Bilal Orfali - in The Shadow of Arabic - The Centrality of Language To Arabic Culture - Studies Presented To Ramzi Baalbaki On The Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday-Brill (2011)

In the Shadow of Arabic
The Centrality of Language to Arabic Culture

Studies in
Semitic Languages and
Linguistics
Editorial board
T. Muraoka, A.D. Rubin and C.H.M. Versteegh
VOLUME 63
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/ssl

Ramzi Baalbaki
In the Shadow of Arabic
The Centrality of Language
to Arabic Culture
Studies Presented to Ramzi Baalbaki on the
Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday
Edited by
Bilal Orfali
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2011
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
In the shadow of Arabic the centrality of language to Arabic culture : studies presented to Ramzi
Baalbaki on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday / edited by Bilal Orfali.
p. cm. – (Studies in Semitic languages and linguistics ; v. 63)
"Bibliography of Ramzi Baalbaki":
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-90-04-21537-5 (hardback : alk. paper)
1. Arabic language—Grammar—History. I. Urfah’li, Bilal. II. Ba'labakki, Ramzi. III. Title.
IV. Series.
PJ6106.I53 2012
492.75—dc23
2011035564
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgements ........................................................................................ xi
Preface ................................................................................................................ xiii
Bibliography Ramzi Baalbaki ...................................................................... xv
History of Arabic Grammar
Ideology, Grammar-Making and the Standardization of Arabic ...... 3

Yasir Suleiman
The Andalusian Grammarians, Are They Diffferent? ........................... 31

Michael G. Carter
Khabar / Inshāʾ, une fois encore ................................................................ 49

Pierre Larcher
From Lexical to Grammatical: Nafs and Other Identifĳiers ................ 71

Nadia Anghelescu
La coordination à un constituant du noyau en arabe ......................... 101

Hassan Hamzé
Mustaqīm, muḥāl, ḥasan, qabīḥ: Les critères de recevabilité dans

le Kitāb de Sībawayhi ............................................................................... 119
Georgine Ayoub
An Afrikaans Footnote to the History of Arabic Grammar:

Sheikh Ismail Ganief’s Grammar of Arabic (ca. 1958) ......................... 177
Kees Versteegh
Profiles of Grammarians
Pioneers of Arabic Linguistic Studies ....................................................... 197

Monique Bernards
viii contents
Al-Zajjāj and Glassmaking: An Expanded Range of Options in a

Comparative Context ................................................................................ 221
Wadād al-Qāḍī
Against the Arabic Grammarians: Some Poems ................................... 249

Geert Jan van Gelder
Linguistics
Linguistic Observations on the Theonym Allāh .................................... 267

Aziz Al-Azmeh
Arabic Datives, Ditransitives, and the Preposition li- ......................... 283

Karin Christina Ryding
Dialects of the Dative Shift: A Re-examination of Sībawayhi’s

Dispute with the Naḥwiyyūn over Ditransitive Verbs with
Two Object Pronouns ............................................................................... 299
David Wilmsen
Style, Lexicography, and Phonosymbolism
Homonymie, polysémie et critères de distinction ............................... 325

Ibrahim Ben Mrad
Sulamī’s Treatise on the Science of the Letters (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ) ........ 339
Gerhard Böwering
Style formulaire et parallélisme dans le Coran ..................................... 399

Georges Bohas
Styles in Premodern Arabic Popular Epics ............................................. 413

Peter Heath
Arabic Contextualized
Ghazal and Grammar: al-Bāʿūnī’s Taḍmīn Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik

fī l-Ghazal ..................................................................................................... 445
Bilal Orfali
contents ix
The Qurʾān as a Late Antique Text ........................................................... 495

Angelika Neuwirth
A Formal Description of Sentences in Modern Standard Arabic .... 511

Everhard Ditters
Index of Arabic Terms ................................................................................... 553

Index of Proper Nouns .................................................................................. 558
Notes on the Contributors ........................................................................... 571
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not have seen the light without the support and help
of many individuals and institutions. Among them, I fĳirst wish to thank
the contributors for their generous and patient cooperation. Their col-
lective talents have made the editing of this volume a joyful and educa-
tional experience. In addition to the articles contained in this volume,
two English articles, one by Saleh Said Agha, “On the Poetic Power of
al-Lafẓa al-mufrada,” and one by Stefan Wild, “Did al-Khalīl Ibn Aḥmad
Write a Book on Arabic Prosody?” will appear separately. An Arabic article
dedicated to Ramzi Baalbaki by Abdel Fattah al-Zein, “Ḥarfu maddin fāta
l-lughawiyyīn,” has already appeared in al-Abḥāth 2011.
I gratefully acknowledge my debt to the stafff of the Jafet Library at the
American University of Beirut, who have spared no efffort in providing us
with the books we depend upon. The honoree of the volume has fruitfully
used the Jafet Library collection for more than four decades. I am also
grateful to the Faculty of Arts and Sciences of the American University of
Beirut, represented by Dean Khalil Bitar and Dean Patrick McGreevy, for
supporting the publication of this book. I am deeply appreciative of
T. Muraoka, A. D. Rubin and C. H. M. Versteegh for including this book in
the prestigious series of Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics. I am
also grateful to Tara Zend for smoothing the English style of this volume
in record speed and to Jasmin Lange and Renee Otto for supervising its
production.
PREFACE
This book is dedicated to Ramzi Baalbaki, the Margaret Weyerhaeuser

Jewett Professor of Arabic at the American University of Beirut, on the
occasion of his 60th birthday and in recognition of his remarkable career
and enduring contributions to the fĳield of Arabic studies. Much of Ramzi
Baalbaki’s oeuvre has been devoted to the study of the history of Ara-
bic grammar, a fĳield in which his scholarship remains indispensable. His
works, both in Arabic and in English, on Arabic lexicography, Arabic lin-
guistics, comparative Semitics, and the history of the Arabic script have
enriched the scholarly study of these fĳields and contributed immeasur-
ably to a more nuanced understanding of the Arabic language. He edited
several volumes on Arabic language and grammar and, more broadly, on
Arabic studies and humanities. His critical editions of classical texts con-
stitute a model for future editors to follow. Additionally, Ramzi Baalbaki’s
influence extends beyond scholarly circles and has reached nearly every
Arab household and international library in the form of al-Mawrid, the
single most important English-Arabic dictionary. Launched by his father,
Munir Baalbaki, al-Mawrid has been constantly updated by Ramzi Baal-
baki, who has also completed the impressive al-Mawrid al-Akbar English-
Arabic dictionary which his late father had left unfĳinished.
Ramzi Baalbaki has received numerous honors and awards during
his ongoing career. He was chosen by the prestigious series, The Forma-
tion of the Classical Islamic World, to produce its volume titled The Early
Grammatical Tradition (2007), while the Variorum Collected Studies Series
reprinted eighteen of his articles under a single title, Grammarians and
Grammatical Theory in the Medieval Arabic Tradition (2004). He was
awarded the 1999 Prize for Humanities by the Abdel Hadi al-Dibs Foun-
dation and received the 2010 King Faisal International Prize for Arabic
Language and Literature, on the subject of Arabic Grammatical Thought.
He is also a member of the editorial boards of, among many others, the
Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, the Journal of Arabic and
Islamic Studies, the Journal of Arabic Linguistic Tradition, Langues et Lit-
teratures du monde Arabe, Majallat al-Muʿjamiyya al-ʿArabiyya, Romano
Arabica, and the Arabic Historical Dictionary.
Ramzi Baalbaki was born in Beirut on 27th October, 1951. He earned
his BA with high distinction and Penrose Award in 1973, his MA in Arabic
Language and Literature in 1975, both from the American University of
xiv preface
Beirut, and his Ph.D. in Arabic Grammar and Comparative Semitics from
the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London in
1978. At the American University of Beirut, he established himself as a dis-
tinguished teacher and scholar and quickly progressed from assistant to
associate to full professor; he is currently the Margaret Weyerhaeuser Jew-
ett Professor of Arabic. He continued to teach and write at AUB even dur-
ing the most difffĳicult times of the Lebanese civil war. When asked about
how he was able to produce during this trying period, Ramzi answers
smilingly: “let’s call it surviving through dissociation.” Ramzi Baalbaki was
a visiting scholar at the Universities of Cambridge (1988), Chicago (1993),
Georgetown (1998), and a scholar-in-residence at Georgetown University
(1999). He served as the Editor of al-Abḥāth (1985–1996), Chairman of the
Arabic Department (1990–1993, 1996–2011), Director of the Center of Arab
and Middle Eastern Studies (1985–1990), and Associate Dean of the Fac-
ulty of Arts and Sciences (1997–2004).
Ramzi Baalbaki’s contribution to the fĳield of Arabic grammar may be
summed up in three aims. The fĳirst is to demonstrate, by examining early
terminology and concepts, that Arabic grammatical thought is a genu-
ine intellectual product of Arabs and Muslims, rather than the result of
borrowing from other nations. The second aim is to highlight the central
position that the grammatical tradition occupies within the breadth of
the Arabic and Islamic scholarly tradition, particularly because grammar
is fĳirmly linked to exegesis, Qurʾānic readings, stylistics, and literary criti-
cism. The third aim is to demonstrate the intricate and subtle analytical
methods of the early grammarians, who, unlike most later authors, were
keen to disclose the delicate balance between structure and meaning.
The editor has decided to limit the topics of contribution to the areas
that formed the core of Dr. Baalbaki’s scholarly work, to which the pres-
ent collection is a homage. In fact, several of the articles of this volume
were inspired by Ramzi Baalbaki’s own research and address topics and
questions fĳirst explored by him. Even with this limitation, the volume has
swollen to a considerable size, attesting to the scale of his influence and
reputation. Ramzi Baalbaki is a remarkable scholar whose impact on Ara-
bic studies will be felt for years to come. On a more personal note, and on
a scale that cannot be measured in pages or volumes, Ramzi Baalbaki is an
exceptional colleague, a selfless collaborator, a humane administrator, an
inspiring teacher, an unfailing humorist, and a very dear friend to many.
Bilal Orfali
Beirut, 2011
BIBLIOGRAPHY RAMZI BAALBAKI
1979
“Some aspects of harmony and hierarchy in Sībawayhi’s grammatical

analysis,” Zeitschrift für arabische Linguistik, vol. 2 (1979), pp. 7–22.
1980
                    
  ،    ،“  
 
   

،            ”  
.٨٧–٧٩  ،(١٩٨٠) ٢٨   
1981
  .           

          
،                 :      
١٩٨١.
“Arab grammatical controversies and the extant sources of the second
and third centuries A.H.,” Studia Arabica et Islamica: Festschrift for
I. ʿAbbās, ed. Wadād al-Qāḍī. American University of Beirut (Beirut,
1981), pp. 1–26.
“A possible early reference to Sībawaihi’s Kitāb?” Zeitschrift der deutschen
morgenländischen Gesellschaft,
 vol. 131 (1981), pp. 114–18.
    ،“            
 ،(١٩٨١) ٢٩    ،        ”
.٥٤–١٩
1982
“Tawahhum: An ambiguous concept in early Arabic grammar,” Bulletin of

the School of Oriental & African Studies, vol. 45, part 2 (1982/3), pp.
233–44.
Review of Westarabische Tropik: Naẓm IV des Tanasī, Journal of the Royal
Asiatic Society, no. 2 (1982), pp. 186–87.
xvi bibliography ramzi baalbaki
1983
     ‫ ؛‬      ،                  
                         
.١٩٨٣ ،   Bibliotheca Islamica 6 v ،  
. ١٩٨٣ ،(٣١)   
        .    
  
     

 
“Early Arab lexicographers and the use of Semitic languages,” Berytus, vol.
31 (1983), pp. 117–27.
“A Reference to 2K4 in an Arabic source,” Vetus Testamentum, vol. 33
(1983), pp. 317–18.
“The relation between naḥw and balāġa: A comparative study of the meth-
ods of Sībawayhi and Ğurğānī,” Zeitschrift für arabische Linguistik,
vol. 11 (1983), pp. 7–23.
                              


   ”
           
   
     ،   ،“  

.٢٤–٥  ،(١٩٨٣) ٣١  
1984

  ،        ،“             ”
         
،١٩٨٤ ،             
  
.٢٦–٩ 
1985
“The treatment of qirāʾāt by the second and third century grammar-

ians,” Zeitschrift für arabische Linguistik, vol. 15 (1985), pp. 11–32. Also
included in an anthology of articles under the title: The Qurʾān: For-
mative Interpretation, ed. A. Rippin. Ashgate (Brookfĳield, VT, 1999),
159–80.
“A difffĳicult passage in Farrāʾ’s Maʿānī l- Qurʾān,” Bulletin d’Études Orien-
tales, vol. 35 (1985),
 pp. 13–18.

،(١٩٨٥) ٣٣    ،   ،      ،“      
 
  ” 
     
  
.١٢٤–١١٧ 
1986
“On the meaning of the wāw al-maʿiyya construction,” Journal of the Amer-
ican Association of Teachers of Arabic, vol. 19 (1986), pp. 7–17.

    ،“     
.٦٥–٢٧  ،١٩٨٦ ، ،  

     ”
 
bibliography ramzi baalbaki xvii
    
     
،           
 ،    
   ” 
  “      
.٩٦–٨٧  ،(١٩٨٦) ٣٤    ،   

1987
  ،                  

    

 
.١٩٨٧ ،        .

       
         

  
“On Classical Arabic lā siyyamā,” Arabica, vol. 34 (1987), pp. 267–69.
1988
  ،            

.١٩٨٨ ،       
  .   
  
       
“A contribution to the study of technical terms in early Arabic gram-
mar: The term aṣl in Sībawayhi’s Kitāb,” In Memoriam-Thomas Muir
Johnstone, eds. A. K. Irvine, R. B. Serjeant & G. Rex Smith. Longman
(Essex, 1988), pp. 163–77.
1989
     ،“           
         
 ،      ”

                   

.٤٥–٣٣  ،١٩٨٩ ،   ،    
1990

Dictionary of Linguistic Terms (English-Arabic)    
   
  
  (   -   
.١٩٩٠ ،        )
Quest for Understanding: Arabic and Islamic Studies in Memory of Malcolm
H. Kerr, S. Seikaly, R. Baalbaki & P. Dodd. American University of
Beirut, Beirut, 1990.
“Iʿrāb and binā’ from linguistic reality to grammatical theory,” Studies in
the History of Arabic Grammar II, ed. K. Versteegh & M. G. Carter.
John Benjamins (Amsterdam/ Philadelphia,
 1990), pp. 17–33.
 
.١٠٩–١٠٥  ،(١٩٩٠) ٣٨    ،   ،    
  ” 
 ،“      
xviii bibliography ramzi baalbaki
1991
“A balāġī approach to some grammatical šawāhid,” Proceedings of the

Colloquium on Arabic Grammar, ed. K. Dévényi & T. Iványi. Eötvös
Loránd University (Budapest, 1991), pp. 89–100. 

  ،        “
         
         ” 

،         
.٦٩–٦٧  ،(١٩٩١) ٣٩    ،   

 

 
         
،(١٩٩١) ٣٩    ،    ،“     
       :    ”   
.٧٣–٧١  
1992
.١٩٩٢ ،   .            

       

 
.١٠٦–٣  ،(١٩٩٢) ٤٠    ،     
  ،“         ”

       
1993
       ،“   ”
.٥٣–٥١  ،١٩٩٣ ،  ،    
Review of A. al-ʿĀyid & I. b. Murād’s (eds.) Fῑ l-Muʿjamiyya al-ʿArabiyya,
al-Abḥāth, vol. 41 (1993), pp. 107–108.
Review of A. Abū Saʿd’s Qāmūs al-Muṣṭalaḥāt wa-l-Taʿābῑr al-Šaʿbiyya,
al-Abḥāth, vol. 41 (1993), pp. 109–11.
1994
Review of G. Bohas, J.-P. Guillaume & D. E. Kouloughli’s The Arabic Lin-

 
guistic Tradition .١٠٩–١٠٧  ،(١٩٩٤) ٤٢    ،  

1995
“The book in the grammatical tradition: Development in content and

methods,” The Book in the Islamic World, ed. G. N. Atiyeh. State Uni-
versity of New York (New York, 1995), pp. 123–39. Translated to Ara-
bic by A. S. al-Ḥallūjī and published in ʿĀlam al-maʿrifa, vol. 297 (Oct.
2003), pp. 107–17, 289–94.
bibliography ramzi baalbaki xix
“Reclassifĳication in Arab grammatical theory,” Journal of Near Eastern

Studies, vol. 54 (1995), pp. 1–13.
“Teaching Arabic at university level: Problems of grammatical tradition,”
Proceedings of the Colloquium on Arabic Linguistics, Bucharest, August
29–Sept. 2, 1994, part 1, ed. N. Anghelescu & A. A. Avram. University
of Bucharest (Bucharest, 1995), pp. 85–101.
“Ṣaghānī,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1995), pp. 820–21.
Review of Ansāb al-Ashrāf, vol. VI b, Die Welt des Islams, vol. 35 (1995),
pp. 131–32.
1996
  
   
      ،“  
   
 
     
 ،  
               
             ”
        
  .١٣٦–١١٣  ،١٩٩٦ ، ، 
  


   

 
   

 

 
  
 
  
 
 
   ،“ 
 
 

 
    
  
  

 


     ”
   
   
   
        
.٩٧–٨٣  ،١٩٩٦ ، ،    

 
 ،“          
        
         
      ”
  
    

   
 

    
    
  
     

.٤٦–٢٧  ،(١٩٩٧–١٩٩٦) ١٣–١٢   Revue de la lexicologie       
1997
     ‫؛‬       

  
   ،     ،                

  
.١٩٩٧ ،      ،   Bibliotheca Islamica 28i

    
           
     :     ،“              
     
              ”
 

 

  ،           
 ،   
   
.١٦٦–١٤٩  ،١٩٩٧ ،         
1998
“Kitāb al-ʿAyn and Jamharat al-Luġa,” Early Medieval Arabic: Studies on

al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad, ed. Karin C. Ryding. Georgetown University
Press (Washington D.C., 1998), pp. 44–62.
                :  
،     ،       ،“     ”
        
.٤٧٥–٤٥٧  ،١٩٩٨
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1999
.   
      
      
             
         :     
.١٩٩٩ ،  
 
“Coalescence as a grammatical tool in Sībawayhi’s Kitāb,” Arabic Grammar
and Linguistics, ed. Y. Suleiman. Curzon (Surrey, 1999), pp. 86–106.
“A note on a controversial passage in Sībawayhi’s Kitāb,” Zeitschrift für
arabische Lingustik, vol. 37 (1999), pp. 9–12.
“Expanding the maʿnawī ʿawāmil: Suhaylī’s innovative approach to the
theory of regimen,” al-Abḥāth, vol. 47(1999), pp. 23–58.
Review of M. Bernards’ Changing Traditions: Al-Mubarrad’s Refutation of
Sībawayh and the Subsequent Reception of the Kitāb, Journal of the
American Oriental Society, vol. 119 (1999), pp. 532–33.
2000
“The occurrence of inšāʾ instead of ḫabar: The gradual formulation of a

grammatical issue,” Linguistique arabe et sémitique, vol. 1 (2000), pp.
193–211.
Review of Y. Suleiman’s The Arabic Grammatical Tradition, British Journal
of Middle Eastern Studies, vol. 27, no. 2 (2000), pp. 245–47.
2001
“Bāb al-fāʾ [ fāʾ + subjunctive] in Arabic grammatical sources,” Arabica,

vol. 48 (2001), pp. 186–209.
“Ilḥāq as a morphological tool in Arabic grammar,” Journal of Arabic and
Islamic Studies, vol. 4 (2001–2002), pp. 1–25.
2002
     
 ،“   
   
    
         ”
Revue de la lexicologie           
 
.٨٠–٥٣  ،(٢٠٠٣ –٢٠٠٢) ١٩–١٨   
2004
Grammarians and Grammatical Theory in the Medieval Arabic Tradition.

Variorum Collected Studies Series, Hampshire & Vermont, 2004.
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“Some considerations of word order in kāna constructions,” Romano-Ara-

bica: Arabic Linguistics, New Series, vol. 3 (2004), pp. 41–58.
“Coinage in modern English-Arabic lexicography,” Zeitschrift für arabische
Linguistik, vol. 43 (2004), pp. 67–71.
2005
  
       :
        )   -  
   ،     
  .( 
.٢٠٠٥ ،     
“Theoretical coherency versus pedagogical attainability: The conscious
bias of Arab grammarians,” Alltagsleben und materielle Kultur in der
arabischen Sprache und Literatur. Festschrift für Heinz Grotzfeld zum
70. Geburtstag, ed. Thomas Bauer & Ulrike Stehli-Werbeck. Harras-
sowitz (Wiesbaden, 2005), pp. 39–68.
“From burden to asset: Morphological change in the Arabic tradition.” Cur-
rent Issues in the Analysis of Semitic Grammar and Lexicon I, ed. Lutz
Edzard & Jan Retsö. Harrassowitz  (Wiesbaden, 2005), pp. 83–105.

،٣  ،٢٠٠٥ ، ،                 ،“
    ”

.٥٩٣–٥٨٩ 
Review of R. Talmon’s Eighth-Century Iraqi Grammar: A Critical Explo-
ration of Pre-H̠ alīlian Arabic Linguistics, Journal of Semitic Studies,
vol. 50 (2005), pp. 413–16.
2006
“Visual influences on Arabic linguistic sciences,” The Medieval History

Journal, vol. 9, no. 1 (2006), pp. 37–61.
“ʾaṣl,” Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics. Brill (Leiden, 2006),
pp. 191–95.
“Bināʾ,” Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics. Brill (Leiden,
2006), pp. 308–10.
“Unfamiliar morphological terminology from the fourth century A.H.:
Muʾaddib’s Daqāʾiq al-Taṣrīf,” Grammar as a Window onto Arabic
Humanism: A Collection of Articles in Honour of Michael G. Carter, ed.
Lutz Edzard & Janet Watson. Harrassowitz (Wiesbaden, 2006), pp.
21–50.  
    
 ،٩  ،٢٠٠٦ ، ،                ،“   ”
.١٩٧–١٩٣
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The Formation of the Classical Islamic World: The Early Islamic Grammati-
cal Tradition. Ashgate Publishing Limited, Aldershot, 2007.
“Inside the speaker’s mind: Speaker’s awareness as arbiter of usage in Arab
grammatical theory,” Approaches to Arabic Linguistics: Presented to
Kees Versteegh on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday, ed. Everhard
Ditters & Harald Motzki. Brill (Leiden, 2007), pp. 3–23. 
   
Revue de la   ،“            
             ”
.٤٠–١٩  ،(٢٠٠٧) ٢٣    lexicologie
2008
The Legacy of the Kitāb: Sībawayhi’s Analytical Methods within the Context
of the Arabic Grammatical Theory. Brill, Leiden & Boston, 2008.
  .( 
، 
            :  
    )   -       

.٢٠٠٨
“Analogy on a broader scale: The case of vocative and generic lā construc-
tions,” Der Islam, vol. 83 (2008), 231–55.
2009
“The place of al-Jāḥiẓ in the Arabic philological tradition,” al- Jāḥiẓ: A Mus-
lim Humanist for our Time, ed. A. Heinemann, J. L. Meloy, T. Khalidi
& M. Kropp. Ergon Verlag Würzburg (Beirut, 2009), pp. 91–110.
“Tamyīz,” Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics. Brill (Leiden,
2009), pp. 436–37.
Review of M. Bahloul’s Structure and Function of the Arabic Verb, British
Journal of Middle
 Eastern Studies, vol. 36, no. 3 (2009), pp. 478–80.
٧٥    ،   J. Owens ‘A Linguistic History of Arabic 
  
   
.٥١–١١  ،(٩٠٠٢)
2011
    
،                    
        
  
     
  



Bibliotheca ،         ‫ ؛‬          

       
.٢٠١١ ، ٥٢ Islamica 52
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Beirut (Beirut, 2011), pp. 93–117.
“A 7th–8th century controversy: Ibn al-Aṯīr on naḥw and bayān,” A Fest-
schrift for Nadia Anghelescu, ed. Andrei A. Avram, Ana Focşeneanu
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“Arabic grammatical tradition: Naḥw and ṣarf,” The Oxford Handbook of
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           
al-Mawrid: Dictionary of Idioms (English-Arabic)         

( -  
  )
      
    ) '   

               
          ”

L’exemple et la citation dans l’œuvre des grammairiens et des lexicogra-

.(٢٠٠٥   ٣٠–٢٩ Université Lumière Lyon 2     phes arabes 
    
Revue de la    ،“    

 
  
    
  

    
   :      ”
          
   lexicologie.
           
    ”
Revue de la ‫ ﻣﺠﻠﺔ ﺍﳌﻌﺠﻤ ﹼﻴﺔ‬،“              

     
    

lexicologie.
HISTORY OF ARABIC GRAMMAR
IDEOLOGY, GRAMMAR-MAKING AND
THE STANDARDIZATION OF ARABIC
Yasir Suleiman
Language Standardization:
Uniformity, Purity and Correctness
Considered from the perspective of language standardization,1 grammar-

making is a form of codifĳication2 whose immediate aim, as opposed to
its ulterior motive, is to provide a set of rules for the selected variety of
the language. In language policy terms, grammar-making is an aspect
of corpus-planning that goes hand in hand with status planning in the
standardization of a language.3 Having selected a language variety as a
base for cross-dialectal standardization through status planning activi-
ties, corpus-planning seeks to provide this standard in the making with a
writing system—or an elaboration or modifĳication of an existing writing
system—rules for spelling, a grammar (or grammars), a lexicon (or lexica)
and style manuals as norm—setting measures for further elaboration and
implementation. Through these measures, corpus-planning aims to fĳix the
selected variety, mainly in its written form, by constraining variability—or
enhancing uniformity—in linguistic behaviour as much as possible,
and by setting norms for correctness in writing and speech.4 With time,
1
Ferguson (1996: 69) defĳines language standardization as the “process of one variety
of a language becoming widely accepted throughout the speech community as a supra-
dialectal norm—the ‘best’ form of the language—rated above regional and social dialects,
although these may be felt to be appropriate in some domains.” This defĳinition provides
an adequate description of standardization in the Arabic linguistic tradition.
2
Following Haugen (1966: 931) codifĳication aims at “developing the form of a language,
i.e., its linguistic structure, including phonology, grammar and lexicon.” My main interest
here is grammar with some references to the lexicon. Haugen (1972: 252) lists the compo-
nents of standardization as: selection of norm, codifĳication of form, elaboration of func-
tion, and acceptance by the community.
3
Cooper (1989).
4
In the context of the Arabic linguistic tradition, Versteegh (1997: 53) gives the fol-
lowing reasons for the standardization of the Arabic language in the early Islamic period:
“First, the divergence between the language of the Bedouin and the various colloquial
varieties that emerged [after the rise and expansion of Islam] became a real threat to com-
munication in the empire. Second, the policy of the central government, fĳirst in Damascus
and later in Baghdad, aimed at the control of the subjects, not only in economical and
4 yasir suleiman
these norms become ossifĳied or frozen, leading to a prescriptive attitude

in assessing correctness in the standard.5
This broad characterization of language standardization masks a com-
plex phenomenon. To begin with standardization, in principle, is an open-
ended process, not least because of its fuzziness and the fact that it is the
subject of contestation by diffferent interests in society. Standard languages
constantly evolve to meet the instrumental needs of their users. However,
grammar-making as a form of monitoring and codifĳication hardly ever
follows suit at the same rate. It always lags behind, usually exceedingly
so; hence, the rise of prescriptivism as an attitude of locking the forms of
the standard language in relation to established rules and usages that, for
modernizers, seek to stifle or censure innovation. For the guardians of the
language prescriptivism is necessary to stop the standard from disintegra-
tion and fracture.
Second, although status planning—the choice of a standard—logically
precedes corpus-planning, the two aspects of standardization cannot be
neatly separated or chronologically ordered in practice. A standard lan-
guage emerges through a melange of selection, codifĳication and circula-
tion—in varying degrees of intensity—to become the prestigious form of
the language. As a super-posed variety, its acceptance by those for whom
it is crafted is important for its consecration as standard, regardless of
whether this acceptance is the result of rational choice, acquiescence,
inertia or coercion.
Third, and this is the key point here, standardization tends to be driven
by an ideology in which elite interests play a determining role. In this
context, ideology is understood as a “system, or at least an amalgam, of
ideas, strategies, tactics, and practical symbols for promoting, perpetu-
ating or changing a social and cultural order.”6 In fact, standardization
itself is a form of ideology as J. Milroy and L. Milroy aptly observe.7 As
the main form of language planning, standardization is inextricably linked
religious but also in linguistic matters. Obviously, if Arabic was to be used as the language
of the central administration, it had to be standardized. Third, the changed situation called
forth a rapid expansion of the lexicon, which had to be regulated in order to achieve
some measure of uniformity.” For an interesting discussion regarding the role of language
in state administration see Heck (2002: 26-03). My approach in this paper difffers from
Versteegh’s discussion of standardization in Arabic in that it focuses on the ideology of
standardization rather than on its linguistic content in grammar and lexicon as Versteegh’s
discussion does.
5
See Bartsch (1987) for a study of language norms in the context of standardization.
6
Friedrich (1989: 301).
7
J. Milroy and L. Milroy (1991).
ideology, grammar-making and standardization 5
to the promotion and pursuit of non-linguistic or extra-linguistic ends in

which issues of high culture, political and social power, identity and con-
flict, moral and ethical values, purity, aesthetics, epistemology and power
play a signifĳicant role.8 As Woolard and Schiefffelin point out the “term
ideology reminds us that the cultural conceptions we study [standard-
ization being one of them] are partial, contestable and contested, and
interest-laden.”9
The principal aim of this paper is to explore the ideological content
of standardization in grammar-making in the Arabic linguistic tradition
during the fĳirst four centuries of Islam.10 Not only had this period wit-
nessed the production of the fĳirst grammars of the language and their
promulgation in pedagogic form, but it was also characterized by socio-
political fault zones with direct bearing on grammar-making. In exploring
this development I am aware that most of the research on standardization
is formulated against the ideologies of modernization, ethnicity, nation-
building and state formation in the modern world. It is, therefore, impor-
tant that the concerns raised by these ideologies are not read into the
past uncritically. However, it is also important to recognize that some of
the concerns of standardization in the modern period are not so diffferent
from those of standardization in the past. It is this consideration which
allows us to talk about standardization in the pre-modern world. The
quest for uniformity, correctness, purity and identity in standardization
as an ideology are, as I will suggest below, at the heart of grammar-making
in the Arabic linguistic tradition, providing it with its socio-political and
moral and ethical underpinnings.
Let us begin with some general comments on status planning in the
early period of Islam. The Arabic linguistic tradition carries information
on the various dialects in Arabia in the early days of the Muslim polity,11
but there is overwhelming agreement in this tradition that the base
variety for what emerged as standard Arabic, now called the fuṣḥā, was
anchored in relation to the language of the Qurʾān, pre-Islamic and early
Islamic poetry.12 Issues of religion, state formation and high culture are at
8
See Joseph (1987: 43–57) for a discussion of the socio-political, including the ideologi-
cal, context of standardization.
9
Woolard and Schiefffelin (1994: 58).
10
See Ferguson (1997) and Mejdell (2006: 1–44) for a discussion of standardization in
the modern period.
11
Early papyri from this period display variation of diffferent degrees.
12
The cut-offf point seems to be around the middle of the 8th century; see Suleiman
(1999a: 19–21).
6 yasir suleiman
the very heart of this process of variety selection. As a super-posed variety

this form of Arabic did not belong to any one tribe in Arabia, not even
to Quraysh in spite of what the Arabic sources sometimes claim, and in
spite of the fact that Quraysh may have felt a stronger claim of ownership
over this variety than other tribes by virtue of their [Quraysh] connec-
tion with the person of the Prophet.13 Ranging over tribal afffĳiliations, this
variety was cross-dialectal in nature, this being an important factor in its
ability to act (a) as a mediating channel of communication inter-tribally
in sociolinguistically defĳined occasions, and (b) as a springboard for its
acceptance as the base for standardization. The fact that this variety had
a recognized canon of texts, in the form of the pre-Islamic odes and later
the text of the Qurʾān, gave it the prestige and authority that were neces-
sary for its recognition as the standard in society. The connection to high
culture is inextricably linked to this canon of texts which, in comparison
with spoken language, contained ‘minimal’ variations.
The Qurʾān and pre-Islamic poetry were not the only sources of data
for the standard in corpus-planning terms. Another was the dialects of the
Arab tribes in Central Arabia of the seventh century C.E. and roughly up
to the ninth/tenth century.14 This geographical restriction is indicative of
the strong concern in the standardization of Arabic with issues of linguis-
tic purity, summed up in the principle of faṣāḥa.15 The key point here is
13
Responding to reports that the best Arabic was spoken outside Mecca, the grammar-
ian al-Farrāʾ (d. 207/822) asserts the superiority of Quraysh’s speech arguing his case as fol-
lows: ‘‘Do the Quraysh not surpass the people in the beauty of their statures, in the sagacity
of their minds, in the fullness of their bodies’ They [those holding diffferent views] said: ‘We
know this as well as anyone. But sagacity and beauty came to them merely because the
Arabs were accustomed to come to the sanctuary for Hajj and ʿUmra, both their women
and their men. The women made the circuit round the House unveiled and performed the
ceremonies with uncovered faces. So they selected them by sight and sound after dignity
and beauty. By this they gained superiority besides those qualities by which they were
particularly distinguished.’ We said: ‘In the same way they were accustomed to hear from
the tribes of the Arabs their dialects; so they could choose from every dialect that which
was the best in it. So their speech became elegant, and nothing of the more vulgar forms
of speech was mixed up with it.’ [Al-Farrā’ then comments] Correctness came to them
from their selection of pronunciation, just as they selected their wives.” Kahle (1948: 180).
Al-Farrā’s argument is part and parcel of the attempt to assert the correctness of the lan-
guage of the Qurʾān and its primacy [the Qurʾān] as a linguistic model over the language
spoken by the Bedouins. A similar view is expressed by al-Fārābī (d. 350/961) who “declares
the Quraysh dialect to possess the most correct vocabulary and sees it as the easiest to
pronounce, the most pleasant to hear, and the clearest to understand.” Chejne (1969: 40–1).
Four centuries later, the famous thinker Ibn Khaldūn (d. 808/1406) expressed a similar
opinion, highlighting the “beauty and eloquence of the Quraysh dialect.” ibid., 41.
14
By this time, it was difffĳicult to fĳind a Bedouin speaker whose speech could be
described as faṣīḥ (pure); See Suleiman (1999a: 22–4).
15
See al-Kawwāz (2006) and Suleiman (1996).
the belief that contact leads to loss of purity or contamination in language

behaviour through borrowing,16 and that this in turn induces incorrect-
ness in linguistic usage or, put more neutrally, the development of new-
fangled ways of using the language. The purist acts in this regard like a
genealogist who, in dealing with the “bloodlines of linguistic elements,”
believes that there is “some virtue in being a thoroughbred rather than
a mongrel, legitimate rather than bastard.”17 The following statement by
al-Fārābī (d. 339/950) names the tribes whose dialects were not accepted
(at least in theory) for grammar-making purposes in the standardization
project, setting out the reasons behind each judgement:18
Linguistic data were not accepted from the tribes of Lakhm or Judhāma
because they neighboured the Egyptians and the Copts; nor from Quḍāʿa,
Ghassān or Iyād because they neighboured the people of Syria who were
predominantly Christian and used languages other than Arabic in their ritual
prayers; nor from Taghlib and Namir because they neighboured the Byzan-
tines who spoke Greek; nor from Bakr because they neighboured the Nabaṭ
and the Persians; nor from ʿAbd al-Qays because they lived in Bahrain, thus
mixing with the Indians and the Persians; nor from Azd of ʿUmān because
they mixed with the Indians and Persians; nor from the people of Yemen
because they mixed with the peoples of India and Ethiopia and because
Ethiopians were born amongst them; nor from Banū Ḥanīfa, the inhabitants
of Yamāma or Thaqīf or those of Ṭāʾif because they mixed with the foreign
merchants who resided in their localities; nor from the townships of Ḥijāz
(ḥāḍirat al-Ḥijāz) because the language transmitters noticed their language
was corrupted by mixing with members of foreign nations.
For al-Fārābī contact with other nations and groups is the main linguistic
disqualifĳier of a tribal variety in the process of standardization. This of
course means that the more isolated and self-contained a tribe or social
group is the more qualifĳied it is to act as a reservoir for corpus-planning
activity, at least in theory.19 Geographical isolation leads to social and lin-
guistic isolation, which together guarantee to the group (a) the quality of
being pristine, and (b) its variety as the target of corpus-planning activity.
16
This point is made by Versteegh in his discussion of the standardization (1997: 59):
“[The Arab scholars] were convinced that the influx of words from other cultures would
corrupt the Arabic language, which had been chosen by God for His last revelation to
mankind.”
17
Thomas (1991: 23).
18
al-Suyūṭī, al-Iqtirāḥ, 56–7.
19
See Kahle (1948: 179–80) for a similar view with a twist: the Kūfans, Baṣrans and Mec-
cans subscribe to the notion of isolation as a correctness criterion, but each group claims
that the tribes nearer to them had the most correct speech. Prestige and superiority, as
group identity attributes, rather than a neutral measure of correctness are at the heart of
these views. Correctness here is more of a sociolinguistic than purely linguistic criterion.
8 yasir suleiman
This confluence of efffects underpins a set of practices in early Muslim

society that are of interest from the viewpoint of standardization. First, it
explains why the Arab grammarians used to avoid collecting data from
Arab/Bedouin tribes that lived near the newly established urban centres,
for example Baṣra and Kūfa in modern-day Iraq. Their preference was to
travel deep into Arabia to live or collect corpus-planning data from tribes
that had kept a measure of isolation from these urban centres. Connected
to this is the length to which some language informants went to impress
on the grammarians their authenticity as purveyors of correct speech, for
example being dressed in rags and exaggerating their Bedouin speech
habits, no doubt for personal gain.20
Second, the concern with purity and correctness explains why the
Umayyad Caliphs (41–132/661–750), and no doubt other members of the
Umayyad elite, used to send their male offfspring to live among isolated
Arab tribes to acquire the correct speech habits of the Arabs, or to put
right any ‘crookedness’ in their linguistic behaviour. This practice is an
integral part of an ethical and value-laden norm in society which treated
incorrectness in speech among the elite as a blemish that could impugn
a person’s moral character. Examples of this abound in the literature.
Prophet Muḥammad is reported to have ordered members of his commu-
nity to correct the speech of one of his followers, telling them that devia-
tion from the norms of correct speech is a form of ḍalāl (deviation from
the right path).21 The literature contains many injunctions, attributed to
the Prophet and other early Muslims, on the importance of reciting the
Qurʾān with correct iʿrāb (desinential inflection), the implication being
that incorrect recitation did exist at the time.22 The Umayyad Caliph ʿAbd
al-Malik b. Marwān (d. 86/705), an accomplished user of the language,
likened incorrect speech to smallpox, no doubt reflecting similar views
among the elite in society: incorrect speech could disfĳigure a person’s
20
This suggests that there was a ‘corpus-planning market’ in the fĳirst centuries of Islam
which casts doubt on the authenticity of some of the materials the informants provided.
An example of this is the famous al-zunbūriyya controversy (masʾala zunbūriyya) which
Versteegh sums up as follows (1997: 64): “In this controversy between Sībawayhi and a rival
grammarian, a question was raised about the expression kuntu aẓunnu anna al-‘aqraba
ashaddu las‘atan min al-zunbūri fa-idhā huwa iyyāhā ‘I thought the scorpion had a stronger
bite than the hornet, but it was the other way round.’ Sībawayhi gave the correct answer—
the last clause has to be fa-idhā huwa hiya—but he was defeated by the judgement of a
Bedouin arbiter, who had been bribed by his adversary.”
21
See Suleiman (2003: 51).
22
See Kahle (1948).
character in the same way as smallpox could disfĳigure his physical appear-
ance. In a similar vein, Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī (69/688)—who is credited
with implementing the fĳirst reforms of the Arabic script—likened incor-
rect speech to the foul smell of rotting flesh or meat. ʿAbd al-Malik’s son,
the Calpih al-Walīd (d. 96/715), was the butt of jokes, even in his own
court, because of his faulty speech. Al-Ḥajjāj (d. 95/714), the much feared
governor of Iraq, is reported to have sent the grammarian Yaḥyā b. Maʿmar
into exile because he dared to correct the governor’s faulty recitation of
the Qurʾān. These and other reports reveal the connection between lin-
guistic purity, correct speech and morality in society in line with Thomas’
observation that “a close connection [exists] between puristic attitudes
and the cultural ethos of a speech community.”23
Third, the concern with purity and correctness24 underlines the attitude
of the early grammarians towards the vast body of Prophetic Traditions
(ḥadīths). These grammarians refused to sanction the use of most of these
ḥadīths in grammar-making because, in their view, they contained gram-
matical errors owing to the fact that some of their transmitters were not
native Arabic speakers.25 This was a daring position to take because of the
close connection between grammar-making and the religious sciences in
Islam, and the status of the ḥadīth reports as a source of legal rulings,
second only to the Qurʾān, in Islamic jurisprudence. This attitude towards
the ḥadīth changed among later grammarians, for example Ibn Hishām
(d. 761/1359–60), who admitted ḥadīth reports as valid data for grammar-
making.
Finally, this triad of purity, correctness and ethics/morality is one of
the cultural or ideological motivations behind the vast body of literature
on laḥn (solecism) in the Arabic linguistic tradition, be it what is called
the solecism of the common people (laḥn al-ʿāmma)26 or that of the elite
(laḥn al-khāṣṣa).27 This literature continues in one form or another to this
23
Thomas (1991: 2). Woolard and Schiefffelin (1994: 64) comment on this matter in
similar terms: “Moral indignation over non-standard forms derives from ideological
associations of the standard with the qualities valued within culture, such as clarity and
truthfulness.”
24
The concern with incorrectness is said to be the main cause for the reforms of the
Arabic script carried out by Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī; see Talmon (1985).
25
For a modern critique of this position see Ḥassān (1982).
26
See Maṭar (1967) for one of the best treatments of this subject in pre-modern times.
Gal (1955) provides some information on laḥn.
27
Anwar (1981) links the development of the Arabic linguistic tradition to the interest
in laḥn.
10 yasir suleiman
day in the various manuals on correct speech28 which, from our perspec-
tive here, testify to the open-endedness of standardization as a process
that connects the past with the present. This open-endedness is further
reflected in the change of attitude from the early to the later grammar-
ians vis-à-vis the eligibility of the ḥadīth reports in corpus-planning as has
been mentioned above.
The connection between correctness and morality/ethics is present
in Arabic grammar-making from its inception. A fundamental principle
in Arabic grammar is its view of speech, as a manifestation of language,
as behaviour that is open to evaluation on ethical/moral grounds. Carter
captures this point well when he says, reflecting on Sībawayhi’s views on
this matter in his Kitāb (d. 180/796): “Considered as an act, speech natu-
rally falls under the same rules as all other kinds of behaviour, and this is
why Sībawayhi uses ethical criteria to express the correctness and right-
ness or otherwise of utterances.”29 The reliance on such criteria reveals the
close connection between standardisation and ideology. Carter sums up
these criteria in the Kitāb as follows:30
A completely correct utterance must fulfĳil two conditions, one semantic and
one structural: it must convey the intended meaning, and it must comply
with the rules for the form and arrangement of words. Such an utterance
will be mustaqīm ḥasan, lit. ‘[morally] right and ethically [good]’, though
it is also possible for an utterance to be semantically successful but struc-
turally incorrect, which is termed mustaqīm qabīḥ, lit. ‘[morally] right and
[ethically] bad’. There are two kinds of semantically unsuccessful utterance,
both entirely distinct. The fĳirst simply fails to convey the intended mean-
ing, and is therefore called ghayr mustaqīm ‘not [morally] right’, though it
may be structurally ‘good’ or ‘bad’, and even can convey some other, unin-
tended meaning. The second kind cannot mean anything at all because it
is internally contradictory, and this is termed muḥāl ‘wrong’, lit. ‘perverted,
twisted’.
The use of the Arabic terms for ‘right’, ‘bad’, and ‘wrong’—in the sense
of ‘perverted’ and twisted’—in evaluating Arabic utterances displays an
ethical/moral dimension to grammar-making as a standardization mea-
sure in the Arabic linguistic tradition. This moral dimension is part of the
‘cultural ethos’ of the speech community, including the class of grammar-
ians as a discourse community, or as a community of practice with its own
rivalries and interests. The link with the cultural ethos of the community
28
See al-Ḥamādī (1981) for a discussion of this phenomenon in the modern period.
29
Carter (2004: 61). See also idem (1997: 33–4).
30
Idem (2004: 61–2).
is further evident in the debate over whether the text of the Qurʾān con-
tained non-Arabic words.31 This debate is an integral part of the concern
for the purity of the language, although it no doubt is motivated in part
by the assertion in the Qurʾān (26:195) that it was revealed in ‘perspicu-
ous’ Arabic (mubīn).32 The insistence on the perspicuity of the Qurʾān and
its supreme eloquence are again related to an ideology of standardisation
that considers language contact and borrowing as sources of ‘impurity.’ As
a people the Bedouin tribes of Central Arabia had always set great store
by the purity of their lineage as I will discuss shortly. It is therefore no
surprise that this fact is translated into an ideology of standardization in
the Arabic linguistic tradition.
Language Standardization:
The Theory of Causation (taʿlīl) and the Wisdom of the Arabs
The connection between ideology and standardization occurs at an even

deeper level through the principle of ḥikmat al-ʿarab (wisdom of the
Arabs). According to this principle, one of the major aims of grammar-
making is to discover the innate qualities which make the Arabs a special
people in history. This link is directly made in Ibn Sinān al-Khafājī (d.
466/1073) in his study of faṣāḥa (purity) in Arabic:33
The superiority of the Arabic language over other languages is an integral
part of the superiority of its Arab speakers as a nation/people (umma)
unsurpassed by other nations in quality of character. It is, therefore, not
unreasonable to assume that if the Arabic language is indeed the creation
of the Arabs . . . it is bound to reflect the quality of their [group] character.
In claiming this, I am not driven by blind allegiance to either the language
or its speakers.34
31
Early commentators on the text of the Qurʾān acknowledged the foreign origin of
some of the words used in it, but this position started to change later. Commenting on
this, Versteegh (1997: 61) observes: “By the end of the second century of the [the Islamic
calendar, equivalent to the eighth century in the Gregorian calendar] . . . some philologists
had started to attack the notion that the Qurʾan could contain foreign loanwords, and
attempted to connect the vocabulary of the Qurʾan with a Bedouin etymology . . . The idea
of the purity of the Arabic language [became] the prevalent attitude among some Islamic
scholars, and attempts by Western scholars to fĳind traces of other languages in the Qurʾan
were and still are vehemently rejected.”
32
See Suleiman (2003: 43–46) for a discussion of this issue.
33
Al-Khafājī, Sirr al-faṣāḥa, 52. Although this work is later than the timeframe specifĳied
in this paper (2nd to 4th/7th to 10th centuries), there is no doubt that it reflects and distils
views that existed before and were of wide current among the elite at the time.
34
This view of Arabic is articulated by al-Bīrūnī (d. 440/1048), one of the greatest sci-
entists in Islam: “Scientists from all languages of the world have been translated into the
12 yasir suleiman
This act of discovery proceeds in two moves descriptive and explanatory.

The fĳirst aims to establish the grammatical: rules of the language, what
al-Zajjājī (d. 337/948) in his famous al-Īḍāḥ fī ʿilal al-naḥw (1959) calls ʿilal
taʿlīmiyya, pedagogical causes. The fact that these causes/rules are corre-
lated with pedagogy, as their name indicates, suggests a close link between
this aspect of standardization, called implementation, and codifĳication
as grammar-making. This is in agreement with the modern literature on
standardization which considers education as one of the main channels
for promulgating the standard.
The second aims to establish the rationale behind these rules. Al-Zajjājī
proposes two ʿillas of this kind: qiyāsiyya (analogical) and jadaliyya
naẓariyya (argumentative-theoretical causes). In addition to their role as
instruments of argumentation and systematisation in grammatical think-
ing, causes of this type operate at diffferent levels of abstraction to set out
the systematic nature of Arabic grammar and its rational character. It is in
this sphere of grammatical thinking, particularly with respect to the argu-
mentative/theoretical causes or rationales, that the ‘wisdom of the Arabs’
principle operates in the sense claimed by Ibn Sinān al-Khafājī above. For
this to hold, however, grammar-making must be linked to a realist epis-
temology which claims that Arabic grammar provides a ‘true’ description
and explanation of the Arabic language. Is this indeed the case? And what
does a realist epistemology entail in terms of the claims Arabic grammar
makes about its descriptive and, particularly, explanatory enterprise?
I have argued elsewhere that grammar-making in the Arabic linguistic
tradition is guided by a special type of realist epistemology which, after
Karl Popper,35 I called essentialism. This epistemology is also called ‘God’s
truth’36 or ‘naïve realism’.37 Essentialism makes the following claims:38
language of the Arabs, have been embellished and become attractive, and the beauties of
the language have permeated their veins and arteries, even though each people considers
beautiful its own language to which it is accustomed and which it uses in its daily busi-
ness. I speak from experience because I was brought up in a language in which it would
be strange indeed to a science perpetuated. Then I went over to Arabic and Persian and
am a guest in both languages, having made an efffort to acquire them; but I would rather
be reviled in Arabic than praised in Persian.” Chejne (1969: 14).
35
See Popper (1969: 103).
36
A clear, if exaggerated, articulation of this epistemology is given by the eighteenth
century German grammarian Adelung: “[The grammarian] is not the lawgiver of a people,
but only the collector and the interpreter of their intentions. He never decides but only
collects the votes cast by the majority . . . He presents the language as it really is, not as it
could be, or as it should be in his imagination.” Butler (1970: 9).
37
See Hospers (1973) for a similar discussion of naïve realism.
38
Suleiman (1999a: 53–4).
(1) scientifĳic enquiry aims to provide a true theory or description of a given

universe or set of phenomena; (2) a scientifĳic theory achieves its explana-
tory aim by describing the essences underlying the observable facts, that
is ‘the realities that lie behind the appearances’ of those facts;39 and, (3) it
is possible to establish the truth of a scientifĳic theory beyond any doubt.
From the perspective of the present discussion, point (3) does not concern
us. Points (1) and (2) correspond to what al-Zajjājī calls the pedagogical
and theoretical-argumentative causes, respectively. If so, both types of
cause in the Arabic linguistic tradition are treated as realist in character,
in the sense that they claim to capture the essences of the phenomena
or states they describe and explain. Furthermore, this attitude to Arabic
grammar holds sway in modern times, a view no doubt inherited from the
past through pedagogical inculcation and religious training. Arabic speak-
ers believe that the rules of Arabic grammar are true descriptions of the
language, and that challenging the validity of these rules is tantamount to
questioning the very essence of the language itself. The fact that there are
sometimes diffferent descriptions of the same phenomenon is not inter-
preted as a challenge to this essentialist conception of grammar, the point
being that each of these descriptions is held to be true in its own right
in the eyes of its proponents. The prescriptivism of the Arabic linguistic
tradition is closely linked to this essentialist conception of grammar.
But the situation has not always been like this. In the early days of
grammar-making, a variation on this realist epistemology existed that
allowed for a slightly diffferent take on grammar-making. In a statement
on the subject, al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad (d. 171/787) is reported to have said that
the rules of Arabic grammar and their explanations may be constructions,
but that they are still constructions of a realist character.40 When asked
whether the causes he applied in grammar-making were transmitted by
the Arabs or invented by him, al-Khalīl gave the following response which
I will quote in full because of its importance for the argument I am mak-
ing here:41
The Arabs speak according to their instinct and nature and they know the
structure of their [language]. In their minds there is solid knowledge about
its causes (ʿillas), but these are not transmitted from them. I regard some-
thing as a cause whenever I was convinced that it was the right cause for
39
Popper (1969: 104).
40
My understanding of what al-Khalīl says indicates that he is no instrumentalist or
fĳictionalist; see Suleiman (2003: 54–6) for these two views of epistemology.
41
Versteegh (1995: 89).
14 yasir suleiman
what I tried to explain with it. If I was right about this, well, that is exactly
what I aimed at! If there happens to be another cause, you compare my situ-
ation to that of a judicious man who enters a house that is built with good
proportions, a miracle of harmony and arrangement. Now, this man by reli-
able information or evident proof and manifest arguments is convinced of
the sound judgement of the builder and whenever he sees some part of the
house, he says: ‘He did this according to such and such a cause or because of
this or that reason.’ He says that on account of a cause which occurs to him
and which he believes might be the truth. It is possible that the wise builder
of the house acted, indeed, according to the cause mentioned by the man
who entered the house, but it is equally well possible that he acted accord-
ing to some other cause. Nevertheless, what was mentioned by the man
(who entered the house) could just as well have been right. So, if someone
has in mind another cause for grammar other than the ones I mentioned,
let him come forth with it!
The above statement about grammar-making is based on a number of
considerations. First, the analogy with the house suggests that the Ara-
bic language is a ‘miracle of harmony and arrangement’ and that these
two qualities (harmony and arrangement) are not accidental properties
of the language. Second, the Arabs’ intuitive knowledge of their language
includes what the grammarians call causes, but that these causes were
not transmitted to the grammarians from the Arabic speakers of the sev-
enth century in central Arabia (the model speakers of the language); it is,
therefore, the task of the grammarians to establish/discover these causes
if they want to capture the ‘miracle of harmony and arrangement’ in the
language. Third, as a grammarian al-Khalīl aims to discover the ‘right’ or
‘true’ causes in the language—in the Arabic he uses the word aṣabtu (lit.
hit) which normally correlates with ḥaqīqa (truth) or hadaf (target)—but
that he cannot be completely sure of their ‘truth’. Fourth, where the verac-
ity of the causes is in question other people/grammarians can offfer dif-
ferent ones. However, and this is the signifĳicant point, although al-Khalīl
admits that other causes may be offfered, he is so convinced of the truth
of his own causes that he issues a challenge to others to come up with
diffferent ones. In my view the concluding sentence in the above quota-
tion, ‘let him come forth with it!’, carries the implication that those who
might take up the challenge are most likely to fail. If this is true, then
al-Khalīl’s invitation to others to offfer alternative causes is no more than
a formal nod towards a constructivist epistemology in grammar-making
rather than a real or principled commitment to such an epistemology.
To this writer, his position remains of the realist kind epistemologically
even though it seems to open the door for a constructivist perspective on
grammar-making.
Al-Khalīl is not the only grammarian to hold a realist view of grammar-

making. Two centuries later, Ibn Jinnī (d. 392/1002) espoused such a view
with complete clarity. This is evident from his comment on the behaviour
of one of his informants, al-Shajarī, who was able to explain aspects of the
language in terms that are similar to those offfered by the grammarians.
Ibn Jinnī reports this in his Khaṣāʾiṣ as follows:42
I asked al-Shajarī one day: . . . How do you say ḍarabtu akhāka: acc. (I hit
your brother)?’ He said, ‘As you have just said it’. I [then] asked him, ‘Do
you ever say ḍarabtu akhūka: nom.?’ He said, ‘I never say akhūka: nom.’. I
continued, ‘How do you say ḍarabani akhūka: nom. (your brother hit me)?’
He answered, ‘As you have just said it’. I then said to him, ‘But haven’t you
just claimed that you never say akhūka: nom.?’ He said, ‘What is it you are
saying? These two utterances serve diffferent purposes/have diffferent mean-
ings (ikhtalafat jihatā al-kalām).
Commenting on this exchange, Ibn Jinnī says:43
Is not this the same as our [the grammarians] saying that the object (in
ḍarabtu akhāka: acc.) has become the subject (in ḍarabanī akhūka: nom.)?
Although al-Shajarī does not use these terms [object, subject] at all, there is
no doubt whatsoever that this is [exactly] what he meant.
Ibn Jinnī gives another example in support of his view about the ability
of linguistically/grammatically untutored Arabs to explain how their lan-
guage works in terms similar to those of the grammarians:44
I asked an eloquent ( faṣīḥ) young man from the Āl al-Muhayyā tribe about
a word in something he said which I cannot remember, ‘Is it this or that, I
asked?’ He replied, ‘It is such and such in the accusative (naṣb) because it
is lighter’.
The above examples are intended to argue a number of points. First, the
Arabs have an intuitive knowledge of their language, very much along
the lines proposed by al-Khalīl. Second, some Arabs can explain features
of their language in ways that are similar to the explanations of the gram-
marians. In spite of the fact that Ibn Jinnī tried to trip al-Shajarī by mak-
ing him renege on his initial intuitive judgement, the latter insisted on
his fĳirst hunch, coupling it with a kind of proto-grammatical explanation.
Bohas, Guillaume and Kouloughli capture this point well when they say
that in “Ibn Jinnī’s opinon speakers are grammarians without knowing it,
42
Ibn Jinnī, al-Khaṣāʾiṣ 1, 250.
43
Ibid.
44
Ibid. 1, 79.
16 yasir suleiman
and capable, thanks to their inherent wisdom, of making the very gener-
alizations which the professionals of grammar try to formulate.”45 Third,
this similarity suggests that the rules of the grammarians can be said to
capture the essential reality of the Arabic language. Under this interpre-
tation, grammar-making is not a matter of instrumental construction, an
example of what Householder dubbed ‘hocus-pocus’ linguistics,46 but an
activity that aims to discover the truth about Arabic. This interpretation
further seeks to relate this truth to the character of the Arabs, to their
uncorrupted intuition (salīqa) born out of their mental agility (rashāqa)
and the simplicity of their life (basāṭa). It is at this level of connecting
language to people that the ‘wisdom of the Arabs’ principle applies in the
standardization enterprise.
In making this connection, the starting point for Ibn Jinnī is the regular-
ity of the Arabic language, which makes it amenable to systematic treat-
ment.47 Ibn Jinnī is aware that regularity is a feature of other languages,
but he believes that no other language matches Arabic in its regularity. To
support this, Ibn Jinnī cites the views of his teacher Abū ʿAlī al-Fārisī
(d. 368/978), a noted Arabic grammarian of Persian origin, who knew
Persian very well and was well-versed in its grammar. According to this
grammarian, Arabic has no equal in its regularity and elegance. Ibn Jinnī,
himself of Greek stock, returns to this topic in his discussion of whether
Arabic is of divine origin (waḥy or tawqīf ) or is a matter of convention
(iṣṭilāḥ), relating the issue of regularity in this discussion directly to the
character of the Arabs. Regardless of whether it is a matter of convention
or divine origin, Ibn Jinnī tells us that the regularity of Arabic is sacrosanct.
If we assume a divine origin for the language, then the Arabs must have
been guided to Arabic because of their innate qualities of fĳine perception
and clarity of intellect. If we assume a conventional origin, then the regu-
larity of the language must be related to the psychological make-up of the
Arabs, its creators, who are characterized by simplicity (basāṭa), elegance
(rashāqa) and uncorrupted innate disposition (salīqa) that underpins
45
Bohas, Guillaume and Kouloughli (1990: 29).
46
Householder (1952).
47
This regularity is correlated with other ‘attributes’ of the language some of which
al-Zubaydī (Abū Bakr Muḥammad, (d. 379/989) sums up as follows (in Chejne (1969: 15)):
“Praise be to God Who made the Arabic language the most palatable of all languages to
utter, the most accurate in its formation, the clearest in the expression of meaning, and the
richest in the various branches of knowledge. He made i‘rāb an ornament of the tongue
and a line of demarcation concerning the diffference in meaning.” This kind of laudatory
view of one’s language is widely held in diffferent cultures.
their pristine qualities.48 Viewed from this perspective, grammar-making

is not just about describing and codifying the language; it further aims
to establish an extra-linguistic connection between the language and its
speakers by revealing their wisdom as a people. These twin objectives of
grammar-making in Arabic, the linguistic and the extra-linguistic, are con-
sistent with standardization theory.49
The connection between grammar-making and the wisdom of the Arabs
may be pursued further by considering some of the methodological rules
in the Arabic linguistic tradition. Methodological rules are argumentative-
theoretical causes/rationales that aim to explain some of the descriptive
facts of the language, the pedagogic causes and the analogical reasons (ʿilal
qiyāsiyya) which are adduced in their support. Arabic grammar contains
a set of these principles, called qawāʿid al-tawjīh by Tammām Ḥassān,50
which most probably are modelled on similar rules in jurisprudence. I will
briefly discuss two of these principles here to show how the link between
grammar-making and the ‘wisdom of the Arabs’ principle is enacted at the
methodological level in the Arabic linguistic tradition.
The fĳirst methodological principle, what I have called equilibrium
(muʿādala) elsewhere, deals with the balancing of the ‘diffferent pressures
and forces’ within the language to explain its ‘efffectiveness and stability’
as a medium of communication.51 The most paradigmatic application of
this principle pertains to the balancing of lightness (khifffa) and heaviness
(thiqal)52 in maintaining the efffĳiciency of the language and the economy
of efffort this efffĳiciency creates for its speakers.53 An example of this phe-
nomenon is the explanation for the occurrence of the nominative case
48
See Suleiman (2003: 75–6).
49
This link between language, people and knowledge production, including grammar-
making, is explicitly made by al-Thaʿālibī (d. 430/1038–9) in his book Fiqh al-lugha (in
Chejne 1969: 14): “When the Almighty ennobled and exalted the Arabic language, elevated
its rank and showed greater regard to it than any other language, He decreed for its safe
guarding and treasuring a select people, the leaders of virtue, and the luminaries of the
earth, who gave up lust and roamed the desert land in its service [a reference to the for-
ays by linguists into the desert to collect uncontaminated data from the uncorrupted and
pristine Bedouin tribes of Central Arabic]; who befriended the notebook, the bookcase
and the inkstand for its acquisition; and who exerted themselves systematizing its rules,
and dedicated their life to immortalizing its books.”
50
Ḥassān (1982).
51
Suleiman (1991: 356).
52
See Sadan (2008) for the meanings of lightness and heaviness in the Arabic linguistic
tradition.
53
Economy of efffort is similar to what Martinet (1964: 189) called the principle of least
efffort, understood as man’s “tendency to reduce to a minimum his mental and physical
activity [by giving of ] himself only so much as is necessary to attain the end in view.”
18 yasir suleiman
with the subject ( fāʿil) and the accusative case with the object (maf ʿūl
bihi). The principle of equilibrium decrees that because the nominative is
heavier than the accusative (presumably in phonetic terms), and because
of the paucity (qilla) of the subject and the abundance (kathra) of the
object,54 the nominative is assigned to the subject and the accusative to
the object. This distribution of the case endings in the language is said to
be motivated by the need to keep the language balanced and efffective as a
medium of communication to ensure that the speaker achieves maximum
communication using the least efffort. Ibn Al-Anbārī (d. 577/1181) explains
this application of the principle of equilibrium as follows:55
[Since] the subject [category] is less numerous than the object [category],
and since the nominative is heavier than the accusative and the accusative
lighter than the nominative, the less numerous occurs with what is heavy
and the more numerous occurs with what is light, so that the heaviness of
the nominative is balanced by the paucity of the subject and the lightness
of the accusative compensates for the abundance of the object.
The second methodological principle is priority. This principle involves
the correlation of entities with parallel status in the language by refer-
ence to a given property. The preceding example in case assignment can
be explained further by reference to the property of strength/weakness in
the language. According to this principle the subject and the nominative
are paired because each member of this pair is stronger than its counter-
part in the pair object-accusative. The nominative is said to be stronger
than the accusative because the former is characterized by heaviness and
the latter by lightness. It is most likely that the heaviness and lightness
invoked here are a matter of phonetic production. The subject is said to
be stronger than the object in a structural sense in that the former pre-
cedes the latter in the linear arrangement of the sentence, the idea being
that what comes fĳirst is stronger than what comes later in an utterance.
These are two diffferent types of strength/weakness in terms of empirical
content, so they can only be paired as correlated items at the abstract
level by means of analogical reasoning. Ibn al-Anbārī expresses this prin-
ciple by saying that a “strong element is correlated with a strong element
and a weak element is correlated with a weak element.”56 This correlation
54
The paucity and abundance here are not a matter of tokens/fĳillers of syntactic posi-
tion but these positions themselves. In Arabic grammar, a sentence may have one subject
position and up to three object positions.
55
Ibn al-Anbārī, Asrār, 78.
56
Ibid., 74.
is a matter of neatness and priority in the language whose aim is to pre-

serve its systematicity.
It is not easy to establish the empirical content of ‘equilibrium’ and
‘priority’ in the Arabic linguistic tradition in spite of the fact that these
methodological principles are embedded in a realist epistemology. As a
result it would be hard to test these methodological principles to establish
their empirical truth or falsity. But this is not an overriding concern in the
Arabic linguistic tradition, although the absence of empirical validation
challenges its realist claims. The overriding concern in this tradition at
this level of analysis is to offfer an explanation that brings out the regular-
ity of the language and its rational character, what al-Khalīl has referred
to as the “miracle of harmony and arrangement” in Arabic. In epistemo-
logical terms, the methodological principles under discussion may be no
more than speculation, but it is their extra-linguistic aim that counts in
cultural/ideological terms. By establishing the regularity, harmony and
systematicity of Arabic these principles lay the ground for making the
claim that these properties of the language reflect similar qualities in the
Arabs who created it, a claim we have witnessed in diffferent forms in
the above discussion. Grammar-making as a standardization measure in
the Arabic linguistic tradition is charged with establishing the link between
language and people to reveal what this tradition calls the “wisdom of the
Arabs” principle. It is this that matters in assessing the ‘validity’ of the
methodological principles. What is at stake here is the cultural validation
provided by the methodological rules rather than their empirical validity.
It is this that endows standardization in the Arabic linguistic tradition
with its ideological content.
There is no doubt that this take on grammar-making was coloured by
the dynamic of the inter-ethnic strife in the fĳirst centuries of Islam (and
beyond) between the Arabs and non-Arabs in the Muslim empire,57 espe-
cially the Persians to whom the term ʿajam was restricted as an appel-
lation from its original use, which initially included other non-Arabs.
The shuʿūbiyya,58 as this strife came to be known, sought to deny any
privileged position to the Arabs in the state. At its height, the shuʿūbiyya
included as targets in its attacks Arab rhetoric, oratory, weaponry, military
skills, genealogy and the Arabic language. This list makes clear that the
57
See Agha and Khalidi (2002–03) for an insightful study of the transition from tribal
to an Arab supra-tribal ethnic identity in the Umayyad period (41–132/661–750). Agha and
Khalidi use poetry to trace this development.
58
See Enderwitz (1996: 513–6), Mottahedeh (1976) and Maṭlūb (1989).
20 yasir suleiman
Arabic language and its allied practices in rhetoric and oratory occupied a
central place in the shuʿūbiyya attacks. This has led some modern scholars
to characterize shuʿūbiyya as a form of linguistic strife (ṣirāʿ lughawī) with-
out, however, denying the socio-political character of the larger move-
ment.59 As I have shown elsewhere,60 it is at this time (3rd–4th/9th–10th
centuries) that Arabic developed its maximal meaning as an identity-
linked marker that sets the Arabs apart from non-Arabs. This is clear from
the burgeoning references to Arabic in this period as the language of ḍād
(lughat al-ḍād), a name given to it (a) because of the belief that it was vir-
tually the only language that has this sound/phoneme,61 and (b) because
this sound created pronunciation difffĳiculties to non-Arabs, thus acting as
a shibboleth or border-guard between the Arabs and non-Arabs. In my
view, it is during this period of inter-ethnic strife that grammar-making, as
an on-going practice in a never-ending standardization enterprise, devel-
oped a heightened ideological edge that attempted to discover the wisdom
of the Arabs in their language or, alternatively, sought to ascribe the excel-
lence of the language to the character of its people under the “wisdom of
the Arabs” principle. It is also during this period that linguistic works were
written specifĳically to counter the shuʿūbiyya attacks against Arabic,62 the
Arabs’ infatuation with their language and Arabic grammar. Examples of
these works are Ibn Durayd’s (d. 321/933) al-Ishtiqāq, Ibn al-Anbārī’s
(d. 327/938) Kitāb al-aḍdād, Ibn Fāris’ (d. 395/1004) al-Ṣaḥibī fī fĳiqh al-
lugha, and al-Zamakhsharī’s (d. 538/1143) al-Mufaṣṣal fī-l-naḥw. That the
last of these works was written well after the active embers of shuʿūbiyya
had abated testifĳies to its enduring impact on Arabic linguistic thinking.
This impact has survived to this day, regaining some of its pre-modern
intensity in times of conflict and war as I have shown elsewhere.63
The principle of the wisdom of the Arabs has survived into the mod-
ern period. One of its foremost proponents is the Arab nationalist thinker
Zakī al-Arsūzī who adopted the following slogan to characterize his
nationalist thinking: “the genius of the Arab nation inheres in its lan-
guage” (ʿabqariyyat al-umma al-ʿarabiyya fī lughatihā). The starting point
for al-Arsūzī is the view that Arabic is both a primary/pristine (bidāʾī) and
59
See Anīs (1970: 192) and Goldziher (1966, vol. 1: 192).
60
See Suleiman (2003: 60–61).
61
In his book Sirr Ṣinā‘at al-i‘rāb 1, 214–15, Ibn Jinnī writes: “Let it be known that the
sound/phoneme /ḍ/ belongs to the Arabs alone; it is rarely [if ever] found in the speech
of the ʿajam.”
62
See Suleiman (2001).
63
See idem (2003).
original (badīʿ) language in which the pristine impulses and intuitions of

the Arabs, their genius (ʿabqariyya), are embedded. The language is also
treated as a storehouse of a specifĳically Arab worldview. To regain their
pre-eminence in world history all the Arabs have to do in the modern
period is to mine their language, to extract that world-view and to harvest
the pristine impulses that are deposited therein but which the Arabs have
lost sight of with the passage of time.64
As a form of linguistic archaeology, al-Arsūzī’s approach to this act of
linguistic self-discovery utilizes sound symbolism and the rich morphol-
ogy of the language to press his claims. Sound symbolism is used to claim
that the connection between the signifĳier and the signifĳied in the language
was natural or non- arbitrary, at some point in the past when the Arabs
were still close to their pristine and uncorrupted instincts, but that this
naturalness became less and less transparent as the Arabs moved away
from that original point of departure. This is not a new argument, but one
that Ibn Jinnī put forward ten centuries before al-Arsūzī as I shall suggest
below. Word morphology is used to make the claim that Arabic creates
networks of meanings that can help us recover the original impulses of
the Arabs and, in the process, reveal aspects of their worldview. This again
was foreshadowed by Ibn Jinnī as I will suggest below.
To show how these two properties of the language, sound symbol-
ism and word morphology, can reveal the genius of the Arabs I will give
the following example from al-Arsūzī, the point at stake here being the
64
This view is more or less shared by Constantine Zureik, one of the more sober cham-
pions of pan-Arab nationalism (1949: 137): “Along with the idea of the Arab Nation, a great
concerted efffort must be undertaken in order to revive Arabic in the mind and heart of the
Arabs. I do not mean by revival of Arabic that sort of efffort aiming at the glorifĳication and
superiority of the language over other languages, and the denial [of the virtues] of those
languages as some nationalists proclaim . . . What I mean by the revival of Arabic is that
kind of efffort whereby old and spiritual meanings and connotations should be made alive
to the people and their way of thinking. Weakness has crept up in most of the living Ara-
bic expressions, the meanings of which have become obscure. [Consequently] the mind
has become vexed as to their true meanings and images to the extent that their actual
connotations have lost that magical power in the soul and heart of the people.” This view
was articulated by al-Jundī in the 1920s, thus confĳirming the hold it had in thinking about
language, identity and nation: “[Arabic] is the soul of the Arabs . . . It is [their] homeland,
nationalism, life and esprit de corps. . . . From [this] relationship between language and
community, it appears to us quite evident that the regeneration of the community lies
in the regeneration of the language in the same way that the soundness of the language
is indicative of the soundness of the condition of the community that speaks it. It is so,
because the language is the spirit of the vitality of the community and the sustenance of
its nationalism. Can a body live without a soul, or can a soul hold on without a body?“
Chejne (1969: 20).
22 yasir suleiman
ability of Arabic to provide a coherent defĳinition of the nation from within

its linguistic resources.65 To do this al-Arsūzī focuses on the connection
between the following set of words, umm (mother), raḥim (womb) and
akh (brother):
The word for nation in Arabic is umma, which signifĳies the ideas of mother-
hood and goal-orientation—by virtue of its root: umm (mother) and amm
(to lead the way)—at one and the same time, as if to capture the views of
common historical ancestry [through umm] and shared aspiration [through
amm] . . . And, since the relationship between brothers, sisters and other
members of the extended Arab family is designated by the term ʿalāqat
raḥm, literally ‘womb relationship’, and additional meaning is added to the
signifĳication of umma [through umm] and the root r-ḥ-m (to be compas-
sionate, the Compassionate as an attribute of God), to reveal at one and the
same time the ideas of compassion and godliness which [this] root signifĳies.
In a similar vein, the word which signifĳies the meaning of solidarity between
members of the same nation is ukhuwwa, the meaning of whose stem akh
(brother) captures this relation by virtue of its phonetic similarity to the
interjection of pain (ākh).66 On the basis of [the above network of meanings,
extracted using sound symbolism and word morphology], the nation [in its
original meaning in the Arab world view signifĳies] a familial, goal-oriented
community among whose members relations of compassion and solidarity
obtain by virtue of divine intervention and action.
For al-Arsūzī, a nationalist conscious lexicology is a pressing need for the
Arabs in the modern period. But, as I have said above, this nationalist
lexicology harks back to an earlier time when one of the serious issues
in grammar-making was rebutting the claims made by the proponents of
the shuʿūbiyya against the Arabs, their culture and their language. This
past era was a time of conflict just as the moment of writing for al-Arsūzī
was. Al-Arsūzī’s ideas germinated at a time of conflict involving Turkey
and France as a colonial power in his native Alexandretta region in Syria,
culminating in the loss of this region (now called Hatay) to Turkey in 1939.
In this highly charged context, al-Arsūzī’s call for a nationalist lexicology
was no doubt intended to counter the Turkish claim that Turkish was the
mother of all languages, through the ‘sun language’ theory.67 Referring to
the Turks as ʿajam,68 al-Arsūzī ridicules their claim by offfering example
65
Suleiman (2003: 154–55).
66
The connection between akh and ākh is part of popular etymology. I remember my
mother making this connection whenever she wanted to impress on us as brothers and
sisters the need for sibling solidarity.
67
For the sun language theory see Aytürk (2004: 16–17) and Lewis (1999: 57–74).
68
Al-Arsūzī’s negative attitude toward Turks and Turkish is heightened by political
conflict, but at a more fundamental level it reflects a stereotyping of the Turks of some
historical depth in Arab culture. See Haarmann (1988).
after example from the Arabic lexicon to show that Arabic has a stronger
claim in this regard.
Let us now turn to Ibn Jinnī to show the link between his views and
those promulgated later by al-Arsūzī in the nationalist context of his day.
Starting with sound symbolism, Ibn Jinnī gives a number of examples to
show the natural/non-arbitrary link between signifĳier and signifĳied in
Arabic—what I have been referring to as sound symbolism or, following
Ryding, phonosymbolism.69 I will reproduce two of these examples here.
In the verb jarra (to pull), /j/ occurs as the fĳirst sound because, as a tense
consonant, it iconically signals that the fĳirst stage in pulling an object is
the hardest since it requires the greatest expenditure of energy. The trill
/r/ is repeated (through gemination) to (a) signify the continuity of the act
of pulling and (b) create the sound of pulling an object on the ground as
it bounces up and down.70 The second example involves the pair of words
khaḍima (to munch, as in soft textured foods) and qaḍima (to gnaw hard-
textured foods). Ibn Jinni says that the phonetically lax sound /kh/ occurs
with the former because of the soft-texture of the items it signifĳies; by the
same token, the phonetically tense /q/ occurs with the latter because of
the hard-texture of the items it signifĳies. With respect to word morphol-
ogy, Ibn Jinni says that many word patterns are suited to the meanings
they convey, for example the pattern faʿalān which iconically signifĳies
the ideas of disturbance (iḍṭirāb) and movement (ḥaraka), as in naqazān
(leaping in the air out of fright) and ghalayān (boiling water).
The similarity between Ibn Jinnī’s ideas in the tenth century and those
of al-Arsūzī in the twentieth century points to the continuity of the prin-
ciple of the wisdom/genius of the Arabs in thinking about language in
lexicology and grammar-making. Although both of these views are not
offfered from an explicitly standardizing perspective in Ibn Jinnī, they do
point to the importance of this principle in framing the standardization
of the language as an enterprise with a cultural mission. More specifĳically,
these views reveal that standardization is a historically situated activity
that is driven by an extra-linguistic objective: revealing the wisdom of the
Arabs as it inheres in their language.
69
Ryding (1997). For a general survey of sound symbolism in Arabic, see Zahrān
(1999).
70
See Ibn Jinnī, Khaṣāʾiṣ 2, 164.
24 yasir suleiman
Conclusion
The aim of this paper was to consider the extra-linguistic motives behind
grammar-making in the early Islamic period rather than its immediate
aim of codifying the language. Grammar-making is not a purely linguistic
exercise, but a process that is embedded in its own cultural milieu; it is
further informed by ideological considerations that derive their meaning
from the socio-political context against which they are framed. In analyz-
ing this extra-linguistic dimension of grammar-making, I have highlighted
the role of purity, correctness and the wisdom of the Arabs principle as the
most important factors in the standardization enterprise. In line with
the defĳinition of ideology adopted above, these factors constitute an amal-
gam of ideas which, at the extra-linguistic level, dominate the standard-
ization of Arabic. As a strand in the cultural aesthetic of standardization,
purity stands for a host of positive values in society, including “whole-
ness, unitarianess, homogeneity, origanalness, inviolateness, true or origi-
nal essence, simplicity and correctness.”71 Purity is also related to feelings
of group identity, solidarity and superiority which treat the intrusion of
foreign elements into the language as a case of ‘bastardization’ or ‘hybrid-
ization’ the group must guard against.72 These elements in the aesthetic of
standardization explain the attitude of the Arab grammarians towards the
dialects of those Arab tribes that came into contact with non-Arabs: they
disqualifĳied them as informants in grammar-making, preferring instead
the dialects of those Arab tribes that lived in isolation from non-Arabs.
As Thomas observes ‘purism is directed not so much at the alien culture
itself as against the use of elements of that culture by persons who belong
to one’s own group.’73 The same aesthetic explains the denial by some
Arab grammarians of the existence of any foreign elements in the Qurʾān
in spite of the fact that the origin of these elements was recognized by
early exegetes.
71
Thomas (1991: 31).
72
Thomas’ (1991: 42) observation that the “spontaneous dislike of foreign words does
not necessarily translate into avoidance of them” applies in this context. Lexical xeno-
phobia goes hand in hand with lexical accommodation vis-à-vis foreign influences. One
would characterize this as a case of linguistic hypocrisy were it not that this contradiction
between attitude and practice is of an ideological nature. In addition to these two areas,
the Arabic linguistic tradition includes in its scope khaṭāba (‘Greek’ rhetoric), balāgha
(Arabo-Islamic rhetoric) and ʿarūḍ (metrics or prosody); see Suleiman (1999b: 31).
73
Thomas (1991: 47).
In the Arab linguistic tradition, this concern with purity has a genealogi-
cal dimension the aim of which is to protect the bloodline of the language,
keeping it as a thoroughbred among languages. The place of genealogy
in grammar-making is in fact reflected in the inclusion by some gram-
marians of akhbār al-ʿarab (history of the Arabs) and, more signifĳicantly
for our purposes here, ansāb al-ʿarab (genealogy of the Arabs) within the
scope of the Arabic linguistic tradition. The connection between language,
standardization and genealogy is therefore not just a matter of symbolic
meaning or rhetorical signifĳication but one that involves the empirical
concerns of the Arabic grammatical tradition as a discipline. An exam-
ple of this genre is Ibn Durayd’s book al-Ishtiqāq which sets out to show
that “Arabic proper names are embedded in an etymology which defĳines
what may be called linguistic genealogies by means of derivational net-
works . . . whose roots lie in the stock of the language.”74
The emphasis on the importance of correctness in grammar-making
reflects an ethical/moral strand in the aesthetics of Arabic standardization.
This paper provides examples of how incorrectness in speech is viewed as
a deviation from the right path in religious terms. This view of incorrect-
ness in speech was offfered by no other than the Prophet Muḥammad.
Incorrectness in language behaviour was likened to the smell of rotten
flesh: they are both repulsive and a sign of decay. Among members of the
elite incorrectness was the subject of ridicule or censure. Incorrectness
was also viewed, at least at the elite level in society, as a moral defect
that disfĳigures a person’s personality. That the evaluation of utterances
in terms of grammaticality and acceptability in Sībawayhi is cast in ethi-
cal terminology suggests that this aesthetic strand in grammar-making is
more than a flavour: it touches the very substance of this activity. Lan-
guage is not just a system of items and their structural arrangements at
some set of abstract levels; it is also the basis of behaviour which, in the
Arabic cultural ethos, is amenable to evaluation on ethical and moral
grounds. In this context, correctness and purity are linked. The sustained
infringement of correctness can induce internally generated impurities
that can lead to disintegration and fracture in the language. For the purist,
the normalization of these impurities in language behaviour will eat away
at the attempt of standardization to “conserve what is best of the past,”75
its pristine character and uncorrupted innate disposition that preserve for
the language its cultural integrity.
74
Suleiman (2003: 60).
75
Thomas (1991: 39).
26 yasir suleiman
The moral loadings of standardization, linked as they are to purifĳication

in the Arabic linguistic tradition—be it aimed at dialecticisms or foreign-
isms in the language—invoke the notion of moral defĳicit. As a form of
moral stain that must be eliminated, dialecticisms and foreignisms are
the linguistic equivalent to the impurity of bloodlines which the Arabs
of Central Arabia considered as a defect in genealogy (ansāb). This link
between purity and standardization points to the ideological and politi-
cal loadings of language in the Arabic linguistic tradition. Furthermore,
as Shapiro points out “language purism is a move in the direction of nar-
rowing legitimate forms of meaning and thereby declaring out-of-bounds
certain dimensions of otherness,”76 the point here being that the Other is
“located most fundamentally in language, the medium for representing
self and other.” It must, however, be pointed out here that this concern
with purity in language is not the preserve of the Arabs in the past or
now. Other cultures have engaged in purist activities which are of a more
radical and pervasive nature. Turkey and Korea are two radical examples
of this. It is interesting to point out in passing that most of these purist
activities concerned the lexicon, as Samuel Johnson and Noah Webster
had recognised,77 and that as attempts at opening and closing of sources
purist activities tend to be selective in their choice of the items to be
purged. In Turkey78 and in Iran79 purists rejected Arabic borrowings while
at the same time accepting French and other lexical importations.
The wisdom of the Arabs principle stands at the heart of this ideologi-
cal amalgam. Whereas purity and correctness are extraneous to grammar-
making, the ‘wisdom of the Arabs’ principle is woven into its inner fabric.
This principle is an integral part of linguistic causation/rationalisation,
taʿlīl, in its capacity as the explanatory branch of Arabic grammatical
theory. Grammar-making does not just aim at establishing the rules of
Arabic, utilizing a realist epistemology, but, using al-Khalīl’s formulation,
it further aims to discover the ‘miracle of harmony and arrangement’ in
the language. A two-way dialectic applies here. The discovery of what con-
stitutes this ‘miracle of harmony and arrangement’ in grammar-making is
said to provide evidence of the superior character of the Arabs. But it is
this presumed character of the Arabs that is said to endow the language
with this ‘miracle of harmony and arrangement’. Al-Arsūzī sums this
76
Shapiro (1989: 28).
77
See Edwards (2009: 220–23).
78
Lewis (1999).
79
Karimi-Hakkak (1989).
dialectic well when he says that the “genius of the Arabs inheres in their
language.” It is as if the language carries in it a DNA map of aspects of
the Arab character. At the extra-linguistic level grammar-making as an
aspect of standardization is one sure way for discovering this map. This is
a circular argument, but ideology is not beholden to the same standards
of validation as the empirical sciences. This is what gives ideology elas-
ticity and resilience, two factors that explain its ‘immunity’ from logical
prosecution. But it is also this that makes it useful as a tool for “promoting
[and] perpetuating . . . a social and cultural order.”80 Standardization, as an
ideology, performs this task.
But ideologies are contextually determined. Reflecting on this in dis-
cussing grammar-making in Arabic I have linked standardization to the
inter-ethnic strife of shuʿūbiyya during the fĳirst centuries of Islam. This
linkage reveals the political nature of grammar-making. As an aspect
of standardization, grammar-making acquires symbolic meanings aris-
ing out of a web of politically anchored phenomena that include group
identity and solidarity, ethnic superiority and the imperative of defend-
ing the group and its culture against external and internal threats. The
prescriptivism of standardization and its orientation towards the past are
an inevitable consequence of framing grammar-making against this web
of phenomena.
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139.
THE ANDALUSIAN GRAMMARIANS, ARE THEY DIFFERENT?
Michael G. Carter
Although it is taken for granted that grammarians from Baṣra and Kūfa
belonged to scientifĳically distinct grammatical “schools,”1 the same does
not apply to grammarians classifĳied by other locations in the biographical
dictionaries, such as Egypt,2 Qayrawān and al-Andalus. This paper argues
that there were diffferences in grammatical thought among these regional
groups of grammarians, at least among the Andalusians. The ground has
already been covered well by Mutlak,3 and this paper simply adds some
details.4
Following the practice of those less familiar with this part of the Arab
world than Ibn Khaldūn, we shall take al-Andalus as standing for the
whole maghrib (henceforth Maghrib), as the “West,” a single geographi-
cal unit embracing both the African and the Spanish domains between
which scholars moved freely. However, a chronological division will be
made between al-Andalus under the Umayyads (139–423/756–1031) and
al-Andalus under the subsequent régimes up to the Reconquista of 1492.
The two periods are highly asymmetric, but the qualitative diffference
between them is equally extreme.
Umayyad al-Andalus displays an aggressive intellectual emulation of
the Arab East which has something in common with the cultural rival-
ries between America and Britain in recent centuries, with the same kind
of head-hunting and the wholesale acquisition of cultural treasures and
libraries from the old world to replicate the cultural environment in the
new world. The fĳigure of al-Qālī (d. Cordova 356/967) immediately springs
1
The “Baghdad” school is largely a fĳiction based on the assumption that the grammar-
ians there mixed the two schools of Baṣra and Kūfa; a Medinan school has been proposed
but the evidence is inconclusive.
2
Omar (1990), gives little detail on the theories of the Egyptian grammarians, though
he does observe, p. 248, that they were innovative in applying the “descriptive method”
(Ibn Wallād and al-Naḥḥās in particular) and in providing material later used by Ibn Jinnī.
He sees Ibn Wallād as “among the pioneers, if not the pioneer, of the science called: Uṣūl
an-naḥw.”
3
Mutlak (1967).
4
Two recent general works on al-Andalus, Jayyusi (1992) and Menocal (2000), are
specimens of almost perfect lipography, with scarcely a mention of Arabic grammar or
grammarians.
32 michael g. carter
to mind as the famous Easterner recruited by the West to become an orna-

ment of the caliphal court, where he continued to be known as al-Baghdādī
“the man from Baghdad” to the day of his death. Less famous, but no less
interesting, is Ṣāʿid b. al-Ḥasan al-Rabʿī (d. ca. 410/1026), a drunkard and
a gambler who left Baghdad and headed West because “because he heard
that language [lugha] was in demand there.”5
From the time of the Mulūk al-Ṭawāʾif and during the Almoravid and
Almohade dynasties the mood changes from envy and admiration of the
East to an undisguised contempt for it, and scholars tend to look more
inwards than before, exhibiting an intellectual self-sufffĳiciency which no
longer relied on or even referred to the East for its inspiration, still less for
its authority.6 Scholars continued to travel East in search of knowledge, but
were always conscious of their Western origins and would mostly return
to the Maghrib to teach. Those who stayed on were diligent ambassadors
for their home country.
The ideological and spiritual diffference between “Easterners” (mashāriqa,
ahl al-mashriq) and “Westerners” (maghāriba, ahl al-maghrib) is already
implied by the distinctive geographical names for the two competing
branches of the Islamic Empire. One characteristic of the West which
attracted attention already in the fĳirst chronological phase is the exces-
sive use of rote-learning (talqīn), recognised as a problem by al-Rabāḥī
(d. Cordova 358/968), who studied in Cairo and went back to al-Andalus
with the specifĳic goal of improving the standards of teaching, since in his
view there was too much reliance on memorisation there.7
Al-Rabāḥī failed to change the learning patterns in al-Andalus. In
the second chronological phase memorisation became the most promi-
nent feature of education in the Maghrib. Ibn Khaldūn (b. Tunis,
d. Cairo 808/1406), who spoke from fĳirst hand experience of both worlds,
gives a critical description of educational methods in the Mashriq and
the Maghrib, and singles out the tendency in the West to give too much
emphasis to memorisation at the expense of understanding. In his rather
gloomy survey Ibn Khaldūn observes that students in the Maghrib seem to
5
Ibn al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 85: balaghahu anna l-lugha bi-l-andalus maṭlūba wa-l-ādāb hunāk
marghūb fīhā min mulūkihā wa-raʿiyyatihā, see also Martinez-Gros (1995). Here lugha is to
be taken in the broad sense, not as “lexicography.” At one time it was a common miscon-
ception in Britain that Australian universities were stafffed by characters like Ṣāʿid.
6
The feeling was mutual: an important Andalusian fĳigure such as Ibn Ṭalḥa was
well-known in the West and completely ignored in the East, see Humbert (1995: 97).
7
Al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 336–7. Humbert (1995: 137) mentions the Andalusians’ aware-
ness that memorised information (riwāya) was inferior to intellectually acquired knowl-
edge (dirāya).
the andalusian grammarians, are they different ? 33
“think that scientifĳic habit is identical with memorized knowledge,”8 and

he contrasts the lively and investigative scholarship of the East with the
low quality of science in his own region, with the exception, not surpris-
ingly, of Tunis.9 His diagnosis is confĳirmed by the report that a certain Ibn
al-Aslamī (active in Toledo, d. mid-5th/11th century) completed a reading
of the Kitāb of Sībawayhi (some 920 printed pages in the Būlāq edition)
every 15 days, which would leave little time for analysis in depth.10
As if to defend themselves against the stigma of rote-learning, Andalu-
sian scholars would take the trouble to state that they went further than
merely learning a work by heart (ʿalā ẓahr qalb), and actually studied it with
some thought (tafaqquh), understanding (tafahhum) or conceptualisation
(taṣawwur), with investigation (mubāḥatha) or speculation (naẓar) about
the contents, as well as making their own commentary (tafsīr, taʿlīq). The
terms cited here are taken at random from the Barnāmaj of al-Mujārī
(d. [Granada ?] 862/1458, a pupil of Ibn Khaldūn), which is a record of
every book he read and the teacher with whom he read it, rather like a
CV.11 The compilation of such lists (sometimes entitled Fahrasa, see under
this heading in Encyclopaedia of Islam) is known as a predominantly
“Western” practice, though it did spread eastwards.
In law and theology, too, there are geographical diffferences. The legal
schools (madhāhib) tend to be associated with particular regions or popu-
lations, which needs no elaboration here. The Readings (qirāʾāt) of the
Qurʾān likewise reflect local preferences: in the Maghrib, for example, the
Reading of Warsh is dominant.12 Curiously al-Andalus is the only signifĳi-
cant Islamic domain in which the Madrasa system did not flourish.13
8
Rosenthal (1966: 2, 430 (his transliteration and American spelling are retained when
quoting him directly). See also 3, 300–305 for Ibn Khaldūn’s review of Qurʾānic and general
education region by region, and 3, 392–398, for a chapter on the role of memorisation in
education.
9
Ibid. 427–32, note especially 431: “In fact, many Maghribīs who have who have trav-
eled to the East in quest of knowledge have been of the opinion that [Būlāq adds: it was
their original nature which made the people of the East more awake and clever, and] the
intellect of the people of the East is, in general, more perfect than that of the Maghribīs.”
10
Al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 59, citing al-Ṣafadī. Other sources give 25 days, but even this is a
short time in which to recite the text aloud for students to learn it, which was presumably
the purpose of the exercise.
11
There is a curious parallel in the Oxford historian A. J. P. Taylor, who recorded every
book he had read (presumably with tafaqquh and tafahhum) from 1921 to 1985. All his lists
are preserved except for 1926.
12
Here the fĳigure of al-Adfuwī (d. 388/988) is of central importance in the transmission
of Qirāʾāt to the West, as he had many Andalusian pupils in Cairo.
13
Although there were Madrasas, “it is reasonably safe to say there that were not many
of them in Spain,” in fact they were “all but non-existent,” Makdisi (1973: 155, 157). Their
educational function was performed by the mosques instead.
A connection can be demonstrated between legal schools and grammar

at a general level. In those countries which had them, the Madrasas were
always linked to a particular legal madhhab, so it is only to be expected
that the Baghdad grammarian Abū Bakr al-Dahhān (born in Wāsiṭ, d.
612/1315–16), who started offf as a Ḥanbalī, then switched to the Ḥanafĳiyya,
was obliged to become a Shāfĳiʿī before he was allowed to teach grammar
at the Niẓāmiyya Madrasa. This gives rise to a satirical comment in verse
from al-Tikrītī suggesting that next he will become a Mālikī!14
However, there are signs of interaction between law and grammar on
the systematic level. The legal concept of istiḥsān, which was borrowed
into grammar, was treated with suspicion by Ibn al-Anbārī (d. 577/1181), in
conformity with his Shāfĳiʿī position on istiḥsān in law, while the Ẓāhirī Ibn
Ḥazm (d. 456/1064) rejected it completely; the Ḥanafīs probably accepted
it, though this is not clear.15
The biographical literature often indicates the legal afffĳiliations of gram-
marians. Even in the early period the Ẓāhirī inclinations of Abū l-Ḥakam
Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-Ballūṭī (d. Cordova 355/966, also known as a poet
and theologian), were considered worth noting, though he is classed as a
naḥwī and lughawī, and studied in Cairo with Ibn Wallād and al-Naḥḥās.16
Later it was said of Ibn Qāḍī l-Jamāʿa (d. Seville 592/1196), that “he had
his own ideas about Arabic, deviating from the accepted ideas of the
specialists, and was a Ẓāhirī in grammar.”17 Even Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī
(d. Cairo 745/1344) had Ẓāhirī tendencies ascribed to him, though he
eventually renounced them and became a Shāfĳiʿī.18 Mutlak gives a very
good picture of the Ẓāhirī views on language found in the works of Ibn
Ḥazm and al-Baṭalyawsī, and of the most famous Ẓāhirī grammarian of
all, Ibn Maḍāʾ al-Qurṭubī (d. Seville 592/1196), well-known to us for his
wholesale denial of linguistic causality.
An explicit link between legal and grammatical reasoning is found
in Ibn Muʿṭī (d. Cairo 628/1231), who started as a Mālikī in the Maghrib,
became a Shāfĳiʿī in Damascus and then a Ḥanafī in Cairo, according to the
biographies. His analysis of kadhā wa-kadhā dirhaman “so and so many
dirhams,” namely that dirham inflects according to the number implied by
14
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 181.
15
Carter (2003).
16
Al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 319f.
17
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 56 lahu ārāʾ fī l-ʿarabiyya wa-shudhūdh ʿan maʾlūf ahlihā, ẓāhirī
fī l-naḥw. His doctrinal position is clear in the title of his Tanzīh al-Qurʾān ʿammā lā yalīq
bihi min al-bayān.
18
See Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, intro. 18 etc., and Manhaj, intro. xix, xx.
kadhā (so darāhima if the speaker intends between 3 and 10 dirhams, etc.)
drew the criticism of Ibn Iyyāz that this was “Ḥanafī reasoning,” kalām
al-muṣannif jārin ʿalā madhhab al-imām al-aʿẓam Abī Ḥanīfa.” The remark
is not proof that Ibn Muʿṭī was deliberately applying Ḥanafī legal methods
here, but is more likely a rebuke from a colleague who regarded this type
of exaggerated grammatical logic as going beyond common sense.19
Of course the biographies seldom give details about grammatical or
technical views, but in the case of the Andalusian al-Suhaylī (d. Marrakesh
581–8/1185–1192) we at least learn that he was outstandingly intelligent
and sharp-witted, and responsible for a number of “inventions and deduc-
tions” (ṣāḥib al-ikhtirāʿāt wa-l-istinbāṭāt), without being told what these
were. Instead al-Fīrūzābādī quotes his verse in praise of a famous cheese
doughnut, mujabbana, and thoughtfully provides the recipe!20 Fortunately,
thanks to Baalbaki, we now have a good idea of the nature of al-Suhaylī’s
grammatical innovations.21
That there was something diffferent about Westerners is, of course, a
commonplace. The Andalusians were renowned for their individualism:
champions of solitude and scholarly self-absorption such as Ibn Bājja and
Ibn Ṭufayl preach a pessimistic attitude towards society which would not
have been popular in the central Islamic lands (there is even a Ḥadīth
against living a separate life from the community), and it is surely signifĳi-
cant that Ibn Ṭufayl shows himself to be a very patriotic Andalusian in his
introduction to Ḥayy b. Yaqẓān.22
The biographical literature portrays several eccentrics and individual-
ists, such as al-Ṭallāʾ al-Munajjim, so called because he was the fĳirst to
introduce a kind of heavy Iraqi wine (ṭilāʾ) to Qayrawān. He died in al-
Andalus some time before al-Zubaydī (d. 379/989), apparently on the
run from the authorities, who were trying to arrest him for forging coins.
He was accused of “abandoning the faith” (al-khurūj ʿan al-milla), which
makes him an extreme case among our individuals and misfĳits.23
19
Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, intro. 23, text 244–5 and footnote there; further Carter (2003: 180f
and refs. in n. 28, correct Iyyār to Iyyāz). The same construction is mentioned in al-Ḥarīrī
(d. 516/1122), Durra, 100, where it appears to be something of an in-joke among the fuqahāʾ.
However it is a working expression, cf. kadhā wa-kadhā dīnāran in the papyri in blank
contracts used as models by the scribes (specimen in Khoury (1993: 149), not dated, for
obvious reasons, but certainly no later than the 5th/11th century).
20
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 131f.
21
Baalbaki (2008, esp. 290–97).
22
Andalusian individualism is vividly depicted by Hernández (1992), and he quotes Ibn
Ṭufayl’s preface on p. 789.
23
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 69, more details in al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 263–4.
Several of the Western grammarians were solitary characters, or just

plain eccentrics, such as the irascible Ḥamdūn (d. in the 200’s/800’s),24 or
the unfortunate al-Khidabb from Seville (d. 580/1184). He was a respected
teacher of the Kitāb of Sībawayhi who also worked as a tailor, and after a
pilgrimage he fĳinished up in Cairo, where he decided he should visit Baṣra,
the fountainhead of grammar, and teach the Kitāb there. This he did, but
on his return he lost his mind and died, one source says, in Bukhārā, sug-
gesting that he really was lost!25 It is a fate that all who have studied the
Kitāb may sympathise with.
Certain individual grammarians stand out for their self-consciously
Andalusian attitudes.
The most important of these is Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-Rabāḥī (d.
Cordova 358/968), whom we have already met. He is a neglected fĳigure,
perhaps because he was overshadowed by his younger contemporary, the
immigrant al-Qālī.26 A solitary individual, he travelled East like so many
of his contemporaries to study grammar in Cairo, and made an immea-
surable contribution to grammar in Spain by bringing back a number of
fundamental Eastern texts, among them the Kitāb of Sībawayhi.
The testimony of his pupil al-Zubaydī is particularly informative about
the state of grammatical studies in al-Andalus in his day:
at the time none of the teachers of Arabic or anyone else concerned with
grammar had any great knowledge, until Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā arrived
among them. The reason was that teachers were only concerned to instill
the art [of grammar] by making their pupils memorise (talqīn) the gram-
matical operators and such like, and to give them only a simplifĳied version
of the concepts. They themselves did not take up the fĳiner points and obscu-
rities of Arabic, nor seek for reasons for grammatical phenomena, and even
worse, they did not show any interest in vocalic or consonantal changes,
morphology or word patterns, and gave no answers at all on these topics,
until [al-Rabāḥī] showed them the analytical way and taught them what our
Eastern colleagues already know, i.e. how to take a discipline to its extremes
24
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 96 (from al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 256): Ḥamdūn knew the Kitāb
of Sībawayhi well, but “used to speak gutturally and with twisted mouth” (yataqaʿʿar fī
l-kalām wa-yatashādaq), and was obviously a difffĳicult person to deal with.
25
Al-Fīrūzābādī, Bulgha, 187. The story is highly implausible and Bukhara has surely
been confused with Bijāya (now Bougie, in Algeria), which would have lain on his route
home to the al-Andalus, as in the account of al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 4, 195.
26
There is no mention of him in the Encyclopaedia of Islam or in Sezgin (1984). For what
is known of him see Humbert (1995 passim, esp. Ch. 6). In the Maghrib he was considered
to be the equal of the Baṣran al-Mubarrad (d. 285/898), and indeed they both share the
honour of establishing Kitāb studies in their respective homelands.
in all aspects, and to exploit it to its limits, in which they well deserve to be
called the leaders.”27
As if to make al-Andalus intellectually both equal to and independent
of the East, al-Rabāḥī introduced a version the Kitāb of Sībawayhi which
became the base text for a “Western” branch of transmission. The Kitāb was
certainly known in al-Andalus before him, but, as Humbert has shown, it
was al-Rabāḥī who created the “Western” tradition of Kitāb studies.28 The
textual diffferences between the Eastern and Western versions are only
minor, but the pride of the Andalusians in owning their own version is
manifest in the preamble afffĳixed to this family of manuscripts.29
With Ibn al-Ṭarāwa (d. Malaga 528/1134) we are in the second histori-
cal phase, that of the Berber dynasties, specifĳically the Almoravids, suc-
cinctly described as “a fundamentalist regime that suppressed the secular
arts.”30 Ibn al-Ṭarāwa seems to have been undisturbed by this, and has left
a specimen of grammatical reasoning of the most speculative and abstract
kind, which probably went over the heads of the Almoravid rulers, who
otherwise might well have been suspicious of the religious implications of
mixing logic with grammar.
His theory of sentences is an adaptation of the Aristotelian modal triad
of the necessary, the impossible, and the possible, as applied by logicians
to subjects and predicates.31 The class of necessary (wājib) words is repre-
sented by rajulun “man” and qāʾimun “standing,” of which there must be at
least one in existence somewhere (otherwise the words are meaningless);
the impossible category (mumtaniʿ) is illustrated by lā rajula “no man” and
lā qāʾima “no one standing,” which cannot be universally true, because at
least one of these must exist somewhere in order for it to be categorically
negated; the logically permissible ( jāʾiz, replacing the theological term
mumkin “possible”), i.e. contingent, is exemplifĳied by the names “Zayd”
and “ ʿAmr,” which may or may not denote existing persons.
These can be combined in various predication structures, which we
shall not investigate in detail, but note that the pairing of two necessaries,
27
Al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 336–7. The paragraphs preceding this quotation are also a valu-
able review of the state of scholarship, showing that at this stage the East was still the
admired model, as we would expect under the Andalusian Umayyads.
28
Humbert (1995, 141f and Ch. 7).
29
Ibid., Ch. 6. Even though al-Rabāḥī’s authorship is not totally certain, the motives for
the preamble are clear.
30
Alvarez (1998: 733).
31
Reported by al-Suyūṭī, Iqtirāḥ, 14 evidently from Abū Ḥayyān, though the exact source
remains to be found: Abū Ḥayyān briefly alludes to the topic in Manhaj, 46.
such as *rajulun qāʾimun “a man is standing” is disallowed because it con-

veys no new information (as there must be a man standing somewhere in
the universe), while the pairing of two impossibles, *lā rajula lā qāʾimun
“no man is not standing” is disallowed because it conveys no informa-
tion and anyway is a falsehood. What Ibn al-Ṭarāwa is leading up to here
is that subjects may be contingent but predicates must be necessary,
e.g. zaydun qāʾimun (otherwise there is no point—fāʾida—in predicat-
ing them). In zaydun akhūka ( jāʾiz + jāʾiz, both contingent) there is no
new information, so this is disallowed for the reasons already given, but
by inversion to akhūka zaydun the predicate term zaydun changes from
contingent to necessary (wājib, i.e. the existence of Zayd must now be
presumed, according to the above scheme), and the utterance is allowed
because the listener may not be aware that the person known to him as
“Zayd” is also his brother. This is not the place to dispute the plausibility
of Ibn al-Ṭarāwa’s reasoning: the text is too short and there is no corrobo-
ration in other works.
Abū Ḥayyān, the source for al-Suyūṭī here, calls this reasoning “bizarre”
(gharīb), though the idea of the three modalities is found elsewhere. Ibn
al-Ṭarāwa may have taken it from al-Fārābī (d. 339/950), or he might have
seen it in the Rasāʾil of the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, who were active at about the
same time.32 Another possible source is Ibn Fāris (d. 395/1005), who attri-
butes them to ahl al-naẓar, i.e. philosophers, but he develops them in a
diffferent manner from Ibn al-Ṭarāwa.33 It would be useful to know more
about Ibn al-Ṭarāwa: he did have at least one disciple, the Sevillean Ibn
Ṭalḥa (d. 618/1221), said to have “inclined to the school of Ibn al-Ṭarāwa
in his approach to Arabic.”34
Ibn Maḍāʾ al-Qurṭubī (d. 591/1195) is well-known for the vehemence
of his anti-rationalist position.35 His al-Radd ‘alā l-nuḥāh begins with an
angry tirade against the grammarians of Iraq, and the contents of the
Radd itself are an explicitly Ẓāhirī refutation of the notion of a logical
system of grammatical causes, and a denial that speakers have the free-
dom of will to decide for themselves not only what to say but how to
say it, since speech, like all other human acts, is predetermined by God.
32
See Zimmermann on al-Fārābī’s use of these concepts, and Raṣāʾil 3, 109, for the
Ikhwān, who place the categories in a much wider context, with diffferent aims.
33
Ibn Fāris, Ṣāḥibī, 179. The same notions appear in rhetoric, but after Ibn al-Ṭarāwa’s
time.
34
Al-Yamānī, Ishāra, 315. This is not the same Ibn Ṭalḥa who will be mentioned
below.
35
See Versteegh (1997: 140–152).
He founded no school, though there was at least one grammarian, Abū

Ḥayyān, who had the highest respect for him: after a general statement
about the non-existence of grammatical causes, Abū Ḥayyān goes on to
criticise what he calls the “recent Eastern grammarians” (mutaʾakhkhirū
l-mashāriqa) for their theories, and invokes the name of Ibn Maḍāʾ as one
of the few “Western” grammarians (ahl al-maghrib) to speak out against
these Eastern errors.36
The personal eccentricity of some grammarians is matched by the
idiosyncracy of their grammatical opinions. It is remarkable how many
Maghribi grammarians are said to hold views shared by no-one else. The
Eastern grammarians were probably just as individualistic, but it is not
so apparent because their theories were usually expressed as part of the
Baṣran and Kūfan polarisation.
The aforementioned Ibn al-Ṭarāwa has some unique notions ascribed to
him. One is his theory that the absolute object (maf ʿūl muṭlaq) in ḍarabtu
ḍarban “I struck forcefully” is made dependent by a verb which can never
be expressed, contrary to the generally accepted view that the operator is
the preceding cognate verb or verbal sentence. For Ibn al-Ṭarāwa the only
way to externalise the implicit operator is to use the dummy verb faʿala,
so *ḍarabtu [faʿaltu] ḍarban.37 There is some justifĳication for this in the
fact that the maf ʿūl muṭlaq does not have to be cognate with the preced-
ing verb, e.g. jalastu quʿūdan “I sat down with a squatting action.”
He also is said to have adopted a “third way” (madhhab thālith) in
the interpretation of the preposition min with expressions of time.38 The
majority view is that min has three discrete meanings (partitive, explana-
tory, beginning of a limit), the minority holds that the original meaning is
the beginning of a limit and the two others are extensions of it. Regard-
ing the beginning of a limit Ibn al-Ṭarāwa is alone in insisting that with
expressions of time min must be followed by an ilā phrase (sirtu min
yawmi l-jumuʿati ilā yawmi l-aḥadi “I travelled from Friday to Sunday”),
unlike places, where sirtu min makkata “I travelled from Mecca” does not
require a destination to be stated. He cleverly sidesteps the objection that
the correct word here is mudh “since,” and he is surely right in saying
that *mudh yawmi l-jumuʿati ilā yawmi l-aḥadi would be incorrect any-
way, because mudh is “temporally exhaustive” (tastaghriqu l-zamān), i.e. it
36
al-Gharnāṭī, Manhaj, 229–31.
37
Ibid., 137.
38
Ibid., 238f.
already means “for all the time between then and now,” so no ilā is needed
to mark the end of the elapsed interval.
Ibn Ṭalḥa (b. near Seville, d. Mecca 518/1124) is on his own in the
view that there is no derivational relationship at all between verbs and
maṣdars, i.e. the former are not derived from the latter (Baṣrans) or vice
versa (Kūfans) but each class is independent of the other.39 His supporting
evidence is that there are verbs with no maṣdars and maṣdars with no
verbs, so they cannot be in a derivational relationship.
A certain Ibn Abī ʿĀfĳiya (d. Granada 583/1187) is named as the only
grammarian to hold the view that la- is not lām al-ibtidāʾ when prefĳixed
to predicates.40
Ibn Muʿṭī stands against the majority tradition on a grand scale. He is
described as having a unique opinion on no fewer than seventeen gram-
matical issues.41 The most famous example is his view on the verb mā
dāma, that inversion of the predicate or separation of the mā from dāma
are not permitted, in which, to quote Abū Ḥayyān, he “disagrees with
absolutely everybody.”42
An eighteenth item which can be added to those listed by the editor is
the assertion of Ibn Muʿṭī that the verbs kāna, aṣbaḥa etc. when used with
predicates are called “incomplete” (nāqiṣa) because in this function “they
have been deprived of their denotation of a maṣdar,” by which he seems
to mean that, apart from kawn, the maṣdars of these verbs are not used
with predicates. Ibn Muʿṭī makes no mention at all of the conventional
theory that they are called “incomplete” because they need to be syntacti-
cally completed by a predicate.43
Turning now to terminology, there are many features of Andalusian
grammar which, if they are indeed specifĳic to that area (it is not easy to be
certain that a term or a concept is found only in the West), would confĳirm
39
Ibid., 137.
40
Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 514 (biography in Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 154). The pas-
sage appears to be fragmented, and a reliable interpretation is not possible.
41
Listed in Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, editor’s intro. 55–77. Two examples are: (1) 62 (= p. 192 in
Ibn Muʿṭī’s text), the idea that the maf ʿūl lahu must be “more general” than its operating
verb; (2) 67 (= p. 177) in murra bihi “he was passed by” the phrase bihi is itself the nāʾib ʿan
al-fāʿil, i.e. the agent of the passive verb, something like “by him got passed.” Most of the
others concern individual words or patterns and even the editor admits that Ibn Muʿṭī is
not always the only person to hold such views.
42
Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 618; see Ibn al-Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, 181, and cf. al-Juzūlī,
Muqaddima, 106. See Fuṣūl, editor’s intro. 55–60 for reactions to Ibn al-Muʿṭī.
43
Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, 183, ʿalā l-jumla innamā summiyat hādhihi l-af ʿāl nāqiṣa li-annahā
sulibat al-dalāla ʿalā l-maṣdar ʿinda ʿadamihi fa-idhā wujidat dallat ʿalayhi, wa-minhu
qawluhu wa-kawnuhu ʿibāra ʿan shakhṣ.
that the grammar of the East and West were on divergent paths. A selec-
tion of the more obvious examples is given here, with the reservation that
there is still a great deal of work to be done.
Some terms may be no more than an informal alternative vocabulary
which does not indicate any systematic or theoretical diffferences, e.g. rasm
for “defĳinition” and takhrīj for “analysis.”44 Others may be simply stylistic
variants, such as ʿarraja “to turn, incline” (in the sense of taking something
seriously),45 and ʿaḍada “to support, help,” for the way the evidence “sup-
ports” a grammatical analysis (e.g. yaʿḍuduhu l-samāʿ).46 One picturesque
metaphor is the verb ṭāfa, here probably “to wander about” (ṭ-w-f ) rather
than “to appear like a ghost” (ṭ-y-f ), in the discussion of the conjunction
baynā, which may only be annexed to single nouns if there is “a verbal
sense wandering about in them,47 i.e. if they are maṣdars, so that baynā
has the same meaning as ḥīna, e.g. baynā qiyāmi zaydin aqbala ʿamrun =
ḥīna qiyāmi zaydin. Another personifĳication is ḍamīm “adjunct, travelling
companion,” lit. “person adjoined,” in reference to the fact that mā dāma
“as long as” cannot be used as a main clause, but must be attached to
some ḍamīm, i.e. a previously expressed accompanying idea.48
Other terms may well imply a diffference in theory: for example the
word iqāma “performance,” seems to be used to convey the sense of the
“active” voice of the verb, possibly related to iqāma in the context of
the performance of prayers.49 Abū Ḥayyān also refers to a category of adjec-
tives called nuʿūt al-iḥāṭa, lit “comprehensive epithets,” but it is difffĳicult to
tell from the text what he means, except that they are distinguished from
participles.50 Al-qāṣir li-l-maf ʿūl for the intransitive verb is not familiar
44
Both seen together in Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 613, and passim. To be sure
in p. 715 takhrīj is put in the mouth of Yūnus b. Ḥabīb (d. 182/798), but the account may
have been restated in the words of Abū Ḥayyān or his source.
45
E.g. al-Qurṭubī, Sharḥ, 122, 283, 298. The Andalusian connection is reinforced by Ibn
Sīda’s use of the term, quoted in Lisān al-ʿarab on the word lahā.
46
Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 618.
47
Ibid., 511, idhā ṭāfa fīhā maʿnā l-fĳiʿl ḥamlan ʿalā maʿnā ḥīna. Less likely, but more dra-
matic would be “when haunted by the ghost of a verbal meaning.”
48
Al-Juzūlī, Muqaddima, 105, possibly echoing the term ṣila, which denotes the adjunct/
relative status of the mā dāma clause itself.
49
Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 365. In a literal sense in p. 618: some allow the
intransitive verb to be made passive by putting its own maṣdar in the place of the agent,
iqāmat [al-maṣdar] maqām al-fāʿil.
50
Ibid., 281 and cf. iḥāṭa in the context of tawkīd with kull etc. in Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl,
intro 126, text 235f (from his master al-Juzūlī, see Muqaddima, 73fff); muḥāṭ also occurs in
the context of kull in Abū Ḥayyān, Manhaj, 276. Since Ibn Jinnī (d. 392/1002) has a whole
chapter on iḥtiyāṭ and tawkīd in his Khaṣāʾiṣ we should probably assume that Abū Ḥayyān
is modifying the terminology here rather than innovating.
in the East, where lāzim is more usual.51 Likewise mubham for verbs which
are neither present nor future, by analogy with indefĳinite nouns, suggests
a diffferent concept of the tenses from that which we fĳind in the East.52
Abū Ḥayyān, or more likely his source, Ibn al-Akhḍar al-Ishbīlī (d. Seville
514/1120), uses rabaṭa for the way the conditional particles and the imper-
ative li- prefĳix “tie up” a verb which was previously “loose” (muṭlaq), i.e.
modally unrestricted.53
The term lām al-tabriʾa, lit. “lā of quittance” for the categorical nega-
tive lā may be an Andalusian innovation. It is not found in the earliest
grammar and seems to have been popularised by Ibn Hishām (d. Cairo
761/1360), however it was used earlier, by the Andalusian Ibn ʿUṣfūr (d.
[Tunis ?] 663 or 669/1263 or 1270).54
Two interlocking factors contributed to the emergence of these new
terms and theories, one the desire to improve the teaching of the lan-
guage, the other the need for a dependable theory of grammar to support
theological and legal debate. The practitioners of all these disciplines were
invariably the same people, with overlapping competence, but usually
specialising in one or the other branch, and mutually reinforcing their
own authority and that of their colleagues.
Pedagogical texts throughout the Islamic world show a remarkable inge-
nuity in arrangement, and it would be difffĳicult to single out any uniquely
Western features. From the earliest times grammars were produced in all
shapes and sizes to suit the learners and to demonstrate the expository
skills of the author. One way to impress was to fĳit the subject matter into
a precise but arbitrary number of sections or categories (these examples
not all from the Maghrib): ten chapters in Ibn Bābashādh (d. 469/1077),
a hundred operators in al-Jurjānī (d. 471/1078), fĳifty sections in Ibn Muʿṭī
(d. 628/1231), a thousand verses in Ibn Mālik (672/1274),55 a course promis-
ing to teach the whole language in twenty-four hours by a certain
51
Ibid., 618.
52
Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, intro 115, text 163, with an extract from the commentary of Ibn Iyyāz,
and cf. intro. 101 for additional comments by Ibn Iyyāz. On the other hand, the prefĳixing
of sa- to future verbs has always been seen as equivalent to the prefĳixing of the def. article
to nouns, so mubham is only an extension of that idea.
53
Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 496f. In p. 270 irtabaṭa is used to denote the con-
nection between two conditional clauses.
54
Ibn ʿUṣfūr, Muqarrib 1, 51, lā llatī li-l-tabriya (sic). His place of death is not certain,
nor the manner, which was either by drowning or being pelted with oranges in a tavern,
see editor’s intro. to Muqarrib, 10f.
55
When it comes to originality, Ibn Muʿṭī’s rhymed grammar of a thousand lines pre-
dates the more famous work of Ibn Mālik by a generation, and Ibn Mālik knew this work
and taught it himself.
Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Anṣārī (12th/18th century?)56 and so on. The

most spectacular attempt to formalise grammar, along with all the other
sciences, is the Jawāmiʿ al-ʿulūm of the Transoxanian Ibn Farighūn (fl.
mid-4th/10th century), in which the technical terms of every discipline are
set out in hierarchical diagrams, with lines joining the related concepts, a
forerunner of our present day flow-charts, linguistic trees and neurologi-
cal networks.57
The Fuṣūl of Ibn Muʿṭī goes further than reducing grammar to an arbi-
trary set of fĳifty topics. He has a fondness for groups of three, thus the
maf ʿūl muṭlaq is divided into “vague” (mubham), “quantifĳied” (maʿdūd)
and “specifĳic” (mukhtaṣṣ). Often there are two extremes and an interme-
diate category, thus in exceptive constructions (istithnāʾ) the excepted
nouns are (1) all manṣūb, (2) all majrūr or (3) mutaraddid bayn “hesitating
between,” i.e. they take one of three combinations of inflections. The same
terminology is used for a number of other grammatical classes.58
It is a fair comment that this arrangement, even if unique to Ibn Muʿṭī,
is not evidence of a specifĳically Andalusian approach to language. Rather it
illustrates a universal tendency among teachers to create new ways of pre-
senting the same data, partly in search of pedagogical efffĳiciency, partly to
stand out from the crowd, and partly as a claim of professional authority.
However, there are reasons to believe that the logical foundations of the
grammatical system were afffected by the geographical marginality of
the Maghrib. The authority of grammarians is derived from two sources,
the authenticity of the data (samāʿ) and the coherence of the reasoning
(broadly qiyās), and the Maghrib was cut offf from the fĳirst and became
dependent on the second to a higher degree than in the East, where the
historical presence of Classical Arabic persisted long after its original users
had been absorbed into a culture where it was no longer a mother tongue,
but had to be learnt artifĳicially.
In the East the systematic integration of samāʿ and qiyās, of data and
theory (constructed with the tools of Greek logic) was complete by the
end of the fourth/tenth century, and Ibn Jinnī (d. 392/1002) may be the
last grammarian to have consulted native speakers directly. He is also
the fĳirst grammarian to ask whether language is a rational activity, which
56
Al-Anṣārī, al-Tuḥfa fī l-naḥw, MS. Paris 4208 (Brockelmann 1938: S2, 921).
57
As Biesterfeld (1990: 50) points out, this tashjīr “tree-making” is not new, and was
used earlier by medical writers, e.g. Yūḥannā b. Māsawayhi (d. 243/857) and Ḥunayn b.
Isḥāq (d. 260/873). See also C. E. Bosworth (1998) for editions of Ibn Farighūn.
58
Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, 184, and cf. 189 for istithnāʾ, 203 for an, 204 for idhan, 208 for
elements which are neither nouns nor verbs, 212 for prepositions.
he answered in the afffĳirmative: as a Muʿtazilī, he considered that the

behaviour of Muslims must be treated as rational, and that language, as a
subset of Muslim behaviour, is therefore also rational.
The corpus (samāʿ) being by now closed,59 and the principles of jurispru-
dence (uṣūl al-fĳiqh) established, the East had no more challenges to deal
with except, as we have seen above, to fĳind ever more ways of formulating
the data pedagogically.60 For a time the West was in the same position:
grammar under the Umayyads, as described by Mutlak, was not much
diffferent from grammar in the East, striving for exhaustiveness, extremely
conservative, with a great liking for commentaries and a strong desire to
simplify the pedagogical content.61 This was the kind of grammar which
al-Rabāḥī took back with him to al-Andalus, where scholars still looked
eastwards and eagerly cross-examined immigrants and visitors from the
East for information about a language which was alive for the newcomers
but was gradually receding into the past for the Andalusians, for whom
memorisation was beginning to substitute for direct experience.62
When the Umayyads were eventually replaced by Berber dynasties a
bond with the East was cut, and the efffects of geographical separation
made themselves felt. The Maghribis could no longer claim that they,
along with the Easterners, were the custodians of the original Classical
language, only that some of them were descendants of those who had
imported it into al-Andalus. As the Andalusian population became less
and less ethnically Arab the myth that the East was still linguistically pure
increased in potency, and it was there that the Maghribis travelled in
search of authentic Arabic. The myth never died, but the language taught
in the West became qualitatively diffferent from the Eastern variety, even
if formally identical.
The authority to determine good and bad Arabic was now transferred
from the domain of recorded speech to the domain of logic. New usage
could no longer be validated by reference to a live corpus, but had to con-
form with abstract theoretical principles instead. The East had reached
59
The closure occurred in the fourth/tenth century when the Baṣran view that there
would be no new data triumphed over the Kūfan view that new data might still emerge.
60
Rhetoric is an offfshoot of legal semantics and the last of the Islamic sciences to
appear, but that development simply took grammar into a new dimension without chang-
ing its principles.
61
Mutlak (1967: 18).
62
Al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 249fff describes how Ibn Walīd al-Mahrī (d. 253/856) sought out
visiting Eastern grammarians and poets. The poetry of al-Andalus went through similar
stages, from trying to be as “Arabian” as possible to a conscious striving for independence
both thematically and metrically (Frolov 2000: 245fff, 249fff ).
that position in the fourth/tenth century, but it took a change of régime

from Arab to Berber before the Maghribis were free to detach themselves
intellectually from the East and rely on their own logicians and theorists to
process the inherited corpus independently. The attempt of al-Rabāḥī to
reform the teaching system came to nothing, as memorisation remained
the dominant educational instrument, but what he did achieve, by intro-
ducing the Kitāb of Sībawayhi, the Jumal of al-Zajjājī, and other Eastern
texts, was to determine the content of all the memorisation and thereby
defĳine the evidential basis of grammatical speculation in the Maghrib.
The kind of reasoning which could result is seen in the treatment of
the so-called “fĳive (or six) nouns,” i.e. abū “father” etc., which have long
vowel inflections. They are usually cited with the default masc. sufffĳix -ka,
abūka etc., but for ḥamū “brother-in-law” the forms ḥamūki or ḥamūhā
are chosen in the West, with fem. sufffĳixes, because only a woman can
have a ḥam as her relative.63 Elsewhere we have seen this type of analysis
dismissed as “Ḥanafī” (see Ibn Muʿṭī above), but what is signifĳicant is that
this treatment of ḥamū seems to occur only in Maghribi sources.
The competitiveness which is often associated with marginality is
widely attested in the Maghribi grammarians, as illustrated already.
A fĳinal specimen, trivial but nonetheless revealing, is provided by Ibn
al-Munāṣif (d. in Deniya, about 630/1233). There had emerged in the East
a practice of parsing the title of the fĳirst chapter of Sībawayhi’s Kitāb as
a student exercise or display of professional skill, and in the fourth/tenth
century two grammarians, al-Naḥḥās (d. 338/950) and Abū ʿAlī al-Fārisī (d.
377/987) managed to discover “forty-odd” and fĳifty parsings respectively.64
But Ibn al-Munāṣif goes far beyond this by dictating 130 parsings, which
fĳilled twenty fascicles!65
A further symptom of geographical isolation might at fĳirst sight seem
paradoxical, namely the striking preference in the Maghrib for one par-
ticular work (apart from the Kitāb), the Jumal of the Eastern grammar-
ian al-Zajjājī (d. 337/948 or later). Sezgin lists some fĳifty commentaries
63
E.g. ḥamūki in Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Tadhkira, 278 (from the Cordovan Abū Bakr
Khaṭṭāb b. Yūsuf al-Māridī, d. after 450/1085), and ḥamūhā in Ibn Muʿṭī, Fuṣūl, editor’s
intro. 103, text 159. There was also an opinion that ḥam could denote a relative of the
husband as well, in both Eastern and Western lexica, in which case ḥamūka would cause
no problems.
64
Sezgin (1984: 59, 208, 249 for al-Naḥḥās, ibid., 108 for al-Fārisī). The latter work is
part of a majmūʿa which has not been separately catalogued, hence it is not listed among
the Kitāb commentaries in Sezgin, 58fff. The fĳigure of “forty-odd” parsings for al-Naḥḥās is
taken from a secondary source in al-Qurṭubī, Sharḥ, 8, fn. 2 from the previous page.
65
Ibid., 62; there is no direct evidence, we rely on the secondary sources listed there.
and derivative works on this text by known authors,66 and remarkably no

fewer than thirty-nine are by Maghribis or by scholars who moved there
from the East. This proportion would be abnormal in any context, and is
all the more puzzling because al-Zajjājī had no Maghribi pupils, except an
obscure Sicilian. It is difffĳicult to account for the extraordinary popularity
of the Jumal as anything other than a deliberate act of appropriation to
mark group identity, perhaps related to the fact that al-Zajjājī’s work fell
out of favour in the East and was replaced by the Īḍāḥ of al-Fārisī and the
Lumaʿ of Ibn Jinnī.67
Much of this paper is of a speculative nature, and the evidence is often
impressionistic, never exhaustive, and always vulnerable to contradiction,
but the objective diffferences between East and West are clear enough,
some documented by the participants themselves, others inferred from
their grammatical texts. There is an interesting parallel in the cultural
rivalries of our own time in the competing forms of English in the old and
new worlds. The diffferences between British and American spelling may
not have started out as badges of allegiance, but Webster made them so
in his dictionary, which had the declared aim of asserting the autonomy
of American English.
A more important parallel, very relevant to our theme, is the devel-
opment of theoretical linguistics in Europe and America. European lin-
guistics was initially descriptive and inductive (e.g. the Prague school),
while in America it was conspicuously deductive, notoriously so in Trans-
formational Grammar.68 This is not the place to try to account for the
emergence of the two conflicting schools of linguistics, we should merely
note the historical fact that American theoretical linguistics was of a kind
which reflected America’s growing intellectual independence from the old
world.
The mediaeval Maghrib faced the same challenge, to preserve the com-
mon inherited language and culture while maintaining the identity of the
margin against a distant and no longer dominant centre, and just as this
66
Ibid., 88–93. The fĳigures are symbolic, as Sezgin counts as one item an author who
wrote three commentaries (no. 36, Ibn ʿUṣfūr), and further works are still coming to
light.
67
See Versteegh (1995: 3f ) for sources, in one of which the Maghribis are said to boast
of having written more than 120 commentaries on the Jumal. A quick look at the Īḍāḥ of
al-Fārisī and the Lumaʿ of Ibn Jinnī in Sezgin yields an inverse representation of Maghribi
commentators, who are decidedly in the minority.
68
Dahlgren (1998: ch. 2), gives a contrastive review of these opposing methodologies as
they afffect the linguistic analysis of Arabic.
was achieved in the legal schools, the Qurʾān Readings and the educa-
tional system, not to mention the architecture, script and poetry of the
Maghrib, so it was realised through a grammar which afffĳirmed the separ-
ateness of the Maghribis from their fellow Muslims in the East.
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KHABAR / INSHĀʾ, UNE FOIS ENCORE
Pierre Larcher
Introduction
Ibn Mālik, grammairien d’origine andalouse mort à Damas en 672/1274,

est connu comme l’auteur de petits ouvrages didactiques, notamment la
Alfĳiyya ou « quintessence de la grammaire en mille vers. » Mais il est aussi
l’auteur d’un ouvrage en prose, le Tashīl al-fawāʾid wa-takmīl al-maqāṣid
(désormais : Tashīl), manifestement destiné à un public « avancé. » Moha-
med Ben Cheneb (1869–1929), cependant, y voit un « manuel de grammaire
dont la concision est proche de l’obscurité. »1 Henri Fleisch (1904–1985)
qualifĳie le passage du Tashīl consacré aux formes dérivées « d’exposé abs-
trait, sans aucun exemple. »2 En fait le Tashīl est un texte qui requiert
un commentaire. Ce commentaire existe. C’est Ibn Mālik lui-même qui
l’avait entrepris, mais sans l’achever. Son fĳils Badr al-Dīn (m. 688/1286) l’a
poursuivi, mais sans l’achever non plus. Ce commentaire a été publié. Un
premier tome en était paru en 1974, au Caire, apparemment sans suite.
Mais en 1990 une édition complète en paraissait, représentant 66 des 80
chapitres du Tashīl. En conclusion du compte rendu que j’avais fait de
cette édition dans le revue Arabica3, j’écrivais : « Bien que commentaire
partiel du Tashīl et partiellement de Ibn Mālik, cet ouvrage n’en est pas
moins un « monument », pouvant rendre d’éminents services à un histo-
rien de la grammaire arabe, comme j’essaierai de le montrer au travers
d’une note ultérieure consacrée aux objets ayant trait au inshāʾ. » D’autres
travaux m’ont empêché de jamais rédiger cette note. Mais la rédaction
récente de l’article « ʾInšāʾ » pour Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and
Linguistics4 m’a amené à reprendre le dossier. Je suis heureux de le pro-
poser au Festschrift pour notre collègue Ramzi Baalbaki, un des historiens
de la grammaire arabe à s’être intéressé à la catégorie5.
1
Ben Cheneb (1927 : Ibn Mālik).
2
Fleisch (1979 : 273 n. 1).
3
Larcher (1996).
4
Idem, (2007).
5
Baalbaki (2000).
50 pierre larcher
1. Wa-yanṣarif al-māḍī ilā l-ḥāl bi-l-inshāʾ
Le premier objet est une proposition, que l’on rencontre dans le pre-
mier chapitre du Tashīl, consacré au kalām et à la kalima, c’est-à-dire à
l’énoncé et à ses constituants. Après avoir rappelé qu’il y en a trois clas-
ses (nom, verbe, particule) et que le verbe lui-même est de trois espèces
(māḍī, muḍāriʿ, amr), Ibn Mālik (Tashīl 5) note à propos du māḍī (litt.
« passé ») qu’« il est converti en présent par la performance et en futur
par la jussion, la promesse, la coordination à ce dont le caractère futur est
connu et la négation par lā ou in après un serment » (wa-yanṣarif al-māḍī
ilā l-ḥāl bi-l-inshāʾ wa-ilā l-istiqbāl bi-l-ṭalab wa-l-waʿd wa-bi-l-ʿaṭf bi-mā
ʿulima istiqbāluhu wa-bi-l-nafy bi-lā wa-in baʿda l-qasam). Voici le com-
mentaire que Ibn Mālik fait de la première phrase dans le Sharḥ al-Tashīl
(1, 29–30) :
inshāʾ, dans la langue, est le maṣdar de anshaʾa fulānun yaf ʿalu kadhā [« Untel
s’est mis à faire telle chose »], c’est-à-dire ibtadaʾa [« il a commencé »].
Puis on a désigné par ce terme le fait d’efffectuer quelque chose que l’on
vise, au moyen d’une expression, la chose visée existant conjointement à
l’expression, ainsi le fait d’efffectuer le don en mariage au moyen de zawwajtu
[« je donne en mariage »], la répudiation au moyen de ṭallaqtu [« je répudie »],
la vente et l’achat au moyen de biʿtu [« je vends »] et ishtaraytu [« j’achète »].
Ces verbes et ceux qui leur sont similaires sont formellement passés, mais
sémantiquement présents, parce qu’ils ont pour but la performance, c’est-
à-dire l’efffectuation de leurs signifĳiés, au moment de leur énonciation, et
c’est à ces verbes et à leurs semblables que fait référence notre afffĳirmation
de « le passé se convertit en présent par la performance » (al-inshāʾ fī l-lu-
gha maṣdar anshaʾa fulānun kadhā ay ibtadaʾa thumma ʿubbira bihi ʿan īqāʿ
maʿnā bi-lafẓ yuqārinuhu fī l-wujūd ka-īqāʿ al-tazwīj bi-zawwajtu wa-l-taṭlīq
bi-ṭallaqtu wa-l-bayʿ wa-l-shirāʾ bi-biʿtu wa-ishtaraytu fa-hādhihi al-af ʿāl
wa-amthāluhā māḍiyat al-lafẓ ḥāḍirat al-maʿnā li-annahā quṣida bihā l-inshāʾ
ay īqāʿ maʿānīhā ḥāl al-nuṭq bihā fa-ilā hādhihi l-af ʿāl wa-naḥwihā l-ishāra
bi-qawlinā wa-yanṣarif al-māḍī ilā l-ḥāl bi-l-inshāʾ).
Ce commentaire permet aussitôt de reconnaître dans le inshāʾ arabe
l’équivalent de ce qu’on appelle dans la linguistique occidentale moderne,
depuis John Langshaw Austin (1911–1960), performatif 6. En ce qui concerne
l’intension du terme, on notera que, dans les deux extraits précités, il
désigne, non l’énoncé performatif, mais l’énonciation performative d’une
phrase (ce que nous rendons par « performance »), qui, dans un contexte
6
Austin, (1962 [1970]). Cette identifĳication est proposée dans Larcher (1980). Elle l’est
également dans Moutaouakil (1982).
khabar / inshāʾ, une fois encore 51
particulier, revient à faire ce que l’on dit que l’on fait. En ce qui concerne
l’extension du terme, en revanche, les exemples qui en sont donnés cor-
respondent exactement aux premiers exemples de Austin, c’est-à-dire des
performatifs tout à la fois explicites7 et juridiques.
Le caractère juridique du inshāʾ est bien attesté par la défĳinition qu’en
donne Ibn Mālik comme īqāʿ maʿnā bi-lafẓ yuqārinuhu fī l-wujūd, où appa-
raît le terme de īqāʿ. Ce dernier se rencontre, dès les plus anciens traités
de fĳiqh—par exemple, le Jāmiʿ al-kabīr d’al-Shaybānī (m. 189/805)—pour
désigner l’efffectuation d’un acte juridique. Par ailleurs, dans cette défĳi-
nition, on peut en principe hésiter sur ce qui, de lafẓ ou de maʿnā, est le
sujet et partant l’objet de yuqārinu. Mais l’ouvrage de Zarkashī, m. 794/1392
(Manthūr 1, 205) permet de trancher qui écrit īqāʿ lafẓ li-maʿnā yuqārinuhu
fī l-wujūd (« le fait qu’une expression réalise quelque chose que l’on
vise, cette chose existant conjointement à cette expression »). C’est une
variante de cette défĳinition qu’on trouve dans le Sharḥ Shudhūr al-dhahab
(32) de Ibn Hishām al-Anṣārī (m. 760/1361), pour qui inshā’ est, par oppo-
sition à khabar et ṭalab, l’énoncé (kalām) où « l’existence de ce qu’il vise
et l’existence de son expression » (wujūd maʿnāhu wa-wujūd lafẓihi) « sont
en connexion » (yaqtarinā). S’il s’agit toujours du inshāʾ stricto sensu, il
désigne désormais, par une simple et banale métonymie du procès pour
son résultat, non plus seulement l’énonciation, mais encore l’énoncé per-
formatif. Et cette défĳinition est répétée par Suyūṭī (Itqān 2, 76 et Hamʿ,
12), mais avec suppression de wujūd : al-kalām (. . .) in iqtarana maʿnāhu
bi-lafẓihi fa-huwa l-inshāʾ (« l’énoncé (. . .) si ce qu’il vise est connecté à son
expression, c’est le performatif ») . . .
Il y a plus. La seconde des deux propositions du Tashīl (wa-yanṣarif
al-māḍī (. . .) ilā l-istiqbāl bi-l-ṭalab) apparaît dans le Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya (2,
225) de Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī (m. 688/1289), au chapitre du māḍī,
sous une forme légèrement diffférente : « Sache que le passé est converti
en futur par la performance jussive »8 (wa-iʿlam anna l-māḍī yanṣarif ilā
l-istiqbāl bi-l-inshāʾ al-ṭalabī). À l’expression de ṭalab, employée par Ibn
Mālik, est substituée celle de inshāʾ ṭalabī, qui désigne inshāʾ et ṭalab
7
Austin (1962 [1970 : 62]) appelle « explicites » (explicit performatives), ceux des perfor-
matifs nommant l’acte que leur énonciation accomplit, par exemple « je vous ordonne de
partir, » par opposition à « implicites » (implicit performatives), dont l’énonciation accom-
plit le même acte, mais sans le dire, par exemple « Partez ! ».
8
Dans Larcher (1980), ṭalab et ṭalabī sont traduits par « rogation » et « rogatif, » seule-
ment transparents aujourd’hui pour des latinistes. Ultérieurement, nous leur avons subs-
titué « jussion » et « jussif » qui, bien que d’origine latine, n’en sont pas moins intelligibles
à tous, du fait de leur utilisation dans la linguistique d’expression anglaise.
52 pierre larcher
comme étant désormais dans la relation de genre à espèce. La même rela-

tion se retrouve dans la proposition initiale du Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya, entre inshāʾ
et īqāʿ : « la forme verbale la plus employée dans la performance opéra-
tive9 est le māḍī » (wa-akthar mā yustaʿmal fī l-inshāʾ al-īqāʿī min amthilat
al-fĳiʿl huwa l-māḍī). On peut alors reconstruire, par analogie au Tashīl, au
lieu et place de cette proposition initiale explicite, la proposition impli-
cite : « le passé est converti en présent par la performance opérative. » La
seule diffférence entre les deux textes est que Ibn Mālik emploie ici inshāʾ
dans le sens restreint d’énonciation performative, tout à la fois explicite
et juridique, alors que Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī l’emploie dans le sens
large de toute énonciation non assertive, mais en le subdivisant en īqāʿī
et ṭalabī.
La terminologie du Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya est ainsi directement tributaire du
Tashīl, ou, à défaut, d’une source commune aux deux. Cette terminologie
est en efffet particulière. Si la division des énoncés en khabar et inshāʾ est
« standard, » la subdivision du inshāʾ en īqāʿī et ṭalabī faite dans Sharḥ
al-Kāfĳiya (2, 225, mais aussi en 1, 211) ne l’est pas. L’encyclopédie de Kafawī
(m. 1094/1683), intitulée Kulliyyāt al-ʿulūm, la reprend (art inshāʾ 1, 331sq),
mais en la rapportant (5, 266) explicitement à Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī.
C’est sans doute via cette encyclopédie qu’elle a pu être connue même des
arabisants, notamment Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer (1801–1888)10.
Enfĳin, la formulation de Ibn Mālik, reprise par Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī,
nous renseigne sur la conception que ces grammairiens se font de la
valeur temporelle du māḍī. Même s’ils considèrent comme fondamentale
la valeur temporelle de passé, qui fait le nom grammatical de cette forme,
elle n’en reste pas moins fonction de la valeur pragmatique de son énon-
ciation. Dire en efffet que le « passé » devient présent dans le cadre d’un
emploi performatif ou futur dans le cadre d’un emploi jussif implique qu’il
n’est passé que dans le cadre d’un emploi assertif . . .
Du même coup, on comprend mieux pourquoi il n’existe pas, dans
la terminologie grammaticale arabe, d’équivalent de notre catégorie de
mode11. Dans notre tradition, mode est une catégorie d’origine logique,
9
īqāʿī étant un adjectif de relation (nisba) formé sur le terme juridique de īqāʿ, nous
reprenons à Austin (1970 : 42) le terme d’opératif (operative), auquel il a songé pour dési-
gner les énoncés performatifs : « parmi les termes techniques, il y a en un qui, peut-être
se rapprocherait le plus de ce que nous cherchons : il s’agit du mot operative, tel qu’il est
employé (au sens strict) par les hommes de loi, lorsqu’ils veulent se référer à la partie (i.e.
aux clauses) d’un acte juridique qui sert à efffectuer la transaction elle-même. »
10
Cf. Fleischer (1968[1885–1888] : 1, 779–780 et 3, 541–542).
11
Cf. Versteegh (2004), en particulier p. 281.
qui désigne l’attitude du sujet (pensant, avant même que parlant) face au
dictum ou contenu propositionnel. En grammaire, les modes (indicatif,
impératif . . .) du verbe sont censés refléter cette attitude intellectuelle ou
psychologique. À première vue, une des trois formes conjuguées du verbe
reconnues par les grammairiens arabes, le fĳiʿl al-amr ou « verbe d’ordre, »
i.e. l’impératif, semble porter une étiquette modale. Pourtant, dès le départ,
c’est bien plus en termes d’actes illocutoires (ou illocutionnaires)12 qu’en
termes de modes qu’elles sont caractérisées, comme cela apparaît par
exemple dans le premier chapitre du Kitāb de Sībawayhi (m. 177/793 ?)13:
La forme de ce qui n’est pas [encore] arrivé, c’est que tu dises, en donnant
un ordre, idhhab [« va ! »], uqtul [« tue ! »] et iḍrib [« frappe ! »] et, en fai-
sant une assertion, yaqtulu [« il tuera »], yadhhabu [« il ira »], yaḍribu [« il
frappera »], yuqtalu [« il sera tué »] et yuḍrabu [« il sera frappé »] et il en
va de même de la forme de ce qui ne s’est pas [encore] interrompu, mais
existe, quand on fait une assertion » (wa-ammā bināʾ mā lam yaqaʿ fa-innahu
qawluka āmiran idhhab wa-qtul wa-ḍrib wa-mukhbiran yaqtulu wa-yadhhabu
wa-yaḍribu wa-yuqtalu wa-yuḍrabu wa-kadhālika bināʾ mā lam yanqaṭiʿ wa-
huwa kāʾin idhā akhbarta).
Ici, c’est la syntaxe même qui désigne l’ordre et l’assertion comme des
« actes de parole » (speech acts)14: les participes actifs des verbes amara et
akhbara y apparaissent en fonction de « complément d’état » du maṣdar
qawl ; de ce fait, mais aussi du fait du pronom afffĳixe—ka, représentant
logiquement le sujet du verbe, et de la phrase « citée » qui suit et qui en
est le complément d’objet, qawl est lui-même en fonction verbale ( yaʿmal
ʿamal fĳiʿlihi).
Si l’on voulait parler du inshāʾ, synonyme de īqāʿ ou qualifĳié de īqāʿī,
comme d’un mode, c’est seulement comme d’un mode particulier de réfé-
rence des mots aux choses qu’on pourrait le faire. C’est le commentaire
même que fait le Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya de Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī (2, 225)
qui autorise cette conclusion :
12
Austin (1962 [1970] appelle ainsi l’acte de faire quelque chose dans le fait même de
dire quelque chose (« the illocutionary act is the act performed in saying something »),
par opposition à locutoire (ou locutionnaire), qui est simplement l’acte de dire quelque
chose (« the locutionary act is the act of saying something »), et perlocutoire (ou perlo-
cutionnaire) qui est l’acte de faire quelque chose par le fait de dire quelque chose (« the
illocutionary act is the act performed by saying something »).
13
Sībawayhi, Kitāb 1, 12.
14
C’est là la terminologie de Searle (1969).
54 pierre larcher
La diffférence entre le biʿtu performatif et le abīʿu par quoi on vise le pré-

sent est la suivante : l’expression abīʿu a nécessairement besoin d’une vente
extérieure existant autrement que par cette expression. Par cette expres-
sion, on vise son adéquation à cette réalité. Si l’adéquation visée est réalisée,
l’énoncé est vrai et, sinon, il est faux (. . .). Quant au performatif biʿtu, il n’a
pas de référent, auquel on voudrait qu’il soit adéquat ; au contraire, la vente
se réalise ipso facto et c’est cette expression qui en est la créatrice (wa-l-farq
bayna biʿtu al-inshāʾī wa- abīʿu al-maqṣūd bihi l-ḥāl anna qawlaka abīʿu lā
budda lahu min bayʿ khārij ḥāṣil bi-ghayr hādhā l-lafẓ tuqṣad bi-hādhā l-lafẓ
muṭābaqatuhu li-hādhā l-khārij fa-in ḥaṣalat al-muṭābaqa al-maqṣūda fa-l-
kalām ṣidq wa-illā fa-huwa kadhib (. . .) wa-ammā biʿtu al-inshāʾī fa-innahu
lā khārij lahu tuqṣad muṭābaqatuhu bal al-bayʿ yaḥṣul fī l-ḥāl bi-hādhā l-lafẓ
wa-hādhā l-lafẓ mūjid lahu)15.
Autrement dit, alors que dans l’afffĳirmation abīʿu, ce sont les mots qui
sont ou non conformes aux choses, dans le performatif biʿtu, ce sont
inversement les choses qui se conforment aux mots : ce sont eux en efffet
qui créent une réalité nouvelle, en l’espèce une vente au sens juridique
du terme. Abīʿu et biʿtu s’opposent donc exactement, si l’on reprend la
terminologie même de Austin, comme un énoncé constatif (constative
utterrance)16 à un énoncé performatif, ou encore, un énoncé référentiel à
un énoncé sui-référentiel.
2. Khabar inshāʾī aw ghayr inshāʾī
Le second objet est remarquable à deux titres : ce n’est pas seulement

