Yerros de imprenta medievales

Acabamos de publicar en Studiolum la edición digital de un hermoso códice medieval como segundo volumen de la serie Tesoros de Kalocsa, siempre en colaboración con aquella impresionante biblioteca húngara. Se trata de un manuscrito parisino del siglo XIII con las epístolas de San Pablo acompañadas de los comentarios, línea a línea, de Pedro Lombardo: trescientas hojas de pergamino en total.

El grueso volumen se elaboró por el procedimiento de pecia, por entonces ya habitual en la Universidad de París. El ejemplar conservado en la biblioteca de la Universidad se dividía en grupos de hojas y repartía simultáneamente a varios copistas. Así, en un lapso de tiempo bastante breve podía contarse con una nueva copia completa. Luego se reunían los pliegos y los miniaturistas decoraban los espacios en blanco con grandes iniciales, alternando los colores rojo y azul.

Este procedimiento, según la magnífica Histoire de la lecture dans le monde occidental editada por Chartier y Cavallo —que tuvimos el honor de traducir al húngaro— ya presagiaba el método de trabajo del libro impreso, donde las hojas individuales podían ser preparadas por diferentes componedores y luego —al menos en las primeras décadas de la imprenta— un miniaturista rellenaba a mano los espacios dejados para las iniciales. Pero este sistema también dejó entrar —como veremos ahora— a un abuelo del diablo de la imprenta, a casi doscientos años de distancia del nacimiento de la propia imprenta.

En principio, este método presuponía que los miniaturistas conocieran el texto y pintaran en el blanco la inicial justa. Sin embargo, no era siempre así. El miniaturista podía echar una fugaz ojeada al texto y pintar corriendo la letra que le parecía más lógica, aunque a veces no fuera ésta la que le pedía el texto sacro.

Así ocurrió, por ejemplo, en el fol. 264r (Heb 2:7), donde el artista echó un vistazo y completó la primera palabra del versículo como «Innuisti» (consentiste). Inmediatamente después, no obstante, se debió apercibir del error al iniciar correctamente el comentario, a la derecha, con un «Minuisti» (disminuiste).

En algunos casos recaía sobre el stationarius —el bibliotecario encargado de la distribución de los pliegos y de revisar las copias— la responsabilidad de la corrección final. Así pasó, por ejemplo, en el fol. 233v (2Cor 16:21), donde el miniaturista erró tanto en el versículo como en el comentario la inicial de «...alutatio» porque había entendido «Laudatio» –voz tan frecuente en los textos litúrgicos–, dando lugar a una imposible «Lalutatio». En último extremo, el corrector logró escribir la 'S' en negro en medio de la 'L' roja resucitando la «Salutatio» original.

Lo mismo hizo en el fol. 286r (Heb 10:7), donde tuvo que colar una pequeña 'T' negra en medio de la 'N' roja del comentario (y también entre los arabescos de la inicial) para cambiar la errada «Nunc» (ahora) en «Tunc» (entonces).

Pero en ocasiones también la atención del corrector andaba floja. Es el caso del fol. 247v (2Tim 1:16), donde el miniaturista imaginó, y creó, un «Sed» (pero) en lugar de un relativamente más raro «Det» (dé). Este ejemplo, junto con la anterior lectura equivocada de «...alutatio» como «Laudatio» nos permite arriesgar la hipótesis de que quizá el miniaturista no fuera muy sensible a la diferencia entre los fonemas 't' y 'd'.

Y, finalmente, un caso más sutil (que la crítica textual definiría como de intercambio de pericopas). En el fol. 292r (Heb 11:22), a la derecha del versículo que empieza por «Fide Ioseph», la palabra inicial del comentario fue completada como «Mosep» en lugar de «Iosep». ¿Por qué?

