Introduction
After I had been at work some years on this text, a fellow asked me why I bothered with a subject as dreary as the Book of the Dead. “I mean, isn't it morbid? All that fascination with the dead and the dying and decay? What can you possibly see in it?” His question is fairly common. People unfamiliar with the text maintain a notion that it is somehow ghoulish. It is not. It is one of the most beautiful celebrations of life that I have ever read.
Osiris, the god of the dead, is a green god, an image of the seed waiting in the dark to burst forth into renewal. His symbol was the growing corn. His death and rebirth illuminated the path from darkness to light, from unconsciousness to enlightenment. In that light, I called this book A wakening Osiris for I thought of it as a call to consciousness and spiritual awakening. We are all Osirises.
The Book of the Dead is a misnomer applied by historians to a text which the ancient Egyptians referred to as the Book of Coming Forth by Day. I much prefer the Egyptian title as it seems best to represent what the book implies. No definitive version of the Book of the Dead exists. Rather it is a compilation of funerary texts and religious hymns written by priests and copied by scribes during a period spanning approximately 3000 B.C. to 300 A.D. In it are included versions of several other texts, which are detailed below.
The Pyramid Texts, the most ancient body of literature known, were inscribed on the walls of pyramids and pharaonic tombs during the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties of the Old Kingdom (2464-2355 B.C.). They were supplications to the gods that a man might achieve unity with the deities in heaven. The Coffin Texts appeared in the early Middle Kingdom (2154-1845 B.C.) and usually were written in ink directly on the coffins of the noblemen and women who composed the pharaoh's entourage. These “spells,” as historians have called them (though the Egyptians called them “chapters”), were intended to assure a man's unity with the gods by preventing the ravages of the body in the neterworld. Other chapters in the Book of the Dead owe their origin to such works as The Book of What is in Tuat (the neterworld), the Book of Gates, the Book of Transformations, the Litany of the Sun and various other hymns to the gods and goddesses.
The order of the chapters was diverse. In fact, the literature was in no manner a book as we perceive it with a beginning, middle and end. It was, instead, a compilation of chapters, each chapter unique unto itself and sometimes peculiar to the requirements of the pharaoh for whom it was written.
The Book of the Dead went through various revisions, additions and deletions in its history according to whatever theological doctrine was current to a particular region at that particular time. The priests of Amun, for example, assumed for their god the characteristics of Ra. By the Saite Recension (300 B.C.) Osiris himself had over 150 forms, characteristics of other deities which he had assumed. The evil power of darkness, Set himself, possessed many names and many other entities of darkness and destruction followed in his train.
These subtle changes in theocracy took place at the priests' instigations in an effort to prevent a community from taking issue with a change in worship. Religious history is full of similar incorporations, such as the Hebrew practice of circumcision learned from the ancient Egyptians, or the Christian celebration of Christ's birth as coincidental with the ancient celebration of the solstice. Any drastic changes in the theocracy would have created upheaval. For example, when Akhenaton insisted on the divinity of the one god, he overthrew all at once the local gods. His heretical beliefs won him no favors with either his subjects or the priests. After his reign the ancient Egyptians effaced his name from the monuments—a powerful form of ancient curse—and they immediately returned to their worship of the beatific multitudes.
It is evident, then, that after 4,000 years of development and change, the authorship of The Book of the Dead can not be ascribed to one particular individual. In fact, it can not be ascribed to any individuals. The scribes for the most part simply copied what the priests instructed them to copy. Who these scribes and priests were is lost to history.
Ownership of the words was theologically impossible anyway, as the texts were divinely inspired. Certain chapters of the work are said to have been written by Thoth himself “with his own fingers.” To Thoth—”lord of divine speech,” “lord of Maat (truth)” and “lord of divine books”—was attributed the authorship of 42 sacred texts collectively entitled “The Books of Thoth.” These dealt with sacred laws, astronomy, medicine, the history of the world and the work of priests. Some historians, such as H. Brugsch, believe that the original inscriptions of some of these chapters appear on the walls of the Temple of Horus at Edfu, but the claim is unsubstantiated and probably will remain so. The Greeks identified Thoth with Hermes, and he may have been the “Thrice Greatest Hermes” of which the mystics speak. The contents of the texts were, so we are told, not tampered with by the scribes, although the priests and pharaohs made revisions and personal supplications.