une catégorie en forme d’oxymore ; encore constitue-t-elle, en l’état des
publications de moi connues, un hapax (si l’on excepte le Jāmiʿ al-ṣaghīr
de Ibn Hishām al-Anṣārī).
La mention de cet objet prend place dans le Tashīl au chapitre du
maf ʿūl muṭlaq, fonction occupée, en principe, par un maṣdar. Ibn Mālik
indique que le régissant de celui-ci (i.e. le verbe dont ce maṣdar est le
complément résultatif)17 peut ou doit être ellipsé. Cette ellipse est obliga-
15
Nous limitons la citation du texte à l’essentiel. Pour une citation intégrale, cf. Larcher
(1990 : 199 et 213 pour le texte et sa traduction).
16
Austin (1962) substitue au terme traditionnel d’afffĳirmation (statement) celui de
constat, afĳin de restreindre la catégorie aux afffĳirmations descriptives de faits et, par suite,
vraies ou fausses.
17
Dans l’expression maf ʿūl muṭlaq, muṭlaq s’oppose à muqayyad bi-ḥarf (« restreint par
une proposition ») : c’est le complément du verbe, dont le nom est dépourvu du syntagme
prépositionnel que l’on trouve dans les noms des quatre autres compléments du verbe
(bihi, fīhi, lahu, maʿahu). De ce fait, maf ʿūl doit être lu au premier niveau comme « efffet
toire, entre autres cas, quand le maṣdar est « le substitut de l’énonciation
d’un verbe usité dans (. . .) une afffĳirmation performative ou non » (p. 88)
(wa-yuḥdhaf ʿāmil al-maṣdar (. . .) wujūban (. . .) li-kawnihi badalan min
al-lafẓ bi-fĳiʿl mustaʿmal (. . .) fī khabar inshāʾī aw ghayr inshāʾī). Les exem-
ples font défaut dans le Tashīl, mais le khabar inshā’ī est aussitôt exempli-
fĳié dans le Sharḥ al-Tashīl (2, 187) :
Et ce qui vient, de cette catégorie [i.e. ce dont le régissant est obligatoire-
ment efffacé du fait qu’il est le substitut de l’énonciation d’un verbe utilisé],
dans une afffĳirmation performative, c’est ḥamdan wa-shukran lā jazaʿan
[« Louange et merci, non impatience ! »], ʿajaban [« Merveille ! »] qasaman
la-af ʿalannahu [« Serment, je [le] ferai »] (wa-l-wārid minhu fī khabar inshāʾī
ḥamdan wa-shukran lā jazaʿan wa-ʿajaban wa-qasaman la-af ʿalanna)
et, de même, un peu plus loin, le khabar ghayr inshāʾī :
Quant à l’afffĳirmation non performative, c’est, par exemple, ce qu’on dit en
faisant une promesse à un être cher af ʿalu wa-karāmatan wa-masarratan
[« je le ferai, et très volontiers »] ou ce que l’on dit à quelqu’un contre qui
on est colère lā af ʿalu wa-lā kaydan wa-lā hamman [« je ne le ferai pas, en
aucune manière »] et la-af ʿalanna mā yasūʾuka wa-raghman wa-hawānan
[« oui, je ferai ce qui peut te nuire, à titre de vexation et d’humiliation »]
(wa-ammā l-khabar ghayr al-inshāʾī fa-ka-qawlika fī waʿd man yaʿuzzu
ʿalayka af ʿalu karāmatan wa-masarratan wa-ka-qawlika li-l-maghḍūb ʿalayhi
lā af ʿalu wa-lā kaydan wa-lā hamman wa-la-af ʿalanna mā yasūʾuka wa-ra-
ghman wa-hawānan)18.
Avant la publication du Sharḥ al-Tashīl, je ne connaissais l’expression de
khabar inshā’ī, en dehors du Tashīl, malheureusement sans exemple, que
par le Jāmiʿ al-ṣaghīr de Ibn Hishām al-Anṣārī (56) :
son régissant doit être ellipsé s’il est le substitut de l’énonciation d’un verbe
usité dans une afffĳirmation performative, ainsi ḥamdan wa-shukran lā kufran
[« louange et merci, non ingratitude ! »] (wa-yuḥdhaf ʿāmiluhu (. . .) wujūban
in kāna badalan min al-lafẓ bi-fĳiʿl mustaʿmal (. . .) fī khabar inshāʾī ka-qawli-
him ḥamdan wa-shukran lā kufran).
Cet opuscule ne fait rien d’autre que répéter le Tashīl, mais il nous
conserve, pour les exemples, une leçon meilleure que celle retenue par
(de l’action) » et au second niveau comme « complément du verbe marquant l’efffet de

l’action », ce que nous appelons complément résultatif.
18
Selon Ibn Yaʿīsh (m. 643/1245), Sharḥ al-Mufaṣṣal 1, 114, lā kaydan wa-lā hamman =
lā akādu an af ʿala wa-lā ahummu bi-hi hamman = « je ne suis pas près de le faire ni n’y
songe » et raghman wa-hawānan = urghimuka bi-fĳiʿlihi raghman wa-uhīnuka bihi hawānan
= « je te vexerai et t’humilierai en le faisant ».
56 pierre larcher
l’éditeur du Sharḥ al-Tashīl 19: kufran, antonyme de shukran, est plus

vraisemblable que jazaʿan antonyme de ṣabran. La correction que nous
proposons est confĳirmée par ce qu’écrit Badr al-Dīn, sans distinguer
d’ailleurs entre un khabar inshāʾī et un khabar ghayr inshāʾī, dans le com-
mentaire de la Alfĳiyya de son père (p. 269) :
Quant à ce qui est fréquemment employé, c’est, par exemple, ce qu’on dit,
en se remémorant une grâce, allāhumma ḥamdan wa-shukran lā kufran ; en
se remémorant une circonstance adverse ṣabran lā jazaʿan [« Patience, non
impatience ! »] ; lors de la manifestation d’un objet d’admiration ʿajaban
[« Merveille ! »] ; en s’adressant à quelqu’un dont on est satisfait af ʿalu
dhālika wa-karāmatan wa-masarratan [« je le ferai très volontiers »] et en
s’adressant à quelqu’un contre lequel on est en colère lā af ʿalu wa-lā kaydan
wa-lā hamman [« je ne le ferai pas, en aucune manière »] et la-af ʿalanna mā
yasūʾuka wa-raghman wa-hawānan [« oui, je ferai ce qui t’est dommageable,
très désobligeamment »] (ammā mā kathura stiʿmāluhu fa-ka-qawlihim ʿinda
tadhakkur niʿma allāhumma ḥamdan wa-shukran lā kufran wa-ʿinda tadhakkur
shidda ṣabran lā jazaʿan wa-ʿinda ẓuhūr mā yuʿjab minhu ʿajaban wa-ʿinda
khiṭāb marḍī ʿanhu af ʿalu dhālika wa-karāmatan wa-masarratan wa-ʿinda
khiṭāb maghḍūb ʿalayhi lā af ʿalu dhālika wa-lā kaydan wa-lā hamman wa-la-
af ʿalanna dhālika wa-raghman wa-hawānan).
On mesurera l’ « originalité » de Ibn Mālik, en comparant avec ce que Ibn
Yaʿīsh écrit dans le Sharḥ al-Mufaṣṣal (1, 114) sur le même sujet : « les verbes
implicites régissant ces maṣdar-s à l’accusatif sont des afffĳirmations par les-
quelles l’énonciateur fait une assertion sur lui-même » (hādhihi l-maṣādir
af ʿāluhā l-nāṣiba lahā l-muḍmara akhbār yukhbir bihā l-mutakallim ʿan
nafsihi), ajoutant que « [ḥamdan wa-shukran] ont le sens (bi-maʿnā) de
aḥmadu llāha ḥamdan wa-ashkuruhu shukran [litt. « je loue Dieu louange
et le remercie remerciement »]. » Dans la mesure où khabar inshāʾī qua-
lifĳie le verbe régissant le maṣdar et auquel ce maṣdar se substitue, il est
l’équivalent arabe de ce qu’on a appelé plus haut, à la suite de Austin,
« performatif explicite » (explicit performative), c’est-à-dire d’un énoncé
de forme afffĳirmative, mais de sens performatif : l’énoncé dit ce que ce son
énonciation revient à faire. En opposant à khabar inshāʾī un khabar ghayr
inshāʾī, Ibn Mālik paraît d’ailleurs confĳirmer cette interprétation : si inshāʾ =
ghayr al-khabar, alors ghayr al-inshāʾī peut se réécrire (deux–faisant un +)
khabarī. Ce faisant, Ibn Mālik n’oppose pas simplement khabar à inshāʾ
19
Ce dernier indique en note (2, 187, n. 5) que « à la place de lā jazaʿan wa-ʿajaban , il y
a dans [le manuscrit] B lā ʿajaban wa-kufran » ! Ce n’est pas prendre un grand risque que
de rétablir la leçon qui s’impose, à savoir lā-kufran suivi de ʿajaban.
comme un énoncé constatif à un énoncé performatif, encore distingue-t-il

entre deux façons pour une afffĳirmation de se référer aux choses et que Réca-
nati (1981) propose d’appeler respectivement constative et performative.
Mais, là encore, il y a plus. Entre les exemples qu’il donne du khabar
inshāʾī et du khabar ghayr inshā’ī, Ibn Mālik ajoute en efffet :
Sībawayhi a dit : « Parmi les cas où l’on fléchit à l’accusatif le maṣdar en
tant que maṣdar d’un verbe occulté qu’on n’explicite pas, mais avec valeur
d’admiration, l’expression de karaman [« Générosité ! »] et ṣalafan [« Vante-
rie ! »], comme s’il disait akramaka llāhu [« Dieu t’a fait généreux ! »], parce qu’il
est devenu, a ajouté Sībawayhi, un substitut de ton expression akrim bihi [« Qu’il
est généreux ! »] et aṣlif [« Qu’il est vantard ! »] (qāla Sībawayhi wa-mimmā
yantaṣib fīhi l-maṣdar ʿalā iḍmār al-fĳiʿl al-matrūk iẓhāruhu wa-lākinnahu fī
maʿnā l-taʿajjub qawluhu karaman wa-ṣalafan ka-annahu yaqūlu akramaka
llāhu thumma qāla li-annahu ṣāra badal min qawlika akrim bihi wa-aṣlif ).
La citation de Sībawayhi est cependant tronquée, ainsi que le fait remar-
quer en note (2, 187, n. 6) l’éditeur qui renvoie au Kitāb (1, 165 de l’édition
de Būlāq = 1, 328 de l’édition Hārūn) dont il restitue le texte :
ka-annahu yaqūlu alzamaka llāhu wa-adāma laka karaman wa-ulzimta
ṣalafan wa-lākinnahum khazalū l-fĳiʿl hāhunā kamā khazalū fī l-awwal li-an-
nahu ṣāra badalan min qawlika akrim bihi wa-aṣlif bihi : « comme s’il disait
« Dieu t’a attaché une perpétuelle générosité » et « tu es indécrottablement
vantard, » mais on a supprimé le verbe ici comme on l’a fait dans le premier
cas, parce qu’il est devenu un substitut de ton expression « Qu’il est géné-
reux ! » et « Qu’il est vantard ! ».
Et Ibn Mālik de conclure : « et je dirai : « cela aussi fait partie de ce qu’englobe
l’afffĳirmation performative » [c’est moi qui souligne] » (qultu wa-hādhā
ayḍan mimmā yatanāwaluhu l-khabar al-inshāʾī).
Si j’ai souligné cette dernière phrase c’est parce qu’elle annonce une
seconde occurrence de la même expression, que l’on trouve justement
au chapitre du « verbe d’admiration » ( fĳiʿl al-taʿajjub), nom grammatical
arabe des structures mā af ʿalahu et af ʿil bihi = « qu’il est A ! », où A est
un adjectif. Du second des deux, Ibn Mālik écrit dans le Tashīl (p. 130) :
« Tel af ʿala est af ʿil, afffĳirmation et non ordre, l’objet de l’admiration après
lui étant régi au génitif par un bi- explétif inséparable » (ka-af ʿala af ʿil
khabaran lā amran majrūran baʿdahu l-mutaʿajjab minhu bi-bāʾ zāʾida
lāzima). Proposition dont Ibn Mālik donne le commentaire suivant (Sharḥ
al-Tashīl 3, 33) : « il est formellement un ordre, mais sémantiquement une
afffĳirmation performative [c’est moi qui souligne] prédiquée de l’objet de
l’admiration, régi au génitif par bi » ([i]nnahu fī l-lafz amr wa-fī l-maʿnā
khabar inshāʾī musnad ilā l-mutaʿajjab minhu majrūran bi-l-bāʾ).
58 pierre larcher
En déclarant dans le Tashīl que af ʿil (bihi) est une afffĳirmation et non
un ordre et dans le Sharḥ al-Tashīl qu’il est formellement un ordre, mais
sémantiquement une afffĳirmation, Ibn Mālik montre qu’il entend bien ici
khabar au sens sémantique de « constat. » Mais en qualifĳiant ce khabar de
inshāʾī, il admet que ce n’est pas seulement un « constat, » encore est-ce
un performatif d’« admiration. »20
On peut alors dire que l’expression de khabar inshāʾī annonce celle de
inshāʾ juzʾuhu l-khabar dont Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī se sert pour carac-
tériser le fĳiʿl al-madḥ (« verbe d’éloge ») niʿma (Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya 2, 311) et
autres structures exclamatives21. À ceci près, qui n’est pas rien, que Ibn
Mālik le conçoit comme une afffĳirmation à laquelle s’ajoute une dimen-
sion performative, alors que Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī le conçoit comme
un performatif incluant un élément ( juzʾ) afffĳirmatif. Autrement dit Ibn
Mālik le conçoit comme ce que l’on appellerait dans notre tradition une
afffĳirmation « modifĳiée, »22 tandis que Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī ouvre
la porte à l’interprétation de l’élément khabar, non comme posé, mais
comme présupposé23. Cette interprétation est confĳirmée par la description
que donne chacun de ces deux grammairiens du kam al-khabariyya (ainsi
appelé pour le distinguer du kam al-istifhāmiyya ou « interrogatif »). Ibn
Mālik y voit (2, 442) « un nom par quoi on vise l’assertion sur le mode
du takthīr » (ism yuqṣad bihi l-ikhbār ʿalā sabīl al-takthīr), alors que Raḍī
al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī (2, 94) voit dans kam rajulin laqītuhu (« combien
d’hommes j’ai rencontrés ! ») ce qu’il appelle un istikthār al-liqāʾ. Le terme
de istikthār ne fait que renouveler celui de takthīr, dont il précise le sens :
20
On ne perdra pas de vue que, dans son sens usuel, taʿajjub (litt. « admiration ») est
une « passion » (infĳiʿāl), mais, dans l’expression fĳiʿl al-taʿajjub, le nom grammatical arabe
d’une structure classée comme inshāʾ (cf. Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya 2, 307).
21
Le inshāʾ juzʾuhu l-khabar regroupe en efffet le kam al-khabariyya et rubba, étudiés au
chapitre des kināyāt (2, 94), les deux « verbes d’admiration », étudiés en II, 308, et les « ver-
bes d’éloge et de blāme », étudiés en 2, 311. Il fait l’objet du chapitre III de Larcher (1980).
Sur les exclamatives considérées d’un point de vue pragmatique, on peut lire aujourd’hui
Firănescu (2003).
22
La Grammaire générale et raisonnée de Port-Royal (p. 78) appelle « simple » une afffĳir-
mation comme il aime, il aimait et « modifĳiée » une afffĳirmation comme quoiqu’il aimāt.
Pour Port-Royal, bien sūr, les marques des afffĳirmations simples et modifĳiées sont les
modes du verbe, l’indicatif pour les premières, le subjonctif pour les secondes, dont elle
note (p. 79) qu’il est appelé par certains modus potientalis ou concessivus.
23
Par la porte ainsi ouverte, s’engoufffre son propre commentateur ʿAlī b. Muḥammad,
dit al-sayyid al-sharīf, al-Jurjānī (m. 816/1413), qui, en marge du Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya 2, 311 indi-
que que « la bonté de Zayd » (ḥusn Zayd) par rapport à mā aḥsana Zaydan (« Que Zayd
est bon ! ») est un lāzim ʿurfī (« implication empirique ») et non un khabar. Dans la mesure
où ʿurfī s’oppose à ʿaqlī (« logique »), nous sommes ici très proches de ce qu’on appelle un
présupposé.
il ne s’agit pas du sens factitif de « faire le peu prou » ( jaʿala l-qalīl kathīr),
seulement du sens estimatif de « considérer quelque chose comme kathīr »
(ʿadd al-shayʾ kathīran). En mettant dans le champ du istikthār le prédicat
et non l’argument, Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī commet une erreur révéla-
trice : il tend à transférer à kam l’analyse de la plupart des classes d’énon-
cés, c’est-à-dire un marqueur d’acte illocutoire avec dans son champ un
contenu propositionnel24.
L’expression de khabar inshāʾī était annoncée de même par l’idée du
iḥtimāl al-iḫbār wa-l-inshā’ de Ibn al-Ḥājib (m. 646/1249) dans ses Amālī.
Nous avons jadis fait état de cette dictée25, d’après le rhétoricien Bahāʾ
al-Dīn al-Subkī (m. 773–1371) qui la cite dans le Sharḥ al-Talkhīṣ (2, 236).
La citation est fĳidèle, le texte donné par Bahāʾ al-Dīn al-Subkī étant iden-
tique, à quelques variantes près, à celui donné par les Amālī (4, 149–150,
dictée n° 208) et que voici :
kam rijālin ʿindī [« Que d’hommes il y a chez moi ! »] peut être performatif
et assertif. Quant à la performance, c’est du point de vue du takthīr [à peu
près : le fait de tenir pour nombreux] parce que le locuteur a exprimé le
takthīr contenu dans son for intérieur en disant rijālin26. Le takthīr est un
objet que l’on vise, existant efffectivement dans l’esprit, n’ayant pas une exis-
tence au dehors telle qu’on puisse dire selon qu’il s’y conforme ou non qu’il
est vrai ou faux. L’assertion, c’est par rapport au fait d’être chez, car le fait
qu’ils sont chez lui a une existence au dehors et l’énoncé, sous ce rapport,
peut être vrai ou faux. C’est donc un énoncé qui peut être les deux choses
[i.e. assertif et performatif], selon les deux considérations diffférentes men-
tionnées (hādhā l-kalām yaḥtamil al-inshāʾ wa-l-ikhbār ammā l-inshāʾ fa-min
jihat al-takthīr li-anna l-mutakallim ʿabbara ʿammā fī bāṭinihi min al-takthīr
bi-qawlihi rijālin wa-l-takthīr maʿnā muḥaqqaq thābit fī l-nafs lā wujūd lahu
min khārij ḥattā yuqāl bi-ʿtibār an [sic]27 ṭābaqa fa-ṣidq wa-in lam yuṭābiq fa-
kadhib wa-l-ikhbār bi-ʿtibār al-ʿindiyya fa-inna kawnahum ʿindahu lahu wujūd
min khārij fa-l-kalām bi-ʿtibārihi muḥtamil li-l-ṣidq wa-l-kadhib fa-hādhā
kalām muḥtamil al-amrayn bi-l-iʿtibārayn al-madhkūrayn al-mukhtalifayn).
24
Cf. Sharḥ al-Kāfĳiya 2, 97, où Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī justifĳie la première place de
kam par le fait qu’il contient la valeur performative, ajoutant que « en fait, ce qui contient
la valeur performative doit être en tête parce qu’il influe sur l’énoncé, qu’il fait sortir de
l’afffĳirmativité ». Dans le cas de kam, cependant, le transfert n’est pas total, puisqu’il ne
fait pas sortir la phrase de l’afffĳirmativité. Mais Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī est confronté au
même problème en 2, 347 avec inna, qui « confĳirme » (yuʾakkid), mais ne transforme pas
(lā yughayyir) le sens de la phrase dans son champ. Bien qu’analysée comme une phrase
nominale thème/propos, la phrase avec kam est, logiquement, plus proche d’une phrase
existentielle, où le nom dans le champ de kam et la phrase « propos » sont en fait dans la
relation de mawṣūf à ṣifa, soit : « Combien d’hommes [il y a, que] j’ai rencontrés ! »
25
Larcher (1991 : 261–262).
26
En tout état de cause, la marque du takthīr est kam.
27
La leçon du Sharḥ al-Talkhīṣ est meilleure : bi-ʿtibārihi in . . .
60 pierre larcher
Avant même de commenter cette dictée, on notera que les trois grands
grammairiens du VIIème/XIIIème siècle, tout en partageant l’idée de la
« mixité » de ces énoncés, ne s’en font pas moins, chacun, une idée dif-
férente : pour Ibn al-Ḥājib, c’est une parité du ikhbār et du inshāʾ, pour
Ibn Mālik une prépondérance du khabar sur le inshāʾ, pour Raḍī al-Dīn
al-Astarābādhī une prépondérance du inshāʾ sur le khabar. On conçoit
qu’une historiographie linguistique bien comprise sera ennemie de toute
standardisation et résolument variationniste.
Dans la dictée citée ci-dessus, Ibn al-Ḥajib développe une tout autre
conception du inshā’ (vs ikhbār). Au vrai, inshāʾ n’est défĳini ici ni comme
énonciation, ni comme énoncé, mais comme signifĳication, ou, pour le dire
en arabe, non comme kalām ayant un certain maʿnā, mais comme maʿnā
d’un certain kalām. Nous sommes donc ici moins dans la classifĳication des
énoncés, devenue habituelle au VIIème/XIIIème siècle, que dans la tradition
antérieure des maʿānī l-kalām28. Dans la mesure où le ikhbār est caracté-
risé positivement par l’existence d’une référence objective et le inshāʾ, non
seulement négativement par l’absence d’une telle référence, mais encore
positivement comme l’expression d’une réalité psychologique, ikhbār
et inshāʾ peuvent donc parfaitement être compris ici comme les modes
objectif et subjectif du discours29.
Cette conception mentaliste du inshāʾ peut certainement être rappro-
chée d’une occurrence antérieure de inshāʾ que l’on rencontre à deux
reprises, avec maʿnā dans son champ, dans les Dalāʾil al-iʿjāz de ʿAbd
al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī (m. 471/1078). La première occurrence se trouve dans
le développement que Jurjānī consacre justement aux maʿānī l-kalām30 et,
en premier lieu, au khabar (p. 405 et suivantes). Il indique que celui-ci est
inconcevable, non seulement s’il n’y a pas deux choses, « ce qu’on afffĳirme »
(mukhbar bihi) et « ce dont on l’afffĳirme » (mukhbar ʿanhu), mais encore
une troisième, qui est « quelqu’un qui afffĳirme » (mukhbir). Autrement dit,
Jurjānī est parfaitement conscient de la dimension « subjective » de l’afffĳir-
mation et c’est en conclusion de ce développement qu’il écrit (p. 406) :
28
Les deux sont évidemment liées, dans la mesure où les mêmes termes se disent
métonymiquement soit du sens de l’énoncé, soit de l’énoncé dont c’est le sens. Les maʿānī
l-kalām constituent un célèbre chapitre du Ṣāḥibī de Ibn Fāris (m. 395/1004), étudié par
Buburuzan (1995).
29
Dans Larcher (1993), il est montré comment cette conception, rencontrant objective-
ment la conception « modale » de certains grammairiens arabisants comme Antoine-Isaac
Silvestre de Sacy (1758–1838), avait durablement occulté la conception sui-référentielle et
performative du inshāʾ.
30
Ce passage est également étudié par Bettini (1987–1988). Sur le khabar, chez Jurjānī,
on peut lire maintenant l’étude très détaillée de Ghersetti (2002).
Au total, l’afffĳirmation et tout le discours sont des intentions que l’homme

fait naître en lui-même, qu’il retourne dans sa pensée, qu’il confĳie à son
cœur et à propos desquels il se réfère à sa raison et qualifĳiables de visées
et de desseins (wa-jumlat al-amr anna l-khabar wa-jamīʿ al-kalām maʿānin
yunshiʾuhā l-insān fī nafsihi wa-yuṣarrifuhā fī fĳikrihi wa-yunājī bihā qalbahu
wa-yurājiʿuhā ʿaqlahu wa-tūṣaf bi-annahā maqāṣid wa-aghrāḍ).
Cela est, à quelques variantes près, répété p. 418 :
Une fois établi que l’afffĳirmation et toutes les autres signifĳications de l’énoncé
sont des intentions que l’homme fait naître en lui, qu’il retourne dans sa
pensée, qu’il confĳie à son cœur et à propos desquelles il se réfère à lui, alors
sache qu’on ne bénéfĳicie de leur connaissance que de celui qui les fait naître
et qui les vise . . . (wa-idh qad thabata anna l-khabar wa-sāʾir maʿānī l-kalām
maʿānin yunshiʾuhā l-insān fī nafsihi wa-yuṣarrifuhā fī fĳikrihi wa-yunājī bihā
qalbahu wa-yarjiʿ fīhā ilayhi fa-ʿlam anna l-fāʾida fī l-ʿilm bihā wāqiʿa min
al-munshiʾ lahā ṣādira ʿan al-qāṣid ilayhā).
Si l’on admet le rapprochement que nous faisons entre la conception
mentaliste du inshā’ et le inshā’ jurjānien, il faut alors expliquer pourquoi
le khabar est associé aux autres maʿānī « que fait naître le locuteur en lui »
chez Jurjānī, alors qu’au contraire il en est dissocié chez Ibn al-Ḥājib. La
base de la dissociation se trouve chez Jurjānī lui-même quand il déclare
que l’afffĳirmation est « la plus importante de ces intentions » (aʿẓamuhā
shaʾnan). Et la dissociation devient efffective dans la partie rhétorique du
Miftaḥ al-ʿulūm de Sakkākī (m. 626/1229), qui est une synthèse de l’œuvre
de Jurjānī. On y voit apparaître une classifĳication des énoncés en khabar
et ṭalab, ce dernier subdivisé en cinq espèces. Sakkākī refuse de défĳinir
khabar et ṭalab. Dans le premier cas, il conteste le caractère de défĳinition
à la caractérisation du khabar par sa possibilité d’être vrai (ou dit vrai) ou
faux (ou dit faux), comme conduisant à un cercle vicieux : si on défĳinit l’af-
fĳirmation par sa valeur de vérité/fausseté, on ne peut défĳinir la vérité/faus-
seté que comme « l’afffĳirmation faite sur une chose qu’elle est conforme ou
non à ce qu’elle est (dans la réalité) » (al-khabar ʿan al-shayʾ ʿalā/lā ʿalā mā
huwa bihi). Dans le second, il justifĳie son refus en ces termes (p. 71) :
C’est parce que quiconque souhaite, interroge, ordonne, défend et appelle
crée chacune de ses choses en lui-même en connaissance de cause ( fa-li-
anna kull aḥad yatamannā wa-yastafhim wa-yaʾmur wa-yanhā wa-yunādī
yūjid kullan min dhālika fī mawḍiʿ nafsihi ʿan ʿilm)
La caractérisation jurjānienne des maʿānī l-kalām (incluant le khabar) a
été transférée ici au seul ṭalab, le verbe yunshi’ étant simplement rem-
placé par celui de yūjid. On peut légitimement supposer que le fait de
privilégier le khabar et, à défaut de le défĳinir, de le caractériser par sa
62 pierre larcher
référence objective, a eu pour efffet de caractériser, par contraste, le ṭalab

par sa dimension subjective.
La double extension de khabar inshāʾī fait question. Dans la première
occurrence, il désigne un performatif explicite : khabar s’y entend néces-
sairement au sens formel d’afffĳirmation et non sémantique de constat :
c’est précisément parce que l’énoncé ne constate aucune réalité indé-
pendante de son énonciation qu’il est qualifĳié de inshāʾī. Dans la seconde
occurrence, il désigne un énoncé exclamatif. Khabar s’y entend nécessai-
rement au sens sémantique de constat, en ce qu’il réfère à une réalité
indépendante de son énonciation, et partant, selon qu’il s’y conforme ou
non, est vrai ou faux, mais non au sens formel d’afffĳirmation, même si Ibn
Mālik voit entre le verbe d’admiration et le SP bi-hi une relation de prédi-
cation entre un « apport » (musnad) et un « support » (musnad ilayhi)31. Il
faut donc admettre que dans cette double occurrence, khabar subit une
espèce de dédoublement.
On admettra d’autant plus volontiers ce dédoublement que le terme
de takthīr, commun à Ibn al-Ḥājib et Ibn Mālik, suggère, là encore, une
possible influence du premier sur le second. Or, dans deux des Amālī de
Ibn al-Ḥājib, que nous avons jadis citées et commentées32, la 44ème (IV, 46)
et la 90ème (IV, 80), apparaît une conception encore diffférente du khabar
et du inshā’. Citons ici la 90ème, qui concerne le kalām, alors que la 44ème
concerne le kalām al-nafs33:
L’énoncé se divise en phrase performative et en phrase afffĳirmative. L’afffĳir-
mative, c’est toute phrase sur quelque chose à quoi s’attache une connais-
sance, que ce soit de manière efffective ou virtuelle. La performative, c’est
toute phrase sur l’intenté lui-même, sans considération du fait que la
connaissance s’y attache (al-kalām yanqasim ilā l-jumla l-inshāʾiyya wa-ilā
l-jumla l-khabariyya fa-l-khabariyya kull jumla ʿan mutaʿallaq ʿilm taḥqīqan
aw taqdīran wa-l-inshāʾiyya kull jumla ʿan nafs al-maʿnā min ghayr iʿtibār
taʿalluq al-ʿilm bihi).
31
Selon la traduction proposée dans Larcher (2000). Il y a un autre cas, où le musnad
ilayhi est un SP, c’est celui du passif impersonnel, type nūdiya ilā l-ṣalāti (« on a appelé à
la prière »). On rappellera que le isnād (« prédication ») est caractéristique de la jumla et,
par suite, transcende la classifĳication du kalām en khabar et inshāʾ.
32
Larcher (1994).
33
Le kalām al-nafs ou al-kalām al-nafsī (« discours ou énoncé mental ») représente le
maʿnā du kalām al-lafẓī (« discours ou énoncé oralo-verbal ») ou kalām tout court. La dis-
tinction des deux discours (trois si l’on y ajoute le discours écrit) est un héritage de la
philosophie antique : elle a été récupérée par la théologie islamique qui attribue à Allāh le
kalām al-nafs, qui, seul, est éternel, le kalām al-lafẓī advenant, lui, dans le temps.
Ibn al-Ḥājib illustre ces défĳinitions par l’exemple suivant :

Ce qui le montre, c’est que quand il te vient à l’esprit de demander de l’eau
à Zayd et que tu connais le surgissement de cette demande, si tu veux expri-
mer cette demande en considérant le fait que la connaissance s’y attache,
tu diras ṭalabtu min Zaydin māʾan [« je demande de l’eau à Zayd »]34 mais
si tu veux exprimer la demande elle-même, tu diras isqinī [« Donne-moi à
boire ! »] (wa-bayānuhu annaka idhā qāma bi-nafsika ṭalab al-māʾ min Zayd
wa-ʿalimta ḥuṣūl dhālika l-ṭalab fa-idhā qaṣadta l-taʿbīr bi-ʿtibār taʿalluq
al-ʿilm bihi qulta ṭalabtu min Zayd māʾ fa-in qaṣadta l-taʿbīr ʿan nafs al-ṭalab
min ghayr naẓar ilā taʿalluq al-ʿilm bihi qulta isqinī).
Clairement, Ibn al-Ḥājib n’oppose pas ici khabar et inshāʾ comme deux
modes de référence des mots aux choses ni même comme les modes
objectif et subjectif du discours. À la fĳin de la même dictée, il rejette
d’ailleurs la caractérisation logique de l’afffĳirmation : « quant au fait de
distinguer l’afffĳirmation par la possibilité d’être vraie ou fausse, ce n’est
pas correct, car c’est une conséquence de son caractère rationnel. Il n’est
donc pas correct d’en faire un trait défĳinitoire, afĳin de ne pas aboutir à
un cercle vicieux »35 (wa-ammā tabyīn al-khabar bi-ḥtimāl al-ṣidq wa-l-kad-
hib fa-ghayr mustaqīm li-annahu farʿ ʿaqliyyatihi fa-lā yastaqīm an yujʿal
muʿarrifan li-allā yuʾaddiya ilā l-dawr). En fait, il les oppose, non pas
sémantiquement, mais sémiotiquement, comme deux façons de signifĳier
une même chose, en l’espèce un événement psychologique : façons que
nous avons proposé d’interpréter, en utilisant tentativement la termino-
logie de Karl Bühler (1879–1963), comme « représentation » (Darstellung)
et « expression » (Ausdruck) de cet événement36.
C’est aussi par rapport à cette conception de l’opposition khabar/inshāʾ
que’Ibn Mālik peut parler dans la première occurrence de khabar inshāʾī.
Un argument en ce sens peut être trouvé dans un des exemples qui
en sont donnés, à savoir ʿajaban (« Merveille ! »). Alors que les autres
verbes ellipsés sont bien pour nous des performatifs explicites (aḥmadu
34
Dans le contexte, la forme faʿaltu est sūrement choisie pour sa valeur aspectuelle d’ac-
compli, c’est-à-dire marquant le résultat présent d’une activité psychologique antérieure.
Cf. la dictée 44 (4, 46), où est donné un second exemple : « de même, quand surgit dans
son esprit [i.e. celui du locuteur] un émerveillement et qu’il l’exprime en considérant son
existence comme objet de connaissance, il dit taʿajjabtu [« je suis émerveillé »], mais si,
d’aventure, il l’exprimait en le considérant indépendamment de cela, il dirait mā aḥsanahu
[« qu’il est bon ! »] et mā aʿlamahu [« qu’il est savant ! »] » (wa-ka-dhālika idhā qāma bi-l-
nafs taʿajjub fa-ʿabbara ʿanhu bi-ʿtibār ḥuṣūlihi mutaʿallaqan li-l-ʿilm qāla taʿajjabtu wa-law
ʿabbara ʿanhu bi-ʿtibārihi min ghayr dhālika la-qāla mā aḥsanahu aw mā aʿlamahu).
35
Cf. supra, citation du Miftāḥ.
36
Larcher (1993).
64 pierre larcher
« je loue, » ashkuru « je remercie, » uqsimu « je jure »), il n’en va évidem-
ment pas de même de aʿjabu (« je suis émerveillé »). En revanche, l’el-
lipse du verbe fait bien passer de la « représentation » à l’ « expression »
de l’émerveillement . . .
3. al-Munādā manṣūb (. . .) bi-unādī lāzim al-iḍmār (. . .)

maʿa qaṣd al-inshāʾ
Le troisième et dernier objet est à nouveau une proposition, qui apparaît

au chapitre du vocatif (bāb al-nidāʾ), dans le Tashīl, p. 179. Je n’en ai cité
que le segment essentiel pour notre propos, mais il convient d’abord de
le restituer dans son contexte :
L’objet interpellé est fléchi à l’accusatif, formellement ou virtuellement,
par unādī, nécessairement occulté, du fait qu’on s’en dispense, de par son
évidence sémantique, avec visée performative, et du fait de la fréquence
d’emploi, et du fait qu’on a mis, comme une contrepartie de ce verbe, un
[élément] (al-munādā manṣūb lafẓan aw taqdīran bi-unādī lāzim al-iḍmār
istighnāʾan bi-ẓuhūr maʿnāhu maʿa qaṣd al-inshāʾ wa-kathrat al-istiʿmāl
wa-jaʿlihim ka-ʿiwaḍ minhu (. . .) a, yā etc. . .)
Ibn Mālik donne dans le Sharḥ al-Tashīl (3, 385) un commentaire particu-
lièrement stimulant :
Ce qui le régit à l’accusatif, c’est unādī : ce [verbe] est nécessairement
occulté, à cause de son évidence sémantique, due à la fréquence d’emploi
et à la visée performative, et du fait que les Arabes ont mis l’une des parti-
cules précitées comme sa contrepartie (wa-nāṣibuhu unādī lāzim al-iḍmār
li-ẓuhūr maʿnāhu maʿa kathrat al-istiʿmāl wa-qaṣd al-inshāʾ wa-li-jaʿl al-ʿArab
aḥad al-ḥurūf al-madhkūra ka-l-ʿiwaḍ minhu).
Et Ibn Mālik d’ajouter :
Chacune de ces causes est sufffĳisante pour rendre nécessaire le caractère
inséparable de l’occultation, surtout la visée performative : y veiller est de
la plus extrême importance, parce qu’expliciter unādī donnerait à penser
que l’énonciateur asserte qu’il va efffectuer un appel, alors que le but est que
l’auditeur sache qu’il en en train d’en performer un [c’est moi qui souligne]
L’occultation est spécialement faite pour cela et est donc nécessaire (wa-kull
wāḥid min hādhihi l-asbāb kāfĳin fī ījāb luzūm al-iḍmār wa-lā siyyamā qaṣd
al-inshāʾ fa-inna l-ihtimām bihi fī ghāya min al-wakāda li-anna iẓhār unādī
yūhim anna l-mutakallim mukhbir bi-annahu sa-yūqiʿ nidāʾ wa-l-gharaḍ ʿilm
al-sāmiʿ bi-annahu munshiʾ lahu wa-l-iḍmār muʿayyan ʿalā dhālika fa-kāna
wājiban).
Ibn Mālik fait le lien entre grammaire classique et postclassique. Il renoue

en efffet avec une idée que l’on trouve déjà chez Mubarrad (m. 286/900),
Muqtaḍab (4, 202) :
Sache que quand tu interpelles un terme en état d’annexion tu le régis à l’ac-
cusatif. Sa rection à l’accusatif est due à un verbe que l’on ne manifeste pas,
ainsi yā ʿAbdallāhi : en efffet, [yā] est un substitut de adʿū ʿAbdallāhi [« j’ap-
pelle ʿAbdallāh »] et urīdu [« je vise (ʿAbdallāh) »]. Non pas que tu afffĳirmes
que tu fais ; par contre, cette particule a pour efffet que tu as accompli un
acte, car quand tu dis yā ʿAbdallāhi s’est efffectuée l’interpellation par toi de
ʿAbdallāh : sa rection à l’accusatif se fait en tant qu’objet sur lequel passe
ton action (iʿlam annaka idhā daʿawta muḍāfan naṣabtaha wa-ntiṣābuhu ʿalā
l-fĳiʿl al-matrūk iẓhāruhu wa-dhālika qawluka yā ʿAbdallāhi li-anna yā badal
min qawlika adʿū ʿAbdallāhi wa-urīdu lā annaka tukhbiru annaka taf ʿalu
wa-lākin bihā waqaʿa annaka qad awqaʿta fĳiʿlan fa-idhā qulta yā ʿAbdallāhi
fa-qad waqaʿa duʿāʾuka bi-ʿAbdallāhi fa-ntaṣaba ʿalā annahu maf ʿūl taʿaddā
ilayhi fĳiʿluka).
Entre les deux, on trouve également ce texte singulier 37 de Ibn al-Sarrāj
(m. 316/929), Uṣūl 1, 333 :
Tu dois savoir que tout objet interpellé a pour dū l’accusatif, du fait que
dire yā fulān est le substitut de dire unādī fulānan : dire yā, en efffet, c’est
l’action même, en quoi [ce dire] se distingue de tout le reste du discours,
parce que l’acte de parole est une énonciation dispensant de faire, alors que
cette action, ici, est d’énoncer. Si tu dis : nādaytu Zaydan, après avoir dit yā
Zaydu, c’est comme dire ḍarabtu Zaydan après lui avoir fait cela. Réfléchis-y,
car ce chapitre se singularise en cela (wa-yanbaghī an taʿlam anna ḥaqq kull
munādā al-naṣb min qibal anna qawlaka yā fulān yanūb ʿan qawlika unādī
fulānan li-anna qawlaka yā huwa l-ʿamal bi-ʿaynihi wa-annahu fāraqa sāʾir
al-kalām li-anna l-kalām lafẓ yughnī ʿan ʿamal wa-hādhā l-ʿamal fīhi huwa
l-lafẓ fa-in qulta nādaytu Zaydan baʿda qawlika yā Zaydu wa-huwa mithl
qawlika ḍarabtu Zaydan baʿda ʿilmika [sic]38 dhālika bihi fa-taʾammal hādhā
fa-innahu munfarid bihi hādhā l-bāb)
Tous ces textes établissent, de la manière la plus nette qui soit, que l’inter-
pellation est comprise par les grammairiens arabes et, ce, très longtemps
avant la consécration du terme de inshāʾ, comme un acte illocutoire (ou
illocutionnaire). L’apparition chez Mubarrad du verbe awqaʿa, dont īqāʿ
est le nom d’action, en est le plus sûr indice et montre que inshāʾ n’a fait
que relayer des termes plus anciens. Originale, mais restée, semble-t-il,
37
C’est Mike Carter qui attira, il y a près de vingt ans, mon attention sur ce texte.
38
Cette lecture ne fait évidemment pas sens dans le contexte et doit être corrigée en
ʿamalika.
66 pierre larcher
marginale est la position de Ibn al-Sarrāj, qui en fait l’acte illocutoire

type et même unique. Mais sa position a le mérite de montrer comment
émerge la conscience de l’activité illocutoire. Il part de la classique oppo-
sition du dire (al-kalām, al-lafẓ) et du faire (al-ʿamal), où dire, c’est ne pas
faire, pour arriver à la conclusion qu’en un cas au moins dire, c’est faire,
ou plutôt faire, ici, n’est rien d’autre que dire quelque chose. Remarqua-
ble, à cet égard, est la comparaison qu’il fait entre ḍarabtu Zaydan « j’ai
frappé Zayd », rapportant l’acte de frapper Zayd, et nādaytu Zaydan « j’ai
appelé Zayd », rapportant l’acte de dire yā Zaydu. Ce faisant, Ibn al-Sarrāj
ne reconnaît pas seulement l’interpellation comme un acte de parole,
mais encore le verbe nādā comme un verbe métalinguistique.
Mais tous ces textes opposent dire yā Zaydu comme efffectuation de
l’acte d’interpellation à unādī comme afffĳirmation sur cet acte. Cela est dit
explicitement par Mubarrad et Ibn Mālik, implicitement par Ibn al-Sarrāj.
Justifĳier la substitution de yā à unādī par le fait que « dire yā, c’est l’acte
même » implique en efffet que dire unādī n’est, quant à lui, rien d’autre
qu’une afffĳirmation sur un acte. Autrement dit, la relation de yā Zaydu à
unādī Zaydan n’est en aucun cas pour ces grammairiens celle d’un per-
formatif implicite à un performatif explicite. Le unādī « sous-entendu »
dans la structure vocative est donc purement abstrait. Il est postulé pour
des raisons syntaxiques : il permet de rendre compte de la flexion accusa-
tif du munādā qui apparaît notamment quand celui-ci est premier terme
d’une annexion (e.g. yā ʿAbdallāhi), mais il en constitue une représenta-
tion sémantique inadéquate39.
Le cas du vocatif est donc particulièrement intéressant en ce qu’il appa-
raît à cheval sur les deux conceptions du inshāʾ. D’un côté, yā Zaydu est
opposé à unādī Zaydan comme un performatif à une afffĳirmation et, par
suite, inshāʾ s’oppose bien à khabar comme le mode sui-référentiel au
mode référentiel du discours. Mais, de l’autre, il est posé comme essen-
tiel à l’accomplissement de cet acte de ne pas être « afffĳirmé » et, sous ce
rapport, inshāʾ s’oppose à khabar comme l’« expression » d’un maʿnā à sa
« représentation » : dans la même dictée 90, Ibn al-Ḥājib ajoute qu’« il en
39
Son inadéquation tient surtout à son incapacité à représenter ce qui fait la spécifĳicité
de la structure vocative : celle de transformer le nom propre Zayd, qui est un terme de
référence, en terme d’adresse. Jurjānī (Muqtaṣid 1, 95) en semble conscient : « ne vois-tu
pas que si tu disais adʿū ʿAbdallāhi, on ne saurait pas si tu l’appelles ou afffĳirmes qu’il
est dans ton intention de l’appeler (. . .) ou as pour but d’informer quelqu’un d’autre que
tu appelles ʿAbdallāh » (a-lā tarā annaka law qulta adʿū ʿAbdallāhi lam yuʿlam annaka
tunādīhi aw tukhbir anna min niyyatika duʿaʾahu (. . .) aw taqṣid ikhbār ghayrihi bi-annaka
tadʿū ʿAbdallāhi).
va potentiellement de même de toutes les valeurs performatives, comme

l’interrogation, le souhait, l’exhortation et l’interpellation » (wa-ka-dhālika
l-taqdīr fī jamīʿ maʿānī l-inshāʾ ka-l-istifhām wa-l-tamannī wa-l-taḥḍīḍ
wa-l-nidāʾ).
Il reviendra à un grammairien comme Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī de
rejoindre ces deux conceptions, en qualifĳiant le verbe sous-entendu de
« performatif, » comme en I, 9 : « quant à une expression telle que yā
Zaydu, c’est parce que yāʾ remplace le performatif daʿawtu » (ammā naḥw
yā Zaydu fa-li-sadd yā masadd daʿawtu l-inshāʾī)40, avant de s’étendre en
1, 132 sur la forme qu’il donne à ce performatif :
Ce qu’on a présenté ici comme rendu nécessaire, à savoir que le verbe, s’il
était sous-entendu ou que yā le remplaçât, serait une phrase afffĳirmative, ne
l’est pas : le verbe, en efffet, a pour objet la performance. Aussi, le mieux est-il
de le sous-entendre sous la forme du passé, i.e. daʿawtu ou nādaytu, car,
s’agissant des verbes performatifs, ils apparaissent le plus souvent sous la
forme du passé (mā ūrīda hāhunā ilzāman min anna l-fĳiʿl law kāna muqadda-
ran aw kāna yā ʿiwaḍan minhu la-kāna jumla khabariyya ghayr lāzim li-anna
l-fĳiʿl maqṣūd bihi l-inshāʾ fa-l-awlā an yuqaddar bi-lafẓ al-māḍī ay daʿawtu aw
nādaytu li-anna l-aghlab fī l-af ʿāl al-inshāʾiyya majīʾuhā bi-lafẓ al-māḍī).
Ici, la boucle est bouclée. Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī donne au plus typi-
que des performatifs abstraits la forme faʿaltu qui est celle du plus typique
des performatifs concrets (biʿtu et autres « opératifs »), ce qui revient à
unifĳier, tout en la formalisant, la description sémantique des énoncés.
Conclusion
On comprend pourquoi, quarante ans après son « invention, » au sens

archéologique du terme, la catégorie de inshāʾ continue de me fasciner.
Elle n’a pas moins de quatre extensions : elle peut désigner soit l’énoncia-
tion performative (par opposition à ikhbār), soit l’énoncé performatif (par
opposition à khabar) et, dans les deux cas, soit au sens strict, soit au sens
large. On a le sens restreint, quand elle désigne l’énonciation performative
d’une phrase par opposition à son énonciation assertive. On a le sens large
quand toute énonciation est considérée comme performative d’un acte et,
en ce sens, « l’assertion aussi est une performance de parole » (al-ikhbār
ayḍan inshāʾ)41. On a le sens restreint d’énoncé performatif quand inshāʾ
40
La remarque est incidente. Il s’agit ici de justifĳier que yā Zaydu est bien un kalām,
bien que n’ayant aucun des deux schémas canoniques de la jumla, i.e. NN ou VN.
41
Pour des références, cf. Larcher (1991 : 262–266).
68 pierre larcher
est opposé à khabar et ṭalab et le sens élargi quand il est opposé à

khabar seulement, le inshāʾ étant généralement subdivisé en ṭalabī et
ghayr ṭalabī 42. Et elle n’a pas moins de quatre intensions : elle peut dési-
gner l’un des deux modes de référence des mots aux choses, l’une des
deux façons de signifĳier une même chose, le mode subjectif du discours,
ce dernier étant parfois réduit à une simple « assertion sur ce qu’il y a dans
le for intérieur (de celui qui parle) » (al-ikhbār ʿammā fī l-bāṭin)43.
L’interprétation du inshāʾ est d’autant plus délicate que ces diffféren-
tes extensions et intensions se rencontrent à tout instant dans les textes
(y compris sous la plume d’un même auteur). C’est la conséquence du
fait qu’elle est au carrefour des deux grandes influences s’exerçant sur
les disciplines linguistiques en islam : d’une part un courant théologico-
juridique, qui favorise l’interprétation en termes de sui-référentialité, de
performativité et d’activité illocutoire et d’autre part un courant logico-
philosophique, qui, en privilégiant l’afffĳirmation, sa «représentation » des
choses et sa référence objective, favorise l’interprétation en termes de
subjectivité et d’ « expression. »
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Cette subdivision négative est plus large que īqāʿī, permettant de regrouper tout ce
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269–287.
FROM LEXICAL TO GRAMMATICAL:
NAFS AND OTHER IDENTIFIERS
Nadia Anghelescu
This article puts forth some observations regarding the forms of semantic
and grammatical evolution manifested within a small category of elements
in literary Arabic, whose prototype is nafs (the initial, as well as the pres-
ent, lexical meaning of the lexeme is “soul” and “person”). To introduce
our hypotheses on this form of evolution, we shall make constant refer-
ence to the English self, which, like the Arab equivalent, develops out of
the same lexeme, usually called an “intensifĳier” (my self ) and a “reflexive
marker” (I hate myself ). I must add that nafs often appears as an equiva-
lent to “same.” Other elements that are commonly grouped together in
Arabic in the above-mentioned category, given that they display partially
similar behavior, are ʿayn whose initial lexical meaning was “eye”—and
dhāt, which originally was the feminine form of a deictic (dhū) whose
meaning was that of “owner.” The lexical meaning of this feminine form,
which also set itself apart as an identifĳier among deictics, was originally
that of “being,” “essence.”
In the past decades, several works have discussed the functions of ele-
ments similar to self from a typological perspective, i.e., trying to fĳind
explanations of a typological nature for certain resemblances among lan-
guages, from the perspective we are interested in here—such as:
a. the common lexical source, on a general or areal level, of certain meta-

phors that become “intensifĳiers” and “reflexive markers.” Schladt brings
forth data from 150 languages that show the main sources of reflexive
markers, mentioning among the most common: body parts names;
nominal sources: person, self, owner; emphatic pronouns;1
b. the kinds of meanings that various authors group under the heading
“intensivity” or “emphasis,” which is the nature of the reflexive;2
c. possible explanations of the formal identity of intensifĳiers on the one
hand, and reflexive markers on the other hand, in several languages:
1
Schladt (2000).
2
For example, see König and Siemund (2000); Gast and Siemund (2006).
72 nadia anghelescu
from the point of view of most authors, the elements of the fĳirst cat-
egory, intensifĳiers, are at the origin of the second category, reflexive
markers.
d. the structures to which the above-mentioned elements are circum-
scribed, and, in relation to that, the problems associated with anaphora.3
In what follows, we shall start from some of the issues mentioned above
in order to derive observations on the expression of those meanings in
literary Arabic, both classical and modern. A common name shall be used
for elements such as nafs, ʿayn, dhāt—that of “identifĳiers,” starting from
the hypothesis that the function of expressing identity and identifĳication
is one from which others derive; we shall continue to keep the widely
used terms “intensifĳiers” or “self intensifĳiers,” as well as “reflexive markers”
to refer to certain specifĳic functions within the more general function of
expressing identity.
Briefly, About “Identity”
Ever since ancient times, the concept of “identity” has held enormous
interest for philosophers, including those in the Arab world. Philosophers
commonly speak of three types of identity, or rather of three ways to
conceptualize identity: a numerical identity (two or more expressions for
what is one: “evening star” and “morning star” are a common example of
such a type of identity); a personal identity, of that which “remains itself”
despite the changes that come about during the course of its existence:
one’s genetic print, character etc. is said not to change over time; and, a
specifĳic or qualitative identity, if, despite diffferences manifested in time or
space, there is a constant feature or quality that diffferentiates one object
or being from the next. The law of identity is formally expressed by a=a.
An interesting distinction regarding this topic is that made by Ricoeur
between identity as mêmeité (En. “sameness”) and identity as ipséité (En.
“selfhood”).4 Nafs and the other elements belonging to the same cat-
egory in Arabic can be equated in English with both same and self, i.e.
they express both types of identity. The testimonies of various languages
on the way the idea of identity is expressed, beginning with the iden-
tity of the person, are important for the very defĳinition of the concept of
3
Reuland (2000), Frajzyngier et al. (1999).
4
Ricoeur (1992).
from lexical to grammatical 73
identity. But the testimonies of language (and languages) also weigh in

from another perspective, directly related to this topic. It is the concept
the “divided self” as expressed through metaphors, including those under-
lying identifĳiers; these concepts were tackled in works such as those of
Haiman and Lakofff.5
Haiman’s article, which refers to the reflexive as a linguistic expression
of a divided self, starts from the simple observation that reflexive struc-
tures of the type that include self are motivated by people doing things
not only to others, but also to themselves, yet “the self, both as a common
noun and a separate reflexive pronoun, is very far from being a humdrum
morpheme in the universal inventory of human language concepts.”6
The appearance of such an element in the history of languages is,
according to Haiman, “a cultural invention” connected to the necessity
of expressing a certain idea of alienation that comes through in cultures
in which the social person, who plays a specifĳic role, is seen as distinct
from the individual, with his own inclinations, attitudes, and actions.
Talking about the structures that subsume identifĳiers, Haiman notes that
the phrase that contains the reflexive is a marked phrase, which is con-
veyed for instance, in various languages, by the reflexive pronoun being
one and the same as the emphatic pronoun. In most situations, the latter
expresses “something remarkable or surprising.” In other words, we might
say, this is a situation of invalidating expectations in the case of the so-
called emphatic pronominal adjectives, or of the contrasting function of
intensifĳiers that some authors have discussed.
In a 1992 online paper, Lakofff focuses on “the metaphorical models
of the Self,” which he sees as being “inherent in our conceptual system.”
The person is split, he claims, between a “Subject,” which is “the center
of consciousness, will and judgment” and a “Self,” or “the rest of the per-
son,” which includes among other aspects, for instance, the person’s body.
There are, Lakofff believes, several metaphorical models that convey this
split between body and spirit, i.e. the “nonphysical locus of conscious-
ness.” The Subject, which is normally inside the Self, can be split from the
latter and can perceive the Self from the outside.7
Philosophers, but also linguists who try to circumscribe the concept
of identity (as expressing either individuality or the split self) most often
refer to personal identity. That is one of the reasons why, in what follows,
5
Haiman (1995) and Lakofff (2000).
6
Haiman (1995: 214).
7
See, for instance, the English “I can’t see myself doing such a thing.”
74 nadia anghelescu
we will refer to the evolution of the meanings of nafs as that which con-
cerns the making of the concept of person and personality in the Arab
culture, beginning with the pre-Islamic era.
Nafs and the Concept of “Person”
Some observations on the way in which the concept of “human being,”

as individual, might have evolved into the concept of a self-aware person
were put forth by Joseph Chelhod,8 as briefly summarized below.
A word that designates a “person” seems not to have existed in the
ancient period: the word shakhṣ, nowadays used to signify just that, then
meant the physical aspect of a human being as seen from a distance, “his/
silhouette, his vanishing shadow,” as Chelhod says,9 quoting Massignon.
The nomadic individual in the pre-Islamic world has weak self-awareness,
and his behavior is entirely determined by the collective consciousness.
When the individual is released from the social group and acquires “an
autonomous individual behavior,” he becomes individuated, and thus
“better sees within himself”:
Ce passage d’un état à l’autre, qui s’efffectue insensiblement; sans solution de
continuité, se traduit par une prise de conscience qui permet à l’homme de
mieux voir en lui même et éveille en lui le sentiment de son unité; de son
identité; de sa valeur et de son originalité.10
Before asserting himself as a person, the individual asserts himself as a
persona, a personality: once invested with a certain social role, is sooner
able to acquire a notion of his own worth. The personality, the chief, the
remarkable one are referred to in Arabic through the word that means
“face”: wajh, which also means “honor,” as well as through a word that
means “eye”—or through the plural of dhāt: dhawāt, meaning “those who
have, the rich ones” (a possible origin for the meaning of “owner” that
dhāt holds). The word wajh also comes to mean “the outer appearance of
a person,” “the face” shown to those around: beside that, another one is
presupposed to exist, since dhū wajhayni is “the two-faced one,” i.e. the
hypocrite. It may be presupposed that the concept of personal identity, to
be expressed by ʿayn and dhāt, also originates in the idea of “personality,”
commonly linked, in ancient times, to the sense of “owner of goods.”
8
Chelhod (1958).
9
Ibid., 30.
10
Ibid., 28.
As for nafs, it may be presupposed that, starting from its meaning of

“breath,” nafs acquires the abstract meaning of “soul” and becomes the
favored way of expressing something as impalpable as “reason” (also
called, because of that, nafs al-ʿaql, that “soul” or “intellect” which “ties”
[things], i.e. connects them, or al-nafs al-nāṭiqa “the soul of intellect or
reason”). The same word can also express beliefs, sentiments, a meaning
in which the lexeme is ambiguous: nafs can order or forbid something, in
which case it becomes dual: nafsāni.11
If we consider the testimonies of the ancient Arab dictionaries, it does
not seem far-fetched to believe that a view of the person as “split” or
“divided” might have preceded that of the person’s identity as a whole.
The split can be conceived in various ways: for instance, as the exte-
rior “face” in relation to the inner self, or as a Self split between various
impulses. If we take on the terms used by Lakofff for the divided Self, i.e.
“Subject” and “Self,” nafs is Self, i.e. an alter ego with its own thoughts and
feelings. The reflexive can be conceived of as one of the “divided self” ’s
forms of expression.
Lexical and Grammatical Metaphors Originating in Nafs
The derivation seems simple in the case of the noun nafs: from the breath
of life to the soul and on to human being and person, and further to
essence, identity and self. All these meanings can be found beginning with
the fĳirst texts that have reached us.
A. Nafs in the Qurʾān and Ancient Poetry

Seidensticker examined the meanings of nafs in ancient Arab poetry and
the Qurʾān in a paper focused on the “heart” and its lexical fĳield in classi-
cal Arabic.12 The word nafs, the author shows, is most often used in poetry
to indicate the locus of various feelings and emotional states. These mean-
ings, as well as that of “person,” are, to a smaller extent, present in the
Qurʾān as well, as will be apparent further on. What we are interested in
is that the author starts introducing the meanings of nafs beginning with
that of “reflexive pronoun.”
11
See also Lane, sub voce.
12
Seidensticker (1992).
76 nadia anghelescu
H. Fleisch draws attention to an example from the 8th century poet

ʿUmar b. Abī Rabīʿa, where nafs, otherwise used to mean “soul,” means
“human being, person,” and in a negative sentence, “no one”:13
(1) wa mā nafsun min al-nāsi tashʿuru

Not a soul noticed anything
R. Blachère dealt with the manner in which nafs is present in the Qurʾān in
an article published in Semitica (1948).14 Apart from other meanings of the
lexeme nafs (“breath of life,” frequently; “locus of evil, greed, desire, temp-
tation,” the “heart” of the believer, answerable to divinity at Doomsday,
“soul,” or rather “what lies in the soul;” Blachère notes the more “evolved”
meaning of the word nafs, i.e. that of “human being,” “person,” as well as
the reflexive use of this noun, which:
sans perdre aucunement sa valeur nominale, paraît glisser à un sens plus
dégradé encore, ce qui permet de rendre en arabe la notion de réfléchi15
The action “befalls” the subject directly in examples 2 and 3 below, and
indirectly, through a preposition, in example 4.
(2) [ fa-lā talūmūnī wa] lūmū anfusakum!

[Reproach not me] but reproach your own souls
[Do not blame me but] blame yourselves! (Q. XIV, 22)
(3) lā yastaṭīʿūna naṣra anfusihim

they have no power to aid themselves (Q. XXI, 43)
(4) mā ḥarrama Isrāʾīlu ʿalā nafsihi

what Israel made unlawful for itself (Q. III, 93)
Blachère thinks it might be our “European linguistic consciousness” that

leads us to perceive a reflexive in the examples above. From our point
of view, in the respective examples, as well as in others in the Qurʾān,
there is reason to believe that we are looking at a reflexive, i.e. two co-
referential arguments of a verb.
13
Fleisch (1979: 113).
14
The version discussed here is the one republished in Analecta: Blachère (1975).
15
Ibid., 58.
B. Nafs with the Medieval Arab Authors

The query conducted against the prose of Jāḥiẓ, Bayān and Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ,
shows the following basic meanings:
• The current lexical meaning is that of “soul” or “mind”:
(5) al-ʿilm miṣbāḥ al-nafs

Science is the light (lamp) of the mind16
(6) shayʾ qad dāra fi nafsī mirāran

Something that often crossed my mind17
• Another relatively frequent lexical meaning is that of “conscience,” in

the sense of “something hidden,” which words unveil:
(7) idhā takallama jallā ʿan nafsihi

When he spoke, he unveiled his inner self18
(8) al-naẓar li-nafsihi19

Looking within (introspection)
• With the role of an emphatic personal pronoun:
(9) la tathiq bi-raʾyi nafsika

Do not trust your [own] opinion20
(10) uḥrus akhāka illā min nafsihi

Guard your brother [against anything] except against himself 21
It appears in a similar role, again in al-Jāḥiẓ, in an anecdote starting from

the diffferent meanings that the following three words can have: alqā “to
throw” and “to recite [a verse or a poem];” bayt “house” and “verse;” sākin
“inhabitant, inhabited,” but also “[verse] rhyming in a consonant.” A Bed-
ouin uneducated with respect to the terms used by philologists to refer
to poetry is asked: “Would you like me to recite a poem with rhyming
16
Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ 2, 45.
17
Ibid., 1, 129.
18
Jāḥiẓ, Bayān 1: 56.
19
Ibid., 4: 91.
20
Ibid., 1, 204.
21
Ibid., 3, 271.
78 nadia anghelescu
consonants?” (hal ulqī ʿalayka baytan sākinan?). The Bedouin understands

it to mean “[do you want me] to throw an inhabited house onto you?” He
replies:
(11) ʿalā nafsika fa-alqihi

[Better] throw the house onto yourself!22
The contrast between the presupposed (impossible) prompt and the

answer is also indicated through the word order in the example above.
The construction, in which a sui generis reflexive appears, is obviously
marked and it might yield clues as to how nafs’s transit to the reflexive
value is made.
Nafs appears rather often in Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, with a value that we can
see as reflexive, in which case it accompanies a relatively restricted cat-
egory of verbs, among which:
• “to say,” “to express oneself”: aqūlu li- nafsī “I say to myself;” man ʿabbara
ʿammā fī nafsihi “whoever expresses what’s in his soul;” aʿraba ʿan nafsihi
“expressed himself”
• “to torment oneself”
(12) (. . .) ḥattā yuʿadhdhib nafsahu hādhā al-taʿdhīb

So that he torments nafs Acc., Pron. Gen. this torment
So that he torments [himself] thus23
• “to refrain oneself;” “to let go of oneself”
(13) ḥafĳiẓa nafsahu nuṭliqu anfusanā24

he preserved himself we let ourselves go
When not referring to people (which is relatively rare), it introduces the

idea that the name it refers to represents the perfect embodiment of
the notion. E.g.: with Jāḥiẓ, Bayān in phrases such as nafs al-bayān with
the sense “the clear expression itself ” or “the truly clear expression.”25
22
Ibid., 2: 221.
23
Ibid., 2, 322.
24
Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ 2, 34.
25
Jāḥiẓ, Bayān 1: 273.
The word ḥaqq appears in the same source, as well as other authors,
with the same meaning of “true, authentic, real,” when it accompanies an
internal object, such as in:
(14) ʿarafahu ḥ aqqa l-maʿrifa

He knew him reality Acc., art. knowledge Gen.
He really knew him
Lexical and Grammatical with ʿAyn and Dhāt
Classical Arab dictionaries give as a primary meaning for the word ʿayn
that of “eye,” “organ of sight,” but include up to a hundred meanings of the
word. Among those, we are interested in the meaning of “important per-
son,” “personality” (especially with the plural aʿyān) and “essence,” “own
nature,” “concrete existence.” Dictionaries mention that the structures of
the type huwa bi-ʿaynihi can have a close or identical meaning to huwa bi-
nafsihi, i.e. “he himself,” “in person,” or can rather suggest it, in an example
such as rajul bi-ʿaynihi “a man who really exists,” i.e. not an abstract entity
or man as a species. This meaning equates the word in Lisān with nafs
and dhāt. It is also apparent that, unlike nafs, ʿayn relatively often accom-
panies non-human, sometimes abstract nouns, beginning as early as the
classical era.
(15) innahu la-karīm ʿaynu l-karam

He is generous, generosity itself
Like nafs, in certain structures, ʿayn may mean “the same”: li-l-sababi
ʿaynihi/ li-l-sababi nafsihi “for the same reason.”
In Lisān, dhāt is explained as: haqīqat shayʾin wa khaṣṣatuhu “the real
essence of a thing,” “its intrinsic nature.” Dhāt is primarily used by transla-
tors of philosophy and by philosophers as an equivalent for “being” and
“essence.” As early as the classical age, it also appears as an emphazier,
but is less used in that capacity than nafs in everyday speech, as al-Fārābī
notes:26
hādhihi l-lafẓa [. . .] aʿnī “al-dhāt” wa-“mā bi-dhātihi” wa-“dhāt al-shayʾi” lay-
sat mashhūra ʿinda l-jumhūr wa-innamā hiya alfāẓ yatadāwaluhā l-falāsifa
wa-ahlu l-ʿulūm al-naẓariyya. Wa-l-jumhūr yastaʿmilūna makānahā qawlanā
26
Fārābī, Kitāb al-Ḥurūf, 110.
80 nadia anghelescu
“bi-nafsihi.” Fa-innahum yaqūlūna “Zayd bi-nafsihi qāma bi-l-ḥarb” yaʿnūna

bilā muʿayyin, wa-yaqūlūna “Zayd huwa bi-nafsihi” ay bi-dhātihi lā bi-ghayrihi
ay mustaghnin ʿan ghayrihi fī kulli mā yaf ʿaluhu.
These words [. . .] i.e. “al-dhāt” and “mā bi-dhātihi” wa “dhāt” of the thing
are not common among the general public, but rather words used by phi-
losophers, as well as those dealing with theoretical (speculative) sciences.
The general public uses in their place such phrases as “Zayd through him-
self (bi-nafsihi) rose to war,” i.e. with no help, and “Zayd by himself ” i.e.
through himself, without the help of others.
It is possible that the evolution of the identifying function of nafs, and
(especially) dhāt also derives from the influence of translations from the
Greek philosophers through a Syriac intermediary (in Syriac, the identifĳier
is of the same Semitic origin as nafs). It is important to remember Khalil
Georr’s remarks on the translation of reflexive pronouns from Greek, in
his work on translating Aristotle’s categories into Syriac and Arabic (start-
ing with the 7th and 8th centuries):
Ces pronoms sont rendus en arabe par les noms outils (our emphasis), nafs
“âme,” dhāt “essence,” ʿayn “oeil,” sufffĳixés d’un pronom personnel (possessif)
rappelant le sujet ou le complément, ou par l’expression ʿalā ḥiyālihi “à part
soi-même” (. . .).27
In the modern age, dhāt is probably the most common among the Arab
equivalents of English phrases that contain self: fī dhātihi “in itself”; qaʾim
bidhātihi “self-existent, independent” etc. In the case of dhāt, it is possible
to speak of going from grammaticalization to lexicalization in the modern
age (to be discussed shortly).
The person, as well as the alter ego of the divided self (expressed through
a reflexive), is conveyed through nafs, and far less frequently through
dhāt. Among others, Wright adds to the commonly mentioned identifĳiers
the word wajh, “face” (as an expression of the person and a mark of the
reflexive in aslamtu wajhī li-Allāh, translated as “I resign myself to God”),
as well as rūḥ, “spirit.”28 The latter, close to nafs in meaning, is seldom used
as a mark of the reflexive, a function it fulfĳills for instance in ahlaktu rūḥī,
translated by Wright as “I have destroyed myself.”
27
Khalil Georr’s (1948: 62).
28
Wright (1971: 272).
The Function of Identifiers Suggested by the

Early Arab Grammarians
The ancient Arab grammarians, starting with Sībawayhi, believed that the
identifĳiers’ function, as well as that of quantifĳiers’, was to emphasize, or
intensify, and that this function is manifest within the substitutive apposi-
tion (badal); more precisely, in a form that implies repetition, or reitera-
tion, as an intensifying or quantifying nominal, and also as an anaphoric
pronoun.
The “intensifying” function of nafs and associated elements is conceived
of as a result of identifĳication (as one, alone, him and not another one, in
person, with no help). “The caliph” (al-khalīfa) is accompanied by nafs in
the examples given by a number of grammarians, precisely because he is
not expected to acomplish certain acts “in person” or “by himself”: see, for
instance, in Sakkākī:29
jāʾanī l-khalīfatu nafsuhu
“The caliph in person came to me.”
In the examples above, “the prince” (al-amīr) takes care himself, in per-
son, of punishing the thief.
We have previously discussed the manner this meaning is dealt with
in Ibn Jinnī,30 i.e. under the pairing ḥaqīqa “proper sense” / majāz “fĳigu-
rative sense.” Language as a whole, says the Arab author, is made up of
elements that “go beyond” the proper sense: in the case of examples such
as qaṭaʿa l-amīru l-liṣṣa “the prince cut offf [the hand] of the thief” we
can understand (metonymically) that the prince had someone cut offf the
thief’s hand; however, if nafsuhu is appended to amīr, we are dealing with
the proper meaning.
Ibn Jinnī does come back to this in another chapter of his al-Khaṣāʾiṣ
in connection with the possibility of nafs appearing as a fĳirst or second
word in a construct state.31 The authors who consider a structure such
as nafs al-shayʾ, “the nafs of the thing,” to be incorrect support this claim
by referring to the impossibility that a thing can be attributed to itself
(iḍāfat al-shayʾ ilā nafsihi). Ibn Jinnī attempts to demonstrate that nafs
can appear in an appended structure precisely because it does not express
the same thing as the name to which it is connected, but the essence of
29
Sakkākī, Miftāḥ, 267.
30
Anghelescu (2000 and 2004).
31
Ibn Jinnī, Khaṣāʾiṣ 3: 24–25.
82 nadia anghelescu
a thing, its “purest part” (khāliṣu l-shayʾ), i.e. “part of a whole” (al-baʿḍ
min al-kull). This interpretation is also valid for both Zayd nafsuhu “Zayd
himself ” and hādhā nafsu l-ḥaqq “this is the truth itself” (and not another
one, Ibn Jinnī adds). As proof that the nafs of a thing should be regarded
as the part is to a whole is apparent when the poet addresses nafs as if it
were another, shown in phrases such as aqūlu li-nafsī “I tell myself” and
yaqūlu lī nafsī “my self tells me.”
Ibn Jinnī’s observations (some of which resemble relatively recent
explanations related to the “divided Self”—see above) are important
because they:
– explain the “emphatic” function of identifĳiers from the perspective of

the proper sense (haqīqa) vs the fĳigurative sense (majāz);
– place the meanings of nafs in relation to those of the quantifĳiers;
– raise (for the fĳirst time, as far as can be discerned) the notion of an
alter ego expressed through nafs, with examples that underline both
the emphatic function of nafs and its function of expressing a reflexive.
– raise the possibility that identifĳiers may be assimilated to quantifĳiers
as expressing “a part of the whole,” i.e. the best part, the person’s or
object’s essence.
In the work of later grammarians, for instance in Ibn ʿAqīl’s Sharḥ, the
explanations concerning the functions of nafs are similar to those given
by Ibn Jinnī.32 Ibn ʿAqīl shows that using the above-mentioned words is
meant to prevent us from misinterpreting the meaning of nafs. In the
case of identifĳiers, a simple sentence such as jāʾa Zayd “Zayd has come”
could be interpreted as resulting from an elision or a fĳigurative expression
(majāz). It could be, for instance, the news that Zayd is coming, or some-
one that Zayd has sent. In other words, placing nafs next to Zayd specifĳies
the reference. The same might be said of several universal quantifĳiers: kull,
kilā and kiltā, jamīʿ and ajmaʿ, to which Lisān adds ʿāmmat(an), following
Sībawayhi.
As detailed in the above discussion as well as in other works, it is appar-
ent that the ancient grammarians offfer suggestions regarding the interpre-
tation of “intensifĳiers” as expressing the idea of “counter of expectation”:
the example provided earlier ( jāʾanī l-khalīfatu nafsuhu “the caliph in
32
Ibn ʿAqīl, Sharḥ, 606–609.
person came to me”) is quite conclusive in this respect. This interpreta-

tion of intensifĳiers or emphasizers of a number of languages is present in
many contemporary works.
Identifier Structures
Identifĳier structures are diffferentiated, to some extent, in function of the

particular meanings connected to identifĳication.
A. For identifĳication as “one” and “someone,” or emphatic identifĳica-
tion, the identifĳied name can appear in the following constructions:
• in an apposition, together with an anaphoric possessive pronoun

that refers to the noun it accompanies): al-rajulu nafsuhu (ʿaynuhu;
dhātuhu) “the man himself, the same man”; al-rijālu anfusuhum “the
men themselves, the same men” (only nafs has plural forms, and some-
times dual forms).
• followed by an identifĳier with the preposition bi- : al-rajulu bi-nafsihi
(bi-ʿaynihi; bi-dhātihi) “the man himself”; al-rijālu bi-anfusihim “the
men themselves.”33
The two structures above are defĳined as standard structures of identifĳiers.

The determinant follows the determiner, in “normal” succession.
• The identifĳier appears in fĳirst position in a construct state especially

with the meaning of “same”: fī nafsi l-bayt “in the same house,” fī ʿayn
al-muḥīṭ “in the same environment.” The construct state has become
the structure preferred to mean sameness. When we speak of construct
state as a preferred expression of identity as sameness, what we are
thus emphasizing is that sameness also has another form of expression,
i.e. the apposition, as in fī-l-bayti nafsihi which can mean not only “in
the same house,” but also “right in the house,” or even “in the house
itself.”34
33
Note: The preposition bi is thought by the early grammarians to be an “expletive”:
zāʾid; however, it may have been originally used with the sense of “contiguity” or “accom-
paniment” which is peculiar to it: in Zayd bi-nafsihi, it might have meant “Zayd with him-
self [and no one else].”
34
Note: The structures where nafs appears in a construct state as a subject ( jāʾa nafsu
l-rajul “the same man came”) are to this day blamed by purists: it is said that nafs and
other identifĳiers are used for corroboration in structures other than the “correct” one, i.e.
the one above.
84 nadia anghelescu
In some structures where identity is expressed as sameness, nafs can be

replaced by wāḥid “one” fī ānin wāḥid “at the same time.”
(16) (. . .) fa-yuqarriru anna l-mādda mustakhdama ʿalā l-haqīqa wa-l-majāz fī

ānin wāḥid
Decides that the root can be used literally and fĳiguratively at the same time
• in the Accusative, with an adverbial value, next to the element it refers

to: (only) ʿaynan “in person,” “himself.”
• with the preposition bi- accompanying dhāt with a defĳinite article:
bound together, with the adverbial value bi-l-dhāt:
hunā bi-l-dhāt “here specifically”; fī hādha l-waqti l-ḥariji bi-l-dhāt “in
this particularly crucial time.”35
All the structures listed above (save for] the reflexive ones) are determi-
nant structures, and it is important to keep in mind] that they are identi-
cal with those of quantifĳiers.36
In principle, nafs agrees with the determined noun in case and number;
the anaphoric pronoun agrees with the determined noun in gender and
number. Not all possibilities of nafs’ variations in function of agreement
are actually performed: in association with a dual noun, nafs is not always
employed in the dual form, as Wright notes, citing the ancient Arab gram-
marians: “some authorities admit in this case the use of the singular or the
dual: jāʾa l-zaydāni nafsuhumā (the two Zayd themselves came).”37 With
or without the grammarians’ permission, in modern language examples of
the agreement of nafs with the dual noun is not achieved (another proof
of the weakening of the dual). The following example is drawn from the
modern language (Ṭāha Ḥusayn):
(17) wa ʿalā hādhayni l-ʿunṣurayni nafsihimā qāmat ḥayātu l-ʿarab al-qudamāʾ

The life of the ancient Arabs arose from [precisely] these two elements
The agreement of anaphoric elements draws attention to the fact that the
proper expression for identifĳication is reiteration. Within structures con-
taining nafs and other identifĳiers functioning as intensifĳiers, we are deal-
ing not just with reiteration through the identifying anaphora, but with
35
See Badawi, Carter and Gully (2004: 2.8.3.3).
36
For quantifĳiers, see also Anghelescu (2004: 335–355).
37
Wright (1971: 281).
a pronominal proliferation introduced by it. That also implies extract-

ing, bringing to the surface the pronouns “hidden” in pronominal marks,
where agreement, i.e. matching the marks, leads to specifĳic restrictions
if the nafs and anaphora are introduced. We also know from the ancient
Arab grammarians, who set the norm, that nafs and ʿayn cannot be used
in apposition to a nominative pronoun, hidden in prefĳixed and sufffĳixed
marks: it must be surfaced in order to receive emphasis through the ele-
ments mentioned:38
(18) Zayd dhahaba huwa nafsuhu

Zayd himself left
(19) al-qawmu ḥaḍarū hum anfusuhum

People themselves came
When it is emphasized, the Accusative pronoun attached to the Genitive

verb or pronoun attached to a preposition is not reiterated:
(20) raʾaytuhu nafsahu

I saw him himself
(21) marartu bihi nafsihi

I passed by him, himself
We must note that the last examples highlight the formal identity of the
pronouns afffĳixed to the verb and preposition, to those afffĳixed to nafs: in
this situation, the requirement for semantic identity to be expressed by
formal identity is applied.
This identity is also manifest in the example provided by Sībawayhi
speaking of tawkīd “corroboration” in connection to the function held
by nafs:
(22) raʾaytuhu iyyāhu nafsahu

I saw him, he himself 39
B. In reflexive constructions, the identifĳier appears as a direct or prepo-

sitional object accompanied by a possessive pronoun, in reflexive struc-
tures: nafs commonly appears in such structures, usually in the singular,
38
See for instance Zamakhsharī, al-Mufaṣṣal, 111.
39
Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb, 393.
86 nadia anghelescu
seldom in the plural: yalūmu nafsahu “he blames himself.” The normal
word order is that when the object follows the verb: see, however, above
(11) regarding the proposed prepositional object, in the examples from
Jāḥiẓ, Bayān.
The personal pronoun is the common anaphora in old texts, in a variety
of situations in which the reflexive is licensed by the verb, for all three per-
sons. From a certain moment on (which cannot be precisely pinpointed),
instead of the personal pronoun, especially for the third person, the ana-
phora that includes nafs and (seldom) dhāt. As for the fĳirst person, even
in the modern age, as the Modern Written Arabic authors note, frequently
“a simple object pronoun is used.”40 To this might be added that the verbs
in the sentences included in this source’s examples belong to a category
Arab grammarians call af ʿāl al-qulūb, a phrase often translated as “verbs
of the heart”:
(23) wajadtunī uḥibbu samāʿ hādhā l-kalām minhu

I found myself liking to listen to this kind of talk from him
In the examples of classical language sentences mentioned above (9, 10,

11), nafs fĳills the place that might have been otherwise taken by a per-
sonal pronoun. As shown before, what is, however, peculiar to all sen-
tences where nafs appears in place of a personal pronoun is that they are
marked sentences. In the imperative sentence (11) where the interlocutor
is invited to perform an impossible act upon himself (throw a house upon
himself!) we are dealing with inversion as well, which places nafs in a
cataphoric position (ʿalā nafsika fa-alqihi).
C. In Arabic, identity is normally expressed through the nominal sentence:

in fact, the principle of identity, formulated by philosophers as a=a, is
expressed in Arabic through the equation-sentence huwa huwa “he [is]
he.” The absence of the copula in Arabic makes more visible this linguistic
symbol of identity through reiteration. However, the semantic interpreta-
tion of the sentence does not lead to tautologies. It might, instead, be “he
is [still] him”—i.e., the subject is the same, it is merely continuous in time.
Nafs also appears in such equational sentences.
40
Badawi, Carter and Gully (2004: 391)
(24) al-kalima hiya nafsuhā fī-l-ʿarabiyya

The word it pron III f. nom nafs pron III f. in Arabic
The word is the same in Arabic
(i.e. it has the same form in Arabic as in other Semitic languages)
The sentence that expresses trans-temporal identity (fr. mêméité), i.e. “he
remains the same” might take the following forms:
The form normatively acceptable is:
(25) mā zāla huwa iyyāhu

He has not ceased pron III Nom. pron III Acc.
The form with nafs in the accusative plus pronoun as nominal predicate
(26) mā zāla nafsahu

[He] has not ceased to be nafs acc. pron III
The transformed form, accepted
(27) mā zāla huwa huwa

He has not ceased (pron. nom.) to be him (pron. nom.)
The pressure of the system, within which the very idea of identity is
expressed iconically through verbal repetition, means that in a sentence
where continuity is asserted through the auxiliary mā zāla (lit.: “does not
cease being”) the predicate remains in the nominative (see 27), although
that auxiliary is part of a series of elements introducing temporal-aspec-
tual values, and which usually justify the accusative case of the predicate
nominal (25, 26).
Observations on Identifiers in the Modern Language
Each identifĳier in part is defĳined not only by its own meanings and func-
tions, but also through the quasi-synonymous phrases and those it is in
opposition to, as will be shown further by examples in modern Arabic. It
should be noted from the beginning that in modern Arabic thus far there
has been no evidence of uses of the identifĳiers that were absent, at least
in an incipient form, in the classical language.
88 nadia anghelescu
A. Nafs
Originating in “soul” (semantically related to “breath”), nafs is the most
appropriate form for expressing personal identity, the core of the concept
of identity in the modern language, as well as in the classical language.
• Nafs often appears as an emphatic form of personal pronouns, gener-

ally in marked structures.
ḥājātuhu → ḥājāt nafsi-hi “his needs”
• Also in marked sentences, nafs serves to emphasize the importance or
underline the authority of the author or authors of a statement, action,
etc., often by contrasting it with expectations:
(28) al-lugha min ṣunʿ al-nās anfusihim

Language is made by the people themselves
(29) wa-min hādhā l-bāb mā dhakarahu Sībawayhi nafsuhu

This category includes what Sībawayhi himself was saying
• Non-human nouns can also be emphasized (in what follows, nafs sin-
gular refers to a dual noun)
(30) wa-ʿalā hādhayni l-ʿunṣurayni nafsihimā qāmat ḥayāt al-ʿarab al-qudamāʾ

The life of the ancient Arabs was based [precisely] on these two elements
• Nafs is the reflexive marker par excellence: it is the Self argument, in

relation to the Subject argument. Various rapports are built between
the two arguments of the verb or of other elements that can issue a
reflexive (verbal nouns, participles, adjectives):
• The Subject can know the Self, or it can ignore it:
(31) iʿraf nafsaka

Know yourself!
(32) a-laysa l-insān ajhal al-kāʾināt bi-dhātihi?

Is man not the being that most ignores itself?
• The Subject can see the Self, “with the eyes” or with the mind’s eye (in
the sense of “considering itself”):
(33) al-mirʾātu llatī yanẓuru fīhā fa-yarā nafsahu kamā hiya

the mirror into which he looks and sees himself as he is
(34) yarā nafsahu fawqa l-nāsi

Sees [considers] himself above other people
• The Subject can love its alter ego, defend it or blame it
(35) yuḥibbu nafsahu/ dhātahu

he loves himself
(36) yalūmu nafsahu

blames himself
• The Subject can impose upon himself, can put himself in a certain posi-
tion, or can “pose as”
(37) faraḍa ʿalā nafsihi

he imposed upon himself
(38) (. . .) bayda anna lladhīna aqāmū anfusahum ḥumātan li-l-ʿarabiyya (. . .)
(. . .) while those who posed as defenders of Arabic (. . .)
As in the classical texts, in modern texts the reflexive mostly accompanies

the third person, and it is rarely used with the fĳirst person. It is signifĳicant
that most examples where the reflexive refers to the fĳirst person provided
below are from the prose of Jubrān:
• The Subject can be its own master
(39) anā rabbu nafsī

I am my own master
• The Self can be alien to the Subject, the Subject can lose and fĳind the
Self
(40) anā gharīb ʿan nafsi (Jubrān)

I am alien to myself
(41) uḍīʿ nafsī

I’m losing myself
90 nadia anghelescu
(42) aʿūd ilā nafsī

I’m coming back to myself (to my senses)
• Identifĳication as same applies mostly to non-human entities and works

by predilection with nafs:
(43) yatakallamūna l-lugha nafsahā

they speak the same language
• The frozen phrase fī nafsi l-waqt, appears grammaticalized as a linguis-

tic expression of what might be called “an argumentative connector;”
similarly, but less used in this function, is fī-l waqti nafsihi.
B. ʿAyn
• The meanings of individualization, concretization, also applied to
non-humans, are especially expressed through ʿayn, and more rarely
through dhāt:
(44) mawḍiʿ bi-ʿaynihi

a particular place
(45) yadull ʿalā maʿnan bi-ʿaynihi

indicates a certain (specifĳic) sense
• Individualization can also be underlined by wāḥid:
(46) laysat al-lugha rābiṭan bayna aʿḍāʾ mujtamaʿ wāḥ id bi-ʿaynihi, wa-innamā
hiya (. . .)
Language is not only a connection between members of a certain society,
but (. . .)
• The meaning of perfect embodiment of a concept is expressed espe-

cially by ʿayn and dhāt: in this case it can be equated with “true,”
“only”
(47) al-āna, ʿaynu l-waqt al-ḥāḍir

“Now” is precisely (the embodiment of) the present
C. Dhāt
• Apart from the functions mentioned in the examples above, repre-
sented here in (48), dhāt also appears in fĳixed structures, as in (49)
and (50).
(48) hādhihi l-kutub dhātuhā

precisely these books
(49) hādhihi l-miḥan al-kathīra allatī tuṣīb al-udabāʾ fī dhāt anfusihim

These numerous attempts that strike the profound being of the those who
are scholars
• The adverbial phrase bi-dhdhāt appears with an emphatic role:
(50) fī dhālika l-yawmi bi-l-dhāt

on that particular day
• It is relatively rarely used as a reflexive marker:
(51) lā yuḥibb illā dhātahu

He only loves himself 41
(52) yawmiyyāt nāʾib fī-l-aryāf lam yaqṣid nāʾib bi-l-dhāt wa-lā qarya bi-l-dhāt
(. . .) fahuwa yaqṣid nāʾib muʿayyan wa-ḥayāt bi-ʿaynihā lahā muyūluhā
wa-nawāziʿuhā wa ẓurūfuhā llatī qad tatakarrar kathīran fī ʿayn al-muḥīṭ
(. . .).
“The diary of a country prosecutor substitute” focused neither on a type of
prosecutor substitute, nor on a village in itself (. . .) It refers to a certain
prosecutor substitute, a specific life, with its own tendencies and circum-
stances that can repeat themselves in the same environment (. . .)
Forms of Grammaticalization in the

Category of Identifiers
Remarks on the criteria that allow us to decide whether a language

element is the result of grammaticalization or not start foremost from
41
Note: The tendency to specialize shown by the three identifĳiers discussed above can
be seen in the example below. Also see here the role of the sufffĳixed pronoun hā, similar
to that of identifĳiers.
92 nadia anghelescu
Hopper and Traugott,42 but also from other general works that underlie
the observations presented here on the presence of this process in Arabic.43
To these were recently added Brinton and Traugott, who treat grammati-
calization and lexicalization in relation to each other.44 From this latter
source come our defĳinitions of the two correlated processes.45
Grammaticalization is thus defĳined as: “the change whereby in certain
linguistic contexts speakers use parts of the construction with a gram-
matical function. Over time the resulting grammatical item may become
more grammatical by acquiring more grammatical functions and expand-
ing its host-classes.”
Lexicalization is defĳined as: “the change whereby in certain linguistic
contexts speakers use a syntactic construction or word formation as a
new content-laden form with formal and semantic properties that are not
completely derivable or predictable from the constituents of the construc-
tion or the word formation pattern. Over time there may be further loss of
internal constituency and the item may become more lexical.”
What follows focuses on grammaticalization for all three identifĳiers
(though we especially refer to nafs as a prototype of this category), while
processes that can be attributed to lexicalization will only be mentioned
in connection to dhāt.
The gradual evolution of the meanings of nafs and associated elements
toward abstract meanings, seen as grammatical, and the stabilization of
structures in which nafs, and dhāt function as identifĳiers are manifesta-
tions of the three identifĳiers’ tendency toward grammaticalization.
A. Moving from a concrete to an abstract meaning, and from abstract

to more abstract, through a process of metaphorization (or metonymyza-
tion, according to other authors), is seen as a compulsory criterion for
elements undergoing grammaticalization. It is not easy to pinpoint the
moment when nafs replaces a personal pronoun in various structures, and
why that happens. However, we are lucky to have the testimony of the
Arab grammarians on the structures and meanings seen as fundamen-
tal to nafs and its associated elements, which indicates that, at the time,
there was awareness as to the statute of these elements being diffferent
from that of the lexemes from which they originated and with which they
42
Hopper and Traugott (2003).
43
Anghelescu (2004).
44
Brinton and Traugott (2005).
45
Ibid., 144–145.
coexisted. We must not forget that Sībawayhi, who made certain interest-
ing observations on the “emphatic” function of identifĳiers, lived in the 8th
century, while other grammarians whom we referenced in various chap-
ters lived between the 10th and 13th centuries. They all remark on the
status of these elements in texts that date primarily from before the 8th
century (the Qurʾān and pre-Islamic poetry).
Lacking a corpus that includes various types of medieval texts (includ-
ing translations), it is only possible to formulate a hypothesis on the evolu-
tion of certain identifĳiers’ meanings. The trajectory of the nafs’s meaning
as it evolved toward abstractization might be:
soul → person → Self: reflexive (1) → corroborative → same→ reflexive (2)
The above outline, as well as previous observations, suggests that the
grammatical meanings of nafs progression was from reflexive to corrob-
orative and not the other way around. Another possibility is that both
meanings result, somewhat simultaneously, from diffferent (but perhaps
complementary) concepts of the person. Such hypotheses have been pre-
viously formulated on the evolution of identifĳiers in other languages:
It is often assumed or at least implied that this process is unidirectional in

the sense that SELF-intensifĳiers may develop into reflexives, but not vice
versa. This paper has shown that the opposite direction is also possible,
for instance in languages such as Japanese, where a reflexive marker can
give rise to an expression of actor-oriented intensifĳication if it combines
with an appropriate case marker.46
As elsewhere, here too the various types of lexical and grammatical
meanings of identifĳiers coexist; therefore they cannot undergo a unique
linear evolution.
It then remains for us to show why the general meaning (identifĳication)
or these particular meanings of identifĳiers (reflexive, sameness, emphasis
or intensifĳication) can be seen as grammatical meanings.
Grammatical meanings are abstract meanings, to be found in categories
known to most languages: tense, aspect, determination, and grammati-
cal number are part of these categories. Identifĳication, a general meaning
found in the particular meanings of nafs and related elements, is an abstract
meaning which several languages treat grammatically, starting from
often common lexical sources. As intensifiers, nafs and related elements
can be associated to the more general category of noun “determiners,”
46
Gast and Siemund (2006: 375).
94 nadia anghelescu
and, within that, to the article and other quantifĳiers. Some uses of the
defĳinite article al- (baytuka l-baytu “your house is the [real] house”), as
well as some uses of kull together with the defĳinite form of the noun
(al-fatā kull al-fatā “the young man, the real young man”) have a super-
lative or emphasizing value also found in structures with nafs and ʿayn
(we referred to them as a superlative expression of the concept, equiva-
lent to “real”).
What is of interest here is not just some specifĳic uses, but also the rela-
tion between the meanings of identifĳiers as intensifĳiers, and universal
quantifĳiers. This relation is explained by the early Arab grammarians as
stemming from the common function of “corroboration.” Ibn Jinnī even
speaks of a more direct semantic relation between quantifĳiers and identi-
fĳiers, suggesting that the idea of “part of a whole” or “other part” expressed
by identifĳiers is of the same nature as that expressed by quantifĳiers. From a
slightly diffferent vantage, Ibn Hishām speaks of the meaning of “globality”
(iḥāṭa) introduced by the pronoun attached to some indefĳinite quantifĳiers
(kulluhum “all of them”) and defĳinite quantifĳiers (thalāthatukum “all three
of you”), which might also explain the role of these anaphoric pronouns
attached to identifĳiers used as emphasizers.47
However, if we admit that these are noun determinants in both catego-
ries (emphasizers and quantifĳiers), classes of elements that some authors
see as “overlapping” with the nuclear sentence, we are dealing with a pos-
sible justifĳication of common structures.
Various languages treat the reflexive as a separate grammatical cat-
egory, whether we are considering the inherent reflexive (expressed, in
Arabic, through some T-derived forms) or about the Self reflexive, fore-
most expressed in Arabic through nafs. When speaking of “coindexing
two arguments of the verb” in the case of the reflexive, that can be trans-
lated by identifying the two arguments. It may be presupposed that what
underlay certain nafs reflexive forms in the classical language might have
been a dual concept of the person, split between the social “face” and the
inner “self” (such a concept existed in other societies as well, and endures,
under certain forms, in today’s societies).
A dual concept of the person might explain the reflexive with nafs in
dicendi verbs (verbs of saying), considering the fact that several authors
in the classical era mention utterances as “un-covering” hidden meanings,
covered in the mind or conscience (i.e. nafs). Modern-day reflexives are
47
Ibn Hishām, Mughnī 2: 510.
an expression of various concepts of the person, including that which con-

cerns the divided Self as an expression of alienation: see, for instance, anā
gharīb ʿan nafsī “I am alien to myself” (Jubrān).
In order to place the reflexive in a typological perspective, König
and Siemund’s observations on the meaning of predicates in reflexive
structures seem relevant.48 One relevant distinction is that between the
(conventionally) other-directed and (conventionally) non-other-directed
situations.
All processes of grooming (washing, dressing, shaving, etc.) are typi-
cally performed by oneself (. . .). All violent actions are typically directed
against others. In the domain of attitudes and emotions ‘being proud of’
and ‘being ashamed of’ are examples of attitudes relating only to a per-
son’s own sphere (. . .) Love, hate and jealousy , by contrast, are commonly
directed towards others. All processes of communication are convention-
ally other directed, whereas activities like ‘defending’, ‘protecting’, ‘liber-
ating’ and ‘preparing’ are examples of conventionally non-other directed
situations.
As the authors note, these general observations can be useful in inter-
preting marked reflexives (such as nafs reflexives in Arabic, we might
add). Another important observation, however, is that the reflexive with
Self tends to be used in counter-expectation situations—that is, in situa-
tions where the subject applies to himself situations that would normally
be directed toward others: he loves or hates himself, he speaks to himself
etc.49 Reflexive utterances are thus marked, the same as those containing
intensifĳiers.
Finally, we can say that identifĳiers’ meanings are grammatical because
Arabic, like other languages, treats them as if they were grammatical, in
structures where identifĳiers behave similar to one another, yet diffferent
from the prototypical nominals.
Elements of semantic evolution (discussed above under A.) combine
with formal elements to defĳine the statute of identifĳiers as that of func-
tional linguistic entities. We have chosen just some of the criteria defĳining
elements that undergo grammaticalization, as not all elements commonly
listed are relevant to the category of identifĳiers being discussed. By and
large, these criteria might be as follows:
48
König and Siemund (2000: 60–63).
49
See other examples under 35, 36, 37, 41.
96 nadia anghelescu
B. Sequential fixation or syntagmatic fĳixation, usually meaning that the

new unit cannot permutate with its neighboring element. Extrapolating,
this might refer to fĳixed structures shared by identifĳiers, but not present in
the case of the nominals of the same form, or other nominal elements.
C. As for the combinatorial possibilities, it can only be noted that there
are some tendencies in combining identifĳiers as intensifĳiers with the
nouns (nafs tends to combine with human nouns, although it can also be
combined with non-human nouns). In the case of reflexive markers, the
tendency is to combine with certain verbs (see the observations above) or
certain persons of the verb (the third person seems best suited for reflex-
ive constructions).
D. As for the formal fusion, it can be accomplished to varying degrees,

depending on the structure of the language. At the minimal level accom-
plished in Arabic, no other element can be inserted between the new unit
resulting from grammaticalization (nafs, dhāt) and the element it accom-
panies. The structures where it is commonly integrated (apposition and
construct state) are structures with a high degree of cohesion. The maxi-
mum level, that of a real coalescence, is accomplished in relatively few
situations in Arabic.50 In what identifĳiers are concerned, there are no cases
of coalescence, but of bound elements. Identifĳiers preserve their formal
independence and do not undergo the formal paring-down that greatly
characterizes grammaticalized elements in other languages. The system of
preponderantly tri-consonantal roots is also present in elements that have
become functional, as is the case of quantifĳiers and temporal-aspectual
auxiliaries.
E. Paradigmization represents a result of various strategies of grammati-

calization, rather than a particular strategy in itself. ʿAyn and dhāt gradu-
ally integrate in a paradigm that places nafs at the center of the category.
Nafs alone has all the grammatical meanings referred to in the preceding
chapter. Nafs alone has plural and dual forms, also as an identifĳier; how-
ever, for the dual there isn’t always agreement. As identifĳiers, ʿayn and
dhāt do not have plural forms. As such, all three share, by and large, the
same morpho-syntactic behavior, diffferent from that of their correspond-
ing lexemes, as discussed above. However, their diffferent lexical sources,
50
See Baalbaki (1999).
and the evolution of their meanings also influence the structures that
integrate them. Dhāt, as previously discussed, is the peripheral element.
F. Frequency: same as with other functional elements, identifĳiers nafs

ʿayn, dhāt have higher frequency in texts than the corresponding lexeme,
in decreasing order (e.g., the nominal nafs as “soul” is much less frequent
than nafs as “self”). The frequency of nafs is, naturally, the highest in all
identifĳication-related meanings: intensifĳier, equivalent of same, reflexive
marker. For the fĳirst two meanings, is also frequent. In the texts of classic
and modern Arabic philosophy, dhāt is used frequently, while in everyday
language it is seldom employed. Apparently, dhāt has a higher frequency
in modern texts, especially in specialized languages, but that is of no par-
ticular interest for us here, as the element is frequently used as a lexical
formant, not as an identifĳier.
Conclusions
1. The investigation of the meanings expressed by nafs, ʿayn, dhāt in

both the classical and the modern language suggests that they are sub-
sumed under the concept of “identifĳication,” which justifĳies using the
term “identifĳiers” for all these elements. The function of intensifĳier or
emphasizer is characteristic of the entire category of elements men-
tioned above. To this function is added that of a reflexive, expressed
through nafs and, more rarely, through dhāt, as well as the functions
of individualization and superlative (the notion in its perfect embodi-
ment), predilectly expressed through ʿayn. Nafs appears as a prototype
of the category through its assumption of all the functions added to the
above-mentioned one, as well as through its much higher frequency of
occurrence than the other elements.
2. The evolution of the meanings for nafs, the prototypical element in
this category of words, from breath of life “to soul” and then the various
meanings expressed by self, plus the concept of sameness, can be traced
to building a concept of personal identity in its various understandings.
In the mentality of pre-Islamic Arabs, the concept of “divided Self” may
have preceded that of the Self seen as “one,” which might also mean
that the reflexive nafs preceded the emphasizing nafs.
3. The hierarchy of occurrences of these identifĳiers as intensifĳiers follows
the general animacy hierarchy, but also includes specifĳic traits, identi-
fĳied in the corpus:
98 nadia anghelescu
animate: human [proper noun, common noun], [masculine, feminine], [sin-

gular, plural] → (animate non-human) → inanimate: common noun (con-
crete) [singular, plural], abstract noun.
The examples of nafs used as an identifĳier provided within the text most
often refer to men (in the examples given by the ancient Arab grammar-
ians, the identifĳied refers either to Zayd, or to rajul “man”). As for ani-
mate non-humans, the only occurrences of nafs that we could fĳind are the
reflexive structures in fables, where, for instance, the tiger speaks to itself:
qāla l-namiru li-nafsihi.
4. In the modern language, there has been a widening of the usage of

nafs as a reflexive marker. In what concerns structures containing the
reflexive, we observe in modern Arabic a tendency common in other
languages as well. The reflexive with nafs tends to be used in counter-
expectation situations—in other words, in situations where the subject
applies to himself situations that would normally be directed toward
others: he loves or hates himself, he speaks to himself.
5. Among identifĳiers, the tendencies toward grammaticalization become
apparent through the abstractization (metaphorization) of the origi-
nal meanings and acquisition of common meanings (intensifĳication,
sameness, reflexive, etc.) that can be considered grammatical. Other
grammaticalization indices for this category are sequential fĳixation or
syntagmatic fĳixation, as well as paradigmization (i.e., fĳitting the three
elements within a single paradigm) and increasing the frequency of
use (the identifĳier nafs appears much more frequently than the lexical
element nafs, with its sense of “soul”). Concerning structures specifĳic
to identifĳiers, they are foremost characterized by simple repetition or
anaphoric reiteration, iconic ways of expressing identity.
6. The parallel between structures containing identifĳiers and structures
containing quantifĳiers suggest a semantic and functional relation that
cannot be ignored. It does not, however, necessarily mean that we are
dealing with only one category of functional elements. Rather, it seems
to suggest that both identifĳiers and quantifĳiers belong to the category
of nominal determinants or modifĳiers predilectly expressed through a
specifĳic type of apposition, as well as through a specifĳic construct state.
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LA COORDINATION À UN CONSTITUANT DU NOYAU EN ARABE
Hassan Hamzé
1. La coordination
Le Dictionnaire de linguistique défĳinit la coordination de la manière sui-

vante :: « On appelle coordination le fait qu’un mot (dit conjonction de
coordination) relie deux mots ou deux suites de mots qui sont de même
nature (catégorie) ou de même fonction dans la phrase. »1
Cette défĳinition, attribuée dans une ancienne édition du même diction-
naire à « la grammaire traditionnelle, »2 appelle deux remarques :
• Les éléments coordonnés ne sont pas toujours de même nature, ni de

même fonction ; ils peuvent appartenir à des catégories diffférentes et
occuper des fonctions diffférentes comme c’est le cas dans l’exemple
suivant donné par ce même dictionnaire : « un objet vert et d’étrange
aspect » où les deux segments « vert » et « d’étrange aspect » divergent
sur les deux plans mentionnés. Ce qui permet de les réunir alors dans
une coordination c’est un critère distributionnel puisque les deux seg-
ments coordonnés peuvent se trouver à la même place, c’est-à-dire
dans la même distribution.
• Le coordonnant n’est pas toujours un mot. Le Dictionnaire de linguistique
parle dans ce cas d’une « absence de la conjonction de coordination »
comme dans « il court, saute dans tous les sens. » Il considère les exem-
ples de ce type comme étant une simple juxtaposition, « un cas particu-
lier de la coordination » « caractérisé par l’absence du coordonnant, »
« mais les rapports entre les termes juxtaposés sont les mêmes qu’entre
les termes coordonnés. »3 Or, une simple juxtaposition n’établit pas une
relation syntaxique entre les éléments. Elle n’est que la manifestation
d’une coordination réalisée au moyen d’un autre type de coordon-
nant formé d’intonèmes. En efffet, un coordonnant peut être formé de
1
Dubois et al. (2002 : 120–121).
2
Nous avons comparé l’édition de 2002 à celle de 1973 présentée à l’époque comme
étant « la dernière édition revue et corrigée. »
3
On retrouve cette même analyse dans le Dictionnaire de la linguistique de G. Mounin
qui considère la juxtaposition comme une forme de coordination.
102 hassan hamzé
phonèmes, auquel cas le coordonnant est un mot. Mais il peut aussi

être formé d’intonèmes, auquel cas le coordonnant est, comme le dit
André Roman, une « intonation continuative. »4
Cependant, le coordonnant est souvent un mot—et les segments coor-

donnés sont souvent des mots de même nature. On peut donc estimer, à
la lumière de ces deux remarques, que la défĳinition proposée n’est valable
que si on ne prend en compte que les éléments les plus représentatifs de
la catégorie.
La coordination apparaît comme une forme d’extension qui donne au
syntagme coordonné le statut syntaxique de la base à laquelle il est coor-
donné. L’élément ajouté ne modifĳie, ni les rapports mutuels, ni la fonc-
tion des éléments de base. Contrairement à la subordination, la relation
entre la base et son extension par coordination est une relation égalitaire,
« non hiérarchisée. » Puisqu’il en est ainsi, la base et son extension peu-
vent changer de position et de rôle : la base peut devenir extension et
vice-versa5. L’on peut dire, par exemple :
/marar-tu bi zayd-in wa ʿamr-in/
Litt. Je suis passé près de Zayd (gén) et ʿAmr (gén)
ou bien
/marar-tu bi ʿamr-in wa zayd-in/
Je suis passé près de Amr (gén) et Zayd (gén)
2. Le noyau
Dans ce qui suit, nous proposons d’examiner la coordination à l’un des

deux constituants du noyau de la phrase. Nous entendons par noyau les
deux constituants élémentaires qui entretiennent une relation d’interdé-
4
Roman (2001 : 1, 135).
5
Cependant, cette caractéristique doit tenir compte des contraintes propres à la nature
de certains éléments. Ainsi, à titre d’exemple, dans une coordination qui lie un nom à
un pronom conjoint en arabe, c’est obligatoirement le pronom conjoint qui est antéposé.
L’on doit dire :
/raʾay—tu ka wa zayd-an/
Litt. J’ai vu toi et Zayd (a)
mais jamais :
*/raʾay tu zaydan wa ka/
De même, on dit : /anā wa-anta/,= « Moi et toi, » et /anta wa-zayd-un/,= « Toi et zayd »
avec une antéposition de la 1ère personne par rapport à la 2ème, et de la 2ème par rapport à
la 3ème, etc.
la coordination à un constituant du noyau en arabe 103
pendance. Cette relation est « structurelle, fondamentale, immanquable-

ment présente, la traduction de leur contrainte réciproque d’existence. »6
En efffet, toute phrase est formée d’un noyau, sa forme minimale de base,
et, éventuellement, d’extensions des deux constituants du noyau ou
d’extensions des extensions du noyau. Le nombre d’extensions est ouvert.
Il n’est limité qu’en fonction des capacités de la mémoire de l’homme.
En fonction des classes des mots, on peut envisager trois types de
noyaux en arabe :
a) Un noyau formé d’un nom et d’une modalité. C’est le cas de la moda-

lité d’appel comme dans : /yā zayd-u/,= « Ô Zayd ! ».
b) Un noyau formé d’un nom7 et d’un verbe. C’est le cas des énoncés comme :
/katab-ta/,= « Tu as écrit. »
c) Un noyau formé de deux noms. C’est le cas des énoncés comme :
/zayd-un akhī/,= « Zayd [est] mon frère. »
On aura remarqué que tout noyau en arabe a besoin, obligatoirement,

d’un nom qui est son premier constituant, le deuxième constituant pou-
vant être un nom, un verbe ou une modalité8.
3. La coordination à un constituant du noyau
3.1 Noyau formé d’un nom et d’une modalité d’appel

Ce noyau se présente sous la forme d’un modèle unique : la modalité
d’appel, quelle que soit cette modalité, est antéposée. Elle est suivie du
nom. Exemples :
/yā zayd-u/
Litt. Ô Zayd (nom) !
6
Roman (2001 : 1, 46).
7
Il s’agit, en fait, d’un morphème de personne qui est un pronom. Mais, dans la tra-
dition grammaticale arabe, le pronom, tout comme l’adjectif et les formes dérivées sont
considérés comme des sous-classes du nom. Cette hiérarchisation des parties du discours
permet une « économie » remarquable du système selon l’expression de Guillaume (1988 :
25). Voir Hamzé (1994 : 93–97).
8
Les modalités, lorsqu’elles sont des mots comme c’est le cas des modalités d’appel,
de négation, d’interrogation, etc., font partie de la classe des particules dans la tradition
arabe.
104 hassan hamzé
En représentant par (a) le nom, premier constituant obligatoire de tout

noyau, et par (b) la modalité d’appel qui est le deuxième constituant, ce
modèle de noyau n’aura qu’un seul schéma :
b <—————> a9
Aucune coordination à la modalité d’appel ne pouvant être envisagée, la
seule coordination à un constituant du noyau dans ce modèle concerne
l’élément nominal. Cela donne le schéma suivant :
b <—————> (a+ a’)
Exemple :
/yā (ʿamr-u wa l-ḥārith-u)/
Litt. Ô (ʿAmr (nom) et al-Ḥārith (nom) !)
Dans cet énoncé le nom propre /al-Ḥārith-u/ est coordonné à l’autre nom
propre /ʿAmr-u/. Il s’agit bel et bien d’une coordination de type (a + a’)
selon le schéma présenté ci-dessus :
b <——> (a + a’)
et non pas d’une coordination de deux noyaux comme dans l’énoncé sui-
vant :
/(yā zayd-u) wa (yā ʿamr-u)/
Litt. (Ô Zayd (nom) !) et (ô ʿAmr (nom) !)
En efffet, supposer une modalité d’appel /yā/,= « Ô » ellipsée devant le
second nom donnerait :
*/yā zayd-u wa [yā] l-ḥārith-u/
Litt. Ô Zayd (nom) ! et ô al-Ḥārith (nom) !
Or, dit-Sībawayhi (al-Kitāb 2, 187) :
Introduire /yā/ devant /al-ḥārith/ est totalement inadmissible [. . .] c’est
qu’on n’introduit pas /yā/ devant un nom qui commence par /al/. En fait,
tu as afffecté /yā/ aux deux noms en coordonnant /al-ḥārith/10 au premier
[nom]. Mais tu n’as pas voulu introduire /yā/ spécifĳiquement devant /
al-ḥārith/.
:9
La flèche à double tête symbolise la relation d’interdépendance et de réciprocité qui
relie les deux constituants du noyau. Elle est reprise à Roman (1990 : 87).
10
Dans l’original : /al-naḍr/,= « al-Naḍr, » au lieu de /al-Ḥārith/.
S’il en est ainsi, la coordination doit être envisagée entre /al-ḥārith/ et le

constituant nominal du noyau /ʿamr/ selon le modèle :
b <——————> (a + a’),
seul modèle possible avec ce type de noyau.
3.2 Noyau formé d’un nom et d’un verbe

Si l’un des deux constituants du noyau est un verbe, l’autre constituant
est, forcément, un morphème de personne. En efffet, tout verbe en arabe
constitue un noyau puisqu’il ne peut point se séparer de son morphème
de personne sujet. Remarquablement, l’arabe exploite l’opposition marqué
vs non marqué dans ses morphèmes de personne, tout comme il l’exploite
pour le genre, le nombre. Comme il y a trois personnes, les deux premiè-
res personnes sont marquées par opposition à la troisième personne non
marquée. Pour le masculin singulier on dit :
/kataba-∅11/,= « Il a écrit, » à la troisième personne
par opposition à /katab-tu/,= « J’ai écrit, » à la première personne
et /katab-ta/,= « Tu as écrit, » à la deuxième personne.
À l’inachevé—le verbe arabe présente une opposition aspectuelle achevé
vs inachevé—le morphème de personne est préfĳixé au morphème verbal.
Ainsi, l’opposition aspectuelle se présente en arabe sous la forme d’une
opposition dans la position du morphème de personne par rapport au
morphème verbal : sufffĳixé à l’achevé et préfĳixé à l’inachevé :
/ katab- ta/,= « Tu as écrit »
Litt. écrire Tu
/ta ktub-u /,= « Tu écris »
Litt. Tu écrire
Cette relation entre le morphème verbal et son morphème de personne
interdit toute séparation entre les deux constituants contrairement à des
langues, comme le français, où l’on peut dire, par exemple :
/Je le donne/
/Je le lui donne/
et où l’on peut dire en coordonnant au premier constituant du noyau :
/(Pierre et moi) avons lu/
11
∅ = morphème de signifĳiant zéro.
106 hassan hamzé
ou en coordonnant au deuxième constituant :

/il (lit et écrit)/
alors qu’on ne peut coordonner ni à l’un, ni à l’autre en arabe. On peut
dire, par exemple :
/(anā wa zayd-un) katab- nā/
Litt. (Moi et Zayd) avoir écrit nous = Moi et Zayd, nous avons
écrit »
en faisant obligatoirement appel à un morphème de personne sujet du
verbe : /nā/,= « Nous. » Dans une autre structure, on peut dire, en faisant
toujours appel à un morphème de personne sujet :
/katab- tu ʾanā wa zayd-un/
Litt. Avoir écrit je moi et Zayd = J’ai écrit, moi et Zayd
Et on dit en face du deuxième énoncé français qui coordonne les deux
verbes :
/katab- tu wa qaraʾ- tu/,= « J’ai écrit et j’ai lu »
Litt. Avoir écrit je et avoir lu je
Avec répétition obligatoire du morphème de personne sujet /tu/,= « Je. »
Tout énoncé qui ne comporte pas un morphème de personne sujet du
verbe est agrammatical :
*/katab- tu wa qaraʾ- X12/
*/katab- X wa qara’- tu/
*/’anā wa zayd-un katab X/
*/katabX anā wa zayd-un/
En arabe, les deux constituants sont collés l’un à l’autre et, par voie de
conséquence, aucune coordination n’est possible ni au premier, ni au
deuxième. Toute coordination à l’un des deux est, par là-même, une coor-
dination d’un noyau à un autre.
Cette constatation est également valable pour la troisième personne
non marquée, qui est un morphème de signifĳiant zéro. L’on dit :
/kataba- ∅ wa qaraʾa- ∅/
Litt. Avoir écrit il et avoir lu il
Selon cette analyse, dans un énoncé de type : /kataba zayd-un/, Zayd n’est
pas le sujet du verbe comme l’analyse la tradition grammaticale arabe,
12
X signifĳie un élément absent.
mais une expansion d’identité du morphème de signifĳiant zéro de la troi-

sième personne. L’énoncé sera donc présenté de la manière suivante :
/kataba- ∅ zayd-un/,= « Il a écrit, Zayd »13
Litt. écrire il Zayd
Les quatre énoncés du tableau suivant montrent la régularité de l’analyse
proposée par rapport à la dissymétrie de l’analyse traditionnelle présentée
dans le 5ème énoncé :
1ère pers. katab tu ( je) anā (moi) wa ʿamr-un/ J’ai écrit, moi et ʿAmr
2ème pers. Katab- ta (tu) anta (toi) wa ʿamr-un/ Tu as écrit, toi et ʿAmr
katab- ∅ (il) huwa wa ʿamr-un/ Il a écrit, lui et ʿAmr
3ème pers. (lui)
Kataba- ∅ (il) zayd- wa ʿamr-un/ Il a écrit, Zayd et ʿAmr
un(Zayd)
3ème pers. kataba- zayd-un X wa ʿamr-un a écrit, Zayd et ʿAmr
le 6ème énoncé qui aurait pu restaurer la symétrie de l’analyse tradition-

nelle n’est pas attesté :
3ème pers. *kataba- zayd-un huwa wa ʿamr-un A écrit, Zayd, lui et ʿAmr
Une coordination éventuelle de /ʿamr-un/ à /zayd-un/ ne peut donc pas

être interprétée comme une coordination à un constituant du noyau, le
sujet du verbe étant le morphème de la troisième personne de signifĳiant
zéro, et non pas le nom /zayd-un/.
C’est probablement parce qu’on ne peut pas coordonner au morphème
de personne sujet du verbe, que des énoncés de type :
/katab- tu X wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. écrire je X et ʿAmr
et /kataba- ∅ X wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. Ecrire il X et ʿAmr
13
Voir la justifĳication de cette analyse dans Hamzé (1999 : 128–135), et (1987 : II, 557–
562).
108 hassan hamzé
ont été évités en arabe14. En efffet, ces énoncés mettent en situation de

coordination deux éléments nominaux ( je et ʿAmr, ou il et ʿAmr), à priori
coordonnables, mais qui ne sont pas réellement coordonnés, d’où leur
non-conformité à la norme. Pour que ces énoncés puissent être confor-
mes à la norme, les deux éléments visiblement coordonnables doivent
être séparés,
± soit par un morphème libre qui reprend le morphème de personne
conjoint :
/katab- tu anā wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. Avoir écrit je moi et ʿAmr
/kataba- ∅ huwa wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. Avoir écrit il lui et ʿAmr
± soit par une tierce unité15 :

/katab- tu l-yawm-a wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. Avoir écrit je aujourd’hui et ʿAmr
L’obligation de séparer les deux éléments candidats à la coordination—
que cette séparation soit réalisée par un pronom libre ou par une tierce
unité—fournit un indice très fort, voire une preuve irréfutable, qu’il ne
s’agit pas d’une coordination à un constituant du noyau. En efffet, il est
paradoxal de séparer deux éléments pour pouvoir les coordonner. C’est
peut-être cette constatation qui amène Ibn al-Ḥājib (m. 686/1288) à dire
que le pronom libre a été introduit pour qu’il serve, lui, de base formelle
de coordination16.
Les grammairiens arabes, depuis al-Khalīl (m. 170/786) ont justifĳié la
non-conformité à la norme dans la coordination à un pronom conjoint
sujet, par le lien très étroit entre ce pronom et le verbe17. « Plus la liaison
14
Ces énoncés, rares, ont été considérés par les grammairiens arabes comme non
conformes à la norme. Voir Hamzé (2010 : ch. 3) et (1987).
15
Les grammairiens arabes donnent souvent comme exemple le verset 148 de la Sourate
al-Anʿām [Coran, 6/148] : /mā ashrak-nā wa-lā ābā’-u nā/,= « nous n’aurions pas été Asso-
ciateurs, non plus que nos pères » (traduction de Blachère). Voir Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ (688/1290)
qui considère le deuxième procédé comme étant moins conforme à la norme que le pre-
mier (al-Basīṭ, I, 345), ou Ibn ʿUṣfūr (669/1271) qui traite la question en termes de rection
(Sharḥ al-Jumal 1, 241).
16
Ibn al-Ḥājib, al-Īḍāḥ 1, 455.
17
Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 2, 378.
est forte entre le pronom [et le verbe], dit al-Jurjānī (m. 471/1079), plus la
coordination est évitée. »18 Ainsi
/kataba- ∅ X wa ʿamr-un/
serait moins conforme que
/katab- tu X wa ʿamr-un/
le pronom étant non marqué dans le premier énoncé, donc plus lié, et
marqué dans le second.
Dans notre analyse, le morphème verbal et le morphème de personne
sont inséparables. Ni l’un, ni l’autre, ne peut donc être coordonné, ni ser-
vir de base à une coordination, contrairement à ce qui est généralement
adopté par la Tradition. ʿAbbās Ḥasan s’étonne que l’un des grammairiens
anciens ait pu afffĳirmer : « Je ne vois pas un seul exemple de la coordina-
tion d’un verbe à un autre. »19 Dans des énoncés de type :
/qāma wa qaʿada ʿaliyy-un/
Litt. Il s’est levé et il s’est assis Ali (nom)
« c’est une phrase et non pas un verbe, qui est coordonnée [à une autre]. »
L’objection de ʿAbbās Ḥasan accusant ce savant ancien de n’avoir pas
saisi « la diffférence, fĳine » entre la coordination de deux phrases et la coor-
dination de deux verbes au niveau de la forme, i.e. la rection, et au niveau
du sens ne nous semble pas pertinente20. Les deux énoncés qu’il donne
pour prouver son point de vue ne fournissent aucune preuve valable :
/yuʿjib-u-nī an ta-qūm-a wa ta-khruj-a vs wa
takhruj-u/
Litt. Cela me plait que tu te lèves (sub) et tu sortes (sub) vs et
tu sors (ind)
/lam taqum wa takhruj vs wa takhruj-u
Litt. Ne pas tu te lèves (apoc) et tu sors (apoc) vs et tu sors (ind)
En efffet, la diffférence relevée entre les variantes des deux énoncés sui-
vants n’est pas due à deux types de coordination (coordination de deux
verbes dans un cas, et de deux phrases dans l’autre), mais, tout simple-
ment, à une ellipse de /an/,= « que » dans le premier exemple et de /
lam/,= « ne pas » dans le second. La coordination dans les deux cas est,
18
al-Jurjānī, al-Muqtaṣid 2, 958–959.
19
Ḥasan (1975 : 3, 645).
20
Ibid. 3, 644–647.
110 hassan hamzé
forcément, une coordination de deux noyaux, puisque tous les verbes des
deux énoncés sont munis de leurs morphèmes de personne sujet, le mor-
phème de la deuxième personne /ta/,= « Tu » :
/yuʿjib-u nī an ta-qūm-a wa [an] ta-khruj-a vs wa
takhruj-u/
Litt. Cela me plait que tu te lèves (sub) et [que] tu sortes (sub) vs et
tu sors (ind)
Cela me plait que tu te lèves et [que] tu sortes vs et tu sors
/lam taqum wa [lam] takhruj vs wa
takhruj-u
Litt. Ne pas tu te lèves (apoc) et [ne pas] tu sors (apoc) vs et
tu sors (ind)
Tu ne t’es pas levé et tu [n]’es [pas] sorti vs et tu sors
Il en ressort qu’une coordination à l’un des deux constituants du noyau
verbal est impossible, et que toute tentative de coordonner à l’un des deux
constituants se transforme, de facto, en une coordination de deux noyaux.
En fonction de la position du morphème de personne par rapport au mor-

phème verbal, préfĳixé ou sufffĳixé, on peut avoir l’un des quatre schémas
suivants pour les noyaux coordonnés :
1. a <———> b + a’ <————> b’ (inachevé + inachevé)
ta- qraʾu wa ta- ktubu (Tu lis et tu écris)
2. b <———> a + b’ <————> a’ (achevé + achevé)
qaraʾ- ta wa katab- ta (Tu as lu et tu as écrit)
3. a <———> b + b’ <————> a’ (inachevé + achevé)
ta- qraʾu wa katab- ta (Tu écris et tu as lu)
4. b <———> a + a’ <————> b’ (achevé + inachevé)
qaraʾ- ta wa ta- ktubu (Tu as lu et tu écris)
3.3 Noyau formé de deux noms

Dans ce qui suit, nous allons examiner la coordination à un constituant
du noyau formé de deux éléments nominaux.
L’hypothèse, ici retenue et que nous souhaitons vérifĳier, est que cette
coordination n’est possible que si l’élément coordonnable n’est pas séparé
de sa base par l’autre constituant du noyau. Sinon, il s’agit d’une coordina-
tion de deux noyaux qui implique la restitution d’éléments ellipsés.
Idéalement, les deux segments coordonnés sont situés immédiatement
de part et d’autre du coordonnant qui les relie. Exemple :
al-qātil-u wa l-maqtūl-u fī l-nār-i/
Litt. Celui qui tue (nom) et celui qui est tué (nom) [seront] dans le feu
Toutefois, d’autres éléments peuvent être insérés entre les segments coor-
donnés. Dans le cas présent qui nous intéresse, nous faisons une difffé-
rence fondamentale entre deux types d’éléments séparateurs :
1. Le séparateur est une extension du constituant.
Cette extension peut être l’une des expansions de l’arabe (annexion, iden-
tifĳication, etc.) ou encore, une extension d’une extension du constituant.
Exemple : cette expansion d’annexion du 1er constituant du noyau :
/bāb-u l-bayt-i wa nawāfĳidh-u-hu maftūḥat-un/
Litt. La porte [de] la maison et ses fenêtres [sont] ouvertes
2. Le séparateur est l’autre constituant du noyau.
Si le séparateur est l’autre constituant du noyau, sa relation au constituant

n’est pas celle d’une extension par rapport à sa base, mais une relation
d’interdépendance et d’implication réciproque, puisque l’un ne peut pas
se dispenser de l’autre. Exemple :
/zayd-un ẓarīf-un wa ʿamr-un/
Litt. Zayd (n) [est] gracieux et ʿAmr (n)
où l’élément séparateur /ẓarīf-un/ n’est pas une extension du premier
constituant du noyau /zayd-un/, mais le deuxième constituant de ce
noyau. La suite de l’exposé sera consacrée à ce deuxième type.
Un noyau, nous l’avons dit, est formé de deux constituants, seulement
deux. Soit (a) le premier constituant du noyau nominal, (b) le second. Le
constituant (a) peut être antéposé ou postposé à (b). En efffet, l’élément
antéposé n’est pas forcément premier. Il peut occuper la première posi-
tion et être supposé second21. Le noyau formé de (a) et de (b) peut donc
se réaliser suivant l’un des deux schémas suivants :
a <———————> b
ou
b <———————> a
21
Les grammairiens arabes distinguent ce qui est premier de ce qui est antéposé et ce
qui est deuxième de ce qui est postposé (Ibn Yaʿīsh, Sharḥ al-Mufaṣṣal 1, 97–98). Ils envi-
sagent trois cas de fĳigure quant à la position du deuxième élément du noyau nominal, le
khabar (l’énonciatif ) : il est, soit obligatoirement postposé, soit obligatoirement antéposé,
soit postposé ou antéposé. Ibn Hishām, Awḍaḥ al-masālik 1, 145–152).
112 hassan hamzé
Soient (a’) et (b’), respectivement, les deux éléments susceptibles d’être

coordonnés à (a) et (b). En fonction de la position de (a) et de (b) et de
la position de (a’) et de (b’) par rapport à (a) et (b), nous pouvons avoir
12 combinaisons théoriques possibles, qui seront ramenées à six dans la
mesure où la séquence (a’ a) sera traitée comme (a a’) et (b’ b) comme (b
b’). En efffet, comme la relation de coordination entre (a) et (a’) d’un côté
ou entre (b) et (b’) de l’autre est une relation égalitaire non hiérarchisée,
(a’) devient (a) quand il est antéposé à (a), et (a) devient (a’). Il en est de
même pour (b’) par rapport à (b)22. Il ne reste donc que six combinaisons :
trois pour la position standard dans laquelle l’élément (a) est antéposé, et
trois pour la position dans laquelle (a) est postposé. On peut schématiser
ces six combinaisons de la manière suivante :
1) a———— a’———— b
2) b———— b’———— a
3) a———— b———— b’
4) b———— a———— a’
5) a———— b———— a’
6) b———— a———— b’
Dans les schémas 1, 2, 3, 4 la coordination se fait à un constituant du
noyau (a’ est coordonné à a, b’ est coordonné à b). On aura la représen-
tation suivante :
1) (a + a’)23 <—————————> b
Exemple, le verset 46 de la sourate al-Kahf [Le Coran, XVIII, 46] :
/(al-māl-u wa l-banūna) zīnat-u l-ḥayāt-i l-dunyā/
Litt. (L’argent et les enfants) [sont] l’ornement de la vie d’ici-bas
2) (b + b’) <—————————–> a
Exemple, ce vers de mètre Ramal du poète Īliyā Abū Māḍī :
/(a (qadīm-un am jadīd-un) anā fī hādhā l wujūd-i
Est-ce (ancien ou nouveau) moi dans ce monde ?
3) a <———————————> (b + b’)
Exemple, cette hémistiche de mètre Ṭawīl du poète Ibn al-Rūmī :
/wa qāla l-ḥarāmāni (l-mudāmat-u wa l-sukr-u)/
Litt. Il dit : les deux illicites [sont] (le vin et l’ivresse)
22
Nous ne prenons pas en compte ici les cas particuliers où l’interchangeabilité n’est
pas possible. L’on dit, par exemple /anā wa anta/ en antéposant le pronom de la pre-
mière personne et non pas /anta wa anā/ (toi et moi), /anā wa-fulān/ et non pas /fulān
wa-anā/ (un tel et moi), /zayd-un wa-akhū-hu/ et non pas /akhū-hu wa-zayd-un/ (son
frère et Zayd), etc.
23
Les parenthèses sont utilisées pour les deux éléments coordonnés.
4) b <—————————> (a + a’)
Exemple, le verset 11 de la sourate Hūd [Le Coran, xi/11] :
/la hum (maghfirat-un wa ajr-un) kabīr-un/24
Litt. A eux (un pardon et une rétribution) grande
En revanche, les deux schémas 5 et 6 présentent un type particulier de
coordination, puisque l’élément candidat à la coordination est séparé de
sa base par l’autre constituant du noyau. Ainsi (b) est intercalé entre (a)
et (a’) dans le premier cas : (énoncé 5), et (a) est intercalé entre (b) et (b’)
dans le deuxième cas : (énoncé 6).
5) a <————————————> b + a’
Exemple :
Zayd (n) [est] gracieux et ʿAmr (n)
6) b <——————————————> a + b’
Exemple :
/ʿarabiyy-un muhru-ka wa aṣīl-un/
Litt. arabe [est] ton poulain et de race pure
Nous estimons que la coordination ne se fait pas entre (a) et (a’) dans
l’énoncé (5), et elle ne se fait pas entre (b) et (b’) dans l’énoncé (6) non
plus. Autrement dit, il ne s’agit pas dans ces deux énoncés d’une coordi-
nation à un constituant du noyau, mais d’une coordination entre deux
noyaux. Tout schéma du type 5 ou 6 doit être réinterprété en restituant
un constituant ellipsé :
a <——> b + a’ ————> (a <——> b) + (a’ <——> [b’])25
b <——> a + b’ ————> (b <——> a) + (b’ <——> [a’])
Ainsi pour :
/zayd-un ẓarīf-un wa ʿamr-un / ———>
/zayd-un ẓarīf-un wa ʿamr-un [ẓarīf-un]/
Zayd (n) [est] gracieux et ʿAmr [est] [gracieux]
24
Analyser /la-hum/,= « à eux, » comme un prédicat ou comme une expansion complé-
tive d’un prédicat ellipsé, analyse que nous adoptons, n’a aucune incidence sur la démons-
tration. Un autre exemple : le vers de mètre ṭawīl du poète omeyyade Jamīl b. Maʿmar :
/sawāʾ-un ʿalay-nā yā jamīl-u bn-u maʿmar-in idhā mitta (baʾsāʾ-u l-ḥayāt-i wa- līn-
u-hā)/
[Est] égal pour nous, Ô Jamil b. Maʿmar ! lorsque tu es mort (le malheur [de] la vie et
sa douceur)
b <———————————————————————> (a + a’)
25
L’élément entre crochets est un élément ellipsé qu’on doit restituer pour qu’il y ait
une coordination de deux noyaux.
114 hassan hamzé
et pour :
/ʿarabiyy-un muhru-ka wa aṣīl-un ————>
/ʿarabiyy-un muhru-ka wa aṣīl-un [muhru-ka]
Arabe [est] ton poulain et de race pure [est] [ton pou-
lain]
Nous estimons que les deux segments candidats à la coordination /
zayd-un/ et /ʿamr-un/, ainsi que les deux segments /ʿarabiyy-un/ et /
aṣīl-un/ séparés de leurs bases par l’autre constituant du noyau, ne sont
pas coordonnés l’un à l’autre pour, au moins, trois raisons :
1. L’accord en genre et en nombre. En efffet, si /ʿamr-un/ était coor-

donné au premier constituant du noyau /zayd-un/, le deuxième
constituant du noyau : /ẓarīf-un/, aurait dû s’accorder avec les seg-
ments coordonnés. Or, on constate qu’il ne s’accorde qu’avec le pre-
mier constituant. Ainsi, il est au masculin singulier avec Zayd, et au
féminin singulier avec Laylā :
Zayd (sing) [est] gracieux (sing) et ʿAmr (sing)/
/laylā ẓarīfat-un wa ʿamr-un/
Layla (fém) [est] gracieuse (fém.) et ʿAmr (masc)
2. Le changement possible de prédicat. Si les deux éléments étaient

coordonnés, l’énoncé suivant serait inadmissible :
/zayd-un ẓarīf-un wa ʿamr-un sakhīf-un/
Zayd [est] gracieux et ʿAmr [est] léger
Or, cet énoncé est parfaitement construit. ʿAmr n’est pas coordonné à Zayd.
En conséquence, il est possible de lui attribuer un prédicat (sakhīf = léger)
diffférent de celui attribué à Zayd. Mais dans la mesure où on souhaite lui
attribuer le même prédicat (gracieux) attribué à Zayd, on peut l’ellipser
puisqu’il est facilement restituable par l’interlocuteur.
3. Le changement casuel. Si les deux éléments étaient coordonnés, ils
auraient obligatoirement les mêmes désinences casuelles. Or, dans
le verset 3 de la sourate at-Tawba [Le Coran, IX, 3] les deux noms
candidats à la coordination : /allāh-a/ et /rasūl-u hu/ reçoivent deux
voyelles casuelles diffférentes :
/anna llāh-a barīʾ-un mina l-mushrikīna wa rasūl-u-hu/
Litt. :Que Allah (acc) [est] délié des Associateurs et Son Envoyé (nom)
En efffet, le nominatif de /rasūl-u/ montre bien qu’il n’est pas coordonné

à /allāh-a/ qui est à l’accusatif, le noyau étant déjà constitué de /allāh-a/,
élément (a), et de /barīʾ-un/, élément (b). Le segment candidat à la coor-

dination /rasūl-u/ est séparé de ce qui est censé être sa base de coordina-
tion /allāh-a/ par l’autre constituant du noyau /barī’-un/. L’énoncé, après
restitution de l’élément ellipsé saisi à partir du premier noyau serait le
suivant :
/anna llāh-a barīʾ-un mina l-mushrikīna wa rasūl-u-hu [barīʾ-un] . . ./
a <————> b + a’ <————> [b’]
Dans cette analyse, nous aurons deux noyaux coordonnés : /…llāh-a
barīʾ-un/ et /rasūl-u-hu barīʾ-un/. La diffférence de voyelles casuelles dans
les deux éléments candidats à la coordination est un indice fort que les
deux éléments ne sont pas coordonnés. Leur séparation par le deuxième
constituant du noyau montre bien qu’ils n’appartiennent pas au même
noyau : le premier étant déjà constitué, le segment candidat à la coordi-
nation en ouvre un autre qui a besoin de la restitution d’un constituant
ellipsé facilement identifĳiable grāce aux constituants du premier noyau.
Dans l’exemple suivant, nous avons les deux types de coordination :
une coordination au premier constituant avant la constitution du noyau
et une coordination de deux noyaux avec ellipse après sa constitution. Il
s’agit d’un vers de mètre Basīṭ d’al-Mutanabbī :
/al-khayl-u wa-l-layl-u wa-l-baydāʾ-u taʿrif-u-nī wa-l-sayf-u wa-l-rumḥ-u wa-l-
qirṭās-u wa-l-qalam-u/qui doit être interprété ainsi :
/al-khayl-u wa-l-layl-u wa-l-baydāʾ-u taʿrif-u nī wa-l-sayf-u wa-l-rumḥ-u wa-l-
qirṭās-u wa l-qalam-u [taʿrif-u nī]/
(a + a1 + a 2) <——> b + (a + a’1 + a’2 + a’3) <——> [b’]
où les segments /al-layl-u/ et /al-baydāʾ-u/ sont coordonnés à /al-khayl-u/,
alors que les autres segments /as-sayf-u/, /al-rumḥ-u/, /al-qirṭās-u/ et /al-
qalam-u/, candidats à la coordination, qui arrivent après la constitution du
noyau avec son deuxième constituant /taʿrif-u nī/, ne sont pas coordonnés
à /al-khayl-u/. Ils forment le premier constituant d’un autre noyau qui
sera, lui, coordonné au premier après restitution des éléments ellipsés.
En résumé, ce qui vient d’être exposé nous permet d’énoncer les prin-
cipes suivants :
1. La coordination à un constituant d’un noyau formé d’un nom et

d’une modalité n’a qu’un seul schéma possible : une coordination à
l’élément nominal du noyau :
b <————> (a +a’)
116 hassan hamzé
2. La coordination à un constituant du noyau verbal est impossible. Les

deux constituants étant inséparables, toute coordination à l’un des
deux constituants, le morphème verbal ou le morphème de personne
sujet, est une coordination au noyau tout entier :
a <———> b + a’ <———> b’26
3. La coordination à un constituant du noyau nominal n’est possible
que si l’élément candidat à la coordination n’est pas séparé de sa base
par l’autre constituant du noyau. On peut coordonner au premier
constituant tout comme au second :
(a + a’) <——> b ; (b + b’) <——> a ; a <——> (b + b’) ; b <——> (a + a’)
En revanche, si le candidat est séparé de sa base par l’autre consti-
tuant du noyau, la coordination est obligatoirement celle de deux
noyaux. Il faut dans ce cas restituer un constituant ellipsé repérable
grāce au premier noyau :
a <——> b + a’ → a <—> b + a’ <—> [b’]
b <——–> a + b’ → b <—> a + b’ <—> [a’]
Références
Sources Primaires
Farrāʾ, Abū Zakariyyā Yahyā b. Ziyād. Maʿānī l-Qurʾān. Eds. Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Najjār et
Aḥmad Yūsuf Najātī. 3 vols. Beyrouth : ʿĀlam al-Kutub, 1403/1983.
Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ, ʿUbayd Allāh b. Aḥmad b. ʿUbayd Allāh. al-Basīṭ fī sharḥ Jumal al-Zajjājī. Ed.
ʿAyyād b. ʿĪd al-Thabītī. 2 vols. Beyrouth : Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 1407/1986.
Ibn al-Ḥājib, Abū ʿAmr ʿUthmān b. ʿUmar. al-Īḍāḥ fī sharḥ al-Mufaṣṣal. Ed. Mūsā Banay
al-ʿAlīlī. 2 vols. Baghdad : Maṭbaʿat al-ʿĀnī, 1402/1982.
Ibn Hishām, Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh Jamāl al-Dīn b. Yūsuf b. Aḥmad b. ʿAbdallāh.
Awḍaḥ al-masālik ilā Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik. Ed. Muḥammad Muḥyī l-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd.
3 vols. Beyrouth : Dār Iḥyāʾ at-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 5ème éd. 1966.
Ibn ʿUṣfūr, ʿAlī b. Muʾmin b. Muḥammad b. ʿAlī Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ishbīlī. Sharḥ Jumal
al-Zajjājī, al-Sharḥ al-kabīr. Ed. Ṣāḥib Abū Janāḥ. 2 vols. Baghdad : Muʾassasat Dār
al-Kitāb, 1400/1980.
Ibn Yaʿīsh, Muwafffaq al-Dīn Yaʿīsh b. ʿAlī. Sharḥ al-Mufaṣṣal. 10 vols. Le Caire : Maktabat
al-Muthannā, s.d.
Jurjānī, ʿAbd al-Qāhir b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān. al-Muqtaṣid fī sharḥ al-Īḍāḥ. Ed. Kāẓim Baḥr
al-Marjān. 2 vols. Baghdad : Dār al-Rashīd, 1982.
Sībawayhi, Abū Bishr ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān b. Qanbar. al-Kitāb. Ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Hārūn. 5 vols.
Le Caire : al-Hayʾa l-Miṣriyya al-ʿĀmma li-l-Kitāb, 1971–1977.
26
Ce schéma est valable quel que soit l’élément antéposé : (a b + a’b’), (a b + b’a’), (b
a + a’b’) ou (b a + b’a’).
Sources Secondaires
Blachère, Régis. 2005. Le Coran, traduction du Coran. Paris : Maisonneuve et Larose.
Dubois, Jean et al. 1973. Dictionnaire de linguistique, Paris : Larousse.
Dubois, Jean et al. 2002. Dictionnaire de linguistique. Paris : Larousse-Bordas.
Guillaume, Jean-Patrick. 1988. « Le discours tout entier est nom, verbe et particule. » Lan-
gages 92 : 25–36.
Hamzé, Hassan. 1987. Les théories grammaticales d’az-Zajjājī. Thèse d’Etat ès lettres. Lyon :
Université Lyon2.
——. 1989. « La coordination à un pronom conjoint. » Arabica 36 : 249–271.
——. 1994. « Les parties du discours dans la tradition grammaticale arabe. » in Les classes
des mots, Traditions et perspectives. Ed. Louis Basset et Marcel Perennec. Lyon : Presses
universitaires de Lyon, 93–115.
——. 1999. « La position du sujet du verbe. » in Langage et linéarité. Ed. Pierre Cotte. Lille :
Presses Universitaires de Septentrion, 127–149.
——. 2010. al-Waḥda wa-l-tanawwuʿ fī l-naẓariyya al-naḥwiyya al-ʿarabiyya. Beyrouth :
Librairie du Liban Publishers [sous presse].
Ḥasan, ʿAbbās. 1975. al-Naḥw al-wāfī. Le Caire : Dār al-Maʿārif.
Mounin, Georges (dir.). 1985. Dictionnaire de la linguistique. Paris : Quadrige/Presses uni-
versitaires de France.
Roman, André. 1990. Grammaire de l’arabe. Paris : Presses universitaires de France, collec-
tion Que sais-je ?
——. 2001. Systématique de la langue arabe. Kaslik, Liban : Université Saint-Esprit de
Kaslik.
MUSTAQĪM, MUḤĀL, ḤASAN, QABĪḤ
LES CRITÈRES DE RECEVABILITÉ DANS LE KITĀB DE SĪBAWAYHI
Georgine Ayoub
Soit le chapitre VI de la Risāla du Kitāb de Sībawayhi, qui traite de l’inéga-

lité entre les productions langagières et de la recevabilité des énoncés.
Ce chapitre se présente comme suit : Au titre ainsi libellé : hādhā bāb
al-istiqāma min al-kalām wa-l-iḥāla (De l’énoncé droit et de l’énoncé
déviant)1, succèdent deux paragraphes : le premier, d’une ligne, énonce
les prédicats possibles du kalām :
fa-minhu mustaqīmun ḥasanun, wa-muḥālun, wa-mustaqīmun kadhibun,
wa-mustaqīmun qabīḥun, wa-mā huwa muḥālun kadhibun. 7.13–142
L’énoncé peut être droit et bon, déviant, droit et faux, droit et vilain, déviant
et faux.
Le second paragraphe reprend systématiquement chaque prédicat, donne
un ou plusieurs exemples de langue l’illustrant et, parfois, en donne la
défĳinition. En étudiant les exemples qui illustrent l’usage de ces prédicat
dans le Kitāb, en reprenant les défĳinitions, en recourant donc au rapport
du concept à l’empirique et du concept avec les autres concepts, nous
nous proposons d’analyser, dans les pages qui suivent, les critères de rece-
vabilité des énoncés dans le Kitāb.
1. La littéralité des termes
L’unité linguistique sur laquelle s’applique les prédicats d’inégalité est

l’objet même du Kitāb : le kalām. Nous avons tenté de montrer ailleurs3 à
partir d’une étude d’occurrences, que ce mot qui n’admet pas de pluriel,
qui peut avoir à la fois une valeur verbale et une autre nominale, désigne, à
la fois, dans le Kitāb, le fait de parler et la parole prononcée, l’énonciation
et l’énoncé, l’acte de discours et le discours—et c’est parce qu’il désigne
1
Nous justifĳions nos traductions au §1.
2
Le premier chifffre renvoie à la page, celui après le point à la ligne. Comme la plupart
des références renvoient au tome I, nous n’indiquerons le tome que s’il s’agit du tome II.
3
Cf. Ayoub (2003 : 32) et surtout Ayoub (2005).
120 georgine ayoub
l’action de parler, et non seulement son résultat, qu’il n’a pas de pluriel.
Au niveau conceptuel, il n’est réductible à aucun des termes théoriques
que distingue la linguistique moderne (langue, langage, parole, énoncé et
discours) et les désigne tous. Il n’est, au vrai, langue au sens de Saussure
que dans la mesure où la langue ne peut être saisie que par le discours. C’est
là un des fondements épistémologiques de la pensée sur le langage dans la
tradition arabe. Un des fondements de la grammaire arabe elle-même.
La littéralité des termes disant la valeur du kalām a une résonance
esthétique et éthique, apparente le jugement linguistique aux jugements
esthétique et éthique. On sait, depuis Carter (1968), qu’une bonne part du
lexique du Kitāb relève de l’éthique4. Il en est d’emblée ainsi pour ḥasan,
qabīḥ, mustaqīm. Seul muḥāl, à connotation sémantique et logique, sem-
ble sortir de ce champ sémantique. Au vrai, ḥasan qui signifĳie ‘beau,’ ‘bon,’
et son antonyme qabīḥ qui signifĳie ‘laid,’ ‘vilain,’ relèvent, à la fois, de l’es-
thétique et de l’éthique, qualifĳiant, dès les textes les plus anciens, à la fois
la beauté ou la laideur des formes et celle des actions5. Cette ambiguité
se retrouve dans le Kitāb. Le terme jamīl, qui y est synonyme de ḥasan a
seulement une valeur esthétique ; khabīth, radīʾ, synonymes de qabīḥ, ont
une résonance éthique. Nous retiendrons les termes « bon » et « vilain »
pour traduire ḥasan et qabīḥ6. Ils disent bien cette duplicité du jugement
linguistique, à la fois linguistique, esthétique et éthique, cette dernière
4
En fait, la thèse de Carter est la suivante : une bonne partie du lexique du Kitāb est
empruntée à l’éthique. C’est la thèse de l’emprunt. El-Amrani Jamal (1986), rejetant la
thèse de l’emprunt, donne à cette rencontre un caractère fortuit. Versteegh (1993 : 35), très
sceptique quant à l’emprunt, souligne néanmoins l’interdisciplinarité qui est le propre des
savants du 8e s., interdisciplinarité qui rend très difffĳicile d’isoler une terminologie propre à
une discipline donnée. Ce contact et cette influence des disciplines les unes sur les autres
ne signifĳient pas toutefois la prééminence d’une discipline sur d’autres. Il attire plutôt
l’attention sur la thèse de Rundgren 1976 selon laquelle c’est la philosophie grecque, à
partir de traductions perses et syriaques, qui aurait déterminé une telle classifĳication des
énoncés où se croisent catégories logiques et linguistiques. Versteegh souligne l’influence
de la grammaire grecque où ce croisement était courant depuis l’introduction des théories
stoïciennes en grammaire.
5
Si al-Khalīl dans Kitāb al-ʿAyn, al-Jawharī dans al-Ṣiḥāḥ ne s’étendent pas sur la défĳi-
nition des deux termes, se contentant pour qubḥ d’un « bien connu » après avoir présenté
l’antonyme, ils spécifĳient bien que le terme est général et s’applique à toute chose (ʿāmm
fī kull shayʾ). Ibn Sīda spécifĳie que le ḥusn s’applique à la fois aux formes et aux actions
( fī l-ṣūra wa-l-fĳiʿl).
6
Le choix de « vilain » pour qabīḥ fait signe aux préoccupations à la fois éthiques et
esthétiques des premiers savants : Abū ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlāʾ (m. 154/770), lecteur de Baṣra et
grand collecteur de la poésie ancienne, al-Khalīl (m. 175/791) fondateur de la métrique
et connu pour sa grande probité. « Mauvais » eût été sans doute plus en accord avec les
termes français qui disent la valeur. Mais il correspond plutôt à l’antonyme de ḥasan qui
relève clairement de l’éthique, soit sayyiʾ, jamais utilisé dans le Kitāb, Troupeau (1976 : 113)
recensant uniquement 3 occurrences de aswaʾ. Cette articulation du correct, de l’éthique,
mustaqīm, muḥāl, ḥasan, qabīḥ 121
dimension en cohérence avec l’ensemble du lexique du Kitāb et avec ce

que nous pensons être un rapport principiel de la langue à la loi. Après
tout, les termes français bon et mauvais, d’usage courant en matière de
jugement linguistique, ne gardent-ils pas cette duplicité ? La traduction de
mustaqīm, muḥāl pose plus de problèmes7. A se reporter au Lisān, on se
rend compte qu’il existe efffectivement une notion commune à ces deux
termes présentés dans le titre comme antonymes. C’est celle de direction,
de cours qui serait, dans le premier cas, droit8, dans le second, proprement
devenu déviant9, tortu. Dans la langue du 8e siècle, la notion de muḥāl dit
le changement, ce qui prend un autre tour et un autre aspect, ce qui s’est
déplacé (ḥāla ilā makānin ākhara : taḥawwala). Le changement peut pren-
dre une connotation négative ; c’est, alors, ce qui se gâte, se corrompt, est
altéré ou détérioré. Ainsi l’arc quand il devient cambré, les jambes quand
elles sont cagneuses, le jet d’urine du chameau tant il n’est pas droit.
C’est ce changement d’un état à un autre, tortu ou déviant, qui distingue
la notion d’une notion voisine, celle de ʿiwaj (tortuosité). Aussi le Lisān
rapporte d’Abū Zayd al-Anṣārī (m. 215/830) : kullu shayʾin taghayyara ʿan
al-istiwāʾ ilā l-ʿiwaj fa-qad ḥāla wa-staḥāla wa-huwa mustaḥīlun. Cela fait
entendre dans l’usage linguistique que ce qui est tortu est perçu comme
altéré, et se mesure par rapport à la loi. aḥāla l-shayʾ, par ailleurs, c’est ren-
dre impossible quelque chose. A joindre ces deux idées, on peut dire que
le muḥāl est ce qui, dans la langue, ayant été dévié de son cours, prend
un tour impossible. C’est bien cette idée de changement, de déviation par
rapport à un cours principiel que le Lisān donne pour défĳinir le kalām
muḥāl (mā ʿudila bihi ʿan wajhihi), suivie de celle de corruption (aḥalta
l-kalāma idhā afsadtahu). Cette valeur de corruption se retrouve dans le
Kitāb, qualifĳiant une prédication incomplète (un mubtadaʾ que rien ne
complète) : fasada l-kalāmu wa-lam yasugh laka (347.1–2), juge Sībawayhi.
Or les tours à prédication incomplète sont, on le verra plus bas, des tours
de l’esthétique mais aussi de l’ontologique est au fondement de la réflexion sur le langage

dans la pensée classique, cf. (Ayoub 2001).
7
Il n’est que de voir la variété des traductions à laquelle la paire a donné lieu : mustaqīm
a été traduit par « juste, » « droit, » muḥāl par « absurde, » « impossible, » « tortu. » Trou-
peau (1976 : 75) retient absurde et « impossible » pour muḥāl, Versteegh (1993 : 34) traduit
muḥāl par « impossible, » mustaqīm par « correct. » Carter (2004) traduit la paire mustaqīm/
muḥāl par right/wrong. Bohas & Carter (2005) respectivement par « droit, » « tortu. »
Comme khaṭaʾ/ ṣaḥīḥ existe également dans le Kitāb et qu’il s’agit d’un prédicat global
d’agrammaticalité qui se laisse analyser ensuite en qabīḥ ou muḥāl, nous avons préféré
garder la traduction littérale qui, nous le verrons plus bas, a un statut linguistique.
8
On sait l’immense fortune de l’expression coranique : al-ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm.
9
Le Lisān cite un proverbe : dhāka aḥwalu min bawli l-jamali qu’il explique ainsi :
wa-dhālika’anna bawlahu lā yakhruju mustaqīman, yadhhabu fī iḥdā l-nāḥiyatayn.
122 georgine ayoub
courants dans ceux jugés kalām ghayr mustaqīm (énoncé non droit). Bref,
pour entendre muḥāl, qui se présente dans ce titre du chapitre VI comme
l’antonyme de mustaqīm, et pour entendre son statut linguistique, cette
acception de tour déviant, impossible, défĳinitivement corrompu, nous
semble plus adéquate que celle, retenue parfois, d’absurde. Celle-ci est
trop restrictive. Retenant cette acception, nous rejoignons Sīrāfī dans son
Sharḥ. Car c’est bien cette acception de « déviance, » en tant que kalām
dévié de son tour droit que retient Sīrafī :
wa-maʿnā l-muḥāl annahu uḥīla ʿan wajhihi l-mustaqīm.10
Et le sens de muḥāl est qu’il a été dévié de son tour droit.
L’acception de déviance que nous retenons se démarque peu de l’accep-
tion courante de muḥāl dans la langue du 8e s. Or celle-ci est vivante dans
le Kitāb. En témoigne l’usage des mots de la même racine : ainsi le verbe
aḥāla à la voix passive :
wa-innamā dhakara l-Khalīlu hādhā li-taʿrifa mā yuḥālu minhu wa-mā
yaḥsunu 219.18
al-Khalīl n’a mentionné cette question qu’afĳin que tu saches ce qui en est
déviant et ce qui en est bon.
ou le verbe yastaḥīl, utilisé dans une opposition à mustaqīm :
wa-innamā dhakartu laka hādhā li-taṣarrufĳi wujūhihi wa-maʿānīhi wa-an lā
tastaḥīla minhu mustaqīman. 383.22–384.1
Je ne t’ai mentionné cette question que parce que ses formes et ses signifĳica-
tions se modifĳient [et sont complexes] et afĳin que tu ne juges point déviants
des énoncés droits.
Compris ainsi, le muḥāl serait un terme où le métalangage se distingue
peu du langage [courant], semblable en cela à bien des termes du méta-
langage du Kitāb. Et, à l’instar de mustaqīm, muḥāl fait résonner, dans le
jugement linguistique, un écho éthique. Ainsi l’ensemble du lexique de la
valeur du kalām dans le Kitāb se révèle parfaitement homogène.
2. Le terme et le concept
Ce qui précède ne sufffĳit pas, néanmoins, à éclairer l’usage linguistique

de ces termes. C’est dans les termes des concepts qu’elle forge et selon
10
Sīrāfī, Sharḥ Kitāb Sībawayhi 2, 90.
ses propres axiomes, postulats et analyses, que toute théorie pose les
valeurs des productions langagières. On l’a vu, rien n’est plus instructif,
à cet égard, que de tenter de traduire, d’une langue à une autre, d’une
théorie à une autre, les valeurs d’une grammaire déterminée, ici celle du
Kitāb. Si elles avaient été de l’ordre de l’intuition, il eût sufffĳi de considé-
rer les exemples pour qu’elles fussent immédiatement évidentes. Or leur
explicitation n’a rien de trivial. Elles ont donné lieu à des interprétations
diffférentes, y compris au sein de la tradition. Qu’en est-il donc de la valeur
linguistique exacte de ces termes dans le Kitāb ?
D’emblée, Sībawayhi pose explicitement le prédicat d’inégalité qualita-
tive entre les productions langagières comme principiel, dans la mesure
où il le pose dans la Risāla. Or poser, dans une théorie, la question de
la valeur des productions langagières requiert un préalable : que toute
production langagière puisse être identifĳiable dans les termes de la théo-
rie grammaticale, en tant qu’unité ayant statut linguistique, fût-elle pré-
cisément mal formée. Construire le concept du grammatical, c’est donc
construire au préalable un domaine considéré comme celui de l’unité lan-
gagière susceptible d’acquérir telle ou telle valeur, que cette unité soit la
phrase, l’énoncé, le mot, ici le kalām. Et, en efffet, le chapitre VI qui dit la
valeur fait suite, dans l’ordre de l’exposé, au chapitre III qui pose la rela-
tion de prédication, constitutive du kalām11. Son titre est, par ailleurs, bien
clair : c’est bien le kalām, que nous avons traduit ici par « énoncé, » qui
est dit droit ou déviant. Cette démarche fonde, dans l’ordre de la gram-
maire, l’instabilité de l’irrecevable, recevable, dès lors, comme « vilain, »
« déviant, » en fonction des lois de construction de l’unité linguistique.
L’incorrect (khaṭaʾ) devient du kalām « vilain, » du kalām « non droit, »
ou du kalām « déviant. » Et la même séquence fait, du point de vue de la
loi, l’objet d’un prédicat global : lam yajuz (cela n’est point permis, n’est
point possible), khaṭaʾ, et est qualifĳiée, par ailleurs, d’un prédicat partiel :
« vilain », « pas bon », « non droit » ou « déviant. »12 C’est que « ce qui ne se
dit pas, » antécédent à la distinction syntaxique/asyntaxique, sémantique/
asémantique, se laisse analyser en plusieurs prédicats dès que la théorie
grammaticale tente de répondre, dans ses propres termes, aux questions
suivantes : En quoi et comment cette séquence est-elle mal formée ?
11
Cf. § 5.3.1.
12
Cf. pour lā yajūz analysé ensuite en muḥāl : 199.13 ; 211.2–3 ; pour lā yajūz et lā yastaqīm
111.4–7 ; pour lam yajuz et qabīḥ : 52–53.1–2, etc.
124 georgine ayoub
2.1. Des critères en cours avant le Kitāb

