Memory as overt allusion trigger in ancient literature

Abstract

This paper begins with a brief definition of allusion. The majority of the paper investigates the ways that memory language was used by ancient authors (Jewish, Greek, and Latin) as a literary technique to signal overt intertextual and intratextual allusions. I argue that this is a recognized, intentional, and cross-cultural phenomenon with varied practices and that scholars need to consider this in future studies of intertextuality.

Although substantial effort has been invested in determining source texts and citation practices, less attention has been given to authorial allusion and the diverse means by which allusions are signaled to the reader. In this paper, I explore how the topic of memory language was used by ancient authors (Jewish, Greek, and Latin) to signal overt intratextual and intertextual allusions. I argue that this is a recognized, intentional, and cross-cultural phaenomenon and that scholars need to consider the vocabular of memory in future studies of intertextuality. I also identify a few propensities between Jewish and Greek and Latin authors, suggesting that there might be some additional cultural influences at play.

Definition of allusion

A brief word is needed on what is meant by “allusion,” for which many scholars have offered a definition. ¹ In the study of allusion and intertextuality, definitions are important as they limit datasets, determining which examples are or are not included. For this study, I will be adopting a definition that Seth Ehorn and I are developing for our project on composite allusions. ² We view allusion as implying some degree of intentionality: someone, through the use of language, is referencing another previously existing text, idea, or utterance. ³ We are intentionally broad about how we define “text.” A “text” for us is any work traditionally associated with composition, but also includes oral tradition and narratives, inscriptions, and other creative mediums (for example, visual arts, iconography, coins, etc.). ⁴ In most intertextual studies, the need for an antecedent text is often required to fulfill the definition of an allusion. ⁵ This is understandable and a majority of my examples are textual with interpretive tradition (both oral and written) being prominent. However, as I will demonstrate below, the nature of memory language in signaling an allusion is not limited to material that is extant in surviving texts or was ever written down, but can be used to connect with established oral tradition or be leveraged to create new tradition with the patina of antiquity.

Using the criterion of intentionality, we propose to differentiate sometimes-related terms, such as allusion and echo, limiting authorial intentionality to allusion and defining echo as an intertextual resonance that a reader identifies that was not intentionally created by the author. ⁶ Within both categories there is a spectrum of possibilities with allusion ranging from overt to hidden and echo from strong to weak. ⁷ Here, I focus primarily on overt allusions, arguing that ancient authors indicated the adoption of previous tradition or text to the reader through the use of memory language. This is not the first study to suggest that a relationship exists between the vocabulary of memory and allusion. Stephen Hinds, for example, identifies a handful of passages in which memory terms are embedded in intertextual allusions, including the Alexandrian footnote. Such examples provide important insight into authorial allusion in Latin poetry and the importance of intentionality, but his discussions are localized and not systemically developed. ⁸ More recently, Renate Lachmann has framed the concept of writing as a “mnemonic act” that participates thoroughly in literary intertextuality through the fact that writing itself is an act of historically situated culture. ⁹ The difference between their studies and mine is that my investigation is specifically focused on memory language and moves beyond Latin poetry (Hinds) and the act of writing (Lachmann). First, I adopt a multi-cultural perspective that expands the work of others by positing that memory language as allusion is not only found in Graeco-Roman literary culture, but is also used broadly in various genres of Jewish literature. Although not argued here, one might suggest that it can possibly be viewed as a transcultural literary phaenomenon. Second, and more distinctive, I am focusing my investigation on the use of memory terms as a literary feature and not to memory as a cognitive process. As will be seen, there is overlap between these two ideas, but my distinctive contribution is to view mnemonic terminology as an authorial signal.

Memory language as Topos

Ancient authors have a variety of means by which to signal intertextual connections to the reader. The so-called “Alexandrian footnote,” found in Greek (that is, λέγεται, ὡς εἶπόν τινες), Latin (ferunt, perhibent, dicuntur, and ut fama est), and, I would argue, Hebrew texts (כמו שנאמר‎), can be used to highlight overt literary allusions or indicate to the reader that elements of pre-existent material have been appropriated in the current composition. ¹⁰ This practice allows the author to signal their placement within the literary tradition (critiquing, distancing, aligning), but does not necessarily indicate a quotation. ¹¹

