Download PDF | Byzantium in the Seventh Century: The Transformation of a Culture, By J. F. Haldon (Author), Cambridge University Press 1997.
524 Pages
This book presents the first analytical account in English of the major developments within Byzantine culture, society and the state in the crucial formative period from c. 610 to 717. Since its original publication in 1990, the text has been revised throughout to take account of the latest research.
The seventh century saw the final collapse of ancient urban civilisation and municipal culture, the rise of Islam, the evolution of patterns of thought and social structure which made imperial iconoclasm possible, and the development of state apparatuses — military, civil and fiscal — typical of the middle Byzantine state. Over the same period, orthodox Christianity finally became the unquestioned dominant cultural and religious framework of belief, to the exclusion of alternative systems, which were henceforth marginalised or proscribed.
Conflicting ideas of how these changes and developments are to be understood have proliferated in the past fifty years. This book is the first serious attempt to provide a comprehensive, detailed survey of all the major changes in this period.
Preface and acknowledgements
The present work was originally conceived as a general and introductory account of aspects of seventh-century East Roman (Byzantine) state, society and culture. In the event, a simple survey of sources and literature and the presentation of a general synthesis proved less and less worthwhile, or indeed desirable. It became necessary in many places to go into considerably greater detail than planned.
Many technical matters of state and social organisation remained both unclear and insufficiently researched; many questions of crucial importance for the history of social and cultural development in the Byzantine world of that period remained unasked. This book is, consequently, an attempt to provide a coherent general overview by means of the analysis of a series of specific themes and the corresponding problems which accompany them. Inevitably, the themes I have discussed represent a selective choice — I have concentrated on those aspects which I felt to be most in need of attention, most amenable to some form of constructive solution and most relevant to our understanding of how East Roman cultural, social and state forms functioned and evolved as a dynamic whole throughout the seventh century.
In writing this book, I have enjoyed the help and advice, both direct and indirect, of many friends and colleagues. I would like in particular to thank Wolfram Brandes, Marie-Theres Fégen, Rodney Hilton, Alexander Kazdan, Ralph Lilie, Greg McLennan, Spiros Troianos, Chris Wickham and Friedhelm Winkelmann, all of whom - at various times and in various places over the last few years — have, not always knowingly, contributed in one way or another to the formation of my views. In particular, I should like to thank my friends and colleagues at the Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies at the University of Birmingham, especially Michael Ursinus.
Under its director, Anthony Bryer, the Centre has provided the means for fruitful research and the scholarly atmosphere in which to work. I would also like to thank my friend and colleague at King’s College, London, Averil Cameron, for her constructive criticism and comments on the penultimate version of the typescript, as well as for her interest and encouragement in general; and my friends Leslie Brubaker, for much fruitful discussion on art, representation and perception; Ludwig Burgmann and Bernard Stolte, for their willingness to read through and offer constructive suggestions on problems relating to early Byzantine law and legal texts; and Robin Cormack and Lucy-Anne Hunt for their help and advice with regard to photographs. Nubar Hampartumian patiently guided me through the extensive seventh-century Byzantine coin holdings of the Barber Institute of Fine Arts at Birmingham; and Harry Buglass of the Department of Ancient History and Archaeology at Birmingham is to be congratulated on making sense of my original sketch-maps.
I should also like to thank the British Academy, the Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung and the Max-Planck-Institut fiir Europadische Rechtsgeschichte, under its director Dieter Simon, who all provided financial support and an academic refuge at various times towards the completion of the present project.
Last, but, as usual, by no means least, thanks are due to Iris Hunter of Cambridge University Press, whose efficient, rigorous and constructive sub-editing has turned the original sow's ear into something resembling a silk purse.
Preface to the revised edition
It is a great pleasure to be able to introduce this revised edition of Byzantium in the seventh century. I have made a number of emendations and additions to the notes and to the bibliography, and also a brief Addendum on the current state of the question of the fate of urban centres in the seventh century. But for technical reasons I have not incorporated all the changes I would, predictably, have wished to make, simply because that would have involved the substantial expansion or rewriting of some sections to take into account the work of colleagues and scholars in the various fields upon which this book touches.
This was not too difficult, however, since, six years on, I believe that the analysis of the events which so transformed the late Roman world as I have tried to present them here is still a valid interpretation of the material at our disposal. Naturally, there are areas where one would wish to add nuance, or change emphasis, but, on the whole, the broad thrust and the direction of the interpretation remain unchanged, a point reinforced, as far as I am able to judge it, by the work of other scholars in the field in the past few years. The results of a good deal of work on the literary sources — Greek, Syriac and Arabic — have now become available, for example, which adds substantially to our knowledge of both the development of older as well as newer genres.
