Book Note I Heroic Bodies in Ancient Israel

Brian R. Doak. Heroic Bodies in Ancient Israel. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019.

Over the past three decades, the body has come increasingly into focus in biblical studies, providing a material dimension to interpretations of biblical texts. Brian Doak’s Heroic Bodies in Ancient Israel contributes a new angle to this illuminating trend. Doak contends that the Hebrew Bible—specifically, the history of Israel narrated from Genesis to 2 Samuel—focuses on the heroic body to an extent unmatched elsewhere in the literature of the ancient Near East and Mediterranean (except perhaps by The Iliad and The Odyssey). Doak’s main thesis is that heroic bodies in the Hebrew Bible express the national story of Israel, primarily through what he calls “bodily determinism” or “narrative physiognomy” (xii). In his view, descriptions of heroic bodies reveal something about those bodies’ future and, by extension, the future of the nation.

In Chapter One, Doak defines the “hero” as a character who functions at the intersection of three categories: warrior, king/ leader, and founding figure. He acknowledges that only Saul and David occupy all three of these categories, but argues that others, such as Jacob, Ehud, and Samson provide additional “heroic-bodily moments” that illuminate a broader relationship between the hero and the nation (23-26). Doak sets up a comparative (and primarily literary) approach, engaging both ancient Near Eastern and Greek materials, while also using studies of gender and disability that have been prominent foci in biblical scholarship on the body.

Chapter Two presents a case study of Jacob, a founding figure intimately associated with the nation. The main features of Jacob’s body are his hairlessness and his disabling wound. His twin, Esau, has contrasting hairiness, highlighted at birth (Gen 25:24-26), which Doak interprets as a type of physiognomy: physical features that “express something permanent” about a character’s identity (40). Doak examines comparative materials, including the characterization of Enkidu in The Epic of Gilgamesh, to demonstrate that hairiness often bears an association with wildness and perhaps animality, including lack of foresight. By contrast, the word for “smooth” (ḥālāq), used to describe Jacob’s hairlessness, can indicate slipperiness in the sense of trickery. Later narratives bear out of these character traits about the brothers; Jacob behaves with more foresight than Esau, but also greater duplicitousness (Gen 25:27-34; 27:1-40). Jacob’s physical appearance is therefore ambiguous and is further complicated by the wound he receives when wrestling a mysterious figure in Genesis 32:25-33. Doak interprets the wound as heroic, showcasing the founding figure’s courage and endurance.

In Chapter Three, Doak delves further into themes of violence done to the body and the ambiguity of heroic bodies in his examination of the book of Judges. Judges, Doak observes, both begins and ends with dismemberment (1:1-7; 19:29) and is stuffed with episodes of bodily violence in-between, indicating the divided and vulnerable status of Israel in the pre-monarchic era (61).  Meanwhile, its heroic bodies are ambiguous: Ehud’s left-handedness, for example, typically an unfavorable trait, is an advantage in combat against the Moabite king Eglon (3:15-30). Samson’s long hair is equally multivalent (13:1-16:31), as it could indicate wildness (like Esau’s), Samson’s piety as a Nazirite, a military identity as suggested by Judges 5:2, or even Samson’s beauty (like Absalom’s: 1 Sam 14:25-26; 2 Sam 18:9). Doak concludes that such multifaceted heroic bodies in Judges are reflective of “a nascent group poised on the edge of various forms of political control and complete anarchy” (61). Ultimately, they are fallible precursors to bodies better suited to national unity: the bodies of kings.

Doak’s fourth chapter diverges from the biblical narrative to focus instead on material treatments of heroic bodies in a broader environment. In this process, Doak singles out the warrior aspect of the hero. Examining first the iconographic representations of divine and human warriors from ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and the Levant, Doak shows that an image of a warrior with a raised arm and in striking position is preeminent across all these areas (although examples primarily date to the Late Bronze Age and before; 115). Doak then turns to the archaeological evidence of warrior burials across the ancient Near East, which are defined by the presence of specific weapons (especially axes; this tradition, too, seems to drop off during the Late Bronze Age). Doak concludes that the heroic body was not just a literary feature of imagined heroic culture but also a lived experience (122). What that experience might be in Iron Age Israel, however, can only be conjecture, as there is little evidence of heroic male bodies in the iconographic record from this time.

