Demonic Bodies and the Dark

Ecologies of Early Christian Culture

Travis W. Proctor
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Demonic Bodies and the Dark Ecologies of Early
Christian Culture
 Demonic Bodies and the Dark
Ecologies of Early Christian Culture
TRAVIS W. PROCTOR
 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Proctor, Travis W., author.
Title: Demonic bodies and the dark ecologies of early Christian culture /
Travis W. Proctor. Other titles: Rulers of the sea
Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2022] |
Originally presented as author’s Thesis (Ph.D.—University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
Department of Religious Studies, 2017) under the title: Rulers of the sea) |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021049822 (print) | LCCN 2021049823 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197581162 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197581186 (epub) | ISBN 9780197581193
Subjects: LCSH: Human body—Religious aspects—Christianity—
History of doctrines—Early church, ca. 30–600. |
Demonology—History of doctrines—Early church, ca. 30–600. |
Rites and ceremonies—History—To 1500. | Church history—Primitive and early church, ca.
30–600.
Classification: LCC BT741.3.P76 2022 (print) | LCC BT741.3 (ebook) |
DDC 233/.5—dc23/eng/20211109
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021049822
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021049823
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197581162.001.0001
For my parents, with love and gratitude.
 Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction: Evil Entanglements

1. Disabled Demons: Demonic Disembodiment in Second Temple
Judaism and the Gospel of Mark
2. Bodiless Demons: Ignatius of Antioch, the Coptic Apocalypse of
Peter, and the Demonic Body of Jesus
3. Changeable Demons: Demonic Polymorphy, “Magic,” and
Christian Exorcism in the Writings of Justin Martyr
4. Belly-Demons: Clement of Alexandria and Demonic Sacrifice
5. Abject Demons: Tertullian of Carthage, Roman “Religion,” and
the Abject Body
Conclusion: Christians among Demons and Humans

Notes
Bibliography
Index
 Acknowledgments

My fascination with demons began early in my academic journey,

when I wrote an undergraduate thesis at Washington University in
St. Louis on the demonology of Justin Martyr’s Apologies. This book
is in many ways a sequel to that initial venture, and thus over a
decade in the making. A project with such a long history
accumulates many debts.
First, I am deeply grateful to Bart Ehrman, whose patient
guidance of this project in its form as a doctoral dissertation at UNC-
Chapel Hill was essential to its success. Bart provided stalwart
mentorship, attentive guidance, and careful feedback at every stage
of the work. It would be a much inferior project, and I a much lesser
scholar, if not for his direction.
Elizabeth Clark welcomed me into her courses and intellectual
community with open arms, providing good company, stimulating
conversation, and valuable feedback all along the way. Zlatko Pleše
and James Rives likewise provided careful comments and feedback,
often supplying important yet patient correctives. Other faculty
members at UNC similarly furnished support and guidance: Randall
Styers, Juliane Hammer, David Lambert, Lauren Leve, Laurie Maffly-
Kipp, Jodi Magness, Omid Safi, Jes Boon, and Brandon Bayne,
among others.
I owe a deep debt to others who have read all or parts of the
manuscript in its various forms: Annette Yoshiko Reed, Dale Martin,
Jennifer Knust, Mark Letteney, Heidi Marx, and Dayna Kalleres.
Special thanks are due to the friends and colleagues who have
inspired me with great conversation and supportive comradery:
Andrew Aghapour, Matthew Hotham, Michael Muhammad Knight,
Leif Tornquist, Nathan Schradle, Megan Goodwin, Ilyse Morgenstein-
Fuerst, Kathy Foody, Anne Blankenship, Stephanie Gaskill, Shannon
Schorey, Brook Wilensky-Lanford, Jenna Supp-Montgomerie, Shaily
Patel, Jason Combs, Jason Staples, Brian Coussens, Erin Walsh, Julie
Lillis, Jeremiah Bailey, CJ Schmidt, Brad Erickson, Bo Eberle,
Benjamin White, and Pam Mullins Reaves.
I am appreciative of the support of the North American Patristics
Society, whose Dissertation Completion Grant furnished additional
time for research and writing. I am also indebted to the Dolores
Zohrab Liebmann fund, which provided funding for teaching releases
at important stages of my research and writing.
Before my time in North Carolina, I benefited from the great
mentorship of Religious Studies and Classics faculty at Washington
University in St. Louis, especially Roshan Abraham, Jonathan
Schwiebert, and Daniel Bornstein.
Steve Wiggins has been an excellent editor who expertly guided
me through the review and editing process. The anonymous readers
at OUP, whose generosity was matched only by their careful
attention to detail, made very helpful suggestions that improved the
manuscript.
I owe thanks to the many students at UNC-Chapel Hill, Northland
College, and, most recently, Wittenberg University, who have
humored the ways in which demons seem to show up in all corners
of Religious Studies courses.
I am grateful for my friends and former colleagues at Northland
College, especially Kyle Bladow, Jessica Eckhardt, Dave Ullman, Kate
Ullman, Emily Macgillivray, Kevin Schanning, Brian Tochterman, Ruth
de Jesus, Erica Hannickel, Jason Terry, Leslie Alldritt, and Tim Doyle,
who provided great intellectual comradery and friendship as this
project was transitioning from its dissertation to book phases.
Thanks are also (and especially) due to David Saetre, my
predecessor in teaching Religious Studies at Northland, whose
friendship and mentorship were invaluable as I began my
postgraduate career.
At Wittenberg University so many have provided guidance and
support, including Nancy McHugh, Chris Raffensperger, Michelle
Mattson, Heather Wright, and Julius Bailey. My greatest debt of
gratitude is owed to Jennifer Oldstone-Moore, whose friendship,
mentorship, and support have been unfailing.
This project would not have been possible without the steadfast
support of the library staffs at UNC-Chapel Hill, Northland College,
and Wittenberg University. In particular, to Elizabeth Madsen-
Genszler, Julia Waggoner, Suzanne Smailes, Karen Balliet, and Lori
Judy: thank you.
No other person supported me over the length of this project
more than Casey Proctor, whose intelligence, good humor, and
abiding love make the work worth doing, and worth taking a break
from. My two children, Caroline and Jackson, have constantly
reminded me how fun it is to learn new things. My sister Heather
and niece Madison have provided unwavering support and good
laughs along the way. This book is dedicated to my parents, David
and Tina Proctor, whose selfless care and unending support nurtured
my love of learning, even when it took me far from home and into
the unfamiliar worlds of academia. May this be a small token of
gratitude for all that they have given me.
 Introduction
Evil Entanglements

Demons and Bodies in the Ancient

Mediterranean
This is a book about demons—the residual spiritual offspring of
primordial fallen angels (or fallen angels themselves) who waged an
obstinate onslaught on humans in general, and the followers of
Jesus in particular.1 But reader beware: demons are notorious for
telling half-truths. In his Literal Commentary on Genesis, published
in the early fifth century, Augustine explains that demons use their
“far more subtle” (longe subtilior) bodies to inform humans of events
that have occurred elsewhere in the world, deceiving humans into
thinking that their informants possessed skills of divination
(12.17.34–38). Similarly, the second-century Christian apologist
Tatian advises his readers that demons “slip on the masks” of the
Greco-Roman gods in order to fool unsuspecting worshipers into
offering them sacrifice (Address to the Greeks 16.1).2 Christian
writers also warned that those who consort with demons are
sometimes apt to take up their ways, falsehoods included. It will
become clear that the present author is no exception, as this book-
about-demons will at times shapeshift into a book-about-humans,
and back again.
According to early Christian accounts, demons afflicted human
victims with harmful maladies, usurped their bodies, and dissuaded
or distracted them from appropriate worship practices. On these
points, Christians largely agreed. On other demonological issues,
Christians diverged. Are demons gaining strength, or waning in
importance? Do demons “haunt” particular places, or is their
presence primarily occasioned by certain human actions? Do demons
have their own bodies, or are they purely “ethereal” entities that can
only inhabit the bodies of others (e.g., humans and nonhuman
animals)? The latter question was apparently the subject of some
dispute. According to Origen of Alexandria, for example, some
Christians claimed that demons were incorporeal, while others
argued for the “fine” corporeality of demons:

Now this [demonic body] (daemonici corporis) is by nature a fine substance and
thin like air (subtile quoddam et velut aura tenue), and on this account most
people think and speak of it as incorporeal . . . It is customary for everything
which is not like [the human body] to be termed incorporeal by the more simple
and uneducated of humans (incorporeum a simplicioriubus vel imperitioribus
nominatur) just as the air we breathe may be called incorporeal because it is not a
body that can be grasped or held or that can resist pressure. (On First Principles,
pref.8; emphasis mine)3

Even a brief survey of early Christian literature substantiates Origen’s

observation: early Christians held variant viewpoints on demonic
(in)corporeality. Several Christian writers depict demons as lacking
bodies; Ignatius of Antioch, for example, refers to demons as
“bodiless” and contrasts their ethereal existence with the “flesh” of
human corporeality (Letter to the Smyrnaeans 2–3).4 Other Christian
authors, by contrast, posit that demons indeed have bodies, even if
composed of thin material “stuff” (see later discussion).5
But what would it have meant to argue over whether a demon
has a “body,” especially in the context of Greco-Roman antiquity?
Origen’s previously quoted comments regarding the “fine” or “thin”
body of demons alert the modern reader to the important
observation that while ancient terms for the body (Gr., σῶμα; Lat.,
corpus; Copt., ⲥⲱⲙⲁ) parallel modern usage in their reference to the
“physical” bodies of humans and other creatures, they were also
frequently applied to a much broader range of “embodied” entities
that had a more ethereal material composition. In his landmark
treatment of the issue, Dale Martin helpfully traced how post-
Cartesian dichotomies between “immaterial” mind/soul and
“material” body can be misleading when applied to the ancient
world.6 Most significantly, it should be stressed that “corporeal” did
not always simply equate to possessing a body similar in “material”
composition to humans. Rather, as Gregory Smith puts it, ancient
conceptions of the body comprised “a more or less finely graded
range of material existence, ranging from the tangible human body
and its parts (inside and out), to the fine-material stuff of souls,
demons, and air (including pneuma in its various forms).”7 Many
ancient thinkers, for example, held that embodiment might be
defined not only by physical constitution, but also by the ability to
act or be acted upon, extension through space, or three-
dimensionality. The Epicurean Lucretius, for example, held that the
possession of corporeality was necessary in order for anything to act
or be acted upon; every active being in the world, therefore,
including ethereal entities such as souls, were necessarily considered
“embodied” in Lucretius’s understanding.8 Stoic intellectuals similarly
argued that corporeality was not restricted to those entities
possessing bodies similar to humans, but extended to anything that
exists within the world (whatever its substance).9 Finally, Clement of
Alexandria and Tertullian of Carthage, the subjects of Chapters 4 and
5, respectively, equate corporeality with possessing three dimensions
(length/height, depth, and breadth), rather than a specific material
constitution.10 These intellectuals are just a few examples of what
we might call “expansive corporealists,” that is, ancient thinkers or
traditions that were willing to grant corporeality even to entities that
were composed of rather ethereal “stuff.” This concept means that
we, as modern readers, must allow ancient terminology for “body” to
encompass a wider range of entities than our cognate terminologies
typically permit.
Significantly, ancient writers from a wide variety of intellectual
traditions included demons among the classes of embodied entities,
a point superbly laid out by Gregory Smith in his 2008 article “How
Thin Is a Demon?”11 But in such cases, what was the “stuff” of the
demonic body? Many writers of the ancient Mediterranean—Greco-
Roman traditionalists and Christian intellectuals among them—
characterized demons as possessing bodies made of pneuma
(“spirit”; πνεῦμα, spiritus, ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁ).12 In antiquity, pneuma often
referred simply to “breath” or “spirit,”13 but was also used to
describe the composition of “thin-bodied” entities (e.g., the human
soul, angels, demons). The Christian apologist Tatian, for example,
claimed that the composition of demons was “spiritual”
(πνευματικός).14 Origen of Alexandria similarly asserted that the air
in the atmosphere around the earth was of similar substance to that
of demons.15 The Neoplatonist Porphyry of Tyre also argued that
demons had bodies (or “vessels”) composed of pneuma, which
allowed these entities to change shape and become visible to
humans.16 As a final example, the Greek Magical Papyri (PGM)
include spells that seem to presume the pneumatic composition of
“demonic” assistants.17
Ancient descriptions of demonic composition as “pneumatic” or
“soul-like” might imply to contemporary readers that demons were
indeed “bodiless,” or perhaps lacking “solid” material physiology. But,
as Smith aptly notes, “when it comes to demons in Roman and later
antiquity . . . tidy material divisions between mind and body are best
checked at the door.”18 Indeed, ancient writers typically
characterized pneuma as “fine material”—that is, it possessed some
form of material “stuff,” even if imperceptibly so.19 Demons’
pneumatic or “airy” physiology, moreover, was closely related to their
residence in the “intermediate” atmosphere between earth and the
heavens, a connection noted by several ancient authors.20 For many
in antiquity, therefore, the “stuff” of the demonic body was as real
and tangible as the air humans breathe and the atmosphere that
envelops the earth. “Demons . . . were thoroughly mixed up with
matter,” Smith fittingly concludes.21
Nevertheless, despite the relative popularity of expansive
corporealism, not every ancient thinker was quite so eager to extend
embodiment to ethereal entities like demons. Most famously, Plato
(and many of his intellectual successors) posited a rather strong
dualism between body and soul, arguing that the soul as an
“intelligible” entity should be distanced from the “corporeal” nature
of the body.22 What is more, we have seen already how Origen
disparages the “simple and uneducated” for equating “incorporeal”
with, so to put, “things that do not have bodies like humans” (see
previous discussion). Tertullian of Carthage makes a similar remark
with regard to the soul, noting that “the tenuousness and subtlety
(tenuitatis subtilitas) of its structure militates against the belief in its
corporeality” (On the Soul 9.6).23 Tertullian’s and Origen’s comments
both attest that, despite their own expansive corporealism, other
thinkers in antiquity often equated “corporeality” with “possessing a
body similar to that of humans”; in such cases, demons would
presumably be classified as “incorporeal” (ἀσώματος). Within early
Christian literature, we encounter a likely example of such reasoning
in the work of Ignatius of Antioch.24
Nevertheless, as Dale Martin has noted, “for most ancient
philosophers, to say that something was incorporeal was not to say
that it was immaterial.”25 Indeed, while “incorporeal” was sometimes
used to indicate that something lacked the normal “fleshly” body of
humans, this did not necessarily mean that an entity was purely
immaterial or lacking a physical constitution altogether.26 Rather,
strict immateriality or incorporeality was most often reserved for the
highest divine beings (or abstract concepts and ideas); entities that
acted within the mundane or supra-mundane cosmos were typically
presumed to have some kind of physical constitution, whether or not
it was characterized as a “body.”27 This is a significant insight for
what follows, in that even when demons are described as (or implied
to be) incorporeal, they were still often imagined to be active agents
in the world, wreaking havoc despite (or thanks to) their rather thin
physiques.
Demonic Bodies captures the diversity of early Christian portrayals
of demonic (in)corporeality by exploring instances in which Christian
writers explicitly ascribe some form of corporeality to demons (e.g.,
Chapters 3, 4, and 5) as well as cases in which it is implied that
demons lack bodies (e.g., Chapters 1 and 2). While Origen opines
that such ideational diversity is due to varying levels of intelligence
among Christians, my findings suggest that Christian demonological
discrepancies are informed at least in part by concomitant
divergences concerning the makeup of the (ideal) Christian body. Put
another way, Christian demonological constructions took shape in
tandem with concurrent anthropological concepts. My interest in the
Christian body signals my indebtedness to gender- and cultural-
studies scholarship that traces the social contingency of human
embodiment. Studies of early Christianity have drawn extensively on
this brand of scholarship,28 but one aspect of ancient embodiment
has remained relatively underexplored: the interconnection between
cultural constructions of the body and surrounding nonhuman
environments. This approach requires the marshaling of new
theoretical resources for telling fresh histories of the early Christian
cosmos.