Et ce qui distingue la théorie grammaticale du Kitāb, c’est qu’elle pose,
contrairement à d’autres théories grammaticales, plusieurs critères de
recevabilité, plus exactement deux paires. La première question qui se
pose donc est de savoir si ces critères ont été posés par Sībawayhi ou bien
s’ils étaient déjà en usage avant le Kitāb. A revoir le texte, on constate que
les maîtres de Sībawayhi les utilisaient déjà. Néanmoins, il semble bien, à
ce que nous avons pu trouver, qu’il y ait discrépance entre les deux pai-
res mustaqīm/muḥāl et ḥasan/qabīḥ. Alors que Khalīl (m. 175/791), selon
le Kitāb13, emploie les deux paires, Yūnus (m. 182/798) et Abū ʿAmr (m.
153/770) emploient seulement qabīḥ/ḥasan. Ainsi Khalīl, toujours selon
le Kitāb, considère-t-il certaines séquences comme muḥāl. Par exemple
hādhihi nāqatun wa-faṣīluhā l-rātiʿāni14 (211.5) ou bien anā ʿAbdullāhi
munṭaliqan dans certaines conditions d’énonciation (219.15–19), ou bien
kullu sakhlatihā (264.11–14). Certaines autres sont jugées par lui comme lā
yastaqīm, ainsi la flexion -ū d’un nom propre forgé sur un verbe à w fĳinal
tel yaghzū15 (II, 55.2). Il qualifĳie certains énoncés de qabīḥ : astaqbiḥu an
aqūla : hādhihi miʾatun ḍarbu l-amīri (236.15). Yūnus et Khalīl s’accordent
à considérer qabīḥ la séquence : wā-rajulāh (281.20–21)16. De même Yūnus
rapporte qu’Abū ʿAmr considérait qabīḥ la séquence : hādhā zaydun
aswada l-nāsi (233.8). Mais nous n’avons pu trouver aucun jugement
d’Abū ʿAmr ou de Yūnus en termes de mustaqīm/muḥāl. Si nous sommes
correcte, cette diffférenciation des critères de recevabilité en deux paires
bien distinctes notionellement est donc le fait de Khalīl, suivi en cela par
Sībawayhi.
Au vrai, le Lisān rapporte une typologie attribuée à Khalīl où se retrou-
vent les deux catégories de mustaqīm et de muḥāl. Elle se présente comme
suit :
al-muḥālu kalāmun li-ghayri shayʾin, wa-l-mustaqīmu kalāmun li-shayʾin,
wa-l-ghalaṭu kalāmun li-shayʾin lam turidhu, wa-l-laghwu kalāmun li-shayʾin
laysa min shaʾnika, wa-l-kadhibu kalāmun li-shayʾin taghurru bihi (Lisān :
1055).
13
Plusieurs études ont examiné la concordance entre la terminologie attribuée à Khalīl
dans le Kitāb et sa terminologie quand il est cité ailleurs. Pour un bon aperçu sur la ques-
tion, voir Versteegh (1993 : 16 sq.) qui conclut que Sībawayhi reprend, en ses propres ter-
mes, les théories de Khalīl.
14
Voir § 6 pour l’analyse et la traduction de ces exemples.
15
On notera que lā yastaqīm ne s’applique pas ici au kalām mais au mot.
16
Cf. § 4.4.3.
Le discours déviant (muḥāl) c’est parler pour ne rien dire. Le discours droit
(mustaqīm), c’est parler pour dire quelque chose. L’erreur (khaṭaʾ) c’est parler
pour dire quelque chose que tu n’avais pas l’intention de dire. Le discours vain
(laghw) c’est parler pour dire quelque chose qui ne te concerne pas. Le faux
(kadhib) c’est parler pour dire quelque chose qui trompera (ton interlocuteur).
La comparaison avec le texte de Sībawayhi fait ressortir une diffférence
saillante : alors que la typologie de Sībawayhi est une typologie des énon-
cés fondée sur des critères de recevabilité dont les termes ont une conno-
tation éthique, la typologie de Khalīl semble, en dehors de toute défĳinition
du kalām, une classifĳication des types de discours à partir de critères éthi-
ques. mustaqīm et muḥāl y sont caractérisés de manière générale, peu
exploitable linguistiquement : pour muḥāl : parler pour ne rien dire17 ; pour
mustaqīm, parler pour dire quelque chose. Toutefois, comme le remarque
Versteegh (1993 : 34) qui commente le passage, mustaqīm et muḥāl évo-
quent l’acception de Sībawayhi. Et cela sous deux aspects, à notre sens :
ils sont présentés comme antonymes et ils qualifĳient le contenu du dire et
sa capacité à faire sens et à dire le monde. Ces catégories sont prises dans
une typologie plus générale des discours relative au rapport du locuteur à
son dire (intentionnalité du dire : khaṭaʾ ; légitimité du discours : laghw),
et du rapport du locuteur à l’interlocuteur (kadhib). Kadhib, laghw, khaṭaʾ
sont également utilisés par Sībawayhi, mais en des sens qui nous sem-
blent diffférents. L’acception de Khalīl ne peut aider, non plus, à compren-
dre mustaqīm/muḥāl dans le Kitāb. Hors contexte, rien n’indique qu’elle
se situe au niveau linguistique.
2.2. Laḥn, qabīḥ, muḥāl : l’irrecevable et l’heuristique

Les critères diffférenciés de Sībawayhi sont d’autant plus remarquables
qu’ils n’incluent pas le terme qui désigne, de manière courante dans la
culture classique, la faute de langage : le terme laḥn. Cette absence est
d’autant à souligner que laḥn désigne aussi, au 8e s., la parole déviée de
son cours18. Ce n’est point que le terme laḥn ne soit pas connu dans le
Kitāb ni qu’il ne soit pas en usage au 8e siècle, y compris par les maîtres de
Sībawayhi. Yūnus rapporte un jugement de Abū ʿAmr selon lequel le huwa,
dans un tour où il est employé comme faṣl par les gens de Médine, relève
du laḥn (349.19). Il rapporte aussi un jugement de Khalīl selon lequel yā
17
Nous comprenons la défĳinition de muḥāl de manière diffférente de Versteegh (1993 :
34), qui traduit par : « parler de quelque chose qui n’existe pas ».
18
Pour le sens étymologique du mot laḥn, ainsi que pour ses usages linguistiques, cf.
Fück (1952), Ayoub (2007).
126 georgine ayoub
akhūnā relève du laḥn (262.23). En revanche, Sībawayhi lui-même ne juge

aucune séquence en termes de laḥn. Les deux cas que nous venons de citer
sont les deux seules occurrences du terme laḥn dans le Kitāb19. L’absence
de laḥn dans les notions qui désignent la valeur pour Sībawayhi est donc
signifĳicative. Le terme est écarté délibérément. Au vrai, ce terme, dans
l’usage, ne qualifĳie pas uniquement le kalām et a une extension très large.
Il s’applique à toute « faute » de langage, y compris celles qui concernent
le mot ou le phonème, ainsi la mauvaise réalisation d’un phonème est-elle
qualifĳiée de laḥn par Jāḥiẓ. Il est aussi à connotation très normative. Or,
on observera que dans ce chapitre VI sont données des défĳinitions bien
précises des deux critères d’irrecevabilité : qabīḥ/muḥāl. Cette démarche
est remarquable à un double titre. En premier lieu, parce que Sībawayhi,
comme il est bien connu, ne défĳinit pas, dans la Risāla, toutes les notions
qu’il introduit. En second lieu, parce que la défĳinition des critères d’irrece-
vabilité ne s’accompagne pas d’une défĳinition des critères de recevabilité :
mustaqīm/ḥasan. Seuls sont défĳinis les critères négatifs. Ces défĳinitions
contraignent nécessairement le grammairien, ou, du moins, devraient le
contraindre, et donnent à ses termes un caractère descriptif. En bref, le
grammairien, en posant dans le chapitre III les deux termes constitutifs de
tout kalām, construit l’unité linguistique sur laquelle vont s’appliquer les
prédicats d’inégalité. Pour ces prédicats, il écarte des termes trop conno-
tés, dont l’extension est large, et contraint ses jugements de grammati-
calité par des défĳinitions explicites posées d’emblée. C’est donc dans les
termes de la théorie grammaticale qu’il entend désigner et décrire l’irre-
cevabilité des énoncés. En outre, en utilisant qabīḥ, muḥāl et non laḥn,
Sībawayhi ouvre large le champ à la grammaire d’utiliser l’agrammatical
dans le raisonnement. Un agrammatical qui pourrait n’avoir jamais été
dit, contrairement au laḥn, mais qui est là, à l’instar des exemples qu’il
dit relever du tamthīl, pour des raisons de méthode et d’argumentation.
Il en fait un usage heuristique : l’investigation heuristique ne se contente
pas de l’usage mais explore un agrammatical hypothétique afĳin de mieux
découvrir les lois de l’usage.
2.3. Des critères articulés et hiérarchisés
2.3.1. Les critères de recevabilité sont donc multiples. Mais, telle quelle,

l’assertion est incomplète. Il y faut ajouter que ces critères sont articulés et
hiérarchisés. On le sait depuis Baalbaki (1979), bien des catégories linguis-
19
Cf. Troupeau (1976 : 188).
tiques s’ordonnent dans le Kitāb en unités binaires hiérarchisées l’une par

rapport à l’autre. Ici, nous avons afffaire à un autre type de hiérarchie qui
fait signe à la combinabilité des éléments des paires, plutôt qu’au rapport
interne entre deux éléments oppositifs d’une paire. Les énoncés sont droit
et bon ; déviant ; droit et faux ; droit et mauvais ; déviant et faux. La simple
lecture permet de constater que les prédicats disant la valeur sont com-
binables. Elle permet de poser des principes de combinaison. Les critères
de recevabilité s’ordonnent en unités binaires oppositives. Cela à l’instar
de bien des concepts d’analyse posés dans le Kitāb. De plus, les critères
s’articulent à partir d’une opposition initiale qui est celle du titre même,
l’opposition droit/déviant. Le mode de combinabilité peut être représenté
par l’arborescence ci-dessous :
kalām
mustaqīm muḥāl
∞ kadhib ∞ kadhib
ḥasan qabīḥ
Ce schéma n’a aucun statut linguistique. Il permet, néanmoins, de bien

voir comment s’organisent et s’articulent les paires. La première opposi-
tion droit/déviant est celle à partir de laquelle s’ordonnent les autres. Elle
est aussi la plus délicate à cerner.
Le second branchement appelle une clarifĳication, celui de la case vide
représentée par ∞. Se présente immédiatement à l’esprit, pour la nom-
mer, l’antonyme du faux. L’absence de dénomination sert toutefois d’in-
dice, on le verra plus bas.
Nous aborderons ḥasan/qabīḥ dans un constant souci de comparai-
son avec les deux premiers critères de recevabilité. Mais auparavant,
nous étayerons ce que nous avons posé quant au caractère articulé et
hiérarchisé des critères de recevabilité et au caractère initial de la paire
mustaqīm/muḥāl. Plusieurs observations concourent à confĳirmer ces deux
hypothèses :
2.3.1.1. Sībawayhi ne donne, dans ce chapitre, aucun exemple d’un

kalām mustaqīm, sans plus. Le prédicat mustaqīm est nécessairement
combiné à un autre prédicat : mustaqīm ḥasan / mustaqīm qabīḥ / mustaqīm
kadhib. Istiqāma est donc une condition nécessaire et non sufffĳisante pour
la correction du kalām. Cela se confĳirme par les occurrences même de
yastaqīm dans le Kitāb. Force est de constater, en revenant au texte, qu’il
128 georgine ayoub
existe peu d’occurrences d’énoncés marquées du seul prédicat mustaqīm.

La majorité des occurrences de yastaqīm dans le Kitāb sont, en fait, des
occurrences marquées d’une négation : lā yastaqīm (qui n’est pas droit).
2.3.1.2. La combinabilité a ses limites : il n’existe point de valeurs telles

que muḥāl qabīḥ20, ni, a fortiori, de muḥāl ḥasan. Si l’on pose que c’est
bien la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl qui trace la ligne de césure décisive entre
correct et incorrect, qui est l’irrecevabilité défĳinitive, ce trait s’explique
immédiatement. Dès lors qu’un énoncé est muḥāl ou qu’il est jugé non
droit (lā yastaqīm), il n’est pas améliorable. Il est « corrompu. » La ques-
tion du qubḥ et du ḥusn ne se posera plus pour lui.
2.3.1.3. Il existe une relativité des énoncés les uns par rapport aux
autres eu égard au même prédicat : cela est valable pour ḥusn et qubḥ, non
pour istiqāma et iḥāla. En efffet, une détermination importante du ḥusn
et du qubḥ relevée à juste titre par Carter (2004 : 63), est qu’ils admettent
le comparatif aḥsan/aqbaḥ (meilleur/plus mauvais) ou aqallu ḥusnan
(moins bon . . .)21. En comparaison, la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl n’admet pas
un « plus » ou un « moins. » Un énoncé est mustaqīm ou muḥāl. Il n’est
pas « plus muḥāl » ou « moins muḥāl, » « plus mustaqīm » ou « moins
mustaqīm. » Ce trait s’explique aussi immédiatement si l’on pose que c’est
bien la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl qui trace la ligne de césure décisive entre
correct et incorrect. L’énoncé muḥāl ou jugé non droit (lā yastaqīm) est
« corrompu » et non améliorable. L’istiqāma est la correction initiale, celle
requise comme condition nécessaire mais non sufffĳisante, pour qu’il y ait
kalām. Reste à savoir ce qui détermine cette correction initiale.
2.3.1.4. Alors que bon nombre d’énoncés, dans les diffférents chapitres

du Kitāb, sont jugés à la fois mustaqīm et ḥasan22, muḥāl se voit opposé
au seul ḥasan dans certains jugements sur la qualité de l’énoncé. Ainsi, en
186.11 marartu bi-rajulin ḥimarin est dit ʿalā wajhin muḥālun wa-ʿalā wajhin
ḥasanun. En 219.18, déjà cité, le Kitāb précise qu’al-Khalīl mentionne ce
chapitre, li-taʿrifa mā yuḥālu minhu wamā yaḥsunu. De même, en 362.3,
on lira : law lam tuḍmir an kāna l-kalāmu muḥālan . . . fa-idhā aḍmarta
20
Nous avons trouvé un exemple en 117.19.
21
Selon Troupeau (1976), aḥsan est utilisé 108 fois. aqbaḥ 6 fois : il y a donc une nette
diffférence dans l’emploi des deux termes. Cela est sans doute normal. Après tout, dans
une grammaire, on cherche à améliorer un énoncé. Occasionellement, on dit que cette
manière de dire est encore plus vilaine que telle autre.
22
Cf. par exemple 58.17 ; 127.13, où c’est yaḥsunu wa-yastaqīmu qui est utilisé.
an ḥasuna l-kalāmu23. L’opposition ḥasan/muḥāl qui semble contredire

les paires posées au chapitre VI, s’explique immédiatement si on admet
l’articulation des critères et leur hiérarchie : ḥasan, dans les contextes où il
est opposé à muḥāl, est en fait l’abréviation de mustaqīm ḥasan, puisqu’un
énoncé ne peut être ḥasan sans être au préalable mustaqīm.
2.3.1.5. muḥāl a pour antonyme ṣaḥīḥ en 353.12, et 21–23, ce qui con-

fĳirme que le muḥāl dit l’incorrection fondamentale, non récupérable :
dans ce passage, le même énoncé avec ayy reçoit deux interprétations,
l’une interrogative, correcte (ṣaḥīḥ), l’autre « informative, » i.e. assertive,
jugée muḥāl :
ayyu man in yaʾtinā nuʿṭihi nukrimuhu fa-hādhā in jaʿaltahu stifhāman,
fa-iʿrābuhu l-raf ʿu fa-huwa kalāmun ṣaḥ īḥ un . . . fa-in jaʿalta l-kalāma khaba-
ran, fa-huwa muḥālun. 353.8 et 12
ayyu man in yaʿtinā nuʿṭihi nukrimuhu (Qui honorons-nous, des24 « si l’on vient
à nous, nous leur faisons des largesses »), cela si tu en fais une interrogative,
est un énoncé correct . . . Mais si tu en fais un énoncé informatif, il devient
déviant.
2.3.1.6. muḥāl est synonyme de lā sabīla ilā25 et de lā tastaṭīʿ26 avec

lequel il alterne librement dans certains passages. Cela confĳirme à nou-
veau que le muḥāl est l’incorrection non récupérable, non améliorable, et
confĳirme la lecture de muḥāl en « tour impossible. » Considérons un pas-
sage où il en est ainsi. Sībawayhi y discute de l’impossibilité de considérer
le qualifĳicatif qui se rapporte à deux noms coordonnés, l’un défĳini, l’autre
indéfĳini, comme une épithète (ṣifa) :
« hādhāni rajulāni wa-ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqīna » wa-innamā naṣabta
l-munṭaliqīna li-annahu lā sabīla ilā an yakūna ṣifatan li-ʿabdillāhi, wa-lā an
yakūna ṣifatan li-l-ithnayni fa-lammā kāna dhālika muḥ ālan, jaʿaltahu ḥālan
ṣārū fīhi. 220.3
« hādhāni rajulāni wa-ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqīna. » Tu as assigné l’accusatif à
« munṭaliqīn » car il n’est pas possible (il n’y a pas moyen) qu’il soit une ṣifa
de ʿAbdallah, ni une ṣifa de « rajulāni. » Comme ceci est déviant, ils en ont fait
un état (ḥāl) dans lequel les deux hommes et Abdallah se trouvent.
23
Ces citations seront reprises, traduites et analysées plus bas.
24
Dans cet exemple, la double proposition conditionnelle introduite par man tient lieu
de substantif, comme l’explique Sībawayhi dans le chapitre. Elle fonctionne, en fait, comme
un sobriquet. Littéralement : quel de ceux. . . . i.e. quel homme. . . . ou quel groupe. . . .
25
Cf. 211.3 ; 220.3.
26
Cf. 211.3.
130 georgine ayoub
2.3.1.7. Autre observation qui concourt dans le même sens, là aussi

relevée à juste titre par Carter (2004 : 64). A chacun des membres de la
paire ḥasan/qabīḥ correspondent plusieurs synonymes dans le Kitāb. En
revanche, ni mustaqīm ni qabīḥ n’ont de synonyme. Plutôt que ḥasan,
on trouvera jamīl, qawiyy. Plutôt que qabīḥ, radīʾ, khabīth, ḍaʿīf, qui, tous,
admettent le « plus » et le « moins. » Au vrai, il ne s’agit pas d’une réelle
synonymie. Néanmoins, cette synonymie relative permet de dire que
seule la première paire de recevabilité mustaqīm/muḥāl est stricte. La
seconde ḥasan/qabīḥ est à la fois moins tranchée au niveau du concept
et moins tranchée au niveau du jugement de recevabilité. Elle permet le
jeu à la fois qualitatif (plusieurs synonymes) et quantitatif (gradation)
contrairement à la première. Comment expliquer cette diffférence ? Si l’on
pose que l’istiqāma/iḥāla est la correction/incorrection initiale, la césure
décisive entre correct et incorrect, on peut dès lors poser qu’elle délimite
un domaine dans lequel les jugements de recevabilité sont relatifs. Reste
à savoir en fonction de quoi ils le sont.
2.3.1.8. Enfĳin, le trait décisif qui sépare la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl de la

paire ḥasan/qabīḥ est l’usage : Une suite jugée muḥāl ne s’utilise pas, alors
qu’il peut arriver qu’une suite jugée qabīḥ s’utilise.
Ainsi discutant du tour : marartu bi-rajulin sawāʾin wa-l-ʿadamu27 que
Sībawayhi juge qabīḥ, la séquence correcte étant : marartu bi-rajulin
sawāʾin huwa wa-l-ʿadamu, Sībawayhi précise : fa-in takallamta bihi ʿalā
qubḥihi, rafaʿta l-ʿadama28 (199.4). En revanche, présentant le paradigme
dont fait partie (23), Sībawayhi conclut :
wa-innamā dhakartu laka hādhā li-taṣarrufĳi wujūhihi wa-maʿānīhi wa-an
lā tastaḥīla minhu mustaqīman, fa-innahu kalāmun yastaʿmiluhu l-nāsu.
383.22–384.1
Je ne t’ai mentionné cette question que parce que ses formes et ses signifĳica-
tions se modifĳient [et sont complexes] et afĳin que tu ne juges point déviants
des énoncés droits, car c’est là du kalām (ce sont là des énoncés) que les gens
utilisent.
Juger que le kalām est déviant, c’est donc juger par le fait même qu’il
ne s’utilise pas. Le kalām qabīḥ se dit, le kalām muḥāl ne se dit pas. Plu-
sieurs autres passages le confĳirment : Ainsi, par exemple, marartu bi-abī
27
Litt : je suis passé près d’un homme égal avec le néant, i.e. Je suis passé près d’un
homme qui n’est rien.
28
Si tu l’emploies, malgré sa mauvaise qualité, tu assignes le nominatif à al-‘adam.
ʿasharatin abūhu, et marartu bi-abī l-ʿasharati abūhu ( je suis passé près
d’un homme dont le père a dix enfants) sont qualifĳiés en ces termes : yajūzu
ʿalā stikrāh (la suite se dit, bien que détestable) 200.17. Le même énoncé
est taxé de qabīḥ mais néanmoins recevable, en 207.11–12. Mais le cas le
plus exemplaire où l’énoncé peut se dire, reste recevable ʿalā qubḥihi, est,
bien sûr, le cas des licences poétiques29, la poésie étant lieu de contraintes
(mawḍiʿ iḍṭirār). Sībawayhi le pose explicitement dès l’épître. Le chapitre
VII y est consacré : le qubḥ du kalām est toléré en poésie, tant que le kalām
y est droit et non contradictoire :
yaḥtamilūna qubḥa l-kalāmi ḥattā yaḍaʿūhu fī ghayri mawḍiʿihi li-annahu
mustaqīmun laysa fīhi naqḍun. 9.12
. . . Ils [les Arabes] tolèrent la vilaine [qualité] du kalām au point qu’ils met-
traient les vocables dans une place autre que la leur vu que le kalām est droit
et qu’il ne comporte pas de contradiction.
Nous le soulignions ailleurs30, la tolérance a rapport au shādhdh, à l’irré-
gularité, et se tient dans des limites strictes ; l’anomalie ne peut concerner
la rectitude de l’énoncé.
2.3.1.9. Néanmoins, le qabīḥ ne se réduit pas à l’irrégularité tolérée

dans certains usages. Il peut être totalement irrecevable, et a en particulier
un statut heuristique, semblable en ceci au muḥāl. La suite hypothétique
irrecevable permet d’établir la loi de l’usage. Ainsi, pour expliquer le Cas
de Zayd en (1) a :
(1) a mā shaʾnuka wa-zaydan 129.12
Quoi afffaire(nom)-toi et-Zayd-acc
Qu’as-tu donc avec Zayd ?
b mā shaʾnuka wa-zaydin 129.10
Quoi afffaire(nom)-toi et-Zayd-gén.
c mā shaʾnuka wa-zaydun 129.17
Quoi afffaire(nom)-toi et-Zayd-nom
Sībawayhi procède par élimination : on ne peut avoir un Cas similaire
au pronom -ka, cela serait qabīḥ ( fa-in ḥamalta l-kalāma ʿalā l-kāfĳi
l-muḍmarati fa-huwa qabīḥun 129.10). (1) b est donc qabīḥ ; (1) c où Zayd a
le même Cas que shaʾn l’est aussi et n’est pas permis (lam yajuz). Reste une
seule possibilité : considérer qu’un verbe implicite assigne le Cas et, en
29
Cf. Ayoub (2003 : 44–46), Carter (2004 : 62), Ayoub (2005).
30
Ayoub (2003 : 46) et (2005).
132 georgine ayoub
conséquence, assigner l’accusatif. Le titre du chapitre le spécifĳie bien : Du

verbe qu’ils sous-entendent afĳin [d’éviter] le qubḥ du kalām s’ils venaient à
donner au mot fĳinal le même Cas que ce qui le précède (hādhā bābun minhu
yuḍmirūna fīhi l-fĳiʿla li-qubḥi l-kalāmi idhā ḥumila ākhiruhu ʿalā awwalihi
129.8). On a afffaire ici à un qubḥ théorique qui fonctionne comme un
argument essentiel de l’analyse.
De même, les suites qabīḥ en (2) sont aussi hypothétiques qu’irreceva-
bles :
(2) a kānat zaydan al-ḥummā taʾkhudhu 27.9
était Zayd-acc la fĳièvre elle prend (pour : Zayd était pris de fĳièvre)
b marartu bi-hi wa-bi-zaydin humā 346.14–15
je suis passé par-lui et par-Zayd eux deux
c marartu bi-zaydin wa-bi-hi l-ṭawīlayni31 346.16
je suis passé prép-Zayd et-prép-lui spirituel-gén-duel
(pour : Je suis passé près de Zayd et près de lui les deux spirituels)
d zaydun dhāka munṭaliqun32 52.1
Zayd-nom cela partant-nom
La dernière séquence, tout à fait hypothétique dans le sens voulu, à savoir
« Zayd, je crois, est en route » est qualifĳiée par les deux prédicats : lam
yaḥsun wa-lam yajuz. Le qabīḥ est, dans ce cas, totalement irrecevable.
Toutefois, même si le qabīḥ a diffférents statuts, il se distingue, néan-
moins, du kalām muḥāl, en ceci que certaines suites peuvent se dire,
contrairement aux suites qualifĳiées de muḥāl.
2.3.2. L’ensemble de ces traits nous permet de conclure non seule-

ment que les critères de recevabilité sont articulés et hiérarchisés, mais
aussi que le droit et le déviant ont bien rapport à une correction initiale,
en entendant par là une correction qui est une condition sine qua non
de tout énoncé, dont la violation donne lieu à une irrecevabilité absolue.
La compréhension en intension de cette correction initiale permettra de
comprendre la grammaire de Sībawayhi. Qu’est-ce qui la détermine ? ou,
dit autrement, quelles sont donc les règles de construction élémentaires,
fondamentales qui ne soufffrent aucune violation ? Et comment compren-
dre les critères ḥasan/qabīḥ par rapport à mustaqīm/muḥāl ? Autrement
dit, quelles sont les règles qui peuvent tolérer quelque transgression, qui
signent une irrecevabilité relative ? Et quelles sont les conditions pour
31
Hārūn atteste al-ẓarīfayni en II.387.
32
Pour la valeur heuristique de cette dernière suite, voir plus bas.
qu’une suite puisse être améliorée, dans cette théorie ? Car, s’il existe un
qabīḥ et un aqbaḥ, un ḥasan et un aḥsan, cela signifĳie que le prédicat
ḥusn/qubḥ est de l’ordre d’un analysable dont les valeurs ne se réduisent
pas à deux. Qu’est-ce qui permet ce « plus » du aḥsan et du aqbaḥ ? Com-
ment est-il repérable ? Existe-t-il une échelle à plusieurs valeurs discrètes
ou s’agit-il d’un continuum ?
3. Lafẓ / Maʿnā
3.1. Acceptabilité
Jusqu’ici, nous avons parlé de correction initiale requise pour istiqāma,
d’incorrection ou d’irrecevabilité absolue pour muḥāl, et d’irrecevabilité
relative pour qabīḥ, sans plus caractériser les critères de recevabilité. Des
linguistes ont distingué, dans la recevabilité, entre l’acceptabilité liée à la
performance, la grammaticalité, qui fait signe à la validité des règles syn-
taxiques et la sémanticité qui fait signe à la correction des règles sémanti-
ques. Une suite correcte mais peu intelligible du fait de sa complexité—des
enchâssements trop nombreux, par exemple—, peut être tout à fait inac-
ceptable. Si l’acceptabilité se fonde sur la performance du locuteur, la
grammaticalité et la sémanticité se fondent sur sa compétence.
On peut écarter d’emblée l’acceptabilité comme fondant un critère de
recevabilité, dans le Kitāb. En efffet, des suites tout à fait complexes et dif-
fĳicilement intelligibles avec plusieurs propositions enchâssées, sont jugées
correctes (ṣaḥīḥ), sans autre commentaire :
(2) e ayyu man in yaʾti-nā nuʿṭi-hi nukrimu-hu tuhīnu 353.13
lequel-nom qui si vient -fp ψ- nous donnons-fp ψ -lui tu honores fp-u -lui
tu dédaignes-fp u
Quiconque nous honorons, -des « si l’on vient à nous, nous leur faisons des
largesses »-, tu le dédaignes
3.2. Véracité : l’ordre de la langue et l’ordre du monde

Qu’en est-il du kadhib (le faux) et pourquoi n’est-il pas, comme les autres
critères, l’élément d’une paire ?
Les exemples du « droit et faux » sont les suivants :
(3) a ḥamaltu l-jabala
j’ai porté la montagne
b sharibtu māʾa l-baḥri
j’ai bu l’eau de la mer
134 georgine ayoub
Ces exemples montrent, à l’évidence, que le faux relève d’une théorie de

l’adéquation au monde : ces énoncés sont faux car ils ne correspondent
pas à l’ordre du monde. Ils sont empiriquement faux : on ne peut pas boire
l’eau de la mer ; on ne peut pas porter des montagnes.
Selon Troupeau, « lexique . . ., » il n’existe nulle occurrence ultérieure
de kadhib dans le Kitāb. Autant dire que le vrai/faux, entendu comme
adéquation au monde, ne joue pas de rôle dans la théorie grammaticale.
L’absence de dénomination pour l’antonyme du faux peut être interprétée
en ce sens.
Pourquoi, dès lors, le faux est-il posé dans la Risāla, si l’on sait, par
ailleurs, la grande systématicité du Kitāb ? Il est extrêmement difffĳicile
de répondre. Du point de vue de l’histoire des idées, on peut invoquer
l’influence des critères de Khalīl cités plus haut, bien que l’acception du faux
se distingue de celle de Khalīl laquelle relève exclusivement de l’éthique.
Du point de vue de l’économie du modèle, tout se passe comme si une
catégorie n’était posée que pour être abandonnée, que pour servir, en
conséquence, de limite à la pensée. La nature de cette limite n’est pas
indiffférente. Il s’agit de l’ordre du monde alors que les deux autres oppo-
sitions binaires relèvent de l’ordre de la langue.
3.3. Lafẓ, maʿnā
En fait, plusieurs lectures ont été proposées de la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl
par rapport à ḥasan/qabīḥ. Elles s’accordent généralement à mettre la
paire mustaqīm/muḥāl du côté de la correction sémantique, alors que
ḥasan/qabīḥ est placé du côté de la correction formelle ou structurale.
En somme, le premier ferait signe à la sémanticité, le second à la gram-
maticalité.
Dans la tradition, Abū l-Ḥasan al-Akhfash interprète muḥāl du côté de
la correction sémantique : mā lā yaṣiḥḥu la-hu maʿnan.33 Nous avons vu,
pour partie, l’acception de Sīrafī du muḥāl. Considérée dans sa totalité,
son acception est bien plus générale : elle implique le sens mais ne dit pas
que la violation est sémantique. Nous y reviendrons plus bas.
Dans les études récentes, Carter (1968) discute en détail des critères
de recevabilité. La paire ḥasan/qabīḥ associée au mawḍiʿ, désigne ce qui
est grammaticalement correct/incorrect34. 3 thèses caractérisent istiqāma,
selon Carter (1968) :
33
Hārūn, I, 26 note 1.
34
Carter (1968 : 225–26).
a. Il s’agit de l’intelligibilité du discours, c’est-à-dire du caractère efffectif

de la communication du point de vue de l’interlocuteur. Istiqāma mon-
tre l’importance que Sībawayhi accorde au rôle de l’interlocuteur dans
la détermination de la correction du discours.
b. Un énoncé est qualifĳié de mustaqīm si le locuteur réussit à dire ce qu’il
veut dire.
c. La notion d’istiqāma implique qu’il peut exister un échec à communi-
quer dû à un échec à observer les conventions du discours tels qu’ils
gouvernent, non point la grammaire des mots, mais le choix des mots
qu’il faut utiliser.
Carter (2004 : 61–65) place ḥasan/qabīḥ traduits comme good/bad, du côté

de la correction structurale, mustaqīm/muḥāl traduits comme juste/faux
(right/wrong) désignent la correction sémantique. Mustaqīm et muḥāl ne
sont pas antonymes. C’est lā yastaqīm qui est l’antonyme de yastaqīm. La
diffférence entre les deux notions se résume en ceci : Alors que lā yastaqīm
désigne ce qui n’exprime pas le sens voulu par le locuteur, tout en ayant
un sens, muḥāl désigne la suite qui n’a aucun sens35. La gradation du juge-
ment de grammaticalité, selon Carter (2004 : 64), renvoie à des valeurs
systématiques, plutôt que formelles, « that is the relative strength of the
grammatical reasoning being applied. »
Versteegh (1993 : 34), qui donne un aperçu détaillé du débat relatif à la
formation de la terminologie du Kitāb, considère que le trait commun à
la typologie de Khalīl telle que la rapporte le Lisān et celle de Sībawayhi
est que la catégorie d’istiqāma est employée en un sens logique. Zakaria
(1992) pose que le mustaqīm et le muḥāl n’ont pas pour fondement un
critère sémantique mais la structure grammaticale (al-tarkīb al-naḥwī). Le
kalām mustaqīm est le kalām construit selon les lois grammaticales ; le
muḥāl déroge à ces lois. Le qabīḥ est aussi ce qui déroge aux règles gram-
maticales tout en demeurant du kalām ʿarabī.
Toutes ces acceptions s’appuient, à un titre ou à un autre, sur les défĳini-
tions et les exemples de Sībawayhi du ch. VI. Qabīḥ y est défĳini en rapport
avec le lafẓ, et, au vu des exemples, lafẓ peut être raisonnablement com-
pris comme forme (cf. § 4). De même, au vu des exemples du ch. VI et de
la défĳinition de muḥāl où la notion de naqḍ est centrale, on a pu souvent
35
Selon Carter (1968 : 230), muḥāl implique une contradiction grammaticale.
136 georgine ayoub
penser que la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl avait partie liée au maʿnā, au sens

(cf. § 5 et § 6).
Néanmoins, dire que muḥāl ou lā yastaqīm sont du côté du maʿnā, qabīḥ
du côté de lafẓ ne sufffĳit pas à éclairer ces critères. Des épistémologues de
la linguistique36 ont fait remarquer que le véritable statut de la forme et
du sens était de l’ordre de l’a-priori et, qu’au fond, le concept général de
langue n’est rien d’autre, si on ne le délimite pas davantage, que l’opposi-
tion forme/sens elle-même. S’il est vrai que l’opposition forme/sens est de
l’ordre de l’a-priori, toute la question est donc de savoir comment elle se
traduit dans les termes d’une théorie particulière, ici celle du Kitāb, quel
type de propositions elle permet d’articuler. Eclairer ce que signifĳie les
deux paires de recevabilité revient à éclairer la grammaire de Sībawayhi.
C’est très précisément ainsi que nous procèderons. Bien loin de partir
d’une défĳinition du lafẓ et éventuellement du maʿnā, nous explorerons,
munis des seules notions d’irrecevabilité relative pour qabīḥ, et d’irrece-
vabilité absolue pour muḥāl, les usages que fait Sībawayhi de ces notions
pour déterminer, ou du moins pour aider à éclairer, quelles sont les règles
qui ne soufffrent aucune violation, comment ces règles se placent par rap-
port au lafẓ et au maʿnā, et comment s’articulent, en conséquence, lafẓ et
maʿnā dans le Kitāb. Faisant retour à l’empirique, nous verrons que l’on
est obligé d’admettre qu’il est bien difffĳicile de placer muḥāl ou lā yastaqīm
du seul côté du maʿnā, qabīḥ du seul côté du lafẓ.
4. Qubḥ, lafẓ et maʿnā
4.1. Voici les exemples que donne Sībawayhi du mustaqīm qabīḥ
(3’) a qad zaydan raʾayta 7.17

déjà /bien—Zayd acc. tu as vu ( fs) (pour : tu as déjà /bien vu Zayd)
b kay zaydun yaʾtiya-ka 7.17
afĳin Zayd-nom. il vienne (fp-a)—chez toi (pour : afĳin que Zayd vienne
chez toi)
Leur incorrection est « intraduisible. » Toutes deux sont des suites, disons,
pour faire écho à Sībawayhi, de mauvaise qualité. Elles contreviennent
à une même loi, celle des agencements : elles sont ainsi formées : parti-
cule—nom—verbe. La suite est non permise car les deux particules en
36
Voir les travaux de J.-C. Milner, en particulier Milner (1978).
question (qad et kay) doivent être suivies immédiatement du verbe. Les

exemples ne sont pas deux, par pure redondance : ils « couvrent » les deux
formes morphologiques du verbe, la forme sufffĳixale (fs) et la forme pré-
fĳixale (fp). Les particules sont aussi deux : l’une gouverne le verbe (kay en
(3’) b), l’autre ne le gouverne pas (qad en (3’) a). Aux deux types de parti-
cules, Sībawayhi consacrera deux chapitres distincts ultérieurement.
4.2. Qubḥ, lafẓ
Du kalām mustaqīm qabīḥ, le Kitāb donne une défĳinition. Elle utilise deux
concepts fondamentaux de la théorie :
wa-ammā l-mustaqīmu l-qabīḥu, fa-an taḍaʿa l-lafẓa fī ghayri mawḍiʿihi. 7.17
Quant au droit et vilain, c’est que tu mettes le vocable en une place qui n’est
pas la sienne.
La traduction, faute de mieux, par « vocable » de lafẓ, a le mérite d’être
la plus neutre et la plus vague possible. On vient de le voir, lafẓ constitue
le premier terme d’une opposition fondamentale, le second terme étant
maʿnā. Cette paire a déjà fait l’objet d’un titre de chapitre dans la Risāla,
le chapitre IV : hādhā bābu l-lafẓi li-l-maʿānī (Du lafẓ au regard des maʿānī).
L’opposition lafẓ/maʿnā rappelle, bien sûr, l’opposition forme/sens et tout
ce qui la redouble et y fait écho dans les grammaires : l’opposition signi-
fĳiant/signifĳié, expression/contenu, etc. Il n’est pas exagéré de dire que
cette opposition est ce qui, du Kitāb, permet d’en ramasser les fĳils. Le
terme lafẓ garde un écho de son sens littéral ; il évoque l’idée d’une exté-
riorité, très sensible dans l’emploi verbal de la racine : lafaẓa : prononcer,
proférer, c’est littéralement jeter ou rejeter au dehors.
Le lafẓ, dans cette citation, est donc ce qui, dans la langue, se laisse
appréhender comme matérialité proférée. Remarquons que Sībawayhi
n’emploie pas ici le terme ḥarf qui est un des termes fondamentaux du
Kitāb. Le terme lafẓ est bien plus indéterminé, dans son acception, que
ḥarf. Alors que ḥarf désigne l’unité linguistique, lafẓ peut désigner une
ou plusieurs unités linguistiques, l’ensemble de l’énoncé ou du texte, un
marqueur grammatical, etc. Il fait signe à ce qui, du langage, est de l’ordre
du sensible.
Qu’en est-il du mawḍiʿ dans : an taḍaʿa l-lafẓa fī ghayri mawḍiʿihi ? waḍaʿa
est proprement « poser » et le terme mawḍiʿ, du fait même de sa for-
me—ou de son schème maf ʿil—, est ce que Sībawayhi appelle justement
ism mawḍiʿ (II,263.12) et les grammairiens ultérieurs ism makān (nom de
138 georgine ayoub
lieu). Aussi bien donc par sa forme que par le sens lexical de la racine,
mawḍiʿ renvoie au topos, à une topique. Il est proprement position, place37.
Il reste néanmoins à savoir ce que, dans cette théorie, précisément, cela
signifĳie : s’agit-il d’une position linéaire comme les exemples le suggérent ?
On sait, depuis les travaux de Carter, que mawḍiʿ est un concept clé de
cette grammaire et qu’il est loin de se réduire à la linéarité. Il nous sufffĳira
ici de poser que mawḍiʿ défĳinit une notion de contexte relativement abs-
trait par lequel l’unité se laisse identifĳier par les relations grammaticales
qu’elle entretient avec d’autres éléments de l’énoncé, acquiert une identi-
fĳication par autre chose que par sa forme phonique. Ainsi, dans le qubḥ,
le vocable, forme phonique, est mis dans un contexte (forme ou confĳigu-
ration relationelle) qui n’est pas le sien. Autant par le concept de lafẓ que
par celui de mawḍiʿ, le qubḥ a donc partie liée à la forme, une forme qui
semble ne pas impliquer le sens.
4.3. Exemples
Et il est de fait que bien des exemples jugés qabīḥ ont rapport au lafẓ, en
tant que le lafẓ est forme qui n’implique pas le sens. Nous en fournirons
trois séries :
4.3.1. La cliticisation
(4) a aʿṭā-hū-nī 335.19
il a donné-lui-moi (pour : il me l’a donné)
b raʾaytu fī-hā iyyā-ka 334.14
j’ai vu dans-elle support acc.-toi (pour : Je t’y ai vu)
c marartu bi-rajulin mukhāliṭin iyyā-hu dāʾun 193.14–15
je suis passé près d’un homme mêlé supp.acc.-lui un mal (Je suis passé près
d’un homme malade)
En (4), le pronom n’est pas « à sa place. » Le clitique de 1ere personne doit
précéder le clitique de 3e personne en (4) a. En (4) b, le pronom objet
n’est pas cliticisé sur le verbe. Néanmoins, ces incorrections n’afffectent
pas le sens de la séquence qui se laisse tout à fait entendre. C’est bien
« mettre le vocable en une place qui n’est pas la sienne » de la Risāla. Relève
37
C’est ainsi qu’il est traduit par Troupeau (1976). Bien que mawḍiʿ ait un statut lin-
guistique afffĳirmé, abstrait et relationnel, qui le rapprocherait du terme « position, » plus
employé dans les terminologies linguistiques, nous optons pour « place » car la notion de
mawḍiʿ n’est pas seulement géométrique. Les marqueurs eux-mêmes ont des propriétés
qui font qu’ils ont telle ou telle place (cf. exemples (9)).
du même type d’incorrection (4) c où le pronom objet n’est pas clitique

et devrait l’être, cette séquence étant un tamthīl38 de l’énoncé correct :
marartu bi-rajulin mukhāliṭihi dāʾun (193.14).
4.3.2. La transgression du principe de localité entre élément

gouverneur et éléments gouvernés
La théorie du gouvernement (ʿamal) pose un principe de localité, qui est
parfois d’adjacence stricte, entre élément gouverneur et éléments gouver-
nés39. Relèvent du qubḥ les énoncés transgressant les contraintes d’ordre
qu’il implique. Ainsi, pour exemples, les séries suivantes où l’adjacence
stricte est requise : A est le gouverneur, B l’élément gouverné, tous deux
soulignés, X est l’élément qui les sépare. Ces suites sont considérées vilai-
nes et ne sont tolérées qu’en poésie :
— la particule ne doit pas être séparée du verbe qu’elle gouverne par un

nom ou par un élément quelconque (shayʾ) :
(5) a jiʾtu-ka kay zaydun yaqūla dhāka 406.2
A X B
Je suis venu-toi afĳin zayd-nom dise (fp-a) cela
(pour : je suis venu chez toi afĳin que Zayd dise cela)
b lam zaydun ya’ti-ka 406.6
A X B
nég Zayd-nom est venu fp -ϕ- toi
(pour : Zayd n’est pas venu te voir)
— Sous les mêmes notions de jārr et majrūr, Sībawayhi subsume la rela-

tion entre un nom et le GN qu’il gouverne dans une relation d’annexion
et la relation entre une préposition et le nom qu’il gouverne. Rien ne doit
les séparer sauf en poésie (406.8–9) :
(6) yā sāriqa l-laylata ahli l-dāri 75.12
A X B
ô voleur-acc la-nuit-acc gens-gén la-demeure-gén
(pour : Ô toi qui vas voler les gens de la demeure, durant cette nuit !)
38
Le tamthīl est un exemple « qui ne se dit pas » mais qui est là aux seules fĳins de rendre
explicites les relations grammaticales dans l’énoncé. cf. Ayoub (1990).
39
Cf. Ayoub (1991 : 45–50). Pour une présentation de la théorie du ‘amal dans sa dimen-
sion formelle et dans son rapport au ma‘nā, cf. ibid, 45–72 ; pour une présentation de la
théorie dans leur influence subséquente sur la tradition, cf. Baalbaki (2008 : 83 sq.).
140 georgine ayoub
– kāna ne doit pas être séparé des groupes nominaux qu’il gouverne par
un élément (X) gouverné par un autre gouverneur :
(7) kānat zaydan al-ḥummā taʾkhudhuhu 27.9
A X B
était Zayd-acc la fĳièvre elle prend (pour : Zayd était pris de fĳièvre)
où al-ḥummā est gouverné par kāna, et Zayd est l’objet du verbe taʾkhudhuhu.
4.2.3. Les « contraintes » poétiques

En relève également les exemples des « contraintes » poétiques donnés au
chapitre VII comme illustration de ce que la poésie tolère, ainsi fléchir entiè-
rement ce qui ne se fléchit pas [ainsi] (7.20), supprimer ce qui ne devrait pas
l’être abrégeant ainsi une voyelle longue ou bien allongeant une voyelle
brève, etc., afĳin de s’y retrouver dans le décompte des syllabes et des pieds.
La contrainte poétique semble ne relever que de la forme et n’afffecte pas
le sens. Ainsi le Kitāb précise :
law jāza fī l-kalāmi aw iḍṭurra shāʿirun fa-qāla : thalāthatun athwāban, kāna
maʿnāhu maʿnā thalāthatu athwābin. 253.2–3
Si « thalāthatun athwāban » se disait dans le kalām ou bien si un poète se
voyait contraint de le dire, le sens [de cette expression] aurait été celui-là
même de « thalāthatu athwābin » (trois vêtements).
4.3. Qubḥ/maʿnā
Néanmoins, force est d’admettre qu’il n’en est pas toujours ainsi du qubḥ,
car les agencements eux-mêmes, le lafẓ en rapport avec le mawḍiʿ, sont
producteurs de sens.
4.3.1. L’apocopé après une prohibition

Le Kitāb compare les 3 énoncés suivants :
(8) a lā tadnu min-a l-asadi yaʾkul-ka 400.15
Ne t’approche pas du lion mange fp-ϕ-toi
b lā tadnu min-a l-asadi yaʾkulu-ka 400.17
Ne t’approche pas du lion mange fp-u-toi
Ne t’approche pas du lion il te dévorera
c lā tadnu min-a l-asadi fa-yaʾkula-ka 400.18
Ne t’approche pas du lion fa-mange fp-a-toi
Ne t’approche pas du lion de peur qu’il ne te dévore
(8) b et c sont jugés du kalām ḥasan, (8) a est jugé qabīḥ. La raison en est
ainsi donnée :
fa-huwa qabīḥun in jazamta wa-laysa wajha kalāmi l-nāsi li-annaka lā turīdu
an tajʿala tabāʿudahu mina l-asadi sababan li-aklihi 400.15–16
Ceci est vilain (qabīḥ) si tu assignes l’apocope [au verbe], et ce n’est pas là la
manière [correcte] de parler des gens car tu ne veux nullement dire que le fait
qu’il se tienne loin du lion est cause qu’il soit dévoré.
C’est bien l’interprétation à laquelle donne lieu l’apocopé qui rend le
kalām qabīḥ. Et Sībawayhi confĳirme, deux lignes plus loin, ce rapport du
qubḥ au sens :
wa-innamā qabuḥa l-jazmu fī hādhā li-annahu lā yajīʾu fīhi l-maʿnā lladhī
yajīʾu idhā adkhalta l-fāʾa. 400.19
L’apocope est vilaine ici car elle ne produit pas le même sens que celui obtenu,
si tu introduisais le fāʾ (avant le verbe).
On remarquera que (8) a est absurde au niveau de la vérifĳication empiri-
que : il est absurde de penser que le fait de ne pas s’approcher du lion est
cause qu’on soit dévoré par lui. Néanmoins, dans l’ordre de la langue, cet
énoncé n’est pas muḥāl. Il est seulement qabīḥ !
4.3.2. La conditionnelle
L’emploi du marqueur idhā à la place de in donne un énoncé vilain. C’est
là la diffférence entre (9) a, jugé ḥasan, et (9) b, jugé qabīḥ :
(9) a ātī-ka idhā ḥmarra l-busru 315.21
Je viendrai-toi idhā (quand) rougit les-dattes
Je viendrai chez toi quand mûriront les dattes
b *ātī-ka in ḥmarra l-busru 315.21
Je viendrai-toi in (si) rougit les-dattes
La raison en est tout à fait sémantique, relative à la valeur de l’un et l’autre
marqueur quant à la théorie de la détermination :
idhā tajīʾu waqtan maʿlūman . . . in abadan mubhamatun. 315.20–22
idhā advient pour un moment déterminé (connu) . . . in est toujours indéterminé.
C’est bien la valeur des marqueurs in et idhā qui rend (9) b vilain, valeur
qui n’est pas adéquate avec le contenu propositionnel : on sait que les dat-
tes mûriront à tel moment déterminé de l’année. Or in est indéterminé,
142 georgine ayoub
dit Sībawayhi. Nous dirions, dans nos termes, qu’elle induit un parcours,
contrairement à idhā dans l’état de langue du 8e s. On remarquera que ce
cas de qubḥ, tout à fait sémantique, n’infĳirme nullement la défĳinition du
chapitre VI : in n’est pas à sa place !
4.3.3. La lamentation
Un exemple très clair qui montre que le qubḥ peut avoir une raison séman-
tique ou énonciative, et nullement structurale, ayant rapport aux agence-
ments, est le cas de la nudba (lamentation). Les séquences suivantes :
(10) a wā-rajulāh 281.20
vocatif-homme-acc-h (Ô homme)
b yā rajulāh 281.20
vocatif-homme-acc-h (Ô homme)
sont jugées qabīḥ par Yūnus et Khalīl. Ce dernier en donne la raison
suivante :
wa-qāla l-Khalīlu innamā qabuḥa li-annaka abhamta. a-lā tarā annaka law
qulta wā-hādhāh kāna qabīḥan li-annaka idhā nadabta fa-innamā yanbaghī
laka an tafajjaʿa bi-aʿrafĳi l-asmāʾi wa-an takhtaṣṣa fa-lā tubhima li-anna l-nu-
dbata ʿalā l-bayāni. 281.21–24
Khalīl a dit : Cela est vilain car tu n’as donné aucune détermination [au nom].
Ne vois-tu pas que si tu disais : wā-hādhāh (ô celui-ci), cela serait vilain car si
tu te lamentes, tu ne dois te lamenter que par les plus défĳinis des noms et tu
dois déterminer le particulier (takhtaṣṣa) en évitant l’indétermination, car la
lamentation doit porter sur du manifeste.
(9) est donc qabīḥ car l’homme sur lequel le locuteur se lamente ne peut
être identifĳié. C’est un indéfĳini spécifĳique non identifĳié, qu’aucune pro-
priété ne vient même déterminer. C’est donc une raison sémantique—
l’ibhām (l’indétermination)—et l’impossibilité de construire une référence
appropriée qui est explicitement donnée par Khalīl, et à sa suite, par
Sībawayhi, comme cause du qubḥ.
4.3.4. Le principe de localité

Considérons (11) :
(11) marartu bi-ḍāribin ẓarīfin zaydan 198.10
A X B
je suis passé près d’un frappant-gén fĳin-gén Zayd-acc
(11) semble une variante de 6. En fait, la suite, jugée vilaine, n’est pas amé-
liorable. L’explication qu’en donne Sībawayhi semble bien relever des pro-
priétés interprétatives et référentielles du nom, et non point seulement de
la forme, puisque seul le nom peut être qualifĳié :
kāna qabīḥan li-annahu waṣafahu fa-jaʿala ḥālahu ka-ḥāli l-asmāʾi. 198.12–13
Cela est vilain car le locuteur a qualifĳié ḍārib. Ce faisant, il en a fait un nom.
4.3.5. Le verbe sous-entendu

Soit :
(12) a mā shaʾnu-ka wa-ʿamran 129.9
Qu’as-tu donc à voir avec ʿAmr ?
b hādhā la-ka wa-abā-ka 129.18
ceci à-toi et-père acc-toi
Zayd est assigné le Cas accusatif car le sens de la séquence permet de
sous-entendre un verbe : mā shaʾnuka wa-tanāwuluka zaydan (129.12) mais
si le sens de la séquence ne le permet pas comme en (12) b, l’assignation
du Cas accusatif donne une suite jugée vilaine :
fa-qabīḥun an tanṣiba l-aba li-annahu lam yadhkur fĳiʿlan wa-lā ḥarfan fīhi
maʿnā fĳiʿlin ḥattā yaṣīra kaʾannahu qad takallama bi-l-fĳiʿli. 130.18–19
Il est laid que tu assignes l’accusatif à ab (père) car il n’a pas mentionné de
verbe ou de particule qui ait le sens d’un verbe et qui permet que cela devient
comme s’il avait mentionné un verbe.
4.3.6. Les contraintes poétiques

Même en poésie, les irrégularités peuvent porter sur des questions qui
impliquent des valeurs sémantiques et énonciatives. Un seul exemple,
celui de la détermination :
(13) a hādhā rajulun akhū zaydin 151.14
c’est un homme le frère de Zayd
pour : c’est un homme qui ressemble au frère de Zayd
b hādhā qaṣīrun al-ṭawīlu 151.15
ceci petit-nom le-grand-nom
pour : c’est un petit comme le grand
Khalīl aurait considéré (13) a correct au sens de : c’est un homme qui res-
semble au frère de Zayd. Le défĳini, interprété comme une comparaison,
144 georgine ayoub
pourrait alors qualifĳier l’indéfĳini (rajul). Par contre, le jugement de gram-

maticalité de Sībawayhi est négatif :
. . . Ceci est vilain et faible et ne peut se dire que si l’on y est contraint ( fī mawḍiʿ
l-iḍṭirār) . . . 151.14–15.
Ce jugement s’explique par un principe : un défĳini ne peut qualifĳier un
indéfĳini, ni être un ḥāl d’un indéfĳini (in kāna maʿrifatan lam yajuz an
yakūna ṣifatan li-nakiratin kamā lā yakūnu ḥālan 151.11). Pour étayer son
jugement, Sībawayhi emploie un raisonnement par l’absurde, en s’ap-
puyant sur la séquence (2) b qui présente un vrai qualifĳicatif (ṭawīl) défĳini,
qualifĳiant un autre, indéfĳini (qaṣīr), séquence, en outre, contradictoire, du
fait de la valeur lexicale antonymique des deux qualifĳicatifs. Le raisonne-
ment est le suivant : si (2) a était correct, (2) b devrait pouvoir se dire.
Si ceci avait été possible, tu aurais pu dire : hādhā qaṣīrun al-ṭawīlu (c’est un
petit le grand) en entendant par là : mithlu l-ṭawīli (comme le grand). Or ceci
n’est pas possible : de la même manière il est vilain que le défĳini soit un ḥāl
[qualifĳiant] un indéfĳini40, sauf en poésie. C’est, en ce qui concerne le qualifĳi-
catif, encore plus vilain car tu contredis ce que tu as [antérieurement] dit.
151.15–17.
On remarquera que le contradictoire a ici une valeur heuristique essen-
tielle : il sert d’argument clé dans la démonstration, pour montrer une
incorrection plus abstraite et moins visible.
4.3.7. Le modèle théorique

Le modèle de théorie développée par le Kitāb rend très difffĳicile de distin-
guer ainsi entre raisons structurales et raisons sémantiques. En efffet, la
relation de ʿamal, où les agencements et les structures ont un rôle décisif,
est productrice de sens. Elle est décisive dans le calcul du sens et de la
référence, et est elle-même déterminée par le sens et la référence. C’est ce
que nous avons essayé de montrer dans Ayoub (1991). Nous rappellerons
ici trois arguments fondamentaux :
1. Le gouvernement41 du verbe se fonde sur des raisons sémantiques et

référentielles : Si tout verbe gouverne son maṣdar, un circonstanciel
40
Nous traduisons la lecture de Hārūn : ḥālan li-l-nakira (I, 361.10), qui nous semble plus
adéquate, plutôt que celle de Derenbourg : ḥālan ka-l-nakira.
41
Comme dans nos travaux précédents, nous traduirons ʿamal par gouvernement, en
étant bien conscient que toute traduction est une approximation. Aucun terme, qu’il soit
puisé à la linguistique contemporaine ou à la grammaire traditionnelle, ne rendra exac-
tement la notion. Ce qui importe sont les déterminations du concept de ʿamal, celles qui
de temps et un circonstanciel de lieu, c’est en raison de la sémantique

du verbe : tout verbe désigne l’événement ou le procès indiqué par son
maṣdar. Sa forme morphologique indique le Temps. Et tout événement
s’inscrit dans un espace.
2. Des chapitres entiers du Kitāb peuvent se lire comme des chapitres où
le débat porte sur la question suivante42 : faut-il assigner le nominatif
ou l’accusatif à un nom à l’initiale, et la réponse de Sībawayhi se fonde,
à chaque fois, sur le calcul de la référence globale de la proposition :
S’il s’agit d’un ordre (impératif ou prohibitif), d’un souhait, d’une inter-
rogation, d’une conditionnelle ( jazāʾ), l’ibtidāʾ du nom, et donc l’assi-
gnation du Cas nominatif au nom qui est à l’initiale, n’est pas possible.
Seul est possible le Cas accusatif. Ce sont donc les paramètres de la
situation d’énonciation : la relation de l’énonciateur à son allocutaire
(l’ordre, l’interrogation) ou la relation du locuteur à son énoncé (sou-
hait, hypothèse) qui rend l’assignation du Cas nominatif impossible.
3. Inversement, l’opérateur du Cas nominatif du mubtadaʾ, à savoir
l’ibtidāʾ dans le Kitāb, notion qui renvoie, selon nous, à la sélection
catégorielle du nom efffectuée par l’énonciateur afĳin de commencer
son énoncé et de constituer ce nom comme premier terme de la prédi-
cation sur lequel se « construit » le second terme, cet opérateur, qui est
un paramètre énonciatif, est homogénéisé aux opérateurs catégoriels
de l’énoncé : verbe, nom et particule43.
Si ces analyses sont correctes, il s’ensuit qu’il est difffĳicile de distinguer des
raisons structurales et des raisons sémantiques dans le modèle du Kitāb :
tout agencement, toute assignation casuelle aboutissant à une interpréta-
tion ou résultant de paramètres énonciatifs. Le ʿamal, les agencements, les
formes, construisent du sens et sont produits par du sens. Si tel est le cas,
le qubḥ ne peut être réduit à la pure forme.
4.3.8. Ḥasan/aḥsan ; qabīḥ/aqbaḥ
Enfĳin, l’analyse de ce qui permet le « plus » et le « moins, » c’est-à-dire la
gradation des jugements de grammaticalité, fournit un argument dans le
même sens.
le rapprochent comme celles qui le distinguent des concepts de ces théories. Ce sont ces
déterminations qui doivent demeurer présentes à l’esprit. cf. (Ayoub 1991), Baalbaki (2008 :
83–84).
42
Ayoub (1991 : 67–70).
43
Ibid., 61–67.
146 georgine ayoub
Nous considèrerons pour cela l’analyse des verbes de jugement dans

des tours comme : Zaydun aẓunnu ʿāqilun (Zayd, je crois, est sage) (I, 51).
L’exemple est discuté en tant que cas d’ilghāʾ (annulation du gouverne-
ment). Les cas d’ilghāʾ sont des cas où le verbe croire, du fait de sa place
dans la phrase, ne gouverne plus les termes de la proposition qui est objet
de croyance, i.e. deux « objets » liés par une relation de prédication, le
premier ayant une interprétation nécessairement déterminée. Toutefois,
même les verbes intransitifs gouvernent un maṣdar. Il en est de même de
ẓanna qui dispose de cette place44.
Toute la discussion, de fait, est une réponse à la question : Quels élé-
ments peuvent occuper cette place dans le cas d’ilghāʾ, où le verbe croire
fonctionne donc, comme dans l’exemple ci-dessus, dans une proposition
que nous dirons incise ? Plusieurs cas sont envisagés : celui d’un démons-
tratif équivalent à ‘cela’ (dhāka), celui d’une anaphore pronominale (le cli-
tique -hu), le maṣdar défĳini qui correspond au verbe, ẓannī (ma croyance),
et, enfĳin, dernier cas, que cette place reste inoccupée.
Considérons les exemples de Sībawayhi et les jugements de grammati-
calité qu’il en donne :
(14) a ʿAbdullāhi aẓunnu-hu munṭaliqun 51.13
Abdallah-nom, je crois-le, partant-nom
pour : Abdallah, je crois, est en route
b Zaydun munṭaliqun aẓunnu dhāka 51.14
Zayd est en route je crois cela
c ʿAbdullāhi aẓunnu dhāka l-ẓanna munṭaliqun 51.15
Abdallah-nom je crois cela croyance partant-nom
d ʿAbdullāhi aẓunnu ẓannī munṭaliqun 51.15
Abdallah -nom je crois croyance-moi partant-nom
e ʿAbdullāhi aẓunnu munṭaliqun 52.3
Abdallah-nom, je crois, est partant-nom
On peut dire (14) a si le -hu a valeur de dhāka comme en (14) b et n’est pas
coréférent de ʿAbdallah (tajʿalu hādhihi l-hāʾa ʿalā dhāka . . . lā tajʿaluhā
li-ʿabdillāhi 51.13–14) c’est-à-dire s’il fonctionne comme anaphore phrasti-
que. Néanmoins, (14) e est plus beau (ajmal) et meilleur (aḥsan) que (14)
a qui reste faible. Faibles aussi (14) b, (14) c et (14) d.
44
wa-ammā « ẓanantu dhāka, » fa-innamā jāza l-sukūtu ʿalayhi li-annaka qad taqūlu
« ẓanantu » fa-taqtaṣiru [kamā taqūlu dhahabtu] thumma tuʿmiluhu fī l-ẓanni kamā
tuʿmiluhu fī l-dhahābi. fa-« dhāka » hāhunā huwa l-ẓannu, ka-annaka qulta : « ẓanantu
dhāka ẓannan ». I, 40/I,13.2–5
Si tu supprimais le -hu et que tu disais « ʿAbdullāhi aẓunnu munṭaliqun »

(Abdallah, je crois, est en route), ce serait plus beau que de dire : « aẓunnuhu »
( je le crois). « aẓunnu » ( je crois) sans hāʾ (i.e. le clitique objet de 3e personne
du singulier) est meilleur 45 parce que, sinon, [le verbe risquerait] de se mêler
(yaltabisu) avec le nom qui le suit et parce qu’il est ainsi plus manifeste qu’il
ne gouverne pas.
Le meilleur se justifĳie par une structure de l’énoncé qui prête moins à
ambiguité. Il est clair que le verbe ne gouverne pas ce qui le suit en (13) c.
En (13) a, par contre, le pronom anaphorique risquerait d’induire une
interprétation erronnée de la structure ; il risque d’être interprété comme
ayant pour antécédent Abdallah et, en conséquence, d’être un argument
nominal du verbe aẓunnu.
Les deux termes dhāka et le maṣdar ne sont pas équivalents : dhāka est
meilleur parce que ce n’est pas un maṣdar ; c’est un nom indéterminé qui
[peut] désigner toute chose46 51.17–18. Le Kitāb donne une preuve empi-
rique de cette non-équivalence, à savoir un contexte où ils ne sont pas
substituables, toujours d’ailleurs celui de l’incise. (15) a est bon ; (15) b ne
l’est pas :
(15) a Zaydun ẓannī ʿāqilun
Zayd ma croyance sage
b Zaydun dhāka ʿāqilun
Zayd cela est sage
Néanmoins, ajoute Sībawayhi, si déjà le maṣdar est vilain dans le contexte
d’ilghāʾ, employer dhāka avec pour valeur le maṣdar est, a fortiori, plus
vilain.
On constatera, à partir de ce passage qui montre aussi bien l’usage de
« meilleur » que de « plus vilain, » que le « plus » du ḥasan / qabīḥ ne dési-
gne pas des valeurs discrètes déterminées. Les énoncés sont relatifs les
uns aux autres parce qu’ils sont tous relatifs à, rapportables à un même
principe grammatical, ici celui de manʿ al-labs, qui enjoint que les struc-
tures ne prêtent pas à ambiguité et soient immédiatement intelligibles.
Ce principe a un corollaire dans les tours avec ilghāʾ qu’on peut, en gros,
énoncer ainsi :
45
Voici un contexte où aḥsan (meilleur) est substitué à ajmal (plus beau) qui est dans
la phrase précédente. Les deux termes sont synonymes.
46
Des diffférences importantes, y compris pour l’analyse, existent entre l’édition de
Hārūn (I,125) et celles de Derenbourg et Būlāq. Le premier présente, par ailleurs, des exem-
ples qui ne sont attestés que par un seul manuscrit. Comme ils ne sont pas essentiels à
notre démonstration, nous les laissons de côté.
148 georgine ayoub
Le verbe ẓanna détermine une place qui le suit. Dans le cas d’un tour
avec ilghāʾ, l’interprétation de cette place doit rester indéterminée.
Les valeurs des énoncés, discutées plus haut, se déduisent, à partir de là.
(14) e est bon parce qu’en l’absence de tout élément lexical, il est clair que
le verbe ẓanna ne gouverne pas. Le tour est immédiatement intelligible.
Tous les autres tours sont faibles et vilains bien qu’il soit spécifĳié que (14) a
puisse se dire, du fait de l’interprétation du démonstratif et du pronom
qui est celle-là même du maṣdar. Alors que dhāka, ayant une interpréta-
tion indéterminée, aurait dû être préférable, il serait plus vilain s’il avait
pour valeur le maṣdar, le « plus » se justifĳiant par un autre principe de la
grammaire, le principe de hiérarchie concernant le premier et le dérivé47.
On le voit, bien que dans l’ilghāʾ, le fĳil directeur de la discussion soit
la question du ʿamal, c’est un autre principe, un principe de sémantique
grammaticale, celui d’une intelligibilité plus grande de l’énoncé, qui déter-
mine la gradation des jugements de grammaticalité.
Un énoncé peut donc être meilleur qu’un autre car, au regard du même
principe, les éléments de langue ne fonctionnent pas de la même manière,
vu leurs propriétés. Autrement dit, il y a de l’hétérogène dans la langue.
Plus les propriétés des éléments sont en accord avec le principe gramma-
tical, meilleur l’énoncé est. C’est dire que le prédicat d’inégalité (meilleur,
moins bon) des énoncés s’articule dans les termes même de la théorie
grammaticale et au regard de celle-ci. Mais c’est dire aussi qu’un prin-
cipe grammatical permet d’explorer les propriétés empiriques des termes.
Dès lors, comparer les énoncés à partir d’une variation que nous avons
appelée minimale48 revêt une valeur heuristique fondamentale ; il y est
systématiquement fait recours dans le Kitāb. C’est bien les propriétés des
éléments et leur concordance avec le principe grammatical, et non la force
du raisonnement grammatical, qui nous semble déterminer le meilleur et
le moins bon. Dans la gradation des jugements de grammaticalité, le choix
des éléments compte.
On pourrait multiplier les exemples. Le principe d’explication serait, à
chaque fois, diffférent ; mais nous retrouverons la confĳiguration que nous
venons d’élucider. Ainsi en est-il pour la violation du principe de localité :
la confĳiguration où le verbe est séparé de la particule qui le gouverne,
est jugée plus vilaine que celle où le nom est séparé de la particule qui le
47
Pour les hiérarchies des éléments linguistiques dans le Kitāb, cf. Baalbaki (2008 :
113fff ).
48
Ayoub (2010). On se reportera aussi à Baalbaki (2008 : 207–215).
gouverne (406.13). Le principe d’explication est un principe d’hétérogé-

néité, relatif aux propriétés des catégories, à savoir que « le nom n’est pas
comme le verbe » (406.10–11) et du fait du grand nombre de particules qui
gouvernent le nom en comparaison avec celles qui gouvernent le verbe.
4.4. Telles sont les déterminations fondamentales du ḥasan et du

qabīḥ ; elles ont, sans doute, partie liée au lafẓ, à la place, et à l’hétérogène
dans la langue. Mais elles ont aussi partie liée avec les propriétés des
places, les propriétés des catégories et des marqueurs, y compris les pro-
priétés sémantiques. Les ‘places’ construisent du sens et sont déterminées
par du sens. Le lafẓ ne se laisse pas isoler du maʿnā.
Ce que suppose toutefois le qubḥ et le ḥusn de singulier, c’est que
l’énoncé est bien construit, permet la variation minimale, ce que ne per-
met pas le muḥāl et le mustaqīm. Cette conclusion de l’investigation empi-
rique confĳirme ce qui frappait d’emblée dans la défĳinition du qubḥ : la
mauvaise qualité de l’énoncé a un caractère partiel. Elle ne concerne pas
tout l’énoncé. Elle concerne localement, un lafẓ et un mawḍiʿ, alors que
par défĳinition, un énoncé inclut beaucoup de places, et, en conséquence,
point un seul lafẓ—bien que lafẓ puisse désigner tout l’énoncé.
Se pourrait-il, dès lors, que le mustaqīm/muḥāl n’ait pas rapport à ce
qui, de l’énoncé, relève des unités de langue et des positions, mais qu’il ait
rapport à ce qui relève de leur composition ? C’est ce que l’investigation
empirique nous permettra de trancher.
5. Istiqāma, lafẓ, maʿnā
5.1. Mustaqīm/muḥāl : l’extension des notions

Istiqāma et iḥāla n’ont pas exactement la même extension d’usage. Alors
que muḥāl selon la recension de Troupeau, est strictement limité au pre-
mier tome de Derenbourg, c’est-à-dire à la syntaxe et à la sémantique, et
s’applique, en conséquence, strictement au kalām sans s’appliquer ni au
mot ni aux unités inférieures, yastaqīm se trouve dans le second tome
et s’applique non seulement au kalām, mais aussi, en morphologie, au
verbe ou au nom considérés comme unités morphologiques. Ces usages
de istaqāma, yastaqīm traduits, à juste titre, par Troupeau, comme être
« juste » sont souvent impersonnels : le sujet n’y est pas al-kalām mais une
proposition introduite par an. Plutôt donc que : lam yastaqim al-kalām,
c’est : fa-lā yastaqīmu an yakūna mā aḍafta ilayhi nakiratan (II, 45.23) ou :
lā yastaqīmu an yakūna l-ismu illā hākadhā (II, 55.2). Sous le même chef
150 georgine ayoub
doivent se ranger les passages en II, 163.10 ; II, 298.20 ; II, 361.20 où il s’agit
de considérations morpho-phonologiques relatives à des formes nomina-
les ou verbales.
Pour nous, ce sens d’istiqāma n’est pas dissocié du premier ; au contraire,
il le confĳirme, puisque nous avons posé que l’istiqāma était la correction
initiale, celle sans laquelle il n’y aurait pas de kalām. Néanmoins, comme
l’istiqāma ne porte pas sur le kalām, mais sur l’unité catégorielle, ism ou
fĳiʿl, ils ne concernent pas notre propos. En revanche, à chaque fois que
istiqāma porte sur une séquence, même si le terme peut se traduire par
« juste » et quel que soit le tour utilisé, nous avons considéré la séquence
dans notre étude de la notion.
Malgré cette diffférence dans l’usage, d’emblée, dès le titre du chapitre
VI, muḥāl est présenté comme l’antonyme de mustaqīm. cf. aussi 383–384,
déjà cité (an tastaḥīla mustaqīman) ; naqḍ, terme central dans la défĳini-
tion de muḥāl est aussi opposé à mustaqīm en 9.12 (li-annahu mustaqīmun
laysa fīhi naqḍun) ; muḥāl est opposé à ḥasan, en 219.18 (mā yuḥālu minhu
wa-mā yaḥsunu).
Mais un troisième terme vient compliquer cette fĳigure : celui de lā
yastaqīm. Nous avions retenu, au § 3, que muḥāl était l’irrecevabilité abso-
lue. En est-il de même de lā yastaqīm ? Qu’est-ce qui distingue muḥāl de
lā yastaqīm ? Comment se situent ces concepts les uns par rapport aux
autres ?
5.2. Mustaqīm ḥasan / muḥāl

Soit les exemples de l’épître illustrant la paire droit/déviant ou, plus exac-
tement, illustrant les deux prédicats combinés droit et bon (mustaqīm
ḥasan) par opposition à déviant :
(16) a ataytu-ka amsi 7.14
je t’ai rendu visite hier
b sa-ātī-ka ghadan 7.15
je te rendrai visite demain.
(16) a et b illustrent les deux formes morphologiques du verbe. Cette der-
nière n’est pas nue en (16) b : y est afffĳixé la particule sa-. Cela lui donne
une valeur temporelle univoque : celle de futur. C’est là certainement une
démarche délibérée : Sībawayhi y recourt, à plusieurs reprises dans son
analyse de la sémantique du verbe. Il écarte donc délibérément en (16) b
la forme préfĳixale nue, à valeur temporelle négative selon lui (mā lam
yamḍi)49, et incluant, en conséquence, plusieurs valeurs. Les deux formes

verbales en (16) a et b, ont, chacune, selon le Kitāb, de par leur forme
même, une valeur temporelle unique, non équivoque : respectivement
celle de passé (mā maḍā) et celle de futur. Cette valeur est en accord avec
les deux marqueurs temporels déictiques : amsi / ghadan utilisés respec-
tivement en (16) a et (16) b.
Les suites illustrant le muḥāl viennent immédiatement dans le texte
arabe après les premiers :
(17) a ataytu-ka ghadan 7.15
je t’ai rendu visite demain
b sa-ātī-ka amsi 7.15–16
je te rendrai visite hier
Les exemples (17) sont exactement ceux de (16), modulo une inversion
des adverbes, confĳirmant bien que, du point de vue empirique, c’est le
prédicat combinable mustaqīm ḥasan qui s’oppose à muḥāl, l’un quali-
fĳiant l’énoncé recevable, l’autre l’énoncé irrecevable, alors que du point de
vue notionnel, nous avons deux paires d’antonymes : mustaqīm/muḥāl ;
ḥasan/qabīḥ. Comme pour le vilain, les exemples ne sont pas redondants
et couvrent les deux conjugaisons du verbe. Procédant toujours par com
paraison avec le droit et vilain, on remarquera un trait fondamental de
l’incorrection qualifĳiée de déviante : elle est « traductible ; » un lecteur
français constatera immédiatement, sans avoir besoin de recourir au texte
arabe, que le début de l’énoncé contredit sa fĳin, ainsi que le Kitāb caracté-
rise les énoncés déviants50. Quant à l’incorrection qualifĳiée de vilaine, elle
n’était pas, telle quelle, traductible. Illustrant une contrainte d’ordre, elle
faisait appel à la compétence du locuteur arabe et n’était traductible que
moyennant une conversion, une traduction dans un ordre plus abstrait,
celui des « parties du discours » et des contraintes d’ordre qui gouvernent
certains de leurs éléments, dans des conditions déterminées.
Cette observation semble confĳirmer les hypothèses selon lesquelles la
paire droit/déviant a partie liée au sens. Le terme même de maʿnā est
utilisé à deux ou trois reprises dans des analyses impliquant la notion
49
Faʿala et sa-yaf ʿalu jouent un rôle privilégié dans les exemples de Sībawayhi. Sur
cette question et d’autres connexes, relatives à l’analyse de la sémantique verbale dans le
Kitāb, on se reportera à Ayoub (à paraître).
50
Wa-ammā l-muḥālu, fa-an tanquḍa awwala kalāmika bi-ākhirihi 7.15
152 georgine ayoub
de droit. Et le muḥāl, selon la défĳinition qui en est donnée, semble être

l’application du principe de non-contradiction dans les énoncés. Sībawayhi
ne dit pas, néanmoins, que la paire mustaqīm/muḥāl relève du maʿnā, du
sens, et, faisant retour à l’empirique, l’on est obligé d’admettre que son
abord, quoique n’infĳirmant pas cette hypothèse, est bien plus sinueux. Par
ailleurs, toute la question est précisément de savoir ce qu’il en est du sens
dans la théorie grammaticale développée dans le Kitāb.
5.3. Lā yastaqīm
Quel type de violation de règles est qualifĳié de non droit (lā yastaqīm) ?
5.3.1. Les prédications mal formées

Il est frappant que bon nombre des contextes du non droit soient des
contextes qui impliquent, de manière déterminante, la prédication.
D’emblée, l’une des rares occurrences de kalām mustaqīm qualifĳie la
complétude de l’énoncé du fait que les deux termes de la prédication s’y
trouvent réalisés, séquence après laquelle le silence est bon, i.e qui se sufffĳit
à elle-même :
(18) a fī-hā ʿAbdullāhi 222.17
dans-elle Abdallah nom
Abdallah y est
b taymu taymu ʿadiyyin 304.8
Taym nom Taym nom ʿAdiyy gén
c hādhā rajulun khayrun / d afḍalu/ e abun/ f ayyun196.7
ceci homme-nom meilleur nom / d préférable nom / e père nom /
f quel
(18) b–f ne sont, en fait, qu’une illustration de ce dernier principe, c’est-
à-dire de ce qui serait non droit si l’on avait l’idée de faillir à la nécessité
de la composition, i.e. à l’ajout d’un prédicat pour compléter la proposi-
tion (. . . Ne vois-tu pas que s’il t’était possible de dire : taymu taymu ʿadiyyin
dans un autre contexte que le vocatif, cela ne serait droit que si tu ajoutais
dhāhibūn (. . . sont en train de partir) 304.8 ; le même exemple est repris en
307.20–22. En 196.7, l’absence d’une partie du prédicat, dans des exemples
concernant les élatifs, donnerait une séquence « ni droite ni bonne » (lam
yastaqim wa-lam yakun ḥasanan).
D’autres analyses impliquant le même principe sont plus complexes.

Soit :
(19) a Zaydun fa-ḍrib-hu 58. 14
Zayd (nom) alors frappe-le
b Zaydun fa-munṭaliqun 58.15
Zayd nom fa-partant nom
(19) a est un énoncé tout à fait correct. C’est son analyse qui fait débat.
Selon Sībawayhi, (19) a l’est (yaḥsunu wa-yastaqīm 58.17–18) si Zayd est
analysé comme mabnī ʿalā mubtadaʾin muẓharin aw muḍmar : i.e. s’il est
le second terme de la proposition : hādhā zaydun avec pour mubtadaʾ un
« hādhā » implicite. En revanche, il ne serait pas droit, dit Sībawayhi, si
Zayd était considéré comme un mubtadaʾ (58.14–15). Pour les besoins de
la démonstration, il le compare à (19) b. On notera que, dans le passage
ci-dessus, le premier yastaqīm signifĳie « juste, » le second « non droit » :
fa-idhā qulta Zaydun fa-ḍribhu, lam yastaqim an taḥmilahu ʿalā l-ibtidāʾ. a-lā
tarā annaka law qulta : Zaydun fa-munṭaliqun, lam yastaqim, fa-huwa dalīlun
ʿalā annahu lā yajūzu an yakūna mubtadaʾan. 58.14–16.
Si tu disais Zaydun fa-ḍribhu, il ne serait pas juste de considérer que Zayd [est
gouverné] par l’ibtidāʾ. Ne vois-tu pas que si tu disais : Zaydun fa-munṭaliqun
(Zayd alors en route), cela ne serait pas droit. C’est donc là une preuve qu’il
[i.e. Zayd en (19) a] ne peut pas être un mubtadaʾ.
Si Zayd en (19) a était analysé comme un mubtadaʾ, (19) a serait équiva-
lent à (19) b, c’est-à-dire à une séquence sans verbe, qui aurait dû être
un énoncé prédicatif, dont le premier terme aurait dû être mubtadaʾ
et le second prédicat. Or le fāʾ empêche l’interprétation prédicative : la
séquence n’est donc pas interprétable ; elle n’est pas droite. Il en est de
même en (19) a.
Un autre contexte, celui de la relation de la protase et de l’apodose,
donne lieu à des considérations similaires. Cette relation est similaire à
celle du mubtadaʾ et du khabar (shabbahū l-jawāba bi-khābari l-ibtidāʾ
110.6–7). Ce qui fonde cette similitude est que chacun des deux termes ne
peut être droit sans l’autre (li-annahu lā yastaqīmu wāḥidun min-humā illā
bi-l-ākhari).
Dans tous ces exemples, bien loin que le « non-droit » ait rapport au
choix des mots en tant que porteurs d’un sens, ou bien à un sens de la
séquence qui ne serait pas celui voulu par le locuteur, le « non-droit »
a rapport au sens en tant qu’il est tributaire d’une composition, d’une
154 georgine ayoub
« construction, » d’une « édifĳication, » d’un mabnī ʿalā, selon les termes

de Sībawayhi, bref en tant que tributaire d’une prédication. Les séquences
sont ininterprétables car elles sont mal construites. Ce sont des séquen-
ces qui n’ont pas réussi à se constituer en énoncés, y compris (19) a, si le
locuteur s’avisait à interpréter Zayd comme un mubtadaʾ. Elles contre-
viennent à une loi fondamentale de la constitution des énoncés, la loi
de la prédication, à laquelle un chapitre est consacré dans l’épître. On
peut mesurer combien la théorie développée dans le Kitāb est cohérente
et les concepts systématiques en reprenant précisément la défĳinition du
support et de l’apport (al-musnad et al-musnad ilayhi : les deux termes de
la prédication) du chapitre V de l’épître
humā mā lā yastaghnī wāḥidun minhumā ʿani l-ākhari wa-lā yajidu l-muta-
kallimu minhu buddan. 6.10–11
Ce sont deux termes qui ne peuvent se passer l’un de l’autre et dont le locu-
teur ne peut se dispenser.
al-budd, c’est le fait d’échapper à quelque chose, de l’éviter. Le locuteur
ne peut trouver d’échappatoire quant à l’usage des deux termes de la pré-
dication, dès l’instant qu’il veut proférer quelque chose. Il doit y recourir,
de toute nécessité (c’est là le sens de lā budda dans la langue). Il en a,
comme dit de Sacy dans sa traduction du passage dans « Anthologie . . ., »
un « besoin absolu. » Son vouloir, en somme, n’a rien à y voir. L’isnād est
donc constitutif de tout kalām.
On remarquera, enfĳin, que les termes de cette défĳinition font écho à
ceux, cités plus haut, par lesquels le Kitāb jugeait du caractère non-droit
des exemples (18) b et c : chacun des deux termes, y était-il dit, ne peut
être droit sans l’autre. Le droit a, comme la prédication, rapport à la néces-
sité, à ce qui ne peut être dit autrement.
Nous avions commencé par poser que le concept d’agrammatical sup-
posait au préalable la construction de l’unité linguistique susceptible
d’être bien ou mal formée et que cette unité, le kalām, était construite
dès la Risāla, en posant que tout locuteur avait besoin du musnad et du
musnad ilayhi. C’est de contrevenir à cette loi de construction de l’unité
linguistique que résulte l’irrecevabilité absolue, qui, dépendant d’une loi
de construction du sens, est donc une agrammaticalité absolue.
5.3.2. Séquences ininterprétables et assignation casuelle

D’autres raisons font qu’une suite n’est pas droite. Soit (20) :
(20) a * qad marartu bi-rajulin, in ṭawīlun aw qaṣīrun111.7–8
je suis passé près d’un homme-gén, si grand-nom ou petit-nom
b * umrur bi-ayyu-hum afḍalu, in Zaydun wa-in ʿAmrun111.7–8

passe près de celui qui est préférable, si Zaydun-nom et si ʿAmr-nom
Ces séquences incorrectes illustrent l’incidence de la syntaxe sur la pré-
dication et l’istiqāma : si le locuteur disait ṭawīlun au nominatif, il aurait
sous-entendu un prédicat, ce qui ne donnerait aucune interprétation
acceptable, l’ininterprétabilité résultant du contenu propositionnel, non
de la structure prédicative qui, elle, serait bien formée. En efffet, l’iḍmār
nécessaire pour avoir le Cas nominatif serait : in kāna fīhi ṭawīlun/Zaydun
(s’il y a en lui un grand) ou in waqaʿa (s’il a lieu). tous deux ne sont pas
possibles. (20) a signifĳierait : je suis passé près d’un homme, s’il y a en lui un
grand, ou bien si un grand a lieu. (20) b : passe près du meilleur, s’il y a en
lui Zayd ou si Zayd a lieu. L’interprétation qui résulte d’un Cas donné (le
nominatif) rend la séquence non-droite, étant donné le contenu lexical.
lā yastaqīmu fī dhā an turīda ghayra l-awwali idhā dhakartahu wa-lā tastaṭīʿu
an taqūla : in kāna fīhi ṭawīlun aw kāna fīhi Zaydun wa-lā yajūzu in waqaʿa.
111.7.
Ces séquences ne seraient pas droites si tu entendais autre chose que la pre-
mière [glose] et tu ne peux dire : in kāna fīhi ṭawīlun (s’il y avait en lui un grand)
ou kāna fīhi Zaydun, comme il n’est pas possible d’avoir ‘in waqaʿa (s’il a lieu).
Sous le même chef d’un tour syntaxique dont résulte une séquence inin-
terprétable, qualifĳiée de lam yastaqim, est (21) :
(21) qawmu-ka l-awwalu fa-l-awwalu atawnā 168.15–16
gens-toi le premier nom ensuite-le-premier nom ils sont venus-nous
Pour : Tes gens, l’un après l’autre, sont venus chez nous.
La séquence n’est pas droite, car l’assignation du nominatif à al-awwalu ne
permet pas l’interprétation. Le sens lexical de al-awwal ne permet pas de
l’interpréter comme kullu-hum, donc comme un badal. La séquence non
droite est donc ici une séquence dont certains éléments sont ininterpré-
tables du fait d’une assignation casuelle inadéquate.
5.3.3. L’interprétation du pronom anaphorique

L’interprétation du pronom anaphorique donne une séquence non droite,
au vrai une séquence ininterprétable :
(21) a Zayduni akhū ʿAbdillāhij majnūnun bi-hij 207.14
Zayd-nom frère-nom Abdallah fou-nom de-lui
Zayd, frère de Abdallah, est fou de lui
b Zayduni majnūnun bi-hii akhū ʿAbdillāhi 207.15
Zayd-nom fou-nom de-lui frère-nom Abdallah
156 georgine ayoub
(21) b est une permutation (qalb) à partir de (21) a où akhu ʿAbdillāhi

n’est rien d’autre que Zayd lui-même et le pronom -hi est coréférent avec
ʿAbdillāhi : Zayd est « fou » de son frère. Le qalb n’aboutit à aucune inter-
prétation acceptable : akhū ʿAbdillāhi, traité comme ṣifa, est difffĳicilement
interprétable comme coréférent de Zayd, et le pronom ne peut renvoyer
à ʿAbdillāhi. C’est donc l’ininterprétabilité de la séquence, dans le sens
voulu, qui est ici désignée par lam yastaqim.
5.3.4. Enoncé et énonciateurs : l’informativité de l’énoncé

Une autre série d’exemples qualifĳiés du prédicat lam yastaqim contre-
viennent à une autre loi qui, selon l’hypothèse que nous avons posé plus
haut (contrevenir à ce qui est fondamental), serait donc une loi essentielle
constitutive de la bonne formation de tout énoncé dans le Kitāb. C’est
celle relative à l’informativité de l’énoncé.
a. Analysant une occurrence du pronom anta dans un vers, Sībawayhi

exclut qu’il faille restituer un hādhā sous-entendu :
wa-lā yakūnu ʿalā an tuḍmira hādhā li-annaka lā tushīru li-l-mukhāṭabi ilā
nafsihi wa-lā taḥtāju ilā dhālika, wa-innamā tushīru lahu ilā ghayrihi. a-lā
tarā annaka law asharta lahu ilā shakhṣihi fa-qulta : hādhā anta lam yasta-
qim. 59.15sq
Et cela ne peut etre si tu sous-entends « hādhā » car tu ne montres pas à l’in-
terlocuteur sa propre personne et tu n’as point besoin de le faire, mais tu lui
montres quelqu’un d’autre. Ne vois-tu que si tu lui montrais sa propre personne
en lui disant : c’est toi, cela ne serait pas droit.
(22) a hādhā anta 59.15
ceci toi, i.e. C’est toi
b kāna zaydun ḥalīman 17.13
était Zayd-nom longanime
Zayd était longanime
c kāna rajulun 17.18
était un homme
(22) a dite dans les conditions énonciatives spécifĳiées, contrevient à une
loi essentielle réglant toute énonciation et toute relation entre le locuteur
et l’allocutaire. Cette loi est celle-là même qui est énoncée dans le passage
suivant où le Kitāb discute du statut des groupes nominaux après kāna et
de la contrainte de détermination qui pèse sur le premier nom :
fa-idhā qulta kāna Zaydun fa-qad badaʾta bi-mā huwa maʿrūfun ʿindahu
mithlahu ʿindaka fa-innamā yantaẓiru l-khabara. fa-idhā qulta : ḥalīman,
fa-qad aʿlamtahu mithla mā ʿalimta . . . fa-in qulta : kāna ḥalīmun aw rajulun,
fa-qad badaʾta bi-nakiratin, wa-lā yastaqīmu an tukhbira l-mukhāṭaba ʿani
l-mankūri, wa-laysa hādhā bi-lladhī yanzilu bihi l-mukhāṭabu manzilataka fī
l-maʿrifati. 17.15–18
Si tu disais : kāna Zaydun, tu aurais commencé [ton énoncé] par ce qui est
connu de lui [de ton interlocuteur], comme de toi, et il aurait attendu l’infor-
mation [nouvelle]. Aussi si tu dis : ḥalīman, tu l’aurais informé autant que toi
tu es informé . . . Mais si tu dis : kāna ḥalīmun ou bien rajulun, tu aurais com-
mencé ton énoncé par un indéfĳini/non-identifĳié. Il n’est pas droit/juste que tu
informes l’interlocuteur à propos de quelque chose qui n’est pas identifĳié, et ce
n’est point cela qui le rendra aussi informé que toi.
Tout acte d’énonciation « informatif » (ikhbār), selon ce passage, suppose
une dissymétrie entre locuteur et allocutaire : le locuteur informe son allo-
cutaire de quelque chose que l’allocutaire ne connaît pas concernant quel-
que chose ou quelque être qu’il connaît. Cet acte est « droit » ou « juste »
si l’on peut dire, si, à la suite de l’énonciation, l’allocutaire en sait autant
que le locuteur. Dans la suite hādhā anta, il n’y a aucune information
nouvelle. Dans l’information donnée sur quelque chose de non identifĳié,
l’allocutaire ne sait pas sur quoi porte l’information, et l’acte informatif
échoue. Il n’est pas « droit. »
C’est cette loi fondamentale que violent (22) a et c. Elle est ici relative
aux deux protagonistes de l’énonciation dans leur rapport à l’information
contenue dans l’énoncé. C’est pourquoi ces séquences ne sont pas droites.
5.3.5. Ces exemples n’épuisent pas les données, mais ils en sont

représentatifs. Au terme de ce parcours, plusieurs conclusions s’imposent :
l’incorrection qualifĳiée de non droite implique la totalité de l’énoncé. Les
relations prédicatives mal formées en sont un bon exemple car, par défĳini-
tion, elles concernent la constitution même de l’énoncé. Une autre loi, que
nous avons appelé l’informativité de l’énoncé, concerne non seulement
l’énoncé mais aussi l’adéquation du contenu de l’énoncé aux paramètres
de la situation énonciative et à la dissymétrie locuteur/allocutaire. Elle
est relative à la fonction de tout acte de communication. D’autres lois,
qui paraissent plus locales, ainsi l’assignation casuelle, l’interprétation
des anaphores, impliquent également tout l’énoncé, en ce sens que, pour
avoir un énoncé interprétable, il est nécessaire d’assigner à tout syntagme
une fonction et une interprétation. On remarquera enfĳin que si le lam
yastaqim désigne à chaque fois un défaut d’interprétabilité, ce défaut peut
158 georgine ayoub
résulter d’une cause syntaxique, ainsi par exemple un Cas mal assigné dont
ne résulte aucune interprétation acceptable. En somme, le « non droit »
n’a pas trait à la position, mais à des lois de construction du sens plus
élémentaires, plus fondamentales, constitutifs de tout énoncé et réglant
tout acte de communication.
6. Muḥāl, naqḍ, maʿnā
Qu’en est-il de muḥāl ? Si muḥāl ne semble pas l’exact antonyme de

mustaqīm, vu qu’il n’a pas la même extension, a-t-il la même intension que
lā yastaqīm quand il s’applique au kalām ? De manière étrange, naqḍ et
muḥāl ne semblent pas, non plus, synonymes, malgré la défĳinition de muḥāl
du chapitre VI. Si le déviant consiste en ce que tu contredises le début de ton
énoncé par sa fĳin, dans certains passages du Kitāb, « déviant » et « contradic-
toire » (naqḍ) sont associés, comme s’il n’y avait pas de synonymie absolue
entre les deux termes et qu’ils avaient deux sens distincts (cf. 255.15 : kāna
muḥālan wa-kāna naqḍan). C’est donc à préciser le sens du « déviant »
et à examiner son rapport au « non-droit » et au « contradictoire » que
ce qui suit s’attachera ; la réflexion s’articulera, là aussi, à l’empirique.
Les suites qualifĳiées de muḥāl dans le Kitāb se rangent sous plusieurs
chefs :
6.1. Muḥāl et valeurs grammaticales contradictoires

Certaines suites jugées muḥāl sont conformes à la défĳinition de muḥāl
du chapitre VI : Un même élément grammatical y a deux valeurs
contradictoires.
6.1.1. Deux valeurs temporelles contradictoires

Les exemples qui suivent portent deux valeurs temporelles contradictoi-
res : le Temps grammaticalisé sur le verbe a une valeur diffférente du cir-
constant temporel déictique :
(23) a mā aʿdū an jālastu-ka ghadan 383.21
je n’ai pas été [avec toi] au delà du [fait] que je t’ai tenu compagnie
demain
b mā aʿdū an ujālisa-ka amsi51 383.22
je n’irai pas [avec toi] au delà du [fait] que je te tiendrai compagnie hier
51
Nous nous appuyons pour notre traduction, non pas sur le sens de l’expression dans
les dictionnaires mais sur la glose du Kitāb de ces exemples.
Quoique impliquant la même agrammaticalité que (17), (23) est plus com-
plexe : le premier verbe est un verbe aspectuel ʿadā qui, selon la glose
de Sībawayhi, garde encore son sens lexical d’« aller au-delà » (mā aʿdū
glosé par mā ujāwizu52, 383.21). Il introduit un verbe principal après an.
Le passage étudie les combinaisons possibles des formes de conjugaison
du verbe principal et du verbe aspectuel, ainsi que leur sens. Toutes les
combinaisons sont possibles :
(24) fs an fp
fs an fs
fp an fs
fp an fp
Bien que aʿdū soit une forme en af ʿal (i.e. une forme préfĳixale) dont la
valeur temporelle, selon Sībawayhi, est mā lam yamḍi, donc susceptible
d’exprimer le futur, mā aʿdū an jālastuka ne peut avoir qu’une seule valeur,
celle de passé, glosée par : ay an kuntu faʿaltu dhālika, 383.20. Autrement
dit, le temps de la proposition est celui du verbe principal : jālasa, et non
celui du verbe introducteur. D’où les agrammaticalités jugées muḥāl en
(23), les déictiques contredisant la valeur temporelle grammaticalisée sur
la forme verbale. Dans nos termes, l’ancrage temporel des énoncés est
indécidable car contradictoire.
On le voit, ce qui est considéré ici muḥāl est en total accord avec les
exemples du chapitre 6 (cf. (17)).
6.1.2. Un seul prédicat dont les termes sont contradictoires

Un autre exemple, qualifĳié par Sībawayhi de déviant, implique le contenu
sémique :
(25) marartu bi-rajulin ḥimārin 186.11
je suis passé près d’un homme un âne
qui est, dans l’un de ses deux interprétations, déviant, à savoir « quand tu
veux dire [par là] que l’homme est un âne, » autrement dit quand il y a une
seule prédication avec un seul prédicat incluant deux termes contradic-
toires. L’interprétation correcte est celle où il y aurait deux prédications
distinctes : . . . soit que tu aies fait une erreur ou bien que tu aies oublié et que
tu te sois repris, soit qu’il t’ait paru [préférable] de renoncer [à parler] de ton
passage près de l’homme et de remplacer cela par ton passage près de l’âne,
après en avoir voulu autrement (186.13–14).
52
La glose de Sīrafī le confĳirme (Hārūn III, 55. note 2).
160 georgine ayoub
6.1.3. Un seul « nom » et deux Cas contradictoires

Les relations grammaticales à valeur contradictoire peuvent être des rela-
tions syntaxiques, non seulement sémantiques. On le sait, le « nom » est
une entité syntaxique dans le Kitāb53, en d’autres termes est appelé nom
le groupe nominal. Celui-ci doit porter un seul Cas. En (25) :
(25) ʿindī ghulāmun wa-qad ataytu bi-jāriyatin a fārihayni b fārihāni
J’ai un esclave et j’ai ramené une esclave vifs acc-duel vifs- nom-duel
L’option (25) b où le qualifĳicatif est au nominatif est muḥāl, car fārihāni,
qui est au duel, aurait été le qualifĳicatif d’un seul « nom » (groupe nominal
formé de deux éléments coordonnés) dont le premier serait au nominatif
et le second au Cas oblique (lā sabīla ilā an yakūna baʿḍu l-ismi jarran
wa-baʿḍuhu raf ʿan 210.21). Aussi la seule option possible pour les locu-
teurs, qui leur permet d’éviter le muḥāl ( farrū mina l-iḥāla), est d’assigner
l’accusatif.
6.1.4. Un seul qualifĳicatif et un seul « nom, » défĳini et indéfĳini

Les deux valeurs contradictoires peuvent relever de la détermination du
nom. Un « nom » doit etre homogène quant à sa détermination, et ne peut
inclure deux éléments à valeur contradictoire. Aussi (26) est muḥāl :
(26) a hādhihi nāqatun wa-faṣīlu-hā r-rāti‘āni 211.3
Ceci chamelle et-petit-elle qui paissent librement duel
b hādhāni rajulāni wa-ʿAbdullāhi b’ munṭaliqīna b” * munṭaliqūna
220.1–2
Cec hommes nom duel et Abdallah nom b’ partant acc pl b » partant
nom pl
où nāqa est indéfĳini, faṣīl défĳini par le pronom : la séquence est muḥāl
du fait d’un principe grammatical (lā yajūzu an taṣifa l-nakirata wa-l-
maʿrifata kamā lā yajūzu waṣfu l-muʾtalifayni, 211.2–3). Dans nos termes, la
construction de la valeur référentielle du groupe nominal ainsi constitué
est impossible. Cette construction requiert des contraintes sémantiques
qui ne sont pas remplies. (26) b » à enlever est un cas de muḥāl rigou-
reusement similaire. rajulān et ʿAbdullāh, l’un indéfĳini, l’autre défĳini, ne
peuvent être qualifĳiés par un seul qualifĳicatif.
53
Cf. Mosel (1980).
Tous les cas qui précèdent peuvent être ramenés à un seul : 1 même
élément grammatical a deux valeurs contradictoires. L’interprétation de
la séquence est indécidable.
6.2. Prédication mal formée ou incomplète

Une suite où la prédication est incomplète avant le fa- est qualifĳiée de
muḥāl. C’est là, précise le texte, l’analyse de Khalīl. Le passage oppose
deux suites, l’une correcte, l’autre muḥāl :
(27) a kullu rajulin yaʾtīnā, fa-la-hu dirhamāni 403.3
chaque homme vient-nous alors-à-lui dirham nom duel
Tout homme qui vient chez nous aura deux dirhams
b kullu rajulin fa-la-hu dirhamāni 403.3
chaque homme alors-à-lui dirham nom duel
(27) a est ainsi glosé :
adkhala l-fāʾa li-takūna l-ʿaṭiyyatu maʿa wuqūʿi l-ityāni . . . fa-idhā adkhala
l-fāʾa, fa-innamā yajʿalu l-ityāna sababa dhālika. fa-hādhā jazā’ʾun wa-in lam
yujzam. 402.24–403.2
Il a introduit le fāʾ afĳin que le don soit avec la venue . . . S’il introduit le fāʾ
c’est parce qu’il rend la venue cause de cela [du don]. C’est donc une condi-
tionnelle ( jazāʾ), même s’il n’y a pas d’apocope.
En revanche, en (27) b :
wa-law qāla : « kullu rajulin fa-lahu dirhamāni » kāna muḥālan, li-annahu
lam yajiʾ bi-fĳiʿlin wa-lā bi-ʿamalin yakūnu lahu jawāban. 403.3–4
S’il disait : « kullu rajulin fa-lahu dirhamāni, » cela serait déviant, car il
n’aurait pas présenté une action ou un procès (ʿamal) qui aurait requis une
réponse.
La suite après le fāʾ en (27) b est une « réponse » sans qu’il n’y ait d’action
qui requière de réponse, ou, dit autrement, il s’agit d’un efffet sans cause,
alors qu’en (27) a, la venue de l’homme était cause du don. En termes
grammaticaux, (27) b est muḥāl car il manque un prédicat à kullu rajulin,
et, en conséquence, il manque un mubtadaʾ au jawāb, les deux éléments
du jazāʾ, on l’a vu plus haut, étant équivalents au mubtadaʾ et au khabar.
Rien, dans cette suite, n’est contradictoire. C’est une prédication double-
ment mal formée. La suite viole une loi fondamentale de la constitution
du kalām.
On l’a vu en 2.3.1.5, un énoncé passablement complexe : ayyu man in
yaʾtinā nuʿṭihi nukrimuhu (2 f ) est ṣaḥīḥ s’il est considéré comme une
162 georgine ayoub
interrogative, muḥāl s’il est « informatif. » La raison du muḥāl en est, là

aussi, qu’il y manque un prédicat, comme si en français, on considérait :
« lequel nous honorons » comme une assertive. En revanche, si à cette
suite—déjà fort complexe—, on ajoutait le prédicat : tuhīn (tu dédaignes),
cela deviendrait un énoncé correct ayant pour sens : « Quiconque nous
honorons,—des « si l’on vient à nous, nous leur faisons des largesses »—,
tu le dédaignes » (sic !). Là aussi, le muḥāl résulte d’une violation de la loi
de la prédication : chacun des deux termes du support et de l’apport ayant
besoin de l’autre.
6.3. Pronoms de dialogue, pronoms anaphoriques, et paramètres

de la situation d’énonciation
6.3.1. Référence des pronoms et prédication contradictoire
Sous le chapitre des pronoms, le Kitāb présente des exemples où le
mubtadaʾ est un pronom coréférent du nom propre khabar :
(28) a huwa zaydun maʿrūfan 218.20
Il zayd nom connu acc
Il est Zayd, sans nul doute54
b huwa zaydun munṭaliqan55 218.20
Il est Zayd en route
(28) b est jugé lā yajūz et muḥal en 219.18. La raison tient au fonction-
nement référentiel et énonciatif du pronom et à son incidence sur la
prédication. Un pronom, par défĳinition, est le signe d’un nom que le locu-
teur a gardé par devers lui, implicite (ʿalāmatun li-l-muḍmari). Et il ne le
garde par devers lui que parce qu’il sait que son interlocuteur sait de qui
il s’agit :
wa-innamā yuḍmiru idhā ʿalima annaka qad ʿarafta man yaʿnī. 219.20
Il ne rend implicite que quand il sait que tu sais de qui il s’agit.
Aussi est-il muḥāl de citer un nom propre avec lequel le pronom serait
coréférent, après avoir mentionné le pronom. Cela serait absurde
(déviant), du fait même du fonctionnement des pronoms dans la situation
54
Sībawayhi glose maʿrūf par lā shakka (219.2).
55
Il s’agit bien d’un pronom personnel coréférent et non d’un huwa impersonnel
comme le prouvent les autres exemples : anā ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqan.
d’énonciation, l’interlocuteur se passant du nom propre dès qu’il entend

le pronom :
lam yaqul huwa wa-lā anā ḥattā staghnayta anta ʿani l-tasmiyati. 219.19
Il a à peine dit « huwa »et « anā » que tu t’es déjà passé du nom propre.
Sauf si le locuteur, sachant que son interlocuteur ne connaît pas une per-
sonne donnée, la lui désigne et la lui présente. Tel est le cas de (28) a où
le locuteur présente Zayd :
wa-dhālika annaka dhakarta li-l-mukhāṭabi insānan kāna yajhaluhu aw
ẓananta annahu yajhaluhu. 218.20–21
Car tu mentionnes à ton interlocuteur une personne qu’il ignorait ou que tu
croyais qu’il ignorait.
Aussi la seule ṣifa qu’il puisse mentionner dans ce contexte est maʿrūfan,
qui vient là pour réasserter la relation prédicative et la renforcer :
wa-l-maʿnā annaka aradta an tuwaḍḍiḥa anna l-madhkūra zaydun ḥīna
qulta maʿrūfan, wa-lā yajūzu an tadhkura fī hādhā l-mawḍiʿi illā mā ashbaha
l-maʿrūfa li-annahu yuʿarrifu wa-yuʾakkidu. 218.22–23
Et le sens, quand tu as dit « maʿrūfan » est que tu as voulu expliquer clairement
que la personne mentionnée est Zayd. Il n’est pas possible que tu mentionnes
à cette place autre chose que ce qui est similaire à « maʿrūf, » car il défĳinit et
réafffĳirme.
(28) b est, en revanche, muḥāl, car la présence de munṭaliqan signifĳie que
le locuteur veut informer son interlocuteur d’une qualité (ṣifa) relative
à une personne, Zayd, supposée connue par son interlocuteur. Il serait
déviant/absurde de mentionner le nom propre après le pronom avec
lequel il est coréférent comme si le locuteur supposait que son interlocu-
teur ignorait la personne et voulait la lui présenter :
wa-idhā dhakarta shayʾan min hādhihi l-asmāʾi llatī hiya ʿalāmatun li-l-
muḍmari fa-innahu muḥālun an yaẓhara baʿdahā l-ismu idhā kunta tukhbiru
ʿan ʿamalin aw ṣifatin ghayri ʿamalin wa-lā turīdu an tuʿarrifahu bi-annahu
Zaydun aw ʿAmrun. 219.12
Si tu mentionnes quelque nom de ceux qui sont le signe d’un implicite, il est
muḥāl que le nom apparaisse à sa suite, si tu informais sur une action, ou
une qualité qui n’est pas une action et que tu ne voulais pas présenter Zayd
ou ʿAmr.
(28) b présuppose du savoir de l’interlocuteur dans la situation d’énon-
ciation, deux valeurs contradictoires, à la fois qu’il ignore Zayd et qu’il
connaît Zayd.
164 georgine ayoub
6.3.2. al-Khalf
(28) b est repris dans une analyse qui se fonde sur les paramètres de la
situation énonciative, et se réclame de Khalīl lequel fait attention à ces
considérations, contrairement aux « naḥwiyyūn à qui peu importe l’arrière
s’ils connaissent le Cas » (mimmā yatahāwanūna bi-l-khalfĳi idhā ʿarafū
l-iʿrāba) 219.16. L’arrière (al-khalf ) ici renvoie au lieu où se trouve le locu-
teur au moment de l’énonciation : S’il se trouve derrière un mur et qu’il
dise (28) b, le kalām est bon. Mais s’il est devant son interlocuteur, (28) b
est muḥāl car le locuteur qui veut informer sur le départ de Zayd, par son
usage du pronom huwa, le suppose connu de son interlocuteur et n’a pas
besoin de le lui présenter :
wa-innamā dhakara l-Khalīlu raḥimahu llāhu hādhā li-taʿrifa mā yuḥālu
minhu wa-mā yaḥsunu, fa-inna l-naḥwiyyīna mimmā yatahāwanūna bi-l-khalfĳi
idhā ʿarafū l-iʿrāba. wa-dhālika anna rajulan min ikhwānika wa-maʿrifatika
law arāda an yukhbiraka ʿan nafsihi aw ʿan ghayrihi bi-amrin fa-qāla : anā
ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqan wa-huwa Zaydun munṭaliqan, kāna muḥālan, li-an-
nahu innamā arāda an yukhbiraka bi-l-inṭilāqi wa-lam yaqul huwa wa-lā anā
ḥattā staghnayta anta ʿani l-tasmiyati, li-anna « huwa » wa « anā » ʿalāmatāni
li-l-muḍmari, wa-innamā yuḍmiru idhā ʿalima annaka qad ʿarafta man yaʿnī.
illā anna rajulan law kāna khalfa ḥāʾiṭin, aw fī mawḍiʿin tajhaluhu fīhi wa-
qulta « man anta ? » fa-qāla « anā ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqan fī ḥājatika, » kāna
ḥasanan. 219.15–21
al-Khalīl, Dieu l’ait en sa miséricorde, n’a mentionné cette question qu’afĳin que
tu saches ce qui en est déviant et ce qui en est bon, car les naḥwiyyūn négli-
gent l’arrière s’ils connaissent le Cas. Ainsi, si un homme de ta connaissance
voulait t’informer de quelque chose le concernant ou concernant autrui et qu’il
te disait : « je suis Abdallah, en route » et « il est Zayd en route, » cela serait
muḥāl, car il veut t’informer sur son départ et dès qu’il a dit « huwa » (il) ou
« anā » (moi), tu t’es passé du nom propre, car « huwa » et « anā » sont les
signes d’un implicite. Et il n’a recours à l’implicite que s’il sait que tu sais de qui
il parle. Toutefois, si un homme était derrière un mur, ou dans un lieu [donné],
que tu ignorais qu’il y était et que tu dises : « Qui es-tu ? » et qu’il réponde :
« anā ʿAbdullāhi munṭaliqan fī ḥājatika » ( je suis Abdallah partant pour ton
afffaire), cela serait bon.
Comme il est clair dans ce passage, ce sont donc ce que nous appelons les
coordonnées de la situation énonciative qui sont décisives pour juger de
la qualité de (28) b, plus précisément les coordonnées spatiales lesquelles
déterminent le savoir du locuteur quant à l’identité de son interlocuteur.
6.3.3. Pronom de dialogue et prédication

29 illustre un autre cas de fĳigure : l’énoncé est correct ou muḥāl, non pas
en fonction des coordonnées de la situation énonciative, mais selon son
interprétation. Le propos est rapporté à Yūnus, lequel confĳirme les propos

d’Abū l-Khaṭṭāb :
29 hādhā anta taqūlu kadhā wa-kadhā 331.22
C’est toi qui dis ceci et cela
Ce qui serait muḥāl, c’est que le locuteur dise hādhā anta voulant par là
« faire faire à l’interlocuteur connaissance avec lui-même comme s’il vou-
lait l’informer qu’il n’est pas un autre » (an yuʿarrifahu nafsahu kaʾannaka
turīdu an tuʿlimahu annahu laysa ghayrahu 331.22–332.1). En revanche,
s’il entendait par là souligner la présence de l’interlocuteur parmi eux,
l’énoncé serait bon, la glose étant : al-ḥāḍiru ʿindanā anta ou al-ḥāḍiru
l-qāʾilu kadhā wa-kadhā anta (« Celui qui est présent parmi nous est toi »
ou « Celui qui est présent et qui dit ceci et cela est toi »).
L’interprétation dite muḥāl est ici une interprétation absurde, l’infor-
mation fournie par la proposition contredit la valeur du pronom de dialo-
gue, et présuppose que l’interlocuteur ne sait pas qu’il est lui-même.
6.3.4. Interprétation du pronom anaphorique

Soit :
(30) a ʿAbdullāhi niʿma l-rajulu 259.20–21
Abdallah-nom excellent l’homme-nom
Quel excellent homme que Abdallah !
b ʿAbdullāhi huwa fī-ha 259.21
Abdallah-nom lui dans-elle
Abdallah y est
Si al-rajulu n’est pas coréférent avec ʿAbdullāh, en (30) a, la suite est
muḥāl, exactement, dit Sībawayhi, comme en (30) b au cas où le pronom
huwa n’est pas coréférent avec ʿAbdallāh. s’il y a coréférence, (30) a et b
seraient des énoncés corrects. Là aussi, la même suite, en fonction de son
interprétation, est muḥāl ou bien est un énoncé correct. Le Kitāb ne spé-
cifĳie pas plus précisément la raison de la déviance, mais l’assimilation de
(30) a à (30) b semble indiquer qu’il s’agit de raisons structurales, les deux
énoncés ayant la même structure.
Un bref répertoire des emplois de déviant montre qu’ils concernent
l’interprétation de l’anaphore, les valeurs du déterminé et de l’indéter-
miné, les valeurs du Temps de l’énoncé, le fonctionnement présuposi-
tionnel d’une particule, l’adéquation de l’énoncé aux paramètres de la
situation énonciative, etc. Autrement dit, la déviance a trait, à chaque
fois, au fonctionnement d’éléments grammaticaux fondamentaux pour la
construction du sens. Mais si le muḥāl a bien rapport à du sémantique et
166 georgine ayoub
à de l’énonciatif, il peut aussi être le fait d’agencements, de structures, bref

de syntaxe. Ce qui suit illustre certains cas de fĳigure.
7. Muḥāl, maʿnā, lafẓ
7.1. iḍmār an
L’énoncé (31) est loin de ne rien signifĳier. Il est tout à fait correct :
(31) jiʾtuka li-tafʿala 362.1
je suis venu-toi pour-tu fais (fp-a)
Je suis venu afĳin que tu fasses
Ce qui rendrait néanmoins le kalām muḥāl est de ne pas sous-entendre
‘an, et ce pour une raison proprement syntaxique, à savoir que li- assigne
le Cas indirect aux noms, et non le naṣb aux verbes, comme le fait an :
law lam tuḍmirhā [an] la-kāna l-kalāmu muḥālan li-anna l-lām wa-ḥattā
innamā taʿmalāni fī l-asmāʾi fa-tajurrāni wa-laysatā mina l-ḥurūfĳi llatī tuḍāfu
ilā l-af ʿāli fa-idhā aḍmarta an ḥasuna l-kalāmu. 362.2–3
Si tu n’avais point sous-entendu an, l’énoncé (kalām) aurait été déviant, car
le lām et ḥattā ne gouvernent que les noms et ils leur assignent le jarr. Ils
ne comptent pas parmi les particules qui s’annexent au verbe. Aussi si tu
sous-entends an, le kalām devient bon.
7.2. Co-occurrence de inna et in, de inna et de matā

La co-occurrence de inna in et inna matā, avec adjacence des deux mar-
queurs, donne des suites muḥāl (390.7). Elle est là aussi pensée en termes
syntaxiques, non en termes sémantiques :
li-annaka aʿmalta kāna wa-inna wa-lam yasugh laka an tadaʿa kāna
wa-ashbāhahu muʿallaqatan lā tuʿmiluhā fī shayʾin, fa-lammā aʿmaltahunna
dhahaba l-jazāʾu wa-lam yakun min mawāḍiʿihi. a-lā tarā annaka law jiʾta
bi-inna wa-matā turīdu « inna in » wa « inna matā » kāna muḥālan fa-hādhā
dalīlun ʿalā anna l-jazāʾa lā yanbaghī la-hu an yakūna hāhunā. 390.5– 8
Car tu as fait gouverner « kāna » et « inna » et il ne t’était pas possible de laisser
« kāna » et ses semblables « suspendue, » ne gouvernant rien. Aussi, lorsque tu
les as fait gouverner, il n’ya plus eu de jazāʾ et ce n’est pas là une place où il
peut être utilisé. Ne vois-tu pas que si tu disais « inna in » et « inna matā, » cela
serait muḥāl. C’est là la preuve que le jazāʾ ne peut être ici employé.
Le discours est entièrement syntaxique. L’énoncé correct et l’explication
qui en est donnée le confĳirme un peu plus loin :
fa-in shaghalta hādhihi l-ḥurūfa bi-shayʾin jāzayta fa-min dhālika qawluka

innahu man yaʾtina naʾtihi. 390.9
Si tu « occupais » ces mots par quelque chose, tu pourrais avoir un tour
conditionnel ainsi : inna-hu man yaʾtinā naʾtihi.
La notion désignée par shaghala est une notion purement syntaxique. Elle
est conceptuellement très proche de la relation de gouvernement (ʿamal)
et elle implique, pour chaque opérateur, des positions d’éléments gouver-
nés à « occuper » afĳin que l’énoncé soit correct56.
7.3. Gouvernement et muḥāl
Sous le chapitre de ḥattā se présente une suite dont l’interprétation est
absurde. Mais ce qui est dit muḥāl, c’est le gouvernement du verbe (c’est
d’assigner la désinence -u à fp), non l’interprétation que la désinence
induit ; Une autre désinence (fp-a) est qualifĳiée de muḥāl dans ce contexte.
Dans les deux cas, le muḥāl est de nature syntaxique :
(32) a sirtu ḥattā adkhulu-hā wa-taṭluʿu l-shamsu 372.4
j’ai voyagé jusqu’à ce que j’entre fp-u-elle et se lève-fp-u le soleil
J’ai voyagé jusqu’à tant/ si bien que j’y suis entré et que s’est levé le
soleil.
b sirtu ḥattā adkhulu-hā wa-taṭluʿa l-shamsu 372.5
j’ai voyagé jusqu’à ce que j’entre fp-u- elle et se lève-fp-a le soleil
J’ai voyagé jusqu’à tant/ si bien que j’y suis entré et [afĳin] que se levât le
soleil[/jusqu’au moment où s’est levé . . .]
c sirtu ḥattā adkhula-hā wa-taṭluʿa l-shamsu 372.5
j’ai voyagé jusqu’à ce que j’entre fp-a-elle et se lève-fp-u le soleil
J’ai voyagé jusqu’au moment où j’y suis entré et que le soleil s’est levé.
Ces suites présentent, après ḥattā, une coordination entre deux propo-
sitions, dont la première a un verbe fp à flexion -u en (32) a et b57. Vu
la contrainte de symétrie qui pèse sur les éléments coordonnés, le 2d
verbe doit donc être aussi un fp-u, ainsi en (32) a. Or, si le verbe après
ḥattā est à flexion -u, cela signifĳie que le procès qu’il désigne est la consé-
quence du procès indiqué par le verbe qui précède ḥattā. Cela aboutirait à
l’interprétation selon laquelle c’est la marche du locuteur qui serait cause
du lever du soleil (wa-lam yakuni l-raf ʿu li-anna ṭulūʿa l-shamsi lā yakūnu
an yuʾaddiyahu sayruka 372.5–6). Le raf ʿ est donc muḥāl ( fa-hādhā
56
Cf. Ayoub (1991 : 52–54).
57
On se reportera à Talmon 1993 pour une étude de ḥattā dans le Kitāb.
168 georgine ayoub
muḥālun an tarfaʿa). Mais le naṣb (fp-a) de taṭluʿ, comme en (32) b, est

aussi muḥāl car le verbe taṭluʿ est coordonné à un premier verbe qui est
fp-u (wa-in naṣabta wa-qad rafaʿta fĳiʿlaka fa-huwa muḥālun). Dès lors, la
seule possibilité correcte pour cette suite est que les deux verbes soient au
naṣb ( fa-huwa muḥālun ḥattā tanṣiba fĳiʿlaka min qabli l-ʿaṭfĳi).
En fait, les trois cas de fĳigure illustrés en 7.1, 7.2, 7.3, sont dits muḥāl du
fait d’un gouvernement « déviant. » On se serait attendu à ce qu’ils soient
considérés qabīḥ. Dans ce qui suit, nous examinerons quelques contextes
donnant lieu à des énoncés tantôt qabīḥ, tantôt muḥāl.
8. Muḥāl /qabīḥ
8.1. la détermination
Dans un chapitre où il discute du Cas des noms qui sont des « qualifĳi-
catifs » (ṣifāt) sans néanmoins ressembler au nom d’agent ( fāʿil) et qui
fonctionnent normalement comme des noms substantifs, tels abū ʿashara
(père de dix [enfants]) en (33), le Kitāb présente le paradigme suivant :
(33) a marartu bi-rajulin abī ʿasharatin abū-hu 200.12–13
je suis passé près d’un homme-gén père-gén dix-gén père-nom-lui
Je suis passé près d’un homme dont le père est père de dix enfants
b marartu bi-rajulin abū ʿasharatin abū-hu/ b’ bi-ʿAbdillāhi abī l-ʿasharati
abū-hu
je suis passé près d’un homme-gén père-nom dix-gén père-nom-lui/
père-nom les-dix-gén
Je suis passé près d’un homme père de dix dont le père est père de dix
enfants
c marartu bi-rajulin ḥasanin abū-hu 200.13
je suis passé près d’un homme-gén beau père-nom-lui
Je suis passé près d’un homme dont le père est beau/bien
En (33) a, abī ʿasharatin fonctionne comme un gouverneur ( fĳiʿl,ʿamal)
assignant le nominatif à abūhu. C’est un qualifĳicatif, similaire en cela à
ḥasan dans le tour (33) c (200.13). Sībawayhi lie cette possibilité à une
condition relevant de la référence : que abū ʿasharatin ne réfère pas à des
individus spécifĳiques et identifĳiés (qawman bi-aʿyānihim qad ʿarafahum
al-mukhāṭabu 200.17). S’il y réfère, la séquence est muḥāl. S’il n’y réfère
pas, la séquence se dit, bien qu’elle soit détestable (idhā lam yakun shayʾan
bi-ʿaynihi yajūzu ʿalā stikrāhin). Si abū ʿashara désigne des individus spé-
cifĳiques et identifĳiés, le seul Cas possible qu’il peut porter est le nomi-
natif (wa-law anna l-ʿasharata kānū qawman bi-aʿyānihim qad ʿarafahum

al-mukhāṭabu lam yakun fīhi illā l-raf ʿu (200.16–17)).
Ce passage permet de comparer, sur la même question, celle de la
détermination, la violation qui est de l’ordre du muḥāl et celle qui est de
l’ordre du qabīḥ. C’est bien la possibilité de construction de la référence,
et donc l’intelligibilité, qui distingue les deux tours. Dans le cas général,
un substantif a une référence spécifĳique. S’il réfère à des individus identi-
fés, connus par l’interlocuteur comme dit Sībawayhi, son fonctionnement
comme opérateur aboutit à une suite déviante muḥāl. Car il n’a pas de
référence prédicative. La séquence n’est pas intelligible. Mais plus il est
indéterminé, plus il peut fonctionner comme une qualité et donc comme
un prédicat et un gouverneur/opérateur. La référence peut se construire.
La séquence se dit, malgré son caractère marginal et irrégulier (détestable).
8.2. Cliticisation du pronom objet

On l’a vu, la non cliticisation du pronom complément sur le verbe donne
une séquence vilaine : raʾaytu fīhā iyyāka (334.14) mais ce n’est pas le cas
pour le pronom qui suit l’exceptif illā : mā raʾaytu illā iyyāka (334.20)
Cliticiser donnerait un énoncé muḥāl avec illā en fĳin d’énoncé : mā
raʾaytuka illā.
Cette séquence contrevient-elle à une loi syntaxique ou sémantique ?
Il est difffĳicile ici d’isoler l’une de l’autre. La séquence contrevient à la fois
aux structures syntaxiques : elle viole une containte d’ordre, à savoir que
l’argument de illā doit la suivre. Elle est aussi mal formée sémantique-
ment et, en conséquence, ininterprétable.
Ici, contrairement au premier cas, une même loi, celle de la cliticisa-
tion de l’objet, si elle n’est pas appliquée dans le cas général, donne un
énoncé qabīḥ mais interprétable. En revanche, si elle est appliquée dans
un contexte sémantique déterminé, celui de l’« argument » de illā, cela
donne lieu à une suite mal formée, du point de vue syntaxique et séman-
tique. La suite est muḥāl.
9. Muḥāl kadhib
Une notion constitue une difffĳiculté du texte : celle de muḥāl kadhib

(déviant et faux). L’exemple qu’en donne Sībawayhi est le suivant :
(34) sawfa ashrabu māʾa l-baḥri amsi 7.18
je boirai l’eau de la mer hier
170 georgine ayoub
Comment se peut-il qu’un énoncé soit, en même temps, contradictoire

et faux ? On connaît la position d’al-Akhfash à ce propos : il n’interprète
pas le texte. Il le reprend : il n’y a pas de muḥāl kadhib. Il y a du muḥāl et
du khaṭaʾ :
En fait partie l’erreur, c’est-à-dire ce que tu n’as pas voulu dire de manière
délibérée, comme quand tu dis : ḍarabanī Zaydun (Zayd m’a frappé) alors que
tu voulais [dire] : ḍarabtu Zaydan ( j’ai frappé Zayd). L’erreur est [un propos]
qui n’est pas délibéré. Quant au muḥāl, c’est ce qui ne peut avoir de sens. Ne
vois-tu pas que si tu disais : ataytuka ghadan ( je suis venu chez toi demain),
le kalām n’aurait pas de sens et ne peut être jugé vrai ou faux » (cité en note
dans l’édition de Hārūn en I,26).
Bref, pour al-Akhfash, il n’existe pas de muḥāl kadhib. Le muḥāl, tel qu’il
l’entend, se laisse mieux traduire par absurde, inintelligible, mais, du coup,
il ne peut être associé au faux. L’exemple donné par Sībawayhi illustre l’er-
reur susceptible d’afffecter le propos. Elle l’illustrerait, de fait, à un double
titre puisque Sībawayhi, pour parler de l’erreur, du ghalaṭ, commet lui-
même une erreur : il parle du muḥāl kadhib.
En fait, (34) reprend (3) b, modulo deux valeurs contradictoires du
Temps : la particule sa- qui précède le verbe lui donne un sens de futur ; le
déictique amsi renvoie au passé. Le déviant et faux se laisse interpréter, si
l’on admet les développements précédents, même si cette catégorie reste
étrange : la prédication est interprétable. C’est elle qui permet d’assigner
à l’exemple une valeur quant au faux (kadhib). Cet exemple est en même
temps déviant, vu les deux valeurs contradictoires du Temps. En d’autres
termes, son ininterprétabilité, qui se restreint à l’impossibilité d’assigner
un Temps à la phrase, n’empêche pas néanmoins qu’il soit empirique-
ment faux . . . en tous temps.
Dans le muḥāl kadhib, le Kitāb combine une impossibilité relative à
l’ordre du monde avec l’impossibilité de la construction du sens résultant
d’éléments grammaticaux, c’est-à-dire résultant de l’ordre de la langue.
Cette combinaison hypothétique rappelle les combinaisons théoriques de
consonnes radicales du maître de Sībawayhi : al-Khalīl. Si cette lecture est
correcte, l’existence d’une catégorie toute théorique, telle que « le déviant
et faux, » loin d’être une incohérence, semble indiquer une attention très
grande de Sībawayhi à la diffférence entre l’ordre du monde et l’ordre
de la langue, entre la construction linguistique du sens et l’adéquation
au monde.
10. Conclusions
Au terme de ce parcours, quelques conclusions se dégagent :
10.1. Dans la recevabilité des énoncés, le Kitāb distingue entre l’ordre

de la langue et l’ordre du monde, entre la construction linguistique du
sens et l’adéquation au monde. Les deux paires mustaqīm/muḥāl, ḥasan/
qabīḥ relèvent de l’ordre de la langue : ce sont les relations grammaticales,
les propriétés des éléments de langue et les paramètres de la situation
énonciative qui construisent la recevabilité. Kadhib, en revanche, relève
d’une théorie de l’adéquation au monde : l’énoncé est empiriquement
faux. Le kadhib ne joue pas de rôle dans la théorie grammaticale. Cette
notion, toute théorique, semble être posée pour servir de limite à la pen-
sée. La nature de cette limite n’est certes pas indiffférente. Elle signifĳie
que les deux oppositions binaires mustaqīm/muḥāl, ḥasan/qabīḥ sont des
critères de grammaticalité : on mettra sous la notion de grammaticalité à
la fois, des critères syntaxiques, structuraux que des critères sémantiques
ou des critères pragmatiques, relatifs à la situation d’énonciation, car il est
bien difffĳicile, dans le Kitāb, de séparer les diffférents types de critères.
10.2. Il semble bien difffĳicile de ranger ḥasan/qabīḥ du seul côté du

formel ou du structural, mustaqīm/muḥāl du seul côté du sémantique : Les
agencements et les structures construisent du sens et résultent de rela-
tions sémantiques et l’inintelligibilité peut avoir des raisons structurales.
Néanmoins, c’est dans la mesure où le sens est distinct de la forme, le
maʿnā distinct du lafẓ, qu’il est possible d’avoir deux concepts distincts de
l’irrecevable et qu’une séquence puisse être, en même temps, ni « droite
ni bonne. » Concepts distincts mais aussi articulés et hiérarchisés. Il fau-
drait plutôt penser la diffférence entre les deux paires en termes d’entrée :
le qabīḥ est ce qui, violant des lois syntaxiques ou sémantiques, reste
une violation qui n’atteint pas la totalité de l’énoncé mais est canton-
née au mawḍiʿ. L’énoncé est bien construit. Il est interprétable et permet
la variation minimale. Le muḥāl est une violation qui atteint l’existence
même de l’énoncé. La séquence ne réussit pas à se constituer en énoncé.
La « contrainte » poétique reste cantonnée au qubḥ car pour qu’il y ait
énoncé poétique, il faut qu’il y ait énoncé.
10.3. Beaucoup d’exemples du muḥāl n’incluent pas des éléments

grammaticaux à valeur contradictoire. Ce qui signifĳie que Sībawayhi ne
172 georgine ayoub
se tient pas, dans son usage de la notion, à la défĳinition qu’il en donne

dans la Risāla. En revanche, au vu des exemples, il se dégage une remar-
quable homogénéité entre deux notions : lā yastaqīm et muhāl. Les suites
muḥāl violent, dans l’ensemble, les mêmes lois que les suites qualifĳiées de
lā yastaqīm. Nous posions, au début de ce travail, la question de savoir
quelles étaient les lois dont la violation aboutissait à une agrammaticalité
absolue ? Elles sont en fait coextensives de la grammaire, et se situent à
tous les niveaux, tant syntaxique, sémantique qu’énonciatif, à condition
qu’elles soient si importantes qu’elles aboutissent à de l’inintelligibilité. Le
muḥāl a rapport à l’inintelligibilité du discours, mais seulement comme
résultant de la violation de toutes sortes de lois grammaticales, et non
seulement de lois sémantiques. Deux lois se dégagent qui touchent à la
constitution de l’énoncé et dont la violation aboutit à une agrammaticalité
absolue : la loi de la prédication, les paramètres de la situation énoncia-
tive. Mais d’autres lois, tant syntaxiques que sémantiques, peuvent causer
l’inintelligibilité d’une séquence : les lois de l’interprétation des anaphores,
de la détermination des noms, de l’assignation casuelle. Notre interpréta-
tion de muḥāl rejoint celle de Sīrāfī :
wa-maʿnā l-muḥāli annahu uḥīla ʿan wajhihi l-mustaqīmi, alladhī bihi yufhamu
l-maʿnā idhā tukullima bihi. Sīrāfī : II,90
Et le sens de muḥāl est qu’il a été dévié de son tour droit, par lequel on com-
prend le sens si on le dit.
La violation n’est pas sémantique : elle peut être de tout ordre mais elle
aboutit à ne pas comprendre le sens !
Cette idée du Kitāb que les incorrections syntaxiques peuvent aboutir
à de l’inintelligible rejoint celle, très belle, de Jakobson reprenant et com-
mentant la notion de signifĳication grammaticale chez Boas. Qu’on en juge
plutôt : « L’agrammaticalité efffective prive un énoncé de son information
sémantique. Plus les formes syntaxiques et les concepts relationnels qu’elles
véhiculent viennent à s’oblitérer, plus difffĳicile est-il de soumettre le message
à une épreuve de vérité et seule l’intonation de la phrase tient encore ensem-
ble « des mots en liberté » (Essais de linguistique générale, T. I, p. 206)
10.4. Le qabīḥ et le muḥāl ont un rôle heuristique fondamental : ils per-

mettent d’explorer les données et de mieux comprendre les lois de l’usage.
En ce sens, le Kitāb développe une théorie qui recourt à l’agrammatical
pour étayer son argumentation et fonder ses analyses. Il est signifĳicatif
que plusieurs exemples de lā yastaqīm ((19) a, (21) a), muḥāl données par
Sībawayhi aient deux interprétations : l’une muḥāl, l’autre correcte (cf.

