New Writings from R. Kook and Assorted Comments, part 3

Marc B. Shapiro

Continued from here.

As I have dealt in this post with Maimonides and the Genesis story, it is as good a time as any to mention what I believe it to be an error that is repeated very often. I saw it most recently in Nathan Aviezer’s article “When Torah and Science Collide” (Tradition, Fall 2009). He writes as follows:

Did God create the universe? Seemingly a simple question, with the answer given in the very first verse of the Torah. Not so, writes Rambam (Guide 2:25), asserting that Torah hashkafa does not require one to believe that God created the universe. But what about the first chapter of Bereshit, which clearly states that God did create the universe? Rambam writes that one may interpret this chapter metaphorically, as an allegory that never happened, because “the paths of interpretation are not closed to us.”

What Maimonides actually says in Guide 2:25 is that it is a religious requirement to believe that God created the universe. He goes so far as to say that if it could somehow be proven that God did not create the universe, this would give the lie to miracles and Torah itself. In Maimonides’ words: “If the philosophers would succeed in demonstrating eternity as Aristotle understands it, the Law as a whole would become void.” In other words, Torah Judaism stands or falls on this issue, for acceptance of Aristotle’s view means the end of miracles, prophecy, and Torah. Fortunately for Rambam, he believes that eternity of the universe cannot be proven, because if it could be proven, that would be the end of Torah Judaism.[1]

What else does Maimonides say in this chapter? He says two things. 1. If Plato’s view, that the world was created from eternal matter,[2] were to be proven, then this would not destroy the Torah, and in fact the Torah could be interpreted in accordance with this.[3] 2. Even Aristotelian eternity of the world could be reinterpreted in accordance with the biblical verses, just as the verses that speak of God’s corporeality are reinterpreted. This is the context in which Maimonides says that “the paths of interpretation are not closed to us.” Maimonides then explains that because of this, we do not reject eternity of the world because of the simple meaning of the biblical verses (which could be reinterpreted). Rather, we reject it because 1. It has not been proven (and indeed Maimonides does not think that it can be proven). 2. Eternity of the world destroys the foundation of the Torah.

In truth, Aviezer’s understanding is not unique to him but is shared by many. They all assume that if Aristotelian eternity was proven, Maimonides would then reinterpret the Torah in accordance with this, for he says that he is indeed able to do so. This viewpoint is held by some of the top Maimonides scholars alive today. From greats of previous years who hold this position, I can add R. Elijah Benamozegh:[4]

Centuries earlier, Ralbag advanced the same (what I believe to be incorrect) viewpoint.[5] See Milhamot ha-Shem 6:2:1:

גם כן אמר שאם היה מתבאר חיוב קדמות העולם מדרך העיון שכבר יוכרח לפרש מה שבא בתורה שיראה חולק עם זה הדעת באופן שיאות אל העיון.

As I mentioned, all Maimonides says is that if eternity is proven, the words of the Torah could be reinterpreted to accord with eternity. But according to Maimonides, there would be no reason for doing so. This is so for if eternity could somehow be proven, that would be the end of Judaism, as it would be the end of both miracles and divine providence and thus no possibility of a revelation of the Torah. Thankfully, Maimonides believes that eternity cannot be proven.

I don’t understand why so many scholars—whose knowledge of Maimonides is much greater than mine— interpret this chapter to mean that Maimonides would accept Aristotelian eternity when he says specifically that he wouldn’t. (Again, I am speaking of the exoteric meaning of Maimonides’ words, not about any esoteric interpretation of Maimonides.) When I challenged a number of these scholars on this point, they all acknowledged that Maimonides doesn’t actually say that he would accept eternity. However, in defense of what they wrote they stated that if eternity really was proven, what choice then would Maimonides have? He would have to reinterpret the Torah to agree with eternity since we can never imagine him rejecting the Torah. In this, I agree with them. Faced with the reality that eternity has been proven, and despite what he says in Guide 2:25, he would be forced to reinterpret the Torah. Of this, I have no doubt, simply because Maimonides was a very religious man and I can’t imagine him living without the Torah. Yet my point is that he does not say this in the Guide. In fact, he says the exact opposite, that the Torah cannot co-exist with eternity.[6]

Since I have mentioned Aviezer’s article, let me discuss some other things he says. Aviezer writes:

[Stephen J.] Gould was preceded in this approach by Galileo, who is credited with the famous aphorism: “The Bible teaches us how to go to heaven, whereas science teaches us how the heavens go.” (I can’t believe that Galileo really said these words because, while snappy in English, they make no sense in Latin or Italian.)

I don’t know on what basis Aviezer insists that these words don’t make sense in Latin or Italian. If someone said them in Latin or Italian, why shouldn’t they make sense? In fact, the original text is Italian, and is found in Galileo’s “Letter to Grand Duchess Christina.” In it, Galileo writes:

I would say here something that was heard from an ecclesiastic of the most eminent degree [Cardinal Baronius]: ‘That the intention of the Holy Ghost is to teach us how one goes to heaven, not how heaven goes.’”[7]

Here is the original Italian, and one can indeed see that the words are snappy:

“Io qui direi che quello che intesi da persona ecclesiastica, costituita in eminentissimo grado, ciò è l’intenzione delle Spirito Santo essere d’insegnarci come si vadia al cielo, e non come vadia il cielo.”

Even Pope John Paul II adapted this saying, in a passage that looks like it could have been written by R. Hirsch,[8] R. Kook, or R Natan Slifkin:

The Bible itself speaks to us of the origin of the universe and its make-up, not in order to provide us with a scientific treatise, but in order to state the correct relationships of man with God and with the universe. Sacred scripture wishes simply to declare that the world was created by God, and in order to teach this truth it expresses itself in the terms of the cosmology in use at the time of the writer. The Sacred Book likewise wishes to tell men that the world was not created as the seat of the gods, as was taught by other cosmogonies and cosmologies, but was rather created for the service of man and the glory of God. Any other teaching about the origin and make-up of the universe is alien to the intentions of the Bible, which does not wish to teach how heaven was made but how one goes to heaven.[9]

Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, whose prolific writing continues to astound, has recently said the same thing: “There is a difference between science and religion. Science is about explanation. Religion is about interpretation. The Bible simply isn’t interested in how the universe came into being.”[10] R. Chaim Navon put the matter as follow[11]:

התורה אינה מתעניינת במידע מדעי, אלא בערכים רוחניים. לא כך כך אכפת לתורה מנוסחאות מדעיות; אכפת לה הרבה יותר מדרכי התנהגותו של האדם, מאורחות חייו ובעיקר מעבודתו של האדם את בוראו. משום כך, לא כל כך חשוב לדעת האם האדם היה שייך פעם לעולם החיות; מה שחשוב באמת הוא האם האדם הצליח להיחלץ משם.

In other words, the Torah has nothing to tell us when it comes to science. Therefore, there can be no such thing as a conflict between Torah and science.[12] With such an approach, all of the reconciliations between science and the Book of Genesis (e.g., a “day” is really an eon, the dinosaurs are from prior worlds, etc.), which for awhile were popular in Orthodoxy, are really missing the point. The old apologetics assumed that the Torah was in accord with science, and was even teaching scientific truths. It was just that we had to read the text differently than it had been read until now. Yet as with R. Kook, from Sacks’ and Navon’s perspective the creation story is a myth, namely, a tale designed to impart cosmic truths.[13] Although this position has been argued most forcefully by Slifkin, and has found a very receptive audience at synagogues (as I can attest, having tag-teamed with Slifkin as scholars-in-residence), are there any high schools that teach the Creation story in this fashion?

Returning to Aviezer, he writes:

But what about the geocentric theory of the solar system? Wasn’t that scientific theory universally believed for nearly 1500 years, until finally shown by Copernicus and Galileo to be wrong and then replaced by the very different heliocentric theory? The answer is “no!” The geocentric theory was not a scientific theory at all; it was pure theology, unsupported by any scientific evidence. The theory was universally accepted for over a millennium on religious grounds alone. The beliefs of the Church demanded that man’s place must be at the center of the universe.

This is completely incorrect. First of all, the Ptolemaic system of geocentrism was as much science as the Copernican system, and had nothing to do with theology.[14] Secondly, geocentrism long predates the second-century Ptolemy. Aristotle himself was a geocentrist, and in Aristotle’s view, the most important part of the world is not the center! “For the medieval mind, under the influence of Aristotle, the earth as the center of the world was not a position of honor. On the contrary, as Prof. Lovejoy put it, it was ‘the place farthest removed from the Empyrean, the bottom of creation, to which its dregs and baser elements sank. The actual center, indeed, was Hell; in the spatial sense, the medieval world was literally diabolocentric.’”[15]

Aviezer “blames” geocentrism on the Church, and yet Maimonides (and every other Jewish and Islamic thinker of his day) was a geocentrist. Maimonides also had a strong anti-anthropocentric view, as he did not regard man as the central purpose of the universe. This view of Maimonides was an important source for Norman Lamm in his famous article “The Religious Implications of Extraterrestrial Life.” [16] Only those who are convinced that they are the center of the universe would be troubled by the discovery of other inhabited worlds, and that is why Maimonides’ outlook came in so handy for Lamm.

Returning to Maimonides and creation, I want to call attention to a very interesting article by R Meir Triebitz. It appears in Reshimu, vol. 1 no. 2 (2008), the journal of the so-called Hashkafa Circle. See here.

As explained in the preface to the first volume, this “Circle” aims to fill a gap in haredi yeshiva education by focusing on the classics of medieval Jewish philosophy which are pretty much ignored in contemporary haredi society. We thus have a situation where great talmudists and halakhists ignore major themes of Jewish philosophy, which were dealt with at length by the medieval sages. When there are theological discussions in haredi literature, they invariably reflect a very conservative position, often at variance with the major rishonim. I already touched on this issue in my conclusion to The Limits of Orthodox Theology, and if Triebitz and his group are successful this situation could be reversed.

