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Princeton University,
To cite this article: Peter Brown (1997): So debate the world of Late Antiquity revisited, Symbolae Osloenses, 72:1, 5-30
To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00397679708590917
SO DEBATE
THE WORLD OF LATE ANTIQUITY REVISITED
It is twenty-five years since Peter Brown's seminal book The World of Late
Antiquity first appeared. Symbolae Osloenses has asked Professor Brown to revisit that world and give us a report, describing both the circumstances in
which the book was written and in what respects, through his own subsequent research and that of others, his picture of Late Antiquity has changed
since then. We have also asked ten scholars from various disciplines to comment on his report, and Professor Brown to reply to their comments. A common bibliographical list concludes the debate section. Further contributions
on the present state of research on Late Antiquity are invited.
REPORT
PETER BROWN
5 0 DEBATE
ness and the sad clarity of vision of Gibbon, the historian of religion and empire (Brown 1976). But in the 1950s, it had been Rostovtzeffwho told us that
those who studied the age beyond Diocletian and Constantine, indeed, beyond Septimius Severus, must resign themselves to moving in an alien world,
fatally depleted and already "barbarized" from within by the catastrophic upheavals of the third century A.D.
Unlike the Olympian Gibbon, Rostovtzeffthe Rostovtzeff of those gripping last chapters of the Social and Economic History, "The Roman Empire
during the Period of Military Anarchy" and "The Oriental Despotism and
the Problem of the Decay of Ancient Civilization"was a living, disquieting
presence for all young students. We are dealing with a Europe-wide phenomenon. Only recently, my friend and colleague, Lellia Cracco Ruggini, has
written of how, in 1952, she had climbed the steep stairway to the study of
Plinio Fraccaro, arriving a little breathless with anxiety, to introduce herself
as a potential graduate student, only to have placed in her arms the Social and
Economic History of Rostovtzeff along with the four volumes of the Patrologa
edition of the works of Saint Ambrose. "Read them, think about it," was
Fraccaro's peremptory admonition. "See what you can get out of it all."
(Ruggini 1995, ix)
It was in exactly the same year, in Ireland, that I received a far less solemn,
but equally decisive call to the later Roman empire. On the shelves of the
lending library of the Royal Dublin Society at Ballsbridge I fell, entirely by
accident, on that heavy, olive-green volume, whose superb illustrations and
majestic print spoke with instant authority to a total beginner. A classical
building in clear grey granite, the Royal Dublin Society stood as a monument to the high taste and public spirit of its Anglo-Irish founders, now
faced, across the street, by the modern, more frankly vernacular faade of the
head office of the Irish Sweepstake, resplendent with gigantic, bright green
shamrocks. Maybe already on the bus back to Glenageary, certainly by teatime, I had found my way to those last chapters, and began to read them, still
with the frisson of the young when faced by an account of some truly memorable disaster. I learned about
The social revolution of the third century, which destroyed the foundations of the economic, social and intellectual life of the ancient world.3
I was already prepared for such melancholy judgements. It was my intention
to study medieval and modern history at Oxford1952 was for me a dreamy,
solitary year, spent back in Ireland, between Public School in England and
SO DEBATE
tic mystique of continuity with the Middle Ages. The "Roman" Catholics, in
our opinion, could keep the Middle Ages. Irish Protestants, indeed, deliberately stared through an overwhelmingly "Roman" Catholic present, across
the tragic devastation of medieval and early modern Ireland, to the pre-medieval glories of what is still called "Early Christian" Irelanda Christian
Ireland, that is, that was sufficiently distant from common images of medieval Rome to be treated as an object of interest even by Protestants. It was
our own Late Antiquity of the North. Indeed, the manuscripts of the Book of
Durrow and the Book of KelL, that I had begun to visit regularly in the
Library of Trinity College, Dublin, whose splendid exhibition gallery was, at
that time, invariably empty and usually ill-heated, all dated from before the
age of Charlemagne. They had been produced in monasteries first founded
in the old age of Justinian. Their artists were faraway contemporaries of
Heraclius, Justinian II and the Ummayad Califs of Damascus.
It was, also, a "Biblical" Protestantism. Though not Fundamentalist, it assumed extensive knowledge of the Old and New Testaments, and, hence, if
only indirectly, of the entire ancient Near East. Egypt, Babylon and Cyrus, as
"the Lord's anointed", and not Athens, was what the ancient world was for
us. As befitted a nation of self-styled poets, with high standards of elementary
education in Latin, Vergil and Horace were ever-present; but Rome itself was
brought to our attention, on a regular basis, more in the person of Pontius
Pilate and in the journeys of Saint Paul than in figures such as Cato, Cicero
and Augustus. My first serious confrontation with Greek was undertaken in
order to read the Gospel of Saint John. It was not a choice of Greek reading
matter that a classical purist, in England or the Continent, would have made;
but Basil of Caesarea, at least, might have approved.