(28) b, (29), (30), (31)).
10.5. Nous conclurons enfĳin par deux points qui touchent l’histoire de

la grammaire et l’édifĳication de la théorie grammaticale. 1—C’est Khalīl,
selon le Kitāb, qui inclut dans les critères de recevabilité d’un énoncé,
non point seulement la correction des relations grammaticales, mais aussi
l’adéquation de l’énoncé aux paramètres de la situation énonciative et sa
fonction communicationnelle, contrairement aux naḥwiyyūn qui pensent
qu’un énoncé est recevable dès l’instant où l’iʿrāb est correct. 2—Il existe
une hésitation certaine dans le muḥāl entre la défĳinition du ch. 6 et l’usage
empirique de la notion. Néanmoins, c’est bien par un point de sémantique
« logique » que Sībawayhi défĳinit le muḥāl dans la Risāla, alors que, nous
l’avons vu, le muḥāl ne se réduit pas aux suites où un élément grammati-
cal a deux valeurs contradictoires. Il est certain que c’est par ce trait dis-
tinctif que les suites muḥāl nous semblent se distinguer de « lā yastaqīm. »
Mais cette mise en relief d’un point de sémantique logique en rejoint un
autre : On remarquera que (22) a est un pléonasme. Sans être une tautolo-
gie, il n’a aucune valeur informative, à l’instar des tautologies lesquelles
ont, avec les contradictions, un statut bien défĳini en logique. Rejoignant
un débat qui a fait couler beaucoup d’encre depuis Merx, on peut dès lors
légitimement se poser la question, après les travaux de Versteegh 1987 et
1993, de la mesure dans laquelle la logique [aristotélicienne] était connue
dans le cercle Khalilien.
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li-l-Nashr wa-l-Tawzīʿ.
AN AFRIKAANS FOOTNOTE TO THE HISTORY OF ARABIC GRAMMAR:
SHEIKH ISMAIL GANIEF’S GRAMMAR OF ARABIC (CA. 1958)1
Kees Versteegh
Since the middle of the 17th century, there has been a thriving Muslim
community in South Africa. The fĳirst Muslims to arrive in the Cape Col-
ony were free people from Malaysia and the Indonesian archipelago, the
so-called Mardijckers; they were joined by deportees and political exiles
from the Dutch East Indies. At a later stage, larger numbers of Muslims
were brought in as slaves and labourers from India and South Asia. In
addition, many members of the Black community in South Africa con-
verted to Islam. Collectively, the Muslims in the Cape were sometimes
called ‘Cape-Malays,’ although the majority of them had no connection
with Malaysia at all.2 By the 19th century a rich scholarly tradition had
been established in the Muslim communities, initially based on texts
written in Arabic and/or Malay.3 In the second half of the 19th century,
however, many scholars started to write their treatises in Afrikaans, often
transcribed in Arabic script.
Afrikaans is a variety of the Dutch language that was brought by the
colonists who founded the Cape Colony in 1652. Their language was taken
over in creolized form by some of the inhabitants, who spoke Khoisan or
Bantu languages. Although Afrikaans was the language variety spoken by
the White and part of the Black population, Dutch remained the standard
language of the Cape Colony until 1925, when Afrikaans was recognized
as an offfĳicial language. There is a fĳierce controversy, fuelled by ideological
considerations, about the extent to which this standard form of Afrikaans
is based on the creolized variety or represents a somewhat modifĳied ver-
sion of the Dutch language.4
1
I wish to thank my former student Iris Hoedemaekers, who collected a large number of
photocopies of Arabic-Afrikaans literature during her stay in South Africa in 2005, among
them the text of the grammar analyzed in the present article. In her M.A. thesis, Hoede-
maekers (2006) presented an analysis of the writing system and the language of these
works, see also Hoedemaekers and Versteegh (2009). I also thank my former colleague
Abdulkader Tayob, now professor at University of Cape Town for helping me to procure
some of the literature for this article and for his enthusiastic support of this research.
2
On the use of this label in the Cape Colony, see Stell (2007: 90, 93); Stell et al. (2007:
291–293).
3
Davids (1980).
4
Valkhofff (1972); Van Rensburg (1989).
178 kees versteegh
In the Muslim communities in South Africa, various languages were used,

depending on the group. Indian Muslims spoke Urdu or one of the other
Indian languages, such as Gujarati, while the ‘Malays’ used Malay. These
languages remained in use for some time within the family. But when
the members of these communities started to use Afrikaans outside their
homes, it soon became the fĳirst language for many Muslims. By the end of
the 19th century, Malay was no longer used in the schools and mosques and
had been replaced by Afrikaans as the main language of instruction in the
Muslim communities.5 When the ban on Islamic teaching was lifted in the
Cape Colony in 1804, with the granting of religious freedom to all commu-
nities, local sheikhs started to organize public instruction for Muslims and
wrote treatises for the school curriculum. Arabic, of course, had a special
position as the holy language of Islam, which it has retained till today.6 But
it was a language learnt in the schools, where teaching took place in Afri-
kaans, the language that the various groups of Muslims had in common.
The Muslim authors who started to write Afrikaans may have been the
fĳirst to write this language, using Arabic script. The Afrikaans spoken by
Muslims had characteristics that set it apart from the Afrikaans of the non-
Muslim population of the Cape. While for the other speakers of Afrikaans
Dutch remained a target,7 for the Muslims Afrikaans became their new
language, without any ties with Dutch. The use of Afrikaans as the lingua
franca of the Muslim communities may have been instrumental in develop-
ing a new Afrikaans standard, especially so after the use of the Arabic script
was discontinued and the language was written with the Latin alphabet.
The Arabic alphabet as used in the Muslim Afrikaans literature (often
called Arabic-Afrikaans) exhibits various special features, the most con-
spicuous of which is the presence of additional consonants and the con-
sistent notation of all vowels.8 For the Afrikaans consonants p, ng, tj, v new
letters were added to the alphabet, borrowed either from the Jawi script
that was used to write Malay, or, at a later stage, from Ottoman Turk-
ish. The influence of the Ottoman Turkish script, visible for instance in
the transcription of Afrikaans p with bāʾ with three subscript dots, rather
than fāʾ with three superscript dots, may be explained by the fact that
one of the fĳirst writers of Arabic-Afrikaans literature, Abu Bakr Efffendi
(ca. 1835–1880), was an Ottoman emissary to the Cape Colony, and that
some of the Arabic-Afrikaans books had been printed in Istanbul.9 Note
5
Stell et al. (2007: 293).
6
Tayob (1999: 108–110).
7
Stell (2007: 115–116).
8
Stell et al. (2007: 295–296); Hoedemaekers (2006).
9
Davids (1991).
arabic grammar in afrikaans 179
that in the text presented here, the fāʾ with three superscript dots tran-
scribes Afrikaans w, whereas v is represented by normal fāʾ.
The notation of the vowels presented a complicated problem for the
writers of Arabic-Afrikaans, since Afrikaans has a large inventory of vow-
els.10 The solution they chose was to vocalize the texts throughout, using
various combinations of vowel signs and glides to represent those vow-
els that do not exist in Arabic. There was considerable variation in the
orthography used, partly because there was no standard form of Afrikaans
as yet, and partly because writers tended to devise their own system of
transcription. For a list of the vowel signs in the grammatical treatise pre-
sented here see Table 1.11
Table 1: Representation of Afrikaans vowels in Arabic script in the Nayl al-arab.

Afrikaans vowel Arabic script example transcription Gloss
 
/a/ -
   man ‘man’
/a:/    naam ‘name’
  
/ɛ/ -
   les ‘lesson’
- 
/e/ 
    twee ‘two’

/i/ -  fĳir ‘for’
/i/ -  di ‘the’
  
-  rafĳier ‘river’

   
/ɔ/ -   ons ‘us’
-    
  
/o/ woort ‘word’
 
/ə/ -  
 tafel ‘table’
/y/ 
 
-  ure ‘hours’
 
/u/ -   moet ‘must’
 
-  hoe ‘how’
 
/Ø/ -   deur ‘door’
   
/aj/, /ej/ (= ei, y)  -    skryf ‘write’
  
/aw/  -   nou ‘now’
 
/œj/  -  buik ‘belly’
10
Ibid.
11
From Hoedemaekers and Versteegh (2009: 291).
180 kees versteegh
When Cape Afrikaans was written using the Roman alphabet, the system
of transcription chosen to represent the Arabic names and loanwords
was based entirely on pronunciation and used the rules of Dutch spelling.
Thus, for instance Arabic /u/ was mostly represented by oe, /ḥ/ by g, as
in the name Mogamat (Muḥammad), and /gh/ by qh, as in loeqha (lugha).
Most of the literature in Arabic-Afrikaans concerned religious topics. A
list of the extant literature, containing more than seventy-four treatises,
is given by Kähler,12 with additions by Davids.13 This list shows that from
the earliest examples (van Selms 1953) till the last products of this Arabic-
Afrikaans literature in the fĳirst half of the 20th century, the vast majority
of the works was devoted to religious matters. There are exceptions, but
these are few and far between. One example is an election pamphlet from
1872, which shows that Arabic-Afrikaans was indeed used as a practical
language for everyday life and was not restricted to the school curricu-
lum.14 It is very well possible, and indeed probable, that there were more
examples of this non-religious use of the language, but these have disap-
peared or are still awaiting discovery in one of the many personal archives
in the Cape.
Along with the core religious sciences, published writings in Arabic-
Afrikaans also dealt with some of the ancillary Islamic sciences, such
as grammar or recitation (tajwīd). One author who was prolifĳic in pub-
lishing such works composed the grammatical treatise presented in this
paper. The author’s name on the title page is Ismāʿīl b. Muḥammad Ḥanīf
al-Azharī; he was commonly known as Sheikh Ismail Ganief Edwards and
lived from 1908 till 1958.15 His English surname probably came from one
of his ancestors, who may have taken the name of his employer after the
abolition of slavery in the Cape Colony; Sheikh Ganief did not use it when
writing in Arabic.
After his initial training in a Cape Town madrasa and later in a public
school, he studied in Mecca from 1923 till 1924, but left the city for Egypt
when Wahhabi rule was established.16 From 1924 till 1931, he studied at the
Azhar University in Cairo, where he obtained his M.A. in Islamic studies.
Upon returning to Cape Town, he held various teaching positions and
became imam at the Nur al-Islam Masjid in Bo-Kaap in Cape Town.17
12
Kähler (1971).
13
Davids (1990, 1993); see also Haron (1996; 1997).
14
Hoedemaekers (2006: 75–77).
15
Ebrahim (2004).
16
Ibid., 84–86.
17
Ibid., 102–119.
Sheikh Ismail Ganief left behind more than thirty works written in Ara-
bic-Afrikaans, some of them translations, but also original compositions.18
He published treatises on fĳiqh and kalām, collections of ḥadīth, collections
of khuṭab, burial rituals, the celebration of the Prophet’s mawlid, recita-
tion, marriage and divorce law, pilgrimage, tafsīr, and ethics. His fĳirst and
largest work, al-Muqaddima al-Ḥaḍramiyya, a compendium of Shāfĳiʿi fĳiqh,
was published in Cairo in 1928. His last published work is the grammati-
cal treatise discussed in the present article, one of a series of textbooks
for the teaching of Arabic, which also include a small dictionary and a
conversation manual for pilgrims traveling to Egypt and Saudi-Arabia.
The grammar of Arabic is intended for speakers of Afrikaans and con-
stitutes one of the last examples of Arabic-Afrikaans literature. The text
is handwritten and was probably multiplied by cyclostyle. The title page
mentions in a print letter “[Kaapstad] [ca. 1948],” i.e. Cape Town, possibly
an addition by the archive or library. The treatise consists of two parts,
the fĳirst concerned with mabādiʾ al-lugha al-ʿarabiyya, the second with
al-qawāʿid al-naḥwiyya.
The fĳirst part of the grammar is entitled Nayl al-arab fī lughat al-ʿArab,
transcribed in Latin letters on the title page as Nailoel ‘arabie fee loeqhatiel
‘arabie, and translated in Afrikaans as Handboek van Arabies en Arabiese
grammatica and in English as Handbook of Arabic and Arabic grammar. It
consists of a few short chapters in which fĳirst the letters and then the dif-
ferent terms of Arabic grammar are explained briefly. Pp. 11–30 contain an
alphabetical list of Arabic verbs with their Afrikaans equivalent, followed
by a thematic vocabulary with example sentences.
The second part is entitled al-Qawāʿid al-naḥwiyya li-tadrīs al-lugha
al-ʿarabiyya, transcribed as Al Kawaa’iedoe ’n-nahweeyatoe lie tadriesie
’l-loegatiel-’arabeeyatie, and translated in Afrikaans as Die grammatiese
beginsels vir die onderrig van die Arabiese taal and in English as The gram-
matical principles for the teaching of the Arabic language. This part is
more directly concerned with grammatical rules and deals with the entire
grammar of Arabic. The grammatical defĳinitions and rules are explained
in Arabic, which is translated sentence by sentence, sometimes word by
word, into Afrikaans.
At times, the translation is very literal, even to the point where the
particle fa-, whenever it occurs in the Arabic text is represented by a
redundant nou ‘now, then’ in the Afrikaans text; likewise, inna is always
18
Ibid., 132–151.
182 kees versteegh
translated with waarlek ‘indeed’. The Arabic verb-fĳirst word order is sim-
ply taken over in Afrikaans, even though it is incorrect. In some cases, it
is obvious that the author simply replaces the Arabic words with Afri-
kaans words, especially in relative sentences, where the Arabic ʿāʾid (bihi)
is repeated in Afrikaans (met hom):
fa-l-mubtadaʾ ism ubtudiʾa bihi l-jumla
nou di mubtadaʾ is een isem wat di jumla met hom bagin wort
“The mubtadaʾ is an ism with which the jumla is started [lit. which the jumla
is started with him” (II, 24.2–3)
The question to consider here is whether the Arabic text was taken over
from an Arabic source by Sheikh Ismail Ganief, or written by himself and
then translated into Afrikaans. The author was known for his creativity in
composing texts and for opposing authors who simply copied the Arabic
texts. In this respect, he followed the standards set forth by his teachers at
the Azhar University, like Mahmud Shaltut and Rashid Rida, who followed
the reformist ideas of Muḥammad ʿAbduh and were very much in favour
of freeing themselves from the shackles of taqlīd.19 His approach difffered
from that of most of the other Muslim authors in the Cape community.
That Sheikh Ganief regarded himself as the original author of his work
seems to be implied by the Arabic title page of the Nayl, where he calls the
grammar his taʾlīf (establishing his authorship with the additional remark
ḥuqūq iʿādat ṭabʿ hādhā l-kitāb maḥfūẓa li-l-muʾallif ).
Another reason for assuming that he regarded himself as the author
is that he explicitly mentions his didactic aims. Thus, for instance, he
explains in the fĳirst part (I, 3.13–17) that he will deal with the pronouns
and the nouns here, rather than in the grammatical part later on, because
he wishes the beginners to become acquainted with grammar gradually,
starting with what is essential, and progressing gradually to more compli-
cated issues.
The reason why I speak about ḍamīr precisely here in the fĳirst part of the
book, and not about the other species of ism, is that the knowledge of how
to attach the ḍamāʾir to the ism that is manifest and to the fĳiʿl is necessary
for the beginner; without this, he is unable to translate any sentence cor-
rectly. (di rede wat ek spesiaal net praat hier in di eeste part fan di kitaab op
di ḍamīr en nie op di andre soorte fan di isem nie dier di gawetenskap hoe om
aan te las di ḍamāʾir an di isem wat openbaar is en an di fĳiʿl is nootsaaklek fĳir
di begener dier sonder det is hei onbekwaam om een sin reg te fertaal)
19
Ibid., 90–98.
This seems to suggest that he determined the order of the materials rather
than slavishly adhering to the source he was translating. Nonetheless, it
turns out that he did indeed translate an existing treatise. Not surpris-
ingly, he did not follow any of the grammatical models that were used at
this time for the description of Dutch and other European languages. The
teaching of Arabic in the Muslim community in South Africa was closely
related to that in the Arab world and, given the orientation of the South
African Muslims and the initial use of Malay in the local madrasas, also to
that in the Malay world. The traditional method of teaching Arabic in the
Malay-speaking world consisted in the translation of Arabic grammatical
treatises. The teacher translated an entire Arabic text into Malay sentence
by sentence, while the student wrote this translation between the lines
of the Arabic text. No understanding of grammatical rules was involved
here,20 just the memorization of the text.
In the 19th century, a new method of teaching was introduced, the
so-called ‘Meccan’ method.21 In this system, the students fĳirst received
lessons in spelling, and then progressed to the elementary terms and the
rules of inflection. Next, they learned the rules of grammar, exemplifĳied by
sentences that had to be parsed. This method was fairly progressive in that
the students actually learned about Arabic grammar rather than simply
learning a text by heart, and understanding it through a literal translation.
There is some information on the kind of Arabic treatises that were used
in Indonesia at the time22 and that are still in common use in Indonesia
in the curriculum of the pesantren schools.23 The most popular texts were
the Taṣrif ʿIzzī by ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Zanjānī (d. 660/1262); the ʿAwāmil al-miʾa
by ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī (d. 471/1078); the Marāḥ al-arwāḥ by Aḥmad b.
ʿAlī b. Masʿūd (d. before the beginning of the 8th/14th century);24 and of
course the Ājurrūmiyya by Ibn Ājurrūm (d. 723/1323) and the Alfĳiyya by
Ibn Mālik (d. 672/1274), as well as the numerous commentaries on these
last two works.
The ‘Meccan’ method was in line with a larger trend in the Malaysian
world, to move away from the traditional manuscript tradition and the
passive learning of Arabic towards the active reading of newly printed
Arabic books, whose availability may be seen as a sign of modernity.25
20
Kaptein (2000: 333).
21
Drewes (1971).
22
Ibid.
23
van Bruinessen (1990).
24
Cf. Åkesson (2001: 7–8).
25
Lafffan (2008).
184 kees versteegh
Some Malay scholars even wrote manuals of Malay grammar, the most
famous one being the Bustān al-kātibīn and the Kitab pengetahuan bahasa
by Raja Ali Haji (ca. 1809–ca. 1872). He wished to teach his students to
write Malay correctly and for this purpose wrote elementary textbooks in
Arabic and Malay, using the model of Arabic grammar in both.26
In the Arab world, an even more revolutionary change in teaching
grammar took place at the end of the 19th century, when modern text-
books were introduced to replace the traditional treatises, at least in pri-
mary and secondary schools. During his studies in Mecca and at the Azhar
University, Sheikh Ganief must have become acquainted with this new
graded approach to teaching grammar and with the new didactic materi-
als that had been developed. Thanks to a piece of fĳirsthand evidence, we
can even trace the exact source for his own grammar. In 1921, the Dutch
consul in Jeddah, Emile Gobée, wrote a report about the new school cur-
riculum that was introduced in the Hijaz.27 He describes the curriculum
and the exams that were taken in Jeddah in 1918–1920, and notes that
the traditional texts for the study of grammar, the Ājurrūmiyya and the
Alfĳiyya, had been replaced by a more recent text, the Qawāʿid al-lugha
al-ʿarabiyya by Ḥafnī Bak Nāṣif and others.28
According to the introduction to the Qawāʿid, this book had been printed
originally in Cairo as two textbooks for secondary schools, one about
grammar by Ḥafnī Bak Nāṣif, Muḥammad Bak Diyāb, Muṣṭafā Ṭumūm,
Maḥmūd Afandī Ghamr, and the second about rhetoric, by the same
authors (except for the fourth author who had been replaced by Sulṭān
Bak Muḥammad). The grammar book was approved by the inspectorate
for the secondary schools in 1309 A.H., with the support of the Sheikh al-
Azhar. The second part was approved by the inspectorate in 1892. When a
fourth year was added to the secondary school curriculum in 1905, the two
parts were slightly revised and printed together that same year in Cairo
under the title Kitāb Qawāʿid al-lugha al-ʿarabiyya li-talāmīdh al-madāris
al-thānawiyya.
That this was the source used by Sheikh Ganief in his grammatical
textbook is immediately obvious from the defĳinitions he gives at the
beginning of the second part (II, 1–2). ‘Grammar’ is defĳined as al-naḥw
qawāʿid yuʿraf bihā aḥwāl awākhir al-kalimāt al-lugha [sic!] al-ʿarabiyya.
This defĳinition is almost identical to the one with which the Qawāʿid
26
See Kaptein (2000).
27
van Bruinesse (1990).
28
Gobée (1921).
starts (1.4–5): al-naḥw qawāʿid yuʿraf bihā ṣiyagh al-kalimāt al-ʿarabiyya

wa-aḥwālihā ḥīna ifrādihā wa-ḥīna tarkībihā. Its fĳirst part resembles the
one in al-Shirbīnī’s commentary on the Ājurrūmiyya,29 ʿilm bi-ƒuṣūl yuʿraf
bihā aḥwāl awākhir al-kalim, but it uses a diffferent term for the basic rules,
qawāʿid.
The defĳinition of kalām in the Nayl (II, 7) al-jumla al-murakkaba llatī
tufīd al-fāʾida l-maqṣūda is clearly based on the phrasing in the Qawāʿid
(1.7) al-murakkab al-mufīd fāʾida yaḥsun al-sukūt ʿalayhā yusammā kalām
wa-jumla. The defĳinition of kalima in the Nayl (II, 1.10) al-kalima lafẓ
mufrad dāll ʿalā maʿnan is virtually identical to the one in the Qawāʿid
(1.6) al-kalima hiya l-lafẓ al-mufrad al-dāll ʿalā maʿnan.
In the Ājurrūmiyya tradition, the emphasis in defĳining the parts of
speech, noun, verb, and particle is on their morphological characteris-
tics, rather than their meaning. Although the commentator al-Shirbīnī
states that the noun and the verb indicate an intrinsic meaning (tadull
ʿalā maʿnan bi-nafsihā), unlike the particle, and that the verb is connected
with one of the three tenses, while the noun is not,30 he puts most of
his effforts into listing the morphological markers of the three parts of
speech, for instance, that the noun may be combined with an article and
the verb with the particle sa-.31 This tradition difffers from the one repre-
sented by Sheikh Ganief’s defĳinitions (Nayl II, 1–2), which focus on the
meaning of the parts of speech and were copied almost verbatim from
the Qawāʿid. For the verb, the defĳinition in the Nayl is al-fĳiʿl kalima dālla
ʿalā maʿnan mustaqill bi-l-fahm wa-l-zaman juzʾun minhu (cf. Qawāʿid 1.9
al-fĳiʿl mā yadull ʿalā maʿnan mustaqill bi-l-fahm wa-l-zaman juzʾ minhu);
for the noun it is al-ism kalima dālla ʿalā maʿnan mustaqill bi-l-fahm wa-
laysa l-zaman juzʾan minhu (cf. Qawāʿid 1.11 al-ism mā yadull ʿalā maʿnan
mustaqill bi-l-fahm wa-laysa al-zaman juzʿan minhu); and for the particle
it is al-ḥarf kalima lā yaẓhar maʿnāhā illā maʿa ghayrihā (cf. Qawāʿid 1.13
al-ḥarf mā yadull ʿalā maʿnan ghayr mustaqill bi-l-fahm). Only the defĳini-
tion of the particle, therefore, exhibits any signifĳicant diffference between
the Nayl and the Qawāʿid.
The examples used to illustrate the grammatical rules and those used
for parsing exercises may have been partly invented by the author, because
they are unfamiliar from the Arabic sources. Thus, for instance, he uses
a sentence like ḥāṣara jaysh al-islām madīnat al-Iskandariyya fī khilāfat
29
Carter (1981: 6.8–9).
30
Carter (1981: 12).
31
Ibid., 14–34.
186 kees versteegh
al-Fārūq sanatan wa-shahrayni ‘the army of Islam laid siege to the city of
Alexandria for one year and two months during the caliphate of ʿUmar’
(II, 44.20) to illustrate the parsing process. The procedure in itself is not
unknown in the Arabic tradition, but is usually applied to verses from
the Qurʾān. On the other hand, there are defĳinitely cases where he has
borrowed his examples from the Qawāʿid. In the chapter on tawkīd, for
instance, the examples from the Qawāʿid (28–29), qadima qadima l-ḥājj;
al-ḥaqq wāḍiḥ wāḍiḥ; naʿam naʿam; ṭalaʿa l-nahār ṭalaʿa l-nahār; aktub
anā; kunta anta l-raqība ʿalayhim, have been copied faithfully in the Nayl
(II, 38; instead of nahār he uses fajr). As for the thematic vocabulary in the
fĳirst part and the parsing exercises in the second part, these seem to con-
sist of exercises he invented for the practical teaching of Arabic. The sen-
tences to be parsed, such as tamurr al-furaṣu marra l-saḥāʾibi l-sāĳirati ‘the
occasions pass like the passing of the traveling clouds’, al-ikhwānu zīnatun
fī l-rakhāʾi ‘brothers are an ornament in prosperity,’ biʿtu kulla amlākī illā
ʿishrīna kitāban ‘I sold all my possessions except for twenty books’ (Nayl II,
47–48) look like proverbs or made-up examples, not necessarily drawn
from any specifĳic source.
The dependence on the Qawāʿid is also clearly visible in the order in
which the various parts of grammar are treated (Table 2). The order of
topics matches almost exactly that in the textbook by Ḥafnī Bak Nāṣif
and his co-authors, in particular the fact that the grammar starts with
the treatment of the verb, whereas the traditional order in grammatical
treatises follows the order of the parts of speech, fĳirst the nouns, then
the verbs, and fĳinally the particles. The presentation of morphology is
mixed with that of syntax, so that for instance all constructions involving
nouns are dealt with under the heading of the noun. The general category
of tawābiʿ in the Nayl includes adjectives, coordination, apposition and
emphasis, just like the arrangement in the Qawāʿid.
Table 2: Contents of the second part of the grammar.
Title of the chapter Page

aqsām al-fĳiʿl II, 2
al-mudhakkar wa-l-muʾannath II, 4
al-mufrad wa-l-muthannā wa-l-jamʿ II, 5
al-kalām II, 7
al-mabnī wa-l-muʿrab II, 8
aṣnāf al-mabniyyāt II, 10
anwāʿ al-iʿrāb II, 14
iʿrāb al-muthannā II, 15
Table 2 (cont.)
Title of the chapter Page

al-fĳiʿl al-muʿtall al-ākhir II, 16
iʿrāb al-af ʿāl al-khamsa II, 17
mawāḍiʿ al-iʿrāb II, 18
naṣb al-fĳiʿl II, 19
jazm al-fĳiʿl II, 19
raf ʿ al-fĳiʿl II, 21
al-kalām ʿalā l-ism II, 21
al-fāʿil II, 21
nāʾib al-fāʿil II, 22
al-mubtadaʾ wa-l-khabar II, 22
ism kāna II, 24
khabar inna II, 25
al-manṣūbāt min al-asmāʾ II, 25
al-maf ʿūl bihi II, 26
al-maf ʿūl al-muṭlaq II, 26
al-maf ʿūl li-ajlihi II, 27
al-maf ʿūl fīhi II, 27
al-maf ʿūl maʿahu II, 28
al-mustathnā bi-illā II, 29
al-ḥāl II, 29
al-tamyīz II, 30
al-munādā II, 31
khabar inna II, 31
ism inna II, 32
jarr al-ism II, 32
al-muḍāf ilayhi II, 33
al-muḍāf li-yāʾ al-mutakallim II, 34
al-tawābiʿ II, 35
al-naʿt II, 36
al-ʿaṭf II, 37
al-tawkīd II, 37
al-badal II, 39
al-iʿrāb al-maḥallī II, 40
kayfĳiyyat al-iʿrāb II, 43
khātima fī iʿrāb ʿiddat ʿibārāt II, 44
The book is not simply a copy of the Qawāʿid, however. The author repro-
duces only the essential rules and leaves out the more complicated con-
structions. It is, of course, possible, that there circulated simpler versions
of the Qawāʿid for the earlier years of secondary schools, which could have
served as his source, but since these are not available, it is impossible to
check whether the graded method the authors of the Qawāʿid advocate
extended to elementary textbooks for the lower grades.
188 kees versteegh
Even though the Nayl was therefore not an original work by Sheikh
Ganief, he deserves praise for the initiative he took in adapting the Arabic
sources for a non-Arabic audience. His didactic qualities are clear and he
transformed this Arabic textbook into a suitable textbook for his South-
African students. The use of Afrikaans, although it had become customary
in Muslim scholarship in South Africa, still took a lot of efffort. For an Afri-
kaans description of Arabic, a host of technical terms had to be coined,
and since there are no known examples of any predecessors one has to
assume that most of these technical terms were his own doing. What
strikes one immediately, apart from the exotic character of the Arabic
script to represent Afrikaans, is the use of Arabic loanwords, most of them
integrated syntactically, sometimes even morphologically in Afrikaans.
The use of these loanwords is not limited to grammatical terminology,
since they are found everywhere in Cape Afrikaans writings, especially for
religious notions.32 To quote a few examples: af ʿāl is translated with fĳiʿls
‘verbs,’ i.e., the singular of the Arabic term is used with an Afrikaans plu-
ral ending -s (I, 10.7). Likewise, one fĳinds mithāls ‘examples’ (II, 18.5) and
isems ‘nouns’ (II, 41.10), and, with another Afrikaans plural ending, kitāpe
‘books’ (II, 48). On the other hand, di ḥurūf ‘the letters’ (I, 1.12) is used with
an Arabic broken plural. In some cases, the Arabic nouns are used with
verbal prefĳixes, as in wat ga-iʿrāb wort ‘that which is declined’ (II, 14.11)
with the prefĳix of the past participle, or they are used as an infĳinitive, e.g.
hoe om te iʿrāb ‘how to decline’ (II, 43.1). Compounds with Arabic loan-
words are also found, e.g. kitaapverkoper ‘bookseller’ (I, 39, left column 7),
or jāʾizskap ‘permissibility’ (II, 38.2).
The integration of loanwords is not restricted to those borrowed from
Arabic, but also applies to those adopted from English. The interference
from English, not only visible in the use of English loanwords, but also
in the use of prepositional idioms and perhaps even in the word order,
“points to all-purpose code-switching from Afrikaans to English among
the Cape Malay community at the time of the author’s writing.”33 In the
vocabulary in part I we fĳind, for instance, for ḥikma the word wisdom (I,
41, right column 4); for fī l-safar the translation in di trefel lit. ‘in the travel’
is given (I, 41, left column 12); and the usual translation of maʿnā is meen-
ing (I, 9.3). Other examples of English loanwords include: difrent patrone
‘diffferent patterns’ (I, 1.10); in di eeste part ‘in the fĳirst part’ (I, 3.14), eidar
32
See Kähler (1971: 199–202).
33
Stell et al. (2007: 299–300).
‘either’ as translation for immā (II, 13.11); mesteik ‘mistake’ (II, 18.19), oder
‘order’ (II, 19.19), and ekspelenasi ‘explanation’ (II, 43.11).
In other varieties of Cape Afrikaans, Malay loanwords often occur,34
but at the late stage when Sheikh Ganief wrote his grammar book for
use in the schools, the knowledge of Malay among the Muslim com-
munity had dwindled, and the language of the madrasa had already
shifted to Afrikaans. Accordingly, Malay loanwords were used much
less in writing.35 Some Malay loanwords, however, had become so cur-
rent in the lexicon, that they were preserved even when the speakers no
longer used Malay. Examples are bayang ‘many’ (II, 13.7), baca ‘to read’
(II, 43.12), and pisangs for ‘bananas’, with an Afrikaans plural ending
(I, 35, right column 15).
The use of English, Malay, and Arabic loanwords in the language of
Sheikh Ganief’s writings is consistent with the variety of Cape Afrikaans
that was current at the time of the author, and that is still spoken by
Muslims today.36 In some cases, it is not entirely clear, whether he writes
his own idiolect, for instance, when he omits the indefĳinite article, as in
is foorbeeld instead of is een foorbeeld (I, 7.12). But the majority of the lin-
guistic features of his language are attested from other writings and must
therefore be part of the general structure of Cape Afrikaans. In the fĳield
of phonology, for instance, we fĳind lat for dat ‘that [conjunction]’ (e.g., II,
15.6); the prefĳix gain the past participle rather than ge-,37 e.g. gagee ‘given’
(II, 48.4; Standard Afrikaans gegê, Standard Dutch gegeven); dj for j,38 e.g.
djaar for jaar ‘year’ (I, 38 left column 15), djou ‘you’ instead of jou (II, 13.7);
further the elision of r in words like eeste (Afrikaans eerste) ‘fĳirst.’39
Morphologically, the language of Sheikh Ganief’s writings is character-
ized by a creative use of neologisms with the help of Dutch/Afrikaans
derivational sufffĳixes. Stell gives some examples of such neologisms, such
as maakloon ‘creation; creator’ (from Afrikaans maak ‘to make’).40 In the
case of grammatical terminology, we fĳind, for instance pleklek for (iʿrāb)
maḥallī, which can hardly be regarded as an existing Afrikaans/Dutch
34
Kähler (1971: 47–64).
35
Cf. Stell et al. (2007: 299).
36
Ibid.
37
Ibid., 296.
38
Ibid., 297.
39
Ibid., 297.
40
Stell (2007: 101–102).
190 kees versteegh
word (< plek ‘place’; II, 40.19) and wereksloon ‘verbal action’ (< wer(e)k
‘work;’ II, 27.14).
Syntactic features in Sheikh Ganief ’s work that are characteristic of
Cape Afrikaans include the use of the preposition fĳir ‘for’ to introduce an
animate object,41 which may be connected to Malay grammar,42 and the
frequent use of the word order SVX in subordinate clauses, possibly as a
result of interference from English.43 With respect to word order, it may
also be noted that the word order VSX occurs relatively frequently in his
work; this may be the result of a too literal translation from Arabic.
For the grammatical technical terminology, Sheikh Ganief did not
have an Afrikaans model on which he could fall back. He introduced
some terms in their Arabic form, as we have seen above (ḥurūf ‘letters,’
fĳiʿl ‘verb,’ iʿrāb ‘declension,’ etc.), but not all grammatical technical terms
are represented by loanwords. Some of them are translated into Afri-
kaans. Even those terms which are always used in their Arabic form are
translated at their fĳirst occurrence, possibly as a form of explanation.
Thus, for instance, the author gives the following translations for the
three parts of speech (Nayl I, 2) naam, werekwoort, artikel. It may be
noted here that the terms are not quite the same as in Dutch grammati-
cal terminology (instead of naam one would expect naamwoort, and
instead of artikel one would expect partikel). After this fĳirst explana-
tory translation, the Arabic terms are used consistently, sometimes with
a Dutch plural ending, like fĳiʿls ‘verbs,’ and sometimes with an Arabic
plural, e.g. di ḥurūf ‘the letters’ (I, 1.12). Likewise, the term fāʿil is fĳirst
translated as doener ‘doer’ (II, 21.14), after which the Arabic term is used.
Mubtadaʾ is translated the fĳirst time as di wat bagin wort meen lit. ‘that
with which it is begun’ (II, 23.22), and khabar as verteleng lit. ‘narration’
(ib.). In some cases, the Arabic term is followed by det meen ‘this means’
with an Afrikaans paraphrase.
For some terms, Afrikaans translations are apparently preferred because
they always occur in this form. In Table 3, some examples of translated
terms are given.
41
Ibid., 105–106; Stell et al. (2007: 302).
42
For a discussion of the origin of this construction see Raidt (1976).
43
Stell et al. (2007: 307–310).
Table 3: Examples of translated technical terms in the Nayl.
Arabic term Afrikaans translation English gloss page

mabniyya ʿalā l-sukūn gabou op di sukūn ‘built on the sukūn’ II, 48.16
(cf. di gaboude ‘the
built,’ i.e. al-mabniyy
II, 14.13)
adawāt al-sharṭ artikels van di ‘articles of the II, 21.5
voorwaarde condition’
li-taʿadhdhur taḥrīkihā om die onmoglekgeit ‘because of the II, 17.16
om te roer impossibility of
moving it’
ism ẓāhir een deideleke isem ‘a clear ism’ II, 22.14
fĳiʿl mabniyy li-l-majhūl een fĳiʿl wat gabou is fĳir ‘a fĳiʿl that is built for II, 23.7
di onbekende fāʿil the unknown fāʿil’
ʿāmil werker ‘worker’ II, 8.8
alfāẓ mubhama ondaidlike woorde ‘unclear words’ II, 30.11
ḥarf al-nidāʾ ḥarf fan di roep ‘ḥarf of the call’ II, 31.13
al-mutakallim di prater ‘the speaker’ II, 34.20
tābiʿ folger ‘follower’ II, 36.14
al-iʿrāb al-maḥallī di plekleke iʿrāb ‘the local iʿrāb’ II, 40.19
naʿt manier ‘manner’ II, 36.12
The translation sometimes falls short of conveying the exact meaning of

the Arabic term. One example of this is (II, 48.4):
Mubtadaʾ marfūʿ bi-l-ibtidāʾ
Mubtadaʾ hei is gagee raf ʿ met di baginsel
‘a mubtadaʾ that has been given raf ʿ with the beginning’
One wonders how any beginning student could have understood the
meaning of this expression, which presupposes at least some knowledge
of the principle of ʿamal. The theory of ʿamal is practically absent from the
grammatical sketch, although iʿrāb is defĳined as “changes at the end of the
word [caused] by the change in the constructions of the speech” (wa-l-
muʿrab alladhī yataghayyar bi-taghayyur tarākīb al-kalām (Nayl II, 8.13–14),
and the mabniyy is defĳined explicitly as a word that is not changed “by
the governors that afffect it” (bi-l-ʿawāmil al-dākhila ʿalayhi, Nayl II, 8.7).
The notion of ʿāmil is mentioned once, translated as the werker ‘worker’
(Nayl II, 8.8), but no further explanation of this term is given.
There is only one instance of the use of Malay technical terms. The Ara-
bic names for the vowels, ḍamma, fatḥa, kasra and sukūn, are translated
with di dapan, di dietis, di bawaa and di dua, respectively (Nayl II, 14.17–18).
192 kees versteegh
The fĳirst three terms represent the traditional Malay names for the vowel
signs in the Jawi script that is based on Arabic: (baris) di depan or hadapan
‘(written) in front,’ i.e. ḍamma; (baris) di atas ‘(written) above,’ i.e. fatḥa;
and (baris) di bawah ‘(written) under,’ i.e. kasra.44 The Malay names are
themselves calques of the Persian names for the vowel signs: pīsh ‘front,’
zebar ‘upper side,’ zīr ‘under side.’ The fourth term in the Nayl, di dua,
must be a mistake, since in Jawi script (baris) dua ‘(written) twice’ is used
for the tanwīn, whereas the sukūn is usually called mati ‘eye.’ In the rest of
the grammatical treatise, only the Arabic terms for the vowel names are
used, without any translation.
The Arabic grammar was not only Ismail Ganief Edwards’ last schol-
arly work, but it also marked the end of the Arabic-Afrikaans tradition.
The literature in Cape Afrikaans written with Arabic characters died out
in the early 1960s, although even today there may still be a few people
who sometimes use it for private correspondence.45 At present, Arabic is
learnt in South Africa both within Qurʾānic schools and within an aca-
demic setting, for instance at the University of Cape Town; in addition, it
is also studied by people in private or in groups.46 Yet, teaching has pro-
gressed from the religious and academic context and has come to include
communicative use of the language. The model used in this curriculum
is the Western model for teaching grammar, and the model of the Arabic
grammarians is no longer used, except possibly in some of the Qurʾānic
schools.47 In this sense, Sheikh Ismail Ganief’s work marks the end of an
era in which the teaching of Arabic was inextricably connected with the
use of the Arabic grammatical model.
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Nayl = Sheikh Ismail Ganief, Nailoel ‘arabie fee loeqhatiel ‘arabie/Handboek van Arabies en
Arabiese grammatika/Handbook of Arabic and Arabic grammar. [Kaapstad] [ca. 1948].
Qawāʿid = Ḥafnī Bak Nāṣif, Muḥammad Bak Diyāb, Muṣṭafā Ṭumūm, Maḥmūd Afandī
ʿUmar, and Sulṭān Bak Muḥammad. Kitāb qawāʿid al-lugha al-ʿarabiyya li-talāmīdh
al-madāris al-thānawiyya. Cairo: Wizārat al-Maʿārif al-ʿUmūmiyya, [1905].
44
See Herbert and Milner (1989: 103).
45
Tayob (p.c.).
46
See Jeppie (2006).
47
Cf. Mohamed (1998).
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tion and Commentary. Leiden: E.J. Brill.
Bruinessen, Martin van. 1990. “Kitab Kuning: Books in Arabic Script Used in the Pesantren
Milieu.” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 146: 226–269.
Carter, Michael G. 1981. Arab Linguistics: An Introductory Classical Text with Translation
and Notes. Amsterdam: J. Benjamins.
Davids, Achmat. 1980. The Mosques of Bo Kaap: A Social History of Islam at the Cape. Cape
Town: Cape and Transvaal Printers.
——. 1990. “Words the Cape Slaves Made: A Socio-Historical Linguistic Study.” South Afri-
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——. 1991. “Abubakr Efffendi: His creation of the Afrikaans Letter e in Arabic Script.” Jour-
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——. 1992. Die Afrikaans van die Kaapse Moslems 1815–1915: ’n Sociolinguistiese studie [The
Afrikaans of the Cape Muslims 1815–1915: A sociolinguistic study]. M.A. thesis, Univer-
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——. 1994. “The Contribution of the Slaves to the Genesis of Afrikaans.” In Taal en Iden-
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8th–9th May 1970. Ed. Pieter W. Pestman. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 61–70.
Ebrahim, Mogamat Hoosain. 2005. Shaykh Ismail Hanif Edwards: His Life and Works. Paarl:
Paarl Print.
Gobée, Emile. 1921. “Indrukken over het schoolwezen in de Hidjaz” [Impressions of the
Educational System in the Hijaz]. Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde
60: 187–206.
Haron, Muhammad. 1996. Muslims in South Africa: An Annotated Bibliography. Cape Town:
South African Library.
——. 1997. “Towards a Catalogue of Islamic Manuscripts in South Africa with Special Ref-
erence to Melayu mss. at the Cape.” In Traditional Malay Writing. Ed. Wan Ali. Kuala
Lumpur: National Library of Malaysia, 243–263.
Herbert, Patricia and Anthony Crothers Milner. 1989. South East Asia Languages and Lit-
eratures: A Select Guide. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.
Hoedemaekers, Iris. 2006. ‘Die kitāb wat sal prāt op die rules fan die naḥw . . .’: Het Arabisch-
Afrikaans [The Book that Speaks about the Rules of Grammar . . .: The Arabic-Afrikaans
Language]. M.A. thesis, University of Nijmegen.
Hoedemaekers, Iris, and Kees Versteegh. 2009. “South Africa.” In Encyclopedia of Arabic
and Arabic Linguistics. Ed. Mushira Eid, Alaa Elgibali, Kees Versteegh, Manfred Woidich,
and Andrzej Zaborski. Leiden: E.J. Brill, IV, 290–295.
Jeppie, Shamil. 2006. Language, Identity, Modernity: The Arabic Study Circle of Durban.
Cape Town: Human Sciences Research Council Press.
Kähler, Hans. 1971. Studien über die Kultur, die Sprache und die arabisch-afrikaanse Litera-
tur der Kap-Maleien. Berlin: Reimer.
Kaptein, Nico. 2000. “Arabic Influence on Malay Linguistics.” In History of the Language
Sciences. Ed. Sylvain Auroux, Konrad Koerner, Hans-Josef Niederehe, and Kees Ver-
steegh. Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, I, 333–336.
Lafffan, Michael. 2008. “The New Turn to Mecca: Snapshots of Arabic Printing and Sufĳi Net-
works in late 19th century Java.” In Langues, religion et modernité dans l’espace musul-
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194 kees versteegh
Mohamed, Yasien. 1998. “Teaching Arabic in South Africa: Historical and Pedagogical
Trends.” Journal of Muslim Minority Afffairs 18: 315–327.
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Constructions with vir]. 1875–1975: Studies oor die Afrikaanse taal [1875–1975: Studies
about the Afrikaans language]. Johannesburg: Perskor, 72–101. (Repr., Edith H. Raidt,
Historiese taalkunde: Studies oor die geskiedenis van Afrikaans [Historical Linguistics:
Studies on the History of Afrikaans]. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press,
1994, 116–147.)
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[The Oldest Book in Afrikaans: Ishmūnī’s Reliable word]. Hertzog Annale van die Suid-
Afrikaanse Akademie vir Wetenskap en Kuns 2: 61–103.
Stell, Gerard. 2007. “From Kitaab-Hollandsch to Kitaab-Afrikaans: The Evolution of a Non-
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89–127.
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Afrikaans: Literary Varieties Used by Shaykh Hanif Edwards (1906–1958).” Bijdragen tot
de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 163: 289–325.
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University Press of Florida.
Valkhofff, Marius F. 1972. New Light on Afrikaans and ‘Malayo-Portuguese’. Louvain:
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Van Rensburg, M. C. J. (Christo). 1989. “Soorte van Afrikaans” [Varieties of Afrikaans]. Inlei-
ding tot die Afrikaanse taalkunde [Introduction to Afrikaans Linguistics]. Ed. Theunis
J.R. Botha. Pretoria: Academica, 436–467.
PROFILES OF GRAMMARIANS
PIONEERS OF ARABIC LINGUISTIC STUDIES
Monique Bernards
Both the origins as well as the originality of the Arabic linguistic tradition
continue to attract the attention of students of Arabic linguistics. Some
scholars assert the existence of foreign influence, while others ardently
argue against it. Most of these studies take grammatical evidence from
extant sources as the only valid basis for studying the roots of Arabic
linguistics, though some have explored social circumstances as well.1 In
this article, the issue of the origin and originality of Arabic linguistics is
discussed from the perspective of its practitioners rather than the con-
tents of their works. Reports from the literary genre of awāʾil—describing
inventors and inventions—that have been traditionally ascribed to Arabic
linguists from the fĳirst four centuries of Islam, will be scrutinized to pro-
vide insight into how the linguistic tradition itself marked the highlights
of its development.
1. The Genre of awāʾil Literature
The term awāʾil derives from the expression awwalu man . . ., “the fĳirst per-
son who . . .,” or awwalu ma . . ., “the fĳirst time something . . . .” It refers to
narratives about inventors and inventions, about someone doing some-
thing for the fĳirst time or something having been done for the fĳirst time.
The genre of awāʾil probably found its origin in the development of histor-
ical awareness or in a universal curiosity about humankind’s background.
It is not limited to the Arabic-Islamic tradition; the Chinese have a large
literature on the origin of Chinoiserie and, in the Western world, there are
various works dating from the late Middle Ages that bear the title De origi-
nibus rerum. In the Arabic-Islamic tradition the genre dates from the very
beginning and individual awāʾil are found in the earliest ḥadīths. The fĳirst
awāʾil compilations started to appear in the early years of the third/ninth
century, initially in the form of separate chapters in ḥadīth collections
1
Versteegh (1993: 20–36) summarizes the divergent theses on the subject of possible
foreign influences on the development of Arabic grammar.
198 monique bernards
(Ibn Abī Shayba’s Muṣannaf ), then as a genre of its own (Kitāb al-Awāʾil
by Ibn al-Kalbī and al-Madāʾinī).2
Awāʾil are globally divided according to their subject matter into three
classes: information (a) on pre-Islamic innovations, (b) on the Prophet
and his Companions, and (c) on historical events of the Islamic era from
the Prophet’s time onwards. Information on innovations from pre-Islamic
times is mostly legendary, as indicated by the many references to biblical
fĳigures. Awāʾil of the second kind revolve around sayings of and acts by
the Prophet and his Companions, and serve as basis for the introduction
and justifĳication of certain manners and customs in Islam, for instance,
dyeing one’s beard, using tooth-picks, or cutting one’s nails. Awāʾil of the
third kind tell about historical events, referring back to authoritative indi-
viduals who did something for the fĳirst time which, in retrospect, had a
long lasting efffect—introducing a new tool, originating a science, going
where no one ever dared to go before and so forth. These so-called his-
torical awāʾil probably have their roots in the origin and development of
isnāds, a device for authorizing and legalizing practices by referring back
to someone authoritative—and in the case of awāʾil to the inventor or
initiator—through uninterrupted chains of transmission.
It is this last kind of narrative, the historical awāʾil, that are of concern
here. Although historical awāʾil are part of a tradition whose authenticity
has to be considered with great care, they have one important advantage
that makes them very useful: awāʾil express pride about the glory of Islam
and whoever wants to stress the inventiveness, originality and creativity
of a person, people, nation—not avoiding exaggeration—will probably,
as commonsense dictates, tend to date an invention earlier than it actu-
ally happened, but not later. In other words, awāʾil, if invented, would
generally not postdate an event but rather predate it. So when an awāʾil
informs us, for instance, that al-Khalīl’s Kitāb al-ʿAyn was introduced for
the fĳirst time in al-Andalus by someone who died in the year 302/914–5,
it is very unlikely that it took place later than the end of the third/ninth
or the beginning of the fourth/tenth century. Awāʾil thus provide us with
a maximum limit in dating the events they describe.3
2
For the genre of awāʾil in general, see Rosenthal (1986); for its relevance to historical
research see Juynboll (1983: 10–12, 104–105). Awāʾil as a literary genre still exists in our day
and age; cf. Fuʾād Sayyid’s Muʿjam al-Awāʾil, of which chapter 18, for instance, includes the
fĳirst person to translate the English works of Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān into Arabic, see Sayyid
(1992: 352) and the fĳirst Egyptian to obtain the Thèse Doctorat from the Sorbonne, see
ibid., 375.
3
This argumentation follows Juynboll (1983: 104–105). For a more exact dating of events,
account has to be taken of a scholar’s active years before his demise, amongst other fac-
tors. This point will be taken up later under the heading “Chronology.”
pioneers of arabic linguistic studies 199
In what follows, historical awāʾil that have been traditionally attributed

to the group of linguists studied here will be scrutinized to provide insight
into how the linguistic tradition itself marked the highlights of its own
development. It should be mentioned at this point that only awāʾil that
were found in biographical dictionaries have been taken into account.4
2. Distribution of Linguists’ Awāʾil over Time
Twenty-nine linguists (4% of the total of 704 known grammarians who lived
up to the year 400 AH) have been accredited by the sources with one or
more awāʾil of various kinds. Information regarding these linguists and their
awāʾil have been plotted in the two following graphs that show the distribu-
tion over time in terms of centuries of (1) all linguists who have an explicit
300
200
100
0
First Second Third Fourth
Centuries
Graph 1: Distribution over time (century) of linguists in general with an explicit

year of death before or in 400/1000.
4
Data come from my Ulama Project database containing 704 linguists (naḥwiyyūn and
lughawiyyūn) of the fĳirst four Islamic centuries, that is, up to the year 1000 of our era.
Focusing on what the biographical dictionaries include as awāʾil—instead of, for instance
going systematically through awāʾil works that aim to be thematically complete, in search
for particular topics—increases the chances that the image that emerges reflects more of
the historical development as seen from the biographical tradition, which is my goal here.
The limitation of sources used accounts for the fact that the awāʾil-stories granting the
Caliph ʿAlī the honor of being the fĳirst “grammarian” are not discussed because ʿAlī is not
a grammarian/linguist according to the biographers’ selection. See for a description of the
selection of linguists Bernards (2005: 427–429).
14
12
10
0
First Second Third Fourth
Centuries
Graph 2: Distribution over time (century) of linguists with an explicit year of

death before or in 400/1000 and who are responsible for one or more awaʾil.
year of death that falls before or in the Islamic year 400 and (2) those who
meet these same criteria but have additionally an ascribed awāʾil.5
The fĳirst graph shows a gradual increase over time of general linguistic
activity; the sharp curve of the second graph, however, clearly illustrates
a burst of innovative activity in the second century: 40% of awāʾil date
from that century.6
3. Categorizations of Awāʾil
Now that we have obtained insight into numbers and chronological set-
ting, we can move to matters of substance. The awāʾil ascribed to the
5
The exact years of death of these linguists fall between 69/688–9 and 385/995.
6
Three of the twenty-nine linguists who have an awāʾil do not have a recorded year
of death. Their approximate death-years are 238/852–3, 275/888–9 and 334/945–6. If they
would have been included in the graph, the curve downwards would have been a bit more
gradual. The omission of a year of death is rather curious since the story of an inventor or
invention would considerably benefĳit from an explicit date attached to the event. I think
that a biographer would do his utmost to present complete information and this idea is
corroborated by the fact that a relatively large proportion of awāʾil-bearers have alterna-
tive years of death: 44% of them have an alternative death year whereas the proportion
of the whole group is 28% (of the 480 whose years of death are explicitly mentioned, 135
have alternative years of death). So it seems that when an awāʾil was involved, the biog-
rapher tried to embed the story in a plausible historical context even if it included a bit
of guesswork.
linguists being singled out address a variety of subjects and/or events.

Although most of the stories revolve around aspects of language and lin-
guistics, not all awāʾil have direct bearing on linguistic studies. Moreover,
some of the awāʾil do not refer to real inventions, that is, to the creation
of something that did not exist before, but to the introduction of a certain
device or concept in a particular region, for instance, the introduction
of al-Khalīl’s Kitāb al-ʿAyn in al-Andalus. Tables 1 through 3 (displayed
below) include all awāʾil ascribed to linguists divided into three catego-
ries: Table 1 displays awāʾil that deal directly with linguistic inventions as
such; Table 2 includes linguistic awāʾil which I label “indirect” because
they narrate introducing something (geographic, personal) rather than
tell about original inventions related to content; and Table 3 shows the
non-linguistic awāʾil. Additionally, Table 4 presents the linguistic awāʾil
in chronological order and Table 5 provides an overview of the people
behind the awāʾil, the names of “the pioneers of Arabic linguistics”—our
foremost topic.
In what directly follows, I shall fĳirst look at a general description of the
awāʾil that are indubitably linguistic, direct or otherwise (Tables 1 and 2).
I will then discuss the chronology emerging from the awāʾil as they are
presented in Table 4. Non-linguistic awāʾil (Table 3) speak for themselves;
they are of no real concern for the subject at hand and therefore better left
alone for now but included for the sake of comprehensiveness.
Table 1: Direct linguistic awāʾil about inventors/inventions.
assasa l-ʿarabiyya to lay the foundation of the Arabic language

waḍaʿa l-ʿarabiyya to put down, record the Arabic language
nahaja subul al-ʿarabiyya to open up the paths of the Arabic language
waḍaʿa qiyās al-ʿarabiyya to put down, record the analogy of the Arabic
language
takallama fī l-naḥw to talk about grammar
rasama l-naḥw to delineate grammar
sabbaba l-naḥw to explain the reasons [for the study] of grammar
waḍaʿa l-naḥw to put down, record grammar
baʿaja l-naḥw to disclose, reveal [the secrets] of grammar
fataqa l-qiyās fī l-naḥw to disclose, reveal the use of analogy in grammar
madda l-qiyās to expand the use of analogy
sharaḥa l-ʿilal to explain the causes of grammar
waḍaʿa l-taṣrīf to put down, record morphology
ṣannafa l-lugha (ʿalā ḥurūf to classify, compile the lexicon (on the basis of the
al-muʿjam) letters of the alphabet)
ṣannafa gharīb al-ḥadīth to classify, compile the uncommon of ḥadīth
Table 1 (cont.)
naqaṭa l-maṣāḥif to provide Qurʾāns with dots
allafa wa-tatabbaʿa wujūh to collect, compile and study thoroughly the
al-Qurʾān homonyms of the Qurʾān
tatabbaʿa l-shādhdh min to study thoroughly the exceptional expressed in
wujūh al-Qurʾān wa- the homonyms of the Qurʾān and investigate its
baḥatha ʿan isnādihi isnād
istakhraja l-ʿarūḍ to elucidate prosody
jamaʿa shiʿr al-ʿArab to collect, put together the poetry of the Arabs
fassara l-shiʿr (taḥta kull to explain, comment on poetry underneath every
bayt) verse)
amlā gharīb kull bayt min to dictate the uncommon underneath every verse
al-shiʿr taḥtahu of poetry
Table 2: Indirect linguistic awāʾil about geographic and

personal novelties.
jamaʿa l-fĳiqh fī l-dīn wa-ʿilm al-ʿarabiyya to combine fĳiqh and linguistic studies
bi-l-Andalus in al-Andalus
adkhala kitāb al-Kisāʾī ilā l-Andalus to introduce al-Kisāʾī’s book in
al-Andalus
adkhala kitāb al-ʿAyn ilā l-Andalus to introduce Kitāb al-ʿAyn in
al-Andalus
takallafa min ahl al-Baṣra taṣḥīḥ of the Basrans to critically edit the
al-kalām wa-iʿrābahu ʿalā mā jāʾa iʿrāb al-kalām on the basis of
ʿan al-ʿArab Bedouin speech
aḥdatha l-samāʿ bi-l-Baṣra to introduce [the principle of]
attestation in Basra
waḍaʿa min al-Kūfĳiyyīn kitāban fī l-naḥw of the Kufans to write a book on grammar
akhadha ʿan Abī l-Aswad al-Duʾalī to study under Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī
dawwana ʿan al-Kisāʾī to collect from al-Kisāʾī
Table 3: Non-linguistic awaʾil.
adkhala al-ṭilāʾ al-ʿirāqī bi-l-Qayrawan

adkhala qirāʾat Nāfĳiʿ wa-Muwaṭṭaʾ Mālik ilā l-Andalus
aẓhara l-sunna fī Khurāsān
ittakhadha majlisan fī masjid Abī Jaʿfar Amīr al-Muʾminīn bi-Dār al-Salām
aẓhara l-ḥadīth bi-l-Andalus
aẓhara l-ʿuqūq bi-l-Baṣra
ʿayyana l-shahāda bi-Baghdād li-qawmin wa-manaʿa ghayrahum
khuṭiba lahu ʿalā l-manābir baʿd al-khalīfa
luqqiba fī l-Islam shāhanshāh
summiya l-ṣāḥib min al-wuzarāʾ
ʿuniya . . . bi-l-nujūm
4. Linguistic Awāʾil—General Description
Table 1 above shows that the category of direct linguistic awāʾil can be
subsumed under several domains of linguistics. I shall discuss them in the
order in which they are listed in the table: Arabic language (al-ʿArabiyya),
grammar (naḥw), lexicography (lugha), Qurʾānic studies, and poetry. The
discussion that follows will initially limit itself to the interpretation of the
terms used, and will examine specifĳics of the terms involved as well.7
4a. al-ʿArabiyya
Four diffferent awāʾil revolve around al-ʿArabiyya, literally, the Arabic lan-
guage, but in the context of these awāʾil to be interpreted in terms of “the
study of the Arabic language” and not the language itself. I suggest this
interpretation on the basis of the expression nahaja subul al-ʿArabiyya, “to
open up the paths,” which contains an explicit reference to this aspect in
the use of the word sabīl, pl. subul, “path, way.” Terms like sabīl, naḥw,
madhhab, ṭarīqa, for instance, all incorporate this same connotation
around which Islamic science in general revolves.8 “The fĳirst to open up
the ways of the Arabic language” stands, in my view, for “the fĳirst to devote
himself to [the study of] the Arabic language” but not making explicit the
manner in which this was done. Assasa, then, speaks for itself and, going a
step further, it refers to the establishment of the basics of language studies,
the foundation upon which the linguistic tradition is built and expands.
The use of the term waḍaʿa is more difffĳicult to interpret in the context
of al-ʿArabiyya in general. Waḍaʿa, literally “to put down,” contains the
aspect of “taking together and putting into place” or “giving something
its proper form and place”—and it is not easy to imagine that something
being “the study of the Arabic language,” let alone “the Arabic language”
itself is put into place. However, waḍaʿa is also to be interpreted in terms
of “putting down in writing, record” which is a process of creation. The
creative aspect in waḍaʿa together with the aspect of “originality” that is
inherent in awāʾil renders awwal man waḍaʿa l-ʿArabiyya as “the one who
invented [the study of] the Arabic language.”9
7
In general, I have relied on Lane (1863–1893) as the point of departure for interpreting
the terminology.
8
Carter (1985) hence speaks of “the naḥw metaphor.” On the use of the term madhhab
for “way; school” in the Arabic linguistic tradition, see Bernards (1999).
9
See, however, below under the heading “Chronology” for a possible interpretation of
al-ʿArabiyya as referring to lexicographical studies.
Therefore, waḍaʿa qiyās al-ʿArabiyya would be rendered “the one who

invented qiyās, the use of analogy, in [the study of] the Arabic language.”
The reference to qiyās in connection with the beginning of linguistic stud-
ies makes perfect sense, the device of comparison being one of the fĳirst
steps in the study of language in general.10
4b. Naḥw
Five awāʾil narrate the beginnings of naḥw—grammar or grammatical
studies in general. Although they use, at least in part, the same termi-
nology, the invention-stories about grammar are more self-evident than
the al-ʿArabiyya ones discussed. This is probably because the meaning of
the term naḥw, despite some initial abstruseness, clearly refers to what
later became a distinct fĳield of intellectual endeavor.11 The expressions
takallama fī l-naḥw and rasama l-naḥw narrate the very beginning of
this intellectual endeavor; they honor the fĳirst to “talk about grammar”
and the fĳirst to “delineate grammar.” The content of this “talking about
grammar” is not revealed by the sources, but the expression implies that
there was a notion of language as a topic to investigate. Rasama has con-
notations with leaving imprints, writing, outlining something in writing,
sketching something, and is also used for the outlines of Arabic charac-
ters without the additional punctuation. The fĳirst to “delineate grammar”
allegedly had in mind what linguistic studies should be and how grammar
should have its place in this context. Both expressions, i.e., takallama and
rasama, it should be noted, do not necessarily indicate a personal involve-
ment in linguistics.
I take the expression awwal man sabbaba l-naḥw, “explain the reasons
[for the study] of grammar,” to refer to the anecdotes about the reasons
for establishing a study of Arabic grammar.12 The term waḍaʿa discussed in
the previous paragraph also appears in connection with naḥw. In light of
this discussion, awwal man waḍaʿa l-naḥw in its plain form is “the one who
invented naḥw, grammar,” whereas awwal man waḍaʿa l-taṣrīf, “the one
who invented taṣrīf, morphology,” notes the event when naḥw came to
10
For the use of qiyās in linguistic studies see Versteegh (1980); Bohas et al. (1990:
22–26); Suleiman (1999: 25–33); Baalbaki (2008: 47–56); Maróth (2009).
11
About the origin and development of the use of the term naḥw for “grammar” see
Carter (1985); Versteegh (1995: 147–156); also later in the article where taṣrīf is discussed.
12
Traditionally, corruption of the pure Arabic language by the mawālī provoked the
invention of grammar; see, for instance, Versteegh (1987: 150–151; 1995: 147–156); Bohas
et al. (1990: 103); Troupeau (1993: 913); see also below under the heading “Pioneers.”
refer specifĳically to “syntax” and was separated from morpho-phonology

indicated by taṣrīf.13
Both baʿaja and fataqa carry the meaning of “to slit open, to rip open”
so as to reveal what is inside or to remove what is not right. My rendering
“to disclose, reveal [the secrets] of grammar,” and “to disclose, reveal the
use of analogy in grammar” implies that we are not dealing here with a
creative process, but with a way of consolidating what already has been
invented. The same goes for madda, “expand” the use of analogy and for
sharaḥa l-ʿilal, sharaḥa having the same connotation as baʿaja and fataqa
of “tear apart, rip open” to make something visible—in this case the
causes of grammar.14
4c. Lugha
In comparison with the terms just mentioned, the two awāʾil about lugha,
lexicography, are straightforward. Ṣannafa l-lugha ʿalā ḥurūf al-muʿjam,
“to classify the lexicon on the basis of the letters of the alphabet” looks to
the fĳirst alphabetized dictionary. I have categorized the other expression,
ṣannafa gharīb al-ḥadīth, “to classify the uncommon of ḥadīth,” under the
heading lugha because of the genre of gharīb which refers to the subfĳield
of lexicography that specializes in rare and uncommon words and expres-
sions, in this particular case those rarities that occur in ḥadīth.
4d. Qurʾānic Studies
“The fĳirst to provide Qurʾāns with dots” refers to distinguishing the letters
of the alphabet that look alike (like bāʾ/tāʾ/thāʾ/nūn, sīn/shīn, ʿayn/ghayn,
etc.) by dotting them diffferently. The term muṣḥaf/maṣāḥif denotes a col-
lection of written sheets of paper put together between covers, more par-
ticularly the Qurʾān which was the fĳirst of this kind in Islam.15
The next two awāʾil concern Qurʾānic studies as well as lexicography in
its primary stage. The term wajh, pl. wujūh, “way, manner,” also “aspect,
object of speech” refers in this case to the distinct class of words with dif-
ferent meanings, homonyms, that occur in the Qurʾānic text.16 The awāʾil
13
On the subject of the development of the terms naḥw and taṣrīf, for instance, Ver-
steegh (1995: 147–156; 173–174); Versteegh (1999); and Åkesson (2009).
14
For ʿilla/ʿilal, see Jarrar (1992); Versteegh (1995; 2007); Suleiman (1999); Baalbaki (2008:
56–68).
15
On the relevance of the muṣḥaf in linguistic studies, see Beck (1945); also Endreß
(1982); Versteegh (1993); Motzki (2003).
16
On wujūh al-Qurʾān, see Gilliot (2006: 332–333); also Versteegh (1993: 86–88).
indicate that these homonyms are collected and studied with specifĳic
focus on shādhdh, literally “something apart,” which stands for “deviating
from common usage, exception.” Moreover, research of isnāds to support
these exceptions is being done for the fĳirst time.17
4e. Poetry
The awāʾil referring to poetry have more or less the same pattern as those
discussed above (i.e., from general to the more specifĳic); they include the
more general jamaʿa shiʿr al-ʿArab, “to collect” the Arabs’ poetry, and fas-
sara l-shiʿr, “to explain, comment on” the poetical verses. Istakhraja l-ʿarūḍ,
on the other hand, refers to the more specifĳic “extracting, bringing out
into the open,” hence “to elucidate prosody,” and in amlā gharīb . . . we see
again the interest in the uncommon, the anomaly, of poetry this time.
5. Indirect (Geographic, Personal) Linguistic Awāʾil
Three of the eight indirect linguistic awāʾil make explicit reference to lin-
guistic activities in al-Andalus, namely the introduction of a book of (the
Kufan scholar) al-Kisāʾī, the introduction of the famous Kitāb al-ʿAyn (writ-
ten by the Basran linguist al-Khalīl), and the fĳirst time a scholar explored
the traditionally favorite combination of linguistic and juridical studies.18
Three awāʾil concern linguistic activities in the alleged rivalry between
the schools of grammar of Basra and Kufa. One refers to the fĳirst Basran
to undertake the painstaking task of correcting and authenticating the
language and its iʿrāb on the basis of what came down on the authority
of the Arabs. Another awāʾil touches upon a related subject by narrating
the introduction of the principle of samāʿ, attestation by received usage,
in Basran grammatical circles of learning.19 The third awāʾil concerns the
fĳirst Kufan to write a book on grammar.
The last two of the indirect awāʾil refer implicitly to the schools, just
like the ones above regarding the introduction of linguistic works in al-
Andalus, by mentioning the fĳirst to transmit from Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī
17
Shādhdh, pl. shawādhdh and shādhdha later come to denote non-canonical readings
of the Qurʾān, lacking sufffĳicient support of authoritative isnāds; cf. Bellamy (2006: 238;
249); Leemhuis (2004: 357); also Gilliot (2006: 331–332).
18
For the connection between the development of Arabic linguistic studies and that of
Islamic jurisprudence see Carter (1972).
19
For samāʿ in linguistics, see Suleiman (1999: 16–25); Baalbaki (2008: 35–47).
(claimed by the Basrans) and the fĳirst to put [something] down in writing
on the authority of (the Kufan scholar) al-Kisāʾī.
6. Linguistic Awāʾil—Chronology
An interpretation of the message these awāʾil contain is best based on

a discussion of the chronology of the stories, because it is not what has
been invented (we know from extant works what linguistics was about
in the Arabic tradition), but when it was reportedly invented that we are
interested in. Table 4 lists both the direct and indirect linguistic awāʾil in
chronological order.20
Table 4: Chronology of the awāʾil on the basis of mean year of death.
69 assasa l-ʿarabiyya
69 nahaja subul al-ʿarabiyya
69 waḍaʿa qiyās al-ʿarabiyya
69 takallama fī l-naḥw
69 rasama l-naḥw
69 takallafa min ahl al-Baṣra taṣḥīḥ al-kalām wa-iʿrābahu
89 akhadha ʿan Abī l-Aswad al-Duʾalī
89 waḍaʿa l-naḥw
89 sabbaba l-naḥw
89 fataqa l-qiyās fī l-naḥw
106 69 naqaṭa l-maṣāḥif
117 89 69 waḍaʿa l-ʿarabiyya
123 baʿaja l-naḥw
123 madda l-qiyās ( fī l-naḥw)
123 sharaḥa l-ʿilal ( fī l-naḥw)
160 jamaʿa shiʿr al-ʿarab
168 ṣannafa l-lugha (ʿalā ḥurūf al-muʿjam)
168 istakhraja l-ʿarūḍ
170 allafa wa-tatabbaʿa wujūh al-Qurʾān
170 tatabbaʿa l-shādhdh min wujūh al-Qurʾān wa-baḥatha ʿan
isnādihi
177 fassara l-shiʿr (taḥta kull bayt)
178 aḥdatha l-samāʿ bi-l-Baṣra
182 waḍaʿa min al-Kūfĳiyyīn kitāban fī l-naḥw
189 waḍaʿa l-taṣrīf
194 dawwana ʿan al-Kisāʾī
20
Where alternative years of death were present, the average between the two was used
to create the order presented in the table.
Table 4 (cont.)
198 adkhala kitāb al-Kisāʾī ilā l-Andalus

210 ṣannafa gharīb al-ḥadīth
216 amlā gharīb kull bayt min al-shiʿr taḥtahu
238 jamaʿa l-fĳiqh fī l-dīn wa-ʿilm al-ʿarabiyya bi-l-Andalus
302 313 adkhala kitāb al-ʿAyn ilā l-Andalus
[The last awāʾil is attributed to a father and his son who went to al-Andalus
together, so the earliest death-date counts in this case.]
The following development can, generally speaking, be derived from the

chronology these stories reveal:
The study of the Arabic language (waḍaʿa l-ʿArabiyya), the invention of
grammatical studies (waḍaʿa l-naḥw), and the beginnings of Qurʾānic lin-
guistic or textual studies (naqaṭa l-maṣāḥif ) go back to the transition from
the fĳirst to the second Islamic century, between 89/708 and 123/741. Inas-
much as these dates are the years of death of the awāʾil-bearers, account
has to be taken that these inventors were active from around the year
55/675 onward.21
Eight out of fĳifteen early awāʾil concerning al-ʿArabiyya and naḥw go
back to 69/688–9—to Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī, traditionally considered the
founding father of Arabic linguistics—and, as such, activities in these
domains would have then started from 34/654–5 onwards. However, as
discussed at the outset of this article, only the latest date for an invention
is to be taken as an indicator of historical reality. As such, only one of
these earlier awāʾil stands out: it dates the beginning of linguistic activi-
ties in Basra.
Three of the early awāʾil can be traced to a scholar who died in 123/741
(Ibn Abī Isḥāq); they do not strictly deal with creative inventions, as
we have seen above, but rather refer to the consolidation of certain
technicalities—baʿaja l-naḥw wa-madda l-qiyās wa-sharaḥa l-ʿilal. With
these awāʾil, it seems that we have arrived at a crucial point in the devel-
opment of the linguistic tradition. It had all started as a general interest
in the study of the Arabic language (al-ʿArabiyya) and a careful probing of
ways to do so (naḥw, qiyās). Then a pupil of Abū l-Aswad (Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim
al-Laythī) elevated linguistic studies to a more advanced level by “inventing
21
In pre-industrial societies a generation is considered to be 35 years. Inasmuch as the
average age of the ʿulamāʾ who found their way into the biographical dictionaries is close
to 80, I have assumed that a scholar was “active” around the age of 45. See Bulliet (1983).
grammar” (waḍaʿa l-naḥw) and informed the world why this was neces-
sary (sabbaba l-naḥw). At the same time, the way for using qiyās in gram-
mar to formulate rules—a technical device his predecessor had used
for al-ʿArabiyya in general—was solidly paved. Moreover, with waḍaʿa
l-ʿArabiyya it seems that a fĳirst attempt was made (by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b.
Hurmuz) to distinguish between grammar on the one hand and lexicog-
raphy on the other.22
We then face a gap of about forty years after which awāʾil show a
growing interest in the Arabic language heritage through the collection of
poetry, the fĳirst study of prosody and the beginnings of poetical commen-
tary (attributed to Ḥammād al-Rāwiya, al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad, and al-Akhfash
al-Akbar, scholars living until the sixties and late seventies of the second
Islamic century, that is, the seventies through early nineties of the eighth
Christian century).
The period is also marked by new developments in lexicographical
studies concerning the Qurʾānic text and the qirāʾāt, ascribed to a scholar
who was active between 135/752–3 and 170/786–7, which was the year of
his death (Hārūn b. Mūsā). Moreover, the fĳield of lexicography, now called
lugha, is further enhanced through activities ultimately culminating in
what we now know to be the fĳirst Arabic dictionary by al-Khalīl.
Yet another gap, albeit one of only about ten years, brings us to the
invention of the more technical linguistic fĳield of taṣrīf, which, as we
have seen above, marks the separation of syntax and morpho-phonology
as well as a change in the meaning of the term naḥw. This innovation is
attributed to a scholar who died in 189/805 (Muʿādh al-Ḥarrāʾ), so this
domain probably originated in the period from 155/772 onward. In this
very same period the so-called grammatical school of Kufa started to
manifest itself by producing its fĳirst book on grammar (by a linguist who
died around the year 182/798; al-Ruʾāsī) and, by putting to writing for the
fĳirst time lessons heard directly from one of the school’s most prominent
representatives, al-Kisāʾī (the pupil at hand, ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak al-Aḥmar,
died in 194/809–10).
The occurrence of the aḥdatha l-samāʿ bi-l-Baṣra story seems a bit odd
in this timeline. This oddity is due to the fact that qiyās and samāʿ belong
to grammatical theory as equal components and, as we have already seen,
qiyās had been established as a core principle more than fĳifty years ear-
lier. Inasmuch as the samāʿ awāʾil (attributed to Khalaf al-Aḥmar) appears
22
On the development of lexicography alongside grammar in the Arabic tradition, see
Haywood (1965: 11–19); also Versteegh (1993: 63–95).
alongside the one that recounts the fĳirst book on grammar to appear in
Kufa, its function may have been to emphasize the traditionally alleged
diffference between the two schools—Basra being the rational one leaning
on qiyās, now for the fĳirst time being confronted with Kufa’s more tradi-
tional principle of samāʿ.23
Further events occurring at that same time concern the genre of
gharīb—characterized by an interest in anomalies—developing into a
specifĳic fĳield of its own. We see this development reflected in the inven-
tion of gharīb al-ḥadīth (by someone whose year of death is 210/825–6;
Abū ʿUbayda) and gharīb . . . al-shiʿr (by a scholar who died around 216/831;
al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ) indicating the existence of specialized levels of a
fĳield of endeavor, in this case lexicography, at the turn of the second/
third Islamic century.
As we have already seen, three awāʾil refer to the westernmost part of
the Islamic empire, al-Andalus. They pin down inventions or innovations
in Andalusian linguistic activities in the period 165/781–2 onwards when
one of al-Kisāʾī’s books was introduced into al-Andalus by someone who
died in 198/813–4 (Jūdī b. ʿUthmān al-Mawrūrī). The popular combination
of fĳiqh and linguistics found its way into Andalusian circles of learning at
the end of the second or the beginning of the third Islamic century, since
this awāʾil is attributed to someone who passed away in 238/852–3 (ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān b. Mūsā). The introduction of al-Khalīl’s famous Kitāb al-ʿAyn
in Andalusian circles is ascribed to a father and his son who predeceased
him, respectively, in 313/926 (Thābit b. Ḥazm) and 302/914–15 (Qāsim b.
Thābit), so the event took place somewhere between the years 275/888–9
and 300/912–3 or the last quarter of the third Islamic century.
Table 5: The people behind the awāʾil: The pioneers of Arabic linguistics.
Year of Name Ethnicity Min ahl . . . Additional fĳields of

death endeavor
69 Abū l-Aswad Arab Basra poetry; fĳiqh; ḥadīth;
al-Duʾalī qirāʾa
89 Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim al- Arab Basra fĳiqh; ḥadīth; qirāʾa
Laythī
106 Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar Arab Basra adab; fĳiqh; ḥadīth; qirāʾa
117 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Mawlā Medina ḥadīth; qirāʾa; Arab/
Hurmuz Arabic heritage
23
The point of this diffference between the two schools will be taken up later under the
heading “Pioneers.”
Table 5 (cont.)
Year of Name Ethnicity Min ahl . . . Additional fĳields of

death endeavor
123 Ibn Abī Isḥāq Mawlā Basra ḥadīth; qirāʾa
160 Ḥammād al-Rāwiya Mawlā Kufa adab; Arab/Arabic
heritage
168 Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad Arab Basra poetry; ḥadīth;
astronomy
170 Hārūn b. Mūsā Mawlā Basra ḥadīth; qirāʾa
177 Al-Akhfash al-Akbar Mawlā Basra poetry
178 Khalaf al-Aḥmar Mawlā Basra poetry; adab
182 Al-Ruʾāsī Mawlā Kufa
189 Muʿādh al-Ḥarrāʾ Mawlā Kufa poetry; ḥadīth; qirāʾa
194 ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak Kufa poetry; adab
al-Aḥmar
198 Jūdī b. ʿUthmān al- Mawlā Andalus
Mawrūrī
210 Abū ʿUbayda Mawlā Basra/ ḥadīth; tafsīr; Arab/
Baghdad Arabic heritage
216 Al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ Mawlā Basra poetry; ḥadīth
238 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Andalus fĳiqh; qirāʾa; tafsir
Mūsā
302 Qāsim b. Thābit Arab Andalus poetry; fĳiqh; ḥadīth
313 Thābit b. Ḥazm Arab Andalus poetry; fĳiqh; ḥadīth
7. The People Behind the Awāʾil: the Pioneers of Arabic Linguistics
The beginnings of Arabic linguistic activities are clouded in mystery and,

as we have just seen, the chronological discussion of linguistic awāʾil does
not clear up this matter. Based on these awāʾil, the very inception of Arabic
linguistics is indeed brought back no further than around the year 55/675
when Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī’s pupil, Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim al-Laythī, established
the study of grammar and elucidated the need for such grammatical stud-
ies.24 The six awāʾil attributed to Abū l-Aswad together account for the
24
For biographical data on Abū l-Aswad, see Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 139; Abū l-Ṭayyib,
Marātib, 6–11; Dhahabī, Siyar 4, 81–86; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb 12, 10–11; Ibn Ḥazm, Jamhara,
185; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 2, 535–539; Ibn Qutayba, Maʿārif, 534–535; Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt
7, 99; Jazarī, Ghāya 1, 345–346; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 7–21; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 33, 37–38; Qifṭī,
Inbāh 1, 48–58; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 13–20; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 22–23; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 164–178;
Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 21–26.
For Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim see Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 140; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 89, 210–211; Ibn
al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 9–10; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 29, 347–349; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3, 343–344; Sīrāfī, Akhbār,
invention of every main aspect of Arabic linguistics, but the man has only
one unique awāʾil which in itself is very intriguing: it explicitly positions
the beginnings of Arabic linguistic activities in Basra. This suits the theory
of retrojection according to which the fourth/tenth century linguists in
Baghdad legitimized their activities by referring to a long and glorious tra-
dition that is tightly linked to the linguistic center of Basra.25 The initiative
to study al-ʿArabiyya and to delineate grammar came from Abū l-Aswad
(whether on the instigation of the caliph ʿAlī, as tradition wants it, or not),
but it was his (and Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar’s) pupil Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim who transformed
the study into a scientifĳic fĳield of endeavor, well worth one’s while.26
Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar, an Arab scholar who lived and worked in the East
and was the fĳirst to be active in systematic Qurʾānic studies, links the
origin of this fĳield of endeavor with Basra as well.27 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b.
Hurmuz, a scholar of non-Arab descent who reportedly was part of a
Medinan school, but spent his life in the Egyptian town of Alexandria,
received the honor of being considered the very fĳirst to lay down the foun-
dations of al-ʿArabiyya whether or not to mark the diffference between
the fĳields of grammar and lexicography (as I suggested earlier).28 Each of
the four above-mentioned scholars were tābiʿūn, and all except one (ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān b. Hurmuz) were of Arab descent; they were active in ḥadīth,
qirāʾa, naḥw and/or al-ʿArabiyya, and all of them except one (again ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān b. Hurmuz) were active in fĳiqh and “Baṣrī min ahl. . . .” Yaḥyā b.
Yaʿmar is the only one of them who reportedly had an interest in adab.
20–21; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 313–314; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 157–159; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (IA) 6, 2749;
Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 27.
25
The theory of retrojection is embedded in the debate of the historical reality of the
dichotomy between the grammatical schools of Basra and Kufa, initiated by Weil (1913).
26
A short reflection on the Abū l-Aswad stories is found in Versteegh (1997a: 3–5; 1997b:
50, 58). See Talmon (1985a) for a study of the transmission of the Abū l-Aswad stories and
of the discrepancy in these data (ikhtilāf al-akhbār).
27
Biographies of Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar in: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 139; Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib,
11–12; Dhahabī, Siyar 4, 441–443; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 10–12; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb 11, 305–
306; Ibn Ḥibbān, Thiqāt 5, 523–524; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 6, 173–176; Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt
7, 368; Jazarī, Ghāya 2, 381; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 21–22; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 32, 53–55; Qifṭī,
Inbāh 4, 24–27; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 22–23; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 345; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 155–156;
Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 20, 42–43; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 27–29.
28
Biographies of Ibn Hurmuz in: Dhahabī, Siyar 5, 69–70; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 117: 414–415;
Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 10; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt 1, 153; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb 6, 290–291; Ibn
Ḥibbān, Thiqāt 5, 106–107; Ibn Qutayba, Maʿārif, 465; Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt 5, 283–284; Jazarī,
Ghāya 1, 381; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 17, 71–78; Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 172–173; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 21–22; Suyūṭī,
Bughya 2, 91; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 163; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 26. This awāʾil attributed to ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān b. Hurmuz led Talmon (1985b) to hypothesize a Hijazi center of grammar.
ʿAbdallāh b. Abī Isḥāq, mawlā of Ḥaḍramawt, specialized in ḥadīth and

qirāʾa besides grammar, and had a central position within the network of
early grammarians.29 Naṣr b. ʿĀsim and Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar were among his
teachers and Ibn Abī Isḥāq himself is the earliest of those active in the
fĳield of grammar mentioned in Sībawayhi’s Kitāb. He reportedly system-
atized the study of Arabic by elaborating the use of qiyās (the biographical
tradition depicts him as the “father of qiyās”) and by explaining the causes
of grammar. Despite the fact, then, that the three awāʾil attributed to him
do not concern real inventions in the strictest sense, it is very plausible
to consider Ibn Abī Isḥāq to be the fĳirst real grammarian of the Arabic
linguistic tradition.30
So far, all linguistic activities are fĳirmly linked to the Basran center of
learning, where about fĳifty years after Ibn Abī Isḥāq’s death the works
of Sībawayhi and al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad consolidated Basra’s reputation for
being the analytical school of grammar, leaving Kufa renowned for the
collection of poetry and the preservation of Arab/Arabic heritage.31 While
Sībawayhi has not been credited with an innovation or invention in Ara-
bic grammar, the biographical literature emphasizes that the fĳield of lexi-
cography was greatly enhanced by the famous scholar al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad,
the fĳirst to write a dictionary of Arabic and the founder of the study of
prosody and metrics (al-ʿarūḍ). Al-Khalīl was of Arab descent, afffĳiliated
with Basra, and very versatile in his scholarly activities which ranged from
ḥadīth and grammar to poetry and astronomy.32
In the meantime, the fĳirst to collect Arabic poetry was Ḥammād
al-Rāwiya, a non-Arab scholar from Daylam, a region in northwest Jibāl.
Originally a zindīq, he became a mawlā of Shaybān and, confĳirming the
schoolʼs renown, a Kufan afffĳiliate. His scholarly interest was in battles of
29
Biographies of Ibn Abī Isḥāq in: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 139; Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib, 12–13;
Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb 5, 148; Ibn Ḥibbān, Thiqāt 5, 61; Jazarī, Ghāya 1, 410; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 14,
305–308; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3, 104–108; Ṣafadī, Wāfī 17, 186; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 25–28; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2,
42; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 152–154; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 31–33.
30
That Ibn Abī Isḥāq is the fĳirst real grammarian is Talmon’s (1985a) conclusion
amongst others; cf. Fleisch (1961: 27–28) and Bohas et al. (1990: 1–2); also Carter (1972) and
Talmon (1982).
31
For divergent reflections on the traditionally recounted diffference between the Bas-
ran school as the more technical and abstract one and the Kufan as the more traditional
one, see e.g., Weil (1913); Fleisch (1961); Baalbaki (1981); Versteegh (1990).
32
Biographies of Khalīl b. Aḥmad in: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 140; Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib,
27–41; Dhahabī, Siyar 7, 429–431; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 27–29; Ibn Ḥazm, Jamhara, 380; Ibn
Khallikān, Wafayāt 2, 244–248; Ibn Qutayba, Maʿārif, 541–542; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 56–72;
Mizzī, Tahdhīb 8, 326–333; Qifṭī, Inbāh 1, 376–382; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 38–40; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1,
557–560; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 123–134; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 11, 72–77; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 47–51.
the Arabs (ayyām al-ʿArab), poetry and lexicography. The Basran poet and
adīb Khalaf al-Aḥmar, Farghānī mawlā of Ashʿar, was generally praised
for his enormous knowledge of ancient Arabic poetry. He reportedly
went to Kufa to hear the poetry that Ḥammād al-Rāwiya had collected.
Upon returning home, Khalaf al-Aḥmar allegedly introduced the Kufan
principle of samāʿ, attestation by hearsay, to Basran circles of grammati-
cal learning.33
The originally Jewish muḥaddith and qāriʾ Hārūn b. Mūsā, mawlā of
ʿAtīk, was specialized in lexicography and additionally promoted Qurʾānic
studies by focusing on the transmission of al-shādhdh min wujūh al-Qurʾān,
exceptional homonyms, thus contributing to the later distinction between
canonical and non-canonical readings of the Qurʾān. Al-Akhfash al-Akbar
(in addition to grammar) was also active in poetry and the fĳirst to devote
attention to tafsīr al-shiʿr, or poetic commentary. Like Hārūn b. Mūsā he
was of non-Arab descent, and mawlā of Qays b. Thaʿlaba; both scholars
were afffĳiliated with Basra.34
The Kufan school, on the other hand, contributed to inventions in
linguistic studies through its assumed founder, al-Ruʾāsī, a mawlā of the
Jewish tribe Qurayẓa, who was the fĳirst of the Kufans to write a book on
grammar, and through the Kufan afffĳiliates Muʿādh al-Harrāʾ and ʿAlī b.
al-Mubārak al-Aḥmar.35 Al-Ruʾāsī seems to have been responsible for the
invention of taṣrīf, the specialization that ultimately divided the fĳield of
33
Biographies of Ḥammād al-Rāwiya in: Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib, 72–73; Dhahabī, Siyar
7, 157–158; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 155:115; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 22–25; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt 1,
239; Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist, 134–135; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 2, 206–210; Ibn Qutayba, Maʿārif,
541; Ṣafadī, Wāfī 13, 137–142; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 44; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 549; Yāfĳiʿī, Mirʾāt 1, 256–
259; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 10, 258–266; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 191.
For biographies on Khalaf al-Aḥmar, see: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 140; Abū l-Ṭayyib,
Marātib, 46–47; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 180: 107–108; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 34–35; Ibn Qutayba,
Maʿārif, 544; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 72–80; Qifṭī, Inbāh 1, 383–385; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 554;
Yāqūt, Muʿjam (IA) 3, 1254–1258; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 161–165.
34
Biographies of Hārūn b. Mūsā in: Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 170: 492–493; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha,
21; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb 11, 14–15; Ibn Ḥibbān, Thiqāt 9, 237; Jazarī, Ghāya 2, 348; Mizzī,
Tahdhīb 30, 115–119; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3, 361–362; Ṣafadī, Wāfī 26, 206; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 321.
Biographies of al-Akhfash al-Akbar in: Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib, 23; Dhahabī, Siyar 7, 323;
Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 27; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 2, 380; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 47; Qifṭī,
Inbāh 2, 157–158; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 74; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 138–139; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 40.
35
Biographies of al-Ruʾāsī in: Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib, 24; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 279;
Qifṭī, Inbāh 4, 105–109; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 82–83, 109, 492; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 194–196; Yāqūt,
Muʿjam (M) 18, 121–125; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 125.
For Muʿādh al-Harrāʾ, see: Dhahabī, Siyar 8, 482–484; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 187, 401–402;
Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 32; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt 1, 316; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 5: 218–221;
Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 276–277; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3, 288–295; 4, 169–170; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 290–
293; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 193–194; Yāfĳiʿī, Mirʾāt 1, 312; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 125.
Arabic linguistics into syntax (naḥw) and morpho-phonology (taṣrīf ), as

detailed above. Taṣrīf is a technical device that one would expect to have
been invented by a representative of the more analytical Basran school.
And, indeed, the further development of the particular fĳield of taṣrīf seems
to have been carried out by the Basrans whose famous member al-Māzinī
(d. 248/862) wrote the fĳirst extant monograph on the subject (although
not an awāʾil proper). Muʿādh al-Harrāʾ was of non-Arab descent, active
in ḥadīth, Qurʾān reading and poetry and lived, according to the sources,
to an age that granted him the title muʿammar (which would antedate the
invention of taṣrīf another twenty years, but since we do not know his age
I have not corrected the dating for muʿammar-ship).
The other Kufan contribution consists of the collection of writings sup-
posedly by al-Kisāʾī by his pupil ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak al-Aḥmar, presumably
after having studied them through samāʿ.36 Al-Aḥmar earned his living as
a member of Hārūn al-Rashīd’s bodyguard; he learned Arabic grammar
in his free time and was a great admirer of al-Kisāʾī, whom he succeeded
as court grammarian.37 As an aside, ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak reportedly wrote a
book on taṣrīf as well, indicating that the Kufans actually were the original
specialists in the fĳield. Besides linguistics, ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak was active in
adab and poetry as well.
Two other Basrans have awāʾil accredited to them, both having to do
with the invention and enhancement of gharīb, the genre that studies
anomalies. Abū ʿUbayda, originally from the East and mawlā of Taym, was
specialized in various fĳields of the Islamic sciences, ranging from grammar
to Qurʾānic exegesis, and he was the fĳirst to focus on gharīb in ḥadīth.
He had an additional interest for ayyām al-ʿArab, but this seems to have
originated in or to have led to a fĳierce hatred of the Arabs and his being
considered a shuʿūbī. Al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ, like Abū ʿUbayda a non-Arab
from the Eastern regions (he is afffĳiliated with Balkh besides Basra), was
a mawlā of Dārim. In the grammatical tradition, he has the focal posi-
tion of the fĳirst to transmit the Kitāb Sībawayhi, although this is not an
awāʾil proper. He, too, was specialized in ḥadīth, in addition to grammar,
36
Biographies of ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak al-Aḥmar in: Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib, 89–90; Baghdādī,
Taʾrīkh 12, 104–105; Dhahabī, Siyar 9, 92–93; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 59; Marzubānī, Muqta-
bas, 301; Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 313–317; 4, 110; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 158–159; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 187;
Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 13, 5–11; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 134.
37
The stories about the succession of al-Kisāʾī as court grammarian are anchored in the
supposed Basra/Kufa dichotomy; see Bernards (1989).
lexicography and prosody. His innovative contribution was in gharīb

of poetry.38
Jūdī b. ʿUthmān al-Mawrūrī, a mawlā of ʿAbs who lived and worked in
al-Andalus, went for his linguistic studies to the Mashriq and brought back
with him the works of al-Kisāʾī. The Andalusian scholar ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b.
Mūsā, on the other hand, did not travel farther east than Cairo, Egypt. He
was an accomplished authority in various scholarly fĳields, ranging from
Qurʾānic studies and linguistics (including balāgha) to Islamic jurispru-
dence. He was a Mālikī qāḍī in Istija and is accredited with being the fĳirst
to combine the skills of linguistics and fĳiqh in al-Andalus.39
Finally, Thābit b. Ḥazm and his son Qāsim b. Thābit were also from al-
Andalus. They were Arabs of the Banī ʿAwf and traveled together in their
search for ʿilm. They went to Cairo and the Mashriq (Mecca included) to
study ḥadīth, fĳiqh and linguistics—both were specialized in grammar and
lexicography—and they introduced al-Khalīl’s Kitāb al-ʿAyn in Andalusian
academic circles. After his son’s untimely death, the father, who was a
Mālikī qāḍī in Saraqusta, fĳinished Qāsim’s book on ḥadīth.40
8. Summary and Conclusion
We have seen that activities in the fĳield of Arabic linguistics started in

the second half of the fĳirst Islamic century and culminated in an outburst
38
Biographies of Abū ʿUbayda in: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 140; Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib,
44–46; Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh 13, 252–258; Dhahabī, Siyar 9, 445–447; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha,
64–69; Ibn Ḥibbān, Thiqāt 9, 196; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 5, 235–243; Ibn Qutayba, Maʿārif,
543; Mizzī, Tahdhīb 28, 316–321; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3, 276–288; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 67–71; Suyūṭī,
Bughya 2, 294–296; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 211–213; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 19, 154–162; Zubaydī,
Ṭabaqāt, 175–178.
Biographies of Al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ in: Abū Ḥāmid, Marātib, 142; Abū l-Ṭayyib, Marātib,
68–69; Dhahabī, Siyar 10, 206–208; Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha, 84–85; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt 2,
36; Marzubānī, Muqtabas, 97–99; Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 36–43; Sīrāfī, Akhbār, 50–51; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1,
590–591; Tanūkhī, Taʾrīkh, 85–90; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 11, 224–230; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 72–74.
39
Biographies of Jūdī b. ʿUthmān al-Mawrūrī in: Qifṭī, Inbāh 1, 306–307; Suyūṭī, Bughya
1, 490; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (M) 7, 213–214; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 256–257.
Biographies of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Mūsā in: Ibn al-Faraḍī, Andalus 1, 439–440; Ibn
Farḥūn, Dībāj, 242; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 90; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 253–254.
40
Biographies of Thābit b. Ḥazm in: Dhahabī, Siyar 14, 562–563; Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 313:
450–451; Ibn al-Faraḍī, Andalus 1, 184–185; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt 2, 266; Ibn Farḥūn, Dībāj,
168; Qifṭī, Inbāh 1, 297; Samʿānī, Ansāb 4, 259; Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 480; Yāfĳiʿī, Mirʾāt 2, 199;
Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 284–285.
Biographies of Qāsim b. Thābit in: Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh 302: 97; Ibn al-Faraḍī, Andalus 2,
605–606; Ibn Farḥūn, Dībāj, 322; Qifṭī, Inbāh 3: 12; Samʿānī, Ansāb 4, 259; Suyūṭī, Bughya 2,
252; Yāqūt, Muʿjam (IA) 5, 2191; Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt, 284–285.
of innovations one century later. Highlights in the development of the

Arabic linguistic tradition—as mirrored by awāʾil stories—reflect fairly
closely what is known from extant linguistic sources: commencing with
a general study of the Arabic language in close connection with Qurʾānic
studies, Arabic linguistics gradually developed into a technical, scientifĳic
fĳield of its own, covering the study of syntax, morpho-phonology and
lexicography, as well as elaborate studies of poetry. This development
is reflected in the fĳirst monograph on specifĳic topics, appearing for the
fĳirst time in the second half of the second century. The study of fĳiqh in
combination with Arabic grammar underscores the development of the
linguistic tradition in al-Andalus.
Summarizing the information on ethnic background and min ahl so-
and-so of the group of linguists credited with one or more awāʾil (see
Table 5), we observe six Arabs, ten mawālī, and two scholars whose eth-
nic background is not explicitly mentioned by the biographical dictionar-
ies. Although the very beginnings of the Arabic linguistic tradition seem
to have been an exclusively Arab afffair, no biographer has really tried to
claim linguistic awāʾil for the Arabs. The overall picture of 40% Arabs and
60% mawālī reflects the normal distribution within the group of scholars
active in the fĳield of linguistics up to the year 250/864. Mawālī, by the way,
have been relatively better represented in Arabic linguistics than in any of
the other Islamic sciences—an observation that in itself is intriguing.41
Concerning afffĳiliation with one of the two schools of grammar (ten Bas-
rans and four Kufans), there is a clear overrepresentation of Basran schol-
ars. As already mentioned, this suits the theory of retrojection by referring
to a long and glorious tradition of the Basran school and it reflects the suc-
cess of the Basran “PR.” Surprising is the alleged Kufan invention of taṣrīf
but even here the Basrans succeeded in taking over and further enhancing
this domain of Arabic linguistics.
Finally, from the most right-hand column of Table 5, it appears that
the majority of linguists were also active in the fĳield of ḥadīth and that,
alongside qirāʾa, poetry and adab were other favorite fĳields of endeavor.
From this, we may conclude that our group of pioneers in linguistic
studies, Arabs and mawālī alike, showed a clear interest in both the Ara-
bic language and Arab heritage as well as in the emerging Islamic religious
sciences.
41
I have dealt with the topic of the relative overrepresentation of mawālī in Arabic
linguistic studies in Bernards (2005).
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AL-ZAJJĀJ AND GLASSMAKING
AN EXPANDED RANGE OF OPTIONS IN A COMPARATIVE CONTEXT
Wadād al-Qāḍī
Two of the famous grammarians of early Islam have nicknames that

seem to point to a connection with glass, zujāj. The fĳirst is “al-Zajjājī” Abū
l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Isḥāq, who died in 337/948 or 339–40/949–50.
His nickname, however, has nothing to do with glass, strictly speaking:
he was given this nisba because of his long association with his princi-
pal teacher who was nicknamed “al-Zajjāj.”1 The nickname of this second
grammarian, Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm b. [Muḥammad b.] al-Sarī, who died in
311/923,2 did indeed have a connection with glass. In fact, the source of
this connection is a rather long story that he himself narrated and that
the biographical historians found so attractive and informative that they
included it in their tomes.3
The story, narrated in the fĳirst person, contains a number of glass-
related statements. Al-Zajjāj begins by saying: “I used to clip glass, then
had a strong urge to [study] grammar (kuntu akhruṭu al-zujāj fa-shtahaytu
l-naḥw).” He continues that he attached himself, with the hope of learn-
ing grammar, to al-Mubarrad [d. 286/899], who never taught for free, but
rather charged specifĳic fees for teaching. Al-Mubarrad asked him about
his profession—presumably to ascertain how much he could affford to
pay him. Al-Zajjāj answered, “I clip glass (akhruṭu l-zujāj), and my earn-
ings are one and one-third dirhams or one and one half dirhams per day
(wa-kasbī fī kull yawm dirham wa dānaqān4 aw dirham wa niṣf ).” Al-Zajjāj
goes on to say that he offfered al-Mubarrad one dirham per day until
death parts them. Al-Mubarrad accepted the offfer, and al-Zajjāj kept his
1
See C. H. M. Versteegh (2002b).
2
See idem (2002a).
3
See al-Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara 1, 274; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād 6,
614; al-Qifṭī, Inbāh al-ruwāt 1, 159; Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 1, 52; al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī
bi-l-wafayāt 5, 348; al-Suyūṭī, Bughyat al-wuʿāt 1, 411. Even al-Samʿānī, whose al-Ansāb pro-
vides normally short entries, cites the fĳirst, glass-related, part of the story; see al-Ansāb,
272. Other sources cite the main, glass-related sentence of the story, as did Ibn Khallikān,
Wafayāt al-aʿyān 1, 49; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Lubāb fī tahdhīb al-ansāb 2, 62.
4
A dānaq (from the Persian dang) is equal, in monetary terms, to 1/6 of a dirham,
although it could also be used for gold (mithqāl); see Hinz (1955).
222 wadād al-qāḍī
promise throughout al-Mubarrad’s life. After al-Zajjāj had “graduated” and

become an independent authority on grammar (istaqlaltu), a group of
people5 from al-Ṣarāt, a town near Baghdad, sought al-Mubarrad’s advice
regarding a grammar teacher (muʿalliman naḥwiyyan) for their children.
Al-Zajjāj asked al-Mubarrad to recommend him to them (asminī lahum).
Al-Mubarrad obliged, and al-Zajjāj became a grammar teacher in al-Ṣarāt.
After some time, ʿUbaydallāh b. Sulaymān [d. 288/901]—meaning the
caliphs al-Muʿtamid’s and al-Muʿtaḍid’s vizier‒asked al-Mubarrad to iden-
tify a tutor for his son al-Qāsim. Al-Mubarrad said, “I would not name
for you except one man, a zajjāj, in al-Ṣarāt,” who works for a particu-
lar family (lā aʿrifu laka illā rajulan zajjājan bi-l-Ṣarāt maʿ Banī Mārima).6
ʿUbaydallāh wrote to those people, asking them to give up al-Zajjāj. They
did, and al-Zajjāj became the private tutor of al-Qāsim b. ʿUbaydallāh
b. Sulaymān [d. 291/904], who eventually became vizier to the caliphs
al-Muʿtaḍid and al-Muktafī. Al-Zajjāj became a very rich and influential
man and a companion to the same caliphs, al-Muʿtaḍid and al-Muktafī.
The story tells us relatively much about al-Zajjāj’s association with
glass. He worked with glass before he began to study grammar, and had
worked with it long enough to consider himself a professional “glass per-
son,” and hence identify himself as a zajjāj when he introduced himself
to al-Mubarrad. He continued to work with glass when he was study-
ing grammar, presumably for several years, as it was from his earnings
as a glass craftsman that he could pay the one-dirham-per-day fee to his
teacher al-Mubarrad. It is this that explains why al-Mubarrad continued
to refer to him as a zajjāj much later in life, after he had successfully made
a career change and become a teacher in al-Ṣarāt. That job, and the fol-
lowing one as a tutor, were clearly full-time jobs, and presumably ended
al-Zajjāj’s work with glass. He, nevertheless, continued to be identifĳied
as a “glass person” during the latter, scholarly phase of his career, by his
students and others, even after his death, by posterity, including us today.
Perhaps there was no other glass person who became a distinguished
grammarian; but al-Zajjāj had certainly not been an amateur glass person.
5
The tribal afffĳiliation of this family is uncertain, since it occurs in a variety of forms in
the sources: Banū Mārima, Māzima, Māriqa, Māriya, Māzin. See the comment of I. ʿAbbās
in Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 1, 52, n. 3.
6
Mārima is the most common reading, but it is by no means certain (see previous
note). There is no Banū Mārima in the classic works on genealogy, including Ibn Durayd’s
al-Ishtiqāq.
al-zajjāj and glassmaking 223
The story and al-Zajjāj’s nickname give us some idea of what he

exactly did as a glass craftsman. He was certainly not a seller or dealer in
glass objects, otherwise he would have been nicknamed “al-Zujājī,” not
“al-Zajjāj”7—and he would not have had a fĳixed wage. Rather, he “made”
glass, or, as he himself said, he “clipped” glass. The word he used for iden-
tifying his specifĳic skill is kharaṭa. This is an unusual word in the context
of glass, since kharṭ is mostly associated with wood, either in the living
form of branches and tree trunks,8 or in the dead form, as in a carpenter’s
workshop,9 and occasinally with iron10 and gems.11 The last association,
however, gets us closer to understanding what is meant by the kharṭ of
glass. As Dozy has noted, we do encounter the verb kharaṭa connected
with malachite, a green mineral used as a decorative stone; it means to
polish stones that are cut out, carved, shaped, trimmed, or framed.12 It also
occurs once in connection with glass, though still in reference to precious
objects, as al-zujāj al-makhrūṭ al-nafīs, where its meaning is to cut, cut out,
cut down, or clip.13 This leads one to think that kharṭ, al-Zajjāj’s specifĳic
work with glass in his pre-scholarly career, involved not a primary process
in glass production, but an advanced one, that is, he worked with pieces of
glass that had already been worked on by someone else on a more basic
level—clipping them further, or polishing them, or making them smooth,
planed, or trimmed.
This kind of work clearly needs a relatively high level of technical skill,
which suggests that it should be relatively well compensated. Al-Zajjāj
tells us that his daily wages from working with glass were a dirham and
a half (or a third), which means that his monthly income was at most
7
See Lane (1980, z-j-j).
8
See idem (1980, kh-r-ṭ). Thus, kharaṭa l-waraq means rubbing “offf the leaves from the
branches, by grasping the upper part, and passing the hand along it to the lower part.”
Similarly, kharaṭa l-shajar means “he pulled offf the leaves, and the bark, or peel, from
the trees with his hand [in the manner above described].” In the same manner, one says
kharaṭa l-ʿunqūd, meaning “he pulled offf the grapes, or the like, from the bunch with all
his fĳingers . . . or he put the bunch in his mouth and drew forth its stalk bare,” and kharaṭa
l-ʿūd means “he removed the bark, or peel, from the wood, or stick, and planed it, or made
it even, with a mikhraṭ.”
9
This is what I understand by the text of Ibn al-Athīr, al-Lubāb 1, 429 explaining
kharrāṭ: “this nisba comes from the kharṭ of wood.”
10
In Lane (1980: kh-r-ṭ): kharaṭa l-ḥadīd means “he made the iron long, like a column,
or pole, or rod.”
11
In ibid., kharaṭa l-jawhar means “he collected the jewels in a kharīṭa [i.e., a pouch].”
12
R. Dozy (1981, kh-r-ṭ), where yakhruṭuhu l-kharrāṭūn is said of malachite in Ibn
al-Bayṭār’s treatise.
13
Ibid. The text occurs in Ibn Ḥawqal’s section on Armenia.
45 dirhams. It is, of course, difffĳicult to understand the value of money

outside of a comparative context; but we know that the salary of a judge
in Baghdad at the end of the third/ninth century, i.e., not long before
al-Zajjāj was born, was between 200 and 300 dirhams a month.14 Al-Zajjāj’s
compensation seems quite low by comparison. We have to keep in mind,
however, that a judge is a highly compensated state employee due to the
high religious and intellectual qualifĳications which he must possess and,
as importantly, which he must constantly develop and refĳine, whereas
a glass-clipper, no matter how competent, performs a skilled job whose
requirements are both limited and mechanical: once he has mastered
them, he most likely needs no further skills to perform his work. But
al-Zajjāj himself did not seem to think his income was low. When he gave
away one whole dirham to al-Mubarrad out of his daily pay during his
student days, he seemed to be quite capable of living on half a dirham or
less a day.
Where did al-Zajjāj work, for whom, and what objects did he produce?
While the answer cannot be specifĳic, a range of possibilities may be con-
jured. These are, if one were to think in general terms, or even to take
one’s inspiration from S. Carboni’s entry “zudjādj” in the second edition of
the Encyclopaedia of Islam, limited to two broad categories of glass manu-
facturers in whose workshops al-Zajjāj could have worked. The fĳirst cate-
gory is that of the manufacturers of objects and commodities for everyday
use, like vessels, flasks, bottles, cups, and bowls. The second is that of
the manufacturers of art objects, where the chemistry, technology, and
manipulation of glass is artisically varied, leading to the creation of arti-
facts whose glass is enamelled, painted, ribbed, relief-cut, fĳinely incised, or
calligraphically inscribed. If al-Zajjāj indeed worked in either one of these
two kinds of workshops, he would have been privately employed, and he
would be involved in producing commercial objects of varying degrees of
artistry. There is, however, a third possibility which Carboni neglected to
mention,15 and which normally does not occur to people, including histori-
ans, when they think of glassmaking. It is that al-Zajjāj could have worked
is the government-run workshops, where offfĳicially authorized weights and
measures made of glass were manufactured, for the correct, or “honest,”
use by merchants and the public in the market place.
14
See al-Qāḍī (2009, 25–26).
15
Although, to his credit, he did mention a few works about this area in the bibliog-
raphy, notably A. H. Morton’s important book, A Catalogue of the Islamic Glass Stamps in
the British Museum.
We actually know little about these workshops, but the thousands

of glass weights and stamps that have survived indicate unequivocally
that such workshops existed and were under close government control
from Umayyad through Mamluk times.16 The use of glass for the making
of weights and measurses had been adopted by the Byzantines in pre-
Islamic times,17 because glass, unlike metals, hardly loses any of its weight
over time and because it is difffĳicult to add to or take away from its weight
without detection, given that it breaks easily.18 After probably a period
of experimentation with metals,19 the Muslims adopted the use of glass
for weights and measures, and indeed greatly expanded and developed
its manufacture.20 That manufacture began during the caliphate of ʿAbd
al-Malik b. Marwān (reg. 65–86/685–705), when the Umayyad state was
embarking on its well known monetary and other administrative reforms,
and eventually included the production of coin weights (gold, silver, and
copper), heavy weights (for commodities like meat and grapes), and ves-
sel stamps, disks afffĳixed to vessels containing a wide array of dry and
wet substances, like spices, drugs, and oil, to indicate their capacity. An
Umayyad weight was normally stamped with words indicating some or
all of the following: the weight’s (offfĳicial, government sanctioned) weight,
the commodity it is supposed to weigh, the name(s) of the issuing govern-
ment offfĳicial(s) who rendered it offfĳicially authorized, its date of produc-
tion, and a relevant pious formula. The weights were routinely changed,
i.e. re-manufactured, whenever the fĳinancial administration of the prov-
ince or administrative district changed, since the change would have to
be reflected on the stamps on the glass in order to make the weights legal
tender.21 Although the vast majority of glass weights that have survived
16
For surveys on Islamic glass weights, see the following classic works: Miles (1949:
1–69); Muḥammad (1957: 1–42); Balog (1976: 1–36); idem (1980: 55–57); Morton (1985: 9–45);
idem (1991: 19–42).
17
See Ettinghausen (1939: 74); Miles (1964: 78–79); Morton (1992: 20); idem (1985: 31).
See also n. 19 below.
18
See Ettinghausen (1939: 74).
19
Several early bronze weights have been discovered. See Walker (1935: 241–258) (for a
bronze weight in the name of al-Ḥajjāj b. Yūsuf); Miles (1962: 113–118); Curiel and Gignoux
(1976: 165–169); Elias Khamis (2002: 143–154). See also Miles (1939); Morton (1986: 177–182).
Artuk (1952: 21–25) identifĳies a lead seal minted in the name of the Umayyad caliph ʿAbd
al-Malik, with the mint name Filasṭīn; but Paul Balog is convinced that this is actually a
lead weight, not a seal; see Balog (1976: 21). See also idem (1970: 223–256, esp. 233, 339).
20
See Miles (1964: 78); Morton (1991: 20).
21
On changing glass weights immediately upon change in administration, see Balog
(1976: 10).
come from Egypt, we know that they were also produced in Syria.22 In Iraq
none have been found; but there is no need to suppose that the wide-
spead use of glass weights did not take place there as well.23
According to scholars of Islamic glass weights, matters pertaining to
glass weights were under the control of the fĳinancial offfĳicer of the prov-
ince or administrative district, and, in fact, hundreds of weights have
survived on each of which was inscribed normally the name of an iden-
tifĳiable ʿāmil or ṣāḥib al-kharāj, the Financial Director, mostly preceded
by the verb amara (he ordered). When the Financial Director’s name is
inscribed alongside that of the reigning caliph, the verb amara is shifted,
understandably, to the caliph, and the Director’s name is preceded by the
phrase ʿalā yaday (at the hands of), thus making clear that his authority
derived directly from the caliph’s. When the Financial Director’s name is
inscribed along with the name of another person (usually unidentfĳiable),
the phrase ʿalā yaday is shifted to the name of the other person, indicating
that this person was the Director’s subordinate in the bureaucratic hier-
archy of the offfĳice in charge of weights and measures, an “executive” or a
“prefect,” who served as a mid-level bureaucrat. In some cases, the names
of other men appear, nomally after the noun (or verb) ṣanʿat (ṣanaʿahu),
“the making of/he made it,” or ṭabʿat (ṭabaʿahu), “the stamp of/he stamped
it.” Such engravers, with their apprentices or assistants, occupied the low-
est bureaucratic position in the offfĳice responsible for producing glass
weights.24 I would also suggest that they were actually the “glass persons”
who handled glass with their hands, either at a basic level or at a more
developed one.
22
For weights from Syria, see, in addition to the heavy weight discussed below, Dja-
far [Abdel-Kader] (1935: 139–142); idem (1939: 399–400); Nāyif al-Qsūs (2000: 55–62) (the
weight was found in the area of Irbid in northern Jordan). To these must be added the
“seal” published by Artuk and believed by Balog to be a bronze weight (see n. 19 above);
it carries the stamp Filasṭīn, and hence comes from the administrative/military district
of Palestine.
23
Other than the bronze weight of al-Ḥajjāj mentioned in n. 19 above, there is litear-
ary evidence about four Umayyad governors of Iraq who were particularly strict about
weights: al-Ḥajjāj (in offfĳice 75–95/694–714), ʿUmar b. Hubayra (in offfĳice 102–105/720–723),
Khālid al-Qasrī (in offfĳice 105–120/723–738) Yūsuf b. ʿUmar (in offfĳice 120–126/738–744).
See Qudāma b. Jaʿfar, Kitāb al-kharāj, 39; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī l-tārīkh 4, 417 (sub anno
76); al-Damīrī, Ḥayāt al-ḥayawān al-kubrā 1, 91–92; Ibn Taghrī Birdī, al-Nujūm al-zāhira 1,
177–178.
24
On the employees involved with glass weights and measures and their bureaucratic
hierarchy, see Ettinghausen (1939: 74); Muḥammad (1957: 4, 11, 16–19, 30); Balog (1963: 219);
idem (1976: 408); Morton (1985: 11–14); idem (1991: 25–30); Eldada (2002: 118–119, 143).
The above information, while quite detailed, does not answer the main
question that this paper wishes to address, namley: has any of the people
whose names are stamped on glass weights been nicknamed al-zajjāj,
“glass man,” because of his involvement in glassmaking? If there was such
a person, then a zajjāj would be the nickname applied to an emplyee of
the government’s public sector,25 not only to a craftsman in the employ
of some commercial concern, and his existence would expand the range
of options for glassmakers in early Islamic society to the third possibil-
ity explained above, namely employment in government-run workshops
where offfĳicial weights and measures made of glass were manufactured.
This, in turn, allows us to take a fresh look at the profession of the gram-
marian al-Zajjāj and, viewing it within a comparative context, to ask
whether he, too, could have been employed in the manufacture of glass
operated by the government. Given the shifts in al-Zajjāj’s career between
glassmaking and scholarship, it would be necessary that, if this other zajjāj
were to be identifĳied, his career and its shifts be analyzed in as much
detail as possible, as a prelude to comparing him with the grammarian
al-Zajjāj. Even if the research does not produce conclusive results, it has
the potential to open a new avenue for consideration when we try to
understand the professions in which Muslim scholars were involved in
early Islamic society.
I have been able to locate one person from late Umayyad times whose
name is inscribed on a glass heavy weight that has survived,26 and who
some literary sources call al-zajjāj, others a Finance Director, and practi-
cally all a ḥadīth scholar; his name is al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān. The
small, thick, bluish green glass pound weight disc carrying his name is
displayed at the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore, Maryland, and its image,
together with a transcription of the text that appears on it and a study of
25
For a discussion of whether there were also private workshops issuing unofffĳicial
weights, as suggested by Morton (1985: 20), see the clear arguments against this assertion
in Eldada (2002: 142–143).
26
There is another glass weight at the Fouquet Collection in Paris which Paul Casanova
said has the name “al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān” inscribed on it; see Casanova (1893: no.
167, p. 373). Whether this is the same al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān mentioned on the weight
discussed in this paper (see next note) is very possible, although more work is needed
before defĳinite conclusions can be reached. I am indebted to the herculean effforts of my
friend Wolfhart Heinrichs in providing me with a copy of Casanova’s catalogue.
it, were published by Richard Ettinghausen in 1939.27 On one side of the

disc the following Kufĳic inscription had been stamped:
   


       
  
  []   

      
   
 []   
 
  

 
In the name of God. He (God) commands honesty. The servant of God
Yazīd, Commander of the Faithful, at the hands of al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān, in the year six and twenty and one hundred. Full raṭl.
Ettinghausen identifĳied al-Walīd from al-Ṭabarī’s History28 as the “fĳinan-
cial director of the treasury [sic] in Damascus in the year 126 H.,” a date
that fĳits perfectly the date of the short caliphate of the Umayyad caliph
Yazīd b. al-Walīd (Yazīd III), whose name is also stamped on the weight.29
Relying on this information, and on the fact that the records of the Wal-
ters Art Gallery indicate that the weight was found in Syria, Ettinghausen
dedicated much of his article to establishing what in 1939 was a rather
new fact, namely that Islamic glass weights were indeed manufactured
in places outside of Egypt, and that Syria was one such place.30 Now,
seventy years after the publication of that weight, the numerous literary
sources that mention al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān can provide far more
information,31 as can the weight itself—which is a documentary source.
27
Ettinghausen, (1939: 73–76).
28
Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk 7, 255–256 (sub anno 126).
29
Ettinghausen (1939: 75).
30
For more on Syrian glass weights, see above, n. 22.
31
The literary sources that mention al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān are either ḥadīth and
tafsīr works that include traditons narrated, among others, by him, so that his name
appears in the traditions’ chains of transmissions (see nn. 68–82 below), or predominantly
biographical dictionaries that include a biography of him. These include Ibn Maʿīn, Tārīkh
Yaḥyā ibn Maʿīn 2, 187; al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 8, 147; Abū Zurʿa l-Dimashqī, Tārīkh
Abī Zurʿa al-Dimashqī, 354, 703; al-Fasawī, al-Maʿrifa wa-l-tārīkh 3, 381; Ibn Abī Ḥātim
al-Rāzī, al-Jarḥ wa-l-taʿdīl 9, 9; Ibn Ḥibbān al-Bustī, Mashāhīr ʿulamāʾ al-amṣār 1, 184; idem,
Due to its formal characteristics as described above, the weight proves

unequivocally that al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān was a Finance Director
during the caliphate of Yazīd III in 126/744. In that year, Yazīd assumed
the caliphate following a bloody coup that ended the caliphate of his pre-
decessor, thus necessitating the manufacture, at his “order” (amara), of
new weights carrying his name (ʿAbdallāh Yazīd amīr al-muʾminīn), “at
the hands of” (ʿalā yaday) his named Finance Director (al-Walīd ibn ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān).
Now al-Ṭabarī’s additional information adduced by Ettinghausen is
indeed quoted sub anno 126, but it actually refers to al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān as Finance Director (ʿāmil kharāj) not under Yazīd III, who
ruled for some months only in 126/744 (27 Jumādā I-7 Dhū al-Ḥijja/17
March-20 September), but under the caliph Hishām, who ruled for two
decades, 105–125/723–743. This indicates that al-Walīd’s tenure as Finance
Director began at least two years earlier, and almost certainly ensures that
he served in this capacity for three consecutive caliphs: Hishām, al-Walīd
b. Yazīd (al-Walīd II; reg. 125–126/743–744), and Yazīd III. A closer analy-
sis of al-Ṭabarī’s text may actually allow us to date his tenure even fur-
ther back. From this text we learn that shortly after the revolt of Zayd b.
ʿAlī in 121/739, al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān foiled the elaborate scheme
of the poweful governor of Damascus, Kulthūm b. ʿIyāḍ al-Qushayrī
(d. 122–124/739–741),32 to implicate his opponent, the celebrated former
governor of Iraq Khālid al-Qasrī (d. 126/7434), in a series of arsons started
by a gang of thieves led by a certain Abū l-ʿAmarras. Upon the capture of
Abū l-ʿAmarras together with the members of his gang, al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān wrote to the caliph Hishām informing him of their capture:
“he named them one by one, mentioning their tribal attributions and the
towns in which they were registered” (sammāhum rajulan rajulan wa-
nasabahum ilā qabāʾilihim wa-amṣārihim).33 This kind of detailed infor-
mation about citizens, and the courage to go against an influential state
al-Thiqāt 7, 552; al-Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī, Tasmiyat man akhrajahum al-Bukhārī 1:250; Ibn
Mākūlā, al-Ikmāl 2, 235; al-Samʿānī, al-Ansāb, 127; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 63, 158; al-Dhahabī,
al-Kāshif 2, 352; idem, Tārīkh al-Islām 7, 495; idem, Tajrīd asmāʾ al-ṣaḥāba 2, 129 (“al-Walīd
al-Jurashī,” without a father’s name); al-Mizzī, Tahdhīb al-kamāl fī asmāʾ al-rijāl 31, 42;
Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 11, 140; idem, Tabṣīr al-muntabih bi-taḥrīr al-
mushtabih 1: 317; idem, al-Iṣāba fī tamyīz al-ṣaḥāba 3, 647 (no. 9203) (“al-Walīd al-Jurashī,”
without a father’s name, like al-Dhahabī’s Tajrīd); Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Khazrajī, Khulāṣat tadhhīb
tahdhīb al-kamāl 1, 416; idem, Taqrīb al-tahdhīb 2, 582.
32
On the various dates of death mentioned in the sources for Kulthūm b. ʿIyāḍ, see Ibn
ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 50, 225.
33
Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh 7:256.
offfĳicial in his own backyard of Damascus, point to an older, seasoned,

and skillful adminsitrator, almost certainly with strong local support, or
ʿaṣabiyya. Al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān thus probably became Finance
Director under Hishām long before the last year of Hishām’s caliphate;
by 126/744, when the glass weight was stamped with his and the caliph
Yazid III’s names, he had already been a highly placed, powerful, and well
established government offfĳicial for at least fĳive years.
There is another corrective to Ettinghausen’s conclusions that has
to be mentioned here. Al-Ṭabarī does indeed identify al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān as the Finance Director of Damascus. But he is the only source
to do so: all the other sources say that he was the Finance Director of
al-Ghūṭa, a suburban area of Damascus, albeit a very large one.34 This
certainly appears to be the accurate identifĳication of his post for at least
two reasons.35 The fĳirst is that its original sources, Muḥammad b. ʿĀʾidh
(d. 233/847) and Abū Zurʿa l-Dimashqī (d. 281/894), are not only early but
had fĳirsthand access to that kind of information: the former was himself
the Finance Director of al-Ghūṭā under al-Maʾmūn (d. 218/233),36 and the
latter was a highly knowledgeable historian of Syria who traveled exten-
sively throughout the country and met many of its scholars, including
one familiar with al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.37 The second is that I have
not encountered during Umayyad times a Finance Director (ʿāmil kharāj)
of the city of Damascus, the seat of the empire, or of the totality of the
military/administrative district of Damascus ( jund Dimashq) alongside
its “governor” (amīr Dimashq, ʿāmil Dimashq, or whoever is identifĳied as
waliya Dimashq or, in an abbreviated form, ʿalā Dimashq).38 Al-Ghūṭa, or
Ghūṭat Dimashq, on the other hand, was one of several districts of the jund
34
Of the works mentioned in n. 31 above, those with long biographies of al-Walīd
b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān–Abū Zurʿa, al-Mizzī, Ibn ʿAsākir, and Ibn Ḥajar (Tahdhīb)–mention
this fact.
35
There is a third reason that may also be adduced and that will be discussed below
regarding the settlement of the Jurash in al-Ghūṭa.
36
See Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 53, 288.
37
Abū Zurʿa source on al-Walīd is Maḥmūd b. Khālid, who met a scholar named al-
Haytham b. ʿImrān, who had met al-Walīd; see Abū Zurʿa, Tārīkh, 354, 713. As we shall see,
al-Walīd hailed from Ḥimṣ, and Abū Zurʿa actually visited Ḥimṣ in 214/829 and wrote a
book about its scholars, the Tasmiyat ahl Ḥimṣ, which has not survived but was frequently
quoted by Ibn ʿAsākir; see Abū Zurʿa, Tārīkh, 707, and the introduction of its editor, 34–36,
50. See also Wadād al-Qāḍī (2010, at nn. 53, 59).
38
It is interesting that Kulthūm b. ʿIyāḍ al-Qushayrī, the governor of the administra-
tive district of Damascus under Hishām, was identifĳied within one biography as having
been waliya Dimashq, amīr Dimashq, and ʿāmil Hishām ʿalā jund Dimashq. See Ibn ʿAsākir,
Tārīkh 50, 217, 218, 224. Kulthūm is said to have been ʿalā Dimashq in the text of al-Ṭabarī’s
Tārīkh 5, 255 adduced by Ettinghausen.
Dimashq and an abundantly irrigated, intensely cultivated, vast suburb of

Damascus, that had its own autonomous adminsitrator (ʿāmil) under the
Umayyads as well as the early ʿAbbāsids, “with a separate dīwān whose
chief activity was the collecting of the kharāj.”39
Now that we are closer to forming a better picture of al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān, we must focus on what it is that links him directly to glass-
making. For, contrary to what Ettinghausen has intimated, the fact that
al-Walīd was a Finance Director at the very time when the glass weight
was stamped in his name does not necessarily link him to glassmaking,
even if his position puts him in charge of an offfĳice that supervises the
production such weights—i.e., it does not make him a zajjāj. A Finance
Director in Umayyad times, after all, was, together with the governor,
a province’s or a district’s highest offfĳicial, and was, like the governor,
appointed directly by the caliph. His administrative power and social sta-
tus were, thus, hardly comparable to the power and staus of a mere glass-
maker. And, in fact, not a single Finance Director whose name appears on
glass weights and stamps in the early period, in Egypt, Syria, or elsewhere,
has been called a zajjāj in the sources.40 But al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
has. How that occupation fĳits into his life is what we should now pro-
ceed to investigate, trying in the process to reconstruct his bigraphy, to
the extent possible, from the disparate references in the sources, and to
trace the major shifts in his career, the career that was crowned with his
appointment as Finance Director of al-Ghūṭa under Hishām.
Examining the way in which al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān’s name is
given in the sources, one is struck immediately by the fact that his lin-
eage is never carried beyond his father—we do not thus know the name
of his grandfather or great grandfather—nor is his kunya ever mentioned.41
This certainly indicates that he was not a member of any of the influen-
tial Arab tribes, the ashrāf, who shaped much of the fĳirst hundred years
of Islamic history. And indeed his tribal afffĳiliation is given unanimously
39
N. Elisséef (1991: s.v., last paragraph). Note also that al-Ṭabarī calls al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān a ʿāmil kharāj (albeit inaccurately “over Damascus”) in the text adduced by
Ettinghausen.
40
Consider the celebrated Finance Director of Egypt in 116–124/734–741, ʿUbaydallāh b.
al-Ḥabḥāb, for example, on whom, see R. G. Khoury (2000)! It would be unthinkable that
he should be called a zajjāj.
41
In one instance (Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 52, 306), he is given the rather peculiar kunya
“Abū al-Mukhāriq.” But this seems to be a mix-up: “Abū l-Mukhāriq” was certainly the
kunya of al-Ḥārith b. al-Ḥārith al-Ghāmidī, who is mentioned alongside al-Walīd in
the same sentence. In fact, the editor of Ibn ʿAsākir remarks (in n. 6) that only one of
the manuscripts he used for his edition entered this kunya after al-Walīd’s name.
as al-Jurashī, i.e. from the clan of Jurash of the South Arabian tribe of
Ḥimyar.42 As for his city of origin, it is given as Ḥimṣ, in northern Syria,
hence his being called min ahl Ḥimṣ or al-Ḥimṣī.43 For that reason, he
was probably entered in the now-lost Tārīkh al-Ḥimṣiyyīn by Aḥmad b.
Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā l-Baghdādī, who died in the late third/ninth or early
fourth/tenth century.44 Only occasionally is he referred to more generally
as a Syrian (Shāmī) or as “one of the Syrian scholars” (min fuqahāʾ ahl
al-Shām).45
The full name of al-Walīd’s father, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, when it is men-
tioned in the sources, clarifĳies his descent and gives the fĳirst clues about his
association with glassmaking. It comes in two varieties: ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
al-Zajjāj46 or ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Zajjāj.47 The fĳirst variety indicates that
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān was a glassmaker, whereas the second indicates that his
father, al-Walīd’s grandfather, was a glassmaker. It appears that al-Walīd
b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān came from a family that, for at least two generations,
had been glassmakers. It thus comes as no surprise that al-Walīd him-
self was also called “al-Zajjāj,” though infrequently,48 and is thus given
42
“Al-Jurashī” is given in all his biographies and many of the references to him (see
the sources mentioned in n. 31 above); the specifĳics of the Ḥimyarī clan from which he
came are mentioned in Ibn Mākūlā, al-Ikmāl 2, 235; al-Samʿānī, al-Ansāb, 127; Ibn al-Athīr,
al-Lubāb 1, 272; Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī, Muʿjam al-buldān 2, 126; Ibn Ḥajar, Tabṣīr al-muntabih 1,
316. The nisba “al-Jurashī” should be distinguished from the nisba “al-Jarashī,” which is an
attribution to the city of Jarash (the Roman Gerasa) in the military/administrative district
(jund) of al-Urdunn. “Al-Jarashī” may also be an attribution to a clan from the Quḍāʿa, as
is mentioned in the above cited sources and Ibn Mākūlā’s al-Ikmāl 2, 236.
43
Of his biographies mentioned in n. 31 above, the following cite his Ḥimṣī origin or
atribution: Abū Zurʿa, al-Fasawī, Ibn Abī Ḥātim, Ibn ʿAsākir, al-Mizzī, al-Dhahabī, Ibn
Ḥajar, and al- Khazrajī, in addition to the two biographies of “al-Walīd al-Jurashī,” namely
al-Dhahabī’s Tajrīd and Ibn Ḥajar’s al-Iṣāba.
44
It is very possible that Ibn ʿAsākir copied this biography, or part of it, from
al-Baghdādī’s book into his own Tārīkh 63, 160–161. He does not say so, but he used this
book many times in biographies of Ḥimṣīs in his Tārīkh. For a biography of al-Baghdādī,
see al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād 6, 221; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 5, 433.
45
See Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 63, 161, 163.
46
See a biography under that name in Ibn al-Athīr, Usd al-ghāba 3, 293. This form of
his name occurs in a few of the chains of transmission of his Kaʿba ḥadīth (see below,
n. 60). This form is also in Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 23, 250, 253.
47
See biographies under that name in Ibn Ḥibbān, al-Thiqāt 5, 99; Ibn Ḥajar, al-Iṣāba
3, 68 (no. 6209). The majotity of the chains of transmission of his Kaʿba ḥadīth use this
form of his name (see blow, n. 60). This form is also in Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 23, 249; al-Mizzī,
Tahdhīb al-kamāl 12, 605; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 4, 376.
48
In his bigraphies in Ibn Ḥajar’s (d. 852/1448) Tahdhīb 11, 140 and al-Khazrajī’s (born
900/1494) Taqrīb al-tahdhīb 1, 582. The late date of these sources should leave no doubt
that ʿAbd al-Raḥmān (Ibn) al-Zajjāj was al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān’s father, nor that
al-Walīd belonged to a family of glassmakers. Ibn Ḥajar actually cites the early, third-
fourth/ninth-tenth century legal and ḥadīth scholar al-Ṭaḥāwī (d. 321/933) as writing:
the name al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Jurashī al-Ḥimṣī al-Zajjāj, mak-

ing him a third-generation glassmaker, from “a family of glassmakers,” in
the well-known tradition of craftsmen across societies and time periods.49
And actually it is the status of his father that further refĳines our knowl-
edge of his background.
This father is said to have been owned by Umm Ḥabība, the Proph-
et’s wife and Muʿāwiya’s sister.50 Umm Ḥabība, it is reported, asked the
Prophet to permit her to free him, which he did, and so she freed him.
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān must have been a child then, since the sources gingerly
attribute to him “seeing” the Prophet (lahu ruʾya) but not companion-
ship.51 And it is probably his early servile status that made al-Bukhārī
(d. 256/869) call his son, al-Walīd, a mawlā,52 and several authors after-
wards followed suit,53 implying that he was not an Arab. This claim was
categorically rejected by the towering historian of Syria, Ibn ʿAsākir
(d. 571/1175),54 eliciting a correct though uncompelling explanation from
“al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Jurashī al-Ḥimṣī al-Zajjāj.” This is actually verifĳiable, since
it occurs in a chain of transmission of a ḥadīth (on the legality of the circumambulation
of the Kaʿba by a woman who then menstruates) that al-Ṭaḥāwī cites in his Sharḥ maʿānī
al-āthār 2, 232. Perhaps more signifĳicantly, there is another late tradition in Ibn Ḥajar’s
Iṣāba 3, 68 (on the freeing of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān; see below) that he also takes from an earlier
source, Ibn Mandah [Muḥammad b. Isḥāq] (d. 395/1005). This tradition has a very interest-
ing chain of transmission whose fĳirst narrator is al-Walīd’s grandson: “ ʿUmar b. ʿUthmān b.
al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Zajjāj;” he narrates the tradition on the authority of “my
father or another [member] of my family (ahlī).” The same traditon with the same chain
occurs in an even earlier, third-/ninth-century source, Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Isḥāq
al-Fākihī’s (217–275/832–888) Akhbār Makka 1, 147. There, al-Fākihī says he took over the
tradition from his contemporary Yaʿqūb [al-Fasawī] (d. 292/904). In this version, “ ʿUmar
b. ʿUthmān b. al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Zajjāj” narrates the tradition on the authirity
of his father—his grandfather (ʿan abīhi ʿan jaddihi). The grandfather is, of course, our
al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.
49
On the involvement of successive generations in making glass among Copts in Egypt,
for example, see Muḥammad (1957: 5, 12).
50
See the sources mentioned in nn. 45 and 46 above. Umm Ḥabība bt. Abī Sufyān b.
Ḥarb’s biography is in Ibn Saʿd, Kitāb al-ṭabaqāt al-kabīr 8, 68.
51
Note that Ibn Ḥajar places his biography (in al-Iṣāba 2, 68) in the second, not fĳirst,
qism of the “Companions” whose names start with the letter ʿayn. He also says in the same
biography that al-Bukhārī placed him among the tābiʿūn. Similarly, in Ibn al-Athīr’s biogra-
phy of him (Usd al-ghāba 3, 293) Abū Nuʿaym is quoted to the efffect that, although some
thought ʿAbd al-Raḥmān met (adraka) the Prophet, he was in fact a tābiʿī.
52
A mawlā of the family (āl) of a certain Abū Sufyān al-Anṣārī (a mistake for Abū
Sufyān b. Ḥarb?); see al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 8, 147.
53
These are al-Fasawī, al-Maʿrifa 3, 381; Ibn Abī Ḥātim, al-Jarḥ 9, 9; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh
(citing others) 63, 159, 160; al-Mizzī, Tahdhīb al-kamāl 31, 43–44; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb
al-tahdhīb 11, 140.
54
According to Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 63, 160, “his [al-Bukhārī’s] statement ‘mawlā āl Abī
Sufyān’ is incorrect (ghayr ṣaḥīḥ), for he is an Arab from the Jurash.”
Ibn Ḥajar (d. 852/1448).55 The simple explanation, it seems to me, is that
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, an Arab boy, possibly from a rather lowly family of glass-
makers, from the unremarkable clan of Jurash from the Ḥimyar, was taken
as a prisoner of war as a child during a campaign in early Islamic times,
freed, then at some point was taken by his family to settle in Ḥimṣ, or he
settled there, perhaps together with many settlers from the Ḥimyar, some
of whom participated in the conquest of Syria and populated the city after
its conquest in 16/637.56
If ʿAbd al-Raḥmān had made it to Ḥimṣ, he most likely would have
worked as a craftsman in the commercial sector of glass production, for
although Ḥimṣ had a mint as of the year 72/691–2,57 the use of glass for
manufacturing coin weights, and presumably other weights, was not
introduced before the reforms of ʿAbd al-Malik took root, i.e. after the late
70’s of the fĳirst century A.H./the turn of the eighth century C.E.,58 when
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān would have been quite old. He had become involved
with one more small activity, though, of which the sources took note: he
transmitted the tradition that asserts that the Prophet did indeed pray
in the Kaʿba in Mecca, narrating it on the authority of the Companion
Shayba b. ʿUthmān al-Qurashī al-ʿAbdarī, the ḥājib of the Kaʿba.59 It is
noteworthy that most references to ʿAbd al-Raḥmān are found within the
biography of Shayba b. ʿUthmān or when discussing the Kaʿba tradition.60
This suggests that he never became sufffĳiciently well known to have many
biographies dedicated for him. This is why we are not surprised when we
learn of a remark by a late, major ḥadīth scholar, Ibn Ḥajar al-Haythamī
55
“It is possible that he be a mawlā through confederacy (ḥilf ), even though he was
ethnically an Arab (ʿarabī al-aṣl)” (Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 11, 140).
56
On the conquest of Ḥimṣ and its settlement by the Ḥimyar (and other South Arabian
tribes), see N. Elisséef (1986); Wilferd Madelung (1986b: 141–185).
57
See, for example, a coin bearing the name of the mint (Ḥimṣ) and the date (72) in
Stephen Album and Tony Goodwin (2002, no. 305).
58
Note that metal coin weights were used before the introduction of glass weights; see
above, at n. 19.
59
There is also a ḥadīth qudsī attributed to ʿAbd al-Raḥmān in al-Dāraquṭnī’s al-ʿIlal
al-wārida fī l-aḥādīth al-nabawiyya 6, 69–70.
60
See al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 4, 241; Ibn Abī ʿĀṣim Aḥmad b. ʿAmr al-Shaybānī,
al-Āḥād wa-l-mathānī 1, 438; Ibn Abī Ḥātim, al-Jarḥ 4:335; al-Ṭabarānī, al-Muʿjam al-kabīr
7, 297; al-Bayhaqī, Shuʿab al-īmān 3, 455; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Mūḍiḥ awhām al-jamʿ wa-l-
tafrīq 2, 245; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 23, 250; Ibn al-Athīr, Usd al-ghāba 3, 29; al-Mizzī, Tahdhīb
al-tahdhīb 12, 605; al-Haythamī, Majmaʿ al-zawāʾid 3, 295; Ibn Ḥajar, al-Iṣāba 2, 161 (no.
3945), 3, 68 (no. 6209); idem, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 4, 376; 11, 140; ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Hindī, Kanz
al-ʿummāl 5, 300; al-Mubārakfūrī, Tuḥfat al-aḥwadhī 3, 521.
(d. 807/1404), that he has “not found any author who wrote a biography of
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Zajjāj.”61
Al-Walīd’s date of birth is unknown, but it could not have taken place
after the year 50/670, because it is reported that he paticipated in the
battle of Marj Rāhiṭ62 that took place in 65/684 in the Ghūṭa near Damas-
cus, and because he was placed in the third or fourth class (ṭabaqa) of the
tābiʿūn of Syria63—early enough to be make it meaningful to report on the
manner he dyed his beard.64 About his private life we know next to noth-
ing–only that he had a son by the name of ʿUthmān and a grandson by
the name of ʿUmar.65 We know much more about his public life, given that
the sources were interested in two aspects of it: his activities in ḥadīth
transmission, and his government service.
The sources dedicate the largest space to al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
when they discuss his activities as a ḥadīth transmisster. This is due in part
to their own interest in the subject, but also because al-Walīd achieved
some prominence in it: he was unanimously judged as thiqa (reliable) by
all leading ḥadiṭh critics,66 and his transmissions were included in all of
the Sunnī canonical ḥadīth collections, both the Ṣaḥīḥs and the Sunans.67
An analysis of al-Walīd’s transmissions shows that he was only slightly
involved, certainly much less than others of his Syrian contemporaries,
with transmitting pro-Syria ḥadīths,68 although he did transmit a ḥadīth
foretelling the rewards that the Muslims will receive (presumably through
the conquests),69 and there is one ḥadīth (falsely) attributed to him that
61
Al-Haythamī, Majmaʿ al-zawāʾid 3, 295.
62
This participation was mentioned only by al-Dhahabī in his Tajrīd al-ṣaḥāba 2, 129
and was repeated by Ibn Ḥajar in his al-Iṣāba 3, 647.
63
Ibn Zurʿa placed him in the third class and Ibn Sumayʿ in the fourth; see al-Mizzī,
Tahdhīb al-kamāl 31, 43; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 63, 160; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 11, 140.
64
In Abū Zurʿa, Tārīkh, 713, reporting on the authrity of a person who met him, says
that he used to dye his beard red (kāna yakhḍib bi-l-ḥumra).
65
The names of both the son and grandson appear in the chain of transmission of the
tradition in which al-Walīd’s father, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, narrated the story of his freeing from
slavery; see Ibn Ḥajar, al-Iṣāba 3, 68. See also the end of n. 48 above.
66
Such as Yaḥyā b. Maʿīn, Abū Zurʿa, Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Ibn Ḥanbal, Ibn Khirāsh
(on him, see below, n. 89), Ibn Ḥibbān, and Muḥammad b. ʿAwn. The statements of
these critics are mentioned, among others, in al-Walīd’s biography in Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh
63, 158–163.
67
As it will be clear from the following footnotes.
68
On these and similar “Sufyānī” ḥadiṭhs, see Madelung (1986a: 5–48).
69
The foretelling ḥadīth occurs in, among other sources, Ibn Mājah, Sunan Ibn Mājah 1,
4; ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq al-Ishbīlī, al-Aḥkām al-sharʿiyya l-kubrā 3, 298.
can easily be seen as anti-Shīʿī.70 Only one, widely cited, of the ḥadīths nar-
rated on his authority is a conquests-oriented, Syria-centered, and appar-
ently Umayyad-leaning ḥadīth. In it the Prophet, shortly before his death,
rejects the claim that fĳighting was over, and instead asserts that now was
the time to fĳight, stating that those of his community in the right would
be fought by errant groups in order to undermine them, and he repeats
two widely cirulated dictums: that goodness is always attached to the
horses’ forelocks (al-khayl maʿqūd fī nawāṣīhā l-khayr ilā yawm al-qiyāma
wa-ahluhā muʿānūna ʿalayhā), and that Syria is the center of the believers’
lands (ʿuqr dār al-muʾminīn al-Shām/bi-l-Shām).71 Another two of his trans-
missions have been widely cited. In one, the Prophet draws an elaborate
picture of how the Qurʾān will march on the Day of Judgment headed by its
fĳirst two long sūras, al-Baqara and Āl ʿImrān,72 and in the other, the Prophet
praises religious scholarship (ʿilm) and identifĳies humility (al-khushūʿ) as
its key component.73 Others transmissions of his cover legal issues (stay-
ing up during Ramaḍān;74 funerals;75 fasting;76 and prayer77), or ethical and
70
This is the ḥadīth in which the Prophet is supposed to have held in his hand peb-
bles that praised God. When he gave these pebbles to Abū Bakr, then to ʿUmar, then to
ʿUthmān, they praised God; but when he gave them to ʿAlī, they did not. Many Sunnī
authors commented negatively on this ḥadīth, declaring it forged. It was reported by
al-Ṭabarānī in al-Muʿjam al-awsaṭ 2, 59 and Musnad al-Shāmiyyīn 3, 81.
71
This ḥadīth, with al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān as one of its transmiters, occurs in
many sources, the main ones of which are al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 4, 70; Ibn Ḥanbal,
Musnad Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal 4, 104; al-Fasawī, al-Maʿrifa wa-l-tārīkh 1, 336; 2, 298; al-Nasāʾī,
Sunan al-Nasāʾī l-kubrā 4, 311; Ibn Ḥibbān al-Bustī, Ṣaḥīḥ Ibn Ḥibbān 9, 207; al-Ṭabarānī,
Musnad al-Shāmiyyīn 1, 576, 3, 320; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 1, 115–117; al-Mizzī, Tahdhīb al-kamāl,
11, 323; Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr Ibn Kathīr 7, 308.
72
The Qurʾān ḥadīth occurs in several sources, among them al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh
al-kabīr 8, 147; Muslim b. al-Ḥajjāj, Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 1, 554; Abū ʿAwāna Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq
al-Isfarāyīnī, Musnad Abī ʿAwāna 2, 485; Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad 4, 183; al-Ṭabarānī, Musnad
al-Shāmiyyīn 2, 320; Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr 1, 153; al-Mubārakfūrī, Tuḥfat al-aḥwadhī 8, 154.
73
The ʿilm ḥadīth occurs in many sources, some of which are al-Bukhārī, Khalq af ʿāl
al-ʿibād 1, 79; Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, 6:26 ; al-Nasāʾī, al-Sunan al-kubrā, 5:392; Ibn Ḥibbān,
Saḥīḥ 7, 48; 8, 254; al-Ṭabarānī, al-Muʿjam al-kabīr 18, 43; idem, Musnad al-Shāmiyyīn 1,
155, 156; al-Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī, al-Mustadrak ʿalā al-Ṣaḥīḥayn 1, 168, 716, 3, 297, 4, 187;
al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, al-Asmāʾ al-mubhama 6, 404; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, al-Istīʿāb fī maʿrifat
al-aṣḥāb 2, 534.
74
See, among other sources, Ibn Abī Shayba, Muṣannaf Ibn Abī Shayba 2, 164; Ibn Ḥanbal,
Musnad, 5:163; al-Dārimī, Sunan al-Dārimī 2, 42; Ibn Mājah, Sunan 1, 420; al-Tirmidhī,
Sunan al-Tirmidhī 3, 169; Abū al-Jārūd al-Naysābūrī, al-Muntaqā, 108.
75
For ḥadīths on funerals, see Ibn Abī Shayba, Muṣannaf 3, 12; al-Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī,
al-Mustadrak 3, 584.
76
For ḥadīths on fasting, see al-Dārimī, Sunan 2, 26; Ibn Khuzayma al-Naysābūrī, Ṣaḥīḥ
Ibn Khuzayma 3, 194; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 47, 260.
77
For ḥadīths on prayer, see Ibn Abī Shayba, Muṣannaf 2, 49; al-Bayhaqī, Shuʿab al-īmān
3, 115; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 13, 156.
pietistic concerns (greed;78 the reward for spending in the path of God79),
while others discuss aspects of the Prophet’s sīra (the isrāʾ;80 the difffĳiculties
of his early ministry and his daughter Zaynab’s fear for him81). There is also
one pietistic ḥadīth qudsī attributed to him.82 Altogether, al-Walīd seems to
have been more of a solid muḥaddith than a prolifĳic or influential one: Ibn
Ḥazm even declared that he did not know him.83
Moving from the contents of al-Walīd’s ḥadīths to their chains of
transmission, something quite peculiar emerges that helps further trace
his movements. As far as his teachers are concerned, an analysis of their
biographies shows that they were overwhelmingly Ḥimṣīs (5 out of 7).84 In
contrast, an analysis of the biographies of his students reveals that none
of them hailed from Ḥimṣ; rather, they were overwhelmingly Damascene
(5, possibly 6, and possibly even 7, out of 9),85 with one student who hailed
from al-Ṭāʾif and resided in Wāsiṭ in Iraq,86 and another who hailed from
and resided in al-Ramla in Palestine.87 These two facts need little inter-
pretation to lead one to conclude–even after allowing for some travel
among ḥadīth scholars‒that al-Walīd spent his youth in Ḥimṣ but left it
for Damascus–or its surrounding area‒when he was still relatively young
and started to become active in transmitting ḥadīth–in, say, the seven-
ties of the fĳirst Islamic century/the last decade of the seventh century
C.E., perhaps not long after his participation in the battle of Marj Rāhiṭ
78
See the ḥadīth on greed in al-Ṭabarānī, al-Muʿjam al-kabīr 20, 78.
79
The ḥadīth on spending appears in al-Bukhārī, al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 7, 21; al-Khaṭīb
al-Baghdādī, Mūḍiḥ awhām al-jamʿ wa-l-tafrīq 2, 502; al-Baghawī, Tafsīr al-Baghawī 1, 164;
Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 47, 260, 261.
80
The ḥadīth of the isrāʾ occurs in al-Ṭabarānī, Musnad al-Shāmiyyīn 3, 110; Ibn Kathīr,
Tafsīr 3, 21.
81
This ḥadīth was widely circulated; see, for example, Ibn Abī ʿĀṣim Aḥmad b. ʿAmr
al-Shaybānī, al-Āḥād wa-l-mathānī 4, 364, 365; 5, 374; al-Ṭabarānī, al-Muʿjam al-kabīr 3, 268;
20, 283; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 11, 407; 13, 156; 52, 306; 57, 181; Ibn al-Athīr, Usd al-ghāba 1, 321;
4, 340; Ibn Ḥajar, al-Iṣāba 1, 275; ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Hindī, Kanz al-ʿummāl 12, 450.
82
“My very servant is the one who remembers me . . .” is in Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 36, 266.
83
See Ibn Ḥazm, al-Muḥallā 7, 172.
84
The Ḥimṣīs are Jubayr b. Nufayr al-Sakūnī, al-Ḥārith b. al-Ḥārith al-Ghāmidī, Salama
b. Nufayl al-Sakūnī, ʿIyāḍ b. Ghuṭayf al-Sakūnī al-Kindī, and Abū Umāma al-Bāhilī Ṣudayy
b. al-ʿAjlān. Al-Ḥārith b. ʿAbdallāh b. Aws al-Thaqafī hailed from the Ḥijāz and resided in
al-Ṭāʾif, and Abū Hurayra resided in Medina but came to Damascus during the caliphate
of Muʿāwiya.
85
His Damascene students are Ibrāhīm b. Sulaymān al-Afṭas, Khālid b. Dihqān,
Muḥammad b. Muhājir al-Anṣārī, ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAlāʾ b. Zabr, and Yūnus b. Maysara b.
Ḥalbas al-Aʿmā. Bashshār b. Abī Sayf is identifĳied generally as Syrian (Shāmī) with one
historian erroneously mistaking him for a Baṣran. Dāwūd b. Abī Hind Dīnār was Baṣran
but he came to Damascus and transmitted his ḥadīth there.
86
This is Yaʿlā b. ʿAṭāʾ al-ʿĀmirī.
87
This is Ibrāhīm b. Abī ʿAbla Shamir al-Ramlī. See also below, at n. 95.
in 65/684. It was in that area that he spent most of the rest of his life.
Other scattered accounts in the sources confĳirm this move. He is reported
to have addressed a question to ʿĀmir b. Ludayn al-Ashʿarī, ʿAbd al-Malik’s
judge over Damascus,88 which we can assume took place in Damascus. He
is also reported to have visited (wafada ʿalā) al-Ḥajjāj b. Yūsuf.89 This visit
probably took place in Damascus, which al-Ḥajjāj frequented throughout
his political career. It, however, could also have taken place in Iraq (note
that one of al-Walīd’s students resided in Wāsiṭ, al-Ḥajjāj’s own creation),
or, less likely, in the Ḥijāz.90
There is fĳinally another account about al-Walīd which places him,
for reasons that are not disclosed, in the administrative/military dictrict
of Palestine (Filasṭīn); it is a “fĳirsts” (awāʾil) report.91 Al-Walīd is said to
have been the fĳirst person to start the then-controversial study92 and
discussion of the Qurʾān and its readings there (awwal man aḥdatha
l-dirāsa . . . bi-Filasṭīn). In so doing, he was following in the footsteps of a
very influential Qurashī scholar and administrator, Hishām b. Ismāʿīl b.
Hishām b. al-Mughīra l-Makhzūmī,93 who initiated the study and discus-
sion of the Qurʾān and its “seven readings” in the Umayyad mosque in
Damascus, attracting to his circle a large number of distinguished politi-
cians, jurists, and ḥadīth scholars, including the caliph ʿAbd al-Malik. The
connection that the sources make between these two “fĳirsts” may point to
a sojourn by al-Walīd in Palestine after an extended period of residence
88
His question to Ibn Ludayn is mentioned by al-Bukhārī (al-Tārīkh al-kabīr 6, 453),
in the biography of Ibn Ludayn. We do not have a date of death for Ibn Ludayn, but it
seems he was one generation older than al-Walīd, since Ibn Sumayʿ placed him in the third
ṭabaqa of the tābiʿūn of Syria; see Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 26, 92.
89
Al-Walīd’s rather formal visit (qadima ʿalā), as it seems, is mentioned in Ibn ʿAsākir,
Tārīkh 63, 163; al-Mizzī, Tahdhīb al-kamāl 31, 43; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb 11, 140. The
report can be traced back to an early authority, Ibn Khirāsh ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Yūsuf, the
Baghdādī ḥāfĳiẓ, who died in 283/896. See Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 36, 107.
90
Al-Ḥajjāj was governor over the Ḥijāz only briefly (74–75/693–694; see Iḥsān Ṣidqī
al-ʿAmad (1973: 145 fff.), whereas he was governor over Iraq for two decades (75–95/694–
714; ibid., 165 fff.).
91
The report appears in Abū Zurʿa, Tārīkh, 713; Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 2, 283; 63, 161; Ibn
Kathīr, al-Bidāya wa-l-nihāya 9, 159–160. Abū Zurʿa, the fĳirst to report it, did so with
an impressive Syrian chain of transmission: he narrated it from a Jurashī scholar, who
narrated from no less than al-Awzāʿī, who took his information from al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān’s student, Khālid b. Dihqān.
92
On the controversial nature of this kind of study, see the objections of the Jordanian
scholar and administrator, al-Ḍaḥḥāk b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿAzrab al-Ashʿarī in Ibn ʿAsākir,
Tārīkh 2, 284–285. For more on al-Ḍaḥḥāk, see Wadād al-Qāḍī (2007: 367–369) and n. 89.
93
Hishām b. Ismāʿīl al-Makhzūmī was the governor of Medina under the caliph ʿAbd
al-Malik b. Marwān. ʿAbd al-Malik married his daughter, who bore him the future caliph
Hishām. See Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 73, 377.
in Damascus, where the phenomenon of al-dirāsa began, and after he had

