The Papyrus of Ani

I’ve always wanted to read the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, but it’s a little too prosaic to count as literature. A guidebook for religious rituals, the text comes off as more tedious than insightful. But there’s one specific and spectacular part of the work that demands examination: The Papyrus of Ani. More than seventy-eight feet long, it depicts the judgment of a royal scribe named Ani by the Egyptian pantheon. He is required to make a “Negative Confession,” while his heart is weighed against a feather for purity. The scene, and confession:

1. I have not committed sin.
2. I have not committed robbery with violence.
3. I have not stolen.
4. I have not slain men and women.
5. I have not stolen grain.
6. I have not purloined offerings.
7. I have not stolen the property of God.
8. I have not uttered lies.
9. I have not carried away food.
10. I have not uttered curses.

11. I have not committed adultery, I have not lain with men.
12. I have made none to weep.
13. I have not eaten the heart.
14. I have not attacked any man.
15. I am not a man of deceit.
16. I have not stolen cultivated land.
17. I have not been an eavesdropper.
18. I have not slandered.
19. I have not been angry without just cause.
20. I have not debauched the wife of any man.

21. I have not debauched the wife of any man.
22. I have not polluted myself.
23. I have terrorized none.
24. I have not transgressed the law.
25. I have not been wroth.
26. I have not shut my ears to the words of truth.
27. I have not blasphemed.
28. I am not a man of violence.
29. I have not been a stirrer up of strife.
30. I have not acted with undue haste.
31. I have not pried into matters.
32. I have not multiplied my words in speaking.

33. I have wronged none, I have done no evil.
34. I have not worked witchcraft against the king.
35. I have never stopped the flow of water.
36. I have never raised my voice.
37. I have not cursed God. 

38. I have not acted with arrogance.
39. I have not stolen the bread of the gods.
40. I have not carried away the khenfu cakes from the Spirits of the dead.
41. I have not snatched away the bread of the child, nor treated with contempt the god of my city.
42. I have not slain the cattle belonging to the god.

What is the Text saying about Law and Government?

Why is the judgment of Ani portrayed as the weighing of his heart? What metaphors used in Western culture today are suggested by this portrayal? Why does Ani’s heart need only to balance, and not tip, the scale?

If I recall ancient science correctly, doctors believed the mind and personality, and therefore soul, resided in the heart. So one’s conscience, which recorded your bad deeds, was etched and lingered in that organ. So in this scene, a “heavy heart” suggested one filled with guilty deeds, while a “light heart” was empty of such contamination. This concept still exists today in the metaphor of the “heavy heart” or “guilty conscience.” Indeed, the scale was also passed down to us, and is held by blind Justice. As for why the heart must balance with the feather, I imagine it was the expectation that no one is “perfect,” ie, lighter than a feather. So one must have performed only a minimum of bad deeds, so they are as heavy as, but not heavier than, the feather of JUSTICE.

Why is the judgment scene so public? What about the nature of justice is suggested by a public, rather than a private, judicial accounting?

The process of justice is handled by the State, and not on a lex talionis basis; so law is a public, not private, code. They are not designed to protect any one specific individual, but all individuals within a community. Ergo breaking a law is an offense to the entire community, and not just to the violated party.

Also, in Ancient Egypt, and many similar civilizations, laws come from a government which is divinely sanctioned, therefore law is divinely protected. When one breaks the law then, they also offend the Gods, and are subject to their punishment. It’s also true that when one breaks the law the Gods are offended at the entire community, not just the individual (this was true with the Greeks and Hebrews, and I assume it was the same in Egypt). So a criminal put the entire society at stake, and must be publically judged and punished to answer for their crime. This public process can then be seen as a sort of purging ritual, in which the violations of the individual are recorded for their personal fate, but also for the community as a whole. It helps paint the moral climate of the society, and lets the group address issues openly.

Why are all of the statements that Ani must make to justify himself negative statements, or statements of what he did not do? Why does he not state the good things that he has done? What might be implied here about the nature and limits of judicial proceedings?