The "exotic", also, was a strong presence. In the manner of generations of
Irish Protestants, England remained, for my family, a distant place, but the
British Empire and its peoples were ever-present. At a time of economic recession, the British Empire offered employment to our young men, and its
territories became the source of unexpectedly wide horizons in the otherwise
cramped life of a small and poor country. "Abroad" was a word charged with
meaning. My father's "abroad" took him, as a railway engineer, without his
knowing it, close to late antiquityto Egypt and the Sudan. Arabic was a required language for all officials of the Sudan Railways. When he finally returned to Ireland, in 1948, a handbook of Sudanese Courtesy Customs, containing delicate Arabic phrases of greeting and polite enquiry, was prominent
on his bookshelf, as was a de-luxe edition of T.E. Lawrence's The Seven Pillars
of Wisdom, which I would read, from cover to cover, every time that I returned home on holiday from my school in England. I was told that, at the
age of three, I had been presented, by an Ethiopian nanny, to receive the
8
SO DEBATE
civilization was not a drained corpse, that could be briskly dragged from the
stage, for the next act of the Christian Middle Ages to begin.
I was thrilled by the glimpse which both authors offered of the sheer resilience of a pre-Christian society and culture at the very moment of the triumph of the Christian church within the Roman empire. Institutions and
powerful bodies of ideas, that I had known only in the medieval and postReformation periodsand many of which, in their modern form, still hung,
like chill clouds, above the heart of any Irish boy, Catholic or Protestant
were shown to have originated first in a very distant, ancient world. Evidence
of the joining of the sacred and the profane, of the intimate dependence of
Christianity on its cultural, social and political context in an ancient world
that plainly had not grown pale by 400 A.D.a joining that was a peculiarly marked feature of the post-Constantinian Christian Empiredid not in
any way shock or dispirit me. If this was a "perversion of Christianity" (as
some of my more upright colleagues continue to assert), I had seen enough
of self-styled "unperverted" Christianities, by 1955, to welcome a change. A
remarkable tradition of French liberal Catholic scholars had turned their attention since the late 1930s to the intimate links between late classical civilization and the thought-forms and culture of the great Christian writers of
the Patristic age. This tradition gave me my first sighting of a pre-medieval
Christianity, of unexpected warmth, richness and flexibility, and, above all,
of a Christianity held at a safe distance from the present, by having been
firmly planted back where it belonged, in its native, ancient soil.
Other books were closer to me in tone and culture. In Norman Baynes,
devout Baptist and eloquent spokesman for the central values of Byzantine
civilization, I met a kindred soul. His Hellenistic Civilization and East Rome
was the first of his many essays that I would read (Baynes i960,1-23). Here
was a view of Byzantium that defended the authenticity of its long Hellenic
heritage and the resilience of the "steel framework" of its Roman, imperial
notion of the state, against those who tended to dismiss East Rome as already
a hopelessly non-classical society, characterized by "oriental" forms of monarchy. And yet, at the same time, Baynes spoke with infectious interest of a late
Hellenism, of a Hellenism very different from that of the classical Greek citystate, a Hellenism that had come, over the centuries, to push deep roots into
the cultures of the ancient Near East. This late Hellenism tapped, without
apparent detriment, the darker energies of a new religious universe. That religious universe was already plain to see in the miracles and in the many tales
of possession and exorcism in the New Testament. It flowered in the fifth,
sixth and seventh centuries A.D. in the Lives of the Saints, which both provided unique spiritual sustenance to the Byzantine man in the street and, for
modern scholars, precious evidence, which Baynes assembled with consum11
SO DEBATE
mate artistry, for the daily cares and hopes of the humbler Christian subjects
of a vast, multi-ethnic empire.'
In the 1950s, this was not everyone's Byzantium. Authors of books on the
Classical Tradition could still remark, in a joking manner, of Byzantines, that
Esp. "The Pratum Spirituale", Baynes 1960, 261-270, and Baynes and Dawes 1948.
Bolgar 1954, 64.
7
C. Cavafy: "Of the Jews (50 A.D.)", Poimata, Athens 1958, 102.
8
Brown 1967, 1961, 1963, and 1968.
6
12
of a decade. It was a world less depleted by catastrophe than I had been led to
suppose. It was also, I had come to think, in my debate with William Frend,
a world less divided within itself by irreversible and unbridgeable chasms.
