Praefatio und Epistola Zwinglis zu einer Pindar-Ausgabe
Context and Argument
This text is the preface and accompanying epistolary reflection written by Huldrych Zwingli for the 1526 Zurich edition of Pindar, prepared by the humanist scholars Jacob Ceporinus (Ceporin) and Johann Cratander. Ceporinus (1499-1525) was a gifted young Zurich humanist, Hebraist, and mathematician, trained in Greek and Hebrew and closely associated with the city’s reforming intellectual circle. A pupil and collaborator of leading northern humanists, including Johannes Reuchlin, he played a central role in the revival of Greek learning in Zurich and was instrumental in correcting and preparing classical texts for print. In 1522 he published a Greek grammar and in 1525 was appointed reader in Greek and Hebrew in Zurich and served in the sessions of the exegetical community that began in the Grossmünster in June 1525 that later became known as the Prophezei. An early supporter of the reform movement in Zurich, he married a former Dominican nun, Elsbeth Scherer. Ceporinus’ early death at the age of twenty-six was widely lamented and deeply affected Zwingli, who regarded him as a son and a model of disciplined scholarship and moral seriousness.
Written at the height of the Zurich Reformation, the preface reveals Zwingli not only as a reformer and theologian but as a committed Christian humanist deeply engaged with classical literature, philology, and pedagogy. He presents Pindar as the supreme lyric poet of antiquity and argues, provocatively for a reforming theologian, that no pagan author is more useful for understanding the poetic language of Scripture, especially the Psalms and Job. Zwingli defends the study of classical poets against religious suspicion, insisting that linguistic precision, historical sensitivity, and moral discernment are essential for faithful biblical interpretation. The second part of the text, written after Ceporinus’s death, expands these concerns into a meditation on learning, scholarly discipline, health, and the moral purpose of education. Together, the pieces illuminate the close alliance between humanist learning and early Reformed theology in Zurich, as well as Zwingli’s conviction that ancient poetry could serve the reform of Christian understanding rather than threaten it.
Source
Huldreich Zwinglis sämtliche Werke, vol. 4 (Leipzig: Heinsius, 1927) (Corpus Reformatorum 91)
Praefatio und Epistola Zwinglis zu einer Pindar-Ausgabe
Contents
Text
To students of languages, Huldrych Zwingli sends greetings.
Whoever endeavors to praise Pindar, let me begin with a Horatian image, is attempting to fly with Daedalus’s waxen wings, dearest reader. For to gather his praise from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, where the sound of his lyre has penetrated, demands more than what can be borne by wings fastened with soft wax. Such wings cannot withstand either the burning of the upper air or the flames of the underworld. Hence, whoever attempts to grasp such boundless glory will be giving names to the glassy sea, that is, striving in vain.
Indeed, I candidly confess that among all lyric poets, or rather, all poets, it is easy to name Pindar as the foremost, and yet he is not fit to be praised by anyone less than a supreme and most eloquent man, let alone by me, whose resources are so scant that I can scarcely even lift my gaze to behold such an exalted poem. Nevertheless, when Jacob Ceporinus, a man born for nothing other than to recover and illuminate both the most ancient and the most learned authors, urged me with such insistence to write a preface in his name for Pindar’s Olympian, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian Odes, which that most diligent man Cratander had published, I could not refuse this excellent man what he so fervently requested. Even though I was fully aware of the mockery I was inviting, he believed it would be fitting for someone to clumsily leap about before the sound of the Pindaric lyre, at whose music the Muses themselves, more than any others, joyfully and gratefully form their chorus, so that the rare and inexpressible glory of this poet might provoke even greater wonder.
In truth, what a man eager to entertain his audience! For without this comic interlude of ours, Pindar would have brought such delight that it would have been burdensome to take in. Yet, whatever his reasoning in persuading me, I have obeyed, indeed, had he ordered me to dance naked, I would have complied.
