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LUCREZIA BORGIA

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                                 Bartolomeo Veneto’s 1515 refined portrait of Lucrezia Borgia


Marriage and Murder in Renaissance Italy. The illegitimate daughter of a pope and his mistress, Lucrezia Borgia was a famous beauty, notorious for the suspicious deaths and political intrigue that swirled around her and her family. But how much of the scandalous reputation was true, and how much was sheer invention?

On a spring day in 1480, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia ordered various astrologers to his home in Rome to tell him the future of a newborn child. Named Lucrezia, the baby girl was the daughter of Vannozza Cattanei, a Roman woman noted for her beauty. Nobody believed for one moment, however, that the child’s father was Vannozza’s husband, as Vannozza had been Borgia’s favorite mistress for many years. To the cardinal’s delight, the astrologers foretold a remarkable future for his illegitimate daughter. If their exact predictions came true, the world does not know, but Lucrezia did grow up to become one of the most infamous members of the powerful Borgia clan.

Throughout her short life, Lucrezia Borgia was considered beautiful. In her early 20s, a courtier described her as “of middle height and graceful of form; her face is rather long, as is her nose, her hair golden, her eyes of no particular color, her mouth is rather large, the teeth brilliantly white, the bust admirably proportioned. Her whole being exudes gaiety and humor.”

Celebrated in a play by the French writer Victor Hugo, a major opera by Donizetti, and the inspiration for many movies, Lucrezia’s life has long fascinated storytellers, who have depicted her as a 'femme fatale'— a seductive woman who poisoned those whom she could not manipulate and who attended orgies and had incestuous relations with members of her family. Most of these characterizations have little or no basis in fact, and many historians now see Lucrezia as a victim of her own family’s machinations for power. Her life serves as a vivid insight into the torrid world of papal politics at the height of the Italian Renaissance and during the tumultuous years leading up to the Protestant Reformation.

Growing up Borgia

Ambitious and worldly, the Borgias originated in Spain and were viewed with alarm and envy by native Italian families. Ascending to the papal throne earlier in the century, Pope Calixtus III was a Borgia. During Lucrezia’s infancy, her father continued to maneuver politically to promote the family’s interests.

Having spent her early years living with her mother, Lucrezia was later transferred by her father to the house of his cousin, Adriana Orsini, who taught Lucrezia the foundation of high culture: Latin, Greek, Italian, and French, as well as music, singing, and drawing, enabling her to move with ease in the highest court circles. Orsini’s approach to education was unequivocal: “Above all be sure you have something to say, and then express yourself with simplicity and frankness, avoiding affected words. I want you to learn how to think, not how to produce brilliant sentences.” This education would set her in good stead for a life that was soon to be turned upside down.

In August 1492, Rome appointed its second Borgia pontiff, when Rodrigo became Pope Alexander VI. Her father’s accession changed Lucrezia’s life forever. From then on, her fate took on greater importance to the powerful men around her. Because Alexander was pope, his young daughter’s marriage prospects soon became the focus of immense interest in the upper echelons of Roman society. A year later, in 1493, Andrea Boccaccio, the Duke of Ferrara’s ambassador to Rome, described the 13-year-old Lucrezia as an exquisite, graceful young thing, whose education had been “full of Christian piety.”

The leading families in Italy were all keen to connect their fortunes with those of the powerful Pope Alexander, and many sought to strike an alliance. Cardinal Ascanio Sforza pointed out: “There are many who long to marry into the pope’s family via his daughter and he lets many think they have a chance. Even the king of Naples aspires to win her hand!”

No family, however, was better placed to put forward a suitor than that of the man who had played a decisive role in the election of Pope Alexander: Cardinal Sforza himself, whose brother was the powerful Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza. Cardinal Sforza proposed uniting their house by marrying 13-year-old Lucrezia to his nephew, Giovanni. The offer was accepted by the Borgias, who thereby gained a powerful ally in the north and center of Italy.

On June 9, 1493, Giovanni Sforza made his triumphal entrance into Rome through the Porta del Popolo, and three days later his marriage to Lucrezia took place. The city’s elite families, ambassadors, and other officials were invited to attend the ceremony. Accounts describe how the pope and the cardinals ate and danced all night long at the wedding reception. Then in the early hours, the pontiff accompanied the newlyweds to the palace of Santa Maria in Portico. The hopes and fears of Lucrezia, little more than a child herself, were of little consideration to the players involved. The young couple were barely allowed the briefest of domestic interludes before a political storm engulfed them.

Early in 1494, the troops of King Charles VIII of France invaded Italy. Ludovico Sforza, uncle of Lucrezia’s husband, forged an alliance with the French against Lucrezia’s father. Trapped in Rome, Giovanni was in an impossible position — caught between the loyalties to his uncle on the one side and to his wife and the mighty Borgias on the other. In the end, he refused to turn against his uncle by supporting Lucrezia’s brothers, Juan and Cesare. After this decision, Cesare explained to Lucrezia that her husband would have to be killed.

Allegedly warned by Lucrezia of the plan, Giovanni fled to Milan disguised as a beggar. The Borgias then began the long process of trying to annul the marriage on the grounds that Giovanni was impotent and had never consummated the marriage. These whispers marked the beginning of centuries of lurid speculation about Lucrezia’s sex life, including rumors—spread by Giovanni himself—that Lucrezia had sexual relations with her own father and brother. Giovanni fought the annulment until Pope Alexander agreed to let him keep Lucrezia’s dowry in exchange for ending the marriage. After a public proclamation that her virginity was intact, Lucrezia officially became a single woman again in 1497.

The Second Time Around

During the annulment negotiations, Lucrezia retired to the convent of San Sisto in Rome. Even the cloister could not shield her from the exploits and misfortunes of her scheming family.

In 1497, Lucrezia lost her brother Juan, who was found murdered in the Tiber. Meanwhile, her other brother, Cesare—who had been made a cardinal in his late teens by his father—was enjoying a meteoric rise to power, having recently been appointed military chief of the Papal States, the area of central Italy around Rome under direct papal control.

Lucrezia’s seclusion at San Sisto ended when the family, as ever pursuing its own interests, started to hunt for a new husband. This time, the suitor was Alfonso of Aragon, the illegitimate son of the king of Naples, the large kingdom that occupied southern Italy. His marriage with Lucrezia would smooth the way to the union of her brother Cesare with Carlotta, daughter of the Neapolitan monarch, who was a key adversary of the pope’s principal enemy, France.

In 1498, Lucrezia married her second husband in the Vatican. This time, the wedding seemed to have been genuinely desired by both the bride and groom. Lucrezia was 18, and her slightly younger consort Alfonso was considered both handsome and well educated. The union appeared a happy one, and Lucrezia gave birth to a son, named Rodrigo after his grandfather, in 1499. But the conjugal happiness was shortlived. Dynastic maneuverings soon poisoned the young couple’s prospects.

The pope’s negotiations to wed his son Cesare to Carlotta of Naples fell through. In a startling change of heart, he decided to throw in his lot with his erstwhile enemy, the new king of France, Louis XII. In 1500 Cesare married Charlotte d’Albret, daughter of the Duke of Albret and relative of the French monarch. The interests of the Borgias and those of France had now aligned in direct opposition to those of Naples. This meant that Lucrezia’s husband, Alfonso, as a Neapolitan, had become a political liability for the powerful Cesare and Pope Alexander.

In the days running up to the jubilee year of 1500, an astrologer warned Alexander that he should take particular care, as misfortune was destined to befall him. In June of that year, the blow fell. The pope was holding a meeting when a gust of wind knocked down the chimney above him. Three people died, and the pope, seated on the papal throne, was injured. Two weeks later on July 15, while Lucrezia was tending to her wounded father, her young husband and his entourage were attacked by a large group of knife-wielding henchmen on the steps of the Vatican. Seriously wounded, Alfonso was taken to recover in quarters within the Vatican itself.

For the second time in her short life, Lucrezia rallied to the aid of a husband. She decided to nurse him herself, personally taking on the task of preparing his food and giving orders for trusted doctors to be brought from Naples. Still notfully recovered, Pope Alexander ordered a dozen men to stand guard over Alfonso’s quarters. But rumors of a plot against him had begun to spread through the streets of Rome. The Florentine ambassador was in no doubt the ambush had been ordered from the highest level: “In this palace there is so much hatred, old and new, so much envy and jealousy... that scandal is inevitable.”

Sensational rumors spread. Pamphlets produced in Naples recounted how Cesare, while visiting the convalescing Alfonso, whispered in his ear: “What didn’t happen at lunch could still happen at dinner.” A month later on August 18, Alfonso was strangled in his bed. By all accounts, Lucrezia was heartbroken.

Third Time’s the Charm

Devastated by the loss of her husband, Lucrezia retired to the city of Nepi, north of Rome. There she went into deep mourning, signing letters to her father and brother as 'La Infelicissima'— the Extremely Unhappy One. But the two men had little regard for the 20-year-old widow and were soon in search of a third husband who would again satisfy the family’s strategic interests.

Between them, Alexander and Cesare came up with Alfonso d’Este. He seemed the perfect candidate: A 24-year-old widower without children, he was heir to the Duke of Ferrara and offered a very attractive alliance for the Borgias. His family seat was in the strategically vital Romagna in northern Italy, and the family had strong links with France.

In response to news of the impending marriage, the cannons of the Castel Sant’ Angelo and all the bells in Rome sounded. Soon after, the Duke of Ferrara’s delegation arrived in Rome and sent back reports to the duke reassuring him about the credentials of his son’s Roman bride, whose reputation had become somewhat tainted by the widely publicized exploits of her family. One of the ambassadors reported: “She is a wise lady, and it is not only my opinion, but that of the whole company.”

The pair were married in December 1501, and in January 1502, Lucrezia finally left Rome for Ferrara to join her new husband. Her father reminded her that his interests were above her happiness: “You will do more for me from afar, than you could have done remaining here.” In a letter to her father two months after leaving, Lucrezia writes: “I consider your Lordship my most precious possession in this world.”

Out of reach of her powerful family, Lucrezia was at last able to enjoy some autonomy. Far away from Rome in northern Italy, she brought together some of the most glittering talents of the Renaissance in the court of Ferrara. She seemed to rise above the misfortune into which the rest of the Borgia family were falling.

Pope Alexander VI died a year later,in August 1503. Some sources suggest hat he was accidentally poisoned,although the cause is more likely to have been malaria.But whatever caused it,the pope’s death drained power from his son Cesare. Pursued by his enemies,he fled to his wife’s home in northern Spain,where he died in 1507.

Meanwhile, Lucrezia had established herself in Ferrara.One of the most important text soft he Renaissance testifies to the esteem in which she was held in Ferrara: in 'Orlando Furioso', the poet Ludovico Ariosto affirms that Lucrezia ought to figure in the temple of honor to woman hood for her “beauty and honesty.”Even so, after her death on June 24, 1519, following a complicated child birth,the image of Lucrezia started to come under attack.The many enemies of the Borgias smeared her name with allegations of lust, incest,and murder.No historical basis for these allegations has been found,and yet,in the popular imagination,they continue to distort the image of Lucrezia Borgia to this day.

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LOOKING GOOD

All through her life, Lucrezia’s bearing inspired those who met her, most enduringly the painter Bernardino di Betto — better known as Il Pinturicchio — who used Lucrezia, then 12 years old, as a model for his depiction of Saint Catherine in the frescoes he painted for the Borgia Apartments in the Vatican in 1492. In the section “St. Catherine’s Disputation,”

DEADLY RUMORS

Although the Borgias were no saints, the majority of the lurid tales told about them were invented by their many enemies. Later in her life, at the court of Ferrara, Lucrezia was regarded as the model of good breeding. It was only later that she took a role in the increasingly fantastical set of myths about the Borgias, many centering on her use of poison and other fanciful execution methods to murder her husbands and other rivals. Lucrezia resorted to such brutality, the rumors went, to maintain her crazed grip on power—a ludicrous notion, unsupported by any evidence, but which has proved enduring.

Victor Hugo, author of 'The Hunchback of Notre-Dame', did much to popularize this image with his 1833 play Lucrezia Borgia, in which the pope’s daughter ponders the various ways she will dispatch her rivals: by hanging, strangling, or poisoning a communion wafer.

Based on Hugo’s play, Gaetano Donizetti’s 1833 opera of the same name also portrayed Lucrezia as a murderer, a libel that spread to 19th-century artistic representations of her, such as the picture by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, depicting Lucrezia having just poisoned her husband.

LA BELLA VITA

The arrival of Lucrezia in Ferrara in 1502 as the new wife of Alfonso d’Este caused a stir. Several observers wrote of the impact she made on them, and eulogized her grace and beauty. The Marquis of Crotone said that “had the bride made her entrance by torchlight she would have outshone them all.” The chronicler Bernardino Zambotto was deeply impressed by her “adorable eyes, full of life and joy.” He wrote glowingly of her refinement: “She has great tact, is prudent, very intelligent, lively, and most pleasant.” Nicolo Cagnolo of Parma wrote that “her whole being radiates good humor and joy beyond words.” Lucrezia was surrounded by poets and artists in Ferrara.

Of these, the most notable was Ludovico Ariosto, the poet who coined the term “humanism,” and whose epic poem, Orlando Furioso, is a landmark text of Renaissance humanism. Despite tensions over Lucrezia’s intense, but apparently platonic, friendship with the poet Pietro Bembo, the relationship between Lucrezia and her husband seems to have been harmonious. In 1519, when she died, Alfonso is said to have cried bitterly at the loss of his “sweet companion.”

SEX, LIES, AND THE VATICAN

Lucrezia Borgia’s scandalous reputation persists to this day.

A Woman Among Cardinals

The presence of Lucrezia in the Vatican scandalized the clergy and the many enemies of Pope Alexander VI. One chronicler of the period vented his indignation that Lucrezia and her ladies-in-waiting were allowed into Saint Peter’s Basilica. It was said that when the pope went away he left his daughter in charge of official duties. Others went further, claiming that she attended wild parties and even orgies.

A Man-eater

Lucrezia’s history of relationships with men was indisputably colorful, beginning with the Spanish suitors who bid for her hand when she was barely a teenager. Her three marriages—and the violence and intrigue associated with the first two—stoked the myth of Lucrezia as a lust-crazed murderess. In reality, she was more of a passive pawn in the hands of her ambitious male relatives.

An Incestuous Union

The most serious allegation leveled at Lucrezia Borgia was that of having committed incest with her brother Cesare, and with her father, Pope Alexander VI. This accusation was undoubtedly nothing more than a malicious lie, elaborated by her first husband Giovanni Sforza, who argued that the pope had annulled his marriage to Lucrezia “to have the freedom to enjoy himself with his own daughter.”

A Secret Son

In 1498 a rumor spread that the pope’s daughter had an illegitimate son. Some years later, the pope issued two contradictory papal bulls: the first named Cesare as the father, and the second, himself—a confusion that only fueled rumors of Borgia incest. Some historians believe the child was the issue of Lucrezia’s affair with a Spanish servant. Others argue the child was the son of the pope and a Roman woman.

Pawn in the Family Fortunes

1480
Lucrezia Borgia is born near Rome, the illegitimate daughter of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia—the future Pope Alexander VI—and his lover, Vannozza Cattanei.

1493
The marriage of Lucrezia to Giovanni Sforza, nephew of Ludovico, Duke of Milan, provides the Borgias with a powerful ally in northern Italy.

1494
France’s Charles VIII allies with the Duke of Milan against the Borgias, who then plot to kill Lucrezia’s husband. Three years later, their marriage is annulled.

1498
After years of being cloistered in a convent, Lucrezia marries Alfonso of Aragon, son of the king of Naples, briefly an ally of the Borgias.

1500
Alfonso is attacked. Lucrezia cares for him, but one month later he is found strangled, on the orders—it is rumored—of Lucrezia’s brother, Cesare.

1519
After nearly two decades of life at the center of the refined Ferrara court, Lucrezia Borgia dies at age 39.

1501
A new marriage is arranged between Lucrezia and Alfonso d’Este, heir to the Duke of Ferrara, in whose court Lucrezia will enjoy a degree of autonomy.

Written by Josep Palau I Orta in "National Geographic History", January-February 2017, excerpts pp.62-73. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa

CHILE - EL MISTERIO DEL CRISTO DE MAYO Y EL TERREMOTO

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Imaginen por un instante el siglo XVII en América. Una serie de pequeñas ciudades, en medio de un inmenso océano de territorio deshabitado, separadas por miles de kilómetros unas de otras; a días, semanas e incluso meses a caballo por parajes desérticos o selvas impenetrables. Islas en un continente nuevo. Los conquistadores prácticamente habían llegado a colonizar otro planeta, habitado por seres humanos extraños, diferentes; animales nuevos, prodigios y secretos incontables escondidos entre los rincones de una tierra absolutamente misteriosa.

Entre ellas, Santiago de la Nueva Extremadura era quizá la capital más alejada de todas. La frontera con los mapuche se había convertido en una especie de Vietnam para la corona española, los tenientes y soldados indisciplinados eran castigados con una destinación a esta capitanía pobre y perdida en el fin del mundo. Acá, en Santiago, una burguesía todopoderosa, que se sentía gobernando un desierto, alejada de lo que valía la pena, intentaba pasar la vida en sus fundos y solares, tratando de copiar los usos, la arquitectura y los eventos sociales como el reflejo del reflejo del reflejo de lo que ocurría en Madrid, Lisboa, Ciudad de México, incluso Lima.

Todos nombres que les evocaban la verdadera civilización, mientras languidecían en medio de la nada, tratando de no morir de miedo con las incursiones de violentos indígenas que cada cierto tiempo amenazaban la calma del reyno, dependiendo en buena medida de las largas caravanas que venían desde el puerto de Valparaíso, distante a un par de días a caballo, en una frágil cadena de abastecimiento que mantenía el precario sentido de confort en este margen del imperio, con un pie al borde del abismo de la barbarie y la muerte. Remedo de ciudad. Cuatro mil personas habitaban Santiago de la Nueva Extremadura en esos años. ¿Se imaginan cuatro mil personas en un partido de fútbol en el Estadio Nacional? Eso fuimos, un poblado perdido en el desierto tras la cordillera, de cara al océano, a miles de kilómetros hasta la siguiente ciudad importante en el mapa, solos.

El 13 de mayo de 1647, esos cuatro mil santiaguinos dormían tranquilamente cuando, sin previo aviso, a las 10.30 de la noche, una hecatombe telúrica levantó el valle como una alfombra y la dejó caer en medio del horror de hombres, mujeres y niños que, en la más completa oscuridad, buscaban instintivamente salir desde sus habitaciones, donde caían cuadros, muebles, vigas y muros completos. Los gritos y el rugido de la tierra se confundieron en un mismo bramido del horror durante al menos tres interminables minutos. Con la duración de una canción estándar, la tierra sacudió las casas, templos, claustros, pilastras y techos, vigas y tejas desde el lomo de la capital del reyno de Chile. Durante tres minutos eternos los puños de dios golpearon el suelo haciendo caer una ciudad precaria levantada en adobe y vigas de madera, en medio de estruendos que las crónicas de la época dicen que se sintieron incluso en regiones apartadas del territorio.

Personas gritando entre muros que se derrumbaban, rocas que rodaban desde el cerro Santa Lucía, casas cayendo aplastando a familias completas. Una nube de polvo y el humo de los primeros incendios, producto del aceite derramado y las velas, envolvían el infierno donde todo se venía al suelo. La imponente catedral de Santiago se plegaba sobre sí misma, los pilares caían con estruendo, las campanas sonaban al chocar contra el pavimento, la niebla del polvo recortaba siluetas intentando salir desde habitaciones que parecían engullirlos y volver al polvo. El fin de todo. De pronto, el silencio. Luego, alaridos, llantos y gemidos. Gritos de auxilio entre ruinas imposibles de mover, cuerpos aplastados, trozos de carne cubriendo las calles, personas a medio vestir moviéndose como fantasmas entre la neblina, paisaje submarino, irreal, apenas visible por la tenue luz de la luna y los hedores a podredumbre que surgían de acequias rotas, pozos sépticos vertidos, gases sulfurosos y exhalaciones pestilentes que surgían de grietas en el terreno.

No se distinguía calle de casa, todo era una gran demolición en la oscuridad, el cadáver de una ciudad ensangrentada y sus hijos moviéndose entre los escombros llamando a los suyos a gritos; hombres y mujeres hincados entre los adobes de sus casas sin saber bajo qué muro se encontraba su padre, su hermano. Instintivamente comenzaron a moverse en dirección a la plaza de la ciudad, donde una pequeña multitud se confesaba a gritos frente a las ruinas de la casa de dios, a la deriva en la penumbra del fin del mundo, incomunicados y abandonados por el Señor. Eran las once de la noche y los derrumbes, los gemidos de los malheridos y las órdenes a ciegas de las pocas autoridades, que se buscaban entre el polvo, la tos y el pánico generalizados, daban cuenta de la confusión, el caos, la muerte, la ausencia de dios, la oscuridad vivida tras el horroroso terremoto de mayo. Santiago de la Nueva Extremadura, visto desde las alturas, se había convertido en una ruina, cementerio humeante, llaga arquitectónica retorcida y podrida en el costado de América, poblada de fantasmas mugrientos aullándole a Cristo en medio de la noche.

Mil personas murieron en esos tres minutos, un cuarto de la población, principalmente servidumbre y niños. Hoy se sabe que se trató de varios sismos consecutivos, alcanzando el fenómeno una magnitud 8,5 en la escala de Richter, equivalente a una bomba termonuclear 2.400 veces más potente que la bomba de Hiroshima, el infierno sobre la Tierra. El obispo de la capital, Gaspar de Villarroel, se dirigió ensangrentado y descalzo hacia la plaza a ofrecer consuelo a su grey, permaneciendo allí toda la noche. El recuento para la Iglesia era desastroso, la mayoría de los templos y conventos estaban en el suelo, las veneradas figuras religiosas, utensilios y mobiliario estaban destruidos. Todo parecía indicar un tremendo castigo divino.

La muchedumbre desesperada veía signos en todos lados intentando explicarse la debacle. Claramente, la destrucción de la mano derecha de la figura de Santiago, santo patrono de la ciudad, indicaba que había estado incapacitado de ayudar a detener el castigo; en la iglesia de las Mercedes, destruida casi por completo, la estatua de San Pedro Nolasco se había girado hacia la imagen de la Virgen, como rogándole por sus hijos; la gente contaba que una india había parido tres hijos tres días antes y que el último había predicho la tragedia; que otra india vio una bola de fuego cruzando el edificio del Cabildo; que unos arrieros habían escuchado en la cordillera voces de demonios, cajas y trompetas como quien prepara una invasión días antes; que todas las imágenes religiosas importantes se habían destruido como un mensaje de condenación, aplastadas bajo toneladas de adobe y mármol. Pero, sin duda, el prodigio más grande de todos lo encontraron a las pocas horas los monjes agustinos entre los restos de su enorme templo, que ahora no era más que un montón de escombros, con todos sus muros y paredes en el suelo, excepto uno.

Porque entre las columnas, altares, bancas y fierros retorcidos de la iglesia, una sola pared había quedado en pie, la que resguardaba la imagen del Cristo de la Agonía, una imagen esculpida toscamente en madera policromada por el agustino Pedro de Figueroa en 1631, al estilo dramático del barroco limeño, pero con la austeridad de esta capitanía pobre. Todos quedaron atónitos al descubrir que, además, dos velones al pie de la imagen se habían mantenido encendidos, a pesar de la violencia de los hechos. Los hermanos comenzaron a congregarse alrededor de la figura en medio de la penumbra hasta que uno de ellos, levantando su lámpara hacia ella, se percató de algo incluso más extraño: esa imagen, que aún podemos ver en la iglesia de los Agustinos en el centro del actual Santiago de Chile, de rostro cruzado por las heridas de la pasión, que parece mirar hacia el cielo con un gesto distinto, adusto, inquisidor, casi enojado, como recriminando su situación, lejos de la mirada lánguida llena de ruego del Jesús clásico que le pregunta a su padre por qué lo ha abandonado, esa imagen del cuerpo del Salvador en su agonía tenía la corona de espinas puesta en el cuello. Entre los escombros, levantaron una escalera y un hermano subió hasta la imagen. Con profundo respeto tomó la corona entre sus manos para corregir el error cuando una nueva réplica del terremoto removió el valle, cayeron algunos muros que habían conseguido mantenerse en pie y una nueva nube de polvo se levantó de entre los restos del animal moribundo que era Santiago. Todos se miraron horrorizados, ¿era una señal? En los momentos de desesperación todo nos habla, el color del cielo, el ruido de los pájaros; nos ponemos alertas a cualquier señal que nos dé alguna mínima pista sobre el sentido del horror que nos rodea.

¿El Cristo no quería que le devolvieran la corona a la cabeza? ¿Quería mantenerlo como signo de una forma diferente de dolor frente a lo ocurrido? ¿Un recordatorio para esta ciudad pecadora y llena de vicios? Algunas historias cuentan que cada vez que se intentó mover la corona volvió a temblar. El mito construido en torno a esta imagen dolorosa, que quedó levantada por encima de la ruina de Santiago, mirando hacia el cielo con dolor, terminó afirmando que cada vez que se ha intentado corregir el error, la tierra brama y el temblor amenaza. No debe haber sido extraño que un temblor haya coincidido con el gesto, durante la madrugada del 14 de mayo, pues los santiaguinos tuvieron que soportar decenas de réplicas que los sumieron en el pánico y provocaron no pocos accidentes.

Santiago era un naufragio en medio del océano. Mayo es un mes frío, la gente había salido huyendo con sus ropas de cama y cualquier abrigo que pudiera ayudarles a sobrellevar la noche más larga que la ciudad haya vivido se encontraba bajo toneladas de roca, adobe y madera. Los balcones, las ventanas y puertas se acopiaban para encender fogatas en las calles, donde había menos riesgo de derrumbes, para intentar sortear el hielo de la noche. La capital parecía un yermo bombardeado manchado de fogatas rodeadas de sobrevivientes ateridos y asustados por fuerzas tremendas, inmanejables e imprevisibles. Lejos del hombre actual, en esos años éramos niños sordos y ciegos caminando a tientas en la oscuridad de la naturaleza.

El hambre y la sed aumentaban la angustia y la ansiedad, pues todos los víveres habían quedado enterrados y las acequias se habían tapado con los escombros. Por todos lados se veían cuerpos sin vida, heridos y mutilados, junto a personas escarbando en busca aún de sus seres queridos, con la esperanza de llegar a tiempo, de que no se les hubiese apartado el alma, y los hallaban hechos monstruos, destrozados, sin orden de sus miembros, palpitando las entrañas y cabezas divididas.1

Hacia las cuatro de la mañana, lo inesperado. Como si el cielo quisiera terminar el trabajo del terremoto y limpiar el valle, una violenta lluvia acompañada de vientos gélidos cayó sobre los congelados santiaguinos y sus fogatas, revolviendo sus pocas pertenencias, los restos reconocibles de sus viviendas y los cadáveres enterrados de sus cercanos en una masa de lodo y aguas sucias infectas que todo lo cubrían. Comenzaron los rumores, al parecer dios no se detendría hasta no haber acabado por distintos medios con cada uno de los hijos de esta ciudad. ¿Qué cosa tan terrible habían hecho? ¿Cuál sería la siguiente calamidad? De boca en boca comenzó a crecer el pánico: seríamos devorados por la tierra en una hecatombe final antes de salir el sol. Una muchedumbre aterrorizada irrumpió en la plaza de Armas pidiéndole a gritos al obispo Gaspar de Villarroel la absolución de sus pecados antes del fin definitivo.

El anciano sacerdote, herido en la cabeza, se subió sobre una mesa instalada para ofrecer los servicios y desde allí gritó para acallar a la multitud. Se hizo un silencio del tamaño de todo el valle. El obispo giró la vista en redondo para ver esa masa de remedos heridos, semidesnudos, que se mesaban el cabello, se abofeteaban, lloraban quedos y caían de rodillas completamente destrozados por dentro. Algunos se habían rapado el cabello y vestían sacos en señal de humildad y penitencia. Santiago destruido y la multitud sobreviviente expectante rodeando la plaza de Armas, con el pánico a punto de estallar, reunida en torno a algunas antorchas mortecinas, un cura sobre una mesa y el silencio antes de la palabra. El pánico como una bomba en cuenta atrás.

El momento clave que definiría civilización o barbarie. Gaspar de Villarroel entendió que la Iglesia era la única válvula y habló todo lo fuerte que su cuerpo cansado pudo. Y no fue poco, les habló de esperanza, de la ayuda que ya vendría, del nuevo día que traería mejores expectativas, del dolor de los hijos muertos, de un Señor misericordioso que castiga pero que también ayuda cuando su pueblo lo solicita. El sacerdote trazó la raya entre la debacle y la calma, indicó que si seguían vivos era porque el Señor los había elegido, que había un deber, que debían guardar la calma y comportarse. Esa noche, hablando en medio de la oscuridad, Gaspar de Villarroel fue verdaderamente el mediador entre el Cielo y la Tierra, el pastor que mantuvo el rebaño calmo en un valle lleno de lobos monstruosos. La tiniebla precisa luz, esperanza y signos del Cielo, palabras que ayuden a entender el misterio de tanta muerte. Entonces, se decidió traer al Cristo de la Agonía al corazón de Santiago de la Nueva Extremadura.

Los agustinos desmontaron la cruz y organizaron una procesión desde la actual esquina de calles Agustinas con Estado, donde además, frente a la iglesia, estaba la casa de Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperguer, la Quintrala. Los religiosos caminaron descalzos apenas iluminados entre las ruinas cargando la imagen, un grupo adelante se azotaba la espalda con látigos de penitencia y rezaba en voz alta, rodeado de antorchas que hacían brillar la sangre que salía desde sus pies y sus espaldas. Avanzó el grupo como un coro fantasmal entre la noche, el barro y los cuerpos mutilados hasta la presencia del obispo en la plaza. Se levantó al Cristo junto al único Santísimo Sacramento que se había salvado en toda la ciudad —el de la iglesia de La Merced— y una imagen de Nuestra Señora del Socorro. En torno a esos despojos del culto católico, una ramada mal hecha, dos imágenes polvorientas y dañadas, cirios y algunas antorchas, se arremolinó la muchedumbre como náufragos sobre una balsa en medio del océano de la oscuridad, a esperar la mañana, temblando de frío.

Cuando llegaron las primeras luces del día, las autoridades comenzaron a actuar en consideración. Se descubrió que el pavor había sido tan grande que los presos no habían huido de la prisión, a pesar de los daños en paredes y rejas. Los regidores se repartieron por la ciudad con pequeños grupos de voluntarios a derribar las ruinas, limpiar las acequias de la inmundicia y el barro acumulado; hicieron catastro del trigo, maíz y vino que había podido ser rescatado y se instruyó una lista de precios. Junto con la primera calma surgió además el primer miedo eterno de la burguesía: el temor a su propia servidumbre. Comenzaron los rumores acerca de un posible levantamiento del pueblo llano en venganza por el trato y el sobretrabajo.

Muchos nobles sobrevivientes acudieron a la autoridad a exigir protección. Se ordenó desenterrar armas y entregárselas a un improvisado ejército de vecinos que vigilaría la ciudad y los pocos bienes rescatados. Como los temores continuaron, a pesar de no haberse producido robos ni acciones de sangre, se recurrió por supuesto al ahorcamiento ejemplar de un negro esclavo que había mostrado conducta errática y, en el paroxismo de la situación, había declarado incluso ser hijo del Rey de Guinea. Una demostración de fuerza salvaje a petición de la burguesía nerviosa, como tantas otras veces en la historia de nuestro país.

Un trabajo que debía comenzar antes que cualquier otro era el levantamiento de cuerpos y su entierro. Pasaban las carretas llevando de a seis cuerpos en dirección al camposanto indicado. El obispo debió ordenar sacerdotes a los funcionarios religiosos sobrevivientes por la escasez de curas para las decenas de sepelios que debieron hacerse simultáneamente. Temían que comenzara el hedor, con ello la peste y más muertes. Los curas y los enterradores debían redoblar sus esfuerzos para frenar a quienes irrumpían en los depósitos para buscar desenfrenadamente y a gritos a sus parientes entre los cuerpos destrozados y los restos sin posibilidad de ser reconocidos que se apilaban.

Los meses que siguieron solo aumentaron las desdichas de quienes aún no se decidían a abandonar la ciudad. Hileras de penitentes harapientos abandonaban las ruinas de Santiago como hormigas sucias cargando sus pocos bienes. Al mes siguiente se produjo una sorpresiva nevazón que duró tres días eternos sobre una población que había casi agotado sus reservas de leña y no soportaba la capa gélida que cubría el pantano de inmundicia en que se había convertido la ciudad. Durante muchos días no hubo agua para beber a pesar de la gran cantidad de precipitaciones que a su vez desbordaron el río Mapocho, inundando los escombros y los refugios precarios de sus habitantes, lo que desató un infierno sanitario que se llevó a no pocas víctimas. El hambre apretó los estómagos.

El trigo casi se había perdido, la destrucción de hornos y molinos hizo que Santiago tuviera una carencia crítica de pan, que se sostuvo por incluso dos años después de la catástrofe. La infraestructura estaba completamente destrozada. Después de unos meses la situación era evidente: Santiago de la Nueva Extremadura había involucionado de tal manera, que bien podía decirse que había retrocedido a una condición rural; animales circulaban entre las ruinas, las enramadas y los ranchos precarios se ubicaban sin concierto y se podían sentir a la distancia cabras o vacas de las pocas que se mantenían con vida. Con las semanas llegó una violenta plaga de tifus; la población ya no solo moría de hambre o frío, sino también diezmada por epidemias para las que no había más freno que el ciclo natural de sus virus. La capital era un territorio postapocalíptico recorrido por figuras en harapos, hambrientas, perdidas.

Al año siguiente se envió ayuda desde el Perú, pero los barcos naufragaron a medio camino. El invierno volvió a anunciarse duro y los ciudadanos entraron a mayo de 1648 con más de trescientos temblores registrados desde el terremoto y el temor abierto de que, para la fecha de aniversario, dios enviara otra hecatombe para completar el exterminio. De modo que el obispo ordenó una gran procesión de sangre para el 13 de mayo, que llevaría en andas al Cristo de la Agonía por Santiago rogando por su protección. El día indicado se inició la procesión a las 10.30 en punto, recordando el momento fatídico, iluminada por antorchas y cirios rojos que sacerdotes flagelantes e integrantes de la cofradía del Cristo llevaban en su lento navegar por las calles de una ciudad aún en el suelo. Se estableció solemnemente que cada año los santiaguinos homenajearían sin falta la figura extraña de este Cristo de madera amenazante, con su corona de espinas en el cuello, para pedir su protección.

El año 1649, los observadores estimaron en dos mil personas las muertas por la epidemia, el doble de los fallecidos durante el terremoto. Hubo escasez tremenda de servidumbre y mano de obra agrícola. En 1650 se confirmaba la muerte o desaparición de casi cuatro mil personas, entre enfermos de tifus, gripe, muertos por accidentes, congelamiento, hambre, en todo el valle. Santiago de Chile rodaba cuesta abajo, desintegrándose en el camino, reducida a una mancha de piedra y escombro fétido en medio del valle. Tierra de nadie.

La capitanía general del fin del mundo estaba arruinada, en el suelo, y una idea comenzó a crecer en los influyentes. La capital del país estuvo a punto de ser trasladada a Concepción o de plano refundada más al norte, quizá Quillota. Solo en el último momento el virreinato dio la orden de insistir en levantar una población que, más de una década después, continuaba casi en ruinas, de rodillas, a punto de desaparecer.

Hoy sabemos que el origen de esta catástrofe no estuvo en el ceño fruncido de dios o en los pecados de la población, sino en una falla geológica ubicada a un poco más de ocho kilómetros al Este de la plaza de Armas de Santiago; una grieta que recorre los faldeos precordilleranos, llamada falla de San Ramón, y sobre la cual la poca memoria de los chilenos ha levantado nada menos que un centro de investigación nuclear y una de las plantas de proceso y acopio de gas más grandes del país.

Hasta el día de hoy, cada 13 de mayo, los creyentes de la ciudad se vuelcan a las calles a representar la procesión del que se dio en llamar Cristo de Mayo: la extraña imagen, de ceño adusto y mirada inquisidora que cuelga de un madero en la iglesia de Los Agustinos, en pleno centro de la capital, sale a recorrer la ciudad que se fue levantando en torno a sus ojos con el venir de los siglos. La corona de espinas aún sigue rodeando su cuello, sus ojos siguen cuestionando al cielo. Es el pedazo de madera y objeto de poder más sagrado del valle. Y cuenta con una de las anécdotas más interesantes de nuestro registro de misterios nacionales, una coincidencia tan oscura como notable. Solo dos veces no se ha realizado, por diferentes razones, la procesión del Cristo de Mayo en nuestra capital. Solo dos veces no hemos cumplido con la promesa hecha en la noche oscura de 1647: en 1960 y en 2009, justo antes de los dos terremotos más grandes que ha sufrido nuestro territorio, el de Valdivia y el de Concepción, el reciente sismo del año 2010.

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[1] Gaspar de Villarroel, Relación del terremoto que asoló la ciudad de Santiago de Chile , Imprenta de la Sociedad, 1863. (Consultado en www.memoriachilena.cl)


Texto de Jorge Baradit en "Historia Secreta de Chile", Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial, Santiago, Chile, 2015, chapter 2. Digitalizacion, adaptación y ilustración para publicación en ese sitio por Leopoldo Costa.

THE CATTLE-HERDERS IN AFRICA

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There is still disagreement among archaeologists and other specialists on when, how and why humans domesticated their animals. By the available evidence, the people living in what is now the Sahara desert domesticated a local breed of cattle some 7,000–10,000 years ago. Sheep and goats, now widespread across the continent, were introduced from the Middle East some time later, and camels even later, after the period of the Roman empire. The presumption is that humans accustomed to follow the herds of wild cattle in their seasonal migrations eventually domesticated them; the question is why, for hunters in general have a varied, healthy and adequate diet.

It is association with cattle, rather than other forms of livestock, that really defines the pastoral lifestyle in Africa, and one can distinguish two separate modes of cattle management. Across the Sahel, the savannah that forms the southern edge of the Sahara, there were many specialized groups who lived by herding, following their cattle on a seasonal course of migration through the grasses that appeared with the rains. From the Atlantic east to Lake Chad, this group is primarily composed of fractions of the Fulbe; in eastern Africa (Somalia, Sudan, Kenya) there is much greater ethnic and linguistic variation: near the Nile, the Dinka and Nuer pasture their cattle on floodplains; the Oromo peoples circulate through Somalia, and in Kenya the Maasai are among the best known of the pastoral groups.

From the great lakes down into South Africa, in those areas where the absence of the tsetse fly permits cattle-herding, a different pattern developed. There, cattle coexisted with agriculture, and constituted a form of wealth and social prestige. It was claimed, locally and later by Europeans, that cattle-herding peoples invaded and conquered local groups, and ownership of cattle remains a mark of aristocratic distinction. The claim was reinforced by physical differences between the populations: the cattle-herders, typically, were tall and thin, and the locals much shorter (for example, the Watutsi and the Hutu of Rwanda). Discussion of this question has been complicated by the ‘Hamitic’ hypothesis, the belief on the part of the first European administrators that the conquering groups were ‘Hamitic’ (that is, lighter-skinned northerners) who defeated the darker-skinned autochthons; the Hamitic thesis has long since been abandoned.

Throughout this southern cattle-herding belt, cattle serve as a currency: brideprice, in particular, is calculated in terms of cattle, and cattle constitute the preferred form of tribute, sacrificial offerings and chieftainly wealth. This combination of practices is so consistent and widespread in this zone that anthropologists have coined the term ‘cattle complex’ for easy reference.

KHOI-KHOI CATTLE STORIES

The Khoi-Khoilive in Namibia, Botswana and western South Africa. They are closely related to the San hunting groups (the language family is known as Khoi-San), but separated from them at some point, probably in the last five hundred years, when they acquired cattle and stopped being hunters. The first of these two stories was collected in the mid-nineteenth century; the second is much later. Heitsi-Eibib is the culture-hero of the Khoi-Khoi.

THE TWO MEN

Two men were living together in the bush. One was blind. The other practised hunting, wandering around the land in pursuit of the game. One day, he found a hole in the ground from which animals were emerging. He told his blind friend of this hole and led the man there; the blind man was able to touch the animals, and he turned to the hunter and told him that these animals were not ordinary game animals, such as antelopes and zebra and gemsbok, but cattle with their calves.

The blind man then found himself able to see, and he made a fence from poles and thorny branches. He herded the cattle into this enclosure, and in this way became their master. He took to anointing himself with fat and oils, as the Khoi-Khoi did until recent times, to make their skin glossy and sleek.

The hunter came and admired the cattle. He asked how the man had been able to capture them, and the man told him to use an ointment of fat and oil. But he told the hunter he must heat it up before applying it to his body. The hunter warmed the ointment, but when he began to spread it over his skin he found it too hot, and so he was unable to complete the process. He abandoned the idea of capturing cattle for himself. Since that time, the Khoi-Khoi have lived with their cattle while the others lived by hunting in the bush.

HEITSI-EIBIB AND THE KING OF SNAKES

In his travels, Heitsi-Eibib came into the land of the snakes. Their king possessed cattle, the only cattle that were known at that time. Heitsi-Eibib and the king of the snakes became friends, and after a time Heitsi-Eibib asked the king of the snakes for some cattle. The king agreed to give Heitsi-Eibib some cattle, if he would perform some services. Heitsi-Eibib agreed to this. He helped gather poles and branches to make a kraal for the cattle. He helped build the kraal, planting the poles and weaving the branches between them. He brought water for the cattle. He collected firewood.

In the evening, when the fire was lit, the king and Heitsi-Eibib sat near it together. The king had said nothing about the cattle he was to give to Heitsi-Eibib, and Heitsi-Eibib had realized that the king did not want to give him any cattle, and that he would think up all sorts of services and tasks for Heitsi-Eibib to put off the time when he would have to do so. So Heitsi-Eibib spoke to the king, and challenged him. Each of them should jump over the fire. So they began to dance around the fire, and after several rounds Heitsi-Eibib leaped through the flames and landed on the other side. The snake king coiled himself and then tried to launch himself over the fire, but he landed in the middle of the flames and quickly died. This is how Heitsi-Eibib got cattle for people.

FULBE STORIES OF CATTLE

The Fulbe (singular: Pullo, also known as Fula, Fulani and Peul) have historically been cattle-herders in the savannah zones across west Africa, and between the Atlantic ocean and Lake Chad their nomadic groups are to be found everywhere cattle may survive. Many Fulbe have settled down across this belt, forming distinct sedentary communities in areas such as the Futa Tooro (Senegal–Mauritania;the Futa Jallon (highlands of Guinea), Wassulu (in Mali), Liptako (Burkina Faso) and throughout northern Nigeria and Cameroon. These settled communities are also almost all associated with Islam, and in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries many of them embarked on religious wars of conquest and conversion. In northern Nigeria, particularly, Fulbe religious militancy led to the conquest of the Hausa city-states by Fulbe dynasties and the establishment of the Caliphate of Sokoto. In modern times, the nomadic Fulbe have lost much of their former freedom of movement. They live in much closer association with the farmers whose fields are fertilized by the cattle grazing on the stubble. The herders often work for hire, tending other owners’ cattle. The stories represent something of this geographic range: the story of Tyamaba is found from Senegal to Niger; the Muslim account was collected in northern Nigeria, and the story of the first cow in Mali.

TYAMABA, THE GREAT SERPENT

A woman gave birth to twin offspring. One was a normal boy whom she named Ilo. The other was an egg, and she kept the egg in her chamber until it hatched out a snake. Some people say the snake had ninety-six wondrous scales, one for each of the recognized colour patterns of cattle. She raised the boy normally, but she kept the snake hidden, first under a little dish, and later under an overturned pot. She fed the snake various things: milk, and sometimes small animals such as chicks. The snake grew, the boy grew, and time passed. The mother became old and died, leaving the care of the snake to his brother.

The snake was now so big that the brother built him his own small hut, set apart from the others, and every day the brother brought him a bowl of milk. Some people say it was goat’s milk, others that it was milk from cows which appeared with the snake. The snake warned his brother that he should not marry a woman with very small breasts, for if such a woman were to see him he would have to leave.

But the brother fell in love with a woman who had very small breasts, and after a time he married her. He built a high wall around the snake’s hut, so that it would be difficult to see him. Things went well for a time, but then the wife began to wonder why her husband went every day to visit a small hut, carrying with him a pot of milk. She asked an old woman, and the old woman suggested she should wait until her husband was away; then she could stand on an overturned mortar and peek over the wall, to be sure it wasn’t another woman in there. So the wife waited for a few days, and then, when her husband was away, she took her mortar and turned it on end right next to the high earth wall, and climbed up on it and peeked over. She saw the snake sunning himself outside his hut. The snake saw her. He knew that the prohibition he had laid on his brother had been broken.

The snake swelled up. He knocked down the door and burst through the walls, he was so big. He began to slither away from the homestead, down towards the swampy areas by the stream. Ilo came back and found the signs of the snake’s departure: the breach in the wall where the gate had been, the empty hut. He saw the traces of the snake’s path and followed him, running in his haste to catch up with his brother. It was night when he came to the swampy area where the snake had gone, and to his surprise Ilo found himself surrounded by cattle. The snake spoke to him. ‘These are my water cattle, Ilo,’ he said. ‘Cut yourself a stick of ñelbe wood and begin to touch the cattle. Each cow that you touch will remain with you, to give you milk and make your wealth. The rest shall come with me into the water. The prohibition has been violated, and I must leave you.’ And with that, the snake began to move through the swamp towards the deep-flowing currents of the great river beyond it, and the cattle, lowing in the darkness, gathered and followed him.

Frantically, Ilo cut himself a stick, and that stick has become the emblem of the Fulbe herdsmen to this day. He rushed into the herd, touching cattle left and right, and those he touched turned aside from their course towards the river and moved backwards. And the snake, followed by all the cows which Ilo did not touch, slipped into the waters of the great river and vanished.

Ilo was the ancestor of all the Fulbe herdsmen.

A MUSLIM VERSION FROM NORTHERN NIGERIA

Muhammad sent disciples to west Africa to bring Islam to the peoples there. One man was named Yacouba, and he married a king’s daughter. She had four children, two legitimate and two illegitimate: people knew they were not Yacouba’s children because they did not talk in Arabic or in their mother’s language, but instead used a quite different form of speech: Fulfulde, their own language. So eventually Yacouba rejected his wife and the two illegitimate children. He performed a divination, and then wrote out a Koranic talisman and placed it around his wife’s neck, and sent the three down to the river, saying that there she would find her lover and the children would find their father.

When they came to the river, a handsome man came out of the water and greeted them. He told the children he had a gift for them: he would give them cattle, which before then were unknown. But thereafter they must follow the cattle in the bush; they could not live in villages, but must wander from place to place. He said that when the cattle began to come from the river, the children should walk away without looking back, calling ‘Hai, hai, hai’, for if they looked back the cattle would stop coming out of the river.

So the children turned and walked away, calling out ‘Hai, hai, hai’, and a flood of cattle followed them. But eventually one child looked back, and the cattle stopped coming out of the water.

THE FIRST COW: WHY FULBE ARE HERDSMEN

The first cow appeared in Masina, in the floodplains of the middle Niger delta; she appeared with her calf, and a Labbo, a woodworker, was the first to see her. He watched her grazing and then saw her disappear into the water. He came back the next day with two friends, a Pullo and a Bambado. Among the Fulbe today, the Pullo is the nomad and the Bambado is a musician. They saw the cow appear, followed by her calf, and they watched the animals grazing on the fresh shoots of grass. They decided they would try to catch her, and so they set up a trap baited with clumps of grass on the path they saw the cow taking. The next day they caught her in their noose, and after a considerable struggle they were able to subdue her. They tied her in one place, and after some time the calf which had run away returned to its mother.

After they caught it, there was some question who would take care of it. The Labbo had his woodworking business to take care of – he carved calabashes and made bowls and utensils for people. The Bambado was something of an idler who preferred strolling around and passing the time of day with people to any regular activity. So the Pullo was the one who took care of the cow. He brought her food and water and he watched over her carefully. He even imitated the calf one day, sucking at a teat to see what the milk tasted like. He found it delicious.

The other two, co-owners of the cow, caught him at this treat one day and asked him what it tasted like. He squeezed some milk into a bowl and gave it to them to taste, and they too found it delicious. Thereafter it was agreed that each of them would get a bowl of milk in the morning. But the two co-owners let some days pass without coming for their milk, and although the Pullo dutifully collected it into calabashes for them, it seemed to be going to waste sitting there, and likely to spoil. Still, when they did finally come and ask for their milk, he showed them the calabashes he had saved for them, expecting his friends to be disgusted by the stale milk. But he was amazed to see them smacking their lips in pleasure at the new taste of curdled milk, and when he asked what was so good they let him taste this new product.

After some time, the Pullo realized that he was the only one taking care of the cow, and so he decided to steal away so he could enjoy the fruits of his herding by himself. He slipped off one day and found himself a campsite some distance away from his friends’ dwellings, in a place where the grass was green and fresh and there was good pasturing for his cow and her growing calf. He made musical instruments for himself, and he would sit playing to his animals as he watched them graze.

But his friends noticed his absence, and after some time they went looking for him. It took them a month or two to locate his campsite, and they found him one evening sitting with the cow and calf nearby, playing a tune on the stringed instrument he had devised and singing to the cow. They paused for a moment, struck by the beauty of the scene, and then they greeted the Pullo, and he, after a start, returned the greeting and invited them in. They asked him where he had been. He said he had been worried about the cow and wanted her to have fresh grass, especially since the calf was now growing and eating as well, and needed tender new shoots, and he thought that the new spot was doing well. He also thought that the cow might be pregnant, for he had seen her in the company of a male that came out of the waters near where they had found her. He said nothing about having wanted to take the cow away from them.

The two friends agreed that the cow looked very well. Then the Bambado asked the Pullo to let him have the stringed instrument he had been playing, for he did not think he could live without that music. ‘What can I give you for the instrument?’ asked the Bambado, and the Pullo hesitated, not thinking to ask a price for something he had made. ‘I shall give you my share of the cow,’ said the Bambado, ‘but on condition that periodically you shall give me one of its male offspring which you won’t need for milk.’ Surprised and delighted, the Pullo immediately accepted the offer.

‘And I shall give you my share,’ said the Labbo, ‘for I see that you know how to take care of these animals. But I too shall ask a condition: that I may have milk whenever I ask for it.’ And naturally the Pullo agreed to this price.

Since that time, the Pullo gives milk freely to the Labbo and periodically gives a bull-calf to the Bambado, since to withhold their price would bring disaster down on the herds that have grown up since that original bargain. And the Pullo is the one who leads the cattle to their grazing grounds and lives with them, and knows them.

THE MAASAI OF EAST AFRICA

The Maasai are probably the best known of all African pastoralists, since their pasturing grounds abut many of the most famous game parks of east Africa and they count as one of the tourist attractions. They are considered the quintessential cattle-herders, and, by repute, to be Maasai is to be a cattle-herder: to live and travel with the cattle, defending them from lions and other predators (hence the distinctive large shields and long spears), living on milk and blood drawn from the necks of the living beasts. But in fact the specialized pastoralists are a small part of a larger group of Maa-speakers, and throughout their range, in the plains between the Kenyan highlands and the coast, stretching south into Tanzania, there is considerable variation in patterns of cattle-ownership and herding practices. Maasai who have lost cattle to drought may be forced to settle down for a time until their herds are rebuilt (and in the past, warfare was another means of winning or losing cattle), and at all times the nomads depend on the farmers for grain. The stories below explain why it is the Maasai who own the cattle, rather than other peoples. Both stories were collected around 1900.

THE ORIGIN OF CATTLE

Naiteru-Kop, one of the gods of the Maasai, walked the earth at the dawn of the world and he found it already held some inhabitants. He found a Dorobo (a member of a hunting people, also known as Okiek), a snake and an elephant living together. After Naiteru-Kop had passed by, the Dorobo found a cow in the bush and took it as his property. After that, the Dorobo would take the cow out into the grasslands to watch it feed, and then return to the homestead that he shared with the elephant and the snake at night.

The snake often sneezed, for it crawled in the dust which was trampled by the man, the cow and the elephant, and when it sneezed it sprayed its venom in the air. The elephant did not feel anything, its hide was so thick; but the man became very uncomfortable and developed rashes. The Dorobo complained to the snake, and the snake answered that the sneezing was not its fault, but happened because of all the dust around their camp. That night, while the elephant and the snake were sleeping, the Dorobo took a cudgel and crushed the snake’s head. Then he cast the snake’s carcass in the bush. The elephant asked after the snake in the morning, and the Dorobo said he had no idea where the snake had gone. From his manner the elephant guessed that the human had killed the snake. But they continued to live together.

A season of rains came, turning the grass green and covering the land with small puddles in which the Dorobo’s cow could drink. But after the rains had passed the waterholes dried up until there was only one left. This was the elephant’s favourite spot; it was the elephant’s custom to graze upon the tall grass, harvesting it by the bushel with its trunk, and then to go down to the waterhole and loll in the water and the cool mud. During the rainy season, the elephant gave birth to a calf, and the two of them would do this together.

When the rains had ended, the Dorobo could find no other water for his cow than the elephant’s waterhole. He asked the elephant not to muddy the hole, so that he could water his cow, but the elephant answered that its custom had always been to enjoy the hole and it did not wish to change. So in secret the Dorobo made an arrow, and then one evening he shot the elephant and it died. When the mother elephant died, the calf went away: the older elephant had warned it about the Dorobo and how the man had killed the snake, and now the man had killed the elephant. The calf went to another country.

There, the calf met a man, a Maasai named Le-eyo, and they talked. The elephant calf told the Maasai why it had run away from the Dorobo who had killed the snake and the elephant to protect himself and his cow. Le-eyo said he wished to see this man, and so the elephant calf agreed to show him the way. They went back to the camp. There, the Maasai was very surprised by the hut the Dorobo had built: it was built on end, so that the doorway looked up at the heavens. While they were standing there, Naiteru-Kop called out to tell the Dorobo to come out the next morning. Le-eyo heard the message, and so the next morning it was the Maasai and not the Dorobo who went to learn what Naiteru-Kop wished to tell him.

Naiteru-Kop gave Le-eyo instructions, and he followed them carefully. He built himself a large enclosure, and to one side he built a little hut of bent branches and grasses. Then he searched the bush and found a thin calf. He took it back to his enclosure and slaughtered it. But he did not eat the meat. Instead, he spread out the calf’s hide and piled the meat upon it, and then he tied it up into a great bundle. He built a very large fire in the centre of his enclosure, and when it was roaring he lifted the bundle of the calf’s meat and threw it into the fire. Then he hid in the hut. As he did so, the clouds gathered thickly overhead and thunder rolled over the plains.

While the man was hidden in the hut, a leather cord dropped from the heavens and cattle of all sorts began to come down the cord into the enclosure. They descended until the enclosure was filled and they were bumping against each other to make space. One of them then put its foot through the wall of the Maasai man’s hut, and he cried out in alarm and surprise. At the sound, the cattle ceased coming down the cord from heaven. Naiteru-Kop called out, and Le-eyo went out to answer his call. ‘These are all the cattle you shall receive,’ said Naiteru-Kop, ‘because by your cry you have stopped them coming. But they shall be yours to tend, and with them you shall live.’

Since that time, the Maasai have herded their cattle. The Dorobo have become hunters, using clubs and bows and arrows to kill their prey. When people who are not Maasai own cattle, the Maasai presume that the cattle have been stolen from Maasai and try to reclaim them.

Later, Naiteru-Kop told Le-eyo what to do in the case of death: the body should be disposed of, and he should say, ‘Man, you have died and shall return. Moon, you shall die and not return.’ But the first person to die was a child, not of Le-eyo’s family, and so when Le-eyo took the body into the bush he said, ‘Child, you have died. Do not return. Moon, die and then return.’ So the child did not return, and the moon began to wax and wane. Later, one of Le-eyo’s own children died. He took it into the bush and said, ‘Child, you have died and you shall return. Moon, you shall die and not return.’ But Naiteru-Kop spoke from the sky and said that he could not change matters now; what he had said at first would be the rule for humans.

When Le-eyo was close to death, he called his children and asked them what they wanted of his belongings. One son answered that he wanted a share in all his father’s wealth. So Le-eyo gave him cattle, goats, sheep and grain. The younger son answered that he wanted only the fan which his father always carried under his arm. His father smiled at that, and promised him that because he had chosen well he would always have power. So the younger son became the ancestor of the cattle-herding Maasai, while the older son’s descendants are considered to be inferior.

WOMEN AND THE CAMPS

An old man had three children: a son and two daughters. The son was made responsible for the family’s cattle. There came a time of warfare with neighbouring peoples, and so no one dared leave the group or take the cattle far to graze or to find the salt-licks which the animals loved. After some time, the animals began to suffer from the lack of salt, and so the son decided that he would venture out to the salt-lick. The elder daughter accompanied him. The brother told the younger sister that if she saw a great smoke, it would be a sign they were safe. He and his sister then established a small camp. During the day, the sister stayed in the camp while the brother tended the cattle in the bush.