The center held, and could still control and even attract into itself the new
"non-classical" forces along its periphery. The work of Santo Mazzarino, and
most especially his Aspetti sociali del quarto secok, was crucial to the consolidation of this view. Here was a Roman world, of the fourth century, that
could be convincingly interpreted "sotto il segno dlia continuit" (Mazzarino 1951). Even the "democratization of culture" that characterized the period was shown, by Mazzarino, to have co-existed with strong vertical links, in
a "pyramidal" society, which ensured that the idioms, the outlook and the resources of the masses remained, for the most part, caught in the net of firm
and adaptable upper-class leadership (Mazzarino i960).
So dazzling a vision of the later empire needed, of course, the quiet certainty of a British voice to carry complete conviction for me. In his lecture in
the Warburg Series on The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the
Fourth Century A.D., delivered in 1959, A.H.M. Jones had already suggested,
with his habitual unassuming, inspired common sense, that it was precisely
the fluidity of the elites of the fourth century empire, drawn in around the
court from relatively humble backgrounds, that fostered the spread of
Christianity in the governing classes. It was, indeed, the age of the
Antonines, with its stable urban oligarchies, and not the later empire, which
had been a society marked by rigid and permanent class differences (Jones
1963). In 1964, Jones' Later Roman Empire more than confirmed this impression. Here, without melodrama, but with firm and matter-of-fact good
judgement as to its strength and weaknesses, was the society of the later empire presented, for the first time, in its entirety. It was a society seen, frankly,
from the top down. But it seemed to hold together on those terms.
Furthermore, the "steelframework"of the late Roman state, of which Baynes
had spoken, together with the opportunities for advancement opened up in
its newly-created partner, the established Christian church, ensured that a
healthy flow of talent constantly circulated towards the top, bridging the
many potential fissures of a relentlessly-governed but cohesive society.?
The Greek-speaking and oriental provinces of the Eastern Roman empire
were the favored site of this gigantic experiment in government. Jones had
taught at Cairo and was already the author of a History of Ethiopia (Jones
1954). It was from an unmistakably eastern viewing-point that he scanned the
Roman world. If the Western Empire fell, in his opinion, it was not for any
9
Jones 1964; Brown 1967a is as good a summary as any of my late Roman reading and interests, outside Augustine and Roman Africa, up to 1966.
13
SO DEBATE
peculiarly sinister reason: it simply paid the price for having failed to become
a Latin Byzantium. Splendidly absorbed as he was in the master-craftsmanship involved in turning an overwhelming body of late Roman evidence of
all kinds, from all regions and in all languages, into a portrait of a great empire at work, Jones took the overall message of his work for granted. The
message of the book was obvious to those who read it, with enthusiasm, in
1964. The Roman empire had lasted, in its eastern territories, with its frontiers and its administrative apparatus intact, for as long after the conversion
of Constantine as it had lasted before. Christian empire amounted to one
half of the history of imperial Rome. By Jones' workaday criteria, at least, a
large part of the ancient world proved to have been alive and well for three
centuries after Rostovtzeffhad signed its death-warrant.
What needs to be remembered is that, in the Britain of the 1960s, social
mobility (usually associated with some form or other of governmental sponsorship of opportunities) was considered to be an interesting and altogether
desirable phenomenon. The tensions and anxieties that social mobility could
create, the creativity that it might release were the subject of grave sociological, psychological and anthropological attention throughout the Englishspeaking world. Novi homines no longer disgusted us. In fact, we rather liked
them. In 1963, Keith Hopkins' brilliant study of the role of eunuchs at the
imperial court now showed how those figuresonce dismissed as repellent
representatives of an irremediably "orientalized" autocracyfunctioned in
such a manner as to secure for the emperor a larger degree of flexibility and
enterprise in the face of more entrenched, conservative groups (Hopkins
1963). His study of the career of Ausonius emphasized an impressive degree
of social mobility in both the teaching profession and the bureaucracy
(Hopkins 1961,1965). This was not the "vast prison house", the society rigidly stratified into castes by imperial fiat of which we had been told. An English
zest for prosopography, first placed at the center of the study of Roman history by Ronald Syriie's The Roman Revolution, came to turn, with increasing
success, to the later empire, to create a very different picture than we had
possessed before of the recruitment of elites and of the relations between
elites and the imperial court.10
I stress this exciting "growth-point" in English late Roman scholarship because it would provide me with a basic model, securely rooted in social reality, that would help to explain a similar pattern of vertical mobility, up and
down the social and intellectual scale, associated with the rise and diffusion
of religious ideas, and, most especially, with the rise of Christianity. This conviction would eventually enable me, when writing The World of Late Anti10
SO DEBATE
1967.12 A reader of the 1990s should have no illusions on this point. The
World of Late Antiquity did not arise as the result of the tranquil working out
of a long-premeditated agenda, like the orderly advance of a regiment complete, from the start, in all its units. Far from it. As I re-read the book, I am
struck by the raw electric "charge" that runs through it, generated by the sudden onrush of new ideas, new problems and new methods, in the very years
in which it came to be written. The book itself marked a new departure for
me.
