Writing and Holiness

Drawing on comparative literature, ritual and performance studies, and the history of asceticism, Derek Krueger explores how early Christian writers came to view writing as salvific, as worship through the production of art.

Writing and Holiness
The Practice of Authorship in the Early Christian East

Derek Krueger

2004 | 312 pages | Cloth $79.95 | Paper $29.95
Religion | Literature
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Table of Contents

1. Literary Composition as a Religious Activity
2. Typology and Hagiography: Theodoret of Syrrhus's Religious History
3. Biblical Authors: The Evangelists as Saints
4. Hagiography as Devotion: Writing in the Cult of the Saints
5. Hagiography as Asceticism: Humility as Authorial Practice
6. Hagiography as Liturgy: Writing and Memory in Gregory of Nyssa's Life of Macrina
7. Textual Bodies: Plotinus, Syncletica, and the Teaching of Addai
8. Textuality and Redemption: The Hymns of Romanos the Melodist
9. Hagiographical Practice and the Formation of Identity: Genre and Discipline

List of Abbreviations

Excerpt [uncorrected, not for citation]

Literary Composition as a Religious Activity

For Lent 382, Gregory of Nazianzus placed himself under a vow of silence. This discipline, while restricting speech, did not restrain him from writing. In fact, as his poem On Silence at the Time of Fasting suggests, Gregory employed writing to assist him in his Lenten practice. "Hold still, dear tongue. And you, my pen, write down the words of silence and tell to the eyes the matters of my heart" (lines 1-2). In Gregory's hands, literary composition became a method for exploring his introspective quiet. While Gregory's poem documents his devotions, it also uses his writing to display and publicize his virtue. He writes, "Accept these sounds from my hand that you may have a speaking monument to my silence" (lines 209-210). On the page, readers would see Gregory performing his repentant silence. If they were reading aloud, as is likely, to themselves or to others, they would, ironically, even hear it. The poem produces an image of its author as pious, dutifully engaging in the patterns of religious observance. Moreover, for Gregory, adherence to literary form highlighted the disciplinary potential of writing: composing metrical poetry could become a formative spiritual practice. "I followed the advice of holy men and placed a door on my lips. The reason was that I should learn to set a measure, and be in control of everything" (lines 10-12). In another poem, On Writings in Meter, Gregory states that he writes poetry "to subdue [his] own unmeasuredness." Gregory uses meter not only to craft his poem, but to craft himself as well. The discipline of writing served as a powerful metaphor for the composition of a more Christian self.

In adapting writing as a tool for the cultivation of virtue, Gregory was not unique. In the course of the fourth century Christians negotiated a distinct relationship between writing and the religious life. According to Athanasius, Antony commanded his monks to keep diaries "to note and write down" the "stirrings of [their] souls." John Chrysostom called on his lay parishioners to keep a written record of their sins: "For if you write them down, God blots them out. . . . If you omit writing them, God both inscribes them and exacts their penalty." It is far from clear how many of his listeners could actually write. Generous estimates for basic literacy in the period range from fifteen to twenty percent. Skilled literacy, a product of grammatical and rhetorical training, may only have been available to a small, and predominantly male, two percent. Nevertheless, each of these fourth-century bishops imagined the potential for the practice of writing, even if intended only for the intimate audience of the author and God, to discipline, and thus afford an opportunity for human participation in God's act of redemption.

The power of writing to shape the Christian author flourished especially in the production of narrative literary forms. Saints' lives, in their combined ability to entertain and edify, contributed broadly to the formation of Christian practice and self-understanding. From the middle of the fourth century, Christian writers engaged in the task of representing holy people in text, offering models of the saints in narrative. But in hagiography authors deployed narrative simultaneously for the improvement of their readers and themselves. These literary acts of the making of saints were doubly generative, producing both the saints and their authors. Composing hagiography made one a hagiographer. Thus the lives of the saints are also the residuum of a process of authorial self-production, of the making of authors. In generating a Christian authorial persona, the author was inevitably the subject of his own creative act. Indeed, the authors of early Christian saints' lives and miracles collections reconceived the production of literature as a highly ritualized technology of the religious self.