After some days, though, the brother noticed odd footprints in the enclosure he had made of thorns and branches, and he guessed that while he was in the bush, men had come to visit his sister. But the sister told him nothing of this. So the next day, the young man drove the cattle off as usual, but then circled back in secret and spied on the cattle-pen. His suspicions were justified. After he left, warriors from the enemy group came from the bush and approached his sister; clearly, they were on terms of intimacy. As they left, she told them to stay nearby and listen for her voice: when her brother was busy milking the cattle she would begin to sing, and they would then be able to seize his cattle.

The brother took the cattle back into the bush, and at the end of the day he returned to the enclosure. But he did not take his weapons to the shelter, as was his custom. Instead, he laid them on the ground near him in the enclosure. Then he fetched the gourds and began to milk the cattle. As he did so, his sister came out of the hut and began to sing. Immediately, one of the enemy leaped over the thorn-fence. But the brother was expecting this; he had seized his spear, and the enemy died immediately. Another man leaped the fence; he too was killed. The brother killed five men before the others fled.

He then collected firewood and burned the bodies of the enemy. The smoke rose high, and far away his younger sister saw it. She announced to the family that her brother had signalled that he was safe, and so the family moved out to join him at the salt-lick.

There was discussion of the behaviour of the elder sister. Her father immediately found her a husband, because he said that it was frustration that had made her betray her brother. Since that time, women have been free to come and go at the warriors’ camps, because it seems safer to allow them the liberty than to attempt control.

THE GREAT LAKES I: THE ORIGIN OF CATTLE (RWANDA)

The highlands between the great lakes of the Rift Valley have been compared to an earthly paradise. The altitude moderates the equatorial heat and draws ample rainfall, the volcanic soils are fertile, and humans have settled there and prospered. The kingdoms of the region are treated individually below (Chapters 27–30: Bunyoro, Buganda, Rwanda, Burundi), but cattle are sufficiently important for representative stories from this region about the origin of cattle to be given as well as other stories of cattle. These stories are part of larger dynastic narratives, and were collected in the early twentieth century.

Gihanga was one of the first kings of Rwanda, and he is said to have invented the making of vessels and containers from wood and gourds. He travelled, and married two women from different places; the first gave him a daughter, Nyirarucyaba, and eventually the second wife also became pregnant. Gihanga provided for his wives by hunting. When he returned from the hunt, he would give to each of his wives in turn the hide of his kill. But one day he brought home the hide of a cerval, beautifully spotted. Both wives wanted the skin and began to fight over it. The daughter, Nyirarucyaba, ran to the aid of her mother and struck the second wife, who was still pregnant, with a sharpened stake. She pierced the belly, and the woman died. But the child was saved: it was a boy and they named him Gafomo because he had been born before his time.

Nyirarucyaba feared her father’s anger and so she fled into the forest. There a hunter found her and gave her shelter, and eventually they married and Nyirarucyaba bore him a child. One day, as she was walking near their camp, she saw a cow feeding her calf; she was able to get close and to taste some of the milk that had spilled, and she found it delicious. After some thought, she caught the calf with a rope of braided vines and led it to her camp; the cow followed quietly after it. Her husband, the hunter, at first refused to drink the milk, but eventually was brought to do so when he was sick.

After some time, Nyirarucyaba learned that her father was sick, and so she decided to take him some of the marvellous substance she had discovered. She did so, and he recovered immediately. He pressed her to give him the cow, and she agreed only after he had threatened to kill her husband and child.

Gihanga discovered where the cows came from: they came out of a lake. He prepared his men to go and capture all the cows, but diviners warned him that he should send away his son Gafomo, who might spoil the enterprise. So he sent Gafomo off on an errand while everyone else prepared to go down to the lake. But Gafomo secretly turned back and followed them to the lake-side, and there he climbed a thorny tree known as a mushubi.

The cows began coming out of the lake to graze on the grass, and men caught them with braided ropes and led them quietly away. Then came the bull of the herd, and seeing it Gafomo was frightened and called out from the top of his tree. The bull turned back into the lake, leading the rest of the cows with him, and the men were not able to get all the cows they wanted. At that time they renamed Gafomo after the tree in which he had sat, and his name became Gashubi.

Gihanga then allotted portions to his children, and he named Kinyarwanda to be king after him. When Nyirarucyaba came and asked what her share was to be, Gihanga told her that she and her descendants could come to the king as he was being enthroned and demand milk, and he would have to provide her with milk.

Kinyarwanda later decreed that women should not milk cows, because the squatting position was obscene.

THE GREAT LAKES II: THE STORY OF WAMARA (BAHAYA)

The BaHaya live on the south-western shores of Lake Victoria (Victoria Nyanza), and in former times were divided into several principalities or kingdoms (Kiziba, Ihangira, Usswi). Much material from their traditions of origin is shared with neighbouring peoples (Kintu is the central figure), proof of a common origin at least for the ruling dynasty and their idioms of power. The BaHaya are also noted for their iron-working.

A jackal came at night and yapped around the compound of King Wamara, disturbing his sleep, and so Wamara and his two principal chiefs Irungu and Mugasha went out hunting for the animal. They quickly started it from the bush, and then their dogs pursued it as it led them on a course which ended in a cave. Following the trail, Wamara, Mugasha and Irungu found themselves in an underground world, a place they had never seen before. This was the land of Kintu, who rules beneath the earth. Kintu ordered the strangers to be brought before him, and then greeted them politely. He asked them where they had come from and who they were, and Wamara answered.

Then Kintu offered them food. Fearful, Wamara ordered Mugasha and Irungu to taste it first. Kintu’s servants brought banana beer and goat-meat; Mugasha was unable to stomach this food and threw up, but Irungu tasted it, found it delicious, and recommended it to his king.

Then Kintu’s servants brought in a kitare cow, one of the beautiful long-horned cows with a brilliant white coat, attended by a maiden who milked her before the visitors. Kintu offered them the milk; Wamara told Mugasha not to bother tasting it, because he trusted Irungu’s opinion. Irungu drank a bit from the bowl and then told his king, ‘Of all that we have been offered here, this is the best.’ Wamara tasted the milk and fell in love with the cow.

Kintu expressed surprise that they did not have such provisions in their world above the ground, and then invited them to stay. For nine days they remained in Kintu’s caves, and during that time Mugasha wandered through Kintu’s domains and saw his people cultivating fields and growing different crops; he collected the seeds of the different crops that he encountered.

Kintu, meanwhile, assembled a herd of cattle and goats, and when the time had come for Wamara to return to his kingdom, Kintu offered to send the livestock up with Wamara, on condition that Wamara send back the servants, including the maiden who attended the kitare cow, and that he should not forget to thank Kintu for the gifts.

They returned home, and found some of the followers still waiting outside the cave. Then they returned to the court. Mugasha set about planting the seeds he had brought with him, assisted by his wife. Wamara shared the milk from the cattle with his household, and showed his wives how to anoint themselves with butter so that their skin glistened. He would sit admiring the kitare cow, the pride of his herd, and the servants heard him say, ‘I should die if I lost her.’

But despite his love of the cattle, Wamara forgot to give thanks to Kintu for his gifts, and beneath the earth Kintu became impatient. Eventually, he asked his servants which of them would go to punish the humans for their forgetfulness. Rufu, death, presented himself. He would go and remind the humans of their debt.

But when Rufu came to Wamara’s court, Wamara’s men beat him mercilessly with sticks and he was forced to flee. Wherever he hid, they found him and beat him, until he came across the maiden from Kintu’s land who watched over the cow. She took him beneath her wrap and hid him inside her vagina, and so he escaped the pursuers.

Later, he came out and seized the opportunity to drag the kitare cow into a swamp so that it drowned. And then people remembered what they had heard Wamara say, that he would die if ever he lost the kitare cow. Wamara went with his followers to the swamp and threw himself into the morass; Irungu and the other servants followed him.

After their deaths, Wamara, Mugasha and Irungu became bachwezi spirits watching over humans. Mugasha in particular is associated with the lake and its storms, but he is also thanked for the food he provided for people.

THE CHAGGA OF EAST AFRICA: MURILE

The Chagga are a farming people who live in Tanzania in the region at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro, and nowadays they are known mainly for growing coffee. Their story of Murile, collected early in the last century while the region was still a German colony, can serve to illustrate an appreciation of cattle from a people that was not marked strongly by pastoralism or by the ‘cattle complex’. One might compare Murile’s transformation of a yam into a child with Khaggen’s transformation of a leather scrap into an eland.

The boy Murile was the eldest of three sons. He assisted his mother when she went out to gather colocasia roots (a sort of yam) which they were going to store and then plant in their fields. One day they dug up a particularly fine root, and Murile told his mother that it reminded him of his youngest brother. The mother laughed at the idea, but Murile found that the image of the root stayed in his mind. Some days later, he slipped into the storeroom and removed the root; he found a hiding place for it in the hollow of a tree-trunk. There he sang a spell over it and poured water upon it. The next day, when he returned, he found that the root had become a little child.

He fed the child in the hollow of the tree from his own share of the family’s food; he would scrape a handful or two into a small bag which he kept hidden at his side, and then eat one or two more mouthfuls. But he himself started to suffer from his limited rations, and his mother began to worry about him. She asked his younger brothers what he was doing, and they told her that he always put a part of his food into a small bag. She asked them to find out for her what he was doing with this food, and so they watched him more carefully and soon discovered that he was taking the food to a tree-trunk in the bush. They told their mother, and one day she went to the tree-trunk and found the child in the hollow. She had no idea where this child had come from, but she saw it as a threat to her own son Murile, since he was suffering from a lack of food on the account of this child. So she killed the child and returned to her camp.

That evening, after dinner, Murile slipped away again with the share of food which he kept for his root-child. But when he came to the hollow he heard no noise, and when he looked inside he found the child lying lifeless on the ground. At first he could not believe that it was dead; he lifted it and called to it. He sang a song over it. But the body remained limp. Then he wept for a long time. It was late that night when he returned to his parents’ camp.

The next day he broke out weeping again as they sat together in the morning, and his mother asked him what was the matter. He answered that it was the smoke from the fire burning his eyes. She told him to move to another side of the fire. But tears continued to stream down his face, and eventually she told him he should move away from the fire entirely. He took his father’s small stool and sat down at the end of their cleared space.

He began to sing. He sang to the stool on which he was sitting, telling it to carry him up higher than the tree-tops, higher than the clouds. The stool lifted off the ground and Murile rose into the air. His younger brothers saw him and shouted. His mother came and cried out, calling on him to return to the ground. He shouted back that he was going away and he would never come back. His father called to him. Neighbours and relatives, drawn by the noise, came and called to him. To all he gave the same answer: he was going away and he would never return.

The stool carried him into the air until he reached the land above the clouds. He got off the stool and walked for some way through empty lands of trees and bushes until he met some people cutting grass to serve as thatch. Murile asked them where he was, and they said they had no time to speak to idle hands. So Murile joined them in their work and cut several bundles of grass which he bound up with vines. Then the people told him he was in the land of the Moon, and that the Moon had a great palace, and they pointed him in the direction of the palace. Murile walked on, and a bit further he found young men cutting saplings to serve as a base for the thatch roofs. Murile helped them, and they pointed him on his way. Closer to the settlement he found fields, and there he helped the people who were setting and watering beds, and others who were hoeing the weeds. After the fields he came to the well, and he helped the water-carriers by carrying a pot back into the kitchen area.

The women who were preparing the food invited him to sit and join the meal when they fed the workers, and so he sat down with the other men. To his surprise, the food was not cooked. There were roots and bulbs, such as he ate at home, but although they were sliced thin they were still raw. There were thin strips of meat laid over the pounded grain, but these too were raw. Murile wondered at this, and after the meal he asked the head cook if that was the only way they knew to prepare their food. The cook answered that it was.

‘I know a different way,’ said Murile. ‘Give me some tubers and some meat, and I shall show you something new.’ The cook agreed and gave Murile the foodstuffs. Murile went behind the palace and collected some dry wood and some tinder and laid out a fire. Then he made himself a fire-starter from several pieces of wood: the base and the twirling shaft, and a small bow whose string was looped around the shaft. He sawed with the bow for a short time and soon the tinder began to glow and smoke, and after that the dry wood caught on fire. Murile roasted the tubers in the coals and then grilled the meat on sticks. He brought the meal back to the cook who tasted it and cried out in delight and amazement. The cook immediately hastened to the Moon to offer him this new delicacy, and Murile followed after.

The Moon was delighted with the new foods, and promised Murile any reward he might wish for the secret of its preparation. Murile asked for such wealth as was available, and he was given cattle and goats and sheep, as well as several wives. He settled in the Moon’s palace and lived there for some time.

After many years, he felt a longing for the earth and his family. So he thought how he might manage a return. He had told his family that he would never return, but such promises can be changed. He decided to send a bird as a messenger to announce his return. The bird flew down to Murile’s family and sang to them about his imminent return, but the people did not believe the words of a bird. Nevertheless, Murile set out. His wives and much of his wealth remained in the land of the Moon, but he took some boys to help him drive a great herd of cattle and goats before them. They walked and walked, for the path down to the earth was much longer when there was no flying stool to carry a body. After some time Murile began to feel tired. He was walking near his finest ox, a beautiful bull with great horns and a sleek coloured hide. The bull saw that he was tired, and spoke to him. The bull agreed to let Murile ride on his back if Murile swore that he would never touch the bull’s meat, and Murile readily made the promise, for he had no intention of ever using the bull for food. So Murile was riding a bull when he reached his parents’ camp.

They welcomed him joyously, for they had never expected to see him again and here he had returned bringing great wealth with him. He settled with them, giving strict instructions that the bull who had served as his steed must be kept in safety until the end of its days, and that its meat should never be used as food.

He lived with his family on earth for many years, and in this time the bull became old and slow. One day, without consulting his son, Murile’s father decided that the bull’s time had come and he slaughtered it. They cut up the meat and held a great feast. Murile realized that they were eating the meat of the bull which had helped him, and so he abstained from the meal. His mother noticed this, and became concerned that her son was not getting the nourishment he needed. She did not accept his reasons for not eating the meat of the bull. So she saved some of the fat and later prepared a dish of cooked grain in which she used the fat as seasoning.

As soon as Murile took a mouthful of the dish, the food spoke to him. ‘You have broken your promise,’ it said. ‘You said my meat would never touch your mouth.’

‘Mother,’ cried Murile, ‘you have given me the meat I forbade.’ But his mother simply told him to be quiet and to finish his meal. So he ate another mouthful, and yet another. But with each mouthful, his body sank further into the ground until he was completely swallowed up by the earth. So he disappeared, leaving his cattle and goats as wealth for his family.

Texts selected by Stephen Belcher in "African Myths of Origin", Penguin Books, UK, 2004, excerpts chapters 8 to 13. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.


DIET AND EATING BEHAVIOUR IN PREGNANCY

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Changes in diet and eating behaviour are an essential part of the stereotypical image of pregnancy, but surprisingly little research has concentrated on what women actually eat and why. Pregnant women are typically depicted as being plagued by strange and irresistible cravings as well as having aversions to certain foods. Nausea, familiarly, though inaccurately, known as 'morning sickness', is seen to be characteristic of pregnancy and in popular culture is regularly depicted as the earliest somatic symptom.

The regularity of the reporting of somatic symptoms across the world suggests that these symptoms and dietary change in pregnancy are driven by physiological and endocrinal factors. Certainly research in this area routinely assumes that these are the only drivers but it is likely that other, psychological factors may be as important. In the case of eating behaviour, a combination of dietary beliefs, an association of symptoms with diet in the past, and past dietary behaviour may be used to guide behaviour and interpret experience.

There are many traditional beliefs about what and how women should and should not eat during pregnancy, some of which appear to be common across cultures, for example that women should increase their food intake at least in the early stages, as summarised in the phrase `eating for two'. Other dietary beliefs seem to be very culturally specific and derive from belief systems relating to the body and the development of the foetus, for example pica ± the craving for and eating of non-food substances such as earth and clay, as Walker et al. (1997) investigated in South Africa.

Although the adoption of stereotypical beliefs may limit women's choices, it also sanctions behaviour that is otherwise not regarded as acceptable in young women, for example satisfying `cravings' allows high calorie eating patterns. Many young women restrict their calorific intake in pursuit of the current ideal feminine body shape in the developed world and concern is often expressed in the popular press in the developed world about children and young girls as young as seven years old restricting their food intake. It has been estimated that on any given day approximately 45 per cent of American women are on a diet. Eating disorders, principally anorexia and bulimia nervosa, are largely affictions of women (Andersen, 1995) and women of all ages express dissatisfaction with their body (Stevens and Tiggemann, 1998). Estimates of the prevalence of eating disorders in women of childbearing age have been found to be between 1 and 2 per cent (Fairburn and Beglin, 1990).

Further pressures on pregnant women come from external sources. As David-Floyd (1994) points out, the pregnant body can be seen as inappropriate. We see how pregnant celebrities are currently usually depicted in the media as remaining slim during pregnancy and rapidly regaining their pre-pregnancy shape. Therefore, for many women, pregnancy, with its accompanying change in body size and shape, may be seen as a personal challenge.

To add to these pressures, pregnant women are often the target of food scares in the media. In some instances this is because a link has been posited, by epidemiologists or basic scientists, between particular foodstuffs and foetal wellbeing (for example, there were reports in 2002 on the possible risks of drinking too much coffee and the dangers of mercury in tuna fish). In other cases, targeting arises because pregnant women are generally regarded as a vulnerable group, alongside older people and the very young. So if a foodstuff is discovered, or thought, to pose some health risk, then vulnerable groups are advised to avoid it. This was the case in the UK when there were reports on the risks of Salmonella in chicken eggs, which originally appeared in the 1980s and reoccurred in the late 1990s. How women respond to these scares is less frequently reported.

And it is not just the potential risk of poor foetal outcome; the diet of women during pregnancy has a significant impact on their long-term health. The most rapid rise in obesity and overweight in women occurs during the peak childbearing years (Department of Health, 2002) and obesity is a major factor in ante- and perinatal maternal deaths (Lewis and Drife, 2004). Importantly, for long-term health, 14-20 per cent of women are 5kg or more heavier 6±18 months post partum, compared to their prepregnancy weight (Keppel and Taffel, 1993; Ohlin and Rossner, 1990). As has been regularly documented, obesity and overweight are increasingly important health problems and are associated with a number of diseases including hypertension, type II diabetes, cardiovascular disease and some types of cancer (NIH, 1998).

Despite the known impact of diet on the health of women, it has taken the results of long-term studies of its impact on the health of offspring into adulthood to prompt the interest of mainstream medical researchers in maternal nutrition during pregnancy, outside underdeveloped countries where even basic nutrition is problematic. Poor maternal nutrition has long been linked to foetal and child ill-health. This effect is due not only to insufficient energy intake overall but also to the incorrect balance of food types and nutrients, leading to restricted intrauterine growth, low birthweight, prematurity and other perinatal morbidity (Kramer, 1993). More recent research suggests that several diseases of later life also originate from impaired intrauterine growth and development, leading to permanent effects on structure, physiology and metabolism (Godfrey and Barker, 2000; Mathews et al., 1999).

This is known as the 'foetal origins' or Barker hypothesis, named after David Barker who studied the records of 16,000 men and women born in Hertfordshire, England from 1911 to 1930 and whose records can be traced to the present day. The birth records on which these studies were based came to light as a result of the Medical Research Council's systematic search of the archives and records offices of Britain. The Hertfordshire records were maintained by health visitors and include measurements of growth in infancy as well as birthweight. Death rates from coronary heart disease fell two-fold between those at the lower and upper ends of the birthweight distribution. Barker concluded: The fetal origins hypothesis states that fetal under nutrition in middle to late gestation, which leads to disproportionate fetal growth, programmes later coronary heart disease' (Barker, 1995: 171).

Similar results have been reported in other European countries, India and the US. More recently, excessive maternal weight gain has also been related to perinatal problems in babies (Kabiru and Raynor, 2004) and to childhood obesity (Whitaker, 2004). Higher levels of obesity and of infant mortality and morbidity (associated with poor maternal nutrition) are seen in more disadvantaged groups in the UK (Department of Health, 2002; Macfarlane et al., 2000). This work prompted an ongoing large-scale survey of the lifestyle and dietary behaviour of 20- to 34-year-old women in Southampton in southern England. Three thousand of the 12,500 women surveyed became pregnant during the course of the study, and their dietary behaviour is being closely monitored.

Such surveys and monitoring research will add considerably to our knowledge of what women eat during pregnancy and how their diet changes. However, we still know little about what prompts women to change their diets during pregnancy and what external pressures, personal beliefs and habits underlie the dietary choices they make: for example, whether women who eat healthily prior to pregnancy make more changes than those who do not. In this chapter we consider the research on various aspects of dietary behaviour during pregnancy and re¯ect on research perspectives. On the one hand these perspectives take pregnancy out of the context of women's lives and, except in the extreme case of eating disorders, disregard previous eating behaviours. On the other hand they fail to take account of the influence of women's culturally embedded beliefs about pregnancy as a different and specific physical experience.

Dietary beliefs and dietary change

There seems to be general agreement among those with expertise in nutrition and women themselves that diet should change during pregnancy.

At the very least, the extra demands on the body call for increased calorie consumption of about an extra 200 calories a day. Beyond this consensus, however, there seems to be wide variation about what exactly is an appropriate diet during pregnancy, with competing information from the media, health professionals and pregnancy manuals and from family and friends. Beliefs about changing one's diet during pregnancy may be associated with the wellbeing of the mother, with the wellbeing of the baby or with a desirable weight gain. Such beliefs may be rooted in the woman's own past eating behaviour, in antenatal health education or may have been transmitted from generation to generation within a particular culture or subculture.

One of the first questions we should ask is whether women do deliberately change their diet during pregnancy for either their own or their child's wellbeing. The answer, from our own and others' work, suggests that they do, and that the changes seem rather more motivated by concern for their child than themselves.

Two early studies of US women looked at how they reported changing their diet (Norman and Adams, 1970; Orr and Simmons, 1979). In Norman and Adams' (1970) study, approximately two-thirds of the women reported adjusting their diet. Such adjustments included adding, reducing or eliminating foods. Greater intakes of dairy products together with fruit and vegetables have generally been reported as usual dietary additions.

High sugar foods such as desserts, chocolates and biscuits were the items most commonly reported to be reduced or eliminated, as were foods with a high salt or fat content. Orr and Simmons (1979) found that most of the women they studied believed diet to be important for both mother and baby, though a substantial number did not recognise its importance for mothers. However, they did report that they were prompted to change their diet on the basis of advice from health professionals, who may have placed more explicit emphasis on change.

Most studies rely on women's reports of how they change their diets rather than measuring actual food intake. In a study we carried out we examined the eating patterns of a demographically mixed sample of 102 women during their first or second pregnancy by exploring specific changes that they made to their diet, as well as how somatic symptoms associated with pregnancy, such as nausea, affect food choice, and how dietary beliefs influenced women's food choice (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003, 2004).

We found that 79 per cent of women reported that they should increase consumption of certain foods and 82 per cent reported trying to avoid certain foods. The foods increased were fruit, vegetables and dairy products whereas the foods avoided were foods high in sugar and fat and those that health professionals and other advisors had suggested were dangerous, such as soft cheeses. However, when we measured the actual frequency of consumption, no significant difference was found between when women last consumed the food they felt they should increase or avoid and their current reported intake, suggesting that other factors are at play.

In a study in the US, Pope et al. (1997) studied dietary changes in pregnant adolescents. Their results indicated that the pregnant girls' diets were more nutrient dense than a matched sample of non-pregnant girls. Since becoming pregnant, a majority reported that they had increased the amount of food eaten, specifically milk/dairy products, vegetables, fresh fruit/unsweetened juices,  breads/cereals and chocolate. Health professionals' influence was cited for increased intake of vitamin supplements and milk, but not for changes in food intake. The major motivations for increasing food intake during pregnancy seemed to be food cravings, increased appetite, improved taste of food and concern for the baby.

So there is evidence that women report changing their diets in such a way as to increase their calorific intake, and specifically increasing certain foodstuffs and reducing intake of others. However, what they actually eat is not simply motivated by dietary advice from midwives or nutritionists. One interpretation of our own findings is that the women in our sample knew what foods their midwives would recommend them to eat, but that somatic symptoms such as nausea, or other beliefs about diet, affected their food choices as well as presumably personal preferences. Traditional beliefs may significantly influence dietary patterns and many are not consistent with recommended guidelines for nutrition during pregnancy. Examples of these include eating for two, not mixing certain foods, taking vitamins to overcome an inadequate diet and eating only a few selected foods.

The impact these traditional beliefs have on dietary behaviour in developed countries may be limited because of increasing access to resources, for example formal education, the internet and pregnancy magazines as well as positive media attention promoting healthy eating and regular contact with health professionals, which would subsequently encourage a different attitude towards diet to be established. In our own work in a UK population, belief in traditional eating patterns varied with educational level so that more highly educated women were less likely to endorse such beliefs and less likely to report suffering cravings (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003). However, in this sample educational level was confounded with socioeconomic status, as it is in many studies.

In a sample of 6,125 non-pregnant women from the Southampton study, mentioned above, Robinson et al. (2004) examined the in¯uence of socio-demographic and anthropometric factors on the quality of the diets of young women in the UK. They found that educational attainment was the most important factor related to the quality of the diet consumed. In all, 55 per cent of women with no educational qualifications had scores in the lowest quarter of the distribution, compared to only 3 per cent of those who had a degree. Smoking, watching television, lack of strenuous exercise and living with children were also associated with lower diet scores. After taking these factors into account, no other factor including social class, the deprivation score of the neighbourhood or receipt of benefits added more than 1 per cent to the variance in the diet score. The significance of these findings is that they suggest that poor diets in general in this group are not simply a result of the level of deprivation, but reflect a more general pattern of health behaviour that is linked to poor access to information sources through education.

Some support for this thesis comes from our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2004) where women who reported making changes to their diet were also more likely to have made additional changes to their lifestyle. Although there was no variation on alcohol intake (all women who previously drank alcohol reported cutting down or abstaining from alcohol consumption during pregnancy), more educated and younger women were more likely to have attended antenatal classes and changed their exercise levels. In our study, women who increased exercise and women who decreased exercise were classified together as having made a change.

In considering how women respond to pregnancy we should not forget that people's belief systems are complex and they can simultaneously hold beliefs which are conflicting and contradictory. A study carried out by Carruth and Skinner (1991) found that a substantial proportion of clients of the 1,771 practitioners they surveyed had beliefs about physiological needs during pregnancy, practices related to a healthy baby and alcohol and caffeine consumption that were not significantly different from those endorsed by the American Dietetic Association.

However, they also held beliefs, particularly about cravings, which showed strong regional differences, and which represent traditional views not supported by dieticians (e.g. eating for two, eating only a few selected foods, restricting salt intake, taking vitamins to overcome an inadequate diet and deciding that pregnancy is a good time to lose weight). This study was performed in the US. However, few similar studies have been done elsewhere to assess whether similar beliefs exist and if so to what extent. Nevertheless, as we discuss below, advice given by midwives and in publications for pregnant women is often vague, recommending a 'healthy diet' and being open to interpretation within the woman's own belief system. Many traditional beliefs about diet in pregnancy revolve around cravings, aversions and somatic symptoms of pregnancy, particularly nausea and vomiting, and we will now consider these in more detail.

Cravings, aversions and somatic symptoms

Many women report cravings and aversions towards particular foods during pregnancy; the reported occurrence in the literature ranges from 66 to 85 per cent. Cravings and aversions are undoubtedly at least partially interrelated with beliefs as the behaviour of consuming or avoiding particular foods during pregnancy may be directly related to cultural or social values. For example, there is a strong belief system within certain cultures to support pica, which is the consumption of non-food substances such as clay and earth. Food cravings may also be experienced as a somatic symptom though these are also likely to be influenced by cultural beliefs (Bayley et al., 2002).

The medical model of pregnancy suggests that all experience of pregnancy is related to physiological and endocrinal change, thus much early research on cravings and aversions assumed that the root of these desires is a mechanism to protect the foetus. Therefore, cravings are seen as a way of making up for dietary inadequacies and aversions, and nausea and vomiting are seen as a way of protecting the foetus from noxious substances.

Traditional beliefs about food restrictions have also been investigated in this way. Fessler (2002), for example, suggests that maternal immunosuppression, which is necessary for tolerance of the foetus, results in vulnerability to pathogens. Symptoms could be a 'behavioural prophylaxis' against infection, with nausea and aversions leading to the avoidance of foods likely to carry pathogens, and cravings leading to foods which boost the immune system. A similar conclusion is reached in a review by Flaxman and Sherman (2000) of morning sickness and pregnancy outcome. This was particularly assumed in the case of pica, the most extreme and unusual of cravings. These assumptions are also found in the explanations women themselves give for what they are experiencing.

Several studies carried out in the US by Carruth and Skinner on pregnant adolescents identified beliefs which gave a 'physiological basis' for cravings. For example 'I should give in to my cravings or I will harm my baby' and 'foods that make me feel sick must be bad for my baby' (Pope et al. 1992).

Several other studies which have looked at the impact of pica on pregnancy outcome appear to refute the dietary deficiency theory. In certain societies pica is common. Luoba et al. (2004) found that 378 of the 827 women they studied in western Kenya were eating earth. Horner et al. (1991), in a review of pica in the US, showed that the prevalence of pica among pregnant women from poor, rural and predominantly black areas declined between the 1950s and the 1970s but then remained constant.

They conclude that the evidence suggests that pica during pregnancy is associated with anaemia and with maternal and perinatal mortality. Lopez et al. (2004) found a prevalence of 23 to 44 per cent in Latin America. Rainville (1998) investigated the association of pica with two adverse pregnancy outcomes: low birthweight and preterm birth in a group of women from Texas, US. This study found a wide range and a high prevalence of pica if it was more broadly defined than usual; normally pica is used to refer to the craving for and practice of eating soil, clay or dirt.

In particular, the pica sample comprised those eating: ice, 53.7 per cent of their sample; ice and freezer frost, 14.6 per cent; other substances such as baking soda, baking powder, cornstarch, laundry starch, baby powder, clay or dirt, 8.2 per cent. Those reporting no pica as defined in this way only amounted to 23.5 per cent of the sample. Women in all three pica groups had lower iron levels at delivery but there were no differences in mean birthweight. In the UK, pica is rarer; our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003) found only three women who experienced craving for non-food substances, all of whom came from non-European ethnic groups and none of whom actually ate the substances they craved.

So there is little evidence that pica attenuates dietary deficiencies, though this may be the belief of women who practice it (Ukaonu et al., 2003); in fact it probably increases them. A meta-analysis of pica research found that ethnicity was the most important predictive variable (Simpson et al., 2000). Geissler et al. (1999) showed a strong associated between pica and anaemia and iron depletion in women from Kenya. The women themselves described soil-eating as a predominantly female practice with strong relations to fertility and reproduction. They made associations between soil-eating, the condition of the blood and certain bodily states. The beliefs women held about eating soil re¯ect both a kind of dietary deficiency thesis and the protection against illness thesis explored below.

Geissler et al. emphasise the importance of social and cultural contexts for how women interpret the experience of pregnancy. They conclude that pica is not simply a behavioural response to physiological need but rather that it is a rich cultural practice. Most western cultures regard pica as deviant and repulsive; Lopez et al. (2004) describe pica as a 'disorder'. Its practice is therefore secret and hidden and Henry and Kwong (2003) argue that pica is stigmatised in American society because of the meaning of dirt in that culture. However, they also argue that the consumption of vitamins and dietary supplements constitutes a similar type of behaviour, done for similar reasons, albeit that it is regarded differently in health terms.

In contrast to pica, nausea is experienced by pregnant women of many cultures. In studies in the developed world, the majority of women report experiencing some nausea. A cross-cultural analysis by Flaxman and Sherman (2000) revealed 20 `traditional' societies in which morning sickness has been observed and seven in which it has never been observed.

As we discuss below, there is evidence that nausea affects food choice and is related to food aversions. However, the theory or belief that nausea and vomiting in pregnancy protect women from ingesting certain vegetables or foods that cause congenital abnormalities and other adverse outcomes of pregnancy is questionable. There have been a number of studies exploring the links between nausea, dietary intake and pregnancy outcome in terms of miscarriage or birthweight. Several of these have found no significant association between them (Brown et al., 1997; Hook, 1978; Walker et al., 1985; Wijwardene et al., 1994) but Lee et al. (2004) found an association between even mild morning sickness and birthweight, and concluded that this was because it reduces dietary diversity and nutrient intakes. A study carried out in the US suggested that the women with the most extreme condition (hyperemesis gravidarum) had babies of lower gestational age and had longer antenatal hospital stays (Paauw et al., 2005).

In our own work (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003, 2004), nausea and vomiting were the most common symptoms affecting food choice; most women responded by avoiding altogether foods they associated with nausea. Reasons that were cited for aversions in a study among Saudi women were smell (9.4 per cent), vomiting (28 per cent), diarrhoea (2.5 per cent), undesirable effect on foetus (7.8 per cent) and heartburn (18.7 per cent) (Al-Kanhal and Bani, 1995).

Dietary aversions usually occur earlier in pregnancy than do cravings and are frequently reported as being more severe. The most common aversions in US samples appear to be towards alcohol, coffee, meat and foods which have a distinct flavour or smell, for example spicy foods or Italian foods (Hook, 1978; Pope et al., 1992). Pope et al. (1997) found that many of the adolescents they studied (66 per cent) experienced aversions during pregnancy towards previously liked foods. The most common aversions were to meats, eggs and pizza and led to decreased consumption of these foods.

In our study too (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003), 72 per cent of women developed aversions to food. The most commonly reported aversions were to meat (20 per cent) and spicy foods (20 per cent), though a small number (3 per cent) had developed an aversion to fruit and vegetables. Aversions were usually linked to nausea, with the smell or taste of these foods inducing nausea and/or being associated with an incidence of vomiting.

This pattern of aversion suggests that rather than being a specific characteristic of pregnancy, aversions could re¯ect a way in which women respond generally to foods that they associate with nausea. It is well known that people generally can develop aversions to foods through a process of associative learning. Whether or not the food was the cause of the nausea, the coincidental association of a bout of nausea or vomiting with a food is enough to create an aversion. In other words, nausea is created by hormonal changes during pregnancy but women interpret this symptom in the same way they would at other times and develop a taste aversion.

Data to support this come from a study by Bayley et al. (2002) who studied the temporal association between the first occurrences of nausea, vomiting, food cravings and food aversions during pregnancy. Of the women in their sample, nausea and vomiting were reported by 80 per cent and 56 per cent respectively, and food cravings and aversions by 61 per cent and 54 per cent respectively. Cravings and aversions were not related. There was a significant positive correlation between week of onset of nausea and of aversions. In 60 per cent of women reporting both nausea and food aversions the first occurrence of each happened in the same week of pregnancy. No such association was found for cravings.

In the developed world, while pica is very uncommon, other cravings and aversions are common and rather prosaic. Pope et al. (1997) found that their US sample most frequently reported cravings for: sweets, especially chocolate; fruit and fruit juices; fast foods; pickles; ice cream; and pizza. Adolescents craving sweets during pregnancy consumed more sugar than those who did not crave sweets. Cravings generally resulted in increased intake, and aversions led to decreased food consumption. In our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003), 62 per cent of women reported cravings.

The most popular food craved was chocolate (32 per cent) and other foods craved were generally high carbohydrate and/or high fat foods, that is, bread, pasta, ice cream, chips, fruit, meat and what was generically termed 'McDonalds' (5 per cent of the sample). As in the study reported earlier (Pope et al., 1997), the women with cravings had increased their intake of these foods, with 91 per cent having consumed the food they craved in the 24 hours before they were interviewed.

It is clear then that cravings can have a significant role in diet during pregnancy as they may increase total intake of food or change the proportion of foods eaten. However, cravings are not exclusive to pregnancy. They are frequently reported in the general population and typically tend to involve foods high in sugar and/or fat, such as chocolate (Yanovski, 2003). So, can cravings in pregnancy be regarded as an extension of a normal experience?

There are two relevant theories as to why cravings develop and why they endure (Cepeda-Benito and Gleaves, 2001). The first suggests that substances in the food supply a dietary imbalance. This imbalance may be caused in various ways, for example by dieting or by a nutritional deficiency. This is the theory that most closely links to the dietary deficiency hypothesis outlined above. So the increased need for calories in pregnancy, for example, would cause cravings for high calorie foods. The second type of craving theory is that of 'incentive hypothesis' of craving. This suggests that cravings are a result of learning what foods produce feelings of wellbeing.

This theory suggests that people have cravings for these particular foods because they have learned that the consumption of particular foods leads them to feel good. In psychological learning theory terms, they have learned to associate the food with positive reinforcement. This reinforcement can either take the form of physiological or psychological reinforcement (Wise, 1988).

The incentive hypothesis is supported by research into chocolate craving. In both the UK and the US, chocolate is widely reported to be the most commonly craved food. Michener and Rozin (1994) refuted the suggestion that this is because of the psycho-pharmacologically active substances in chocolate (e.g. caffeine), as they found that capsules containing the same
substances did not reduce cravings. It seems most likely that chocolate tastes and smells good to people. Rogers and Smit (2000) concluded that chocolate is simply a common example of the kind of food which people tend to associate with pleasant taste, smell and texture, that is, one that is high in fat and sugar.

Hill and Heaton-Brown (1994) looked at food cravings in healthy, non-binge-eating women. They found that the most frequently craved food was chocolate (high fat, high carbohydrate), with cravings for savoury foods, such as pizza, being much less frequently observed. In contrast to the accounts given by pregnant women, the food cravings reported by these women were seen as positive, pleasant, hunger-reducing, mood-improving experiences rather than reflecting any biological need. So despite differences in the beliefs that pregnant and non-pregnant women have for their cravings, the cravings themselves are for similar types of food. Furthermore, Crystal et al. (1999) found a significant association between experiencing cravings and aversions prior to pregnancy and experiencing cravings and aversions during pregnancy.

A number of more general studies suggest that women's diet during pregnancy is strongly influenced by their tastes and eating habits before pregnancy. Mathews and Neil (1998) studied 774 women in the early stages of pregnancy and found that their dietary intake was very similar to that of non-pregnant women and accordingly they were short of some nutrients thought to be important for foetal health. Perhaps the most striking results in this regard come from a qualitative study of the diets of pregnant teenagers for the Maternity Alliance and the Food Commission in the UK (Burchett and Seeley, 2003). They gave detailed accounts of the reasons why they did not eat foods that they regarded as healthy, and the most common reason, given by nearly half of the teenagers, was dislike of that foodstuff. Cost was also a factor for a fifth of them and a number also said that the foods were unfamiliar or not offered in their homes. Other reasons for avoiding healthy foods were the effort required to buy them and cook them.

In summary, most of the research on aversions and cravings in pregnancy has stemmed from the assumption that the dietary behaviour of pregnant women is a direct result of pregnancy. So aversions and cravings are assumed to result from biological processes which protect women from infection and restore dietary deficiencies. Although there may be some merit in this approach, it ignores the lifetime of experience that women have had with food, particularly in relation to cravings. So is this a time when women feel less restrained in their eating?

Restrained and unrestrained eating

Unlike diet in pregnancy, the concept of dietary restraint has been widely studied by psychologists. Dietary restraint refers to the tendency to restrict food intake, usually in order to lose weight, or to maintain slimness. It is a volitional but stable behaviour. Herman and Polivy (1983) developed the 'boundary' model of eating behaviour, which suggests that two physiological boundaries determine when people start and stop eating: hunger and satiation. However, restrained eaters have another self-imposed boundary, which overrides the other boundaries - the diet boundary, that is, the amount of food (or calories) that restrained eaters believe they should consume. This diet boundary overrides the normal hunger and satiation boundaries. Dietary restraint is common in women in western cultures as evidenced by the high proportion of women who report dieting at any one time. It is beyond the scope of this book to give a detailed account of the impact of pregnancy on severe eating disorders. Here we will look at the evidence that what might be termed 'normal' dieting behaviour before pregnancy has an impact on what and how much women eat during pregnancy.

Pregnancy might be a time when social pressures for slimness could be expected to be relaxed, thus resulting in reduced weight concern despite an increase in body size. Women may therefore be less restrained in terms of what and how much they choose to eat, causing weight gain to be higher. On the other hand, restrained eaters may remain subject to the cultural pressure to be slim and continue or even increase their dieting behaviour. Similarly, restrained eaters may be happy with their pregnancy shape, as it is something apart from their normal experience, or restrained eaters may see the weight and size gained in pregnancy as distasteful. The evidence on both these issues is contradictory.

Davies and Wardle (1994) evaluated body image, body satisfaction and dieting behaviour in pregnancy, expecting women to feel less social pressure to be slim. Pregnant women certainly had a lower 'drive for thinness', had lower body dissatisfaction and rated themselves as less overweight than non-pregnant comparisons. However, they showed similar preference for size of figure to non-pregnant women.

These findings suggest that pregnancy is a time of relaxation in concerns about weight, but that this change is temporary and does not override women's general beliefs about their ideal weight and body shape. Davies and Wardle's findings chime with our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003). We did not measure dietary restraint directly; however, the women we interviewed were significantly more likely to be satisfied with their pre-pregnancy shape than current shape. And those who were more satisfied with their pre-pregnancy shape were more confident they could regain it. This suggests that the women who had experience of successful weight control before pregnancy were confident in their ability to exercise such control again.

Clark and Ogden (1999) investigated the role of dietary restraint in mediating changes in eating behaviour and weight concern in pregnancy. They also compared pregnant and non-pregnant women. The pregnant women reported eating more, showed lower levels of dietary restraint and were less dissatisfied with their body shape than the non-pregnant group. They also showed higher eating self-efficacy, that is, the belief that one can control one's own eating. The pregnant women rated themselves as less restrained in their eating behaviour than they had been immediately before their pregnancy and nearly half reported eating more.

Clark and Ogden also found that the previously restrained eaters, when pregnant, rated themselves as significantly less hungry and having greater eating self-efficacy than the non-pregnant restrained eaters. They were comparable in these regards to non-restrained eaters. The results showed no effect of restrained eating on weight change. Clark and Ogden concluded that for women who normally restrain their eating, pregnancy both legitimises an increased food intake and removes previous intentions to eat less.

But other studies contradict these findings. For instance, Conway et al. (1999) studied dietary intake and weight gain during pregnancy in relation to dietary restraint in a longitudinal study of women from early to late pregnancy. In their study, current dietary restraint was measured (i.e. restraint employed during pregnancy). They found that restrained eaters were less likely to experience weight gains within the recommended range for their pre-pregnancy body mass index (a ratio of height to weight). This went either way such that some gained more weight and some less weight than recommended.

DiPietro et al. (2003) studied pregnant women's weight-related attitudes and behaviours in relation to several psychological and social characteristics. This was not a longitudinal study, rather women's attitudes about weight gain were assessed once at 36 weeks of pregnancy Several variables had been assessed prior to this, namely anxiety, depression, social support, emotionality and perceived stress (pregnancy-specific and non-specific). Twenty-one per cent of the women were restricting their food intake in some way during pregnancy. The women who reported more restrictive behaviours were more anxious, depressed, angry, stressed and felt less uplifted about their pregnancies in general. Those women who were more positive about their bodies during pregnancy felt better about their pregnancies in general. They also were less depressed and felt less angry. On the other hand, women who were self-conscious about their pregnancy weight gain felt more hassled by their pregnancies and felt greater anger, though they also reported more support from their partners.

Women's feelings about their weight gain were not related to their body mass index before their pregnancy. The authors noted that negative attitudes about weight gain existed among women who gained weight within the recommended ranges. All this suggests that women's attitudes to weight gain during pregnancy are related to their general feelings about their pregnancy and psychological health rather than to their general feelings about their weight and their eating habits during pregnancy. A number of other studies have also found that women with a history of dieting are less satisfied with their bodies during pregnancy than those who do not normally diet (Abraham et al., 1994; Fairburn and Welch, 1990; Wood Baker et al., 1999).

So why do different studies have contradictory findings on the influence of women's dietary restraint before pregnancy? One obvious difference between studies is whether they involve women who restrained their eating before pregnancy (e.g. Clark and Ogden, 1999) or refer only to women who restrained their eating during pregnancy (e.g. Conway et al., 1999). These may well represent different groups of women, or the latter may be a subset of the former. However, other reasons for contradictory findings may lie in more recent theories of dietary restraint.

Recent work has established that dietary restraint itself is not a unitary phenomenon and can be applied in different ways. Joachim Westenhoefer proposes that there are two types of restraint: glexible and rigid. These two styles may lead to different strategies for dietary change during pregnancy.

Flexible restraint involves adaptation to the current circumstances, so while food intake is carefully controlled overall, if large amounts of food, or high calorie foods, are eaten on one occasion, this is compensated for by eating less on a later occasion. Rigid restraint on the other hand is an 'all or nothing' approach. Rigidly restrained eaters tend to diet frequently, but if they do eat foods that they feel they should avoid, then they do not compensate by eating less. These are the  classic type of restrainers  classified by Herman and Polivy (1983) as exhibiting the 'what the hell' effect. One implication of this for diet during pregnancy is that rigidly restrained women, once they have veered away from a weight control diet, may be expected to give up weight control entirely. The main reasons why rigid restrainers may stop restraining what they eat are the lack of social pressure to be slim and the sanction of eating forbidden foods because of cravings.

Herman and Mack (1975) discovered that an important characteristic of restrained eaters is that they can be induced to eat more than non-restrained eaters if they first consume a 'preload' - usually a sweet high calorie drink. However, Westenhoefer et al. (1994) found that flexible restrained eaters ate less following eating the preload than did rigid restrained eaters. Presumably this mimics their normal eating patterns. So flexible eaters make up for eating a high calorie food by eating less or low calorie foods, whereas once rigid eaters breach their 'diet boundary' they do not seem able to control their eating. It is noteworthy that most craved foods during pregnancy have high sugar content and are high in calories. If rigidly restrained eaters eat craved foods one would predict that this would act like a preload, and they would not compensate for it. Flexible restraint is associated with the absence of overeating more generally and low levels of depression and anxiety (Smith et al., 1999). If the participants in different studies of eating during pregnancy involve different types of restrained eaters, or a mixture of the two, they should find different patterns of restraint and different levels of weight control. Unfortunately, studies of dietary change in pregnancy have not provided
conclusive evidence on this yet.

Advice, recommendations and food scares

During the last century the majority of medical authorities recommended that weight gain during pregnancy should not exceed 9.1kg, primarily to prevent the development of maternal toxaemia, foetal macrosomia and caesarean deliveries. These recommendations increased to 11.4kg in the 1970s because it was felt that insuf®cient weight gain could contribute to premature births and to low birthweight babies born at the expected date. However, in 1990, an influential report from the Institute of Medicine in the US (U.S. Institute of Medicine, 1990) recommended weight gain ranges of 11.4-15.9kg with the primary goals of improving infant birthweight and ensuring the best outcome for the mother.

These weight gain recommendations vary according to the pre-pregnancy weight to height ratio as measured by body mass index (BMI). However, a significant number of normal weight women and an even greater proportion of overweight women in the US exceed these guidelines (Abrams et al., 2000). In fact, published studies suggest that only 30-40 per cent of women have weight gains within the Institute of Medicine's recommended ranges, with some gaining less weight than recommended but most gaining more weight than the guidelines suggest they should (International Federation of Gynaecology and Obstetrics, 1993).

In countries such as the US and UK, midwives and other health professionals see it as part of their role to offer advice on diet and weight gain, so why is this advice apparently not acted on? Is it so difficult to follow? As we have discussed above, there are various factors which influence dietary behaviour which may lead to weight gain above or below guidelines, such as dietary beliefs, cravings and aversions.

However, the nature of the advice that women receive and their interpretation of that advice may also influence behaviour. As we also discuss in relation to physical activity in the next chapter, advice given by midwives and publications for pregnant women is often vague, recommending a 'healthy diet'. Here, as in the general population, if health education messages do not fit lay health models, they are less likely to be taken up (Ikeda, 1999; Lupton and Chapman, 1995). In other words, the form and content of the advice, the language used and directions for how to act on the advice have to be understood and integrated into what the woman knows and believes. For example, American adolescents interviewed by Skinner et al. (1996) said they would prefer to watch a video with a 'talking baby' or teenage actresses presenting the information than read a lea¯et or book. They also wanted more information about food than nutrients.

It should also be remembered that health professionals are not the only sources of advice; women have access, to varying degrees, to information from family, friends, magazines, books, television and other media and increasingly to the internet. For example, Lewallen (2004) found that family members were a common source of advice for low-income pregnant women in the US, and in our study of a varied group of women in the UK (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003), less highly educated women and women from minority ethnic groups were less likely to use books, magazines and the internet. These variations are important because the type and content of advice from different sources vary and may conflict.

The majority of women in Norman and Adams' (1970) study reported that they had made changes in their diet because of dietary advice from health professionals. Orr and Simmons (1979) assessed patients' satisfaction with dietary advice received and found that the majority of patients expressed satisfaction with the amount of information received. A study by Cogswell et al. (1999) revealed that reported advice during pregnancy is strongly associated with actual weight gain. However, about half of the women in their study reported having received no advice, or inappropriate advice from healthcare professionals about weight gain during pregnancy: Overweight women were more likely to report having received advice to gain weight greater than the recommended amount during pregnancy. What these studies have in common is that the reported behaviour fits in with the reported advice. Thus, women have created a narrative which is internally consistent, sanctioning behaviour by providing an account of official advice.

In our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003) 30 per cent reported having received no advice from their midwife or general practitioner. The majority of women who remembered receiving advice said they would have liked more than simply being advised to 'eat healthily' and explanations of why certain foods should be avoided. Women who were more highly educated and expecting their first child were most likely to seek out alternative sources of information, particularly books, magazines and the internet. Often, nutritional advice is given in antenatal clinics, however not all women actually attend these clinics and the women who do are usually found to be of higher than average socioeconomic, educational and occupational status, characteristics which are also found to be associated with already better than average nutritional knowledge and dietary practices (Fowles, 2002). This implies that populations that are more in need of additional advice and information are less likely to receive it.

Midwives in the UK no longer specify optimum levels of weight gain for most women, and for several years women were not weighed. Fowles (2002) found that most women had inadequate general nutritional knowledge and therefore, hardly surprisingly, their dietary intake did not meet all the nutritional requirements of pregnancy. Women are usually encouraged to improve their diet during pregnancy but information on how to improve diet is vague. Most advice mentions fresh fruit and vegetables or eating a 'balanced diet'. However, this kind of advice, to simply eat 'more healthily' throughout pregnancy, is not sufficient if women do not have the knowledge for it to act as a prompt to particular behaviours. Furthermore, as we have discussed above, traditional beliefs about what constitutes a healthy diet during pregnancy are likely to be at odds with current nutritional theories.

The vagueness of advice on positively improving diet during pregnancy is in stark contrast to advice on what should be avoided. Often starting as food scares in newspapers, or on television and radio news programmes, advice about avoiding hazardous foodstuffs is often extremely specific. As we said in the introduction to this chapter, pregnant women often find themselves the focus of food scares. They may be a specific focus of information because a link has been made between a food and foetal or, more rarely, maternal health. They may also be targeted because they are perceived as vulnerable to health hazards. Women are more vulnerable, of course, during pregnancy because of their suppressed immune system (necessary so their body does not reject the foreign tissue of their baby). However, in this instance the person perceived to be vulnerable is more likely to be the baby; the targeting of the mother stems from their custodianship of their baby's health.

During the period of our study (Pattison and Bhagrath, 2003) there were two main food scares directed at pregnant women. One concerned coffee, which was linked to stillbirth and early infant death in an epidemiological study published in the British Medical Journal (Wisborg et al., 2003). This finding was taken up by various newspapers and other media in the UK. The second concerned tuna fish, and followed on from previous studies on the mercury content of oily sea fish such as marlin and shark. These other fish do not form a major part of British women's diets.

However, when it was found that tuna may also contain high levels of mercury, this information was quickly spread in the media and incorporated into The Food Standard Agency guidelines. Of the women we interviewed only about a third had heard either or both the coffee and tuna stories. However, 72 per cent of those who had heard responded by eliminating or drastically reducing their intake of the food, but the others did not change their consumption at all. This emphasises one of the harmful effects of food scares. While reducing coffee intake is unlikely to harm women, it may make them feel uncomfortable. However, tuna is generally regarded as a healthy food, so the elimination of it is not likely to improve women's diets.

In a survey commissioned by SMA (a baby milk producer) in 2003, 558 mothers with children aged between 12 months and two years in the UK and the Republic of Ireland were questioned about their diet during pregnancy and what they believed about foods that constituted a healthy diet. The results showed that while they were aware of food scares, they did not always know or understand the research findings which formed their basis. Some foods were regarded as unsafe through a generalisation from another food. So 60 per cent of women believed that cottage cheese, which is a safe, low-fat source of protein, was unsafe because they failed to make a distinction between this and soft cheeses which may carry listeria.

However, in other cases women failed to generalise from one food to others which were similarly hazardous. For example, most avoided or reduced their intake of coffee, because of the risk of caffeine, yet 70 per cent believed that diet cola drinks, which also contain caffeine, were safe. In one of our studies we also found that women reduced their intake of coffee in an attempt to avoid caffeine, but increased their intake of other caffeine-containing drinks such as tea and cola drinks (Gross and Pattison, 1995).

Research that underpins dietary advice is often presented in a way which makes it very difficult to interpret. Take the following extract from the Babyworld website:

"Research published in 1999 suggested that high doses of vitamin C and vitamin E may help reduce the incidence of pre-eclampsia in women at high risk of developing the illness. Although this seems encouraging news, most experts remain unconvinced. First, the study was very small (only 160 women completed the study) so the results may not be accurate (a larger trial is being planned). Secondly, there is some doubt over the safety of the massive doses required of the two vitamins". (Hulme Hunter, 2005)

Women who are concerned about pre-eclampsia are advised to talk this study over with their obstetrician. However, the study is unattributed and is so heavily criticised that it would be difficult to imagine any woman feeling comfortable raising these findings if she does not have knowledge of scientific procedures, or access to medical journals to look up the study. It seems that an attempt not to blind readers with science has led to an oversimplified version, which will only have the effect of making women feel worried.

However, attempting to produce all the caveats and exceptions to advice given is also confusing and likely to make readers worried. Take, for example, the following extract from the BBC website:

"Research indicates that mothers who eat fish once a week are less likely to give birth prematurely. Oily fish eaten in pregnancy also helps with children's eyesight. However, when you're pregnant have no more than two portions of oily fish a week. Oily fish includes fresh tuna (not canned tuna, which does not count as oily fish), mackerel, sardines and trout. Avoid eating shark, swordfish and marlin and limit the amount of tuna to no more than two tuna steaks a week (weighing about 140g cooked or 170g raw) or four medium-size cans of tuna a week (with a drained weight of about 140g per can). This is because of the levels of mercury in these fish. At high levels, mercury can harm a baby's developing nervous system." (Welford, 2005).

Again the research is unattributed, and even undated, making it very difficult to trace, and there is not enough information to evaluate it. What constitutes oily fish here is unclear; the passage seems to suggest both that women should and should not eat tuna, fresh or canned. In an attempt to be accurate and all encompassing, the advice becomes controlling.

While information from research that is incorporated into professional leaflets and websites may be balanced, much of what appears in the media is not. For example, the research paper referred to above on coffee actually indicated that this was not really a problem for women who were drinking less than eight cups of coffee a day (Wisborg et al., 2003). Similarly, a later report by Bech et al. (2005) suggested that the risk of foetal death was only significantly higher if women drank more than four cups of coffee a day. However people tend to classify things as either safe or unsafe, so the media portrays foods in this way and the likelihood is that, if women act on food scares at all, they will avoid the apparently hazardous foods completely. The distinction between safe and unsafe foods also tends to vary across cultures and be embedded in more general eating habits. So people from European countries tend to regard wine as safe in moderation, whereas it is definitely on the list of things to avoid completely in the US, even though the research evidence on which advice is based is the same.

A final aspect of food scares to consider is that they nearly always come too late for pregnant women to act on them. Finding out that tuna contains mercury when you are several weeks into pregnancy, and you have already consumed large quantities of this formerly healthy food, is only likely to induce guilt and anxiety. Neither of these emotions are likely to increase the health of women or their babies. The BUPA website even gives a list of foods that women should have avoided before pregnancy:

There are also certain foods that women should avoid pre-pregnancy.
These include:
a. liver and large quantities of vitamin A in supplements,
b. unpasteurized dairy products,
c. raw eggs,
d. pâtés,
e. soft cheese.
(BUPA, 2005)

There is little evidence to support this draconian advice and since so many pregnancies are not planned with the precision required by this, many women will not have been able to act on it anyway.

Concluding remarks

Research on diet and dietary change during pregnancy is unusual in several respects. One important characteristic is the amount of research which has been carried out in countries other than those in the developed world. While little of this work could be said to be cross-cultural, it does at least give us some insight into how pregnancy is experienced by the women outside the mainstream focus. The differences and similarities between women of different cultures are illuminating in that they show how important it is to consider the context and cultural underpinnings of women's lives.

We have reiterated several times in this chapter that women's eating behaviour during pregnancy is studied out of the context of their everyday lives and history. In particular, little account is taken of dietary restraint and dieting behaviour before pregnancy. Yet at the same time the exception to this is a fascination with the dietary habits of what to most researchers is 'the other', notably pica.