Put bluntly: the completion of my biography of Saint Augustine, in 1967,
had left me emptied and suffering from an acute feeling of crampedness. I
had lived in harness for too long with the greatest mind in Latin
Christendom. I wanted out. This painful numbness eventually ebbed, finding me at the other end of the Mediterranean. By early 1968, I was learning
classical Hebrew and had begun to read deeply, for the first time, in the
Greek pagan literature of late antiquity. A few years earlier, a rare decision to
bend a little the immemorial rigidity of the Oxford examination system had
led to the creation of an optional subject on "Byzantium and its Northern
and Eastern Neighbors: 527-700 A.D." I was free, at last, to roam the Middle
East with a clear conscience, preparing lectures on Sassanian and early
Islamic history. My study of the diffusion of Manichaeism in the Roman empire reflects the new horizons which that joyeuse chevauche across the Middle
East and Central Asia, from Edessa to Hsian-fu, had opened up for me
(Brown 1969). It is the sudden emergence of a sense, on my part, of the geographical dimensions of late antiquity which should be stressed. Despite my
long engagement with NortJi Africa, it was the social structures of later
Roman empire that had held my attention. Seen, now, from Mesopotamia
and the Iranian plateau, it was the Mediterranean itself which seemed truly
distinctive.
It was time to turn to Pirenne. But Pirenne's Mohammed and Charlemagne, we should remember, was taken for granted in the 1960s. What held
the foreground of my attention, rather, was Fernand Braudel's La Mditerrane et le monde mditerranen l'poque de Philippe IL (Braudel 1949). The
infinite richness ofthat book had not yet begun to flow as fast as it now does,
in the veins of the English and American academic world, as a result of the
superb translation of Sin Reynolds. But it was Braudel's intense, almost
poignant, awareness of the distinctive nature of a Mediterranean climate,
ecology and life-style which suddenly bathed the coastlines of the late antique world, endowing them, for me, with a warmth, with a concreteness and
with a tenacity that seemed rooted in the long rhythms of the landscape it12
16
self, in a manner that was absent in the brilliant but frail flash of Pirenne's
synthesis. It was Braudel who gave The World of Late Antiquity its coordinates. The inner frontier within the Roman empire, between its Mediterranean and non-Mediterranean regions, now seemed to be a more significant
dividing-line, along which to align the history of the later empire than were
RostovtzefFs stark divisions between town and countryside, solider and civilian. At the end of the period, the triumph of the Abbasids over the
Ummayads could be seen as the long-prepared triumph, in the Middle East
and within Islam itself, of a Mesopotamian and Iranian version of empire at
the expense of a Mediterranean option that still lay so close to the Ummayads of Damascus. The criticisms offered by historians of early Islam struck
me as the most convincing contributions of all to the debate on the Pirenne
Thesis (Brown 1974). They ensured that, in The World of Late Antiquity,
Charlemagne had to step down in favor of Harun al-Rashid, the true heir to
the end of the ancient world.
I was in the right place for such ruminations. It was at Fayence, in the Var,
where I would regularly spend my holidays, diat I received the invitation of
Geoffrey Barraclough to contribute a volume to die Thames and Hudson
Library of European Civilization. I almost missed the commission. I found
Barraclough's letter weeks later, after it had been placed in the hole in the
dry-stone terracing that served as a mail box, blown by die force of the mistrat into the prickly undergrowth of a neighbor's olive-grove. It was when driving across the last porphyry ridges that stood between the mountain and the
sea, on the way to Frjus, that I decided that I could write the book that he
had asked for. The Mediterranean had already given it a shape in my mind.
As for "Late Antiquity" itself, the term was relatively new to me. It may
well be that Barraclough himself suggested the title: his knowledge of
German historiography, in which Sptantike already played a significant role,
makes this likely. I had usually been content with "late Roman". It was the
new geographical spread of my interests that eroded the traditional, political
definition of the field. The cultural and religious phenomena that had come
to concern me crossed widi ease the political boundaries of die Middle East.
They also emerged and developed according to rhythms that were not directly related to the political history of any one empire. Art historians, for whom
the concept o Sptantike had already achieved a definite profile, could teach
me more about the pace and logic of the slow transformations of certain aspeas of the classical tradition and about the rise of exotic forms than did the
brisk, imperial narratives of a Rostovtzeff or a Piganiol (esp. Marrou 1968).
But, above all, die new width of the horizons against which the changes of
die period occurred led me to favor the term "World of Late Antiquity". It
was, after all, possible to write of a buddhistische Sptantike in Central Asia
17
5 0 DEBATE
(Le Coq 1923). But one could hardly describe the haunting echoes of late
Hellenistic and Iranian themes in the frescoes of Turfan or the Manichaean
and Nestorian fragments discovered in its caves as the relics of a "Buddhist
Later Roman Empire".