While offering models of the saints in narrative, Christian hagiographers began to pose questions about authorship. The ascetic call to humility rendered artistic and literary creativity problematic. Claiming authority and power appeared to violate the saintly practices these authors sought to promote. Writers meditated within their texts on the tension inherent in Christian acts of authorship. According to ascetic teachers such as Evagrius of Pontus in the fourth century and Dorotheus of Gaza in the sixth, Christians were to regard themselves as greater than no one and attribute all virtuous acts to the work of God. This novel and distinctly Christian valuation of humility moved far beyond Roman aristocratic ideals of modesty. Self-assertion whether in the form of holding office or authoring a text seemed to counter Christ's example of self-humiliation in the incarnation and obedience in the crucifixion. Did writing displace the authorship of God or could it participate in it? In what ways did literary creation, an embodied practice, mark an author's own creatureliness?

This study addresses conceptions of authorship displayed in hagiographical works written between the fourth and the seventh centuries around the eastern Mediterranean, primarily in Greek. The period from the Christianization of the Roman Empire to the Arab conquest begins for modern historians as Late Antiquity and ends as early Byzantium, although the division between these two designations, the first primarily temporal, the second increasingly geographic, was subtle and slow. During this period new styles of authorial self-presentation emerged under the desire to bring acts of writing into conformity with Christian patterns of virtue and devotion.

Drawing on literary studies, ritual and performance studies, cultural history, and the history of asceticism, this book explores how hagiographers and hymnographers came to view writing as salvific, as worship through the production of art.

Through the reading of a wide variety of saints' lives, miracle collections, and narrative hymns, Writing and Holiness seeks out late antique and early Byzantine answers to the question "What is an author?" It illuminates the various models that Christian authors followed, considering a range of scripts according to which the performance of authorship proceeded. As writers cultivated the habits of Christian authorship, Christian literary culture constructed concepts of the saintly writer. What might it mean to be a Christian author, to write in a Christian context, to make writing an idiom of Christian self-expression, indeed of Christian self-fashioning through literary composition?

The thread running though the rhetorical strategies examined in this book is the attempt to integrate writing and piety. Considering late antique and early Byzantine hagiographical composition as a religious activity offers a new approach to a formative chapter in Christian literary history. Previous studies have tended to view an author's piety as a barrier to historical inquiry, dismissing miracle accounts (among other hagiographical elements) as pious fictions. Positivist attempts to extract "what actually happened" (as opposed to what is narrated) from hagiographical writings have consistently underestimated the centrality of theological and literary concerns. Neglect of the religious dimensions of the act of writing arises in part from the confluence of two additional trends. First, renewed interest in late antique popular culture has highlighted the affinities between the religious life of elites and nonelites. Despite the refreshing aspects of this approach, the distinctly literary contributions to the formation of piety have been overlooked. Second, traditional divisions between patristics and social history continue to exclude theology and religious composition from discussions of piety on the assumption that thought and action are separable. Since Émile Durkheim, the academic study of religion has tended to treat religion as a system of beliefs and practice. But the work of recent critics has argued that the distinction between beliefs and practices, or between thinking and ritual, tends to recapitulate Enlightenment distinctions between mind and body. Indeed a rigid application of Durkheim's distinction between beliefs and practices ill serves the formative Orthodox Christianity in which these acts of authorship took place. After the councils of Nicaea (325) and Constantinople (381), the doctrines of the Great Church focused on the embodiment of divine reason in the person of Jesus Christ. Confidence in the doctrine of the incarnation expressed itself bodily in a variety of practices including baptism and eucharist. The holding of orthodox theological ideas was itself a practice of constant mental vigilance. In short, thinking was an activity, something obvious to Christians such as Gregory of Nyssa, for whom contemplation of God was virtuous motion, "eternal progress toward the divine." For the late antique Greek authors considered in this study, writing was a vehicle for the expression of piety as well as a technology for its cultivation. As Chapter Seven discusses, texts themselves, the repositories of thought, were regarded as analogous to bodies. The act of writing bridged the mental and the bodily; while the written text, inscribed on papyrus or on skin, was embodied logos.

