Moritz Steinschneider’s Indecent Burial
Charles H. Manekin
University of Maryland, College Park / Bar Ilan University

What sort of recognition has posterity accorded to one of the great scholars of Judaism, arguably the greatest of the nineteenth century? Sadly, Steinschneider’s contribution to the history of Jewish literature in all its aspects has gone virtually unnoticed outside a small circle of scholars. If he is remembered at all, it as a cold, antiquarian scholar who reportedly said that “the task of Jewish studies is to provide the remnants of Judaism with a decent burial.” This is the portrait, or better, caricature, of Steinschneider drawn by Gershom Scholem in his well-known diatribe against Wissenschaft published in 1945.[3] Scholem, an ardent zionist, viewed Steinschneider and his mentor Zunz as “gravediggers” and “liquidators” of the Jewish national values that they considered no longer relevant after the advent of emancipation and liberalism. Scholem’s negative evaluation of Steinschneider’s scholarly motivation and outlook in no way implied a disparagement of the nineteenth-century scholar’s achievements. On the contrary, Scholem writes in the Hebrew edition of his memoir From Berlin to Jerusalem “Despite the enormous distance I felt from the men of the [Wissenchaft] group, I revered Steinschneider and pursued his works, major and minor, as well as off-prints of his articles, all of my life.”[4] He also relates that as a university student, his familiarity with Steinschneider endeared him to his teacher, and later doktorvater, the great scholar of scholastic philosophy, Clemens Bäumker. I come here not to praise Steinschneider, but rather to bury him more decently than did Scholem. To do so I will sketch a preliminary picture of his contribution to the ideology of Wissenschaft des Judentums that is less biased than the polemical one offered by Scholem. I say “preliminary” because Steinschneider made few theoretical statements on the subject of Wissenschaft. His views on that subject, like on so many others, must be gleaned from his voluminous writings and correspondence. For over a century articles on Steinschneider have begun with a call for a full-fledged intellectual biography of the man. That call has not yet been answered. Steinschneider’s principal reflections on Wissenschaft are found in his short essay, Die Zukunft der jüdischen Wissenschaft, published in1869, a half-century after Zunz had issued his programmatic-statement on Etwas über die rabbinische Literatur.[5] The science of Judaism during the last fifty years, writes Steinschneider, was motivated externally by the struggle for emancipation and internally by the desire for religious reform. Scholars thought that examining the Jewish achievements of the past would pave the way for greater acceptance of the Jews in the present, and would provide models and precedents for modernizing the religion. In recent years, a third motivation for Wissenschaft has been proposed, namely, the training of modern rabbis, and a modern rabbinical seminary in Breslau had been opened. But as important as these practical motivations were, they do not address other fundamental questions: “What about Jewish history and literature as a link and source of history and cultural history in general? Is it a part of theology? What will become of it if the universities, according to the Dutch example, leave theology as a practical science to the care of the various religious communities?” “Where and how should this academic study be conducted — in Jewish communal institutions or in German universities? “Where will it find its support — in the community or the government?” Although Steinschneider’s expressed intent was merely to raise these questions, his personal opinions are not hard to infer from his article. The task of scholars of Judaism is to investigate their subject as objectively as possible, without ideological tendencies, and in its intellectual and historical context, i.e., as connected with other cultures. This sort of study can be conducted best only in universities, not in the faculty of theology, whose focus is narrowly religious, but in the faculty of philosophy, i.e., the humanities. Jewish religious seminaries, even modern ones, are primarily interested in the training of rabbis; they focus almost exclusively on areas of importance to Jewish theology, and their students and faculty are exclusively Jewish. Jewish studies within the framework of even the most enlightened seminary cannot be free and independent. Who should support Wissenschaft? Steinschneider implies that this is an obligation for the state and not for the Jewish community, not only because of the general importance of exploring civilization’s past — after all, the state supports scientific research into the pyramids and the ruins of Pompeii — but because “the spirit that created the great works of Jewish literature is still alive in the citizens of their state.” This is an interesting argument which refutes, by the way, the view of Steinschneider as a curator of a dead or dying religion. For he seems to be implying that the state has a special obligation to support the research and teaching of subjects that inform the identity, even the group identity, of minorities within the state. In fact, there should be no difference in principle between minority and majority cultures. According to Steinschneider — again, by implication — as long as the state supports the education of Christian teachers of religion, it has the obligation to support Jewish teachers of religions, through supporting Jewish seminaries. Certainly Steinschneider was aware that the likelihood of the German state supporting the teaching of Jewish history and literature in universities, much less Jewish religion in seminaries, was remote. In fact, not a single chair devoted to Jewish history or literature was established in German universities until well after World War II. He was also aware that private money — Jewish, of course — would have to be found to support academic Jewish studies. In a letter written to his friend, the historian Meyer Kayserling in 1876, in which he refused Kayserling’s offer of a position at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, he writes, It seems to me that the task of our times is to prefer the endowment of untenured instructorships in Jewish history and literature in the philosophy faculties, thereby compelling the authorities to establish professorships and schools in which regular high school students can be prepared for the study of Jewish literature. We certainly do not want boarding schools in which bachurische clumsiness, impoliteness, and beggarliness is preserved and glossed-over.[6] The last statement reveals Steinschneider’s prejudices against the Eastern European yeshiva students who made up a good proportion of the students at the rabbinical seminaries. The aims of Wissenschaft required the proper preparation of students in high schools. For this Jewish donors had to be found. In the same letter Steinschneider claims that his principled opposition to Jewish Studies outside the university did not conflict with his own association with the Veitel Heine Ephraimschen Leharanstalt (Beth ha-midrasch), the old school of the Berlin Jewish community. Steinschenider was a part-time lecturer for nearly fifty years for that institution, which counted Jews and Christians, including Paul Lagarde, Georg Hoffman, and Hermann Strack, among its students. The school was open to all, its faculty all had university doctorates, and it did not confer doctoral degrees. Steinschneider had declared publicly that he would resign were it to offer a single doctorate.[7] Steinschneider did not address a question that has remained with us to this very day, namely, why wealthy Jewish individuals would wish to endow instructorships in Jewish history and literature at German universities, where the return to the Jewish community was neither immediate nor guaranteed. Perhaps he thought that he could get others to share his own passion for the study of what he called the “international literature of the Jews,” e.g., works of philosophy, science, medicine, and belles-lettres. After all, his teaching had been supported, in part, by the Berlin Jewish community for half a century. And, to my knowledge, at this stage of his life he expressed neither pessimism nor apprehension about the future of the academic study of Judaism. Nor is there any support, at least to my knowledge, for the strange idea that Steinschneider became progressively detached from Judaism culture or religion, or that he saw its inevitable assimilation into secular culture. Steinschneider remained throughout his adult life a liberal Jew whose ideals were those of the enlightenment and the revolution of 1848, in which he took part as a student. In the remarkable credo that makes up the Foreword to one of his last works, Die Arabische Literatur der Juden, he lashes out against those who use the insufficiency of reason, “this weapon of all kinds of unreason,” to justify “the forcing of myths in new clothes or of monstrosities of fantasy, let alone the clinging to institutions of fake authority or to obsolete customs.”[8] Given that this line follows a reference to the zoologist Ernst Haeckel, it is clear that Steinschneider is taking aim against the myths of racial supremacies, which he felt had replaced the myth of religious supremacies. His reference to the “obsolete customs of religion” reaffirmed his decades-long abandonment of orthodoxy, nothing more. But nothing in the Forward suggests a weakened commitment to Judaism per se, not even the claim that “it is the task of whoever feels entitled to lead the sum [of society] to stress what is common to the different circles of mankind, to point towards the ‘one Father of us all’ – towards what brings human beings nearer to each other.”[9] Steinschneider expresses these sentiments in a book chronicling the Jewish literature that was dearest to his heart, that of the Jews living in Muslim lands. After characterizing Ashkenazic Jewish life as one of “segregation in government, trade and society; expulsion, inquisition, agitation, and persecution” and Ashkenazic Jews as possessing “a surplus of mental acumen, squandered in casuistic and hermeneutical quibbles, faith and superstition linked to each other like Siamese twins,” he writes in an intensely personal passage, The historian likes to direct his attention to places where a human existence was granted to the tolerated subject, an existence in which his spirit was allowed to soar above and beyond the national barriers towards the highest existential questions. Such a person believed to have attained already on earth the ideal of human thought, the conjunction with the active intellect.[10] Steinschneider strongly identified with a literature that was not confined by the narrow parochialism of a national culture. He was under no illusion that such a literature was representative of Judaism, much less than it constituted its “essence.” With his unparalleled knowledge of Jewish books, he knew precisely what its place had been. But it was a literature with which he felt a strong personal affinity, and which reinforced the Jewishness of his commitment to liberalism and universalism, at a time when the growth of nationalism and antisemitism had made him pessimistic. As for Steinschneider’s alleged comment that it is the task of scholars to provide the remnants of Judaism with a decent burial, it has not been found in his writings, but was attributed to him in a necrology published shortly after his death in the German zionist periodical Jüdische Rundschau by the young orientalist Gotthold Weil, who had recently been one of Steinschneider’s students.[11] Weil had participated in the short-lived zionist “National-jüdische Verein der Hörer an der Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin,” which numbered among its members Arthur Biram, Judah Magnes, and Max Schloesinger.[12] An active zionist leader in Germany, he later came to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem after the Nazis dismissed him from his post as professor of oriental literature at the university of Frankfurt. The context of Steinschneider’s reported comment is a discussion that Weil conducted with Steinschneider about the latter’s alleged proto-zionistic activity in his youth, when he supported Jewish colonization in Palestine as a possible solution for anti-Jewish discrimination in Germany. One imagines that this was a topic of considerable interest among Steinschneider’s zionist students, considering the elderly scholar’s open antagonism towards zionism. According to Weil, Steinschneider admitted to participating in a scheme in the1830’s to further the colonization of persecuted German Jews in Palestine. But he felt that the events of 1848 obviated the need for a separatist political solution to the Jewish problem. According to Steinschneider, Weil informs us, the history of the Jews had ceased in 1848 and that as a result, “the only task we have left is of giving the remains of Judaism a decent burial.”[13] It is easy to see how political zionists like Weil and Scholem would see an offhand comment as an epitaph for Jewish people as a nation; according to Scholem, “a breath of the funereal did in fact cling to the atmosphere of this discipline for a century; occasionally there is something ghostlike about this literature.”[14] They interpreted Steinschneider as holding that Jewish national existence was rendered obsolete by political emancipation, and that assimilation was inevitable and desirable. But there is no indication from Steinschneider’s writings that the scholar felt that the end of Jewish history, or for that matter, the extinction of the Jews as a “nation” had occurred in 1848, or that it was inevitable or even desirable. True, political emancipation had at least in principle removed the necessity for the Jews to segregate themselves in their own land in order to escape persecution. But almost fifty years later Steinschneider would write that the Jews indeed constituted a nation, in the original meaning of that word…united, at least thus far, by an ideal fatherland and Scripture reaching back into their remotest antiquity…We affirm, in fact, that the concept “Jewish” cannot be understood merely in terms of dogmas and rituals, but that the entire Jewish cultural evolution must be viewed as a mirror of the underlying religious and moral ideas and national convictions.