Then I found that I had to become, for the first time in my life, a historian of religion. From the recent author ofAugustine of Hippo this may seem a
strange admission. But I had studied Augustine still very much as a renegade
medievalistin Latin and with particular attention to those aspects of his
thought that would endure, in the Latin West, until modern times. His notions of grace and freewill and the distinctive outlines of his views on the relations between the Catholic church and Roman society were what had held
my attention. Of the themes that came to preoccupy me in the 1970s and
1980s, such as monasticism, sexuality and the cult of saints, there is singularly (indeed, shockingly) little trace in that book. Rather I had grazed on the
high ground of an unequalled theologian and master of words.
Religionsgeschichte, as the Germans defined itthe study of the interrelation of the various forms of religious belief and practice current in the ancient Mediterranean worldwas an altogether different matter. I had
touched upon it, but only in passing, in my studies of Manichaeism and so as
to understand the wilder hopes of personal transformation, connected with
conversion and baptism, in Pelagian circles. Coming down from the articulate heights of Augustine, I now found myself in a vernacular Babel, surrounded by innumerable dialects, mostly dispersed and fragmentary, deeply
unverbalized compared with the voice of the master; but yet endowed with
an explosive charge of meaning that was rendered all the more unsettling,
psychologically as well as intellectually, through lacking a convincing social
context and a clearly defined aim and audience. Violent shouts in the dark
from a distant past, they bruised me at a time when I was, in any case,
bruised. Such were the papyri from Nag Hammadi, that had recently begun
to circulate, and the Hermetic treatises to which Festugire had devoted four
masterly volumes (Festugire 1949-1954, 1967). They were joined, in my
reading at that time, by many editions of magical texts and by all the appropriate monographs of the Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten. It
was with some relief that I found the ground rising again, as I encountered
Arthur Darby Nock's extraordinary introduction and edition of Sallustius'
Concerning the Gods and the Universe (Nock 1926), the de Mysteriis of Jamblichus (Jamblichus 1966) and began to savor, for the first time in my life, the
epigraphic commentaries in Louis Robert's Hellenica.
Much of the story of the appropriation of this new world belongs, more
naturally, to a discussion of my work on the rise and function the holy man
in late antiquity, on the Byzantine Iconoclast controversy and on the rise of
18
the cult of saints (Brown 1971a, 1973, 1977a, 1981). The World of Late Antiquity marked only the very first stages of what was an entirely new agenda.
Parts of the book, indeed, marked a welcome, somewhat old-fashioned rest
from the new concerns that troubled me increasingly at that time. It is important not to read back too much of my later agenda into the years when
The World of Late Antiquity was conceived and written. What needs to be
stressed is that I had been led into a strange and troublingly unmanageable
world by one memorable book and by one crucial intellectual encounter.
The book, of course, was E.R. Dodds' Pagans and Christians in an Age of
Anxiety, which appeared in 1965, and of which I had already written a review
for the English Historical Review of 1968 (Dodds 1965, Brown 1968b). The
book came, in many ways, as a surprise to me. I had drawn gratefully, at
every stage of my work on Augustine, on Dodds' uncanny sympathy for the
thought of Plotinus and the late Platonic tradition, in both its darkest and its
most serene aspects (esp. Dodds 1947, i960). His The Greeks and the Irrational I regarded as a model of psychoanalytically sensitized history, of the
sort which I considered, at that time, to be essential to any examination of
the nature of religious change in any period of history (Dodds 1963). I admired, if from a shy distance, which Dodds' own unfailing courtesy to a
young person did not fully succeed in bridging, the resolute, almost impish
individualism of a fellow Protestant Irishman in an Oxford environment.
When Dodds gave his Pagans and Christians (originally delivered as the Wiles
Lectures at Belfast) as a course of special lectures at Oxford, it was possible to
glimpse for a moment, in this small man with his protruding, bald head and
silvery, almost disembodied voice, what a late antique pagan might have
seenthat in his serene detachment, the wise man had already, indeed, become a god.
But it was just that which jarred on me in Dodds' book. To put it briefly:
after they had passed beneath his searching, psychoanalytic gaze, the persons
whom we met in The Age of Anxiety were left so isolated from each other, so
alienated from the world around them, so indifferent to the future that it was
quite impossible for the medievalist in me to recognize in them the same persons whom I knew to have been the reformers of empires, the leaders of
churches, the founders of institutions that would endure for millennia
throughout Europe and the Middle East. And when Dodds went on, to cite
with approval the dictum of Festugire, that "misery and mysticism are related phenomena", and to appeal to the Social and Economic History of
Rostovtzeff in support of his contention that
For a world so impoverished intellectually, so insecure materially, so
filled with fear and hatred as the world of the third century, any path
19
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20
ligious ideas and of their meaning and function in the late antique period,
without committing so many gross psychological and sociological faux pas
in blunt English, so many methodological "howlers".