The language of topos—a commonplace mobilized by the author with literary awareness—provides a framework for our discussion of memory language. ¹² Unlike allusions, in which the author gestures to a specific anterior text and may be the first to do so, the invoking of a topos engages with an established practice. ¹³ By employing a recognized commonplace, the author is thought to engage, not with a specific text or model, but with the collective tradition. ¹⁴ This way of defining a topos has benefits, but it regularly overlooks how topoi are developed and the role-played by specific formative authors or texts. When does a topos come into existence? How many authors or speakers need to employ an idea or phrase before it becomes a recognized literary commonplace? Topoi and commonplaces can solidify quickly, but they should also be viewed as having an initial impetus (even if we cannot determine what that was or from whom it arose). Prior to the establishment of a topos, shared expressions could be viewed as allusions (or quotations if specific enough). Even within the realm of topoi, certain authors can be viewed as archetypal, establishing the code by which later authors abide. ¹⁵

Memory language can also act as a literary trope through the idea of repetition; characters recall something or use language to highlight the commonality of their experience. ¹⁶ Ovid speaks of the recurrence of marital unfaithfulness by having Ariadne lament her betrayal by Theseus (Fasti 3.459–509). Within this speech the topic of memory is emphasized: Ariadne remembers (memini) how she used to decry Theseus (3.473), bemoans that the case of the unfaithful man has been repeated, just with a change of names (nomine mutato causa relata mea est, 3.476), and wonders “how often do I have to speak these words?” (me miseram, quotiens haec ego verba loquar? 3.486). A related portrait of Ariadne is offered by Catullus in 64.132–201, although here she declares that men do “not remember their words” once their passion is satisfied (sed simul ac cupidae mentis satiata libidost, dicta nihil meminere, 64.147–148). ¹⁷ Both passages employ the vocabulary of memory in the vicinity of allusions (for example, references to Syrtis, Scylla, and Charybdis, l.156; tribute to the savage bull, l.173) heightening the reader’s attention to intertextual commonalities. ¹⁸

Although a majority of the examples below come from authorial use of specific lexemes—Greek (ὑπόμνησις, μνεία, μιμνῄσκω), Latin (memor, memini, recordor), Hebrew (לֹׁא נשׁה ,זכר‎), and Aramaic (דכר‎)—the act of remembering is not solely signaled lexically, but can be invoked by context. ¹⁹ Although memory terminology will be used throughout, I am not directly speaking about the author’s or reader’s memory. Both are needed for allusions to be created and recognized; the former in the construction of the text and the latter to identify the connection forged by the former. ²⁰ Rather, I use the vocabulary of memory as a means by which the author uses the narrator or internal characters to signal to or draw the attention of the reader; a Leserlenkungssignal. ²¹ In what follows, I bring together a number of examples of memory language collocated with textual allusions and argue that the trope of remembering was intentionally used by ancient authors to cue the reader to look for intertextual connections.

Signaling of allusion through memory language

Not all use of memory language signals an authorial allusion. Many references to recollection or remembering are not fully relevant to this discussion because they are generic, lacking a specific textual or narrative referent. For example, the language of remembering can be collocated with the act of writing. The recording of information on papyrus, wax, or even something more permanent, like tablets or stone, can help ensure the preservation of content and so allow for future recollection (for example, Jub. 6:22; 30:20; 1 En. 104:1; T. Mos. 1:16). ²² The close association of memory and literary works is evidenced by authors, such as Josephus, Philo, and Thucydides, who recognize that the mind is fallible and that lapses of memory (μνήμη) necessitate the inscription of knowledge, implying that memory/recall is conceptually related to writing/rewriting. ²³ In fact, their compositions provide a memory for those who come after. ²⁴

Sometimes the use of memory terms is natural for the literary context and so does not function as an intertextual signal (for example, Gen 8:1; LAB 31:3; 62:11). ²⁵ In didactic literature, the sage or instructor calls on the hearer to remember his words. The listener is reminded that everyone dies and so each should make the most of their time on earth. ²⁶ Jewish authors declare that remembering God’s commands leads to upright living (Aseth. 8:5; Pss. Sol. 3:3), whereas the lack of remembering, be it intentional or accidental, can lead to the individual or community’s downfall. ²⁷ In Psalms and penitential prayers, the speaker regularly calls on God to remember him or her or the Jewish people. ²⁸ Jewish authors collocate the idea of memory and not forsaking someone (Bel 38; Didache 10:5), the activity of forgetting of the past because of repentance from sin (Isa 43:25; Jer 31[38]:34; 40:8 (LXX); Ezek 18:22–24; Bar 3:5), or not forgetting past violations (Hos 8:13). ²⁹ Readers might be able to identify intertextual parallels in the above examples, but the text does not overtly signal any source, nor is a specific referent necessary for the understanding of the narrative.