[15] It was not the history of the Jews that ceased in 1848, according to Steinschneider, but the history of the Jews as an entity that required a political solution in its own state. He considered anti-Jewish discrimination not to be a Jewish problem but rather a human problem that should be solved within the confines of the modern liberal state. What Steinschneider increasingly detested was the romanticism, sentimentality, and separatism that he found in nationalism in general and zionism in particular. Not a great admirer of nationalism to begin with — according to Weil, he would occasionally say that “Nationalism is brutality; humanity is freedom and truth” — he never missed an opportunity to show his despisal of romantic Jewish nationalism, even in the oddest of places. Thus in his great work on the Hebrew translations of the Middle Ages, while mentioning that Judah ha-Levy had been driven to emigrate to Palestine by a somewhat mystical — another disparaging term for Steinschneider — national sentiment, he adds in a footnote that the Hungarian scholar David Kauffman, “der Apologet von Daniel Deronda,” called such an attraction “realistic.”[16] This was a disparaging reference to Kaufmann’s enthusiastic review of George Eliot’s proto-zionistic novel that Steinschneider had sharply criticized.[17] The reference, completely out of place in a footnote on translations of Halevy, showed how passionate this supposedly cold, rationalist scholar could be on the subject of Jewish national revival. Steinschneider’s ironic remark to his student Weil on the task of scholars of Wissenschaft is best seen within the context of his deeply rooted antipathy towards zionism, as well as his opposition towards tendentious scholarship of all sorts. The task of Jewish scholarship, he wished to say, is not to serve the interests of Jewish political interests, national or otherwise. “My intention,” he wrote in 1902 “is the most objective and historical portrayal possible, neither apologetically nor polemically painted, nor nationally or theologically prepared.”[18] Steinschneider intended to produce an objective scholarship possible that avoids apologetics, polemics with Christians, nationalism, and theology. Given this antipathy, his comment to Weil was perhaps intended to preach the gospel of independent scholarship. Although his students may have thought that the task of Wissenschaft was to help revive the spirit of the nation, Steinschneider did not. Given his negative views of Graetz,[19] it is not difficult to see how he would have viewed the excesses of the Jewish nationalist historians of the twentieth century. But this explanation of Steinschneider’s comment seems inadequate. For there are many ways to emphasize the virtues of objective scholarship without using the image of death and burial. Why did he employ this particular phrase? Perhaps his remark should be read as an ironic appropriation of Samuel Raphael Hirsch’s attack on Wissenschaft des Judentums. Hirsch wrote that the scholars of Wissenshaft keep alive the memory of the old Judaism as it is carried to its grave; in another metaphor of death, he called Wissenschaft “the fine dust wafting from the stone coffins of moldering corpses.”[20] Steinschneider was a master of the ironic retort. Perhaps he was saying to his student Weil, “Just as Hirsch and the orthodox have said, we are burial societies — let’s at least make sure that the burial is an honorable one.” On the other hand, Steinschneider may have been genuinely pessimistic about the future of the Jews in Germany, not because of assimilation, but because of the steep rise of antisemitism in the last two decades of the nineteenth-century. In 1893 he writes “The history of the daughter religions is a constant series of attempts to murder their own mother; if one of them ever succeeds, the crime will bring down the criminal.”[21] Nine years later he commented dryly on a historical pamphlet written by a Prussian gymnasium teacher that calls on Germany to emulate the example of Spain and Portugal and expel its Jews. “The self-appointed historian wisely omits that the brutality of the mob was aroused not only by bull fights but by the live burnings of hundreds of Jews and apostates.”[22] Steinschneider feared German nationalism, according to Weil. Perhaps he felt that the remains of Judaism deserved a decent burial because the Jews themselves were in for difficult times from antisemitism. But these are mere speculations. It is futile to read too much into the sarcastic quip of an aged scholar, which, if reported accurately, was never intended for publication. Can there be anything more indecent than having this comment serve as the summation of Steinschneider’s attitude towards the academic study of Judaism, or the task of its scholars? It is not surprising that both neo-Orthodox Jews like Hirsch and secular Zionists like Scholem assigned to the practitioners of Wissenschaft the role of gravediggers of Jewish nationalism.[23] If their visions of the Jewish nationalism were not only mutually exclusive but exhaustive, then it is a role that Steinschneider would have accepted willingly. But his vision of the Jewish nation was different from theirs. It is ironic that in articulating the differences between the visions of Wissenschaft “now” and “then,” Scholem reaffirmed much of the vision of Steinschneider – not of Steinschneider the “gravedigger,” but of Steinschneider the advocate of an open, unapologetic, and untendentious scholarship that only a university-setting could enable. Steinschneider would indeed have been pleased with the establishment of centers of the academic study of Judaism, such as the Institute of Jewish Studies at Hebrew University, where, in Scholem’s words, “everyone is free to say and to each whatever corresponds to his scholarly opinion without being bound to any religious (or anti-religious) tendency.”[24] After all, Steinschneider was the most consistent advocate of the idea that Jewish studies can only flourish in such an atmosphere. Scholem also reaffirmed Steinschneider’s distaste for nationalist history when he noted with regret that “the heritage of an apologetics in reverse, an apologetics which now, so to speak, has revised everything in terms of zionism, has produced notable examples in our scholarly work.”[25] Steinschneider consistently opposed apologetic scholarship of all kind. In sum, what connects the scholarship of Steinschneider and Scholem seems vastly to outweigh the differences, once we have adjusted the scale to allow for changing tastes and fashions in scholarship. The view of the Jewish people as a living and organic phenomenon was no doubt foundational in Scholem’s scholarly approach, but the growth in Jewish studies in the second half of the twentieth century had more to do with the sociology, economic abilities, and changing identities of the Jewish communities than with the growth of Jewish national consciousness. More to the point — if the “antiquarian” scholarship of the nineteenth century had given way to the “scientific and empirical” scholarship of the twentieth – both of Scholem’s phrases seem a bit quaint today – the reason was not because of Jews had undergone a national revival, but because scholarly tastes and methods had changed. Steinschneider’s scholarly approach was no more “antiquarian” than that of contemporary orientalists like LeClerc, Wenrich, or Wüstenfeld; just as Scholem’s scholarly approach was shaped by his intellectual training and cultural context. One shouldn’t make judgments about the scholarship of a bygone age by using contemporary fashions as a yardstick. The presence of university-trained scholars in the history of medieval Jewish culture and history would have pleased Steinschneider greatly, even more so when he learned that some of the leading scholars are not Jewish. One suspects that here too Scholem would agree. Notes: This post for the Seforim blog — dedicated to Dan Rabinowitz’s weekly shiur following hashkamah minyan at his local synagogue — is based on my article, “Steinschneider’s ‘Decent Burial’: A Reassessment,” Study and Knowledge in Jewish Thought Vol. I., ed., Howard Kreisel (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2006), 239-251. [1]Some of the correspondence has recently been published. See Briefwechsel mit seiner Verlobten Auguste Auerbach, 1845-1849: ein Beitrag zur jüdischen Wissenschaft und Emanzipation, eds., Marie Louise Steinschneider and Renate Heuer (Frankfurt/New York, 1995). The longest biographical treatment is still Alexander Marx, “Moritz Steinschneider,” in his Essays in Jewish Biography (Philadelphia, 1947), 112-184. Marx has a very useful bibliography on pp. 294-95. For a list of Steinschneider’s writings, see George Alexander Kohut, “Bibliography of the Writings of Professor Dr. Moritz Steinschneider,” in Festschrift zum Achtzigsten Geburtstage Moritz Steinschneider’s (Leipzig, 1896), v-xxxix. Steinschneider’s secretary, Adeline Goldberg, published additions to the bibliography in Zeitschrift fur hebräische Bibliographie 5 (1901): 189-91; 9 (1905): 90-92; 13 (1909): 94-95. [2] Die Arabischen Überzetungen aus dem Griechischen (Leipzig, 1897) and Die Europäischen Übersetzungen aus dem Arabischen (Graz, 1956). See D. Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: The Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early ‘Abbâsid Society (2nd-4th/8th-10th centuries) (London/New York, 1998), p. 195: “There is as of yet no modern bibliographical survey of the Arabic translations of all the Greek philosophers; Steinschneider’s Die Arabischen Überzetungen aus dem Griechischen remains the only single treatment.” [3] “Mi-tokh hirhurim al hokhmat yisrael” in Devarim be-go (Tel Aviv, 1975), pp. 385-405. This celebrated essay was published first in Luah ha-Arez and republished several times during Scholem’s lifetime. It has recently been translated into English by Jonathan Chipman as “Reflection on Modern Jewish Studies,” in On the Possibility of Jewish Mysticism in our Time and Other Essays, ed. A. Shapira (Philadelphia and Jerusalem, 1997), pp. 51-71. Scholem, who planned to publish a similar critique in Walter Benjamin’s journal in the early 20’s, returned to the same issue several times during his career, notably in “Wissenchaft vom Judentum einst und jetzt” (see n. 14 below) and “Hokhmat yisrael ve-yahadut” (“The Science of Judaism and Judaism,” which was printed in German, English, and Hebrew, in Perspectives of German-Jewish History in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Zur Geschichte der Juden in Deutsch-land im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert), the proceedings of a symposium on Jewish studies organized by Ephraim Urbach (Jerusalem, 1971) and reprinted in ‘Od Davar (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1989), pp. 143-5. For an assessment of the impact of Scholem’s zionism on his scholarship, see Daniel Abrams, “Presenting and Representing Gershom Scholem: A Review Essay,” Modern Judaism 20:2 (2000): 226-243. [4] Mi Berlin li-Yerushalayim (Tel Aviv, 1982), p. 141. This and most other comments about Steinschneider are not in the original German edition of the memoir, from which the English translation was made, but appear in the expanded German edition of the book based upon the Hebrew translation. See Von Berlin nach Jerusalem, trans. Michael Brocke and Andrea Schatz. Erweiterte Fassung (Frankfurt am Main, 1994), p. 148. Scholem’s enthusiasm for Steinschneider also earned him the favor of Prof. Aaron Freimann, who had served as librarian of the Judaica collection of the Frankfurt municipal library, and who had been Steinschneider’s student (Hebrew: 184, German: 193). One cannot but wonder why Scholem decided to add to the Hebrew version of his book several anecdotes testifying to his admiration for Steinschneider. [5] Hebraeische Bibliographie 9 (1869), pp. 76-78. A partial translation is offered by J. Hessing and P. Mendes-Flohr in Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, The Jew in the Modern World: A Documentary History, Second Edition (New York and Oxford, 1995), pp. 230-2. I cite from that translation here, with slight emendation. [6] “Die Aufgabe unserer Zeit scheint mir vorzugsweise die zeitweileige Dotirung von Privatdocenten für jüd. Geschichte und Literatur an den Philosophischen Fakultäten, damit die Regierungen zur Errichtung von Professuren getrieben werden und Lehranstalten in welchen regelmässige Gymnasiasten sich für das Studium der hebr. Literatur vorbreiten können. Nur keine Internate, in welchem bachurische Unmanier, Unbeholfenheit und Bettelhaftigkeit in ihrem Dünkel erhalten und beschönigt werden. See Alexander Marx, “Steinschneideriana II,” in Jewish Studies in Memory of George A. Kohut, eds. Salo W. Baron and Alexander Marx (New York, 1935), pp. 492-527, esp. p. 521. [7] Ibid, p. 521. [8] Die Arabische Literatur der Juden (Frankfurt a. M., 1902), p. ix. [9] Ibid., p. x. [10] Ibid., p. viii. [11] No. 6, February 8, 1907, pp. 53-5. [12] See Yehuda Eloni, Ziyyonut be-Germaniyah mi-Reishitah ‘ad 1914 (Tel Aviv, 1991), p. 372 n. 55. [13] “Wir haben nur noch die Aufgabe die Ueberreste des Judentums ehrenvoll zu bestatten,“ p. 54. [14] See Scholem’s German Essay in the Bulletin of the Leo Baeck Institute 3 (1960):10-20; Hebrew version in De’ot 4:19 (1961), pp. 8-9, rept. in ‘Od Davar (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1989), pp. 136-142; English trans. by Michael Meyer in The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York: 304-313.) The quotation is from Meyer’s translation on p. 307. [15] See Hebraeische Bibliographie 2 (1859): 82-83 (Steinschneider’s review of M. Kayserling’s Sephardim: Romanische Poesien der Juden in Spanien), as translated by S. Baron in, “Steinschneider’s Contributions to Historiography,” in Alexander Max, Jubilee Volume (New York, 1950), 83-148, esp. 90-1. [16] Die Hebraeischen Übersetzungen des Mittelaters und die Juden als Dolmetscher (Berlin, 1893), p. 402 n. 227. [17] Baron, “Steinschneider’s Contributions,” p. 135. [18] Die Arabische Literatur der Juden, p. viii. [19] Baron, “Steinschneider’s Contributions,” pp. 119-120. [20] See, for example, “Die Trauer des 9. Av,” Gesammelte Schriften (Frankfurt am Main, 1902), vol. 1, pp. 130-1. A partial translation is offered by J. Hessing in Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, The Jew in the Modern World, pp. 234-5. [21] Die Hebraeischen Übersetzungen des Mittelalters, p. xxiv. [22] Die Arabische Literatur der Juden, p. x, n. 1. [23] The similarity between the neo-Orthodox and Zionist critique is noticed by Mordecai Breuer in “Three Orthodox Approaches to Wissenschaft” (Hebrew), in the Jubilee Volume for R. Joseph Dov Soloveitchik (Jerusalem/New York, 1984), vol. 2, pp. 856-60, esp. p. 857. [24] “The Science of Judaism – Then and Now, ” trans. Meyer, p. 310. [25] Ibid., p. 312.

