In recent years, scholars have taken a renewed interest in elucidating the specific methods used to study Jewish texts in yeshivas, both past and present. For example,   Daniel Boyarin elucidated the classical late medieval/early modern Sephardic approach to Talmud study, and Norman Solomon published his dissertation on the development of the Analytic/Conceptual/“Brisker” approach to Talmud study in Lithuania in book form. These works are historical monographs, the purpose of which is to relate to the development of specific methods at specific times in history, not to connect those methods to the approaches utilized in present-day yeshivas. More recently, Mordechai Breuer wrote a magnificent work detailing the curricula and educational methods used in yeshivas throughout the ages until the present. Yet, despite Breuer’s painstaking research, he misses some of the more recent incarnations of older methodologies that he himself mentions. In 2006, Yeshiva University published the proceedings of the 1999 Orthodox Forum, which dealt with issues surrounding contemporary lomdut, in a volume entitled Lomdut: The Conceptual Approach to Jewish Learning. As can be seen from the title, the volume conflates contemporary lomdut (a term that is hard to define with precision but which will be used to describe any form of in-depth study of a text) with the Conceptual/Analytic /Brisker Approach and does not deal extensively with other specific forms of lomdut. In some cases, alternatives to the Brisker approach are presented as either halakha-oriented methods uninterested in more theoretical discussions or as academic approaches that are hostile to Jewish tradition.

     This article will present the basics of one alternative method of lomdut, which is dubbed by its main contemporary champion, R. Meir Mazuz, as “Iyyun Tunisai,” or “Tunisian Analysis.” The first section of the article will present the basics of Iyyun Tunisai and its origins in Jewish tradition, thereby showing that not only is it a viable alternative to the Brisker approach but it is a fully traditional method with roots in classic rabbinic sources. The second section presents R. Mazuz’s critiques of alternative methods of study, in which he claims that the critical approach utilized by the Tunisian method allows the analyst to reach the correct understanding of the text at hand and to appreciate why each element of the text is an integral part of that text. Thus, unlike academic methodologies, which often undermine the sugya (the Talmudic discussion), Iyyun Tunisai uses a critical approach in order to explain and link the different terms of the sugya, thereby strengthening the integrity of the sugya. The third section concludes with an analysis of the place of Iyyun Tunisai in the yeshiva world and its prospects for the future.

     As noted above, one of the main competitors for intellectual dominance in the yeshiva world is Iyyun Tunisai, a Sephardic method of study whose roots go back hundreds of years. Rabbi Meir Mazuz of Yeshivat Kisse Rahamim in Bnei Brak is the one responsible for the revival of this method. In order to gain a full appreciation for the context in which this method is being revived, it is necessary to give a brief overview of Yeshivat Kisse Rahamim. The yeshiva was founded by R. Meir Mazuz’s father, Rabbi and Tunisian Supreme Court Justice Matsliah Mazuz in Tunisia in 1962/63, and then re-established by his sons (Rabbis Meir and Tsemah Mazuz) in Israel in 1971, after having fled their native Jerba (an island off the Tunisian coast whose Jewish community was renowned for its scholarship) following the murder of their father by an Arab nationalist. Their school is an elite yeshiva with a rigorous examination process (only twenty-five percent of applicants are accepted), and its methodology is in keeping with its desire to produce not merely scholars but the leading posekim (jurists) of the next generation. The yeshiva also houses a bookstore that carries books published by Mekhon ha-Rav Matsliah, a press named for R. Matsliah Mazuz that (re-) publishes old Jerban and Tunisian commentaries on Talmud, grammatical works, new commentaries and textbooks written by students, graduates, and rabbis of the yeshiva, as well as siddurim and tikkunim based on the Jerban custom.

     It is in this context of Sephardic-Jerban-Tunisian religious revival that the renewal of this method of iyyun is taking place. In two essays that he wrote on the subject of method of study (derekh limmud), R. Meir Mazuz (henceforth “R. Mazuz”) insists that, though he terms the method he champions “Tunisian analysis,” he assures his readers that the method was not limited to that geographical area but was at one point used throughout the Jewish world. Indeed, Iyyun Tunisai was originally codified not by a Tunisian rabbi, but by the Castilian R. Yitshak Canpanton (or Campanton; 1360-1463) in his Darkhei ha-Talmud (“The Ways of the Talmud”). Sephardic Iyyun as it was originally
practiced was the subject of a seminal study by Daniel Boyarin, who claims that R. Canpanton interpreted various methods of analysis used in the Talmud in light of theories of semantics and language that were current in medieval Scholastic-Aristotelian works. Boyarin remarks that the method spread following the expulsion of the Jews from Spain to the sixteenth and seventeenth-century academies of “Safed and Jerusalem… Constantinople and Salonika… Cairo and Fez,” and then exclaims, “and how surprising it is that this method of learning has been almost entirely forgotten and is barely mentioned in the research laboratory (sadnat ha-mehkar) and in the house of study (beit ha-midrash) up until our very generation.” This carefully worded statement shows that the method has nevertheless not been entirely forgotten, even as the author does not seem to be aware of its existence in any significant beit midrash. This section will show that Sephardic iyyun has in fact been preserved in the “houses of study” of North Africa and is now undergoing a revival in Israel. Because Ashkenazi methods have dominated the yeshiva system for so long, a successful revival must encompass two elements: 1) a re-codification of the fine points of the methodology, with which most yeshiva-educated rabbis would not be familiar, and 2) a well-articulated attack on the regnant
Ashkenazi methods that threaten the revival. R. Mazuz’s writings do both. What follows is an analysis of R. Mazuz’s positions as expressed in his first essay on methods of study, aptly entitled “Ma’amar be-Darkhei ha-Iyyun” (“Article on Methods of Analysis”).

