 31; Grambo 1973: 418; Tuczay 2005: 216; Hoppál 1992: 125; Locke et al. 1985: 30, 36; Hinde 1999: 115; Newberg 2001: 79, 125; Goodman 1989: 377–378; Laughlin 1992: 205; Austin 1998: 440). Most of these stimuli have the effect of driving the sympathetic nervous system, although a few, like meditation and sensory deprivation, drive the parasympathetic system. In addition to their general effects as ANS drivers, hallucinogenic drugs have specific and complex chemical effects as well, and they and many of the other driving mechanisms have symbolic meanings that contribute to the nature and content of the experiences they generate (Laughlin 1992: 312, 321–322). Furthermore, learned associations between symbols associated with drivers and the states of consciousness they generate make it possible for the symbols to act later as triggers, stimuli that enable at least some of the effects of the ecstatic state of consciousness to be produced with significantly less of the strenuous physical or mental activity originally required to produce them (Locke et al. 1985: 37; Wier 1996: 118; Laughlin 1992: 153, 316; Newberg 2001: 97; Goodman 1988: 34; Andresen 2001: 269; Taves 1999: 357–358; Hobson 2001: 105). These various means of tuning the nervous system cause a set of common physiological effects, the specifics of which will be outlined here, and the qualitative impacts of which will be given in the next paragraph. The specific physiological effects include changes to the balance of neurotransmitters in the brain, general changes to its bioelectric activity, specific changes in brain center activity, and general physiological changes as well. In terms of the mix of chemicals in the brain, there appears to be “a shift in the neuromodulatory

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

163

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

balance … from aminergic to cholinergic dominance” (Hobson 2001: 251; Flanagan 2000: 80). In terms of bioelectric activity, “desynchronized fast wave activity of the frontal cortex” characteristic of “normal waking conditions” is replaced by “high-voltage, slow-wave electroencaphalogram (EEG) activity”, particularly in the theta range, “originating in … the brain stem and hippocampal-sepal area” (Winkelman 2000: 7; Goodman 1989: 378; Hobson 2001: 217; Flor-Henry (2017): 7; Tabatabaeian (2018): 36). In terms of brain centers, “certain brain structures are deprived of the normal supply of neural input”, including “the orientation association area”, which consists of “the left orientation area”, which “creates the brain’s spatial sense of self”, and the right orientation area, which “creates the physical space in which that self can exist” (Newberg 2001: 4, 28, 87). In terms of general physiology, “compounds indicating stress” in the blood serum rise slightly and then drop below normal levels, the brain synthesizes beta-endorphin, “the body’s own analgesic”, which persists long after the other effects of the trance have worn off, blood pressure drops “to low levels”, the pulse races, and “a negative charge that the brain gives off during learning tasks” can rise as high as “1,500 to 2,000 microvolts”, far beyond 100 microvolts level normally observed during learning (Goodman 1989: 378). This list can hardly be regarded as the last word on the physiology of ecstatic trance, but it does suggest some physiological explanations for some of the experiences commonly associated with it. First of all, the shift from aminergic to cholinergic dominance is similar to the situation during REM sleep, and accounts for the strong intrusion of internally generated stimuli on consciousness, for aminergic neurotransmitters, particularly serotonin, are responsible for our focused attention during waking because they block internally generated stimuli (Winkelman 2000: 131, 221–222; Austin 1998: 385; Hobson 2001: 257). Secondly, the change in bioelectric activity from desynchronized fast wave activity in the frontal cortex to high voltage, slow wave activity originating in the hippocampus and brainstem is also similar to the situation during sleep, and synchronizes “the different levels of the brain and the frontal lobes” to “integrate information from the lower levels of the brain into the processing capacity of the frontal cortex … integrating nonverbal emotional and behavioral information into the frontal brain … providing intuition, understanding … and personal integration” (Winkelman et al. 2004: 11; Winkelman 2000: 187). Third, the deactivation of the orientation association area creates a disembodied sensation that can be manifested either as an out-of-body experience, as the intrusion of some external presence into the body, or a feeling of oceanic oneness with the universe (Newberg 2001: 6, 7, 116). Fourth, the synthesis of beta-endorphin contributes to a sense of well-being that often concludes

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

164

Bever

shamanic experiences. Fifth, the combination of accelerated heart rate and reduced blood pressure is an unusual condition “known otherwise only from life-threatening situations … when a person is close to death from an infectious disease or bleeding”, which may be why shamans are thought to journey to the land of the dead or contact the spirits of the dead (Goodman 1988: 39). Finally, the heightened bioelectric activity associated with learning suggests why shamanic states of consciousness are not only associated with the revelation of unconscious information, but also with the generation of new insights and heightened creativity. 6

Ecstatic Trance and the Perception of Spirits

Looking at shamanic states of consciousness in terms of their underlying physiology is instructive, but is somewhat like trying to understand an elephant by examining each of the organ systems that make it up. In order to get an integrated understanding of these integrative experiences, it will be helpful to look at them from another point of view, from the point of view of the perception of spirits which, as we have seen, is part of the most common understanding of shamanism. Belief in and perception of spirits is extremely widespread, if not a cultural universal, and while cultural factors strongly influence the way they are contacted and apprehended, there are some common aspects to the experience (Klaniczay et al. 2005: 1; Hutton 2001: 127; Winkelman 2000: 75). First of all, the person is generally conscious of coming into contact with another world or aspect of reality, or at least that something is profoundly different about the world from the way it is usually (Goodman 1988: 44; Chavers 1989: 363). This realization usually occurs at the time, but if not, then in retrospect. This is often conveyed by some transitional experience like flight, passing through a portal, being entered by some external agent, or the perception that some of the normal constraints on the world are not operating, so that, for example, animals can talk or objects can change size or even transform into living beings (Laughlin 1992: 326; Flor-Henry (2017): 6). Secondly, the person experiences interaction with autonomous, animate, conscious beings, spirits, that may seem either ethereal or physically real, but are understood to be of a different nature than the people and animals that are interacted with most of the time (Winkelman 2000: 87; Laughlin 1992: 274–5). These autonomous entities may merely be sensed presences, but more often they are experienced as heard voices or seen physical bodies, although in the case of mediumship they are manifested through the medium’s own body in a manner similar to involuntary possession. Thirdly, through contact with these spirits the person

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

165

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

gains occult, or hidden, knowledge and enhanced abilities of two types. On the one hand, and more immediately, the person experiences access to information that is not accessible normally, either because it is about things that are secret or unacknowledged or because the information is about things remote in space or time, and the person also may be able to perform acts of unusual physical prowess, like exhibiting unusual strength or endurance, or intervene in the spirit world to create effects in the normal world, like retrieving a sick person’s soul in order to heal them (Willis 1994: 18; Locke et al. 1985: 43–44). On the other hand, and more generally, the person gains broader insights into people and nature, like what makes people ill or unhappy and how to correct (or cause) these conditions, how people and animals interact with each other and with their physical environment and how these interactions can be facilitated or exploited, how the physical world itself works and can be better manipulated, and what motivates the spirits and how best to interact with them (Goodman 1988: 47). Overall, the insights and abilities thus gained generally involve an intuitive or descriptive understanding of and ability to act on people and things, rather than a highly rationalized, logically structured body of knowledge, although a general framework may be conveyed, and the longterm power that is gained is control over spirits, the ability to initiate and steer the actions of these extraordinary agents. While spirits may be sensed as simple presences, in ecstatic trance they usually manifest themselves in more tangible form. In mediumistic shamanic experiences they seem to occupy the shaman’s body. When perceived as external, they are sometimes experienced as heard voices, but most commonly they are perceived visually as well, as bodily entities that exist within the normal world or within a separate spirit world. The physiological basis for these experiences is that cognitive modules can develop into autonomous centers of consciousness that can compete for control of the body, manifest as auditory hallucinations, or appear in the visual representation of the world, either as details superimposed on perceived objects, as free-standing figures, or within an entirely imaginary environment. 7

Spirits, Knowledge, and Power

As these last few examples illustrate, shamanic practices involve more than just perceiving spirits, they involve perceiving them in order to gain insights and powers that are inaccessible under normal circumstances. In shamanic states of consciousness, the nervous system utilizes a “presentational” rather than reflective mode of conceptualization because the dominance of the

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

166

Bever

cholinergic system and high amplitude, low frequency bioelectric activity originating in the brainstem and the limbic system promotes diffuse, analogic, emotional cognition rather than focused, sustained, rational thought processes (Winkelman 2000: 2, 39, 44; Tuczay 2005: 223; Goodman 1998: 44, 46; Noll 2001: 249; Hobson 2001: 92; Laughlin 1992: 277). As a result, just as dreams, to which shamanic visions are closely related, often reveal unconscious information and sometimes generate creative insights, shamanic practices manifest unconscious knowledge and facilitate innovative solutions to problems (Wier 1996: 107; Neher 1990: 39; Grambo 1973: 422; Hutton 2001: 90; Sikora 2015: 291, 297–8). The difference is that shamanic practitioners retain more elements of waking consciousness than ordinary dreamers, so they may be able to steer their experiences more deliberately, and can better attend to and remember the results of their dream-like cognition, or, in the case of mediums, whose normal personality may well not be conscious during possession and who often suffer from amnesia afterwards, directly report it as it takes place. The important thing is that this mode of cognition is not simply an alternative way of presenting thoughts to consciousness, it is a different way of thinking them in the first place (Winkelman 2000: 7, 38, 41, 90). The rational and linguistic thought that dominates our waking consciousness is a form of symbolic processing: ideas or information are encoded in symbolic form and the symbols are manipulated according to the rules of grammar or logic. Shamanic visions, in contrast, involve an analogue process: scenes are imagined or encounters simulated and their implications are resolved as an unfolding of experience, just as dreams manifest the processing of information, the generation of associations and the resolution of inconsistencies during sleep. Shamanic visions, like dreams, are often symbolic in the sense that the characters and scenes represent something else, of course, and so the analogue processing may map only imperfectly onto the situation that it represents, just as the results of rational linguistic processing may map more or less well to the real world the symbols reference, but the point is that cognition in shamanic states of consciousness is a different form of cognition than the rational processing in waking consciousness, able to generate some kinds of knowledge better, and some kinds less well. The difference between the two modes of cognition does not just involve the mechanics of thought, but also the content as well, for the low levels of aminergic neurotransmitters, the enhanced role of limbic structures, which govern the emotions, and, at least during initiatory experiences, the disorientation, mean that the usual restraints on thought are reduced, so that entrainments that are normally kept uncoupled from consciousness can be manifested during shamanic experiences (Fuller 2000: 167; Austin 1998: 307,

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

167

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

433). This effect may also be facilitated by the fact that the information is presented to consciousness as coming from an external source. Furthermore, the sense of organic connection between what are sharply delineated as self and environment in waking consciousness (Austin 1998: 435) by the deactivation of the orientation association area plus the “cross-modular integration” generated by “the psychophysiologically induced integrative brain states produced by shamanic ASC [Altered State of Consciousness]” resulting in “extension” of “the modules for social perceptions of ‘others’, their intentionalities (mind reading), and animal behavior”, the ‘theory of mind’ that enables us to anticipate the behavior of other people and animals by understanding and simulating their conscious processing in our own consciousness “… are manifested … in concepts of animism”, and perception and experience of spirits “and the spirit world” (Winkelman 2000: 28–9, 50–1). In other words, because of “the neurognostic structures and processes of the paleomammalian brain” that are entrained to consciousness during shamanic ASCs, practitioners experience and therefore understand the physical world to be governed by pervasive organic processes as well as mechanistic ones and filled with autonomous consciousnesses (Winkelman et al. 2004: 6). Shamanic practice is not generally undertaken simply to gain increased insight into the world, however. Instead, it is generally seen as a means to gain enhanced power. Of course, knowledge is power, as the cliché goes, so enhanced access to information and heightened learning in themselves represent a form of power, or at least raw material that can be transformed into power in terms of physical skills and social manipulations. For example, cats in REM sleep can be seen, if their brains are altered so that movement is not suppressed, to be practicing, or probably more accurately, remembering, cataloging, and storing, hunting routines (Stevens 1995: 93–94). In a development of this dream work (which is similar in principle to that of humans), aboriginal men in some South American tribes have been observed to take “advantage of the properties of” the hallucinogenic vine Ayahuasca by re-creating “in their visions the most minute, difficult movements and activities of the animals they stalked and hunted … to learn … in the conscious mind, the aspects of animal behavior which they knew almost at a subliminal level, so that in future hunts they could be at one with their prey to hasten their victory” (De Rios: 196). In more complex societies the emphasis in shamanic practice is on human affairs, and the experiences imagined in shamanic states of consciousness yield diagnoses of illnesses, prescriptions for their treatment, the identities of suspects when crimes have been committed, the location of missing objects and people, the cause and potential remedies of misfortune,

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

168

Bever

contact with the spirits of deceased loved ones, and knowledge of the course of events in the future (Winkelman et al. 2004: 8–12; Hutton 2001: 56, 97; Samuel 1990: 111; Tuczay 2005: 216). In addition to these fruits of enhanced knowledge, shamanic states of consciousness also induce useful changes in perception, cognitive processing, physical abilities, and sense of self. The source of many of these effects is the intense arousal of the sympathetic nervous system. This causes “a surge through the ascending systems which release acetylcholine and glutamate”, making “parallel processing … spurt”, which creates “the impression – not at all incorrect – that the brain’s “inner” time has vastly accelerated” (Austin 1998: 450; also Winkelman 2000: 19). We become “hypercognitive (so we can invent … strategies on the fly) and … we form richly detailed memories (so we will never forget … the survival strategy) (Hobson 2001: 273–4), and we have “the sense that external events” unfold “in slow motion and with great clarity”; (Austin 1998: 450). Perceptions of space are also altered, so that small objects appear large, and their details can be examined minutely. Perception of pain is suppressed by the release of endogenous opiates, which heightens endurance (Hobson 2001: 273). Heightened endurance contributes, along with the effects of epinephrine (adrenalin) also released in the flight/fight response, to acts of unusual physical prowess and power (Stutley 2003: 29; Hutton 2001: 97; Neher 1990: 207). The mix of chemicals released into the system also boost self-confidence by heightening the feeling of well-being and power, and selfconfidence promotes assertive and sustained action and creates interpersonal charisma (Winkelman 1997: 402). The euphoria, or ecstasy, experienced during shamanic states of consciousness, however, is more than just an endorphin rush. Instead it manifests as well the integration of different levels of cognition, the reconciliation of the thoughts generated by higher cortical processing and “deep limbic structures” in a way that not only makes the person feel good, but also creates “a sense of compelling experiential immediacy”, giving an emotional validation to percepts and insights and the confidence and persuasiveness that flow from conviction (Laughlin 1992: 321; Winkelman 2000: xii, xiii, 145; Austin 1998: 386, 411). For many peoples, the sine qua non of shamanic states is evidence of supernatural powers, things like the ability to read minds, to know of distant events, to move objects without touching them, and to predict the future (Hutton 2001: 94, 96; McClenon 2002: 70). Many of these effects, of course, do not necessarily manifest supernatural or paranormal powers. For example, foretelling the future can be based on dispassionate waking analysis or integrative shamanic cognition, and appearing to read peoples’ minds can come from prior knowledge, sensitivity to subliminal signals, or a knowledge of human nature.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

169

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

The association of these powers with shamanic states of consciousness is valid because they reflect the nervous system’s heightened capacity to manifest them while in such states, but they do not require what we would consider to be truly supernatural powers. Even extraordinary feats like firewalking, which is sometimes used by shamans to prove the genuineness of their trance, can be explained naturalistically as a product of purely physical processes, probably involving the brain’s ability to influence metabolic processes while in an altered state of consciousness (Lafitau 2001: 26; Burkan 2001). Whether such non-paranormal explanations, including of course fraud and self-delusion, can account for all the apparently extraordinary phenomena associated with shamanism is an open question, though: there is a substantial body of evidence that a subset are caused by some process, or set of processes, that is not accounted for in the current scientific understanding of how the world works, but there is vigorous opposition to this idea as well, and no scientific consensus on the question exists (Rao 2001: 3–37; Parker et al. 2003: Conclusion; Irwin 1999: 319; Humphrey 1996: 206–227). Interestingly, though, “parapsychologists using controlled experiments … find a relationship between hypnosis and extrasensory perception. Meta-analysis of twenty-five experiments from ten different laboratories suggests that hypnosis and similar altered states of consciousness facilitate psychic performance” (McClenon 2002: 70, 92–3; Tuczay 2005: 228; Winkelman 1990: 323). These investigations thus support the “folkloric accounts from all regions and eras” ascribing supernatural powers to shamanic practitioners; whatever the physical reality of paranormal processes, there does appear to be a correlation between shamanic states of consciousness and the ability to perform in experimental settings in ways that appear to manifest them (McClenon 2002: 92). If the reality of the paranormal phenomena connected with shamanic states of consciousness remains shrouded in uncertainty, the bases for their contribution to the activity most strongly associated with shamanism, healing, has become much clearer in the last decades. To begin with, like the authority of a modern doctor, the shaman’s status as a trained healer itself promotes optimism in patients, especially when this is reinforced by a firm, confident bedside manner, and that optimism, in turn, can promote healing (Bever 2008: 287–294). In addition, rituals, incantations, and herbal concoctions can exercise a similar placebo effect. However, herbal remedies may also contain chemically efficacious agents, and rituals and incantations can have restorative properties beyond the placebo effect. For one thing, shamanic healing rituals frequently draw members of the community into activities that culminate in “positive limbic discharges” that promote “decreased distancing and greater social cohesion”, which reduces interpersonal tensions that can contribute

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

170

Bever

to illness and promotes a supportive interpersonal environment that further contributes to healing (Andresen 1999: 261; Winkelman 2000: 197, 201–202). Additionally, the rituals often induce in the patient a trance experience that provides a fertile environment for hypnosis-like suggestions to be implanted, and also induce a parasympathetic-dominant state that resolves unconscious tensions and releases endogenous endorphins that reduce discomfort and relieve anxiety (McClenon 2002: 7–8, 47, 56; Winkelman 2010: 286–288; Winkelman 2000: 194–195, 198–199). Much shamanic initiation centers on learning to diagnose and cure ailments with the help of spirits encountered in initiation and invoked during the rituals themselves (Winkelman 1990: 322; Winkelman 2000: 95). Candidate shamans often suffer from some malady that they cure themselves as part of their training, and their ability to cure themselves is the foundation for their ability to cure others (Lex 1974: 821; Vitebsky 2001: 157). To some extent they learn about herbal treatments, but the main thrust of their therapies is manipulation of the mind, first of all their own, and then their patient’s (Laughlin 1992: 213). This skill can not only promote relief of anxiety about disease and relief of symptoms, but can promote real, organic healing, through the various channels connecting mind and body outlined above. 8

Shamanic vs. Shamanistic Practices: Tuning vs. Fine-Tuning the Nervous System

Putting aside the question of paranormal phenomena, the basis of shamanism is manipulation of the mind, the mind of the practitioner and the minds of others, in order to draw out knowledge and manifest powers that are not accessible in normal waking consciousness. The relationship between the three more restrictive definitions of shamanism, all of which involve entrance into ecstatic trance in order to directly perceive spirits, and the broadest, which includes subtler alterations of consciousness that nevertheless give access to magical powers, can be conceptualized by making a distinction between “shamanic” practices, which involve the induction of ecstatic trance states in which spirits are perceived and can be interacted with by “tuning the nervous system” and thereby causing specific, dramatic changes to the biochemistry, bioelectric activity, and other processes in the brain, and “shamanistic” practices, which cause less profound and much more variable changes in the way the brain functions that can range from subtle reactions to aversive or attractive stimuli (like to the odor of human feces that were sometimes found

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

171

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

hidden in peoples’ houses) to mild dissociations that interrupt the normal flow of waking consciousness (like prayer during Sunday services) to pronounced hypnotic effects that open the brain to powerful symbolic penetration (like Maria Gekin’s incantations). Across this range of alterations of consciousness, which can perhaps be thought of as “fine-tuning the nervous system”, the effect can be to bolster or undercut the person’s psychological power, depending on the nature of the ritual, any visceral effects of the materials it employs, and the meaning of its associated symbols. Shamanic and shamanistic practices are related not just because they both involve manipulating the nervous system to tap the unconscious, though, but also because they have a hierarchical relationship as well. Specifically, someone who undergoes shamanic initiation and engages in shamanic practices appears to gain increased power to fine-tune as well tune the nervous system, both his or her own and others’. Shamanic experience is not necessary in order to utilize shamanistic practices, which can be learned by rote, improvised from examples, or developed from experience, but it appears to foster the ability to do so. In both cases, the relationship of shamanism to magic seems to be the fact that altering consciousness, tuning or fine-tuning the nervous system, appears to be a powerful, perhaps the central, means of accessing extraordinary powers. 9

Conclusion

This chapter’s delineation of specific mechanisms by which altering consciousness facilitates access to ordinarily inaccessible knowledge and abilities has implications relevant to the more general issues raised in the introduction of this volume. First of all, it supports the position that magic is a valid category for cross-cultural analysis. Far from merely being a pejorative concept invented in antiquity for a grab-bag of illicit spiritual activities used variously by civic cults, Hebrew priests, the Roman Empire, the Christian Church, and, most recently, European colonizers to marginalize rivals and justify their own hegemony, magic references manifestations of biological potentials in the human nervous system and the innumerable cultural beliefs and practices that recognize and seek to tap them (Bever 2006: 692–698; Otto 2013: 309–319; Pels 1998: 194). Second, by exploring how alterations of consciousness can enable the access of otherwise inaccessible knowledge as well as otherwise inaccessible powers, this chapter supports the close connection between magic and divination, not only validating divination on the same basis as magic, but in doing so

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

172

Bever

showing that they are intimately entwined in their neurocognitive roots. Since the extraordinary powers like healing that tuning and fine-tuning consciousness facilitate access to involve acting on subtle cues and intuitive knowledge, just as divination involves recognizing and expressing such cues and knowledge, there is considerable overlap on the neurocognitive level between the manifestation of extraordinary abilities and the extraordinary apprehension of knowledge. This overlap would seem to support, in fact, adoption of the common understanding of divination as a form of magic rather than a distinct phenomenon, with “manipulative magic” perhaps serving as a general designation for the diverse forms of magic that seek to effect changes in people and the material world rather than simply gain knowledge about them. Finally, the discussion here has implications for the debate about the validity of religion as a transcultural concept. While it must be recognized at the outset that religion has many aspects that don’t have any direct relation with magic – setting ethical standards, promoting community, supporting charity, for example – providing access to extraordinary knowledge and powers through contact with spiritual entities is something they do have in common (Winkelman 2011: 62–64; Gottowik 2014: 17; Benavides 2006: 295). In fact, the aspects of religion that are involved with this would seem to be a subset of magic. Altering consciousness through various ritual activities like prayer, fasting, meditation, prolonged silence, prolonged solitude, or inducement of pain in order to gain an extraordinary understanding of a situation and the proper way of moving forward in it, and to influence the course of events through supplication of spiritual agents, are validated as transcultural concepts by the same understanding of innate biological potentials and how they are referenced by beliefs and tapped by practices. References Anderson, D. Eric, Matthew Ansfield, & Bella DePaulo (1999). Love’s Best Habit: Deception in the Context of Relationships. In P. Philippot, R. Feldman & E. Coats (eds.), The Social Context of Nonverbal Behavior, 372–409. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Andresen, Jensine (2001). Conclusion: Religion in the Flesh: Forging New Methodologies for the Study of Religion. In J. Andresen (ed.), Religion in Mind: Cognitive Perspectives on Religious Belief, Ritual, and Experience, 257–287. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Austin, James (1998). Zen and the Brain: Toward and Understanding of Meditation and Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

173

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

Benavides, Gustavo (2006). Magic. In R. Segal (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to the Study of Religion, 295–308. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley and Sons. Bever, Edward (2000). Witchcraft Fears and Psychosocial Factors in Disease. Journal of Interdisciplinary History XXX (4): 573–590. Bever, Edward (2006). Magic and Religion. In R. Golden (ed.), Encyclopedia of Witchcraft: The Western Tradition, 692–698, 4 vol. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-Clio. Bever, Edward (2008). The Realities of Witchcraft and Popular Magic in Early Modern Europe: Culture, Cognition, and Everyday Life. Houndsmills, UK: Palgrave-Macmillan. Burkan, Tolly (2001). A Firewalking Theory That Can Benefit Everyone. Firewalking Institute of Research and Education. http://www.firewalking.com/theory.html. Accessed 5/30/2006. Callow, John (2006). Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. In R. Golden (ed.), Encyclopedia of Witchcraft: The Western Tradition, 328–329, 4 vol. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. Chavers, Ronald (1989). Trance, Social Transformation, and Ecstatic Practices. In M. Hoppál & O. von Sadovszky (eds.), Shamanism Past and Present, 363–371, 2 vol. Budapest: Ethnographic Institute, Hungarian Academy of Science. De Rios, Marlene (1984). Hallucinogens: Cross-Cultural Perspectives. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Ekman, Paul, Robert Levenson & Wallace Friesen (1983). Autonomic Nervous System Activity Distinguishes among Emotions. Science, New Series 221 (September 16): 1208–1210. Ekman, Paul, Edmund Rollis, David Perrett & Hadyn Ellis (1992). Facial Expressions of Emotions: An Old Controversy and New Findings. Philosophical Transactions: Biological Sciences 335 (January 29): 62–69. Ernst, Gottlob (1955–1957). 6000 Jahre Bauerntum im Oberen Gau. Korb im Remstal: Gottlob Ernst. Flaherty, Gloria (1988). Sex and Shamanism in the Eighteenth Century. In G. Rousseau & R. Porter (eds.), Sexual Underworlds of the Enlightenment, 261–280. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Flanagan, Owen (2000). Dreaming Souls: Dreams and the Evolution of the Conscious Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Flor-Henry, Pierre, Yakov Shapiro & Corine Sombrun (2017). Brain Changes during a Shamanic Trance: Altered Modes of Consciousness, Hemispheric Laterality, and Systemic Psychobiology. Cogent Psychology 4 (1): 1313522. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 23311908.2017.1313522. Accessed 2/20/2020. Fuller, Robert (2000). Stairways to Heaven: Drugs in American Religious History. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Ginzburg, Carlo (1983). Night Battles. Translated by J. Tedeschi & A. Tedeschi. New York: Penguin.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

174

Bever

Goodman, Felicitas (1988). Ecstasy, Ritual, and Alternate Reality. Bloomington/ Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Goodman, Felicitas (1989). The Neurophysiology of Shamanic Ecstasy. In Mihály Hoppál & Otto Von Sadovsszky (eds.), Shamanism Past and Present, 377–379, 2 vol. Budapest: Ethnographic Institute, Hungarian Academy of Science. Gottowik, Volker (2014). Introduction. In V. Gottowik (ed.), Dynamics of Religion in Southeast Asia, 9–29. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Grambo, Ronald (1973). Sleep as a Means of Ecstasy and Divination. Acta Ethnographica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 22 (3–4): 417–425. Hinde, Robert (1999). Why Gods Persist: A Scientific Approach to Religion. London/New York: Routledge. Hobson, J. Allan (2001). The Dream Drugstore: Chemically Altered States of Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Hollan, Douglas (2000). Constructivist Models of Mind, Contemporary Psychoanalysis, and the Development of Cultural Theory. American Anthropologist 102 (3): 538–550. Hoppál, Mihály & Otto Von Sadovsszky (1989). Introduction. In M. Hoppál & O. Von Sadovsszky, (eds.), Shamanism Past and Present, 9–35, 2 vol. Budapest: Ethnographic Institute, Hungarian Academy of Science. Hoppál, Mihály (1992). Shamanism: An Archaic and / or Recent System of Beliefs. In A.-L. Sükala & M. Hoppál (eds.), Studies on Shamanism, 117–130. Helsinki: Finnish Anthropological Society; Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadό. Hultkrantz, Åke (1989). The Place of Shamanism in the History of Religion. In M. Hoppál & O. Von Sadovsszky, (eds.), Shamanism Past and Present, 43–52, 2 vol. Budapest: Ethnographic Institute, Hungarian Academy of Science. Humphrey, Nicholas (1996). Leaps of Faith: Science, Miracles, and the Search for Supernatural Consolation. New York: Copernicus. Hutton, Ronald (2001). Shamans: Siberian Spirituality and the Western Imagination. London: Hambleton and London. Irwin, Harvey (1999). An Introduction to Parapsychology. 3rd ed. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Kamiya, Joe (1969). Operant Control of the EEG Alpha Rhythm and Some of Its Reported Effects on Consciousness. In C. Tart (ed.), Altered States of Consciousness, 507–518. New York: Wiley & Sons. Kasamatsu, Akira & Tomio Hirai (1969) An Electroencephalographic Study on the Zen Meditation (Zazen). In C. Tart (ed.), Altered States of Consciousness, 489–502. New York: Wiley & Sons. Kehoe, Alice (2000). Shamans and Religion: An Anthropological Exploration in Critical Thinking. Prospect Heights, IL: Wavelength Press. Kieckhefer, Richard (1998). Forbidden Rites: A Necromancer’s Manual of the Fifteenth Century. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

175

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

Klaniczay, Gabor & Eva Pócs (2005). Introduction. In G. Klaniczay, E. Pócs & E. Csonka-Takács (eds.), Communicating with the Spirits, 1–17. Budapest: Central European University Press. Klein, Cecilia, Elias Mandell & Mya Stanfield-Mazzi (2002). The Role of Shamanism in Mesoamerican Art: A Reassessment. Current Anthropology 43 (3): 383–401. Lafitau, Joseph (2001). The Savages Esteem Their Jugglers. In J. Narby & F. Huxley (eds.), Shamans Through Time, 23–26. New York: Penguin. Laughlin, Charles, John McManus & Eugene d’Aquili (1992). Brain, Symbol, and Experience: Toward a Neurophenomonology of Human Consciousness. New York: Columbia University Press. Lex, Barbara (1974). Voodoo Death: New Thoughts on an Old Explanation. American Anthropologist New Series 76 (4): 818–823. Lissner, Ivar (1961) Man, God, and Magic. Translated by Maxwell Brownjohn. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Locke, Ralph & Edward Kelly (1985). A Preliminary Model for the Cross-Cultural Analysis of Altered States of Consciousness. Ethos 13 (1): 3–55. Mazur, Allen (1985). Biosocial Models of Status in Face-to-Face Primate Groups. Social Forces 64 (2): 377–402. Mazur, Allen, Eugene Rosa, Mark Faupel, Joshua Heller, Russell Leen & Blake Thurman (1980). Physiological Aspects of Communication via Mutual Gaze. The American Journal of Sociology 86 (1): 50–74. McClenon, James (2002). Wonderous Healing: Shamanism, Human Evolution, and the Origin of Religion. Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press. Meerloo, Joost (1971). Intuition and the Evil Eye. Wassendar: Servire. Neher, Andrew (1990). The Psychology of Transcendence. New York: Dover. Newberg, Andrew, Eugene d’Aquili & Vince Rause (2001). Why God Won’t Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief. New York: Ballantine. Noll, Richard (2001). Shamans, ‘Spirits’, and Mental Imagery. In J. Narby & F. Huxley (eds.), Shamans Through Time, 248–250. New York: Penguin. Nørretranders, Tor (1998). The User Illusion. Trans. Jonathan Sydenham. New York: Viking. Olsen, Dale (2001). Music Alone Can Alter a Shaman’s Consciousness, which Itself Can Destroy Tape Recorders. In J. Narby & F. Huxley (eds.), Shamans Through Time, 212–215. New York: Penguin. Otto, Bernd-Christian (2013). Towards Historicizing “Magic” in Antiquity. Numen 60 (2/3): 308–347. Parker, Adrian & Göran Brusewitz (2003). A Compendium of the Evidence for psi. European Journal of Parapsychology 18: 33–51. Pels, Peter (1998). The Magic of Africa: Reflections on a Western Commonplace. African Studies Review 41 (3): 193–209.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

176

Bever

Perkins, John (1997). Shapeshifting. Rochester, Vt.: Destiny Books. Persinger, Michael (1987). Neuropsychological Bases of God Beliefs. New York: Praeger. Price, Neil (2001). An Archaeology of Altered States: Shamanism and Material Culture Studies. In Neil Price (ed.), The Archaeology of Shamanism, 3–16. London: Routledge. Rao, Ramakrishna (2001). Introduction: Reality, Replicability, and the Lawfulness of psi. In Ramakrishna Rao (ed.), Basic Research in Parapsychology, 3–37, 2nd. Edition. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland. Samuel, Geoffrey (1990). Mind, Body, and Culture: Anthropology and the Biological Interface. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sikora, Tomasz (2015). The Cognitive Value of Hallucinations. Studia Religiologica 48 (4): 291–299. Stevens, Anthony (1995). Private Myths: Dreams and Dreaming. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Stutley, Margaret (2003). Shamanism: An Introduction. London/New York: Routledge. Tabatabaeian, Shadab and Carolyn Dicey Jennings (2018). Toward a Neurophysiological Foundation for Altered States of Consciousness. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 41: 36–37. Tart, Charles (1969). Introduction to Section 8: The Psychophysiology of Some Altered States of Consciousness. In C. Tart (ed.), Altered States of Consciousness, 485–488. New York: Wiley and Sons. Taves, Ann (1999). Fits, Trances, and Visions: Experiencing Religion and Explaining Experience from Wesley to James. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Townsend, Joan (1997). Shamanism. In S. Glazier (ed.), Anthropology of Religion: A Handbook of Method and Theory, 429–469. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Tuczay, Christa (2005) Trance Prophets and Diviners in the Middle Ages. In G. Klaniczay, E. Pócs & E. Csonka-Takács (eds.), Communicating with the Spirits, 215–233. Budapest: Central European University Press. Vitebsky, Piers (2001). Shamanism. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Warde, Paul (2006). Ecology, Economy, and State Formation in Early Modern Germany. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wier, Dennis (1996). Trance: From Magic to Technology. Ann Arbor, MI: TransMedia. Willis, Roy (1994). New Shamanism. Anthropology Today 10 (6): 16–18. Winkelman, Michael (1990). Shamans and Other ‘Magico-Religious’ Healers: A Cross-Cultural Study of Their Origins, Nature, and Social Transformations. Ethos 18 (3): 308–352. Winkelman, Michael (1997). Altered States of Consciousness. In Stephen Glazier (ed.), Anthropology of Religion: A Handbook of Method and Theory, 399–428. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Winkelman, Michael (2000). Shamanism: The Neural Ecology of Consciousness and Healing. Westport, CT/London: Bergin and Garvey.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

177

The Relationship of Magic and Shamanism

Winkelman, Michael (2010). Shamanism: A Biosocial Paradigm of Consciousness and Healing, second edition. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger. Winkelman, Michael (2011). Shamanism and the Evolutionary Origins of Spirituality and Healing. NeuroQuantology 9 (1): 54–71. Winkelman, Michael & Philip Peek (2004). Introduction: Divination and Healing Processes. In M. Winkelman & P. Peek (eds.), Divination and Healing, 3–25. Tuscon: University of Arizona Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 8

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic in Medieval Jewish Society Gideon Bohak I have finally found a way to live Just like I never could before. I know that I don’t have much to give, But I can open any door. Eric Clapton, “Presence of the Lord”

∵ For many years, Jewish magic was a neglected aspect of Jewish social and cultural history.1 Only over the last generation have scholars begun to see some Jewish magical texts as worthy of critical editions and serious study, but the number of unpublished and even unnoticed Jewish magical texts still far exceeds that of the published ones. Moreover, whereas the study of ancient Jewish magic witnessed a major advance with the publication of two major surveys, students of medieval Jewish magic must still rely on Trachtenberg’s dated survey of medieval Ashkenazi Jewish magic, and students of modern Jewish magic have almost nothing to rely upon.2 In the current chapter, I focus on a single text, stemming from the Cairo Genizah (the used paper storage room of a medieval synagogue, in use from the eleventh to the late-nineteenth centuries, see Bohak 2010). The choice of this specific text is due to it being complete, well preserved, and quite unique. It therefore raises some interesting questions about the nature of Jewish magic and its social location. I could have chosen a more sensational text – with 1 The research for the present chapter was funded by the Israel Science Foundation (Grants no. 635/08 and 986/14). I am grateful to Yuval Harari and Gal Sofer for their comments on an earlier version of this chapter. 2 For ancient Jewish magic, see Bohak (2008); Harari (2017a). For medieval Jewish magic, see Trachtenberg (1939 / 2004); Bohak (2015). For modern Jewish magic, see Bohak (2019). For broader surveys of the Jewish magical tradition, see Bohak (2009) and Harari (2011).

