The Fractured Rose: Paradiso 32 (Part II)

Paradiso 32 comes across as dry and devoid of embellishment when compared with the cantos immediately preceding and the stunning final canto 33.

Numerous critics have noted its "wooden," coldly depersonalized affect. "It is a plan which must seem to us pedantic and unimaginative and out of keeping with the visionary rapture of this part of Dante's pilgrimage," notes John D. Sinclair. And G.L. Bickersteth describes the focus on the construction of the edifice of the Rose as "an intellectual process resulting in a static formal image, mercilessly formal in its absolute symmetry, a mere geometrical design, lifeless . . .."

We might ask ourselves why, at this penultimate moment when all is tending upward toward the light, toward love and synthesis of the Alpha and Omega, we are treated to a set of names, familiar figures from the Testaments and from Church history, but here like icons in niches, more inert than the figures on along the paths of Purgatorio which the poet beautifully calls visibile parlare.

None who are named speaks, none is described, or has anything of the vivid individuality and animation of souls met throughout this journey. Something besides their historical personhood is of concern here. When Benedict promised Dante that he would see the blessed con imagine scoverta, little did we think this unveiling would drain their presence to a set of letters spelling their names.

The effect is skeletal, as if we are experiencing not the plenitude of the Rose, but rather the barest bones of Scripture inscribed in the Rose. The names have a somber, distanced air -- as if chiseled on a gravestone.

The Rose, all ebullience in the previous cantos, is now dissected by Bernard. The order he limns marks the breaking points of the strange interface between terrestrial man and his Creator: Those Before and After Christ; the matrilineal line, or wall, from Eve to Christ -- itself a jagged line that crosses boundaries of ethnicity and nationhood, and women without children, and women who killed kings. Then, three classes of innocents.

The one person from the Old Testament whose words - "miserere me" - we hear quoted by Bernard is David, the king who took another man's wife, and arranged that man's death. David not only committed a grave sin, for which he sang many a penitential psalm. With Bathsheba he fathered Solomon.

We're moving toward the close of the Commedia. That the final canto is coming is certain. Before we arrive, one last walk through a valley of wounds, balm, and the deepest doubt. What a remarkable artistic calculation: the poet has us with him, no one is going to stop reading his poem now. We've experienced some of the lowest and highest characters, tales and perils a reader could wish for. But Paradise is not only about God's sacred totality. It is also about the wounds, sins, and sorry history of the creature whose eternal life was purchased at horrific cost.

The face of heaven is broken, not unlike the broken god that provided human access there. The geometry of the Rose is disfigured by these markings of difference, this wall of nurturing, devious mothers, one assassin, and the horrors of sin issuing from the original piaga opened by Eve.

Piaga - "wound" - is given high prominence by Bernard - so high it is striking:

La piaga che Maria richiuse e unse,
quella ch'è tanto bella da' suoi piedi
è colei che l'aperse e che la punse.

Preceding even the name of Maria, la piaga opened by Eve, closed by Mary, stains the canto. The geometry of the Rose is crossed by lines of human error that disfigure it. The face of Heaven bears the sutures of a care incomprehensibly extended in the wake the nightmarish incisions of human history. To approach heaven without having contemplated this agony, this unaccountable rescue; without having confronted still more troubling doubts is not to approach this poet's sacral place at all.

The canto next turns to a last, deepest doubt: what of the children who died before their choices had authority to decide their fates? Doubts accompanying the pilgrim since he was lost in the wood.

This will be next.

Dante's curious canto of hope - Paradiso 25

Paradiso 25 begins se mai . . .  -- if ever . . . - the strange foolishness of the phenomenon is all right there.

Does one "need" hope? Or is it something one cannot not have? What does hope know? Does it hope for something that it has reason to think will come true, or for precisely that which all rational thought and argument says is not going to happen?

Hope is more irrational even than Faith, which takes as true something that is received as such via language or some sign that points to that which is unverifiable this side of death. Hope, built upon Faith, adds emotive force -- we are moved by hope to expect that which others see no reason to expect. To have no expectation is to experience, as our center of gravity, the absence of motion and expectation. To be hope-less.

The Greeks - or our readings of them - appear to be of two minds about hope. Either it's what we have left after all the ills of Pandora have infested our world, or, it's what we're doomed to be unable to rid ourselves of, despite knowing, beyond all doubt, that it is blind, a useless sign.

