Textual Mirrors: Reflexivity, Midrash, and the Rabbinic Self 9780812206944

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1. Simon the Just and the Nazirite: Reflections of (Im)Possible Selves
Chapter 2. A King, a Queen, and the Discourse Between: The Riddle of Midrash
Chapter 3. The Blind Eye of the Beholder: Tall Tales, Travelogues, and Midrash
Chapter 4. Being There: Serah. bat Asher, Magical Language, and Rabbinic Textual Interpretation
Chapter 5. A Maidservant and Her Master’s Voice: From Narcissism to Mimicry
Epilogue: Midrash, Ruins, and Self-Reflexivity
Appendix: bBava Batra 73a–75b
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgments

Citation preview

Textual Mirrors

Divinations: Rereading Late Ancient Religion

Series editors Daniel Boyarin, Virginia Burrus, Derek Krueger

A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

Textual Mirrors Reflexivity, Midrash, and the Rabbinic Self

Dina Stein

u n i ve rsi t y of pe n n sy lva nia press ph i l a de l phia

Copyright © 2012 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 A Cataloging-in-Publication record is available from the Library of Congress ISBN 978-0-8122-4436-6

For Avigail

Contents

Introduction 1 Chapter 1. Simon the Just and the Nazirite: Reflections of (Im)Possible Selves

17

Chapter 2. A King, a Queen, and the Discourse Between: The Riddle of Midrash

33

Chapter 3. The Blind Eye of the Beholder: Tall Tales, Travelogues, and Midrash

58

Chapter 4. Being There: Serah. bat Asher, Magical Language, and Rabbinic Textual Interpretation

84

Chapter 5. A Maidservant and Her Master’s Voice: From Narcissism to Mimicry

101

Epilogue: Midrash, Ruins, and Self-Reflexivity

118

Appendix: bBava Batra 73a–75b

125

Notes 137 Bibliography 179 Index 193 Acknowledgments 201

Introduction

The Book of Genesis tells us that soon after Abraham (then still called Abram) arrived in Canaan, the land to which God had sent him, famine forced him to leave the Promised Land for Egypt. But his trials and tribulations were not over. Crossing a geographical line, Abraham confronted another set of boundaries, those delineating his sovereign masculinity. According to the biblical narrative, Abraham fears that Pharaoh will kill him in order to obtain Sarai (later Sarah), his beautiful wife. He therefore instructs Sarah to declare that she is his sister, not his mate—​­meaning that she is unattached and available to Pharaoh.1 Unsurprisingly, the Sages of the early centuries of the Common Era, the authors of the corpus of rabbinic writings that includes works of midrash (rabbinic exegetical reading of scripture), were troubled by this episode in the life of the Jewish people’s founder. They retold the story placing reflection, or self-​­reflexivity, at the center: [Abram and Sarai] went. As they arrived at the pillars of Egypt and stood at the Nile, Abraham saw the reflection of Sarai in the river and she was like a radiant sun. From this our Sages learned that all women compared to Sarah are like monkeys compared to human beings. [Abram] said to her: “Now I know what a beautiful woman you are” (Gen. 12:11). From here one learns that prior to that, he had not known her as a woman. He said to her: “The Egyptians are immersed in lewdness as it is written ‘whose flesh was like that of asses’ [Ezek. 23:11]. Therefore I will put you in a casket and lock it, since I am frightened for myself that the Egyptians might see you.”2 This short narrative, from Midrash Tanh.uma, explicates Gen. 12:11, “As he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife, Sarai, ‘Now I know what a beautiful woman you are.’ ” Since by this time they had been married for many years, Abram would certainly have noticed by this point that his wife was beautiful. The anecdote addresses this apparent quandary by adducing a reflective

2 Introduction

episode in which Abram gains a new insight, one that changes the nature of the biblical narrative. According to this midrashic tale, the pious Abram had never actually looked at his wife prior to this event and thus had not had intimate relations with her. Struck by her radiance, he “knows” her for the first time (perhaps implying that he not only sees her face but actually knows her in the biblical sense). At this very instant, he realizes that her radiant beauty may be a danger to him. If they know that Sarai is his wife, the Egyptians are likely to kill him in order to obtain Sarai for themselves. Clearly, the tale seeks not only to gloss the odd phrasing of the biblical verse (“Now I know what a beautiful woman you are”) but also to mitigate the dubiety of Abram’s decision to conceal Sarai’s relationship to him.3 According to the midrash, that moment at the Nile was one of transformative epiphany, possibly coupled with shock. Newly enlightened, Abram was impelled to take preventive measures. But, according to this retelling, his first move was not, as the biblical narrative has it, to tell Sarai to declare herself his sister. Here, the reflective moment—​­Abram literally sees his wife’s reflection in the river—​­implies new awareness on Abram’s part, one that informs his subsequent actions. Notably, Abram does not see his own reflection—​­he sees Sarai’s. It is nevertheless a moment of actual reflection that transforms not only her identity (as she is perceived by her husband) but his as well. He views himself differently thereafter—​­as the husband of a desirable woman. Moreover, the reflective gaze recognizes desire itself. Only when Abram himself desires his wife can he realize that the Egyptians, known for their lustfulness, will desire her as well. Desire and danger become the rationale for the continuation of the midrashic narrative. Identity, narrative, and midrash, as this example teaches us, are inextricably connected to reflection and self-​­reflection. Self-​­reflectivity, it tells us, not only informs the identity of the figures in the tale but directs the text, motivating its chain of events. In the most basic sense, the mirroring moment is a crucial point, on which the identities of the evolving figures and the text as a whole hang.4 Moreover, the reflective moment is directly associated with a textual practice: Abram immediately cites scripture, and thus his scriptural source of knowledge becomes in part analogous to that of the Sage, who couches this entire tale as an exegesis of the biblical narrative in Genesis 12. Abram’s self-​­reflection is mirrored by textual self-​­reflexivity. In reading the story, I used the term “self-​­reflectivity,” since it refers to the human—​­animated—​­domain where a person becomes the object of his or her own gaze. The reflection of another (Sarai) implies, as I suggested,

Introduction 3

self-​­reflection, and it is clearly human reflection that is at play here. There are but few instances of explicit human reflection in rabbinic literature—​­stories in which characters see their own or someone else’s reflection.5 But, as I will argue in this book, self-​­reflexivity—​­a meta-​­poetic aspect of a text whereby the text refers to itself—​­operates in, and is central to, rabbinic texts that do not necessarily involve an explicit image of reflection. However, because I address the text as a staged “self ” and see it as a cultural animated “self,” I use the terms “self-​­reflectivity” and “self-​­reflexivity” interchangeably. In the chapters that follow, I will point out mirroring moments that serve as pivotal discursive underpinnings of rabbinic textual production. That is, I will suggest that when rabbinic hermeneutical and institutional discourses become the object of reflection, they become central to the formation of rabbinic cultural identities. For us, as readers, they shed light on an underlying process that may otherwise be seen only at its endpoints—​­be it the identity of the Sage, the hegemony of the rabbinic institution, or the authority of midrash as scriptural interpretation. These apparent endpoints constitute what we recognize as the identity of rabbinic culture(s). Mirroring, self-​­reflective moments bring us, as it were, backstage in rabbinic theaters, where the participants comment on the play being enacted onstage. These comments not only undermine the unity of the apparent, seemingly coherent, performance but also, paradoxically, facilitate it. Human (or textual) performance is contingent on self-​­reflexivity, or, as Kenneth Burke put it, it is through “the reflexive capacity to develop highly complex symbol systems about symbol systems that humans act upon themselves and others.”6 Put differently, in the narrative about Abram discussed above, self-​­reflectivity involves Eros, an animating force that motivates the character and his actions. In this story, Eros determines Abram’s identity and the “identity” of the entire tale. Self-​ r­eflexivity, then, when it appears in a text, can be seen as its underlying, facilitating force. Self-​­reflexivity is an aspect of any text that comments on itself as a text and as language, or on its own processes of production and reception.7 Self-​ ­reflexivity, as I use the term here, refers to those ways by which rabbinic texts look at their own textual and discursive principles. The question of self-​ ­reflectivity, of how one sees oneself when one becomes the object of inquiry, has long since expanded beyond the realm of individual psychology.8 Since the notion of identity has become suspect, whether it is the identity of a text, a social identity of a given group, or an identity of an academic discipline, self-​­reflexivity has become part of any discussion that looks at discourse as

4 Introduction

culturally constructed. Here, it relates to rabbinic discourse as the object of reflection.

Midrash and Self-​­Reflexivity Rabbinic texts offer a particular example of self-​­reflexivity because of their specific intertextual nature. They constantly, and explicitly, refer to other texts, biblical and rabbinic, and such references expose their means of production as well as the textual and linguistic concepts implicated in such a productive process.9 Midrash is composed of two explicit layers: scripture and rabbinic commentary. The Talmud is likewise built from two layers: Mishnah and Gemara, with those two layers containing, in addition, numerous midrashic expansions. In other words, the seams of the rabbinic cloth are, at least partly, sewn on the outside, making visible the process by which it was made. I suggest that this intertextual quality of rabbinic texts is a marker of self-​­reflexivity. The most basic form of self-​­reflexivity in rabbinic texts is their covert awareness of their linguistic constitution. That is, the overall midrashic-​ ­citational quality of rabbinic texts evinces, by its very nature, an awareness of the linguistic operations that form the texts. Within that general awareness, there are specific diegetic (that is, the characters or speakers in the text are aware that they are narrating a story or participating in a text) as well as non-​ ­diegetic, overtly self-​­reflective, narratives. These overtly self-​­reflective narratives will be the focus of this book.10 In addition to the two layers of scripture and rabbinic explications that characterize midrash, its intertextuality is further enhanced by its unique strategy of reading scripture. By linking together different scriptural sources, midrash anchors its authority in scripture. Scripture is taken to contain its own interpretative keys. The Sage, the interpreter—​­unlike his predecessors of the Second Temple period—​­does not hear a ministering angel (as does the author of Jubilees), nor does he record a firsthand account of Jacob’s sons (as in the Testaments of the Patriarchs).11 His authority derives from the text itself, which situates him simultaneously inside the text and outside of it. Midrash, as I have noted, is the cornerstone of rabbinic culture not only as it is found in the practice of direct explications of biblical law and lore but also in the model that such exegesis posits (mutatis mutandis) for subsequent texts, namely, the talmudic explications of the Mishnah. And, as the

Introduction 5

dominant form in the rabbinic literary poly-​­system, midrash was also a discursive model to which the rabbis adapted other genres. Such was the case with the Second Temple rewritten Bible, comprising certain apocryphal and pseudo-​­epigraphical ex-​­canonical texts that retold biblical stories. When the rabbis engaged in these kinds of retellings, they did so in midrashic fashion, with textual citations and fragmented narrative.12 To be sure, a general characterization of rabbinic culture as a scriptural-​­exegetical culture may at first seem trivial.13 It also may seem to subsume a multifaceted enterprise under one single practice. Nor is it possible to reduce a corpus of texts that span six hundred years and different geographical and cultural environments to a single rabbinic culture. Yet the importance of the rise of midrash as a central, distinctively rabbinic, hermeneutic method cannot be overstated. For it was “the early rabbinic choice of scriptural commentary as a communicative medium”14 that distinguished the rabbinic exegetical enterprise from earlier traditions.15 That is not to say that midrash was created ex nihilo by the rabbis, but rather that in the rabbinic corpus, it occupies a central nexus that informs the entire rabbinic textual system. As such, it becomes the distinctive hallmark of rabbinic literary creativity in a manner that sets it apart from earlier proto-​­midrashic practices (for example, Qumranic Pesharim or Philo’s scriptural exegesis). Midrash is a propagator of reflection in and of itself, as well as being a generative and metonymic model of rabbinic hermeneutical practices in a wider sense. For the Sage, the midrashic stance of being inside and outside the (biblical) text at the same time implies a position of liminality. It is precisely this liminality that is inextricably connected to self-​­reflection. If we understand self-​­reflection to be directed at categorical boundaries and at systemic shortcomings, the source of reflexivity should emerge from those very same ambiguous or liminal categories.16 Put differently, it is through liminal states that “we come to know ourselves and our world, to know how we know, and to reflect on our own interpretative process.”17 Rabbinic discourse(s), so heavily saturated with midrash and the liminality it entails, are hence self-​ ­reflective by definition, rendering the texts self-​­reflexive. Modern scholars have noted the liminal, betwixt-​­and-​­between position of midrash. The impetus (and paradox) of early rabbinic hermeneutics has been described as a demand to be both “the same and other than scripture”;18 similarly, the poetics of amoraic (later rabbinic) midrash has been explained as an expression of “a certain type of dialogical consciousness, of being both inside and outside the text at the same time.”19 These characterizations, although

6 Introduction

they do not say so explicitly, imply that rabbinic midrashic discourse produces a liminal, hence reflective, subject. And, of all rabbinic discourses, scriptural exegesis—​­midrash—​­has most frequently elicited discussions of self-​­reflexivity. Moshe Halbertal, for example, has demonstrated that rabbinic exegetical practice is a self-​­reflective cultural project;20 Christine Hayes has argued that the rabbis, from a very early stage, reflected on contextual versus non-​­contextual exegesis;21 and David Stern has instructively characterized the rabbinic exegetical stance as a conscious “belatedness,” implying self-​­reflexivity.22

The Boundaries of Rabbinic Reflection, Self-​­Reflexivity, and Self-​­Reflectivity Self-​­reflection, is (or was, in the wake of postmodernism)23 “too fashionable a concept to be endorsed unreflectively.”24 One question that the concept elicits has to do with the scope and range of such reflexivity: Can rabbinic discourse extend beyond its own boundaries? To put it differently, to what extent can one talk about self-​­reflexivity without the reflected self being incorporated into the reflective gaze?25 David Stern has noted that “any consideration of the relationship between theory and midrash might do well to begin with the self-​­reflexivity of contemporary theory—​­thought turned upon its own operations—​­and that of midrash, in which even theoretical statements about exegesis are couched in the language of scriptural exegesis.”26 Accordingly, the ultimate superiority ascribed to the Torah as the arch-​­paradigm in the system of interpretation precludes any self-​­reflective statement that is situated beyond its hermeneutical boundaries. Daniel Boyarin devotes his book Socrates and the Fat Rabbis, which addresses the notion of rabbinic self-​­reflexivity, to breaching and ridiculing these same hermeneutical frameworks.27 His book, like this one, stresses instances where epistemological uncertainties are reflected upon in the rabbinic corpus. It also implies, as I am suggesting, the notion that there is a self that is the object of reflection.28 Boyarin offers a provocative thesis that seeks to account for the unique character of the Babylonian Talmud, for its mixing together of what Boyarin sees as the serious and the comic, the holy and the grotesque. He posits that this mixed bag, especially the outlandish biographical narratives of the rabbis, come from the Hellenistic Menippean literary tradition, which combines the lofty with the debased, the spiritual

Introduction 7

with the physically grotesque. What is of particular interest in the context of our discussion is that this (deliberate) hybridity of subject matter is used to criticize paramount cultural practices. In the Hellenistic context, the object is philosophical discourse, while in the Jewish context it is rabbinic Torah study and legal-​­exegetical discourse, with its implied claim of truth. In other words, the Menippean aspect of the Babylonian Talmud, as presented by Boyarin, displays self-​­reflectivity (and self-​­reflexivity) regarding its own knowledge or lack of knowledge, and it is, as he repeatedly suggests, a critique from “within” that does not delegitimize the foundations of the Babylonian rabbinic enterprise. In this sense, the self-​­reflexive texts are a form of a carnivalesque expression that is embraced and manipulated by the establishment. Boyarin, although not addressing the issue explicitly, struggles with the distinction between self-​­reflexivity and self-​­reflectivity, between the (meta-​­) textual, self-​­reflexive, markers of the Bavli (the Babylonian Talmud) and an equally reflecting (rabbinic) agency to which these markers may attest. The Menippean tradition, with its ridicule of the philosophical pursuit of Truth, as it manifests itself in the Talmud, is ultimately ascribed by Boyarin to an implied author or, more accurately, to two implied authors (to which the different materials correspond). The complex, detailed argument that Boyarin makes to support this assertion is crucial for his understanding of the cultural forces at play and for his explanation of why specific texts were chosen, consciously or unconsciously, for inclusion in the Talmud. Are the texts self-​ ­reflexive, and/or are the authors self-​­reflective? Are the rabbis in control, or are they not? Boyarin concludes that the texts are self-​­reflexive and that the agency that is implied by the texts is equally self-​­reflective.29 These two points of Boyarin’s—​­the boundaries of rabbinic (self-​­)critique and the relationship between textual self-​­reflexivity and human self-​ r­ eflectivity in the Bavli—​­are crucial for my analysis. Boyarin restricts himself (if “restricts” is indeed the right word) to the Babylonian Talmud, particularly to its final editorial stamp, and to specific outrageous—​­and, at times, seriocomic—​­narratives. The biographical legends that serve Boyarin are very different in tone and texture from the narratives that will be the focus of the following chapters. The comic or humoristic component of some of the narratives discussed in this book does not derive from an exaggerated, grotesque style. Clearly, then, Boyarin is addressing a different literary phenomenon of self-​­reflexivity. In addition, the texts that I read reside in a wide variety of rabbinic compilations. Yet I would argue that the self-​­reflexivity that Boyarin identifies in the Bavli is but one case of the basic self-​­reflexivity of rabbinic

8 Introduction

texts in general. My claim is that the exegetical premise of rabbinic practice (midrash) opened it up, to begin with, to this specific Menippean mode of self-​ ­critique. The question of the ability of the self-​­reflexive text to transcend the reflective gaze in which it is couched becomes a nuanced question when applied to self-​­reflexive texts that do not bear—​­by and large—​­outlandish traits and that cannot be ascribed to one particular milieu (or “editors”). As the following chapters will show, the self-​­reflexive and self-​­reflective boundaries are simultaneously breached and maintained, while any implied agencies ascribed to the texts are deemed obscure, even more so than the ghost-​­like dual figures of Boyarin’s Bavli. However, as mentioned earlier, since the text’s self-​­reflexivity operates, in my view, as a self that is reflected on in a wider, cultural, sense (but not as a specific social group), I use “reflexive” and “reflective” interchangeably.

Self-​­Reflexivity and an Imagined Rabbinic Self Self-​­reflexivity is applied in this book to a body of texts.30 The object of my observations is not the human psyches of specific characters within the texts. Instead, the self I address is an emergent entity that results from rabbinic discourses and discursive processes. These processes, in turn, explain, argue for, negate, and validate. In short, they produce moments of cultural subjectivity. But there is another aspect of the cultural self that I am interested in, one that is ostensibly “given” rather than constantly constructed and one that is an object of reflection. I have suggested that one central rabbinic discourse, that is, one discursive self, is midrash. Since this pivotal rabbinic discourse implies self-​­reflexivity in and of itself, it is not surprising to find midrash as an object of reflection. In this case, the exegetical rabbinic discourse itself becomes a theme of discourse and is provided with an array of reflective lenses through which it is examined. Indeed, most of the texts examined in this book involve, in some way or another, a reflection on midrash. The last chapter addresses rabbinic discourse in a broader sense, as an institutionally governed enterprise. It, too, should be seen in relation to rabbinic discourse’s overall propensity, triggered by midrash, for self-​­reflexivity. My claim that there is an imagined rabbinic-​­discursive self that, in turn, becomes an object of reflection should be viewed in the context of much current work on rabbinic cultures. Recent cultural studies of rabbinic texts have tended to question the pure, clear-​­cut contours of rabbinic identities. Cultural

Introduction 9

heterogeneity has been explained, for instance, by the discursive mixture of “folk” and “elite” elements,31 or by the underlying contact between distinct but not entirely separated ethnic and religious groups. Bakhtinian social-​ ­literary polyphony and postcolonial theory’s hybridity have provided rich frameworks for discussing rabbinic identities: Galit Hasan-​­Rokem has demonstrated the polyphony in rabbinic texts,32 and Joshua Levinson has argued for their hybrid identities.33 While their premises ring true and their specific readings convincingly indicate that rabbinic cultures were anything but monolithic, these studies may overlook a crucial aspect of (rabbinic) identity formation: they do not necessarily acknowledge that a sense of an essentialized self is an immanent aspect of identity formation without which an ­individual—​­or here, a culture—​­cannot function. The notion of a unified self, as some have argued, may rest on a misguided, insatiable nostalgic yearning.34 But to deny the experiential components that give rise to such an imagined entity is to overlook a powerful engine of identity formation.35 To dismiss these experiences as individual or cultural fantasies would mean overlooking a central rabbinic force in which a unified self is imagined.36 That is not to say that a unified cultural self is an exclusive rabbinic fantasy; nor is it to say that it ever existed beyond any textual boundaries. Also, quite clearly, religious and ethnic external others played a key role in self-​­reflexive processes and cultural identity formations of Judaism in late antiquity. Thus, to offer but one example, rabbinic Judaism reflected on and formed itself in relation to Christianity—​­to an external (or gradually externalized) synchronic other.37 As Christine Hayes notes, external and internal others in rabbinic literature “serve as means by which a group can explore its own internal ambiguities, experiment with alternative possibilities, embrace negativities.”38 In the following chapters, I refer to some of the characters and discourses as “others.” Yet these, I suggest, should be construed within the conceptual framework of possible selves, which accentuates their role in a self-​­reflective, introspective process.39

Rabbinic Possible Selves Rabbinic self-​­reflexivity resides in, and is triggered by, its pivotal practice of midrash. This midrashic capacity is further enhanced by reflective figures that populate rabbinic narratives. The textual mirroring points of the narratives engage a variety of characters who serve as discursive junctions through

10 Introduction

which the main, however tentative, discourses are reflected upon. Where these figures come from, what they do, what they say, and how they say it constitute their performative persona: they may originate in bygone biblical and Second Temple days, occupy a lowly social position, belong to the female gender, speak in riddles, or think magically. The figures may seem to resemble rabbinic contemporary prototypes or they may be imagined, initially, as their virtual opposites. Embodying an ambivalence of sameness and otherness, their appearance in the rabbinic corpus plays out alternative choices and ideas, constituting what Hillis Miller terms “possible selves.” According to Miller, the characters that operate in a narrative allow the reader to whom it is addressed to “experiment with possible selves and to learn to take . . . ​place in the real world, to play . . . ​[a] part there.”40 However, for the sake of discussion, I have modified Miller’s insightful term by differentiating between what can be seen as the main self in a given text and other figures that not only represent other possible selves but also comment on that main—​­however tentative—​­self. Furthermore, while the concept of a possible self applies to the characters in the text, it can be carried further, beyond the personified principle suggested by Miller, since the rabbinic self—​­a midrashic self—​­is a discursive self. Accordingly, discourses that have distinct structural and thematic features but that are not necessarily centered on a character—​­such as the genre of tall tales (Chapter 3)—​­might also be seen as an experiment with possible selves, or as ways of reflecting with this genre on the midrashic self of a rabbinic text.41

From a Nazirite to a Maidservant: Five Readings of Self-​­Reflexivity This book is composed of five readings of rabbinic texts in which self-​ ­reflexivity plays a prominent role. The chapters were written separately, over the course of the last fifteen years. It is only in hindsight that I realized that they addressed similar issues. Their shared themes derive from my idiosyncratic interests. Yet without ignoring the book’s (auto)biographical component (or fallacy), something in the texts themselves has always drawn my attention to their self-​­reflexive quality. In retrospect, I see that I sought to understand the self-​­reflexive impetus of rabbinic texts that I, in turn, identified with their midrashic core. As I reflected on essays that I had written in the past and on my ongoing project, it became clear to me that reflexivity is a

Introduction 11

driving force in rabbinic literature and that the notion of a self is important in the formation of cultural identity. The readings draw on different methodologies—​­mainly, literary theory, folklore, semiotics, and anthropology. While following basic philological guidelines concerning matters such as the dating of texts and lexical meanings, my readings at times transcend what may seem indisputable (or seemingly safe) philological grounds. As we have learned from Mikhail Bakhtin, a text—​­any text—​­produces meaning via its relation to other texts (what I term in Chapter 2 its “co-​­texts”).42 It does not stand alone. The reconstruction of possible “echo chambers” that not only form the background to a given text but that determine its meanings is contingent on reading practices. What are the relevant texts that one may consider when reading a given text? The answer is not simple, and it at least partly relates to the space—​­or abyss (depending on the eye of the beholder)—​­that lies between strict philological criteria and possible wider semiotics. In this context, we should also bear in mind that rabbinic texts that provide the basis for philological pursuits are only the tip of the iceberg insofar as they are remnants—​­maybe only partial in and of themselves—​­of a predominantly oral culture (this largely holds true also for the later texts I discuss). The rabbinic worlds that are both revealed and veiled by the texts stretch beyond any possible philological reconstruction. The readings I propose suggest cultural spaces that, although they sometimes cannot be proved philologically, are nonetheless plausible semiotic frameworks that should be considered. Likewise, the strictly philological premise is supplemented by an alternative hermeneutical model when I (albeit infrequently) use late traditions for elucidating earlier texts: later traditions may tease out potential meanings that are embedded in earlier texts, by making them explicit or by solving earlier textual ambivalences or uncertainties. The texts are taken from an array of rabbinic compilations, including Palestinian compilations, the Babylonian Talmud, and late midrash. “Late midrash,” a term that refers to a diverse body of works composed after the rabbinic period (dating roughly from the seventh to the tenth or eleventh centuries in different geographical settings), is clearly situated beyond the rabbinic period. Late midrashic works introduce poetic innovations: they offer novel compositional frameworks and themes unknown from earlier rabbinic traditions. Yet they are still quite bound to rabbinic models and especially to the midrashic component that characterizes the classical rabbinic corpus.43 Late midrashic texts are thus still also part of a rabbinic literary tradition and, as such, are generated by—​­and, to a large extent, still modeled

12 Introduction

on—​­rabbinic midrashic narratives. They display the dynamics afforded by earlier rabbinic works, although they are clearly situated within a different literary poly-​­system and novel historical contexts. While taking into consideration the different historical and cultural backgrounds of the texts, my emphasis nonetheless remains transhistorical in the sense that I address what I recognize to be continuous aspects of an imagined rabbinic self. The heterogeneity of the texts extends beyond their different cultural contexts, for they are also generically varied—​­a historical legend, a riddling tale, tall tales, and a retold biblical narrative. They all, however, involve the telling of a story, and it is in the telling of a story that reflections of a narrating self emerge. That is not to say that rabbinic self-​­reflexivity is restricted to narratives (as noted earlier, rabbinic self-​­reflexivity also comes out in exegetical and legal discussion). Nor does it indicate that all rabbinic narratives are equally self-​­reflexive. It shows, rather, that these rabbinic narratives—​­with their intricate dynamics of plot and character—​­include a self-​­reflexive aspect that is particularly poignant when the reflective process is thematized in the narratives. Such are the texts that are addressed in this book. In Chapter 1, I read the rabbinic version of the Narcissus tale. This rabbinic meta-​­reflective narrative centers on Simon the Just, the high priest, and a Nazirite. The midrashic self reflected on in the story and the meta-​­poetic aspects of the text are articulated masterfully in this narrative, in which two characters—​­possible selves—​­are deployed in a web of shared identities. Midrash is the endpoint of the tale and the point at which the high priest is finally “rabbinized.” Yet the processes that the story posits deny the possibility of postulating a stable, if only tentative, self, be it midrashic or other. Chapter 2 deals directly with midrash as a reflected, and problematized, self, through the genre of riddles and the characters that act in a riddling tale. A midrashic narrative on the Queen of Sheba and her riddles is read as a reflective text that argues for the necessity, and insufficiency, of midrash. The riddling tale yields a progressive inquiry into the question of identity, ending with a seemingly triumphant climax of (male) religious-​­cultural identity, an identity that involves midrash. However, the plot leading to this resolution and the uncanny resemblance between riddles and midrash cast a shadow on the climatic triumph of Solomon the Sage. Chapter 3 offers a close reading of a sugya (long passage) in tractate Bava Batra of the Babylonian Talmud. In this passage, scriptural exegesis is set alongside and against tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, thereby reflecting on the efficacy of textually based epistemology. Travelogues and tall tales, on the

Introduction 13

one hand, and scriptural exegesis, on the other, are shown to compete here as two hermeneutical, institutional, and experiential principles. Although midrash plays a part in the narratives addressed in Chapters 4 and 5, it is not the only self reflected on. In Chapter 4, Serah., daughter of Asher, as portrayed in Pirke deRabbi Eliezer (and earlier sources), embodies an alternative to the patriarchal-​­hegemonic discourse. While the latter is understood to be a mediated textual praxis, her hermeneutic discourse and linguistic skills imply an immediacy that rabbinic textual practices may lack. However, she is not situated in opposition to midrash per se because she at times engages in it. Thus, she can be said to reflect critically on aspects of a rabbinic-​­midrashic self, or, alternatively, she can be viewed as encapsulating a midrashic ideal. Chapter 5 takes up tales about Rabbi Judah the Patriarch’s (R. Yehudah haNasi’s) maidservant. Being at her master’s beck and call, her acts of reflection have to do with institutional hegemony. While she engages in midrashic mimicry, the rabbinic self that she reflects on is not exclusively a midrashic self: the institution of the Sages, whose faults and weaknesses she exposes, is primarily identified as a male, closed-​­off enterprise. Here, it is rabbinic authority as it relates to knowledge—​­mainly textual knowledge—​­that is being reflected on. Midrash is part of that hegemonic praxis and self, as some of the narratives that involve her figure state. Yet what is at stake in this reflective gesture is not only the rabbinic-​­midrashic self but rather rabbinic discourse as literally an institutional discourse. What is implied by the very term “discourse”—​­its social, institutional premise—​­is what is being reflected on here. Rabbinic texts continually look into the mirror. What they see depends on the lens through which they reflect on themselves. The lens can be a terrified Abram, in fear of his life, frightened by the animating force that he has just recognized (Eros). In the tale from Midrash Tanh.uma, he immediately projects his own menacing desire onto an externalized other, the Egyptians. In staging a moment of actual self-​­reflection, the rabbinic tale displays two major features that are at play in rabbinic textual self-​­reflexivity: thinking with and through a possible self (the Egyptians); and employing the practice of midrash. That these features are uniquely rabbinic and that they produce a highly self-​­reflexive text may be better appreciated if we briefly compare the Tanh.uma narrative to two other texts that address Abram’s less than worthy conduct in Pharaoh’s land. The first is an earlier text, dating from the Second Temple period, known as the Genesis Apocryphon. It suggests a dream as a transitional point in the biblical plot:44

14 Introduction

I, Abram, dreamed a dream, on the night of my entry into Egypt. And in my dream, I saw a cedar and a palm tree. . . . ​Some men arrived, intending to cut and uproot the [ce]dar and to leave the palm tree by itself. But the palm tree shouted and said: “Do not hew down the [ce] dar because both of you are from root. . . .” And the cedar was saved, thanks to the palm tree, and was not [hewn down]. blank I woke up from my slumber during the night and said to Sarai, my wife: “I have had a dream [and] I am alarmed [by] this dream.” She said to me: “Tell me your dream so that I may know it.” And I began to tell her the dream, [and I told her the interpretation] of th[is] dream. [I] sa[id:] “. . . they want to kill me and leave you alone. This favor [o]nly [must you do for me]: in every place [we reach, say] about me: ‘He is my brother.’ And I shall live under your protection and my life will be spared because of you.” (1Qumran Genesis Apocryphon 20) The Apocryphon belongs to the Second Temple genre of the “rewritten Bible” and, as such, tells a continuous narrative. That is, even if its underlying exegetical motive is to comment on the scriptural story, it nonetheless presents itself rhetorically as an independent, self-​­contained tale. In the passage above, Abram recounts his story as a first-​­person narrative. The narrative is thus granted authority by his own firsthand testimony, and it is through ­revelation—​­in a dream—​­that Abram is informed of the impending danger and consequently resorts to extreme measures. It is here that the authority of the narrative and the authorization of its protagonist’s acts converge: the narrative is, as it were, directly revealed by a witness who retells a long, successive narrative and in turn is granted a divine revelation via a dream.45 Unlike the rabbinic Abram, the Genesis Apocryphon’s Abram does not, and cannot (given the epistemology of the narrative), cite verses. His source of knowledge is a dream, an epistemology of revelation. He does engage in ­interpretation—​ ­otherwise, he would be unable to conclude that the two trees are coded images of himself and of his wife.46 Yet, whatever basis there may have been for his interpretation, it is not made part of the narrative. This is a narrative, let me again stress, that draws on the authority of a first-​­person narrator, Abram, who was “there.”47 Abram is granted direct knowledge, and the Apocryphon ostensibly relies on the direct testimony provided by the biblical figure. It is in this unequivocal premise—​­of a narrative that draws on testimony and of a figure who acquires knowledge but not self-​­knowledge—​­that textual self-​­reflexivity and the self-​­reflectivity of its protagonist are excluded. Unlike

Introduction 15

this Second Temple Abram, Abram of the midrash is a reflective figure who echoes the very reflexivity with which midrash as an exegetical discourse is imbued. He, like the narrator of the Tanh.uma text, cites verses and is situated in the liminal-​­reflective position implied by midrash. Likewise, narrative style, grounding of knowledge, authorial position, and the reflexivity that they entail emerge in the second, later, example, from Sefer hayashar, a medieval or Renaissance Jewish work that recounts biblical events from the Creation until Joshua’s conquest of Canaan.48 In the introduction, its author tells a long story in which he vouches for the text’s antiquity. It is, he claims, an authentic ancient document saved by a Roman official from a hidden library in the ruins of Jerusalem.49 As in the earlier Genesis Apocryphon, we are presented with a continuous narrative; but this time, the tale is told by a third-​­person narrator who is granted authority by the putative authenticity of the supposedly ancient book. Not quite impersonating Abram, as the Apocryphon does, but still appealing to an extra-​­textual source of authority, a textual relic, this is Sefer hayashar’s version of Abram’s reflective moment: “And Abram and all his chattels went down to Egypt because of the famine, and they were at the river of Egypt, and they dwelled near the river to rest from the voyage. And Abram and Sarai walked on the bank of the river of Egypt. And Abram looked at the water and he saw how very beautiful Sarai his wife was. And Abram said to Sarai: After God had created you with this good appearance, I am afraid that the Egyptians might kill me and take you, for there is no fear of God in their place.”50 This rendering offers the reflective scene but one stripped of its midrashic component. Not only is there no underlying exegetical framework for this tale, as there is in the Tanh.uma, but when providing a rationale for later hiding his wife, Abram does not cite scriptural verses. He simply states that “there is no fear of God in their place.” Here, the reflective moment is translated immediately into the divine. Sarai’s beauty points to God’s Creation, and it is the Egyptian’s lack of “fear of God” that will endanger him. In this rendering, the reflection in the river does not lead to self-​­reflection but still serves as an animating force that determines the ensuing action. But Abram, immediately upon recognizing Sarai’s beauty, ascribes it to divine Creation. In doing so, he divests responsibility from himself and hands it over to God. He therefore states his fear of the Egyptians in theological terms.51 I would suggest that the lack of self-​­reflection on Abram’s part, the suppression of Eros, is also tied up with the lack of self-​­reflexivity of the text: in the Tanh.uma text, the verse from Ezekiel makes “lust” (projected onto the Egyptians) an explicit theme of the

16 Introduction

tale. More important, it is not only part of Abram’s self-​­reflective moment; it is a moment of textual self-​­reflexivity, thus associating the portrayal of the human subject and the discourse that constructs him. Of course, the two examples—​­one predating rabbinic textual practices and the other attesting to new forms of medieval or Renaissance Hebrew ­fiction—​­deserve to be appreciated for their own poetic merits (and maybe even for their own aspects of self-​­reflexivity). In this context, however, they clearly underline the heightened mode of self-​­reflexivity that I ascribe to midrash as a generative force in rabbinic texts, resulting, in the Tanh.uma text, in a self-​­reflective protagonist. The reflecting mirror and the reflected picture in rabbinic texts vary. Both depend on whether the texts see themselves through the intertwined figures of the high priest and the Nazirite, the Queen of Sheba, or a lowly maidservant, or through riddles and tall tales. Their sense of self is reinforced and doubted simultaneously. It is this double, if contradictory, gesture that allows for vital, continuous, and effectively evolving cultural selves that are indeed polyphonic and hybrid, adapting to changing circumstances, be it Hellenistic culture, the rise of Christianity, or circulating noncanonical local traditions. Yet the historical dynamics that give rise to the variety of rabbinic shared identities cannot be fully appreciated (or take place) without an imagined self, and it is this introspective gaze that will be the focus of the following chapters.

Chapter 1

Simon the Just and the Nazirite: Reflections of (Im)Possible Selves

The story is about a young shepherd who, looking into a pond, sees his reflection and falls in love with himself. This familiar scene is part of a complex rabbinic narrative, to which we will return shortly. And what better place to begin probing the enigma of self-​­reflexivity than with the classical myth of the beautiful boy ensnared by his own reflection—​­the Narcissus of Greek legend? While the rabbinic corpus contains comparatively few parallels to Greek myths, the story of a rabbinic Narcissus stands out not only in its very inclusion in rabbinic works but in the number of times that it is cited.1 Its presence in both Palestinian (early as well as later) and Babylonian compilations attests to the emblematic quality and relevance that the story held for the entire rabbinic-​­canonic body of literature. As Ovid, the Roman poet, tells it in his Metamorphoses, vanity causes the sixteen-​­year-​­old Narcissus (“just turn’d of boy, and on the verge of man”) to ignore all those who fall desperately in love with him. Instead, looking into a pool of water, he falls in love with his own image, not knowing that “it was himself he lov’d.” When he sees that the image in the water mimics him in every way, he cries out in despair: “It is my self I love, my self I see; the gay delusion is part of me.” His agonized words “I wish him absent whom I most desire” intimate his tragic fate as foretold by Teresias: “if e’er he knows himself he surely dies.”2 The psychological implications of the Greek tale have been made obvious, if only by the modern association of the story with a pathological condition (narcissism). By contrast, its epistemological-​­philosophical claims may be more obscure. But Shadi Bartsch insightfully situates Ovid’s narrative precisely in the cultural-​­intellectual practice of his day: Ovid’s version of

18

Chapter 1

the Narcissus tale “becomes one not only about love, vision and the self but also about philosophy: If it is erotic because the act of seeing leads to love, it is also philosophical because the gaze mirrored upon the self leads to self-​ ­knowledge. . . . ​Vision, Eros and self-​­knowledge might seem an unlikely trio in the discourse of modern philosophy, but for Ovid they were the essential elements in a tradition that he and other Roman authors would borrow, reflect on, and significantly alter.”3 Ovid’s narrative is thus situated within a long tradition in which self-​ ­knowledge, Eros, and vision are seen as key attributes of the philosopher, rendering it a reflective tale on the paradoxical nature of philosophy and its potential shortcomings. Clearly, the rabbis were not philosophers, nor was philosophy a pivotal rabbinic discourse. The salient rabbinic discourse was, in fact, midrash. I suggest that the rabbinic version of the Narcissus tale reflects on pivotal aspects of rabbinic cultural practices—​­specifically, midrash. For reasons that I hope will become clear, I see this tale as a meta-​­reflexive text in which the issue of (rabbinic) self-​­reflectivity is addressed. It encapsulates the three aspects of rabbinic self-​­reflexivity put forth in the Introduction to this volume: the reflected-​­upon midrashic self, the meta-​­poetic dimension of the text, and the interplay of possible selves. Self, projection, mirroring, sameness, and difference—​­all issues that form the core of the Narcissus ­character—​­are also implicated in the discursive and narratological aspects of the tale. The generative force of the character and that of the narrative as a whole are inextricably intertwined. If the fate of a rabbinic Narcissus is different from that of his Greek counterpart, it is in no small measure because of the discursive framework in which he is situated. Simon the Just [Shimʿon haTsadiq] said: I have never eaten a guilt offering of a defiled Nazirite except for one. Once a Nazirite from the south came, and I saw that he had beautiful eyes and was good-​ ­looking and his locks neatly curled [qevutsotav sedurot lo taltalim]. I said to him: My son, why did you see fit to destroy this beautiful hair of yours? He said to me: I was a shepherd for my father; I went to fill water from the spring and I looked at my reflection, and my evil inclination/desire [yetzer] made me rash [pah. az] and sought to drive me from the world. I said to it: you wicked one, why do you take pride



Simon the Just 19

in a world that is not yours, etc. I swear that I will shave you for the sake of heaven. Immediately I [Simon the Just] stood and kissed [the Nazirite] on his head. I said to him: My son, may there be many Nazirites such as you in Israel. Of you, scripture says: “When either a man or a woman shall perform the wonder of vowing a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God” [Num. 6:2].4

Biblical and Rabbinic Contexts Simon the Just, a renowned high priest of the Second Temple period, recounts the story of a Nazirite who presents him with a guilt offering. Simon tells us that, in this case only, he made an exception to his rule by accepting the lad’s ritualistic gesture.5 This is clearly a culturally specific rabbinic version of the Narcissus myth, one that offers a way out of what the Greek myth presents as a doomed fate. Its resolution is contingent on culturally specific elements: it involves a high priest of the Second Temple period, and it relies on the biblical concept of Nazirite vows and on the rabbinic notion of the yetzer (evil inclination). Likewise, the culminating moment of the tale is a rabbinically marked discourse. In a narrative where sight, self-​­knowledge, and the telling of a story, as well as the intersection and action of different characters, are brought together in an intensified manner, this midrashic ending is no trivial matter and addresses the very notion of a rabbinic and textual self. With that, the issues of self and other, sameness and difference, associated with the crux of the Narcissus plot, permeate all aspects of the tale, rendering it a text that reflects on the very notion of rabbinic discourse formation. The conceptual framework of the narrative and the underlying practice to which it relates are provided by the laws of Naziriteship. What was a guilt offering in the context of the Nazirite laws? How is it to be understood in the sequence of events of this tale? And why, as David Weiss Halivni—​­one of the story’s modern readers—​­put it, did “Simon the Just refuse to partake of guilt offerings brought by Nazirites, and why did he make an exception in the case of the shepherd?”6 Before addressing these questions, we must turn to the biblical source text and to later rabbinic discourse on the institution of the Nazirite (in the context of which the text is introduced). Num. 6:1–​­​­21 defines a Nazirite (Heb., nazir) as a person who has taken a

20

Chapter 1

vow of abstention. Nazirites are forbidden to consume wine or any product of the vine and other intoxicating liquors (shekhar), and they are also forbidden to cut their hair or to come into contact with a corpse.7 The vow of abstention as stipulated in Numbers 6 is for a limited time (in contrast to a lifelong Nazirite) and is undertaken by the person himself (and not predetermined by God or by a parent).8 The text in Numbers also lays out the ceremony undertaken when the term is completed, involving an elaborate sacrifice and the shaving of the Nazirite’s hair. But before the text provides this climactic ending, it addresses possible disruptions of the normal process—​­namely, defilement by a corpse. It is at this point that the Nazirite is ordered to undergo seven days of purification, at the end of which he shaves his head, offers ­sacrifices—​­including a guilt sacrifice (asham)—​­and begins the term of his vow over again. Read against the backdrop of the biblical model, the rabbinic tale is far from clear.9 But a reasonable inference from Simon’s reference to the boy’s hair, and the boy’s own condemnation of what he saw in his reflection, is that his beautiful hair was the trigger for the arousal of his yetzer and that it is at this point that the lad decides to become a Nazirite. According to this prevalent reading, he chooses to take the Nazirite vow because this would require him, at the end of his vow (or after becoming impure during its term), to shave his head. The symbolic act of cutting his hair, as prescribed by Nazirite ritual, would thus be a way of acknowledging the improper vanity that his hair caused. Even though his hair would subsequently grow back, leading him again to be prone to vanity, the symbolic-​­ritual act that he engaged in would caution him against vanity. Rabbi Yonah and Rabbi Mane (fourth-​­century Palestinian rabbis) explain that most Nazirite vows were not undertaken in a clear state of mind and were subsequently regretted.10 After defilement, which requires bringing a guilt offering and prolonging the term of the vow, the Nazirite is even more likely to regret his original commitment. That, according to those two rabbis, renders the sacrifices unconsecrated. According to R. Yona and R. Mane, this is why Simon generally refuses to accept them.11 Halivni concludes from their position that Simon did not oppose asceticism in general (as exemplified by the Nazirite vow),12 nor did he oppose the institution of the Nazirite categorically (how could he possibly second-​­guess such a revered biblical practice?).13 Instead, Halivni posits, he objected to “the practice prevalent in his time, and even more common in subsequent times, of vowing to be a Nazirite for primarily nonreligious reasons, and in some cases for no other reason than



Simon the Just 21

to prove an argument.”14 Accordingly, we may imagine that Simon’s a priori suspicion toward his contemporary Nazirites grows when their term is unexpectedly extended—​­an extension signified by the very same guilt offering that he refuses to accept.

From Self-​­Reflectivity to Midrash: Resolving the Hermeneutical Dilemma The story is unclear regarding the meaning of the Nazirite’s guilt offering. While the narrative leaves the question of the guilt offering and the context of the lad’s defilement obscure, the text offers clues regarding the circumstances that drove the lad to become a Nazirite in the first place.15 Some modern readers suggest that the lad was already a Nazirite at the time of his encounter with his reflection in the water.16 However, it seems more likely, as suggested above, that it was precisely that encounter that drove the lad to take the vows and renounce his head of curls for “the sake of heaven.”17 Viewing the self-​ r­ eflective scene as the trigger to the boy’s decision to become a Nazirite (and as the instant at which he explicitly utters the vow) provides a richer basis for the narrative’s complexity and the relationship between the characters involved, as well as for understanding Simon’s acceptance of the offering. Simon thus accepts the guilt offering because of the pure intention encapsulated in the lad’s decision to become a Nazirite and because of the explicit negation of vanity that he conveys. The lad’s story, where pure intention and the conscious negation of vanity play a key—​­and an explicit—​­role, answers Simon’s implied general critique of a practice that, to his mind, is too often followed out of vanity. If it was his beautiful locks that alarmed the shepherd to begin with, then by allowing his hair to grow wild for the prescribed term, and even for its unexpected extension because of defilement, his act becomes a deliberate self-​­reflective act aimed at mastering his vanity. Moreover, it is the shepherd’s conscious recognition of the seductive power of his hair that enables Simon to see him as a kindred spirit: they both recognize the dangers of vanity, and both seem excited by an erotic head of curls. As Simon emphasizes, he is about to recount an exceptional tale, one that alludes to the apprehension with which he regards the practice of ­Naziriteship—​­at least, certain of its manifestations.18 The dissonance between practice and prescribed rules suggests that the Torah is flawed as a signifying corpus: it fails to produce the kinds of human beings it envisions. The

22

Chapter 1

Nazirite, then, exists in the text but not in the world outside the text. But this creates incoherence between the sacred law and its core assumptions regarding human action. Simon offers a moment of congruence between these two disparate elements by progressing from the (literally) self-​­reflective scene in which the shepherd is moved to become a Nazirite to Simon’s (self-​­reflexive) midrash. By midrashically identifying the boy with the general rule stipulated in Numbers, and not the common practice that he sees around him, he resolves his semiotic-​­hermeneutic dilemma by finding in the young Nazirite a particular signified person to whom the signifier—​­that is, the Torah—​­corresponds.

Narratological Reflections of the (Im)Possible Self The rabbinic tale, like the Greek versions of the myth, is concerned with primal issues of knowledge, self-​­knowledge, and their epistemological premise. It also, as psychological theories have claimed, points at the fragmented, ambivalent qualities of what might otherwise be mistaken to be an all too coherent notion of the self. The self, the story tells us, must invariably rely on representation, on an externally projected image, to form a notion of itself. Narcissus, caught in the imaginary illusion of an unfragmented, undivided self, fails to recognize the reflection in the water for what it is—​­a representation, a mode of signification, of himself. The representational aspects of the self, of subjectivity,19 imply an inherent estrangement of human experience, in which the self is never identical to itself (to its represented self). Hence identity is, by its very nature, fractured.20

The “Other Within”: From Human to Textual Representation Unlike the Greek doomed hero, the Nazirite from the south is saved at the exact moment of reflection, of self-​­reflectivity. What exactly happened at that instant, according to the doubly mediated recounting of Simon the Just? Simon tells us that the shepherd told him that, having seen his reflection in the water, he was attacked from within. His yetzer—​­the rabbinic term for the evil inclination that resides within every man21—​­sought to overcome him and remove him from this world.22 The manifestation of the yetzer thus, paradoxically, signals both the character’s downfall and his ultimate redemption. The yetzer is a remarkable rabbinic innovation. It should be viewed in light of



Simon the Just 23

the shift in rabbinic thought, in its treatment of biblical writings, from external to internal conflict in seduction narratives, and in light of the tendency in rabbinic writings to expand the internal human realm of conflict and intention.23 The psychological aspects of the rabbinic tale of Narcissus should be considered in the context of rabbinic notions of subjectivity in general. The yetzer is an adversary that is the source of the narcissistic impulse. Yet it is also, almost paradoxically, the remedy to the very malady that it seems to provoke: the existence (or the identification) of the yetzer as a separate internal entity, one that facilitates articulation of an internally divided discourse, is the way out of narcissistic entrapment. The yetzer connotes, in this specific narrative, sexual transgression (presented here as Eros’s counterimage, Thanatos). The phrase pah. az yitzri (my yetzer made me rash) clearly points to the Nazirite’s autoerotic fascination.24 In this highly intensified model, it is the recognition of that fascination as a reified entity that sets the beholder free. The victory is won in an internal battle and through an internal staged dialogue (although the yetzer is not allowed to speak for itself). The recognition of an other within, a recognition that is effected by an internal quasi-​­dialogue, prevents the future Nazirite from misconstruing an image of himself to be an other, external to his unified self.25 Language, the archetypical signifying (or symbolic) system, provides a way out of an illusionary and fatal conflation of identity and sameness. Looking at the water, the shepherd understands that sameness is the ultimate fate that awaits all humans, when the very (external) features that mark the differences between them are erased by death. He then decides to become a Nazirite, which will require him to let his hair grow wild and, at the end of the term of his vow, to shave it off—​­a symbolic renunciation of power and control26 over that part of his body that is not eaten (at least at first) by maggots and worms. But his emancipation owes its success not only to the linguistic signifying system in general, and not only to the symbolic act of shaving his hair. More specifically, it is the legal (halakhic) discourse in which the words “I swear, I shall shave you” (agalh. akha) count as a Naziriteship vow.27 They provide the shepherd with a definite course of action. True, he could just as well have shaved off his hair without becoming a Nazirite.28 Yet he chooses the ritualistic avenue—​­to do things with both words and actions—​­underlining God’s role as the addressee and as the opposite of the yetzer. The yetzer, here a metonym for sexual transgression, is thus rendered synonymous with the yetzer as a symbol of mutiny against God.29 Moreover, the accusation that the yetzer takes pride in what does not belong to him alludes to the One who is the ultimate

24

Chapter 1

proprietor. The internal other is seen as the opposite image to, and as the condition for recognizing, what Rudolf Otto termed “the wholly Other.”30 Otherness within characterizes the Nazirite’s self, corresponding to rabbinic notions of subjectivity, and it is also a poetic aspect of the textual self, since the tale as a whole is a tale within a tale, a text within a text. The story of the Nazirite is part of a bigger story: it is framed within a first-​­person narrative told by Simon the Just. Like his beautiful projected hero, he is transformed (if only momentarily, making an exception that proves his rule), and, like him, his transformation has to do with sight (“I saw that he had beautiful eyes and was good-​­looking,” “why did you see fit”). Sight is what drives the story as a whole—​­both the Narcissus tale and Simon the Just’s framing narrative—​­to its happy ending.31 While the Nazirite realizes the sameness/ otherness of his reflection, Simon is granted the utmost gratification of semblance between scripture and reality: “of you, scripture says,” he tells the boy as he finds the missing referent. His apprehension of Nazirites in general, we must remember, stems from what he experiences as a discrepancy between a signifying system and its referents in the world.32 The Nazirite might have been liberated by the recognition of the representational or signifying aspects of his identity; Simon the Just’s quest for an embodiment of the signifying model—​­scripture—​­in his contemporary surroundings is only briefly satisfied. Significantly, this ad hoc resolution is expressed in hermeneutical terms as the story ends, when Simon the Just offers a mini-​­midrash: he now reads the scriptural words yafli lindor literally. The word combination yafli lindor ordinarily, and as it appears in Numbers, means “to vow,” but Simon puts the emphasis on the verb yafli, to perform a wonder.33 Simon’s words transform the shepherd’s experience into midrash: the shepherd’s vow to shave his head indirectly alludes to the Torah’s words “to separate themselves unto God,” but he does not explicitly quote the verse. The narrative draws an analogy between scripture and the Nazirite’s actions and words as he turns to the yetzer and proclaims that his hair (as a metonym of the body) is not his and that he will “shave it for the sake of heaven.” In doing so, the Nazir performs a subtle reading of the verse “to vow a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God” (Num. 6:2), which explains the consecration to God as the answer to lurking hubris, in light of other potential beneficiaries (for example, the yetzer). Thus his realization that his hair is not his and should be consecrated to God corresponds to the biblical decree to make a vow to God (and not to another entity).34 I will come back to the narrative’s midrashic grand finale—​­in keeping with my claim that midrash should be regarded as a rabbinic self. What



Simon the Just 25

need to be emphasized at this point is that Simon’s recognition of the Nazir, via midrash, echoes the Nazir’s own practice. The relationship between Simon’s framing narrative and the Nazir’s internal story involves “the thematizing within the story of its storytelling concerns.”35 Accordingly, one could argue that the mere fact that we are presented with a story within a story is a sign of the text’s metafictional quality. That being the case, it should tell us something about telling stories, about the mediation and representation that this invariably involves, even about the problematic privileged position that the narrated (as opposed to the narrating) event might be granted. More specifically, if Simon’s personal experience is couched in similar terms to those of his hero’s, in what hierarchical order do the two stories stand? Did the internal story generate the framing narrative, or did Simon’s experience project itself onto the other tale? Which of the tales is the source of reflection? Does each story hold a separate identity, or are their identities determined by a same/other relationship that they bear with regard to each other? These narratological issues, relating to a narratological self, become tied up with issues of human self-​­reflectivity as they are explicitly played out in this text.