Theorizing Early Christian Ecologies

Scholars, activists, and civic leaders are increasingly grappling with
what it means—and will mean—to be human in a time when the
bearers of that label have wrought destruction on a grand scale to
ecosystems, creatures, and global environments. Many
contemporary scholars have argued that modern constructions of
the human body as separate and disconnected from its surrounding
nonhuman environments have been primary culprits in historical
ecological malpractice. Bruno Latour famously argued in We Have
Never Been Modern that one of the distinctive “practices” of
modernity has been the creation of “two entirely distinct ontological
zones: that of human beings on the one hand; that of nonhumans
on the other.”29 Linda Nash has traced similar histories within the
realms of medicine and environmentalism, noting how (premodern)
“ecological” anthropologies typically viewed human bodies as
“malleable and porous entities that were in constant interaction with
the surrounding environment,” whereas the “modern” period
witnessed the creation “of a distinct and bounded body, clearly
separate from its environment.”30 Contemporary environmental
theorists frequently point to this distinctly “modern” view of the
body, most often traced to the thought of Descartes, as the root
cause for modern mistreatment of nonhuman nature. And so Laurel
Kearns argues, for example, that the “dualism” between human and
nonhuman has led to the “othering” of nonhuman entities and
environments (as well as humans associated with them), and thus to
their designation as entities “deserving less respect, less justice, and
less acknowledgment.”31
In response, posthumanist theoretical perspectives have
scrutinized the historical consolidation of “human” as a cultural
category, while also drawing attention to the many interconnections
between humans and nonhuman ecosystems, as part of a general
attempt at disrupting the isolation of humans from their nonhuman
contexts.32 A “posthuman” approach, then, designates “the
variegated efforts to rethink the human,” which collectively respond
“to the legacies of humanism by breaking up, fracturing, distributing,
and decentralizing the self-willing person, questioning its subjectival
unity and epistemological conceits.”33 Along such lines, Kim TallBear
calls on scholars to investigate how humans and other (nonhuman)
entities “are coconstituted with cultural, political, and economic
forces.”34 Through this process, we can begin the process of
“thinking-with” the nonhuman, such that “the domain of ways of
being and knowing dilates, expands, [and] adds both ontological and
epistemological possibilities.”35
Such “posthuman” connections are not unique to our modern
period; rather, humans and nonhuman others “have always
performed an intricate dance with each other. There was never a
time when human agency was anything other than an interfolding
network of humanity and nonhumanity.”36 The historical connections
between humans and nonhumans push us to consider not only
posthuman futures, then, but also what we might call “prehuman”
pasts—that is, how premodern humans historically conceived of their
relationship with nonhuman entities and environments in ways that
trouble human/nonhuman boundaries.37 In this way, Denise Kimber
Buell notes how “the ‘post’ of posthumanism need not indicate an
attempt to ‘get beyond’ the human but rather a marker of the desire
to question and transform what humanness can be and may
become.”38 Demonic Bodies posits that early Christian cosmologies
provide key opportunities for exploring such “prehuman” ecologies,
and that investigating ancient ecosystems has the potential both to
inform our understandings of ancient subjectivity and to dilate
contemporary theories of human/nonhuman interconnections.
Extant early Christian texts reveal the degree to which ancient
writers (and, most likely, many of their readers) imagined and
experienced themselves to be enmeshed in cosmic environments
teeming with hosts of nonhuman entities, including god(s), demons,
angels, ghosts, and nonhuman animals, to name but a few.
Nevertheless, when entities such as demons and angels have been
considered in early Christian studies, they have typically been
grouped under analyses of “supernatural” cosmologies, rather than
the “real” environments as part of which humans lived and moved.
This categorization may be due in part to the difficulty of assessing
the impact of entities, such as demons or angels, which are less
“available” to modern readers for close analysis and investigation.
Nevertheless, it must be emphasized that nonhuman entities were
no less impactful to ancient Christian worldviews and lived realities,
as the ancient Christian body “was embedded in a cosmic matrix in
ways that made its perception of itself profoundly unlike our own.”39
Ellen Muehlberger has traced similar insights with respect to ancient
angels, noting how such nonhuman entities “are real to religious
practitioners” insofar as they are capable of “influencing behavior
and the generation of new ideas because they are given parts of late
ancient Christian culture.”40 In this vein C. Michael Chin has called on
scholars to conduct multifaceted “cosmological historiographies,”
which duly appreciate that “events and actions are necessarily the
products of multiple interacting agents, only some of whom are
human.”41 Demonic Bodies investigates how Christian writers of the
first–third centuries CE created Christian modes of thought and
practice as co-constitutive with nonhuman, demonic entities. While
previous studies have emphasized the significance of demons for
issues of early Christian identity and practice, I turn attention
specifically to the demonic body (or its absence), noting how it was
part of the broader production of multispecies (i.e., human and
nonhuman) cosmological ecosystems.
My focus on demonic and human (in)corporeality builds upon the
robust scholarly interest in ideational perceptions and portrayals of
the body. In this line of inquiry, the body and its concomitant
materiality or gender/sexuality are not natural attributes, but
culturally contingent products of ideological constructions. I examine
how the body is a “performative” entity, or “a stylized repetition of
acts” that produces the corporeal “self.”42 My focus on early Christian
ritual, in particular, traces how bodies emerge through “a process of
materialization,”43 entailing “reiterative and citational” practices that
echo and allude to prior corporeal performances.44 To aid in my
exploration of the body’s relation with nonhuman entities, I utilize
the lens of “trans-corporeality,” adapted from the work of
environmental theorist Stacy Alaimo. This concept calls attention to
the ways in which “the human is always intermeshed with the more-
than-human world,” to such an extent that “the substance of the
human is ultimately inseparable from ‘the environment.’ ”45 Trans-
corporeality draws attention to the fact that humans are constantly
ingesting, absorbing, or coming into contact with air, water, plants,
animals, toxins, bacteria, and viruses, to name just a handful of the
nonhuman entities that constitute our most immediate
environments. According to Alaimo, considering these kinds of trans-
corporeal exchanges between human bodies and nonhuman entities
“enacts an environmental posthumanism, insisting that what we are
as bodies and minds is inextricably interlinked with the circulating
substances, materialities, and forces.”46 Posthuman here does not
gesture toward a teleology of human progress, then, but comprises
“an assertion that, to echo Bruno Latour, we have never been human
—if to be human begins with a separation from, or a disavowal of,
the very stuff of the world.”47
Demonic Bodies traces this insight into antiquity, demonstrating
how ancient Christian notions of the human body were inter-
implicated with demonic corporeality. Of course, writers in the
ancient Mediterranean, including early Christians, held to a wide
variety of views on the physical constitution, origin, and ultimate fate
of the human body. In each chapter, therefore, I provide detailed
overviews of the specific anthropologies evinced by each author or
text(s), and note how their views of the human body in particular
draw upon or contribute to concomitant views on demonic
(in)corporeality.48 In doing so, Demonic Bodies traces how trans-
corporeal relationships between humans and nonhumans are not
only characteristic of our “posthuman” present, but also an
important element in understanding our ancient “prehuman” past.
My specific focus on early Christians’ trans-corporeal relations
with demons—malevolent beings par excellence of Christian
ecosystems—is part of a conscious attempt to capture the “dark
ecologies” of human experience. Environmental theorist Timothy
Morton has noted how the foundations for contemporary
environmental awareness too often precede either from viewing
nonhuman “nature” as an entity external to the human subject or
from idealized ethics that view human-nonhuman interconnections
purely in romanticized terms.49 On the latter point, Lisa Sideris has
argued that contemporary Christian eco-theologians too often
ground their environmental ethics on notions of ecological “benign
interdependence,” which (rightly) stresses interconnections between
humans and nonhumans, but (misleadingly) implies that these
interrelationships are uniformly positive.50 Humanity’s
interconnection with nonhuman entities, however, comprises what
Morton aptly calls a “demonic proximity”—the two “become
entangled” in ways that are ambivalent and even harmful.51 One
might here think of toxic waste sites, polluted rivers, disease-
carrying mosquitoes, or carnivorous predators, all of which are part
of ecological relations—pollution, spread of disease, or predation—
that have the potential to bring harm to humans or others.
Hence a challenge for modern environmental theorists and
ethicists: how does one theorize environmental interconnection such
that our ecological “awareness” includes due acknowledgment of
these rather disconcerting ecological linkages?52 Demonic Bodies
emerges from the conviction that formulating more robust
environmental ethics depends at least in part on telling “darker”
environmental histories: our multispecies historiographies must call
attention to our trans-corporeal relations with nonhuman
ecosystems, even (or especially) when those relations are
ambivalent or harmful.
Ancient demonology may seem an odd place to turn for such a
task. What do Christian “supernatural” beings have to do with
environmental “realities”? As Morton notes, however, the modern
dichotomy between external “reality” and internal “imagination” is
problematized by ecological perspectives: “If the very question of
inside and outside is what ecology undermines . . . , [then] surely
this is a matter of seeing how ecosystems are made not only of
trees, rock formations, and pigs (seemingly ‘external’ to the human)
but also of thoughts, wishes, or fantasies (seemingly ‘inside’ our
human heads)?”53 Even those elements of human culture considered
“fantastical” or “imaginative” (e.g., religious “mythologies”), then,
can be important constituents of humanity’s environments. Stuart
Clark has noted elsewhere, for example, how Christian writers,
despite modern construals of demonic beings as “supernatural”
creatures, consistently depicted (evil) demonic entities as part and
parcel of the “natural world.”54 Indeed, as discussed previously,
numerous ancient intellectuals—including Christian writers such as
Athenagoras and Tertullian, as well as non-Christians like Apuleius of
Madaura and Plutarch of Chaeronea—argued that demons had their
“natural” abode in the “airy” atmosphere above the earth, where
their ethereal substance was most at home.55 Hence no exploration
of ancient Christian “ecosystems” would be complete without taking
account of the myriad cosmic entities—demons among them—that
populated early Christian worlds.
Ancient demonologies present an opportunity, therefore, to reflect
on how early Christians conceived of their “dark” ecological
connections with malevolent entities, and how such relations
contributed to the formation of Christian cultures. Demonic Bodies
traces in particular how early Christian perceptions of demonic
propinquity contributed to the simultaneous valorization and
marginalization of particular Christian corporeal paradigms, and thus
to the creation of asymmetric cultural valuations of the human body.
My tracing of the human body’s trans-corporeal relationship with
demons, while troubling the historical stability of the human subject,
does so as a first step in proposing new ways of understanding
human culture and its many interconnections with nonhuman others.

