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Ad Lectum Lectorem.
Peroratio. |
To the Reader.
Conclusion. |
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Multa quidem, Lector candide, ardua, mirabilia, Daedaleis Labyrinthis obscuriora, per universam medicam materiam digressi, indagine, quos hucusque clarissimos habuit aetas nostra, naturae uberrimè luxuriantis, procellosum, latissimum, & scopulosum Oceanum ingressi, uix portum attingere potuerunt. Poterant & plura, sed nobis in vastissimâ rerum congerie, perpulchra solùm, utilia, & abdita describentibus, servare temperamentum quoddam, praestabilius visim est.
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Many indeed, kind reader, are the difficult and wondrous things—more obscure than the Daedalian labyrinths[1] In Greek mythology, the Labyrinth (Ancient Greek: λαβύρινθος, romanized: Labúrinthos) is an elaborate, confusing structure designed and built by the legendary artificer Daedalus for King Minos of Crete at Knossos. Its function was to hold the Minotaur, the monster eventually killed by the hero Theseus. Daedalus had so cunningly made the Labyrinth that he could barely escape it after he built it. —which, in our digression through the whole body of medical knowledge, we have pursued, following the investigations of those whom our age has thus far held to be most illustrious; having entered the stormy, boundless, and treacherous ocean of nature, luxuriant in her abundance, we scarcely managed to reach the harbor. More could have been achieved, indeed; but to us—who, amid the vast heap of things, chose to describe only what is most beautiful, useful, and hidden—it seemed more commendable to preserve a certain moderation.
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Non ambigo plurimos esse, qui postquam legerint, ea Timoniano dente incessant, uel etiam Vatiniano prosequantur odio, inuidi, alienae famae detractores, quorum virulento morsu conuulnerata plerumque exarescunt omnia. At hos instabiles faciamus missos, qui tam pertinaciter in calumniando stabiles sunt, ut in suâ instabilitate, & malignitate iam consenuerint; sunt enim huiusmodi amoenitatum rudes, hoc est medicarum auscultationum exortes, & limo, coenòque oblutescentes, totum diem, ludis, dictertÿs, facetiisque pertransigunt.
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I do not doubt that there are many who, after reading this, will assail it with Timonian bitterness,[2] Timon of Athens (Ancient Greek: Τίμων ὁ Ἀθηναῖος, romanized: Tímōn ho Athēnaîos, gen. Τίμωνος, Tímōnos) was a citizen of Athens whose reputation for misanthropy grew to legendary status. According to the historian Plutarch, Timon lived during the era of the Peloponnesian War (431–404 BCE). or even pursue it with Vatinian hatred[3] Politically motivated malice, as evinced in the animosity between Publius Vatinius and Cicero. Vatinius was a Roman politician during the last decades of the Republic. He served as a Caesarian-allied plebeian tribune in the year 59 – he was the tribune that proposed the law giving Caesar his Gallic command – and later fought on that side of the civil war. Caesar made him consul in 47 BCE; he later fought in Illyricum for the Caesarians and celebrated a triumph for his victories there in 42 BCE. —envious men, slanderers of others’ reputations—by whose venomous bite all things, once wounded, so often wither away. But let us dismiss these fickle men, who are so steadfast in their slandering that they have grown old in their own inconstancy and malice. For they are ignorant of such delights—that is, they are strangers to the attentive study of medical matters—and, wallowing in mud and mire, they pass the entire day in games, quips, and idle witticisms.
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Nos contrà soli litterarum studio addicti, non fucatam, non palliatam, sed praeclaram Medicinae Scientiam affectamus, ex quâ, velut ex equo Troiano, innumera prodit sapientium Medicorum caterva, & veterum more omne scriptorum genus excutimus: maximè cùm in eorum lectione, omnium ferè parcamus famae: nec enim infectam cruore gloriolam captamus semper, aut Satyram condimus.
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We, on the other hand, committed solely to the study of learning, do not chase after a showy or veiled semblance of Medical Science, but earnestly strive for its noble and resplendent truth—from which, as from the Trojan horse, an innumerable host of wise physicians emerges. And in the manner of the ancients, we examine every kind of writing, especially since in our reading we spare the reputation of nearly all; for we do not constantly chase after petty glory stained with blood, nor do we write satires.
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Quod reliquum est, si quae è speculationum altitudine tibi dantur feriae, peruelim altero saltem oculo haec respicias quandoque, sed ita, ut ne virgulae Aristarchi parcendum censeas, ut tantâ commonitus censurâ stylum vertere condiscam, scripturus mox quae cedro digna sint, lemniscòque ornentur. Hoc nil facere gratius poteris, nec quod grauissimo ingenio tuo ampliùs congruat, & hoc nomine gratias tibi testatura posteritas est: sicut enim ex attritu ferri, & filicis elicitur ignis, sic ex mutuâ disceptatione in Democriti puteo delitescens eruitur veritas. Si verò è litterarum penu quicquam fuerit depromptum, quo te vicissim promereamur; tuo voto nostra accrescent praesidia: nam infoelicis ingenÿ arbitror, non se publico natum bono credere.
