Concerning Athei Merahiq, Nasog Ahor, and the Ravia Mugrash, and More

by Rabbi Avi Grossman

(The author would like to express his gratitude to those who supported the recent publication of his Haggadat Hapesah. Contact him at avrohom.grossman@gmail.com to obtain a copy. Parts of this post originally appeared here.)

Recently, I was privileged to be part of a fun-yet-esoteric discussion on matters of Hebrew grammar. First, some background: there is a grammatical phenomenon in Biblical Hebrew known as “nasog ahor,” literally, “stepped back.” In certain words that are accented on the last syllable but have an earlier syllable that is open, sometimes the accent is shifted to that earlier syllable if the proceeding, grammatically connected word is accented on one of its earlier syllables. Examples with which many are familiar include the blessing on the Torah, wherein the word בחר, when connected to the next word, BA-nu, becomes “a-sher BA-har BA-nu,” or the blessing on the bread, wherein the word would normally be ham-mo-TZI, but when connected to LE-hem, it becomes ham-MO-tzi LE-hem. 

The second is a phenomenon that is often a consequence of the first, and it is not well known at all. “Athei merahiq,” lit. “coming from afar,” is when a word ends with an open, unaccented syllable vowelized with a qamatz or segol and is joined to the proceeding word that is accented on the first syllable, placing a dagesh in the first letter of that latter word. The fact that the first word’s last syllable is unaccented may be due to the “stepped back” phenomenon described above, but not always. Examples that come to mind from recent Torah readings include Genesis 30:33, w’A-n’tha BI, in which the beth has a dagesh, and 31:12, O-seh LACH, in which the lamed has a dagesh.

While the nasog ahor phenomenon makes sense to me, and interestingly enough, has its parallels in spoken English, for instance, I do not understand the latter phenomenon, nor am I aware of any explanation among the various authorities. However, based on the theories I outline in my book, I can tolerate why this phenomenon of basically closing the final syllable of the first word would happen only with the segol or qamatz. The segol is a t’nu’a q’tana, a minor or short vowel, and the only t’nu’a q’tana that occurs in open, accented syllables that end words, making it more versatile than the patah, the only other short vowel that occurs in open or accented syllables, and because it does not have a natural semivowel at its end (the Y sound at the end of the long E and A sounds, or the W at the end of long O or U sounds), closing its syllable does not result in an unaccented consonant cluster, which, as explicated by Gesenius, is not allowed. As for the qamatz, it is the only t’nu’a g’dola, major or long vowel, that does not have a natural semivowel conclusion, and once again closing its syllable does not result in the formation of a consonant cluster, although this would then require us to explain why an ordinary qamatz is treated like the other major vowels if it is lacking this essential feature. 

Like every rule, athei merahiq has its exceptions. For example, we read A-sa LO in Genesis 37:3 , and in that case, the lamed should have a dagesh, but it does not, or in 1:5, QA-ra LAY-la, and once again the lamed should have a dagesh, but it does not. It seems that whenever a past tense, singular, masculine verb in the pa’al conjugation that ends with a silent hei or alef is accented on its first syllable, it does not place a dagesh at the beginning of the next word. I have not yet found an explanation as to why this class of verbs should not follow the athei merahiq rule, and it is quite surprising being that their female counterparts (words like קראה and עשתה, etc.) are sometimes accented on their first syllables and then follow the rule of athei merahiq.

Recently, Dr. Marc Shapiro, k’darko baqodesh and blogs, released another must-read article on the Seforim blog. In it he made the following point: 

In the ArtScroll siddur, p. 86 it reads:

ועל מאורי אור שעשית, יפארוך, סלה

There is a dagesh in the ס of סלה. This means that the comma after יפארוך is a mistake, as you cannot place a dagesh in this ס if preceded by a comma.

Dr. Shapiro’s assumptions in this matter are that the samech of sela receives a dagesh because of the athei merahiq rule, meaning that the previous word, y’fa-a-RU-cha, must be connected to it, and therefore it would be wrong to have a comma between the words. If there were a comma, then the samech would not receive a dagesh. It is then that I took issue with his argument, and wrote the following to him:

Actually you can have a dagesh. For example, אַ֭שְׁרֵי יֽוֹשְׁבֵ֣י בֵיתֶ֑ךָ    ע֝֗וֹד יְֽהַלְל֥וּךָ סֶּֽלָה.

This is a well-known verse from the Psalms. 

Now, you might be initially inclined to dismiss this example, as in this case, sela is connected to the previous word by the trop, but the truth is that in the Sifrei Emeth, what would normally be a mercha tip’ha (pause) siluq succession (in the other 24 books), does not and cannot exist when the word with the siluq is less than three whole syllables (or when accented before the last syllable, four whole syllables). Instead, what would be the tip’ha, the mafsiq, becomes the m’shareth of the siluq. For example, in Chronicles we have this well-known verse

 הוֹד֤וּ לַֽיהוָה֙ כִּ֣י ט֔וֹב כִּ֥י לְעוֹלָ֖ם חַסְדּֽוֹ׃

But in the Psalms, because the word hasdo only has two syllables, the last three words are all connected, and hasdo is connected to the previous word: 

:הוֹד֣וּ לַֽיהוָ֣ה כִּי־ט֑וֹב    כִּ֖י לְעוֹלָ֣ם חַסְדּֽוֹ

The trop of the word ki is not the tip’ha-mafsiq that exists in the other books, rather, it is also a m’shareth:

This happens to also hold true for the etnah in Sifrei Emeth, which, according to R’ Breuer, and as you can see from this example, has the weight of a zaqef of the other books, and also converts its mafsiq mishneh into a m’shareth when the word with the etnah is “short.” I have yet to figure out why this is. So, for example, if the verse lha’alot ner (mafsik) tamid were to be in Psalms, it would just be lha’alot ner tamid. Or the verse nagila w’nism’ha vo. In the Torah, it would have been nagila w’nism’ha (pause) Bo, but because bo is a short word, it is automatically connected to the previous. Every time the word sela appears at the end of a verse, it must be connected to the previous word, even if in context, the mafsiq that was supposed to be right before it would indicate the highest grammatical disjunction. For example, in the above verse, if sela were not there, it would be read “ashrei (pause) yosh’vei veithecha; od, y’hal’lucha (full stop).” And the same is true for basically every verse in Psalms that ends with sela. 

 :יְהוָ֣ה צְבָא֣וֹת עִמָּ֑נוּ    מִשְׂגָּֽב־לָ֨נוּ אֱלֹהֵ֖י יַֽעֲקֹ֣ב סֶֽלָה

Logically, according to our accepted use of commas, all of those verses should have a comma, or perhaps even a period, right after the penultimate word. “The Lord of Hosts is with us; Our stronghold is the God of Jacob. Sela!” Yet, here sela is once again connected to the previous word. 

So yes, if “m’orei or she’asita, y’faarucha, sela” were a verse in Psalms, the last two words would be connected (because y’fa’arucha is accented on an early syllable and ends with a qamatz) and the samech would have a dagesh.

Dr. Shapiro had some follow up questions: 

I see that you are assuming that a tipcha equals a comma (and let’s assume we are dealing with Tehillim). Leaving aside the issue of since when do siddurim insert commas before words like they did before סלה? I have not seen that anywhere. But is a tipcha really a comma?