What a fantastic question. There’s a pragmatic answer, and an ethical one. For the former, because humans have free will, laws can at best limit your actions. It is very difficult to insist (or demand) specific behavior, because of the difficulty of carrying these demands out: “The law states you are to piously pray three times a day, and you only prayed twice yesterday. I sentence you to death.” The arbitration and police force necessary to enforce these laws are humongous, and so compromises must be made. The law therefore draws lines in the sand, and acts as a policing agent protecting those boundaries. It’s difficult enough to prevent people from doing specific things, let alone enforcing them to do specific things, and so administrations must have denied their citizens certain poisonous actions that harmed the greater community, and deemed all other action as lawful. (I will ignore judicial theory in free countries and the use of taboo, because they are more complex than the question allows.) Today we have a robust enough government where we can enforce actions (“wear your seatbelt!”) but these are more viewed in terms of violations of safety, ergo negativity, than a positive action.

                                             

The more abstract, ethical reason is that “to do good” is expected of you. We are meant to be good people, and so one does not receive a reward for good deeds. We are instead punished if we do not complete good deeds, or, put another way, commit bad ones. It is our wrongful actions that are to be punished, and we only receive reward if we have committed none. But perhaps this is inaccurate. Instead, maybe the papyrus is suggesting that good is purely superfluous, and our natural state is ethical neutrality, and it is only our bad actions that can condemn us. Salvation or damnation is portrayed here in terms of law breaking or keeping, and not as an evaluation of actions.

In short, the judgment of Ani reveals the limitation of law and government: they cannot enforce “ethical” behavior, so much as hold punishment for actions detrimental to the community. Today we know that ethics is a dynamic and subjective system, but the ancient Egyptians probably didn’t view it as such. Instead, they acknowledged the practical limitations of law, and instead focused on what we should *not* do, versus what we should. From this we learn that law may be derived from morality, but is still mutually exclusive to it.  

What facts about ancient Egyptian culture can you infer from this view of justice, the gods, and the afterlife? How might you apply this same logic to another, perhaps contemporary culture?

The kind of confidence and reliance the Egyptians put on their religious pantheon for dispensing justice shows how important it is to them and how seriously they take law. Not to be left in mortal hands, judgment comes from above. Also important is getting into the afterlife. Our mortal life is mostly a stage in which we are tempted and challenged, and our ability to meet that challenge decides who is allowed into heaven, and who is discarded. This view is perfectly mirrored in Judeo-Christen religions, of which the ancient Egyptian religion was a significant contributor, probably from their time in that land. From the Egyptians to the Hebrews, to the Christians, to Rome and Europe, and then finally, to America, it is where our cultural beliefs regarding law, justice, and the afterlife all come from (among many other things, of course).

La Grotte de Lascaux: "The Shaft of the Dead Man"

  

For most of our history, our race wasn’t human. Before civilization, before self-awareness, we were just another beast on the African savannah, hunting our prey and trying to survive. We didn’t ask dangerous questions or seek their answers; we didn’t have power, or luxuries, or comprehension. Somewhere along the way from there and now, we gained those properties. We looked up at the stars and wondered. We hugged a dead antelope and felt a mixture of appreciation and regret. We worshiped something greater than ourselves. We grew, not in numbers, but in depth. At some point in our history, we became human, and art was invented.

Because of its preserving nature, and the maturity of our intellect, we have tons of artistic property from the dawn of civilization (particularly from 3,000 BCE and on). But these new, “civilized” animals are too like us; their problems are our problems, and their worries our worries. By studying them we learn too much about ourselves. It’s the art from pre-agricultural societies that can give us profound insight on the fundamentals of our psychology, philosophy, and religion. These “humans,” existing in the shadowy realm between man and beast, are the link to our more feral past. The problem is that pre-Neolithic Revolution art is so scarce, and often simple. That’s why the cave paintings at the Lascaux caves are so damn precious.

Discovered in France in 1940 by some teenagers, the grotto contains the most outstanding displays of prehistoric art ever discovered. 250 feet of masterful illustrations, meticulously worked in cramped conditions, these galleries necessitated substantial resources and time to complete; all for no apparent practical advantage. Can one assume religious rituals? Or perhaps an explosion of creative talent? Did these cavemen and cavewomen have something to say, something to show, or something to explore? I don’t know, but we can sure guess.

 

My favorite picture is the great black bull, or Auroch: massive, majestic, and now extinct. One can imagine him running with his herd, early homo sapient watching from the foliage, in part hoping to catch and kill the titan for food, another part awed by its power and grace. This inner conflict—the murder of glorious life—is represented by the painting of his eye. So many of the Lascaux critters don’t have faces or eyes, which to me signifies abstraction. The detail of the eye in the bull suggests a connection and confrontation significant enough the artist depicted it in his painting. And what is the bull communicating? What can we deduce? It seems to me that the Auroch’s glare is accusatory, somewhat sad, and probing:

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Why? Are we not brothers? No, I suppose were not. You’ve become…different. You’re no longer like us. You’ve changed. You love me, but you need to kill me to survive. How must that feel—to kill that which you love. To kill your brothers. To be self-aware. To be different. To be alone in a world of life.”