However, they won’t be successful for the simple reason that the outlook of the medieval Jewish philosophers is opposed in so many ways to haredi ideology that it will never become part of the haredi curriculum. In fact, I don’t think it is possible to be a serious student of medieval Jewish philosophy and at the same time identify with any of the regnant haredi worldviews. (You might dress the part and send your children to haredi schools, but that is not the same thing as identifying with a worldview.) This is so for many reasons, primary of which is that medieval Jewish philosophy is about the search for truth. The papal model of haredi society, where the quest for truth is subordinated to the dictates of the religious authority figure, is diametrically opposed to what our great medieval philosophers taught.

Furthermore, the haredi notion that contemporary gedolim can sit in judgment of the views of the Rambam and other greats, and determine that their views are no longer “acceptable”, will be rejected out of hand by all followers of the philosophic tradition. It is therefore not surprising that when Artscroll was presented with a plan to publish Maimonides’ Guide in English, the response was a resounding no, with the explanation given that the Guide should not be found in a haredi home.[17]

Until now, three issues of Reshimu have been published, all available on its website, and it is refreshing to see haredi writers grappling with important philosophical problems. While in many cases the writers are unaware of basic academic studies in these areas, and the journals could be edited in a better fashion (eliminating typos and stylistic problems), there is a great deal to learn from some of the essays. This is especially the case for Rabbi Triebitz, who because of his wide-ranging knowledge and keen insight deserves to be better known. I encourage all to read his articles and those who have time can also watch numerous videos of his shiurim here.

In his article referred to above, Triebitz offers a commentary on Guide 2:13, where Maimonides discusses the various views of creation. It is a very challenging essay which, unless I have overlooked an academic article, presents a new perspective, not an easy task in Maimonidean scholarship. In this essay Triebitz takes his place with the esoteric readers of Maimonides. He concludes that Maimonides does not really believe in creation ex nihilo, since for Maimonides this is a mental concept, not a scientific fact. From a scientific perspective, Maimonides adopts Aristotle’s view of the eternity of the world, but this is not something that could be communicated to the non-sophisticated reader. However, those who grasp what Maimonides is saying will realize that “Creation ex nihilo is not a contending theory of creation . . . but rather a product of man’s thought which introduces a dimension other than the objective physical world pictured by Aristotelian physics.” (p. 145)

Needless to say, this approach of Triebitz also turns Maimonides’ fourth principle, which insists on creation ex nihilo (including the creation of time), into a “necessary belief.” Here is another selection from the essay:

Rambam is therefore intimating that in order to posit God’s complete incorporeality it is necessary to extend the physical world ad infinitum. Since physical infinity is impossible, it is time which must be infinite. Monotheism demands eternity. Law and ethics, however, are based upon Divine free will and Divine free will in turn demands creation ex nihilo. Since creation ex nihilo, as Rambam has already pointed out, cannot have taken place at any time, it cannot be a theory of creation. The antinomy between eternity theories, particularly Aristotle’s, and the irreducible creation ex nihilo is in fact no other than the dichotomy between ontology and ethics (p. 161).

Triebitz returns to Maimonides and creation in Reshimu vol. 1 no. 3 (2009) and once again explains that in his opinion Maimonides doesn’t really believe in creation ex nihilo.

As a consequence, while Rambam’s discussion of creation begins by asserting that the opinion of Torat Moshe is that the world was created by God ex nihilo, by the time that discussion concludes eighteen chapters later (II. 30), he makes the subtle point, casually dropped as if merely incidental, that one of the terms referring to creation in the Torah (qinyan, qeil qoneh) itself “tends toward the road of the belief in . . . eternity” (71b/358). To the astute ear honed to his method of paradoxical exposition, the underlying thrust is clear: He begins with the assertion he believes to be obvious and most fundamental—namely, creatio ex nihilo—after which, following long diversions, he introduces the contrary premise—creatio continua aeterna—by which time the less aware, less initiated reader will likely not notice the subtle discrepancy and the controversial nuance therein entailed: that creation ex nihilo is not creation in time, chiddush nifla. (p. 82)[18]

I now want to return to the Creation story, and how some have argued that it should not be taken literally. I dealt with this in my previous posts and received some e-mails by people referring to other sources that say so, including R. Gedaliah Nadel. I am grateful for all the e-mails, but the reason I didn’t mention these sources, including R. Nadel, is because all of these sources are well known. Since I was not trying to write a comprehensive study of approaches to creation, I didn’t see any need to cite them. In general, my posts here are not like my articles or books, in that I am trying to call attention to interesting ideas and texts, rather than producing complete studies of any topic.

Worthy of note is that among the subscribers one finds, right next to each other on the list, R. Marcus Lehmann, Abraham Geiger, and Ludwig Philipson.

On p. 5 Shag refers to the trees in the Garden of Eden and the snake and says that it is obvious that none of this can be taken literally:

ואם נקח הפרשה הזאת במאזני השכל, ונפלס את הדברים נראה בעליל שהוא רק דברי רמז וחידה, וכפשוטו לא יכנסו כלל בגדר השכל.

On page 10 he explains how the snake represents the evil inclination, an identification pretty standard among the medievals, and he beautifully explains the connection between the two:

והנחש הוא היצר הרע והתאוה . . . היצה”ר נמשל לנחש מה הנחש כשהולך להזיק אינו ברעש ובהלה רק זוחל על הארץ בלחש ומזיק כן הוא היצר הוא בא לאדם בעצה ותחבולה ומראה עצמו כאוהב עד שיפתה, ואח”כ רובץ על צווארי בני אדם כנחש הסובב על הדבר מכל צדדיו.

On p. 21 he even understands the Tower of Babel in non-literal fashion:

ונאמר לראות את העיר ואת המגדל. את העיר זו יושבי העיר כמו העיר ננוה, העיר שושן, הכונה הוא על יושביה, והמגדל הוא המעשים שעשו, נגד רצון השי”ת, כי הם היו מתגאים לעשות להם שם בארץ. והשי”ת שונא גאים ומשפיל אותם, לכן ויפץ ה’ אותם משם על פני כל הארץ.

There have been many understandings of the Tower of Babel, and I don’t want to go into that now, but let me at least mention one of the strangest interpretations out there. R. Menachem Tziyoni (fifteenth century), in his commentary on the episode, claims that the Tower was actually a flying object[19]:

To be continued.

Who can discern his errors?

Misdates, Errors, Deceptions, and other Variations in and about Hebrew Books, Intentional and
Otherwise: Revisited[1]

by Marvin J. Heller

R. Eleazar once entered a privy, and a Persian [Roman] came and thrust him away. R. Eleazar got up and went out, and a serpent came and tore out the other’s gut. R. Eleazar applied to him the verse, “Therefore will I give a man (אָדָם adam) for thee (Isaiah 43:4).” Read not adam [a man] but אֱדֹם edom [an Edomite = a Roman] corrected by the censor to “but a Persian.” (Berakhot 62b)

 “R. Eleazar said: Any man who has no wife is no proper man; for it is said, Male and female created He them and called their
name Adam” corrected by the censor to “any Jew who is unmarried” (Yevamot 63a).[2]

Sensitivity to the contents of Jewish texts by non-Jews, and apostates in their employ, was a feature of Jewish life at various periods, one particularly notable and noxious time being in the sixteenth century when, during the counter-Reformation, the Church undertook to censor and correct those Hebrew books that were not placed on the index and banned in their entirety. In the first example, the understanding based on the reading of adam אָדָם as edom אֱדֹם (Rome) is completely lost by the substitution of Persian for Edom. In the second example “Any man who has no wife is no proper man” was deeply offensive to a Church that required an unmarried and celibate clergy. In both instances the text was altered to adhere to the Church’s sensibilities despite the fact that not only was the original intent lost but that, particularly in the first case, it ceased to be meaningful.

            Books, and even more so Hebrew books, often underwent modifications, textual changes, due to the vicissitudes and complexities of the Jewish condition, frequently involuntary. The subject of “Misdates, Errors, Deceptions, and other Variations in and about Hebrew Books, Intentional and Otherwise,” addresses textual changes, as well as other errors, intentional and unintentional, that may be found in Hebrew books. Addressed previously in Hakirah, this is a companion article, providing additional examples of book errors, variations, and discrepancies. As noted previously, errors “come in many shapes and forms. Some are significant, others are of little consequence; most are unintentional, others are purposeful. When found, errors may be corrected, left unchanged, or found in both corrected and uncorrected forms. . . . Other errors are not to be found in the book per se but rather in our understanding of the book. This article is concerned with errors in and about Hebrew books only. It is not intended to be and certainly is not comprehensive, but rather explores the variety of errors, some of consequence, most less so, providing several interesting examples for the reader’s edification and perhaps enjoyment.”[3]

Among the errors discussed in this article are 1) those dealing with the expurgation of the Talmud; 2) expurgation of other Hebrew works; 3) internal censorship, that is, of Hebrew books by Jews; 4) accusations of plagiarism and forgery; 5) misidentification of the place of printing; 6) confusion due to mispronunciations.

I

            Returning to the beginning of the article, the Talmud, initially banned in 1553 and placed on the Index librorum prohibitorum in 1559, was subsequently permitted by the Council of Trent in 1564, but only under restrictive and onerous conditions. Reprinted in greatly censored form, the introductory quote refers to modifications in the Basle Talmud (1578-81). A condition of the Basle Talmud was that the name “Talmud” be prohibited. Heinrich Graetz explains the Pope’s and Council’s considerations in forbidding the name.

the Council only approved the list of forbidden books previously made out in the
papal office, the opinion of the pope and those who surrounded him served as
a  guide in the treatment of Jewish writings. The decision of this point was left to the pope, who afterwards issued
a bull to the effect that the Talmud was indeed accursed – like Reuchlin’s ‘Augenspiegel
and Kabbalistic writings’ – but that it would be allowed to appear if the name
Talmud were omitted, and if before its publication the passages inimical to
Christianity were excised, that is to say, if it were submitted to censorship
(March 24th, 1564). Strange, indeed, that the pope should have allowed the
thing, and forbidden its name! He was afraid of public opinion, which would
have considered the contradiction too great between one pope, who had sought
out and burnt the Talmud, and the next, who was allowing it to go untouched. At
all events there was now a prospect that this written memorial, so
indispensable to all Jews, would once more be permitted to see the light,
although in a maimed condition.[4]

            Among the most egregious examples of censorship of the Talmud is Bava Kamma 38a. That amud (page) of the Talmud, dealing with financial relations between Jews and non-Jews, was expurgated, almost in its entirety. Prior to the much censored Basle Talmud (1578-1581) the text was completely printed, for example, in the 1519/20-23 Venice edition of the Talmud published by Daniel Bomberg. After the censored Basle Talmud was published, initially, rather than contract the text, large blank spaces were left, clearly indicating that text had been expurgated.