He also complimented me, and I wrote the following response to him:

The answer is that tip’ha is sometimes a comma. The rule in the 21 ordinary books of scripture is that tip’ha is the mafsiq before the siluq. Every verse in those books has at the very least a siluq and a tip’ha.

This needs to be clarified. There are probably only a few dozen or so verses wherein the last mafsiq before the siluq is an ethnah, but in those cases, the ethnah is preceded by a tip’ha. 

However, the objective value of the tip’ha depends on the entire context of the particular verse. In a short verse, like “Adam Sheth Enosh” (I Chronicles 1:1) it corresponds to absolutely no punctuation. In וַיָּ֥זֶד יַֽעֲקֹ֖ב נָזִ֑יד וַיָּבֹ֥א עֵשָׂ֛ו מִן־הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה וְה֥וּא עָיֵֽף׃, the second tip’ha has the value of what we would call a comma, while the first tip’ha (under Yaakov) [does not.] If the word sela would ever end any verse in the 21 books, it would be preceded by a tip’ha, by definition, or perhaps the even stronger ethnah, and then you would have to examine the verse’s context and meaning to determine what ever mafsiqim are featured. As you know, in some verses, there aren’t even zaqefim, let alone etnahim, before the tip’ha, e.g.  וְהָי֞וּ הַדְּבָרִ֣ים הָאֵ֗לֶּה אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָֽנֹכִ֧י מְצַוְּךָ֛ הַיּ֖וֹם עַל־לְבָבֶֽךָ׃

In contrast, the verses in Sifrei Emeth have almost half a dozen ways of ending! Some have a ravia mugrash where the tip’ha would be, some turn the final ravia into a m’shareth (like the examples I showed you earlier), and some have a string of m’shar’thim with no mafsiqim, once again due to the shortness of all the words:  עֵֽינֵי־כֹ֭ל אֵלֶ֣יךָ יְשַׂבֵּ֑רוּ וְאַתָּ֤ה נֽוֹתֵן־לָהֶ֖ם אֶת־אָכְלָ֣ם בְּעִתּֽוֹ׃

My guess is that this has something to do with certain musical rules. 

The sages noted that the verses of Sifrei Emeth tend to be shorter than the verses in the rest of the Bible. I would also add that after careful analysis, including a thorough comparison of the verses and passages that appear in both (David’s victory song, for example), the verses of Emeth tend to have less mafsiqim. I would really like to find someone with whom to work to understand these phenomena, but alas, I immigrated to Israel after R’ Breuer and R’ Kappah left us.

Therefore, in answer to your question, I insert the comma because that is how the verse is to be understood when translated, and that is how the English language and modern Hebrew work, but in the scriptural form, the laws of grammar/music dictate that the pause be subsumed due to the shortness of the word. My belief is that the siddur makers should always leave in the trop where ever possible, but certain liturgies are not biblical, and therefore the siddur makers try to help the reader by adding our Western conventions. 

(75:4 is also a perfect example, by the way: נְֽמֹגִ֗ים אֶ֥רֶץ וְכׇל־יֹשְׁבֶ֑יהָ

  אָנֹכִ֨י תִכַּ֖נְתִּי עַמּוּדֶ֣יהָ סֶּֽלָה

If we were to parse this verse using modern commas and periods, the period would be before the word sela. And that is how, for example, the JPS 1917 has it.)

Consider: How should one say “al tig’u bimshihai“? In Chronicles, there is a disjunctive pashta on the first word, leaving the dagesh in the following beth, but in the Psalms, tig’u has a conjunctive mercha, making the next word “vimshihai.” Or “Lo tirtsah, lo tinaf.” When read with one set of trop, the tavim are strong, while when read with the other set, the tavim are weak. When you are speaking or lecturing, or perhaps reciting those verses as part of your prayers but not as part of whole paragraphs, which set of trop do you use? I have no answer at the moment. But this doubt must exist when the liturgy adds sela to the end of a sentence. Do we read it as though it were one of the Psalms?

In the three books of Emeth, there are many verses that conclude with a series of connected words, whereas in the other books, such a series would demand a number of mafsiqim preceding the end of the verse. However, with regards to the beginnings of verses, the opposite is true, when we deal with unusually long words. In the books of Emeth, the tendency is to have more mafsiqim, whereas in the other books, there are sequences of many connected words, usually leading into the flourishing mafsiqim of the fourth level, pazer, t’lisha, gershayim, etc. This might have something to do with those flourishes. Because the books of Emeth are more musical, the flourishes tend to be at the ends, so that would allow for more conjunctives, whereas in the other books, the flourishes and conjunctives are concentrated at the beginnings of verses.

… 

There is much to be said about the ravia mugrash (the trop that marks words such this: נַ֝פְשִׁ֗י,) one of the most common disjunctives found before the conclusion of verses in the books of Emeth. Most often, it does fill the role of the tip’ha found before the conclusion of the vast majority of verses in the rest of the Bible, but not always.

The zaqef gadol that occurs on “long” words that, due to their lack of an open syllable that is not accentable, can not receive a secondary accent (ta’am mishneh) is represented by the ordinary symbol for the zaqef qaton and another symbol, called a m’thiga, the symbol that normally represents the qadma or pashta, placed above the second letter of the word. Together, these two symbols signify the zaqef gadol, and not, as many believe, that the word is actually hosting both the accent of the zaqef and the secondary accent of the pashta/qadma. An illustration: לְזַ֨רְעֲךָ֔. In this case, all of the accents and musical notes should be placed on the final syllable, and no accent whatsoever is put on the first syllable, zar, the one under the m’thiga. Many are misled by the m’thiga, and it is unfortunate.

The ravia mugrash is similar to this type of zaqef gadol in that it is represented by the combination of two symbols, in this case the common ravia above the accented syllable plus another symbol, the one that normally represents the geresh, above the first letter of the word. Once again, these two symbols combine to form one unified symbol, and the presence of the geresh symbol on the first letter does not indicate secondary accentage. However, there are a number of cases in which a single word does have multiple trops, and the lesser of the two does indicate a secondary accent, for example, in words that have a munah and a zaqef qaton, or both qadma and azla (geresh), or, in rare cases, a tip’ha and an ethnah (Numbers 28:26) or the like on exceptionally long words. 

The ravia mugrash most often appears toward the end of a verse when what follows is a “long” word, or at least two words. Generally speaking, a “long” word is one that has three full syllables, whereas two words will do the trick even if combined they only have two full syllables. When discussing post-talmudic Hebrew poetry, the terms t’nu’a (lit., a “movement”) and yathed (lit., a “peg”) are used to describe the two types of syllables that can be formed in Hebrew. The former refers to a pure syllable, whether closed by a consonantal sound or not, while the latter refers to a pure syllable preceded by the sound of a consonant marked with a sh’wa na‘* (or a guttural letter vowelized with some sort of hataf vowel, which are types of sh’wa na’.). For the purposes of Emeth, both t’nu’oth and y’thedoth are (often literally) counted as syllables, whereas in the other books of the Bible, there are cases in which this categorical lumping is not admitted. (In later Hebrew terminology, including modern Hebrew, t’nu’a is also the word for a vowel sound, with the connection being that every syllable has but one vowel sound, with options for consonantal sounds to both precede and follow the vowel.) Rabbi Meir Mazuz uses this piyut as an example for beginners:

adon (yathed, as the alef is vowelized with a hataf patah) ‘o-lam (two t’nu’oth, pure syllables) asher (yathed) ma-lach (two t’nu’oth)…

These definitions of syllables are entirely unlike the ones with which we are familiar from our spoken languages. Indeed, we must also keep in mind that throughout the Bible, words connected by maqqafim (hyphen-like symbols) are, for all of our grammatical intents and purposes, considered as one word. Whether a compound noun, adjective, or adverb is “hyphenated” into one compound word or not is a delicate syntactical matter, and sometimes both forms appear in a single verse. 