Outlining the Project

Demonic Bodies argues that ancient Christians described and
experienced their bodies as trans-corporeal entities, which were
caught up in a multitude of interactions with nonhuman others,
demons among them. I trace the trans-corporeal relationship
between humans and demons in three ways: physical connections,
conceptual constructions, and ritual performance. First, many
Christian writers claimed that the human body was vulnerable to
becoming physically entangled with or influenced by demonic
creatures; we see this vulnerability especially through anxieties
surrounding demonic possession or attack (Chapters 1 and 5) and
illicit demonic influence over the human mind or soul (Chapter 3), as
well as the metamorphosis of human corporeality into some kind of
“demonic” state (Chapters 2 and 4). In this way, Christians imagined
the boundaries of the Christian body as rather unstable and porous,
sometimes easily traversed or altered by ambiguously corporeal
entities such as demons.
Second, Demonic Bodies traces how conceptual constructions of
demonic (dis)embodiment informed attendant constructions of
proper and improper Christian (human) corporeality. Specifically, I
argue that Christian descriptions of demonic (in)corporeality reflect
shifts and differences in early Christian anthropology, insofar as the
attributes that characterize constructions of proper human
embodiment are frequently portrayed as inverted or deficient in
Christian representations of demonic (dis)embodiment. Ignatius of
Antioch, for example, asserts the “bodiless” nature of demons, while
simultaneously arguing for the salvific value of the flesh.56
Conversely, Clement of Alexandria stresses the “corpulent” and
“fattened” nature of demonic corporeality, to be contrasted with the
“thinned” flesh of the idealized Christian intellectual. .57 As
evidenced by these two examples, Christian disagreements
regarding the nature of the demonic body frequently contributed to
and drew upon adjacent discrepancies regarding human
(in)corporeality. I note how in this process the demonic body proved
doubly useful—as an entity with a rather unsettled (in)corporeal
nature, on the one hand, demonic bodies shifted in conversation
with the concerns and ideologies of various Christian authors and
communities. And yet, as nonhuman creatures of a higher-order
cosmic sphere, demons served Christian writers well in undergirding
their diverse anthropologies and heresiologies with more stable
cosmic foundations.
Third and finally, I outline how the threat of physical
entanglement with demons, combined with conceptual constructions
of demonic (dis)embodiment, informed particular Christian ritual
practices and thus contributed to Christian corporeal performances.
Throughout the work I use ritual to denote the way in which humans
engage in formal, rule-governed, symbolic, and performative
activities that distinguish a particular time or space as sacred or
important.58 My work examines in particular how early Christian
demonologies helped to shape (and were shaped by) ritual
discourses, which enacted “bodily dispositions” that held “practical
sense” for their practitioners.59 In this way, demonic (in)corporeality
played an important part not only in reflecting early Christian bodily
ethics, but also in reproducing Christian corporeal performances.
Through conceptual demonization and attendant ritualizations, I
argue, Christian writers assembled inequitable ecosystems whereby
particular Christian groups, rituals, or ideas were marginalized
through their linkage to evil cosmic agents.
Across these three areas—physical connections, conceptual
constructions, and ritual enactments—Demonic Bodies outlines how
demonic (in)corporeality played an important role in how the human
body took shape as a trans-corporeal, ecological entity.60 “To think
ecologically,” Levi Bryant states, “is not to think nature per se but to
think relations between things.”61 Demonic Bodies explores the
bodily relations between demons and humans, noting how these two
creatures were mutually enmeshed in cosmic ecologies, and thus
were a part of complex, multidirectional, and multi-agential
corporeal ecosystems. My emphasis on ecological enmeshment,
moreover, draws attention to the fact that, in the same way that an
organism might have multiple and variable relations with the various
other entities within its ecosystem, so also the Christian body
experienced interconnections with the demonic in numerous ways;
whether via demonic possession, attack, temptation, or
transmutation, the relation between Christian corporeality and its
demonic counterpart took on a variety of forms.
The project comprises five case studies, each of which traces the
Christian body’s trans-corporeal relations through a specific theme:
(dis)ability, physiology, changeability, animality, and abjection,
respectively. The first two chapters inaugurate the study through
examinations of early Christian traditions regarding “bodiless”
demons. Chapter 1, “Disabled Demons: Demonic Disembodiment in
Second Temple Judaism and the Gospel of Mark,” examines how the
Gospel of Mark portrays demons as impaired, disembodied entities,
closely mirroring ancient Jewish traditions that identify demons as
the residual souls of antediluvian giants. The disembodied status of
the demonic, in turn, informs their misplacement as foreign
“spiritual” entities in a fleshly world. In this regard it is notable that
two of the major exorcism narratives in Mark involve Jesus’s
interaction with “foreign” (i.e., non-Jewish) peoples. In the second
part of the chapter, therefore, I trace how the Second Gospel’s
exorcism narratives utilize Jesus’s expulsion of “foreign,” impure
spirits to delineate relations between Jewish and non-Jewish
members of the Jesus movement. The chapter concludes by tracing
how the Second Gospel constructs the human body as prone to
possession by external spirits, as evidenced in the exorcism
narratives as well as Jesus’s implicit claim to being possessed by the
“holy spirit.” While many ancient corporeal paradigms held that such
porosity was characteristic only of “weak” bodies, the Gospel of Mark
emphasizes Jesus’s masculine potency through his “binding” of the
Strong Man through exorcism. In this way, the disabled body of the
demonic emerges as a key component in the Second Gospel’s
construction of the potent abilities of Jesus the exorcist.
In Chapter 2, “Bodiless Demons: Ignatius of Antioch, the Coptic
Apocalypse of Peter, and the Demonic Body of Jesus,” I turn to
another tradition of “bodiless” demons, found in Ignatius of Antioch’s
Letter to the Smyrnaeans. There, Ignatius claims that any Christian
who believes in a phantasmal Jesus will be “just like what they
believe,” that is, they will be “without bodies” and “demonic”
(Smyrn. 2). Through this equivalency, Ignatius caricatures his
opponents’ views of Christ by equating them with a demonic
Christology. Furthermore, Ignatius condemns his opponents to a
bodiless and demonic afterlife. Elsewhere in his letters, Ignatius
emphasizes the importance of Jesus’s existence as a dyadic flesh-
and-spirit body, as well as the continued presence of Jesus’s flesh
and spirit in the Christian Eucharist. Ignatius’s citation of demonic
incorporeality, therefore, serves Ignatius well in circumscribing the
Christian community by constraining proper Christian embodiment: a
docetic Christian believes in and will become a “bodiless demon,”
and will thus lack the required corporeality for proper participation in
the orthodox Church and its unifying ritual, the Eucharist. I conclude
the chapter by juxtaposing Ignatius’s portrayal of bodiless demons
with the Coptic Apocalypse of Peter’s depiction of demons as entities
mired in the fleshly world in order to demonstrate how variant
demonologies informed divergent materializations of the Christian
body.
In the three chapters that follow, I examine early Christian
constructions of demonic corporeality that, unlike those traditions in
the Gospel according to Mark and letters of Ignatius, emphasize
demons’ possession of fine-material bodies. In Chapter 3,
“Changeable Demons: Demonic Polymorphy, ‘Magic,’ and Christian
Exorcism in the Writings of Justin Martyr,” I explore Justin Martyr’s
claim that demons, like their angelic fathers, mutated and assumed
various forms as part of their efforts to deceive humans, promote
improper worship, and inspire persecution against Christians. I argue
that Justin’s distinctive highlighting of demonic changeability
emerges alongside his counter-emphasis on the “immovability” of
the Christian God, which, in turn, functions to undercut the
polymorphic Greco-Roman pantheon’s collective claim to divinity. In
the second part of the chapter, I explore Justin’s distinctive retelling
of the myth of the Watchers in his 2 Apology, which omits the
characters of the giants in its recounting of demonic origins. In doing
so, Justin promotes a closer correspondence between fallen angels
and demons, highlighting his simultaneous ascription of polymorphic
capabilities to both angelic fathers and demonic sons. In the
chapter’s third part, I explore how Justin associates demonic
changeability with “magical” trickery, which aids the Apologist’s
constructions of proper Christian exorcism as a “simple” practice
distinct from “magical” alternatives.
In Chapter 4, “Belly-Demons: Clement of Alexandria and Demonic
Sacrifice,” I explore Clement of Alexandria’s exhortation that
Christians not mix the “body of the Lord” with the “table of demons”
by engaging in gluttonous eating habits. I note that, following Paul’s
comparable claims in 1 Corinthians, many early Christian writers
claimed that demons promoted animal sacrifice because they
consumed the blood and smoke produced as part of the sacrificial
process. In his own rendition of this claim, Clement of Alexandria
portrays the demonic body as animalistic and grotesquely “fattened”
due to its excess consumption of sacrificial fumes. Clement contrasts
the demons’ corpulence with his construal of the ideal Christian
body: chaste, thin, and constantly engaged in contemplative
practices that “strip away” the material body. The demonic body,
then, informs and undergirds Clement’s ritual program by providing a
negative stereotype of those bodily attributes that Clement urges his
readers to eschew.
In Chapter 5, “Abject Demons: Tertullian of Carthage, Roman
‘Religion,’ and the Abject Body,” I examine the intermixture of
demonic and Christian bodies in the writings of Tertullian of
Carthage. I begin by exploring Tertullian’s construction of humanity’s
dual flesh-and-spirit body in On the Soul, wherein he emphasizes the
pervasive attachment of demonic spirits to the human soul. This
demonic affliction stems, Tertullian claims, from inadvertent
participation in demonolatry via Roman “religious” rites. The only
method by which Roman citizens can remove their attendant
demonic spirit is through Christian baptism, a practice that Tertullian
views as essential in the creation of a new, demon-free Christian
body. In this way, the demonic body functions within Tertullian’s
writings as a kind of abject entity—one that is foreclosed as part of
the ritualized construction of the Christian body and yet loiters as a
threatening epitome of those elements unbecoming of Christian
corporeality. The lingering threat of the abject demon surfaces
mostly clearly in Tertullian’s On the Shows, a treatise that warns
Christians of the myriad activities contaminated by demons, which
therefore threaten to pollute the body and undo the salvific work of
Christian baptism. I note in particular how Tertullian’s citation of the
threat of demons undergirds Tertullian’s prescriptions regarding
appropriate Christian cultural practices, designed to exclude
“foreign” Roman cultural activities.
In the final chapter, “Conclusion: Christians among Demons and
Humans,” I place the study’s findings in conversation with
explorations in the humanities with regard to the “post-” and
“nonhuman.” I note there that early Christians depicted the demonic
body in widely divergent ways. Whether disembodied or corporeal,
fattened or ethereal, depictions of demonic (in)corporeality were as
diverse as the Christians who articulated them. Yet a consistent
feature of early Christian demonologies is the way in which demons
are enmeshed with their human counterparts. On the one hand,
Christian descriptions of demonic corporeality reflect shifts and
differences in early Christian anthropology insofar as they inversely
correlate to articulations of the ideal human body. In this way, the
demonic body contributed to the formation of exclusionary
environments, which, in turn, became an important part of how
Christian writers, readers, and listeners imagined, examined, and
performed their own modes of embodiment. The early Christian
body emerges, then, as a kind of “posthuman” (or, perhaps more
appropriately, “prehuman”) entity, a being that is thoroughly
enmeshed within its nonhuman cosmic environments—always
evolving and materializing in and through the concomitant
development of adjacent nonhuman entities, including demons.
Building on this insight, the final chapter concludes by reflecting
on how exploring the materializations of demons (and nonhuman
entities, more broadly) in ancient Christian literature can provide a
fruitful avenue not only for understanding antiquity, but also for
addressing contemporary cultural and ecological problems. In this
way, this project demonstrates that contemporary posthuman and
ecocritical theorizing not only has much to contribute to studies of
antiquity, but also that (ancient) history—the narratives humans tell
themselves about themselves—has an enduring importance in
informing how humans understand and interact with nonhuman
others, and thus has much to contribute to contemporary ecological
thought and practice.
 1
Disabled Demons
Demonic Disembodiment in Second Temple Judaism
and the Gospel of Mark

Apollonius of Tyana was not one for subtlety. According to his

biographer Philostratus, the neo-Pythagorean wonderworker once
helped the citizens of ancient Ephesus by putting an end to a plague
afflicting the city. Apollonius’s cure did not entail healing sick
Ephesians individually, but the removal of the ultimate source for the
disease: a demon masquerading as an old beggar in the city’s
famous theater. Apollonius confronted the plague-demon and urged
the Ephesians to stone him to death; although they initially
hesitated, they eventually realized he was a demon, showered him
with stones, and killed him. Apollonius thereafter directed the
Ephesians to remove the stones that had piled upon the demon.
Much to their surprise, what was revealed underneath was not the
body of the human beggar, but a massive dog “spitting foam from
the side of its mouth, as if rabid.” Philostratus informs the reader
that a statue of Hercules now stands “in the place in which the
apparition (φάσμα) was pelted to death” (Life of Apollonius 4.10).1
Philostratus’s vivid tale of the Ephesian plague-demon embodies
many themes found in exorcism narratives of the ancient
Mediterranean, including the association of demons with disease and
the ability of particularly powerful ritual experts to heal the afflicted.
What is particularly notable here, however, is the text’s emphasis on
the ambiguity of demonic embodiment. Did the demon actually take
on the form of a human beggar, or was this merely an appearance?
Was the form of the rabid dog the creature’s true nature, or another
deceptive facade? Does the demon’s identification as an “apparition”
mean that it did not have a body at all? Philostratus leaves such
questions unresolved, but he is not alone: as will be made evident in
the case studies to follow, the demonic body is nothing if not
polymorphic.
We can begin to appreciate the hybridity of demonic corporeality
by turning to the exploits of another first-century miracle worker,
Jesus of Nazareth. The Synoptic Gospels, our earliest extant
accounts of Jesus’s life, concur in depicting Jesus as one who—like
his contemporary Apollonius—had the ability to thwart the afflictions
of demons. But what was the nature of the creatures he expelled?
Previous treatments of New Testament and early Christian exorcism
narratives have largely ignored the nature and origins of the
demonic entities involved, preferring instead to focus their analyses
on the sociocultural, medical, or ritual elements of ancient
possession and exorcism. While such approaches have gleaned
important insights, they have sometimes viewed early Christian
demonologies in a “demythologizing” vein—that is, they have largely
ignored questions regarding the origin, nature, and activity of
demons themselves, preferring instead to examine how demons
point to other, less “fanciful” sociocultural realities.2 The bodies of
possessing demons, in particular, have received scant treatment
from contemporary commentators. This neglect is perhaps due to
the fact that possession and exorcism narratives portray demons as
usurping other (human, animal) bodies, and therefore imply that
demons lack autonomous corporeality.
In what follows, however, I note that the demons’ ostensible
disembodiment, much like the Ephesian plague-demon’s appearance
as a beggar, obscures a more manifold corporeal history—one that
includes a past as a fully embodied antediluvian “giant.” I excavate
this history through analysis of the Gospel according to Mark, our
earliest extant gospel and a text that stands as the source for much
of the early Jesus movement’s exorcism narratives.3 Demons in the
Gospel of Mark are disembodied, invasive, “impure” spirits who
desire to inhabit the human body and are able to inflict violence on
their human hosts with unnatural strength. This portrayal dovetails
with contemporaneous Second Temple Jewish demonologies,
wherein demons are understood to be the residual spirits of the
gigantic offspring of fallen angels and mortal women.
When contextualized in light of Second Temple Jewish and early
Christian mythologies, then, demons emerge as corporeally impaired
entities, dispossessed of their former (gigantic) fleshly corporeality.
This impairment informs the demons’ ultimate misplacement—
despite their “spiritual” nature, they are consigned to the earth, the
realm of fleshly bodies. In this way, demons emerge as paradigmatic
foreign, “out-of-place” entities. Notably, two of the major exorcism
narratives in the Second Gospel feature foreign (i.e., non-Jewish)
characters: the Gerasene demoniac and the Syrophoenician woman.
In the second part of the chapter, I trace how the Gospel of Mark
utilizes the exorcism of demons, cosmically out-of-place entities, in
order to demarcate relations between Jewish and foreign non-Jewish
members of the Jesus movement.
The chapter concludes by juxtaposing the disabled body of
demons with the empowered corporeality of Jesus of Nazareth,
exorcist par excellence in the Second Gospel. I note in particular
how the Second Gospel constructs Jesus’s body as porous, able to
“leak” divine power and also receive the indwelling holy spirit. While
some ancient paradigms of corporeality configured such porosity as
“weak” or too “feminine,” the Second Gospel underscores Jesus’s
masculinity and bodily potency through its depiction of exorcism, the
exemplary “binding of the Strong Man” (i.e., Satan/Beelzebul). In
this way, the mythic disablement of demons plays an integral role in
the Second Gospel’s construction of the potent abilities of the Jewish
exorcist, and thus in the construal of both the cause and remedy for
humanity’s corporeal entanglements with its demonic forces.
 Watchers, Giants, and Demons in Second
Temple Jewish Literature
Second Temple Jewish writers exhibit an apocalyptic demonology, a
view of demons as entirely evil beings that operate solely to harass,
possess, and inflict harm upon humans as part of the broader
eschatological battle between good and evil.4 According to prevailing
Second Temple mythologies, demons originated as the evil spirits of
primordial giants, who were themselves the offspring of fallen
angelic “Watchers” and their female mortal paramours. This tradition
forms the foundation for (most) Second Temple Jewish
demonologies, including that of the early Jesus movement.5 Genesis
provides one of the earliest accounts of the Watchers and giants.
After the creation of humanity and its multiplication over the earth,
Genesis relates the following cryptic account:

When men began to increase on earth and daughters were born to them, the
divine beings saw how beautiful the daughters of men were and took wives from
among those that pleased them . . . It was then, and later too, that the Nephilim
[LXX: “giants”] appeared on earth—when the divine beings cohabited with the
daughters of men, who bore them offspring. They were the heroes of old, the men
of renown. (Gen 6:1–2, 4 [Jewish Publication Society])

Genesis describes the primary characters of this myth vaguely, and

so Jewish and Christian interpretations of this passage have varied
widely. The Septuagint version of Genesis 6, however, identifies “the
Nephilim” as “giants” (γίγαντες). This identification suggests that
from an early period Jewish exegetes interpreted Genesis 6 as a
reference to the myth of the “Watchers,” a legend found in several
Second Temple texts that narrates the events immediately preceding
the great flood.
The earliest extant version of the Watchers myth appears in The
Book of the Watchers, a third-century BCE text that was eventually
included as part of 1 Enoch (chaps. 1–36).6 According to the Book of
the Watchers, heavenly angels began to lust after earthbound mortal
women, resulting in the angels’ descent to earth and copulation with
human partners (1 En. 6–7). In this way, the Book of the Watchers
attests to the possibility for trans-corporeal “relations” between
human and nonhuman creatures. In this case, however, such
interrelations have disastrous consequences. Soon after their inter-
species affair, the wives of the angels

conceived from them and bore to them great giants . . . And the giants began to
kill men and to devour them. And they began to sin against the birds and beasts
and creeping things and the fish, and to devour one another’s flesh. And they
drank the blood. (7:2, 4–5)7

The giants’ unruly behavior seemingly results from their motley

composition, as their mortal flesh did not properly mesh with their
angelic spirit.8 This theory is suggested by the Book of the Watchers’
identification of the giants as those “who were begotten by the
spirits and flesh” (15:8). The Book of the Watchers explains,
moreover, that things from heavenly and earthly realms should not
intermingle: “The spirits of heaven, in heaven is their dwelling; but
the spirits begotten on the earth, on the earth is their dwelling”
(15:10). On the basis of these passages, Archie Wright proposes
that there might have been “an innate incompatibility between the
angelic spirit of the giant and his flesh,” which then brought about
the giants’ violent behavior because they were “illegitimate and not
properly constituted.”9 In other words, the giants’ misplacement on
earth stems from their mixed human/angelic nature, which itself
stems from the trans-corporeal intermixing between heavenly and
earthly creatures.
The unholy union of angels and women, furthermore, leads to the
proliferation of human violence, spread of illicit knowledge, and
ecological pollution (7:6). In response, God commands that the
angel Gabriel punish the giants by setting them against one another:
“Go, Gabriel, to the bastards, to the half-breeds, to the sons of
miscegenation; and destroy the sons of the watchers from among
the sons of men; send them against one another in a war of
destruction” (10:9).10 The gigantomachy that ensues leads to the
death of several giants. Those that remain do not escape God’s
wrath, but perish in the ensuing worldwide deluge. The spirits of the
giants, however, exit their drowned fleshly bodies and live on as evil
spirits:

But now the giants . . . they will call them evil spirits on the earth . . . The spirits
that have gone forth from the body of their flesh are evil spirits . . . And the spirits
of the giants <lead astray>, do violence, make desolate, and attack and wrestle
and hurl upon the earth, and <cause illness>. They eat nothing, but abstain from
food and are thirsty and smite. (15:8–9, 11)

The Book of the Watchers’ etiology for evil spirits here is significant,
in that it explains that the demons’ current status as purely spiritual
entities was not their original or natural state.11 Rather, the entities
that would come to be labeled as demons originally existed as
giants, unruly combinations of mortal flesh and angelic spirit, and it
was only the debilitating catastrophe of the worldwide flood that
destroyed their flesh and brought about their continued existence as
evil spirits. In this sense, the demonic body emerges within Second
Temple Jewish literature as an impaired entity—one that is lacking its
original physical component. As emphasized by the Book of the
Watchers, because of their lack of flesh, these spirits will no longer
be able to consume food or drink, two favorite pastimes of the spirits
in their lives as giants. Most significant for my purposes, the evil
spirits’ impairment stems from their having lost the mortal aspect of
their existence (i.e., flesh), which they had inherited from their
human mothers. This backdrop—the evil spirits’ loss of their human-
derived flesh—provides a possible explanation for demons’ repeated
possessing of human bodies as part of ancient exorcism narratives:
the act of demonic possession is actually an act of reclamation, of
overcoming an imposed impairment by regaining (even if
temporarily) the fleshly vessel the giants lost in the flood.
In reading the creation of demons through the lens of
impairment, I draw on insights from disability studies. Tracing its
roots to activism by people with disabilities in the 1960s and
1970s,12 the academic study of disability seeks to examine and
dismantle connections between impairment, defined as “the
functional limitation within the individual caused by physical, mental,
or sensory impairment,” and disability, “the loss or limitation of
opportunities to take part in the normal life of the community on an
equal level with others due to physical or social barriers.”13 As seen
here, disability studies frequently differentiate between an
individual’s physical or sensory incapacities, classified as
impairments, and the social or cultural barriers that impaired
individuals face, referred to as disabilities.14 While recent disability
theorists have criticized this impairment/disability dichotomy,15 I
nonetheless find this approach helpful for its careful attention to the
cultural or social dimensions of corporeal impairment. Specifically,
attending to corporeal impairment as a social and cultural
phenomenon entails treating disability as “the attribution of
corporeal deviance—not so much a property of bodies as a product
of cultural rules about what bodies should be or do.”16 The cultural
dimensions of disability, therefore, require attention to the “culturally
and historically specific social construction” of corporeal
impairment.17
Turning to the Enochic account of demonic origins, we might here
think of the demons’ primordial disembodiment, through the punitive
drowning and perishing of their gigantic bodies, as their physical
impairment. No longer would these creatures be able to partake of
physical pleasures or interrelations, or benefit from their physical
strength and stature. This physical impairment becomes a social and
cultural disability, moreover, through its relation to demonic cosmic
misplacement. “The spirits of heaven, in heaven is their dwelling,”
the Book of the Watchers claims, “But now the giants who were
begotten by the spirits and flesh—they will call them evil spirits on
the earth, for their dwelling will be on the earth” (1 En. 15:7–8).
According to the Book of the Watchers, therefore, the demons’
punishment is perpetual misplacement: they are doomed to wander
the earth despite the fact that the physical constitution of their
bodies is more fit for the heavenly realm.18 In this way, see how the
demons’ impairment (a lack of a fleshly body) becomes a disability—
the misplacement of their fleshless bodies in a fleshly realm
becomes a social or, in this case, cosmic barrier to their well-being.
Some aspects of their formerly corporeal existence will continue,
however: “And the spirits of the giants <lead astray>, do violence,
make desolate, and attack and wrestle and hurl upon the earth and
<cause illness>. They eat nothing, but abstain from food and are
thirsty and smite” (1 En. 15:11). Thus, as in their existence as
giants, the demons will continue to spread violence and warfare.
Despite their corporeal impairment, moreover, the demons retain a
measure of their former vitality. The Greek Codex Panipolitanus
version of 1 Enoch 15:8 refers to the giants’ residual spirits as
πνεύματα ἰσχύρα (“strong spirits”), a point that underscores their
postmortem endurance and violent tendencies.19 Even without their
gigantic bodies, therefore, the evil spirits are powerful. This is
perhaps due to their half-angelic composition, which enables a
continued spiritual vitality even without a fleshly vessel. Thus, while
demons experience disability in the misplacement of their fleshless
bodies, their trans-corporeal origins allow them to remain potent in
other ways.
The Book of the Watchers claims that evil spirits will “rise up
against the sons of men and against the women, for they have come
forth from them” (1 En. 15:12). The evil spirits will continue their
adversarial relationship with humanity until the end of the present
age: “[The evil spirits] will make desolate until the day of
consummation of the great judgment, when the great age will be
consummated” (16:1). Loren Stuckenbruck proposes that the evil
spirits’ continued affliction of human beings is due to envy, since
“humans, and not they, have escaped the destruction with their
bodies intact.”20 1 Enoch 15:12 (quoted previously), however,
suggests that the spirits’ primary motivation is to exact revenge for
human women’s role in creating their gigantic forebears (“for they
have come forth from them”). The impairment (via illness) or
harassment of humans by demons, therefore, stems from the
demons exacting revenge for humanity’s role in the creation and
ultimate impairment of the giants and their spirits.
 The story of the fallen Watchers and their monstrous offspring
appeared in a wide array of Second Temple Jewish writings,21
including the Similitudes of Enoch (1 En. 37–71), the Dream Visions
of Enoch (1 En. 83–90), the Epistle of Enoch (1 En. 91–107),
Jubilees, The Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs, 2 Baruch, Tobit,
The Book of the Giants, and the Genesis Apocryphon. The popularity
of the story was such that it influenced the textual history of Genesis
6; some biblical manuscripts include versions of the story wherein
scribes substituted “angels” for the more prevalent “sons of God”
phrasing.22 The giants of Enochic literature also appear in several
texts as cautionary tales, used to remind readers of the dangers
involved in disobeying God’s will.23 Because of the popularity of the
Watchers mythology, the story of the drowned giants and their
disabled offspring emerged as the primary etiology for the existence
of evil spirits.24
Many Second Temple texts presage developments later seen in
the Gospels. The second-century BCE Book of Jubilees, for example,
contains a rendition of the Watchers myth wherein evil spirits, as the
residual souls of giants, are explicitly identified with “demons” (5:7–
10, 7:21–25, 10:1–5).25 Also of note, Jubilees states that the
demons are “impure” (10:1–2), likely a reference to their original
dual composition of both angelic and human materials (cf. 10:5).
Jubilees marks an important point in the development of ancient
Jewish demonology, as it is the earliest extant text to identify the
spirits of the giants as “evil spirits,” “demons,” and “impure spirits,”
the three terms used for demonic entities in the literature of the
early Jesus movement. Finally, Jubilees claims that the demons have
a “leader,” Mastema, who intercedes on their behalf with God and
directs their activities (10:7–9); this idea finds parallel with the
figures of Beelzebul and Satan in early Jesus movement writings
(see later discussion).
The connection between the giants of Enochic mythology and evil
demons persists in Jewish traditions of the later Second Temple
period. The Testament of Solomon, a text of the first–third centuries
CE that contains both Jewish and Christian elements, narrates
Solomon’s binding and interrogation of various evil demons, whom
he ultimately utilizes as manual laborers for building the Jerusalem
Temple.26 Interestingly, some of Solomon’s demonic interlocutors
reveal their origins. One of the demons, “Ornias,” claims that he is
descended from “an archangel of the power of God” (2:4).27 Another
demon, Asmodeus, is offended that Solomon, a mere mortal, would
speak arrogantly to him, a demon of angelic ancestry: “You are the
son of a man, but although I was born of a human mother, I (am the
son) of an angel” (5:3–4, emphasis mine).28 Later in the same text,
a “spirit having the shadowy form of a man and gleaming eyes”
claims to be “a lecherous spirit of a giant man who died in a
massacre in the age of giants” (17:1–2). The Testament of Solomon,
then, speaks to the ongoing association of demons with the spirits of
the giants, and thus to the disastrous consequences of illicit trans-
corporeal mingling, in both the writings of Second Temple Judaism
and the early Jesus movement.29
The preceding survey demonstrates that the story of the fallen
angels and their gigantic offspring appeared in an extensive variety
of texts, both in “mainstream” Jewish circles and “factional”
offshoots.30 The wide popularity of the Watchers tradition indicates
that the primordial impairment and disability of the demonic, which
both allowed for and instigated demonic retaliation against humans,
served as the primary wellspring for ancient Jewish explanations for
the origins and activities of evil spirits. The broader proliferation of
this narrative attests to and perpetuates the trans-corporeal
interactions between demons and nonhuman creatures, whether via
narratives of angelic dalliances with mortal women, gigantic
creatures made of earthly flesh and heavenly spirit, or the continuing
harassment of humans by their demonic kin.
 Possession and Exorcism in Second Temple
Jewish Literature
According to ancient Jewish accounts, the primordial impairment and
displacement of demons resulted in concomitant ailments for
humanity. As noted already with regard to 1 Enoch, Second Temple
Jewish literature includes narratives of demons inhabiting or
afflicting human bodies in ways that anticipate similar themes in
early Jesus movement texts.31 In the Book of Tobit (third/second
century BCE), for example, the angel Raphael instructs Tobit’s son
Tobias to repel the demon Asmodeus by using a fish’s heart and liver
(8:3). We likewise find possession/exorcism accounts in the Dead
Sea Scrolls. In the Genesis Apocryphon (1QapGen), Abram cures
Pharaoh of an “evil spirit” through prayer and the laying on of hands
(20:28–29). The Community Rule (1QS) declares that the end times
will include the “ripping out” of evil spirits from the innermost parts
of the human body, ostensibly referring to some sort of exorcistic
process (IV 18–22). Additionally, The Apocryphal Psalms (11Q11)
contain adaptations of biblical psalms repurposed for thwarting
demonic affliction (V 4–12). The most explicit description of
exorcism appears in 4QExorcism (4Q560), which contains a formula
for addressing demons that enter the body:

Evil visitor . . . [. . .] [. . .who] enters the flesh, the male penetrator and the
female penetrator [. . .] . . . iniquity and guilt; fever and chills, and heat of the
heart [. . .] in sleep, he who crushes the male and she who passes through the
female, those who dig [. . .w]icked [. . .]. (fr. 1, I 2–5)

The second column of the same text includes an apparent thwarting

of the demon(s): “and I, O spirit, adjure [. . .] I enchant you, O spirit
[. . .][o]n the earth, in clouds [. . .]” (fr. 1, II 5–7). Because of the
fragmentary nature of this text, little can be gleaned with regard to
the nature of the demonic or its affliction of humanity. Nevertheless,
it suggests that demons “penetrate” humans and bring about
physical afflictions (chills, heartburn, etc.), but can be expelled
through appropriate adjurations.32 We find evidence for similar
apotropaic techniques in the Songs of the Maskil (4Q510–511),
wherein the narrator “sage” provides a message by which humans
can keep demons at bay:

And I, a Sage, declare the splendour of his radiance in order to frighten and
terr[ify] all the spirits of the ravaging angels and the bastard spirits, demons,
Lilith, owls and [jackals . . .] and those who strike unexpectedly to lead astray the
spirit of knowledge, to make their hearts forlorn. (4Q510 I I 4–6, emphasis
mine)33

The association made here between demons and “spirits of the

bastards”34 suggests that the passage has in view the Enochic story
of the “bastard” giants who were the offspring of fallen angels and
mortal women and now live on as “evil spirits” or “demons.”35
Outside of the Dead Sea Scrolls, we also find Jewish accounts of
exorcism in the writings of Josephus. In Jewish War, for example,
Josephus informs the reader that a root known as “Baaras” “quickly
drives away those called demons” (7.180, 185).36 Jews learned to
exorcise demons, Josephus claims, from Solomon, and Jewish
exorcists continue to use the Israelite King’s techniques in Josephus’s
day (Antiquities 8.42–46). For evidence for the continuing potency of
Jewish exorcism, Josephus points to the activities of a certain
Eleazar, who uses roots, incantations, and the invocation of
Solomon’s name in order to drive out demons (8.46–48).
This brief survey demonstrates that for many Second Temple
Jews, demons were indeed capable of penetrating human hosts, and
afflicted individuals required ritual intervention. This point
underscores again the trans-corporeal entanglement that
characterized the relationship between the human body and its
demonic assailants in Second Temple Jewish mythologies. Just as
demonic entities had originated as combinations of heavenly and
earthly elements, so they continue to transgress the boundaries
between human and nonhuman bodies. Demonic spirits, on the one
hand, persistently insinuate themselves into their human
counterparts, thus intermingling their own “spirits” with the bodies
of their human progenitors. So also the human body becomes
intermingled with the demonic, leading to the articulation of the
human body as one that is easily afflicted by assailing spirits. In this
way, the fleshless, impaired history of demons contributes to a
concomitant construction of the human body itself as compromised
by afflictions.37 Jewish ritual expulsion of the demonic will have
shaped the performative materialization of the human body as a
trans-corporeal entity, mutually entangled and co-constituting with
its disembodied demonic foe.
Second Temple Jewish accounts of exorcism are also significant in
that they establish prominent commonalities between Second
Temple Jewish demonologies and those of the early Jesus
movement. This connection is evident especially in shared
assumptions regarding the invasiveness of demonic spirits and the
fact that ritual techniques were required to expel them from human
hosts. Notably, some ancient Jewish exorcism stories betray reliance
upon the Watchers mythology as attested in Enochic literature. As a
movement within Second Temple Jewish culture, it is likely that the
early Jesus movement’s narrations of demonic possession and
exorcism likewise draw upon this mythic matrix.

Watchers and Giants in the Jesus Movement

and Early Christianity
Since Jesus’s original followers constituted a small band of Jewish
adherents, it is no surprise to find that some of the earliest writings
produced by the Jesus movement contain allusions to the Watchers
mythology (e.g., Jude 6; 1 Pet 3:18–22; 2 Pet 2:4–6.).38 The witness
of these texts and other allusions to the Watchers mythology led
R.H. Charles to argue that the “influence of 1 Enoch on the New
Testament has been greater than that of all the other apocryphal
and pseudepigraphical books taken together.”39 The area where 1
Enoch’s “influence” is most evident is the appearance of the
Watchers fallen angel tradition in the writings of the Jesus
movement and early Christianity, particularly as part of
interpretations of Genesis 6.40 Christian writers from a wide variety
of geographical and theological contexts allude to the Watchers
narrative, which suggests that for many followers of Jesus, “the
‘book(s) of Enoch’ seem to have functioned as Scripture.”41 Support
for such a proposal surfaces in the manuscript production and
preservation practices of early Christians: in several manuscripts,
Enochic texts such as the Book of the Watchers are preserved
alongside Christian works.42
Despite their widespread popularity, scholars have often
neglected the influence that Watcher mythologies had on the New
Testament gospels.43 This omission is in part due to the assumption
that the early followers of Jesus would have been mostly reading
and interpreting a Hebrew Bible that aligns with modern editions.
However, there was nothing resembling a closed and exclusive
“canon” within Second Temple Judaism at the time of the early Jesus
movement. Rather, Jewish scriptural production and interpretation
was markedly diverse, a fact that should encourage contemporary
scholars to account for more flexible notions of Jewish and Christian
textual practices in this era.44 In what follows, I consider how this
broader appreciation for the diversity of ancient Jewish textual
practices might enable more fruitful investigations of the entangled
bodies of demons and humans.

Demon(iac)s in the Making: Demonic Bodies in

the Gospel of Mark
If the Synoptic Gospels are any indication, Jesus’s earliest followers
maintained a notable belief that “unclean spirits” or “demons” could
usurp the bodies of unsuspecting human hosts.45 There are forty-
eight references to demonic possession in the New Testament,
totaling around twenty-four unique mentions (i.e., discounting
Synoptic doublets or triplets).46 The Gospel writers use three terms
for possessing entities: “unclean spirit” (πνεῦμα ἀκάθαρτον),
“demon” (δαιμόνιον, δαίμων), and “evil demon” (πονηρὸν
δαιμόνιον). Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s interchangeable use of these
terms suggests that they are functionally equivalent.47 Because of its
early date and compositional priority among the Gospels, the Gospel
of Mark is one of the most important witnesses to demonological
discourses of the early Jesus movement. The Second Gospel
emphasizes the significance of Jesus’s exorcisms, and thus provides
considerable demonological material for consideration.48 As such,
the gospel makes for a natural starting point for exploring
constructions of demonic (in)corporeality among Jesus’s early
followers.