            Abraham Karp notes that in some editions of the Talmud “many expurgated passages are restored, and where deletions are retained, blank spaces are left to indicate the omission to the reader and, no doubt, to permit him to fill in by pen what they dared not to print.”[5] An example of the blank spaces can be seen from the Frankfurt an der Oder Talmud 1697-99, printed by Michael Gottschalk. Such omissions are to be found in almost all seventeenth and early eighteenth editions of the Talmud, a notable exception being the Benveniste edition (Amsterdam, 1644-47).[[6]  Rabbinovitch too notes that blank spaces were left for expurgated text, those omissions being consistent with the Basle Talmud. He adds, however, that this policy was followed until the 1835 Vilna Talmud. At that time government officials prohibited the practice so that the omissions would not be so obvious.[7]  In fact, text was consolidated much earlier, as evidenced, by the illustrations of Bava Kama 38a from the 1734‑39 Frankfurt an der Oder Talmud. This expurgated material is restored in current editions of the Talmud.

Frankfurt an der Oder – 1697-99

Frankfurt an der Oder – 1734-39

Another example of interest, one that has not fared as well, the text not yet restored in most editions of the Talmud, is to be found in Shabbat 104b and Sanhedrin 67a. The reference there is to Ben Satda, beginning, in the latter tractate “and so they did to Ben Satda
in Lod, and hung him on erev Pesah. Ben Satda? He was the son (ben) of Padera . . .”[8] Popper notes that Gershom Soncino, when publishing “a few of the Talmudic tracts at Soncino during the last decade of the fifteenth century, he took care not to restore any of the objectionable words in the MSS. from which he printed.”[9] Here too the text is complete in the Bomberg Talmud. Two subsequent exceptions in later editions of Sanhedrin where the Ben Satda entries do appear are in the Talmud printed by Immanuel Benveniste and in the edition of Sanhedrin printed in Sulzbach in or about 1696.

However, in two complete editions of the Talmud (1755-63, 1766-70) printed in Sulzbach, the Ben Satda entries are omitted, as is the case of most modern editions of the Talmud.[10]

II

            The Talmud isn’t the only work to have been censored. Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin provides several examples of text in books
that were modified due to the censor’s ministrations. Among them is R. Abraham ben Jacob Saba’s (d. c. 1508) Zeror ha-Mor, a commentary on the Pentateuch based on kabbalistic and midrashic sources.[11] On the passage “They would slaughter to demons without power, gods whom they knew not, newcomers recently arrived, whom your ancestors did not dread” (Deuteronomy 32:17), referring to “Christians in general and priests in particular as ‘demons’ (shadim): ‘For as the nations of the world, all their abominations and vanities come from the power of demons, hence, the monks would shave the hair of their heads  and leave some at the top of the head as a stain.’” This passage continues, referring to bishops and popes, concluding that their entire heads are shaved like a marble with only a bit of hair about their ears, so that they have the appearance of demons, hairless, and like demons, provide no blessings, are like a fruitless tree, and “thus, it is fitting that they bear no sons of daughters.” Raz-Krakotzkin informs that this passage appeared in the first two editions of Zeror ha-Mor printed by Bomberg, and the Giustiniani edition (1545) but was already expurgated by the Cavalli edition (1566), a blank space in place of the text. That space subsequently disappeared and, although a Cracow edition based on the Bomberg Zeror ha-Mor restored the text it remains missing from most later editions.[12] Raz-Krakotzkin continues, citing additional examples.

            Early halakhic works were also subject to the ministrations of the censor.[13] Among them are such works as R. Samson ben Zadok’s (thirteenth century) Sefer Tashbez (Cremona, 1556). Samson was a student of R. Meir of Rothenburg (Maharam, c. 1220-1293). When the latter was imprisoned in the tower of Ensisheim, Samson visited him regularly, serving as his attendant and carefully recording in Tashbez Maharam’s teachings, customs, and daily rituals, as well as what he heard and observed, from the time Meir rose in the morning until he retired at night, on weekdays, Sabbaths, and festivals. Although a relatively small work (80: [6], 55 leaves), it consists of 590 entries beginning with Sabbath night (1-17), Sabbath day (18-98), followed by festivals, Sefer Torah, priestly benedictions, prayer, slumber, talis and tefillin, benedictions, issur ve-heter (dietary laws), redemption of the first born, hallah, vows, marriage and divorce, monetary laws, and piety. Expurgation by the censor of Tashbez was done sloppily, for terms such as meshumad and goy, normally excised, remain, but with a disclaimer near the end that they refer to idol worshipers only.[14]

III

Not all errors are due to the ministrations of the censor. Jews, too, at times, have taken their turns at modifying the text of books.

            A recent and perhaps quite surprising example of internal censorship is to be found in R. Solomon Ganzfried’s (1804–1886) Kizzur Shulḥan Arukh. First printed in 1864, that work an abridgement of the Shulhan Arukh for the average person, went through fourteen editions in the author’s lifetime, and numerous editions since then, as well as translations into many languages and has been the subject of glosses.[15] Marc B. Shapiro informs that in the Lublin (1904) edition of the Kizzur Shulḥan Arukh and several other editions the entry (201:4) that “apostates, informers, and heretics –for all these the rules of an onan and of mourners should not be observed. Their brothers and other next of kin should dress in white, eat, drink, and rejoice that enemies of the Almighty have perished,” the words “apostates, informers, and heretics” have been removed. In the Vilna edition (1915) the entire paragraph is removed and the sections renumbered from seven to six. In the Mossad Harav Kook vocalized edition a new halakhah was substituted, but that has since been corrected to reflect the original text. The reason, according to Shapiro, is that with the expansion of Jewish education to include girls, it was felt that schoolchildren, with assimilated relatives, would see this as referring to family members.[16] Several recent editions of the Kizzur Shulḥan Arukh that were examined, in both Hebrew and English, have the original text.

            R. Abraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935), chief rabbi of Jerusalem and first Ashkenazic chief rabbi in Israel (then Palestine),
was a profound, influential, and mystical thinker. Highly regarded by his contemporaries, his strongly Zionist views also resulted in some opposition, but even most of his contemporaries who disagreed with him held him in high regard. Shapiro notes that with time, Kook’s reputation changed. Despite the fact that such pre-eminent rabbis as R. Solomon Zalman Auerbach (1910-95) and R. Joseph Shalom Elyashiv (1910-2012) were unwavering in their high regard of Kook, strong anti-Kook sentiment developed later in religious anti-Zionist circles. Shapiro notes that “Kook has been the victim of more censorship and simple omission of fact for the sake of haredi ideology than any other figure. When books are reprinted by haredi and anti-Zionist publishers Kook’s approbations (hascomas) are routinely omitted.” One of several examples of this modified opinion Shapiro cites is a lengthy eulogy delivered by R. Isaac Kossowsky (1877-1951) praising Kook. When the eulogy was reprinted in She’elot Yitzhak, a collection of Kossowsky’s writings, the name of the subject of the eulogy, Rav Kook, was omitted. In the reprint of She’elot Yitzhak the eulogy is deleted in its entirety.[17]

IV

Accusations of plagiarism accompany the publication of two works by and/or attributed to R. Nathan Nata ben Samson Spira (Shapira, d. 1577). Spira, born to a distinguished family that was, according to the Ba’al Shem Tov, one of the three pure families throughout the generations in Israel (the others being Margulies and Horowitz), served as rabbi in Grodno (Horodno) until 1572, when he accepted a position in Posnan. His grandson was R. Nathan Nata ben Solomon Spira (Megalleh Amukkot, c. 1585-1633). Among Nathan Nata Spira’s works is Imrei Shefer (20: [1], 260 ff.), a super-commentary on Rashi and R. Elijah Mizrahi (c. 1450–1526). The book was brought to press by Spira’s son R. Isaac Spira (d. 1623), Rosh Yeshiva in Kovno and afterwards in Cracow. Work on Imrei Shefer began in Cracow in 1591 but before printing was finished Isaac Spira accepted a position in Lublin where publication was completed at the press of Kalonymus ben Mordecai Jaffe (1597).[19]

The title-pages states that Spira, “gives goodly words (Imrei Shefer)’ (Genesis 49:21) and he gives, ‘seed to the sower, and bread לזורע ולחם (357=1597) to the eater’ (Isaiah 55:10) of Torah.” In the introduction, Isaac informs that the work is entitled Imrei Shefer from the verse, “he gives goodly words” (and the word “he gives הנתן” in the Torah is without a vav), implying the name of the author [Nathan נתן] and Shefer שפר is language of Spira שפירא the family name of the author. Isaac then addresses the existence of an unauthorized and fraudulent edition ascribed to his father, printed in Venice (Be’urim, 1593),

found and brought out by men who lack the yoke of the kingdom of heaven. A work discovered, who knows the identity of the author, perhaps a boy wrote it and wanted to credit it to an authoritative source אילן גדול), [my father my lord]. God forbid that his holy mouth should bring forth words that have no substance, vain, worthless, and empty, a forgery, “[And, behold], it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles had covered it over” (Proverbs 24:31).

Isaac Spira took his complaint to the Va’ad Arba’ah Artzot (Council of the Four Lands), requesting they prohibit the distribution of the Be’urim in Poland. The response of the Va’ad is printed at the end of the introduction,

It has been declared, by consent of the rabbis, and the [communal] leaders of these lands,
that these books shall neither be sold nor introduced into [any Jewish] home in
any of these lands. Those who have [already] purchased them shall receive their
money back and not keep [such] an evil thing in their home.

