So ijāza served as the authorization of the book.
Yes, the author placed his ijāza, i.e. license, authorization, on the copies that he approved. It signified that he granted permission “to transmit the work from him” in the form as approved, an expression which occurs very frequently. It was important to have an ijāza directly from the author, “with hearing by him,” samā’an lahu” (e.g. VI, 429), i.e., after the author had heard it read. Sometimes one might have a transcript of a work and then have the good fortune to meet the author and het him to authorize it. Yāqūt relates that he had used a book about his own family written by the Aleppan historian Kamāl al-Dīn, and he read it to him, and he verified it (aqarra bihi) (VI, 18). In short, we may say that direct transcription of the author’s dictation, followed by authorization, was and remained the best form of publication. But of course the number of people who could obtain books from a particular author in this way was limited, and this opportunity came to an end in any case on the author’s death.
Could such an ijāza authorize the copyist to confer his own authorization?
When the author had given his authorization, this meant not only that the copyist had an assurance that he possessed the book in the form determined by the author, but also that he in turn was empowered to transmit the book in the same form. Anyone so empowered could similarly empower others, provided he first assured himself that their transcripts agreed with his own. This was done in exactly the same way as when the autor conferred his ijāza, who then granted his own ijāza to this copy. The guarantee of the copy’s genuineness rested upon there being an unbroken chain of ijāzas going back to the author himself.
Was there any difference between the authorizations?
The difference between the value of the various warranties might arise from the author’s having himself dictated the work several times, so that there would be numerous published versions, but most moonly it depended uon whether the intermediate copyists had transmitted the book conscientiously without making any alterations. The value of a version hinged upon whether it was transmitted by way of a series of trustworthy authorities. It was hardly universal for every one of the preceding ijāzas to be specified in a manuscript.
Now, let’s turn to scribes and booksellers. In scarcely any other culture has the literary life played such a role as in Islam. What is the position of learning in the Muslim intellectual world?
‘ilm, i.e. learning, the whole world of the intellect engaged the interest of Muslims more than anything else during the golden age of Islam and thereafter. The life that evolved in the mosques spread outward to put its mark on influential circles everywhere. Princes and rich men gathered people of learning and letters around them, and it was quite common for a prince, one or more times a week, to hold a majlis, i.e. concourse, atwhich representatives of the intellectual life would assemble and, with their princely host participating, discuss those topics that concerned them, just as they were accustomed to do when meeting in their own milieu.
Obviously, some of these scholars were quite industrious.
Yes, their industry was prodigious, often in inconceivable. Al-Marzubani, who died shortly before the year 1000, wrote over 37,000 pages, according to Ibn al-Nadim (132-134); Yaqut managed altogether 33,000 pages, of which only one minor work survived even in his own day. (Irshad, VII, 50-52). The Spaniard Ibn Hazm, who lived at about the same time, is reputed to have written about four hundred volumes, totaling about 80,000 pages, and according to Yaqut was surpassed only by al-Tabari, the well-known historian and Quranic exegete. His exegeses are said to have filled 30,000 pages originally, but to have been abridged to 3,000. When he died at the age of 86, his disciples counted the days of his life from the time he attained adulthood and divided them into the number of his written pages, a calculation that showed him to have written an average of 14 pages every day. It was claimed by some that he wrote 40 pages every day for 40 years (VI,424,426). Of course, all records seem to have been broken by the Egyptian Jalal al-Din al-Suyuti, who died in 1505 at the age of 60, i.e. two to three centuries after Yaqut. His books numbered 600, according to the Egyptian historian Ibn Iyas (Die Chronik, ed. By Kahle and Mustafa, Leipzig, 1932, V, 93; Brockelmann, GAL II, 144 & 295).
Did they have time to spend time with their family and friends?
When it is borne in mind that the literary man, as a rule, spent long periods on study tours, took part in pilgrimages to Mecca and devoted a fitting amount of time to his religious duties, it is hard to grasp that such prolific writers also had time for socializing, and that as well as all this they had their family lives, often with several wives and many children. It shows how literary work could utterly preoccupy Muslims and dominate their lives.
Some scholars believe that writing commentaries belongs to a later period and indicates a decadence in scholarship. Do you agree?
