That question has been nagging at me lately, especially after diving into the Letter of Aristeas.
This text, purporting to be a first-hand account of the translation of the Hebrew Bible into Greek – the Septuagint – is fascinating. What strikes me in this particular passage is the writer's almost desperate need to convince us of its veracity.
He's just witnessed these incredible exchanges, rapid-fire Q&A sessions where these wise men answered complex questions instantly. He says, "though the questioner had given great thought to each particular question, those who replied one after the other had their answers to the questions ready at once." Imagine that! It’s almost superhuman. He even admits it himself, confessing it will "seem incredible to those who will read my narrative in the future."
But then comes the insistence on truth. A real, almost panicked need to reassure us. "It is unseemly to misrepresent facts," he declares, "which are recorded in the public archives." As if the mere existence of official records is enough to guarantee accuracy. Is it? Really?
He continues, practically pleading, "I tell the story just as it happened, conscientiously avoiding any error." It’s almost too emphatic, isn’t it? The more someone protests their honesty, the more you start to wonder.
He even went to the royal scribes, those whose job it was to document everything happening at court. "I was so impressed by the force of their utterances," he says, "that I made an effort to consult those whose business it was to make a record of all that happened at the royal audiences and banquets.”
Why this need to verify? Was there something about the event itself – the miraculous speed of the answers, perhaps – that made him doubt his own perception? Or was he aware of potential skepticism from future readers and trying to preempt it?
Perhaps the author knows that the act of translation itself is a creative act, an interpretation. He wants to assure us that, at least in documenting the process, he is being faithful. But can any account ever be truly objective?
This small passage opens up a huge question, doesn't it? How much of what we read – especially accounts of historical or even miraculous events – is colored by the author's own biases, agendas, and even just the limitations of human perception? It’s a reminder to always read critically, to question, and to remember that even the most seemingly straightforward narrative is still a story, shaped by the teller. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of that "incredible" stuff is true after all.