A further unusual feature of research on diet is the direct impact that research has on sanctioning women's behaviour during pregnancy. Epidemiological studies which show some association between what women have eaten during pregnancy and subsequent pregnancy outcomes make almost daily appearances in the media. The risks associated with food types are amplified through newspapers, magazines and television, and, perhaps most pervasively, through the internet. Often these studies are later refuted, dealing as they often do with statistically very small increases in risk. However, few women in the developed world can be unaware of the food scares and risk messages directed at them. Yet, what use they make of this information, or the effect of receiving risk messages, often too late to act, on psychological health still goes largely unexplored.



By Harriet Gross and Helen Pattison in "Sanctioning Pregnancy - A Psychological Perspective On The Paradoxes and Culture of Research",Routledge, UK, 2007, excerpts pp.75-94. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

THE DARK AGE OF GREECE

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In Greece, between 1200 and 1050 BC, Dorian invaders bring a Dark Age.

After the devastating victory at Troy, the Mycenaean ships had limped or blown back to the mainland of Greece, there to find that their homes had grown poor and troubled. Odysseus battled for ten years to get home and found his house overrun with enemies; Agamemnon returned to his wife and was murdered in his bath by her and her lover.

This was only a foretaste of disaster to come.

Around 1200 BC, a rash of fires spread across the peninsula. The Mycenaean city of Sparta burned to the ground. The city of Mycenae itself fought off an unknown enemy; the fortress survived, although damaged, but the houses outside the walls were left in ashes and never rebuilt.1 The city of Pylos was swept by fire. A score of towns were shattered by some other disruption.

Archaeology suggests that the cities were resettled by a new people, who had no knowledge of writing (none appears in their remains), no skill in building with stone or brick, and no grasp of bronzeworking.2 These new settlers came from the northern part of the peninsula, and were now moving south. Later historians called them the Dorians.

Both Thucydides and Herodotus credit the Dorians with a massive armed takeover of the Mycenaean cities. Herodotus tells of four Dorian invasions of Attica (the land around Athens), the first happening in the days when “Codrus was the king of Athens.”3 The later Greek writer Konon preserves the traditional story of the earliest attack: An oracle at the Dorian camp told the savage invaders that they would win the battle for Athens, as long as they didn’t kill the Athenian king Codrus. When Codrus heard of this, he disguised himself as an ordinary Athenian, left his city, and went into the Dorian camp, where he picked a fight with armed Dorian warriors. In the brawl afterwards, he was killed, thus fulfilling the oracle and saving his city.4

The Dorians, amazed at such nobility, lifted the siege of Athens, but the retreat was only temporary. By the time the invasion was over, Thucydides tells us, the Dorians had become the “masters of the Peloponnese” (the southernmost part of the Greek peninsula).5

Thucydides and Herodotus both write of a violent irruption that spread across the land of the heroes and destroyed it. Like the Egyptian historians who recorded the invasion of the Hyksos, they could not conceive of any reason why their great ancestors should be defeated except for overwhelming military might. But the ruins of Mycenaean cities tell a slightly different story. Pylos and Mycenae burned as much as ninety years apart, which means that the Dorian influx itself spread slowly down over the peninsula over the course of a century. It was hardly a surprise attack; the Mycenaean Greeks had plenty of time to organize some sort of resistance.

But whatever defense these experienced soldiers mounted was too feeble to protect them—even against the Dorian newcomers, who were neither sophisticated nor battle hardened. And in some cities, there is no evidence of fighting at all. The tales of Athenian resistance (among the Mycenaean cities, only Athens boasted of repelling the invaders) may preserve a slightly different reality: no one ever attacked Athens. Excavations at Athens show no layer of destruction, no fire scars.6

But even so, the population of Athens shrank alarmingly. By 1100, a century and a half after the war with Troy, the northeast side of the Athenian acropolis (the high rock at the city’s center, its most secure and defensible spot) had been peacefully abandoned. The Sparta that the Dorians burned down was already empty; its inhabitants had gone some years before.7 The northerners poured down into a south already weakened and disorganized.

The war with Troy certainly had something to do with the slow decay of the Mycenaean cities, something which Thucydides himself makes note of: the “late return of the Hellenes from Troy,” he remarks, provoked strife so severe that many Mycenaeans were driven from their own cities. But there must have been other factors at work. Two or three years of bad weather in a row, lessening crops just at a time when the old reliable sources of grain from Egypt and Asia Minor had also been disrupted by wars in both places, would have forced the Mycenaean cities to compete for food; hunger can kindle wars between cities and send city-dwellers into exile. And in fact the rings of Irish oaks and some trees from Asia Minor show signs of a drought that came sometime in the 1150s.8

Another, more fearful enemy may have stalked the Mycenaeans as well.

In the opening scenes of the Iliad, the Trojan priest Chryses begs the god Apollo to send illness on the attacking Greeks, in repayment for the kidnapping of Chryses’s daughter by the Greek warrior Agamemnon. Apollo answers his prayer and fires down arrows of sickness on the enemy ships. The result is deadly:

"He made a burning wind
of plague rise in the army: rank and file
sickened and died for the ill their chief had done".9

Very likely the Mycenaeans encamped on the shore were struck by plague, and the sickness was probably bubonic.

The Trojans didn’t know, any more than other ancient peoples, exactly how bubonic plague was spread. But they knew that the sickness had something to do with rodents. The Apollo who spreads sickness was honored, at Troy, with a name peculiar to Asia Minor: he was called Apollo Sminthian, “Lord of the Mice.”10 The Iliad also tells us that Apollo Sminthian’s arrows carried off not just men, but horses and dogs; this spreading of sickness through the animal population is a constant in ancient accounts of bubonic plague. (“This pest raged not only among domestic animals, but even among wild beasts,” wrote Gregory of Tours, fifteen hundred years later.)11

The Mycenaean heroes, returning, would have brought death back with them. A ship with no sick people on board, docking on an uninfected shore, might still have plague-carrying rats in its hold. In fact, plague tended to follow famine; grain shipments from one part of the world to another carried rats from one city to the next, spreading disease across an otherwise unlikely distance.

Plague, drought, and war: these were enough to upset the balance of a civilization that had been built in rocky dry places, close to the edge of survival. When existence became difficult, the able-bodied moved away. And so not only Mycenaeans, but Cretans and residents of the Aegean islands spread out from their homeland in small bands, looking for new homes and hiring themselves out as mercenaries. It is impossible to tell how many of the Sea People fighting against Egypt were hired hands. But Egyptian accounts tell us that in the years before the Sea People invasion, the pharaoh had hired troops from the Aegean to fight for Egypt against the Libyans of the western desert. By the middle of the eleventh century, the Dorians, not the Mycenaeans, were masters of the south; and Mycenaean soldiers were available to the highest bidder.

The Dorian settlers had no king and court, no taxes and tributes, and no foreign sea trade. They farmed, they survived, and they had no particular need to write anything down. Their occupation plunged the peninsula into what we call a dark age: we cannot peer very far into it because there are no written records.

Notes

1. Taylour, p. 159.
2. Morkot, p. 46.
3. Herodotus, 5.76.
4. Konon, Narratives, Sec. 26, in The Narratives of Konon: Text Translation and Commentary of the Diegesis by Malcolm Brown (2003).
5. Thucydides, 1.12.2–4.
6. Taylour, p. 161.
7. E. Watson Williams, “The End of an Epoch,” Greece & Rome, 2d series, 9:2 (1962), pp. 119–120.
8. Philip P. Betancourt, “The Aegean and the Origin of the Sea Peoples,” in The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment, ed. Eliezer D. Oren (2000), p. 300.
9. Homer, The Iliad, 1.12–14, translated by Robert Fitzgerald (1974).
10. Williams, p. 117.
11. Quoted in Williams, p. 112.


Written by Susan Wise Bauer in "The History of the Ancient World - From the Earliest Accounts to the Fall of Rome", W.W.Norton, New York USA, 2007, chapter 40. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

A SCIENCE OF EROTICS: PLATO, (SYMPOSIUM)

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Eryximachus, a speaker at Plato’s drinking party and a contemporary of the author of The Sacred Disease, practised medicine in Athens and was a friend of Socrates. This speech of his about Eros, Urania and Polyhymnia – or Love, Celeste and the Songstress, to give them English names – is about gods but also about cosmic forces, the sympathy and antipathy that energize the world and pull it together. Since this energy is life, the universe is more like an organism than a machine for Eryximachus: the biological metaphor explains how cosmic forces work together (like organs in a living body) to act across astronomical distances and propagate magical powers. Since the organic metaphor accommodates musical notions of harmony and discord, the musician’s art also underwrites the art of magic. Musical resonance, like living cosmic sympathy, accounts for magical action.

‘Since Pausanias has got the conversation going well but has not ended it effectively, I suppose I must bring the discussion to a conclusion. I think he is right to divide love into two kinds. I’ve noticed that this is not just for human souls and about beautiful things, however, but about much else and also in other things – in the bodies of everything that lives, in those that grow in the earth and in all that exists, if I may say so, since from practising my art of medicine I’ve learned how great and wonderful that god is who reaches through the whole universe to things divine as well as human. So let me start with medicine in order to honour my art.

‘Bodies in their nature have these two loves that admittedly are different and dissimilar. Being dissimilar, they long for and love dissimilars, and in the healthy body the love is one thing, another thing when the body is diseased. And to indulge good men is honourable, as Pausanias was just saying, though with debauched people it is shameful, and likewise for bodies: we do well to indulge each body in good and healthy things, and so one should – this is what we call being a physician – while the shame of bad and sickly things must be discouraged, by anyone who wants to excel at this art.

‘For medicine can be summed up as the science of the body’s loves as we fill and empty it, as the best physician separates good love from bad and converts one into the other, knowing how – if he is a skilled practitioner – to introduce the love that’s absent and remove what’s present. For he must turn the body’s most antagonistic forces into friends and make them love one another. These antagonists are entirely opposed, like hot and cold, bitter and sweet, moist and dry and all the rest. Understanding how to put love and concord into them, my ancestor Asclepius established this art of mine – as the poets here tell us, and I believe them.’

‘So all of medicine is ruled by this god, just like training the body and farming, and anyone who gives this a moment’s thought will clearly see the same thing going on in music – probably what Heraclitus wanted to say too, though his words are not quite right: “like a well-tuned lyre or bow,” the One (he says), “clashes agreeably with itself”. But claiming that harmony clashes or is still produced from clashing is absurd. What he probably meant to say is that harmony comes from treble and bass notes that once clashed but were then made to agree by the art of music, though if bass and treble kept clashing, there would be no harmony. For harmony is unison, and unison is agreement: you can’t get agreement when things are clashing, as long as they keep clashing, and things that clash can’t be harmonized unless they come into agreement.

‘In rhythm the same thing happens with long and short beats, which clash at first and are then made to agree. The agreement in all these cases – as with medicine – comes from music, which introduces love and concord, since music too is a science of erotics but regarding harmony and rhythm. And it isn’t hard to see the erotics in this alliance of harmony and rhythm, when the love hasn’t yet been divided. But if you need to produce rhythm and harmony to help people – whether by writing new songs or by teaching songs and measures correctly after they are already made – it then becomes hard, and you need a good artist. Here the same reasoning applies: in well-behaved people and those who might become better-behaved, we must indulge and protect the love of such things.

‘And this is the good love – the heavenly one – the Love born of the Celeste who is a Muse. But then from the Songstress comes the common Love of the streets, whom if we are to befriend we must befriend carefully so that enjoying his pleasure doesn’t turn into dissipation, just as in my work a great task is to handle the appetites carefully in the art of eating in order to enjoy the pleasure without illness. In music as in medicine and in all other arts human and divine, each Love must be preserved, as much as can be, since both are involved.

‘Even the course of the seasons through the year is full of them both. When hot, cold, wet and dry are well-behaved in their love for one another, mixing and harmonizing temperately – as I was just saying – they bring health and plenty to mankind and all other animals and plants, doing them no harm. But when the Love arrives who brings Wantonness along, he is more overpowering for the seasons of the year, ruining everything and causing damage, for plagues also like to be born from those parents, along with many other diseases of animals and plants. Frost, hail and blight come from the excesses and bad behaviour of those forces when they are in love: the science of them – with the movements of the stars and the seasons of the year – is called astronomy.

‘Notice also that for all sacrifices and the whole business of divination – dealing with the relations between humans and gods – the only issue is preserving Love and caring for him since impiety likes to appear only when someone fails to indulge the Love who is well-behaved, honouring not that Love but the other god and putting him first in every action when it comes to one’s ancestors, both living and dead, and the gods. The job of divination, then, is to watch over the two Loves and take care of them, and the diviner is the craftsman who makes peace between gods and humans – for humans the science of erotics applied to law and piety.

‘Such is the great and mighty or rather universal power possessed by Love – in short, by Love as a whole. But the one who has the greatest power cares for the good and is fulfilled along with temperance and justice, whether for gods or men, and this is what provides all our happiness and makes us friends with the gods who are above us and with one another.’



Text selected and translated by Brian Copenhaver in "The Book of Magic: From Aniquity to the Enlightenment", Random House UK, 2014, chapter 4.4. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

HISTORY OF ABRAHAM

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Abraham or Avraham (at first Abram, or Ibrahim in Arabic) is a central figure in Hebrew mythology as developed in the biblical Book of Genesis. Abraham was the mythical hero and “father” of all three of the monotheistic “Abrahamic” religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Genesis 11–50 is a combination of several versions of the story of Abraham and his immediate descendants, told by the so-called Yahwist contributor to the Bible (Torah), who was writing in Judah in about 950 B.C.E. under the early monarchy; the so-called Elohist author, writing in about 850 B.C.E.; and the writers of the priestly tradition of c. 550–400 B.C.E. The story takes us up to the myth of Moses and the Exodus.

A man called Tehar, who had several sons, including Abram, was said to have decided to move from Ur, the ancient city in Mesopotamia, to Canaan. Tehar was accompanied by his grandson Lot and by Abram and Abram’s wife, Sara’i (the name of an Arabian great goddess), who was childless and barren. The group traveled northeast and stopped in Haran, where Tehar, now 205 years old, died. It was in Haran that Abram’s god, Yahweh, came to the 75-year-old Abram and urged him to move on to Canaan, where “I shall make you into a great nation” (12:2).

So Abram journeyed down to Shechem, where there was a sacred tree (probably sacred to the Canaanite goddess Asherah), at which point Abram built an altar to Yahweh. He did the same thing in Bethel, as he moved south, following a tradition of building altars to his tribal god on sites sacred to others.

Famine caused the group to move to Egypt, but after some time they returned to Canaan with a great deal of wealth and livestock. As the land could not support the people of both Abram and Lot, Lot moved to the Jordan plain near Sodom. Yahweh again spoke to Abram, giving him the land of Canaan, and Abram moved around in the land and eventually erected an altar to Yahweh in Hebron. After Abram had assisted an alliance of tribes in a successful war and accepted no booty, Yahweh once again appeared to him and promised that after 400 years of oppression his descendants would possess all of the land of Canaan from the Nile to the Euphrates.

As Sara’i was childless and knew that Abram required a son, she gave him her Egyptian slave girl Hagar as a concubine, and soon a son, Ishmael (Ismail), was born. When Sara’i, now jealous, mistreated Hagar, Yahweh promised the slave that her son would be “like the wild ass... at odds with all his kin” (16:12).

According to the priestly authors of Genesis, Yahweh came to Abram when the patriarch was 99 years old and announced that Abram was now to be called Abraham, the “father of many nations.” Yahweh would be his and his descendants’ god. This was a solemn covenant between Yahweh and his people, whose sign of having accepted the covenant would be circumcision, a sign of community and of exclusivity, as the uncircumcised would be “cut off from the kin of his father” (17:14). Both Abraham and Ishmael immediately had themselves circumcised.

Yahweh told Abraham that Sara’i was now to be called Sarah (“princess”) and that in spite of her old age she would give birth to a child, Isaac. As for Ishmael, he too would be fruitful and would father a great nation. Three men—presumably angels—appeared to Abraham and confirmed that Sarah would soon give birth to a son.

For a while Abraham lived in Gerar, among the Philistines, and there Sarah gave birth to Isaac. Sarah demanded that Abraham expel Hagar and Ishmael from his entourage. This he did, since Yahweh informed him that although Ishmael would be the father of a great nation, Isaac would be his true heir.

When Isaac was still a boy, Yahweh tested Abraham’s loyalty by demanding that he sacrifice his son to him. Abraham agreed, but at the last minute Yahweh provided a sheep as a substitute for the child.

Sarah died in Hebron at the age of 127. Abraham died there at the age of 175. He was buried by Isaac and Ishmael in a cave in Hebron bought previously from its Hittite owners.

In the Jewish aggadah and midrash (literature that elaborates on canonical sources) and elsewhere, myths and legends about Abraham’s life suggest his connection to the heroic mono myth, the universal hero-type. As in the story of Jesus, legends hold that Abraham was born in a hidden place—in this case a cave—where he was watched over by angels. The child was abandoned by his fearful mother, but the angel Gabriel brought him milk from God. As in the Christian story, Abraham’s birth had been prophesied to a jealous king, who feared the boy’s power, and a massacre of boy children was ordered. Like many heroes, such as the Buddha, the legendary Abraham was able to walk about and speak almost immediately after his birth.

Abraham’s son Isaac, through whom Yahweh renewed the covenant with the Hebrews, would marry Rebekah, and she would give birth to Jacob and Esau. The promise of the land of Canaan for the Hebrews was again made to Jacob, he having been renamed Israel by God. Jacob’s most famous son, by his wife Rachel, was Joseph of the many-colored coat. Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph all possessed heroic qualities and were much favored by their god.

The whole Abrahamic myth serves as a bridge between ancient times and the actual presence of the Hebrews in Canaan and as a mythological justification for the particular role of Israel and the Jews in history. It serves particularly as a justification for the belief in *monotheism and for claims of exclusivity and land rights that by extension and mythical adjustment have been taken up at various times by Christians and Muslims as well.

These myth-fed claims on the part of the Abrahamic religions are very much alive in the turmoil that characterizes the Middle East today.

By David Leeming in "The Oxford Companion to World Mythology", Oxford University Press, UK, 2005. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa. 

MYTHS OF LOVE AND DEATH

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The earlier chapters of this book have contained countless myths telling of war, violence, monster slayings, revenge, and suchlike, so let us end in unashamedly romantic fashion with some inspirational stories of love – and of what so often accompanies love in such myths: death. Though in our final story, it is (appropriately) Death who is defeated, his dominion broken, while love lives on.

HERO AND LEANDER

Hero and Leander were lovers who lived on opposite sides of the narrow Hellespont (Dardanelles). Hero was a priestess of Aphrodite at Sestos, and each night she would light a lamp in the window of the tower in which she lived, to guide Leander as he swam across to her from Abydos. He stayed with her until daybreak and then swam home again. In this way they met and made love through many summer nights.

Winter came, with its stormy weather, and still Hero lit the lamp, and still Leander braved the treacherous seas. Then one night, during a violent storm, Hero failed to notice that the lamp had been blown out by the wind. Without his signal light, Leander lost his way among the dark and heaving waves and was drowned. The next morning Hero looked down and saw his body washed up on the shore. In her grief she flung herself from the tower, falling to her death beside her lover.

The story of this tragic love affair probably originated in an Alexandrian poem, but in extant literature we come across it first in Virgil (Georgics 3.258–63) and Ovid (Heroides 18 and 19). Its fullest treatment is in the poem Hero and Leander by Musaeus, probably of the late fifth or early sixth century AD. It has inspired many other poets since. Shakespeare gives the story a humorous twist in his As You Like It, where Rosalind uses it to demonstrate that no one ever dies for love (IV.i. 88–95):

"Leander, he would have liv’d many a fair year though Hero had turn’d nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for (good youth) he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp, was drown’d; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was ‘Hero of Sestos’. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love".

Lord Byron was moved to try and repeat Leander’s achievement, and in May 1810 (not, we note, at the most testing time of year) he himself swam from Sestos to Abydos and reported the result (Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos):

"If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
If, when the wintry tempest roar’d,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour’d
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I’ve done a feat today".
...
"Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague".

We turn to A.E. Housman to restore us to romantic mood. He characteristically saw Hero and Leander’s love as symbolizing the transient nature of happiness (‘Tarry, delight, so seldom met’, from More Poems):

"By Sestos town, in Hero’s tower,
On Hero’s heart Leander lies;
The signal torch has burned its hour
And sputters as it dies.

Beneath him, in the nighted firth,
Between two continents complain
The seas he swam from earth to earth
And he must swim again".

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

Pyramus and Thisbe lived next door to one another in Babylon. They became friends, and when they grew up they fell in love. Their parents refused to let them marry or even to meet, but luckily they found a chink in the wall between the two adjoining houses, and through this they would spend hours whispering their love. When they had to say goodnight, they each kissed the wall between them since they could not kiss each other.

Longing to be truly together, they arranged to steal away at dead of night and meet in the countryside at a local landmark, the tomb of Ninus, in the shade of a mulberry tree hung thick with snowy fruits. When the time came, Thisbe, with her face veiled, arrived first and sat down beneath the appointed tree, but she was startled away by a lioness who approached, fresh from her kill, to drink at a nearby spring. The frightened girl ran away into a cave that was close by, but as she ran she dropped her veil. When the lioness was returning to the woods, she found the garment and tore it to pieces in her bloodied jaws.

A little later, Pyramus arrived. He saw the footprints of the lioness and, worse still, the torn veil all stained with fresh blood. Recognizing the garment, and full of remorse for causing, as he thought, Thisbe’s death, he killed himself with his sword in the shade of the tree where they had planned to meet. Now Thisbe returned and despairingly found her beloved’s body. She joined him in death, stabbing herself with the same sword still warm from his own mortal wound. When their parents found their corpses, they were moved too late by the young couple’s love for one another and buried their ashes in a single urn. The snowy fruit of the mulberry tree was coloured by all the spilt blood, and has ever since been a dark red.

The myth of these star-crossed lovers was immortalized by Ovid (Metamorphoses 4.55–166) and was inevitably inspirational to later poets, such as Chaucer, who tells the story in The Legende of Goode Women, and – perhaps most famously – Shakespeare. He turns it into the ‘most Lamentable Comedy and most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe’ played by Bottom the weaver and his friends in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (where the lovers meet at ‘Ninny’s tomb’). Here is Thisbe discovering the dead Pyramus (V.i. 332):

"Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak! Quite dumb?
Dead, dead! A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone;
Lovers, make moan!
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word.
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue:
[Stabs herself.
And farewell, friends;
Thus Thisby ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
[Dies."

PROKRIS AND KEPHALOS

Pyramus. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.
Thisbe. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
This is how Bottom and Flute garble the names of Kephalos and Prokris in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Once again it is Ovid who gives us the most familiar version of the couple’s ultimately tragic love (Metamorphoses 7.672–862).

Kephalos was the grandson of the Thessalian king Aiolos and was happily married to Prokris, a daughter of Erechtheus, the king of Athens. It was in the second month of his marriage that Eos, goddess of Dawn, fell in love with Kephalos. She was always of an amorous disposition, ready to seize any particularly handsome young man she noticed, and now she carried Kephalos off for her own delight, though much against his will. She soon tired of him, for she grew so annoyed by all his talk of his young bride, and the ties of matrimony, and his marriage vows, that she wanted only to be rid of him, so she sent him home again. Unfortunately she was vengeful enough to inspire Kephalos with the idea of disguising himself and testing Prokris’s fidelity, and she even helped him by altering his appearance.

Kephalos arrived back in Athens so thoroughly disguised that no one could recognize him. He made his way to his own home, and there he made advances to Prokris, offering countless gifts to win her over to him. For a long time she stayed resolutely faithful, firmly rejecting all his lures, but when he finally promised her a vast fortune in return for a night in her bed, she hesitated. At this Kephalos revealed his true identity and accused her of infidelity.

Overwhelmed by shame, and hating all men because of her husband’s deceitful trick, Prokris ran away and lived in the mountains. There she devoted herself to hunting as a follower of the virgin goddess Artemis. Yet now that he had lost her, Kephalos loved her more than ever, so he found her and begged her to forgive him, confessing (quite rightly) that he had been totally in the wrong. Eventually she accepted his apology. Reunited once more, they returned home and spent some years together in great happiness.

Prokris, however, had not come empty-handed from the mountains: she brought home two gifts given her by Artemis, a hound called Lailaps that could not fail to catch its prey, and a javelin that could not miss its mark. She gave both gifts to Kephalos. He used the hound to get rid of the Teumessian Vixen, a fierce fox, fated never to be caught, that was preying cruelly on the people of Thebes (p. 186). So the infallible hound served a good purpose. But the unerring javelin eventually brought only tragedy in its wake.

Every morning Kephalos went hunting, always quite alone, since his javelin was all that he needed to kill as many animals as he chose. When he had hunted enough and was hot and tired, he would lie in the shade and call on a cool breeze, Aura, to come and soothe him. One day some passer-by overheard him and misunderstood, thinking that Aura must be a nymph with whom he was in love. At once this busybody hurried to Prokris to report his infidelity.

In her unhappiness, and hoping still that it was all a mistake, she followed her husband the next morning when he went off to hunt. He made his kill, then as usual lay down and called on Aura to come and soothe him. Prokris, overhearing, moaned in sorrow, and Kephalos, thinking that some wild creature was hiding in the bushes, threw his javelin towards the sound. Prokris cried out in pain as it found its mark, and he recognized the voice of his dear wife, and ran to her. She died in his arms.

Apollodorus (3.15.1) interestingly draws a quite different picture of Prokris in which she is an utterly faithless wife, and this probably reflects a tradition much earlier than Ovid’s adaptation. He says that she went to bed with a certain Pteleon when he bribed her with a golden crown. Kephalos discovered her infidelity, so she ran away to King Minos of Crete, who tried to seduce her. His wife Pasiphae, however, was angry because of his general promiscuity, and had drugged him in such a way that whenever he had intercourse with a woman, he ejaculated snakes and scorpions, and she died.

Prokris wanted to possess the inescapable hound and the unerring javelin that Minos had promised her in return for her favours (in this version, they had once been given to Europa by Zeus and then passed down to Minos), so she in her turn drugged him to prevent any harm coming to her, then went to bed with him. She took her payment, the hound and javelin, and went home, where she and Kephalos were reconciled. The couple went hunting together and Prokris was killed, though her death here was the result of a simple hunting accident. It is hardly surprising that it was Ovid’s romantic story, rather than this, which captured the imagination of later artists and became the standard version of the myth.

APHRODITE AND ADONIS

We have seen how Myrrha made love with her own father, Kinyras, and gave birth to the baby Adonis (p. 528), but that is far from being the end of the story. Once again Apollodorus’ version is rather different from that of Ovid. According to Apollodorus (3.14.4) the baby was so beautiful that Aphrodite wanted him for herself, so she secretly hid him in a chest and entrusted him to Persephone, queen of the Underworld, to keep for her. But Persephone too loved him and she refused to give him back. The two goddesses took their dispute to Zeus, who decreed that Adonis should spend a third of the year with each of them and have the remaining third for himself. He always chose to live his own third of the year with Aphrodite, and the months that he spent in her arms became the living, burgeoning time of spring and summer. His disappearance from the earth marked the harvesting of the crops, and his time in the arms of Persephone was the dead, winter period when seed lay dormant below the earth.

In Ovid’s version of the story (Metamorphoses 10.519–739), Aphrodite fell in love with Adonis only when he grew to be a beautiful young man. She became his constant companion, and because like most young men he was a passionate huntsman, she too learnt to enjoy hunting, roaming woods and mountains with her skirts kilted up to her knees, just like Artemis, and shouting encouragement to the hounds. She was careful to pursue only creatures safe to hunt, like hares or deer, and she warned Adonis against the dangerous beasts – wild boars and wolves and lions and bears – who were always ready to turn and attack their hunters.

Unfortunately his natural courage made him pay too little heed to her advice. One day he roused a wild boar from its lair and wounded it in the side with his spear. (It was sometimes said that the boar was Aphrodite’s husband Hephaistos or her lover Ares in disguise, jealous because of her affair with Adonis.) The boar easily dislodged the weapon, then rushed after Adonis as he was making for safety and slashed him deep in the groin with its tusk. Aphrodite heard from afar the groans of the dying boy and hurried to him, but too late. She did what little she could: she decreed that his death would in the future be lamented every year, and she made the dark red anemone spring from his blood as an everlasting token of her grief. It was elsewhere said that Adonis’s death was also the origin of the red rose, for as Aphrodite rushed to her dying love she pricked her foot on a white rose. Stained with her blood, it was ever afterwards red, and thus it naturally became a symbol of passionate love.

Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, probably his first published work (1593), is based on Ovid’s account of Adonis’s death, with once again the anemone springing up from his blood. Venus plucks the flower and addresses it as she puts it in her bosom:

"Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right.
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest;
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night;
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flow’r."

PARIS AND OINONE

The tale of Paris’s love affair with the beautiful Helen, she of ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’ and brought all Troy to destruction, is told and retold throughout ancient literature. Yet Paris had another, earlier love: the nymph Oinone, daughter of the river-god Kebren, and this story is seldom mentioned. Apollodorus, as so often, is helpful in sketching out the bare details (3.12.6).

Paris married Oinone while he was still a herdsman on Mount Ida and lived with her happily. Then one fateful day he was called by Zeus to judge the beauty contest between the three goddesses, Hera, Athene and Aphrodite. When he chose Aphrodite as the loveliest and awarded her the prize of the golden apple, he won for himself the promised love of the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Sparta (p. 309). Oinone, however, was skilled in the art of prophecy, and she knew just what disasters would follow if Paris sailed to Greece to fetch Helen. She warned her husband as eloquently as she knew how, but he ignored all her good advice and made ready to leave. Finding that she could not influence him, and knowing what lay in store, she told him to come to her if he were ever wounded, because she alone could heal him.

Paris travelled to Greece and carried Helen off to Troy, and the Greeks sailed out in force to fetch her back: the Trojan War had begun, and Paris thought no more of Oinone. But in the tenth year of the war, soon after he had killed the mighty Achilles, he himself was mortally wounded by an arrow from Philoktetes’ great bow. Then he remembered Oinone’s words and asked to be carried to Mount Ida. She was still angry at his desertion of her and refused to help him, so he was carried back to Troy. Too late she changed her mind, remorsefully hurrying to Troy with her healing drugs, but she found Paris dead. She hanged herself from grief.

Oinone’s rejection of the wounded Paris is narrated in great detail by Quintus of Smyrna in his late epic Sequel to Homer (10.262–489). ‘I wish I had in me a lion’s heart and strength, to devour your flesh and then to lap your blood, for all the pain your folly has brought on me,’ Oinone cries (315–27). ‘Where is Aphrodite now? ... Just leave my house and go to your Helen, for her to heal you of your grievous pain.’

Paris dies on Mount Ida, and all the shepherds mourn, and all the nymphs too, remembering him as a little boy growing up on the mountain, and even the glens of Ida mourn. So, of course, does Oinone when she learns of Paris’s death. She rushes down the slopes of Ida, ‘just as a mountain heifer, stung in her heart with passion, speeds with flying feet to meet her mate’ (441–3), and she flings herself on to Paris’s funeral pyre, joining him in death.

Many later poets took up the story, the best remembered work probably being Tennyson’s Oenone (the Latinized version of Oinone’s name). Here is Oinone waiting for Paris, not yet knowing that he has been chosen to award the golden apple to the loveliest of the three goddesses. He brings the apple to show Oinone just before the fatal contest, on the day that will change everything for her for ever:

"‘O mother Ida, many fountain’d Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
I waited underneath the dawning hills,
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn’d, white-hooved,
Came up from reedy Simois all alone".

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Far-off the torrent call’d me from the cleft:
Far up the solitary morning smote
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes
I sat alone: white-breasted like a star
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin
Droop’d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair
Cluster’d about his temples like a God’s:
And his cheek brighten’d as the foam-bow brightens
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
‘Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
That smelt ambrosially ..."

PSYCHE AND CUPID

Psyche (‘Soul’) was the mortal lover of Cupid (Eros), god of love. Her story was first and most famously told by Apuleius in the second century AD in The Golden Ass (4.28–6.26) and has all the characteristics of a fairy-tale. In later times it came to be seen as an allegory of the soul’s difficult journey through life towards a mystic union with the divine after death.

Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who had three daughters, all of them very beautiful, but the youngest girl, Psyche, was quite breathtakingly lovely. The fame of her beauty spread until people came from far and wide just to gaze on her, and all were so overwhelmed by her loveliness that they paid her the divine honours which they should have been offering to Venus (Aphrodite). The goddess naturally grew very angry and wanted to avenge this insult. She told her son Cupid to visit Psyche and inflame her with a dishonourable passion for some completely worthless man, but Cupid disobeyed his mother, for when he saw the girl’s great beauty he fell in love with her himself.

Psyche’s two elder sisters had been married to foreign kings from distant cities, but she herself remained unmarried – nor indeed had she any suitors, for she was so amazingly beautiful that all men adored her from afar and never dared to approach her. At last her father went to Apollo’s oracle at Miletos and asked where he could find a husband for this youngest daughter of his. The reply, influenced by Cupid, said that Psyche must prepare to marry an evil spirit, feared even by the gods, who would come to fetch her as she stood on a lonely mountain-top.

With great sorrow the king and queen obeyed the oracle’s instructions. Psyche’s bridal day arrived, and she was accompanied to a craggy hill-top and left there, alone and afraid. Yet her fears were needless, for Zephyros, the gentle West Wind, lifted her up and wafted her softly down into a flowery valley, and there she found in the middle of a nearby wood a fairy-tale palace, full of unbelievable treasures. Here she was waited upon by unseen hands, until night came and it was time for bed. In the darkness Cupid came to her and made her his wife, and she lay in delight with this unseen, unknown husband. He left her just before dawn. And so the days and nights passed for her: lonely days with only invisible servants for company, and love-filled nights with Cupid coming after dark and always vanishing before the morning light.

Psyche found that she was missing her family, so at last she persuaded Cupid to allow her sisters to visit her. He warned her urgently that they were likely to bring her great unhappiness, and that she must pay no attention if they tried to make her find out what he looked like. If she ever saw his face, he would leave her for ever. She promised that she would do just as he wanted, and on the sisters’ first visit, after they had been carried down from the high crag by Zephyros, she kept her word. At the end of their visit, Zephyros carried them back up the mountain and they returned home.

Unfortunately both sisters had been struck with a violent jealousy because of Psyche’s good fortune and they agreed to do all they could to ruin her. They visited her again, and then again, with the West Wind delivering them and carrying them away as before, and they wormed their way so far into Psyche’s confidence that at last she confessed she had no idea what her husband looked like. They terrified her by saying that she must be married to a fearful monster, who would end up by devouring both her and the baby that she was now carrying. She had best kill him before she herself was killed.

So that night poor, credulous Psyche waited until Cupid was asleep after their love-making, then she lit a lamp and approached him, armed with a sharp carving knife. At once she recognized with awe the beautiful Love-god. She saw his bow and arrows lying at the foot of the bed, and in curiosity she drew one of the arrows out of its quiver. The sharp tip pricked her thumb enough to draw blood, and now she was even more in love with her husband than before, quite overcome with wonder and desire. Just then a drop of scalding oil, spurting from the lamp, fell on to Cupid’s shoulder and he was startled awake. He leapt up in pain, and when he saw that his wife had broken her promise, he spread his wings and flew away from her, just as he had said he would.

Psyche, in despair, searched everywhere for him, but in vain. On her travels she came at different times to the cities where her sisters lived and sadly told them exactly what had happened. Each sister in turn, burning with desire to have for herself Cupid’s love – and Cupid’s palace – hurried to the crag from which Zephyros had always wafted them down. They each leapt confidently into the air, but this time no West Wind came for them, and each in turn was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. The birds and beasts feasted on their remains.

Psyche carried on wandering through country after country, searching for her lost Cupid. She prayed for help at the temples of Ceres (Demeter) and Juno (Hera), but neither goddess was willing to help her for fear of offending Venus, who by now had heard that her son had been Psyche’s lover. At last Psyche plucked up the courage to come to the palace of Venus herself. The goddess, furious that her son had not only failed to punish Psyche but had even made her pregnant, treated her cruelly and gave her formidable tasks to perform.

The first task was to sort out a vast heap of mixed grains into their separate kinds by nightfall. Psyche had no idea where to begin, but a passing ant saw her plight and sympathetically scurried to round up every other ant in the district to help. They worked furiously and the job was soon done.

The next morning, Venus told Psyche to fetch a hank of golden wool from a flock of murderous sheep. Once again the poor girl felt quite hopeless, but this time a kindly green reed whispered advice to her as the breeze blew over it. It told her to wait until the sheep were asleep in the heat of the afternoon, then to gather up the loose wisps of wool clinging to the nearby briar bushes. Psyche did so and carried a whole lapful of the golden wool to Venus, but still the goddess was not satisfied.

The third task was harder still: Psyche had to fetch a jar full of ice-cold water from the river Styx, where it cascaded out from halfway up a steep precipice, near the summit of a high mountain. When she arrived there, she found the outlet guarded by fierce, ever-watchful dragons, and she knew she could never complete her task and escape them alive. At that moment Jupiter’s eagle flew by. He owed a debt of gratitude to Cupid, so he snatched Psyche’s jar and filled it for her, and she delightedly carried it back to Venus.

The furious goddess set her one final, fatal task: she must go down to the land of the dead and fetch a day’s supply of Proserpina’s store of beauty. Realizing that she was being sent to her death, Psyche climbed to the top of a high tower, intending to throw herself down and die there and then. But the tower spoke to her, explaining how she might carry out Venus’s command and still live.

Psyche did exactly as the tower said. She entered the Underworld by way of Tainaron in the Peloponnese, carrying two coins and two pieces of barley bread soaked in honey water. She paid Charon one coin to be ferried across the river, and she threw one of her bread sops to Kerberos to gain entry to the dark palace of Hades, all the while avoiding the various snares that Venus had set along her journey. When she reached Proserpina (Persephone), who offered her a chair and a magnificent meal, she was careful to sit on the ground and to eat only a crust of common bread. The goddess gave her what she came for in a sealed box, then she returned to the land of the living, appeasing Kerberos with her second sop and paying Charon with her second coin.

She came thankfully back to the daylight, but disobeyed one last instruction that the tower had given her: that on no account must she open the box. She allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and lifted the lid, intending to use a little of the beauty within on herself, so as to win back Cupid’s love. Out stole a fatal sleep and overpowered her, and she fell to the ground as if she were dead.

Cupid, however, had been desperately missing his lost love, and he now flew to her aid and brushed the cloud of sleep away from her. She sprang up to deliver the box to Venus, while Cupid went to plead his love with Jupiter (Zeus). The great god gave divine consent to his marriage with Psyche, and appeased Venus by making Psyche immortal so that the match was no disgrace. All the gods held a great wedding breakfast to celebrate the union, and in the fullness of time Psyche’s baby was born, a daughter called Voluptas (Pleasure).

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Orpheus, a son of one of the Muses, was the supreme singer and musician of Greek myth, so skilled that he entranced the whole of nature with his song, taming savage beasts and moving even rocks and trees. As Shakespeare would put it (Two Gentlemen of Verona III.ii. 78–81):

"For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews,
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,
Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands".

The story of Orpheus descending to the Underworld to fetch his beloved wife Eurydice back from the dead is one of the best known of all myths, becoming an endless source of inspiration to post-classical artists of all kinds. The legend was an early one, for Euripides refers to it in his Alkestis of 438 BC, a play which also tells of a wife returning from the dead (see below); but it is only in the Roman poets that the story of Orpheus’ descent is first told in detail. We find a full and moving version in Ovid (Metamorphoses 10.1–85, 11.1–66).

Soon after Orpheus married the nymph Eurydice, she died of a snake-bite, and he so mourned her loss that he was even willing to brave the journey down to Hades to try and regain her, hoping to rouse the sympathy of the shades and so win for her a reprieve from death. He passed through the entrance to the Underworld at Tainaron, then courageously made the long and lonely descent. He sang for Charon, the ferryman, and for the watchdog Kerberos, and both were so charmed by his music that they allowed him to enter. When he reached the abode of Hades and Persephone, he sang again, pleading for his wife who had been cut off before her prime, and with his song he entranced the entire world of the dead. All the shades listened and wept.

Tantalos forgot his hunger and thirst, and the wheel of Ixion stayed motionless. The vultures stopped tearing at Tityos’s liver. The daughters of Danaos held their pitchers still, and Sisyphos sat idle on his great rock. Then, for the first time, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears. Most important of all, Hades and Persephone could not bear to refuse Orpheus’ pleas and said that he might take his Eurydice back to earth. Their only conditions were that he must lead the way on the journey out, and that he must not look back at her until they had both regained the light of the sun.

It may well be that in the early, lost version of the myth Orpheus succeeded in winning back his wife, but this is not so in the familiar, later version. The two of them set off, with Eurydice following her husband, and Orpheus was just reaching the end of the long ascent when, eager to see his wife and afraid that her strength might be failing, he looked back. At once she slipped away into the darkness, dying for the second time.

Orpheus tried to follow her, but this time Charon firmly refused to take him over the Styx, so he had no chance of gaining a second entry to Hades. Eventually he returned to Thrace and wandered through the land, mourning inconsolably and singing of his loss, and refusing to look at any other woman. His end was a violent one, for Thracian women tore him to pieces, resentful because he had scorned them.

The birds and the beasts, and even the rocks and the trees, wept for Orpheus. His limbs were scattered in different places, and his head was thrown into the river Hebros where it floated, still singing, down the stream and into the sea. It was carried southwards to Lesbos and buried there by the people of the island, who were thereafter rewarded with an especial skill in music and poetry (and in particular the great poets Sappho, Alcaeus and Arion).

The Muses gathered up the scattered fragments of Orpheus’ body and buried them in Pieria, where he was born. Here over his grave the nightingale was said to sing more sweetly than anywhere else in Greece. Pausanias (9.30.4) tells us that there was a famous statue of Orpheus on Mount Helikon, home of the Muses, where he was surrounded by animals of stone and bronze, all entranced by his singing. Zeus immortalized his music by setting his lyre among the stars as the constellation Lyra.

As for Orpheus himself, his shade passed once more to Hades, where at last he could clasp Eurydice in his eager arms. Now he was able to walk with her and gaze his fill, and never again need he fear to lose her by an incautious glance.

ALKESTIS AND ADMETOS

In the myths as in life, love, however strong, is all too often cut short by death, so let us end with a myth where the opposite happens, and it is love, not death, that triumphs.

Admetos was the king of Pherai in Thessaly and a favourite of Apollo. The god had once been forced by Zeus to serve a mortal for a year as a punishment for killing the Cyclopes, and because Admetos had so great a reputation for justice and hospitality, it was to his home that Apollo chose to come. There he served as a herdsman, and Admetos treated him so well that the god made all his cows bear twins. He also helped Admetos to win the hand of his chosen bride, Alkestis, the beautiful daughter of Pelias, king of Iolkos. She had so many suitors that her father set an apparently impossible test to decide between them, saying that he would give her to whoever could yoke a lion and a boar to a chariot. Apollo tamed the beasts and harnessed them, and Admetos drove the chariot to Pelias. Alkestis became his.

At their marriage, Admetos forgot to sacrifice to Artemis and the angry goddess filled the bridal chamber with snakes. Apollo once again intervened to help, advising Admetos to appease Artemis with sacrifices. This he did, and all was well. Then the god won an even greater boon for his friend from the Fates. He made them drunk, then persuaded them to agree that when Admetos arrived at his fated day of death, he might still live on, so long as he could find someone willing to die in his place.

Admetos felt sure that one of his parents would be only too happy to sacrifice themselves for their own son. After all, they must love him, and they were now old, with most of their lives behind them. Why should not one of them at least be willing to go down to the dead as his substitute? They soon put him right, for they had no intention of leaving the sweetness of life before they had to, and in the end it was his wife Alkestis who agreed to make the supreme sacrifice and die for him. The outcome is movingly dramatized in Euripides’ Alkestis, his first surviving play (438 BC), and here, when Admetos upbraids his father Pheres for his selfishness in being unwilling to die, Pheres indignantly gives his reasons (690–704):

‘Don’t you die on my behalf, and I won’t die on yours! You love to look on the daylight. Don’t you think your father does too? As I see it, we shall be dead for a long time, while life is short and very sweet. You, with no shame at all, have taken pains enough to avoid dying … So should you be abusing any relative of yours who does not wish to die, when you are a coward yourself? Hold your tongue! Remember that if you love life, so do all men.’

The play opens when Alkestis and Admetos have been happily married for several years, with children born to them, but now at last the fated day of death has arrived. Thanatos, the implacable god of death, comes to take Alkestis to the Underworld. Even as Admetos, with a complete change of heart, begs her not to leave him, she dies. Now he must come to terms with his loss. Yet this seems impossible, for he finds that, with Alkestis dead, he no longer wants the life that she has won for him. Now at last it is clear that his avoidance of death, through her loving self-sacrifice, has condemned him to a life of permanent mourning, a kind of living death (935–49):

‘I think my wife’s fate is happier than my own, even though it may not seem so. No pain will ever touch her now, and she has ended life’s many troubles with glory. But I, who have escaped my fate and ought not to be alive, shall now live out my life in sorrow. Now I understand … Whenever I come indoors, the loneliness will drive me out again when I see my wife’s bed, and the chair in which she used to sit, now empty, the floor in every room unswept, the children clinging round my knees and crying for their mother, the servants lamenting the beloved mistress they have lost.’

The situation is saved by the great hero Herakles. He visits Pherai on his way to catch the man-eating mares of Diomedes, and Admetos, still hospitable even in his deepest grief, takes him in without telling him that Alkestis is dead, pretending that the signs of mourning in the house are for a woman of no importance.

Herakles happily accepts the hospitality offered him, and in his usual fashion: he cheerfully eats and drinks to excess – to the outrage of one of the servants, who tells him the truth about Admetos’s loss. Herakles sobers up at once, and plans how best to help the friend who has welcomed him while ignoring his own sorrow: he will risk his life by contending with Death himself (837–49):

‘Come, my heart that has endured so much, and come, my hand: now show what kind of son Tirynthian Alkmene, daughter of Elektryon, once bore to Zeus. For now I must save this woman lately dead, now I must bring Alkestis home again and serve Admetos out of gratitude. I shall go and keep watch for the black-robed lord of the dead, for Death himself, and I think I shall find him near his victim’s tomb, drinking the blood of offerings. And if I rush from my place of ambush and grasp him tight, throwing my arms around him, there is no man shall free him from that rib-crushing grip until he yields the woman to me.’

Herakles adds that, if need be, he will even go down to Hades itself to fetch Alkestis back to the land of the living, but it does not come to this. He wrestles with Thanatos by Alkestis’s tomb until Death gives up his victim, then he brings Alkestis home again. Husband and wife are miraculously reunited, and Admetos is only too happy to accept ordinary mortal existence once more.

Written by Jenny March in "The Penguin Book of Classical Myths", Penguin Random House, UK, 2009, chapter 17. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.


PRÁTICA RELIGIOSA E A DESCOBERTA DA AGRICULTURA

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1. UM PARAÍSO PERDIDO

O fim da época glaciária, por volta de 8.000, mudou de maneira radical o clima e a paisagem, e por conseguinte a flora e a fauna da Europa ao norte dos Alpes. O recuo dos gelos provocou a migração da fauna em direcção às regiões setentrionais. Gradualmente a floresta foi substituindo as estepes árcticas. Os caçadores acompanharam a caça, sobretudo as manadas de renas, mas a rarefacção da fauna obrigou-os a instalar-se nas margens dos lagos e sobre os litorais, e a viverem da pesca. As novas culturas que se desenvolveram durante os milénios sub-sequentes são designadas Mesolítico. Na Europa ocidental tais culturas são nitidamente mais pobres do que as grandiosas criações do Paleolítico superior. Em compensação, na Ásia do sudoeste, e particularmente na Palestina, o Mesol(tico constitui um período axial : é a época da domesticação dos primeiros animais e dos primórdios da agricultura.

Conhecem-se bastante mal as práticas religiosas dos caçadores que acompanharam as manadas de renas no Norte da Europa. No depósito de resíduos de uma lagoa de Stellmoor, perto de Hamburgo, A. Rust encontrou os restos completos de 12 renas, submersas e com pedras na caixa toráxica ou no ventre. Rust e outros autores interpretaram esse facto como oferenda das primícias apresentadas a uma divindade, provavelmente ao Senhor das Feras. Mas H. Pohlhausen lembrou que os esquimós conservam as provisões de carne na água gelada dos lagos e dos riachos. Entretanto, como reconhece o próprio Pohlhausen, essa explicação empírica não exclui a intencionalidade religiosa de certos depósitos. Com efeito, o sacrifício por imersão é amplamente atestado, e em épocas diferentes, da Europa setentrional até a Índia.

O lago de Stellmoor era provavelmente tido como «lugar sagrado» pelos caçadores mesolíticos. Rust recolheu na jazida numerosos objectos: flechas de madeira, ferramentas de osso, machados talhados em hastes de renas. É muito provável que estes utensílios representem oferendas, como acontece com os objectos da idade de bronze e da idade de ferro encontrados em alguns lagos e lagoas da Europa Ocidental. Sem dúvida, mais de cinco milénios separaram os dois grupos de objectos, mas a continuidade desse tipo de prática religiosa é indubitável. Na fonte chamada de Saint-Sauver (Floresta de Compiêgne) foram descobertos objectos de sílex da época neolítica (quebrados intencionalmente como sinal de ex-voto), do tempo dos gauleses e dos galo-romanos, e da Idade Média aos nossos dias. É preciso também ter presente que, neste último caso, a prática se manteve apesar da influência cultural da Roma Imperial e, sobretudo, a despeito das repetidas proibições da Igreja. Além do seu interesse intrínseco, este exemplo tem um valor paradigmático: ilustra admiravelmente a continuidade dos «lugares sagrados» e de certas práticas religiosas.

Ainda na camada mesolítica de Stellmoor, Rust descobriu uma estaca de pinho com um crânio de rena colocado na sua parte mais alta. Segundo Maringer, essa estaca cultual indica provavelmente refeições rituais: comia-se a carne das renas e ofereciam-se as cabeças desses animais a um ser divino. Não longe de Ahrensburg-Hopfenbach, num local mesolítico datado de  10.000,Rust resgatou do fundo da lagoa um tronco de salgueiro de 3,50 m de comprimento, grosseiramente esculpido: distinguem-se a cabeça, um pescoço alongado e incisões de grandes riscos, que, segundo o autor da descoberta, representam os braços. Esse «ídolo» tinha sido fixado na lagoa, mas não se encontraram em torno ossadas nem objectos de qualquer espécie. Trata-se, provavelmente, da imagem de um Ser sobrenatural, embora não seja passivei precisar-lhe a estrutura.

Ao lado da pobreza desses parcos documentos dos caçadores de renas, a arte rupestre da Espanha oriental oferece ao historiador das religiões um material apreciável. A pintura rupestre naturalista do Paleolítico superior transformou-se, no «Levante espanhol», numa arte geométrica rígida e formalista. As paredes rochosas da Sierra Morena estão cobertas de figuras antropomorfas e terimorfas (principalmente de cervos e cabritos monteses), reduzidas a alguns traços, e de diferentes sinais (tiras onduladas, círculos, pontos, sóis). Hugo Obermaier mostrou que essas figuras antropomorfas se aproximam dos desenhos específicos dos seixos pintados do aziliano. Uma vez que essa civilização deriva da Espanha, as representações antropomorfas inscritas nas paredes rochosas e nos seixos devem ter significados similares. Têm sido explicadas como símbolos fálicos, elementos de uma escrita, ou sinais mágicos. Mais convincente parece a comparação com as 'tjurunga' australianas. Sabe-se que esses objectos rituais, mais frequentemente da pedra e enfeitados com diversos desenhos geométricos, representam o corpo místico dos antepassados. As 'tjurunga' estão escondidas em grutas ou enterradas em certos locais sagrados e só são comunicadas aos jovens no final da sua iniciação. Entre os aranda, o pai dirige-se ao filho nestes termos: «Eis o teu próprio corpo, do qual saíste por um novo nascimento», ou : «É o teu próprio corpo. É o antepassado que tu eras quando durante a tua existência anterior, erravas por regiões longínquas. Depois, desceste à gruta sagrada, para nela repousar».

Supondo-se que os seixos pintados de Mas d'Azil tenham tido, como é provável, uma função análoga à das 'tjurunga', é impossível saber se os seus autores partilhavam ideias similares às dos australianos. Contudo não se pode duvidar do sentido religioso dos seixos azilianos. Na gruta de Birsek, encontraram-se 133 seixos pintados, quase todos quebrados. Parece plausível que tenham sido partidos por inimigos ou por posteriores ocupantes da caverna. Em ambos os casos, pretendia-se eliminar a força mágico-religiosa presente em tais objectos. Provavelmente, as grutas e os locais ornados de pinturas rupestres do Levante espanhol constituiam lugares santos. Quanto aos sóis e aos outros sinais geométricos que acompanham as figurações antropomorfas, o seu significado continua a ser um mistério.

Não temos as menores condições de precisar a origem e o desenvolvimento da crença nos antepassados durante a pré-história. A julgar pelos paralelos etnográficos, esse complexo religioso é susceptível de coexistir com a crença em Seres Sobrenaturais ou em Senhores das Feras. Não se vê por que razão a ideia dos ancestrais míticos não faria parte do sistema religioso dos paleolíticos: ela é solidária com a mitologia das origens -origem do mundo, da caça, do homem, da morte - específicas às civilizações de caçadores. Trata-se, além disso, de uma ideia religiosa universalmente difundida e mitologicamente fértil, pois manteve-se em todas as religiões, mesmo as mais complexas (com excepção do budismo hinâyâna). Pode acontecer que uma ideia religiosa arcaica se espalhe de maneira inesperada em certas épocas e após determinadas circunstâncias particulares. Se é verdade que a ideia do ancestral mítico e o culto dos antepassados dominam o Mesolítico europeu, é provável, como pensa Maringer (op. cit., p. 183), que a importância desse complexo religioso se explique pela lembrança da época glaciária, quando os remotos antepassados viviam numa espécie de «paraíso dos caçadores». Com efeito, os australianos julgam que os seus antepassados míticos viveram, durante a idade de ouro, num paraiso terrestre onde a caça era farta e em que as noções de bem e de mal eram praticamente desconhecidas. E esse mundo «paradisíaco» que os australianos se esforçam por reactualizar durante certas festas, quando as leis e as proibições estão suspensas.

2. TRABALHO. TECNOLOGIA E MUNDOS IMAGINÁRIOS.

Como dissemos, no Próximo Oriente, sobretudo na Palestina, o Mesolítico assinala uma época criadora, embora conservando o seu carácter de transição entre dois tipos de civilizações, a da caça e a da recolecção e uma outra, baseada na cultura dos cereais. Na Palestina, os caçadores do Paleolítico superior parecem ter habitado as grutas no decorrer de longos intervalos. Mas foram sobretudo os detentores da cultura natufiana que optaram por uma existência claramente sedentária. Habitavam tanto as cavernas como os locais ao ar livre (como em Einan, onde as escavações revelaram um lugarejo formado de choupanas circulares dotadas de lares). Os natufianos haviam descoberto a importância alimentar dos cereais silvestres que ceifavam utilizando foices de pedra, e cujos grãos eram pilados num almofariz com o auxílio de um pilão. Era um grande passo em direcção à agricultura. A domesticação dos animais também teve início durante o Mesol ítico (muito embora só se generalize no começo do Neolítico): o carneiro em Zawi Chemi-Shanidar, por volta de 8 .000, o bode em Jericó, na Jordânia, ao redor de 7.000, e o porco em torno de 6.500; o cão em Stan Carr, na Inglaterra, em mais ou menos 7.500. Os resultados imediatos da domesticação das gramíneas aparecem na expansão populacional e no desenvolvimento do comércio, fenómenos que já caracterizam os natufianos.

Ao contrário do esquematismo geométrico específico dos desenhos e das pinturas do Mesolítico europeu, a arte dos natufianos é naturalista: desenterraram-se pequenas esculturas de animais e estatuetas humanas, às vezes em postura erótica. O simbolismo sexual dos pilões esculpidos em forma de falo é tão «evidente» que não se pode duvidar do seu significado mágico-religioso.

Os dois tipos de sepultura natufiana - a) inumação de todo o corpo,numa posição curvada, b ) sepultamento dos crânios - eram conhecidos no Paleolítico e prolongaram-se no Neolítico. A propósito dos esqueletos exumados em Einan, supôs-se que uma vítima humana era sacrificada por ocasião do enterro, mais ignora-se o sentido do ritual. Quanto aos depósitos de crânios, compararam-se os documentos natufianos com os depósitos descobertos em Offnet, na Baviera, e na gruta do Hohlenstern, em Württenburg: todos esses crânios pertenciam a indivíduos que haviam sido chacinados, talvez por caçadores de cabeças ou por canibais.

Em ambos os casos, pode-se presumir um acto mágico-religioso, uma vez que a cabeça (i.e., o cérebro) era considerada a sede da «alma». Há já muito tempo que, graças aos sonhos e às experiências extáticas e paraextáticas, se reconheceu a existência de um elemento independente do corpo, que as línguas modernas designam pelos termos «alma», «espírito», «sopro», «vida», «duplo» etc. Esse elemento «espiritual» (não lhes podemos dar outro nome, já que era apreendido enquanto imagem, visão, «aparição» etc.) estava presente no corpo inteiro; constituía de alguma forma o seu «duplo». Mas a localização da «alma» ou do «espírito» no cérebro teve consequências consideráveis: por um lado acreditava-se poder assimilar o elemento «espiritual» da vítima devorando-lhe o cérebro; por outro lado, o crânio, fonte de poder, tornava-se objecto de culto.