become an established scholar with name recognition, fĳirm standing in
religious scholarship, and with a number of students. The fact that the
dirāsa took place in the mosque in Palestine means that the city in which
the mosque was located was a principal one. It is unlikely that it should
be Jerusalem, because then the city would probably be identifĳied by its
highly recognizable and venerated name. It, therefore, must be al-Ramla,
the major city of the adminsitrative/military ditrict of Filasṭīn—and capi-
tal towns were sometimes given the name of their province, like Miṣr,
for both al-Fusṭāṭ and Egypt. In addition, al-Ramla was the only Muslim-
founded garrison town in Syria, and the town that witnessed enormous
effflourescence and construction activities in the last decades of the fĳirst
Hijrī century/late seventh early eight centuries with the residence of the
future caliph Sulaymān b. ʿAbd al-Malik (reg. 96–99/714–717) in it.94 It was
almost certainly in al-Ramla that al-Walīd transmitted the ḥadīths that
his prolifĳic Ramlī student Ibrāhīm b. Abī ʿAbla (d. 157/773) carried from
him.95 All in all, al-Walīd’s stay in Palestine could not have been extended
to the point that it would make the sources attribute residence in it to
him. Rather, I would suggest that after Palestine he returned to the area
of Damascus in which he had been previously residing.
Why did al-Walīd move from Ḥimṣ to Damascus early in his career?
In the absence of explicit information in the sources, we can only spec-
ulate on his motive for the move. If this motive were merely scholarly,
then perhaps staying in Ḥimṣ and transmitting ḥadīth there would have
served him better than moving to Damascus, since Ḥimṣ was practically
as good as the capital in this respect in the last few decades of the fĳirst
century. This is so because of its location in the heart of the military/
adminsitrative district of Ḥimṣ, on the active frontier with Byzantium,
whence its attractiveness to innumerable scholars, ascetics, and worriors,
and its becoming, as a result, an active–perhaps an over-active‒center for
ḥadīth transmission.96 Al-Walīd’s motive, thus, must be due to more than
his desire to practise scholarship in a vibrant milieu, which means that it
either had to do with the other aspect of his public life, namely his craft
and source of livelihood, glassmaking, or with a personal factor that had
meaningful social implications.
94
On al-Ramla, see E. Honigmann (1995).
95
On Ibn Abī ʿAbla, see Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 6, 427.
96
On the lively atmosphere of Ḥimṣ for ḥadīth transmission, see the two articles by
Madelung (1986a) and (1986b) mentioned above (nn. 56 and 68).
Postponing for the moment discussion of the personal factor, and

concentrating on glassmaking, we can venture into some speculation.
For, there is no doubt that Damascus presented a golden opportnity for
a skilled craftsman in glass production which Ḥimṣ could not provide,
namely working not in the commercial sector of glass manufacturing, but
in the public sector—for the government, in its newly instituted work-
shops in or near the capital, one would assume, for the production of
glass weights for coins and commodities, following the swift progress of
the monetary reforms of ʿAbd al-Malik, and the establishment of glass as
a better medium for measuring weight than any metal. In the absence
of impediments to moving, anyone with ambition to earn a better liv-
ing would move; and the government must have been in need of skillful
hands to man its workshops and meet the demand for the new weights.
In addition, as Paul Balog has noted, the emission of weights and stamps
“was a constant source of revenue for the government,”97 hence its desire
to keep up the production of those weights. Being a principal reason
for moving to Damascus and his primary professional occupation there,
glassmaking continued to be the identifying mark of al-Walīd as al-zajjāj,
the glass person, even when he was engaged in other activities, such as
transmitting ḥadīth. Indeed, it is not difffĳicult to imagine that the move to
Damascus, with the opportunities it opened for him, tipped the balance of
his priorities in the direction of increased association with governement
matters and fĳigures than with ḥadīth transmission and transmitters—that
is, with religious scholarship. This is at least what the historical sources
seem to intimate when they refer to his interaction with government fĳig-
ures, such as the towering Umayyad government powehouse al-Ḥajjāj b.
Yūsuf and ʿAbd al-Malik’s judge over Damascus ʿĀmir b. Ludayn. Even
al-Walīd’s most visible scholarly activity, his initiation of the study of the
Qur’ān in al-Ramla/Palestine was done, it seems, as a replication in Pales-
tine of the work of an innovative scholar-offfĳicial at the Umayyad mosque
in Damascus. I would even go a little further and suggest that al-Walīd’s
trip to Palestine/al-Ramla could very well have been related to his job as
an expert glassmaker of weights for the government.98 After all, we do
97
Balog (1976: 10).
98
Paul Balog’s extensive work on glass weights and stamps convinced him that “from
the reign of ʿAbd al-Malik until that of Yazīd III (67–126 H.) a special weight system was
used in Syria (Filasṭīn).” idem (1976: 21).
know that al-Ramla had its own mint starting as early as 101/719 and pos-
sibly earlier.99
Overall, then, the move to Damascus brought al-Walīd closer to govern-
ment circles and put him on the road to joining them. What the stations
on this road were, other than making glass weights, before the caliph-
ate of Hishām, is impossible to pin down, other than to assume that
they involved his promotion into positions with more responsibilities
and, with that, more experience and visibilty. One could thus imagine
him rising gradually from a lowly employee who handles glass with his
hands‒“stamps” or “makes” weights—to an “executive” or “prefect”100 with
bureaucratic rather than menial responsibilities. Without this rise in the
hierarchy of the stafff at the offfĳice in charge of weights and measures, it
would be difffĳicult to account for his becoming one of the highest-ranking
fĳinancial offfĳicers in Syria—arguably in the empire‒during the caliphate
of Hishām. By the time of that caliphate—perhaps some twenty or thirty
years after his move to the Damascus area—he must have accumulated
sufffĳicient experience in matters technical and enough administrative acu-
men in offfĳice management, and he must have become visible enough that
the caliph himself, the highest authority in the empire, appointed him
Finance Director over the vastest stretch of fertile lands surrounding the
capital, al-Ghūṭa, a position in which he was autonomous, despite being
administratively subordinate to the governor of Damascus. As such, he
could report directly to the caliph, as we have seen him indeed do dur-
ing the crisis of Abū l-ʿAmarras and his gang, without going through the
governor of the jund of Damascus.
Al-Walīd’s assumption of this position made him obviously achieve
great power, so that his intervention was sought by people of all walks of
life,101 and even those of great wealth. This we learn from a report cited by
Ibn ʿAsākir.102 The context of the report is the strained relations between
the caliph Hishām and his former powerful governor of Iraq, Khālid
al-Qasrī, after the latter’s dismissal from offfĳice in 120/738. Hishām learned
that Khālid had bought a piece of land in the Ghūṭa without fĳirst seeking
his permission. Angered by this, Hishām sent a letter to his governor over
Damascus, the above mentioned Kulthūm b. ʿIyāḍ al-Qushayrī, ordering
99
For some surviving coins that carry the engarving of the mint of al-Ramla, see John
Walker (1956: 255–259, nos. 846–879). The earliest dated coin carries the date 101/719–20,
but several coins are undated.
100
See above, at n. 24.
101
See Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 34, 245; 63, 163.
102
In ibid., 1, 198–199.
him to immediately give Khālid’s two agents one hundred lashes each
and to parade them in the streets while someone proclaims their trans-
gresstion: buying land without the permission of the Commander of the
Faithful. He also ordered him “to impose a fĳine of 400 dīnārs on my agent
(ʿāmilī) over the Ghūṭa, al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, and to send them
[the dīnārs] to me, since a piece of land has been bought without his [the
caliph’s] permission.”103 If Hishām’s letter assumes that al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān was capable of coming up with 400 gold dīnārs on the spot,
then al-Walīd must have been capable of doing so. This means that, under
Hishām, he had become a very wealthy man.
The last report raises the question of where exactly in the Damascus
area had al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān resided, at least part of the time,
after leaving Ḥimṣ—and perhaps also the question of the possible per-
sonal motive with meaningful social implications for his move form Ḥimṣ.
A close examination of some texts in the historical sources may allow us
to answer these questions.
Some of these texts104 occur in the reports on the last stages of the suc-
cessful coup that Yazīd III carried out against the sitting caliph al-Walīd II
in 126/744. Yazīd’s supporters, mainly from South Arabian tribes, entered
Damascus and took control of its mosque and treasury, many proceeding
to it from villages in the Ghūṭa, such as Dūma, Ḥarastā, Saṭrā, al-Ḥadītha,
and Dayr Zakkā.105 The sources thus call them “the people of this-or-that
place”: ahl Dūmā wa-Ḥarastā . . . ahl . . . Saṭrā wa-ahl al-Ḥadītha wa-Dayr
Zakkā. Now among those groups ahl Jurash/Jarash are also mentioned.
Since the context is the Ghūṭa, the city of Jarash (in al-Urdunn) cannot be
meant; what is meant is the clan of Jurash. This presents a very interest-
ing but also strange dilemma: how can the word ahl, “the people of,” be
attached to a clan’s name? If the clan is meant, then “Jurash” is sufffĳicient,
without ahl. The explanation is simple and has been noted frequently by
Muslim scholars: tribes/clans settle in places and give these places their
own names. This is why we have, for example, the town of al-Awzāʿ in the
Ghūṭa, although the Awzāʿ are originally a tribe. Ahl Jurash in our texts,
then, must mean: the people of the village in the Ghūṭa called Jurash,
whose inhabitants were primarily (or at fĳirst, at its foundation) from the
clan of Jurash. What this means for our puposes here is that there must
103
Ibid., 1, 199.
104
In al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh 7, 241–242; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil 5, 285.
105
Yāqūt mentions that these villages were located in al-Ghūṭa. See his Muʿjam al-buldān
2, 486 (Dūma); 2, 242 (Ḥarastā); 3, 220 (Saṭrā); 2, 232 (al-Ḥadītha); 2, 513 (Dayr Zakkā).
have been some mass emigration of Jurashīs to the Ghūṭa near Damas-
cus several decades before 126/744, and those immigrants increased over
time; by 126/744 they had become numerous enough and sufffĳiciently
dominant in their new abode that their village was called by the name
of their clan—and probably even registered as such in the government’s
tax records.
Could al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān have been part of this emigration
out of Ḥimṣ into al-Ghūṭa? This is very likely: the timeframe of his life
certainly permits it, including his possible participation in the battle of
Marj Rāhiṭ, which took place in al-Ghūṭa, as does, of course, his eventual
appointment as the highest fĳinancial offfĳicer over al-Ghūṭa at the height
of his career. It also would explain how he was able to compose a list for
the caliph Hishām with the names and “tribal attributions and the towns
in which they were registered” of every thief who participated in the
stream of arsons in al-Ghūṭa organized by the gang leader Abū l-ʿAmarras:
al-Walīd probably knew of them from having lived in al-Ghūṭa for a very
long time, not only because he had government records at his disposal.
It is to be noted, that the Jurshī settlement in al-Ghūṭa seemed to have
increased after al-Walīd’s tenure as overseer of its fĳinancial afffairs. Half a
century later, in 174/790, during the rebellion of Abū al-Haydhām against
the ʿAbbāsid caliph al-Rashīd, there were four villages with independent
names belonging to the people of Jurash;106 and more than three centuries
later, there was still a village named “Ḥadīthat Jurash” in al-Ghūṭa.107
We can now return to the question posed at the beginning of this study:
whether the nickname of the grammarian al-Zajjāj could have come from
his working as a glass person for the government prior to his becoming
a private tutor and a companion of viziers and caliphs. The answer is,
of course, it is possible, as it was possible in the case of al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān two centuries earlier—even if al-Zajjāj had started his career
in glassmaking in the private sector. Indeed, the opportunities of working
for the government during al-Zajjāj’s time were certainly more numer-
ous than they were during the lifetime of al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.
In al-Walīd’s life we are not sure what the offfĳice that supervised the pro-
106
Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 26, 72; the safe conduct requested for the qurā Jurash were writ-
ten to the following villages: Bayt al-Balāṭ, Bayt Qūqā, al-Ḥadītha, and Jisrīn. On the revolt,
see Paul M. Cobb (2001: 82fff ).
107
It was in this village that the jurist and Qurʾān reciter al-Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad
al-Nahrabīnī was buried when he died in 530/1135; see Ibn ʿAsākir, Tārīkh 14, 302.
duction of glass weights was called—whether the name dār (or dīwān)
al-makāyīl wa-l-awzān or dār al-ʿiyār existed then, or was retroactively
used in the later sources; and there probably was not yet a muḥtasib in
charge of observing, among other things, the use of correct weights in the
market.108 By al-Zajjāj’s times, such institutions had become ubiquitous
administrative entities, clearly identifĳiable. It is also quite interesting to
note that both al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān and al-Zajjāj are success stories
of the ambitious and the skillful in that unstratifĳied early Islamic society,
both starting out from obscure beginnings steeped in the craft of glass-
making in the commercial sector, and both ending up becoming involved
in government circles and becoming rich and influential. Both also were
involved in scholarship. However, whereas in the case of al-Walīd b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān his scholarly career remained in a way parallel to his profes-
sional one of glassmaking, al-Zajjāj’s immersion in scholarship and then
in teaching seems to have put an end to his professional career as a
glassmaker. And whereas al-Walīd’s eventual immersion in his work for
the government subordinated his involvement in scholarship, al-Zajjāj’s
career developed in the opposite direction, leading to what seems to have
been a complete immersion in shcolarship. Despite that, though, al-Zajjāj,
like al-Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān—and actually more than him—contin-
ued to be known until the end by the epithet al-zajjāj!
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——. 1939. “Monnaies musulmanes et poids en verre inédits.” In Mélanges syriens offferts à
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——. 1980. “Reference Guide to Arabic Metrology.” Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geld-
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British Museum.
AGAINST THE ARABIC GRAMMARIANS
SOME POEMS
Geert Jan van Gelder
There is hardly a nobler discipline, in the history of Arab-Islamic civiliza-

tion, than grammar. Few would dispute its usefulness, or the subtlety and
insights of its practitioners since the time of Sībawayhi and al-Khalīl b.
Aḥmad in the eighth century. Few would and few did; but it is precisely
on these few that this contribution will focus, not to argue that they are
correct, but by way of light relief, and perhaps to show and expose some
of the excesses of these grammarians. This paper will not address the seri-
ous refutation of the grammarians (or rather of some of their methods)
by an Arab Sextus Empiricus,1 Ibn Maḍāʾ al-Qurṭubī (d. 592/1195), in his
al-Radd ʿalā l-nuḥāt, but instead will analyze a few poems that grumble
against the rules imposed by the grammarians, or mock those who need
explicit rules rather than an innate ability to produce correct speech.
Ramzi Baalbaki mentioned two such poems in his editorial introduction
to a collection of studies exploring the early Arabic grammatical tradition;
he also quotes a telling line by Ibn Fāris (a grammarian and lexicogra-
pher himself), describing a Turkish girl, whose languid eyes (attractive in
a pretty girl or boy) are “weaker than a grammarian’s argument” (aḍʿafa
min ḥujjati naḥwiyyī).2
One of these two poems is attributed to Abū Ghassān Rufayʿ b. Salama
b. Muslim b. Rufayʿ al-ʿAbdī, nicknamed Damādh (also pronounced
Dimādh), which, according to al-Marzubānī (d. 384/993), is a Persian word
meaning fasīla, or “offfset of a palm-tree,” or “small palm-tree.”3 This man
was the servant, ghulām, or the scribe, kātib, of Abū ʿUbayda (d. 210/825),
and short entries are given to him in works on grammarians, even though
1
Sextus Empiricus (d. c. AD 250), sceptic philosopher and author of Against the
Grammarians.
2
Baalbaki (2007: xxxix); the line by Ibn Fāris is found in Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat al-dahr 3,
403, Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 4, 87, Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 1, 119, al-Ṣafadī, Nuṣrat al-thāʾir
85, al-Suyūṭī, Bughyat al-wuʿāt 1, 352 and several other sources; also quoted by Ibn Maḍāʾ,
al-Radd (Ḍayf ) 72, and Ibn Maḍāʾ, al-Radd (Bannā) 64. See also Baalbaki (2009: 103), on
Rufayʿ b. Salama.
3
Al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 223; cf. Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān, FSL. I have not found the word
in Persian dictionaries. Instead of Rufayʿ, some editions have Rafīʿ, e.g. Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn
2, 156, al-Qālī, Amālī 3, 186, Ibn ʿAbd Rabbihi, al-ʿIqd 2, 488.
250 geert jan van gelder
they mention specifĳically that he was Abū ʿUbayda’s kātib fī l-akhbār, scribe
for his historical writings.4 Apparently, he became exasperated with the
study of grammar when hearing about the discussions of the use of the sub-
junctive; that, at least is clear from the poem, which I present here in the
version of al-Marzubānī:5
tafakkartu fī l-naḥwi ḥattā maliltu / wa-ʾatʿabtu rūḥī bihī wa-l-badan
wa-ʾatʿabtu bakran wa-ʾaṣḥābahū / bi-ṭūli l-masāʾili fī kulli fann
wa-kuntu ʿalīman bi-ʾiḍmārihī / wa-kuntu ʿalīman bi-mā qad ʿalan
fa-kuntu bi-ẓāhirihī ʿāliman / wa-kuntu bi-bāṭinihī dhā fĳiṭan
siwā ʾanna bāban ʿalayhi l-ʿafā- / ʾu li-l-fāʾi yā laytahū lam yakun
wa-li-l-wāwi bābun ʾilā janbihī / mina l-bughḍi ʾaḥsibuhū qad luʿin
ʾidhā qultu hātū li-mādhā yuqā- / lu lastu bi-ʾātīka ʾaw ta ʾ tiyan
ʾabīnū li-mā qīla hādhā ka-dhā / ʿalā l-naṣbi qālū li-ʾiḍmāri ʾan
wa-mā ʾin ʿalimtu lahā mawḍiʿan / yabīnu wa-ʾaʿrifu ʾillā bi-ẓann
fa-qad khiftu yā Bakru min ṭūli mā / ʾufakkiru fī baʿḍi dhā ʾan ʾujann
I have thought about grammar until I was bored;
I have wearied my body with it and my soul;
I have worn out al-Māzinī6 and all his friends
With long queries and problems on all kind of things.
In the past I knew matters implicit in it
And I used to know all things explicit in it,
I was knowledgeable about evident things,
Full of insight in things that is hidden in it,
There is only one chapter: the particle (Fie
On it!) fa, and I wish it would never have been!
And there’s one on the particle wa, next to it,
That’s so hateful I think that it must have been cursed.
When I say, “Tell me, please, why on earth do they say,
‘I will not come to you, or it be that you come’?
Please explain why they use the subjunctive mood here!”
Then they say, “Here the particle ‘that’ is implied”.
Yet I cannot see any clear reason for it
To be there; I don’t know and I can only guess.
My dear Bakr, I’ve been thinking for such a long time
About part of this thing I’m afraid I’ll go mad.
4
Al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt 181, al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 6, al-Bakrī, Simṭ 2, 87.
5
Al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 224; for other versions of the poem see Ibn Qutayba,
ʿUyūn 2, 156–57, al-Qālī, Amālī 3, 186, Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd 2, 489, al-Bayhaqī, al-Maḥāsin
423, al-Sīrāfī, Akhbār (Krenkow) 78, (Bannā) 88–89, Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahja 1, 68 (where
Damādh’s name is wrongly given as Ghassān b. Rufayʿ), al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 5–6. See also
Jabbārīn (1999: 332). For the sake of the clarity of the prosody, when transliterating verse,
I indicate word-initial hamza, normally omitted.
6
Abū ʿUthmān Bakr b. Muḥammad al-Māzinī (d. 247/861), grammarian from Basra. He
commented on this line: “I don’t think he ever asked me, so how could he have worn me
out?” (al-Qālī, al-Amālī 3, 186).
against the arabic grammarians: some poems 251
Al-Marzubānī explains:
This happened because the Basrians maintain that a verb is put in the sub-
junctive mood only when the particle an (“that”) is understood. Thus, when
someone says,
lā tanha ʿan khuluqin wa-ta ʾ tiya mithlahū
ʿārun ʿalayka ʾidhā faʿalta ʿaẓīmū
Do not forbid a vice and then do the like:
A grave and shameful thing, if you do that!7
then the interpretation [explaining the subjunctive wa-ta ʾ tiya] is: let not
these two things come together for you, that (an) you forbid a vice and that
(an) you do the like. If you say, “I will not come to you or it be that you come
(ʾaw ta ʾ tiya) to me” then the interpretation is “I will not come to you unless
(that) you come (ʾillā ʾan ta ʾ tiya) to me”. As for the particle fa, in God’s word
“Would that I had been with them, and I attained ( fa-ʾafūza) a mighty tri-
umph!” (Q 4:73), the interpretation is: “Would that it had come together for
me, that I had been with them and that I then had attained ( fa-ʾan ʾafūza)
a mighty triumph”.
Even though he claims in his poem to have understood all of grammar,
both its obvious and its more obscure topics, apart from the chapters on
the particles fa and wa, Damādh was not the only one to be bafffled by
the subjunctive mood in such cases.8 For the grammatical background
I could refer to the grammarians themselves, above all of course to the
master-grammarian who is the recipient of this volume, and who has
written authoritatively precisely on these “cursed” chapters.9 There is
one oddity connected with this: in the poem we fĳind lastu bi-ʾātīka ʾaw
ta ʾ tiyan. One notices in passing that the grammars do indeed use the
verb ʾatā “to come” in their illustrative sentences. However, one would
have expected ʾaw ta ʾ tiyā, the pausal form of ta ʾ tiya, so why is ta ʾ tiyan
used? At fĳirst sight this looks like the so-called energetic form, but I am
7
Often quoted; attributed to al-Akhṭal in Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 1, 424, to Ḥassān b.
Thābit in al-Sīrāfī, Sharḥ abyāt Sībawayhi 2, 188, to al-Mutawakkil al-Laythī in al-Buḥturī,
al-Ḥamāsa, 142, al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī 7, 160, Ibn ʿAbd Rabbihi, al-ʿIqd 2, 311, al-Marzubānī,
Muʿjam 339, to Sābiq al-Barbarī by al-Ḥātimī, Ḥilya 1, 296; anonymously in Ibn Qutayba,
ʿUyūn 2, 19. See also al-Baghdādī, Khizāna 8, 566–67, al-Baṣrī, al-Ḥamāsa 2, 15, etc.
8
See e.g. Stefan Wild (1980) and al-Hamadhānī, al-Maqāmāt 366 (al-Maqāma
al-Dīnāriyya): yā aqbaḥa min ḥattā fī mawāḍiʿa shattā (in Prendergast’s translation: “you
worse than ḥattā in its various constructions!”)—with thanks to Bilal Orfali for reminding
me of this phrase. The particle ḥattā can serve as a preposition, or an adverb, or a conjunc-
tion followed by the perfect, the imperfect indicative, or the subjunctive. The grammarian
al-Farrāʾ (d. 200/822) famously said “I’ll die with something about ḥattā still on my mind”
(e.g. al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 301, Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt 7, 180).
9
Baalbaki (2001).
not aware that this can ever be used instead of a subjunctive. The solu-
tion is to consider it a shortening of ta ʾ tiyanī, “you come to me,” which
would be very unusual in Abbasid times, but is at least attested in early
poetry; Damādh seems to allude specifĳically to a line by al-Aʿshā quoted
in Sībawayh’s Kitāb.10
The other sources for this poem do not offfer important variants, but a
few deviations should be mentioned. The third line, with the words wa-
kuntu ʿalīman bi-ʾiḍmārihī, is found only in al-Marzubānī. It is interesting
that it contains the word iḍmār, which nicely anticipates line 8, on the
“implied” presence of an, the matter that gave rise to the poem; iḍmār is
used here as a near-synonym of taqdīr, “theoretical reconstruction”.11 Clever
though it may be, I think the line may be a later addition, an amplifĳication
of the idea expressed in the following line, where the antonymous pair
iḍmār and iʿlān (here used as a merismus: the implicit and the explicit,
i.e. all of it) is replaced by another pair, bāṭin and ẓāhir. One cannot be
sure, of course, and that Damādh liked to play with words is clear from his
amusing paronomasia, bāban (ʿalayhi l-ʿafāʾ!) li-l-fāʾ, “a chapter–Fie on it!–
on fāʾ”. In the oldest sources, Ibn Qutayba, Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, and al-Qālī,
the last line is fa-qad khiftu yā bakru min ṭūli mā / ʾufakkiru fī ʾamri ʾan
ʾan ʾujann, “My dear Bakr, I’ve been thinking for such a long time / On
the matter of ‘that’ that I fear I’ll go mad”, a reading I prefer not so much
because it may be older as for the appropriate use of the subjunctive and
the witty repetition of ʾan. The penultimate line as found in these sources
is wa-mā ʾin ra ʾ aytu lahā mawḍiʿan / fa-ʾaʿrifa mā qīla ʾillā bi-ẓann, “Yet I
cannot see any clear reason for it / To be there so I know it; I can only
guess.” One notices that it contains precisely the same kind of subjunctive,
after fa- in this case. To me this, too, seems a superior reading, because it
shows that to those who grew up with the language (and Damādh, in spite
of his nickname, was an Arab by descent) do not need explicit knowledge
of the rules of grammar in order to apply them correctly.
10
fa-hal yamnaʿannī rtiyādu l-bilā- / di min ḥadhari l-mawti ʾan ya ʾtiyan; another line
from the same poem ends . . . ʾidhā mā ntasabtu lahū ʾankaran, see Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 2,
151, 290; cf. also Wright (1896–98: 2, 371). Another archaic feature in the poem is the vari-
ant fakkartu, found instead of tafakkartu in the version of al-Sīrāfī: the elision of the fĳirst
short syllable in the mutaqārib meter called kharm (normally found only in the opening
line of a poem) is very rare in muḥdath poetry. It is probably the original reading, since it
is unlikely that al-Sīrāfī would have introduced it.
11
The terms refer to the same thing from diffferent points of view: iḍmār means that the
speaker “hides” something, taqdīr means that the grammarian “reconstructs” it.
This is precisely what is suggested by another poem, which is more

explicitly directed against the grammarians. Damādh may not have been
a real grammarian but at least he was part of the circle of scholars. This
second poem is by someone outside the purviews of scholarship but very
much inside the world of original Bedouin poetry. Again, it is found in
various sources and forms; I present the longest version, from Ibn ʿAbd
al-Barr’s Bahjat al-majālis, where the poet is said to be an otherwise
unknown ʿAmmār al-Kalbī.12
mādhā laqītu mina l-mustaʿribīna wa-min 1

qiyāsi naḥwihimū hādhā lladhī btadaʿū
ʾin qultu qāfĳiyatan bikran yakūnu lahā
maʿnan yukhālifu mā qāsū wa-mā ṣanaʿū
qālū laḥanta fa-hādhā l-ḥarfu munkhafĳiḍun
wa-dhāka naṣbun wa-hādhā laysa yartafĳiʿū
wa-ḥarrashū bayna ʿabdi llāhi fa-jtahadū
wa-bayna zaydin wa-ṭāla l-ḍarbu wa-l-wajaʿū
fa-qultu wāḥidatan fīhā jawābuhumū 5
wa-kathratu l-qawli bi-l-ʾījāzi tanqaṭiʿū
mā kullu qawliya mashrūḥun lakum fa-khudhū
mā taʿrifūna wa-mā lam taʿrifū fa-daʿū
ḥattā ʾaʿūda ʾilā l-qawmi lladhīna ghudhū
bi-mā ghudhītu bihī wa-l-qawlu yattasiʿū
fa-taʿrifū minhu maʿnā mā ʾafūhu bihī
ka-ʾannanī wa-humū fī qawlihī sharaʿū
kam bayna qawmin qadi ḥtālū li-manṭiqihim
wa-bayna qawmin ʿalā l-ʾiʿrābi qad ṭubiʿū
wa-bayna qawmin ra ʾ aw ʾashyā muʿāyanatan 10
wa-bayna qawmin ḥakaw baʿḍa lladī samiʿū
ʾinnī rubītu bi-ʾarḍin lā yushabbu bihā
nāru l-majūsi wa-lā tubnā bihā l-biyaʿū
wa-lā yaṭā l-qirdu wa-l-khinzīru turbatahā
lākin bihā l-rīmu wa-l-riʾbālu wa-l-ḍabuʿū
12
Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahja 1, 69–70; cf. Ibn Jinnī, al-Khaṣāʾiṣ 1, 239–240, al-Tawḥīdī,
al-Imtāʿ 2, 140, al-Wāḥidī, Sharḥ 533–534 (where the poet is given as ʿAmmār al-Kilābī),
al-Qifṭī, Inbāh II, 42–43, Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 7, 104, (where the poet is called ʿAmr
al-Kalbī), al-Zawzanī, Ḥamāsa 288, al-ʿAlawī, Naḍra 454. Seven lines, from the versions of
Yāqūt and al-Wāḥidī, are quoted and translated in Fück (1950: 90, 1955: 137–138).
They are a pain, these would-be Arabs and that thing of theirs 1
They have invented, called “Grammatical Analogy”!
When I compose a virgin13 poem that contains a thing
That goes against their novelty and their Analogy,
They say, “A solecism! This should be a genitive!
That word is an accusative! No nominative there!”
They take great pains to set Abdallah against Amr and Zayd,
And the result is much protracted beating and much pain.
I’ve made one poem that will answer them once and for all: 5
A lot of talking is cut short by means of brevity.
Not everything I say will be explained to you: so take
Whatever you understand; and what you do not, leave alone!
Then I’ll return to my own people, who’ve been fed on what
I have been fed myself, where one is free to speak at large.
Then they14 will understand what I intend to say to them,
And they and I will be, in what we say, on equal terms.
How diffferent are those who must make effforts when they speak
From those who, by their nature stamped, speak perfect Arabic!
How great the gap between those who have seen with their own eyes 10
And those who merely imitate some things that they have heard!
Where I have been brought up no fĳires are ever kindled by
The Zoroastrians, nor are there any churches built.
No monkey and no pig will ever trample on its soil:
The antelope, the lion, the hyena are found there.15
The poet is particularly incensed about qiyās, analogy (vss. 1–2); although
manṭiq in vs. 9 seems to mean “speech,” it is possible that the poet puns
on the secondary meaning, “logic.” Qiyās has always been controversial,
and not only in grammatical analysis, of course, especially when it takes
on a life of its own. Abū Muḥammad al-Yazīdī (d. 202/817) condemns, not
grammar as such, but grammarians who apply qiyās too rigorously:16
13
I.e. with original motifs, never used before.
14
Preferring the reading fa-yaʿrifū, with al-Wāḥidī, instead of fa-taʿrifū, “then you will
know”: the poet seems to refer to his own people, who will understand him. The line is
not found in the other sources.
15
Al-Tawḥīdī has al-hayqu wa-l-sīdānu wa-l-ṣadaʿū, “the male ostrich, wolves, and young
mountain goats (or young antelopes, onagers, camels)”, al-Qifṭī has al-ʿīnu wa-l-dhayyālu
wa-l-ṣadaʿū, “large-eyed oryx cows, wild bulls . . .”
16
al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 287, al-Sīrāfī, Akhbār (Krenkow) 44–45, (Bannā) 61–62,
Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ XX, 31–32, Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzhat al-alibbāʾ 71, al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 2,
163–164. See also Jabbārīn (1999) 331.
kunnā naqīsu l-naḥwa fīmā maḍā / ʿalā lisāni l-ʿarabi l-ʾawwalī

ḥattā ʾatā qawmun yaqīsūnahū / ʿalā lughā ʾashyākhi quṭrabbulī
fa-jāʾanā ʾaqwāmun yaqīsūnahū / ʿalā lisāni l-nabaṭi l-ʾardhalī
fa-kulluhum yaʿmalu fī naqḍi mā / bihī yuṣābu l-ḥaqqu lā ya ʾ talī
ʾinna l-kisāʾiyya wa-ʾaṣḥābahū / yarqawna fī l-naḥwi ʾilā ʾasfalī
In the past the old Bedouin language we used
As our standard to argue in grammar,
Until people arrived whose standard is now
From the slang of old men in Quṭrabbul.
And yet others have come, whose standards derive
From the tongue of the vile Nabataeans.
Thus they all are at work in destroying the ways
That the truth may be found, without tiring.
Al-Kisāʾī, in league with his colleagues, ascends
With his naḥw in a downward “direction”.17
Al-Kisāʾī (d. c. 180/796 or 189/805) is said to have used informants of Bed-
ouin ancestry living a sedentary, suburban life in Quṭrabbul, near Baghdad;
it is the same al-Kisāʾī who, in a poem, praised grammar as a useful disci-
pline and defĳined it as qiyās: ʾinnamā l-naḥwu qiyāsun yuttabaʿ / wa-bihī
fī kulli ʿilmin yuntafaʿ (“Grammar is nothing but analogy to be pursued, /
and put to use in every discipline”).18
ʿAmmār al-Kalbī is perhaps the fĳirst, but by no means the last, to make
fun of the ubiquity of Zayd, ʿAmr, and ʿAbd Allāh in grammatical exem-
plary sentences, where they are always beating one another. The Egyptian
poet Jamāl al-Dīn Yaḥyā al-Jazzār (d. 669/1270 or 679/1281) says, at the
beginning of in a longer poem,19
qaṭaʿtu shabībatī wa-ʾaḍaʿtu ʿumrī / wa-qad ʾatʿabtu fī l-hadhayānī fĳikrī
wa-mā lī ʾujratun fīhī wa-lā lī / ʾidhā mā tubtu yawman baʿḍu ʾajrī
qara ʾ tu l-naḥwa tibyānan wa-fahman / ʾilā ʾan kiʿtu minhu wa-ḍāqa ṣadrī
fa-mā stanbaṭtu minhu siwā muḥālin / yuḥālu bihī ʿalā zaydin wa-ʿamrī
fa-kāna l-naṣbu fīhi ʿalayya naṣban / wa-kāna l-rafʿu fīhi li-ghayri qadrī
wa-kāna l-khafḍu fīhī julla ḥaẓẓī / wa-kāna l-jazmu fīhi li-qaṭʿi dhikrī . . .
I spent my youth, I wasted all my life,
And I wore out my mind with poppycock,
17
One of the basic meanings of naḥw (“grammar, syntax”) is “direction”.
18
Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 8, 191, Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahja 1, 68, al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 267,
al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī 21, 71, al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 164. Some of the oldest sources, with fī kulli ʾamrin
(“in every matter”) instead of fī kulli ʿilmin, make grammar and qiyās even more universally
useful: Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, al-Waraqah 27, al-Marzubānī, Muʿjam, 138.
19
Ibn Shākir, Fawāt 4, 285, al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī 28, 202–203 (which, in the last verse, has fīhi
maḥalla instead of fīhī julla).
Without a wage, nor will there ever be,

When I repent one day, any Reward.
I studied grammar with clear insight, but
Then I lost heart and felt depressed by it.
All I got out of it were things absurd,
For playing silly tricks on Amr and Zayd.
Accusative, that swindle, stands accused,
Nominative named only other men,
The Genitive was never genial to me,
The Jussive Mood to me was never just.20
An epigram attributed to al-Maʾmūnī (d. 383/993) is quoted by Ibn ʿAbd
al-Barr:21
sa-ʾatruku l-naḥwa li-ʾaṣḥābihī / wa-ʾaṣrifu l-himmata fī l-ṣaydī
ʾinna dhawī l-naḥwi lahum himmatun / mawsūmatun bi-l-makri wa-l-kaydī
yaḍribu ʿabdu llāhi zaydan wa-mā / yurīdu ʿabdu llāhi min zaydī
Grammar I’ll leave to those who practice it;
I’ll turn my mind to hunting.
Grammarians have minds that bear the stamp
Of scheming and of cunning.
Abdallah’s beating Zayd, but what on earth
Does this Abdallah want from Zayd?
An unnamed Bedouin, at a session of Abū Zayd al-Anṣārī (d. 214/829 or
215/830), says it as follows:22
laysa li-l-naḥwi jiʾtukum / lā wa-lā fīhi ʾarghabū
ʾana mālī wa-li-mriʾin / ʾabada l-dahri yuḍrabū
khalli zaydan li-sha ʾ nihī / ʾaynamā shāʾa yadhhabū
I haven’t come to you for grammar,
I do not long for it.
What have I got to do with one
Who’s always being hit?
Leave Zayd alone and let him go
Wherever he thinks fĳit.
20
It is not possible to translate the punning in lines 4–6 adequately. A more literal
version of the two last lines would be “The accusative (naṣb, ‘setting up’) in it to me was a
swindle (naṣb), / The nominative (raf ʿ, ‘raising’) in it raised only other people’s status, //
The genitive (khafḍ, ‘lowering’) in it was all I got, / The jussive (jazm, ‘cutting offf’) in it
only cut short my reputation”.
21
Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahja 1, 67; a diffferent version, ascribed to baʿḍ al-warrāqīn, in Ibn
ʿAbd Rabbihi, al-ʿIqd 2, 487.
22
Al-Sīrāfī, Akhbār (Krenkow) 54, (al-Bannā) 69; cf. al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 107, Ibn
Khallikān, Wafayāt 3, 490–491, Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzha 104, al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 237, accord-
ing to the editor found in the margin of the manuscript.
It is always irksome when one hears what seems to be one’s own language
but fĳinds it wholly unintelligible. By way of introduction to the poem by
ʿAmmār al-Kalbī, al-Qifṭī recounts the following anecdote:23
A Bedouin stopped by a class of al-Akhfash and heard them speak about
grammar (or syntax, naḥw). He was bewildered and amazed. He bowed his
head and muttered to himself (waswasa). Al-Akhfash said to him, “Hearing
anything odd, Arab brother?” He replied, “I see you speak with our speech
about our speech things not found in our speech!” Then al-Akhfash recited
[this poem], by a Bedouin.
The same bewilderment is expressed by an anonymous Bedouin in the
following epigram:24
mā zāla ʾakhdhuhumū fī l-naḥwi yuʿjibunī
ḥattā taʿāṭaw kalāma l-zanji wa-l-rūmī
ḥattā samiʿtu kalāman lastu ʾaʿrifuhū
ka ʾ annahū zajalu l-ghirbāni wa-l-būmī
rafaḍtu naḥwahumū wa-llāhu yaʿṣimunī
mina l-taqaḥḥumi fī tilka l-jarāthīmī
Their ways with grammar never fail to bafffle me:
They seem to deal with speech of Blacks and Byzantines.
I hear their speech and do not understand a thing:
It sounds much like the raucous cries of crows and owls.
Their grammar I reject hereby! May God keep me
Immune from stumbling upon anthills (dust-heaps?) such as these.25
Abū l-Zahrāʾ Ṣalaṭān b. ʿAwsaja, another Bedouin, does something sim-
ilar in a poem, in which he ungratefully attacks his kind host in Kufa,
Abū Ḥammād, a merchant and seller of date, who was an admirer of the
23
al-Qifṭī, Inbāh 2, 42, in the entry on Saʿīd b. Masʿada al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ (d. c.
215/830). According to al-Qifṭī, al-Akhfash then recited the poem Mādhā laqītu, “by some
Arab”. Yāqūt has a diffferent introduction, in which ʿAmr al-Kalbī (thus) is peeved when
“an erudite person” (baʿḍ ahl al-adab) tells him that the word mazʿūj, in a line recited by
ʿAmr, should be muzʿaj (Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 7, 103).
24
Al-Marzubānī, Nūr al-qabas 58, Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahja 1, 69; it is attributed it to “Abū
Muslim, the tutor of ʿAbd al-Malik b. Marwān” in al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt 125–126, al-Qifṭī,
Inbāh 3, 292; 4, 169 and al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 2, 291. See also Jabbārīn (1999: 331). A reply by
Muʿādh al-Harrāʾ is quoted in these sources, which makes for problematic chronology, for
Muʿādh (d. 187/803), though born, it is said, during the reign ʿAbd al-Malik (d. 86/705), can
hardly have been old enough to address the caliph’s tutor, yet in the accompanying anec-
dote Abū Muslim is said to have attended his majlis. See also Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-udabāʾ 8,
193–194 and al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī 21, 72: . . . bi-maf ʿalin faʿilin lā ṭāba min kalimin / ka-ʾannahū
zajalu l-ghirbāni wa-l-būmī. According to the version in al-Rāghib, Muḥāḍarāt 1, 20, which
has fī l-shiʿri instead of fī l-naḥwi, it is the study of prosody rather than grammar that is
mocked here.
25
I am not wholly certain of the translation; jurthūma means “root, base of a tree; dust-
heap around a tree;” it can also mean “anthill”, which seems to suit the context.
speech of the Bedouin Arabs and who questioned his guest on a matter
of grammar:26
yusāʾilunī bayyāʿu tamrin wa-jardaqin
wa-māziju ʾabwālin lahū fī ʾināʾihī
ʿani l-rafʿi baʿda l-khafḍi lā zāla khāfĳiḍan
wa-naṣbin wa-jazmin ṣīgha min sūʾi rāʾihī
fa-qultu lahū hādhā kalāmun jahiltahū
wa-dhū l-jahli yarwī l-jahla ʿan nuẓarāʾihī . . .
I am asked by seller of dates and of cakes,
a mixer of all kinds of piss in his vessel,27
About “raising” [nominative] and “lowering” [genitive]—may he “lower”
forever!—
and “erecting” [accusative], and “clipping” [jussive], formed from his evil
ideas!
I told him: these are words of which you are ignorant;
an ignorant man will transmit ignorance from his equals. . .
In the rest of the poem he proceeds to lampoon the grammarians rather
than their grammar: “Who is then that clothier, someone who shits in his
clothes?” (on al-Kisāʾī, whose name means “clothier”).
One of the problems of works on syntax—and the same could be said
about most treatises on prosody, ʿilm al-ʿarūḍ—is that they often seem
remote from normality. Just as the works on poetic meters are full of
verses that are either fabricated or exceptional, works on grammar con-
tain sentences that nobody would ever produce. An anonymous request
for information in the form of an epigram addressed to Abū Bakr b. ʿUmar
Ibn al-Daʿʿās al-Fārisī (d. 667/ 1269) may have been meant seriously, but
one suspects that it was a way of mocking the grammarians:28
ʾayyuhā l-fāḍilu fīnā ʾaftinā / wa-ʾazil ʿannā bi-fatwāka l-ʿanā
kayfa iʿrābu nuḥāti l-naḥwi fī / “ ʾana ʾanta l-ḍāribī ʾanta ʾanā”?
Distinguished Sir! Please give us your advice,
And with your fatwa end our misery:
How do the syntacticians parse this:
“I whom you are my hitter me is me”?
26
Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd III, 493–494 (I am grateful to Bilal Orfali for this reference). On
this Abū l-Zahrāʾ, see Nagel 2003.
27
Abū Ḥammād’s neighbours sold date wine.
28
Al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 470.
Abū Bakr, who is indeed a faqīh and a poet as well as a grammarian, is

undaunted and replies in verse:29
“ ʾana ʾanta l-ḍāribī” mubtada ʾ un / fa-ʿtabirhā yā ʾimāman sananā
“ ʾanta” baʿda “l-ḍāribī” fāʿiluhū / wa-“ ʾanā” yukhbiru ʿanhū ʿalanā
thumma ʾinna “l-ḍāribī ʾanta ʾanā” / khabarun ʿan “ ʾanta” mā fīhi nthinā
wa-“ ʾana” l-jumlatu ʿanhū khabarun / wa-hya min “ ʾanta” ʾilā “ ʾanta ʾanā”
I shall not attempt to translate this into iambic English verse. The learned
Abū Bakr explains that the sentence makes grammatical sense, even
though it is difffĳicult to imagine someone who needs to express himself
in this manner except to tease. The words ʾana ʾanta l-ḍāribī (“I whom
you are my hitter”) are the subject of an embedded nominal sentence;
the word ʾanta (“you”) that follows is the subject of the verb implied in
the participle ḍāribī (“my hitter”), the fĳinal ʾanā (“I”) is a clarifĳication,
for the sake of emphasis, of the sufffĳix object pronoun -ī (“me”) in ḍāribī.
The words l-ḍāribī ʾanta (“my hitter me”) are the predicate of the second
ʾanta (“you”); the words from the fĳirst ʾanta until the end function as the
predicate of the fĳirst ʾanā, together forming the sentence as a whole. That
is, if I understand it correctly; in yet other words, “I, the hitter-(which is
you)-of-whom-(which is me) is you, am in fact me.” It is doubtful whether
this sentence is very informative even when it is understood, but one is
struck by the fact that it is, again, about hitting people. At least all this
hitting of Zayd and ʿAmr vividly underlines that learning and studying
Arabic syntax can be a painful process; and in a sense it is better than the
way I was taught Arabic, Hebrew, and a bit of Syriac in the 1960s, for the
most popular paradigmatic verb at the time was qatala / qaṭal, “to kill.”30
Some poets express aversion to all scholarship, lumping grammar
together with other disciplines. Jamāl al-Dīn al-Jazzār, after the verses
quoted above, goes on to mock prosody with its mafāʿīlun mafāʿīlūn
faʿūlun and other dummy words; Muḥammad b. al-Qāsim b. Mihrawayhi
29
A similar grammatical fatwa in verse by the Andalusian poet and grammarian
Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā Qalfāṭ (d. 302/915) is given by al-Zubaydī, Ṭabaqāt 280–281, in reply
to a query that is lost (and possibly in verse, and meant as mockery) about how to apply
the pattern of musḥankik (i.e. muf ʿanlil) to the roots ʾYN and ʾNY; according to al-Zubaydī
he makes a mess of the morphology.
30
Brockelmann (1965a: 4*–9*), Lettinga (1962: 90–91), Harrison (1962: 158–165), Brock-
elmann (1965b: 126–129), Costaz (1964: 133–138), Höfner (1943: 59–72). One may compare
the complaint of the Greek poet Palladas in an epigram, about grammar books starting
with “wrath”, “woes” and other curses, taken from the beginning of the Iliad (The Greek
Anthology 3, 90–91).
(d. c. 275/88), author of a lost book on poets, quoted the following lines
(with an untranslatable wordplay in naḥḥi l-naḥwa):31
ʾa-ʿādhilu naḥḥi l-naḥwa fa-l-shuʾmu fī l-naḥwī
wa-kulli ʿarūḍiyyin khaliyyin mina l-sarwī
wa-mā jtamaʿā wa-l-khayra fī manzili mriʾin
takallama bi-l-taqʿīri fī majlis l-laghwī
You who reproach me, take away this “grammar”! There’s bad luck in
grammar
and in every prosodist lacking nobility.
There has never been anything good in these two coming together in the
house
of a man who speaks pompously where people gather to speak drivel.
Among the rudest verses on grammar may well be the distich by Abū
l-Muṭahhar al-Azdī (d. 5th/11th century), said by the foul-mouthed epony-
mous protagonist of Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim al-Baghdādī:32
ʾin ʿāba mawlāya qawlī / wa-ghtābanī bi-qabīḥī
kharītu fī bābi ʾafʿal- / tu min kitābi l-faṣīḥī
If you fĳind fault, my dear Sir, with my words,
And calumniate me,
I’ll shit in the chapter “To Make Someone Do”
Of The Book of Good Arabic Usage.
Kitāb al-Faṣīḥ is without doubt the well-known work of Thaʿlab (d. 291/904),
which has a chapter entitled bāb faʿaltu wa-afʿaltu bi-khtilāf al-maʿnā, “Chap-
ter on Verbal Forms I and IV with Diffferent Meanings.”33 Perhaps even ruder
is Ibn al-Ḥajjāj (d. 391/1001), who said at the end of a longer poem:34
shaykhī ʾabū murratin wa-ʿayshiya law / ʿaṣaytuhū kāna fāsidan murrā
law ʿābanī sībawayhi qultu lahū / kharā l-kisāʾī fī liḥyati l-farrā
The devil (lit. “Father of Bitterness”) is my master, and my life,
If I would disobey him, would be bad and bitter.
Were Sībawayhi to blame me, I would say to him:
May al-Kisāʾī’s shit be on the beard of al-Farrāʾ.
31
Al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī 28, 225, which has Mahduwayh instead of Mihrawayh (but see e.g.
Sezgin, Geschichte II, 95, 457, 506, 507). Instead of the edition’s ʾa-ʿādhila I read ʾa-ʿādhilu.
32
[al-Tawḥīḍi], al-Risāla 57 and Azdī, Ḥikāya 7. Its most recent editor has attributed
the work, on uncertain grounds, to Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī. The earlier edition, by Mez,
wrongly has wa-ʿtābanī and al-faḍīḥī.
33
See Thaʿlab, Faṣīḥ 11–14.
34
Ibn Nubāta, Talṭīf 135 (I thank Emily Selove for this reference).
In the last verse the poet manages to insult three leading early grammari-
ans, Sībawayh (d. c. 177/793), al-Kisāʾī, and al-Farrāʾ (d. 207/822). Moreover,
the line will only scan correctly (in munsariḥ meter) if grammar itself is
violated, by shortening al-Kisāʾiyyi to the uninflected al-Kisāʾī:35 the poet
is simultaneously rude and subtle, aptly exploiting apparent ineptness.
The ungrammaticality committed by Ibn al-Ḥajjāj in this verse is
exceptional and thereby seems to confĳirm the general observation that
although poets may grumble against the rules imposed by the grammar-
ians they are not seriously rebelling against them. The works of grammar-
ians are to a large extent descriptive rather than prescriptive; nevertheless
their rules were, quite naturally, taken (and intended) as normative and
binding. This could not but cause some slight resentment in the minds
of those who had naturally incorporated the rules to such an extent that
they needed neither explicit rules nor a plethora of technical terms.
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LINGUISTICS
LINGUISTIC OBSERVATIONS ON THE THEONYM ALLĀH
Aziz Al-Azmeh
The purpose of this essay is to look into the character and possible prov-
enance of the divine name Allāh, which became ultimately the supreme
theonym in the Qurʾān. The discussion to follow is concerned primarily
with matters of direct pertinence to the divine name Allāh as a linguistic
phenomenon; other aspects of this theonym, such as the contexts of its
use among pagan Arabs, of the use and semantic status of theonyms in
general, and its use in the Qurʾān, have been treated elsewhere.1 Further,
the following paragraphs shall confĳine their treatment to the pre-Qurʾānic
Allāh almost exclusively as a proper name: as an iconic sign having no
determinate semantic content or standard pragmatic interpretation, and
virtually irrespective of any interpretative code which might establish its
intension and extension, as a member of the “linguistically poor universe”
of proper names.2
Morphologically, it is clear that Allāh is related to the Semitic ’lh, of
which it is an amplifĳied form.3 Whether a morphological treatment based
upon the standard stem and pattern model common in Semitic philol-
ogy overall be an appropriate guide to semantical pragmatics and his-
torical linguistics is a view that I hold to be doubtful, not least as this
model appears to be a tool of grammatical and lexicographic rationalisa-
tion rather than a description of actual word formation, with the stem
being an artifact rather than a linguistic reality.4 Be that as it may, fol-
lowing an opinion common among Arab grammarians, and attributed to
al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad, Allāh has generally been taken to be a syncope of
al-’Ilāh by a haplology, with the suppression of the hamza according to
a regular pattern in Arabic nominal terms (’lh < ilāh < al-ilāh < Allāh),5
1
This essay is an amended version of a section in ch. 5 of my forthcoming A History of
Allah: Islam in Late Antiquity. General points made throughout this essay are sustained by
detailed discussion there.
2
Eco (1977: 87 and § 2.9.2); Ullmann (1971: 122).
3
Thus, not from ’il and the morphologically related *Iln, *Ilahay, *Ilat and others, as
suggested by Moubarac (1955: 98f.).
4
See in particular, Larcher (1995: passim); idem (2007: 94 fff.); Porkhomovsky (2007: 46).
5
Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 2, 195fff. drawing an analogy with unās < al-unās < al-nās. See
Fleisch (1961: § 30h); Testen (1998: 215fff.).
268 aziz al-azmeh
though the degree of regularity of this rule has been disputed.6 There does
seem to be a certain contrivance in the labour of classical Arab linguists
who devoted some considerable attention to this matter. Some preferred
to see Allāh generated from ’Ilāh, others from lāh; often, in the manner
usual for the time and still common in Islamic Studies today, a marked
preference was given to considerations of etymology.7 This said, it must
also be stated that this view is morphologically and semantically satisfac-
tory and presents no serious phonetic difffĳiculties.
The trouble with such morphological genealogies is that they privilege
etymologies and pseudo-etymologies of supposedly ultimate origin and
initial condition (what Arabic grammarians and lexicographers termed
waḍʿ) over a more historical pursuit of realised semantic fĳields and of
pragmatics,8 and, indeed, over the history of language. They draw seman-
tic conclusions from morphological connections incautiously, appearing
far too bookish and unhistorical, in this case postulating implicitly for
the authors of Safaitic inscriptions, and for Muḥammad, an improbable
application to morphology as various derived forms of the stem ’lh were
deployed. In this sense, the evasion of historical, semantic and a socio-
linguistic approach to the matter would amount to a somewhat incurious
lectio facilior.
In contrast, paralinguistic and non-philological considerations would,
however, indicate a number of more pertinent matters. ’Lh had been voca-
lised as Allāh when used as the theophoric element in a variety of personal
names, spread widely, and this is shown by late antique Greek epigraphic
and literary transliterations in northern Arabia and its extensions further
north (as -allas or -allos).9 One might note, anticipating a point which will
be made below, that Allāt, or rather ’lt, to which the Arabic defĳinite article
is almost invariably imputed, is a name not attested epigraphically in the
form Allāt. She was an ubiquitous deity, worshipped far beyond territories
6
Winnett (1938: 247).
7
Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿarab, ʾ-l-h; al-Rāzī, al-Tafsīr al-kabīr 1, 87fff.; Gimaret (1988: 121fff.).
For Allāt: Krone (1992, 43fff.). For a review of the morphology of Allāh and other divine
names in the Qurʾān according to Arabic grammarians, see al-Zajjājī, Ishtiqāq asmāʾ Allāh.
For reasons that remain unclear, Ibn Durayd, al-Ishtiqāq, 11, 482, declared, uncommonly,
that he was disinclined to pursue this matter.
8
On the root fallacy of Biblical vocabulary and associated themes, see Barr (1961, 107
fff.); in briefer compass but with succinct focus, Sawyer (1999: 116), and the works there
cited.
9
For instance, J.-B. Chabot and G. Ryckmans (1907–1950: ## 2049, 2066, 2096) (the last
an uncertain reading), and passim, derivatives from -’lhy, with the y serving as a mater lec-
tionis; Haussig (1965: 422); Wuthnow (1930: passim—the evidence here stems from Egypt);
Bin Sarāy and al-Shāmisī (2000: 33); Sourdel (10, 52, 88).
linguistic observations on the theonym allāh 269
where the defĳinite article al- was in use, and long before there is any evi-
dence for the use of this phoneme as a defĳinite article.
Moreover, on the common assumption of the presence of a defĳinite
article attached to these theonyms, the Dadanitic hlh and Thamudic h’lh
should in fact have been ha-Lah, or han-’Ilah,10 not ha- or han-Allah, and
clearly not Allāh. In the context of compounds from ’lh in Arabic, one
might also consider Arabic forms of jurative invocation, not very frequent
but common enough, that use lah as their nominative element, but with-
out the velarised or emphatic ḷ, of Allāh, such as ta-l-Lāh, li-l-Lāh and
(more commonly) bil-Lāh. Like li and bi, the element ta functions gram-
matically as a preposition, and all these expressions are formulaic ellipses
excluding uqsimu (“I swear”) and similar formulae.11 In all these cases,
Arabic grammar detected a contracted Allāh component, although these
jurative invocations actually have the form of ta-’llah and bi-’llah, with
hamzat al-waṣl omitted. One possible conclusion that might be drawn
from the foregoing is that the ha element in Ancient North Arabian may
well have been a prefĳixed vocative particle rather than a defĳinite article, a
phenomenon which is attested.12 Transposing this into the suggestion that
the alin Allāh may be a vocative particle is attractive, but it would seem
to be unique to Allāh, as there is no incidence elsewhere in Arabic of its
use as a vocative particle.
Whatever conclusion may or may not be drawn from this, it is likely
that, in terms of its history, the form Allāh was not so much a morpho-
logical derivation from ilāh or lāh, as integrally primary, it was a name
adopted, in an obscure way that is probably no longer recoverable, in its
absolute form irrespective of its morphology. This is a matter also high-
lighted in Arabic grammar, where the al- element was seen in this case to
be integral to the word’s structure, and not used as a mark of defĳinitive-
ness, not least on the devotional argument that the supreme name of God
cannot be indefĳinite,13 a perceptive intuition nevertheless. The implausi-
bility of the morphological hypothesis discussed is further sustained by
the fact that the addition of the defĳinite article al- to Lāh or Ilāh would
10
The defĳinite article in Dadanitic changes from h- to hn- only before glottals and
pharyngals: Macdonald (2004: 517f.).
11
cf. Fleisch (1961: § 151g), and see al-Suyūṭī, al-Itqān fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān 1, 572.
12
Ibn Manẓūr. Lisān al-ʿarab, “h”; Macdonald (2004: 519).
13
Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 2, 195f.; Khan, Die exegetischen Teile des Kitāb al-‘Ayn, 112; al-Qurṭubī,
al-Jāmiʿ li Aḥkām al-Qur’ān 1, 103); al-Suyūṭī, al-Itqān fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān 1, 543). See the dis-
cussion of the related questions of defĳinitiveness in proper and common names in Ibn
al-Anbārī, al-Inṣāf fī masāʾil al-khilāf, # 101, and of alin Ibn Hishām, Mughnī al-labīb, 50f.
270 aziz al-azmeh
yield diffferent but allophonic values for the medial vowel a (/Œ/ and /a/
respectively, according to the International Phonetic Alphabet, for Lah/
Ilah and Allah). This is at least the case with their enunciation according
to standard Qurʾānic modes of cantillation.
This brings us to the related matter of tafkhīm, emphasis by velarisa-
tion of the phoneme /ḷ/ in Aḷḷāh which, like defĳinitiveness, was regarded
in classical Arabic grammar and much modern scholarship alike as arising
from moral enhancement and tonal emphasis, without adequate atten-
tion to its grounding in Arabic phonetics and historical linguistics.14 The
velarised /ḷḷ/ in Allāh appears irregular and sui generis;15 the only rule that
might be formulated would be that the phoneme /l/ has the allophone
[ḷ] in the sequence /-llāh/ when it is not preceded by /i/ and when it
means God.16 Regardless of whether the velarised ḷ should be regarded as
an allophone or an independent phoneme, this is an unusual phenom-
enon in which a phoneme of such rare occurrence in the total lexicon
of the Arabic language yet appears in one particular morpheme which
occurs very frequently. This phenomenon is not altogether unknown in
other languages.17
The peculiar phonetic character of Allāh invites consideration of its
provenance, in so far as this might be ascertainable. It has been proposed
that Allāh came from the Aramaic in the absolute state Allāhā, as a proper
name, duly arabised by dropping the determinative afffĳix ā.18 But there is
no trace of Allāhā in Syriac, only of Alāhā, and there is no doubling of
consonants in this language.19 Indeed, the point was made that the Syriac
form might have been derived from the Arabic,20 a point which might gain
sustenance from the occurrence of *Ilaha in Thamudic,21 with a tendency
14
al-Suyūṭī, al-Itqān fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān 1: 543, and the comments of Ambros (1981: 24).
15
Ambros (1981: 23, 27).
16
Ferguson, (1956: § 2). This and other features would distinguish velarisation of the
divine name from the other instances of the velarised / ḷ /, in the neighbourhood of certain
consonants, and in unpredictable items such as loan words–see ibid., § 1 and cf. Ambros
(1981: 25, 28 n. 26).
17
Ferguson, (1956: § 2), where the author cites a similar phenomenon respecting the
phonetic value ð in English (as the th in this) which occurs, of course, in many more
morphemes.
18
Jefffery (1938: 66f.); Winnett (1940: 122); Trimingham (1979: 251 n. 14); Nau (1933: 26
n. 2), who concludes unnecessarily from this that the origin of Muḥammad’s Allāh is
Christian.
19
Blau (1972: 175f.).
20
Littmann (1934: x), and see Blau (1972: 176).
21
The best studied instance is a famous Greek/Nabatean inscription dated A.D. 166–9
at al-Rawwāfa, 75 km southwest of Tabūk, with an invocation to ’[l]h’, read as *ilaha. Text
in Milik, (1971: 58), commentary in Bowersock (1975) and Beaucamp (1979).
in late sixth- and early seventh-century Syriac towards the emphatic artic-
ulation of the /a/, giving it a tonal colour comparable to the Arabic ā in
contact position with velarised consonants.22 In all, the matter of the rela-
tionship between Arabic and Syriac in this regard needs to be adjudged
inconclusive, but must also bear consideration in terms of the possibility
that this divine name with tafkhīm might have been yielded by the con-
tact area of Syriac and Arabic in northern Ḥijāz (and in al-Ḥīra as well),
taking into account also the possibility of a velarisation in Ḥijāzī dialect,
many of whose features remain, of course, largely hypothetical.
One might regard emphasis to have a prosodic feature connected with
Muḥammad’s preaching, or indeed, if one accepted that Allāh was used
by the Arabs, the possibility that emphatic articulation was introduced
by Muḥammad, as a mark of acoustic diffferentiation from previous uses
of this divine name.23 Finally, it has been suggested that the loss, by syn-
copation discussed above, of the stem-initial syllable i of ilāh in conjunc-
tion with the defĳinite article,24 might indicate a specifĳically Ḥijāzī feature
added to another, that of velarisation. If this be accepted, it would yield
al-Lāh as the original form. This would then bring the theonym into the
regional ambit of the central Arabian usage of this particular form, on
evidence of a unique occurrence in an Arabic inscription written in south
Arabian musnad script, some centuries prior to Islam, at Qaryat al-Fāw,
mentioning, among others, a divinity called ’lh, vocalised as *Lāh.25 How-
ever, this identifĳication of the original form would carry conviction only
if one were to eliminate the defĳinite article as an element of explanation,
and settle for the absolute form Allāh without velarisation.
This last statement is made from an argument of plausibility. The fore-
going discussion lends sustenance to the major point being made here,
that Allāh was a divine name available in its absolute form, in which
perspective morphological considerations would, when and if convinc-
ing, serve at best a purely antiquarian interest at best, without histori-
cal explanatory value. Moreover, if, in contrast, one persisted in making
the unsafe assumption that Allāh was derived from Lāh morphologically,
22
Ambros (1981: 30).
23
Ambros (1981: 27f., 31, 31 n. 37, 32); Ferguson (1956: § 5, and cf. the reservations of
Blau (1972: 176f., 176 n. 8), regarding emphasis in Syriac, who also proposes that Allāh and
Alāhā emerged independently.
24
This is relevant to three words occurring in the Qurʾān: Allāh, nās, and ūlī: Testen
(1998: 214, 214fff.).
25
Testen (1998: 217fff.); The inscription: al-Anṣārī (1982, 21—the inscription is repro-
duced photographically at 146).
272 aziz al-azmeh
one might point out that it does occur in Arabic that the al- functions
as a demonstrative pronoun (ism ishāra) in adverbial form in addition to
functioning as an article indicating defĳinitiveness, a feature shared with
the Hebrew ha-;26 this would take us again to the possibility of considering
this proper name in the vocative mode.
The integral adoption of Allāh in the absolute form, prior to sufffĳix-
ation or any other grammatical operation performed upon this word,
was a point noted in classical Arab grammar, where, in addition to the
view attributed to al-Khalīl and mentioned above, it is maintained that
Allāh as a proper name fell into the nominal class of ism murtajal. What
is being suggested about the lack of an etymological relationship of Allāh
to the defĳinite article al- has also been safely established with respect to
the al- component in the name of ’lt, Allāt.27 The murtajal is that class of
proper names that exist only as integral proper names, with the name
specifĳic to an individual or improvised for an individual, in contrast to
the other class of derived proper names termed manqūl, a substantive or
verbal construct characterised as tropical or as transferred, from another
use, such as generic use (an example would be the proper name Asad,
lion), metaphorical transference of meaning or attribute (Asad for a brave
man), onomatopeia or some other operation.28 That divine names are hal-
lowed in themselves, and that their punctilious enunciation is necessary
for unlocking the numenal energies they conjure, is a fact that would
in itself lend a certain credibility to this hunch of Arabic linguists. This
sets the name Allāh apart from names such as Rabb or Baʿl, into which
is transferred a general meaning of superordination among humans, or
indeed from ’lh. His autonomy from the world involving āliha is a point
that I have argued in detail elsewhere.
What is being suggested, that the divine name Allāh as it entered the
Arabic language, irrespective of its origin or etymology, is an independent
personal name of the murtajal class,29 designating a particular individual
being, is sustained by a number of further considerations. It is a specifĳic
26
Baʿalbakī (1999: 249f.): thus the Arabic al-yawm and the Hebrew hayyom for “today”.
It is established that the demonstratve -ha is related to the alternation between the initial
’l and the initial h: Zaborski (2006: 1, 188).
27
Hämeen-Anttila and Rollinger (2002: 87f.). In a similar vein, I have shown elsewhere
that kalbiya invocations containing Allāhumma, often cited in confĳirmation of the cultic
workship of Allāh, are irrelevant, Allāhumma being a generic epiclesis versions of which
stretch as far as Ugaritic texts.
28
Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿarab, ʾ-l-h; Caetani and Gabrieli (1915: 1, § 8); Wright (1967:
§ 191(8)); ʿAlī (1968–73: 6, 23).
29
Cf. Testen (1998: 222).
and indeed a unique proper name indicating a particular deity who, in the
early period of the Qurʾān, nevertheless retained both a generic and a spe-
cifĳic local meaning, being an intransitive name but with properties shared
by others. To the Qurʾānic polemical question in a Meccan sūra (Q, 19.65)
as to whether the hearers of the Qurʾānic Recitation knew of anyone who
shared the name of Muḥammad’s Rabb, so far generic but also with a
specifĳic habitation, the implied answer was clearly in the negative.
Ultimately, whatever the historical or the remote morphological con-
nections of the proper name Allāh, it appears that the phenomenon under
consideration is best regarded from the perspective of pragmatics, histori-
cal linguistics, and socio-linguistics. At Zabad, some 60 km southeast of
Aleppo, an important trilingual Arabic/Aramaic/Greek inscription on the
lintel of a church, dated A.D. 512 and one of the earliest Arabic inscriptions
written in an alphabet that is recognisably Arabic, invokes the succour of
’l-’lh, “the God,” a common epithet for named divinities, here uniquely
with the Arabic defĳinite article al-.30 But the authors of this inscription
used *al-Ilāh, and clearly had no cause to form a syncope, which is pos-
sible for Arabic morphology, but not inherently necessary to the Arabic
language. Morphology may account theoretically for the form of the word,
but not for its history, for its connotations, or for a cult.
The emergence to primacy, and then to exclusivity, of Muḥammad’s
deity Allāh is therefore indeed “not self-evident.”31 We are not in a posi-
tion to account for the spread of the name Allāh, a name afloat in jurative
formulae and theophoric compounds that exist in poetry and inscriptions,
possibly also in documentary form. We still lack a map of the geographical
distribution of this name and of its users, and we have as yet no way of
telling if its geography indicated any spatial or social hierarchy that gov-
erned its incidence and frequency, or if we need to assume a model of ran-
dom dispersal. But some suggestions regarding the attractiveness of Allāh,
leading to His ultimate adoption by Muḥammad, are not inconceivable.
It may or may not have been the case that the Arabs of the Ḥijāz,
and reputedly elsewhere, would appeal on occasion to a certain Allāh in
30
Étienne Combe, Jean Sauvaget and Gaston Wiet (eds.) (1931–1935: § 2). An excellent
photograph of this inscription, capitally important for the study of the rise of Arabic and
Arabic script (a point fĳirst noted by Sachau (1882: 189)), is given in Grohmann (1971: 16
and Tafel II.1,2). The most up-to-date revised and amended reading of this much-discussed
inscription is by Robin (2006: 331f., 337).
31
Simon (1991: 133).
274 aziz al-azmeh
situations of special distress.32 One would interpret this, if true, in line

with the aggregative nature of pagan divinities implied in syncretism, as
an appeal to multiple deities in case of need, and to a remoter, vaguer
being for good measure and added value. Whatever the truth of the mat-
ter, the opaque, distant presence of an Allāh among a multiplicity of other,
more frequently invoked and cultically more concrete local deities, would
certainly have been an advantage for this floating signifĳier. This was the
advantage of a certain distinctiveness, no matter how vague,33 and in cir-
cumstances such as this, vagueness of designation could add force to an
enunciation,34 in this case a vocative enunciation. The appeal to locally
rootless exotic deities in such circumstances is not unusual in the history
of religions,35 and mystifying obscurity does play a role in binding acolytes
to masters, however defĳined.36 In this regard, Allāh bears certain histori-
cal afffĳinities to the Israelite Yhwh. The latter was also a remote, exotic,
non-Israelite and non-Palestinian divinity, the meaning of whose name
is hard to establish,37 His very remoteness conveying a sense of abeyance
and regularity.38
Poetic evidence, and old Arabic poetry is only most minimally religious,39
points to some sparing use of Allāh in a formulaic and generic sense (and
as the deity of a Christian monk, which might be a later interpolation or
a rendition of the Aramaic Alāhā). This formulaic sense, used almost as a
topos, might strengthen His appeal in oaths. There is a report concerning
a document written by the hand of ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib, Muḥammad’s pater-
nal grandfather, relating to a loan he made to a person in Ṣanʿāʾ, to which
is added the statement that Allāh is a witness to the agreement. A docu-
ment of alliance between the same person and Khuzāʿa concludes with a
32
Muslim traditions, in which this idea occurs, have contradictory views of this very
common claim: Ibn Isḥāq, Sīrat Ibn Isḥāq, §§ 15, 127.
33
It has been noted that having no idol was in itself a mark of distinctiveness for Allāh:
Healey (2001: 84). A comparison with the vague distinctiveness of Sol and of the solar cult
attributed to the Syrians and Syrian Arabs during an earlier period might yield interesting
results: see Seyrig (1971).
34
Cf. Eco (1977: § 2.7.3).
35
See, for instance, Hierapolitan (west Anatolian) appeals to the distant Ionian Apollo
of Claros, rather than the local Apollo, during the outbreak plague in the mid-second cen-
tury: Potter (1994: 4).
36
Cf. Gellner, (1957: 34).
37
Toorn (1999: 913), where (at 911f.) his provenance is identifĳied as having been Midian.
38
Weber (1993: 17f., 34).
39
See Hirschberg (1939: 28fff.), for an attempt to disengage the religious contents in the
poetry of one group of urbanised and courtly pre-Islamic Arab poets, and Brockelmann
(1922: 100f., 105fff.).
similar statement—if the documents quoted be genuine, for the mention

of Allāh may well have been a later gloss, as is the monetary denomina-
tion quoted to this document, although the rest of the document has the
due form and the linguistic character expected of a text of such vintage.40
Thus also, in a situation remote from solemnity, a repartee between
two lovers shows the mistrustful woman insisting tartly that her lover
should swear by Allāh’s right hand rather than by his own.41 One could
say that this jurative use of Allāh might be compared in some respects
to the exclamation of an old-world Englishman invoking Jove.42 Closer to
home, there is a demotic linguistic expression that seems to underline
the obscurity of byways taken by divine names, some characterised by
extraordinary longevity and disengagement from “original” senses and
contexts of use which are difffĳicult to account for. In the dialect of Damas-
cus and other regions of Syria, one still occasionally appeals to a Yāhū
in situations of vexation, frustration and distress. This expression, not
unknown in other, ancient contexts, has been interpreted as a secondary
form of Yhwh, but may very well have been entirely independent in ori-
gin.43 In all cases, the use of a divine name in jurativee exclamations falls
within the category of speech-acts, actions performed by an enunciative
act (perlocution) or in an act of enunciation (illocution). What we have in
these and in similar instances altogether is an enhancement of illocution-
ary energy corresponding to a diminution in propositional or otherwise
semantic content.44
If Allāh was indeed, as often claimed, considered to be the “High God”
by the pre-Islamic Arabs,45 His elevation must be interpreted as denoting
40
Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, 8; Ibn Ḥabīb, Kitāb al-Munammaq, 91); Ibn Qutayba,
Faḍl al-ʿArab, 88–9.
41
Poems by al-Nābigha al-Dhubyānī (17.18) and Imruʾ al-Qays (200.4–5) in Arazi and
Masalha (1999); “Allāh” in ibid., “Concordance,” s.v. God’s right hand is also mentioned by
Mālik b. al-Rayb, in al-Qaysī, Shuʿarāʾ Umawiyyūn, 21:2.
42
Similarly, mincing the name of God as “gosh” and “golly” might well have involved
initially a hedging, by nominal transference, against insincerity and profanation, before
the divine association and the fear of profanation were lost, with the jurative or vocative
function of this speech-act remaining.
43
It is proposed in “Yahweh,” Dictionary of Divinities and Demons, 900, that there were
abbreviated secondary forms for the Yhwh theonym: Yā, Yahū, Yāhō. The Damascene
expression receives an implausible common explanation in terms of Arabic as “Oh He!”,
usually as part of the more general exclamation “yā ʿālam, yā hū.”
44
These notions were fĳirst developed by Austin (1975: 98fff., 101fff., 144fff.), and have pro-
duced a vast body of work in semantics and philosophy. For a technical discussion of
these and associated notions, see Fodor (1980: 21fff.). It is noteworthy that the notion of
illocutionary force used above is unclear in Austin.
45
Contra this view, Brockelmann (1922: 104f., 104 n. 1).
276 aziz al-azmeh
less a celestial location and individuation with an associated cosmology

and myth, than a supernumerary remoteness, that of a deus otiosus, of a
“potential” deity,46 semantically a floating signifĳier. To this might be added
that this deus otiosus was not one who had withdrawn from managing the
afffairs of the world, devolving his rule to lesser deities, according to some
pantheonic mythological scheme, but that he never played such a role or
formed part of such a system. It has long been realised, but without draw-
ing concrete conclusions, that the pre-Muḥammadan Allāh lay outside the
ambit of Arab cultic divinities,47 and that, for all His attributes, meagre as
they are, recoverable from Arabic poetry, such a deity bereft of cult cannot
be considered to have been a generic deity in the form of a “collective sin-
gular,” abstracted from local deities and appropriating their functions, as
a High God might.48 If such a god be invoked in moments of distress, such
invocation would need to be interpreted as an act of doubling the force of
the vocative illocution involved, rather than an appeal to a specifĳic divine
being whose name has specifĳic connections with particular functions and
capacities. This invocation would have been an appeal to supernatural
agency in general, over and above a particular deity or group of deities in
particular, much as indistinct spirits might be invoked.
Such invocation without acts of worship can have little consequence
for religious history, as it is not cultically and socially rooted, for the deity
thus invoked appears to have been understood as a god of all in general
and of no one in particular which, in the context of Arab paganism, is
incongruous. Vague distinctiveness along with a an indistinct presence,
an interstitial condition within and without boundaries, everywhere dis-
persed, a presence however vague and difffuse: such a condition can also
give rise to claims of self-evidence, of truth obscured by facts of prevail-
ing religion, claims systematised in classical Arabic historiography and in
Islamic literature, and accepted, in large measure uncritically, by modern
scholarship. How this vague distinctiveness was achieved might only be
determined once an historical geography of the distribution and use of
the name Allāh becomes available.
46
Chelhod (1964: 97).
47
Wellhausen (1927: 223f.).
48
Brockelmann (1922: 104, 105fff.) who adopts, by way of interpretation, a theory no
longer tenable, that there did exist among a variety of people in Australia, America, Africa,
as among ancient Aryans and as with the El Elyon and El Olam of the Israelites, a general
belief in an ultimate Creator (Urheber), but is nevertheless keen to diffferentiate this from
the notion of an Urmonotheismus (119 f.).
That He has no namesake, though His names be several, al-Rabb,

al-Raḥmān, or Allāh, and that He be invoked by His qualifĳiers and predi-
cates, his Beatifĳic Names (al-asmāʾ al-ḥusnā), by his epithets and epi-
cleses; that He be unique yet polyonymous, multiple in name; that He
could admonish his worshippers and deniers by asserting that He is but
One (Q, 41.6 and passim) without the necessity for qualifĳication: such are
serious claims, and make severely counter-intuitive and very inhabitual
demands on votaries and worshippers. For what is claimed here, as a
theonym becomes a specifĳic deity and what is demanded, is submission to
a tautology, the tautology of a deity making self-referential claims to self-
defĳinition and self-naming, a self-identical deity who speaks in the man-
ner of a previous one who stated: “See now that I, I am He” (Deut. 32.39).
Inhabitual, and perhaps counter-intuitive as well, demands mark the
point from which is exercised a claim for the indivisibility of legitimacy by
which order is established and a habitus, new or continuing, is inculcated.49
In the case of the Muḥammadan Allāh, the very arbitrariness, indeed, in
the eyes of Muḥammad’s adversaries, the very absurdity of the claims he
made for his deity, will in themselves have been the sharp edge of self-
demarcation from Arab polytheism, in which what appears arbitrary and
absurd to the foe comes to confĳirm the position of the protagonist.50
This “self-predication of God,” has a venerable history,51 not least in the
self-defĳinition of the Israelite Yhwh whose very name is cast in a verbal
form that has been interpreted as ’hyh, “I am,”52 making it altogether pos-
sible to dispense with the theonym altogether and to consider it super-
fluous.53 Self-predication appears as an important marker of the move to
monolatry and monotheism, and dramatises the transition from divine
names to the names of God,54 when the generic appellative becomes a
proper name, when the theonym loses memory of origin, and when its
object acquires personality capable of taking on attributes.55 This is the
49
The notion of “symbolic violence” might usefully be employed as an overarching cat-
egory here—cf. Bourdieu and Passeron (1977: Bk. I).
50
See the comments on the uses of arbitrariness and absurdity in Bourdieu (1971: 310),
and “Absurdität,” Enzyklopädie des Märchens. Bell (1968: 51, 97), considers that Muḥammad
liked to introduce unfamiliar words, a certain obscurity being appropriate to divine revela-
tion, by design.
51
Westermann (1967: 125).
52
See Toorn (1999: 913f.) for this and other possible interpretations.
53
Gladigow (1950–78: 11, 1214f.).
54
This is emblematised by Usener (1896: 337 and passim) in the change from perì tōn
theōn tōn onomàton to perì theìon onomàton.
55
Usener (1896: 326f.).
278 aziz al-azmeh
ultimate form for the expression of authority, premised on a charter of

limitless arbitrariness and at the zero degree of signifĳication. As noted
by an early Qurʾānic exegete, the meaning of a divine name is essen-
tially Rabb-hood, boundless sovereignty and superordination overall
(rubūbiyya).56 This is the abstract and boundless lordship of a deity who,
however named, is yet individual and a person, combining His individual
identifĳication mark with a generic concept which was ultimately to indi-
cate Him alone, moving from precise denotation and specifĳic location to
connotation and a very considerable extension of semantic range.57
This arbitrariness marks the development discussed ultimately as a
political process and as a command economy of the divine, rather than as
a natural emergence from a process internal to the morphological trans-
formations of ’lh.
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ARABIC DATIVES, DITRANSITIVES, AND THE PREPOSITION LI-
Karin Christina Ryding
1. Introduction: Case-Marking and Arabic Dative Structures
The dative “case” is one of the most widely studied topics in case analy-
sis and in theoretical approaches that include some aspect of semantic
and syntactic roles typically marked by case or by case-type relations
(e.g., theta-roles, frame semantics, construction grammar, lexical seman-
tics). Arabic is a nominative/accusative language with the genitive as the
third separately marked case in inflectional paradigms. Overt case-marking
is therefore restricted to these inflectional exponents and the realization
of typical dative structures such as the benefĳiciary/goal/recipient category
are signaled either by accusative or genitive markers. Syntactically, Arabic
dative structures are marked as accusative (in the ditransitive structure)
or marked by the benefactive/allative preposition li- prefĳixed to the Recip-
ient argument, which carries the genitive case. In the case of the Arabic
ditransitive dative, therefore, there is dative-accusative syncretism, and
in the case of the prepositional dative, there is dative-allative syncretism.
In this paper I study Arabic dative structures by examining the particular
semantic properties of verbs that impact verb-phrase syntax through the
analysis of core case roles which, as Pinker notes, are “also called predi-
cate argument structures, subcategorization frames, subcategorizations,
case frames, lexical forms and theta grids.”1 One of the reasons I fĳind Ara-
bic intriguing on this count is the attention that classical Arabic grammar-
ians paid to syntax and its interaction with the semantics of derived forms
of the Arabic verb. In particular, Arabic grammarians long ago posited
the existence of underlying conceptual structures to rationalize surface
structure anomalies (e.g., taqdīr, iḍmār).2
The morphological structure of Semitic lexical items wherein lexical
root information combines with morphosyntactic pattern information,
offfers a productive perspective from which to examine key issues in syn-
tactic and semantic theory through the analysis of the formal semantics of
1
Pinker (1989: 4).
2
See especially Baalbaki’s discussions of taqdīr (2009: xxxiv, and 1979: 8–14).
284 karin christina ryding
Arabic lexical roots and their derivational modifĳications. Whereas English

lexical items may be polysemous or homographic because of semantic
and morphological merging over time, Modern Standard Arabic lexical
items remain largely transparent in terms of their lexical structure and
syntactic argument requirements. When derivational or syntactic modi-
fĳications yield ditransitive constructions, it is often possible to discover
semantic reasons for particular syntactic constraints. This paper forms
part of a larger study I am undertaking to examine case and grammatical
relations in Arabic, particularly relations that involve predicate-argument
structures, prepositions, and semantic structure.
2. Dative and Ditransitive Constructions
Syntactic analysis in this paper relates components of semantic structure

to the valency or argument structure of Arabic verbs and prepositions
in context, in particular the dative structure and its ditransitive realiza-
tion. Case grammar, construction grammar, lexical semantics, componen-
tial analysis, and argument structure all provide useful ways to examine
the interrelationships of syntax and semantics in dative and ditransitive
verb phrases and prepositional phrases. In particular, these theoretical
approaches provide ways to demonstrate how semantic and lexical dis-
tinctions interact in certain types of syntactic structures, including such
topics as locative, dative, and directional uses of spatial predications.
Analysis so far has shown a rich and systematic internal structure for
Arabic verbs and prepositions as well as conditions for parametric varia-
tion of Arabic prepositional phrases contrasted with English. This article
focuses primarily on the Arabic preposition li- ‘to,’ ‘for,’ and its discourse
function as a component of dative structures. In particular, it provides
an analysis of dative-type argument structures and shows how semantic
components of Arabic verbs interact with syntax to frame predictable
double-object or ditransitive alternations, and how these contrast with
similar English verbs.
2.1. Current Studies of Ditransitivity and the Dative

The ditransitive instantiation of the dative structure occurs in a number
of languages. Goldberg notes that “it is the only construction in which an
argument with “recipient” semantics is expressed by a postverbal NP.”3 She
3
Goldberg (2006: 222).
datives, ditransitives, and the preposition li- 285
also proposes that the “recipient in a ditransitive is a ‘secondary clausal

topic’ ” that “evokes an analogy to subjects, which are primary clausal
topics,” and that “the syntactic expression of the recipient argument of
ditransitives is based on simultaneous analogies with causee-objects and
possessor-subjects.”4 She links this observation with a strong generaliza-
tion that such languages all “have a ‘cause-to-have’ construction in which
the recipient argument c-commands the theme argument.”5 Bresnan and
Nikitina provide a detailed study of the “gradience” of diffferent types of
dative alternations, noting that “difffering semantics dictates the difffer-
ing syntactic expressions of the dative.”6 Næss states that the “common
semantic core” of dative case usage “is commonly understood to mark
recipients, benefactives/malefactives, experiencers, goals, and purposes.”7
In situations where no autonomous marker of the dative relation exists,
analysis of semantic roles can yield information on underlying datives.
Levin notes that “the dative alternation is characterized by an alterna-
tion between the prepositional frame ‘NP1 V NP2 to NP3’ and the double
object frame ‘NP1 V NP3 NP2.’ ”8 She distinguishes this from what she calls
the “benefactive alternation” which “difffers from the dative alternation
in involving the benefactive preposition for rather than the goal preposi-
tion to in the prepositional variant.”9 Of course, in Arabic the preposi-
tion li- fĳills both these functions. Sadler and Spencer review dative shift
operations, distinguishing between two types of meaning-changing opera-
tions: fĳirst, those that “alter the semantic content of predicates,” called
“morpholexical operations,” and the second, which “alters the syntactic
manifestation of a given semantic representation, particularly the way it
is mapped on to grammatical relations.”10 They consider this distinction
somewhat analogous to the distinction between derivation and inflection
in traditional grammars.
2.2. Earlier Work on the Arabic Dative Shift

In an earlier article11 I pointed out the clear delineation between Arabic
verbs that take two arguments (Agent and Object) and verbs that take
4
Ibid., 199.
5
Ibid., 200.
6
Bresnan and Nikitina (2003: 12).
7
Næss (2009: 573).
8
Levin (1993: 47).
9
Levin (1993: 49).
10
Sadler and Spencer (2001: 208–209).
11
Ryding-Lentzner (1981).
three (Agent, Object, Recipient), and how this distinction correlates sys-
tematically with constraints on the deletability of the dative preposition
li-. This fĳinding supported Green’s assertion that “in general, syntactic
properties and distributions are determined by semantic properties.”12
More recent research has elaborated a number of diffferent approaches
to the issue of ditransitivity, or the “double-object” construction in English
and other European languages,13 but considerably less has been done to
investigate the nature of ditransitivity, argument structure, or transitiv-
ity alternations in Arabic. The issue of ditransitivity masks several difffer-
ent underlying semantic structures, but through componential analysis of
Arabic structures and through examination of the requirements of spe-
cifĳic predications, some of the issues raised by research on ditransitive
constructions can be made clearer.
2.3. Ditransitive Structures
Ditransitive structures in Arabic include the following. This is not a com-
plete list, but includes several of the most frequent structures. Some verbs
are doubly transitive because of the lexical content of the root, others are
doubly transitive due to a derivational modifĳication of the root.
1. The dative-alternation construction where the benefĳiciary argument

shifts place, with preposition deletion, is often based on the notion of
“giving.”
2. Causative constructions where a valency-changing derivation modifĳies
the lexical root, e.g.
Form IV aḥḍara—to bring (Cause-to-come)
Form IV aṭʿama—to feed (Cause-to-taste)14
3. Verbs of permission or denial, e.g.
manaʿa—to forbid
manaḥa—to grant
4. Verbs of perception and cognition (af ʿāl qalbiyya), e.g.
ʿadda—to consider, deem
iʿtabara—to consider, deem
wajada—to fĳind, deem
12
Green (1974: 66).
13
Pinker (1989), Levin (1993), Goldberg (1995 and 2006), Saint-Dizier (2006).
14
For an interesting related analysis of valency in a Semitic language see Amberber
(2000). For more on the semantics of ‘cause’ in Arabic, see Marcelaru (2006).
5. Verbs of transformation (af ʿāl al-taḥwīl), e.g.

ṣayyara—to convert
ittakhadha—take, adopt (as)
jaʿala- to make
ʿayyana—to appoint
tawwaja—to crown15
In this paper I will be dealing primarily with the fĳirst three categories.16
3. Predicate-Argument Structure, Valence Theory,

and Semantic Roles
3.1. Background to Valence and Predicate Calculus

The concept of valence is concerned with the number of semantic roles
that are associated with the meaning of a particular verb. Analysis based on
argument structure labels these semantic roles as to their function (Agent,
Patient/Object, Benefĳiciary/Recipient), or refer to them with semantically-
neutral labels such as X or Y.17 The roots of predicate-argument theory lie
in predicate calculus as applied to language structure by German math-
ematician and logician Gottlob Frege in his Grundgesetze der Arithmetik.18
Originally, predicate calculus was a way of stating how certain objects, or
arguments, relate to a predicate, and mapping the arguments to appropri-
ate truth values. The concept of valence (or valency) was borrowed from
chemistry by French linguist Lucien Tesnière and applied metaphorically
to linguistic predicate argument structure in order to specify and classify
the number of arguments taken by particular predicates.19 Valence is also
15
Categories 4 and 5 include verbs which belong to the traditional ‘nawāsikh’ category
in Arabic grammar, that is, verbs that shift one or more arguments in the VP to accusative
case. See Ryding (2005: 176–179) for further description of this category.
16
Limitations of space prevent me from exploring all fĳive categories, but I plan to study
the grammatical relations involved in all these topics in a subsequent publication.
17
Labels of ‘cases’ or arguments vary substantially. Although case frames and function
labels cannot be directly equated with traditional or pre-theoretical grammatical terms, I
would for the purposes of this paper like to make a few indications in this regard. For the
traditional notion of indirect object, Fillmore (1968) used “dative” and Chafe used “benefĳi-
ciary,” whereas Goldberg and others use “recipient.” For the traditional concept of direct
object, Fillmore used “object” or “objective,” Blake and others have used “patient,” and
others use the term “theme,” introduced by Gruber (1976, 2006). In this paper I will use
the term Recipient for the ‘indirect object’ and Object for the ‘direct object,’ capitalizing
the terms for case labels to make them easier to identify.
18
Frege (1893/1903; 1962).
19
“Le verbe est au centre du noeud verbal. . .Il est donc le régissant de toute la phrase
verbale.” Tesniere (1959: 103).
sometimes referred to as “arity,” after terms such as “unary,” “binary,” and

“tertiary.” There are therefore two metaphors at work here: one based on
mathematical logic and the other based in chemistry. Each one helps to
deconstruct the semantics of the verb and to explicate the case-role frame
required for each instance.
3.2. Defĳinitions and Terms

The valence of a verb or other predicate (such as a preposition) is expressed
in terms of the number of core arguments that the predicate requires.
Thus a verb such as ‘give’ in English or aʿṭā in Arabic has a valence of three
(Agent, Object, and Recipient), whereas a verb such as ‘buy’ or ishtarā, has
two core arguments (Agent and Object). Pinker proposes the term “the-
matic core” for the set of a predicate’s required arguments and suggests:
“a thematic core is a schematization of a type of event or relationship that
lies at the core of the meanings of a class of possible verbs.”20 Goldberg
considers argument structure of central importance in relating semantics
to syntax, stating that “argument structure constructions are a special
class of constructions that provides the basic means of clausal expression
in a language.”21 In some approaches to argument structure, such as Fill-
more’s ‘case grammar,’22 the diffferent arguments are distinguished accord-
ing to thematic role labels such as “Agent,” “Patient,” and “Benefĳiciary.” As
Haspelmath notes, “Fillmore’s intention was to highlight the importance
of abstract semantic roles for languages like English that have (almost)
no case distinctions.”23 Anderson states that “if we interpret the relations
involved here [in dative and accusative relations] as semantic . . . in the
case of the post verbal elements (at least), then their identifĳication is
ensured by the semantic valency of the verb, which regulates the syntax.
This . . . is the crucial insight of ‘case grammar.’ ”24
Other approaches to predicate-argument structure, such as Pinker
(1989) and Levin and Rappaport (1988), forgo the semantic labeling of
arguments and diffferentiate them only as X and Y. In a later work, Levin
and Rappaport describe the verb’s semantic core structure using the term
20
Pinker (1989: 73).
21
Goldberg (1995: 3).
22
Fillmore (1968 and 1977).
23
Haspelmath (2009: 507).
24
Anderson (2006: 28). For more on case roles and theta roles in Arabic, see LeTourneau
(2006 and 2009).
“lexical semantic template.”25 In a later article on morphology and lexical

semantics, Levin and Rappaport Hovav distinguish between “the lexical
syntactic representation, often called ‘argument structure,’ and the lexi-
cal semantic representation which . . . has come to be known as ‘lexical
conceptual structure’ ” (LCS).26 Thus, a number of alternative perspectives
have been proposed regarding the nature of semantic core arguments
required by predicates, focused on the interrelationship between the syn-
tax and semantics of the clause, and on linking or mapping the semantic
information to surface structure.
3.3. Formal Notation for Argument Structures

A useful way to represent verb meaning in explicit terms is to take what
Levin and Rappaport Hovav characterize as a “predicate decomposi-
tion approach.” In such an approach, “the verb’s meaning is represented
using members of a fĳixed set of primitive predicates together with con-
stants—typically chosen from a limited set of semantic types”.27 Levin and
Rappoport Hovav see the predicate decomposition process as key to under-
standing the “the grammatically relevant components of meaning.”28
3.3.1. Giving
The nucleus of a predication of giving must involve three arguments: an
Agent to do the giving, an Object which is given and a Recipient who
receives the Object.29 None of these arguments may be omitted with-
out impairing the entire concept. The predication may be formalized as
follows:
Predication: Predicate (Argument 1, Argument 2, Argument 3)
or more specifĳically: Give (A, O, R)
where A is the Agent, O is the object given, and R the Recipient.
25
Levin and Rappaport (1995: 24).
26
Levin and Rappaport Hovav (1998, 2001: 249).
27
Levin and Rappaport Hovav (2004: 251).
28
Ibid.
29
For further reading on the nature of ‘giving’ constructions and the Recipient role in
particular, see Newman (1998).
3.3.2. Buying
Verbs of buying, on the other hand, do not require three arguments to
complete the concept; they only require two: the Agent and the Object.
Predication: Predicate (Argument 1, Argument 2)
or more specifĳically: Buy (A, O)
where A is the buyer and O the object bought.
3.3.3. Buying for
The notion of doing something for someone else is external to the nucleus
of the predication and relates to the nucleus as does any adverbial modi-
fĳier, at a level external to that of the main predication:
Predication: For (Argument 1, Argument 2)
where Argument one is the Recipient and Argument 2 is another predica-
tion, i.e.,
For (R, <buy: A, O>)
4. Dative Alternation in Arabic
Although Modern Standard Arabic is a “word-marking language”30 and

marks desinential inflection of substantives through exponents in its sur-
face structure, there is no distinctive case-marker for the dative. Therefore
one of two structures is used:
4.1. Prepositional Dative
In the fĳirst case the indirect object or “Recipient” becomes the object of
the preposition li- ‘to, for’ and receives the genitive case:
(1) aʿṭay-tu l-miftāḥ-a li-l-bint-i.
I-gave the-key to-the-girl
‘I gave the key to the girl.’
This is often referred to as the “prepositional dative.”
4.2. Ditransitive Dative
In the second case the Recipient occurs without the dative preposition
li- and receives accusative case, just as the direct object does. In this situ-
30
Blake (1994: 207).
ation, however, in Arabic as in English, the Recipient argument lacking

the dative preposition must immediately follow the verb. Pinker labels
the Recipient in this case the “second object”or the “second direct internal
argument.”31
(2) aʿṭay-tu l-bint-a l-miftāḥ-a
I-gave the-girl the-key
‘I gave the girl the key.’
This type of construction is usually referred to as “double-object” or
“ditransitive.”
4.3. Dative Alternation
The process involved in the change between these two has been called
“dative movement,” “dative shift,” and “dative alternation.” It has occa-
sioned a number of theories in recent years (see earlier work on the Arabic
dative shift above) that provide hypotheses about the nature of the shift
and its underlying semantic motivation. For example, Pinker examined
dative and causative phenomena at length, as well as the locative and
passive alternations.32 Levin also examined transitivity alternations and
classifĳied English verbs according to their syntactic and semantic proper-
ties.33 Goldberg analyzed ditransitive constructions as networks “linked by
inheritance relations which motivate many of the properties of particular
constructions.”34
5. To-Datives in Arabic: Three Categories
The components of the conceptual structure of verbs involving the dative

relation reveals why some are three-place (three-argument) predications
and others are only two. The semantic structure of three-place verbs, such
as Arabic aʿṭā ‘give’ consists of semantic primitives or primes that formu-
late a CAUSE-TO-HAVE structure. That is, R (Recipient) comes to possess
O (Object) because A (Agent) causes this to happen. The means by which
this is caused is lexicalized as one of the three-place verbs (e.g., aʿṭā ‘give,’
manaḥa ‘grant,’ bāʿa ‘sell’).
31
Pinker (1989: 34–35).
32
Ibid.
33
Levin (1993).
34
Goldberg (1995: 67).
Arabic to-datives can be subdivided into two classes:
5.1. Verbs which Involve an Underlying CAUSE Predicate:35
5.1.1. Verbs lexicalizing a causative-transitive semantic structure (e.g.,

Form IV aṭʿama ‘to feed’), Form IV aʿṭā ‘to give’ or Form I manaḥa ‘to grant’).
These verbs may manifest either ditransitive or prepositional datives.
5.1.2. Verbs lexicalizing a causative-intransitive structure (e.g., Form

IV aḥḍara ‘to bring’) and that manifest only the prepositional dative.
5.2. Verbs without a CAUSE predicate and that manifest only the

prepositional dative.
5.3. Cause Predicate Structure

Each of these categories, the two CAUSE predicate classes and the non-
CAUSE class, has a particular relationship with the dative preposition li-.
Transitive predicates require two arguments; intransitives require only
one. The syntax of a typical transitive verb such as Arabic ṭaʿima ‘taste’
takes the following form:
(3) ṭaʿim-a l-safīr-u l-ʿinab-a
he-tasted the-ambassador the-grapes
‘The ambassador tasted the grapes.’
Which can be formalized into the following predicate-argument structure:
Two-argument predication: taste <ambassador, grapes>
The syntax of a typical intransitive verb such as Arabic ḥaḍara ‘to come’
would take the following form:
(4) ḥaḍar-a l-safīr-u
he-came the-ambassador
‘The ambassador came.’
One-argument predication: come <ambassador>
These two verbs, ḥaḍara and ṭaʿima serve as lexical base forms for the
Form IV causative derivations aḥḍara ‘to bring’ and aṭʿama ‘to feed.’ Thus
35
Words in caps represent semantic primitives.
‘to bring’ is constructed conceptually as ‘to cause to come’ and ‘to feed’
is ‘to cause to taste.’ The Form IV derivation shifts the semantics of the
verbs to include the CAUSE component.
(5a) aḥḍar-tu l-zuhūr-a li-l-bint-i
I-brought the-flowers to-the-girl
‘I brought the flowers to the girl.’
(5b) aṭʿam-tu l-ʿinab-a li-l-bint-i
I-fed the-grapes to-the-girl
‘I fed the grapes to the girl.’
In English, each of these clauses is subject to dative-movement with to-
deletion. But in Arabic, only aṭʿama can delete li-:
(6a) aṭʿam-tu l-bint-a l-ʿinab-a
I-fed the-girl the-grapes
‘I fed the girl the grapes.’
But not
(*6b) aḥḍar-tu l-bint-a l-zuhūr-a
I-brought the-girl the-flowers
‘I brought the girl the flowers.’
The Arabic verb aḥḍara ‘to bring’ requires li- or ilā ‘to, toward’ in the
surface structure whereas aṭʿama ‘to feed’ does not. The componential
semantic structure of these causative verbs reveals the reason for the dif-
ference. The structure of aṭʿama ‘feed’ is as follows, based on a system
where the predicate is followed by a list of arguments enclosed in pointy
brackets. When an argument is itself a predication, the embedded predi-
cation is noted in square brackets.
Predication: CAUSE <Agent, predication [taste <Recipient, Object>]>
That is, the Agent argument ‘causes’ something to happen—another
predication involving (specifĳically) the act of tasting, whose two argu-
ments involve the taster (Recipient/Agent) and the Object tasted. In such
a CAUSE structure, the Recipient is a key argument, central to the predi-
cation, and cannot be deleted. The Recipient/ Benefĳiciary/Dative case
in this structure is an underlying agent (of the verb ‘taste’) as well as a
recipient of the CAUSE predication, thus playing two roles and linking
itself into a key position in the semantic structure. In Arabic, the caus-
ative form of the base verb ṭaʿima ‘to taste,’ is lexicalized as aṭʿama, a
Form IV derivation.
The Form IV verb aḥḍara, on the other hand, is the causative derivation
of an intransitive or single-argument predicate:
Predication: CAUSE <Agent, predication [come < Object>]>
Again, the Agent argument ‘causes’ something to happen, but there is no
Recipient involved in the semantic core structure. The Recipient must
therefore be introduced by means of an external predication using the
dative preposition (li- or ilā) which functions as an independent predicate
with the semantic content ‘FOR THE BENEFIT OF’ and links the Recipient
argument to the main predication:
Predication:
FOR THE BENEFIT OF < Recipient [CAUSE <Agent, predication [come
<Object>]>>
6. For-Dative Restrictions
The componential structure of for-dative verbs involves only a two-place

predication. It does not involve a CAUSE predicate and is therefore not
a lexicalization of a three-argument concept. As in the case of Arabic
ishtarā ‘buy,’ the conceptual structure resembles that of any transitive
verb, involving an Agent of some sort and an Object. This structure is
semantically less complex than that of aʿṭā ‘give,’ the relationship with a
Recipient not being intrinsic to its meaning. In order to add the Recipi-
ent argument to this type of verb phrase, it must be attached outside
the nucleus of the main clause by a diffferent predicate (the preposition
li- ‘for’). This independent predicate is on a separate conceptual tier and
therefore cannot be dropped from the surface structure.
There are two indirect object or recipient-marking prepositions: ‘to’
and ‘for’ in English. In many ways their syntactic structures are parallel,
and in English the for-dative undergoes dative-movement in much the
same way that the to-dative does:
(7a) I bought a flower for the girl.
(7b) I bought the girl a flower.
Arabic uses the preposition li- to express ‘for’ as well as ‘to,’ e.g.:
(8) ishtaray-tu zahrat-an li-l-bint-i
I-bought a-flower for-the-girl
I bought a flower for the girl.’
In Arabic, however, the li- which is used in the sense of ‘for’ cannot be
omitted from the surface structure and the dative-movement phenom-
enon cannot take place. What may and often does occur, however, is
preservation of the prepositional dative and its movement to the position
immediately following the verb, preceding the direct object. Thus:
(9a) ishtaray-tu li-l-bint-i zahrat-an
I-bought for-the-girl a-flower
‘I bought (for) the girl a flower.’
is perfectly acceptable, but not:
(*9b) ishtaray-tu l-bint-a zahrat-an
I-bought the-girl a-flower
‘I bought the girl a flower.’
For Arabic for-datives, the only sort of dative-alternation possible is
dative-movement without preposition deletion. That is, the main clause,
BUY-A-O, is simply one of the two arguments that the prepositional pred-
icate ‘for’ takes, the other being the intended Recipient. When it is an
independent predicate, ‘for’ (or li-) cannot be omitted from the surface
structure of the Arabic sentence. The two-tiered hierarchical nature of
this structure contrasts with the single tier used for verbs of giving.
When functioning with verbs of giving the preposition (li- in Arabic,
‘to’ in English) is not an independent predicate; it is a case-marker for the
case function Recipient. If that Recipient is moved to the position directly
following the verb in Arabic, the li- is no longer required and the recipient
is case-marked for the accusative. One can thus posit that there are two
li-s: one which acts as a surface structure marker of a predicate-nuclear
Recipient, and one which is an independent predicate whose meaning is:
FOR THE BENEFIT OF. The latter links the Recipient with a verb-phrase
predication on a separate level, outside the nuclear predicate-argument
structure of the main clause.
There is thus a major diffference in syntactic behavior between the
to-dative and the for-dative in Arabic, even though they are represented
in the surface structure by an identical lexical item, li-. The li- of the to-
dative is in certain instances deletable whereas the li- of the for-dative
must be retained. Native Arabic speakers queried about this restriction
expressed the sense that the indirect object of the for-dative was not
“directly involved in the action” and could not therefore be optionally
made accusative. Certain speakers also felt that the term “indirect object”
for the to-dative object was inappropriate, and that it should be replaced
with a conceptually tighter term such as “second object.”36 This insight on

the part of the native speakers is important in that it captures the idea
that there is a basic conceptual diffference between verbs which require
li- and those for which li- is optional. In terms of componential analysis,
it can be demonstrated that verbs such as aʿṭā ‘to give’ have a diffferent
number of logical arguments intrinsic to their predication than verbs
such as ishtarā ‘buy.’ It is this structural semantic diffference which is cru-
cial in determining whether li- is optional or not, and which introduces
an element of hierarchy into the underlying structure of dative phrases.
Whereas such structural accuracy is intuitive on the part of native speak-
ers of Arabic, to a learner of Arabic as a foreign language, such constraints
can and frequently are seen as illogical and confusing—especially if those
constraints do not apply to their fĳirst language. An understanding of com-
ponential analysis of these verbs is essential for those who teach Arabic
as a foreign language in order to explain (in simpler terms) the rationale
behind the rules.
7. Case and Grammatical Relations in Arabic
Arabic ditransitive constructions are rich in semantic and syntactic

research possibilities, especially in view of the wide-ranging theoretical
discussions and hypotheses that have been proposed for English and other
European languages. Arabic contrasts in subtle but highly systematic ways
with English, and further research will certainly enhance understanding
of the parameters of semantic roles and syntactic structures.
This paper is a very preliminary study of decompositional procedures,
semantic roles and grammatical relations in Arabic, and has focused on
only one preposition, li- and its surface structure role in dative-type and
ditransitive syntactic structures. By analyzing the conceptual structures
of verbs and examining their predicate-argument relations, the role of
prepositions and case-marking can be elucidated and rendered predict-
able to a great extent, as well as the constraints on the presence or non-
presence of li-.
36
See also Pinker (1989: 34).
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DIALECTS OF THE DATIVE SHIFT: A RE-EXAMINATION OF
SĪBAWAYHI’S DISPUTE WITH THE NAḤWIYYŪN OVER DITRANSITIVE
VERBS WITH TWO OBJECT PRONOUNS
David Wilmsen
Ditransitive verbs are accorded prominent treatment in the Arab gram-

matical tradition. For the classical Arab grammarians, the presence of
a verb with two object nouns in the accusative case would have been
sufffĳicient to spark their interest. Using the verb aʿṭā ‘to give’ as a model,
they posed constructions such as aʿṭā ʿaliyy-an al-darāhim-a ‘he gave
Ali the dirhams’ to illustrate the operation of case. The preference for
nominal objects is to place the indirect object (the benefĳiciary) before
the direct object (the patient), where Ali is the benefĳiciary of the act
of giving dirhams, even though the two nominal objects may appear in
either sequence.1 Traditional treatments of such verbs make no distinc-
tion between the notional indirect object and the direct object, but this
becomes important if one or both of the objects are represented by pro-
nouns. As it happens, Arab grammar books, both ancient and modern,
have little to say about pronominal objects. The reason for the classical
grammarians’ apparent lack of interest may have been that such con-
structions do not illustrate the accusative case of the two objects of the
ditransitive verb, as pronominal objects in Arabic do not exhibit case. Yet
the presence of object pronouns in ditransitive constructions afffects the
ordering of the notional objects. With one pronominal object and one
nominal, whichever of the objects is represented by the pronoun is afffĳixed
to the verb and, as a consequence, precedes the nominal object, regardless
of which is the benefĳiciary: aʿṭā-hu al-darāhim-a ‘he gave him the dirhams’
and aʿṭā-hā li- ʿaliyy-in ‘he gave them to Ali.’ In the fĳirst instance, a double
object construction is maintained, whereas in the second, a dative-like
construction must be employed,2 and the ordering of the notional indirect
and direct objects is reversed.
1
But see Soltan (2009: 537), Ryding (2005: 70–71), and Peled (1993: 207, fn. 2) for oppos-
ing views of their permissible or preferred ordering.
2
There is, of course, no dative case in Arabic; the movement shown here is sometimes
called a “dative shift.”
300 david wilmsen
When both objects are prepositional, three options are available: either
a prepositional dative construction or one of two double object construc-
tions may be formed. Sībawayhi3 does address pronominal objects of
ditransitive verbs adducing both double object constructions: aʿṭā-hū-hā
and aʿṭā-hu iyyā-hā, both apparently meaning ‘he gave-him-them.’ Accord-
ing to Sībawayhi, the latter of the two options is preferable to avoid afffĳix-
ing two pronouns of the same person to the verb, which, because they are
both of the third person, is awkward.
A rarity (even an anachronism) in modern writing, a verb with two
afffĳixed object pronouns was evidently so even in Sībawayhi’s day.4
Sībawayhi himself acknowledged that the second pronoun was more
often attached to the free object pronoun than it was to the verb. Gen-
sler presents compelling reasons for regarding the afffĳixing of two object
pronouns to the verb as an archaic Semitic feature which may have been
disappearing in Arabic by the time of the Qurʾānic revelation and was per-
haps in an even greater stage of eclipse by the time Sībawayhi was writing
more than a century and a half later.5
A critical consideration here, and one with which Sībawayhi and later
grammarians appear little concerned, is the ordering of the patient and
benefĳiciary with respect to the verb, be they nominal or pronominal. For
Sībawayhi also permits the opposite sequences aʿṭā-hā-hu and aʿṭā-hā
iyyā-hu, stating that the ordering of the objects is unimportant so long as
the proper sequencing of persons is preserved. Accordingly, in his reck-
oning, the proper sequencing of the persons of object pronouns is that a
1st person pronoun precedes a 2nd person, which precedes a 3rd. Thus,
Sībawayhi rejects as ill-formed the constructions aʿṭā-hū-ka ‘he gave-3rd-
2nd’ and aʿṭā-hū-ni ‘he gave-3rd-1st,6 wherein a 3rd person object pronoun
precedes a 2nd person or 1st person pronoun. This against some of his
contemporaries’ willingness to accept just such a violation of his pre-
scribed sequence of attached object pronouns. Sībawayhi contends that
these rival grammarians were for the sake of symmetry imposing on the
language a regularity that did not actually exist. Against this, Sībawayhi
prescribes the sequence aʿṭā-hu iyyā-ka ‘he gave-3rd iyyā-2nd,’ wherein
the second pronoun in the sequence is detached from the verb and afffĳixed
3
Sībawayhi, Kitāb 2, 362–3.
4
Diem (2002: 20).
5
Gensler (1998).
6
Following idem (1998: 278–280), I am deliberately glossing these examples with-
out translating the object pronouns, precisely because the meaning of the utterances is
ambiguous.
dialects of the dative shift 301
to the free object pronoun iyyā-, in what may be called a pronominal dou-
ble object construction. Therewith a violation of the prescribed sequence
for two afffĳixed pronouns is averted.
Here again, the disposition of the benefĳiciary with respect to the patient
is of issue. In modern usage, whether written or spoken, it is usually the
patient that is attached to the free object pronoun.7 If that were also true in
Sībawayhi’s day, then in the constructions under discussion here, even that
to which Sībawayhi objects, the patient is the second of the two object pro-
nouns afffĳixed to the verb. This seems to imply that the sequence Sībawayhi
endorsed was not only that of 1st+2nd+3rd persons but also that he took as
given the sequence verb-benefĳiciary-patient (V-IO-DO).
This cannot be established with certainty, and the ambiguity inherent
in the various orderings of the elements of these double object construc-
tions has led to confusion amongst western commentators. For example,
Wright glosses aʿṭā-hu iyyā-ya as ‘he gave me to him’ and aʿṭā-nī-hi as ‘he
gave it/him to me.’8 Meanwhile, Reckendorf gives the opposite interpreta-
tion to the two statements, with aʿṭā-hu iyyā-ya glossed as ‘he gave him to
me’ and aʿṭā-nī-hi as ‘he gave me to him.’9 The confusion is forgivable, for
Sībawayhi does not gloss his examples. Nor does the free object pronoun
of necessity mark the patient, but it can sometimes mark the benefĳiciary.10
An indisputable precedent for this appears in Qurʾān 9: 114:

                          
            
        
  
   
wa- mā kāna stighfār-u ibrāhīm-a li-abī-hi illā ʿan
and not was asking forgiveness Ibrahim to father his but for
mawʿida-t-in waʿada-hā iyyā-hu
a promise he promised it PRON-him
But Ibrahim’s asking his father for forgiveness was only for a promise; he
had promised it him
7
Compare Cantarino (1974–5: 168–70).
8
Wright (1974: 1, 103).
9
Reckendorf (1921: 285).
10
Ḥasan (2007: 274–275), in a modern grammatical work that does discuss pronominal
objects, would apparently agree with Reckendorf, for he states that the “more sentient”
(aʿraf ) of the two is the one that must be separated from the verb, gives the example,
aʿṭaytu-humā-hu, which becomes aʿṭaytu-humā iyyā-hu ‘I gave them (dual) [the pen and
the book] to him.’ Notice that here, as in Reckendorf ’s rendering, the sequence V-DO-IO
prevails. Regardless, marking the benefĳiciary with iyyā- seems a rarity in modern writing.
In all of Cantarino’s (1974–5: 168–169) examples, it is the patient that is marked by iyyā-.
302 david wilmsen
As it happens, prepositional dative constructions with ditransitive verbs

also appear in the Qurʾān, one of them being another verb of giving:
wahaba. Of the twenty-two instances of that verb in the Qurʾān, it is
always used in a dative construction, eight of those with a pronominal
object, for example Qurʾān 3: 7:
           
       
wa hab la-nā min ladun-ka raḥma-t-an
and grant to us from in possession-your mercy
And grant to us from thyself mercy
Regrettably, the verb wahaba never appears in the Qurʾān with two pro-
nominal objects.11 For its part, aʿṭā is used in the Qurʾān about one third as
often as wahaba (7 times), never with a prepositional dative. Nevertheless,
prepositional dative constructions are found with the verb aʿṭā in very
early Arabic writings, some of them penned only fĳifty years or so after
Sībawayhi’s day:12
   

       
  
qad aʿṭā li-kull-i dhī ḥaqq-in ḥaqq-a-hu
past gave to every attributive due due his
He gave his due to everyone to whom it was due13
        
    
aʿṭī l-māl-a li-bnat-i l-ax-i
give (f.s.) the money to daughter the brother
Give the money to the brother’s daughter14
11
In modern writing, with two object pronouns, it is used with both a prepositional
dative construction and a prepositional double object construction, with the preference
toward the prepositional dative. For example, a search of a fairly large sample of mod-
ern novels and other writings in the arabiCorpus of Brigham Young University (http://
arabicorpus.byu.edu/), in a corpus of about 500,000 words it is used with the free object
pronoun fĳive times and with the prepositional dative not at all. Meanwhile, in a search of
an entire year of journalistic writing from fĳive Arabic newspapers from various parts of the
Arab world between Morocco and Kuwait available in the same database, in a corpus of
about 60 million words, wahaba is used with the prepositional dative 58 times and with a
prepositional double object construction 9 times. In pre-modern writing, a corpus of about
900,000 words yields 57 instances of the prepositional dative and none of the prepositional
double object construction.
12
Attested in Diem (2002: 81).
13
Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal, Musnad, no. 17006.
14
Al-Dārimī, Sunan, no. 2928.
So too is it regrettable that in none of the earliest examples that Diem

attests do both objects appear as pronouns. It is, therefore, not possible
to state categorically but neither is it unreasonable to suppose that dative
constructions with two pronominal objects existed in the Arabic language
in Sībawayhi’s day and before.
Indeed, with the inherent ambiguity of pronominal double object
constructions, it is reasonable that speakers would have sought recourse
to an alternate means of disambiguation. Such a device is readily at hand
in the form of what we might call a pronominal prepositional dative con-
struction, found in phrases such as aʿṭā-hā la-hu ‘he gave-her/it/them
to-him.’ Structures like this cannot be misconstrued; only the benefĳiciary
may be attached to the dative preposition. On the other hand, with con-
structions like aʿṭā-hū-hā and aʿṭā-hā-hu and their counterparts aʿṭā-hu
iyyā-hā and aʿṭā-hā iyyā-hu, it is not immediately apparent who is giving
what to whom.
In light of the foregoing, the constructions to which Sībawayhi objects,
aʿṭā-hū-nī and aʿṭā-hū-ka, merit a second look. Why would Sībawayhi’s
contemporaries propose such a thing? Were they actually imposing an
artifĳicial analogy on their data, as Sībawayhi contended, or were they
reflecting a reality, however imperfectly described? That is, were there
dialects of Arabic in Sībawayhi’s day that permitted what Sībawayhi con-
sidered an inopportune sequencing of object pronouns?
In that regard, it is noteworthy that Sībawayhi, contrary to later ortho-
graphic convention, writes the double afffĳix construction with a long vowel
on the fĳirst of the two sufffĳixed 3rd person pronouns such as aʿṭā-hū-hā.
The long vowel in the penultimate syllable would probably have attracted
stress; were it to be read aloud in his day (the fĳinal long vowel in {-hā} may
have been pronounced as short or half-long as it is in modern speech).15
So too is it intriguing that Sībawayhi’s contemporaries were apparently
15
The classical Arab grammarians were evidently uninterested in the placement of
stress. See Birkeland (1954) and Ferguson (1997). It may be that stress patterns did not
vary across spoken varieties in the 2nd/8th to 3rd/9th centuries as they do today, and
the grammarians then took it for granted that their readers would know where to place
stress (see Blau (1972), to whom we shall return later, for an attempted reconstruction
of Old Arabic stress patterns). If so, this would not be the only instance of the grammar-
ians assuming knowledge of Arabic in their readers. Marogy (2010: 23) also points this
out with reference to Sībawayhi’s use of terminology without explanation. Consider also
Carter (2004, 133) quoting “a certain Ibn Kaysān (d. 299/912 or 320/932), who declares ‘the
book of Sībawayhi . . . needs more clarity and lucidity in its expressions, for it is a work
composed at a time when the people were familiar with these terms and so it is confĳined
to their ways of thought.’ ”
304 david wilmsen
willing to permit a violation of the implicitly prescribed sequence of the

notional objects. In both instances, the violation of the sequence and the
attraction of stress, the examples that Sībawayhi adduces fĳind analogies
in modern spoken usage in those dialects employing the prepositional
dative. Just such a lengthening of the vowel on the afffĳixed object pronoun
and an arrangement of the notional direct object before the indirect is
found in spoken Egyptian Arabic.
Dialect Ditransitives
It has been noticed16 that the North African spoken vernaculars of Arabic,
including the Egyptian, are constrained to cast two pronominal objects
of ditransitive verbs in a prepositional dative construction, of the type
iddēt-hā luh ‘I gave her/it to him.’ In the spoken Arabic of Egypt, for exam-
ple, no other construction is permissible with two pronominal objects.17
Eastwards, spoken vernaculars of Arabic show no such constraint; they
may use a prepositional dative construction, such as the Levantine
aʿṭayt-ā la il-u ‘I gave it/them to him,’ but they are more likely to use the
free object pronoun iyyā- (generally represented as /yā/ when transcribing
spoken samples) to mark one of the object pronouns, thus aʿṭayt-u yā-hā
‘I gave him it/them.’
Gensler points out that of all the possible orderings of two pronominal
objects (i.e., both IO and DO before the verb in either order, one before
and one after the verb, etc.), Arabic utilizes only two: with either the ben-
efĳiciary preceding the patient, both following the verb (V-IO-DO) or the
opposite (V-DO-IO).18 Of these, the disposition of the two object pronouns
can vary. Retsö shows the range of possibilities:19
The A types (V-IO-DO)

A1: a verb with afffĳixed indirect object and direct object pronouns
A2: a verb with an afffĳixed indirect object pronoun and a direct object pro-
noun afffĳixed to iyyā-
A3: a verb with an afffĳixed indirect object pronoun and an independent
direct object pronoun
16
Brustad (2000: 372–373) & Retsö (1987: 225, 227 & 242).
17
See Woidich (2006: 255–257).
18
Gensler (1998: 253 & 2003: 199, 201 & 205).
19
Retsö (1987: 224).
A4: a verb with no afffĳixes and an indirect object pronoun afffĳixed to [l-] and
a direct object afffĳixed to iyyā-
A5: a verb with no afffĳixes and an indirect object pronoun afffĳixed to [l-] and
an independent direct object pronoun
The B types (V-DO-IO)

B1: a verb with an afffĳixed direct object pronoun and the indirect object pro-
noun afffĳixed to [l-]
B2: a verb with afffĳixed direct object pronoun and indirect object pronouns
B3: a verb with no afffĳixes and an object pronoun afffĳixed to [l-]
Of all these possibilities, the two most common occurring in the spoken
dialects Retsö studied are A5 and B1.20 The B1 construction is exactly of
the type aʿṭā-hu la-ka. The B2 construction hardly occurs at all. It is, how-
ever, noteworthy that in those cases, the sequence of attached pronouns
appears to be precisely of the sort to which Sībawayhi objects (and in case
of the Algerian example, precisely the utterance as well!):
Egypt: tiddihāni ‘you give it me’
Algeria: aʿṭāhūnī ‘he gave it me’
About the fĳirst of these, Spitta-Bey, who adduces the utterance, categori-
cally denies that old Arabic double object sufffĳixation occurs in spoken
Egyptian Arabic.21 Expressing doubt that this really is a double afffĳix con-
struction, he points out that in the {-ni} sufffĳix is a variant of {-li}, appar-
ently following a regular phonological shift from /l/ to /n/ or vice versa
(cf. jurnāl -> jurnān ‘journal’ and fĳinjān -> fĳinjāl ‘cofffee cup’). Indeed, such
a shift is a feature of Semitic languages in general and not Egyptian Arabic
alone. In the Algerian case, Marçais echoes this assumption, indicating
that the /l/ assimilates to /n/ in fĳirst person plural sufffĳixes to produce such
constructions as ijībhunna ‘bring it to us,’ where the usual dative pronoun
{li-} has been assimilated to the following /n/ when attached to the 1st
person plural object afffĳix {-nā}.22
That being so, the utterances adduced above are somewhat exceptional,
but they are also explainable as variations of the usual order of the B1 type
20
Ibid., 225 & 227.
21
Spitta-Bey (1880: 241).
22
Marçais (1902: 133). He points this out without comment when discussing the change
in vowel quality to the afffĳixed 3rd person pronominal clitics {-hu} and {-ha}, which
become /-hū/ and /-hā/ with “allongement de l’accent,” which he indicates thus: [hû] and
[hâ]. “Après les deux premiers, la série vocalique des enclitiques regime indirect est seule
employée, anisi : lha, nna, lkum, lhum, jamias vlha, etc. (his emphasis).”
306 david wilmsen
that predominates in the western vernaculars. For its part, the B3 type is
unremarkable, in that many ditransitive verbs can be reanalyzed to take
a single object, in which case, if the object were a benefĳiciary, it would
perforce be expressed with a prepositional dative.
It is not surprising, then, that even if type A constructions are not found
in the western vernaculars, type B constructions may be found in the East-
ern vernaculars. Of particular interest are the peninsular Arabic vernacu-
lars, where such type B constructions are attested:23
Najd: sharōhin laham ‘they brought them for them’
Mecca: jāb-ahum liyya ‘he brought them for me’
What is more, of the peninsular vernaculars, that of Mecca is particularly
remarkable for some of the variations it will allow. For example, the latter
expression is interchangeable with an A5 construction, in which a verb is
followed by a clitic pronoun representing the benefĳiciary afffĳixed to {li-}
and a patient represented by an independent object pronoun:24
Mecca: jāb li humma ‘he brought to me them’
This in turn, in the Meccan dialect at least, is interchangeable with an A3
construction:25
sallim-ni hīya ‘give me it’
addēt-ak hūwa ‘I gave you it’
Retsö appears to equivocate about the frequency of occurrence of these
two when he states that, “contextually the construction A3 is the most
frequent, lexically A5 dominates.”26 In this somewhat vague manner, he
seems to be saying that the most commonly occurring verb/object forma-
tion is that of A3 but that overall ditransitive verbs of the A5 formation
appear more often in the texts he studied. Such an interpretation is but-
tressed by his equally vague statement that of the “few instances of A3 it
appears that these verbs belong to the semantic fĳield of “give” and it is
thus not surprising that most cases in the texts are with aʿṭā.”27
23
Retsö (1987: 225).
24
Ibid., 226.
25
Ibid., 227–8.
26
Ibid., 228.
27
It is well worth noting that ditransitive verbs are of relatively rare occurrence when
compared to other types of verbs, but that some of them (especially verbs of giving) are
disproportionably represented in speech (but not in writing). This is the third time Retsö
remarks upon the special status of verbs in the semantic fĳield of “to give.” He mentions
it fĳirst (p. 225) when noting that in Algeria, or at least in the dialect of Tilmisān, only the
Meanwhile, Retsö does not mention it but it is nevertheless the case

that constructions A2 and A4 are, as he puts it with reference to A3, con-
textually very frequent and, as it happens, also sometimes interchange-
able, as in Allah yi-khallī-ni yā-k and Allah yi-khallī li yā-k, both meaning
‘God keep you for me’ (a rather elaborate way of saying “thank you” among
other things) and both commonly heard in Levantine vernaculars. What is
more, in the Najd dialect, B1 constructions are interchangeable with A4:28
sharō laham iyyā-hin ‘they brought for them them’
In the face of such variability even within peninsular varieties of Arabic,
the question surely arises whether such variability existed in the same
abundance in the peninsular Arabic of Sībawayhi’s day, and whether the
grammarians with whom he often disagreed actually were adducing a
genuine spoken form in their proposed aʿṭā-hū-ni.
Dialect Preserves
Data drawn from contemporary spoken varieties do not necessarily pro-

vide incontrovertible evidence of past forms; new forms may have arisen
within local vernaculars as a natural process of language development.
As Owens observes, “the general problem [is] whether dialect forms of
the diaspora are due to post-diaspora innovation, or are reflective of pre-
existing diversity on the Arabian Peninsula.”29 Saying this, Owens goes on
to make a credible argument for the reconstruction of a peculiar dialect
feature found in various North African vernaculars (including some Egyp-
tian varieties), in which the fĳirst person indicative verb is marked by {n-}
rather than the usual {a-}, as a post-diaspora development; he even estab-
lishes a tentative locale for its origin and spread.
Remarking upon the “rich multiplicity” such as we have seen above
in the treatment of two pronominal objects in the contemporary Ara-
bic dialects, Gensler argues without much justifĳication that these are
indeed post-diaspora innovations that arose “as independent parallel
verb “to give” takes two sufffĳixed object pronouns. Thus, Marçais (1902: 134), “un seul, aʿṭā
se construisent avec deux enclitiques.” For a second time (p. 227), he observes of his own
data that, “There is only one verb which consistently has the PS [pronoun sufffĳix] as 02 [our
patient], vis ʿṭy ‘give’ (the root may have diffferent shape in diffferent dialects).” The special
status of verbs “to give” and perhaps especially aʿṭā cries out for further investigation. It is,
however, beyond the scope of this paper to engage the issue.
28
Retsö (1987: 225).
29
Owens (2004: 715).
308 david wilmsen
developments” as a result of “the passage of classical language to the

modern colloquials.”30 He thereby implies that in their treatment of two
pronominal objects the modern dialects each represent individual devel-
opments away from ancient peninsular Arabic, or at least from the clas-
sical Arabic that Sībawayhi, his contemporaries and successors were
attempting to describe.
But Gensler is never clear as to what he means by “classical Arabic.” He
often seems to be referring to an earlier stage of the language, as when he
states his assumption that classical Arabic was the language from which
a second stage development of two afffĳixed object pronouns emerges,
wherein a second object pronoun is afffĳixed to a pre-existing single object
construction (in what he calls “second-stage cliticization”): “The key fact,”
he says, “is that in the input language (Classical Arabic) a single sufffĳixed
pronominal object may either be DO or IO, allowing the second-stage
object to be either IO or DO, respectively.”31 Even though he had earlier32
demonstrated quite convincingly that two-pronominal-object-sufffĳix con-
structions are very likely Proto-Semitic anachronisms present in the earli-
est Arabic writing, he still proposes that such a construction comes at
a later stage in the development of what he calls Classical Arabic when
the “inherited Classical single-object form [has a] new enclitic added to
the right” of the attached pronoun.33 He thereby seems to be extending
30
Gensler (2003: 202).
31
Ibid., 206.
32
Idem (1998: 269 & 275–276).
33
Idem (2003: 205). To be fair to Gensler, he here uses the term ‘clitic’ to mean pro-
nouns that are not afffĳixed tightly to the verb, and thus wishes to refer to a diffferent and
later development in the dialects than the older afffĳixing of two pronominal object pro-
nouns to the verb. This observation does not completely exonerate him, however, because
he also proposes (1998: 270–272) that the double afffĳixed pronominal objects began in
Proto-Semitic in the same manner: fĳirst as a singly afffĳixed pronoun with a second object
loosely bound as a “proto-clitic,” which then underwent a syntactic tightening of its bond
to the verb, whereby a doubly afffĳixed verb construction was born. This in itself presents
difffĳiculties, in that it implies that the doubly afffĳixed verbs underwent subsequent syntac-
tic loosening, whereupon the more distant object pronoun again became cliticized and
afffĳixed to, for example, iyyā-. The process then began once again post-diaspora in the dia-
lects, when, “the newly bound element is fairly clearly a clitic and not a sufffĳix, in keeping
with the recency of its creation. Over the course of time, however, one can readily envision
the typical blurring of morpheme boundaries and tightening of syntactic bond that would
obliterate the diffference in “degree of clitichood” between the old inner maker and the
new outer marker. The clitic would grammaticalize to an afffĳix, and the outcome would be
a verb with two afffĳixal markers” idem (2003: 205).
As we shall argue below, it is more parsimonious to assume that the observed afffĳixed
forms and cliticized forms, whatever their ultimate origin, emerged as developments
within the peninsula before the diaspora; these are the forms that survived individually
in the Arabized dialects.
his notion of classical Arabic into the dim and undocumented past of
the language.
This adds unnecessary difffĳiculty to the burden of reconstructing the
sources of both the modern spoken dialects of Arabic and the canoni-
cal classical language. What is usually called “classical Arabic” is gener-
ally considered to encompass the language of pre-Islamic poetry, the
Qurʾān, and the writing of the post-Islamic golden age of Arabic literature
(however that is delineated). It sometimes seems that when Gensler uses
the term “classical Arabic” he means precisely this, but at other times,
as we have seen, he seems to regard an earlier form of Arabic as the
classical language.
Regardless, it becomes clear from an examination of the early sources
that the language of pre-Islamic poetry represents an earlier phase of Ara-
bic than does that of the Qurʾān. This has been demonstrated by Corriente
with respect to the case markings on nouns, which, as he puts it, carry
more of a functional load in pre-Islamic poetry than they do in the Qurʾān
(and later works).34 In a random sampling of the famous pre-Islamic ode
qifā nabki by Umruʾu l-Qays, the fĳirst thirty verses of sūrat Yūsuf from
the Qurʾān , two early (fĳirst and second century AH) post-Islamic works
(one poetry and one prose), and two modern works (also one poetry and
one prose), he discovers that in only 10.4% of instances of case marking
in the pre-Islamic ode is the information provided by the case “function-
ally necessary.” In the Qurʾān, the percentage is reduced to zero, while it
never rises above 3% in medieval writing or modern poetry, and is again
reduced to zero in modern prose.35
34
Corriente (1971: 34–37). By “functional load,” he means when the nominal endings
themselves convey critical meaning.
35
Corriente is careful to point out that the functional necessity of case in the Qurʾān
cannot be zero, but that there simply were no instances of “functional loading” in his sam-
ple, observing that, “in the case of the Qur’anic sample, we felt at once that the absolute
lack of functional case morphemes was a mere coincidence, and this was confĳirmed by a
brief supplementary survey of the fĳirst thirty verses of Sura V, in which, as we expected,
a few such instances did indeed turn up” Corriente (1971: 37). He cites Qurʾān V:6 to illus-
trate, saying (ibid.: fn. 26): “For example, V 6 udhkurū niʿmata llāhi wa-mithāqahu alladhi
wāthaqakum bihi, where the Acc. mithāqa yields the translation “re-member God’s favor
and his pledge to you,” while the Nom. would mean “remember God’s favor, his promise
being what he had pledged to you.”
His assertions, however, did not remain uncontested. Blau (1972a) objects that a low
functional yield by itself does not indicate that the case endings were falling into disuse.
Corriente (1973: 154), allows that his “position on the issue does not command immediate
and universal acceptance, nor is it free of reasonable objections.” Remarking upon his own
collection techniques, he himself admits to “some misgivings . . . about the soundness of
the counting system used,” offfering that “perhaps, rather than obtaining rates by reckoning
310 david wilmsen
Similarly, respecting the variability of old Arabic as opposed to later

forms of classical Arabic, Belnap and Gee demonstrate not only that the
language of pre-Islamic poetry exhibits more variability in agreement
categories between human and non-human plural head nouns than does
the Qurʾān, but that a strikingly similar variability as was found in old Ara-
bic is retained in the modern spoken vernaculars of Arabic.36 Specifĳically,
feminine singular agreement (or “deflected agreement”), which is almost
categorical with non-human plural nouns in post-Islamic and modern
written Arabic, is sometimes used with human plural entities in old Ara-
bic (e.g., qālat al-naṣārā l-masīḥu bnu llāh ‘said (f.sg.) the Christians, “the
Messiah is the son of God” ’ as opposed to qālū in-nā naṣārā ‘they said
(pl.), “we are Christians” ’), more so in sixth century pre-Islamic poetry
than in the Qurʾān. Conversely, plural agreement may be used with non-
human plural head nouns, whereas in modern writing, deflected agree-
ment is the norm (viz, ayyām maʿdūdāt ‘a limited (pl.) number of days’ as
opposed to ayyām maʿdūda ‘a limited (f.sg.) number of days’), again more
often in pre-Islamic poetry than in the Qurʾān and hardly ever in later
Arabic writing.37 While this kind of variable agreement does not generally
the total of instances with and without the feature under discussion, we should consider
only those instances where the case opposition was not neutralized.”
36
Belnap and Gee (1994).
37
Of course, agreement pairs such as ayyām maʿdūdāt may be and actually are lifted
out of their early context and inserted into modern writing for their evocative value. For
that matter, deflected agreement with human plurals is occasionally used in modern writ-
ing, apparently either as a reproduction of speech or as a deliberate classicizing anach-
ronism. For example, a search of the arabiCorpus database of modern literature revealed
that with the word “people” (nās), out of a total 1,229 instances of the appearance of that
word in the various works present in the database, it occurred 9 times with deflected
verbal agreement, six of which were in dialogue written in the vernacular, the other three
times were with the verb “to know” (ʿarafa), for example, in a novel by Edouard Kharrat:
          
                 
 .                      


      
The search was conducted solely with verbs following the token noun; in all other
instances of verbal agreement with the verb following the noun (36 instances), agreement
was plural. With the verb preceding the noun, the agreement was categorically masculine
singular, the default form when the verb precedes the subject. It is not clear that the verb
“to know” has any special semantic characteristics that would attract deflected agreement.
I have elsewhere collected examples of deflected agreement with human plurals in writing
as, for example, this instance from the Egyptian newspaper al-Ahrām:
          
                      
 
  
According to the principles governing the use of deflected agreement that Belnap (1993)
discovers, it is unusual for a verb exhibiting deflective agreement to follow the human
apply in modern Arabic writing, it is quite common in the contemporary

spoken Arabic of Cairo38 and indeed may be found in other vernaculars
as well (consider the lyrics sung by Lebanese diva Fairuz: ʿal mafraʾ tunṭur
nās ‘at the crossroads people wait (f.sg.)’ but saʾalū-ni n-nās ʿann-ak yā
ḥabībi ‘the people asked (pl.) about you, O my darling’).
Nor is such variability random, but it has an underlying semantic moti-
vation. Agreement follows a hierarchy from non-human, through animate,
to human, with the tendency to use plural agreement increasing along
the animate-human scale. What is more, it reflects speaker cognition with
deflected agreement tending to be used with conceptually unifĳied plurals
(thus, in the example above, all Christians as a group), while plural agree-
ment tends to be applied to individuated plural entities, seen as count-
able (or potentially so) or otherwise groups of distinct individuals (e.g., a
particular group of Christians).
This “striking parallel” between old Arabic and modern vernaculars
leads Belnap to conclude that the variability of agreement patterns in
spoken vernacular Arabic appears to be a survival of Pre-Islamic patterns
and that the “robust survival of such patterns in many, if not most, variet-
ies of spoken Arabic . . . attests to the conservative nature of [the] Arabic
dialects, which are popularly believed to be much corrupted descendants
of Classical Arabic.”39 The implication here is that while the spoken ver-
naculars of Arabic retained aspects of old Arabic variability, the classical
language became somewhat simplifĳied, perhaps partly and indirectly as a
result of the effforts of Sībawayhi and his successors to describe and codify
the language.
The same principle may be applied to the Arabic treatment of double
object pronouns. Indeed, it is more satisfactory to suppose that the vari-
ability in the treatment of pronominal objects with ditransitive verbs
exhibited by modern vernaculars was present in the pre-diaspora penin-
sular dialects than it is to imagine, as Gensler does, that such variability
arose independently in each of the spoken vernaculars after the expansion
of Arabic speaking tribes out of the Arabian Peninsula during and after
the 1st/7th century. This does not undercut the overall soundness of Gen-
sler’s analysis, it simply pushes the mechanisms he proposes further back
in time. Gensler’s developments may just as easily have arisen within the
Arabian Peninsula itself before the diaspora. Indeed, it requires fewer
plural tokens, as it does here. The usual pattern would be for the verb showing deflected
agreement to precede the noun, even in vernacular Arabic.
38
Belnap (1993).
39
Ibid., 179–182.
312 david wilmsen
steps in the process of changing from a proto object marking system to

the systems found in classical Arabic thence to the dialects to suppose
that, than it does to posit that the process began in Proto-Semitic (or even
Proto-Afroasiatic) diversity, converged into the situation presumed to be
present in the classical Arabic of Sībawayhi’s day-such as it was, and then
branched again into dialectal diversity, as Gensler proposes. It does not,
however, explain how it came to be that all of the North African dialects
exhibit the B form only, casting two pronominal objects into a preposi-
tional dative construction and none other. To explain that requires some
reconstruction.
Dialect Reconstructions
Arguing from Semitic and Afroasiatic sources, Gensler outlines a pro-

cess whereby clitic object constructions and thence double object sufffĳix
pronouns can develop.40 He begins with the observation that verbs in all
Semitic languages can take a single object pronoun sufffĳix and then recon-
structs the process whereby they came to take two. He also speculates
that the original pronominal sufffĳix came to be tightly bound to the verb
in the fĳirst place through the same mechanism. The process then, adapted
from Gensler would proceed as follows:
1. The verb acts on an independent pronominal object.