What was and who wrote the Be’urim, the reputedly plagiarized copy of R. Nathan Nata ben Samson Spira’s Imrei Shefer? The title-page of the Be’urim (40: 180 ff.), printed in Venice in 1593 “for Bragadin Giustiniani by the partners Matteo Zanetti and Komin Parezino at the press of Matteo Zanetti,” states that it was written by ha-Rav, the renowned, the gaon, R. Nathan from Grodno in the year, “For you shall go out with joy בשמחה (353=1593), and be led forth with peace” (Isaiah 55:12). Be’urim does not have an introduction nor a colophon that provides any additional information.

Isaac Spira’s accusation that the Be’urim is a forgery, not to be ascribed to his father, but rather was written by an unknown young man who then attributed it to Spira, is confirmed by R. Issachar Baer Eylenburg (1550-1623), who writes in his responsa, Be’er Sheva (Venice, 1614) and also in his commentary on Rashi, Zeidah La-Derekh (Prague, 1623) that it is obvious that the Be’urim were not the work of the holy Spira, but rather of an erring student “who hung (attributed it) to himself, hanging it on a large tree” (cf. Pesahim 112a).[20]

Among the distinguished sages of medieval Sepharad is Rabbenu Bahya ben Asher ben Hlava (c. 1255-1340). Best known for his popular, multi-faceted, and much reprinted Torah commentary, written in 1291 and first published in Naples (1491),  Rabbenu Bahya was also the author of Kad ha-Kemaḥ (Constantinople, 1515) and Shulḥan shel Arba (Mantua, 1514). The former, Kad ha-Kemaḥ, is comprised of sixty discourses on varied subjects, among them festivals, prayer, faith, and charity, all infused with ethical content. Among the numerous editions of Kad ha-Kemaḥ is a scholarly edition entitled Kitvei Rabbenu Baḥya (Jerusalem, 1970) edited and with annotations by R. Hayyim Dov Chavel (1906–1982).

Among the essays in Kad ha-Kemaḥ is one entitled Kippurim, on Yom Kippur. Part of that discourse includes a commentary on the book of Jonah, read on Yom Kippur. Chavel, in the introduction to his annotations on Rabbenu Bahya’s commentary on Jonah, suggests that Rabbenu Bahya took his commentary from R. Abraham ben Ḥayya’s (d. c. 1136) Hegyon ha-Nefesh, first published by E. Freimann (Leipzig,
1860). Abraham ben Ḥayya, a resident of Barcelona, was a philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer, reflected in his several works, including translations from the Arabic. Hegyon ha-Nefesh “deals with creation, repentance, good and evil, and the saintly life. The emphasis is ethical, the approach is generally homiletical – based on the exposition of biblical passages – and it may have been designed for reading during the Ten Days of Penitence.”[21] Kitvei Rabbenu Baḥya and Hegyon ha-Nefesh are sufficiently alike to support Chavel’s contention that

Rabbenu utilized the Sefer Hegyon ha-Nefesh (or Sefer ha-Mussar) of the earlier sage R. Abraham ben Ḥayya ha-Nasi, known as ṣāḥib-al-shurṭa . . . In it is found this commentary on the book of Jonah. This was already noted by the author of Zaphat ha-Shemen – the usage by Rabbenu of this book is comparable to his use of other works: according to his needs. The reason that he does not mention it in his commentary is, perhaps, because the books of R. Abraham ha-Nasi were well known, and the leading sages, such as the Rambam, Ramban and other leading rabbis utilized it, comparable to “Joshua was sitting and delivering his discourse without mentioning names, and all knew that it was the Torah of Moses” (Yevamot 96b).[22].

We leave accusations of plagiarism and turn to forgery, a well-known case involving a person of repute, Saul Hirsch (Hirschel)
Berlin’s (1740-94) Besamim Rosh.[23] Berlin was a person of great promise; the son of R. Hirschel Levin (Ẓevi Hirsch, 1721–1800), chief rabbi of Berlin, ordained at the age of twenty and in 1768 av bet din in Frankfurt an der Oder. At some point Berlin became disillusioned with what he believed to be antiquated rabbinical authority. He gave up his official rabbinic position in Frankfurt, removing to Berlin. There Berlin was an associate of Moses Mendelssohn (1729–1786), providing, in 1778, an approbation for Mendelssohn’s Be’ur (Berlin, 1783) and was a supporter of the enlightenment figure Naphtali Herz Wessely (1725–1805), writing an anonymous pamphlet in defense of  Wessely’s
Divrei Shalom ve-Emet (Berlin, 1782) entitled Ketav Yosher (1794).[24]

An earlier forgery of Berlin, described by Dan Rabinowitz, this under the pseudonym of Ovadiah bar Barukh Ish Polanya, was Berlin’s Mitzpeh Yokteil (1789), a vicious attack on R. Raphael Kohen, rabbi of the three communities, Altona-Hamburg-Wansbeck, who had opposed Mendelssohn’s Be’ur, and on Kohen’s Torat Yekuteil (Amsterdam, 1772) on Yoreh Deah. The Communities’ beit din placed Ovadiah, the presumed author, under a ban. The ban’s proponents approached R. Tzevi Hirsch, the chief rabbi of Berlin and Saul Berlin’s father, seeking his signature on the ban.[25] It appears that Tzvi Hirsch initially concurred with the ban, but, as he was close to deciding in favor of signing the ban, someone whispered in his ear the verse “woe is me, my master, it is borrowed שאול” (II Kings 6:5), – which he understood to be a play on שאול (borrowed), referring to his son, Saul, the true author of Mitzpeh Yokteil.[26]

Turning to Besamim Rosh Saul Berlin’s infamous forgery, it claims to be the responsa of R. Asher ben Jehiel (Rosh, c. 1250–1327), among the most preeminent of medieval sages of European Jewry. The title-page describes it as the responsa Besamim Rosh, 392 responsa from books from the Rosh and other rishonim (early rabbinic sages) compiled by R. Isaac di Molina and with annotations Kasa de-Harshana by the young Saul ben R. Ẓevi Hirsch, av bet din, here (Berlin).[27] It is dated “and will keep you in all places where you goושמרתיך בכל אשר תלך   553 = 1793)” (Genesis 28:15), note Asher אשר in the date. In Besamim Rosh Berlin, having become an adherent of the haskalah, presents ideas inconsistent with and at variance with traditional halakhic positions. Among the novel responsa are removing the prohibition on suicide due to the difficult conditions of Jewish life; permitting shaving on Hol ha-Mo’ed; requiring a shohet to test the sharpness of his knife on his tongue; saying a blessing over non-kosher food; disregarding commandments that are upsetting; not taking Megillat Esther seriously; and that Jews beliefs can change. An example of the responsa, albeit a brief one and without Berlin’s Kasa de-Harshana, is the much quoted responsum concerning “legumes, rice, and millet which some Ashkenazic rabbis prohibit and is the practice in some communities. . .” (105b: no. 138): The responsum states:

This is very strange, for the Talmud permits it and no bet din is known to have made such an enactment. It is not for us to inquire why such an enactment was made and why it was followed by some. Possibly because of the exiles and the confused גירושים והבלבוחים, weighed down in poverty . . . and also due to the small community of Karaites in their midst who were also exiled. . . . unable to distinguish between bread and bread and all leavening from which it is possible to make flour and bread. But, God forbid, that we freely prohibit that which is permitted, and all the more because of the poor and needy, who lack sufficient meat and bread all the days of the festival. . . . “who eat [but] a litra of vegetables for at a meal” (Sanhedrin 94b). Also “a leap year is not intercalated in the year following a Sabbatical year for this reason.” All the more (kal ve-homer) to prohibit most types of food to the poor and needy on festivals and the overly strict (mahmerin) will have to answer on the day of judgement.

            How has Besamim Rosh been received? Soon after its publication R. Wolf Landsberg, in Ze’ev Yitrof (Frankfurt an der Oder, 1793), stated that Besamim Rosh was a forgery, and R. Mordecai Benet (1753-1829) wrote to Berlin’s father, that Besamim Rosh was “from head to foot only wounds and grievous abscesses from sinful, vile men.”[28] R. Hayyim Joseph David Azulai (Hida, 1724–1806) in his Shem ha-Gedolim, one of several works in which he mentions Besamim Rosh, states “I have heard ‘a voice of a great rushing’ (Ezekiel 3:12) that there are in this book strange things. . . . Therefore the reader should not rely on it.”[29] The Hatam Sofer (R. Moses Sofer, 1762–1839), based on the responsum on suicide, also concluded that Besamim Rosh was a forgery.[30] Among the varied modern authorities who quote Besamim Rosh, albeit critically, are R. Solomon Joseph Zevin (1885–1978) and R. Ovadia Yosef (1920-13) the latter writing an approbation for the 1984 edition of Besamim Rosh.[31]

How influential was Besamim Rosh? Fishman writes that “Besamim Rosh is of itself cast as a work of rabbinic literature, a Trojan horse of sorts, capable of injecting reformist viewpoints directly into the camp of halakhic discourse. Indeed, the sheer frequency with which Besamim Rosh has been cited in subsequent halakhic writings [documented by Samet] raises the question of whether the work may not have been effective in introducing unconventional perspectives into rabbinic thought.”[32] Similarly, Shmuel Feiner notes that “Some scholars
regard Besamim Rosh as the beginning of the reform of Judaism.”[33] Finally, knowledge that Besamim Rosh was a forgery was so widespread, that it is even so described in a book dealers catalogue, that of Jakob Ginzburg, in Listing of Rare and Valuable Books (Minsk, 1914), stating “565 Besamin Rosh attributed to the Rosh, poor condition Berlin, 1792, 50 1.”