© GIDEON BOHAK, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_009 .8A 8 8

A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

179

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

slaughtered roosters, frightful demons, or the use of human blood – but decided to focus on a relatively bland text, since it provides a calmer and therefore more reliable point of entry into the field of medieval Jewish magic. In what follows, I shall try (a) to present the text in question and offer an English translation and some explanatory notes; (b) to ask whether this indeed is a magical text and what may be gained from classifying it as such; and (c) to see whether we have any evidence that such a text ever was in use among Jews in the Middle Ages, and who may have been using it. 1

The Text

The text in question may be pieced together from two different Genizah fragments – Taylor-Schechter New Series 256.39 (9.8 × 15.7 cm) and New Series 324.78 (8.1 × 15.9 cm).3 Originally these were two separate pieces of paper, which the copyist of our text glued together one below the other, in the form of a rotulus, in order to create a sheet of paper large enough to contain his rather long text.4 After gluing the two pieces together, he copied the text on the recto of the joined sheet, and continued on the top of the verso, leaving the rest of the verso blank. He then folded the joined sheet both vertically and horizontally, thus creating a small, and quite thick, rectangle. Eventually, the joined sheet was discarded in the Cairo Genizah, and its two pieces became separated. Both of them ended up in the Taylor-Schechter New Series, but in different folders, and only the similarity of their style and contents made me realize that they belong together.5 But for a few small lacunae (marked below by square brackets), the text is very well preserved, and quite easy to read. It is written in Aramaic, with some Hebrew phrases appearing in the allusions to biblical verses and postbiblical liturgical formulae and in one long citation of Isaiah 45:1–2. The hand, as Dr. Edna Engel kindly informed me, may be dated to the twelfth century. This, however, only applies to the present copy of our text, since the text itself 3 Images of both fragments are available on the Friedberg Genizah Project website, and their numbers are C388374–5 and C408038–9, respectively. 4 For the rotuli found in the Cairo Genizah, see Bohak (2011); Olszowy-Schlanger (2016). For other paper rotuli, see T-S NS 246.14 + T-S AS 142.15, published by Schäfer and Shaked (1999), No. 66, and JTSL ENA 2575.7–8 (unpublished). 5 The physical join between the two fragments is confirmed by the fact that the bottom of the final nun of the word kerimmon, “like a pomegranate” in line 12 of the recto of T-S NS 256.39 may be seen on the top of the recto of T-S NS 324.78, right above the first line of text (our line 13).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

180

Bohak

clearly was composed long before, at a time when Aramaic was still the main vehicle of expression among Jews. The text’s Aramaic has been analyzed by Prof. Matthew Morgenstern, who suggested to me that the instructions at the beginning and the end of the text display some features of Babylonian Jewish Aramaic, but the long incantation is written in Palestinian Jewish Aramaic. Thus, we may tentatively suggest that our text was composed sometimes in Late Antiquity, and that while it may have been composed in Palestine, it probably was in use in Babylonia as well. This is an issue to which we shall return below. The text contains a single recipe, intended to open all locks and doors; its modus operandi consists of taking some dust, reciting upon it a powerful incantation, and then using the dust and the incantation to make every lock and bolt melt before the recipe’s user(s). Unlike many other Genizah fragments, which contain clusters of magical recipes, or parts of much larger booklets of such recipes, with each recipe usually preceded by a title which explains its aim (“For love”, “To kill an enemy”, “For a woman having trouble in childbirth”, etc.), this fragment contains only a single recipe, and carries no title. This clearly is not due to some technical exigencies, since the large blank space at the bottom of the verso shows that there certainly was more room for other recipes, had the copyist chosen to add them. Apparently, he was specifically interested in this recipe, and copied it as a stand-alone textual unit; he then folded the joint sheet of paper, perhaps taking it with him or handing it over to a client who had to open a door without access to its key. And since the sheet contained only one recipe, whose aim was well known to whoever was using it, there was no need to add a title before the recipe itself. However, it must be stressed that our text is not unique in this respect, and there are other Genizah fragments which contain only a single recipe.6 As we shall note below, what is unique about this recipe is the length, complexity, and theological daring of its incantation. Like many Genizah magical texts, this one too is anonymous, and says nothing about the identity of the recipe’s real or imagined author or about its latest copyist and user(s).7 But the language and contents prove the Jewish origin of this text, and the fact that it ended its life in the Genizah of a synagogue in Cairo already tells us that it was used by Jews, and that it was not deemed too heretical to be deposited there. As we shall see below, the use by

6 See Bohak (2010: 72), under “Single recipes”. 7 For a fuller survey of this issue, see Bohak and Saar (2015).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

181

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

some respectable Jews of spells to open locks is well attested in other sources as well. Without going into a detailed philological analysis of the text, which would be out of place here, I present here a basic English translation of the entire recipe (for the text itself, see the Appendix). Since it is written in a mixture of Aramaic and Hebrew, I printed all the sections which were translated from Aramaic in regular typeface, and italicized all the Hebrew parts. I also added line numbers, and inserted into the text bracketed Roman numerals to mark the beginnings of new textual units. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 8 9 10 11 12

T-S NS 256.39r (I) Take dust from the gate of the town, having purified [yourself / your body] and taken dust from under the door socket of the town that open[s ] and whispered [up]on it while standing before the gate, and said (II) “These are the Na[mes] of the living God, which He engraved in His image;8 every lock and every bo[lt] or door, and every iron instrument that is in you shall melt and fall like [ ]. (III) I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by God whose head is crowned in gold, for He gives dew and rain,9 that you shall be opened and melt and fall. (IV) I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by God whose eyes dance like doves upon water streams10 for with them He traverses all the ends of the earth11 that you shall be opened and melt and fall before me; every lock and every iron instrument that is in you, that is closed and bound, shall be opened before me at this time. (V) I adjured and I adju[re] you, gate, by God whose mouth is like a sweet pomegranate, for with it []12 The translation of the last phrase is uncertain. This expression is unattested in the Hebrew Bible, but is common in the Jewish prayerbook. Cf. Song 5:12. Cf. Zech 4:10; 2 Chr 16:9; for the “magical” use of this simile, see already the famous mosaic inscription from the En-Gedi synagogue, where it appears as a part of a curse formula. Perhaps, “for with it [he shall kiss]”, with an allusion to Song 1:2.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

182 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Bohak

T-S NS 324.78r the lily of the valleys,13 that14 you shall be opened and melt and fall before me; every lock and every bolt and every iron instrument that is in you shall be opened before me in this hour. (VI) I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by God whose heart is like the heart of the lower ones and the upper ones, for with it He shall have mercy upon those who have been carried since birth15 that you shall be opened and melt and fall before me; every lock and every bolt and every iron instrument that is in you, that is bound and closed, shall be opened before me in this hour. (VII) I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by God whose thighs are like pillars of marble16 for they shall stand on the Mountain of Olives17 that you shall open and melt and fall before me, and every part(?)18 and bolt and lock and every iron instrument that is in you that you shall open before me in this hour. (VIII) I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by the living God19 that you shall open and melt and fall before me and every part(?) and every iron instrument that is in you shall melt and fall and be opened before me and every iron instrument or bolt or lock and every instrument that is shut up in you shall be opened before me in this hour, and the gate shall be opened before me just as (the gates) were opened for

Cf. Song 2:1. In ancient Jewish exegesis, the lily of the valleys is often identified with the Jewish people. I omit the word ‫דפתוח‬, which probably is a dittography. Cf. Isa 46:3, which refers to the house of Jacob, and the remnant of the house of Israel. Cf. Song 5:15 (“His thighs are pillars of marble”), cited here in Aramaic rather than in Hebrew. Cf. Zech 14:4. I am puzzled by the word ‫ ציון‬which appears here and in line 23, and usually refers to a grave-mark, but the context makes it clear that it refers to a lock, or a part thereof. The next word has been effaced, or deliberately erased.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

183

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

T-S NS 256.39v [Cy]rus, as it is written, Thus said - -20 to Cyrus, His anointed one [whose] right hand [I have] held, treading down nations before him, and u[ngirding] the loins of kings, whose21 right hand I have held, and ungirding the loins of kings, [openin]g doors before him, and letting no gate stay shut. I will march before you, and level the hills [that loom up], I will shatter doors of bronze, and cut down iron bars.22 A(men) A(men) S(elah)”. (IX) And be careful with [this] dust, and each time you wish to open a gate throw some of this dust into the lock, and stand in front of it and whisper over it this secret 7 times and you shall open it.

As may be seen even from a cursory reading of this long text, it is marred by some textual corruptions (including, for example, the strange dittography in the long citation of Isaiah 45:1–2 in lines 1–3 of the verso), which are undoubtedly due to the carelessness of one or more of its copyists, but it is also characterized by a coherent structure: It begins with the instructions to be followed by whoever wishes to use this recipe (I), then provides the incantation to be recited over the dust (II–VIII), and ends with some more instructions as to how to use the dust (IX). And the incantation – which occupies most of the text – is extremely well structured, consisting of an opening statement (II), which is followed by five textual units that begin with “I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by God”, and then list one of God’s body parts and describe its features (III–VII).23 This is followed by one more textual unit, which begins with “I adjured and I adjure you, gate, by the living God”, and ends with a long quotation from Isaiah, which makes explicit references to the opening of doors and of the iron bars that keep them locked (VIII). Even the five textual units which list God’s body parts are neatly arranged from top to bottom, beginning 20

21 22 23

Instead of spelling out the Tetragrammaton, the scribe replaced it with two horizontal strokes. For this practice, which is paralleled in earlier Jewish magical texts, see, for example, Kotansky, Naveh and Shaked (1992: 9, lines 22–23). For other forms of writing the Tetragrammaton, see Tov (2004: 238–246), and Weiss (2015: 147–175). The following words should be deleted, and are due to a scribal dittography. Isa 45:1–2. This series of adjurations bears some resemblance to a series of adjurations in a Jewish recipe embedded in PGM IV.3007–3086, but whereas here the references are to God’s limbs, there the references are to God’s actions in biblical times.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

184

Bohak

with His crown, and moving to His eyes, mouth, heart, and thighs, all of which shows that whoever composed this recipe had spent some time thinking out its structure.24 He also made use both of a full citation of two biblical verses and of a set of playful allusions to other biblical verses, and to some formulae from post-biblical Jewish liturgy. In other words, this is not a piece of popular magic, but the work of a learned expert with a deep knowledge of Jewish literature.25 But I am jumping ahead of my own argument here, since we have yet to decide whether this is a magical text at all, and this is the question to which we now turn. 2

Is It Magic?

One question which may be asked of this door-opening recipe is whether we are justified in classifying it as a magical text, and what may be gained from such a classification. As is well known, there has been much debate on the issue of magic vs. religion and magic vs. science, with much of the debate focusing on the polytheistic cultures of Antiquity, on the Christian world from the New Testament to the Renaissance, and on the non-Western cultures of the Modern Era.26 These many debates have yielded no consensus, and some powerful voices even insist that “magic” is not really a useful scholarly category, because it often is only a derogatory label affixed to the religious practices of one’s opponents, or because it is a modern, Western, concept, which should not be imposed on non-Western societies.27 From these debates, there emerge two different distinctions that we should keep in mind when thinking about our text and its relation to magic. First, the distinction between the emic and the etic perspectives, that is, between the terms and concepts used by medieval 24

25 26 27

For this structure, cf. Japhet (2011). The text also displays some affinities with Shiur Qomah (an ancient Hebrew text that lists God’s limbs, their sizes, and their secret names), and with Jewish eschatological speculations associated with God’s future theophany on the Mt. of Olives, but both issues are of lesser relevance for the present study, and will have to be dealt with elsewhere. For similar phenomena in many Genizah amulets, see Swartz (1990). For some important points of entry into this vast debate, see Cunningham (1999); Styers (2004); Stratton (2007); Otto (2011, 2013); Otto and Stausberg (2013); Harari (2017a: 15–203). See also the introduction to the present volume. For instance, Gager argues that “… it is our conviction that magic, as a definable and consistent category of human experience, simply does not exist … the beliefs and practices of “the other” will always be dubbed as “magic”, “superstition” and the like” (1992: 24–25). Cf. Smith (1995: 16): “I see little merit in continuing the use of the substantive term “magic” in second-order, theoretical, academic discourse”.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

185

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

Jews and those used by us as modern scholars. And second, the distinction between the use of magic as a term of self-reference, that is, its use by people who describe themselves as “magicians” or describe their actions as “magic”, and its use as a negative label by some members of a social group to denigrate or de-legitimize other members as “magicians” or as involved with “magic”. Focusing solely on our specific example, we may begin with the search for an emic perspective on such a text. As is well known, the Hebrew Bible has a wide range of terms that refer to magic and divination, the most important of which are based on the root kšp, and it vehemently insists that all such practitioners, and all such practices, are forbidden (Ex 22:17; Lev 19:26, 31; Lev 20:6; Deut 18:10–11). This trend continues into rabbinic literature, which enjoins, in line with the biblical legislation, that a mkšp should be stoned to death. Thus, in theory at least, anyone identified by the Jewish community or its leaders as practicing magic could be executed, or at the very least expelled from the Jewish community. In practice, however, this almost never happened, and apart from one famous story of how a Jewish rabbi hung eighty female witches in Ashkelon sometimes in the late-second or early-first century BCE, there is very little evidence of Jews being persecuted by other Jews for practicing magic.28 But I also know of almost no Jewish texts that refer to their own contents as “magic”, and know of very few cases where Jewish texts use any of the terms listed in the Pentateuch as forbidden practices to describe the practices that they enjoin.29 Thus, we may stress that unlike the Greek magical papyri, for example, which sometimes refer to their contents as “magic” (e.g., PGM IV.2449) and even “divine magic” (PGM IV.2445) and “holy magic” (PGM I.127), Jewish magical texts almost never refer to themselves as having anything to do with “magic”.30 This does not mean, however, that they excised magicrelated words from their vocabulary, since their recipes do include practices and incantations intended to ward off magic and magicians, annul their words and deeds, fix the damage caused by magic or deflect it back upon the heads of its perpetrators. “Magic”, in other words, is something that the Jewish practitioners attributed to other, unnamed and unidentified people; they themselves 28

29

30

For Simeon ben Shetah and the eighty witches, see Bohak (2008: 84, 394–395). Of course, in the Hebrew Bible, King Saul outlaws all the diviners (1 Sam 28:3), and then consults one (ibid., verses 7–12), but the ethnic or religious identity of these diviners is never mentioned. One interesting example, of a practitioner who adjures angels with an elaborate incantation, but at the same time apologizes to God for transgressing the words of Deut 18, was recently published by Harari (2017b: 218–222). However, such examples are so interesting precisely because of their great rarity. For such references in the Greek magical papyri, see Betz (1982) and Otto (2013: 332–338).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

186

Bohak

were not practicing “magic”, and in some cases they were only trying to help their clients who had been harmed by evil magicians, or were afraid of their harmful actions (e.g. Levene 2013). Our Genizah text is a case in point. It never describes itself as a “magical” text, and does not use any magic-related terminology; even in the last line, when the instructions refer to the elaborate set of adjurations which are to be recited, they are only described as a “secret” (raza), a word which can be used in magical texts (and is paralleled by the use of mystêrion in Greek magical texts), but is also used in many other contexts and carries no specifically magical connotations.31 The instruction to whisper the “secret” (which is found in line 3 of the recto and line 7 of the verso) is slightly more telling, since the verb which is used here (lḥš) does appear in the Hebrew Bible in the sense of “to whisper an incantation” (e.g., Jer 8:17) but this verb does not appear in the list of forbidden practitioners and practices of Deut 18, and it does appear elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible in non-magical contexts.32 Moreover, in rabbinic literature too the verb is used in non-magical contexts (e.g., bt Ber 22a), and even the practice of “whispering over a wound” is presented as acceptable, at least under certain conditions (bt San 101a; bt Taan 8a). Thus, the use of this specific verb certainly would not have sufficed to place our text in the realm of “magic” from the perspective of its medieval Jewish users. The same is true of the recurrent expression “I adjured and I adjure you”, which to a modern scholar might be a sign of the text’s magical features, as we shall note below. To an ancient or a medieval Jew, the use of the root šbʿ in the hifʿil form would be reminiscent of biblical verses such as Song 2:7, 3:5, 5:8 and 8:4, or of the adjuration of witnesses in a court (see Leicht 2006), and would certainly not recall the list of forbidden practices of Deut 18, where this verb is never mentioned. Moreover, unlike some Genizah recipes, which enjoin ritual practices which many Jews might deem problematic, such as the use of human blood, the worship of angels, or the offering of incense to demons, the few and simple ritual actions enjoined by our recipe would definitely not suffice to make its 31

32

Most notably in Sepher ha-Razim, or “The Book of Secrets”, the most famous Jewish magical text of Late Antiquity. This book too never identifies its own contents as “magic”, but in one recipe (ShR I/160 and 176, pp. 75–76 Margalioth 1966 = §90 and 98 Rebiger and Schäfer 2009) it says “if you wish to perform necromancy”, using the term ’ov, which is included in the list of forbidden practices in Deut 18:11, Lev 19:31 and Lev 20:6, and whose prohibition is equally manifest in 1 Sam 28. Elsewhere, Sepher ha-Razim only refers to healing people who were harmed by magic (ShR II/95, p. 86 Margalioth = §148 Rebiger and Schäfer), and to making race-horses immune against any magic (ShR III/42, p. 94 Margalioth = §194 Rebiger and Schäfer). For the use of mystêrion in the PGM, see Betz (1982: 164). See Isa 26:16, and note that Isa 3:3 lists “a man wise in lḥš”, among the leaders of Judaea. Note also the PN “šlwm son of hlwḥš” in Neh 3:12.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

187

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

users think of it as having to do with “magic”.33 After all, even canonical rabbinic literature recommends more sensational ritual practices, including the manipulation of hapless ants (bt Shab 66b) and roosters (bt AZ 4a–b and parallels), public nudity and sexual relations (bt Shab 110a), the slaughtering of black hens (bt Gitt 67b) and hoopoes (bt Gitt 68b), daily visits to the cemetery (bt MoK 17a–b), and so on.34 Our recipe, in other words, is as mild as they get, at least when it comes to the ritual actions. In light of these considerations, it is clear that we have no way of knowing how the composer, copyists or potential users of this recipe would have classified it, but we have no reason to think that they thought of what they were doing as forbidden or inherently evil, or as belonging in the realm of magic. Whether other Jews considered such texts and practices illegitimate is a more complicated question, since it is quite clear that some of them did and some of them did not. Among those who did we may include the Karaites, who repeatedly attacked the Rabbanites for dabbling in magic, and whose views of magic may be gleaned from Al-Qirqisani’s (tenth century) famous definition of magic, written in Judaeo-Arabic, that is, in Arabic written in Hebrew letters: The type of magic (siḥr) which is forbidden to be practiced is the one about which the performers thereof claim that it works miracles, transforms nature, sways (human) hearts towards love or hatred, generates illnesses in, or removes them from, (human) bodies without using such means as comestibles, potions, blows, or similar things, or that it counteracts all these by means of spoken, written, or otherwise expressed (incantations). Yaʿqūb al-QirqisĀnī, Kitāb al-anwār wal-marāqib VI.9.1 (Nemoy 1941: 575)35 From Al-Qirqisani’s perspective, there would have been no doubt that ours is a magical text, since it seeks to work a miracle, and/or transform nature, by opening a locked door, and it seeks to do so without any blows or some other physical pressure applied upon the lock, and with the help of spoken words which are uttered over a handful of dust and then uttered seven times in front of the locked door. He certainly was not alone in classifying such rituals as magic, since a twelfth-century Karaite, Judah Hadassi, makes this identification even 33 34 35

For some specific examples of more “problematic” recipes, see Bohak (2011). For a fuller coverage of rabbinic magic, see Blau (1898 / 1914); Harari (2006a); Geller (2006); Bohak (2008: 406–422). See also Nemoy (1986: 337), whose translation of this passage I have used and slightly modified.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

188

Bohak

clearer when he refers to “magicians (mkšpym) … and whisperers of incantations, who extract serpents from their holes with an incantation, and close36 the locks of a bolt with an incantation”.37 For Hadassi, the manipulation of locks and bolts by means of incantations was just one of many actions which were practiced by magicians, and which were forbidden by the Torah. Had he known of our Genizah fragment, copied by one of his contemporaries, he would surely have classified it as magic, and would have seen it as yet another example of the Rabbanite Jews’ deep involvement with this forbidden sphere of action, in direct contravention of the biblical legislation.38 So much for the Karaites. However, we may be sure that not only the Karaites saw texts such as ours as magical texts, and thus forbidden to Jews, since some of the leading Rabbanite Jews shared very similar views. First and foremost among them, we may count Maimonides (d. 1204), who lived in Cairo at the time when our text was copied, who vehemently opposed all kinds of magic, and who certainly would have seen a text such as ours – and especially the invocation of the Supreme God for such trivialities as opening a locked door – as sheer blasphemy.39 Note, for example, his vehement attack against Jews who were adding angelic and divine names, as well as special “seals” to their mezuzoth, in order to enhance their apotropaic efficacy, and his equally vehement attack against the text known as Shiur Qomah, which lists the sizes of God’s limbs.40 We may thus conclude that some medieval Jews, especially the Karaites but also some Rabbanite Jews, would have seen our text as contravening the biblical legislation. This, however, is only half the picture. For when we record the objections to such practices by the Karaites or by Maimonides, we must also note the recurrent attempts, from Late Antiquity onwards, of Jewish leaders and lay-persons alike to show that such texts and practices were in no way forbidden to Jews – either they were not “magic” at all, or they were “licit magic”. There are several such discussions throughout the Babylonian Talmud, and more discussions in Hai Gaon’s (939–1038) detailed responsum on the legitimacy of the use of powerful divine names, and in the Rashba’s (Rabbi Shlomo 36 37 38 39 40

I suspect that this is an error for “open”, and a parallel to our recipe, but even if not, it parallels Jesus’s action in the Toledot Yeshu, for which see below. Judah Hadassi, Eshkol ha-Kopher #376/39 (Eupatoria 1836: 152b). The new edition of the first part of this work, by Lasker, Niehoff-Panagiotidis and Sklare (2019), unfortunately does not reach this section. And see Harari (2007), with further bibliography. This topic has often been studied, see Harari (2007) and Ravitzky (2010). For the former, see Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Mezuzah 5.4; for the latter, see his responsum no. 117 (Blau 1958: 201).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

189

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

ben Abraham ibn Adret, 1235–1310) long responsum on the objections to astralmedical magic and the refutations of these objections.41 In each of these cases, the exact boundaries between what Jews may do and what they may not do – or, if you will, between “religion” and “magic” – are differently marked, and in each case they are very fuzzy, and leave much room for the continued recourse to practices which the Karaites, and Maimonides, would have deemed utterly unacceptable. And as we shall see below, the same is true of medieval Jewish texts which proudly described the use of this technique both by the ancient opponents of Jesus and by a tenth-century rabbi. In addition to what we find in the discussions of magic by late-antique and medieval rabbis, we must also note that in numerous other cases Jews used and disseminated such practices without apparently worrying whether these practices were magical or not. In theory, magic was punishable by death, in line with both the biblical and the rabbinic laws on this issue; in practice, however, no Jew was ever executed by his fellow Jews for the practice of magic, and so the question whether a certain practice was to be considered “magic” or not was of no real urgency to most of its practitioners. It was important for the intellectual debates with the Karaites and with the rational philosophers, but – unlike its status in the Greco-Roman or the Christian world – it was not a matter of life and death. This also helps explain why so many magical texts, including the one discussed here, ended up in the Cairo Genizah, rather than being burnt at the stake or buried in some clandestine hideout. They were consigned to the Genizah because they contained sacred names and biblical verses, which had to be treated with great respect, and they were deemed no more problematic than any of the other types of texts that ended up in the Genizah, be these old biblical scrolls, talmudic texts, business contracts or private letters. In light of these observations, it seems clear that an emic perspective on this text will not get us very far, since we have no medieval Jewish discussions of this specific text, and when we look at the medieval discussions of similar texts, we find some Jews classifying them as “magic”, others seeing them as “licit magic”, and yet others seeing them as not “magic” at all; we also find many Jews who were not even bothered by this question. Moreover, it is not clear whether those Jews who were bothered by the permissibility of such practices affixed a different label to those practices they wished to go on practicing. The rabbis of Kairouan, in their letter to Hai Gaon which gave rise to his long responsum (written ca. 1000 CE), refer to such practitioners as “masters of the 41

For the talmudic discussions, see Bohak (2008: 356–386). For the last two sources, see Bohak (2015: 271–272, 276–277), with further bibliography.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

190

Bohak

Name” (Emanuel 1995: 124), but do not assign any specific label to the actions they perform or the techniques they use, and even this designation does not seem to have been widely used at the time. In later periods, some Jews certainly affixed a special label to the practices which they wished to practice, when they classified them as belonging in the realm of “practical Kabbalah”, and in so doing avoided the dirty word, “magic” (Scholem 1974: 182–189; Harari 2019; Chajes 2019). And yet, in the Genizah magical texts, this process of replacing the tainted term with a more acceptable one seems to be entirely absent. Like Macbeth’s witches, their art remains “a deed without a name”. Turning to an etic perspective, we seem to be on firmer ground, and I think that regardless of which definition of “magic” we choose to adopt, our text would fall squarely under that definition. As a case in point, I note how in a recent study Yuval Harari set out to survey the knotty debates about magic vs. religion and to offer a sounder definition of Jewish magical texts (Harari 2005). To do so, he adopted Wittgenstein’s notion of “family resemblance” and tried first to look for Jewish texts which could intuitively be classified as “magical”, and then to isolate the features common to all of them. At the end of this quest, he concluded that the most characteristic feature of Jewish magical texts is their use of adjurations, i.e., of phrases like “I adjure you” and related formulations, and that other characteristic features include the adjuration by God’s attributes or great deeds, the appeal to supernatural powers, and so on. If we adopt such criteria, our text certainly would be classified as “magic”, since the adjurations are the key-words around which the entire text is structured, and the references to God’s great powers lie at the heart of each of the adjurations. In a similar vein, if we adopt Moshe Idel’s definition of magic as “a system of practices and beliefs that presupposes the possibility to achieve material gains by means of techniques that cannot be explained experimentally” (Idel 1997: 195), we would again conclude that our text belongs in the realm of magic. In my own work, I tend to follow a somewhat different approach. I would gladly accept a minimalist definition of magic as any attempt to achieve material gains through supernatural means, or through means that cannot be explained experimentally, but as many of the practices of normative Judaism would fit this definition, I wish to highlight the distinction between Jewish magical texts and practices which were fully-naturalized within the Jewish religious tradition, and those which never became part and parcel of mainstream Judaism. The former I would classify as “religion”, and the latter as “magic” (Bohak 2009/10, 2021). And here too, our text would certainly fall under the rubric of “magic”, since its door-opening ritual never was codified into the Jewish religious system. Some Jews probably saw it as forbidden, others thought it lawful, or barely-acceptable, or acceptable when carried out for

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

191

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

noble goals, but none saw it as part of God’s commandments to the Jewish people, to be practiced regularly by every Jew. Whoever composed, copied, and utilized this text clearly did not think of it as a part of the normative Judaism that all Jews must practice, but as an ad hoc solution to one specific problem, to be utilized only by the few Jews who happen to know this “secret” and how to use it. But from an emic perspective, the fact that this text is not a part of “religion” does not mean that it belongs in the realm of “magic”, for it can simply remain “a deed without a name”. What, then, do we gain from our decision to classify this as a magical text? On the one hand, the search for this classification helps elucidate the peculiar place of magic in medieval Jewish culture, as a vibrant branch of Jewish cultural activity. This branch often was marginalized, sometimes even denigrated, but never was seriously persecuted, and this in marked contrast with what went on in the Greco-Roman world, and much more so in the Christian world. It also is a type of action that was never called “magic” by its practitioners – not because they lacked such a vocabulary, but because they deliberately avoided the self-referential use of such tainted terms. These practitioners sometimes referred to themselves, or were referred to by others, as “masters of the Name(s)”, but how they referred to what they did is not really clear. Apparently, they had no specific rubric under which to group all those activities that we would label “magic”. On the other hand, the ubiquity of this kind of texts in the Cairo Genizah and in many other collections of Jewish manuscripts forces us to admit how wide-spread Jewish magic really was, and how it was in no way limited to the margins of society, to the illiterate sections of the Jewish community, or to women. They too may have practiced magic, but the Jewish magical texts that reached us were mostly written by male practitioners, and often by professional scribes and by members of the rabbinic and intellectual elites of medieval Jewish society. In our case, this is borne out by the sophisticated structure of our incantation, by its learned allusions to biblical and liturgical passages, and even by the continuous copying of a text in Aramaic at a time when the Jewish vernacular was Arabic and the main language of writing was Judaeo-Arabic. Thus, the marginalization of magic in Jewish society was not based on the marginalization of its practitioners, but on these practitioners’ implicit distinctions between the kinds of rituals they conducted in line with God’s commandments as spelled out in His written and oral Torah, and the kinds of rituals they conducted on an individual basis, and in their spare time.42 42

This distinction is further highlighted by the many booklists from the Cairo Genizah (see Allony 2006), which almost never mention magical texts, even when the Genizah fragments themselves attest to their ubiquity in many private libraries.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

192

Bohak

Often, the latter rituals were intended to answer needs for which there was no answer within the established religious system – including the occasional need to open a locked door to whose key you had no access. 3

Was This Text Ever in Use?

Having concluded that this text may be classified as a magical recipe, we may now turn to another intriguing question: was it ever in use, and by whom? As noted above, the recipe tells us nothing about the identity of its composer, copyist(s) and potential users. Moreover, it does not call for the production of any “finished product”, such as a “voodoo doll” or an elaborate talisman, only for the collection of some dust and the recitation of an oral incantation. Thus, we cannot expect to find any archeological evidence of its actual use (see Bohak 2017). What we can look for, however, are other copies of this recipe (and thus far, I have found none), and other examples of magical recipes to open locks, as well as references in non-magical texts to the actual use of such practices. On the former front, our quest is facilitated by the presence of several Jewish magical spells to open locks and doors, none of which is as intriguing or detailed as the current example.43 Moving in a chronological order we may first note a recipe found in the Sword of Moses, which suggests that if one wishes to open a door one should take the root of a certain reed, place it under one’s tongue, and pronounce before the door a set of magic words.44 This combination of materia magica and verba magica, or of dromena and legomena, is typical of many Jewish magical recipes, and recurs in other recipes to open locks, but with different ingredients and different incantations.45

43

44 45

Needless to add, this practice is attested in non-Jewish magical texts as well, including, for example, the Greek magical papyri; see PGM I.100–101; PGM XII.160–178; PGM XII.279–280; PGM XIII.327–334; 1064–1075; PGM XXXVI.312–320. For references to opening doors by means of magic, see also Pliny, NH 26.9; Lucian, Navig. 42; Origen, C.Cels. 2.34; Arnobius, Adv. nat. 1.43, and the detailed discussion in Weinreich (1929: 342–362). However, for the purpose of the present discussion, we may focus only on the Jewish examples. HdM, no. 81; for an English translation, see Harari (2012: 91). See the two recipes from MS Bern Stadtbibliothek 200 (#2304 in the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts), cited by Perles (1887: 29), and partly translated by Trachtenberg (1939 / 2004: 130). In the autograph manuscript of Hayyim Vital (1543–1620), recently printed as Sefer ha-Peʾulot, anonymous publisher, 2010 (in Hebrew), on p. 208, recipe 214, two versions of a similar recipe are given, and then crossed out, with a note, “I tried them and they did not work”. For this manuscript, see also Bos (1994).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

193

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

From this rather simple example, we may turn to a more complex recipe, whose different versions have yet to be studied in detail. The first of these is found in a Genizah fragment which is a part of a much larger magical booklet, and which contains magical recipes to quell a storm at sea, to make a barren woman conceive, to open locks, for protection against scorpions, and – after a few more gynecological recipes – a recipe to improve one’s memory and learning abilities.46 The lock-opening recipe is written in Aramaic, and begins with an invocation of twelve angels (some of whom have names such as Patḥiel, from the root ptḥ “to open”), who are asked to grant the practitioner their assistance in opening the gate. This is followed by an invocation in the name of more angels, who are described as appointed over the different heavens (which are listed in the wrong order, apparently because of copying errors), and who are asked to open the gate. The practitioner is then told to kick the lock with his foot and to recite Hosea 9:6. This is followed by an obscure section which seems to be textually corrupt, and by the instruction to recite the incantation up to seven times. The same recipe, but in a very garbled state, is found in a non-Genizah manuscript, embedded between several Hekhalot (Jewish mystical) compositions (Schäfer 1981: §826–827). And a third, and apparently more accurate version, may be found in a fourteenth-century Ashkenazi compendium of Kabbalistic and magical texts.47 And in later Jewish magical texts, more door-opening spells may be found, including some that are clearly borrowed from Christian sources.48 To sum up this part of the discussion, we may note that recipes to open locks and doors were not the most popular type of Jewish magical recipes – their number is dwarfed by the hundreds of erotic or aggressive magical recipes, or those for protection and healing – but that they were not entirely unknown either. Our recipe may be the most elaborate door-opening recipe of which I am currently aware, but it certainly is not the only one. And yet, the existence of more such recipes does not necessarily tell us much about their actual use, and the only evidence they provide of actual use is found in Hayyim Vital’s note to himself that he tried the recipe he had, and it did not work (above, n. 45). To find further documentation of their use we must turn to the non-magical literature in search of relevant information, and to date, I have found only three specific examples.49 The first, and probably the earliest, is found in the Toledot 46 47 48 49

See Naveh and Shaked (1993), G11 (= T-S K 1.19), p. 1, l. 17–p. 2, l. 18. See MS London, British Library 752 (= Add. 15299), (IMHM #4935), fol. 97b. And see Gaster (1900: 345, 350); Benayahu (1972: 260, no. 1615); Sofer (2015): 147, 156. I have excluded Acts 16:26 from my survey, since the miraculous opening of the prison’s door resulted from Paul and Silas’s prayers and hymns, whose contents are not described. And cf. also Acts 12:5–10. I also excluded the words of Judah Hadassi, which were cited

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

194

Bohak

Yeshu, the Jewish counter-Gospel, whose earliest version, as preserved in Aramaic fragments from the Cairo Genizah, may be dated anywhere between the third and the sixth centuries CE.50 In this text, we find Jesus, about to be crucified, practicing his magic to fly up in the air and hide in a cave; he then uses his magic once again, in order to shut up the cave’s mouth and remain hidden inside. Judah the Gardener then recites God’s secret Name and flies after him. Reaching the closed cave he opens it, but how he does so is a matter on which our earliest textual witnesses diverge. In some of the texts, he merely recites God’s secret Name once again, but in others he says “Opening, opening, open up, for I am the messenger of the Great God”. In either case, the cave opens up, and Judah captures Jesus and brings him to the place where he will be crucified.51 Reading this story, we may note its basic assumption, namely, that an opening can be locked up, but also opened, by means of magic and incantations. We may also note that the incantation cited here is very short and simple, which might be a sign of its antiquity, but that like our Genizah text, it involves the direct adjuration of the opening, and in the name of God. Another example of the use of lock-opening spells is found in a medieval Jewish historical text known as The Story of Rabbi Nathan the Babylonian. This is a description of some events connected with the yeshivot (Torah study houses) of Babylonia in the early Muslim period, and it was written in Judeo-Arabic in the first half of the tenth century. Only fragments of the Judeo-Arabic text of this document are currently extant, but it is also known through a Hebrew translation which is relatively well preserved.52 The passage which interests us here deals with the disputes between Cohen-Zedek ben Joseph, the head of the Pumbeditha yeshiva, and David ben Zakai, who was appointed by consent of the yeshiva of Sura as the head of the entire Jewish community (resh galuta). For three years, Cohen-Zedek refused to accept the authority of David Ben Zakai, and to give him his dues, with Nissi al-Nahrawani, the blind scholar and poet, serving as a mediator between them. One time, this Nissi came to Cohen-Zedek by night,

50 51 52

above, since he was not explicitly referring to Jewish magicians who use such incantations. For non-Jewish examples, cf. Ali Baba’s “Open Sesame”, or Shakespeare’s “Open, locks, Whoever knocks!” (Macbeth IV.1.46–47). For the debate concerning the date and provenance of Toledot Yeshu, see Smelik (2009) and Sokoloff (2011). For a fuller analysis of this episode, see Bohak (2020). For a detailed discussion of this text, and an edition of the Judeo-Arabic fragments, see Ben-Sasson (1989), which supersedes the earlier edition by Friedlaender (1905); the Hebrew version was printed by Neubauer (1895: 78–88).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

195

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

and he would open every lock with his word, and on that night he opened fourteen locks which were locked on gates, including some on the gates of (the dwelling of) Cohen-Zedek, until he reached him, and found him studying in the middle of the night. And Cohen-Zedek was afraid of him, and impressed by his (unexpected) arrival, and by the reason of his coming to him. And he (Nissi) said to him, “Oh, head of the yeshiva, I opened fourteen locks before I reached you”.53 Leaving aside the rest of the conversation between these two grandees, we may simply note the matter of fact way in which a tenth-century Jewish narrator relates how a major figure in the world of the Babylonian yeshivot had some secret words up his sleeve with which to open all locks.54 Unfortunately, no further details are provided, and so we cannot tell whether he used our spell (which, as we noted above, displays some Babylonian Aramaic features), one of the other spells to which we already pointed, a totally different spell, or perhaps even just a simple prayer, or the mere recitation of one of God’s potent Names. Being blind, he certainly had no use for a written recipe such as ours, and probably remembered his own favorite formulae by heart. But be this as it may, the story does show that many medieval Jews took it for granted that one can open locked doors by means of words alone, and that such means for opening locks were in demand and use even at the highest strata of Jewish society. In this sense, the casual report of a complete “outsider” who had no special interest in Jewish magic helps us illuminate and contextualize what we find in the magicians’ own texts.55