How Did Rashi Make a Living?[1]

Mayer I. Gruber

Professor in the Department of Bible Archaeology and the Ancient Near East

Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beersheva, Israel

It has long been taken for granted that Rashi engaged in viticulture, which is to say, the cultivation of vineyards and the preparation and sale of wine made from the grapes he cultivated.[2] However, in 1978 the question of how Rashi made a living was reopened by Haym Soloveitchik.[3] Indeed, Soloveitchik asserted: “Indeed the presumption is against anyone being a winegrower in Troyes. Its chalky soil is inhospitable to viticulture. . . .”[4] Soloveitchik went further and declared, “Rashi may nevertheless have been a vintner; but by the same measure he may have been an egg salesman.”[5]

Since, on the face of it, Soloveitchik had declared that being a vintner, i.e., a cultivator of vineyards, and being an egg salesman were equally plausible careers for Rashi, notwithstanding Soloveitchik’s unequivocal declaration that the soil of Troyes was “inhospitable to viticulture,” it seemed worthwhile to me to explore three questions. These were 1) Rashi’s association with eggs; 2) the plausibility and implausibility of viticulture in Rashi’s vicinity; and 3) alternative careers for Rashi in view of the alleged inhospitability of Rashi’s native city of Troyes to viticulture.

A perusal of the published responsa of Rashi reveals that, in fact, eggs were a favorite in Rashi’s diet. Rashi’s famous disciple Shemayah[6] tells us that on more than one occasion he had seen that Rashi was served grilled meat[7] or fried eggs with honey.[8] The latter delicacy was called in Old French ab-bstr.[9] Moreover, Shemayah informs us that Rashi was wont to pronounced the berakhah shehakkol ‘by whose will all things come into being’ and consume these foods prior to beginning the meal with washing of the hands and the berakhah over bread.[10] Shemayah explains that Rashi informed him that the reason he did not wash his hands and recite ha-motzi over bread before eating eggs fried with honey is as follows: “This is much more enjoyable to me than bread, and I like bestowing my benedictions to laud my Creator with respect to [the food that I love].”[11]

What this halakhic text tells us about Rashi and eggs is that fried eggs mixed with honey were among his favorite foods, which he enjoyed so much that he ate them as an appetizer before the meal itself which began with the washing of the hands and ha-motzi. Fried eggs mixed with honey[12] were among the food items for which Rashi had no patience to wait. Notwithstanding Rashi’s enjoyment of fried eggs, neither this text nor any other text so far published intimates that Rashi was engaged in either the retail or wholesale trade in eggs. On the contrary, the following responsum demonstrates that Rashi received eggs and other edible products for his personal consumption from others:

It happened to me, Solomon ha-Yitzhaqi. A Gentile sent me cakes and eggs on the eighth day of Passover. The Gentile entered the courtyard and called to my wife, and my wife sent a messenger to the synagogue. Thereupon, I gave instructions to keep the eggs in a corner until the evening. In the evening [after the end of Passover] I permitted their use allowing the amount of time that it would have taken [to bring them to my house had they set out for my house after the this time [when the holiday had already ended].[13]