Of less consequence is a common error, if it may be so described, that is, the misleading identification of the place of printing on the title-pages of late seventeenth through the early nineteenth century books. Amsterdam, from the early seventeenth century, was the foremost center of Hebrew printing in Europe. Its reputation was such that printers in other lands, often with the only the most tenuous, if any, connections with Amsterdam, attempted to associate their imprints with that city. In a wide variety of locations the actual place of printing is minimized; what is enlarged is that the letters are באותיות אמשטרדם Amsterdam letters. Mozes Heiman Gans describes this practice,

Amsterdam may have had an embarrassing lack of rabbinical training facilities, but thanks to the Hebrew printing works it nevertheless had a great name in the world of Jewish scholarship. Moreover, the haskamot (certificate of fitness) was also sought by Jewish printers abroad, and so highly-prized were books ‘printed in Amsterdam’ or ‘be-Amsterdam’ that cunning rivals invented the phrase ‘printed ke-Amsterdam’, i.e. in the manner of Amsterdam, hoping to deceive the readers by relying on the similarity of the Hebrew k and b.[34]

            An early example of this practice is in Dessau, where the court Jew, Moses Benjamin Wulff, established a Hebrew press in Anhalt-Dessau.[35] Approval for the press was given on December 14, 1695 by Princess Henriette Catherine of Orange, Prince Leopold I’s mother, acting as regent in her son’s frequent absences in the service of the Prussian army. The first books were published in 1696, among them R. Jacob ben Joseph Reischer’s (Jacob Backofen, c. 1670–1733) Hok Ya’akov and Solet le-Minhah ve-Shemen le-Minhah, and the following year R. Shabbetai ben Meir ha-Kohen’s (Shakh, 1621–1662) Gevurat Anashim, each with a title-page, with a pillared frame topped by an obelisk and the statement,

Printed here [in the holy congregation of] Dessau with AMSTERDAM letters

Under the rule of her ladyship, the praiseworthy and pious Duchess, of distinguished birth HENRIETTE CATHERINE [May her majesty be exalted]

Another notable instance are the title-pages of R. Judah Leib ben Enoch Zundel’s (1645–1705) Hinnukh Beit Yehudah (Frankfurt am Main, 1708), a collection of one hundred forty-five responsa, among them several by the author. Zundel (1645–1705), who succeeded his father as rabbi of the district of Swabia in 1675, subsequently relocated to Pfersee, where he remained until his death. Judah Leib was also the author of Reshit Bikkurim (Frankfurt, 1708), homilies by Judah Leib and his father. The sermons in that work are on festivals and Sabbaths based upon R. Joseph Albo and includes excerpts from a commentary on the Bible which Judah Leib had intended publishing.[36]

 The publisher of these books was Johann Koelner, the distinguished Frankfurt am Main printer (1708-27), credited with publishing half of the Hebrew books printed in Frankfurt up to the middle of the nineteenth century as well as a fine edition of the Babylonian Talmud.[37] Koelner began printing with Hinnukh Beit Yehudah; it is unusual in that there are two title-pages for the book, one noting that it was printed in Frankfurt am Main, the other stating that Hinnukh Beit Yehudah was printed, in an enlarged font with, Amsterdam, in a smaller font, letters, and the place of printing, Frankfurt am Main, also set in a smaller font.[38]

Another way of emphasizing Amsterdam fonts rather than the city in which a book was printed is evident from R. Jacob Uri Shraga Feival’s ben Menahem Nachum’s Bet Ya’akov Esh (Frankfurt an der Oder, 1765) on Job. Here, somewhat unusually, even the reference to the source of the fonts is highlighted, saying with Amsterdam letters. The place of printing is given below in abbreviation in a slightly smaller font as printed here פ”פ דאדר (Frankfurt an der Oder).

In addition to several locations in Germany, such as Hamburg and Jessnitz, we also find this practice in such varied locations as in Zolkiew, for example, R. Aaron Moses ben Zevi Hirsch of Lvov (Lemberg) Ohel Moshe (1765) on grammar; in Lvov, on the title-page of R. Jacob ben Baruch of Tyczyn’s (c. 1640-1725) Birkat Yosef (1784) on Shulhan Arukh Hoshen Mishpat; and with a mahzor that states, in large red letters, that it was printed in Slavuta and, in a small font in German only, that is, it was printed (gedrukt) in Lemberg. We also find this done, somewhat far afield, in Livorno; the title-page of Seder Nezikin of the Jerusalem Talmud (1770), printed with a frame that is like but not exact of the Amsterdam edition of Seder Nashim (1754), by Carlo Giorgi, stating “printed here, Livorno, with Amsterdam letters.

            And then there are inadvertent errors, such as misreading a colophon. Popular books, frequently reprinted, go through numerous editions. At times it is difficult to identify early editions and, as might be expected, books are occasionally misidentified, attributed to the wrong press, misdated, and there are instances when editions are recorded that never existed. All of these errors can be found in R. Leon Modena’s (Judah Aryeh, 1571-1648) Sur me-Ra.[39]

Sur me-Ra, a popular and much reprinted tract opposing the snares and consequences of gambling, was written by Modena when, according to his autobiography, he was only twelve or thirteen years old. Paradoxically, Modena would later become a compulsive gambler, even gambling away his daughters’ dowries. Translated into Latin, German, Yiddish, French, and English, Sur me-Ra is not a straightforward denunciation of gambling but rather a dialogue between two friends, one opposed to games of chance, the other a proponent of such games, both positions well argued, accounting for its popularity. It was first published in Venice in the year בשמחה (with joy, [5]355 = 1594/95) by the Venetian press of Giovanni di Gara as an anonymous tract on the evils of gambling, Modena initially choosing to be anonymous. Sur me-Ra was republished, not long afterwards, twice, according to several bibliographic sources, in 1615. One edition, attributed to a Venice press, appears to be dubious, it not being recorded in any library collection and the sources that list it do so without descriptive details.[40]

The two 1615 Prague editions are recorded in a library listing, one published at the press of Moses ben Bezalel Katz, octavo in format, here consisting of ten unfoliated leaves. The second Prague edition, a bi-lingual Hebrew-Latin edition, is not so much dubious as mislabeled, having been printed several decades later and elsewhere. The Katz edition has an introduction from R. Jacob ben Mattias Treves which concludes “And it came to pass, because the midwives feared God, that he made them houses” (Exodus 1:21) at a goodly בשע”ה (375 = 1615) time, “a time to cast להשלי”ך (75 = 1615) away stones” (cf. Ecclesiastes 3:5).

A bi-lingual Hebrew-Latin edition of Sur me-Ra was purportedly printed in Wittenburg in 1665 by Johannis Haken. This edition is physically small, octavo in format, measuring 18 cm.; otherwise it is an expanded edition of Sur me-Ra, being comprised of [134] pp. and ending on quire Q3 followed by several index pages. There is a Latin title-page with a Hebrew heading, giving the place of printing, printer’s name, and date, followed by considerable preliminary matter in Latin. There is a second Hebrew-Latin title page, lacking all of these particulars about the edition and with a somewhat dissimilar briefer Latin text.

This Wittenburg edition of Sur me-Ra has been incorrectly recorded in at least one major library as a second 1615 Prague Hebrew-Latin edition of that work. The reason for the error appears to be twofold. First, the library copy lacks the first descriptive title-page and the second title page, as noted, lacks identifying information. Moreover, the introduction to the Prague edition is included, with its reference to Prague at the beginning and, at the end, two highlighted dates, although the first “at a goodly בשע”ה (375 = 1615) time” is not highlighted here and a close reading indicates that the second date was set improperly, that is, the Prague edition which concludes with the date “a time to cast להשלי”ך (375 = 1615)” here, reading להשלי”ך, the final khaf being emphasized as if to be included in the enumeration of the letters, which likely misled a reader looking at it too casually, as it results in a figure (395) too large for the Prague edition and too small for the Wittenburg edition.[41]

Another edition of Sur me-Ra was printed in Leiden by Johannes Gorgius Nisselius. An orientalist, Nisselius, poor and unable to obtain a post as a teacher, became a printer. The title-page is misdated תנ”ו (456 = 1696) instead of 1656, attributed by L. Fuks and R. G. Fuks‑Mansfeld to Nisselius’ unfamiliarity with Hebrew chronology, and causing Moritz Steinschneider to describe it as an “edition negligenitissime curate (a very slipshod edition).[42]

Three reported bi-lingual editions of Sur me-Ra, Hebrew with Latin translation, quarto format, are recorded in bibliographic sources. The dates given are 1698, 1702, and 1767. These editions are listed, without further details, in Julius Fürst’s Bibliotheca Judaica, Benjacob’s Otzar ha-Sefarim, and Vinograd’s Thesaurus of the Hebrew Book, each likely repeating the entries in the previous earlier work.[43] That three editions of Sur me-Ra were printed in Oxford within this time frame seems highly unlikely, given that from the first Hebrew book reported for Oxford, Maimonides’ commentary on Mishnayot, with Latin, printed in 1655, concluding with a Bible in 1790, only sixteen titles with Hebrew text are reported. One printing of Sur me-Ra seems reasonable, two less so, three unlikely.

VI

            Mispronunciations and misunderstandings are the source of numerous errors, a problem that persists from biblical times, as in the following passage from Judges (12:36)

And the Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites; and it was so that when those Ephraimites who had escaped said, Let me cross over; that the men of Gilead said to him, Are you an Ephraimite? If he said, No; Then said they to him, Say now Shibboleth; and he said Sibboleth; for he could not pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan; and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty two thousand.