2. The independent pronominal object undergoes cliticization, optionally
acquiring a preposition
3. The pronominal object clitic undergoes syntactic tightening and
becomes afffĳixed to the verb
4. A verb+sufffĳixed-pronominal-object construction acts on a second
independent pronominal object
5. The second pronominal object undergoes cliticization, optionally
acquiring a preposition
6. The pronominal object clitic undergoes syntactic tightening and
becomes afffĳixed to the verb
The fĳirst three steps are purely hypothetical but reasonable, especially as
the continuing process represented by steps 4 to 6 are evident in some
modern A-type Arabic vernaculars, most notably for our purposes, that of
40
Gensler (1998: 271–274).
Mecca, step 4 resulting in an A3 construction of the type addēt-ak hūwa,

and step 5 realized in an A5 of the type jāb li humma, as seen above. The
fĳinal step results in an A1 construction, something close to which is found,
for example, in Aleppo, where “it is normal to say ʿaṭīyon hi”41 (‘give them
it’) or southeast Turkey, where the construction ʿaṭaytuhū-wē ‘I gave it
him’ is found.42 In these two vernaculars, the second element is a clitic
and not a true sufffĳixed pronoun. Nevertheless, a true A1 construction is,
of course, attested by Sībawayhi in aʿṭānīhi and its sisters.
The same process with the notional objects in the opposite ordering is
even easier to imagine. That either the notional direct or indirect object
may be afffĳixed to the verb is undisputed; thus with a notional direct
object pronoun afffĳixed to a verb acting upon a notional indirect object,
the prepositional dative can arise easily. Gensler demonstrates its subse-
quent cliticization with the Egyptian vernacular B1 construction iddi-hā li,
about which he says,
That this li- marker is functioning as a clitic and not an independent [prep-
ositional phrase] is indicated by the fact that the combination generally
(though not always) undergoes phonological reduction and merges pho-
nologically with the verb as a single word. For example, in the . . . example
above, the verb sufffĳix li- contrasts with the independent liyya ‘to me’ and has
no word accent of its own.43
Indeed, with the elongated vowel of the fĳirst of the two object pronouns
attracting stress, the entire construction is being treated as a single word
according to Egyptian word stress rules, whereby stress is usually assigned
to the penultimate syllable. This may be seen clearly when it is considered
that were there to be only one pronoun afffĳixed to the verb, that pronoun
would undergo vowel reduction and the stress would shift away from it,
thus: iddī-ha. It seems clear that once a preposition is added to an inde-
pendent object pronoun, cliticization would rapidly follow.
It is a short step from here to a construction like Spitta-Bey’s tiddihāni,
supposing, as he does, that this is actually a dative construction with
/l/ having assimilated to /n/ as seen in the Algerian dialect. Such a pro-
cess would produce a construct such as aʿṭāhûnnā, which although not
attested by Marçais is predictable from the rule he outlined; perhaps this
41
Or optionally ʿaṭīyon hi(ya).
42
Retsö (1987: 219 & 221).
43
Gensler (1998: 258).
314 david wilmsen
explains the odd construction he does attest, aʿṭāhūnī, as a similar case

of assimilation.44
Indeed, a case may be made for the Algerian model as a remnant of an
older “original” peninsular form of Arabic. That argument must be made
obliquely, however, by considering that North African stress patterns may
in fact reflect an original peninsular system. About such a possibility Blau
remarks,
Only a minority of scholars dealing with the problem of stress in Arabic
regard the accepted accentuation of Classical Arabic (of the Eastern type) as
original. Most of them consider the stress system that may be reconstructed
from the Maghribi type of stress (which one may call ‘the ancient Maghribi
stress system’) to be nearer to the original stress pattern, and many of the
proofs adduced by them seem quite convincing.45
Blau’s attempt at identifying an original stress pattern seems somewhat
naïve given what is known about the diversity of Arabic dialects in the
Arabian Peninsula before Islam. It is just as likely that there were original
stress patterns as that there was a single pattern prevailing throughout
the peninsula. Nevertheless, his observation points to the likelihood of
a western peninsular Arabic stress pattern that spread even further west
with the expansion of Arabic speakers into North Africa after the advent
of Islam. If this were so, the western dialects exhibiting that stress pattern
seem also to have been dialects that had efffectuated a categorical dative
shift with their object pronouns before being carried by their speakers
westward across North Africa.
Buttressing this case for stress patterns as indicators of dative dialects,
Blau echoes our observation about Sībawayhi’s treatment of vowels:
The pronominal sufffĳix 3rd pers. masc. sing. was, as a rule, pronounced -hū
in Classical Arabic. After a long vowel, however (and to some extent also
after a closed syllable), it was shortened to -hu. . . . One wonders . . . whether
this phenomenon could not be explained by a stress system corresponding
to the Maghribi one, in which the stress is generally oxytone (and there-
fore, as a rule, -hū was preserved), yet a long vowel preceding the last syl-
lable becomes stressed. . . . In this connexion it is interesting to note that
44
He does adduce another odd one in which the /l/ becomes /m/: yaʿṭēuhúmmek ‘ils te
les donneront.’ Spitta-Bey (1880: 26) demonstrates how a similar process obtains in Egypt,
wherein the liquid consonants assimilate one to the other and that /n/ can become /m/
in the presence of a bilabial: “Die Liquidae wechseln häufĳig mit einander. So wird l zu r in:
rakhar fem. rukhra = lakhar, lukhra entst. aus elakhar, elukhra . . . . l wird zu n in enbāreḥ
gesprochen embāreḥ ‘gestern.’ ”
45
Blau (1972: 477–8).
according to Sibawaihi -hū generally remains long after a closed syllable, as

opposed to the opinion of later grammarians. One could claim that Sibawai-
hi’s opinion reflects the Maghribi stress system, according to which only
long vowels, rather than closed syllables, attract the stress, whereas later
grammarians were used to a diffferent stress pattern. Yet, admittedly, all this
is quite inconclusive.46
Inconclusiveness is a chronic malady, which, because it cannot be cured,
must be endured in attempting reconstructions of early Arabic. Nev-
ertheless, a western dialect origin could explain the construction that
Sībawayhi found so unlovely. His location on the far north-eastern edge of
the Arabian Peninsula may have meant that he simply never had contact
with a native speaker of a dialect in which such constructions (or similar
ones) existed.
If it is agreed that the modern spoken vernaculars retain old Arabic
usages that were subsequently lost to the later classical Arabic, it is not
hard to conceive that such dialects did exist in or around Mecca, espe-
cially considering that similar features are present in the spoken Arabic of
Mecca today. Seen in this light, Gensler’s rich multiplicity of independent
parallel developments in the treatment of double object pronouns found
in the spoken vernaculars are better seen as individual steps along a single
development continuum, with the sequence becoming arrested in some
vernaculars and earlier steps preserved alongside later ones in others.
In the type A dialects especially, independent, cliticized and sufffĳixed
forms may exist side-by-side with each other or with B forms within a
single dialect.
Dialect Grammarians
This brings us back to Sībawayhi’s dispute with contemporary grammar-

ians, his naḥwiyyūn, on this point. Might his rivals have been confusing
their ill-formed attestation with a prepositional dative of the shape aʿṭā-hū
l-ī or even attesting a construction that actually did exist in the form of
an assimilated prepositional dative construction of the type now seen in
Algeria but was not attested in the dialect areas with which Sībawayhi
was the most familiar?
The vexed question of these grammarians’ identities has only marginal
bearing on this issue, and any possibility may fĳit the thesis proposed
46
Ibid., 482.
316 david wilmsen
here; for, were they representatives of a coherent grammatical school of

thought, as Talmon proposes, especially if their locale was in the Hijaz
and not Mesopotamia,47 the possibility for which he later leaves open,48
they could have been describing a dialect unfamiliar to Sībawayhi, per-
haps those of Mecca and Medina and adjacent dialect areas.49 If, on the
other hand, they were, as Carter suggests,50 mere dilettantes exercising
primitive descriptive methodologies, they may then simply have made the
mistake of confusing a pronominal prepositional dative construction for a
double object sufffĳix construction. It is, after all, often very difffĳicult to hear
the diffference between, say, yi-khallī-ni yāk and yi-khallī-li yāk, a contrast
existing in some modern vernaculars; how much more difffĳicult must it be
to hear the diffference between aʿṭāhūnī and aʿṭāhūlī !
Baalbaki, in summarizing the various arguments about the identity of
Sībawayhi’s enigmatic naḥwiyyūn cautions that all such speculations are
best viewed within the “framework of a working hypothesis, which we
should not unduly expect to yield any defĳinitive results.51 Low expectations
are inescapable due to the scarcity of genuine sources from the period.”
This advice is applicable to any reconstructions of the past state of Arabic;
at best, we can attempt to form a framework for a working hypothesis
about any possible dialectal origins for the grammarians’ attestation of
an out-of-sequence ordering of the notional objects of ditransitive verbs.
That we have done here.
A Final Consideration and Conclusion
A question we have not yet addressed is the origin of the free object
pronoun iyyā- itself. This is almost always and without much reflection
47
Talmon (1982).
48
Idem (1985).
49
Baalbaki (2008: 24–25) doubts that there was ever a “grammatical school” as such in
Medina. He further points out that Sībawayhi apparently never actually went into the des-
ert to collect data in situ from the Bedouin, but relied upon Bedouin speakers who came to
the cities of Mesopotamia to act as native informants for the grammarians working there.
Nevertheless, his teachers and contemporaries did go into the desert and were familiar
with Hijazi dialects, and he himself voiced his esteem for the Hijazi dialects, even if rather
patronizingly, see Baalbaki (2008: 39) and Carter (2004: 4).
50
Carter (1972: 77 & 1985: 265–266) proposes that the closest rendering of the word
naḥw as it is employed in al-Kitāb means ‘manner of speaking’ (façon de parler) and not
‘grammar’ as in later usage, concluding that, “the derivative naḥwiyyūn can hardly mean
‘grammarians’, and . . . during this period simply meant ‘those concerned with the way
people speak.’ ”
51
Baalbaki (2008: 21).
treated as if its main function were marking an object pronoun, such that
Gensler in one instance52 calls it an “independent object pronoun” and an
“independent object base” in another.53 Bravmann goes further, by calling
it an “accusative pronoun.”54 This unselfconscious acceptance of the free
object pronoun as such may have its origins in Sībawayhi’s own treat-
ment of it, wherein he seems determined to attribute to it the marking
of an object pronoun and perhaps nothing else. Indeed, in his eagerness
to establish this, he engages in a bit of his own analogy building, adding
an unnecessary level of explanation when a simpler one is at hand. For,
iyyā- has other functions, including simply standing in the place of an
independent pronoun (with an appropriate pronominal afffĳix, of course).55
As it happens, a hint at such an explanation is provided by Retsö, who
says this:
It appears . . . that the diffferent constructions with two pronominal objects
arise from a reluctance to attach the bound pronominal sufffĳixes to each
other, i.e., these sufffĳixes are usually attached directly to nouns and prepo-
sitions only. Even in [standard written Arabic], where double sufffĳixes are
allowed, there is an alternative construction with the second sufffĳix attached
to the demonstrative element iyyā.56 (emphasis added)
While Retsö attempts some structural justifĳications for labelling iyyā- a
demonstrative, there is evidence aplenty that it is so used. Some modern
writers use it as often in demonstrative form as they do in marking the
prepositional object of a verb.57 Consider one example from many that
could be adduced:
 
      
 
bi- l-yad iyyā-ha a-ktub
with the hand iyyā-it I write
With this very hand do I write
52
Gensler (1998: 242).
53
Idem (2003: 203). Badawi, Carter, and Gully (2004: 145, 239, 291, 373–5, & 447) call it
variously the “free object pronoun,” from which we derive our usage; the “detached object
pronoun”; and even the “dummy, pronoun” or “dummy element.” In their fĳirst mention
of it (p. 46), they call it a “compound free pronoun,” remarking that its “origins are still
unexplained.” The Arab grammarians apparently had no name for it.
54
Bravmann (1971: 50).
55
For a fairly complete list of the functions of iyyā-, see Wilmsen (2010: 108–112).
56
Retsö (1987: 229).
57
Wilmsen (2010: 113–114).
318 david wilmsen
Sībawayhi is at such great pains to establish that iyyā- marks an object

pronoun that he misses its deictic function:58
    
 
،    :                  
              
                 :   
 .                     
   
    
   
               :             
  
 
.       :   .   :             : 
          
What indicates to you that it is made accusative by the verb and that the yā
becomes a substitute for pronouncing the verb, is the statement of the Arabs
yā iyyāka, which is to say, ‘I mean you!,’ whereby yā and ayā and ay become
substitutes for the verb. Al-Khalīl, God rest his soul, claimed to have heard
some Arabs say yā anta!
He maintained that they were causing it to take the place of the word. So,
if you wanted, you could say yā fulānu [O, so-and-so] with the status of yā
Zayd, then you would say, iyyā-ka!, that is, ‘You, I mean.’
That iyyā- does function as a deictic element may be seen when somewhat
earlier Sībawayhi59 discusses iyyā- in the phrase used in warning, iyyāka
wa l-asad-a! ‘you! the lion!’ This is, of course, conventionally translated as
“beware the lion,” undoubtedly arising from Sībawayhi’s gloss, “as it were,
‘You! Know [be aware of] the lion.’ ” Here his concern has shifted away
from the deictic iyyā- to a hypothetical (he would say elided) verb’s action
upon the lion, rendering the noun accusative. In his eagerness to account
for that, it appears he has committed the same error that he attributes to
the naḥwiyyūn, with whom he so often disputes, by making an analogy to
a verbal sentence when an easier interpretation is at hand. The phrase as
a warning simply means, “Hey you! There’s a lion!” Or, as the Arabic has
it, “You! The lion!”
Regarding iyyā- as a demonstrative rescues us from such a fanciful
reconstruction as that attempted by Bravmann,60 who argues that the ele-
ment developed from the {-iya} sufffĳix of such prepositional afffĳix com-
pounds as fī-ya ‘in me’ ʿalay-ya ‘on me’ and with defective nouns with a
sufffĳixed 1st person singular possessive pronoun, such as ʿaṣā-ya ‘my stick.’
This, he argues, then became attached to the usual object sufffĳix {-ni}—for
which he proposes an original form analogous to the {-iya} sufffĳix *-niya
58
Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb 1, 290.
59
Ibid., 1, 272.
60
Bravmann (1971: 50–52).
on the verb aʿṭā—through a series of unlikely steps to go from aʿṭānīhi,

or rather from his proposed original form *aʿṭānīhū, to another proposed
original form *aʿṭānīyahū. Whence the sufffĳixed pronoun split away from
the verb along with its attached pronoun and in the process other pro-
nominal sufffĳixes could by analogy be agglomerated onto the element
iyyā-, and the star was born, as it were.
This rather cumbersome process is made all the more untidy by Brav-
mann’s assertion that the Arabic form is the original from which the Ara-
maic yāth-, the Hebrew ōth-, and the Ethiopic kiyā- and “the majority of
the independent object pronouns found in the Semitic languages other
than Arabic” were derived. To him, these are “etymologically related to
the Arabic forms” (which is no doubt true), but “the comparable forms
outside Arabic are less original than the Arabic form.” All of this leads
to the conclusion that, “it seems very probable that the . . . Semitic forms
outside Arabic represent modifĳications of the more original Arabic form.”61
With this curious reasoning, Bravmann appears to be saying that the Ara-
bic retains the underlying original Proto-Semitic form from which the
analogous forms in other Semitic languages developed. While that may
be true, his reconstruction would require that all other Semitic languages
with such a deictic element undergo a similar process with constructs
analogous to his Arabic *aʿṭānīyahū.
In our reconstruction, however, the process would have proceeded in
rather the opposite manner from Bravmann’s: the verb with an object
sufffĳix acts upon an independent pronoun, which may have an alternate
form marked by iyyā- (perhaps as yā-k, yā-h, etc.); the iyyā- form becomes
cliticized; thence syntactic tightening occurs to form a double object suf-
fĳix. This is more plausible both for its reliance upon attested Arabic forms
and because it posits that the iyyā- (or yā-) form predate the double object
pronoun construction. This, in turn, is a much more satisfying explanation
for the presence of similar deictic elements in other Semitic languages.
To complete the picture, Hasselbach suspects that the prepositional
[l-] also began as a demonstrative element used to express far deixis in
Afroasiatic, adding the intriguing clue that yā ‘that’ continues in use in
Amharic to express far deixis when both the speaker and the listener are
distant from the object.62 All of these considerations taken together pro-
vide a coherent accounting of several phenomena: double afffĳixed object
61
Ibid., 50.
62
Hasselbach (2007: 22). That it was originally a Semitic demonstrative cannot be in
doubt after Barth (1913: 77–80) has demonstrated its use as such in Aramaic, Ethiopic,
320 david wilmsen
pronouns, the pronominal double object construction and its alterna-

tive pronominal prepositional dative construction, and fĳinally a plausible
explanation for the categorical use of the dative shift in the dialects of
North Africa.
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STYLE, LEXICOGRAPHY, AND PHONOSYMBOLISM
HOMONYMIE, POLYSÉMIE
ET CRITÈRES DE DISTINCTION
Ibrahim Ben Mrad
1. Homonymie et polysémie dans la tradition linguistique arabe
Il est inutile de rappeler que le thème étudié est très classique et qu’on
lui a consacré une littérature linguistique très abondante. Il a attiré notre
attention depuis les débuts des années quatre-vingt dans les articles que
recevait le Comité de rédaction de la Revue de la Lexicologie que publie l’As-
sociation de la Lexicologie Arabe en Tunisie (et que nous dirigeons), puis
dans les mémoires et les thèses de nos étudiants à la Faculté des Lettres
de l’Université de la Manouba. En fait, une grande confusion régnait—et
règne encore—dans la littérature linguistique arabe moderne, aussi bien
sur les concepts que sur la terminologie utilisée pour les dénoter. La lin-
guistique arabe classique a bien connu les phénomènes d’homonymie et
de polysémie, mais elle leur donnait ensemble le nom de « mushtarak »
dont la signifĳication littérale est « commun. » Aḥmad b. Fāris, par exem-
ple, défĳinit le « mushtarak » par « le fait qu’un mot admet deux signifĳi-
cations ou même plus » (an takūn al-lafẓa muḥtamila li-maʿnayayni aw
akthar)1. Dans un autre chapitre—« Comment les noms désignent—ils les
choses? »2—il traite le phénomène sans le nommer mais il le divise en
deux catégories: (a) « la désignation de plusieurs choses par un seul mot »
(tusammā l-ashyāʾ al- kathīra bi-l-ism al-wāḥid) en l’illustrant par l’exem-
ple de « ʿayn » = œil et quelques unes de ses acceptions3; et (b) « la dési-
gnation d’un seul objet par plusieurs noms » (yusammā l-shayʾ al-wāḥid
bi-l-asmāʾ al-mukhtalifa) qu’il exemplifĳie par « sayf » (épée) et quelques
uns de ses « noms, »4 mais ici il s’agit d’un cas de synonymie.
Reprenant le dernier passage d’Ibn Fāris, Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī consi-
dère la première catégorie comme seule représentante du « mushtarak. »5
1
Ibn Fāris, al-Ṣāḥibī fī fĳiqh al-lugha, 269.
2
Ibid., 96–98.
3
Ibid., 96.
4
Ibid., 96. Nous notons ici qu’Ibn Fāris précise bien que le « sayf » est le seul « nom »
que cet objet porte, et que ses autres dénominations ne sont que des « adjectifs » (ṣifāt).
5
Suyūṭī, al-Muzhir fī ʿulūm al-lugha 1, 369.
326 ibrahim ben mrad
Il ajoute même à la défĳinition donnée par Ibn Fāris une autre défĳinition
plus précise empruntée à « ahl al-uṣūl »: « le mushtarak est un seul mot
qui porte deux signifĳications qui s’égalent, au point de vue des locuteurs
de la même langue, ou plus de deux. »6 Ce concept de « mushtarak » est
exprimé aussi par une autre défĳinition que portent quelques traités de
lexicographie arabes comme titre: « Les mots ayant la même forme pho-
nique mais des signifĳications diffférentes » (mā ttafaqa lafẓuhu wa-khtalafa
maʿnāhu)7. On constate bien, d’après la première défĳinition et l’exemple
de « ʿayn » qui l’illustre, que le terme de « mushtarak » désigne surtout
« la polysémie. » Mais, à l’exception de la défĳinition illustrée par « sayf »
qui réfère bien à la synonymie, les deux autres défĳinitions que donnaient
Ibn Fāris et Suyūṭī laissent à croire que le terme désigne aussi bien l’ho-
monymie que la polysémie. Le terme « mā ttafaqa lafẓuhu wa-khtalafa
maʿnāhu » que portent certains traités de lexicographie n’échappe pas
lui-aussi à cette généralisation. Mais d’après les exemples que l’on trouve
dans les traités de philologie arabe pour illustrer le phénomène8, le terme
de « mushtarak » renvoie surtout à la polysémie, sauf dans les cas où
l’exemple donné pourrait être un nom et un adjectif à la fois9.
D’ailleurs, cette tendance à désigner par « mushtarak » le phénomène
de la polysémie est confĳirmée par les écrits philosophiques et logiques ara-
bes. Des écrits philosophiques nous mentionnons, par exemple, « Risāla
fī l-ḥudūd » (Epitre des Défĳinitions) d’Ibn Sīnā. Plusieurs termes philo-
sophiques sont, dans cet épitre, qualifĳiés de « mushtarak » parce qu’ils
dénotent un certain nombre de concepts, c’est-à-dire, en terminologie
lexicologique, un certain nombre de signifĳications. C’est, par exp., le cas
de « ʿaql »10 (raison), de « nafs »11 (âme), de « ṣūra »12 (forme), de « jism »13
(corps) . . . etc. Cette association du terme à plusieurs sens est explicitée
par al-Jurjānī dans « Kitāb al-Taʿrīfāt » (Le Livre des Défĳinitions). Pour cet
auteur logicien, le « mushtarak » est un « mot que l’on a établi pour déno-
6
Ibid. 1, 369.
7
Aḥmad Sharqāwī Iqbāl donne dans son Muʿjam al-maʿājim, 290–292 dans un chapitre
intitulé « Maʿājim al-ishtirāk » la liste commentée d’une douzaine de traités lexicographi-
ques portant le titre de « mā ttafaqa lafẓuhu wa-khtalafa maʿnāhu. »
8
Cf. par exemple Abū Manṣūr al-Thaʿālibī, Fiqh al-lugha, 410–411 (Chap. « Fī wuqūʿ ism
wāḥid ʿalā ashyāʾ mukhtalifa » (De la désignation de diffférents objets par un seul nom).
9
Tel que le mot « ʿadl » donné par Thaʿālibī (Ibid., 411) qui est un nom qui signifĳie « jus-
tice » et un adjectif qui signifĳie « homme juste. » La diffférence en catégorie lexicale est l’un
des critères que nous adoptons pour faire la distinction entre polysémie et homonymie.
10
Ibn Sīnā, Risāla fī l-ḥudūd, 79.
11
Ibid., 81.
12
Ibid., 82.
13
Ibid., 87.
homonymie, polysémie et critères de distinction 327
ter plusieurs signifĳications . . . comme « ʿayn » à cause de son association

à des signifĳications multiples. »14 L’un des commentateurs de « Kitāb al-
Ghurra fī l-manṭiq » du même Jurjānī, ʿĪsā b. Muḥammad al-Ṣafawī al-Ījī,
met le « mushtarak » en opposition avec le « monosème » qu’il dénomme
« munfarid. »15
Cette tendance à privilégier la polysémie pourrait s’expliquer, en vérité,
par le fait que l’homonymie était souvent considérée, dans la tradition
linguistique arabe, comme une fĳigure de rhétorique appelée « jinās, » et
qui rappelle les jeux de mots, comme les exemples que l’on trouve dans
ce vers du poète et écrivain Ibn Rashīq de Kairouan:
Wa dārihim in kunta fī dārihim*wa arḍihim in kunta fī arḍihim
que l’on peut traduire par: « Flatte-les quand tu es dans leur maison, et
fais-leur plaisir quand tu es sur leur terre. » Dans ce vers, l’expression
« dārihim » s’applique à l’impératif du verbe « dārā » qui signifĳie « flat-
ter » ou « circonvenir, » auquel est ajouté le pronom « -hum, » et au nom
« dār » qui signifĳie « maison » et auquel est ajouté le même pronom; quant
à l’expression « arḍihim, » elle s’applique à l’impératif du verbe « arḍā »
qui signifĳie « satisfaire » ou « faire plaisir à, » auquel est ajouté le pronom
« -hum, » et au nom « arḍ » qui signifĳie « terre » et auquel est ajouté le pro-
nom « -hum » aussi. Il ne s’agit pas, dans ces exp., de vraies unités lexicales
homonymes, mais d’expressions mises rhétoriquement et syntaxiquement
en relation de « jinās » que l’on appelle aussi « tajnīs » et « mujānasa » et
que l’on traduit d’une manière variable par « paronymie, » « allitération »
et « homonymie. »16
2. Homonymie et polysémie, deux termes de lexicologie
Ce qui nous intéresse des deux termes c’est leur usage lexical. Les linguis-
tes arabes modernes ont souvent tendance, quand ils décrivent des phé-
nomènes linguistiques, à traduire la terminologie linguistique occidentale;
14
al-Sharīf al-Jurjānī, Kitāb al-Taʿrīfāt, 215: « al-mushtarak: mā wuḍiʿa li-maʿnā kathīr . . . »;
or, dans les cas polysémiques, il ne s’agit pas de « waḍʿ »—institution ou établissement de
signifĳication—mais d’une évolution sémantique de la signifĳication première d’une unité
lexicale vers de nouvelles signifĳications au cours de l’histoire de son usage.
15
ʿĪsā al-Ṣafawī al-Ījī, Sharḥ Kitāb Ghurrat al-manṭiq, 128. Remarquons que l’éditeur,
dans un index des « termes de logique » traduit (p. 238) le « lafẓ mushtarak » par « Equi-
voque, » et « lafẓ munfarid »—qui devient dans l’index « lafẓ mufrad »—par « Expression
simple, mot incomplexe »!
16
La littérature relative à cette fĳigure de rhétorique en arabe est très abondante. Cf. une
synthèse avec une bibliographie détaillée dans Heinrichs, « Tadjnīs, » 70–73.
et nous avons bien remarqué, dans plusieurs articles qui ont été envoyés
à la Revue de la Lexicologie, que les deux phénomènes d’homonymie et de
polysémie sont appelés ensemble « ishtirāk lafẓī » qui signifĳie, littérale-
ment, que deux ou plusieurs mots s’associent à la même articulation ou la
même prononciation. Nous avons même constaté une sorte de confusion
entre les deux phénomènes dans des glossaires de termes linguistiques ou
même des livres de philologie arabe où l’on traduit clairement « homo-
nyme » par « mushtarak lafẓī » en donnant, parfois, l’exemple de « ʿayn. »17
Dans le meilleur des cas, s’il y a distinction entre les deux phénomènes,
on fait de « ishtirāk lafẓī » l’équivalent d’homonymie, et on se contente de
calquer le sens de « polysémie » en le traduisant par « taʿaddud maʿnawī »
(multiplicité de sens), sans penser à utiliser « ishtirāk dalālī » qui a plus de
légitimité, à cause du vieux usage de « mushtarak » et d’“ishtirāk » dans la
tradition linguistique arabe pour désigner le phénomène sémantique18.
Une telle généralisation résulte, en vérité, des difffĳicultés que l’on trouve,
en linguistique moderne, à faire la distinction entre l’homonymie et la
polysémie. On leur donne, il est vrai, deux défĳinitions diffférentes, mais très
proches l’une de l’autre. Dans un dictionnaire de terminologie linguistique
comme celui de Georges Mounin, l’homonymie « est une relation existant
entre deux (ou plusieurs) formes linguistiques ayant le même signifĳiant,
mais des signifĳiés radicalement diffférents. »19 Quant à la polysémie, le
même dictionnaire lui donne la défĳinition suivante: « Propriété qu’a un
même signifĳiant de présenter plusieurs signifĳiés. »20 Mais le problème c’est
17
Cf. par exemple ʿAlī ʿAbd al-Wāḥid Wāfī, Fiqh al-lugha, 189–190; l’Académie de Lan-
gue Arabe du Caire, Majmūʿat al-muṣṭalaḥāt al-ʿilmiyya wa-l-fanniyya 1, 622; Ṣubḥī al-Ṣāliḥ,
Dirāsāt fī fĳiqh al-lugha, 301–309; ALECSO, Unifĳied Dictionary of Linguistic Terms, 62, 110, où
« ishtirāk lafẓī » est donné comme équivalent à homonymie et polysémie en même temps;
ʿAlī al-Qāsimī, ʿIlm al-muṣṭalaḥ, 357–363.
18
Cf. par exp. Bassam Baraké, Dictionnaire de linguistique, 100 (homonymie y est rendu
par « mujānasa » et « tajānus lafẓī »), et 162 (où polysémie et un autre synonyme écrit
« polysémémie » sont rendus ensemble par « taʿaddud al-maʿānī, taʿaddud al-dalālāt,
ishtirāk lafẓī »); Mubārak Mubārak, Muʿjam al-muṣṭalaḥāt al- alsuniyya, 132 et 229 (il
donne à homonymie « tajānus lafẓī » et « ishtirāk lafẓī » et rend polysémie par « taʿaddud
al-maʿānī » mais il copie sur Baraké « polysémémie » qu’il sépare de polysémie et auquel
il donne deux des équivalents de Baraké: « ishtirāk lafẓī » et « taʿaddud al-dalālāt. » Malgré
la distinction donc l’ « ishtirāk lafẓī » est commun à homonymie et à polysémie! Nabil
El-Zohairy, A Dictionary of Computer Science & Computational Linguistics, 165 (homonymie
est traduit par quatre termes arabes: « ishtirāk lafẓī, » « jinās, » « tajānus » et « tajnīs »),
et 282 (polysémie est rendu par cinq équivalents: « maʿnā kathīr » (sic !), « taʿaddud
al-maʿānī, » « ishtirāk, » « iḥtimāl » (sic !), « ittifāq al-lafẓ wa-khtilāf al-maʿnā. » Remarquons
que « iḥtimāl » est, dans ce dictionnaire, l’équivalent de « probability » aussi (293); Aḥmad
al-Maʿtūq, Ẓāhirāt lughawiyya, 94–97.
19
G. Mounin, Dictionnaire de la linguistique, 164.
20
Ibid., 264.
qu’on ne sait pas toujours avec certitude quand les formes linguistiques
ayant le même signifĳiant et des signifĳiés diffférents constituent-elles de
vrais homonymes ou de vrais polysèmes. Pour un auteur comme G. Mou-
nin, « la polysémie difffère de l’homonymie en cela que les signifĳiés difffé-
rents sont tout de même perçus comme présentant des traits sémantiques
communs, alors que dans l’homonymie ils n’ont rien de commun. »21 Mais
le problème que pose cette distinction c’est qu’elle impose arbitrairement
à des formes linguistiques identiques n’ayant pas des traits sémantiques
communs d’être des homonymes.
Cette distinction entre les deux phénomènes devient arbitraire parce
qu’elle dépend, en fĳin de compte, de la conviction du sémanticien ou du
lexicographe vis-à-vis des signifĳiants et des signifĳiés qu’il traitent. Cette
conviction n’est pas, parfois, le résultat d’une vérifĳication scientifĳique des
données linguistiques mais d’une sorte de dogmatisme qui préfère une
approche à une autre. Ainsi, de tels mots, comme les noms « baie » et
« bouton, » les adjectifs « cher » et « pauvre, » et les verbes « appliquer » et
« descendre, » pourraient être considérés par d’aucuns comme des homo-
nymes et on les classe, dans le dictionnaire, en distribuant leurs diffférentes
signifĳications sur des entrées séparées, et c’est l’approche synchronique
adoptée, par exp., par J. Dubois et alii, les auteurs du Dictionnaire du fran-
çais contemporain, qui traitent le verbe « appliquer, » par exp., sous trois
entrées distinctes et séparées par des numéros : 1- appliquer, v. tr., appli-
quer une chose (objet, matière), sur, contre, à; 2- appliquer, v. tr., appliquer
quelque chose (sans complément); 3- appliquer (s’), v. pr., (sujet nom de
personne)22. On parle, dans ce cas, d’un « dégroupement » des homony-
mes où le mot est considéré comme « une unité du discours défĳinie par son
contexte: situation et distribution. »23 Ces mêmes mots pourraient aussi
être considérés comme des polysèmes, et on les classe en utilisant, pour
chacun d’eux, une seule entrée qui regroupe les diffférentes signifĳications,
et c’est l’approche diachronique adoptée, par exp., par A. Rey et alii, les
auteurs du Petit Robert, qui traitent les diffférentes acceptions du verbe
« appliquer, » par exp., sous la même entrée: « appliquer, » qui est subdi-
visée en deux grandes parties ou deux sous-entrées: I. (Actif ) qui regroupe
deux acceptions numérotées du verbe transitif; et II. S’appliquer (v. pron.)
21
Ibid., 264–265.
22
J. Dubois, R. Lagane, G. Niobey, D. et J. Casalis, H. Meschonnic, Dictionnaire du fran-
çais contemporain—l’exemple mentionné est donné par J. et C. Dubois, Introduction à la
lexicographie, 68–69.
23
J. et C. Dubois, Introduction à la lexicographie, 67.
qui regroupe trois acceptions numérotées dont deux au fĳiguré24. Dans ce

cas, on peut parler d’un « regroupement » des polysèmes où le « mot »
est considéré comme « une unité de langue, dont les réalisations dans le
discours impliquent des variations de sens selon les contextes. »25 Selon
A. Rey, « Même en sélectionnant une partie des emplois d’une forme lexi-
cale, de manière à constituer une unité moins complexe, la polysémie
ne peut être complètement éliminée: les diffférents « sens » de l’unité de
traitement doivent être ordonnés et chacun d’eux doit être décrit. Une
description hiérarchisée des types fonctionnels, des sens en contraste et
des variations contextuelles est indispensable, jointe à une représentation
des relations entre ces diverses sous-unités. »26 Donc, ce qui est polysémi-
que pour un auteur devient homonymique pour un autre, parce que ces
auteurs ne suivent pas la même approche27.
3. Des critères de distinction
Pour trouver une solution à un tel problème, on sait que plusieurs lin-
guistes ont proposé des critères de distinction28. Deux critères considérés
comme fondamentaux sont donnés: le premier est d’ordre étymologique.
Pour qu’un mot soit considéré comme polysémique, il faut que ses dif-
férentes signifĳications remontent à une origine étymologique commune.
Mais ce critère est souvent invalidé parce qu’il se base sur la recherche
diachronique et l’histoire de la langue, et cela transgresse les normes de la
synchronie. D’après J. Lyons, « le critère de relation étymologique n’est pas
aussi évident qu’on pourrait le penser à première vue (. . .). En dépit des
avantages qu’il peut y avoir à fournir dans les dictionnaires des détails sur
l’histoire des mots, ces informations n’ont, ou ne devraient avoir aucune
valeur dans l’analyse synchronique des langues. »29 Donc pour respecter
l’usage synchronique de la langue, le lexicologue et le lexicographe doi-
24
Alain Rey et Josette-Rey Debove (dir.), Le Petit Robert. Dictionnaire alphabétique et
analogique de la langue française, 86.
25
J. et C. Dubois, 67.
26
Alain Rey, De l’artisanat des dictionnaires à une science du mot, 116.
27
Cf. d’autres détails et discussions concernant les deux approches dans J. et C. Dubois,
66–82; J. Picoche, Précis de lexicologie française, 69–89; A. Rey, 114–118.
28
Cf. par exp. J. Lyons, Sémantique linguistique, 178–180; J. Gardes-Tamine, La Gram-
maire, 1/Phonologie,morphologie, lexicologie, 109–110; A. Lehmann et F. Martin-Berthet,
Introduction à la lexicologie. Sémantique et morphologie, 68–86; A. Niklas-Salminen, La
Lexicologie, 123–127; V. Nykees, La Sémantique, 193–204; F. Gaudin et L. Guespin, Initiation
à la lexicologie française, 198–205.
29
J. Lyons, Sémantique linguistique, 179.
vent la couper de son histoire pour ne penser qu’aux emplois actuels des
mots, c’est-à-dire aux « unités du discours » telles qu’elles se présentent
dans les contextes.
Le deuxième critère est d’ordre sémantique. C’est l’existence d’une rela-
tion de sens, dans le cas de la polysémie, par opposition à l’absence d’une
telle relation dans le cas de l’homonymie. Pour le même J. Lyons, « il est
clair que c’est la considération importante et on peut même arguer que
c’est la seule considération pertinente du point de vue synchronique. »30
Cette relation de sens nous rappelle les traits sémantiques communs que
les polysèmes doivent avoir pour être considérés comme de vrais polysè-
mes. Mais ce critère pourrait être invalidé lui aussi par le fait que l’absence
de relation de sens entre deux formes du même signifĳiant ne prouve nul-
lement qu’une telle relation n’a pas existé dans une étape quelconque de
l’histoire du mot en usage. L’évolution métaphorique des unités lexicales
dans l’usage est un fait linguistique reconnu et il ne doit pas échapper
à l’attention du lexicographe pour bien saisir, parfois, les signifĳications
exactes des « unités du discours » qu’il défĳinit.
4. A propos des propriétés distinctives
Les deux critères précédents sont donc nécessaires pour la distinction

mais ils sont insufffĳisants. En efffet, pour que la distinction soit sufffĳisante et
rigoureuse, nous proposons d’appliquer la théorie des propriétés distincti-
ves des termes telle qu’elle était élaborée par J.-C. Milner dans son Intro-
duction à une science du langage31 puis revue et appliquée à l’arabe par
nous-même32. L’essentiel de la théorie de Milner est de fonder la théorie
du lexique-dans le sens linguistique théorique-sur la théorie des termes,
qui sont les unités lexicales simples, c’est-à-dire les « mufradāt » en arabe
(les « mots, » dans le sens ordinaire). Pour que les termes qui constituent
le lexique appartiennent à un système et s’y relient entre eux, il faut qu’ils
s’attribuent des propriétés spécifĳiques qui leur permettent de se distin-
guer les uns des autres. Ces propriétés, selon J.-C. Milner, sont au nombre
de trois: (1) l’appartenance catégorielle (= C); (2) la forme phonologique
(= P); et (3) la signifĳication lexicale (= S). Mais la description de l’arabe,
qui a un système de structure morphologique non concaténative, et, en
30
Ibid., 179.
31
J.-C. Milner, Introduction à une science du langage, 324–355.
32
Cf. surtout I. Ben Mrad, Introduction à la théorie du lexique, 106–114; idem., Du lexique
au dictionnaire, 18–20, 86–89.
plus de son aspect morphématique, il a un autre aspect représenté par les

« ṣiyagh » (pl. de « ṣīgha, »33 terme traduit souvent par « schème ») que
nous appelons « formes types, » nous a permis d’ajouter une quatrième
propriété: la forme morphologique (= M). Ce sont donc des propriétés
distinctives dont chaque terme ou unité lexicale simple doit en avoir au
moins une qui le spécifĳie pour diffférer des autres termes dans le lexique.
Ces propriétés sont formalisables de la manière suivante [où (–) note la
ressemblance, et (+) note la diffférence]:
(1) [+P, +M, +C, +S]
Dans cette forme les diffférences entre les deux mots sont totales. On peut
l’illustrer par les deux mots « kalb » (chien) et « kalib » (enragé). Les deux
mots sont diffférents parce qu’ils n’ont ni la même forme phonologique (la
présence du phonème [i] dans le second a changé la forme du premier),
ni la même forme morphologique (deux formes types diffférentes : faʿl ≠
faʿil), ni la même appartenance catégorielle (nom ≠ adjectif ), ni la même
signifĳication lexicale.
(2) [–C], [+P, +M, +S]
Dans cette forme les deux mots ne se ressemblent qu’en appartenance
catégorielle. C’est le cas des deux verbes « ḥasaba » (calculer) et « ḥasuba »
(devenir noble) qui difffèrent en forme phonologique (la présence du pho-
nème [u] dans le second modifĳie la forme en [a] du premier) et en forme
morphologique (deux formes types diffférentes : faʿala ≠ faʿula), en plus de
leur diffférence en signifĳication.
(3) [–C, –M], [+P, +S]
Dans cette forme les deux mots se ressemblent en appartenance catégo-
rielle et en forme morphologique. C’est le cas des deux adjectifs « qādir »
(capable) et « qāṣir » (incapable) qui, en plus de leur appartenance à la
33
L’étude des « ṣiyagh » est la « ṣīghamiyya, » discipline de la morphologie dérivation-
nelle qui se distingue de la « ṣarfamiyya » dont l’objet est l’étude des « ṣarāfĳim, » c’est-
à-dire les « morphèmes. » Cette deuxième discipline est donc « la morphématique; »
quant à la première, propre au système morphologique des langues ayant—en plus des
morphèmes—des « ṣiyagh » comme les langues sémitiques, elle n’a pas de nom dans la
littérature linguistique moderne. Nous lui avons proposé le terme « morphomatique, » un
néologisme dérivé du grec μορφωμα (morphôma) qui signifĳie « forme » et « fĳigure. » Les
unités qu’étudie la morphomatique sont donc de deux genres: les « ṣiyagh » elles-mêmes
ou formes types que nous appelons « morphomes, » et les unités lexicales simples qui s’y
intègrent et que nous appelons « morphomèmes »—Cf. I. Ben Mrad, Du lexique au diction-
naire, 73–95, et VI–VII (note 12).
catégorie de l’adjectif, ont la même forme morphologique type « fāʿil. » Ils

difffèrent donc en forme phonologique ([d] ≠ [ṣ]) et en signifĳication.
(4) [–P, –M], [+C, +S]
Cette forme représente la ressemblance en forme phonologique et en
forme morphologique, et la diffférence en appartenance catégorielle et en
signifĳication. On l’illustre par les deux mots « nāmūs » (loi) et « nāmūs »
(moustique). Ces mots ont la même forme phonologique parce qu’ils sont
homophones et homographes, et la même forme morphologique type
« fāʿūl. » Mais ils sont diffférents en signifĳication lexicale et en catégorie
puisque le premier est un nom emprunté au grec νόμος (nómos), et le
second est un adjectif se rattachant à la racine arabe « √n.m.s. »
(5) [–C, –S], [+P, +M]
Dans cette forme les deux mots se ressemblent en appartenance catégo-
rielle et en signifĳication lexicale, et se diffférencient en forme phonologique
et en forme morphologique. Cependant, la ressemblance en signifĳication
lexicale indique bien qu’il s’agit d’un cas de synonymie. Sans entrer en
discussion de l’existence ou l’inexistence de la « synonymie absolue, »34
nous remarquons que ce phénomène n’est nullement rare surtout en
onomasiologie où l’on trouve facilement de diffférents noms désignant le
même objet. Parmi les noms de plantes qui illustrent bien ce phénomène
et en même temps cette 5ème forme, nous mentionnons les deux termes
« zuʾān » et « shaylam » qui désignent ensemble l’ivraie. Leur diffférence en
forme phonologique et en forme morphologique est nette, et leur ressem-
blance en catégorie et en signifĳication lexicales est claire.
(6) [–C, –P, –M], [+S]
Cette forme représente la ressemblance en trois propriétés et la dissem-
blance en une seule: la signifĳication. On peut l’illustrer par le couple de
termes: « khurṣ » qui signifĳie « palme, » et « khurṣ » qui signifĳie « boucle
d’oreille. » Les deux termes ont, en efffet, la même forme phonologique, la
même forme morphologique et la même catégorie lexicale puisqu’il s’agit
de deux noms ; mais ils ont deux signifĳications diffférentes.
(7) [–C, –M, –S], [+P]
34
Cf. quelques éléments de cette discussion dans J. Lyons, Linguistique générale, 341–
346; J.-C. Milner, Introduction à une science du langage, 341-347. Cf. aussi I. Ben Mrad, Du
lexique au dictionnaire, 20–21. Cependant, il est à signaler que le trait [–C] est capital pour
établir une relation de synonymie entre deux termes.
Cette forme nous présente une ressemblance presque parfaite entre les
deux mots puisqu’ils ne se diffférencient qu’en forme phonologique et que
cette diffférence est souvent le résultat d’un changement phonologique—
une mutation—qu’a subit un mot dans l’usage et qui se manifeste dans
une nouvelle forme représentant un deuxième mot. Il s’agit donc d’un
seul mot qui a changé de forme phonologique. C’est, par exemple, le cas
du mot « jashīsh » (blé écrasé) qui s’est transformé en « dashīsh » après la
mutation du [ʒ] en [d].
5. Propriétés distinctives et critères de distinction
Cette théorie des propriétés distinctives des unités lexicales simples

nous permet, en vérité, de formaliser la diffférence entre l’homonymie et
la polysémie en tant que phénomènes du lexique qui touchent aux uni-
tés lexicales. Parmi les sept formes que nous venons de présenter, il y
a deux qui attestent de vrais cas d’homonymie: les (4) et (6). En efffet,
dans la (4) les deux mots ont, en plus du trait [+S], le trait [+C] qui indi-
que qu’ils appartiennent à deux catégories lexicales diffférentes. Le mot
« nāmūs » recouvre donc deux emplois diffférents qui représentent deux
mots diffférents. Cette dissemblance est consolidée par l’existence d’une
autre diffférence: l’origine étymologique puisque l’un des deux « nāmūs »
est un nom d’origine grecque. Prenons un deuxième exemple: le vocable
arabe « barr » qui a, lui aussi, deux appartenances catégorielles et deux
signifĳications diffférentes. En efffet, il y a « barr » comme nom qui signifĳie
« terre ferme, » et « barr » comme adjectif qui signifĳie « charitable. » On
ne peut pas dire qu’il s’agit du même mot bien que les deux emplois du
mot remontent à une même origine étymologique, la racine « √b.r.r, » qui
donne, en fait, deux dérivés: un verbal « barra » qui signifĳie « être pieux »
et auquel se rattache l’adjectif « barrun, » et un nominal « barrun » qui signi-
fĳie « terre ferme. » Il s’agit donc de deux unités lexicales distinctes parce
que la diffférence entre le nom et l’adjectif est établi et un terme ne peut
pas appartenir à deux catégories en même temps.
Quant à la forme (6), elle nous présente un cas plus problématique
puisque les deux mots ne sont diffférents que par le trait [+S]. En efffet, les
deux emplois de « khurṣ, » dont l’un signifĳie « palme » et l’autre signifĳie
« boucle d’oreille, » appartiennent à la catégorie du nom. Dans ce cas, rien
dans l’apparence, ne nous permettrait de trancher pour dire qu’il s’agit
d’un même mot de nature polysémique ou de deux mots de nature homo-
nymique. Seul le recours à une cinquième propriété distinctive: l’origine
étymologique (= E), nous permettrait de voir clair et de trancher à propos

de la nature du phénomène. C’est elle qui nous permet de constater que
« khurṣ » dans le sens de « palme » est arabe parce qu’il se rattache à la
racine « √ k.r.ṣ, » et que « khurṣ » dans le sens de « boucle d’oreille » est
d’origine non arabe parce qu’il est emprunté au grec « χρυσός » (khru-
sos) qui signifĳie « or » et « objets fabriqués en or. » D’après la théorie des
propriétés distinctives, nous sommes donc ici en présence de deux unités
lexicales qui difffèrent en signifĳication lexicale et en origine étymologique.
Elles sont donc vraiment diffférentes et ne peuvent être que des homony-
mes.
Cette même propriété (= E) a aussi de l’importance dans les cas de poly-
sémie. Prenons le vocable arabe « ʿayn » (œil) auquel sont attribuées dans
le dictionnaire arabe plusieurs signifĳications35 dont « œil » (c’est-à-dire
l’organe de la vue), « source d’eau, » « monnaie, » « notable » et « espion. »
En appliquant la théorie des propriétés distinctives, on constate que les
diffférents emplois de « ʿayn » se ressemblent en trois propriétés: l’appar-
tenance catégorielle puisqu’il s’agit d’un nom, la forme phonologique et la
forme morphologique qui sont identiques dans les cinq cas. Le recours à
la cinquième propriété distinctive: l’origine étymologique (= E) nous per-
met de constater que les cinq emplois de « ʿayn »—ainsi que les autres
cas de sens attribués dans le dictionnaire au même vocable—se ratta-
chent tous à la racine « √ʿ.y.n. » Parmi les cinq propriétés distinctives, les
diffférents emplois de « ʿayn » ne difffèrent qu’en une seule propriété: la
signifĳication lexicale. Il s’agit donc d’un terme polysémique puisque nous
sommes en présence du même terme, auquel les locuteurs de l’arabe ont
attribué, pendant la longue histoire de son usage, plusieurs signifĳications
par extension métaphorique.
6. Des formules de distinction
A partir des propriétés distinctives appliquées à l’arabe, nous pouvons

proposer, pour la distinction des deux phénomènes de polysémie et d’ho-
monymie, deux formules qui peuvent constituer des règles. Concernant la
polysémie, on constate qu’elle se réalise selon la formule suivante:
[–P, –M, –C, –E], [+S]
35
Une quinzaine dans al-Muʿjam al-wasīṭ de l’Académie de Langue Arabe du Caire 2,
664–665.
C’est-à-dire que les polysèmes se ressemblent en quatre propriétés dis-

tinctives: la forme phonologique, la forme morphologique, l’appartenance
catégorielle et l’origine étymologique. Le vieil exemple arabe « ʿayn » ainsi
que son équivalent français « oeil »—issu du latin « oculus » et auquel sont
assignées dans le Nouveau Petit Robert quatorze signifĳications réparties en
quatre groupes36—illustrent parfaitement la formule proposée.
Quant à l’homonymie, si l’on met à l’écart les homophones tels que
« dessein » / « dessin » et « saut »/ « sceau » qui ne posent pas de problè-
mes de distinction, elle se réalise selon l’une des trois règles suivantes:
Dans la 1ère, la diffférence entre les deux termes est dans l’apparte-
nance catégorielle—et c’est un critère décisif—en plus de la signifĳication
lexicale:
[–P, –M, –E], [+C, +S]
Dans ce cas, les deux mots ont des formes phonologiques, des formes mor-
phologiques et des étymologies identiques, mais ils n’ont pas les mêmes
appartenances catégorielles et les mêmes signifĳications. L’exemple de
« ʿadl » en arabe est semblable à « barr » mentionné ci – dessus. En fait,
dans des exemples comme « ʿadlu l-qāḍī » (la justice du juge) et « qāḍin
ʿadlun » (un juge juste), les deux mots « ʿadl » n’ont ni la même apparte-
nance catégorielle—puisque le premier est un nom et le deuxième est un
adjectif—ni la même signifĳication.
Dans la 2ème, la diffférence est en signifĳication lexicale et en origine éty-
mologique:
[–P, –M, –C], [+S, +E]
Dans ce cas, les deux mots se ressemblent en forme phonologique, en
forme morphologique et en appartenance catégorielle. Pour que les deux
mots soient homonymes, leur diffférence en origine étymologique devient
indispensable. L’exp. de « khurṣ » en arabe, mentionné ci-dessus, illustre
bien cette règle. Les mots français « son » (sensation auditive) et « son »
(résidu de la mouture du blé ou d’autres céréales) l’illustrent bien aussi
puisque le premier est issu du latin « sonus, » et le second se rattache à
une origine présumée anglo-saxonne « seon. »
Dans la 3ème, la diffférence est en appartenance catégorielle, en signifĳi-
cation et en étymologie:
[–P, –M], [+C, +S, +E]
36
J. Rey-Debove et A. Rey (dir.), Le Nouveau Petit Robert, 1769–1770.
Dans ce cas, les deux mots se ressemblent en forme phonologique et en

forme morphologique. Comme dans la 1ère règle, la diffférence en apparte-
nance catégorielle est décisive pour faire des deux mots deux homonymes,
mais la diffférence en étymologie est capitale elle aussi pour appuyer cette
nature homonymique. L’exp. arabe de « nāmūs » mentionné ci-dessus
illustre bien cette règle. Les mots français « feu »—un nom issu du latin
« focus » et désignant « dégagement d’énergie et de lumière »—et « feu, »
en tant qu’ adjectif remontant au latin « fatum » et qui désigne « qui est
mort depuis peu de temps, » sont aussi deux bons exemples.
7. Conclusion
Pour conclure, nous insistons sur le fait que pour faire la distinction entre
l’homonymie et la polysémie, on se trouve obligé de prendre en considé-
ration la propriété étymologique des termes, c’est–à–dire de remonter à
une étape reculée de l’histoire du mot en usage. Même s’il est considéré,
dans le dictionnaire, comme une « unité du discours » dont la signifĳication
se réalise dans le contexte, sa description sémantique dans une défĳinition
satisfaisante nécessite du lexicographe une connaissance profonde de son
évolution sémantique pour bien saisir ses signifĳications actuelles. L’adop-
tion d’une approche diachronique est donc nécessaire pour trancher si
des termes tels que « ʿayn, » « khurṣ » et « nāmūs » sont des homonymes
ou des polysèmes. Mais, d’après la théorie des propriétés distinctives des
termes, la propriété étymologique n’est sûrement pas la seule impor-
tante. D’après les formules de distinction que nous avons proposées dans
le paragraphe précédent, les autres propriétés sont aussi importantes et
particulièrement l’appartenance catégorielle et la signifĳication lexicale.
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allatī aqarrahā l-majmaʿ. I. Le Caire: 1957.
——. al-Muʿjam al-wasīṭ, 3ème éd., Le Caire: 1985.
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1997.
——. Du lexique au dictionnaire. Tunis-Beyrouth: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 2010.
Dubois, J., R. Lagane, G. Niobey, D. et J. Casalis, H. Meschonnic. Dictionnaire du français
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Dubois, Jean et Claude. Introduction à la lexicographie. Le dictionnaire. Paris: Larousse,
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Ibn Sīnā, Abū ʿAlī. Risāla fī l-ḥudūd (dans: Tisʿ rasāʾil fī l-ḥikma wa-l-ṭabīʿiyyāt). 2ème éd. le
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Larousse, 1970.
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SULAMĪ’S TREATISE ON THE SCIENCE OF THE LETTERS
(ʿILM AL-ḤURŪF)
Gerhard Böwering
The Science of the Letters (ʿilm al-ḥurūf) in Sufism
The terms, “Sufĳism” and “the Science of the Letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf )1 men-
tioned together frequently awaken associations with the most widely
known work on magic in Islam, Shams al-maʿārif wa-laṭāʾif al-‘awārif (“The
Brilliance of Knowledge and the Subtleties of its Gift”) of Abū l-ʿAbbās
Aḥmad b. ʿAlī al-Būnī (d. 622/1225).2 The author was a native of the town
of Bone (i.e., ʿAnnāba) on the Mediterranean coast between Algiers and
Tunis, an old Phoenician settlement that became known as the Roman
city of Hippo, the bishopric of Saint Augustine (395–430), which passed
into the hands of the Muslim conquerors in the beginning of the second/
eighth century.3 The Shams al-maʿārif 4 exists in three versions, a short
one, the oldest (dated 618/1221), a middle-sized one, and a long one.5 The
work may be best understood as a kind of encyclopedia of magical prac-
tices popularly known in North Africa,6 that relies on superstitions and
insights into the supernatural world, covering a medley of topics, such
1
Where the spelling of Arabic and Persian terms or place names is included in Eng-
lish dictionaries, I have adopted standard American usage. The exceptions to this rule are
“Qurʾān” and “Qurʾānic” for Koran and Koranic. Personal names are written in long form
when they appear for the fĳirst time in the text, thereafter they are quoted in their short
form with the defĳinite article “al-” dropped whenever I refer to personal names denoting
descent or origin (nisba).
2
A. Dietrich (2004: “al-Būnī”); D. A. M. Pielow (1995); M. Ullmann (1972: 390–1). For the
relationship of Būnī’s works to the Kitāb al-jafr al-jāmiʿ by Abū Sālim Muḥammad b. Ṭalḥa
(d. 652/1254) and the Miftāḥ al-jafr al-jāmiʿ by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Muḥammad al-Bisṭāmī
(d. 858/1454), see T. Fahd (1966: 228–30).
3
G. Marcais (1960: 1, 511–2).
4
The Arabic text is extant in a great number of manuscripts, see GAL I, 497; GALS I, 910.
The short version (al-ṣughrā) appeared in lithographs, Bombay 1237; 1296; 1298; and Cairo
1291; and was printed in Cairo 1319 and 1322; the middle-size version (al-wusṭā) is extant
in MS. Ahlwardt 4125; and the long version (al-kubrā) appeared in lithograph in Bombay
1296 and was printed in 4 volumes in Cairo 1905 (al-Maṭbaʿa al-Ḥusayniyya); see also,
T. Fahd (1966: 230–4).
5
H. A. Winkler (1930: 67–86); W. Ahrens (1922: 157–77).
6
D. Doutté, (1909); W. Ahrens (1922: 157–77 and 1925: 104–10); G. Bergsträsser (1923:
227–35).
340 gerhard böwering
as directions for the use of amulets, magical use of letters and numbers,
letter-squares, qurʾānic verses and names of God. The author of the work
is known as a Sufĳi (al-Ṣūfī) who was given the honorifĳic name of Muḥyī
l-Dīn, a name he shares with his famous contemporary Ibn al-ʿArabī
(d. 638/1240). The latter also employs “the science of the letters” at the
very heart of his magnum opus, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (“The Meccan
Revelations”), a huge encyclopedia that offfers a highly intellectual syn-
thesis of mystico-philosophical Sufĳism.7
Having worked on it for some thirty years, Ibn al-ʿArabī divides his
work into six voluminous parts ( faṣl), each subdivided into sections ( juzʾ)
or chapters (bāb). The prologue, chapter 1, begins with a reflection on
the reality of being (al-ḥaqīqa l-wujūdiyya), the Logos and its manifesta-
tions (al-ḥaqīqa al-Muḥammadiyya) and the origin of the world (nashʾat
al-kawn), followed by an epistle to his master and shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz
al-Mahdawī of Tunis, disciple of Abū Madyan (d. 594/1197). Chapter 2
outlines the six parts of his work (al-maʿārif, al-muʿāmalāt, al-aḥwāl,
al-manāzil, al-munāzalāt, and al-maqāmāt). Chapter 3 offfers the actual
introduction (muqaddimat al-kitāb), where he presents his theory on the
nature of knowledge and its modes, prophetical, mystical, philosophical
and theological, the latter of which he criticizes severely. He ends this
chapter with three types of the profession of faith, that of the ordinary
believers, based on the teachings of Qurʾān and Sunna, that of the theolo-
gians, derived from intellectual reflection on the data of faith, and that of
the philosophers rooted exclusively in rational reflection. Chapter 4 then
details his own profession of faith, a declaration that is both mystical and
metaphysical and is based, in theory and practice, on his religion, “the
essential adoration” (al-ʿibāda al-dhātiyya) uniting his own being with the
absolute ground of existence (wujūd).
Upon this mystical and metaphysical core idea, Ibn al-ʿArabī develops
his hermeneutical method of “the science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ),
beginning in the second half of chapter 4 and ending with chapter 7. His
in-depth study of the letters of the alphabet provides a key to his whole
work, examining them against the background of his autobiographical
experience and fĳinding in them the building blocks of his spiritual meta-
physics. Interpreting the letters one by one in chapter 6, he presents an
idiosyncratic order of the alphabet that reminds the reader of his Fuṣūṣ
7
Ibn al-ʿArabī, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (1329) and (1392/1972fff ); see also, W. C. Chittick
(1995: “Ebn al-ʿArabī”).
sulamī’s treatise on the science of the letters 341
al-ḥikam (“The Bezels of Wisdom”),8 the fĳinal synthesis of his long years
of writing, which he develops along the lines of prophetical prototypes,
also quoted in his idiosyncratic order. In chapters 8 to 10 of al-Futūḥāt al-
Makkiyya, Ibn al-ʿArabī applies his hermeneutical method to the origin of
the world, “the word” (al-kalima) that brought forth the universe through
the command, “Be!” (kun). He completes his reflections with the interpre-
tation of the word that embodies the revelation through the command,
“Say!” (qul), as he focuses on the Basmala, the fĳirst verse of the Qurʾān,
and al-Fātiḥa, its opening chapter. To illustrate the power, whether that of
creation or revelation, that he sees hidden in the letters giving expression
to speech, Ibn al-ʿArabī refers to Ibn Barrajān (d. 536/1141) who predicted
the recapture of Jerusalem in 583/1187 through numerological manipula-
tion of the letters.9 With the completion of these chapters in 599/1203 in
Mecca, Ibn al-ʿArabī set the stage for the development of a multifaceted
application of the science of the letters by Sufĳi authors and movements in
the centuries that followed.10
The two principal works of Būnī and Ibn al-ʿArabī stand as beacons
on the Sufĳi shore of “the science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf )11 which, in
Islam, is constituted by vast tracts of literature on the meaning of the
letters that constitute the Arabic alphabet and function as the basis of
numbers in Arabic arithmetic. By delving into the depths of the meaning
of the letters, Muslim scholarship over the centuries has kept its focus on
the sacred meaning of the Arabic language and found its fulcrum in the
laws and elements that constitute its structure and composition, down to
the fĳirst and last letter of its alphabet. Conceived as a constantly growing
standard dictionary co-authored by Ramzi Baalbaki, the scholar whom we
honor in these pages, the Mawrid has played a leading role in preserving
and maintaining its sacredness.12
In Western scholarship much research has also been conducted on the
letters of the Arabic alphabet13 as well as on the unconnected Arabic let-
ters, found separately or in groups, that stand at the head of twenty-nine
8
Ibn al-ʿArabī, Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam.
9
I. Goldziher (1914: 544); A. Faure (1971: “Ibn Barradjān”).
10
The section on the science of the letters in Ibn al-ʿArabī’s al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya has
been examined meticulously by D. Gril (2004: 2, 105–219).
11
T. Fahd (1971a: “Ḥurūf ”).
12
Al-Mawrid al-ḥadīth, authored by Munir Baalbaki and Ramzi Baalbaki, Beirut, numer-
ous editions; see also, Ramzi Baalbaki (2007).
13
General and detailed information about the development of the Arabic alphabet and
script can be found in B. Gruendler (2001: “Arabic Script”).
suras of the Qurʾān as “the openers of the suras” (awāʾil al-suwar).14 Other
studies have devoted particular attention to the magical interpretation of
the letters by the means of geomantic (khaṭṭ al-raml)15 and divinatory tech-
niques (zāʾirja).16 In his Muqaddima, Ibn Khaldūn (d. 780/1378) treated this
topic extensively and distinguished several basic approaches to the inter-
pretation of the Arabic letters.17 Among these are the method of record-
ing dates by chronograms (ḥisāb al-jummal),18 the method of determining
the secret properties of the letters by analyzing their putative alchemical
compositions (ʿilm al-khawāṣṣ),19 and the method of drawing prognostica-
tions from their relation to astrological conjunctions, calculating portents
and predicting religious and political change (ʿilm al-awfāq),20 often with
the help of numerology.21 The letters of the alphabet were also used in the
creation of talismans (ṭilasm)22 and amulets (tamīma)23 that play a signifĳi-
cant role in Muslim folklore. Most importantly, the letters of the Arabic
alphabet were employed as numerals for commercial purposes,24 deriving
from the older Arab practice of expressing cardinal numbers through the
position of the fĳingers (ʿilm al-ʿaqd).25
The Sufĳis, for their part, cultivated the interpretation of the Arabic
alphabet, known as “the science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ),26 as a distinct
hermeneutical approach to the sacredness of the Arabic language. They
tried to discern the mystical meaning hidden in the letters of the Arabic
14
H. Hirschfeld (1902: 101–3); T. Nöldeke, F. Schwally, G. Bergstrāsser and O. Pretzl
(1909; 1919; 1938: 2, 68–78); H. Bauer (1921); E. Goosens (1923); A. Jefffery (1924); M. S. Seale
(1959); A. Jones (1962); P. J. E. Cachia (1968); J. Bellamy (1973); K. Massey (2003, “Mysterious
Letters”).
15
For geomancy (khaṭṭ al-raml) and the various terms used to defĳine it, see, T. Fahd
(1978: “Khaṭṭ”); the use of the term raml (ʿilm al-raml) for divination refers originally to
tracing lines in sand (raml); see also T. Fahd (1966: 195–203).
16
T. Fahd and A. Regourd (2002: “Zāʾirja”); T. P. Hughes (1935: “Daʿwah”).
17
F. Rosenthal (1967: 3, 137–61; especially 3, 118–136; 156–245).
18
G. S. Colin (1971: “Ḥisāb al-djummal). The chronograms, termed ramz, consist in a
group of letters whose numerical equivalents, added together, interpret past or predict
future events; see also W. Heinrichs and A. Knysh (1995: “Ramz”).
19
T. Fahd (1971b, “Khawāṣṣ al-Ḳurʾān”).
20
D. Pingree (1986: “Ḳirān”); D. Pingree (1986: “ʿIlm al-hayʾa”).
21
T. Fahd (1995: “Nudjūm”); P. Kunitzsch (1995: “Nudjūm”).
22
J. Ruska and B. Carra De Vaux (2000: “Tilsam”); T. Fahd (1997: “Siḥr”); the article,
“Tilsam,” EI 2 10, 500–2 spells the term in its popular form, “tilsam,” rather than in its techni-
cally correct form, “ṭilasm,” pl. “ṭalāsim.”
23
T. Fahd (2000: “Tamīma”).
24
M. Souissi (1971: “Ḥisāb al-ghubār”); A. I. Sabra (1971: “ʿIlm al-ḥisāb”); M. Souissi (2004:
“ʿIlm al-handasa”).
25
Ch. Pellat (1971: “Ḥisāb al-ʿaḳd”).
26
T. Fahd (1971a: “Ḥurūf ”).
alphabet (ḥurūf al-hijāʾ)27 and to discover the symbolic signifĳicance of the

mysterious unconnected letters of the Qurʾān (al-ḥurūf al-muqaṭṭaʿa).28
In the course of its history Sufĳism produced a variegated literature on
ʿilm al-ḥurūf that culminated at the beginning of the seventh/thirteenth
century in the popular and mystical Shams al-maʿārif and the mystico-
philosophical al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya. These two works mark the great
divide in Sufĳi literature on the “the science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ).
In the period preceding these two encyclopedic works, many building
blocks can be found that were used in the intellectual architecture of
the period that followed them. Most of the scholarly attention, however,
has been given to the Sufĳi treatises on “the science of the letters” in the
period after Ibn al-ʿArabī, especially with regard to the movement of the
Ḥurūfĳiyya,29 and, to some extent, the Nūrbakhshiyya.30 More recently,
P. Lory has examined the science of the letters with special emphasis on
Shiʿism and Islamic philosophy,31 B. Aladdin edited a collection of papers
on aspects of Ibn al-‘Arabī’s letter symbolism,32 and M. Melvin-Koushki
has presented the fĳirst fruits of his research on the “scientifĳic lettrism” of
Ibn Turka al-Iṣfahānī (d. 835/1432).33 Apart from the studies of L. Massi-
gnon and A. Schimmel, scholarly attention, has rarely been given to “the
science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ) as found in early Sufĳi literature.34
Sulamī and the Authoritative Basis for the

Interpretation of the Letters
The present analytical examination of Sulamī’s treatise, Sharḥ maʿānī

l-ḥurūf (“Explaining the Meaning of the Letters”), intends to shed light on
the interpretation of the Arabic letters in the environment of early Sufĳism.35
27
H. Fleisch (1971: “Ḥurūf al-hidjāʾ”).
28
A. T. Welch (1986: “Al-Ḳurʾān”).
29
The Sufĳi movement of the Ḥurūfĳiyya, traced back to Faḍlallāh al-Astarābādhī
(d. 796/1394), elaborated a system of numerological interpretations of the letters of the
Arabic/Persian alphabet and correlated them to the human form in an incarnationist doc-
trine, see H. Algar (2004, “Horufĳism”), and the literature quoted in the article. See also,
S. Bashir (2005).
30
S. Bashir (2003).
31
P. Lory (2004).
32
B. Aladdin (2007).
33
M. Melvin-Koushki (forthcoming).
34
Occasional references to the early Sufĳi interpretations of the letters can be found in
L. Massignon (1982); idem (1913); A. J. Arberry (1937); A. Schimmel (1975: 411–25).
35
The Arabic text of the Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf is included in al-Sulamī, Rasāʾil ṣūfĳiyya,
1–19. The text is based on MS. Muḥammad Ibn Saʿūd 2118 (fff. 2b–12a), which has 227 folios
The treatise, recently edited, was composed by Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān

Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Sulamī, who died in 412/1021 in Nishapur, the
city of his birth (in 325/937 or 330/942).36 To date, Sulamī remains one of
the most important authorities for the history of early Sufĳi literature, and
many of his writings that have been preserved over the centuries have
been published since the middle of the last century.37 More than any other
Sufĳi source, Sulamī’s treatise on the explanation of the mystical meaning
of the letters shows the way in which Sufĳis of the second/eighth to the
fourth/tenth centuries interpreted the letters of the Arabic alphabet and
the letter groupings that are found at the head of Qurʾānic sūras.
As explicitly stated in his introduction, Sulamī conceived this short
treatise (# 1–76) as an addendum and conclusion to Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, his
major qur’ānic commentary.38 In it he intended to collect and record early
Sufĳi statements about the letters of the Arabic alphabet and their mystical
meanings in a coherent document (# 2). Many Sufĳi statements are quoted
anonymously (qāla baʿḍuhum) or, as it appears, are culled from a great
variety of sources (qīl) and, in part, reported from memory. A number of
and was copied some sixty years after the author’s death in 474/1081 at Samarqand by the
copyist, ʿAbd al-Sayyid b. Aḥmad b. Yāsīn al-Khaṭīb al-Maskhāʾī al-Asrūshanī. A description
of the manuscript, which is the oldest known of Sulamī’s writings, except for one short
text, can be found in G. Böwering (2006: 219–230).
36
Sulamī’s life and work have been examined in G. Böwering (1991); see also, G. Böwering
(1997, “al-Sulamī”); for a general survey of Sulamī’s life and work see, L. Berger (1998); for
a recent study of Sulamī’s life and work see, J. J. Thibon (2009); for documentation from
Arabic primary sources, see al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī (d. 461/1073), Taʾrīkh Baghdād 2, 248–9
(nr. 717); Dhahabī (d. 748/1348), Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ 17, 247–55; idem, Taʾrīkh al-Islām
(yrs. 401–20), 304–7, with additional references.
37
For a detailed examination of Sulamī’s writings, see the English introduction to the
Arabic text edition of select Sufĳi treatises of Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sulamī by G. Böwering
and B. Orfali in al-Sulamī, Rasāʾil ṣūfĳiyya. In quoting the text of Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf, the
sign # refers to the paragraphs in the Arabic text, independently from page numbers.
38
The edition of the Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, published by Sayyid ʿImrān under the title, Tafsīr
al-Sulamī wa-huwa Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, has been printed in two volumes, Beirut 1421/2001.
Unfortunately, it is based on one single manuscript, MS. Fatih 261 (316fff.; 600 h) and is
lacking a considerable part of the text, missing in the manuscript on folio 110a. Thus there
is a large lacuna (volume 1, page 325–6) including the end of Sulamī’s commentary on
sūra 11 (Hūd), from verse 11:90 onward, all of his commentary on sūra 12 (Yūsuf ), and the
beginning of sūra 13 (al-Raʿd) until verse 13:2. In addition, there are many mistakes in the
published text, often due to the state of the underlying manuscript, but often also due to
the less than painstaking way this edition was produced. The Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr is known
to exist in about sixty Arabic manuscripts found in libraries all over the world. Most of
them are listed in GAS 1, 671–4, and G. Böwering (1996: 41–56). Two additional manuscript
references should be added: MS. St. Petersburg, Nr. 9 (ANC-9), Nr. 60 (306fff., 7th c. h) and
MS. Medina 16 (312fff., 704 h). When citing text portions that do not appear in the printed
version of volume 1, page 235, I cite this page and add in parenthesis the Qurʾānic verse
under which it is quoted in Ms. Br. Mus. Or.
Sufĳis, however, are cited by name along with their statements, occasion-
ally supported by chains of narrators (isnād) to authenticate a particular
statement. Sulamī’s most frequently quoted narrator of Sufĳi statements
cited by name is Abū Naṣr Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī, who is known
to have played a pivotal role as a direct source in the compilation of the
Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr and Ziyādāt al-ḥaqāʾiq, Sulamī’s major and minor com-
mentaries on the Qurʾān.39
Sulamī begins the treatise with reference to a saying traced to ʿAlī b. Abī
Ṭālib (d. 40/661),40 confĳirmed by a statement transmitted on the Prophet’s
authority, which serves Sulamī as the justifĳication for his discourse on the
meanings of the letters: “Each verse of the Qurʾān has a “back” (ẓahr, i.e.,
a literal and outer meaning), and a “belly” (baṭn, i.e., a hidden and inner
meaning), and each letter (ḥarf ) has a horizon (ḥadd, i.e., a boundary, a
defĳinition) and a point of ascent (maṭlaʿ, muṭṭalaʿ, i.e., an allegory, a sym-
bolism).” Sulamī adds explicitly, “this saying justifĳies the discourse on the
letters and their meanings” (# 3). This tradition afffĳirms the well-known
distinction between the literal from the allegorical interpretation of the
Qurʾān (ẓāhir and bāṭin), the foundation of Sufĳi hermeneutics. Operating
on two levels, it attributes to each Qurʾānic verse an outer or literal and
an inner or metaphorical meaning. Furthermore, it discerns in each let-
ter a specifĳically defĳined and a symbolically implied meaning.41 It would
appear that by “letter (ḥarf )” the Arabic sources are referring generally
to any discrete element of speech that can be pronounced, whether it
be a sound, a consonant, a consonant and vowel, a particle, a word or
even a phrase.42 In his Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf, however, Sulamī employs the
term ḥarf as referring particularly to the mysterious letters of the Qurʾān
(al-ḥurūf al-muqaṭṭaʿa) found at the head of twenty-nine suras and, more
generally, to each letter of the Arabic alphabet found in the Qurʾān. To
further sanction the compilation of his treatise, Sulamī cites a tradition
on the authority of Ibn ʿAbbās (d. 68/687),43 in which the Prophet explains
39
The importance of this narrator for the writings of Sulamī has been analyzed in
G. Böwering (1996).
40
ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib (d. 40/661) is regarded as the originator of the jafr, T. Fahd (1965:
“Djafr”); G. Windfuhr (2008: “Jafr”) and the select literature quoted in the article. Sulamī,
however, does not raise the issue of the jafr in his Sharḥ maʿānī al-ḥurūf, and his explana-
tions of the letters do not coincide with the table of the jafr designed by L. Massignon
(1968: 98–101).
41
Cf. G. Böwering (2003), in particular, 351, 360.
42
W. Fischer (1989); G. Böwering (2003: 360).
43
Ibn ʿAbbās, i.e. ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAbbās (d. 68/687), is considered the father of Qurʾānic
exegesis and the greatest scholar of the fĳirst generation of Muslims, L. Veccia Vaglieri (1960,
“ʿAbd Allāh b. al-ʿAbbās”).
that the Arabic alphabet (Abū Jād) includes “all the marvels that exist”
(al-aʿājīb kulluhā, #4). Sulamī uses these two Hadith statements as the
foundation for his treatise—one arguing for the allegorical interpretation
of the letters of the Qurʾān, and the other providing the basis for the meta-
phorical interpretation of the letters of the Arabic alphabet.
The Interpretation of the Abjad
Having based his work on traditions backed by the Prophet’s authority,

Sulamī develops his treatise in three stages. First, he offfers his interpreta-
tion of the Arabic alphabet following the pattern of the Abjad (# 5–7).
Second, he selects a small number of mystical interpretations of the let-
ters by representatives of early Sufĳism (# 8–21). Third, in the bulk of the
treatise (# 22–76), Sulamī follows the successive alphabetical order (ḥurūf
al-hijāʾ) of the Arabic dictionary (muʿjam) or lexicon (qāmūs), listing
interpretations of each of the twenty-eight consonants and adds the Lām-
Alif in the penultimate position of the alphabet, comprising twenty-nine
letters in all.44 In the fĳirst stage of his treatise, Sulamī turns to the Arabic
alphabet following the pattern of its traditional order of memorization,
known as the Abjad and, in popular parlance, referred to as Abū Jād. The
Abjad divides the twenty-eight consonants of the Arabic alphabet into
eight pronounceable but meaningless groups of words, using them as a
mnemonic device and giving them a numerical value from one to thou-
sand: abjad, hawwaz, ḥuṭṭiy, kalamun, saʿfaṣ, qurishat, thakhadh, ḍaẓagh.45
Without regard to their numerology, Sulamī assigns an inner meaning
to these letters, connecting a number of them with citations of Qurʾānic
phrases (# 5). Interestingly, Sulamī offfers a particular interpretation
separately for each consonant of the fĳirst four mnemonic groups (abjad,
hawwaz, ḥuṭṭiy, kalamun), but presents only a cumulative interpretation
for the next two groups (saʿfaṣ, qurishat), while neglecting the last two
groups altogether (thakhadh, ḍaẓagh). In so doing, Sulamī seems to have
an interpretation ready for the fĳirst six groups that faithfully preserve the
order of the old Phoenician alphabet and correspond to the sequence of
the Hebrew alphabet,46 while he is silent about the six letters of the last
44
The Lām-Alif is inserted as a twenty-ninth letter to distinguish the Alif as the long
vowel “ā” from the Alif with hamza, known as the glottal stop or the Alif as spiritus lenis.
45
G. Weil-[G. S. Colin] (1960: “Abdjad”); G. Krotkofff, Abjad (1985: “Abjad”); W. Lane
(1968: 1, 4).
46
S. A. Horodezky (1972: 1, 747–9).
two groups that represent the supplementary consonants peculiar to the

Arabic alphabet known as rawādif (“mounted on the hind quarters”).47
It may also be noted that Sulamī makes no reference to the legend that
explains the origin of the Arabic alphabet through Murāmir b. Murra as
the inventor of the Arabic characters.48
To reinforce the basis of his interpretation of the letters in this fĳirst
stage of the treatise, Sulamī cites a tradition of the Prophet on the author-
ity of Abū Saʿīd al-Khudrī (d. 74/693) in which ʿĪsā b. Maryam explains
the Basmala49 in dialogue with a Jewish teacher and scribe (# 6). Further-
more, in a tradition traced back to Ibn ʿAbbās (d. 68/687) and cited later
in the text (# 27), ʿĪsā b. Maryam explains to a rabbinical teacher that the
Alif, the fĳirst letter of the Arabic alphabet, symbolizes God (al-Alif Allāh
ʿazza wa-jalla, # 27). Having based his treatise on the statements of the
prophets, Muḥammad and ʿĪsā b. Maryam, Sulamī offfers a second series
of interpretations of each letter of the Arabic alphabet, following the order
of the fĳirst six groups of the Abjad (# 7), but again without interpreting
the six letters of the last two groups of this mnemonic device. One notices,
however, that the pattern of both the fĳifth and sixth group is broken in the
manuscript, because the interpretation of the shīn is omitted altogether
and the sīn is wrongly replaced by doubling up on the ṣād (# 7). There
appears to be no plausible explanation for these two flaws in the technical
accuracy of the manuscript.
Early Sufi Statements on the Mystical

Interpretation of the Letters
In the fĳirst stage of the treatise (# 5–7), formed by his statements on the
Abjad, Sulamī interprets the letters of the Arabic alphabet with reference
47
T. Noeldeke (1904: 124–39); H. Bauer (1913: 501).
48
As the legend has it, Murāmir b. Murra gave his sons the names of the eight groups
of words that make up the Abjad; see T. P. Hughes (1935: 3). In general the Islamic his-
torical sources refer only briefly to Murāmir b. Murra and sometimes include a reference
to him in the biography of the calligrapher Ibn Bawwāb (d. 413/1022; see, Ibn Khallikān,
Wafayāt al-aʿyān 3, 344 (under Ibn al-Bawwāb); Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ 17, 319
(under Ibn al-Bawwāb); idem, Taʾrīkh al-Islām, yrs. 401–420, 329 (under Ibn al-Bawwāb),
while the lexicographical sources record a memory of him under the root letters of his
name; see, Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī (d. after 400/1010), al-Awāʾil (in chapter awwal man waḍaʿa
l-khaṭṭ al-ʿarabī); Fīrūzābādī, al-Qāmūs al-muḥīṭ 2, 132; Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab 3, 171 and
al-Zabīdī, Tāj al-ʿarūs 14, 112–3.
49
I. Goldziher, (1979: “Bismillah”); B. Carra de Vaux and L. Gardet (1960: “Basmala”);
W. A. Graham (2001: “Basmala”).
to their eternal origin in God, His blessings and His divine names, as well
as in relation to the eschatological realities of life to come, the bliss of para-
dise, the damnation of hell, the resurrection, the remission of sins, the rev-
elation of God’s eternal word and His everlasting rule (# 5). In the second
stage of his treatise (# 8–21), he introduces the statements of certain early
Sufĳi masters that illustrate basic mystical explanations of “the science of
the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ). These Sufĳi masters are: Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥārith
b. Asad al-Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857; # 8),50 Abū Saʿīd Aḥmad b. ʿĪsā al-Kharrāz
(d. 277/890–1; # 17),51 Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Sahl b. ʿAṭāʾ
al-Adamī (d. 309/921 or 311/923–4; # 9),52 al-Ḥusayn b. Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj
(d. 309/922; # 11; 12; 15),53 Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Mūsā al-Wāsiṭī (d.
320/932; # 16), Abū Bakr Dulaf b. Jahdar al-Shiblī (d. 334/946; # 10),54 Abū
l-ʿAbbās al-Qāsim b. al-Qāsim al-Sayyārī (d. 342/953–4; # 14) and two anon-
ymous Sufĳis (# 13, 19) followed by a general statement (# 20). Conclud-
ing this section by a statement of ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib, Sulamī cites a report
by Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b.
Shādhān al-Rāzī, known as Ibn Shādhān (d. 376/986): “the science of the
letters (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ) belongs to the safely-kept sciences that are known
only to the learned divines (al-ʿulamāʾ al-rabbāniyyūn). If I could fĳind a
place to put them, I would divulge them” (# 21).
Each of the sayings of the great Sufĳi masters illustrates an essential
aspect of “the science of the letters” as it was understood in early Sufĳism.
Muḥāsibī maintains the notion that God created the letters (al-aḥruf ) at
the dawn of creation, calling them to obedience and drawing their par-
ticular shape from the upright Alif, a letter that remained standing sepa-
rately (# 8). Divinely entrusted to Adam, rather than to the angels, the
secret of the letters was articulated by Adam, in Ibn ʿAṭāʾ’s view, after God
had given each letter its particular shape (# 9). Each letter proclaimed
50
Muḥāsibī’s statement is also cited by Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq 1, 326 (Q 13:1) and Baqlī, ʿArāʾis
2, 216 (Q 13:1).
51
Kharrāz’s statement is also cited by Sarrāj, K. al-Lumaʿ, 45. A similar statement is
attributed to Abū Muḥammad Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Jurayrī (d. 312/924) in Sulamī,
Ḥaqāʾiq 1, 219 (Q 7:1) and Baqlī, ʿArāʾis 1, 413 (Q 7:1).
52
This statement of Ibn ʿAṭāʾ is also cited by Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq 1, 219 (Q 7:1) and 1, 326
(Q 13:1) and Baqlī, ʿArāʾis 1, 413 (Q 7:1). It is also included in Abū l-Qāsim al-Qushayrī,
al-Risāla al-Qushayriyya, 30. The statement can be traced back to Abū l-ʿAbbās b. ʿAṭāʾ
al-Adamī rather than Abū ʿAbdallāh Aḥmad b. ʿAṭāʾ al-Rūdhabārī (d. 369/980), as claimed
by A. D. Knysh (2007: 13), following R. Gramlich (1989: 31).
53
Ḥallāj’s statement in # 11 is also cited by Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq 1, 325 (Q 13:1) and Baqlī,
ʿArāʾis 1, 413 (Q 7:1); Ḥallāj’s statement in # 15 is also cited by Baqlī, ʿArāʾis 1, 413 (Q 7:1).
54
Shiblī’s statement is also cited by Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq 1, 325 (Q 11:90) and 1, 326 (Q 13:1)
and Baqlī, ʿArāʾis 2, 216 (Q 13:1).
the glory of God and revealed the secret it contained by articulating it

on its tongue and in its particular language, as stated by Shiblī who adds,
“this is the secret of God in His creation through which the richness of
insights and the fullness of thoughts are made manifest” (# 10). Reserving
the mystical experience of the letters for men endowed with pure souls,
discerning eyes and enlightened hearts, Kharrāz compares the experience
of each letter with a particular sensation, and states that each letter pro-
vides “a fountain of insight” (mashrab fahm), “a fresh flavor” (ṭaʿm ʿadhb)
and “a pleasant taste” (madhāq shahiyy), diffferent from all others (# 17).
Commenting on the fĳirst and the last letter of the Arabic alphabet, an
anonymous Sufĳi explains the Alif, the fĳirst letter, as a symbol for God’s
oneness and the Yāʾ the last letter, as a symbol for the human being as
God’s servant. When pronounced together, they result in the vocative, yāʾ,
“O,” in the invocation of God, “O Allāh! O Benefactor! O Merciful!” which
gives expression to the mystic quest, whether in the sigh of the ascetic
(zāhid) or the longing of the mystic (ʿārif ) (# 18).
Turning to the discussion of the number of the Arabic letters Sulamī
cites Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Qāsim b. al-Qāsim al-Sayyārī (d. 342/953), who insists
that there are thirty letters because God revealed twenty-nine of them
(counting the Alif twice, as long vowel and glottal stop, or adding the
Alif-Lām as a separate letter), while concealing one other inefffable letter
that can be neither pronounced nor imagined but holds the key to the
secret of the letters that God conveys to His friends (awliyāʾ) as He pleases
(# 14). Wāsiṭī counts twenty-eight Arabic letters and sees in each of them
an allusion to a particular divine attribute (# 16). By contrast, the lexicog-
rapher al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad al-Farāhīdī (d. between 160/777 and 175/791),
from whom “the plan of the dictionary undoubtedly comes,”55 argued that
their number was twenty-nine, representing qualities (ṣifāt) of human
beings and animals to which God referred in the Qurʾān (# 16).56
Adopting the fundamental distinction between the literal sense of the
letters (ẓāhir) and their inner meaning (bāṭin), an anonymous Sufĳi states
that God revealed the inner meanings (maʿānī) of the letters so that His
divine address (khiṭāb) of the Qurʾānic proclamation could be understood
55
R. Sellheim (1978: “al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad”); see also S. Wild (1965).
56
In his treatise on the letters, al-Khalīl enumerates 29 letters of the Arabic alphabet,
adding the Lām-Alif in the penultimate position, and explains each letter with reference
to qualities (ṣifāt) of human beings and animals (rather than with reference to divine
attributes, as Sulamī’s wording may be misunderstood); cf. Khalīl b. Aḥmad al-Farāhīdī,
al-Ḥurūf ; idem. K. al-Ḥurūf wa-l-adawāt; Ramaḍān ʿAbd al-Tawwāb (ed.), Thalāthat kutub
fī l-ḥurūf li-l-Khalīl b. Aḥmad wa Ibn al-Sikkīt wa-l-Rāzī, 33–48.
in depth (# 20). God entrusted this in-depth knowledge to the elite among
His friends, so that they would be able to discourse about them offfering
spiritual advice, moral counsel, mystical insight and increasing faith. In
this way their souls became intimately familiar with the meanings of the
letters, their hearts delighted at the moral lessons they include, and their
inner beings were enlightened by their contemplation. Each Sufĳi became
aware of them according to his capacity while the realities of the letters
remained under God’s guard and are disclosed only by divine messengers
and select prophets as evidenced in the Qurʾān: “Knower of the Unseen,
and He discloses not His Unseen to anyone, save only to such a Messen-
ger as He is well-pleased with” (Q 72:67–8). A further anonymous Sufĳi
statement distinguishes between three classes of mystics—the aspiring
penitents (tāʾibūn), striving novices (murīdūn) and accomplished mys-
tics (ʿārifūn)—who actualize particular letters engraved in their inmost
beings according to the extent of their mystical experience. The accom-
plished mystics achieve a deep awareness of being at peace before God,
drawing near to Him and being intimately in communion with Him so
that they are empowered to reveal the wisdom enshrined in the letters
and able to communicate with all creatures, whether they are human
beings, demonic beings ( jinn), beasts of prey, birds or animals. The peni-
tents only become acquainted with the recitation of the divine address
while the novices are able to derive from their proclamation what God
has decreed (# 19).
Ḥallāj’s Allegorical Interpretation of the Letters
The fulcrum of Sulamī’s Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf is without doubt Ḥallāj, who
stands out as the principal Sufĳi authority most frequently quoted by name
in the treatise (# 11, 12, 15, 54, 74, 75). In his K. al-Fihrist, Ibn al-Nadīm
(d. 385/995 or 388/998) attributes to Ḥallāj a treatise on the letters enti-
tled K. al-Aḥruf al-muḥdatha wa-l-azaliyya wa-l-asmāʾ al-kulliyya (“The
Book on the Created and Eternal Letters and the Universal Names”), and
also mentions two other titles that indicate themes discussed in Sulamī’s
treatise, namely K. al-Nuqṭa wa-badʾ al-khalq (“The Book of the [Primor-
dial] Point and the Beginning of Creation”) and a book known as al-Alif
al-maqṭūʿ wa-l-alif al-maʾlūf (“The Alif standing separately and the Alif
that is connected”).57 These three works of Ḥallāj are no longer extant,
57
Ibn al-Nadīm, K. al-Fihrist, 241–2.
but Ḥallāj’s K. al-Ṭawāsīn, studied by L. Massignon,58 includes interpreta-

tions of the letters that resonate with statements found in Sulamī’s Sharḥ
maʿānī l-ḥurūf. Furthermore, in an autobiographical statement, Qushayrī
(d. 465/1072) relates that he was sent by his master Abū ʿAlī al-Daqqāq
(d. 405/1015) to Sulamī’s library to look through a pile of books for a small
red volume of four parts, including Ḥallāj’s poetry, and bring it to him sur-
reptitiously. Feeling embarrassed to remove the book by stealth, Qushayrī
revealed his predicament to Sulamī. The latter handed him a volume of
six parts, including the teaching of Ḥallāj (min kalām Ḥusayn), with the
admission that he, Sulamī, had copied Ḥallāj’s verses from it in his own
writings.59 Although the incident stresses Ḥallāj’s poetry, the reference to
the six-part volume as including Ḥallāj’s words (min kalām Ḥusayn) sug-
gests prose as well as poetry as its content. It also shows Sulamī’s uninhib-
ited use of Ḥallāj’s writings.60
In his treatise, Dhikr miḥan al-mashāyikh al-ṣūfĳiyya (“The Persecu-
tions of the Sufĳi Masters”), Sulamī describes one way in which Ḥallāj was
believed to have acquired his knowledge of the privileged sciences that
included the science of the letters.61 Taking Sarrāj’s K. al-Lumaʿ as his
source,62 Sulamī mentions an incident that occurred while Ḥallāj was a
student of the great Sufĳi master Abū ʿAbdallāh ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān b. Kurayb
b. Ghuṣaṣ al-Makkī (d. 291/904), stole a fascicle ( juzʾ) of his master’s writ-
ings on the privileged sciences (ʿulūm al-khāṣṣa) and fled with the book.
Makkī cursed Ḥallāj because of this theft and predicted that he would
sufffer a violent death, with his hands and feet cut offf—and this is what
happened with Ḥallāj’s brutal execution in 309/922. Farīd al-Dīn al-ʿAṭṭār
(d. 627/1230) embellishes the incident and describes the content of the
stolen manuscript, entitled Ganjnāma (i.e., K. al-Kanz)63 by ʿAṭtār, as relat-
ing to Satan’s damnation and mystical redemption.64 The sources are in
agreement that it came to a fall-out between Ḥallāj and ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān
al-Makkī whose disciple he was for about a year and a half, after having
been the pupil of Sahl al-Tustarī (d. 283/896) for two years from 260/873–
58
Massignon (1913).
59
Abū l-Qāsim Qushayrī, al-Risāla al-Qushayriyya, 486–7.
60
Cf. introduction to Sulamī, Rasāʾil ṣūfĳiyya by G. Böwering and B. Orfali.
61
Sulamī, Dhikr miḥan al-mashāyikh al-ṣūfĳiyya.
62
Sarrāj, K. al-Lumaʿ (Pages from the Kitab al-Lumaʿ), 9.
63
L. Massignon (1982: 1, 73), where the title of ʿAmr al-Makkī’s manuscript stolen by
Ḥallāj, is given as K. al-Kanz.
64
Farīd al-Dīn al-ʿAṭṭār, Tadhkirat al-awliyāʾ 2, 37–8, who cites the title of the stolen
manuscript as Ganjnāma, relating its content to the story of Iblīs, i.e., the secret of Satan’s
damnation and mystical redemption.
262/875 and before joining Junayd (d. 297/910) as a disciple for a short
time.65 Other than the theft, however, two alternate reasons are quoted in
the sources for the falling out. Makkī is said either to have disapproved
of Ḥallāj’s claim that he was able to compose writings equal in wording
to the Qurʾān or to have resented Ḥallāj’s choice of the daughter of Abū
Yaʿqūb al-Aqṭāʿ al-Baṣrī as his bride, a woman in whom his teacher also
had an interest.66
There is no doubt, however, that Ḥallāj was a master at interpreting the
mystical meanings of the letters. The crux of Ḥallāj’s explanation of the
letters and the central image of his interpretation are the two vectors of
the Lām-Alif, written in the Arabic script with a downward and upward
stroke. These strokes are reversed in direction at their turning point, the
“point” or “dot” (nuqṭa), thus representing the pattern of descent from
and re-ascent to God. The term, nuqṭa, is ordinarily employed to denote
the diacritical points (nuqṭa, pl. nuqaṭ) that distinguish the Arabic letters,
many of which are identical in their basic shape, from one another. The
term is also used to denote the vowel points that indicate the pronun-
ciation and division of syllables in Arabic. The nuqṭa as the dot under-
neath the fĳirst letter of the Basmala, the beginning verse of the Qurʾān, is
understood in Sufĳism since early times as signifying God’s manifestation
of creation.67 Furthermore, the term nuqṭa designated “earth” as the fĳirst
of the four elements that are regarded as fundamental constituents of the
universe in ancient and medieval cosmologies. In this doctrine, adopted
by the Nuqṭawiyya in the ninth/fĳifteenth century, “earth” was seen as the
starting point (nuqṭa) of all things, from which the remaining three ele-
ments (air, water and fĳire) are derived.68
Ḥallāj understands the “point” symbolically against the background of
a mathematical point, a point that has location but no extension, such
as the extremity of a line. In Ḥallāj’s view, the knowledge of everything
is discovered in the Qurʾān, where it is hidden in the mysterious letters
introducing twenty-nine of its suras. The knowledge of these mysterious
letters is encapsulated in the joined pattern of the two letters, Lām-Alif
that intersect at their turning point and imply the meaning of negation
expressed by “lā,” “no!” Furthermore, the knowledge of the Lām-Alif is
hidden in the Alif, the symbol of God, and its knowledge, in turn, is hidden
65
G. Böwering (1980: 62).
66
L. Massignon (1975: 38 (Arabic text), 118 (French translation)); G. Böwering (1980: 62).
67
al-Sarrāj, Kitāb al-Lumaʿ, 88–9.
68
See H. Algar (1995: “Nuḳtawiyya”).
in the dot. To know this dot (nuqṭa) requires realizing one’s primordial
intuitive knowledge (al-maʿrifa al-aṣliyya) that conveys the knowledge of
eternity a parte ante (ʿilm al-azal). This conceals the divine will of God
expressing the inefffable “He” (hū) that no one else knows but He, God
(# 11)—“like Him there is naught” (Q 42:11). Developing further this idea
of the primordial point, the “dot” (nuqṭa), Ḥallāj is cited later in the
treatise describing the way in which the mystic arrives at this dot as the
inmost point of his mystical experience: “The allusion of all the letters is
hidden in the Lām-Alif, the allusion of the Lām-Alif is hidden in the Alif,
the allusion of the Alif is hidden in the dot (nuqṭa), and the allusion of
the dot is hidden in the complete passing away in the vision of God, the
Everlasting” (# 75).
Sulamī may well have had a reason for quoting anonymously a Sufĳi say-
ing that immediately follows Ḥallāj’s reflection on the dot (nuqṭa), possi-
bly intentionally concealing Ḥallāj as its author. The provocative saying is
nothing short of the earliest testimony to the idea of the “Perfect Human
Being” (al-insān al-kāmil), a concept that became a central idea of Islamic
mysticism after its presentation in the fĳirst chapter in Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Fuṣūṣ
al-ḥikam.69 The statement goes to the core of Islamic monotheism because
it explicitly challenges the gulf that exists between God and creation in
the orthodox interpretation of Islam that leaves no room for associating
anything with God (shirk). The nerve of shirk is touched by this state-
ment because it perceives the dot (nuqṭa) as a spiritual fĳigure mediating
between the divine and the human realms. It says (# 13): “In each word
(kalima) of God’s speech (kalām) there is the entire speech, and the entire
speech is (encased) in each word. The word is (encapsulated) in the letter
(ḥarf ), and the letter in the dot (nuqṭa). The dot is its rank (miqdār, lit.
“measure, extent”), the rank of the kind, spiritual, perfect, upright, com-
plete and universal servant (al-ʿabd al-laṭīf al-rūḥānī al-kāmil al-muḥkam
al-tāmm al-jāmiʿ).” This perfect, universal and spiritual servant links
the divine and the human realms at the point where they touch one
another.70 There is no Sufĳi statement in the sources prior to Ibn al-ʿArabī
that proclaims the idea of the “Perfect Human Being” more forcefully than
this anonymous saying.71
69
Ibn al-ʿArabī, Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam, chapter 1, 50.
70
For an examination of the idea of the Perfect Human Being in early Sufĳism, see
G. Böwering (1998: “Ensān-e kāmel”).
71
The saying of Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d. 261/874–5) that a friend of God becomes a
“totally perfect” mystic (al-kāmil al-tāmm), however, does not relate the idea with the pri-
mordial point (nuqṭa) of Ḥallāj; see Qushayrī, al-Risāla al-Qushayriyya, 523.
A second statement of al-Ḥallāj combines the interpretation of the

Lām-Alif, with the mysterious triune letter pattern, Alif-Lām-Mīm, found
at the head of six sūras in the Qurʾān (2; 3; 29; 30, 31; 32), and is written in
Arabic with the Alif standing separate while the Mīm is linked to the Lām.
Seen from the dynamics of this triune letter pattern, the entirety of the
letters is viewed by Ḥallāj as resembling a kingdom (mulk) and the king of
the kingdom (malik al-mulk) is the Alif. The Lām is the counter image of
the Alif, standing opposite to it. The Alif is the source infusing life into the
Lām and thus becomes the soul, intellect or spirit (rūḥ) of the Lām. The
knowledge of the Lām is rooted in the essence of the Alif, while the knowl-
edge of the Mīm, which is the universe symbolized by the entirety of the
letters, is anchored in the essence of the Lām. Hence the Lām is the soul
(nafs) that gives life and light to the Mīm, infusing the universe with the
life-giving force it has received from the Alif. Or, in another image, both
the Alif and the Lām are manifest (ẓāhir), but the Mīm is hidden (bāṭin)
being linked to the Lām that enlivens and enlightens the universe (# 12).
A third statement of Ḥallāj’s offfers his interpretation of each Arabic
consonant plus the Lām-Alif, giving each letter a fĳixed conceptual value
and following an alternative order rather than the standard order of the
long alphabet (# 15). Beginning with two patterns of three letters each,
Alif, Lām, Mīm and Ḥāʾ, ʿAyn, Dāl, he lists the remaining letters in the suc-
cessive alphabetical order, with the Lām-Alif coming in the penultimate
position before the Yāʾ at the very end of the list (# 15). It may have been
by intention or by scribal error that the Qāf is omitted and the Nūn placed
out of order after the Waw and before the Lām-Alif, followed by the Yāʾ at
the very end of the list. The pattern of the Alif, Lām, Mīm is interpreted as
referring to God, symbolized by the vertical stroke of the letter Alif, stand-
ing in isolation and meaning the one and only God. The Lām symbolizes
the divine gifts (al-ālāʾ) and the Mīm the divine kingdom (mulk) of the
universe. The Alif is further described to be al-alūf al-maʾlūf, the Confĳidant
(al-alūf ) in whom one confĳides (al-maʾlūf ), i.e., the subject and object of
mystical intimacy.72 Another passage of Sulamī’s treatise (# 26), attributed
72
It is possible that Ḥallāj developed Ibn ʿAṭāʾ’s statement, “the Alif is the Confĳidant
one confĳides in” (al-alūf al-maʾlūf ) to express God’s primordial act of love in which God,
the subject of His act of creation (al-alūf ) makes Himself manifest in its object (al-maʾlūf ),
the world of His creation. This explanation, traced back to Massignon, is upheld by
J. N. Bell in the introduction to his translation of Daylamī’s treatise on mystical love; see
J. N. Bell and H. M. Abdul Latif al-Shafĳie (2005: 56–8); see also, Daylamī, K. ʿAṭf al-alif
al-maʾlūf ʿalā l-lām al-maʿṭūf.
to Ibn ʿAṭāʾ (Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. ʿAṭāʾ al-Adamī), clarifĳies the some-
what enigmatic phrase of al-alūf al-maʾlūf by employing the word play,
“The Alif symbolizes intimacy (al-ulfa) because it is the Confĳidant one
confĳides in (al-alūf al-maʾlūf ).” He goes on to explain that God makes the
spirits of the mystics, prophets and friends of God intimately familiar with
Himself. In the second pattern, Ḥāʾ stands for the praise of God (al-ḥamd),
the ʿAyn for the Knower and the known (al-ʿālim wa-l-maʿlūm), and the
Dāl for the judgment and the turns of fortune (al-dīn wa-l-dawl). To each
of the remaining letters, Ḥallāj assigns two particular mystical meanings,
making use of alliteration and presenting them in tandem by hendiadys,
except for the Bāʾ, Tāʾ, Ẓāʾ, Ghayn and Hāʾ, for which he cites only one
mystical meaning.
Later in the treatise, Sulamī cites Ḥallāj’s view on the creation of Adam
and his spouse, depicted as fĳigures of light and symbolized by the joined
letters of Lām-Alif: “With regard to the Lām-Alif al-Ḥusayn (al-Ḥallāj) said:
The Alif alludes to the upright posture of Adam’s physique. His Lord cre-
ated him with an erect bearing and a beautiful composition of shape. Then
He revealed to him a light in the manner of the Lām. When Adam caught
sight of it, he liked its company. So God said to him, ‘Do you want to have
her?’ He replied, ‘Yes, I do.’ So God said, ‘There she is,’ and gave him the
light, and Adam embraced her” (# 74). Reading the joint Lām-Alif as the
Arabic particle of lā (“no”), so Ḥallāj continues, the Lām-Alif received
the fĳigurative shape expressing true monotheism by denying that God had
any opponents and peers, as stated in the Qurʾān, “there is no god but
God” (47:19; 37:35). “The Lām-Alif,” so Ḥallāj concludes, is the shape of
Adam in his embrace of the light, by which his heart was favored among
all other creatures” (# 74).
Sulamī’s Catalogue of the Interpretation of the Letters
Setting forth the main body of his treatise on the mystical interpreta-
tion of the letters, Sulamī examines each of the letters of the alphabet for
their mystical meanings (# 22–76), including the joint letters of Lām-Alif
(# 73–74) appearing in the penultimate position before the Yāʾ at the very
end of the treatise. He begins this long section by citing the name of Abū
Naṣr ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAlī al-Ṭūsī, i.e., Sarrāj (# 22) and quotes him twice later
on (# 28, 47) as a source for his explanation of the letters. The content and
subject matter of Sulamī’s Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf is not copied, however,
from Sarrāj’s K. al-Lumaʿ. In fact, Sulamī quotes most of the content of his
treatise from sources that are cited anonymously and introduced simply
by, “it has been said” (qīl). This makes it impossible to identify his specifĳic
source for the several hundred statements on particular letters included
in the treatise. Some seven statements are introduced by named narra-
tors other than Sarrāj, such as Abū Naṣr Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī
(# 26, 30, 48), Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar b. Aḥmad b. ʿUthmān b. Shāhīn al-Baghdādī
(d. 385/995; # 27), Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b.
ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Shādhān al-Rāzī (d. 376/986; # 40, 71), and Abū l-ʿAbbās
Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan b. Saʿīd b. al-Khashshāb al-Muḥarrimī al-Baghdādī
(d. 361/971–2; # 51).
In Sulamī’s treatise only ten prominent Sufĳis are quoted by name as
authors of brief particular sayings. They are: Dhū l-Nūn al-Miṣrī (d. 245/860;
# 40), Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Warrāq al-Balkhī al-Tirmidhī
al-Ḥakīm (d. 280/893; # 40, 46, 71), Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz (# 72), Junayd
(# 46), Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd b. Ismāʿīl al-Ḥīrī (d. 298/910; #33), Abū
Muḥammad Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Jurayrī (d. 312/924; # 47), Ibn ʿAṭāʾ
(# 26, 30, 48, 52, 65), Ḥallāj (# 54), Abū Bakr ʿAbdallāh b. Ṭāhir al-Abharī
(d. ca. 330/941–2; # 54), Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā al-Hāshimī (# 55) and Abū
Muḥammad Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad b. Nuṣayr al-Khuldī (d. 348/959–60;
# 51, 53). Sulamī also adds verses of the poet Abū l-Ḥasan Manṣūr b. Ismāʿīl
al-Tamīmī al-Ḍarīr al-Miṣrī, known as Manṣūr al-Faqīh (d. 306/918; # 56),
and the Sufĳi Abū ʿAlī al-Rūdhabārī (d. 322/934; # 28, 56) to illustrate a
point. He makes no efffort, however, to present a comprehensive view
about the science of the letters as expressed by any of these Sufĳis.
Sulamī’s Letter by Letter Explanation

Commenting on the letters, one by one, Sulamī favors an explanation
that focuses on alliteration. He prefers to view each letter fĳirst from the
side of God and then from the side of the mystics. Offfering a cross sec-
tion of a great variety of brief Sufĳi defĳinitions, Sulamī frequently selects
divine names and Sufĳi hallmarks or virtues as the terms hidden behind
particular letters. To illustrate, he sometimes fĳirst and last references a
Qurʾānic verse, a Hadith statement, a general maxim and a poetical verse.
Overall, he avoids provocative interpretations of the letters and supports
instead a moderate explanation of their meanings. Sulamī gives no spe-
cial attention to the mysterious letters that introduce twenty-nine suras
of the Qurʾān, consistently omitting any reflection on their meaning. His
predominant method of alliteration is quite diffferent from the method
of allegory employed by Ḥallāj. It reflects a general Sufĳi consensus that
the meaning of the letters can be uncovered by resemblance, principally,

with the fĳirst consonant of a respective term and, occasionally, with a
consonant hidden in the middle of a particular term. As such, Sulamī’s
explanation of the meanings of the letters is more or less reconcilable
with mainline Islamic views. His analysis of the letters presents very much
his own views culled from a vast quarry and amorphous treasury of Sufĳi
opinions. Following the long Arabic alphabet with the Lām-Alif placed in
the penultimate position, Sulamī takes up each letter in order and states
as follows:
The Alif (# 22–27), the only letter standing upright among all the other
letters of the alphabet, symbolizes God’s singularity. It appears in the
beginning and the end of the personal pronoun “I” (anā) which, spoken by
God in self-afffĳirmation, excludes any rival or partner and encases between
the two Alifs the symbol for God as the light (nūr) of the heavens and
the earth. The Alif also alludes to God’s perfection and oneness, indicates
His eternity (azal and abad), and means that God is the First (al-awwal)
who has none prior to His being fĳirst. Furthermore, the Alif can symbolize
God’s power to unite the opposites, such as spirit and lower soul despite
their disparity in origin and goal. Seen from the side of the human beings,
the Alif can symbolize the human beings standing upright in performance
of their religious duties, but it can also indicate, as Ibn ʿAṭāʾ maintains, the
intimacy (ulfa) of the mystics in their communion with God.
The Bāʾ (# 28–30) symbolizes that through God (bihi) all things are
brought forth and made to perish. It can also indicate that God is the
Eternal (al-abadī) for whom eternity a parte ante (azal) and a parte post
(abad) has no reality. This thought is illustrated by a verse of Abū ʿAlī
al-Rūdhabārī, “You are troubled because He conceals from Himself His
afffection for you, hides from you His afffection for you, and hides from
you your afffection for Him. Like a beam that flashes up from a beacon, he
wanders aimlessly about in passionate love for you, unless you yourself are
the flash.” The Bāʾ can also signify the divine names that begin with the
letter Bāʾ. With regard to human beings, the Bāʾ refers to them as God’s
servants who follow His commands with loyalty and zeal or, in the words
of Ibn ʿAṭāʾ, it manifests God’s kindness (birr) toward the prophets.
The Tāʾ (# 31–32) indicates the bewilderment (tayhūhiyya) of humans
before God’s essence and attributes and the imagination (tawahhum) with
which they surmise about the divine realities. For the mystics the Tāʾ inti-
mates the virtues of repentance (tawba), abandoning indiffference (tark
al-tawānī) before God’s commands, vigilance (tayaqquẓ) and trust in God
(tawakkul, tafwīḍ, taslīm), the reliance on being granted divine success

(tawfīq) and true profession of God’s oneness (taṣḥīḥ al-tawḥīd).
The Thāʾ (# 33–4) alludes to fĳirmness (thubūt) in following the Holy
Custom (sunna), trusting in God (thiqa) in all words, ridding one’s actions
from seeking God’s reward for them (thawāb) and the realization of one’s
weakness to express God’s praise (thanāʾ), as the Prophet did when he
said, “I cannot recount the praises due to You.”
The Jīm (# 35) expresses the mystic’s desire to be close to God (jāwara
l-ḥaqq) as stated by the Prophet, “Exalted is the one who seeks Your pro-
tection (ʿazza jāruka)!” It may allude to the maxim, “Give away this world
and the next (jud bi l-kawnayn) for the sake of God,” inviting the mystics
to relinquish (mujāwaza) all joy in transient things and to act according
to God’s omnipotence ( jabbāriyyatu l-ḥaqq).
The Ḥāʾ (# 36–37) alludes to God’s praise (ḥamd) and reminds human-
ity of God’s word, “I gave praise to Myself by Myself when nobody had
praise for Me as yet. Had I not praised Myself (lawlā ḥamidtu nafsī), no
one would have known how to praise Me!” It refers to God’s forbear-
ance (ḥilm) and forgiveness and makes humanity aware that God holds
the proof (ḥujja) of the divine trust, which He entrusted them to carry
(ḥamluhum al-amāna, Q 72:33). Further, the Ḥāʾ alludes to the curtain
(ḥijāb) that hides God from humanity, which is lifted for God’s friends
here and now and for the rest of the believers in the world to come. It
also refers to the zeal (ḥathth) with which God’s servants seek to do what
is lawful (ḥalāl) and avoid what is unlawful (ḥarām). Further, it signifĳies
that God’s friends are God’s proof (ḥujjat Allāh) for His servants and that
the one who is the “proof ” (al-ḥujja) among His friends is the leader of
the people of divine friendship (imām ahl al-wilāya). Using the terminol-
ogy of Sahl al-Tustarī anonymously, Sulamī describes this “proof ” as, “the
one who knows God and God’s commandments and has assimilated the
characterists of God’s Messenger” (#37).
The Khāʾ (# 38–39) alludes to eternal life (khulūd) either in paradise or
in hellfĳire and to the fear of death (khawf al-mawt), the fear of God’s wrath
(khawf ghaḍabihi), punishment and justice, and all the other fears the
mystics have about their sins and omissions. It also alludes to receiving
one’s share (al-akhdh bi-ḥaẓẓika) as allotted by God’s command and being
content with it without seeking any other reward than witnessing the One
who gives the command. It also signifĳies purity of intention (ikhlāṣ) in any
state or at any time.
The Dāl (# 40–41) alludes to the everlastingness (daymūmiyya) and
eternity of God (dawām al-ḥaqq), who has neither beginning nor end, and
to constancy (mudāwama) in one’s preoccupation with life to come and

one’s incessant gratitude (mudāwamat al-shukr) and lasting joy (dawām
al-faraḥ) in God’s service. It also refers to personal prayer (duʿāʾ) and the
call (daʿwa) to follow God’s precepts and perform the religious duties
(Q 16:125).
The Dhāl (# 42–43) alludes to God’s remembrance (dhikr al-ḥaqq) of
His servants from all eternity and the blessings of His remembrance that
inspires them to remember God (Q 2:152) and be grateful for His remem-
brance, so that He may remember them in times of need. For the mystic it
signifĳies the passing away of the subject of recollection ( fanāʾ al-dhākir) as
one witnesses God, the object of recollection ( fī mushāhadat madhkūrihi),
and the practice of silent recollection (al-dhikr al-khafī), as favored by the
Prophet, “The best recollection is the silent one.” The Dhāl can refer to the
reproach of the soul (dhamm al-nafs), the passions and this world because
they obstruct the way to God for the mystic, but it can also allude to the
passing away (dhahāb) of distractions and intentions and one’s total turn-
ing to God.
The Rāʾ (# 44–45) alludes to beholding the divine grace (ruʾyat al-faḍl)
and eliminating separation from God (ruʾyat al-faṣl). It is also a refer-
ence to the spirit (rūḥ) that abides in witness of the spiritual meaning
(maʿnā) because it belongs to it but is not identical with it. It can also
refer to God’s compassion (raʾfat al-ḥaqq) for creation. When God harbors
compassion toward someone, He makes him compassionate to others, as
He enabled the Prophet to be “gentle to the believers, compassionate”
(Q 9:128). The Rāʾ can also point to the desire of God which, if done for a
selfĳish purpose, alienates the doer from God, if done for the sake of para-
dise, brings the doer its rewards, and if done for the sake of God, trans-
forms a person into God’s beacon for all to see. The Rāʾ alludes to God,
the compassionate Benefactor (al-raḥmān al-raḥīm), for God spreads His
mercy (raḥma) over creation so that they may show one of His hundred
mercies toward others and look forward to enjoying the other ninety-nine
on the Day of Resurrection, according to a saying of the Prophet (# 45).
The Zāʾ (# 46) alludes to seeking increase (ziyāda) in the mystical states
and gradually drawing near to God, although if this is done for one’s own
sake, so Junayd observes, one remains abandoned in the deserts of dis-
tance from God. The Zāʾ can also refer to renunciation (zuhd) that belit-
tles this world and the next, allowing ascetics to reach their Creator. It can
signify that one refrains from being adorned (tark al-tazyīn) by conditions
and actions or, as Abū Bakr al-Warrāq says, relinquishes the fame of this
world (tark zīnat al-dunyā) and the show of piety.
The Sīn (# 47–48) alludes to submission and surrender to God (istislām).

As Jurayrī says, “To surrender when encountering God is to be courageous,
to revel in the honor of being intimate with God is to be heedless.” The
Sīn also stands for extolling God as “Master” (sayyid) and for being made
a master by God, so that the other creatures serve him like slaves serve
their master. This is what is meant by the maxim, “the ‘Master’ is the one
who leads the masters seeking to love His sovereignty.” The Sīn is also
understood as referring to the equality of one who is “master” (istiwāʾ al-
sayyid) with God in that he brings about the precepts concerning pleasant
and despicalble things as well as blessings and misfortunes. The Sīn is also
the key to God’s name, Giver of peace (al-salām) because God honored
His friends by calling them Muslims, making them dwell in the Abode
of Peace (dār al-salām) and having them saluted by the angels’ greet-
ing of peace (Q 36:58). For Ibn ʿAṭāʾ, the Sīn stands for the secret (sirr)
God shares with the mystics, His friends, by granting them clairvoyance
( fĳirāsa) and intimacy with Him because they keep aloof from everything
other than God.
The Shīn (# 49–50) alludes to the radiance of eternal light (ishrāq
anwār al-azal) cast on those God wishes to enlighten, which fĳills them
with illumination (shumūl al-anwār). It can signify divulging the state of
mind of someone who turns away from God (shitāt sirr man aʿraḍa ʿanhu),
being preoccupied with inappropriate things. It also refers to thanksgiving
(shukr) for increased faith, graces that were foreordained, states enjoyed
time after time, and the awareness that nothing can be returned to God
through thanksgiving. The Shīn can also stand for the ambiguity of mysti-
cal states (ishkāl aḥwāl al-ʿārifīn) in the moment of mystical experience
(waqt) because of the resemblance between their beginnings and ends. It
can also mean giving up pleasures and comforts (tark al-shahawāt wa-l-
rāḥāt) from the time they are fĳirst desired to the moment when the desire
is fulfĳilled. It can also allude to the mystics witnessing (mushāhada) the
signs of God (shawāhid al-ḥaqq) so that they see through illumination
and insight what they know with their hearts, “like Him there is naught”
(Q 42:11). It may also refer to the yearning (shawq) of those who are long-
ing for God.
The Ṣād (# 51–52) alludes to scrutiny of the soul and sincerity (ṣidq) in
word and action, by sincerely trusting in God and voicing true knowledge.
It also indicates perseverance (ṣabr) as the appropriate response in mis-
fortunes and as the key to blessings. For Jaʿfar al-Khuldī this perseverance
has to be applied instantly in any adversity. The Ṣād also refers to the
everlastingness of God (ṣamadiyyat al-ḥaqq) that makes it impossible for
Him to coexist with likenesses or adversaries and for humans to grasp or

comprehend and compare Him. It can also mean the fĳirm belief to be near
to God and behold Him. In Ibn ʿAṭāʾ’s view, the Ṣād refers to cleansing the
hearts (taṣfĳiyat al-qulūb) from turning to anyone other than God.
The Ḍād (# 53) alludes to the brilliance of God’s illumination (ḍiyāʾ
anwār al-maʿrūf ) spreading in the inmost beings of the mystics. In Jaʿfar
al-Khuldī’s view it refers to humanity’s faithfully safeguarding (ḍamān)
the trust when the heavens and the earth failed to accept it.
The Ṭāʾ (# 54) alludes to one’s spiritual and moral purifĳication (ṭahāra).
According to Abū Bakr ʿAbdallāh b. Ṭāhir al-Abharī, it refers to the good-
ness of the lovers’ hearts (ṭīb qulūb al-muḥibbīn) before God, their Beloved,
and according to Ḥallāj to God’s unforeseen disclosures (ṭawāliʿ al-ḥaqq)
that overcome the inmost beings of the elite of His friends and sweep
them clean of any other than the Almighty.
The Ẓāʾ (# 55), according to Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā al-Hāshimī, alludes
to the principle of thinking only the best of God (ḥusn al-ẓann bi-llāh)
and thinking only the worst of the lower self (sūʾ al-ẓann bi-l-nafs) and,
according to one anonymous Sufĳi, to the thirst (ẓamaʾ) the ascetics expe-
rience in the midday heat and, according to another, to God’s name, “the
Manifest” (al-ẓāhir), through whom moral and spiritual benefĳits become
manifest to the mystics.
The ʿAyn (# 56–58) refers to the immediate knowledge (ʿilm) God has
of all things and to God’s help (maʿūna) for His servants. It alludes to
the quintessence of things (ʿayn al-ashyāʾ) about which the poet Manṣūr
al-Faqīh had the following verse: “They said, ‘Take the eye, the purest of
all things!’ I replied to them, ‘There is an excellence in the eye, but the
nerves of the eye are like two lines in a thousand neatly written scrolls,
and often you may not fĳind two fĳine lines in a thousand scrolls,” while
the Sufĳi Abū ʿAlī al-Rūdhabārī (d. 322/934) illustrated it by the verse, “You
are an eye to the eye when it sees you. It strives for you just as it aspires
to see.” The ʿAyn also alludes to the various sciences of humanity (ʿulūm
al-khalq), their subdivisions and their source (maʿdin). The source for the
reality of knowledge of God is Muḥammad’s heart (qalb Muḥammad) as
intimated by Q 68:4 and 47:19. The ʿAyn holds the key to God’s names,
“the Mighty” (al-ʿazīz) and “the Omniscient” (al-ʿalīm). It exemplifĳies the
appropriate interaction (muʿāmala) with God and signifĳies one’s constant
life (ʿaysh) through and with God.
The Ghayn (# 59–60) points to “the Unseen” (al-ghayb) that is hidden
from all creatures. It also refers to the “covering” (ighāna) the Prophet
experienced on his heart when he passed from the state of witnessing to
that of proclamation. Some interpret this covering as the Prophet’s per-

missible care for his family and children. A Sufĳi of Khurasan understood
the Ghayn as a reference to casting down the eyes (ghaḍḍ al-ṭarf ) before
forbidden things with reference to Q 24:30, while a Sufĳi from Baghdad said,
it means casting down the eyes before all things after one has obtained
knowledge of God. Another Sufĳi understood the Ghayn as an allusion to
the highest degree of divine love, when the lover is bereft of all awareness
in encountering the Beloved.
The Fāʾ (# 61) refers to one who succeeds ( fāza) in overcoming his
wishes and following God’s command, or to one who entrusts ( fawwaḍa)
all afffairs to God. It alludes to fleeing from God to God (al-fĳirār minhu
ilayhi), to the absence of vain ideas in the pure thought (ṣafāʾ al-fĳikr)
about God or to the liberation of the soul ( fakk al-nafs) from the fetters
of physical nature by turning to God.
The Qāf (# 62) is the key to the divine names, “the Subsisting (al-qayyūm),
the Strong (al-qawī), the Restrainer (al-qābiḍ) and the Holy (al-quddūs),”
because God established all things with his omnipotence (qudra), set
them straight with His power (quwwa), held them in His grip (qabḍa) and
gave glory to Himself (qaddasa nafsahu). The Qāf can also refer to per-
forming (qiyām) God’s commands, to the hearts of the mystics abiding in
God presence (qarār qulūb al-ʿārifīn maʿa llāh), and to the bewilderment
of creation at the resurrection (qiyāma) and its terrors (Q 80:37).
The Kāf (# 63) refers to God’s perfection (kamāl al-ḥaqq) in His essence
and in His bringing forth creation with shortcomings. Among creation
only the one from whom God has removed all blemish is perfect, as when
He selected Moses, saying, “I have chosen you” (Q 7:144) for Myself, and
when He took an oath by Muḥammad’s life saying, “By your life” (Q 15:72).
Manifest perfection belongs to the prophets and ritual perfection belongs
to God’s friends and the sincere mystics. A human being can only become
perfect by being raised to God’s perfection. The Kāf also refers to all being
(al-kawn), the divine command, “Be!” (al-kun), and what came into being
(al-kān). Al-Kān is God’s speech, al-Kun God’s command and al-Kawn
God’s creation. For others the Kāf is an allusion to God as “the Sufffĳicer”
(al-Kāfī); whoever is content with God is protected by Him (man iktafā
bihi kafāhu) and led to the place of contentment (maḥall al-kifāya).
The Lām (# 64) alludes to the blame (malāma) the novices put on
themselves because they know that they fall short in their duties. But it
also alludes to the bounty of “the Benevolent” (al-laṭīf ) who shows His
bounty (luṭf ) to the mystic’s heart so that one becomes graceful and
friendly (yalṭufu).
The Mīm (# 65–66) alludes to God as the king (malik) who holds sway
over the kings. Whoever seeks the kingdom (mulk), falls short of fĳinding
the king, but whoever seeks the king, is made the owner of the royal lands.
Ibn ʿAṭāʾ held that the Mīm refers either to the meanings (maʿānī) of the
divinely proclaimed command and interdiction or to the graces (minan)
God accords the novices. Some held that the Mīm alludes to the inclina-
tion of the soul (mayl al-nafs) to follow its passions and oppose those
who prevent it from doing so, while others had the Mīm allude to the
inclination of the mystics (mayl al-ʿārifīn) to seek God’s pleasure. Some
said, the Mīm alludes to the disgust for the soul that seduces (maqt al-nafs
al-musawwila), while others said, it alludes to the desire of death (ḥubb
al-mamāt) in longing for the almighty King (al-malik al-jabbār).
The Nūn (# 67–69) alludes to the light (nūr) that God casts into the
hearts of His friends. The mystics see in this light the leader of God’s
friends (imām al-awliyāʾ) who was made a sign of God’s mercy for creation
and, by virtue of this light, is able to perceive the invisible things with his
own eyes. About him the Prophet said, “When that light was cast in the
heart, it became wide and was opened.” When the light of the servant’s
spirit (nūr rūḥ al-ʿabd) overwhelms the darkness of his body, the heart is
widened and opened. When the darkness of the body overwhelms the
light of his spirit, it darkens both spirit and body. There are many lights
God reveals to human beings: in the head, the light of revelation, between
the eyes, the light of intimate conversation, in the ear, the light of certi-
tude, in the tongue, the light of explanation, in the chest, the light of faith
and in the heart, the light of mystical knowledge. When any of these lights
flares up somewhat, it overpowers one of the other lights and enters into
its domain. When all lights are ablaze, they become light upon light, and
“God guides to His light whom He wills” (Q 24:35). The key of the Nūn is
derived from God’s name, “the light” (al-nūr). God enlightens the heavens
and the earth with visible lights and the bodies with invisible lights, such
as their well-being. He illuminates the hearts of the prophets and the elite
of His friends with His special light of mystical knowledge. The Nūn refers
to God declaring Himself above (tanzīh al-ḥaqq) all comprehension and
description. “So declare Him above what He declared Himself to be above
in reality, so that He may sanctify you with the lights of His compassion
and mercy and make you reach the utmost limit of your quest, now and in
the future” (# 69). God declared Himself above (nazzaha nafsahu) anyone
being brought near Him except through Him or truly giving thanks to
Him for an instant of grace, because praise is the utterance of the divine
Speaker and thanksgiving is the search for more grace.
The Wāw (# 70) may allude to the arrival (wurūd) of illuminations

in the inmost being of the mystics, to God’s love (mawaddat al-ḥaqq)
for His friends from the very moment of creation, or to the revelation
(waḥy) that God grants His servants, such as the direct revelation (waḥy
al-mushāfaha) granted to Moses and Muḥammad, the mediated revela-
tion (waḥy al-wasāʾiṭ) granted to the rest of the prophets, the inspiration
of the bee (waḥy al-ilhām li-l-naḥl, Q 16:68), the revelation (waḥy al-qadhf
wa-l-ilqāʾ) cast into the hearts of Jesus’ disciples (Q 5:111) and infused into
the heart of Moses’ mother (Q 68:7). The Wāw also alludes to rendering
respect to the Prophet (tawqīr al-muṣṭafā), acknowledging the friendship
of God’s friends (wilāyat al-awliyāʾ), and upholding God’s oneness and sin-
gularity (al-wāḥidiyya wa-l-waḥdāniyya).
The Hāʾ (# 71–72) signifĳies the end of the allusions (ghāyat al-ishārāt).
Its reality is God Himself, encompassing all things (Allāh ʿazza wa-jalla
l-muḥīṭ), as stated in Q 6:103, 65:12 and 20:110. The Hāʾ indicates God’s
guidance (hidāya). In Abū Bakr al-Warrāq’s view, it alludes to abandoning
the passions (tark al-hawā) and all the lusts of this world, while in Abū
Saʿīd al-Kharrāz’s view, the Hāʾ stands for the He-ness of God (huwiyyat
al-ḥaqq) and the forlornness of creation (tayhūhiyyat al-khalq) in His He-
ness. For others the Hāʾ signifĳies the disdain for the existent beings in
Muḥammad’s inmost being and for Abū ʿUthmān al-Ḥīrī it signifĳies that
the souls are yoked together (muqāranat al-humūm) in the vale of tears to
that they may reach gladness on the Day of Judgment (Q 52:26).
The Lām-Alif (# 73–75) represents the Alif giving witness, standing up
straight, and the Lām being humbled by standing crooked in front of the
Alif. The Alif is the only letter standing separately and upright and thus
gives witness to God’s oneness and singularity, “like Him there is naught”
(Q 42:11). The Alif has the strength to carry the crooked Lām when it
expresses the negation in the combination of the two letters, meaning
“No!” (lā). When a second Alif is added in front of the “lā,” the result is the
particle of exception, illā, which is the most intense way of afffĳirmation.
The Lām-Alif alludes to the reproaching of the soul (malāmat al-nafs) and
misleading censure (lawmat al-lāʾim).73
The Yāʾ (# 76) alludes to God educating you ( yuʾaddibuka), strengthen-
ing you (yuqawwimuka) and assisting you ( yuʿīnuka) to fulfĳill His com-
mands. The letter Yāʾ causes you (yūrithuka) sadness in the vale of tears
73
A curious way of interpreting the Lām-Alif is represented by A. J. Arberry (1937).
and joy in the nearness to God, and draws you near (yudnīka) to what
you hope for.
Interpretations of the Letters Omitted in Sulamī’s Treatise

Looking back on the third part of Sulamī’s treatise, Sharḥ maʿānī al-ḥurūf,
in which he explains the letters of the alphabet one by one in mystical
terms, it appears to have been Sulamī’s intention to provide a moderate
interpretation of the letters. In certain instances, he aligned a particular
letter of the Arabic alphabet with the initial letter of a divine name or
attribute, but in most cases, he arranged it to coincide with the fĳirst or
middle letter of a crucial term for Sufĳi ideals and values. In this process,
the allusion (ishāra) evoked by Sulamī is usually obvious rather than
deeply hidden and symbolic. It points to a method of alliteration rather
than allegory and substitutes the similarity of words or sounds for the
symbolism of esoteric interpretation. Except for the second part of his
Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf, in which Ḥallāj stands out for his deeply symboli-
cal interpretation of the letters, there is hardly any Sufĳi cited by name
in Sulamī’s treatise who could be considered as offfering an allegorical
or symbolical interpretation of the letters. Sulamī’s interest in recording
moderate Sufĳi explanations of the science of the letters, rather than more
esoteric or allegorical interpretations, also explains his omission of ref-
erences to early Sufĳi authorities known for more daring interpretations
of the meaning of the Arabic letters. That this was an intentional rather
than an inadvertent omission on Sulamī’s part is proven by the absence
of interpretations of the letters attributed to Sahl al-Tustarī, Ibn Masarra
and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.
It is striking that Sulamī does not refer by name to Abū Muḥammad Sahl
b. ʿAbdallāh al-Tustarī (d. 283/896), an early Sufĳi who is credited with a
treatise on the letters (Risāla fī l-ḥurūf ).74 In his Dhikr miḥan al-mashāyikh
al-ṣūfĳiyya Sulamī documents, however, that he was aware of two incidents
reported in Sarrāj’s K. al-Lumaʿ about Sahl al-Tustarī’s expulsion from his
hometown to Basra and his association with Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥusayn b.
ʿAbdallāh b. Bakr al-Ṣubayḥī (d. ca. 315/927).75 Ṣubayḥī taught the inter-
pretation of the letters (ḥurūf ) at Basra and was bolstered in this by Sahl
al-Tustarī’s moral support, “we have opened the bag of asafetida ( jirāb
74
MS. Chester Beatty 3168/3 (fff. 83–87, 686 h); M. K. Jaʿfar (1974: 366–75).
75
Sulamī, Miḥan al-mashāyikh al-ṣūfĳiyya, MS. Muḥammad Ibn Saʿūd 2118 (fff. 79a–88b).
al-ḥiltīt) for the people.”76 Nevertheless, there is one anonymous saying

in Sulamī’s treatise on the explanation of the letters (# 37) when he com-
ments on the meaning of “the proof of God” (ḥujjat Allāh), stating that
he is “the leader of divine friendship” (imām al-wilāya). Sulamī’s citation
of this statement resembles a controversial saying about the qualities of
the religious leader attributed to Sahl al-Tustarī in other Sufĳi sources77
and, in all likelihood, is a saying of Sahl al-Tustarī that has been cited
anonymously.
Sulamī also reveals no awareness of the Risālat al-iʿtibār and the
K. Khawāṣṣ al-ḥurūf, both treatises of Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Masarra
b. Najīḥ al-Jabalī al-Andalusī (d. 319/931) focused on the interpretation of
the opening letters of the suras.78 Furthermore, there is no indication that
Sulamī used the K. ʿAṭf al-alif al-ma ʾ lūf ʿalā l-lām al-maʿṭūf of his contem-
porary, Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Daylamī, who was a disciple
of Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Khafīf b. Isfakshād al-Ḍabbī al-Shīrāzī
(d. 371/981).79 Obviously, it would have gone far beyond the limits Sulamī
imposed on his fĳield of vision, had he drawn on Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī’s
K. al-Ḥurūf .80 Most surprisingly, however, Sulamī does not name Jaʿfar
al-Ṣādiq a single time in his treatise on the meaning of the letters, although
in his major Qurʾān commentary he attributes to him a number of inter-
pretations of the letters.
In his introduction to Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, Sulamī expresses scepticism
about the authenticity of the Sufĳi statements attributed to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq
by noting that these statements were ascribed to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq without
any order.81 Nevertheless he included them in this Qurʾān commentary
under Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s name, quoting them from oral or written sources
without identifying their specifĳic provenance or citing them on the basis of
76
Sarrāj, K. al-Lumaʿ (Pages from the Kitab al-Lumaʿ), 9; ḥiltīt is a gum resin extracted
from the plant asafetida that is used as a medical remedy and has a sulphur like smell.
77
G. Böwering (1980: 64–5).
78
Risālat al-iʿtibār, MS. Chester Beatty 3168/4 (fff. 88–95, 686 h) and K. Khawāṣṣ al-ḥurūf,
MS. Chester Beatty 3168/2 (fff. 65a-83, 686 h); M. K. Jaʿfar, Min al-turāth al-falsafī; Ibn
Masarra, al-Ḥurūf; M. Asin Palacios (1914); Engl. tr. E. H. Douglas and H. W. Yoder (1978);
M. N. Bardakçı (1999); R. Arnaldez (1971: “Ibn Masarra”).
79
Daylamī, K. ʿAṭf al-alif al-maʾlūf.
80
Fārābī, K. al-Ḥurūf. Sulamī could hardly have consulted the (Risāla fī) Asbāb
ḥudūth al-ḥurūf of Ibn Sīnā (370/980–428/1037). It is not known, however, whether Ibn
Sīnā completed this treatise before or after Sulamī’s death in 412/1021. Ibn Sīnā’s Asbāb
ḥudūth al-ḥurūf; cf. M. Bravmann (1934); P. N. Khānlarī (1333sh/1963); K. I. Semaan (1963);
N. Radhouane (2002).
81
Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, 19–20.
two chains of transmitters that are intertwined with the isnād of the Shīʿa
family (ahl al-bayt).82 In the introductions to his major and minor Qurʾān
commentaries, Sulamī also refers to various criteria of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s
method of Qurʾān interpretation.83 The specimens of the interpretation of
the letters that Sulamī actually quotes on Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s authority, how-
ever, belong to the category of alliteration and suggest little in the way of
symbolical or allegorical modes of interpretation.
For example, Sulamī states the following interpretations on Jaʿfar
al-Ṣādiq’s authority in his Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr: With regard to bismi, (“in the
name of ”), the beginning of the Basmala, the Bāʾ alludes to God’s sub-
sistence (baqāʾ), the Sīn to God’s names (asmāʾ) and the Mīm to God’s
reign (mulk),84 or in other terms, the Bāʾ refers to God’s beauty (bahāʾ), the
Sīn to God’s splendor (sanāʾ) and the Mīm to God’s magnifĳicence (majd),85
or by way of yet another alliteration, the Bāʾ refers to the door of proph-
ecy (bāb al-nubuwwa), the Sīn to the secret of prophecy (sirr al-nubuwwa)
and the Mīm to God’s rule on the Day of Judgment (mamlakat al-dīn).86
The name of God, “Allāh,” is analyzed by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as a tretragram,
the Alif meaning the pillar of divine oneness (ʿamūd al-tawḥīd), the fĳirst
Lām the tablet of understanding (lawḥ al-fahm), the second Lām the tab-
let of prophecy (lawḥ al-nubuwwa), and the Hāʾ infĳinity (nihāya) by way
of allusion.87 The word al-ḥamd (the “praise” belonging to God) in the fĳirst
sūra of the Qurʾān (1:2), is disassembled by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in such a way
that the Ḥāʾ alludes to God’s singularity (waḥdāniyya), the Mīm to God’s
reign (mulk) and the Dāl to God’s everlastingness (daymūmiyya)88 or, in
other terms, al-ḥamd including the defĳinite article has the Alif refering to
God’s gifts (ālāʾ), the Lām to God’s grace (luṭf ), the Ḥāʾ to God’s praise of
Himself (ḥamd nafsihi), the Mīm to God’s magnifĳicence (majd), and the
Dāl to the religion of Islam (dīn al-Islām).89 The fĳive Arabic consonants
constituting God’s name, “the Impenetrable” (al-ṣamad, Q 112:2), are
82
G. Böwering (1996: 35–56). It is not entirely clear why certain Sufĳis appropriated the
name of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to cover their own Qurʾān interpretations, but one can surmise that
this may have been done during the early Būyid rule in Baghdad after 334/945.
83
Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr 1, 22, and Ziyādāt ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, 2.
84
Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr 1, 22 (ad Q 1:1); Baqlī, ʿArāʾis al-bayān, 1, 15.
85
Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr 1, 22 (ad Q 1:1).
86
Ibid. 1, 26 (ad Q 1:1).
87
Ibid. 1, 31 (ad Q 1:1).
88
Ibid. 1, 33 (ad Q 1:2); Baqlī, ʿArāʾis al-bayān, 1, 19–20.
89
Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr 1, 35 (ad Q 1:2).
taken by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to signify the proof of God’s oneness (aḥadiyya)

for the Alif, the proof of God’s divine nature (ulūhiyya) for the Lām, the
proof of God keeping His promises (ṣadaqa fīmā waʿada) for the Ṣād, the
proof of God’s absolute reign (mulkuhu wa-huwa l-malik ʿalā l-ḥaqīqa) for
the Mīm, and the sign of God’s everlastingness (dawāmuhu fī abadiyyatihi
wa-azaliyyatihi) for the Dāl.90
To sum up, Sulamī’s treatise on the meaning of the Arabic letters inte-
grates three hermeneutical stages. In the fĳirst stage, he offfers an interpre-
tation of the Arabic alphabet (abjad) along traditional lines and justifĳies
his assigning of inner and hidden meanings to each of the Arabic letters.
In the second stage, he presents a cluster of sayings by Sufĳis of the third/
ninth and fourth/tenth centuries that attest to the emergence of a mysti-
cal, allegorical and symbolic interpretation of the letters of the alphabet
and the mysterious letters at the head of twenty-nine suras of the Qurʾān.
His application of the emerging “science of the letters” (ʿilm al-ḥurūf ) in
this early Sufĳi environment is scattered and disjointed, without pattern or
order. Moreover, it reveals his inattention to the interpretation of the let-
ters by a number of Sufĳis known in his time but neglected in his treatise.
He draws special attention, however, to two aspects of the letters. Most
importantly, he endorses the Qurʾānic view that the Arabic letters, cre-
ated by God in their particular shape at the very dawn of creation, were
entrusted to Adam, the fĳirst human being. Adam then articulated them
and applied them to the multiplicity of objects found in the universe of
all created things. For their part, the Sufĳi mystics discover the inner sense
hidden in each of the letters of the Qurʾānic proclamation and disclose
the treasure of their multifarious meanings. In this stage of the treatise,
Sulamī focuses in particular on Ḥallāj’s allegorical interpretation of the
Arabic letter pattern, Alif-Lām-Mīm, and Ḥallāj’s vision of the combined
letters of Lām-Alif as the symbol for the process of creation. This process
of creation combines God and the universe at the point (nuqṭa) where
the two strokes of the Lām-Alif intersect and divine eternity and human
temporality meet. In the third stage, Sulamī offfers a catalogue of the inter-
pretation of the Arabic letters, explaining them letter by letter with the
method of alliteration and attesting to a panorama of meaning that the
Sufĳis discovered behind each of the Arabic letters. As a whole, Sulamī’s
90
Ibid. 2,429 (ad Q 112:2).
treatise on the “science of the letters” collects a great variety of interpreta-

tions offfered by early Sufĳism in its hermeneutics of the Arabic alphabet
and the mysterious Qurʾānic letters, a variety that cannot be found else-
where in such a rich and concentrated form. The treatise maintains the
sacredness of the Arabic language, as the only language suitable in struc-
ture, form and style to contain God’s self-communication to humanity
in the Qurʾān.
Translation of Sulamī, Sharḥ maʿānī al-ḥurūf
1 Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being in the beginning and in the
end. May God bless Muḥammad and grant him salvation.91
Praise belongs to God who enlightened the hearts of His friends and
the elite among His servants with understanding of His word (i.e. the
Qurʾānic revelation). He gave them the capacity to understand the
difffĳicult and obscure passages by turning them to Him and making
them mystics who possess knowledge of Him and know His names
and attributes. He caused them to transcend their ordinary ability to
comprehend His Proclamation and the subtle meanings of the letters
of His Book. He instilled in them a profound knowledge of each letter
of his proclamations through understanding its meanings and, through
their vision and insight, made them ponder their hidden meanings.
In every letter He placed for them an increment of explanation and a
special understanding and proof. “And God singles out for His mercy
whom He wills” (Q 2:105).
2 Now then, I say: After having completed the book of “The Realities
of Interpretation” (Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr), I was asked to write something
about the meaning of the letters (maʿānī l-ḥurūf ) and what the wise
men among the mystics said about them so as to append it to “The
Realities of Interpretation” and conclude the book with it. I did as
I had been asked and begged God for help in compiling it, after dis-
avowing my own power and strength to do so and turning to the One
in whose hand are all blessings. May God grant success to its comple-
tion through His grace and abundance of His mercy.
3 ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib is reported to have said, as is the Prophet, supported by
a chain of transmitters: “Each verse of the Qurʾān has a ‘back’ (ẓahr, ie.,
a literal and outer meaning), and a ‘belly’ (baṭn, i.e., a hidden and inner
meaning), and each letter (ḥarf ) has a horizon (ḥadd, i.e., a boundary,
a defĳinition) and a point of ascent (maṭlaʿ, muṭṭalaʿ, i.e., an allegory, a
91
I have made the following emendations to the Arabic text of Sharḥ maʿānī l-ḥurūf:
# 23, line 1, read annā rather than innā; # 25, line 5, read al-qalam bihā rather than al-qalam
bihi; # 27, line 4, read a-lā rather than lā; # 35, line 2, read fī qalbihi rather than fa-qalbuhu;
# 35, line 3, read ʿazza rather than ʿizz; # 49, lines 2–3, read bimā lā yalīqu bihi, rather than
bimā yalīqu bihi; # 63, lines 3 and 4, spell bi-ḥayātihi with long alif, rather than wāw (alif
al-tafkhīm); # 69, lines 5–6, delete wa-qīla nazzaha nafsahu as redundant due to a scribal
error.
symbolism).” This report justifĳies the discourse on the letters and their
meanings.
4 What further substantiates the teachings about the letters is the
statement of God’s Messenger, about which Abū Bakr Muḥammad b.
ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. Quraysh told me: al-Ḥasan b. Saʿīd told
me that Aḥmad b. Naṣr reported Dāwūd b. Sulaymān al-ʿAṭṭār to
have reported on the authority of Muḥammad b. Ziyād – al-Furāt b.
Sulaymān – Abān b. Abī ʿAyyāsh – Ibn ʿAbbās that the God’s Mes-
senger said: “Learn the alphabet (Abū Jād) and its interpretation! Woe
unto the scholar who ignores its interpretation!” They replied, “O Mes-
senger of God, what is it about the alphabet?” He replied, “In it are all
the wondrous things that there are.”
5 With regard to abjad, the Alif is God and the gifts of God. The Alif is a
letter drawn from God’s names, the Bāʾ is God’s beauty, the Jīm God’s
paradise and the Dāl God’s Judgment. With regard to hawwaz, the Hāʾ
is the bottomless pit of Hell and the agony of those fallen into it, the
Waw are the woes of the people of Hell, and the Zāʾ is the corner (of
Hell) and God save us from what lurks in the corner. With regard to
ḥuṭṭiy, the Ḥāʾ refers to the remission of sins for those who seek for-
giveness in the Night of Power and the news Gabriel brought down
together with the angels at the rise of dawn in the Night of Power; the
Ṭāʾ refers to, “Theirs is blessedness and a fair resort” (Q 13:29), a tree
implanted before Him by His own hand, whose branches can be seen
reaching out from behind the walls of paradise laden with ornamen-
tation and clothing flowing over its inhabitants; and the Yāʾ refers to
God’s hand above His creation, “Glory be to Him! High be He exalted
above that they associate with Him!” (Q 10:18; 16:1; 30:40; 39:67). With
regard to kalamun, the Kāf is God’s speech, “No man can change His
words; apart from Him you will fĳind no refuge” (Q 18:27); the Lām is
the respectful greeting of one another by the inhabitants of paradise
with words of peace, welcome and visitation; the Mīm is God’s rule
that will never end; and the Nūn is, “Nūn, By the Pen, and what they
inscribe” (Q 68:1), a book of light and a pen of light “in a parchment
unrolled” (Q 52:3) in “a book inscribed” (Q 52:2). With regard to saʿafaṣ,
it means, He gives tit for tat and an eye for an eye, that is He returns in
equal measure “and God desires not wrong for His servants” (Q 40:31).
With regard to qurishat, the Qāf is the goal of humanity and God gath-
ers them for the Day of Resurrection, “and justly the issues shall be
decided between them, and they not wronged” (Q 39:69).
6 Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Khallālī informed us, Muḥammad

b. Jaʿfar b. Yaḥyā b. Razīn told us in Homs that Ibrāhīm b. al-ʿAlāʾ
Zabrīq reported on the authority of Ismāʿīl b. ʿAyyāsh, Ismāʿīl b. Yaḥyā
said that Ibn Abī Mulayka had it from whomever informed him on
the authority of Ibn Masʿūd and Misʿar from ʿAṭiyya who had it from
Abū Saʿīd al-Khuḍrī that the Messenger of God said: “The mother of
Jesus sent him to school to be taught. The teacher told him, ‘Write!’
Jesus asked, ‘What shall I write?’ He replied, ‘In the name of God’
(bism). Jesus asked him, ‘What does ‘in the name’ mean?’ The teacher
answered, ‘I do not know.’ So Jesus replied to him, ‘The Bāʾ is God’s
beauty, the Sīn God’s exaltedness and the Mīm God’s kingdom. God
(Allāh) is the god of the gods. He is the Benefactor (al-Raḥmān), mer-
ciful in the world to come and in this world, and the Compassionate
(al-Raḥīm), compassionate in the world to come.’ ”
7 As to the Abjad: The Alif signifĳies God’s gifts, the Bāʾ God’s beauty,
the Jīm God’s majesty, the Dāl the everlasting God. Hawwaz: The Hāʾ
signifĳies the pit of Hell—woe to the people of hellfĳire, the Wāw refers
to a valley in Hell, the Zāʾ refers to the garb of the unbelievers among
the people of this world. Ḥuṭṭiy: The Ḥāʾ signifĳies God’s forbearance,
the Ṭāʾ refers to God claiming every right so as to return it to whom
it is due, the Yāʾ are the marks of the people of hellfĳire, namely sufffer-
ing pains. Kalamun: Kāf signifĳies God, the Self-Sufffĳicient; Lām God, the
Omniscient, Mīm God, the Ruler, Nūn, leviathan. Saʿafaṣ: Ṣād is God,
the Truthful, ʿAyn God, the Omniscient, Fāʾ God, the Understanding,
Ṣād God, the Everlasting. Qurishat: Qāf is the mountain range encircl-
ing this world, infusing the sky with green, Rāʾ is the hypocrisy of the
people about that which God expounds, Sīn is the hell God has made,
Tāʾ is fulfĳilled forever.
8 I heard Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī say, Abū ʿAlī al-ʿAṭṭār told him
on the authority of Abū Saʿīd al-Anṣārī that Ḥārith b. Asad al-Muḥāsibī
said: “When God created the letters, He called them to obedience. They
answered according to the manner in which the divine proclamation
adorned and clothed them. The shape of all letters was drawn from the
Alif except the Alif itself, which remained in the shape and adornment
with which it had been brought into being.”
9 I heard Manṣūr (b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī) say, Ibrāhīm b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
told him that Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said: “When God created the letters, He made
them a secret unto Himself. When He created Adam, He divulged this
secret through him, but did not make it known to any of His angels.
So, the letters flowed from Adam’s tongue in all kinds of ways and all
sorts of words, and God made for each of them a particular shape.”
10 I heard Manṣūr (b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī) say, I heard al-Shiblī say:
“There is not a single letter of the alphabet that does not exalt God
with a tongue and remember Him with its own language. Each tongue
has a letter and each letter has a tongue. This is the secret of God in
His creation in which lies the richness of insights and the fullness of
thoughts.”
11 Al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “In the Qurʾān there is the knowledge of
everything and the knowledge of the Qurʾān is hidden in the let-
ters which stand at the beginning of the sūras. The knowledge of
the letters is hidden in the Lām-Alif, the knowledge of the Lām-Alif
in the Alif, the knowledge of the Alif in the point, the knowledge of
the point in the primordial knowledge, the primordial knowledge in
the knowledge of pre-eternity, the knowledge of pre-eternity in the
divine will, and the knowledge of the divine will in the unseen of the
‘He’ (huwa) of ‘like Him there is naught’ (Q 42:11), which no one else
knows but He.”
12 Al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “The entirety of the letters is a kingdom, and
the king of the kingdom (malik al-mulk) is the Alif. The Lām is its
outer form (ṣūra) and the Alif is the soul (rūḥ) of the Lām. The knowl-
edge of the Lām is in the essence of the Alif and the knowledge of
the Mīm is in the essence of the Lām. The Lām is the soul (nafs) and
light of the Mīm. The Alif is manifest with respect to the Mīm that
is hidden (behind it), while the Mīm is linked to the manifest Lām
(before it).”
13 A certain Sufĳi said: “In each word (kalima) of God’s speech (kalām
Allāh) there is the entire speech, and the entire speech is (encased)
in each word. The word is (encapsulated) in the letter (ḥarf ), and the
letter in the point (nuqṭa). The point is its rank (miqdār, lit. “measure,
extent”), the rank of the kind, spiritual, perfect, upright, complete
and universal servant (al-ʿabd al-laṭīf al-rūḥānī al-kāmil al-muḥkam
al-tāmm al-jāmiʿ).”
14 Al-Qāsim said: “There are thirty letters. God revealed twenty-nine of
them but concealed one. He made it the key to the secret of (God’s)
friends, revealing it to whomever He wished among them.” It has
been said: “It is something that can neither be expressed by a word
nor intuited by imagination.”
15 Al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “Are you not aware that the Alif is the Con-
fĳidant in whom one confĳides (al-alūf al-maʾlūf ), the Lām the divine
gifts, and the Mīm the kingdom. The Ḥāʾ refers to the praise, the ʿAyn
to the Knower and the known, and the Dāl to the judgment and the
turns of fortune. The Bāʾ is the praise, the Tāʾ the perfection and
penitence, the Thāʾ the commendation and constancy, the Jīm the
(divine) glory and beauty, the Khāʾ good demeanor and character,
the Dhāl personality and responsibility, the Rāʾ gentleness (rawḥ)
and kindness, the Zāʾ increment and adornment, the Sīn, splendor
and secret, the Shīn circumstances and will, the Ṣād sincerity and
purity, the Ḍād brightness and forenoon, the Ṭāʾ purifĳication, the Ẓāʾ
protection (ẓill), the Ghayn the Unseen, the Fāʾ dawn and insight,
the Kāf capacity and generosity, the Waw friendship and afffection,
the Hāʾ spiritual guidance, the Nūn illumination and enlightenment
(niwāl), the Lām-Alif rejoicing in union with the divine (tahlīl) and
the Yāʾ support and confĳirmation.”
16 Wāsiṭī said: “There are twenty-eight letters that were brought into
being.” Al-Khalīl (i.e., Abū ʿAmr Khalīl b. Aḥmad b. ʿAmr b. Tamīm
al-Farāhīdī, d. between 160/777 and 175/791) said: “there are twenty-
nine letters, which are all attributes (ṣifāt) when the Distinguisher
distinguished them by saying, ‘not a thing, fresh or withered’ (Q 6:59)
and, ‘We have neglected nothing in the Book’ (Q 6:38). For anyone
who can diffferentiate or reflect, each letter points to an attribute.
And each one can reflect about what is appropriate to it and what is
its defĳinition, locus and condition.”
17 Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz said: “To each letter there is a fountain of insight
diffferent from any other, a fresh flavor diffferent from any other and a
pleasant taste diffferent from any other. Only men endowed with pure
souls, discerning eyes and enlightened hearts are aware of them.”
18 A certain Sufĳi said: “(God) made the Alif the fĳirst and the Yāʾ the last
of the letters. The Alif signifĳies the divine oneness and singularity, the
Yāʾ signifĳies human pride (poverty?), worship and obedience. When
you link the two letters, the fĳirst that is the Alif and the last that is
the Yāʾ, and reverse them, they become an interjection that is the
manifestation of worship by the servants before their Master by call-
ing out: ‘O God, O Benefactor, O Merciful!’ (yā Allāh, yā Raḥmān, yā
Raḥīm). In this consists the goal of the quest of all ascetics and mys-
tics, when the needs of the ascetics are fulfĳilled and the exclamations
of the mystics answered.”
19 A certain Sufĳi said: “(God) made engravings of the letters in the inmost
beings of the mystics, the aspirants and the penitents. Each one of
them turns in his inmost being to a particular letter, becomes famil-
iar with it and feels at ease with it according to the degree of his state.
When the mystics have completely achieved the station of knowledge,
are at peace before the Object of their knowledge and stand upright
in His presence on the carpet of power, close to Him and in conversa-

tion with Him, they transcend the secret meanings of the letters. So
they become fully acquainted with the various aspects of wisdom that
God has entrusted to each of the letters. Then all creatures, whether
they are human beings, jinn, beasts of prey, birds or animals, become
familiar and at ease with them. They speak with the mystics and the
latter understand them and, vice versa, the mystics speak to them
and are understood by them. This is a mighty station. The aspirants
become aware of the letters as utterances of the divine proclamation
while the penitents merely become familiar with listening to their
articulation without reaching the understanding the mystics and
aspirants possess.”
20 It has been said: “God manifested the letters and the meanings
associated with them for the ordinary understanding of the divine
proclamation, but He entrusted the elite of His friends with the
knowledge of their inner meanings. So they discoursed about them
with discerning minds and spiritual allusions, offfering moral coun-
sel, mystical insight and increasing faith. Their souls became familiar
with the meanings of the letters, their hearts delighted at the moral
lessons they include, and their inner beings became enlightened by
their visualization. Each of them perceives according to their capac-
ity, whereas the realities of the letters, well-protected in God’s pres-
ence, can only be discovered by God’s messengers and the elite of His
prophets. This is what is meant by the Qurʾānic verse, ‘Knower He of
the Unseen, and He discloses not His Unseen to anyone, save only to
such a messenger as He is well-pleased with’ (Q 72:26–7).”
21 Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Rāzī said, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
b. Abī Ḥātim reported ʿIṣām to have reported on the authority of
Ādam b. Abī Iyās that Abū Jaʿfar al-Rāzī had it from al-Rabīʿ on the
authority of Abū l-ʿĀliya that ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib, said, “The knowledge
of the letters belongs to the occult sciences that are only known to
the learned divines. If I had found a place to put them, I would have
divulged them.”
[Listing the letters of the Arabic alphabet, one by one, Sulamī explains]:
The Letter Alif.