Chapters Five and Six return to the biblical narrative. Here, Doak analyzes bodies in the Saul and David narratives, forming the strongest part of the book. Doak claims that the elaborate—if complex—bodily treatment Saul and David receive is a significant interpretive feature of their personal stories and, in turn, of the national body during their reigns. Saul’s tallness, for example, is a promising quality for a leader according to ancient Near Eastern tradition. Yet in the Hebrew Bible, excessive height can also indicate arrogance, even becoming monstrous if unchecked (c.f., Goliath). David is presented as quite the opposite; he is small (or young; qāṭān) and, unlike Saul or Goliath who rely on heavy armor for protection—“machine bodies,” as Doak has it—relies on his “nature body” (147). David’s beauty also seems fit for a ruler of Israel, as it places him within the genealogy of beautiful founding figures in Genesis (Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Joseph).

According to Doak, David also manipulates the bodies of others to secure the united “body” of the nation and his control over it. The most powerful example of this occurs after Saul’s death. 2 Samuel 21 relates how a famine ravaged the land—an occurrence that must have exacerbated the precarity of David’s kingship. Yet, as Doak demonstrates, David turns it into an opportunity to assert his authority over both the nation and the troublesome remains of Saul’s body. He retrieves Saul’s bones from where they had been buried in Gilead, an area loyal to Saul’s family, and reburies them in Saul’s ancestral land of Benjamin, not far from David’s capital in Jerusalem. Doak suggests that this episode is part of a Mediterranean koine of the hero cult. Several texts, including the Sophoclean Oedipus cycle, relate how the transfer of a hero’s bones to a city in need can bring that city good fortune. Finally, while Doak understands both David’s and Saul’s bodies to be heroic, he observes that they are heroic in complex and distinct ways. Rather than be stifled by this contradiction, however, he concludes that the conflicting representations of the hero-body are ultimately reflections of the biblical text’s ambivalence about kingship.

Heroic Bodies addresses a wide range of topics, including gender, hairiness, violence, size, and beauty, to name a few. It interrogates an embodied identity that has hitherto not been fully explored in the Hebrew Bible: that of the hero. Its comparative studies of ancient Near Eastern and especially of Greek material—often less familiar to the biblical scholar—provide valuable insights into a widespread heroic tradition. Heroic Bodies does not claim to be comprehensive, and yet I wonder if it might have benefitted from more discussion of why certain “heroes” were chosen over others. Joseph, for example, crops up in several chapters—and seems a clear candidate for consideration (founding figure, beautiful, bone transferal)—yet doesn’t fit Doak’s “warrior” model. Addressing potential alternative criteria for biblical heroes could strengthen the discussion of the topic. Interestingly, Doak gestures in this direction at the end of the book, noting, for instance, that the warrior-hero disappears after David, and suggesting that future studies could examine new types of heroes in other/later biblical traditions. I still question if other heroic standards might be applied to the traditions he is already examining. Doak’s gesture toward “more,” however, leads me to believe that his Heroic Bodies will open up multiple avenues of inquiry that will no doubt continue in coming years.

Rosanne Liebermann is the Friedman Postdoctoral Fellow in Jewish Studies at Washington University in St. Louis. Her Ph.D. is from Johns Hopkins University and she writes about the body and embodiment, prophecy, and gender in the Hebrew Bible.

AJR Conversations I The Bible and Margaret Atwood

AJR continues its #conversations series with a three-way dialogue on the 2020 Best Edited Collection on Atwood, awarded by the Margaret Atwood Society, “Who Knows What We’d Make of It, If We Ever Got Our Hands on It?” The Bible and Margaret Atwood (Gorgias Press, 2020)

Scott: Thank you, Rhiannon and Peter, for the opportunity to speak with you about this remarkable collection of essays. Congratulations on its success! It has rightfully garnered a good deal of attention and acclaim. Margaret Atwood herself has even tweeted enthusiastically about it. You assembled a terrific group of contributors who have offered readers a dynamic range of genuinely rich and refreshing reflections on biblical literature through Atwood’s fiction, poetry, interviews, criticism, and side ventures, and who have also eloquently engaged a sizable portion of Atwood’s oeuvre through the Bible.