At the end of Paradiso 25, the pilgrim in fact is blind.

The realm of the theological virtues is wholly different from what came before - they're not classical, not rational, not a matter of balance and reason and measure and justice.

It's easier to say what they're not than what they are. Unless, as the poet does, we simply repeat the definitions of Faith and Hope that we have from the Epistles and our catechisms.

Paradiso 25 raises more questions than it answers. It does not convey to this reader some buoyant, sanguine confidence that we can be sure of hope. We can be sure of its definition, which Dante the poet says was offered by Dante the pilgrim:

Like a pupil who answers his master, ready and eager in his subject that he may show his parts, "Hope" I said, "is a sure expectation of future glory, and it springs from divine grace and precedent merit." (25:64-69)

A similar scene of a pupil and master was evoked in Paradiso 24, when the pilgrim was asked about Faith.

These "supernatural" virtues are bound up with the event of learning from a teacher, and repeating the lesson learned.

Dante was probed by Peter as to whether he had the real coin of Faith in hand. James asks him from whence Hope came to him, and he points to David. Specifically, to Psalm 9, verse 11:

11 And let them trust in thee who know thy name: for thou hast not forsaken them that seek thee, O Lord. 

11 et sperent in te qui noverunt nomen tuum quoniam non dereliquisti quaerentes te Domine

One thing we can say is that it's usually not possible to know someone's name unless it is told to us. I.e., the appearance of a person, their eye color, hair, or complexion, doesn't scream "Jack," "Susie" or "Bob." To know a name, a few conditions must be met:

1. The name must be shared with us via writing or speech.
2. We must be able to tell, when we hear it, that it is a name, rather than a common noun. Usually this requires at least some shared sense of the language in which the name exists.
3. Once we know the name, we can seek that which it represents - in this case, the Lord.

So at least we can say that acquiring a name is in some sense not unlike acquiring a definition of Faith, or Hope - someone verbally imparts it to us, we repeat it, and it becomes something we "know."

Interesting that the line of David's that Dante found helpful for his own grasp of Hope contains the word, and does so in a wish: "Let them hope" - Douay-Rheims says "trust," but the Vulgate of Dante's bible says sperent. Let them hope in thee who have learned your name. There is teaching, learning, naming, hope. That is, names must be taught because they are signs that are not imitations of things. There is no bond or relation of resemblance. And to acquire a name is to hope for what it is the name of, which suggests that it is not "in" the name. In a sense, when we learn a proper name, at that moment all we have is that -- it yields no knowledge beyond its own verbal form. To learn is to start by knowing only that we do not see what the name means -- we are blind as of yet. We hope our hopes will not be forsaken.

Dante is talking to James, who, he says, passed to him the inspiration of David. Psalm 9 goes on to speak of the weak, of those the Lord does not forget. This is a major theme in James -- the fatuity of the rich.

Psalm 9 is the first of the 150 psalms to have been broken into two parts and counted as 9 and 10 in the Septuagint, whereas it's one work (9) in the Hebrew Bible. Scholars (e.g., Robert Alter) say it shows the remains of an alphabetic scheme in which each verse begins with the next letter of the alphabet. Some translations end Psalm 9 at verse 20, and begin Psalm 10 at verse 21 (see, e.g., this rendering), but Douay-Rheims keeps the psalm intact. 

Now, It is unlikely that one would hear the alphabetic scheme of letters if the song were sung aloud in Hebrew. It's an inscribed pattern -- broken because the text is corrupted, but still an inaudible pattern that comes back at the end. 

And it's the ending where perhaps James and David meet. For there we are told, in 9:38 in Douay-Rheims, that

38 The Lord hath heard the desire of the poor: thy ear hath heard the preparation of their heart. 

38 desiderium pauperum exaudivit Dominus praeparationem cordis eorum audivit auris tua

Because now we are told of a hearing that is well beyond the hearing of a name. It's a hearing of something inaudible - a pattern, an order.The Lord's ear hears desire; it hears the preparation of their (the poor's) heart. We are at a level of hearing well beyond the use of words, of verbal utterances.

To hear "the preparation of the heart" is an extraordinary thing to say. What might be such preparation? Could it be the very thing Dante and James are talking about? Hope might be blind, but apparently it's not mute to the Lord's ear. If it is heard, says David, the poor are not forgotten.