The cross-cultural connections between Greek and Syriac writing, especially in the fields of historiography, hagiography and theology, and the nature and tendency of anti-Jewish polemic, have all been studied in greater depth, and the results of this work further enhance or modify the conclusions reached in those chapters of this book in which these texts are evaluated or used as sources of evidence. Similarly, the results of recent archaeological and field survey work need to be taken into account in evaluating the differential and highly localised pattern of development of urban and fortified centres during the period in question, although the general line of the argument presented in the relevant chapters below is confirmed.
In the process of re-evaluating the views expressed in this book, and reassessing the sources for the analysis of the history of the East Roman empire in the seventh century, I am grateful to many friends and colleagues for stimulating criticism and advice. I should especially like to acknowledge Wolfram Brandes, Paul Speck, Chris Wickham and Averil Cameron: they almost certainly disagree with each other across a whole range of issues, and they may not always agree with my interpretation; but I have benefited enormously from their critical engagement, their scholarly advice and expertise, and their friendship.
Birmingham, February 1997
The sources
The sources for the period with which we shall be dealing are, in comparison with those for the sixth century, or the tenth and eleventh centuries, for example, both limited in number and difficult to use. But I should like to stress at the outset that these. difficulties ought not to be overestimated, nor should they be used as a justification for refusing to ask questions. In fact, it is less the paucity of the sources than their nature which is problematic.
There are, effectively, only two ‘histories’ of the period compiled by Byzantines, both of which date from the early ninth century, although based in large part on earlier material. One, the Brief History of the patriarch Nicephorus, has virtually nothing to say on the reign of Constans II (641-68). While both use what may well be material contemporary with many of the events they describe, it is an immensely difficult task to sort out the different and sometimes very contradictory traditions bound up in the two histories.
The other, the Chronography of the monk Theophanes the Confessor, was compiled between A.D. 810 and 814, and continues the Chronicle of George the Sygkellos. It is written around a carefully worked-out chronological framework, divided into sections by the year on an annalistic basis, at the head of each of which Theophanes lists the year according to the age of the world, from the birth of Christ, and according to the lengths of the reigns of the emperor, caliph, the pope and the four patriarchs of the East. It has been shown that the dates are one year out for the entries from the year 6102 (A.D. 609-10) to 6265 (A.D. 772-3), except for the period 6207 (A.D. 714-15) to 6218 (725-6), as the result of an incorrect division in the text. But this is the only blemish on a fundamental text, upon which our own chronology of the seventh and eighth centuries is based.
The Brief History of Nicephorus (patriarch from 806 until 815) covers the period from 602 to 769, apart from the gap already mentioned for most of the reign of Constans II. It is based in part on the same sources as the Chronography of Theophanes. The gap seems to be the result of a loss of some folios from the manuscript tradition. Nicephorus wrote also a Short Chronicle which is of only limited historical value, covering the period from Adam to 829, in which year he died.
Last, and for the beginning of our period, there is the so-called Paschal Chronicle, originally covering the period from Adam to the year A.D. 629 but, due to the loss of the final folios, ending in 628. It was compiled by a priest or monk in the 630s and built around a chronological framework intended to fix the Easter cycle and the reckoning for a purely Christian chronology.?