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Finally, if from the heights of your speculations you are granted any moments of leisure, I would very much like you, at least with one eye, to look upon these writings from time to time—but in such a way that you do not think the critical rod of Aristarchus[4] Aristarchus of Samothrace (Ancient Greek: Ἀρίσταρχος ὁ Σαμόθραξ Aristarchos o Samothrax; ca. 220 – ca. 143 BCE) was an ancient Greek grammarian, noted as the most influential of all scholars of Homeric poetry. He was the head librarian of the Library of Alexandria and seems to have succeeded his teacher Aristophanes of Byzantium in that role. Besides his poems and other works, he is known for his modification of the the system of the ancient Greek textual signs (semeia). From some point on these signs were called Aristarchian symbols. The historical connection of his name to literary criticism has created the term aristarch for someone who is a judgmental critic. should be spared, so that, prompted by such a review, I might learn to improve my style, and soon compose works worthy of preservation and adorned with the garland of honor. You could do nothing more gracious than this, nor anything more suited to your most serious intellect, and for this reason posterity will offer you thanks. For just as fire is drawn from the striking of iron and flint, so too is truth—hidden in Democritus’ well[5] The imagery arises from a translation of an aphorism of the philosopher Democritus, “Of truth we know nothing, for truth is in a well”. (Greek: ἐτεῇ δὲ οὐδὲν ἴδμεν: ἐν βυθῷ γὰρ ἡ ἀλήθεια, eteêi dè oudèn ídmen: en buthô gàr hē alḗtheia, [literally] “in reality we know nothing; for the truth is in an abyss”.) —extracted through mutual debate. But if anything at all has been drawn from the storehouse of letters by which we might in turn prove worthy of you, then our resources will grow according to your wishes—for I regard it as a mark of an unfortunate mind to believe that it was not born for the public good.
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Haec nimirum est ad aeternam gloriam via. Hac in primis ratione Deum induimus, dum illius quà possumus, & fas est, exuperantem imitamur liberalitatem.
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This, assuredly, is the way to eternal glory—following this principle above all—we imitate God themself by modeling our conduct on Their surpassing generosity as much as we are capable and as is permitted.[6] This is the principle of Imitatio Dei, a precept central to Judaism and Christianity.
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Duo me solantur solùm, & quòd in arduis sat est voluntas sola, & quòd in his exemplis delineandis nihil finxi, mutaui, falsò addidi, sed tantùm historie veritatem, sine fuco, & fallacÿs expositam, ut meis oculis accidisse vidi, syncerè, sicut bonum virum decet, Deum timentem, & publicae utilitatis amantissimum, proposui.
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Two things alone console me: first, that in difficult endeavors, will alone is sufficient; and second, that in depicting these examples I have neither invented, altered, nor falsely added anything, but have presented only the truth of history—unpainted and without deceit—just as I saw it happen with my own eyes, sincerely, as befits a good man, one who fears God and is most devoted to the public good.
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Nec obtrudas quòd in quibusdam recitandis extra observationis modum sim aliquando longiusculus; nam praeterquam quòd illustrium vivorum auctoritas, quâ ornantur, in causâ fuit, vnde celebrem doctrinam, haudquaquam ex triuio haurire poteris, etiam nos coëgit affectûs, de quo sermo est, obscurissimi nodus implicitus, & à Iuniorum paucissimis dissolutus, pro cuius explicatione saepe pluribus opus est machinis. Sed ne ego dum breuitatem praefero, sim prolixior, Valeas, opto, qui legeris, livore deposito.
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Nor should you object if, in recounting certain cases, I may at times be somewhat long-winded beyond the bounds of observation; for beyond the fact that they are adorned with the authority of illustrious men—which alone justifies their inclusion—you will find that such celebrated doctrine is not to be drawn from the common thoroughfare. Even we were compelled by the complexity of the condition under discussion—an obscure and tangled knot, unraveled by only a few among the younger generation—for the explanation of which, many tools are often required. But lest I, while preferring brevity, become too long-winded—farewell, dear reader, I wish you well, setting aside your bitterness.
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Pro coronide praestabo summas gratias Immenso Deo, omnium honorum uberrimo largitori, cuius ope & auxilio, hoc opus inchoatum, ad extremum fastidium deductum. Quare gratitudinis, & obseruantiae ergò laudes in aeternum canam Patri Pientissimo, Misericordi Regi Saeculorum invisibili, Immortali, Soli Sapienti, Excelso veritatis tutori, admirabili Seruatori, Sacrosancto Archiatro, in quo omnis medela reposita est, cui sit honor, & gloria in Saeculorum saecula aeterna. Amen.