In a particular verse, if there is only one word (according to our liberal definition) after the word that can potentially receive the ravia mugrash, in order for the ravia mugrash to appear, that ultimate word must, as we have said, have at least three syllables. Therefore, the following are not considered syllables:

1. Any syllable that may be after the accented syllable. That is, in words accented mil’eil, before the last syllable, the latter syllables do not count. Thus, words like KE-sef and ME-lech are considered monosyllabic for our purposes, while huq-QE-cha, and yag-GI-du are merely disyllabic. 
2. Similarly, the patah g’nuva necessitated by the combination of long vowels closed with final guttural consonants also does not count as a syllable: ya-REI-ah and ma-NO-a’ only have two syllables for our purposes, while Noah is a monosyllabic name.
3. Any letter vowelized with a sh’wa na’ or hataf vowel also does not form a countable syllable. Therefore, words like l’o-LAM only have two syllables. In poetry terms, both y’thedoth and t’nu’oth count as only one syllable each. 
4. When a prefix waw with a sh’wa is converted to a shuruq because it precedes a labial letter, and therefore seemingly forms a third syllable, it still does not count, and it is viewed as though it remained a waw with a sh’wa na’. Examples: u-va-A-retz  (Psalms 113:6) and u-vi-NA (Proverbs 23:23) are both still considered as disyllabic, the former because the last syllable is after the accented syllable. (When the prefix waw becomes a shuruq because the first letter of the word is vowelized with a sh’wa, in most cases a new, countable syllable is formed with the original first letter, e.g., וּשְמוֹ ush-MO or וּבְיוֹם uv-YOM, and in some exceptional cases recorded in the masora, the waw/shuruq forms its own syllable, and the subsequent sh’wa is na’ is still connected to the next syllable, e.g., u-Z’HAV (Genesis 2:12). In either of these cases, a syllable is added to the count.)
5. Lastly, if a word has every type of additional factor that does not increase its syllable count, i.e., both of its true syllables are preceded by some form of sh’wa na’ or hataf and it has another, third syllable after the accented syllable, then it may be considered a long word, e.g., l’sho-L’HE-cha (Proverbs 22:21), y’va-R’CHU-cha (Psalms 145:10) , and y’sha-R’THEI-ni (Psalms 101:6), but as can be seen from Psalms 145:6, asap-P’REN-na, this is not always the case. 

Thus, in Proverbs 29:22, the hyphenated word rav-PA-sha is not considered two words because of the maqqaf, nor is it considered a “long word” because it only has “two syllables,” the third syllable not being considered because it proceeds the accent, and therefore the preceding word is marked with a conjunctive munah, and the same can be said about the word y’shar-DA-rech five verses later, while in Psalms 145:4 EIN HE-qer does allow for a preceding ravia mugrash despite its lack of syllables because the words remain unhyphenated.  

The d’hi, (as in: ר֭וּחוֹ ) which we have addressed earlier, is also slightly misleading, due to its resemblance to both the disjunctive tip’ha of the rest of the Bible and the connective tip’ha of Emeth, and the fact that it is always written before the word, thus never indicating which syllable is to be accented. Further, the rules we have stated above regarding the ravia mugrash before the silluq apply to the d’hi that appears before the ethnah, i.e., that it is replaced by a connective trop in certain circumstances, but with one important addition: If no other word appears in the ethnah‘s domain before the word that is to receive the d’hi, and no other words are to appear connected to the word with the ethnah after the d’hi, the d’hi is replaced by a mercha, its counterpart conjunctive. This explains the phenomenon in the example I brought earlier, in the following verse with which many are familiar (I Chronicles 16:22): 

אל־תִּגְּעוּ֙ בִּמְשִׁיחָ֔י וּבִנְבִיאַ֖י אַל־תָּרֵֽעוּ׃

The second word is bim-shi-HAI, with a strong beth sound, whereas in the corresponding verse in Psalms(105:15),

אל־תִּגְּע֥וּ בִמְשִׁיחָ֑י    וְ֝לִנְבִיאַ֗י אַל־תָּרֵֽעוּ׃

the word is vim-shi-HAI, with a weak, veth sound. The (compound) word al-tig-G’U before the (long) word vim-shi-HAI has no other words before it, and therefore it is not marked with the disjunctive d’hi. This also explains the following noticeable break in the pattern in the final psalm, which is a good illustration of most of the rules we have discussed until this point: 

As you can see, the word hal’luhu, is usually marked with a disjunctive, because it is a verb followed by an object composed of multiple words (as in the conclusions of these verses), but in the second and fifth verses, the first hal’luhu‘s (in blue) have no words before them, nor do the subsequent words with the ethnah’s have other conjoined words. Thus, the hal’luhu‘s in those verses lose their disjunctive d’hi’s, and the following words (or hyphenated compound word), are modified, vig-vu-ro-THAW or v’tzil-tz’lei-SHA-ma’, respectively, and the prefix beth in each word is weak. In verses 3 and 4, the word hal’luhu in the first halves is proceeded by multiple words in the domain of the ethnah (the green words), and therefore it keeps its disjunctive d’hi. Now, one may ask, why is it that in verse 5 b’tziltzlei shama’ becomes one hyphenated word, whereas in verse 3, the seemingly shorter words b’theqa shofar remain separate? The answer lies in the fact, that, based on what we wrote above, b’tziltz’lei and b’theqa are both “short” words, but b’theqa has an open syllable capable of receiving an accent, whereas b’tziltz’lei does not have an accentable syllable that would not be adjacent to the accented syllable of SHA-ma’. Its latter syllable is obviously unfit due to proximity, and its first syllable is closed, making it also ineligible. Secondary accents may only be placed on open syllables.

…

A major exception to these rules occurs a number of times in the shortest verses of Emeth. In the verses that open each of the principles speeches in Job, (3:2, 4:1, 6:1, etc.) there are only three or four words, and we find that either a ravia (in the three-word verses that introduce Elihu or Job’s speeches) or a ravia mugrash (in the four-word verses that introduce the others with the longer names) precedes the final word, even though that final word is accented on its penultimate syllable. This can be explained by the perhaps-necessary proposition that every single verse needs at least one internal disjunctive trop, and there is no other place to put one in those verses, or that the final word actually is a “long” word, and we are just left with the question as to why “way-yo-MAR,” which is normally accented milra’, is here accented mil’eil, like its counterpart way-YO-mer, which has the same meaning, but normally appears at the beginning of a phrase. I hope the readership has any insights regarding this matter.

An opposite exception is in Job 6:4, whereby the “long” word YA-‘ar-CHU-ni is still connected to the previous word. I can hypothesize that this word should be considered short, as it was once pronounced with “only” two countable syllables, as though vowelized thusly: יַעְרְכוּנִי, ya’-R’CHU-ni.

….