22 I heard Abū Naṣr al-Ṭūsī say, I heard al-Ḥuṣrī say: “The Alif is an allu-
sion to the singularity of God with regard to the divine will and wish
that are His alone. It also is an allusion to whoever is solitary and

alone before God and stands upright before Him performing the reli-
gious duties, just as the Alif stands upright among the letters.”
23 It has been said: “God saying, ‘I am’ (Anā), signifĳies that, by virtue of
the two Alifs (in Anā), He afffĳirms His ‘I-ness’ and obliterates any afffĳir-
mation of other than Him. The letter ‘n’ (in Anā) symbolizes God’s
light by which He transcends the heavens and the earths and what is
within them.” It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Alif is, He
is the First who has none prior to Him, being fĳirst because He exists
before anyone being fĳirst.” With regard to the Alif, it has been said:
“It means, ‘I am alone, I have no partner!’ ” It has been said: “Through
the revelation of the Alif among the letters, creation got accustomed
(alifa) to worship and thus, by virtue of the Alif, creation became
united (taʾallafū) in faith (dīn). God said, ‘Had you expended all that
is in the earth, you would not have brought their hearts together’
(Q 8:63).”
24 It has been said: “The allusion included in the Alif is an indication of
God’s perfection and oneness because, by the might of His omnipo-
tence, He possesses the power to unite the opposites, uniting them in
the same way as He unites the lower soul and the spirit despite their
disparity in origin and goal.” It has been said: “The Alif is a symbol for
the coming about of what God has decreed and for the express divine
will existing since pre-eternity.” It has been said: “The Alif is a symbol
for being fĳirst (awwaliyya) which is eternity because, in reality, it has
neither a fĳirst nor a last but points to eternity by being without begin-
ning and end.” It has been said: “The allusion included in the Alif
indicates the greatest name (of God). Outwardly, it is the One uniting
the souls, and, inwardly, the One uniting the hearts.”
25 A certain Sufĳi said: “The Alif is the key to the divine names of being the
One and Only, because the Alif alludes to the solitariness of the pre-
eternal singularity which subsists by itself, for the Alif stands upright
by itself without being joined to anything else. When standing at the
beginning of words and nothing joined with it, the Alif is a symbol
for pre-eternity and sempiternity, and for beginning and end.” It has
been said: “The Alif is an allusion to afffection and intimacy.” It has
been said: “The fĳirst thing God created was the Alif, then He created
the Lām, then the Qāf and then the Mīm—and it was called the Pen
(al-qalam). So He made it a pen and had it write what He wished to
make manifest until eternity what the world would be and of what
it would consist.”
26 I heard Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh say, I heard Abū l-Qāsim al-Bazzāz in
Egypt say that Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said: “The Alif indicates intimacy because it
is the Confĳidant one confĳides in (al-alūf al-maʾlūf ). God makes the
spirits of the mystics intimately familiar by having them dwell with
Him. He makes the spirits of the prophets intimately familiar through
friendship, prophecy and message. He makes the hearts of the friends
intimately familiar through love and assistance.” Ibn ʿAṭāʾ also said:
“The Alif has six directions: right, the works of obedience; left, the
acts of disobedience; above, opposing God’s command; below being a
loyal servant; back, His manifest gifts; and front, His blessings granted
one after another.”
27 I heard ʿUmar b. Aḥmad b. Shāhīn in Baghdad say, al-Ḥusayn b.
al-Qāsim al-ʿAskarī said that ʿAlī b. Ḥusayn and Zayd b. Ḥubāb told
him on the authority of Ḥusayn that Yazīd al-Naḥwī reported ʿIkrima
saying, Ibn ʿAbbās said: “Jesus was sent to the scribes. One of them
said to him, ‘Say, Alif !’ which he did. Then he said to him, ‘Say, Bāʾ!’
Jesus replied, ‘Can you not tell me what the Alif stands for?’ The
scribe answered, ‘I do not know what it means.’ Jesus replied, ‘The
Alif is God, Mighty and Exalted is He.’ ”
The Letter Bāʾ.

28 The Bāʾ is the symbol that the things are brought forth by God and
made to pass away. By His self-disclosure they become beautiful and
by His remaining concealed they become ugly. So, whoever has a
pure intention before God, God belongs to him in reality. ʿAbdallāh b.
ʿAlī al-Sarrāj said al-Wajīhī had this verse of Abū ʿAlī al-Rudhabārī:
“You are troubled because He conceals from Himself His afffection for
you, hides from you his afffection for you, and hides from you your
afffection for Him. When a beam flashes up like from a beacon, it
wanders aimlessly about in passionate love for you, unless you your-
self are the flash.”
29 With regard to the Bāʾ, it has been said: “God brought forth the exis-
tent beings through His express will and volition.” It has been said:
“The Bāʾ indicates eternity because God is the Eternal, even if in real-
ity there was neither sempiternity nor pre-eternity.” It has been said:
“The Bāʾ is an allusion to lasting worship, outwardly and inwardly.
Outwardly, it expresses following the divine command and abiding
by the rules of the law with great zeal, and inwardly, it expresses
bearing up under forebodings and being patient in affflictions.”
30 It has been said: “The Bāʾ alludes to the sound beginning according
to the Holy Custom so that the fĳinal stages will be sound with regard
to the experiences of unveiling and witnessing.” It has been said:
“The Bāʾ is an allusion to God’s names, the Everlasting, the Reviver,
the Originator, the Benefĳicent, the Inward and the Dispenser. It is an
allusion to God’s everlastingness and His permanence without end,
limit, or time.” I heard Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī say, I heard
Abū l-Qāsim al-Bazzāz in Egypt say that Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said: “The Bāʾ is
God’s kindness to the spirits of the prophets through the inspiration
of prophecy and messengership.”
The Letter Tāʾ.

31 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Tāʾ signifĳies that the ser-
vants are bewildered by God’s essence and attributes, because they
only know Him by names and adhere to Him by regulations.” It has
been said: “The allusion hidden in the Tāʾ signifĳies that the minds are
perplexed by the reality of God’s truth. Nobody can reach Him on
the level of reality and nobody can dissociate from Him on the level
of regulations.” With regard to the Tāʾ, it has been said: “Creation
associates with God by way of imagination and assumption, imagin-
ing that they reach some grasp of the divine realities, but they are
only imagining to do so in their surmising. God said: ‘And the most
of them follow only surmise’ (Q 10:36).”
32 It has been said: “The Tāʾ indicates the path of the penitents to God;
it is turning away from all that there is to the One who owns all that
there is.” With regard to the letter Tāʾ, it has been said: “It signifĳies
abandoning indiffference toward the divine commandments.” It has
been said: “It signifĳies the pursuit of vigilance with regard to spiritual
premonitions.” It has been said: “The Tāʾ alludes to the path of genu-
ine trust in God.” It has been said: “It signifĳies perseverance in the sta-
tions of entrusting and surrendering oneself to God.” It has been said:
“It signifĳies depending on success granted by God and divine grace
without relying on one’s actions and acts of worship.” It has been
said: “The Tāʾ signifĳies the end of the allusions because it signifĳies the
fĳirm profession of God’s oneness, which includes the soundness of all
mystical stations.” It has been said: “It indicates genuine repentance,
which is to be remorseful for your omissions, so that God may forgive

you the sins you have committed.”
The Letter Thāʾ.

33 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Thāʾ signifĳies the sta-
tion of steadfastness before God with complete sincerity and steady
character, based on the rule of religious law (sharīʿa), its regulations
and rules of behavior. This steadfastness is by virtue of knowledge,
the steadfast knowledge is by virtue of the Prophet, and the Proph-
et’s steadfastness is by virtue of God. God said: ‘Had We not con-
fĳirmed you, surely you were near to inclining unto them a very little’
(Q 17:74).”
34 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Thāʾ signifĳies being
unshakeable in following the Holy Custom of the Prophet.” It has
been said: “It alludes to trust in God in all you say.” It has been said:
“It signifĳies the weakness to stand fĳirm in the duty of giving praise to
God, just as the Prophet said returning from the path of praise to the
path of weakness, ‘I cannot count the praises that are due to You.’ ”
It has been said: “It alludes to divesting your actions of the search for
God’s reward because when one seeks a reward for God’s service, one
comes near to the border of greed.”
The Letter Jīm.

35 The allusion hidden in the Jīm is seeking refuge with God and flee-
ing all others. Whoever seeks refuge with God in his heart, has all
things and all others slip his memory. Thus one becomes strong, is
strengthened, and invigorates everyone else. This is why the Prophet
said in his prayer: “Exalted is the one who seeks your protection!” It
has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Jīm signifĳies, ‘Give away
this world and the next for the search of Us, because nobody reaches
Us in whose heart there is a stake in other people or entities.’ ” It
has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Jīm is to surpass the joys
ordinary people seek in transient delights and to relinquish relying
on something that has no permanence.” It has been said: “The Jīm
alludes to the omnipotence of God who compels everyone to act as
He wishes for the sake of what He wishes, invariably and unchange-
ably. God said: ‘He is the All-mighty, the All-compeller’ (Q 59:23).”
The Letter Ḥāʾ.

36 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Ḥāʾ is, ‘I gave praise
to Myself by Myself when nobody had praise for Me as yet. Then I
directed My servants to praise Me. Had I not praised Myself, nobody
would know how to praise Me!’ ” It has been said: “The Ḥāʾ is an allu-
sion to God’s forbearance and His forgiveness toward His servants.
He did not eradicate them for their perpetration of transgressions.
Had He eradicated them for their transgressions, none would have
survived.” It has been said: “The Ḥāʾ alludes to the proof God holds
over His servants by offfering them to carry the divine trust, demand-
ing them to attest it. God said, ‘We offfered the trust to the heavens
and the earth and the mountains, but they refused to carry it and
were afraid of it; and man carried it’ (Q 33:72).”
37 It has been said: “The Ḥāʾ alludes to the veil that makes humanity
incapable of perceiving God and keeps God concealed from His ser-
vants. God raises the veils now only for His friends and in the next
world for the rest of the believers.” It has been said: “It alludes to the
zeal with which the servants seek to do what is lawful. Lawful action
in reality pertains to actions in which there is no doubt, unlawful
action are actions that God has specifĳied by His interdiction. Doubt-
ful actions are the licenses of the learned by virtue of subterfuges.” It
has been said: “The Ḥāʾ alludes to God’s friends because they are the
proof of God for His servants. The proof among God’s friends is the
leader of the people of divine friendship, and he is the learned man
who knows God and His commandments and has been molded by
the ethical conduct of the Prophet.”
The Letter Khāʾ.

38 It has been said: “The Khāʾ alludes to the concerns about eternal life
in either paradise or hell, on account of what the Prophet is reported
to have said: ‘Death barks on the bridge over hell.’ Then the call is
heard, ‘O people of paradise, yours is eternal life without death!’ and,
‘O people of hellfĳire, yours is eternal life without death!’ ” It has been
said: “The Khāʾ alludes to the prompting of anxieties. The greatest
anxiety is the fear of passing away, namely that God may leave one
behind; after that, the fear of God’s wrath and punishment; after that,
the fear of God’s justice: after that, the fear of falling short of His
service and obedience; after that, the fear of negligence in the com-
mandments of the Prophet; after that, the fear of squandering mysti-
cal moments; after that, the fear of having hardly any fear; after that,
the fear of lacking sincerity in fearing God; and after that, the fear of
hypocrisy in fearing God; and from here on to what can no longer be
described by stations of fear.”
39 It has been said: “The Khāʾ alludes to putting into practice your share
of the divine commands under the supervision of the One who gives
the command, until you see for yourself no further place to perform it
nor seek for yourself a stake in it, neither a recompense nor a reward.
Because one who gains control of his soul with joy about what he is
commanded to do, is distracted from seeking a reward for it, and is
set free to witness the One who gives the command.” It has been said:
“It alludes to purity of intention in every moment and state and at
every time and breath.”
The letter Dāl.

40 It has been said: “The Dāl alludes to the everlastingness, sempiternity
and perpetual existence of God into all eternity and from all eter-
nity because in reality there is neither pre-eternity nor sempiternity.”
I heard Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Rāzī say, Abū Bakr al-Khawāshī
reported Abū Bakr al-Warrāq to have said: “The Dāl alludes to aban-
doning this world and turning away from it and being preoccupied
with life to come and drawing near to it.” Dhū l-Nūn said: “It alludes
to continuous service (of God) in full conformity with the conditions
of the Holy Custom, incessant gratitude for what God has enabled
you to do with regard to His service, and the lasting joy that He
has assigned you a station to act according to His commands and
prohibitions.”
41 It has been said: “The Dāl alludes to incessant gratitude toward God
for the abiding blessing He granted you. So, do not let up giving
thanks to Him just as you are not deprived of blessings you are given
by Him again and again.” It has been said: “It alludes to the prayer of
those who implore God when disaster strikes.” It has been said: “The
Dāl alludes to the summons to God, His decrees and precepts. God
said to His prophet: ‘Call you to the way of your Lord with wisdom
and good admonition’ (Q 16:125).”
The Letter Dhāl.

42 It has been said: “The Dhāl alludes to God’s remembrance of His
servants in pre-eternity. He saw to it that the blessing of His
remembrance reached them so that they recollected Him. God said:

‘So remember Me, and I will remember you’ (Q 2:152), that is to say,
‘Remember My remembrance of you in pre-eternity and give thanks
to Me for it, I will remember you in moments of need and want.’ ”
A certain Sufĳi said: “The Dhāl signifĳies the one who is recollecting
(God) as he passes away in the act of witnessing the One who is recol-
lected. He holds his tongue preventing the recollection to be revealed
and resumes the silent recollection. This means that there remains
no place for anything else in him except that he is recollecting God.
God’s Messenger said: ‘The best recollection is the silent one.’ ”
43 It has been said: “The Dhāl alludes to reproaching egotism, passion
and this world because of their many evils and their cutting the ser-
vants from the path of access to the divine realities for, together and
individually, they are a place of misfortunes.” It has been said: “The
allusion hidden in the Dhāl is to vanish from your qualities, pass away
from the thoughts and intentions that preoccupy you, and return to
God totally until there remains no share in you for egotism, nor any
space in you for other people, this world, lust and passion.”
The Letter Rāʾ.

44 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the letter Rāʾ refers to see-
ing divine grace as one eliminates seeing separation.” It has been
said: “The letter Rāʾ alludes to the constancy of the spirit in witness-
ing the meaning, because the spirit belongs to the meaning but it
is not all the meaning.” It has been said: “The letter Rāʾ alludes to
God’s compassion toward creation. When God harbors afffection for
someone through His compassion, He makes him compassionate
toward His servants. Consider, when the Prophet’s share in compas-
sion increased, God referred to him, saying, ‘Gentle to the believers,
compassionate’ (Q 9:128).”
45 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Rāʾ signifĳies the desire
for God on the part of the aspirants. Anyone who desires God for
his own sake, increases in distance, being preoccupied with serving
his own self, and hence not free to serve God. Anyone who desires
God for the sake of paradise and its blessings, God grants him their
possession. Anyone who desires God for the sake of God, God makes
him pass away from any desire other than God and appoints him to
be a landmark among His servants and God’s beacon in his lands.” It
has been said: “The letter Rāʾ alludes to God’s names, ‘the Merciful’
and ‘the Compassionate.’ God spreads His mercy among His creation,
now and in the future. He revives them with His refreshing protec-
tion and illuminates their hearts with the lights of His knowledge. In
this world, they are shown traces of mercy and, in the world to come,
its reality. God’s Messenger said: ‘God has a hundred acts of mercy;
from their number He accords one mercy to His servants, by virtue
of which the creatures show mercy to one another, and He keeps
ninety-nine mercies in store for the Day of Resurrection.’ ”
The Letter Zāʾ.

46 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Zāʾ signifĳies the search
for more in the mystical states, nearness to the One who grants more,
and expectation of more step by step. For this reason al-Junayd said:
‘Whoever seeks to obtain more from his own self and his capacities,
is kept waiting in the desert of remoteness.’ ”
It has been said: “The Zāʾ alludes to renunciation. God induces
you to renounce this world and the next, seeking to make you reach
the One who created them.” It has been said: “It signifĳies refraining
from being adorned with capacities and actions.” It has been said: “It
alludes to the search for more from God by standing on the platform
of doing good works, which is divesting oneself of everything in wit-
nessing God.” I heard Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Rāzī say, Abū Bakr
al-Khawāshī reported Abū Bakr al-Warrāq to have said: “The Zāʾ sig-
nifĳies refraining from the adornment of this world and being adorned
with the ornament of piety.”
The Letter Sīn.

47 It has been said: “The Sīn signifĳies submission and surrender to
God.” I heard ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAlī say, Abū l-Ṭayyib al-ʿAkkī narrated
that al-Jurayrī said: “To surrender when encountering God is to be
courageous, to revel in the honor of being intimate with God is to be
heedless.” It has been said: “The Sīn alludes to God’s name, ‘Master’
(al-sayyid). He is Master in reality. Whosoever extols someone else
than Him or puts his hope in or has fear of someone other than Him,
does not know this name. Whosoever extols Him in truth, is made
by God a ‘master’ among His servants—they will serve him as slaves
serve their master. The ‘Master’ is the one who leads the masters
seeking the love of His sovereignty.”
48 It has been said: “The Sīn signifĳies that the master (al-sayyid) is equal
to God in bringing about the precepts concerning pleasant and despi-
cable things, as well as blessings and misfortunes.” It has been said:
“The Sīn is the key to God’s name, ‘Giver of peace’ (al-salām). There
is no giver of peace other than Him, because He honored His friends
by calling them Muslims. He made them dwell in the house of peace,
honored them with the angels’ greeting of peace, and saluted them
without any intermediary. God said: ‘Peace, such is the greeting, from
a Lord All-compassionate’ (Q 36:58).” I heard Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh
say, I heard Abū l-Qāsim al-Bazzāz in Egypt say that Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said:
“The Sīn signifĳies the secret God has with the people of His friendship
among the mystics by inspiring clairvoyance and familiarity with
Him through alienation from everything that is other than Him.” It
has been said: “The Sīn alludes to the servant blocking himself from
entering the door of transgressions.”
The letter Shīn.

49 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Shīn is the radiance of
the eternal lights God casts on those whom He wishes to enlighten.”
It has been said: “The Shīn signifĳies bathing in light those who are
endowed with knowledge.” It has been said: “It means divulging the
state of mind of someone who turns away from God and being pre-
occupied with inappropriate things.” It has been said: “It refers to
truly giving thanks for seeking to receive more, obtaining the graces
that were foreordained, and being in the state in which one fĳinds
oneself time after time. One knows that the person giving thanks for
God’s blessings performs but the duties of his soul, without in reality
returning anything to the One to whom thanks are given.”
50 It has been said: “The Shīn signifĳies the ambiguity of the mystical
states in the mystical moment and the similarity of their beginnings
to their ends.” It has been said: “It signifĳies to abandon the pleasures
and comforts from the moment when they are desired to the point
when the desire is fulfĳilled, so that one may be brought back to the
state of ease and comfort.” It has been said: “It alludes to witness-
ing the evident signs of God that appear to the mystics when God
manifests Himself to the elite of His friends so that they witness Him
through their illuminations and secret communications in the same
way as they know Him with their hearts—‘like Him there is naught’
(Q 42:11).” It has been said: “It alludes to the yearning of those who
are longing for God.”
The Letter Ṣād.

51 Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad said: “The Ṣād alludes to the servant’s scrutiny
of his soul, the sincerity in his intentions, deeds and states, the high
degree of sincerity in putting trust in God, and his way of express-
ing authentic knowledge. God said: ‘Men who were true to their
covenant with God’ (Q 33:23), none of their actions and states were
lacking sincerity. Thus the servant is content because sincerity is the
scale weighing the actions and states.” It has been said: “The Ṣād
refers to perseverance in misfortunes and unpleasant situations and
to perseverance under the divine command and interdiction. Perse-
verance is the key to blessings.” On this point I heard Abū l-ʿAbbās
b. al-Khashshāb al-Baghdādī say that Jaʿfar al-Khuldī said: “The good
of this world and the hereafter lies in persevering instantly. This is
to say, when an adversity happens upon you in a work of obedience,
you persevere in it at once. When your lower self challenges you to
give in to a passion and a work of disobedience, you abstain from
these immediately.”
52 It has been said: “The Ṣād alludes to the everlastingness of God and that
all good works go back to Him. Because of His impenetrable nature,
God cannot accept likenesses, opponents and peers, nor accept being
grasped and comprehended.” It has been said: “It alludes to the fĳirm
belief in the pleasure, proximity and vision that God promised His
friends.” Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said: “The Ṣād alludes to the purifĳication of the
heart from falsehoods and the purifĳication of the inmost being from
turning toward others than God.”
The Letter Ḍād.

53 It has been said: “The Ḍād alludes to the bright illuminations that
God, the Object of knowledge, casts on the inmost beings of the mys-
tics, the ‘knowers’.”
Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad al-Khuldī said: “The Ḍād alludes to faithfully
safeguarding the trust laid on humanity when the heavens and the
earth and all that they include shirked from carrying it.”
The Letter Ṭāʾ.

54 A certain Sufĳi said: “The allusion hidden in the Ṭā’ is the purifĳica-
tion of the inmost beings from everything other than God and the
purifĳication of the limbs from all transgressions.” Abū Bakr b. Ṭāhir
said: “It refers to the goodness of the hearts of the lovers by virtue of
their Beloved.” Al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “It alludes to God’s unfore-
seen appearances suddenly coming upon the inmost beings of the
elite of His friends, sweeping them clean of all kinds of other things
that dwell there and making them pure before the One, the Almighty,
because nobody dwells together with the Almighty and alights in His
abode. Rather, God subdues everyone who enters His dwelling and
alights in His abode, being at ease.”
The Letter Ẓāʾ.

55 Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā (al-Hāshimī) said: “The Zāʾ alludes to having good
thoughts about God and bad thoughts about the lower self.” A cer-
tain Sufĳi said: “The Ẓāʾ alludes to being on one’s guard about harbor-
ing evil thoughts about people, because it has been said that the evil
thought by one who speaks evil reveals evil thought about your own
self rather than others.” A certain Sufĳi said: “The Ẓa ʾ alludes to the
thirst the ascetics endure in the high midday heat.” Another Sufĳi said:
“The Ẓāʾ alludes to God’s name ‘the Manifest’. Through Him moral
lessons and spiritual benefĳits become manifest to the mystics’ inmost
beings.”
The Letter ʿAyn.

56 A certain Sufĳi said: “The ʿAyn signifĳies the knowledge God has of the
things in reality not by way of study or discovery. It alludes to God’s
help for a servant He loves so as to lead him to be obedient to Him.” It
has been said: “The ʿAyn alludes to the quintessence of things, which
is God’s special property that is brought to completion only by Him.”
In this sense Manṣūr al-Faqīh had the following verse:
“They said, ‘Take the eye, the purest of all things!’ I replied to them,
‘There is an excellence in the eye, but the nerves of the eye are like
two lines in a thousand neatly written scrolls, and often you cannot
fĳind two fĳine lines in a thousand scrolls.” Or as (Abū ʿAlī) al-Rūdhabārī,
writing to to Abū ʿUmar (al-Dimashqī), composed: “You are an eye to
the eye when it sees you. It strives for you just as it aspires to see.”
57 It has been said: “The ʿAyn alludes to the diffferent sciences of human-
ity that have subdivisions. The reality of the sciences belonging to
humanity is based on the Sharīʿa. This science, when the servant has
seriously ascertained it, hands down to him the knowledge of the
realities. The knowledge of the divine throne has the angels as its
source. The knowledge of the tablet has the archangels as its source.
The mystical knowledge has the friends of God as its source. The
knowledge of the divine essence has the prophets as its source. The
real knowledge of God has Muḥammad’s heart as its source and no
one else. This is why God said: ‘Surely you are possessed of a mighty
character’ (Q 68:4) because you were able to bear the realities of the
sciences that none other than you were able to endure. This is why
God addressed Muḥammad with the words, ‘Know you therefore that
there is no god but God’ (Q 47:19).”
58 It has been said: “The ʿAyn is the key to God’s name ‘the Mighty.’ He
is mighty in His majesty and loftiness above comparison and compre-
hension.” It has been said: “It is the key to God’s name, ‘the Omni-
scient’ because He knows the human beings that He happened to
create and what they will make manifest in the passage of time and
destiny.” It has been said: “The ʿAyn alludes to the appropriate way
of interacting with God and the proper perception of God interact-
ing with humanity by becoming oblivious to perceiving one’s inter-
action.” A certain Sufĳi said: “The ʿAyn signifĳies living constantly by
virtue of God and with God.”
The Letter Ghayn.

59 A certain Sufĳi said: “The Ghayn alludes to the Unseen that is hidden
from all of God’s creatures, although their beginning and end are in
the Unseen, so that nobody may rely on any of his circumstances
and thus feel secure in them.” It has been said: “The Ghayn alludes
to the ‘covering’ of which the Prophet spoke when he said, ‘It covers
my heart.’ This refers to his transition from the state of witnessing to
the state of proclamation. In this state he experienced a ‘covering’
until he returned to the state of witnessing.” Someone commented
on this ‘covering,’ saying, “It refers to the delight the Prophet took
in the permissible actions of this world such as living together with
family and children and the care he had to give to their concerns.”
60 A Sufĳi of Khurasan said: “The Ghayn alludes to the radical turning
away from forbidden things, because God says: ‘Say to the believers
that they cast down their eyes’ (Q 24:30).” A Sufĳi of Baghdad said:
“The Ghayn refers to casting down the eyes before all things after one
has witnessed God and obtained knowledge of Him.” A certain Sufĳi
said: “The Ghayn is an allusion to the highest feeling in love when the
lover no longer has any sensation or awareness in the encounter with
the beloved.
The Letter Fāʾ.

61 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Fāʾ refers to one who
succeeds in being free of all his wishes and follows the divine com-
mand.” It has been said: “The Fāʾ alludes to entrusting oneself to
God. Whoever entrusts his afffairs to God, will remain unharmed by
oncoming trials and the apprehension of evil.” It has been said: “The
Fāʾ alludes to escaping from God to God.” It has been said: “It alludes
to the absence of vain ideas in the pure thought about God.” It has
been said: “It refers to the liberation of the soul from the fetters of
physical nature by turning to God, knowing that He is the real Giver
and Withholder.”
The Letter Qāf.

62 A certain Sufĳi said: “The allusion hidden in the Qāf is that it is the
key to God’s names, “the Subsisting,” “the Strong,” “the Restrainer”
and “the Holy.” God established all things with His omnipotence,
set them straight with His strength, held them in His grip, and glori-
fĳied Himself by stripping Himself from everything that does not per-
tain to Him.” It has been said: “The Qāf alludes to performing the
divine commands with proper conduct.” It has been said: “It signifĳies
that the mystics’ hearts abide in the presence of God without turn-
ing from Him to anything of the world and what it includes.” It has
been said: “It signifĳies standing within the limits of knowledge and
refraining from crossing its boundaries.” It has been said: “It refers to
the resurrection, its terrors, and the bewilderment of creation when
it happens—‘every man that day shall have business to sufffĳice Him’
(Q 80:37).”
The Letter Kāf.

63 It has been said: The allusion hidden in the Kāf is the perfection
of God in His essence and in His bringing creation into being with
manifest shortcomings. Only such a one, whom God has perfected
by removing any blemish from him, is a perfect being among cre-
ation. This is so because God chose Moses for His own sake when He
said, ‘I have chosen you’ (Q 7:144) for Myself, and when He took an
oath by Muḥammad’s life saying, ‘By your life’ (Q 15:72). The complete
degree of perfection pertains to the Messenger because He brought
him to life with it and took an oath by his life. The manifest perfec-
tion belongs to the messengers and the incipient perfection belongs
to the friends of God and the sincere mystics. Any human being who
becomes perfect, becomes perfect by being raised to God’s perfec-
tion and witnessing it.” It has been said: “It is an allusion to exis-
tence, Be! and being. Being is God’s speech, Be! is God’s command,
and existence is God’s creation.” It has been said: “It refers to God as
the ‘Sufffĳicer.’ Whoever is content with Him, God sufffĳices him in the
face of anxiety about this world and the next, and makes him reach
the place of sufffĳiciency.”
The Letter Lām.

64 It has been said: The allusion hidden in the Lām is the blame the nov-
ices put on themselves in all their states, whether it is a good deed
or a bad deed, because they know that they fall short with regard to
their duties.” It has been said: “The Lām alludes to the bounties of
the ‘Benevolent’ arriving in the heart and inmost being so that one
becomes sensitive abouth knowing them and being aware of them.”
The Letter Mīm.

65 It has been said: “The allusion hidden in the Mīm is, ‘I am king, I hold
sway over the kings!’ Whoever desires kinghip, shall seek it from Me.
Whoever seeks kingship, misses the king. Whoever seeks the king, is
granted by him the kingly possessions.” I heard Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh
say, I heard Abū l-Qāsim al-Bazzāz say that Ibn ʿAṭāʾ said: “The Mīm
refers to the meanings of the commands and interdictions proclaimed
by God.” Ibn ʿAṭāʾ also said: “The Mīm signifĳies God’s graces for the
novices in that He grants them His attention and guides them to the
designs of His sovereignty.”
66 It has been said: “The Mīm alludes to the inclination of the lower self
to follow its passions and to oppose people who prosper in follow-
ing their passions.” It has been said: “It refers to the inclination of
the mystics to seek the pleasure of the Lord Most High.” It has been
said: “It signifĳies the aversion of the soul that seduces.” It has been
said: “It signifĳies wishing death to come in longing for the King, the
‘Omnipotent.’ ”
The Letter Nūn.

67 It has been said: The allusion hidden in the Nūn is the light that God
casts in the hearts of His friends. So they see it behind and before
them, to their right and to their left, and perceive the (divine) king-
dom and all it includes. This light (i.e. Muḥammad) signifĳies the
leader of God’s friends who was made a mercy for creation and, by
virtue of that light, sees the invisible things, seeing them with his
own eyes like one who sees them as present before him. (This light)
is such as the Prophet, describing their hearts, said, ‘When this light
was cast in the heart, it became wide and was opened.’ ”
68 It has been said: “When the light of the servant’s spirit overwhelms
the darkness of his body, then the heart is widened and opened on
account of this. When the darkness of man’s body overwhelms the
light of his spirit, it darkens both the spirit and the body. The lights
which God makes manifest for creation are manifold: in the head, the
light of revelation, between the eyes, the light of intimate conversa-
tion with God, in the hearing, the light of certitude, on the tongue,
the light of explanation, in the chest, the light of faith and in the
heart, the light of mystical knowledge. When any of these lights flares
up a little, it overcomes one of the other lights and enters into its
domain. When it enters all the other lights it becomes light upon
light—‘God guides to His light whom He will’ (Q 24:35), that is to say,
to one of these lights.”
69 It has been said: “The key of the Nūn belongs to God’s name, ‘the light.’
It is God who illuminates the heavens and the earth with the visible
lights, endows the bodies with his hidden lights, that is (their) well-
being, and enlightens the hearts of the prophets and the elite of the
friends of God with his special light which is mystical knowledge.” It
has been said: “The Nūn refers to God declaring Himself above being
grasped and comprehended by humans and above descriptions that
are inappropriate for Him. So declare Him above what He declared
Himself above in reality, so that He may sanctify you with the lights
of His compassion and mercy, and bring you to the utmost limit of
your quest, now and in the future.” It has been said: “God declared
Himself to be transcendent, so that anyone drawing near Him would
do so only through Him and anyone reaching the reality of giving
thanks for any of God’s gifts would do so only through Him, because
praise is the word of the one who says it and thanksgiving is the
search for more, and God grants success.”
The Letter Wāw.

70 It has been said: “The Wāw alludes to the subtle benefĳits, illumina-
tions and marvels of grace granted by the Omnipotent that reach
the inmost beings.” It has been said: “It refers to God’s love for His
friends since the dawn of creation.” It has been said: “It alludes
to God implanting the revelation He revealed to His servants. To
it belongs the direct revelation, mouth to mouth, by which God
favored the lofty envoy (al-safīr al-aʿlā) and the Beloved drawn near
(i.e., Muḥammad) and the Spokesman (i.e., Moses), the revelation by
means of mediators granted to the rest of the prophets, the revelation
by inspiring the bee (Q 16:68), the revelation by casting and infusing
it into the hearts of the disciples (i.e., of Jesus, al-ḥawāriyyīn), as God
said, “When I inspired the disciples” (Q 5:111), and (the revelation) of
what was infused into the heart of Moses’ mother, when God said,
‘We revealed to Moses’ mother’ (Q 28:7).” It has been said: “The Wāw
alludes to respect for the Prophet, upholding of the Sharīʿa, acknowl-
edging the friendship of the friends of God and abandoning disavow-
ing them.” It has been said: “The Wāw signifĳies divine singularity and
oneness and only that.”
The Letter Hāʾ.

71 It has been said: “The Hāʾ is the symbol for the end of the allusions.
Their reality is God who encompasses and comprehends all things,
and there is no one who encompasses Him or comprehends His true
nature. ‘The eyes attain Him not, but He attains the eyes’ (Q 6:103),
‘God encompasses everything in knowledge’ (Q 65:12), ‘and they
comprehend Him not in knowledge’ (Q 20:110).” It has been said:
“The Hāʾ refers to the guidance that God will guide to Him or cut offf
from Him whomsoever He wills.” I heard Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh
al-Rāzī say, Abū Bakr al-Khawāshī reported Abū Bakr al-Warrāq
to have said: “The Hāʾ signifĳies abandoning all passions and lusts of
this world.”
72 Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz said: “The Hāʾ alludes to the He-ness of God and
the forlornness of creation in His He-ness, because this is the ultimate
extent to which they can make allusions.” It has been said: “The Hāʾ
refers humanity (al-akwān) having little esteem for Your secret when
they boast about the absolute Real (ḥaqq al-ḥaqq) in Your presence.”
Abū ʿUthmān (al-Ḥīrī) said: “The Hāʾ signifĳies the souls being yoked
together in the vale of tears which is the prison of the believers so
that they may reach gladness on the Day of Judgment; God said, ‘We
were before among our people, ever going in fear’ (Q 52:26).”
The Letters Lām-Alif.

73 It has been said with regard to the Lām-Alif: “The Alif gave witness
by standing up straight and the Lām was humbled by standing crooked
in front of the Alif that stood alone—‘like Him there is naught’ (Q
42:11). Because of its strength, the Alif carried the weakness and defĳi-
ciency of the Lām, and clothed it in the attribute of negation, and
so it denied opponents, other lords and likenesses by saying, ‘No!’
(lā).” It has been said: “The Alif alludes to the divine singularity
and solitariness. When the Lām is joined to it, it clothes it with the
qualifĳier of negation. When another Alif is added to it, it becomes
the particle of exception and of afffĳirmation after negation, which is
the most intense way of afffĳirmation.”
74 With regard to the Lām-Alif al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “The Alif alludes
to the upright posture of Adam’s physique. His Lord created him
with an erect bearing and a beautiful composition of shape. Then
He revealed to him a light in the likeness of the Lām. When Adam
caught sight of it, he liked its company. So God said to him, ‘Do you
want to have her?’ He replied, ‘Yes, I do.’ So God said, ‘Here she is,’
and gave him the light, and Adam embraced her. Then God revealed
from it a form in the likeness of the Lām-Alif and assigned to it a
shape that would deny that He had any opponents and peers, saying,
‘There is no god but God’ (Q 47:19; 37:35). The Lām-Alif is the shape of
Adam and his embrace of the light, by which he was favored among
all other creatures prior to him.”
75 Al-Ḥusayn (Ḥallāj) said: “The allusion of all the letters is hidden in
the Lām-Alif, the allusion of the Lām-Alif is hidden in the Alif, the
allusion of the Alif is hidden in the dot (nuqṭa), and the allusion of
the dot is hidden in completely passing away in the vision of God, the
Enduring.” It has been said: “The Lām-Alif refers to reproaching the
lower self and having little satisfaction with it.” It has been said:
“The Lām-Alif signifĳies that an accuser’s censure should not bother
you in striving for God.”
The Letter Yāʾ.

76 It has been said: “The Yāʾ alludes to God educating you to be close
to Him, strengthening you for good conduct in His service, and
designating you to fulfĳill His commands.” It has been said: “The Yāʾ
is the letter that bequeathes you sadness in the vale of tears and joy
and delight in the closeness to the ‘Merciful.’ ” It has been said: “The
Yāʾ brings you near to the Object of your desire.”
Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being, and blessings upon His
Messenger Muḥammad and His virtuous family.
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STYLE FORMULAIRE ET PARALLÉLISME DANS LE CORAN
Georges Bohas
Préliminaires
1. Transcription
Quand nous analysons des vers dans le cadre khalīlien, nous sommes
contraint d’adopter les conventions des grammairiens et métriciens
arabes selon lesquelles ce que nous appelons une voyelle longue est com-
posé d’une voyelle brève et d’un glide : ā = a” 1, ī = iy et ū = uw ; on écrira
alors faʿuwlun et non faʿūlun.
2. Métrique
La métrique classique à laquelle nous ferons souvent allusion est résumée
dans le tableau suivant.
Watid initial
1 hazaj [⏑–] .. [⏑–] .– /////////////////// ///////////////////
2 wāfĳir [⏑–] X– [⏑–] X– ([⏑–] –) /////////////////
3 muḍāriʿ [⏑–] .. [-⏑] .– /////////////////// ///////////////////
4 ṭawīl [⏑–] . [⏑–] .. [⏑–] . [⏑–] .–
5 mutaqārib [⏑–] . [⏑–] . [⏑–] . ([⏑–] –)
Watid fĳinal
6 rajaz .. [⏑–] .. [⏑–] (.. [⏑–]) ///////////////////
7 sarīʿ .. [⏑–] .. [⏑–] .⏑–/ — — ///////////////////
8 kāmil X– [⏑–] X– [⏑–] (X– [⏑–]) ///////////////////
9 munsariḥ .. [⏑–] .. [-⏑] .. [⏑–] ///////////////////
10 muqtaḍab .. [-⏑] .. [⏑–] /////////////////// ///////////////////
11 basīṭ .. [⏑–] . [⏑–] .. [⏑–] (. [⏑–])
12 mutadārak . [⏑–] . [⏑–] . [⏑–] (. [⏑–])
Watid médian
13 ramal . [⏑–] . . [⏑–] . (. [⏑–] –) ///////////////////
14 khafīf . [⏑–] . . [-⏑] . (. [⏑–] –) ///////////////////
15 mujtathth . [-⏑] . . [⏑–] – ////////////////// //////////////////
16 madīd . [⏑–] . . [⏑–] . [⏑–] – ///////////////////
1
Nous utilisons “ pour transcrire le alif.
400 georges bohas
X = ⏑ ⏑ ou –
. = unité métrique variable, brève (⏑) ou longue (–)
⏑ = syllabe formée d’une consonne et d’une voyelle brève à l’intérieur du vers (CV)
– = syllabe formée
→ d’une consonne et d’une voyelle brève en fĳin de vers (CV#); ou bien
→ d’une consonne et d’une voyelle longue (CṼ); ou bien
→ d’une consonne, d’une voyelle brève et d’une consonne CVC.
[⏑–] watid majmūʿ
[-⏑] watid mafrūq
(..) = facultativement réalisé.
////// = jamais réalisé.
Dans le 12 mutadārak2, les pieds se réalisent –⏑– ou ⏑ ⏑– ou – – (par synérèse : ⏑ ⏑ > –).
Dans 6 et 7, les deux premiers pieds sont strictement identiques, la diffférence tient au
dernier pied. S’il a la structure écrite en 7, alors le vers est un sarīʿ.
Tout hémistiche comporte au moins deux pieds et possiblement trois ou quatre comme
indiqué par les parenthèses. Le vers comporte deux hémistiches. Le nombre de pieds par
hémistiche est identique dans tout le poème.
Si une séquence peut être analysée 13 et 16, la bonne analyse est 16.
Ce tableau engendre tout le shiʿr ʿamūdī
Introduction
Notre but est d’amorcer une étude sur le style formulaire3 dans le Coran.
Parry, qui fut le premier à en systématiser l’étude chez Homère, défĳinit la
formule poétique orale comme un groupe de mots régulièrement employé
dans le même contexte métrique pour exprimer une idée donnée4. Le style
formulaire consiste donc à construire des vers ou des demi-vers métriques
au moyen de formules et d’expressions formulaires5 traditionnelles qui ont
été préalablement apprises et assimilées. La formule est donc un groupe
de mots et une structure métrique. Rappelons un des acquis de notre
étude de 2007 : les structures prévalentes que l’on peut détecter dans
le Coran sont conçues comme une forme faible du double parallélisme
trouvé en poésie arabe classique. En d’autres termes, en poésie, le paral-
lélisme est absolu tandis que dans le Coran il est relatif. Ainsi, dans la
sourate al-Raḥmān, on observe la structure prévalente :
2
Selon les ouvrages des métriciens arabes. Selon Bruno Paoli, dans la réalité de la pro-
duction poétique, l’existence du pied –[⏑–] semble peu attestée.
3
Voir l’étude de Paoli (à paraître).
4
Parry (2007: 270).
5
Lord (1960, 4).
style formulaire et parallélisme dans le coran 401
P1 P2 P3 P4
.. [⏑–] . [⏑–] . [⏑–] .. [⏑–]
79% 77% 76% 73%
où P1 et P4 sont des réalisations de mustaf ʿilun, et P2 et P3 des réalisations

de fāʿilun.
Dans un basīṭ classique complet, la proportion serait évidemment de
100 % dans chaque case, puisque tous les P1 et P3 sont des réalisations de
mustaf ʿilun et tous les P2 et P4 des réalisations de fāʿilun :
P1 P2 P3 P4
.. [⏑–] . [⏑–] .. [⏑–] . [⏑–]
100% 100% 100% 100%
A. Première formule
La première formule que nous allons étudier est constituée par la parti-
cule idhā, précédée de wa (et une fois de fa), à l’initiale du verset, suivie
d’un nom portant l’article et d’un verbe. Le groupe waʾidhā s’analyse lui-
même métriquement en ⏑⏑–, unité que les métriciens ont nommé fāṣila
ṣughrā : mutafa” comme ʿalima”, ḍaraba” etc6.
La sourate al-takwīr (tak) et celle qui contient le plus de structures de
ce type7 :
2
waʾidhā l-nujūmu nkadarat
⏑⏑–⏑––⏑⏑–
3
waʾidhā l-jibālu suyyirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
4
waʾidhā l-ʿishāru ʿuṭṭilat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
6
Tibrīzī, Kitāb al-Kāfī, 18.
7
Nous avons pu réaliser notre recherche grâce au site : http://quran.muslim-web.com.
402 georges bohas
5
waʾidā l-wuḥūshu ḥushirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑⏑⏑–
6
waʾidhā l-biḥāru sujjirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
7
waʾidhā l-nufūsu zuwwijat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
8
waʾidhā l-mawʾūdatu suʾilat
⏑⏑–––⏑⏑⏑⏑–
10
waʾidhā l-ṣuḥufu nushirat
⏑⏑–⏑⏑⏑⏑⏑–
11
waʾidhā l-samāʾu kushiṭat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑⏑⏑–
12
waʾidhā l-jaḥīmu suʿʿirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
13
waʾidhā l-jannatu ʾuzlifat
⏑⏑––⏑⏑–⏑–
On peut constater que waʾidhā induit presque toujours la formation d’un

pied de type mutafa”ʿilun, comme dans le kāmil, qui est suivi d’un pied
de type mustaf ʿilun comme dans le rajaz. Ce que nous allons montrer en
détail. Dans notre théorie métrique8 mutafa”ʿilun : ⏑⏑– [⏑–] est formé par
diérèse :
– –[⏑–] > ⏑⏑–[⏑–] en partant d’un pied de type .. [⏑–] où les deux vari-
ables (.) sont réalisées –, la première étant objet de diérèse.
8
Bohas et Paoli (1997).
Nous analysons donc le verset 2 :
⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – // – ⏑ ⏑ –
comme une réalisation d’une structure métrique .. [⏑–] // . . [⏑–]
ce que nous allons expliciter :
structure métrique . . [⏑ –] // . . [⏑–]
réalisation des variables – – – ⏑
diérèse ⏑ ⏑
waʾi dhal-nu jūmunka darat
Dans le verset 3, seule variera la réécriture des brèves dans le deuxième pied :
. . [⏑ –] // . . [⏑–]
réalisation des variables – – – ⏑
diérèse ⏑ ⏑
waʾi dhal-ji bā lu suy yirat
Il en va ainsi de tous les versets, sauf 8, 10 et 13, ce qui devient manifeste

lors de la mise en tableau :
pied kāmil pied rajaz

2 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] – ⏑ [⏑–]
3 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
4 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
5 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
6 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
7 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
8 ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
Le premier pied de 8 n’a évidemment pas la structure mutafa”ʿilun. Conve-

nons d’écrire en contour ombré ces pieds qui posent problème au parallé-
lisme et continuons la mise en tableau.
10 ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
404 georges bohas
Dans ce verset, c’est le premier pied qui pose problème, puisque au lieu
du watid attendu, on observe la présence de deux brèves.
Les versets 11 et 12 , en revanche, sont parfaitement réguliers :
10 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
11 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Enfĳin, le verset 13 pose un problème analogue à 10:
13 ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–]
Récapitulons les tableaux :

2 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] – ⏑ [⏑–]
3 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
4 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
5 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
6 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
7 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
8 ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
10 ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
11 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
12 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
13 ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–]
Il est clair que waʾidhā l-Ni Vi 9 est corrélée à une structure métrique pré-
valente : pied de kamil/pied de rajaz.
Cette constatation va être confĳirmée par l’étude de la sourate al-mursalāt
(mur) :
9
Par l’usage des indices nous entendons que le pronom de rappel dans le verbe réfère
au nom.
8
faʾidhā l-nujūmu ṭumisat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑⏑⏑–
9
waʾidhā l-samāʾu furijat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑⏑⏑–
10
waʾidhā l-jibālu nusifat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑⏑⏑–
11
waʾidhā l-rusulu ʾuqqitat
⏑⏑–⏑⏑⏑–⏑–
Tous les versets sont conformes à la structure prévalente, sauf le dernier

dans lequel le premier pied présente la même déviation que le verset dix
de la sourate précédente.

8 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
9 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
10 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
11 ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–]
La sourate al-infĳiṭār (inf ) comporte trois versets avec waʾidhā :
2
waʾidhā l-kawākibu ntatharat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑⏑–
3
waʾidhā l-biḥ āru fujjirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
4
waʾidhā l-qubūru buʿthirat
⏑⏑–⏑–⏑–⏑–
Seul le deuxième pied du verset 2 fait difffĳiculté ; en efffet : ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ne

peut pas être un pied de rajaz. Pour résoudre le problème, il faudrait
recourir à la notion de syllabe orpheline que nous avons élaborée dans
406 georges bohas
des publications antérieures10. En restant dans le cadre classique, nous

écrirons donc ce pied en « contour ».

2 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] (⏑) – ⏑ [⏑ –]
(⏑) – ⏑ [
3 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
4 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Reste un verset de la sourate al-inshiqāq (insh)

3
waʾidhā l-ʾar ḍu muddat
⏑ ⏑ – – // ⏑ – –
Contrairement aux apparences, le premier pied peut être analysé comme
un pied de kāmil fĳinal ( faʿila”tun) comme dans
salabat lamī su fuʾādī // wataraḥ ḥalat bisawādī

⏑⏑– [⏑–]// ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑⏑– [⏑–] // ⏑ ⏑ – –
Il en va de même pour le deuxième v – – , puisque faʿūlun est une forme

possible du dernier pied du rajaz (makhbūn maqṭūʿ) comme dans :
ʾin kāna lā yurjā liyawmi khayrī

– – [⏑–] // – – ⏑–] //⏑ – –
Récapitulons, en écrivant en « contour » les pieds récalcitrants :

Tak 2 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] – ⏑ [⏑–]
Tak 3 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Tak 4 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Tak 5 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
Tak 6 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Tak 7 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Tak 8 ⏑ ⏑ ––– ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
Tak 10 ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑⏑ ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
10
Bohas (2002).
(cont.)
Tak 11 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
Tak 12 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Tak 13 ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–]
mur 8 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
mur 9 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
mur 10 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ ⏑ [⏑–]
mur 11 ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–]
Inf 2 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] (⏑) – ⏑ [⏑–]
Inf 3 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
Inf 4 ⏑ ⏑ – [⏑–] ⏑ – [⏑–]
insh 3 ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ – –
Cela sufffĳit à établir que la structure prévalente est bien :
wa ʾi dha l -Ni Vi
v v – [⏑–] . . [⏑–]
B. Deuxième formule
Les sourates al-ʿādiyāt (ʿād) et al-mursalāt (mur), toutes deux mecquoises,
présentent une similitude frappante. Analysons-les.
al-mursalāt
1) wa-l-mursalāti ʿurfā
––⏑–⏑––
2) fa-l-ʿāṣifāti ʿaṣfā
––⏑–⏑––
3) wa-l-nāshirāti nashrā
––⏑–⏑––
4) fa-l-fāriqāti farqā
––⏑–⏑––
5) fa-l-mulqiyāti dhikrā
––⏑–⏑––
408 georges bohas
al-ʿādiyāt
1) wa-l-ʿādiyāti ḍabḥā
––⏑–⏑––
2) fa-l-mūriyāti qadḥā
––⏑–⏑––
3) fa-l-mughīrāti ṣubḥā
–⏑––⏑––
La mise en tableau fait apparaître un profĳil métrique prévalent : – – [⏑–]//

⏑––
mur1 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –

mur2 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
mur3 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
mur4 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
mur5 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
ʿād1 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
ʿād2 – – [⏑–] ⏑ – –
ʿād3 – ⏑ – – ⏑ – –
La structure métrique est identique, au premier pied de ʿād3 près. La

structure syntaxique aussi, puisqu’on observe toujours la séquence : wa/fa +
féminin pluriel + N accusatif.
Examinons de plus près la structure métrique ;

pour la métrique classique, mur1 s’analyse en :
m u s t a f ʿ i l u n f a ʿ u w l u n
w a l m u r s a l a “ t i ʿ u r f a “
ce qui est exactement un vers de munsariḥ manhūk avec la ziḥāfa : khabn,

comme l’exemple cité par Tibrīzī 11 :
hal bi-l-diyāri ʾinsū

––⏑–⏑––
11
Tibrīzī, Kitāb al-Kāfī, 108.
Pour s’en convaincre il sufffĳit de regarder le tableau ci–dessous :
h a l b i l d i y a “ r i ’ i n s u w
Non seulement nous avons détecté une formule commune à ces versets,
mais, de plus, cette formule correspond métriquement à un vers : munsariḥ
manhūk, où nous avons écrit le watid en gras.
Le munsariḥ fait partie des vers à watid fĳinal, groupe dont le rajaz est
en quelque sorte la tête de fĳile. Il ne s’agit donc pas de qaṣīd (vers à deux
hémistiches). Dans ce groupe les manhūk attestés sont relativement peu
nombreux mais anciens, comme :
rajaz manhūk
yā laytanī fīhā jadhaʿ de Durayd b. al–Ṣimma : quatre vers
et
munsarih manhūk
ṣabran banī ʿabdi d-dār de Hind bint ʿUtba : trois vers.
Dans Tibrīzī p. 105 une main anonyme a ajouté : wa hādhā ʿindī laysa
shiʿran.
L’objet de la remarque est sans doute de dire qu’il ne s’agit pas de qaṣīd,
de vers à deux hémistiches, mais de vers de type rajaz à un seul hémis-
tiche12. Il est vrai que le problème se pose : est-ce que ces sortes de refrains
de 3 ou 4 vers constituent de la poésie, tout comme ces vers que Hind est
supposée avoir composés à la bataille de Uhud ?
        
           
       
           
   
    
naḥnu banātu ṭāriq
namshī ʿala l-namāriq
in tuqbilū nuʿāniq
12
Bruno Paoli a attiré mon attention sur ce point.
410 georges bohas
aw tudbirū nufāriq
fĳirāqa ghayra wāmiq13
sont de la poésie? Le texte ajoute qu’elle était accompagnée au tambou-
rin par les femmes pour exciter les combattants ; n’aurait-on pas plutôt
un genre intermédiaire entre la prose et la poésie? Notons que les vers
de Hind sont riches en parallélismes (rime riche et métrique) que nous
signalons par l’usage des caractères gras :
naḥnu banātu ṭāriq

– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – –
namshī ʿala l-namāriq
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – –
in tuqbilū nuʿāniq
– – ⏑ – ⏑ – –
aw tudbirū nufāriq
– – ⏑ – ⏑ – –
fĳirāqa ghayra wāmiq
⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – –
– ⏑ [⏑ –] ⏑ – –
– ⏑ [⏑ –] ⏑ – –
– – [⏑ –] ⏑ – –
– – [⏑ –] ⏑ – –
⏑ – [⏑ –] ⏑ – –
C. Formules et parallélisme
Revenons à al-ʿādiyāt et al-mursalāt et à l’étude des parallélismes dans ces
versets. À cet efffet, insérons tous les versets dans le tableau mustaf ʿilun
faʿuwlun :
13
Il existe d’autres versions avec deux vers de plus.
Nous sommes fĳilles de l’étoile du matin
Nous marchons sur des coussins
Si vous attaquez, nous embrassons
Si vous reculez, nous nous séparons
D’une séparation sans tendresse.
f a l ʿ a “ ṣ i f a “ t i ʿ a ṣ f a “
w a l n a “ sh i r a “ t i n a sh r a “
f a l f a “ r i q a “ t i f a r q a “
f a l m u l q i y a “ t i dh i k r a “
w a l ʿ a “ d i y a “ t i ḍ a b ḥ a “
f a l m u w r i y a “ t i q a d ḥ a “
f a l m u gh i y r a “ t i ṣ u b ḥ a “
Le premier pied du dernier verset est écrit en “contour” pour marquer sa

diffférence.
Ne considérons maintenant que les segments :
f a l ʿ a “ ṣ i f a “ t i ʿ a ṣ f a “
w a l n a “ sh i r a “ t i n a sh r a “
f a l f a “ r i q a “ t i f a r q a “
f a l m u l q i y a “ t i dh i k r a “
w a l ʿ a “ d i y a “ t i ḍ a b ḥ a “
f a l m u w r i y a “ t i q a d ḥ a “
f a l m u gh i y r a “ t i ṣ u b ḥ a “
L’usage du gras ombré permet de mettre en évidence un réseau dense de

parallélismes, l’un desquels consiste en la rime en a”. Le verset ʿād3, qui
s’écartait du lot par son premier pied, est en quelque sorte récupéré et
intégré par les parallélismes phonétiques, ou morphologiques comme l’ar-
ticle dans la deuxième et la troisième colonne. Ce réseau dense de paral-
lélismes entre diffférents points de la séquence du discours, parallélismes qui
412 georges bohas
sont défĳinis aux niveaux de représentation « superfĳiciels » de la séquence14,

est justement un des indices de la poéticité d’un texte. Mais la diffférence
entre le Coran et la poésie arabe, sous l’aspect de la poéticité, apparaît
bien maintenant : le Coran comporte des parallélismes manifestes que
notre étude a mis en évidence, mais ces parallélismes ne sont pas codifĳiés15.
Dans la poésie arabe classique, les parallélismes sont strictement codifĳiés,
ce qui fait toute la diffférence.
Références
Sources Primaires
al-Tibrīzī, Abū Zakariyyā b. ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan b. Bisṭām al-Shaybānī (al-Khaṭīb).
Kitāb al-Kāfī fī l-ʿarūḍ wal-qawāfī. édité par al–Ḥassānī Ḥasan ʿAbdallāh. Le Caire : Dār
al-Kitāb al-‘Arabī lil-Ṭibāʿa wa-l-Nashr.
Sources Secondaires
Bohas, Georges. 2003. “La métrique et la poésie arabe moderne.” Cent titres 3 : Poésie de
langue arabe dirigé. édité par J.-Ch. Depaule. Marseille : cipM, 115–126.
——. 2007. “La mesure de la sourate al-Raḥmān.” Langues et littératures du monde arabe
7: 53–74.
——. à paraître, “De la mesure en arabe, une description unifĳiée.” Actes du colloque Métri-
que arabe, état des lieux et perspectives, Damas 2007. [Bulletin d’études orientales. Institut
du Proche-Orient].
Bohas, Georges et Paoli, Bruno. 1997. Aspects formels de la poésie arabe, I. La métrique arabe
classique. Toulouse : Amam.
Jakobson, Roman. 1960. “Linguistics and Poetics.” In Style in Language. éd. par T.A. Sebeok.
New York : John Wiley and Sons, 350–377. [Trad. de l’anglais par Nicolas Ruwet. In
R. Jakobson. 1963. Essais de linguistique générale. Paris : Éditions de Minuit, 209–248.]
Lord, Albert. 1960. The Singer of Tales. Cambridge, Massachusetts/Londres : Harvard Uni-
versity Press.
Paoli, Bruno. à paraître. “Deux études sur la poésie bachique arabe : 2. L’art de la formule.”
site web La clé des langues de l’École supérieure normale de Lyon.
Parry, Milman. 1971. The Making of Homeric Verse : The Collected Papers of Milman Parry.
Oxford : Clarendon Press.
Ruwet, Nicolas. 1975. “Parallélismes et déviations en poésie.” In Langue, discours, société,
Pour Emile Benveniste. éd. par J. Kristeva, J.-C. Milner et N. Ruwet. Paris, Éditions du
Seuil, 307–353.
14
Ruwet (1975) qui reformule le principe de Jakobson (1960).
15
Voir Bohas, à paraître.
STYLES IN PREMODERN ARABIC POPULAR EPICS
Peter Heath
Premodern Arabic literature has left a substantial legacy of popular narra-

tive. One category of this literary tradition is a genre of narratives that has
become termed al-sīra al-shaʿbiyya, or popular epic. Reports about this
genre fĳirst appear in the 6th/12th century. Its members constitute a very
large corpus of public popular storytelling texts, the most famous example
of which is Alf layla wa-layla, known in western literature as The Thousand
and One Nights or The Arabian Nights. In addition to the stories of love
and magic that predominate in the Nights and the popular epics discussed
here, which focus on conflict and adventure, this vibrant Arabic tradition
of storytelling encompasses pseudo-historical accounts of popular history,
humorous tales, fables, and religious stories of prophets and saints.1
Studying these Arabic popular epics presents challenges. The details of
how this thriving tradition of popular storytelling developed over time can
only be delineated generally since secondary references to it are scarce.
Elite literary scholars in the premodern era held these narratives in dis-
dain and therefore commented on them rarely. They tended to mention
these narratives only to condemn them as puerile specimens of literature
with little aesthetic merit or as distortions of elite traditions of history and
religion that dangerously misled the ignorant masses.2
Another challenge to understanding the tradition involves modalities
of transmission. Most of these stories moved fluidly over the centuries
between oral and written narration. A signifĳicant number of manuscripts
or print examples of the written tradition exist, yet their specifĳic relation-
ship to the oral tradition remains largely unstudied. In the few cases where
Arabic oral traditions of narration still exist, such as with Sīrat Banī Hilāl,
disciplinary demarcations have limited comparative study. Folklorists
1
The term al-sīra al-shaʿbiyya is modern. The narratives themselves equally and inter-
changeably use the terms al-sīra and al-qiṣṣa. For general accounts of Arabic popular
epic and its study, see Heath (1996: 3–64), Lyons (1995: 1:1–8), Irwin (1994: 42–62), and
respective chapters in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature (2006). Canova (2003) is
devoted to articles on this subject and also contains an extensive bibliography of articles
on the subject.
2
Cf., Heath (1996: 8–11) and Connelly (1986: 12–18).
414 peter heath
and ethnomusicologists tend to focus on oral versions, literary scholars

on written ones. Although an increasing body of sophisticated research
has grown in both disciplines, little opportunity for cross-comparison has
occurred. Indeed, few individuals study either form of transmission.3
A third obstacle stems from the lack of availability of many of these
epics. Although numerous copies of manuscripts of a single narrative
often exist, they are scattered in libraries throughout the world. Printed
versions appear in cheap editions published in various Arab countries,
but as is the case with much of Arabic literature, once these printed runs
sell out, copies become difffĳicult to obtain. Given their popular nature and
chapbook quality, many university libraries neglect even to buy copies
of these works. Hence, although there is a signifĳicant corpus of material
available in diffferent places and written at various points in time, studying
it remains difffĳicult and time-consuming.
Moreover, the very size of this corpus, many of whose texts extend over
thousands of pages, has hindered its analysis. When confronted with a
narrative that continues for thousands of pages, it is sufffĳiciently laborious
to analyze one version without facing the challenge of examining multiple
examples of either the same work or undertaking to compare them with
other members of the genre. Few scholars have had the time or the energy
to engage in extensive surveys of this literature. Researchers have at most
attempted comparisons of a few versions of a single epic; hardly any have
embarked on intensive comparative analysis.4
Other difffĳiculties face students of this narrative tradition. One of these
is the linguistic diglossia that characterizes Arabic. Written and spoken
forms of the language have diverged over the centuries; beyond this, the
spoken language has splintered into many dialects. The corpus of popu-
lar literature reflects this linguistic diversity. Styles in it display both the
centrifugal pull of standard written Arabic and the centripetal push of the
dialects. Such linguistic diversity presents a challenge to scholars accus-
tomed to holding separate written and spoken registers of Arabic. They
need to accept that either linguistic register, or more likely some mix-
ture of the two, a form usually termed Middle Arabic, is normal for this
literature. Although the linguistic evidence that these narratives contain
3
Cf. the studies of Ott (2003) and Gavillet Matar (2005) devoted to written versions
with those of Slyomovics (1987) and Reynolds (1995), who offfer studies of the oral perfor-
mance tradition.
4
Among those who develop a comparative framework are Lyons (1996: vol. 1) and from
the methodological vantage point of folklore, El-Shamy (1995, 2004, 2006).
styles in arabic popular epics 415
represents a great opportunity for understanding aspects of the historical

development of Arabic, researchers in Arabic linguistics are few; those
who study dialects fewer; those who focus on Middle Arabic rare; and—to
my knowledge—those who have examined this genre of literature from
the disciplinary perspective of linguistics are near to non-existent.5
Given these challenges, the following analysis into the stylistic features
that characterize Arabic popular epics is preliminary. It seeks to outline
general categories and to sketch certain tendencies in order to provide
a basis for further study. Moreover, just as the analysis that follows has
limited aspirations, so does its methodology. The discipline of literary
stylistics has enjoyed ups and downs. In general, it has thrived during
periods of innovation in the fĳield of linguistics, such as the early twentieth
century when comparative historical linguistics influenced the new fĳield
of comparative literature, or during the latter half of the same century
when formalist and structuralist linguistics and transformational gram-
mar appeared to offfer great promise for advancing literary study. Similarly,
the philosophical movements of hermeneutics and phenomenology also
provided methodological impetus for research in stylistics. As the imme-
diate potential for innovation in these movements was exhausted, inter-
est in literary stylistics correspondingly declined. It has recently revived
somewhat due to current research in cognitive linguistics, nonetheless,
it continues to play a subsidiary role in literary scholarship. In this study
aspirations for methodological sophistication are modest. Nevertheless,
because such aspirations are low, it may be that the validity of the results
endures longer.6
This study of style in Arabic popular epic is based on three assump-
tions. The fĳirst is that the default mode for all forms of premodern Arabic
popular storytelling is unadorned prose using simple syntactic struc-
tures. Although simple prose may be assumed to be the default, it must
be emphasized that it is only one stylistic trend. Many narratives exhibit
varying degrees of stylistic enhancement and rhetorical embellishment,
corresponding mainly to the extent to which rhymed prose and poetry
5
“Middle Arabic is the language of mediaeval A[rabic] texts in which classical,
post-classical, and also often NA [Neo-Arabic] and pseudo-correct elements alternate
quite freely. Nevertheless, the diffferent strata tend to merge into one superstructure.” Blau
(2002: 14).
6
A brief overview of contemporary stylistics is Simpson (2004), which also has an
extensive bibliography. Ḥarb (1999: 358–74) offfers a brief discussion of general aspects of
sīra style.
416 peter heath
infuse their texts. Hence one way to diffferentiate styles is to ascertain the
extent to which the text utilizes rhymed prose and poetry.
The second assumption is that Middle Arabic is the default linguis-
tic register of these texts. Again, however, this default is only one point
along a continuum. One may fruitfully consider this register as a collo-
quial dialect that becomes integrated with degrees of literate syntax and
vocabulary as it enters written form. As the scribe or editor transcribes the
narrative he recasts it into standard Arabic usage and grammar according
to his level of education. The text undergoes a process of translation from
Middle Arabic to standard written Arabic, retaining nonetheless many of
the stylistic enhancements of rhymed prose and poetry. This translation
process can theoretically occur at diffferent points, when an oral version
is transcribed, when a Middle Arabic manuscript version is copied by a
more learned scribe, or when a manuscript is published in printed form.
It can also occur over time, as scribes of diffferent educational background
recopy manuscripts they may inject into the new copy varied levels of
grammar and usage.
The third assumption is that repetition is an essential facet of this story-
telling tradition. Repetition of themes and motifs occur throughout. The
extent to which repetition in language, the use of formulaic language,
is emphasized is another point of diffferentiation among styles. Milman
Parry and Albert B. Lord have done the most to broaden understanding
of the use of formulaic language in their studies of Serbo-Croatian poetic
epics and Homeric poems. Their analytic approach offfers a framework
within which to examine this aspect of style.7
These three assumed axes of stylistic diffferentiation interlace. Rhetori-
cal embellishment relies extensively on linguistic and formulaic repeti-
tion. Middle Arabic usage should be regarded as a natural feature of these
narratives, but it is not mandatory, just as the use of standard Arabic is not
a requirement. Formulaic repetition is common, but occasional inspired
literary innovation also occurs. The continuum of possibilities is therefore
broad. Nevertheless, there are general trends and it is analysis of these
which will be the object of focus.
I have previously presented an overview of the major narratives that
fall under the genre of Arabic popular epic. So that a common conception
of this genre is shared, this earlier summary is quoted below:
7
Lord (1960); Parry (1971).
Further research may establish some idea of the historical development of

the genre of popular sīra. At present, however, it is more practical to list
them in the chronological order of their subject matter. From this perspec-
tive, they can be organized as dealing with characters from pre-Islamic Per-
sian history, pre-Islamic Arabian history, early Islamic history, and fĳinally
characters and plots drawn from later dynasties in Islamic history.
There are three sīras that take early Persian history as their subject mat-
ter: Sīrat Fīrūz-Shāh, whose protagonist is the son of the Achaemenid King
Darius II; Sīrat Iskandar, whose central focus are the deeds of Alexander the
Great; and the Story of Bahrām Gūr, whose main character is the Sassanid
Shāh Bahrām.
Pre-Islamic South Arabian history forms the backdrop for Sīrat al-Malik
Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan, while pre-Islamic North Arabian history is dealt with in
Sīrat ʿAntar, as well as in the story of al-Zīr Sālim and other accounts of tribal
battles, such as the War of Basūs between the tribes of Bakr and Taghlib.
Many sīras combine elements of both Iranian and pre-Islamic Arabic his-
tory. Sīrat Amīr Ḥamza, for example, narrates the adventures of Ḥamza b.
ʿAbdallāh, an Arab warrior who becomes a major player in Iranian court
politics and military afffairs. Similarly, the geste of Alexander, while innately
dealing with Iranian history, is Arabized by having events presented from
the perspective of an Arab hero.
Another group of narratives dealing with early Islamic history takes as
its protagonist ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib. These narratives can from one perspective
be considered as forming a part of an associated genre of maghāzī narra-
tives, which relate the accounts of the battles and raids that the Prophet
Muhammad ordered or engaged in. Nonetheless, longer examples of these
narratives, which clearly contain fĳictional and fantastic elements, can also
be considered as being so close to sīra narrative structures and patterns as
to be clearly a part of the same type of storytelling. Such works as ʿAlī’s raid
against Raʾs al-Ghūl or the long work known as Ghazwat al-Arqaṭ, in which
ʿAlī plays a central role, should be analyzed within the same general frame-
work as popular sīras.
The best known sīra after ʿAntar and the Banī Hilāl is Sīrat al-Amīra Dhāt
al-Himma, which deals with the tribal feuds and holy wars of the Umayyad
and early ʿAbbāsid Caliphates; another narrative reflecting this time period
and the theme of the spread of Islam is Sīrat al-Badr Nār, which exists only
in manuscript and is as yet unstudied.
Fatimid and Mamluk history are treated in Sīrat al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh
(unpublished) and Sīrat al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Baybars, respectively. Related in
time period to these latter works are the stories of rogues (ʿayyārīn) and
scoundrels (zuʿr), typifĳied by the cycles of Aḥmad al-Danaf and ʿAlī Zaybaq.
These characters are not martial heroes, although they are brave and capa-
ble enough when it comes to a fĳight, but rather trickster fĳigures who rely on
craft, deceit, and guile to achieve their aims.
There are signifĳicant diffferences in style, content, and historical origin
among members of the genre. Sīrat Fīrūz Shāh, for example, is Persian in ori-
gin, while Sīrat al-Zīr Sālim is based on pre-Islamic Ayyām al-ʿArab sources.
418 peter heath
Sīrat al-Malik Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan is full of sorcery and demons, while Sīrat
ʿAntar and Sīrat Dhāt al-Himma are generally devoid of magic. Sīrat al-Malik
al-Ẓāhir Baybars tends toward unadorned prose, while other sīras rely heav-
ily on rhymed prose and poetry. Nevertheless, these works form a cohesive
genre by reason of their shared emphasis on heroes and heroic deeds of
battle, their pseudo-historical tone and setting, and their indefatigable drive
towards cyclic expansion: one event leads to another, one battle to another,
one war to another, and so on for hundreds and thousands of pages.
Viewed from a wider cultural perspective, these popular epics are Ara-
bic examples of a larger body of vibrant popular literature that existed in
most parts of the Islamic world. Premodern Persian and Turkish literatures
also developed strong traditions of popular epic, and there is convincing
evidence that despite their linguistic diffferences neighboring traditions of
popular storytelling borrowed and translated from and mutually influenced
one another. Sīrat ʿAntar, for example, exists in an Ottoman Turkish trans-
lation, and many of these epics exist in multiple versions across disparate
linguistic borders. Renditions of Sīrat Amīr Ḥamza, for instance, exist in Ara-
bic, Persian, Turkish, Georgian, Urdu, and Malay, while versions of the Alex-
ander story (Sīrat Iskandar) are even more widely disseminated in Eastern
and Western literature.
Arabic and other Islamic popular epics, moreover, constitute only one por-
tion of a vast tradition of multi-lingual Islamic popular literatures that also
encompasses non-epic pseudo-historical narratives (maghāzī and futūḥāt),
religious literature of various types (popular biographies of the Prophet
Muhammad and his companions, saints legends, accounts of miracles, etc.),
numerous genres of popular poetry, song, proverb and humor, and tales
of wonder and fantasy, the best known being the compilation known as
Alf layla wa-layla. The history and nature of this large corpus of literature
is still largely uncharted, as are the ways in which diffferent genres, whether
within single linguistic traditions or across them, influenced or impacted
one another. Nevertheless, no single example of these popular literatures
should be considered without at least an awareness of the existence of this
larger literary and social context.8
These remarks present an overview of the corpus termed Arabic popu-
lar epic, or al-sīra al-shaʿbiyya. To this extended quote should be added
Edward W. Lane’s observations regarding performances of sīra narratives
that he witnessed during his stays in Cairo in the 1820’s and the 1830’s. He
noted three modalities of performance which, we shall see, also reflect
three general narrative styles. One group of narrators specialized in Sīrat
al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Baybars; they recited in simple prose without relying on
books. The second group specialized in Sīrat ʿAntar ; they read from books
8
Heath (2006: 323–24). See also Heath (1996: xv–xvii, 43–64) and the articles in Canova
(2003) and those on popular literature in Allen and Richards (2006).
but chanted the poetry and recited rhymed prose in “the popular man-
ner.” The third group specialized in reciting Sīrat Banī Hilāl; they did not
rely on a text but recited and sang the epic to the accompaniment of a
one-stringed rabāba.9
Lane’s tripartite designation of sīra recitation generally reflects stylis-
tic distinctions among popular epics. For purposes of analysis, we will
broaden his fĳirst two groups into three categories, so that we have four
in all. The fĳirst three styles represent a continuum with straightforward
prose on the one side and extensive use of rhymed prose and poetry on
the other. For purposes of analysis, these will be termed “simple prose,”
enhanced prose,” and “embellished prose.” Examples of plain prose are
versions of Sīrat al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Baybars, Aḥmad al-Danaf, and the Egyp-
tian version of Qiṣṣat ʿAlī Zaybaq. “Enhanced prose,” the most common
style, uses greater adjectival description, including regular insertions of
rhymed prose and poetry to describe people and places, proverbial situa-
tions, and emotions (such as love or grief). This enhanced style is preva-
lent in the Būlāq version of Alf Layla and in such popular epics such as
Amīr Ḥamza, Fīrūz Shāh, or the Story of ʿUmar al-Nuʿmān that is found in
the Nights. The other extreme of the stylistic continuum is “embellished
prose.” Narratives employing this style exhibit high usage of rhymed prose
(sajʿ) and longer examples of poetry that serve to describe animate and
inanimate objects and emotions adjectivally but is also utilized adverbi-
ally to portray extended action scenes, such as travel and especially battle.
Sīrat ʿAntar, Sīrat al-Malik Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan, and Sīrat Dhāt al-Himma
typify this embellished style. As mentioned above, these three styles
represent gradations of Lane’s fĳirst two categories. The fourth style, that
found in printed versions of Sīrat Banī Hilāl, forms a separate category
parallel to the fĳirst three. This style is characterized by a combination of
enhanced rhymed prose combined with a high degree of poetic insertion,
used especially to portray direct speech between characters and narrative
reiteration of events.
Before examining examples of these four types of styles, two caveats
must be raised. First, one should realize that individual narratives can be
recast from one style to another. Albert Lord noted in the case of the
Serbo-Croatian tradition of epic oral formulaic narration that storytellers
who master one or move styles can easily reformulate any given plot out-
line into a specifĳic style. Hence the above-adumbrated categories should
9
Lane (1966: 397–431, quote from 420).
420 peter heath
be taken as general. Each specifĳic text of a sīra falls into one of these
categories, but diffferent versions of the same sīra may fĳit diffferent cat-
egories. A second caveat is that this current discussion focuses mainly
on written versions of sīras. It does not encompass transcriptions of oral
performances. Detailed comparison between written and oral versions of
sīras remains a separate desideratum.10
Simple Prose
A typical example of “simple prose” style is found in the Syrian version

of Sīrat al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Baybars published in eight volumes by Georges
Bohas and Katia Zakharia. This printed version is an annotated transcrip-
tion of a manuscript copied in 1949 from that used by the last profes-
sional storyteller (ḥakawātī) in Damascus. An example of this style follows
below.
        ،   !       ،    
                      :    
        ،    –                 ،    
                        
      
     ،     
        ،                  – 
.     

         
 .          ،     

 ،               
                
،              ،    ،           


 


       ‫؟‬     !          
          : 
  
     .                ،  
 :                
          :   ‫ ؟‬       
 
 ! :    ‫؟‬               
 

            
.    
    
  ،      ،      ،           . . .  

            
    ،          ،       .         
 
         
  ،            :   ،    ،       
10
Lord (1960: 32–45, 99–123); see also Ahlwardt (1896: vol. 8). One excellent in-depth
study encompassing consideration of both the written and oral traditions is Ott (2003:
138–218).
        

           ،          ،    .       
  
   :   ،   
      ،   
       ،     
      

       
  

     

        ،     :   ‫؟‬   
                
 
          
     
 ! :     .              ،  
 
،  
            
           .
     
   
       
       :   ‫؟‬         
       
  
   
  ،   
  

  
  !  
   :    
            .     
           
            

     ،             ،    :   ،      
    
  
،                    
          .   

 
          
  .            .           
       ‫؟‬       
    :                   !    ،   : 



       
          
                       
            ،             .
            ،  
       

       
،      .                  ،        ، 

.   
     
،                 ،             
   
   
         
        
.           
      
             
The narrator related,: “Oh, Noble Gentlemen, with blessings on the Best of Man-
kind [i.e. the Prophet Muḥammad]”: 11 In olden times, in a previous age, there
was once a king of Islam called al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, (May God have mercy on
him and on all who have preceded us to God’s mercy). This king was a pious
believer, both externally and internally. His seat of power lay in fair Egypt.
He had a wife who was his equal in deserving the blessings of God. It hap-
pened that one night, on a Friday night, the king had a dream. He had an
amazing dream. When he awoke from sleep and the pleasure of his dream,
he forgot what he had dreamt. He sprang up and began to overturn the mat-
tress and shake out the sheets, saying, “There is no power and no strength
11
Insertions referring to the internal narrator of the story are put in italics for the sake
of clarity.
422 peter heath
save in God, the Great and Almighty! Where did my dream go?” His wife,
Shajarat al-Durr, awoke and found him continuing to search and repeating
this phrase and she thought that he had lost something. She sprang to her
feet and said, “Oh King of the Age? What’s wrong?” He said to her, “I had a
dream that went astray. Have you seen it?” She said, “Yes! I saw it and I sent
it to your vizier, Lord Shāhīn.
He said: When the king heard those words, his mind eased and he relaxed.
He left the Hall of the Arabs and continued until he had completed his
morning prayers and his daily portion of Qurʾān recitation. As for the queen,
she immediately sent word to vizier Shāhīn that, “The king has had a dream
that he forgot. He asked me about it and I said to him that I had sent it to
the vizier and passed it on to him. So know what your answer to him will
be!” As for the king, after he had completed his prayers and Qurʾān recita-
tion, he sent after Lord Shāhīn. He appeared before him, prostrated himself,
and wished him good morning. The king ordered him to sit, so he sat down.
He said to him, “Have you brought me an interpretation of the dream that
Shajarrat al-Durr sent to you?” He said, “Sire, I received the dream, but I
sent it on to the Sheikh of al-Azhar, Sheikh Muḥammad Daqīq al-ʿĪd, so
that he could bring you its explanation.” The king said to him, “Well done!”
Oh Gentlemen: Prior to his own appearance before the king Vizier Shāhīn
had sent word to Sheikh Muḥammad by letter inviting him to court. [Thus
forewarned] the sheikh stretched his hand out from within his underarm
and pulled out a written interpretation. He said to the king, “Sire, Your
Majesty, I saw in your dream fĳire around Egypt and a great disturbance com-
ing to you from it. Afterwards, there arrived from the direction of the Nile
birds which drank water from the river and sprayed it onto the fĳire. Among
them was a black raven who was the leader of the other birds. He continued
to put out the fĳire until its flames were extinguished.” The king said to him;
“Yes! By God’s Glory! This is the dream exactly! But what is its interpreta-
tion?” The sheikh said to him, “Sire, army regiments will be raised in your
kingdom and there will appear from among them a skilled youth who will
be its great star. Fortune will serve him and he will become the most power-
ful leader of his time. He will set out against the enemies of the Faith and
win great victories. He will be recorded in the registry of those warriors who
fĳight on the path of God. He will win renown and go down in history. Believ-
ers will remember him in their prayers until the end of time, wherever one
stands or sits. This, Sire, is the interpretation of your dream.”
The narrator of the story said: Vizier Shāhīn had sent word to the sheikh
in the form of an invitation, as we have previously related. When he opened
this letter, he had found the dream written on its margin with its interpreta-
tion below.12
This passage, the fĳirst two and a half pages of Sīrat Baybars, exhibits most
of the characteristics of what is termed here “simple prose” style. This style
12
Bohas and Zakharia (2000–07: 1, 17–19).
is ubiquitous since it is the default mode for written versions of almost all
premodern Arabic storytelling texts. One can fĳind equally representative
examples of it in many narratives, including those from other genres such
as the stories of magic and romance in The Thousand and One Nights. As
we shall see, even narratives which display more elaborate styles rely on
“simple prose” for their underlying structure.
The basic structure of this form is subject, verb, and complement, with
the complement being either a direct object or the object of a preposi-
tional phrase. In other words, this style is shorn of description. Adjectives
are used sparingly; descriptions of either nouns or verbal action that com-
prise more than a word or two are rare. In the above passage, for example
no personal attributes other than offfĳicial function are offfered concerning
the characters. We learn that there is a king, a queen, a vizier, and a Sheikh
of al-Azhar, but we do not know whether they are young, middle aged, or
elderly, attractive or ugly, generous or miserly, etc. Personal names pro-
vide the only other distinguishing feature, helping us to keep the king,
queen or vizier distinguishable from another king, queen or vizier. The
only personal attribute explicitly provided in this text is religious piety,
a quality which the king and queen share, although not it appears the
vizier or the Sheikh of al-Azhar. Similarly, place names provide geographi-
cal context. We know that the events occur in Egypt, which is termed
“fair” or “salubrious.” Other than this, no description of the condition of
the country or its capital occurs. We do not know if the city or country is
large or small, prosperous or poor, orderly or chaotic. The name Egypt is
mentioned and whatever image this word connotes in the minds of the
story’s audience, that is how it is to be understood. Nor is any other place,
such as the royal palace described. Conversations are reported, but they
are brief and to the point, serving only to move action along in the story.
Most of the nouns and verbs that dominate this style refer to concrete
objects or actions; abstract concepts tend not to appear. Emotions are
noted but only common ones, such as happiness, fear, anxiety, or anger.
There is no representation of interior thought or portrayal of reflection
or planning. Instead, character is displayed by action.13 We know what
characters think after we have seen how they act. From this passage, for
example, one senses that the king may be pious but that he is also naïve
and unintelligent. The queen and the vizier in cooperation take advantage
of the king’s lack of intelligence and agitated state of mind to achieve
13
Cf. Todorov (1977).
424 peter heath
their own political aims. From this we surmise that they both are clever
and politically astute. The character of the Sheikh al-Azhar emerges as a
political tool rather than religious fĳigure. Interestingly, although the king
and queen are described as pious, no such description is given for the
Sheikh al-Azhar.
Context is provided telegraphically though the use of verbal tense and
concrete nouns or phrases. We know that this is a story about the past
because of the text’s inclusion of formulas common to this genre: “In
olden times,” the narrator related. These phases and the consistent use
of the past tense bracket our understanding of events to occur in what
Bakhtin termed the “epic past,” a time, the audience understands, when
the constraints of current expectations of realism are loosened.14
The style relies heavily on metonymy to provide social context. We learn
the structure of political rule through the metonymic use of titles, such
as king or queen. We become aware of the dominant religious context
through insertions of religious formulas or practices common to Islam:
blessings on the prophet, daily prayer, daily Qurʾānic recitation. Similarly,
the relation between the profane and spiritual is delineated indirectly
by inclusion of the belief in the efffĳicacy of dreams or miracles. Although
the supernatural is an ever-present force in everyday life, note how the
queen and the vizier use the occasion of the king’s dream to attain their
political goals. In sīras supernatural event is subordinate to human ambi-
tion and action.
External context unfolds as the story progresses. Geography is denoted
by place names. As cities, towns, or regions are mentioned the geographi-
cal scope of the narrative grows, but locations are only mentioned as they
become relevant for the story. In like fashion, we learn about new charac-
ters when they appear in the story, and we discover their natures through
narrative portrayal of their actions rather than reliance on extended use
of external adjectival description.
The following passage provides a typical illustration of the relation
between the portrayal of action and the use of description. Based on the
interpretation of his dream, the king orders the vizier to buy mamluks, i.e.
military slaves. The vizier orders merchants to go out and fĳind suitable
slaves. One of these merchants is ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq, the individual who
will buy Baybars, the slave who will one day become Sultan of Egypt. Here
is how the story introduces ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq:
14
Bakhtin (1981: 15–20).
      
  ،       
   
               ،        
  
      ،        ،   
        ،           .    
       
     
          .                   
 
           .       ،                 
     
               
  .       ،     ،           ، 
          
         .     
                    
                       

              
      
     ،                  .      
   
 
         
   
              .               


          
                  
                 
                       
،              
  .   

            

       
  

                           


.     
Listen to what happened, and pray for the best of mankind [i.e. the Prophet
Muḥammad ]: This man, ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq, was a leading trader, no one
more skilled than he. He was open-handed, had a cheerful mien, was popu-
lar among his associates, and possessed good morals. But at this time he
was sufffering from penury and ill-fortune. He sat at home without work or
business. The reason for his poverty was that one time he had amassed a
large cargo of merchandise and traveled with it to the coast. At that time the
whole coast was occupied by Crusaders but ʿAlī Āghā was beloved among
all, Muslim and Christian alike, because of his generosity and good morals.
He would travel everywhere and he was well-known to all, on land and on
sea. So after he packed up his merchandise and set out, he arrived in Bei-
rut and then set out traveling by sea. A short time later a storm arose and
the ship sank. ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq clung onto a piece of the rudder until
the waves threw him on shore, completely naked. He emerged shivering
from cold and moved from place to place. People took pity on him and gave
him some clothing and food until he reached Beirut. He stayed there two or
three days but did not let any merchant see him. He returned to Damascus
completely penniless. He fĳinally entered his house in the evening and sat
thinking about what had happened to him. Embarrassment overcame him
about seeing any merchant because they had invested a lot of money for
him to trade with.15
15
Bohas and Zakharia (2000–07: 1, 21–22).
426 peter heath
The story continues for some time as ʿAlī Āghā’s merchant friends dis-
cover his return and out of afffection for him, provide funds for him to
trade again. He sets out anew but again faces misfortune when highway-
men rob his caravan. He returns home penniless and full of shame he
again hides in his house. Since he has no money, he sends his wife to sell
their household goods until nothing is left. He falls into a quarrel with
his local grocer over money owed, but is rescued by the Aḥmad Pasha
al-Aqwāṣī, brother-in-law to the governor of Damascus and leader of the
city’s guild of rogues and scoundrels [zuʿr]. While being supported in style
by Aḥmad Pasha, ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq is asked by the representative of the
king to buy slaves for him, among whom will be Baybars.
Notice how we learn about ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq’s character. While he is
described by a few adjectival phrases (he is generous, virtuous and popu-
lar), his true personality emerges through the action of the story. We learn
of his industry from his willingness to work hard, by which he has become
wealthy and held in respect by his neighbors. We see how he reacts with
shame when through no fault of his own he loses wealth not once but
twice. And we see how his persistence and consistent good behavior are
rewarded by the friendship of fellow merchants and the support of city
leaders, and fĳinally by the king’s representative asking for him by name
to buy military slaves on the ruler’s behalf. Depiction of events reveals ʿAlī
Āghā’s character. Similarly their portrayal sheds light on the moral struc-
ture of the narrative: that in the end God rewards virtue, even if He tests
such virtue at times by means of underserved adversity. And at the same
time, a story is created. As it unfolds ʿAlī Āghā’s story becomes an episode
of the sīra when in the course of fĳive pages we learn all that befalls him.
The linguistic register for “simple style” is typically a form that may be
termed Middle Arabic storytelling prose. It is a mixed dialect that Muhsin
Mahdi has termed a “third language,” neither fully colloquial nor writ-
ten, but one that exhibits its own combination of usage and lexica from
Levantine and Egyptian dialects while it also displays the strong lexical
influence of Ottoman Turkish, that is, Turkish and Persian vocabulary bor-
rowed indirectly through Ottoman.16 As previously noted, editors, whether
those working in the manuscript or print traditions, can “clean up” texts
by replacing Middle Arabic orthography, lexicon, and usage with forms of
standard written Arabic. Such revision can either involve only linguistic
replacement or, depending on the expertise of the editor, it can entail
16
Mahdi (1984: 1, 37–51), Pinault (1992: 15); Marzolph et al. (2004: 1, 1–5). Gavillet Matar
(2005, vol. 1) provides another printed example of this Middle Arabic storytelling style.
more radical translation from one stylistic level to another. An example of

this possibility is found in the two printed versions ʿAlī Zaybaq. The edi-
tor of the Egyptian version replaced Middle Arabic with standard forms
but otherwise left the style as it was. The editor of the Levantine version
translated the text into the more literary “enhanced” style.
Poetry is infrequent in simple prose style. At most a few lines appear
intermittently. When it does appear, poetry performs several distinct
functions. Most commonly, it serves the same purpose as proverbs or
other phrases that express conventional wisdom. For example, when ʿAlī
Āghā’s merchant friends meet him on his return from Beirut they console
him on the loss of his property with the following words.
          ،         
:         
                   
                         
What is hard on you is easy on us. Have you not heard the words of the poet:
“As long as men’s heads have been saved from destruction, wealth is only as
important as nail clippings.”17
Brief citations of poetry are also used as praise or greetings. When ʿAlī
Āghā meets the king he recites four lines of praise poetry (1: 22), when
Baybars meets the same ruler he recites two lines wishing him good for-
tune (1: 193). Similarly a few lines of poetry may be recited to describe a
woman’s beauty (1: 199), or to disparage enemies in battle (1: 151). How-
ever, although one encounters verses of poetry or limited use of rhymed
prose in brief formulaic phrases (such as the story’s beginning: bi-qadīm
al-zamān wa-sālif al-ʿaṣr wa-l-awān), such occasions are infrequent; tens
of pages of narrative can pass without them occurring.
As mentioned, this simple prose style underlies all premodern Arabic
storytelling texts. Certain sīras rely on it totally. In addition to this ver-
sion of Sīrat Baybars, this style is predominant in the Egyptian version of
Sīrat ʿAlī al-Zaybaq and the two manuscript versions of Aḥmad al-Danaf.
Although this style is plain, one should not doubt its functionality. Sīras
that rely only on it extend for hundreds of pages and retained their popu-
larity for centuries. The style may be linguistically and aesthetically sim-
ple, but it exerts its own type of efffectiveness.
17
Bohas and Zakharia (2000–07: 1, 22).
428 peter heath
Enhanced Prose and Embellished Prose
The most straightforward way to elucidate the nature of how simple

prose, enhanced prose, and embellished prose interrelate is to juxtapose
examples of the latter two and then compare them with each other and
with the examples of simple prose cited above.
Qiṣṣat al-Amīr Ḥamza begins with this description of Shah Anūshirwān,
ruler of the Sassanid kingdom, as follows, he was:
          
   
                            
    

    
                        
     
   

                          
 
                

      
            
              
                                  
 
                            


        
     
                        
 
     
        
    
       
 
 

 
    
    
   
  
 

        
   .  
  

  
 
 
  

     
       
                
.              
          
The Great King, king of the Persians and Daylamites who resided in
Ctesiphon, the capital of the kingdom, and appointed kings over every
kingdom. On the throne of this empire was Shah Anūshirwān, owner of
the Crown and the Great Hall.18 His crown was adorned with every type of
precious stone of such great value and high price that it became prover-
bial among folk from that time on. Other kings envied him it and desired
it. The Great Hall was so lofty that its arch reached inconceivable heights;
even clouds touched it and would often even pass below it. In the middle
of this arch hung an enormous golden ring which remained hanging long
after the age of the Shahs. The religion of the Persians in those days was
Zoroastrianism. They would worship and bow down to fĳire rather than the
One Almighty.19
In contrast to the initial reference to the king of Egypt in Sīrat Baybars,
whose description consisted of noting his piety, Qiṣṣat al-Amīr Ḥamza’s
opening passage magnifĳies the greatness of the Persian king by noting
18
This Hall (īwān) was an enormous open portico. Its ruins still stand outside ancient
Kufa.
19
Qiṣṣat al-Amīr Ḥamza (Beirut) 1, 5; (Cairo) 1, 2.
how he ruled over other monarchs and how his crown and palace were of
such grandeur that they became proverbial. This description of the king,
his court and his two viziers continues for another page or so. Each detail
is described at length and put into its proper context. As a result, not
only does the audience become impressed with the power and glory of
this ruler, they also become aware of the notable historical features that
were specifĳically associated with him and his reign, such as his magnifĳi-
cent crown and the Grand Hall. Such attributes are derived from popular
association with specifĳic historical fĳigures. Embedding such historical fea-
tures in these epics allows details of popular history to be retransmitted
to their audiences. This more refĳined attention to detail and greater use
of description are the hallmarks of the “enhanced style.” In each story
we have a king, but the level of detail and the sophistication of articula-
tion employed by the enhanced style are in marked contrast to the simple
style. How does this “enhanced style” compare to the “embellished style”?
Compare the two descriptions of kings offfered above with that found at
the beginning of Sīrat al-Malik Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan.
       
                                
  
   

          
 

               
         
   
                                 
                 
       

.                    
   
   
        
In olden times, in a previous age, there was once a king of among the kings
of old, possessor of power, and ability, and respected by the inhabitants of
villages and cities and of those residing in both open and populated areas.
Commoners feared his authority and kings were terrifĳied by his grandeur
because he was strong in resolve and great in power and rule and with-
out peer among the kings of the age. He was of the tribe of Ḥimyar, whose
reputation is known among all and whose deeds among rulers heard by all.20
This is an example of what I term the “embellished style” of premodern
Arabic popular narrative. The diffference between this description of a king
and that of the “enhanced style” in the passage from Amīr Ḥamza given
above is a much greater reliance on attributes strung along in rhymed prose
to portray the king. The “enhanced style” certainly uses rhymed prose,
as for that matter does at times “simple style.” But in the “embellished
20
Sīrat al-Malik Sayf bin Dhī Yazan (Beirut) 1, 6; (Cairo) 1, 2.
430 peter heath
style” rhymed prose dominates. Compare another example of the difffer-

ence between the enhanced and embellished style in the following two
presentations of a lion. Amīr Ḥamza volunteers to wrestle a mighty lion.
When the lion is released from his cage he: “gives a roar like thunder and
rises up on his hind legs and springs toward Amīr Ḥamza.
           
              
      
           
 
 
 
 


  

21    
      
Contrast this to the lion the hero encounters In Sīrat al-Malik Sayf Bin Dhī
Yazan; he sees that:
        
         
                   
         
                                 
   
.         
                          
  
 
 

          
A lion, terrifying of aspect, had scattered the group across the land and
plains. He growled and roared, the size of a bull or larger; sparks flew from
his eyes and the valley overturned when he growled and roared. He had teeth
sharper than calamity and claws like sharp hooks. Warriors surrounded him
to the right and left, fearing to taste the cup of perdition.22
Both lions are ferocious but the second passage portrays its lion more
vividly and with the dynamic force that rhymed prose allows. This verbal
convention not only allows strings of modifĳiers, it encourages it so that
one descriptive phrase follows another. An equally important compo-
nent of the embellished style is that rather than featuring only adjectives
and nouns, verbal modifying phrases also appear. The addition of verbal
phrases increase the scene’s potential to induce a sense of dynamism
and vibrancy. The passage above employs verbal phrases to modify a
noun, but the potency of the embellished style is greater than this. Verbal
rhymed prose allows the storyteller to string together phrases that depict
not only objects but also action scenes. One therefore fĳinds the portrayal
of battle scenes, so predominant a theme in these stories, or such activi-
ties as travel, to be replete with the combined adjectival and verbal-based
rhymed prose that distinguishes this style. It is true that these phrases are
formulaic; but they are strung together to fĳill pages and to create action
21
Qiṣṣat al-Amīr Ḥamza (Beirut) 1, 108.
22
Sīrat al-Malik Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan (Beirut) 1, 319.
scenes of vitality and drama. The passage cited below, only one of a mul-
titude of possible examples, is typical of this mixture of description of
people and objects and portrayal of action.
 
                      
  
        ، 
             
          
  ،                 ،                
    
         ،                           

         
       ،        
             ،          
 
        

       ، 
    :                    ،      
                        ،   
               ،           
 
.                         
  

  
   
 
  
Prince Jundaba then rode with a force of his mounted warriors until they
reached the foe. They shouted out: “Oh Tribe of Kilāb!” Prince Jundaba then
charged the enemy like a blaze of fĳire. He entered their midst and shouted,
saying, “I am the blade, the destroyer of men and the annihilator of heroes,
the revealer of shame and the taker of revenge. I am the curtailer of lives,
the annihilator of heroes, the chosen lion.” He thrust at a warrior [with his
lance] and threw him from his horse, he then went after another with his
sword, and then a third. A fourth came at him and he took his life. Then he
shouted out loud, “Oh Kilāb, Kilāb!” His wife answered him, saying, “At your
service! We are here with you. You are on the right, I am on the left.” Then
they destroyed heroes and killed warriors and annihilated brave men. They
pierced the breasts of men and inflicted on the Banī Shaybān humiliation
and turmoil.23
Another way that the “embellished style” difffers from the fĳirst two is the
extent to which it incorporates poetry into the narrative. As with the
other two styles poetry is used to supplement description, to portray a
beautiful woman, a handsome youth, or a wonderful garden or orchard.
It is likewise employed to insert proverbial wisdom, to praise kings and
rulers and to express strong emotions, such as love or grief. Nonetheless,
it is more prevalent in the embellished style; it appears more frequently
and the poems cited or recited are much longer. Poetry is also a frequent
element in battle scenes where warriors recite poems before and during
23
Sīrat al-Amīra Dhāt al-Himma 1, 40–41. See also Heath (1996: 101–48).
432 peter heath
battle to praise their own prowess and valor and to disparage that of
their enemies.24
As noted previously, a particular style may be common to specifĳic sīras,
but such correlation should not be considered absolute. One must exam-
ine each narrative, or when the manuscripts are composites stemming
from diffferent hands, even separate parts of a work. For example, the two
printed versions of Sīrat ʿAntar both use the embellished style even though
they difffer somewhat in their narration of events. In contrast the Egyptian
version of Sīrat ʿAlī Zaybaq employs the simple style while the Levantine
version uses the enhanced style. A master of the enhanced or embellished
style can easily “translate” a narrative from one style to another. For this
reason, versions of narratives must be examined individually to ascertain
which style is being employed.25
The Banū Hilāl Style
For at least the last two centuries, Sīrat Banī Hilāl has been the most
widely narrated and most popular of the sīra corpus. It has correspond-
ingly generated a signifĳicant body of manuscripts and printed texts. Since
it has had the most extensive tradition of public performance in the Mid-
dle East and North Africa, folklorists, literary scholars, and ethnomusi-
cologists have during the last half century assembled a sizable collection
of recorded performances and analyzed both performed and written ver-
sions of this sīra.
In printed form the sīra’s subject matter may be divided into fĳive parts.
The fĳirst is Sīrat al-Zīr Sālim, which is an independent narrative but which
also serves as prologue to the story of the Banī Hilāl proper. Thereafter
follows the story of the tribe’s history in the east and of the birth of sīra’s
main hero, Abū Zayd. The third part entails the depiction of the tribe’s
sufffering from an extended famine in the Najd and their sending a small
scouting party to identify a new homeland. Fourth is the account of the
tribe’s westward migration and their struggles to win a new home in
Tunisia. And fĳinally come stories of the adventures and eventual deaths
of the tribe’s heroes’ after they become established in their new western
home. Although one may take this outline of events as a guide, it should
be understood as indicative. The sīra was so popular and its narration
24
Heath (1996: 142–48) and Heath (forthcoming, “ʿAntar hangs his muʿallaqa”).
25
Heath (forthcoming, “ʿAntar Hangs his Muʿallaqa”).
so widespread that storytellers could add episodes and events at their

pleasure.26
In terms of style, printed versions of the sīra are uniform. They are com-
posed in “enhanced prose style” using an intermediate level of rhymed
prose to portray objects and events. Where they difffer from other sīras
is in the way that poetry functions in the text. As we have seen, in the
simple and enhanced styles, poetry is cited to reinforce proverbial wisdom
or to provide brief descriptions of people, places, or emotional states. In
the embellished style, it provides occasions for longer descriptions of love
and the beloved, description of places, and in battle scenes to express
self-praise and invective. In contrast, Sīrat Banī Hilāl and al-Zīr Sālim con-
sistently employ poetry to express direct speech or to recount narrative
event. When characters address one another in the narrative, they do so
with extended insertions of poetry. This poetry at times expresses thoughts
or emotions, but just as often these poems are narrative in intent, as the
following example demonstrates.
After al-Zanātī Khalīfa imprisons the three youths who have accompa-
nied Abū Zayd al-Hilālī on his reconnaissance trip to the west, Abū Zayd
returns to Najd to report on what has transpired. On his return to the
Banū Hilāl camp:
      
                   
         
        

  
 
  

     
         
  

 
        
 
   
 
 
     
 
:        
  
              

   
         
       
 
        
     
              
    
   
 
         
              
            
                  
      
                 
26
On the division of subject matter see Connelly (1986: 26–32) and Reynolds (1995:
15–19). On the performance tradition of the sīra, see these studies and also Slyomovics
(1987).
434 peter heath
         

 

             
          
                 
     
                  

   
                 

          
            
Warriors gathered from every side and place until the court was full. Then
they asked about the princes, Marʿā, Yaḥyā, and Yūnus. At that point the
Prince [Abū Zayd] wept copiously and began to inform them of his great
weariness with this poem (Long may its listeners live!), saying:
Abū Zayd al-Hilālī says, “Peace!” I have a tale of wondrous news.

I bring it from my journey to the I have sufffered great sorrow on
west. my return.
I entered and traveled the land of I traveled its east and its west.
al-Zanātī.
I took [our] land’s grass in my carefully, without hesitation.
hand and planted it,
Until Hilāl and ʿĀmir came along on their horses with a fast-moving
troop
Saying, ‘What is this grass here? This is proof, Oh Arabs, as clear
as day!’
I continued to explore cities and until I reached Tunis and the
villages palace.
We entered an orchard outside of from which emerged a fast-
Tunis, moving troop.
I cried out, ‘God is Great! God the Almighty, Knower of
Secrets!’
They captured us after a fĳierce and struggle that broke our
fĳight swords and stones.27
The poem’s narrative continues another twenty-seven lines during which

27
Abū Zayd reports his sorrowful departure from the three princes, who are
being held hostage by al-Zanātī Khalīfa and of his return journey to Najd.
Almost all poetry in this tradition consists of direct speech that
expresses either a message or a report. Such poetry is very common in the
27
Taghrībat Banī Hilāl (Cairo), 30; (Beirut), 35–36.
narrative. Although most written versions combine prose and poetry as
indicated above, there are in fact written and manuscript versions of Sīrat
Banī Hilāl and Sīrat al-Zīr Sālim whose texts consist entirely of narrative
poetry.28 This reliance on poetry for narration may be a reflection of the
oral narrative tradition of this particular sīra where the performer chants
narrative and sings speech using a diffferent rhythm and tune. Fully estab-
lishing the dynamics of this style would require extensive comparative
investigation into the diffferent forms of its written and oral traditions. At
any rate, the prevalent use of poetry to represent direct speech is a signifĳi-
cant enough feature to warrant putting this style into a separate category.29
Conclusion
At this stage of research into the premodern Arabic popular narrative,

conclusions regarding demarcations of style are necessarily preliminary.
Many texts in manuscript and print remain unexamined. Nevertheless,
however introductory the discussion above and its categories may be,
it does reflect the evidence found in a signifĳicant body of printed texts
of Arabic popular epics and related narratives. One must begin analysis
somewhere, even if its results are later superseded or—more precisely—
so that they it be further refĳined and eventually superseded.
At this point little investigation has been undertaken of the semantic
and linguistic elements that underlie the overall use of rhymed prose in
Arabic literature. For a style so prevalent in premodern literature, such
study remains a desideratum. In like fashion, analysis of the poetry so
ubiquitous in Arabic popular epics awaits more detailed investigation.
Despite these caveats, the preceding discussion attempts to provide a
holistic overview of one signifĳicant aspect of style in this genre of litera-
ture. As such, it opens the door for further study.
28
Gavillet Matar (2005: 1:29–32).
29
For studies of the oral performance of this sīra, see Reynolds (1995), and Slyomov-
ics (1987). For examination of the interaction among written versions of al-Zīr Sālim, see
Gavillet Mater (2005: 1:21–99), and on the poetry idem. (2005: 1:100–27). For an Arabic tran-
scription of one major performance of the sīra, see Al-Abnūdī (2002).
436 peter heath
APPENDIX
NOTES ON VERSIONS OF SĪRA TEXTS
Arabic popular epics are intermittently printed and reprinted in seem-

ingly unsupervised versions by presses in various parts of the Arab world.
In many cases the text of each sīra remains relatively stable. One senses
that the printer takes a previously published text, resets it in type, and
issues a new version. At times a publisher prints a whole run of sīras;
at other times only a single work. For example, in the 1960’s the two
Cairo presses of Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī and Muḥammad ʿAlī Ṣubayḥ
printed a series of these works. In the 1980’s the Beirut press of al-Maktaba
al-Thaqāfĳiyya did the same. In contrast, in 2003 Dār al-Fikr al-ʿArabī
printed the text of the Taghrībat Banī Hilāl; but so far it has not extended
its activities to other sīras. Discrepancies in such popular versions tend to
be limited to typos or slightly diffferent wording as workers in the press
omit or add words or make minor changes to “improve” the text. Some of
these “improvements” correct previous typos, others add new ones.
At times, more radical textual revision occurs. For example, in 1983
Dār al-Hudā al-Waṭaniyya printed a one volume version of Sīrat Baybars
that much curtailed the narrative but also infused it with a dose of Marx-
ism when it referred to lords and landowners in the text as “feudal lords”
(iqṭāʿiyyūn). Then there is the case of Sīrat ʿAlī Zaybaq al-Miṣrī ibn Ḥasan
Raʾs al-Ghūl published in 2005 by Nawfal Publishers in Beirut. ʿAlī Zaybaq
exists in two printed versions, which I term the Egyptian and the Levan-
tine according to where each has been most commonly reproduced. The
two versions overlap in their presentation of the most popular characters
of the story and they share in outline some of the best known parts of the
narrative. Otherwise they difffer substantially in both content and style.
The Egyptian version uses “simple style” while the Levantine text, which is
about twice as long as the Egyptian recension, uses the “enhanced style.”
M.C. Lyons provides an English summary of the Egyptian version.30 The
Levantine version is so far unstudied, although I am preparing an analysis
of both versions, as well as of the two main manuscript versions of Qiṣṣat
Aḥmad al-Danaf.
30
Lyons (1996: 2:9–17).
Nawfal took as its base text a copy of the Levantine version of Qiṣṣat
ʿAlī Zaybaq (which had long been out of print) published Aleppo in 1876.31
Realizing that much of the vocabulary stems from the Ottoman age, the
publisher entrusted the text to an elderly school teacher who had attended
an Ottoman school in order to provide lexical glosses and contextual
notes. Many of these notations are useful for helping to understand the
story. On the other hand, this editor also omitted portions of the phrases
in the rhymed prose and introduced typos into the text. So the value of
the notes is counterbalanced by the corruption of the text. It is therefore
preferable that for scholarly purposes one obtains a copy of the old text
and reads it referring to the generally but not consistently useful notes of
the Nawfal publication.
In regard to other versions of sīras, Sīrat ʿAlī Zaybaq is an example of
the same story having both diffferent context and employing diffferent
styles. The two printed versions of Sīrat ʿAntar, in contrast, provide an
example of two texts being diffferent in wording and in some details but
the same in regard to style: both rely on “embellished style.” My article
“ʿAntar hangs his muʿallaqa” provides a discussion of how the two versions
vary in regard to one episode of the epic. Except for these two above-men-
tioned cases, most printed versions of sīras are uniform and difffer only in
occasional minor variations of wording. However, as scholars published
more manuscript editions of these narratives, such as those produced by
Bohas and Zakharia (2000–2007) and Gavillet Matar (2005), it is possible
that these texts themselves will become the basis for new popular print-
ings of these narratives. Ironically, if this should happen it is more than
likely that publishers will “clean up” the Middle Arabic language of the
texts by “correcting” it and changing it using standard grammar and lexi-
con. We will have to wait to see if this occurs.
31
The version of Beirut 1896 cited in the bibliography below is a later printing which is
the same as the Aleppo version.
438 peter heath
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——. 2006. “A Thousand and One Nights: A History of the Text and Its Reception.” In The
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ARABIC CONTEXTUALIZED
GHAZAL AND GRAMMAR:
AL-BĀʿŪNĪ’S TAḌMĪN ALFIYYAT IBN MĀLIK FĪ L-GHAZAL
Bilal Orfali
Learning grammar is considered by many the most boring part of studying

a language, and grammarians are often stereotyped as lacking creativity.
Arabic grammar and grammarians are no exception. Few would doubt the
prestige enjoyed by grammar within the Arabic-Islamic civilization and
that it was considered among the most noble and useful fĳields, but useful-
ness is not a measure of attractiveness or creativeness. After all, in most
grammatical traditions grammar straddles descriptive and/or prescriptive
approaches, but does not intend or need to be creative.
The beginnings of Arabic grammar featured a close relation with other
disciplines such as qirāʾāt (Qurʾānic readings), tafsīr (Qurʾānic exegesis),
muʿjam (lexicography), balāgha (rhetoric), naqd (poetics), fĳiqh (Islamic
law), and uṣūl al-fĳiqh (principles of Islamic law), and some of these disci-
plines even influenced the development of Arabic grammar. For instance,
Michael Carter suggests that Sībawayhi’s (d. ca. 180/796) approach in
al-Kitāb is a legal one. He highlights the similarities between the legal
and grammatical terminology and suggests that there was a direct influ-
ence from the former.1 Kees Versteegh advocates that in the fĳirst century
of Islam there were not yet specialized disciplines focusing on only one
aspect of Qurʾānic studies. He suggests that the close relationship between
the Kūfan tradition of Arabic grammar and Qurʾānic reading has left its
mark on the terminology of the Kūfan tradition and in its analysis of lan-
guage.2 The complex relation between Arabic grammar and qirāʾāt is fur-
ther discussed by Ramzi Baalbaki who explains that in the 3rd and 4th
centuries of Islam a sharp distinction evolved between the naḥwiyyīn and
the qurrāʾ which manifests itself in the harsh criticism of the qurrāʾ by the
naḥwiyyūn.3 Baalbaki, additionally, highlights an important link between
grammar and balāgha, suggesting that the latter was a result of “the failure
of the grammarians in interpreting linguistic data primarily in accordance
1
See Carter (1972, 69–97), (1983, 65–84), (1997, 33–34).
2
See Versteegh (1993), especially 191–206.
3
See Baalbaki (1985).
446 bilal orfali
with meaning rather than the formal considerations they employed—let

alone their inability to create a coherent grammatical theory based on
meaning,” nevertheless, this new discipline of balāgha “has its very roots
embedded in naḥw.”4 By comparing two key fĳigures of naḥw and balāgha,
respectively Sībawayhi and al-Jurjānī (d. 471/1078), he brings to light the
delicate relation between naḥw and balāgha with respect to concept,
method, and terms, and clarifĳies the undermined contribution of the early
Arab grammarians to syntactical and stylistic studies.5
Grammar soon distanced itself from these disciplines, and they from it.
Naturally, it continued to prove useful and remained a basic requirement
in most disciplines. There were of course some who criticized grammar-
ians and at times ridiculed them, fewer complained about the difffĳiculty
of their discipline, and still fewer doubted its usefulness or satirized its
methods and techniques.6 These critical voices were barely audible and
grammar remained a useful and noble discipline. Nonetheless, except
perhaps when commenting on the grammarians’ farfetched explanations
regarding odd grammatical rules, few would use the word “creative” to
describe Arabic grammar. Creative minds nevertheless had to learn Ara-
bic grammar, for it was an essential requirement in most, if not all, cur-
ricula. In pre-modern Arabic literature, few of these creative minds, after
becoming established in their disciplines, thought to play with the rigid
terms and rules of grammar by drawing unexpected links between gram-
mar and other far-flung disciplines.
One of these creative minds was the famous Sufĳi and Qurʾānic commen-
tator Abū l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072).7 Al-Qushayrī,
4
See idem (1991, 89).
5
See idem (1983).
6
After Sībawayhi, the increased interest of grammarians in the formal aspects of struc-
ture and the complexity, arbitrariness, and farfetchedness of their justifĳications of gram-
matical rules led to harsh attacks and ridicule. Ibn Maḍāʾ (d. 592/1196) is a famous example
who, in his al-Radd ʿalā l-nuḥāt, criticized the methods of grammarians in their theory of
taqdīr and taʿlīl, see Radd 78–82. The lexicographer Ibn Fāris (d. 395/1009), satirizes the
grammarian’s insupportable arguments; his statement “weaker than a grammarian’s argu-
ment” became a popular proverb. See al-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat al-dahr 3, 403, Ibn Khallikān,
Wafayāt 1, 119, al-Suyūṭī, Bughya 1, 352. Students of grammar confessed that they often
understood little or nothing of the lessons of famous grammarians such as al-Māzinī
(d. 249/863), al-Rummānī (d. 384/994), and al-Fārisī (d. 377/987). See Baalbaki (2008: 267–
278). Ramzi Baalbaki discusses other instances of criticism aimed at grammarians from the
second century forward. Geert van Gelder analyzes a few poems that grumble against the
rules imposed by the grammarians, or mock those who need these rules. See his contribu-
tion to this volume. See also Baalbaki (2007: xxxix).
7
For a detailed analysis of al-Qushayrī’s life, education, and legacy see the recent dis-
sertation by Martin Tran Nguyen (2009).
al-bāʿūnī’s taḍmīn alfiyyat ibn mālik fī l-ghazal 447
famous for his Risāla fĳi l-taṣawwuf, wrote two short treatises on “spiritual
grammars,” the Naḥw al-qulūb al-kabīr and the Naḥw al-qulūb al-ṣaghīr,
or the “Major” and “Minor” versions of the “Grammar of the Hearts.”
Al-Qushayrī, who is perhaps the fĳirst to draw a link between grammar
and Sufĳism, adopts in these two works the format of grammar texts. How-
ever, he uses the grammatical terms fĳiguratively to discuss the principles
of Sufĳism. The major version of the work consists of sixty sections, while
the minor version entails only fĳive sections.8 The well-known treatise on
grammar by the Moroccan Ibn Ājurrūm (d. 723/1323)9 enjoyed a number
of esoteric commentaries in Sufĳi circles. The oldest surviving work of these
is al-Risāla al-Maymūniyya fī tawḥīd al-Ājurrūmiyya10 by the Moroccan
Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Maymūn b. Abī Bakr b. Yūsuf al-Hāshimī al-Ḥasanī
al-Idrīsī (d. 917/1511) who lived in Damascus.11 Ibn ʿAjība (d. 1224/1809)12 is
another personality who used al-Ājurrūmiyya and the terms and rules of
Arabic grammar as a gateway to express Sufĳi principles through his com-
mentary Sharḥ al-Ājurrūmiyya.13 At least three other Sufĳi commentaries
on al-Ājurrūmiyya are mentioned in the primary sources. The fĳirst is by
the Moroccan Aḥmad Zarrūq (d. 899/1493),14 the second by Muḥammad b.
Yūsuf (or Yūnus) b. Aḥmad b. al-Sayyid ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Dajānī al-Qushāshī
(d. 1044/1634–5),15 and the third is Sharḥ al-Ājurrūmiyya ʿalā lisān al-sāda
8
See al-Qushayrī, Naḥw al-qulūb, 266, 705–706. See also Tamás Iványi (1996). For a
presentation and a translation of Naḥw al-qulūb al-ṣaghīr into French, see Francesco
Chiabotti (2008–2009)—with thanks to the author for drawing my attention to this article.
9
For a study and a translation of a commentary on this text, see Carter (1981). Interest-
ingly, Ājurrūm is a Berber expression meaning faqīr or ṣūfī, see ibid., 4.
10
MS. Jāmiʿat al-Malik Suʿūd 3635 of this work carries the title of Kitāb Naḥw al-qalb
sharḥ al-Ājurrūmiyya. Among the other surviving manuscripts of this work in Morocco
are MSS. al-Maktaba al-Waṭaniyya li-l-Mamlaka al-Maghribiyya 95 F, 505-D, and 1680-D and
in Egypt, MS. Dār al-Kutub 23130-D. For a critical edition of the text, see A. Al-Ghazlani
(1997–1998) cited after Chiabotti (2008–2009: 390).
11
See al-Ghazzī, al-Kawākib 1: 271; al-Bābānī, Hadiyya 1, 741; Kaḥḥāla (1993: 2, 537);
al-Ziriklī (2002: 5, 27); Brockelmann, Geschichte II, 123, SII, 153.
12
See J. L. Michon (1986: III, 696a–697a).
13
Ibn ʿAjība’s commentary entails two levels, grammatical and esoteric, the second
has been extracted by ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Kūhanī (also spelled al-Kūhīnī) and has been
published in several editions under diffferent titles, see bibliography. The full text of Ibn
ʿAjība has been published under “Sharḥ al-futūḥāt al-quddūsiyya fī sharḥ al-muqaddima
al-Ājurrūmiyya,” in a collection of Ibn ʿAjība’s works entitled Kitāb Sharḥ ṣalāt al-quṭb Bin
Mashīsh. Excerpts of this sharḥ are translated by J. L. Michon (1990).
14
See on him, Ali Fahmi Khushaim (1976) and Scott Kugle (2006). For his commentary
on al-Ājurrūmiyya, see Khushaim (1976: 69).
15
See al-Muḥibbī 3, 281–282 and al-Bābānī 2, 278. His name is given as Muḥammad b.
Yūsuf in al-Muḥibbī and al-Bābānī, but Muḥammad b. Yūnus is used by al-Muḥibbī 1, 343
and al-Ziriklī (2002: 1, 239) in the entry on his son Aḥmad b. Muḥammad (d. 1071/1661).
448 bilal orfali
al-ṣūfĳiyya by the Ḥanafī jurist Abū l-Maḥāsin Muḥammad b. Khalīl b.

Ibrāhīm al-Ṭarābulusī al-Qāwuqjī (d. 1305/1888).16
Poetry is another area where these ingenious links with grammar can
be observed, particularly through a rhetorical technique termed taḍmīn.
The term taḍmīn, however, refers to a number of practices in Arabic lit-
erature, so it might be useful to outline the nuances of the term before
embarking upon its relevance to the links between poetry and grammar.
In two detailed studies of this term, Amidu Sanni, highlighted its three
main implications.17 He designated by “grammatical taḍmīn,” often trans-
lated as “enjambment,” the “over-running of lines of a given poem;” the
relationship between the lines in such cases is either syntactic or seman-
tic.18 For Sanni, “rhetorical taḍmīn” refers to the cases where the poet or
prose writer, “deliberately quotes, with or without indication, from poems
or statements by others.” Sanni added a third use of the term in the area
of scriptural interpretation that means “implication,” quoting al-Rummānī
who defĳined it as occurring “when a maʿnā “motif ” which lies within the
utterance can be elicited without the need to mention any adjective or
noun which may be considered to express that idea.”19
It is the rhetorical taḍmīn that is relevant to our discussion. Sanni
detailed the history of this use of the term beginning with its introduc-
tion by Ibn al-Muʿtazz (d. 296/908) in his Kitāb al-Badīʿ. Sanni elucidated
the related terms given by the Arab critics such as tamthīl and tamath-
thul (citation), iqtibās (quotation), ijtilāb (injection), istilḥāq (annexation),
diʿāma (propping up), iṣṭirāf (expropriation), ihtidām (lit. demolition, that
is, cannibalization), istizāda (supplementation), iḥāla (insinuation), ishāra
(allusion), rafw (padding), istishhād (illustrative citation), ḥall (prosifĳica-
tion), and naẓm (versifĳication).20
Poems that surveyed rules of Arabic grammar, as in most of the disci-
plines of the Arabic-Islamic civilization, were popular. Among the most
successful were Mulḥat al-iʿrāb by al-Ḥarīrī (d. 516/1122) and the Alfĳiyya
by Ibn Mālik (d. 672/1274). The popularity of these poems in traditional
and modern curricula continues to the modern period, so it is no surprise
16
See al-Bābānī 2, 387–388 and al-Ziriklī (2002: 6, 118).
17
My summary of the implications of taḍmīn is based on Amidu Sanni (1989 and 1998).
See also Adrian Gully (1997) and the primary and secondary literature provided by these
two authors.
18
Other related terms, each indicating a diffferent concept, are taʿlīq lafẓī, taʿlīq naẓmī,
taʿlīq maʿnawī, ighrām, and al-silsila. See Sanni (1998: 3–4).
19
See al-Rummānī, al-Nukat 70, reference and translation quoted from Sanni (1998: 17).
20
Sanni (1998: 7–17).
that scholars and poets drew heavily from these two texts in their taḍmīn
games. These two poems belong to the genre of “educational poetry” (shiʿr
taʿlīmī), so they lack the artistic aspect of poetry, if even considered poetry.
However, their rigidness and popularity made them ideal for such poeti-
cal games. By employing the grammatical rules and the peculiar exam-
ples of these rules in an unexpected context, the poets demonstrated an
extraordinary talent and entertained their educated audiences, who were
familiar with the original stifff context and took pleasure in its abuse.
These taḍmīn poems, though difffĳicult, were not rare, as is apparent in
the primary sources and extant manuscripts. Al-Ṣafadī mentions that his
polymath contemporary al-qāḍī ʿUmar b. Muẓafffar b. ʿUmar Zayn al-Dīn
b. al-Wardī al-Maʿārrī (d. 749/1349) incorporated hemistiches from Mulḥat
al-iʿrāb of al-Ḥarīrī in sixty-six lines of poetry.21 Similarly, the poet Ibn
Nubāta al-Mīṣrī praised Taqī al-Dīn al-Subkī (d. 756/1355) with seventy-fĳive
lines, the second hemistich of each is from Mulḥat al-iʿrāb which Taqī al-Dīn’s
son, Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī (d. 771/1370) included in his Ṭabaqāt al-shāfĳiʿiyya
al-kubrā.22 Aḥmad b. al-Maqqarī al-Tilmisānī (d. 1041/1631) included in his
voluminous Nafḥ al-ṭīb min ghuṣn al-Andalus al-raṭīb a brotherly corre-
spondence that reached him after he had moved east sent by one of his
western friends, al-shaykh Muḥammad b. Yūsuf al-Marrākushī al-Tāmilī.
Al-Marrākushī23 attached to his letter a separate pamphlet containing a
forty-two line panegyric urjūza in which the second hemistich of each line
after an introduction of seven lines is a quotation from Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik.24
The Mauritanian jurist al-Nābigha al-Ghallāwī (d. 1245/1829) eulogizes his
teacher Aḥmad b. al-ʿĀqil al-Dīmānī (d. 1244/1827) with a long urjūza in
which the second hemistich of its lines, after the three introductory lines,
is taken from Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik.25 Al-Nābigha probably borrowed the idea
from his maternal uncle, ʿAbdallāh b. al-Faqīh al-Ṭālib Aḥmad b. al-Ḥājj
al-Muṣṭafā al-Ghallāwī (d. 1208/1793) whose poem Manẓūma fĳi-l-Madīḥ
21
See al-Ṣafadī, Aʿyān al-ʿaṣr, 3, 681, 686 and Ibn al-Wardī’s biography in idem, al-Wāfī
23, 141fff where the all sixty-six lines are inlcluded in 149–152. See also Dīwān Ibn al-Wardī.
22
See al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt 9, 300–307 and the Ibn Nubāta, Dīwān, 582–585.
23
See his biography in al-Muḥibbī, Khulāṣa 4, 271–272; Ibn Maʿṣūm, Sulāfa, 604–606;
Kaḥḥāla (1993: 12, 138).
24
The correspondence and the urjūza can be found in al-Maqqarī, Nafḥ 2, 470–478
and a selection of eighteen lines from the urjūza is cited by Ibn Maʿṣūm, Sulāfa, 605–606,
al-Muḥibbī, Khulāṣā 4, 271.
25
See al-Shinqīṭī, al-Wasīṭ, 90–91.
450 bilal orfali
in which he quotes hemistiches from Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik may no longer

be extant.26
The above survey, though certainly not comprehensive, demonstrates
that the practice of composing panegyrics and elegies containing exten-
sive quotations from poems of grammar was not atypical. The poet in such
cases, perhaps to preserve the entertaining aspect of these literary produc-
tions, tries to keep the length of the poem reasonable. Among these gram-
matical taḍmīn attempts one stands out, not only because of its extensive
length and its early attempt to use Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik in taḍmīn, but also
because it tackles yet another unanticipated genre-ghazal (love poetry).
The story starts with the love poetry or the nasīb prelude in Ibn Nubāta’s
taḍmīn of Mulḥat al-iʿrāb in which he praises Taqī al-Dīn al-Subkī. This
love poetry seems to have attracted the attention of a certain personal-
ity who asked Ibrāhim al-Bāʿūnī (d. 870/1465) to compose a ghazal poem
that incorporates quotations from Mulḥat al-iʿrāb. Al-Bāʿūnī happily car-
ried out this task and composed a poem worthy of his talent. When this
poem circulated, the audience recalled Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik and questioned
the possibility of incorporating its difffĳicult lines in ghazal; the major-
ity deemed the task not viable regardless of the excellent and talented
minds who tried. Al-Bāʿūnī could not tolerate the underestimation and
rose to the challenge composing a lengthy poem of 773 lines in which
he tells the story of its composition (1–28) and begins with ghazal and
mujūn (licentious poetry) (29–576) without a clear distinction between
them, then moves to madīḥ (panegyric poetry) (577–771) praising the qāḍī
Najm al-Dīn Ibn Ḥijjī al-Shāfĳiʿī (d. 830/1426),27 and concludes with two
lines (772–773) addressing the audience asking them to correct the faults
they fĳind rather than censuring him for these faults.
The poem is the oldest identifĳied attempt to use Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik in
taḍmīn and, as far as I was able to determine, is the only extant taḍmīn
poem that combines grammar and ghazal. The poet, in a venture to prove
his talent, strives to incorporate as many lines of the Alfĳiyya as possible;
this however impacted the poem negatively since the hemistiches of a
few lines clearly lack harmony. The poet nevertheless succeeds in proving
to his skeptic audience his poetic skill and the viability of subsuming the
26
See al-Bartallī al-Walātī, Fatḥ, 172. An attempt to incorporate Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik in a
moral and waʿẓ context was tried in the modern period by Shaykh Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad
Bāqir al-Tustarī (d. 1335/1916), a selection of this attempt is given in Muḥsin al-Amīn (1983:
4, 117–118).
27
Al-Najm Abū l-Futūḥ ʿUmar b. Ḥijjī b. Mūsā b. Aḥmad b. Saʿd al-Saʿdī al-Dimashqī
al-Shāfĳiʿī, see his biography in al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ 6, 78–79.
intransigent lines of Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik in an alluring context such as love

and licentious poetry.
The above discussion briefly tries to shed light on several forgotten
links between Arabic grammar and other disciplines in pre-modern Ara-
bic literature such as Sufĳism and diffferent genres of Arabic poetry. These
attempts gave rise to new hybrid genres in classical Arabic literature such
as the genres of naḥw al-qulūb (grammar of the hearts), and the merging of
poems treating Arabic grammar with other topics in Arabic poetry. These
bypassed links are essential to understanding the complex relationship
between grammar and these disciplines, the value of grammar in classical
Muslim education, and more relevant to the subject of this volume and
the scholarship of its honoree, the centrality of Arabic grammar to Arabic
culture. The remaining part of this paper presents an edition of the Arabic
text of Taḍmin Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik fī l-ghazal, but before this some informa-
tion about the author of the work is in order.
Ibrāhīm b. Aḥmad al-Bāʿūnī (d. 870/1465)28
His full name in the sources is Ibrāhīm b. Aḥmad b. Nāṣir b. Khalīfa b.