Além da agricultura, outras invenções tiveram lugar durante o Mesolitico, sendo as mais importantes o arco e a confecção de cordas, redes, anzóis, e de embarcações capazes de viagens bastante longas. Tal como as outras invenções anteriores (ferramentas de pedra, diversos objectos trabalhados em osso ou em armações de cervo, roupas e toldos de peles etc.), e as que serão efectivadas durante o Neolítico (em primeiro lugar a cerâmica), todas essas descobertas suscitaram mitologias e fabulações paramitológicas e às vezes deram origem a comportamentos rituais. O valor empírico dessas invenções é evidente. O que é menos óbvio é a importância da actividade imaginária deflagrada pela intimidade com as diferentes modalidades da matéria. Trabalhando com um sílex ou uma agulha primitiva, ligando peles de animais ou tábuas de madeira, preparando um anzol ou uma ponta de flecha, moldando uma estatueta em argila, a imaginação revela analogias insuspeitadas entre os diferentes níveis do real ; as ferramentas e os objectos são carregados de inumeráveis simbolismos, o mundo do trabalho - o micro-universo que rouba a atenção do artesão durante longas horas -torna-se um centro misterioso e sagrado, rico de significados.

O mundo imaginário criado e continuamente enriquecido pela intimidade com a matéria deixa-se apreender de maneira insuficiente nas criações figurativas ou geométricas das diferentes culturas pré-históricas. Mas esse mundo ainda nos é acessível nas experiências da nossa própria imaginação. É principalmente essa continuidade ao nível da actividade imaginária que nos permite «compreender» a existência dos homens que viviam nessas épocas longínquas. Mas, ao contrário do homem das sociedades modernas, a actividade do homem pré-histórico possuía uma dimensão mitológica. Uma quantidade considerável de figuras sobrenaturais e de episódios mitológicos, que vamos encontrar nas  tradições religiosas posteriores, representam muito provavelmente «descobertas» das idades da pedra.

3. A HERANÇA DOS CAÇADORES PALEOLITICOS. 

Os progressos realizados durante o Mesolítico põem f im à unidade cultural das populações paleolíticas e desencadeiam a variedade e as divergências que passarão a ser doravante a principal característica das civilizações. As sociedades de caçadores paleolíticos restantes começam a penetrar nas regiões marginais ou de difícil acesso : o deserto, as grandes florestas, as montanhas. Mas esse processo de afastamento e de isolamento das sociedades paleolíticas não implica o desaparecimento do comportamento e da espiritualidade específicas ao caçador. A caça como meio de subsistência prolonga-se nas sociedades dos agricultores. E provável que um certo número de caçadores, que se recusavam a participar activamente da economia dos cultivadores, tenham sido empregados como defensores das aldeias; a princípio contra os animais selvagens que importunavam os sedentários e causavam prejuízos aos campos cultivados, e mais tarde contra os bandos de saqueadores. É também provável que as primeiras organizações militares se tenham constituído a partir desses grupos de caçadores-defensores das aldeias. Como veremos na hora oportuna, os guerreiros, os conquistadores e as aristocracias militares prolongam o simbolismo e a ideologia do caçador típico.

Por outro lado, os sacrifícios cruentos, praticados tanto pelos cultivadores como pelos que vivem do pastoreio, repetem, no final das contas, o acto do caçador ao abater a caça. Um comportamento que, durante um ou dois milhões de anos, se confundira com a forma humana (ou pelo menos masculina) de existir, não se deixa eliminar com facilidade.

Vários milénios depois do triunfo da economia agrícola, a Weltanschauung do caçador primitivo far-se-á de novo sentir na história. Com efeito, as invasões e as conquistas dos indo-europeus e dos turco-mongóis serão empreendidas sob a égide do caçador por excelência, o animal carnívoro. Os membros das confrarias militares (Mannerbünde) indo-europeias e os cavaleiros nómadas da Asia central comportavam-se em relação às populações sedentárias que atacavam como carnívoros que caçam, estrangulam e devoram os herbívoros da estepe ou o gado dos agricultores. Numerosas tribos indo-europeias e turco-mongóis tinham epónimos de animais de rapina (em primeiro lugar, o lobo) e consideraram-se descendentes de um Antepassado mítico teriomorfo. As iniciações militares dos indo-europeus comportavam uma transformação ritual em lobo: o guerreiro exemplar apropriava-se do comportamento de um carnívoro.

Por outro lado, a perseguição e a execução de uma fera torna-se o modelo mítico da conquista de um território (Landnáma) e da fundação de um Estado. Entre os assírios iranianos e os turco-mongóis, as técnicas da caça e da guerra, assemelham-se a ponto de se confundirem. Por toda a parte, no mundo asiático, desde o aparecimento dos assírios até aos começos da época moderna, a caça constitui ao mesmo tempo a educação por excelência e o desporto favorito dos soberanos e das aristocracias militares. Aliás, o prestígio fabuloso da existência do caçador em relação à dos cultivadores sedentários mantém-se ainda em diversas populações primitivas. As centenas de milhares de anos vividos numa espécie de simbiose m rstica com o mundo animal deixaram traços indeléveis. Além disso, o êxtase orgiástico é capaz de reactualizar o comportamento religioso dos primeiros Paleomínidas, quando a caça era devorada crua; facto que se verificou na Grécia, entre os adoradores de Dioniso ( vol.2,§124) ou, ainda no princípio do século XX, entre os Aissaua de Marrocos.

4. A DOMESTICAÇÃO DAS PLANTAS ALIMENTARES: MITOS DE ORIGEM

Desde 1960 sabe-se que as aldeias precederam a descoberta da agricultura. O que Gordon Childe chamava «revolução neolítica» efectuou-se gradualmente entre 9.000 e 7.000. Sabe-se também que, ao contrário do que se pensava até bem pouco tempo, a cultura das gramíneas e a domesticação dos animais precederam a fabricação da cerâmica. A agricultura propriamente dita, isto é, a cerealicultura, desenvolveu-se na Asia sul-ocidental e na América central. A «vegetocultura», que depende da reprodução vegetativa dos tubérculos, raízes ou rizomas, parece ter origem nas planícies húmidas tropicais da América e da Asia sul-ocidental.

Ainda se conhecem mal a antiguidade da cultura de vegetais e as suas relações com a cultura cerealífera de vegetais. Alguns etnólogos inclinam-se a considerar a cultura antiga como mais do que a cultura dos grãos; outros, ao contrário, cuidam que ela representa uma imitação empobrecida da agricultura. Uma das raras indicações precisas foi fornecida pelas escavações efectuadas na América do Sul. Nas planícies de Rancho Peludo, na Venezuela, e Momil, na Colômbia, vestígios de uma cultura de mandioca foram descobertos debaixo do nível da cultura do milho, o que significa a antecedência da cultura de vegetais. Recentemente, uma nova prova de antiguidade da Tailândia foi revelada: numa caverna (a «Gruta dos Fantasmas») exumaram-se ervilhas cultivadas, favas e raízes de plantas tropicais; a análise com carbono radiactivo aponta para datas em torno de 9.000.

Inútil insistir na importância da descoberta da agricultura para a história da civil ização. Tornando-se o produtor do seu alimento, o homem teve de modificar o seu comportamento ancestral. Antes de mais nada, teve de aperfeiçoar a sua técnica de calcular o tempo, descoberta ainda no Paleolítico. Já não lhe bastava assegurar a exactidão de certas datas futuras com o aux ílio de um calendário lunar rudimentar. Doravante, o cultivador estava obrigado a elaborar os seus projectos vários meses antes da sua aplicação, e também a executar, numa ordem precisa, uma série de actividades complexas tendo em vista um resultado longínquo e, sobretudo no início, jamais certo: a colheita. De mais a mais, a cultura das plantas impôs uma divisão do trabalho orientada de forma diferente da anterior, pois a principal responsabilidade no assegurar dos meios de subsistência passava a caber às mulheres.

Não menos consideráveis foram as consequências da descoberta da agricultura para a história religiosa da humanidade. A domesticação das plantas ocasionou uma situação existencial até então inacesslvel; por conseguinte, serviu de estímulo a criações e inversões de valores que modificaram radicalmente o universo espiritual do homem pré-Neolítico. Vamos analisar daqui a pouco essa «revolução religiosa» inaugurada pelo triunfo da cultura cerealífera. Por enquanto, lembremos os mitos que explicam a origem dos dois tipos de agricultura. Ao tomar conhecimento de como os cultivadores explicavam o aparecimento das plantas alimentares, aprendemos ao mesmo tempo a justificação religiosa dos seus comportamentos.

A maioria dos mitos de origem foi recolhida entre populações primitivas que praticam quer a cultura dos vegetais quer a dos cereais. (Tais mitos são mais raros, e por vezes radicalmente reinterpretados, nas culturas evolu idas). Um tema bastante difundido explica que os tubérculos e as árvores que produzem frutos comestíveis (coqueiro, bananeira, etc.) teriam nascido de uma divindade imolada. O exemplo mais famoso chega-nos de Ceram, uma das ilhas da Nova Guiné: do corpo retalhado e enterrado de uma mocinha semi-divina, Hainuwele, crescem plantas até então desconhecidas, principalmente os tubérculos. Esse assassínio primordial transformou radicalmente a condição humana, pois introduziu a sexualidade e a morte, e instaurou as instituições religiosas e sociais ainda vigentes. A morte violenta de Hainuwele não é apenas uma morte «criadora» : ela permite à deusa estar continuamente presente na vida dos humanos, e até mesmo na sua morte. Nutrindo-se das plantas provindas do seu próprio corpo, os homens alimentam-se, na realidade, da sua própria substância da divindade.

Não vamos insistir na importância desse mito de origem para a vida religiosa e a cultura dos paleo-cultivadores. Basta afirmar que todas as actividades responsáveis (cerimónias de puberdade, sacrifícios de animais ou sacrifícios humanos, canibalismo, cerimónias funerárias etc.) constituem propriamente a rememoração do assassínio primordial. E significativo que o cultivador associe a um assassinato o trabalho, pacifico por excelência, que lhe assegura a existência; ao passo que nas sociedades dos caçadores a responsabilidade pela carnificina é atribuída a um outro, a um «estrangeiro». Compreende-se o caçador: ele teme a vingança do animal abatido (mais exactamente, da sua «alma») ou justifica-se perante o Senhor das Feras. Quanto aos paleo-cultivadores, o mito do assassínio primordial justifica, decerto, ritos cruentos como o sacrifício humano e o canibalismo, mas é diHcil precisar o seu contexto religioso inicial.

Um tema mítico análogo explica a origem das plantas nutritivas - quer tubérculos, quer cereais - como oriundas das excreções de uma divindade ou de um antepassado mítico. Quando os beneficiários descobrem a origem, repulsiva, dos alimentos, abatem o autor; mas, seguindo os seus conselhos, decepam o corpo e enterram-lhe os pedaços. Plantas nutritivas e outros elementos de cultura (instrumentos agrícolas, bicho-da-seda,etc.) brotam do seu cadáver.

O significado desses mitos é evidente: as plantas alimentares são sagradas por derivarem do corpo de uma divindade (pois as excreções também fazem parte da substância divina). Ao se nutrir, o homem come, em última instância, um ser divino. A planta alimentar não é «dada» no mundo, tal como o animal. Ela é o resultado de um acontecimento dramático primitivo, no caso, o produto de um assassínio. Veremos mais adiante as consequências dessas teologias alimentares.

O etnólogo alemão Ad. E. Jensen considerava que o mito de Hainuwele é específico dos paleo-cultivadores de tubérculos. Ouanro aos mitos referentes à origem da cerealicultura, colocam em cena um furto primordial : os cereais existem, mas no céu , ciosamente guardados pelos deuses; um herói civilizador sobe ao céu, apodera-se de alguns grãos e com eles recompensa os seres humanos. Jensen dava a esses dois tipos de mitologias os nomes de «Hainuwele» e «Prometeu» e relacionava-os respectivamente com a civilização dos paleo-cultivadores (cultura de vegetais) e com a dos agricultores propriamente ditos cultura cerealífera). A distinção é, sem dúvida, real. Entretanto, no que respeita aos dois tipos de mitos de origem, ela é menos rígida do que pensava Jensen, pois muitos mitos explicam o aparecimento dos cereais a partir de um ser primitivo imolado. Acrescentemos que nas religiões dos agricultores a origem dos cereais é igualmente divina: o presente dos cereais aos humanos é às vezes relacionado com uma hierogamia entre o deus do céu (ou da atmosfera) e a Terra Mãe, ou com um drama mítico que implica união sexual, morte e ressureição.

5. A MULHER E A VEGETAÇÃO. ESPAÇO SAGRADO E RENOVAÇÃO PERIÓDICA DO MUNDO

A primeira - e talvez a mais importante consequência da descoberta da agricultura - provoca uma crise nos valores dos caçadores paleolíticos: as relações de ordem religiosa com o mundo animal são suplantadas pelo que podemos chamar de a solidariedade mística entre o homem e a vegetação. Se o osso e o sangue representavam até então a essência e a sacralidade da vida, doravante são o esperma e o sangue que as encarnam. Além disso, a mulher e a sacralidade feminina são promovidas ao primeiro plano. Como as mulheres desempenharam um papel decisivo na domesticação das plantas, tornam-se as proprietárias dos campos cultivados, o que lhes realça a posição social e cria instituições características, como, por exemplo, a matrilocação, em que o marido está obrigado a habitar a casa da esposa.

A fertilidade da terra é solidária com a fecundidade feminina; consequentemente, as mulheres tornam-se responsáveis pela abundância das colheitas, pois são elas que conhecem o «mistério» da criação. Trata-se de um mistério religioso, porque governa a origem da vida, alimentação e morte. Mais tarde, após a invenção do arado,· o trabalho agrário é assimilado ao acto sexual. Mas, durante milénios a Terra Mãe dava à luz sozinha, por partenogénese. A lembrança desse «mistério» sobrevivia ainda na mitologia olímpica (Hera concebe sozinha e dá à luz Hefesto e Ares) e deixa-se decifrar em numerosos mitos e várias crenças populares sobre o nascimento dos homens da Terra, o parto no solo, a colocação do recém-nascido sobre o chão etc. Nascido da Terra, o homem, ao morrer, retorna à sua mãe. «Rastejar para a terra, tua mãe», exclama o poeta védico (Rig Veda, X, 18, 10).

Certamente a sacralidade feminina e materna não era ignorada no Paleolítico (cf. § 6), mas a descoberta da agricultura aumenta-lhe sensivelmente o poder. A sacralidade da vida sexual, em primeiro lugar a sacralidade feminina, confunde-se com o miraculoso enigma da criação. A partenogénese, o hierós gámos e a orgia ritual exprimem, em planos distintos, o carácter religioso da sexualidade. Um simbolismo complexo, de estrutura antropocósmica, associa a mulher e a sexualidade aos ritmos lunares, à Terra (assimilada ao útero) e àquilo a que devemos chamar o «mistério» da vegetação. Mistério que reclama a «morte» da semente a fim de lhe assegurar um novo nascimento, tanto mais maravilhoso quanto se traduz numa espantosa multiplicação. A assimilação da existência humana à vida vegetativa exprime-se por imagens e metáforas tiradas do drama vegetal (a vida é como a flor dos campos etc.). Essa imagística alimentou a poesia e a reflexão filosófica durante milhares de anos, e ainda continua a ser «verdadeira» para o homem contemporâneo.

Todos esses valores religiosos resultantes da descoberta da agricultura foram articulados progressivamente com o passar do tempo. Entretanto, evocamo-los a partir de agora para salientar o carácter específico das criações meso1íticas e neolíticas. Vamos encontrar continuadamente ideias religiosas, mitologias e encenações rituais solidárias do «mistério» da vida vegetal. Pois a criatividade religiosa foi despertada não pelo fenómeno empfrico da agricultura, mas pelo mistério do nascimento, da morte e do renascimento identificado no ritmo da vegetação. As crises que põem a colheita em perigo (inundações, secas etc.) serão traduzidas, para serem compreendidas, aceites e dominadas, em dramas mitológicos. Essas mitologias, e as encenações rituais deles dependentes, vão dominar durante milénios as civilizações do Próximo Oriente. O tema mítico dos deuses que morrem e ressuscitam figura entre os mais importantes. Em certos casos, essas encenações arcaicas darão origem a novas criações religiosas (por exemplo, Elêusis, os mistérios greco-orientais; cf. vol. 2, § 96).

As culturas agrícolas elaboram o que podemos chamar religião cósmica, uma vez que a actividade religiosa está concentrada em torno do mistério central : a renovação periódica do Mundo. Tal como a existência humana, os ritmos cósmicos são expressos em termos tirados da vida vegetal. O mistério da sacralidade cósmica está simbolizado na Arvore do Mundo. O Universo é concebido como um organismo que deve renovar-se periodicamente, noutros termos, todos os anos. A «realidade absoluta», o rejuvenescimento, a  imortalidade, são acessíveis a alguns privilegiados na forma de um fruto ou de uma fonte próxima a uma árvore. Julga-se que a Árvore cósmica se encontra no Centro do Mundo e congrega as três regiões cósmicas, pois afunda as suas raízes no Inferno e o seu cimo toca o Céu.

Já que o mundo deve ser renovado periodicamente, a cosmogonia será ritualmente refeita por ocasião de cada Ano Novo. Essa encenação mítico-ritual é atestada no Próximo Oriente e entre os indo-iranianos. Mas vêmo-la também nas sociedades dos cultivadores primitivos, que prolongam de alguma forma as concepções religiosas do Neolítico. A ideia fundamental - renovação do mundo pela repetição da cosmogonia - é certamente mais antiga, pré-agrícola. Reencontramo-la, com as inevitáveis variações, entre os australianos e em numerosas tribos da América do Norte. Entre os paleo-cultivadores e os agricultores, a encenação. mítico-ritual do Ano Novo compreende o retorno dos mortos, e cerimónias análogas subsistem na Grécia clássica, entre os antigos germanos, no Japão, etc.

A experiência do tempo cósmico, sobretudo no âmbito dos trabalhos agrícolas, acaba por impôr a ideia do tempo circular e do ciclo cósmico. Visto que o mundo e a existência humana são valorizados em termos da vida vegetal , o ciclo cósmico é concebido como a repetição indefinida do mesmo ritmo : nascimento, morte, renascimento. Na Índia pós-védica, essa concepção será elaborada em duas doutrinas solidárias: a dos ciclos (yuga) que se repetem até o infinito e a transmigração das almas. Por outro lado, as ideias arcaicas articuladas em torno da renovaça- o periódica do Mundo serão retomadas, reinterpretadas e integradas em diversos sistemas religiosos do Próximo Oriente. As cosmologias, escatologias e messianismos que vão dominar durante dois milénios o Oriente e o mundo mediterrânico têm as suas raízes nas concepções dos neolíticos.

Igualmente importantes foram as valorizações religiosas do .espaço, ou seja,antes de mais, as valorizações da habitação e da aldeia. Uma existência sedentária organiza o «mundo» de uma forma diferente da empregada por uma vida de nómada. O «verdadeiro mundo» é, para o agricultor, o espaço onde ele vive: a casa, a aldeia, os campos cultivados. O «Centro do Mundo» é o lugar consagrado pelos rituais e orações, pois é ali que se efectua a comunicação com os Seres sobre-humanos. Ignoramos as significações religiosas atribuídas pelos neolíticos do Próximo Oriente às suas casas e aldeias. Sabemos apenas que, a partir de determinado momento, construiram altares e santuários. Contudo, na China, podemos reconstituir o simbolismo da casa neolítica, por existir continuidade e analogia com certos tipos de habitações da Asia setentrional e do Tibete. Na cultura neolítica do Yang-chao, havia pequenas construções circulares (com aproximadamente 5 m de diâmetro) cujas vigas sustentavam o tecto e se alinhavam em torno de uma cavidade central que servia de lareira. E possível que o tecto também possuísse uma abertura destinada a dar saída ao fumo da lareira. Essa casa teria tido, em materiais duros, a mesma estrutura que a iurta mongol dos nossos dias. Ora, conhece-se o simbolismo cosmológico de que se revestem a iurta e as tendas das populações norte-asiáticas: o Céu é concebido como uma imensa tenda sustentada por uma pilastra central : a estaca da tenda ou a abertura superior para a saída da fumaça são assimiladas ao Pilar do Mundo ou à «Cavidade do Céu», A Estrela Polar. Essa abertura também é chamada de «Janela do Céu». Os tibetanos dão à abertura do tecto das suas casas o nome de «Fortuna do Céu» ou «Porta do Céu».

O simbolismo cosmológico da habitaçao é atestado em numerosas sociedades primitivas. De forma quase indiscutível, a habitação é considerada uma imago mundi. Como se encontram exemplos disso em todos os níveis de cultura, não se compreende por que os primeiros neolíticos do Próximo Oriente;constituiram uma excepção, tanto mais que é nessa região que o simbolismo cosmológico da arquitectura terá o mais próspero desenvolvimento. A separação da habitação entre os dois seixos (costume já constatado no Paleolítico, § 6) tinha provavelmente um sentido cosmológico. As divisões que nos revelam as aldeias dos cultivadores correspondem em geral a uma dicotomia ao mesmo tempo classificatória e ritual: Céu e Terra, masculino e feminino etc., e também a dois grupos ritualmente antagónicos. Ora, como veremos em várias oportunidades, os combates rituais entre dois grupos opostos desempenham um papel importante, mormente nas encenações no Ano Novo. Quer se trate da repetição de um combate mítico, como na Mesopotâmia (§ 22). ou simplesmente do confronto entre dois princípios cosmogónicas (Inverno/Verão; Dia/Noite; Vida/Morte). o seu significado profundo é idêntico; o confronto, as justas, os combates despertam, estimulam ou aumentam as forças criadoras da vida.Essa concepção biocosmológica, provavelmente elaborada pelos agricultores neolíticos, foi alvo no decorrer dos tempos de múltiplas reinterpretações, ou de deformações. Mal pode ser reconhecida, por exemplo, em certos t ipos de dualismo religioso.

Não tivemos a pretensão de ter enumerado todas as criações religiosas suscitadas pela descoberta da agricultura. Bastou-nos mostrar a origem comum, no Neolítico, de algumas ideias que por sua vez se desenvolverão milénios mais tarde. Acrescentemos que a difusão da religiosidade de estrutura agrária teve como resultado, a despeito das inumeráveis variações e inovações, a constituição de uma certa unidade fundamental que, ainda nos nossos dias, se aproxima de sociedades camponesas tão distantes uma das outras como são as do Mediterrâneo, da Índia e da China.

Texto de Mircea Eliade em "História das Ideias e Crenças Religiosas" título original "Histoire des Croyances et des Idées Religieuses",volume 1, tradução de Daniela de Carvalho e Paulo Ferreira da Cunha,RÉS Editora Ltda, Porto, Portugal,excertos pp.33-46. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa. 

VITAMINS AND HEALTH

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Vitamins are organic micronutrients essential for health and the body’s proper growth, development, and function. They interact with each other or with other biochemicals in the body, functioning as cofactors or coenzymes to carry out activities of energy conversion (metabolism) though do not themselves provide energy to the body. With the exception of vitamin D, dietary sources provide the vitamins the body requires.

There are 12 vitamins that are essential for health. The 8 B vitamins and vitamin C are water soluble; the body cannot stockpile stores of them (except in limited accumulations within the blood circulation and the liver) and thus requires regular consumption to maintain levels adequate to support health. Most healthy people can obtain the vitamins their bodies need for normal functioning through dietary sources. Vitamins A, E, D, and K are fat soluble; the body stores excess amounts of these vitamins in adipose (fatty) tissue and draws from these supplies when dietary intake does not meet needs.

Vitamin deficiency may develop when dietary consumption is inadequate, as a result of gastrointestinal disorders that interfere with nutrient absorption or owing to interactions with medications. Chronic health conditions may drain the body of important nutrients, including vitamins. Untreated vitamin deficiency can cause potentially serious health conditions such as scurvy, rickets, and night blindness.

Vitamin toxicity occurs most commonly as a consequence of excessive vitamin supplementation and can have serious or permanent consequences. Metabolic disorders and medications that interfere with vitamin metabolism are also common culprits. Vitamin toxicity is more common with the fat-soluble vitamins because they accumulate in the body. Vitamin toxicity also is possible with extreme overconsumption of water-soluble vitamins, usually the result of higher levels in the blood circulation than the body can excrete.

Vitamin toxicity is more likely to occur when taking a multiple vitamin supplement and individual supplements that supply significantly greater than the needed amounts of certain vitamins. Vitamins A; E; and the B vitamins niacin (B3), pantothenic acid (B5), pyridoxine (B6), and folic acid (B9) present the greatest risk for toxicity.

Vitamin A (Retinol)

Vitamin A is essential for proper functioning of the photoreceptor cells (rods and cones) of the retina, maintains the health of the skin, and appears to have some antiviral capabilities. It is also crucial for growth and development in children. The liver stores vitamin A, a fat-soluble vitamin, and releases it into the blood circulation as the body needs it. The primary dietary sources for vitamin A are foods that supply beta-carotene, which the body converts to retinol. Such foods include yellow vegetables and fruits, green leafy vegetables, egg yolks, and fish liver oil.

Vitamin A deficiency results in disturbances of vision, including impaired dark adaptation (slowing of the ability of the eyes to adjust to changes in lighting) and night blindness. In children, vitamin A deficiency can stunt growth and impair cognitive development. These developmental disruptions can have permanent consequences, although vitamin A deficiency severe enough to cause such disruptions is rare. Other consequences of vitamin A deficiency generally improve when levels of vitamin A return to normal.

Vitamin A toxicity nearly always results from taking high doses of vitamin A supplement and can occur as acute overdose (taking an extremely large dose at one time) or chronic overdose (excess that accumulates over time), usually the result of oversupplementation. Treatment with retinol medications, such as for severe acne, also can result in vitamin A toxicity. In adults the effects and symptoms of vitamin A toxicity are reversible and generally resolve within a few weeks of stopping supplementation or therapeutic retinol.

Vitamin B Complex

The eight B vitamins, called the vitamin B complex, work in close synchronization with one another and have key roles in many functions in the body. Each B vitamin further has specific functions, dietary sources, deficiency level, and toxicity level. In general the B vitamins are essential for energy conversion (metabolism of carbohydrates and fats) and other functions of cellular metabolism, erythropoiesis (making new red blood cells), and maintaining the epithelium (skin and mucous membranes). The liver stores some of the B vitamins for a short time. Food sources of the B vitamins include meats, poultry, fish, eggs, leafy green vegetables, fruits, whole grains, brown rice, and fortified grain products such as cereals and breads (regulations in the United States require such fortification).

Deficiencies of B vitamins affect many functions of the body. Most often deficiencies of the B vitamins occur collectively, though specific deficiency disorders are beriberi (thiamine deficiency), pellagra (niacin deficiency), and pernicious anemia (cyanocobalamin deficiency). In the United States vitamin B deficiencies generally result from chronic health disorders, alcoholism, and malabsortption disorders. In such circumstances it often is necessary for the person to take therapeutic vitamin B supplements, either B complex or specific B vitamins, to compensate.

Toxicity of B vitamins is uncommon though can occur when taking excessive vitamin supplements and in some metabolic disorders; it is most likely to develop with niacin (B3), pantothenic acid (B5), pyridoxine (B6), and folic acid (B9). Though most symptoms resolve when vitamin B intake returns to normal, vitamin B toxicities can result in permanent neurologic and skin damage.

Vitamin B1 (thiamine) 

Thiamine converts carbohydrates into glucose and is a coenzyme in the synthesis of acetylcholine, a neurotransmitter important for cognitive functions in the cerebral cortex and muscle coordination throughout the body. Prolonged thiamine deficiency causes beriberi.

Vitamin B2 (riboflavin) 

Riboflavin is a key player in macronutrient metabolism (fats, carbohydrate, and proteins) as well as in energy conversion at the cellular level (cellular oxidation). It is essential for growth and development in children, facilitates erythropoiesis (formation of new red blood cells), and helps support the health of the retina.

Vitamin B3 (niacin) 

Niacin exists in two forms: nicotinic acid and niacinamide (also called nicotinamide). In either form it facilitates the metabolism of carbohydrates (glycolysis) and functions of cellular energy conversion. Niacin also helps maintain the structure of the epithelium (skin and mucous membranes). The body synthesizes some niacin from the essential amino acid tryptophan. Prolonged niacin deficiency causes pellagra. Niacin has emerged as an effective therapy for mild to moderate hyperlipidemia, reducing cholesterol blood levels as effectively as some lipid-lowering medications.

Vitamin B5 (pantothenic acid)

Pantothenic acid is essential for metabolizing amino acids and fats to carbohydrates, and works in collaboration with folic acid and biotin for various functions related to cellular energy conversion. The liveruses pantothenic acid in the synthesis of hormones and cholesterol. Canning and freezing destroy pantothenic acid.

Vitamin B6 (pyridoxine) 

Pyridoxine facilitates hemoglobin production, conversion of tryptophan to niacin, and carbohydrate metabolism. Other forms of vitamin B6 are pyridoxal and pyridoxamine; all forms of vitamin B6 convert to the coenzyme pyridoxal-5'-phosphate (PLP) in the body. Health conditions that increase the body’s specific use of and need for pyridoxine include alcoholism, end-stage renal disease (ESRD) with renal dialysis, serious burns, major surgery, gastrectomy or bariatric surgery, and chronic cirrhosis. People who smoke and women who take oral contraceptives (birth control pills) are at high risk for pyridoxine deficiency.

Vitamin B7 (biotin) 

Biotin works in close alliance with folic acid and pantothenic acid, and is important in metabolizing macronutrients, especially carbohydrates and fats, from food during digestion. Sulfa-based antibiotic medications can prevent the body from absorbing biotin from foods during digestion.

Vitamin B9 (folic acid)

Folic acid, also called folate, is essential for the formation of new blood cells (hematopoiesis) and works in conjunction with cyanocobalamin to repair DNA. Folic acid is crucial for normal development of the neurologic system in the early embryo; prophylactic folic acid decreases neural tube defects by up to 80 percent. Folic acid also participates in cellular energy conversion cycles.

Vitamin B12 (cyanocobalamin) 

Cyanocobalamin, also called cobalamin, is essential for the formation of myelin, the protein coating that protects nerve fibers. It also participates in DNA repair (nucleic acid synthesis), erythropoiesis (formation of new red blood cells), and folic acid metabolism. Intrinsic factor, which the stomach produces, is essential for absorption of cyanocobalamin. Health conditions that diminish intrinsic factor production, such as peptic ulcer disease, and circumstances such as bariatric surgery or gastrectomy, significantly reduce the body’s ability to absorb cyanocobalamin and often require supplementation via vitamin B12 injections. The ability to produce intrinsic factor diminishes with age, increasing the risk of deficiency.

Vitamin C (Ascorbic Acid)

The body requires vitamin C to create collagen, a protein critical for the formation of connective tissue and in healing (the formation of scar tissue). Collagen forms the foundation of the skeleton over which the bones develop. Vitamin C is also necessary for production of serotonin, a vital neurotransmitter, and aids in the dismantling of cholesterol for excretion in the bile. The body absorbs significantly more iron in combination with vitamin C; health experts recommend eating combinations of foods that contain these substances and taking iron supplements with a glass of orange juice. Citrus fruits are the primary dietary source of vitamin C.

Long-term vitamin C deficiency results in scurvy, a condition of collagen depletion with symptoms that affect the musculoskeletal, neurologic, and immune systems. Vitamin C deficiency is rare in modern times. Increasing dietary consumption of foods high in vitamin C is usually adequate to restore vitamin C levels and reverse symptoms. Though vitamin C is a water-soluble vitamin, it can accumulate to toxic levels with excessive supplementation. The symptoms of vitamin C toxicity (nausea, diarrhea, and sometimes anemia) improve immediately when vitamin C consumption returns to normal. Vitamin C is also a powerful antioxidant with roles in healing and preventing diseases. Much research has explored these roles in recent decades, and numerous studies support vitamin C’s ability to expedite recovery from viral infections such as colds (though vitamin C cannot prevent such infections). Doctors may recommend vitamin C supplementation for people recovering from major surgery, serious burns, and significant dental procedures.

Vitamin D (Calciferol)

Without vitamin D, the body cannot use calcium. Vitamin D is unique among vitamins in that the body can manufacture it as a process of photosynthesis (exposure to sunlight) that converts a form of cholesterol stored in the cells of the skin into vitamin D. Only a small portion of vitamin D enters the body from dietary sources (namely, fortified dairy products) in the form of vitamin D2 (ergocalciferol) or vitamin D3 (cholecalciferol). The circulating, active form of vitamin D is calcitriol, which functions as a hormone. Calcitriol, in tandem with parathyroid hormone, regulates the amount of calcium in the blood. This regulation determines the availability of calcium to the bones. Vitamin D also influences immune system functions important for fighting tumors.

Vitamin D deficiency affects bone structure, preventing bone tissue from accepting new calcium and allowing calcium to leave the bones to enter the blood circulation. Vitamin D deficiency can cause rickets in children and osteomalacia in adults. Both are conditions of demineralization that are reversible with vitamin D supplementation, though severe rickets may result in residual deformity particularly of the pelvis. Sustained vitamin D deficiency in adults leads to osteoporosis, an irreversible loss of bone tissue.

Vitamin D toxicity may develop with excessive consumption from vitamin supplements, which can be supplementation within normal limits in healthy people who get adequate vitamin D from dietary sources and is a particular risk among people who take megavitamins. The toxic level is fairly low. Vitamin D toxicity is also a risk in people who are receiving treatment for hypoparathyroidism. Excessive levels of vitamin D affect calcium reabsorption in the kidney (hypercalcemia) and often cause kidney stones (nephrolithiasis) that can result in permanent damage to the kidneys.

Vitamin E (Tocopherol)

A fat-soluble vitamin, vitamin E’s most important function is as an antioxidant. It blocks the reaction of free radicals to produce more free radicals and some metabolism of fatty acids. Vitamin E also maintains the integrity of erythrocytes (red blood cells), which are vulnerable to damage, in the blood circulation. Though vitamin E has a reputation for a wide range of actions in the body to prevent diseases such as cancer and cardiovascular disease(CVD); to treat conditions such as fibrocystic breast disease; and to enhance physical endurance, libido, and reproduction, research has thus far failed to support these claims. Some research suggests that excessive amounts of vitamin E may in fact contribute to the development of certain cancers. Much research remains under way to better understand the roles of vitamin E in health and in disease.

Vitamin E deficiency may occur in disorders of fat absorption or metabolism though is quite rare. When present vitamin E deficiency may result in hemolytic anemia. Vitamin E toxicity is also uncommon and nearly always occurs in people who take excessive amounts of vitamin E supplements. Vitamin E toxicity can have deleterious effects on the mechanisms of coagulation, leading to hemorrhage.

Vitamin K (Quinone)

Bacteria in the small intestine synthesize 80 percent or more of the vitamin K the body needs and uses. The other 20 percent comes from plant-based foods, notably spinach, broccoli, and other dark green vegetables. The bacterial form of vitamin K is menaquinone; the plant form of vitamin K is phylloquinone. Vitamin K is essential for the activation of several clotting factors(VII, IC, X) and prothrombin, which regulate the blood’s ability to clot.

Vitamin K deficiency may occur in disorders that interfere with the absorption of fats into the body, such as gallbladder disease and gastrointestinal malabsorption disorders. Long-term antibiotic therapy can significantly reduce the bacteria count in the small intestine, restricting the body’s ability to synthesize vitamin K. Anticoagulant medications such as warfarin work by blocking the action of vitamin K. Untreated vitamin K deficiency can result in life-threatening hemorrhage.

Vitamin K toxicity is rare and occurs nearly always when taking vitamin K supplements. It can cause jaundice and, when severe, permanent brain damage. Some multivitamin supplements contain vitamin K; unless a doctor specifically recommends vitamin K supplementation, however, most people should not take supplements that contain vitamin K.


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ESSENTIAL VITAMINS AND THEIR DIETARY SOURCES

A (retinol). carrots, butternut squash, acorn squash, pumpkin, spinach, turnip greens, chard, broccoli, mangos, beef liver.

B1 (thiamine) fortified breads and cereals, pork, beef, ham, chicken, turkey, fish, eggs, brewer’s yeast, dairy products,legumes, peas, corn, green beans, potatoes (with skins).

B2 (riboflavin) fortified breads and cereals, dairy products, pork, beef, ham, chicken, turkey, liver, fish, eggs, oysters, clams, shrimp, mushrooms.

B3 (niacin) fortified breads and cereals, dairy products, pork, beef, ham, chicken, turkey, liver, eggs tuna, cod, halibut, bluefish, shrimp peas, corn, sweet potatoes, potatoes (with skins), spinach, broccoli peanuts.

B5 (pantothenic acid ) fortified breads and cereals, mushrooms, broccoli, avocados.

B6 (pyridoxine) fortified breads and cereals, potatoes (with skin), bananas, apples, oranges, watermelon, grapefruit and grapefruit juice, avocados, prunes and prune juice, legumes, pork, beef, ham, chicken, turkey, liver, fish (especially tuna), eggs,seeds, nuts, peanut butter.

B7 (biotin) fortified breads and cereals, brown rice, barley, oatmeal, whole wheat, soy products, cauliflower, egg yolks, liver, tuna, finfish

B9 (folic acid) fortified breads and cereals, spinach, okra, greens asparagus, broccoli, corn, green beans, sweet potatoes, potatoes (with skins), tomatoes and tomato juice, legumes, tofu, seeds, nuts, peanut butter, eggs.

B12 (cyanocobalamin) fortified breads and cereals, pork, beef, ham, chicken, turkey, liver, fish, eggs, shrimp, oysters, clams, dairy products.

C (ascorbic acid) citrus fruits and juices: oranges and orange juice, lemons, limes, grapefruit and grapefruit juice, watermelon, strawberries, cantaloupe, papaya, mangos, tangerines, guava, broccoli, kohlrabi, cabbage, cauliflower spinach, greens bell peppers.

D (calciferol) sunlight, fortified dairy products, orange juice, and soy milk.

E (tocopherol) polyunsaturated oils, egg yolks, spinach, greens almonds, walnuts, pecans, cashews, peanuts and peanut butter, seeds (sunflower, flax), whole grains and whole grain products wheat germ.

K (quinone) spinach, lettuce other than iceberg, broccoli, cabbage, kale, kohlrabi, alfalfa (especially sprouts), oats, rye, whole wheat and whole wheat products.


In "The Facts on File Encyclopedia of Health and Medicine in Four Volumes", general editor James Chambers, Facts On File Inc, New York, 2007, excerpts volume 4, pp. 204-209. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.



PHILOSOPHY IN ISLAM

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Why “Philosophy in Islam”? Why not “Islamic Philosophy” or “Arabic Philosophy”? The simple answers to these questions and the far from simple consequences of those answers provide an entry into the rich world of ideas briefly explored in this chapter. The simple answer to the question “Why not ‘Islamic Philosophy’?” is that not all philosophers in lands under Islamic rule in the Middle Ages were Muslim. It is easy to forget how diverse the empire of Islam was and, in particular, that it included numerous lively religious minorities.1 Among philosophers there were:

Muslims, such as al-Farabi,Avicenna (Ibn Sina), and Averroes (Ibn Rushd), some of whom were Sunni, others Shiites or Ismaili, as the Brethren of Purity

Christians, for instance Yahya Ibn ’Ady, a leading disciple of al-Farabi and a well-known Jacobite theologian

Sabians, such as the physician Thabit ibn Qurra, a translator

Mazdaeans or Zoroastrians, such as Mani al-Majusi

Pagans, such as Abu Bakr al-Razi, the famous Rhazes, who denied the very possibility of revelation or prophecy, on the ground that it would favor a particular people and would therefore be incompatible with God’s justice

Jews, such as Ibn Suwar, Halevy, Maimonides, etc.

The great number and importance of Jewish philosophers, including those working in the Latin West after the Reconquista, call for a full chapter devoted to their thought (the chapter following this one), but they, as well as the other non-Muslims listed above, must be considered as participants in a single philosophical conversation carried on from the ninth through the thirteenth century and beyond.

Scholars have sometimes preferred to speak of “Arabic philosophy,” to avoid suggesting that there is an “Islamic” way of philosophizing comparable to the conception of “Christian philosophy” advocated, controversially, by Gilson as a way to capture the spirit of medieval philosophy in the Latin West.2 But there are problems with “Arabic philosophy,” too. Leaving aside the case of Judeo-Arabic (Arabic written in Hebrew characters), we need to recognize that not all philosophical texts were written in Arabic, since Avicenna, among others, penned some important treatises in Persian. Besides, the word Arabic may be construed as referring not only to the language used by the philosophers but also to their ethnic background, and with the exception of al-Kindi and Averroes, few philosophers were Arab. Avicenna and al-Ghazali, for example, were Persian.

Inclusion of the last-named thinker in my census of philosophers points to yet another complication, for al-Ghazali’s chief contribution to philosophy was a powerful critical work, the 'Incoherence of the Philosophers'. This raises the question, what is meant by philosophy? Often, one restricts it to 'falsafa', an Arabic word which simply transliterates the Greek philosophia and immediately points to the discipline’s foreign origin. Most of the falasifa, that is, Hellenized philosophers, claimed membership in a school deriving from Aristotle, and Averroes bitterly criticized Avicenna for distancing himself too much from “the first teacher.” Others, however, such as al-Razi, criticized Aristotle and invoked Plato or Socrates. Moreover, Islamic theology (Kalam) had already elaborated some philosophical concepts and an ontology – it had developed philosophical reflections, even if its practitioners did not want to be equated with the 'falasifa'. Ghazali objects vigorously to the falasifa’s exaggerated claims to having apodeictic demonstrations of the existence or nature of God, but his objections were themselves so philosophically acute that Averroes felt called to refute as many of them as he could (while conceding the validity of others). It has been well argued that there is much genuine and original philosophy in Kalam and that Avicenna had more influence on Ghazali than has previously been thought.3

“Philosophy in Islam” thus includes the ideas of non-Muslims, non-Arabs, and many thinkers who did not wish to be known as philosophers – and it is none the poorer, philosophically, for all that. It deserves further emphasis here that even those who called themselves 'falasifa' were not grounded exclusively in Aristotle and Neoplatonism (or in Neoplatonic texts falsely attributed to Aristotle, such as the Proclean Liber de causis and the Plotinian Aristotle’s 'Theology' 4). There were other Greek sources, including Christian ones, such as Philoponus’s arguments against the eternity of the world. Little is known about how Stoicism came to influence the 'falasifa', but it clearly did. The same goes for the philosopher-physician Galen, who influenced many 'falasifa' who were also physicians, such as al-Razi,Avicenna, Ibn-Tufayl, and Averroes. And Syriac and Persian sources are not to be ignored, although the great translation movement at the time of the early Abbasids certainly concentrated on Greek texts.5

With regard to these, however, it must be noted, there is still considerable uncertainty as to what philosophical thinkers in Islam actually had before them. It is not always clear whether we are dealing with translations of a full work or simply of some kind of summary. We have an Arabic version of Galen’s'Summary of Plato’'s “Timaeus” but do not know of a full translation of the 'Timaeus' itself. It is uncertain whether there existed a full translation of Plato’s Laws.6 There is a longstanding dispute as to whether Aristotle’s 'Politics' was translated into Arabic, and even, as in the case of Aristotle’s 'Nicomachean Ethics', if a full translation existed, we do not know how much and when it circulated (al-Kindi’s references to the work are rather vague, for example).7

A final remark to conclude this explication of “philosophy in Islam”: although the scope of this chapter will be limited arbitrarily almost entirely to philosophers up to and including Averroes (d. 1198), it must be understood that the supposed death of philosophy in Islamic lands after Averroes is a myth. An Avicennian tradition, the 'Philosophy of Illumination', introduced by Suhrawardi (1154–91), has been maintained up to the present, particularly in Iran, with philosophers such as al-Tusi (1201–74), Mir Damad (1543–1631), and Mulla Sadra (1571/2–1641).8 Recently, scholars have edited post-medieval philosophical texts from other areas of the Islamic world, such as the Ottoman Empire, in which, for instance, several scholars wrote Tahafut, that is, 'Incoherence of the Philosophers' treatises along the same lines as Ghazali’s. 'The 1533 Incoherence' of Kemal Pasazade (also known as Ibn Kemal) takes into account the arguments of Ghazali, Averroes (contrary to the claim that Averroes had no impact on philosophers in Islam), and of a previous Ottoman scholar, Hocazade.9 For medievalists, of course, philosophy in Islam in the Middle Ages is by itself sufficiently engrossing to reward study by further generations of scholars, but the philosophical-critical conversation with which we are concerned in this chapter continued beyond our period into the present.

Philosophy, Religion, and Culture

It is commonly thought that there was in the Middle Ages (and perhaps still is) a fundamental conflict between philosophy and the religion of Islam. It is clear from what we have already seen of the presence of philosophical thought even in the critics of 'falsafa' that the idea of a simple opposition is a misconception. It would be equally a misconception, however, to imagine that there was a single dominant positive idea of what philosophy and religion have to do with one another. Rather, we find a variety of thoughtful and imaginative explorations of the relationship. The fact that none of the discussions we shall consider was strictly homologous with anything in the Latin-West makes these discussions more, not less, fruitful for cross-cultural understanding.

The importance of cultural context can hardly be exaggerated. Where Christianity came as a new religion into a Graeco-Latin civilization in which the classical philosophical schools were well represented, the situation was just the opposite in Islam. There philosophy came on the scene in the ninth century as an alien import, with the task of making a place for itself in a civilization formed at its deepest levels, both politically and culturally, by the Qur’an and the law based on it. One of the first debates involving 'falsafa' centered on whether logic itself was truly universal or simply arose from Greek grammar. Translators and most of the first defenders of 'falsafa' were not Arabic speakers.

Their broken Arabic and their strange coinages to render Greek technical terms puzzled their Muslim interlocutors, so proud of their language and its importance as the language of the revelation to Muhammad. Many regarded the Qur’an itself as uncreated, a claim grounded in its inimitability, the impossibility of composing verses of such literary artistry. The debate was complicated by the fact that the 'falasifa' adopted the view of the Alexandrian School that Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics are integral parts of logic, rather than of practical philosophy. They equated the arguments of the specialists in Kalam with dialectic and those of the Qur’an with rhetoric and poetical arguments.10 Once the 'falasifa' began to use a more palatable kind of Arabic and to bring stylistic improvements to the translations, some of the misunderstandings dissipated, and logic, often compared to mathematics, was clearly distinguished from Greek grammar, acknowledged as universally valid, and later on found a home in the curriculum of the schools of law. The debate raises vividly the question of what is universally valid in philosophy and what is culturally determined. If logic could be regarded for a while as peculiarly Greek, we should not wonder at the problematic status of metaphysics for some of the thinkers we shall be considering.

As concerns the broader issues in the relation of philosophy with religion, we will do well to begin at the end of our period, with Averroes (1126–98), for an incomplete grasp of his position is a prime source of the belief in a simple and basic philosophico-religious conflict. A fuller understanding of his views will help us to place a number of earlier discussions in context.

Judge Averroes

There is an image of Averroes as a defender of implicitly antireligious Free Thinking and as a forerunner of the Enlightenment11 that is based largely on a partial reading of his 'Decisive Treatise, Determining the Nature and Connection between Philosophy and Religion'.12 In this work Averroes does indeed praise philosophical insight as the highest form of knowledge. The liberal image is severely cracked, however, if not entirely shattered, when one reads, in Averroes’ refutation of al-Ghazali’s Incoherence of the Philosophers, that “heretics are to be killed.”13 Is there an inconsistency? Not at all. Averroes was not simply a philosopher physician but also a judge and, therefore, an expert on Islamic law. The treatise is presented as an official fatwa or juridical decision determining the canonical status of philosophy. “The purpose of this treatise,” he declares at the outset, “is to examine from the standpoint of the study of the law [shari’a], whether the study of philosophy ['falsafa'] and logic is allowed by the law, or prohibited or commanded either by way of recommendation or as obligatory.”

Averroes’ judgment is that the studies in question are obligatory for an intellectual elite but must be forbidden to ordinary believers.

The fatwa presentation and no fewer than nine references to al-Ghazali (1058–1111) show clearly that the latter’s 'Incoherence of the Philosophers' had had a serious impact throughout the Islamic world. Before providing a lengthy and detailed refutation of al-Ghazali’s arguments' in his own 'Incoherence of the Incoherence, Averroes here offers a more popular defense of logic and philosophy, but it is a defense couched in terms of Islamic law. He astutely begins with logic, for al-Ghazali himself had defended logic and claimed in his intellectual autobiography that the logic of the falasifa was superior to the reasoning of the specialists in Islamic law, and he is said to have convinced the schools of law to include logic in the curriculum.

But Averroes carries the justification of logic further. He argues for its usefulness as an instrument for falsafa, which he defines as “nothing more than the study of existing beings and reflections on them as indications of the Artisan,” that is, God, as the Creator. 'Falsafa' thus becomes theodicy, aiming to prove the existence of the creator and to provide a better understanding of God. Averroes thereby seeks to counter al-Ghazali’s charge that the falasifa do not really prove that the world has an Artisan, since they have reduced that word to a metaphor (Incoherence, second and third discussions). A crucial step in Averroes’ acculturation of philosophy to the requirements of Islam rests on a shift in terminology in the words translated in English as philosophy.

Elaborating a parallel between aspects of Islamic law and philosophy,Averroes substitutes “wisdom” (hikmat) for 'falsafa'. In the Qur’an one of the beautiful names of God is “The Wise,” and, therefore, “wisdom” has a qur’anic ring to it, whereas 'falsafa' connotes something alien. Averroes then calls “philosophy” (still hikmat) the art of arts. He concludes the first section of the treatise by claiming that for every Muslim there is a way to truth suitable to his nature, first quoting Qur’an XVI 125: “Summon [them] to the way of your Lord by wisdom and by good preaching, and debate with them in the most effective manner.” The root of the word for “debate,” jadal, is used to refer to Aristotle’s Topics, a work concerned with dialectical arguments based on generally received opinions. Averroes will equate this “debate” with Kalam, or Islamic theology. He is then able to present philosophy as one way of fulfilling the qur’anic injunction – a way that is appropriate, and indeed obligatory, for certain individuals:

"Thus people in relation to Scripture fall into three classes. One class is those who are not people of interpretation at all: these are the rhetorical class. They are the overwhelming mass, for no man of sound intellect is exempted from this kind of assent. Another class is the people of dialectical interpretation: these are the dialecticians, either by nature alone or by nature and habit. Another class is the people of certain interpretation: these are the demonstrative class, by nature and training, i.e., in the art of philosophy [hikmat]. This interpretation ought not to be expressed to the dialectical class, let alone the masses. ([161]" 65)

By thus elliding some of the distinctions between qur’anic language and technical Greek philosophical words and concepts, Averroes is able to claim at the end of the Treatise that “philosophy [hikmat but now intended as synonymous with falsafa] is the friend and milksister of... law [shari’a].”

Too many interpreters, unaware of these shifts in terminology and of cultural differences, have assumed that Averroes raised questions about the relation between philosophy and religious faith similar to those posed by the so-called “Averroists” in thirteenth-century Paris. Averroes does not in fact refer to religion but rather to the shari’a or Islamic law, and the relation he asserts between philosophy and this law is one of accord, but only for a small elite.

Prophecy Interprets Philosophy (culturally): al-Farabi

Al-Farabi, the “second teacher” (after Aristotle) and an important participant in the early debate about the status of logic,14 pays lip service to Greek terminology in speaking of the “Ideal or Virtuous City,” but indicates that city may mean a universal empire with great ethnic, linguistic, and religious diversity. He is fully aware that Islamic rule aims at being universal and that a city-state does not fit the current political and economic situation.15

The absolutely perfect human societies are divided into nations. A nation is differentiated from another by two natural things – natural make-up and natural character – and by something that is composite (it is conventional but has a basis in natural things), which is language – I mean the idiom through which men express themselves. As a result some nations are large and others are small. (The Political Regime [97] 32)

Al-Farabi is a radical: falsafa, which for him reached its peak with Aristotle, is absolutely and universally true, but accessible only to a small intellectual elite. The masses therefore need something they can relate to, that is, religion, which must be adapted to particular cultures. Although there is only one philosophical truth – and in the Alexandrian tradition he claims that Plato and Aristotle are basically in agreement – there must be a plurality of true religions, varying from culture to culture, each of them conveying philosophical concepts by means of appropriate symbols. He explains, for instance, that darkness or chaos in religious texts represents nonbeing or prime matter, the Agent Intellect is represented by the angel Gabriel, and so forth. Philosophy alone uses apodeictic demonstrations, Kalam uses dialectical arguments, and religion uses rhetoric and poetry.16 Hence, in the 'Book of Letters' and in 'The Attainment of Happiness' he writes that falsafa is prior in time (sic) to religion [“din,” closer to our conception of religion than Averroes’ shari’a].17

Religions are culturally determined imitations of true Aristotelian philosophy. Prophecy is simply an overflow of intelligibles on the imagination and, therefore, subordinated to philosophy. A perfect ruler will be not only a philosopher but also a lawgiver and a prophet or will work in connection with a prophet, to translate philosophical ideas into a more accessible language for the various cultures. Whether al-Farabi actually held these views or used them to flatter and attract prospective falasifa may be debated, but he was much respected and died of old age, in spite of his not so hidden assertions of the primacy of philosophy.18

The 'falasifa'’s overemphasis on “apodeictic demonstration” and their claim that they alone practiced it explains why al-Ghazali delighted in showing that most of their arguments were not apodeictic at all, particularly in metaphysics, but on the contrary manifested an uncritical acceptance of Greek philosophic stances. His forcefulness matches that of al-Farabi’s bitter attacks against his intellectual rivals, the specialists in Kalam, whom he ridiculed.

Philosophy Culminates in Prophecy: Avicenna

Al-Farabi’s rationalism and his subordination of religion to the role of local interpreter of Greek philosophy strongly influenced Averroes, but it put 'falsafa' on the margins of Islamic culture. Avicenna (980–1037), as a Persian writing in both Arabic and Persian, engaged positively with the culture of Islam. He was even involved at times in practical politics as vizier of Shams al-Dawla.

Avicenna knew Aristotle’s 'Metaphysics' by heart, but he could not understand it, he tells us, until a little treatise by al-Farabi revealed to him that metaphysics was not focused on theology, as he had believed, but rather on being qua being.19 But then his own profound thinking led him to modify or abandon some of Aristotle’s teachings.

Avicenna “completed” Aristotle’s understanding of physical causes as causes of motion preceding their effects with an understanding of true or metaphysical causes, which are simultaneous with their effects but operate necessarily and by emanation.20 The Agent Intellect, the tenth separate intelligence, is not only a source of intellectual illumination but also literally a “giver of forms” for sublunary beings and grounds this causal simultaneity. In other words, Avicenna accepted the challenge to rethink some of the inherited Greek “orthodoxy.” Though still philosophizing in the spirit of Aristotle,21 he took into account Neoplatonic ideas, as well as concepts elaborated in Kalam, and he paid more attention to the circumstances of his own place and time. This may explain why his texts have remained influential in Islamic culture until today, especially in Iran.

Avicenna’s best-known metaphysical text, the 'Metaphysics' of the Shifa’, ends in Book X, chapters 2–5, with reflections on political philosophy.22 Here he presents prophecy as the culmination of intellectual development, a grasp of intelligibles, which no longer requires discursive reasoning. In chapter 2 he argues for the necessity of prophecy. Human beings need to formassociations, which require a Lawgiver who must convince the masses, and must therefore be a human being (an invidious contrast is intended with the Christian conception of Christ as Son of God). The Lawgiver must be a prophet:

"A prophet, therefore, must exist and he must be a human. He must also possess characteristics not present in others so that men could recognize in him something they do not have and which differentiates him from them. Therefore he will performthe miracles...When this man’s existence comes about, he must lay down laws about men’s affairs... The first principle governing his legislation is to let men know that they have a Maker, One and Omnipotent ... that He has prepared for those who obey Him an afterlife of bliss, but for those who disobey Him an afterlife of misery. This will induce the multitude to obey the decrees put in the prophet’s mouth by God and the angels. But he ought not to involve them with doctrines pertaining to the knowledge of God, the Exalted, beyond the fact that He is one, the truth, and has none like Himself. To go beyond this... is to ask too much. This will simply confuse the religion they have." ([114] 100)

Yet, to incite promising youth to pursue philosophy, the prophet may insert symbols and signs that might stimulate a true philosophical awakening, as is the case in the Qur’an.

Chapter 3 gives a rather rationalistic justification of Islamic prescriptions about worship, such as ritual purification for the official prayers, and the pilgrimage. Chapter 4 rationally justifies other Islamic practices, such as almsgiving, care for the poor, the handicapped and the sick, as well as justifications of marriage customs and the dependency of women on men, since women “are less inclined to obey reason.” (It is interesting to note that on such details Avicenna distances himself from al-Farabi, who followed closely Plato’s 'Republic' in affirming a quasi-equality of women and also in commanding that the chronically ill and the handicapped not be taken care of. Averroes will follow al-Farabi in his neglect of those who are not “useful” to the city, as well as in affirming that “the woman shares in common with the man all the work of the citizens,” even if in his own society “they frequently resemble plants,” as is the case in bad cities. Their being a burden upon the men is one of the causes of urban poverty.23)

The concluding chapter of Avicenna’s work concerns the Caliph and political organization. Avicenna obviously considers Muhammad the greatest prophet – not simply one among many, as he was for al-Farabi – and he gives rational justification here for the most basic principles of shari’a. Avicenna’s account of political philosophy and religion is much more Islamicized than al-Farabi’s. His position is still fairly rationalist, however, as a small treatise on prayer24 and the 'Proof of Prophecies'25 clearly attest. A genuinely mystical interpretation of his thought is doubtful.