Sarah Emanuel, one of your contributors and an editor at AJR, has asked us to have in this interview not only a conversation about the book and the relationship between the Bible and Atwood, but also to discuss the relationship between biblical studies and contemporary critical theory that the volume taps into so deftly. To that end, I want to begin with where you yourselves begin and end: Atwood’s canon. Your Introduction and Afterword identify in Atwood’s work a canon that is at once both somewhat stable and fixed, and yet also somewhat fluid and expanding. It is closed in the sense of recurring texts and tropes peppered throughout her work, while it remains open by means of both additions of previously unused biblical texts that appear in later publications (e.g., The Testaments) and in adaptations of familiar biblical texts throughout her bibliography. I can’t help but think about this in the light of what Rhiannon says regarding the Future Library in her essay, which she describes as a “project about imagination and time, one that riffs on questions of the archive, the library, and the canon” (398). I am interested in your thoughts on what (the) Bible is vis-a-vis both Atwood and this collection of essays. What’s the “it” we’ve gotten our hands on when all is said and done?

Peter: Thanks for the kind words, Scott. Margaret Atwood tweeting about the book was definitely a career highlight, haha. I would like to address your answer by making a rather obvious first comment: for Atwood, the Bible is the Christian Bible. I do not say this in a “religious” sense, but rather mean that the Christian Bible is Atwood’s default Bible. Raised as an atheist in what was a very Protestant Canada at the time, it is more specifically a Protestant Bible, although she does occasionally comment on Deuterocanonical books like Susanna and the Elders (as I discuss in my own essay in the volume). On a literary level, however, the Bible is a more slippery and complex work in Atwood’s work. Perhaps it is best described as an “incendiary device,” to use Atwood’s own words. It can be used as a prooftext for oppressive patriarchy but also as the very text that can inspire rebellion against patriarchy; it can inspire destructive environmental attitudes (as in Atwood’s imagined Church of PetrOleum) but also radically environmentalist ones (as in Atwood’s imagined group God’s Gardeners). 

Rhiannon: For us, it was also interesting as editors to see the “canon of Atwood” that emerged in response to Atwood’s canon. Margaret Atwood is an incredibly prolific author—she’s published 17 novels, 8 short story collections, 18 books of poetry, nonfiction, graphic novels, children’s books…in fact, this project was well underway when she announced The Testaments, which is why this novel appears only in our afterword and in Hannah Strømmen’s essay, even though it’s clearly biblical. And yet a few other works by Atwood appear again and again in the collection—the MaddAddam trilogy, The Handmaid’s Tale, Alias Grace. It seems like these works are especially “good to think with” for biblical scholars. (Of course, there are exceptions, like Sara Parks and Anna Cwikla’s essay, which focuses on Survival, Atwood’s nonfiction book about Canadian literature, and Sari Fein’s essay on Surfacing and the biblical midbar.) As biblically-saturated readers, we have a way of picking and choosing within Atwood’s works just as Atwood does with the Bible: certain stories and texts appear over and over. These include Adam and Eve, Jezebel, 1 Corinthians 13, and the Levite’s concubine.

Scott: Very nicely said. So, let me ask what I think is a related question: how does fiction particularly, but also “non-professional”/outsider/etic readings (and readers), fundamentally change the work, the effects, and the affects of biblical interpretation (and, by extension, our understanding what the Bible is)?