By and large the hieroglyphs which we associate with the ancient Egyptians were the “holy writings” of the priests used during the Old Kingdom. Only priests were literate then, but by the Middle Kingdom the business community and the scribes began to write in a cursive form of hieroglyphs called hieratics, which in the later dynasties was transmuted into the language of demotics. By the end of the New Kingdom the use of hieroglyphs disappeared, for even the priests no longer knew the original meaning of the glyphs.
During the switch from hieroglyphics to hieratics, the alphabet lost its graphic or symbolic appeal. It was not necessary, for example, to illustrate the work of The Pyramid Texts as the hieroglyphics themselves were pictorial. It was necessary, however, to illustrate a papyrus written in hieratic as, by that time, the characters had become more or less abstractions implying sounds only; and since the common man could not read, he needed a picture to guide him in understanding the implications of each chapter.
By the end of the Middle Kingdom the scribes who worked on the texts were many, and the papyrus scrolls were often mass-produced for the common people. One scribe may have worked only on illustrating the text with vignettes before he passed along the text to the next scribe who inscribed the hieroglyphs for a particular chapter. As a result the writing in the texts is often cramped, occasionally illegible or sometimes contains blank areas where too much space was left by the illustrator. In addition, blank spaces were left in the text where the name of a man could be inserted after the papyrus was purchased. This mass production resulted in several mistakes in various texts, but the circumstances of production make these understandable.
What has survived of Egyptian literature is primarily texts of religious rites, hymns, love songs and work songs. (Some notable exceptions include The Tale of Two Brothers and a wonderful dialogue between a man weary of life and his soul, which was beautifully translated by Bika Reed as The Rebel in the Soul.) Little poetry or fiction as we tend to think of it has survived. Although rhyme was not a consideration, certain poetic elements appear such as repetition, alliteration, assonance, allusion, imagery and parallel structure. These were enhanced by a strong meter and rhythm in the work. The Egyptians loved puns of all types and even their religious texts are full of humor. Many times they intertwined sacred and profane images. It is interesting to note the many uses of the anagram; that is, how one word expressing a particular idea may have been spelled backward to represent an opposing idea. For example, kha indicates a corpse, while akh indicates a thing radiant or spiritual.
Language was of primary importance; in essence it cast a type of spell. The ancient Egyptians felt that if words could be uttered precisely, in proper sequence and with proper intonation, those words could produce magical effects. The Fourth Gospel begins: “In the beginning was the Word.” In like manner the Egyptian History of the Creation of the Gods and the World begins with the words of Temu:
I am he who came into being, being what I created—
the creator of the creations…
After I created my own becoming,
I created many things
that came forth from my mouth.
kheper-nå kheper kheperu
kheper kheperu
neb em-khet kheper-å asht kheperu
em per em re-å)
In addition, re-å for the mouth and Re (or Ra) for the sun god are similar. The implication, then, may be that Temu opened his mouth and light burst forth. Thé lions of yesterday and today (time) were symbols of Ra and these were called re-re, or the sound of lions roaring. One begins to see how intricately linked are the sound, symbol, myth and meaning. Language, then, resonates on and on in an intricate spiral of meanings, one word or association leading to the next.
What is most unfortunate is that we are uncertain as to exactly how the language was pronounced. The hieroglyphs were an alphabet of consonants, homophones and ideograms. The vowel sounds, or those breathy vocalizations, were sacred and therefore unwritten or secret. As a result the pronunciation of the text (and in Egyptian terms its precise meaning) is lost to us now.