Simon the Just: A Possible Self The story of Simon the Just is not only his own. It is a story told about Simon the Just telling a story. What might be associated with his character as the storyteller does not stand beyond the imagined borders of the tale; it is part of its very fabric. From a different perspective, narratives that are associated with the figure of Simon the Just constitute an identifiable rabbinic discourse, which is defined by having this character as its focal point. It may be the case, as some have argued, that the tale of Simon the Just and the Nazir is an ancient one originating in the Second Temple period, or at the end of the first century ce.36 However, by the time the tale was retold in the Babylonian Talmud, it had become part of a larger tradition, of a discourse centered on Simon the Just (which may very well contain later material). Can one assume, on strictly philological grounds, that the Bavli storyteller knew (let alone made conscious use) of other traditions concerning Simon the Just? Obviously not. Yet the traditions—​­and here I limit them to the ones recorded in the Bavli—​­provide a general profile of a towering pre-​­rabbinic, priestly figure, associated with the glory of the Temple.37 That these (as well as other)

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traditions abound also in earlier Palestinian compilations, where a version of the Nazir tale appears (e.g. , in the Tosefta), further suggests that the story of the Nazir from the south should be construed in the context of a wider discourse regarding Simon. Simon the Just, as the chain of tradition in tractate Avot tells us, was of the last surviving members of the legendary Keneset Gedolah, the Great Assembly.38 He is the first individual in the ancestral chain of tradition to be quoted (“on three things does the world stand: on Torah, and on the Temple service [ʿavodah], and on the practice of kindliness [gemilut h. asadim]”). The conspicuous role allotted to him in this genealogy of knowledge corresponds with his imposing presence elsewhere in rabbinic legends.39 Simon the high priest’s connections with Alexander the Great are recounted in a few sources, including rabbinic sources.40 When the Samaritans conspire to destroy (or take over, in other sources) the Temple, Simon the Just dons his priestly attire and makes his way at night—​­accompanied by other dignitaries bearing candles—​­to meet Alexander. The Greek leader, having witnessed the delegation heading his way at night, is informed by his counselors that it is composed of Jewish rebels. However, when morning breaks and they reach Antipatris, Alexander sees Simon the Just. Alexander descends from his chariot and bows before him. His counselors are bewildered. “A great king like you bows before this Jew?” they ask. Alexander replies: “I see his image when I go into battle and I win.” This is the appropriate ending for a political-​­theological fantasy,41 a genre associated in rabbinic literature with figures such as Vespasian,42 Hadrian,43 and Antoninus.44 Simon the Just’s statesmanship, as we learn from the Alexandrian episode, derives its power from his priestly office. When Simon appears before him, clothed in his white priestly vestments, Alexander acknowledges the superiority of the God that Simon represents. The nature of the knowledge and power entailed in his specific embodiment of that institution is further exemplified in other traditions about Simon. For example, in a large segment in the Babylonian Talmud (Yoma 39a–​­b), he appears as a metonym for the Second Temple in its glory, and his death signals its decline and corruption. As long as he lived, we are told, the “western candle” (in the Temple) always burned—​­a sign of the abiding presence of the Shekhinah (divine presence). Similarly, the maʿarakhah, the fire of the great altar, sustained itself from morning to evening. Once he died, the candle ceased to burn, and the fire of the maʿarakhah dwindled and required constant rekindling. In his lifetime, the showbread was sufficient and equally divided among the priests. Once



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he died, the meek did not receive any bread while the gluttonous got double their share.45 As an exceptionally virtuous character in rabbinic literature, he is imparted with the knowledge of his own demise.46 Simon the Just learns of his impending death from the disappearance of an old man, dressed in white, who used to accompany him annually to the Holy of Holies. When, instead of that man, appears an old man dressed in black who accompanies him while he enters but stays behind when he leaves, Simon knows that his days are numbered.47 It is important to emphasize the locus of his wisdom. The contrast with another rabbinic character, Rabban Yoh.anan ben Zakkai, whose ability to predict the approaching death of the Roman emperor is attributed to his exegetical-​­midrashic skills (thus legitimizing the foundation of the rabbinic academy in Yavneh), is telling.48 Simon the Just’s knowledge stems from, and is inextricable from, his access to the Temple’s innermost sanctum. The presumption is that there he stood close(r) to God. Yet the text is quick to point out that priesthood in and of itself does not guarantee divine proximity. Simon’s death is followed by deterioration in the priestly ranks. The characters of Rabban Yoh.anan ben Zakkai and Simon the Just are reflections of the Sages: they are what the rabbis think about such figures and, indirectly, about themselves. As self-​­reflections, they walk a tightrope, juggling the narcissistic fantasy of identity and the lack of identity-​­sameness between the subject (Sage) and its representation. Again, it should be emphasized: the lack of sameness is implied in the actual multiplicity of possible reflections. Note also that reflective representations vary in their specific contents, forms, and functions: the discourse surrounding Rabban Yoh.anan ben Zakkai is part of the Yavneh foundation legend.49 The ancestral figure and the foundational institution are imagined accordingly as identical—​­albeit not entirely—​­to the Sages who were the authors of rabbinic texts. Moreover, in this imaginative landscape, Rabban Yoh.anan and his academy are not only models; they are imagined as the generators of rabbinic identity in the present. Indeed, a different kind of reflexivity manifests itself in the discourse of Simon the Just, a legendary figure whose death marks the beginning of an end.50 Reflecting on and with this figure means reflecting about a time in which the mere presence of a unique individual was sufficient to keep the flame of the Temple alive and to appease a mighty king, a time in which knowledge was bestowed by proximity in the inner chambers of the Holy of Holies. It also means reflecting from and about a time when there is no Temple and no Holy of Holies. Reflecting at times when scriptural—​­and later, textual—​­exegesis constitutes the backbone of rabbinic hermeneutics, and at

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times when priesthood has lost its past claim to authority and leadership lies in the hands of rabbinic dynasties.51 As the traditions of Simon—​­including the story of the Nazirite—​­suggest, the past, or the imagined past, is not obliterated so as to form an identical image of the self in the present. On the contrary, figurative images that are reflected throughout the rabbinic corpus might be termed “internal strangers.” Simon the Just, in our text, is exactly that: he is conceived (as manifestly indicated in tractate Avot) as a rabbinic forefather, a link in a reproductive chain leading up to the rabbinic present(s). The story even ends with a projected sameness, when Simon engages in a typical rabbinic practice: midrash. Yet, as many other rabbinic traditions emphasize, Simon is different. This difference cannot be erased even in our story: the story revolves around sight as an epistemic paradigm as both characters (Simon and the Nazirite) are awakened and stirred to action by what they see. An epistemology based on sight appears elsewhere in rabbinic literature vis-​­à-​­vis textually based hermeneutics.52 Although that points to the multifaceted aspects of rabbinic hermeneutics (and the epistemologies to which they correspond), it is possible to argue for the supremacy allotted in rabbinic literature as a whole to a text-​­oriented epistemology. But, as the story of Simon the Just and the Nazirite shows, this supremacy is not uncontested, and the contest is embodied in other or “semi-​ ­other” characters.

The Nazirite: A Possible Self The Nazirite sets him-​­or herself apart,53 albeit temporarily. It is the ambivalence of the Nazirite’s position as an every-​­person/different that thematizes a same/other tension in his character. This tension is endemic to the Nazirite in general and is characteristic of the Nazirite shepherd of our story as well. After all, he is referred to by his title alone. The Nazirite of our story should be seen in yet another general framework: the discursive context from which he derives his title, the laws pertaining to the Nazir. One key question is the relevance of these laws in the rabbinic period. Why are the rabbis discussing a practice that has, on the face of it, no direct consequence for their own time? This question—​­along with its possible answers—​­applies to a whole range of rabbinic discussions addressing Temple and cult practices.54 It seems that, at least in the early rabbinic period, the practice of Naziriteship persisted, albeit, obviously, without



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its sacrificial component and the purifying rite from corpse impurity (which required the ashes of a red heifer).55 It has also been suggested that Naziriteship represents for the rabbis matters of asceticism in general—​­a discursive site in which issues of abstention, self-​­control, and intention are addressed.56 Accordingly, if the Nazirite is referred to as both a sinner and a holy person,57 it attests to the ambivalence that rabbinic culture(s) held toward a pivotal component of its identity (asceticism), a component defined and redefined vis-​­à-​­vis the place it comes to occupy in neighboring cultures and religions (paganism and Christianity).

A Samson-​­Like Self The Nazirite shepherd of our story operates within a general discursive framework. But he is also a particular Nazirite, implying that reflecting with him and about him may allow for further specifications. He could even be, as noted earlier, a Nazirite whose pure intention is paradoxically manifested in his self-​­defilement, thus embodying a subversion of the underlying notions of purity and defilement that are essential for the category. Other components render him exceptional. First, we should recall that hair plays a critical role in the story of Samson, the only biblical character explicitly identified as a Nazirite. The story, related in the Book of Judges, has erotic overtones and takes place in the south, between Tsorah and Eshta’ol and in the land of the Philistines. Our story’s shepherd, who also hails from the south, seems to have absorbed something of the erotic vitality associated with his biblical predecessor, especially if we take into account the prominence of Samson in rabbinic discourse on Naziriteship and its emphasis on the key role that sight plays in his destiny.58 Something of the power (and maybe potential hubris) that the rabbis attributed to Samson—​­and his hair—​­is echoed in our story.

A David-​­Like Figure, a Lover, and a Sage The figurative echo chamber of the Nazirite from the south includes not only a biblical Nazirite, Samson, but also a king. Like the David described in 1 Sam. 16:10, the Nazirite from the south is a comely shepherd with beautiful eyes. The high priest therefore finds himself face-​­to-​­face with a King David figure.59 A priestly encounter with a David-​­like figure in the context of rabbinic and

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Christian discourse is hardly a trivial matter. After all, Davidic origin, priestly status, and the identity of the messiah are a pivotal triad through which both Judaism and Christianity reflected on themselves vis-​­à-​­vis each other.60 Furthermore, the shepherd is described as having a head of curls (qevutsotav taltalim)—​­an allusion to the famous description of the lover in the Song of Songs (5:11). That the young shepherd should be depicted by Simon the Just in terms of an iconic lover seems hardly surprising, given the overall erotic tone of our story and Simon’s attraction to the boy. Clearly, it is first and foremost the Eros of the biblical lover that is at play here. Yet if we take into account rabbinic associations with the specific scriptural phrase—​­qevutsotav taltalim—​­the beautiful lover may take on additional traits. He may even resemble a Sage. Rabbinic traditions of Song of Songs 5:11 replace the lover’s physical beauty with exegetical skills: “ ‘His locks are curled [Heb., taltalim]’: that [Solomon] used to expound [doresh] ‘curls and curls’ [tille tillim, lit., hills and hills] of laws on each and every portion or verse in the Torah.”61 The lover’s locks (qevutsotav) are the Torah; his curls are his legal-​­exegetical practice. The shepherd is the missing referent that provides Simon with an answer, albeit a temporary one, to his scriptural or semiotic crisis; he is also a representation of scripture itself. But the depiction of the Nazirite as a personified Torah is also reminiscent of the depiction of the Sages, who are referred to as a Torah scroll and the ark.62 Again and again, the implied addressee of the text, presumably a rabbi, faces the Nazirite and sees a reflection that is quite familiar. While the story engages priesthood, it introduces “the Sage” as an overriding force. Simon, who is himself “rabbinized,” meets a Nazirite who bears rabbinic traits. The encounter between the high priest and the shepherd is marked, as are all other reflective processes that the text conjures, by fragmented mirroring.

The Nazirite and the Priest: Converging Sanctities It is by now clear that the reflective process as it manifests itself in the story involves a labyrinth of identity formations as the characters turn out to be entangled in a web of hybrid—​­or fractured—​­identities. Furthermore, in addition to the rabbinic component, which Simon and the Nazirite have in common, the Naziriteship-​­priesthood relationship should be considered. Naziriteship is the highest form of nonpriestly sanctity that the Bible offers,63 and its laws are, in some respects, more severe than priestly restrictions.64 The



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affinity between the two forms of sanctity does not escape rabbinic eyes—​­the Mishnah explicitly compares the sanctity of the Nazirite and the priest.65 The relationship between permanent priesthood and its pseudo-​­metonymy in the guise of a Nazirite might therefore point to the projective quality in Simon’s suspicion of Nazirites in general. Just as the Nazirite’s insight stems from his looking at his own projected image, the source of Simon’s newly acquired knowledge is a Nazirite—​­a (temporary) priest, an uncanny same/ other, who is nevertheless dependent upon him: without a priest, a Nazirite cannot execute his Naziriteship. We should note that with this similarity, reflection is problematized from yet another, complementary, angle. Not only does the dubious unity of a subject stand in the way of reflection; identity itself is held suspect. The encounter of the priest and the Nazirite contrasts natural, genetic identity with one that is voluntary, constructed, and ethereal. While the distinction between the characters is blurred, the premise of identity that is implicated in their encounter is also left uncertain.

The End: The Narrated Rabbinic Self Simon the Just ends his first-​­person narrative with a midrash when he says to the Nazirite: “Of you, scripture says: ‘When either a man or a woman shall perform the wonder of vowing a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God.’ ” His final words are not typically priestly. They could just as well—​­even more likely—​­have been uttered by a rabbi. What starts off as tale of cultic bygone days ends with the rabbinic discourse par excellence. Midrash is not only (literally) the ultimate defining trait of Simon. It is, as I suggest in the Introduction, a defining feature of the rabbinic self. It is through the story of the making of one specific self, Simon the Just, that we might learn something about the making of a larger cultural self. If Simon’s self is contingent on telling stories (his, as well as the Nazirite’s) and on permeable identity boundaries, the same could be said of the rabbinic self, which he comes to embody: the midrashic climax of the story is a fictionalized point insofar that it depends on, and is produced by, the narrative leading up to it. It is also, in light of the Nazirite’s own implied midrash, not exclusively Simon’s. The discourse of midrash is shown to be shared by different figures or groups.66 Similarly, it is not exclusive in either figures who are, at least initially, motivated by a visual rather than a textual understanding. Reflecting on itself, the rabbinic midrashic self produces—​­teleologically,

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one could argue—​­a selfsame image: the telos of the narrative is a scriptural-​ ­hermeneutical endpoint that defines, retrospectively, the process that generated it. Yet it is the exact narratological nature of this narcissistic story that discloses its fictionality. It tells us that the story of a unified self—​­a midrashic one, in this case—​­is the story of several selves and that the supposedly distinctive contours that define those selves are more like ripples in a reflective pool than harsh dividing lines. And it tells us that this form of narrativity—​ ­not unlike the yetzer—​­lays out a narcissistic trap, while preventing rabbinic identity from drowning in its deep waters. The narrative ends with Simon’s midrash on Numbers, resolving, if only momentarily, the hermeneutic scriptural dilemma with which the tale began. But it does much more than that. It positions midrash as a culminating discourse that subsumes the self-​­reflected, mirroring aspects that had permeated the narrative all along. The semblance that Simon’s midrash implies, between scripture and a reality to which it refers, is thus granted further discursive qualities. Midrash, as I argued in the Introduction, is a self-​­reflective practice. By staging midrash as the story’s final discourse, it signals a discursive resolution in the most basic sense. It is the story’s—​­and Simon’s—​­last words. But given the intricate and even convoluted dynamics of self-​­reflexivity that the narrative demonstrates, it cannot but mirror the uncertainty that such dynamics entail.

Chapter 2

A King, a Queen, and the Discourse Between: The Riddle of Midrash

King Solomon, the Queen of Sheba, and riddles are at the center of the midrashic drama that I examine in this chapter. The narrative addressed here probes the same issues that are at the heart of the story of Simon the Just and the Nazirite: the delineation of a self and its relation to midrash. Here, too, questions of otherness (internal and external) and Eros play a key role. The emphasis, however, is different. In the present story, rabbinic self-​­reflexivity is staged in the form of a riddling tale. The midrash reflects on itself via the discursive features of riddles and in relation to this tale’s two main characters. Solomon and the Queen of Sheba are among the most famous couples of Western imagination, in the same league as Anthony and Cleopatra or Napoleon and Josephine. In this case too, Eros is composed of intellect and power. When the king and queen meet, the stakes are high, and they play a zero-​­sum game. This, at any rate, is the case for the rabbinic writers of the tale. The biblical account (which appears in 1 Kings 10:1–​­​­13; 2 Chron. 9:1–​­​­12) is short and enigmatic, perhaps concealing earlier traditions and certainly giving rise to later elaborations.1 The text that is the focus of this chapter appears in midrash on Proverbs (Midrash Mishle), dating between the ninth and the eleventh century,2 and tells the following tale:3 Another interpretation: “But where can wisdom be found?” (Job 28:12). This refers to the Queen of Sheba, who heard of Solomon’s wisdom. She said: I will go and see whether or not he is wise. From where [is the scriptural proof] that she had heard of Solomon’s wisdom? As it is said, “The Queen of Sheba heard of Solomon’s fame, through the name

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of the Lord, and she came to test him with riddles” (1 Kings 10:1).4 What are riddles? R. Jeremiah said: By means of proverbs.5 She said to him: Are you Solomon, about whom and whose wisdom I have heard? He said to her: Yes. She said to him: If I were to ask you one thing, would you answer me? He replied to her: “For the Lord grants wisdom; knowledge and discernment are by His decree” (Prov. 2:6). She said to him: Seven exit and nine enter, two pour and one drinks. He said to her: Surely, seven days of menstruation exit and nine months of pregnancy enter, two breasts pour and the baby drinks. She said to him: You are a great sage, but if I ask you another question, will you answer me? He said to her: “For the Lord grants wisdom” (Prov. 2:6). She said to him: What is [the case of] a woman who says to her son: Your father is my father, your grandfather is my husband, you are my son, and I am your sister? He said to her: Surely, the daughters of Lot say to their sons: Your father is my father, your grandfather is my husband, you are my son, and I am your sister. She performed yet another test in front of him. She brought before him boys and girls, all of the same appearance, all of the same height, all wearing the same clothing. She said to him: Separate the males from the females. He immediately signaled his eunuchs, who brought him parched grain and nuts. He began to distribute them. The boys, who were not



Riddle of Midrash 35

ashamed, gathered them up in their clothing. The girls, who were ashamed, gathered them up in their kerchiefs. He said to her: These are the males and those are the females. She said to him: My son, you are a great sage. She performed yet another test in front of him. She brought circumcised and uncircumcised before him, all of the same height and all wearing the same clothing. She said to him: Separate the circumcised from the uncircumcised. He immediately signaled to the high priest, and he opened the ark of the covenant. The circumcised among them bowed to half their height, and not only that but their faces were filled with the radiance of the Shekhinah. The uncircumcised among them immediately fell prostrate. He said to her: These are circumcised and those are uncircumcised. She said: From where do you know? He said to her: From Balaam, is it not written, “Who beholds visions from the Almighty, [prostrate but with eyes unveiled]”? (Num. 24:4). Had he not fallen, he would not have seen anything. And if you do not wish to learn from Balaam, come learn from Job, for when his three friends came to comfort him, he said to them: “But I, like you, have a mind, and am not less than [lo nofel me] you” (Job 12:3). I do not fall like you.6 At that moment, she said to him: “I did not believe the reports until I came and saw with my own eyes that not even the half had been told me; your wisdom and wealth surpass the reports that I heard. How fortunate are your men, and how fortunate are these your courtiers who are always in attendance on you and can hear your wisdom! Praised be the Lord your God, Who delighted in you and set you on the throne of Israel. It is because of the Lord’s everlasting love for Israel that He made you king to administer justice and righteousness.” (1 Kings 10:7–​­​­9)

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The riddling tale involves two main actors—​­Solomon and the Queen of Sheba—​­and a distinct mode of communication between them: riddles. It also involves what Hillis Miller terms “possible selves.” According to him, characters that operate in narratives allow their addressees (readers or listeners) to “experiment with possible selves and to learn to take . . . ​place in the real world, to play . . . ​[a] part there.”7 Solomon, as we will see later on, is a prototypical rabbinical figure and as such he engages in midrash. The Queen of Sheba constitutes an “other,” in her gender and in her religion; her discursive weapon, riddles, are also “other.” The riddles thus serve as a possible discursive other holding up a mirror to the midrashic self. In Miller’s terms, the Queen of Sheba and her riddles are “possible selves.” As is usual with rabbinic tales, this one comes to us devoid of its contexts. When (if ever) was the story performed? For which audience? We are unlikely ever to have answers to these questions or to others that would provide a framework for the tale. Today, however, we are well aware that context is a constructed, rather than a given, trait of cultural phenomena. While we cannot recover the contexts, we have at hand “co-​­texts” in the form of other relevant texts in relation to which the story can be read. In other words, the co-​­texts are a construct of a given reading practice. The co-​­textual space designates a field of meaning in which our text resides.8 This space broadens or limits possible meanings when we examine the way in which the riddles in the riddling tale function. In my discussion of the tale of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, I will first address the rhetorical characteristic of this form of discourse, from an a-​­temporal (ahistorical) and a-​­cultural point of view, by positing the riddle’s rhetorical potential. I will continue this line of investigation by considering the diachronic aspect of this form of discourse, which will inform us of the place that the riddle occupies within Jewish culture. The salient question will be: Do models of riddling tales or riddles exist within the culture? I will also look at similar forms of discourse in neighboring cultures. The co-​­textual environment, the “sound box” of the riddling story in Midrash Mishle, consists of other texts, three of which will be discussed here: the biblical story of the meeting of the two leaders; other traditions about the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon and their encounter; and traditions of riddles and riddling tales in the cultural environment of Midrash Mishle.



Riddle of Midrash 37

The Riddle Riddles are a form of discursive other, in relationship to and against which the midrashic self is examined. By identifying the riddles as an other in rabbinic texts, I mean that they are discursively unusual and anomalous in the rabbinic corpus; if we identify a pivotal rabbinic self with the discourse of midrash, riddles are clearly situated outside that discursive center and can potentially serve as a vantage point from which the center is reflected upon. In order to understand the intense reflective quality that the riddles may hold in our text, we should briefly address the biblical and rabbinic models of riddles and elaborate on the rhetorical and cognitive aspects of the genre. Riddles make rare appearances in rabbinic literature. In chapter 1 of Lamentations Rabbah, we find eleven riddling tales, which involve people of Jerusalem and Athenians. In the Targum sheni (second translation) of the Book of Esther (customarily dated to the seventh or eighth century ce), the Queen of Sheba poses three riddles to Solomon. In Lamentations Rabbah, the fourth riddle alone is articulated in a riddling situation proper.9 Going back to the Bible, a riddle is explicitly presented in Samson’s story10 (Judg. 14:12), and the accounts of the meeting between Solomon and the Queen of Sheba (1 Kings 10; 2 Chronicles 9) state that the queen posed him riddles but do not offer the riddles themselves. Some argue that various forms of discourse in the Bible in the wisdom literature, such as Psalms and Proverbs, are riddle-​­like (and may have originated from proper riddles) and that, while they have been transformed, they can still be identified.11 The connections among the different forms of discourse are important; nonetheless, they should not blur the boundaries that differentiate them and that make them distinct genres. In sum, the textual evidence shows that riddles in the Bible and in rabbinic tradition could have served as possible rhetorical models—​­although limited in scope—​­for the text in Midrash Mishle. Riddles in that model served in a situation of conflict, involving tensions of different kinds: intercultural tension (Jerusalem/Athens; foreign queen/king of Israel; Samson/the Philistines) and an erotic tension (Samson/Delilah; Queen of Sheba/Solomon). Let us turn to the potential meaning embedded in the riddle as a genre. As we shall see, the riddle may carry seemingly contradictory qualities. For example, it may seem subversive and undermining, as well as reassuring and settling. It is its dual, even evasive, character that renders the riddle a powerful and uncanny other, against which midrash is measured here. The fact that

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riddles are part of a riddling tale intensifies their complexity since, as Roger Abrahams insightfully noted: “[R]iddles within stories seem so central to an understanding of all ‘true riddles’ for, in calling attention to themselves as wit-​­testing devices, the vocabulary of riddles is more fully, if reflexively, explored than in other descriptive enigmas.”12 The riddle comprises the riddle image and the solution to which the image refers. The relations between the descriptive elements in the first half of the riddle are confusing, in a way that postpones, or even blocks out, the identification of the referent.13 The surprising connections between the descriptive elements that point to a certain referent imply the possibility of alternative ways of categorization. For example, the answer to the riddle “what has blond hair and stands in the corner” is a broom (and not a person). The riddle thus mixes two supposedly distinct categories—​­human and nonhuman/animate or subject and object, by constructing an image that refers simultaneously to both categories. Both animate and non-​­animate, according to the riddle image, can be referred to in the same terms (“hair,” “standing”). The riddle image establishes an identity between categories that are usually opposed to or distinct from each other. Thus, the riddle shows users of the language that these classifications, insofar that they are reflected in language, are not unassailable.14 In this way, by demonstrating that conceptual categories should not be regarded as exclusive, the riddle undermines institutional order by which human beings classify the world. In other words, the riddle implies that cultural classifications are arbitrary, or, as Abrahams put it: “[R]iddles, in bringing together elements from different semantic domains bring those classes themselves and the whole idea of classification under question.”15 Riddles may be viewed as ambiguous elements that threaten the integrity of the system—​­as an aggressive form of discourse, a view that explains the ritual restrictions placed on it. Not surprisingly, as anthropological studies have shown, the boundaries of riddling games are marked and defined.16 Yet riddles also demonstrate the flexibility of a cultural system that has the ability to mediate between diverse, and even opposed, categories. Accordingly, riddles can create new categories in which to place the things to which the images refer—​­the solutions to the riddles—​­classifying them according to salient attributes that nevertheless might not previously have been seen as possible criteria for categorization.17 Since the ability to create categories is central to the cognitive aspects of adaptive learning, riddles are paradigmatic examples of the process by which this ability is acquired.18 In a similar fashion, it can be argued that riddles offer a concrete demonstration of the various ways in



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which things in the phenomenal world interrelate. In this, the riddle may be viewed as encapsulating the notion of culture as a unity of the diverse.19 A complementary view is that the riddle channels energy. That energy, which could be potentially harmful for the community and its values, finds its expression in a non-​­damaging, and even psychologically supportive, form. The riddle creates a world of conflict that is resolved within the framework of a game. The solution leaves unresolved, once the game is over, the actual social, cultural, and existential conflicts external to the riddle game.20 As I mentioned earlier, the mixing of categories that riddles entail explains their subversive, nonconformative, and aggressive qualities. Yet, like the carnival, these very same qualities enable riddles to function as an outlet and diversion for these destructive forces, thus supporting the authority of the culture that produces them. Even so, for its poser, the riddle is unequivocally aggressive—​­he (or, as in the present case, she) gains power by sowing confusion while making use of the wit proper to this form. This aspect should not be overlooked in the analysis of riddles embedded in a riddling situation, where a riddler and an addressee are explicitly mentioned. In this case, the riddle is not directed at the readers, and they are not required to solve it. Rather, the riddle is embedded in another discourse, in a plot. It is a riddling tale. And the fact that the riddling situation is surrounded by a different form of discourse bears, as we shall see, other implications. In ancient and modern cultures, both Jewish and non-​­Jewish, riddling is often associated with wedding rituals. A riddle in the midrashic discourse may thus evoke matrimony, intensifying a story’s erotic subtext—​­as is the case in the midrash about Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.21 Why are riddles associated with weddings? It could be because the form itself is erotic: “It is structured to bring the separated together, to connect the disconnected.”22 From a more socially pragmatic perspective, riddles are presented at weddings, which join a couple and the members of their families. Posed, as they are, within the clear boundaries of a riddling game, they thus offer relief from the tensions that underlie the situation: the psychological, cultural, and economic tensions between the families, as well as the erotic tension between the couple.23 Furthermore, weddings are the expression par excellence of kinship laws, laws that serve as the founding categories of social organization. Since riddles may imply that any act of categorization is arbitrary, the analogy between the riddle and the wedding framework in which it is performed suggests that kinship laws are arbitrary, too, just like other forms of social categorization. Hence the riddle provides an outlet for defiance of the very

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foundations of culture (kinship laws) but also mediates between this defiance and the forms of actual social organization. Akin to the riddle, though different, is the wisdom question. Its solution is based on prior knowledge of the subject or of scripture.24 Wisdom questions, too, are not prevalent in the Jewish tradition prior to Midrash Mishle. It is, however, worth mentioning the few instances in which they appear, which constitute an additional possible model for our midrashic text. The Babylonian Talmud tells us of Rabbi Yehoshuʿa’s confrontation with sixty citizens of Athens, in which he offered irrefutable answers to their questions (bBekhorot 8b). In another place in the Talmud (bTamid 72b), we learn of a similar confrontation of wisdom questions between Alexander the Great and the elders of the Negev.25 From a synchronic perspective, the organizing pattern of Pseudo–​­Ben Sira (roughly a contemporary of our text) is that of wisdom questions. The situation in which a man stands before a ruler and answers his questions is a predominant literary format in Arabic (and other Eastern) literature of the time. One such example occurs in the eleventh chapter of the fable cycle Kalila and Dimna, where a dialogue between a king and one of his sages advances the plot. The Kalila and Dimna cycle was translated from Pahlavi into Arabic in the eighth century (and into Persian in the tenth) and was known among the Jews.26 It seems, therefore, that we cannot rule out the possibility that this Eastern dialogical fabula-​­model influenced the riddle dialogue in Midrash Mishle.27

The Co-​­Texts The Biblical Story The story in Midrash Mishle is an elaboration of the biblical story, where we are told of the Queen of Sheba’s visit to Solomon (1 Kings 10:1–​­​­13; 2 Chron. 9:1–​­​­12).28 The biblical story is obscure. The biblical text specifies a reason for the queen’s visit: “to test [Solomon] with riddles”; but the questions are not given in the Bible. What the Bible does provide is a detailed description of the wealth and grandeur of the two sovereigns and of the gifts that they exchange. This detailed catalog of riches, combined with the terse description of the actual meeting, produces a curious distribution of information regarding the facts of the visit. We are told that the queen “came to test him with [riddles]. . . . ​When she came to Solomon, she asked him all that she had in



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mind. Solomon had answers for all her questions” (1 Kings 10:1–​­​­3). After seeing Solomon’s wisdom, wealth, power, and the high regard in which he is held, the Bible says that “she was left breathless” (10:5). Something happened there, but what? The midrashic story seeks to answer this question by filling in the gaps that are typical of biblical poetics.29 For our purposes, it is sufficient to note that the story lies at a juncture between two central themes in the Bible’s account of Solomon’s character. On the one hand, he is portrayed as the wisest of men;30 on the other hand, the Bible emphasizes Solomon’s fascination with foreign women. The price paid for this transgression was heavy: his kingdom was split, and his heirs ruled only Judah. The Queen of Sheba is a foreign woman who comes to test Solomon’s wisdom. In this respect, the biblical episode in 1 Kings 10 presents Solomon as a wise man but also as one who is able to resist and overcome a foreign woman. The biblical narrative provides erotic hints in the description of the encounter (“she came to prove him . . . ​she came to Jerusalem . . . ​she came to Solomon”): the verb “to come” (‫א‬-‫ו‬-‫ )ב‬frequently bears sexual connotations in the Bible.31 The narrative even creates a pseudo-​­matrimonial background by elaborating on the exchanged gifts as if they were a dowry, and possibly through the association between riddles and wedding ritual. It is therefore impossible, as the midrashic reading points out, to overlook the erotic tensions that arise in the story itself. Nor can one ignore the tensions underlined by the position of this episode in the sequence of events that outline Solomon’s character. Our story appears at a critical turning point of his biography. He has already attained an international reputation as a wise and powerful king, and he stands on the verge of his descent into pagan worship, succumbing to his foreign wives. The biblical story is a necessary co-​­text for understanding the text in Midrash Mishle. It leads to an understanding of the riddling situation and of the riddles themselves, in view of the two central themes dominant in Solomon’s character: he is the wisest of men; yet he is a man (male) of notorious weaknesses. In addition, this co-​­text exposes the Queen of Sheba’s double role: she is a foreign potentate but also a foreign woman and thus, by implication, a potential future bride.32 The story in Midrash Mishle ends with the queen’s blessings, with her acknowledgment of Solomon’s greatness, and, above all, with her recognition of his God, Who made him king. The midrashic story omits the exchange of gifts. This omission may be explained in various ways: the gifts could be associated with a marriage, an implication

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that the midrashic narrative seems to want to avoid; or they might remind us of another of Solomon’s sins, that of amassing silver and gold. They could also be perceived as adding to the queen’s strength. On the face of it, the midrashic story supports the biblical declaration that the queen’s visit was a success. However, the midrashic story, through the riddling process, casts doubt on Solomon’s unequivocal victory.

Traditions of the Queen of Sheba and Solomon The many traditions concerning the Queen of Sheba and Solomon—​­together and alone—​­are important underpinnings of the midrashic story. A talmudic passage of earlier composition than the midrash states: “Whoever says that the Queen of [malkat] Sheba was a woman is in error; the word malkat here means the kingdom of [malkhut] Sheba.”33 Later, Kabbalah and seventeenth-​ c­ entury German Jewish folklore associate her with Lilith (a demon said to have been Adam’s first wife).34 The two traditions seem quite different. The first depersonalizes the biblical encounter, transforming the foreign queen to a (de-​­feminized) political entity. The second transforms the biblical queen to a prototypical she-​­demon.35 Both, however, may be rooted in or may be addressing postbiblical traditions in which the Queen of Sheba was perceived as a demon or as possessing demonic qualities.36 Thus, the Talmud’s curious erasure of the queen may be responding to this very tradition—​­which surfaces later—​­and its possible negative ramifications regarding Solomon. The Targum sheni describes the queen’s meeting with Solomon. It tells us how Solomon, famous throughout the world for his wealth and great wisdom, holds a banquet for the kings of the East and of the West. He also invites all the beasts, the spirits, and the demons, who dance before him. The wild cock of the woods does not attend. To atone for his rude absence, he tells the king about the place that he has just visited: a wonderful country with silver-​­paved streets and gardens watered from paradise, ruled by a woman. The cock suggests that Solomon summon the exotic queen. The king sends the wild cock to summon her, supplying him with an escort of birds who darken the skies of Qitor, the queen’s kingdom. Solomon also supplies the cock with a threatening letter, in which he informs her, among other things, that since his army is composed of spirits and demons, he can inflict upon her and her kingdom a grave disaster if she refuses his invitation. After sending a preliminary expedition of six thousand boys and girls who look alike and who are



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dressed uniformly (as in the third riddle in Midrash Mishle), she arrives in Jerusalem, where she finds Solomon sitting in a glass house. Since she mistakenly believes him to be sitting in water, she rolls up her dress. It is then that her hairy legs are revealed to Solomon. Addressing her, he says: “Thy beauty is that of women and your hair is that of men; hair is becoming of a man and disgraceful for a woman” (chapter 3). Ignoring his last comment, she presents him with three riddles, all of which he solves. She is taken to his palace, where she witnesses his wealth, hands him gifts, and receives what she asks for.37 The queen’s hirsute legs are significant. They allude to her demonic ­nature—​ ­ airiness is a common attribute of witches in folklore.38 Arabic traditions h state explicitly that the Queen of Sheba is a daughter of demons. According to these traditions, the king’s advisers oppose his marrying the queen, since they know that she is a demon. Knowing this, they realize that she must have hairy legs. For Solomon, the queen’s hairy legs signal a reprehensible ­gender-​­crossing; in other traditions, she is explicitly demonic. Whether labeled “manlike” or a demon, she is clearly perceived as defying set categories. The Quran (Sura 27, “The Ants”) places the Queen of Sheba’s visit in the context of Solomon’s summoning sun worshipers to his palace. They are brought there to meet the king, who is a prophet of Allah, so that they will come to believe in the true God. In this version, Solomon also receives the queen in a glass palace, which she mistakes for water. She tucks up her skirts, but there is no mention of her hairy legs. But Solomon’s ruse and the queen’s misapprehension display his superiority over her. Commentators on the Quranic story elaborate on this meeting of sovereigns, drawing on the biblical narrative, oral Jewish or Christian traditions, or, it seems likely, folk materials that circulated in Arab culture. Al-​­Tabari (839–​­​­923) adds to the Quran’s version that the djinns, fearing that Solomon intended to marry the Queen of Sheba, tell him about her hairy legs. After devising the glass-​­house trick and seeing that the accusation was valid, he orders the djinns to prepare a special depilatory ointment.39 A later commentator, al-​­Thalabi (first half of the eleventh century), offers a different tale, according to which the Queen of Sheba is the only daughter of a king. When the king dies, there is strong opposition to her accession to the throne. She then marries the rival claimant. But on their wedding night, she cuts off his head and takes his place as ruler.40 The Tales of Ben Sira presents one episode from the tale of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba: Solomon’s sitting in “water,” the rolling up of the dress, the exposure of the hairy legs, and the depilatory ointment (the last serving

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as the link to the subsequent episode in the Tales of Ben Sira).41 This version adds that Nebuchadnezzar is a descendant of Solomon, exemplifying the idea expressed in the verse: “Thy destroyers and they that made thee waste shall go forth of thee” (Isa. 49:17).42 The Queen of Sheba is also well known in Christian traditions. Here, it is important to point out that even the allegorical interpretation of the story (that is, the meeting of the rulers) is based on another familiar allegorical model: the meeting is a unification of bride and groom. In this view, the king and queen may be perceived as analogous to Christ and the Church.43 Christian traditions are perhaps less relevant to our study, since we are focusing on Midrash Mishle, which was probably redacted in a Muslim environment. The Queen of Sheba’s visit to Solomon captured the imagination of many storytellers. The examples given here underline a few aspects shared by the different traditions that may have been circulating at the time of our text. The Queen of Sheba stands out as a demonic power embodying an erotic threat; the riddles are part of her arsenal. All the different traditions (excluding the Quran) have a strong erotic charge—​­whether explicit or implicit. It is difficult to trace the origins of these stories. We have seen that the biblical text, too, conceals great tensions; in this sense, it could be a censored version of bawdier traditions, as well as an inspiring basis for later developments. The Targum sheni seems to disclose Arabic or Muslim influences, which may have been initially inspired by Jewish sources. However, the issue of source and influence is not essential to our discussion. The point to be made is that these traditions existed in the period of Midrash Mishle’s composition and that they perceived the Queen of Sheba to be a threatening force: erotic, chaotic, and possibly demonic. To this should be added that all the traditions include stories about the queen being an infidel whose meeting with Solomon underlines the superiority of the true religion that he represents. Solomon is, of course, a prominent figure in Jewish and Arabic traditions. The Jewish tradition praises his wisdom (including esoteric knowledge), which excelled that of all the inhabitants of the East. Some rabbinic traditions, unlike the Bible, do not mention his esoteric wisdom and even provide a rational explanation for it by emphasizing his wisdom as a judge, which finds its expression in a series of trials (Tanh.uma Buber, H.uqqat 15). Similarly, his rabbinical wisdom is stressed, and he is credited with being the author of three books: Song of Songs, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes. In addition to being the wisest of men, he is also the richest king, and his dominion stretches far. Unfortunately, his later days are very different from his bright promising



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beginning: “At first, Solomon reigned over the higher beings. . . . ​ Afterward, he reigned over the lower. . . . ​And still later, he reigned only over his couch. . . . ​And finally, he reigned over his cane” (bSanhedrin 20b). Solomon is accused of having committed three sins: having too many wives, too many horses, and too much gold and silver. His attraction to women is stressed as the main reason for his downfall and for the future destruction of the Temple.44 Solomon’s penchant for marrying foreign women is an issue over which three of the rabbis in the Palestinian Talmud disagree.45 The lengthy debate indicates that this point in Solomon’s biography was considered by the rabbis to be highly problematic. An additional theme—​­one central to the legends that surround Solomon’s figure—​­is his connections with the demonic world; it is stated that “before Solomon sinned, fearlessly he ruled even over male and female demons” (Pesikta deRav Kahana 5). A well-​­known story tells of Ashmedai, king of the demons, who took Solomon’s place after the king had captured him in quest of a magical worm needed for the building of the Temple.46 Solomon’s contact with a demon or demons (which is implied in the Ashmedai story) is a dominant theme in Arabic traditions. These traditions that choose to emphasize the demonic aspects of the Queen of Sheba hold forth at length about Solomon’s dealings with the djinns. Thus we find in the Quran: “And unto Solomon [we gave] the wind, whereof the morning course was a month’s journey and the evening course a month’s journey, and [we gave him] certain of the djinn who worked before him by permission of his Lord” (Sura 34:12).47 The redactor(s) of Midrash Mishle was thus familiar with traditions that associated Solomon with a few central themes: wisdom (including esoteric wisdom), wealth, contact with the demonic world, and, especially important for our discussion, love of women, particularly an excessive love of foreign women, which, at least according to the Jewish tradition, caused a personal and national calamity. The riddling tale in Midrash Mishle is devoid of witchcraft or overt demonological contacts. It introduces Solomon’s wealth and wisdom. As stated, it seems at first to bail Solomon out, without his having been convicted of yielding to temptation or even revealing an erotic weakness; the Queen of Sheba returns to her country convinced of his greatness. Still, a close reading of the narrative will shed a different light on this course of events.

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Riddling Tales The riddling tale was a familiar type of narrative in Babylonia and Persia at the time of Midrash Mishle’s composition. That is not to say that it was not known and practiced elsewhere—​­most likely, it was. Our midrash resembles two types of riddling tales: one is the story of the princess who is unable to solve her suitor’s riddle and is therefore obliged to marry him; the other is the tale of Princess Turandot, who poses riddles to her suitors. The young man who succeeds in solving the riddles will win her hand; if he fails, he is put to death. After a succession of severed heads, the hero appears who meets the challenge.48 The midrash clearly differs from this prototype in some respects. Nevertheless, since variants of the Turandot tale appear in Arabic story collections,49 we should consider them as possible references. In both types, the princess marries her suitor; in the Turandot model, the erotic consummation is opposed to death. As we have seen with other co-​­texts, the Queen of Sheba possesses an erotic force that is threatening, potentially destructive, and even lethal. Solomon solves the riddles and, in keeping with the prototypes, escapes the princess’s devastating power. According to the classic form, he should marry her—​­yet he does not. In this, the midrash adheres to the biblical text. While hardly devoid of erotic suggestions, and while hinting at a possible marriage, the Bible does not express this theme explicitly.50 The riddling tale co-​­texts thus serve as a frame of meaning in one of two ways: they may cause the reader or auditor to sense the euphemistic nature of the midrashic story (and the biblical version, too); or, on the contrary, they may underline the uniqueness and greatness of Solomon, who, unlike the heroes of the model tales, does not require (sexual) consummation. Our tale differs from these traditions in yet another crucial aspect: at the center of our narrative stands a mature queen—​­not a young princess—​­and she, rather than the male suitor, sets out on a voyage. This role reversal underlines the queen’s assertiveness—​­or rather, her male, princelike aspect is emphasized, an aspect suggested already by her hairy legs (as Solomon expresses it in the Targum sheni). This hairiness also signals her demonic nature. As mentioned earlier, the two references—​­hairiness and demonic qualities—​­are both expressions of the Queen of Sheba’s refusal to fulfill normative feminine requirements established in the Book of Proverbs and in Midrash Mishle:51 she breaks through the normative categories in a manner similar to the riddles she poses.



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The Riddling Tale—​­Midrash Mishle 1:1

Let us turn now to the riddles themselves, to each individual riddle and to its place in the sequence of riddles that constitutes the narrative. The first riddle—​­“Seven exit and nine enter, two pour and one drinks”—​­expresses transformations between distinct categories, on two levels: 1. On the verbal level, it portrays a transition from the nonhuman (time) to the human (baby). The transition between the categories is carried out by the use of verbs, all of which are borrowed from the human (or animate) realm: exit, enter, pour, drink.52 The verbs, and the repetition of numbers, create initial confusion because they imply that the missing referents belong to the same semantic field of animate creatures. But the solution lies in the fact that they belong to different semantic areas—​­days, months, breasts, a baby. 2. On the level of content, the human being is described as a product of a process, the unfolding of an explicitly halakhically (legally) designated period, niddah, followed by pregnancy. The Queen of Sheba presents Solomon with riddles whose discursive structure undermines cultural paradigms by suggesting alternative categorizations (animate/inanimate). She thus symbolizes an alternative order, which the co-​­texts highlight as anti-​­order, a threatening chaos. Furthermore, the first riddle, given the context in which it is uttered here, possibly alludes to the sexual act, just as the riddles customarily told at weddings do.53 Yet those usually contain erotic hints and innocent solutions, a strategy that functions to ease erotic tensions. Here, in contrast, the solution of the first riddle, although not explicitly erotic, is nevertheless charged. The situation is ­seductive—​­the queen alludes to the opaque, chaotic, and dynamic sexual act. She speaks to Solomon in metaphoric language that, given the context in which it is uttered, bears sexual connotations (enter/exit; pour/drink). In the riddle, there are no subjects, only verbs, but the solution provides a subject for each action, thus segmenting, clarifying, and distinguishing them. Solomon’s solution is also an account of the physical processes that a woman undergoes from conception through breast-​­feeding. By being excluded (as a mature male) from the interaction to which the riddle alludes, Solomon is spared the direct threatening sexual power that it implies. His solution rejects the fluid, unbounded option offered by his royal visitor. She is a foreign woman and thus, given Solomon’s proclivities, a potential lover. But instead of responding to her overture, he is afforded the opportunity to translate lover into mother. The maternal aspect is seeded in the riddle itself, where it, too, signals trouble, for the infant depends

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on his mother’s nourishment to survive. This paradigmatic reliance of men on women alludes to the specific characters at hand. Solomon solves the riddle from the point of view allotted to him by the riddle itself: the nine months of pregnancy (in Hebrew, this period is literally called here “the months of the newly born”). Furthermore, in the first riddle, the Queen of Sheba describes a process of inclusion, the channeling of the multiple (seven, nine, two) into one, a human infant. The queen thus implicitly conveys to Solomon that the human being as a subject, conceived as a unified entity, is, in fact, a collection of fragments. The presentation of the process exposes the inadequacy and the illusion that lie in the concept of man as unified and coherent. The Queen of Sheba acts as a deconstructive force against the assumption—​­a patriarchic one at its base—​­that regards man (male) as a sovereign entity. At the onset of her confrontation with the man who is considered the wisest of all, she suggests that the subject is not as coherent as it may seem. Pregnancy and nursing break down the distinctions between self and other, subject and object.54 Solomon, who answers her from the infant’s point of view, seems to silence the seductive tone initiated by the queen. He succeeds in solving the first riddle, avoiding a possible erotic trap set for him. However, by indicating the basic assumptions that enable categorization, his ostensible success is not sufficient to conceal the traces of doubt and disorder left by the queen, on what seemed to be the solid ground of cultural organization. These doubts stem precisely from the putative security into which Solomon is allowed to escape: the mother. The Queen of Sheba accepts his challenge and proceeds to deconstruct the maternal illusion: “She said to him: What is [the case of] a woman who says to her son: Your father is my father, your grandfather is my husband, you are my son and I am your sister?” In the second riddle, the confusion of normative classifications takes place first and foremost on the thematic level: the violation of laws of taboo. These rules are considered basic social classifications, shared (with variations) by all cultures. Verbally, the riddle seems to be phrased redundantly. The queen could have asked a shorter question: “What is [the case of] a woman who says to her son: Your father is my father?” The confusing verbal surfeit defines this question as a riddle (had it been formulated simply, it would have been a wisdom question). The lengthy question emphasizes something else as well—​­the riddle contains a number of possible roles in which women serve in relation to men, such as daughter, sister, mother, and wife. The riddle thus creates analogies between these familiar units. These supposedly natural affinities, as exemplified in the riddle, are not necessarily distinguished from one another,



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and indeed—​­as in Lot’s case—​­they can be unified.55 The riddle also ends in “I am your sister.” The term “sister” carries clear cultural connotations of a lover, derived from Song of Songs, where the phrase “my sister-​­bride” (ah. oti-​ k­ allah) is repeated.56 In continuation of the first riddle, which shows man (the male) to be the product of differentiations, the second riddle shows these differentiations to be arbitrary, even though socially necessary. The first riddle also contains the option—​­which Solomon chooses—​­of perceiving the woman as a maternal figure. As we have already seen, this option underlines the infant’s dependence on his mother and undermines his sovereignty. The Queen of Sheba shrewdly hints that every woman can be a maternal figure, intimating the dependence of men on women (qua women). The second riddle suggests to Solomon that maternal status does not necessarily contradict a threatening sexual interaction. Hence, the refuge that Solomon sought to find in the solution to the first riddle is rendered insecure, and not just on account of the weakness that the mother-​­child relation indicates; the nonerotic relations of parent and child are due to social differentiation and do not guarantee full protection from intimidating erotic power, as in the case of Lot and his daughters.57 The incest taboo inherently transforms the closest and most familiar to the furthest. By the same logic, it familiarizes the stranger (spouse). The strategy implemented by the riddle is similar, where an estrangement of the familiar concept of language and categorization takes place. The riddle offers, in return, a translation of this strangeness into something familiar.58 Throughout the riddling process, Solomon engages in translating the strange and alien into something familiar. Yet the Queen of Sheba remains a foreign woman who returns to her place almost untransformed (except for her newly acquired recognition of Solomon’s wisdom and the greatness of his God). She does not undergo the same process as her own riddles. The first two riddles are verbal in nature. The last two are practical, and they are also distinguished from the previous ones by being labeled “tests” (dugma; lit., “examples”). The transition from riddles to examples is a transition from hearsay to eyesight, and thus it picks up on the beginning of the riddling tale: the Queen of Sheba came to witness Solomon’s wisdom with her own eyes. In this stage of the tale, Solomon’s position becomes more prominent. Especially in the last riddle, he takes a more active role vis-​­à-​­vis the poser. In the third riddle, the Queen of Sheba places homogeneous human

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bodies before him, among which he has to distinguish between males and females. This riddle presents confusion on the level of content, the blurring of a natural, biological distinction between males and females by an external erasure of differences. In contrast to the previous riddle, which pointed out a social categorization, the third riddle challenges what may seem to be a natural category: gender. But perhaps not, since Solomon’s solution depends on gendered behavioral differences. Did the “girls [females] who were ashamed” act according to an arbitrary social norm or instinctively? In other words, are gender distinctions restored, thus saving the social order by employing natural or artificial differentiations? Here, we must bear in mind that Midrash Mishle and the Book of Proverbs define clear gendered, behavioral norms and condemn those who violate them. Solomon’s stratagem depends on the normative system, which determines the required measure of feminine modesty. Furthermore, the riddle and its solution reinforce that normative system by presenting it as a natural one. However, the mere presentation of blurred boundaries between males and females (even though these boundaries are reinstated in the solution) suggests the possibility of gender equality and, by implication, an equality between the king and the queen. This may be especially true since the queen does not meet required feminine behavioral norms as they are depicted in the Book of Proverbs and Midrash Mishle as a whole. These norms serve as the basis for Solomon’s virtuoso solution. In solving the riddle, he uses his eunuchs, who may be considered a neutral (artificial) category. He thus strips all eroticism from the riddle (or rather, from its ­solution)—​­eroticism that might have emerged, for example, had he distributed the grain and nuts himself. The solution thus supports the presumption that behavioral differences between men and women correlate with their biological differences. In contrast to the first two riddles, which implicitly convey messages to (and about) Solomon concerning his vulnerability as a man facing a woman (the Queen of Sheba), this example shows a retreat from the queen’s initial aggression: it is no longer an attempt to determine superiority but only equality. The third riddle marks a turning point in yet another sense: the first riddle touched on the primordial, and the second riddle dealt with mythic resonances (the story of Lot’s daughters), whereas here the confrontation between the Queen of Sheba and Solomon is shifted to his home ground—​­temporally and geographically. The text may thus be implying that this is his only chance to win the game. The riddle also alludes to the dichotomy that the queen wishes to establish for her needs, between men (Solomon) and women (the Queen of Sheba). Furthermore, with her



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words “My son, you are a great sage,”59 she sends Solomon back to the rhetorical thrust of the previous riddles: the emphasis on the dependence of the man on the woman and the intimidating sexual threat that is embedded in the feminine figure per se. The last riddle revolves around differentiating between Jews and Gentiles. As with the previous riddle, the distinction is validated naturally and instinctively when the circumcised behave differently from the uncircumcised. The solution to the riddle also transforms the salient but hidden physical difference between Jewish and non-​­Jewish males (circumcision) into a visible physical feature of a distinctly metaphysical nature (“their faces were filled with the radiance of the Shekhinah”).60 It carries on from the third riddle, which posits natural differences between males and females. Yet we should remember that the third riddle also questions the very notion of naturalness. Furthermore, we must examine the entire riddling process, starting from the level of the living (fetal) mass, through the mixed kinship group of the mature sexual identity in the sociocultural frame, up to the climactic test: the existential cognitive identity of Jew versus Gentile. The picture that emerges is rife with paradox. Taken as a whole, the riddling tale offers a sequence of growing differentiation: from the less distinct to the ultimately distinct. However, the last distinction cannot escape the lingering effects of arbitrariness that emanate from the bottom of the hierarchy of differentiation in the first riddle. The process may be viewed from another angle: in the initial three riddles, the Queen of Sheba established the relationship between men and women; having done that, she now posits a distinction between non-​­Gentile and Gentile. The first three riddles come from the queen as a woman—​­hence their potentially intimidating power over Solomon. But the last riddle moves into the territory of religious and tribal disputes. The distinction between circumcised and uncircumcised cannot apply to women, so it subsumes the unbridged distinction between men and women. Solomon’s strength has not been satisfactorily asserted as a man versus the Queen of Sheba, the woman. The last riddle proceeds to abolish women as a social category altogether, and this may explain why the midrash chooses this last test to resolve the contention between the two sovereigns. The Queen of Sheba, by this point, is no longer cast in the role of the foreign woman. She is simply foreign. Solomon wins a clear victory on the religious-​ ­cultural level, but it is not an unproblematic one. So far, I have examined the rhetorical tactics of the riddles and of the riddling process in the riddling tale itself—​­that is, in the confrontation of the

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characters who act within it. We have not considered these tactics as directed at the reader or auditor who is external to the text. For the story’s audience, the riddling tale serves as a frame, analogous to the previously noted ritual boundaries (constraints) associated with riddling. The disturbing elements that have been raised in the frame of the story are circumscribed for the addressee within its boundaries. Although in the reading process, the addressee’s acumen is tested, it is Solomon, not the reader, who is directly challenged by the queen. The riddling tale builds a mechanism that channels the riddles’ aggression, cushioning the disturbing forces so that they do not threaten the system’s integrity. But this is only partly true, since, as it transpires, the external reader cannot remain completely untouched by the foreign queen. I have, up to this point, overlooked the possibility that the riddles were familiar to the text’s audience.61 The first riddle, as mentioned, resembles one known from Lamentations Rabbah. The riddle about Lot’s daughters enjoyed great popularity and has also been found in Syriac writings of the eighth century.62 A similar event to the one that occurs in the solution of the third practical riddle (the separation between males and females) is found in classical literature. Achilles dons women’s garb to escape being recruited for the Trojan war, but he is given away by what is portrayed as his instinctive masculine behavior.63 The actual separation between males and females by means of behaviors typical of their sex is common to both sources. Implied parallels to the fourth riddle can be found in some rabbinic homilies (derashot). If the audience knew the riddles and their answers, we understand their inclusion in the riddling tale in a different way. The riddles are still antagonistic in their rhetoric, characterizing the encounter between the figures in the tale. Yet for the tale’s audience, the intimidating aspects are somewhat mitigated. Instead, another rhetorical device comes to the fore. Readers can identify with the wisest of men, King Solomon, because they, like him, know the answers to the riddles. Furthermore, while the first three riddles are familiar and universal, the fourth is different. This last and decisive riddle in the series receives the most attention in the tale’s narrative. And the solution evokes another field of discourse, that of scriptural interpretation. At the outset of the riddling tale, we learn through a quotation that the actual ability to find the solution to a riddle rests in the hands of God, as Solomon declares: “For the Lord grants wisdom; knowledge and discernment are by His decree.” But Solomon’s declaration is not just an expression of humbleness; it introduces scripture into the riddling game, a component that will play a complex role at the end of the tale. In the fourth riddle, the Queen



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of Sheba demands an explanation: “From where do you know?” Solomon replies with an exegetical homily ascribed to Balaam: “Who beholds visions from the Almighty” (Num. 24:4, which continues: “prostrate with eyes unveiled”).64 Implying a hidden dialogue with the queen—​­“and if you do not wish to learn from Balaam,”65 Solomon finds more support in Job’s words to his friends: “But I, like you, have a mind, and am not less [lo nofel] than you” (Job 12:3). In the previous homily, Solomon remained close to the plain meaning of the verse, where Balaam, the foreign prophet, explicitly states that he enjoyed divine revelation while he was prostrate. In his second homiletical venture, Solomon displays greater skill as he engages in a “do not read” (al tiqre) type of exegesis, whereby a slight amendment to a scriptural word or sentence is interjected, based on a similarity of sound.66 Solomon explains that Job’s words should be read: “I do not fall like you,”67 thus creating an analogy between Job’s friends and infidels, hence an implied analogy to the Queen of Sheba. That is, she approaches Solomon, trying to undermine his (religious) confidence, just as Job’s friends try to shake his faith. Solomon, like Job, resists the dangerous inducement. In the midrash, Solomon adduces a verse from the Book of Job (12:3), just as Rabbi Tanh.um son of H.anilai (the putative “author” of the proem that includes the riddling tale) begins by quoting Job 28:13, “And wisdom, where shall it be found?” Thus one more analogy is created: between the interpretative homiletic method of the interpreter, the darshan, in constructing the tale, and Solomon’s interpretative method in the solution of the fourth riddle. This similarity blurs the boundaries that supposedly differentiate the frame of the (midrashic) story, which begins with the verse “And wisdom, where shall it be found?” and the riddling situation of which Solomon’s homily is a part.68 Yet Solomon’s homily (exegesis) already ties the riddling situation to a broader frame: the homiletic interpretation. The choice of Job, of all biblical characters, who cries out against the arbitrariness of providence, charges Solomon’s reply with additional underlying tension. It is in the solution of the fourth riddle that we see the transformation of Solomon into a homiletic exegete, a darshan. In fact, the queen’s question “From where do you know?” serves to evoke the dialogue between the addressee of the midrashic text and the interpreters (darshanim). More accurately, it serves to present the narrative of the midrash as an interpretative process that presumes the existence of an audience with whom it may communicate. The Queen of Sheba, with her question, positions herself as a skeptical reader or auditor. The answer to the fourth riddle, which deals with

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the religious-​­cultural sphere, is anchored with a prooftext from scripture. Solomon, who solves each riddle in turn, offers solutions to the first three in accordance with the framework of the riddle game. Yet the sequence of riddles leaves the reader with the impression that he owes his success primarily to the fourth riddle, where the confrontation is shifted to the religious-​ ­cultural sphere. Furthermore, in light of the co-​­texts relating to Solomon, the Queen of Sheba, and their encounter, as well as the Queen of Sheba’s image as the archetypal foreign woman, the reader knows that Solomon failed on just this count: he dallied with foreign women, including, perhaps, the Queen of Sheba, and was influenced by them. His sovereignty—​­and consequently the sovereignty of his state—​­was direly affected precisely by encounters with a foreign woman. This dissonance—​­between the tale’s triumphant ending and what its addressees knew regarding what “really” happened—​­accounts for the choice of the fourth riddle as the story’s decisive closure. The interpretative homily of the verse presented by Solomon renders midrashic interpretation part of the solution to the riddle. It thus identifies the Queen of Sheba as a threatening force, not only to Solomon but also to those who engage in midrash. Clearly, the text celebrates Solomon’s ability to solve the riddles and especially the association of that ability with his midrashic skills. Accordingly, the queen’s question, “From where do you know?” should be read as an acknowledgment of his proficiency in seeing ultimate truth behind the riddle-​­like obfuscations of language. Yet this religious-​­cultural resolution does not altogether silence the doubt raised by the previous riddles, even if this solution is perceived as less arbitrary. Furthermore, the correlation that is created between the solution of the riddles and the interpretation of the verse has an implication no less disturbing than the Queen of Sheba herself. It questions the validity of interpretation: Is interpretation of a verse (derashat pasuq) all that different from a solution to a riddle? Is it pleasing, perhaps, within the boundaries of the exegetical game, but lacking in transcendent meaning?69 Do interpreters (darshanim), like Solomon, use the religious system to domesticate erotic, demonic, subversive, and anti-​­hierarchic forces (not necessarily external ones), like the Queen of Sheba, so as to maintain their power? From yet another angle: as stated, the riddle mixes categories that are ordinarily perceived as distinct and even contradictory. This may not be so different from midrash. Midrashic interpretation, which relies on quotations, sees in the Bible a langue—​­a paradigmatic linguistic structure—​­that contains an almost indefinite number of possibilities for the creation of associations