The rapid Christianization of the Roman Empire during the fourth century, and particularly the conversion of its lettered elites, meant the Christianization of Roman literary culture and traditions. New ideas about literary composition emerged in a environment where Christians also adapted the technologies of book production, revised scribal habits, and developed distinctly Christian modes of reading. Habits of literary composition came increasingly to reflect and incorporate the values and practices of late Roman Christianity. To be sure, Christians, especially in the Greek-speaking East, had been writing since the first century, composing gospels, letters, treatises, sermons, accounts of the lives of the apostles and the deaths of martyrs. The spread of Christianity among the upper classes, however, vastly increased the number of Christian orators and bishops with highly developed literary skills and the number of Christian aristocratic literary patrons with highly developed literary tastes. Despite attempts to characterize hagiography as a "low-level" genre, many saints' lives represent the work of highly literate authors for apparently sophisticated audiences. Other texts remain closer the patterns of orality from which they derived. Nevertheless, high literary style and sophisticated biblical allusion did not preclude the more literary texts from reaching a wider, and not necessarily educated audience.

Questions about the authoring of hagiography inevitably raise questions about genre.16 Ordinarily discussions of genre, both in late antiquity and the present, involve the classification of texts according to literary type, form, structure, and themes. One way to think about hagiography is as a new genre that began with Athanasius's Life of Antony, composed between 356 and 362, and proceeded to become the dominant literary form of both the Greek and the Latin middle ages. Thus late antiquity witnessed the birth of a new Christian literature. Indeed no other literary practice was as distinctively Christian as hagiography, the representation of the lives and miracles of Christian saints in writing. But the genre hagiography did not spring forth suddenly from nowhere, and it is also possible to narrate a history of the origins of hagiography that emphasizes the debt of its forms and structures to modes of Greco-Roman biography. To a great degree, the emerging culture of Christian Letters involved the Christianization of established Greco-Roman genres, and hagiography was no exception. The evangelists themselves composed the New Testament gospels following the conventions of the literary genre of the Life or biography. Eusebius's treatment of the life of Origen in Book Six of his Ecclesiastical History, and of the first Christian Emperor in the Life of Constantine also followed ancient models for narrating the lives of philosophers and statesmen. Christian funeral orations participated in the conventions of classical and contemporary pagan panegyric. Hagiography was never entirely new.

These two approaches to the history of hagiography, deriving from readers' drive to classify extant texts from the outside, are not mutually exclusive. Discussions of genre internal to the earliest Christian saints' lives, however, are more problematic, suggesting generic instability rather than the simple origins of a literary type. While Christian writers from the outset claimed the newness of what they were doing, they were surprisingly slow to fix its name. The term "hagiography" literally "holy writing" is a nineteenth-century scholarly designation. For the sixth-century theologian known as Dionysius the Areopagite, the adjective hagiographos described the divinely inspired scriptures, not the lives of the saints. Athanasius's Life of Antony presents itself as a letter. Gregory of Nyssa's Life of Macrina, composed in 381, also embedded in a letter, ponders what genre it belongs to. Too long for a letter, it is perhaps a "discourse," "a prose composition" or a "long-winded speech." Precisely what authoring the lives of the saints entailed remained unclear. Perhaps the first moment of explicit genre-consciousness occurred as late as the 440s, when a third or fourth generation hagiographer, Theodoret of Cyrrhus argued that the "lives of the saints" should take its place among the classical genres: epic, history, tragedy, and comedy. In time the genre would be called the "lives of the saints," a retrospective label that would gather the earlier precursors.

Deferring clarity about literary form to explore conceptions of authorship enables the rethinking of the formation of Christian literature. Each of the texts examined here uses writing as a technique for the representation of holiness. Some are narrative representations of saints that facilitate emulation and veneration. Others are collections of accounts of miracles composed to publicize a shrine. The Christological hymns of Romanos the Melodist, the subject of Chapter Eight, employ not prose, but poetry, and recount not the life of a saint, but retell the life of Christ. In each case, authorship includes reflection on the writing self. Perhaps genre can be seen from the writer's point of view as the ritualization of literary patterns and the adherence to traditions and structures as authors conform themselves to preexistent models. If so, then each of these works also belongs to a new genre, one of Christian authorship, a new way of writing that integrated literary habits with other forms of Christian life.