The Gospel of Mark and the Watchers Tradition

The Gospel of Mark displays demonological characteristics that align
closely with assumptions in other Second Temple Jewish texts,
particularly those associated with Enoch and the fallen angels. In
what follows, I provide a thorough juxtaposition of the Gospel with
Enochic traditions, as part of a broader effort to throw into relief
embedded demonological motifs and logics that will have been
operative in the earliest communities that read and interpreted the
Gospel of Mark. In such a way, my reading of Mark’s demonology
provides a lens through which to read the Gospels’ demonological
tenets in a way that renders them comprehensible within Second
Temple Jewish and early Christian contexts.
There is evidence internal to the Second Gospel that suggests
points of contact with Enochic demonologies.49 First, both Enochic
demonologies and the Gospel of Mark use “unclean spirit” and
“demon” interchangeably in reference to evil spiritual beings.50 Such
terminological usage is unparalleled in the Hebrew Bible, and not
found in any Greco-Roman text prior to the third century CE; thus
this terminology appears unique to late Second Temple Jewish and
early Christian writings.51 Second, as noted previously, the idea of
demonic usurpation or possession of the human body surfaces
frequently in Second Temple Jewish literature and the Gospels, but
rarely in Greco-Roman texts.52 What is more, healers in Greco-
Roman literature typically assuage demonic possession through
appeasement, rather than combative expulsion.53 Third, within both
Enochic traditions and the Gospel of Mark demons are
conceptualized as part of an apocalyptic evil front, under the
leadership of a chief demon (e.g., Satan, Beelzebul, Mastema), allied
against the forces of good. While such evil forces hold sway now,
they will eventually face a day of judgment, as part of an end-times
scenario wherein their powers will be stripped away. It is within this
combative eschatological context that Jesus’s dramatic exorcisms
become comprehensible.54 Rather than seeing demons as members
of a relatively unified, if capricious, divine order (as would be typical
of Greco-Roman traditions), Second Temple Jewish and early
Christian writers view demons as wholly evil combatants in an
ongoing cosmic battle between good and malevolent forces.
These shared demonological tenets—the impurity of demonic
spirits, demonic possession, and apocalyptic belligerency—
demonstrate that the possession and exorcism narratives of the early
Jesus movement can be fruitfully interpreted as discourses operating
within and as a part of broader Second Temple Jewish
demonologies.55 In the section to follow, I provide a comparative
reading of Enochic traditions and the Gospel of Mark, noting two
points in particular: (1) traces of the demons’ former gigantic modes
of embodiment echo in their affliction of humans, thus reiterating
the Enochic tradition’s framing of the demonic as a formerly gigantic,
disembodied entity; and (2) the “disabled” nature of the demons’
impairment—that is, their cosmic misplacement—mirrors the social
dislocation of two prominent characters afflicted with demonic
possession (the Gerasene Demoniac and Syrophoenician woman’s
daughter). In this way, the mythic disablement and dislocation of the
demonic comes to inform the Gospel of Mark’s portrayal of trans-
corporeal relations between demons and humans, as seen especially
in the Second Gospel’s treatment of bodily impairment and social
dislocation.
 Exorcism and Enochic Echoes in the Gospel of Mark
The Gospel of Mark highlights Jesus’s adroitness at exorcizing evil
spirits from afflicted demoniacs. Mark signals exorcism’s importance
by its priority: the exorcism of an unclean spirit from a demoniac in
Capernaum is the first public activity performed by Jesus (1:21–28).
In addition to this initial exorcism, Jesus also expels demons from
the infamous Gerasene Demoniac, the Syrophoenician woman’s
daughter, and a boy afflicted by muteness (5:1–20; 7:24–30; 9:14–
29). Taken together, these four exorcism narratives encompass the
most frequent type of miracle attributed to Jesus by the Second
Gospel.56 Additionally, summaries of Jesus’s ministry in the Gospel
portray exorcism as one of his most frequent undertakings. Mark
claims, for example, that Jesus “cast out many demons” as part of
healing activities performed at the house of Simon and Andrew
(1:32–34).57 Similarly, in its summary of Jesus’s preaching tour in
Galilee, the Second Gospel states that Jesus went about
“proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out
demons” (1:39). Jesus’s combative relationship with demons and
unclean spirits might go as far back as his temptation by Satan in
the wilderness, which some scholars interpret as a spiritual
preparation for Jesus’s emergence as a prominent healer and
exorcist.58
The Gospel of Mark clearly prioritizes exorcism as an important
aspect of Jesus’s public ministry. But what can this tell us about
ideas regarding demonic (in)corporeality? Consideration of ancient
Jewish demonologies helps bring into relief some notable aspects of
Mark’s construction of the nature of demonic spirits, including their
invasiveness, violent disposition, unnatural strength, self-
destructiveness, and impurity. These elements collectively shape the
Gospel’s portrayal of trans-corporeal interactions between demonic
spirits and their human “hosts.”
 Demonic Violence and Invasiveness
According to the Second Gospel, Jesus inaugurated his public
ministry by preaching and exorcising in the synagogue at
Capernaum, a rural Jewish village in Jesus’s home region of Galilee
(1:21–39). Jesus enters the synagogue and begins preaching “as
one having authority,” all the while displaying a teaching aptitude
that left crowds there “astounded.” During his instruction, however, a
“man with an unclean spirit” (ἄνθρωπος ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ)
interrupts Jesus (1:24–25). The Second Gospel’s reference to an
“unclean spirit” likely draws upon Enochic terminology, thus
identifying this demon as a lingering soul of one of the antediluvian
giants.59 This link between the antediluvian giants and contemporary
demons, moreover, potentially informs Mark’s broader portrayal of
the demons’ combative interactions with Jesus. In many cases, the
demons immediately recognize Jesus, acknowledge his superiority,
and beg for a pardon from punishment. In the story of the
Capernaum demoniac, for example, the unclean spirit proclaims,
“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to
destroy us? I know who you are, Holy One of God” (1:24–25). The
spirit’s recognition underscores Jesus’s messianic identity,60 while
also calling to mind the historical backdrop for the demon’s lingering
existence as disembodied spirits. In the Jubilees narrative, God
spared the lives of ten percent of the demons only after an
intercession on their behalf by Mastema (10:11). This reprieve,
however, will persist only until the apocalypse, when the fallen
angels and evil spirits will face divine judgment (10:8; cf. 1 En. 16).
The unclean spirit’s desperate response to Jesus, then, attests to the
precarious nature of its existence: it knows that time is short.61
For his own part, Jesus wastes no time in dispatching the demon;
“Be silent, and come out of him!” Jesus commands the evil spirit
(1:25).62 The demon departs at the command, though not without a
struggle: “the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud
voice, came out of him” (καὶ σπαράξαν αὐτὸν τὸ πνεῦμα τὸ
ἀκάθαρτον καὶ φωνῆσαν φωνῇ μεγάλῃ ἐξῆλθεν ἐξ αὐτοῦ) (1:26).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 3º Le critique anglais, mon cher ami, n’est pas le grave et stupide
personnage que l’on s’imagine: je crois qu’au contraire, il a goûté un certain
plaisir en lisant votre livre et qu’il l’a vivement apprécié. En lisant la
reproduction de son article donnée par le Galaxy, je m’imaginais très bien
qu’il riait lui-même aux éclats en l’écrivant. Mais il écrit pour des
catholiques, des traditionalistes, des nobles conservateurs, et il prend plaisir
à les choquer avec vous, tout en ayant l’air de froncer gravement les
sourcils. Il est lui-même un excellent humoriste.
Voilà donc ce qu’on a dit de mon article, car la prétendue reproduction
du Galaxy était mon article. J’en revendique l’entière paternité et
responsabilité. Comme on l’a vu au début de cette chronique, j’avais appris
par un journal de Boston que la Saturday Review avait publié une critique
terriblement sérieuse de mon livre. En y réfléchissant et en songeant à ce
que cela pouvait être, il me vint à l’idée de jeter sur le papier les idées qu’un
grave critique de la Saturday Review pouvait avoir eues sur mon livre. De là
un article qui fut publié par le Galaxy comme étant la reproduction de celui
de la Saturday Review. Je n’eus pas l’occasion de lire le réel article de la
revue anglaise jusqu’à ce que le mien eût paru dans le Galaxy et alors je
trouvai que la véritable critique du chroniqueur anglais était plate, vulgaire,
mal écrite, sans relief et ne signifiant rien.
Si maintenant quelqu’un doute de ma parole, je le tuerai. Non, je ne le
tuerai pas, mais je le ruinerai et ce sera bien simple en lui offrant de parier
ce qu’il voudra que j’ai raison. Cependant, pour être charitable, je lui
conseille d’aller d’abord dans une librairie quelconque et de consulter la
Saturday Review du 8 octobre avant de risquer son argent. Dieu me
pardonne! Plusieurs ont cru que j’avais été «roulé»!
P.S.—Je ne puis résister à la tentation de citer encore quelques savoureux
passages des articles qui ont été publiés au sujet de cette histoire. En voici
un de l’Informateur de Cincinnati:
Rien n’est plus relatif que la valeur d’un bon cigare. Neuf fumeurs sur
dix préféreront une qualité ordinaire, un cigare de trois ou quatre sous à un
Partaga de cinquante-cinq sous, s’ils en ignorent la valeur. L’arome du
Partaga est trop délicat pour le palais habitué aux bûches du Connecticut. Il
en est de même de l’humour. Plus la qualité en est fine, moins il y a de
chance pour qu’on s’en soucie. Mark Twain lui-même vient de faire cette
expérience. Il a été pris à partie par un chroniqueur de la Saturday Review...
Assurément, l’humour de Mark Twain n’est jamais grossier, mais, enfin,
l’humour anglais est tellement plus affiné que le malentendu est bien
compréhensible.
Ça, ce n’est pas mal.
Eh bien, quand j’aurai écrit un article dont je serai satisfait, mais qui,
pour quelque raison, me paraîtra de nature à déplaire en quelque milieu, je
dirai que l’auteur est anglais et qu’il est extrait d’une revue anglaise... et je
crois que je rirai bien.
Mais voici un autre extrait de l’Informateur de Cincinnati:
Mark Twain s’est enfin aperçu que la critique de son livre publié par la
Saturday Review n’était pas sérieuse et il est extrêmement mortifié d’avoir
été ainsi joué. Il prend donc le seul parti qui lui reste et il prétend que la
reproduction que le Galaxy avait faite de l’article en question n’était
nullement authentique, mais que c’était lui-même qui l’avait écrite, en
parodie de l’article véritable. C’est ingénieux, mais ce n’est
malheureusement pas exact. Si quelques-uns de nos lecteurs veulent bien
prendre la peine de venir dans nos bureaux, nous leur montrerons le numéro
original du 8 octobre de la Saturday Review qui contient un article en tous
points identique à celui qu’a publié le Galaxy. Le meilleur pour Mark
Twain est d’admettre qu’il a été mystifié et de ne plus rien dire.
Cela, c’est un mensonge.
Si les directeurs de l’Informateur montrent un article du Galaxy
contenant un article identique à celui qui a été consacré à mon livre dans le
nº du 8 octobre de la Saturday Review, je consens à leur payer cinq cents
dollars. De plus, si, à la date qu’on voudra, je manque de publier ici-même
une reproduction de l’article de la Saturday Review du 8 octobre et si cet
article n’est pas différent d’inspiration, de plan, de phrase et de mots de
celui que le Galaxy publia, je payerai à l’Informateur cinq cents autres
dollars. Je prends comme garants Messrs Sheldon and Cº, éditeurs, 500,
Broadway, New-York, et ils acceptent. N’importe quel envoyé de
l’Informateur sera admis à faire les preuves contraires. Il sera donc facile à
l’Informateur de prouver qu’il n’a pas commis un piteux et misérable
mensonge en publiant les lignes ci-dessus. Va-t-il rentrer sous terre ou
accepter le défi? Je crois que l’Informateur est dirigé par un gamin.
 UNE LETTRE AU MINISTRE DES FINANCES
Riverdale-sur-l’Hudson. Le 13 octobre 1902.
A son Excellence Monsieur le Ministre
des Finances, à Washington.
Monsieur le Ministre,
Le prix des différentes sortes de combustibles étant hors de la portée des
écrivains peu fortunés, je vous adresse la commande suivante:
Quarante-cinq tonnes des meilleurs vieux titres sur l’État, bien secs, pour
alimenter les calorifères, ceux de 1864 de préférence.
Douze tonnes des anciens billets de banque, pour fourneaux de cuisine.
Huit barils de timbres-poste, mélangés, de 25 à 50 cents, vignette de
1866, pour allumer les feux.
Veuillez avoir la bonté de me livrer ces marchandises le plus tôt possible
et d’envoyer la facture à
Votre respectueux serviteur,
Mark Twain,
qui vous sera très reconnaissant et votera bien.
 L’ESPRIT DES ENFANTS
Tous les enfants paraissent avoir de nos jours la désagréable habitude de
faire de l’esprit en toute occasion et surtout aux moments où ils feraient
mieux de se taire. A en juger par les exemples qu’on entend citer un peu
partout, la nouvelle génération d’enfants est composée d’idiots. Et les
parents ne doivent pas valoir beaucoup plus que leurs enfants, car, dans la
plupart des cas, ce sont eux qui racontent ces traits d’esprit et ces preuves
d’imbécillité puérile. Il semble peut-être que je parle de cela avec quelque
chaleur et sans doute avec quelque raison personnelle; et j’admets que cela
m’irrite d’entendre tant louer les mots d’enfants, tandis que moi-même je
n’ai jamais rien osé dire, lorsque j’étais petit. J’ai bien essayé une ou deux
fois, mais cela ne me réussit pas. Les membres de ma famille ne semblaient
attendre aucune faculté brillante chez moi et lorsque je tentais quelque
remarque, ils me réprimandaient ou me fouettaient. Mais ce qui me donne
le frisson et me fait hérisser les cheveux sur la tête, c’est de penser à ce qui
serait arrivé si j’avais osé lancer quelque «mot», du genre de ceux
qu’affectionnent actuellement les petits de quatre ans, en présence de mon
père. M’écorcher vif lui aurait paru le plus doux des châtiments possibles.
C’était un homme grave et il détestait tous les genres de précocité. Si
j’avais prononcé devant lui quelqu’une de ces horreurs que l’on entend
partout maintenant, il m’aurait mis en hachis. Oui, en vérité! Il l’aurait fait
s’il avait pu. Mais il n’en aurait pas eu l’occasion, car j’aurais eu assez de
jugement pour avaler un peu de strychnine avant de parler. Un des plus
beaux jours de mon enfance fut terni par un simple calembour. Mon père
l’entendit et me poursuivit jusqu’à une vingtaine de kilomètres pour me
tuer. Si j’avais été grand, il eût pu être dans son droit, mais, enfant comme
je l’étais, je ne pouvais pas savoir combien j’avais été criminel.
En une autre occasion, j’en dis plus qu’il ne fallait, mais ce ne fut pas un
calembour, et encore cela fut bien près de causer une rupture entre mon père
et moi. J’étais couché dans mon berceau essayant de sucer des anneaux en
caoutchouc, car j’étais fatigué de m’abîmer les dents sur les doigts des gens
et désirais trouver quelque chose d’autre. Avez-vous remarqué combien
c’est ennuyeux de vous casser les dents sur les doigts de votre nourrice ou
sur votre gros orteil? Et n’avez-vous jamais perdu patience et souhaité que
vos dents fussent à Jéricho bien avant d’avoir réussi à entamer ce que vous
vouliez? Pour moi, il me semble que cela est arrivé hier. Mais revenons-en à
ce qui m’arriva ce jour-là. Mon père, ma mère, mon oncle Éphraïm et sa
femme, et un ou deux autres parents se trouvaient là et parlaient de me
choisir un nom. Je me souviens qu’en essayant de sucer mes anneaux de
caoutchouc, je regardais l’horloge songeant que dans une heure et vingt-
cinq minutes j’aurais atteint l’âge de deux semaines et que je n’avais pas
jusqu’à présent beaucoup connu de joies...
Mon père dit:
—Abraham est un bon nom. Mon grand-père s’appelait Abraham.
Ma mère dit:
—Abraham est un bon nom. Très bien. Abraham sera un de ses noms.
Je dis:
—Abraham convient à l’intéressé.
Mon père fronça du sourcil, ma mère parut heureuse et ma tante dit:
—Quel charmant petit!
Mon père dit:
—Isaac est un bon nom, et Jacob est un bon nom.
Ma mère approuva et dit:
—Il n’y en a pas de meilleurs. Ajoutons Isaac et Jacob à ses noms.
Je dis:
—Très bien. Isaac et Jacob sont assez bien. Passez-moi ce hochet, je
vous prie; je ne peux pas sucer du caoutchouc tout le jour.
Personne ne prit note de mes réflexions à ce moment-là, de sorte que je
dus le faire moi-même pour ne rien oublier. Loin d’être bien accueillies,
comme elles le sont maintenant chez les enfants, mes remarques
m’attirèrent une furieuse semonce de mon père, ma mère paraissait peinée
et anxieuse et ma tante elle-même avait sur la physionomie une sorte
d’inquiétude qui indiquait sa crainte que je ne fusse allé trop loin. Je mordis
rageusement mon caoutchouc, laissai tomber le hochet sur la tête du chat,
mais ne dis rien. Mon père ajouta:
—Samuel est un excellent nom.
Je vis que cela devenait grave. Il n’y avait plus moyen de rien éviter. Je
jetai hors de mon berceau la montre de mon oncle, la gaine de la brosse à
habits, le petit chien de son, et toutes les autres petites choses que j’avais
l’habitude d’examiner et d’agiter ensemble pour me distraire; je mis mon
bonnet, pris mes chaussons d’une main, mon bâton de réglisse de l’autre et
sautai sur le plancher. Je me disais: «Maintenant, je suis prêt, arrive que
pourra!» Puis j’ajoutai à haute voix:
—Père, je ne puis pas, je ne puis pas souffrir le nom de Samuel.
—Mon fils!
—Père, c’est comme cela! Je ne puis pas.
—Pourquoi?
—Père, j’éprouve une invincible antipathie pour ce nom.
—Mon fils, cela est déraisonnable. Plusieurs grands hommes se sont
appelés Samuel.
—Père, je n’en connais point d’exemples.
—Quoi! N’y eut-il pas Samuel le Prophète qui fut grand et bon?
—Pas tant que cela!
—Mon fils! De sa propre voix le Seigneur l’appela.
—Oui, père, et il dut l’appeler deux fois avant qu’il n’obéît.
Alors, je m’esquivai et mon père se lança à ma poursuite. Il me rattrapa
le lendemain à midi et, après cette nouvelle conversation, j’avais acquis le
nom de Samuel, avec une fessée et autres avertissements utiles. Ainsi
s’apaisa la colère de mon père et nos relations reprirent leur cours normal;
mais ce malentendu aurait très bien pu nous séparer pour toujours, si je ne
m’étais pas montré raisonnable.
A en juger par cet événement, je me demande ce qui serait arrivé si
j’avais prononcé un de ces «mots d’enfants» dont les journaux nous
assomment aujourd’hui... Sans nul doute il y aurait eu un infanticide dans
notre famille.
 UN MOT DE SATAN
Nous recevons la lettre suivante signée Satan, mais nous avons tout lieu
de penser qu’elle a été écrite par Mark Twain.—L’Éditeur.
A Monsieur le Directeur du «Harper’s hebdomadaire»
Mon cher Directeur.
Finissons-en avec ces conversations frivoles. L’Assistance publique
accepte mes dons chaque année et je ne vois pas pourquoi elle n’accepterait
pas ceux de M. Rockefeller. De tout temps, c’est de l’argent mal acquis qui
a plus ou moins alimenté les caisses des œuvres charitables—alors, qu’est-
ce que cela fait que cet argent ait passé entre les mains de M. Rockefeller?
La richesse de l’Assistance publique lui vient des cimetières—des legs,
vous comprenez—et cela, c’est de l’argent mal acquis, car la libéralité du
mort frustre ses héritiers. L’Assistance doit-elle refuser les legs sous ce
prétexte?
Permettez-moi de continuer. Ce qu’on a reproché le plus violemment et
avec le plus de persistance à M. Rockefeller, c’est que sa fortune est
abominablement souillée par ses fourberies—fourberies prouvées devant les
tribunaux. Mais cela me fait sourire! Car il n’y a pas dans votre vaste cité
un seul riche qui ne fasse chaque année quelques fourberies pour échapper à
l’impôt. Ils sont tous fourbes et tous font de faux serments à cet égard. S’il
y en a un seul qui échappe à cette règle, je désire l’acheter pour ma
collection et je le payerai au prix des ichtyosaures. Direz-vous qu’il ne
s’agit pas dans ce cas d’enfreindre la loi, mais simplement d’y échapper?—
Consolez-vous avec cette gentille distinction, pour le moment, si vous
voulez, mais plus tard, quand vous viendrez séjourner chez moi, je vous
montrerai quelque chose qui vous intéressera: un plein enfer de gens qui ont
simplement échappé aux lois de leur pays. Il arrive qu’un brave voleur ne
vienne pas en enfer, mais ceux qui se bornent à éluder la loi, ceux-là, je les
ai toujours!
Revenons-en à mes moutons. Je voudrais que vous sachiez bien que les
plus fourbes des riches donnent beaucoup d’argent à l’Assistance: c’est
l’argent qu’ils ont pu soustraire à l’impôt, c’est donc le salaire du péché,
c’est donc mon argent, c’est donc moi qui remplis les caisses de
l’Assistance... et, en fin de compte, c’est comme j’ai dit: Puisque l’on
accepte mes dons, pourquoi refuser ceux de M. Rockefeller qui n’est pas
plus mauvais que moi, quoi qu’en disent les tribunaux?
Satan.
 LES CINQ DONS DE LA VIE