53

54

55

The Judeo-Arabic text is in Ben-Sasson (1989: 188), the Hebrew in Neubauer (1895: 79). The statement “and he would open every lock with his word (‫וכאן יפתח כל קפל בכלאם‬ [‫”)מ]נה‬, is translated in the Hebrew version as “he could open all the locks of Babylonia with the Name (‫”)והיה פותח כל מנעולי בבל בשם‬. This might be due to the translator’s misreading ‫ בכלאם מנה‬as ‫בבל )ב(אסם‬, or some similar confusion, or to the assumption that using God’s Name is better than using an unspecified spell; this offers an interesting parallel to the differences between the different versions of Toledot Yeshu, as noted above. For the yeshivot and their magical activities, note Hai Gaon’s explanation (Emanuel 1995: 130) of how his yeshiva (in Pumbeditha) is free of such activities, but “in the yeshiva at Sura these things were widespread, since they are close to the city of Babylon and to the house of Nebuchadnezzar”. See further Bohak (2015: 271–274). In another case – the re-established sotah ritual (for detecting whether a woman had committed adultery) – we may be quite sure that the ritual attributed to a ninth century rabbi in the eleventh century Scroll of Ahimaaz is the same magical ritual for which a recipe was found in the Cairo Genizah; for a detailed analysis of this example, see Harari (2006b).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

196

Bohak

A third piece of information is of a very different nature, but is at least as interesting. It was mentioned by Louis Ginzberg in his detailed discussion of the Story of R. Nathan Ha-Babli, and is found in a late midrashic compilation on the book of Esther (Ginzberg 1909: 28). There, the midrash comments on the story of Mordechai’s discovery of the plot to murder King Ahasureus and how he reported this to Esther (Est 2:21–22), a story which raises the interesting question of how Mordechai could have reached Esther, who presumably was locked up in the royal palace, and how he could avoid being caught by the plotters, who were two of the King’s gate-keepers. Thus, the midrash says, some say that he entered at night, and the guards did not know this, nor did the Chaldaeans(?),56 and no man harmed him, as it says, “I will march before you, and level the hills that loom up, I will shatter doors of bronze” etc. (Isa 45:2). Midrash Panim Aherim, version B, 98 (Buber 1886: 65)

Once again, we are missing some of the most important details, including the explicit claim that Mordechai used some special spell or magical practice to break through the palace doors. But the claim that he could enter through these doors without being noticed, and the citation of the same verse which ends our door-opening adjuration, leave one wondering if the author of this Midrash knew some recipe not very different from ours. At the very least, we may suggest that the connection between the miraculous opening of locked doors and the first two verses of Isaiah 45 was known to quite a few people in the Jewish world of the early Middle Ages. And it is quite likely that elsewhere in the non-magical Jewish literature of the Middle Ages there lie more references to the use of magical spells and rituals to open locked doors, references which have yet to be identified and studied. 4

Conclusion

To sum up what we have seen in the present chapter, we may note how an anonymous, and probably quite ancient, Aramaic recipe for opening locked doors by means of a complex set of adjurations was still being copied in the twelfth century, and ended up in the Cairo Genizah. How exactly it would have 56

The printed text reads ‫הכלים‬, which must be an error; I assume the correct reading is haKaldim. Börner Klein and Hollender (2000: 103) take this as hikhlim, and translate “und er beschämte nicht”, but this makes little sense.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

197

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

been classified by its composer, copyists, or users we cannot really say, but it is clear that they did not classify it as “magic” (which is forbidden to Jews, and punishable by death), and probably not even as “licit magic”. From their perspective, it was not “magic” at all, even if they would readily admit that it was not a part of their established “religion”. But the Karaites, and some extreme rationalists like Maimonides and his followers, certainly could have seen such recipes as “magic”. For the former, it would have been just one more confirmation that Rabbanite society was full of magic; for the latter, it would have proven how badly needed was his proposed reform of Judaism, as codified in his Mishneh Torah and explained in his Guide of the Perplexed.57 And yet, we also saw that the use of such practices to open locked doors is mentioned in ancient and medieval Jewish sources, and that quite a few Jews believed that in the presence of the Lord, they too could open any door – and saw nothing wrong with doing so. All this applies to medieval Jews. But for the modern scholar, the issue is quite different, since he or she aims neither to attack medieval Rabbanite culture nor to reform it. For the scholar, the sole aim is to study medieval Jewish society and culture and understand its complexities. Within this effort, texts such as the one studied here require our attention, if only because their ubiquity forces us to admit their importance within the society that produced them. Fully aware of the problematic history of the term “magic”, and of its use and misuse in the past, we may choose not to classify them as such, but in so doing we shall be missing two important opportunities.58 First, we shall be missing the opportunity to gather together many similar Jewish texts, that seek to change reality by manipulating objects and words whose relation to the desired outcome is at best symbolic, and by adjuring demons, angels, and inanimate objects. This would be a shame, since these texts share several additional qualities, including a non-canonical status (or, in other words, not being a part of the Jewish “religion”), an extremely wide diffusion, and their actual use even by members of the highest strata of medieval Jewish society. Second, by refusing to label such texts as “magic” and to study them as a group, we would also be missing an important opportunity to compare them with similar 57 58

For Maimonides’ (failed) attempt to reform Judaism and ween it of its magical practices, see esp. Kellner (2006). In what follows, I ignore another common scholarly solution, that which replaces a problematic term like “magic” by supposedly harmless equivalents, such as “ritual acts to gain power”. In most cases, such solutions amount to no more than a politically correct word-game, usually accompanied by a nod or a wink which imply that “we know that you know that we are in fact talking about magic, even if we are using some “kosher” circumlocution”.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

198

Bohak

texts in non-Jewish societies, such as the Greek magical papyri or the Christian grimoires. This is a path that we did not try to follow in the present chapter, but which definitely could and should be followed.59 And when it is, we will surely see that the fact that the Greek magical papyri sometimes refer to their recipes as “magic” while the Jewish magical texts almost never do is far less significant than the fact that when the actual recipes are compared, they often turn out to be quite similar. With all its problematic history, I would argue that the label “magic” still helps us open many locks, and that at least in the Jewish case, it also helps us enter some locked rooms of Jewish culture, the keys to whose doors were deliberately lost by some earlier generations of scholars. Appendix: The Aramaic Text Sigla – [] a lacuna in the text; ⟨ ⟩ addition between the lines; () doubtful reading

T-S NS 256.39r

[ ]‫סב עפרא מן תרעא דמדינתא כד דכית‬ [ ?‫ונסבת עפרא מן תחות צי]נ[רתא דמדינתא דפתי]ח‬ [?‫ואמרת ה)נ(ון שמ]התא‬ ִ ‫ולחשת ]ע[ליה כי קימת לק]י[בל תרעא‬ [‫דאילהא חייא דציר באיקונין דידיה כל קופל וכל סו]כר‬ 60[ ]‫או )ג(לא וכל מאן דפרזל דאית בך ישוח ויפול איך דאיב‬ ‫אשבעתך ומשבענא לך תרעא באלהא דראשיה מכלל‬ ‫בדהבא כי הוא נותן טל ומטר דתיפתוח ותישוח ותיפול‬ ‫אשבעתך ומשבענא לך תרעא באלהא דעינוי כיונין על‬ ‫אפיקי מים מרקדן כי במו משוטט כל קצוי ארץ דתיפתוח‬ (‫ותישוח ותיפול קדמי כל קופל וכל מאן דפרזל דבך ]ד[אחי)ד‬ [‫ואסיר יפתח קדמי בהדן עידנא אשבעתך ומשבע]נא‬ [ ]‫לך תרעא באלהא דפומיה כרימון בסים כי במו‬

T-S NS 324.78r

(‫ דתיפתוח ותישוח ותפיל קד)מי‬61‫שושנת עמקים דפתוח‬ ‫ וכל מאן דפרזל דאית בך יתפתח )ק(דמי‬62‫כל קופל וכל סופר‬ ‫בהדא שעתא אשבעתך ומשבענא לך תרעא באלהא דליביה‬ ‫כלב ארעיי ועיליי כי בו ירחם את עמוסי בטן דתיפתוח ותישוח‬

59 60 61 62

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16

For pertinent examples, see Bohak (2006); Mesler (2013); and Saar (2014). A fold in the paper prevents the reading of a few letters here. Probably a dittography. Lege: ‫סוכר‬.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

199

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic ‫ות⟩י⟨פול קדמי כל קופל וכל סוכר וכל מאן דפרזל דאית בך דאסיר‬ ‫ואחיד יפתח קדמי בהדא שעתא אשבעתך ומשבענא לך תרעא‬ ‫באלהא דשקוי כעמודין דש)ש( כי הם יעמדו על הר הזיתים‬ ‫דתיפתח ותישוח ותיפול קדמי וכל ציון וכל סוכר וקופל וכל‬ ‫מאן דפרזל ד)אית( בך דתיפת)ח( קדמי בהדא שעתא אשבעתך‬ ‫ו)משבע(נא לך תרעא באל חי )י(א דתיפתח ותישוח ותיפול‬ ‫קדמי וכל צ)י(ון וכל מאן דפרזל דאית בך ישוח ויפול ויתפתח‬ ‫קדמי וכל מאן דפרזל או סוכר או קופל וכל מאן דטריד בך יתפתח‬ ‫קדמי בהדא שעתא ו)י(תפת)ח( תר)ע(]א[ קדמי דאיך דאיתפתחו‬

T-S NS 256.39v

[‫ למשיחו ל)כורש אש(]ר‬63- - ‫] לכר[ש כמא דכתיב כה אמר‬ [‫]החז[קתי בימינו לרד לפניו גויים ומתנ]י[ מלכים א]פתח‬ ‫ בימינו ומ)ת(ני מלכים אפתח ל]פתח[ לפניו‬64‫אשר החזקתי‬ ‫]ד[לתים ושערים לא יסגרו אני לפניך אלך והדור]ים איש[ר דלתות‬ [ ]‫נחושה אשבר ובר]י[חי ברזל אגדע א׳א׳ס׳ והוי זהיר ביה‬ ‫עפרא וכל אימת דבעית למיפתח תרעא רמי מן ה)א( עפרא‬ 65‫בקופלא וקום לקיבליה ולחוש עליה הדן רזא ז׳ זמנין ותפתחמו‬

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

References Allony, Nehemiah (2006). The Jewish Library in the Middle Ages: Book Lists from the Cairo Genizah. Edited by M. Frenkel & H. Ben-Shammai. Oriens Judaicus I, III. Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi (in Hebrew). Ben-Sasson, Menahem (1989). The Structure, Goals, and Content of the Story of Nathan Ha-Babli. In M. Ben-Sasson, R. Bonfil & J. R. Hacker (eds.), Culture and Society in Medieval Jewry: Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, 137–196. Jerusalem: Shazar (in Hebrew). Benayahu, Meir (1972). The Book “Shoshan Yesod ha-Olam” by Rabbi Yoseph Tirshom. In I. Weinstock (ed.), Temirin, 187–269, vol. 1. Jerusalem: Kook (in Hebrew). Betz, Hans Dieter (1982). The Formation of Authoritative Tradition in the Greek Magical Papyri. In B. F. Meyer & E. P. Sanders (eds.), Jewish and Christian SelfDefinition, 161–170, vol. 3. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Blau, Joshua (1958). R. Moses ben Maimon, Responsa, vol. 1. Jerusalem: Reuven Mass. (in Hebrew). 63 64 65

The Tetragrammaton is written as two hyphens. Dittography. The rest of T-S NS 256.39v, and the whole of T-S NS 324.78v, are blank.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

200

Bohak

Blau, Ludwig (1914). Das altjüdische Zauberwesen. Strassbourg: Trubner, 1898. 2nd ed., Berlin: Louis Lamm. Börner Klein, Dagmar & Elisabeth Hollender (2000). Rabbinische Kommentare zum Buch Ester, vol. 2: Die Midraschim zu Ester. Leiden: Brill. Bohak, Gideon (2006). Catching a Thief: The Jewish Trials of a Christian Ordeal. Jewish Studies Quarterly 13: 344–362. Bohak, Gideon (2008). Ancient Jewish Magic: A History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohak, Gideon (2009). Prolegomena to the Study of the Jewish Magical Tradition. Currents in Biblical Literature 8: 107–150. Bohak, Gideon (2009/2010). Mezuzoth with Magical Additions from the Cairo Genizah. Dinei Israel: Studies in Halakha and in Jewish Law 26–27 (Festschrift for Mordechai Akiva Friedman): 387–403 (in Hebrew). Bohak, Gideon (2010). Towards a Catalogue of the Magical, Astrological, Divinatory and Alchemical Fragments from the Cambridge Genizah Collections. In B. Outhwaite & S. Bhayro (eds.), “From a Sacred Source”: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif, 53–79. Études sur le Judaïsme Médiéval 42; Cambridge Genizah Studies Series 1. Leiden: Brill. Bohak, Gideon (2011). The Magical Rotuli from the Cairo Genizah. In G. Bohak, Y. Harari & S. Shaked (eds.), Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, 321–340. Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture 15. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Bohak, Gideon (2015). Jewish Magic in the Middle Ages. In D. Collins (ed.), The Cambridge History of Magic and Witchcraft in the West, 268–299, 711–719. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohak, Gideon (2017). Magic in the Cemeteries of Late-Antique Palestine. In O. Tal & Z. Weiss (eds.), Expressions of Cult in the Southern Levant in the Greco-Roman Period, 157–174. Contextualizing the Sacred 6. Turnhout: Brepols, 2017. Bohak, Gideon (2019). How Jewish Magic Survived the Disenchantment of the World. Aries 19: 7–37. Bohak, Gideon (2020). Jesus the Magician in the “Pilate” Recension of Toledoth Yeshu. In D. Barbu & Y. Deutsch (eds.), Toledot Yeshu in Context: The Jewish “Life of Jesus” in Ancient, Medieval, and Modern History, 81–98. TSAJ 182. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bohak, Gideon (2021). Magic. In P. Ackerman-Lieberman (ed.), The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. 5: Jews and Judaism in the Islamic World, Seventh through Fifteenth Centuries, 864–890. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohak, Gideon & Ortal-Paz Saar (2015). Genizah Magical Texts Prepared for or Against Named Individuals. Revue des Études Juives 174: 77–110. Bos, Gerrit (1994). Hayyim Vital’s “Practical Kabbalah and Alchemy”: A 17th Century Book of Secrets. Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 4: 55–112.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

201

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

Buber, Salomon (1886). Sifrei de-agadta: Sammlung Agadischer Commentare zum Buche Ester. Wilna: Romm. Chajes, Jeffrey H. (2019). Kabbalah Practices/Practical Kabbalah: The Magic of Kabbalistic Trees. Aries 19: 112–145. Cunningham, Graham (1999). Religion and Magic: Approaches and Theories. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Emanuel, Simcha (1995). Newly Discovered Geonic Responsa. Jerusalem/Cleveland: Ofeq Institute, Friedberg Library (in Hebrew). Friedlaender, Israel (1905). The Arabic Original of the Report of R. Nathan HaBabli. Jewish Quarterly Review 17: 747–761. Gager, John G. (1992). Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gaster, Moses (1900). The Wisdom of the Chaldeans: An Old Hebrew Astrological Text. Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 22: 329–351. Geller, Markham J. (2006). Deconstructing Talmudic Magic. In C. Burnett & W. F. Ryan (eds.), Magic and the Classical Tradition, 1–18. Warburg Institute Colloquia 7. London: The Warburg Institute. Ginzberg, Louis (1909). Geonica, vol. I. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary. Harari, Yuval (2005). What is a Magical Text?: Methodological Reflections Aimed at Redefining Early Jewish Magic. In Sh. Shaked (ed.), Officina Magica: Essays on the Practice of Magic in Antiquity, 91–124. IJS Studies in Judaica 4. Leiden: Brill. Harari, Yuval (2006a). The Sages and the Occult. In Sh. Safrai, Z. Safrai, J. Schwartz & P. J. Tomson (eds.), The Literature of the Sages, 521–564. Part II (Midrash and Targum, Liturgy, Poetry, Mysticism, Contracts, Inscriptions, Ancient Science, and the Languages of Rabbinic Literature). Assen: Van Gorcum. Harari, Yuval (2006b). The Scroll of Ahimaaz and the Jewish Magical Culture: A Note on the Sotah Ordeal. Tarbiz 75: 185–202 (in Hebrew). Harari, Yuval (2007). Leadership, Authority, and the “Other” in the Debate over Magic from the Karaites to Maimonides. The Journal for the Study of Sephardic and Mizrahi Jewry 1: 79–101. Harari, Yuval (2011). Jewish Magic: An Annotated Overview. El Prezente: Studies in Sephardic Culture 5: 13*–85* (in Hebrew). Harari, Yuval (2012). The Sword of Moses (Harba de-Moshe): A New Translation and Introduction. Magic, Ritual and Witchcraft 7: 58–98. Harari, Yuval (2017a). Jewish Magic before the Rise of Kabbalah, (tr. by Batya Stein). Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Harari, Yuval (2017b). Demonic Dream Divination (Jewish Dream Magic II). In T. Rosen et al. (eds.), Assif le-Yassif: Studies in Folklore and Jewish Studies for Professor Eli Yassif, 187–232. Teʿudah 28. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, (in Hebrew).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

202

Bohak

Harari, Yuval (2019). “Practical Kabbalah” and the Jewish Tradition of Magic. Aries 19: 38–82. Idel, Moshe (1997). On Judaism, Jewish Mysticism and Magic. In P. Schäfer & H. G. Kippenberg (eds.), Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium, 195–214. Studies in the History of Religions 75. Leiden: Brill. Japhet, Sara (2011). The ‘Description Poems’ in Ancient Jewish Sources and in the Jewish Exegesis of the Song of Songs. In D. J. A. Clines & E. van Wolde (eds.), A Critical Engagement: Essays on the Hebrew Bible in Honour of J. Cheryl Exum, 216– 229. Hebrew Bible Monographs 38. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Kellner, Menachem (2006). Maimonides’ Confrontation with Mysticism. Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilisation. Kotansky, Roy, Joseph Naveh & Shaul Shaked (1992). A Greek-Aramaic Silver Amulet from Egypt in the Ashmolean Museum. Le Muséon 105: 5–26. Lasker, Daniel J., Johannes Niehoff-Panagiotidis & David Sklare (2019). Theological Encounters at a Crossroads: An Edition and Translation of Judah Hadassi’s Eshkol ha-kofer, First Commandment, and Studies of the Book’s Judaeo-Arabic and Byzantine Contexts. Études sur le Judaïsme Médiéval 77. Leiden: Brill. Leicht, Reimund (2006). Mashbiaʿ Ani ʿAlekha: Types and Patterns of Ancient Jewish and Christian Exorcisms. Jewish Studies Quarterly 13: 319–343. Levene, Dan (2013). Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts from Late-Antique Mesopotamia: “May These Curses Go Out and Flee”. Magical and Religious Literature of Late Antiquity 2. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Margalioth, Mordecai (1966). Sepher Ha-Razim: A Newly Recovered Book of Magic from the Talmudic Period. Tel Aviv: Yediot Acharonot (in Hebrew). Mesler, Katelyn (2013). The Three Magi and Other Christian Motifs in Medieval Hebrew Medical Incantations: A Study in the Limits of Faithful Translation. In R. Fontaine & G. Freudenthal (eds.), Latin-into-Hebrew: Texts and Studies, 161–216, vol. 1. Studies in Jewish History and Culture 39–40. Leiden: Brill. Naveh, Joseph & Shaul Shaked (1993). Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity. Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Nemoy, Leon (1941). Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq Al-Qirqisānī, Kitāb al-Anwār wal-Marāqib: Code of Karaite Law, vol. 3. New York: Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation. Nemoy, Leon (1986). Al-Qirqisānī on the Occult Sciences. Jewish Quarterly Review 76: 329–367. Neubauer, Adolf (1895). Mediaeval Jewish Chronicles and Chronological Notes, Edited from Printed Books and Manuscripts, vol. 2. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Olszowy-Schlanger, Judith (2016). Cheap Books in Medieval Egypt: Rotuli from the Cairo Geniza. Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 4: 82–101.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

203

A Spell to Open All Locks and the Place of Magic

Otto, Bernd-Christian (2011). Magie: Rezeptions- und diskursgeschichtliche Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit. Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 57. Berlin: De Gruyter. Otto, Bernd-Christian (2013). Towards Historicizing “Magic” in Antiquity. Numen 60: 308–347. Otto, Bernd-Christian & Michael Stausberg (2013). Defining Magic: A Reader. Sheffield: Equinox Press. Perles, Josef (1887). Die Berner Handschrift des kleinen Aruch. In Jubelschrift zum siebzigsten Geburtstage des Prof. Dr. H. Graetz, 1–38. Breslau: S. Schottlaender. Ravitzky, Aviezer (2010). “The ravings of amulet writers”: Maimonides and his Disciples on Language, Nature and Magic. In E. Kanarfogel & M. Sokolow (eds.), Between Rashi and Maimonides: Themes in Medieval Jewish Thought, Literature and Exegesis, 93–130. New York: Yeshiva University Press. Rebiger, Bill & Peter Schäfer (2009). Sefer ha-Razim I und II – Das Buch der Geheimnisse I und II, TSAJ 125, 132, 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Saar, Ortal-Paz (2014). A Genizah Magical Fragment and Its European Parallels. Journal of Jewish Studies 55: 237–262. Schäfer, Peter (1981). Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, TSAJ 2. Tübingen: Mohr. Schäfer, Peter & Shaul Shaked (1999). Magische Texte aus der Kairoer Geniza, vol. 3. TASJ 72. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Scholem, Gershom (1974). Kabbalah, Jerusalem: Keter. Smelik, Willem F. (2009). The Aramaic dialect(s) of the Toldot Yeshu Fragments. Aramaic Studies 7: 39–73. Smith, Jonathan Z. (1995). Trading Places. In Marvin Meyer & Paul Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, 13–27. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 129. Leiden: Brill. Sofer, Gal (2015). The Hebrew Manuscripts of Mafteah Shlomo and a Chapter on the Magic of the Sabbateans. Kabbalah 32: 135–174 (in Hebrew). Sokoloff, Michael (2011). The Date and Provenance of the Aramaic Toledot Yeshu on the Basis of Aramaic Dialectology. In P. Schäfer, M. Meerson & Y. Deutsch (eds.), Toledot Yeshu (“The Life Story of Jesus”) Revisited: A Princeton Conference, 13–26. TSAJ 143. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stratton, Kimberly B. (2007). Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World. New York: Columbia University Press. Styers, Randall G. (2004). Making Magic: Religion, Magic, and Science in the Modern World. American Academy of Religion, Reflection and Theory in the Study of Religion Series. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Swartz, Michael D. (1990). Scribal Magic and its Rhetoric: Formal Patterns in Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts from the Cairo Genizah. Harvard Theological Review 83 (1990): 163–180.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

204

Bohak

Tov, Emanuel (2004). Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert. Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 54. Leiden: Brill. Trachtenberg, Joshua (1939). Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion. New York: Behrman’s Jewish Book House (repr. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). Weinreich, Otto (1929). Türöffnung im Wunder-, Prodigien-, und Zauberglauben der Antike, des Judentums und Christentums. In Friedrich Focke et al., Genethliakon Wilhelm Schmid zum siebzigsten Geburtstag am 24. Februar 1929, 200–452. Tübinger Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft 5. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Weiss, Tzahi (2015). Letters by which Heaven and Earth were Created: The Origins and the Meanings of the Perceptions of Alphabetical Letters as Independent Units in Jewish Sources of Late Antiquity. Jerusalem: Bialik (in Hebrew).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 9

Demystifying Wittgenstein’s Concept of Magic Lars Albinus and Lars Madsen 1

Introduction

The Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein is perhaps best known for his two distinct conceptions of language, which, alongside his own philosophical development, led philosophy on its way from positivism to pragmatics. However, he also devoted serious thoughts on matters of magic and religion. After having written the short Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1918), which he thought would end all philosophical problems, he abandoned philosophy for a number of years. However, after having returned to Cambridge in the late twenties accepting to renew his engagement with philosophy, Wittgenstein became interested in The Golden Bough by James George Frazer, the famous and local hero of anthropology. Thought-arresting as it was, Wittgenstein found Frazer’s view on magic and religion to have gone off on the wrong foot. The inclination to explain magic as pre-scientific error trivialized the matter and missed the “depth” of the practice. In order to grasp this concept of ‘depth’, we shall on our part try to work out the philosophical implications of Wittgenstein’s issues with Frazer, which, as we shall see, implied concerns with hypothetical explanations of science in general. Clearly, something important was at stake for Wittgenstein, so important, in fact, that he returned to the matter once more with another set of remarks several years later. In this article, we shall focus on the philosophical problems that Frazer’s evolutionistic notion of magic gave rise to and we shall prepare our own reading of Wittgenstein’s remarks by offering a selected and critical survey of existing interpretations expounding a few mistakes we think they have fallen victim to by overestimating certain claims by Wittgenstein himself. It is important to state at the outset that in trying to tease out the philosophical issues at stake in Wittgenstein’s notion of magic and religion, we are not suggesting new keys to a better theoretical understanding of these phenomena. We aim to clarify why Wittgenstein thought that Frazer’s explanations missed what Wittgenstein calls the ‘depth’ of magic. We believe that Wittgenstein’s musings about Frazer’s intellectualism as well as his own continued interest in magic offers a crucial insight to what is at stake in various human attempts to come to grips with the world. Focussing on this philosophical issue, we

© LARS ALBINUS AND LARS MADSEN, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_010 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 -8

B8 98 578

: :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

206

Albinus and Madsen

implicitly revise the concept of magic, along with Wittgenstein. As already stated, it is not our intention to address the methods of intercultural comparison, but rather to throw light on ways of thinking that we already engage in as a precondition for understanding others. In this respect, we implicitly claim that the finer aspects of typological criteria, as addressed in the introduction of this book, belong to a different kind of investigation than ours. As we shall focus on the kind of philosophical investigation, Wittgenstein’s remarks represent, we hope to make it clear how this philosophical practice differs in aim and scope from a scientific explanation. Whereas science pursues knowledge from premises of empirical validity, Wittgenstein’s philosophy examines the implications of these premises. As Wittgenstein says: “The real foundations of a man’s inquiries never strike him. Unless it should happen that this strikes him” (cf. Rhees, 1979: 25). Philosophy is what happens then. The published text named Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough (RFGB) is an edited collection of two sets of remarks written in 1931 and then sometime after 1936, maybe as late as 1948. The first set of remarks relates to the first volume of the full edition of The Golden Bough and concerns Frazer’s analysis of the ancient priest kings at Nemi. The second set of remarks stems from readings in the abridged edition and deals almost exclusively with Frazer’s analysis of ancient fire-festivals in Europe (cf. Clack 1999: 12). The remarks open by presenting a principle, which seems to characterize Frazer’s project in The Golden Bough. “We must begin with the mistake”, Wittgenstein tells us, “and transform it into what is true”. From this point of view, Frazer’s notion of magic as a pre-scientific mistake implies that those who carried it out were, in principle, able to discover their own mistake and thus transform it into what is true. Wittgenstein’s point is, however, that it is only Frazer’s construal of magic, which makes magic a matter of truth and error. What is at stake, here, transcends a mere criticism of Frazer. It involves a reflection on the nature of scientific explanations in general, and it aims at a view on magic that maintains what he calls “the depth”’ of the practice. However, in order to appreciate why Frazer gave rise to these reflections, a sketch of Frazer’s notion of magic is in place. 2

Frazer’s Account of Magic

Amidst the wealth of studies that occupies Frazer in The Golden Bough, he sets out to explain the priesthood of Diana at Aricia, an ancient ritual of succession that took place around Lake Nemi near Rome. Here, an aspiring priest-king had to kill the incumbent king to take over the throne. Frazer argued that because

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

207

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

this ritual was unique in classical antiquity, an explanation of it had to be sought in a much broader context than the immediate cultural and historical one. Accordingly, Frazer’s method was comparative and he gathered an enormous amount of material on the most diverse religious practices. However, he explained the Nemi ritual and magical thinking in general by the ascription of “motives” underlying and uniting them. Summarized as “sympathetic magic” these motives were based on a principle of ‘association of ideas’ according to which, things could “act on each other at a distance through a secret sympathy” (2009: 36). Two principles were discernible: homeopathic magic (things resembling each other are the same) and contagious magic (things which have once been in contact are always in contact). According to Frazer, magical practices were instrumental in essence and as such they were attempts to manipulate something or some part of the world. Frazer contended that these principles of thought were left unanalysed by the “primitive magician” and his actions were thus regarded as arbitrary with no real effect on the world (26). Therefore, the so-called “crude philosophy of life” belonged to the first stage of a proposed development of the human mind, which Frazer, typical of his time, described as a progression from a magical stage through a religious stage to his own present scientific stage. This enabled a straightforward characterization of magic as a kind of pre-scientific reasoning which “is necessarily false and barren; for were it ever to become true and fruitful, it would no longer be magic but science” (46). Despite this categorical disqualification of magic, Frazer did in fact regard it to be closer related to science than religion since both magic and science were searching “for general rules whereby to turn the order of natural phenomena to [man’s] own advantage” (ibid.). Thus, magic’s “fundamental conception is identical with that of modern science; underlying the whole system is a faith, implicit but real and firm, in the order and uniformity of nature” (45). Frazer contended that the significant difference between magic and science was on the level of reflection. While being built on abstract principles and therefore sharing the logical structure of science, the practice of magic crucially lacked critical reflection on its principles. For Frazer, precisely such reflection has made scientific progress possible because it alone can reveal the flawed premises of magic and gradually render the laws of nature intelligible to man. It is pivotal to Frazer’s theory that this kind of reflective thinking characterising science also makes possible the very scientific explanation of magic and religious practices that Frazer himself engages in. Following Frazer’s evolutionary scheme, critical reflective thinking could only be established by a historical process, and the development leading to the scientific stage was a slow, gradual awakening of the scientific way of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

208

Albinus and Madsen

reasoning. The first step was the transition from the magical stage to the religious stage. In the grander scheme of intellectual evolution, religion played the vital role of breaking the belief in a causal link between wish and world that typified the magical stage. Though control was projected into the hands of the gods, belief in the underlying order and uniformity of nature was intact. Reflection replaced control. According to Frazer, the intellectual evolution culminating in the scientific stage was driven by careful observations and thus developed by minds, which were not satisfied with the religious belief in nature as controlled by supernatural beings. Accordingly, the principle of association of ideas, reflecting the causal laws of nature, was salvaged from the wreck of magic. Control was again within grasp and the former errors of magic were weeded out by critical reflection. The order of nature was finally laid bare to man. Drawn up in this way, it is plain to see that Frazer’s theory is an instance of intellectualism, which, in the words of Brian R. Clack, is the view that […] magic and religion arise and function as explanations of the world and of natural phenomena. What is essential about religion is its theoretical foundation; ritual actions are therefore secondary, and are practical applications of theory. The function of ritual is instrumental, focused on the achieving of concrete, empirical ends. 1999: 11

For our purposes here, this sums up the main argument of Frazer’s theory and it is time to move on to Wittgenstein’s assessment of it. 3

Wittgenstein’s Reaction to Frazer

Even a cursory reading of the RFGB will soon pick up on Wittgenstein’s opposition to Frazer’s views. The message is clear in statements like “The very idea of wanting to explain a practice […] seems wrong to me” (Wittgenstein 1979a: 1). These remarks seem devised to dislodge the interpretation of magical and religious practices from the intellectualist reading and they run alongside more substantial remarks apparently meant to resituate these practices in a context of emotion and instinct as it is put, for instance, in the following remark: “The representation of a wish is, eo ipso, the representation of its realization. But magic brings a wish to representation; it expresses a wish” (4). Thus, on the one hand, Wittgenstein criticizes Frazer’s explanations of magical and

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

209

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

religious practices while, on the other, he seems to suggest an alternative interpretation highlighting the emotional and instinctual aspects of these practices. However, reading the text in this way, with a strong focus on the contrast between Frazer’s explanations and Wittgenstein’s remarks, the philosophical aspects of the text slip out of sight, leaving us with aimless drifting remarks of what seem to be a fictitious or underdeveloped theory on Wittgenstein’s part. There is an imminent danger of conflating the level of philosophy with the level of science. However, framing the problem as a choice between philosophy and theory is only superficially meaningful. The focus of our efforts is, therefore, to bring out as precisely as possible what establishes Wittgenstein’s remarks as philosophical, and in what way this might contribute to a debate on how to understand magic. 4

The Expressivist Reading

As alluded to above, an immediately tempting reading of the RFGB, typical of their actual reception, is often referred to as the ‘expressivist reading’ (cf. Clack 1999). This reading may be best summed up by Wittgenstein’s own remark to Maurice O’C. Drury with whom he was going through The Golden Bough, namely, that it was not “mistaken beliefs that produced the rites but the need to express something” (Drury 1973: x; our italics). This comment fits neatly with the superficial reading of the RFGB mentioned above. Thus, magical practices do not seek to explain or control anything, they are meant to express something; a feeling, a mood, a view of life. With regard to the philosophical aspects we want to highlight, Drury’s reaction to this remark encapsulates the problem with the expressivist reading. The immediate context of the quote is a passage where Drury discusses the concept of philosophical clarity, which he takes to be Wittgenstein’s fundamental idea throughout his philosophical work, early and late. Drury refers to core statements from the Tractatus (TLP), which highlight philosophy’s role to make the ineffable and mystical show itself by way of signifying “what cannot be said by presenting clearly what can be said” (TLP 4.115; Drury 1973: viii). Drury pitches this concept of philosophical clarity against scientific clarity, and he maintains: “Frazer thinks he can make clear the origin of the rites and ceremonies he describes by regarding them as primitive and erroneous scientific beliefs” (ibid.). Against this, he takes Wittgenstein’s remarks as putting “an end to all the elaborate theorising concerning ‘primitive mentality’”, specifying that the “[philosophical] clarity prevents a condescending misunderstanding, and puts a full-stop to a lot of idle speculation” (x, xi).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

210

Albinus and Madsen

Irrespective of the apologetic nature of Drury’s argument, it can be said to conflate Wittgenstein’s early and later philosophy. By placing the concept of philosophical clarity squarely in the TLP, Drury invariably inherits the early period’s sharp logical distinction between the explicable and the ineffable. Indeed, he needs it for his idea of a full stop to speculation, and as he notes, “[p]hilosophical clarity then arises when we see that behind every scientific construction there lies the inexplicable” (xii). However, guided by the idea that it is possible to signify a part of reality as not only unaffected by, but also out of reach of, scientific explanation, Drury conflates Wittgenstein’s early and later concept of clarification. Likewise, he regards Frazer’s explanations of rituals as misunderstood attempts to reach into this realm by over-extending scientific explanations. Without taking Drury’s argument for more than it is, we already face some of the confusions that seem to plague the expressivist reception of the RFGB. In his book Wittgenstein, Frazer and Religion (1999), Brian R. Clack has developed an argument against the expressivist interpretation that tries to remedy these confusions. He claims that the opposition between the instrumental and the expressivist approach can be boiled down to saying that “the divergence between Frazer and Wittgenstein can be expressed as whether religious thought is cognitive or non-cognitive in character” (37). He points out that exactly the idea that some actions and practices are expressive in character, and thus representing the non-cognitive, inevitably drags with it the idea of the cognitive and thus reviving the dichotomy of sense and nonsense in TLP. Hence, contrary to the pragmatic view of Wittgenstein’s later thinking, the dichotomy between the non-cognitive and the cognitive, implied by the expressivist account, is ultimately rooted in the one-dimensional verificationism of TLP (ibid.). While religious and magical beliefs “may not have the same character as scientific beliefs […] there is no ‘standard’ belief […] from which a religious belief deviates” as he puts it. Instead, Clack suggests a reading of Wittgenstein’s remarks that takes our beliefs and actions to depend on the context, that is, the immediate surroundings and our instinctual attitudes towards them. Thus, “underneath our rational exteriors [we] are strange and passionate creatures”, and he calls it Wittgenstein’s “great achievement” to point “to our savage inheritance”. (152) Although Clack clearly believes this reading to be a philosophical one, it actually seems to relapse into yet another theoretical opposition, namely between expressivism, on the one hand, and the kind of “instinctualism” ’ he wishes to tease out of Wittgenstein’s remarks, on the other. Yet, we do find that Clack actually paves a way for grasping Wittgenstein’s philosophical agenda.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

211

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

5

Phillips’ Full Stop

Wittgenstein’s dismissal of the attempt to explain religious phenomena must be dealt with delicately as it presents its own challenges. In order to grasp the point of this dismissal, we shall try to articulate how he conceives of a philosophical investigation in the first place. The “waters of doubt”, Wittgenstein must “plunge” in “again and again”, as announced in the beginning of RFGB, is symptomatic of the kind of philosophy he pursues. It does not pertain to the troubles of finding ways to tackle a theoretical problem but characterizes a philosophical investigation in search of the riddle rather than its putative solution. In fact, the problem-solution way of thinking often turns out to be the very obstacle that the philosophical investigation has to overcome. The article Wittgenstein’s Full Stop by D. Z. Phillips (1994)1 is interesting in this respect. He takes his cue from §314 in Wittgenstein’s Zettel (1929–1948), where Wittgenstein suggests that we might not even recognize the solution of a philosophical problem, when we see it. Wittgenstein writes, “[we were] wrongly expecting an explanation, whereas the solution of the difficulty is a description [… t]he difficulty here is to stop” (93). Thus, Phillips is moving into roughly the same ground as Drury. Citing also the passage from The Danger of Words quoted above, he applauds Drury’s idea of philosophical clarification as enforcing a full stop to attempts at explaining what cannot be explained. At the same time, however, he criticizes Drury for letting the “urge for explanation” crawl back in when Drury talks of rituals as ways of expressing something because that, in effect, still refers to rituals as means to an end. Says Phillips: “[h]aving perhaps rid ourselves of the view of rites and rituals as theories of erroneous scientific beliefs, we can easily come to look for psychological explanations of the same phenomena” (ibid.). Surely, Phillips does not want to enforce a full stop to one kind of explanation (e.g., intellectualism) in order to give way to another kind (e.g., expressivism). Instead he aims to bring out the “naturalness of religious responses, […] which explanations obscure for us” (94), and he adds that “Wittgenstein’s reason for rejecting Frazer’s explanations is not that they are false, but that they are explanations and as such take us away from the philosophically arresting features of the rituals he is discussing” (92). Trying to establish a notion of the “naturalness of religious responses”, Phillips claims that they can be viewed as 1 The article primarily deals with the allegation put forth, for instance, by Kai Nielsen (1967), of taking Wittgenstein’s view of language games to imply a compartmentalistic view. This is not the matter we are going to discuss in this context, though.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