Rhiannon: Reception history has become such an important part of the discipline of biblical studies, which I think is wonderful. But at the same time, sometimes it seems as if reception history has become the only way to think about “the Bible and literature”—how do literary works receive and interpret the Bible, what biblical allusions and tropes can we uncover, how much does the literary “deviate” from the “original.” One thing I love about the essays in our book is the way that they insist that engagements between “the Bible” and “literature” can do so much more. Recalling again Offred’s description of the Bible as an incendiary device, Atwood’s works are also a kind of incendiary device, blowing open our possibilities for biblical interpretation. Ken Stone and Jennifer Koosed, for example, each use Atwood’s books to rethink animality and religion, but they do so in very different ways. Sean Burt uses Atwood’s poetry to rethink the thorny nexus of poetry, prophecy, and “Are the Prophets poets?”. And in my essay, I offer a new reading of the writing hand in Daniel 6 based on one of Atwood’s extra-literary inventions: the LongPen, a machine that can write at a distance.

Peter: Jorge Luis Borges describes the Bible as a “mirror of every face that bends over it.” Reception history, accordingly, is a hall of mirrors—and this fits well with Atwood’s own fascination with mirrors and eyes (Jay Twomey’s essay focuses on mirrors and doubles in Atwood). It is no coincidence that Atwood’s own biblical canon is especially focused on female biblical characters and feminist concerns and, moreover, that she persistently uses puns and humor to explore the biblical text. Some of my favorites are Offred’s remark that “there is a bomb in Gilead” or Atwood’s musing that the victim that the Good Samaritan helps robs the Samaritan in the morning, thereby showing no appreciation and repaying kindness with animosity and betrayal. So, I do indeed agree that “non-professional” outsider readings like those of Atwood’s change the effects and affects of biblical interpretation. In Atwood’s hands, for example, the Bible can be something that is laughed at and with, and laughter is not something with which biblical scholarship typically concerns itself.

Scott: I really like your responses here. The “hall of mirrors” analogy is well-suited not only to what both of you are saying but also to a number of the essays in the volume. In addition to Twomey’s chapter and your chapter, Peter, I’m thinking in various ways of those by Strømmen, Walsh, Seesengood, Burt, and Emanuel. This notion that the Bible and various receptions of it reflect back to and on one another in a never-ending reverberation would seem to highlight, if not actually reanimate, the innate fluidity of the biblical writings that is so easily overlooked when the Bible comes to us as a bound book. This is precisely one of the reasons why I often use fiction in my courses. (I’m using The Handmaid’s Tale this semester, in fact, alongside The Parable of the Sower, and assigning Minister’s essay from your volume.) So, on the one hand, the Bible is as the Bible does, and “Bible” is never stable but rather dynamic, repeatedly taking shape anew in the complex, dynamic interactions of innumerable readers. On the other hand, however, there is this theme of writing as sinful in the MaddAddam Trilogy (which Walsh notes in his essay) and in The Handmaid’s Tale (which also refers to reading as sinful). Are these prohibitions themselves biblical in some way, and does the violation of them embody something akin to Jacob wrestling with God at Peniel? Or are they a reflection of Atwood’s (and perhaps our own awareness) of the dangers of writing and reading? What exactly is the “sin,” violation, trespass, or danger of writing and reading?

Rhiannon: The dangers of reading and writing are such an Atwoodian theme! In addition to the novels that you mention (and The Blind Assassin, which is one of my favorites!), this is a major theme in Negotiating with the Dead, Atwood’s series of nonfiction essays on the craft of writing. Atwood loves to play with the idea of the “other hand,” which is so often a writing hand (but what is it writing?). I’d agree with you that these are really biblical concerns as well—especially, I think, in the prophetic literature, where there are all kinds of themes about writing and failing to understand and even, in the case of Ezekiel, literally eating words written on a scroll.

Peter: I am not sure to what extent Atwood is explicitly playing with the Bible in her writing on writing. Certainly, however, there is a connection in that both the biblical text and Atwood’s writings have complex and nuanced relationships with the medium of writing. In The Year of The Flood, for example, the God’s Gardeners memorize biblical verses and phrases so as not to rely on written texts, reasoning that books can be burned and computers can be destroyed. This reverses the idea that writing is more permanent than speech and memory. And yet, one is reading about all of this in a book! Moreover, the God’s Gardeners use the Bible as proof that material written texts do not endure while spiritual things do—so, again, the written word is used as proof that writing is an inferior medium. That Atwood and the Bible continually play with themes like this reveals how conscious they are of the benefits and pitfalls of the medium in which they are presenting themselves.