Indeed, I thought that I could. For in late December 1967,1 had a long tea
with Mary Douglas at the Commonwealth Club in London. That first, decisive encounter with Mary Douglas occurred because I had received an invitation from the Association of Social Anthropologists to present a paper at
their annual meeting for 1968, to be held in honor of E. Evans-Pritchard and
devoted to the theme of Witchcraft Confessions and Accusations. I had originally been asked to write on some aspect of the thought of Augustine on evil
and freewill. A reading of Evans-Pritchard s Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic
among theAzande and of Mary Douglas' own Purity and Danger had already
tipped the balance of my interest towards a more strictly social account of
late Roman sorceryan account that relied heavily on my notions of social
fluidity in the upper reaches of Roman society. I now saw the religious implications of aspects ofthat fluidity in a new light, thanks to the anthropological insights with which I had just become acquainted.1* It is worth noting
that it was my friend Paul Hyams, a student of medieval English law, who
first brought Purity and Danger to my attention. Such works did not circulate
among ancient historians; but they already spoke directly to those who studied the small, face-to-face societies that had always been the delight of
English historians of medieval law and government.
From that formidable, long tea and from so many later contacts (for instance, I read the manuscript of her Natural SymboL before it appeared in
1970) (Douglas 1970), I learned from Mary Douglas that I must be prepared
to be heroically consequential. Religious statements could not be understood
without reference to the structure of the society in which they occurred.
They were tightly-encoded messages that regulated social interaction. They
reflected social structures by the manner in which they determined forms of
personal interchange, as much with gods as with men, and regulated, with a
silent but firm hand, the possibilities of action on every level, including the
seemingly intimate options of isolated individuals, such as the ability to
speak with a god in dreams, to command a demon, to emerge as a new person from a transforming ritual.
I never totally succumbed to Mary Douglas' demand for utter consequentiality. It always seemed to me that something was lost in the lightning speed
with which she would make connections between ritual, social structure and
possible varieties of religious experience in the charmed bell-jar of her rigorously neo-Durkheimian vision of society. I notice, with a certain shame, how
14
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little of my debt to her appears in the footnotes of my work after 1970. But
what I took from her at the time was the thrill of finally having found a way
to overcome the dualism between text and context that had haunted the
study of religion and society in the ancient and medieval worlds. If, in some
sense, varieties of religious experience also reflected, in an intimate if studiously unverbalized manner, varieties of social experience, then the persons
known to us through the agonized and triumphant texts to which Dodds
and Festugire had directed our attention, could be assumed to carry with
them, in the texts themselves, clues as to the social context in which they
moved. Likewise, what we had come to know of the social conditions of the
post-Antonine Roman world needed no longer to be treated as a distant
"background" to religious change, of significance only when some mighty
crash stirred sensitive souls to flight from reason and the world. A more daringly holistic vision of the age might dare to entertain the notion of the constant presence of the social order in the religious world itself, as a mute reflection of fluctuating social structures, some rigid, some increasingly fluid,
that characterized Roman society as a whole, as that society developed, without notable catastrophe, from the age of Marcus Aurelius to that of Justinian.
If that was so, then it was possible to write about as massive and as decisive
a change as the transformation of late classical paganism and the rise of
Christianity without disquiet and without shrill value-judgements, in the
same way as it was possible to follow, without undue foreboding, the slow
emergence, across the Mediterranean and the Middle East, of post-classical
forms of government, of social relations, of urban life and of profane culture.
It would be possible, in fact, to write The World of Late Antiquity.
It is the nature of every book, and most especially of a work of synthesis
such as The World of Late Antiquity, that it should bear the irrevocable imprint not only of the enthusiasms but of the limitations of a specific time and
place. I have outlined the processes that led to its writing in some detail, precisely so that a modern reader should not be tempted to read back into its
pages knowledge and interests which I did not possess, indeed, could not
have imagined, when I wrote it. It is unmistakably a book of the late 1960s. It
reflects with gratitude how far the scholarly tradition on which I chose to
draw had come by that timeso far and no further. We were all, indeed, a
full quarter of a century away from 1997.
My fellow-contributors to this SO Debateso many of whom inspired
me at the time and have continued to do so ever sincewill have their own
opinions as to what has happened in that quarter of a century. So as "to set
the ball rolling", as the English say, let me itemize, very briefly, three principal points on which I myself consider that The World of Late Antiquity falls
short of what a synthesis written in 1997 might offer.