An abundance of gods and goddesses appear in the text. Some are mentioned briefly and others are mentioned over and over again. Often times the minor names represent local deities incorporated into the greater gods and goddesses. Still, there seems to have been a time early in the development of the religion where the gods were one. The text often refers to one god—sometimes Temu, sometimes Ptah, sometimes Ra, depending on the interpretations of the priests that have been passed down to us. This one god was the creator of himself and all things therein. His name is secret and hidden. All the other gods and goddesses issue forth from him. One might think, then, of the other multitudes as aspects of the one god.
The Egyptian word which we have translated as “god” is neter, as in the “neterworld.” But the word god, though common to us, seems imprecise when applied to Egyptian religion. Neter refers primarily to a spiritual essence, or principle. Our word “nature” may derive from it through the Latin. The multitudes of neters, then, represent the multitudinous natures of supreme being. As John West pointed out in his book, Serpent in the Sky, the various religious centers of Heliopolis, Memphis, Hermopolis and Thebes, for example, were not advocating different gods. They were advocating differing aspects of god.
From the mouth of one supreme god came what is known as the Great Ennead, or the nine gods (neters) of the one. In Heliopolis these were: Temu, Shu, Tefnut, Geb, Nut, Osiris, Isis, Set and Nephthys. In Memphis, Ptah and Hathor play major roles. In Hermopolis, Thoth is elevated. Ra, as a principle of light, eternity, power and rebirth, attained prominence nearly everywhere.
Temu and Ptah are aspects of one neter. Temu may be thought of as the primordial act, the first creation, pure essence and spirit. Ptah is Temu come to earth: the same principle of spirit, but in this instance he is the manifestation of the act of creating matter. The remaining neters of the great ennead are paired male and female. They are unified dual natures. Shu and Tefnut are the twin children of Ra, the breath of light one might say. He personifies the dry air and she the mist. Geb, the father, is earth; Nut, the mother, is sky.
From the belly of Nut sprang the other gods and goddesses and Horus, the twice-born. Horus was born once of heaven through Nut and once of earth through his mother, Isis. He represents both the divine and mortal aspects of man, and his presence in the Book of the Dead is always as that of the great spiritual warrior. As the avenger of his father's death, he best represents the strength of the individual in his necessary battle against the power of darkness.
Osiris and Isis represent the dawning of the world of men. All the descendents of the world are children of their son, Horus. My chapters “The History of Creation” and “The Duel” explain these myths in more detail. For a more in-depth look at all the gods and goddesses, I recommend E.A. Wallis Budge's two-volume set, The Gods of the Egyptians. Suffice it to say here that Osiris was murdered and hacked into 14 pieces by his envious brother Set. According to Plutarch, Isis, the wife of Osiris, gathered the severed parts of her husband to facilitate his unification in the afterlife. Osiris became neither a god of heaven nor of earth, but a god of the nebulous world between. His importance in The Book of the Dead as judge in the neterworld is primary. All those who died after him called themselves an Osiris, for they wanted to be like him—a god who rose from death. Osiris is the principle of regeneration as Set is the principle of destruction. In psychological terms Osiris represents the recollecting of the diverse aspects of oneself into a unified whole.
As Horus embodies the masculine energy of the spiritual warrior, Hathor embodies the feminine beauty of nature. She is the jubilant celebration of life with feasts and song, love and dance. Isis serves as an example of the nurturing aspect of wife and mother, as well as the emblem of magical wisdom. Her sister, Nephthys, represents sorrow, but also intuition.
In researching this text I perceived certain etymological resonances which indicated, to me at least, that the ancient Egyptian culture and language are not as obscure as we moderns tend to believe. For example, I found common roots between the Egyptian language and certain words in the English language which are derived from Latin and Greek. As an example I offer the following connections between Egyptian and English:
årmen/arm
heku (magic utterance)/hex
neb (spiraling force of the universe)/nebulous
Satis (goddess of the flood, or meaning enough)/satisfy
aor (magic light)/ aura.