Unlike the Gentiles:

32 For he hath said in his heart: God hath forgotten, he hath turned away his face not to see to the end.

32 dixit enim in corde suo oblitus est Deus avertit faciem suam ne videat in finem

One can assume God forgets. Or not. From David to James, Dante hears something bearing on hope. In Italian, "I hope" is spero. In this canto, Dante hears a lot of breathing -- in Italian, spiro. David breathes, James breaths, Dante breathes. Inspiration. In the most basic sense, if we're breathing, we're hoping.

Some references in Auerbach's chapter 1

Erich Auerbach focuses mainly on two scenes in his discussion of the roots of Western modes of representation -- the scene with Euryklea in Odyssey Book 19, and the sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22. We might want to think about the paradigmatic elements of these two texts - one a scene of return and recognition, the other a suspenseful tale of command and sacrifice.

But he alludes to several other tales as well. Here are links to some of the texts in Auerbach's chapter, "Odysseus' Scar," from Mimesis.

Odysseus and Euryclea

Abraham and Isaac

Hermes' visit to Calypso

David and Absalom

David and Joab

2 Samuel 18

Patroclus in battle

Jacob and Joseph 

Pliny's Letter to Trajan 

Themes and motifs in Samuel

If we were to underscore the key themes and motifs of the story of David, what would we find? Here are few that come first to mind:

A tale of two kings.

A story of the development of Israel from loose tribal groups to monarchy. Reservations about monarchy.

An exploration of the problem of succession and modes of legitimate authority: Eli -> Samuel -> Saul -> David -> Solomon.

A study in the uses of intelligence -- of voice and of the word -- versus the power of the sword.

A study of the relations of authority and its factors: servants, messengers, counselors, commanders.

Spy and counterspy: the elaborate game of intelligence.

Recurrent scenes in which what is said or understood is different from what is meant (messengers, traitors, parables).

Sharp contrasts between Saul's helplessness to do anything other than repeat and David's agility and uncanny ability to adapt.

Fathers and children; the family romance.

Music, poetry, temperament, distemper, well-tuned harmony (of mind and polis) vs. turmoil.

A complex exposition of human action, limits, and the workings of divine power.

Motifs (and leitmotifs) are plentiful: a rich and poetic play of words having to do with calling, summoning, hearing, hearkening, heeding another's voice;  the "heart" figures potently in a number of scenes; moments of showing, revealing; remembering; "house" as in dwelling and dynastic entity; also various houses. "Walls" and gates; roofs; construction. Hanging, decapitation. 

This is just a start -- what are some other themes, motifs or other aspects of the story?

"As a woodcock to mine own springe..."

In reading the Book of Samuel as a literary artifact, we have gathered some indications of how tales from the Old Testament remained crucial to very different cultures and traditions over time. A brief review might be in order.

The David story employs a tremendous variety of styles and genres in the telling. At one moment, we're in an intimate drama of a child hearing a voice in the night; another sequence offers court intrigue worth of Hamlet; there's the fabulous legend of David and Goliath embedded into a series of scenes portraying Saul with vivid psychological realism. We have battle scenes, rapes, narrow escapes, loves, lusts, betrayals, power struggles -- and intertwined with these, complex overtones and allusions to earlier stories in Genesis, Exodus, Judges, etc. There are generational conflicts, subtle counselors, lying messengers, true oracles, demanding prophets, poems of tragic sorrow and psalms of triumphant thanks and praise. This multi-voicedness, this profusion of styles and genres (each with its own implied mode of reading) at times seems more like a post-modern bricolage than like a uniform (and unified) single work, e.g., the Iliad.

One effect of the continual shifting of mode is to place side-by-side stories that demand interpretive decoding and stories that appear to be literal representations of historical events. Take the case of speaking truth to power in 2 Samuel 12: Nathan's parable of the poor man and his ewe, which he narrates to David after the murder of Uriah. At first the king takes it literally -- and, clearly seeing the injustice, he is outraged. Only then does Nathan turn the tables, aiming the lesson directly at David -- "You are the man!" -- teaching him another way to read the parable. 

In essence, to capture the conscience of the king, Nathan creates a kind of trap -- a figurative tale that speaks allegorically of something far from yet very near that conscience. This requires a guarded kind of storytelling, one that anticipates complications of interpretation. 