R. David Cohen observes that not all typesetting errors can be attributed to the compositor selecting the wrong letters. In Kuntres ha-Akov le-Mishor: le-Taken ta’uyot ha-Defus shel ha-Shas Hotsa’at Vilna he observes that there are mistakes that can only be attributed to hearing. Many printers realized that it was possible to save hours of labor by having type set by a pair of workers, one reading to the setter, who either did not hear correctly or misunderstood due to different dialects. Cohen provides several examples from the 1880-86 Vilna Talmud, for example, פסח in place of פתח, and comments that much ink has been has been spent resolving apparent difficulties that are in reality nothing more than printers’ errors. Among the numerous examples are:[44]

Similarly, R. Menahem Mendel Brachfeld (Brakhfeld, 1917-84), in his two volume work, Yosef Halel, based on the Reggio di Calabria (1475) and other early editions, provides a lengthy listing of emendations to current texts of Rashi. He informs that numerous errors in more recent editions of Rashi are due to errors in transmission, frequently compounded by editors, printers, and the unkind modifications of censors. Indeed, R. Solomon Alkabetz, the grandfather of the eponymous author of Lekhah Dodi, in his edition of Rashi’s Torah commentary (Guadalajara, 1476), admittedly corrected it according to his own reasoning. Furthermore, explanations of Rashi are often based on these faulty editions.[45] At the beginning of each volume are the detailed emendations and at the end a brief summary of the changes, for example:

Leviticus 10: 16) The goat of the sin-offering, the goat of the additional service of the month and the three goats of sin-offering sacrificed on that day, the he-goat, the goat of Nahshon, and the goat of [Rosh Hodesh], etc. According to this version it is not clear what Rashi is suggesting by the he-goat. In the first edition (Reggio di Calabria) and the Alkabetz edition, the text is three goats of sin-offering sacrificed on that day, take a he-goat and the goat of Nahshon, etc. and with this Rashi alludes to the verse at the beginning of the parasha that speaks about the obligatory offerings of the day, writing take “a he-goat.”[46]

Leviticus 26: 21) Sevenfold according to your sins, seven other punishments, etc. Seven שבע is in the feminine,
and others ואחרים is male. In the first edition and in the Alkabetz edition the text is seven other punishments, as the number of your sins חטאתיכם.[47]

Our text

16) the he-goat, the goat of Nahshon,  and
the goat of [Rosh Hodesh].

21) Sevenfold according to your sins, seven other punishments,

Text first edition

16) take a he-goat and the goat (RH) of Nahshon, the goat of Rosh Hodesh.

21) seven other punishments as the number of your sins.[48]

            Another, quite different, inadvertent, error is of interest. In the late seventeenth- early eighteenth century a small number of printers of Hebrew books employed monograms, formed from the Latin initials of the Hebrew printer’s name, as their devices. Several were mirror-image monograms, which can be read directly and in reverse (mirror) image, resulting in more attractive and certainly more complex pressmarks than the simple interlacing of letters; perhaps graphic palindromes.[49] They are, however, often difficult to interpret; the undiscerning reader is often unaware that the mark is a signet rather than an ornamental device.

 

 

The first usage of a monogram in a Hebrew book is that of the Frankfurt-am-Oder printer, Michael Gottschalk, noted above. Over several decades his mirror-image monogram appears in  all of his Talmud editions, in three forms, all consisting of Gottschalk’s initials interwoven in straight and mirror images (MG), that is, it can be read in straight and reverse images. The last of his mirror-image monograms, employed on the title-pages of the Berlin and Frankfurt an der Oder Talmud editions (1715‑22, 1734‑39) is an elongated form of his initials. Gottschalk’s place in Frankfurt was taken by Professor F. Grillo, who, in association with the Berlin printer Aaron ben Moses Rofe of Lissa, completed the third Talmud. The printer’s device on the title pages of this edition is the elongated Gottschalk Mirror-monogram.  It is correctly placed on most tractates but inverted on tractate Niddah.  The error was quickly corrected, for on the title page of Seder Tohorot, printed immediately after and bound with Niddah, the monogram is right side up. We also find the elongated Gottschalk monogram, inverted, employed in Zolkiew on the title-page of  the responsa of R. Saul ben Moses of Lonzo’s Givat Shaul (1774) by David ben Menahem, who, in this instance, likely did not realize that it was comprised of Gottschalk’s initials.[50]

            At the beginning of the article it was stated that “this article is concerned with errors in and about Hebrew books only.” While the following example might tend to belie that statement, that is so only if the reader does not accept that the Bible is a Hebrew book, even if in translation. With that caveat, we bring an interesting and, from the printer’s perspective, an especially unfortunate error. For centuries the King James Bible was the authoritative English translation of the Bible by and for English speaking non-Jews. First published in 1611 by Robert Barker, it was reissued in 1631 by Barker, together with Martin Lucas, then the royal printers in London. This edition of the King James Bible is now best known as the Wicked Bible, but is also referred to as the Adulterous Bible or Sinners’ Bible. The error is in the Ten Commandments, in which the prohibition against adultery (Exodus 20:14; Heb. Bible 20:13) reads “Thou shalt commit adultery,” the “not” having been omitted, thus accounting for this edition of the King James Bible being referred to as the wicked Bible.

King Charles I was made acquainted with the error and the printers were called before the Star Chamber, where, upon the facts being proved, the printers were fined £3,000 about 34,000 pounds today). Subsequently, Barker and Lucas lost their printer’s licenses. The Archbishop of Canterbury, angered by the mistakes in this edition of the Bible, stated:

I knew the tyme
when great care was had about printing, the Bibles especially, good compositors
and the best correctors were gotten being grave and learned men, the paper and
the letter rare, and faire every way of the beste, but now the paper is nought,
the composers boyes, and the correctors unlearned.[51]

Printed in a press run of 1,000 copies, the wicked Bible was subsequently ordered destroyed; a handful of copies only are extant today.[52]

Who can discern his errors? Clean me from hidden faults. Keep back Your servant also from presumptuous sins; let
them not have dominion over me; then shall I be blameless, and innocent of great transgression (Psalms 19:13-14).[53]

Who was Reb Shlomo? by Natan Ophir (Offenbacher)

Natan Ophir’s book, Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach: Life, Mission, and Legacy, has just appeared. This is a complete biography of Carlebach’s life (not a hagiography) and is essential for anyone with an interest in Carlebach. The Seforim Blog is happy to include this excerpt from the book, pp. 413-419.

1.      Who was Reb Shlomo?

Who was Reb Shlomo Carlebach? This question was deliberated in the obituaries after his death. Elli Wohlgelernter of The Jerusalem Post tried to describe Shlomo’s elusive uniqueness:

Indeed, Shlomo just didn’t seem to fit into any restrictive defining label. Menachem Daum, in a video report for Religion News and Ethics, labeled Rabbi Carlebach as the “most unorthodox Orthodox rabbi.” Moshe Stern, the internationally renowned cantor, characterized Carlebach as a combination of “a prodigal tzaddik, a musical genius, perhaps a religious exegete, a hippie in religious-ultra-orthodox garb.” Stern highlighted the all-encompassing nature of Reb Shlomo’s personality which defied categorization:

His greatest strength was and remains chiefly his ability to be all encompassing, a kind of prototype for felling the divides, for blurring the borders. This, it seems, is what the ears and souls of many in that younger generation latched onto, seeking as they did an escape path from the rigid categorizing enforced on them by the split reality of Israeli life.[2]

Similarly, Robert L. Cohen asks: Was there ever such an “embodied paradox, a bundle of contradictions?”[3] Cohen enumerates some of the seemingly contradictory aspects of Shlomo’s life. For example:

A thoroughgoing traditionalist, with Orthodox yeshiva education and rabbinical ordination, he outraged the Orthodox; a man for whom “pluralism” was an alien, ill-fitting concept, he was an implicit pluralist – teaching and singing everywhere, honoring rabbis of every denomination and encouraging others’ unorthodox paths.[4]

Shlomo was equally at home with the Admor of Amshinov, the homeless in Riverside Park, and Hadassah women. But there were subtle differences in how he presented himself. It was a different type of Shlomo comforting soldiers in hospitals during the Yom Kippur War, and another Shlomo singing for Christians in Poland and Germany.

A 1994 obituary by Yossi Klein Halevi in The Jerusalem Report used the term “Pied Piper of Judaism” to describe how Shlomo “taught an orphaned generation numbed by the Holocaust and assimilation how to return to joy.” Halevi captured the uniqueness of Shlomo’s concerts:

A Shlomo concert was part 60s-style happening, part Hasidic revival…. Shlomo always appeared with an entourage – strung-out street people, rebellious yeshivah boys, spiritual seekers, groupies… The only constant was Shlomo himself: his beautiful melodies; his deep, sure voice; his at-once profound and hokey rap ranging from Hasidic stories to exhortations for people to love each other, to mocking and very funny critiques of both ultra-Orthodoxy and Reform Judaism.[5]

The question of who was Reb Shlomo was often a reflection of how people related to him. Sometimes, it was Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach officiating in rabbinical functions such as weddings. Most disciples preferred the appellation “Reb Shlomo” to indicate a Hasidic closeness and warmth.[6] But for many followers, it was simply “Shlomo,” the best friend, informal confidant, eschewing titles or other artificial barriers. He was the rabbi poised at the entrance to his shul on West 79th St. to welcome all with a bear hug. In the setting of Manhattan’s street corners, he was a “holy brother” to many a “holy beggar.”

With a natural ease, Reb Shlomo also assumed the role of a charismatic prayer leader. For example, on Hoshana Rabbah services at West 79th St., wearing a white kittel and black gartel, he was like a choirmaster orchestrating the musical accompaniment of trumpet, violin and
singing congregation. In the full hour-long video dated September 26, 1994 at the Carlebach Shul, one can see the epitome of the new religious structure invented by Reb Shlomo: integrating a selection of his songs for the Hallel, each setting a different mood and spiritual direction; the symbolic waving of the lulav and arava with joyful dancing, and interjections in English creating a thoughtful direction.[7]
This is the Shlomo leading a new form of religious experience specifically adapted to the Orthodox community.

Shlomo was able to blend in to so many different types of communities because he reflected sundry images to diverse audiences. Prof. Shaul Magid uses the metaphor of a mirror:

Most remember him as a mirror: They saw in him what they wanted him to be, or what they imagined themselves to be…. each of his followers heard what he or she wanted and constructed him in their image. The Orthodox offer one reading, the neo-Hasidim another, Diaspora Jews another, Israeli Jews another; leftists read him one way, Jewish militants another. The point is none of them really know… He bequeathed a “Judaism of uncertainty” (“what do we know?” was his catchphrase) so that everything could be reviewed and revised, in the spirit of love and not separation, on compassion and not exclusion.[8]

Nonetheless, of all the images of Shlomo, the most well-known is that of the Singing Rabbi, the father of modern Hasidic music.