One will also take note of the fact that in the Mechon Mamre edition (the online edition from which I borrowed these visual aids) and the various MHK editions edited by R’ Breuer, some verses have ordinary ravia’s instead of the ravia mugrash. For example, in the last verse of Psalm 150 above, the penultimate word has a ravia, but in the various Koren publications, for instance, and other traditionally Ashkenazi texts, those words also have a ravia mugrash. Apparently, R’ Breuer was of the opinion that a ravia mugrash can only appear in verses that already have an ethnah (or one of its replacements). The others do not subscribe to such a rule. Also, I find it interesting that in verses like those that conclude the last five psalms, we find a striking pattern that effectively divides the verse into three parts, instead of the usual two. Most verses in the Psalms follow the symmetrical division pattern, with the half-way point marked by an ethnah, and the quarters marked by a d’hi and ravia mugrash, respectively, but in these cases, the ordinarily symmetrical verse has the climactic Hallelujah added at the end, and because the ravia (mugrash) has to come before the silluq, what would have been the silluq is downgraded to a ravia mugrash, necessitating the downgrading of the the ethnah at what would have been the verse’s midpoint, resulting in it also receiving a ravia. This dispute between the publishers and the phenomenon of the verse being effectively divided into three by the ravia’s indicates to me that for our purposes both types of ravia (ordinary and mugrash) have the same punctuational value, and that in whatever theory we use to explain the hierarchy among the ta’amei emeth, the simple analogy of emperors, kings, viceroys (primary, secondary, and tertiary disjunctives), etc., that features in the other books of the Bible is not adequate for the books of Emeth. For example, in his introduction to the Daat Mikra Psalms, R’ Breuer wrote about how there are no “emperors” in ta’amei emeth, except for the silluqim, and how both the ravia and ethnah are on the same level, both being “kings.” I would like to offer that if we must use the nomenclature and analogies familiar from the other books, the silluq and oleh w’yoreid are the emperors, and the ethnah is the king, ravia’s are viceroys, etc., except that, in a radical departure from the rest of the Bible, most of the verses of Emeth, due to their shortness, have only one emperor, the silluq, and often the kings are also missing, as in those verses in which, as pointed out by R’ Breuer, some sort of ravia takes the ethnah‘s place because there are not enough words proceeding it that can be furthered divided.

One should also note how in the following two verses,

:וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר יְהוָ֔ה אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֖ן לֵאמֹֽר

and

:וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר

the only difference is that the name of the object in the latter verse is slightly longer, and not even by a syllable. We see that the mere addition of a hei with a hataf patah lengthens the name Aharon enough so that it justifies upgrading the mercha before the silluq to a tip’ha, and the tip’ha that was already marking the Divine Name to be upgraded to a zaqef. Not only would this not fly in Emeth, as I have mentioned before, this shows the general tendency of the cantillation in most biblical books to have more disjunctives, especially when close to the “emperors,” whereas in Emeth the tendency is toward more conjunctives, especially as words get closer to the primary disjunctives. It is telling that the silluq, ethnah, zaqef, and tip’ha of most of the Bible have at most two words in their immediate domains connected to them by the trop, whereas the lesser disjunctives, e.g. the pazer, t’vir, and pashta are often preceded by three and sometimes four words marked with conjunctives. A comparison of similar words and phrases indicates for example, that the disjunctive t’vir of the rest of the bible is often converted to a conjunctive in Emeth. 

….

In the rest of the books of the Bible, this idea that the sh’wa na’ forms one syllable with that which follows is often preserved in the phenomenon of the athei me’rahiq. In the second reading of Wayeira, we have the combination ha-LI-la L’CHA, whereby the lamed of l’cha receives a dagesh because it is part of an accented syllable that is immediately preceded by a connected word that ends with an unaccented qamatz in an open syllable. 

Yet, there is also the phenomenon that a rule that distinguishes between two possible trops is even more specific than syllable count; sometimes, for instance, whether a word is marked with a qadma or munah, both conjunctives, depends on whether that word is accented on its very first letter, and that, in turn, effects the subsequent disjunctive. Two ready examples are Deuteronomy 15:7, V’CHA, and 17:18, w’CHA-thav. Words like these are either marked 1.with a munah if accented on their first letters, or 2. marked with a qadma if accented on any other letter. These examples show how exactly this rule is followed, as in both of them the first (compound) syllable is accented, but that is not sufficient to allow for the munah. Consequently, the following words are then, despite their being eligible to receive a gershayim, marked with a geresh, as there can not be a word marked with gershayim immediately following a word marked with a qadma. 

With this in mind, we can understand an unusual difference of opinion. In Numbers 33:9, most of the tiqqunim have the words שתים עשרה marked with a qadma and azla (geresh). Had the word esreh appeared alone, (which technically could not happen because the word, as vowelized, only exists in conjunction with another,) it would have been marked with a gershayim because it is accented on its latter syllable, but because the word שתֵּים, which by our definition is monosyllabic, is not accented on its first letter, it therefore receives a qadma, which in turn converts the gershayim on עשרה into a geresh. (The word gershayim itself is unusual in that if it or any word of its mishqal were to appear in the Bible, it could never be marked with a gershayim precisely because it is accented mil’eil! It is very odd that thousands of young men are taught the trop by singing their names, thus becoming familiar with the “ger-sha-YIM.”) However, in MHK publications and in the Mechon Mamre edition, שתֵּים is marked a munah, and this makes perhaps more sense, as in the words שְתַּיִם, שְתֵּי, and שְתֵּים the taw is still strong, indicating the tradition that in these words, the sh’wa under the shin is not pronounced na’ and it would have been more appropriate for me to represent שְתֵּים as shteim, without the apostrophe I have been using to represent the sh’wa na. If the shin is indeed read in one consonant cluster with the taw, then this word is now accented on its very first letter (along with all four of its letters), thus calling for its trop to be a munah and not a qadma. In Diqduq Eliyahu and Lehem Habikkurim, this strange circumstance is illustrated by placing a phantom alef vowelized with a short vowel before the shin, thus making the shin appear to close a syllable and “immobilizing” its sh’wa. In a similar word, the singular masculine form of the imperative “drink,” שְתֵה, the shin is pronounced with a sh’wa na’ and therefore the taw is weak, while when the word שְתֵּי is prefixed with a mem, e.g., in Judges 16:28, indicating the contracted word מִן, the shin does receive a dagesh to compensate for the missing nun, making its sh’wa a sh’wa na’, and the taw does lose its dagesh. 

Taking Issue with the Ish Matzliah 

Rabbi Mazuz is the leading authority on all things grammatical, and it is a testament to his influence and greatness that two of his more questionable opinions, opinions that can not be reconciled with the traditions we have received, have become more and more popular, and is partly attributable to the fact that the tiqqun published by his students, Tiqqun Qor’im Ish Matzliah, and the subsequent Hummash of the same name for synagogue use have become fixtures in many synagogues.

The first involves the public reading of Genesis 35:22, the Reuben incident. According to the traditional practice, this verse describing Reuben’s actions is combined with the next verse (what should be 35:23, “And the children of Israel were twelve,” but in many editions is not numbered) thus eliminating its silluq, the Torah reader’s cue for the Targum reader, depriving the Targum reader a chance to actually read the translation to the former verse aloud, and when he hears the silluq of the latter verse, he only reads the Targum thereto. The author of the weekly letter “Tamey Torah” (spelled in Hebrew טעמי תורה, tameytorah@gmail.com) has pointed out in the name of the Rabbi Jacob Emden that this is the explanation for the alternate sets of trop that accompany the Decalogue, both iterations of which are traditionally read publicly in the ta’am elyon, a set of trop which recombines the traditional verses, i.e. rearranges the silluqim, such that some verses are thereby combined into one verse, whereas another verse is divided into multiple short verses, thus cuing to the Targum reader to read his lines after individual commandments and not actual verses. The standard set of trop is referred to as the ta’am tahton, and the usual systems of numbering the verses follow it.