Scott: I find this all just so incredibly fascinating. Can you say more about Atwood’s insistence that she does not write science fiction but rather speculative fiction? To be sure, she and various contributors to the volume have adequately explained what she means by the distinction. But what are your thoughts on this idea of speculative fiction as opposed to science fiction? Do you think biblical scholarship itself might benefit from more speculation, more fiction? Even wild, unbridled speculation and fiction? It seems to me an intriguing prospect and yet one that’s also fraught given what we’ve seen in the States over the past four years.

Rhiannon: I would love for biblical scholarship to open itself to more speculative ways of reading—and especially to more fiction! For me at least, fiction—as a framing device, a counterpoint, even a mode of interpretation—helps me read the Bible in new ways. To connect to another part of my work, I just finished writing a book called Texts after Terror (OUP, 2021), which is about rape and the Bible, and Atwood ended up being a part of it as well. In rereading The Handmaid’s Tale for this project with Peter, I found myself stuck on a scene fairly early in the novel, when Offred is describing “the Ceremony” in which the Commander rapes her, in a scene modeled on Genesis 30, the rapes of Bilhah and Zilpah. At least, that’s how I remembered that scene—but in the novel, Offred actually states explicitly that the Ceremony, however terrible, isn’t rape. She then adds, “I didn’t have a lot of choice, but I had some, and this is what I chose.” This is a really troubling statement from the perspective of feminist reading of sexual violence—there’s such a strong and compelling desire to identify the sexual violence in Genesis, and the treatment of the “handmaids” (or slaves) in particular, as rape, just like there’s such a strong and compelling desire to describe what happens to Offred as rape. But what happens when the person at the center of the experience pushes back against this description? The Handmaid’s Tale isn’t the only text to give us such a situation; there’s a lot of work in feminist psychology, for example, that offers similar examples, as well as writings by survivors. But I found Atwood’s representation of the scene especially hard to shake, and it led me to rethink how I was framing my entire book. Atwood is a great example of a writer who can make us rethink the Bible and biblical studies—but she’s far from the only one. For me, Joanna Russ, Carmen Machado, and Anne Carson all do this; so does Tolstoy, in The Kreutzer Sonata, in a really different way. And I love reading and hearing about how other people in the Bible approach the biblical texts with and through literature.

Peter: There are so many ways to address this question, and I’d like to pursue them all; however, I’ll try to refrain myself from offering a ten-page response. When it comes to the debate about whether Atwood’s work is speculative fiction or science fiction, I have no strong opinion. I would say, however, that Atwood’s insistence that her work is speculative fiction is revealing in that she wants her readers to know that the events of her dystopias are not invented but rather everything is based upon something that has already happened. Thus, works like The Handmaid’s Tale are, in a very real sense, fictionalized history.

And speaking of fictionalized history leads me to address the benefits of fiction in general. In my opinion, what we’ve seen in the States over the last four years (and more) reveals why we need fiction more than ever. The best way to understand “fake news,” I would assert, is to know how rhetoric, fiction, and falsity work. There is a lack of fictional literacy, if you will, in American society that results in people unable to make sense of the complexity of the world. It is not necessarily a case, then, of knowing what the “truth” is but of knowing how to navigate through the information with which we are constantly bombarded. In fact, I have presented a few conference papers on this issue (perhaps one day I’ll actually publish this material), arguing for the need to emphasize fiction’s role in the war against “fake news” (for fiction itself is a type of “fake news”). So, to actually answer your question, would biblical scholarship benefit from more speculative, even unbridled, fiction? Yes, definitely, and to a much greater extent than it is currently doing!