How heavily this must have weighed on our early minds. Which brings me to another work; perhaps the strangest of all Lascaux art: “Shaft of the Dead Man.”

Understanding the Text

Study the picture for a moment. What do you see? A seeming human, but with a bird’s head? Being run over by a bison? Is that a crane below them? Or a bird staff? Is that a rhino running away from the scene? What the hell is going on! Let’s analyze it a bit, shall we?

Why does the human figure have a human head? What does this combination suggest about the culture that produced this scene? 

When I see the unison of man and animal, I think of wish fulfillment. So the character is drawn as part bird to reconcile the growing separation between the human and animal world. Or the bird head is a mask the character dons to interact/communicate with other beasts. So either the culture sees themselves as part animal, or wants to be, and this manifests in the bird-human hybrid depicted here. 

Why is the human figure disproportionately large compared to the bison? What kind of relationship between humans and the natural world does the painting suggest?

Size usually equals power. I think the height of the bird character is an assertion of human dominance in the natural order; the bison is, after all, charging down and killing him. This is a violent scene, with the destruction of human life and perhaps the disembowelment of the bison, while the rhino flees the scene in terror. There seems to be recognition that humans are climbing higher on the food chain, and are attempting mastery over the other animals. But this control is not complete, and the bison challenges and even succeeds in resisting human power.

But maybe not. Maybe the human is simply trying to become an equal to the bison and rhino, greeting them as fellow animals, and is rejected. The former attacks him, while the latter runs. Do we see the enactment of exile from the natural order? The Lascaux paintings are dated around 17,000-13,000 BCE, which is relatively late in our development. Is this the last attempt at integration with the animal kingdom? Is our failure here a catalyst for civilization? It’s an enticing thought.

Some have suggested that the figure in the drawing is a religious shaman who is in a dreamlike trance. Is this a plausible interpretation of the painting? If so, should the other animals be read literally or symbolically?

The odd bird totem below the bird figure seems strong evidence for shamanism. Whether or not they’re in a “dreamlike trance” is debatable; the proximity of the bison seems to suggest a physical, not mental interaction. But the meta-context of the scene—on a wall in the dark recesses of a cave structure—argue for evocation. What in the world were these painters doing down here? Why go through all the trouble and danger of creating these galleries? What need did it serve? If we claim these animals are to be taken literally, as mere replications of reality, we ignore the role of art in our own world. Surely we have to see at least some of the paintings as symbolic. Symbolic of what is again guess work. Fertility rituals? Early Gods? The “other?”  

Looking at the galleries together, there is movement here, and narrative. Is the world depicted overwhelming the growing consciousness of man? Is the shaman trying to cope with this expanding reality and finds himself outmatched? From the scarcity of homo sapiens represented at Lascaux, this seems plausible. For the first time, man views his world through an artistic lens. He is part of a bigger picture, and struggles to find his place in it.

Based on the available evidence, what do you believe was the purpose of the cave art at Lascaux? What facts support your interpretation? How might this interpretation account for “The Shaft of the Dead Man?”

Well, I see a practical reason, and then a more abstract one. Ostensibly I think the caves were used for religious/shamanistic rituals, mostly likely for animal/human fertility. This would justify the time and resources poured initially into the endeavor, as the participants probably hoped for concrete returns on such an investment. My evidence for this is the frequency of fertility rituals among tribal peoples, and the large density of animal life depicted compared to humans. Beyond this reasoning, however, I would bet that early man found this kind of artistic work therapeutic and fulfilling. Soon people found painting/crafting useful for working through inner emotions that have no other outlet; in addition to telling stories and making sense of the world. Lascaux represents the torrent of growing human consciousness that must have developed from our burgeoning psychologies.

As far as “The Shaft of the Dead Man” is concerned, this work is one such instance of that consciousness. The complexity and strangeness of the scene is oozing with profound texture; I may not completely understand why the artist created it, but I can feel its echoes across time. Drawing yourself as a dead entity is a level of self-awareness that no other organism has yet matched. The harmony of the galleries, the amount of life and vibrancy it depicts, seems at such odds with the awkward and assaulted bird man above. In this mural of life, we do not belong.