For centuries now, most Jewish communities have not been reading the Targum along with the public Torah reading, and based on this explanation, there is no longer any reason for us to continue reading these three sections with the ta’am ‘elyon, and indeed there are places in which the practice of reading the Decalogue with the ta’am ‘elyon has been suspended. However, in places where the Targum is still read publicly, this upholds the talmudic imperative to not translate the account of the Reuben incident (M’gilla 4:10, Laws of Prayer and Torah Reading 12:12). Rabbi Emden’s understanding is even mentioned by Rabbi Mazuz in his introduction to his tiqqun, yet, it was his father’s practice (see Tamey Torah for written sources) to read Genesis 35:22 twice, once on its own and once connected to the next verse, in order to thereby read the verse with both sets of trop, as though to satisfy all of the opinions because we can not know which is the correct set of trop to follow. Tamey Torah has documented a number of sefarim, all of North African origin, that record this practice, which, aside from the fact that it utilizes the Reductio Ad Opinionibus At Dissiderent fallacy instead of trying to come to sort of halachic solution, has the negative consequence of now having Reuben’s incident read in front of native Hebrew-speakers twice, ensuring that they clearly hear the verse as is, and maybe even provoking them to look into it further, because attention has now been drawn to it. In both this case and the next, it is surprising that the Lehem Habikkurim “died from a kashya” and altered the practice, because in other lands, the answer to his kashya (“why are there two sets of trop?”) had already been offered and accepted, thereby upholding the traditional practice. Tamey Torah also notes that the Vatican manuscript they claim as a source is misunderstood: its marginal note is merely pointing out the existence of two sets of trop, and does not literally mean that both sets should somehow be read publicly.

As a side note, the other peculiarity found in the Vatican manuscript, indicating that Genesis 35:22 should feature a zarqa–segol series in the ta’am elyon, was also included in the tiqqun. Now, there are two competing schools of thought regarding what exactly a segol is supposed to be:

1. Segol is a disjunctive trop on the level of an ethnah, and together they divide the verse into three parts, the first third concluding with the segol, the second with the ethnah. This explains why the segol always precedes the ethnah. (I know of only one verse in the Bible that has a segol but no ethnah.) When examining many verses, you can see that this makes a lot of sense, and is attributed to the Ibn Ezra and others, and is also endorsed by Rabbi Mazuz.

2. Segol is a disjunctive on the level of a strong zaqef, and when a verse calls for many trops of that level, the first becomes a segol, under specific conditions. Jacobson brings a number of verses, including I Samuel 5:3-4 to illustrate this, and this is the position of Rav Breuer, among others, and explains why the segol‘s second mishneh is a ravi’a and not a zaqef, but it does not explain why segol is always before the ethnah.

According to the common tradition, Genesis 35:22 is to be read thusly:

:וַיְהִ֗י בִּשְׁכֹּ֤ן יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ בָּאָ֣רֶץ הַהִ֔וא וַיֵּ֣לֶךְ רְאוּבֵ֔ן וַיִּשְׁכַּ֕ב אֶת־בִּלְהָ֖ה פִּילֶ֣גֶשׁ אָבִ֑יו וַיִּשְׁמַ֖ע יִשְׂרָאֵֽל

and the subsequent verse, which as I mentioned, is not independently numbered in many editions, appears thusly:

וַיִּֽהְי֥וּ בְנֵֽי־יַעֲקֹ֖ב שְׁנֵ֥ים עָשָֽׂר׃

Now, there are two main ways we could have combined these verses into one long verse and preserve the hierarchy of the trop:

1. The first verse is now only half a verse, and therefore, it’s silluq is downgraded to an ethnah, and its z’qefim and tip’hoth should be downgraded to pashtoth, r’vi’im, t’virim etc.,

or

1. being that the latter verse has no ethnah, we could perhaps divide the combined verse into thirds, with the first verse containing the first two thirds, and its silluq becoming an ethnah and its own ethnah becoming a segol, but, as pointed by R’ Breuer and others, even if one were to assume that a segol is a disjunctive on the level of an ethnah, there is no such thing as a segol in such proximity to an ethnah. Therefore, this possibility is ruled out.

Yet, in the original verse, the zaqef on the word ההִוא is the strongest internal disjunctive after the ethnah of אביו, and when the verses are combined, because the original ethnah is downgraded, it stands to reason that the zaqef of hahi should have been downgraded to a ravia, and certainly not upgraded to a segol as it has been in the Tiqqun Ish Matzliah. On the contrary, if the Reuben verse is then extended by a new phrase that is “ruled by an emperor,” then the segol should at least be placed where the Reuben verse’s ethnah appeared, and I would therefore argue that if anything, we could only entertain a segol on the word hahi in the ta’am tahton of that verse.

Elsewhere in the tiqqun, the words ohela (genesis 18:6 and elsewhere) and tzo’ara (ibid 19:23) are, in accordance with the opinion of the Lehem Habikkurim, accented on their last syllables, o-he’LA and tzo-a’RA’, respectively, whereas in most tiqqunim, the words are accented on their first syllables, as is seemingly indicated in the oldest manuscripts, O-he’la and TZO-a’ra’. The argument for this position is as follows: Normally, the addition of an unaccented suffix qamatz-silent hei is an alternate form of the directional el or the prefix lamed (the same suffix when accented indicates femininity). “To Hebron” can either be el hevron, or l’hevron, or hevrona. In the latter case, the accent stays on the syllable that is normally accented, and the additional syllable formed by the qamatz and silent hei is not accented. Note also what happens to a word like goshen, which is of the same mishqal as tzo’ar and ohel. The normal pronunciation of the word is GO-shen, and when the directional is appended, it becomes GOSH-na, with the shin now closing the strong vowel of the accented syllable, but in the case of these two words, the presence of the guttural letter vowelized with a hataf, hei with a hataf segol and ‘ayin with a hataf patah, respectively, creates what appears to be a third syllable. Now, according to the rules of grammar with which we are familiar, those gutturals can not receive the accents because they have hatafim, and no hataf or sh’wa na’ is accented. Further, and this is the crux of the dispute, the first syllables of these words should not receive the accents either because that would result in words that are primarily accented too far away from the end of the words, and they are vowelized with holam, necessitating the subsequent guttural letters to be vowelized with forms of hataf vowels, themselves types of shwa na’, which according to another rule, can not follow a full vowel, a tnu’a g’dola, that is accented. Normally, Hebrew words are accented milra’, on the last syllable, whereas in some cases the word is mil’eil, accented before the last syllable, but even in those cases, the accent is at least on the syllable right before the last. There is no such thing as a word accented on a syllable two or more syllables away from the last syllable, and when there is a full vowel in an accented syllable, it can be closed by a shwa nah. For example, in אומרים o-m’RIM, the accented syllable has a hiriq gadol and is closed by the (unwritten) shwa nah of the mem, and in אומר o-MER, the tzeirei of the accented syllable is closed by the shwa nah of the reish.