Since it is customary in all such works to begin with a brief account of the author’s life, we shall summarize the life of our Pindar, drawing from the Suda. All agree that Pindar was born in Thebes, to parents of no great renown, a fact evidenced by the differing names attributed to them by various sources, with divine providence never failing to prevent us from attributing to lineage or images what belongs to divine goodness alone. For it is rare indeed to find those born of noble blood who are also gifted with both intellect and learning. They say he was a student of a certain woman named Myrtis. He had three children, one son, Diophantus, and two daughters, Eumetis and Protomache. He was born around the 65th Olympiad. When Xerxes invaded Greece, he was about forty years old. At the age of fifty-five, having received the end he had long prayed for, a most beautiful death, he passed away in a crowded theater, resting in the lap of his beloved Theoxenus. He wrote his Olympian, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian Odes in the Doric dialect, and these are the works that have come down to us commemorating victories. The names of his other works, if one wishes to know them, must be sought in the Suda. Pindar was a man of no less upright and holy than learned and charming character. In terms of learning, he seems to have surpassed all others, something proved by the very odes he wrote, in which he occasionally hints that his words cannot be understood without an interpreter.
Pindar employs either uncommon words drawn from lofty heights or, if he uses ordinary words, he ennobles them. This is what Horace magnificently affirms when he sings of “the Dircaean swan borne on many breezes.” His diction is so masterfully constructed, his handling so polished and refined, that any attempt to add or subtract would offend learning itself. The dice of Jupiter always fall favorably for him. And who can praise his charm fittingly? He revives what is worn out, he restores and makes things appear to the eyes as if present. He clothes ancient things with dignity and majesty; he does not exaggerate present things nor diminish them enviously. What skill in matching the similar and the dissimilar, what abundance of both, what power in metaphors, what aptness in their use, and how fittingly they are always placed! With what careful concern are his moral judgments composed, and how familiarly and yet authoritatively are they delivered, what grace and gentleness (τὸ ἐπιεικές)! His insight is such that you will find no equal. He praises no one so highly that, if some flaw clings to them, he does not gently touch upon it. If he sees that the virtues of someone’s ancestors are being repaired by the innocence and uprightness of their descendants, he defends their present virtue in such a way that he does not remove the sting of past shame, always urging moral progress. If he knows someone’s ancestors exchanged justice for audacity, he acknowledges both, inserting a horror of vice alongside the torches of virtue.
Such is his sanctity, that nowhere do we find wantonness or insolence of tongue; nothing obscene or lascivious escapes him, by which the hidden faults of the heart might be betrayed. If it is permitted to say this of anyone, Pindar surely had a heart devoted to truth, virtue, and honor in the highest degree. The current of Pindaric verse flows with these most limpid waters. There is nothing in his whole work that is not learned, charming, holy, precise, ancient, wise, serious, delightful, careful, and complete in every respect. Though he speaks magnificently of the gods, he does not hold lofty views of their multitude. Rather, he often introduces a single divine and heavenly power. Indeed, just as St. Augustine somewhere observes, and as Origen writes against Celsus concerning the philosophers and poets, even though they may seem to sing of many gods in word and name, in truth they are not unaware that there must be a single force, who is God. Thus we see in our Pindar: even if he names gods, he still believes in only one. And this is not foreign even to the Hebrews. For when the Hebrews constantly use אלהים (Elohim), that is, “gods,” to refer to that one Creator of all things, there is nothing improper or impious if pagan poets and philosophers, in the plural idiom of their cultures, name the one God. For this sometimes occurs for the sake of ornament, grandeur, or antiquity. Even in Latin, we don’t cease to speak of “the Camilli,” “the Ciceros,” or “the Fabii” when referring to a single Camillus, Cicero, or Fabius.
To give examples of everything we have now said about Pindar with such meager style would take too long. We entrust these reflections to you, eager reader, handing you these torches so that you may hurry to this treasure without delay. And what benefit, do you think, will result, dearest reader, from the fact that, in my judgment, no other Greek author seems so helpful for understanding the Holy Scriptures as this poet, especially if you truly desire to grasp the most obscure Hebrew chants and hymns, such as the Psalms, the poetry of Job, and the various lyrical praises composed in metrical form?
For these are heavenly songs, excelling all others in piety and spirit, and yet in learning, gravity, and beauty in no way inferior even to our poet’s compositions. Consider how many of the Psalms are like this, especially Psalm 103 and Psalm 43 by the sons of Korah, songs so magnificent you can scarcely admire them enough. Even so, while they [Hebrew poets] guard their treasures diligently, we, lacking the learning to approach such heights, invent supposed “mysteries” to please ourselves, just like that sophist who once promised to expound Virgil’s Aeneid in a certain school. When the time came and a large crowd had gathered, curious to see what mountains he would bring forth, this witty fellow read a few verses, then triumphantly exclaimed: “‘Arma virumque cano’ is a proposition with a compound predicate! ‘Arma virumque’ is not the subject but the predicate, and the pronoun ego is the subject of the verb cano. Therefore the proposition is: I sing of arms and the man.” And the man began to marvel at himself and openly proclaim that no mortal had ever explained Virgil in this way.