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and for grouping new categories.70 Yet the cited verse also belongs to a parole, language as it is used; it is a specific biblical utterance.71 The introduction of the citation resembles the construction of the image of the riddle. The solution in the riddle is matched by the issue, verse, or character to which the interpretation refers.72 The verse “and where shall wisdom be found?,” which, in its parole setting, belongs to a semantic field created by the Book of Job, is suddenly mixed with an unexpected category, that of the Queen of Sheba. The homiletic interpreter thus creates a structure reminiscent of that of the riddle. The riddles in the tale, in terms of their form and their content, and the analogy that the tale draws between riddles and interpretation, suggest that the riddling tale itself, with its midrashic elements, is like the answer to a riddle; like a solution to a riddle, it is an ad hoc solution that leaves unresolved the greater questions outside the riddle game. The underlying structure of the proem, in which the riddling tale appears, is the verse from Job: “and wisdom, where shall it be found?,” to which different answers are offered. When King Solomon, as a character in the riddling tale, uses a verse from Job as proof to his solution of the fourth riddle, the narrative boundaries between the tale and its surrounding exegetical framework are blurred, as are the contours that separate midrash and (solving) riddles. Various traditions tie Solomon’s character to that of the scholar (talmid h. akham) and to that of the interpreter (darshan). As an interpreter, a further analogy is created between him and the redactor of the midrash (or the author of the proem with which Midrash Mishle begins). This midrash refers, of course, to the Book of Proverbs, which is attributed to Solomon and which lays out the behavioral norms of its cultural-​­moral system. The riddling tale exemplifies the principle that the human’s existential riddle can be solved only by the cultural system, since the alternative to the arbitrary order of culture is chaos and destruction. The riddling tale does not portray the solution provided by the cultural system as devoid of arbitrariness, but it argues—​­through the riddles and their content and through the co-​­texts that echo in it—​­for the necessity of tribal-​­religious identity. Culminating with Solomon’s exegetical discourse, it implicitly advocates the need, albeit unfulfilled, for interpretation, for midrash. Midrash marks the boundaries set between Jews and Gentiles, positing the superiority of the king—​­who is a Sage—​­over the foreigner. The riddling tale of Midrash Mishle retells the biblical story and, in so doing, purports to provide answers and fill in the gaps of the scriptural narrative. Indeed, after having read the midrashic tale, we know more about the

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core of the meeting between the royal couple. We know that what was really at stake was questions of identity—​­of a human being, of a male, of a member of a tribal or religious group. But what is of the most interest regarding rabbinic self-​­reflexivity is the staging of midrash vis-​­à-​­vis riddles. The riddling tale is a midrashic tale par excellence, framed by scriptural citations and addressing biblical gaps. The tale juxtaposes the underlying mechanism of midrash, by which the association of verses or images is re-​­created anew with the underlying rhetorical principles of riddles. Thus, when Solomon, who is cast as a prototypical Sage, introduces midrash and employs a verse from Job as a prooftext to support his solution of the fourth riddle, whatever boundaries separated riddles and midrash as distinct forms of discourse are undermined. Clearly, Solomon resorts to midrash precisely because his victory is as yet inconclusive, as implied by Queen of Sheba’s question (“From where do you know this?”). However, by framing midrash in the context of a riddling tale, intricately involving riddles, a threatening deconstructive queen and a king-​­rabbi whose sovereignty (as an individual male) is doubted, the tale posits midrash itself as a riddle. The Queen of Sheba and her riddles constitute a mirror placed before a rabbinic self, embodied by Solomon and his scriptural exegesis. Solomon, like the rabbis, uses midrash to define his religious-​­cultural identity. In the face of the fundamental precariousness of individual identity, as the tale argues, and the chaos that threatens the coherence of (male) subjectivity, midrash is presented as a solution, deficient by definition but nevertheless necessary. As in the story of Simon the Just and the Nazirite discussed in Chapter 1, midrash here is implicated in issues pertaining to the self, and both these stories end with, and are putatively resolved by, scriptural citations—​­that is, midrash. However, much as the tale of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba undermines the notion of coherent subjectivity, and while it casts doubt on the existence of any nonarbitrary system of categories and meanings, it seems to stage midrash as an indispensable weapon in battles with external (or externally projected) forces. The riddle thus creates a world of conflict that is settled within the framework of the game, offering a temporary solution—​­leaving the social, cultural, and existential conflicts, external to the riddling game, unresolved. The midrashic riddling tale presents us with both a meta-​­riddle and a meta-​­midrash narrative. The unfolding series of identity-​­related riddles, beginning from the undifferentiated fetus and culminating with a distinct circumcised male-​ ­religious identity, exposes the underlying process of any given riddle. Any riddle, this riddling tale tells us, is a game, and any solution might be true



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only within that game’s boundaries. Yet this riddling tale is specifically a midrashic riddling tale. It is framed by scriptural citations from 1 Kings 10 and, as such, solves the riddle of the biblical text. Midrash also enters the framed narrative, serving Solomon with an epistemological proof for the solution of the fourth riddle. The Queen of Sheba asks him, “From where do you know?” Solomon answers by citing the Book of Job. Ultimately, the tale tells us, midrash is the rabbis’ underlying epistemology, the way of knowing what they know. It may not be all that different from riddles, but it is the discourse that defines the adult religious male. Without this discourse, his identity would be undermined. In this chapter, the epistemology of midrash was reflected upon by way of the undermining discourse of riddles. Language was the predominant arena in which riddles and midrash competed, embodied by a foreign queen and a rabbinized king, respectively. In Chapters 3 and 4, sight and unmediated experience, transcending linguistic-​­textual bonds, will be the mirror against which midrash is measured.73

Chapter 3

The Blind Eye of the Beholder: Tall Tales, Travelogues, and Midrash

Georges Van den Abbeele, reading the figure of travel inscribed in early modern French philosophy, writes: “The application of the metaphor of travel to thought conjures up the image of the innovative mind that explores new ways of looking at things or which opens up new horizons. . . . ​Indeed, to call an existing order (whether epistemological, aesthetic, or political) into question by placing oneself ‘outside’ that order, by taking ‘a critical distance’ from it, is implicitly to invoke the metaphor of thought as travel.”1 Van den Abbeele’s instructive words, although addressing early modern European culture, could just as well have been written about the rabbinic figure of travel that will concern us here. The focus of this chapter will be a series of mini-​­travelogues and travel-​­related tall tales that appear in a lengthy aggadic (nonlegal) passage in the Babylonian Talmud (bBava Batra 73a–​­75b) and their position vis-​­à-​­vis midrash.2 These tales, as I will argue, offer new horizons in relation to which home/midrash is evaluated. Like the riddles of Chapter 2, these tales call an existing order into question. In Chapter 2, the Queen of Sheba and her riddles made their way into Solomon’s or the Sages’ abode in order to be domesticated; in this chapter, it is the Sages who engage in the prospect of leaving their familiar surroundings. Home—​­or, rather, the academy—​­is where midrash is. Departing from it proves to be enormously attractive and equally perilous. Travel involves epistemological and experiential anxieties, as well as questions of institutional hegemony, as the following story implies: “And your gates of carbuncles” (Isa. 54:12) [is to be understood] as Rabbi Yoh.anan [explained] when he [once] sat and gave an exposition: The



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Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come bring precious stones and pearls that are thirty [cubits] by thirty and will cut out from them [openings] ten [cubits] by twenty, and will set them up in the gates of Jerusalem. A certain student sneered at him: Now [jewels] of the size of a dove’s egg are not to be found; are [jewels] of such a size to be found? After a time, his ship sailed out to sea, [where] he saw ministering angels engaged in cutting precious stones and pearls that were thirty [cubits] by thirty and on which were engravings of ten [cubits] by twenty. He said unto them: “For whom are these?” They replied that the Holy One, blessed be He, would in time to come set them up in the gates of Jerusalem. [When] he came [again] before Rabbi Yoh.anan, he said unto him: “Expound, O my master; it is becoming for you to expound [lidrosh]; as you said, so have I seen.” He replied unto him: “You numbskull, had you not seen, would you have not believed? You are [then] mocking the words of the Sages!” He set his eyes on him and [the student] turned into a heap of bones.3 The explicit point of departure of this story is a midrash on a verse from Isaiah, explicated by R. Yoh.anan, and it is midrash that forms the crux of the conflict between the student and the rabbi. The student doubts the Sage’s explication of the verse from Isaiah that refers to the glory of Jerusalem in future days. In order to be convinced, the student has to be sent on a voyage, where he witnesses with his own eyes the huge stones of which R. Yoh.anan spoke, which are being prepared for the time of the redemption. This concise narrative (to which we shall return) makes a clear distinction between two alternative modes of knowledge, two epistemologies. The first, and ultimately the overarching inclusive one, is midrash; the second is seeing with one’s own eyes. But the narrative does more than juxtapose two alternative epistemologies while advocating, as one might expect, the superiority of midrash; it

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introduces the parameters associated with these constructed epistemologies: the political and experiential. The first can be discerned in the power struggle between the Sage and a disciple; the experiential aspect is reflected in the student’s inability to imagine something different from his present surrounding, as he says: “Now [jewels] of the size of a dove’s egg are not to be found; are [jewels] of such a size to be found?!” The student is confined by his experience of an immediate concrete reality that he cannot transcend, whereas R. Yoh.anan’s exegetical skills attest to his ability to travel in time and place. Experience, as in the case of the student and of R. Yoh.anan, is related to and contingent on epistemological premises: scriptural-​­exegetical skills are what enable the Sage to envision the redemptive era, whereas the student is bereft of these skills and hence incapable of envisioning the messianic future. But the student’s exclusive reliance on an epistemology of sensory evidence indicates the smallness of the mundane world that his senses can grasp—​­as small as those metonymic small jewels, smaller than “a dove’s egg.” For him, redemption is contingent on sight, yet it is out of sight. Thus the term “experience,” as employed here, is not confined to knowledge per se. Rather, it refers to that point where the discourse of knowledge fails to capture the depth and complexity of the issues at stake. In this short tale, and even more so in the aggadic narrative of which it is a part, experience is central precisely because it involves a wide range of themes in which alternative subjective positions toward the world are implicated—​­toward past and future, primordial and eschatological times, order and chaos, authority and subversion. These themes, in turn, relate to the very notion of faith: R. Yoh.anan explicitly addresses the student’s lack of belief. Understanding the text’s positions in epistemological terms is necessary but not sufficient, since epistemology is but one component of the power struggle staged in this text between the academy-​ a­ ssociated discourse of midrash and the discourse of travel. In reading for the experiential aspect of the text, I propose not to accept the claim that all experience is transformed into, or constructed by, knowledge—​­not to accept the “conversion of phenomenology to epistemology.” I adhere to the notion that there is something “beneath or prior to knowledge.”4 By perusing the conflict-​­ridden aspects of the text, we can find what historian Joan Scott has called for in reading for experience: reading for the discursive dynamics that point to the category of experience as “a contested rather than a given discursive term.”5 The epistemological arena that the text displays is of paramount importance and is implicated in the contested experiential positions; questions of knowledge and power are equally central to it. How one experiences



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past and future, the prospect of redemption, chaos and order, and belief and revelation are questions clearly related by the text to epistemological questions. However, the intricate thematic web that the text spins transcends its dual, and competing, epistemological principles. Competing perspectives, both epistemological and experiential, make up the underlying structure of the text as a whole. The entire literary-​­aggadic unit under discussion can be divided into two parts. The first abounds in tall tales and mini-​­travelogues.6 The second part concerns eschatological matters: it begins with the destiny of the mythological pair of Leviathans and concludes with the image of Jerusalem at the end of days. More important, the dominant form in this latter section is midrash, scriptural exegesis.7 I suggest, therefore, reading the text as a coherent, edited unit composed of two main parts, each distinguished by its dominant literary form. The first part is characterized by a high concentration of tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, while the second takes the form of scriptural exegesis. The aggadic text, as epitomized by the single tale cited at the beginning, sets up competing discursive strategies—​­midrash versus mini-​­travelogues and tall tales—​­that address similar themes. Midrash is the dominant discourse in the greater rabbinic corpus, and, as such, it constitutes a central rabbinic self. Like riddles, which were the focus of the previous chapter, tall tales and travelogues are a form of discourse—​­a genre—​­that is anomalous in the rabbinic corpus, and as such they are what I have characterized as discursive others. The aim of this chapter is to clarify the ways in which these extraordinary texts reflect on the exegetical praxis, midrash. My primary focus is on the tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, which will be examined in light of the epistemologies and experiences that they entail. Next, I will examine how the latter part of the text relates to these stories and their experiential potentials.8

Tall Tales and Mini-​­Travelogues Generations of readers have grappled with the generic classification of this textual unit. Medieval and early modern Jewish writers were baffled by the extraordinary and outlandish motifs that abound in the text. Triggered by rational apologetics, these writers provided different, even opposing, classifications that placed the tales as mere “exaggerations,” on the one hand, or “words of prophesy” and an expression of sublime revelation, on the other.9 The first to call attention to the abundance of tall tales in the unit and to

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identify them generically as such—​­from a modern, formal perspective—​­was Dan Ben-​­Amos, who distinguished between those narratives that comply with the genre’s requirements and those that fall short of them.10 Eli Yassif, writing about what I have identified as the first section of the aggadic text, addresses its cohesion, inasmuch as it is composed of tall tales and travel-​­related tales.11 The underlying principle associating these different genres—​­tall tales and mini-​­travelogues—​­is that they mostly take place in faraway regions. Geographical distancing is one of the means by which tall tales establish their quasi-​­veracity. It is also a prerequisite of travelogues that depict marvelous phenomena.12 Beyond generic cohesion, particularly important is the attention that other writers have given to the salient marker of tall tales, the interplay between truth and falsehood, as well as the methods that they employ to putatively validate their claims.13 In other words, tall tales thematize epistemological concerns—​­albeit in a playful, comic, manner—​­as they present us with a process in which truth and lie are negotiated.14 Travelogues, too, are concerned with epistemology. Georgia Frank’s study of early Christian travelogues has pointed out the ways in which these travelogues operated within a cultural-​­religious world that was transforming its epistemological paradigms.15 The anecdotal mini-​­travelogues of the Babylonian Talmud are very different in scope and content from the full-​­fledged accounts of pilgrimages to holy figures (or from other Christian pilgrims’ narratives, as well as from Hellenistic travel literature, which Frank identifies as one of their models). Nonetheless, the epistemological novelty of sensory perception of the holy that forms the crux of early Christian travelogues is also at play in rabbinic mini-​­travelogues—​­all the more so when these narratives are combined with tall tales that display an explicit awareness of their own epistemological premise, for example: “Rabbah bar bar H.ana said: I saw a frog the size of the Fort of Hagronia. And what is the size of the Fort of Hagronia?—​­Sixty houses. There came a sea monster and swallowed the frog. Then came a raven and swallowed the sea monster, and perched on a tree. Imagine [lit., ‘Come see’] how strong was the tree. Rav Papa ben Shemu’el said: Had I not been there, I would not have believed it.”16 Rabbah bar bar H.ana here offers a firsthand account of what he had seen. Rav Papa’s comment is not merely a comic statement; it provides a necessary corroborating eyewitness testimony as well as an awareness of the potential doubt that the tale might elicit.17 Note that sight—​­or being there—​­and belief are coupled and thus imply an epistemological-​­experiential association. In other cases, Sages who stand outside the narrated event, responding to the



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traveler’s report, provide zoological identification of the witnessed phenomena: “Rabbah bar bar H.ana further stated: We traveled once on board a ship, and the ship sailed between one fin of the fish and the other for three days and three nights, it [swimming] upward and we [floating] downward. And if you think the ship did not sail fast enough, Rav Dimi, when he came, stated that it covered sixty parasangs in the time it takes to warm a kettle of water. When a horseman shot an arrow, [the ship] outstripped it. And Rav Ashi said: That was one of the small sea monsters that have [only] two fins.”18 Similarly, the same Rav Ashi identifies another marvelous fish as “a sea-​ ­goat that searches [for its food] and [for that purpose] has horns,” after he hears this account from Rav Safra: “Once we traveled on board a ship and we saw a fish that raised its head out of the sea. It had horns on which was engraved: ‘I am a minor creature of the sea, I am three hundred parasangs [in length], and I am [now] going into the mouth of Leviathan.’ ”19 Here, the question of truth is made inseparable from the question of interpretation. Rav Ashi’s role is to provide interpretation that would render the enigmatic phenomenon intelligible. Rabbah bar bar H.ana and Rav Safra describe something they had seen, something they had experienced by seeing, without labeling it. Rav Ashi thus connects the faraway experience with a recognizable reality by granting it an explanation that, by definition, is taken from the world of familiar ideas. The process of translation, whereby incredible phenomena that occur “there” are explained by drawing on familiar concepts, is clearly at play when textual exegesis is called upon, as in the next two examples: Our rabbis taught: It happened that Rabbi Eliʿezer and Rabbi Yehoshuʿa were traveling on board a ship. Rabbi Eliʿezer was sleeping and Rabbi Yehoshuʿa was awake. Rabbi Yehoshuʿa shuddered and Rabbi Eliʿezer awoke. He said unto him: “What is the matter, Yehoshuʿa? What has caused you to tremble?” He said unto him: “I have seen a great light in the sea.” He said unto him: “You may have seen the eyes of Leviathan, for it is written: ‘His eyes are like the glimmerings of dawn’ ” [Job 41:10].20 Rabbah bar bar H.ana further related: Once we traveled on board a ship and we saw a bird standing up to its ankles in the water while its

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head reached the sky. We thought the water was not deep and wished to go down to cool ourselves, but a bat qol [divine voice] called out: “Do not go down here, for a carpenter’s ax was dropped [into this water] seven years ago, and it has not [yet] reached the bottom. And this, not [only] because the water is deep but [also] because it is rapid.” Rav Ashi said: That [bird] was Ziz-​­Shaddai, for it is written: “And Ziz-​ ­Shaddai is with me” (Ps. 50:11).21 In the first example, Rabbi Eliezʿer is not situated beyond the physical realm of the narrated event, since he is on board the ship. However, unlike Rabbi Yehoshuʿa, he, having fallen asleep, does not actually witness the “great light in the sea.” His ability to identify the apparition that had so unnerved his fellow traveler is textually based. Here, as in the previous examples, we see that sight-​­motivated epistemology is deemed insufficient: one may see with one’s own eyes and still remain puzzled, or even at a loss, by what one sees. Both strategies of translation—​­zoological identification and scriptural exegesis—​ ­are ways to domesticate the strange and unfamiliar.22 Yet the interpretative grid placed over the strange fish, the gigantic bird, or the mysterious light in the sea does not quite succeed in neutralizing their power, or the thrill of encountering them. For one, the zoological identification of the bird with the mythological bird Ziz-​­Shaddai, however rooted in scripture, may still leave the voyager (and the audience) in unfamiliar territory. These tall tales and mini-​­travelogues are no less powerful, and the thrill that they offer is no less keen, for being epistemologically deficient. Epistemology and experience are the explicit subject matter of the following tales, told by Rabbah bar bar H.ana, where we are presented with an interpretative dispute: [The Arab] said unto me: “Come and I will show you Mount Sinai.” When I arrived, I saw that scorpions surrounded it, and they stood like Lybian asses. I heard a bat qol saying: “Woe unto me that I have made an oath, and now that I have made the oath, who will release me?” When I came before the rabbis, they said unto me: “Every Abba is an ass, and every bar bar H.ana is a fool. You should have said, ‘You are released of your vow.’ ”



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He, however, thought that perhaps it was the oath in connection with the Flood. And the rabbis? [They assumed that] if so, why, “woe onto me”?23 He said unto me: “Come and I will show you the Dead of the Wilderness.” I went [with him] and saw them; and they looked as if in a state of intoxication. They lay on their backs; and the knee of one of them was raised, and the Arab passed under the knee, riding on a camel with his spear erect, and did not touch it. I cut off one corner of the purple-​ ­blue shawl of one of them; and we could not move away. He said unto me: “[If] you have, by chance, taken something from them, return it; for we have a tradition that he who takes anything from them cannot move away.” I went and returned it; and then we were able to move away. When I came before the rabbis, they said unto me: Every Abba is an ass, and every bar bar H.ana is a fool. For what purpose did you do that? Was it in order to ascertain whether [the Law] is in accordance with the [decision of] Bet Shammai or Bet Hillel? You should have counted the threads and counted the joints.24 The Sages interpret the words of the bat qol as referring to the divine presence; hence, the error of Rabbah bar bar H.ana is for them an interpretive error. The rabbis do not doubt the actual encounter, nor do they question the epistemological authority of the bat qol as a legitimate source of knowledge.25 The dispute highlights the experience on which Rabbah bar bar H.ana based his interpretation, thereby indicating a key feature of the travelogues. According to Rabbah bar bar H.ana, the Sages react to his account with the words “Every Abba is an ass, and every bar bar H.ana is a fool.” It is apparently not the fact of his encounter with the bat qol or the Dead of the Wilderness that is in question and that in turn leads to the Sages’ disparaging words. Rather, it is the traveler’s mistaken reaction to these circumstances (and not just its foolishness) that is the target of their scorn. That scorn directs us to the heart of the divide between the experience of those who sit in the academy and that of the hero of the travelogue or tall tale.26 Rabbah bar bar H.ana assumes that the heavenly voice is lamenting God’s postdiluvian oath never to destroy the

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world again, and so does not release her from her vow. According to him, the chaotic element, indicated by the renewed outbreak of waters in the Flood, poses a constant threat.27 For the Sages, however, this kind of chaotic outburst is impossible. The experience of chaos—​­the search for it, as well as the fear of it—​­is already indicated by the journey to places identified with anti-​ ­order, such as the sea (or rivers) and the desert. The interpretative dispute that emerges in this tale between the traveler and the Sages of the academy thus echoes the wider geographical, edges-​­of-​­the-​­universe framework of the string of tales as a whole. In the story of the bat qol, the dispute between Rabbah bar bar H.ana and the Sages hinges on the question of the appropriate interpretive assumptions for the reported situation, whereas in the story of the Dead of the Wilderness, it concerns the very tools of interpretation. Rabbah bar bar H.ana tries to take a cord from the tzitzit (four-​­fringed garments) worn by the Dead of the Wilderness in order to settle the dispute between the rabbinical schools of Hillel and Shammai regarding the proper arrangement of the fringes. Again, the Sages are not concerned with whether an encounter with the Dead of the Wilderness is possible, but rather with the kind of proof required to resolve the dispute. In their opinion, the traveler should count the cords and then report back with his calculations. Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s mistake stems from his need for concrete evidence—​­a need that is encapsulated in the genre of travelogues. The Sages, however, do not require the actual cords. A verbal description would have sufficed. The adventures of Rabbah bar bar H.ana, as well as those of some of his fellow travelers, are set within narratives that are clearly comical in tone. Tall tales are told, and heard, with at least the flicker of a smile. Humor is, of course, also a technique for conveying serious content, as we see here, where it is used to point to divine absence or competing experiences of order and chaos.28 Similarly, a profoundly serious claim underlies the amusing tale of the gigantic frog, which is worth citing again: “Rabbah bar bar H.ana further stated: I saw a frog the size of the Fort of Hagronia. And what is the size of the Fort of Hagronia?—​­Sixty houses. There came a sea monster and swallowed the frog. Then came a raven and swallowed the snake, and it perched on a tree. Imagine [lit., ‘Come see’] how strong was the tree. Rav Papa ben Shemu’el said: Had I not been there, I would not have believed it.” This story, with its rather strange food chain, presents us with a case in which the reality revealed to the eye—​­a raven that sits in a tree—​­is only the superficial appearance of a grand but hidden sequence of events that began



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somewhere else. The story ends with the words: “Imagine how strong was the tree!” (lit., “Come see how strong was the tree!”). This remark seems at first to have a purely comic intent. Incongruous with the dramatic sequence of events that preceded it, it underlines their absurdity.29 Yet the comic dimension does not invalidate the story’s implicit claim to offer an accurate account of actual physical objects. Rabbah bar bar H.ana begins his tale with the formulaic introduction “I myself saw” and concludes it with “come see.”30 The speaker who knows the whole story, who has witnessed the unfolding of the plot from its very beginning, seems to ask another figure, who sees only its outcome, or merely its metonymic trace (the tree), to share his interpretive vision. Rabbah bar bar H.ana offers a different experience from what is presumed as the ordinary, commonsensical perception; he points out what is necessarily hidden when one perceives only the surface of things. Here, sight alone does not facilitate deep understanding. Instead, the narrative calls for an awareness of a possible clandestine plot, erased by its latest unfolding in the present. Apparent reality and its relation to a hidden past, as well as to a foreshadowed future, are key themes in the string of tales. These themes are implicated by the settings of the stories—​­at sea and in the desert.

Forming Time and Space The association of time and space as narrative markers of literary genres was recognized by Mikhail Bakhtin, who coined the term “chronotopos”: a concept that defines a “literary work’s artistic unity in relationship to an actual reality.”31 The combination of temporal and spatial elements, as they appear in different levels of the text, serves as a touchstone for examining the modes of the composition and meaning of the work. Since time and space are basic categories by which the world is perceived and experienced, the chronotopic lens sharpens our focus on the text’s experience of reality. From a chronotopic perspective, the sequence of tales in Bava Batra has an inherent spatial duality. The narrative situation is here, in the familiar and known world, whereas the reported events—​­the narrated events—​­generally occur in an “other” place, usually at sea or in the desert. Travelogues traverse the familiar settled boundaries and lead the traveler to faraway regions, the places to which his or her culture attributes the strange and marvelous;32 tall tales require distancing for their quasi-​­validation. Yet the geographical territories, as the stories imply, are also experiential grounds. That is, the breaking

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through geographic boundaries entails, at least potentially, a breach of other boundaries. In those far-​­off regions, physical phenomena are intensified. We see waves three hundred parasangs high, rising to the height of the heavens’ smallest star, which is found to be fiery and enormous.33 We are told of a fish that destroys sixty towns but, in so doing, sustains and revives them;34 of a bird with its feet in the water and its head in the sky;35 and of a fish so large that the passage between its two fins takes three days (and this in a ship that is swifter than the flight of an arrow!).36 All these and many more belong to “there.”37 Moreover, nature there sometimes operates according to different laws, even overturning the familiar natural order. A raven swallows a sea monster; a baby antelope’s dung blocks the Jordan River.38 Even linear time is suspended, as in the two following anecdotes: Rav Yehudah, the Indian, related: Once we were traveling on board a ship when we saw a precious stone that was surrounded by a sea monster. A diver descended to bring it up. [Thereupon] the sea monster approached with the purpose of swallowing the ship, [when] a raven came and bit off its head and the waters were turned into blood. A second sea monster came, took [the head of the decapitated sea monster] and attached it [to the body], and it revived. Again [the sea monster] approached, intent on swallowing the ship. Again a bird came and severed its head. [Thereupon the diver] seized the precious stone and threw it into the ship. We had with us salted birds. [As soon as] we put [the stone] upon them, they took it up and flew away with it.39 Rav Ashi said: Rav Huna ben Nathan related to me [the following]: Once we were walking in the desert and we had with us a leg of meat. We cut it open and picked out [the forbidden fat and sciatic nerve] and put it on the grass. While we were fetching wood, the leg regained its original form and we roasted it. When we returned after twelve calendar months, we saw those coals still glowing. When I came before Ammemar, he said unto me: “That herb was samtre [an herb with the power of uniting severed parts]. Those glowing coals were of broom.40 The inanimate (a stone) revives the dead (salted birds); similarly, herbs restore something that in linear time is irreversible. These last two cases establish the



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text’s law of reversal, whether it is a stripped leg of meat, dead birds, or even—​ a­ s we saw earlier—​­a divine oath. This reversal calls our attention to the construction of time in the stories. Their spatial duality is interwoven with a doubling of time: narrating and narrated time; the time of the telling and the time of what is told. The narrating time is the era of the Sages, whereas in the narrated time, Rabbah bar bar H.ana meets figures from the distant biblical past (the Dead of the Wilderness, the men of Korah) as well as representatives of the end time (geese designated for the feast of the righteous). The journey in space is therefore also a multidirectional journey in time. The departure from the here and now is also a departure from the present which, in the experience of linear time, is distinct and perhaps even severed from the distant past and the distant future. Moreover, the repeated encounter in different tales with Leviathan and the name Ziz-​­Shaddai alludes to a textual mythological time. Traversing the spatial boundaries also leads to the world of the dead. Rabbah bar bar H.ana meets the Dead of the Wilderness and is led to the threshold of Gehenna, where the men of Korah are eternally roasted on a thirty-​­day cycle. The act of crossing the boundary into the land of the dead calls into question not only the dichotomy between life and death but also the experience of linear time as concluding with the final seal of death. The mystery of death and the afterlife, as well as the fear of mortal existence, is addressed (and answered) in rabbinic literature extensively, being a basic human concern. Only a few narratives, though, allow rabbinic figures to actually get a glimpse of the next world, and even then, it is usually mediated by a dream (whereby a dead Sage appears to the worthy living rabbi) and involves rabbinic, not biblical, figures.41 In the two encounters of Rabbah bar bar H.ana, the usual sharp distinction between the living and the dead is blurred in yet another way. The men of Korah live—​­albeit uncomfortably—​­in the land of the dead, while the Dead of the Wilderness are found here in the land of the living. They sprawl on the ground as if drugged; their death is a state of drunkenness,42 perhaps a merely temporary numbness.43 The depictions of phenomena out there, in faraway places, are dense in characterizations of time and space. At times, categories of space are described in temporal terms. We are told of water so turbulent that an ax cast into it seven years ago still has not reached the bottom. Experience is described through a mixture of the notions of time and space—​­such that the idea of time condenses the concept of space—​­in order to heighten certain aspects of the experience. The experience of this unfamiliar reality is

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intensive and quite different from the ordinary. The oscillation between the variables of time and space expresses this extraordinary power, while at the same time indicating the storyteller’s or protagonist’s desire to stabilize and domesticate it. Domestication, which depicts the intensified reality in terms of the familiar world, is also found in entirely spatial descriptions, such as the description of the smallest star, which is the size of the field big enough to sow forty se’ah of mustard seed; of the height of Mount Tabor and of the size of the Fort of Hagronia. The journey taken by Rabbah bar bar H.ana and his fellow Sages, and vicariously shared by his audience, is a journey to what James Romm characterized as “the edges of the earth.” It is also a journey to a cosmic beginning. As Romm remarked, regarding the place of the ocean in ancient Greek thought: “It could represent the outer limits of both geographic space and historical time at once.” 44 The sea, then, is not only where the fantastic occurs; it is also the place where it all began, as a well-​­known rabbinic tradition has it: “The Holy One, blessed be He, cast a stone into the ocean, from which the world then was founded” (bYoma 54b). What is more, the source of all the wonders of the world is concealed in that single stone. The sea also stores within it the memories of the mythological battle by which the creator God conquered the ocean.45 The strength of the sea and other primordial entities is suppressed in biblical literature. But it resurfaces vividly in the cosmological battles depicted in rabbinic writings.46 We find the echoes of this war in Rabbah’s stories, at the very beginning of our text: seafarers ward off the raging waves with clubs on which is engraved “I am that I am, Yah, the Lord of Hosts, Amen, Amen, Selah”; a wave seeking to flood the entire world is held back by the reproach of its fellow wave, who, quoting a verse from the Bible (Jer. 5:22), insists that God has set the limit of the sea.47 Much as the ocean in ancient Greek imagination is seen as a “repository for the cosmic confusion that prevailed before the Olympian Era,”48 the encounter with the sea is here an encounter with primordial time. And, like the Greeks who identified the ocean with anti-​­order and subversive forces, the sea in Bava Batra is identified with a chaotic, rebellious force that the monotheistic, world-​­ordering creation claims to have suppressed.49 Others of these mini-​­travelogues and tall tales are set in the desert, an additional site of beginning, of alternative order and chaos. The desert motif in the Bible carries both positive and negative values, relating to what ­Shemaryahu Talmon characterized as its spatial-​­geographical and historical aspects.50 The biblical desert is a place of danger and uncertainty, providing



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refuge for outlaws and fugitives as well as a temporary retreat for an agonizing prophet like Jeremiah. Historically, it is primarily identified with the Exodus, the site of Israel’s repetitive transgressions and God’s punishment, while it is also the site of divine revelation, of miracles and the giving of the Torah. The rabbis expanded the intense dual quality of the desert as intimated in scripture, associating it with the desolate and the perilous as well as with a place of great wonders.51 Not unlike the ocean, the desert is a place of origins. It is the site where the Israelites’ national identity was formed (and hence, as we shall see, tales relating to national formation take place in the desert); it also harbors primordial qualities, dating back to the very beginning of time. According to one aggadah, “When the Holy One, blessed be He, descended upon Mount Sinai to give Torah to Israel, sixty myriads of the ministering angels descended with Him . . . ​and in their hands were swords and crowns, and they crowned the Israelites with the Ineffable Name. All those days, whilst they had not done that deed, they were as good as ministering angels before the Holy One, blessed be He. The angel of death did not hold sway over them.”52 “That deed,” the building of the Golden Calf, restored the Israelites to their doomed mortal fate. It is important to note that here, revelation on Mount Sinai is ascribed a primordial, Garden of Eden–​­like quality. The desert is conceived as a site of progression, in which Israel suffers the unavoidable growing pains before obtaining an adult identity; it is also a site of (blissful) regression. The infantile impulses underlying the struggling Israelites in the desert, as characterized by Ilana Pardes, are matched by, and compensated for, by this rabbinic tradition.53 The infantile dynamics of Israel in relation to God and Moses are positively mirrored by revelation that restores, albeit momentarily, the union of God and humanity in paradise. Building the Golden Calf, just like the eating from the Tree of Knowledge, puts an end to this recovered bliss. Tragic as this missed opportunity may be, we should note that it is in the desert, of all places, that the rabbis identify a primordial moment: the fleeting reenactment of the Garden of Eden.54 As in the case of the ocean, the beginning of time and the end of time are inevitably linked: “On the fourth night, when it is time for the world to be redeemed . . . ​Moses will come forth from the desert and the messiah-​­king will come forth from Rome.”55 The primordial aspect of the desert is alluded to when the Arab guide shows Rabbah bar bar H.ana the place where earth and heaven join:56 “He said unto me: ‘Come, I will show you where heaven and earth touch one another.’ I took up my [bread] basket and placed it in a window of heaven. When I concluded my prayers, I looked for it but did not find it. I said unto him: ‘Are

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there thieves here?’ He replied to me: ‘It is the heavenly wheel revolving. Wait here until tomorrow, and you will find it.’ ”57 The guide leads Rabbah bar bar H.ana to a site where two cosmological phenomena, heaven and earth—​­which, in the present, ordered world, are separate—​­actually connect and diverge. He thus leads him to the very moment of Creation—​­or, rather, pre-​­Creation—​­before God had separated heaven from earth. If the monotheistic Creation, as described in the first two chapters of Genesis, entails a series of separations, then the journey to the desert leads to a primal state of unity. Familiar territories of ordered separation are transgressed in search of mythological origins, and the experience of differential order is replaced by the quest for an undifferentiated primordiality. The spatial duality characteristic of the mini-​­travelogues and tall tales, as well as the tension they portray between the marvelous and mythological phenomena and the constant need to domesticate them in familiar terms, mirrors the split between two competing modes of experience. The longing for the one place from which all phenomena diverge is therefore also a longing from within the experience of the ordered and fragmentary present.58

The Dead of the Wilderness and the Men of Korah: Encountering Rebellion The primordial or mythological elements to be found in the sea or the desert are clearly tied up with the institutions and politics of rabbinic society and imagined in relation to them. Two of Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s tales, in particular, express a longing for alternative order underlying the travelogues of Bava Batra and its relation to the established, rabbinic order. The first tale, discussed above, involves the Dead of the Wilderness; the second involves the men of Korah: He said unto me: “Come, I will show you the men of Korah who were swallowed up.” I saw two cracks that emitted smoke. I took a piece of clipped wool, dipped it in water, attached it to the point of a spear and left it in there. And when I took it out, it was singed. [Thereupon] he said unto me: “Listen [to] what you [are about to] hear.” And I heard them say: “Moses and his Torah are truth and we are liars.” He said unto me: “Every thirty days, Gehenna causes them to turn back here



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as [one turns] flesh in a pot, and they say thus: ‘Moses and his Torah are truth and we are liars.’ ”59 That Rabbah bar bar H.ana should meet the Dead of the Wilderness—​­the children of Israel who perished in the wilderness during the forty-​­year sojourn that followed the Exodus from Egypt—and the Korah’s family is not entirely surprising, considering that he is journeying through the desert. This, after all, is the place where both groups meet their end. Moreover, there are other links between the Dead of the Wilderness and the men of Korah, in the biblical story and in midrashic tradition. The members of the Generation of the Desert were punished by God, Who ruled that they would die in the wilderness before the children of Israel entered the Promised Land. Tradition portrays them ambiguously. On one hand, they took part in the founding moments of Israel as a nation, and they are deserving of particular honor; this, after all, was the generation worthy of receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. Yet their defiant and rebellious conduct caused God to resolve not to allow them into the Land. In several places, biblical passages refer to the rebels of that generation as refusing to accept the absolute authority of God (or of his messenger Moses): “How often did they defy Him in the wilderness, did they grieve Him in the wasteland!” (Ps. 78:40); “Because they did not obey My rules, but rejected My laws, profaned My Sabbaths, and looked with longing to the fetishes of their fathers” (Ezek. 20:24). After the people’s reaction to the report of the spies, God twice declares, “In this very wilderness shall your carcasses drop” (Num. 14:29, 32).60 The ambiguous character and status of the Generation of the Desert is echoed in rabbinic texts.61 We hear that “the entire generation that heard the voice of God at Mount Sinai is worthy of becoming ministering angels”;62 yet they also receive harsh condemnation: Raban Shimʿon ben Gamliel said: Israel had no [other] festive days like the fifteenth of Av and the Day of Atonement. . . . ​But what is [the importance of] the fifteenth of Av? . . . ​Rav Dimi ben Yosef said in the name of Rav Nah.man: [It was] the day on which the dying in the wilderness had ceased; for a Master said: Before the dying in the wilderness had ceased, there was no communication with Moses; for it is said, So it came to pass, when all the men of war were consumed and dead from among the people, that the Lord spoke unto me, saying (Deut.

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2:16), and immediately afterward, “And God spoke to me” (ibid., 17)—​ ­[“only then,” said Moses] “was there speaking to me.”63 The verses from Deuteronomy refer explicitly to the Dead of the Wilderness, seeming to indicate that only with the last of their deaths did speech between God and Moses begin. However, since God spoke with His messenger even before that time, the midrash is referring here instead to a new, different sort of speech.64 I suggest that what is implied here is that after their death, the communication between God and Moses is free of rebellious elements.65 The generation to whom God now speaks, through Moses, is a generation that has grown up under Moses’ leadership and the laws given at Mount Sinai. Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s encounter with the Dead of the Wilderness is thus one with a primal, rebellious power, a power that has not yet been annulled. He meets “Jews” who have not yet been constrained by an obligation of absolute obedience to God, Moses, and Torah (but who also have definitive traditions and knowledge of how to make the tzitzit). The men of Korah belong to the generation that was destroyed and are perhaps an intensified expression of its rebellious, subversive aspect.66 However, theirs was also an explicit political challenge to Moses and Aaron, against whom they bitterly protest: “You have gone too far! For all the community is holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why, then, do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Num. 16:3). An encounter with the men of Korah thus entails contact with people who questioned the special status of Aaron and rebelled against the centralized authority of Moses.67 Rabbinic texts expand on this, at times providing a surprising take upon their claim that “all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst.” In Midrash on Psalms, Korah is described as a scoffer, and his words of incitement against Moses and Aaron are offered as exemplification of this scorn.68 According to this text, Korah gathered the people and told them the story of an unfortunate widow who faced an impossible obligation. She was compelled to sell her tiny part of a field because she could not maintain it under the burden of the Torah’s laws, such as the prohibition against using both an ox and an ass to draw a plow; the prohibition against sowing different crops together; the obligation to leave gleanings, forgotten sheaves, and the corners of the field; and the obligation to offer tithes for the priests. She did no better when she acquired two sheep, for she was then obligated to give the first young and all first shearing to the priest. In bitter despair, she finally slaughtered her sheep, whereupon Aaron “lifted up the sheep, went



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on his way, and left her weeping with her two daughters.” On the face of it, this pathetic drama offers a vivid demonstration of Korah’s manipulative rhetorical skills. Yet a reader is hard-​­pressed not to identify with the distraught woman—​­especially since she shows herself to be obedient and pious.69 A few have noted that the text reads like a parody.70 According to this reading of the tale, the rule of the religious establishment, with its intrusive meddling in the life of the individual (through the mediation of Moses and the priests), is unbearable. When Rabbah bar bar H.ana meets the men of Korah, he might very well be meeting rebels with a cause. His encounter could accordingly express a quest to shake off oppressive constraints.71 The Dead of the Wilderness and the men of Korah represent possibilities of defying authority—​­even if that defiance brings on punishment. The world of the Sages is framed by the Torah of Moses and is anchored in a history from which the disturbing elements have purportedly been removed. Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s encounter with these figures is an expression of anti-​­institutional yearnings to experience the anti-​­hegemonic. It is not surprising that such a quest should be mediated by an Arab, who is an “other.” This fictional Arab comes from outside the imagined cultural framework; he is portrayed as retaining a direct attachment to nature—​­he can intuitively reckon distances—​ a­ nd as experiencing what is not yet ordered by culture.72 Yet the Sage’s vision of the Dead of the Wilderness and the men of Korah does not provide him with a pre-​­cultural, pre-​­institutional experience. Rabbah bar bar H.ana comes upon the men of Korah (or, more precisely, their voices) as they declare, “Moses and his law are truth and we are liars.” That is, they are revealed to him as rebels flogged for their sin or as those who persist in stubborn rebelliousness.73 In either case, their words clearly identify the authority they sought to defy, and their eternal punishment gives concrete expression to the strength of that authority. As for the Dead of the Wilderness, they prevent Rabbah bar bar H.ana from leaving because he has cut a piece from the fringes of their tzitzit. Clearly, the domesticating force of the cultural establishment did not pass them by. These towering, gigantic figures, just like their rabbinic heirs, are cast in familiar ritualistic garb (but the number of its fringes they wear remains tragic-​­comically unknown). Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s voyage does not allow him, it seems, to experience an existential alternative that absolutely liberates him from the bonds of the culture and the narrow confines of the present.74 In other words, the tension between chaotic and regulated elements, between crossing boundaries and maintaining them, is preserved even there. Although Rabbah bar bar H.ana

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holds the required skills to make contact with the ancients, his experience is necessarily shaped by the projection of his cultural world upon them. The first part of the aggadic text, with its tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, presents us with questions of epistemology and experience: What are the limits of what is known and seen, and how does one account for what lies beyond the mundane experience of familiar reality? By the choice of locations (the sea and the desert), by recounting specific encounters with rebellious biblical figures, and by depicting the key traveler, Rabbah bar bar H.ana, as one who bears the fear of a returning flood, this part of the text also addresses matters of order and authority. The experiential and epistemological are thus framed within cosmic and political paradigms. It is within these epistemological and experiential concerns that textual exegesis operates as one of the domesticating strategies of the tales, whereby the unintelligible is translated into the familiar rabbinic discourse. The tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, as was noted above, do not and cannot construct a culture-​­free zone. They do, however, provide what Van den Abbeele has termed “new horizons.” Fantastic waves that reach the sky, gigantic animals, the place where heaven and earth meet, and powerful biblical figures, to mention but a few of the phenomena depicted in the tales, are not what the rabbis encounter in their everyday life—​­not with their own eyes, at least. However, is it possible that they can, and even do, transgress the boundaries—​­and experience—​­of mundane reality by other means? That is what Rabbi Yoh.anan’s tale, with which our chapter began, seems to imply. Appropriately, it appears in the second section of the aggadic unit, which is dominated by scriptural exegesis in the form of midrash.

Scriptural Exegesis, Midrash After the dense string of tales that characterizes the first part of the unit, the text seems to take a sharp stylistic turn. Its second part is almost entirely devoid of tales. Instead, it is composed of scriptural exegesis. It begins by addressing Gen. 1:21 (“And God made the great sea monsters”) and ends, just before the discussion of the Mishnah resumes, with an explication of Ezek. 41:6 (“And the side chambers were one over another, three and thirty times”).75 The intervening passages, which constitute the second part of the unit, are not dissimilar; they engage in midrash, which is essentially a textual practice. The experiential possibilities that this activity involves can be viewed as juxtaposed to those presented by the tales in the first part of the text.



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As for its content, this second part of the text is primarily concerned with mythological-​­eschatological matters: it begins with a discussion of the fate of the Leviathan (the primordial monster reserved for the feast of the righteous) and the equally mythological beast Behemoth, and ends with the glory of Jerusalem in the time to come. Here, as elsewhere in the rabbinic corpus, the end of days is described as a restored and intensified reality, contrasted with the flawed and constricted present.76 In one respect, this part of the text is a continuation of what preceded it, for here again are motifs we encountered in the tall tales. Yet the jewels that earlier were found at sea now adorn the future Jerusalem and the canopy of the primeval Adam. The Leviathan and other matters associated with the end of days are found here in greater concentration and detail than in the first part of the text. But most important is that here these motifs are generally bound to scriptural exegesis. For example, the depiction of the Leviathan and its mate and the description of the Behemoth are derived primarily from the exposition of verses from Job 40–​­​­41. It is the difference in formal-​­generic dominance that distinguishes between the two parts of the text. As we shall see, consciousness of this distinction exists within the text itself, for, in the second section, we find the tale of Rabbi Yoh.anan and his rebellious student, with which this chapter began. As noted earlier, this tale presents a battlefield of two competing epistemologies, relating to the experience entailed in scriptural exegesis versus sensory experience. It is also a meta-​­poetic statement, juxtaposing two modes of discourse: midrash and travelogues. Through scriptural exegesis, Rabbi Yoh.anan describes the wondrous future of Jerusalem at the end of days, when its walls will be adorned with enormous jewels. The future reality is intensified and marvelous. The reaction of the student (“Jewels of the size of a dove’s egg are not to be found; are jewels of such a size [as this] to be found?”) is an expression of the trap in which he is caught. Since he is constrained by his experience of the present, in that he considers it to be solely the experience of empirical reality, he is incapable of comprehending or living another reality. However, the breach of his experiential boundaries does occur—​­even in this story—​­when he is made to leave the sphere of familiar geographic reality as he sets out to sea (read: travelogue). There, he “sees with his own eyes” the very things that Rabbi Yoh.anan had described in his midrash. The (verbal) response of the master—​­“had you not seen, would you not have believed?”—​ ­addresses the inability of the student to draw upon his teacher’s experiential source: the text. It also contains a statement about the connection between

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midrash and the tall tales and travelogues that constitute the first part of the text, as it echoes Rav Papa’s exact words “had I not been there, I would not have believed it”; 77 midrash, too, Rabbi Yoh.anan says, holds the experiential possibility contained in tall tales. But Rabbi Yoh.anan’s response adds another dimension to the poetic or discursive hierarchy: his final words, “you are mocking the words of Sages,” posits an equivalence between discourse, (dis) belief, and institutional defiance.

Institutionalizing Midrash An earlier version of our story—​­and possibly its source78—​­appears in Pesikta deRav Kahana (PRK), a fifth-​­century Palestinian midrashic compilation.79 The parallel story in PRK is the second in a chain of three narratives that address the eschatological verse “and your gates of carbuncles” (Isa. 54:12). All three tales address what Menahem Hirshman recently described as “the demand to believe in marvelous things without depending on eyesight,” with which both rabbinic and patristic texts grappled.80 Issues of belief and its (lack of) epistemological premise are what these stories share with our sugya. However, the differences are worth noting—​­not the least of which is the institutional emphasis of the Bavli. The first story in PRK tells of Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi, who, upon explicating the verse in Isaiah, turns to Elijah and asks to see the jewels. To grant his wish, Elijah orchestrates a complicated series of events in which a young lad81 leads the Sage to a remote cave. Only there, and on condition that no one be present other than the lad and the rabbi, will Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi’s request be fulfilled. But at the very moment that his request is granted, the very moment when he sees the jewels, the midrash tells us that “their brightness burst forth, and he cast them to the ground, and they were lost.” The third tale recounts the story of a h.asid (pious man) who, while walking near the sea wall of Haifa, has qualms regarding the future Temple, the eastern gate and its two doors of which were to be made of a single pearl. A heavenly voice tells him that, had he not been a completely pious man, divine justice would have already struck him down, for “I have created the world in six days . . . ​ and an eastern gate of the Temple with its two doors made of a single pearl is impossible?!” The man prays for his life, and not only is he not punished (for his thoughts alone); he is also granted a miracle: “The sea before him was divided, and he saw [the] ministering angels.” The h.asid is thus granted



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revelation of the future temple in a pseudo-​­reenactment of the splitting of the (biblical) sea. Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi is less fortunate, despite the fact that he humbly follows the lad for three days, not knowing where (or by whom) he is led. For him, coveted sight results in immediate loss. Between the story of the eager—​­maybe too eager—​­R. Yehoshuʿa ben Levi and the story of the introverted h.asid, stands the tale of a doubting min (heretic), who, in the Babylonian version, is replaced by a doubting student. Unlike R. Yehoshuʿa and the h.asid, he has no accumulated virtues to protect him from the potentially fatal consequences that await a man whose faith requires concrete proof. Unlike R. Yehoshuʿa, who approaches a biblical figure (Elijah, in his role as divine messenger and mediator between heaven and earth), and the h.asid’s internal discourse, the heretic is explicitly situated vis-​­à-​­vis a rabbinical authority, within an institutional-​­rabbinical frame. Yet the institutional dimension is far less accentuated then in the Bavli’s version. In PRK, as in the Bavli, Rabbi Yoh.anan articulates an opposition between discourses—​­midrash versus travelogues—​­when he says: “Had your eyes not seen what you have seen, would you not have believed what I was saying in my instruction in Torah?” With these words, Rabbi Yoh.anan defines the “journey” as an act of casting doubt on the Torah itself. Yet what is for the Palestinian rabbi a defiance of his teaching of Torah is transformed by Rabbi Yoh.anan (as he appears in the Bavli) into institutional defiance. In this Babylonian context, midrash is identified as the institutional discourse, whereas the Palestinian source seeks to identify midrash as scripture itself. Furthermore, in PRK it is not a doubting student but rather a heretic who contests Rabbi Yoh.anan’s midrash, and who, after having been sunk into the tehom (mythological waters) of the sea, resurfaces and a year later appeals to the Sage, saying “elder, elder” (rather than “rabbi”).82 Here, again, there are fewer traces of an institutional power struggle than informs the Babylonian story. The heretic may denote a range of inter-​­and intra-​­rabbinically defined identities, but it does not hold the specific institutional designation (and hierarchy) of rabbi/student. Both the Palestinian and the Babylonian versions of the story (as well as the entire second part of the aggadic text) argue that the voyage to the world of midrash has the power to transport the person who engages in midrash (and his audience) from the narrow present to places that are, temporally and spatially, far-​­off and different. In doing so, it intensifies his experience. Marvels can also be found in midrash: enormous jewels as well as mythological creatures from the time of Creation, pre-​­Creation, and the end of days. Yet

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here is one for whom departure on the textual sea will not suffice, who must take an actual voyage in order to arrive at another reality. As the story shows, such a voyage is extremely dangerous. Both the student and the heretic, after all, are reduced to a pile of bones. Here again, the Palestinian and the Babylonian texts accentuate different underlying dangers of proof by sight. When, in PRK, the heretic expresses doubt, he is condemned as doubting scripture itself. The third story continues in this vein by criticizing the h. asid for not having faith in the (pre) historical God Who created the entire universe in six days (providing the appropriate citation from Genesis). In both cases, seeking concrete proof amounts to disbelief in scripture or in God’s creative power, and such disbelief is met with the most extreme punitive measures. But it is in the first story that another dimension of the danger implicated in sight-​­based revelation is introduced, one that has to do with the human reaction to such revelation. Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi’s exposure to the jewels is restricted, and he casts them away in alarm at a light so bright that no person—​­even Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi, who is referred to as “the greatest of his generation” and who, in other rabbinic tales, is allowed access to the world to come—​ ­can withstand it.83 Here, the danger lies in the lack of sufficient distance: an actual journey eliminates the required distance that midrash provides between the explicator and the phenomena that he experiences or interprets. Rabbi Yehoshuʿa, unlike the heretic or Rabbi Yoh.anan’s disciple, is not punished, and it is the difference between their fates that accentuates the political dimension of Rabbi Yoh.anan’s story. The Bavli does not seem to be overly concerned—​­not in this story and not in the entire surrounding unit—​­with the danger of overbearing proximity to the divine, against which midrash provides necessary protection. The story is specifically couched in an institutional-​­political framework where the defiance of a doubting student is met with an appropriate penalty. The Bavli’s tale of Rabbi Yoh.anan and his student sets up a clear hierarchy that projects poetics onto institutional power; the skepticism of the student about his master’s midrash is explained as lack of faith in both the eschatological content of the words and the authority of the master. Thus, the death of the student at the end of the story is doubly “poetic justice.” Furthermore, the master kills his student by “set[ting] his eyes upon him.” The student needed visual proof—​­the sort of evidence that the tall tales and travelogues provide—​­in order to experience what the Sage sees with his exegetical imagination. Unlike his student, Rabbi Yoh.anan does not need his physical eyes to



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experience or to believe; yet ironically, it is with these eyes that he actually kills the student.84

Domestic Desire and Institutional Anxiety Reading the meta-​­poetic tale of Rabbi Yoh.anan in the Babylonian and the Palestinian sources has served to underline the Bavli version’s institutional emphasis. The locus of contention in PRK (in all three narratives) is the belief in the rebuilding of the future Temple. And the context in which these narratives appear is an extensive literary parashah (chapter) addressing one of the seven Sabbaths of consolation that follow the Ninth of Av (the fast that commemorates the destruction of the Temple). If, as Hirshman has suggested, PRK is invested in “educating the people to keep on seeing Temple-​­related affairs as central in the annual cycle,”85 it may also imply that the Rabbi Yoh.anan story functions in a contentious interreligious and interethnic environment in which Gentile groups view the destruction of the Temple as proof that the Israelites or Jews have been abandoned by God.86 In the Bavli, by contrast, the epistemological and experiential tensions relate to a wider set of primordial and eschatological themes. The locus of contention in the Bavli, as we saw from the wider textual context in which the story is situated, goes beyond the specific issue of the Temple. Here, also, substituting a heretic for the student may attest to the transformation of an intergroup conflict and external threat implied in the Palestinian source into an internal conflict within Babylonian rabbinic academies.87 Such a reading would support a process of internalization and institutionalization with which many recent scholars have identified (later) Babylonian rabbinic culture.88 Yet, depicting the Babylonian academies as cut off from their surroundings ignores the obvious imprint of neighboring discourses in the Bavli—​ ­most notably, Christian and Iranian. In the context of our aggadic unit, the Zoroastrian parallels are striking, as has been shown by two recent studies by Reuven Kiperwasser89 and Samuel Thrope.90 Kiperwasser addresses the Rabbah bar bar H.ana tales, whereas Thrope, although alluding to the entire unit, focuses on a single tale, the one in which Rabbah bar bar H.ana mistakes a giant fish for an island.91 Both emphasize the underlying intercultural dynamics of the texts, although with slightly different bents. For Kiperwasser, the tales are a means through which the rabbis domesticate the “other” culture, which they identify with chaos; Thrope reads the text (a single tale) in

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relation to the Zoroastrian motifs throughout the aggadic unit, viewing it as a site of cultural hybridity in which the rabbis, as subalterns, appropriate the hegemonic Sassanian culture. The texts, then, perform a crucial role of demarcating cultural identities and boundaries. For Kiperwasser, the tales restore order, identified with the rabbinic house of study. For Thrope, they are a site of subaltern resistance. The texts clearly serve the solidification of institutional authority. However, I would argue that the institutional authority that the texts may seek to enhance is, in turn, coupled with deep ambivalence and that the attraction to chaos—​­whether identified with the foreign or not—​­is anything but silenced. The walls of the house of study are not only protective; they are also, seen in this light, restrictive. The discursive or generic division of the unit as a whole provides a different reading of the cultural poetics at play. The textual context—​­that is, the entire aggadic text—​­calls into question the seemingly unequivocal hierarchy established by Rabbi Yoh.anan. At first glance, the existence (albeit limited) of an exegetical layer in the first part of the text might seem to justify the poetic message of Rabbi Yoh.anan: Rav Ashi identifies the giant bird on the basis of a verse, and, in a similar fashion, Rabbi Eliʿezer identifies the creature that Rabbi Yehoshuʿa sees while he himself was sleeping. Although the weaving of the midrash into these stories might demonstrate the possibility of generic coexistence, it does not prevail. Moreover, we do not find in the first part of the text any delegitimization of the fantastic reality of the travelogues and tall tales. The Sages do deride Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s interpretation and replace it with their interpretation—​­although they are ensconced in the bet midrash92—​­but one can hardly deduce from this an aggressive enforcement of their authority on the simple traveler. Their response may be mocking, but it does not bring upon him a tragic end, like that of Rabbi Yoh.anan’s skeptical student. Furthermore, we can see from the first part of the text that travelogues and tall tales lead to places from which the exegete is barred. In this part of the text, there is room for stories in which imagination is not completely harnessed to the cart of the prevailing cultural discourse. The second part of the text does not provide this spectrum of possibilities for crossing borders. The intensified reality is rendered, in part and as a whole, within the framework of a specific cultural understanding: the Leviathan appears already explicitly defined as the primordial creature that (in various ways) will feed the righteous at the end of days. The sunken treasure is also immersed in a specific cultural discourse, whether its jewels are set in the future Jerusalem or in the canopy of the primeval Adam.93