These Greek sources can be supplemented from a very wide range of other sources in other languages. And, indeed, one of the difficulties facing the historian of this period is precisely this wide range of material, often later in date, but again using sources contemporary with — or almost contemporary with — the events described: chronicles, or fragments from chronicles in Arabic, Syriac, Armenian, Coptic and Latin, for example, all provide vital material which must be assessed. Among the most important of these are the much later Chronicle of Michael the Syrian, Jacobite patriarch of Antioch, and the Chronicle falsely ascribed to Denis of TellMahré; in addition, the mostly lost chronicle which was actually composed by the latter and upon which that of Michael the Syrian draws heavily, as does Bar Hebraeus and one of the anonymous chronicles.4 A number of lesser Syriac chronicles, all anonymous, compiled mostly in the tenth, eleventh and twelfth centuries, cover events up to the years 724, 813 and 846.° Particularly important sources are the Armenian history compiled by the bishop Sebeos, probably in the early 660s; and the Chronicle of John, the bishop of Nikiu in Egypt, compiled in Coptic towards the end of the seventh century.® Both present events from their own, localised perspective, but Sebeos especially sheds much light on the political and ecclesiastical history of the empire and the capital city. Sebeos’ history is supplemented partially by that of the later chronicler Ghevond (Lewond).’ Of the Latin historical sources, the most useful are the chronicle compiled by the bishop John of Biclar, and the Liber Pontificalis, although a number of minor chronicles and annals are also valuable.® The history of the Goths, Vandals and Suevi of Isidore of Seville, and its continuations, as well as his Chronica maiora, are also valuable for the history of the eastern Mediterranean up to the 620s, as well as for Spain and the West.? Finally, the Arab histories (dating mainly from the later eighth century and later, but often dependent upon much earlier material), especially those of Baladhuri and Tabari. The latter are especially important for the Muslim invasions and the occupation of the eastern territories of the empire.!°© All of these varied sources are valuable, but each must be carefully weighed as to its textual background, its sources, the question of contamination and interpolation — in other words, as to its value and reliability as a historical source.
But quite apart from these more obviously ‘historiographical’ forms of evidence, there is a vast range of other material: official documents issued or drawn up on behalf of the state (edicts and novellae, for example);!! imperial letters (sent, for example, to foreign rulers, leading secular or ecclesiastical officials and to generals); ecclesiastical documents (patriarchal letters, letters and documents concerning matters of dogma and Church business, the appointment of clerics, convening of synods and so forth, as well as the acts of the Church councils — chiefly the acts of the Lateran council of 649, of the sixth ecumenical council of 680—1 and of the ‘Quinisext’ council of 692;!2 lists of episcopal sees and descriptions of ecclesiastical administration, and so on);!3 epic poems and encomia, such as those in praise of the Emperor Heraclius by George of Pisidia, or to celebrate and give thanks for the victory over the Persians and Avars in 626 by Theodore the Sygkellos;!* private letters, whether of laypeople or Churchmen; semi-official documents incorporated into ‘official’ collections, such as the accounts of the trials of Maximus Confessor or Pope Martin or the account of the seizure of power by Philippicus Bardanes;!5 theological and dogmatic writings, such as the apocalyptic tracts or the collections of ‘questions and answers’, especially that attributed to Anastasius of Sinai;!®© hagiographical writing - a particularly important source;!” epigraphic material — inscriptions on city walls, for example, or on tombstones;!8 numismatics; and last, but certainly not least, sigillographic material — the seals used by both officials and private persons to validate and secure letters or merchandise, And in addition to this predominantly ‘documentary’ material, we must also bear in mind the considerable archaeological evidence, particularly where settlement patterns on the one hand and architectural forms on the other (Church buildings, fortifications and so on) are concerned; as well as that of late Roman and Byzantine forms of visual expression — icons, frescoes, mosaics — essential to our understanding of some of the assumptions of Byzantine culture, its perception of the world and of the relationship between both emperor and people, and between God and humanity.!?
The problems posed by all these sources are considerable. Many of them are in need of modern editions and commentaries; few of them have been studied in detail or have been internally analysed. Where written texts are concerned in particular it must be apparent that no source can be taken at face value. It is sometimes difficult to date a source at all — a classic example is the very valuable but fictional account of the Life of Andrew the Fool, dated by different scholars to both the later seventh or the later ninth century.2° Where the date is certain, the value of the information provided both explicitly and implicitly by a text needs to be carefully considered — what was the purpose or context of the original compilation, for example, and what were its possible sources of information? Often, literary texts refer only indirectly and allusively to a particular state of affairs or development, or use technical terms from the period of their own compilation of earlier events — both have led, and continue to lead, to conflicting views about the precise significance of the references in question. Similar reservations apply to the question of the date of certain works of art, too, so that some of the Mt. Sinai icons which are so crucial for an understanding of preiconoclastic art are variously dated from the end of the sixth to the middle of the seventh century — a period over which substantial changes occurred ~ and for a knowledge of the evolution and origins of which these artifacts are central. Likewise, the use and exploitation of sigillographic as well as numismatic materials bring with them a number of equally formidable problems, and it is important that the historian as well as the readers of works of history are aware of these difficulties. For differences in interpretation usually rest on two supports: conflicting views of how and what a given source or type of source can divulge about a specific question; and conflicting or contradictory interpretational frameworks.