In other instances, the narrator or internal character employs similar language directed to the divine but makes the allusion explicit through reference to specific people or instances setting them up as quintessential experiences (for example, slavery in Egypt: Deut 5:15; 15:15; 16:12; 24:18–22) or paradigmatic examples for emulation. ³⁰ For example, in Exod 32:13 Moses pleads with God to remember his servants Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the promises he made to them and so not destroy his people in the desert. Moses also reminds the people of Israel what God did to Pharaoh and the Egyptians (Deut 7:18) and to Miriam (Deut 24:9) in order to ensure proper behavior. At Qumran, David is presented as a person who was rescued from troubles and forgiven (4QMMT^e frag. 14 ii 1–2). Prayer within a larger narrative can have specific intratextual resonances. For example, in 2 Kings 20:3, Hezekiah implores God to remember (μνήσθητι, זְכָר־נָא‎) his deeds and piety (cf. Isa 38:3). Although individual actions are not given, the preceding narrative of his kingship (18:1–20:21) contains sufficient examples by which to make literary connections. Some examples are on the boundary, such as the collocation of memory and covenant, in which certain anterior or exterior passages could be identified but the author could also be referencing the larger idea of covenant. ³¹ The prevalence of such examples in Jewish literature could suggest that this was a particular culturally-recognized way of presenting material.

Memory language has gradations of referential power and its use does not necessarily imply authorial allusion. When such terms do signal an allusion, the allusions can be divided into two broad categories: intratextual and intertextual. The former has an internal referent, alluding to something that the author has included within that narrative. In the latter, the allusion is to material outwith the composition, such as a pre-existing text or tradition. This division is meaningful because it differentiates the source of the alluded text and the reader’s access to it.

Memory language and intratextual allusion

Calls for readers or characters to remember do not necessarily require them to look beyond the text in focus. Some evocations of memory are intra-textual allusions, gesturing to passages previously developed in the narrative. ³² These examples bring unity to the text by connecting actions later in a story with those from earlier in the narrative, facilitating plot advancement or contributing to an argument’s persuasiveness. For instance, Tobit 8:2 (“Then Tobias remembered the words of Raphael”) links the reader back to 6:5 and Raphael’s advice about the power of fish livers and hearts; in Jub. 17:3 Abraham remembered the word that was given to him when he separated from Lot (cf. Jub. 13:19–21); Jacob remembered the prayer that Isaac had made (Jub. 31:31, cf. 26:22–24); Peter remembers Jesus’ words about the rooster after his denials (Matt 26:75; cf. 26:34); after her “conversion,” Aseneth remembers comments made by other characters about her appearance and beautifies herself (Jos. Asen. 18:5, 7). These intratextual allusions are not limited to narratives, but can also be found in texts that participate in historiography—in Josephus, War 3.329 and 5.41 the Romans remembered how they were treated by the Jews during the siege, which resulted in their lack of mercy for them. ³³ At times, the distance from utterance to remembering can be minimal. In Homer, Il. 2.1–41, Zeus sends a false dream (νήδυμος ὕπνος) to Agamemnon in order to give honor to Achilles. ³⁴ After delivering his message in the voice of Nestor, the false dream tells Agamemnon to remember his words when he wakes (2.33–34), which he promptly does and retells the message to his allies (2.53–75). ³⁵

Another example of intratextual allusion directed at the reader is Luke 24:6–8:

“He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you (μνήσθητε ὡς ἐλάλησεν ὑμῖν), while he was still with you in Galilee: ⁷ ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’” ⁸ Then they remembered his words (καὶ ἐμνήσθησαν τῶν ῥημάτων αὐτου).