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The stories possess a great power. The intensity of experience contained within them is not entirely domesticated; the visual impression of the gigantic bird is not diminished by its identification with Ziz-​­Shaddai (a biblical-​­mythical creature to begin with). The Dead of the Wilderness may wear fringed garments, in accordance with the Torah’s precept, but the encounter with them is primarily an encounter with mythic, rebellious figures. Even the meta-​­poetic story that establishes the superiority of midrash and its experiential potential does not succeed in completely silencing the voice of the doubting student, who is able to see in manifest reality what is possible to experience only virtually through the text. His journey is described in a midrashic narrative, and in order to destroy its vivid impression, the story matches it with a concrete image: the student is transformed into a pile of bones. Even if this is merely raising up travel in order for it be to cast down, it nonetheless gives voice to the travelogue and the need for visual evidence on which it is based. The meta-​­poetic tale that is the quintessential expression of the unit’s professed argument—​­that it is both unnecessary and perilous to engage in something other than midrash—​­divulges the force of what is being silenced. It is precisely the ending of the story, in which Rabbi Yoh.anan is made to kill the student, that attests to the attraction of an epistemology and experience identified with travel and sight. Simply put, if it were not that attractive, or threatening, it would not provoke such extreme measures. Georgia Frank has demonstrated how early Christian travelogues (which are very different in scope and nature from the Bava Batra texts) encapsulate the epistemological shift that characterized the Christian world in late antiquity, from the textual to the sensory and particularly to the visionary experience.94 As Susan Ashbrook Harvey notes: “At every turn, Christianity encouraged and engaged a tangible, palpable, physically experienced and expressed piety.”95 Here, in this talmudic unit, the epistemological battle is in full tilt, positing the supreme power of midrash while giving voice to competing epistemological-​­experiential modes. At stake is nothing less than grasping divine presence, the biblical past, and the eschatological future, as well as the institutional authority of the academy, advocating midrash.96

Chapter 4

Being There: Serah. bat Asher, Magical Language, and Rabbinic Textual Interpretation

In Chapter 3, the crux of the epistemological battle, between visual perception and textual exegesis, was epitomized in the story of Rabbi Yoh.anan and the doubting disciple. In the following tale, the same rabbi turns out to be less vindictive when confronted by a different figure, although here, too, his textually based epistemology and, by implication, his authority, are being challenged:1 “Rabbi Yoh.anan was sitting and explicating, seeking to explain how the waters of the Red Sea became a wall for Israel. Rabbi Yoh.anan explicated [darash]—​­like a lattice. Serah., daughter of Asher, looked down and said: I was there, and [the water] was like a shining window.” The focus of this chapter will be a seemingly marginal biblical figure: Serah., daughter of Asher (Serah. bat Asher), mentioned in passing only twice in scripture (Gen. 46:17 and Num. 26:46). She nonetheless, in the short story cited above, in but a few words, undermines the Sage’s interpretation. The story, to which I shall return, provides a clue regarding Serah.’s role in rabbinic narratives as a possible self through which the rabbis reflect on their own textual practices. Moreover, Serah.’s simple words “I was there” are, I suggest, metonymical of her function in a rabbinic semiotic-​­linguistic world, in which “being there” is measured against its opposite, “not having been there.” I will argue that Serah.’s figure represents for the rabbis a magical understanding of language—​­an understanding that embodies presence and continuity. Midrashic hermeneutic practices that involve the interpretation of syllables (rather than whole words) and even graphic aspects of the letters, and the numerous rabbinic traditions that see language as the transformative tool with which God created the world, place Serah. well within rabbinic ideas of language. Yet, as we shall see, when set beside other figures—​­Rabbi



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Yoh.anan, Yoav, or Joseph’s brothers—​­Serah.’s linguistic knowledge is staged as oppositional to theirs. A major midrashic linguistic paradigm is reflected upon through her persona—​­through a figure whose traits embody a linguistic ideal. Her presence, “being there,” marks a coveted epistemological certainty, as well as experience, that is recognized to be an ideal, but one that is not always easily attained.2 Through Serah.’s eyes, the rabbis represent a past that bears the keys for a redemptive future, and through her eyes, by projecting on her an ideal midrashic competence, they reflect on their own midrashic-​­linguistic skills. Serah.’s “being there” is also a reminder of the narratological path not taken by the rabbis: the author of Jubilees relies on the revealed words of a ministering angel to Moses, and the author of the Testaments of the Patriarchs delivers a firsthand account of biblical events; the rabbis, in turn, reject revelation and direct account as an epistemological-​­authoritative basis for their representation of the biblical past. For them, representing the past is imbued in an explicit textual strategy: midrash.3 Serah.’s eternal presence and her ability to provide a firsthand account are inextricably tied up with magical language. Her figure combines divine and archaic knowledge with linguistic skills. It is here, in the arena of language, that she is a quintessential expression of the capacity of rabbinic midrash to represent what is lost, as well as an expression of the limitations of the midrashic-​­textual path. After all, Serah. was actually there, while the rabbis, clearly, were not. Indeed, “I was there” are the exact words that Serah. utters in the story quoted above. Rabbi Yoh.anan practices midrash, explicating Exod. 14:22. Imagining the miraculous event, Rabbi Yoh.anan explains that the waters transformed into a latticed screen that protected the Israelites. But this aggadic text offers an additional explanation—​­not from the mouth of a fellow rabbi but from someone who was actually there and who lived (a thousand years) to tell the tale. Serah., daughter of Asher, watching over the discussion taking place in the academy, refutes Rabbi Yoh.anan’s words: “No, I was there,” she protests, “and the waters were like a shining window.” In addressing a pivotal moment in the history of Israel, a moment of revelation that in rabbinic consciousness is matched with none other than the revelation at Mount Sinai, this brief text conveys a sense of hermeneutical self-​­reflectivity. It is the very premise of rabbinical epistemology that is playfully commented upon here: Rabbi Yoh.anan sits and explicates while Serah. provides an ostensibly firsthand account. Unlike the tale cited in Chapter 3, in which Rabbi Yoh.anan’s disciple questions the validity of his master’s words and is

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punished with death, the text here does not seem to betray any underlying violence-​­producing anxiety. After all, it is not a political, hierarchical dispute in the academy, nor is it a direct confrontation between two figures living in the rabbinic era. Instead, a biblical figure insists on an alternative account. Of course, Serah. is included within the diegetic framework of the text and, in this sense, is made to be part of an array of rabbinical epistemologies. Yet the appearance of a biblical figure as an interlocutor in a rabbinic debate is surprising. Furthermore, the text itself explicitly juxtaposes Serah.’s source of knowledge with that of Rabbi Yoh.anan. This juxtaposition of a rabbi and a biblical figure is rare (with the sole exception of Elijah the Prophet, who frequently appears as a rabbinic interlocutor).4 Even more exceptional is that, in this case, the biblical character is granted greater authenticity—​­her experiential knowledge clearly trumps the rabbi’s exegetical deductions.5 This can be appreciated by looking at a well-​­known story from the Babylonian Talmud:6 Rav Judah said in the name of Rav: When Moses ascended on high [to receive the Torah], he found the Holy One, blessed be He, sitting and tying crowns for the letters [of the Torah]. Said Moses: Master of the Universe, what [lit., “who”] is holding you back [that is, what is preventing you from giving the Torah sooner]? He said: There is a man who is destined to be at the end of a few generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name, who will expound [‘atid lidrosh] from each and every stroke7 many many [lit., “hills and hills”] laws. He said to Him: Master of the Universe, show him to me. He said to him: Turn around. He turned around and sat behind eighteen rows [at the academy], and he could not understand what they were saying. He felt fatigued. As they reached a certain issue, the disciples said to [Rabbi Akiva]: Rabbi, whence do you know this? He said to them: It is a law given to Moses at Sinai. [Moses’] mind was calmed.



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He returned to the Holy One, blessed be He, and said: Master of the Universe, You have such a man and You are giving the Torah by my hand?! He said to him: Be silent, this is what has transpired in My thought. He said to Him: Master of the Universe, show me his Torah, show me his reward. He said to him: Turn around. He turned around. He saw that his flesh was being weighed in the market. He said to him: Master of the Universe, this is Torah and this is its reward?! He said to him: Be silent, this is what has transpired in My thought.8 This narrative is clearly self-​­reflective, in part a comment on the very premise of rabbinic hermeneutics. Like the Serah. narrative, it involves a scene in which a biblical figure and a rabbi actually meet. Daniel Boyarin has argued that this story is a quintessential example of the Menippean elements in the Babylonian Talmud. That is, the story, read in light of Hellenistic Menippean tradition, conveys “the inadequacy of human knowledge and the existence of a reality that transcends reason.”9 Indeed, this tale conveys a deep sense of hermeneutical suspicion by employing the biblical figure with whom Oral Torah is identified: the projected founding father of the rabbis. Moses, in turn, is made to confront an extreme, maybe even satiric (in this context), depiction of the practice of midrash: that of Rabbi Akiva, who explicates even the tiny strokes of the letters. This story is also very different from the Serah. tale. Unlike Moses, Serah. does not physically enter the academy (perhaps she is disqualified by her gender). She only makes her comment, although it is unclear from where. Unlike Moses, who is told to keep quiet, twice, she gets the final word. There is nothing tragic in Serah.’s encounter with Rabbi Yoh.anan. Not being Moses frees her—​­or rather, frees the rabbis who employ her character—​­from the heavy authoritative burden addressed by the Babylonian tale. She is, after all, not the man who redeemed the Israelites and gave them the Torah. She is just a woman, hardly even mentioned in the Bible. But, judging from other traditions, it is not at all clear whether even Moses could have

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performed his glorious role without her assistance. In the tale of his encounter with Rabbi Akiva, Moses is depicted as less knowledgeable than the rabbis. They, in turn, are depicted as engaged in hermeneutics that are rooted in the past but that are, paradoxically, veiled from the person who is assumed to have transmitted them. Serah., on the other hand, is positioned as a nexus of unique, superior, knowledge that comes from having been a witness to events about which the rabbis are only speculating. She is credited with having a privileged origin, having “been there.”

Magical Language, Divine Revelation Serah. can be associated with what Samuel C. Wheeler III describes as “magical language,” which is “a system of representation such that the senses and referents of that language’s terms are determined by the intrinsic nature of those terms.”10 Language that is both essential and transparent, where there is an absolute relation between the name and the thing, is close to what Walter Benjamin termed “language as such.”11 For Benjamin, the archetypical “language as such” is Adam’s naming of God’s creations. It thus is also a language of “origin,” of (linguistic) divine revelation, that was forever lost to mankind (although traces remain) with Adam’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Magical language is thus associated with an absolute, pre-​­ruptured human experience of God and the world.12 Although clearly addressing a specific historical moment (the crisis of modernity, “the bourgeoisie,” to name but two of its aspects), Benjamin’s association between magical language and an experiential mode is illuminating when addressing Serah.’s role in rabbinic texts. As discussed in Chapter 3 (following Joan Scott), “experience” should not be an external standard projected onto a text by a reader. Rather, experiential categories should be discerned within a text, by paying attention to loci in which they are contested. We will be hard-​­pressed to find Benjamin’s exact image of a prelapsarian (distinctly couched in Christian terminology) state of divine and cosmic intimacy in the rabbinic texts that follow. Yet what we will encounter is magical language temporally qualified and experientially associated with divine revelation and intimacy. Here, as in the case of the tall tales, travelogues, and midrash of Chapter 3, the texts suggest competing linguistic and experiential modes. It is through the figure of Serah. that these competing modes are articulated.13



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Serah., Language, and Redemption in Pirke deRabbi Eliezer We will begin examining Serah.’s figure by taking a close look at Pirke deRabbi Eliezer (PRE), chapter 48, where Serah. plays a central role. PRE is a late midrashic work, probably composed in the eighth century in Palestine or its vicinity. It starts with the creation of the world and progresses along the biblical timeline, relating episodes from scripture, until it ends (abruptly) with the leprosy of Miriam.14 This chronological composition is interrupted by sections and chapters that are organized thematically around topics, such as repentance and redemption, repeatedly taken up by the text. PRE stands as a novel midrashic literary work that is almost self-​­contained, providing its reader with the necessary tools for fathoming it. It can thus almost be read “independently,” since the keys to its interpretation are contained within the work.15 PRE nevertheless models itself on previous midrashic traditions in style and content. It thus offers us a rare opportunity to read a midrashic figure—​­Serah.—​­as she is illuminated in the context of the work as a whole (or at least of the coherent framework of chapter 48) and in relation to earlier rabbinic texts. Chapter 48 opens with the bondage in Egypt and ends with redemption. Here, as in other midrashic traditions, the Exodus from Egypt serves as a model for the future redemption, a topic of great concern for PRE. Chapter 48 ends with the statement that the Israelites were redeemed for three reasons: they kept their tongue (language); there was no malicious speech among them (lit., “an evil tongue”); and they sanctified the Name (of God). The final emphasis on language as connected to, or even as a necessary condition for, redemption is not surprising, since it is language—​­magical language—​­that is at the center of the chapter as a whole. Amid describing the trials and tribulations of the Israelites in Egypt, the text mentions two phenomena that possess redemptive powers: the fingers of God (to which I shall return later); and the five redemptive letters of the Torah that have two forms—​­letters whose form is contingent on whether they appear at the beginning or middle of a word, or at its end (‫מנצפ”ך‬, M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​ ­KH). The chapter lists five redemptive instances that are accounted for by the appearance of one of the M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters: Rabbi Eliʿezer said: All the five letters of the Torah which are unique in that they alone are double [in shape], are the secret of redemption.

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With K-​­K [‫ך‬-‫]כ‬, Abraham our father was redeemed from Ur Kasdim, as it is said: “Go forth [lekh lekha] from your native land” (Gen. 12:1); with M-​­M [‫ם‬-‫]מ‬, Isaac our father was redeemed from the Philistines, as it is said: “Go away from us, for you have become far too big for us [‘atsamta mimenu me’od]” (Gen. 26:16); with N-​­N [‫ן‬-‫]נ‬, our father Jacob was redeemed [from the hand of Esau] as it is said: “Deliver me [hatsileni na]” (Gen. 32:12); with P-​­P [‫ף‬-‫]פ‬, our fathers were redeemed from Egypt, as it is said: “I have taken note of you [paqod paqadeti etkhem]”; with TS-​­TS [‫ץ‬-‫]צ‬, the Holy One, blessed be He, will redeem Israel in the future and will say to them, as it is said: “Behold, a man called Branch [tsemah.] shall branch out [yitsmah.] from the place where he is, and he shall build the Temple of the Lord” (Zech. 6:12). And the letters were delivered only to Abraham our father, and Abraham our father delivered them to Isaac, and Isaac delivered them to Jacob, and Jacob delivered them to Joseph, and Joseph delivered them to his brothers, and Asher, son of Jacob, delivered the secret to Serah., daughter of Asher. According to this tradition, the Israelites were redeemed by the letter P, since God announces, through Moses: “I have taken note of you” (Heb., paqod paqadeti etkhem; Exod. 3:16). The secret of the redemptive letters was passed on discreetly until it reached Serah.. She plays a crucial role in identifying the embedded linguistic code without which redemption could not have taken place: she is the one who dismisses the acts that Moses and Aaron perform before the elders (transforming the staff into a snake, a healthy hand into a leprosy-​­stricken hand, and so on; Exod. 4:1–​­​­9). Yet she recognizes, by the dual appearance of the letter P, that Moses and Aaron are God’s true messengers. She is thus portrayed as having a special linguistic awareness, one which she shares with other figures. I suggest that this awareness relies on a magical conception of language. What stands at its base, and how is it connected to redemption? These matters will concern us in the following discussion.

The Dual Letters in Rabbinic Traditions Language—​­beginning with the biblical text and ending with individual letters—​­is seen to be, in rabbinic eyes, a paradigmatic transformative entity.



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Language served the ultimate creator—​­God—​­in the foundational creation of the world. There are numerous midrashic traditions regarding the role of Torah in the creation of the world—​­for example, its creation by ten sayings, and the beginning of the creation with the letter bet.16 The use of verses, words, and combination of letters is well known from practices that are distinctly associated with magical practice. Collections of magical amulets and bowls from late antiquity, as well as allusions to the uses of verses and letters for magical purposes in rabbinic literature, attest to that.17 It is in the context of the privileged position accorded to language in midrash, on the one hand, and magical practices, on the other hand, that the meaning of the five dual letters, M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH, can be better understood. These letters are exceptional in the Hebrew alphabet, since their graphic form changes according to their location in the word. This external graphic abnormality may be understood (and indeed was, by some rabbinic texts) as indicating an ontological abnormality that embodies a nonarbitrary relationship between signifier and signified in the shape of the letter itself. This nonarbitrary relationship within the linguistic sign leads us back to magical language and to its underlying experience. Moreover, it seems that the graphic transformative aspect of the letters renders them an epitome of the transformative power attributed to language in general. In the framework of chapter 48, and in reference to the composition as a whole, the orthographic transformation is a sign of, or a condition for, a historical transformation—​­from bondage to redemption. Rabbinic traditions link M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH with a number of significant figures. Of these letters, the Talmud tells us that “seers said them” (bShabbat 104a), meaning that they are a graphic novelty introduced by the prophets. Since the shape of the letters is considered among the commandments that “the prophet is prohibited from revising,” the Talmud offers an explanation that would resolve the seeming contradiction: by introducing these letters, the prophets were not acting as innovators but rather as restorers of a long-​­forgotten practice. Two aspects regarding the letters thus emerge: they are associated with “seers”—​­prophets, whose position endows them with a privileged source of divine knowledge; and the legal (halakhic) rationale accorded to the renewal of the letters is explained as a re-​­presentation of something that had been lost. These two aspects—​­divine and archaic or ancient knowledge—​­suggest an association between an unmediated (or less mediated) connection with God and a specific, forgotten linguistic knowledge. Other traditions imply that the identity of the “seers” is not restricted to

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biblical prophets. Such is the case, for example, in the following narrative (pMegillah 1:11 [71d]):18 They said in the name of Matyah ben H.arash: M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH (they are inscribed as) law [halakhah] to Moses at Sinai. What is M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH? Rabbi Jeremiah in the name of Rabbi Shemuʾel, son of Rav Itsh.aq: what the seers had instituted for you. Who are these seers? It once happened that on a rainy day, the Sages did not enter the house of assembly and young children came in. They said: let us make the house of assembly not be idle. They said: why [lit., “what is that”] is it written: M”M, N”N, TS”TS, P”P, K”K? from saying to saying [Ma’amar leMa’amar], from righteous to righteous [Tsadiq leTsadiq], from mouth to mouth [Peh lePeh], and from God’s palm to Moses’ palm [Kaf leKaf]. And they ended up as Sages, and they all became great figures. They said: Rabbi Eliʿezer and Rabbi Yehoshuʿa were among them. According to this story, young children are the ones who engage in “seeing” (lit., “in what seers do,” tsofim) the letters M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH. Moreover, they are considered seers. Children also play a conspicuous role in the text mentioned earlier, which discusses the renewal of the letters by the prophets (bShabbat 104a): there, the Talmud presents a series of explanations of the letters of the alphabet, based on their graphic form. This graphically oriented understanding of the letters is ascribed first and foremost to children, of whom it is said, “the children of the generation came to the house of study and said things that even at the time of Joshua the son of Nun had not been said.”19 That is, their linguistic sensibilities endow them with knowledge and comprehension that had already passed from the world in the time of Joshua, who was Moses’ direct successor.20 This linguistic understanding, associated with children, is based on a primary experience of the letters as concrete, full, and vital entities, and not as a mediating, arbitrary system of signs. The



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content of the children’s specific midrash on M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH relays the same primary experience: these letters, the children say, attest to the immediate and intimate fashion in which the entire Torah was transmitted from God to Moses.21 The manner in which the children conceive the letters is what enables them to fathom and express the close relationship between Moses and God; it is a metonymy of an intimate experiential possibility, identified here with a childlike understanding of language.22 Serah., as we are told, grasps the redemptive message encoded in Moses’ and Aaron’s words, in which the letter P is repeated. For her, these letters are more substantial than concrete signs, such as transforming the staff into a snake. In knowing the secret that the letters hold, she becomes a member of a distinguished group, along with seers and young children. Like them, she remembers what others have already forgotten. Other midrashic traditions concerning her figure may be instructive. They may tell us more about the kind of knowledge associated with her and the kind of knowledge that is embodied here in her linguistic understanding of the letters.

Serah. in Rabbinic Traditions: Midrashic Skills and Closing Ruptures Serah. attracted much midrashic attention and has retained her fascination in modern times, with legends about her continuing to circulate in contemporary oral traditions. That she has risen above the status of being merely another name in biblical genealogies is partly due to the fact that she appears twice in scripture, once among the Israelites going down to Egypt with Jacob (Gen. 46:17) and again on the roster of the Israelites leaving hundreds of years later (Num. 26:46). She is also one of the few women to appear in these lists. According to some traditions, she lived for many more centuries, so that we find her acting in the time of King David. In others, she even earns immortality, entering the Garden of Eden alive.23 The formal trigger of these traditions is a discrepancy in the text that must be resolved on the basis of the assumption that there is not and cannot be any scribal error or inconsistency in scripture. If Serah. is mentioned twice, then, in this view, we are meant to understand that her activity stretched even beyond her explicit biblical temporal boundaries. Her immortality is at times explained as a reward for her pious deeds: according to one tradition, Serah. is the one who delivers to Jacob the good news

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that Joseph is not dead after all.24 In another, Serah. is the wise woman from Abel of Beth-​­Maacah (2 Sam. 20:17) who confronts Yoav, David’s general, seeking to prevent the destruction of her besieged city. In both instances, her role as a woman is juxtaposed with the principally male conduct with which she is surrounded. Of particular interest in this context are Serah.’s (in her incarnation as the wise woman from Abel of Beth-​­Maaca) linguistic skills. She speaks harshly to Yoav:25 “Your name is Yoav, to say that you are a father [Heb., av] to Israel, and you are nothing but a reaper, and you are not according to your name [that is, your nature does not correspond with your name]. You and David are not the sons of Torah [that is, students of Torah].”26 When Yoav asks her who she is, she answers: “I am the one who completed the number of Israel [going to Egypt], I connected a faithful one with another faithful one [Joseph with Moses], and how dare you, ‘you [who] seek to bring death to a city’ (2 Sam. 20:19), seek to kill me who is ‘a mother in Israel’ ” (ibid.). Serah. thus presents her credentials (as do other midrashic traditions) as the one who fills in deficiencies and potential ruptures: she filled in the dearth in the number of Israelites going down to Egypt; she was the missing link between two figures who had been cut off from each other by the passing of time: Joseph (Pharaoh’s faithful one) and Moses (God’s faithful one). Now, as she turns to Yoav, she tries (and ultimately succeeds) to halt a bloody rupture among Jacob’s descendants, the civil war pursued by David in his quest for power. She even goes so far as to say that Yoav and David (who conveniently remains behind the bloody scenes of the biblical story) are “not sons of Torah.” Her opening remark and concluding comment are instructive: “You are not according to your name,” she says to Yoav, meaning that he acts like a reaper and not like a father (av), whereas she is “a mother in Israel.” In Yoav’s case, his name does not bear any connection to who he really is. Yoav, as a linguistic entity, is flawed, since the name attests to a dangerous rupture between the signifier (name) and the signified (the person’s qualities). She, in contrast, embodies a linguistic ideal, albeit not one inherent in her name itself. When she pleads with him not to destroy “a city and a mother in Israel” (2 Sam. 20:13), she speaks from a place of linguistic cohesion, since she is the “mother,” she is the place. At this critical point in the raging civil war, Serah. plays her usual role of bridging gaps and of healing ruptures. Here again, as in the case with the M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters, her ability to do so is tied up with her linguistic insight. The legends in which Serah. informs Jacob that his son lives27 allude to



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her role in the biblical narrative that begins with bondage and ends with redemption. By granting her this privileged role, midrash seems to set her apart from her uncles, Joseph’s brothers, who remain silent. But she performs her role of gently informing the grieving father that Joseph is alive not only via their silence. Her actions are implicitly juxtaposed with the sin of her uncles, who, by selling Joseph, bring about—​­as rabbinic traditions have it—​­the future death of the ten rabbinic martyrs in the second century.28 Her crucial role in her nation’s history, according to midrash, is further enhanced when she is the one who facilitates the Exodus from Egypt. First, she completes the number of the Israelites. Second, she informs Moses of the place of Joseph’s burial,29 which is a prerequisite for the Exodus, since Joseph had enjoined that when his people left Egypt, they should take his bones with them (Gen. 50:24–​­​­26). Furthermore, and even before this, according to the tradition cited in PRE, she is the person who recognizes Moses to be the messenger of redemption.

Serah.: A Deictic Sign As we have seen, the M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters hold the key to redemption, but they are not alone in doing so. The narrative sequence of PRE’s chapter 48 creates an explicit analogy between these five linguistic instances and the five redemptive fingers of God’s hand. A closer look at the fingers might, therefore, shed more light on the quality of the letters and on Serah.’s linguistic-​ ­midrashic competence: R. Ishmael says: All the five fingers of the right hand of the Holy One, blessed be He, are the foundation of redemption. With the little finger of the hand, he showed Noah, [pointing out] how to make the ark, as it is said, “This is how you should make it” (Gen. 6:15). With the second finger, He smote the Egyptians, as it is said: “and the magicians said to Pharaoh, this is the finger of God” (Exod. 8:15). With the third finger, He wrote the tablets (of the Law), as it is said: “stone tablets inscribed with the finger of God” (Exod. 31:18).

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With the fourth finger, which is next to the thumb, the Holy One, blessed be He, showed to Moses what the children of Israel should give for the redemption of their souls, as it is said: “This is what everyone who is entered in the records shall pay” (Exod. 30:13). With the thumb and all the hand, the Holy One, blessed be He, will smite in the future all the children of Esau, who are His foes and likewise (He will smite) the sons of Ishmael who are His enemies, as it is said: “Your hand shall prevail over your foes, and all your enemies shall be cut down” (Mic. 5:8). Five redemptive events are listed in this passage: the salvation of Noah from the Flood, the smiting of the firstborn, the giving of the Torah, the donation given for the building of the tabernacle, and the future redemption. In three of the events listed, the association of redemption with God’s fingers (or hand) is inferred by the explicit mention of the word “finger” (or “hand”). In these instances, the personifying description of God is linked to His concrete and redemptive presence in the world. Two of the redemptive events are deduced from the use of the demonstrative pronoun “this,” which implies, according to the midrash, the action of pointing at something (with a finger). The demonstrative pronoun—​­“this” (zeh)—​­is, in linguistic terms, a “deixis,” which belongs to the class of indexical signs.30 Deictic signs are clearly context-​­bound signs, insofar as they point at a certain object that exists in a context that the sender and the addressee share. Or, as Betty Rojtman notes: “Limited to the demonstrative function, deixis does not fail to posit a deep relationship between its general process of actualization and the presupposition of existence.”31 As a deictic sign, “this” is different from, and may even be viewed as diametrically opposed to, the scriptural-​­textual “this.” “This,” in scripture, is an anaphora (a term that refers to a preceding text) or a cataphora (a term that refers to a text that will appear later).32 In discussing the role of deixis in midrash for representing revelation (clearly a relevant theme in this context), Daniel Boyarin observed that the distinction between deixis and anaphora is that the former is a figure of presence and the latter is a figure of absence: anaphora is “this which I . . . ​[told] you about; this which was in the past; this which is history,” while deixis is “this which I am pointing at; this which you can see.”33 Boyarin’s words are applicable to cataphors as well in that both



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cataphora and anaphora, by referring to a textual past or future, imply an absence in the textual present. Deixis, by contrast, “designates those words and aspects of language that can only be understood with reference to a NOW, a HERE.”34 In two instances (the first and fourth fingers), the midrash explicitly transforms the textual-​­scriptural cataphora and anaphora into a deixis—​­God’s finger—​­which points at a concrete and visible object in an extra-​­textual reality.35 The midrash here defies textual boundaries to emphasize the concrete, nonverbal components of the discursive situation between human beings and God. At the same time, it draws a parallel between the (missing) linguistic object—​­to which “this” refers—​­and the concrete, present, object. By doing so, it connects two worlds that in a fragmented experience might be distinct: the “real” world and the linguistic world. The midrashic process therefore implies that the “world” and the “text,” or the signifier and the signified, are one and the same. The use of deixis is basically egocentric, insofar as it assumes that between the interlocutors there are no underlying contextual gaps. Consequently, it seems that the words of God to His addressees, in the Bible and in midrash, imply that the texts assume that between the characters there is no gap or rupture and that they operate in a shared context. The theocentric world thus becomes the anthropocentric world of Noah and Moses. The relationship between signifier and signified in the deixis suggests another aspect that is important for this discussion. In his triple taxonomy of signs—​­the iconic, indexical, and symbolic—​­Charles Peirce noted the specific traits of indexical signs (to which the deictic pronoun—​­“this”—​­belongs): A sign is either an icon, an index, or a symbol. An icon is a sign which possesses the character which renders it significant, even though its object had no existence; such as lead-​­pencil streak representing a geometrical line. An index is a sign which would, at once, lose the character which makes it a sign if its object is removed, but would not lose that character if there were no interpretant. Such, for instance, is a piece of mould with a bullet-​­hole in it as a sign of a shot; for without the shot there would have been no hole; but there is a hole there, whether anybody has the sense to attribute it to a shot or not. A symbol is a sign which would lose the character which renders it a sign if there were no interpretant. Such is any utterance of speech which signifies what it does only by virtue of its being understood to have that signification.36

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The meaning of the indexical sign—​­unlike the icon and the symbol—​­is not contingent on its interpretation: its meaning precedes the interpretative process, and its interpretation is impossible without the presence of the signified. The meaning that it conveys does not depend on mediation but rather on the actual presence of the signified: the presence of a bullet hole in a mold signifies the shot (it is indexical of the shot). Consequently, the use of an indexical sign (for example, the deictic pronoun “this”) “carries with it the implication or presupposition of existence.”37 The traits of the deictic sign, that is, an affinity between signifier and signified and an essential connection between them,38 its being context-​ ­bound, and the unmediated knowledge associated with it, serve the midrash here as a tool to express and construct an unruptured experience: between the human being and God, between God and the world.39 The type of knowledge embodied in the deixis links it to the type of knowledge embedded in the ability to recognize M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters—​­as is suggested by the association of the seers, the young children, and Serah., with these letters. Likewise, the metonymic continuity that is at play in the indexical sign is analogous to the continuity in the transmission of the secret of M-​ ­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters: the letters were handed down from God to Abraham, who passed them on to Isaac. They were subsequently passed on until they reached Serah.. The unmediated knowledge that the deixis implies is also a necessary condition for redemption: the recognition of M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters enables the redemption from the Egyptian bondage—​­the prototype for redemption in general. Similarly, the midrash associates God’s fingers with redemptive moments: four that have taken place in the past and one that is yet to come. Magical language is unruptured and does not involve mediation: its form is not severed from its sense or reference, and the two are essentially identical. As such, magical language is the bearer of an unruptured experience or a longing for such an experience. Even more so, the recognition of the power invested in M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters involves knowledge that had once existed and that was subsequently forgotten: the prophets are not regarded as innovators but rather as reminders; the children know what adults have already forgotten, and Serah. knows what has remained hidden from later generations. The experience engulfed in the linguistic conception of M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters is thus not only of an unruptured state per se, but specifically linked to a state that is temporally marked as prior. Here, the longing for the lost past could be tantamount to longing for the redemptive



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future. It is the mirroring of the primordial past in the redemptive future that is echoed in the following tradition: the Talmud (bRosh Hashanah 11a) offers two alternative dates for redemption, the months of Nisan and Tishre, which are the exact alternative dates for the Creation of the world. PRE (chapter 51) holds a similar view (although not exclusively), according to which the Endzeit is a re-​­creation of the Urzeit. Put differently, the linguistic paradigm of Creation, according to which God created the world with words and letters, is echoed in the tradition expressed in PRE, according to which redemption is achieved by (the recognition of) letters. In PRE, a magical experience of an unruptured state is thus closely linked to another notion, that of redemption.

Modern Folk Traditions about Serah.: Bridging Present and Past The distance between an eighth-​­century midrash and contemporary narratives might not be as great as it seems,40 and, as often is the case, later traditions may spell out what earlier ones only allude to. Later traditions are formed—​­at least in part—​­through hearing, reading, and adapting earlier traditions. The processes of reception, by which earlier texts are adapted in the corpus of later societies, entail interpretation that may include the transformation of implicit meanings into explicit themes. This is true of contemporary narratives, where it is the figure of Serah., popular in Jewish-​­Persian folktales, who again forms the bridge between past and present. Some of these narratives undoubtedly have their roots in midrashic traditions, such as the traditions of the reward that Serah. earned for telling Jacob that his son was alive.41 This community’s foundation legend, advocating the very premise and legitimacy of its existence, is centered on Serah., who, according to this tradition, was the first Jew to arrive in Persia. One day, while she was grazing her father’s flock, one of her sheep wandered off and disappeared into a nearby cave. The diligent shepherdess set off on a long journey to retrieve the missing ewe. She found it only when she emerged from the cave’s other end, in Persia, near the city of Isfahan. Serah.’s tomb, according to Jewish-​­Persian tradition, lies at this spot.42 Serah. thus forms a bridge between potentially antinomian pairs. She acts as a subterranean link between exilic existence and the homeland, as well as between the present and the past.43 Serah. is the subject of many other Persian-​­Jewish tales, in which she often serves as her people’s advocate. She still

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appears to the visitors of her tomb in her long hair, garbed in white, a young and beautiful woman in full bloom. The oasis, the place of her tomb, is called “kookooloo,” on account of the echo that resonates throughout the area. But some say that in truth this echo is none other than Serah.’s own voice, returning to her people their lost words.44

Chapter 5

A Maidservant and Her Master’s Voice: From Narcissism to Mimicry

The Babylonian Talmud recounts the following story: the maidservant of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch (Rabbi Yehudah haNasi, also known as “Rabbi”) once saw a man beating his adult son. Alarmed by what she had just witnessed, she immediately called for that man’s excommunication. Her reaction, so the text implies, is triggered not by heartfelt compassion for the beaten son but by logic, which ultimately supports paternal authority: the father’s action could provoke his younger and stronger son to retaliate with possible grave results. And she knows this because of her acquaintance with what is introduced as an early rabbinic interpretation of the biblical decree “You shall not . . . ​put a stumbling block before the blind” (Lev. 19:14). The blind, according to this allegedly rabbinic interpretation, refers to an adult son for whom the beating is “a stumbling block.”1 This anecdote regarding Rabbi’s maidservant is evinced by later Babylonian rabbis as part of a legal dispute regarding a case of excommunication in their own time and place. The maidservant here clearly cuts through various hierarchical orders: she interferes with an excessive (and hence undermining) execution of patriarchal authority, and she is cited by the elite, male class of Sages as an authoritative source in their ruling. Moreover, the punitive measure that she advocates—​­excommunication—​­is quite astonishing, coming from the mouth of a woman-​­servant who occupies a marginal position in the community. While she is clearly excluded (at least formally) from the rabbinic community, she nonetheless bases her judgment on rabbinic practice par excellence: legal midrash. The rabbis, in turn, seem to consider her position with utmost respect. What is more, the story associates the maidservant’s insight with exposing the meaning of “blindness,” which she reads (following

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rabbinic interpretation) as a metaphor for the potentially unbridled physical strength of the humiliated beaten son. In this story, the rationale for her midrash-​­based call to excommunicate the father does not undermine patriarchal order. On the contrary, it seeks to prevent the collapse of that order. As we shall see, blindness and insight are themes with which her figure is associated when she repeatedly exposes rabbinic blind spots. The complex question of whether her exposure of rabbinic blindness can be situated beyond the rabbinic hegemonic gaze or whether it undermines it addresses the very boundaries of rabbinic self-​­reflection. The tale cited above is but one of several tales told about Rabbi’s maidservant, both in Palestinian and Babylonian texts. Like the character of the previous chapter—​­Serah., daughter of Asher—​­she is a figure through whom the rabbis reflect on their own discursive practice. The connection between Serah. and the figure at the center of this chapter is primarily gender. Both figures are women positioned within a patriarchal context. Consequently, their reflective capacity and linguistic skills are explicitly associated with their (marginalized) gender. However, when, instead of a biblical character from the distant past, the Sages adduce one that is closer to their own time and place, the reflective figure loses her pedigree: she takes the form of a lowly maidservant. Likewise, she is made to reflect on rabbinic discourse in a wider and institutionalized sense. Can such self-​­reflection transgress rabbinic discourse, or is it bound to be constrained by the reflecting hegemonic gaze? That question has been implicit in the previous chapters and will be of particular interest here. Let me note, for now, that the tenuous boundaries of the institutions—​­for example, the family and the house of study, in which the maidservant operates—allude to the fundamental issue of self-​­reflective boundaries. The narratives that involve the maidservant (and, explicitly or implicitly, her master) are particularly revealing examples of the inherently relational quality of discursive dynamics. Mindful of Michel Foucault’s famous words that “relations of power are not in a position of exteriority with respect to other types of relationships . . . ​but are immanent in the latter,” I propose that these narratives are a case in point.2 Social hierarchy, gender, and desire are the dominant threads cunningly woven through these stories.3 Furthermore, these themes are enriched by the semantic potentials of figures such as the maid and her master, prior to and beyond their deployment in the specific narratives that will be the focus of this chapter. First, from the social-​­hierarchical standpoint, Rabbi Judah represents

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rabbinic authority, while the maidservant can be understood as a “mute signified” on which the dominant discourse constructs and imposes its authority. For what could be set in more oppositional terms than “the” Rabbi (Rabbi Judah, a famously wise, powerful and wealthy man, is generally referred to in rabbinic texts simply as “Rabbi”)4 and a maidservant (a woman, a slave, without independent means)?5 She does not even possess a name: her title defines her exclusively in relation to Rabbi Judah.6 Yet, as we shall see, it is both the potential contrast between the two and their close habitual proximity that render the maidservant a critical commentator on rabbinic discourse. The narratives in which Rabbi Judah’s maidservant appears revolve around the point at which the constructed boundaries that separate maid and master, contingent upon a hierarchy of social categories, are blurred and violated from within. This could be explained, at least partly, by the disruptive quality embedded in the figure. For, as Hegel pointed out, the master-​­slave relation contains a paradox where “total personal power becomes a form of total dependence on the object of that power.”7 The paradoxical nature of slavery can be seen from yet another angle: slavery has been equated with “social death,” insofar as “the essential feature of slavery in any culture is not the legal status of the slave but his or her position as a ‘socially dead’ outsider.”8 In other respects, the slave is quite clearly alive, and “although it may seem that slavery operates only by dehumanizing slaves, a slave is useful precisely because he or she has the human attributes of knowledge, judgment, reasoning.”9 In other words, “the slave’s place cannot be reduced to that of either a unique, validated subject or that of a fungible, commodified object: the slave is defined by his/her position as the crossing point of subjectivity and objectification.”10 It is here that the prime function of slaves to signify and define the “free” subject turns against itself. Slaves confuse categories that are imagined to be clear-​­cut: living/dead, subjective/objective, and social/asocial, among others. In doing so, they call into question the very principles of categorization on which society is constructed and on which authority is based. Slaves’ liminal position renders them “good to think with.”11 The figure of the slave—​­the maidservant, in particular—​­allows (rabbinic) culture to reflect on itself. The maid’s sexual role in the ancient world is an important component of her semantic potential. Domestic slaves were part of the extended Roman familia, and those of both sexes, as is widely documented, were considered the sexual property of the pater.12 To be a freeman in the classical age was to be in control of others and in control of oneself.13 Servants, who were potential catalysts of unbridled desire, thus threatened the identities of their masters,

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in yet another example of slavery’s paradoxes. While the slaves and maidservants signified their master’s freedom, to the extent that he controlled them, his potential lack of control over himself in relation to them undermined that sovereignty. Thus the rabbinic statement “the more maidservants the more lewdness” (mAvot 2:7) is an expression of anxiety associated with sexuality and female slaves.14 The negative reputation of maidservants is projected also in the halakhic discussion where a question is posed: “Why . . . ​does not everyone jump [hurry] to marry a freed-​­woman?” The answer is explicit: “because . . . ​ the liberated maidservant was in the category of a promiscuous woman” (tHorayot 2:11–​­​­12).15 Being both a servant and a woman, a maidservant faced double discrimination.16 Furthermore, her inferior social status rendered her an available sexual object. But her sexual role within the domestic circle was complex. Maidservants were “other” women within the household. Behavior that was forbidden within the strict boundaries of the family was nevertheless permissible on its fringes.17 Maidservants were not only objects or subjects through which the social system channeled its sexual overflow, albeit for a very privileged few: they were objects or subjects that did not adhere to the abiding sexual norms of the elite.18 Hence, thoughts about maidservants were ambivalent fantasies, intimating wishful desires as well as disruptive, unsettling effects. The maidservant narratives offer us instances where rabbinic discourse itself is the object of reflection. These narratives address the issue of cultural identity in its very basic form. Here it is not a question of the demarcations of Jewish society in late antiquity in relation to other ethnic or religious groups (for example, pagans and Christians) that is being raised. Rather, it is the very notion of identity, as reflected and produced in discourse, that is held suspect. Where authorial discourse is being considered, Rabbi Judah’s maidservant is not mute (even when she does not speak), nor does she necessarily validate her master’s voice.19

Language, Knowledge, and Social Order Rabbi Judah’s maidservant plays a key role in a number of stories in which language is the theme and in which rabbinic discourse reaches a stage of

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uncertainty. The following story from the Palestinian Talmud (ySheviʿit 9:1 [38c]) will serve as a starting point:20 Said Rabbi H.agai: [What do the words] serugin and h. aloglogot mean, and who is greater—​­[he who is greater] in wisdom or in age? The Sages were in doubt. They said: let us go and ask those at Rabbi’s house. They went to ask. A maidservant from Rabbi’s household came out and said to them: enter in pairs.21 They said: so and so go in first, so and so go in first. She said to them: Why are you entering serugin serugin? One rabbi was carrying purslane in his bowl, and some of it fell out. She said to him: . . . ​Rabbi, your h. aloglogot have scattered. The narrative opens with two queries that the rabbis are tackling. The first query is linguistic, concerning two words supposedly unknown to the rabbis.22 These words, incomprehensible to the rabbis, have lost their signifying competence and hence are signs lacking a reference. The second quandary relates to the rabbis’ own institutionalized world, namely, the hierarchical order of the Sages themselves, by which their respective positions in the world are organized. Implied in the second query is the question of authority conditioned by relative relationships between the Sages in a social system. The two queries, which may appear at first glance to touch upon entirely discrete issues, are in fact closely connected, as the story in its unfolding amply demonstrates. When the rabbis arrive at Rabbi Judah’s threshold, they are met by a maidservant who requests that they sort themselves out and enter in pairs.23 Seemingly clear and simple instructions turn out to be more than the rabbis can handle, for they are busy gauging their relative honor, trying to match the order of their entry into the house to the corresponding hierarchy that codes their relationships to one another.24 This petty behavior, which seems self-​ ­ efeating in relation to the initial purpose of the visit (to seek an answer to d two quandaries), is, ironically, what produces the answer to the query involving one of the words, serugin. The maidservant, observing the commotion of the rabbis, turns around (quite impatiently, it seems) and asks them why they

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are entering serugin serugin, that is, intermittently. The context in which she utters her words endows the word with meaning. Still, it is not simply the surrounding events that make the word meaningful, nor is the story’s main point the contrast between “real life” and the scholars’ detached ivory tower (the bet midrash, house of study), in which they had failed to connect signifier to signified. The irony of the tale lies at the point where the lack of workable categories (correspondence) among the Sages, their inability to sort themselves, brings about the correspondence between the word serugin and its referent. The joke is actually at their expense: thanks to the maidservant, the rabbis seem to have acquired more linguistic competence.25 However, nowhere does the story indicate that they understand that the contextual process that produced the linguistic answer is also an indirect comment on—​­albeit not a solution to—​­their second query: “Who is greater—​­in wisdom or in age?”26 In this respect, their desire to capture a signifying practice is not fulfilled; the story does not resolve the overdetermined signifier (“greater”) that relates to two alternative signifieds (“wisdom,” “age”). The disparity between the rabbis’ (ultimate) enhanced command of language and their lack of introspection implies that their erudite discourse is not anchored on stable grounds. On the contrary, the destabilized institutional order is what, in effect, produces the newly acquired linguistic knowledge. Let us return to the figure that exposes this discursive blind spot: Rabbi’s maidservant. She is also the one who supplies the rabbis with the meaning of the second unknown word, h. aloglogot. One of the rabbis, carrying the bowl of purslane, unknowingly holds the solution in his own hands. The story ends here. A similar version of the tale, in yMegillah 2:2 [73a], includes an additional scene: someone (the servant’s mistress?) orders her to bring a matate (broom) to sweep up the scattered herb. Two things are achieved by this additional episode: first, the meaning of the word matate is explicated. Second, it is not the maid who introduces the meaning but rather someone of a higher rank, and the servant herself is safely restored to the domain of housecleaning, where she ostensibly belongs.

Self-​­Reflectivity, Linguistic Skills, and Identity Rabbi Judah’s maidservant appears elsewhere in rabbinic literature as a mediator through whom lexical understanding is attained. In the following text, bNazir 3a, the Nazirite vows that appear first in the Mishnah are discussed.27

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“I intend to curl [mesalsel] [my hair].” How do we know that this word [i.e., mesalsel] refers to the curling of the hair? From a remark made by a maidservant of Rabbi’s household, who said to a certain man: “How much longer are you going to curl [mesalsel] your hair?” The rabbis cite Rabbi Judah’s maidservant’s words as proof that “curling one’s hair” indicates long hair.28 The context of the rabbis’ discussion concerns Nazirite vows, but it is unclear from the text whether they assume that the maidservant’s words were specifically addressed to a Nazirite. Her rhetorical question sounds reproachful. The tone may reflect the ambiguous connotations of the expression mesalsel biseʿaro (curling his hair), which is associated in midrashic literature with the figure of a dandy, an effeminate male.29 Accordingly, Rabbi Judah’s maidservant was addressing an effeminate man whom she criticized for inappropriate behavior. It is also possible that the servant’s words were directed to a Nazirite. If so, why would she be critical of his long hair, a sign of dedication and sublime intent? A possible answer appears in a story in the Babylonian Talmud a few pages after the text under discussion—​­the story of Simon the Just and the Nazirite from the south, which was the focus of Chapter 1 of this volume. There, Nazirite status was held suspect by the high priest precisely because it risked turning into an expression of narcissistic entrapment, of expressing self-​­absorbed vanity instead of humble dedication. When Rabbi Judah’s maidservant turns to the man and reproaches him with the words, “How much longer are you going to curl your hair?” (bNazir 3a), she may be reflecting on this narcissism or vanity. Of all possible phrases, it is the ambiguous expression “curling the hair” that is being explicated in the context of vows of abstinence. If the maidservant’s words are indeed addressed to a Nazirite, she assumes the role of the reflective water—​­the mirror held up against his face—​­that awakens (or should awaken) him from his autoerotic fantasy. Here, it is not the modified Nazirite/Narcissus who sees his own reflection in the water and is suddenly alarmed by the yetzer, his internal other. Rather, it is the maidservant, an external other, who serves as a reflector. But to whom, and in relation to what, is the maidservant external? Here I want to relate the maidservant’s association with a Nazirite to her role in rabbinic discourse, to the wider issue of narcissism in a hegemonic text. I ask whether Rabbi Judah’s maidservant functions as a (pseudo-​­external) reflector of rabbinic discourse, or as part of a rabbinic narcissism that precludes the possibility of a true reflection that transcends the self. Can rabbinic texts,

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which are undoubtedly a product of different elite (male) hegemonic groups, offer a reflection on themselves that is not ultimately trapped in their own gaze? The association of the maidservant and a Nazirite, along with her critical comment about his habits, suggests that the maidservant’s role in rabbinic literature points to the volatile junction where narcissism and self-​­reflection converge, and maybe even part ways. In her comment to the Nazirite, Rabbi Judah’s maidservant performs a role similar to the one she plays in the first story (from ySheviʿit). After failing to find the words’ referents in the insular world of the bet midrash, the Sages pursue their search for meaning by appealing to the authority (and knowledge) of Rabbi Judah, at his home. Unexpectedly, at Rabbi Judah’s doorstep, it is his maidservant who solves their linguistic quandaries, only to hint at a fundamental enigma that stands at the core of their discourse.30 Ironically, this enigma, or blind spot, is rooted in their deficient self-​­reflection—​­their inability to see themselves as objectified others. True, there is a difference between the narcissistic mistaking of selves for others and the mistaking of others for selves. However, in both cases, the conflation of the two (self and other) inevitably results in a confusion of the semiotic signifying process. If the production of a meaningful discourse relies on distinct signifiers, the lack of a distinct signifier, defined in relationship to an other, implies inherent discursive ambiguity, if not total chaos.31 All the more so when the signifying agents themselves (the rabbis) fail to differentiate themselves, that is, to evaluate themselves properly (according to wisdom or age) and hence establish their group identity. In this, they resemble Narcissus, of whom Maurice Blanchot writes: “Narcissus is said to be solitary, but it is not because he is excessively present to himself; it is rather because he lacks, by decree (Teresias’s ‘You shall not see yourself ’), that reflected Presence—​ i­ dentity, the self-​­same—​­the basis upon which a living relation with life, which is other, can be ventured.”32 Yet surprisingly, as the story in ySheviʿit implies, the unstable social categories (based on age or wisdom) and the shortsightedness of the Sages (who are unaware that one of their company actually holds h. aloglogot in his hands) are precisely what produce their linguistic-​­erudite knowledge or discourse, which is, after all, a salient component of their identity and authority. This story does not stand alone in the rabbinic corpus: numerous narratives highlight and criticize the Sages’ self-​­indulgence. Yet this story goes a step further, for it explicitly introduces a maidservant (the most servile subject) as the agent through which the rabbis’ self-​­absorbed patterns—​­specifically

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related to the construction of rabbinic discourse—​­are exposed. Furthermore, she does not conform to what the rabbis might have expected of her, given her social-​­gendered status. In this sense, she is not trapped in the rabbis’ gaze. One might argue that because the maidservant is a “safe” category, a figure devoid of power in the social system, she is an unthreatening semiotic object on which reflection or criticism can be projected without fear of upsetting the social order.33 Such a view would accentuate the “objectified” component of the maidservant character, whose function in the (hegemonic) discourse is confined by the narcissism on which the authority constructs itself.34 Accordingly, rabbinic hegemony as an authority-​­wielding power is viewed as relying on narcissism, which does not allow for the existence or presentation of an other that is not a total mirroring of itself. Yet it seems that the understanding of the maidservant’s role as a controlled and safe mode of self-​­reflection does not account for the unsettling effect that she (or, rather, the narratives in which she appears) produces.35 While her presence implies a hidden seed of discursive anxiety, the maidservant has the potential capacity to rupture the desired foundation of rabbinic hegemony.

Identity and Discursive Anxiety Rabbi Judah’s maidservant’s inherent liminal position, being “a crossing point of subjectivity and objectification,”36 makes her a powerful commentator on cultural narcissism because narcissism addresses this very basic distinction of subject or object. Her ambivalent, liminal position frees her from discursive bonds, enabling her to cross discursive boundaries. In turn, the perception of the hegemonic mechanism as narcissistic ought to be supplemented by another notion, one that points to “the ambivalence inherent in mimicry.”37 Echo replaces Narcissus. Homi Bhabha, in what has become a classic essay, introduces this paradigm of mimetic anxiety or ambivalence: The menace of mimicry is its double vision which in disclosing the ambivalence of colonial discourse also disrupts its authority. . . . ​A (colonial) desire that, through repetition of partial presence, which is the basis of mimicry, articulates those disturbances of cultural . . . ​ difference that menace the narcissistic demand of colonial authority. It is a desire that reverses “in part” the colonial appropriation by now producing a partial vision of the colonizer’s presence; a gaze of

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other-​­ness, that shares the acuity of the genealogical gaze which, as Foucault describes it, liberates marginal elements and shatters the unity of man’s being through which he extends his sovereignty.38 Mimicry is, for Bhabha, a site where colonial execution of symbolic power is undermined. Because mimicry repeats something but never fully represents it, it has the effect of emptying the cohesive-​­authentic wholeness—​­full presence—​­of what it repeats. When hegemonic discourse is mimicked, the result is an undermining of its coherent identity. Bhabha’s insights provide a model that enables us to read the appearance of Rabbi Judah’s maidservant in rabbinic discourse as moments of “partial presence” of the hegemonic discourse in which she is situated, where the absolute unity and coherence of that discourse is undermined. Bearing in mind the notion of mimicry as “partial presence,” let us then turn to another story about Rabbi Judah’s maidservant (yBerakhot 3:4 [6c]): “There was the case of one who wished to have sex with the maidservant of Rabbi. She said to him: if my mistress does not immerse—​­I do not immerse. He said to her: but are you not like a beast? She said to him: and have you not heard that [the punishment] for a person who has sex with an animal is that she or he is stoned to death, as it is written: ‘Whoever lies with a beast shall be put to death’?” There are two moments of mimicry in this tale. The first occurs when the maidservant explains that her (impure) position results from her mimicry of her mistress: “if my mistress does not immerse—​­I do not immerse.” The immersion to which the maidservant alludes could refer to the purifying ritual that a woman performs to mark the transition from a state of impurity (in general, immediately before, during, and until seven days after menstruation, in which the woman is niddah) to that of purity (in which she is permitted to have sexual intercourse).39 The maidservant positions her behavior as a direct mimicry of her mistress’s, although the exact meaning of her words is not entirely clear.40 But, since a few lines before this tale, the Palestinian Talmud discusses an additional law that requires immersion before each sexual act, it seems likely that her response assumes this additional law. Her words, then, refer not to the prescribed monthly immersion but to an immersion that denotes an imminent, specific act of intercourse. Put differently, in opposing the man, the maid is saying that if her mistress is not about to have intercourse (with Rabbi Judah), neither is she about to have intercourse (with the man). She articulates her dependency on her mistress in explicit terms of mimicry: if the mistress does not do X, the maid does not do it, either.

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This mimicry is, by its very nature, ironic. If the mimicry relates to the mistress’s custom not to immerse before intercourse, then the irony lies in the backfiring of a supposed norm against the norm-​­creator (the hegemonic male). A similar irony is produced if we understand the maid as referring to her mistress’s montly immersion in general. In this case, too, the maidservant’s conduct regarding immersion is modeled on the behavior of her mistress, with a slight but nevertheless crucial difference: what is for the mistress a purifying rite, contingent on her physical or biological being, is deemed, for the maidservant, a mere act of washing, lacking the same symbolic meaning of the purifying rite. She is disembodied, in the sense that her physical or biological existence is excluded from the hegemonic symbolic structure of purity or impurity. Yet it is precisely that exclusion that enables her to produce what James Scott termed “a hidden transcript.”41 She uses the basic (male) hegemonic categorization to push the man away rather than argue her way through some alternative discourse. Again, when the man dismisses her first excuse, implying further degradation for which the equation of “slave” and “beast” is recruited,42 she pursues the same strategy of addressing his line of argument; she does not protest in rage. Here we see the second instance of mimicry: her shrewd hidden transcript mimics his discourse.43 Furthermore, in alluding to a biblical verse to refute his second argument, warning him that having sex with a beast is a capital crime, she mimics a basic rabbinic-​­hegemonic discursive praxis. She uses biblically anchored discourse to let herself off the hook and to leave the man’s desire unfulfilled. The frustrated physical-​­erotic desire is shown to be analogous to, or even to stem from, his own discourse, which turns on itself. Rabbi Judah’s maidservant is thus a mimicking figure, which Homi Bhabha has characterized as “a doubling, the part-​­objects of a metonymy of (colonial) desire which alienates the modality and normality of those dominant discourses in which they emerge as ‘inappropriate’ (colonial) subjects.”44 The maidservant’s mimicry leads to a point of frustrated desire where her “partial representation” of hegemonic discourse questions the very “notion of identity” on which the discourse is constructed.45 Or, rather, this mimicry leads to a point at which the discourse fails to produce a coherent identity.