212

Albinus and Madsen

language games in the light of a broader cultural context.2 We thus note two strains in his argument: Firstly, he makes a case of viewing religious phenomena as practices and language games situated in a form of life. Secondly, he claims that we must accept a full stop to explanations in order to appreciate religious phenomena in this sense. Although he does little to clarify his concept of ‘naturalness’, it differs from Clack’s instinctualism by seemingly aiming at something between “naturalness within a culture” and an instinctive or associative naturalness (94 f). He brings this out by commenting on various figurative expressions that work by an associative connection, religious or otherwise. Phillips claims that by explaining this connection, either by a conventional rule of association or by an instinctive association, we fundamentally miss the naturalness of the connection. Speaking of the weeping willow as a symbol for unhappy love, he says that there is indeed something natural (instinctive) in the associative connection between the “drooping gait” of the broken hearted and the hanging branches of the tree. Yet, there is no associative rule that secures this connection: “A failure to see this [natural connection] is not failure of knowledge of an associative rule, but a failure of imagination” (ibid.). Thus, according to Phillips, the full stop to explanations should bring out – and maintain – the focus on a non-naturalistic and non-conventional naturalness within culture. Phillips does not elaborate this but what he might be saying is that the symbolic association between unhappy love and the weeping willow is a trait of the English language and a given culture (e.g., Elizabethan), not as a convention but as the form unhappy love may take in this particular language and culture. However, insofar as Phillips only states this very vaguely and seemingly fails to follow it through, it stands in a peculiar contrast to the resoluteness with which he argues for a full stop. This contrast is strikingly similar to the opposition between ‘saying’ and ‘showing’ in the TLP. In line with Wittgenstein’s early philosophy, Phillips quotes him for saying that “[it is] very important to put an end to all the chatter about ethics”, and adds on his own accord that we “should put an end to the chatter about rituals” (1994: 92, 93; cf. Waismann 1965: 13). Once the naturalness of a religious response has been elucidated as being part 2 Phillips builds his argument around a rebuttal of accusations that has been leveled against his and similar Wittgensteinian philosophies of religion. Very shortly put, they are accused of anti-intellectualism, fideism and compartmentalism to the effect that religious beliefs are regarded as closed off from critique and dialogue (cf. Nielsen 1967). Phillips claims that this is a misconception of his view and that it has to do with a misunderstanding of Wittgenstein’s claim that every language-game is complete in itself. What Phillips wants to say is not that religious belief and practice are shut off from other contexts, but that they must be viewed as complete in themselves and need no further explication (1994: 91).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

213

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

of a form of life, “one may say no more from within philosophy than: ‘Human life is like that’” (1994: 93; cf. Wittgenstein 1979a: 3). When Phillips argues that explanations thus obscures our view of ‘the naturalness of religious responses’ it is structurally similar to what Wittgenstein says in TLP, namely, that we must restrict ourselves to the depictive nature of language in order to realize the ineffable logic of the world. Accordingly, we discover a similarity between Wittgenstein’s concept of ‘the mystical’ and Phillips’ concept of ‘naturalness’ in that both point to something that transcends description and explanation, and yet becomes visible in the realisation of this very limitation. Although Phillips argues for the inexplicability of religious phenomena along the same lines as Drury, he does not explicitly reveal his indebtedness to TLP but tries to splice its logic with the later philosophy. Instead of only utilizing the semantic distinction between description and nonsense to enforce a full stop to explanations, as the expressivist reading does (at least according to Clack), Phillips leans towards the later philosophy by utilizing the concepts of ‘language games’ and ‘form of life’ to describe his own concept of ‘naturalness’. But this proves an unstable construction. By importing elements from the TLP, Phillips is not able to fully appreciate the difference between investigating the nature of things and investigating how we tend to think of things, which, as we shall claim, is a crucial distinction in Wittgenstein’s later conception of philosophy, including the RFGB. 6

In the Footsteps of the Text (the First Set of Remarks)

Having noted some readings of Wittgenstein’s aim that may hold us captured in unfortunate ways, we will now turn directly to the text itself. Let it be said from the outset that even though it may be difficult to track down current proponents of Frazer’s evolutionary distinction between magic and religion, Wittgenstein’s remarks still address important issues as, for instance, the way in which explanations tend to blur the difference between hypothetical and non-hypothetical practices. If Frazer’s views seem somewhat speculative, and perhaps betray a trend of abandoned arm-chair anthropology (which eventually happens to reveal more about how a noble Englishman wished to see his own enlightened culture than the culture he described), it has to be said that Wittgenstein’s view seems to hit some primitive strings as well. His comments on magic seem to contradict one another at some points, and if they were to be taken as an anthropological theory, they would offer far too little. In one context, he states that “People at one time thought it useful to kill a man, sacrifice him to the god of fertility, in order

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

214

Albinus and Madsen

to produce good crops” (1979b); in another (that is, in the RFGB), he seems to dismiss the functional aspect all together, stating, for instance, that “even the idea of trying to explain the practice – say the killing of the priest-king – seems to me wrong-headed”. (1979a: 1e). Against Frazer’s psychologizing hypothesis that magical invocations are preserved for so long, since “a ceremony which is supposed to bring rain is sure to appear effective sooner or later”, Wittgenstein finds it queer that “people do not notice sooner that it does rain sooner or later anyway” (2e). But had he not himself stated along similar lines that once people were inclined to draw a causal connection between killing a man and securing fertility? Such discrepancies may make the remarks seem loose, almost associative in structure, and although most of them are immediately easy to follow, one may nevertheless be left somewhat bewildered as to the scope of their implications. In order to appreciate the philosophical ponderings they reflect, we shall try to get a clearer notion of Wittgenstein’s reason for venturing into a discussion with Frazer’s anthropological approach. Wittgenstein did not exactly read The Golden Bough, at least not to begin with, but listened to Drury reading aloud from the book. However, Wittgenstein’s impatient interruptions soon took over and his remarks were unfolded in their own right. Frazer seemed to be little more than a steppingstone for Wittgenstein’s urge to state something about magic as well as something about intellectualism, metaphysics, and language. Frazer enters the picture insofar as his “account of the magical and religious notions of mankind is unsatisfactory: it makes these notions appear as mistakes” (ibid.). This comment provides us with a first clue of what Wittgenstein’s point is. The translation of magic into premises of causality, for which it presents an erroneous theory, violates the kind of belief and practice, magic is. What Frazer does not realize, according to Wittgenstein, is that he projects his own scientific model of reasoning unto the “magical and religious notions of men” (ibid.), short-circuiting the intended explanation. Worse still, his method thwarts exactly those philosophical points that Wittgenstein sees emerging from such investigations of religious practices. Consequently, instead of showing another path along which the spiritual life of religion and magic might be explained, Wittgenstein embarks on a kind of questioning that goes to the heart of his philosophical perspective in general. Wittgenstein focuses on the impression these practices makes: “[c]ompared with the impression that what is described here makes on us, the explanation is too uncertain” (ibid.). What is going on here? How can an explanation be uncertain compared to a mere description? How can Wittgenstein want to bring our attention to the highly subjective issue of impression (as it seems) and speak about the depth of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

215

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

magic from that point of view? As we have argued above, it may be erroneous to regard it as an appeal to emotivism. What is at stake is supposedly something altogether different. Notice that in Wittgenstein’s view it is not merely the kind of explanation Frazer is giving but the very idea of an explanation that is problematic. Wittgenstein attempted to announce this broader context of understanding of magic and its philosophical implications by way of prefacing the written remarks with a few lines of introduction. He writes: I think now that the right thing would be to begin my book with remarks about metaphysics as a kind of magic. But in doing this I must neither speak in defence of magic nor ridicule it. What is it that is deep about magic would be kept. – In this context, in fact, keeping magic out has itself the character of magic. 1979a: x

Though Wittgenstein later decided to omit these considerations finding them ‘bad’ (schlecht), either in content or in style, if not both, we shall nevertheless cautiously use them to guide our notion of Wittgenstein’s engagement with Frazer in particular and his comments on science, magic, language, and metaphysics in general. One of Wittgenstein’s lasting concerns was how and why we are held in the grip of metaphysics enticed by the spell of language. A part of the inclination towards metaphysics stems from a tendency to abstract the mythological nature of words from the context of their use in magic and religion. As Wittgenstein states in the remarks: “A whole mythology is deposited in our language” (10e). It is as if we believe words to carry meaning as a lorry carries a load. Some months before his engagement with The Golden Bough, Wittgenstein commented on the description of the scapegoat in the Old Testament (Lev: 16.7–9; 20–22). Wittgenstein wrote: The scapegoat on which sins are laid and which goes out into the wilderness with them, is a false picture and like all the false pictures of philosophy. Philosophy might be said to purify thought from a misleading mythology. 1993: 197

Wittgenstein here seems to point to a mythological tendency, which, for instance, can be seen within a metaphysical interpretation. When speaking of “a sin offering”, Leviticus conceives of ‘sin’ as if it were a thing. In the context of RFGB Wittgenstein further develops this theme: “To cast out death or to slay

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

216

Albinus and Madsen

death; but he [death] is also represented as a skeleton, as in some sense dead himself” (10e). Here ‘death’ appears, symbolically, as a person, re-presented as a skeleton, as if it were a thing to deal with, to react against. It seems like the depiction of ‘death’ carries its own nature with it as does the concept of ‘beauty’; hence, “nothing is so beautiful as beauty itself” (ibid.). Wittgenstein concludes: “Here the image which we use in thinking of reality is that beauty, death are the pure (concentrated) substances”. (ibid.) Remarks such as these seem to bear down on overlapping features of language, mythology, and metaphysics, accentuating that already the very grammar of our language appears to produce this substantiated conception of concepts. ‘Beauty’, ‘death’, ‘love’, ‘justice’, etc., become referential on an abstract level inviting us to ask such questions as: “What is death?”, “What is justice?” We slide down the path of metaphysics and come to regard every concept as connected with a substance. Unlike this, magic rituals connect in practice the king and the crops, the dance and the rain, the skeleton and the event of death. Surely, speaking a language is also a practice, and Wittgenstein poignantly conceives of words in the light of their use. But owing to the predicative nature of language, concepts are grammatically associated with a substance, and it is this that leads us into metaphysical thinking. It would be wrongheaded to think of this tendency as some psychological inclination distinct from the actual use of language. Rather, language itself lures us into metaphysics. Hence, in metaphysics, it is as if language enacts a sort of magic upon words rather than circumstances, inviting us to detach meaning from practice. In the course of his remarks, Wittgenstein compares “Burning in effigy” with: Kissing a picture of a loved one. This is obviously not based on a belief that it will have a definite effect on the object which the picture represents. It aims at some satisfaction and it achieves it. Or rather, it does not aim at anything; we act in this way and then feel satisfied. 4e

Clearly, we should not comprehend the representational appearance of this practice in metaphysical terms, which he emphasizes by adding, “one could also kiss the name of the loved one, and here the representation by the name would be clear” (ibid.). In the same way as the name has a certain value, comparable to an adornment or amulet, the picture of a loved one or an effigy represents a kind of value. It is not a vehicle for some effect, be it an influence on the external object or a subjective affectation, contrary to Frazer’s notion of contagious magic. It would be wrong-headed to go for a functional reduction of meaning in this respect. The functional hypothesis would represent the

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

217

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

engagement as a means to an end. Instead, magic is a way of making something present, the way in which a name also makes a person present. This representation may induce feelings, but that is not the point, the point is that someone engages with an effigy or with a picture because of the value attached to them. Wittgenstein continues: “The same savage who, apparently in order to kill his enemy, sticks his knife through a picture of him, really does build his hut of wood and cuts his arrow with skill and not in effigy” (ibid.) This is a point which Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, who spoke of a pre-logical mentality, also emphasized. When speaking about fishing and hunting in various cultures, he points out that although “the mind of the primitive” acknowledge success to be “dependent upon a number of objective conditions”, these are by no means sufficient (1985, 228). By using the notion of ‘prelogic mentality’, he did not want to say that ‘primitive people’ were ‘anti-logical’ (140), but that they exhibited causally based skills alongside a use of language (that is, a system of meaning due to a law of participation, 69), which is significantly different from ours (139.). “And magic always rests on the idea of symbolism and of language” (4e), Wittgenstein says. Moreover, the example of ‘death’ enters right after the sentence stating that a whole mythology is deposited in our language. In magic, contrary to science and metaphysics, the representation rests within an order of symbols. That the skeleton is, in some sense, as dead as death, does not implicitly refer to something that has died. It does not even represent the event of death, but rather a cultivated gesture towards death. Thus, “[w]hat we have in the ancient rites is practice of a highly cultivated gesture-language” (10e). Metaphysics, magic and language shares this reifying trait, but what magic (and everyday language for that matter) appears to preserve, contrary to metaphysics, is the connection to a practice. The implicit reification that the magical practice dissolves in behaviour is explicated or substantiated by metaphysics in the same manner as the scapegoat by Leviticus. A similar point can be gathered from Wittgenstein’s ruminations on the relationship between ‘opinion’ and ‘ritual’. Let us quote the text at some length this time: (O)ne might begin a book on anthropology in this way: When we watch the life and behaviour of men all over the earth we see that apart from what we might call animal activities, taking food etc., etc., men also carry out actions that bear a peculiar character and might be called ritualistic. But then it is nonsense if we go on to say that the characteristic feature of these actions is that they spring from wrong ideas about the physics of things. (This is what Frazer does when he says magic is really false physics, or as the case may be, false medicine, technology, etc.). What makes

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

218

Albinus and Madsen

the character of ritual action is not any view or opinion, either right or wrong, although an opinion (Meinung) – a belief (Glaube) – itself can be ritualistic, or belong to a rite. 7e

Preceding this paragraph, Wittgenstein stated that “A religious symbol does not rest on any opinion (Meinung). And error belongs only with opinion” (3e). It seems reasonable to take ‘opinion’ here to be another word for a shorthand hypothesis, a certain way of regarding things which could be wrong. Religious symbols, however, transcend the category of right and wrong, they belong to a gesture-language such as the invocation of the trinity in the ritual of baptism. Says Wittgenstein: “Baptism as washing. – There is a mistake only if magic is presented as science”. (4e). Baptism has nothing to do with cleansing in any practical sense. The explanation of magic as erroneous science makes a mistake similar to that of metaphysics if it translates the symbolism of magical and religious practices into matters of cause and effect. A displacement takes place here, which reflects the last paragraphs of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations (2009 [PI 1–2]). There we find the remark that “in psychology there are experimental methods and conceptual confusions […] The existence of the experimental method makes us think that we have the means of solving the problems which trouble us [die Probleme die uns beunruhigen]; though problem and method pass one another by” (2009 [PI 2]: §xiv). It seems that the problems, which “trouble us”, here, are suggestive of the ‘uneasiness’ haunting our impression of magic. The question is how the cases interrelate. On the face of it, the point made in PI is immediately reminiscent of the remark in RFGB that a hypothesis cannot bring peace to the troubled mind of a lover. However, the affected “we” in PI refers to anyone who is inclined to solve a “problem” by the existing methods of psychology. Thus, in both PI and RFGB it seems that Wittgenstein discerns “a depth” that cannot be grasped by any kind of theoretical explanation. But what is it, then, that science and metaphysics by-pass? Could it have something to do with the way in which science and metaphysics function as a practice? As cited above, Wittgenstein refuses to think that ritual action rests on some opinion (i.e. hypothesis), “although an opinion – a belief – itself can be ritualistic, or belong to a rite” (7e). A scientific procedure, for instance, can become ritualistic when, by launching and testing theories, it tends to reify the objectification needed in the process. Frazer, for instance, is not only attempting to classify magic as false physics, but is, at the same time, safeguarding the truth of science, that is, the scope of “true physics” as well as of explanatory hypotheses in general. Yet, as Wittgenstein put it in the abandoned

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

219

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

introduction, “in fact, keeping magic out has itself the character of magic” (1979a: x). We might drive the point even further by saying something like this: Like magic, science establishes a certain kind of relationship with the form of life it objectifies. By submitting the object to its own rules, science keeps it at bay in hypotheses that form a closed circle of theoretical explanation. Similarly (but not identically), in magic, objects and events enter into a closed circle of rule-governed gestures. If Wittgenstein’s introductory notes did indeed imply something like this, we might here get an understanding of why he came to abandon them, because the point about “keeping magic out” could easily be taken to mean that when it comes to the foundation of knowledge, science is as blind as magic. But this would merely repeat the conceptual confusions already pointed out in Frazer’s approach. The real point is not how valid scientific explanations are, theoretically speaking. The real point becomes visible in the appeal to step aside from this outlook in order to comprehend the very practice of questioning. Let us try to make this clearer. On the last pages of the Philosophical Investigations, leading up to the diagnosis of psychology, Wittgenstein discusses the ‘expression of feeling’ (Gefühlsausserung). This kind of expression, he notes, cannot be judged by the same exacting standards as when we learn a mathematical proposition or the use of “colour words”. When we deal with numbers or colours there is something there, for instance, five red apples, and we can point to them and say: “These apples are red” and “here are five apples”. It is readily observable what it means to make a mistake, here, and it is characteristic of our concept of colours, for instance, that we have ways of determining colour-blindness. However, judging the genuineness of ‘expressions of feelings’ is something altogether different. Judging whether an expression of feeling is genuine or not cannot be learned in the same way, as we learn colour words. We learn about expressions of feelings from experience, including tips from others who draw our attention to certain expressions. Yet, “what one acquires here is not a technique; one learns correct judgments. There are also rules, but they do not form a system, and only experienced people can apply them rightly. Unlike calculating rules” (239e). We cannot systematically acquire the rules of judging whether expressions of feelings are genuine or not. There is no “disengaged” explanation, which could spare us the “experience – that is to say, varied observation” (ibid.). If we expect psychology to provide us with an “expert judgement” as, for instance, “about the genuineness of expressions of feelings” (ibid.), we may rightly say that “the experimental method” we learn to apply to such cases by-passes the problem that troubles us (xiv). In other words, the explanation “expects” an object that is not there. In some sense, I “can be as certain of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

220

Albinus and Madsen

someone else’s feelings as of any fact”, but the certainty in this respect differs from my being certain that “25 × 25 = 625”. Instead, it is a certainty that has to do with making judgements in accordance with the form of life of which I am part. Surely, this is different from following a general calculating rule: “This is agreement, not in opinions, but rather in form of life”. (2009 [PI] §241). The difference is neither epistemological nor psychological. Instead, “the difference is a logical one” (§ 330: 235). The point is not that psychology fails to launch solid theories, but rather that the kind of objectification involved in psychological explanation immediately removes the intimacy of the form of life necessary to understand, philosophically, the practice in question. Even though we might be able to completely describe or explain how someone recognizes the unhappy love of another, there is an “imponderable evidence” (Unwägbare Evidenz) for our observation, “[p]rimarily: gestures, faces, tones of voice” (§ 296: 230), and for our behaviour towards the other, which does not involve a hypothesis about the state of this person.3 And this is not a point about our ability to judge these matters correctly; rather it shows how our linguistic practice of these concepts differ from that of numbers, colours etc. If we bring these remarks to bear on the discussion of magic, then one of Wittgenstein’s main points might be that if our questioning, that is, our way of learning what goes on in magical practices, remains deaf to the imponderable evidence of everyday experience, it by-passes the form of life enveloping its expressions. When Wittgenstein speaks of ‘impression’, he does not mean something merely “going on inside”, as it were, but rather something that is reflected in someone’s expression and the form of experience required to recognize it. The point is not that it corresponds with some inner, or psychological, process of the individual. Since ‘impression’ is, in this sense, objective rather than subjective, it may easily slip into being an object of theoretical explanation as well. Yet, it cannot rest there without losing the imponderability that made it part of human experience in the first place. What is of interest to the philosophical investigation, in this respect, is not so much whether a certain hypothesis is valid or not, but that the “deep” object of impression is not strictly speaking an object of knowledge, but part of our experience and practice as human beings. In the last paragraph of PI, Wittgenstein makes it clear that his investigation of psychology is not a psychological one. It cannot be, since it is an investigation of “the foundations of psychology” (cf. xiv, § 372). In much the same way, his comments on Frazer aim at the foundation of speaking theoretically 3 The ‘theory of mind’, generally acknowledged in cognitive psychology in various forms, entails an intellectualizing view of human perceptions and interpretations (according to ‘explanations’ and ‘predictions’), which would thus be problematic in Wittgenstein’s view. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

221

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

about beliefs and practices. But there is another subtext as well. The criticism becomes, at the same time, an occasion for reflecting on the experiential relation to Frazer’s topic. The point is that we cannot overcome the distance between magic and a scientific explanation by means of better theories. We may learn this from experience, that is, from our impression of ancient rites, just as we may learn that there is, after all, something similar between science, metaphysics, mythology and magic. However, Wittgenstein also seems to tell us that only a close look at our language will reveal how this is so. “We must plough over the whole of language” (7e). 7

In the Footsteps of the Text (the Second Set of Remarks)

Turning to the second set of remarks, we will concentrate on Wittgenstein’s use of qualifiers such as sinister (Finster), deep (tief ) and disquieting or making uneasy (beunruhigend) and the way in which they pertain to our impression (Eindruck) of magic rituals. In his comment on The Golden Bough (Frazer 1993: 617–622),4 that is, the section of “The Fire Festivals of Europe”, Wittgenstein draws attention to similarities as well as dissimilarities that exist between “all these rites” and compares the spectacle, as it were, with our awareness of a “wide variety of faces with common features” (13e). This sounds very much like the concept of family resemblances as stated in PI (§ 67), the point being that the rituals are not connected by a common essence. Though we are inclined to draw lines, “joining the parts that various faces have in common, […] part of our contemplation would still be lacking” (ibid.). What is missing is what “connects this picture with our own feelings and thoughts. This part gives the contemplation its depth” (ibid.). In other words, there is an immediate relation between the depth of the account and the way in which our impression of the ritual makes us realize its relation to our own experiences. Wittgenstein makes this clear by referring to the case Frazer makes of the Scottish Beltane Fire Festival. In this festival, it was custom to distribute portions of a cake, the socalled the am bonnach beal-tine, among the company of bystanders. The one who got a particular charred piece called cailleach beal-tine was selected for mockery and a show of being put to the flames (cf. Frazer 1993: 618). Now the intricate question in Wittgenstein’s eyes is how this practice may give rise to the impression of something gloomy and sinister. In this respect, he finds that by the association with some current practices, as for instance, the vestige of drawing lots or some imagined custom of baking cakes with knobs in honour 4 Wittgenstein refers an abridged one-volume copy of The Golden Bough (Frazer 1993). .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

222

Albinus and Madsen

of a button-maker (15e, cf. Frazer 1993: 619), the practice “suddenly gains depth” (ibid.). In other words, the aspect through which harmless practices of today connect with the former practice of harming a selected victim provides it with depth. Inasmuch as we have before us nothing but innocuous games, the depth lies only in thinking about that derivation (16e). Then again, what makes us think in this way? The evidence for assuming a connection between a deep, or sinister, practice in the past and some harmless practice in the present does not lie in the facts behind a historical hypothesis, but “we impute it [i.e., the evidence] from an experience in ourselves” (ibid.). The relation has an experiential character in much the same way as judging the genuineness of expressions of feelings. We sense a kind of practice, the spirit and inclination of which is enough to make us wonder. The acts do not owe their strangeness from the absence of any given explanation, but rather from the association with other impressions, which brings forth the evidence of connecting links. The strangeness is neither confirmed nor dissolved by a hypothetical explanation. However, contrary to the ‘full stop suggestion’, the point is not simply that all we can do is describe various practices and the links between them (irrespective of the possibility of a genetic derivation). The crux of the matter for Wittgenstein is rather what this description brings to mind. Inasmuch as it is not something that stands for or substitutes an explanation, we shall try to work out how the philosophical investigation represents a kind of questioning that could not have been phrased theoretically. Wittgenstein emphasizes the importance of a “perspicuous’ representation” (‘übersicthlice’ Darstellung) (ibid.). What this kind of representation does, among other things, is open our eyes for what it is that unsettles us in the impression of a practice. The kind of similarity (with “children playing robbers”) that makes us appreciate the Beltane Festival as just a play does not exhaust our impression. We clearly understand (or could easily be brought to understand) that a “mere dramatic presentation” lacks the temperament present in a passionate and personally involved performance, be it a child’s play or a ritual sacrifice (18e). However, apart from this difference, even “a perfectly cool performance” would make us uncomfortable, if we were to ask for its meaning (Sinn, ibid.). Irrespective of any actual interpretation (hypothetical or not), it is impossible, Wittgenstein holds, to ignore the peculiar meaninglessness (Sinnlosigkeit) of the presentation (ibid.). A few paragraphs before he pointed out that the impression of something sinister in the ritual cannot be derived entirely from “the suffering of the victim”, since we might witness similar instances of suffering without being affected in the same way. It is not so much the supposed fact of surrendering victims to mockery or even death (in cases of human sacrifices) that is unsettling as it is

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

223

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

the recognition of the lacking grounds for this practice. To acknowledge the resemblance between a harmless custom of distributing cakes with knobs and some bygone custom of picking out a victim for the fire can be discomforting, of course, but at least some convincing hypothesis would offer an explanation and, thereby, make it understandable. Yet, recognizing in others, and ourselves, the imponderable evidence of a link between the former and the latter practice is a completely different matter. In this case, the experience escapes the explanation, and, says Wittgenstein, “[t]he solution is not any more disquieting (beunruhigender) than the riddle” (19e).5 Thus, what makes us uneasy, apart from the terrible facts of history (imagined or not), lies in recognizing the “strange things”, which go on in ourselves and others, that is, to recognise that our own form of life, logically speaking, provides the same possibility of acting as we see in those strange customs. In other words, we recognize them as part of what it is to be human. “To carry out a bloody sacrifice” and “to engage in some sort of party games” ’ can, in some instances at least, be seen to share the same “inner nature” ’ (14e). By “inner nature”, Wittgenstein clearly does not point to some obscure interiority. On the contrary, he refers to “all those circumstances in which it is carried out” and which exist, first of all, in “the spirit of the festival” (Geist des Festes, ibid.). It is critical to note that such festivals are not “haphazard inventions of one man but need an infinitely broader basis if they are to persist” (ibid.). Rush Rhees, who has elaborated on these phrases, comes to conclude that this “basis” is neither the spirit of the festival as such nor the general inclination of the people, here and now, but that it has a certain historical depth (1982: 103). Hence, he takes “the general inclination of the people”’ to be derived from the majority of individuals who took part in or grew up with a certain ritual. Making a distinction between “‘the spirit of the ceremony” and “a general inclination of the people”, he separates the “inner nature” or “medium” of various rituals from the “external actions”’ specifically carried out by “any one tribe or nation” (107). Consequently, he must interpret “the character of these people themselves” (cf. Wittgenstein, 1979a: 15e) as merely “the character of those who make up the community in which it [the ritual] is performed as well as those who take part in it” (Rhees 1982: 106). We believe that Rhees is mistaken here. The “character of the people”, which represents a source of 5 If this interpretation holds, there is no reason to even begin suggesting – as Clack does – that Wittgenstein really wanted to say that “[t]he solution is no less disquieting than the riddle”, cf. Clack, 1999: 150. It is the very question as to what kind of evidence, we are dealing with, that unsettles us, insofar as we recognize that the kind of answer, we are looking for, is already included in – or created by – the question.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

224

Albinus and Madsen

something deep and sinister, has less to do with those who actually invented the ritual than with the inner nature of the ceremony. What is reflected in our impression of a man’s “tone of voice and in his face” (1979a: 17e), indicating that he can be frightening, is clearly related to “the sort of people that take part [in the ritual], their way of behaviour at other times, i.e., their character” (14e). Yet, the point is not that exactly those people invented a certain ritual. Rather they expressed something in the ritual as well as in their behaviour at other times. That we can find a person potentially frightening, although he may just have uttered a strict, but rather harmless, “no!”, has to do with his expression. We see this expression just as we “see”’ something similar in ourselves. Yet, the object of this impression is not some “inner experience” in any private sense, which would be completely at odds with Wittgenstein’s refutation of the possibility of a private language (cf. PI § 243–315). Rather, the object, that is, the character, is the expression. We are social beings and we express ourselves socially. Let us give an example. The phrase is sometimes heard that “the eyes are the mirror of the soul”. In what sense may this point to something significant? When someone reacts emotionally as, for instance, through fear, her pupils will normally dilate. What we see, however, is not the dilation of pupils; what we see is fear. We do not even see the dilation of pupils as a sign of fear; what we see is fear as an expression that we are socially accustomed to recognize. Likewise, we are able to recognize the ritual, or at least something in it, as an expression. Or to put it differently, what we have learned by way of experience is the ability to recognize the joining links between various expressions, in this case some facial expression, some inner experience, some way of behaviour and some ceremonial acts, associated with the character of those involved. Yet, in this respect, “character” ’ does not point to characteristics of individual persons but rather to a form of life. Consequently, we find that there are quite compelling grounds to believe that Wittgenstein would not think of the general propensity in people as the sum of those individuals who happen to contribute to the invention of a ritual, as Rhees claims. Instead, we can locate the basis for the ritual in our own propensity, not in the sense of some individual capacity but in the form of a more general social expression of a form of life. Contrary to Rhees, we claim that Wittgenstein does not refer to the general inclination of the people as something distinct from the spirit of the festival.6 It does not identify the majority 6 Rhees would clearly agree that the inner nature of the ritual is the result of, and expressed in, the surroundings of its practice. However, we understand this to imply that the “common spirit” differs from the general inclination of the people in nothing but the exact surroundings (Umgebung), given the premise that it makes sense to speak of ‘a common spirit’ along

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

225

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

of attitudes, but the social nature of the inclination. Approaching our conclusion, we should like to emphasize that what we recognize in ourselves is not, strictly speaking, reflected in this “social inclination”, but something which is of the same inner nature. This inner nature is, moreover, what we see in external acts, as fear is what we see in the dilation of pupils. The impression, ancient rituals make on us, lies “deeply” within their expression. Thus, it should be clear by now that the impression Wittgenstein speaks of is not philosophically interesting as the response of an imaginative mind, but as the reflection of a social inclination that is not as rational in nature as we might be accustomed to believe. Not that it is profoundly irrational either (which would only make it a circumvention of rationality, at any rate). However, it thus seems as if we have arrived at the full stop after all. In a sense, we have; in another sense, we have not since it is exactly here the uneasiness sets in. Whether we speak of people looking at the sun with awe and thankfulness, doing harm to their enemies, or of the amusing games they create and partake in, we speak of activities, which originate neither in instinctive inclinations nor in rational views. In the first set of remarks, Wittgenstein actually held that “[o]ne could almost say that man is a ceremonial animal” (7e). “That is partly false, partly nonsensical, but there is also something in it” (ibid.). Ceremonial acts (carried out by humans) are not merely instinctual “animal activities”. We are aware of what we do; we do it intentionally, we are even inclined to ask questions about it. Still, there would be no general inclination to engage in any ritual – or other similar – practice, if it were merely the result of a rational wish to sustain something meaningful. We act blindly and yet consciously. This is, at least partly, what is “sinister” and “unsettling” about our behaviour. Recognizing fear, not merely in dilated pupils, but also in a random gesture or in ritual practice, belongs to a deeply familiar form of life, even though we generally engage in practices that differ in crucial respects. Hence, for this reason, among others, Clack is on the wrong track suggesting ‘instinctual behaviour’ as the better alternative to instrumentalist and expressivist positions (cf. above, section 4). No theoretical counter-solution satisfies the point of Wittgenstein’s philosophical issues with Frazer. More importantly, Clack’s interpretation exactly misses the importance of our awareness, our capability – as well as inclination – to reflect on what we do. Any kind of explanatory reference is as liable to lose depth as Frazer’s evolutionary hypothesis was. In this respect, we may even say the lines of connecting links rather than in line of a specific cultural practice. In other words, Wittgenstein might indeed be thinking of a spirit that a wide range of rituals have in common, but this has nothing to do with a happenstance con-joining of individual propensities.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

226

Albinus and Madsen

that what is catapulted into strangeness by scientific objectification is what is made familiar by the philosophical investigation. And if a scientific practice consists in launching and testing hypotheses, it requires another kind of investigation to understand the ‘foundations’ of this practice. 8

Conclusion

While speaking primarily of magical beliefs and rituals, Wittgenstein’s RFGB aims to elucidate something that is fundamental to the human form of life. What the reading of Frazer brought to his attention were not only differences, but also similarities between the foundations of different practices among human beings. The phrases that were originally planned to precede the remarks by way of introduction (see above) spoke of metaphysics “as a kind of magic”. And even though Wittgenstein came to disavow these introductory lines, they indicate that the RFGB were conceived in a larger perspective involving mythology, language, and metaphysics (cf. Leviticus). As forms of life, they are interconnected, recognizable in the inner nature of what we do. This does not entail, however, that some practice has finally become explainable by another, in which case ‘the other’ would here be the philosophical investigation. What the philosophical investigation does is to perform a self-reflection within an on-going practice. Wittgenstein’s aim is not to question science, metaphysics, or anything else, by taking a privileged point of view from the outside. While this may look like a full stop to explanations, leaving us with the bare description of how things are, we should not forget the question that frames it as an answer. The full stop is merely a response to the question about what a certain kind of behaviour is. Devoting our attention to the foundation of this question, instead, we are confronting the heart of what it is that make us uneasy – from a philosophical point of view. To say, in this respect, that this is how things are, is no answer to anything, since it is not any given state of affairs as such that impresses us. Rather we seek reasons where there is none; and then impression hits us, as it were. The question is not ‘how are things constituted the way they are?’ but rather ‘why are we seeing things the way we do, taking certain attitudes towards them?’, ‘what is it that makes us uneasy when they impress us with a certain depth?’ The description is not a cure, but a mirror, a reflection of the question. In this sense, Wittgenstein’s remarks are as open-ended as they are confronting our self-understanding. This is what the philosophical questioning does. To reflect undisturbed on a certain situation – a practice or a use of words – is, at the same time, to reflect on the situation of the reflection itself, and therefore not only raises the question but holds the answer as well.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

227

Demystifying Wittgenstein ’ s Concept of Magic

It should be clear that the kind of conclusion we have reached here is no guide to scientific investigations, and it should not be mistaken for a suspicion over and against the fruitfulness and necessity of launching theoretical hypotheses as such. Rather, it is a philosophical appeal to be aware of what we are doing when we are lured into taking a distanced look upon some human activity. References Clack, Brian C. (1999). Wittgenstein, Frazer and Religion. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Clack, Brian C. (2001). Wittgenstein and Magic. In Robert L. Arrington & Mark Addis (eds.), Wittgenstein and Philosophy of Religion, 12–28. London/New York: Routledge. Drury, Maurice O’C. (1973). The Danger of Words. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Frazer, Sir James George (1993). The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, abridged one-volume version. Wordsworth Editions Ltd. Frazer, Sir James George (2009). The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. Reissue. Oxford Paperbacks. Lévy-Bruhl, L. (1985). How Natives Think. Translated by L. A. Clare. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nielsen, Kai (1967). Wittgensteinian Fideism. Philosophy 42 (161): 191–209. Phillips, Dewi Z. (1994) Wittgenstein and Religion. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Phillips, Dewi Z. (2003). Wittgenstein, Wittgensteinianism, and Magic: a Philosophical Tragedy? Religious Studies-Cambridge, 39 (2): 185–202. Rhees, Rush (1982). Wittgenstein on Language and Ritual. In B. McGuiness (ed.), Wittgenstein and His Times, 68–107. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Waismann, Friedrich (1965). II: Notes on Talks with Wittgenstein. The Philosophical Review 74 (1): 12–16. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1967). Zettel. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1979a). Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough / Bemerkungen über Frazer’s Golden Bough. Edited by Rush Rhees. Herefordshire: Brynmill Press Ltd. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1979b). Wittgenstein lectures. Cambridge, 1932–1935 / from the notes of Alice Ambrose and Margaret Macdonald. A. Ambrose (ed.). Oxford: Blackwell. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1993). Philosophy (sections 86–93 of the Big Typescript), Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951, 158–199. Indianapolis: Hackett. Wittgenstein, Ludwig (2009). Philosophical Investigations, eds., P. M. S. Hacker & Joachim Schlute. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing ltd.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 10

Controlling the Incontrollable Jörg Rüpke Research on magic in the Greco-Roman world is a growing field, and it has become increasingly apparent that magic was not a phenomenon restricted to the social and spatial margins of the Roman Empire – to Egypt, or to the poor, for example – but that it permeated all levels of society and was fully a part of what is useful to address as “religion” in antiquity (Gordon 2013: 107), a stance taken by this volume as a whole.1 This is true irrespective of the clear differences between the professional magic of Egyptian papyri and the popular traditions with their individual appropriations in the (not only Latin) West. In the late 1990s an excavation at Rome has revealed several curse tablets and special apparatuses deposited in a fountain sacralized in multiple ways (Rüpke 2012) and such evidence is growing throughout the Roman world, in the Italian peninsula as well as in the Iberian for instance (Farone, Gordon 2019). Likewise, ashes from the sacrificial pit behind the temple of Mater Magna in a joint sanctuary of Isis and Mater Magna in ancient Mogontiacum (modern Mainz) has brought to light twenty-four texts on lead tablets and evidence that many more had once been deposited there.2 These texts reveal the widespread use of certain prayer techniques, the diverse occasions to which these were applied, the variety of deities invoked (among which were the most prominent deities of the local panthea), and the figurative language and reasoning frequently adopted. Yet I will not address this type of evidence here. My investigation does not concern the details of magic, its techniques and materials, but the position that magic occupied within the range of religious options available to individuals 1 I am grateful to Anders Klostergaard Petersen, Jesper Sørensen and their colleagues for the invitation to Aarhus and the intensive discussion during the conference. I would like to thank Richard Gordon for a critical reading and numerous improvements as well as at a later stage Alice Brigance for her intensive copy-editing. The text printed here is basically identical with chapter 4 of my book On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome (Townsend Lectures/Cornell Studies in Classical Philology), Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. I am grateful to the press for the permission for reuse. 2 Rome: Piranomonte (2002); Blänsdorf (2010). Mainz: Witteyer (2004a, 2004b, 2005); Blänsdorf (2005, 2008, 2009).