In this passage, the angels tell the women who came to the tomb to remember what Jesus had spoken earlier in the narrative. Luke 24:6–8 leads the reader back to the other son of man sayings in which Jesus foretold his suffering (for example, 9:21–22, 44–45; 11:30; 13:32–33; 18:31–33). ³⁶ However, in these passages the women, who are now hearing the angelic encouragement, are absent, creating a narrative disconnect. As a result, although this command to remember is relevant for the women, it is primarily addressed to the reader. ³⁷ This is not to discount the times that Luke includes women as disciples of Jesus (for example, 8:1–2). Luke might be wishing to retroactively include women in mentions of disciples and so imply that they were there when Jesus made declarations. For some instances, this is not possible, such as 18:31, in which Luke explicitly says that he took the twelve aside (παραλαβὼν δὲ τοὺς δώδεκα εἶπεν πρὸς αὐτούς) and in 9:21–22, where it is clear that the “disciples” are the twelve (cf. 9:1). However, in 9:44–45 Jesus also speaks to his disciples and in 11:30 and 13:32–33 Jesus is speaking to the crowds. His disciples (that is, the twelve) are present, but there is no mention of the women. Nevertheless, read from the perspective of the declaration in 24:6–8, we can identify an interesting example of how an author can play with a reader’s memory and (possibly) engage in literary gaslighting.

Narrative memory is not always linear and authors can choose when to disclose or foreshadow information. In two instances in John’s Gospel, the disciples are said to remember after his resurrection certain events in Jesus’ life and their meaning, even though in the narrative Jesus’ death and resurrection had not yet taken place. The first occurs in 2:22 following the cleansing of the temple, just after the disciples are depicted as remembering a passage of Scripture that provides an interpretive frame for Jesus’ actions in 2:17. ³⁸ The dual use of memory language frames the event, and initially, the timing of the 2:17 remembrance would be concurrent with the temple altercation. However, given the claim that the disciples remembered Jesus’ resurrection prediction after the event (so 2:22), it is unclear when to locate the disciples’ memory of 2:17. The second example is located at 12:16 and again follows Jesus’ fulfillment of a prophetic text (with Zech 9:9 explicitly cited). In both instances, the author pairs memory terms with intertextual references and places the later act of remembrance within the narrative in order to best explain the events to the reader. In these passages the author exploits the flexibility of memory language to provide in situ interpretation for the reader and foreshadow later events in the text.

There can also be a future-looking element to memory, especially in prophetic texts. In Syb. Or. 3.815–823, the Sybil declares that, although some currently call her crazy, when the events foretold come to pass those people will remember and know that she was a prophet of the great God to whom was given information about the future. This type of prophet announcement is not strictly intratextual, nor is it intertextual. Rather, it is spoken to future readers who would be able to associate then historical events that align with the Sybil’s prophetic utterance. ³⁹

These examples illustrate how authors in antiquity leveraged the vocabulary of memory to construct intratextual allusions. Although the narrative directs the call to remember individuals within the text, the effect is felt by the reader, who responds to the signal by remembering the anterior referent(s).

Memory language and intertextual allusions

Memory language can also form intertextual relationships by alluding to material exterior to the work. The remembrance of past individuals and events plays an important role in the cultivation of character and by selecting specific, intertextual models, the author frames the narrative or argument in their desired way. The use of memory to recall examples is regularly found at pivotal points in the narrative, when a character is tasked with a mission, a passionate speech is given, or when models are needed to elucidate a point. For example, Judith claims that the current trials are from God and urges the audience to remember (μνήσθητε) that God also tested Abraham and Isaac (Jdt 8:26). ⁴⁰ In 2 Baruch 77:21–26, Baruch speaks to an eagle, exhorting it to do its job well by remembering the examples of three other birds: Noah’s dove (Gen 8:11), Elijah’s raven (1 Kings 17:6), and Solomon’s bird (Koh. Rab. 2:25). ⁴¹ Anterior texts are also alluded to by the employment of the imperative “remember” (for example, זִכְרוּ‎, μνήσθητε, memorare). This forceful call-to-mind is regularly followed by an indication of what the narrator/character wishes the hearer to recall: Remember (זכורו‎) the judgment of Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron (1Q33 XVII, 2); Remember (memorare) what I did to Sodom and Gomorrah (4 Es. 2:8); Remember (זִכְרוּ‎; μνήσθητε) the teaching of my servant Moses, the statutes and ordinances that I commanded him at Horeb for all Israel (Mal 4:4 [LXX 3:24]); “Remember Lot’s wife!” (μνημονεύετε τῆς γυναικὸς Λώτ, Luke 17:32). ⁴² As seen above, the prevalence of setting up individuals as exemplars in Jewish literature could be seen as a distinctive element of their use of memory signaling.

