The Book of Eels, Patrik Svensson [bill gates best books .TXT] 📗

between human and animal was also in itself a sign of divinity. Atum, who in Heliopolis was the father of all other gods and pharaohs, was also the god associated with the eel. In one depiction, Atum has a human head, a pointy beard, and a crown signifying his divine status, and behind a wide, intimidating cobra shield, his body is that of a long, slender eel, complete with realistic fins. The human head and eel’s body together symbolized a kind of wholeness, the union of positive and negative forces.

In ancient Rome, opinion was also divided when it came to the eel. Some refused, like the Egyptians, to eat eel, not because it was holy but rather because it was considered unclean and loathsome. Perhaps because eels were often caught near sewer outlets. Perhaps because dried eel skins were used to make a kind of belt to discipline disobedient children.

Many Romans seem to have preferred the conger (Conger conger) or the moray eel, which is related to the eel—but whatever the species, the eel was often associated with something dark and macabre. Both Pliny the Elder and Seneca the Younger describe how the Roman military commander Vedius Pollio, a friend of Emperor Augustus, had the habit of punishing slaves by throwing them into a pool filled with eels. The bloodthirsty fish ate their fill and were then served to Vedius Pollio’s guests as a particularly fatty and luxurious delicacy.

A FISH, BUT ALSO SOMETHING ELSE. A FISH THAT LOOKS LIKE A Snake, or a worm, or a slithering sea monster. The eel has always been special. Not least in Christian tradition, in which the fish has been, from the beginning, one of the most central symbols, the eel has been viewed as a thing apart.

It’s said the earliest Christians, during the first century after the birth of Christ, used the fish as a secret sign. Since Christians were persecuted in many places, a level of caution was required, so when two believers met, one would draw an arced line on the ground. If the other drew a similar one from the other direction, the lines together formed a stylized fish, and the two knew they could trust each other. This symbol can be found in the catacombs of Saint Calixtus and Saint Priscilla in Rome, dating back to the very first centuries of the Common Era.

The fish was significant for several reasons. Long before the birth of Christianity, it had been a symbol of luck in Mediterranean culture. With the coming of Jesus, the fish also became a symbol of revivalism and confession. “Follow me, and I will make you become fishers of men,” Jesus says to the very first apostles, Simon and Andrew, in the Gospel. Newly saved people are called “small fry,” and in the Gospel, Jesus likens entering the kingdom of heaven to fishing: “The kingdom of heaven is like a net that was let down into the lake and caught all kinds of fish. When it was full, the fishermen pulled it up on the shore. Then they sat down and collected the good fish in the baskets but threw the bad away. This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous.”

The fish also plays a well-known role in the stories of the miracles of Jesus, including the miracle of the loaves and fishes, when he feeds five thousand people with only two fish and five loaves of bread. Or when the resurrected Jesus reveals himself to his apostles by Lake Tiberias and provides them fish to eat, convincing them that it’s really him. The Greek word for fish, ichthys, has also long been read as the acronym Iesos Christos Theou Yios Soter—“Jesus Christ, Son of God, the Redeemer.”

But that’s all about fish, not eels, and many things point to early Christians making a distinction between the two. All the good things the fish came to represent in the Christian tradition were reserved for species other than the eel. The eel was no fish; it was something else. And even if the eel had been considered a fish, it was not a fish like the others. It didn’t possess the usual characteristics of a fish. It didn’t look or behave like fish normally do.

This is clear if you read between the lines in Leviticus, in which God’s opinions about all aquatic creatures are clearly expressed:

These you may eat, of all that are in the waters. Everything in the waters that has fins and scales, whether in the seas or in the rivers, you may eat. But anything in the seas or the rivers that has not fins and scales, of the swarming creatures in the waters and of the living creatures that are in the waters, is detestable to you. You shall regard them as detestable; you shall not eat any of their flesh, and you shall detest their carcasses. Everything in the waters that has not fins and scales is detestable to you.

What God apparently means to say, assuming the word choices and repetitions are correctly interpreted, is that fish and other aquatic animals without fins and scales are abhorrent. They mustn’t be eaten; they’re uncanny; they shall be viewed with loathing. And at least in the Jewish reading of God’s intentions, that means the eel is detestable. It’s not considered kosher, and its smooth, slimy body consequently has no place on the Jewish dinner table.

Now, this is all a misunderstanding, of course, sort of like when Leviticus also lumps bats in with birds. The eel has both fins and scales. They’re just a bit difficult to make out, especially the scales, which are so incredibly small and covered in slippery slime that they’re almost imperceptible to the touch. But it is a misunderstanding that shows that when it comes to eels, not only are science and the eel itself suspect, you can’t trust God either. Or God’s interpreters. Or words.

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