However this argument is mistaken, because, as we have now learned, consonants, whether guttural or not, when vowelized with sh’wa na’ or any form of hataf do not count as syllables. Therefore, in the words ohela and tzoara, it is not the case that the first of three syllables is accented. Rather, it is just that the first of two syllables is accented. Also, because this first argument could be rejected by the editors of the tiqqun because they may not hold of this theory of explaining the vowels, it must be pointed out that even according to their own theory, when words do have full vowels in their final, accented and closed syllables and the final consonant is a pronounced guttural letter (‘ayin, heth, or a non-silent (“mappiq“) hei), then we add a phantom patah between the vowel and the consonant. If words like ohela and tzo’ara were to follow this model, we would have to pronounce them like אֹ ַהְלָה Oah-la and צֹ ַעְרָה TZOa’-ra, thus adding another seeming syllable to the word. (I added spaces within these words to show where the patah sound would be inserted. In words like תפוּחַ most people know to articulate the patah between the shuruq and the final heth.) In a word like GOSH-na, we would not be confronted with any problem because we already have a precedent for closing a holam‘s accented syllable with a shin sound without having to add a phantom patah, e.g., ראש, rosh. The truth is that in these unusual words, which are ideally accented on their first syllables which feature full vowels closed by guttural consonantal sounds, we have few options.

I welcome whatever insights the readers can offer. 

* For almost twenty years, I have followed the Soncino Talmud’s convention of representing the waw as a “w”  and thaw as “th” in transliteration. This, despite its unpopularity, eliminates many ambiguities and more accurately reflects the proper pronunciation. 

Poetry and Wordplay in the Book of Kohelet

By Joseph Wertzberger[1]

Sefer Kohelet, the Book of Kohelet, was written approximately 700-600 BC according to Rabbinic sources,[2] and is dated to somewhere between that time and the early to mid-third century BC by academic sources.[3] Its wisdom is traditionally attributed to King Solomon.[4]

The book is part of ancient Hebrew wisdom literature, and is known for its existential, philosophic lessons and motifs. But alongside that also, the book is suffused with sophisticated poetry and wordplay, and I’d like to use this essay to point out a few examples.

1. The Meaninglessness of Huvel

The book begins with its most well-known verse, summarizing the work’s theme and setting its tone.

הבל הבלים אמר קהלת, הבל הבלים הכל הבל. קהלת א ב

Huvel of huvel,[5] said Kohelet, huvel of huvel, all is huvel.

The word huvel can be translated variously as air,[6] vapor, meaninglessness, vanity,[7] folly, futility, absurdity,[8] or nothingness.[9] The word is repeated throughout the book as a motif, describing aspects of human endeavor and life experience.

The book begins with a bang, so to speak; a strong summary statement that captures the book’s theme, while also the reader’s attention; and the theme is then explained, elaborated upon, and expanded throughout the rest of the book. The sentence is only eight words long, and a remarkable five of them, more than half of the sentence, are the same word, essentially nothing.

Using a word that also means air, or vapor, as the book’s theme is not accidental, for in the author’s effort to examine life’s purpose, meaning and sense, to dig into it and to pin it down, he (and we, alongside) discovers ultimate meaning and sense to be elusive. We think we understand things, and our minds naturally intuit purpose and endow things with meaning, but the moment we try to pin it down and fully capture it, it slips through our fingers like so much vaporous air.

In fact, the word huvel itself symbolizes its meaning onomatopoeically well, being composed of only soft consonants,[10] its vocalization almost entirely pure breath itself, with no hard sounds; an unusual verbal formulation. The entire sentence, in fact, is composed almost completely of “air” with almost no hard consonants, the only two being the hard ‘k’ sounds in Kohelet and hakol, balancing each other out at the two ends of the sentence. When the sentence is read aloud, particularly with its ancient Hebrew pronunciation and syllabic emphasis, it has a very lilting, bouncing and poetically balanced quality to it.[11]

It is also intriguing to notice that the hard ‘k’ sound in hakol is in fact the only thing that distinguishes the word from the similar word huvel – in fact, even more so, the tiniest difference between the letters kuf and vet are what distinguish absolutely everything from nothing! And the only other ‘k’ sound in the verse is in the only other physical object that appears in the sentence, the speaker of the sentence at its opposite end, who is examining everything, and turning it into nothing.[12] And so, essentially, nothing appears in the sentence until almost its very end, and when something does appear, everything appears all at once with the one simple word, hakol, and it’s all immediately revealed to in fact be… hevel, nothing at all.

1. Onomatopoeia

The book includes many beautiful examples of onomatopoeia. In addition to the word huvel and its use as mentioned, some of the best are the following.[13]

כל הנחלים הלכים אל הים והים איננו מלא, אל מקום שהנחלים הלכים שם הם שבים ללכת[14]. קהלת א ז

We hear the pitter-patter of water bouncing, running and tumbling through the brook down the mountainside.

סובב סבב הולך הרוח ועל סביבתיו שב הרוח[15]. קהלת א ו

The wind’s whistle and howl comes through.

כי כקול הסירים תחת הסיר, כן שחק הכסיל[16]. קהלת ז ו

We can clearly hear the kindling under the kettle crackle and hiss,[17] and the fool’s braying cackle alongside.

אם ישך הנחש בלוא לחש, ואין יתרון לבעל הלשון[18]. קהלת י יא

Here we hear the hiss of the snake, and the whispered sounds of the luchash, in the sounds of the sentence. There’s also a poetically ringing rhyme to the verse, and the gossip whisperer’s tongue coming at the end of it circles poetically back to the snake at its start, whose bite is also viscerally associated with its flicking tongue (snakes hunt by smelling prey through their tongue).

1. He Gives Another, His Portion

כי יש אדם שעמלו בחכמה ובדעת ובכשרון ולאדם שלא עמל בו יתננו חלקו[19]. קהלת ב כא

The word chelko at the end of the sentence seems initially extraneous and off-balance, for when we read the sentence from its start, it seems complete with the word yitnenu. The word chelko then appears, almost an added appendage at the sentence’s end.

It seems that the word chelko (his portion) would have fit the sentence better had the preceding word been yiten (he gives) instead of yitnenu (he gives it to him). Since the word yitnenu includes a subject-reference, it’s odd to refer to the subject again in the next word. Noticing this odd juxtaposition and double subject reference clues in the reader to understand that the person (and portion) described in chelko can also be read as referring to the receiver.[20]

In other words, the sentence is written so as to create in the reader an initial visceral perception of chelko as referring to the giver, followed by an understanding that it refers to the receiver; providing – in prose – an illustration of the very act described by the prose itself, namely having chelko, the portion, ‘pass’ as it were, from the giver to the receiver![21]

1. Making Meaning of Experience

ראיתי את הענין אשר נתן אלהים לבני האדם לענות בו. קהלת ג י

The words “inyan’ and “la’anot” in this sentence have at least four translations, all of which fit together to provide a fuller meaning to the sentence.

La’anot and inyan can mean suffering, pain and negative experience, as in,

וכאשר יענו אותו. שמות א יב

כל נדר וכל שבעת אסר לענת נפש. במדבר ל יד

יום ענות אדם נפשו. ישעיהו נח ה

This translation is given to the words by the Targum,[22] and in this reading the sentence means, “I saw the suffering that God gave people to be afflicted with.”