Cows and Sheep

Several of Rashi’s responsa suggest that he and other Jewish residents of Troyes from time to time owned pregnant cows and ewes.[14] None of these texts accounts suggest that either Rashi or the other Jews mentioned in these responsa owned herds of cattle or flocks of sheep. The one cow or sheep was probably the family’s source of dairy products. In each of the recorded instances Rashi advised divesting oneself of ownership in favor of a Gentile so as to avoid being subject to the mitzvah of redeeming the firstborn male of a cow or ewe, a mitzvah which cannot be accomplished in the absence of the Temple (see Deut. 12:6, 17: 14:23). In the one instance where one of Rashi’s Jewish neighbors made the mistake of acquiring and slaughtering for meat a firstborn lamb born of a ewe of which the Jew was legal owner, Rashi decided that the only recourse was to bury the slaughtered lamb half on Rashi’s property and half on the other Jew’s property so that the act of burying all that meat would be less conspicuous and the Jews would not be suspected by their neighbors of engaging in some kind of witchcraft.[15]

According to Rashi’s own testimony he acquired and ate eggs. To date, however, there is no evidence that he was an egg salesman. Likewise, on more than one occasion Rashi owned a cow or a sheep. However, owning an occasional cow or sheep did not make Rashi into a rancher or a cowboy. Likewise, numerous testimonies both in his response as well as in his commentary to Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 18a and in his biblical commentary on Jer. 25:30 to Rashi’s familiarity with the details of wine production do not prove that Rashi actually cultivated vineyards either for private use or for commercial purposes.[16] As argued by Soloveitchik, all the texts bearing upon Rashi’s familiarity with wine production serve only to demonstrate that, in fact, the Jews of Troyes in Rashi’s era had to produce their own wine because halakhah prohibited Jews from consuming wine produced by Gentiles.[17]

Wine barrel with Rashi’s seal

The reference in a responsum by Rashi to a wine barrel that bore Rashi’s seal[18] does not necessarily make Rashi a commercial producer of either grapes or wine any more than does his ownership of a pregnant cow make him a cowboy. On the other hand, another responsum by Rashi refers to a Jewish borrower who pledged a vineyard as collateral for a loan.[19] The latter text is one of a number of texts[20] which suggest that Soloveitchik may have gone too far in arguing that one of the reasons that Rashi could not have been a vintner is that the region in which he lived could not support viticulture.[21]

So how then did Rashi make a living?

In the conventional presentation of Rashi’s biography[22] Rashi is assumed to have been a vintner by profession and the head of an academy of Jewish learning as an avocation. However, when Baron so described Rashi, the corpus of Rashi’s Responsa had not yet been published by Elfenbein.[23] The facts, which can be culled from examination of the responsa, hardly portray Rashi as an amateur rabbi/scholar or his yeshivah as a hobby.

In fact, the conventional presentation of Rashi’s biography also fosters the widely accepted notion that religious instruction, the study of sacred texts whether from a historical, halakhic, or a theological perspective, whether in the university, the yeshivah, the modern rabbinical seminary, the Jewish day school, or seminaries for teachers, or wherever, is or should be essentially a leisure activity. Careful reading of Rashi’s responsa for what they tell us about daily life among Rashi and his disciples reveals that Rashi himself succeeded by his very professionalism in his very careful and by no means subtle design for making his yeshivah an intellectual and spiritual center for all of world Jewry and indeed, for all persons both friendly and hostile, who wished to understand the Torah.

It is no accident therefore that Rashi’s yeshivah was called Yeshivat Geon Yaakov “the Yeshivah of the Glory of Jacob,” the official name of the academy that still functioned in Baghdad in Rashi’s time, and which claimed to have been founded by Rav in 219 CE in Sura. Likewise, Rashi’s title was Rosh Yeshivat Geon Yaakov, “Head of the Yeshivah of the Glory of Jacob.”[24] Also, like the heads of the Babylonian Jewish academies, Rashi referred to himself by the title of the spiritual leaders of Babylonian Jewry, Gaon.[25]

Apparently, it was from the funding he received from communal assets paid on behalf of his students by the communities from which they came,[26] Rashi was able to dress himself, his wife, and his daughters in the style that befits a spiritual, intellectual, and communal leader of Jewry far beyond the boundaries of Troyes.

Implications for Today

Indeed, it may change the way we relate to our schools of Jewish learning and our programs of Jewish learning, both religious and secular, if we can liberate ourselves from the view that for Rashi, Rabban shel Yisrael,[27] our mentor, par excellence, studying Torah, teaching Torah, and adding to the corpus of Torah literature, were all hobbies, rather than aspects of a profession. Once it is grasped that Rashi’s Torah activities constituted a profession, we may begin to treat not only the people who raise money for and administer Torah institutions and programs for the academic study of Judaism as persons who deserve to make a living from what they do but also those who study and teach to extend the frontiers of our knowledge and to broaden the base of persons, who are privy to this rich heritage. Likewise, seriously treating day school teaching as a profession might have a positive effect on both the working conditions and pay of day school teachers and the way in which the children of the fortunate treat their teachers.

Notes:

[1] This article is based upon material found in the Introduction to Mayer I. Gruber, Rashi’s Commentary on Psalms (Brill Reference Library of Judaism, vol. 18; Leiden & Boston, Brill, 2004), and is published at the Seforim blog with permission of Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden. Special thanks are due to Editor Michiel Klein Swormink of Koninklije Brill in Boston.

[2] Maurice Liber, Rashi, trans. Adele Szold (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1906), 56; Irving Agus, The Heroic Age of Franco-German Jewry (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1969), 173; Israel S. Elfenbein, “Rashi in His Responsa,” in Rashi, His Teachings and Personality, ed. Simon Federbusch (New York: Cultural Divison of the World Jewish Congress, 1958), 67; Salo W. Baron, “Rashi and the Community of Troyes,” in Rashi Anniversary Volume, ed. H. L. Ginsberg (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1941), 60.

[3] Haym Soloveitchik, “Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?” AJS Review 3 (1978): 153-196.

[4] Ibid., p. 172, n. 54.

[5] Ibid.

[6] For the important contributions of Shemayah, who was Rashi’s personal secretary, who edited Rashi’s personal correspondence, wrote commentaries on the piyyutim of Eliezer ha-Kalir, helped Rashi edit the final versions of Rashi’s commentaries on Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Psalms, and composed glosses on Rashi’s commentary, which are preserved in Leipzig Stadtbiliothek, Ms. Wagenseil, B.H. fol. I, see the extensive discussion in Avraham Grossman, The Early Sages of France (2d ed.; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1997), 174, 347-426 (in Hebrew).

[7] For the different possible textual readings and their respective meanings see Israel Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi (New York: Shulsinger, 1943),114 #86, nn. 4-5.

[8] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 310-11 #270.

[9] Ibid., 310, n. 1.

[10] Ibid., 215.

[11] Ibid.

[12] The text of the responsum refers, in fact, to eggs fried in honey. In light of the commentary of Nissim Gerondi (commonly known in the yeshivah world as “the RaN, at the top of Babylonian Talmud, Nedarim 52b, it appears that “fried in honey” is a literary convention in Rabbinic Hebrew for “mixed in honey and fried [in oil].” For this information I am indebted to Professor Alan Witztum, Professor of Botany at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beersheva, Israel.

[13] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 142 #114. Here Rashi takes for granted the principle attributed to Rav Papa in Babylonian Talmud, Betza 24a: If a Gentile brought a Jew a present at night just after the end of a Jewish festival, the Jew may benefit from the gift only after the elapse of enough time for the Gentile to have prepared the gift after the end of the festival.

[14] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 202-03, #182-184; contrast Emily Taitz, The Jews of Medieval France (Contributions to the Study of World History, no. 45; Westport, Ct.: Greenwood Press, 1994), 85.

[15] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 202 #182.

[16] Contrast Moche Catane, La Vie en France aus lle siecle e’apres les ecrits de Rachi (Jerusalem: Editions Gallia, 1994), 130-31; cf. Taitz, 72-77.

[17] Soloveitchik, 172-73. Of course, the original reason for the prohibition was the presumption that virtually all Gentiles worshipped a multiplicity of gods and that wine from virtually any barrel of wine they sold or gave to Jew had been poured out as a libation in the worship of “other gods.” Later the Rabbinic Sages (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 17b) extended this prohibition to any wine that had been touched by any Gentile so as to discourage socializing that might lead to intermarriage and thereby to the total assimilation of the Jewish people.

[18] Oxford Bodleian Ms. Oppenheim 276, p. 35a, cited by Grossman, The Early Sages of France, 132; 135, n. 45.

[19] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 66, #61; see also the discussion in Taitz, 84.

[20] Note, for example, the “ordinance of Rashi” in Louis Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages (2d printing; New York: Feldheim, 1964), 147, which specifically exempts from taxation by the self-governing Jewish community of greater Troyes household items, houses, vineyards, and fields; see the discussion in Robert Chazan, Medieval Jewry in Northern France: A Political and Social History (Baltimore & London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), 16. See also the account of the case that came before R. Joseph b. Samuel Tob-Elem (Bonfils) at the end of the 10th and the beginning of the 11th century CE concerning the attempt of the community of Troyes to ignore, with respect to a certain Leah, the community’s traditional exemption of vineyards from taxation. Fortunately for this Leah, the learned R. Joseph agreed with her that the traditional exemption should be upheld. See Chazan, 15-16. Irving Agus, Urban Civilization in Pre-Crusade (2 vols.; New York Yeshiva University Press, 1965), 438-446 anticipates Soloveitchik’s attempt to play down the importance of vineyards in the economic life of the Jews of Troyes in the time of Rashi, and he goes so far as to argue from silence that Leah was at that time the only owner of a substantial vineyard. In any case, both the litigation in question and the reference to vineyards along with household goods and houses in the so-called “ordinance of Rashi” should put to rest the contention that the soil of greater Troyes was inhospitable to viticulture. See also the numerous references to wine production in Rashi’s commentaries on the Babylonian Talmud where Rashi frequently contrasts the realia referred to in the Talmud with the corresponding realia in 11th-12th century CE Troyes; these sources are listed and analyzed in Catane, La Vie en France aus lle siecle d’apres les ecrits de Rachi, 130-133; see also the references in Rashi’s responses to Jews’ hiring Christians to carry wine casks; see Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, #160; #260; see Taitz, 84.