     R. Mazuz introduces his first article by terming his analytical approach ha-iyyun ha-yashar, “the straight analysis,” a term that functions as a polemical tool against other methods that he feels muddle the text instead of elucidating it in a step-by-step process. In vouching for the approach of ha-iyyun ha-yashar, R. Mazuz quibbles with Ramban’s theory of law, which asserts that, while scientific discussions result in exact conclusions, Jewish legal argumentation does not allow for definitive proofs. In contrast, R. Mazuz contends that over the centuries a methodology developed with the type of exactness necessary to properly determine the law. R. Mazuz’s rejection of inexactness in law parallels the same rejection that, according to Daniel Boyarin, stood at the heart of R. Canpanton’s methodology and its Aristotelian assumptions, which viewed any idea or interpretation of a text as provable or disprovable based on rational analysis. R. Mazuz’s confidence in the scientific acumen of his method becomes explicit when he states that the method’s goal is to “dig into and penetrate the original intention of the statements [at hand] with full confidence, without any hesitation or doubt.”

     After a discussion of his method’s roots in the rabbinic tradition, R. Mazuz goes on to describe the method in depth:

The foundation of the foundations of iyyun is that there is nothing missing [from] or added onto the language of the Gemara, Rashi, and Tosafot. There is nothing missing – because the text has not come to shut out [information] but to explain [matters], and it is not proper [to think] that the main elements of the matters [under consideration] are missing from the Talmudic discussion [Aramaic sugya] and its commentaries, for they [the rabbis] have not come to test us with riddles… And there is nothing added – because our rabbis have always tried to write with brevity and exactness, [with] the small carrying the abundant [i.e. with a small number of words carrying great depth].

     What R. Mazuz considers to be the foundation of Iyyun Tunisai is in fact already elucidated by R. Canpanton. Elements of one passage of R. Canpanton are echoed in R. Mazuz’s description above:

And always attempt to impute necessity for all of the words of a commentator or an author in all of his language: why did he say it
and what did he intend with that language, whether to explain [an issue] or to derive [a concept] from another explanation or to resolve a difficulty or a problem. And take heed to limit [le-tsamtsem] his language and to derive [concepts from] it in a way that there will not be an extra word, for if it were possible express his intent, for example, in three words, why did he express [himself using] four [words]? And so you should do with the language of the Mishna and Gemara, that is, you should check their language so that there not be an extra word, and when it appears to you to be extra go back and analyze well, for they did not expand their words unnecessarily, for it is not a small matter, and the splendor of sages is to minimize words so that many concepts are included in small [numbers of] words, and to make their words few in quantity but great [lit. “many”] in quality, and there should not be within their words an extra word, even [if it consists] of one letter, as they [the Sages] have said ([B.T.] Hullin 63b), “A person should always teach his students in a concise way,” as you see in our Holy Torah, which was given from the Mouth of the Mighty One, which speaks with a concise language but includes many things…

    R. Mazuz identifies the importance of syntax as the second major element of Iyyun Tunisai. He criticizes those who downplay the importance of understanding each word and its implications and the proper stopping points of statements, and complains that many students do not know the meanings of basic expressions, which can change depending on context. R. Mazuz then offers an example that highlights the importance of paying attention to syntax. In this example, an erroneous interpretation of a statement could have easily been averted if the commentator had thought about where to properly end the sentence.

     R. Mazuz’s focus on the meaning of words is not paralleled in R. Canpanton’s codification, possibly because it is so simple that no reiteration is needed. However, in the current educational climate, R. Mazuz feels that stating what should be obvious is necessary. It seems that the tendency in many yeshivas to emphasize advanced analysis contributes to the lack of focus on more simple syntax. R. Mazuz feels that this lack of focus on the basics leads to avoidable misinterpretations of the text.

     R. Mazuz proceeds to describe the third major element of Iyyun: “The third general rule of the methods of Iyyun is to ask, in every place, what was Rashi, Tosafot, or Maharsha bothered by, and from which error they were protected from that word and that sentence…”” In other words, the analyst studying the text should ask himself why a classical commentary would add in a seemingly extra word, or would use a seemingly odd phrase. Most often, the answer is that the commentator in question wanted to prevent his readers from making a mistaken assumption about the subject at hand, which they would have made without the quixotic phraseology that the commentator used. It follows that the seemingly extra word or the seemingly awkward phrase is in fact neither extra nor awkward, but necessary for the correct understanding of the text under discussion.