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A Double-​­Edged Sword: Intimate Language Versus Discursive Escape “[T]hey shall be cast before the sword together with My people; oh, strike the thigh” (Ezek. 21:17)—​­said Rabbi Eliʿezer: these are men who eat and drink together and stab one another with the swords in their tongues. (bYoma 9b) Rabbi Judah’s maidservant is not only a talented mimic of rabbinic halakhic discourse but is also skillful at other kinds of wordplay. The following anecdote displays her skill for poetic, riddle-​­like wit (leshon h. okhmah). It is the first in a series of three, introduced by the formula “when so and so used to speak in leshon h. okhmah”: “When Rabbi’s maids engaged in witty language [leshon h. okhmah], they used to say: ‘The ladle strikes against the barrel [that is, there is no wine left in the barrel], let the eagles [that is, guests] fly to their nests.’ And when [Rabbi] wanted [the students/Sages] to stay, he used to say to her: ‘We shall remove the cork from her friend and the ladle will float in her barrel like a ship that sails the seas’ ” (b‘Eruvin 53b).46 In this brief narrative, the maidservants (presented here as a group) are not tricksters bargaining for freedom, nor are they the liminal figure whom the rabbis encounter at the threshold of Rabbi Judah’s house. Here they are situated well within his house, where they mark the limits of Rabbi’s hospitality. The language through which they communicate their message is highly poetic and witty. It is also a language that implies their intimate acquaintance with rabbinic wit.47 The maidservant whom Rabbi Judah addresses serves as a mediator between her master and his students. The intimacy between the maidservant and the rabbi that is implied here is powerfully portrayed in the following tale, where once again the maidservant is positioned vis-​­à-​­vis a group of rabbis. This is a haunting story about impending loss in which language, authority, and human power are challenged to their limits. The paramount rabbinic authority is about to die, and the rabbis are gathering together in this last battle against the heavenly forces who seek Rabbi Judah’s death (bKetubot 104a): On the day when Rabbi died,48 the rabbis decreed a public fast and offered prayers for heavenly mercy. And they announced: whoever says “Rabbi is dead” will be stabbed with a sword.

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Rabbi’s maidservant ascended the roof and said: “Those above claim Rabbi, and those below claim Rabbi; may it be the will that those below will overpower those above.” Yet when she saw how often he resorted to the privy, painfully taking off his tefillin49 and putting them on again, she prayed: may it be the will that those above will overpower those below. And the rabbis did not cease to pray for mercy. She took a jar and threw it down from the roof to the ground. [Because of the noise,] they were silent [from asking mercy], and Rabbi died. The rabbis said to Bar Kappara: go and find out. He went and found that he was dead. He tore his garment and turned the tear backward. He stated: “The angels and the righteous clung to the ark [aron haqodesh], the angels have defeated the righteous, and the ark has been taken captive.” [The rabbis] said to him: Has he died? He said to them: you said so, I did not say so.50 Strict measures of expression—​­of discourse—​­are demanded at this crucial point: fasting, prayer, and a proscription (the violation of which was a capital crime) against uttering the words “Rabbi is dead” (literally, “Rabbi’s soul is rested”). Language is confined to extreme regulative channels. Rabbi Judah’s maidservant buys into the discursive order, for at first she aligns herself with the rabbis’ prayer that Rabbi Judah should not die. But then something happens that makes her change both her mind and her mode of action. Standing on the roof, the maid witnesses his agony at having to remove his tefillin and put them on again each time he goes to the toilet. The maidservant, unlike the rabbis, sees him in moments of physical intimacy. Yet she sees more than that. She sees Rabbi Judah in moments where his bodily dysfunction makes his observance of the halakhah of tefillin intolerable, the point where his disrobed body can no longer clothe itself with halakhic cultural garb.51 On the roof, positioned between heaven and earth, she perceives the broader picture,52 and her compassion stems from the recognition of the unbridgeable discrepancy inherent in Rabbi Judah’s position, of what constitutes his subjectivity. She sees the battle of the ones above and the ones below grotesquely incorporated in Rabbi Judah; the tefillin (the ones above) and his bowel malady (the one below) are at painful odds.53 The maid recognizes

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that the image, as the rabbis express it, of the battle between the heavens and mortals fails to relate to the human agent entrapped in this battlefield. At this moment, she realizes that her master ought to die. Having presented a reflective mirror held up against the rabbinic will, she brings the rabbis’ discourse to a halt—​­this time, not by words but by the violent act of breaking the jug. She silences the praying Sages and tips the scale. The powerful image of a shattered jar on the ground evokes the image of man as a vessel,54 man who is cursed by God, “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return” (Gen. 3:19).55 The “ones below” who pray for Rabbi end up receiving the scattered pieces of the symbolic jar.56 To be sure, the rabbis’ words are seen in this story to hold overwhelming powers: it is only when their prayers stop that they are, so to speak, vanquished. But there is also something to be said about this kind of discursive force. For one thing, it may be misguided—​ ­however human—​­in its motives, since it is the rabbis’ fear of their own impending orphanhood (which entails an immediate cultural or institutional void), rather than their concern for Rabbi Judah’s well-​­being, that drives them to desperate measures. For another, the apprehension over uttering the explicit words “Rabbi is dead” is carried on after his actual death, as the explicit utterance is deliberately postponed. Bar Kappara tears his garment as a sign of mourning but then turns it backward. In indirect, poetic language, replete with biblical allusions,57 he cries out that the ark has been taken captive. When directly asked by the Sages if Rabbi Judah is dead, he answers, “You said so, I did not say so.” It seems, then, that the resourceful, powerful discourse cannot endure the existential ultimate negation: human death.58 Bar Kappara invokes a depersonalized image of the Sage (who becomes the ark) as part of an abstract, cosmological picture of a war between the angels and the righteous.59 The image of the ark taken captive connotes temporal loss, not a final dead end. Moreover, if the Sage is considered to be the Torah personified, then the description of Rabbi Judah’s death, while enhancing that image (the ark contains the Torah), suggests that it is a double-​­edged sword. The function of the image in constructing rabbinic authority is obvious. Yet the identification of the Sages with their pivotal text proves to be, in this case, a prison house of language. Here we are offered a glimpse into the depths of the ineffable, mute abyss. Here the ineffable does not imply a disrupted discursive universe in which signifiers are in search of signified (as in the first story from ySheviʿit). On the contrary, at the beginning, when Rabbi Judah is still alive, the rabbis’ ban against uttering the words “Rabbi is dead” implies that they see the connection between their words and the referent not only as being present

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but as almost causal. Paradoxically, this enhanced power of language is pointed toward death, toward a missing referent. Put differently, it is the representation of the void that the rabbis dread. Rabbi Judah is the dying man whom Michel de Certeau sees as “the lapse of this discourse [a discourse that ‘tirelessly articulates tasks’]. He is, and can only be, obscene. And hence censured, deprived of language, wrapped up in a shroud of silence: the unnamable.”60 In this account of Rabbi Judah’s death, the silence is indeed there. It is deferred by prayers and subsequently camouflaged by a thick layer of metaphors. In this case, Rabbi Judah’s maidservant does not present linguistic competences that the rabbis lack. She herself does not utter the forbidden words, nor does she offer a linguistic alternative. She does, however, modify the rabbis’ use of language (prior to the death) inasmuch as she literally disrupts it: the noise of the shattered jug interferes with the prayers. Her disruptive act stems from her holistic view: she can see the essential connectedness between the personal (Rabbi Judah’s physical agony), the cultural (his pain in donning the tefillin), and the theological or cosmological (the battle between the divine and the human). The maid’s encompassing view positions the subject (the personal) in the center without losing sight of the grand plan (the cosmic battle) in which the subject is objectified. One may argue that it is the slave’s liminal position as “the crossing point of subjectivity and objectification” that is projected into the maid’s understanding, so as to illuminate the shortcomings of the rabbinic reaction to the overwhelming crisis. Bar Kappara’s depersonalized desubjectified image of Rabbi Judah as the ark is juxtaposed with the maid’s complex understanding of the personal and subjective experience. Bar Kappara’s elaborate, escapist language contrasts with her nonverbal act.61

Vitality and Language Whether outliving her master or not,62 Rabbi’s maidservant is said to have enjoyed a long life: And thus, too, did Barzillai the Gileadite say to David: “I am now eighty years old. Can I tell the difference between good or bad?” (2 Sam. 19:36)—​­This shows that the opinions of old men are changeable; “can your servant taste what he eats or drinks?” (ibid.)—​­This shows that the lips of old men fall apart; “can I still listen to the singing of men and women?” (ibid.)—​­This proves that the ears of old men are heavy.

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Rav said: Barzillai the Gileadite was a liar. For there was a maid in Rabbi’s household who was ninety-​­two and she used to taste the dish. Rava said: Barzillai the Gileadite was steeped in lewdness, and whoever is steeped with lewdness is seized by old age. (bShabbat 152a) This text appears in the Talmud amid a discussion of old age and its discontents, not the least of which is the problem of sexual decline. At the beginning of the discussion, before the cited passage, Rabbi Shimʿon bar H.alafta laments his own position, in which “the peacemaker of the home has ceased” (in other words, he has lost his ability to have sexual intercourse). Both Rav and Rava seek to undermine the rabbinic portrayal of Barzillai’s neutral association between old age and (sexual) decline. Rava provides a moral aspect by contending that old age is punishment for unbridled sexual desire. Rav goes further by calling Barzillai a liar, since there is no general rule regarding old age and sexual decline. The proof that he offers for his counterclaim is none other but the figure of Rabbi Judah’s maidservant.63 She is praised for retaining her sense of taste at her advanced age, of “tasting the dish,” a phrase that does not refer here to literal food, since food, cooking, and dishes are known metaphors for sex throughout the rabbinic corpus.64 This short anecdote about Rabbi Judah’s maidservant connotes more than a pinch of fantasy about (her) erotic vitality at the age of ninety-​­two. In fact, in addition to the erotic component that might be implied simply from her status as a maidservant, her specific erotic character could be traced in some of the previous stories. She is clearly the object of desire that frustrates the desiring man who wishes to have sex with her. Yet she is seen to stand not only at the core of physical or erotic desire but at the point where discourse is left wanting. She intimates moments in which language is brought to a halt: the flowing signifying practice ceases to produce the union that it seeks to reflect or establish. The Eros of language that is “structured to join the separated, to connect the disconnected”65 fails, and a broken discursive universe is revealed. The lack of corresponding referents (ySheviʿit) or present (yet unbearable) referents of lack/negation/death suggests a discursive crisis. The insistence on formulated, persistent discourse at the time of Rabbi Judah’s death and the inability to utter the ineffable words (Rabbi is dead / his soul is at rest) are an example of a discursive crisis. In this case, too, the rabbis are off the mark when they do not realize the disparity between the cosmological scheme—​­the ones below versus the ones above—​­and the individual

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experience of one human being (Rabbi Judah). It is the maidservant who is able to acknowledge (and produce) the—​­however horrific—​­signified, namely, death. Paradoxically, through her erotic competence, she has the power to accept death as the referent. In his end was his beginning. Rabbi Judah the Patriarch’s ancestry was traced back to the house of David.66 A maidservant, we are told in Yalqut haMakhiri,67 played a significant role in the conception of Jesse’s son: she was the one whom Jesse really desired. Accordingly, she made the arrangements and promised to wait for him in her quarters. But it was dark, and Jesse did not notice that her mistress—​­his wife—​­had taken her place.68 David was thus the outcome of a mistake, of a misrecognition of a bed trick. Yet he was also the phantasmagoric bridge between institutionalized procreative imperative and pure lust, or even between institutional power and subalterity, between patriarchy and abdication.69 Either way one looks at it, the coherent “original” identity is cast into doubt,70 if only because of the incongruity between intention (lust for the maid) and practice (intercourse with the wife). The story also raises questions regarding (self) knowledge in relation to its carnal and linguistic sources.71 If Rabbi Judah were to look closely at the original image (of David), we can only wonder what reflection of it he would see in himself. Put differently, what if Narcissus looked at his reflection in the water, realized that it was his own reflection, but then recognized that this reflection (and, by implication, he, too) contained a foreign element, an other within (like the yetzer whom the rabbinic Narcissus identifies)? Going a step further, we might discover that when Rabbi Judah’s maidservant shatters—​­or exposes—​ ­the rabbinic narcissistic illusion, she is merely following in the footsteps of her “ancestors,” much as Rabbi Judah purports to carry on the Davidic dynasty. In the body of rabbinic discourse, Rabbi Judah’s maidservant is an other within, an other who is recognized as being seated at the heart of its being. Insofar as discursive practices are the mechanisms through which a culture constructs its identity (and, by implication, its hegemony), this stranger within plants seeds of ambiguity. The maidservant’s role as the stranger within is carried out on the discursive level itself. She is engulfed in the very discourse on which she comments, simultaneously included and excluded from it, confined by the reflective hegemonic gaze while transcending its boundaries. Positioned at the threshold as well as in the inner quarters of the house, the maid points to the eternally frustrated (rabbinic) desire for an external other—​­or, put differently, for an undivided self.72

Epilogue

Midrash, Ruins, and Self-​­Reflexivity

Midrash generates the rabbinic (textual) self as a self that reflects upon itself. Midrash, the hallmark of rabbinic discourse, is both the propagator and the object of reflection. In other words, it serves as a discursive model that produces a locus of self-​­reflexivity. In this book, I have brought to the fore the self-​­reflexivity embedded in narratives that explicitly reflect on midrash itself, or reflect (through midrash) on rabbinic discourse in a wider sense. These narratives, I argue, provide a hermeneutical key to the reading of midrash and, in turn, show how midrash serves as a hermeneutical key to understanding the rabbinic “self.” An underlying question throughout the book has been the boundaries of rabbinic self-​­reflection, or the boundaries of rabbinic textual self-​­reflexivity. Chapter 1 introduced narcissism as the crux of the tale of Simon the Just and the Nazir, traced beyond its obvious resemblance to the Greek myth. The story, as I read it, thematizes the intricate relations between personal-​ s­ ubjective narcissism and textual-​­discursive narcissism, between human reflectivity and textual reflexivity. Can Simon, as the story implicitly asks, tell a story of an other that is not entirely bound by his narrative or reflective gaze? By extension, can the rabbis tell a story that transcends their own discursive boundaries (can anyone)? The self-​­reflexive narratives of this book were, for the most part, comprised of pairs, human as well as discursive, corresponding to—​­following Hillis Miller’s formulation—​­selves and possible selves: Solomon and midrash versus the Queen of Sheba and riddles; midrash versus tall tales and mini-​­travelogues, and midrash versus Serah.’s magical language. The question would then be if what I had identified as possible selves—​­be it the tall tales or the Queen of Sheba—​­are inevitably confined by the reflecting self, the ultimately narcissistic (rabbinic-​­midrashic) self. Chapter 5 suggests that the question of the boundaries of the reflective gaze should not be answered in dichotomous terms. In that chapter, Rabbi’s

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maidservant embodies a locus of self-​­reflexivity that is both encompassed by the reflecting gaze and yet transcends it. Through the introduction of mimicry, the all-​­or-​­nothing narcissistic model may be adjusted to allow for an extension of the reflected boundaries. Accordingly, even the story of Simon the Just and the Nazir (which addresses the narcissistic model) divulges a suspicion toward, if not fear of, a unified human and discursive self. After all, it is the fragmented human, as well as the textual self, that provides (fragmented) coherence to the tale and to its protagonists; the stories of the maidservant, employing a liminal figure that is simultaneously situated within and outside rabbinic institutional boundaries, acknowledge an otherness within (analogous to the yetzer in the Nazir story) and, at the same time, express the yearning for a unified self. I suggest that it is precisely between these two poles—​­a fantasy of a unified self and an anxiety that such fantasy may result in lethal narcissism—​­that the dynamics of rabbinic self-​­reflexivity, as they have been explored throughout the book, oscillate. The self-​­reflexive process that unfolded in the book involved the most crucial and, to be sure, complex questions underlying rabbinic identity formation. The very notion of identity, as a coherent, differentiated entity, is questioned in the story of Simon and his same/other projected shepherd. Similarly, the Queen of Sheba and her riddles undermine the coherency of the sovereign identity of the adult male. Both Simon the Just and Solomon, in the guise of proto-​­rabbinic figures, engage in midrash, which serves as a sign of (in the first case) or as a means to achieve (in the second case) autonomous subjectivity. In both stories, midrash is deemed, at best, necessary, but hardly ideal, as far as the precarious contours of identity are concerned. And in both stories, textual production and the production of the self are intertwined. The making of a subject—​­whether it is Simon or Solomon—​­is inseparable from the making of a text insofar as the narrative grapples with the premise of and authority invested in telling a story, as in the case of Simon’s first-​­person narrative, or as it associates riddles and midrash in the riddling tale. Textuality is an epistemological and experiential premise that is repeatedly reflected upon. When, after having solved the last riddle, the Queen of Sheba asks Solomon, “From where do you know?,” he answers her by quoting ­scripture—​­or rather, by providing a short midrash. Yet his proclaimed source of knowledge is far from unequivocal, given the riddles and the riddling tale that lead up to it. Midrash, a textually based epistemology, is further contrasted with an epistemology generated by sight, in the extended sugya that juxtaposes scriptural exegesis and mini-​­travelogues and tall tales. Similarly,

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the figure of Serah. designates an epistemological certainty that midrash strives for but may only rarely achieve, for the simple reason that Serah., as opposed to the rabbis, was “there.” The epistemological reflections are tied up with matters pertaining to authority and hegemony, when midrash is identified explicitly as a rabbinic institutional discourse. The epistemology entailed in tall tales and mini-​ ­travelogues is hence staged as a threat to rabbinic hegemony (specifically, in the context of the Bavli) and is, in turn, met by extreme punitive measures: Rabbi Yoh.anan kills the doubting student who was in need of actual visual proof for what the rabbi deduced from scriptural exegesis. Hegemony and institutional authority are reflected on through the figure of Rabbi’s maidservant. Her reflective capacity is to be found both in her ability to mimic rabbinic midrash and to transcend rabbinic linguistic-​­textual boundaries. But Rabbi’s maidservant’s knowledge cannot be identified simply with a distinct epistemology. In fact, we may say that it is her social position, a woman-​­servant in the household of the leading rabbinic figure, that frees her not only from the burden of rabbinic epistemology but from a confined set of socially recognized epistemological principles (for example, sight). Indeed, she is imagined as holding a vitality that rabbinic discourse—​­whether it is a linguistic search for the lost meaning of a word or a prayer to prevent Rabbi’s death—​­lacks. That vitality cannot be reduced to, nor can it be explained by, epistemology. The experiential component that is implied in the lowly maidservant is made explicit in Serah.’s figure, where her linguistic skills—​­which I termed “magical language”—​­mirror her eternal “being there.” Serah.’s embodiment of these linguistic skills marks an experiential position of continuity, of ongoing (re)presentation of the past that consequently facilitates redemption. The ability to experience, in the flawed present, past revelation and a redemptive future is what is at stake when tall tales and mini-​­travelogues are contrasted with midrash. Indeed, it is the very question of belief that is raised in Rabbi Yoh.anan’s accusation to the doubting disciple. But can midrash provide an experiential equivalent to what is experienced visually? Can a text provide “real” experience, or is it doomed to be a failed attempt? How, to phrase it generally, does midrash measure against a tangible, concrete reality? The following narrative raises these questions, and more:1 ‘Ulla and Rav H.isda were walking along the road. When they came to the door of the house of R. H.ana, son of H.anilai, Rav H.isda sobbed and sighed.

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‘Ulla said to him: Why are you sighing, seeing that Rav has said that a sigh breaks half a man’s body, since it says: “And you, O mortal, sigh; with tottering limbs and bitter grief” (Ezek. 21:11), and Rabbi Yoh.anan said that it breaks even the whole of a man’s body, as it says: “And when they ask you ‘Why do you sigh?’ answer, ‘Because of the tidings that have cometh.’ Every heart shall sink” (ibid. 21:12). He said: How shall I refrain from sighing [on seeing] a house in which there used to be sixty cooks by day and sixty cooks by night, who cooked for everyone who was in need? Nor did [Rav H.ana] ever take his hand away from his pocket, thinking that perhaps a respectable poor man might come, and while he was stretching out to his pocket, he would be put to shame. Moreover, it had four doors, opening on different sides, and whoever went in hungry went out full. They also used to throw wheat and barley outside in years of scarcity, so that anyone who was ashamed to take by day used to come and take by night. Now it has fallen in ruins, and shall I not sigh? He said to him: Thus said Rabbi Yoh.anan: since the day when the Temple was destroyed, a decree has been issued against the houses of the righteous that they should become desolate, as it says: “In my hearing [said] the Lord of hosts: Surely, great houses shall lie forlorn, spacious and splendid ones, without occupants” (Isa. 5:9). Rabbi Yoh.anan further said: the Holy One, blessed be He, will in the future restore them to their inhabited state, as it says: “A Song of Ascents. Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion” (Ps. 125:1). Just as the Holy One, blessed be He, will restore Mount Zion to its inhabited (settled) state, so will He restore the houses of the righteous to their inhabited (settled) state. Observing that his mind was not settled, he said to him: Enough for the servant that he should be like his master.2 The story begins with Rav H.isda’s emotional reaction upon seeing the ruins of what used to be the house of a righteous sage. ‘Ulla tries to comfort his grieving companion by addressing the negative impact of sighs on a man’s well-​­being. It is not good for one’s health, he seems to be saying. As we might expect, his counsel draws on a midrash—​­or rather, on Rav and Rabbi

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Yoh.anan’s midrash on Ezek. 21:11–​­​­12—​­but his attempt fails. Confronted by the visual reminder of immense loss (as he later explains), being told that grief is unhealthy does not provide Rav H.isda with solace, even if such advice rests on scriptural (and earlier rabbinic) authority. Rav H.isda sees a ruin, is drawn by memories of lost glory, and he sighs. ‘Ulla’s midrash cannot stand up against visceral reactions, against concrete reality (that is, ruins) and the memories it evokes. ‘Ulla then tries a different path, one that addresses Rav H.isda’s use of the word “ruin.” Again he quotes a midrash ascribed to Rabbi Yoh.anan in which he associates the destruction of the Temple and the decree of the destruction of the houses of the righteous. The Temple and the houses of the righteous are now in ruins, but just as God has promised to rebuild the Temple, so will the houses of the righteous be rebuilt. But, again, Rav H.isda takes no solace in ‘Ulla’s words, and the latter withdraws his initial allusion to a redemptive future. The description of ‘Ulla’s failure to settle (meshev) Rav H.isda’s mind employs the same root that the story used for the resettled (yishuvan) houses of Israel as well as Mount Zion (the Temple); the same word (yashav) used to designate the rehabilitation of the destroyed houses characterizes the failure to imprint those words or images on the mind of the rabbi. Finally, ‘Ulla transforms the initial function of his midrash. His midrash is shored up against a flawed, concrete reality. It cannot possibly erase the physical ruin over which Rav H.isda is grieving; and it is unable to provide an assurance of a different reality in future times. At the end, ‘Ulla does not relinquish the analogy between the Temple and the house of the righteous man. However, he now suggests that the comfort of the analogy, provided by midrash, is not to be found in a redemptive future but rather in the actual identification between the servant and his master, between the Sage and God, both of whose houses collapsed. The identification between the ruined human house and God’s destroyed Temple delineates a world of images in which a theological destruction is reflected in local destructions, in contemporary historical settings. The geographical, social, and cosmological are thus deemed homological, so that, paradoxically, the coherence of a system of images of ruins grants meaning and solace to what might otherwise be conceived as isolated fragments of destruction. ‘Ulla’s final words thus suggest that his midrash can, if nothing else, provide fragmented cohesion. By implication, this may suggest that Rav H.isda’s physical wholeness, his subjective self, can only be attained by not denying his vulnerability, by accepting a fragmenting sigh. Fragmented cohesion is what characterizes the narrative as

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a whole as it wavers between the initially failed comforting attempts of ‘Ulla and a meta-​­poetic, cosmologically aesthetic resolution. Then again, we do not hear Rav H.isda’s response to ‘Ulla’s final words. As far as resolving the initial human crisis with which the story began, the culmination of the plot is left ambiguous. This story echoes themes that appeared in the narratives of the previous chapters. It is, like the other narratives, a tale in which midrash is reflected upon, combining the personal and the textual. Its thematization of midrash is tied up with questions of textual resolution and personal coherency. What is especially striking in this story is its association of midrash and ruins. This extremely poignant association will serve as a closing—​­if only suggestive—​ ­image to what I have argued throughout the book. Without taking recourse to this specific text, a similar association between midrash and ruins was made, claiming that midrash may be compared to T. S. Eliot’s “fragments shored up against a ruin.”3 Yet, I suggest, midrash may be closer to the concept of the ruin than to the sandbags that are shored up against it: if the discursive feature of midrash is, as argued in the Introduction, that it makes visible the seams of the narrative, midrash is, in a profound way, a ruin. Walter Benjamin wrote: “Allegories are, in the realm of thought, what ruins are in the realm of things.”4 For him, the power of allegory (as opposed to the symbol) lies precisely in that it is not a unified-​­organic-​­mythological expression. Instead, its power resides in an awareness of “the elements from which the new whole is mixed. Or rather: is constructed.”5 Without entering into the complicated debate over the definition of tropes (allegory versus symbol), I find that Benjamin’s association of the ruin with self-​­reflecting, consciously fragmented discourse is extremely suggestive of midrash.6 It is precisely this association that the last story, of the two Sages confronted by a ruin, introduces. Here, midrash, offered as a response to the ruin, turns out to be its discursive equivalent. Both a ruin and a midrash are semi-​­exposed structures—​­the ruin implies the fragmentation of the (structural) whole, while midrash bases its structure on scriptural fragmentation (cited verses). And the ruin and midrash are traces of larger structures or narratives; both are acutely liminal. The ruin marks the fine line separating being from not being, memory from oblivion. Midrash is the liminal threshold that connects the text of scripture to that positioned outside of it. A rabbi engaging in midrash is simultaneously within and outside the text, and so is his exegetical expansion on that text. It

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is precisely their overt and poignant liminality that renders both the ruin and midrash self-​­reflective. Benjamin’s claim that a ruin draws attention to both presence and absence, to the incompleteness of a structure, to its innate vulnerability, captures, to my mind, the essence of midrash and, by extension, the essence (if only an imagined-​­fantasized essence) of a rabbinic self. It is the self-​­reflexivity, embedded in the ruin and in midrash alike, that renders both the image and rabbinic discourse a powerful, and ultimately vital, cultural force. The power of midrash as the rabbinic discourse par excellence, one that I consequently identify as the rabbinic self, is derived not only from its ability to grant scripture relevant meaning in the belated rabbinic era. The power of midrash derives, almost paradoxically, from its self-​­reflective quality, from its capacity to call into question and reflect on the underlying principles—​­textual, religious, and ideological—​­through which it is constituted.

Appendix

bBava Batra 73a–​­75b

Part 1 1. Rabbah said: Seafarers told me: The wave that sinks a ship appears with a white fringe of fire at its crest, and when stricken with clubs on which is engraved. “I am that I am, Yah, the Lord of Hosts, Amen, Amen, Selah,” it subsides. 2. Rabbah said: Seafarers told me: There is a distance of three hundred parasangs between one wave and the other, and the height of the wave is [also] three hundred parasangs. “Once,” [they related], “we were on a voyage, and the wave lifted us up so high that we saw the resting place of the smallest star, and it was the size required for planting forty se’ah of mustard seeds; and if it had lifted us up still higher, we would have been burned by its heat. And one wave called to the other: ‘My friend, have you left anything in the world that you did not wash away? I will go and destroy it.’ The other replied: ‘Go and see the power of the master [by whose command] I must not pass the sand [of the shore even as much as] the breadth of a thread’; as it is written: Should you not revere Me? says the Lord. Should you not tremble before Me? Who set the sand as a boundary to the sea, as a limit for all time, not to be transgressed?” (Jer. 5:22). 3. Rabbah said: I saw how Hormiz, son of Lilith, was running on the parapet of the wall of Meh.oza, and a rider, galloping below on horseback, could not overtake him. Once they saddled for him two mules, which stood [73b] on two bridges of the Rognag; and he jumped from one to the other, backward and forward, holding in his hands two cups of wine, pouring alternately from one to the other, and not a drop fell to the ground. [Furthermore], that day

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was on which [ships] were mounting up to heaven, plunging down to the depths (Ps. 107:26). When the government heard [of this], they put him to death. 4. Rabbah said: I saw an antelope, one day old, that was as big as Mount Tabor. (How big is Mount Tabor?—​­Four parasangs.) The length of its neck was three parasangs, and the resting place of its head was one parasang and a half. It cast a ball of excrement and blocked up the Jordan. 5. Rabbah bar bar H.ana said: I saw a frog the size of the Fort of Hagronia. And what is the size of the Fort of Hagronia?—​­Sixty houses. There came a sea monster and swallowed the frog. Then came a raven and swallowed the sea monster, and perched on a tree. Imagine [lit., “Come see”] how strong was the tree. Rav Papa ben Shemuʾel said: Had I not been there, I would not have believed it. 6. Rabbah bar bar H.ana further stated: Once we were traveling on board a ship and saw a fish in whose nostrils a parasite had entered, and the fish died. Thereupon, the water cast up the fish and threw it upon the shore. Sixty towns were destroyed thereby, sixty towns ate from it, and sixty towns salted [its remains], and from one of its eyeballs three hundred kegs of oil were filled. On returning after twelve months, we saw that they were cutting rafters from its skeleton and proceeding to rebuild those towns. 7. Rabbah bar bar H.ana further stated: Once we were traveling on board a ship and saw a fish whose back was covered with sand out of which grew grass. Thinking it was dry land, we went up and baked, and cooked, upon its back. When, however, its back was heated, it turned, and had not the ship been nearby, we should have drowned. 8. Rabbah bar bar H.ana further stated: We traveled once on board a ship, and the ship sailed between one fin of the fish and the other for three days and three nights, it [swimming] upward and we [floating] downward. And if you think the ship did not sail fast enough, Rav Dimi, when he came, stated that it covered sixty parasangs in the time it takes to warm a kettle of water. When a horseman shot an arrow, [the ship] outstripped it. And Rav Ashi said: That was a small fish that has [only] two fins. 9. Rabbah bar bar H.ana further related: Once we traveled on board a ship and we saw a bird standing up to its ankles in the water while its head reached

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the sky. We thought the water was not deep and wished to go down to cool ourselves, but a bat qol [divine voice] called out: “Do not go down here, for a carpenter’s ax was dropped [into this water] seven years ago, and it has not [yet] reached the bottom. And this, not [only] because the water is deep but because it is rapid.” Rav Ashi said: That [bird] was Ziz-​­Shaddai, for it is written: And Ziz-​­Shaddai is with me (Ps. 50:11). 10. Rabbah bar bar H.ana further related: We were once traveling in the desert and saw geese whose feathers fell out on account of their fatness, and streams of fat flowed under them. I said to them: “Shall we have a share of your flesh in the world to come?” One lifted up [its] wing, the other lifted up [its] leg. When I came before R. El‘azar, he said unto me: Israel will be called to account for [the sufferings of] these [geese]. 11. Rabbah bar bar H.ana related: We were once traveling in a desert and there joined us an Arab merchant who, [by] taking up sand and smelling it, [could] tell which was the way to one place and which was the way to another. We said unto him: “How far are we from water?” He replied: “Give me [some] sand.” We gave him, and he said unto us: “Eight parasangs.” When we gave him again [later], he told us that we were three parasangs off. I changed it, but was unable [to confuse] him. 12. He said unto me: “Come and I will show you the Dead of the Wilderness.” I went [with him] and saw them; and they looked as if in a state of intoxication. They lay on their backs; and the knee of one of them was raised, and the Arab passed under the knee, riding on a camel with his spear erect, and did not touch it. I cut off one corner of the purple-​­blue shawl of one of them; and we could not move away. He said unto me: “[If] you have, by chance, taken something from them, return it; for we have a tradition that he who takes anything from them cannot move away.” I went and returned it; and then we were able to move away. When I came before the rabbis, they said unto me: Every Abba is an ass, and every bar bar H.ana is a fool. For what purpose did you do that? Was it in order to ascertain whether [the Law] is in accordance with the [decision of] Bet Shammai or Bet Hillel? You should have counted the threads and counted the joints. 13. [The Arab] said unto me: “Come and I will show you Mount Sinai.” When I arrived, I saw that scorpions surrounded it, and they stood like Lybian asses.

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I heard a bat qol saying: “Woe unto me that I have made an oath, and now that I have made the oath, who will release me?” When I came before the rabbis, they said unto me: “Every Abba is an ass, and every bar bar H.ana is a fool. You should have said, ‘You are released of your vow.’ ” He, however, thought that perhaps it was the oath in connection with the Flood. And the rabbis? [They assumed that] if so, why, “woe unto me”? 14. He said unto me: “Come, I will show you the men of Korah who were swallowed up.” I saw two cracks that emitted smoke. I took a piece of clipped wool, dipped it in water, attached it to the point of a spear, and left it in there. And when I took it out, it was singed. [Thereupon] he said unto me: “Listen [to] what you [are about to] hear.” And I heard them say: “Moses and his Torah are truth and we are liars.” He said unto me: “Every thirty days, Gehenna causes them to turn back here as [one turns] flesh in a pot, and they say thus: ‘Moses and his Torah are truth and we are liars.’ ” 15. He said unto me: “Come, I will show you where heaven and earth touch one another.” I took up my [bread] basket and placed it in a window of heaven. When I concluded my prayers, I looked for it but did not find it. I said unto him: “Are there thieves here?” He replied to me: “It is the heavenly wheel revolving. Wait here until tomorrow, and you will find it.” 16. R. Yoh.anan related: Once we were traveling on board a ship and saw a fish that raised its head out of the sea. Its eyes were like two moons, and water streamed from its two nostrils as [from] the two rivers of Sura. 17. R. Safra related: Once we traveled on board a ship and we saw a fish that raised its head out of the sea. It had horns on which was engraved: “I am a minor creature of the sea, I am three hundred parasangs [in length], and I am [now] going into the mouth of Leviathan.” Rav Ashi said: It is a goat fish that is lean and has horns. 18. R. Yoh.anan related: Once we were traveling on board a ship and saw a chest in which were set precious stones and pearls, and it was surrounded by a different fish called a shark. There went down [74b] a diver to bring [the chest], but [the fish] noticed [him] and was about to wrench his thigh. Thereupon he poured upon it a skin bottle of vinegar, and it sank. A bat qol came forth, saying unto us: “What have you to do with the chest of the wife

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of R. H.anina ben Dosa, who is to store in it purple-​­blue for the righteous in the world to come?” 19. Rav Yehudah, the Indian, related: Once we were traveling on board a ship when we saw a precious stone that was surrounded by a sea monster. A diver descended to bring it up. [Thereupon] the sea monster approached with the purpose of swallowing the ship, [when] a raven came and bit off its head and the waters were turned into blood. A second sea monster came, took [the head of the decapitated sea monster] and attached it [to the body], and it revived. Again [the sea monster] approached, intent on swallowing the ship. Again a bird came and severed its head. [Thereupon the diver] seized the precious stone and threw it into the ship. We had with us salted birds. [As soon as] we put [the stone] upon them, they took it up and flew away with it. 20. Our rabbis taught: It happened that Rabbi Eli‘ezer and Rabbi Yehoshu‘a were traveling on board a ship. Rabbi Eli‘ezer was sleeping and Rabbi Yehoshu‘a was awake. Rabbi Yehoshu‘a shuddered and Rabbi Eli‘ezer awoke. He said unto him: “What is the matter, Yehoshu‘a? What has caused you to tremble?” He said unto him: “I have seen a great light in the sea.” He said unto him: “You may have seen the eyes of Leviathan, for it is written: ‘His eyes are like the glimmerings of dawn’ ” (Job 41:10). 21. Rav Ashi said: Rav Huna ben Natan related to me [the following]: Once we were walking in the desert and we had with us a leg of meat. We cut it open and picked out [the forbidden fat and sciatic nerve] and put it on the grass. While we were fetching wood, the leg regained its original form and we roasted it. When we returned after twelve months, we saw those coals still glowing. When I came before Ammemar, he said unto me: That herb was samtre [an herb with the power of uniting severed parts]. Those glowing coals were of broom.

Part 2 1. And God created the great sea monsters (Gen. 1:22). Here they explained: The sea antelopes. R. Yoh.anan said: This refers to Leviathan the slant serpent, and to Leviathan the tortuous serpent, for it is written: In that day, the Lord will punish, with His great, cruel, mighty sword (Isa. 27:1).

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2. Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: All that the Holy One, blessed be He, created in His world, He created male and female. Likewise, Leviathan the slant serpent and Leviathan the tortuous serpent he created male and female; and had they mated with each other, they would have destroyed the whole world. What [then] did the Holy One, blessed be He, do? He castrated the male and killed the female, preserving it in salt for the righteous in the world to come, for it is written: And He will slay the sea monster (ibid.). And also Behemoth on a thousand hills were created male and female, and had they mated with each other, they would have destroyed the whole world. What did the Holy One, blessed be He, do? He castrated the male and cooled the female and preserved it for the righteous for the world to come, for it is written: His strength is in his loins—​­this refers to the male; his might is in the muscles of his belly (Job 40:16)—​­this refers to the female. There also, [in the case of Leviathan], he should have castrated the male and cooled the female [why, then, did he kill the female]?—​­Fishes are dissolute. Why did he not reverse the process?—​­If you wish, say: [It is because a] female [fish] preserved in salt is tastier. If you prefer, say: Because it is written: Leviathan that You have formed to sport with (Ps. 104:26) and with a female, this is not proper. Then here also [in the case of Behemoth] he should have preserved the female in salt?—​­Salted fish is palatable, salted flesh is not. 3. Rav Yehudah in the name of Rav further said: At the time when the Holy One, blessed be He, desired to create the world, He said to the angel of the sea: “Open thy mouth and swallow all the waters of the world.” He said unto Him: “Lord of the Universe, it is enough that I remain with my own.” Thereupon, He struck him with His foot and killed him, for it is written: By His power, He stilled the Sea; by His skills, He struck down Rahab (Job 26:12). R. Isaac said: From this it may be inferred that the name of the angel of the sea was Rahab. And had not the waters covered him, no creature could have stood his [foul] odor, for it is written: In all My sacred mount . . . ​as water covers the sea (Isa. 11:9). Do not read: The water covers the sea, but [in the sense]: “They cover the angel of the sea.” 4. Rav Yehudah further stated in the name of Rav: The Jordan issues from the cavern of Paneas. It has been taught likewise: The Jordan issues from the cavern of Paneas and passes through the Lake of Sibkay and the Lake of Tiberias and rolls down into the great sea from whence it rolls on until it rushes into the mouth of Leviathan, for it is said: He is confident that the Jordan will gush

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at his command (Job 40:23). Rabba ben ʿUlla objected: This [verse] is written of Behemoth on a thousand hills!—​­But, said R. Abba b. ‘Ulla: When is Behemoth on a thousand hills confident?—​­When the Jordan rushes into the mouth of Leviathan. 5. When R. Dimi came, he stated in the name of R. Yoh.anan: The verse For He founded it upon the oceans, set it on the nether-​­streams (Ps. 24:2) speaks of the seven seas and four rivers that surround the Land of Israel. And these are the seven seas: the Sea of Tiberias, the Sea of Sodom, the Sea of Helath, the Sea of Hiltha, the Sea of Sibkay, the Sea of Afamya, and the Great Sea. The following are the four rivers: the Jordan, the Yarmuk, the Keramyon, and the Pigah. 6. When R. Dimi came, he said in the name of R. Yoh.anan: Gabriel is to arrange in the future [75a] a chase of Leviathan, for it is said: Can you draw out Leviathan with a fish hook? Can you press down his tongue by a rope? (Job 40:25). And if the Holy One, blessed be He, will not help him, he will be unable to prevail over him, for it is said: Only his Maker can draw the sword against him (ibid., v. 19). 7. When R. Dimi came, he said in the name of R. Yoh.anan: When Leviathan is hungry, he emits [fiery] breath from his mouth and causes all the waters of the deep to boil, for it is said: He makes the depths seethe like a cauldron (Job 41:23). And if he were not to put his head into the Garden of Eden, no creature could stand his [foul] odor, for it is said: He makes the sea [boil] like an ointment pot (ibid.). When he is thirsty, he makes numerous furrows in the sea, for it is said: His wake is a luminous path (ibid., v. 24). R. Ah.a ben Ya‘aqov said: The deep does not return to its strength until [after] seventy years, for it is said: He makes the deep seem white-​­haired (ibid.), and hoary age is not [attained at] less than seventy [years]. 8. Rabbah said in the name of R. Yoh.anan: The Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come make a banquet for the righteous from the flesh of Leviathan, for it is said: Shall companions make a banquet [vayikhru] on him (Job 40:30). [The root] K-​­R-​­H must mean a banquet, for it is said: So he prepared [vayikhreh] a lavish banquet for them, and they ate and they drank (2 Kings 6:23). “Companions” [h. averim] means Sages, for it is said: O you who linger in the gardens, the companions listen to your voice; let me hear your voice (Song of Songs 8:13). The rest [of Leviathan] will be distributed and sold out

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in the markets of Jerusalem, for it is said: Will he be divided up among the Canaanites [Kena‘anim] (Job 40:30), and Kena‘anim must mean merchants, for it is said: As for Kena‘an, the balances of deceit are in his hand, who loves to overreach (Hosea 12:8). And if you wish, you may infer it from the following: Whose merchants were nobles, whose traders the world honored (Isa. 23:8). 9. Rabbah in the name of R. Yoh.anan further stated: The Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come make a tabernacle for the righteous from the skin of Leviathan, for it is said: Can you fill tabernacles with his skin? (Job 40:31). If a man is worthy, a tabernacle is made for him; if he is not worthy [of this], a [mere] covering is made for him, for it is said: Or his head with fish-​­spears? (ibid.). If a man is [sufficiently] worthy, a covering is made for him; if he is not worthy [even of this], a necklace is made for him, for it is said: A necklace about your throat (Prov. 1:9). If he is worthy [of it], a necklace is made for him; if he is not worthy [even of this], an amulet is made for him; as it is said: And tie him down for your girls (Job 40:29). The rest [of Leviathan] will be spread by the Holy One, blessed be He, upon the walls of Jerusalem, and its splendor will shine from one end of the world to the other, as it is said: And nations shall walk by your light, kings by your shining radiance (Isa. 60:3). 10. And I will make your pinnacles of kadkod (Isa. 54:12)—​­R. Shemu’el ben Nah.mani said: There is a dispute [as to the meaning of kadkod] between two angels in heaven, Gabriel and Michael. Others say: [the dispute is between] two amoraim in the West. And who are they?—​­Yehudah and H.ezekiah, sons of R. H.iyya. One says: [kadkod means] onyx, and the other says jasper. The Holy One, blessed be He, said unto them: Let it be as this [kadun] one [says] and as that [kadun] one says. 11. “And your gates of carbuncles” (Isa. 54:12) [is to be understood] as Rabbi Yoh.anan [explained] when he [once] sat and gave an exposition: The Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come bring precious stones and pearls that are thirty [cubits] by thirty and will cut out from them [openings] ten [cubits] by twenty, and will set them up in the gates of Jerusalem. A certain student sneered at him: Now [jewels] of the size of a dove’s egg are not to be found; are [jewels] of such a size to be found? After a time, his ship sailed out to sea, [where] he saw ministering angels engaged in cutting precious stones and pearls that were thirty [cubits] by thirty and on which were engravings of ten [cubits] by twenty. He said unto them: “For whom are these?” They

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replied that the Holy One, blessed be He, would in time to come set them up in the gates of Jerusalem. [When] he came [again] before Rabbi Yoh.anan, he said unto him: “Expound, O my master; it is becoming for you to expound [lidrosh]; as you said, so have I seen.” He replied unto him: “You numbskull, had you not seen, would you have not believed? You are [then] mocking the words of the Sages!” He set his eyes on him, and [the student] turned into a heap of bones. 12. An objection was raised: And I will lead you qomemiyut (Lev. 26:13), R. Meir says: [It means] two hundred cubits, twice the height of Adam. R. Yehudah says: A hundred cubits, corresponding to the [height of the] Temple and its walls. For it is said: We whose sons are as plants grown up in their youth; whose daughters are as corner pillars carved after the fashion of the Temple (Ps. 144:12). R. Yoh.anan speaks only of the ventilation windows. 13. Rabbah in the name of R. Yoh.anan further stated: The Holy One, blessed be He, will make seven canopies for every righteous man, for it is said: The Lord will create over the whole shrine and meeting place of Mount Zion cloud by day and smoke with a glow of flaming fire by night. Indeed, over all the glory shall hang a canopy (Isa. 4:5). This teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, will make for everyone a canopy corresponding to his rank. Why is smoke required in a canopy?—​­R. H.anina said: Because whosoever is niggardly toward the Sages in this world will have his eyes filled with smoke in the world to come. Why is fire required in a canopy?—​­R. H.anina said: This teaches that each one will be burned by reason of [his envy of the superior] canopy of his friend. Alas, for such shame! Alas, for such reproach! 14. In a similar category is the following: Invest him with some of your honor (Num. 27:20), but not all thy honor. The elders of that generation said: The countenance of Moses was like that of the sun; the countenance of Joshua was like that of the moon. Alas, for such shame! Alas for such reproach! 15. R. H.ama ben H.anina said: The Holy One, blessed be He, made ten canopies for Adam in the Garden of Eden, for it is said: You were in Eden, the garden of God. Every precious stone [was your adornment: carnelian, chrysolite, and amethyst; beryl, lapis lazuli, and the jasper; sapphire, turquoise, and emerald; and gold] (Ezek. 28:13). Mar Zutra says: Eleven, for it is said: Every precious stone. R. Yoh.anan said: The least of all [these] was gold, since it is mentioned

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last. What is [implied] by the work of your timbrels and holes? (ibid.)—​­Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Hiram, king of Tyre. “[At the Creation], I looked upon thee, [observing thy future arrogance] and created [therefore] the excretory organs of man.” Others say: “Thus said [the Holy One, blessed be He]: I looked upon thee [75b] and decreed the penalty of death over Adam.” What is implied by “meeting place” (Isa. 4:5)—​­Rabbah said in the name of R. Yoh.anan: Jerusalem of the world to come will not be like Jerusalem of the present world. [To] Jerusalem of the present world, anyone who wishes goes up, but to that of the world to come, only those invited will go, as it is said: “meeting place” (miqra‘eha, where one is invited). 16. Rabbah in the name of R. Yoh.anan further stated: The righteous will in time to come be called by the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, for it is said: All who are linked to My name, whom I have created, formed, and made for My glory (ibid. 43:7). 17. R. Shemuʾel ben Nah.mani said in the name of R. Yoh.anan: Three were called by the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, and they are the following: the righteous, the messiah, and Jerusalem. [This may be inferred as regards] the righteous [from] what has just been said. [As regards] the messiah—​­it is written: And this is the name by which he shall be called: “The Lord is our Vindicator” (Jer. 23:6). [As regards] Jerusalem, it is written: Its circumference [will be] eighteen thousand [cubits]; and the name of the city from that day on shall be “The Lord is there [shammah]” (Ezek. 48:35). Do not read, “there” but “its name [shemah].” 18. R. Elʿazar said: There will come a time when “holy” will be said before the righteous as it is said before the Holy One, blessed be He, for it is said: And those who remain in Zion, and are left . . . ​shall be called holy (Isa. 4:3). 19. Rabbah in the name of R. Yoh.anan further stated: The Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come lift up Jerusalem three parasangs high, for it is said: shall perch high up in its place and shall be inhabited (Zech. 14:10); “in its place” means “like her place.” Whence is it proved that the space it occupied was three parasangs in extent?—​­Rabbah said: A certain old man told me, “I saw ancient Jerusalem, and it occupied [an area of] three parasangs.” And lest you should think that the ascent will be painful, it is expressly stated: Who are

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these that float like a cloud, like doves to their cotes? (Isa. 60:8). Rav Papa said: Hence it may be inferred that a cloud rises three parasangs. R. H.anina ben Papa said: The Holy One, blessed be He, wished to give to Jerusalem a [definite] size, for it is said: “Where are you going?” I asked. “To measure Jerusalem,” he replied, “to see how long and wide it is to be” (Zech. 2:6). The ministering angels said before the Holy One, blessed be He, “Lord of the Universe, many towns for the nations of the earth hast Thou created in Thy world, and Thou didst not fix the measurement of their length or the measurement of their breadth; wilt Thou fix a measurement for Jerusalem in the midst of which is Thy Name, Thy sanctuary, and the righteous?” Thereupon, the former said to him: “Run to that young man and tell him: Jerusalem shall be peopled as a city without walls, so many shall be the men and cattle it contains” (Zech. 2:8). 20. Resh Lakish said: The Holy One, blessed be He, will in time to come add to Jerusalem a thousand gardens, a thousand towers, a thousand palaces, and a thousand mansions; and each [of these] will be as big as Sepphoris in its prosperity. It has been taught: R. Jose said: I saw Sepphoris in its prosperity, and it contained 180,000 markets for pudding dealers. 21. The side chambers were arranged one above the other, in thirty-​­three sections (Ezek. 41:6). What is meant by three and thirty times?—​­R. Levi in the name of R. Papi in the name of R. Yehoshuʿa of Siknin said: If [in time to come] there will be three Jerusalems, each [building] will contain thirty dwellings one over the other; if there will be thirty Jerusalems, each [building] will contain three dwellings one over the other.

Notes

Introduction 1. Gen. 12:11–​­​­13. 2. Midrash Tanh. uma (printed edition), Lekh lekha. 3. On the nuanced meaning of the Hebrew hinne-​­na, denoting “now” (which modern translations fail to capture), see S. Fassberg, Studies in Biblical Syntax (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1994), pp. 36–​­​ ­73. On the different midrash readings of this passage, see J. L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998), pp. 271–​­72. 4. Abram’s reflective scene may not be so distant from another famous mirroring scene, one from the land of fairy tales. Recall that a certain anxious queen, facing a mirror on the wall, hears the harsh verdict: “You, my queen, may have a beauty quite rare,/but Snow White is a thousand times more fair.” Quoted from J. Zipes, trans., The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (New York: Bantam, 1987), p. 197. Self-​­reflectivity, becoming the object of one’s own gaze, lies at the core of “Snow White,” motivating its plot and its themes. Identity, the cunning juxtaposition and interdependence of self and other (in Abram’s case, it literally involves seeing the reflection of Sarai as other), and the very premise of narrativity are linked to the concept of self-​­reflection. For a discussion of the mirroring principle in “Snow White,” see C. Bacchilega, Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), pp. 32–​­​­48 (earlier works on the topic are cited there). 5. See Chapter 1 of this volume. 6. K. Burke, Language as Symbolic Action: Essays on Life, Literature and Method (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), p. 24. 7. I am paraphrasing Linda Hutcheon’s formulation regarding what she terms “narcissistic narrative”; see Narcissistic Narrative: The Metafictional Paradox (New York: Methuen, 1984), p. xii. Her work is explicitly triggered by, and limited to, postmodern metafiction, although she finds antecedents to this phenomenon in earlier fiction. I am applying her formulation to what seems to me to be a much wider phenomenon than she assumes. Nevertheless, the stylistic similarities between postmodern fiction and rabbinic texts (e.g., their heterogeneous character, the manner in which they combine different literary and hermeneutic genres) suggest that the application of Hutcheon’s comments to rabbinic texts might indeed rely on a more specific understanding of self-​­reflexivity. On postmodern literary theory and midrash, see G. H. Hartman and S. Budick, eds., Midrash and Literature (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986); and D. Stern, “The Midrash-​­Theory Connection,” in idem, Midrash and Theory: Ancient Jewish Exegesis and Contemporary Literary Studies (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1996), pp. 1–​­​­13. 8. Self-​­reflexivity has also characterized institutionally established discourses—​­philosophical,

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Notes to Pages 4–5

literary, ethnographic—​­ that, upon introspective analysis, have yielded dark secrets of their conceptions. See, e.g., C. Norris, “Derrida’s Critique of Philosophy,” in idem, Deconstruction: Theory and Practice (New York: Routledge, 1983), pp. 42–​­​­55; G. Watson, “Make Me Reflexive—​ ­but Not Yet: Strategies for Managing Essential Reflexivity in Ethnographic Discourse,” Journal of Anthropological Research 43:1 (1987): 29–​­​­41; and G. E. Marcus, “On Ideologies of Reflexivity in Contemporary Efforts to Remake the Human Sciences,” in idem, Ethnography Through Thick and Thin (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1998), pp. 181–​­​­202. The literary self-​­reflexive critique is associated with post-​­structuralist scholars, e.g., P. de Man, G. Hartman, and J. H. Miller. 9. On the intertextual quality of rabbinic midrash See D. Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), esp. pp. 22–​­​­26. 10. Hutcheon distinguishes between two modes of self-​­reflexivity: texts that are “diegetically self-​­conscious” and others that “demonstrate primarily an awareness of their linguistic constitution.” She then goes on to distinguish between the overt and covert self-​­reflexive (which she terms “narcissistic”) text: “Overtly narcissistic texts reveal their self-​­awareness in explicit thematizations or allegorizations of their diegetic or linguistic identity within the texts themselves. In the covert form, this process is internalized, actualized; such texts are self-​­reflective but not necessarily self-​ ­conscious” (Narcissistic Narrative, p. 7). Where Hutcheon uses “narcissism,” I use “self-​­reflexivity.” Although the terms are not identical, her insights are applicable to my argument; for a different discussion on narrativity and the objects of reflexivity, see Lucien Dällenbach, The Mirror in the Text, trans. J. Whiteley and E. Hughes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), pp. 43–​­​­53. 11. J. Levinson, The Twice-​­Told Tale: A Poetics of the Exegetical Narrative in Rabbinic Midrash (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2005), pp. 17–​­​­18, 311–​­12 [Hebrew]. 12. Ibid., p. 313 (on the retold biblical story); on the midrashic component of the parable, see D. Stern, Parables in Midrash (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990). See also W. S. Towner, The Rabbinic “Enumeration of Scriptural Examples”: A Study of a Rabbinic Pattern of Discourse with Special Reference to Mekhilta d’R. Ishmael (Leiden: Brill, 1973) (on enumerations). 13. Some scholars ascribe the origin of midrash to pre-​­rabbinic times, tracing it back to narratives that do not bear explicit exegetical rhetoric, i.e., intra-​­biblical interpretation and the rewritten biblical story of the Second Temple period. See, e.g., M. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985); and J. L. Kugel, The Bible as It Was (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997), pp. 1–​­​­40. Perhaps this is true—​­clearly, a variety of interpretative modes were practiced during the Second Temple period, including the rewriting of biblical stories and intra-​­biblical interpretations, neither of which present themselves as explicit commentaries. However, rabbinic midrash is not only unique in its explicit dependency on scripture; it becomes the overwhelmingly dominant discourse in rabbinic writings (thus setting it apart from its possible predecessors where it, at best, was one rhetorical option among others). For a restrictive approach that identifies midrash exclusively with rabbinic literature, see Lieve M. Teugels, Bible and Midrash: The Story of ‘The Wooing of Rebekah’ (Gen. 24) (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), pp. 161–​­63. 14. S. D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), p. 1. 15. The different geographical and historical settings do not allow for a reductive, monolithic characterization of rabbinic hermeneutics. Consider, e.g., the differences between the various schools (Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Akiva), periods (tannaitic and amoraic), and geographical settings (Judaea and the Galilee, Palestine and Babylonia), as well as differences between compilations. However, these differences do not detract from the centrality of midrash. Quite the opposite: they attest to the vitality and prominence that the midrash enjoyed precisely because of the



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creativity with which it was deployed in changing circumstances. On midrash versus halakhah in Mekhilta d’R. Ishmael and the Sifra, see A. Yadin, “Resistance to Midrash? Midrash and Halakhah in the Halakhic Midrashim,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. C. Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 35–​­​­58. 16. B. A. Babcock, “Reflexivity: Definitions and Discriminations,” Semiotica 30:1–​­2 (1980): 5. 17. Ibid., p. 6. 18. A. Yadin, Scripture as Logos: Rabbi Ishmael and the Origins of Midrash (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), p. 33. 19. J. Levinson, “Dialogical Reading in Rabbinic Exegetical Narrative,” Poetics Today 25:3 (2004): 524. 20. M. Halbertal, Interpretative Revolutions in the Making: Values as Interpretative Considerations in Midrashei Halakhah (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1997), pp. 202–​­3 [Hebrew]. Although Halbertal limits his discussion to legal midrashim, his observations are applicable to nonlegal material, too. For the historical reconsiderations in which polysemy is ascribed only to the later amoraic period, see D. Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-​­Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), pp. 151–​­​­201. 21. C. E. Hayes, “Displaced Self-​­Perception: The Development of Mînîm and Romans in B. Sanhedrin 90b–​­91a,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine, ed. H. Lapin (Bethesda: University Press of Maryland, 1998), p. 277. 22. For Stern, it is the experience of alienation that follows the destruction of the Temple that informs the rabbinic conception of the “Torah as a figurative trope for God—​­treating God and Torah simultaneously as identical and not identical” (Stern, Midrash and Theory, p. 31). Exegesis thus becomes the locus in which the rabbis both represent that experience as well as attempt to overcome the disruption and the loss intellectually. 23. Much debate over the issue of self-​­reflexivity was triggered by Foucault’s discussion of Velázquez’s Las Meninas in his The Order of Things, trans. A. Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1973), pp. 3–​­​­16. 24. M. Bal, “Lots of Writing,” Poetics Today 15:1 (Spring 1994): 94. 25. For a discussion of the paradoxical boundaries of critical thought (through the idea of travel), see G. Van den Abbeele, Travel as Metaphor: From Montaigne to Rousseau (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), pp. xiii–​­xiv. 26. Stern, Midrash and Theory, p. 32. 27. D. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009). 28. The self for Boyarin is both a textual self, the talmudic dialectic discourse, and an implied social-​­rabbinic self. Unlike Boyarin, I do not identify the self that I hypothesize in this book with a specific work or with historically contextualized rabbinic practices. I argue that reflexivity is rooted in the very practice of midrash, of the overt exegetical rhetoric that is a distinctive marker of all rabbinic literature. 29. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis, pp. 199–​­​­207. 30. Note that a semiotic understanding of the term relates to the self as discourse (signifying practices), as well as to a psychological subject whose reflection provides it with indispensable human skills. Similarly, Butler’s performative approach addresses the issue of the identity of an individual subject (although within this theoretical framework, the differentiation between the individual subject and its culture[s] is undermined to begin with). See J. Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). 31. For the problems entailed in ascribing texts, beliefs, and practices in the rabbinic corpus

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to folk traditions, see D. Stein, “Let the ‘People’ Go? On the ‘Folk’ and Their ‘Lore’ as Tropes in the Reconstruction of Rabbinic Culture,” Prooftexts 29 (2009): 206–​­​­41. 32. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature, trans. B. Stein (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000); and idem, Tales of the Neighborhood (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 33. J. Levinson, “Bodies and Bo(a)rders: Emerging Fictions of Identity in Late Antiquity,” Harvard Theological Review 93 (2000): 343–​­72. 34. See, e.g., Butler’s pioneering work on identity as performance, where she argues against (what she sees as the Lacanian) “pervasive nostalgia for the lost fullness of jouissance” (idem., Gender Trouble, p. 56). 35. I am insisting on self-​­reflexivity as a valid hermeneutic prism, since it allows for a fantasy of a unified self that discursive or postmodern notions of identity may deny. 36. I am not suggesting that this is objectively true, nor am I claiming that this is an exclusive experience: one can just as well point out the experiential and phantasmagoric underpinnings of an imagined hybrid self (certainly in the political contexts in which such theories arose). 37. See, e.g., Boyarin’s work, most recently, Border Lines. 38. C. Hayes, “The ‘Other’ in Rabbinic Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. C. E. Fonrobert and M. S. Jaffee (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 243 (italics added). 39. In this sense, my approach to self-​­reflexivity aligns itself with that of David Stern. The emphasis in Stern’s work is on internal dynamics. Where Daniel Boyarin underlines the formation of rabbinic Judaism in relation to synchronic others (i.e., Hellenism, Christianity), Stern sees rabbinic exegesis as primarily engaged with its own diachronics. The best example of these different approaches is found in Boyarin, Border Lines, pp. 157–​­89 and Stern, Midrash and Theory, pp. 15–​­​­38. In addition to Stern’s emphasis on the internal dynamics of midrash, his interest in its meta-​­poetic aspects relate to rabbinic self-​­reflexivity. For a meta-​­poetic reading of the first chapter of Leviticus Rabbah, see Stern’s Midrash and Theory, pp. 55–​­​­71. For the meta-​­poetic aspects of the mashal, see Stern, “The Rabbinic Parable and the Narrative of Interpretation,” in The Midrashic Imagination: Jewish Exegesis, Thought and History, ed. M. Fishbane (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), pp. 78–​­​­95. See also G. Kessler, Conceiving Israel: The Fetus in Rabbinic Narratives (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). Throughout her book, Kessler emphasizes rabbinic discussion of the fetus as triggered by the rabbis’ concern with their (diachronic) identity as Israelites rather than by Christian claims (which she nonetheless addresses). 40. J. H. Miller, “Narrative,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. F. Lentrichia and T. McLaughlin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), p. 69 (my emphasis). I thank Joshua Levinson for providing me with this reference. 41. In Foucauldian terms, discourse can be viewed “sometimes as the general domain of all statements, sometimes as an individualizable group of statements, and sometimes as a regulated practice that accounts for a number of statements”; see M. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (New York: Pantheon, 1982), p. 80. Following that formulation, rabbinic discourse, or specific rabbinic works within the corpus, can be viewed as the general domain in which individualized and regulated groups of statements and practices operate. By individualized groups of statements, I mean a “group of utterances which seem to be regulated in some way and which seem to have coherence and a force to them in common”; see S. Mills, Discourse (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 7; cf. also D. Howarth, Discourse (Buckingham: Open University Press, 2000), pp. 52–​­​­55.