[21] Soloveitchik, 172, n. 54.

[22] In addition to Baron and the other authorities cited in n. 2 above, see passim in Taitz; and see also Herman Hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1963), 268, nn. 10-11; Grossman, The Early Sages of France, 121, n. 1; 130, n. 31; and see also Mordechai Breuer, “Toward the Investigation of the Typology of Western yeshivot in the Middle Ages,” in Studies in the History of Jewish Society in the Middle Ages and in the Modern Period: Presented to Professor Jacob Katz on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, ed. E. Etkes and Y. Salmon (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980), 49, n. 26 (in Hebrew).

[23] See above; additional responsa are discussed in Grossman, The Early Sages of France, 127-159; see also Soloveitchik, 153-196.

[24] Elfenbein, Responsa Rashi, 93 #73.

[25] Ibid., 245-246 # 115.

[26] Gruber, Rashi’s Commentary on Psalms, 20-22; see Norman Golb, The Jews in Medieval Normandy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 154-196.

[27] For the sources of this explanation of the acronym Rashi see Gruber, Rashi’s Commentary on Psalms, 1, n. 1.

Among the more famous kinos that we recite on Tisha B’Av is Zion Halo Tishali. This kinah was written by one of the greatest paytanim, R. Yehudah Halevi author of the classic Kuzari. This piyut is about the author’s passion to walk on the holy soil of Eretz Yisrael. In the Artscroll commentary on the kinos, R. Avraham Chaim Feuer writes

an ancient manuscript states that R. Yehuda Halevi composed this kina while journeying towards Eretz Yisroel and recited it when he reached Damascus, facing the direction of Zion. Although many historians believe that R. Yehuda Halevi only got as far as Egypt, never even reaching Damascus, tradition has it that he finally reached Jerusalem (in 1145). There he fell to the ground in a state of ecstasy. . . . As he was embracing the dust near the temple mount, he was trampled and killed by an Arab horseman.

In this post I intend to discuss the above legend of R. Yehuda Halevi’s death, did he actually reach Eretz Yisrael? When did he compose the piyut of Zion Haloeh Tishali? I will conclude with a discussion on R. Yehuda Halevi’s connection to R. Abraham Ibn Ezra. I do not, however, intend to discuss R. Yehuda Halevi’s classic work the Kuzari nor his life in general for more on those topics one can see the excellent study by Adam Shear, “The Later History of a Medieval Hebrew Book, Studies in the Reception of Judah Halevi’s Sefer HaKuzari” (PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 2003); soon to be printed in book form.

R. Abraham Zacuto (1452-1514) in Sefer Yuchsin (first printed in 1566) writes that “R. Yehuda Halevi was fifty [years old] when he came to Eretz Yisroel and he is buried together with his first cousin, the Ibn Ezra.” (p. 217, Filipowski ed.). Later, however, R. Zacuto writes that R. Yehuda Halevi is buried with R. Yehudah Bar Elayh in Tzefat. (idem., p. 219). Setting aside the apparent contradiction regarding R. Yehuda Halevi’s burial place, in both of these descriptions R. Yehuda Halevi actually made it to Eretz Yisrael. Nevertheless, the legend of an Arab horseman killing him is absent. The earliest source for Arab horseman legend appears in R. Gedaliah Ibn Yachi, Shalsheles Hakabbalah (first published in Venice, 1587) and he states that he heard this legend from “an old man” (p. 92). Although the Shalsheles Hakabbalah appears to be the source for the R. Feuer’s statement, the Shalsheles Hakabbalah has one addition to the legend — omitted by R. Feuer — that R. Yehuda Halevi recited the kinah of Zion Halo Tishali right before the Arab horseman killed him.

The next time that this legend appeared, after the mention in the Shalsheles Hakabbalah, is by R. David Conforte (1618-c.1678) in Koreh Hadoros (first printed in Venice, 1746), p. 13, followed by R. Yechiel Halprin (1660- died sometime between 1746-1749) in Seder Hadoros (first printed in Karlsruhe, 1769), p. 201, it is then repeated by R. Wolf Heindheim in his edition of the Kinos. By the 19th century, this legend became perhaps the most famous story about R. Yehudah Halevi as not much else was known about him.

R. Matisyahu Strashun, however, questions the legend. He explains that Jerusalem, in the times of R. Yehuda Halevi, was ruled by Christians and not by Arabs. R. Strashun allows that although it is possible R. Yehuda Halevi composed Zion Halo Tishali when he got to Jerusalem — not that we know that he did — but the part of the story with the Arab killing him is certainly not true. As a general matter, R. Strashun notes that it is well known that the Shalsheles Hakabbalah is not a reliable sefer at all (Mivchar Kitavim, pp. 215-216). R. Shmuel David (ShaDaL) Luzzatto in his collection of poems from R. Yehuda Halevi, Besulas Bas Yehuda (Prague, 1840), also questions the the legend due to the Christian and not Arab control during the time of R. Yehuda Halevi. Further, even if there were Arabs around they would not have done such a blatant act right at the city gate (pp. 25-26). So Shadal concludes that he died on his way from Egypt never even reaching Eretz Yisroel. Interestingly enough, David Kaufmann uses other evidence to prove that the poems of R. Yehudah Halevi have Jerusalem under Christian rule (Mechkarim Besafrus Haivrit Byemei Habenyim p. 194).

Israel Zinberg writes that most likely R. Yehuda Halevi returned home to Spain, after visiting Eretz Yisrael, based on the fact that R. Shlomo Parcon, a student of R. Yehuda Halevi who lived in Spain, quotes a statement from R. Yehuda Halevi “after R. Yehuda Halevi was in Egypt” (Machberes Hauruch p. 5). Specifically, R. Yehuda Halevi had told Parcon that he was doing teshuva and therefore no longer composing. Independently, we know that during while R. Yehuda Halevi was in Egypt he composed much, Zinberg therefore argues that this statement to Parcon must have taken place after R. Yehuda Halevi was in Egypt, thus R. Yehuda Halevi must have returned to Spain (Toldos Safrus Byisroel, vol. 1, p. 115). David Kaufman also uses R. Shlomo Parcon to adduce how R. Yehuda Halevi died. Kaufman points out that had R. Yehudah Halevi died in such a spectacular fashion as the legend has it, R. Shlomo Parcon was sure to note it. As R. Parcon makes no note of an extraordinary death, R. Yehuda Halevi must have died a natural death. (Mechkarim Besafrus Haivrit Byemei Habenyim, p. 195). In Amudei Avodah, Landshuth also questions the legend due to lack of evidence that R. Yehuda Halevi ever made it to Eretz Yisrael. (p. 70).

In regard to the piyut, Zion Haloh Tishali, Landshuth brings different opinions where this was written, in Spain or Damascus, Syria (p. 76). Yitzhak Baer (Kinos p. 130) and David Kaufmann (supra, p. 195) cite an manuscript — housed at Oxford — which says that R. Yehuda Halevi said this piyut when he got to the Yerushalayim. Shadal writes it was written in Spain (supra).

Earlier I mentioned that the Sefer Yuchsin writes that R. Yehuda Halevi was fifty years old when he came to Eretz Yisrael and he is buried with his first cousin, Abraham Ibn Ezra. Later he writes that he is buried with R. Yehuda Bar Elayh in Tzefas. In the Travels of R. Benjamin of Tudela, written around 1170 – thirty years after the R. Yehuda Halevi died – Benjamin records that he visited the grave of R. Yehuda Halevi in Teveriah (there are actually various readings of these words in the manuscripts, but Adler accepts this as the correct reading; p. 29). In the travels of R. Yitzchak Ben Alfurah, written around 1441, he writes that he visited the grave of the Ibn Ezra and R. Yehuda Halevi (Avraham Yari, Masos Eretz Yisrael, p. 110). Both of these provide strong evidence that R. Yehuda Halevi actually made it to Eretz Yisrael. Nevertheless, an anonymous traveler in 1473 (Masos Eretz Yisroel, p. 113) and R. Yosef Sofer in 1762 (Iggrot Eretz Yisroel, p. 301) write that they visited the grave of the Ibn Ezra but make no mention that R. Yehuda Halevi is buried there as well. In the travels of R. Moshe Yerushalmi from 1769, he writes that he visited the graves of the Ibn Ezra and R. Shlomo Ibn Gabriel (Masos Eretz Yisroel, p. 438). I would venture to say the author confused R. Shlomo Ibn Gabriel with R. Yehuda Halevi both being famous composers and are sometimes confused. Furthermore, we have no source that R. Shlomo Ibn Gabriel ever came to Eretz Yisrael (aside from a very late letter written in 1747 printed in Egrot Eretz Yisrael, p. 273). (See also David Kaufmann, p. 205 and Sinai, vol. 28, p. 290). In a manuscript from the author of the Koreh Hadoros (printed in Sinai vol. 28, p. 284) it seems that the R. Yehuda Halevi was buried in Jerusalem.