I
Au matin de la vie, la bonne fée arriva avec son panier et dit:
—Voici des dons. Prenez-en un, laissez les autres. Et soyez prudent,
choisissez sagement: Oh! choisissez sagement! Car il n’y en a qu’un qui ait
de la valeur.
Les dons étaient au nombre de cinq: la Renommée, l’Amour, la
Richesse, les Plaisirs, la Mort. Le jeune homme répondit avec
empressement:
—Il est inutile d’y réfléchir!
Et il choisit les Plaisirs.
Il alla par le monde et goûta à tous les plaisirs aimés de la jeunesse. Mais
chacun à son tour se trouva être de courte durée, plein de déceptions, vide et
vain, et tous le raillaient en s’en allant. A la fin, il dit:
—J’ai perdu toutes ces années! Si seulement je pouvais choisir de
nouveau, j’agirais sagement!

II
La fée réapparut et dit:
—Il reste quatre dons. Choisissez encore, mais réfléchissez bien! Le
temps passe et il n’y a qu’un don de précieux.
L’homme hésita longtemps, puis il choisit l’Amour et il ne vit pas les
larmes monter aux yeux de la fée.
Après bien des années, l’homme se tenait auprès d’un cercueil, dans une
maison vide. Il songeait en lui-même:
—Un à un ils sont partis et m’ont laissé seul, et maintenant, elle est
couchée là, la dernière et la plus chérie. Je suis allé de désolation en
désolation et pour chaque heure de bonheur donné par l’Amour, j’ai payé
mille heures de souffrance. Du fond le plus intime de mon âme, je le
maudis.
 III
—Choisissez de nouveau.
C’était encore la fée qui parlait. Elle ajouta:
—Les années ont dû vous enseigner la sagesse. Et il reste trois dons. Un
seul est important, souvenez-vous-en et choisissez en conséquence.
L’homme réfléchit beaucoup, puis il choisit la Renommée et la fée s’en
alla en soupirant.
Les années passèrent et la fée revint encore se tenir derrière l’homme
qui, seul dans le crépuscule, était en proie à d’amères pensées. Et elle savait
ce qu’il pensait. Il se disait:
—Mon nom a rempli le monde, sa louange était sur toutes les lèvres...
Oui; tout me sembla bon pendant quelque temps, mais comme cela dura
peu! Puis vint l’envie, puis la médisance, puis la calomnie, puis la haine et
la persécution; ensuite la moquerie et ce fut le commencement de la fin.
Enfin vint la pitié qui enterre la Renommée. Oh! l’amertume et la misère de
la gloire! Elle ne reçoit que de la boue quand elle brille et de la compassion
dédaigneuse quand elle s’éteint.

IV
—Choisissez encore une fois, dit la douce voix de la fée. Deux dons
vous restent et ne désespérez pas. Au commencement, il n’y en avait qu’un
de bon et il est toujours là.
—La Fortune qui est la puissance! Oh! combien j’étais aveugle! s’écria
l’homme. Enfin, maintenant il vaudra la peine de vivre! Je dépenserai,
j’éparpillerai mon or, ce sera un éblouissement. Ces moqueurs et ces
envieux se traîneront dans la poussière devant moi et je me rassasierai de
leur envie. J’aurai tous les luxes, toutes les joies, tous les enchantements de
l’esprit et tous les plaisirs du corps si chers à l’homme. J’achèterai,
j’achèterai, j’achèterai! J’aurai pour mon argent la déférence, le respect,
l’estime, l’adoration, toutes les grâces que ce monde misérable met sur le
marché. J’ai perdu beaucoup de temps et j’ai mal choisi jusqu’ici; mais
c’est fini; j’étais ignorant et ne pouvais prendre que ce qui me paraissait le
meilleur.
 Trois courtes années s’écoulèrent et il vint un jour où l’homme songeait
en frissonnant dans un grenier. Il était triste, blême, décharné; il était vêtu
de haillons et mâchonnait une croûte de pain sec. Il s’écria:
—Maudits soient tous les dons du monde qui ne sont que duperies et
mensonges dorés. Tous sont décevants! Ce ne sont pas des dons, mais des
prêts! Les Plaisirs, l’Amour, la Gloire, la Fortune ne sont que les
déguisements temporaires des réalités éternelles, la Douleur, la Souffrance,
la Honte, la Pauvreté. La fée disait vrai: dans son panier, un don seulement
était précieux, un seul n’était pas insignifiant. Comme les autres me
semblent petits et misérables, comparés à celui que j’ai dédaigné! Comparés
à ce bonheur si cher, si doux, si bienveillant qui plonge dans un sommeil
sans fin l’âme fatiguée de douleurs, le corps persécuté, le cœur angoissé,
l’esprit honteux! Apportez-le! Je suis las, je cherche le repos!

V
La fée vint avec son panier, mais il était vide. Le dernier don, la Mort,
n’y était plus, et elle dit:
—Je l’ai donné au chéri d’une mère, à un petit enfant. Il était ignorant,
mais il avait confiance en moi et m’a demandé de choisir pour lui. Vous,
vous ne m’avez rien demandé...
—Oh, malheureux que je suis! Que me reste-t-il maintenant?
—Il vous reste ce que vous n’avez même pas mérité: une vieillesse
abreuvée d’outrages et de larmes.
 L’ITALIEN SANS MAITRE
Il y a presque quinze jours maintenant que je suis arrivé dans cette petite
villa de campagne, à deux ou trois kilomètres de Florence. Je ne sais pas
l’italien: je suis trop vieux pour l’apprendre, trop occupé aussi, quand je
suis occupé, et trop paresseux quand je n’ai rien à faire. On pensera peut-
être que cette circonstance m’est désagréable: pas du tout! Les domestiques
sont tous Italiens, ils me parlent italien et je leur réponds en anglais. Je ne
les comprends pas, ils ne me comprennent pas et par conséquent il n’y a pas
de mal et tout le monde est satisfait. Pour rester dans le vrai, je dois ajouter
qu’en fait je lance de temps à autre un mot d’italien... quand j’en ai un à ma
disposition, et cela fait bien dans le tableau. Généralement je cueille ce mot
le matin, dans le journal. J’en use pendant qu’il est encore tout frais dans
ma mémoire et cela ne dure guère. Je trouve que les mots ne se conservent
guère dans ce climat: ils s’évanouissent vers le soir et le lendemain, ils ont
disparu. Mais cela n’a aucune importance, j’en cueille un autre dans le
journal avant déjeuner et je m’en sers à ahurir les domestiques tant qu’il
dure. Je n’ai pas de dictionnaire et je n’en veux point. Je choisis mes mots
d’après leur son ou leur forme orthographique. Beaucoup ont un aspect
français, allemand ou anglais et ce sont ceux-là que je prends—le plus
souvent, mais pas toujours. Si je trouve une phrase facile à retenir, d’aspect
imposant et qui sonne bien, je ne m’inquiète pas de savoir ce qu’elle
signifie, je la sers au premier interlocuteur qui se présente, sachant que si je
la prononce soigneusement, il la comprendra et cela me suffit.
Le mot d’hier était: Avanti. Il a un air shakespearien et veut dire sans
doute «Va-t’en!» ou «Allez au diable!» Aujourd’hui, j’ai noté une phrase
entière: Sono dispiacentissimo. Je ne sais pas ce que cela veut dire, mais
cela me semble cadrer avec toutes les circonstances et contenter tout le
monde. Bien que d’une façon générale, mes mots et mes phrases ne me
servent que pour un jour, il m’arrive d’en conserver parfois qui me restent
dans la tête, je ne sais pourquoi, et je les sers avec libéralité dans les
conversations un peu longues, de façon à rompre la monotonie des propos
échangés. Une des meilleures de ces phrases-là est: Dov’ è il gatto. Cela
provoque toujours autour de moi une joyeuse surprise, de telle sorte que je
garde ces mots pour les moments où je désire soulever des
applaudissements et jouir de l’admiration générale. Le quatrième mot de
cette phrase a un son français et je suppose que l’ensemble veut dire:
«Donnez-lui du gâteau.»
Durant la première semaine que je passai dans cette solitude profonde,
au milieu de ces bois silencieux et calmes, je demeurai sans nouvelles du
monde extérieur et j’en étais charmé. Il y avait un mois que je n’avais vu un
journal et cela communiquait à ma nouvelle existence un charme
incomparable. Puis vint un brusque changement d’humeur. Mon désir
d’information s’éleva avec une force extraordinaire. Il me fallut céder, mais
je ne voulus pas redevenir l’esclave de mon journal et je résolus de me
restreindre. J’examinai donc un journal italien avec l’idée d’y puiser
exclusivement les nouvelles du jour... oui, exclusivement dans un journal
italien et sans me servir de dictionnaire. De cette façon, je serais forcément
réduit au minimum possible et serais protégé contre toute indigestion de
nouvelles.
Un coup d’œil à la page de la «dernière heure» me remplit d’espoir.
Avant chaque dépêche une ligne ou deux en gros caractères en résumaient
le contenu; c’était une bonne affaire, car sans cela, on serait obligé, comme
avec les journaux allemands, de perdre un temps précieux à chercher ce
qu’il y a dans l’article pour découvrir souvent enfin qu’il n’y a rien qui vous
intéresse personnellement.
En principe, nous sommes tous très friands de meurtres, de scandales,
d’escroqueries, de vols, d’explosions, de collisions et de tout ce qui y
ressemble, lorsque nous en pouvons connaître les victimes ou les héros,
lorsqu’ils sont nos amis ou nos voisins, mais lorsqu’ils nous sont
complètement étrangers, nous ne prenons généralement pas grand intérêt à
ces dramatiques faits divers. Maintenant, l’ennui avec les journaux
américains, c’est qu’ils ne font aucun choix, ils énumèrent et racontent tous
les drames qui se sont accomplis sur la terre entière et il en résulte pour le
lecteur un grand dégoût et une immense lassitude. Par habitude, vous
absorbez toute cette ration de boue chaque jour, mais vous arrivez vite à n’y
prendre aucun intérêt et en réalité, vous en êtes écœuré et fatigué. C’est que
quarante-neuf sur cinquante de ces histoires concernent des étrangers, des
gens qui sont loin de vous, très loin, à mille kilomètres, à deux mille
kilomètres, à dix mille kilomètres. Alors, si vous voulez bien y réfléchir, qui
donc va se soucier de ce qui arrive à ces êtres-là? L’assassinat d’un ami me
touche plus que le massacre de tout un régiment étranger. Et, selon moi, le
fait d’apprendre qu’un scandale vient d’éclater dans une petite ville voisine
est plus intéressant que de lire le récit de la ruine d’une Sodome ou d’une
Gomorrhe située dans un autre continent. Il me faut les nouvelles du pays
où j’habite.
Quoi qu’il en soit, je vis tout de suite que le journal florentin me
conviendrait parfaitement: cinq sur six des scandales et des drames
rapportés dans ce numéro étaient locaux; il y avait les aventures des voisins
immédiats, on aurait presque pu dire des amis. En ce qui concerne les
nouvelles du monde extérieur, il n’y en avait pas trop, disons: juste assez. Je
m’abonnai. Je n’eus aucune occasion de le regretter. Chaque matin j’y
trouvais les nouvelles dont j’avais besoin pour la journée. Je ne me servis
jamais de dictionnaire. Très souvent, je ne comprenais pas très bien,
quelques détails m’échappaient, mais, n’importe, je voyais l’idée. Je vais
donner ici une coupure ou deux de quelques passages afin de bien montrer
combien cette langue est claire:

Il ritorno dei Reali d’Italia

Elargizione del Re all’ Ospedale italiano

La première ligne annonce évidemment le retour des souverains italiens

—qui étaient allés en Angleterre. La seconde ligne doit se rapporter à
quelque visite du roi à l’hôpital italien.
Je lis plus loin:

Il ritorno dei Sovrani a Roma

ROMA, 24, ore 22,50.—I Sovrani e le Principessine
Reali si attendono a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.