This brief list of types of source highlights the mosaic-like complexity of the historian’s task. It also demonstrates the constraint upon interpretation imposed by the sources and the importance of keeping some general principles of analysis — some theoretical guidelines — in mind. For without some organising framework, the ‘evidence’ becomes simply overwhelming: or, what is perhaps worse, too readily fitted into an ill-considered or preconceived notion of what late Roman and early Byzantine society was ‘really’ like. I shall try to avoid these two extremes. But I shall also avoid a detailed analysis of each source employed, since this would require more than a volume to itself. Instead, I will refer, where appropriate, to relevant discussions of the problems associated with the deployment of a particular source or group of sources and comment only at those points where a particular difficulty in connection with a specific source is encountered.
For the historian of the seventh century, the interrelationship between evidence and hypothesis plays a more than usually central role. The American philosopher W.V. Quine once wrote: ‘I see philosophy and science as in the same boat — a boat which ... we can rebuild only at sea while staying afloat on it.’ Among others, the history of the seventh century is also in that boat.
Introduction
The seventh century was a time of fundamental transformation throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Balkan world; and the most powerful political entity in that world experienced a succession of major upheavals. Entering the seventh century as the dominant political formation, stretching from Spain to the Euphrates and from the Danube to the Atlas mountains, it had been reduced by the end of our period — the year of the accession of Leo III in A.D. 717 — to a rump of its former self: East Roman rule in Egypt and North Africa, in Syria, Iraq and in eastern Anatolia had been swept away by the conquests of Islam, the new and vigorous world religion which was to provide the biggest threat to Christianity for the next thousand years. In the Balkans, Slavs and Bulgars had reduced Roman-controlled territory over the same period to the coastal areas and a few fortified settlements; while in Italy, the exarchate which had been established under Tiberius Constantine on the foundations of Justinian’s reconquest was by the reign of Leo III all but extinguished. At the same time, new and powerful foes replaced older, traditional enemies: the expansion and the power of the caliphate centred at Damascus radically altered the balance of power in that area; in the Balkans, the establishment and consolidation of the Bulgar khanate posed a constant threat to Constantinople itself; while in the West, the increasingly independent see of St Peter was compelled to loosen its ties with Constantinople in order to preserve its own position as both leader of the Western Church and defender of its immediate hinterland. The East Roman empire which we observe at the beginning of the seventh century has, by the time of Leo III, been transformed into the ‘Byzantine’ empire of the Middle Ages, and along with it its institutions, its social relations and the dominant elements of political and popular belief systems.
The seventh century, traditionally, belongs to the ‘Dark Ages’, in the fullest sense of the phrase, a period when both the sources available to the historian are fewer than in earlier or later times, and when the exigencies of the struggle to survive (or, in more analytic terms, when social, economic and cultural transformations were in full swing) made the production of a widely based secular literature both less relevant to the cultural identity of the dominant elite — the imperial establishment and its bureaucratic and military representatives — and subordinate to the demand for political and theological certainties. In fact, as a cursory examination of the relevant bibliographies will quickly show, while there is an absolute decline in secular literary production, this is not the case with theological or political-theological writings, hagiography and homiletic writings, collections of erdtapokriseis (questions and answers on everyday or theological concerns), apocalyptic and eschatological tracts and similar texts, all of which reflect the immediate concerns and foremost worries and interests of seventh-century society. In this sense, at least, this is by no means a ‘dark age’ — the light is there, but it shines on different areas, more selectively. Indeed, the very term ‘dark age’, or ‘ages’, is itself suspect, as has been noted before now.! Where we read in the literature about this period of economic ‘decline’ or political ‘collapse’ we should perhaps substitute ‘political and economic transformation’ — if only to avoid examining the society in question purely in terms of a reflection of the language and perceptions of those members of it able to express themselves in literature.
This is not a total history of Byzantine culture and society during the period in question. Rather, I want to look at the basic ‘shape’ of this early medieval social formation as it might be seen in the early seventh century and to follow the process of change over the following one hundred or so years. But I shall not simply describe the changes in question — as far as we can see them through the interrogation of the available sources — I shall also try to suggest what lay behind them, why they occurred at the time and in the form that they did, and why they had the results which they had. I shall be trying in the process to determine what particular characteristics differentiate the later Roman and early Byzantine world from its eastern and western neighbours, what in particular governs the development of its specific cultural forms and modes of expression. At the same time as trying to provide a useful survey of the Byzantine world at this time, I shall also be concentrating on some of the key problems of Byzantine history as currently identified in recent historiographical work. This book is therefore a contemporary document, in the sense that it contains a statement both of problems of history as they are perceived today, and of what has been achieved; and one of historiographical desiderata — what still remains to be done.