© JÖRG RÜPKE, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_011 .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

229

Controlling the Incontrollable

in the Greco-Roman world. Under what circumstances did individuals have recourse to magical practices and specialists of magic? How did they frame this recourse? Did they feel a need to justify it, or did magic simply enlarge the range of options available for individual action? For the most part, my approach to these questions will be strictly philological and historical. Starting from the terms and phenomena we fruitfully might designate as “magic”,3 I am interested in historicizing magic, that is, in investigating the theoretical concepts and pragmatics associated with a range of practices addressed by ancient observers as magic in a specific society and period. I am interested in the “user perspective” of magic – or of magia as it was called in that culture – as an individual option in early Augustan Rome. As my approach is qualitative rather than quantitative, a single intelligent member of Roman society who is aware of the surrounding world will comprise sufficient material for study. Possible generalizations will be discussed toward the end of the chapter. 1

Roman Poetry as Evidence for Ancient Magic

For evidence, I will draw on longer and more complex texts than the usual curse tablets; I turn to Propertius and his four books of elegies. Propertius’s first publication, the so-called Monobiblos, was composed around 29/28 BC, and his poetic production continued until ca. 16 BC, when his last (fourth) book was finished and probably published. Thus, he was a contemporary of the elegist Tibullus and of the epic and bucolic poet Vergil, both of whom died shortly before Propertius completed his fourth book, and of the lyric and iambic poet Horace, who died shortly thereafter. The theme of magic appears in various contexts in the poetry of all four of these authors. In some instances, characters in poems have quite extensive recourse to magic. Georg Luck and Anne-Marie Tupet have dealt thoroughly with the descriptions of magic practices in these and other texts (Luck 1962, 1992, 2000; Tupet 1976). Whereas the research of the 1960s and 1970s was directed toward compiling examples of magical practices and understanding the techniques and logic of these, more recent philological treatments have concentrated on the poetic function of the passages concerned with magic – how a reference to 3 For the discussion about the descriptive and comparative-analytical value of the concept if treated within a framework of instead of an opposition to “religion”, see Sanzo (2020) and further contributions in Mastrocinque, Sanzo and Scapini (2020).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

230

Rüpke

magic, for example, may serve as a metaphor for the binding qualities of love in relationships, or how the formulation of claims and expressions of skepticism regarding magical practices are informed by the techniques of rhetoric.4 In these discussions, however, the magic per se is usually heavily downplayed.5 Other work on ancient magic has been engaged in historicizing the cultural techniques classified by this ancient term. There is unambiguous evidence from as early as the sixth century BC for practices of binding (katadeín, defixiones) in different social relationships, in particular in the context of lawsuits. Likewise, examples of erotic magic can be found from the fifth century onward. Hellenistic literature offered full-fledged literary models of erotic magic and witches: Apollonius of Rhodes’s Argonautica gives a detailed account of Medea in books 3 and 4, and Theocritus’s Idyll 2 portrays a young woman engaged in magical incantations and rituals directed toward her former lover.6 Thus, from the third century BC onward, Greek-reading Romans could draw on such texts in addition7 to Italic ritual traditions. The latter, however, are difficult to trace. By the end of the republic the practice (attributed to the Marsians) of appropriating a neighbor’s crop by means of incantation and snake charms had been subsumed into the conceptual sphere that encompassed binding spells, the use of which is attested in southern Italy in Oscan examples from the fourth century onward (Dickie 2001: 128–44). “Killing by poison”, veneficium, must have encompassed practices addressed by terms derived from Greek pharmakon.8 In Plautus, the term venefica refers both to the sorceress and to the poisoner (Dickie 2001: 131). The extensive treatment of magic in poems of the 30s and 20s BC is contemporary with (as far as we can see) sudden harsh policing moves. Agrippa had astrologers and sorcerers driven out of the city in 33 BC; Augustus banned the sorcerer Anaxilaos of Larissa in 28 BC.9 Against this background, the case for historic reference versus the purely literary value of poetic descriptions need not to be argued solely on the analogy of smoke and fire: much talk, therefore 4 Cairns (1979: 140); Zetzel (1996); hence Reinhard (2006: 208–9). Despite its prominence in the poems (see below), the topic of magic is absent from many monographs on Propertius. I will restrict myself to citing bibliography on points of controversy or to provide suggestions for further reading. 5 See, e.g., Hubbard (1974: 17–18). For a larger overview of the research on magic and its intellectual frameworks, see Gordon 2013. 6 In particular Ap. Rhod. 3.1026ff., 1191ff.; and 4.123ff., 445ff. and 1636ff. (Dickie 2001: 99–104). 7 See Papanghelis (1987: 48) on the importance of both strands. 8 Briefly discussed by Graf and Johnston (1999: 662–70). 9 Graf and Johnston (1999); Dio Cassius 49.43.5 (the date being confirmed by Broughton, MRR 2:415); Jerome Chron. a. 735 auc.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

231

Controlling the Incontrollable

real magic.10 Obviously, poetic treatments constituted part of a wider public discourse that was engaged in cultivating a negative image of professional practitioners of magic (Simón 2001). The image of the old, drunk, and savagely cruel witch, so prominently developed in the early Augustan love poems, seems to be an innovation in the ancient discourse about magic.11 Given the growing danger of criminalization, as pointed out by Richard Gordon, the poets would not have had much interest in denying the fictitious character of their magic figures. Textual analyses should, therefore, pay special attention to the linguistic cues that signal the reality or implausibility of the characters and practices described, but even more so – as indicated above – to the more general framing of references to magic. 2

Magic in Propertius’s Oeuvre

Magic is already prominent in Propertius’s very first poem (1.1): 15

20

25

10 11 12

ergo velocem potuit domuisse puellam: tantum in amore preces et benefacta valent. in me tardus Amor non ullas cogitat artes, nec meminit notas, ut prius, ire vias. at vos, deductae quibus est fallacia lunae et labor in magicis sacra piare focis, en agedum, dominae mentem convertite nostrae, et facite illa meo palleat ore magis! tunc ego crediderim uobis et sidera et amnis posse Cytinaeis12 ducere carminibus. et vos, qui sero lapsum revocatis, amici, quaerite non sani pectoris auxilia. fortiter et ferrum saevos patiemur et ignes, sit modo libertas quae velit ira loqui. ferte per extremas gentes et ferte per undas, Cf. Dickie (2001: 178), who concentrates on the sheer number of literary and specifically declamatory instances. Ogden (2008: 39–76, esp. 75–76). For the resulting portraits, particularly in the case of prostitutes, see Dickie (2001: 175–91). Hertzberg for transmitted Cythalinis (obelized by Fedeli 1980); the reference to Thessaly or to a Colchian Medea is without doubt, but the precise form of the adjective – due to the lack of sufficient parallels – is uncertain.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

232 30

Rüpke

qua non ulla meum femina norit iter. vos remanete, quibus facili deus annuit aure, sitis et in tuto semper amore pares. nam me nostra Venus noctes exercet amaras, et nullo vacuus tempore defit Amor. And hence he was able to tame that fleet-footed maiden: prayers and good deeds like his work wonders in love. But Love runs slowly in my case,13 and devises no schemes, and forgets to use the methods he once knew well. So you, who have tricks to make the moon looking to be drawn down, performing your magic rites on hallowed hearths, here is your chance, come, change my mistress’s heart, eclipse the light of her cheeks, fainter than mine. I’ll believe in your claims then, that Thessalian spells have power to drain the sea of its floods and stars of their light. And you, friends, who at this late stage still urge me to stand, find me something to help a heart that’s sick. I’d suffer the [torments by]14 knife or savage cautery bravely, to win the freedom to talk as my fury craves. Send me to some far out-post, over the ocean, where none of her sex would know the route I took: but remain in Rome, if the god is kind and has heard you, be always carefully matched in a safe affair. That Passion in me is the cause of nights of anguish, my lack of Love is present every hour.15 1.1

The excerpt begins with the end of the story of Milanion, who won the hand of Atalanta, the daughter of Iasus.16 Preces (line 16) clearly has a religious ring (the addressee is not stated, but should be understood as Aphrodite rather than Atalanta, see Booth 2001: 65–66), which is emphasized when Propertius (as the text clearly invites us to identify the speaker), next reflects on his situation 13 14 15 16

Taken from J. Booth (2001: 64). Cf. Bennett (1969: 33) on 3.24.11, who, however, surprisingly does not extend the notion of torture – so clearly alluded to in the following verse (libertas … loqui) – to this passage (n. 10). Translations of Propertius in this chapter are those of Hodge and Buttimore (1977: 17). Here, I have adjusted only their rendering of line 19. See Cairns (2007: 1–7) for the Propertian version of the story.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

233

Controlling the Incontrollable

in relation to the god Amor; in this case, the gods remain unpropitious, as was summarily stated in line 8 of this poem: cum tamen aduersos cogor habere deos, “even if I am forced to suffer adverse gods”. The idea of adversity is repeated at the end of the quoted passage. Hopelessness (and the cautionary advice that results from it) informs the end of the poem. This is a final commentary on the vain – as we see – appeal to unspecified magic specialists in lines 19 and following. At and en agedum clearly mark addresses or exhortations (Fedeli 1980: 79), and these words also introduce the speech Propertius directs first to his friends and then to a generalized audience – addresses that do not include the gods, as should be noted. The forceful demand that the magic specialists ameliorate his situation is in clear contrast to the plea that he directs toward the rest of his audience, which is only that they find ways to deal with an inalterable situation. Magic was a last resort.17 The characterization of this magic is interesting. The specialists are fully credited with having (quibus est) a trick that makes the moon appear to be forced down and with the practice of painstaking, i.e., elaborate, rituals (labor).18 They claim to be able to alter the movement of water and light with Colchian (likely a reference to Medea, see above n. 17) formulas or songs, but this claim needs proof. The speaker does not make any reference to the kind of activity he wishes to be performed, but only to the desired outcome: that the beloved become paler than himself, that she be even more emotionally involved than he himself. The absence of ritual detail is in keeping with the lack of any indicator regarding the status, age, or sex of the specialists invoked. Until this point, I have not commented on the phrase in magicis sacra piare focis (line 20). Commentaries19 are quick to point out that sacra must be an 17

18

19

This interpretation is in opposition to the tendency to downplay magic in analyses of Prop. 1.1 as does, for example, M. Prince (2003). Prince argues that the prominent and differentiated treatment of magic is merely transgressive. Cf. Fulkerson (2002) for an appraisal of the magic subtext in Ov. Her. 13. The perfect tense of the participle (deductae) is rightly stressed by Fedeli (1980: 79). I follow Cairns (2007: 8–9), himself following Shackleton Bailey, and Fedeli, in interpreting fallacia as expressing skepticism. However, this is not simply an inversion of the traditional Hellenistic motif of trusting magic in matters erotic (Fedeli 1980, 80). As the following interpretations will show, it is important to note that this doubt is not total and that it does not exclude experiment and tentative belief. For the alleged technique of the trick, see Hippolytus, Refutatio Haeresium 4.37 (quoted by Cairns 2007). For a suggestion based on modern North African magical practice, see Tupet (1976: 97–100), and (following Tupet) Harmon (1986: 1934): “hypnotic suggestion”. E.g., Camps (1961 ad loc.); Fedeli (1980: 80). The interpretation suggested by Hodge and Buttimore (2002: 68, following Sandbach), “to expiate a religious offence”, is impossible.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

234

Rüpke

internal accusative, meaning “to perform rituals”, “a purificatory sacrifice”, or to emend the phrase (Cairns 2007: 9). But the former would be unparalleled20 and does not account for the juxtaposition of magicis and sacra at the center of the line. To expiate something always means to alter its status, either to cleanse an object or person from defilement or to undo an illegal or impious action. Sacra piare is an unmitigated paradox. Semantically it implies an opposition between magic and sacred ritual,21 syntactically an alteration of sacred ritual, and pragmatically the coexistence of sacral and magical “systems”. After all, the invocation at vos … en agedum follows directly on Propertius’s complaint about the god Amor’s unrelentingly negative attitude. This is not, as Margaret Hubbard claims, a formal device to balance the invocation of his friends (1974: 17–18), but signals that he is willing to employ the last resort (without providing details or implying possible criminal action), even if he is hopeless. But finally, the only source of relief is poetry, the liberty to give vent to what anger dictates (line 28).22 This conclusion is important for all of Propertius’s poetry. 3

Agents and Patients

More often, the speaker is not the initiator or subject of the magic but its object, not agent but patient. The ardent lover is warned in 1.5.5–6 that he will have to walk over “unknown fires”23 and – presumably also without knowing – “drink poisons from all over Thessaly”, which I interpret as an indication that he is crazed enough to persist in a painful romance. In 2.24.27 the insane lover ingests “foul poisons” (taetra venena); problems with the transmitted text leave open whether he does this “happily” (libens) or he merely “sips” (libet) them (Hendry 1996). In 1.12, the unnatural intensity of Propertius and Cynthia’s relationship, and its sudden dissolution, are attributed to divine or magical action: “I was an object of envy: Was it a god that overwhelmed me, or did some herb gathered on Promethean hills separate us?” (1.12.9–10) In the opening poem of book 2 the lover again expresses the strength of his love by imagining himself the victim of poison attacks. 20 21 22 23

As pointed out by A. E. Housman. The discussion of the passage by Tupet (1976: 350–51) does acknowledge Propertius’s typical originality in wording, but does not address difficulties of meaning: “accomplir correctement des rites”. Fedeli’s statement (1980: 80) “il valore di tali sacrifici è fortemente limitato dall’espressione in magicis focis” at least recognizes the tension. Newman (1997: 465); similarly, Lyne (1998: 165). See Fedeli (1980: 157) on the expression, who rightly rejects any reference more specific than that of fire treacherously hiding under ashes.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

235

Controlling the Incontrollable

seu mihi sunt tangenda novercae pocula Phaedrae, pocula privigno non nocitura suo, seu mihi Circaeo pereundum est gramine, sive Colchis Iolciacis urat aëna focis. una meos quoniam praedata est femina sensus, ex hac ducentur funera nostra domo. Though I be doomed to drink of the cup that the stepdame Phaedra brewed, the cup whereof her stepson [i.e. Hippolytos] was destined to take no hurt, or must die of Circe’s herbs; or though for me the Colchian heat the cauldron on the fires of Iolcus, yet since one girl hath stolen away my senses, from her house only shall go forth my funeral train. 2.1.51–56

The argument is then extended: “Medicine cures all the anguish of mankind; love alone loves not the physician of the sicknesses caused by it” (2.1.57–58). The attacks described above never include the terms “magic” or “witch” (saga), though translations introduce such words liberally.24 The same holds true for poem 2.4, which again describes at length the tribulations that the speaker suffers for his love. non hic herba valet, non hic nocturna Cytaeis, non Perimedaeae25 gramina cocta manu; quippe ubi nec causas nec apertos cernimus ictus, unde tamen veniant tot mala caeca viast. ……………………………… nam cui non ego sum fallaci praemia vati? quae mea non decies somnia versat anus? For such a case as mine avails no drug, no Colchian woman in the night, no, nor the herbs Perimede’s hands distilled. For here we see no cause nor whence the blow is dealt; dark is the path whereby so many griefs come

24

25

Thus, I do not follow Fedeli (2005: 87) in his strict differentiation between the love magic of ll. 51–52 and the generic magic in the following lines. Papanghelis (1987: 31) rightly points out: “their common dominator is their being enchanting and deadly at the same time”. This correction is supportable (see also Papanghelis 1987: 33), but Tupet’s arguments for preserving the manuscript tradition with per Medeae (Tupet 1976: 358–59) are not without force. The decision has no consequences for my purposes.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

236

Rüpke

none the less…. For of what lying seer am I not the prey? What hag has not three times three pondered my dreams?26 2.4.7–10, 15–16

Again, the poison is qualified by geographical and mythical terms, not by any specific contemporary practitioners, such as those Propertius openly designates in the last verses quoted. The same observation can be made of 3.6.25– 30, which describes the details of a magic attack, though the term “magic” is absent. The situation of the passage is complex:27 the speaker of the poem demands that his slave report the miseries of his (the speaker’s) mistress and fantasizes that she complains about his infidelity. Thus, he imagines her words, as she speculates on his reasons for abandoning her and as she disparages the female rival she supposes: non me moribus illa, sed herbis improba vicit staminea rhombi ducitur ille rota. illum turgentis ranae portenta rubetae et lecta exsuctis anguibus ossa trahunt, et strigis inventae per busta iacentia plumae, cinctaque funesto lanea vitta viro. Not by her conduct, but by herbs the wretch [the rival] has conquered me: he [i.e. my former lover] is led captive by the rotating string of the rhombus. He is drawn to her by the monstrous charms of the swelling bramble-toad and by the bones she has gathered from dried serpents, by the owl-feathers found on low-lying tombs, and the woolen fillet bound about the [wax figure of the] doomed man.28 3.6.25–30

26

27 28

I do not follow the interposition of vv. 15–16 after 8 proposed by Birt and followed by Fedeli (2005: 165). The reasoning offered by the latter is revealing: “La trasposizione … appare necessaria perchè illogica sarebbe la loro collocazione in un contesto in cui non si parla più delle maghe”. His argument assumes clear borders for the field of cultural practices termed “magic”. Thus the modern observer excludes what he considers to belong to the (modern) field of medicine. Günther (1997: 49), supposing a much damaged book 2, hypothesizes that the original positions of 9–10 and 15–16 have been lost. This contributes greatly to the dramatic vivacity of the poem (Fedeli 1985: 206–7). Funestus is difficult with vir and has lead to numerous conjections, e.g., raptaque funesto … toro or rogo (see ed. Heyworth and S. J. Heyworth and Morwood 2011: 153). Tupet (1976: 367) favors mero; Fedeli obelizes the phrase (1985: 220–21). The transmitted text is reproduced by Viarre (2005) with no comment.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

237

Controlling the Incontrollable

Here, the imagined complaint is very precise and descends even to details of ritual activities.29 The initiator of this attack is identified, but the question of whether ritual specialists are involved or not is left open. Interestingly enough, the term “herbs” (herbis) introduces and generalizes the nonherbal ingredients of the ritual practices. As stated above, I do not aim to contribute to the reconstruction of rites and their logic – detailed here in an interesting selection of standard practices, starting with the swirling “magic wheel”. It is clear both from the text quoted and from the following lines that these practices achieve a single end: the victim is sexually attracted to the woman who has instigated these practices. Funestus hints at the devastating consequences of such an attraction, but it does not activate the association of herbs with poison that is so prominent in the passages quoted previously. As in the case of Odysseus as victim to Circe’s enchantments, the application of herbs need not have deadly consequences.30 The insights gained so far can help resolve an interpretative problem in another poem, which in turn will illuminate the final passage I will discuss.31 Poem 2.28 (which I take as a unity)32 presents the beloved as dangerously ill.33 The poem begins as a prayer, first to Jupiter, then to various goddesses; it repeatedly returns to this frame, but intermittently addresses the beloved as well. Her illness is so serious that a (never-named) human addressee is exhorted to be prepared for death or for a last-minute reversal (2.28.32), and the speaker contemplates, as a final resort, the simultaneous deaths of himself and his beloved (2.28.39–42).34 Interposed is a statement about the conclusion of magical activities and the appearance of ominous sounds (35–38): deficiunt magico torti sub carmine rhombi, et tacet35 exstincto laurus adusta foco; et iam Luna negat totiens descendere caelo, nigraque funestum concinit omen avis.

29 30 31 32 33 34 35

For a lucid discussion, see Tupet (1976: 361–68; S. J. Heyworth and Morwood (2011: 151–52) point to Hor. Epod. 5.17–24 as an important intertext. Cf. Prop. 3.12.27: et Circae fraudes, lotosque herbaeque tenaces, stressing the binding quality of the herbs. See Hubbard (1974: 55–56) for previous attempts at elucidation. See Fedeli (2005: 779–80) for pertinent arguments. Hence classified by Cairns (1972: 151–57) as among the “soteria”. For the importance of the association of love and death, see Papanghelis (1987). Fedeli (2005: 801), following Canter, suggests the (easy) correction of the transmitted iacet to tacet. Cf. Prop. 4.3.58 and Harmon (1986: 1933) with further references.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

238

Rüpke

Now cease the wheels whirled to the magic chant, the altar fire is dead and the laurel remains quiet in the ashes. Now the moon refuses to descend so oft from heaven, and the bird of night sings ominous of death. 2.28.35–38

As the immediately following verses stress the unity of the lovers, the verses quoted cannot point to the dissolution of the magic that had caused the speaker’s attraction to the beloved. Rather, it must refer to a magical ritual on the part of, or on behalf of, this woman in order to attract some third party.36 This would fit with the statement that now even Juno, who protects conjugal bonds, pities her (33–34).37 The pragmatic content of the verses would be: “Your infidelity toward me has also ceased”. This would give a new aspect to her beauty, earlier identified as rousing the gods’ envy (10). And it would also prepare the reader for the pun of the final line (Fedeli 2005: 815), demanding that the woman not only pay Isis with vigils, but also dedicate ten nights of lovemaking to the speaker as votive offering: “I’ll leave Rome, the place of sexual distractions” (as shown in 2.19 and there stressed by reference to sacrifices to Diana). “I’ll end my sexual relationship with the other man by keeping celibate vigils for Isis, and I dedicate ten nights to you”. This is the invalid’s votive formula that underlies the structure of the poem.38 For our purposes, it is important to observe that there is no indication of the magical agent: Propertius evades the question of true agency by assigning it to inanimates (as subjects of the cessative verbs: deficient, tacet, negat descendere). Only in the final line of the excerpt is the grammatical subject identical with the pragmatic subject: the bird, whose singing illustrates the shift away from the topic of magic practices. The beloved is only implicitly responsible for this binding, but not physically harmful, magic.

36

37 38

Syndikus’s interpretation (2006: 301) that the reference is to magic intended to heal the woman is untenable. Likewise, Tupet’s proposition that the references to magical practices are commonplaces (“d’une façon très large”, (1976: 360), nothing more than characterizations of an atmosphere of anxiety, misses the point. It is, however, more or less followed by Fedeli (2005: 800), who interprets the end of the wheel’s spinning as an omen. Verses 33–34 are frequently transposed; Günther (1997: 22–24) rightly preserves the continuity of verses 33–46, but transposes them after l. 2, bringing 28a (as a separate poem) to an end with l. 32. Alessi (1985) has argued that the reason for Cynthia being “affected” (l. 1) is Jupiter’s sexual interest in her rather than some illness. Such an interpretation would fit in the verses in question even better, but the textual clues that support this reading remain very subtle.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

239

Controlling the Incontrollable

4

Piety or Poison?

As a whole, the more explicit and longer treatments of magical practices are framed by references or addresses to deities. In 2.28 the plea for the beloved’s life is framed entirely as a communication with named deities. In 3.24 and 25 (which, following Heyworth’s reconstruction of the hyparchetype Π, I take together as a single poem), the dissolution of the bonds of love could not be produced by friends or a “Thessalian witch” (saga), but only by a deity such as Bona Mens (19–20). In book 4, it is Venus whom Propertius thanks for the death of a procuress who practiced magic (4.5). As we have seen in our analysis of 1.1, there is an opposition between magical and sacred ritual. Finally, in 2.28 the speaker opposes his own sacrum carmen to the magicum carmen that has ceased (43 vs. 35). Magic is an instrument that is present and powerful in love affairs and its application can extend to use of poison, but otherwise it is not employed in matters of life and death. After all, Propertius had another resort: poetry. We need not dwell on the rhetorical qualities of magic in reading Propertius (Luck 1962, 1992, 2000; Tupet 1976; Zetzel 1996). In the first poem of book 1 and the last poem of book 3, he clearly states his conviction that the creation and singing of poems is a technique superior to magic: has tibi fatalis cecinit mea pagina diras: eventum formae disce timere tuae! Such curses fraught with doom are the burden of my song for thee: learn to dread the end that awaits thy beauty! 3.25.17–18 = 3.24.37–38

These are the last two lines of book 3, and they deliberately deploy the language of curses to put an end to his love for Cynthia.39 How, in conclusion, should we move from literary to historical considerations? Of course, the texts we have discussed offer no hard evidence of actual magic practices. They are part of a contemporary discourse on magic, a discourse that addressed both transregional and local features. I propose that we reflect on the pragmatics, the application of magic as imagined by the poet within that discourse. To this end, we should first recall the deliberately public

39

Stressed by Fedeli (1985: 694).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

240

Rüpke

stance of his poems, in particular those that introduce or terminate books.40 Magic is an important – albeit not predominant – theme. Propertius presupposes a set of techniques, characterized by their high degree of ritualization, e.g., by the use of instruments or ingredients that do not appear in common or daily praxis. These are termed “magic” and they are clearly distinguished from – and placed in semantic opposition to – the realm of the gods and such practices as are termed “sacred”. This separation is not borne out by the evidence, which shows that gods were invoked in spells and that the continuum of verbal and visual devices in common ritual use ranged from spells to amulets such as gems (Gordon 2008: 715, 2011: 45). Propertius, however, is evidently interested in a conceptual distinction. Such magical techniques as he mentions seem to have been readily available, but the group of possible activities so defined is relatively limited; in the texts analyzed above, cursing is not mentioned as a magical practice, though we can compare it both with magic and with communication with the gods in the form of vows or sacrifices. In Propertius’s view, magical practices are genealogically, that is mythologically, related to the malicious use of poisons.41 This aspect of magic is not a part of ordinary use; it is illustrated by mythical examples and is associated with far-distant mythical landscapes (Colchis, Thessaly). The use of magical herbs and instruments, unlike that of poisons, is not criminal, but confusion between the two is possible – and Propertius is always careful to keep this in mind. This should be interpreted as a commentary on contemporary, even legal, discourse: crimes might be punished, but this does not concern ordinary magic. Only in his last book does Propertius clearly attribute magical knowledge and practices to a concrete (even if fictitious) person. The procuress of 4.5 is, however, a variously qualified specialist in love, and she is not reduced to a magician only.42 In terms of agency, the status of the client or initiator and that of the specialist or contractor remains unspecified. Propertius does not participate in the creation of the Roman gothic image of the sorceress, which Daniel Ogden defines as a feature of Roman texts in general (2008).

40 41 42

See Lyne (1998: 161, 168) on 1.1 and 2.12. As clearly expressed in the term toxica (1.5.6); see Tupet (1976: 352–53). For mythical figures in Propertius, Bonamente, Cristofoli, and Santini (2016). The accusation of verses 5–20 is not borne out by the advice Acanthis offers to the girl. See 4.5.41–44 with O’Neill (1998: 61). In fact, the procuress is already dead, and it might be the male accuser who practices magic; ibid.: 76. See also Fedeli, Dimundo, and Ciccarelli (2015).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

241

Controlling the Incontrollable

Much clearer is the role of the object of magic: the victim is struck precisely; he or she suspects but does not know, and cannot defend himself or herself regardless of the attacker’s apparent inferiority (in terms of gender, status, and morals). Magic – as one could conclude this short review of the Propertian literary representation – is potentially ubiquitous. Its presence is identified by behaviors or turns of events that are contrary to social expectation. Of course, the peripheral, even illegitimate, sexual relationships, including prostitution, that are the frequent topics of Propertius’s poetry, are much less effectively regulated by social sanctions and expectations. However, Propertius is not interested in creating a specific subcategory of “erotic magic” as opposed to anything else. Despite the limited nature of the evidence, I will attempt a summary. For Propertius, magic is neither asocial nor the “religion of the others”. The aims of magical practices might be reached by other techniques of sacralization, but magic is as legitimately open to him as it is to others.43 However, the ingestion of potions is (according to the dominant sensualistic Roman worldview) the most plausible explanation for magic’s effects, and this is uncomfortably close to the crime of poisoning. One must, therefore, be wary of admitting responsibility for such magic, or of naming one’s contractors. Believing, practicing, remaining silent – these are exactly the conditions that are valid for all imperial practitioners and specialists of magic (Gordon 2013). Within lived ancient religion, magic is an option. Given the existence of many alternatives (good manners, prayer and votives, poetry, and curses), it has an expressive value, often taking on the character of a last resort (Hübner 2008: 337): I am fed up with how things normally work in the social and cultural patterns dominating daily life. Thus, I have recourse to the powers of nature and their specialists. As a consequence, speaking about the use of magic is something that is usually done with polemical reference to others rather than in self-description. By contrast, votives and literary curses are public, or at least tend to be (Watson 1991). The former, too, are highly expressive, and they were selected with a view to specific situations and circumstances, as the previous chapter has shown. Struggling with social order and convention, with the preferences and dislikes of others, with changing moods and circumstances, the Propertian individual tests the limits of his ability to change or adapt to an ultimately uncontrollable environment. For this purpose, she and he need and develop the full range of available cultural resources. Magic included. 43

See, e.g., the list in Luck (2000: 204).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

242

Rüpke

References Alessi, Paul T. (1985). Propertius 2.28: Unity without Illness. The Classical Journal 81 (1): 39–48. Bennett, Alva Walter (1969). Propertius 3.24: A New Approach. Classical Philology 64 (1): 30–35. Blänsdorf, Jürgen (2005). The Curse Tablets from the Sanctuary of Isis and Mater Magna in Mainz. MHNH 5: 11–26. Blänsdorf, Jürgen (2008). Die Defixionum tabellae des Mainzer Isis- und MaterMagna-Heiligtums. In M. Hainzmann and R. Wedenig (eds.), Instrumenta inscripta Latina 2. Akten des 2. Internationalen Kolloquiums Klagenfurt 2005, 47–70. Aus Forschung und Kunst 36. Klagenfurt: Geschichtsverein Kärnten. Blänsdorf, Jürgen (ed.) (2009). Forschungen zum Mainzer Isis- und Mater-MagnaHeiligtum, 1: Die Defixionum tabellae des Mainzer Isis- und Mater-Magna-Heiligtums (DTM). Mainzer Archäologische Schriften 1. Mainz. Blänsdorf, Jürgen (2010). Dal segno alla scrittura: Le Defixiones della fontanta di Anna Perenna (Roma, Piazza Euclide). Studi e materiali i storia delle religioni 76.1. 35–64. Bonamente, Giorgio, Roberto Cristofoli, and Carlo Santini (eds.) (2016). Le figure del mito in Properzio: Proceedings of the Twentieth International Conference on Propertius: Assisi-Bevagna 30 May–1 June 2014. Studi di poesia latina 20. Turnhout: Brepols. Booth, Joan (2001). Problems and Programmatics in Propertius 1.1. Hermes 129 (1): 63–74. Cairns, Francis (1972). Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry, Edinburgh: UP. Cairns, Francis (1979). Vergil and Roman Elegy, Medieval Latin Poetry and Prose, Greek Lyric and Drama. Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 2 = Arca 3. Liverpool: Cairns. Cairns, Francis (1984). Propertius and the Battle of Actium (4.6). In T. Woodman and D. West (eds.), Poetry and Politics in the Age of Augustus, 129–168. Cambridge: University Press. Camps, W. A. (ed.) (1961). Propertius, Elegies: Book I, Cambridge: University Press. Dickie, Matthew W. (2001). Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, London: Routledge. Faraone, Christopher, Richard Gordon (eds.) (2019). Curses in Contexts: Curse-Tablets in Italy and the Western Provinces = Religion in the Roman Empire 5.3. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Fedeli, Paolo (1980). Sesto Properzi, Il primo libro delle Elegie: Introduzione, testo critico e commento. Accademia Toscana di Scienze e lettere “La Colombaria”: Studi 53. Firenze: Olschki. Fedeli, Paolo (1985). Properzio: Il libro terzo delle Elegie: Introduzione, testo e commento di. Studi e commenti 3. Bari: Adriatica.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

243

Controlling the Incontrollable

Fedeli, Paolo (2005). Properzio Elegie Libro II: Introduzione, testo e commento. Arca 45. Cambridge: Cairns. Fedeli, Paolo, Rosalba Dimundo, and Irma Ciccarelli (2015). Properzio, Elegie: Libro IV. Introduzione di Paolo Fedeli. Commento di Paolo Fedeli, Rosalba Dimundo e Irma Ciccarelli. Studia Classica et Medievalia 7. 2 vols. Nordhausen: T. Bautz. Fulkerson, Laurel (2002). (Un)Sympathetic Magic: A Study of Heroides 13. The American Journal of Philology 123 (1): 61–87. Gordon, Richard (2008). The Power of Stones: Graeco-Egyptian Magical Amulets. Journal of Roman Archaeology 21: 713–718 . Gordon, Richard (2011). Archaeologies of Magical Gems. In C. Entwistle and N. Adams (eds.), ‘Gems of Heaven’: Recent Research on Engraved Gemstones in Late Antiquity c. AD 200–600, 39–49. British Museum Research Publications 177. London: British Museum Press. Gordon, Richard (2013). Cosmology, Astrology, and Magic: Discourse, Schemes, Power, and Literacy. In L. Bricault and C. Bonnet (eds.), Panthée: Religious Transformations in the Graeco-Roman Empire, 85–111. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 177. Leiden: Brill. Graf, Fritz and Sarah Iles Johnston (1999). Magie III. Griechenland und Rom’. Der Neue Pauly 7: 662–670. Günther, Hans-Christian (1997). Quaestiones Propertianae. Leiden: Brill. Harmon, Daniel P. (1986). Religion in the Latin Elegist. ANRW II.16,3, 1909–1973. Hendry, Michael (1996). Guzzling Poison and Draining the Sea: A Conjecture on Propertius 2.24b.27. Phoenix 50 (1): 67–69. Heyworth, Stephen J. and James H. W. Morwood (2011). A Commentary on Propertius, Book 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hodge, Bob and R. A. Buttimore (1977). The Monobiblios of Propertius: An Account of the First Book of Propertius Consisting of a Text, Transl., and Critical Essay on Each Poem (Carmina), Cambridge: Brewer. Hodge, Robert I. V. and R. A. Buttimore (2002). Propertius, Elegies Book I. Text and Translation with a Critical Analysis of Each Poem (Probably repr. of Cambridge University Press 1977 edn.). Classical Studies Series. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Hubbard, Margaret (1974). Propertius. London: Duckworth. Hübner, Wolfgang (2008). Maghi e astrologi in Properzio. In C. Santini and F. Santucci (eds.), I personaggi dell’elegia di Properzio: Atti del convegno internazionale, Assisi, 26–28 maggio 2006, 337–363. Centro studi poesia latina in distici elegiaci 10. Assisi: Accademia Properziana del Subasio. Luck, Georg (1962). Hexen und Zauberei in der römischen Dichtung. Lebendige Antike. Zürich: Artemis. Luck, Georg (1992). Arcana mundi: Magic and the Occult in the Greek and Roman Worlds. A Collection of Ancient Texts. Translated, Annotated, and Introduced. Philadelphia: Johns Hopkins University Press. .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

244

Rüpke

Luck, Georg (2000). Ancient Pathways and Hidden Pursuits: Religion, Morals, and Magic in the Ancient Worlds, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Lyne, R. O. A. M. (1998). Introductory Poems in Propertius: 1.1 and 2.12. Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 44: 158–181. Mastrocinque, Attilio, Joseph E. Sanzo, and Marianna Scapini (eds.) (2020). Ancient Magic: Then and Now. Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 74. Stuttgart: Steiner. Newman, John Kevin (1997). Augustan Propertius: The Recapitulation of a Genre. Spudasmata 63. Hildesheim: Olms. O’Neill, Kerill (1998). Symbolism and Sympathetic Magic in Propertius 4.5. The Classical Journal 94 (1): 49–80. Ogden, Daniel (2008). Night’s Black Agents. Witches, Wizards and the Dead in the Ancient World, London: Hambledon Continuum. Papanghelis, Theodore D. (1987). Propertius: A Hellenistic Poet on Love and Death, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Piranomonte, Marina (2002). Il santuario della musica e il bosco sacro di Anna Perenna, Milano: Electa. Prince, Meredith (2003). Medea and the Inefficacy of Love Magic: Propertius 1.1 and Tibullus 1.2. Classical Bulletin 79: 205–218. Reinhard, Tobias (2006). Propertius and Rhetoric. In H.-C. Günther (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Propertius, 199–216. Leiden: Brill. Rüpke, Jörg (2012). Sakralisierung von Zeit in Rom und Italien: Produktionsstrategien und Aneignungen von Heiligkeit. In P. Gemeinhardt and K. Heyden (eds.). Heilige, Heiliges und Heiligkeit in spätantiken Religionskulturen, 231–247. Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 61. Berlin: De Gruyter. Sanzo, Joseph E. (2020). Deconstructing the Deconstructionists: A Response to Recent Criticisms of the Rubric Ancient Magic. In A. Mastrocinque, J. E. Sanzo, and Marianna M. Scapini (eds.), Ancient Magic: Then and Now, 25–46. Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 74. Stuttgart: Steiner. Simón, Francisco Marco (2001). La emergencia de la magia como sistema di alteridad en la Roma del siglo I d.C.’ MHNH: International Journal of Research on Ancient Magic and Astrology 1: 105–132. Syndikus, Hans Peter (2006). The Second Book. In H.-C. Günther (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Propertius, 245–318. Leiden: Brill. Tupet, Anne-Marie (1976). La magie dans la poésie latine I: Des origines à la fin du règne d’Auguste, Paris: Belles Lettres. Viarre, Simone (ed.) (2005). Properce, Élégies, Paris: Belles Lettres. Watson, Lindsay (1991). Arae: The Curse Poetry of Antiquity. Arca 26. Leeds: Cairns. Witteyer, Marion (2004a). Verborgene Wünsche: Befunde antiken Schadenzaubers aus Mogontiacum-Mainz. In K. Brodersen and A. Kropp (eds.), Fluchtafeln: Neue

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

245

Controlling the Incontrollable

Befunde und neue Deutungen zum antiken Schadenzauber, 41–50. Frankfurt a. M.: Verlag Antike. Witteyer, Marion (ed.) (2004b). Das Heiligtum für Isis und für Mater Magna, Mainz: Zabern. Witteyer, Marion (2005). Curse-tablets and Voodoo-dolls from Mainz. The Archaeological Evidence for Magical Practices in the Sanctuary of Isis and Mater Magna. MHNH: International Journal of Research on Ancient Magic and Astrology 5: 105–124. Zetzel, James E. G. (1996). Poetic Baldness and Its Cure. Materiali e Discussioni 36: 73–100.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

chapter 11

Force and Categorization: Reflections on Marcel Mauss and Henri Hubert’s Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen 1

Introduction

Together with James Frazer’s The Golden Bough, Marcel Mauss’ and Henri Hubert’s Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie published in 1902–1903 is an all-time classic in the study of magic. Thus, in a volume addressing divination and magic from both theoretical and empirical perspectives, it is prudent to both reflect upon and critically reevaluate the scholarly sources of our categories as these have structured the debates that were to follow. In their thorough comparative analysis of ritual practices in different times and places, Mauss and Hubert were among the first to point to the central role of sociality in magical practices, thereby distinguishing their understanding from the essentially individualist approach of Frazer. Mauss and Hubert suggested the fundamental category of mana as an expression of this unseen but experienced social force and, thereby, they not only added to the hype of mana that had been steadily growing ever since Codrington introduced the term to a wider audience in 1891. They also put in their own bid in the ubiquitous attempts to find universal laws and unifying explanatory principles of human behavior so prevalent around 1900. Marxists understood history through the process of a material dialectics; liberalists claimed the existence of the ‘hidden hand’ of the market, and theosophists exclaimed the singular role of humanity in the spiritual evolution of the entire universe. Everywhere people searched for hidden forces uniting disparate phenomena into classes explicable by the workings of a few simple, immutable laws. This search for underlying mechanisms was a natural consequence of the ever-increasing prestige and technological impact of the natural sciences (Asprem 2015). Following an early start in the principle of gravity of Newtonian mechanics, the discovery of electromagnetics, radioactivity, and the principles of natural selection of Darwinian evolution are but three prominent examples of scientific theories explaining recurrent, observable features of the phenomenal world by reference to a few hidden forces permeating our surroundings.