Parabolic language turns away from the literal mode, but does so with purpose, a purpose that deeply involves the one to whom the story is addressed. Nathan is speaking to the king about something other than the king in order to speak truly about the king. The change in genre from literal history to admonitory fable has the reader squarely in its sights. 

We also recall David and Jonathan's use of aimed arrows as code to carry a message having nothing to do with arrows. We may not be all that far from Dante's description of poetry as una bella menzogna - a beautiful lie. 

The parable scene in 2 Samuel 12 turns out to be a turning point in the story of David. Before it, David lived a charmed life in which all his efforts, his cunning, his patience, came to fruition. After Nathan delivers this shattering insight into the truth, the king is like Adam -- the same man he was a moment ago, but entirely different: a fallen man. 

The story returns to narrate a rush of concatenated events -- the rape of Tamar, the schemes of Ahitophel, the revolt and death of Absalom, the exile of David, civil strife and the usurpatory betrayals of Joab. Then, very near the end, in 2 Samuel 24, we have the scene in which, after ordering a census, David asks God to sacrifice him, instead of killing the people through the messenger/angel of the plague. The moment marks the term of the plague, the founding of a sacrificial site, and the end of the Book of Samuel. Even as the fall of David points back to the first man,  it contains foreshadowings that could be interpreted as premonitions of a future "king of the Jews." Medieval readers would pick up these cues.

As we've noticed previously, the odd detail of the threshing floor in 2 Samuel 24 can be read as obliquely pointing to the act of winnowing wheat from chaff, meaning from fable, truth from fiction. It appears at the moment the story of David is coming to an end, as if to say: "Consider, reader, whether this is merely the tale of a long dead man, or whether it may concern you more nearly."

As Erich Auerbach long ago noted, more is in play in Old Testament narrative than the bright mythos of men and gods represented in action. Figures come alive in the Old Testament as vivid individuals in history, but also resonate backward and forward within a larger tapestry that tempts us with the promise of parable.

The finale of 2 Samuel

Last time, a question arose about the threshing floor at the end of 2 Samuel and its relation to the site of the Temple later built by Solomon:

24  And the king⁴⁴²⁸ said⁵⁵⁹ unto⁴¹³ Araunah,⁷²⁸ Nay;³⁸⁰⁸ but³⁵⁸⁸ I will surely buy^7069 7069 it of^4480 854 thee at a price:⁴²⁴² neither³⁸⁰⁸ will I offer⁵⁹²⁷ burnt offerings⁵⁹³⁰ unto the LORD³⁰⁶⁸ my God⁴³⁰ of that which⁸³⁴ doth cost me nothing.²⁶⁰⁰ So David¹⁷³² bought^7069 853 the threshingfloor¹⁶³⁷ and the oxen¹²⁴¹ for fifty²⁵⁷² shekels⁸²⁵⁵ of silver.³⁷⁰¹

25  And David¹⁷³² built¹¹²⁹ there⁸⁰³³ an altar⁴¹⁹⁶ unto the LORD,³⁰⁶⁸ and offered⁵⁹²⁷ burnt offerings⁵⁹³⁰ and peace offerings.⁸⁰⁰² So the LORD³⁰⁶⁸ was entreated⁶²⁷⁹ for the land,⁷⁷⁶and the plague⁴⁰⁴⁶ was stayed⁶¹¹³ from^4480 5921 Israel.³⁴⁷⁸

Araunah's threshing floor (via Wikipedia):

Threshing floors would usually be in places likely to catch the wind so that the wind would assist the separation of wheat from chaff. Hence, it is quite plausible for the threshing floor to have been located on a high hill. The narrative of the Book of Chronicles claims that the altar built by David on the site became the Temple of Solomon, and that the site had formerly been Mount Moriah; the equation of the Temple of Solomon with mount Moriah is viewed as dubious by many scholars, though David's altar being the same site as Solomon's temple is seen as plausible.

Note: It is difficult to avoid wondering about echoes of the imagery of wheat, chaff, winnowing.

Chaff and wind (ruach) return in Psalm 1:

1 Blessed is the man
who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked
or stand in the way of sinners
or sit in the seat of mockers.

2 But his delight is in the law of the LORD,
and on his law he meditates day and night.

3 He is like a tree planted by streams of water,
which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither.
Whatever he does prospers.