Because of this format, the chronological narrative has been kept to a minimum: chapter 2 provides a brief survey of the political history of the period, which remains the most useful measure against which to ‘fix’ other developments, even if it occasionally leads to a rather inflexible schematisation and even if it is often regarded as no longer a primary moment in historical analysis; the politics of a state or its rulers are as much the product of the cultural, social and economic relationships which determine the shape of a society as any other aspects of its existence and evolution.
The remaining chapters — with the exception of chapter 1 (which provides a general background for the whole) — will each deal with a particular theme, as can be seen from the headings and sub-headings, which will be treated both structurally and chronologically. That is to say, the developments in time within a specific problem area will be presented and described, while at the same time an examination of the key aspects of the theme to be dealt with will be undertaken. In this way, I hope that I can provide the reader with both a descriptive and an analytic account of the movement and transformation of the early Byzantine state and its society through time. I have also tried to make the book accessible to both specialists and non-specialists, by incorporating within a general account the detailed debates and analyses which will be relevant to the former.
The seventh century has received a great deal more attention over the last twenty years than in the years prior to about 1965. This shift in interest is partly a reflection of an awareness of the former neglect to which the period and its problems were consigned, which in turn represented the difficulties experienced in dealing with the sources. More importantly, it reflects also a shift in research priorities and interests together with a reappraisal of the methods and the theories that might be invoked in examining such a period. Thus, if we exclude articles in journals, of the six or so publications that have dealt specifically with the seventh century, only two appeared before 1965: volume III of Kulakovskij’s classic Byzantine History, covering the period from 602 to 717; and the selection of papers on the seventh century in volume 13 of the Dumbarton Oaks Papers. The five-volume history of Andreas Stratos, Byzantium in the seventh century; the Berlin symposium on the same period, out of which two major publications appeared and a third is currently in press; and the recent book by T.K. Louggis on Byzantium in the so-called dark ages have all appeared since 1965.2 But there is much disagreement between these various works on fundamental questions — the nature of the social relations of production, the role of the army in society, the relationship between the state and large landholding, between tax and rent, and so on. In what follows, some idea of these debates will be given and some solutions will be suggested, as part of the process of providing a general survey of the development of East Roman society and culture during the seventh century.
Inevitably, I have not been able to deal with everything that might seem desirable in such a general survey. The history of Byzantine Italy and its particular socio-cultural, economic and institutional evolution during this period represented too different and too distant a world to be directly relevant to the history of the central lands of the empire — although its political and military importance, its ideological significance (Rome in particular, of course) and its effect on Byzantine state and ecclesiastical politics have been taken into account. In addition, of course, good surveys of Italy in this period are available, and in several accessible languages. It would be pointless to duplicate their results.* Similar considerations apply to Byzantine Africa, a political and social formation about which all too little is known after the middle of the seventh century. In this case, however, the only major work on the subject is the now very old, but still essential, survey of Charles Diehl, whose study on the exarchate of Africa was first published in 1896.4 This can be supplemented by a number of works dealing with particular aspects of the history of North Africa, but a detailed analysis of the literary, religious and social-economic history of Byzantine Africa from the reign of Heraclius up to the fall of Carthage in the last decade of the seventh century is still not available. Fortunately, recent work promises to fill some of these gaps, although there is still a great deal of detailed research, especially archaeological work, to be done before the later history of the isolated Latin culture of North Africa becomes reasonably clear; and there remains a dismal lack of source material. Again, Byzantine Africa was an important consideration in the eyes of the government at Constantinople, which did its best, with limited resources, to maintain its political and military hold, as well as its ideological authority. It consumed wealth in the form of military and naval resources, although the degree of its contribution to the fisc in general is unclear; and it remained a part of the Byzantine world, from the Constantinopolitan perspective, until the end — the expedition to retake Carthage in 698 is demonstration enough of this. In this respect, and in as far as the general course of North African history is concerned, it will be dealt with in this book. Anything more would involve a study in its own right.°
There are other topics which I have not dealt with in depth, chiefly because they are adequately treated elsewhere. The (primarily theological) literature of the seventh century as literature has been left to others, for example; similarly, the history of the art and architecture (again, the surviving material is almost entirely religious in character) of the period, which presents certain very important characteristics and shifts, has been dealt with predominantly on the basis of work done by others — although, for reasons which will become clearer in the relevant discussion (in chapter 11), a great deal more emphasis has been placed upon visual representation than on architecture.