     This type of linguistic analysis assumes that the unusual language of a commentator is used to prevent the reader from coming to an incorrect conclusion. This conclusion is referred to by the classic Sephardic me’ayyenim as sevara mi-baHuts, lit. “the logical construction from the outside” – i.e., a thought process whose origin comes from outside the text. R. Canpanton writes as follows:

… And afterwards [i.e. after reading through the text a number of times and determining what is stated explicitly and what should be
understood implicitly] return to analyze if there is a novelty in what is understood from the language or not… if there is no novelty, raise a difficulty with the one who makes such a statement… “What is it [i.e. the statement] teaching us? [It is] obvious!” And if there is a novelty in its inference [i.e. if there is a novelty in what you have inferred from the statement], but there is no novelty in the essence of the statement [i.e. in the plain meaning of the statement], it is possible to say that he [i.e. the speaker] chose it [i.e. chose to make the statement in the way that he did] because of the inference… And certainly look carefully at every statement [and ask] what you would have thought based on your logic or what you would have adjudicated based on your sense before the tanna or amora would have come [to make his statement], for a great benefit will result for you from this [method], for if you yourself would have thought as he [did], ask him, “What [does this statement] teach us? It is obvious!” And if your logic contradicts his, you should know and search out what the necessity was that caused him to say thus, and [find out] what the weakness or bad element was within what you yourself had thought, and this [i.e. the logic you would have originally assumed] is called “the logical construction from the outside.”

     Due to the abstract nature of this section, it is highly recommended that readers look through the appendix, which offers a concrete example of sevara mi-baHuts.

     R. Mazuz identifies a fourth element of ‘Iyyun Tunisai, which relates to the logical flow of the text of Tosafot, who are known for posing many questions and answers in a row. R. Mazuz suggests stopping after each question-and-answer pair to analyze how each question was
answered and how the next question relates to the previous question-and-answer. In this way, the student can identify in what way the main issue being discussed is resolved. This resolution is known as “the center of the resolution,” or merkaz ha-teruts.

     The assumption that every element in a rabbinic text relates to the previous one or next one is spelled out explicitly by R. Canpanton at the beginning of Chapter Ten of his Darkhei ha-Talmud: “Always, for every statement and for every concept that is situated next to another, whether in Talmud or in  Scripture (ba-Katuv), carefully observe the relationship and connection between those concepts situated next to each other, including what order the speaker is leading (molikh) with his words.”

            R. Canpanton’s statement was made in reference to the literary structure of all rabbinic texts and specifically the Talmud. R. Mazuz’s focus on the literary structure of Tosafot is a natural outgrowth of Sephardic Iyyun’s general concern with the flow of the text. The emphasis on Tosafot began, at the very earliest, during the generation after the expulsion from Spain, with the spread of printed editions of the Talmud that included Tosafot’s commentaries. R. Canpanton himself never mentions Tosafot in his work, probably because manuscripts of Tosafot’s writings did not have widespread circulation in Spain. Instead, other passages highlight the importance of carefully analyzing Rashi and Ramban, whose commentaries were available at the time.

     The fifth and final major element of Iyyun Tunisai that R. Mazuz identifies is the importance of writing and revision following one’s studies. The student should summarize his understanding of the commentary or Tosafot he is studying as a test to see whether he has understood it properly. If the student’s own words seem to match the commentator’s but are simply more expansive, the student has understood; if not, the student should review the commentary and revise his statement. Aside from the clarity of understanding the student gains, frequent writing and revision allows the student to express his ideas clearly. R. Mazuz notes that the rabbis of Jerba traditionally educated their students in such a manner, training their students to write their own novellae in a clear and organized fashion.

     After having stated earlier in his essay that there is nothing extraneous to, or missing from, the language of the classical Jewish texts, R. Mazuz launches into a justification of this assumption and a polemic against alternative methods of study:

It follows that, if a person overloads explanations and commentaries regarding the intent of the early commentaries that do not flow necessarily (be-hekhreah) from the implication of the language and [of] the style or from the force of a contradiction… we should not accept his commentaries, but [instead] we should ask him, “What forced you [to say] thus? If you would like to dress [i.e., add on layers of meaning to the subject] and to expound [on it], expound and receive reward [for your efforts to come up with original ideas], but to say that Rashi or Rambam or one of the early commentaries intended abstract ideas and definitions that are ‘the finest of fine to the point where they cannot be examined’[2] – from where did this [conclusion] come to you? According to your words [i.e. explanation], why didn’t they [the early commentators] write [what you have expounded] explicitly? Do they speak in secret? Were they, God forbid, challenged [in their ability] to express [themselves] in writing, or did the matter in their eyes [have the status of] ‘the Mystery of Creation and the ‘Mystery of the Chariot,’ until hundreds of years later others arose to explain [their ideas] to them?” – From here derives the expression which is common among us [i.e. the Tunisian Jews], “rather, it is necessary” (ella mukhrah). And it is almost impossible to go through a single discussion in Iyyun Tunisai without [encountering the expression] “rather, it is necessary” tens of times… And in truth, through the necessity, the one who studies arrives at a straight and clear understanding, without dark cracks or crevices [an expression equivalent to “without any ambiguity”]. Everything is clear and lucid. If an objection is
found from elsewhere [i.e. a different source not under discussion], let it remain an objection, as “a person does not die from an [unanswered] objection.” And this is the strength of iyyun: one who learns according to the method of pilpul and of the innovation of and breaking of logical constructions (sevarot) [that derive] from the air [i.e. one who resolves difficulties by advocating ungrounded logical constructions] will many times come across a specific discussion or source that uproots his entire pilpul, and because of his concern for his work, he will [come up with]… different forced explanations and will bend what is upright… But [for] one who learns in depth (ha-me’ayyen), this is not so. If he finds a possibility to iron out difficulties and to resolve contradictions, he is praiseworthy, but if he does not find [a solution], he does not retreat from his iyyun because of this, but says, “this is the [proper] understanding of the matters [at hand], and one should not veer off from the simple explanation (peshat).” Our rabbis the Tosafists, who resolved contradictions between hundreds of Talmudic discussions and [thereby] “made the entire Talmud into the likeness of a sphere”… were not ashamed to admit that there are no fewer than thirteen contradictory Talmudic discussions that are impossible to resolve… but that, nevertheless, the simple explanation should not be stripped [of its plain meaning], and what is concrete [i.e. obvious] should not be denied.