Exile

Al-Farabi, Avicenna, and al-Ghazali worked in the East, but 'falsafa' began to spread to the West of the Islamic lands, to “Andalusia” in particular, where the political situation was both confused and fragmented. In al-Andalus the falasifa renounced the Islamicized Platonic ideal of the philosopher-ruler-lawgiver-prophet and advocated “exile” from the “city,” perhaps because of the political instability.

Ibn Bajjah, or Avempace (d. 1138), another physician-philosopher, wrote 'The Governance of the Solitary'.26 Abandoning al-Farabi’s dream of the virtuous or perfect state, he focuses on the place of the philosopher in an imperfect city.

"It is clear from the situation of the solitary that he must not associate with those whose end is corporeal nor with those whose end is the spirituality that is adulterated with corporeality. Rather, he must associate with those who pursue the sciences. Now since those who pursue the sciences are few in some ways of life and many in others, there even being ways of life in which they do not exist at all, it follows that in some of the ways of life the solitary must keep away from men completely so far as he can, and not deal with them except in indispensable matters and to the extent to which it is indispensable for him to do so; or emigrate to the ways of life in which the sciences are pursued – if such are to be found. This does not contradict what was stated in political science and what was explained in natural science. It was explained there [that is, in natural science] that man is political by nature, and it was explained in political science that all isolation is evil. But it is only evil as such; accidentally, it may be good, which happens with reference to many things pertaining to nature. ('The Governance of the Solitary" [361] 132)

Separate islands

Ibn Tufayl (c. 1116–85) wrote a famous philosophical novel preceded by a technical introduction, 'Hayy ibn Yaqzan', or 'The Living, Son of the Wakeful' (“Wakeful” here may refer to the Agent Intellect). In this charming tale Hayy (the Living), having come somehow to a deserted island as a newborn, is raised by a doe. Without contact with other human beings, he discovers by himself not only how to survive but, later, all the principles of falsafa. He deduces the existence of God and then, at first, tries to imitate the celestial bodies. He emulates their provision of light and warmth by taking care of the animals; their brightness by cleanliness, perfumes, and dazzling clothes; their circular movements by spinning himself until he loses consciousness, as the “whirling” dervishes or Sufi do, and running around his own house, in a transposition of the pilgrimage ritual around Abraham’s house at Mecca; and their contemplation by concentrating his thoughts on the necessary being, or God. Bit by bit, however, he realizes that his environmental concerns and his interest in cleanliness are distracting him from the contemplation of God and his own essence, and so he abandons them and reaches a state that cannot be expressed.

On a neighboring island, a man named Asal, a believer in one of the true religions, decides to become a hermit and moves to Hayy’s island, which he assumes to be deserted. After Hayy encounters him and quickly learns to speak, Asal discovers that Hayy has reached a much higher level of contemplation than he has himself. On the other hand, Hayy cannot understand why Asal’s religion offers only images and parables of philosophical truths. In order to enlighten the people of the other island, Hayy and Asal travel there, but the more Hayy tries to teach them true philosophy, the more restless they become. Finally, Hayy understands that they are not gifted for philosophy and should for their own good be left in peace in their religion. He returns to his own deserted island with Asal, who, despite his best efforts, never reaches Hayy’s level of contemplation.27

This remarkable tale implies that reason can discover everything on its own, while religions are socially useful for ordinary people but are only pale imitations of 'falsafa'.28 Ibn Tufayl’s views are surprising, since he was court physician and vizier of the Almohad ruler Abu Ya‘qub, to whom he introduced Averroes. Finding Aristotle’s texts difficult, Abu Ya‘qub requested that Averroes write commentaries on them, a request with which Averroes complied monumentally and seminally.

The question of philosophy’s relation to religion is far from central in the philosophical texts produced in medieval Islam. What was written on this question is nevertheless of considerable interest, especially if we avoid the misconception that there was a single view of the matter – or a single pair of violently opposed positions, one philosophical and purely rational, the other religious and unsystematically dogmatic.

Psychology and Metaphysics

Al-Farabi developed a psychology to fit his views on religion and prophecy. For him, there is only one Agent Intellect for the whole of humankind, the tenth emanated intelligence, which he equates with the angel Gabriel, who transmitted the Qur’an to Muhammad. The intelligibles emanate from the Agent Intellect to all human beings, but most of the intelligibles can be acquired only by the few people who are best prepared to receive them, the 'falasifa', of course.

"Those are the first intelligibles which are common to all men, as, for example, that the whole is greater than the part, and that things equal in size to one and the same thing are all equal to one another. The common first intelligibles are of three kinds: (1) the principles of the productive skills, (2) the principles by which one becomes aware of good and evil in man’s actions, (3) the principles which are used for knowing the existents which are not the objects of man’s actions, and their primary principles and ranks: such as the heavens and the first cause. ('On the Perfect State'" [95] 203, 205)

The intelligibles then can overflow on the imagination in the guise of symbols and parables appropriate to the various cultures and languages. Al-Farabi’s subordination of prophecy to philosophy explains his claims that not only the first intelligibles for metaphysics but also those for ethics and the various disciplines come by emanation from the Agent Intellect, whereas al-Ghazali, who has less confidence in the intellect than al-Farabi, attributes the discovery of even the basic principles of astronomy and medicine to prophecy. (Interestingly al-Farabi tells us that his teacher, the Christian Ibn al-Haylan, and his fellow Christians were forbidden to read Aristotle’s 'Posterior Analytics', known in Arabic as 'The Book of Demonstration'.) Emanation of the first intelligibles from the Agent Intellect ensures the validity of the putatively apodeictic demonstrations characteristic of the 'falasifa'. Neoplatonism grounds Aristotelianism.

Avicenna considered it necessary to abandon some of Aristotle’s tenets, not only to develop his account of prophecy, but also to ground his conception of a purely spiritual afterlife and to provide a more sophisticated human and animal psychology for the present life. In his famous De anima of the Shifa’ (Book I, chs. 1–3) he argues that the rational soul is not the form of the body but a full substance on its own. He then constructs a thought experiment – “the flying man” – to prove that self-consciousness is immediate and not a result of reflection. The text reminds us, retrospectively, of Descartes’s 'Cogito'.

"The one among us must imagine himself as though he is created all at once and created perfect, but that his sight has been veiled from observing external things, and that he is created falling in the air or the void in a manner where he would not encounter air resistance, requiring him to feel, and that his limbs are separated from each other so that they neither meet nor touch. He must then reflect as to whether he will affirm the existence of his self. He will not doubt his affirming his self existing, but with this he will not affirm any limb from among his organs, no internal organ, whether heart or brain, and no external thing. Rather, he would be affirming his self without affirming for it length, breadth and depth. And if in this state he were able to imagine a hand or some other organ, he would not imagine it as part of his self or a condition for its existence." ([129] 387)

Avicenna gives a much more detailed account than Aristotle of the inner senses.29 More germane to the themes of the present chapter are his conception of the Agent Intellect and his distinction of four “intellects” within the human soul. With most Greek Aristotelian commentators, he holds that there is only one Agent Intellect for the whole of humankind and follows al-Farabi in claiming that it is the tenth Intelligence, which rules the sublunary world. But within the soul Avicenna posits: (1) a purely potential intellect; (2) an actual intellect, which has received the primary intelligibles (such as the principle of noncontradiction and the notion that a whole is greater than any of its parts) from the Agent Intellect; (3) an habitual intellect, which conserves secondary intelligibles and can use them at will; and (4) the acquired intellect, when it is actually thinking the intelligibles and knows that it is doing so. Since the soul is a spiritual substance for Avicenna, and not, as Aristotle held, a form impressed in matter, it survives the body after death. The afterlife is purely spiritual, but people who have not reached full and immediate self-consciousness, not being able to conceive of themselves without the body, will recreate for themselves an imaginary body, in which they will experience the “physical” rewards or punishments of the afterlife, as they are described in the Qur’an.30

Since Avicenna, contrary to al-Farabi, does not subordinate prophecy to philosophy, he indicates that some individuals have a very powerful potential intellect and can therefore get in touch with the Agent Intellect easily and do not need much instruction or reasoning to acquire new knowledge. Some do not need any discursive process at all, but only intuition, and their habitual intellect becomes a divine or holy intellect, which immediately grasps all intelligibles at the same time. Syllogisms are no longer necessary. In that case these intelligibles overflow into the imagination, which translates them into symbols, parables, and so forth. Such an intellectual faculty is the highest human faculty and the prophet’s privilege.31

It is clear that Avicenna is trying to do more than accommodate Greek philosophy to his political and religious circumstances. He finds food for his own distinctive thought wherever he can. He is famous for arguing in the Metaphysics of the Shifa’ I 5 that being is “the first concept.” In that chapter he holds that the other primary concepts are “thing” (known in Latin as the transcendental res), and “necessary.”32 Aristotle had spoken of some notions as pertaining to all being as such (for example, “one,” “true,” and “good”). Avicenna derived the need for “thing” as a primary concept from the Kalam’s ontological commitments. He argued that the concept was required to ground the distinction between essence and existence, as well as the distinction between the contingent and the necessary-throughitself.33

Since I have relied mostly on the Shifa’, a text clearly in the Aristotelian tradition, for all its originality, I must point to three problems of Avicennian interpretation. First, the Latin versions of Avicenna’s works do not always match the Arabic. This led Rahman to wonder whether Avicenna really claimed that existence is accidental to essence, as Thomas Aquinas understood him to have done.34

Since the Latin manuscripts are often older than those we have in Arabic, the Latin text may sometimes be more correct than the Arabic. Besides, recent studies show that Avicenna’s psychological and epistemological conceptions evolved and that he does not always take the same position in every text.35 Second, Avicenna sometimes speaks of an “Oriental” philosophy, which some hold to be his own philosophy and quite different from his “Aristotelian” texts, while others deny this.36

The third difficulty stems from the fact that at some stage in Avicenna’s career he and other falasifa began to adopt the language of the mystics or Sufi, perhaps to provide some disguise for their unconventional rationalist views. Several small texts were published a century ago as Avicenna’s Mystical Treatises, among them the rather rationalist approach to Islamic prayers we referred to earlier.37 His lasting influence on Latin scholasticism, greater than that of Averroes, certainly comes from his rationalism, but it is a rationalism that modified some Aristotelian tenets by integrating aspects of Neoplatonism with them and that developed theologically fruitful distinctions between essence and existence and between contingency and necessity.38 Avicenna’s distinction between metaphysical and physical causes is at the heart of Duns Scotus’s distinction between essentially and incidentally ordered causes, central to his famous proof for the existence of God.

Al-Ghazali, debunking the 'falasifa'’s claims to apodeictic demonstrations, focused his attack on al-Farabi and Avicenna and their conception of causation. His intellectual autobiography shows that he was fully aware that this was the core issue in his condemnation of two of their central positions: eternal creation and the denial of God’s knowledge of particulars.39 Emanation, which he attacks brilliantly, makes creation an eternal necessity for God. Al-Ghazali insists that only God is a true Agent and that agency requires the ability to distinguish between two indiscernible temporal instants. It therefore requires knowledge of particulars, as well as choice. Whether al-Ghazali, under Avicenna’s influence, allows some efficacy to secondary causes remains a disputed question.40

Strikingly, al-Ghazali spends little time on the falasifa’s views on the intellect, whereas those views were to cause much commotion in thirteenth-century Paris. Al-Ghazali simply indicates that the 'falasifa' fail in their attempt to prove that the human soul is a substance capable of subsisting after death. On this issue he may have been happier with Aristotle’s conception of the human soul as the form of the body, since in Islam resurrection is complete recreation, and there is no conception of a soul surviving the body’s death. Al-Ghazali simply deplores the 'falsafa'’s denial of the resurrection of the body and, therefore, the reality of physical rewards and punishments at the resurrection.

Averroes claims that there is not only a single Agent Intellect for the whole of humankind, but also only one “material” or passive intellect. The so-called “Material Intellect” is in fact immaterial, but in intellection it plays a role similar to that of matter in hylomorphic composition. His position seems to deprive human beings of their own capacity to think and to act freely, since they themselves do not really think, but the common Material and Agent Intellects think in them and feed them intelligibles. Such views caused an uproar at the University of Paris, where some members of the arts faculty adopted them with enthusiasm. In late 1270 Thomas Aquinas felt the need to write his On the Unity of the Intellect Against the Averroists to refute such views and to criticize Averroes’ interpretation of Aristotle as a betrayal. It has recently been argued, however, that some of Aquinas’s criticisms are misguided and that Averroes can in fact give a coherent account of our awareness of our acts of understanding as being our own acts.41 The argument depends on the correct reading of Averroes’ 'Long Commentary on the De anima', which is known only through a medieval Latin translation, although a few fragments of the Arabic have recently surfaced.

It is not easy to determine exactly whatAverroes’ position is on the Material Intellect.42 Not only is the text of the Long Commentary very difficult, but scholars working on the original Arabic text of Averroes’ 'Epitome of the De anima' have shown that in that text he does not claim that there is only one Material Intellect for the whole of humankind. They therefore argue that such a strange position must come from errors in the Latin translation. In fact, there are two versions of the 'Epitome', and more recent research has shown that Averroes revised his text at a later date. It is, therefore, true that Averroes did not at all defend this position in his first version of the 'Epitome', but, later on, he felt the need to develop it. He indicates in his preface to the revised 'Epitome' that his earlier exposition rested more on the commentators than on the text of Aristotle. Once he really focused on Aristotle’s own text, his views changed.43

Even if we limit ourselves to the commentaries on the 'De anima' and do not touch on the various positions defended in other texts,44 there are still some thorny issues. First, it has only slowly been recognized that Averroes changed his mind on various philosophical issues and went back to correct some manuscripts of his own previous works. Second, whether the 'Middle Commentary', which is a paraphrase of Aristotle’s text but includes a long excursus on the Material Intellect, precedes the 'Long Commentary' is disputed.45 The situation may become clearer when R. C. Taylor publishes his English translation of the 'Long Commentary'.46

Ethics

Little scholarly attention has been paid to philosophical ethics in Islam.47 The focus on 'falsafa' as mainly Aristotelian has contributed to this neglect, for although the Nicomachean Ethics and a summary of it known as the 'Summa Alexandrinorum' were translated into Arabic, they did not circulate widely or quickly. Few ethical texts in the Aristotelian tradition have survived, including some known to have been written, such as al-Farabi’s 'Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics'. Averroes’ 'Middle Commentary' on the Ethics still awaits a complete critical edition. There exist, however, a number of interesting texts from a Hellenistic, more popular tradition of spiritual medicine.

The 'falsafa' tradition was much influenced by the Alexandrian School, which developed a curriculum requiring that students first acquire the habits of character necessary for serious philosophical studies. The 'falasifa' distinguish, therefore, between a “reformation of character” or “spiritual medicine,” as prerequisite to the study of logic and philosophy, and a “scientific ethics” grounded in metaphysics (as we saw in our reflections on Avicenna’s 'Metaphysics of the Shifa'’ X).

Scholars in Hellenistic philosophy have shown that Stoics, Skeptics,and Epicureans wrote “therapies of the soul” intended to cure students’ passions, or at least curb them, in order to liberate the soul for the study of philosophy. Emotions, passions, or desires are considered to be either false beliefs or the effects of such beliefs, and they can therefore be cured or curbed by substituting more appropriate beliefs. Literary artistry makes the arguments more appealing for budding philosophers, and, generally, there is a progression from rhetorical to dialectical and truly philosophical arguments, since stages in the healing process allow for greater and greater philosophical sophistication.48

One of the longest treatises of al-Kindi (c. 801–66) is 'The Art of Dispelling Sorrows', in which he moves from “gentle remedies,” that is, Stoic arguments, to “stronger remedies,” that is, metaphysical Neoplatonic arguments. There are striking similarities to Boethius’s 'Consolation of Philosophy', since both are deeply rooted in the same Hellenistic tradition.49

Al-Razi, the nondenominational Persian philosopher-physician (c. 864–925 or 932), wrote a charming 'Spiritual Medicine', much grounded in Galen, which incites the reader to reform his character and begin studying logic and philosophy.50 A critic of Aristotle, al-Razi took Plato’s views on transmigration literally and elaborated a very original conception of the soul, in which animals are endowed with some sort of reason and choice. This allows al-Razi to elaborate a purely rational normative ethics, based on a consideration of God’s basic attributes of intelligence, justice, and compassion. A detailed environmental ethics is included, as well as a case study of the type, “Who should be saved first?”51 Since God is merciful and tries to diminish pain, al-Razi attacks the ascetic practices of various religions:

"The judgment of intellect and justice being that man is not to cause pain to others, it follows that he is not to cause pain to himself either. Many matters forbidden by the judgment of intellect also come under this maxim, such as what the Hindus do in approaching God by burning their bodies and throwing them upon sharp pieces of iron and such as the Manichaeans cutting off their testicles when they desire sexual intercourse, emaciating themselves through hunger and thirst, and soiling themselves by abstaining from water or using urine in place of it. Also entering into this classification, though far inferior, is what Christians do in pursuing monastic life and withdrawing to hermitages as well as many Muslims staying permanently in mosques, renouncing earnings, and restricting themselves to a modicum of repugnant food and to irritating and coarse clothing. Indeed, all of that is an iniquity towards themselves and causes them pain that does not push away a preponderant pain". ([383] 232)

Al-Razi also accepts the Alexandrian distinction between a prephilosophic “reformation of character” and a scientific ethics based on metaphysics.

Since al-Farabi’s 'Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics' is lost, we turn to his popular Reminder of the Way to Happiness (not to be confused with 'The Attainment of Happiness'), which advocates character reformation and invites its readers to the study of logic (carefully distinguished from grammar). For al-Farabi there are ethical first intelligibles, such as the existence of human freedom, emanating from the Agent Intellect. In his 'Long Commentary on Aristotle’s 'De Interpretatione', he mounts a scathing critique of specialists in Kalam who, according to him, hold that there is no human freedom.52 Here again, a “scientific ethics” rests on psychology and metaphysics.

Al-Farabi’s Christian disciple, Yahya ibn ’Ady (893–974) also wrote a 'Reformation of Character', which includes barbed attacks against clerics who abuse their flock.53 Trying to defend Christian monks from the attacks of al-Razi and Muslim thinkers who considered celibacy excessively ascetic and detached from community life, he argues that it allows the monks to prepare better apodeictic syllogisms. This surprising view helps us better to understand how much the philosophers emphasized their monopoly on demonstrative reasoning.

Among Muslims, this tradition continues in Ibn Miskawayh (d. 1030). His 'Reformation of Character' reverses the traditional order and begins with a systematic presentation of ethics, much influenced by the 'Nicomachean Ethics', but ends by prescribing medicine for the soul. Its first part lays down a foundation, with a study of the faculties of the soul and reflections on the good and happiness and on virtues and vices. After discussing character and human perfection and its means, Miskawayh surveys in more detail the good and happiness. He focuses the fourth part of his treatise on justice and in the fifth deals with love and friendship.

Finally, medicine for the soul is provided, with references to Galen and al-Kindi. Miskawayh here analyzes different diseases of the soul, such as anger, fear of death, and sadness; determines their causes; and suggests appropriate treatment. His 'Treatise on Happiness' relies heavily on al-Farabi’s Reminder and belongs entirely to the “medicine of the soul” genre.

This tradition imbues al-Tusi’s (d. 1274) Nasirean Ethics, written in Persian.54 No religious community was immune from the genre: the Muslim religious writer, Ibn Hazm of C´ ordoba (994–1064), wrote a 'Book on Character and Behavior', and the Jewish writer Ibn Paqudah (c. 1050–80) penned a 'Guide to the Duties of the Heart' inspired by this tradition.

Avicenna, though subscribing to the Alexandrian tradition of a double ethics, that is, a prephilosophic one and a scientific one, wrote little on ethics but, as we have seen, concludes his 'Metaphysics of the Shifa’' with a rational justification of the basic prescriptions of the shari’a.55

This brief and vastly incomplete presentation of philosophy in Islam shows that there is much pioneering work yet to be done. Since 1950 much has happened in the field. Exciting discoveries have been made. English translations of key texts, such as Avicenna’s 'Metaphysics of the Shifa’' by M. E. Marmura and Averroes’ 'Long Commentary on the “De anima” by R. C. Taylor are eagerly awaited. Critical editions of other important texts are still needed, however, as well as analyses of arguments and works of interpretation. It would be wrong to exaggerate the contribution to current controversies about “western” and “Islamic” values that might be made by scholarly research in the material presented in this chapter, but it can at least be said that a deeper understanding of philosophy in medieval Islam, including a more nuanced awareness of the issues debated concerning the very existence of falsafa in Islamic culture, can only improve our insight into the nature and role (and perhaps the limitations) of philosophy in general.

Notes.

1. J. L. Kraemer, for instance, has admirably shown the cultural interchanges in Baghdad at the end of the tenth century and the first half of the eleventh century between people of various religious and ethnic backgrounds [492].

2. E. Gilson, “What is Christian Philosophy?,” in [635] 177–91, and E.Gilson [628]. F. Van Steenberghen defended the autonomy of philosophy and argued that strictly speaking there can be no specifically Christian philosophy in [637].

3. See R. M. Frank [487–89].

4. See C. D’Ancona Costa [477] and J. Kraye et al. [18].

5. See D. Gutas [490]. Gutas shows how, then as now, political ideologies sometimes dictated the choice of the texts that were translated.

6. D. Gutas [102] and T.-A. Druart [100] doubt it, but J. Parens [105] affirms it.

7. H. A. Davidson in [483] shows admirably the Greek origins of arguments on those topics, as well as the Kalam sources, and their transformation and integration at the hands of philosophers in lands under Islamic rule.

8. See the second part of H. Corbin [10], called “From the Death of Averroes to the Present Day.” Corbin also highlighted that philosophy persisted among Sunni and Shiite, as well as Ismaili.

9. M. Aydin [478].

10. See D. Black [480], in particular the chapter on the imaginative and poetic syllogism, pp. 209–41.

11. E. Renan [172].

12. Also known as The Harmony Between Philosophy and Religion. My translation is based on that of G. F. Hourani [161]. Most of the texts I shall refer to in this section were not translated into Latin during the Middle Ages and, therefore, had little impact on the scholastics, even if they gained popularity with the Enlightenment (see G. A. Russell [497]) and in our own time, particularly among the disciples of Leo Strauss.

13. Incoherence of the Incoherence, discussion 17, that “heretics be killed” [165] I 322.

14. Al-Farabi was famous for his Long Commentary on Aristotle’s De interpretatione and his epitomes of Aristotle’s Organon, including the Poetics. He carefully distinguished logic from grammar, and though he is a rationalist, his language and vocabulary are influenced by religious terminology.

15. See R. Walzer’s translation [95].

16. M. Galston [101] and J. Lameer [103] highlight the link between logic and political philosophy in al-Farabi.

17. See The Attainment of Happiness in Alfarabi’s Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle [96].

18. M. Mahdi in particular has highlighted al-Farabi’s rationalism in [104], and C. E. Butterworth has recently published translations of the Selected Aphorisms, The Book of Religion, and The Harmonization of the Opinions of the Two Sages: Plato the Divine and Aristotle in [98].

19. The Life of Ibn Sina [117] 30–35.

20. Shifa’s Metaphysics VI 1 and 2. Medieval Latin translation [116] II 291–306. English translation [113].

21. See D. Gutas [124].

22. Trans. [114].

23. Averroes on Plato’s “Republic” [164] 101 and 59.

24. In Avicenna on Theology [120].

25. Trans. [22] 112–21. Curiously, Roger Bacon (c. 1210–92) adapted the end of Avicenna’s Book X to Christendom in his Opus maius, Part VII.

26. Very partial English translation in [22] 123–33.

27. Partial excellent English translation [22] 134–62; full translation [368].

28. In the Middle Ages Ibn Tufayl’s novel was translated into Hebrew (with a Hebrew commentary by Moses Narboni). It was translated into Latin only in 1671, by Pocok, and into English in 1708 under the title The Improvement of Human Reason Exhibited in the Life of Hai Ebn Yokdhan, In which is demonstrated, by what methods one may, by the meer light of nature, attain the knowledg of things natural and supernatural; more particularly knowledg of God, and the affairs of another life. The English text is illustrated and provided with an appendix, intended to protect the faith of Christian readers, “in which the possibility of Man’s attaining the true knowledg of God, and things necessary to  salvation, without instruction, is briefly consider’d” [367]. The Latin and English translators both read the tale as a purely rationalist account, although some have interpreted it as a mystical allegory. For interpretations of the text, see L. I. Conrad [369]. There is some dispute whether Pocok’s translation could have influenced the author of Robinson Crusoe, and simplified forms of the tale are still sometimes told as a fairy tale to Middle Eastern children. See also H. Daiber [481].

29. On this see chapter 9 in the present volume.

30. See J. Michot, La Destin´ee de l’homme selon Avicenne (Louvain, 1981).

31. Partial English translation in F. Rahman [119].

32. Trans. [49] 219–39. Also see M. E. Marmura [131] and Thomas Aquinas, Truth, q. 1, a. 1.

33. R. Wisnovsky [134]. Marmura pointed earlier to differences between Avicenna’s philosophy and the Kalam [130]. For the immense influence of these distinctions in Latin philosophy, see chapter 6 in this volume.

34. F. Rahman [132].

35. See D. Gutas in [133] 1–38 and D. N. Hasse in [133] 39–72.

36. S. H. Nasr argues for the “originality” of the Oriental Philosophy in [11] 247–51, whereas D. Gutas claims there is no such thing [123].

37. A. F. Mehren, Traités mystiques d’Avicenne, 4 fascicles (Leiden, 1889–94). H. Corbin, too, highlighted a “mystical” aspect in Avicenna [10]. But if mysticism there is, it is a very rationalistic one.

38. See J. F. Wippel [261].

39. Trans. [149].

40. R. M. Frank says yes in [487], and M. E. Marmura denies it in [151] and [150].

41. See D. Black [166].

42. H. A. Davidson has remarkably retraced the general history of this issue among both the Greek commentators and the falasifa in [482].

43. Averroes seems first to have followed Alexander of Aphrodisias, then to have adopted the position of Ibn Bajjah (Avempace) [360], and finally, after re-reading Themistius, to have decided that there should be one Material Intellect for all humankind. In the Long Commentary he somewhat rhetorically accuses Ibn Bajjah of having led him into error.

44. Such as The Epistle on the Possibility of Conjunction with the Active Intellect [160].

45. A. L. Ivry, who edited and translated the Middle Commentary (Arabic edition in 1994 and with English translation in 2002), maintains that it is posterior to the Long Commentary, whereas H. A. Davidson considers that it preceded it (Ivry [170], Davidson, with Ivry’s response, in [167]).

46. The articles by A. Hyman, A. L. Ivry, and R. C. Taylor in [168] offer much useful material on these difficult questions.

47. Except for G. F. Hourani [491] and M. Fakhry [486].

48. See M. C. Nussbaum [494] and [495].

49. See T.-A. Druart [92] and [485].

50. Trans. [384].

51. See his autobiography The Book of the Philosophic Life, trans. C. E.Butterworth [383], and T.-A. Druart [385] and [386].

52. Trans. [94] 76–84. See also T.-A. Druart [99].

53. Trans. [366].

54. Trans. G. M. Wickens [390].

55. Mehren (note 37 above) had attributed to him a treatise on the Fear of Death, but, in fact, this text comes from the concluding section of Miskwayh’s Reformation of Character.

By Thérèse-Anne Druart in "The Cambridge Companion of Medieval Philosophy", edited by A.S. McGrade, excerpts chapter 4, pp.97-120. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.


THE BODY OF THE PROSTITUTE- MEDIEVAL TO MODERN

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Perceptions of the body of the prostitute underwent important changes in the early modern period. The advent of syphilis, the Protestant and Catholic Reformations and especially the growth of the state transformed the prostitute from a member of society into an outright criminal. After hundreds of years of medieval toleration, prostitution became a criminal activity, prohibited and punished (albeit not very effectively) by the new state.

Despite these sweeping changes, early modern prostitution is less well known and less studied than either medieval or nineteenth-century  equivalents. Lack of documents is almost certainly the reason. Criminalization drove prostitution underground and forced prostitutes to hide their identities.

Early modern cities may have teemed with whores, but we know neither their numbers nor their names because they easily evaded arrest. Courts were too few and police non-existent, so trials and arrest records – the foundations of the history of prostitution – are lacking. Historians have had to look elsewhere for sources and they have found them in the records of religious confraternities, convents, hospitals and workhouses where prostitutes were incarcerated so that they might be ‘saved’.

Religious institutions, whether Protestant or Catholic, played a leading role in the repression of prostitution so historians have been preoccupied with the attitudes and actions inspired by the great religious revival of the period. Scholars have also paid attention to a new kind of prostitute, the elite courtesan. In sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Rome and Venice, courtesans lived openly and led public lives. They were celebrated in paintings and poetry, images and texts which established models for the representation of prostition that survived well into the eighteenth century.

Texts, whether literary, pornographic or medical, constitute the major source during much of the early modern period, and the contributions of literary scholars have been fundamental to the field. But in the eighteenth century, different kinds of souces, such as arrest records, trials and interrogations, became available as states managed to put significant numbers of policemen on the street. Women’s lives became harder but the prostitute’s misery was the historian’s good fortune: after 1730, the nascent police forces of cities like London and Paris provide the sources of social history, and we can ascertain much more clearly the features of common prostitution.

This chapter adopts both literary and social historical approaches. But it emphasizes the emergence of the prostitute’s body as a distinct, even alien form. In 1500, the prostitute had no clear outlines or particular characteristics. She was a woman, therefore lusty and weak like all her sisters. She was a sinner too vulnerable to the blandishments of the flesh, but so were all women or even men.

Then rather late in the period around 1750, a new notion of the prostitute’s body emerged which emphasized not the similarity between women and prostitutes, but the chasm that separated them. In the late eighteenth century, the prostitute became a diseased and freakish ‘creature’ more like an animal than a woman and subject to special police and administrative procedures. But before this great change could occur another had to precede it: the passage in the sixteenth century from medieval to early modern concepts of prostitution.

Medieval toleration

In late medieval Europe, prostitutes were neither criminalized nor marginalized.1 Instead, they were tolerated and woven into the social fabric. The urban growth of the twelfth through the fifteenth centuries had created towns ruled by city fathers and populated by unmarried apprentices, journeymen and clerics. These single men posed a threat because without wives they lusted after the spouses and daughters of the ruling ‘fathers’. Prostitution made cohabitation possible; it provided an outlet for the young men’s sexual urges and medieval theology supplied a rationale.

Saint Augustine himself had endorsed prostitution as a means of preserving the honour of virgins and wives by providing an alternative source of satisfaction to young, unmarried men.2 Elites embraced the ‘Augustinian justification’ and established official, municipally sponsored brothels in the towns of southern France, and in Paris, Seville and London. As cities grew, so too, apparently, did tolerated prostitution: in Toulouse (1425), Frankfurt (1369), Munich (1433) and Strasbourg (1469) municipally owned brothels were in full operation by the late fifteenth century.3

In commercial cities like Florence and Seville, brothels occupied a kind of red light district, a series of streets, enclosed by a wall in Seville, where prostitution was authorized and often policed by a special court or fiscal authority.4 Life in the brothels was regulated by the city fathers or authorities. They determined who could go to the brothel (native bachelors), who could not (Jews, priests and married men) and when it was open (any time except Sundays and holy days). Prostitutes paid a special tax, as did pimps and brothel managers, known as brothel padres, Frauenwirte or abbesses, depending on the city. Business was good: in 1497 the Nuremberg Frauenwirt was one of the most highly taxed members of the community.

We have some information regarding the kind of women who ended up working in the prostibulum, or official brothels in the Rhone valley. Most were between 18 and 25 years of age and about a third came from outside the town. A substantial number had ‘drifted’ into prostitution after being the concubine or lover of a master artisan or priest. Many had been gang raped by the youth of the city who used rape as a means of ‘punishing’ women who engaged in illicit affairs.5 Surprisingly, prostitutes were neither scorned nor stigmatized.

In Germany, the official prostitutes were included among the town guilds and marched in civic processions. Authorized prostitutes attended mass and presented the city fathers with flowers on feast days and at municipal festivals. When an official prostitute retired, she was promised a place in the small but numerous asylums for repentant prostitutes established by pious Christians.6

The advent of criminalization

Then, between 1500 and 1550, toleration ended and a long era of criminalization began. First the brothels disappeared. In the 1530s in Germany and France, around 1550 in Florence and as late as 1620 in Seville, authorized city brothels closed their doors. At the same time, edicts and laws criminalizing prostitution were promulgated. Spain’s Philip IV prohibited brothels in his kingdom in 1623. In France, the great royal ordinance of 1560, the Edict of Blois, also banned prostitution. After 300 years, toleration and regulation ended and three centuries of prohibition and criminalization began. Why? The most obvious explanation is the appearance of syphilis. Before 1494, syphilis was unknown in Europe. However, it was widespread in the western hemisphere as conquistador and historian Bernardo dell Castillo (1492–1585) asserted in his writings.

The old notion that syphilis came from the New World appears to be true. Spanish physician Rodrigo Ruiz Diaz de Isla (1462–1542) claims to have seen syphilis as early as 1493 among the crew men who accompanied Columbus. From its first appearance in Spain, syphilis then journeyed to Italy with the Spanish troops sent in 1495 to assist the King of Naples. On 5 July 1495 at the Battle of Fornovo French mercenaries fell down sick in the field. The new disease was baptized the French or the Neapolitan disease depending on one’s perspective.

Thereafter syphilis spread north reaching Scandinavia by 1497 and into Scotland.7 From the outset physicians had no doubt that the disease was spread by sexual intercourse. ‘Through sexual contact,’ the Venetian physician Alexander Benedetto wrote, ‘an ailment which is new or at least unknown to previous doctors, called the French sickness, has worked its way from the west to this spot (Italy) as I write.’ The same physician also associated syphilis with prostitutes: the infected French troops, he observed, had wintered from January to May in Naples where they ‘made merry’, that is, consorted with whores.8

Superficially, venereal disease appears to explain the end of municipally regulated and tolerated prostitution, but a close look at the chronology of brothel closures suggests otherwise. The first wave of closings occurred almost 25 years after the appearance of syphilis, at a time when the disease had waned in intensity. The Augsburg brothel closed in 1523, the Basel brothel in 1534, Ulm in 1537 and Regensberg as late as 1553. In France, it was not until 1530 that the Montpellier prostibulum shut its doors. Moreover, some large commercial cities kept their official brothels and red light districts open. Seville and Florence had corralled prostitutes into particular streets where authorized (and unauthorized) brothels were located.

In Seville, the area called the Mancebia consisted of several streets in the oldest part of the city which operated off and on, with greater or lesser restrictions until well into the seventeenth century.9 In 1629, the Seville authorities did not close the official red light district but rather subjected it to closer regulation. In response to an outbreak of syphilis, a wall was built around the district to quarantine violence and restrict the movement of prostitutes. Venereal disease did not revolutionize prostitution; indeed its impact was surprisingly limited. There were two responses to venereal disease: prohibition or (as in the case of Seville) regulation. Both were deployed, but prohibition eventually won out thanks in large part to the religious revival of the sixteenth century, the Protestant and Catholic Reformations.10

The two reformations

From the start, Protestants condemned prostitution. Martin Luther (1483–1546) did so without equivocation. He referred to prostitutes as ‘murderers or worse poisoners’ and suggested that they be tortured and ‘broken on the wheel’.11 He regarded prostitutes as a threat to young men, a spur not a remedy for licentiousness, and the cause not the cure for adultery and fornication. Significantly, Luther rejected the Augustinian justification for

From the start, Protestants condemned prostitution. Martin Luther (1483–1546) did so without equivocation. He referred to prostitutes as ‘murderers or worse poisoners’ and suggested that they be tortured and ‘broken on the wheel’.11 He regarded prostitutes as a threat to young men, a spur not a remedy for licentiousness, and the cause not the cure for adultery and fornication. Significantly, Luther rejected the Augustinian justification for prostitution: ‘It is unchristian’, Luther wrote, ‘that public houses should be tolerated among Christians’ all of whom, Luther observed, ‘were baptized into chastity’. Marriage, Luther emphasized, was the only cure for lust, as Saint Paul himself had asserted. ‘I certainly know,’ Luther wrote, ‘ what some say about this... that it would be difficult to end it, that it is better to have such houses than to bring married women or maidens... to dishonor.’ But marriage – the earlier the better – was, Luther argued, the only Christian cure for lust.

As for prostitution, Luther advocated strict prohibition. He praised Fredrick the Elector who had banned camp followers from his armies and urged ‘the temporal and Christian government’ to do away with brothels and the prostitutes who filled them.12

Reformed communities in Germany and Switzerland did just that. While not unaware of the health risks posed by prostitutes, most city governments made it clear that religious and moral concerns were paramount, as happened in Augsburg. Contemporaries attributed the closing of the Augsburg municipal whorehouse in 1535 to the ‘promptings of the Lutheran preachers’.13 According to Lyndal Roper, an atmosphere of ‘intense popular piety and high expectation’ preceded the closing of the official brothel.14 Preachers and city fathers exhorted prostitutes to repent and provided clothing so that the women might begin a new life suitably attired.

Condemnation of the priests and monks who cavorted with prostitutes rang from the city’s pulpits but was soon followed by criticism of prostitutes themselves. Both prostitutes and priests were ordered to leave the city in 1536. Gradually prostitutes were ‘demonized’, depicted as she- devils who corrupted men and, contrary to the Augustinian view, undermined the Christian community. In 1537, a comprehensive, disciplinary law was enacted which prescribed sentencing before a special court for prostitutes and those who consorted with them. At least 110 individuals were convicted and another 58 were closely questioned.15

Sexual deviance, whether adultery, fornication or prostitution, was the target, and just about any woman was suspect. In Amsterdam, Calvinists seized control of the municipal government in 1578 and quickly rendered illegal almost all forms of sexuality outside marriage, including prostitution.16 A series of repressive measures followed which culminated in the creation of the Spinnhuis, a former beggars’ prison turned into a woman’s workhouse, or prison. There, female criminals of all sorts, including prostitutes, were incarcerated and subjected to a regimen of discipline and work. Protestant elites throughout Europe established workhouses where female prisoners, including prostitutes, could be incarcerated and exposed to the healing power of work. In England, the Bridewell prison was opened in London in 1553.

Catholics took a somewhat different approach. Catholic theology emphasized contrition and conversion, mainly within the confines of a special convent devoted to such ‘repentant’ women. Such institutions had been constructed in the fourteenth century, but by 1500 most were in decline or had vanished altogether. In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, devout Catholic laywomen and reforming bishops created new institutions designed to support the contrition of the former prostitute and to rescue her from the clutches of sin if necessary. In France alone, two new religious orders, the sisters of the Refuge and the congregation of Notre Dame du Refuge, arose and gradually spread throughout France. Similar institutions appeared in Italy and Spain.17

Despite the regimen of mass and Catholic devotion, these convents were little different from the 'Spinnhuis' and Bridewell established by Dutch and English Protestants. Claims that the inmates were ‘repentant’ were unfounded. Few entered the Catholic ‘asylums’ of their own free will. Most were sent by secular courts which ‘sentenced’ women to the convents, often over the objections of the nuns in charge. Hard work, self-abnegation and strict obedience were required in the Catholic institutions just as they were in Protestant asylums. Confinement was the preferred remedy for prostitutes throughout Europe and discipline through work and prayer the cure prescribed by both confessions.

As these penal institutions show, Catholic and Protestant attitudes towards prostitution were surprisingly similar. Spanish theologians did argue, like their medieval forerunners, that prostitutes should be ‘saved’. But they also called for the abolition of prostitution and the closing of authorized brothels. Both Catholics and Protestants rejected the Augustinian justification for venal sex. In his 'Manuale di Confessori' (1578), priest Martin Navarro argued (like Luther) that men who went to brothels were made more intemperate, more likely to mistreat honest women and engage in fornication. Another theologian, Juan Mariana, condemned prostitution and regretted that Catholic tolerance of prostitutes made intolerant Protestants look more righteous.18 In Italy, Charles Borromeo called prostitutes ‘cankers’ and condemned them for creating ‘occasions to sin’.19 Reformed Catholics were only slightly less zealous than their Protestant counterparts when it came to prohibiting prostitution.

The case of Rome is instructive. In the summer of 1566, Pope Pius V initiated a campaign to clean up the holy city including (famously) painting fig leaves on nude images.20 Prostitutes were included in the purification effort: Pius ordered prostitutes to leave the city and some complied, a few being robbed and killed for their goods on the highways.21 Others’ attempts at expulsion followed as a part of general campaigns to rid the holy city of the most visible forms of vice. In 1592, Pope Clement VIII issued yet another decree threatening the prostitutes with exile but only if they failed to move to a particular quarter.22 The inhabitants objected so the prostitutes were relegated to the Campo Marzia, a newer neighbourhood further from the centre of the city. Thereafter the corralling of prostitutes into particular streets or quarters ‘like Jews’ became the preferred solution. Gradually, containment replaced prohibition.

Unable to eliminate prostitution, Catholic and Protestant authorities alike settled for quarantining it, that is, limiting the sex trade to special ‘reserved’ quarters. Even in Calvinist Amsterdam, the city fathers quietly abandoned prohibition in the course of the seventeenth century and settled by the early eighteenth century for limiting the city’s brothels to certain streets.23 In Catholic Seville, the authorities did the same. Considering the quiet but pervasive reassertion of tolerance in the early eighteenth century, recent historians have argued that we should not overestimate the commitment of early modern Europeans to the criminalization and condemnation of prostitution.24 Protestant and Catholic moralists did continue to denounce prostitution, but the authorities of both confessions quietly adopted a more flexible stance. Even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, prosecution of prostitutes was very selective, a fact exemplified by the appearance of a new kind of whore, the courtesan.

The rise of the courtesan

The high-priced, cultivated and exclusive prostitute was born in Rome where the expression ‘courtesan’ first surfaced at the papal court.25 There clerics attached to the Holy See could not marry so they sought out venal women to accompany them on their social rounds. Being educated, these men preferred prostitutes who could carry on conversation and act appropriately. Because they frequented the papal court, these women became known as ‘courtesans’. Hierarchical distinctions among prostitutes were new: the medieval prostibulum had provided only one class of service and all prostitutes were considered equal.

With the rise of new urban elites, a class of men (clerics and bureaucrats) emerged that did not want to share their women with rowdy soldiers. They wanted a whore who reflected their own status and personified their superiority over the common rabble. Just how many refined courtesans actually existed is hard to know. The term came to be used loosely and was applied to just about any venal woman.26 Still, we know the names of a few women who were superior to common prostitutes in wealth and learning. Imperia, Tullia D’Aragona and Veronica Franco enjoyed genuine renown thanks to the praise lavished upon them by men of letters.

Writers socialized with courtesans; Franco was herself a poet.27 Artists too praised the courtesan and painted her portrait. Usually the courtesan was not named but presented as Flora or Bella or the Danae. Art historians long assumed that these portraits depicted prostitutes, but the identity of the beauties on these canvases is impossible to determine.28 In any event, the images were astonishing in their beauty. Not a single pox mark or blemish appeared on these white complexions, testimony yet again to Europeans’ ability to ignore venereal disease when it suited them.

The women portrayed by Italian artists were rich, wearing jewels, silks and garments embroidered with gold and silver. Courtesans were imagined to be wealthy and the notion was not without some foundation. Drawing on an array of documents including tax records, notarial documents and personal papers, Tessa Storey has found that about 40 per cent of the prostitutes in the Campo Marzia district of Rome were ‘comfortable’, while an additional 10 per cent owned property. Storey has also studied the courtesans’ homes and jewelry and concludes that the Roman authorities had reason to issue in 1564 a sumptuary law, forbidding courtesans from wearing silks, gold and jewels: they did indeed possess such luxuries.29

Not all courtesans were rich, but all ‘honest’ courtesans were free from criminal prosecution.30 The Roman authorities called ‘honest courtesans’ those prostitutes who had registered with the Corte Savella and paid a tax. These women could live wherever they wished, own property and ply their trade without fear of interference or imprisonment.31 ‘Dishonest’ prostitutes were women who hid their prostitution and sought to evade the authorities. The freedom enjoyed by ‘honest’ courtesans sometimes perturbed the authorities who tried to devise ways of controlling them. Between 1594 and 1606 a special police force known as the Birri was created to arrest women found in carriages, theatres and gardens, a clear attempt to monitor and control ‘honest’ courtesans.32 The measure had little success, though, and courtesans continued to blur the boundaries between honest and dishonest women.

The prostitute’s voice

During the Renaissance, courtesans challenged other boundaries by erupting into print. In 1536, Pietro Aretino (1492–1556) published the Ragionamenti, the first work of this period in which a prostitute speaks, and it set the tone for many prostitute texts to come, as Ian Moulton has discussed in chapter 11. Inspired by classical models, the Ragionamenti takes the form of a dialogue between Nana, a seasoned prostitute, and her inexperienced daughter, Pippa. Occasionally Pippa’s godmother, the procuress Antonia, joins the conversation, which turns on the lubricity of women and the tricks of the courtesan’s trade.

Significantly, Nana aims to entertain with broad humour and farce. But Nana’s babble is not pointless: she is a critical observer who exposes the lust of nuns and the hypocrisy of ‘honest’ wives. Part of her humour is satire aimed at social institutions and religious prejudices; but she is also a trickster, a clever, independent woman who deceives men and takes their money. The Ragionamenti had imitators in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

First came Lorenzo Veniero’s 'La puttana errante' (The Wandering Whore) in the 1530s and later Ferrante Pallavicino’s 'La retorica delle puttanne' (The Rhetoric of Whores) in 1642. Like the Ragionamenti, both texts were humorous, establishing the burlesque as the register in which whores spoke. Both texts were, like their model, also dialogues. Many more were to follow including two French classics: 'L’Ecole des filles' (The School of Venus) and Nicolas Chorier’s 'Alyosiae' (Dialogues of Luisa Sigea).33 These French texts like their Italian models featured sexually explicit conversations between an experienced wife/mother and her less knowledgeable girl/daughter. The French texts departed from the Italian model in that the women are ladies rather than prostitutes, but they are just as lusty as Nana and Pippa. Apparently, seventeenth-century readers found the notion of honest women talking about sex completely credible.34 The old stereotype of women as sexually insatiable, whatever their status, still held. As Lotte C. van der Pol observes, in the seventeenth century ‘the image of the whore was in fact an extension of the contemporary image of women in general’.35 Every woman, van der Pol continues, ‘was regarded as a whore at heart and therefore a potential prostitute’, or possibly a raunchy conversationalist.

Mockery came naturally to the prostitute and many of the texts which incorporate her voice are satirical and political. In France, the uprising known as the Fronde produced a flood of pamphlets both pro- and anti-monarchy. Among these could be found pamphlets in which courtesans bemoaned the lack of business brought on by the civil war and even provided a satirical commentary on Mazarin and the royal forces.36 In Restoration London, pamphlets signed by ‘Companies of whores’ and ‘The Poor-Whores’ pretended to be ‘petitions’ written by prostitutes and addressed to the authorities. These texts voiced both anti-Catholic and seemingly anti-monarchical sentiments.37 The political viewpoint of these pseudo-prostitute tracts is not always easy to define, but its sources were Renaissance tracts like 'The Wandering Whore' and the ‘carnivalesque’ traditions of male drinking and whoring.38

In France, the ‘cabaret poetry’ of Théophile de Viau (1590–1626) and the other Parnasse satirique poets (so called because their verse was collected in the book of the same name) celebrated wine, women and an unfettered sexual life.39 Unlike their English counterparts, the cabaret poets had no overtly political aims. Rather they used the figure of the prostitute, or more often the bawd, to mock the pastoral poetry of their day and to satirize its odes to an idealized female beauty.40 The aged procuress with sagging breasts and wart-encrusted skin reminded the reader that all beauty was transitory and deceptive. Religion too was a sham. In this poetry, monks and priests patronize the procuress and she is only too happy to masquerade as the prude if it allows her to seduce girls more easily. The whore exists mainly to make visible the hypocrisy and duplicity of ‘good’ society.

The Earl of Rochester (1647–80) employs the prostitute in his verse in a similar fashion. In the poem ‘A Ramble in Saint James’s Park’ Rochester compares prostitutes and honest women and insinuates that there is little difference between the two.41 In neither English nor French texts is the prostitute celebrated; rather she is mocked and used to debase those who associated with her.

Another kind of prostitute is depicted in 'Die Ertzbetrügerin und Landstörtzerin Courasche' (The Deceitful and Vagbond Courasche, sometimes translated inaccurately as 'The Life of Courage: The Notorious Thief, Whore and Vagabond') written by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen (1621–76) around 1670.42 Courasche is crafty like the picara (vagabond) of the sixteenth-century Spanish novels. She is also voluble like Aretino’s Nana, for she tells her own story, and she is old and diseased like the French bawds portrayed by the cabaret poets. She differs however from her predecessors in that the Thirty Years Wars and its horrors are the background to her story and her milieu is the army.

Usually overlooked by historians, the camp follower may have been the most common form of prostitute in early modern Europe. She is certainly the most typical, for the great armies of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries brought her into being. Camp followers participated in the activity that sustained these huge, polyglot armies: plunder.43 They also acted as sutlers, washerwomen and ‘wives’, providing food, clothing and, of course, sex. Whatever their numbers, the camp followers were certainly the most feared and reviled of prostitutes, for they frequented dangerous elements – soldiers and deserters – and travelled with a floating population of vagrants, beggars and thieves that terrified early modern Europeans.

The emergence of national armies in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries did little to diminish the association between prostitutes, military men and criminality. As part of a general military reform, Louis XIV’s ministers increased the powers of the local commandant empowering him to arrest prostitutes and remand them to the appropriate municipal authorities.44 The military police swept through barracks and fortresses arresting prostitutes and handing them over to the municipal authorities for sentencing. Women captured by the military police regularly constituted a significant portion of the prostitutes sentenced in citadels like Metz, or cities like Paris. The tendency of soldiers to function as pimps and bullies did little to endear them to city dwellers, or to improve the army prostitute’s reputation.

As always, her companions were deserters, vagrants and thieves, a rootless and therefore dangerous population that bothered townsmen and police alike. The association of these itinerants with prostitutes was of long standing and it produced some of the earliest laws against prostitution.45 One of the first French ordinances criminalizing prostitutes, promulgated by Louis IX in 1254, expelled vagrants and prostitutes from Paris as well as deserters, pickpockets and beggars. Prostitutes continued to be confused with other criminal elements: in 1777, the Parisian police chief still asked his policemen to monitor ‘prostitutes and vagabonds’ as well as unemployed domestics, deserters, artisans without masters and libertines, a sign of the city’s greater complexity and urbanization. But still prostitutes were regarded as a threat to public security and a source of crime and disorder.

Policing prostitution

The maintenance of order by the burgeoning state was the primary motive (far outweighing religion or disease) for the criminalization of prostitution in early modern Europe.46 If policies towards prostitution looked similar in different parts of Europe, it was because all areas of Europe experienced the extension of state power. The new states sought to secure public tranquillity (and quell popular complaint) by organizing armed bands of men, that is, police. In the sixteenth century, southern cities like Florence, Rome and Seville created special authorities to maintain order in their red light districts and siphon off some of the profits generated by the sex trade.

The Roman Birri and the Florentine Onesta policed taverns, collected taxes and occasionally adjudicated disputes in the brothel quarters, but their duties were much more circumscribed than those of a modern police force. Only in 1667 would Louis XIV begin the process of building a true police force by creating the office of surintendant de police (police chief) in Paris. This officer
answered directly to the king and presided over everything from printing to prostitution. All forms of ‘disorder’, whether theft, vagrancy, infractions of guild rules, filthy streets or dirty books, came under his purview.

It took almost a century for the Parisian police to become a large, significant force in the prosecution of prostitution. In 1750, there were 720 policemen who patrolled the city streets; in 1789 there were almost 1,500, or one policeman for every 193 inhabitants.47 By 1720, these functionaries possessed the means to incarcerate prostitutes quickly and with little interference from the courts. Patrolmen and police inspectors apprehended women and brought them before a police commissioner who remanded them to the St Martin prison. There they waited until the second Friday of each month when the police chief judged hundreds of individuals, including a large number of women, for a variety of crimes including prostitution.

The women were usually sentenced to the Salpetrière prison for periods of up to three years. The whole process, while perfectly legal, was arbitrary, autocratic and without hope of appeal. In London, a different system – but with many of the same effects – existed. For much of the 1700s, no law criminalized prostitution. To be sure, in 1650 the Puritan Parliament had passed an ordinance making all kinds of sexual behaviour outside marriage including fornication, adultery and sodomy punishable by whipping, exile and even death. But the law proved impossible to enforce and was generally ignored.

Consequently, prostitutes who were bound over for trial – when they actually were detained – were indicted for disorderly behaviour or some other lesser charge. The lack of statutes specifically outlawing prostitution and the fragmentation of judicial authority made the policing of prostitution in London haphazard at best. In the early eighteenth century, a group of London moralists took matters into their own hands forming the Society for the Reformation of Manners. The members identified prostitutes through a network of spies and then had warrants signed by justices of the peace.

Eventually the prostitute was served with a warrant and locked up in a bridewell. At its most active in 1722, the London Society had 7,451 prostitutes bound over for trial according to its own publications. But the Society’s influence was relatively short-lived: by 1738, it could boast of only 545 prosecutions.48

With the Society gone, prosecution of prostitution fell to the parish watch or patrol. In 1735, a series of laws known as the Watch Acts sought to reform and make more efficient the night watch. Concern with public order rather than with vice prompted the issuing of these acts. Watchmen were enjoined to arrest ‘all Nightwalkers, Malefactors, Rogues, Vagabonds and all disorderly persons whom they shall find disturbing the public peace’.49 While the number of the men varied from parish to parish, most parishes had relatively large police forces. St James, Westminster, employed 65 watchmen, six beadles and two inspectors, the whole being augmented by eight sergeants and 32 additional watch in the months from October to March.

Each watchman was assigned a fixed beat and was expected to apprehend and escort assorted miscreants, including night walkers or prostitutes, to the parish guard house. There, the drunks, thieves and prostitutes would wait to be bound over for trial in the morning. Only a fraction of those locked in the watch house ever made it to trial. Watchmen enjoyed considerable discretion and could release prisoners at will. Compromise and accommodation – not law – determined which prostitutes went to trial and which went free, and there is evidence that many female first offenders were warned and released.

How effective were these nascent police forces? Many, perhaps most, London watchmen simply turned a blind eye to the soliciting on their beat. Nor was enforcement consistent or regular. Prostitution was controlled primarily through occasional ‘sweeps’ or mass arrests. In December 1789, for example, a sweep of the Strand resulted in 50 arrests, more than occurred in Westminster during the whole year of 1785.50 Parisian authorities too launched occasional sweeps against prostitutes. Police commissioners would carry out these sweeps in their assigned quarters and arrest dozens of prostitutes. Persecution intensified after 1760. According to a data sample constructed by Bénabou, 2,068 women in total were arrested in the years 1765, 1766 and 1770, or approximately 688 a year; this was at least six times the number arrested in the early seventeenth century.51 It is impossible to know what percentage of the working prostitutes these figures represent, but it is clear that these bursts of persecution failed to eradicate prostitution (and probably did not intend to do so).

Street-walkers disappeared from the streets temporarily, but soon returned or were replaced by others. Sweeps were not an effective means of eliminating prostitution; they only erased its most visible manifestation – street solicitation – temporarily. Nevertheless, the new police actions created difficulties and hardships for prostitutes. As the number of policemen increased, so too did the instances of bribery and extortion. In Amsterdam, several spectacular trials in the first half of the eighteenth century revealed that authorities regularly extorted money from client and prostitute alike.52 In Paris, police corruption was so extensive that the royal government brought several police inspectors to trial between 1716 and 1720.53 Testimony revealed that Parisians of all sorts were held for ransom, blackmailed, and terrorized by the police, but prostitutes were most likely to be victimized. The women had to pay policemen for ‘protection’ from arrest or, that failing, release from the Salpetrière prison.

Bullies and souteneurs (pimps) probably multiplied because now more than ever before the prostitute needed someone to subdue angry clients and intimidate neighbours who might complain to the police. The police of early modern Europe were not entirely effective, but they certainly made the lives of prostitutes much harder. Whatever else they did, the new police forces created written records, specifically arrest records that allow us to put a face on the average prostitute. These documents are far from a perfect source. The arrest process itself was arbitrary: watchmen apprehended women who were drunk or out after curfew and processed them as if they were prostitutes. But it is all this growing documentation, the Paris police records, the London watch books and the Amsterdam Confessions, that allow us to create a profile of the early modern prostitute.