Such triviality is not unlike our own self-love (φιλαυτία), by which we are convinced that the moment we touch a pen, even if it be thin and ragged, we are fit to interpret the weightiest matters. And when we do not understand what we are explaining, we invent what we are supposed to explain and impose our interpretations upon the most devout and learned poems, hoping to gain some borrowed authority from them. And if someone warns us not to go “beyond the olive tree” or “let the cobbler not go beyond his last,” their defenders immediately rush forth. “But they are pious!” you say. Yes, so what? Paul’s letter to the Romans is pious, yet it does not explain the Psalm: “O God, you have rejected us” (Psalm 60:1). Let them write commentaries on the Christian religion as ferociously as they please but let them not presume to speak on what they clearly do not understand.
Indeed, I dare affirm this about the Hebrew poems: they contain as much learning and grace as can be found in either Pindar or Horace. But because we are so far removed from ancient learning, and prefer to be read ourselves rather than to read others, it happens that three-day scholars (I meant to say little Greeks) twist the meanings of the holiest Hebrew poets into absurdities foreign to their intent. To drive out such disasters of rashness and ignorance, let us approach our poet as if to borrow gold, silver, and garments from him, of which he has plenty and shares freely, so that we may learn to name the truth with the right words and recognize its clothing, so that if we are denied the full heavenly vision, we may at least recognize Him from His garments. I am unmoved by those critics who treat even cleanliness as unclean, and who believe it a great scandal to read a pagan poet. For I am not proposing that we read just anyone, but someone in whom there is no danger and from whom the greatest fruit may be gathered, who alone is more useful for investigating the writings of the Hebrews than all the other poets, Greek and Latin, put together.
Antiquity had its peculiar features, just as every age does, which cannot be rightly understood unless one has been well acquainted with the ancients. For not only language, clothing, and wit fade away, but humanity itself in all its dimensions. Yet this poet of ours seems to have not just the language, but even the spirit most akin to that holiest age. We shall say a few words about this after the end of the book.
So we confidently commend the pious reader to him, and indeed assert that piety itself may safely be entrusted to him, so holy and chaste is all his writing. In the meantime, enjoy the diligence of our Ceporinus and the labors of Cratander! The text now appears much more corrected than before. You may come across a few small errors, perhaps a misplaced letter here or there, but let that not disturb you. The eyes often overlook such things when the mind has grasped the meaning.
Farewell, kind reader, and may Almighty God grant that, with a pagan poet as your teacher, you may learn to understand the truth in the Hebrew Scriptures, and to proclaim it most beautifully among all nations.
From Zurich, on the 24th day of February, 1526.
Huldrych Zwingli to the candid reader: Greetings.
I did not want to make the preface I wrote for Pindar’s victories a mournful one, dear reader, so that all might remain joyful for you. But now, what I am about to say, I hope, may be of use.
Jacob Ceporinus, a man of astonishing diligence, who, while alive, had drawn from me a promise to write a preface for Pindar, passed away before I could fulfill that promise. He died in December of the year 1525. So it pleased Him who takes away the breath of princes too (cf. Ps. 76:13). A man worthy of the longest life, he had drawn the disciplines we call the mathematical arts from their Greek sources. In Hebrew learning, he had gained much from Capnio (Johannes Reuchlin), a man admired in every age, who first accustomed the harsh sounds of the Hebrew tongue to the rules and measures of Latin. He had discussed much with Capnio, able, through his Greek scholarship, to repay what he had received from the sanctuary of the Hebrews. He restored Dionysius to the Greek text; he corrected Pindar; he transmitted grammatical rules so soundly that those who studied them carefully would award him the prize, especially in regard to the dialects. His character was grave, his eloquence appropriate, though perhaps not loquacious, and his learning remarkable. His mind was altogether sincere, and all his efforts aimed that we might fear Him who shall one day judge the world, that justice might be practiced among mortals, and that truth and peace might no longer be in exile.