Over one hundred years ago the Cairo Genizah was accidentally discovered and due to this incredible find every areas of Jewish Literature and History have been greatly enriched. Before this discovery the history of R. Yehuda Halevi written by the early scholars of Jewish History was based on the poems of Halevi that were printed by Shadal and others. However, much has been discovered in Geniza Manuscripts in the past sixty odd years which adds an incredible amount of detailed information to what we knew about the end of R. Yehuda Halevi’s life including original autograph letters of Halevi. [One can view some of these online here, and here is an example of one of documents relating to R. Yehudah Halevi.] These discoveries were made by the great scholar of the Cairo Genizah, Shlomo D. Goitein. Starting in 1954, Goitein printed his discoveries with his explanations of the material, in various journals mostly in Tarbitz. Later on, in his classic A Mediterranean Society (volume V, pp. 448-468), he included an excellent chapter on R. Yehuda Halevi based on all the material which he had found over the years. Most of his interpretations of the material he discovered have been accepted by Professors C. Sherman and Ezra Fleischer. In A Mediterranean Society Goitein writes “a full publication of all the geniza letters referring to Judah Halevi would fill a book.” (p. 462). Although Goitein never got around to writing such a book, in 2001 Professors Moshe Gil and Ezra Fleischer did write such a book. The title of the book is Yehudah Halevei U’bnei Chugo this book is a six hundred and forty page study of all the material from the genizah discovered by Goitein. This book includes all the original documents with notes and an in-depth history of all that can be gleaned from these letters. It is simply incredible to read what Goitein and than Gil and Fleischer discover in these letters.

The relevant documents are from a Cairo business man named Abu Said Halfon who was a very close friend of R. Yehuda Halevi. What follows is a brief time line of R. Yehuda Halevi’s journey to Eretz Yisrael based on the research of these professors. In 1129, when R. Yehuda Halevi was fifty four years old he decided to make the journey to Eretz Yisrael. In the year 1130, R. Yehuda Halevi began his journey. He intended to travel through Egypt. We don’t know why he didn’t. But we do know that he ended up in North Africa. In North Africa, he became good friends with the Ibn Ezra. For some unknown reason, he ended up back in Spain. Not too much information is known about why this journey to Eretz Yisrael did not end up happening. Ten years later, in 1140, R. Yehuda Halevi began the journey again. He ended up in Alexandria on September 8. He had intended to leave from Egypt to Eretz Yisrael immediately, but was delayed. He ended up going to Cairo until Pesach. After that he returned to Alexandria. A few days before Shavuos of 1141, he boarded the boat, and on Shavuos, he set sail to Eretz Yisrael. In a letter written about 6 months later indicates that R. Yehuda Halevi was no longer alive. It seems that he was alive for 2 months in Eretz Yisrael. We don’t have any information about his stay in Eretz Yisrael. It would seem that either he got sick or died a natural death. There is no clear answer whether the legend is true or not. It’s rather sad that with all the manuscripts discovered in the Cairo geniza that enriched us with an in-depth, heavily detailed history of R. Yehuda Halevi’s last years until he left to Eretz Yisrael, does not tell us anything more. However, there was one letter written three months after the death of R. Yehuda Halevi that does indicate that perhaps the legend is true. The letter (the ellipsis appear in the original) says as follows:

This letter was first printed by Jacob Mann, Goitein highlights the line ולא נעלם ממנה אודות רבינו יהודה הלוי הצדיק החסיד זק”ל which would seem to indicate that his death was not natural (calling him a kodesh is typically reserved for a martyrs) and especially the end where it says בשערי ירושלים but the letter is damaged and hard to read so one can not say anything conclusively. But Fleischer (pg 255) is willing to use the letter even with it’s missing parts to support the legend! Especially, he says, the author of the letter using the word קודש twice in the phrase זק”ל instead of the usual ז”ל. From this concludes Fleischer that we are not far off at all about Halevi death. Fleischer concludes by noting that one should be careful not to make fun of legends!

There was certainly a strong connection between the Ibn Ezra and R. Yehudah Halevi. Professor D. Kaufman (supra p. 206) gives a listing of the many times which the Ibn Ezra quotes Halevei throughout his works. R. Azariah de Rossi, in his Me’or Eynaim, writes that R. Yehuda Halevi was the Ibn Ezra’s father-in-law (chapter 42). Koreh hadoros also brings that he heard this (p. 13). Shalsheles Hakabblah brings a whole legend which he had heard how exactly the Ibn Ezra became the son-in-law of R Yehudah Halevi (pp. 92-93). Interestingly enough the Meiri in his Seder Hakablah and the Sha’ari Zion make no mention of this relationship between the Ibn Ezra and R. Yehuda Halevi. Both Goitein and Fleischer say that although R. Yehuda Halevi was not the father in law of the Ibn Ezra the son of the Ibn Ezra, Yitzhak did marry R. Yehuda Halevi’s only daughter (see Yehuda Halevei U’bnei Chugo pp. 247-251). However, M. Gil writes that in the end Goitein changed his mind and realized there was no relation through marriage (p. 250-251). Also, see N. Ben Menachem, Inyai Ibn Ezra, pp. 224-240, 346-356 regarding the relationship between Ibn Ezra and Yehuda Halevi including any relationship through marriage.
It is worthwhile noting that R. Immanuel Aboab in his Bemavak ‘al Erko shel Torah, written in 1615, claims that the Ibn Ezra was both R. Yehuda Halevi’s son-in-law as well as a cousin. (p. 247).

On this topic in general see also: Adam Shear, The Later History of a Medieval Hebrew Book, Studies in the Reception of Judah Halevi’s Sefer Ha Kuzari, pp. 95, 513-514; C. Shirman, Toldos Hashirah Haivrit Besefard Hamuslamit, pp. 441-443. On the Ibn Ezra and Eretz Yisrael in general, see N. Ben Menachem, Sinai, vol. 10 p. 276 and onwards; see also N. Ben Menachem, Inyai Ibn Ezra, pp. 182-190.

More sources on R. Yehuda Halevi and Eretz Yisrael see: Adam Shear, supra, pp. 516-517; C. Shirman, Letoldos Hashirah Vehadramah Haivrit, vol. one, pp. 319-341; C. Shirman, Toldos Hashirah Haivrit Besefard Hamuslamit, pp. 466-480. Franz Kobler, A Treasury of Jewish Letters, vol. one, p. 155; Abraham Haberman, Toldos Hashirah Vhapiut, vol. one, p. 185;

On the reliability of Shalsheles Hakabbalah in general see: A David’s doctorate and E. Yassif in Sippur Ham Haevrei pp. 351-371)

A few days ago, the sefer Iggeres Ha’mussar from R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon, was reprinted. What follows is a short review of this beautiful work.

R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon was born in 1120. Not much is known about him but from this work one learns a few more things about him, he was a doctor, close to the Ba’al Ha’meor (pp. 50, 63). R. Yehudah appears to have been working on another work (see p. 46) although it is unclear whether this work was a full work. He also loved his only son R. Shmuel Ibn Tibbon very much and wanted him to succeed him as a doctor and translator of seforim -as Yehudah Ibn Tibbon was famous for his own translations. R. Yehuda ibn Tibbon’s son, Shmuel, refers to his father as “father of translators” as he translated many classics, among them, the Tikun Nefesh of Ibn Gabreil, Kuzari, Mivhar Peninim, Emunah Ve’dais of Reb Sa’adia Gaon, Chovos Halevovos, and two works of R. Yonah Ibn Ganach.

In general, most people do not enjoy reading ethical wills for a few reasons. Amongst the reasons given is that wills, by nature, can be a depressing reminder of death and the like, topics most people would rather not focus on. Another reason given is (and this they say they find applies to many older mussar seforim as well) is people feel the advice is dated and does not speak to them at all. In this particular case, however, the Iggeres Ha’mussar is not a typical will as it does not focus on death at all. Furthermore, although it was written around 1190, over 800 hundred years ago, it is full of valuable advice that speaks to one even today. Besides for all this, there are some interesting points found in this will that are very appropriate for a seforim blog to talk about- specifically, how one should maintain their library.

Iggeres Ha’mussar is an ethical will which R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon wrote to his son R. Shmuel Ibn Tibbon. This work has been printed earlier, but not that many times. [1] The most recent reprint is Israel Abrahams’ Hebrew Ethical Wills, originally printed in 1926 and reprinted in 2006, with a new forward by Judah Goldin. Now, Mechon Marah has just reprinted this work based on four manuscripts. This edition also includes over three hundred comments from the editor, R. Pinchas Korach, which explain the text and provide sources for many statements in the book. This new version also includes an introduction, short biography of the author, and a listing of R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon sources. Additionally, this edition also includes a letter from R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon to R Asher M’luniel regarding Ibn Tibbon’s translation of Chovos Halevovos.

Some of the many points found in this work. Regarding learning and other areas of ruchnius R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon writes to his son make sure to learn torah as much as possible, (p. 38), make sure to teach it to your children, (p. 59) to one’s students (p. 61). One should study chumash and dikduk on Shabbos and Yom Tov (id.). R. Yehudah writes to make sure not to waste your youth as at that stage of life it is much easier to learn than later in life (p. 38). He also exhorts him to be on time to davening and be from the first ten for the minyan (p. 67).

He tells his son to study medicine (p. 38). Elsewhere he writes that his son should learn the ibur – how the calendar works (p. 57). R. Yehudah is very concerned, throughout the will, that his son learn how to write clearly and with proper grammar and R. Yehudah offers many tips on how to accomplish these goals (pp. 33-36,45-48). R. Yehudah tells his son to learn Arabic (pp. 34-35) and to do so by to studying the parsha every Shabbos in Arabic (p. 43). R. Yehudah expresses the importance of double checking written material prior to sending it as one tends to make mistakes (p. 45) and notes that “even the Ba’al Ha’meor, who was the godal hador, showed R. Yehudah writings before they were sent out” (p. 50).