Youth was her most striking characteristic. Whether she was an inhabitant of Amsterdam, London or Paris, the prostitute was aged between 18 and 29 years (just like today’s prostitutes); on average she was 25. Children did not tend to figure among the apprehended. 200 professions from seamstresses to peddlers to simple day labourers. Surprisingly, the typical prostitute was not a domestic servant, for servants constituted less than 10 per cent of the Parisian prostitutes whose details were recorded.57 In Amsterdam, the proportion was similar. Domestic servants, van der Pol reasons, received room and board which relieved them of the need to house and feed themselves. Unlike seamstresses and street vendors, domestic servants were not desperate to pay for food and shelter.58 No particular occupation made women likely to take up prostitution; just about all the occupations exercised by women appear in the arrest lists. Other factors may have contributed to a woman’s ‘fall’.

Thanks to a law which forced Amsterdam’s brides to register their marriages, Lotte van der Pol is able to contrast the city’s prostitutes with honest women of the same age. She found that the prostitutes were more likely than the brides to be migrants and much more likely to have been orphaned of one or both parents. The prostitutes were also mainly self-supporting, wage earners.59 Clearly economic vulnerability caused by loss of family, low wages and temporary employment pushed women into prostitution.

Working conditions varied considerably in the world of venal sex. Some prostitutes worked ‘outdoors’; that is, they solicited publicly on the street, from windows, and in public gardens and promenades. In London, Amsterdam and Paris, specific streets and public thoroughfares were haunted by prostitutes. These ‘strolls’ as they would be known coincided with major axes in the city where traffic was heavy, like the rues St Denis and St Martin in Paris, or along Piccadilly and the Strand in London. Prostitutes also clustered around places of amusement like Drury Lane or the Palais Royal.

Operas and theatres attracted prostitutes who solicited clients right outside the house. In the course of the eighteenth century, the Paris opera burned down and was relocated several times; each time, the prostitutes followed. While street solicitation grew, brothels probably declined or changed in size and organization. Bars and taverns remained places of prostitution; most had rooms upstairs that could be used for the satisfaction of clients.

The traditional, residential brothel was overshadowed by the multiplication of rooming houses which tolerated, and indeed benefited from prostitution. The rooming house provided shelter and some protection from the police in return for exceptionally high rent, sometimes charged by the day. In London, the parish authorities did nothing to prohibit the houses and there were complaints. In 1751, public outcry led to the Disorderly Houses Act which provided rewards to individuals who would denounce owners of bawdy houses and rooming houses where prostitutes clustered.60 But the denunciations and fines levied on the owners had little effect. As soon as they were cited, brothel and rooming house owners would simply disappear so evading arrest.

In Paris, too, rooming houses tended to multiply but more traditional brothels did not vanish. On the contrary, they operated with almost complete impunity because the police used madams and bawds as informers. Police chief Berryer de Ravenoville (1747–58) employed hundreds of spies and informers among whom were the most famous madams of the day. But ‘tolerance’ did not preclude bursts of persecution.

The police descended in the middle of the night on brothels and arrested every prostitute in the house and packed them off to the St Martin jail. These measures (like the police sweeps of the streets) were designed not to eliminate prostitution but rather to quell public outcry and terrify prostitutes and madams into submission to the police.

One might ask if the general populace supported these punitive measures. Popular attitudes are hard to discern and are often contradictory. On the one hand, crowds did not defend prostitutes when the police arrested them, as crowds often did when it was a question of beggars. Neighbours’ complaints usually occasioned police action against a The youngest prostitute questioned by John Fielding in 1758 was 16; none younger can be found in the Paris or Amsterdam data.54 Nor was the average prostitute a country girl gone astray in the big city. Usually she was a migrant: 75 per cent of the Paris prostitutes arrested in Bénabou’s sample were born outside Paris.55 But she was not a peasant girl:migrants to both Paris and Amsterdam came from medium-sized towns where, most likely, they had already engaged in prostitution.56 The early modern prostitute was also unmarried. Aged between 21 and 25, most prostitutes had yet to be married and hoped to find a spouse in the big city. What they found was economic hardship: no longer under parental authority, they had yet to establish a new family economy.

These young women were therefore unusually vulnerable to economic crises and unemployment. Prostitution provided a solution at least for a while but eventually these same women probably married, for they disappear from the police records. Marriage brought some economic stability and no further need to sell sex.

The prostitutes worked in an array of trades either before or during their time as prostitutes. The Parisian women sent before the police chief claimed to have exercised over brothel. Honest artisans and hard-working day labourers and their wives did not hesitate to complain about the drunken clients and noisy youth who insulted their wives and created mayhem in their apartment buildings. On the other hand, months, even years, often passed before the neighbours complained, indicating long periods of not just toleration but of peaceful cohabitation.

Most Europeans were willing to coexist with the brothel upstairs provided no pimps or drunken clients harassed them or caused scandal in the house. Otherwise, they would overcome their fear of reprisals and report the whores. With the advent of the police, however, the power of the general populace to determine who should be punished and who tolerated greatly declined. Henceforth, the authorities, not the labouring poor, determined which women got arrested and which went free.

From criminalization to regulation

Elite attitudes towards prostitution did not change in the early eighteenth century. Bernard Mandeville’s Modest Defense of Public Stews (1735) notwithstanding, early eighteenth-century English and French subjects tended to regard prostitution as harshly as their forerunners. Sophie Carter demonstrates that Hogarth’s 'A Harlot’s Progress', printed in 1732, portrays the prostitute in the traditional manner as duplicitous, dangerous and doomed.61 The Abbé Prévost’s 'Manon Lescaut' published around 1730 also recapitulates familiar themes. Though technically innovative, the story of 'Manon' and the 'Chevalier des Grieux 'is an old one: the tale of a promising young man laid low by a scheming and greedy whore. In both cases, the notion of the prostitute as predator still prevailed.

But around 1750, this changed: the prostitute became a biological threat, and not just to a few clients but to society as a whole. The century’s foremost venereologist, Jean Astruc (1684–1766), believed that while syphilis was less deadly than in the past, it was almost certainly more widespread.62 According to one social commentator, France contained no less than 200,000 syphilitics.63 Syphilis many believed was poisoning the artisan class and destroying the army. English physician William Buchan (1725–1805) observed that ‘what was formerly called the gentleman’s disease is now equally common among the lowest ranks of society’.64 For these impoverished, the London Lock Hospital was founded in 1748 to provide treatment for venereal disease free of charge. The French worried that syphilis was undermining the French population because it killed babies and rendered adults infertile. The future of France, not just a rake’s health, was now at risk.

Like venereal disease, prostitution was also increasing or so moralists proclaimed. Sebastien Mercier estimated the number of prostitutes in Paris at 30,000 while other authors spoke of 40,000, or even 50,000, out of a population of about 650,000.65 In 1756, one observer went so far as to conclude that 100,000 Frenchwomen were ‘more or less public and engaged in prostitution’.66 In 1797, Patrick Colquhoun claimed that 50,000 women sold their bodies on the streets suggesting that 10 per cent of London’s female population engaged in prostitution.67 Such estimates were exaggerations reflecting an author’s anxiety or personal agenda more than reality.68 What prompted such extravagant estimates was probably the visibility of prostitution, manifested in the growth of street solicitation. Now stationed along boulevards, near theatres and popular amusements, in public parks and gardens, prostitutes appeared to be everywhere.

For Mercier, street-walkers ‘gathered in the busiest places where the neighbours and passers-by could witness their indecencies and hear their licentious talk’.69 Along public streets, prostitutes ‘hunted’ and ‘attacked’ men. They were not women as in the past but rather créatures (creatures), fauves (wild beasts), rapaces (rapacious animals). Thus, gradually the notion that prostitutes were fundamentally different from other women grew. The belief promoted by eighteenth-century domesticity that women were inherently asexual made the old notion of the lusty woman unthinkable.

In England, the contradiction between prostitute and feminine asexuality was resolved by making prostitutes victims. Bawds and libertines tricked women into prostitution and a life that was fundamentally alien to them. The Magdalene hospital, established in London in 1767, provided a remedy, a place where hapless prostitutes could be ‘redeemed’ and their modesty restored.70 The effect of these changes was to separate prostitutes from ordinary women, indeed from the general population. Prostitutes now required their own police, special dispensaries and hospitals, as well as separate quarters and houses were they could be isolated and hidden from the healthy, upright population.

However, late eighteenth-century moralists never dreamed of eradicating prostitution. They might criticize the existing police force, arguing, as many did, that it failed to arrest prostitutes and allowed them to exist in return for bribes. In France, they decried the ineffectiveness of convents and hospitals and looked for new, non-religious solutions proposed by doctors, writers and policemen rather than theologians. But throughout Europe, reorganization not prohibition was the goal. In 1770, novelist Restif de la Bretonne suggested in his essay 'Le Pornographe ou les idées d’un honnête homme sur un projet de règlement pour les prostituées' that the trade be tolerated and regulated so as to assure good hygiene, universal access and the continued increase of the population.71

Less prescriptive but equally utopian was the period’s most famous prostitution novel, John Cleland’s 'Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure', known today as 'Fanny Hill'. Written in 1748, on the cusp of the changes in attitudes towards prostitution, Fanny Hill reveals both old notions about mercenary sex and new hopes for an orderly and healthy prostitution. The brothel of Mrs Brown is disorderly, vicious, and the bawd herself greedy and abusive. Her body, described at length by Cleland, is that of the Renaissance prostitute, lusty and insatiable, flabby and exhausted from repeated intercourse. Fanny flees to Mrs Cole’s brothel where rationality prevails and ungovernable lust is banned. Mrs Cole, like her girls, is clean, neat and honest. Prostitution here is sanitized and controlled; it is in every aspect ‘healthy’.72 Cleland’s vision of a ‘healthy’ prostitution is not without similarity to the regulatory projects adopted in Europe during the nineteenth century.

By 1780, the prostitute’s body had been defined as diseased and different from the ‘normal’ female body. Before, prostitutes were just women who had fallen prey to the universal call of the flesh. Prostitutes might be dangerous and crafty but they were not a species apart. Now prostitutes were freaks, utterly different from ordinary women (or men for that matter) and subject to a host of special regulations and police procedures. The early modern period prepared the way for the nineteenth-century notion of the prostitute that emphasized her body as a ‘social evil’, a biological threat to humankind.

Notes

1 On the measures and laws which protected prostitutes and included them in the city see Jacques Rossiaud, Amours vénales la prostitution en Occident XIIe-XVIe siècle, Paris: Flammarion, 2010, pp. 279–88.
2 James A. Brundage, Law, Sex and Christian Society in Medieval Europe, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987, pp. 436–548.
3 Jacques Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution, trans. Lydia Cochrane, Chicago: University of Chicago
4 Francisco Vásquez Garcia and Andrés Moreno Mengibar, Poder y prostitución en Sevilla, Seville:
Universidad de Sevilla, 1995, pp. 1–61; Richard Trexler, ‘La prostitution florentine, au XVIème siècle’, Annales: Economies, Sociétés Civilisations 36, 1981, pp. 983–1015.
5 Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution, pp. 10–33.
6 The appearance of unofficial prostitutes, plying their trade outside the official brothel and in defiance of the authorities, indicated that official prostitution was in trouble. In many cities, the official brothel closed for lack of business; Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution, pp. 65–70.
7 This discussion of syphilis is based upon Claude Quétel, History of Syphilis, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990. See also chapter 25, this volume.
8 Alexander Benedetto cited in Quétel, History of Syphilis, p. 36.
9 See Vásquez Garcia and Moreno Mengibar, Poder y prostitución, pp. 1–61; Trexler, ‘La prostitution florentine’.
10 Calls for stricter morality were heard before the two Reformations. In the Rhone valley and Burgundy, preachers in the 1490s harped upon society’s corruption and condemned licentiousness, including prostitution. In Italy, Florentine friar Girolamo Savanarola (1452–98) condemned vice and railed against the frequenting of prostitutes; see Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution,
pp. 33–53.
11 Martin Luther, ‘Table Talk’ cited in Susan G. Karant-Nunn and Merry E Wiesner-Hanks (eds), Luther on Women: A Sourcebook, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003, p. 157.
12 Luther cited in Karant-Nunn and Weisner, Luther on Women, pp. 156–58.
13 Lyndal Roper, ‘Discipline and Respectability: Prostitution in Reformation Augsburg’, History Workshop Journal 19, 1985, pp. 3–28 (4).
14 Roper, ‘Discipline and Respectability’, p. 10.
15 Roper, ‘Discipline and Respectability’, p. 21.
16 Lotte C. van der Pol, ‘The Whore, the Bawd and the Artist: The Reality and Imagery of Seventeenth-Century Dutch Prostitution’, Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art 2, 2010, pp. 1–12(2).
17 On the new prostitutes’ asylums in Italy see Sherrill Cohen, The Evolution of Women’s Asylums from 1500, New York: Oxford University Press, 1992, which includes several chapters on Florence’s Convertite and Malarmite convents. For Spanish examples, see Mary Elizabeth Perry, Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Spain, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990.
18 John Brackett, ‘The Florentine Onesta and the Control of Prostitution, 1403–1680’, The Sixteenth Century Journal 24, 1993, pp. 273–300.
19 Charles Borromeo cited in Tessa Storey, Carnal Commerce in Counter-Reformation Rome, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008, p. 4.
20 Storey, Carnal Commerce, p. 71.
21 Storey, Carnal Commerce, p. 76.
22 Storey, Carnal Commerce, pp. 7–8.
23 Lotte C. van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore: Prostitution in Early Modern Amsterdam, trans. Liz Waters, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011, pp. 112–15.
24 Storey, Carnal Commerce, pp. 234–52.
25 See Paul Larivaille, La vie quotidienne des courtisanes en Italie au temps de la Renaissance, Paris: Hachette, 1975, pp. 28–30.
26 The label ‘courtesan’ also became degraded with time. In France, for example, ‘courtesan’ was used indiscriminately to refer to all women who sold sex. Even in Rome, the expression became ‘devalued’ after 1560 and was applied to all prostitutes of any standing or wealth; see Storey, Carnal Commerce, p. 122.
27 Margaret Rosenthal, The Honest Courtesan: Veronica Franco, Citizen and Writer in Sixteenth-Century Venice, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.
28 Carol M. Schuler, ‘The Courtesan in Art: Historical Fact or Modern Fantasy?’, Women’s Studies 19, 1991, pp. 209–22.
29 Tessa Storey, ‘Clothing Courtesans: Fabrics, Signals and Experiences’ in Catherine Richardson (ed.), Clothing Culture, 1350–1650, London: Ashgate, 2004, pp. 95–108.
30 Elizabeth S. Cohen reminds us not to ‘romanticize’ the courtesan whose numbers were probably quite small; see Elizabeth S. Cohen, ‘“Courtesans” and “Whores”: Words and Behavior in Roman Streets’, Women’s Studies 19, 1991, pp. 201–8.
32 Storey, Carnal Commerce, pp. 97, 111.
33 On these classics of French pornography see Joan DeJean, The Reinvention of Obscenity: Sex, Lies and Tabloids in Early Modern France, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002.
34 See Sarah Toulalan, Imagining Sex: Pornography and Bodies in Seventeenth-Century England, Oxford:Oxford University Press, 2007, p. 275.
35 van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, p. 76.
36 See, for example, Pierre Variquet, La capture de deux courtisanes italiennes habillées en hommes, faite par le corps de garde de la porte Saint-Honoré, qui portaient des intelligences secrètes au cardinal Mazarin ... avec la lettre d’un partisan, Paris: P. Variquet, 1649.
37 See James Grantham Turner, Libertines and Radicals in Early Modern London, Cambridge:Cambridge University Press, 2002, pp. 181–96; Tim Harris, ‘The Bawdy House Riots of 1668’, The Historical Journal 29, 1986, pp. 537–56.
38 On the whore petitions, see Melissa M. Mowry, The Bawdy Politic in Stuart England, 1660–1714, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004, pp. 105–27. This argument is made by Turner, Libertines and Radicals, pp. 197–252.
39 See Claire Guadiana, The Cabaret Poetry of Théophile de Viau, Tubingen: Nar, 1981.
40 Bawds also predominated in Spanish picaresque novels like Fernando de Rojas’ La Celestina:Tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea, Burgos: n.p., 1499.
41 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, ‘A Ramble in Saint James’s Park’, Representative Poetry Online [http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/ramble-st-jamess-park] (accessed 25 April 2012).
42 Johann Grimmelshausen, Die Ertzbetrügerin and Landstörtzerin Courasche, roughly translated as The Life of Courage: The Notorious Thief, Whore and Vagabond, trans. Mike Mitchell, New York: Daedulus Books, 2001 [1669].
43 See John Lynn, Women, Armies and Warfare in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008.
44 G. Bardin, Dictionnaire de l’armée de terre, Paris: Librairie militaire, 1865, p. 417. On Louis XIV’s reform of the army see John Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle: The French Army 1610–1715, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
45 Rossiaud, Amours vénales, p. 294.
46 Vásquez Garcia and Moreno Mengibar, Poder y prostitución en Sevilla, p. 33.
47 Alan Williams, The Police of Paris, Durham, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1980, p. 67.
48 Tony Henderson, Disorderly Women in Eighteenth-Century London: Prostitution and Control in the Metropolis, 1730–1830, London: Longman, 1999, p. 89.
49 ‘An Act for the Better Regulating the Nightly Watch … ’ (1737) cited in Henderson, Disorderly Women, p. 90.
50 Henderson, Disorderly Women, p. 126.
51 Erica-Marie Bénabou, La prostitution et la police des moeurs aux XVIIIe siècle, Paris: Perrin, 1987, pp. 267–68.
52 van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, pp.116–40.
53 Robert Cheype, Recherches sur le procès des inspecteurs de police 1716–1720, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1975.
54 Henderson, Disorderly Women, p. 23; van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, p. 142; Bénabou, La prostitution, p. 268.
55 Bénabou, La prostitution, p. 268. London data comes from a later period, 1814–26, and concerns only Southwark. Native-born Londoners constituted the single largest group among the women detailed but overall 60 per cent of the detainees were migrants mainly from Ireland and the West Counties; see Henderson, Disorderly Women, p. 19.
56 van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, pp. 143–44. Data on the origins of London prostitutes comes from a much later period, approximately 1825. Consequently it has not been offered here as a comparison; see Henderson, Disorderly Women,pp.18–22.
57 The figure was much higher (40 per cent in Montpellier) for prostitutes arrested in the French provinces; see Colin Jones, ‘Prostitution and the ruling class in eighteenth-century Montpellier’, History Workshop Journal 6, 1978, pp. 7–28. See also Geneviève Hébert, ‘Les femmes de mauvaise vie dans la communauté (Montpellier, 1713–42)’, Histoire Sociale 72, 2003, pp. 492–512.
58 van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, pp. 146–47.
59 van der Pol, The Burgher and the Whore, pp. 145–47.
60 Henderson, Disorderly Women, pp. 148–49.
61 Sophie Carter, Purchasing Power: Representing Prostitution in Eighteenth-Century English Popular Print Culture, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004, pp. 7–50.
62 Astruc quoted in Randolph Trumbach, Sex and the Gender Revolution, Vol. 1, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998, p. 197. See also part XIII on ‘Sexual disease’ in this volume.
63 Dr Jean Stanislas Mittié cited in Bénabou, La prostitution, p. 416.
64 William Buchan cited in Trumbach, Sex and the Gender Revolution, p. 198.
65 Sebastien Mercier cited in Bénabou, La prostitution, pp. 446–47.
66 Ange Goudemar cited in Bénabou, La prostitution, p. 447.
67 Patrick Colquoun cited in Trumbach, Sex and the Gender Revolution, p. 70.
68 Such exaggerated estimations of the number of prostitutes were an old phenomenon and one that has not entirely disappeared. See Elizabeth S. Cohen’s remarks on estimating the number of prostitutes in Rome in ‘“Courtesans” and “Whores”’, p. 202.
69 Mercier cited in Bénabou, La prostitution, p.448.
70 On the Magdalene hospital and its literature see Donna T. Andrew, Philanthropy and Police: London Charity in the Eighteenth Century, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989; Sarah Lloyd, ‘Pleasure’s Golden Bait: Prostitution, Poverty and the Magdalene Hospital in Eighteenth-Century London’, History Workshop Journal 41, 1996, pp. 48–70; Mary Peace, ‘Asylum, Reformatory or Penitentiary? Secular Sentiments vs Proto-Evangelical Religion in The Histories of Some of the Penitents in the Magdalen House (1760)’ in Ann Lewis and Markman Ellis (eds), Prostitution and Eighteenth-Century Culture, London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012, pp. 141–56; Jennie Batchelor, ‘Mothers and Others: Sexuality and Maternity in Eighteenth-Century Prostitution Narratives’ in Lewis and Ellis, Prostitution and Eighteenth-Century Culture, pp. 157–69.
71 On prostitution and depopulation see Bénabou, La prostitution, pp. 417–30.
72 Andrew Elfenbein, ‘The Management of Desire in Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’ in Patsy Fowler and Alan Jackson (eds), Launching ‘Fanny Hill’: Essays on the Novel and its Influences, New York: AMS Press, 2003, pp. 27–48, p. 28. This reading of Fanny Hill was suggested by Lena Olsson, ‘Idealized and Realistic: Portrayals of Prostitution in John Cleland’s Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’ in Patsy S. Fowler and Alan Jackson (eds), Launching ‘Fanny Hill’: Essays on the Novel and its Influences, New York: AMS Press, 2003, pp. 81–101.

By Kathryn Norberg in "The Routledge History of Sex and the Body 1500 to the Present",edited by Sarah Toulalan and Kate Fisher, Routledge,UK,2013, excerpts pp.393-408. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.


FALSOS CONCEITOS

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EMANUEL GOTTLIEB LEUTZE - "Washington cruzando o Delawere" (1851)
Samuel F. B. Morse na realidade não inventou o telégrafo. Conseguiu toda a informação necessária da invenção de um físico americano, Joseph Henry, e mais tarde negou que Henry o tivesse ajudado. (Henry provou facilmente o contrário, em juízo.) Morse era um bom promotor de sua causa e obteve 30.000 dólares do Congresso para a colocação da primeira linha telegráfica, entre Washington e Baltimore, em 1844. Morse inventou o código que tem o seu nome.

* * *

Os Peregrinos, colonos puritanos ingleses emigrados para os Estados Unidos, não construíam cabanas de troncos de árvores, nem usavam chapéus pretos de forma cônica com faixa e fivela de prata.

* * *

James Watt não inventou o motor a vapor; foi inventado por Thomas Newcomen, em 1712. Em 1778, existiam mais de setenta motores Newcomen em funcionamento só nas minas da Cornualha. Quando Watt foi chamado para consertar um deles, criou um motor aperfeiçoado, muito mais eficiente, e que podia ser usado para girar rodas. Este motor tornou-se tão útil que o de Newcomen foi esquecido.

* * *

O famoso quadro de Emanuel Leutze intitulado 'Washington Cruzando o Delaware'é falso em quase todos os detalhes técnicos. A bandeira americana que aparece no quadro só foi adotada após o evento que representa, e o barco era na realidade muito maior do que mostra Leutze, entre outras coisas.

* * *

Uma das ficções absurdas da história é a afirmação de que quando Colombo disse que a Terra era redonda, o mundo inteiro pensava que fosse chata. Durante os debates na corte da Rainha Isabel, a verdadeira forma da Terra jamais foi discutida; seu tamanho sim! Os opónentes de Colombo diziam que ele subestimava o tamanho da Terra e que nunca poderia viajar para o oeste, da Europa para o Oriente. Estavam certos. Se não fosse o fato de existir um continente no meio do caminho, Colombo teria voltado ou se perdido no mar.

* * *

O Lloyd's de Londres, a mais conhecida associação de seguros, não faz seguros de vida.

* * *

"A doutrina de que a Terra não é centro do universo e nem é imóvel, e que se move, até mesmo por rotação diária, é absurda, filosófica e teologicamente falsa, e pelo menos um erro de Fé." Assim foi redigida a decisão da Congregação Romana contra Galileu.

* * *

Albert Einstein, que ganhou o Prêmio Nobel de física em 1921, não foi premiado por sua teoria da relatividade, publicada dezesseis anos mais tarde, mas por um trabalho menos conhecido sobre o efeito fotoelétrico.

* * *

Quase todos nós aprendemos na escola que a Carta Magna foi assinada em 1215, pelo Rei João. Mas não foi - o monarca não sabia assinar seu nome-. Legitimou a Carta Magna colocando nela o seu selo.

* * *

Um dos falsos conceitos populares é de que os cigarros com filtro são menos prejudiciais. De acordo com estudos orientados pelo Dr. G. H. Miller, na Universidade Estadual de Edinboro, Pensilvânia, o contrário é mais certo: as pessoas que fumam cigarros com filtro correm o perigo de morrer dois a quatro anos antes do que os que fumam cigarros sem filtros. Os filtros evitam a diluição do fumo pelo oxigênio, de modo que a corrente sanguínea acumula maior quantidade de monóxido de carbono, sob a forma de carboxihemoglobina. Um dos efeitos é o maior dano ao sistema cardio-vascular, com perigo de derrames e infartos. Cerca de 50 por cento dos casos de morte estudados foram por ataques cardíacos, e 20 por cento, por câncer.

* * *

Até a época de Galileu, um argumento usado com muito efeito era de que se a Terra se movesse, e se na verdade rodasse em seu eixo, os pássaros seriam atirados para fora dela, as nuvens ficariam para trás e as construções cairiam.

* * *

O 'Discurso do Adeus do Presidente George Washington', muito citado e ao qual se fazem frequentes referências, nunca foi pronunciado. O discurso - redigido com a ajuda de James Madison e Alexander Hamilton - foi apenas publicado no Daily American Advertiser da Filadélfia.

* * *

São Patrício (cerca de 385-461 D.C.) não era irlandês. Era britânico, provàvelmente galês, e jamais estivera na Irlanda antes de ser raptado por assaltantes irlandeses. Depois de sua fuga, tornou-se padre e bispo e voltou à Irlanda como missionário. Seu sucesso entre os irlandeses fez com que o escolhessem para patrono.

* * *

Robert Fulton não inventou o navio a vapor. Dezessete anos antes de o primdro barco de Fulton navegar no rio Hudson John Fitch  mantinha um serviço regular de barcos a vapor no rio Delaware entre Filadélfia e Trenton. Dificuldades financeiras e outros contratempos levaram à ruína o negócio de Fitch, mas foi ele o inventor do barco a vapor.

* * *

Não existem dados estatísticos que indiquem a concentração de propriedade de terras, nos Estados Unidos, e nunca houve um recenseamento neste sentido. A informação sobre as áreas de terras é obtida no Departamento de Agricultura, mas ninguém sabe a quem pertencem as terras e nem qual a área possuída.

* * *

Não pode ser atribuída a Henry Hudson a descoberta do rio que tem o seu nome, porque só em setembro de 1609 ele o navegou com seu barco Half Moon. Em 1525, o português Estêvão Gomes tinha entrado no "Hudson", onde é hoje New York Harbor. Mais tarde, foi encontrada uma carta do florentino Giovanni da Verrazano relatando os detalhes de sua descoberta do rio, em março de 1524. (O relatório de Verrazano, porém, pode ter sido copiado do de Gomes; não existem provas de que o florentino jamais tenha feito tal expedição.)

* * *

A mais espetacular descoberta cartográfica do século era afinal de contas uma falsificação - o notório Mapa Vinland, "prova" de que os vikings tinham explorado o Novo Mundo. Um comprador anônimo pagou 1 milhão de dólares por três peças antigas, incluindo o mapa, considerado então autêntico, e as doou à Universidade de Yale. Antes de se descobrir que o Mapa Vinland era falsificado, 10.000 pessoas tinham pago 15 dólares cada uma à Universidade por uma cópia. Supunha-se que o mapa tinha sido desenhado na década de 1430 ou 1440, por um monge, na Suíça. Os testes químicos revelaram no entanto que não podia ter sido feito antes da década de 1920. Os outros dois itens, uma narrativa do século XIII sobre a viagem de um asiático e um fragmento de uma enciclopédia médica do mesmo período, são autênticos.

* * *

Charles Darwin poucas vezes usou o termo "evolução". Foi popularizado pelo sociólogo inglês Herbert Spencer, que tornou popular também a expressão "a sobrevivência do mais forte".

* * *

Robert Fulton não chamou o seu barco de Clermont, o nome que aparece nos livros de história. O barco que inaugurou o serviço de passageiros entre Nova York e Albany em 1807 foi registrado com o nome de North River Steam Boat. Seu porto de partida era Clermont, Nova York.

* * *

Uma das primeiras coisas que os estudantes de química do ginásio aprendem é como acender o bico de Bunsen, um aquecedor a gás para soluções químicas. Entretanto, o bico de Bunsen não foi inventado pelo químico alemão Robert W. Bunsen. Ele apenas popularizou seu uso.

* * *

A oposição mais renhida à reforma eleitoral na Inglaterra, na década de 1850, não foi feita pelos ricos, mas pelos intelectuais que, em nome da instrução e da inteligência, eram contrários ao governo de massa.

* * *

Os ingleses dos séculos XVI e XVII acreditavam que não se podia morrer em paz em travesseiros de pena. Portanto, quando a morte se aproximava, o travesseiro era retirado de sob a cabeça da pessoa, para facilitar sua passagem deste mundo para o outro.

* * *

Devido à história do Gênese de que Eva foi criada de uma costela de Adão, acreditava-se na Idade Média que os homens tivessem uma costela a menos do que as mulheres.

* * *

Uma bomba comum de TNT envolve o principio da reação atômica, e pode ser chamada de bomba atômica. O que chamamos de bomba-A envolve o princípio da reação nuclear, e deveria ser chamada de bomba nuclear.

* * *

Em Londres, no século XVIII, Jonathan Wild, para proteger suas atividades criminais, tornou-se um homem da lei. Wild dirigia uma organização de ladrões, possuía armazéns, depósitos e até um navio para comércio ilícito com o continente. Ao mesmo tempo, era um oficial da lei que prendia criminosos, que não eram de sua orgànização. As autoridades ficaram assombradas quando seu representante de confiança foi apanhado em flagrante. A carreira e execução de Wild são relatadas n'A ópera do Mendigo'.

* * *

Na era vitoriana acreditava-se ainda que a criança ao ser amamentada absorvia não só o leite mas também o caráter moral da mãe. Portanto, quando a mãe não podia amamentar, a escolha da ama era da maior importância. Se fosse alcoólatra ou idiota, os pais temiam que o filho viesse a ser a mesma coisa.

* * *

Quando os colonizadores chegaram à América, alguns acreditavam que os índios eram descendentes das dez tribos perdidas de Israel. Em Londres, em 1650, o Reverendo Thomas Thorowgood publicou um livro intitulado 'Jews in America, or Probabilities that the Americans Are of That Race', no qual apontava as semelhanças entre os índios e os judeus, tais como costumes e língua.

* * *

Apesar de sua reputação, a ostra gigante "devoradora de homens" do Pacífico Sul - que chega a ter mais de 1,30 m de largura e pesar um quarto de tonelada - alimenta-se apenas de organismos microscópicos que a água leva até sua boca.

* * *

O Cabo da Boa Esperança não é o ponto extremo sul da Africa. - Cerca de l60 quilômetros a leste do Cabo da Boa Esperança está o Cabo das Agulhas, que se estende por 65 quilômetros mais ao sul do que o primeiro.

* * *

Para proteger as lãs das traças usaram-se, durante gerações, arcas de cedro ou armários forrados com esta madeira. Não há prova nenhuma de que o cedro afugente as traças.

* * *

O cabelo de uma pessoa não pode ficar branco de um momento para o outro devido a uma tragédia ou uma experiência terrível - nem por outra razão qualquer.

* * *

Ao contrário do que se acredita, a lanterna colocada no campanário da Old North Church de Boston na noite anterior ao início da Revolução americana era uma mensagem de Paul Revere, e não para ele. Mandou acender a lanterna para avisar os patriotas do outro lado do rio, em Charlestown, que ele ainda não tinha saído de Boston para encontrar-se com eles. A luz serviu como um aviso de que uma expedição inglesa estava se preparando para partir, mas não dava outros detalhes; estes seriam fornecidos por Paul Revere quando chegasse a Charlestown.

* * *

Não é fácil beijar a "Blarney Stone". -De formato triangular, está a cerca de seis metros do topo da parede de um castelo na vila irlandesa de Blarney. O único meio de chegar até ela e beijá-la é ficar pendurado de cabeça para baixo, numa posição muito perigosa.

* * *

A ideia quase universal de que as "províncias das pradarias" do Canadá - Manitoba, Saskatchewan e Aiberta - são imensos trigais é completamente errada e deriva do fato de que a rodovia Transcanadense e a ferrovia Canadense atravessam as regiões menos interessantes destas províncias. Manitoba tem mais de 100.000 lagos e 650 quilômetros de costa na baía do Hudson. Em Cypress Hills, em Saskatchewan, existem montanhas com 1.500 metros de altura - a 56 quilôinetros ao norte da fronteira com os Estados Unidos - , e próximo a Príncipe Alberto, o centro da província, há uma floresta virgem de 2.400 quilômetros quadrados com lagos, regatos e colinas. Os Montes Rochosos Canadenses pertencem tanto à fronteira ocidental de Alberta quando à Colúmbia Britânica.

* * *

A maioria das pessoas acredita que o Oceano Atlântico (o mar das Caraíbas) está na extremidade leste do Canal de Panamá e que o Oceano Pacífico (o golfo de Panamá) está na extremidade oeste do Canal. Basta dar uma olhada no mapa. Entrando no Canal vindo do Atlântico, chega-se pelo lado oeste, e a saída é pelo leste - o lado do Pacífico.

* * *

A lenda familiar que deu fama a Betty Ross foi contada pela primeira vez trinta anos após a sua morte. Um de seus netos afirmou que ela recebera, em junho de 1776, uma comissão secreta da qual fazia parte George Washington, pedindo-lhe para desenhar e fazer uma bandeira para a nova nação. Não há qualquer evidência que corrobore esta história. Elizabeth Griscom Ross - "Betsy" - era apenas uma costureira. A bandeira americana original foi desenhada por Francis Hopkinson, de Nova Jersey. Francis era advogado, escritor, artista, membro do Segundo Congresso Continental, o primeiro compositor nascido na América e um dos signatários da Declaração da Independência.

* * *

Euclides não elaborou praticamente nenhum dos teoremas da geometria "euclidiana". Era um coletor de trabalhos de outras pessoas. Sua grande virtude foi ter colocado os teoremas geométricos, conhecidos no seu tempo, em ordem tão lógica que ficaram quase perfeitos.

* * *

Os incas, especialistas em organização e engenharia, não tinham rodas, arcos e nem escrita. No auge do seu poder, antes da conquista espanhola em 1532, dominavam toda a área da América do Sul que vai de Quito até o rio Maule, no Chile. O centro de seu império era Cuzco, no Peru.

* * *

A descoberta do para-raios feita por Benjamin Franklin em 1753 foi a primeira vitória prática da ciência sobre um fenômeno natural. Dois anos mais tarde, quando Lisboa foi destruída por um terremoto e um maremoto, alguns religiosos de Boston declararam que era castigo pelo sacrilégio de usar para-raios para evitar a ira de Deus.

* * *

Na década de 1520, uma força espanhola de 600 homens liderados por Hernando Cortez, com cavalos e armas de fogo, destruiu um império de 2.000.000 de pessoas sem cavalos e sem armas. Cortez desembarcou no México, fez aliados entre os inimigos dos astecas e marchou sobre a cidade do México, onde a lenda do "deus pálido vindo do mar" aterrorizou Montezuma. Cortez, após mandar assassinar o imperador, tomou posse do império asteca com seu punhado de homens.

* * *

Um dos primeiros a se interessar pela evolução foi o naturalista francês Georges de Buffon (1707-88). Sua idéia era a de uma rampa descendente. Pensava que o macaco era um homem degradado, o asno, a degradação do cavalo, e assim por diante.

* * *

Chester Carlson, o inventor da xerografia, em 1937, o processo de cópia a seco, poderia ter inventado outro importante instrumento de comunicação se não tivesse desistido. Idealizou o que foi mais tarde a caneta esferográfica, mas abandonou o projeto muito antes de ser testado no mercado - achou que não daria resultado.

* * *

Sir Edmund Hillary e Tenzing Norkay receberam os merecidos aplausos como os primeiros alpinistas a chegar ao topo do Monte Everest. O que bem poucos sabem é que eles foram acompanhados por doze alpinistas, quarenta guias sherpa e 700 carregadores.

* * *
Galileu foi obrigado a abandonar a cadeira de professor na Universidade de Pisa quando negou a tese de Aristóteles de que quanto mais pesada a pedra, mais depressa ela cai. Hoje sabe-se que duas pedras de pesos diferentes deixadas cair de uma torre no mesmo momento chegarão ao solo juntas.

* * *

Um monarca inexistente contribuiu para dar início à Era dos Descobrimentos na Europa. No século XV, o Príncipe Henrique, o Navegador, enviou seus comandantes da marinha para explorar a costa da Africa. Uma das esperanças de Henrique era que seus homens abrissem um caminho ao redor do continente e negociassem uma aliança contra o Islã com o poderoso rei da Etiópia conhecido como "Prestes João". Os portugueses rodearam o Cabo da Boa Esperança e dirigiram-se para a costa da África, apenas para verificar que Prestes João não existia.

* * '*

As regras do jogo da razão dizem que o problema não tem sentido e não precisa de resposta. O problema: "O que aconteceria se uma força irresistível encontrasse um corpo que não pode ser movido?" Em um universo onde uma das condições existe, por definição a outra não pode existir.

* * *

A maçã verde não dá dor de barriga se for bem mastigada. O estômago não conhece a diferença entre maçãs verdes e maduras.

* * *

Segundo a lenda, foi o cowboy e o revólver de seis tiros que conquistaram o Oeste americano. Na verdade, foi o arado de aço, a cerca de arame farpado e o moinho de vento portátil que possibilitaram a vida dos pioneiros naquela região.

* * *

Carolus Linnaeus, o botânico sueco que primeiro classificou a maioria dos seres vivos, combateu obstinadamente a idéia da evolução. Insistia em dizer que cada espécie fora criada separadamente, que desde a criação não se formara nenhuma nova espécie, e nenhuma fora extinta naturalmente. Mais ou menos um século mais tarde, em 1858, o trabalho inicial de Charles Darwin e Alfred Russell Wallace sobre a teoria da evolução foi publicado no Journal of the Linnaean Society - artigos aos quais Linnaeus sem dúvida teria objetado se fosse vivo.

* * *

Robert Darwin opôs-se tenazmente à ida de seu filho Charles naexpedição de cinco anos ao redor do mundo, no navio Beagle. Viu Charles mais uma vez mudando suas idéias - desta vez abandonando a igreja - e enveredando, pensava ele,  irremediavelmente para uma vida de prazer e indolência.

* * *

Era crença geral na Idade Média - como também de Aristóteles - que o coração é o centro da inteligência.

* * *

Para verificar se as características adquiridas podem ser hereditárias, o biólogo alemão August Freidrich Weismann cortou as caudas de vinte e duas gerações de ratos logo após o nascimento e o resultado foi que continuavam a gerar ratos com caudas completas. Ninguém sabe por que teve todo este trabalho. Se tivesse parado para pensar teria verificado que mais de vinte e duas gerações de meninos judeus têm sido circuncidados após o nascimento, e todos os recém-nascidos judeus vêm ao mundo com um prepúcio normal.

* * *

Depois da Segunda Guerra Mundial, a indústria Volkswagen foi oferecida à Inglaterra como parte da reparação, mas os ingleses não aceitaram, dizendo que carros com o motor traseiro não tinham futuro. Entretanto, as autoridades do exército de ocupação fizeram um pedido de 20.000 "besouros" para ajudar a Volkswagen a restaurar suas finanças. Em 1959, a companhia estava produzindo quase 4.000 carros por dia.

* * *

Contrariando a crença popular, a idade com que os pais morrem tem pouca influência na longevidade dos filhos, segundo estudos realizados na Universidade de Duke, no Centro de Estudos sobre a Idade e o Desenvolvimento do Homem.

* * *

Na Feira Mundial de Nova York de 1939-40, a apresentação mais popular foi a da General Motors com a "Futurama", predições·

* * *


Na Feira Mundial de Nova York de 1939-40, a apresentação mais popular foi a da General Motors com a "Futurama", predições para a América na década de 1960: "Leis federais proíbem o desmatamento das encostas. As pessoas não se importarão muito com possuir coisas. Férias pagas de dois meses. Carros com ar condicionado ao preço mínimo de 200 dólares. As pessoas mais felizes vivem em vilas onde existe apenas uma fábrica."

* * *

Um moto contínuo· violaria as leis da termodinâmica. Ninguém conseguiu produzir nenhum; ninguém jamais conseguirá.

* * *

Karl Marx esperava que suas idéias sobre economia no 'Manifesto Comunista' e em 'O Capital' tivessem maior impacto nas nações adiantadas do Ocidente. A nação onde pensava que teriam menor influência era a Rússia (O Capital foi traduzido para o russo antes de ser traduzido para o inglês). Na verdade, suas idéias levaram ao socialismo moderno e ao comunismo - na Rússia.

* * *

"Embora qualquer gabinete governado por Herr Hitler sugira uma situação altamente precária, a experiência de nomeá-lo chanceler. ... deve ser tentada para refrear a truculência dos nazistas" - uma reportagem do New York Times, 29 de janeiro de 1933. Na Alemanha e em muitos outros países, os liberais, saudando o gabinete, argumentavam que Hitler fora tirado da rua e recebera as responsabilidades de governante em um ambiente que "limitaria rigorosamente a sua liberdade de ação". A maioria dos políticos alemães esperava que ele se enforcasse, se dessem bastante corda, e que renunciaria ao cargo dentro de seis meses, desacreditando assim o seu partido.

* * *

O temperamental comandante do Beagle, Robert FitzRoy, tinha estudado fisiognomia e quase recusou Charles Darwin como naturalista do navio por éausa do formato do seu nariz. FitzRoy duvidava que uma pessoa com um nariz tão largo e achatado tivesse as qualidades de caráter e a determinação necessárias para sobreviver a uma viagem difícil de vários anos.

* * *

O Príncipe Henrique, o Navegador jamais tomou parte em nenhuma expedição marítima. O título lhe foi dado por dirigir um instituto de explorações em Sagres, Portugal, a Escola de Sagres, onde astrônomos, geógrafos, almirantes e construtores de navios usavam sua experiência para as viagens dos navegadores na costa da África. A culminação àestes estudos deu-se depois da morte de Henrique, quando Vasco da Gama, dobrando o Cabo da Boa Esperança, chegou à Índia, em 1497.

* * *

Dentro e nas vizinhanças de Zion, uma pequena cidade de Illinois, às margens do lago Michigan, mais ou menos 65 quilômetros ao norte de Chicago, há centenas, talvez milhares de pessoas que acreditam que a Terra não é redonda. Apóiam uma teoria, proposta no início da década de 1900 por Wilbur Glenn Voliva, de que a Terra é chata. Muita gente também acredita atualmente que a Terra é oca e aberta nos pólos. Alguns chegam a acreditar que a Terra está dentro de uma esfera oca.

* * *

Chevalier d'Éon de Beaumont ( 1728-181 O) era um agente secreto francês, cuja primeira missão o levou à corte russa, onde, segundo se conta, disfarçou-se em mulher para conquistar a confiança da imperatriz. Serviu seu país mais abertamente no exército e como diplomata na Rússia e na Inglaterra até se envolver em uma briga pública com um superior e recusou-se a voltar para a França ou devolver suas credenciais. Ao voltar à França, o governo insistiu para que usasse roupas de mulher, e ficou conhecido como Chevalière d'Éon.

Texto de Isaac Asimov (trad. de Aulyde Soares Rodrigues) em "Livro dos Fatos" (Book of Facts), Nova Fronteira, Rio de Janeiro, 1981, excerto de pp. 161-173. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

HUMAN SACRIFICE IN GREEK MYTH, CULT, AND HISTORY

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INTRODUCTION: MYTH AND HISTORY

In this chapter I am interested principally in the ‘historical’ human sacrifices, by which I mean sacrifices which were presented as historical, and apparently believed to have been historical, by the authors who reported them, and which also have frequently been accepted as such by modern scholars. But first I shall discuss some myths of human sacrifice, which I have divided into two sections. In the first (‘mythical human sacrifices’) I treat myths in which specific (and most often named) individuals are sacrificed, usually offering themselves willingly in times of emergency, but also a few other miscellaneous stories of human sacrifice; in the second (‘mitigated human sacrifices and animal substitution’) I discuss in more detail some aetiological myths which served to account for existing rituals: according to these, earlier human sacrifices (usually repeated sacrifices, with anonymous victims) had been ‘mitigated’, i.e. replaced by non-fatal rituals or by animal sacrifices.

By distinguishing thus between mythical and historical human sacrifices I begin with the presupposition that the ‘myths’ of human sacrifice are indeed mythical and not historical. This, of course, is impossible to prove, and many scholars, while rejecting the historicity of individual human sacrifices in myths of my first category, nevertheless have felt that the legends preserve a memory of a practice of human sacrifice in earlier times.Wachsmuth’s statement, for example—‘wenn auch kein einzelner Fall Probe hält, bleibt dennoch in der gemeinschaftlichen Quelledieser mythischen Erzählungen, der aus uralter Zeit fortgepflanzten Sage von dem Brauche, Menschen zu opfern, Grund genug zum Glauben an denselben’—may be taken as typical not only for his century but for much of our own.1 Still, not all scholars have agreed with this assessment, e.g. Schwenn, who already in 1915 saw that ‘eine alte Opfersitte, die so manche annehmen, lässt sich aus diesen Sagen keineswegs erschliessen’.2 The difference of opinion is actually part of a much broader disagreement about the function and meaning of myth, but the old view which sees myths primarily as repositories of obsolete cultural practices and beliefs has in this century been called into question by more and more scholars, from a variety of viewpoints.

The myths of ‘mitigated’ human sacrifices connected with existing cult practices have more often been accepted as factual, but in recent years scholars have tended to reject these also. But this does not mean that these myths are unimportant for the study of Greek religious belief and ritual. If they did not preserve the actual histories of the rituals with which they were associated, they still may be presumed to have had meaning for the societies which created and maintained them. Exactly what this presumed meaning was may in many cases be unclear, and it is likewise uncertain how closely the myths were associated with the practices they served to explain. Did these aitia play an essential role in the beliefs of the worshippers, were they ‘cult myths’ integrally bound with the rites which they accompanied? Were they the inventions of local theologoi, or merely of poets, unconnected with the local cults, or even of later mythographers? Many of the preserved myths of this type appear to be relatively late inventions, some even showing the influence of Hellenistic romance. Still, the pattern exhibited by these myths—transgression, institution of human sacrifice, and its later abolition in favour of animal sacrifices or other rituals—is itself quite ancient (as its presence in the Iphigeneia story shows), and I believe that this type of myth was originally associated closely with cult practices. But the age of the myths does not really concern us: some meaningful function may be assumed for the later myths also, and the persistence of the pattern suggests a continuity of religious thought (or at least of mythopoetic inclinations) from Archaic into Hellenistic times. But of course aetiologies invented only in the Hellenistic age clearly cannot be taken to preserve the actual early histories of cult practices.

Finally, it is not always easy to distinguish the mythical from what is ‘presented as historical’ or ‘believed to have been historical’: such a judgement may be largely subjective and made from a modern point of view which does not always reflect that of the ancients, many of whom believed in the actuality of mythical characters and events or at least did not take adequate care to distinguish between the historical and the legendary.3 The division of the material into mythical and historical is therefore to some extent arbitrary. But my discussion of mythical human sacrifices is largely intended to serve as a preface to the ‘historical’ human sacrifices, many of which show marked similarities (such as the motifs of mitigation and animal substitution) with their mythic counterparts. Thus my division of the material into mythical and historical is not only somewhat arbitrary but also, as it were, temporary, for I strongly suspect—and in many cases hope to show—that most if not all of the human sacrifices discussed in the historical section belong rather to the realm of myth and pseudo-history.

MYTHICAL HUMAN SACRIFICES

A number of myths tell of noble young maidens who, usually in accordance with an oracle, are sacrificed or voluntarily offer themselves for sacrifice in order to ward off an enemy attack or other calamity from their city. One or more daughters (accountsvary) of Erechtheus were sacrificed during a war with Eleusis, while in another version a daughter of Cecrops, Aglaurus, threw herself from the walls of Athens during the same war.4 Similarly, when plague and famine beset Athens during the war with King Minos, the daughters of Hyacinthus (sometimes identified with the daughters of Erechtheus) were slain on the tomb of the Cyclops Geraestus.5 The daughters of Leos were also slain to drive plague or famine from Athens, and a sanctuary, the Leokorion, was constructed in the agora in their honour.6 And Heracles’ daughter Macaria willingly offered herself for sacrifice when Athens was besieged by Eurystheus, and a spring at Marathon was named for her.7

Similar sacrifices are known from locales other than Athens. An oracle promises success to Heracles and the Thebans in theircampaign against Orchomenos if the noblest citizen among them should die willingly by his own hand; when Antipoenus demurs, his daughters, Androcleia and Alcis, readily volunteer themselves as victims.8 And another pair of Boeotian maids, the daughters of Orion (Metioche and Menippe), willingly offer themselves to deliver their city from pestilence.9 Nor was the theme of virgin sacrifice confined to wars of the heroic past: among the stories from the Messenian Wars (eighth and seventh centuries), whose ‘history’ was concocted after Messenian independence in 370 and preserved chiefly by Pausanias, is a long and involved tale according to which the Delphic oracle requires the Messenians to sacrifice a virgin to the gods of the Underworld; a series of reversals leads to Aristodemus’ murder of his own daughter, and in the end it is decided that the oracle has been fulfilled by her death (Paus. 4.9.3–10).10

Parthenius (Amat. Narr. 35) preserves a very similar story from Hellenistic romance (here the location is Crete and the victim Cydon’s daughter Eulime)—so similar in fact that there must be some connection between the two stories. In both tales an oracle is consulted and enjoins the sacrifice of a virgin, to be selected by lot; the allotted victim’s lover comesforward to claim that she is with child, and in the end her womb is cut open; but in one case (Parth.) the lover’s claim proves true, in the other (Paus.) false. If nothing else the similarity between the two tales indicates how fine was the line in this period between historical writing and romance, and how readily it could be overstepped.

In some cases it is young men, not young women, who aresacrificed. In the Phoenissae Creon’s son Menoeceus slays himself on the highest tower of Thebes, but the ‘myth’ may have been invented by Euripides himself.11 When the Tyndaridae invade Attica, in accordance with an oracle Marathus willingly offers himself for sacrifice before the engagement, thus giving his name to the deme Marathon.12 And when the Eleans consult the oracle during a prolonged drought, they are instructed to sacrifice a noble boy to Zeus. A youth named Molpis volunteers, rain falls, and the Eleans build a sanctuary of Zeus Ombrios, setting up a statue of Molpis there.13

Frequently mentioned together with myths of this type—but differing from them significantly—is the story of the Athenian King Codrus. An oracle had proclaimed to the Peloponnesians that they would be unable to capture Athens if they should kill Codrus. But the Athenians got wind of the oracle, and Codrus, pro patria non timidus mori, went out of the beseiged city disguised as a beggar and, having killed one soldier from the Peloponnesian camp, was killed by another, thus saving Athens from destruction.14 Like the daughters of Erechtheus and other heroines and heroes, Codrus died willingly to save his country, but he was not, strictly speaking, sacrificed, and Burkert has connected the dynamics of this myth with ‘scapegoat’ rituals, whereby a community sends an animal or human being from its midst in order to bring destruction upon an enemy.15 But the Codrus myth also shows a close affinity to another Greek story, in which both sacrificial and ‘scapegoat’ motifs are absent: Temon, a prominent citizen of the Aenianes, dresses as a beggar and goes among the Inachians, who give him a clod of earth in mockery, thus unwittingly fulfilling an oracle to the effect that they would lose all of their land if they shared any part of it (Plut. Quaest. Graec. 13, 294A—B). It therefore appears that in the Codrus story the motif of willing self-sacrifice and thematic patterns akin to scapegoat rituals have been grafted onto a more widespread type of folktale, in which disguise as a beggar serves to trick an enemy into the damaging fulfilment of a prophecy.16

Most scholars would now agree that these myths of human sacrifice have no historical value. For one thing, the wars (not to mention the plagues, droughts, and famines) during which the sacrifices are performed are themselves mythical (and sometimes interchangeable, as the identification of the Hyacinthides and daughters of Erechtheus shows), as are the oracles which enjoin them.17

Also, many of the myths served as aetiologies for the names of various places and cult areas (Marathon, the sanctuary of Aglaurus, the Leokorion, the rock of Molpis, the spring Macaria), in which case, it is generally agreed, the thing explained precedes, historically, the explanatory myth. Furthermore, the similarity of the myths (a city is threatened with attack or afflicted by plague or famine; the oracle is consulted, and a human sacrifice ordained; the daughter or son of a king or nobleman comes forward; the city is delivered) does not argue for their historicity: history repeats itself, it is true, but not with such ideal regularity and felicitous outcome. It is clear that new stories of human sacrifice continued to be fashioned upon earlier models, although it is not possible to trace the thread back to a single paradigmatic myth.

The majority of the stories described above are myths in the full sense, in that they have partial reference to things of collective importance to the societies which created and maintained them, even if this reference is only to the name of a person or place.18 But the origin and function (beyond aetiology) of these myths is uncertain. Although the occasion of the human sacrifice is sometimes plague or famine, a close association with military practices is probable: before war the Athenian army sacrificed at the sanctuary of the Hyacinthides, and Athenian ephebes would swear an oath at the sanctuary of Aglaurus before departing for battle.19 It is therefore problematic but highly interesting that the victims are most often women, while in ancient Greece war was strictly the domain of males.20

Burkert sees in such myths a manifestation of the sexual renunciation required of hunters and warriors: ‘Man declines to love in order to kill: this is most graphically demonstrated in the ritual slaughter of “the virgin,” the potential source both of a happy union and of disruptive conflict within the group.’21 But I would interpret the myths somewhat differently. The selfless devotion of these legendary victims, particularly poignant in the case of young maidens, served to inspire the army to courage and patriotism in the face of the enemy. But perhaps poignancy is not the principal effect of the stories; rather their value may lie chiefly in the contrast inherent in the sexual ‘role reversal’, which would pose a direct challenge to the male warrior. This is apparent both in Lycurgus’ speech against Leocrates (which preserves a lengthy extract from Euripides’ Erechtheus, fr. 50 Austin, where the male-female opposition is already implicit) and in the funeral oration attributed to Demosthenes: ‘if women dare to do this, indeed men must keep their devotion for the fatherland unsurpassed’ (Lycurg. Leoc. 101); and (with reference to the daughters of Leos) ‘when those women possessed such manliness they [the Leontidae] regarded as not right that they prove lesser men than those women’ (Dem. 60.29; cf. Cic. Nat. D. 3.19, 50, and Diod. Sic. 17.15.2). Thus tales of women who died selflessly to save their country effectively inspired men to be prepared to do the same, although the women in the myths are accorded a sacrificial death rather than a ‘manly’ death on the battlefield.22

Still, I should not wish to argue that this was the sole function, or the original function, of these stories, for possibly earlier myths created for other reasons were adopted to serve this inspirational purpose only in the fifth and fourth centuries BC.

There are a few other Greek tales involving human sacrifice which differ, to a greater or lesser extent, from those described above. During a storm on his return voyage from Troy, the Cretan king Idomeneus vows to sacrifice the first thing he shall encounter upon landing. This turns out to be his son: in one version Idomeneus sacrifices him, while in another the intended sacrifice is never carried out (Serv. Verg. Aen. 3.121 and 11.264). Similarly, when one of the rulers of Haliartus consults the Delphic oracle about a drought, he is instructed to kill the first person he meets on his journey home. He is met by his son Lophis, whom he dutifully slays on the spot; and from the place where the blood falls water rises up, becoming the Lophis River (Paus. 9.33.4).23

Thus the same motif employed in the story of Idomeneus’ return provides here an aetiology for the river’s name, although in this case the killing is not represented as a sacrifice. The folk-motif, familiar from the story of Jephthah’s vow in the Old Testament,also appears in an aetiology for the name of the river Maiandros: in return for success in battle Maiandros vows to sacrifice to the Mother of the Gods the first person to greet him on his return. Heis met by his son, wife, and daughter, but after leading them to the altar he has second thoughts and throws himself into the Anabainon River, which henceforth is called the Maiandros.24

Herodotus tells a story which he claims to have learned from the Egyptian priests, according to which Menelaus, after the Trojan War, finally finds Helen in Egypt. But unable to leave because of adverse winds, Menelaus sacrifices two native children, thus incurring the wrath of the formerly hospitable Egyptians (Hdt. 2.119.3). And just as the Greeks, so also the Trojans encounter unfavourable sailing conditions in their flight from Troy.25 During a tempest Chaon, one of the companions of Helenus, vows to sacrifice himself should they escape alive; they do, and Chaon becomes the eponymous hero of Chaonia in Epirus (Serv. Verg. Aen. 3.335, with an alternate version). A story of human sacrifice is also connected with the foundation of Methymna. An oracle instructs the colonists to offer a maiden to Amphitrite, and the lot falls to a daughter of Smintheus. But in an effort to save her a young man named Enalus grabs her and leaps into the sea; he later appears in Lesbos bearing tales of his marvellous rescue by dolphins.26

Finally, a well-known myth tells of a tribute of maidens and young men sent from Athens to feed the Minotaur in Crete in atonement for the murder of Androgeos.27 This tribute is not, technically speaking, a human sacrifice, although it has often been called one. The myth, although unique in its details, belongs to a large group of stories in which young women and men are offered to appease the wrath of monsters of various kinds.