22
First: Despite the range of its horizons, the geographical focus of the book
strikes me now as having been too narrow. My decision to place so strong an
emphasis on the distinction between the Mediterranean and non-Mediterranean regions of the empire mirrored, only too faithfully, the hcunae of
late Roman scholarship at that time. It was the survival of the civilian elites
and the religious ferment of the Mediterranean cities and their immediate
hinterlands that concerned us most. We ourselves, and not, perhaps, the
Romans ofthat time, are the ones who should be blamed for having turned
our backs on the North. By effectively excluding the Germans from any role
whatsoever in the social and cultural evolution of the post-imperial West,
Henri Pirenne had given us permission to do so. His perspective was confirmed by the brilliant, Marxist studies of E.A. Thompson. Thompson
stressed throughout the fragility of the northern tribes, the height of the social and economic threshold which they crossed when entering the empire,
and, hence, the ease with which their leaders were assimilated into the solid
structures of landowning around the Mediterranean.1'
What many of us had not discovered, at that time, were the cultural and
social implications of the limes, of the regions adjacent to the Roman frontier. We were less aware than we have now become, of the manner in which
the frontier (on both its Roman and non-Roman sides) had come to form a
distinctive social and cultural unit. It was through the formation of an extensive "Middle Ground" (to use a term that has recently been generated by
studies of the American frontier in the colonial period) (White 1991), and not
through a dialogue between North and Southa dialogue in which the
Mediterranean could be assumed to have invariably held the upper hand
that some of the crucial features of the early medieval West emerged.
I myself have tried to remedy this Ucuna in my recent book, The Rise of
Western Christendom (Brown 1996). It is my amende honorable to the West,
the Cinderella of my narrative in The World of Late Antiquity. But it is not
only the history of the West that is affected by these considerations. Though
hotly debated, Whittakers book on The Frontiers of the Roman Empire has
shown that it is essential to recapture the distinctive human geography of regions far from the Mediterranean.16 From the "Celtic Mediterranean", the
North Britain, Wales and Ireland of the time of Saint Patrick, through the
northern Gaul and the Rhineland of Clovis, to Nubia and the extensive networks of the Banu Lakhm and the Banu Ghassan, these areas have come to
deserve our close attention.1? As Garth Fowden has shown, in his Empire to
15 See esp. Thompson 1956, 1963a, and 1966.
16
Whittaker 1994; see Carri 1995a.
17
Brown 1996, 76-92; Whittaker 1994, 192-278; Anderson 1995; Trk 1989; Shahid 1995.
23
SO DEBATE
Commonwealth, it is the proliferation of Christian kingdoms and Christianized regions on the peripheries of the eastern Roman empire which marks
the difference between the monolithically universal empire of Constantine
and Constantius II and the more loose-knit "Monophysite Commonwealth"
of the late sixth century. Along the "Mountain Arena" of the Middle East,
from Armenia to Yemen and Ethiopia, and in the steppelands of the Fertile
Crescenta long way from the Mediterraneanwe can sense a change in
the pace of empire, through the taking on of quasi-imperial status by so
many Monophysite regions, that is quite as significant, if less blatant and well
known, as that which occurred, at the same time, in the "barbarian" West
(Fowden 1993).
Secondly: My notion of "late antiquity", in the late 1960s, dispensed, prematurely, with the Roman state. It is easy to understand why this was so. The
scholarship of the 1960s had shown that the later Roman empire was not the
totalitarian monster that we had thought it to have been.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.18
It was not like that at all. The sense of having cleared up a major historical
misconception gave me the freedom, in the 1970s and 1980s, to pursue
themes of religious and social history with little reference to imperial structures. The empire had become a distant presence when I set about a series of
studies which revelled, as only a former medievalist could revel, in the role of
religion in small, face-to-face communities as far apart as Anatolia, Syria and
Gaul. By the time that I began to write on Power and Persuasion in Late
Antiquity I realized that I had been wrong.1?
I had installed in the back of my mind the principal assumption of Henri
Pirenne, that a defining feature of late antiquity had been the capacity of a
sub-Roman style of life to continue long after the political superstructure of
the Roman empire had disappeared. The relative independence of social life
from its political framework was a comfortable belief, characteristic of a great
cosmopolitan bourgeois such as Pirenne. But I now consider that Pirenne had
misled me. Recent studies, from all directions, if with widely differing degrees of measure or exaggeration, have brought the late Roman state back
into the heart of late Roman society.20
18
W.H. Auden, "The Fall of Rome"; see Bowersock 1995b and 1996.
19 Brown 1992, with the literature in the notes to pp. 17-19.
20
See esp. Wickham 1984 and 1988; Durliat 1990; Haldon 1993.
24
Potter 1990; Strobel 1993; Lavagne 1994; Feissel and Gascou 1995.