On life in general, R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon writes that one should be very careful with the mitzvah of kibud av v’em going so far as to tell his son to review the parsha of Bnei Yonoduv (which deal with this topic) every Shabbos (pp. 62 and 32). He tells him to make sure to seek advice from good people, people whom he’s confident in their wisdom (pg 42). Not to get in to arguments with people, (id.), dress oneself and their family nicely, (p. 43), acquire good friends (p. 39), be careful to eat healthy, (p. 54), and make sure to keep secrets people tell you (p. 70). He advises his son to treat his wife respectfully and not to follow the ways of other people who treat their wives poorly. (p. 57) Later on, R. Yehudah adds to make sure not to hit one’s wife (a unfortunate practice that was all too common in that period, see A. Grossman, “Medieval Rabbinic Views on Wife Beating, 800-1300,” in Jewish History 5, 1 (1991) 53-62) and, if one must rebuke their wife to do so softly (p. 58).

Regarding seforim and libraries R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon writes many interesting things. He writes that he bought his son many seforim which covered a wide range of topics, at times buying multiple copies of the same book in order his son would not need to borrow from anyone else (pg 32-33). He writes that “you should make your seforim your friends, browse them like a garden and when you read them you will have peace” (pg 40 – 41). It’s important to know the content of seforim and not to just buy them (pg 33). He also writes “that every month you should check which seforim you have and which you lent out, you should have the books neat and organized so that they will be easy to find. Whichever book you lend out ,make a note, in order that if you are looking for it you will know where it is. And, when it is returned make sure to note that as well. Make sure to lend out books and to care for them properly” (pp. 60 – 61).

One rather strange point throughout the Iggeres Ha’mussar is the tone R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon uses, the tone leaves the impression that his son, R. Shmuael Ibn Tibbon, was very lax in the area of kibud av (see, e.g., pp. 33, 34, 52). Although, I highly doubt that his son completely failed at honoring his father, one thing is certain that in the end R. Shmuel listened to his father and read and fulfilled the suggestions in the will. Specifically, R. Shmuel became fluent in Arabic and became the most famous translator of his generation, translating many works, the most well-known being the Rambam’s Moreh Nevukim, making his father quiet proud of him in the Olam Ha’elyon.

This new print of the Iggeres Ha’mussar is aesthetically very appealing – the print is beautiful and the notes are very useful. But, this edition, which claims to have used multiple manuscripts, should not be mistaken for a critical edition as it has serious shortcomings in this area. For example, the will many times references the poems of R. Shemuel Ha’naggid’s Ben Mishlei but R. Korach, in this edition, never provides a citation where they are located in Ben Mishlei. This deficiency is in contrast to Israel Abrahams’ edition where Abrahams does cross-reference these external works. The latest edition states that they used four different manuscripts but do not explain what, if any, major differences are between the manuscripts. Nor do they explain the differences with Abrahams’ edition and theirs. The history in the introduction is very unprofessional, quoting spurious sources – this part in too could have been a bit better. Although the introduction includes some nice highlights of the will they should also have included a full index, which is standard in most contemporary seforim. All in all, however, aside for these minor points this ethical will, and this edition, is worth owning and reading from time to time as R. Yehudah Ibn Tibbon wanted his son to do.

Notes

[1] This work was only first published by the famed bibliographer Moritz Steinschneider in 1852. Steinschneider did so as part of a larger work VeYavo Ya’akov el Ha’A”Yan, which Moritz Steinschneider published in honor of his father Yaakov [which is rather appropriate as this will contains much on the obligation to honor one’s parent] reaching age 70. The work was then republished in 1930 by Simcha Assaf under the title Mussar haAv.

Last week I picked up a new sefer titled Nekadesh es Shimcha. What caught my attention was that it included not only Nekadesh es Shimcha but also the work Meleches haKodesh from R. Eleazar Fleckeles (most well-known for his Teshuva m’Ahava). What follows is a short biography of R. Fleckes, a review of Meleches haKodesh, and a review of the new sefer – Nekadesh es Shimcha.

R. Eleazar Fleckeles was born in 1754 in Prague. He was a direct descendant of R. Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, author of the Keli Yakar, whom R. Fleckeles quotes many times throughout his writings. When R. Fleckeles was 14, he went to study with R. Ezekiel Landau and spent ten years studying there. R. Landau, as is evident from his haskamot to R. Fleckeles works, held R. Fleckeles in high regard. Additionally, many teshuvot in Noda b’Yehuda are penned to R. Fleckeles. In R. Fleckeles’s writings, he quotes many interesting statements from R. Landau [for one example see here]. When R. Fleckeles was twenty-four, he became the Rabbi of Kojetin, a town in Moravia. After four years, however, R. Fleckeles returned to Prague to sit on R. Landau’s Bet Din and serve as a head of a yeshiva.

R. Fleckeles authored many works, works covering halakha, derush, and a commentary on the Haggadah. R. Fleckeles was a skilled halakhist as is evident from his Teshuva m’Ahavah, but his fame also rests on his skills as a darshan. His derashot were published in a four volumes, Olat Chodesh. The fourth volume contains, R. Fleckeles series of derashot he gave against Shabbatai Tzvi and Jacob Frank (this section has a seperate title, Ahavat Dovid). One of themes which run throughout his derashot is an emphasis on learning Shas and Poskim and not Kabbalah. Recently, Professor Marc B. Shapiro printed an interesting correspondence between R. Fleckeles and Karl Fischer, a government censor, about Nittel Nacht, which first appeared as “Torah Study on Christmas Eve,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 8 (1999): 350-55, and then as “A Letter of R. Eleazar Fleckeles Concerning Torah Study on Christmas Eve,” Ohr Yisrael 30 (2002): 165-168. This was not the only correspondence between the two, as a well-known teshuva appears in Teshuva m’Ahavah in response to Fischer’s question about Jew’s taking oaths. Teshuvah m’Ahavah, vol. 1, no. 26.]. In 1826, R. Fleckeles died after serving for 43 years on the Prague Bet Din.

Amongst R. Fleckeles lesser known seforim is the Meleches ha’Kodesh. The book differentiates between the names of Hashem, which are kodesh and which are chol, using the Bavli, Yerushalmi, Midrash, three Targumim, and all the various m’farshim on the Chumash. The reason the differentiation is important is that every time a sofer writes a kodesh name of Hashem, he needs to makes sure it is l’Shem Kedushas HaShem. If the sofer does not do so, the Sefer Torah is invalid. Although there are many instances it is obvious when the name is kodesh, there are many times it is unclear. Over time, there have arguments amongst the various poskim what to do in the ambiguous situations. R. Fleckeles collected all the prior opinions and provides his own conclusion for these questionable Shems.

R. Fleckes begins each of his discussions by quoting an earlier work on the topic Meir Netiv by R. Yehuda Piza [this first appeared in the Chumash R. Piza published in Amsterdam in 1767, Ezras HaSofer – R. Piza will be the subject a forthcoming post at the Seforim blog.] R. Fleckeles then provides additional sources not considered or quoted by R. Piza and then R. Fleckeles comes to his conclusion. In the process, R. Fleckeles demonstrates a tremendous breadth of knowledge in the works of Chazal, the Rishonim, and Achronim. What is extremely interesting about both of these works are the sources used to reach their conclusions. They use, amongst others, the Ibn Ezra, Abarbanel, and the Ralbag, these sources are not typically used to form a halachic conclusion. Even more noteworthy, are some of the sources R. Fleckeles uses, the Me’or Eynaim by R. Azariah di Rossi, as well as Mendelssohn’s Biur (pp. 4, 52, and 88). R. Fleckeles also quotes R. Shlomo Dubnow a few times (pp. 92, 115). What is particularly striking about the quotes from Mendelssohn, is that R. Fleckeles, like R. Landau [although R. Landau’s opinion is subject to some debate] was firmly against the Biur. (See Alexander Altman, Moses Mendelssohn, pp. 486-88; Moshe Samet, Chadash Assur Min haTorah, pp. 76-7; Meir Hildesheimer, “Moses Mendelssohn in Nineteenth Century Rabbinical Literature,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research (PAAJR) 55 (1988): 79-133, esp. p. 87 n. 23.)

The Meleches haKodesh is divided into two parts, the first, discussing the ambiguous verses, and the second, a through exposition of writing holy-names more generally. Throughout the book, while discussing the specific questions, he includes many of his own explanations of the pesukim. Additionally, he discusses many things of interest in halacha and aggadah not directly related to the main topic. Both of these factors make this an important work even for someone not involved in the topic of the usage of Hashem. [The second part is not reprinted in this new work.]

For instance, there is a discussion when did the author of Onkoles live. (pp. 4, 77). A discussion about the famous controversy of reciting Machnesei Rachamim. R. Fleckeles cites his teacher, R. Landau, that R. Landua when he said Neliah was careful not to pray to the angels. (p. 15). R. Fleckeles writes that tzadikim are greater than angels. (p. 42). Elsewhere he writes that even regular people are greater than angels. (pp. 104-5). At least twice he quotes Torah he thought of in his dreams. (pp. 14, 95). He records an interesting rule that wherever Chazal use “lamah” (למה) it is because they want to find out the reason for doing something that they do not know any reason for. This is in contrast to the usage of mipneh mah (מפני מה) which is used when there is a known reason but are not satisfied with that reason. (p. 110).