Christian ideas about authorship arose alongside broader theological reflection on writing and literature. Christian literary theories were closely linked to theories of signs. In contrast to the emphasis in the West where, under the influence of Augustine, language was often seen as a consequence of the Fall and a marker of the distance between humanity and God, Eastern discourse about the nature of language was significantly more sanguine.23 Greek theologians adapted Platonic conceptions that signs do not merely point to the things they signify, but in fact participate in the essence of the things signified.24 Recounting the lives of the saints did not so much call attention to their absence, but rather rendered them present through narrative. In this respect, hagiographical texts functioned analogously to visual images or icons, containing the real presence of their subject. Indeed a commonplace in introductions to the lives of the saints was the assertion that the text offered a verbal portrait or icon of the saint. This trope, adapted from earlier Greco-Roman biography, took on additional meaning in light of Christian ethics and aesthetics.

The Greek verb graphÇ means both "I write" and "I draw." Like visual representation, narrative mimesis rendered holiness available in a copy. Hagiography strove for the representation of virtue in narrative. The Bible, with its stories of the holy men and women of old, offered the prototype, but subsequent narratives continued to produce images of the good and the beautiful. As the author of the anonymous Life of Chariton, probably composed late in the sixth century, explained, "Both Testaments [of the Bible], as well as the writings of the God-inspired church fathers and ascetics, all display as in a picture, by means of the written word, the virtues of the holy men, one by one, to all who wish to take heed."27 The performance of hagiographical authorship provided images of the saints to inspire imitation and moral change, inviting readers and hearers to produce further images of holiness in themselves.

The writing life also provided key metaphors for understanding the work of God. In the early Christian Gospels, Jesus reads (Lk 4: 17-20), but never writes. (The scene in the Gospel of John [7:53-8:11] in which Jesus "bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground" is a later insertion.) Yet the history of salvation figured as a series of scribal acts. The gospel of John (1:14) declared Jesus to be God's logos made flesh. Logos had a wide semantic range that included "oral expression," "words," "story" or "narrative," as well as "thought" and "reason." For some, the incarnation of the Logos in Jesus was a materialization of God's speech analogous to committing words to parchment or papyrus. The second century Valentinian Gospel of Truth simply declared, "He put on the book." Furthermore, creation might figure as a love letter. Evagrius, himself writing a letter to his friend Melania, read creation as God's epistolary communication with humanity.

For those who are far from God have made a separation between themselves and their Creator by their loathsome works. But God, out of his love, has provided creation as a mediator: it is like letters....Just as someone who reads letters, by their beauty senses the power and ability of the hand and the finger which wrote them together with the intention of the writer, thus he who looks upon creation with understanding, perceives the hand and the finger of its Creator as well as his intention, that is, his love. Scripture also participated in God's graphic habit. For John Chrysostom, God accommodated himself to humanity's limitations by willing himself to be described in scripture, taking literary form in the fleshly garments of human thought and language. The sacred writings of the Bible were also God's Logos incarnate.

In salvation God wrote or emended the human text, an interpretation already present in the Pauline correspondence of the New Testament. In Second Corinthians (3:3) the members of the congregation are "a letter from Christ" "written not with ink but the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on the tablets of fleshly hearts." Colossians (2:14) saw redemption as God's "blotting out the handwritten decree against us,"which he set aside by nailing it to the cross. The poet Romanos would later pray, "Blot out [my] mistakes, underwrite remission, grant amnesty;/ Engrave the handwritten decree, and free me." With God portrayed as so engaged in literary and scribal activity, the performance of authorship afforded the opportunity to emulate God. Through their literary skill the authors of saints' lives might participate in the work of creation, textual incarnation, and redemption.