Historians rarely preface their work with statements of theoretical intent — perhaps much to the relief of many readers, but this is not necessarily always a good thing. For every work of historiography relies on sets of assumptions; and ‘theories’, however implicit they might be, are inescapable. I will mention here some of my own basic assumptions.
The main point to make is that this book is conceived and written within a historical materialist framework — that is to say, it is written from a ‘Marxist’ perspective. I place the word Marxist in quotation marks advisedly: the word can mean, and is regularly in debate within the social and historical sciences used to refer to, such a wide variety of subtly or not-so-subtly differentiated views and approaches, that to refer to oneself as a Marxist is of only limited help in determining which of a variety of perspectives within a range of possibilities is actually meant. For while Marxism has a relatively short history as a philosophical and political movement, it is nevertheless immensely ramified and has been enormously influential.
One may ask, of course, why it should be at all necessary to justify one’s terms of reference or indeed to situate oneself in a particular historiographical tradition. Surely it should be enough to base oneself firmly in the sources and to apply one’s historical common sense to their interpretation and to the possible shape of a given set of historical developments? The answer, and the justification, is not difficult to grasp. Theories are, in effect, sets of premises — whether they are implicit or explicit is unimportant at this point — which condition both the mode of interpretation as well as (crucially) the mode of appropriation of knowledge (in other words, the very way in which we permit ourselves to ‘know’ something). Such premises or assumptions are, as I have said, implicit in every piece of analysis, whether it be of literary texts or of historical sources. Theory, in this sense, is inescapable; and there is no use in appealing to an objective, fact-based history, for such does not, and indeed cannot, exist. It is better to admit that this is the case and to make these underlying assumptions explicit, for this allows at least the possibility of seeing where inconsistencies and contradictions might lie, inconsistencies which are inevitable in any process of intuitive and ad hoc reasoning. Theory is, from this point of view, highly desirable, since it is impossible to analyse that of which we have no, or only indirect, experience (either personally or culturally) without setting up a theoretical framework within which we can justify and direct our evaluation of the data.® I can do no better than to quote the linguist Noam Chomsky:
The search for rigorous formulation has a much more serious motivation than mere concern for logical niceties or the desire to purify well-established methods of ... analysis. Precisely constructed models ... can play an important role, both. negative and positive, in the process of discovery itself. By pushing a precise but inadequate formulation to an unacceptable conclusion, we can often expose the exact source of this inadequacy and, consequently, gain a deeper understanding of the ... data ... Obscure and intuition-bound notions can neither lead to absurd conclusions nor provide new and correct ones ... those ... who have questioned ‘the value of precise and technical development of theory may have failed to recognise the productive potential in the method of rigorously stating a proposed theory and applying it strictly to [the] material with no attempt to avoid unacceptable conclusions by ad hoc adjustments or loose formulation.’
Of course, Chomsky is talking here of socio-linguistic data, the analysis and interpretation of which is subject to different principles from those applied to historical evidence. But the point he is making is equally relevant.
The search for rigorous formulation is not, therefore, a pointless exercise. Indeed, if we are to be able to deal effectively with our data, in such a way that we can order it according to the structure and function of the argument we wish to make, then an awareness of our basic assumptions is essential. For historians within the Marxist tradition, the need for rigorous formulation and careful application of theoretical principles is crucial; and this involves determining the content and theoretical weight of the concepts invoked, either as abstract or concrete descriptive categories. For it is precisely through such categories that causal relationships — whether of socio-economic relationships or political ideological developments — can be specified and understood, and tied in to longer-term transformations.
Technical terms such as mode of production, social formation, symbolic universe and so on will thus occur from time to time in this book more especially in the context of analyses of the ways in which Byzantine society actually worked and changed. These, and a number of other terms, are part of a wider theoretical framework, a set of assumptions about the fundamental social, economic and cultural relationships which provide the dynamic for every human society, the generative syntactic structures, to borrow once more from linguistics, which constitute the grid within which social-cultural causation is to be understood. Such terms also imply a particular epistemology, of course, in this case a realist and materialist philosophy which provides a framework for and limitations to the ways in which knowledge of the world, past or present, can be appropriated and employed. But that is another story.
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