When it comes to the Zohar, R. Fleckeles uses interesting language. After quoting one statement from the Midrash of R. Shimon bar Yochi, he notes that there is a contradictory statement found in the Zohar, to which R. Fleckeles writes:

(pp. 5-6). Elsewhere he writes with regard to having special kavanot when saying the name of God “ומעולם לא עלה על הדעת קדושים הראשונים חכמים וסופרים לחשוב מחשבות וספירות כי בימיהם לא ידע מאומה, בלי מה מספירה.” (p. 133).

In general, throughout R. Fleckeles writings, there are interesting statements about Kabbalah and the Zohar especially, in the above mentioned Ahavat Dovid. In the introduction to that work he quotes a letter from R. Naftai Hertz Wessley which says

Aside from the content of the letter, it is noteworthy that R. Fleckeles quotes R. Wessley at all, as Wessley was one of the early leaders of the haskalah movement and close to Mendelssohn.

The book ends with eulogies and has a separate title, Kuntres Nefesh Dovid v’Nefesh Chayah. This section is comprised of eulogies R. Fleckeles said on his parents, and includes many wonderful explanations of derush on all kinds of topics.

All of this is included in the back of the new work, Nekadesh es Shimcha. This work also is on the topic of the names and status thereof, of God in the Torah. Its author, R. Yehuda Farakas, includes many haskmos including that of R. Elyashiv. The main purpose of this book is to update R. Fleckeles work with the many sources which were unavailable to R. Fleckeles. There are also discussions of pesukim R. Fleckeles did not discuss at all.

Again, R. Farkas uses many works which are not typically used in a halachic context, this includes recently published manuscripts. Amongst the more noteworthy are the Pirush R. Avrohom ben HaRambam, Radak, and Bechor Shor. The use of these runs counter to the well-known opinion of the Chazon Ish regarding newly published manuscripts. R. Farkas also uses many commentaries on the Targumim and Ibn Ezra not otherwise used by most. Throughout, he quotes the pesakim of R. Elyashiv.

In conclusion, this an impressive, encyclopedic work on the topic of God’s name. This is helpful in understanding the meaning of various pesukim in the Chumash. It is noteworthy that the controversial quotes remained, such as that of Mendelsshon. It is possible R. Farkas was unaware the Nesivos Shalom is the title of Mendelssohn’s Biur. The one criticism is R. Farkas’s decision not to republish the second part of Meleches haKodesh which would have made this a complete one-volume compendium on this topic.

Almost every Friday morning, I get a call from a fellow seforim addict asking me what’s new on the market. The past few weeks, he had been complaining to me that the market is dry, and nothing of note has been put out. Yesterday, he told me that finally one interesting thing came out the night before: a collection of the writings R. Yehiel Mihel Epstein (1829-1908), the author of the Arukh HaShulhan, called Kitvei Ha’Arukh HaShulhan. So off I ran to the seforim store to get this new piece. What follows is a review of this new sefer.

Kitvei Ha’Arukh HaShulhan is divided into multiple parts. The first part is a reprint of the “Or La’Yesharim” by R. Epstein. The Or La’Yesharim is a commentary on the classic work, Sefer HaYashar of Rabbeinu Tam. R. Epstein wrote this when he was very young, although it wasn’t published until 1869.

The Sefer HaYashar of the Rabbeinu Tam[1] (this is not to be confused with the mussar work with the same title which is incorrectly attributed to the Rabbeinu Tam – there is some debate exactly who the author is, with some claiming it is R. Zerachia HaLevi, author of the Ba’al HaMe’or, others attribute it to R. Zerachiah HaYevani, and finally others claim the author is Rabbeinu Yonah) which is today available in two parts – Hiddushim and She’elot u-Teshuvot. The Sefer HaYashar was first published (both parts together) in 1811 in Vienna, but this edition was full of errors. Later, in 1898, it was reissued – but only the She’elot u-Teshuvot section, by R. S. Rosenthal for Meketzei Nerdamim. He included both his own notes as well as notes from R. Ephraim Zalman Margolis in an effort to correct the seriously corrupted text. In 1959 R. S. Schlesinger republished the the Hiddushim section of this sefer in a more critical edition. Professor E. E. Auerbach writes that it is ironic that the Sefer HaYashar should have so many textual errors, when one of the purposes of the Sefer HaYashar was to provide a correct text of the Gemara. (Balei Hatosfot p. 94). In Kovetz Al Yad (volume 7), R. Yosef Kapach printed some more teshuvot of Rabbeinu Tam. Today, however, there are still still many pieces which rishonim quote from the Sefer HaYashar of Rabbeinu Tam which are not found in either section of the Sefer HaYashar that we have.

The Or La’Yesharim by R. Epstein is an extensive commentary covering the Nashim and Niddah masekhtot of the Hiddushim section of the Sefer HaYashar. The original edition was very rare and now, thanks to work R. Horowitz, the editor of the newly published Kitvei Ha’Arukh HaShulhan, it is now available to all. This part of the volume comprises 200 pages and is nicely printed and includes a thorough index.

Or La’Yesharim has many haskamot from: R. Yitzchak Elchanan Spektor; the author’s brother-in-law, R. Naftali Zevi Yehudah Berlin (Netziv); the author’s uncle R. Meir Berlin; R. Yehoshua Leib Diskin; and even from a Hasidic Rebbe, R. Aaron M’Chernobyl. It seems that there also was a haskama from the R. Menahem Mendel Schneerson, third rebbe of Lubavitch known as the Tzemach Tzedek, but it was lost.

The next part of the Kitvei Ha’Arukh HaShulhan is a collection of the Arukh HaShulhan’s She’elot u-Teshuvot on all areas of halakha. It’s known that the Arukh HaShulhan wrote a very large amount of She’elot u-Teshuvot to thousands of questions that he was asked from all over the world. But, he writes that he was too busy to keep copies of all of them and thus, unfortunately, we do not have too many copies of these letters. However, R. Horowitz collected the letters that we do have from various sources: publications of the time, people he corresponded with that printed his letters in their seforim and manuscripts. There are some interesting statements in the teshuvot such as “Chas vesholom to rely on the shekia of Rabbeinu Tam as the Gra and Shulhan Arukh Harav already come out not like him” (p. 7). Another interesting letter is where R. Epstein writes after trying to find a leniency, he writes “even though I always try to leniencies where needed here I could not” (p. 74).

Interestingly enough, this new edition included all letters of the Arukh HaShulhan based on the advice of R. Chaim Kanievsky, to produce a complete work and not to censor any of the letters. This includes the famous letter of the Arukh HaShulhan permitting one to use electricity on Yom Tov. But, as has already been pointed out by many people, this was based on a faulty understanding of the exact science of how electricity works (pg. 12-13). Another famous letter of his printed here is his allowing of Metzizah through an instrument (p. 50).

The next part of the sefer is a collection, but not all, of derashot (sermons) of R. Epstein. One only wonders why the editor chose to put in these and not all, (or perhaps none) as we already have all this in a recently released volume. These derashot are excellent continuing in the path familiar already through his commentary on the Haggadah called Leil Shimurium.

The volume continues with a collection of letters related to community work, various semikhot that he gave to Gedolim and haskamot that he gave to various works. These come from private collections, including those from Hebrew University and the Schocken Collection of Jerusalem.

One interesting letter that seems to have bypassed the radar of the editors is a letter where someone had asked him about something, and R. Epstein responded:

“unfortunately, we cannot ask my brother in law, the Netziv, because he’s ill, and we can’t ask R. Yitzchok Elchanan Spector because he’s surrounded by people (מוקף מסביב)” (p. 141).

He seems to be hinting to what is claimed by many – the R. Yitzchok Elchanan was greatly influenced by his secretary, R. Yaakov Lifshitz. For examples, see Yaakov Mark’s work: Bemechitzasam Shel Gedolei Hador (p. 102), where he reports such a confession from R. Yaakov Lifshitz himself. (See also Nathan Kamenetsky, Making of a Gadol, pp. 458-463). However, interestingly enough, there is a letter in regard to another issue, where R. Yitzchak Elchanan himself writes:

“I have been a Rav for tens of years authored thousands of teshuvos on every area of halakha to inquires from all over the world and in regard to many areas relating to the zibur and no one has ever questioned that I was not going according to my own mind and it’s a great chutzpah to say publicly that I have no da’at and people in my household use me!”

(Iggerot R’ Yitzchok Elchanan Spector, vol. 1 pp. 59-60 [2]). Another interesting letter included is against Zionism (pp. 139-140) and R. Epstein’s defense of the Mussar movement (pp. 132-136).

After each piece throughout the sefer R. Horowitz writes its exact source. I personally find this method much more user friendly than other similar works where they include this material in the back of the sefer which many times confuses the reader.

The volume ends off with a short biography of R. Epstein. The only point of criticism on the biography is that not enough credit is given to the sources. One of the sources is R. Meir Bar-Ilan, a nephew of the Arukh HaShulhan, who is only mentioned in one footnote, but should have been mentioned in many more.

In sum this is a beautifully presented volume of the writings of the R. Epstein and is well worth adding to one’s collection.

Notes:
[1] See generally, E.E. Aurbach, Ba’alei HaTosefot, 80-91; Y. Felix, “Sefer haYashar l’Rabbenu Ya’akov ben Meir,” Sinai, 39 (1956): 52-61, 106-15, 172-83, 224-39.
[2] It is possible that R. Yaakov Lifshitz actually authored this letter.