© Jesper Frøkjær Sørensen, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004447585_012 .8A 8 8 A8 7 78 A / -8

AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

247

Force and Categorization

Allusions to the causal effects of unseen forces had several advantages over competing explanations. First, they subsumed observable phenomena into theoretical constructs formulated as unbreakable and universal laws. Second, these explanatory principles promised the continuous advance of knowledge and technology as humanity’s alleged control over nature continued to widen its scope. Third, the ability to formulate a positive science of nature in a deterministic universe supported the cultural schema of progress that had emerged as a viable alternative to a Christian understanding of the world as created in its final version. By understanding the underlying, hidden mechanics of the universe, humanity could irreversibly attain a promised mastership of its own existence. Bearing this in mind, it is not surprising that attempts to explain observable phenomena by reference to hidden causes also found expressions in the emerging social sciences and in the humanities. The search for a ‘positive science of man’ was the vogue of the time, and leading figures in budding disciplines such as anthropology (both physical and cultural), sociology, psychology and history of religions wholeheartedly endorsed such positivist aspirations. However, to correctly understand this scientific positivism, it is essential to recognize that the social and human sciences emerged in an ambiance of reform. The discovery of unseen forces was believed to have the potential to alter human destiny and create a better world as it facilitated both human and social engineering. Uncovering hitherto hidden laws guiding human sociality and psychology gave promise to an imminent ability to understand and, thereby, control human social existence, reflecting the increasing control of the natural environment that resulted from the findings in the natural sciences. Within the safe confines of their university offices, theorist, therefore, proposed an ever-growing number of explanatory principles in the search for the uniting factor, the ‘magic bullet’, that would explain any particular human institution – whether society, culture, law, art, technology, science, religion or magic. If we restrict ourselves to the domain of religion and magic, animism, pre-animism, animatism, totemism, evolutionism, diffusionism, dynamism and naturism are examples of such catchall phrases and programs whose purported laws and explanatory constructs promised to expound their very roots. ‘Origin’ was the holy grail in attempts to exhaust the true nature of any given phenomenon, and magic, religion, science, society and even culture, therefore, could be reduced to external and contingent historical manifestations of general laws of nature unveiled in the analysis of their most, simple and, therefore, earliest manifestation. These pioneering social scientists were bold in their determination to explain any human phenomena in terms of generalized principles and laws and they, thereby, both constructed the categorial and terminological basis

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

248

Sørensen

for later scholarship, and effectually laid the foundation for the disciplinary boundaries that remain the structuring principle of universities and study programs today. Mirroring the division of the natural sciences into distinct disciplines that, for instance, characterized the reform of the German universities initiated by Humboldt, disciplines in the humanities and social sciences gradually became identified with core phenomena of interest, a delineated descriptive level, and a particular suit of principles and basic categories. Published in 1902–3, Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie predates this consolidation of disciplinary boundaries and, thus, retains its status as a classic in several academic disciplines. Mauss and Hubert’s study is positivist in both approach and aims. It seeks to delineate the category of magic by a process of classification of phenomena; to unearth the causal principles uniting the culturally and historically disparate cases; and to arrive at a general explanation of the phenomena designated by the category of magic. Their analysis further exemplifies the inclination to isolate a single, fundamental explanatory principle: mana is claimed to underlie and thus explain not only the emergence and the persistence of magic, but also the emergence of religion and, perhaps, even of society itself. I shall return to a more thorough discussion of Mauss and Hubert’s theory shortly. However, first I need to address a pertinent question: what is the utility of discussing a theoretical work more than one hundred years of age? In short, why bother? Besides the obvious historical relevance of understanding properly the history and development of key categories within anthropology, sociology and the history of religion – an investigation situated more broadly within the history of ideas and of science – recent developments within these disciplines themselves has made such investigations relevant. The period between the First World War and 1989 (the short twentieth century) can be broadly portrayed as a movement away from explanations of cultural and social phenomena in terms of general laws in favor of an interpretative approach. Addressing specific cultural and historical particularities, the aim was to understand (aspects of) individual cultures and translating between them. However, within recent years this trend has reversed. Influenced by information science, neuroscience, cognitive science and theoretical biology, the last couple of decades have borne witness to renewed attempts to understand human behavior in general and religion in particular in terms of explanatory principles uniting into a single framework cases from different cultural and historical backgrounds. It is, once again, acceptable to propose wide-ranging theories of human phenomena based on reductive methods and general laws. This is not merely a question of changing scholarly fads, of the pendulum swinging back and forth between interpretative and explanatory

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

249

Force and Categorization

approaches. It is also a result of changes in the sciences in general. Theoretical, methodological and technical advancements now enable us to better address questions that were rightly abandoned a century ago as both unsolvable and speculative. They amounted to ‘if-I-were-a-horse’-type introspectionist explanations, to paraphrase Evans-Pritchard’s influential book on theories of primitive religion (Evans-Pritchard 1965). Since then, advances in neighboring fields, technological developments, and a surge towards consilience amongst the sciences have allowed scholars to address once again the big questions posed more than a hundred years ago, such as the relation between religion and sociality, why religion exists at all, how ritual influence the transmission of religious ideas, why religion take anthropomorphic forms, or why magic prevails.1 But, even if some of the aspirations are quite similar, a couple of differences should be noted at the outset. Modern-day scholars are more hesitant to accept the usefulness of old categorical distinctions. As discussed in the Introduction of this volume, categories, such as ‘religion’ and ‘magic’, are understood as broad and historically derived concepts that pragmatically unite a number of phenomena, rather than categories of any explanatory potential (Sørensen 2013a). Thus, very little, if anything is gained by designating some practice as being ‘magic’, without a further qualification of what is meant by the category and how it helps explain the phenomena observed. While some argue that these categories are therefore as useless for a scientific anthropology and study of religion as the category of a ‘bush’ is for botany and, therefore, are better abandoned (e.g. Boyer 1996), others defend their usefulness as broad synthetic categories, pragmatically directing scholars’ attention to a particular cluster of phenomena (e.g. Sørensen 2007a, 2013a). Both positions, however, agree that no catchall explanation can be found, and that essentially contested categories such as ‘religion’ or ‘magic’ cover a suit of interrelated phenomena in need of independent explanations before any more comprehensive account can be made. This fractioning of the theoretical object into its constitutive parts or, more radically, the formulation of theoretical objects on lower levels of explanation, is mirrored by a multidisciplinary approach that not only tackles phenomena with methods derived from different disciplines but argues that, ideally, all phenomena must be investigated on numerous explanatory levels in order to arrive at an adequate explanation (Sørensen 2013b). So whereas early twentieth century science of culture very deliberately attempted to delineate 1 Recent cognitive literature is comprehensive, but helpful general works include Atran (2002); Bering (2011); Boyer (1994, 2001); Guthrie (1993); Lawson & McCauley (1990); Martin & Wiebe (2017); Norenzayan (2015); Pyysiäinen (2004); Sørensen (2007a); Taves (2011); Tremlin (2006); Whitehouse (2004).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

250

Sørensen

explanatory levels in order to consolidate emerging scholarly institutions (e.g. the formation of Anthropology, Sociology, Psychology or History of Religions as distinct disciplines), present day research is more eclectic, choosing methods and levels of explanation best suited to address particular, theoretically informed problems without believing that higher-level human phenomena can be fully explained by any single approach. This eclectic methodology resembles the pre-disciplinary background that characterizes some of the early works in the History of Religion and Anthropology and it is therefore worth investigating, if central ideas expressed in the classics can be fruitfully reinterpreted today. This chapter is such an attempt to creatively reengage a classic of our discipline. As most readers are unlikely to be familiar with the finer details of Mauss’ and Hubert’s work on magic, I shall first embark on a critical presentation of the main arguments presented in the Mauss and Hubert’s work on magic and, in particular, their use of mana as an explanatory concept. Despite its contentious history, I shall argue that the underlying ideas of representations of ‘force’ can be fruitfully reexamined, based on results in the cognitive sciences. This examination takes up the second part of the chapter. Based on a discussion of recent investigations into mental representations of causal relations and force dynamic structures in language, I will discuss how ritualized behavior in itself gives rise to representations of diffuse force that, subsequently, can be infused into ritual objects and ritual experts. I will argue that any attempt to understand, let alone explain phenomena traditionally conceived under the heading of ‘magic’ or ‘ritual efficacy’ need to integrate how the human mind represents ‘force’ more generally. 2

Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie

Influenced by the positivist zeitgeist, Mauss and Hubert’s essay takes its point of departure in the explicitly stated attempt to achieve conceptual clarification within the academic study of religion. While the authors accept the inherited categorical distinctions between magic, religion and science, they call for the precise analysis and explanation of these categories argued to subsume “natural classes of facts” (p. 7),2 a process that will result in their clarification as proper scientific concepts. In this endeavor Mauss and Hubert recognizes two 2 In order to ease the reading, inserted quotes from Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie are all taken from the English translation (Mauss 1972) and numbers in brackets refer to pages in this work.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

251

Force and Categorization

initial problems: First, in a celebrated earlier work, they had concluded that sacrifice should be considered the exemplary religious ritual that attains its effect from the social contract designating certain things as ‘sacred’ (Hubert & Mauss 1898). We here find an early version of Durkheim’s definition of religion as an essentially social fact derived from a collective classification of certain things as sacred, thus, symbolically expressing the imperceptible but real power emanating from the group as a collective (Durkheim 1912). However, if their theory of sacrifice should be broadened to cover the whole domain of ritual, what about rituals that, prima facie, were not considered religious? In what sense and to what extent can non-religious rites (and magical ritual was at the time considered the prime example of non-religious ritual) be understood as related to or even dependent on the concept of the sacred? Mauss and Hubert argue that solving this problem would not only enable a more encompassing theory of ritual as a general phenomenon. It would also allow the authors to differentiate between magic and religion as two radially distinct expressions of mana, epitomized in their ritual expression: sacrifice as the eminently religious ritual in contrast to magical rituals. Second, specifying the sacred as the force underlying ritual and arguing that the sacred is a product of social activities or forces apparently clash with the inherited cultural model of magic as eminently individualistic. The problem facing Mauss and Hubert is how to reconcile the collective and social origin of the sacred with the individualistic connotations inherent in the concept of magic. In order to address this problem, Mauss and Hubert set out to specify magical rituals in relation to their social settings. Rejecting the individualist and intellectualist approach of James Frazer (1911), they claim that magic can only be understood by reference to the social milieu in which magical practices takes place, and that properly analyzing the classificatory system underlying these practices will unearth its ultimately social origin. To summarize, Mauss and Hubert frame their approach within a double opposition. Magic is at the same time opposed to sacrifice as the prototypical religious ritual, and it is the individualist counterpart to the essentially social religion. In line with the predominant neo-Kantian orientation of the L’Année school, Mauss and Hubert commence their analysis by proposing a preliminary definition of magic: “A magical rite is any rite which does not play a part in organized cult” (Mauss 1972: 24, italics in original). This essentially negative definition testifies to a general tension inherent throughout the work. On the one hand, they rely on a first order definition based upon what is considered ‘magic’ (or any local linguistic equivalent) according to the classificatory system of a given society. On the other hand, they designate certain practices as ‘magic’ through an observer’s third order analytical definition based upon

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

252

Sørensen

cross-culturally recurrent patterns.3 Hubert and Mauss oscillate between these two positions, and as we shall see, this ultimately renders their definition of magic problematic. If we commence at the analytical pole, they divide magic into three aspects: The actions, that is, the rituals as distinct from ordinary technical behavior; the officers, that is, the agents of the action, and the underlying representations, that is, “beliefs and ideas which corresponds to the magical actions” (p. 18). Addressing the distinction between ordinary and ritual actions, they argue that rituals are “traditional actions whose efficacy is sui generis” (p. 20, italics in original). In this rather enigmatic formulation, Mauss and Hubert allude to the crucial role of mana in generating representations of ritual efficacy – an “effect [that] derives from something else” (p. 20). I shall return to the question of mana below. In contrast to this analytical definition of ritual, they fall back on the first order, participant pole when distinguishing magic and religion. Whereas religious rituals are constituted by being regarded as “solemn, public, obligatory, regular” (p. 21) and “predictable, prescribed and official” (p. 24), magic is locally characterized as “illicit and expressly prohibited and punished” (p. 22) as well as “unauthorized, abnormal and, at the very least, not highly estimable” (p. 24). In fact, “being prohibited provides a delimitation for the whole sphere of magical actions” (p. 22). Thus, quintessential magical acts are those rituals that any given society considers illicit, evil and punishable in contrast to the socially approved ritual actions that constitutes religion. Mauss and Hubert were well aware that positioning religion, exemplified by sacrifice at the one end of a continuum, and magic exemplified by evil spells on the other end pose an empirical problem: that numerous practices seem to fall in between the two extremes and that many rituals considered magical by most observers or even participants themselves are not regarded as illicit or immoral (e.g. Bohak, this volume). Rather, these rituals are dominated by domestic practices intimately related to specific technical procedures such as farming, hunting or medicine. Nevertheless, Mauss and Hubert specified the defining characteristic of magic as its segregated position in the local classificatory system as well as its local opposition to religion: “[magical rites] are anti-religious and it is desired that they be so” (pp. 23–4). The magician is specified by being abnormal, either as a temporary change of status, for instance 3 The second-order, observer’s category of ‘magic’ originating in the European tradition and flourishing in the renaissance, shall not concern us in this context. For a thorough discussion of the formulation of magic as a scientific category of religion in the late 19th century, see Josephson-Storm (2017). For an elaboration on the distinction between second and third order language, see, for instance, Petersen (2018, 2020, in press).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

253

Force and Categorization

when the leader of the household performs magical rituals to ensure an abundant harvest, or more permanently, whether due to certain physical characteristics, psychological dispositions, membership of secret societies, gender and age, or occupation. The old hag, the hysteric, the neurotic, the disabled, gravediggers, blacksmiths, priests, the stranger, or even women and children in general can be imbued with magical power due to their unique position in a local classificatory system. They hold power by being recognized as special by members of society as a whole. This is essentially a circular argument, in particular in relation to gender. Religion is defined as the official cult performed by adult men, automatically rendering the rituals performed by women magical. Understanding why certain social groups are more easily attributed special power allowing them to function as agents of magical actions, will take more than describing their segregated status in the local classificatory system. Thus, it is unclear whether their magical status derives from their fringe position in the classificatory system or, inversely, if their segregated status is a result of having magical powers. Despite these problematic aspects of their attempt to delineate magic and religion by means of local classifications, Mauss and Hubert identify an important feature of ritual action: that the agent of a ritual is imbued with special power or charisma (Weber 1976) and that this “charismatic proclivity” exploits a pan-human tendency to specify social categories in terms of a hidden essence (Boyer 1990, 1994; Sørensen 2005b). These essential qualities are constructed in numerous ways, most notably through public narratives, taking the form of myths, anecdotes or hearsays. The magician gains a reputation due to his or her (successful) actions, and their role and special powers are described in mythological tales and common knowledge specifying their special relations with the devil, spirits, specific animals (familiars) or their membership of secret societies. In short, the magician attains his or her special power due to the fringe position in the social classificatory system. Working for essentially antisocial and individualistic ends, they have “appropriated to themselves the collective forces of society” (Mauss 1972: 90). According to Mauss and Hubert magical rituals also derive their power due to their marginal position in the local classificatory system. Magic is represented as connected to a number of preconditions that endow the subsequent actions with special force: prescribed times and places; objects regarded as special because of inherent characteristics, uselessness (e.g. cut-off hair and nails), or by being tabooed; objects with concrete qualities, such as the ability to bind other substances (e.g. wax and honey); or special magical tools. These circumstantial elements not only constitute the preliminary condition for ritual performance. They also protect the magic act against falsification, as

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

254

Sørensen

all ritual elements, in principle, can be understood as causing a ritual to fail to deliver its promised effect. Further, elements employed and understood as necessary part of the ritual tend naturally to multiply. This growing complexity has two interrelated effects. First, it renders magical rites increasingly formalistic as their constitutive parts become ever more disconnected from the effect they claim to produce. Gestures and actions become highly stylized and often reduced to simple gestures, and gibberish, archaisms, exoticism and plain meaninglessness thrives (see also Sørensen 2005a). Second, being prescribed, magical rituals do not derive their stated efficacy due to mental operations based on similarity and contagion as argued by Frazer, but by being traditional as well as abnormal actions. While both religious and magical rituals contain the sympathetic connections identified by Frazer, the magician shows “no inclination to speculate on the nature of this sympathy” but rather focus on “the lore which has come down to them and their [rites’] formal or exceptional character” (Mauss 1972: 51). Based on the discussion so far, one could reasonably believe that Mauss and Hubert saw magical rituals as totally devoid of meaning: that magic thrives on a total confusion between its constituent parts that allows the cause and effect to be fused, and that the efficacious force of ritual is of a purely prescribed and traditional nature. But this would be an unfair depiction of how Mauss and Hubert envisage the relation between roles and actions visible in the concrete ritual and the mental representations held by participants. Obviously, magical actions entail the existence of beliefs and representations held by performers. Taking their point of departure in Frazer’s definition of magical actions as based upon associative structures of similarity and contagion, Mauss and Hubert not only add a third principle of opposition (being an inversion of similarity). They further argue that in contrast to Frazer’s view on the matter, these structures are not expressions of abstract, associative laws of the mind. As all things can potentially be connected to everything else, the associative relations utilized in magical rituals are conventional, prescribed and inherently social.4 The connections are pre-established in the social classificatory system and expressed through concrete ritual symbols. Thus, magic not only derives its potency but also its concrete representations from tradition. “[It] is the notion of property and social conventions behind the objects which allow 4 So, whereas Frazer, and before him Edward B. Tylor relied on a thoroughly empiricist and, therefore, individualist understanding of how knowledge is attained, Mauss and Hubert, as well as the rest of the L’Année school were all deeply influenced by neo-Kantianism and its insistence of the, ultimately, cultural or social, rather than psychological, origin of fundamental categories of understanding (e.g. Durkheim 1912: 20–29).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

255

Force and Categorization

the collective spirit to link together the sympathetic bonds concerned” (p. 78). Further, tradition works in the mind of practitioners without their awareness: “In magic and religion the individual does not reason, or if he does his reasoning is unconscious” (p. 75). Relations between elements utilized in magical rituals are pre-specified in the cultural conceptual system, they are expressed in the actions performed by the magician who, in turn, only has a clear awareness of the desired result of the actions performed. The magician thinks in terms of the concrete, a “practical idea” (p. 91) expressed in a limited and arbitrary range of material or symbolic manifestations of power believed to be able to bring about a change of state. This is the case whether the representations evoked in the ritual are impersonal or personal. The foreign gods imported as forceful spirits in magical rituals are more or less deprived of the personal characteristics leaving only their sheer force intact. Even though Hubert and Mauss rejected Frazer’s view that sympathetic connections constitute the law of magical ritual, they did not give up the idea that such laws exist. Magic does not consist of abstract logical principles of thought; these are merely relations pre-established by the classificatory system. Instead, magic is the illicit, the almost antisocial appropriation of social power ascribed to and derived from elements belonging to the fringes of this system. Magic encompasses traditional ritual actions that society, as a whole considers immoral, illicit and prohibited. This sociological definition has a number of problems. First, in many cases it is unclear what constitutes society as a whole. Often, we find competing ritual traditions and different social strata or groups might have very different opinions about which rituals should be performed. Second, using a first order definition of magic based on the moral evaluation within a social classificatory system leads to a logical contradiction: other peoples’ ‘religious’ practices are often deemed to be ‘magical’, whereas these people, in turn, would specify your own ‘religious’ rituals as ‘magical’. One people’s religion is another people’s magic. Thereby ‘magic’ transforms into a purely polemical and strategically employed concept devoid of any positive qualities. This seems to end up in a rather barren approach and this, I believe, is one of the reasons why numerous writers have used Mauss and Hubert’s analysis as an argument for abandoning the concept of magic altogether (e.g. Otto 2011; Pocock 1972; Smith 2004).5 However, Mauss and Hubert’s third order concept of magic is more promising, as it directs our attention to more general questions of how certain people, actions and objects attain a special status making them able to change the state of the world. Their insistence on the role of the 5 Another reason being an inherent tendency in the Study of Religion to debunk categories out of a, sometime, justified fear of reification, see the Introduction in the current volume.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

256

Sørensen

classification systems and on the special character of ritual action is thus a more fertile attempt to construct a positive definition of magic. The question, therefore, becomes why certain actions are considered powerful. How do they acquire their efficacy? 3

Mana and the Power of the Group

Mauss and Hubert used one concept to answer the questions posed above: mana. Derived from the work on Melanesian religion authored by Codrington (1891), the concept of mana has had an extraordinary fate in the scholarly community (Tybjerg 2007). Being celebrated as one of the most important theoretical constructs in early anthropology, sociology and history of religion, its use faded in the latter part of the twentieth century and few, if any, modern-day researchers apply the concept as a generalized explanatory category. However, around year 1900 this was certainly not the case, and in the work of Mauss and Hubert mana plays a pivotal theoretical role. In short, mana is the hidden causal principle that explains the emergence, the existence, and the function of both magic and religion. So, what is implied by the concept of mana? Mauss and Hubert give a lengthy, if somewhat convoluted account. On a phenomenological level, mana is described as a metaphysical concept that permeates Polynesia and Melanesia referring to explicit cultural representations of special power. As such, it may be described as a part of local classificatory system with a particular set of references. In recent years, such ‘local’ descriptions of mana, originally appearing in Codrington’s work, have been severely criticized as based on flawed linguistic analyses (e.g. Keesing 1984, Boyer 1990; Meylan 2017). However, Mauss and Hubert are not particularly interested in the local classificatory role, and they support their universalist claims by pointing to similar concepts in other cultures, most notably in the North American notions of orenda and manitou. They argue that the existence of such concept testifies to the existence of a fundamental mechanism in the sociology of thought, and that mana, therefore, subsequently functions as a third order concept designating representations of force that explain why magical rituals may be represented as efficacious to begin with. Thus, mana is not necessarily expressed through any explicitly held idea, but suggests an unconscious representation that only sometimes and, inevitably only in an imperfect way, is expressed by a word in any given culture. It is an a priori “category of understanding” (Mauss 1972: 118) that connects individual elements in a classificatory system by attributing relative value and establishing essential connections. It is as fundamental as our

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

257

Force and Categorization

basic categories of time and space even if mana, in contrast to these Kantian categories of understanding, does not reside in individual minds but rather constitutes a “category of collective thinking” (p. 119). This collective nature explains why the importance of mana as a basic category of understanding has been reduced in the process of cultural evolution. Due to individualization and modernization, the importance of social categories of thinking are diminished, and in a terminology reminiscent of Lévy-Bruhl (1910), Mauss and Hubert argue that mana is a type of concept “quite outside our adult European understanding” (Mauss 1972: 107). So, how do Mauss and Hubert define this strange, unconscious idea? Mana is described as the residue found in magic that is not explicable in terms of neither sympathetic connections, properties of magical objects or demonological beliefs. Rather, it is at the foundation of all these magical representations. It is the mysterious ‘more’ that allocates efficacy to magical ritual, and potency, force, luck and ability to objects, actions and persons. As such it appears in numerous forms: as a quality, a substance, a form, or even an activity. Further, it is at the same time general, abstract and concrete and is the primary means by which categories get their relative value in the system of classification (p. 109). It is implicitly or explicitly represented as an impersonal spiritual force that permeates all things to a greater or smaller extent and it is responsible for manifestations of success, power, efficacy, luck and ability. Thus, it is a differential term that justifies why one stone and not another has magical powers, why one man is chief or magician and another is serf or client, why one ritual is effective and another not, or why certain objects are taboo while others are not. This classificatory difference or heterogeneity is represented as stemming from an implicit understanding of inherent force or potential. Mauss and Hubert state: “mana is power, par excellence, the genuine effectiveness of things which corroborates their practical actions without annihilating them” (p. 111). Mana should thus be understood as potentially inherent in objects, persons or actions but, more importantly, it functions as the copula that unites elements in the ritual. It allows the formation of synthetic a priori judgments (p. 124). Synthetic, as they bring together elements otherwise not connected, a priori as these connections are not based on perceptual information, but rest on prior socially established associations that, in turn, influence experience while not being itself dependent upon it for its existence. Thus, mana is the very power that allows one ritual element to influence another. When it comes to the origin of this mysterious power, Mauss and Hubert claim that mana has a social origin. It translates social sentiments expressing social needs and, most notably, it emerges as an effect of social actions that constitutes a collective reaction to feelings arising in a group in response to

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

258

Sørensen

extraordinary things, events and happenings (pp. 129–30). Being a fundamental social category, a ‘fait social’ in the terminology of Durkheim, it permeates the whole world of ‘primitive man’, connecting elements in the classificatory system, imbuing things with relative value, with power and special qualities. It creates a world, field and place of magical action; it legitimizes, justifies and explains the magician and his formal acts, and it motivates, encourages and eventually confirms belief in magic. We see here an early version of the concepts of the sacred as it is later expressed by Durkheim (1912). And as it is the case with the sacred, mana constitutes the basic differentiating conception that sets aside a distinct aspect of reality from the rest. In contrast to Durkheim, however, Mauss and Hubert claim that mana is a more fundamental category that enables the emergence of both representations of the sacred (i.e. religion) and of magic. As such, mana fulfills an important role in their theory: it is the fundamental but hidden force that gives rise to both religion and the less socially benevolent magic. Mana ironically ends up having the same role in the theory of Mauss and Hubert as they claim it has in implicit native representations of the world: a force that brings together a range of phenomena in a coherent explanatory framework. 4

Taking Mana Out of Mana

As noted above, theories of religion based on notions of mana have been severely criticized the last five decades. Keesing’s (1984) devastating assessment of prior conceptions of mana as originating in flawed linguistic analysis has made scholars avoid the term when referring to more general conceptions of force, and more recent discussions, therefore, tend to focus on mana as a concept solely meaningful in a particular linguistic environment. This critique was a necessary corrective to hasty conceptions of metaphysical worldviews in Polynesia and Melanesia that seemed to mirror Western concerns more than local understandings and usages (Meyland 2017). Thus, describing mana as ‘electricity’ or ‘aether’ is indicative of a tendency to seek catchall explanations by metaphorically extending a fascination with hidden forces. As indicated above, one could argue that in several of these theories there is an ironic reduplication of mana itself, according to which the concept of mana functions as the hidden, causal force inside the theoretical construct, in the same manner as it is claimed to serve as the hidden force inside a magical worldview. Cognitive anthropologist Pascal Boyer has criticized this approach calling instead for a more detailed analysis of how, when, and by whom concepts such as mana, orenda or his own example, the Fang people’s conception of evur are

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

259

Force and Categorization

actually used. Such local, pragmatic details will, in turn, cast light on universal cognitive properties of categorization, pragmatics and causal understanding (Boyer 1990). Even though I concur with most of Boyer’s propositions and am indebted to his ideas, I shall direct my focus on a different, and I believe, overlooked aspect of Mauss and Hubert’s theory: why are certain things, persons or actions represented as containing a special potentiality, and more particularly how are representations of force allocated ritual objects, persons and actions? Even if Mauss and Hubert’s generalized notion of mana is too weakly defined and leaves a rather confused impression, it is evident that they pointed to a general experience recognizable by people at all times: that all entities in the world are ascribed a potential force, and that certain entities are represented to contain powers beyond those normally ascribed. Further, it seems equally evident that ritual is a primary mode of both generating and disseminating this special force. Representations of ritual efficacy cannot be ignored, when we try to explain the widespread representations of ritual as an efficient cause in pragmatic endeavors. Thus, we still lack a proper explanation of why rituals in some situations are understood as powerful actions even if they explicitly violate intuitive representations of causal properties. I shall develop this line of inquiry inspired by two theoretical developments in the cognitive sciences. The first addresses human conceptions of causality. This is, of course, an enormous subject and I shall be able only to scratch the surface in order to obtain some insights relevant when attempting to understand representation of ritual force. The point of departure is the wide agreement that in adult populations cognitive representations of causal force are largely domain specific.6 From an early age, humans form expectations to the causal properties of classes of things, and these are constrained by membership of distinct ontological domains (Saxe & Carey 2006). Having different expectations about the casual properties of physical objects such as stones, and living beings such as lions or humans, is a prerequisite to performing adaptive responses (Blakemore et al. 2003). A stone will not commence movement by itself and once in motion only external physical forces influence its movement, whereas a lion can change its direction based on a mental representation, such as experiencing hunger and perceiving a potential prey. Thus, in contrast to our understanding of physical objects, humans predict animal behavior by means of a restricted application 6 See Boyer & Barrett (2005); Hirschfeld & Gelman (1994); and Sperber et al. (1995) for useful overviews. It should be noted, that the understanding of domain-specificity supported in this chapter does not automatically entail a strong nativist position as general ontological categories could result from recurrent features of the perceptual environment.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

260

Sørensen

of mindreading, representing behavior as caused by mental states internal to the perceived organism. In contrast to other animals, however, humans understand other humans through the application of a more extended host of Theory of Mind (ToM) mechanisms. We understand other people’s behavior as not only caused by internal desires, but equally as informed by representations of how they perceive other people’s mental states. Thus, predictions of other people’s behavior are formed by a complex network of representations including their representations of the state of world, their potential intentions, and their understanding of other peoples’ state of mind (Baldwin & Baird 2001; Frith 2007, Friston & Frith 2015). Taken together, these lines of inquiry would predict that agency is automatically ascribed animals or humans and that in terms of complexity, and, therefore, potential social relevance, humans are regarded as canonical agents. Further, it predicts that even if rudimentary causal expectations are generated at the kingdom or regnum level of classification (e.g. animals), most expectations cluster around the levels of the family, genus, species, subspecies or even individuals. For instance, I expect birds to have a certain range of prototypical behaviors and causal properties, and with experience, I might refine this basic-level model into causal knowledge about the behavior of seagulls, any particular species of seagulls, a distinct population, or even of a particular individual. Thus, causal properties are cognitively represented as properties of categories, and strange causal properties, therefore, should not be explained by reference to a primitive mindset or a magical worldview. Seen in this light, ascription of mana are expressions of a process of ‘re-categorization’ (Boyer 1990), by means of which a particular stone, a particular lion, and a particular person are classified as a magical stone, a lion-man or a sorcerer respectively (Brown 1985). Ascriptions of mana constitute singular violations of ordinary causal principles that become associated with culturally distributed categories of special things. Whereas domain specific predictions are largely built upon content, that is, predictions about the behavior of classes of beings (e.g. animate vs. inanimate, animals vs. persons), other cognitive principles are more general and are expressed in a developmental trajectory in which the child gradually expands schematic representations of causal processes from a core domain. Thus, causal representations are not unbiased or objective. Humans systematically understand causality in terms of perceptual biases and asymmetries as, for instance, when a launching effect (Michotte 1963) is understood as one ball (A) making another ball (B) move upon impact. In contrast to human perception that systematically represents B’s movement as ‘caused’ by A, in fact, the scenario can evoke multiple causal representations and an equally correct rendering of the

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

261

Force and Categorization

scenario would understand A’s stopping as caused by B (White 2006; Bender & Beller 2011). This bias indicates that at a basic level, activity, both prior and subsequent to the moment of casual exchange (whether real or imaginary), seems to be the essential perceptual cue that informs representations of causality and, in turn, agency (Leslie 1995). In short, identifying agency seems to be a primary bias in human causal cognition. One possible explanation of this proclivity is that representations of causality derive its schematic core from haptic experience of one’s own body manipulating an object involving experience of a dynamic relation between force and resistance (White 2006). This prototypical model is then applied to more ambiguous perceptual stimuli, a projection that would explain the tendency to focus attention on agents exerting force on essentially immobile objects (e.g. “I lift a hat”). Supporting evidence of this canonical form is found in linguistics in the so-called “windowing of attention” (Talmy 2000). Thus, language structure tends to focus on the intentional agent and the end result of an action (“I broke the window”) and only in some cases will instrumental causes be added (“I broke the window by throwing a stone”). Another, and potentially complementary, explanation is based on an evolutionary assumption that humans as well as other mammals have an interest in detecting agents in their immediate environment and movement in general is a strong cue for the existence of agency. Thus, our default mode of treating changes in the environment would be to search for agents causing such movement.7 A second line of inquiry is cognitive linguist Leonard Talmy’s theory of force-dynamic representations (Talmy 2000). Talmy argues that language and thought are permeated with representations of relative force between entities. In language these are semantically expressed in open-class as well as in grammaticalized closed-form constructs. These linguistic forms are manifestations of basic cognitive representations of relations between entities in the physical world structured as a force-dynamic interaction between two entities: a focal force entity named the ‘agonist’ and an opposing entity, the ‘antagonist’. Even a simple scenario like a ball rolling over a lawn is thus represented as an agonist, the ball, exerting force and thus overcoming the resisting force of the antagonist, the lawn. This becomes clear when expressed as “the ball kept rolling over the lawn”, but even in more neutral expressions, dynamic representations of force and resistance lead to predictions of future states (e.g. the ball stopping at some point). In cases involving an animate agent, whether human or 7 Some theories have hypothesized that the human proclivity to search for agents in the environment affects an over-ascription of agency believed to underlie the emergence of religion (Guthrie 1993; Barrett 2000). For a recent critical review, see Andersen (2017).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

