Tomorrow marks the 400th anniversary of the King James version of the Bible. It is arguably the greatest work of prose ever written in English, and certainly the translation that has sold the most copies of the best-selling book of all time. The text is in the public domain, but dozens of publishing houses still make millions from it. Oxford University Press alone sells 250,000 copies annually, and this year issued a special edition that reproduces the pages as they first appeared, with illustrated drop caps and plenty of flubs.
For all its magnificence, the King James version had casual beginnings. On the morning of Jan. 12, 1604, within the blue and gold walls of the brick palace at Hampton Court, King James I gathered the elites of the Church of England to discuss its future with the Puritans, who sought reform. The atmosphere soon turned sour over the usual theological differences between the two groups, like the particulars of baptism and marriage, and whether there should be a hierarchical church government of bishops. In a second, smaller meeting a few days later, the Puritan John Reynolds suggested as an afterthought that there be “one only translation of ye bible to be authenticall and read in ye churche.” The king replied that he would indeed commission a new translation, but it would not be exactly what Reynolds was after.
Like most Puritans, Reynolds read the Geneva Bible, which beside the text included many notes influenced by Martin Luther’s teachings from the Reformation. James — a learned man who tried his hand at translating a few psalms — did not favor these comments because some took a stance against monarchs’ authority. He made sure that the version he commissioned would have no hiccups of intrusive Geneva-style commentary. It would also go through a rigorous process of shaping and honing before it reached him for approval.
James tasked 54 top scholars, many plucked from Oxford and Cambridge, to translate the Old and New Testaments, with the Apocrypha, from the original Hebrew and Koine Greek. He divided the scholars into six companies, each headed by a director. Their combined effort — intended to adhere to the king’s detailed instructions, including many directives to maintain continuity — was then to go to a committee of bishops for revision. This group would then send it to the Privy Council, which would then pass it to the king.
Seven years went into fashioning this translation, first published on May 2, 1611. After that, James permitted no other translation to be read in church, meaning that Reynolds’ Geneva Bible would have to reside only in people’s private homes.
Despite the years of intensive work, the King James version was mostly a revision of the Bishops’ Bible in accordance with the monarch’s instructions. In their preface, the translators remarked that their intention was not “to make a new translation” but “to make a good one better.” And although the language is austerely beautiful, there is scant evidence that the authors strove for style; sense, content and continuity ranked higher in importance.
Many of the idioms popularized by the King James version — like “crying in the wilderness” — first appeared in William Tyndale’s 1525-6 translation or an earlier source, as David Crystal points out in “Begat,” one of many recent titles about the 1611 work. Like the version crafted by Tyndale, who said his purpose was to bring Scripture “to the English ploughboy,” the King James Bible is written in plain English, without the ornaments of purple prose fashionable at the time — even, for the most part, without subordinating conjunctions. Clauses are instead joined with a simple “and.”
The King James version also sought to establish peace between fractious Puritans and Anglicans, as Adam Nicolson notes in his 2003 history “God’s Secretaries.” This version, he wrote, “embrace[d] both gorgeousness and ambiguity, did not have to settle for a single doctrinal mode but could embrace different meanings.” This intentional ambiguity gave the translation an aura of majesty and mystery. The power of this ambiguity seems deathless, for it is still what makes the King James Bible appealing to many modern readers.
There are now more than 500 translations of the Bible in English, but the King James version is unparalleled in its influence on English prose and verse — and even on the style of modern American writers, as Robert Alter eloquently demonstrated in “Pen of Iron.” Herman Melville, for instance, combined the earthiness of Middle English with the abstraction and intricacy of Latin. Ernest Hemingway forged sentences of stylistic simplicity, spare, reticent and powerful in telling events without offering commentary on them.
In the centuries after the first publication of the King James version, a few scholarly translations of the Bible appeared in English, but none was popular enough to supplant the classic. For uninterrupted generations, this version helped define American culture, especially in the South.
The proliferation of translations did not begin in earnest until the American Bible Society in 1966 issued “Good News for the Common Man.” By then the times had changed. Anything pertaining to “the establishment” was decidedly not in vogue, and the King James version, a symbol of tradition and authority, was not popular among the young set. The Good News version is a watershed work that in spirit is not unlike Tyndale’s. It was geared to the modern-day “ploughboy” in bell-bottoms as the attractive alternative to the black leather Bible with gold-hemmed pages, which carried the old words of old men.
Since the ’60s, publishers have found myriad ways to make the Bible more “relevant” to all sorts of readers in terms of translation and design. Now there are Bibles made expressly for archaeologists, for patriots, even for the eco-conscious, with every reference to nature printed in green soy-based ink. Some even mimic glossy fashion magazines and offer dating tips to teens. Over a few decades, these new niche Bibles have ended the King James version’s monopoly in the Good Book market. But the King James translation is the one that, despite its antiquated verbs and pronouns, still sells the most copies.