25
SO DEBATE
manlike manner, to follow the implications, on every level, of the one, crucial change associated with late antiquity: the emergence of monotheism in a
polytheist world.
Third: I now think that the model of social fluidity that I had adopted
with such zest was too narrow and assumed too simple a structure of late
Roman society to bear the weight that I had placed upon it. I have made
plain why I favored such a model in the 1960s and applied it so persistently
throughout The World of Late Antiquity. It is worthwhile to linger on some of
the aspects of late antiquity that this model excluded.
In the first place, I had adopted wholeheartedly a largely "instrumentalized" view of the secular culture of the late antique elites. I was content to
treat this culture as a badge of status and as a factor in the homogenization of
a newly-established governing class. In the second chapter of my Power and
Persuasion I have tried to take the paideia of late antiquity more seriously. It
carried a moral and quasi-legal weight of its own, as heavy and as penetrating
as the courtoisie of a medieval nobleman (Brown 1992, 35-70). When I dealt
with the moral grooming of the late classical elites in the 1960s, I could not
have imagined the recent explosion of interest in "techniques of the self",
which has come to be associated with the name of Michel Foucault.
I myself moved slowly in that direction. It was not until the end of the
1970s that my own work abandoned the largely "functional", even "instrumentalist", view of religion and culture of which The World of Late Antiquity
offered a foretaste. I can produce, if needs be, a valid methodological certificate to justify my change of view. By moving to America in 1978,1 found myself in an intellectual atmosphere very different from that of Britain, and was
brought into contact with very different problems and approaches.22 But,
looking back, I think that the change had much to do, simply, with growing
up. An intellectual style that had revelled in the cunning of small communities, as they drew on holy things and holy persons to solve their day-to-day
problems, gave way to greater interest in the quality of the love and loyalty
that such holy persons might inspire (whether living or in the grave) and, ultimately, to a concern with the hard labor on the self implied in the late antique Christian call to holiness. I came to know of Foucault's work on sexuality, and to know him personally, only after I had begun to plan The Body
and Society (Brown 1988a). The truly decisive influence, at that time, was a
figure whose work Foucault and I were of one mind in admiring deeply
Pierre Hadot. The rousing essay that gave the title to his book, Exercices spiritueh et philosophie antique (now available, with other papers, in English, as
Philosophy as a Way of Life), enabled me to feel for the first timeas his earli22 Brown 1983, 1015, offers a partial account of these changes.
26
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At the top of late Roman society, among the elites, I myself soon abandoned the theme which gave narrative coherence, even a sinister sense of drama, to my account of the eventual erosion of the classical tradition among
the scholar-gentry of East Rome.2' This view was based on too simple a
model of society and of the Christian culture of the time. For this reason, I
have come to appreciate the shift towards a more strictly "cognitive", discourse-oriented history of the last centuries of late antiquity, so ably advanced by Averil Cameron (Cameron 1991,1992). "Totalizing discourse" may
seem, to some, to be a somewhat airy term. But, as used by Averil Cameron,
the term does justice to our growing impression of the distinctive quality of
the later period of late antiquityespecially the sixth and seventh centuries.
Alas, we may yet have to coin the term sptere Sptantike to do justice to a decisive shift within the continuum of ancient Christianity itself. In The World
of Late Antiquity, I had been particularly concerned to emphasize the elements of continuity that had linked features of the late antique world of the
fourth and fifth centuries to their distant roots in the classical, Roman past.
In so doing, I looked backwards, by calling into question the notion of the
"crisis of the third century". But, as Robert Markus has made plain for the
Latin West, it is quite as important to look forwardsto study the changes
that came about between the age of Augustine and that of Gregory the Great.
The processes that took place in those, later centuries of late antiquity
amounted to nothing less than "The End of Ancient Christianity" (Markus
1990). Similar changes happened also in the East. The re-grouping of the east
Roman cities around their bishop and their new shrines was only part of a
process, begun in the fifth century and continued far beyond the reign of
Justinian, by which an entire civilization came to be caught in the light but
tenacious net of Christian words.26 Taken together, the work of Walter
Goffart, in the West (Goffart 1988), and of Averil Cameron, in the East, seem
to have placed the ideological content of Christianity itself at the center of
late antiquity. The rise of Christianity, in their opinion, was the cause of a
cognitive revolution, of a re-naming of all ancient categories, that reached its
fulfillment in the sixth century, compared with which barbarian invasions
and the creaking of the late Roman state seem of merely secondary, quotidian importance.
I do not know if I would wish to follow such an approach through to its
more extreme conclusions. What I have found myself to have abandoned is
the tendency to privilege the Christian church in many of the developments
that characterize the late antique period. I no longer regard Christianity as
the principal agent in the diffusion of a more adaptable form of classical cul25
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