Retour des souverains à Rome, vous voyez! La dépêche est datée: Rome,
le 24 novembre, 23 heures moins dix. Cela paraît signifier: «Les souverains
et la famille royale sont attendus à Rome demain à 16 heures et 51
minutes.»
Je ne sais pas comment on compte l’heure en Italie, mais, si j’en juge
d’après ces fragments, je suppose que l’on commence à compter à minuit et
que l’on poursuit sans s’arrêter jusqu’à l’expiration des vingt-quatre heures.
Dans la coupure ci-après, il semble indiqué que les théâtres s’ouvrent à 20
heures et demie. S’il ne s’agit pas de matinées, ore 20,30 doit indiquer 8
heures 30 du soir:

Spettacoli del di 25
TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA.—(Ore 20,30)—Opera: Bohème.
TEATRO ALFIERI.—Compagnia drammaticá Drago—(Ore 20,30)—
La Legge.
ALHAMBRA.—(Ore 20,30)—Spettacolo variato.
SALA EDISON—Grandioso spettacolo Cinematografico: Quo Vadis?
—Inaugurazione della Chiesa Russa.—In coda al Direttissimo.—
Vedute di Firenze con gran movimento.—America: Trasporto tronchi
giganteschi.—I ladri in casa del Diavolo—Scene comiche.
CINEMATOGRAFO.—Via Brunelleschi, n. 4.—Programma
straordinario. Don Chisciotte.—Prezzi popolari.

Tout cela m’est parfaitement compréhensible, excepté l’inauguration de

ce Chiesa russe: en anglais cheese veut dire fromage... cela se ressemble...
enfin je ne comprends pas.
Ce journal n’a que quatre pages et comme il a de longs articles de fond
et beaucoup d’annonces, il n’y a pas beaucoup de place pour les crimes,
désastres et autres abominations, grâces au ciel! Aujourd’hui je n’y trouve
qu’un scandale:

Una principessa
CHE FUGGE CON UN COCCHIERE
Parigi 24.—Il Matin ha da Berlino che la Principessa Schovenbsre-
Waldenbure scomparve il 9 Novembre. Sarebbe partita col suo
cocchiere. La Principessa ha 27 anni.

Vingt-sept ans et décamper (scomparve) le 9 novembre avec son cocher!

Pauvre Princesse! J’espère que Sarebbe ne s’en repentira pas, mais j’ai peur
pour elle. Sono dispiacentissimo...
Il y a encore quelques incendies, deux accidents; en voici un:
 Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio
Stammattina, circa le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55, di
Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra un
barroccio carico di verdura, perse l’equilibrio e cadde al suolo,
rimanendo con la gamba destra sotta una ruota del veicolo.
Le Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo della
pubblica vettura n. 365, le trasportarono a San Giovanni di Dio.
Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontrò la frattura della gamba destra e
alcune lievi escorazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50 giorni salvo
complicazioni

Cela paraît signifier: «Sérieux accident sur le Vieux-Pont. Ce matin vers

7 h. 30, M. Joseph Sciatti âgé de 55 ans, originaire de Casellina et de Torri,
se trouvant assis au sommet d’un tas de verdure (feuilles? foin? légumes?)
qui remplissait sa voiture, perdit l’équilibre, tomba et sa jambe droite passa
sous une des roues du véhicule.
«Le dit Sciatti fut vite ramassé par quelques citadins, qui, à l’aide de la
voiture publique (fiacre?) nº 365, le transportèrent à Saint-Jean-de-Dieu.»
Le paragraphe 3 est un peu plus obscur, mais je crois qu’il y est dit que
le médecin arrangea la jambe droite d’une manière assez adroite et que du
moment que la gauche n’est pas atteinte, il nous est permis d’espérer que
dans cinquante jours le blessé sera tout à fait giudicandolo guaribile, s’il
n’y a pas de complication.—Au fait, guaribile doit se rapprocher de
guérissable, mais n’importe.
Il y a un grand charme à lire ces petites nouvelles dans une langue que
l’on connaît à peine—c’est le charme qui s’attache toujours à ce qui est
mystérieux et incertain. En de telles circonstances, vous ne pouvez jamais
être absolument assuré de la signification de ce que vous lisez: c’est comme
une proie que vous poursuivez, vous essayez comme ceci, puis comme cela,
et c’est ce qui rend l’exercice amusant. Un dictionnaire gâterait tout!
Quelquefois un seul mot douteux jettera un voile de rêve et d’incertitude
dorée sur tout un paragraphe plein de froides et pratiques certitudes. Vous
resterez songeur et chercherez à deviner un adorable mystère dans un récit
qui n’est au fond que vulgaire et laid. Serait-ce sage de détruire tout ce
charme à l’aide d’un coup de dictionnaire?
 Après quelques jours de repos, je me suis remis à chercher chaque jour
ma petite pâture d’italien. Je la trouve sans peine dans mon journal. Voici,
par exemple, un câblogramme de Chicago à Paris. Tous les mots, sauf un,
sont intelligibles à ceux qui ne savent pas l’italien:

Revolverate in teatro.
Parigi, 27.—La Patrie ha da Chicago:
Il guardiano del teatro dell’ opera di Wallace (Indiana), avendo
voluto espellere uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il
divieto, questo spalleggiato dai suoi amici tirò diversi colpi di rivoltella.
Il guardiano rispose. Naque una scarcia generale. Grande panico fra gli
spettatori. Nessun ferito.

Traduction:—«Coups de revolver dans un théatre. Paris, le 27.—La

Patrie reçoit la dépêche suivante de Chicago. Un gardien de théâtre de
l’Opéra de Wallace (Indiana), ayant voulu expulser un spectateur qui
continuait à fumer malgré la défense, celui-ci, spalleggiato par ses amis,
tira plusieurs coups de revolver. Le gardien riposta. D’où frayeur générale,
grande panique parmi les spectateurs. Personne de blessé.»
Je parierais que cette bénigne bagarre qui avait eu lieu à l’Opéra de
Wallace (Indiana) ne frappa personne en Europe, excepté moi. Mais j’ai été
vivement frappé et ce qui m’a frappé, c’est l’impossibilité où je suis de
savoir, de science certaine, ce qui a poussé le spectateur à tirer de son
revolver contre le gardien. Je lus ce récit tranquillement, sans émotion et
sans étonnement jusqu’au moment où j’arrivai à ce mot spalleggiato qui
expliquait tout, mais dont j’ignorais la signification. Vous voyez quelle
affaire! et quel riche et profond mystère entourait pour moi tout ce petit
drame. C’est là le charme délicieux de l’ignorance. Vous commencez à lire
un récit... le mot principal d’une phrase vous échappe, vous voilà livré à vos
suppositions, vous êtes libre de vous amuser à votre guise, vous n’avez pas
à craindre de voir le mystère se dissiper tout d’un coup. Aucune supposition
ne vous fournira la signification exacte du mot inconnu. Tous les autres
mots vous fournissaient quelque indice par leur forme, leur orthographe,
leur son, celui-là ne vous dit rien, il garde son secret. Que veut dire
spalleggiato? S’il y a un indice quelque part, une légère ombre d’indice,
c’est dans les cinq lettres qui se suivent au milieu du mot, alleg... Cela
signifierait-il que le spectateur fut allégé par ses amis et que c’est là ce qui
le conduisit à faire feu sur le policier? Mais allégé? Volé? Je ne vois pas du
tout comment il se fait qu’un bonhomme volé par ses amis se soit obstiné à
fumer dans un théâtre et se soit mis en état de rébellion contre l’agent de la
force publique... Non, je ne saisis pas le lien qui pourrait enchaîner toutes
ces circonstances et je suis obligé de penser que le mot spalleggiato
demeure pour moi un mot mystérieux. L’incertitude reste donc et avec elle
le charme.
S’il existait un guide de conversation vraiment bien fait, je l’étudierais et
ne passerais pas tout mon temps à des lectures aussi suggestives; mais les
guides de conversation ne me satisfont pas. Ils marchent assez bien pendant
un certain temps, mais quand vous tombez et que vous vous égratignez la
jambe, ils ne vous indiquent pas ce qu’il faut dire.
 L’ITALIEN ET SA GRAMMAIRE
J’avais pensé qu’une personne tant soit peu intelligente pouvait lire très
facilement l’italien sans dictionnaire, mais j’ai découvert depuis qu’une
grammaire n’est pas inutile en bien des circonstances. Cela parce que, si la
personne en question ne connaît pas les temps des verbes italiens, elle fera
souvent des confusions regrettables. Elle pourra très bien croire qu’une
chose doit arriver la semaine suivante alors qu’elle sera déjà arrivée depuis
une semaine. En étudiant la question, je vis que les noms, les adjectifs, etc.,
étaient de bons mots francs, droits et dépourvus d’artifice; mais c’est le
verbe qui prête à la confusion, c’est le verbe qui manque de stabilité et de
droiture, c’est le verbe qui n’a aucune opinion durable sur rien, c’est le
verbe qui leurre le lecteur ignorant, éteint la lumière et cause toutes sortes
d’ennuis.
Plus j’étudiais, plus je réfléchissais, plus je me confirmais dans cette
opinion. Cette découverte m’indiqua la voie à suivre pour acquérir la
science qui me manquait lorsque je lisais les dernières nouvelles des
journaux: il me fallait attraper un verbe et m’en rendre maître. Il me fallait
le dépecer jusqu’à ce que j’en connusse le fort et le faible, les mœurs et les
habitudes, les formes et les excentricités.
J’avais remarqué en d’autres langues étrangères que les verbes vivent en
famille et que les membres de chaque famille ont des traits de ressemblance
qui leur sont communs et qui les distinguent des membres des autres
familles. J’avais noté que cette marque de famille ne se voit pas sur le nez,
ni sur les cheveux—pour ainsi parler—mais sur la queue du mot, sur sa
terminaison—et que ces queues les distinguent parfaitement, à tel point
qu’un expert peut toujours dire s’il a affaire à un Plus-que-parfait ou à un
Subjonctif sur simple examen de sa queue, tout comme un cowboy
distingue un cheval d’une vache. Naturellement, je ne parle que de ces
verbes légitimes que, dans l’argot des grammairiens, on appelle réguliers. Il
y en a d’autres—je ne cherche pas à le cacher—qu’on appelle irréguliers,
qui sont nés hors mariage, de parents inconnus et qui sont naturellement
dépourvus de toute marque de famille, de tout trait de ressemblance avec
d’autres, leurs queues ne signifiant rien. Mais de ces bâtards je n’ai rien à
dire. Je ne les approuve pas, je ne les encourage pas; je suis un délicat et
sensible puriste et je ne permets pas qu’on les nomme en ma présence.
Mais, comme je l’ai dit, je décidai d’attraper un bon verbe et de le
disséquer à fond. Un suffit. Une fois familiarisé avec les formes de sa
queue, vous êtes avertis, et, après cela, aucun verbe régulier ne saurait vous
cacher sa parenté et vous ne pourrez plus confondre le passé ou le futur
avec le conditionnel—sa queue vous renseignera toujours.
Je choisis le verbe amare, aimer. Ce ne fut pour aucune raison
personnelle, car les verbes me laissent tout à fait indifférents. Je ne me
soucie pas plus d’un verbe que d’un autre, et, pris dans leur ensemble, je les
respecte fort peu, mais enfin, dans les langues étrangères, il faut toujours
commencer avec le verbe «aimer». Pourquoi? Je ne sais pas. C’est une
simple habitude, je suppose. Le premier grammairien le choisit: Adam ne fit
pas la grimace, et aucun professeur n’eut assez d’originalité d’esprit pour
choisir un autre verbe. Il n’en manque pas, cependant; tout le monde
l’admet. Mais les grammairiens n’aiment pas l’originalité; ils n’ont jamais
émis une idée nouvelle et sont tout à fait incapables de répandre un peu de
fraîcheur et de vie dans leurs tristes, sombres et ennuyeuses leçons. Le
charme, la grâce et le pittoresque leur sont étrangers.
Je savais donc qu’il me fallait veiller moi-même à rendre mon étude
intéressante; j’envoyai donc chercher le facchino et lui expliquai mon désir.
Je lui dis de rassembler quelques contadini en une compagnie, de leur
donner des costumes et de leur distribuer leurs rôles. Je lui enjoignis
d’exercer sa troupe et d’être prêt au bout de trois jours! Chaque division de
six hommes, représentant un aspect du verbe, devait être commandée par un
sergent, un caporal ou quelque chose comme cela; chacune d’elles devait
avoir un uniforme différent, afin que je puisse distinguer un parfait d’un
futur sans être obligé de regarder dans mon livre; le bataillon tout entier
devait être sous les ordres du facchino avec le grade de colonel. Je payai les
frais.

Alors, je m’enquis des mœurs, formes et autres idiosyncrasies du verbe

amare, aimer, et je fus très troublé d’apprendre qu’il était capable de
prendre cinquante-sept apparences. Cinquante-sept façons d’exprimer
l’amour, et encore aucune d’elles n’aurait suffi à convaincre une jeune fille
à l’affût d’un titre ou un jeune homme à l’affût d’une dot!