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42. M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in The Dialogical Imagination, ed. M. Holquist, trans. C. Enderson and M. Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), pp. 259–​­​­422. Intertextuality is a quality of any given text while midrashic intertextuality is characterized by explicit quotations. 43. So much so that it is only recently that late midrash has been appreciated for its novel poetics rather than being viewed as epigonic of classical rabbinic texts; see D. Stein, “Pirke deRabbi Eliezer and Seder Eliyahu: Preliminary Notes on Poetics and Imagined Landscapes,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 24 (2011): 73–​­​­94 [Hebrew; English abstract, pp. x–​­xi]. 44. The Genesis Apocryphon is a fragmentary Aramaic text discovered at Qumran, ca. the first century bce, composed of first-​­person narratives by figures from Genesis; The text cited is based on Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 1:39–​­​­41. 45. On the theme of revelation in the Genesis Apocryphon, see G. W. E. Nickelsburg, “Patriarchs Who Worry about Their Wives: A Haggadic Tendency in the Genesis Apocryphon,” in Biblical Perspectives: Early Use and Interpretation of the Bible in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. M. E. Stone and E. G. Chazon (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 143, 148–​­49. 46. It may be that the peculiar image of the palm and the cedar that appears in the dream alludes to Ps. 92:13, “The righteous bloom like a date-​­palm; they thrive like a cedar in Lebanon,” as was suggested by Fitzmyer; see J. A. Fitzmyer, The Genesis Apocryphon of Qumran Cave I: A Commentary, 2nd ed. (Rome: Biblical Institute, 1971), p. 111. But cf. Ariel Bloch’s argument that the cedar and the palm were a recognized symbolic pair in the ancient Near East, designating male and female, respectively. The appearance of the pair in the Apocryphon, as well as in the biblical Song of Songs, attests to its being a prevalent cultural metaphor. See A. Bloch, “The Cedar and the Palm Tree: A Paired Male/Female Symbol in Hebrew and Aramaic,” in Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield, ed. Z. Zevit, S. Gitin, and M. Sokoloff (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1995), pp. 13–​­​­17. Rhetorically, the Apocryphon text is devoid of scriptural references. Not surprisingly, we find the explicit scriptural reference in a later rabbinic source, Genesis Rabbah (40[41]:1), which, when comparing Abram and Sarai with a palm and a cedar, cites Psalms. Chronologically, this may be an example where rabbinic interpretation makes use of a repository of themes and motifs handed down from earlier times, adapting them to a midrashic discourse. Alternatively, the rabbinic tradition may point to the implied exegetical kernel in the earlier Apocryphon. However—​­and this is a key point for understanding the midrashic enterprise—​­the citational, intertextual rhetoric of midrash is not to be taken merely as an external device designed to create an impression of “pseudo-​­exegesis.” The explicit exegetical marker of midrash epitomizes a new epistemological premise. 47. Ishay Rosen-​­Zvi has suggested that midrashim on the Song at the Sea (Exodus 15) preserve a first-​­person narrator, thus representing the experience of revelation in rabbinic times. This is an entirely different rhetorical phenomenon from the one found in Second Temple literature: the appearance of the first-​­person narrator is couched within a victory hymn (not associated with a specific biblical figure) and thus more akin phenomenologically to prayer; its appearance is fragmented, amid other forms of midrash; the shift in tenses between past-​­present-​­future in the context of the midrashim there attests not only, as Rosen-​­Zvi argues, to the experience of continued revelation but also to its opposite; see I. Rosen-​­Zvi, “Can the Homilists Cross the Sea Again? Time and Revelation in Mekhilta Shirata,” in The Significance of Sinai: Traditions about Divine Revelations in Judaism and Christianity, Themes in Biblical Narrative, ed. G. Brooke et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 217–​­45. 48. According to Joseph Dan, the work was composed by a Jewish writer in Italy in the

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sixteenth century, whereas Zunz argued for Spanish authorship and dated it to the eleventh century; see J. Dan, ed., Sefer hayashar (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1986), pp. 12–​­​­17 [Hebrew]. Anat Shapira has argued that the text is indeed a medieval text; see A. Shapira, “To Make a Short Story Long,” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 2005. 49. Dan, Sefer hayashar, pp. 37–​­​­42. See also Dan’s discussion of the inconsistencies in the composition’s claim for its ancient origin (ibid., pp. 17–​­​­21). Dan argues that this does not detract from the book’s (original) claim to be an authentic document from the biblical era. Rather, he suggests, it may indicate apprehension and disdain in seventeenth-​­century Italy toward such pseudo-​ ­epigraphic claims. The “biblical” Sefer hayashar is mentioned in Josh. 10:13 and 2 Sam. 1:18. 50. Translated from the first printed edition of Venice (1625), as published by Dan, Sefer hayashar. 51. Note that the description of the Egyptians as having “no fear of God in their place” echoes Abram’s words to Abimelech, after once again having presented Sarai as his sister: “I thought surely there is no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife” (Gen. 20:11). The striking similarity between Genesis 12 and 20 thus reverberates in Sefer hayashar’s version, as it is also made explicit when it tells the story of Abram in Gerar (p. 109). Yet it is the slight modification of the Gen. 20:11 verse, “there is no God in this place,” that renders it a paraphrase rather than a quotation.

Chapter 1 1. See tNazir 4:7; Sifre Numbers 22; yNazir 1:5 (51c); yNedarim 1:1 (36d); bNazir 4b; and bNedarim 9b. I will return to this story, from another angle, in Chapter 5. 2. Ovid, Metamorphoses, bk. 3, 315 ff. (following the eighteenth-​­century translation by Sir Samuel Garth, John Dryden, et al., available on numerous websites, e.g., http://classics.mit.edu/ovid/ metam.html). For a more accurate—​­and less poetic—​­translation, cf. R. Humphries (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1955). 3. See S. Bartsch, “The Philosopher as Narcissus: Vision, Sexuality, and Self-​­Knowledge in Classical Antiquity,” in Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance: Seeing as Others Saw, ed. R. S. Nelson and N. Bryson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 70 (italics added). 4. bNedarim version (although probably copied from bNazir, the immediate context in Nedarim is important for my discussion), following Halivni’s translation with slight modifications that correspond to the linguistic thematization of “sight” in the Hebrew narrative. See D. Halivni, “The Supposed Anti-​­Asceticism or Anti-​­Naziritism of Simon the Just,” Jewish Quarterly Review 58 (1967): 243–​­52. 5. Aharon Shemesh has argued that Simon’s claim that he “has never eaten a guilt offering” refers to the simple reality in which the likelihood that a Nazirite would be defiled by a corpse in purity-​­obsessed Jerusalem of the Second Temple period was slight. Shemesh thus reads Simon’s statement as neutral, devoid of any implied apprehension toward guilt offerings or Nazirite status. The novelty of this suggestion is stimulating but does not account for the literary complexity of the tale, especially not the charged, convoluted connections between the two main characters. Shemesh’s reading does not cope with the ambivalences and convergences within the narrative, which can only be fully appreciated by Simon’s initial reluctance about accepting guilt offerings; see A. Shemesh, “Maduʿa lo ʾakhal Shimʿon haTsadiq asham nazir?,” in By the Well, Studies in Jewish Philosophy and Halakhic Thought Presented to Gerald J. Blidstein, ed. U. Erlich, H. Kreisel, and D. J. Lasker (Beersheva: Ben-​­Gurion University, 2008), pp. 653–​­58 [Hebrew].



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6. Halivni, “The Supposed Anti-​­Asceticism,” p. 245. 7. See J. Milgrom, commentary, in The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1990), pp. 44–​­​­50; and B. A. Levine, translation and commentary, The Anchor Bible: Numbers 1–​­​­20 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1993), pp. 215–​­44. 8. See Baruch Levine’s discussion of the Nazirite institution as he reconstructs it from diverse biblical narratives, as well as from archaeological findings. He suggests that different kinds of Naziriteship should be viewed as different aspects of the same cultic or heroic phenomenon (Levine, Anchor Bible, pp. 229–​­35). 9. Indeed, the different readings of the text—​­modern as well as ancient—​­attest to the story’s obscurity. The Babylonian Talmud, whose version of the story is cited above, offers two interpretations: Abbaye (a fourth-​­century Babylonian amora) explains Simon’s behavior as resulting from his critical view of the Naziriteship in general. Simon, Abbaye maintains, views the Nazirite as a sinner because of his abstention from wine (bNedarim 10a). 10. See bNedarim 9b. 11. Cf. yNedarim 1:1 (36:4). 12. The text’s attitude toward asceticism is of prime interest to modern scholars. See E. E. Urbach, “Asceticism and Suffering in Rabbinic Thought,” in idem, The World of the Sages: Collected Studies (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), pp. 440–​­41 [Hebrew], in which he argues for the story’s anti-​ ­ascetic message: Simon’s negative attitude toward Naziriteship (qua asceticism) is implicit. His one-​­time concession should be understood as his recognition of the shepherd’s courageous battle against his evil impulse. Cf. also M. I. Satlow, “Male and Female, Did They Create It? Gender and the Judaism of the Sage,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-​­Christian Palestine, ed. L. I. Levine (Jerusalem: Dinur Center, 2004), p. 498 [Hebrew]. Satlow agrees with Urbach’s contention that, in rabbinic literature, it is often the case that ascetic acts are motivated by the will to conquer the “evil impulse.” 13. Halivni, “The Supposed Anti-​­Asceticism,” p. 247; I find Halivni’s argument here to be couched in simplistic terms. Tensions between biblical norms and rabbinic ones are not only possible but also form a crucial, and constructive, backbone of rabbinic cultures. However, as I will suggest later, bridging a gap between a biblical ideal and contemporary reality is one of the tale’s driving forces. 14. Ibid., p. 248 (italics added). 15. Menahem Kahana has recently argued that the offering was a voluntary act on his part, not biblically prescribed, because of what he saw as his (defilement by the) sin of vanity; see M. I. Kahana, Sifre on Numbers: An Annotated Edition (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2011), pp. 201–​­2. However, this poetically elegant solution is open to debate: Are sins of the mind and ritualistic sins indeed intertwined in rabbinic thought, and can the concept of sin be identified with impurity so as to allow for such an explanation? On the misguided scholarly identification of sin and impurity, and of sin as causing impurity in Qumran, see M. Kister, “On Good and Evil: The Theological Foundations of the Qumran Community,” in The Qumran Scrolls and Their World, ed. idem (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 2009), 2:525 [Hebrew]. 16. See L. Landman, “The Guilt Offering of a Defiled Nazirite,” Jewish Quarterly Review 60 (1970): 345–​­52, who suggests that the Nazirite had vowed before arriving at the well and that, after seeing his reflection, he was somehow defiled (by a corpse, thus maintaining the simple understanding of the offering as referring to a defilement by a corpse). See also N. Dinur, Y. Lipshitz, and H. Shoham, “From Nezer to Yetzer: The Cultural Function of Nazirites’ Hair in Rabbinic Literature,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore 24–​­25 (2008): 60. The authors suggest that the vow “to shave for

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the sake of heaven” is paradoxically uttered to (temporally) terminate the state of Naziriteship, not to initiate it. Driven by the urgency of this recognition, the shepherd may have overlooked the fact that shaving his hair would ultimately result in prolonging his Naziriteship, since he would have to start all over again (see also Kahana, Sifre on Numbers, p. 202). Shemesh identifies the reflective scene as the point at which the shepherd takes the Nazirite vow (“Maduʿa lo ʾakhal”) . 17. See E. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists: Fasting and Asceticism in Rabbinic Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 113. Diamond suggests that “[t]he Nazirite of the story realizes that his entire physical being is not his to do with as he pleases but rather a gift from God to be used in accordance with the divine will. When he feels in danger of forgetting his obligation, he rededicates his entire being to God by means of offering God his hair.” 18. See J. Fraenkel, “Meqomah shel hahalakhah besippure ha’aggadah,” in Meh. qerei Talmud: Talmudic Studies 1, ed. Y. Sussman and D. Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1990), p. 213 n. 36: Fraenkel understands Simon’s refusal to accept the guilt offering as a fortiori, i.e., he refused even a guilt offering. See also J. N. Epstein, Introduction to the Mishnaic Text, 3rd ed. (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2000), part 2, pp. 374–​­75 [Hebrew]. 19. Or in Lacanian terminology, the symbolic aspects of subjectivity. For further references to the Greek myth, see Chapter 5 of this volume. 20. The narcissistic mirroring point is a crucial aspect of human subjectivity. It is a point of subjective illusion where “the self ’s new understanding of itself has come to it from the outside, in an image it has seen in the external world. This image may provide it with a sense of its own unity, but the image has an external source: it comes from, and remains part of, otherness” see N. Mansfield, Subjectivity: Theories of the Self from Freud to Haraway (New York: New York University Press, 2000), p. 43 (on Lacan). However, by referring to a mirroring point, one need not accept that a “mirror stage” is a stage in human development. It can be taken to refer to an existential part of the human condition. 21. On the yetzer in rabbinic literature, see I. Rosen-​­Zvi, Demonic Desires: “Yetzer Hara” and the Problem of Evil in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Rosen-​­Zvi argues that the yetzer be construed in the context of Christian demonology to grant it an ontology that is concrete rather than figurative. His aim is thus to refute the psychologizing of the yetzer by modern scholars. Consequently, his reading of this narrative is different from mine (see esp. pp. 32–​­​­33, 84–​­​­86). However, whether read as a concrete entity that invades the human from the outside or as a figuratively depicted internal force, the yetzer marks a self that is—​­at least at the moment of its “possession”—​­anything but a unified whole. It might even be argued that it can still function in a psychological scheme, albeit one that presumes a different autonomy of the internal psyche vs. external reality. In the Sifre version of this tale, it is the shepherd’s heart, rather than the yetzer, that seeks to lead him astray. Clearly, the terms connote different concepts; the heart, e.g., is an integral part of human physiology (I thank Menahem Kister for this insight). However, a key scriptural kernel of rabbinic hermeneutics of the yetzer is the pronouncement of God’s despair of the humankind in Gen. 8:21: “for the inclination [yetzer] of man’s heart [lev] is evil from his youth”; the genitive relation between terms, yetzer-​­lev (the inclination of the heart), renders the yetzer an aspect of the heart. The proximity of the terms can be gleaned also from the Sifre Deuteronomy 32, which says that one must worship God with two hearts (possibly analogous to the good yetzer and the evil yetzer). See M. Fishbane, The Kiss of God: Spiritual and Mystical Death in Judaism (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994), pp. 4–​­​­5; see also Rosen-​­Zvi, Demonic Desires (see the index there, under “heart,” p. 240). 22. Fraenkel explains this as the yetzer’s impact on committing transgressive acts; Fraenkel,



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The Ways of the Aggadah and the Midrash (Givatayim: Yad Latalmud, 1991), p. 497 [Hebrew]. For a similar understanding, see J. Schofer, “The Redaction of Desire: Structure and Editing of Rabbinic Teachings Concerning Yes. er (Inclination),” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 12:1 (2003): 29. However, even if we follow that understanding, the use of the specific figurative language in which death (and not transgression) is the outcome of the yetzer’s meddling cannot be overlooked. Cf. also M. H. Spero, “The Talmudic Perception of Narcissus: The Subversion of Mirroring by Symbolizing Death,” Psychoanalysis and Contemporary Thought 17 (1994): 162. 23. J. Levinson, “Demuto shel haʾanti gibbor besifrut h.azal: Teh.ilatah shel antropologyah sifrutit,” in Studies in Talmudic and Midrashic Literature in Memory of Tirzah Lifshitz, ed. M. Bar-​ ­Asher et al. (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2005), pp. 217–​­29. 24. Rosen-​­Zvi argues that the yetzer should not be primarily associated with sexuality but rather with transgressions in general. However, as many of his examples indicate, and as he himself suggests regarding the Babylonian Talmud, the yetzer does seem to correspond to (transgressive) sexual desire. This is clearly one of the possibilities raised in our text, since the Hebrew reads pah. az alai yitzri: the word pah. az, as Kister has shown, is imbued with connotations of zenut—​ ­transgressive sexuality; see M. Kister, “On the Interpretation of Ben Sira,” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 328–​­31. It is interesting to note that the word pah. az appears in Ben Sira, as well as in the other sources, in conjunction with idioms relating to sight (“lifted eyes”—​­ʿenayim gevohot); the version of the story in the Palestinian Talmud makes further use of this verb, saying that the Nazirite scolds his yetzer for being meph. ahez—​­impetuous or reckless—​­in a matter not his. This echoes—​­and explicates—​­the phrase pah. az alai yitzri. The verb appears in bNedarim 10b as an “artificial word for invoking a vow of Naziriteship,” i.e., an arbitrary magic-​­like term (M. Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic of the Talmudic and Geonic Periods [Ramat Gan: Bar-​­Ilan University Press, 2002]). This vow does not appear elsewhere in rabbinic discussions of Nazirite vows and may have been triggered by the story that appears two pages earlier. In any case, the appropriation of the verb as a vow alludes to the possible association between a sexually transgressive impulse and Nazirite practices. 25. For a psychoanalytic (Lacanian) reading of the Greek and rabbinic Narcissus, see Spero, “Talmudic Perception of Narcissus,” pp. 137–​­69. Spero’s reading is close to the one that I have suggested in his reading of the yetzer as a marker of internal alienation. He understands the yetzer to symbolize death, from the immediate context of the story in which the shepherd accuses it (literally) of seeking to drive him out of this world, as well as from other places in the talmudic corpus in which the yetzer is compared to death. Thus, “[t]he image that the Hebrew shepherd sees, the Wicked One, is death . . . ​if only because he comprehends that what he sees is his own self-​­alienation—​­his encapture within ‘a world which is not his’—​­which he will ultimately have to destroy. . . . ​He is willing to confront death—​­by naming the object of his desire and by symbolic sacrifice—​­in order to gain freedom” (p. 162). Despite the liberating function that Spero accords the yetzer, he goes on to say that “Simon the Just’s Nazir . . . ​though also initially sodden with himself, somehow musters the courage to renounce the narcissistic self-​­image with which he had become identified” (p. 162, italics added). It is precisely—​­and paradoxically—​­the yetzer that provides him with that “courage.” 26. On the practice of growing hair as it is echoed in different biblical contexts, see B. Levine, Anchor Bible, pp. 229–​­35. 27. See J. N. Epstein, Introduction to Tannaitic Literature, ed. E. Z. Melamed (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1957), p. 384 [Hebrew]. 28. Fraenkel, “Meqomah shel hahalakhah,” p. 214.

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Notes to Pages 23–25

29. On the war between the yetzer and God, see Rosen-​­Zvi, Demonic Desires , p. 57. 30. The ironic symmetry between the yetzer and God is implied in the saying: “Woe onto me because of my yetzer [yitzri] and woe onto me because of my creator [yotzri]” (bBerakhot 61a; bEruvin 18a). The Nazirite vow ehe’ naveh (“I shall be adorned/praised”) may allude to the famous call in Exod. 15:2, “this is my God and I will praise him” (cf. J. N. Epstein, Introduction to the Mishnaic Text, pp. 717–​­18). 31. Blindness and shaving are images of castration in psychoanalytic theory, of powerlessness in the face of the patriarchal other; sight in this story is thus related to, and even contingent on, the Nazirite’s ability to commit himself to a symbolic, self-​­castrating ritual. On the self-​­castrating aspect of the Nazirite’s act, see E. Diamond, “An Israelite Self-​­Offering in the Priestly Code: A New Perspective on the Nazirite,” Jewish Quarterly Review 88:1–​­​­2 (1997): 15 (and see n. 62 there for comparative anthropological studies addressing the symbolism of cutting hair). On the affinities between the “hair offering” of the Nazir ritual with Greek rituals, see S. Chepey, Nazirites in Late Second Temple Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2005), p. 192. Of special interest is that the offering of the hair “was a common form of river worship” (ibid.). 32. A complementary semblance is suggested by one of the commentators of the version in yNazir 5:1, in which he posits that the Nazirite’s “mouth and heart were equal,” i.e., that his Nazirite vow corresponded to his (pure) intentions. 33. See Fraenkel, “Meqomah shel hahalakhah,” p. 214 n. 41. 34. Cf. Halivni, “Supposed Anti-​­Asceticism,” p. 249. 35. Hutcheon, Narcissistic Narrative, p. 53. 36. Kahana (following earlier scholarship) points at archaic phrases and images in the story and suggests that it may reflect early h.asidic notions of piety. According to his reading, the Nazir’s offering should be construed in the context of early h.asidic practices (idem, Sifre on Numbers, p. 201). Fraenkel’s suggestion that the story (in the Tosefta) reached its final form before the end of the first century is based on an interpretative assumption: he claims that the shepherd’s “neatly curled locks”—​­a description taken from Song of Songs 5:11—​­bears a secular-​­earthly meaning. Such an understanding, he claims, would be impossible after Rabbi Akiva’s allegorical reading of the text. This is, to my mind, a circular argument (Fraenkel, “Meqomah shel hahalakhah,” p. 213 n. 39). 37. Chronologically, it is obviously impossible to reconcile the tradition of Simon of the Great Assembly (who may be the figure that Ben Sira elegizes in Sirah [Ecclesiasticus]) and that which situates him in the time of Alexander. There are yet other chronological problems that emerge from the rabbinic and non-​­rabbinic sources. However, it is possible that in the rabbinic imagination, different characters who are named Simon, all high priests in a distant past, are conflated. The large amount of ink that has been spilled in attempts to differentiate among these priestly figures is due precisely to the lack of such differentiation in the sources themselves. George Foot Moore presents a painstaking effort to reconcile the Ben Sira (and tractate Avot) tradition with the ones that discuss Simon’s son, Onias, the founder of the temple in Egypt; see G. F. Moore, “Simeon the Righteous,” in Jewish Studies in Memory of Israel Abrahams (New York: Jewish Institute of Religion, 1927), pp. 348–​­​­64. As for the meeting with Alexander, Moore (following S. Z. Zeitlin, “Shimʿon haTsadiq vaknesset hagedolah,” Ner Maʿaravi 2 [1925]: 137–​­42) suggests that the original story or historical event was of a meeting between Simon the Just and Antiochus III, which was later “contaminated with the story of Alexander and the high priest Jaddua in a form resembling what we read in Josephus” (Moore, “Simon the Righteous,” pp. 357–​­58). In other words, the story of a meeting between Simon and Alexander is a hybrid of two tales: one (unattested) narrative about Simon and Antiochus III (which would fit in well, chronologically and thematically, with the Ben Sira, Avot, and the rabbinic



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sources about Onias, Simon’s son) and a meeting between Alexander and the high priest, which is recorded in Josephus (Ant. xi. 326–​­​­39). Other dating issues arise, e.g., from the alleged time of Simon according to Avot, and Josephus in Jewish Antiquities, who dates him to the beginning of the third century bce (Zeitlin, “Shimʿon haTsadiq”). For the relationship between Simon of Ben Sira and the other priestly Simon figures, see M. Z. Segal, The Complete Book of Ben Sira, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1972), pp. 3–​­​­6 [Hebrew]. 38. For a reading of the first chapter in tractate Avot as an apostolic succession (in which the Gamlielite dynasty is inserted), see Boyarin, Border Lines, pp. 74–​­​­86. Boyarin, like M. D. Herr, S. Fraade, et al., notes the absence of the priesthood from Avot’s line of succession (p. 77). While priests clearly do not appear there as a group (such as the elders, the prophets, and the Great Assembly), it is curious that the first of the two representatives of the Great Assembly and the first individual to be granted speech in this line is a priest, Simon the Just. 39. The many descriptions of his legendary figure may have their roots in earlier traditions, such as the one found in the book of Ben Sira, chap. 50. There he is depicted as both the revered high priest and as the governor of Judaea. See D. Schwartz, “Priesthood and Monarchy in the Hasmonean Period,” in Kehal Yisrael: Jewish Self-​­Rule through the Ages, ed. I. Gafni, vol. 1, The Ancient Period (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2001), pp. 15–​­​­16 [Hebrew]. Schwartz cites Ben Sira’s description of Simon as evidence of the priestly leadership at that point in time (170–​­160 bce). The historical reliability of the source is of less concern for me here since, whether historically accurate or not, by the time of the rabbinic era he is part of what Amos Funkenstein termed the rabbinic “historical consciousness.” See also Moore, “Simon the Righteous.” pp. 348–​­64. 40. See bYoma 69a. For earlier rabbinic parallels, see V. Noam, Megillat Taʿanit: Versions, Interpretation, History (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 2003), pp. 262–​­63 [Hebrew]; and Leviticus Rabbah 13:5 (M. Margulies, Midrash Vayyikra Rabbah: A Critical Edition Based on Manuscripts and Genizah Fragments with Variations [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1993], p. 294). 41. See Jonathan Goldstein’s detailed discussion of the versions recounted in Josephus’s Jewish Antiquities, rabbinic sources, and Pseudo-​­Callisthenes’ Vita Alexandri Regis Macedonium (and references to earlier scholarship there). Goldstein points at the legendary qualities of all versions; see Jonathan A. Goldstein, “Alexander and the Jews,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 59 (1993): 59–​­​­101. 42. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature, trans. B. Stein. (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000), p. 182. 43. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood: Jewish Narrative Dialogue in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 86–​­​­137. 44. Hayes, “Displaced Self-​­Perception”; Hayes compares Palestinian and Babylonian traditions to show that internal conflicts in the Palestinian traditions are transformed into external ones in the Babylonian narratives, including ones in which the figure of Antoninus figures prominently. See also O. Meir, Rabbi Judah the Patriarch: Palestinian and Babylonian Portrait of a Leader (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1999), pp. 263–​­99 [Hebrew]. On the futile attempts to reconstruct a historical background to these traditions, see S. J. D. Cohen, “The Conversion of Antoninus,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Greco-​­Roman Culture, ed. Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), pp. 141–​­71. 45. See bYoma 39 and tSotah 13:6 (S. Lieberman, The Tosefta, the Order of Nashim, According to Codex Vienna, with Variants from Codices Erfurt, Genizah Mss., and Editio Princeps (Venice 1521) [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1995], p. 232). 46. See Y. Fraenkel, ‘Iyyunim beʿolamo haruh.ani shel sippur ha’aggadah (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1981), p. 42 (on Simon the Just’s knowledge, pp. 56–​­​­58) [Hebrew].

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Notes to Pages 27–29

47. See bYoma 39b and bMenah.ot 109b. Cf. also tSotah 13.8 (Lieberman, The Tosefta, the Order of Nashim, p. 234). 48. On this story, see Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life, pp. 171–​­89. On the knowledge of biblical verses as a superior mode of knowing reality in tales of the Sages, see J. Fraenkel, “Bible Verses Quoted in Tales of the Sages,” in Scripta Hierosolymitana, ed. J. Heinemann and D. Noy, vol. 22, Studies in Aggadah and Folk Literature (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1971), pp. 94–​­​­98. 49. See Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life, pp. 171–​­89; and Boyarin, Border Lines, p. 62. 50. See Moore, “Simeon the Righteous,” p. 350. 51. The existence of countertraditions within the rabbinic corpus, and even texts that might indicate actual alternative leadership (within the Palestinian synagogue), further supports the ambivalence or hybridity of this corpus. On priestly traditions in rabbinic Palestine, see, e.g., O. Irshai, “The Priesthood in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-​­Christian Palestine, ed. L. I. Levine (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 2004), pp. 67–​­​­106 [Hebrew]; and R. R. Kimelman, “The Conflicts between the Priestly Oligarchy and the Sages in the Talmudic Period (an Explication of PT Shabbat 12:3, 13c = Horayot 3:5, 48c),” Zion 48 (1983): 135–​­48 [Hebrew]. 52. See Chapters 3 and 4 in this volume. On bBerakhot 58b (Rav Sheshet, the blind Sage, and the min), see Fraenkel, “Bible Verses,” pp. 94–​­​­98. 53. On the root N-​­Z-​­R, see J. Milgrom, The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers, p. 44. 54. See, e.g., Rosen-​­Zvi on the sotah (wayward wife) in tannaitic literature. Rosen-​­Zvi suggests that the sotah ritual, contingent on the existence of the Temple (although it is far from clear that it was practiced even while the Temple still stood), served the rabbis as a discursive site for an array of topics. Not the least of these was gender; see I. Rosen-​­Zvi, The Rite That Was Not: Temple, Midrash, and Gender in Tractate Sotah (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2008) [Hebrew]. 55. See Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, pp. 113–​­16, who suggests two models that served the rabbis in the absence of the Temple: the Samson-​­like Naziriteship and the substitution of fasting for Naziriteship. Chanoch Albeck’s commentary on mNazir 6:4 indicates that women who practiced abstention in the rabbinic period were, in fact, practicing Naziriteship; see Ch. Albeck, Shishah Sidre Mishnah, Seder Nashim (Tel Aviv: Bialik Institute, 1958), p. 374 [Hebrew]. 56. S. D. Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism,” in Jewish Spirituality, ed. A. Green (New York: Crossroad, 1986), p. 274. 57. Sifre on Numbers 30; and bTaʿanit 11a–​­b. 58. The rabbis saw in Samson’s death an appropriate punishment for Samson’s choice of foreign women, a condemnation that was formally deduced from the repetition of sight in the third-​­person narration of the biblical narrative, and in Samson’s own words to his father: “I saw a woman” (Judg. 14:1–​­​­2); see bSotah 9b; bHorayot. See also Y. Zakovitch, The Life of Samson (Judges 13–​­​­16): A Critical-​­Literary Analysis (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1982), pp. 93–​­​­94, 156–​­57, 192 [Hebrew]. 59. It could be argued that the narrative juxtaposes two political principles—​­the priestly and the monarchic. This juxtaposition may take different meanings at different times. On the alleged time of (Ben Sira’s) Simon, see D. Schwartz, “Priesthood and Monarchy,” pp. 14–​­​­15. It might be understood to argue for some reconciliation—​­afforded by a priestly reign—​­between the different sources of authority: Simon’s suspicion is momentarily suspended as it is emblematically expressed (or sublimated?) by his fatherly kiss to the young lad. In the rabbinic period, certainly after the fourth century, it is the house of the nasi (in Palestine) and rosh golah (in Babylonia) that sought to establish themselves as a continuation of the Davidic dynasty; see, e.g., J. Liver, The House of David: From the Fall of the Kingdom of Judah to the Fall of the Second Commonwealth and After (Jerusalem:



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Magnes, 1959), pp. 37–​­​­46 [Hebrew]; I. Gafni, “Tribe and Legislator: On Leadership Patterns in the Talmudic Period in Palestine and Babylonia,” in Priesthood and Monarchy: Studies in the Historical Relationships of Religion and State, ed. idem and G. Motzkin (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1987), p. 83 [Hebrew]; and Meir, Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, pp. 27–​­​­33. On controversies regarding Rabbi Judah’s “Davidic” origin, see A. I. Baumgarten, “Rabbi Judah I and His Opponents,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 12:2 (1981): 145–​­49. Accordingly, the story about Simon the Just and the Nazir is thus also a political discourse in which the high priest is granted victory, albeit a humble one, over a Davidic character. 60. I. J. Yuval, “Two Nations in Your Womb”: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. B. Harshav and J. Chipman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 35–​­​­36. The messianic component of the David-​­like figure may also be implied by the similarity between the specific manner in which the Nazir of the south is described and the depiction of the Jewish child in Roman captivity, who would later become Rabbi Ishmael (bGittin 58a). Both characters—​­and none others as far as I have seen—​­are described in precisely the same terms, as being good-​­looking and having a head of curls. The captive child and the Nazirite share a few things, in these very different stories: they both teach a distinguished, older, public figure something new; they both provide comfort, almost salvation, for the elders who are, in a sense, set in a fixed frame of mind; they both perform an act that involves figuratively inscribing themselves in scripture; they are both positioned as same/other characters in relation to their older interlocutors. Furthermore, the story of the captive child in Rome, from yet another perspective, can be seen as a counterimage of the famous depiction of the messiah sitting in Rome, covering and removing one bandage at a time (share h. ad va’asar h. ad) on his wounded body (bSanhedrin 98a). While the child is held captive in jail—​­bet ha’asurim, the same root as asar—​­and is freed of his bondage, the messiah sits near the city’s gates attending to his bandages, awaiting to be called. Unlike the detained, wretched messiah, the good-​­looking child with the head of curls rejoins his people and becomes a rabbi. The possible—​­indeed, speculative—​­association of our story with narratives that bear on messianic themes is by no means dominant or paramount in our story. Yet, when encountering a David-​­like figure, messianic implications—​­however tentative they may be—​­should be considered. That the King David–​­like shepherd may bear messianic allusions might also be intimated by his association with Samson, who is at times identified as a messiah, albeit a fallen messiah. This identification appears mainly in Palestinian traditions; see, e.g., L. Finkelstein, ed., Sifre on Deuteronomy (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1969), p. 425; and Genesis Rabbah 98:17, J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck, eds., Bereschit Rabba (Jerusalem: Shalem, 1996), p. 1265. For a Babylonian tradition that may indirectly refer to Samson’s messianic attributes, see bSotah 10a. 61. Tille tillim—​­lit., “hills and hills” (bʿEruvin 21b, according to MS Vatican 127, cited by S. Naeh, “The Script of the Torah in Rabbinic Thought (B): Transcriptions and Thorns,” Leshonenu 72:4 (2010): 108 [Hebrew]. Naeh argues that kol qots vaqots (a pun on qevutsotav) does not refer to the graphic aspect of the letters but rather to portions or verses of the Torah (see also Chapter 4 in this volume). Cf. also Leviticus Rabbah 19:1 (Margulies, pp. 413–​­14); Tanh.uma (printed edition), Bereshit A; Aggadat Bereshit (S. Buber [Cracow: Y. Fisher, 1903]), 84 [Hebrew]. 62. See, e.g., yMoʿed Qatan 3:7 and bSotah 49b. On the sage as a personified Torah, see J. Neusner, Why No Gospels in Talmudic Judaism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), p. 20; in fact, a later source, Song of Songs Rabbah (printed edition) 5:5, identifies the description of the lover in the scriptural verse directly with that of a Sage. 63. See M. Haran, “Nazir,” in Encyclopaedia Biblica, ed. N. H. Tur-​­Sinai et al. (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1968), 5:795 [Hebrew].

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Notes to Pages 30–36

64. Milgrom, The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers, p. 44. 65. See mNazir 7:1. See also B. Koet, “Why Did Paul Shave His Hair,” in The Centrality of Jerusalem: Historical Perspectives, ed. M. Poorthuis and Ch. Safrai (Kampen, Netherlands: Peeters, 1996), p. 132 n. 16; and Chepey, Nazirites in Late Second Temple Judaism, p. 6. 66. It is, of course, scriptural interpretation, not scripture itself, which was contested by the evolving rabbinic Judaism and Christianity (see Marc Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity, trans. B. Stein [Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996]).

Chapter 2 1. For later traditions, see the so-​­called second translation (Targum sheni) of the Book of Esther. See P. Cassel, An Explanatory Commentary on Esther, trans. A. Bernstein (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1899), pp. 275–​­88; and E. Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1985), pp. 217–​­18 [Hebrew]. Midrash haH.efets of the fifteenth century contains an inventory of twenty riddles attributed to the Queen of Sheba. See S. Schechter, “The Riddles of Solomon in Rabbinic Literature,” Folk-​­Lore 1 (1890): 349–​­58. The tale of the encounter is elaborated in an eighteenth-​­century manuscript published by Y. Avida, “The Tale of the Queen of Sheba,” in Sefer Assaf, ed. M. D. Cassuto, J. Klausner, and J. Gutman (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1953), pp. 1–​­​ 1­ 7 [Hebrew]. The last two items are Yemenite sources. See Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira, pp. 50–​­​­59. 2. Burton Visotzky narrows down the wide terminus that he initially suggests, from 860–​­​­1020 to the ninth century; see B. L. Visotzky, “Midrash Mishle,” Ph.D. diss., Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms, 1982, pp. 44–​­​­45; and idem, The Midrash on Proverbs, translated from the Hebrew with an introduction and annotations, Yale Judaica Series 27 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992), Midrash Mishle: A Critical Edition Based on Vatican MS. Ebr. 44 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1990), p. 10 [Hebrew]. To my mind, the wide terminus is more convincing; see D. Stein, “Derekh melekh bemalka: Suge siah. bema’arag sippur h.ayyid: Midrash mishle 1:1,” M.A. thesis, Hebrew University, 1991, pp. 19–​­​­22 [Hebrew]. 3. The text is based on Visotzky’s translation (with slight changes); see Visotzky, “Midrash Mishle,” Ph.D. diss., chap. 1; for a slightly different translation, see B. L. Visotzky, The Midrash on Proverbs (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992), pp. 18–​­​­19. 4. JPS translates: “with hard questions.” 5. The word “proverbs” here denotes riddles. 6. The Hebrew phrase lo nofel me literally means “I do not fall from you”; but idiomatically, it means “I am not inferior to you.” The midrash is thus based on a simple pun. 7. Miller, “Narrative,” p. 69 (my emphasis). See Introduction to this volume, pp. 10–11. 8. Identifying relevant co-​­texts is problematic. To a large extent, it depends on a prior understanding of the text. In this sense, it is yet another version of the hermeneutical circle. Furthermore, the co-​­textual boundaries are tentative ones: we must rely on the texts available to us today. Any text added to the co-​­textual frame of reference—​­whether as a result of relating to other features in the text or as a result of discovering hitherto unknown texts—​­may modify the understanding of the text under discussion. Reading a story in conjunction with its co-​­texts is based on another assumption: that each and every utterance inherently relates to other utterances, that every utterance has complex intertextual ties with other utterances. This is Mikhail Bakhtin’s contention: “Indeed, any concrete discourse (utterance) finds the object at which it was directed already as it were



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overlain with qualifications, open to dispute, charged with value. . . . ​It is entangled, shot through with shared thoughts, points of view, alien value judgments and accents. The word, directed toward its object, enters a dialogically agitated and tension-​­filled environment”; see M. M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in The Dialogical Imagination, ed. M. Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), p. 276. The co-​­texts are, in a sense, like the “agitated environment” of the implied addressee in the midrash. 9. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature, trans. B. Stein (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000), pp. 39–​­​­66. 10. Zakovitch, The Life of Samson, pp. 103–​­18; and C. V. Camp and C. R. Fontaine, “The Wise and Their Riddles,” in Text and Tradition: The Hebrew Bible and Folklore, ed. S. Niditch (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), pp. 127–​­51. The authors analyze the biblical riddling tale by implementing folkloristic methods. 11. N. H. Tur-​­Sinai, Halashon vehasefer: Kerekh hasefer (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1951), pp. 58–​­​­93. For a discussion of the connection between the riddle and the proverb, see G. Hasan-​­Rokem, “And God Created the Proverb . . . ​Inter-​­Generic and Inter-​­Textual Aspects of Biblical Paremiology—​­or the Longest Way to the Shortest Text,” in S. Niditch, Text and Tradition, p. 115; and D. Pagis, “Towards a Theory of the Literary Riddle,” in Untying the Knot: On Riddles and Other Enigmatic Modes, ed. G. Hasan-​­Rokem and D. D. Shulman (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 98–​­​ 1­ 00. Zakovitch goes even further and identifies riddles and riddling situations in a wide variety of biblical texts: see Y. Zakovitch, “I Will Utter Riddles of Ancient Times”: Riddles and Dream Riddles in Biblical Narrative (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2005) [Hebrew]. 12. R. D. Abrahams, Between the Living and the Dead, Folklore Fellows Communications, no. 225 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 1980), p. 7. 13. R. D. Abrahams, “Introductory Remarks to a Rhetorical Theory of the Riddle,” Journal of American Folklore 81 (1968): 151. 14. E. Köngäs-​­Maranda, “Theory and Practice of Riddle Analysis,” Journal of American Folklore 84 (1971): 54. 15. Abrahams, Between the Living and the Dead, p. 15. 16. Abrahams, “Introductory Remarks,” p. 150. 17. See also Abrahams, Between the Living and the Dead, p. 15. Abrahams addresses the metaphor-​­like quality of riddles and suggests that linguistic-​­cognitive processes that inform metaphors are to be found in riddles. Hence, just as metaphors “confirm, strengthen, and broaden the ordering capacity of the cultural system” (p. 14), so does riddling provide a playful context “in which an exploration of the spaces between domains can be opened up, admitted to, and explored. . . . ​ [T]hese spaces can on occasion be used to create a name for the unnamed and unnamable” (p. 16). 18. I. Hamnett, “Ambiguity, Classification and Change: The Function of Riddles,” Man 2 (1967): 387. 19. M. D. Lieber, “Riddles, Cultural Categories, and World View,” Journal of American Folklore 89 (1976): 262. 20. Abrahams, “Introductory Remarks,” p. 148. 21. Comparative studies of culture have shown that the riddle serves in a variety of contexts: as part of initiation and death rituals; as a kind of blessing exchange in a meeting; during courting; and at weddings. See T. A. Burns, “Riddling: Occasion to Act,” Journal of American Folklore 89 (1976): 143–​­44. We know of customs relating to riddles among the ancient Greeks. See Tur-​­Sinai, Halashon vehasefer, p. 60; and Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life, pp. 77–​­​­78. We also know of riddling customs from the Jewish tradition of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in Holland and Italy.

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See D. Pagis, A Secret Sealed: The History of the Hebrew Riddle in Italy and Holland (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986), p. 62 [Hebrew]. 22. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life, p. 65. 23. D. Noy, “H.idot biseʿudat h.atunnah,” Mah. anayim 83 (1963): 64–​­​­7 1. 24. On the distinction between riddles and wisdom questions, see E. Yassif, “Pseudo–​­Ben Sira and the ‘Wisdom Questions’ Tradition in the Middle Ages,” Fabula 23 (1982): 51; and R. D. Abrahams and A. Dundes, “Riddles,” in Folklore and Folklife, ed. R. D. Dorson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972), p. 137. The actual distinction, however, is problematic, since any solution to a riddle assumes and relies on (previous) knowledge. 25. See also R. Nissim ben Jacob ibn Shahin, An Elegant Composition Concerning Relief after Adversity, trans. W. M. Brinner (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1977), pp. 168–​­72. This text is dated to the first half of the eleventh century, in Kairouan. The story told here carries a strong resemblance to the story told about Rabbi Yehoshuʿa in bBekhorot 8b; see also bTaʿanit 7a, the emperor’s daughter’s question to Rabbi Yehoshuʿa. 26. Rav Hai Gaon (end of the ninth century) mentions this work. E.g., see B. M. Levin, Otsar hageʿonim (Jerusalem: n.p., 1934), 6:31. See also J. Dan, The Hebrew Story in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), p. 113 [Hebrew]; and Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira, p. 22. 27. Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira, pp. 47–​­​­49, argues that the second part of the Tales of Ben Sira (Chronicles of Ben Sira) makes use of structural and thematic elements found in the Kalila and Dimna cycle. He sees the narrative frame of the dialogue between Ben Sira and Nebuchadnezzar as clearly influenced by the dialogue pattern of the eleventh chapter of Kalila and Dimna (between the king and the sage), a pattern predominant in Arabic fiction of the time. It should be noted, however, that in Kalila and Dimna, the plot is motivated by the sage’s proverbs, not by his riddles. 28. The story in 1 Kings 10 has its parallel in 2 Chronicles 9. For the purposes of our discussion, there are no significant differences between the two versions. On the whole, Chronicles omits problematic elements from Solomon’s biography—​­it pays comparatively little attention to his wisdom and centers on his role as the builder of the Temple. It seems that Chronicles responds to some of the problems that Solomon’s character raises in 1 Kings (and probably in other written and oral traditions). From our point of view, the different approaches support the claim that the Midrash Mishle riddling tale responds to a problematic thematic junction. On the different approaches of the two books, see S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1977), pp. 401–​­10 [Hebrew]. 29. On midrash as a response to the gaps of the biblical narrative, see D. Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 39–​­​­59, who makes a sweeping assertion that midrashic filling-​­in is always “legitimate”—​­i.e., it is always consistent with the parameters implied by biblical poetics. Without necessarily accepting that claim overall, in this case the midrash does follow the guidelines provided by the poetics of the biblical text. On the rabbinic exegetical narrative (as genre), see J. Levinson, The Twice-​­Told Tale: A Poetics of the Exegetical Narrative in Rabbinic Midrash (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2005) [Hebrew]. 30. When God is revealed to him in a dream in Gibeon (1 Kings 3), he asks for wisdom and his request is granted: “I now do as you have spoken. I grant you a wise and discerning mind; there has never been anyone like you before, nor will anyone like you arise again” (1 Kings 3:12). Indeed, “All Israel . . . ​saw that he possessed divine wisdom to execute justice” (1 Kings 3:28). “He composed three thousand proverbs. . . . ​He discoursed about trees . . . ​and he discoursed about beasts, birds, creeping things, and fishes. Men of all people came to hear Solomon’s wisdom, [sent] by all the kings of the earth who had heard of his wisdom” (1 Kings 5:12–​­​­14).



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31. See, e.g., Gen. 38:8 and Deut. 25:5. The verb is employed in rabbinic literature to designate sexual intercourse. 32. Josephus identifies the Queen of Sheba as the princess of Egypt. See Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, trans. H. St. Thackeray and R. Marcus (London: William Heinemann, 1934), 5:661. He implies that the visit led to marriage. 33. See bBava Batra 15b. 34. Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira, 63 ff. 35. G. Scholem, “More on the Stories of Ashmedai and Lilith,” Tarbiz 19 (1948): 165–​­75 [Hebrew]. 36. For Jewish traditions, see L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1967–​­69), esp. 4:142–​­49 and 6:288–​­91; for a wider discussion, see J. B. Pritchard, ed., Solomon and Sheba (London: Phaidon, 1974), which includes studies in the Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and Ethiopian traditions. See also J. Lassner, Demonizing the Queen of Sheba (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), who reads the Queen of Sheba, in postbiblical and medieval Muslim texts, as a threatening symbol who transgresses gender and cultural boundaries. Our readings thus overlap in this regard. However, his reading of our text accentuates the overall harmonious effect of the tale. Accordingly, the text expresses “the logic of the universe,” which Solomon understands well, implying that all categories are set in their proper place: men/women, Israelite/Gentiles, etc. (Demonizing the Queen of Sheba, p. 13). It seems that such a reading overlooks the intricate discursive dynamics in which riddles and midrash are at play. 37. Yassif, The Tales of Ben-​­Sira, p. 52, notes that the plot of the story in the Targum sheni lacks inherent logic, since no explanation is offered for Solomon’s glass-​­house trick. Yassif argues that the text underwent censorship, which cleared it of problematic elements such as the origins of the Queen of Sheba and the removing of the hair by Solomon. 38. See S. Thompson, Motif Index of Folk Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1955), Motif F 232.5. 39. See Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira, p. 54. 40. See W. M. Watt, “The Queen of Sheba in Islamic Tradition,” in Solomon and Sheba, ed. J. B. Pritchard (London: Phaidon, 1974), p. 96. 41. Confusing a shiny surface with water appears in the pivotal story of the four Sages who entered the pardes. Rabbi Akiva, the only one who is able to withstand the (mystical?) journey (he “went up whole and came down whole”), turns to the other three Sages and warns them: “When you arrive at pure marble stones, do not say ‘water, water,’ as it is written, ‘he who speaks untruth shall not stand before my eyes’ (Ps. 101:7)” (bH.agigah 14b–​­15a). If indeed the pardes story is alluded to in the Ben Sira narrative, it could be with a satirical bent, not uncharacteristic of its poetics; see D. Stern, “The Alphabet of Ben Sira and the Early History of Parody in Jewish Literature,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. H. Najman and J. H. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp. 423–​­48. For parallels of the pardes narrative, see A. Goshen-​­Gottstein, “Four Entered the Pardes Revisited,” Harvard Theological Review 88 (1995): 69–​­​­103, and previous scholarship noted there. 42. The image of Solomon as the builder of the Temple and also as the one who caused its destruction appears also in the midrashic story about Solomon’s marriage to Pharaoh’s daughter on the night that the building was completed. See n. 44 below. 43. See P. F. Watson, “The Queen of Sheba in Christian Tradition,” in Solomon and Sheba, ed. Pritchard, pp. 115–​­19. 44. In Leviticus Rabbah 12:5 (Margulies, p. 265), we are told that when the building of the

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Temple was completed, Solomon married the daughter of Pharaoh. The party that took place on the wedding night was riotous: the princess performed three hundred dances before Solomon, who imbibed wine for the first time in his life. The result of the wild celebration was that at 4:00 the following afternoon, Solomon was still asleep with the keys of the Temple under him. Finally, his mother walked in, slapped him on his face, and reproved him: “ ‘Do not give your strength to women’ [Prov. 31:3]. . . . ​The generation of the Flood, because they were steeped in licentiousness, were blotted out of the world.” 45. R. Shimon b. Yoh.ai holds the view that Solomon “loved them literally, that is, he fornicated with them,” whereas R. Yose goes as far as to say that the reason for Solomon’s behavior is clear: “It was to draw [the women] to the teachings of Torah and to bring them under the wings of the divine presence” (ySanhedrin 2:6 [20:3]). 46. Solomon, having sent one of his warriors to capture Ashmedai, asks the king of the demons in what way demons are more powerful than human beings—​­given that Ashmedai, a demon, has been chained by human beings. Ashmedai persuades Solomon to release him and to hand him his seal. Ashmedai literally throws him off the throne and takes his place. Solomon is forced to beg from door to door until his persistent claim that he is the true Solomon attracts the attention of the members of the Sanhedrin. They hold an inquiry, questioning Solomon’s wives. The latter testify that in their recent encounters with their husband, his feet had been wrapped up. The Sages immediately understand that Ashmedai had disguised himself as king. It is common knowledge, the Sages say, that demons have strange feet, so Ashmedai had to conceal his (bGittin 68b). 47. M. Pickthall, trans., The Glorious Koran (New York: Knopf, 1957). Elsewhere we find a story about a body that occupied Solomon’s throne as punishment for his addiction to horses, on which he comments: “Lo! I have preferred the good things [of the world] to the remembrance of my Lord” (Sura 38:33). Another Arabic tradition presents its own version of Ashmedai’s deception of Solomon. Solomon’s fall from the throne is linked to a sin he had committed (in this version) by marrying the daughter of the king of Tyre, who entices him to worship her idols. Ashmedai’s role is played this time by the demon Arif. Y. Meyuchas introduces this version in Children of Arabia (Jerusalem: Dvir, 1928), pp. 28–​­​­30 [Hebrew], among other legends collected from the Arab population of Palestine. See also J. Walker, “Sulayman b. Dawud,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. P. Bearman et al, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1997), vol. 9, pp. 822–​­​­24. 48. A. Aarne and S. Thompson, The Types of the Folktale, Folklore Fellows Communications no. 184 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 1961), nos. 851, 851A. 49. For various Arabic traditions, see V. Chauvin, Bibliographie des Ouvrages Arabs (Liège: H. Vaillant-​­Carmanne; Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1901), pp. 191–​­93. In R. Burton, “Supplemental Nights,” in The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night (London: H. S. Nichols, 1897), 12:65–​­​­81, the tale “The Linguist-​­Dame, the Duenna and the King’s Son” tells of a prince in exile who solves the princess’s riddles. See also a Persian variant, 8:272. 50. The Ethiopian tradition makes it explicit—​­Menelik is the son of the queen and Solomon. 51. In the Book of Proverbs, the foreign woman is opposed to Wisdom, which is identified with morality, justice, and the awe of God. The foreign woman as a paradigmatic entity is personified in the singular figure of the Queen of Sheba. Midrash Mishle presents two principal models of women. One is that of the active foreign woman who causes men to sin; she is called the promiscuous woman or the harlot and is manifestly a sexual threat. The opposite is the virtuous woman, whose active qualities are channeled to support her husband, the scholar. The legitimate activity of the woman is to serve the household. 52. It should be noted, however, that the verb “to enter” is used idiomatically to mark temporal



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transitions, e.g., “when the month of Av enters [= begins]” (mTaʿanit 4:1); “when the month of Adar enters [= begins]” (bTaʿanit 29a). The use of “exit” to designate the end of Shabbat or a holiday, from medieval Hebrew onward, seems to be an abbreviation of the rabbinic phrase “the appearance [tset] of the stars,” which marks the end of the holy day. The word tset also means “exit.” 53. See Noy, “H.idot biseʿudat h.atunnah.” 54. These oppositions are consequential to the logocentric concept. This (phallo) logocentrism implies a view of the male as sovereign and as the establisher of cultural meanings, while obscuring his position as the center to which the (binary) signs refer. The terms are used in French feminist literary criticism, influenced by Derrida and Lacan. For a survey, see A. R. Jones, “Inscribing Femininity: French Theories of the Feminine,” in Making a Difference: Feminist Literary Criticism, ed. G. Green and C. Kahn (London: Routledge, 1985), pp. 80–​­​­112; and N. Furman, “The Politics of Language: Beyond the Gender Principle?” in ibid., pp. 59–​­​­79. 55. On ambivalent rabbinic attitudes toward Lot’s daughters (the elder of whom bore a son who became an ancestor of King David, and hence of the messiah), see C. E. Fonrobert, “The Handmaid, the Trickster and the Birth of the Messiah,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. C. Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2006), p. 262. 56. See Song of Songs 4:9, 4:10, 4:12, 5:1, 5:2 (ah. oti-​­raʿayati). 57. Taylor considers this riddle to be exceptional: most riddles about family ties create deliberate confusion that supposedly alludes to a breaking of a taboo, while the answer is innocent. See A. Taylor, “Riddles Dealing with Family Relationships,” Journal of American Folklore 52 (1938): 25–​­​­37; and Noy, “H.idot biseʿudat h.atunnah.” 58. Cf. also Köngäs-​­Maranda, who notes that “like the solved riddle, incest brings together terms meant to remain separate”; and idem, “Riddles and Riddling: An Introduction,” Journal of American Folklore 89 (1976): 131, quoted in Abrahams, Between the Living and the Dead, p. 22. 59. In some of the parallel sources (presented in Visotzky, Midrash Mishle: A Critical Edition Based on Vatican MS. Ebr. 44 [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1990], p. 6), the phrase “My son” does not appear. This may be due to censorship, for the reasons implied in my analysis. 60. I thank Ishay Rosen-​­Zvi for this observation. 61. In his series of articles on the Queen of Sheba, Chastel claims that the riddles attributed to her are familiar folk riddles; identical or similar ones may be found in many bodies of folklore. See A. Chastel, “La legende de la reine de Saba,” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 120 (1940): 33. 62. Taylor, “Riddles Dealing with Family Relationships,” pp. 26–​­​­27. 63. See R. Graves, The Greek Myths (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960), 2:280–​­81, 285. Odysseus places before the residents of the palace (Achilles’ hiding place) a pile of presents. According to one version, Achilles, acting on his male instincts, takes a shield and a spear. 64. Balaam hears God’s voice, but because he is uncircumcised, he cannot bear the sight, so he falls prostrate. There are different interpretative traditions to this verse. There are also traditions in which Adam, Abraham, and Job share Balaam’s perplexed reaction to revelation (Aggadat Bereshit 11). 65. Most of the important manuscripts read: “And if you [ata, the masculine form of the pronoun] do not wish.” In fact, only the first printed edition’s version has “come and learn [bo’i limdi, the feminine form of the imperative],” making the Queen of Sheba, rather than the reader, the addressee of the second homily delivered by Solomon. However, even if the second homily is attributed to the “author” of the proem or to the redactor, further connections are formed by this attribution—​­between Solomon as a homiletic interpreter and the homily’s “author,” thus blurring the boundaries between the riddling situation (in the riddling tale) and the interpretative situation.