Faraj al-Maqdisī al-Nāṣirī al-Bāʿūnī al-Dimashqī al-Ṣāliḥī. The manuscript
of Taḍmīn Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik fī l-Ghazal has the nisba of al-Ḥalabī, but
he does not seem to have been associated with the city of Aleppo. He
was born in Ṣafad in 777/1376 where he spent his early years studying the
Qurʾān and some religious texts under the tutelage of al-Shihāb Ḥasan
b. Ḥasan al-Farghānī. He moved to Damascus around puberty where he
studied fĳiqh under al-Sharīf al-Ghazzī and was a companion of al-Nūr
al-Anbārī who further taught him fĳiqh and the sciences of Arabic lan-
guage and literature. He then moved around 804/1401 to Egypt where
he studied with al-Kamāl al-Damīrī, al-ʿIrāqī, and al-Haythamī. A few
years later he returned to Damascus and studied with his father, Aḥmad
b. Nāṣir al-Bāʿūnī, al-Jamāl b. al-Shrāʾiḥī, al-Taqī Ṣāliḥ b. Khalīl b. Sālim,
ʿĀʾisha bint Ibn ʿAbd al-Hādī, and al-Shams Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b.
Muḥammad. He gave the Friday sermons in the Umayyad mosque then
headed the Bāsiṭiyya Khānqāh where he taught his students. Sources
ascribe a number of literary works to him, such as the Mukhtaṣar Sharḥ
al-Ṣiḥāḥ of al-Jawharī, a Dīwan of sermons and letters, and another dīwān
28
See his full biography in ibid. 1, 26–29; al-Shawkānī, al-Badr 1, 12; al-Suyūṭī, Naẓm,
13–14; al-Tūnkī (1344: 3, 63–64); al-Ziriklī (2002: 1, 30); Kaḥḥāla (1993: 1, 13).
452 bilal orfali
of poetry entitled al-Ghayth al-hātin fī waṣf al-ʿidhār al-fātin. He died on

24 Rabīʿ al-Awwal 870/1465 in his house in al-Bāsiṭiyya and was buried in
the cemetery at the foot of the Qāsyūn Mountain.
Taḍmīn Alfiyyat Ibn Mālik fī l-ghazal
MS. Kongelige Bibliotek Cod. Arab. 188 under the title Taḍmīn Alfĳiyyat Ibn
Mālik fī l-ghazal was bought in 1763 in Cairo by the Danish philologist
Frederik Christian von Haven (d. 1763), a member of the Carsten Niebuhr
expedition 1761–1767. The manuscript consists of fĳifty-one folios, the fĳirst
folio lists the name of the author as Ibrāhīm b. Aḥmad al-Ḥalabī who must
be Ibrāhīm b. Aḥmad al-Bāʿūni based on the biography of the latter in
al-Sakhāwī’s al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ. Al-Sakhāwī relates on the authority of Ibn
Qāḍī Shuhba that the latter was received by al-Bāʿūnī in his house in the
presence of al-Najm Ibn Ḥijjī, where al-Bāʿūnī read his taḍmīn of Alfĳiyyat
Ibn Mālik in which he praised Ibn Ḥijjī.29
To make the text manageable for the reader, I have numbered the verses
of the Arabic text. To facilitate easy reference to Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik, I have
used bold letters to highlight the quoted hemistich or line from Alfĳiyyat
Ibn Mālik and referred at the end of each line to the corresponding line in
Ramzi Baalbaki’s edition of Sharḥ Ibn ʿAqīl ʿalā Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik.
29
Al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ 1, 26.
454 bilal orfali
456 bilal orfali
458 bilal orfali
460 bilal orfali
462 bilal orfali
464 bilal orfali
466 bilal orfali
468 bilal orfali
470 bilal orfali
472 bilal orfali
474 bilal orfali
476 bilal orfali
478 bilal orfali
480 bilal orfali
482 bilal orfali
484 bilal orfali
486 bilal orfali
488 bilal orfali
490 bilal orfali
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THE QURʾĀN AS A LATE ANTIQUE TEXT
Angelika Neuwirth
We are used to regarding the Qurʾān as the “Islamic text” par excellence.
Historically viewed this is, however, not evident at all. For more than
twenty years before rising to the rank of the founding document of Islam,
the Qurʾān was an oral communication. Its message was not yet addressed
towards Muslims—who would become the faithful only by adopting the
Qurʾānic communication as their scripture, but to pre-Islamic listeners
whom we might best describe as persons educated in late antiquity learn-
ing. Western research usually approaches the Qurʾān as the Scripture that
it was to become later and interprets it in a teleological manner—as if its
ultimate signifĳicance had already been inscribed in it in statu nascendi.
Striving to understand the Qurʾān as it was communicated, as a message
targeting not-yet-Muslims, one has to relinquish the usual procedure of
reading it through the lens of Islamic texts but contextualize it within pre-
Islamic, late antique traditions instead. This article is intended to intro-
duce this approach which is presently pursued within the framework of
the project Corpus Coranicum at the Berlin Academy of Sciences.1
The Qurʾān as a text in statu nascendi, as a text of Late Antiquity, is not
a modern discovery. By the 3rd/9th century, the Basran polymath al-Jāḥiẓ
had insisted on the particular historical context of the Qurʾān as a fac-
tor in its evolution, and moreover on its interaction with listeners whose
education should have constituted the erwartungshorizont, the frame of
expectation into which the form of the Qurʾān had to be accommodated.
Al-Jāḥiẓ regards this particular surrounding of the Qurʾān’s emergence
as an essential advantage of the Qurʾān vis-à-vis the emergence of other
scriptures. He evaluates the sequence of the three great messengers in the
following way:
Every Prophet is given a sign to manifest his rank as a messenger: Moses was
sent to Pharaoh whose people excelled in magic. To convince them he had
to perform a miracle of magic: he changed a rod into a snake. Jesus appeared
in an age when the most prestigious art was medicine, he worked a scien-
tifĳic miracle—he resurrected the dead. Muḥammad—still later—was sent
to a people who would no longer be impressed by material exceptionalities,
but—being professionals in rhetoric, balāgha—demanded a more sublime
1
Marx (2008: 41–54).
496 angelika neuwirth
prophetical sign. Muḥammad, therefore, presented a linguistic miracle. He

brought a scripture, the Qurʾān. 2
This review of the prophetical ministries, dismissive toward the earlier
messages as it may be, does touch on an important point: the percep-
tion of the kind of scripture the Qurʾān constitutes. Al-Jāḥiẓ aptly under-
scores the Qurʾān’s claim to both semantic and aesthetic signifĳicance. He
explains that claim in historical terms rooting the Qurʾān in an epoch of
particular stylistic sensibility, a judgment that would be afffĳirmed by mod-
ern scholars such as James Montgomery3 who has demonstrated the mas-
sive ideological impact of ancient Arabic poetry as the manifestation of
cultural and even political autonomy.
Yet, not only by virtue of Muḥammad’s addressing a linguistically
demanding audience should the Qurʾān be acknowledged as closely
related to balāgha, but equally by virtue of its form. The Qurʾān is uniquely
speech-centered. Unframed by any narrative scenario the entire Qurʾān
is direct address. This address, moreover, often entails a meta-discourse,
being speech about speech, be it a comment on the Qurʾānic message itself
or on earlier traditions. This text-referentiality again is hardly surprising
in the historical epoch foregrounded by al-Jāḥiẓ. In the later biblical texts
‘Sages’, indeed scriptural interpreters in general, had taken over part of
the ancient prophet’s role. For, to quote James Kugel, “if the word of the
Lord was no longer reliably spoken by chosen messengers sent directly to
Israel, it was because that word had already been set down in writing, in
the great library of divine wisdom that Scripture had become.”4 Similar to
the Biblical Sages, the Qurʾānic speaker continuously refers to the earlier
scriptures, while adapting them to the epistemic horizons of his audience.
And yet, the overall shape of the Qurʾānic expression is presented as spon-
taneous prophetic speech, which in the Arabian Peninsula—contrary
to Israel—seems to have survived well into Late Antiquity. Muḥammad
therefore should be regarded as both a prophet, in the antique style and
as an interpreter of tradition, an exegete in the vein of the later Sages.
It is not an exaggeration, then, to classify the Qurʾān—in addition to
its being prophecy—as ‘exegesis’. Viewed in terms of its contents, the
Qurʾān, on a broad level, interprets and rephrases well-known biblical and
post-biblical traditions, while viewed in terms of its form, it largely prof-
fers an apologetic-polemical debate.5 The Qurʾānic age roughly coincides
2
Paraphrase of a section from al-Jāḥiẓ, K. Khalq al-Qurʾān, quoted after Pellat (1967: 80).
3
Montgomery (2006).
4
Kugel (1989: 17).
5
McAulifffe (1999: 163–188).
the qurʾān as a late antique text 497
with the epoch, when the great exegetical corpora of monotheist tradition
were edited and published, such as the two Talmudim in Judaism and
the patristic writings in Christianity. Daniel Boyarin has stressed that the
Talmud is no less than the writings of the Church fathers imbued with
Hellenic rhetoric. The Qurʾān is communicated to an audience whose
education, we assume, already comprises Arabian and post-biblical lore,
whose nascent scripture therefore should provide rhetorically persuasive
answers to the questions raised in biblical exegesis, answers, clad in a
language matching the standards of ancient Arabic poetry.
Al-Jāḥiẓ makes another important point. Balāgha in his perspective is
not theory, but a linguistic practice enacted publicly in oral speech. He is
aware that the Qurʾān as an oral communication involved listeners, whose
expectations, linguistic and ideological, operated as the parameter of the
persuasiveness of the Prophet’s speech. The awareness of this dramatic
character of the Qurʾān’s fĳirst communication is almost totally absent
from both Islamic and Western Qurʾānic scholarship; consequently, the
literary genre of the Qurʾān is often wrongly identifĳied. The majority of
scholars view the Qurʾān not as the transcript of an orally performed,
open-ended drama, but rather as written, pre-meditated corpus of pro-
phetical sayings—in my view, a teleological misconception. This thesis
demands a brief review of certain scholarly approaches that have been
pursued until today.
Brief Review of Earlier Scholarship
Traditional Muslim scholarship clearly distinguishes between the written

and the oral text, even providing technical terms for both, muṣḥaf, mean-
ing the codex, and qurʾān denoting the oral performance. The vast library
of masoretic scholarship on the Qurʾān comprises a sizable corpus of writ-
ings on aspects of oral performance including euphony and the position of
pauses when reciting among others. To this very day, the Qurʾān is taught
as an orally performed text whose phonetic realization is cherished as
an aesthetically sophisticated art. The oral transmission of the Qurʾān is
equally highly esteemed, even considered superior to the written, thus
the printed Cairo edition most frequently used today is based not on
manuscripts, but on oral tradition. Still, there is little concern with oral
composition,6 let alone curiosity about the epistemic implications of oral-
ity. That is, reciting through perceived as an act of mimesis of the Prophet’s
6
Kellermann (1995: 1–33).
receiving the word of God, does not aim at the recollection of the par-
ticular scenario in history, that the recited text is about, for instance the
prophet’s debate with individual opponents, as a step in the progress of
the message. Recitation is rather taken as the mimesis of a moment in the
prophetical illud tempus. This metahistorical perception of the Qurʾān is
of course related to the decisive progress in canonization, which occurred,
when with the death of the prophet the living voice of communication was
silenced and the text came to fĳill the void. Canonization, Aziz Al-Azmeh
tells us, involves a revolutionary reader’s approach to the text, turning it
from a historical document into a timeless symbol. To quote his classical
description: “The historical nature of the canonical text as a genealogical
charter of rectitude demands a status beyond history, fĳiguring as a vantage
point from which chronometric time becomes neutralized.”7 The text’s
fĳinal shape thus appears as if teleologically necessitated—a perception
incompatible with the notion of a dialectical unfolding of the message.
An awareness of Scripture as a meta-historical charter of truth, mutatis
mutandis had been prevalent in pre-modern Christian and Jewish Biblical
studies as well. Western scholarly preoccupation with the Bible had how-
ever crystallized into a highly sophisticated theology whose theoretical
potential increased thanks to the dramatic revisions it underwent during
the Reformation and the Enlightenment. The Bible thus was familiar in
virtually all its facets of meaning, when the epistemic revolution occurred
that modern scholars refer to as the “major break in Biblical studies,” the
introduction of historical critical scholarship in the 18th and 19th centu-
ries, when, to quote Robert Wilken, “Biblical scholarship acquired a life
of its own as a historical enterprise independent of the church and of the
synagogue.”8
What may be viewed as a critical turn in Biblical studies in Western
Qurʾānic scholarship was not an innovation nor a renewal, but the very
beginning. The Qurʾān had been virtually unknown to Western scholars
when it was submitted to the newly developed approach of historical-
critical research. It is true that in Muslim scholarship at approximately
the same time, critical attempts to explore new theological and anthro-
pological dimensions of the Qurʾān were underway: in the second half
of the 19th century Muslim reform thinkers put forward new approaches
that shared important ideas with Western Biblical scholarship. Those
approaches were, however, sidelined and have remained detached from
7
Azmeh (2007: 107).
8
Wilken (1998: 197–212).
Western developments. Western Qurʾānic studies thus started with a

striking non-synchronicity, with both biblical studies—which it only
superfĳicially resembled—and Muslim Qurʾānic studies, which were from
the outset excluded from its scope.
From the point of view of Western cultural critique however, the
beginnings of critical Qurʾānic scholarship deserve recognition as a sig-
nifĳicant achievement, given that well into the 19th century the Qurʾān
had been regarded polemically as the writing of a false prophet, despite
empathic views held about his person by some Enlightenment and later
Romantic thinkers. Abraham Geiger,9 who in 1833 published his famous
“Was hat Mohammed aus dem Judenthume aufgenommen?,”10 offfered a
pivotal revalorization of the Qurʾān, intimately linked to a new evaluation
of Muḥammad as a sincere seeker of truth. Geiger was one of the founders
of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, a movement that strove to historicize
the Hebrew Bible following Christian philological models, but also to con-
textualize Judaism within the three religious traditions. However complex
his motives, by applying the historical critical approach to the Qurʾān he
submitted the text to the most recent scholarly methods of his time. The
result, though, proved to be highly ambivalent. Historical critical scholar-
ship is a quest for the urtext or urtexts of Scripture—a quest that for the
Bible had resulted in the unearthing of a large number of ancient Near
Eastern traditions. These texts were apt to throw light on the historical
setting of the Bible, but rarely could seriously compete with their far more
sophisticated counterparts, shaped by the Biblical authors. In the Qurʾānic
case however, the opposite is true: what was discovered was not an “infe-
rior text,” but the most prestigious ancient text imaginable: the Hebrew
Bible itself. To Geiger the Qurʾān presented itself as a florilegium of innu-
merable biblical and rabbinic traditions that the Qurʾān’s author had
borrowed from Judaism in order to compose a work of guidance for this
community. Since deviation from such an authoritative urtext equaled a
distortion, the Qurʾān emerged as an unsuccessful attempt to rival the
Bible and remains stigmatized as an epigonic text until the present day.
Yet the scholarship of the Wissenschaft des Judentums certainly marks
the climax of Western Qurʾānic studies. After its violent disruption with
the expulsion of Jewish scholars from the German universities during the
Nazi terror in the 1930s Qurʾānic studies took a new and less ambitious
course, following a trend in the vein of the Leben-Jesu-Forschung, focusing
9
Geiger’s work is discussed in Hartwig et al., (ed) (2008).
10
Geiger (1833).
the person of the prophet and his psychological development.11 The

Qurʾānic text as such disappeared from the fore.
The scholar who fĳinally brought the text back to learned attention is
John Wansbrough. Rigorously rejecting the traditional historical setting
of the Qurʾān, Wansbrough in his ‘Qurʾānic Studies’ of 197712 imagined the
text to be the self-expression not of the emerging community at Mecca
and Medina, but of an already extant community, a text put to writing in
order to provide that community with as scripture enshrining its Arabian
myth of origin. Wansbrough thus declared the Qurʾān an “open text,” no
longer possible to locate in time and place, and thus virtually inacces-
sible to historical investigation. No surprise that his work brought about
a schism in the scholarly community, pitching traditionalists against skep-
tics, a grotesque situation that still prevails.
To retrieve the Qurʾānic text once more we have to go back to al-Jāḥiẓ’s
claim that the Qurʾān began as an oral communication that originated
during the age of rhetoric in Late Antiquity.
“Discourses of the Qurʾān”
Viewed as a document born of an oral communication process, the Qurʾān

efffected a double achievement: it caused the emergence of a canon and
the emergence of a community. The Qurʾān not only contributed to shape
a new community, but, at the same time, documented that process. The
Qurʾān’s audience by developing ever more sophisticated cultic rituals,
and by reaching a consensus on theological positions and exegetical
stances gradually assumes a collective identity, a process that—we con-
tend can be roughly reconstructed. Relying on Theodor Nöldeke’s still
indispensable chronology,13 one can trace a sequence of topics or even
discourses, theological, ethical and liturgical, which should have preoc-
cupied the community during the ministry of Muḥammad. Since these
observations remain hypothetical as long as they do not crystallize into
a plausible, irreversible, chain of developments, I will try, in the remarks
that follow, to broadly outline how I imagine such a development.
In view of the fact that oral communications seldom proceed linearly
but tend to describe a zigzag movement of trial and error, we may assume
11
Fück (1936: 509–525).
12
Wansbrough (1977).
13
Nöldeke (1860).
various turns and breaks to have occurred in the process of the emergence
of the text. The community whom we consider as the passive co-authors
of the text, should have been urged to re-think positions, to expound or
even revise earlier views. The text seems to reflect this movement in a
sequence of discourses that develop out of each other but that are at the
same time exposed to constant reconstruction and revision.
Let me label the fĳirst of these Qurʾānic discourses the “liturgical.” The
earliest communications on closer look reveal themselves as in dialogue
with the Psalms.14 Not only in terms of poetical form, but equally in
their imagery and the devotional attitude of their speaker, they clearly
reflect the language of the Psalms familiar from Jewish and Christian
liturgy. Yet the early Qurʾānic communications difffer from traditional
liturgical speech: They are informed by a meta-discourse, the discourse
of knowledge.
Let us consider the introduction of one of the earliest sūras:
iqraʾ bi-smi rabbika l-ladhī khalaq, Recite in the name of thy lord who
created
khalaqa l-insāna min ʿalaq created man from clotted blood
iqraʾ wa-rabbuka l-akram recite, for thy lord is the most
generous
al-ladhī ʿallama bi-l-qalam who taught by the pen
ʿallama l-insāna mā lam yaʿlam taught man what he did not know
These verses are hymnic in a psalmic vein, where creation fĳigures as God’s
most celebrated deed. Yet what comprises God’s generosity is not as in
the Psalms, primarily the maintenance of his creation but his furnishing
creatures with the gift of understanding. It is divine knowledge, conferred
by the transcendent act of writing, qalam, which God generously, akram,
shares with them. The bestowal of Scriptural knowledge is not part of the
psalmic inventory of divine grace, it fĳits however with the image of the
divine drawn in a Biblical apocryph15 and the Syriac treatises of Ephrem
of Nisibis.16 Jewish-Christian models of liturgy have thus become tools of
rhetoric to promote an argument, in this instance the discourse of divinely
communicated knowledge, which, in turn, is the premise for mankind’s
ultimate rendering account of the end of time.
14
Neuwirth (2008. 157–190).
15
Najman (1999: 379–410).
16
See Becker (2008).
Eschatology
I will touch on the second discourse—“the end of time,” “eschatology”—

only in passing. The friction aroused by this new focus which rigorously
called the, until then, cherished social values into question, can hardly
be overestimated. Whereas hymnic texts in praise of the Lord can easily
be accommodated even in a heterogeneous pagan and monotheist cultic
community, the idea of the Last Judgment that unsettles the confĳidence
in virtually all the existing social and ideological structures cannot. It is
therefore reasonable to assume that the so-called “break with the pagan
Meccans,” studied exhaustively by Uri Rubin,17 the revocation of the origi-
nal cult communion that is signaled by the believers’ choosing new times
of prayer, is connected with the emergence of the second discourse, the
controversial and even polarizing idea of the Last Judgment.
From Mecca to Jerusalem—Electedness
It is only logical that the community, having attained independence in

cultic matters and now following the monotheists’ hours of prayer, should
have looked upon the structure of those services as models. In Middle
Meccan times the Qurʾānic sūra displays the structure of a monotheist
service with the recital of a Biblical narrative at its core framed by a poly-
phonal or even antiphonal beginning and end. A verbal service after Jew-
ish Christian models had obviously come to counterbalance the until then
predominant ritual. At the same time, the Fātiḥa, obviously a communal
prayer, is introduced to give voice to the community itself.18 The Fātiḥa is
clearly evoked as a prayer already in use in one of the central texts of the
Qurʾān, Sūrat al-Ḥijr (15: 87), a Middle Meccan sūra, that entails the pri-
mordial election of the Qurʾānic community:19 This enormous increase in
prestige is conveyed through a narrative (15: 26–43), capsulized by the fol-
lowing: Satan/Iblīs,20 commanded by God to bow down before the newly
created Adam, refuses. He is condemned, but granted a respite to fulfĳill an
essential task: to test mankind by means of seduction. There is one group,
however, that he will have no access to: “God’s faithful servants,” ʿibāduka
l-mukhlaṣūn, who in the same text are identifĳied as the Qurʾānic community,
17
Rubin (1987: 40–67).
18
See Neuwirth, A. / Neuwirth, K. (1991: 331–337).
19
Neuwirth (2000: 143–172).
20
Idem (2001: 113–152).
the historical listeners to the Qurʾānic recitation. This community in pre-

existence is received among God’s elect, not unequal to the Israelites,
whose leader Moses is the prototype of their leader, Muḥammad. No sur-
prise that the community marks its new adherence to the Biblical tradi-
tion by adopting the direction of prayer cherished by the older religions,
toward Jerusalem,21 to express their preference for the Biblical tradition
over the local Meccan.
For the audience of the Qurʾān to become a Scriptural community,
however, more than a divine assignment was required. Core texts of the
older traditions have to be re-read and adapted to the newly developing
world view as well as to the Arabic linguistic standards. The re-reading of
Ps 136 in sūrat al-Raḥmān22 most strikingly reflects this ambitious enter-
prise, being an artistic tour de force that draws on virtually all the registers
of the Arabic language: phonology, morphology, and even syntax.
Let us briefly look at the two texts. A number of common structural
characteristics, primarily the unique phenomenon of antiphonal speech,
the employment of a refrain, suggest that Q 55 is not just a text replete
with references to the equally antiphonal Ps 136, but a critical “re-reading,”
a counter-text that is intended as such. Already the two refrains expose
the essential diffference between both texts. The psalm has the hymnic kī
le-ʿōlām ḥasdō, “for his kindness endures forever,” a conviction deduced
from historical experience, whereas the Qurʾānic refrain is an address to
men and demons universally, fa-bi-ayyi ālāʾi rabbikumā tukadhdhibān,
“so which of your Lord’s bounties/signs do you both deny?” i.e., a call for
the entire creation to attest that there are divine self-manifestations in
signs that should be heeded. Remembering historical experience, pivotal
in Jewish tradition, is confronted with the Qurʾānic call for understanding
the divine signs.
Sūrat al-Raḥmān begins:
Al-Raḥmān The merciful
ʿallama l-qurʾān He taught the Qurʾān
khalaqa l-insān He created man
ʿallamahu l-bayān. He taught him clear speech—or: understanding
What is inherent in the world since the act of creation is the divine mes-
sage and the distinctness of human articulation or understanding (bayān).
God created the world as a manifestation of his presence, as a text of
21
Idem (1993: 227–270) and idem (1996: 93–116, 483–95).
22
Idem (2008: 157–190).
no lesser standing than his verbal revelation, and endowed man with the
understanding of both his verbal and his creational self-expression. The
text of Q 55 with its insistence on symmetry and dual structures sets out
to rhetorically orchestrate this double theological claim to a sign system
in creation and in Scripture.
Both texts remain closely parallel in their initial parts extolling the acts
of divine creation. It is only at the point where the Psalm turns to expound
God’s past interventions for His people’s sake; that the sūra diverges. In
the Qurʾānic world view it is not history, but creation and its entelechy in
the beyond that is proof of God’s presence. Sūrat al-Raḥman which had
begun with the contention that creation and language are part of the same
primordial divine project, ends with a dual and extremely ornate linguis-
tic representation of the consummate character of creation in paradise. In
the Qurʾān, an eschatological future celebrated in language has taken the
place of a historical past.
We now will move beyond a number of Meccan discourses and turn to
Medina, singling out one important discourse.
Medina: Inheriting Biblical traditions from their Jewish

and Christian claimants
Whereas at Mecca Biblical traditions had been current as part of com-

mon knowledge, at Medina the real heirs of Biblical tradition, learned
Jews and Christians, appeared to reclaim their monopoly on the exegesis
of biblical tradition. Debates over particular issues have left their traces
in the Qurʾān. To choose a short exemplar, I will briefly discuss Q 112,
Sūrat al-Ikhlāṣ, “the pure belief.” It reads:
Qul huwa llāhu aḥad Say: He is God, one
Allāhu l-ṣamad God the absolute
lam yalid wa-lam yūlad He did not beget, nor is He begotten
wa-lam yakun lahu kufuwan aḥad and there is none like Him.
It is difffĳicult to miss the fact that v. 1 “Say: He is God, One,” qul, huwa llāhu
aḥad, echoes the Jewish credo “Hear Israel, the Lord, our God, is One,”
Shemaʿ Yisrā’ēl, adōnāy elōhēnū adōnāy eḥād. It is striking that the Jewish
text remains audible in the Qurʾānic version, which—against grammatical
norms—adopts the Hebrew-sounding noun aḥad instead of the more per-
tinent adjective wāḥid, for the rhyme. This ‘ungrammaticality’ cannot go
unnoticed. I am referring to the notion analyzed by Rifffaterre, regarding
the awkwardness of a textual moment that semiotically points to another
text, which provides a key to its decoding. This other text in our case is
the Jewish credo.23
This striking translingual quotation is part of the Qurʾānic negotiation
strategy that appropriates the Jewish credo. Although the Qur’anic tran-
script is altered, being universalized having not exclusively Israel, but any
believer in general addressed, it continues, through the sustained sound
presence of the Jewish credo, to partake in the older text’s authority—an
important political stratagem: The new version sounds like a challenge
addressed to Jewish listeners in particular, who during the fĳirst Medinan
years needed to be won over to the new movement. In this short sura,
however, still another credo is involved: the Nicene creed:
Nicaeno-Constantinopolitanum Deuteronomium 6,4 Qurʾān, Sura 112

(al-Ikhlāṣ)
We believe in Πιστεύομεν εἰς ἕνα Hear, Israel, :‫ יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬,‫ ְשׁ ַמע‬Say: He is     
one God, Θεὸν the Lord is ,‫ֹלהינוּ‬ֵ ‫ יְ הוָ ה ֱא‬God, one,  
 
our God, the ‫יְ הוָ ה ֶא ָחד‬  
Lord is One.
   
the Father Πατέρα God the    
Almighty, Maker παντοκράτορα, absolute,
of heaven and ποιητὴν οὐρανοῦ
earth, and of all καὶ γῆς, ὁρατῶν τε
things visible and πάντων και ἀοράτων.
invisible
      
And in one Lord Και εἰς ἕνα κύριον He did   
Jesus Christ, the Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν, τὸν not beget,  
only-begotten υἱὸν τοῦ θεοῦ τὸν nor is He 
Son of God, μονογενῆ, τὸν ἐκ τοῦ begotten
begotten of the πατρὸς γεννηθέντα
Father before all πρὸ πάντων τῶν
worlds (æons), αἰώνων, φῶς ἐκ
Light of Light, φωτός, θεὸν ἀληθινὸν
very God of very ἐκ θεοῦ ἀληθινοῦ,
God, begotten, γεννηθέντα οὐ
not made, ποιηθέντα,
   
  
being of one ὁμοούσιον τῷ πατρί· And there    

substance with is none     
the Father; like Him   
23
Rifffaterre (1978: 92).
V. 3 “He did not beget nor is he begotten”, lam yalid wa-lam yūlad, is a
reverse echo of the Nicene Creed; it rejects the emphatic afffĳirmation of
Christ’s sonship “begotten, not made”—genethenta, ou poiethenta by using
a no less emphatic double negation. This negative theology is summed up
in v. 4 “And there is none like Him”, wa-lam yakun lahu kufuwan aḥad.
That verse not only inverts the Nicene formula of Christ’s being of one
substance with God—homoousios to patri—but forbids one to think of
any being, equal in substance to God, let alone a son. Although these
verses negate the essential statement of the Nicene Creed, they ‘translate’
the Greek/or Syriac intertext, adopting its rhetorical strategy of intensifĳica-
tion. Theology is modifĳied—rhetoric is maintained.
A Gaze Beyond the Qurʾān: From Polyphony to Dichotomy
What has been presented is not recorded in Islamic tradition. The sīra
takes little interest in the debates with the older communities, and is even
less willing to acknowledge them as foundations of text generation. Few
traditional readers, if any, would read Sūrat al-Ikhlāṣ or Sūrat al-Raḥmān
in light of their pre-Islamic intertexts. Why not?
The period of the Qurʾān’s emergence which al-Jāḥiẓ had labeled ʿaṣr
al-balāgha and which we have translated as Late Antiquity, in the Islamic
context is usually referred to as al-jāhiliyya, “the age of ignorance.” Much
ink had already been spilled on the meaning of jāhiliyya when Franz
Rosenthal24 in 1970 profffered the hypothesis that the term jāhiliyya might
be explained as a Qurʾānic pun. The word jāhiliyya occurs four times in
the Medinan sūras, always denoting a negatively judged collective or a
negative moral stance. It is usually translated as the “age of paganism,”
though in the Qurʾānic context this is an impossible meaning, since the
new age of Islam at that time had not yet been conceived of, let alone
begun. Yet the word, to quote Rosenthal, “appears to have been used by
Muḥammad with peculiar forcefulness. This would suggest that some
more specifĳic and meaningful connotation was concealed behind the
term.” Rosenthal looks for a solution outside the Qurʾān. “Such special
signifĳicance might have accrued to the term through its connection with
the famous Jewish concept of galut, exile, diaspora. . . . Exile stands for the
very qualities of savagery, immorality and ignorance of the true God that
Muḥammad fĳinds objectionable in the jāhiliyya.” The relationship indeed
24
Rosenthal (1970: 32–34).
is striking. Both terms—jāhiliyya and galut—viewed from this retrospec-

tive, have induced an excessively dichotomic understanding of the world,
a wholesale reduction of entire epochs of real history to a travesty of ideal-
ized heilsgeschichte.
It is true that the newly coined term al-jāhiliyya has not yet been
exploited in the Qurʾān for its ideological potential; rather, the Qurʾānic
jāhiliyya points primarily to manners and customs of the ancient Arabs
who had been morally ostracized. Yet, the verdict enshrined in the
concept of jāhiliyya has strongly contributed to successfully eradicate
a comprehensive memory of this great epoch in Arab history. Nobody
has foregrounded this concern more urgently than the Lebanese histo-
rian Samir Kassir25 who claims that in current Near Eastern perceptions
of history, a self-exclusion from pre-Islamic culture is at work: The myth
of origin that identifĳies the beginning of the signifĳicant history with the
ministry of the Prophet, reduces the previous history to an era of almost
exclusively nomadic culture. Kassir claims: “One can hardly overestimate
the turn in worldview that would occur once the Golden Age that pre-
ceded the Golden Age is recognized.” Kassir’s demand for an intellectual
self-liberation from teleological constraints, however, addresses only half
of the revision required. The Near Eastern self-exclusion from European
history is matched by the equally determined Western exclusion of the
Qurʾān from its history, epitomized in the highly political notion that the
Qurʾān is a text fundamentally alien to European culture, while other writ-
ings from the same geographical area and standing in the same line of
tradition—most prominently Biblical and post-Biblical literature—are
assimilated as founding documents of European identity.
Returning to al-Jāḥiẓ’s observation and locating the Qurʾān in the ʿaṣr
al-balāgha, in Late Antiquity, we may hope for a fĳinal resolution to the
disturbing a-synchronicity inherent in Western Qurʾānic studies and at
the same time join the plea voiced by Near Eastern intellectuals to rethink
the borderlines of Near Eastern and European cultures.
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A FORMAL DESCRIPTION OF SENTENCES IN
MODERN STANDARD ARABIC1
Everhard Ditters
1. Introduction
At fĳirst instance, I thought of a contribution to the Festschrift for Ramzi

Baalbaki in the form of an e-based verifĳication, in Sībawayhi’s Kitāb, of his
arguments about ḥikāya particles.2 However, I received too much data,
while lacking enough time to properly discuss all these data in the fĳield
of the History of Arabic Grammar. So, I decided to return to my fĳield of
research: the formal description of Modern Standard Arabic syntax within
a processing environment.
On the instigation of Pierre Larcher, I suggested a formalized Modern
Standard Arabic Sentence Grammar.3 This draft was, indeed, more theoret-
ical than formal. My Ph.D.:4 A Formal Description of the Arabic NP and VP,
had the same shortcomings. In another publication,5 I examined, in some
depth, the use of ‘additional’ features for the disambiguation of analysis
results. Once again, it concerned a comprehensive, but still theoretical
account of the state of the art of ongoing research in my fĳield of interest.
Here, I reformulate some essentials in the description of Arabic sentence
structure, but now tested by means of a formal grammar with operational
status.
In this contribution, I comment on several aspects of the testing of an
operational formal grammar for the e-analysis of Modern Standard Ara-
bic (MSA) text data within the, language independent, AGFL processing
environment for, among others, natural languages.6 I will examine my
1
The progress I recently made in the development of my formal grammar for MSA has
not been possible without the support of Kees Koster and Olaf Seibert of the Faculty of
Physics, Mathematics and Computer Science of the Radboud University in Nijmegen. Jan
Hoogland placed the Arabic entries with word categorization of his Arabic-Dutch diction-
ary (Hoogland, 2003) at my disposal.
2
Baalbaki (2007).
3
Ditters (1991).
4
Idem (1992).
5
Idem (2007).
6
I opted for the AGFL (Afffĳix Grammar over Finite Lattices) processing environment
(conceived by Kees Koster (1970), and developed by him and his colleagues), instead of
512 everhard ditters
description at certain corpus and ‘derived’ data samples, exclusively at the

upper layers of description, including: the root ‘utterance’; several inter-
rogatives; as well as at a number of (forged) declarative alternatives.7 The
only trespassing of beyond-sentence-level activities concerns the inclu-
sion of certain elliptic varieties of the aforementioned categories. More
details about a formal description of MSA sentence structure, at lower
levels, till end-markers for a sentence, are visible in the parsing results,
but not commented upon in this paper.
I use, here, a fully vocalized version of my hypothesis about MSA sen-
tence structure in transcribed Arabic. Its counterpart in Arabic graphemes
has been developed simultaneously. Un-vocalized versions of both variet-
ies are generated by a formal rule, stating: a short-vowel position may be
‘fĳilled’ or ‘empty.’8 The main discussion about the parsing results takes
place in the body of the notes of Appendices 2 and 3.
1.1. Linguistic Preliminaries
For the linguistic analysis of a natural language, a descriptive model
accounting for the sequence of elements as well as for mutual relation-
ships has to be adequate and comprehensive. Such a description pro-
gresses from the most abstract or general structure level to the most
specifĳic fĳinal entries as listed in the lexicon. For the description of Arabic
I use an Immediate Constituency Grammar (ICG) approach to account for
word order, enhanced with a layer to account for relationships between
constituents as well as between the elements within a constituent.9
the EDG (Extensible Dependency Grammar) processing environment (conceived by Ralph

Debusmann (2006), and developed by him and his colleagues), because, in the former I can
in a more implicit way formulate my hypothesis of MSA sentence structure to a language
independent processing environment. While it may be curious for an Arabist, describing a
root-and-pattern organized agglutinating language, to account for the absence of a surface
‘space’ by means of a ‘+’ operator in the formalism, it works! Marwan Odeh (2004) used the
EDG environment for his Arabic grammar.
7
Negation will be dealt with in the form of alternative realizations, because it always
occurs as such (with the only exception for the Arabic lexical verb laysa ‘not to be’ with a
rather restricted conjugation paradigm).
8
However, there are signifĳicant diffferences: the un-vocalized versions, transcribed or in
Arabic graphemes alike, have fewer, simpler rules, but, as would be expected, a far higher
rate of ambiguity. How larger the context the entry occurs in (for us the sentence), the
easier disambiguation will be.
9
As reference work, I prefer like to use the comprehensive grammar of Badawi, Carter,
and Gully (2004), because of its frequent citing of verifĳiable Arabic data from Cantarino
(1974–5).
a formal description of sentences in msa 513
The constant through the formal grammar is constituted by alternating

layers of the description of functions (in terms of head and modifĳiers)
and categories (in terms of functional slots and fĳillers). Relationships and
dependencies are described by means of parameters (such as: person,
gender, number, case, etc.), attached to the fĳillers of functional slots. The
highest unit of linguistic description is the sentence or a sequence of sen-
tences.10 The lowest level is constituted by the fĳinal entries of the lexicon,
including the graphemes of the consonantal and vowel system, as well as
sentence or constituent end markers.
For other than linguistic analysis e-purposes such as: information
retrieval (IR), data routing (DR), text mining (TM), some forms of auto-
matic tagging (AT), automatic lexicon building (LB) etc., a Dependency
Grammar (DG) based approach might be more appropriate. However, it
is a simple step to deduce, from the enhanced ICG description, the basic
number of dependency triples needed to provide enough information on
the ‘aboutness’11 of a text in order for it to be used for Arabic IR or TR.
The object of linguistic research, Modern Standard Arabic language
structure, does not present an additional problem to the AGFL (Afffĳix
Grammar over Finite Lattices) formalism and processing environment
as another formal or natural language does. The linguistic description is
language specifĳic. The AGFL formalism and processing environment is
language independent.12 Linguistics does not need, in this cooperation, to
make any concession to informatics.
1.2. Formal Preliminaries
The AGFL formalism,13 as well as its processing environment, is based on
a context-free two-level grammar formalism. The fĳirst level describes the
10
By rewriting an Arabic utterance into: a sentence, or: a sentence, followed by a sen-
tence, a corpus of Arabic text data can be analyzed. However, a sentence grammar is lack-
ing the disambiguation power of a text grammar, which accumulates the information of
earlier parsed sentences.
11
I here quote, in a relaxed way, from WIKIPEDIA: “In linguistics, aboutness is simply
‘meaning,’ the ‘end of language.’ In psychology, it is ‘intentionality.’ In psycholinguistics or
cognitive linguistics, it is ‘language of thought in vogue,’ or something like that.”
12
For an overview of the state of the art in the fĳield of Arabic computational linguistics
see: Ditters (2006) and, more recently, but less comprehensively as fĳields of application
are concerned, Farghaly (2010).
13
For more information about this formalism Google AGFL (agfl.cs.ru.nl). There you can
also fĳind a bibliography, including the article about AP4IR (Arabic Phrases for Information
Retrieval) (Ditters-Koster (2004)), as well as a more general document about: Phrase-based
Document Categorization (Koster et al. ( 2010)).
sequence of relevant elements14 by means of statements, rewriting one

unique right-hand non-terminal into one or more other non-terminals or
fĳinal entries or terminals. The second level describes, also by means of
a context-free grammar, the realization of values of variables (from now
on technically called: afffĳixes), attached to the non-terminals of the fĳirst
level of description. The term ‘realization’ here comprises the descrip-
tion of factual relationships and dependencies between constituents and
between elements of a constituent, as well as the possibility of condition-
ing (via so-called empty rules within the formalism) the realization of spe-
cifĳic afffĳix values leading to a parsing result.
2. Sentence Structure in Modern Standard Arabic
2.1. Sentence Level
The root symbol in our formal Arabic grammar is utterance:15
utterance:
bound coord(CAT) +
base;
[free coord(CAT)],
base.
Here it is stated, that any utterance in Arabic consists of a base, optionally

preceded by a [free coord(CAT)], or followed by a [bound coord(CAT)].
The diffference between the sequence separators (‘,’ and ‘+’) is, that the
fĳirst includes a space between sequential elements, while the second glues
the fĳirst to the following non- or terminal element of description.
In the lexicon those [free coord(CAT)] and [bound coord(CAT)]16 ele-
ments are listed as follows:
“fa” bound coord(consec)

“wa” bound coord(cumul)
14
Here I use, in the context of linguistics, the term ‘element’ without any reserve. In the
formal environment, I prefer to use the term ‘non-terminal’, which can, could, and should
be rewritten into one or more other non-terminals or terminal values.
15
Square brackets refer to an optional realization of a non-terminal at the fĳirst level.
16
A meta rule, at the second level of description, defĳines the values for the afffĳix vari-
able (CAT) into the terminals: consecutive; cumulative; alternative; explicative; inclusive;
restrictive; and successive.
“ ʾam” free coord(alter)

“ ʾaw” free coord(alter)
“ ʾimmā” free coord(alter)
“bal” free coord(explic)
“lā” free coord(exclus)
“ḥattā” free coord(inclus)
“lākin” free coord(restrict)
“walākin” free coord(restrict)
“walākinna” free coord(restrict)
“thumma” free coord(success)
In the formal grammar presented here, I describe the base as follows:
base:
s type(SPECIES);
s type(SPECIES),
bound coord(cumul) +
s type(SPECIES).
In other words, an utterance, in Arabic, has a base consisting of one or

more alternatives for: s type(SPECIES).17 It is interesting to see what dif-
ferent values for (SPECIES) result in distinct realizations at the fĳirst level
of description for s type. In this account, the domain description of values
for the afffĳix name SPECIES has been given in:
SPECIES::declarative|elliptic_declarative|interrogative|elliptic_interrogative.
With this declaration of values at the second (afffĳix) level of description,

we know to be dealing with: declaratives or elliptic declaratives,18 as well
as with interrogatives or elliptic interrogatives. The inclusion of a third
value for SPECIES (conditional|elliptic_conditional) goes beyond the
scope of this paper.
17
Values for this second level afffĳix name are, in this contribution, restricted to: inter-
rogative, declarative, as well as elliptic realizations of those.
18
In the AGFL formalism, a vertical bar (|) separates alternative values at the second
level of description.
2.2. Interrogatives
Interrogatives usually are divided into two classes: Yes-No questions
(including tag-questions), and WH-questions.19 Specifĳic for Yes-No ques-
tions, in Arabic, is the occurrence of a complete statement (ques tail), in
most cases preceded by an (bound or free) interrogative particle such as
ʾa or hal, respectively, and a question mark (if punctuation conventions
are being respected). For a negative Yes-No question, these conventions
sufffĳice to combine the interrogative introductory with a negative parti-
cle such as ʾalā, ʾalan, or hallā, and the like, with the meaning of: ‘isn’t?’,
‘doesn’t?’, ‘hadn’t?’
As far as tag-questions are concerned, in literary Arabic a complete
statement (ques tail) is usually followed by a sequence such as ʾalaysa
dhālika? ‘isn’t?’, testing the truth-value of the preceding, afffĳirmative or
negative, utterance.20 In WH-questions, an interrogative (pro)noun or
particle, such as ʾayy ‘which?’, man ‘who?’, mādhā ‘what?’, kayfa ‘how?’,
matā ‘when?’ (or a fĳinite set of other alternatives), a prepositional phrase,
combining a preposition and an interrogative (pro)noun, like bima ‘by
means of what?’ or lima ‘wherefor(e)?’ realizes a function (subject, object,
modifĳier, adverbial, or other), to conform to the basic requirements for a
‘grammatically or semantically correct’ utterance in MSA.
With that, as well as with some text data as reference,21 I like to describe
the structure of an interrogative sentence in MSA, by means of formal
rewrite rules within the AGFL environment as: a single non-terminal at
the left-hand side is rewritten into one or more non-terminals or termi-
nals at the right-hand side. A colon is the rewrite symbol. A comma sepa-
rates sequences at the right-hand side rewriting. A semi-colon separates
alternative rewritings of the left-hand side at the right-hand side. A plus
sign at the right-hand side of a rewrite rule glues two consecutive non-
terminals together (without a space at sentence level). A period ends the
rule. So we get:
19
Cantarino (1974, 135) made a distinction between the questioning about: intrinsic
validity, an essential element, or circumstantial aspects in an Arabic interrogative. This
corresponds with my diffferentiation into: part|sub|obj|avba at the afffĳix level in my formal
description of interrogatives.
20
In colloquial Arabic, at least in the Levantine region, a registered form of for instance
mush hēk ‘isn’t?’ should be interpreted as a speaker-awareness-confĳirming-interjection,
rather than asking for an objective answer.
21
Cantarino (1974–75).
s type(interrogative):
bound inter part +
ques tail +
inter mark;
free inter part,
ques tail +
inter mark;
interrogative pronoun,
ques tail +
inter mark;
internoun group(GENDER,NUMBER,CASE),
ques tail +
inter mark;
inter adv,
ques tail +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES),
inter adv,
ques tail +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES) +
inter adv,
ques tail +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES),
ques tail +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES) +
ques tail +
inter mark.
Here it is stated, that an interrogative sentence in Arabic: may be intro-

duced by a bound or free interrogative particle (bound inter part and free
inter part respectively); may end in a question mark (inter mark); and,
should include a statement (ques tail). Some alternative realizations of
these interrogatives are listed as well. For example, interrogatives intro-
duced by: an interrogative pronoun; an interrogative noun; an inter-
rogative adverbial; or alternatives preceded by a prepositional particle.
However, for practical purposes, they are listed, in a lexical module, in

the form of:
“ ʾa” bound inter part

“hal” free inter part
“man” interrogative pronoun
“mā” interrogative pronoun
“mādhā” interrogative pronoun
“mandhā” interrogative pronoun
“ ʾayy” inter noun
“ʿalāma” inter adv
“ʿalāmā” inter adv
“ ʾilāma” inter adv
“ ʾayna” inter adv
“kayfa” inter adv
“kam” inter adv
“matā” inter adv
“ ʾannā” inter adv
“lima” inter adv
“bima” inter adv
“?” inter mark
As we did for the afffĳix name (CAT), by means of meta rules, we need to
declare the values for variables such as: GENDER, NUMBER, CASE, and
TYPES. They, too, are defĳined by meta rules:22
CASE ::acc|gen|nom|invar.
CAT ::alter|consec|cumul|exclus|explic|inclus|restrict|success.
GENDER ::fem|masc.
NUMBER ::coll|dual|PLUR|sing.
PLUR ::explu|inplu.
TYPES
::accomp|causal|compb|contc|direc|fĳinalintr|fĳinalprep|partprep|
place|timeprep.
22
In the AGFL formalism, a double colon (::) is used as the rewrite symbol of an afffĳix
name (left-hand side) into its values (right-hand side) at the second level of description.
A vertical (|) separates alternatives.
We still need to describe: the body of the interrogative (ques tail), as

well as its alternative in the rewriting of the left-hand nonterminal s
type(interrogative), the interrogative noun ʾayy:
ques tail:
predicate(MODE,DEFNESS,PERSON,GENDER,NUMBER);
topic comp(GENDER,NUMBER),
topic(GENDER1,NUMBER1);
topic(GENDER,NUMBER),
topic comp(GENDER1,NUMBER1).
internoun group(GENDER,NUMBER,CASE):
inter noun +
gendermorph(GENDER,NUMBER) +
casemorph(DECLEN,DEFNESS,GENDER,NUMBER,CASE),
np(HEADREAL,indef,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,gen);
inter noun +
casemorph(DECLEN,DEFNESS,GENDER,NUMBER,CASE),
np(HEADREAL,indef,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,gen).
We skip here the rewriting of the left-hand sides of ques tail and inter-
noun group,23 but list the meta rules we used:
DECLEN ::defec|dipt|invar|norm.
DEFNESS ::def|indef.
HEADREAL ::com|count|elativeb|intn|min|nad|neg|nnum|nomcom|nu
m|pers|prop|quesb|vera|vern|vocb.
MODE ::nominal|verbal.
PERSON ::fĳirst|second|third.
To account for elliptic occurrences we dropped in the description parts

of the left-hand sides of the interrogatives such as: a bound or free inter
part, and the ques tail:
23
One can deduce diffferent structural descriptions from the parse results in both
Appendices 2 and 3.
s type(elliptic_interrogative):
prep(TYPES) +
inter adv +
inter mark;
inter adv;
ques tail +
inter mark;
ques tail +
inter mark;
interrogative pronoun +
inter mark;
internoun group(GENDER,NUMBER,CASE) +
inter mark;
inter adv +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES),
inter adv +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES) +
inter adv +
inter mark;
prep(TYPES) +
interrogative pronoun +
inter mark.
Testing the formal grammar on the fĳirst input sentence (Appendix 1)

results in two parses:
1 wahiya fī ʾaddāri?
# parsing 1 time 0.007 penalty 724

utterance <alt 1:2>
bound coord(cumul) “wa” [1]
base <alt 1:1>
s type(elliptic_interrogative) <alt 2:3>
ques tail <alt 1:1>
24
Those rather incomprehensible line endings such as: penalty 7; <alt 1:2>; and [1], are
automatically generated during parsing when I apply the option ‘-v parser’ for diagnostic
purposes. Ambiguities, missing links, faults, and/or other inconsistencies in the formal
description can be traced more easily. In offfĳicial publications, this option is normally
set offf.
predicate(nominal, def, third, fem, sing) <alt 2:1>

np(pers, def, fem, sing, third, nom) <alt 1:2>
head(pers, def, fem, sing, third, nom) <alt 18:1>
pers pronoun(fem, sing, third, nom) “hiya” [1]
pom(def, fem, sing, third, nom) <alt 2:2>
prep(place) “fī” [1]
nounphrase(def, fem, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
np(com, def, fem, sing, third, gen) <alt 2:1>
art “ ʾad” [1]25
head(com, def, fem, sing, third, gen) <alt 2:1>
common noun(norm, fem, sing) “dār” [1]
casemorph(norm, def, fem, sing, gen) “i” [1]
HEAD1 type is predeterminable(com) <alt 3:1>
GENUM1 agreement is(fem, fem, fem, sing, sing, sing) <alt 4:1>
CASE1 agreement is(nom, nom, nom) <alt 1:1>
DEF is(pers, def ) <alt 2:1>
HEAD1 type is postmodifĳiable(pers) <alt 2:1>
headreal is(pers) <alt 4:1>
inter mark “?” [1]
This fĳirst parse concerns an elliptic interrogative, consisting of a ‘part of

a statement’ (ques tail), and ending in a question mark (inter mark). This
‘part of a statement’ is here realized by a nominal predicate in the form of
a head-postmodifĳier construction: fī l-dāri as postmodifĳier of hiya. I chose
not to block such a result for a personal pronoun, because noun phrases,
with a common noun as head, like ‘my uncle in San Francisco’, should also
be described and ‘correctly’ analyzed.
There appears to be a lot of surface noise in such a parse tree. The
result of the parsing of example 1 could have been (and can be, by means
of transduction) reduced to:
utterance
s type(elliptic_interrogative)
ques tail
head
postmodifĳier
inter mark.
25
In an analysis environment, it is not difffĳicult to account for assimilation phenomena
in Arabic. Alternatives are simply listed in the lexicon as distinct entries.
If the formal description of a natural language, in our case Arabic, is exclu-

sively oriented towards analysis, one should eliminate, from the descrip-
tion within the AGFL environment, many, so-called ‘empty-rules’, like
those selected from the fĳirst parse:

These rules condition for instance: determination, gender and case agree-
ment. For other perspectives, computer-assisted language learning or gen-
erative or retrieval oriented applications, these empty-rules proved to be
relevant. However, they can, by means of transduction, be left out in the
representation of the parsing results.
The second parse of the fĳirst example sentence concerns an elliptic
interrogative, consisting of a ‘part of a statement’ (ques tail), and ending
in a question mark (inter mark). This ‘part of a statement’ is here realized
by a topic-comment structure with a personal pronoun in the topic, and
a prepositional phrase in the comment position.

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:3>
topic(fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
topic comp(GENDER, NUMBER) <alt 1:5>
pp <alt 1:1>
pp marker(place) <alt 1:1>
26
This parsing is also characterized as an elliptic interrogative because of the absence
of an interrogative particle at the beginning. However, the complete statement has been
analyzed as a topic-comment construction.

pp compl <alt 1:1>
art “ ʾad” [1]
Relevant remarks on the parse results of the other sentences are provided
for in the notes to Appendices 2 and 3.
2.3. Declaratives
Deleting the question markers such as ʾa or hal, and ‘?’ from the inter-
rogatives, we obtain declarative alternatives of the test sentences. A more
positive defĳinition of a declarative is: a positive or negative statement with
the main focus on an entry of the verb lexicon (verbal sentence) or on an
entry of the noun lexicon (nominal sentence). For illustrative purposes
only, below follows a selection of the rewrite rules used for the description
of declarative sentence structure occurring in the parse results:27
s type(declarative):
s(VARIETY) +
end marker.
s(basic):
sentence(ORDER).
The domain of the values for the afffĳixes VARIETY and ORDER are defĳined
by the meta rules:
ORDER ::focus|pred|topic|elliptic_topic.28
VARIETY ::basic|double|elliptic.
27
As one can see in Appendix 4 (parser statistics), in its current form the formal gram-
mar comprises 1400 rules with more than 1800 alternatives.
28
In the next round of corrections, the domain of values for the afffĳix variable will be
extended with: elliptic_pred to account for an elliptic verbal sentence.
In the following rules we see the use of square brackets indicating the
optional occurrence of, in this case, a complement, a sentence adverbial
or a negator:
sentence(pred):
verbal head(imper,second,GENDER,NUMBER,COMPL),
[compl(COMPL1)];
[sent avb],
predicate(verbal,DEFNESS,PERSON,GENDER,NUMBER),
[sent avb].
sentence(topic):
topic(GENDER,NUMBER),
topic comp(GENDER1,NUMBER1),
[sent avb];
topic comp(GENDER,NUMBER),
topic(GENDER1,NUMBER1),
[sent avb];
[negator],
predicate(nominal,def,PERSON,GENDER1,NUMBER1),
indef t(GENDER,NUMBER),
where agreement
is (GENDER,GENDER1,NUMBER,NUMBER1);
introducer(INITIAL),
topica(INITIAL,GENDER,NUMBER),
bound coord(CAT),
topic comp(GENDER1,NUMBER1),
anaphoric
relation(GENDER,GENDER1,NUMBER,NUMBER1);
neg topic(GENDER,NUMBER),
neg topic comp.
sentence(elliptic_topic):
topic(GENDER,NUMBER);
topic comp(GENDER,NUMBER).
topic(GENDER,NUMBER):
np(HEADREAL,DEFNESS,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,nom|invar);
prep(fĳinalintr),
np(HEADREAL,def,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,gen);
prep(fĳinalintr) +
np(HEADREAL,def,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,gen).
An alternative rule accounts for the rewriting of a topic into a comple-

ment clause,29 in the past a more frequently used structure than in con-
temporary Arabic, but tests on large corpora of text data should confĳirm
this presumption:
topic(masc,sing):
ccl(so).
In the following rule is stated that a comment (topic comp) may consist
of a verb phrase, a noun phrase, an adjective phrase, an adverb phrase,
or a prepositional phrase, each of them in its turn to be described into
left-hand sides.
topic comp(GENDER,NUMBER):
predicate(verbal,DEFNESS,third,GENDER,NUMBER);
np(HEADREAL,DEFNESS,GENDER,NUMBER,PERSON,nom);
adjp(DEFNESS,GENDER,NUMBER,CASE);
ap;
pp.
Elliptic declaratives are those sentences in which the predicate of a verbal

sentence, and the topic or the comment in a nominal sentence have been
omitted, usually because of their earlier occurrence in the context.
Below we discuss the second example of the declaratives (Appendix 3):
2 taʿrifīnahu.

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s type(declarative) <alt 3:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
29
For example: ʾan taṣūmū khayrun lakum (Sura 2, 184) ‘If ye fast it is better for you’
(Palmer, 1953, 23).
sentence(pred) <alt 1:2>

predicate(verbal, DEFNESS, second, fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
vp(indic, second, fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
verbal head(indic, second, fem, sing, acc) <alt 2:1>
prefĳix(three, au, active, second, fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
prefcon(second, fem, sing) “t” [1]
prefvow(three, au, active) “a” [1]
verb(three, normal, COMBI, i, indic, active, acc) <alt 1:1>
verb elements(19, 11, 21, normal, COMBI, indic, 2, active) <alt 13:1>
rad(19) <alt 19:1>
“ʿ” [1]
rad(11) <alt 11:1>
“r” [1]
vow(2) <alt 2:1>
“i” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]
verb stem i lexicon(19, 11, 21, acc, 1, 2) <alt 276:1>
sufffĳix(normal, COMBI, indic, second, fem, sing) “īna” [1]
where gen num pers is(second, fem, fem, sing, sing, fem, sing) <alt 6:1>
where vowel fĳits derivation(three, au, i) <alt 4:1>
compl(acc) <alt 1:1>
compl phr(acc) <alt 1:1>
direct obj(masc, sing) <alt 1:1>
np(pers, def, masc, sing, third, acc) <alt 1:1>
head(pers, def, masc, sing, third, acc) <alt 19:1>
pers pronoun(masc, sing, third, acc) “hu” [1]
end marker “.” [1]
This result tells us that this sentence consists of a predicate including a

verb phrase in the indicative mood, with an internal subject (feminine,
singular, second person), an attached direct object in the form of a per-
sonal pronoun (accusative, masculine, singular, third person), and a dot
as end marker.
As far as the fĳinite verb form is concerned, the result tells us that it
consists of a strong verb with a three-consonantal root in the indicative
mood and active voice of the fĳirst stem. Directly linked to the verb base
are a prefĳix and a sufffĳix. A distinct module (verb elements) of verb stems
is included in the grammar. It lists, among others, the below described

left-hand side:
verb elements(RA,RB,RC,normal,COMBI,MOOD,VOWIMPERF,active):
rad(RA) +
rad(RB) +
vow(VOWIMPERF) +
rad(RC).
In another module (verb stem i lexicon) the verb entry concerned is listed
by integers for its radicals.30 Here, the combination of: 19,11,21, stands for:
ʿ r f (ʿarafa/yaʿrifu ‘to know’). The lexical rule states, also by means of inte-
gers, that this entry has an a (1) as vowel of the second radical in the past
tense, and an i (2) as vowel of the second radical in the present tense.
Moreover, the verb may govern a direct object in the accusative:
verb stem i lexicon(19,11,21,acc,1,2): .
3. Discussion
The description, so far, may have given an idea about the form of a formal
grammar for Modern Standard Arabic in the AGFL formalism, as well as
of the parsing of sample data of the language described within the AGFL
processing environment. The formal grammar is operational.31 This means
in no way that the description, as a product, is ready, fĳinished, achieved
or complete, and 100% reliable.
The formal description is a hypothesis about the syntactic structure
of contemporary literary Arabic and its fĳinal entries for communication
interchange. This hypothesis should be tested, over and over again, on
a corpus of language data in a cyclic process of testing, correction, and
adaptation. Corrections are being made by optimization, the fĳine-tuning
30
By means of so-called fact tables the matching between these integers and the graph-
emes, transcribed or in Arabic characters, is guaranteed.
31
‘Operational,’ here, means that the AGFL processing environment, during compila-
tion of the description, did not fĳind any serious violations of or infringements on the inter-
nal logic of the formalism. This is the initial stage for, in our case, the linguistic testing
of the description of the natural language described. As long as we stick to the syntactic
and semantic logic of the formalism, we have an operational grammar that can then be
linguistically tested.
of the description of sentence structure, the elimination of undesired

ambiguities, and by the expansion of the lexicon. In short, once started it
is a continuous process.
Perspectives
We only discussed, here, within the upper layers of Arabic sentence struc-
ture my description of (some) interrogatives. By a ‘deus ex machina’ trick,
I tested and described the results of the parsing of (some) declaratives. In
earlier versions of my formal description of MSA, I lodged the so-called
protasis in conditional sentences in the slot for ‘sentence adverbial’. How-
ever, it remained difffĳicult to describe, within the overall description, the
occurrence of certain particles or specifĳic values for the verb realization
in the so-called apodosis. Therefore, I agreed upon, and developed the
description of a third alternative of sentence structure: conditional sen-
tences, still to be tested.
The following steps in the planning are: the insertion of an ‘empty’ value
for short vowels (a, i, and u) in the MSA grammar for transcribed and Ara-
bic input; the ‘transfer’ of the Arabic entries from an Arabic-Dutch/Dutch-
Arabic dictionary32 to vocalized and non-vocalized versions of our formal
lexicon; and the parsing of Arabic data from the Nijmegen corpus.
References
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in Arab Grammatical Theory.” in Approaches to Arabic Linguistics. Presented to Kees
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Motzki (eds.). Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics. Volume 49. London/Boston:
Brill, 3–23.
Badawi, Elsaid, Michael Carter, and Adrian Gully. 2004. Modern Written Arabic: A Compre-
hensive Grammar. London/New York: Routledge.
Cantarino, Vicente. 1974. Syntax of Modern Arabic Prose. Volume One: The Simple Sentence.
Asian Studies Research Institute. Oriental Series No. 4. Bloomington/London.
—— . 1975. Syntax of Modern Arabic Prose. Volume Two: The Expanded Sentence. Asian
Studies Research Institute. Oriental Series No. 4. Bloomington/London.
—— . 1975. Syntax of Modern Arabic Prose. Volume Three: The Compound Sentence. Asian
Studies Research Institute. Oriental Series No. 4. Bloomington/London.
Debusmann, Ralph. 2006/2007. Extensible Dependency Grammar: A Modular Grammar
Formalism Based on Multigraph Description. Ph.D. Saarland University.
—— . 2008. http://www.ps.uni-saarland.de/~rade/xdg.html.
32
Hoogland (2003).
Ditters, Everhard. 1991. “A Modern Standard Arabic Sentence Grammar.” in Bulletin

d’Études Orientales: De la grammaire de l’arabe aux grammaires des arabes. Tome XLIII
Année 1991. Ed. Pierre Larcher. Damas: Imprimerie Daoudi, 197–236.
—— . 1992. A Formal Approach to Arabic Syntax: The Noun Phrase and the Verb Phrase.
Ph.D. Nijmegen University. Luxor: Nijmegen.
—— . 2006. “Computational Linguistics.” Versteegh, Kees et al. (eds.): Encyclopedia of
Arabic Language and Linguistics, Volume I (A-Ed), Brill: Leiden–Boston, 455–465.
—— . 2007. “Featuring as a Disambiguation Tool in Arabic NLP.” in Approaches to Ara-
bic Linguistics. Presented to Kees Versteegh on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday.
Ed. Everhard Ditters and Harald Motzki. Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics.
Volume 49. London/Boston: Brill, 367–402.
Ditters, Everhard and Kees Koster. 2004. “Transducing Arabic Phrases into Head-Modifĳier
(HM) Pairs for Arabic Information Retrieval.” in Proceedings of the NEMLAR 2004 Inter-
national Conference on Arabic Language Resources and Tools, 22nd–23rd September
2004. Cairo, Egypt, 148–154.
Farghaly, Ali (ed.). 2010. Arabic Computational Linguistics. Copestake, Ann (ed.): CSLI
Studies in Computational Linguistics. Stanford, California: CLSI: Center for the Study of
Language and Information.
Hoogland, Jan, Kees Versteegh, and Manfred Woidich. 2003. Woordenboek Arabisch
Nederlands–Nederlands Arabisch (2 Vols). Amsterdam: Bulaaq.
Koster, Kees. 1970. “Afffĳix Grammars.” in Proceedings of IFIP Conference on ALGOL 68
Implementation, Munich. North Holland Publishing Company.
Koster, Kees, Jean Beney, Suzan Verberne, and Merijn Vogel. 2010. Phrase-based Document
Categorization. AGFL (agfl.cs.ru.nl).
Odeh, Marwan. 2004. “Topologische Dependenz-grammatik furs Arabische.” in Debusmann,
R and G. Smolka, FR 6.2—Informatik Universität des Saarlandes, 1–28.
Palmer, E. H. 1953. The Koran (Qurʾān). The World’s Classics 328. London-New York-To-
ronto: Oxford University Press.
APPENDIX 1
EXAMPLES
1 wahiya fī l-dāri?
andshe in thehouse?
Is she in the house? (C.I,136,1)33
2 ʾataʿrifīnahu?
(q)youknowhim?
Do you know him? (C.I,137,2)
3 hal ʿindakum marīḍun?
(q) nearyou ill?
Is somebody ill in the family? (C.I,139,6)
4 man hādhā?
who this?
Who is this? (C.I,142,2)
5 ʿalāma taʾsafu?
onwhat youregret?
What do you feel sad about? (C.I,149,6)
6 ʾayyu ʾinsānin ʾanta?
which man you?
What kind of a man are you? (C.I,152,12)
7 kam ḥafĳiẓta?
howmuch preservedyou?
How much did you learn? (C.I,158,3)
8 ʾilā ʾayna?
to where?
Where? (C.I,162,3)
9 matā?
when?
When? (C.I,162,6)
10 kayfa?
how?
How? (C.I,162,5)
11 limādhā?
forwhat?
Why? (borrowed from: C.I,145,5)
33
This formula should be read as: Cantarino, Vol. 1, p. 136, ex. 1.
APPENDIX 2
INTERROGATIVES
Input
1 wahiya fī al-dāri?
2 ʾataʿrifīnahu?
4 man hādhā?
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu?
8 ʾilā ʾayna?
9 matā?
10 kayfa?
11 limādhā?
Results
1 wahiya fī al-dāri?34

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(nominal, def, third, fem, sing) <alt 2:1>
art “al” [1]
34
The fĳirst parsing concerns an elliptic interrogative in which fī al-dāri has been ana-
lyzed as a post modifĳier of the head hiya. I did not block such an analysis result for a
personal pronoun, because it is useful to analyze noun phrases such as ‘my uncle in San
Francisco’ as a noun phrase.

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:3>
pp <alt 1:1>
pp compl <alt 1:1>
art “al-” [1]
2 ʾataʿrifīnahu?

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s type(interrogative) <alt 1:1>
bound inter part “ ʾa” [1]
ques tail <alt 1:1>
35
This parsing is also characterized as an elliptic interrogative because of the absence
of an interrogative particle at the beginning. However, the complete statement has been
analyzed as a topic-comment construction.

rad(19) <alt 19:1>
“ʿ” [1]
rad(11) <alt 11:1>
“r” [1]
vow(2) <alt 2:1>
“i” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
free inter part “hal” [1]
ques tail <alt 1:2>
pp <alt 1:2>
prep(place) “ʿinda” [1]
pp compl <alt 1:1>
nounphrase(def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 1:1>
np(pers, def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 1:1>
head(pers, def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 18:1>
pers pronoun(masc, inplu, second, gen) “kum” [1]
topic(GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu) <alt 1:1>
np(nad, indef, GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu, third, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(nad, indef, GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu, third, nom) <alt 11:3>

adj base(norm, masc, sing) <alt 1:6>
adjecF(norm, masc, sing) “marīḍ” [1]
casemorph(norm, indef, masc, sing, nom) “un” [1]
DEF is(nad, indef ) <alt 4:1>
4 man hādhā?36

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:2>
topic comp(masc, sing) <alt 1:2>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 8:1>
interrogative pronoun “man” [1]
DEF is(min, indef ) <alt 9:1>
topic(masc, sing) <alt 1:1>
np(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 7:1>
dem(masc, sing, nom|invar) “hādhā” [1]
DEF is(min, def ) <alt 9:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:3>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 8:1>
np(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 7:1>
dem(masc, sing, nom) “hādhā” [1]
36
Penalty 3 tells us, that only 3 elements of fĳinal entries of the lexicon are involved in
the parse result of this sentence. That we have two parses for this input originates from the
question: which element or constituent in this sentence should be considered as topic?
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu?37

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
inter adv “ʿalāmā” [1]
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(verbal, DEFNESS, second, masc, sing) <alt 1:1>
vp(indic, second, masc, sing) <alt 1:3>
verbal head(indic, second, masc, sing, prep) <alt 2:1>
prefĳix(three, au, active, second, masc, sing) <alt 1:1>
prefcon(second, masc, sing) “t” [1]
verb(three, normal, COMBI, i, indic, active, prep) <alt 1:1>
rad(1) <alt 1:1>
“ ʾ” [1]
rad(13) <alt 13:1>
“s” [1]
vow(1) <alt 1:1>
“a” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]
verb stem i lexicon(1, 13, 21, prep, 2, 1) <alt 9:1>
sufffĳix(normal, COMBI, indic, second, masc, sing) “u” [1]
where gen num pers is(second, masc, masc, sing, sing, masc, sing) <alt 5:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
inter adv “ʿalāmā” [1]
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(verbal, DEFNESS, third, fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
vp(indic, third, fem, sing) <alt 1:3>
verbal head(indic, third, fem, sing, prep) <alt 2:1>
prefĳix(three, au, active, third, fem, sing) <alt 1:1>
prefcon(third, fem, sing) “t” [1]
verb(three, normal, COMBI, i, indic, active, prep) <alt 1:1>
37
For non-Arabist readers, the present time realization of the second masculine singu-
lar and the third feminine singular present fĳinite verb form are identical.
rad(1) <alt 1:1>

“ ʾ” [1]
rad(13) <alt 13:1>
“s” [1]
vow(1) <alt 1:1>
“a” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]
verb stem i lexicon(1, 13, 21, prep, 2, 1) <alt 9:1>
sufffĳix(normal, COMBI, indic, third, fem, sing) “u” [1]
where gen num pers is(third, fem, fem, sing, sing, fem, sing) <alt 3:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
internoun group(masc, sing, nom) <alt 1:2>
inter noun “ ʾayy” [1]
casemorph(norm, def, masc, sing, nom) “u” [1]
np(com, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
head(com, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 2:1>
common noun(norm, masc, sing) “ ʾinsān” [1]
casemorph(norm, indef, masc, sing, gen) “in” [1]
DEF is(com, indef ) <alt 3:1>
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(nominal, def, second, masc, sing) <alt 2:1>
np(pers, def, masc, sing, second, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(pers, def, masc, sing, second, nom) <alt 18:1>
pers pronoun(masc, sing, second, nom) “ ʾanta” [1]

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
inter adv “kam” [1]
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(verbal, DEFNESS, second, masc, sing) <alt 1:1>
vp(perfect, second, masc, sing) <alt 1:3>
verbal head(perfect, second, masc, sing, TRANS) <alt 1:1>

verb(three, normal, COMBI, i, perfect, active, TRANS) <alt 1:1>
verb elements(7, 21, 18, normal, COMBI, perfect, 2, active) <alt 1:1>
rad(7) <alt 7:1>
“ḥ” [1]
avow “a” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]
vow(2) <alt 2:1>
“i” [1]
rad(18) <alt 18:1>
“ẓ” [1]
verb stem i lexicon(7, 21, 18, TRANS, 2, 1) <alt 80:1>
perf sufffĳix(normal, second, masc, sing) <alt 3:1>
rad(4) <alt 4:1>
“t” [1]
avow “a” [1]
type agreement is(normal, normal) <alt 1:1>
8 ʾilā ʾayna?

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
prep(direc) “ ʾilā” [1]
inter adv “ ʾayna” [1]
9 matā?

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
inter adv “matā” [1]
10 kayfa?

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
inter adv “kayfa” [1]
11 limādhā?38

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(nominal, DEFNESS, third, GENDER, NUMBER) <alt 3:3>
pp <alt 1:2>
pp marker(causal) <alt 1:1>
prep(causal) “li” [1]
pp compl <alt 1:1>
nounphrase(indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 8:1>
interrogative pronoun “mādhā” [1]

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
ques tail <alt 1:1>
predicate(nominal, DEFNESS, third, GENDER, NUMBER) <alt 3:3>
pp <alt 1:2>
pp compl <alt 2:1>
nounphrase(indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 8:1>
38
With three fĳinal terms involved (penalty 3), we got three parses. All parses are quali-
fĳied as elliptic interrogatives. However, in the realization of the prepositional comple-
ment (pp compl), there is a genitive case value (gen) realized in the fĳirst parse, while in
the second there is a genitive or invariable value (gen|invar) for the CASE concerned. In
the next rounds of corrections this ambiguity will be solved. Moreover, I can only imagine
an exclamatory context for such a rather rhetorical question-like utterance. I prefer the
third result.

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
APPENDIX 3
DECLARATIVES
Input
1 wahiya fī al-dāri.
2 taʿrifīnahu.
3 ʿindakum marīḍun.
4 man hādhā.
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu.
6 ʾayyu ʾinsānin ʾanta.
7 kam ḥafĳiẓta.
8 ʾilā ʾayna.
9 matā.
10 kayfa.
11 limādhā.
Results
1 wahiya fī ʾaddāri.39

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
sentence(topic) <alt 2:1>
pp <alt 1:1>
pp compl <alt 1:1>
39
In the fĳirst parse result, we are dealing with a topic-comment (topic comp) structure.
The second concerns a declarative realized in the form of an elliptic nominal sentence
with a head-postmodifĳier (pom) construction. In the next round of corrections we will
eliminate this intermediate layer by creating an elliptic_declarative value for the afffĳix vari-
able (SPECIES) of sentence type (s type).

art “ ʾad” [1]

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
sentence(elliptic_topic) <alt 3:1>
art “ ʾad” [1]

utterance <alt 1:2>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
topic comp(fem, sing) <alt 1:2>
40
Here we have an analysis result representing the structure of an elliptic declara-
tive, uniquely consisting of a comment with a head-post modifĳier realization, and an end
marker, of course.

art “ ʾad” [1]
2 taʿrifīnahu.41

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
sentence(pred) <alt 1:2>
rad(19) <alt 19:1>
“ʿ” [1]
rad(11) <alt 11:1>
“r” [1]
vow(2) <alt 2:1>
“i” [1]
rad(21) <alt 21:1>
“f ” [1]
41
This example we commented upon in the body of the text.
3 ʿindakum marīḍun.42

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
pp <alt 1:2>
prep(place) “ʿinda” [1]
pp compl <alt 1:1>
nounphrase(def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 1:1>
np(pers, def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 1:1>
head(pers, def, masc, inplu, second, gen) <alt 19:1>
pers pronoun(masc, inplu, second, gen) “kum” [1]
topic(GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu) <alt 1:1>
np(nad, indef, GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu, third, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(nad, indef, GENDER, coll|dual|sing|explu, third, nom) <alt 12:3>
adj base(norm, masc, sing) <alt 1:6>
adjecF(norm, masc, sing) “marīḍ” [1]
casemorph(norm, indef, masc, sing, nom) “un” [1]
DEF is(nad, indef ) <alt 4:1>
42
A straightforward result, it seems. However, the formal description of adjectives, a
subcategory of the nouns in the traditional Arabic language description I work with, some-
times resembles looking for the solution of a Sudoku puzzle.
4 man hādhā.43

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 9:1>
np(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 1:1>
head(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 8:1>
dem(masc, sing, nom) “hādhā” [1]

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
np(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, def, masc, sing, third, nom|invar) <alt 8:1>
dem(masc, sing, nom|invar) “hādhā” [1]
43
A fĳirst disambiguation of the occurrence of the lexical entry man, as well as for other
members of this subcategory, I obtained by declaring, that, in Arabic, some (possibly: the)
interrogative pronouns, as well as their homonyms (the indefĳinite pronouns) are always
indefĳinite. All depends on the context in which these pronouns occur. With that, part of
the ambiguity problem had been solved. Notwithstanding that, here we are confronted
with fĳive parse results for this test sample.
44
While in the fĳirst parse, we were dealing with a topic-comment realization, in the
second the order of these constituents is inverted.

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
pom(indef, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 4:6>
relcl(indef, masc, sing, nom) <alt 2:1>
rel comp <alt 1:1>
cl <alt 1:1>
STYPE(declarative) <alt 1:1>
np(min, def, masc, sing, third, CASE) <alt 1:1>
head(min, def, masc, sing, third, CASE) <alt 8:1>
dem(masc, sing, CASE) “hādhā” [1]
GENUM1 agreement is(masc, masc, masc, sing, sing, sing) <alt 1:1>
HEAD1 type is postmodifĳiable(min) <alt 1:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, invar) <alt 1:2>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, invar) <alt 9:1>
pom(indef, masc, sing, third, CASE) <alt 4:6>
relcl(indef, masc, sing, CASE) <alt 2:1>
rel comp <alt 1:1>
cl <alt 1:1>
45
The third, fourth and fĳifth parse results have in common that they are analyzed as
declaratives of the type elliptic_topic. In parses 3 and 4 the comment is missing, while in
parse 5 the topic is missing. In all cases we are dealing with a head-post modifĳier realiza-
tion, the post modifĳier being an asyndetical relative clause. In the next round of correc-
tions, I shall reconsider this description of alternatives.

CASE1 agreement is(invar, CASE, invar) <alt 4:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
pom(indef, masc, sing, third, nom) <alt 4:6>
relcl(indef, masc, sing, nom) <alt 2:1>
rel comp <alt 1:1>
cl <alt 1:1>
No parse for:
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu.46
6 ʾayyu ʾinsānin ʾanta.
46
A rather acceptable result since ʿalāma has been listed in the lexicon as an inter-
rogative adverbial, not occurring in the description of declaratives. The same holds for
examples 7–10. However, the kam in example 7 could also be interpreted as an exclama-
tory particle!

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
topic(GENDER, sing) <alt 1:1>
np(intn, indef, GENDER, sing, third, nom) <alt 4:1>
head(intn, def, GENDER, sing, third, nom) <alt 7:1>
casemorph(norm, def, GENDER, sing, nom) “u” [1]
postdet(indef ) <alt 1:1>
HEAD3 type is postdeterminable(intn) <alt 2:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
topic comp(GENDER, sing) <alt 1:2>
np(intn, indef, GENDER, sing, third, nom) <alt 4:1>
head(intn, def, GENDER, sing, third, nom) <alt 7:1>
casemorph(norm, def, GENDER, sing, nom) “u” [1]
postdet(indef ) <alt 1:1>
47
In the fĳirst parse, the personal pronoun ʾanta is analyzed as a comment and as a topic
in the second. However, since ʾanta is a defĳinite noun phrase marked for nominative case
value, I prefer to choose the second parse result, and to block the fĳirst.
HEAD3 type is postdeterminable(intn) <alt 2:1>

No parses for:
7 kam ḥafĳiẓta.
8 ʾilā ʾayna.
9 matā.
10 kayfa.
11 limādhā.48

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
pp <alt 1:2>
pp compl <alt 1:1>
nounphrase(indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 9:1>

utterance <alt 1:1>
base <alt 1:1>
s(basic) <alt 1:1>
48
By a secret path (np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen) <alt 1:1>), two results have
been obtained for this sample entry, only difffering in a distinct realization (gen versus
gen|invar) of its case value. The ambiguity in case realization should be eliminated. The
resulting unique parse result should be blocked, unless one chooses to accept an exclama-
tory rhetorical question-like input.

pp <alt 1:2>
pp compl <alt 2:1>
nounphrase(indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 1:1>
np(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 1:1>
head(min, indef, masc, sing, third, gen|invar) <alt 9:1>
APPENDIX 4
STATISTICS
1 parser statistics #
syntax rules 1401
syntax alternatives 1824
groups49 0
options 28
commits 0
lexicon rules 54
terminals 38
regexp matches 0
regexp skips 0
49
Figure 1: parser statistics.
2 interrogatives results
# data parses time/s penalty
1 wahiya fī al-dāri? 2 0.007 7
2 ʾa taʿrifīnahu? 1 0.036 10
3 hal ʿindakum 1 0.018 6
marīḍun?
4 man hādhā? 2 0.011 3
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu? 2 0.025 9
6 ʾayyu ʾinsānin ʾanta? 1 0.042 6
7 kam ḥafĳiẓta? 1 0.020 9
8 ʾilā ʾayna? 1 0.001 3
9 matā? 1 0.015 2
10 kayfa? 1 0.021 2
11 limādhā? 2 0.016 3
Totals 15 0.212
Average 1 0.014
Figure 2: parse statistics interrogatives.
49
I did not use ‘groups’, nor ‘commits’, regular ‘skip’ or ‘match’ expressions in the cur-
rent formal grammar. The use of groups might be useful for optimization purposes. The
‘commit’ operator may have had its longest time in the AGFL formalism. As far as regular
expressions are concerned, I should be convinced of their usefulness for the description
of Arabic. On the other hand, the ‘+’ operator is all-important.
3 declaratives results
# data Parses time/s penalty
1 wahiya fī al-dāri. 3 0.007 7
2 taʿrifīnahu. 1 0.025 9
3 ʿindakum marīḍun. 1 0.018 5
4 man hādhā. 5 0.013 3
5 ʿalāma tẚsafu. 0 0 0
6 ʾayyu ʾinsānin ʾanta. 2 0.053 6
7 kam ḥafĳiẓta. 0 0 0
8 ʾilā ʾayna. 0 0 0
9 matā. 0 0 0
10 kayfa. 0 0 0
11 limādhā. 2 0.016 3
Totals 14 0.132
Average50 1 0.009
Figure 3: parse statistics declaratives.

50
50
One should not, however, jump to a conclusion about any bias of this formal descrip-
tion towards ‘declaratives’.
INDEX OF ARABIC TERMS
ʿabqariyya 20–21 ḍaʿīf 130
adab 210–212, 215, 217, 257n ḍalāl 8
adawāt al-sharṭ 191 ḍamīm 41
adīb 214 ḍamīr 182
al-af ʿāl al-khamsa 187 ḍamma 191–192
af ʿāl al-qulūb 86 dānaq 221
af ʿāl qalbiyya 286 dār al-ʿiyār 244
af ʿāl al-taḥwīl 287 dawām 358–359, 368
aḥadiyya 368 daymūmiyya 358, 367
ahl al-bayt 367 dhamm al-nafs 359
ahl al-naẓar 38 dhāt 71, 74, 79–80, 83–84, 86, 88–92,
ahl al-uṣūl 326 96–97
aḥwāl 340, 360 dhawāt 74
ʿajam 19, 20n, 22 dhikr khafī 359
akhbār al-ʿarab 25 dhū 71, 74
alfāẓ mubhama 191 diʿāma 448
ʿalīm 355, 361 dirāya 32n
ʿamal 53, 65–66, 139, 144–145, 148, 161, dirham 34–35, 161, 221–224, 299
167–168, 191 dīwān al-makāyīl wa-l-awzān 244
ʿāmil 55, 183, 191
ʿāmil kharāj 226, 229–231, 242 fahrasa 33
amr 50, 53, 57, 61 fāʿil 18, 41n, 168, 187, 190–191, 259, 233, 401
ʿamūd al-tawḥīd 367 fanāʾ 359
ansāb 26 faṣāḥa 6, 11
– al-ʿarab 25 faṣīḥ 6n, 15, 260
ʿaqlī 58n fatḥa 191–192
ʿārifīn 360, 362–363 fĳiʿl 41, 52–53, 55, 57, 65, 67, 120, 132, 143,
ʿarūḍ 24n, 202, 206–207, 213, 258 150, 161, 168, 182, 185–188, 190
ʿaṣabiyya 230 – fĳiʿl ʿamal 168
ashrāf 231 – amr 53
al-asmāʾ al-ḥusnā 277 – mabniyy li-l-majhūl 191
ʿaṣr al-balāgha 506–507 – madḥ 58
ʿaṭf 50, 101–116, 168, 187 – muʿtall al-ākhir 186
awāʾil 197–217, 238, 347n – taʿajjub 57, 58n
ʿayn 71–72, 74, 79–80, 83–85, 90–91, 94, fĳiqh 51, 181, 202, 208, 210–212, 216–217,
96–97 445, 451
ayyām al-ʿArab 214–215, 417 fĳirāsa 360
ʿayyārīn 417 fuṣḥā 5
futūḥāt 418
bāb al-nubuwwa 367
baʿḍ min al-kull 82 ghaḍḍ al-ṭarf 362
badal 55, 57, 65, 81, 155, 187 gharīb 38, 89, 95, 201–202, 205–206, 208,
badīʿ 21 210, 215–216
balāgha 24n, 216, 445–446, 495–497, ghayb 361
506–507 ghayr inshāʾī 54–57
basāṭa 16 ghayr mustaqīm 10, 63, 122
bāṭin 59, 68, 250, 252, 345, 349, 354 ghayr ṣaḥīḥ 233n
bayān 34n, 78, 142, 503 ghayr ṭalabī 68
bidāʾī 20 ghazal 445, 450
554 index of arabic terms
ḥadīth 9–10, 35, 181, 197, 201–202, 205, – al-khawāṣṣ 342

208, 210–213, 215–217, 227, 228n, – al-raml 342n
232–240, 346, 356 infĳiʿāl 58n
– qudsī 237 insān kāmil 353
ḥakawātī 420 inshāʾ 49–68
ḥāl 129, 144, 187 – ṭalabī 51–52, 68
ḥalāl 358 inshāʾī 54–68
ḥall 448 īqāʿ 50–53, 65, 68n
hamzat al-waṣl 269 iqāma 41
ḥaqīqa 14, 81–82, 84 iqṭāʿiyyūn 436
ḥaqīqa Muḥammadiyya 340 iqtibās 448
ḥaqīqa wujūdiyya 340 iʿrāb 8, 16n, 164, 173, 186–190, 202,
ḥaqq 358–364 206–207, 253, 258
ḥaqq al-ḥaqq 391 – maḥallī 187, 191
ḥaraka 23 ishāra 50, 365, 448
ḥarām 358 ishkāl 360
ḥasan 10, 119–120, 124, 126–130, 132–135, ishrāq 360
141, 145, 147, 149–151, 168, 171 ishtirāk
ḥikmat al-ʿarab 11 – dalālī 328
ḥilm 358 – lafẓī 328
ḥisāb al-jummal 342 ism 58, 149–150, 160, 163, 182, 185, 187
ḥujja 249, 358, 366 – inna 187
ḥurūf al-hijāʾ 343, 346 – ishāra 272
ḥurūf muqaṭṭaʿa 343, 345 – kāna 187
ḥusn 58n, 120n, 128, 133, 149 – makān 137
– murtajal 272
ibtidāʾ 40, 145, 153, 191 – ẓāhir 191
idhan 43 isnād 62, 154, 198, 202, 206–207, 345, 367
iḍmār 56–57, 64, 131, 153, 155, 162–164, istifhām 67
166, 250, 252, 283 istiḥsān 34
iḍṭirāb 23 istikthār 59
iḍtirār 131, 144 iṣṭilāḥ 16
ighāna 361 istilḥāq 448
ighrām 448n iṣṭirāf 448
iḥāla 119, 128, 130, 149, 160, 448 istishhād 448
iḥāṭa 41, 94 istislām 360
ihtidām 448 istithnāʾ 43
iḥtimāl 59, 328n istiwāʾ 121
iḥtiyāṭ 41n istizāda 448
ijtilāb 448 ʿiwaj 121
ikhbār 58–60, 66–68, 157
iʿlān 252 jabbār 358, 363
ilghāʾ 146–148 jāhiliyya 506–507
ʿilla, pl. ʿilāl 12–13, 205n, 207–208 jāʾiz 37–38, 188
– jadaliyya naẓariyya 12 jamʿ 186
– qiyāsiyya 12, 17 jamīl 120, 130
– taʿlīmiyya 12 jarr 160, 166, 187
ʿilm 216, 236, 255, 361 jārr, majrūr 43, 57, 139
– al-ʿaqd 342 jawāb 153, 161
– al-ʿarabiyya 202, 208 jazāʾ 145, 161, 166
– al-awfāq 342 jazm 141, 187, 255, 256n, 258
– al-azal 353 jinās 327, 328n
– al-ḥadīth 236n jumla 40n, 61, 67, 182, 259
– al-ḥurūf 339–343, 348, 368 – murakkaba 185
index of arabic terms 555
– inshāʾiyya 62 māḍī 50–52, 67
– khabariyya 62, 67 madīḥ 449–450
jund 230, 232n, 241 maʿdūd 43
maf ʿūl
kadhib 54, 59, 63, 119, 124–125, 127, – bihi 65, 187
133–134, 170–171 – fīhi 187
kalām 35, 36n, 50–51, 54, 59–62, 65–66, – li-ajlihi 187
85–86, 119–132, 135, 137, 140–141, 149–152, – maʿahu 187
154, 158, 161, 164, 166, 170, 181, 185–186, – muṭlaq 39, 54n, 187
191, 202, 207, 257–258, 353, 373 maghāriba 32, 33n, 39, 44–46
kalima 50, 87, 184–185, 341, 353, 373 maghāzī 417–418
kam al-istifhāmiyya 58 majāz 81–82, 84
kam al-khabariyya 58 majrūr 43, 57, 139
kamāl al-ḥaqq 362 malāmat al-nafs 364
kasra 191–192, 60 mamlakat al-dīn 367
khabar 49–68, 111n, 129, 153, 161–162, 187, maʿnā pl. maʿānī 41n, 50–51, 56–57,
190, 259 59–62, 64, 66–67, 90, 122, 130, 133–134,
– ghayr inshāʾī 54–57 136–137, 140–141, 143, 149, 151–152, 154,
– inna 187 158, 163, 166, 171–172, 185, 188, 253, 260,
– inshāʾī 54–59, 62–63 325–328, 349, 359, 363, 370, 448
khabīth 120, 130 manāzil 340
khafḍ 255, 256n, 258 manqūl 272
kharṭ 223 manṣūb 43, 64, 187
khaṭaʾ 121n, 123, 125, 170 maqāmāt 251n, 340
khaṭāba 24n maʿrifa 79, 144, 157, 160, 163–164, 353
khaṭṭ al-raml 342 masʾala zunbūriyya 8
khifffa 17 maṣdar 40–41, 50, 53–57, 144–148
khuṭab 181 mashāriqa 32, 39
kināya, pl. kināyāt 58n mawaddat al-ḥaqq 364
mawālī 204n, 217
lafẓ 50–51, 54–55, 57, 62n, 64–67, 79, mawḍiʿ 61, 90, 131, 134, 137–138, 140, 144,
133–138, 140, 149, 166, 171, 185, 325, 149, 163–165, 171, 250, 252
326–328, 448n mithqāl 221n
laḥn 9, 125–126 muʿādala 17
– al-ʿāmma 9 muʿāmala pl. muʿāmalāt 340, 361
– al-khāṣṣa 9 muʿammar 215
lām al-ibtidāʾ 40 muʾannath 186
lām al-tabriʾa 42 mubāḥatha 33
laṭīf 353, 362, 373 mubham, ibhām 42–43, 141–142, 191
lawḥ al-fahm 367 mubīn 11
lawḥ al-nubuwwa 367 mubtadaʾ 121, 145, 153–154, 161–162, 182,
lawmat al-lāʾim 364 187, 190–191, 259
lāzim 42, 58, 64, 67 muḍāf ilayhi 65, 187
lugha 32, 50, 88, 90, 180–181, 184, 201, 203, muḍāf li-yāʾ al-mutakallim 187
205, 207, 209, 255 muḍāriʿ 50, 399
lughat al-ḍād 20 mudāwama 359
lughawī 20, 34, 199n mudhakkar 186
luṭf 362, 367 muḍmar, see muḍmar
mufrad 185–186, 327, 331
mā dāma 40–41 muḥāl, mustaḥīl 10, 119–136, 141, 149–152,
mā zāla 87 158–173, 255
maʿārif 340 muḥāṭ 41n
mabnī 153–154, 186, 191 muḥtasib 244
madhhab, pl. madhāhib 33–35, 39, 203 mujabbana 35
556 index of arabic terms
muʿjam 201, 205, 207, 346, 445 qawāʿid al-tawjīh 17

mujānasa 327, 328n qawī 130
mujūn 450 qayyūm 362
mukhbar ʿanhu 60 qilla 18
mukhbar bihi 60 qirāʾa, pl. qirāʾāt 33, 202, 209–213, 217,
mukhtaṣṣ 43 445
mulk 354, 363, 367–368, 373 qiyās 43, 201, 204, 207–210, 213, 253–255
mumkin 37 qiyāsiyya 12, 17
mumtaniʿ 37 quddūs 362
munādā 64–66, 187 qudra 362
munāzalāt 340 qurrāʾ 445
muqayyad bi-ḥarf 54n quwwa 362
muʿrab 186, 191
murakkab 185 rabāba 419
muṣḥaf 205, 497 radīʾ 120, 130
mushāhada 359–360 raf ʿ 129, 168–169, 187, 191, 255, 256n, 258
mushtarak 325–328 rafw 448
musnad 57, 62, 154 raḥim 372, 374
musnad script 271 raḥīm 22
mustaqīm 10, 119–122, 124–132, 134–137, rashāqa 16
149–152, 158, 171–172 rasm 41
– ghayr 10, 63, 122 raṭl 228
mustathnā bi-illā 187 rawādif 347
mutaraddid bayn 43 rubūbiyya 278
ruʾya 233, 359
nafs 56, 59, 61–63, 71–98, 156, 164–165,
185, 326, 354, 358–359, 361–364, 367, sabīl, pl. subul 58, 129, 160, 201, 203, 207
370n, 373 ṣabr 56, 360
naḥw 67, 135, 184–185, 201–205, 207–209, ṣafāʾ al-fĳikr 362
212, 215, 221, 250, 255–258, 260, 316n, sajʿ 419
446, 451 ṣāḥib al-kharāj 226, 229–231
naḥwī pl. naḥwiyyūn 34, 164, 173, 199, ṣaḥīḥ 121n, 129, 133, 161, 233
222, 249, 299, 315–316, 318, 377, 445 salām 360, 384
nāʾib fāʿil 40n, 187 salīqa 16
nakira 144, 149, 157, 160 samāʿ 41, 43–44, 86, 202, 206–207,
naqḍ 131, 135, 150, 158, 255 209–210, 214–215
naṣb 15, 65, 166, 168, 187, 250, 253, 255, ṣamad 360, 367, 504
256n, 258 ṣarāfĳim 332
nasīb 450 ṣarfamiyya 332
naʿt 187, 191 sayyid 360, 383, 384
nawāsikh 287n shādhdh 131, 202, 206, 207, 214
naẓar 33, 38, 63, 77 shawāhid al-ḥaqq 360
naẓm 448 shiʿr ʿamūdī 400
nidāʾ 64, 67, 191 shiʿr taʿlīmī 449
nisba 52n, 221, 223n, 232n, 339n, 451 shuʿūbī 215
nuʿūt al-iḥāṭa 41 shuʿūbiyya 19–20, 22, 27
ṣidq 54, 59, 63, 360
qabḍa 362 ṣifa 59, 129, 144, 156, 163, 168, 325n, 349,
qabīḥ 10, 119–121, 123–128, 130–138, 374
141–143, 145, 147, 149, 151, 168–169, 171, ṣīgha, pl. ṣiyagh 258, 332
173, 260 ṣīghamiyya 332
qābiḍ 362 ṣila 41
qalb 156 silsila 448
qāmūs 346 sīra 237
index of arabic terms 557
– shaʿbiyya 413–437 tawakkul 358
ṣirāʿ lughawī 20 ṭawāliʿ al-ḥaqq 361
sirr al-nubuwwa 367 ṭawīl 112–113, 399
sūʾ al-ẓann bi-l-nafs 361 tawkīd 41n, 59, 85, 186–187
sukūn 191–192 tawqīf 16
sunna 202, 341, 358 tawqīr al-muṣṭafā 364
tayaqquẓ 357
taʿaddud maʿnawī 328 tayhūhiyya 357, 364
taʿadhdhur taḥrīk 191 thanāʾ 358
taʿajjub 57, 58n, 63n thawāb 358
tābiʿ, pl. tawābiʿ 186–187, 191 thiqa 235, 358
tābiʿī; tābiʿūn 212, 233n, 235, 238n thiqal 17
taḍmīn 445, 448–452 thubūt 358
tafahhum 33 ṭilasm 342
tafaqquh 33
tafkhīm 270–271, 370n ukhuwwa 22
tafsīr 33, 181, 211, 228 ʿulamāʾ 208n, 348
tafwīḍ 358 ulūhiyya 368
ṭahāra 361 ʿulūm al-khalq 361
taḥdīd 67 umma 11, 20, 22
tajnīs 327, 328n ʿurfī 58n
tajwīd 180 urjūza 449
takhrīj 41 uṣūl al-fĳiqh 44, 445
takthīr 58–59, 62 uṣūl al-naḥw 31n
ṭalab 50–51, 61–63, 68
ṭalabī 51–52, 68 waḍʿ 268, 327
taʿlīl 11, 26, 446n wajh 74, 80, 121, 128, 141, 172, 205
taʿlīq 33 waḥdāniyya 364, 367
– lafẓī 448 wāḥidiyya 364
– maʿnawī 448 waḥy 16, 364
– naẓmī 448 – al-ilhām 364
talqīn 32, 36 – al-mushāfaha 364
tamannī 67 – al-qadhf wa-l-ilqāʾ 364
tamaththul 448 – al-wasāʾiṭ 364
tamīma 342 wājib 37–38, 64
tamthīl 126, 139, 448 waqt 84, 90, 141, 360
tamyīz 187 watid mafrūq 400
tanzīh al-ḥaqq 363 watid majmūʿ 400
taqdīr 62, 64, 67, 252, 283, 446n waʿẓ 450n
taqlīd 182 wilāyat al-awliyāʾ 364
ṭarīqa 203 wujūd 50–51, 59, 112, 340
tark al-hawā 364 wurūd 364
tark al-tazyīn 359
taṣawwur 33 ẓāhir 191, 252, 345, 349, 354, 361
taṣfĳiyat al-qulūb 361 zāʾirja 342
tashjīr 43n zīnat al-dunyā 359
taslīm 358 zindīq 213
taṣrīf 201, 204–205, 207, 209, 214–215, 217 zuhd 359
tawahhum 357 zujāj 221, 223
INDEX OF PROPER NOUNS
Abān b. Abī ʿAyyāsh 371 Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī 34, 37n, 38–42,

ʿAbbās, Iḥsān 222n 45n
ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-Mahdawī, see Mahdawī Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī 260n
ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq al-Ishbīlī, see Ishbīlī Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī 347
ʿAbd al-Malik b. Marwān 8–9, 225, 234, Abū Hurayra 237n
238, 240, 257n Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad b.
ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib 274 al-Sarī 221
ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī, see Jurjānī Abū Jaʿfar al-Rāzī 375
ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Kūhanī, see Kūhanī Abū l-Khaṭṭāb 165
ʿAbd al-Qays 7 Abū Madyan 340
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Ḥātim 375 Abū Muḥammad al-Jurayrī, see Jurayrī
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Hurmuz 209–210, 212 Abū Muḥammad al-Yazīdī 254n
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Mūsā 210–211, 216 Abū l-Mukhāriq 231n, 237n
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Zajjāj, see Zajjāj Abū l-Muṭahhar al-Azdī, see al-Azdī
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Zajjāj, see Zajjāj Abū Naṣr Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī,
ʿAbd al-Tawwāb, Ramaḍān 349 see Iṣfahānī, Abū Naṣr
ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAbbās 345 Abū Naṣr al-Sarrāj, see Sarrāj
ʿAbdallāh b. Abī Isḥāq 213 Abū Nuʿaym 233n
ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAlāʾ b. Zabr 237 Abū l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b.
ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAlī, see Sarrāj Isḥāq 221
ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAlī al-Sarrāj, see Sarrāj Abū l-Qāsim al-Baghdādī, see Baghdādī
Abdul Latif al-Shafĳie, H.M. 354 Abū l-Qāsim al-Bazzāz, see Bazzāz
Abharī 356, 361 Abū Saʿīd al-Anṣārī, see Anṣārī, Abū Saʿīd
ʿAbs 216 Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz, see Kharrāz, Abū
Abū ʿAlī al-ʿAṭṭār 372 Saʿīd
Abū ʿAlī al-Fārisī, see Fārisī, Abū ʿAlī Abū Saʿīd al-Khudrī 347, 372
Abū ʿAlī al-Qālī, see Qālī Abū Sālim Muḥammad b. Ṭalḥa 339n
Abū l-ʿĀliya 375 Abū Sufyān al-Anṣārī, see Anṣārī, Abū
Abū l-ʿAmarras 229, 241, 243 Sufyān
Abū ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlāʾ 120n Abū l-Ṭayyib 211–216
Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī 9, 202, 206–208, Abū l-Ṭayyib al-ʿAkkī 383
210–212 Abū ʿUbayda 210–211, 215, 216n, 249
Abū Bakr al-Dahhān 34 Abū Umāma al-Bāhilī Ṣudayy b. al-ʿAjlān
Abu Bakr Efffendi 178 237n
Abū Bakr Khaṭṭāb b. Yūsuf al-Māridī 45n Abū ʿUthmān al-Ḥīrī 364
Abū Bakr al-Khawāshī, see Khawāshī Abū Zayd al-Anṣārī, see Anṣārī, Abū Zayd
Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. Abū Zayd al-Hilālī 432–434
Muḥammad b. Quraysh 371 Abū Zurʿa l-Dimashqī 228n, 230, 386
Abū Bakr b. Ṭāhir 385 Académie de Langue Arabe du
Abū Bakr b. ʿUmar Ibn al-Daʿʿās al-Fārisī, Caire 328, 335
see Ibn al-Daʿʿās al-Fārisī Adam 348, 355, 368, 372, 392, 502
Abū Bakr al-Warrāq, see Warrāq, Abū Bakr Ādam b. Abī Iyās 375
Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar b. Aḥmad al-Baghdādī, Adfuwī 33n
see Baghdādī, Abū Ḥafṣ Africa, African 276n
Abū Ḥāmid 211–214, 216 North 304, 307, 312, 314, 320, 339, 432
Abū Ḥanīfa 35 South 177–178, 183, 188, 192
Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Maymūn al-Idrīsī 447 Afrikaans 177–182, 188–192
Abū al-Haydhām 243 Agha, S. S. 19
index of proper nouns 559
Ahlwardt, Wilhelm 420 ʿAmmār al-Kalbī 253, 255, 257

Aḥmad b. al-ʿĀqil al-Dīmānī, see Dīmānī ʿAmr al-Kalbī 253n, 257n
Aḥmad al-Danaf 417, 419, 427, 436 ʿAmr al-Makkī 351n
Aḥmad b. Fāris, see Ibn Fāris ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān al-Makkī, see Makkī
Aḥmad b. al-Maqqarī al-Tilmisānī, see Andalus 31–46
Tilmisānī Anderson, John M. 288
Aḥmad b. Nāṣir al-Bāʿūnī, see Bāʿūnī, Anghelescu, Nadia 71, 81n, 84n, 92n
Aḥmad b. Nāṣir Anīs, Ibrāhīm 20n
Aḥmad b. Naṣr 371 ʿAnnāba 339
Aḥmad Pasha al-Aqwāṣī 426 Anṣārī, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Ṭayyib 271n
Aḥmad Zarrūq, see Zarrūq, Aḥmad Anṣārī, Abū Saʿīd 372
Aḥmar, ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak 209, 211, Anṣārī, Abū Sufyān 233n
214–215 Anṣārī, Abū Zayd 121, 256
Ahrens, W. 339n Anṣārī, Ibn Hishām 51, 54–55
ʿĀʾisha bint Ibn ʿAbd al-Hādī 451 Anṣārī, Muḥammad b. Muhājir 237n
Åkesson, Joyce 183n, 205n Anṣārī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdullāh 43
al-Akhfash al-Akbar 209, 211, 214 ʿAntar 417–419, 432, 437
al-Akhfash al-Awsaṭ 170, 210–211, 215–216, Anūshirwān 428
257 Anwar, Mohamed Sami 9n
Akhṭal 251n Apollo of Claros 274n
Āl al-Muhayyā 15 Aqṭāʿ al-Baṣrī 352
ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Hindī, see Hindī, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Arabia 5–6, 307, 311, 314–315, 496–497,
Aladdin, B. 343 500
Alāhā 270, 271n, 274 Central 6, 8, 11, 14, 26, 271
Album, Stephen 234n North 268–269
Aleppo 273, 313, 437, 451 South 232, 234, 242, 417
Alexander the Great 417 ʿArabiyya 34n, 87, 89, 181, 184–185,
Alexandretta 22 201–204, 207–209, 212
Alexandria 186, 212 Aramaic 270, 273–274, 319
Algar, H. 343n, 352n Arazi, Albert 275n
Algeria, Algerian, Algiers 36n, 305, 306n, Arberry, A. J. 343n, 364n
313–315, 339 Aristotle 80
ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib 199, 345, 348, 370, 375, Armenia 223n
417 Arnaldez, R. 366n
ʿAlī Āghā al-Warrāq, see Warrāq, ʿAlī Āghā Arsūzī, Zakī 20–23, 26
ʿAlī b. Ḥusayn 377 Artuk, Ibrahim 225n, 226n
ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak al-Aḥmar, see Aḥmar, Aryans 276
ʿAlī b. al-Mubārak Ashʿar 214
ʿAlī b. Muḥammad 58n Asin Palacios, M. 366n
ʿAlī Zaybaq 417, 419, 427, 432, 436–437 ʿAskarī, Ḥusayn b. al-Qāsim 347n, 377
Allāh 62n, 80, 114–115, 267–277, 307, 347, Asrūshanī, ʿAbd al-Sayyid b.
349, 358, 364, 366–367, 372–374, 504 Aḥmad 344n
Allāhā 270 Astarābādhī, Faḍlallāh 343n
Allāt 268, 272 Astarābādhī, Raḍī al-Dīn 51–53, 58–60,
Allen, R. 418n 67
Almohade 32 ʿAtīk 214
Almoravid 32, 37 ʿAṭiyya 372
Alvarez, L. 37n, 47n ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn 351
Amberber, Mengistu 286n Austin, John Langshaw 50–54, 56, 275n
Ambros, Arne A. 270, 271n Australia 32n, 276n
America 31, 33n, 46, 276n, 339n Awzāʿ 242
Amīn, Muḥsin 450n Awzāʿī 238n
Amīr Ḥamza 417–419, 428–430 Ayoub, Georgine 119, 121n, 125n, 131n,
ʿĀmir b. Ludayn 238, 240 139n, 144, 145n, 148n, 151n, 167n
560 index of proper nouns
Aytürk 22n Bayhaqī, Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad 250n

Azd 7 Bayt al-Balāṭ 243n
Azdī 260, 262n Bayt Qūqā 243n
Azhar 180, 182, 184, 422–424 Bazzāz 377–378, 384, 389
Azmeh, Aziz 267, 498 Beaucamp, Joëlle 270n
Beck, Edmund 205n
Baalbaki, Munir 341n Becker, Adam H. 501n
Baalbaki, Ramzi 35, 49, 96n, 126, 139n, Beirut 425, 427, 436
145n, 148n, 204–206, 213n, 249, 251n, Bell, J. N. 277n, 354n
283n, 272, 316, 341, 445, 446n, 452, 511 Bellamy, J. 206n, 342
Bābānī 447n, 448n Belnap, R. Kirk 310–311
Badawi, Elsaid 84n, 86n, 317n, 512n Ben Cheneb, Mohamed 49
Badr al-Dīn Muḥammad, see Ibn Ben Mrad, Ibrahim 325, 331–333
al-Nāẓim Berber 37, 44–45, 447n
Badr Nār 417 Berger, L. 344
Baghawī, al-Ḥusayn b. Masʿūd 237n Bergsträsser, G. 339n, 342n
Baghdad 3n, 31–34, 202, 211–212, 222, 224, Berlin Academy of Sciences 495
255, 362, 367n, 377, 387 Bernards, Monique 197, 199n, 203n, 215n,
Baghdādī, Abū Ḥafṣ 356 217n
Baghdādī, Abū l-Qāsim 260 Bettini, Lidia 60n
Baghdādī, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad 232 Bible 498–499
Bahrain 7 Biesterfeld, Hans-Hinrich 43n
Bahrām 417 Bijāya 36n
Bakhtin, M. M. 424 Bin Sarāy 268n
Bakr 250, 252 Birkeland, Harris 303n
Baʿl 272 Bisṭāmī, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b.
Balkh 215 Muḥammad 339n
Ballūṭī, Abū l-Ḥakam Mundhir 34 Bisṭāmī, Abū Yazīd 353
Balog, Paul 225n, 226n, 240 Blachère, R. 76, 108n
Baltimore 227 Blake, Barry J. 287n, 290n
Bannā, Muḥammad Ibrāhīm 249n, 250n, Blau, J. 270n, 271n, 303n, 309n, 314, 415n
254n, 256n Bohas, Georges 15, 16n, 121n, 204n, 213n,
Bantu 177 399, 402n, 406n, 412n, 420, 422n, 425n,
Banū ʿĀmir 434 427n, 437
Banū ʿAwf 216 Bo-Kaap 180
Banū Ḥanīfa 7 Bombay 339n
Banū Hilāl 432–433 Bosworth, C. E. 43n
Banū Mārima 222 Bourdieu, Paul 277n
Bardakçı, M. N. 366n Böwering, Gerhard 339, 344–345,
Bartallī al-Walātī 450n 351–353, 366–367
Barth, Jakob 319n Bowersock, Glen W. 270n
Bartsch, Renate 4n Boyarin, Daniel 497
Bashir, S. 343n Bravmann, M. 317–319, 366n
Bashshār b. Abī Sayf 237n Bresnan, Joan 285
Bāsiṭiyya Khānqāh 451–452 Brinton, Laurel J. 92
Baṣra 7n, 8, 31, 36, 39–40, 44n, 120n, 202, Britain 31, 32n
206–215, 217, 237n, 250n, 365, 495 Brockelmann, Carl 43n, 259n, 274–276,
Baṣrī (Ṣadr al-Dīn) 251n 447n
Basūs 417 Bruinessen, Martin van 183n, 184n
Baṭalyawsī 34 Brustad, Kirsten 304n
Bauer, H. 342n, 347n Buburuzan, Rodica 60n
Bāʿūnī, Aḥmad b. Nāṣir 451 Bühler, Karl 63
Bāʿūnī, Ibrāhīm 445, 450–452 Buḥturī 251n
Bayhaqī, Abū Bakr 234n, 236n Bukhārā 36
Bukhārī, Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl 228n, Dāraquṭnī, ʿAlī b. ʿUmar 234n

229n, 233, 234n, 236–238 Dārim 215
Bulliet, Richard 208 Dārimī 302n
Būnī, Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad 339, 341 Darius II 417
Byzantines 7, 225, 257 Davids, Achmat 177n, 178n, 180
Dāwūd b. Abī Hind 237n
Cachia, P. J. E. 342n Dāwūd b. Sulaymān al-ʿAṭṭār 371
Caetani, Leone 272n Daylam 213, 428
Cairo 32–34, 36, 42, 180–181, 184, 216, 311, Daylamī, Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī 354n, 366
339n, 418, 436, 452, 497 Dayr Zakkā 242
Canova, Giovanni 413n, 418n Debove, Josette-Rey 330n, 336n
Cantarino, Vicente 301n, 512n, 516n, 530n Debusmann, Ralph 512n
Cape Colony 177–178, 180 Deniya 45
Cape Town 177n, 181, 192 Diem, Werner 300n, 302n, 303
Cape-Malays 177, 188 Dietrich, A. 339n
Carboni, S. 224 Dīmānī, Aḥmad 449
Carra De Vaux, B. 342n, 347n Ditters, Everhard 511, 513n
Carter, Michael 10, 31, 34n, 35n, 47n, 65n, Djafar, Abdel-Kader 226n
84n, 86n, 120–121, 128, 130, 131n, 134–135, Douglas, E. H. 366n
138, 185n, 203n, 204n, 206n, 213n, 303n, Doutté, D. 339n
316, 317n, 445, 447n, 512n Dozy, R. 223
Casalis, D. et J. 329n, 337n Drewes, Gerard W. J. 183n
Casanova, Paul Copts 227n Dubois, C. 101n, 330n
Chabot, J.-B. 268n Dubois, J. 329, 330n
Chafe, Wallace L. 287n Dūma 242
Chejne, Anwar 6n, 12n, 16n, 17n, 21n Durayd b. al–Ṣimma 409
Chelhod, Joseph 74, 276n Dutch 177–178, 180, 183–184, 189–190, 511,
Chiabotti, Francesco 447n 528
Chinese 197
Chinoiserie 197 Ebrahim, Mogamat Hoosain 180n
Chittick, W. C. 340n Eco, Umberto 267n, 274n
Cobb, Paul M. 243n Edwards, John 26n
Colin, G.S. 342n, 346n Egypt (Miṣr) 180–181, 216, 226, 228, 231,
Combe, Étienne 273 233n, 239, 268n, 305, 314n, 377–378, 384,
Connelly, Bridget 413n, 433n 421–424, 428, 436, 447n, 451
Constantine Zureik 21n Egyptian 7, 31, 198n, 212, 255, 304–305,
Cooper, Robert Leon 3n 307, 310, 313, 419, 426–427, 432, 436
Cordova 31–32, 34, 36, 45n El Elyon 276n
Corpus Coranicum 495 El Olam Elisséef, N. 276n
Corriente, Federico C. 309 Eldada, Katharina 226n, 227n
Costaz, L. 259n El-Shamy, H. M. 414n
Ctesiphon 428 El-Zohairy, Nabil 328n
Curiel, R. 225n Enderwitz, S. 19n
Endreß, Gerhard 205n
Dadanitic 269 Ephrem of Nisibis 501
Ḍaḥḥāk b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿAzrab Ethiopia 7
al-Ashʿarī 238n Étienne, Combe 273n
Dahlgren, Sven-Olof 46n Ettinghausen, Richard 225n, 226n,
Damascus, Dimashq, Damas 3n, 34, 49, 228–231
228–231, 235, 237–243, 275, 420, 425–426,
447, 451 Fahd, T. 339n, 341n, 342n, 345n
Damīrī, Kamāl 451 Fairuz 311
Damīrī, Muḥammad b. Mūsā 226n Fākihī 233n
Daqqāq, Abū ʿAlī 351 Fārābī, Abū Naṣr 6n, 7, 38, 79, 366
Farghaly, Ali 513n Goodwin, Tony 234n

Farghānī, al-Shihāb Ḥasan 451 Goosens, E. 342n
Fārisī, Abū ʿAlī 16, 45–46, 446n Graham, W. A. 347n
Farrāʾ, Abū Zakariyyā 6n, 251n, 260–261 Gramlich, R. 348n
Fārūq, see ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb Granada 33, 40
Fasawī, Abū Yūsuf 228n, 232n, 233n, Green, Georgia M. 286
236n Greek 7, 16, 24n, 43, 80, 259n, 268, 270n,
Faure, A. 341n 273, 506
Ferguson, Charles A. 3n, 5n, 270n, 271n, Gril, D. 341n
303n Grohmann, Adolf 273n
Fillmore, Charles 287n, 288 Gruber, Jefffrey S. 287n
Firănescu, Daniela Rodica 58n Gruendler, B. 341n
Fīrūz Shāh 417, 419 Guillaume, Jean-Patrick 15, 16n, 103n
Fīrūzābādī 34n–36n, 347n Gujarati 178
Fleisch, Henri 49, 76n, 213n, 267n, 269n, Gully, Adrian 84n, 86n
343n
Fleischer, Heinrich Leberecht 52 Haarmann, Ulrich 22n
Fodor, Janet Dean 275n Ḥadītha 242–243
Frajzyngier, Reuland 72n Ḥaḍramawt 213
Frege, Gottlob 287 Ḥafnī Bak Nāṣif 184, 186
Friedrich, Paul 4n, 27n Haiman, John 73
Frolov, Dmitry 44n Ḥajjāj b. Yusuf 9, 225n, 226n, 238, 240
Fück, Johann 125n, 253n, 500n Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh 417n
Furāt b. Sulaymān 371 al-Ḥākim al-Naysābūrī 229n, 236n
Fusṭāṭ 239 Ḥallāj, Ḥusayn b. Manṣūr 348, 350–356,
361, 365, 368, 373, 386, 392
Gabrieli, Giuseppe 272n Hamadhānī, Badīʿ al-Zamān 251n
Gardes-Tamine, J. 330n Ḥamādī, Muḥammad Ḍārī 10n
Gardet, L. 347n Ḥamdūn 36
Gast, Volker 71n, 93n Hämeen-Anttila, J. 272n
Gaudin, F. et L. 330n Ḥammād al-Rāwiya 209, 211, 213–214
Gavillet Matar, Marguerite 414n, 426n, Ḥamza b. ʿAbdallāh 417
435n, 437 Hamzé, Hassan 101, 103n, 107n, 108n
Gee, John 310 Ḥarastā 242
Geiger, Abraham 499 Ḥarb, Ṭalāl 415n
Gelder, Geert Jan van 249, 446n Ḥarīrī, Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim 35n,
Gellner, Ernest 274n 448–449
Georr, Khalil 80 Ḥārith b. ʿAbdallāh b. Aws
Ghallāwī 449 al-Thaqafī 237n
Ghāmidī, see Abū l-Mukhāriq Haron, Muhammad 180n
Ghassān 7 Harrison, R. K. 259n
Ghassān b. Rufayʿ 250n Hartwig, Dirk 499n
Ghazlani, A. 447n Hārūn b. Mūsā 209, 211, 214
Ghazwat al-Arqaṭ 417 Hārūn al-Rashīd 215
Ghazzī 447n Ḥasan, ʿAbbās 301n
Ghersetti, Antonella 60n Ḥasan b. Saʿīd 371
Ghūṭa 230–231, 235, 241–243 Hāshimī, Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā 356, 386
Gignoux, Ph. 225n Haspelmath, Martin 288
Gilliot, Claude 205n, 206n Ḥassān, Tammām 9n, 17
Gimaret, Daniel 268n Ḥassān b. Thābit 251n
Gladigow, f. 277n Hasselbach, Rebecca 319
Gobée, Emile 184 Hatay 22
Goldberg, Adele 284, 286–288, 291 Ḥātimī, Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad 251n
Goldziher, I. 20n, 341n, 347n Haugen, Einar 3n
Haussig, H. W. 268n Ibn Abī Ḥātim al-Rāzī 228n, 232n

Haven, Frederik Christian von 452 Ibn Abī Isḥāq 208, 211, 213, 233n
Ḥawāriyyūn 391 Ibn Abī Mulayka 372
Haytham b. ʿImrān 230n Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ 108n
Haythamī 234–235, 451 Ibn Abī Shayba 198, 236n
Haywood, John A. 209n Ibn ʿAjība 447
Ḥayy b. Yaqẓān 35 Ibn Ājurrūm 183, 447
Healey, John 274n Ibn al-Akhḍar al-Ishbīlī 42
Heath, Peter 413, 418n, 431n, 432n Ibn al-Anbārī, Abū l-Barakāt 18, 34,
Hebrew 259, 272, 319, 320n, 346, 499, 504 211–216, 254n, 256n, 269f
Heck, Paul 4n Ibn al-Anbārī, Muḥammad b.
Heinrichs, Wolfhart 327n, 342n al-Qāsim 20
Herbert, Patricia 192n Ibn al-ʿArabī 340–341, 343, 353
Hernández, Miguel Cruz 35n Ibn ʿAsākir 229–239, 241, 243n
Hierapolitan 274n Ibn al-Aslamī 33
Ḥijāz 7, 184, 212, 237n, 238, 271, 273, 316 Ibn ʿAṭāʾ al-Adamī 348, 354–357, 360–361,
Ḥimṣ 230n, 232, 234, 237, 239–240, 363, 372, 377–378, 384–385, 389
242–243, 372 Ibn al-Athīr 221n, 223n, 226n, 232–234,
Ḥimyar 232, 234, 429 237n, 242n
Ḥimyarī 232n Ibn Bābashādh 42
Hind bint ʿUtba 409 Ibn Bājja 35
Hindī, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn 234n, 237n Ibn Barrajān 341
Hinz, Walter 221n Ibn Bawwāb 347n
Hippo 339 Ibn al-Bayṭār 223n
Ḥīra 271 Ibn al-Daʿʿās al-Fārisī 258
Hirschfeld, H. 342n Ibn Durayd 20, 25, 222n, 268n
Hishām b. ʿAbd al-Malik 229–231, Ibn al-Faraḍī 216n
241–243 Ibn Farḥūn 216n
Hishām b. Ismāʿīl al-Makhzūmī, see Ibn Farighūn 43, 47n
Makhzūmī, Hishām b. Ismāʿīl Ibn Fāris 20, 38, 60n, 69n, 249, 325–326,
Hoedemaekers, Iris 177–180 446n
Höfner, Maria 259n Ibn Ḥabīb 275n
Homs, see Ḥimṣ Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī 211–214, 229–230,
Honigmann, E. 239n 232–235, 237n, 238n
Hoogland, Jan 511n, 528n Ibn Ḥajar al-Haythamī 234, 235n, 451
Hopper, Paul 92 Ibn al-Ḥājib 59–63, 66, 108
Horodezky, S. A. 346n Ibn al-Ḥajjāj 260–261
Hospers, John 12n Ibn Ḥanbal 235n, 236n, 302n
Householder, Fred 16 Ibn Ḥawqal 223n
Hovav, Rappaport 289 Ibn Ḥazm 34, 211n, 213n, 237
Hughes, T. P. 342n, 347n Ibn Ḥibbān al-Bustī 212–214, 216n, 228n,
Humbert, Geneviève 32n, 36n, 37 232n, 235n, 236n
Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq 43 Ibn Hishām al-Anṣārī, see Anṣārī, Ibn
Ḥurūfĳiyya 343n Hishām
Ḥuṣrī, Abū l-Ḥasan 375 Ibn Hurmuz 209–210, 212
Ibn al-ʿImād 212n, 214n, 216n
Iblīs 351n, 502 Ibn Isḥāq 274n
Ibn ʿAbbās 345, 347, 371, 377 Ibn Iyyāz 35, 42n
Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr 236n, 250n, 253, 255–257 Ibn al-Jarrāḥ 255n
Ibn ʿAbd Rabbihi 249n, 251n, 256n Ibn Jinnī 15–16, 20–21, 23, 31n, 41n, 43, 46,
Ibn Abī ʿAbla 239n 81–82, 94, 253n
Ibn Abī ʿĀfĳiya 40 Ibn al-Kalbī 198
Ibn Abī ʿĀṣim Aḥmad b. ʿAmr Ibn Kathīr 236–238
al-Shaybānī 234n, 237n Ibn Kaysān 303n
Ibn Khaldūn 6n, 31–33, 342 Ibrāhīm b. al-ʿAlāʾ Zabrīq 372

Ibn Khallikān 211–214, 216n, 221n, 249n, Ibrāhīm al-Bāʿūnī, see Bāʿūnī,
251n, 256n, 347n, 446n Ibrāhīm 445, 450–452
Ibn al-Khashshāb 356, 385 Ibrāhīm b. Sulaymān al-Afṭas 237n
Ibn Khirāsh ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Iḥsān Ṣidqī al-ʿAmad 238n
Yūsuf 235n, 238n Ījī, ʿĪsā al-Ṣafawī 327
Ibn Khuzayma al-Naysābūrī 236n Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ 38
Ibn Ludayn, see ʿĀmir b. Ludayn ʿIkrima 377
Ibn Maḍāʾ al-Qurṭubī 34, 38–39, 249, Ilāh 267, 268–270, 273
446n Īliyā Abū Māḍī 112
Ibn Maʿīn 34, 38–39, 249, 446n India 7, 177
Ibn Mājah 235n Indian 7, 178
Ibn Mākūlā 229n, 232n Indonesian 177
Ibn Mālik 42, 49–52, 54, 56–58, 60, Iran 26, 417
62–66, 183, 445, 448–452 ʿIrāqī 451
Ibn Mandah 233 Irwin, Robert 413n
Ibn Manẓūr 249n, 268n, 269n, 272n, 347n ʿĪsā b. Maryam (Jesus) 347, 364, 372, 377,
Ibn Masarra 365–366 391, 495, 505
Ibn Māsawayhi 43n ʿIṣām 375
Ibn Masʿūd 372 Iṣfahānī, Abū l-Faraj 251n
Ibn Maʿṣūm 449n Iṣfahānī, Abū Naṣr 345, 356, 372–373, 378
Ibn al-Munāṣif 45 Isfarāyīnī, Abū ʿAwāna 236
Ibn al-Muʿtazz 448 Ishbīlī, ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq 235n
Ibn Muʿṭī 34–35, 40–43, 45 Iskandar, see Alexander the Great
Ibn al-Nadīm 214n, 275n, 350 Iskandariyya 185
Ibn al-Nāẓim 49, 56 Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad b. Muḥammad
Ibn Nubāta 260n, 449–450 al-Khallālī, see Khallālī
Ibn Qāḍī l-Jamāʿa 34 Ismāʿīl b. ʿAyyāsh 372
Ibn Qāḍī Shuhba 452 Ismāʿīl b. Muḥammad Ḥanīf
Ibn al-Qifṭī, see Qifṭī al-Azharī 180
Ibn Qutayba 211–214, 216n, 249–252, 275n Ismāʿīl b. Yaḥyā 372
Ibn Rashīq 327 Israelite 274, 276n, 277, 503
Ibn al-Rūmī 112 Istanbul 178
Ibn Saʿd 211n, 212n Iványi, Tamás 447n
Ibn al-Sarrāj, Abū Bakr 65n, 66 Iyād 7
Ibn Shākir 255n ʿIyāḍ b. Ghuṭayf al-Sakūnī al-Kindī 237n
Ibn Sīda 41n, 120n ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Zanjānī 183
Ibn Sīnā 326, 366n
Ibn Sinān al-Khafājī 12, 35 Jabbārīn, Muḥammad 250n, 254n, 257n
Ibn Sumayʿ 235n, 238n Jaʿfar al-Khuldī 360–361, 385
Ibn Taghrī Birdī 226n Jaʿfar, M. K. 365n, 366n
Ibn Ṭalḥa 32n, 38, 40 Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad Bāqir al-Tustarī, see
Ibn al-Ṭarāwa 37–39 Tustarī
Ibn Ṭufayl 35 Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq 365–368
Ibn Turka al-Iṣfahānī 343 Jāḥiẓ 77–78, 86, 126, 495–497, 500,
Ibn ʿUṣfūr 42, 46n, 108n 506–507
Ibn Walīd al-Mahrī 44n Jakobson, Roman 172, 412n
Ibn Wallād 31n, 34 Jamāl al-Dīn Yaḥyā al-Jazzār, see Jazzār
Ibn al-Wardī 449n Jamāl b. al-Shrāʾiḥī 451
Ibn Yaʿīsh, Abū l-Baqāʾ 55n, 56, 111n Jamīl b. Maʿmar 113
Ibrāhim (the Prophet) 301 Japanese 93
Ibrāhīm b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 372 Jarash 232n, 242
Ibrāhīm b. Abī ʿAbla Shamir Jawharī 120n, 451
al-Ramlī 237n, 239 Jawi script 178, 192
Jayyusi, Salma Khadra 31n Kharrāz, Abū Saʿīd 348, 356, 364, 374, 391
Jazarī, Shams al-Dīn 211–214 al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī 221n, 232n, 234n,
Jazzār 255, 259 236n, 237n, 344n
Jeddah 184 Khawāshī, see Abū Bakr al-Khawāshī 381,
Jefffery, A. 270n, 342n 383, 391
Jeppie, Shamil 192n Khazrajī, Ṣafī al-Dīn 229n, 232n
Jerusalem 239, 341, 502–503 Khidabb 36
Jesus, see ʿĪsā b. Maryam Khoisan 177
Jibāl 213 Khoury, R.G. 35n, 231n
Jisrīn 243n Khurāsān 202, 362, 387
Johnson, Samuel 26 Khushaim, Ali Fahmi 447n
Jones, A. 342n Khuzāʿa 274
Joseph, John Earl 5n Kilāb 431
Jove 275 Kisāʾī 202, 206–210, 215–216, 255, 258,
Jubayr b. Nufayr al-Sakūnī 237n 260–261
Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān 89, 95, 198n Knysh, A. D. 342n, 348n
Judhāma 7 König, Ekkehard 71n, 95
Jūdī b. ʿUthmān al-Mawrūrī 210–211, 216 Korea 36
Junayd 352, 356, 383 Koster, Kees 511n, 513n
Jundaba 431 Kouloughli, Djamel-Eddine 15, 16n
Jundī 21n Krone, Susanne 268n
Jurash 230n, 233n, 234, 242–243 Krotkofff, G. 346n
Jurashī, al-Walīd 229n, 232–233 Kūfa 8, 31, 209–215, 257, 428n
Jurayrī, Abū Muḥammad 348n, 356, 360, Kufan 7n, 39–40, 44n, 202, 206–207, 213,
383 215, 217, 445
Jurjānī, ʿAbd al-Qāhir 42, 60–61, 66n, 183, Kugel, James 496
326–327, 446 Kugle, Scott 447n
Jurjānī, al-Sharīf 58 Kūhanī, ʿAbd al-Qādir 447n
Juynboll, Gautier 198n Kunitzsch, P. 342n
Juzūlī 40n, 41n
Lafffan, Michael 183n
Kafawī, Ayyūb b. Mūsā al-Ḥusaynī 52 Lagane, R. 329n, 337n
Kaḥḥāla, ʿUmar 447n, 449n, 451n Lāh 269–271
Kahle, Paul 6–8 Lakhm 7
Kähler, Hans 180, 188n, 189n Lakofff, George 73, 75
Kaptein, Nico 183n, 184n Lane, Edward W. 75n, 203n, 223n, 346n,
Karimi-Hakkak, Ahmad 26n 418n, 419
Kassir, Samir 507 Larcher, Pierre 49–51, 54n, 58–60, 62n,
Kawwāz, Muḥammad Karīm 6n 63n, 67n, 68n, 267n, 511
Kellermann, Andreas 497n Leemhuis, Frederik 206n
Khafājī, Ibn Sinān 11–12 Lehmann, A. 330n
Khalaf al-Aḥmar 209, 211, 214 Lettinga 259n
Khālid b. Dihqān 237n, 238n Levantine 304, 307, 426–427, 432,
Khālid al-Qasrī 226n, 229, 241 436–437, 516n
Khalidi, Tarif 19n Levin, Beth 285, 286n, 288–289, 291
Khalīl b. Aḥmad 13–15, 19, 26, 108, 120n, Lewis, Geofffrey 22n, 26n
122, 124–125, 128, 134–135, 142–143, 161, Littmann, Enno 270n
164, 170, 173, 198, 201, 206, 209–211, 213, Lord, Albert B. 400n, 416, 419, 420n
216, 249, 267, 272, 318, 349, 399, 374 Lory, P. 343
Khallālī, Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad 372 Lyons, J. 330–331, 333n
Khamis, Elias 225n Lyons, M. C. 436, 413n, 414n
Khan, Mohammad-Nauman 269n
Khānlarī, P. N. 366n Macdonald, Michael 269n
Kharrat, Edouard 310n Madāʾinī 198
Madelung, Wilferd 234n, 235n, 239n Mejdell, Gunvor 5n

Mahdawī, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz 340 Melvin-Koushki, M. 343
Mahdi, Muhsin 426 Menocal, M. R. 31n
Mahduwayh 260n Meschonnic, H. 329n
Maḥmūd Afandī Ghamr 184 Mesopotamia 316
Maḥmūd b. Khālid 230n Messiah 310
Maghrib 31–34, 36, 39, 42–47, 314–315 Michon, J. L. 447n
Makdisi, George 33n Mihrawayh 260n
Makhzūmī, Hishām b. Ismāʿīl 238 Miles, George C. 225n
Makkī, Abū ʿAbdallāh 352 Milner, Jean-Claude 136n, 192n, 331,
Malaga 37 333n
Malay 177–178, 183–184, 188–192, 418 Milroy, James 4
Malaysia 177, 183 Milroy, Lesley 4
Mālik b. al-Rayb 275n Misʿar 372
Mamluk 225, 417 Miṣr 239
Mẚmūnī 256 Mizzī, Jamāl al-Dīn Abū l-Ḥajjāj
Manṣūr b. ʿAbdallāh al-Iṣfahānī, see Yūsuf 211–214, 216n, 229n, 230n,
Iṣfahānī, Abū Naṣr 232–236, 238n
Manṣūr al-Faqīh 356, 361, 386 Mohamed, Yasien 192n
Maqqarī, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad Montgomery, James 496
al-Tilimsānī 449 Morton, A. H. 224–227, 244n
Marcais, G. 305, 307n, 313, 339n Mosel, Ulrike 160n
Marcelaru, Adrian 286n Moses 362, 364, 388, 391, 495n, 503
Mardijckers 177 Mottahedeh, Roy 19n
Māriqa 222n Motzki, Harald 205n
Māriya 222n Moubarac, Youakim 267n
Marj Rāhiṭ 235, 237, 243 Mounin, Georges 101n, 328–329
Marogy, Amal 303n Moutaouakil, Ahmad 50n
Maróth, Miklós 204n Muʿādh al-Harrāʾ 209, 211, 214–215, 257n
Marrakesh 35 Muʿāwiya b. Abī Sufyān 233, 237n
Marrākushī, Muḥammad b. Yūsuf 449 Mubārak, Mubārak 328n
Martin-Berthet, F. 330n Mubārakfūrī, Muḥammad 234n, 236n
Martinet, André 17n Mubarrad, Abū l-ʿAbbās
Martinez-Gros, G. 32n Muḥammad 36n, 65–66, 221–222, 224
Marx, Michael 495n Muḥammad (The Prophet) 8, 25, 268,
Maryland 277 270n, 271, 273–274, 276–277, 347,
Marzolph, Ulrich 426n 361–362, 364, 370, 387–388, 390–391, 393,
Marzubānī Massey, K. 211–216, 249–252, 417–418, 421, 425, 495–496, 499–500,
254–257 503, 506
Masalha, Salman 275n Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh al-Rāzī, see Rāzī,
Mashriq 32, 216 Abū Bakr
Massignon, L. 74, 343, 345n, 351, 352n, Muḥammad b. ʿĀʾidh 230
354n Muḥammad ʿAlī Ṣubayḥ 436
Matar, Gavillet 414n, 426n, 435n, 437 Muḥammad b. ʿAwn 235n
Maṭlūb, Aḥmad 19n Muḥammad Bak Diyāb 184
Maʿtūq, Aḥmad 328n Muhammad Daqīq al-ʿĪd 422
Māzima 222n Muḥammad b. Jaʿfar b. Yaḥyā b.
Māzin 222n Razīn 372
Māzinī 215, 250, 446n Muḥammad b. Muhājir al-Anṣārī, see
McAulifffe, Jane Dammen 496n Anṣārī, Muḥammad b. Muhājir
Mecca (Makka) 6n, 7n, 39–40, 180, Muḥammad b. al-Qāsim b.
183–184, 216, 234, 273, 306, 313, 315–316, Mihrawayhi 259
340–341, 500, 502–504 Muḥammad b. Ziyād 371
Medina (Madīna) 31n, 210, 212, 237n, Muḥāsibī 348, 372
238n, 316, 500, 504–506 Muḥibbī, Muḥammad 447n, 449n
Mujārī 33 Palestine (Filasṭīn) 225n, 226n, 237–240

Muktafī 222 Palestinian 274
Mulūk al-Ṭawāʾif 32 Palladas 259n
Muqātil b. Sulaymān 278n Palmer, E. H. 525n
Murāmir b. Murra 347 Paoli, Bruno 400n, 402n, 409n
Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī 436 Parry, Milman 400, 416
Muṣṭafā Ṭumūm 184 Passeron, Jean-Claude 277n
Muʿtaḍid 222 Peled, Yishai 299n
Muʿtamid 222 Pellat, Ch. 496n
Mutanabbī 115 Persian 7, 12n, 16, 19, 192, 221n, 249, 339n,
Mutawakkil al-Laythī 251n 343n, 417–418, 426, 428
Muʿtazilī 44 Pharaoh 495
Mutlak, Albert Ḥ. 31, 34, 44 Picoche, J. 330n
Muẓafffar b. al-Faḍl al-ʿAlawī 253n Pielow, D. A. M. 339n
Pinault, David 426n
Nabaṭ 7, 255, 270n Pingree. D. 342n
al-Nābigha al-Dhubyānī 275n Pinker, Steven 283, 286n, 288, 291, 296n
al-Nābigha al-Ghallāwī 449 Popper, Karl 12, 13n
Næss, Åshild 285 Porkhomovsky, V. 267n
Nāfĳiʿ 202 Potter, David 274n
Naḥḥās 31n, 34–45 Prague school 46
Nahrabīnī, Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad 243n Prendergast 251n
Najd 306–307, 432–434 Pretzl, O. 342n
Najm Abū l-Futūḥ al-Saʿdī al-Dimashqī Prophet, see Muḥammad
al-Shāfĳiʿī 450n Psalms 501
Najm al-Dīn Ibn Ḥijjī al-Shāfĳiʿī 450
Najman, Hindy 501n Qāḍī, Wadād 221, 224n, 230n, 238n
Namir 7 Qālī, Abū ʿAlī 31, 36, 249n, 250n, 252
Nasāʾī, Aḥmad b. Shuʿayb 236n Qalfāṭ, Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā 259n
Naṣr b. ʿĀṣim al-Laythī 208, 210–211 Qaryat al-Fāw 271
Nau, François 270n Qāsim al-Sayyārī, see Sayyārī
Neuwirth, Angelika 495, 501n, 502n Qāsim b. Thābit 210–211, 216
Neuwirth, K. 502n Qāsim b. ʿUbaydallāh b. Sulaymān 222
Newman, John 289n Qāsimī, ʿAlī 328n
Nguyen, Martin Tran 446n Qāsyūn 452
Niebuhr, Carsten 452 Qāwuqjī 448
Nikitina, Tatiana 285 Qayrawān 31, 35, 202
Niklas-Salminen, A. 330n Qays b. Thaʿlaba 214
Nile 422 Qaysī, Nūrī Ḥammūdī 275n
Niobey, G. 329n Qifṭī, Jamāl al-Dīn Abū l-Ḥasan 32n, 36n,
Nishapur 344 211–216, 221n, 250n, 253–255, 257
Nisibis 501 Qsūs, Nāyif 226n
Niẓāmiyya 34 Quḍāʿa 7, 232n
Nöldeke, Theodor 342n, 500 Qudāma b. Jaʿfar 226n
Nuqṭawiyya 352 Quraysh 6
Nūr al-Anbārī 451 Qurayẓa 214
Nur al-Islam Masjid 180 Qurṭubī, Hārūn b. Mūsā 41n, 45n
Nūrbakhshiyya 343 Qushāshī 447
Nykees, V. 330n Qushayrī, ʿAbd al-Karīm b.
Hawāzin 348n, 351, 353n, 446–447
Odeh, Marwan 512n Qushayrī, Kulthūm b. ʿIyāḍ 229, 230n, 241
Orfali, Bilal 251n, 258n, 344, 351, 445 Quṭrabbul 255
Ott, Caludia 414n, 420n
Ottoman 178, 418, 426, 437 Rabāḥī, Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā 32, 36–37,
Owens, Jonathan 307 44–45
Rabb 272–273, 277–278 Saint Augustine 339

Rabīʿ 375 Saint-Dizier, Patrick 286n
Radhouane, N. 366n Sakhāwī, Shams al-Dīn 450n, 452
Raḍī al-Dīn al-Astarābādhī, see Sakkākī, Abū Yaʿqūb 61, 81
Astarābādhī, Raḍī al-Dīn Salama b. Nufayl al-Sakūnī 237n
Rāghib al-Iṣbahānī 257n Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb 421
Raḥmān 277, 372, 374 Ṣāliḥ b. Khalīl b. Sālim al-Taqī 451
Raidt, Edith H. 190n Ṣāliḥ, Ṣubḥī 328n
Raja Ali Haji 184 Samʿānī, Abū Saʿd 216n, 221n, 229n,
Ramla 237, 239, 240–241 232n
Rappaport Hovav, Malka 288–289 Ṣanʿāʾ 274
Rẚs al-Ghūl 417, 436 Sanni, Amidu 448
Rawwāfa 270n Saraqusta 216
Rāzī, Abū Bakr 348, 356, 375, 381, 383, 391 Ṣarāt 222
Razī, Fakhr al-Dīn 268 Sarrāj, Abū Naṣr 348n, 351, 352n,
Reckendorf, Hermann 301 355–356, 365–377, 383
Reconquista 31 Satan 502, 351
Regourd, A. 342 Saṭrā 242
Retsö, Jan 304–307, 313n, 317 Saudi-Arabia 181
Rey, Alain 336n, 329–330 Saussure, Ferdinand de 120
Rey-Debove, J. 330n, 336n Sauvaget, Jean 273n
Reynolds, Dwight F. 414n, 433n, 435n Sawyer, John F. A. 268n
Richards, D. S. 418n Sayf Bin Dhī Yazan 417–419, 429–430
Ricoeur, Paul 72 Sayyārī, Qāsim 348–349
Rida, Rashid 182 Sayyid, Fuʾād 344n
Rifffaterre, Michael 504, 505n Schiefffelin, Bambi B. 5, 9n
Robin, f. 273n Schimmel, A. 343
Rollinger, f. 272n Schladt, Matheus 71
Roman, André 102–104 Schwally, F. 342n
Rosenthal, Franz 33n, 198n, 342n, 506 Seale, M. S. 342n
Ruʾāsī 209, 211, 214 Searle, John R. 53n
Rubin, Uri 502 Seibert, Olaf 511n
Rūdhabārī, Abū ʿAlī 348n, 356–357, 361, Seidensticker, Tilman 75
377, 386 Sellheim, R. 349n
Rufayʿ b. Salama 249 Selms, Adrianus van 180
Rummānī, Abū l-Ḥasan 446n, 448 Selove, Emily 260n
Ruska, J. 342n Semaan, K. I. 366n
Rūzbihān Baqlī 348n, 367n Seville 34, 36, 38, 40, 42
Ryckmans, G. 268n Seyrig, Henri 274n
Ryding, Karin Christina 283, 285, 287 Sextus Empiricus 249
Sezgin, F. 36n, 45, 46n, 260n
Sābiq al-Barbarī 251n Shajarat al-Durr 422
Sabra, A. I. 342n Shajarī 15
Sachau, Eduard 273n Shaltut, Mahmud 182
Sadan, Arik 17n Shāmisī, Yūsuf Muḥammad 268n
Sadler, Louisa 285 Shams Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b.
Ṣafad 451 Muḥammad 451
Ṣafadī, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn 33n, 213n, 214n, 221n, Shapiro, Michael J. 26
249n, 255n, 257n, 260n, 449 Sharqāwī Iqbāl, Aḥmad 326n
Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Khazrajī, see Khazrajī, Ṣafī Shawkānī, Muḥammad b. ʿAlī 451n
al-Dīn Shayba b. ʿUthmān al-Qurashī
Saʿīd Aḥmad b. ʿĪsā al-Kharrāz, see al-ʿAbdarī 234
Kharrāz, Saʿīd Aḥmad b. ʿĪsā Shaybān 213, 431
Ṣāʿid b. al-Ḥasan al-Rabʿī 32 Shaybānī, Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad 51
Sheikh Ismail Ganief Edwards 177, Ṭāʾif 7

180–182, 192 Tāj al-Dīn al-Subkī, see Subkī, Tāj al-Dīn
Shiblī, Abū Bakr 348–349, 373 Ṭallāʾ al-Munajjim 35
Shinqīṭī, Aḥmad b. al-Amīn 449n Talmon, Rafael 9n, 167n, 212n, 213n, 316
Shīrāzī, Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad 366 Talmud 396n, 497
Shirbīnī 185 Tāmilī, Muḥammad b. Yūsuf
Sībawayhi 8n, 10, 25, 33, 36–37, 45, 53, 57, al-Marrākushī 449
81–82, 85, 88, 93, 104, 108n, 119, 121–127, Tanūkhī, Abū l-Maḥāsin 211–216, 221n
129–132, 135–137, 139, 141–147, 150–154, Taqī al-Dīn al-Subkī, see Subkī, Taqī al-Dīn
156, 159, 162, 165, 168–173, 213, 215, 249, Taylor, A. J. P. 33n
251–252, 260–261, 267n, 269n, 299–305, Taym 215
307–308, 311–318, 445, 446, 511 Tayob, Abdulkader 177n, 178n, 192n
Siemund, Peter 71n, 93n, 95 Tesnière, Lucien 287
Silvestre de Sacy 60n Testen, David 267n, 271n, 272n
Simon, Robert 273n Thaʿālibī, Abū Manṣūr 17, 249, 326, 446n
Simpson, Paul 415n Thābit b. Ḥazm 210–211, 216n
Sīrāfī, Abū Saʿīd 122, 134, 159n, 172, Thaʿlab, Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b.
211–214, 216n, 250–252, 254n, 256n Yaḥyā 260
Slyomovics, Susan 414n, 433n, 435 Thamudic 269, 270
Soltan, Usama 299n Thaqīf 7
Souissi, M. 342n Thibon, J. J. 344n
Sourdel, Dominique 268n Thomas, George 7n, 9, 24, 25n
Spain 33n, 36n Tibrīzī, Abū Zakariyyā 401n, 408–409
Spanish 31 Tikrītī 34
Spencer, Andrew 285 Tirmidhī, Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā 236n, 356
Spitta-Bey, Wilhelm 305, 313, 314n Todorov, Tvetzan 423n
Stell, Gerard 177n, 178n, 188–190 Toledo 57
Ṣubayḥī, Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥusayn 365 Toorn, K. van der 274n, 277n
Subkī, Bahāʾ al-Dīn 59 Traugott, Elisabeth Close 92
Subkī, Tāj al-Dīn 59 Trimingham, J. Spencer 270n
Subkī, Taqī al-Dīn 449, 450 Troupeau, Gérard 120n, 121n, 126n, 128n,
Suhaylī 35 134, 138n, 149, 204n
Sulamī, Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 339, Tunisia, Tunis 32–33, 42, 325, 339–340,
343–358, 365–368, 370, 375 432, 434
Sulaymān b. ʿAbd al-Malik 239 Tūnkī, Maḥmūd Ḥasan 451n
Suleiman, Yasir 3, 5, 6n, 8n, 11–13, 17n, Turkey 22, 26, 313
20n, 22n, 24n, 25n, 204–206 Turkish 22, 178, 249, 418, 426
Sulṭān Bak Muḥammad 184 Tustarī, Sahl 351, 358, 365–366, 385
Suyūṭī, Jalāl al-Dīn 7n, 33n, 37n, 38n,
40n, 51, 211–216, 221n, 249n, 254–256, ʿUbaydallāh b. al-Ḥabḥāb 231n
257n, 258n, 269n, 270n, 325, 326, 446n, ʿUbaydallāh b. Sulaymān 222
451n Ullmann, M. 267n, 278n, 339n
Syria 7, 22, 226, 228, 230–240, 241, 274, ʿUmān 7
275, 420 ʿUmar b. Abī Rabīʿa 76
Syriac 80, 120n, 259, 270–271, 320n, 501, ʿUmar b. Aḥmad b. Shāhīn 356, 377
506 ʿUmar b. Hubayra 226n
ʿUmar b. Muẓafffar b. ʿUmar Zayn al-Dīn
Ṭabarānī, Abū l-Qāsim 234n, 236n, 237n b. al-Wardī al-Maʿārrī 449
Ṭabarī, Abū Jaʿfar 228–231, 242n ʿUmar al-Nuʿmān 419
Tabūk 270n Umayyad 8, 19n, 31, 37n, 44, 225–228,
Taghlib 7, 417 230–231, 236, 238, 240, 244n, 417, 451
Ṭāha Ḥusayn 84 Umm Ḥabība bt. Abī Sufyān b. Ḥarb 233
Ṭaḥāwī, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad 232n, Umruʾu l-Qays 309
233n Urdu 178, 418
Urdunn 232, 242 Yahweh 274, 275n, 277

Usener, f. 277n Yaḥyā b. Maʿīn 235n
Yaḥyā b. Maʿmar 9
Valkhofff, Marius F. 177n Yaḥyā b. Yaʿmar 210, 212–213
Van Rensburg, M. C. J. 177n Yaʿlā b. ʿAṭāʾ al-ʿĀmirī 237n
Veccia Vaglieri, L. 345n Yamāma 7
Versteegh, Kees 3n, 4n, 7n, 8n, 11n, 13n, Yamānī 38n
38n, 46n, 52n, 120n, 121n, 124n, 125, 135, Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī 242n, 249n, 253–255,
173, 177, 179n, 197n, 204n, 205n, 209n, 257n, 212–216, 221–222, 232
212n, 213n, 221n, 445 Yazīd al-Naḥwī 377
Yazīd b. al-Walīd Yazīd III 228–230,
Wāfī, ʿAlī ʿAbd al-Wāḥid 328n 240n, 242
Wāḥidī, Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī 253n, 254n Yazīdī, Abū Muḥammad 254
Wajīhī 377 Yemen 7
Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 227–233, 235, Yoder, H. W. 366n
236n, 238n, 242–244 Yūḥannā b. Māsawayhi, see Ibn
Walīd b. Yazīd 9, 229 Māsawayhi
Walker, John 225n, 241n Yūnus b. Ḥabīb 41n, 124, 125, 142, 165
Walters Art Gallery 227–228 Yūnus b. Maysara b. Ḥalbas al-Aʿmā 237n
Wansbrough, John 500 Yūsuf b. ʿUmar 226n
Warrāq, Abū Bakr 356, 359, 364, 381, 383,
391 Zabad 273
Warrāq, ʿAlī Āghā 424–426 Zabīdī, Murtaḍā 347n
Warsh 33 Zaborski, Andrzej 272n
Wāsiṭ 34, 237–238 Ẓāhir Baybars 417–420
Wāsiṭī, Abū Bakr 348–349, 374 Zahrān, al-Badrāwī 23n
Weber, f. 274n Zajjāj, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 221–224, 232–233,
Webster, Noah 26, 46 243–244
Weil, G. 212n, 213n, 346n Zajjājī, Abū l-Qāsim 12–13, 45–46, 268n
Welch, A. T. 343n Zakharia, Katia 420, 422n, 425n, 427n,
Wellhausen, f. 276n 437
Westermann, Claus 277n Zamakhsharī, Abū l-Qāsim
Wiet, Gaston 273n Muḥammad 20, 85n
Wild, Stefan 251n, 349n Zanātī Khalīfa 433–434
Wilken, Robert 498 Zarkashī, Badr al-Dīn Muḥammad 51
Wilmsen, David 299, 317 Zarrūq, Aḥmad 447
Windfuhr, G. 345n Zawzanī, Abū Muḥammad 253n
Winkler, H. A. 339n Zayd b. ʿAlī 229
Winnett, Frederick Victor 268n, 270n Zayd b. Ḥubāb 377
Woidich, Manfred 304n Zaynab 237
Woolard, Kathryn 5n, 9n Zimmermann, F.W. 38n
Wright, W. 80, 84, 252n, 272n, 301 Zīr Sālim 417, 432–433, 435
Wuthnow, Heinz 268n Ziriklī, Khayr al-Dīn 447n, 448n, 451n
Zoroastrianism 428
Yāfĳiʿī, Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh 214n, Zubaydī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad 16n, 32n,
216n 34–37, 44n, 211–216, 250n, 257n, 259n
Yāhū 275
NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS
Nadia Anghelescu is Professor of Arabic Linguistics and Arab Culture,

University of Bucharest, Romania.
Georgine Ayoub is Professor of Arabic linguistics, Laboratoire de Linguis-

tique Formelle, France.
Aziz Al-Azmeh is Professor of Islam and Historical Anthropology, Depart-

ment of Medieval Studies, Central European University, Budapest.
Monique Bernards is Lecturer in Arabic, Department of Semitic Languages

and cultures, University of Groningen.
Georges Bohas is Professor of Arabic and Syriac, École Normale Supérieure

Lettres et Sciences Humaines, France.
Gerhard Böwering is Professor of Islamic Studies, Department of Religious

Studies, Yale University.
Michael Carter is Professor of Arabic, Center of Medieval Studies, Univer-

sity of Sydney.
Everhard Ditters is Senior Lecturer of Arabic Linguistics, Humanities

Department, University of Nijmegen, Holland.
Geert Jan van Gelder is Laudian Professor of Arabic at the University

of Oxford, a Fellow of St John’s College, and a Fellow of the British
Academy.
Hassan Hamzé is Professor of Arabic, Université Lumière-Lyon2, France.
Peter Heath is Professor in the Department of Arabic & Translation Studies

& Chancellor of the American University of Sharjah.
Pierre Larcher is Professor of Arabic Linguistics, Université de Provence

et IREMAM, France.
572 notes on the contributors
Ibrahim Ben Mrad is Professor of Humanities, Faculté des Lettres, des Arts
et des Humanités, University of Manouba.
Bilal Orfali is Assistant Professor of Arabic and Islamic studies, Department

of Arabic and Near Eastern Languages, American University of Beirut.
Wadād al-Qāḍī is Professor Emerita of History, Department of Near Eastern

Languages and Civilizations, the University of Chicago.
Angelika Neuwirth is Chair of Arabic Studies, Free University Berlin,

Germany.
Karin Ryding is Professor Emerita of Arabic linguistics in the Department

of Arabic and Islamic Studies at Georgetown University.
Yasir Suleiman is Sultan Qaboos bin Said Professor of Modern Arabic

Studies at the University of Cambridge, Fellow of King’s College at Cam-
bridge, Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and Director of the
Prince Alwaleed Centre of Islamic Studies at Cambridge.
Kees Versteegh (Ph.D. 1977, University of Nijmegen) is emeritus professor

of Arabic and Islam at the University of Nijmegen.
David Wilmsen is Associate Professor of Arabic, Department of Arabic

and Near Eastern Languages, American University of Beirut.

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In the Shadow of Arabic

The Centrality of Language to Arabic Culture

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/ssl

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Copyright 2011 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

History of Arabic Grammar

Ideology, Grammar-Making and the Standardization of Arabic ...... 3

The Andalusian Grammarians, Are They Diffferent? ........................... 31

Khabar / Inshāʾ, une fois encore ................................................................ 49

From Lexical to Grammatical: Nafs and Other Identifĳiers ................ 71

La coordination à un constituant du noyau en arabe ......................... 101

Mustaqīm, muḥāl, ḥasan, qabīḥ: Les critères de recevabilité dans

An Afrikaans Footnote to the History of Arabic Grammar:

Pioneers of Arabic Linguistic Studies ....................................................... 197

Al-Zajjāj and Glassmaking: An Expanded Range of Options in a

Against the Arabic Grammarians: Some Poems ................................... 249

Linguistic Observations on the Theonym Allāh .................................... 267

Arabic Datives, Ditransitives, and the Preposition li- ......................... 283

Dialects of the Dative Shift: A Re-examination of Sībawayhi’s

Style, Lexicography, and Phonosymbolism

Homonymie, polysémie et critères de distinction ............................... 325

Style formulaire et parallélisme dans le Coran ..................................... 399

Styles in Premodern Arabic Popular Epics ............................................. 413

Ghazal and Grammar: al-Bāʿūnī’s Taḍmīn Alfĳiyyat Ibn Mālik

The Qurʾān as a Late Antique Text ........................................................... 495

A Formal Description of Sentences in Modern Standard Arabic .... 511

Index of Arabic Terms ................................................................................... 553

This book is dedicated to Ramzi Baalbaki, the Margaret Weyerhaeuser

“Some aspects of harmony and hierarchy in Sībawayhi’s grammatical

  .           

“Tawahhum: An ambiguous concept in early Arabic grammar,” Bulletin of

“The treatment of qirāʾāt by the second and third century grammar-

  ،                  

  ،            

“A balāġī approach to some grammatical šawāhid,” Proceedings of the

.١٩٩٢ ،   .            

Review of G. Bohas, J.-P. Guillaume & D. E. Kouloughli’s The Arabic Lin-

“The book in the grammatical tradition: Development in content and

“Reclassifĳication in Arab grammatical theory,” Journal of Near Eastern

     ‫؛‬       

“Kitāb al-ʿAyn and Jamharat al-Luġa,” Early Medieval Arabic: Studies on

“The occurrence of inšāʾ instead of ḫabar: The gradual formulation of a

“Bāb al-fāʾ [ fāʾ + subjunctive] in Arabic grammatical sources,” Arabica,

Grammarians and Grammatical Theory in the Medieval Arabic Tradition.

“Some considerations of word order in kāna constructions,” Romano-Ara-

“Visual influences on Arabic linguistic sciences,” The Medieval History

“Grammarians on af ʿāl al-muqāraba: Steps in the sources towards a sub-

Considered from the perspective of language standardization,1 grammar-

these norms become ossifĳied or frozen, leading to a prescriptive attitude

to the promotion and pursuit of non-linguistic or extra-linguistic ends in

the very heart of this process of variety selection. As a super-posed variety

the belief that contact leads to loss of purity or contamination in language

This confluence of efffects underpins a set of practices in early Muslim

The connection between ideology and standardization occurs at an even

This act of discovery proceeds in two moves descriptive and explanatory.

(1) scientifĳic enquiry aims to provide a true theory or description of a given

Al-Khalīl is not the only grammarian to hold a realist view of grammar-

their pristine qualities.48 Viewed from this perspective, grammar-making

is a matter of neatness and priority in the language whose aim is to pre-