It is not the case. At an early stage, books based on other books began to be written. As time went on and writings with the authorization of the author became available, it became possible to copy from them without referring to one’s own teachers as intermediaries. As early a writer as al-Isfahani often uses in his “Book of Songs” the formula: ‘I have copied (nasakhtu) the following from such-and-such a book.” The more indeterminate naqaltu, “I transmit” from X, is also used (e.g. I, 40f).Yaqut says of al-Marzubani, “ Most of his traditions are cited from ijaza, i.e. authorized manuscripts, but he says when he cites them “X has told me” (Irshad VII, 50). This formula is interesting, for it shows that Yaqut found it natural to make this explicit statement even when his only source was written tradition, but there is little doubt that al-Marzubani’s mode of procedure was the general one, so that the formula originating from the oral tradition was carried over to the purely written. But in later times, it became the general practice to cite a book by simply saying: “X says.” We should remember that scholarly literature adered closely to the traditions of the past, both in form and content, often to the point where the ancient classical works were transcribed and embellished with commentaries that in the next generation were amplified by super-commentaries, to which super-super-commentaries might be added later on.
How were the representatives of the literary life in a position to perform the vast labors that took up all their time and abilities?
Well, first of all, most of them lived a life of great contentment. “Learning,” i.e., the lfie of the intellect, was intimately bound up with religion, and to devote oneself to it both afforded an inner satisfaction and was a service to God that on the Day of Reckoning would count to the credit of the one who performed it. It not only made men of letters willing to accept deprivation; even more, it prompted others to lend them aid.
Manhy scholars received stipends. What were the sources of such income?
A wide variety of institutions endowed innumberable scholarships in the mosques to provide stipends for teachers, whose means of subsistence were thereby assured, often in liberal measure. This source was frequently supplemented by rulers and other notables who made cash donations earmarked for individual scholars who had aroused their interest.
What were the general attitude toward taking wage for scholarly activities?
Generally speaking, it was regarded as unseemly to take a wage in return for learning, and many pronouncements to that effect are on record. On the other hand, gifts could always be accepted. The mosque scholarships were regarded in this light. It was also a general practice for the well-to-do to make donations from their own abundance to some scholar in want. Ibrahim al-Harbi (d. in the last decade of the 9th century) was an indigent man of letters who spent his time in a small room in his house, “meditating and copying.” One evening a man brought him a costly kerchief in which were wrapped food and 500 dirhams (I, 39). The anonymity of the gift increased the merit it conferred upon the donor. When he who possessed worldly goods was unable to create knowledge himself, he repaid by his gift some small part of the debt that he, as a Muslim, owed to those who devoted themselves to inntellectual labor.
Some princes and dignitaries were generous by patronizing scholars.
Yes, an author would very often dedicate his work to someone of princely rank. The dedication consisted of the prince’s being presented with the first fair copy of the work, either by the author himself or through some intermediary. The prince then had to show his recognition of the honor thus paid to him by giving the author a sum of money, i.e., a kind of author’s honorarium. It was a point of honor for a pricne not to be parsimonious in affairs of this sort. In the “Book of Songs” we continually hear of large sums being lavished byy the caliph or some other potentate upon poets who come to court and recite poems for him. The author, al-Isfahani, himself dedicated it to the Hamdanid Sayf al-Dawla, who in the middle years of the 10th century established a powerful hegemony in northern Syria and held a court of some splendor, at which men of letters gathered in Allepo.
And he presented a fair copy to the prince?
Yes, and in return he received 1,000 dinars. Another devotee of literature in that era, Isma’il b. ‘Abbad, Wazir to the Buyid prince of Baghdad, who was the real ruler at the caliph’s side, declared that Sayf al-Dawla had been niggarly and that the author had merited a donation many times larger (V, 150f). Of course, al-Isfahani wrote other works that he sent to the Umayyad rulers in Spain, and they gave him generous honoraris. Al-Hakam II of Cordoba is said to have given him 1,000 dinars for the “Book of Songs” (al-Maqqari, Nafh al-Tib, Cairo 1302, I, 180).
Was it possible to draw a dinstinction between gifts and wages?
It was not absolute, of course, and the principle that wages were not to be accepted for learning could not be observed to the letter. Sases could occur, for instance, where a young student might be working as a craftsman on the side and handing over half of his earnings to his teacher (V, 421). Many teachers entertained no scruples about accepting some reward for their labors. This was particularly so when it was a matter of furnishing a pupil with guidance regarding older works.