     As a whole, R. Mazuz’s description is much less technical than that of R. Canpanton, thereby showing that it is intended for a different type of audience. This wide audience is the system of yeshiva students and the general community that draws from it, most of whom are studying according to the methods of pilpul mentioned by R. Mazuz. For this reason, R. Mazuz’s description of the method is polemical – he attacks alternatives to Iyyun Tunisai because he feels they project their own ideas onto the statements of earlier commentaries. R. Canpanton’s description is very technical and, in other passages, makes use of contemporaneous philosophical terminology.  His style is descriptive in nature and seems to be merely codifying the specifics of an approach to text that had been developing since the previously popular Tosafist method of dialectic had achieved its aims.Unlike R. Canpanton, R. Mazuz is fighting an uphill battle against dominant alternative forms of learning that he dubs pilpul.

     The term pilpul translates literally as “sharpness” and can be used in a non-technical sense to describe a general way of looking at a text or problem, or it can be a technical term for a very specific type of methodology. (In the past, the expression was even used to refer to methods that were similar to or identical with that of R. Canpanton.) Moreover, the term’s connotation can be positive (if the speaker intends to point out the advantages it offers in solving complex problems), neutral, or negative (as in the present case). By juxtaposing the term to pilpul to the phrase “the innovation and breaking of logical constructions” and by making specific arguments against it, it is clear that R. Mazuz is using pilpul in a technical sense to describe a specific methodology or specific methodologies. While, in theory, R. Mazuz can be referring to any number of alternative methods, it is likely that his polemic is directed against the “Brisker” approach to Talmud study, an approach that will be discussed in the coming paragraphs. There is evidence to support such a contention.

     The first piece of evidence is R. Mazuz’s comments on R. Yehiel Ya’akov Weinberg’s critique of R. Chaim Soloveichik’s “Brisker” approach; these comments were posted by Marc Shapiro in The Seforim Blog in the name of an anonymous rosh yeshiva, but they are
in fact the comments of R. Mazuz.  R. Weinberg accuses R. Chaim of inventing elaborate explanations of the Rambam and the Gemara that do not fit the language of the texts he is interpreting. In contrast, R. Weinberg praises the Vilna Gaon’s more simple analysis as reflecting the true meaning of the text.[3]  Upon seeing R. Weinberg’s critique, R. Mazuz responded that Yeshivat Kisse Rahamim uses the method of the Gaon of Vilna [rather than that of R. Chaim].  Thus, it is clear that R. Mazuz was including the Brisker derekh in his critique of methods that, in his mind, failed to arrive at the original intent of the sources. The second piece of evidence is an interview conducted by David Lehmann and Batia Siebzehner. In this interview, R. Tsemah Mazuz (R. Meir Mazuz’s brother mentioned previously) claimed that, until about two hundred years ago, the methods of study used by Ashkenazim and Sephardim were the same. Apparently lacking knowledge of rabbinic texts and the history of rabbinic thought, these interviewers mistakenly suggest the possibility that he was referring to the onset of the Enlightenment.  Rather, it is more likely that R. Tsemah Mazuz was referring to the flourishing of Ashkenazi rabbanim such as Aryeh Leib ha-Kohen Heller (d. 1813, often known by the name of his major work, Ketsot ha-Hoshen), Ya’akov Lorberbaum of Lissa (d. 1832, often known by the names of his major works, Netivot ha-Mishpat and Kehillat Ya’akov), and Akiva Eiger (1761-1837), who were pre-cursors to the Brisker school in terms of the type of analysis evident in their works.  Third, because the paragraph under discussion functions as a contemporary polemic, R. Mazuz is most likely referring to the popular methods used in yeshivas today; the perception among many analysts is that a large proportion of the yeshiva system has been dominated by the Lithuanian Brisker approach and related methods. For a fuller understanding of R. Mazuz’s polemic, it is necessary to describe the general contours of the Brisker approach as they relate to R. Mazuz’s objections.

     While a number of competing formulations exist for explaining the goals and methods of the “Brisker” approach, Norman Solomon’s is the most extensive. According to Solomon, proponents of the “Brisker” or “Analytic” approach [often referred to as “Briskers” in yeshiva
circles] seek to understand how various legal concepts that underlie a specific text operate. Consequently, Briskers develop every possible meaning they can think of for each concept within the text under discussion. They then re-read the text based on each of those meanings in order to figure out which understanding best sheds light on the subject.  In doing so, they often encounter the contradictory ways in which the local text and alternatives sources seem to use the concept. In order to resolve the contradictions, Briskers create a hakirah, (in this case,
the term would best be translated as a “distinction” or “dichotomy”) in which they would argue that one concept can have different facets that express themselves in different situations. Note that, because these distinctions are often based on the contradictory implications of a concept rather than on a textual ambiguity, they do not flow “necessarily” from the text and are often speculative, an issue that is the crux of R. Mazuz’s critique.