En este pasaje de la Epístola a los Hebreos, el Apóstol enumera ejemplos de fe desde el patriarca a los profetas. El versículo que empieza por «Fide Ioseph moriens» va precedido —en la página anterior— por un versículo de inicio muy similar: «Fide Iacob moriens», que también menciona a «Ioseph», y le sucede otro que empieza por «Fide Moyses». Quizá el miniaturista, al llegar a la línea «Fide Ioseph», se despistó por un momento y, recordando que ya había pintado una inicial para esta frase en la página anterior, competó la inicial «...osep» del comentario como un «Mosep» que casi correspondía a la palabra inicial del versículo siguiente. Más tarde, esta letra también sería corregida con una pequeña 'J' negra entre las patas de la gran 'M' roja.

¿La moraleja? Pues, quizás, que errare era tan humanum hace ochocientos años como hoy. Y esto, por descontado, tampoco será de otro modo en nuestra edición. Solo queda esperar que los errores de hoy no le causen demasiado enojo al Benevolente Lector del futuro, y que los acoja con el mismo ánimo sereno con que nosotros hemos señalado los de aquellos copistas.

Medieval Typos

In studiolum we have finally published the digital edition of a medieval codex to be published together with the Cathedral Library of Kalocsa as the second volume of the “Treasures of Kalocsa” series. This beautiful 13th-century Parisian manuscript contains the epistles of Saint Paul, accompanied by the detailed verse-by-verse commentaries by Petrus Lombardus, in 300 parchment leaves all in all.

This voluminous codex was produced with the working method of the pecia, already widespread at the Paris university at that time. The exemplar kept in the library of the university was divided in sheets and distributed among several copyists at the same time, so that a complete new copy could be produced in a relatively short time. The copied sheets were then collected, and miniators painted large initial letters with alternating red and blue colors in the spaces left blank at the beginning of the biblical verses commented.

This procedure, according to the glorious Histoire de la lecture dans le monde occidental edited by Chartier and Cavallo – that we had the honor of translating into Hungarian – already foreshadowed the working method of the book press, where single sheets were prepared by different compositors, and – at least in the first decades of the printing era – the initials were painted by miniators in the spaces left blank. The more so, because – as we will see below – together with this new method apparently the printer's devil was born as well – some two hundred years before the very invention of printing itself!

Namely, this method assumed that the miniators knew the text, and always painted the appropriate initial in the given space. However, this was not always the case. Apparently the miniator often just casted a short glance at the text to be complemented, and then quickly painted the letter he felt most logical – but which sometimes in fact differed from the sacred text.

So he did, for example, on fol. 264r (Heb 2:7), where he read and complemented the initial word of the verse as “Innuisti” (‘you consented’). Right after that, however, he realized his error, and initialized the commentary at the right of the verse with the correct word “Minuisti” (‘you diminished’).


In other cases, however, it fell to the stationarius – the librarian responsible for the distribution of the sheets and then for the revision of the copies – to correct the error afterwards. Thus for example on fol. 233v (2Cor 16:21), where the miniator complemented the initial word “...alutatio” as “Laudatio” – a frequent initial word in liturgical texts – both in the verse and in the commentary. In the latter it was the corrector who wrote the black ‘S’ in the middle of the red ‘L’, thus changing the word in the correct “Salutatio”.


The same he did on fol. 286r (Heb 10:7), where a little black ‘T’ got into the initial red ‘N’ of the commentary, thus changing the erroneous “Nunc” (‘now’) in a correct “Tunc” (‘therefore’).


In some cases the attention of the corrector grew slack too. Thus for example on fol. 247v (2Tim 1:16), where the miniator had imagined – and created – a “Sed” (‘but’) in place of the relatively rare “Det” (‘let him give’). This example, together with the above quoted misreading of “...alutatio” as “Laudatio” permits us to hypothesize that the miniator did not feel a sharp difference between phonemas ‘t’ and ‘d’.


And finally a very subtle case. On fol. 292r (Heb 11:22), at the right of the verse beginning as “Fide Ioseph”, the initial word of the commentary was complemented as “Mosep”, instead of “Iosep”. Why then?