The call to remember could imply a failure of memory on behalf of the character and so act as a critique. ⁴³ More important for this study is how the strategic use of memory language creates space for authors to construct their work by having the narrator or character provide information that the author views as significant. ⁴⁴ In the conversation between Telemachus and Nestor, Homer explicitly uses memory language to recall events that happened outside Troy (Od. 3.101–103), the language of which fits Odyssey 1–4 and its focus on Telemachus’ search for information about his father. Athena’s remembering of Odysseus at the beginning of Odyssey 5 (5.6, 11) further emphasizes this motif. ⁴⁵ In Homer, Il. 15.18, Zeus says to Hera, “do you not remember when…” (ἦ οὐ μέμνῃ ὅτε…) linking the narrative back to a story existing outside the Iliad (cf. Od. 24.115–122). The intentionality of this addition is reinforced by Zeus when he tells Hera why he is reminding her (Il. 15.31, μνήσω ἵν’ ἀπολλήξῃς ἀπατάων), a feature that is noted by Homeric scholiasts. ⁴⁶ The difficulty in knowing what was in and outside the oral tradition and how exactly it relates to what is in and outside of the texts is exploited by Homer and his use of memory language, which acts as either a link to shared interpretation or as a means of introducing new material.

Less opaque is the example in Ovid, Met. 14.812–815, where Mars recalls the words of Jupiter—having intentionally remembered them (nam memoro memorique animo pia verba notavi)—and requests that they be fulfilled (cf. Fasti 2.483–489, Vahlen). This promise was not given previously in this text, but alludes to Ennius, An. 65, in which the quoted line first appears. The appeal to authority outside of the narrative is further supported by the prestige of its speaker, Mars, a Roman god who acts as a witness to Jupiter’s declaration and would have plausibly been present at its utterance and in a position to remind Zeus. ⁴⁷ These examples exploit the act of recounting to provide new information to the narrative by alluding to a wider interpretive tradition with which the reader may or may not be familiar. In some instances, the material given by the author is new (possibly not only to us) and not found in other existing texts. ⁴⁸ In 1Q20 II, 9 Bitenosh reassures her husband Lamech that the child is his by claiming “remember my pleasure” (דכר֗לך על עדינ֗תי‏‎, also reconstructed in II, 13–14). ⁴⁹ In 1 Macc 5:4, Judas is said to have remembered the injury that the sons of Baean perpetrated against the people (καὶ ἐμνήσθη τῆς κακίας υἱῶν Βαιαν οἳ ἦσαν τῷ λαῷ). ⁵⁰ These examples show how the literary use of memory language can facilitate the introduction of specific information and sometimes new material.

The author of Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, when recounting the narrative of Jephthah’s vow, places an overt allusion in the mouth of Jephthah’s daughter, Seila:

And Seila his daughter said to him, “And who is there who would be sad in death, seeing the people freed? Or do you not remember (Aut inmemor es que facta) what happened in the days of our fathers when the father placed the son as a holocaust, and he did not refuse him but gladly gave consent to him, and the one being offered was ready and the one who was offering was rejoicing?” (LAB 40:2, trans. Harrington). ⁵¹

Jephthah’s sacrificing of his daughter is a controversial act and so the author uses a biblical allusion in order to support and exonerate the deed. ⁵² Although not mentioning any names, Seila alludes to the binding of Isaac by Abraham (Genesis 22) through memory language (inmemor), drawing on the author’s expansion and interpretation of it as a rationale for why Jephthah should keep his vow (cf. 32:1–4). ⁵³

In other places, the use of “memory” allows for an expansion or reinvention of existing narratives and the retold memory might not align with the source text. ⁵⁴ In 2 Bar 84:2, Baruch encourages the people to remember Moses’ promise: “If you trespass the law, you shall be dispersed. And if you shall keep it, you shall be planted.” ⁵⁵ However, this quotation does not match any statement from Moses in the Pentateuch, the closest being Deut 4:25–27 and 30:1–3. The need for exact replication of the Mosaic text is not necessary. By using the language of memory, the author of 2 Baruch establishes a new textual memory by creating a quotation that summarizes his interpretation of the Pentateuch and one that best fits his argument. A similar practice is found in Arist. 155, where Eleazar encourages the other characters to recall scripture, which is followed by a blending of Deut 7:18 and 10:21 and bookended with another use of μνεῖα (§157). ⁵⁶ Both of these examples take advantage of the fact that memory is a reconstruction—messy, incomplete, and unreliable—and that an author can create a new tradition through memory language. ⁵⁷