This young tree (for he was only twenty-six when he was told, “Die!”) was cut down by the heavenly gardener, against the will of the Muses and their followers, either because He saw that Ceporinus had already toiled enough, or because He had determined to count him among the heavenly host. He neglected his health. I did not simply urge him, but scolded him frequently not to strain himself so by reading dense or difficult works for three hours straight after meals (a lesson I had learned from physicians, though too late). He replied that reading never wearied him, that nothing delighted him more than uninterrupted study. Therefore, by his example, all good and eager young scholars ought to care for their health and pay no attention to those who make sport of divine providence by saying, “If God wills that I live, I will live,” even if I eat like a nestling. For in caring for your health, you are indeed caring by God’s ordinance. I do not refer to the exaggerated attention to health by some, who swoon in fear or go mad with joy whenever they sneeze, but rather to the regimen (διαίτη) which Socrates is said to have preferred above all the arts of physicians, and which Paul himself was not ashamed to prescribe to his disciple Timothy (cf. 1 Tim. 5:23).
A good and prudent man is a public good; therefore, one who neglects himself sins against the commonwealth. The Latins have a fine proverb, or if you prefer, a maxim: “Become old early, if you want to be old long.” By which they wisely advise that both regimen and health should be cared for in good time. I say this especially for those who, while still green in years, wear themselves out so with study that when it comes time to reap the best fruits from them, they are themselves cut down, by fever, paralysis, or some other affliction, just as our sickle is thwarted by hail or blight. What we seek is not luxuries for the idle, but measure and remedy for well-born talents. In the earlier portion of this letter, I briefly touched on antiquity and how it had something particular which our poet here distinctly bears. We encounter in the sacred Scriptures, particularly in the Septuagint, as preserved in the Greek tradition, countless phrases which, although seemingly translated differently in meaning, are in fact not so different at all, but reflect a change or obsolescence in word usage.
This is not the place for many examples, but I shall offer one or two. In Exodus, we read the Hebrew טפים (ṭaphîm), which our translators render as “little children” who went out with the adult sons of Israel. The Septuagint consistently renders this word as ἀποσκευή, meaning luggage, equipment, baggage, or provisions. Yet, a closer examination shows that just as the Hebrew word ṭaph can refer not only to infants but to the whole non-military population, so too the Septuagint uses ἀποσκευή to refer to those who were transported rather than marching on their own. In Acts, we read of Peter, who, while praying on the rooftop, desired γευσάσθαι, to taste. Both this verb and its Latin equivalent may seem outdated to us, yet at the time they were commonly used for “to try” or “to attempt,” as I’ve occasionally noted, especially in the orations of Cicero.
I will now cite some words that you will find in our Pindar which once had different meanings or at least broader usage. We could supply countless such examples, had we time to review what we had noted while Ceporinus was reading aloud. In Ephesians 4:28, Paul writes: “Ὁ κλέπτων μηκέτι κλεπτέτω” , “Let the one who steals steal no longer.” There is no doubt that Paul uses κλέπτων not for violent theft, but for νοσφίζειν, to defraud, to withhold, to misappropriate under a pretense of legality, just as merchants and others in business dealings often mix fraud into their affairs. For it is unlikely that Paul is referring to blatant robbery, though the jurists write much about that, as if the Ephesian church were made up of thieves and bandits! Rather, he warns that no one defraud or deceive a brother in any way. You will find κλέπτειν used this way in Pindar too. I cannot recall the passage now, but you will no doubt find it.
In the same epistle, Eph. 5:4, Paul forbids εὐτραπελία among the saints. Though Latin often translates this as “wit” or “courtesy,” a faithful interpreter renders it “scurrility” (crude joking). Yet elsewhere Paul teaches that our speech should be “seasoned with salt” (cf. Col. 4:6), and in Romans he uses even biting salt when reproaching those who practiced unnatural lusts: “Likewise the men abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another, men committing shameful acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error” (Rom. 1:27). Thus, it seems unlikely that so courteous an Apostle would condemn politeness itself. Rather, εὐτραπελία had come to be used for vulgarity or obscenity, just as we see in our poet.