262

Sørensen

animal, actions are represented as an exertion of force prompted by a mental state. Physically acting or refraining from acting on the environment is understood as an expression of psychological force based on beliefs and desires and, as described above, such actions are likely to form the canonical representation of causality. Further, individuals are often represented as having conflicting motivations. Psychological conflicts are represented in dynamic terms as opposing forces expressing different behavioral tendencies. This is likely to underlie different cultural conceptions of ‘will’ and is evidently present in cultural models such as representations of ‘sin’ in Christian traditions (e.g. giving in to temptations) as well as being a basic feature of Freudian psychodynamics (e.g. in the tension between the id and the super-ego). Force-dynamics also play a crucial role in our understanding of the social domain. Inter-psychological and intergroup relations are represented as displaying dynamic relations between distinct actors. For instance, an argument is represented as a dynamic unfolding of relative force and resistance between two individuals, and groups and institutions can exert pressure or be able to withstand such force exerted by other groups or individuals. Again, it is evident that the canonical form of interaction is that of an individual acting on the environment. Groups are reified as entities or even organisms having a will and exerting power through dynamic actions.8 In summary, Talmy argues that the analysis of language reveals that we represent all entities as containing inherent force-dynamic properties. We essentialize categories and this psychological essentialism (Medin & Ortony 1989) includes force-dynamic qualities, as these are strong predictors of future events. Thus, ascription of potentiality is not exclusive to mana-like representations, but an integral part of ordinary human cognition. What remains to be explained is how mana is distinct from these representations and in what situations it is evoked. As mentioned, Mauss and Hubert argued that all entities may be ascribed mana on an equal footing as this is merely an effect of the collective classification and recognition of social force. However, studies of causal cognition described above would predict a systematic bias in this ascription. Even though these findings indicate that all entities are represented as containing force-dynamic potential they further indicate that for humans, other humans are the prototypical wielders of force, if not for other reasons than the sheer statistical weight and relative importance of human actions in our immediate 8 This is highly relevant when understanding the work of the l’Année School, as these scholars attempted to replace a widespread negative conception of groups as uncontrollable ‘mobs’ with a more nuanced picture that includes the constructive power of social action (Baunvig 2015). .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

263

Force and Categorization

perceptual environment. Humans are social beings and human action, therefore, is both highly relevant and frequent in our concrete world. Moreover, entities represented as containing mana are generally powerful in relation to human desires and intentions – whether seen as augmenting or restricting these. This is obvious in cases where human agents are represented as containing a special force lending extra potency to their wishes and desires. But also instruments and actions ascribed mana are ultimately represented in relation to human actions. Amulets and magical stones are means to enhance human instrumental abilities or to protect an agent against dangers related to pragmatic endeavors. From this follows the prediction that mana is prototypically ascribed human agents able to exert force on the environment. Other entities can attain mana but these are derived versions that obtain their relevance due to their role for human agents. The magician and the priest are the prototypical attractors of mana. So, where does this leave Mauss and Hubert’s insistence upon the social origin of mana? At this point, we need to distinguish between representations held by an individual that some thing or person is special, and the wider socially accepted ascription of this entity into a class of special things. The initial process of re-categorization is likely to be a spontaneous process activated when individuals encounter statistically rare event and objects, or entities imbued with vast emotional potential. However, in order to establish a wider recognition that a particular entity contains mana, such representation must be transformed from a merely individual and mental representation into a public representation disseminated by means of communication (Sperber 1996). In short, other persons must confirm that an entity, indeed, has a special force and this process involves concrete acts of communication. In their capacity of public representations, mana-like representations will be subject to the epidemiology of representations that specify the distribution of any particular representation as a function of its inferential relevance and its attentiongrabbing salience (Boyer 1994, 2001). In this sense, Mauss and Hubert were right in insisting on the social nature of mana. Mana representations direct social attention towards particular entities and this initiates a feedback process by which these entities will retain a special status due to the joint attention of a group towards an object or person, as well as the special behavioral repertoire usually related to it. As in the case of charisma, specialness might initially be due to inherent qualities recognized by individuals, but in order to have societal impact, mana or charisma must be recognized by a wider group (Sørensen 2005b). Mauss and Hubert’s more radical claim, that representation of force per se has a social origin, that is, is caused by an apprehension of the abstract but directly felt force of the group, however, is not supported by findings in .8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

264

Sørensen

cognitive science. Rather, individual human agents applying physical force and, thereby, effecting a change in the environment is the canonical model that other instances are understood by means of. Thus, social forces are linguistically represented as agents acting on the environment by means of physical force not vice versa (e.g. “The unions are fighting the government”) and intrapsychological forces are represented as distinct agents fighting for dominance. The importance of social recognition in mana ascription brings us to the role of ritualized behavior. In terms of representations of force, ritual seems to have a double function. It facilitates both the emergence and generation of mana as well as the distribution of mana already believed to be present in ritual objects or persons. Even if all entities in the environment can be understood potentially as special and, thereby, be re-categorized as belonging to a special category, ritual is the primary cultural technique used to create as well as to maintain representations of such mana. This was recognized by Durkheim in his designation of the sacred as things set aside through special behavioral modalities most prevalent in the circumstance of the feast and the accompanying dissociative states (Durkheim 1912: 214). But what are the cognitive effects of ritualized behavior and can this help explain the relation between ritual and mana? Recent research into ritual indicates a number of features with quite specific cognitive effects. As a point of departure, ritual is processed by cognitive systems also activated when dealing with ordinary, functional actions (Lawson & McCauley 1990). As it is the case with functional actions, rituals have agents performing actions usually involving both objects and instruments. At the same time, however, a number of features clearly distinguish ritual from such canonical actions. Rituals are characterized by redundancy, iteration and exaggeration; they are stipulated and defined by tradition; and they are usually both intentionally underdetermined and causally opaque, that is, the actions performed are not defined by the intentions of participants but by tradition, and there are no intuitive causal relations connecting the actions performed and their purported result (Boyer 2001; Boyer & Liénard 2007; Humphrey & Laidlaw 1994; Rappaport 1979, 1999; Sørensen 2005c, 2007b). Causal opaqueness is particularly relevant in this context. It has been suggested that the inability to form intuitive expectations to the causal unfolding of ritual actions affects a redirection of cognitive attention to a lower level of action processing involving psychophysical properties of distinct subactions (Boyer & Liénard 2007; Sørensen 2007b). Thus, the functional act of ‘drinking coffee’ is easily processed by means of a causal schema enabling prediction of the entire action sequence (‘hold’ → ‘lift’ → ‘tilt’ in order to ‘drink’). Little cognitive attention must be allotted individual sub-actions as long as

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

265

Force and Categorization

they satisfy predictions implied by the causal schema. In contrast, rituals lack such easily available causal schemas, forcing our cognitive system to process actions at a finer structural level. The lack of available, higher-order schema simply precludes the formation of strong predictions to ensuing actions, as rituals are characterized by a more or less stipulated action sequence legitimized by tradition (e.g. ‘hold’ → ‘lift’ → ‘turn’ → ‘lift’ → ‘turn’ etc.). Recent experimental and simulation studies support this model. Using an event segmentation paradigm where participants are asked to segment observed actions into subparts (Zacks & Tversky 2001), these studies demonstrate that participants parse novel action stimuli that lack causal integration on a finer level than equally novel actions that contain a discernable causal flow (Nielbo & Sørensen 2011, 2013, 2015; Nielbo, et al. 2013). Put differently, these studies indicate that participants and observers of ritual actions direct their cognitive attention to a finer perceptual level of an action performed, when no causal schema is available for processing the full action sequence. At least three possible effects relevant for representations of force emerge from this cognitive model of ritual. First, the actions themselves indicate the specialness of certain ritual elements. Objects are treated as human agents (talked to, revered, stroked etc.) and when fulfilling certain criteria, they are even allowed to fulfill the role of agents (Lawson & McCauley 1990). Similarly, ritual agents are treated as special and, thus, automatically ascribed extra qualities. Both features function as direct perceptual indices of special qualities. Thus, the model predicts that directly perceived aspects of the sub-actions due to the lack of an overarching causal schema will play a more central role in cognitive processing. In short, we are more attentive while processing ritualized behavior and therefore objects or persons with special features will appear particularly salient. Ritual behavior directs attention to ritual agents. Second, iteration, redundancy and exaggeration are all direct indices of investment of force. They are perceived automatically as infusions of energy into an action-sequence but in contrast to functional actions, where this investment is a mean to overcome a more or less concrete obstacle (e.g. hammering a nail thrice rather than once), in ritual the force-dynamic antagonist is invisible or non-present. Repeating a spell or movement, cleaning objects that are already clean or exaggerating a movement thus gives rise to representations of force, but the ritual sequence often buttresses this effect in order to create a sensation of an accumulation of this energy into objects or persons. The absence of a direct dynamic antagonist enables the force invested through the actions to accumulate in objects or persons. This effect, of course, is strengthened considerably if the ritual is collective and, thus, involves more

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

266

Sørensen

people investing force into a ritual action sequence (e.g. Konvalinka 2011). Acting in unison and in collective excitement eases the ascription of mana to ritual entities. And not only are the direct objects of the ritual endowed with mana through the procedures – mana tends to spill over into other ritual entities as well. Thus, the accumulation of mana is the direct effect of all ritual performances. The transubstantiation of bread in the Holy Mass is an example of the infusion of mana into an object through a ritual procedure, quite similar to how Zande magical medicine is created through a ritual process uniting otherwise disparate object into one special object, or when sacrificial animal is made special due to the unique behavioral sequence preceding its death. Finally, the accumulation of mana into distinct entities enables the manipulation and (re-)distribution of its inherent power. This is not only evident in the case of the circulation of gifts (Mauss 1923–24) – a case that demonstrates the double nature of this interaction as a source of both power and danger. It is clearly evident in the direct dispersion of power found inside the ritual, as when the Host or the sacrificial animal is ingested by participants that, thereby, acquire some of its newly acquired mana. The receiver is strengthened temporarily and, thus, better able to resist negative influences from malevolent outside forces. We also see mana directly applied as a weapon against malevolent forces, as in cases of exorcism or healing. Such direct interactions build upon implicit force-dynamic representations of the relative power and strength of conflicting agents and, in fact, culturally postulated malevolent agents become more relevant and more easily evoked, when implicitly seen as counterforces that a ritual is supposed to overcome. Devils, evil spirits, or ancestors are exorcised or rejected through expenditure of ritual force, and failure to reach the desired end is readily seen as the inability to match a stronger enemy. Similarly, in rituals aimed to entice positive qualities or coerce or bind powerful agents, force is invested to remove hindrances for, attract, or even annex forces liable to resist such attempts. Such force-dynamic representations are often mixed with a container-schema specifying a threshold (e.g. the skin or the border) as an obstacle that keeps forces either inside or outside. Additional force can thus be directly invested to either strengthen or weaken the agentive force, or strengthen or weaken the boundary of the container, thereby, creating a qualitative change (Sørensen 2007a). The accumulation of mana into ritual objects or persons further enables its diffusion outside the ritual space and into society at large and allows these to function as powerful magical agents in ensuing actions. Thus, the Host prevents theft if buried under the doorstep (Thomas 1971) and water from a sacred spring protects against disease. Usage of special entities outside their ‘ritual of

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

267

Force and Categorization

origin’ not only ensures the emergence of a feedback loop confirming sacred power through numerous collective as well as individual actions. It also connects ritual performance to wider spheres of social life, as the mana accumulated into ritual entities is associated with a wide range of life situations. In this sense, representations of mana generated through ritual performance underlie both representations of ritual or magical efficacy and it further ensures the connection of ritual action to other activities. 5

Conclusion

So how does this account connect with the broader arguments presented by Mauss and Hubert? First, the important role of force-dynamic ascription to ritual entities points to the difficulty or even futility of making a sharp distinction between magic and religion. The two domains blur into each other and, as I have argued elsewhere, the distinction is probably better understood as pertaining to the relative role of ritual in relation to instrumental and pragmatic endeavors (Sørensen 2007a, 2013). As an ideal type, magic is concerned with more or less immediate ritual efficacy and is embedded usually within instrumental actions directed towards the same goal. In contrast, rituals in ideal-typical, institutionalized religions have more distant goals, are more concerned with symbolic meaning and, thus, relates more directly to the doctrinal and more or less systemic thinking of a religious elite. However, ritual interpretations are notoriously hard to control and are likely to change over time. Thus, alternations between context-near ‘magical’ interpretations and context-distant ‘religious’ interpretations are likely to be an important driver of change in the history of religious institutions (Sørensen 2005b). How about the role of mana in the emergence and maintenance of society? Investment of mana into entities that can either move themselves or be moved by people enables the creation of an economy of ‘residual energy’ – a ‘sacred market’ that is complete with methods of accumulating capital (mana-banks), centers of commerce, tycoons or impresarios and desirable objects amenable for trade (Brown 2009). In this sense, mana facilitates both the creation and the maintenance of social groups bound together by this, strictly speaking, symbolic economy. It is, however, doubtful that such symbolic representations of force are very active in the emergence of basic cooperative units of people. Small-scale units of people are bound together by pragmatic pursuits and internally regulated by direct reputation management (Mitkidis et al. 2013), whereas larger groups, incorporating units that are not tightly bound by direct

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

268

Sørensen

pragmatic interaction, are more likely to benefit from the emergence of such symbolic economy.9 Thus, a fertile study would follow Durkheim in a focus on the role of how specific forms of cognitive processing generates manalike representations that underlie the emergence of ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson 2000) – communities that seems to be dependent on concrete symbolism to uphold a sense of solidarity.10 Finally, the cognitive understanding of mana further points to the discussion of its role in modern society. As mentioned earlier, Mauss and Hubert relegates thinking in terms of mana to the primitive mind arguing that it has diminishing influence in modernity due to individualization. However, as mentioned above, mana seems to play a crucial role in bringing large modern societies together. So maybe Bronislaw Malinowski was more on the right track in his insistence that modern capitalist economy takes over where magic leaves, and that the cognitive mechanisms underlying Trobriand beauty magic are not easily discerned from those underlying the sales of Elisabeth Arden products. If this is the case, we might better understand the role of mana-like representations in constructing large capitalist societies based on products infused with power or force clearly beyond their functional qualities. Understanding how mana as an aspect of force-dynamic cognition focuses both individual and collective ascription of residual force is thus a fertile ground for future studies in the intersection between cognitive psychology, the study of religion and cultural history. References Andersen, Marc (2017). Predictive Coding in Agency Detection. Religion, Brain and Behavior. doi.org/10.1080/2153599X.2017.1387170. Anderson, Benedict (2000). Imagined Communities. London: Verso. Asprem, Egil (2015). Science and the Occult. In C. Partridge (ed.), The Occult World. Oxon: Routledge. 9

10

This might explain Durkheim’s insistence on the emergence of mana representations in connections with the feasts uniting otherwise separate bands. Whereas the primary cooperative unit, the band, seems to function without symbolic celebration, positive rites and evocation of collective effervescence, uniting these into larger social groups, clans or societies seems to necessitate dissemination and coalescence of social sentiment into a symbolic representation. This bears witness to the observation that Durkheim’s concern was ultimately an attempt to understand what binds together large anonymous societies. For a similar argument, see Turner et al. (2018).

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

269

Force and Categorization

Atran, Scott (2002). In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Baldwin, Dare A. & Jodie A. Baird (2001). Discerning Intentions in Dynamic Human Action. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 5 (4): 171–178. Barrett, Justin L. (2000). Exploring the Natural Foundations of Religion. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 4: 29–34. Baunvig, Katrine F. (2015). Come Together: Thoughts and Theories on Social Cohesion in the Work of Nicolai Grundtvig and Émile Durkheim. In J. A. Hall, O. Korsgaard & O. K. Pedersen (eds.), Building a Nation: N. F. S. Grundtvig and Danish National Identity, 232–253. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Bender, Andreas & Sieghard Beller (2011). Causal Asymmetry across Cultures: Assigning Causal Roles in Symmetric Physical Settings. Frontiers in Psychology 2 (231): 1–10. doi:10.3389/fpsyg.2011.00231. Bering, Jesse (2011). The Belief Instinct: The Psychology of Souls, Destiny, and the Meaning of Life. New York: Norton & Company Ltd. Blakemore, Sarah-Jayne, Pascal Boyer, Mathilde Pachot-Clouard, Andrew N. Meltzoff, Christoph Segebarth & Jean Decety (2003). The Detection of Contingency and Animacy from Simple Animations in the Human Brain. Cerebral Cortex 13 (8): 837–844. Boyer, Pascal (1990). Tradition as Truth and Communication. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boyer, Pascal (1994). The Naturalness of Religious Ideas: A Cognitive Theory of Religion. Berkeley: University of California Press. Boyer, Pascal (1996). Religion as an Impure Object: A Note on the Cognitive Order in Religious Representations in Response to Brian Malley. Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 8 (2): 201–214. Boyer, Pascal (2001). Religion Explained: The Human Instincts the Fashions Gods, Spirits and Ancestors. London: Vintage. Boyer, Pascal & H. Clark Barrett (2005). Domain Specificity and Intuitive Ontology. In David M. Buss (ed.), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, 96–118. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Boyer, Pascal & Pierre Liénard (2006). Why Ritualized Behavior? Precaution Systems and Action Parsing in Developmental, Pathological and Cultural Rituals. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 29: 1–56. Brown, Peter (2009). The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Codrington, Robert H. (1891). The Melanesians: Studies in their Anthropology and Folk-Lore. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

270

Sørensen

Durkheim, Émile (1912) [1968]. Les formes élémentaire de la vie religieuse: Le système totemique en Australie. Paris: Les Presse Universitaires de France. http://dx.doi.org/ doi:10.1522/cla.due.for2. Evans-Pritchard, Evan E. (1965). Theories of Primitive Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frazer, James G. (1911). The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. 3rd ed. London: MacMillan and Co. Ltd. Friston, Karl & Christopher Frith (2015). A Duet for one. Consciousness and Cognition 36: 390–405. Frith, Chris D. (2007). Making Up the Mind: How the Brain Creates Our Mental World. Oxford: Blackwell. Guthrie, Stewart (1993). Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hirschfeld, Lawrence & Susan Gelman (eds.) (1994). Mapping the Mind: Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Humphrey, Caroline & James Laidlaw (1994). The Archetypal Actions of Ritual: A Theory of Ritual Illustrated by the Jain Rite of Worship. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Josephson-Storm, Jason Ā. (2017). The Myth of Disenchantment: Magic, Modernity, and the Birth of the Human Sciences. London: University of Chicago Press. Konvalinka, Ivana, Dimitris Xygalatas, Joseph Bulbulia, Uffe Schjødt, Else-Maria E. Jegindø, Sebastian Wallot, Guy Van Orden & Andreas Roepstorff (2011). Synchronized Arousal between Performers and Related Spectators in a Fire-Walking Ritual. National Academy of Sciences. Proceedings 108 (20): 8514–8519. Lawson, E. Thomas & Robert N. McCauley (1990). Rethinking Religion: Connecting Cognition and Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leslie, Alan (1995). A theory of agency. In D. Sperber, D. Premack & A. J. Premack (eds.), Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien (1910). Les fonctions mentales dans les sociétés inférieures. Paris: Les Presses Universitaires de France. Martin, Luther H. & Donald Wiebe (2017). Religion Explained? The Cognitive Science of Religion after Twenty-five Years. London: Bloomsbury. Mauss, Marcel (1923–1924). Essai sur le don. Forme et raison de l’échange dans les sociétés archaïques. L’Années Sociologique. Mauss, Marcel (1972). A General Theory of Magic. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Mauss, Marcel & Henri Hubert (1902–1903). Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie. L’Année Sociologique. doi:10.1522/cla.mam.esq. Medin, Doug L. & Andrew Ortony (1989). Psychological Essentialism. In S. Vosniadou and A. Ortony (eds.), Similarity and Analogical Reasoning, 179–195. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

271

Force and Categorization

Michotte, Albert E. (1963). The Perception of Causality. Translated by T. R. Miles and E. Miles. London: Methuen (Originally published in 1946). Mitkidis, Panogiotis, Jesper Sørensen, Kristoffer L. Nielbo & Pierre Liénard (2013). Collective-Goal Ascription Increases Cooperation in Humans. PLOS One 8 (5): e64776. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0064776. Nielbo, Kristoffer L. & Jesper Sørensen (2011). Spontaneous Processing of Functional and Non-functional Action Sequences. Religion, Brain and Behavior 1 (1): 18–30. Nielbo, Kristoffer L. & Jesper Sørensen (2013). Prediction Error During Functional and Non-functional Action Sequences: A Computational Exploration of Ritual and Ritualized Event Processing. Journal of Cognition and Culture 13 (3–4): 347–365. Nielbo, Kristoffer L. & Jesper Sørensen (2015). Attentional Resource Allocation and Cultural Modulation in a Computational Model of Ritualized Behavior. Religion, Brain & Behavior. doi:10.1080/2153599X.2015.1087420. Nielbo, K. L., Uffe Schjødt & Jesper Sørensen (2013). Hierarchical Organization of Segmentation During Non-functional Action Sequences. Journal for the Cognitive Science of Religion 1 (1): 71–97. Norenzayan, Ara (2013). Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Otto, Bernd-C. (2011). Magie: Rezeptions- und Diskurgeshichtlicher Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. Petersen, Anders K. (2018). Unveiling the Obvious – Synagogue and Church: Sisters or Different Species? In J. H. Ellens, I. W. Oliver, J. von Ehrenkrook, J. Waddell & J. M. Zurawski (eds.), Wisdom Poured out like Water. Studies on Jewish and Christian Antiquity in Honor of Gabriele Boccaccini, 575–592, 579–580. Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Studies 38. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. Petersen, Anders K. (in press). Carrying Coal to Newcastle. In G. van den Hever (ed.), After Religion. London: Bloomsbury. Pocock, David F. (1972). Foreword. In Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Pyysiäinen, Ilkka (2003). Magic, Miracles and Religion: A Scientist’s Perspective. Lanham: Altamira Press. Rappaport, Roy (1979). Ecology, Meaning, and Religion. Richmond, CA: North Atlantic Books. Rappaport, Roy (1999). Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Saxe, Rebecca & Susan Carey (2006). The Perception of Causality in Infancy. Acta Psychologica 123: 144–165. Schjoedt, Uffe, Jesper Sørensen, Kristoffer L. Nielbo, Dimitris Xygalatas, Panagiotis Mitkidis & Joseph Bulbulia (2013). Cognitive Resource Depletion in Religious Interactions. Religion, Brain & Behavior 3 (1): 39–55.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

272

Sørensen

Smith, Jonathan Z. (2004). Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2004). Religion, Evolution, and an Immunology of Cultural Systems. Evolution and Cognition 10 (1): 61–73. Sørensen, Jesper (2005a). The Problem of Magic — Or how Gibberish Becomes Efficacious Action. Recherches sémiotiques / Semiotic Inquiry 25 (1): 93–117. Sørensen, Jesper (2005b). Charisma, Tradition, and Ritual: A Cognitive Approach to Magical Agency. In H. Whitehouse and R. McCauley (eds.), Mind and Religion: Psychological and Cognitive Foundations of Religiosity, 167–186. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2005c). Ritual as Action and Symbolic Expression. In E. Østrem, M. B. Brunn, N. H. Petersen & J. Fleischer (eds.), Genre and Ritual: The Cultural Heritage of Medieval Ritual, 39–54. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2007a). A Cognitive Theory of Magic. Lanham: Altamira Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2007b). Acts that Work: A Cognitive Approach to Ritual Agency. Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 19 (3–4): 281–300. Sørensen, Jesper (2007c). Malinowski and Magical Ritual. In H. Whitehouse and J. Laidlaw (eds.), Religion, Anthropology and Cognitive Science, 81–104. Durham: Carolina Academic Press. Sørensen, Jesper (2013a). Magic Reconsidered: Towards a Scientifically Valid Concept of Magic. In B.-C. Otto & M. Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic: A Reader, 229–242. Sheffield: Equinox Publ. Sørensen, Jesper (2013b). The Experimental Study of Religion: Or There and Back Again. Journal for the Cognitive Science of Religion 1 (2): 215–232. Sperber, Dan (1996). Explaining Culture: A Naturalistic Approach. Oxford: Blackwell Publ. Sperber, Dan, David Premack & Ann James Premack (eds.) (1995). Causal cognition: A multidisciplinary debate. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Staal, Frits (1979). The Meaninglessness of Ritual Action. Numen: International Review for the History of Religions 26: 2–22. Talmy, Leonard (2000). Towards a Cognitive Semantics. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Taves, Ann (2011). Religious Experience Reconsidered: A Building-Block Approach to the Study of Religion and Other Special Things. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Thomas, Keith (1971). Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in 16th and 17th Century England. London: Penguin Books. Tremlin, Todd (2006). Minds and Gods: The Cognitive Foundations of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Turner, Jonathan H., Alexandra Maryanski, Anders K. Petersen & Armin W. Geertz (2018). The Emergence and Evolution of Religion: By Means of Natural Selection. New York/London: Routledge.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

273

Force and Categorization

Tybjerg, Tove (2007). Reflections on ‘Charisma’. Nordic Journal of Religion and Society 20 (2): 167–178. Weber, Max (1976). Wirtchaft und Gesellschaft. 5th rev. ed. Tübingen: Johannes Winckelmann. White, Peter A. (2006). The Role of Activity in Visual Impressions of Causality. Acta Psychologica 123: 166–185. Whitehouse, Harvey (2004). Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission. Lanham: Altamira Press. Zacks, Jeffrey M. and Barbara Tversky (2001). Event Structure in Perception and Conception. Psychological Bulletin 127 (1): 3–21.

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

Index Abiodun, Rowland O. 45n, 72 acetylcholine 168 action 11, 14, 52, 60, 75, 81, 82, 86, 88–90, 99, 120, 126–128, 132–134, 137, 139–144, 156, 168, 185, 190, 207, 217–218, 223, 229, 252–256, 259, 262, 264 causally opaque 10, 12 communicative 142 expressive 210 functional 12, 264 impious 234 parsing 264–265 ritualized 167 social 262n stipulated 141 adaptive function 127, 259 problems 126, 136 value 136 adjuration 183n, 186, 190, 194, 196 Adolphs, Ralph 149 Africa 1, 42n, 45–46, 61, 67, 68, 89, 154, 233n agency 1, 14, 16, 85, 86n, 144n, 238, 240, 260–261  displacement of 11–12  superhuman 13, 15, 87, 89, 90, 99, 119, 143 Albinus, Lars 17, 81, 100, 103, 205 alektryonomancy 78 Alessi, Paul T. 238n, 242 aleuromancy 78, 106 Allony, Nehemiah 191n, 199 aminergic dominance 163 Amor 231–234 amulet 108n, 111, 115, 184n, 216, 240, 263 ancestor 32, 84n, 124,128, 140, 145, 266 Andersen, Lene 66n, 70 Andersen, Marc 144n, 146, 261n, 268 Anderson, Benedict 268 Anderson, D. Eric 158–159, 172 Andresen, Jensine 162, 170 anecdote 66, 253 angel 8, 92n, 185n, 186, 188, 193, 197 animatism 247 animism 138, 167, 247

Antiquity 3, 14, 15, 47, 48, 52, 56, 74n, 76n, 77–79, 90–91, 93n, 96, 99, 108, 171,180, 184, 186n, 188, 194, 207, 228 anthropology 1–3, 8, 9, 17, 124, 125, 134, 205, 213, 217, 247, 248, 250, 256 Annus, Amar 42n, 70 Ansfield, Matthew 172 Aramaic 179, 180, 181, 182n, 191, 193, 196, 198 archaism 254 Arias, Rosario M. 144, 146 Aristophanes 14, 32, 92 Aristotle 37, 38, 39–40, 106 Asia 51, 77n, 116, 154, 156 Asprem, Egil 246, 268 astragalomantics 77, 93 astrology 57, 68, 107, 108, 144 astronomy 26, 35–36, 107, 108 Atance, Christina M. 85, 100 Atran, Scott 85n, 100, 137, 146, 249n, 269 attention 7, 11, 84, 94, 136, 158, 163, 219, 261, 263, 264–265 Augustine 14, 95–98 Austin, James 162, 163, 166, 167, 168, 172 Austin, John L. 6n authority 13, 18, 29, 47, 59, 63, 65, 67, 69, 89, 90, 91, 111, 120, 133, 135, 140, 146, 169 ayahuasca 167 Azande / Zande 1, 2n, 9, 10, 12, 137, 138, 156, 266 Babalawo 45 Babylonian Talmud 188 Bailey, Michael D. 118, 120 Baillargeon, Renée 146 Baird, Jodie A. 260, 269 Baldwin, Dare A. 260, 269 Balle-Petersen, Margaretha 42n, 70 balkanization 80n Banausia 31 Bar, Moshe 85n, 100 Barrett, H. Clark 126, 147, 259n, 269 Barrett, Justin L. 84n, 100, 137, 146, 261n, 269 Barton, Carlin A. 2n, 19 Bascom, William 45n, 71

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

276 Baunvig, Katrine F. 262n, 269 Beller, Sieghard 261, 269 Beltane Fire Festival 221 Benayahu, Meir 193n, 199 Benavides, Gustavo 172, 173 Bender, Andreas 261, 269 benedanti 157 Bennett, Alva Walter 232n, 242 Ben-Sasson, Menahem 194n, 195n, 199 Bergstrom, Brian 128, 146 Bering, Jesse 130, 137, 146, 249n, 269 Bersabe, Rosa 144, 146 Bever, Edward 16, 153, 157, 158, 160, 161, 169, 171, 173 Betz, Hans Dieter 92n, 100, 185n, 186n, 199 bibliomantics 76 binding 230, 237n, 238 Bokonon 45, 46 bioelectric activity 162, 163, 164, 166, 170 Blacker, Carmen 42n, 72 Blakemore, Sarah-Jayne 259, 269 Blänsdorf, Jürgen 228n, 242 Blau, Joshua 188n, 199 Blau, Ludwig 187n, 200 Blofeld, John 44, 71 Bobonich, Christopher 25n, 40 Boer, Jelle Z. de 71 Bohak, Gideon 16–17, 178, 179n, 180n, 185n, 187n, 189n, 190, 192, 194n, 195n, 198n, 200, 252 Bolte, Johannes 77, 100 Bonamente, Giorgio 240n, 242 Booth, Joan 232, 242 Bonnechere, Pierre 106, 120 Börner Klein, Dagmar 196n, 200 Bos, Gerrit 192n, 200 Bouché-Leclerq, Auguste 76, 77, 100 Boyarin, Daniel 2n, 19 Boyer, Pascal 7, 19, 86n, 100, 118, 120, 124, 125, 126, 127, 129, 130, 136, 137, 138, 139, 141, 146, 147, 249, 253, 256, 258, 259, 260, 263, 264, 269 brain 129, 157, 161, 162–163, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171 Bremmer, Jan N. 73, 77n, 100 Brown, Peter 260, 267, 269 Brusewitz, Göran 175 Buber, Salomon 196, 201

Index Bulbulia, Joseph 270, 271 Burkan, Tolly 169, 173 Burkert, Walter 77n, 100 Burnet, John 25n, 40 burning in effigy 216–217 Buschardt, Leo 50, 71 Buttimore, R. A 232n, 233n, 243 Chajes, Jeffrey H. 190, 201 Cairns, Francis 230n, 232n, 233n, 234, 237n, 242 Cairns, Huntington 40 Cairo Genizah 178, 179, 189, 191, 194, 195n, 196 Callow, John 156, 173 Camps, W. A. 233n, 242 Canon 63, 83, 87, 187 canonisation 87, 88, 91 Caquot, André 42n, 71 Carey, Susan 259, 271 category 1–10, 30, 32, 80, 124, 144, 171, 184, 246, 248, 249, 255n, 260, 262 analytical 8 auxiliary 8 central 3, 8 communicative function of 9 contested 3–4, 6, 249 explanatory 256 first-order 4, 5, 6 local 1, 4 new 5, 7 obsolete 2, 5 of understanding 254n, 256 second-order 4, 5, 6, 252n social 115, 139, 253, 257, 258 synthetic 9, 249 third-order 4, 5, 6, 11, 76 causal 39, 129, 217, 247, 258, 262 expectations 141, 260 knowledge 12, 129, 130, 260 opaqueness 10, 12, 264 principles 133, 208, 214, 248, 256, 259, 260 reasoning 85, 129, 131 relation 86n, 107, 127, 129, 130, 133, 141, 208, 214, 250, 264 representation 87, 129, 131, 259, 261 schema 130, 264–265

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

277

Index underdetermination 141, 143 violation 133, 137 causality 18, 87, 133, 214, 259, 260, 261, 262 theories of 18, 259–261 chance 14, 44, 60, 76, 79, 80, 84n, 85n, 86, 87, 89, 90, 98, 100, 106, 107, 118 Chanton, Jeffrey P. 71 chaos 50, 53–56, 62 charisma 168, 253 Chavers, Ronald 164, 173 Cherniss, Harold F. 26, 40 chiromancy 131 chickens, holy 41 cholinergic dominance 163 Christianity 15, 107–112, 116, 118, 120 Churchill, Winston S. 14, 82–86, 88, 89, 90, 95, 97, 100 Clapham, Maria M. 144n, 150 Clark, Andy 129n, 147 Clack, Brian C. 206, 208, 209, 210, 212, 213, 223n, 225, 227 classification 56, 57, 184, 191, 248, 260; collective 251, 262; system of 44, 253, 256, 257 cledonomantics 96, 106, 110n cleromancy 76, 106 Codrington, Robert H. 246, 256, 269 cognition 125, 133, 161, 166, 168, 261, 262, 268 cognitive 210 dispositions 82n, 131 mechanisms 85n, 125, 126, 127, 142, 144, 159, 258, 260, 264, 268 modules 165 processing 125, 126, 127, 129, 145, 168, 266, 268 psychology 220n, 268 science 11, 125, 129n, 248, 250, 259, 264 theories 18, 125, 130 Cohen, Emma 128, 139, 147 Colchis 235, 240 colonialism 2 communication 7, 14, 61, 86n, 127–129, 131, 133, 135, 140, 142, 160, 263 demonic 39 religious 33, 34, 38, 41, 107, 239, 240 symbolic 15 conditioning 130

consciousness 153–157, 159, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172 altered states of 16, 48, 153–155, 157, 161, 167, 171, 172 shamanic states of 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, waking 153, 154, 161, 162, 163, 166, 167, 168, 170, 171 contagion 134, 207, 216, 254 contingency 1, 75, 78, 79, 82, 98, 100 Cosmides, Leda 126, 128, 147, 150 Courcelle, Pierre 97, 101 Cramer, Frederick H. 107, 121 Cristofoli, Roberto 240n, 242 Cross, David 150 cross-cultural analysis 42n, 70, 171, 252 Crowley, Aleister 56–57, 63, 71 culture 2, 4, 6n, 24, 31, 61, 91, 120, 124, 141, 155, 184, 191, 197, 213, 217, 229, 247, 248, 256 Cumont, Franz 107, 121 Cunningham, Graham 184n, 201 cunning folk 157, 158 Curry, Patrick 42n, 71 curse 4n, 6n, 136, 142, 161, 181n, 228, 229, 239, 241 Daimones 33–35, 39 Danforth, Loring M. 112, 115, 121 Danfulani, Umar H. D. 45n, 71 dao 14, 60, 64 d’Aquili, Eugene 175 dead 55, 106, 110, 155, 157, 164, 217, 237, 238, 240n death 25, 49, 55, 68, 92n, 137, 156, 162, 164, 189, 216–217, 222, 237, 239 deception 4n, 128, 158 Decety, Jean 269 Defixio 230 demons 8, 38, 39, 40, 92n, 108, 179, 186, 197 Dennett, Daniel 119, 121 DePaulo, Bella 172 De Rios, Marlene 167, 173 devil 68, 116, 157, 253, 266 diagnosis 1, 10, 15, 16, 94, 116, 132, 134, 135, 167, 170, 219 Dickie, Matthew W. 230, 231n, 242

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

278 diffusionism 247 Dillon, John 26, 40 dissociation 157, 171 divination 10, 27, 31, 38, 41, 68, 77, 79, 106, 110, 118, 145, 171, 172 concept of 2–3, 8, 9, 23, 24, 70, 76, 124 critique of 32, 37, 107, 109 definition of 70, 82, 85n124, 124 Fa 45, 61–62 in fiction 75, 78 Greek 13, 15, 25, 38, 77n, 91, 92, 105 Ifa 13, 45, 67 irrationality of 28 and magic 2, 10–12, 82, 118, 124, 171, 185 mechanical 39, 130 and ritual 12, 16, 41, 75, 87, 135, 138, 139, 141, 142, 143, 146 rhetoric of 41, 43, 47, 59, 69 system of 42, 45, 46, 70, 131 divinatory dreams 39, 113–114 knowledge 37, 106, 135, 136, 138, 146 power 36, 157 practice 14, 15, 16, 24, 44, 48, 60, 65, 69, 70, 78, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 97, 99, 105, 108, 113, 115, 119, 124, 125, 126, 128, 131, 133, 134, 137, 141, 143, 145 signs 15, 44, 77, 99, 109, 125, 127, 129 techniques 13, 138, 140, 143, 159, text 14, 69 diviners 14, 27, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 58, 59, 60, 68, 69, 78, 116, 119, 126, 136, 139, 140, 143, 144, 145, 146, 185n Dodds, Eric R. 107, 121 domain 9, 10, 11, 12, 16, 24, 80, 112, 126, 127, 137, 247, 251, 262, 267 -specific 126, 127, 141, 259, 260 doors 16, 32, 61, 62, 178, 180, 181, 183, 184, 187, 188, 190, 192, 193, 195, 196, 197, 198 dreams 36, 39, 40, 108, 113, 114, 117, 118, 166, 167, 236 prophetic 15, 106, 107, 110 Drury, Maurice O’C. 209, 210, 211, 213, 214, 227 Dubisch, Jill 111n, 121 Dumézil, Georges 41, 71 Dundes, Alan 116n, 121