The location of memory language is also significant. The metaliterary function of the verb of remembering at the opening of Apollonius’ Argonautica cues the reader to look beyond the text to uncover the source(s) used by the author to construct Jason’s story (Ἀρχόμενος σέο, Φοῖβε, παλαιγενέων κλέα ϕωτῶν μνήσομαι, “Beginning with you, O Phoebus, I will remember the glorious tales of men from long ago,” 1.1–2). ⁵⁸ The act of remembering returns in 1.23 (µνησώµεθα, “let us remember”) at the opening of the catalog of heroes (1.23–227). ⁵⁹ The call to remember prior to a lengthy catalog is modeled on Homer’s invocation of the muses (that is, the daughters of µνήµη, Hesiod, Theog. 53–55; Plato, Euthyd. 275d) prior to the catalog of the ships (Il. 2.484–759). These authors present themselves as siphoning information from the muses as if they were a source replete with lists of names and knowledge of events. Virgil frames his Aeneid with references to memory, starting with actions provoked by memory—Juno’s “unforgetting anger” (memorem. . . iram, 1.4)—and closing with a reference to a “monument” of grief (saevi monimenta doloris, 12.945). ⁶⁰ Another example of memory language at the beginning of a work is found in Nehemiah, in which Nehemiah implores God to remember the words he spoke to Moses (1:8–9, cf. Deut 4:25–31). Although Nehemiah does not petition divine assistance for his composition, his connection to prior material is made explicit. This use of memory language in both examples creates intertextual links (material [that is, Deuteronomy], tradition/literary [that is, Virgil], or theoretical [that is, divine muses]) and situates the narrative in a wider cultural context, anchoring it in established tradition that the narrator explicitly signals. Such references to tradition, importantly, are not indiscriminate, but are selected by the author, who can shape and direct the reader’s understanding of the work through their actions. ⁶¹

Conclusion

The above examples show the range of ways that ancient authors have used memory language as a means to allude to anterior texts or traditions. Faber has argued that the trope of literary remembrance as a cue for allusion in Latin literature was inherited and influenced by examples from Greek literature. ⁶² Although this may be the case, the evidence provided in this study suggests that memory language is an even wider phaenomenon. Its existence in multiple languages and cultures in antiquity and its continuation in modern compositional practices supports the argument that the invoking of allusion through memory language is a transcultural practice. The claim that it might be universal is a testable hypothesis, but would require a range of scholars from different fields to verify or falsify.

The use of memory language is diverse and can be employed by authors for a variety of purposes. At the most fundamental level, this literary device provides a means by which the author can direct the mental focus of the reader. I have argued that the location of the anterior text is important for how remembering language functions. In intratextual uses, the reader has access to the referenced text and so the allusion functions in an enclosed narrative. For intertextual references, the reader may or may not have access to the source text/tradition. By signaling connections with an exterior text (broadly understood), the author situates his or her work within the larger literary world and makes interesting connections for the knowledgeable reader. Memory language can also be employed to create original material, forging new memories within the reader by crafting original quotations or traditions.

Overall, ancient Jewish, Greek, and Roman authors employ memory language as a signal for authorial allusion and this trope should be considered in our understanding of ancient compositional practices. As witnessed repeatedly above, ancient authors employed memory language not only to remind the reader of previous material, but also leveraged it to create space in order to reconfigure tradition and potentially add new material. The identified similarities are not to claim that all use memory language similarly in an attempt to signal allusion. In the examples discussed above a majority of the Jewish passages are references to biblical texts that would have been well known to their audience. Furthermore, many calls to remember direct the reader/listener to recall a specific individual (for example, Abraham), setting that person as an exemplar to follow or an example to avoid. In the Greek and Latin examples, the intertextual use of memory language regularly signals an author’s participation in a specific cultural framework (for example, Apollonius, Virgil) or other specific narratives (e.g. Homer). Further study and examples would be useful to show how a wider literary practice is molded to the aesthetics of a particular culture and/or reading community based on their access to texts. Nevertheless, I argue in this paper that the common use of memory language to signal an overt allusion suggests that this practice is a wider, cross-cultural phaenomenon, one that endured for many centuries.