     R. Mazuz’s (re)-codification of Iyyun Tunisai functions as a way to make the method meaningful in the contemporary world. His descriptions of the method therefore lack the widespread use of philosophical terms so common among the original codifiers of Sephardic Iyyun.  Instead, they focus on justifying the method through logical argumentation, which this article has already explored, and by reference to the perceived usage of this method by the great rabbis of the past, which lends legitimacy to his project. Even before embarking on his description of the method, R. Mazuz notes that his use of the phrase Iyyun Tunisai does not connote the geographical origin of the method, merely the fact that Tunisian rabbis took pride in perfecting it. He claims that the method was used in all of the classic schools of thought within the Jewish world, starting with the Geonim, moving on to the Tosafot and Rishonim, and lastly, by Maharsha, Rashash, and others, “who excel in the straightness and depth of the[ir] analysis.”  Taken literally, this statement is misleading, as it lumps together rabbis with very different approaches to text. While Maharsha, along with many other Polish rabbis of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, did use this method, other commentators such as Tosafot were interested in harmonizing other contradictory texts with the local text through dialectical reasoning rather than focusing on literary issues within the local text – a process not conducive to simple readings of the local text. It is doubtful that R. Mazuz, who is fully familiar with these differences, intends that this statement be taken literally. Rather, the last clause of the sentence, which emphasizes the “straightness” (Heb. yosher) of the commentators’ analysis, is emphasized.  The statement is a rhetorical device that situates Iyyun Tunisai within the mainstream of Jewish tradition. By mentioning that great Ashkenazi rabbis, such as Maharsha, used this method, Mazuz legitimizes its usage for Ashkenazi Jews as well, since, by rejecting the Analytic approach in favor of Iyyun Tunisai, Ashkenazi Jews would not be rejecting their own traditions but reclaiming the “Tunisian” tradition as their own, “going back,” as it were, to the “original” Ashkenazi tradition. In fact, other than the name Iyyun Tunisai and occasional mention of the Tunisian/Jerban community and its rabbis, there is no indication within the article that the method uniquely represents the global Sephardic tradition, as none of the early modern and late medieval Sephardic rabbanim, such as Canpanton or Shemu’el ibn-Sid (or Sidilyo or Sirilyo), are ever cited. Despite the fact that previous sections of this article have proven the method’s Sephardic roots and its historical
uniqueness, most of the rabbis cited in R. Mazuz’s essay are well-known, “classical” Ashkenazi and Sephardic/Jerban rabbis.

     R. Tsemah Mazuz’s claim that, until about two hundred years ago, the methods of Talmud study used by Ashkenazim and Sephardim were identical should be analyzed more fully. One controversial hallmark of the “Analytic/Brisker” approach was the rejection of most of the
later Ashkenazi rabbis such as Maharsha, whose commentary, which often elucidates difficult passages in Tosafot, had been an essential part of the yeshiva curriculum in Ashkenazi lands. Instead, the “Analytic” school favored independent analysis of the classical Rishonim, especially Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, and rejected previous traditional methods of interpretation, and it was this rejection that was the subject of severe censure by critics within the Ashkenazi world. By showcasing the role of tradition in his argument for the revival of Iyyun Tunisai, R. Mazuz taps into this already ongoing debate and reveals that he is not fighting for the supremacy of the Tunisian Method merely within the Sephardic world, but within the yeshiva world in general. The revival of his method is therefore not a separatist attempt to preserve his own tradition (though it certainly encompasses that element) but a hegemonic approach that seeks to influence the entire religious world. R. Mazuz’s fight should therefore not only be analyzed “vertically,” as an expression of a line of Sephardic tradition, but also
“horizontally,” as one battle in an ongoing war against Brisk that dates back to the early years of the movement’s spread. This war has intensified in recent years, which have seen the supremacy of the “Analytic” method challenged by a number of alternative approaches. Therefore, the revival of the Tunisian method is a reflection of current socio-ideological developments within the broader Orthodox world.

     The question, then, is what the prospects for Iyyun Tunisai and other similar methodologies may be. On the one hand, one might argue that, in order to successfully compete with Brisk, Iyyun Tunisai would need to allow for a certain amount of legal conceptualization inherent within the Analytic methodology, since such conceptualization captures the imagination of specific types of students who are attracted to Brisk. While questions focused on syntax and sentence structure would be too “basic” for such conceptualization, questions focused on turns of phrase and flow of text can more easily lend themselves to further conceptualization.