La’anot and inyan can also mean celebration,[23] happiness and positive experience, as in,

קול ענות אנכי שמע[24]. שמות לב יח

כי האלהים מענה בשמחת לבו[25]. קהלת ה יט

This translation is given by Mordechai Zer-Kavod in his commentary to Mossad Harav Kook’s edition of Kohelet, and at Kohelet 1-13 he notes a similar translation by R. Shlomo Kluger. In this reading, the sentence means, “I saw the experience that God gave people to be enjoyed with.”

La’anot and inyan can also simply mean experience, with no negative or positive connotations, similar to the Rabbinic Hebrew, and from there modern Hebrew’s, use of the common word inyan,[26] as in,

וענתה שמה כימי נעוריה. הושע ב יז

R Sa’adia Gaon, Rashi, Rashbam, Ibn Ezra and Ralbag provide similar translations of the word.[27] In this reading the word inyan means a matter, or engagement, la’anot means something like “to be engaged in” or “exercised with”, and the sentence is translated as, “I saw the engagement that God gave people to be exercised with.”[28]

So, it turns out, there are three different ways to translate the words inyan and la’anot, each of which changes the overall meaning of the verse, and each of which diverse translations are accurate, work in the sentence structure, and can provide meaning to the sentence.[29] Which is all to say, that our interpretation of experience and how we see it, provides the meaning we give to it!

Finally, la’anot and inyan can also mean to witness, as in,

לא תענה ברעך עד שקר. שמות כ ב

לענות בו סרה. דברים יט טז

וענתה השירה הזאת לפניו לעד. דברים לא כא

In this translation the verse means, “I saw the experiences that G-d gave to people to witness (i.e., to see and experience)”.[30]

Here too, are two layers of meaning, for in one sense, to say that one has ‘witnessed’ an event is simply another way of saying that one has seen and experienced it. But in a deeper sense, it is the witnessing of the event itself that gives meaning, shape and form to the event; and with no witness, the event would be formless and without meaning.[31] This reading, of course, fits right into, and complements, the first three readings of the verse, for it is our experience of an event, and the way in which we witness it, that creates it as an event for us, provides us its meaning, and makes it what it is to us.[32] [33]

1. Relax, In the End Nothing Makes Sense

הבל הבלים אמר הקוהלת הכל הבל. קהלת יב ח

The same sentence that began the book, bookends it again as its conclusion.[34] [35] Its meaning at both ends, however, can be read differently.

In writing and in reading the book, and in working through its problems, questions, discussions, and thematic variations, the author and his readers undertake a journey of exploration of life’s contradictions and paradoxes. Taking that journey, in depth, leaves the traveler different at the end than at its start, for along the way, the reader has discovered, and partly through their own thoughtful exploration of the author’s words, that the only choice, and inherent to life’s experience, is acceptance of the absurdities and paradoxes intrinsic to it.[36] [37]

In this way, what began as a lament of discomfiture at life’s impossible contradictions, ends as a statement of their factuality and acceptance. As we initially began peeling away the layers of life’s onion, and realizing that things don’t make as much sense as we intuitively feel they should, our natural, instinctive need for sense is disturbed. But at the journey’s end, once we’ve gone through the process of internalizing experience’s innate senselessness, its fuller realization and our more complete understanding that it’s all simply part of life’s inherence, permits us to accept things for what they are; and having done that, our experience becomes all the easier for it, rather than harder. Things are not really meant to make sense anyhow, they never completely will, and in the final analysis, it gives us permission to take our life in hand once again, accept it, make of it its best, and live it calmly[38] and productively,[39] prudently and judiciously,[40] happily[41] and to the fullest of our efforts.[42] Like the t-shirt that reads, “Relax, nothing is under control”, the excision of our attempts at understanding releases us from them when they don’t serve us well.

Relax, do what you can to live a good life… “before the silver cord snaps, before the golden cup shatters…[43]

.הבל הבלים אמר הקוהלת הכל הבל

[1] The author is the creator of the youtube channel “Understanding Kohelet”, here.
[2] בבא בתרא טו-א
[3] See, e.g., here. Ibn Ezra also seems to note that at least some of the book’s editing was done after the first temple period, for example at 2-25. In other verses as well, ibn Ezra and other commentators note language and word choices resembling writing of times closer to the Rabbinic period. See also the Preface to Mossad Harav Kook’s edition of Kohelet, Section 5, Part 4.
[4] קהלת רבא א-א, סנהדרין כ-ב
[5] In its simple reading, the double havel havulim can be understood as emphasis, i.e., the epitome of vanity, or utter vanity, similar to the words shir hashirim, and many other double words used in Tanach. In a deeper sense it can also be understood to intimate that huvel, meaninglessness, is itself also meaningless (a double negative that cancels itself out), because by the end of the book, and through its exploration, we discover together with the author, that in as much as things can never be fully and truly understood, an overemphatic focus on meaninglessness is itself meaningless and purposeless.
[6] In referring to air, the author is foreshadowing the many other verses in which the book uses air and wind to represent the ephemeral, fleeting nature of life and experience, e.g., 1-6, 1-14, 12-7, and many others.
[7] Not in the contemporarily more common use of the word vain, as narcissistic pride, but vain as futile.
[8] Not with its commonly used definition of farcically ridiculous, but something much closer to its existentialist philosophic meaning of senselessness, as used in, for example, Albert Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus.
[9] If our attempt to pin down a precise meaning for the word huvel is frustrated, we are not the first to experience such frustration, for R Sa’adia Gaon, as well, mentions five potential Arabic translations of the word.

Defining the book’s theme through a word that has many translations and interpretations is in no way coincidental, for that is a practice and theme throughout the work, using words and constructing phrases in such ways that exploration and thought is required to unpack and fully understand them in their context, and through such exploration and understanding, different aspects of the intended message are communicated.
[10] The letter vet in ancient Hebrew was pronounced with a “w” sound, similar to its contemporary Yemenite pronunciation.
[11] This is true of much of Tanach, an appreciation of which has been lost due to historic changes in reading style and pronunciation.
[12] The phrase havel havulim umar kohelet may also allude to the fact that even the statements and attempts of the author to examine the world and its meaning are also impossible and vain, as elaborated upon later on in the book, for example chapter 1, verses 8, 13, and 17, and chapter 7, verse 23. So the analysis too, and the attempt at finding meaning, is itself meaningless. See also Ralbag at 12-8.
[13] The poetry and onomatopoeia comes through best when the sentences are read with the sound, pronunciation and syllabic emphasis of original, ancient Hebrew.
[14] All the rivers go to the sea, and the sea is not full; to the place the rivers go, there they return to go.
[15] Circling in circulation, goes the wind, and on its circulation, returns the wind.
[16] For like the sound of the twigs under the pot, so is the laugh of the fool.
[17] In fact, the sounds are very similar to the English words, ‘cackle’ and ‘hiss’, which themselves sound like their meaning.
[18] If the snake bites, without a hiss/spell, and there is no advantage to the master of the tongue.
[19] For there may be a person whose efforts are with intelligence and with wisdom, and with suitability, and to a person who expended no effort over it, he gives (it to) him, his portion.
[20] See Targum, which translates the phrase as יתנניה למהוי חולקיה, “he gives it to become his portion”, clearly reading the portion as attached to the receiver, presumably because of the otherwise odd double subject reference. Ibn Ezra also reads chelko as referring to a subject receiver. Rashbam too, reads chelko as attaching to the receiver, but states that the giver in yitenenu is God (presumably due to the otherwise double subject reference), and in this reading perhaps yitnenu means “it shall be given [by God]”, rather than he shall give it, since the giver in yitnenu is not referring back to the person described in the first half of the sentence.