According to Egyptian theology, the structure of a man is not limited to only his mortal shell and spiritual self, but is a complex and interconnected structure where his physical body, spiritual body, mental and emotional states play one off the other. His physical body, the corpse, or that which corrupts after death is the khat. It is easy enough to define. Where trouble often arises is in defining the various spiritual aspects which are loosely attributed to what we think of as the soul.
The sekhem is, I believe, the form that a spiritual being assumes. It exists in heaven and is more or less that power which a man possesses to assume incarnation. In addition, a man's ren, or his name, is powerful and holy. To blot a man's name from history, to forget him, was to effectively destroy him.
The åb is the heart, the seat of knowledge, wisdom and understanding; it is the link between the physical body and the spiritual body. In contrast, the khu has been called a man's divine intelligence and is described as that which is radiant or shining. Åb represents what a man may come to know of the world and himself in silent meditation. Khu represents more or less the inspiration, the message of the gods.
E.A. Wallis Budge describes the ka as the ethereal double, but the term has lacked a more definitive translation for many years and is often confused with the other spiritual aspects of man. Ka has at times been thought of as one's higher self, the astral body. The ba was loosely defined as the soul of a man, or that which was noble and sublime. Isha Schwaller de Lubicz explains these two aspects in this way: in relation to the ka, which is personal to a man, the ba is universal. The ka on the other hand is creative and gives rise to other essences, while the ba is fixed.
One of the main symbols of the spiritual journey is the road bordered by flowers which represents the way of the heart. This is the road which dead men walk into heaven. It is the road by which a man walks during self-transformation. It may be equivalent to the Buddhist notion of the Tao. For further clarification of Egyptian spirituality, I recommend reading John West's Serpent in the Sky and several books by R.A. Schwaller de Lubicz and his wife, Isha, including Opening of the Way, Symbol and the Symbolic, Nature Word and The Temple in Man.
I have mentioned various aspects of the Egyptian culture and The Book of the Dead to serve as an introduction to the text I offer here. I am neither an historian nor a theologian. As my friend the Kabbalist Samuel Avital told me once: “I am not simply a human being. I am a human becoming.” The work which follows has been for me a process of transformation. I offer it as a record-of my own study of the text and illumination by it. I have tried to remain true to the intent of the original, to illuminate the insights which the hieroglyphs offered, and to revive the sense of literature and song which seemed to me to have been lost in any strictly literal translation.
I hesitate even to call this a translation. It is a meditation. Certainly the writing of it was a transformation. I encourage anyone interested in the subject to read the work in the original, if possible, along with a good “strict” translation. I relied on the Budge version of The Papyrus of Ani. As he says, it is one of the most complete texts of the Book of the Dead, but the implication is, of course, that even that papyrus is not complete. As I read I found references to chapters which should have been included, but were not. I included them, therefore, using the Egyptian language of myth and the English words of the imagination. I inserted a few I thought should be there.* For those interested in comparing my versions with the hieroglyphs, I've included a concordance at the end of this introduction.
I took Pound at his word and tried to “make it new.” I wanted to once again offer it up as a celebration of the beauty and terror of life. The awe of awakening unto a new day, or perhaps a new self. The wisdom of the ancients seems eternal, yet we are all men affecting our changes. The work of a lifetime is the process of returning to light and life. So it seemed right to blow a little dust off the old Egyptian book and let it shine anew in a more modem era.
I'd like to extend my thanks to the many kind souls who've helped me in the writing of this work, especially to Randy Schroth, for his attention to the details and nuances of the text and for his emotional support, and Alaina, my daughter, for teaching me the things I'd forgotten. I'd also like to thank Sidney Goldfarb for suggesting the project in the first place, Robert Kelly for listening, Donald Hughes for championing me, Robert Steiner for his comments, Wendell Berry and Richard Taylor for inspiring me, Tom Frick and David Fideler for encouraging me, Jessie Page for asking the right questions, and not least my parents for proofing, cooking, cleaning, watching my child and holding back the flood while I finished this work.
—Normandi Ellis
* “Fish Stink,” “Becoming the Child,” and “The Cloth of Life” are mine.