     On the other hand, Iyyun Tunisai can serve as an alternative to the “Analytic” school precisely because it takes literary and historical elements into account, elements that are often ignored within the “Brisker” method. Iyyun Tunisai is ideal for those who want to develop textual skills, and its focus on basic grammatical and syntactic analysis will attract students who feel, as R. Mazuz does, that these elements should be studied before embarking on further analysis. Advanced students who are sensitive to literary structure and grammatical ambiguity will find meaning in the types of questions that Iyyun Tunisai encourages, questions that deal with unusual turns of phrase and that try to connect the different elements of the text. Critics of the Analytic School’s often a-historical approach to text would be pleased with R. Mazuz’s focus on close textual readings and critical analysis. Speaking of the original Iyyun ha-Sefaradi, Daniel Boyarin comments, “It is possible to say that, until the Historical-Philological School of later generations, there did not arise in Israel another house of study that applied with such scope the contemporary general scientific method to analysis of the Talmud.” While this claim may have held true then, strict modern-day historians hoping for a full academic approach would not agree with other assumptions upon which the method is based, most notably the assumption that the Talmudic sages and early commentators foresaw all possible alternate interpretations and rejected them. Yet this non-critical element is precisely the method’s strength. Most students in yeshivas would not be comfortable assuming that an Amora or Rishon should not be given the benefit of the doubt, and would likely view academic interpretations of a sugya as just as speculative as the very explanations that the academic approach purports to “correct.” Iyyun Tunisai strikes a balance between an overly-critical approach, which would undermine the legitimacy of the text under discussion, and an approach that is not self-critical enough to be able to discern between likely and forced interpretations. It is this balance that allows ha-Iyyun ha-Yashar to serve as an alternative to other methods of study current in the yeshiva world.

The Jewish Reaction to the Livorno Earthquake of January 27, 1742

by Ovadya Hoffman

On January 27, 1742 (כב’ שבט תק”ב) an earthquake shook Livorno, Italy to its core. All through the preceding months rumbling shuddered throughout the city. Pasqual R. Pedini, a recognized cleric at the time, elucidated in a letter beginning with the incipient rumblings of Jan. 16 carrying on until 27th a vivid depiction of the earthquake’s manifestation and impact (The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, London 1809; VIII p. 568, “An Account of the Earthquakes Felt in Leghorn”). Today with minimal research anyone can gain insight into the occurrence, both in secular historiography or seismological analyses of its nature, so I won’t elaborate on it. Here my sole intention is to produce some rare and, more importantly, non-reproduced Jewish material (here is a brief chronicle of Italian seismic history referenced in Jewish sources).

Of note is the sefer Shivchei Todah (Livorno 5504)[1] from R. Malachi HaCohen, author of the famed Yad Malachi[2]. In his introduction, the author tells us that he composed the piyutim (prayers and hymns) in the wake of the miracles that occurred during the earthquake(s). The rabbis of the community instructed the people to fast and recite different prayers, at the same time offering words of inspiration in the
different synagogues to get the public to focus on self introspection. In many quarters, especially in the communal synagogues and schools, Torah study groups of different levels of study were being held. Those tefilot were established as part of an annual memorial service marking the miracles, and included in the same sefer were other tefilot that were instituted to recite in times of distress. This is essentially how the “Purim Sheni” in Livorno was born[3]. Here Eliezer Landshut gives an itemized list of the piyutim appearing in ST[4].  A more detailed report of the nature of the earthquakes was depicted by the well known R. Rafael Meldola, father of R. Avraham who headed the prominent publishing house, in his sefer Shever BaMitzarim (Livorno 5502) which was printed later that year of the earthquake. He too, as the aforementioned cleric did, begins his recount with the tremors that lead up to “the big bang”. Some have noted that aside for ST, R. Malachi authored a second sefer resembling the former’s framework entitled Kol Tefilah, although I wonder if this is accurate. For one, I haven’t been able to locate it. But what’s more puzzling is why would he have written the same tefilot and print them under two different titles? And if they contain different tefilot, why not include them in one sefer to avoid future confusion or possible opposition between kehilot in respect to the age-old “Who has the right mesorah” dilemma? Another sefer ascribed to R. Malachi is Arucha U’marpeh. In the relatively new Maaseh Rokeach from R. Massoud C. Rokach (Jer. 5772; pirkei mavo ve’toldot ha’mechaber §6) they claim that R. Malachi is “בעל הקונטרס
‘ארוכה ומרפא’ תפילות ובקשות שונות על העיר ליוורנו מקומו.”. One problem with this is that the introduction to this sefer clearly says that the pieces are taken from ST. The other issue is that on his tombstone, as is brought in the journal Ohr Olam (1;92), it gives the year of his passing as 5532 whereas the Arucha U’marpeh was only first printed in 5565, with no indication at all of this pamphlet being produced from R. Malachi’s manuscripts.

Once mentioning the Maaseh Rokeach (which was actually first printed the year of the earthquake[5]) it is also worth noting that one of his great students, R. Avraham Khalfon of Tripoli, also known by the acronym HaAvrech, copied in his sefer Maseh Zadikkim (pg. 522) large sections of the Shever BaMitzarim making it far more accessible than it was till then.

A similar sefer comprised of different tefilot for epidemics etc., not related directly to the earthquake in Livorno, was printed a year later in
Venice entitled Matzil Nefashot. It contains ‘Tefilat HaDerech of the Ramban’, ‘Tefilat Yachid from R. Elazar HaKalir’ and other tefilot and bakashot. I wonder if the inspiration for this collection came from the events that occurred over in Livorno then followed by the printing of Shever BaMetzarim, or not.