In this passage of the Epistle to the Hebrews, the Apostle enumerates the examples of faith from the patriarch to the prophets. The verse beginning with “Fide Ioseph moriens” is preceded – on the previous page – by a very similar verse beginning with “Fide Iacob moriens” but mentioning “Ioseph” as well, and is followed by another one beginning with “Fide Moyses”. Perhaps the miniator, arriving to the line “Fide Ioseph”, lost track for a moment, and remembering that he had already painted an initial to such phrase on the previous page, he complemented the initial word “...osep” of the commentary as “Mosep” that almost corresponded to the initial word of the following verse. Later this typo was corrected as well with a small black ‘J’ written into the large red ‘M’.

Any moral? Perhaps that errare was humanum already eight hundred years ago. This certainly will not be different with our edition either. We can only hope that the errors of this one will not cause annoyance to the Benevolent User, only some lenient serenity, just like those of the medieval miniator did to us.

Adiós

Ibn al-Labbâna (11th c.):   Mallorca مدینة میورقة      بلد اعارته الحمامة طو قها       وکساه حلة ریشه الطاووس وکانما تلك المیاه مدامة       وکان قیعان الدیار کئوس Medina Mayurqa This city has taken from the dove her collar        and the peacock clothed her with her feathers. The water of her fountains is like wine        and her courtyards are similar to goblets.

Espacios en blanco

En una vieja arca llena de papeles familiares acabamos de encontrar un pequeño legajo con tres documentos manuscritos firmados en el pueblo de Canales de la Sierra, dos de ellos son escrituras públicas fechadas en 1683 y otro, de carácter eclesiástico, en 1763; y hay también otro documento eclesiástico fechado en Pamplona en 1688 pero con asuntos relativos asimismo a la villa de Canales. Ignoramos completamente cómo llegaron hasta nuestra casa y qué relación guarda aquella lejana zona con nuestros antepasados. Intentaremos averiguarlo.

Pero el legajo, además, guarda un impreso curioso. Se trata de una «Carta de Esclavitud» o declaración de ingreso en la Cofradía de los Esclavos de la Virgen. Aún hoy, en ese hermoso pueblo de Canales, en el que solo quedan unos 80 habitantes censados, se celebran fiestas a su patrona, la Virgen de la Soledad, el último sábado de agosto. El eje de la celebración es la romería a la Ermita de La Soledad, allí donde debió haberse firmado el documento que reproducimos y que por su aspecto parece de inicios del siglo XVIII. Quizá alguno de nuestros ancestros se sintió atraído por la Cofradía y acarició en sus manos este papel cuyos blancos tenía que rellenar con su nombre, el de los santos de su devoción, y luego fecharlo y rubricarlo. No lo hizo. El papel quedó olvidado en un arca que por casualidad hoy hemos abierto. Un pequeño misterio entre tantos. Como decía la buena de Dorotea en el capítulo 30 de la primera parte del Quijote: «Todo es milagro y misterio el discurso de mi vida».

Smokescreen

Zoltán Móser: Mondottam, ember... Képek Madáchhoz [Man I have spoken... Photos to Madách], Budapest: Masszi Publisher, 2002. With the foreword of István Jelenits

“Coincidence that connects far away worlds” has arranged it so that just one day after I have reported on the visit of Rodin’s statues in Mallorca, the same burgher of Calais, Jacques de Wissant whom I had photographed in Palma looked back at me from a title page at a book sale. This photo album is signed by Zoltán Móser (1946), author of thirty books, photo illustrator of fifty other ones, participant of two hundred exhibitions, professor of theory, practice and aesthetics of photography at the Péter Pázmány Catholic University, and guest professor of the Sapientia University in Kolozsvár (Cluj). Besides the photo on the title page it includes thirty-six more portraits of men, women and statues of angels, apparently from Transylvania, accompanied by quotations from the renowned 19th-century drama by Imre Madách, The tragedy of man.

When dipping into the book, the first thing I notice is that these photos, in the majority representing beautiful, sharp-featured and often upsetting faces of old peasant men and women, absolutely do not move me. They leave me cold. These faces in real life would stir up definite feelings, interest, sympathy or antipathy in me, but while browsing through their photos I only feel bored. This contrast is so strong that I’m constrained to think about its reason.