To draw all this back to Atwood, I would point out that Atwood admits that she wrote The Testaments in reaction to Trump’s presidency and thus deals with these issues throughout the book. On the surface, she offers a rather optimistic vision of how those committed to uncovering truth will ultimately prevail, citing Qohelet as evidence of this: “A bird of the air shall carry the voice and that which hath wings shall tell the matter” (Qoh. 10:20). It is ambiguous though, as to whether Atwood is aware of the larger context of the verse which warns that even confidential and secret thoughts might become known to those in power who could exploit them for their own purposes. In other words, it is ambiguous as to whether The Testaments is a book of hope or a book of despair—and in this sense it is a perfect book for our times.

Scott: Thank you both so very much for your time and for all this “bonus content.” Your remarks leave us a lot to consider. I’m looking forward to seeing how these reflections and those of your contributors ripple through the often placid (sometimes stagnant) waters of our discipline.

Scott S. Elliott is Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy, Religion, and Leadership and Director of the Women's and Gender Studies Program at Adrian College in Adrian, MI. He is the author of The Rustle of Paul: Autobiographical Narratives in Romans, Corinthians, and Philippians (T&T Clark, 2020) and co-editor with K. Jason Coker of Bible and Theory: Essays in Biblical Interpretation in Honor of Stephen D. Moore (Lexington Books, 2020).

Rhiannon Graybill is Associate Professor of Religious Studies and W.J. Millard Professor of Religion at Rhodes College in Memphis, TN. She is the author of Are We Not Men?: Unstable Masculinity in the Hebrew Prophets (Oxford, 2016) and Texts after Terror: Rape, Sexual Violence, and the Hebrew Bible (Oxford, 2021).

Peter J. Sabo is Belzberg Lecturer of Jewish Studies at the University of Alberta (Edmonton, Canada). He is co-editor of Tzedek, Tzedek Tirdof: Poetry, Prophecy, and Justice in Hebrew Scripture (2017). 

Book Note I Bestiarium Judaicum: Unnatural Histories of the Jews

Jay Geller, Bestiarium Judaicum: Unnatural Histories of the Jews (New York: Fordham University Press, 2018)

In recent years, a growing interest with critical animal studies has challenged fields to reflect upon anthropocentric arguments and assumptions based on the Cartesian human-animal hierarchy. Bestiarium Judaicum is Jay Geller’s response to this challenge. Geller splices his academic interest on Jewish identity and embodiment with the question of the animal, or more precisely, “the Jew and the animal” (7). Working with the perspectives of Jacques Derrida and animal studies’ proponents such as Mel Chen, Donna Haraway, Kelly Oliver, and Cary Wolfe, Geller interrogates the presence of more-than-humans (a politically correct umbrella term for animals, plants, and inanimate entities) in texts produced by German-Jewish authors who wrote during what he calls the “the Era of the Jewish Question,” which is roughly from 1750 to the Shoah (5).

The animalization of Jews or, as Geller calls it, “Jew-Animal,” during this period is not just a one-off canard or ethnic banter meant to tease or ridicule. Rather, it responded to a “collapse of the religious and the lineage/corporate (estate, guild, and so on) narratives of value and meaning and of the institutions that sustained them amid the social destabilizations, geographic relocations, colonial expansions, economic destabilizations, and increasing bureacratizations that were also occurring” (5). As some Germans tried to build the walls of their identity markers, they found various Jewish groups’ (and other minoritized groups) concomitant goal to integrate to the national German identity disturbing and even repulsive. In order to invent their identity, the Germans had to have the “other.” They did so with animalizing rhetoric, in accordance with which the Jews are “disgust (worms), threats (beasts of prey), ridicule (apes, pigs, goats, parrots),” and other negative associations (47). The animalization of the Jews manifests a narcissistic lack stemming from Germany’s unstable national identity (47). Moreover, hate-filled bourgeois Germans were even concerned that such integration, based on the negative stereotype that the Jews are highly capable of mimicry, would deter their goal for “some form of pure völkisch identity” (117). Thus, they depicted Jews as animals, including apes, in an attempt to prevent Jews from assimilating into the German fold.