Returning to the Shivchei Todah, though most of the content is legible[6] and printed in the classic neat Italian lettering, sadly the rich and brilliant introduction, printed in Rashi lettering, is not and so it is presented here (excluding the piece where he thanks the publishers which is not all that me’inyana d’yoma):

Megale Temirin, was first published in Vienna in 1819, and is considered one of the sharpest and wittiest pieces of Jewish literature written in the first half of the nineteenth century. It is perhaps the most important piece of Hebrew prose composed before the stories of Mendele Mocher Seforim. A sly and complex story deriding Hasidism and Hasidim, it is told through the correspondence between the beadles of Hasidic courts and contemporary rabbis. It presents a dark picture of avaricious frauds and swindlers whose main concern was control over territory and the souls of believers, a goal achieved by beguiling the authorities and attacking all opponents. Perl lends his book a ‘Hasidic’ feel both in its physical design and in its language, presenting a Maskilic version of the classic work Shivchei Habesht– that lays Hasidism bare so that no reader will ever be able to look at that, or any other Hasidic book, in the same way again.

In addition to the book’s satiric sting, which would have been enough to bring its readers a dual pleasure, Perl’s hints at contemporary people and places, hidden within anagrams and numerological tricks. With the unraveling of these clues, which also include the use of actual Hasidic sources, the book is a valuable, contemporary view of historical reality. A meticulous reading of the book may therefore open a window on the hidden worlds of Hasidism and the Haskalah at the start of the nineteenth century.

The first volume (Imagined Hasidism) of this collection serves as an introduction to the complex satirical writings of Josef Perl of Tarnopol (1773-1839). At the center of the book stands an analysis of the satires, Megale Temirin (1819) and Bochen Tzadik (1838), including a systematic treatment of the ‘characters’ in the central works and a discussion of the dozens of manuscripts to be found in the Perl Archive in Jerusalem. Perl’s writings are analyzed here in the fuller context of Hebrew and Yiddish literature in general and Maskilic and Hasidic literature in particular, as well as other polemical writings and governmental records critical of Hasidism. The study thus presents a complex and nuanced picture of the relationship between literature and history, between the anti-Hasidic reports and the more complicated historical reality, and lays the groundwork for further research into the genre of nineteenth-century Maskilic satire.

The second and third volumes (Megale Temirin) present for the first time an annotated edition of Megale Temirin. It is based on the first
edition and the scattered manuscripts and it includes a comparison to its Yiddish translation. The book is accompanied by appendices on its origins and contents, including fundamental treatments of several passages: an explication of the encoded names, the Hasidic sources used by the author, and the variants found in the manuscripts and in the only edition of the book in Yiddish.

The editor of the book, Professor Jonatan Meir, teaches in the Goldstein-Goren Department of Jewish Thought at Ben-Gurion University. He has published numerous articles and books on the Haskalah of Eastern Europe, Hasidism, and a number of varied topics in twentieth-century Kabbalah.

For a Table of Contents or more information about purchasing this work, feel free to contact me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

 The set of three books is on sale for $62 before shipping. Shipping is available worldwide.

by Alan Zelenetz

DYNAMIC GREEN

From their cosmic vantage point in outer space, NASA satellites orbiting our planet beam down real-time streaming video of Earth’s surface. They reveal that 75% of our world is “a relatively unchanging ocean of blue,” the remaining 25% “a dynamic green” terra
firma, confirming the dominance of vegetation and the fecundity of plant life on dry land. It’s not difficult for us to re-imagine NASA’s spectacular photographs as screenshots capturing the magnificence of the third day of Creation described in Sefer Bereishit, the Book of Genesis – a gathering of waters followed by growing grass and the flourishing of flowers and trees.

NASA’s cutting edge science and technology provide a God’s-eye view of the plant world unique to our modern day and age, but the variety and beauty of Earth’s species of flora has been the subject of literary poets for millennia. From Ovid of Ancient Rome, who sings of elms and oaks and laurel trees transformed, to the 18th century Scottish lyricist Robert Burns, whose “O my Love’s like a red, red rose” remains, perhaps, the best known simile in verse, the botanical side of nature has forever held fascination for us humans who share our globe and gardens with the kingdom of plants. In his fantasy epic, Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien goes so far as to envision the Ents, a noble race of
walking, talking trees, while contemporary American poet Louise Glück personifies a real flower, “The Red Poppy,” which speaks to us in a floral first person, “I have / a lord in heaven/ called the sun, and open / for him, showing him / the fire of my own heart…” Though talking trees are nothing if not a prime example of poetic license, there are many scientists today who embrace the metaphor in their practice. In a recent New Yorker essay, “The Intelligent Plant,” journalist Michael Pollan reports the latest research in plant biology. He describes attempts to prove (not without controversy and critics) that plants are capable of cognition and communication, and he includes as an example a leaf’s ability “to signal other leaves to mount a defense” against impending infestation by insects. Astonishing as is the scientific hypothesis of “thinking” plants, emotionally stirring as is the imagery of poets, they ought to be comfortably familiar to us as Jews, who have been sensitive to our seed-bearing cohabitants on earth literally since the beginning of traditional Jewish time.