Laomedon must expose his daughter Hesione to a seamonster sent by Poseidon, but she is saved by Heracles; and in a similar story Perseus rescues (and then marries) the Aethiopian princess Andromeda, who has been tied to a rock as a meal for another Poseidon-sent monster.28 And Pausanias informs us that the ghost of one of Odysseus’ sailors, who had raped a virgin and been stoned to death by the people of Temesa, remained in the land killing young and old alike. Upon instructions from the Delphic oracle the inhabitants built a shrine for the ‘Hero’ and gave him annually the most beautiful virgin in the city as a bride, until Euthymus, three times an Olympic victor in boxing in the early fifth century, fell in love with the maiden to be offered that year, rescued her, drove out the Hero, and married the girl (Paus. 6.6.7–11).29

In Thespiae the citizens were required each year to select by lot a young man to be offered to a dragon which was besetting the land; one year Menestratus, the lover of the allotted victim (Gleostratus), devised a breastplate covered with fishhooks and, offering himself in place of Cleostratus, destroyed the monster (Paus. 9.26.7–8). Similarly, a giant beast called Sybaris (or Lamia) ravaged the area of Delphi, killing men and cattle daily. When the Delphians consulted the oracle about leaving the region, the god told them to expose a youth before the monster’s cave; a beautiful young man, Alcyoneus, was chosen by lot, but the hero Eurybatus, who happened to pass by while Alcyoneus was being led to his death, fell in love with the youth and, taking his place, killed the monster (Ant. Lib. Met. 8).

The absence of sacrificial language in these stories is notable: the young victims are given either as nourishment or as sexual partners to the monsters, and they are exposed rather than killed in the act of sacrifice.30 And although a certain likeness can be observed between these stories and myths of human sacrifice (both those described above and those to which we shall presently turn), according to a traditional (if no longer fashionable) distinction, they might better be termed folktales than myths.31 But several of the tales are connected, at least superficially, to cult practices: there was a shrine to the Hero at Temesa (Paus. 6.6.8 and 11; Strabo 6.1.5), the story from Thespiae served as an aetiology for Zeus’ epiklesis, the ‘Saviour’ (Paus. 9.26.8), and the episodes surrounding the Cretan tribute provided aitia for several Attic,Naxian, and Delian rites (Pl. Phd. 58A–B; Plut. Thes. 17.6, 18, 20.5, 21, 22.3–5, and 23; Hesych. s.v.

Furthermore, the story of Theseus and the Minotaur (as many other of Theseus’ deeds) has been thought to have originated inAttic rituals of initiation of adolescents.32 Indeed it is possible to see an initiatory origin in all of these tales which involve the exposure and threatened consumption (or devirgination) of young maidens and men, averted only by last-minute rescue by a youthful hero (and which often end in marriage, or, we may presume, homosexual union). Still, there is no need to claim (and no way to demonstrate) that all such stories owed their existence to particular rituals of initiation, for myths and folktales certainly may exhibit ‘initiatory patterns’ and initiatory motifs independent of any existing rites. But perhaps a closer connection between initiation ritual and myth can be seen in myths involving ‘mitigated’ human sacrifices of young women and men.

Notes

1 Wachsmuth (1846) 2:551. Cf. Pearson (1913) 847; Frazer (1921)
2:119 n.1; Parke and Wormell (1956) 1:296; Nilsson, GGR 1:23. Farnell (CGS 4:209), in a discussion of human sacrifices prescribed by Delphi, wrote as follows: ‘The instances quoted above are myths, it is true: but for the purpose of our investigation into prehistoric thought and practice, myths are facts.’2 Schwenn (1915) 132. More recently: Brelich (1969b) 195; Henrichs (1981) 195.
3 Cf. Veyne (1988) passim.
4 Daughters of Erechtheus: Lycurg. Leoc. 98–101, with a lengthy excerpt from Euripides’ Erechtheus (=fr. 50 Austin); Phanodemus, FGrHist 325 F 4; Apollod. Bibl. 3.15.4, with other sources in Frazer (1921) ad loc.; Parke-Wormell no.195; Fontenrose (1978) no. L32. Aglaurus: Philochorus, FGrHist 328 F 105. On the chronological difficulty of having a daughter of Cecrops sacrificed during the reign of Erechtheus see Jacoby’s commentary ad loc.
5 Apollod. Bibl. 3.15.8; further references in Frazer (1921) ad loc. Identified with daughters of Erechtheus: Eur. fr. 65.73–4 Austin;
Dem. 60.27; Phanodemus, FGrHist 325 F 4
 6 Dem. 60.29; Ael. VH 12.28; Paus. 1.5.2; further references in Frazer (1921) 2:118–19 n.1; Parke-Wormell no.209; Fontenrose (1978) no. L44.
7 Eur. Heracl. 406–629; Paus. 1.32.6; Schol. Pl. Hp. Ma. 293A.
8 Paus. 9.17.1; Schachter (1981–6) 1:35.
9 Ant. Lib. Met. 25 (=Corinna fr. 3 Page); Ov. Met. 13.65–99; Schachter (1981–6) 2:116–17; Dowden (1989) 168.
10 Cf. Diod. Sic. 8.8 (=Myron, FGrHist 106 F 9–10); Parke-Wormell nos 361–2; Fontenrose (1978) no. Q14; Dowden (1989) 24. Messenian Wars: Pearson (1962) 397–426.
11 Eur. Phoen. 903–1094; Paus. 9.25.1; Apollod. Bibl. 3.6.7, with further references Frazer (1921) ad loc. For Euripides’ apparent invention of the incident see O’Connor-Visser (1987) 74 and 83–5 and Foley (1985) 107–8, with references 108 n.7. 12 Plut. Thes. 32.4 (= Dicaearchus fr. 66 Wehrli); the story appears only here, and elsewhere the eponymous hero is named Marathon.
13 Schol. and Tzetz. Schol. Lycoph. Alex. 160, explaining the obscure reference in Alex. 159–60. Cook, Zeus 3.1:525–6, argued for actual human sacrifices in the cult of Zeus Ombrios (cf. Farnell, CGS 1:42). 
14 References in Burkert (1979) 169–70 n.13; Latin quotation: Hor. Carm. 3.19.2.
15 Burkert (1979) 62.
16 See Halliday (1928) 76.
17 Parke and Wormell (1956) 1:296; Fontenrose (1978) 25 (Topic Ic).
18 Burkert (1979) 22–6.
19 Burkert (1983) 66 with n.33 and (1985) 439 n.13. In Orchomenos, koroi and korai made yearly offerings to Metioche and Menippe (Ant. Lib. Met. 25), which may suggest an association with initiations of both sexes.
20 Cf. Graf (1984) 245–54.
21 Burkert (1983) 64.
22 Cf. Loraux (1987) 31–48.
23 Parke-Wormell no.532; Fontenrose (1978) no. L128.
24 [Plut.] De fluviis 9.1 = Timolaus, FGrHist 798 F 1, and Agathocles, FGrHist 799 F 1; cf. the alternate version in De fluviis 9.2 and a similar dive by Aegyptus (upon sacrificing his daughter) in 16.1. Jephthah’s vow: Judges 11.29–40. For the motif of sacrificing the first thing one meets cf. Callim. fr. 200b Pfeiffer; see also Frazer (1921) 2:394–404 and Thompson (1955–8) 5:317, no. S241, and 6: index, s.v.First.
25 Lack of favourable winds prompts the sacrifice of Polyxena (see pp. 61–2), while a storm at sea leads to Idomeneus’ sacrifice of his son. And Sinon pretends that he was chosen to be sacrificed to placate the winds (Verg. Aen. 2.108–44; cf. Quint. Smyrn. 12.375–86). The sacrifice of Iphigeneia before the Greeks’ departure for Troy seems to have inspired tales of human sacrifices required before their return (Schwenn (1915) 122–3), and the connection is made explicitly in Sinon’s fictitious oracle (Aen. 2.116–19).
26 Plut. Conv. sept. sap. 20, 163A–D, and De sollertia animalium 36, 984E (=Myrsilus, FGrHist 477 F 14); cf. Ath. 11.15, 466C–781C (=Anticleides, FGrHist 140 F 4), where the maiden is sacrificed to Poseidon.
27 Bacchyl. 17; Hellanicus, FGrHist 323a F 14; Eur. Heracl. 1326–8; Diod. Sic. 4.60.1–61.4; Plut. Thes. 15–19; Apollod. Bibl. 3.15.8 and Epit. 1.7–9, with further references in Frazer (1921) ad loc.; Schwenn (1915) 106 n.2; Parke-Wormell no.210; Fontenrose (1978) no. L45.
28 Hesione: Hellanicus, FGrHist 4 F 26b and 108; Diod. Sic. 4.42; Philostr. Jun. Imag. 12 (ecphrasis); Apollod. Bibl. 2.5.9, with further references in Frazer (1921) ad loc.; Schwenn (1915) 135 n.3. Andromeda: Soph. fr. 126–36 Radt; Eur. fr. 114–56 Nauck; Apollod. Bibl. 2.4.3, with further references Frazer (1921) ad loc.; Schwenn (1915) 135 n.4; ecphrases in Philostr. Imag. 1.29 and Ach. Tat. 3.6–7.
29 See also Callim. fr. 98–9 Pfeiffer and Bremmer (1983a) 106–7. This is often called a ‘sacrifice’, and it would be natural to assume that the maiden would not return from her conjugal visit. But Strabo (6.1.6) mentions only a tribute (dasmos), and the Diegeseis on Callim. fr. 98 now make the nature of the tribute clear: a bed and a young girl were left for the Hero; the next morning her parents would return to escort their daughter—a virgin no longer—home.
30 Eusebius (Praep. Evang. 5.18.5) says that the Athenian youths were sent to Crete to be sacrificed and human sacrifice is
mentioned in Soph. fr. 126 Radt, but not in direct reference to the exposure of Andromeda. And there is occasional sacrificial
colouring: Alcyoneus is led by a priest to the cave crowned with stemmata (Ant. Lib. Met. 8.4–6; cf. Hdt. 2.45.1 and 7.197.2; Eur. IA 1080, 1478, 1567; Eur. Heracl. 529; Callim. fr. 481 Pfeiffer). It is perhaps unnecessary to dwell on the non-sacrificial character of these exposures; but often they are called ‘human sacrifices’ and have been taken as evidence for actual practices, e.g. by Frazer (1921) 1:208 n.2 (of Andromeda and Hesione): ‘Both tales may have originated in a custom of sacrificing maidens to be brides of the Sea.’
31 See e.g. Kirk (1970) 31–41. For similar stories in the folk literature of other cultures see Thompson (1955–8) 5:319 (no. S262) and Burkert (1983) 64 n.25.
32 E.g. Jeanmaire (1939) 227–383; Calame (1977) 1:228–9.

By Dennis D. Hugues in "Human Sacrifice In Ancient Greece", Routledge, UK, 1991, excerpts pp. 71-79. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

WHAT IS BACON?

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Food historians tell us human consumption of pork is ancient. So is cured (smoked, salted, dried) pork. Notes here:

"Bacon. The side of a pig cured with salt in a single piece. The word originally meant pork of any type, fresh or cured, but this older usage had died out by the 17th century. Bacon, in the modern sense, is peculiarly a product fo the British Isles, or is produced abroad to British methods...Preserved pork, including sides salted to make bacon, held a place of primary importance in the British diet in past centuries....British pigs for both fresh and salted meat had been much improved in the 18th century. The first large-scale bacon curing business was set up in the 1770s by John Harris in Wiltshire...Wiltshire remains the main bacon-producing area of Britain..."

(In "Oxford Companion to Food", Alan Davidson, Oxford University Press,Oxford, 1999, p. 47)

"Bacon. Etymologically, bacon means meat from the 'back of an animal'. The word appears to come from a prehistoric Germanic base *bak-, which was also the source of English back. Germanic bakkon passed into Frankish bako, whcih French borrowed as bacon. English acquired the word in the twelfth century, and seems at first to have used it as a synonym for the native term flitch, 'side of cured pig meat'. By the fourteenth century, however, we find it being applied to the cured meat itself..."

(In "An A-Z of Food and Drink", John Ayto,Oxford University Press,Oxford, 2002, p. 14-15)

"Hams and bacon were either dry-salted or barrelled in their own brine. The Romans recognized ham (perna) and shoulder bacon (petaso) as two separate meats, and different recipes for preparing them for the table. According to Apicius both were to be first boiled with dried figs, but ham could then be baked in a flour with paste, while bacon was to be browned and served with a wine and pepper sauce...Bacon fat or lard was in particular favour among the Anglo-Saxons who used it for cooking and also as a dressing for vegetables...[Medieval] Country folk ate their bacon with pease or bean pottage or with 'joutes'."

(In "Food and Drink in Britain: From the "Stone Age to the 19th Century", C. Anne Wilson, Academy Chicago, Chicago, 1991, p. 74, 77 & 88)

"...the most important products from the pig were bacon and ham. Once the pig was ready to be butchered, the tueur skillfully cut the larger joints to be put aside for salting, or more commmonly in France, drying into hams and sides of "lard" (bacon). Bacon was the cheapest, most popular pork product, and a mainstay of the European peasant diet for centuries. William Ellis, one of many sixteenth and seventeeth-century English rural gentlemen who produced books on agricultural and domestic improvements, wrote in 1750 that "Where there is Bread and Bacon enough, there is no Want....

In the Northern Parts of England, thousands of families eat little other Meat than Bacon; and indeed, in the southern parts, more than ever live on Bacon, or Pickled Pork." Some flitches of bacon were salted and then plain dried while the best bacon was hung in the chimney breast to smoke. Sliced bacon collops were a special English cut of bacon that was fried with eggs, the forerunner of our "greasy breakfasts" of bacon and eggs. In the past, as we have seen, most home-cured bacon was cooked into a pease or bean pottage. Commercial bacon production was started as early as 1770, when it is said that John Harris of Clane in Wiltshire, watching pigs resting there on their way from Ireland to London, had the idea of curing them on the spot. Special huge, fat bacon pigs, were bred to be killed at any time of year. The meat was cured quickly, and meant that it tainted quickly as well. As the quality was not so good, this bacon was sold quickly and cheaply to the poor in country markets. In spite of this, William Ellis considered bacon to be a "seviceable, palatable, profitable, and clean meat, for ready Use in a Country house;..."

Bacon could also be spiced. A recipe from 1864, in "The Art and Mystery of Curing, Preserving, and Potting all kinds of Meats, Game and Fish by a Wholesale Curer of Comestibles", for "superior spiced bacon," suggested taking some pieces of pork "suitable for your salting tub," rubbing them well with warmed treacle, and adding salt, saltpeter, ground allspice, and pepper, rubbing and turning them every day for a week. The meat was then suspended in a current of air and later coated with bran or pollard and smoked."

(In "Pickled, Potted and Canned: How the Art and Science of Food Preserving Changed the World", Sue Shephard,Simon and Schuster,New York,2000, p. 68-69)

From http://www.foodtimeline.org/, digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa

CRITICAL SOCIOLOGY- THE FAMILY

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The family is one of the characteristic institutions of human society, but there is no reason to believe that all institutions are originated and explained in the family, that all relations of subordination, co-operation, solidarity have their ‘matrix’ in the relationships between parents, children, spouses, and relatives.

It is often said that the family constitutes a ‘fait social total’ (‘total social fact’). Marcel Mauss’s formula, as famous as it is obscure, has at least two meanings. The ‘totalité’ which the social fact would constitute can be understood as a closed totality. One cannot see in this case that the formula applies to the family, whose principle according to Lévi-Strauss would be supplied by the scriptural saying, ‘You will leave your father and mother’, an unbreakable rule dictated to every society so that it will be established and endure. If, on the contrary, the ‘totality’ he refers to is nothing more than the whole of the relations maintained by members of the family organization within and outside this organization, the family can confidently be called a ‘fait social total’. It constitutes indeed a system of relations between spouses, parents, and relatives and between the system they constitute and the other subsystems of society (especially economical and political ones). Therefore it is indeed an open group and in no way a closed totality.

To quote Lévi-Strauss again, the family group derives its origin from marriage. It includes the nucleus made by the husband, the wife, and the children born from their union, as well as, eventually, ‘other relatives’ who are bound to this nucleus. The family bond is a legal bond, bringing about economic, religious, or other obligations, especially ‘in the form of sexual rights and taboos’. Finally, the family bond is inseparable ‘from psychological feelings such as love, affection, respect, fear...’.

One of the most evident aspects of family organization is the set of rules it introduces in sexual life. It is no doubt in this respect that the family appears as a social fact: the bond it establishes between a certain number of adults and children of opposite sexes cannot be reduced to ‘instincts’ such as sexual desire or pleasure, or even to feelings of gratitude and tenderness. In 'Le discours sur l’origine de l’inégalité', Rousseau thus characterized the life of savages as ‘being driven by the physical side of love, their relations are peaceable’. Moved by ‘pity and commiseration’ adults and especially women give infants all the necessary solicitude so that in their first years the totally dependent creatures small children are can first survive, then become grown people. Finally, as the savage man is not yet fixed to the land and as private property does not exist yet, the group he forms with a female and his offspring is mobile and unstable.

Can we then refer to a family? This is possible neither according to Lévi-Strauss’s definition—from which we started—nor according to Rousseau’s text. The latter refers to family ('Discours', 2nd part) only after the first revolution, ‘which formed the original base of the family, and involved a form of property’. The family sensu stricto is thus missing from the state of nature; it appears only with the revolution which marks the transition to civil society and the institution of property. It is true that the sexual life of the uncivilized man is not reduced thereby to satisfaction of sexual impulses. It includes, however rudimentary they might be, the obligations tied to the rearing of children.

This interpretation seems to be confirmed by numerous ethnographic studies, and that is probably why Lévi-Strauss likes to present Rousseau as one of the fathers of modern anthropology. The Andaman, Fuegians, Nambikwara, Bushmen live a little like Rousseau’s savage man. Their small semi-nomadic groups are more or less without political organization; most of them ignore agriculture, weaving, pottery, and the construction of permanent dwellings. The family, mainly monogamic, constitutes their sole form of social organization. However these primitive people differ on one essential point from Rousseau’s natural man: they practise matrimony and are bound to the rule of exogamy.

One understands best the transition from nature to culture by comparing sexual life before and after the first ‘revolution’ referred to by Rousseau. The functionalist anthropologists, and the sociologists who followed them, have tried to interpret the presence in all known human societies of the ‘nucleus’ constituted by two individuals of opposite sex and their children as the social ‘response’ to a biological ‘need’ derived from the extreme dependence of man’s children. From this has been drawn the thesis that the ‘nuclear family’ is a universal institution—a thesis open to several criticisms. First some data invalidate the universality of the nuclear family. There are societies such as the Nayars’, where the parental couple have none of the responsibilities of rearing and training towards their children. Men make war, women make love with as many lovers as they like, children are entrusted to the wife’s brothers, at least to those discharged from their warlike duties. Neither the father nor the ‘biological’ mother exerts any influence over the education of their children left in the care of their mother’s brothers. Among the possibilities offered by nature, which has the minimal requirement of the presence of adults with infants, the Nayar culture (to use a convenient language but one tinged with an awkward realism) would have chosen a definite category of adults, the mother’s brothers. This choice would be explained by other aspects of the social structure, especially the soldierly character of the Nayar society and the great autonomy it leaves to women.

The relativity of sexual and parental roles has struck anthropologists. The inversion of the relation of authority between the biological father and the mother’s brother, according to whether the rule of descent is patri- or matri-lineal, has been the object of endless comments. Moreover, in many matrilineal societies, the one we call the father is not for the native the child’s ‘procreator’ in the sense we give this word. As, on the other hand, the child belongs to his mother’s lineage, he is brought up near and by his uncles. The disciplinary responsibilities being exerted by the mother’s brother, the role of the ‘big brother’ falls to the biological father, who has only casual and occasional relations with his natural children.

Even if the persistence over a possibly very short period of a ‘nucleus’ formed by the mother and her youngest children is practically universal (except for a few cases regarding populations of limited size), the composition of the ‘nucleus’ is as important as its own existence. Therefore alliance and marriage throw more light on the functioning of the family than do the biology of reproduction or the psychology of feelings. Such at least is the thesis developed with remarkable continuity by French sociologists who, from Durkheim to Lévi-Strauss, place in the centre of their analysis the prohibition of incest, and exogamy.

These two rules have an obvious social character. Let us admit that the prohibition of incest is a universal rule. The content of the rule, the degrees of kinship prohibited vary with societies. These define the rule, specifying its content and penalizing infractions. A prohibited spouse in one society can be allowed in another. The sexual relationship which is tabooed here is tolerated or even prescribed elsewhere.

The diversity of the rules about matrimonial union furnish inexhaustible repertory to ethnological relativism. In the medley of rules one can look for some principles which introduce order and simplicity in a diversity inextricable at first sight. The famous case of parallel cousins (prohibited spouses) and cross-cousins (prescribed spouses), which constitutes one of the great purple passages of structuralist anthropology, illustrates the application of some of these principles. First, the role of exogamy does not reveal itself here only as an interdiction, it is paired with a counterpart: by renouncing my parallel cousin, I acquire a cross-cousin. Indeed, I cannot remain a bachelor without incurring the hardships, humiliations, and servitudes attached to the pitiable condition of the man without a brother-in-law. This very elementary pattern, which rests, in addition to the rule of exogamy, on the assimilation (incidentally fictitious according to biology) between half-relatives and parallel relatives, can be complicated by taking into consideration a certain number of other independent variables regarding the system of descent (patri- and matrilineal, uni- or bilateral), of residence (patri- or matrilineal), the number of exogamic groups (parity or disparity of these groups), the direct or indirect, immediate or deferred character of the exchange.

By reflecting on the rules governing the union, even in the case where they not only prohibit certain spouses to the individual but go as far as prescribing him others, one sees that the family is subject to a law of fission which obliges us to ook for a wife outside the family ‘nucleus’ where we were born. This almost universal feature is especially visible in our societies where the prohibition of incest is paired with the freedom formally recognized as ours to choose as spouse and individual of the opposite sex who is not related to us in a prohibited degree. But, even in the societies where the individual is strictly assigned his spouse, marriage shows, with the mutual dependence of the families, the impossibility of any one family constituting a closed unity, because it is an alliance between groups giving and taking women. In no case therefore is it possible to consider the family ‘nucleus’ as a self-maintained totality: each generation, with the obligation to exchange women, is obliged to set up new families with the ‘remains’ of the old families which have broken through the effect of the exogamic principle (Lévi-Strauss).

Through the rules of alliance, society and its organization appear to come first regarding the family organization. In comparison with this interpretation, any attempt to make the ‘family cell’ the primitive social fact seems eminently suspicious. Aristotle had already challenged with very sound arguments the thesis which confuses family and city. The latter is of another nature than the family and the village. A common order, which could be imposed on all citizens, cannot be based on domestic activities (including both family activities such as reproduction and the education of children, but also economic activities in the modern sense). Hegel in 'The Philosophy of Right' has the same argument. It is in relation to the particularity of domestic ties and interests at work in civil society that he stresses, no doubt excessively, the ‘concrete universality’ of the State.

In modern societies, two features are generally attributed to the family organization, which, although seemingly opposite, contribute one and the other to complicating functioning. With the conservative tradition one can deplore the weakening of the family tie. In a ‘normal’ regime, the family should establish, according to Auguste Comte, a subordination of ages and sexes. This double subordination is strongly threatened today. Indeed young people leave their fathers’ homes earlier. More and more they pursue different activities from those he used to pursue. Moreover, the inheritance laws, which since the French Revolution have radically limited the freedom to make one’s will and have instituted equal sharing between heirs, have changed the meaning of the family patrimony.

This no longer constitutes a value which incarnates the status and honour of the family taken jointly from generation to generation. The equal share, ensuring the heir’s independence, reduces their solidarity. At the same time as the subordination of children to parents weakens so the solidarity of children among themselves grows less. The notion of head of the family tends to disappear, whether it is the father or the ‘associated heir’ (Le Play).

Women’s ‘liberation’ contributes too to weakening the hierarchic aspect of the family organization. This emancipation arises from multiple causes: the less and less unequal access of women to various orders and forms of education, the divorce legislation, the development of family planning. At all events, the subordination between sexes is also threatened today by the subordination between generations. Should we make the assumption, as some feminists believe, that women, presented by anthropologists as the medium of matrimonial exchange, will eventually be replaced in this role by men, who, in a kind of sexual bimetallism, will become alternately with women the ‘most precious goods’, the circulation of which ensures the regularity of the main social operations?

The slackening of the bond between spouses, parents, and children and a certain devaluation of patrimonial values do not prevent the status of an individual’s family from constituting for him a highly important capital and a fairly reliable indicator of his present and future position in the stratification system. The most recent data attest that we choose our spouse not among all the eligible sexual partners (that is to say lawful with respect to the taboo of incest), but in a restricted subgroup of individuals invested with status equivalent or congruent to ours. The family status of my future spouse, that is to say the status of the family from which he/she is descended, constitutes for him/her an ‘asset’ which he/she is bound to use in his/her matrimonial strategies. The pretension to hypergamy is justified by the advantages offered to his/her eventual spouse by the fact of marrying a person ‘descended from a good family’. This pretension is the more understandable as such a person is likely already to hold a ‘good situation’ or to have the greatest expectations of reaching one at the time of his marriage.

Another reason influences us to choose our spouse from a given category rather than in an aleatory way. It is that the family remains for many of our contemporaries a place of contacts and interactions. It is not only spouses who remain for one another privileged interlocutors, even if the separation of their place of work and their communal place of residence reduces the time they spend together; the parents-in-law, the brothers- and sisters-in-law, possibly some cousins, are also relations and contacts. Thus the status of each individual is affected not only by the status of the spouse, but also by the status of the spouse’s relatives, which he cannot, even if he would like to, repudiate or ignore. It is in my interest, if I have ambitions of mobility, to choose my spouse well, that is, to choose someone of my rank or of a superior rank.

It is thus false to say that in our societies the choice of a spouse is entirely free—subject to the prohibitions of incest only. Marriage is not a market of pure and perfect competition, and individuals with the advantage of a status derived from belonging to their family of origin (where they have been brought up) and a procreation family (where they will bring up their children) will endeavour to preserve or improve this advantage by marrying ‘well’ or giving ‘good’ spouses to their own children—if they can.

It is indeed right to consider with some scepticism the conservative theses about ‘social reform’ through the regeneration of the ‘family cell’. Le Play himself seems to have seen their problems. Indeed, the ‘moralization’ of relations between sexes and generations can be accomplished only providing that the old conception of patrimony and ‘family honour’ is given back its full strength. Now, the idea of a stem-family becoming established around the head of the family by the institution of an ‘associated heir’supposes a patrimony structure not easily compatible with the essentially fiduciary character of the financial assets which are given such a high position in the composition of modern wealth. There is a tendency for capital to be resistant to longlasting immobilization; it is unlikely to become ‘frozen,’ as was the case with inherited property, especially when it was managed in order to ensure the perpetuation of the patrimony and not with a view to the best profit from the invested funds.

The ideological followers of Le Play see in the ‘extended family’ a kind of Gemeinschaft which would ensure to men ‘the privilege of living amongst themselves’ (Lévi-Strauss). But this intimacy is frustrated by the rule of exogamy, which, for each generation, obliges the boys to take a wife outside their father’s home, and the girls to marry boys who are not their kin. But as do all ideologists, the theorists of the family Gemeinschaft generalize and push undeniable observations to absurd lengths. The family, even if it imposes on grown children departure and dispersion, or at least alliance with strangers, establishes between parents and children a tie the strength of which has no equivalent in any other social relationship.

Moreover, there are grounds to call the theorists of the ‘extended family’ ideologists. The expression of ‘nuclear family’ is understood in different ways by anthropologists and sociologists. Among the former, the nuclear family is said to designate the cell constituted in the most primitive relations system by both parents and their infants. One can question the universality of this situation and wonder whether it admits variants, when, for example, the biological father is substituted in his social role by the mother’s brother. When sociologists refer to the nuclear family, they refer to a completely different situation. They do think of the parental couple and their children, but they take their stand in the context of industrial societies where the extended family has broken up into a number of more or less important autonomous homes.

It is easy to draw excessive consequences from these observations about the decline of the extended family. First, one will exaggerate the freedom of spouses in their choice of partners. Then, one will over-emphasize the slackening of solidarities between blood relatives and relatives by marriage. Finally, one will idealize the nuclear family by seeing in it an imperative condition for the cultural and economic development of society. The nuclear family would be the stage of perfection of human civilization regarding the relations between ages and sexes. This conception is adhered to by Auguste Comte and opposed by Frederic Engels. In the high days of the sociology of development, the nuclear family was seen as a strict condition of economic ‘modernization’. Indeed, it make individuals, their resources, and their talents more mobile, at the same time as it ensured the anchoring of the younger generations within those of the traditional values which remained compatible with the new state of modernized society.

By making the family the authority of socialization above all, one is led to consider the sometimes difficult relations between school and the family institution. Moreover, the analysis of modernization by sociologists has proved to be fallible on two points. First, the relation between the nuclear family and economic modernization is doubtful. The case of Japan, but also that of the Chinese of the diaspora in south-east Asia, suggests that traditional bonds and extended family can coexist with fast development and an excellent control of economic mechanisms.

But it does not follow that one can, on the contrary, present the persistence of the extended family as a condition particularly favourable to the primitive stage of capitalist accumulation. The support of parents and relatives, which can be relied upon by an individual exposed to the risks of poverty, unemployment, and underqualification, contributes to reducing some of the stresses generated by industrialization and urbanization. But other tensions can arise from them: the extended family can in the political order lead to factionalism and regionalism, as we see in the Arab world.

The thesis according to which the family (in its ‘nuclear’ form) constitutes a reserve of cultural traditions has been highly respected for a long time. It is drawn from Freud’s teaching (in 'Totem and Taboo', but also in 'Civilization and its Discontents'). It understands culture in a clearly psychological sense, since it is interested above all by attitudes, especially towards authority, co-operation, and competition, which it asserts have been learnt and fixed during the very first years of life as a consequence of conflicts experienced by the young child with his father, mother, brothers, and sisters. The stock of attitudes constituting a culture would also be reproduced through the socialization of successive generations.

Robert Bellah has fully demonstrated the weakness of this thesis. It was enough that he should recall the fact that it assumes a correlation between social structures and cultural contents. This correlation is, however, not proved because the aggregates between which correlations are sought are residual categories. Let us take, for example, the diversity of cultural contents, religious beliefs and symbols, and let us wonder what relations they maintain with the social rules of which they are at first sight the impressions and reflections. Let us take the case of the fatherson relation: Christians refer to God as a father. Jesus is called God’s son. We are brothers in Jesus Christ and Jesus himself is our brother. However, our society is far less paternalist than that of the Chinese for whom the father-son relation is at the centre of social life, while it is very toned down in the religious symbolism of the Chinese, for whom the submission to a transcendent principle is far less stressed than the relation of immanence and fusion of the individual in a universe which supports him while absorbing him. We can no longer treat authoritarian ideologies such as Fascism as simple projections in the symbolic imagination of the relations of authority learnt from infancy in the nuclear family.

As for the possibility of making of authoritarian ideology the projection on to political society of the relations of authority in the extended family, it constitutes a scarcely more satisfactory answer. Indeed, the family thus understood includes a great variety of activities. It is almost confused with the whole of society in an undifferentiated Gemeinschaft. Is it any better, then, to say that culture, religion, politics are only projections of social relations as a whole? No more than that God or the king is an image of the father.

Are we trying to identify a type of family organization (nuclear, extended, patriarchal) which would be the most favourable to economic ‘development’, demographic expansion, political ‘stability’? For all that one should start by saying what one means by such terms and which particular features of the family organization one is retaining. One would then perceive that recourse to this ‘structure’, taken as a whole, even if one tries to prop it up with a rudimentary typology, does not have a great explanatory value. One would fall down again on some holistic difficulties pointed out many times. It is no more reasonable to make of the family the ‘primary institution’ from which one can render an account of the genesis and the functioning of all the other institutions than it is to treat the ‘relations of production’ as the highest authority from which would derive all intelligibility.

By Raymond Boudon and François Bourricaud (texts selected and translated by Peter Hamilton) in "A Critical Dictionary of Sociology", Routledge, UK, 1989,excerpts pp.169-176. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

THE ORIGINS OF AGRICULTURE IN EUROPE- LBK ECONOMY AND SOCIETY

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The Linienbandkeramik (LBK) appears around 5400 BC and represents the next major agricultural transition. It is characterised by settlements of substantial longhouses, except in its eastern extension, mainly located on fertile soils (usually windblown silt—loess) close to water. 

It has clearly been established that the LBK economy was almost completely agricultural in nature, with little or no contribution from wild resources. The main crop plants were einkorn and emmer wheat, barley, peas and lentils (Willerding 1980), although given the relatively small size of many of the available samples this picture may prove to be oversimplified. Substantial animal bone assemblages are rarely preserved on the acid loess soils, so the evidence for animal exploitation is little better. The general picture is of 80–95 per cent of animal bones deriving from domesticated species, and these being dominated by cattle, with sheep/goat a second preference and pigs generally rare (Milisauskas and Kruk 1989). Glass (1991:75) has argued that the rarity of pigs is due to their lack of non-meat products in contrast to cattle and sheep/goat which also provide milk.

The subsistence economy of the LBK was traditionally characterised as slash-and-burn agriculture, in which the soil was quickly exhausted and settlements moved on frequently, perhaps once every generation (e.g. Clark 1952:95–6). This interpretation arose from the apparently insubstantial nature of LBK settlement traces by comparison with the tells of southeast Europe and the relatively large number of LBK sites (Childe 1929). Apparent gaps in the sequence at major sites such as Köln-Lindenthal in Germany and Bylany in Bohemia seemed to confirm the model. A rather more sophisticated version of slash-and-burn was proposed by Soudský (Soudský and Pavlů 1972), in which a regular pattern of site movement took place within a limited area, returning to a location after it had time to recover, with the cycle lasting some sixty years.

The reaction against this hypothesis has come from both the archaeological and theoretical standpoints (e.g. Rowley-Conwy 1981; Bogucki 1988:79–92). Current opinion is that LBK sites were continually occupied for hundreds of years rather than only intermittently, judging from radiocarbon dating and the presence of substantial longhouses. The analogy previously made with tropical cultivators has been dismissed as inappropriate, given the contrast between the shallow tropical soils and the rich thick soils of central Europe. The ground has shifted considerably (Bogucki 1988:81–2), to the point where the current orthodox view is that the agricultural regime of LBK settlements involved intensive horticulture in gardens situated close by or within the site. The weed remains recovered from LBK settlements (Willerding 1980) suggest that the fields cleared were small in size and bordered by hedges or the edge of the forest. These fields or gardens could have borne a crop for several years without a break to judge by the results of experimental agriculture on loess soils (Milisauskas 1986:162).

Turning to animal husbandry, Bogucki has stressed the importance of dairy production in a number of publications (1984; 1988:85–91). In particular, he has focused on the existence of what appear to be ceramic sieves for straining cheese at many LBK sites. From this he has argued that milk rather than meat was the primary product of LBK cattle herds and that the existence of large numbers of cattle demanded a degree of mobility among these early farming communities due to their needs for forage and fodder (1988:91). He sees sheep as of relatively little significance, only outnumbering cattle on a few sites in eastern Germany (Bogucki and Grygiel 1993). However, the idea of an LBK cattle economy exploiting the forest grazing of the North European Plain has been questioned by a number of authors (e.g. Whittle 1987; Milisauskas and Kruk 1989; Midgley 1992:25) because of the relatively high numbers of sheep/ goat at various sites, even where they are not in the majority, and because they envisage a fixed-plot agricultural regime which would not allow the degree of mobility demanded by large cattle herds. Although the use of ceramic sieves is certainly suggestive, the evidence from the animal bones themselves is as yet inadequate to pursue the issue much further, although a highly specialised economy seems inherently improbable.

Assessing the wider economy, it appears that both a degree of specialisation and exchange networks developed during the LBK. Evidence of specialised production can be traced at a number of LBK settlements (Keeley and Cahen 1989; Hodder 1990:103–5), in the form of querns, ceramics, flintwork and stone axes. Exchange practices were significant, with items such as shells and lithics moving over long distances (Whittle 1985:91–2). Spondylus shell bracelets are found throughout the area of the LBK, probably emanating from Aegean or Adriatic sources. The amounts involved are usually small, but can be extremely large even at the furthest extent of the LBK. Axes of hard, fine-grained, rock such as amphibolites and basalts travelled distances of some 200–300 km from their sources. Obsidian from northern Hungary reached southern Poland, while the chocolate-coloured flint from the Holy Cross Mountains moved in the opposite direction. The much wider distribution of barley impressions on pottery than as crop remains on LBK settlement has led to suggestions that pottery was also being exchanged (Dennell 1992). This high degree of exchange contacts may also have led to the quite remarkable homogeneity of early LBK pottery across the area from Holland to Hungary (Halstead 1989).

Halstead (1989) has provided an informative contrast between exchange practices and hospitality in southeast and central Europe. He notes that the location of cooking facilities in open areas between houses in Thessaly may indicate a tradition of sharing cooked food between neighbours, while the dominance of fine painted pottery points to the importance of consuming food and drink in the context of feasting. In central Europe fine painted pottery and communal cooking facilities are absent, which Halstead sees as an indication of food sharing and local hospitality being less important there. Instead, he argues that their place was taken by much wider networks of contact revealed by the movement of shells and stonework. Halstead puts this evidence in a highly ecological context of minimising the risk of food shortages, although he does not envisage a continental assistance network, merely one on a less local scale than in south-east Europe. Halstead’s observations need not actually imply any food sharing between widely separated groups, and indeed could be seen in an entirely different light: the southeast European tradition of communal eating could be interpreted as evidence of competition between households, while the wider ties of the LBK may show the existence of competition between larger social groups, perhaps under the leadership of particular households. That local competition did not disappear is suggested by LBK pottery, which is still finely decorated if not painted and thought to be used in the preparation and serving of food (Hodder
1990:108).

One significant context in which exchanged items appear in the archaeological record is as grave goods. LBK cemeteries dominate the burial record, although a number of ‘settlement burials’ are known which occur in or near houses or other elements of settlements (Veit 1993). The cemeteries are situated up to 500 m away from the settlements (Bogucki and Grygiel 1993). The layout and burial rites of the cemeteries are standardised and generally uniform within if not between cemeteries (Whittle 1988b: 153–64). There was generally a preferred orientation within each cemetery, and at some sites the graves are in rows, suggesting the use of grave markers. Both inhumations and cremations are known, but inhumations predominate. Children are generally underrepresented. There are also apparent token burials and cenotaphs, although some of the latter may reflect burial in variable soil conditions. There are between twenty and a hundred burials in a cemetery (Hodder 1990:109).

The backfilling of the grave seems to have taken place as a single act, although it is noticeable that the main body of grave goods often lies slightly higher than the body itself. Grave goods are often placed near the head or waist. All major cemeteries have burials without grave goods, these amounting to between a quarter and a half of all burials (Whittle 1988b: 160). The grave goods represented were decorated or undecorated pots, probably containing food offerings, adzes, arrowheads and other flintwork, antler axes, copper objects, shell or stone bead necklaces or belts and bracelets of spondylus shell, and haematite (Veit 1993). There are some differences between male and female grave goods—adzes and arrowheads generally occurring with men and ornaments, querns and small tools such as awls with women (Hodder 1990:109), but these are by no means absolute divisions, and in the frequent absence of sufficient bone surviving for an anatomical definition of the sex of the individual such arguments can soon become circular (Whittle 1988b: 161).

As Whittle notes (1988b: 164), it is difficult to decide what significance the variety in grave goods may have had in terms of status or wealth, as there are several cross-cutting possible indicators. At Niedermerz in the Rhineland (Dohrn-Ihmig 1983) eight categories of grave goods have been identified: 36 of 102 burials lacked grave goods, twenty-eight burials possessed a single category, and only a few all or most items; but a number of burials were accompanied by only one or two categories but had those in large quantities; alternatively, one could emphasise the thirty-one burials with adzes, which were the item imported from the furthest distance to the site. The pattern is clearly not simple, and it seems likely that a complex interplay of household origin, gender, age and perhaps manner of death is responsible for the final pattern of burial and grave goods.

For a fuller picture we must also consider the evidence from settlement burials (Veit 1993). Few of these are in separate graves, being found mostly in existing pits, and some in association with house walls or construction pits alongside longhouses. There are no known cremations among them. Children outnumber adults, although not sufficiently to balance their relative shortage in cemeteries, and few infants are found. Rather more females than males are found, although the imbalance is not great. Less than half the settlement burials were accompanied by grave goods, which may relate to the high number of children and females, but the nature of the grave goods was the same as in cemeteries. A separate category is the house burials, of which all twenty-three examples are of children. Veit concludes that the settlement burials are of those who were deemed of insufficiently high social status to enter the cemetery either because of an early death or because of the manner of their death. This seems likely to be part of the answer, given the difference in the presence of children and the smaller number of grave goods.

It suggests, however, that access to grave goods by the burial party was in itself not sufficient to ensure burial in a cemetery, while both the settlement burials and the rows of graves in cemeteries point to the continuing significance of the household. Exotic items may well have been channelled through competing households and the links to the outside which they symbolised may well have been just as significant as the actual items themselves. Such exchange relations may themselves have been founded on surplus agricultural and other production organised through the household as a unit of supply, and both the public face of the household and its private being may have been expressed through different funerary rituals.

Available evidence indicates quite clearly that the focus of early LBK society was the longhouse complex post arrangements pointing to divisions of the internal space (Hodder 1990:103–8). The longhouse was the centre of household activities, such as grain storage, and the production of flintwork, ground stone tools and antler axes. Longhouses seem to have been painted, and some were associated with foundation deposits in the walls and with child burials, while the use of fine decorated pottery on settlements is closely tied to the longhouses. The entrance may be elaborated, with the creation of a linear grading of space as one moves further into the interior of the building (Hodder 1990:137). It is no wonder that Hodder can here identify the domus, his idea of a concept and practice of nurturing and caring which is tied to the household as social unit.

The question of how many longhouses on these long-lived LBK sites may have been occupied at any one time is a vexed one, given the lack of stratigraphic controls (Whittle 1985:82–3). Figures given for particular settlements vary between eight and twenty, but these generally rely on the application of particular assumptions about the life of the timbers in the longhouse walls. The often-quoted figure of fifteen years before replacement became necessary certainly seems to be an underestimate of their use-life (Whittle 1985:82).

Distinctions between longhouses, and thus presumably households, are as yet little established, as the identification of different household activity areas has only recently been a priority of LBK settlement excavations (Bogucki and Grygiel 1993). This may well be because the traditional model of LBK social organisation has been of an egalitarian community, so differences between households would not be expected to exist. Traditionally, the issue of social ranking has been limited to comment on the varying size of longhouses, which can indeed be quite significant on individual sites. The larger longhouses do show differences from smaller examples, as at Langweiler 8, where Lüning (1982) noted that the longer buildings had more pits, more related finds (although this may simply be a product of greater pit volume), more decorated pottery and more weeds and wheat chaff, suggesting that primary processing of grain took place in them.

Variation in subsistence related material may relate to functional differences between structures, although the decorated pottery is more difficult to explain in such terms, and discussion has generally stalled there. In his excavations at Olszanica in Poland, Milisauskas (1986) has, however, identified a degree of clustering of exotic obsidian and of fine imported pottery around certain quite small longhouses which he argues (1978:88) reflects the control of exchange practices by certain families or individuals, while he suggests that a particularly substantial longhouse associated with large numbers of polished axes could be interpreted as a men’s house, or the dwelling of a community leader. A simple analysis of the size of different buildings may thus be of relatively little significance, especially if some represent communal structures for use by a group larger than the household. The local level of social competition therefore lies largely beyond analysis at present, in the absence of further detailed contextual studies.

Social relations on a larger scale can be seen with the creation of substantial enclosures later in the LBK. There is considerable variety in Early Neolithic enclosures as a whole (Bogucki and Grygiel 1993), except that most of the early examples have several entrances even though these are not positioned to any clear pattern, and they tend to be quite small (Bradley 1993:74). There is much debate concerning the function of the enclosures (Keeley and Cahen 1989), with three alternative theories for their use being proposed: as cattle ‘kraals’, as ritual sites, or as defended sites.

The cattle kraal theory has been revived by Bogucki (Bogucki and Grygiel 1993), based on his interpretation of the importance of cattle in the LBK economy. The evidence is slight, however, given that it is limited to certain German enclosures lacking complex earthworks and being situated on the edge of the floodplain in locations which do not appear to be very defensible. That is not of course to deny that stock control may have been important at times, just that it need not necessarily involve the construction of permanent enclosures. Where the earthworks are both more substantial and seem to enclose buildings the standard view has been that these are defended settlements (e.g.Bogucki and Grygiel 1993). There are, however, some real difficulties with this as a general interpretation.

A less considered theory is that of enclosures as demarcating spaces set aside for ritual activities. This possibility has generally been raised concerning earthworks which do not enclose houses and have a non-defensive character (e.g. Lüning and Stehli 1989), but has yet to receive much genuine consideration (although see Whittle 1988a). Instead it often represents an interpretation entertained only if no other seems plausible (e.g. Bogucki and Grygiel 1993). However, it is clear that many causewayed enclosures in Scandinavia and Britain were the scene of intense ritual activities, and post-LBK enclosures in central Europe also have a definite ritual character. Midgley et al. (1993), reporting on excavations at the Rondel at Bylany in Bohemia, note the absence of settlement traces inside Rondels and suggest that the palisades are not defensive in intention but serve to constrict the entrance and so symbolically, and perhaps practically, restrict access to the interior. Special deposits are few in number, but perhaps include grinding stones.

Suggestions that enclosures may have been constructed on the site of founding settlements and may have played a significant role in the movement of raw materials (Bradley 1993:74–5) bring us back to the question of competition between households and between communities. The construction of an enclosure to mark the primacy of one settlement over others must have been a source of considerable tension and competing claims over the prestige that this would confer on those in direct line of descent from the ancestral farmers. A degree of control over access to the enclosure would inevitably heighten such tensions and represent a significant source of power. That such conflicts were not, however, played out exclusively in the ritual sphere is demonstrated by the evidence from Talheim in Germany (Wahl and König 1987), where a mass grave of some thirty-five men, women and children, many apparently killed by blows to the head with a shoe-last adze, has been discovered. The precise significance of this unique discovery is as yet not established, but it certainly points to the possibility that competition and conflict within LBK society may not always have been constrained and channelled by ritual rivalries.

By I.J. Thorpe in "The Origins of Agriculture in Europe", Routledge, UK, 1999, excerpts pp.29-34. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.  

ANIMALS IN THE ANCIENT WORLD

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INTRODUCTION

A strikingly common feature among early Old World civilizations was the pervasive importance of other species of animal life, both wild and domestic. Beyond the forms of utility that some species acquired before or after domestication, pre-literate peoples in antiquity apparently perceived an additional closeness or interrelatedness to particular animals. They admired or feared—were seemingly awestruck by—certain characteristics which some species possessed in common with themselves, but in greater and more impressive measure. These special qualities included physical and behavioural ones, such as size, bravery, speed, grace, cunning, strength and libido. Some animal species also became important by association with aspects of the unknown, such as with phenomena associated with life versus death.1 Among different peoples this perceived closeness of human and other species led to varied forms of prominence for these species within evolving cosmologies, including their actual worship.

This chapter will explore this distinctive and less familiar aspect of man-animal relations in antiquity. Though common to the distant past of many present-day peoples, it is a phenomenon virtually unknown to us today except through survival in myths and fables (or, with respect to cattle, in modern expressions of Hinduism).2

Despite the wealth of evidence that these relationships were especially prominent, there has been a tendency among modern scholars of particular ancient civilizations (who are themselves products of today’s values and mindsets) to treat such apparently profound animal relationships in the past as simply metaphorical. And, since metaphors are regarded as obviously exaggerated (or purely poetic) comparisons today, this tendency underestimates the importance of the considerable fusion in ancient minds not only of such notions as metaphor, symbol, simile, analogue and identity/sameness,3 but also of such activities/institutions as religion, animal husbandry and healing,4 which are now totally distinct.

KINGS, GODS AND HEAVENLY BODIES AS BULLS

Here I shall concentrate on the most profound and widespread of such interspecific ‘identifications’ in antiquity, that between the bovine and human species. Wild bulls (the aurochs Bos primigenius), possibly the largest, strongest, bravest and most successfully libidinous animals with which the founding peoples of most ancient civilizations were familiar, became their preeminent models both for male power5 and fertility, especially as applied to their chiefs or incipient kings. These related phenomena of power (e.g. dominion, bravery) and fertility (e.g. life, libido) also became associated over time with heavenly bodies and with weather, particularly with thunder, lightning and rain6 (and, in at least the Minoan civilization, with earthquakes as well).

Thus, as exemplars par excellence of both ‘dominion’ and the mysteries of ‘life’, wild aurochs bulls (and hence their mothers and consorts, cows)7 became central to the conceptions and practices of several ancient religions through which the special relations of chief/king to god(s), people and the physical universe were defined and solidified. As a result—and in contrast to dogs, sheep and goats, which many present-day scholars believe virtually domesticated themselves—cattle were probably domesticated later, and more intentionally, for just such religio-political or cosmological reasons.8

It may also be that these important and partially related aspects of man-bull rivalry and emulation, which were so characteristic of several major ancient civilizations over a very broad geographical expanse of Asia, Africa and Europe, were so ancient as to have developed before some of the major linguistic groups of modern man separated, as suggested for the Proto-Indo-Europeans by Vendryes (1918).9

Alternatively they may have originated some time later as more or less identical and quite rational responses of different peoples to commonly shared ecological determinants, as argued by Lincoln (1981) for the emergence of a societally similar cattle-culture pastoralism in or at the margins of the Old World’s natural grasslands amongst diverse and apparently separated peoples.10 In either case, all of these cattle beliefs and practices probably appeared rational or at least practical in the eyes of their creators. It is also possible, though unlikely, that these striking notions shared by many ancient Old World civilizations could have been the result of very early diffusion from one of them.

Whatever the actual case, there are good reasons to believe that bull and man were originally viewed in a much more practically analogical than purely metaphorical relationship to one another. And we might posit further that some key requisites of civilization actually ‘gelled’ only when some of these highly cattle-oriented peoples entered and dominated certain fertile riverine deltas and floodplains where other sedentary peoples were already practising simple digging stick agriculture.11 I will return to that idea in a moment, but let us first consider how important and complex these relationships between human and bovine species became.

Though a number of surviving geographical names were derived in antiquity from cattle or from particular bulls or cows,12 a far more striking and profound consequence of such tendencies to associate ‘places’ with cattle was the frequent identification of the two most prominent heavenly bodies (and some constellations of stars) with bulls, or parts of bulls, the whole sky with a cow and, then sometimes, to deify them all.13 At the same time, the kings of ancient civilizations also became commonly and inextricably associated with bull, sun and moon. An important point to note is that these associations usually involved the identification of kings, certain gods and heavenly bodies as bulls. It was not the converse, whereby bulls were regarded as gods, or kings related to heavenly bodies. Thus the bull was clearly the main point of reference, the familiar model to which these others were compared.14

‘Bull-leaping’ as a demonstration of bravery and strength (possible symbolic representation for recreational or other purposes of the original pitting of kings or other powerful men against wild bulls in the bull hunt) was practised in more than one ancient civilization. Boundary-marking (and associated fertility) representations of the bull or the bull-plough combination were also shared in antiquity. Each of these was a manifestation of the early and preponderant association of bull with the idea of dominion.

Related evidence suggests that cattle sheds were precursors of some civilizations’ temples, and bull-cow statuary and other art, especially bovine heads (bucrania), received architectural prominence in the fully evolved temples of a number of otherwise distinct civilizations. Prehistoric examples suggest linkages between portions of all of this and the much older cave art of earlier hunters’ cults (Mellaart 1967).

Cattle domestication itself must have been accompanied by the development of three surgical techniques necessary (even today) to control the powerful and unpredictable domestic bull. Thus, castration, nose-ringing and cutting off the sharp tips or all of the horns, are themselves evidence that—in contrast to dogs, sheep and goats—cattle did not domesticate themselves. Most ancient peoples seemed reluctant to dehorn or blunt the horns of bulls if it could be avoided, as has been the case everywhere until recently.15 Castration of cattle was probably originally purely a behaviour- (i.e. aggression-) modifying operation since semen was regarded by several ancient civilizations to originate as the white marrow of bones. Eventually Aristotle doubted it and Galen actually established the testes as its production site.

In fact this belief that semen arose from bones as marrow and was channelled to the penis via the spine’s ‘marrow’ (the spinal cord) was possibly the earliest physiological theory formulated (Schwabe et al. 1982; Schwabe 1986). It apparently originated before the advent of major civilizations from priests who frequently presided over the ritual dissection of bulls. The bull’s penis actually is connected to its spine by the two cord-like, white unstriated retractor penis muscles, a connection of organs early priest-sacrificers must surely have noticed.

By far the greatest consequence of domestication of cattle was the contribution of yoked domestic bulls to the emergence of major Old World civilizations. They provided humans with their first (and for a very long time their only significant) source of power for plant food production greater than that of their own muscles (Schwabe 1978a). Thus, the ox was the key to human socioeconomic evolution from primitive digging-stick agriculture to more energy-intensive systems which produced true surpluses of grains. These changes took place mostly within certain fertile riverine valleys. This satisfying of food needs, while providing surpluses for trade, did not require participation of the entire population, as had digging-stick agriculture (or subsistence-level purely pastoral systems).16 The changes introduced by the yoked ox and plough provided some people with leisure and release from the labours of foodproviding. Associated with this was the emergence of the first social division of labour and more differentiated sociocultural institutions.

The notion of cattle as primary wealth (and as the apparent inspiration eventually for metal coinage) probably preceded a similar perception of surplus grain. Cattle wealth was a widespread idea tied to both the earlier religious power/fertility and subsequent ‘harnessed power/fertility’ roles cattle served.17 As a consequence, cattle and stored grain were both prominent in the evolution of some of the first symbols for writing, a device for recording this wealth.18

Again, an important point to note with respect to these profound mancattle relationships in antiquity is that—except for some unusual individual living bulls who received recognition as gods incarnate—these interactions were at the species level and apparently seldom depended upon any widespread ‘bonding’ between individual people and individual bulls (or cows). However there is also evidence of affectionate relationships between individual men and their domestic cattle in antiquity. For example, the existence in some civilizations of living bull gods such as the Egyptian Apis and the survival of songs sung to their cattle by Egyptian cowmen (see Pritchard 1969:469). The Egyptian word ka, a man’s (or bull’s) ‘animating principle’ or ‘double’, also means ‘bovine animal’ and is represented in hieroglyphic form as human arms upraised in imitation of a bull’s horns. This suggests an original ‘brother bond’ between individual men and individual bulls in antiquity.19

THE EXAMPLE OF EGYPT

Although popularly associated with the Minoan civilization of Crete, ‘bull-leaping’ or bull-dancing was also prominent in ancient Egypt.20 Like bull-baiting and bull-fighting practices in modern Spain and other countries, it probably arose and was practised as a ritual form of prowess-demonstrating and bravery-testing among leaders of the earlier wild bull hunt. Wild bull hunting by monarchs is well described and portrayed in Egypt up until the time of Amenhotep III in the Middle Kingdom (mid-2nd millennium BC), when the wild bull apparently became extinct (Epstein 1971, I: 235). Only later, perhaps, did such rituals become popular spectator recreation in which hostages or slaves sometimes substituted for the king, or for local heroes or youths.

Several forms of Egyptian evidence exist for cattle constituting the first (or one of the first) forms of primary wealth among individuals (e.g. the king), the temple community and the ancient state. Cattle-raiding expeditions by the earliest Egyptian kings into adjacent areas, Nubia especially, are well documented (Adams 1977). While some modern scholars have assumed that the large numbers of cattle said to have been taken were exaggerated, there is no evidence that this was so. That large numbers of cattle, even by modern ranching standards, were still possessed by particular temples at a later time is also recorded. It was surely reflective of a large cattle population and its significance as primary wealth that the annual cattle census of the Egyptians became such a very important national event.

In any case, cattle were certainly numerous in Old Kingdom Egypt, and probably before, and the taking and keeping of cattle purely as wealth by the Egyptians probably preceded the hoarding of gold or pretty stones for the same purpose. One urban anthropologist and Nile Valley specialist, Richard Lobban (1989), has even advanced the interesting hypothesis that it was this cattle wealth, acquired especially from foreign raids, that provided the capital to finance the monumental construction so characteristic of the Egyptian civilization. Lobban also contends that intensive plant cultivation may have developed in the delta (following its capture by the king of Upper Egypt) less from the necessity at first of producing more food for a still small human population, than to produce fodder for maintaining this expanding cattle herd as the surrounding grasslands dried. As Lobban points out, berseen, a fodder plant for livestock feeding, is still Egypt’s major crop.