Index Durkheim, Émile 251, 254n, 258, 264, 268, 270 dynamism 247 Eco, Umberto 74, 75, 78, 79, 89, 99, 101 ecstasy 48, 56, 63, 105, 168 EEG 163 Eidinow, Esther 69, 71, 101 Ekman, Paul 160, 173 elegy 229 Eliade, Mircea 124, 147 Ellis, Hadyn 173 Emanuel, Simcha 190, 195n, 201 emic and etic 4, 6n, 16, 17, 23, 76, 184, 185, 189, 190, 191 emotion(al) 17, 67, 157, 159, 160, 163, 166, 168, 208, 209, 224, 233, 263 empiricism 27, 254n endorphin 163, 168, 170 Enquist, Per Olov 74, 88, 101 entity, authorial 75, 78, 79, 89, 99 entrainment 166 Enzle, Michael 144, 150 epinephrine 168 Epinomis 13, 23, 25–27, 29, 31, 35–39 epistrophe 160 Ernst, Gottlob 159, 173 essence / essentialism 7, 8, 9, 111, 139, 208, 251, 253, 256, 262 psychological 262 esoteric / esotericism 2, 56, 63, 68 Esther 196 ethnocentrism 6 Europe 42, 50, 53, 80, 85n, 109n, 116n, 154, 159, 171, 206, 221, 252n, 257 Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. 1, 2n, 10, 19, 137, 143, 147, 156, 161, 173, 249, 270 event segmentation 265 event-frame 16, 132, 133 evil eye 15, 105, 115–117 evolution 30, 246, 257 evolutionary 84n, 90, 126, 128, 207, 208, 213, 225, 261 psychology 136 evolutionism 3, 205, 247 evur 258 exaggeration, ritual 264, 265

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

279

Index exorcism 116, 266 exoticism 133, 254 explanation 16, 18, 38, 39, 40, 50, 51, 52, 54, 56, 85, 125, 134, 135, 142, 145, 163, 169, 195n, 207, 208, 209, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 218, 220, 222, 223, 226, 241, 247, 248, 249, 250, 258, 259, 261 scientific 17, 115, 205, 206, 207, 210, 219, 221 expressivism 17, 209, 210, 211, 213, 225 extension 5, 7, 68, 167 extraordinary abilities 50, 124, 140, 153, 155, 172 agents 157 channels 141, 154, 258 feats 169 influences 154 knowledge 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 172 phenomena 169 power(s) 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 171, 172 processes 155 Fa 45, 46, 61, 62, 65 fallibilism 5 falsification 253 familiars 253 Faraone, Christopher 242 Faupel, Mark 175 Favret-Saada, Jeanne 137, 147 feast 264, 268n Fedeli, Paolo 231, 233, 234n, 235n, 236n, 237n, 238, 239n, 240n, 242, 243 fiction(al) 4, 14, 52, 74, 75, 78, 79, 89, 99 Fillmore, Charles 132, 147 Finkelberg, Margalit 91, 101 fire-walking 15, 109, 112, 113, 169 Flacelière, Robert 105, 121 Flaherty, Gloria 154, 173 Flanagan, Owen 163, 173 flight 41, 106, 135, 154, 156, 159, 164 flight-fight response 168 Flor-Henry, Pierre 163, 164, 173 Flower, Michael A. 32, 40, 106, 121 Fontenrose, Joseph 52n, 66n, 71 force 12, 18, 250, 251, 254, 256, 257–259, 261–267 accumulation of 265, 266 demonic 40, 116, 266

hidden 246, 247, 258 social 246, 251, 253, 262–264 special / superhuman 10, 18, 24, 108, 155, 233, 253, 255, 257, 259, 263, 268 force-dynamics 250, 261, 262, 265–268 formal / formalism 7, 41, 115, 133, 254 Fox, Robin Lane 77, 101 Frankfurter, David 4, 6n, 19 fraud 169 Frazer, James G. 4n, 17, 81, 205–211, 213–222, 225–227, 246, 251, 254, 255, 270 Friedlaender, Israel 194n, 201 Friesen, Wallace 173 Friston, Karl J. 85n, 101, 260, 270 Frith, Chris D. 85n, 101, 128, 147, 260, 270 Frith, Uta 128, 147 frontal cortex 163 Fulkerson, Laurel 233n, 243 Fuller, Robert 166n, 173 Fung, Yu-lan 60, 71 Gager, John G. 184, 201 gambling 12, 144 Gaster, Moses 193, 201 gate 181, 182, 183, 193 195, 196 Geller, Markham J. 187, 201 Gelman, Susan 259n, 270 gender 241, 253 genealogy 3, 6, 240 gesture 64, 160, 161, 217, 218, 219, 220, 225, 254 gibberish 254 Gilbert, Daniel T. 128, 147 Ginzberg, Louis 196, 201 Ginzburg, Carlo 157, 173 glutamate 168 Goodman, Felicitas 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 174 Gopnik, Alison 128, 147 Gordon, Richard 228, 230n, 231, 240, 241, 242, 243 Gottowik, Volker 172, 174 Graeco-Roman 5, 6, 17, 77, 90, 91, 97n Graf, Fritz 230n, 243 Grambo, Ronald 162, 166, 174 grass spell 157, 159 Green, James W. 111, 121 Greenfield, Richard P. H. 108, 121

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

280 Grene, David 32n, 40 Grice, Paul 128, 148 Günther, Hans-Christian 236n, 238n, 243 Guthrie, Stewart 82n, 84n, 101, 137, 148, 249n, 261n, 270 HADD (Hyperactive Agency Detection Device) 84n, 85n Hai Gaon 188, 189, 195n hajj 4 Hale, John R. 52n, 71 hallucinations 157, 158, 165 hallucinogens 162, 167 Hamilton, Edith 25n, 40 Hanson, Laura K. 85, 100 Harari, Yuval 178n, 184n, 185n, 187n, 188n, 190, 192n, 195n, 201, 202 Harmon, Daniel P. 233n, 237n, 243 Harwood, Alan 125, 137, 139, 148 Hastings, James 124, 148 heal(ing) 11, 41, 111, 154, 155, 156, 165 169, 170, 172, 186n, 193, 238, 266 healer 41, 169 Hebrew 57, 68, 171, 179, 181, 182n, 184n, 185, 186, 187, 192n, 194, 195n Heinevetter, Franz 77n, 101 Hekhalot literature 193 Hellenistic 15, 52, 91, 107, 230, 233n Heller, Joshua 175 Hendry, Michael 234, 243 herbs 106, 235, 236, 237, 240 Herskovits, Melville J. 45n, 46, 61, 62, 71 Herzfeld, Michael 115, 121 Heyworth, Stephen J. 236n, 237n, 239, 243 Hirai, Tomio 174 Hinde, Robert 162, 174 Hirschfeld, Lawrence A. 139, 148, 259n, 270 History of religion 247, 248, 250, 256 Hobson, J. Allan 162, 163, 166, 168, 174 Hodge, Bob 232n, 233n, 243 Hollan, Douglas 157, 174 Hollender, Elisabeth 196, 200 Holyoak, Keith J. 129, 148 Hoppál, Mihály 154, 162, 174 Horsley, Greg H. R. 93n, 101 Horst, Pieter van der 74n, 76, 91n, 92n, 93n, 95, 101 hua (metamorphosis) 61

Index Hubbard, Margaret 230n, 234, 237n, 243 Hubert, Henri 18, 246, 248, 250–259, 262, 263, 267, 268, 270 Hübner, Wolfgang 241, 243 Hultkrantz, Åke 154, 174 Humboldt, Alexander von 248 Humphrey, Caroline 85, 101, 141, 142, 148, 264, 270 Humphrey, Nicholas 169, 174 Hutton, Ronald 154, 157, 162, 164, 166, 168, 174 hypercognitive 168 hypnosis 157, 160, 162, 169, 170, 171, 233n Idel, Moshe 190, 202 Ifa 13, 14, 45, 46, 65, 66, 67 illicit 171, 252, 255 illness 111, 113, 162, 167, 170, 187, 237, 238n imagined communities 268 imitation 12, 70 immoral 252, 255 incantation 32, 34, 159, 160, 161, 169, 171, 180, 183, 185–188, 191–194, 230 index 75n, 77, 86n, 127, 129–132, 135, 138, 140, 143, 145 information 10, 11, 16, 26, 52, 78, 79, 86, 87, 105, 109, 124, 126–129, 135, 139, 145, 146, 154, 163–167, 193 acquisition of 24, 79, 80, 82, 94, 98, 110, 125, 135, 140, 157 reliability of 16, 125, 126 social 126, 136–141, 145, 146 source of 16, 34, 82, 86, 89, 125, 136 types of 94, 99, 110, 124, 125, 127, 133, 134, 136, 137, 138, 142, 143, 145, 196, 257 veracity of 93n, 125, 126, 136, 138, 141, 143 intellectualism 17, 205, 208, 211, 214, 251 intension 5, 7 intention(nal) 26, 79, 84n, 85–87, 89, 107, 118, 127–129, 131–145, 161, 206, 225, 260, 261, 263, 264 intentionality 17, 78, 79, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 140, 167 interpretation 13, 14, 15, 28, 34, 39n, 42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 48, 53, 54, 57, 58, 59, 60, 65, 66, 68, 69, 78, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 97, 99, 107, 108, 109, 110, 113, 114, 142, 205, 208, 209, 210, 215, 220n, 222, 248, 267

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

281

Index intuition / intuitive 7, 68, 118, 128, 129, 130, 131, 141, 163, 165, 172, 259, 264 counter- 7, 41, 82n, 130 irrational(ity) 28, 29, 79, 81, 133, 225 Irwin, Harvey 169, 174 Isis 228, 238 iteration 264, 265 Japhet, Sara 184n, 202 Jegindø, Else-Marie E. 270 Jensen, Jeppe Sinding 5, 19 Jensen, K. Frank 58, 71 Jesus 96, 188n, 189, 194 Jew, Jewish 16, 17, 57, 58, 90, 91, 95n, 97n, 178–198 Johnston, Sarah I. 23n, 24n, 40, 42n, 52, 67n, 71, 72, 77, 101, 230n, 243 Josephson-Storm, Jason Ā. 2, 19, 252n, 270 Judah Hadassi 187, 188n, 193n Judeo-Christian 5, 6 Jupiter 237, 238n Kabbalah / Kabbalistic 57, 58, 63n, 68, 190, 193 Kamiya, Joe 159, 174 Karaites 17, 187, 188, 189, 197 Kasamatsu, Akira 159, 174 Kehoe, Alice 154, 174 Kelemen, Deborah 137, 148 Kelly, Edward 175 Kellner, Menachem 197n, 202 Kiebel, Stefan 85, 101 Kieckhefer, Richard 174 Kisch, Yves de 74n, 92n, 93n, 94, 102 Klaniczay, Gabor 164, 175 Klein, Cecilia 175 Klingshirn, William E. 76, 91n, 92n, 102 Kooij, Arie van der 91n, 102 Kotansky, Roy 183n, 202 Kotovsky, Laura 146 Konvalinka, Ivana 266, 270 Krull, Douglas S. 147 Kubricht, James R. 129, 148 Kummer, Hans 129, 130, 148 Laertius, Diogenes 25, 40 Lafitau, Joseph 169, 175 Laidlaw, James 141, 142, 148, 264, 270

Lamberton, Robert 91n, 102 Lang, Bernhard 91, 102 Larson, Jenifer 77, 102 Lasker, Daniel J. 188, 202 Lattimore, Richmond A. 40 Laughlin, Charles 161, 162, 164, 166, 168, 170, 175 laws, universal 246, 247 Lawson, E. Thomas 85n, 86n, 88, 102, 249n, 264, 265, 270 learning 12, 130, 133, 163, 164, 167, 170, 193, 220 associative 129, 130 cultural 130, 131 Lebeau, Anne 106, 121 Leen, Russell 175 Legare, Cristine H. 12, 19, 141 Legba 46, 61, 62, 65 Legge, James 60, 72 Lehoux, Darion, R. 37, 40 Leibovici, Marcel 42, 71 Leicht, Reimund 186, 202 Leslie, Alan M. 128, 148, 261, 270 Levene, Dan 186, 202 Levenson, Robert 173 Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien 133, 148, 217, 227, 257, 270 Lewis, Gilbert 134, 137, 148 Lex, Barbara 161, 170, 175 libanomancy 78 Liénard, Pierre 12, 19, 124, 141, 147, 148, 264, 269, 271 limbic structures 166, 168 Lincoln, Bruce 69, 72 Lisdorf, Anders 52, 85n, 102, 124, 125, 128, 131, 139, 142, 148 Lissner, Ivar 159, 175 Loane, Helen A. 88, 102 Locke, Ralph 162, 165, 175 locks 178, 180, 181, 188, 192, 193, 194n, 195, 198 Loewe, Michael 42, 72 lovers 68, 218, 230, 234, 236, 238. See also sexual relationship Lu, Hongjing 129, 148 Luck, Georg 229, 239, 241, 243, 244 Luijendijk, AnneMarie 76, 91n, 92n, 102 lying 83, 158, 159 Lyne, Richard O. A. M. 234, 240, 244

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

282 Magdalino, Paul 108, 121 magic 11, 12, 105, 108, 153–157, 159, 160, 161, 170, 171, 172, 187, 191, 194, 207, 218, 219, 228, 233, 246, 247, 267 attack 236 category / concept of 1–5, 6n, 8, 9, 24, 81, 124, 184, 185, 188, 189, 190, 191, 197, 205, 206, 229, 230, 231, 235, 240, 248, 249, 255 definition of 3, 154, 190, 207, 208, 251, 255, 256, 267 expressive nature of 209, 210, 214, 215, 217 illicit nature of 185, 187, 188, 255 medieval Jewish 16, 178, 179, 185, 189 sympathetic 207, 216 magical activity / action 156, 252, 253, 254, 258 effects 161, 241 performances 120, 155, 230 powers 156, 170, 253, 257 practices 10, 11, 18, 153, 155, 156, 196, 207, 208, 220, 229, 230, 238, 239, 240, 246 protection 111  recipes 180, 192, 193 ritual 10, 75, 160, 195n, 221, 226, 234, 238, 239, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 267 techniques 240, 241, 253 text 178, 179, 180, 183n, 184, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191, 193, 198 magician(s) 68, 92n, 108n, 109, 154, 185, 186, 188, 240, 253, 254, 255, 257, 258, 263 Maimonides, Moses 188, 189, 197 Malone, Patrick S. 147 mana 6, 9n, 18, 246, 248, 251, 252, 256, 257, 258, 260, 261, 262, 263, 265, 268 accumulation of 266, 267 -banks 267 category of 246, 250, 256, 258, 259 definition of 256, 257 Mandell, Elias 175 Manitou 256 manna-grains 13, 14, 42, 44, 46, 59, 60, 63, 64, 67 Mantikê 23, 24, 28, 38, 105 Margalioth, Mordecai 186n, 202 Martin, Luther H. 105, 107, 121, 249n Maryanski, Alexandra 272

Index Mastrocinque, Attilio 229n, 244 Mater magna 228 Maurizio, Lisa 48n, 72 Mauss, Marcel  246, 248, 250–259, 262, 263, 266, 267, 268, 270 Mavroudi, Maria V. 107, 108, 121 Mawu 46, 61–62, 65 Mazur, Allen 161, 175 McCauley, Robert N. 82n, 85n, 86n, 88, 102, 118, 122, 249n, 264, 265, 270 McClenon, James 162, 168, 169, 170, 175 McManus, John 175 meaninglessness 222, 254 Medin, Doug L. 262, 270 meditation 162, 172 medium(ship) 34, 39, 77, 87, 88, 91, 99, 109, 119, 128, 154, 157, 164, 165, 166 Meerloo, Joost 159, 175 Meerson, Michael 91, 102  Megas, Georgios 110, 122 Melanesia 6, 256, 258 Meltzoff, Andrew N. 269 Mesler, Katelyn 198, 202 metaphysics 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 221, 226 metarepresentation 133 method 5, 9, 23, 24, 55, 206, 207, 214, 218, 219, 248, 249, 250 Meyer, Jørgen C. 69, 72 Meyland, Nicolas 19, 258 Mezuzah 188 Michotte, Albert E. 260, 271 mind, manipulation of the 170 Mitkidis, Panogiotis 267, 271 model 7, 9, 44, 46, 47, 48, 59, 64, 67, 96, 129, 133, 138, 139, 145, 260, 261, 264, 265 cultural 1, 130, 134, 251, 262 -dependency 129 literary 230 mental 129, 130, 131, 133, 145, 265 neurocognitive 16, 153 scientific 214 modernity 2, 268 Moehlmann, Bianca 146 moon 58, 68, 232, 233, 238 morphology 5 Morwood, James H. W. 236n, 237n, 243 myth 14, 41, 46, 48, 49, 50, 54, 55, 56, 65, 67, 68, 70, 83, 114, 236, 240, 253

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

283

Index mythology 35, 48, 52, 53, 54, 56, 61, 62, 65, 67, 68, 70, 215, 216, 217, 221, 226, 240, 253 mystics 154 mystical 156, 193, 209, 213 narrative 6n, 45, 46, 61, 62, 65, 67, 68, 75n, 84, 86, 95, 97, 98, 114, 117, 253 naturalness of mantic practices 74, 78, 82, 90 religion 82n, 211, 212, 213 necromancer(s) 157 (174) naturism 247 Naveh, Joseph 183n, 193n, 202 Needham, Amy 146 Needham, Joseph 60, 72 Neher, Andrew 157, 166, 168, 175 Nemoy, Leon 187, 202 neo-Kantian 251, 254n neologism 5, 7, 8 neoplatonic 91 nervous system 16, 153, 156, 159, 160, 161, 162, 165, 168, 169, 170, 171 manipulations of the 16, 153, 156, 160 parasympathetic 161, 162, 170 sympathetic 161, 162, 168 tuning the 16, 153, 161, 162, 170, 171, 172 Neubauer, Adolf 194n, 195n, 202 neural 157, 159, 163 neurocognitive 153, 172, neurotransmitters 162, 163, 166 Newberg, Andrew 161, 162, 163, 175 Newman, John Kevin 234n, 244 Niehoff-Panagiotidis, Johannes 188, 202 Nielbo, Kristoffer L. 142, 146, 149, 265, 271 Nielsen, Kai 211, 212, 227 Nielsen, Mark 12, 19 Nietzsche, Friedrich 7, 19 Nightingale, Andrea W. 26, 31, 35, 40 Nissi al-Nahrawani 194, 195 Noll, Richard 166, 175 Nongbri, Brent 2n, 19 Norenzayan, Ara 249, 271 Nørretranders, Tor 157, 175 occult 10, 107, 108, 165 occultism 2 officers, see ritual expert

Ogden, Daniel 231n, 240, 244 Ohrt, Ferdinand C. P. 41, 72 Olsen, Dale 160, 175 Olszowy-Schlanger, Judith 179, 202 Olupona, Jakob 45, 72 omen 85, 106, 131, 133, 134, 237, 238n O’Neill, Kerill 240, 244 oracle 1, 10, 12, 69, 88, 89, 90, 92, 94, 96, 97, 98, 99, 105, 106, 107, 108, 137, 143 Delphic 13, 47–56, 62–63, 65–67, 105 message 142 -monger 28, 32 rhapsodomantic 77, 84, 85, 86, 87, 94, 95 orenda 256, 258 Orden, Guy Van 270 orientation association area 163, 166, 167 Ortony, Andrew 262, 270 Otto, Bernd-Christian 3, 19, 20, 171, 175, 184n, 185n, 203, 255, 271 out-of-body experience 163 Owen, Alex 2, 19 Pachot-Clouard, Mathilde 269 Pack, Roger 107, 122 Palmer, Craig T. 119, 122 Papanghelis, Theodore D. 230n, 235n, 237n, 244 paranormal phenomena 168, 169, 170 paremia 64 Parke, Herbert W. 48, 66, 72 Parker, Adrian 169, 175 Pears, Ian 75, 76, 77, 87, 90, 102 Pease, Arthur Stanley 76, 77, 103 Peek, Phillip M. 42, 72, 124, 125, 149, 177 Pels, Peter 171, 175 perception 128, 133, 153, 157, 158, 159, 160, 164, 167, 168, 169, 220n, 260 dream 39 extrasensory 153, 169 performative statement 1 Perkins, John 157, 176 Perles, Josef 192n, 203 Permjakov, Grigoeri L. 64, 72 Perner, Josef 128, 149 Perrett, David 173 Persinger, Michael 162, 176 Petersen, Anders Klostergaard 1, 2n, 4n, 14, 19, 20, 34n, 40, 74, 75n, 81n, 88n, 91, 103, 252n, 271, 272

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

284 Pew Research Center 109, 115, 122 Pfaff, Donald W. 149 Pfeiffer, Thies 146 Philip of Opus 25–38 Phillips, Ann 149 Phillips, Dewi Z. 211–213, 227 pilgrim(age) 4, 8, 75n, 111 Piranomonte, Marina 228n, 244 Plato 13, 23–32, 34, 35, 37, 38, 103 Platonic (pseudo) 13, 23–31, 35, 39 Pocock, David F. 255, 271 Pócs, Eva 175 Podemann Sørensen, Jørgen 13, 14, 41, 60, 72, 89, 90 poison 18, 137, 143, 230, 234, 236, 237, 239, 240, 241 Polynesia 6, 156, 256, 258 portent 84, 85, 86, 87, 131, 133, 134 positivism 205, 247, 248, 250 possession 28, 48, 84n, 96, 115, 117, 128, 158, 164, 166 postcolonial critique 2 postmodernist 2 post-structural 8 Potlis, M. 110n, 122 Potter, David 93, 103 power 3, 12, 16, 31–36, 38, 50, 64, 83, 94, 98, 107, 111, 113, 125, 153–157, 161, 165, 167–172, 190, 197n, 232, 241, 251, 253, 255–259, 262, 266, 267, 268. See also force pray(er) 6n, 8, 33, 34, 105, 107n, 111, 116, 117, 160, 171, 172, 193n, 195, 228, 232, 237, 241 pre-animism 247 prediction 55, 58, 66, 85, 94, 100, 109, 129, 133, 145, 220n, 260, 261, 264, 265 Ex post facto 84, 86, 88, 94, 98 Preisendanz, Karl 92, 103 Premack, David 129, 149, 272 Premack, Ann James 272 Price, Neil 154, 176 priest(ess) 4, 8, 15, 34, 47, 50, 51, 52, 56, 67, 81, 92, 105, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 117, 154, 171, 206, 214, 253, 263 priesthood 61, 108n of Diana 206, 214 primitivism 133 Prince, Meredith 233, 244

Index prognosis 10, 16, 132, 133 Propertius 17–18, 229, 230n, 231–234, 236, 238–241 prohibited 252, 255 proverbs 44, 45, 64, 65, 67, 68 psychic(s) 109, 119, 169 psycholinguistic programming 159, 161 psychology 2, 68, 69, 136, 144, 218, 219, 220, 247, 250, 268 Pythia 47, 48, 50, 52–54, 56, 62, 63, 66, 105, 106 Pyysiäinen, Ilkka 86, 87, 103, 249, 271 Rallis, Georgios 110n, 122 Ramble, Charles 127, 147 randomness 12, 13, 14 16, 41, 42, 59, 75, 76, 78, 79, 82, 84–90, 92, 95n, 96–100, 106, 107, 109, 110, 113, 118, 129, 136, 140–146, 225 Rao, Ramakrishna 169, 176 Raphals, Lisa 42, 72 Rappaport, Roy 141, 149, 264, 271 Rasmussen, Susanne W. 69, 73 Rause, Vince 175 Ravitzky, Aviezer 188n, 203 Rebiger, Bill 186, 203 redundancy 264, 265 reform 17, 197, 247, 248 Reinhard, Tobias 230, 244 relevance theory 128, 131, 263 religion 8, 17, 23, 24, 54, 55, 67, 77n, 79, 80n, 107, 109n, 111, 112, 118, 119, 120, 197, 228, 241, 248, 256 academic study of 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 125, 247, 248, 249, 250, 255n, 256, 268 concept of 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 125, 172, 184, 189, 190, 191, 205, 213, 215, 229n, 249, 250, 252, 255, 267 theories of 2, 81n, 205, 207, 208, 212n, 214, 247, 248, 249, 251, 253, 256, 258 REM sleep 162, 163, 167 representation 11, 12, 14, 16, 18, 80n, 87, 126, 131, 139, 145, 165, 208, 216, 217, 241, 252, 255, 256, 258, 260, 268 causal 87, 137, 259, 260, 261, 262 cultural 1, 256, 263 epidemiology of 263 force 18, 250, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

285

Index mental 85n, 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 138, 141, 250, 254, 256, 259 perspicuous 222 pictorial 63n religious 82n, 87, 99, 129, 135, 136, 137, 138, 140, 143, 144, 146, 252, 254, 257, 258 reputation 30, 47, 116, 253, 267 Reynolds, Barri 130, 149 rhetoric 24, 29, 31, 41, 45, 47, 70, 91, 160, 230, 239 of divination 13, 41, 42, 44, 47, 55, 56, 57, 59 of interpretation 14, 47, 68–69 of the act 47, 59–63 of the text 14, 47, 63–68 rhabdomancy 78, 106 rhapsodomantic 14, 74–100 Rhees, Rush 81, 104, 206, 223, 224, 227 ritual 4n, 6n, 13, 14, 15, 17, 32, 41, 42, 47, 50, 56, 60, 61, 62, 63, 70, 75, 79, 88, 89, 90, 98, 109, 110, 111, 112, 116, 117, 120, 134, 137, 140, 141, 143, 153, 154, 157, 169, 170, 171, 172, 186, 191, 206, 208, 217, 222, 223, 224, 225, 230, 233, 234, 237, 239, 246, 249, 251, 254, 266 agency 12, 14, 16, 87, 126, 138, 139, 264, 265 behavior 17, 135, 186, 187, 218, 252, 253, 265, 267 efficacy 41, 53, 75, 87, 250, 252, 256, 257, 267 expert 78, 250, 252 force 12, 259, 264, 265, 266 formula 59 healing 11, 15, 41, 116, 156, 169 instrument 12, 50, 139 magical 10, 190, 195n, 196, 207, 221, 226, 238, 251 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257 special instrument 86 specialist 138 theory of 81n, 85n, 88, 141–142, 197n, 211, 252, 254, 255, 264 ritualization 11, 14, 16, 18, 64, 86, 129, 136, 141–145, 146, 240, 250, 264, 265 Roepstorff, Andreas 146, 270 Rollis, Edmund 173 Roman 5, 6, 14, 17, 18, 24, 41, 69, 77, 85n, 90, 91, 93, 94, 97n, 107, 108, 117, 118, 171, 181, 189, 191, 228, 229, 240, 241

Rosa, Eugene 175 Rosenberger, Veit 48, 73 Roth, Mirko 42, 73 Rothhaupt, Josef G. F. 81, 100, 103 Roux, Georges 52, 73 Ruffman, Ted 128, 149 Rüpke, Jörg 17, 18, 228, 244 Saar, Ortal-Paz 180, 198n, 200, 203 sacred 7, 8, 18, 44, 54, 64, 76, 78, 87, 88, 89, 91, 94, 99, 107, 114, 189, 234, 239, 240, 251, 258, 264, 266, 267 sacrifice 8, 32, 34, 37, 44, 45, 46, 47, 50, 62, 65, 105, 112, 118, 213, 222, 223, 234, 238, 240, 251, 252 Sadovsszky, Otto Von 174 saga (witch) 235, 239 Samuel, Geoffrey 154, 168, 176 Santini, Carlo 240n, 242 Sanzo, Joseph E. 229n, 244 Saxe, Rebecca 259, 271 Scapini, Marianna 229, 244 Schaafsma, Sara M. 128, 149 Schäfer, Peter 179, 186, 193, 203 Schjødt, Uffe 85, 104, 142, 146, 149, 270, 271 Scholem, Gershom 190, 203 Schwartz, Benjamin I. 60n, 64n, 73 science 2, 5, 11, 35, 81n, 83, 108, 125, 136, 184, 215, 217, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 259, 264 philosophy of 8, 205, 206, 207, 209, 218, 219, 221, 226 scrying 157, 159 Searle, John 6n secret societies 253 Seery, Aidan 100 Segebarth, Christoph 269 self-confidence 159, 168 self-delusion 169 semiotic 8, 15, 127, 131, 145 Seremetakis, Nadia 110, 111, 122 serotonin 163 sexual relationship 136, 187, 238, 241 Shaked, Shaul 179n, 183n, 193n, 202, 203 shaman 16, 154, 155, 156, 164, 165, 169, 170 shamanism 16, 153–157, 161, 164, 169, 170, 171 shamanic 153, 155, 156, 164–171 Shapiro, Yakov 173 Shaughnessy, Edward 43, 60n, 73

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

286 Sheffield, Frisbee C. C. 26, 40 Shiur Qomah 184, 188 Shlomo ben Abraham ibn Adret 188–189 Siberian 154 sign 14, 16, 44, 45, 47, 56, 60, 62–67, 70, 76, 77, 84, 85, 86, 87, 97, 99, 106, 112, 113, 116, 117, 125, 127, 131, 133, 134, 135, 138, 139, 140, 142–146, 159, 186 communicative 127, 129, 131, 132, 133, 145 divinatory 15, 70, 106, 109, 141, 142 metamorphosis of 46, 62, 70 indexical 86n, 127, 129–133, 143, 145 significator 58, 63 Sikora, Tomasz 166, 176 Simón, Francisco Marco 231, 244 Sklare, David 188n, 202 sleep 34, 38, 39, 106, 107, 162, 163, 166, 167 Slone, Jason D. 109, 122 Smelik, Willem F. 194, 203 Smith, Jonathan Z. 184, 203, 255, 272 social 1, 18, 79, 114, 125, 159, 167, 224, 225, 246, 248, 249, 252, 257, 260, 263 anti- 241, 253, 255 categories 139, 241, 253, 254, 255, 257, 258 cohesion 169, 267 engineering 247 fact 251, 258 information 58, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 145, 146 milieu 78, 126, 145, 159, 178, 185, 228, 230, 251, 255, 262 power 125, 241, 246, 255, 262, 264 practice 27, 158 society 14, 18, 31, 49, 67, 119, 178, 191, 195, 197, 228, 229, 247, 248, 251, 252, 253, 255, 266, 267, 268 sociology 8, 247, 248, 250, 256, Sofer, Gal 193, 203 Sokoloff, Michael 194, 203 Soma 50, 53 Sombrun, Corine 173 Sommer, Andreas 2, 20 sorcery 34, 137, 161 Sørensen, Jesper F. 1, 3, 11, 12, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 75, 76, 86, 87, 99, 124, 127, 137, 141, 142, 143, 146, 149, 246, 249, 253, 254, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 271, 272 sortilegium 76, 77 Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane 55, 56, 73

Index South America 154, 167 Souza, André L. 12, 19 Spelke, Elizabeth S. 129, 149 spell 8, 16, 17, 41, 92n, 156, 157, 159, 160, 178, 181, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 215, 230, 232, 240, 252, 265 Sperber, Dan 126, 127, 128, 133, 140, 149, 259n, 263, 272 Speyer, Wolfgang 91, 104 Spiller, Henry A. 71 spirit 8, 24, 53n, 81, 94, 119, 124, 128, 139, 140, 145, 146, 153,154, 155, 156, 157, 161, 164, 165, 167, 168, 170, 253, 255 evil 134, 266 world 34, 154, 155, 156, 165, 167 spirit of the ceremony 223 spiritual 54, 80, 81, 154, 156, 171, 172, 214, 246, 257 spiritualist 157 spook 157, 160, 161 Spunt, Robert P. 149 Staal, Frits 272 Stanfield-Mazzi, Mya 175 Stausberg, Michael 184, 203 Steadman, Lyle B. 119, 122 Stevens, Anthony 167, 176 Stewart, Charles 109, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 120, 122 stochastic 12, 13, 42, 44, 46, 59, 60, 63 Story of Rabbi Nathan the Babylonian, The  194 Stratton, Kimberly B. 184, 203 stress response 160, 161, 163 Stroumsa, Guy G. 91, 101 Struck, Peter T. 23n, 24n, 37, 38, 39n, 40, 42, 68, 72, 73, 125 Stutley, Margaret 154, 168, 176 Styers, Randall G. 184n, 203 subliminal 167, 168 supernatural 10, 11, 15, 50, 82, 92n, 99, 107, 111, 119, 120, 155, 168, 169, 190, 208 Swancutt, Katherine 140, 150 Swartz, Michael D. 184, 203 Sword of Moses 192 symbol 15, 41, 42, 44, 55, 68, 75n, 85, 98, 99, 113, 128, 133, 142, 145, 162, 166, 171, 197, 212, 216, 217, 218, 251, 254, 255, 267, 268 Syndikus, Hans Peter 238, 244

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

287

Index Tabatabaeian, Shadab 163, 176 Tafarodi, Romin W. 147 Talmy, Leonard 261, 262, 272 Tarán, Leonardo 25n, 26n, 28, 29, 30n, 31, 35n, 39, 40 Tarot 13, 14, 56–59, 63, 67, 69, 70, 138, 143, 144, 156 Tart, Charles 159, 176 Taves, Ann 162, 176, 249, 272 Tedlock, Barbara 69, 73 temporal orientation 132 terminology 2, 7, 8, 9, 24, 186 text 4, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 24, 25, 27, 42, 43, 45, 59, 60, 64, 67, 68, 69, 75, 78, 84, 87, 89, 90, 99, 108, 179, 180, 181, 183, 185, 188, 191, 192, 194, 197, 221, 228, 229, 230, 234, 237, 239, 240 authoritative 47, 86, 91 exemplar 44, 46, 47, 48, 59, 60, 63, 65, 67, 68, 70 literary 18, 66, 105 magical 178, 179, 180, 183n, 184, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191, 193, 198 philosophical 24 ritual 41 sacred 87, 88, 91 theft 158, 266 theory 6n, 9, 85n, 88, 124, 125, 130, 156, 184n, 205, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 213, 214, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 225, 227, 229, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 256, 258, 259, 261 theory of mind 128, 133, 139, 145, 167, 220n, 260 Thessaly 231, 234, 240 Thomas, Keith 266, 272 Thurman, Blake 175 Toledot Yeshu 188n, 194n, 195n Tooby, John 126, 128, 147, 150 Toorn, Karel van der 91, 102 Tov, Emanuel 183, 204 Townsend, Joan 154, 176 Trachtenberg, Joshua 178, 192n, 204 trance 48, 63, 155, 160, 162, 163, 169, 170 ecstatic 48, 63, 153, 154, 156, 161, 163, 164, 165, 170 state 106, 153, 160, 161 Treitel, Corinna 2, 20

Tremlin, Todd 249, 272 Trojanos, Spyros N. 107, 122 Trophonios 54, 55 truthfulness 128, 136, 140 Tselikas, Agamemnon 108, 122 Tuczay, Christa 158, 162, 166, 168, 169, 176 Tupet, Anne-Marie 229, 233n, 234n, 235n, 236n, 237n, 238n, 239, 240n, 244 Turner, Jonathan H. 268, 272 Tversky, Barbara 265, 273 Tybjerg, Tove 256, 273 unconscious 63, 255 knowledge 16, 157, 158, 159, 164, 166 representation 256 tensions 170 thought 171 Vaporis, Michael 116, 122 variable 15, 127 contextual 16, 126, 135–140, 145 semiotic 15, 125, 127–131 temporal 15, 125, 132–135 Veikou, Christina 115, 116, 122 Verdenius, Willem J. 91, 104 Vernant, Jean-Pierre 55, 73 Veyne, Paul 80n, 104 Viarre, Simone 236, 244 vision 27, 35, 36, 156, 158, 159, 166, 167 visual processing 158 Vitebsky, Piers 170, 176 Vritra 50, 53 Waismann, Friedrich 212, 227 Waite, Arthur Edward 57, 58n, 73 Waley, Arthur 64, 73 Walker, Alicia 108, 123 Wallot, Sebastian 270 Warde, Paul 159, 176 Watson, Julanne 150 Watson, Lindsay 241, 244 Weber, Max 104, 253, 273 Weinreich, Otto 192, 204 Weiss, Tzahi 183, 204 Wellman, Henry M. 128, 147, 150 White, Peter A. 261, 273 Whitehouse, Harvey 130, 150, 249n, 273 Wier, Dennis 160, 162, 166, 176

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9

288 Willis, Roy 165, 176 Wilson, Bryan R. 2, 20 Wilson, Deidre 6, 149 Wilson, Nigel 108, 123 Winkelman, Michael 154, 157, 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 176, 177 witch 1, 136, 139, 156, 157, 161, 185, 190, 230, 231, 235, 239 witchcraft 1, 10, 156, 161 Witteyer, Marion 228, 244, 245 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 17, 81, 82, 104, 190, 205, 206, 208–227 Wohl, Michael 144n, 150 Wood, W. Scott 144n, 150 Woodruff, Paul 28n, 40

Index Woodward, Amanda L. 149 Wormell, Donald E. W. 48n, 66n, 72 wu wei 60 Xygalatas, Dimitris 15, 105, 109, 112, 120, 123, 270, 271 Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq Al-Qirqisānī 187 yi (change) 61 Yijing 13, 14, 42–46, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 70, 138 Zacks, Jeffrey M. 265, 273 Zeitlyn, David 68, 69n, 73, 132 Zetzel, James E. G. 230, 239, 245

.8A 8

8 A8

7 -8

78 A / AB8 955 7 28B8 A8 B8 98 578 : :5 4 : 8 A:B5B 08:

1 :9