When glancing over the book the second time, I discover that the photos are unfocused. They are slushy. Without exception. The details of the faces, of the hair and of the clothes are fuzzy, they get lost. Thus some powerful elements – the eyes, some deeper wrinkles, but principally the nose and the mouth – dominate the impression. The face becomes a mask. Its individual traits are eclipsed, it becomes schematic.

On a third glance I have to establish that this effect is not accidental, but intentional. Each image is pointed to a small morality, just like the “little colored articles” of the newspapers of the seventies. The photographer did not intend to photograph persons, but rather roles and clichés. Genre figures. Sentimental photographic commonplaces, whose theatrical compositions rise from the peasant romanticism of the late nineteenth century, spanning without rupture (occasionally with some Socialist by-paths) to the nostalgic Transylvanian photo albums at the end of the twentieth century.

When a photo moves me, when I find it a good picture, it usually comes from the impression that the photographer is interested in reality, he is able to look at it in astonishment, he permits it to touch him personally, and it is this unique encounter that he is photographing.

This is not what I see on these pictures. This person is not interested in reality, but in finding some matter for his well-trained sentimental clichés. He is photographing such commonplaces in a row that have been photographed by many others for the past fifty years. He avoids encounter. This is not what he sees. This is what is customary to see.

And, in addition, his clichés are but limited to a well-defined stock of the several clichés in circulation. To those ones that represent their subjects from outside and from above. With aloofness, in a stiffened posture, degraded to objects, as simplified figures reduced to their momentary role. Without love. For the consumption of the petty bourgeois who is filled with satisfaction by the easily receivable anecdotal, populist tone on the one hand, and on the other hand by the safety that he stands above the subject of the image, that it is him who looks at the person represented while it does not look back at him, and that he does not have to enter into relation with it as a person. That he can avoid the encounter.

And the murkiness, fuzziness, lack of sharpness of the images – well, that is Art. The feeling of “cloud of unknowing” and of “seeing but a poor reflection as in a mirror” added afterwards to camouflage its triviality. The three points quivering for a long time after an empty phrase. A smokescreen.

With the examples below I have also juxtaposed some images comparable with them. I had no large pool to choose from, only a few albums I had within reach at home. The photos in them were mostly small-sized, so they get somewhat grainy when enlarged, while the album of Móser is of large format, thus its images come in a better quality.

Besides, the images of Móser become sharper when reduced in size, thus for the original impression you should enlarge them by clicking on them.

Left: Irén Ács, Meeting in the cooperative, Kondoros, 1959 (from the album Magyarország Otthon (Hungary at home), detail, below it the full image. – Right: Zoltán Móser, „Do I not feel the blessed daylight, The sweet delight of being alive...”

Left: Irén Ács, Couple, Füzesgyarmat, 1963. – Right: Zoltán Móser, „And even when imagination raise me Mere hunger plucks me down and humbles me, And makes me descend once more into base matter.”

Left: Irén Ács, The dustman, 1970, detail, below it the full image. – Right: Zoltán Móser, „...is life more than a dream?”

Left: Irén Ács, Mosonmagyaróvár, 1965, detail, below it the full image. – Right: Zoltán Móser, „A broken heart is quickly enough mended...”

Left: Irén Ács, István Hunya, a leader of the movement of Hungarian construction workers, 1972 - Right: Zoltán Móser, „...I have been racked by fearful visions, And I cannot tell which of them is true” (detail)

Left: Péter Korniss, Christmas, Tiszaeszlár 1985 (From the album The Guest Worker) - Right: Zoltán Móser, „Let us be wise, like god [sic]”

Left: Photo taken in Ladakh by Zsolt Sütő, 2007 (detail) - Right: Zoltán Móser, „All earth can know of joy is in my smile...”