4 Not so the wicked!
They are like chaff
that the wind blows away.

5 Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment,
nor sinners in the assembly of the righteous.

6 For the LORD watches over the way of the righteous,
but the way of the wicked will perish.

In the Middle Ages, the act of separating the wheat from the chaff served as a common metaphor for the task of reading -- separating the inner kernal of meaning, truth, from the outer (verbal, literal) husk of the text. As you'll recall from our reading of Dante's Purgatorio, many medieval commentators assume that ancient texts are allegories that require careful attention to be read aright.

At the very end of Samuel, a book that has much to say about hearing and interpreting indirect, often devious messages and messengers, it is difficult to avoid considering whether this threshing floor where the messenger of the plague ends and sacrifice begins might obliquely beckon us to reflect upon our experience of the text, glimpsing new dimensions of significance through intelligent reading.

A text that problematizes interpretation could well provoke questions about how it is to be read. This returns us to the fundamental differences between Homer and the Old Testament raised by Erich Auerbach (in his Mimesis) some time ago, when we read Hesiod's Theogony. For Auerbach, the brighly lit world of the Greeks gives us a wealth of information and descriptive detail - we enjoy the brilliance of the creation. The murky, enigmatic, elliptical tales of the Old Testament -- "fraught with background," in Auerbach's memorable phrase -- appear to hold something back, calling for further interpretive work.

Mirror, mirror

. . .we will show you how to translate newly acquired knowledge about mirror neurons, spindle cells, and oscillators into practical, socially intelligent behaviors that can reinforce the neural links between you and your followers.

This promise is found in a view of some of the latest findings on leadership intelligence, courtesy of the Harvard Business Review. Is it in any way useful to juxtapose our contemporary notions of leadership and intelligence with that of the Book of Samuel?

Buried Secrets

The Bible's Buried Secrets - the fascinating Nova documentary mentioned by Shaw the other day - is available online. Lots of extra material here, including scholarly discussions of topics including "Origins of the Written Bible" and "The Palace of David."

The program itself is online, divided into 13 chapters here.

Abelard: David's Lament for Jonathan

A friend notes that Peter Abelard (1079-1142) composed a Lament (Planctus) of David for Jonathan. A snippet:

...You now, my Jonathan, 
I mourn above all,
among all delights
there will always be tears.

 Woe, why am I
followed by evil counsel, 
and could give you 
no protection in battle?

 If I had fallen by your side
I would have died happy
for there is nothing greater
than what love will do.

 and living after you
would mean continual dying
since half a soul
is not enough to live.
...

So I have won
an unhappy victory:
what emptiness, 
what short-lived joy
have I had from it.

...

I silence my lyre:
if only I could silence too
my mourning and weeping.
My hands hurt from playing,
my voice is hoarse from crying
and my breathing faint.

       --Peter Abelard (1079-1142)

A more complete version here.

Interesting as a predecessor to the recruiting of Biblical, pagan and historical figures in the Divine Comedy - Dante certainly would have read Abelard. Also, a kind of Christian parallel to Ovid's Heroides, which offer imagined scenes and speeches of mythical women.

Also notable: David's remorse for relying on "the worst counsel."

Pistacia terebinthus

A close relative of the Pistacia palaestina (below), which grows in Israel.

Pistacia palaestina is distinguished from P. terebinthus "by its egg-shaped leaflets, which are drawn into a long point, with somewhat hairy margins, and by more spreading and branching flower clusters."^[1]

Ahitophel in Inferno 28

Ahitophel, Absalom and David are alluded to in the memorable scene in Inferno 28 where Dante and Virgil encounter Bertrand de Born among the sowers of discord:

But I remained to look upon the crowd;

And saw a thing which I should be afraid,

Without some further proof, even to recount,

If it were not that conscience reassures me,

That good companion which emboldens man

Beneath the hauberk of its feeling pure.

I truly saw, and still I seem to see it,

A trunk without a head walk in like manner

As walked the others of the mournful herd.

And by the hair it held the head dissevered,

Hung from the hand in fashion of a lantern,

And that upon us gazed and said: "O me!"

It of itself made to itself a lamp,

And they were two in one, and one in two;

How that can be, He knows who so ordains it.

When it was come close to the bridge's foot,

It lifted high its arm with all the head,

To bring more closely unto us its words,

Which were: "Behold now the sore penalty,

Thou, who dost breathing go the dead beholding;

Behold if any be as great as this.