So what is authorship? It is not so much a proprietary claim over literary output as a performative act, a bodily practice resulting in the production of text. Therefore its meanings are deeply intertwined with the context in which such acts are performed. Ideas about authorship, about being an author, are not static; they change and shift over time, forming in dialectic with literary and aesthetic tastes and cultural priorities.34 In contrast, early nineteenth-century northern European images of the author as a romantic hero, notions of the writer as a tortured artist, or of writing as the locus of suffering, are culturally and temporally contingent, emerging simultaneously with the valuation of such heroes in novels and poems. More modern concerns with writer's block, with anxiety about output, and with sudden breakthroughs unleashing the suppressed authorial voice belong to an age of psychoanalysis. At the same time, writing is not inherently a religious activity. The new patterns of Christian literary practice that emerged in late antiquity must be seen within their cultural, religious, and theological setting. Christian authors in late antiquity rendered their writing a religious activity, specifically a late ancient Christian religious activity.

Even the apparent connection between "authorship" and "authority" is not inevitable. The common etymological root of both English words is the Latin auctor, a term meaning, among other things, "originator," and thus by extension, "one in authority." The word applied increasingly to authors of authoritative texts in the course of the Western middle ages, as writers such as Aristotle, the evangelists, Paul, and the early Church Fathers, were accorded respect and deference by their readers. But the late ancient Greek vocabulary for "authorship" did not overlap with that of "authority." To be sure, Greeks since antiquity accorded authority to earlier texts. But acts of authorship were not necessarily problematized as exercises of power. For many early Byzantine authors, authorship and authority came into conflict with each other because of Christological models. Christ's authorship of a new creation depended on his humility and obedience, on his renunciation of authority.

How then to go looking for the author in the text? Perhaps the most obvious way in which authors emerge in their texts is when they write about themselves. The authors of Christian hagiography often struck autobiographical poses, bringing their portraits of themselves as artists into conformity with religious ideals. In many Lives, the authorial voice is most obvious when the author addresses his audience directly. The rhetorical performances framing the central narrative of saints' lives, the prologues and epilogues, shape authorial identity. Sometimes direct address also punctuates breaks in the middle of narratives. In a number of the texts considered in this study, including Gregory of Nyssa's Life of Macrina, Theodoret's Religious History, and the Life and Miracles of Thecla, the author is himself a character in the narrative, portrayed interacting with the saint or with the saint's shrine. Subjecting themselves to a variety of models, hagiographers depicted themselves as participants in the religious system they described and endorsed, casting themselves as emulators of the evangelists (the subject of Chapters 2 and 3), as faithful devotees of powerful holy men and women (Chapter 4), as ascetics and monastics (Chapter 5), as priests engaged in liturgy (Chapter 6), and, generally, as emulators of the saints and of Christ.

Attention to these features of hagiography does not recover uncontroverted evidence for an author's interior religious disposition. For literary studies and the study of religion alike, the question of whether an agent's intention can be determined remains vexed.38 Observing an author performing acts of piety in his text tells more about how a writer wished to be viewed than about what he really thought. Authorial self-presentation, however, does give insight into the emerging phenomenon of Christian authorship. Greek Christian authors rendered images of themselves as such through specifically Christian acts of writing. Their performances of authorship provided no exception to, but rather exemplified emerging Christian practices of asceticism, devotion, pilgrimage, prayer, oblation, liturgy, and sacrifice. These new modes of enacting authorial voice were part of an emerging Christian discourse, a complex of "rhetorical strategies and manners of expression" that came to characterize Christian writing.

What follows are a series of soundings in early Christian literature selected to reveal a wide variety of literary experiments. The Christian literary theories uncovered along the way, while potentially compatible, were never systematic. The chapters proceed topically to elaborate the impact of a variety of emergent forms of Christian piety on Christian conceptions of authorship, progressing toward increasingly complex theories of literary composition and toward increasingly subtle methods of weaving them into texts. Some of the literary techniques discussed here, such as typology and the textual performance of humility, were widespread, even ubiquitous features of the genre. However, some of the texts I have chosen to discuss distinguish themselves more in shaping an especially articulate theology of Christian authorship than in their immediate historical impact; these are not so much typical as exemplary. Three chapter address the works of single authors, Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Gregory of Nyssa, and Romanos the Melodist. Other chapters address groups of texts to illustrate the range of performances possible in the interpretation of typical authorial roles.