2. The Foremost Songwriter in Judaism?

Ari Goldman, in The New York Times obituary in 1994, designated Shlomo Carlebach “the foremost songwriter in contemporary Judaism.”[9] Recently, Goldman reiterated this statement, adding that it has never been disputed.[10] In 1997, music historian, Robert L. Cohen, referred to Shlomo as “the most prolific composer of liturgical folk melodies in this, perhaps any, century.”[11] In a later article, Cohen explained that Carlebach “opened the gates for a new generation of niggun makers” by creating music with a Hasidic flavor that could be accessible to young Americans:

Shlomo Carlebach had a phenomenal gift for melodies that conveyed yearning and joy, sweetness and exultation all at once… His
example inspired an entire generation to set traditional, and some original, verses to their own new melodies… The result has been a garland of new Jewish music – of new wings for our prayers.[12]

This type of recognition recurs in various Jewish encyclopedias and year books. Mark K. Bauman in the 2011 Jewish American Chronology, recognized Shlomo as “the twentieth century’s most prolific and influential composer of Jewish music and a key ambassador of spirituality,
especially to Jewish youth.”[13] Judah M. Cohen, in the Encyclopaedia Judaica entry, defined Carlebach’s extraordinary influence:

At the time of his death, Shlomo Carlebach had become a legend of sorts, having recorded over 25 albums, composed up to 5,000 songs, performed on five continents, released two official songbooks, amassed a broad following, granted semikhah to both male and female students, and given away nearly all his earnings. Several of his songs, moreover, had become “traditional” during Jewish events; revelers would sing such songs as “Esa Einai,” “David Melekh Yisrael,” “Am Yisrael Chai,” and “Od Yeshoma.”[14]

Mark Kligman, professor of Jewish Musicology at Hebrew Union College in New York, in his survey of contemporary Jewish music in the American Jewish Year Book (2001) stated: “Jewish musical artists of today consider Shlomo Carlebach the father of contemporary Jewish music.”[15] Kligman explains that the most innovative part of Shlomo’s musical success was “the blending of Hassidic song with folk music”:

Combining the participatory ease of folk music, the energy of the newly created music from Israel, and the religious fervor of the Hassidic niggun, he succeeded in moving liturgical music out of the synagogue and into a wide range of other settings, including concert halls and night clubs, and used his music to educate and inspire Jews to renew their Jewish identity and discover the beauty of Jewish life.[16]

Nonetheless, not all Jewish musicologists have recognized Shlomo’s importance. Cantor Macy Nulman in his 1975 comprehensive encyclopedia of Jewish music does not have an entry for Shlomo Carlebach.[17] Similarly, in his 1992 masterful survey of Jewish musical traditions, Hebrew University Professor of Musicology, Amnon Shiloah, does not mention Shlomo.[18] Presumably, part of the reason is that popular Hasidic folk songs are not on the same level as professional music. Indeed, Shlomo’s musical success is remarkable considering that he never really trained as a professional musician, and apart from a few voice lessons in Manhattan, was not an expert cantor. Or as Shlomo self-effacingly explained in an interview to Elli Wohlgelenter:

Furthermore, by adapting the form and fervor of a Hasidic farbrengen (see above, Chapter 6), Shlomo constructed a new hybrid of folk singing and semi-prayer. To quote the insightful appraisal of Motti Regev and Edwin Seroussi:

Armed with a guitar, dressed like an “orthodox hippie,” and using the most basic harmonies and short, repetitive melodies, Carlebach appeared at concerts that became a kind of unorthodox prayer that recalled the traditional Hassidic tish, an assembly of Hassidim around the table of the rebbe, held on special dates, and characterized by singing and dancing.[22]

In sum, the amalgamation of a Hasidic tish, inspirational storytelling, emotional insights, and ethical exhortations created the innovative Carlebachian musical experience. Samuel C. Heilman, professor of Sociology at Queens College CUNY, describes Shlomo Carlebach as a product of a synergy between Hasidic, Israeli, and American trends:

He attached himself to Hasidic prayer styles from which he took the idea of expressive enthusiasms in prayer and devotional ecstasy as part of Jewish outreach. From American new folk idioms, he took the guitar, rhythms, the practice of sing-alongs, the “talking blues,” concertizing, and the idea of making recordings. From Israeli culture, he borrowed the idea of shirah b’tzibbur, i.e., choral singing as a tool of social solidarity. All these he mixed syncretistically to develop his particular style.[23]

Indeed, this description sums up the secret of the appeal to Reb Shlomo’s music. He was able to bring together the popular folk music of the 1960s and the fervor of Hasidic niggunim to create a new genre of music. But Heilman goes further and explains:

Contemporary Carlebach minyanim have elevated him and his approach to a kind of mythic status. Reb Shlomo, as devotees refer to him these days, is the modern Jew’s counterpart to the Hasidic rebbes and other immortals that the Haredi world has enshrined. Like these rebbes, he is frequently resurrected in stories, songs, aphorisms, and teachings that are meant to shape the attitudes and religious character of those who invoke his memory.[24]

.

Albert D. Friedberg’s Crafting the Commandments has just appeared. The Seforim Blog is happy to present the following excerpt from the book’s conclusion.

Scholars have ascribed far too much importance to Maimonides’ enumeration of the commandments and far too little to the motivations that lay behind his appropriation of R. Simlai’s aggadah as the basis for the enumeration and to the significance that Maimonides attached to this aggadah. The proximate reason for creating an enumeration was his need to have a reasoned and methodical outline of all Torah legislation in front of him, a reminder of topics to guide his preparation of the upcoming code of law, a massive and unique undertaking. Thus we find him saying in the introduction to the ShM [Sefer ha-Mitzvot]:

All this [I would do] in order to guard against omitting any topic [emphasis added] from discussion, for only by including them in the enumeration of the commandments [heading the various treatises] would I insure against such omission.

This sense is reinforced by some of the Rules, especially Rules 7 and 10-14, which are essentially taxonomic rules rather than definitions of what constitutes a mitsvah. I posited that the logically unnecessary identification of this outline with R. Simlai’s count of 613 commandments owed its existence to Maimonides’ desire to incorporate the two fundamental beliefs of the Jewish faith, God’s existence and His oneness, into the legal realm, and thus transform their intellection into obligations, a dramatic departure from the preceding geonic paradigm. I inferred this conclusion from a dispassionate and unapologetic assessment of the mitsvah count. Maimonides stretched the meaning of mitsvat ‘aseh well beyond its common rabbinic usage, relying uncharacteristically on an aggadah of questionable legal worth, a homiletic creation with didactic aims and no pretensions of being precise, and resorted to a contrived and hardly compelling logic to arrive at the numerical target, likely fully aware of the variant results that could be legitimately obtained.

The enumeration, qua a reasoned list of commandments, has diverted the attention of the countless students of his works ever since the ShM left his hands. But I posit that it was not R. Simlai’s dictum that 613 commandments were given to Moses at Sinai that was significant, but rather R. Hamnuna’s accompanying exegesis. Maimonides used R. Hamnuna’s midrashic exegesis that the verses I am the Lord thy God and Thou shalt have no other God before Me specifically formed part of the count of 613 commandments to prove that to intellect the existence of God and His oneness constituted a positive, performative obligation. The credibility of R. Hamnuna’s exegesis was even more firmly established when Maimonides inferred from its language what he believed was a theological truth: the nature of the commandments to believe in the existence of God and to believe in His oneness was categorically distinct from the nature and motivation underlying the rest of the commandments. He explained this distinction by averring that the former were philosophically demonstrable truths, capable of being apprehended without the medium of revelation, while the latter were only conventions, necessitating the mediation of a lawgiver and prophet.

The two articles of faith occupy the most prominent position in the MT, appearing in the opening lines of the Sefer ha-Madda’. In a letter to his disciple, Joseph b. Judah, Maimonides wrote that he undertook to compile a code of law in his zeal for the glory of God, “in seeing a nation bereft of a truly comprehensive book (diwan) of law, and bereft of clear and correct [theological] notions.”  Only the inclusion of these two beliefs in the canon of law could have satisfied the requirements of “a truly comprehensive book (diwan)” containing “correct theological notions.”  In sum, the unequivocal and unique statement found in R. Simlai’s aggadah, that the beliefs in God’s existence and His oneness constituted positive obligations, led Maimonides to appropriate the aggadah, adopt its numerical value of 613, and conflate it with the outline that he was preparing—all despite the constraints that it imposed.

In the second half of the book, I turned my attention to the sub-section of positive commandments and drew some conclusions from the way they are described and defined in the Halakhot. While my readings hinged on what Maimonides actually wrote, I recognized that, being human, Maimonides was bound to make the occasional mistake. That said, the exceptional (but more than occasional) omission of the formulaic phrase “X is a mitsvat ‘aseh” at the start of a topical discussion held my special attention because of the implausibility of it being forgotten: the phrase is rich, bold, highly informative, and consistent with Maimonides’ sustained interest for making categorical distinctions. Additionally, and just as importantly, my readings focused on how Maimonides expressed himself. The rhetoric, the literary presentation of his ideas, and the logic of composition mattered as much to me as the slight inferences one could arrive at by noting the absence or presence of a particular term, elements which have constituted the more traditional way of studying his works.