There are also turns of phrase that the Hebrews share with all Greeks, but especially with our poet. The Hebrews often say “the glory of the Lord” to mean simply “the Lord,” just as the Greeks say “the strength of Hercules” to mean Hercules himself, or “Achilles’ spear” to mean Achilles. Similarly, they say “the arrow of Jonathan” to mean Jonathan. In Psalm 106:20, the Hebrew reads: וימירו את כבודם כתכנית שור אכל עשב, “And they exchanged their glory for the image of a bull that eats grass.” There, “their glory” refers to God, who is the glory of all and of the Hebrews in particular. You will find such idioms in Pindar too. The Hebrews say “sons of men” for “men,” just as the Greeks say υἱοὶ ᾿Αχαιῶν, “sons of the Achaeans”, for “Achaeans.” They speak of the “daughter of Jerusalem” or “daughter of Zion,” and likewise “daughter Babylon,” as in Psalm 137 (Hebrew 136): “O daughter of Babylon, you devastator!” Pindar, for his part, turns nearly every city into a nymph or daughter. But what need is there for more? Not a single word falls from Pindar without thought, and every one contributes greatly to the cultivation of what is true and honorable.
Therefore, most gracious reader, it has become the custom in our present age to read nothing but what is newly born, what else is this but being ruled by impulse? For how many are there who treat the mention of truth with such purity and reverence that they do not flatter, or appropriate it for their own ends, or stir up premature commotion before fully understanding a matter? Is it not crystal clear that the literary tendency of our time is to follow emotion rather than sound judgment, provided that one reads without discernment and relies more on human authority than on truth itself? Meanwhile, the finest authors, Greek and Latin, lie neglected, from whom we once drew at least a shadow of learning. But alas, this has been an unhappy venture, not unlike what the writings of Aquinas, Bernard, and Gregory did for the classics: they seem to have been written to make the best authors despised and obscure. And indeed, their effect is now evident.
You can now see how many of us, clumsy rustics though we are, have devoted ourselves to languages and disciplines, so that we might become authors and reproduce our teachers’ dicta. But as for the true use and fruit of all study, we treat it with indifference or coldness. In some cases, it is not even clear whether such men have ever set their sights on what is right and honorable. For when we see that the whole world is now, as it were, supremely learned and eloquent, and yet overflows with uprisings, seditions, bloodshed, violence, audacity, and shamelessness, who could doubt that the aim of many has been to sell themselves as great authorities, rather than to bestow genuine benefits upon humankind? And we, whoever and however many we are, are still far inferior to the mythical fool Hercules, who, even though his role in fable was to be deceived, not played with, by a woman, still when disaster or plague struck, would throw himself into the fray and strive to secure peace, leisure, the love of virtue, and hatred of vice. We, on the other hand, are quick to stir up dangerous storms but far less skillful at quenching the fires we ignite.
These thoughts, excellent reader, you must not interpret as my wish to cast aspersions on worthy or famous names, or to suggest that you should disregard the present. On the contrary, we wish you to be entirely at home among the best things and to be one of the best yourself, so that you may neither over-admire the present nor become a gaping onlooker in the marketplace, always chasing after the next new thing, like the Athenians once did (cf. Acts 17:21). Believe me, I see many ephemeral things that we now prefer to works composed three thousand years ago, works likely to endure for another three thousand, merely because each person, guided by his own passions, considers his own judgment sacred. But when, by God’s grace, we come to our senses and lift our eyes to the oldest writers, it seems as if light and nourishment themselves have come into view, as if they stand before our eyes, surround us, are felt, and held. And there seems to be no other reason why, despite the many works now being produced, none today equals the sanctity and learning of the ancients, than this: we emerge from the nest without feathers, unable to withstand or master the force of the winds. Thus, what happened to Icarus happens also to us and our writings.
To me, the most sacred thing has always been the ancient poet, the one who united usefulness with delight. For such poets most aptly distinguish the image of truth and honor with fitting color and natural grace, not with the arrogance of rhetoricians, but with a pleasant and familiar tone. Moreover, they ridicule vices far more effectively than do modern writers. No one dared confront tyrants, no one dissuaded others from crime, let me say it plainly: no one dared speak openly about anything, no matter how necessary or honorable. But there, the honest swan [Pindar], when his hour of death approached, would gather all these things together and sing them most sweetly, so that rulers yet to come might fear a poet as avenger, lest they be named in what he freely wrote.
A good poet is an innocent kind of person and nothing is more useful to humanity. But those malicious slanderers, not just bad, but utterly wicked poets, who tear down everything like jesters, pollute everything, and defile noble minds, I do not commend them. Rather, I judge them as a plague on human life to be utterly shunned.
Farewell, my reader, and turn the verses of Pindar by day and by night in your hands. And if you have judged my words charitably, may you enjoy, with joy, the most honorable delights of your soul!
From Zurich, on the Kalends of March, 1526.