One of the most distinctive features of Christian hagiography is its sustained reference to the Bible. The next two chapters consider the impact of biblical narrative and biblical composition on the emergence of the Christian author. The first of these (Chapter Two) considers the aesthetics of biblical correspondence by reading a single remarkable work, Theodoret of Cyrrhus's Religious History, written around 440. In the Religious History Theodoret makes extensive allusion to biblical figures and events while narrating the lives of fourth- and fifth-century ascetics in northwest Syria. This imitation of the Bible attests to the sanctity of his subjects by showing them to be equal to—and even greater than—Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles. His typological system has implications for his own self-understanding, as he both configures his act of composition as an imitation of biblical writers, the evangelists and Moses, and understands his product as a biblical text.

What models did the biblical writers offer for subsequent Christians authors to imitate? Interest focused on the evangelists. As Chapter Three reveals, both written and artistic representations of the evangelists as writers at work yielded a conception of writing as a sacred activity and of the evangelists as saints. Even in light of claims for divine inspiration, early Byzantine Christians understood the sacred narratives to have resulted from a holy person's labor. The writing itself figured as an extension of the authors' virtuous ascetic practice. Their supposed ascetic commitments and achievements dominated postbiblical lore. Human composition of the scriptures promised divine cooperation in other human endeavors, through the grace of the Spirit. Conceptions of divine inspiration yielded at once a high theology of scripture, and a high regard for the embodied instruments who produced it. It was to such a model that early Byzantine authors aspired. In imitation of such figures, subsequent Christian authorship revealed its potential for holiness.

The next three chapters explore various guises of the author—devotee, ascetic, and priest—that integrate authorship with common Christian bodily practices. Chapter Four focuses on writing undertaken in service to a saint or as participation in popular devotional forms associated with their cult. Miracle collections celebrating the efficacy of shrines dedicated to Thecla, Menas, Cosmas and Damien, and Artemios assimilate their composition to the oral acts of glorifying the saint integral to the cult. Theodoret's Religious History and Cyril of Scythopolis's sixth-century Lives of Euthymius and Sabas present composition as religious activity by employing metaphors drawn from other expressions of piety, such as asceticism, pilgrimage, and the donation of votive objects. In producing narrative, Theodoret, Cyril, and the anonymous compilers of miracle stories figured themselves within the cults of the saints, recasting writing not just as a record of devotion, but as devotion itself.

For many writers the patterns of monasticism were as influential as the Bible in shaping their acts of authorship. Much hagiography not only described but imitated the ascetic life. Chapter Five explores hagiography as an ascetic practice, particularly for monastic authors. Christian literary composition participated in an ongoing discourse about discipline, control, and authority. How should Christian writers emulate the humble and obedient Christ? In the hands of hagiographers such as Palladius in the fourth century or Antony of Choziba in the seventh, writing, like fasting or prayer, became a technology for attaining the goal of their own ascetic profession: a reconstituted self, displaying the virtues exemplified by the saints about whom they wrote. This development depended on the double meaning of the word mim'sis, both representation and imitation. Authors strove to emulate their subjects through mimesis, configuring themselves through the production of texts. As a genre, hagiography's purpose was to communicate virtues to an audience through narrative; as a practice, it offered an opportunity to practice humility and obedience. By representing the saints, authors hoped to resemble them. Thus authors established the place of literary production in ascetic formation.

Moving from monk to priest, Chapter Six treats Gregory of Nyssa's Life of Macrina, the earliest Christian biography of a woman. Here writing becomes priestly activity analogous to early Christian liturgy. Writing shortly after his sister's death in 380, Gregory of Nyssa establishes a theological context for hagiographical composition in late-fourth-century liturgical piety and practice. Situating acts of storytelling in the struggle to manage grief, Gregory uses remembering (anamn'sis) as a technology for rendering the absent present. Within the text, Macrina herself stresses that the goal of biography is "thanksgiving to God," modeling the proper method of Christian biographical narrative. Thus Gregory's literary production has analogues in evening prayer and the anaphora, or Canon Prayer, of the divine liturgy. Reflecting on the relationship between spoken and written words, and between logos and flesh, the Life of Macrina posits a complex relationship between body and text, in which Gregory's writing figures as sacrificial offering.