Below: Zoltán Móser, „See there, the eagle circling in the clouds...” - Below it: Ferenc Olasz, Galgó (from the album Dicsértessék [Glory be to Him], 1989)


The smokescreen covering the angels even sends forth stink of sulphur. It would come in handy to the author if he could divide the book in a perfect symmetry to three times twelve images, by illustrating the male portraits with verses pronounced by Adam, the female ones with quotations from Eve, and those of the angels with verses sung by the angels in The tragedy of man. However, the angels have but limited opportunity to speak in the Tragedy. The one who in turn speaks profusely is Lucifer. Therefore the author tacks a tiny bit of an epilogue onto the images with the subtitle “whether it is permitted to tease the angels” in which he, after a ritual act of touching every holy cow from Tamási to Rilke and Klee declares that he will illustrate the photos of angel statues – photos that are even more wasted, inexpressive and taken without love than those of the persons – with quotations from the Satan. A gruesome blasphemy indeed, which is nevertheless assisted by the Piarist professor István Jelenits who authorized the book with his foreword.

By the way, the work of Madách is a true classical collection of sentences, of which any verse selected at random can be used as a motto for anything, as it is well attested by the above captions of Móser’s photos. The album of Móser, for example, would perfectly match those verses from the twelfth scene:

Thou hast been sunk in dreaming phantasies,
And left to stray the herd thou shouldest watch.

But even more those sentences of Péter Korniss from his Transylvanian photo album Inventory:

Robert Capa, the legendary photographer of Hungarian origin used to say, “If your picture is not good enough, you were not close enough to your subject.”

I changed this motto to “If your picture is not good enough, you were not close enough to the person.”

Rodin in Mallorca

The Caixà Bank has brought from the Rodin Museum in Paris to Palma, and installed on the promenade leading to the seaside cathedral seven masterpieces of Rodin, the six figures of the Burghers of Calais and the Thinker. A gesture of grand seigneur, the more so because at this time, in January there are hardly any visitors in Mallorca: this gift is addressed to the city. As on the way from the airport at the cathedral we wind upwards on the Passeig des Born, the seven statues are standing there on the promenade, so naturally as if they had been intended for here, mingling with the burghers of Mallorca. Their black surface that after moulding had been polished to mirror-like finish through weeks by Rodin, comes into such a new life in the light of the early spring Mediterranean sunshine that has never been suspected in cloudy Paris.

At four o’clock in Saturday morning I cut across the promenade on my way to the fish market in the port. As a guest coming from a country without a sea, I am irresistibly attracted by the spectacle as the boats arriving from the night fishery sail in on the oily black water, the dripping cases are taken out on the quay, and in the building of the wholesale fish market the early rising commissaries of the restaurants and supermarkets survey the catch spread out, the greatest part of which has even no name in our language. The only bar of the city that is open at this time is the sailors’ pub in front of the fish market where the exhausted fishermen draw up the balance of the night while nursing a drink. Disciplined sailor dogs are lying at the feet of some of them, wiry creatures with weather-beaten skin like their masters.

The city is still sleeping, the statues stand solitarily on the promenade. Lampions have already been stretched out between the trees and stages have been erected at the two ends of the esplanade for the three days feast of Saint Sebastian, the saintly protector of the city. This night light softens the statues, their surface becomes oily and slippery like that of the sea and of the freshly caught fishes.

Sunday evening, at five o’clock the parade begins. The burghers of Mallorca who in the previous night lit a bonfire on the main square and roasted meat at the free braziers set up throughout the city, and kept eating, drinking and dancing until early morning while each square gave home to a different concert, have already had a rest in the morning, and now they gather with renewed strength for the continuation. The crowd swarms onto the square and is looking forward with excitement to the arrival of the flaming charriots.

From the whole Mallorca, but even from continental Catalonia several groups of dimoni who usually play the role of tempters at the feast of Saint Anthony of the various settlements have come together in Palma. Each of them marches with their fire-vomiting monster-charriots, drummers and dancers from the center of the city to the cathedral on the sea-front where they will launch the festive fireworks.

The nearly five thousand dimoni march for four and a half hours through the host of a hundred and thirty thousand spectators. The square illuminated in a ghostlike manner by the fires and torches is dominated by the dark marble obelisk topped by the bronze bat with outspread wings, the heraldic animal of King James I who had conquered this island from the Arabs. The Thinker – the figure of Dante looking in the gate of Hell and the 19th-century icon of rationality – is sitting sunken into himself in the middle of the crowd.