The Egyptian association of the heavens and its prominent bodies with cattle was possibly much older than this conquest of the fertile delta lands by peoples of Upper Egypt.21 A rock drawing ascribed to prehistoric times in Upper Egypt is of a bovine animal with a solar symbol (Winkler 1937). And already in their oldest religious literature, the funerary Pyramid Texts, the king is referred to as the ‘sun bull’ and identified with the god Re. Specific utterances in the Pyramid Texts refer to this ‘Bull of Re’ as the male counterpart of the cow goddess Hathor, and to the king as ‘Bull of Heaven’ taking the place of Re. Elsewhere in these same texts Re is specifically equated with the ‘Great Wild Bull’. These identifications persisted over very long expanses of time. From the Middle and New Kingdoms, additional references emerge to the then sun god Atum as a bull.

Also in Egypt some specific living bull gods emerged who were also associated with sun.22 Perhaps the earliest example is Mnevis, who is already called ‘Bull of Heliopolis’, a ‘sun bull’, the ‘Herald of Re’ in the 'Pyramid Texts'. He was also called ‘Living sun god’ and frequently depicted with the sun disc between his horns. Similar living bull gods included Montu, Buchis and Kamutef. From the Middle Kingdom onward, Montu was named bull and associated with the sun. During later times he too was connected with Re, and eventually became a universal sun god. Buchis was called ‘Living soul of Re’ from Dynasty 30, while Kamutef bred daily with his cow mother Hathor to be reborn as the sun calf.

Hathor, the cow goddess whose cult goes back to pre-Dynastic times (according to a range of evidence reviewed by Van Lepp 1990), was portrayed frequently with a sun-disc between her horns and was associated in other ways with Re. More specifically, Hathor, and another cow goddess Nut, were referred to and portrayed as the sky. During later times she was described as a celestial goddess who carries and then rejuvenates her son, the solar-disc which, as we recall, was also identified with the king.

Especially interesting in this connection is Egyptian evidence that the drinking of cow milk by ancient peoples, especially as portrayed by the adult pharaoh (shown kneeling at the side of the cow goddess sucking directly from her teat, was associated with early beliefs in the cow mother of humankind (Schwabe 1984a).23

Additionally, the moon God Khonsu was called bull (the crescent moon’s horns were especially likened to the heavenly bull in several ancient civilizations), and the Ursa Major constellation was to the ancient Egyptians the bull’s forelimb. Egyptologist Andrew Gordon and I believe that this association had profound importance with respect to one of the Egyptians’ earliest attempts to distinguish biologically between life and death.24 That is, muscle fascicles and intact muscles of the amputated forelimb, so commonly portrayed as the first part removed from sacrificial bulls, can be stimulated to contract for a considerable period after the animal’s death. It was this observation that the forelimb seemingly contained an ‘animating principle’ that led the priest-dissectors to touch it to the dead pharaoh’s mouth in the revivification ceremony of Opening-of-the-Mouth.

While Henri Frankfort (1948:170), as well as a number of earlier scholars, drew attention to the importance of this strong interpenetration of solar and bovine images in ancient Egypt, its implications have been slighted by most modern scholars. My own evolving explanation for this fusion of images and concepts is that it derives originally from anatomical, physiological, behavioural and social observations by Egyptians of wild and (later) domestic cattle. These led to analogies drawn for people (the human ‘herd’ and its chief), gods, and finally heavenly bodies, in sum the derivation of an inclusive cattle-culture cosmology.25 To restate, the basis for comparisons is clear. Sun and king were likened to/identified with the bull. The wild bull was the brave, powerful, libidinous bovine leader of his herd whom the Egyptian king so earnestly wished to emulate. For millennia he bore the title ‘mighty bull’, and, not surprisingly, Egyptians referred to themselves as ‘cattle of Re’, the divine sun bull which the king became in his rebirth after death.26

These associations are also apparent orthographically in other epithets for pharaoh. One such is ‘victorious bull’, k3 nht, written as a bull shown with the ka, a sign of two upraised human arms, together with a human penis. In other words, in this representation of pharaoh, the horns and penis, both sources of the bull’s dominion, have evolved into human representations of the mighty bull’s organs, the sources of his power. Another probably earlier orthographic example was an anatomical derivation of the king’s most frequent epithet ankh, djed, w3s (‘life, stability, dominion’) from the bull’s reproductive system as it was understood by the Egyptians; Schwabe et al. 1982; Schwabe and Gordon 1988, 1989; Gordon and Schwabe 1989). An even more striking, extremely early example of these bovine attributes of pharaoh and their source is his portrayal as a goring bull in the well-known palette of the first pharaoh Menes-Narmer (4th millennium BC.

MAN AS BULL IN OTHER CIVILIZATIONS

Throughout the Fertile Crescent (Mesopotamia, the coastal strip of Phoenicia-Canaan and the northern rim of city states connecting these two ‘horns’), bovine emulations and associations also were prominent in antiquity.27 Several gods from the Mesopotamian civilizations of antiquity were called bull, including some members of the Sumerian pantheon. Examples were Anu, the ‘Bull of Heaven’, the ‘almighty Wild Bull’,28 husband to the cow goddess Ninhursag, who personified the sky and could send the celestial bull to earth; Enlil, the god of air and water29 who was described as follows: ‘overpowering ox...at thy word which created the world, O lord of lands… O Enlil, Father of Sumer...over-powering ox’ (Farnell 1911:56; see also Pritchard 1969:576). Later, the Akkadian crescent moon god Shin, represented with bull’s horns, was also called ‘Young Bullock of Enlil’; and Amarut(k) (Marduk), ‘young bull of the sun’.

Ninhursag, sometimes wife or mother of the chief god(s), was paramount among Mesopotamian cow goddesses, several others of which were assimilated to her at various times.30 About her an active cult with a living herd was centred at the Temple of el-’Obeid (Plate 3.7). As with the Egyptian pharaoh and Hathor, Sumerian kings claimed to be the cow goddess’s children, ‘fed with the holy milk of Ninhursag’. She was also called ‘Mother of the Gods’ and associated with the birth of mankind.31 Her symbol, the bicornuate uterus of the cow, was used on boundary stones (Barb 1953, pl. 27; boundary stones were also associated elsewhere in antiquity with the penis).

There are indications, too, that the commonly portrayed Mesopotamian reed cattle house was the prototype of more permanent and grand temple architecture. One of the clearest examples is the famous frieze from the Temple of Ninhursag from el-’Obeid, now in the British Museum, of priests in front of a reed cattle shed milking cows and making butter.

In the Phoenician-Canaanite horn of the Fertile Crescent, the senior god El was also called ‘bull’ and shown in surviving portrayals as a man with bull’s horns. His son Baal, grandson Aleyin and grand-daughter Anat were also called bulls and cow, respectively. Baal and two of his manifestations, Hadad and Dagon, were represented as bulls or as men standing on the backs of bulls. Related biblical references exist, as with Aaron and the golden calf at Sinai and the persistence of Baal-worship in Judaea (Bodenheimer 1960).

On Crete, Zeus was the earthshaker bull32 born within the bowels of the earth in the Dictean cave, while the Cretan demi-god Minotaur, was born of the mating of the Minoan queen Pasiphae with a bull.33 Among the Indo-European Greeks more generally, their father god Zeus Pater (cf. Roman Jupiter [Jovis Pater], Indian Dyaus Pitar), who sometimes bore an epithet helios tauropolos, could assume bull form even after his otherwise complete anthropomorphization, as for example when he carried Europa on his back from Phoenicia to Crete (Fraser 1972).

Bulls were also central to the festival honouring Poseidon called the Taureia. But perhaps the most complex and persistently bovine of Greek gods was Dionysus.34 He was often represented as a bull or with bull’s horns. Dionysus was worshipped in theophagic communion rites by ‘ecstatic and frenzied worshippers…tearing at the raw flesh of a bull that was thought to be the actual embodiment of the god. By eating this flesh, the worshipper believed he received a little of the god’s power and character’ (Young 1979:14). It is interesting to note here the common belief that Dionysus was originally from Egypt.35

Artemis, a Greek fecundity goddess, was also called tauropolos at some sites of her worship. A herd of sacred cattle was maintained at the Temple of Eleusis, near Athens, dedicated to Demeter, goddess of fertility, also earth mother. Similarly, Hera and Zeus’ lover Io had strong bovine associations (see Cook 1964).

Turning to other Indo-European civilizations, the scriptures of the Persians clearly indicate the central importance of pre-existing bull worship to their religion. Examples from the sacred Zend Avesta include: ‘Hail bounteous Bull! Hail to thee, beneficent Bull…to the body of the Bull, to the Soul of the Bull; to thy soul, to thee, O beneficent Bull.’ This primeval bull’s soul went to heaven where he sits as Goshurun (protector of animals) in the sphere of the sun, while his semen went to the moon: To the Moon that keeps in it the seed of the Bull, to the only created Bull, to the Bull of many species.’ The latter referred to the belief that this primeval bull’s semen gave rise to all 272 kinds of animal.

Goshurun’s female counterpart was Drvaspa: ‘To the body of the Cow, to the soul of the Cow, to the powerful Drvaspa, made by Mazda and holy.’ Mithra, lord of pastures, was another bull god, who cast his ‘health-bringing eye’ upon the ‘abode of cattle, the dwelling of cattle’. The importance of cattle generally in ancient Persian civilization is summed up in another passage from the Zend Avesta: ‘In the ox is our strength, in the ox is our need, in the ox is our speech, in the ox is our victory, in the ox is our food, in the ox is our clothing, in the ox is our tillage, that makes food grow for us.’36

Among the creators of the ancient Indus Valley civilization,37 a plethora of similar beliefs and practices abounded. The relative familiarity of many of them to us today is due, of course, to their unique survivals in multiple forms within modern expressions of the Hindu faith.38 These are the only really important examples of cattle cultures surviving from ancient civilizations to the present day. The origins of current beliefs about cattle and man in India are the subject of an active academic debate.39 I shall not even attempt to chronicle their specifics beyond a quotation or two to illustrate similarities to other already cited examples. From the Rig Veda we learn how the father god Dyaus Pitar, the ‘bull with the thousand horns’, bred Prithivi, the earth cow, to produce the gods and all other animals. Similarly, when cosmic force was released at creation it was in the form of cows as rain clouds from which the sun also arose. Thus the cow and its father/husband the bull were the sources of all.

Regardless of the outcome of the current debate about how and why cow protection (ahimsa) in modern Hinduism may have originated, abundant evidence from India corroborates the overall thesis advanced here about very close interspecific identifications between man and cattle among the earliest creators of civilizations. This originally religious association of our two species led to the development of widespread cattle-culture pastoralism as well as to plough-based plant cultivation which relied on ox power. This provided the food surpluses and wealth which were the keys to civilization.40

Finally, it seems that the Romans added little that was original or very significant to pre-existing cattle culture. But they do indicate how, as time went on, these earliest relationships between the human and bovine species dimmed in memory and were replaced by more comprehensible (to us) utilitarian relationships. In Roman legend and myth the boundaries of the city state of Rome were said to have been laid out by cattle, as was the case for the laying out of Thebes, the capital of the Greek ‘cattle land’ Boeotia, by Cadmus).41 Moreover, Romulus and Remus were said to have been suckled by the wolf outside the temple of the cow goddess Rumina.

In the subsequent records of the Roman civilization (as in the Greek) we can begin to see how such ancient notions began to fade in importance before the dawn of the first Christian millennium. In Marcus Terrentius Varro’s detailed work on agriculture, including animal husbandry, which dates from the first century BC (Hooper 1935) we can read such statements as: ‘the ancient Greeks, according to Timaeus, called bulls itali, and the name Italy was bestowed because of the number and beauty of its cattle’,42 ‘When the city was founded the position of walls and gates was marked out by a bull’, ‘If the flock had not been held in high honor among the ancients, the astronomers, in laying out the heavens, would not have called by their names the signs of the zodiac... the names of the Ram and the Bull,43 placing them ahead of Apollo and Hercules’, ‘up to this day a fine is assessed after the ancient fashion in oxen and sheep; the oldest copper coins are marked with cattle’, ‘the very word for money is derived from them, for cattle are the basis of all wealth’, ‘the ancients made it a capital offense to kill one’.

Thus, by Varro’s time, though Romans still remembered some of these ancient cattle associations of their own and of Greece, bulls and cows, like other farm and draught animals, had simply become utilitarian possessions, albeit ones of the greatest value to the economy.44 By this time, much of their prior prestige value to sovereigns had been taken over by horses or mules, species which had played no role in the creation of ancient civilizations.

In summary, companion, as well as utilitarian, functions of animals were completely overshadowed at civilizations’ creation by the religio-political functions of a few animal species. For some time after that, some of the most all-embracing and absolutely fundamental relationships of power, fertility and sex were still envisaged between the human and bovine species.45 The very fact of this central common feature among the several peoples who created civilizations supports its ancient origins in man’s evolution, before major groups divided and dispersed, and probably long before cattle were first domesticated.

OTHER SPECIES ASSOCIATIONS IN EARLY CIVILIZATIONS

In more restricted senses, or in more specific contexts, special cultural relationships also existed in ancient times between Homo sapiens and other animals. For example, in a few civilizations the lion shared, in comparatively minor ways, the power role of the bull. But some other species associations, especially with the dog and snake, were profound and, as with cattle, were shared by more than one ancient civilization. Although it may seem odd to us now, dog and snake associations in antiquity were similar in that both originally seem to have been with death. They then evolved in parallel ways. The snake killed people and the wild canine killed and ate them (as it also scavenged bodies dead from other causes). In the Egyptian god Anubis we see some of the earliest and most persistent of these canine roles.

Clearly the earliest Egyptians feared dismemberment after death and it is probable that Anubis’ prominent funerary roles (Plate 3.8) evolved from such fears. Among some modern Nilotes, for example, the Turkana and Nandi, the dead (or dying) are deliberately put out for canids (or hyenas) to eat and for some of these peoples the ‘soul’ of the deceased must pass through such an animal to achieve afterlife (see discussion in Schwabe 1978b: 58–9).

Exceptions are sometimes made for chiefs or other important elders whose bodies are buried deeply or beneath stone cairns precisely to prevent their being consumed: they have an alternative route to the afterlife. Early Egyptian funerary texts clearly indicate the expectation, and fear, of such dismemberment after death, especially for the pharaoh, and this could explain the origin of early mud-brick mastabas and then pyramids to protect them.

The Israelites feared dismemberment of their dead by semi-domesticated pariah dogs, as indicated in such biblical verses as 1st Kings, 14:11: ‘Him that dieth of Jeroboam in the city shall the dogs eat’; 21:23: The dogs shall eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel’; Psalm 22: ‘Deliver…my darling from the power of the dog’; and: ‘thou hast brought me into the dust of death. For dogs have compassed me.’

Similarly in Mesopotamia we find many related beliefs and practices, for example dogs as harbingers of death. There, as well as in Egypt and Greece, these earliest associations of dogs with death and dismemberment, including the foretelling of death, seemed to have evolved gradually into beliefs that the dog could also ward off death, prevent death, and hence cure (Leach 1961). The Mesopotamian healing goddess Gula was shown with her healing companion the dog. By the same token, dogs were kept as co-therapists in Greek healing temples.46

The Zoroastrian Persians seem to have evolved the most positive ideas from such commonly observed facts about the canine species and death. Originally, a deceased person needed to be eaten by a dog for the soul to enjoy afterlife but later the body had only to be rent by a dog. Later still it was sufficient simply to be gazed upon by a dog. As a consequence of this among these Persians all dogs received unusual respect, protection and care.

In antiquity snakes evolved remarkably similar associations to those of dogs. These ‘limbless spinal columns’47 are mentioned almost as frequently as are cattle in the Egyptian funerary literature. Moreover, between them, cattle and snakes seem to have stimulated early Egyptians to develop the earliest biomedical theories about life and death. Snakes’ spines (vertebral columns) were regarded as playing a reciprocal role to the spines of bulls (in the case of snakes, as sources of poison, the fluid of death, while the bull’s spine was considered the source of semen, the fluid of life).48 Therefore, rebirth (recreation) of the pharaoh following death was sometimes portrayed as a journey along the same route as that taken by semen in procreation, that is the deceased was portrayed being pulled by priests through the spinal cord of a bull (or, rather perversely, by the route of semen’s negative analogue snake poison,49 by pulling him through the spine of a snake). Not surprisingly, the pharaoh wore both the snake’s head (uraeus) on his brow (top of his own spine) and the bull’s tail attached to the rear of his kilt.

In other ancient civilizations these associations between snakes and death also evolved towards the perception of snakes as healing companions. This was apparent in Mesopotamia in portrayals of snakes, as dogs, with the healing goddess Gula. Also, like dogs, snakes were kept in Greek healing temples and the caduceus symbol of healing may well have had similar origins. The Late Greek god Hermanubis, an amalgam of the Egyptians’ Anubis and Hermes, carried the caduceus. Interestingly, among the cattle culture Dinka Nilotes of the southern Sudan, snakes (both poisonous and constrictors) command special respect and solicitude. They are regarded as jok, a local spirit or ‘god’ to be placated. To kill one accidentally causes great social turmoil and snakes are allowed to enter huts unmolested; indeed milk and butter are put out to attract and placate them. It is possible that similar approaches (deliberately putting out food) for the man-killing, man-eating wild canid, originally to bribe or placate him, contributed to this species’s domestication.

Other complex and widespread animal associations arose in antiquity. In early Mesopotamia, evidence suggests that small ruminants began to fulfil an important surrogate religious role as substitute cattle, particularly when cattle were scarce.50 But only in rare instances such as Middle Kingdom Egypt did ram gods like Amun actually replace or augment bulls as principal gods. There, too, we have the living ram god of Mendes and the fertility connections, again especially prominent in later times, of another ram god Khumn.51 But even among Amun’s powerful priesthood, the bull still remained the central animal of sacrifice and of many associated beliefs and practices.

Other quite different associations with sheep, especially lambs, began to arise within certain civilizations (or neighbouring pastoral communities) of the Fertile Crescent. For example, analogies abound linking kings with shepherds and ordinary people with sheep—i.e. emulation by the king of the shepherd’s compassion and gentleness towards his flock. The Bible is replete, of course, with similar ovine allusions and other imagery, mostly of this gentle, innocent, humane God-as-shepherd, people-as-sheep type. In fact the Bible provides one chief source of how pervasive and important sheep-man relationships became to some ancient peoples. Such importance probably originated among peoples who then—as now—lacked cattle wealth and the power and prestige associated with it. While sheep-keeping may have been, as the Bible suggests, the paradigm for encouraging humane conduct between people, sheep seem to have played no seminal role in the creation of civilization as such. Nevertheless, some biblical texts can be read with little difficulty as a kind of shepherds’ handbook, a religiously enhanced stockman’s almanac for living the good pastoral life.

The horse entered most ancient civilizations too late to stimulate seminal religious or other cultural associations. But once introduced, its importance was profound, especially when it was understood that it could be ridden or that it could pull war chariots. Numerous Ugaritic, Hittite, Greek, Indian and other hippological texts suggest, however, that the horse may well have played the same religio-political roles as did cattle. Mythological accounts exist among ancient peoples, such as those shared in Greek, Mesopotamian (Kassite) and Indian portrayals and/or stories about centaurs (or their analogues), but these all seem to originate with legends about later invaders of the original civilizations. Nevertheless, there are a few early examples of Indo-European chimera gods, some of them centaurs which are half horse, half man, such as the Greek god Cheiron.52

But it is clear that, as horse-keeping pastoral people invaded, conquered and absorbed (or were absorbed by) some of these oldest civilizations, horses did provide the new rulers of these cattle-rich states with a source of speed and stamina far in excess of man alone or his powerful but plodding cattle. They provided some of these original city state civilizations with the means to engage in long-range overland trade and foreign conquest. Horses became as profoundly important to these ‘ageing’ ancient civilizations as cattle had been to their creators. Gradually, however, while the horse as property also took over some of the power-prestige functions of cattle, religions themselves became progressively more abstract and celestial, less autochthonous or tied to certain animal characteristics. Except among the horse-possessing, cattle-raiding nomads who eventually overran many of the great early civilizations, horses never became as integrated into their religious beliefs or general culture as cattle. Persia is a possible exception, as were some successive ancient Indian civilizations following the initial civilization of the Indus Valley.53

At the same time individual horses and, occasionally, mules came to be highly prized as very close companions by important men. Some acquired a special reputation for loyalty and affection, which was often reciprocated. Examples include Alexander’s love for his horse Bucephalus and Cyrus’ for his favourite horse which drowned under him in Mesopotamia’s Diyala River (causing, it is said, his engineers to wreak revenge by dividing it into 365 channels which then flowed out into the desert and died!). Evidently among mounted soldiers, as among rulers, individual horses were regarded as partners and companions in ways similar to the relationship which developed between individual men and their dogs.

SUMMARY

At the dawn of Old World civilizations there was widespread recognition that certain animal species shared important characteristics with humans but in exaggerated forms. This frequently inspired admiration or fear, which prompted various feelings of kinship, identification and awe, with a desire to emulate, placate or even, in extreme instances, to worship such animals.

Among the most culturally and historically significant of these shared attributes were those representing power/dominion and libido/fertility. These were linked in various ways, and together helped to define the institution of kingship and solidify emerging cosmologies dealing with the overall relationships of humankind to the heavenly bodies, earth and gods. Amongst these relationships, bovine and solar images became pre-eminent.

Certain animal species also enjoyed prominence through their associations with the concepts of creation, procreation and rebirth and man’s efforts to comprehend the significance of life and death. As civilizations emerged no species was so intimately intertwined with humankind as cattle: bulls and cows. With the eventual yoking of the ox to the plough, man-cattle relationships took on even greater significance. By providing humankind with the first source of power for plant cultivation greater than that of their own muscles, cattle proved the key to surplus grain production and, hence, to the development of civilization.

Other especially prominent relationships existed in antiquity between people and dogs and snakes, especially in relation to death and its consequences.

Such man-animal relationships, which originally represented or bordered upon identification, gradually evolved to become less central and real. They became more peripheral and symbolic, and/or purely utilitarian or social as civilizations aged. Such changes occurred more slowly in some civilizations (such as the Egyptian and Indian) than others and survivals from antiquity still persist to a considerable measure in India.54

Similar religio-political roles for the horse may have existed among other pastoral peoples who did not themselves create ancient civilizations, but solid evidence for this is relatively scarce. However, once the horse did enter early city states, its stamina and speed, far in excess of those of people, proved to be the key to emergence of the large landed empires developed by some ancient civilizations.

Sheep, or the sheep-man relationships which their domestication prompted, may have had an early and seminal influence upon man’s admiration and striving for other qualities which we now regard as humane—compassion, trust and caring.

NOTES

1 Individuals from the ‘western tradition’ will be most familiar with such an early perspective vis-à-vis animals not only in what is revealed in surviving portions of Greek mythology, and references by ancient authors to other myths since lost, but also in fables collected by the Greek Aesop, who lived from about 620 to 560 BC and the Roman Aelian, of late second and early third century AD (see also Lawson 1964). Bodenheimer (1960) is a useful zoological source about animals and man in the ancient Near East generally and Paton (1925) gives many Egyptian textual sources.
2 As well as among various pre-literate present-day African pastoralists, notably the Nilotes of East Africa.
3 Dulling, for example, recognition of the roles the gradually increasing ability to differentiate between such notions played in beginning stages of evolution of the approach to unknowns we now regard as science. This has been my own special interest in this subject, an interest based upon conclusions which more or less parallel ones reached by Lloyd (1966, 1990).
4 As evidenced, for example, from studies of modern pre-literate cattle-culture peoples of the Nile basin.
5 A present-day example of adolescent boys being taught to assume the role of bull of the herd has been described among West Africa’s Fulani by Lott and Hart (1979).
6 All these relationships merged at some point. Thus thunder was sometimes understood as the heavenly bull’s libidinous bellow, lightning his ejaculation and rain his semen fertilizing the earth.
7 Walsh (1989) would reverse this ordering, finding earliest evidence to be of associations among a feminine birth goddess (with lunar cycle for menses), the horned cow and the horned (crescent) moon and its cycle. That would be consistent with Hornblower’s (1943) belief that the male role in reproduction was not understood until herding animals (especially cattle) were confined, then domesticated. Neither Walsh (personal communication), nor I, have seen evidence to the contrary and it is likely that the original bull associations per se were with power/dominion only and then later acquired the fertility aspect.
8 As suggested first, but more generally, by Eduard Hahn (1896). One of Hahn’s more ardent modern supporters was Carl Sauer (1952) who argued that most contemporaries of Hahn resisted his views then because he stressed the role of sex in evolution of religions and religion over materialistic rationalism as an instigator of man’s apparent inventiveness. Some of the circumstances surrounding evolution of just such a scenario as Hahn postulated were illustrated through the excavations by Mellaart (1967) at Çatal Hüyük near the Taurus Mountains of Anatolia. However, with respect to the general implications for early civilizations of such cattle-culture possibilities, these are still being largely overlooked. Since most students of ancient civilizations have tended, understandably, to be highly specialized and to consider development of single civilizations quite independently, important common features and their likely origins may easily be neglected. This is especially so if these are not readily comprehensible from our present-day perspective of possibilities (mindset). Therefore, some phenomena, such as identifications between other animals and man, have tended to be trivialized by scholars and their possible importance missed. This seems very much the case with cattle and man in antiquity. As Walsh (1989:15) notes: ‘animal domestication and contemporary ancient religions are topics that are usually treated as discrete phenomena despite the fact that animals were, and remain, of seminal importance in the belief systems of many societies’. The major philological demands upon scholars of these ancient records, which so compartmentalize their individual fields, also continue to act as formidable barriers to inputs into work on particular civilizations of heuristic contributions possible only from other specialized, even distant, disciplines. A notable exception with respect to cattle and religion among modern scholars interested in ancient civilizations has been Henri Frankfort (1948:162ff.). And only a few other investigators from any relevant discipline, most notably Cook (1964), Von Lengerken and Von Lengerken (1955), Conrad (1957), Mourant and Zeuner (1963) and Walsh (1989), have yet focused even more broadly upon the general subject of man-cattle extensive relationships in antiquity. Simoons (1968), as well as the fairly extensive literature on present-day Nilotic peoples, gives especially important insights into ancient mindset and process.
9 He considered that shared anatomo-pathological vocabularies among speakers of a wide range of Indo-European languages probably resulted from information gained by the earliest Indo-European priests during dissection of religiously important animals.
10 With respect to the more commented upon instance of such cattle-culture survivals in India, the principal proponent of this theory of purely rational ecological determinants has been Harris (1966).
11 Or that these same peoples had already evolved both a small ruminant pastoral system and simple digging-stick agriculture and simply had to await domesticated cattle for the ingredients of civilization to gel. In that connection, Louis Grivetti (1980) has suggested from observations among present-day goat-herders (who are also hunter-gatherers) in southwestern Africa that the idea of ‘gardens’ may have originated in antiquity when herded goats or similar animals corralled for their protection at night deposited with their faeces in that confined well-fertilized place seeds of a variety of plants (including some highly scattered plants prized by gatherers). Especially when these corrals were moved, as they were periodically, these concentrated seeds germinated and the seedlings survived and thus there grew man’s first gardens! In fact, these observed agro-pastoralists of the Kalahari now transplant such desired plants from these natural goat-created ‘gardens’ to their own household compounds, and then tend them. This idea prompts speculation about the huge accumulations of cattle dung described from Neolithic India by Allchin (1963).
12 Among instances of Greek origin are the Anatolian Taurus mountains, Taurean (Crimean) peninsula, Greek Boeotia and Euboia, Bosporus (literally, ‘Ox Ford’), Italy.
13 Other important chthonic gods, too, were sometimes more or less equated with bulls.
14 While present-day Nilotic Dinka liken practically everything, including ‘Spiritual Force’, to particular qualities of bulls and cows (Schwabe 1987), elders and priests interviewed vociferously denied that they ‘worshipped’ cattle. It should be noted that few Dinka have not had some exposure to the religions of outsiders (and are somewhat defensive or secretive about their own beliefs). However, even the strongest analogies may be quite different from identity; for example, the biblical assertion that man was created in God’s image.
15 But the practice appears to have become an early legal recourse for victims of cattle that frequently gored, as evidenced by one rendering (Pritchard 1969:163) of a passage in the fragmentary Mesopotamian legal code of the city state of Eshnunna (older than the intact Old Babylonian legal code of Hammurabi).
16 The Sudan’s several million Dinka are a major modern example of a pastoral cattle-culture society who also practise digging-stick agriculture but have yet to yoke the ox to the plough.
17 Earliest coinage in some ancient civilizations suggests that precious metals were at least partially a wealth surrogate for cattle since cattle were actually portrayed on some of the first coins. And, among early speakers of at least the Indo-European phylum of languages, the proto-Indo-European word pek’u for cattle is preserved not only in pecuaria in Spanish for animal industry, but in the English pecuniary and impecunious and similar wealth words originally meaning the possession or non-possession of cattle. Similarly, the word chattel relates etymologically to cattle and capital in the wealth sense originally referred to head of cattle. (Similarly, many related words in Sanskrit have cattle origins. As to the context of their origins, ‘to fight’ in Sanskrit meant literally ‘to raid for cattle’ and the word for ‘leader’ is literally ‘lord of cattle’.) Even the origins of such modern English financial terms such as stock, stock market, watered stock, etc., though much more recent, are similar. The early Indo-European prophet Zoroaster indicated this wealth significance of cattle and attendant responsibilities scripturally, as for example, in: ‘Give him welfare in cattle, three times a day raise thyself up and go take care of the beneficent cattle.’
18 As to writing symbols which evolved at the dawn of at least several ancient traditions, at least the first three numbers (counters) in Egyptian hieroglyphs, Sumerian cuneiform, Roman numerals, Chinese ideograms (and surviving cursive scripts like modern Arabic or our own numerals) are simply the requisite number of short straight marks in a row. But probably the first symbol for the things ‘to be counted’ (i.e. wealth), as evidenced by its becoming the first letter in alphabetic writing systems, was the horned bovine head (i.e. capital), drawn, for example, in cuneiform as , on its side with its horns curved in Greek as a and still in our own alphabet, on its back as A.
19 Further hints of such more personal and intimate relationships are still to be found among Dinka and other Nilotic cattle-culture pastoralists—peoples whose ancestors are also believed to have lived near the upper Nile since antiquity (Ehret 1982). Each young male at puberty is given a special ‘name’ or ‘song’ bull to which he is bonded as a brother and to which he talks and composes sung verse.
20 It was also portrayed in the Indus Valley civilization.
21 Some of these subsequent points are from a study in progress by Andrew Gordon and the author which is currently available for comment as a working paper (1989).
22 Apis, the best known and longest persisting living bull god, was associated instead with (or was the ‘double’ of) the important ancient chthonic god Ptah.
23 The drinking of cow’s milk by human babies—and by human adults—has been so taken for granted for so long in many (but surely not all) societies (Simoons 1979b) that its origins and the profundity of the relations between man and cow it originally signified now totally escape our inquiry. Yet nothing less than carriage to term within one’s mother’s body so identifies the mother-child bond of
dependence and protective love that is basic to the existence and continuity of one’s line than nursing from one’s mother’s teats. How biologically unique among relationships of one animal species to another is the fact that our species Homo sapiens sought the aid of another species to wet-nurse its young, to enter into this most intimate of relationships, for the cow in particular to become in effect foster mother to man. How great a contrast is the great pharaoh (king-god) drinking from the cow goddess’s teat with the purely biological process among all mammalian species wherein milk secretion and milk drinking is confined to the immediate postpartum period of greatest infant dependence. Adult men, like the adults of all other mammalian species, have long ceased such dependence upon
their own natural mothers and most cultures make much of a boy’s severing this and other dependent bonds to his natural mother. Only the profoundest cultural needs, therefore, initially caused adult man to continue to drink the cow’s milk through life (Schwabe 1984a).
24 An hypothesis initially sketched in Schwabe (1986) and developed in detail in Schwabe et al. (1989). For some present-day Dinka parallels see Schwabe (1987).
25 Belief in a similar cosmology can still be found today among some Nilotic pastoralists.
26 Ancient man had yet to conclude that one correct explanation for a phenomenon precluded alternative explanations. Rather, alternative explanations were seen as reinforcing and complementing one another.
27 However, if cattle once played the central ritual functions in religious sacrifice among most of these peoples, and probably continued to do so to some extent for some time in Phoenicia-Canaan, even early historic records suggest that sheep were already playing some of these ritual roles too, possibly, of course, first as surrogates for cattle, which were no longer sufficiently numerous. This species shift also occurred among many present-day Nilotic cattle-culturalists after the late 1890s African rinderpest pandemic decimated their cattle population. However, sheep/ goat sacrifices among these modern pastoral peoples such as the Dinka are still referred to by them as ‘bulls’!
28 As late as the Assyrian kings Sargon II and his grandson Naram-Sin, rulers of Mesopotamia still called themselves ‘Wild Bull’ and wore the horned headdress of their office.
29 The word for ‘water’ in Sumerian also meant ‘semen’ (as it sometimes did in Egyptian). Enlil’s ejaculation filled the Tigris (Kramer 1963:179).
30 Examples included Ninsuna, Gula and Ishtar (see Walsh 1989, for a more complete list). Ninhursag was also associated with Innana, the consort of the ‘Wild Bull’ or ‘Divine Shepherd’ god Dumuzi (Tammuz).
31 Some scholars have directed attention to many parallels between Ninhursag and the Egyptians’ Hathor.
32 In Homer we read ‘in bulls does the earthshaker delight’.
33 The supposedly original temple on Athens’ acropolis, the Bukolion (cattle barn) was also the reputed site of the ritual mating of its queen archon with a bull representing Dionysus.
34 E.R.Dodds (1960 passim, esp. p. 194, notes on 920–2): ‘a bull thou seem’st that leadeth on before; and horns upon thine head have sprouted forth. How, wast thou brute?—bull art thou verily now!’ and on Dionysus as ‘the bull who leads the herd’; see also Plutarch’s hymn (Q. Gr. 36, 299) to Dionysus by the women of Elis: ‘Come hither, Dionysus, to thy holy temple by the sea; come with the Graces to thy temple, rushing with bull’s foot, O goodly bull, O goodly bull’ and designation of his priests as ‘cattle-herds’.
35 Herodotus 2.42 2, 49.2, see Dodds (1960), 126–6, notes on 406–8.
36 ‘Ox’ is used here as singular of cattle.
37 For much interesting material in the context of this conference, see Leshnik and Sontheimer (1975).
38 For example, the early origins of goshalas or ‘old cattle homes’ still present in India are detailed by Lodrick (1981). A modern Indian scriptural defence of cattle protection there against common western perceptions (as well as against some western scholarship vis-à-vis cattle and ancient India) is Anon. (1971).
39 Keys to this extensive literature and ongoing debate may be found in recent works of Harris (1966), Heston (1971), Odend’hal (1972), Simoons (1979a) and Lodrick (1981). For some modern Hindu religio-political arguments see Gandhi (1954) and Anon (1971).
40 In part I think the protagonists in today’s Indian sacred cow debate, both Indian and foreign (of two camps) are mostly talking past one another, often advancing extreme or too-embracing scenarios, sometimes from pre-existing ideological beliefs, and sometimes anachronistically mixing historical events with current concepts and practices, all without regard to ancient parallels outside of India. My conclusion is that, while the religious ideas about bull-chief-gods-men came first, these ideas were only irrational when perceived from the modern western mindset, not the ancient, and that other rational forces (even from a modern perspective)—and surely including ecological ones—importantly influenced events during the roughly 3,000 years between the time cattle were first domesticated and the time when the complexes of actions and their natural consequences we identify as civilizations fully emerged.
41 For details on boundary-marking and dominion see Schwabe and Gordon (1988) and our further work in progress (Schwabe and Gordon 1989).
42 He also mentions Italy being named for the bull Italus chased from Sicily by Hercules.
43 It is of interest that all ancient Old World civilizations arose in the astrologically designated Age of Taurus.
44 For how some of these very important utilitarian roles of oxen (and horses) in agriculture and transport arose in the ancient world see Littauer and Crouwel (1979).
45 Among many present-day cultural derivatives are such terms in English as ‘strong as an ox’, ‘take the bull by the horns’, ‘to bully someone’, ‘to be horny’ and ‘to be cowed’.
46 Compare also, in the New Testament, a dog licking Lazarus’ wounds. Examples of much of this same type of lore survive in more recent times; for example folk beliefs today that a dog licking its, or our, wounds is a helpful thing.
47 Aelian (On Animals I, 51): ‘The spine of the dead man, they say, transforms the [its] putrefying marrow [cord] into a snake.’
48 For evidence of beliefs among Egyptians that bone marrow, especially of the spine (the spinal chord was considered ‘marrow’) was semen and the widely shared nature of this belief outside Egypt in antiquity see Schwabe et al. (1982).
49 Thus the Egyptian word mtwt meant both semen and (snake) poison.
50 As mentioned, this surrogate religious role of sheep and goats is seen increasingly among modern Nilotes who, nevertheless, still refer to the ovine or caprine sacrifice as ‘bull’.
51 Comparative examples from Greece are given by Cook (1964, I).
52 And surely among much later Indo-European invaders of northern Europe, the horse played a central religious role. Ostensibly it was to help stamp out Odin worship, for example, that Pope Gregory II in 732 forbade the eating of horsemeat since it was a practice central to sacrifice and communion rituals among such peoples. Of course, just as the ox gave man the source of power for the agrarian revolution and the emergence of civilization, the horse provided man with speed and stamina far in excess of that of his own muscles. This was, in turn, the key to communication, transport and control that helped small city states to grow into and rule the first large landed empires. Some of the more interesting recent studies of horses in antiquity are those of Cohen and Sivan (1983) on the Ugaritic hippiatric texts (from that Pheonician city state) and of Mack-Fisher (1990) proposing, from the study of these and other ancient equine veterinary texts, that the obscure Latin word veterinarius derives via Carthage (perhaps in the Carthagian city of Gades, modern Cadiz) from the ancient Ugaritic (semitic) btr, an official of the Ugaritic queen responsible for horse health and care.
53 An account of the utilitarian and companion roles of the horse in ancient Greece is that of Anderson (1961).
54 These are also prominently preserved in many respects among the cattle-culture Nilotic pastoralists of the Nile Basin today (e.g. the Dinka, Nuer, Turkana, Maasai) who never did develop ‘civilization’.

By Calvin W, Schwabe in "Animals and Humans Society", edited by Aubrey Manning and James Serpell, Routledge, UK,1994, excerpts pp. 36-56. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa. 

MEDIEVAL MOST WANTED

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Robin Hood
The mythical Robin Hood might have ruled Sherwood, but his real-life counterparts gave him a run for his money!

Since they were first told in the Middle Ages, the legendary tales of Robin Hood and his Merry Men have become firm favourites in folklore across the world. Filled with romance, intrigue and heroic deeds, the legend of Robin Hood told of an outlaw that only the wealthy and villainous need fear. With his famed modus operandi of robbing from the rich to give to the poor, this hugely popular wanted criminal became an enduring hero of popular myth and a potent symbol of the fight against oppression.

Yet fictional outlaws w ith a social conscience like Robin Hood weren’t so easy to come by in the factual records of the Medieval world. Outlaws weren’t in short supply by any means but Merry Men were rarely anywhere to be found. In fact, those with a price on their head weren’t usually too interested in robbing the rich, dropping a pithy one-liner and hastening off to distribute the wealth. In real life, they were far less choosy about the social status of their victims, while the whole giving to the poor bit that Robin Hood was so fond of often proved to be nowhere near as attractive as keeping all the spoils.

Whether saints-in-waiting, fearsome pirates or disinherited noblemen, the history of Europe is rich with tales of outlaws whose stories were every bit as fantastical as their folkloric counterpart. From murderers to blackmailers and robbers to bandits, these ten criminals at least attempted to follow Robin Hood’s creed and give the spoils of their often shocking crimes to the poor. Of course, it’s worth remembering that sometimes the poorest person those outlaws knew just happened to be themselves!



1. Eustace the Monk. (c.1170 — 24 August 1217)

Fact and fiction collide in the Black Monk’s tale.

Eustace Busket was born into privilege as the son of a nobleman and initially seemed set for a life in holy orders as a monk of Saint Samer Abbey, where he supposedly studied black magic. However, when his father was murdered, Eustace abandoned his monastic career and demanded justice from Renaud de Danmartin, Count of Boulogne. But Eustace was later accused of fraud and outlawed, losing his rank and territories.

The monk headed for the coast and England, where he was hired as a pirate by King John. He was such a valuable and fierce mercenary that, even when he raided English villages, the king pardoned him. Eventually Eustace switched sides again when his old enemy, Renaud, allied with the English. He may even have captured the Channel Islands but was eventually captured himself during a fearsome naval battle. Though he offered a fortune in return for his freedom, Eustace was beheaded.

Eustace passed into romantic legend thanks to a posthumous biography that painted him as a wizard of sorts, who hid in the forest and toyed with Renaud just as Robin Hood did with the sheriff of Nottingham. There is, however, no truth in the tale. Fact and fiction collide in the Black Monk’s tale



2. William Wallace. (c.1270 — 23 August 1305)

The infamous Scot who was a hero to some, an outlaw to others.

In 1296, Edward I of England seized power in Scotland. Few of his new subjects were happy about it and one man decided that something must be done. William Wallace was determined to lead a rebellion against the English king’s rule in Scotland.

After a decisive victory against the king’s forces at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297, Edward sent an army after Wallace. Yet the newly ennobled Scottish hero was one step ahead of his pursuers and following a bruising battlefield defeat in 1298 he may have hastened to France, where he hoped to win military support for his cause.

Wallace returned five years later to find that Robert the Bruce and Edward had declared a truce. As a result, Wallace was declared a wanted man and the price on his head was high. His luck ran out in 1305 when he was captured in Glasgow. Taken to London for trial, he was charged with treason. While he argued that he had never recognised Edward as king of Scotland, so couldn’t have committed treason, his defence fell on deaf ears. On 23 August, Wallace was hanged, drawn and quartered. His head was put on display as a warning to others.

3. Ghino di Tacco.  (Late 13th century)

An Italian who made banditry a family business.

Given that Ghinotto di Tacco spent his formative years joining his father, uncle and little brother on bandit raids, it’s hardly surprising that he continued his criminal career into adulthood. Motivated by dissatisfaction at the greed of their rulers, who imposed crippling taxes on the people of La Fratta, where the family lived, the bandits became notorious. When the elder di Taccos were captured and executed, it was left for Ghinotto and his brother to carry on the family business.

Ghinotto seized control of a castle and made it his base of operations, venturing out to rob travellers on the road. Considering himself to be a gentleman thief, he sometimes left his victims with enough to survive their journey and made sure to treat them to a feast before they went on their way. He was also known to only prey on the rich, and he never robbed from the poor.

However, he was not above killing his enemies and parading around with their heads on spikes to prove his fearsome reputation. When Ghinotto finally decided that the time had come to retire, he kidnapped an influential abbot and held him prisoner until he agreed to secure a pardon from Pope Boniface VIII, which allowed Ghinotto to live out his final
years in peace.



4. Eppelein von Gailingen.  (c.1310s — 15 May 1381)

This German robber baron made a daring escape from death.

Eppelein von Gailingen wanted it all, whatever the cost. He was born into a family of minor nobles and watched in annoyance as his so-called masters spent money with abandon, while he was forced to borrow to fund his own relatively meagre lifestyle.

He decided to lead a life of crime and for a time, travellers on the roads around Nuremberg lived in terror of encountering Eppelein’s company. When highway robbery started to prove less lucrative than he had hoped, Eppelein raided the city itself and distributed the takings among his gang and local peasants.

Eppelein was eventually captured and sentenced to death — but he allegedly escaped the gallows by leaping onto his horse and jumping the battlements and moat of Nuremberg Castle, riding to safety. Though he was later executed for his crimes, Eppelein is commemorated today by a triannual festival in his honour.



5. Thomas Dun.  (c.1068-1135)

The mysterious Thomas Dun was a master of disguise.

Thomas Dun was not a romantic hero. Operating around Bedfordshire, he wandered the roads disguised as a disabled beggar. When travellers stopped to offer assistance, he murdered them and stole whatever they were carrying, even going so far as to steal livestock and sell it on as his own.

As Dun’s criminal ambitions grew, he headed into the shelter of England’s forests. But Dun was certainly no Robin Hood and as he headed north to find new hunting grounds, he formed a gang with some of the other outlaws he met in the forest, becoming their self-appointed leader.

Dun’s luck ran out when he was recognised in a village and pursued by both the sheriff and locals. After a 20-year criminal career, he was captured and sentenced to death without trial. Though he even tried to fight off the executioners, he was eventually dismembered in front of a celebratory crowd.



6. Eustace Folville.   (c.13th-14th century)

A notorious gang that made innocent travellers tremble.

Tired with the corrupt regime of Hugh Despenser the Younger, Eustace Folville, the son of a noble family, decided to do something about it. In 1326, he gathered together a gang of around 50 men and together they attacked and killed Sir Roger de Beler, the corrupt Baron of the Exchequer and a long-time enemy of the Folvilles.

Although initially outlawed for their crimes, the gang later received a pardon when Despenser’s regime fell. By this time, however, Folville and his men had become lauded as heroes for standing up to their tyrannical rulers. Like a Medieval A-Team, they remained at large and accepted contracts from people who were seeking retribution or wanted to right a wrong.

With robbery, ransom and abduction the everyday work of the Folville Gang, they were soon making a habit of being outlawed and pardoned. Although Richard, one of Eustace’s younger brothers, was captured and beheaded, Eustace himself managed to escape punishment and even lived well on the proceeds of his commissions.

Mentioned in contemporary literature alongside Robin Hood, the Folvilles were regarded as heroes by some and villains by others. As one of the first named criminal gangs of the era, though, they marked an important entry in the annals of crime in the Middle Ages.



7. Roger Godberd.  (Unknown — 1276)

Was a servant literally the real-life Robin Hood?

Roger Godberd might have passed into the mists of history unremarked were it not for the fact that he has been named as a prime contender for the inspiration behind the legend of Robin Hood.

Godberd was a servant to Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, until he was made an outlaw in 1265 for fighting against Henry III. Forced from his lands, he made camp in Sherwood Forest where he remained for five years as the head of a band of mercenaries. Sadly, history records no Friar Tuck or Little John among his gang.

Pursued by the sheriff of Nottingham, Godberd proved a tricky man to apprehend. When captured, he always seemed able to escape but his good luck eventually deserted him and the sheriff managed to get Godberd behind bars. Transferred to the Tower of London, he waited for three years to see what his punishment would be.

In fact, Godberd’s good fortune returned once more because Edward I returned to rule England before he could be put on trial. He apparently pardoned the loyal Godberd and the notorious outlaw returned to his farm, where he lived out the rest of his happy days in peace.



8. Pier Gerlofs Donia.  (c.1480–1520)

A giant of a man, Big Pier became a legend.

Born in Frisia, now the Netherlands, Pier Gerlofs Donia was a giant in every sense of the word. When his wife was allegedly raped and murdered by the Black Band, the duke of Saxony’s brutish regiment, the giant of a man swore that he would exact revenge.

He formed a pirate band known as the Black Hope and waged war against the House of Habsburg, plundering their ships and those of their supporters. Attacking coastal areas, they sacked the towns and killed the inhabitants, burning houses and castles alike to the ground.

Supposedly standing at over two metres tall and wielding a sword that weighed nearly 7 kilograms, Pier struck fear into the hearts of his enemies — but fear alone wasn’t enough to defeat the might of the Habsburgs. He died peacefully in 1520 and is fighter,striving to free his people from oppression.

9. Hajduk Momcilo.  (Unknown — 1345)

The flip-flopping Momčilo always followed the money.

Hajduk Momčilo, known as Momchil, began his criminal career as a bandit terrorising the Rhodope Mountains. Assisted by his peasant army, he struck fear into the hearts of travellers.

Because the territory he prowled was part of an ongoing border dispute, the warring parties of Serbia, Bulgaria and the Byzantine Empire all wanted to secure Momčilo’s support. He was ennobled and his outlaw army became a recognised military force.

When the Byzantine Civil War broke out in 1341, Momčilo played both sides off against each other like a pro. By switching between Stephen Dušan and his opponent, Emperor John VI Cantacuzene, on multiple occasions, when he left Cantacuzene’s service to throw his considerable might behind Dušan once too often, his card was marked.

Cantacuzene declared him an enemy and Momčilo was killed at Peritheorion, when the townspeople locked the city gates and left him to the mercy of his enemies.



10. Stig Andersen Hvide.   (Unknown — 1293)

Sometimes the best pirate is a disenfranchised nobleman.

After nobleman Marsk Stig Andersen Hvide was wrongly implicated in the murder of King Eric V in 1286, he was forced to be an outlaw. However, he wasn’t about to surrender and instead began a new career as a pirate, with his frequent raids laying waste to the coast of his homeland. He established his headquarters on the island of Hjelm and from here sailed out to plunder Danish ships and coastal towns.

Although Stig vigorously protested his innocence of the regicide, Denmark refused to listen. Finding that his pleas for clemency were being ignored, Stig instead joined forces with the Norwegian crown. He continued to be allied to Norway until he died of natural causes in 1293.

Yet Stig’s memory didn’t die with him on Hjelm. Instead he became a legendary hero who either killed the king after the king seduced Stig’s wife, or, more frequently, was considered a patsy by those who wanted to curtail the power of the nobility. Stig’s story has been turned into novels, poetry and popular folklore. The pirate lord even became the subject of a popular 19th-century Danish opera that cements his heroic credentials.

By Catherine Curzon in "All About History", UK, issue 61, 2018, excerpts pp.70-74. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa

CHRISTIAN DIOR'S NEW LOOK

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Models wearing Dior's dresses in 1957
How Christian Dior’s extravagant designs put the frill back into post-war fashion.

Say ‘Dior’ and most people think of luxury, haute couture and leggy models strutting up and down the runway in the latest high-end fashions. But before becoming one of the world’s biggest and most recognised fashion brands, it was just one man, Christian Dior, struggling to make his mark in war-torn Europe.

It was 12 February 1947 when the designer’s scandalous ‘New Look’ shocked post-World War II society and revolutionised the fashion industry forever. Taking place just under two years after Victory in Europe Day, Dior stunned the world’s fashion elite when he presented his debut collection in Paris. Models swanned past in swathes of rich fabric, long, heavy skirts and dresses synched at the waist. The story goes that one influential onlooker, Carmel Snow, editor of Harper’s Bazaar, was so shocked that she declared Dior’s collection a truly “new look” — and the name stuck.

Dior’s designs, made up of two fashion lines named En Huit and Carolle, were all about creating an overtly womanly hourglass silhouette. It was a figure that, for better or worse, set the standard for fashion and femininity for the next decade, reflected in the famous styles of 1950s Hollywood stars such as Marilyn Monroe.

Among the impressive 90 pieces that made up Dior’s collection that day, the real headline act was the Bar suit. Still heralded today, it summed up the New Look: a large, dark, corolla skirt, padded at the hips, teamed with a cream blazer that synched in and kicked out from the waist.

Following rave reviews, the designs spread across Europe like wildfire and made their way over the Atlantic to New York City. Many praised Dior with having single-handedly revived Paris’ struggling post-war fashion industry. His designs were most popular, of course, among society’s glamorous upper class. Hollywood leading ladies Ava Gardner and Rita Hayworth were both said to be fans. However, his most prestigious fanbase actually came from within the British royal family — namely Princess Margaret.

The fashionable young royal was a huge fan — so much so that she chose one of Dior’s designs for her 21st birthday. It was immortalised in a famous portrait by photographer Cecil Beaton in 1951. Perched on a sofa, straight-backed and stoic, her small frame sits atop swathes and swathes of luxurious fabric that make up her almost Disney princess-like gown.

While these designs may seem glamorous, they don’t necessarily seem shocking or particularly fashion-forward today. To understand the hype, it’s important to appreciate the huge effect that the war had had on everyday fashions.

During World War II, the fashion industry was hit not only by rationing and austerity measures but, with the war’s hefty demand of fabric and labour, there was a significant reduction in raw materials, skilled workers and factory space. Ultimately, the fashion of the early 1940s was dominated by simple suits and knee-length dresses with boxy, almost militaristic shoulders.

With the introduction of rationing in Britain in 1941, simpler, slimmer outfits became more popular as more coupons were needed for more fabric and skilled handiwork. This was also the year that most silk was commandeered to make parachutes for the Royal Air Force. Adornments such as pleats, ruching, embroidery and even pockets were restricted under austerity measures while additions such as hats and lace — deemed luxury items — were heavily taxed.

After food, clothing was the hardest hit by the demands of the war effort, which explains the series of ‘Make-Do And Mend’ campaign posters and pamphlets issued by the government.

What you wore became a direct reflection of your contribution to the war effort. A band of London designers even came together to form the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers (IncSoc), to popularise austerity-friendly designs. In 1942, IncSoc created 32 designs of so-called ‘utility styles’ — fashionable outfits that used limited resources — that they then presented to the public. Restricted to tight fabric rations, the resulting coats, dresses and suits were said to have no pleats, tucks or frills with no ‘unnecessary’ buttons. They were intended for all seasons, with paper patterns made available for those wishing to make them at home.

Reactions were mixed. While many of the leading fashion houses and magazines were happy with the surprisingly sleek designs, other fashion-conscious folk were unsure about the cookie-cutter styles. The Daily Mail argued, “Mrs ‘Jones’ is nervous that she will walk out to coffee one morning in a Mayfair-style suit and meet her neighbour in, if not the same colour, the identical cut.” On the other hand, another critic thought these Mayfair designs were actually too fashion-oriented and “not sufficiently practicable for the housewife or the woman in the war factory”.

Whatever their feelings, these simpler, utility-style designs became the general trend, representing both fashion and the home front’s dedication to the war effort. For a large part of society, this was an attitude not only reserved for wartime, but something that carried on, and in some cases intensified, in the years following the conflict. In fact, clothes rationing ended in 1949, and food restrictions lingered until 1954.

It must have been shocking to see visions of Dior’s models enveloped in layers of lavish materials, covered in fine details and accessories. While IncSoc’s utility-style dresses were rigorously restricted and made sure to use no more than 1.8 metres of fabric, it is said that Dior’s more elaborate offerings often contained over 18 metres each. This unapologetically glamorous and feminine style was a complete rejection of the wartime austerity that had been gripping the entirety of Europe so tightly.

The world’s fashionistas, for the most part, approved of the lavish designs and the move away from the stale trends of wartime. “The bulkiness of the coats a nd capes to go over these tremendous skirts is startling,” said one reporter for The New York Times. “Wide sunray pleats each backed in taffeta and slashed open to the knee are so manipulated that the swing of the skirt is a gracious thing.”

Covering the collection in 1948, another journalist, who was particularly taken by the pockets, wrote, “One felt that these were an integral part of the costume for it added great style to see the manikins thrust their hands into them, pushing them slightly forward in a gesture that contributed immeasurably to the movement of the full skirts.”

Strangely, among the synched waists, exaggerated bosoms and extravagant accessories, it was actually the long skirts that seemed to cause the most controversy. While 1940s fashion had generally seen skirts and dresses stop somewhere around the knee, the New Look wasn’t concerned with fabric rationing and so its hems sat around the mid-shin instead. To some, those seemingly inconsequential inches were seen as a snub to the wa reffort itself.

However, back in the 1940s, Dior and his family had seen their fair share of involvement in the war. Born in Normandy in 1905, his family moved to Paris when he was a child and the family name was best associated with his father’s lucrative fertiliser company. As an adult, Dior was always submerged in the capital’s creative scene, eventually falling under the guidance of Robert Piguet — the same fashion designer who is said to have trained Hubert de Givenchy. Sadly this was short-lived and, at 35 years old, Dior was called up for military service in 1940.

After his two-year service, he returned to the capital where was scooped up as a designer by the prominent couturier Lucien Lelong. It is said that while Dior worked for Lelong, the team, like many fashion houses during the French Occupation, dressed the wives and family members of elite Nazis and French collaborators.

However, when Hitler tried to move Parisian haute couture to Berlin, Lelong travelled to Germany just to argue against it. He won that battle, saving a workforce of roughly 25,000 women, often seamstresses working in specialised fields of embroidery or beading, that was partly made up of Jewish refugees.

Meanwhile, Dior’s sister Catherine was a member of the French Resistance. Allegedly partof the Polish intelligence unit based in France, she was eventually arrested and imprisoned in a concentration camp in 1944 until its liberation in 1945. Two years later — in the same year that he launched his famous ‘New Look’ — Dior released his first and most famous fragrance, Miss Dior, named after his sister.

By the time Dior made the cover of Time magazine in 1957, he was easily considered one of the world’s most famous Parisians. However, just a few months later — and only one decade after he was first launched into the spotlight with his New Look — the designer died of a heart attack while on holiday in Italy at 52 years of age.

While it was a shock to everyone, Dior had already personally named his successor and the role of artistic director fell on the shoulders of a young assistant by the name of Yves Saint Laurent. However, he on ly managed to run the company for a few years as he was called back to his home country of Algeria for military service — but he did eventually begin his own self-titled label in 1962.

As a brand, Dior has launched countless perfumes as well as make-up and fashion collections over its 70-year history, each time pushing different trends, styles and silhouettes, including its 1961 ‘The Slim Look’ and its first men’s range in the 1970s. Nothing, however, has come close to recreating the social and historical impact of that first controversial New Look from February 1947.

By Louise Quick in "All About History", UK, issue 61, 2018, excerpts pp.78-81. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa
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