Katherine Eastland is assistant editor of Commentary magazine and an illustrator.
For all its magnificence, the King James version had casual beginnings. On the morning of Jan. 12, 1604, within the blue and gold walls of the brick palace at Hampton Court, King James I gathered the elites of the Church of England to discuss its future with the Puritans, who sought reform. The atmosphere soon turned sour over the usual theological differences between the two groups, like the particulars of baptism and marriage, and whether there should be a hierarchical church government of bishops. In a second, smaller meeting a few days later, the Puritan John Reynolds suggested as an afterthought that there be “one only translation of ye bible to be authenticall and read in ye churche.” The king replied that he would indeed commission a new translation, but it would not be exactly what Reynolds was after.
Like most Puritans, Reynolds read the Geneva Bible, which beside the text included many notes influenced by Martin Luther’s teachings from the Reformation. James — a learned man who tried his hand at translating a few psalms — did not favor these comments because some took a stance against monarchs’ authority. He made sure that the version he commissioned would have no hiccups of intrusive Geneva-style commentary. It would also go through a rigorous process of shaping and honing before it reached him for approval.
James tasked 54 top scholars, many plucked from Oxford and Cambridge, to translate the Old and New Testaments, with the Apocrypha, from the original Hebrew and Koine Greek. He divided the scholars into six companies, each headed by a director. Their combined effort — intended to adhere to the king’s detailed instructions, including many directives to maintain continuity — was then to go to a committee of bishops for revision. This group would then send it to the Privy Council, which would then pass it to the king.
Seven years went into fashioning this translation, first published on May 2, 1611. After that, James permitted no other translation to be read in church, meaning that Reynolds’ Geneva Bible would have to reside only in people’s private homes.
Despite the years of intensive work, the King James version was mostly a revision of the Bishops’ Bible in accordance with the monarch’s instructions. In their preface, the translators remarked that their intention was not “to make a new translation” but “to make a good one better.” And although the language is austerely beautiful, there is scant evidence that the authors strove for style; sense, content and continuity ranked higher in importance.
Many of the idioms popularized by the King James version — like “crying in the wilderness” — first appeared in William Tyndale’s 1525-6 translation or an earlier source, as David Crystal points out in “Begat,” one of many recent titles about the 1611 work. Like the version crafted by Tyndale, who said his purpose was to bring Scripture “to the English ploughboy,” the King James Bible is written in plain English, without the ornaments of purple prose fashionable at the time — even, for the most part, without subordinating conjunctions. Clauses are instead joined with a simple “and.”
The King James version also sought to establish peace between fractious Puritans and Anglicans, as Adam Nicolson notes in his 2003 history “God’s Secretaries.” This version, he wrote, “embrace[d] both gorgeousness and ambiguity, did not have to settle for a single doctrinal mode but could embrace different meanings.” This intentional ambiguity gave the translation an aura of majesty and mystery. The power of this ambiguity seems deathless, for it is still what makes the King James Bible appealing to many modern readers.
There are now more than 500 translations of the Bible in English, but the King James version is unparalleled in its influence on English prose and verse — and even on the style of modern American writers, as Robert Alter eloquently demonstrated in “Pen of Iron.” Herman Melville, for instance, combined the earthiness of Middle English with the abstraction and intricacy of Latin. Ernest Hemingway forged sentences of stylistic simplicity, spare, reticent and powerful in telling events without offering commentary on them.
In the centuries after the first publication of the King James version, a few scholarly translations of the Bible appeared in English, but none was popular enough to supplant the classic. For uninterrupted generations, this version helped define American culture, especially in the South.
The proliferation of translations did not begin in earnest until the American Bible Society in 1966 issued “Good News for the Common Man.” By then the times had changed. Anything pertaining to “the establishment” was decidedly not in vogue, and the King James version, a symbol of tradition and authority, was not popular among the young set. The Good News version is a watershed work that in spirit is not unlike Tyndale’s. It was geared to the modern-day “ploughboy” in bell-bottoms as the attractive alternative to the black leather Bible with gold-hemmed pages, which carried the old words of old men.
Since the ’60s, publishers have found myriad ways to make the Bible more “relevant” to all sorts of readers in terms of translation and design. Now there are Bibles made expressly for archaeologists, for patriots, even for the eco-conscious, with every reference to nature printed in green soy-based ink. Some even mimic glossy fashion magazines and offer dating tips to teens. Over a few decades, these new niche Bibles have ended the King James version’s monopoly in the Good Book market. But the King James translation is the one that, despite its antiquated verbs and pronouns, still sells the most copies.
Katherine Eastland is assistant editor of Commentary magazine and an illustrator.