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Notes to Pages 53–58

66. On this type of midrashic exegesis, see I. Heinemann, Darkhe ha’aggadah, 3rd ed. (Jerusalem: Magnes and Masada, 1970), pp. 127–​­28 [Hebrew]. 67. See n. 6 above. 68. On the proem as homily, see J. Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim: A Form-​­Critical Analysis,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971): 100–​­​­122. 69. The fact that rabbinic midrash (at least from a later stage of its development) assumed that the same verse could apply to a variety of contexts (or counterposed to a variety of other verses) also sets it apart from the discursive assumption of riddles, where the shared assumption of both poser and solver of the riddle is that there is only a single answer. Seen in this light, midrash is both a continuous riddling game and a process aware of its multivalent interpretations or solutions; on scriptural polysemy as a later rabbinic innovation, see A. Yadin, “The Hammer and the Rock: Polysemy and the School of Rabbi Ishma’el,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 9 (2002): 1–​­​­17; and D. Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-​­Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), pp. 189–​­92. 70. On biblical verses as belonging to both systems, langue and parole, see Boyarin, Intertextuality, p. 29. 71. On the semiotic distinction between quotations and proverbs, where the former do not draw their utterances from a langue-​­like system (as opposed to the latter), see G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Proverbs in Israel Folk-​­Narratives: A Structural Semantic Analysis, Folklore Fellows Communications 232 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 1982), pp. 54–​­​­56. Hasan-​­Rokem’s distinction posits the (midrashic) technique of quotation to be largely proximate to the underlying mechanism of the riddle. 72. The resemblance between riddles and midrash can be viewed from yet another angle: interpretation, like riddles, entails aggression, but also liberation. Its dual nature can be explained through the use that it makes (in the midrash) of quotations that imply manipulation of authoritative forces. 73. We should note that this chapter’s riddling tale also involves sight, in more ways than one. First, the Queen of Sheba’s visit is triggered by her desire to “go and see whether or not he is wise.” Second, the two last riddles are not textually (and audibly) constructed—​­they hinge, instead, on visual imagery. Most important, the fourth riddle presents the circumcised as worthy of the divine revelation; Solomon’s prooftext, serving as the rationale behind his test, is midrashic. He quotes the words of Balaam, the foreign prophet: “who beholds visions from the Almighty, [prostrate but with eyes unveiled]” (Num. 24:4). Midrashic skills, sight, and revelation are thus three epistemological principles, brought together in full harmony. If it were not for the intricate, and disturbing, riddling tale that leads up to this culminating moment, it would seem that midrash, as an epistemological principle, is indeed an equal and necessary member of this epistemological triad.

Chapter 3 1. G. Van den Abbeele, Travel as Metaphor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), p. xiii. 2. The entire text is appended to this volume. My translation generally follows the Soncino Talmud, electronic version (Chicago: Davka Corp. in conjunction with Judaic Press, 1995), with slight variation. Significant manuscript differences are cited from the Hamburg manuscript. For the bibliographic details on this manuscript, see Shamma Friedman, “Le’ilan hayuh.asin shel nush.e



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Bava Metsiʿaʾ: Pereq beh.eqer nusah. haBavli,” in Studies in Talmudic Literature: A Conference in Honor of the Eightieth Birthday of Shaul Lieberman (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1983), p. 104 [Hebrew]. On the importance of this manuscript, see Yehezkel Kutsher, “Meh.qar diqduq ha’aramit shel haTalmud haBavli,” Leshonenu 26:3–​­​­4 (1962): 174–​­77; and Friedman, “Le’ilan hayuh.asin,” p. 140. 3. See bBava Batra 75a (Appendix, part 2, no. 11). 4. Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, trans. S. Hand (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), p. 109; quoted in Martin Jay, Songs of Experience: Modern American and European Variations on a Universal Theme (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), pp. 391–​­92. 5. Jay, Songs of Experience, p. 251 (italics added); Scott has cautioned that “experience,” when used as an essential category, cannot but reflect preconceived fixed meanings that historians project onto their objects of inquiry; see J. Scott, “The Evidence of Experience,” Critical Inquiry 17:4 (summer 1991): 773–​­97. For a reading of “experience” in rabbinic texts, see G. Hasan-​­Rokem, “Rabbi Meir, the Illuminated and the Illuminating,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. C. Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 227–​­43. For Hasan-​­Rokem, “experience,” as a hermeneutical category, allows for a closer and deeper understanding of the text as a multivalent site of communication, beyond its obvious institutional (i.e., patriarchal-​­hegemonic) function. Her focus is on the semiotics of the texts in which she locates aspects of feminine subjectivity and power. Although Hasan-​ ­Rokem’s reading of “experience” is different from mine, both our readings offer alternative reading strategies to a strictly Foucauldian reading. Following feminist critique, for Hasan-​­Rokem “experience” is a vital addition to discourse as the “privileged cultural practice” (“Rabbi Meir, the Illuminated and the Illuminating,” p. 228). 6. Cf. E. Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning, trans. J. Teitelbaum, foreword by Dan Ben-​­Amos (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), pp. 228–​­29. Yassif claims that the organizing principle of this narrative sequence is “associative accumulation,” by which stories unconnected to the text’s proclaimed topics are included in the collection by virtue of the power of narrative momentum. Thus, e.g., Yassif criticizes the redactor of the text for going outside the scope of seafarer stories to include desert travelogues in the collection as well (p. 229). It seems to me, however, that the principle of association at work relates to a deep structure and grows out of a specific narrative choice. In other words, association is not limited to the obvious layer of the text, but rather directs us to the shared experiential substrata of the collection. The associative pull of the desert stories does not derive, as I hope to demonstrate, only from the shared motif of giant animals. The sea and the desert share cultural-​­symbolic meanings. 7. Michael Fishbane notes the role of scripture and exegesis in rabbinic mytho-​­poesis. Clearly, some of the motifs in our text, especially in its second part, can be read (and have been read, including by Fishbane) as mythological. Fishbane perceives a joint enterprise where exegesis and myth are codependent and dwell in full harmony. However, to the extent that the material I address here is mythological, the text as a whole reflects on and undermines the mythmaking that might otherwise be perceived as devoid of inner conflicts. See M. Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 191–​­93. 8. In his pioneering research, André Jolles determined that the basic types of folk genres (“the primary forms”) are an expression of nine fundamental intellectual problems. E.g., he sees the riddle as an expression of the realm of contemplation, the subject of which is the resolved intellectual problem. See Jolles, Einfache Formen: Legende, Sage, Mythe, Rätsel, Spruch, Kasus, Memorabile, Märchen, Witz (Halle am Saale: Niemeyer, 1956). Kurt Ranke, who carried on Jolles’s archetypal approach, shifted from the intellectual orientation of Jolles to the realm of psychology, and attempted

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Notes to Pages 61–64

to find in story types the expression of basic emotional needs. See Ranke, “Einfache Formen,” Journal of the Folklore Institute 4:1 (June 1967): 17–​­​­31. Ben-​­Amos criticizes the criteria presented by these scholars as insufficient for classification and analytic diagnosis. See D. Ben-​­Amos, “Analytical Categories and Ethnic Genres,” in Folklore Genres, ed. idem (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976), pp. 222–​­23. Ben-​­Amos’s critique is correct in the framework of his discussion there, in that he indicates the problematic nature of universal and absolute criteria in determining a generic system independent of culture. My goal is not to establish an intercultural generic taxonomy or a comprehensive ethno-​­generic classification of the midrashic corpus in general. Furthermore, the stories I examine—​­which include tall tales and travelogues, as well as scriptural exegesis—​­are not parallel to “the primary forms” with which Jolles and Ranke were concerned, neither in their claim to universality nor in the areas of concern attributed to the basic types. However, the link between my discussion and the research of Jolles and Ranke is in the focus on the experiential possibilities contained in narratives that possess shared characteristics. 9. See J. Elbaum, Medieval Perspectives on Aggadah and Midrash, selected and compiled with an introduction (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2000) [Hebrew]. See according to source index, p. 406. 10. D. Ben-​­Amos, “Talmudic Tall Tales,” in Folklore Today, ed. L. Dégh, H. Glassie, and F. Oinas (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), pp. 25–​­​­43. Ben-​­Amos presents a systematic theory of the stories; he defines them as tall tales on the basis of their ethno-​­generic awareness, which he ascribes to the rabbinic text itself. In his view, while medieval commentaries (anachronistically) read these stories as truth, dream visions, or allegory, the Sages themselves recognized the stories as tall tales. 11. See Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale, pp. 182–​­88; for studies that attempt to glean geographical, botanical, and zoological details from these stories, see S. Klein, “Haneh.ote veRabbah bar bar H.ana ‘al ‘inyene Erets Yisra’el,” Me’asef Tsion, Sefer H.amishi (1932–​­​­33): 1–​­​­13; and N. Sholem (Szalem), “Rabbah bar bar H.ana vesih.ot ‘ovre derakhim,” Sinai 12:1–​­​­2 (1948): 108–​­11. 12. See Georgia Frank’s study of early Christian travelogues, where she addresses the abundance of miraculous and marvelous phenomena attributed to faraway places: G. Frank, The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 35–​­​­78. 13. It should be noted that the distinction between “true” and “false” is bound by generic and historical assumptions. Mia I. Gerhardt, in her analysis of the stories of “Sinbad the Sailor” (albeit a later text than ours), claimed that “the distinction between the authentic and the fantastic voyage, self-​­evident to the modern reader, hardly existed for the medieval Moslem public. In their view, on the outskirts of the earth the known and explored regions gradually merged into ‘other-​­worlds’ of demons and fairy-​­beings”; see Gerhardt, The Art of Story-​­Telling: A Literary Study of the Thousand and One Nights (Leiden: Brill, 1963), p. 193. 14. Bauman follows this line of thinking in his analysis of tall tales as oral narrative. See R. Bauman, Story, Performance, and Event: Contextual Studies of Oral Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 12–​­​­32. 15. Frank, The Memory of the Eyes. 16. Appendix, part 1, no. 5. 17. The requirement of two witnesses here corresponds to the halakhic requirement, in many cases, for a minimum of two witnesses, even when scripture stipulates only one (e.g., bSotah 2a). 18. Appendix, part 1, no. 8. 19. Appendix, part 1, no. 17. 20. Appendix, part 1, no. 20.



Notes to Pages 65–69

159

21. Appendix, part 1, no. 9. 22. It is also possible that the expression “Ziz-​­Shaddai” refers to the phoenix. On this, see M. R. Niehoff, “The Phoenix in Rabbinic Literature,” Harvard Theological Review 89:3 (1996): 245–​­46. 23. Appendix, part 1, no. 13. 24. Appendix, part 1, no. 12. The rabbinic dispute as it has come down to us is over the number of required fringes on the tzitzit, not over its joints (knots) (bMenah.ot 43b and bZevah.im 18b). 25. On the heavenly voice in rabbinic literature, see A. Goshen-​­Gottstein, The Sinner and the Amnesiac: The Rabbinic Invention of Elisha ben Abuya and Eleazar ben Arach (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000) (see the index there, under bat kol, p. 404). 26. Cf. the Hamburg manuscript, in which Rabbah bar bar H.ana says explicitly: “when I came to the bet midrash [house of study].” Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s report of his arrival at the bet midrash gives this version an additional emphasis on the institutional context of the Sages. 27. On the outbreak of the chaotic threat in the Flood, see A. J. Wensinck, The Ocean in the Literature of the Western Semites (Amsterdam: Müller, 1918), p. 53. 28. Yassif argues that some of the tall tales function to further enhance cultural myths. His observation is correct in part, insofar that it reads beyond the comical effect of the tales (implying that the comical is a serious cultural mechanism). It ignores, however, the deeper epistemological concerns of the unit as a whole (Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale, p. 188). 29. On the humoristic mechanism in these stories, see ibid., p. 184. 30. On the phrase “I myself saw” (‫ )לדידי חזי לי‬in the Babylonian Talmud, as a preface to and indicator of unusual or hyperbolic content (and hence in need of verification), see R. Kiperwasser and D. D. Y. Shapira, “Irano-​­Talmudica I: The Three Legged-​­Ass and Ridyā in B. Ta‘anith: Some Observations about Mythic Hydrology in the Babylonian Talmud and in Ancient Iran,” Association of Jewish Studies Review 32:1 (2008): 103–​­5. 31. M. M. Bakhtin, “Form of Time and Chronotope in the Novel,” in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. M. Holquist, trans. C. Enderson and M. Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), p. 243. 32. On the desert, see A. Shinan, “ʿAl hamidbar besifrut h.azal,” in The President’s Study Group on the Bible and Sources of Judaism: “When You Went after Me in the Wilderness,” ed. idem and Y. Zakovitch (Jerusalem: Presidential Residence, 1995), pp. 34–​­​­35. On the sea, see Wensinck, The Ocean in the Literature of the Western Semites. 33. Appendix, part 1, no. 2. 34. Appendix, part 1, no. 6. 35. Appendix, part 1, no. 9. 36. Appendix, part 1, no. 8. 37. Interestingly, the bulk of fantastic animals appear in the sea, not in the desert; on fantastic animals in the desert, in Jerome’s account, see V. Burrus, The Sex Life of the Saints: An Erotics of Ancient Hagiography (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), pp. 19–​­​­52. 38. Appendix, part 1, no. 4. 39. Appendix, part 1, no. 19. 40. Appendix, part 1, no. 21. 41. On dream mediation, see G. Hasan-​­Rokem, “Communication with the Dead in Jewish Dream Culture,” in Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming, ed. D. Shulman and G. G. Stroumsa (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 213–​­32. Apocalyptic literature, both pagan and Christian in late antiquity, is replete with descriptions of the fate of the righteous and of the sinners in the afterlife as well as voyages to the realm of the afterlife. Rabbinic

160

Notes to Pages 69–71

literature is almost devoid of such accounts. The few exceptions include descriptions of how Titus’s ashes are spread daily, of Balaam’s affliction with boiling sperm, and of the boiling feces in which Jesus is doomed to roast (bGittin 57a). Actual voyages appear in connection to a pious man who is granted such direct vision (yH.agigah 2:2 [77d–​­78a] and ySanhedrin 6:9 [23c]). 42. Cf. the Hamburg manuscript, which says that “they seemed as if they were sleeping.” 43. See also “City of Brass,” in One Thousand and One Nights. Travelers who reach this city in the heart of the desert find living people who are frozen and unable to move. It becomes clear that they are dead but remain just as death found them. Gerhardt indicates that the City of Brass symbolizes death (Gerhardt, The Art of Story-​­Telling, p. 233). Hamori takes a more complex approach. He claims that “the travelers experience that death can look very much like life”; see A. Hamori, On the Art of Medieval Arabic Literature (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1974), p. 153. The Bronze City and the Dead of the Wilderness share not only the motif of the living dead, but also the strict prohibition on taking spoils from them (in our text, a cord from their fringes). This prohibition serves to protect the critical defensive boundaries at precisely the moment of passage into other worlds. Cf. the prohibition on eating and drinking in the other world: S. Thompson, Motif Index of Folk Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1955–​­58) (eating in other world, C211; drinking in other world, C262). 44. J. S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and Fiction (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1992), p. 26. 45. Remnants of this cosmology can, of course, be found in the Bible, and they are developed in midrash. On the different Semitic traditions, see Wensinck, The Ocean in the Literature of the Western Semites, and on the matter of cosmology in particular, see pp. 1–​­​­14. See also J. D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: the Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1988). 46. See D. Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 95–​­​­104, and later, Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, pp. 112–​­31. 47. Cf. the Hamburg manuscript, where the wave is reproached: ‫מישבקת מידי בעלמא דלא חריבתיה‬ (“Have you left anything in the world that you have not destroyed?”). The use of the root H. -​­R-​­V (‫ב‬-‫ר‬-‫ )ח‬emphasizes the destructive power of the waters. 48. Romm, The Edges of the Earth, p. 24. 49. On the identification of the sea with chaos, see Wensinck, The Ocean in the Literature of the Western Semites, pp. 13–​­​­14, 53. See also M. D. Cassuto, “Shirat haʿalilah beYisra’el,” Keneset 8 (1943): 121–​­42, esp. his discussion of the revolt of the sea, pp. 127–​­33. Regarding the suppression of the chaotic waters of the deep by means of the name of God, see, e.g., J. Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), pp. 17–​­​­26 [Hebrew]; and D. Sperber, “On Sealing the Abysses,” in idem, Magic and Folklore in Rabbinic Literature (Ramat Gan: Bar-​­Ilan University Press, 1994), pp. 47–​­​­54. 50. Although Talmon acknowledges the dual image of the desert in biblical literature, his main aim is to refute what he sees as the tendency in modern scholarship to romanticize the image of the desert and portray it as a biblical ideal. It seems that one subtext of his vehement argument is an anti-​­Christian polemic. See S. Talmon, “The ‘Desert Motif ’ in the Bible and in Qumran Literature,” in Biblical Motifs: Origins and Transformations, ed. A. Altman (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), pp. 31–​­​­63; and idem, “Har and Midbār: An Antithetical Pair of Biblical Motifs,” in Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East, ed. M. Mindlin, M. J. Geller, and J. E. Wansbrough (London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1987), pp. 117–​­42.



Notes to Pages 71–74

161

51. On the dual valence of the desert generation in the Bible and rabbinic reading of it in the Mekhilta d’R. Ishmael, see Boyarin, Intertextuality, pp. 71–​­​­79. 52. Pirke deRabbi Eliʿezer 47. 53. For a psychoanalytic reading of the narrative of the Exodus narrative, see I. Pardes, The Biography of Ancient Israel: National Narratives in the Bible (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). 54. As Yair Zakovitch points out, this association might be alluded to in scripture itself, in Isa. 41:18–​­​­20 (however, applying the image of the desert to eschatological time). See Y. Zakovitch, “ʿAl hamidbar bamiqra,” in When You Went after Me in the Wilderness, ed. Shinan and Zakovitch, p. 30. 55. Targum Yerushalmi to Exod. 12:42. 56. In the Hamburg manuscript: ‫“( היכא דסחיפא רקיעא עילוי ארעא‬the place from which heaven stretches out over the earth”). 57. Appendix, part 1, no. 15. 58. According to midrashic traditions, the two openings to Gehenna are found at sea and in the desert. At sea, addressing the verse: “In my trouble I called to the Lord, and He answered me; from the belly of She’ol” (Jonah 2:3). As for the desert, it is said of the men of Korah: “They went down alive to She’ol, with all that belonged to them” (Num. 16:33). See also Klein, “Haneh.ote,” pp. 5–​­​­11. We will return to this matter presently. 59. Appendix, part 1, no. 14. 60. Perhaps it was this verse that provided the formal basis for the story that appears in our text, which depicts the Dead of the Wilderness sprawled upon the ground, unburied. 61. See also Shinan, “ʿAl hamidbar besifrut h.azal,” pp. 39–​­​­40. 62. Pirke deRabbi Eliʿezer 41. 63. See bBava Batra 121a–​­b. Cf. bTaʿanit 30b (where this is a saying of Rabbah bar bar H.ana) and bSotah 14a. 64. It is possible, of course, to understand “speech” as indicating the instruction preceding the conquest of the land, a conquest possible only after the death of the Generation of the Desert. 65. Regarding the subversive elements in the formation of the national consciousness during the desert wanderings, see Pardes, The Biography of Ancient Israel, pp. 40–​­​­64. Pardes addresses the antinational element in the spies’ description of the land, which is echoed by the disappointed Israelites. They turn against Moses and Aaron, and in response to their complaints, God decrees the death of the Generation of the Desert. 66. The heightened significance of Korah’s faction is expressed by the distinction made in some homiletic traditions between the inclusion of the community of Korah in the resurrection of the dead and the status of the Generation of the Desert in general, a distinction that is already indicated by the fact that they are considered different categories. Most of these traditions do not include the men of Korah in the resurrection (but cf. ySanhedrin 10d [29c], as well as the statement, in Numbers Rabbah 19:13, that “nevertheless, in the time to come they will rise again”). As mentioned, opinions are divided regarding the future of the Dead of the Wilderness, although the documented tradition tends to rehabilitate them (see, e.g., mSanhedrin 10:3 and bSanhedrin 110b). 67. Yet Rabbah bar bar H.ana never actually sees the men of Korah. Rather, he stands at the edge of the seething chasm and hears their voices. 68. Midrash on Psalms 1. S. Buber, Midrash Tehillim (Vilna: Press of Widow and Brothers Romm, 1891); W. Braude, trans., The Midrash on Psalms (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1959), pp. 20–​­​­21. The dating of this compilation is uncertain and may contain early material. However, even if the story of the widow is a late one, it could be argued that it articulates sentiments implied in earlier traditions regarding Korah, as the context of our sugya suggests.

162

Notes to Pages 75–78

69. The laws of provision for the priesthood are detailed in Numbers 18, just after the Korah affair. This proximity constitutes a basis for the midrash, although the midrash requires a reversed chronological sequence, since these laws were given after the Korah affair. Cf. Yassif ’s discussion of the story (The Hebrew Folktale, pp. 186–​­87). 70. Yaakov Elbaum, quoted by D. Stern, “The Alphabet of Ben Sira and the Early History of Parody in Jewish Literature,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. H. Najman and J. H. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2004), p. 425 n. 4. 71. Although only Rabbah bar bar H.ana visits the Dead of the Wilderness, the men of Korah meet yet another traveler (in another region and “genre”): Jonah. In Pirke deRabbi Eliʿezer (chap. 10), Jonah travels to the depths of the sea, guided by the fish that he rescued from the mouth of Leviathan. There he sees the foundations of the world, Gehenna, the Temple of God, and “the foundation stone set in the deep beneath the Temple of God, upon which the men of Korah stand and pray.” During the journey, Jonah undergoes a transformative process, through which he sees the very fundament of the world. In the end, he arrives at the place under the palace of God, sunk deep in the abyss, where the men of Korah pray. Jonah—​­a rebel in his own right—​­is led to the point of connection between great holiness and accursed sinners. However, here the men of Korah play a different role from the one in the story of Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s journey. Among other things, this story suggests that the act of repentance is possible even at this point (or precisely at this point). In the background of this midrash is the tradition we mentioned earlier, according to which there will indeed be resurrection for the men of Korah. See also n. 66 above. 72. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, “Narratives in Dialogue: A Folk Literary Perspective on Interreligious Contacts in the Holy Land in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” in Sharing the Sacred: Religious Contacts and Conflicts in the Holy Land, ed. A. Kofsky and G. G. Stroumsa (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 1998), pp. 109–​­29. Regarding the art of interpreting signs and traces, and its attribution to Arabs, cf. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature, trans. B. Stein (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000), p. 74. See also R. Kiperwasser, “Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s Voyages,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 22 (2008): 238 n. 94. 73. The expression “Moses and his Torah are true and we are liars” may be understood as a euphemism indicating its opposite (cf. bBava Metsiʿa’ 75b and Rashi’s comment there, incipit ‫משה‬ ‫)חכם‬. The words can therefore be interpreted as having a double meaning. 74. It is worth noting that the Dead of the Wilderness offer a (distorted) reflection of Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s journey. The Dead, too, are on a journey, and it is the difficulties they experience in the present that evoke their defiant response. Lacking the ability to imagine the Promised Land as “a land flowing with milk and honey” (particularly in light of the discouraging report of the spies), and thus crossing the boundary from the present into the future, they demand either to return to the imaginary fleshpot from which they were taken or to die in the desert. A similar experience can be deduced from the words of Datan and Aviram: “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness?” (Num. 16:13). 75. The Mishnah resumes immediately after the last words of this explication: “three dwellings, one over the other.” 76. See also H. Schirmann, “Haqerav ben behemot velivyatan lefi piyyut ʿivri qadum,” Divre haAqademyah haLe’umit haYisre’elit leMadaʿim 3:3 (1968): 29–​­​­30 and nn. 10–​­​­14. 77. This statement clearly echoes of the words of Rav Papa ben Shemu’el in the first part of the text: “Had I not been there, I would not have believed it.” 78. See Friedman, “Le’ilan hayuh.asin,” on the Bavli’s renditions of other narratives from Pesiqta deRav Kahana.



Notes to Pages 78–81

163

79. Pesiqta deRav Kahana 18:5, Mandelbaum ed., p. 298; Pesikta deRab Kahana, trans. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1975), p. 320. 80. Menahem Hirshman, “Pesiqta deRav Kahana uPaideia,” in Higayon l’Yona: New Aspects in the Study of Midrash, Aggadah, and Piyut, in Honor of Professor Yona Fraenkel, ed. J. Levinson, J. Elbaum, and G. Hasan-​­Rokem (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2006), p. 176. 81. This young lad (who is on board a ship, surrounded by Gentiles) is perhaps the intra-​ ­cultural parallel to the Arab who leads Rabbah bar bar H.ana to different sites in the desert; the child, like the Arab, retains the intuitive ability to touch primary experience, an ability that is lost in the socialization process. 82. Saul Lieberman explains that this is “a min accustomed to setting out to sea” and points out that the expression embodies a condensed rhetoric, namely, that the word parush can mean “withdrawing from the community” as well as “setting out to sea” (see Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-​­Fshutah, Zeraʿim 1, p. 54 n. 84). Much has been written on the identification of minim with heretics in rabbinic literature (and their specific ethnic/religious identity); see, e.g., D. Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-​­Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), and earlier scholarship cited there. 83. Regarding the humility of Rabbi Yehoshuʿa ben Levi (according to the Bavli tradition), on account of which he merits seeing the messiah and his place in the world to come, see Yonah Fraenkel, “The Image of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi in the Stories of the Babylonian Talmud,” Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies 3 (1977): 403–​­17 [Hebrew]. 84. On killing with a look or with the eyes as an expression of rabbinic magical skills and as associated with the “evil eye,” see Y. Harari, Early Jewish Magic: Research, Method, Sources (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2010), pp. 297–​­​­301 [Hebrew]; and S. Turán (Tamas), “ ‘Wherever the Sages Set Their Eyes, There Is Either Death or Poverty’: On the History, Terminology, and Imagery of the Talmudic Traditions about the Devastating Gaze of the Sages,” Sidra 23 (2008): 137–​­​­205 [Hebrew; English abstract, pp. viii–​­ix]. 85. Hirshman, “Pesiqta,” p. 177. 86. Ibid., p. 176, reads the stories as contending with Christian and other foreign views (earlier scholarship cited there). 87. For the disappearance of minim from Babylonian narratives of magic contests (as opposed to the Palestinian accounts), see J. Levinson, “Enchanting Rabbis: Contest Narratives between Rabbis and Magicians in Late Antiquity,” Jewish Quarterly Review 100:1 (2010): 89. 88. See, e.g., David Goodblatt, Rabbinic Instruction in Sassanian Babylonia (Leiden: Brill, 1975); and Richard Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society in Late Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1999). See also Jeffrey Rubenstein’s characterization of Babylonian poetics as it relates to its sociopolitical setting: “Bavli stories locate the Sages in the study house (bet midrash) to a far greater extent than do Palestinian versions. The most plausible explanation for this tendency is that the Bavli’s story tellers revised Palestinian accounts in light of their situation. . . . ​[T]hese story tellers were most likely the Stammaim. . . . ​Therefore the rise of the Babylonian rabbinic academy should probably be dated to the Stammaitic period”; see J. L. Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), p. 38. Similarly, Joshua Levinson has offered an insightful comparison between Palestinian and Babylonian narrative of magic contests, where the centrality of the Babylonian academy is shown to account (albeit not exclusively) for the differences between the sources (J. Levinson, “Enchanting Rabbis,” pp. 89–​­​­90). 89. Kiperwasser, “Rabbah bar bar H.ana’s Voyages,” pp. 215–​­24. See also idem and Shapira, “Irano-​­Talmudica I,” p. 109 n. 38.

164

Notes to Pages 81–85

90. S. Thrope, “The Alarming Lunch: Judaism, Zoroastrianism and Colonialism in Sassanian Iran,” Journal of Associated Graduates in Near Eastern Studies 12:1 (2006): 23–​­​­44. 91. Appendix, part 1, no. 7. 92. Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale, p. 187. 93. This part of the text also reserves a central role for God. It does not seem accidental that the second part of the text addresses human limitations (Appendix, part 2, no. 15). This, as well as the passage regarding the progressive decline of the generations, calls our attention to the experience of reality in the present. The existence of man is flawed and incomplete, for he is a mortal, imprisoned in the bounds of his body. 94. Frank, The Memory of the Eyes, pp. 171–​­81. 95. S. A. Harvey, “Locating the Sensing Body: Perception and Religious Identity in Late Antiquity,” in Religion and the Self in Antiquity, ed. D. Brakke, M. L. Satlow, and S. Weitzman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), p. 143. To be sure, the sensory paradigm was by no means exclusive in the Christian world and was met by sharp critique. Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, for one, vehemently opposed sensory-​­based devotion inasmuch as it relied on specific locales and concrete encounters with saintly figures (dead or alive). True Christians, he argued, were “outside the places” and “within the truth”; see D. Brakke, “ ‘Outside the Places, within the Truth’: Athanasius of Alexandria and the Localization of the Holy,” in Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt, ed. D. Frankfurter, Religions in the Greco Roman Worlds vol. 134, (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 445–​­81. Indeed, as David Frankfurter writes, “by the end of fourth century . . . ​certain voices emerged in criticism of the urge to reify, to ‘place’ piety. These voices promoted instead the autonomous authority of scripture in Christian devotion and self-​­definition”; see D. Frankfurter, “Approaches to Coptic Pilgrimage,” in Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt, p. 46. On scripturally based devotion in Jerome, Gregory of Nyssa, and in the Lives of the Prophets, see Frankfurter, “Approaches to Coptic Pilgrimage,” pp. 46–​­​­47. However, these dissident voices do not detract from the hegemony of the bigger epistemological paradigm in which pilgrimages, relics, and other phenomena that entail a sharp visual component reign. In fact, they may attest precisely to the overwhelming success of that paradigm. 96. Joshua Levinson recently offered a similar reading of the Rabbi Yoh.anan and the doubting student tale as addressing questions of epistemology. However, in his reading, as well as by suggesting that the tale’s depiction of the encounter with the Dead of the Wilderness is a parody on relic-​ ­oriented epistemology (i.e., Christianity), he misses, to my mind, the underlying epistemological and experiential ambivalence that the texts stage. See J. Levinson, “There Is NO-​­Place Like Home: Rabbinic Responses to the Christianization of Palestine” (forthcoming).

Chapter 4 1. Pesikta de Rav Kahana, B. Mandelbaum, ed., 2nd ed. (New ​­York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1987), Piska 11, Vayehi beshalah. , p. 188. 2. From a yet entirely different perspective of rabbinic textual practices from what I will be arguing here, Serah. maintains her role as a reflective figure. Recently, Daniel Boyarin has sought to characterize rabbinic interpretation by employing a post-​­Wittgensteinian critique of Western notions of “magical language,” an ideal language in which we know what we mean, think our thoughts, and form intentions (following S. C. Wheeler III, Deconstruction as Analytic Philosophy [Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000]). Boyarin argues that midrash (following



Notes to Pages 85–88

165

Wheeler’s discussion of rabbinic hermeneutics, ibid., pp. 137–​­46) did not assume a metaphysical, “truth”-​­governed, basis for language. I.e., the underlying linguistic theory that informs midrash is not one of “magical language”; see D. Boyarin, Midrash tanaʾim uqeriʾat mekhilta, trans. D. Luvish and R. Bar-​­Ilan (Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2011), p. 208. Yet, surprisingly, even within a midrash-​­as-​­anti-​­magical paradigm, Serah. would occupy a similar role of a reflector. Juxtaposed with a paradigm of “non-​­magical” language (following Boyarin), Serah. gives voice to a yearning, or a fantasy, that rabbinic textual practices, if indeed perceived as “non-​­magical,” may have denied. 3. See Introduction to this volume. 4. There are numerous examples. For particularly relevant instances in the context of self-​ ­reflexivity, see the instances discussed by D. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), index, “Elijah” (p. 375). 5. As Marc Bregman observed: “Serah is able to correct the rabbinic teaching not by bringing an alternative tradition from the Oral Torah, but on the basis of her own personal experience and eyewitness account of the biblical event being expounded”; see M. Bregman, “Serah Bat Asher, Biblical Origins, Ancient Aggadah and Contemporary Folklore,” in New Harvest: Jewish Writings in St. Louis, 1998–​­​­2005, ed. H. Schwartz and B. Raznick (St. Louis: Brodsky Library, 2005), pp. 347–​­48. Bregman suggests that this reflects rabbinic recognition that women may possess “experiential” knowledge that may be superior to the (exclusively male) learned tradition. Much as I would like to embrace his suggestion, it should be noted that such knowledge is imparted here on a biblical feminine figure. Furthermore, even when alternative modes of knowledge or experience are attributed to women of the rabbinic period, such an attribution in a male-​­patriarchal discourse cannot be read only at face value as an acknowledgment of feminine superiority (see also Chapter 5 in this volume). 6. See bMenah.ot 29b. 7. “Each and every stroke” is the standard translation of the Hebrew phrase kol qots vaqots. Shlomo Naeh has recently argued that kol qots vaqots does not refer to the graphic aspect of the letters but rather to portions or verses of the Torah; see S. Naeh, “The Script of the Torah in Rabbinic Thought (B): Transcriptions and Thorns,” Leshonenu 72:4 (2010): 108 [Hebrew]. Read accordingly, the story loses its satirical bent but not its intense self-​­reflective quality. 8. This tale has been adduced by numerous scholars who find it to display astonishingly modern, or even postmodern, hermeneutical sensibilities. For what could be more invigorating for modern notions of hermeneutics than the paradoxical scene in which Moses, transposed to the future academy of Rabbi Akiva, cannot comprehend the Sage’s explication who insists that his knowledge is based on the ruling handed down by none other than Moses himself. Source, text, authorship, and interpretation (as well as other matters, such as theodicy) form the crux of this tale. See, e.g., Emmanuel Levinas’s several allusions to this story in his essay on Jewish revelation (note that he omits the final section where Moses is shown Rabbi Akiva’s tragic fate, which would undermine his unequivocal enthusiasm for rabbinic hermeneutics): “Revelation in the Jewish Tradition,” trans. S. Richmond, in The Levinas Reader, ed. S. Hand (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1989), pp. 190–​­​ ­210; see also Y. Fraenkel, The Aggadic Narrative (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2001), pp. 40–​­​ ­50 [Hebrew] (although Fraenkel’s main concern is the characterization of Moses and the literary-​ ­artistic quality of the narrative). 9. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis, pp. 232–​­38. 10. Wheeler, Deconstruction as Analytic Philosophy, p. 217. 11. Walter Benjamin, Reflections, ed. with an introduction by Peter Demetz, trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York: Schocken, 1978), pp. 314–​­32. It should be noted that for Benjamin, the magic of language is not restricted to “the language as such” model.

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12. M. Jay, Songs of Experience (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), pp. 320–​­21. 13. In the past, I have characterized Serah.’s knowledge as “magical,” relating it to anthropological and sociological theories of “magical thought” and “orientation toward reality.” I also argued that magical thought resides at the heart of rabbinic monotheism, where it provided a fantasy of a “gap-​­less” universe; see D. Stein, Maxim, Magic, Myth: A Folkloristic Perspective of Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2004), pp. 183–​­86, 211–​­25 [Hebrew]. There I addressed at length the problem of delineating magic in rabbinic literature and introduced the terms “magical thought” and “magical mentality” as additional, and necessary, categories. 14. See H. L. Strack and G. Stemberger, Introduction to Talmud and Midrash, trans. M. Bockmuehl (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), pp. 328–​­30; and G. Friedlander, trans., Midrash Pirke deRabbi Eliezer, 4th ed. (New York: Sepher Hermon, 1981). Although I consulted Friedlander’s translation, the texts cited here are not identical to his, since I chose to quote the Venice edition, as it appears in C. M. Horowitz, Pirke deRabbi Eliezer: A Critical Edition, facsimile ed. (Jerusalem: Maqor, 1972). 15. See the discussion in my Maxim, Magic, Myth (pp. 49–​­​­50, 187–​­88), which alludes to that possibility. On PRE and Seder Eliyahu as self-​­contained works and on the cultural background and implications of the novel poetic phenomena that they introduce, see idem, “Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer and Seder Eliyahu: Preliminary Notes on Poetics and Imagined Landscapes,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 24 (2011): 73–​­​­94 [Hebrew]. 16. See, e.g., the sources cited by E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1975), pp. 197–​­​­201. Urbach denies any mythical or magical underlying notions in these sources. On the Torah as a magical entity, see also G. Scholem’s seminal study: On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism, trans. R. Manheim (New York: Schocken, 1996), pp. 37–​­​­41. On the profound meanings ascribed to the Hebrew letters, including their position in the alphabetic order and their graphic dimensions, mainly in kabbalistic writings, see E. R. Wolfson, Alef, Mem, Tau: Kabbalistic Musings on Time, Truth, and Death (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); on rabbinic traditions, see Wolfson, esp. chap. 5. 17. See, e.g., the studies of Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked: Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1987); and idem, Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1993). 18. See also Genesis Rabbah 1:11 (Theodor-​­Albeck, p. 10). 19. On children as agents of divination in rabbinic texts, and especially on their pronunciation of verses, see Y. Harari, Early Jewish Magic (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2010), pp. 318–​­19 [Hebrew] (and bibliography cited there). 20. The above-​­mentioned talmudic sugya also addresses the use of letters in amulets. Note that it appears in a context that discusses M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH letters and the midrashic exegesis of the alphabet’s letters by infants. This further enhances the claim that the very concept of M-​­N-​­TS-​­P-​­KH as special letters, as well as the linguistic notion of the infants, is a magical notion—​­which finds its ultimate expression in the magical practice of the writing of letters in amulets. Cf. also the story of the beginning of Rabbi Akiva in Avot deRabbi Nathan, version A:6. Rabbi Akiva asks: “Why is this Aleph written, why is this Bet written, why is this statement made?” It would seem that Rabbi Akiva’s questions allude not only to the exegetical school, which is identified with his figure, but also to the beginning of the tale: Rabbi Akiva is standing on the edge of a well and marvels at a phenomenon that is taken for granted by the others surrounding him—​­the carved stone. Although Rabbi Akiva begins his studies late in life, it seems that this story attributes the beginning of his studies to a childlike sense of wonder—​­indeed, of revelation. Cf. also the tradition of the fetus that while in its mother’s womb watches and sees from one end of the world to the other and learns the



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entire Torah. Once it exits its mother’s womb and enters this world, an angel approaches him and slaps him on his mouth, and he forgets the entire Torah (bNiddah 30b). 21. From God, who is called ne’eman (“steadfast,” Deut. 7:9), to Moses, who is the ne’eman (“trusted,” Num. 12:7); from God, who is a tsadiq (“beneficent,” Ps. 145:17), to Moses, who did the Lord’s tsidqat (“Judgment,” Deut. 33:21); from the mouth of God to the mouth of Moses (Num. 12:8). For a tradition that implies that the tablets were passed from God’s hand to the hand of Moses, see Tanh.uma ‘Eqev 11 (printed edition). 22. Cf. also “ ‘Don’t touch my anointed ones’ (1 Chron. 16:22)—​­those are the children of the house of the Sages” (bShabbat 119b). See also J. Schwartz, who sees in this story of the children in the house of assembly an example of children’s games that is legitimized from an institutional viewpoint: “Ishmael at Play: On Exegesis and Jewish Society,” Hebrew Union College Annual 66 (1995): 203–​­21. 23. On the different traditions, see Y. Elbaum, “Nashim shenikhnesu h.ayyim leGan Eden,” Mah. anayim 98 (1965): 124–​­31; and J. Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), pp. 49–​­​­63 [Hebrew]. On her immortality in rabbinic literature in general and in Toledot ben Sira in particular, see E. Yassif, The Tales of Ben Sira in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1985), pp. 104–​­13 [Hebrew]. 24. J. Dan, ed., Sefer hayashar (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1986), chap. 14, pp. 242–​­43. 25. Genesis Rabbah 94:9 (Theodor-​­Albeck, p. 1182). 26. On the phrase ben Torah (lit., “son of Torah”) and its possible mythical connotations (which I do not detect in our text), see I. Hazani, “From Myth to Ethos: ‘Ben Torah,’ ‘Ben Navi,’ and the Study of Torah (Reflections on the ‘Father,’ the ‘Mother,’ and the ‘Son’),” Pathways through Aggadah 10 (2007): 95–​­​­137 [Hebrew]. 27. Dan, Sefer hayashar, chap. 14, pp. 242–​­43. 28. On the development of the legends of the Ten Martyrs, see idem, The Hebrew Story in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), pp. 62–​­​­68; and R. Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), pp. 81–​­​­98 (on the place of PRE in that tradition, see p. 86). 29. Serah.’s role in revealing Joseph’s place of burial appears in many places; see, e.g., tSotah 4:6; Mekhilta d’R. Ishmael, Beshalah. ; Mekhilta d’R. Shimon bar Yoh. ai, Beshalah. ; bSotah 13a, and in later midrashim. For a discussion on the development of the legend, see, e.g., J. Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development, pp. 49–56 [Hebrew]; and J. L. Kugel, In Potiphar’s House: The Interpretative Life of Biblical Texts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1994), pp. 125–​­55. 30. The terms “index” and “indexicality” (and their relation to “deixis”) are far from clear in modern linguistics, as they have come to designate a wide range of phenomena. See, e.g., T. A. Sebeok, Signs: An Introduction to Semiotics (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994), pp. 62–​­​­79. The terms “deictic” and “indexical” evolved from different traditions: the former is associated with a linguistic approach, and the latter with philosophy. I am here following a distinction whereby “indexicality will be used to label the broader phenomena of contextual dependency, and deixis the narrower linguistically relevant aspects of indexicality”; see S. C. Levinson, “Deixis,” in The Handbook of Pragmatics, ed. L. R. Horn and G. Ward (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2004), p. 97. “Index,” as Peirce formulated it, indeed relates to broader contextual aspects, such as seeing smoke as a sign of fire. 31. B. Rojtman, Black Fire on White Fire: An Essay on Jewish Hermeneutics, from Midrash to Kabbalah, trans. S. Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), p. 126. In an extensive study of rabbinic and kabbalistic hermeneutics, Rojtman addresses the tension embodied in the

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demonstrative pronoun zeh between the immediacy it implies and its indeterminacy. Its dual character thus triggers, as well as epitomizes, rabbinic and later exegesis. See also B. Roitman (= Rojtman), “Sacred Language and Open Text,” in Midrash and Literature, ed. G. H. Hartman and S. Budick (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986), pp. 159–​­75. 32. For a concise definition of both figures, see, e.g., A. J. Greimas and J. Courtés, Semiotics and Language: An Analytical Dictionary, trans. L. Crist et al. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982), p. 13 (“Anaphora”) and p. 26 (“Cataphora”). 33. D. Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), p. 122 (italics added); see also n. 39 below. 34. M. Galbraith, “Deictic Shift Theory and the Poetics of Involvement in Narrative,” in Deixis in Narrative: A Cognitive Science Perspective, ed. J. F. Duchan, G. A. Bruder, and L. E. Hewitt (Hills­ dale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1995), p. 20. 35. The relationship between deixis and anaphora is complex. For the purpose of the discussion, I follow the traditional distinction whereby the world to which deictics refer is “external to the talk (a nonlinguistic ‘context’), whereas the world to which anaphors anchor an utterance . . . ​ [is] defined as internal to the talk (a linguistic world called ‘text’)”; see D. Schiffrin, “Between Text and Context: Deixis, Anaphora and the Meaning of Then,” Text 10:3 (1990): 245. It should be noted that Schiffrin herself argues against the assumed dichotomy between the terms. It is precisely the distinction between the textual and the contextual that underlies the exegetical move of midrash here, in its aim to transcend the textually based world. 36. C. S. Peirce, Peirce on Signs: Writings on Semiotic by Charles Sanders Peirce, ed. J. Hoopes (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), pp. 239–​­40 (boldface added). On Peirce’s taxonomy, see Sebeok, Signs. Peirce himself, as Sebeok notes, qualified the tripartite division that addresses different types of signs: the division should be understood as applying to different aspects of any given sign, which is never exclusively “indexical,” “iconic,” or “symbolic” (Sebeok, Signs, p. 68). 37. J. Lyons, Semantics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 2:656, cited in Rojtman, Black Fire on White Fire, p. 126. 38. Sebeok, Signs, p. 65; on indexical signification as analogous to the principle of “contiguous magic,” see ibid., p. 66. 39. See Roitman, “Sacred Language” p. 169; and Rojtman, Black Fire, esp. pp. 27, 37, 82. Boyarin, too, associates the use of deixis in midrash with the experience of revelation. He celebrates the exegetical process that transforms the meaning of the demonstrative pronoun from anaphora—​­a figure of absence—​­into deixis, which is “the very figure of presence.” According to Boyarin, the midrash represents what is absent—​­the moment of revelation—​­in the present (Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash, p. 122). I share Boyarin’s notion that associates the use of deixis with the representation of the absent and the experience of revelation. However, I do not agree with his unequivocal assertion of midrash in general as a sufficient transformative tool. It seems to me that not only in the texts discussed here but also in those that Boyarin reads, the very use of deixis hints at the problematic aspects of midrashic exegesis—​­which is, by definition, textual and ­mediated—​­and its inadequacies. See also Michael Fishbane, who suggests that the study of Torah—​ ­by a Sage possessing the necessary virtues—​­contained the hope for bridging the gap between divine revelations that took place in the distant past and the exegetical enterprise of later generations. Fishbane is correct in pointing out the dilemma regarding the possibility of representing revelation (a dilemma that is posed by the rabbis themselves). However, the tension is not altogether resolved; see M. Fishbane, The Garments of Torah (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 64–​­​­78. 40. Narratives documented in the Israeli Folktale Archives, named in honor of Dov Noy (IFA).



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I thank Edna Hechal, former director of IFA, for her help in locating the stories. See also the material included in H. Mizrachi, The Jews of Persia (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1959), pp. 168–​­70 [Hebrew]; S. Surudi, “The Holy Places of the Jews of Persia,” in Jewish Communities in the World: A Cultural Anthology, ed. A. Stahl (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1979), 2:257–​­59 [Hebrew]; and L. D. Loeb, Outcaste: Jewish Life in Southern Iran (New York: Gordon & Breach, 1977), pp. 224–​­30. See also Stein, Maxim, Magic, Myth, pp. 219–​­20. 41. See Mizrahi, The Jews of Persia, p. 168—​­the compound of Serah.’s tomb includes a synagogue named after Jacob the Patriarch. 42. Loeb, Outcaste, p. 274. The theme of a subterranean passage connecting the Land of Israel and a diasporic community appears in rabbinic literature (yMaʿaser sheni 5:2 [56a], as an underground passage connecting to Babylonia); for the theme in modern Jewish folklore (from different provenances) recorded in IFA, see stories listed as AT 178*C (“The Slaughtered She-​­Goat”). I thank Idit Pintel-​­Ginsberg, director of the archives, for this reference. 43. However, it should be noted that Serah.’s redemptive actions, in the form of saving the Jews from Persian persecutions, are aimed at providing improved conditions for the Jews as a minority group that does not necessarily yearn for a redemptive future in the Holy Land. Moreover, the trajectory implied by her accidental voyage predates the exile of Judaea or even of the northern tribes of Israel. She thus presents an alternative model, albeit not an unambiguous one, to the exile-​­return model that is, by and large, presented in rabbinic literature. See also D. Stein, “Serah. bat Asher: A Reading of IFA 9524,” in The Power of A Tale: The Jubilee Book of IFA, ed. H. Bar-​­Itzhak and I. Pintel-​­Ginsberg (Haifa: University of Haifa, 2008), pp. 171–​­80 [Hebrew]. 44. As told to me by Puran Refu’ah, born in Teheran, immigrated to Israel in 1973. Obviously, the lively descriptions of the tomb compound and the traditions associated with it refer to the time prior to the Iranian revolution of 1979.

Chapter 5 1. See bMoʿed Qatan 17a. 2. M. Foucault, The History of Sexuality, An Introduction, trans. R. Hurley (New York: Vintage, 1978), 1:94. 3. Youval Rotman, in his study of Byzantine slavery, calls for a distinction between two aspects of slavery that do not necessarily overlap, namely, its social and civil aspects, and their relation to slavery as “unfreedom.” In the narratives about Rabbi Judah’s maidservant discussed here, it is clearly the social aspect, as defined in relation to the master, which is at play, possibly in a similar manner to what Rotman sees as the emphasis in Christian hagiographical literature. Y. Rotman, Byzantine Slavery and the Mediterranean World, trans. J. M. Marie Todd (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009), pp. 87, 138. 4. On Rabbi Judah the Patriarch’s authorial position and his wealth, see L. I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class in Palestine during the Talmudic Period (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 1985), pp. 91–​­​­100 [Hebrew]; and O. Meir, Rabbi Judah the Patriarch: Palestinian and Babylonian Portrait of a Leader (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad), 1999 [Hebrew], with the bibliography cited there. Meir discusses the differences between Palestinian and Babylonian depictions of his character, including his leadership and wealth. In the framework of the discussion here, it is important to note that all the stories about Rabbi Judah’s maidservant imply a hierarchy in which she occupies the lowest social position and he the highest.