And so that thou may carry news of me,

Know that Bertram de Born am I, the same

Who gave to the Young King the evil comfort.

I made the father and the son rebellious;

Achitophel not more with Absalom

And David did with his accursed goadings.

Because I parted persons so united,

Parted do I now bear my brain, alas!

From its beginning, which is in this trunk.

Thus is observed in me the counterpoise*."

*("contrapasso" - the appropriate form of punishment for the crime.)

Gustave Dore

Donatello's David - or Hermes?

We've touched on images of David from later times. Thanks to Jutta for pointing to a WSJ story (subscription might be needed to view) about Donatello's David. Here's part of it:

It's practically impossible to look at Donatello's "David," now on display again after extensive restoration at this city's Museo Nazionale del Bargello, without automatically comparing it to Michelangelo's more famous treatment of the same subject, in the Galleria dell'Accademia half a mile away.

The two great Renaissance sculptures differ most obviously in medium and size: Michelangelo's marble colossus stands 17 feet tall; Donatello's bronze, little more than five feet. Stature is in this case inversely proportional to status. Michelangelo's young shepherd, armed only with his sling, has yet to slay his giant foe. Donatello's sword-wielding hero is already triumphant, resting a foot on Goliath's severed head. It's no coincidence that Donatello's 1443 sculpture was commissioned by the Medici family, then Florence's princes in all but name, while Michelangelo made his 1504 work for the defiant Florentine Republic during a brief hiatus in the Medici ascendancy.

Yet if he meant to celebrate monarchical power, Donatello portrayed it with ambivalence. The face of the decapitated Goliath is unmistakably more peaceful than the pensive visage of his conqueror, who seems to foresee the trials (such as his scandalous love for Bathsheba, and the death of his rebellious son Absalom) that will beset his reign. Another revealing touch appears at the statue's base: the little toe of David's right foot curled up under the toe beside it, a mark of imperfection reminding us that the handsome priest-king is not god but man

.
And here's Wikipedia's article on the statue, with its interesting suggestion that this might not be David at all, but Hermes (one has to wonder about that helmet). It seems some Greek tales have Hermes slaying Argos in a way quite reminiscent of David and Goliath:

 To free Io, Zeus had Argus slain by Hermes. Hermes, disguised as a shepherd, first put all of Argus's eyes asleep with spoken charms, then slew him by hitting him with a stone, the first stain of bloodshed among the new generation of gods. ^[8]

Further odd fact:  "There are only three exact replicas of [Michaelangelo's] David. One is at the Ringling Museum in Sarasota, Florida." via Absolute Astronomy.

Michal in Purgatorio X

A friend recalls the passage in Purg X where Michal looks down upon David:

Li precedeva al benedetto vaso,
trescando alzato, l'umile salmista,
e piu' e meno che re era in quel caso.

Di contra, effigïata ad una vista
d'un gran palazzo, Micòl ammirava
sì come donna dispettosa e trista.

The idea that David is "more and less than king" in his robust dance seems to be precisely what marks him as special both within the Old Testament and within the way the New Testament marks itself as the fulfillment of the Old.

A note on Michal

Samuel is a book largely about succession -- how one kind of order succeeds, and in so doing, succeeds another. Eli the priest is followed by Samuel the Prophet. Saul's failed kingship is succeeded by David.

These figures would be large in any tapestry representing the stories of Samuel. Others would be smaller, set in the distance - the rather large cast of such characters in varying degrees of presence and importance giving the whole work a rich dimensional sense of space and time.

Take Michal - we see and hear of her only a handful of times, but what a richly suggestive figure she is:

• She becomes the bride of David - after he wins her by slaughtering 200 Philistines.
• She "loved David" and helps him escape through a window from Saul's hired killers.
• She is taken away from David and given to Paltiel by a paranoid Saul.
• She is taken from her husband, and is returned to David - her husband follows, weeping.
• She looks down through a window, "despises David in her heart," then castigates him for vulgarity.
• She dies childless.

Despite an apparent prohibition in Deuteronomy 24:1-4 on re-establishing a marriage with a previous spouse who has subsequently remarried, David demands the return of Michal after he is crowned in Judah following Saul's death. It is important to note by explanation that David had not divorced Michal at this point in time but rather Saul had made the act to break the marriage^[1]. Therefore they were not technically divorced and David had not issued a writ of divorcement according to the biblical law.

