Its reputation is such that it pops up on lists of the masterpieces of world literature, such as the Guardian's compilation of "the top 100 books of all time," where it checks in alphabetically between the Book of Disquiet (never heard of it!) and The Brothers Karamazov. Thus W.A. Irwin, author of the Job section in Peake's Commentary on the Bible, begins gushingly:
Of the greatness of the Book of Job it is unnecessary to speak at length. Every informed person recognises that it is one of the classics of our heritage. . . . The literary skill of its authors, their deep feeling of the essential poetry of nature, animate and inanimate, the glory of the heavens above, the mystery of the cycling seasons . . . the deep understanding of human motivation--its wisdom and its foolishness--and most of all the exaltation and universal appeal of their theme and the profound insights which one at least of them brings to it: all these and much else combined in one brief document from the ancient world suffice to establish it as one of the high achievements of the human spirit.
It's therefore disapponting to be reading along in the masterpiece itself and, aware frequently of a certain opacity, turning for assistance to Dr Irwin's own commentary and finding:
Dubious text continues through Job's speech. Careful study reveals that omissions have almost certainly occurred, and that some words are corrupted. Yet through ch. 16 the meaning is in general clear, the worst uncertainty, unfortunately, occurring at the high point of the speech.
Or:
At [verse] 25 we come to one of the great enunciations of the Dialogue. But unfortunately after 25a the text becomes uncertain. Of 25b little more may be said than that it may be right and we must seek to expound it as though it were. 26a is completely irrational. . . . Happily 26b commends itself, and thus provides an index of the movement of thought. 27 may in general be accepted, except that c is apparently a gloss. 28-9 give no relevant idea; whether corrupt, or composed entirely of glosses, we cannot draw them into the advance of thought.
Again:
The text of the chapter, notably of 16-19 and 27-33 is bad; RSV [that is, Revised Standard Version], in common with the practice of translators, obscures real difficulties under a deceptive lucidity. The most to be said is that in general it gives the best guess possible. . . . 21 is logically difficult; a warns against turning to iniquity, but b states the choice has already been made. Perhaps the meaning is. . . .
And so on. I trust it's obvious how problematical this is for the fightin' fundies (fighting fundamentalists). Does God mumble? Are the divine stenographers incompetent? What to say when a respected biblical scholar so frequently assigns the adjective "corrupt" to passages of the inerrant and infallible word of God? It's embarrassing when careful scrutiny of biblical texts, such as scholars apply to other ancient writing, detects the hands of several authors, some of them in dire need of an absent editor.
If read as a single unified work, the Book of Job is deeply unsatisfying. After a prose prologue that seems a written version of a folk tale in which a favored hero of faith retains his piety in the face of unreal calamities, the text turns to poetry, and Job's patience comes to an abrupt end. He curses his life. He says he wishes he hadn't been born. He insists upon the justness of his complaint with God. The injustice, he says, is all on God's side. In his bitterness, he goes so far as to mock Scripture. Whereas the psalmist had marveled that God, in all his glory and might, should still care for such a small thing as a man--
When I look at thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars which thou hast established;
what is man that thou art mindful of him,
and the son of man that thou dost care for him?
--Job deploys the same phrases to say he wishes the Almighty would leave him alone:
What is man, that thou dost make so much of him
and that thou dost set thy mind upon him,
dost visit him every morning,
and test him every moment?
How long wilt thou not look away from me
nor let me alone till I swallow my spittle?
If I sin, what do I do to thee, thou watcher of men?
Why hast thou made me thy mark?
He is visited in turn by three friends who defend God with various predictable arguments, such as one hears to this day from professors of divinity. Job's impatience turns to anger: "I have heard many such things; miserable comforters are you all." He would speak directly to God. A fourth apologist has his say, then finally God, out of a whirlwind, speaks to Job. Alas, it turns out that He doesn't have anything to say beyond what had been advanced by the miserable comforters. Nevertheless, when God comes to the end of his windy discourses, Job is completely transformed. His defiance has vanished and is replaced by craven capitulation: "Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know." There only remains for God to restore him to his former wealthy, happy state.
It's ridiculous that such a tale should be regarded as a great work of literature.
It qualifies as an irony, I think, that to esteem the Book of Job one is obliged to reject the fundamentailist line and to adopt the view that it's a human document, the sound interpretation of which requires not religious veneration but scholarly attention. Such an approach detects several, perhaps five, different authors, four of whom were (shall we say) uninspired. The fifth was original, daring, profound, dazzling--what is often called a genius. This was the author of the long poetic section, extending from the third through the thirty-first chapters, in which Job curses his life, charges God with cruelty, defends himself, and angrily rejects the orthodox notions of his "comforters." The only thing to regret about this section is that we don't seem to have it all. Did the author leave it unfinished? Has part of the work been lost? The only certain thing is that the conclusion we have--trite and tame, pious and prim--was supplied by another author (or authors) of a sensibility less like that of the principal author, more like that of the miserable comforters.
This conception of the Book of Job as a hodgepodge produced by splicing second-rate material onto a chipped jewel will naturally be rejected by most Americans who have any interest in the Bible. They have too much invested in their untenable position to be persuaded by evidence. Moreover, the only parts with merit aren't very uplifting. I'm going to conclude by setting down a few more passages from the author of chapters 3 through 31. See if you don't find them bracing--and incompatible with the damp tissue appended at the end. His comforters argue that God is just, that Job (or maybe his relatives) must have given offense, that no man can judge God, and that suffering should be borne with reverent piety. Job:
I loathe my life; I will give free utterance to my complaint;
I will speak in the bitterness of my soul.
I will say to God, Do not condemn me;let me know why thy dost contend against me.
Does it seem good to thee to oppress, to despise the work of thy hands
and favor the designs of the wicked?
The antipathy with which he regards his comforters and their emollients is hard to overstate:
No doubt you are the people, and wisdom will die with you.
But I have understanding as well as you; I am not inferior to you.
Who does not know such things as these? . . .
Will you speak falsely for God, and speak deceitfully for him?
Will you show partiality toward him, will you plead the case for God? . . .
Your maxims are proverbs of ashes, your defenses are defenses of clay.
Regarding the view that his suffering is deserved:
Far be it from me to say that you are right;
till I die I will not put my integrity away from me.
I hold fast my righteousness and will not let it go;
my heart does not reproach me for any of my days.
This passage, and others, makes me wish I knew Hebrew. In the rendering of the RSV, there are in the above speech 45 words, of which 40 have a single syllable. The sturdy march of defiant monosyllables is an implicit rebuke to the oily come-ons of his interlocuters. Not that they aren't explicitly rejected, too. His rebellion extends so far as to deny that life is good, a "blessing":
Why did I not die at birth, come forth from the womb and expire?
Why did the knees receive me? Or why the breasts, that I should suck?
For then I should have lain down and been quiet;
I should have slept; then I should have been at rest,
with kings and counsellors of the earth who rebuilt ruins for themselves,
or with princes who had gold, who filled their houses with silver.
The thought here is: my plight is dismal, my life a burden; if only I had died at birth I'd be as well off as the rich and mighty (who also are dead). His sorrow is not for himself but for the human condition:
Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.
He comes forth like a flower, and withers;
he flees like a shadow, and continues not. . . .
there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again,
and that its shoots shall not cease.
Though its root grow old in the earth, and its stump die in the ground,
yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth branches like a young plant.
But man dies, and is laid low; man breathes his last, and where is he?
As waters fail from a lake, and a river wastes away and dries up,
so man lies down and rises not again;
till the heavens are no more he will not awake, or be roused out of his sleep.