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5. P. V. McCracken Flesher notes that “the Mishnah frames both . . . ​categories of slavery and . . . ​of women according to the same taxonomic criterion, namely, the householder’s control”; see P. V. M. Flesher, Oxen, Women, or Citizens?, Brown Judaic Studies, no. 143 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), p. 51. Although Flesher confines his discussion to the mishnaic corpus, it seems plausible to apply the mishnaic scheme to later texts as well, since Rabbi Judah’s maid belongs to the lowest category insofar as she is both a woman and a slave. Moreover, she is a woman slave controlled by the householder (Rabbi Judah) and is thus the epitome of the classificatory system, signifying the lowest class. See also bMenah.ot 43b, where R. Judah’s blessing, “that He did not make me a woman,” is discussed. It is implied there that “men are thankful that they are not compared to women, who, in this statement, are compared to slaves—​­either occupying the same low level (according to R. Ah.a, son of Jacob) or only slightly higher (according to the father)”; see J. Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1998), p. 236. See also C. Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves on the Jewish Family in Roman Palestine,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 34 (2003): 375–​­​­424. 6. On slaves in the Mishnah, see Flesher, Oxen, Women, or Citizens? On the Greco-​­Roman model of Jewish slavery in the Roman period, see D. B. Martin, “Slavery and the Ancient Jewish Family,” in The Jewish Family in Antiquity, ed. S. J. D. Cohen, Brown Judaic Studies, no. 289 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), pp. 113–​­29. Martin makes the point that “slavery among Jews of the Greco-​­Roman period did not differ from the slave structures of those people among whom Jews lived” (p. 113). See also Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves.” 7. Cited in H. Parker, “Loyal Slaves and Loyal Wives,” in Women and Slaves in Greco-​­Roman Culture, ed. S. Murnaghan and S. R. Joshel (London: Routledge, 1998), p. 161; and G. W. F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Mind, trans. J. B. Baillie (London: Sonnenschein, 1910), pp. 228–​­40. See also W.  Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 1–​­​­8, which explores figures of slaves in a variety of Latin works and the range of meta-​­cultural and meta-​­literary notions that are thematized in relation to those figures. 8. I. A. H. Combes, The Metaphor of Slavery in the Writings of the Early Church (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), p. 22, commenting on O. Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982). 9. K. McCarthy, “Servitum Amoris: Amor Serviti,” in Women and Slaves in Greco-​­Roman Culture, ed. Murnaghan and Joshel, p. 180. 10. Ibid., following Igor Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process,” in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. A. Appadurai (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 65. Cf. Claude Lévi-​­Strauss, who makes a similar observation regarding women: “The emergence of symbolic thought must have required that women, like words, should be things that were exchanged. . . . ​But woman could never become just a sign and nothing more, since even in a man’s world she is still a person, and since in so far as she is defined as a sign she must be recognized as a generator of signs”; see C. Lévi-​­Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship, trans. J. H. Bell and J. R. von Stumer, ed. R. Needham (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1969), p. 496. On the contradiction between the inferior social status of slaves and the power that was invested in some of their roles (e.g., as pedagogues or nurses), see Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves,” pp. 406–​­8. The complexity of the slave as a semiotic sign emerges in the halakhic classification of slaves in relation to women and children (Heszer, pp. 377–​­90). 11. Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, p. 11 (paraphrasing Lévi-​­Strauss). Fitzgerald suggests that “some of what literature has to tell us about slavery . . . ​concerns the fact that slaves were good to think with, and one of the things about which slaves helped the Romans to



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think was literature itself ” (p. 11). This understanding is close to my own reading of the narratives on Rabbi Judah’s maidservant as reflections on rabbinic discourse, in which, just as in the Latin examples, sovereign identities are at stake. 12. See, e.g., M. I. Finley, Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology (New York: Penguin, 1980), pp. 94–​­​­95; L. Casson, Everyday Life in Ancient Rome (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), p. 62; and Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves,” p. 411. 13. S. R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan, “Introduction,” in Women and Slaves in Greco-​­Roman Culture, ed. Murnaghan and S. R. Joshel, pp. 15–​­​­16. See also, on the notion of freedom as self-​­control in a talmudic narrative, S. Naeh, “Freedom and Celibacy: A Talmudic Variation on Tales of Temptation and Fall in Genesis and Its Syrian Background,” in The Book of Genesis in Jewish and Oriental Christian Interpretation, ed. J. Frishman and L. Van Rompay (Louvain: Peeters, 1997), pp. 73–​­​­89; and Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves,” p. 415. 14. See also the statement that appears before the one quoted: “the more women, the more witchcraft.” 15. For additional examples, see T. Ilan, Jewish Women in Greco-​­Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr, 1995), pp. 205–​­​­11. 16. P. Vidal-​­Naquet, “Slavery and the Rule of Women in Tradition, Myth, and Utopia,” in Myth, Religion, and Society: Structuralist Essays by M. Detienne, L. Gernet, J. P. Vernant, and P. Vidal-​ ­Naquet, ed. R. L. Gordon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 188. 17. Ilan, Jewish Women, pp. 205–​­​­11. 18. Cf. Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, p. 41. 19. In my readings of the stories about Rabbi Judah’s maidservant, I am not seeking to present a harmonized picture of her literary character(s). The texts derive from different settings, geographically and temporally. Thus a variety of images emerge from different compilations. See T. Ilan, Mine and Yours Are Hers (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 97–​­​­107; and Meir, Rabbi Judah, pp. 245–​­46. According to Ilan, in the Babylonian Talmud, “Rabbi’s maidservant was blown up into an outstanding example of wisdom and loyalty. . . . ​[T]he stories are told in order to demonstrate the greatness of Rabbi” (p. 106). Although Ilan’s statement seems to support Meir’s conclusions concerning the tendency of the Babylonian traditions to elaborate the greatness of Rabbi Judah (albeit others display more criticism than the Palestinian sources), it seems to reduce the meaning of the stories to this one function: their metonymical portrayal of Rabbi Judah. Furthermore, Ilan implies that in the Palestinian material, the maid is a simple character, confined in her roles, as compared with the rabbis. I do not agree. Nor is there any reason to assume a historical kernel in one of the traditions (yMegillah 2:2 [73a]); see Ilan, Mine and Yours, pp. 99–​­​­100. Ilan argues that an “original, very plausible story . . . ​gave rise to a legend about the woman’s exceptional knowledge of Hebrew, a legend which is presented in the Palestinian Talmud and greatly elaborated upon in the Babylonian” (Ilan, Mine and Yours, p. 100). 20. For different versions of this story, see yMegillah 2:2 (73a), bRosh Hashanah 26b, and bMegillah 18a. For a comparative study of the different Palestinian and Babylonian versions, see S. Valler, Women in Jewish Society in the Talmudic Period (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2000), pp. 152–​­60 [Hebrew]. 21. I have chosen the option of understanding the Hebrew abbreviation lishne as meaning lishnayim (in pairs). It is, of course, possible to understand the abbreviation as referring to years (leshanim), i.e., enter according to your age (lit., “your years”). I thank Adiel Schremer for pointing this out to me as well as for arguing against my interpretation. Indeed, MS Leiden, MS Vatican, the parallel in Megillah, and later commentators all have “years” (shanim) in their version. Despite this

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counterevidence, the phrase “enter in pairs” accounts for the ongoing rabbinic confusion regarding the order of entering—​­each pair of Sages has to determine which of them has precedence, the older or the wiser. Had years served as the criterion, one would expect the entrance to proceed smoothly (cf. also Pene Moshe, a pivotal commentator of the Palestinian Talmud, who understands the phrase to mean “enter in pairs”). 22. On the meaning of h. aloglogot, see Y. Kutscher, Words and Their History (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1965), pp. 81–​­​­82 [Hebrew]. I thank Ronit Gadish for providing me with the reference. Both h. aloglogot and serugin appear in the Mishnah. Kutscher reads the story as indicative of a stage in which Hebrew was still spoken by the simple folk but was gradually forgotten by the Sages. Accordingly, the maidservant is one of the simple folk. Ilan suggests that, since the Nabatean language retained forms and words that the Hebrew had lost, she was an Arab woman who could still understand the meaning of these words (Mine and Yours, pp. 99–​­​­100). Ascribing different social or ethnic identities to the maidservant obviously modifies the reading of the stories. Her role as an other would change, depending on whether she is assumed (by the narrator or audience) to be a (Jewish) country girl or a (Gentile) Nabatean. Furthermore, in the context of this discussion, the question of the source of the maid’s linguistic knowledge is of prime importance. However, there does not seem to be any conclusive evidence supporting either of the historical conjectures. See also Valler’s account of Yalon’s and Margalioth’s historical conclusions regarding the status of Hebrew as reflected in this story (Valler, Women in Jewish Society, pp. 159–​­60). 23. On the customary visit of the Sages to Rabbi Judah the Patriarch as analogous to the Roman custom of salutatio, see H. Shapira, “The Deposition of Rabban Gamliel: Between History and Legend,” Zion 64 (1999): 14 n. 42 [Hebrew] and the bibliography cited there; on slaves as doormen who supervise the entry of outsiders into their masters’ houses, see Heszer, “The Impact of Household Slaves,” pp. 402, 406, in which our source from the Palestinian Talmud, yShevi‘it 9:1 (38c), is addressed. 24. The order of entry (ordo salutatio) reflected one’s status. See R. R. Kimelman, “The Conflict between the Priestly Oligarchy and the Sages in the Talmudic Period (an Explication of PT Shabbat 12:3, 13c = Horayot 3:5, 48c),” Zion 48 (1983): 137 [Hebrew]. 25. It is, of course, possible to see the maid’s command of Hebrew as demonstrating the grandeur of Rabbi Judah’s house, in which “everyone spoke good Hebrew, even the lowliest maidservant” (Ilan, Mine and Yours, p. 99, contrary to her other explanation; see n. 22 above). Thus one might understand the story as indirect praise of Rabbi Judah’s authority. This understanding of the text, like the assertion that “the purpose of the story is not to endow the woman with special knowledge which the sages lack” (p. 99), fails to account for the complexity of the tale. Ilan also contends that the words h. aloglogot and serugin are “archaic Hebrew words from the Bible.” To the best of my knowledge, they are not biblical words. 26. In the framework of these criteria (age, wisdom), the maidservant is not necessarily excluded, since gender is not mentioned as a defining category. Ironically, the maidservant could be of high status, according to these categories. 27. Cf. bRosh Hashanah 26b and bMegillah 18a, in which there is no implied reference to a Nazirite. In these texts, the maid’s use of the word mesalsel serves to explicate a biblical verse (Prov. 4:8), as do two other mundane instances that are presented there and that shed light on forgotten meanings of biblical words. 28. See also bRosh Hashanah 26b, where Rabbi Judah’s maidservant provides the meaning for mesalsel in addition to words that appear in the narrative cited above: serugin, h. aloglogot, and matate (see also bMegillah 18a).



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29. See Midrash Psalms 80, W. Braude, trans., The Midrash on Psalms (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press), p. 48, in which Yoel ben Petuʿel’s name is explained: “For he used to be seduced [mitpateh] and curl his hair [mesalsel biseʿaro] like a young woman.” See also the description of Joseph in Genesis Rabbah 84:7 (Theodor-​­Albeck, p. 1008), Tanh.uma vayeshev 8; and Kugel’s discussion of these sources in J. L. Kugel, In Potiphar’s House: The Interpretative Life of Biblical Texts (Cambridge, Mass.: HarperCollins, 1990), pp. 76–​­​­79. On the rabbinic Joseph as a cultural androgyne, see J. Levinson, “Cultural Androgyny in Rabbinic Literature,” in From Athens to Jerusalem: Medicine in Hellenized Jewish Lore and in Early Christian Literature, ed. S. Kottek et al. (Rotterdam: Erasmus, 2000), pp. 133–​­39. Cf. Genesis Rabbah (Theodor-​­Albeck, pp. 211–​­​­212), where the yetzer sees a man who “fixes his hair [metaqen biseʿaro].” Unlike the maidservant who rebukes the immodest man, the yetzer declares: “this one is mine.” See I. Rosen-​­Zvi, Demonic Desires: “Yetzer Hara” and the Problem of Evil in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), p. 39. 30. On enigmas in relation to riddles, see G. Hasan-​­Rokem and D. Shulman, “Afterword,” in Untying the Knot: On Riddles and Other Enigmatic Modes, ed. idem (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 316–​­20. 31. One may choose, e.g., between Mary Douglas’s structuralist/functionalist account of instances of cultural ambiguities, which are, in turn, treated with (successful?) confining measures within an otherwise coherent cultural system, and Derrida’s “play of signification,” which has no limits, implying an inherent deconstruction of an ambiguous system or structure. See M. Douglas, Implicit Meanings (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 51–​­​­54; and Derrida’s reading of Lévi-​­Strauss, in “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences,” in idem, Writing and Difference, trans. A. Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), pp. 278–​­93. 32. M. Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, trans. A. Smock (Lincoln, Nebr.: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), p. 127. 33. See also C. Hayes, “The ‘Other’ in Rabbinic Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. C. E. Fonrobert and M. S. Jaffee (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 243–​­69. The maidservant is indeed an “internal other” that serves the rabbis in a similar fashion to the ones described by Hayes. I suggest that it is precisely her, as if, tacit social existence (unlike “Christian,” or “wonder-​­workers,” that Hayes discusses as “internal others”) that allows for her volatile reflective capacity. 34. On narcissism in the service of colonialism, in which the colonized are seen (and come to see themselves) as a reflection of the colonizers, see F. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. C. L. Lam Markmann (New York: Grove, 1967), p. 109. 35. However, it should be clear that we are forever in the presence of hegemonic discourse that employs servants in different discursive contexts. Whether they act as subjects or objects, we do not hear their stories but rather those of their owners (see Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, p. 2). 36. McCarthy, “Servitum Amoris: Amor Serviti,” p. 180. 37. S. Mills, Discourse (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 124. I am using a model that addresses colonial power structures to talk about a hegemonic system, which is obviously not synonymous with the colonial. However, in terms of the dynamics of power and identity formation, the application of insights from the colonial model to rabbinic culture is possible, I believe, without assuming the overall political and historical framework of the former. 38. H. K. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man,” in idem, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), pp. 88–​­​­89.

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39. On rabbinic discourse on niddah, see C. E. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity: Rabbinic and Christian Reconstructions of Biblical Gender (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000). 40. Louis Ginzberg understands the maid to be threatening that, should her mistress begin to immerse (in the future) after intercourse, then she will do the same. Hence the sexual act will be made public, and both of them will be shamed; see L. Ginzberg, A Commentary on the Palestinian Talmud (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1941), 3:244 [Hebrew]. As M. Satlow notes, this explanation seems “strained”; see Tasting the Dish, Brown Judaic Studies, no. 303 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), pp. 99–​­​­100. In a recent English translation, the text is emended: “If the gentleman [!] will not immerse himself, then neither will I”; see T. Zahavy, trans., The Talmud of the Land of Israel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 1:133. This textual emendation seems to be based on the immediate context, in which the previous section deals with immersion prior to having intercourse as a means of preventing sinful sexual relations. Following the man’s analogy between the woman and a beast, the translator explains that the woman was a Gentile (see also Satlow, Tasting the Dish, pp. 99–​­​­100). But cf. bNiddah 66b, where Rabbi Judah supervises the immersion of his maidservant. 41. J. C. Scott, Domination and the Art of Resistance (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1990). Scott distinguishes between four kinds of political discourse among subordinate groups. The maid’s discursive strategies here belong to the third kind, of which Scott says: “This is the politics of disguise and anonymity that take place in public view but is designed to have a double meaning or to shield the identity of the actors” (p. 19). What is especially relevant for our discussion is his observation that a “partly sanitized, ambiguous, and coded version of the hidden transcript is always present in the public discourse of subordinating groups” (ibid.). 42. On the identification of (Canaanite) slaves with beasts in halakhic discourse, as well as in aggadic material, see J. Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), pp. 125–​­29 [Hebrew]. 43. Her argument is all too familiar. It is, after all, used by Rav Shila as a coded transcript in his appeal to his hegemonic authority (bBerakhot 28a). For a close reading of the text, see J. Fraenkel, “The Story of R. Shila,” Tarbiz 40 (1971): 33–​­​­40 [Hebrew]. Menstrual impurity is Beruria’s sister’s excuse for not having sex with her (disguised) brother-​­in-​­law, who witnesses her virtuous conduct in the captivity of a Roman brothel (bAvodah Zarah 18a). See D. Boyarin, Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), p. 190. For “hidden transcripts” embedded in double-​­entendre rabbinic discourse vis-​­à-​­vis Roman hegemony, see D. Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999), pp. 42–​­​­66. 44. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man,” p. 88. 45. Ibid., p. 89. 46. Oxford MS version. It seems that the Oxford manuscript version of this text is the most plausible, albeit not devoid of difficulties (e.g., the transition from the plural “maidservants” to the singular “maidservant” is not accounted for). This version is supported by the ‘Arukh, and the other versions may be explained as corruptions of the Oxford manuscript version. 47. In the other two examples in the Babylonian Talmud, b‘Eruvin 53b, the protagonists are rabbis. In fact, this anecdote appears within a wider context in which the importance of the exact use of language and the subtleties of wit are discussed. It begins with Rabbi Yehudah’s quotation of Rav, who said that the Judaeans, as opposed to the Galileans, were strict in regard to their language, and therefore their Torah was sustained. Further on, it includes Rabbi Yehoshu‘a ben H.ananyah’s famous saying, “I have never been defeated except . . . ​by a woman, a boy, and a girl” (followed by



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his tales); Rabbi Yossi’s encounter with Beruriah, who rebukes him (“Galilean fool”) for not having formulated the question in pithier form; and more. It seems that one thematic thread that runs through this textual unit is the Judaeans’ linguistic superiority (in connection with their customs of the reading of the Torah). 48. Lit., “His soul rested / his life rested” (nah. nafsheh). It is important to note that the expression that the rabbis, as well as the narrator, seek to avoid throughout the story is in itself a mediated (if not euphemistic) formulation. Cf. the usage here to the use of a direct verb connoting Rabbi Judah’s death in yKil’ayim 9:4 (32b). 49. Two black cubical leather boxes in which scriptural passages are inserted and that are strapped on a man’s left hand and on his head. Worn today only during morning prayers, in rabbinic times they were worn throughout the day. They may not be worn, however, in impure places, such as a latrine. Putting on the tefillin is an elaborately specified procedure that (we assume) Rabbi Judah followed meticulously each time he had to remove them and then put them on again. 50. The phrase “you said so” is missing in the following mss.: Munich 95; Vatican 113; and Saint Petersburg, Perkowits EVR 1 187. 51. Cf. this with the words of Rabbi Shemuʾel bar Rav Yitsh.aq’s maidservant, who testifies that she used to wash his clothes daily and never saw a bad thing, i.e., a seminal emission on his clothes; ySanhedrin 10:2 (29b), yYevamot 2:4 (3d), Leviticus Rabbah 24:6 (Margulies, p. 560). In Leviticus Rabbah, it is told of Rabbi Ishmael bar Rav Yitsh.aq; but see comments in M. Margulies, Midrash Vayyikra Rabbah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1993), p. 560 [Hebrew]. 52. See Meir, Rabbi Judah, p. 331 n. 69 (on the roof as a place for prayers in times of adversity in rabbinic literature). 53. I thank Galit Hasan-​­Rokem for this observation. 54. See, e.g., Genesis Rabbah 14:7 (Theodor-​­Albeck, p. 131). See also bTa‘anit 7a, bNedarim 50b, in which, following Caesar’s daughter’s analogy, Rabbi Yehoshu‘a explains that there is a reason for the seeming incongruity between his ugly physical appearance and his knowledge of Torah. Just as wine is best preserved in an earthen vessel (i.e., a cheap material), so is scriptural wisdom best contained in an ugly one. 55. Cf. Eccles. 12:5–​­​­7: “But man sets out for his eternal abode, with mourners all around in the street. Before the silver cord snaps and the golden bowl crashes, the jar is shattered at the spring, and the jug is smashed at the cistern.” 56. The image of the uterus as an upside-​­down container appears in rabbinic literature; see Leviticus Rabbah 14:3 (Margulies, p. 303); and Levinson, “Cultural Androgyny,” p. 124 n. 30. On the image in Greek medical texts, see A. E. Hanson, “The Medical Writers’ Woman,” in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, ed. D. M. Halperin, J. J. Winkler, and F. I. Zeitlin (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990), p. 317. 57. See Meir, Rabbi Judah, p. 305; on the parallel tradition in yKil’ayim 9:4 (32b), p. 332 (our text). 58. Note that the prohibition against uttering the words “Rabbi is dead” is accompanied by the threat of death against whoever dares to breach it. The incongruity between the rabbis’ execution of (discursive) power—​­via capital crime—​­and their inability to utter these words is the ultimate irony. Again, the threat that the violator “will be stabbed with a sword” is a euphemistic way of stating that “he shall die” (on the differences between the Palestinian and the Babylonian traditions regarding this phrase, see Meir, Rabbi Judah, p. 330). 59. Cf. yKil’ayim 9:4 (32b), where Rabbi Judah is compared to the tablets of the law. The two traditions allude to the prevalent image of the Sages as the personification of the Torah. See, e.g.,

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yMo‘ed Qatan 3:7 (83b) and bSotah 49b. See also J. Neusner, Why No Gospels in Talmudic Judaism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), p. 20. 60. M. de Certeau, “The Unnamable,” in The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. S. Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), p. 191. 61. Here, too, the rabbis’ discursive practices surrounding the death scene may be seen as narcissistic, insofar as narcissism and the denial of mortality (and corporeality) are connected. Narcissus “dies (if he dies) of being immortal, of having the immortality of appearance—​­the immortality which his metamorphosis into a flower attests: a funeral flower or flower of rhetoric” (Blanchot, Writing of the Disaster, p. 128). The intimate relationship between the maid and her master does not end with his death; it does, however, go sour. In the context of a series of stories about Rabbi Judah’s death from which the previous narrative was quoted, a few of his last wishes are recounted. It is told that on his deathbed, he instructed his sons: “Beware of your mother’s honor, a light should be lit in its place, a table should be laid in its place, a bed should be made in its place” (bKetubot 103a). The Talmud goes on to explain the reason for these seemingly strange requests: “Every Sabbath eve (after his death), Rabbi Judah used to come home, until once, in the twilight of Saturday evening, a neighbor knocked on the door. Rabbi Judah’s maidservant hissed at her, saying: ‘Be quiet, for Rabbi is sitting.’ ” After hearing this, he never returned, so as not to shame the righteous who did not reveal themselves to their families after their deaths. In this case, the maid discloses his presence and is responsible for his ultimate disappearance from this earth. 62. If identified as the same maidservant (as a literary figure) who witnesses his postmortem return (bKetubot 103a). 63. In the Munich 95 ms., she is referred to as a “woman”; in the Oxford ms. version, the description refers to “that maidservant,” i.e., not specifically from Rabbi Judah’s household. The cited printed edition, as well as the Vatican 108 ms., identifies the maid with Rabbi Judah’s maidservant. It is thus likely that the printed edition is not the “original” version. However, in addition to its tendency to identify the general and unknown with a recognized and specific name, it seems that not only is the version that mentions Rabbi Judah’s maidservant probable in light of the many traditions of a maidservant or maidservants in his household; it also relates to the strong erotic dimension of this figure as it emerges in other traditions. I.e., even if it is indeed a “mistaken” version, it exposes an additional element in the deep structure of the different traditions of the maidservant. 64. As the context of this text implies. For the food/sex metaphor in rabbinic texts, see, e.g., bBerakhot 70a, bNedarim 20a–​­b, and bʿAvodah Zarah 18b. See also Boyarin, Carnal Israel, pp. 109–​­32. 65. G. Hasan-​­Rokem, Web of Life, trans. B. Stein (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000), p. 65. 66. This is not to say that the Davidic “genealogy” was not controversial among the rabbis. See, e.g., A. I. Baumgarten, “Rabbi Judah I and His Opponents,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 12:2 (1982): 145–​­49; and Meir, Rabbi Judah, pp. 27–​­​­33. 67. Admittedly, this tradition is only documented in a late medieval midrashic anthology. S. Buber, ed., Yalqut haMakhiri (Berdyczew: Sheftel, 1899), on Psalms 118, p. 214. However, it is also possible that the tradition, although only recorded in a late text, is an early one; see Y. Zakovitch, David: From Shepherd to Messiah (Jerusalem: Ben-​­Zvi Institute, 1995), pp. 32–​­​­33 [Hebrew]. The substitution of a mistress for the maid is the opposite motif to that of the replacement of the mistress by a maid, found in Latin literature (Fitzgerald, Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, pp. 63–​­​­68). 68. For a feminist reading that emphasizes the power invested in women (as tricksters), which



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facilitates the birth of the Messiah, as well as confining that power within the gendered boundaries of women as mothers, see C. E. Fonrobert, “A Handmaid, a Trickster and the Birth of the Messiah,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. C. Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 251–​­60. 69. In discursive terms, this account of David’s conception conflates the institutional (“symbolic”) discursive order with the imaginary (“semiotic”) order. 70. This, of course, comes out explicitly in the biblical story of Ruth, the foreigner from whom the seed of David will emerge, as well as in the Judah/Tamar story. 71. See the themes explored by W. Doniger concerning sexual doubles and bed tricks in The Bedtrick: Tales of Sex and Masquerade (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000). 72. “Deprived of the One, [Narcissus] has no salvation; otherness has opened up within himself ”; J. Kristeva, Tales of Love, trans. L. S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987), p. 121.

Epilogue 1. See bBerakhot 58b. 2. For a discussion of this tale in the context of the topos of ruined houses (and the ruined house, the Temple) in the Babylonian Talmud, see D. Stein, “Collapsing Structures: Discourse and the Destruction of the Temple in the Babylonian Talmud,” Jewish Quarterly Review 98:1 (2008): 1–​­​ 2­ 8. 3. Daniel Boyarin compares the quotational, fragmentary quality of midrash to modern or postmodern use of quotations in the wake of, and as a response to, an overwhelming crisis that threatened to undermine the continuity of past and present. He suggests that the resemblance between midrash and the modern citational discourse explains modern readers’ resurgent interest in midrash; see D. Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 37–​­​­38. 4. W. Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. J. Osborne (London: NLB, 1977), p. 178. Benjamin identified “ruins” as a central image in baroque German allegorical plays. 5. Ibid. Paul de Man’s distinction, along similar lines: “Whereas the symbol postulates the possibility of an identity or identification, allegory designates primarily a distance in relation to its own origin, and, renouncing the nostalgia and the desire to coincide, it establishes its language in the void of this temporal difference. In so doing, it prevents the self from an illusory identification with the non-​­self ”; see P. de Man, “The Rhetoric of Temporality,” in idem, Blindness and Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed., revised (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1983), p. 207. De Man’s words could have served as an apt description of the story of Simon the Just and the Nazir, which addresses the subjective and textual identification of the self with the non-​­self. Nostalgia, desire, and temporal difference are thematized in the distance or proximity entailed in the narrating rabbinic time vs. the narrated time, that of the Temple in its full glory. 6. The long history of controversy over the difference between “symbol” and “allegory,” as well as the denial of “allegory” in favor of “symbolism,” is rooted in Romantic and earlier Protestant discourse. See, e.g., A. Fletcher, Allegory: The Theory of Symbolic Mode (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1964), pp. 13–​­​­19 (on Romantic discourse); and T. H. Luxon, Literal Figures: Puritan Allegory and the Reformation Crisis in Representation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994) (on Protestant discourse).

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Index

Aaron, 74, 90, 93, 161 n. 65 Abrahams, Roger, 38, 151 n. 17 Abram/Abraham, 1, 2, 3, 13–15, 90, 98, 137 n. 4,141 n. 46, 142 n. 51, 155 n. 64 academy, 66, 81–82, 86–87, 106 Achilles, 52, 155 n. 63 aesthetic, 58, 123 afterlife, 69, 159 n. 41 agency, 7 agony, 113, 115 Akiva, Rabbi, 86–88, 146 n. 36, 153 n. 41, 165 n. 8, 166 n. 20 Alexander, 26, 40, 146 n. 37 alienation, 139 n. 22, 145 n. 25 allegory, 44, 123, 138, 146 n. 36, 158 n. 10, 177 nn. 5–6 Al-­Tabari, 43 Al-­Thalabi, 43 amulets, 91, 166 n. 20. See also magic analogy, 24, 53, 55, 95, 122, 174 n. 40, 175 n. 54 anaphora, 96–97, 168 n. 35 angels, 4, 59, 71– 73, 78, 85, 113, 167 n. 20 animals, fantastic, 159 n. 37. See also Behemoth; Leviathan; Ziz-­Shaddai anthropology, 11, 38, 146 n. 31, 166 n. 13 Antoninus, 26, 147 n. 44 apocalyptic literature, 159 n. 41 Arabic, 40, 43– 46, 152 n. 27, 154 nn. 47–48 Arabs, 43, 64, 65, 71, 75, 154 n. 47, 162 n. 72, 163 n. 81, 172 n. 22 asceticism, 20, 29, 143 n. 12 Ashmedai, 44, 154 n. 46 Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, 164 n. 95 Athens, 37, 40 audience, 36, 52–53, 64, 70, 79, 172 n. 22 autoeroticism, 23, 107 Avot deRabbi Nathan, 166 n. 20 Babylonia, 46, 138 n. 15, 148 n. 59, 169 n. 42 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 9, 11, 67, 150 n. 8

Balaam, 35, 53, 155 n. 64, 156 n. 73, 159 n. 41 Bar Kappara, 111–13 Bartsch, Shadi, 17 bat qol, 64–66. See also heavenly voice beast, 42, 77, 110–11, 152 n. 29, 174 nn. 40, 42 beauty, 2, 15, 30, 43, 137 n. 4 Behemoth, 77 Ben Sira (Sirah), 44, 145 n. 24, 146 n. 37, 147 n. 39, 148 n. 58 ben Torah, 167 n. 26 Ben-­Amos, Dan, 62 Benjamin, Walter, 88, 123, 124 Beruriah, 174 n. 47 bet midrash (house of study). See academy Bhabha, Homi, 109–11 Bible, books of: Chronicles , 33, 37, 40, 152 n. 28, 167 n. 22; Deuteronomy, 74, 152 n. 31, 167 n. 21; Exodus, 85, 90, 95, 96, 141 n. 70, 146 n. 30; Ezekiel, 1, 15, 73, 76, 112, 121–22; Genesis, 1–2, 13–15, 72, 76, 80, 84, 90, 93, 95, 114, 137 n. 1, 138 n. 13, 141 n. 44, 142 n. 51, 144 n. 21, 149, 152 n. 31; Isaiah, 59, 78; Jeremiah, 71; Job, 33, 35, 53; Jonah, 161 n. 58, 162 n. 71; Joshua, 142 n. 49; Kings, 33–35, 37, 40–41, 57, 152 nn. 28–30; Micah, 96; Numbers, 18–19, 24, 35, 53, 73–74, 84, 93, 156 n. 73, 161 n. 58, 162 nn. 69, 74, 167 n. 21; Proverbs, 2, 33, 37, 44, 46, 50, 55, 150, 154 nn. 44, 51, 172 n. 27; Psalms, 64, 73, 121, 141 n. 46, 153 n. 41, 167 n. 21; Samuel, 94, 142 n. 49; Song of Songs, 30, 44, 49, 146 n. 36, 155 n. 56 blessing “who has not made me a woman,” 170 n. 5 blindness, 101–2; and castration, 146 n. 31 Boyarin, Daniel 6– 8, 87, 96, 138 n. 9, 139 nn. 20, 27–29, 140 nn. 37, 39, 147 n. 38, 148 n. 49, 152 n. 29, 157 n. 69, 160 nn. 46, 51, 163 n. 82, 163 n. 2, 165 nn. 4, 9, 168 n. 33, 39, 173 n. 43, 177 n. 3

194 Index broom, 38, 68, 106 Burke, Kenneth, 3 capital crime, 111, 175 n. 58 carnival, 7 cataphora, 96–97 categorization, 38–39, 48–50, 103 Christ, 44 Christian, Christianity, 30, 43, 61–62, 81, 83, 140, 143, 144, 148, 150 n. 66, 153 n. 36, 158 n. 12, 159 n. 41, 163 n. 86, 164 nn. 95–96, 173 n. 33; hagiographical literature, 169 n. 3 chronotopos, 67 circumcision, 35, 51, 56, 155 n. 64, 156 n. 73 clubs, amuletic, 70. See also amulets colonial, colonialism, 109–11, 173 n. 34 comic, 6–7, 62, 66–67, 159 n. 29 co-­texts, 11, 36, 41, 46–47, 54–55, 150 n. 8 Creation, 15, 72, 79, 91, 99 culture, 3, 4–5, 8–11, 16, 29, 36, 39–40, 43, 48, 55, 58, 67, 75–76, 81–82, 103, 117, 139 n. 29, 143 n. 13, 151 n. 21, 158 n. 8, 173 n. 37 dandy, 107 David, 29, 93–94, 115, 117, 148 n. 59, 149 nn. 59–60, 155 n. 55, 176 n. 66, 177 nn. 69–70 De Certeau, Michel, 115 De Man, Paul, 177 n. 5 Dead of the Wilderness, 65, 69, 72–75, 83. See also Desert, Generation of defilement, 20–21, 29, 143 n. 16 deixis, 96–98, 167 n. 30, 168 nn. 35, 39 demons, 42–45, 154 n. 46 Derrida, Jaques, 155 n. 54, 173 n. 31 desert, 66–68, 70–73, 76, 157 n. 6, 159 nn. 32, 37, 160 n. 43, 50, 161 nn. 54, 58, 65–66, 162 n. 74, 163 n. 81 Desert, Generation of, 73, 160 n. 50, 161 nn. 65–66 desire, 2, 13, 17–18, 70, 102–4, 106, 109, 111, 116–17, 145 n. 24, 177 n. 5 diegesis, 4, 86, 138 n. 10 differences, erasure of 49 discourse, citational, 141 n. 46, 177 n. 3; Foucauldian definition of, 140 n. 41; fragmented, 123; hegemonic, 173 n. 35; measures of, 111; mimcry of, 111; partial presence of, 109; patriarchal, 165 n. 5; political, 174 n. 41; self-­absorbed/self-­indulgence, 109; undermining, 57. See also self

discursive, center, 37; dynamics, 8, 60, 102; model, 118; order, 113, 177 n. 69; other, 37, 61; power, 175 n. 58; processes, 8; resolution, 32; self, 8, 10, 119 djinn, 43, 45 domestication, 54, 63, 70, 72, 81 dowry, 41 dream, 159 n. 41 Egypt, 1, 2, 13–15, 73, 89, 90–95, 142 n. 51, 146 n. 63, 153 n. 32 Elijah, 78, 86 Eliot, T. S., 123 Endzeit/Urzeit, 98 epistemology, 6, 12, 14, 17, 28, 57–65, 76–78, 81, 83–86, 119–20, 141 n. 46, 156 n. 73, 159 n. 28, 164 n. 96 Eros, erotic, 3, 13, 15, 18, 21, 23, 29–30, 33, 37, 39, 41, 44–50, 54, 107, 111, 116–17, 176 n. 63 Esau, 90, 96 eschatology, 61, 77–78, 81, 83, 161 n. 54 Ethiopian, 153 n. 35, 154 n. 50 eunuchs, 34, 50 euphemism, 46, 162 n. 73, 175 n. 48 evil impulse, inclination. See yetzer excommunication, 101 experience/experiential, 9, 13, 60–62, 67, 76–78, 81, 83, 86, 88, 93, 119, 120, 140 n. 36, 157 nn. 4–6, 158 n. 8, 164 n. 93, 165 n. 5 eyes, 24, 85; killing with, 80, 163 n. 84; witness 59, 62–63. See also sight faith, 53, 60, 79, 80 familia, Roman, 103 fantasies, 9, 26–27, 70, 82, 104, 107, 116, 119, 140 n. 35, 165 n. 2, 166 n. 13 Fishbane, Michael, 138 n. 13, 157 n. 7, 168 n. 39 Flood, 65–66, 96, 154 n. 44, 159 n. 27 folklore, 10, 42, 43, 155 n. 61; modern, 99, 169 n. 42 Foucault, Michel, 102, 110, 140 n. 41 foundation stone (even shetiyah), 162 n. 71 Fraenkel, Yonah, 144 n. 22, 146 n. 36, 148 n. 48, Frank, Georgia, 60, 83 freedom as self-­control, 171 n. 13 garment, tearing of, 113–14 Gehenna, 69, 72, 161 n. 58, 162 n. 71 gender, 10, 36, 43, 50, 87, 102, 109, 148 n. 54, 153 n. 32, 172 n. 26, 177 n. 68

Index 195 generations, decline of the, 164 n. 93 Genesis Apocryphon, 13–15, 141 nn. 44–46 Genesis Rabbah, 141 n. 46, 149 n. 61, 166 n. 18, 167 n. 25, 173 n. 29, 175 n. 54 genre, 5, 10, 12, 14, 26, 37, 61–62, 66–67, 137 n. 7, 152 n. 29, 157 n. 8, 162 n. 71; ethno-­ classification, 158 n. 8 Gentile, 51, 81,153 n. 36, 163 n. 81, 172 n. 22, 174 n. 40 God, fingers of, 95, 98 Great Assembly, 26, 147 n. 38 Greek, 17–19, 22, 26, 70, 118, 144 n. 19, 145 n. 25, 146 n. 31, 151 n. 21; medical texts, 175 n. 46 Gregory of Nyssa, 164 n. 95 grotesque, 6–7, 113 guilt offering, 18–21, 142 n. 5, 144 n. 18 Hadrian, 26 hair, 18–24, 29, 43, 100, 107, 144 nn. 16–17, 145 n. 26, 146 n. 31, 153 n. 37,173 n. 29; on legs, 43, 46 Halbertal, Moshe, 6 Hasan-­Rokem, Galit, 9, 147 nn. 42–43, 148 nn. 48–49, 151 nn. 9, 11, 21, 157 n. 5, 162 n. 72, 175 n. 53 h.asid, 78–80, 146 n. 36 Hayes, Christine, 6, 9, 139 n. 21, 140 n. 38, 147 n. 44, 173 n. 33 heavenly voice, 65, 78, 159 n. 25. See also bat qol hegemony, 3, 13, 58, 109, 117, 120, 164 n. 95; Roman, 174 n. 43; rupturing of, 109 Hellenism, 6–7, 16, 62, 87, 140 n. 39 heretic, 79–81, 163 n. 82 hermeneutics, 3, 5–6, 11, 13, 22, 24, 27, 32, 84–88, 118, 137 n. 7, 138 n. 15, 140 n. 35, 144 n. 32, 150 n. 8, 157 n. 5, 165 nn. 2, 8; kabbalistic, 167 n. 31 heterogeneity, 9, 12 hidden transcript, 111, 174 nn. 41, 43 hierarchy, 51, 78–82, 86, 101–3, 105, 169 n. 4 high priest, 12, 16, 19, 26, 29–30, 35, 107, 146 n. 37, 147 n. 39, 149 n. 59 Hirshman, Menahem (Marc), 78, 81 hybridity, 7, 9, 82, 148 n. 51 identity formation, 9, 30, 173 n. 37 image, depersonalized, 114 immersion, 110–11, 174 n. 40

indexicality, 96–98, 167 n. 30 institutional authority, 82–83, 120; order, 104 interpretation, 3, 6, 14, 33, 44, 52–55, 63, 65– 66, 82, 84, 89, 98–102, 138 n. 13, 141 n. 46, 150 n. 66, 156 n. 69, 164 n. 2, 165 n. 7 intertextuality, 4, 138 n. 9, 141 n. 42, 150 n. 8 intimacy, 87, 110, 111 Iranian, 81–82. See also Persian irony, 81, 105–6, 108, 111, 146 n. 30, 172 n. 26, 175 n. 58 Isaac, 90, 98 Isfahan, 99 Ishmael, 96 Islam, 44, 153 n. 36 Jacob, 4, 90, 93–94, 99; synagogue named after, 169 n. 41 Jerome, 159 n. 37, 164 n. 95 Jerusalem, 15, 37, 41, 43, 59, 61, 77, 82, 142 n. 5 jewels, 59–60, 77–80, 82 Joseph, 90, 94, 167 n. 29, 173 n. 29; brothers of 85, 95 Josephus, 146 n. 37, 147 n. 41, 153 n. 32 Jubilees, 4, 85 Judaeans, linguistic superiority of, 175 n. 47 Judah, Rabbi (the Patriarch), 13, 102–17, 149 n. 59, 169 nn. 3–4, 170 n. 5, 171 n. 11, 19, 172 nn. 23, 25, 28, 174 n. 40, 175 n. 59, 176 nn. 61, 63 kabbalah, 42, 166 n. 16, 167 n. 31 Kalila and Dimna, 40, 152 n. 27 kinship, 39, 40, 51 Kiperwasser, Reuven, 81–82 Korah, 69, 72– 75, 161 nn. 58, 66–68, 162 nn. 69, 71 Lacan, Jaques, 140 n. 34, 144 n. 19, 145 n. 25, 155 n. 54 Lamentations Rabbah, 37, 52 language, 3, 6, 23, 38, 47, 49, 54–55, 57, 84–85, 88–93, 97–98, 104, 106, 112–20, 145 n. 22, 165n. 2, 168, 174 n. 47, 177 n. 5; magical, 88–91, 98–99, 118, 120, 164 n. 2, 165 n. 2 langue, 54, 156 n. 70 letters (Hebrew), 84–98 Leviathan, 61–63, 69, 77, 82, 162 n. 71 Levinson, Joshua, 9, 138 n. 11, 140 nn. 33, 40, 145 n. 23, 152 n. 29, 163 nn. 87–88, 164 nn. 96

196 Index Leviticus Rabbah, 140 n. 39, 147 n. 40, 149 n. 61, 153 n. 44, 175 nn. 51, 56 lewdness, 104, 116 Lilith, 42 liminality, 5–6, 15, 103, 109, 112, 115, 119, 123, 124 linguistics, 4, 13, 23, 54, 57, 84–85, 88, 90–98, 102, 105–6, 108, 115, 117, 120, 138 n. 10, 142 n. 4, 151 n. 17, 165 n. 2, 166 n. 20, 167 n. 30, 168 n. 35; knowledge, 85, 106, 172 n. 22 literary theory, 6, 9, 11, 137 n. 7;psychoanalytic, 146 n. 31 Lives of the Prophets, 164 n. 95 Lot and his daughters, 34, 49, 50, 52, 155 n. 55

minim. See heretics mirroring, 2–3, 9, 30, 32, 99, 109, 137 n. 4, 144 n. 20, 145 n. 22 Mishnah, 4, 31, 76, 106, 162 n. 75, 170 n. 6, 172 n. 22; mAvot, 104; and apostolic succession, 147 n. 38; mNazir, 148 n. 55, 150 n. 65; mSanhedrin, 181 n. 66; mTaʿanit, 154 n. 52 Moses, 71–75, 85–88, 90–97, 161n. 65, 162 n. 72, 165 n. 8, 167 n. 21 mother. See maternity myth/mythological, 70, 72, 157 n. 7, 159 n. 30, 166 n. 16. See also animals; Behemoth; Creation; Leviathan; Ziz-­Shaddai

magic, 45, 91, 145 n. 24, 163 nn. 84, 86, 166 nn. 13, 16, 19 maidservant, 12, 101–20 marriage, 41, 46, 153 n. 32 maternity, 47–49, 94, 154, 166 n. 20, 176 n. 61, 177 n. 68 mashal, 138 n. 12, 140 n. 38 Mekhilta (deRabbi Ishmael, deRabbi Shimon bar YoÎai), 138 nn. 12, 15, 141 n. 47, 160 n. 51, 167 n. 29 Menelik, 154 n. 50 Menippean, 6–8, 87 menstruation, 34, 110, 174 n. 43. See also niddah messiah, messianic, 30, 60, 71, 149 n. 60, 155 n. 55, 163 n. 83, 177 n. 68 metafiction, 25, 137 n. 7 metaphor, 47, 58, 102, 115–16, 141 n. 46, 151 n. 17, 176 n. 64 metapoetic, 3, 7, 12, 18, 77, 81, 83, 123, 140 n. 39 metonymy, 5, 23–24, 26, 31, 60, 67, 84, 93, 98, 171 n. 19 midrash: and concrete reality, 60, 122; and liminality, 5–6; and magical language, 88, 98–99, 120; and the rabbinic self, 8–9, 31–32;and riddles, 54–57; and Second Temple literature, 4, 85; and self-­reflexivity, 4–5, 118; and travelogues 59–61, 77. See also scriptural exegesis Midrash Mishle (Midrash on Proverbs), 33, 36–37, 40–41, 43–47, 50, 55, 154 n. 51 Midrash Tehillim (Midrash on Psalms), 74, 161 n. 68, 173 n. 29 Miller, Hillis, 10, 36, 118 mimicry, 13, 17, 101, 109–12, 120

Nabatean, 172 n. 22 Narcissism/Narcissus, 12, 17–19, 22–24, 27, 32, 107–9, 117–19, 138 n. 9, 144 n. 20, 145 n. 25, 173 n. 34, 176 n. 61, 177 n. 72 narrative/narratology, 18, 22, 25, 32, 85, 137 n. 4, 138 n. 13 Nazirite, 10, 12, 16–33, 56, 106–7, 142 n. 5, 143 nn. 8–9, 11, 16, 144 n. 16, 145 n. 24, 146 nn. 30–32, 148 n. 55, 149 n. 60, n., 172 n. 27 Nebuchadnezzar, 44, 152 n. 27 Negev, elders of, 40 niddah, 47, 110, 174 n. 39. See also menstruation Noah, 95–97 nostalgia, 9, 140 n. 34, 177 n. 5 Numbers Rabbah, 161 n. 66 nursing, 48 objectification, 103, 108–9, 115 ocean, 70–71 ointment, depilatory 43 One Thousand and One Nights, 160 n. 43 orphanhood, 114 other, external 9, 107, 117 Ovid, 17–19, 142 n. 2 Pahlavi, 40 parable. See mashal parody, 75, 164 n. 96 parole, 54–55, 156 n. 70 patriarchal, 13, 101–2, 146 n. 31, 157 n. 5, 165 n. 5 Peirce, Charles, 97, 167 n. 30, 168 n. 35 Persia/Persian, 40, 46, 99, 154 n. 49; Jewish, 99; persecutions of Jews, 169 n. 43

Index 197 Pesharim, 5. See also Qumran Pesiqta deRav Kahana, 45, 78–81, 162 n. 78, 163 nn. 79–80, 164 n. 1 Pharaoh, 1, 13, 94, 153 nn. 42, 44 Philo, 5 philology, 11, 25 philosophy, 7, 17–18, 58, 137 n. 8, 167 n. 30 phoenix, 158 n. 22. See also Ziz-­Shaddai physical discomfort, 113, 121 pilgrimage, 62, 164 n. 95 Pirke deRabbi Eliʿezer, 13, 89, 99, 161 nn. 52, 62, 162 n. 71, 166 n. 14 poetic justice, 80 poetics, poetic, 5, 11, 16, 24, 41, 78, 83, 112, 114, 141 n. 43, 142 n. 2, 143 n. 15, 152 n. 29, 153 n. 41, 163 n. 88, 166 n. 15 political, 26, 42, 58, 60, 74, 76, 80, 86, 140 n. 36, 148 n. 59, 163 n. 88, 173 n. 37 power struggle, 60, 79 prayer, 71, 112–15, 120, 141 n. 47, 175 nn. 49, 52 pregnancy, 34, 47–48 production, 3–4, 108, 119 prooftext, 53, 56, 156 n. 73 Pseudo–Ben Sira, 40, 152 n. 27. See also Tales of Ben Sira psychoanalysis, 145 n. 25, 146 n. 31, 161 n. 53 purslane, 105–6 Queen of Sheba, 12, 16, 33, 42–43, 36–58, 118–19, 150 n. 1, 153 nn. 32, 36–37, 154 n. 51, 155 nn. 61, 65, 156 n. 73 Qumran, 5. See also Genesis Apocryphon; Pesharim Quran, 43–45 Rabbah bar bar H.ana, 62–76, 81–82, 161 n. 67, 162 nn. 71, 74, 163 n. 81 Rabbinic, hermeneutical and institutional discourses, 2; identity, 27, 117; innovation, 22, 156 n. 69; narratives, 9, 12 redemption, 22, 59–61, 89–99, 120 reflection, 1–6, 8, 12, 15, 17–18, 20–25, 27, 30–31, 104, 107–9, 117–18, 137 n. 4, 139 n. 30, 143 n. 16, 162 n. 74, 173 n. 34. See also self-­ reflectivity/reflexivity reflective gaze, 2, 6, 8, 118; moment, 2, 15 repentance, 162 n. 71 resurrection, 161 n. 66, 162 n. 71 rewritten Bible, 5, 14, 138 n. 13; and intra-­ biblical interpretation, 138 n. 13

rhetoric, 14, 36, 37, 51, 52, 56, 75, 107, 138 n. 13, 139 n. 28, 141 nn. 46–47, 163 n. 82 riddles, 9, 12, 15, 33–58, 61, 118–19, 151 nn. 11, 17, 21, 152 nn. 24, 153 n. 36, 154 n. 49, 155 nn. 57–58, 61, 156 n. 69, 71–73, 173 n. 30; as genre, 37; image, 38 Rojtman (Roitman), Betty, 96, 167 n. 31 Roman, 15, 17, 18, 27, 71, 103, 149 n. 60, 170 nn. 6, 11, 172 n. 23. See also familia; salutatio Rosen-­Zvi, Ishay, 141 n. 47, 144 n 21, 145 n. 24, 146 n. 29, 148 n. 54, 155 n. 60 Ruins, 122–24, 177 n. 4 sacrifice, 20, 145 n. 25 salutatio, 172 nn. 23–24 sameness, 9, 18–19, 23–24, 27–28 Sarah. See Sarai Sarai, 1, 2, 14, 15, 137 n. 4, 141 n. 46, 142 n. 51 Sassanian. See Persia/Persian satire, 87, 153 n. 41, 165 n. 7 Scott, Joan, 60, 88 scriptural exegesis, 2, 5, 6, 12, 52, 56, 61, 76, 77, 120, 139 n. 22, 140 n. 39, 141 n. 46, 155 n. 66, 157 n. 7, 158 n. 8, 166 n. 20, 168 nn. 35, 39 self: definition, 164 n. 95; hybrid, 140 n. 36; imagined, 15; indulgence, 106; knowledge, 14, 18–19, 22; rabbinic, 8, 12–13, 24, 31, 37, 124, 139; possible, 9–12, 18, 36; unified, 9, 23, 32, 119, 139 n. 28 self-­reflectivity/reflexivity, 1–18, 20–24, 32–33, 56, 84–86, 100, 104–6, 118–19, 122, 137 nn. 4, 8, 138 n. 10, 139 n. 23, 140 nn. 35–39, 165 nn. 4, 7. See also reflection semantic field, 38, 47, 55 semiotics, 11, 22, 33, 84, 109, 139 n. 30, 156 n. 71, 157 n. 5, 170 n. 10, 177 n. 69. See also deixis, sign, signification sensory evidence, 60. See also epistemology Serah., daughter of Asher, 12, 84–102, 118–20, 165 n. 5, 166 n. 13, 167 n. 29, 169 n. 43; reflective figure, 164 n. 2; tomb of, 169 n. 41 sexual intercourse, 47, 110–11, 116–17, 152 n. 31, 174 n. 39; threat, 51, 154 n. 51 shaving. See hair Shekhinah, 26, 35, 51 Sifre Numbers, 142 n. 1, 144 n. 21, 148 n. 57; Deuteronomy, 144 n. 21, 149 n. 60 sight, 57, 62, 77, 119–20, 145 n. 25, 156 n. 73. See also epistemology; eyes

198 Index sign, 22, 91, 94, 97–98, 103, 106, 108, 114 signification, 22, 97, 168 n. 38, 173 n. 31 Simon the Just, 12, 17–31, 56, 107, 118–19, 145 n. 25, 146 n. 64, 147 nn. 38, 46, 149 n. 59, 177 n. 5 Simon the Righteous. See Simon the Just Sinai, 64, 71, 73–74, 85, 86, 92 Sinbad the Sailor, 158 n. 13 slaves, 103, 104, 111, 115, 169 n. 3, 170 nn. 5–8; and beasts, 174 n. 42. See also beasts Snow White, 137 n. 4 social norm, 50 Solomon, 12, 30, 33–58, 119, 152 nn. 28, 30, 153 n. 37, 42, 44, 154 nn. 43–47, 155 n. 65, 156 n. 73; downfall of, 45; wisdom of, 44 Song of Songs Rabbah, 149 n. 62 sovereignty, 49, 54, 56, 104, 110 spatial duality, 67, 69, 72 Stammaim, 163 n. 88 Stern, David, 6, 139 n. 22, 140 n. 39 subaltern resistance, 82 subject, 6, 7, 15, 27, 31, 38, 40, 47–48, 64, 99, 103, 108, 115, 119, 139 n. 30, 157 n. 5 subjectivity, 8, 22, 23, 56, 103, 108, 113, 115, 119, 144 nn. 19–20, 157 n. 5 sun worshipers, 43 symbolism, 146 n. 16, 177 n. 6 Syriac, 52 tabernacle, 96 tablets, 95, 167 n. 21, 175 n. 59 taboo, 48–49, 155 n. 57 Tabor, Mt., 70 tale within a tale, 24 Tales of Ben Sira, 43–44, 152 n. 27 tall tales, 10, 12, 16, 58, 61–64, 70, 72, 76–78, 80, 82, 88, 118–20, 158 nn. 8, 10, 14, 159 n. 28 Talmon, Shemaryahu, 70 Talmud, Babylonian, 6–8, 11, 12, 25, 62, 78–81, 86–87, 101, 107, 120, 143 n. 9, 145 n. 24, 159 n. 30, 162 n. 78; bʿAvodah Zarah, 174 n. 73, 176 n. 64; bBava Batra, 58, 153 n. 33, 157 n. 3, 161 n. 65; bBava Metsiʿa’, 162 n. 72; bBekhorot, 40, 152 n. 25; bBerakhot, 146 n. 30, 148 n. 52, 174 n. 43, 176 n. 64, 177 n. 1; bʿEruvin, 146 n. 30, 149 n. 61, 174 n. 47; bGittin, 149 n. 60, 154 n. 46, 160 n. 41; bHorayot, 148 n. 58, bKetubot, 112, 176 nn. 61–62; bMegillah, 172 n. 27; bMenah.ot, 148 n. 47, 159 n. 24, 165 n. 6, 170 n. 5; bMoʿed

Qatan, 169 n. 1; bNazir, 106–17, 142 nn. 1, 4; bNedarim, 142 nn. 1, 4, 143 nn. 9–10, 145 n. 24, 175 n. 54, 176 n. 64; bNiddah, 167 n. 20, 174 n. 40; bRosh Hashanah, 99, 171 n. 20, 172 nn. 27–29; bSanhedrin, 45, 149 n. 60, 161 n. 55; bShabbat, 91–92, 116, 167 n. 22; bSotah, 148 n. 58, 149 nn. 60–62, 158 n. 17, 161 n. 63, 167 n. 29, 176 n. 59; bTaʿanit, 148 n. 54, 152 n. 25, 154 n. 52, 161 n. 63, 175 n. 54; bTamid, 40; bYoma, 26, 148 n. 47; bZevah. im, 159 n. 24 Talmud, Palestinian; yH.agigah, 160 n. 41; yKil’ayim, 175 n. 59; yMegillah, 92, 106, 171 n. 20; yMoʿed Qatan, 149 n. 62, 176 n. 59; yNazir, 142 n. 1, 146 n. 32; yNedarim, 142 n. 1; ySanhedrin, 154 n. 45, 160 n. 41, 161 n. 66, 175 n. 51; ySheviʿit, 105, 108, 114, 116, 172 n. 23; yYevamot, 175 n. 51 Tanh.uma, 1, 13, 15–16, 44, 137 n. 2, 149 n. 61, 167 n. 21, 173 n. 29 Targum, 37, 42, 44, 46, 150 n. 1, 153 n. 37, 161 n. 55 tefillin, 113, 115, 175 n. 39 tehom, 79 Temple, 25–28, 45, 78–79, 81, 90, 122, 139 n. 22, 148 nn. 54–55, 152 n. 28, 153 nn. 42, 44, 162 n. 71, 177 n. 2; of Onias, 146 n. 37 ten martyrs, legend of, 95, 167 n. 28 Teresias, 17, 108 Testaments of the Patriarchs, 4, 85 testimony, 14, 62 Textual Representation, 22 Titus, 159 n. 41 Torah, 6, 7, 21, 22, 24, 26, 30, 71–75, 79, 83, 86–87, 89, 91, 93–94, 96, 114, 154 n. 45, 167 nn. 20, 26, 174 n. 47; as magical entity, 166 n. 16; reading of, 175 n. 47; sages as personification of, 175 n. 59 Tosefta: tHorayot, 104; tNazir, 142 n. 1; tSotah, 147 n. 45, 148 n. 47, 167 n. 29 traditions, local 16 translation, 49, 63, 64, 165 n. 7 travelogues, 12, 58, 61–62, 64–66, 70, 72, 76– 83, 88, 118–20, 157 n. 6, 158 n. 8; Christian, 158 n. 12 tricksters, 112, 176 n. 68 Turandot, 46 tzitzit, 66, 74–75, 159 n. 24 Ulla, 120–23

Index 199 Van den Abbeele, George , 58, 76, 139 n. 25, 156 n. 1 vanity, 17, 20–21, 107, 143 n. 15 Vespasian, 26 vow, 19–21, 23, 24, 31, 64, 66, 106–7, 143 n. 16, 145 n. 24, 146 n. 30 wedding, 39, 41, 43, 47, 151 n. 21, 153 n. 44. See also marriage Weiss Halivni, David, 19–20 Wheeler, Samuel C., III, 88 wine, 16, 20, 112, 143 n. 9, 154 n. 44, 175 n. 54 wisdom question, 40, 152 n. 24 wit, 38–39, 112, 174 n. 47 witchcraft, 43, 45, 171 n. 14. See also magic Wittgensteinian, Ludwig, 164 n. 2 woman, women 1, 2, 18, 31, 34, 41–43, 47–54, 75, 87, 93–94, 100–104, 110, 115, 120, 148 n. 58, 154 n. 51, 170 nn. 5, 10, 171 n. 19, 172

nn. 22, 25, 173 n. 29, 174 nn. 40, 47, 176 nn. 63, 68; as tricksters, 176 n. 68; experiential knowledge of, 165 n. 5; wise woman from Abel of Beth-­Maaca, 94 wonder-­workers, 173 n. 33 Yalqut haMakhiri, 117, 176 n. 67 Yassif, Eli, 62, 150 n. 1, 152 nn. 26–27, 153 nn. 34, 37, 39, 157 n. 6, 158 n. 11, 159 n. 28, 162 n. 69, 164 n. 92 Yehosuʿa ben Levi, Rabbi, 78, 80 yetzer, 18–20, 22–24, 32, 107, 117, 119, 144 nn. 21–22, 145 nn. 24–25, 146 nn. 29–30, 173 n. 29 Yoav, 85, 94 Yoh.anan, ben Zakkai, Rabban, 27 Yoh.anan, Rabbi, 59, 76–87, 120–21, 164 n. 96 Ziz-­Shaddai, 64, 69, 83, 158 n. 22

Acknowledgments

This book would have been very different (or not be at all) if it weren’t for teachers, colleagues, and friends who provided generous counsel and critique. Galit Hasan-​­Rokem offered, as always, her supportive wisdom and keen erudition. Haim Weiss and Naomi Seideman were excellent readers and equally good friends. Joshua Levinson and Ishay Rosen-​­Zvi read the entire manuscript, forced me to rethink matters, and helped save me from at least some errors. Daniel Boyarin read several drafts of the book with steadfast enthusiasm. I cannot thank him enough for his ongoing support as well as for his sharp criticism. Haim Watzman’s superb editorial skills stretched beyond stylistic concerns. I thank him for that. Carol Bakhos, Ruth Haber, Ron Hendel, Hannan Hever, Matti Huss, Ilana Pardes, Elchanan Reiner, Seth Schwartz, Zur Shalev, Nadav Weintraub, Yair Zakovitch, and Joseph Ziegler all enriched my writing with comments, ideas, or references. I first began conceptualizing this book at the Institute for Advanced Studies at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where I was fortunate to be a fellow in 2004–​­​­5. I thank the members of the group on “Literary Aspects of Religious Discourse in the Middle Ages,” of which I was part, and Ronit Meroz, who headed the project. The late Pnina Feldman, co-­director of the Institute, provided warm hospitality and enabled my extended stay there. I thank the humanities faculty at the University of Haifa for a grant in support of the publication. Erica Ginsburg and copyeditor Janice Meyerson made the publication process as smooth as possible. Jerome Singerman was supportive and attentive from the very beginning. Thanks to Amit Gvaryahu for preparing the index. My father, Havis ‫ז"ל‬, and my mother, Leila, have been a source of support, in more ways than one. My father passed away before I completed the book; my mother’s unwavering support enabled its completion. I also thank my aunts—​­Miriam, Rachel, and Chana (daughters of the late Golda and Rabbi

202 Acknowledgments

Moshe Baruch Morgenstern of Cape Town)—​­for their encouragement and for help in proofreading. This book is dedicated with much love to my daughter, Avigail, who has taught me that reflection has, or should have, its limits. I thank her with all my heart. Earlier versions of some chapters have been published elsewhere. A different version of Chapter 2 appeared as “A King, a Queen, and the Riddle Between: Riddles and Interpretation in a Late Midrashic Text,” in Untying the Knot: On Riddles and Other Enigmatic Modes, ed. G. Hasan-​­Rokem and D. Shulman (New York: Oxford, 1996), 125–​­​­47. A short version of Chapter 3 appeared as “Believing Is Seeing: A Reading of Bava Batra 73a–​­75b,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 17 (1999): 9–​­​­32 [Hebrew]. Parts of Chapter 4 appeared in Maxim, Magic, Myth: A Folkloristic Perspective of Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2004) [Hebrew]. Chapter 5 appeared as “A Maidservant and Her Master’s Voice: Discourse, Identity, and Eros in Rabbinic Texts,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 10:3–​­​­4 (2001): 375–​­​­97, and “What Does the Maidservant Know: Rabbinic Reflections on Language and Discourse,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore 24–​­​­25 (2008): 9–​­​­31 [Hebrew].