Thus she's been a pawn, a symbol of alliance and allegiance, a means of uniting the houses of Saul and David, and dividing them. A complicated and conflicted connector in the succession. We hear her voice once -- at the moment David arrives to bless his house, after the harmonies of his dancing before the ark. Whatever Michal feels, she seems to project the self-image of aristocracy. In her eyes, David has been vulgar - as such, he's beneath the station he's arrived at. His peasant roots are showing. (We've seen Saul's roots -- nothing to put on airs about. Yet the airs are there.) 

With this, the succession of David's house reaches a dead end in Michal. Solomon will be born to Bathsheba.

 

David's disrupted dance

These and other extraordinary images of the Hajj and Eid al-Adha - the annual pilgrimage to Mecca that has just ended - can be found here.

While the entire purport and historical reality of the event is far different from the ecstatic dance of the Israelites following the Ark with David in 2 Samuel 6, these scenes might suggest something of the energy and religious intensity with which the recently united people are said to have escorted their Lord and king to the new center of their nation, Jerusalem.

It is interesting that this high moment of the Old Testament, where the tribes and monarchy and their relation to the Lord are all "centered" in (precarious) harmony, is a moment of passage, rather than stasis. The Jews do not go to a fixed place to worship in this scene, rather, they are captured in motion, transporting the ark, encountering a major disruption, then reassembling and dancing their way into the capital.

The high energy of the historical moment, combining solemn awe with at least the hint of vulgarity, ends in the confrontation of David and Michal, who looks down upon him from her window and feels complete revulsion. Instead of coming to rest in a moment of peace after the dynamism of the preceding scene, something like a crack runs through the middle of the moment. Instead of closure, there's a divide between the wildness of David's dance one one hand, and the icy hatred in the heart of Saul's daughter on the other. Something feels irretrievably broken. It's as if the curse upon Michal was sprung from her encounter with the most blessed act in the history of Israel. 

Interesting to ponder how this epitomizes the movement of the Old Testament -- it never rests, there's always the next challenge in the incessant movement of history. Consider how this compares with the geometric balance and equilibrium of Homer's narrative structures, or the sense of closure in Greek tragedy.

The world of Samuel

The transition from loose confederacy to monarchy in Samuel is fraught with complications.

In 1 Samuel, the story is set in motion by the importunate words of Hannah, the mother of Samuel (1 Samuel 11), to the Lord that he grant her a son, whom she promises to dedicate to His service. (Recall the priest, Eli, at first thinks she is drunk, when in fact she’s moved by inspiration).

Her prayer takes place within a context established at the outset through two opening statements, which, taken together as true, predicate a crisis:

1. In gratitude that her prayer is answered, Hannah offers a song that says, in effect, that the Lord is the author of change:

The LORD³⁰⁶⁸ killeth,⁴¹⁹¹ and maketh alive:²⁴²¹ he bringeth down³³⁸¹ to the grave,⁷⁵⁸⁵ and bringeth up.⁵⁹²⁷

As a result, she says:

The bows⁷¹⁹⁸ of the mighty men¹³⁶⁸ are broken,²⁸⁴⁴ and they that stumbled³⁷⁸² are girded²⁴⁷with strength.²⁴²⁸

(Which will, parenthetically, evoke the symmetrically balanced poem of David at the beginning of 2 Samuel, lamenting the fate of Saul and Jonathan:

How³⁴⁹ are the mighty¹³⁶⁸ fallen,⁵³⁰⁷ and the weapons³⁶²⁷ of war⁴⁴²¹ perished!^{6 )}

^{2. A second key statement is that access to the Lord, intelligence of his will, is intermittent, not always secure, in this time:}

“ …the word of the Lord was rare in those days, vision was not spread about.” (1 Sam. 3:1)

From Eli to Samuel to Saul to David to the House of David, the transition from loose confederacy to a "stable" dynasty lurches along. It's a hostile, murderous world full of unpredictable surprises and wrong turns. What comes about has much to do with the characters' intelligence of the ways of men, and of the Lord, in the many senses of the word.

A bit of knitting

It might be useful to bring together at this point a few of the many rich threads we've been following over the past year or so. The David story in Samuel is clearly about change -- from local tribal rule to the establishment of a nation under a king, for one.