Devotion, asceticism, and priesthood both expressed and formed the body. By participating in these creative acts, authoring hagiography produced multiple material bodies, the saint, the author, and the text. The subsequent two chapters turn to frequent analogies between writing and embodiment to raise questions about textuality and materiality. Chapter Seven, entitled "Textual Bodies," considers discourses comparing and identifying bodies with texts, delineating the relationship between the bodies of the saints and the texts that rendered them materially present. To gain leverage on peculiarly Christian approaches to textuality, this chapter reads the fifth-century Christian Life of Syncletica against Porphyry's life of the pagan philosopher Plotinus, written around 300. Whereas Porphyry makes an elaborate performance of his nervousness about representing a mere body, the connection between Syncletica's divine teaching and her deteriorating body highlights the difference that a doctrine of incarnation makes when considering biography as a representation of a person's body. Syncletica's teaching solidifies in the text to become nourishing food. Like Christ, she is a pedagogue feeding her flock with her instructive logos. This chapter concludes by reading the startling fifth-century account of the Last Judgment in the Syriac Teaching of Addai, where bodies rise out of their graves covered in text, their flesh inscribed with a narrative of their deeds. In this peculiar vision, Christ's judgment becomes an act of literary criticism or an archivist's work entailing the proper cataloging of books, emphasizing Christian interest in constructing connections between identities and books.

The relationship between authorship and the constitution of bodies could inscribe both authorial identity and the body of Christ. Chapter Eight marks a shift in literary genres to consider the cycle of liturgical hymns on the life of Christ composed by the sixth-century Constantinopolitan poet Romanos the Melodist. In this corpus, multiple themes of authorship as worship, asceticism, liturgy, and scripture (and thus inscription) converge. These poems dramatize dialogues between Jesus and various characters from the gospels. Serving as Christ's hagiographer, Romanos habitually inserts acts of writing into his retellings; he figures Jesus' death on the cross as an act of self-inscription where Christ signs a ransom for humanity using his body as parchment and his blood as ink. Curiously, the poet himself signs his poems by encrypting variants of the phrase BY THE HUMBLE ROMANOS into acrostics that determine the first letter of each stanza. While this signature is visible on the page, it could not be heard in vocal performance. The poet attaches his identity silently to his work, performing the humility he hopes to achieve. A concluding chapter reassesses literary composition as a Christian activity, rethinks adherence to genre as a form of writerly discipline, and surveys the relationship between the practice of authorship and the formation of Christian identity.

This thematic approach admittedly results in an untidy chronological sequence. To be sure, a chronological scheme, if it were possible, would hold great appeal, since in such an imitative genre as hagiography, questions of influence are bound to arise. However, with very few exceptions (most notably Cyril of Scythopolis) the trajectories into a given writer's library are very hard, if not impossible to trace. While all hagiographers were familiar with biblical narratives, we often do not know much about which other texts they read. When they show familiarity with stories about other saints, it is by no means clear whether they learned these accounts from the texts we continue to possess, from other texts, or from oral tradition. That an author knows the story of Antony does not mean that he has a copy of Athanasius's Life of Antony before him.

The focus here is not on the stories about the saints in themselves, but rather on the performances of authorship displayed in texts that contain them. Too much emphasis on literary dependence occludes more defining factors. The shape of a given writer's Christian practice seems to have been more influential then other hagiographical texts in shaping his self-presentation and narrative technique. Thus I am teasing out, by largely synchronic analysis certain strands in the variegated weave of late ancient hagiographic practice. This necessitates fixing individual texts in their historical, cultural, and often local contexts to recreate the interpretive framework in which these authorial acts took place. In a period of religious change and development, different trends in the practice of Christianity spawned different trends in the practice of authorship. What unifies these trends are the efforts to make literary composition a vehicle for piety.

A final note on sources is in order before proceeding. One of my goals has been to introduce more readers to a range of complex and fascinating texts little known outside the fields of early Christian and Byzantine studies. Most of the texts interpreted here are available in modern editions. Many have been translated into English. To the extent that it was possible, I have employed these translations, modifying them as necessary to emphasize aspects of the underlying Greek. Full references can be found in the bibliography. The comparative study of ancient and medieval literatures still tends to ignore Byzantium. And yet this Christian Greek literature yields an important chapter in the history of authorship.