I began the book’s second section by noting that in the Halakhot, Maimonides moves away from the contrived artificiality adopted in the ShM of using the term mitsvat ‘aseh to designate all types of legal themes: here he applies the term to a very specific case, that of an absolute and unconditional obligation. Combing scriptural and rabbinic sources, Maimonides searches for clear indications of unconditional commands and imperatives to perform well-defined acts. These he designates boldly and prominently at the commencement of each topical
discussion, with a formulaic phrase that states that the directive at hand is a mitsvat ‘aseh. Where Maimonides withholds the mitsvat ‘aseh designation, I theorized that he must have done so because the scriptural and/or rabbinic evidence was insufficient to make such a determination. I tested for this evidentiary insufficiency, and when confirmed, I theorized further that under the influence of reigning Islamic legal theory (which was also heavily if not wholly influenced by rabbinic thinking), Maimonides opts for a softer definition. As a result, certain scriptural directives are categorized as recommendations rather than orders, wise pieces of advice rather than commands. Supporting these with scriptural proof texts, he labels them with the solo term mitsvah, a label that he also uses to designate rabbinical directives. The scriptural mitsvot include such prominent directives as to love and fear God, to imitate Him, to appoint a king, to heed the call of a prophet, to rebuke the sinner, to honor the wise, to testify in court, and a few others.

I conjectured further that Maimonides deliberately withheld the scriptural designation from certain commandments that had been labeled as scriptural in the ShM when the plain reading of the scriptural text did not appear to provide sufficient evidence for them, even when rabbinic interpretation suggested otherwise. To this end, he chose an artful but somewhat concealed literary device to designate them as such, the participle of correct practice. This is the case with such prominent practices as the recitation of the Shema, the binding of the tefillin, the writing and placing of the mezuzah and the study of Torah.

In the heavily politicized atmosphere of Cairo, where Rabbanites were both assiduously courted and continuously attacked by sectarian groups (largely Karaites) over the role of the oral law in interpreting Scripture, Maimonides chose to keep his radical opinions hidden yet recoverable. When applied to the legal sections of the Torah, Maimonides’ peshateh di-qera hermeneutics would likely raise hackles among his own co-religionists and, worse yet, give comfort to the deniers of the oral law. His carefully planted literary cues could lead the reader who is familiar with rabbinic terminology and unburdened by popular and superficial conclusions to discover the Master’s true opinion or at the very least sense his ambivalence.

Maimonides was informed by a hermeneutics of peshateh di-qera that was firmly and demonstrably anchored in the Andalusian tradition. His insistence on presumed philological validity, however, left him uneasily placed, uncomfortably close to sectarian investigation and interpretation. Ironically, this led him at times to mount a struggling defense of his own traditional Rabbanite views, well aware that the plain sense of Scripture did not lend convincing support for such a stance.

Consciously or unconsciously, Maimonides navigated his legal system between the Rabbanites and the Karaites, upholding the former’s respect for authoritative tradition and the latter’s insistence on relying only on philologically informed readings. Maimonides’ extraordinarily novel application of peshateh di-qera to the halakhic corpus threatened the very foundations of a Rabbanism, one that was intimately intertwined with the Talmud and its authority. Nahmanides understood this too well when he criticized Rule 2:

[F]or this book of the master, its content is delightful, full of love [based on Song of Songs 5:16] except for this principle, which uproots great mountains of the Talmud and throws down fortified walls of the Gemara. For the students of the Gemara, this notion is evil and bitter. Let it be forgotten and not said.

Of course, Maimonides would not have conceded this point: he would have maintained that his paradigm flowed quite naturally from the pages of the Talmud. Did not the Talmud’s quest for peshateh di-qera support the distinction between divine and man-made law? Did not the rabbis of the Talmud acknowledge that explicitly stipulated scriptural laws enjoyed an epistemic advantage over and a distinction from man-made laws? To Maimonides the answer to these two questions was a resounding yes.

Thanks to his remarkable codification, Maimonides left an indelible mark on Jewish law. Unfortunately, an important part of his jurisprudence, the exquisitely fine distinctions he made between divine and human law and between command and advice, was never fully appreciated, perhaps because of its radical import—or perhaps because Maimonides, for his own good reasons, hid many of these contributions behind formulaic omissions, terminological nuances, and subtle literary devices. It is this rich and layered nuancing that in some modest way I have tried to recover.

In his memoirs about the Netziv, yet another student of Volozhin writes:

הגר”הל [הגאון ר’ הירש ליב] כידוע לא היה קנאי, היה גם מקוראי המליץ ואף ליודעי חן היה ביתו פתוח לקרות אותו.[13]

Similarly, Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Shapiro writes:

הנצי”ב עצמו היה מקבל בכל יום את הצפירה והמליץ [ר’ משה שמואל ודורו, עמ’ 62].

Censorship in the Meishiv Davar

Shaul Stampfer writes in his excellent book ‘Lithuanian Yeshivas of the Nineteenth Century‘ (p. 163) “Both R. Berlin and R. Hayim Soloveitchik read newspapers”. 

In a footnote he records the following:

“Rabbi Boruch Oberlander pointed out that, in the latest edition of R. Berlin’s Responsa Meshiv Davar there is a curious omission. The original reads ‘as published in Hamelits, 137 in 5687′ but in the new edition reads simply ‘as published in 5687’ (… Meshiv Davar ii. [p.]71 (responsum 8). Despite the omission in the current edition, it is clear that R. Berlin read newspapers.”[14]

My good friend Mr. Israel, upon reading this passage, consulted a copy of the first edition of Meishiv Davar, printed in 1894, and confirmed what Rabbi Oberlander said is indeed correct, the words ‘Hameilits etc.’ appear. However, when he checked another copy of  Meishiv Davar, also printed in 1894, he saw that the words ‘Hameilits etc.’ had been removed! Thus proving that this censorship took place already in 1894!

It appears that the Meishiv Davar was printed twice in 1894 and already there are differences between the two editions.

 The Mifal Bibliography Haivrit notes:

קיימות הדפסות סטיריאוטיפיות אחדות של ספר זה, ובכולן התאריך תרנ”ד. יש השמטות אחדות שונות בין הדפסה להדפסה.

 However, they do not write what the differences are, exactly. It seems we have uncovered one of them.[15]

 

Shmuel Glick, in his first volume of Kuntres Hateshuvot Hachadoshot, s.v. Meishiv Davar [p. 686 # 2498], does not make any mention of there being two versions of the 1894 edition. However, in volume three [p. 1505], Glick notes that there are different editions of Meishiv Davar and while he does mention one difference between the two editions, he does not note this particular discrepancy. [See the end of the post.]

The story does not end here. When Mr. Israel turned the page to the very next siman in the Meishiv Davar, he again noticed the same occurrence. In one edition of the 1894 Meishiv Davar [p. 73, responsum 9] it says ‘Hameliits etc.’ and in the other edition, also printed in 1894, the word ‘Hameilits‘ had been removed!

Even more interesting is that these two Teshuvot originally appeared as articles in the Hameilits newspaper!!

Additionally worth pointing out, is another mention of Hameilits newspaper in the same siman [no. 9], which was not edited out from either 1894 edition:

אבל אם בעל נפש הוא עליו לבקש תחלה מחילה ברבים באותו מקום הוא המליץ…

[Presumably, those responsible for censoring the edition mistook the word to mean ‘advocated’, not the title of the newspaper]

Images five

In 1968, the Meishiv Davar was reprinted based on the 1894 edition that included the words ‘Hameilits etc.’.

 In 2003, a volume called Igrot HaNetziv Me-Volozhin was printed in Bnei Brak, including some letters on this same controversy [pp. 168- 174] [without saying where they are from[16]] with the words ‘Hameilits etc.’

Netziv and his Emek Ha-Netziv

Surprisingly, the story does not end here.

In an article written in 1887 by Rav Kook about the Netziv[17], he writes:

ובהיותו בן עשרים ושלש שנים כבר ראה לבו הרבה חכמה ודעת בכל מקצועות תורה שבעל פה ואז החל לכתוב ספרו הגדול על הספרי חמדה גנוזה עמו עד היום… הננו מעוררים בזה את כבוד הגאון שליט”א לזכות את הרבים מתופשי התורה בהוצאת הספר היקר הזה לאור עולם ולהאיר עיני רבים ממבקשי הדעת [כנסת ישראל, בעריכת ש’ ראבינוויץ, ווארשא תרמ”ח, עמ’ 140(=מאמרי הראי”ה, עמ’ 124)].

However, the Netziv’s Pirush on Sifrei,[18] entitled Emek Ha-Netziv was first printed from manuscript only in 1959-1969. In the first volume the Netziv quotes the “Zofeh Le-hamagid Year ten, issue 28″. Gil Perl already notes that this is the edition of the Ha -Maggid printed on July 17, 1867.[19] Although Perl noted other cases of censorship in the Emek Ha-Netziv, this source was not censored.[20] We see here clearly that the Netziv read newspapers and even referenced them in his work.

Netziv and his Ha’amek Davar                   
          

In 1879, the Netziv printed his classic work on chumash, Ha’amek Davar,[21] based on the Shiurim he gave after Davening.[22] In his Pirush to Parshat Bereishis (2:9), he quotes a manuscript of R’ Maimon (father of the Rambam) which he had seen printed in Ha-Levonon.

In 1937, Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan printed a collection of almost one thousand and five hundred addenda by the Netziv to his Ha’amek Davar[23] [available here]. On page seven, Netziv quotes the newspaper Ha-tzefirah. Furthermore, Gil Perl points to some additional passages in Ha’amek Davar that seem to be based on material from the newspapers of the time.[24] From all the above, we see him reading newspapers.[25]

Censorship and the Ha’amek Davar

In 1999, a new edition of the Ha’amek Davar was printed incorporating many more corrections.[26] They inserted the numerous addenda published by Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan into their proper places in the chumash. However two pieces were censored out – both of the aforementioned quotes by the Netziv,[27] citing these newspapers!

In 2005, Rabbi Mordechai Cooperman reprinted the Ha’amek Davar; with annotations, his edition does contain both newspaper references.

More on the Netziv and newspapers

In 2003, a volume called Igrot HaNetziv Me-Volozhin was printed in Bnei Brak this volume is full of references and articles by the Netziv from different newspapers of the time.[28]

In Meishiv Davar 1:44 there is a piece titled: “Al Yamin vsmal’.[29] This siman was actually first printed in the newspaper Machzike Hadat[30] and as can be seen from the introductory paragraphs, it was a response to an earlier article that the Netziv had read in that newspaper.

Appendix: Some other Gedolim who read Newspapers