FIRST PLANT YOUR SAPLING

Had there been an ancient Green Party, the Torah would have been its platform. The very first pages of the Jewish Bible introduce humankind at its origin, woman and man implanted with divine purpose in the Garden of Eden. Commenting on this edenic scene, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch intuits God’s purpose: the destiny of humankind and the earth is Paradise. By working the earth, human beings raise “its purely physical nature into playing a part in the…moral purposes of the world…we are shown what we should be, how we should live, how this world of ours would form a paradise…”

Several Books later, Sefer Devarim offers one of the most celebrated examples of the Written Law’s ethical and ecological sensitivity, “Lo tashchit…do not destroy [fruit-bearing] trees by wielding an ax against them, for from them you will eat, do not cut them down.” Based on this proscription, Judaism derives an overriding moral principle known as bal tashchit, prohibiting any random destruction or wanton waste in all walks of life.

An Aggadic passage in the Oral Law carries Judaism’s recognition of the sanctity of plant life on Earth to an extraordinary extreme: Rabbi Yochanan used to say, “If you are about to plant a sapling and a cry goes out, ‘Come, hurry, the Moshiach is here!’, be certain first to plant your sapling, then go and greet the Messiah.”

Yes, our Jewish love affair with fruit, flower, and foliage has, indeed, been an eternal one. We can already discern the strains of a love song in Talmudic times when the Sages teach us how to bless the trees “who” share our lives, “Tree, O tree, with what should I bless you? Your fruit is already sweet…Your shade is plentiful… May it be G‑d’s will that all the trees planted from your seeds should be like you . . .” And it continues in our own day and age, when Yossi Klein Halevi reminds us – in describing a young Israeli kibbutznik’s attempt to preserve a tactile encounter with the fruit he harvests by machine –  “If you don’t say good morning to the tree, he had learned from the old-timers, the tree won’t say happy new year to you.”

WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT TU BISHVAT

To speak of plant life and Judaism is to speak, of course, of Tu Bishvat, the day marked in the Mishnah and on the Jewish calendar as our New Year of Trees. This designation carries specific halachic obligations regarding agricultural tithes, both in the ancient and contemporary lands of Israel. But, true to our theme, we keep here to the celebratory and symbolic aspects of the holiday. 

To reiterate, in Jewish thought and practice a tree is no simple metaphor. The trees of Tu Bishvat are at the essence of our understanding the interrelatedness of God’s world. The Torah, in fact makes the comparison over and over. In both Tehillim and in the Talmud we find fruit trees and cedars breaking into songful praise of God. And the prophet Isaiah declares explicitly, “For as the days of a tree shall be the days of my people.”

A WALK WITH RAV KOOK

This identification of human being and tree is the foundation of the moral dimension of Tu Bishvat. It is the living Torah teaching us Chesed, to feel compassion for all living things, and it is embodied in a living example recounted in the memoirs of Reb Aryeh Levin, who recalls an early afternoon stroll with Rav Kook in the fields of Jaffa: “On the way, I plucked some branch or flower. Our great master was taken aback; and then he told me gently, ‘Believe me: In all my days I have taken care never to pluck a blade of grass or a flower needlessly, when it had the ability to grow or blossom. You know the teaching of the Sages that there is not a single blade of grass below, here on Earth, which does not have a heavenly force (or angel) above telling it, Grow! Every sprout and leaf of grass says something, conveys some meaning… Every creature utters its song…’ ”

In I And Thou, philosopher Martin Buber explores how, as human beings, we come to understand the world by interacting with the others, the objects, and the creatures all around us. Buber posits a higher level of human existence that depends upon a series of  “I/Thou” relationships, the most exalted of which is with the Divine, “One who truly meets the world goes out also to God.”

Not surprisingly, Buber turns to a tree to help define his idea of an “I/Thou” relationship, asserting that “…as I contemplate the tree I am drawn into a relation, and the tree ceases to be an It…Whatever belongs to the tree is included…its conversation with the elements and its conversation with the stars…I encounter…the tree itself.”

A TREE’S EMBRACE

In her book Celebrate!, author Lesli Koppelman Ross catalogues many Jewish holiday practices and customs throughout history and from around the globe. Kabbalists early on created a Tu Bishvat seder that has been perpetuated in many fruits and many forms, ranging from the mystic to the ecological to the feminist, down to our own day. In some Mediterranean Jewish communities on Tu Bishvat “women would embrace trees at night, praying for fertility and many children. In Salonica, it was believed that the trees themselves embrace on Tu Bishvat, and anyone seeing them do so would have his/her wish fulfilled.” And so we seem to circle back, within a Jewish frame of reference now, to Tolkien’s Ents and Ovid’s trees and transformations.

The French linguist Émile Benveniste made the observation that “ ‘personal pronouns’ are never missing from among the signs of a language, no matter what its type, epoch, or region may be. A language without expression of person cannot be imagined.” Poet Maureen N. McClane offers her own riff on Benveniste’s thought, “To command you, to address you, I must think you. ’I’ must think ‘you. And yet even as I think you I interfuse you with my own nature…”

On Tu Bishvat, “I” must think “Tree,” “Tree” must think “Thou.” We may even, in homage to Benveniste, pun on the “Tu” in Tu Bishvat and think of it as “tu,” the French second person pronoun of affection and familiarity, reminding us that You, the trees of Shevat, and we, the people of this planet, share earthly and earthy roots from which we draw succor of body, mind, and spirit. In our oneness we join voices in celebration of our Creator.

In the spirit of inyana de-yoma, Torah in Motion is offering, free of charge, Dr. Marc B. Shapiro’s lecture on “Torah Study on Christmas Eve,” delivered on Christmas Eve, 2009. You can get it here.[1]