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As a final seal, I offer the highest thanks to the Infinite God, the most bountiful giver of all honors, by whose help and assistance this work, once begun, has been brought to its most tedious conclusion. Therefore, in gratitude and reverence, I shall sing eternal praises to the Most Loving Father, the Merciful King of the Ages, Invisible One, Immortal One, the Only Wise One, the Exalted Guardian of Truth, the Wondrous Savior, the Most Holy Chief Physician, in whom all healing is contained. To Them be honor and glory throughout the ages eternally. Amen.
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This prayer concludes the second volume of the late Renaissance medical tome Opera Omnia by Abraham Zacutus Lusitanus (Abraham Zacuto Ⅳ), published posthumously in 1644. The prayer appears at the very end of a concluding statement addressed to the Reader (on pages 147-148 of a section appended to the second volume). While the prayer itself is short, I think it is crucial to read it in the context of the entire statement and of his life as both a physician and a “New Christian,” i.e., a Portuguese-Jewish converso, ever vulnerable to the attention of the Inquisition or from others who might profit or take petty pleasure in his downfall. Very well respected in his lifetime, little is documented of Zacuto’s professional life in Lisbon — almost the entirety of his writings were published in the last decade of his life after he had fled to Amsterdam.
The prayer is referenced by Fred Rosner on page 136 in his chapter, “The Physicians’ Prayer Attributed to Moses Maimonides” in Medicine in the Bible and the Talmud (1977) while paraphrasing a remark by Dr. Immanuel Jakobovitz, chief rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the British Empire in Jewish Medical Ethics (1959), p.15-17, who “emphasized the ethical and moral responsibilities of the physician as a divine agent in the alleviation of human suffering. Deeply pious and moving prayers of gratitude for divine help, such as those of Asaph, Judah Halevy, Jacob Zahalon, and Abraham Zacutus, as well as the Physician’s Prayer attributed to Maimonides, says Jakobovits, all recognize God as the ultimate healer of disease, while also asserting “the indispensable part played by the physician, his art and his medicines” in the preservation of health.” For Abraham Zacutus, Rosner (in superscript) points to a section on Zacuto in Harry Friedenwald’s collection of essays, The Jews and Medicine vol. 1 (1944), p. 315, where Friedenwald writes, “The [second] volume [of Zacuto’s Opera Omnia] ends with a deeply pious and moving prayer of gratitude for Divine help,—just as the book of precepts mentioned above, opens with Precept I: “The physician should be a faithful worshipper of Divine Majesty’; yet in discussing objectively a medical problem he adds: “for we are physicians and not theologians!”’ (Opera Omnia vol. I. p. 753.).”
In digitally transcribing and translating this work into English, I am unaware of the text or its translation ever having been published anywhere.–Aharon Varady
Source(s)
Notes
| 1 | In Greek mythology, the Labyrinth (Ancient Greek: λαβύρινθος, romanized: Labúrinthos) is an elaborate, confusing structure designed and built by the legendary artificer Daedalus for King Minos of Crete at Knossos. Its function was to hold the Minotaur, the monster eventually killed by the hero Theseus. Daedalus had so cunningly made the Labyrinth that he could barely escape it after he built it. |
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| 2 | Timon of Athens (Ancient Greek: Τίμων ὁ Ἀθηναῖος, romanized: Tímōn ho Athēnaîos, gen. Τίμωνος, Tímōnos) was a citizen of Athens whose reputation for misanthropy grew to legendary status. According to the historian Plutarch, Timon lived during the era of the Peloponnesian War (431–404 BCE). |
| 3 | Politically motivated malice, as evinced in the animosity between Publius Vatinius and Cicero. Vatinius was a Roman politician during the last decades of the Republic. He served as a Caesarian-allied plebeian tribune in the year 59 – he was the tribune that proposed the law giving Caesar his Gallic command – and later fought on that side of the civil war. Caesar made him consul in 47 BCE; he later fought in Illyricum for the Caesarians and celebrated a triumph for his victories there in 42 BCE. |
| 4 | Aristarchus of Samothrace (Ancient Greek: Ἀρίσταρχος ὁ Σαμόθραξ Aristarchos o Samothrax; ca. 220 – ca. 143 BCE) was an ancient Greek grammarian, noted as the most influential of all scholars of Homeric poetry. He was the head librarian of the Library of Alexandria and seems to have succeeded his teacher Aristophanes of Byzantium in that role. Besides his poems and other works, he is known for his modification of the the system of the ancient Greek textual signs (semeia). From some point on these signs were called Aristarchian symbols. The historical connection of his name to literary criticism has created the term aristarch for someone who is a judgmental critic. |
| 5 | The imagery arises from a translation of an aphorism of the philosopher Democritus, “Of truth we know nothing, for truth is in a well”. (Greek: ἐτεῇ δὲ οὐδὲν ἴδμεν: ἐν βυθῷ γὰρ ἡ ἀλήθεια, eteêi dè oudèn ídmen: en buthô gàr hē alḗtheia, [literally] “in reality we know nothing; for the truth is in an abyss”.) |
| 6 | This is the principle of Imitatio Dei, a precept central to Judaism and Christianity. |