We've talked about some parallels and differences between the Biblical narrative and Homer: Saul-David and Achilles-Odysseus.

In Plutarch we read the lives of Cato, Caesar and Alexander – all three narratives concerned central characters caught up in resisting, or bringing about, large scale changes to the state, society, and government. These stories involved relationships to power, human and divine.

· Cato – the quasi-prophet citizen who saw the inevitability of what flowed from Caesar. Critic of accumulated power. Shepherd of the common people.

· Caesar – agent who effected, but did not live to administer, the transition from Republic to Imperium. Gambler ("Toss the dice high"), strategist, huge risk taker, always calculating.

· Alexander – king who conquered and seduced kings, queens, all the powers of the known earth into the fragile harmony of the cosmos.

And in Plato we've looked at the vision of the philosopher king, whom we might at some point contrast with David, the warrior-poet king. (Something to think about: Plato intends to banish the poets, while David is Israel's chief poet.)

But the overarching story told in Samuel traces the transition from a loose confederation of tribes instructed and governed by priests, judges and perhaps prophets to the establishment of a house – a royal dynasty. What are some of the salient ways in which the basic "plot" of the Bible tale differs from those of Plutarch? The relation of human civil order to God in the Bible vs. that order vis a vis the gods of the Greeks and Romans? 

Opening 2 Samuel

There appear to be some major differences between 1 and 2 Samuel. For one, the triangle Saul - David - God is no longer generating story tension. David rises to what appears to be a seamless bond with the Lord - at least until he spies Bathsheba.

But 2 Samuel also begins with a man, a seeming wanderer:

2  It came even to pass¹⁹⁶¹ on the third⁷⁹⁹² day,³¹¹⁷that, behold,²⁰⁰⁹ a man³⁷⁶ came⁹³⁵ out of⁴⁴⁸⁰ the camp⁴²⁶⁴ from^4480 5973 Saul⁷⁵⁸⁶ with his clothes⁸⁹⁹rent,⁷¹⁶⁷ and earth¹²⁷ upon⁵⁹²¹ his head:⁷²¹⁸ and so it was,¹⁹⁶¹ when he came⁹³⁵ to⁴¹³ David,¹⁷³² that he fell⁵³⁰⁷ to the earth,⁷⁷⁶ and did obeisance.⁷⁸¹² 

He's about to spin a tale -- the tale will not be believed; in fact, speaking the death of Saul will occasion the death of this stranger. David is facing something more threatening than Goliath: a world of complex motives and lies that will demand from him -- and from us readers -- a hermeneutic of suspicion.

Olive Pits from the time of David?

Mussy sends along this story touching on David's time from the Times:

KHIRBET QEIYAFA, Israel — Overlooking the verdant Valley of Elah, where the Bible says David toppled Goliath, archaeologists are unearthing a 3,000-year-old fortified city that could reshape views of the period when David ruled over the Israelites. Five lines on pottery uncovered here appear to be the oldest Hebrew text ever found and are likely to have a major impact on knowledge about the history of literacy and alphabet development.

The five-acre site, with its fortifications, dwellings and multi-chambered entry gate, will also be a weapon in the contentious and often politicized debate over whether David and his capital, Jerusalem, were an important kingdom or a minor tribe, an issue that divides not only scholars but those seeking to support or delegitimize Zionism. 

...for the state of Israel, which considers itself to be a reclamation of the state begun by David, evidence of the biblical account has huge symbolic value. 

...But the archaeological record of that kingdom is exceedingly sparse — in fact almost nonexistent — and a number of scholars today argue that the kingdom was largely a myth created some centuries later. A great power, they note, would have left traces of cities and activity, and been mentioned by those around it. Yet in this area nothing like that has turned up — at least until now. more...

The scene of the cave in 1 Samuel 24

As we noted when reading Genesis and Exodus, elaborate descriptions of landscape and topography are conspicuously absent from much Old Testament narrative. So in 1 Samuel 24, the scene of Saul and David in and then outside of the cave, it might pay to consider why this scene occurs in a cave. What is suggested by the curious tale of the king being exposed, as Alter notes, in a double sense, to David, the future king?

Twice in this book, David has the opportunity to kill a very vulnerable Saul from a position of nearly total invulnerability, a quasi invisibility. Does this parallel with the Greek tale of Gyges seem relevant?