Re-reading German-Jewish authors through the lens of animal studies, Geller finds a counter discourse that disrupts this formula of human hierarchy and exceptionalism. These German-Jewish authors did not defend or justify their humanity by distancing themselves from more-than-humans. Rather, they wrote with more-than-humans, multiplying and destabilizing the taxonomic limitations imposed between Jew-Gentile/animal-human to format a “Jew-as-Animal.” As in Franz Kafka’s work, for example, Geller finds a proliferation of more-than-humans, sometimes even anthropomorphized. He understands this to reveal the constructed nature of Jew-Gentile/animal-human differences, substantiating the argument that identities are not essential (or given) but constructed (58). Such constructions are interpellations by the oppressive dominant force in Germany that tries to subjugate the Jews by animalizing their identity. The “as” of “Jew-as-Animal” both associates and dissociates Jews from/with animals, blurring ontologies by multiplying their relationality. These literatures expand the interpellation indefinitely as a way of exposing the debasing essentialist rhetoric present during that period (137). “Jew-as-Animal” denaturalizes the artificiality of Jew-Gentile, human-animal divide, by demonstrating through literature that “Jewishness does not exhaust one’s identification, nor does one’s identification exhaust the possibilities of Jewishness” (26).

We find examples of this reasoning throughout Geller’s analysis of the various animot, a Derridean neologism that questions the perceived lack of responsivity of more-than-humans. He reads it in the works of Franz Kafka (The Metamorphosis, Josephine the Singer, Two Animal Stories, and Red Peter from A Report to an Academy), Heinrich Heine (Travel Pictures and “Aus der Zopfzeit”), Felix Salten (Bambi), Salomon Maimon (An Autobiography), and Art Spiegelman (Maus: A Survivor’s Tale), to name a few. Geller reads Kafka’s Red Peter, for instance, not just as an ape. Kafka has Red Peter respond to his environs through representation, voice, and agency. Red Peter might be self-deluded, but such complexity of character makes Red Peter “more human.” Kafka’s intent, as perceived by Geller, is to bring the Jewish community out of objectification and animalization by interpellating with more-than-humans. Red Peter is the Jewish animot (137) who is identifiable and yet ungraspable, reproduced and yet different in every iteration.

Geller is realistic in his take on the “end game” of such deconstruction: “For Kafka, such a strategy would neither negate the demeaning identifications nor render them benign; nor would it lead to a reversal of the hierarchical power relations. But it might mitigate the murderous affect aroused by contact with the monstrous animal-object constructed by the dominant society’s own fears, hatreds, and identification practices as well as defer the deadly transformation of analogy into identity – to render the Jew as animal and therefore killable” (187). Here, Geller taps into Derrida’s discourse on “killable” in which the consumption of the other for food/survival is not the issue. Rather, the problem is when one perceives the other as “killable,” or the necro-politics in which the Other is only meant for death or dispensability.

Geller could have worked further on works beyond those of Kafka and Heine. Other authors are crammed in the last chapter and the Afterword. Even the discussion on the Shoah in the Afterword might have been given further space in the book, since that is something general readers of Geller’s work would immediately recognize. Speaking of recognition, Geller’s close reading of his chosen texts are sometimes so specialized that those unfamiliar with the texts might get lost quickly. Geller also focuses on critique of certain scholars rather than background discussion. General readers of this book might need significant assistance in grasping the contours of the argument.

Overall, Geller argues that German-Jewish authors of this period did not hate themselves or internalize anti-Semitism just because they worked with more-than-humans in their literatures. There could be a way to be in solidarity with all of creation while fighting for one’s humanity. There are ways to combat racism without falling into the trap of speciesism, making it even more urgent to find ways to be in solidarity without negation or replacement.

Dong Hyeon Jeong is Assistant Professor of New Testament Interpretation at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. He is also a board member of the Center and Library for the Bible and Social Justice. His forthcoming book is entitled, With the Wild Beasts, Learning from the Trees: Animality, Vegetality, and (Colonized) Ethnicity in the Gospel of Mark.