On the other hand, R Sa’adia Gaon’s commentary clearly translates chelko as referring to the giver. R Moshe Yitzchok Ashkenazi (Tedeschi) in Ho’il Moshe also provides a grammatical reading of the sentence in which chelko refers to the giver.

Reading yitnenu as attaching to the receiver’s object referred to in chelko is also somewhat supported by the ta’amim, since yitnenu is given a munach, tying it to its succeeding word chelko, rather than to its preceding phrase (i.e., the phrase ‘he gives’ modifies ‘his portion’, rather than any object that may have been described earlier in the sentence, in amulo or in bo). Consider also that the object being passed from the giver to the receiver has not yet been explicitly articulated into the sentence prior to the appearance of the word chelko, since, arguably, amulo is describing only the giver’s efforts, not the fruit of those efforts, which would be the object actually being passed; and the word bo in and of itself, does not either provide the sentence with a subject.
[21] Mordechai Zer-Kavod in the Mossad Harav Kook edition of Kohelet describes a third potential subject to which chelko might refer, which is the fruits of the giver’s labor, and in this reading the word chelko means “part of”, i.e., a part of the giver’s possessions, and the sentence reads as, “For there is a person whose efforts are with intelligence… and to a person that labored not for it, he gives part of it.” See also Rashi on the verse for a similar formulation based on midrash.
[22] In Kohelet 1-13, the verse includes a similar formulation

ונתתי את־לבי לדרוש ולתור בחכמה על כל־אשר נעשה תחת השמים הוא ענין רע נתן אלהים לבני האדם לענות בו

and Targum, ibn Ezra and Tanchum Yerushalmi provide a similar translation to the words inyan and la’anot in that verse, while Metzudat Tzion provides a similar translation for the word la’anot, although not for the word inyan, and Ri Karo provides a similar translation for the word inyan, although not for the word la’anot.
[23] It is quite possible that the root of the word enu as it is used in phrases like

עלי באר ענו לה, במדבר כא יז, ענו לה׳ בתודה, תהלים קמז ז, ביום ההוא כרם חמר ענו לה, ישעיהו כז ב

is also related to the word celebration, although in these cases it is also, and perhaps more closely, related to word respond or say.
[24] See for example, Ibn Ezra, Ramban, Ralbag and R’ Avraham ben Harambam, although others provide different translations of the word in this sentence too.
[25] See Rashbam and Ralbag, although there are also other ways to translate the word in this sentence as well.
[26] In reviewing the related words and meanings in all of these similar verses, as parsed through the various commentaries, it seems to me also that the general word inyan in this reading, as meaning something close to an engagement, or more simply a thing, something that is, may also be etymologically related to use of the similar word and root for the concept of residing in or simply being in, as in the word ma’on.
[27] In some cases these translations are in Kohelet 1-13, and as between the different commentators, they are provided with varying nuance as to the precise translation and word usage.
[28] In the larger context of the chapter, this sentence is a response to the verses coming just before it, which read,

לכל זמן, ועת לכל חפץ, תחת השמים. עת ללדת ועת למות… עת לאהב ועת לשנא, עת מלחמה ועת שלום. מה יתרון העושה באשר הוא עמל

This well-known section of Kohelet questions the point of a life of constant change and dissolution, where the pendulum of experience always swings from one side to the other, and where every effort invested, and even the things invested in, often ends and changes to its opposite; and therefore, the question is begged, “what advantage the doer in such that he toils?”

It is this question that the present verse responds to, explaining that these fluctuations and changes in expended effort, and in life and experience, in fact have as their purpose the engagement and exercise of people in and with their life and experiences. In other words, the goal settings, fluctuations, achievements, disappointments, moving goal-posts, and corrections, are actually the very things that create the life of engagement and attunement, and a life lived in one straight line would be pointless and meaningless, and lacking in engagement.

The other translations as well, are responsive to the prior verses and question in a similar way. The frustrated and constantly changing efforts can be seen as a form of immiseration that people are afflicted with (in this reading, the present verse in 3-10, is simply extending the question and problem discussed in the prior verse), or they can be seen as challenges which can be invigorating, and bring a person joy when approached from the perspective of, and with a purpose to, building and improving.
[29] This is a good representative illustration of a lot of the messaging in Kohelet, which often revolves around purpose, perception and meaning, and how these are multi-layered, and appear different from different vantage points, or when different factors or interpretations are brought to bear. This is also the key to understanding the many seeming ‘contradictions’ in Kohelet (בבלי, שבת ל׳ ב׳) – for when the meanings and contexts of what are being said are fully understood, they are clearly seen not to be contradictions at all.
[30] And in a fifth translation, which fits right in alongside the rest and is related to witness, the word la-anot can also mean to respond, see medrash rabah here, and ibn Ezra at Kohelet 1-13. And, believe it or not, with these five translations we have still not exhausted all the possible translations of the word as used in the sentence, see for example Rashi, Ri Karo, and Tanchum Yerushalmi in the parallel verse at Kohelet 1-13, each with other, additional translations.
[31] In fact it might questionably even be called an “event” at all.
[32] This theme comes up in art too, for example in Albert Camus’ “The Stranger”, and Jonathan Blow’s “The Witness”.
[33] This verse is a good example of what we find with many of the verses and statements in Kohelet, which is that they can be translated and interpreted from a number of different vantage points, with several layers of meanings able to be peeled back like layers of an onion, while all of those layers of meaning interact with, and nest within, each other to provide an ultimate interpretation and meaning to the sentence. And while it’s easy to assume that some or many of these interpretations are unintentional, and arise coincidentally due to the poetic nature of the text, or due to the brevity of ancient Hebrew which, because it has relatively few words compared to other languages, consequently more meanings and translations for each of its words; on closer reading and familiarity with the nuances of the book’s style and messaging it seems likely that the varied and rich layers of meaning were seeded intentionally.
[34] Rashbam notes that the book’s ending, from this verse on, was appended at a later time by its editors. This is also evident from the style, tone and content of verses 12-9 through 12-14, which differ from the rest of the book. See also Ralbag, Ho’il Moshe at 12-7, and Metzudas Dovid, Shadal at 12-8. It’s also possible that verses 1-2, and 12-8 (the two bookending huvel verses), which more closely resemble the rest of the book, were part of the original earlier work, while verses 1-1 and 12-9 through 12-14 were added later as a kind of prologue and epilogue. See also FN 3 regarding the book’s editing.
[35] The end of the book and its beginning also mirror each other in that the lead-in from the summary sentence to the rest of the book (verses 1-4 to 1-7), and the lead out from the book to the closing summary sentence (verses 12-2 to 12-7) are composed of evocatively colorful imagery, which express their messages of the ephemerality of existence and the eventuality of life’s and of experience’s end, not only in the literal statements of their message, but also in the impressionist emotions that their images create in the reader. As well, some of the same elemental imagery of earth, sun, air and water is mirrored between the start of the book and its end (compare Chapter 1 verses 4, 5, 6 and 7 with Chapter 12 verses 2, 6 and 7).
[36] One cannot point to any one verse that states the premise of this point explicitly, rather it is an idea that develops organically and expands its realization over the course of the work in the perceptions experientially realized by the reader through their effort in working through the book’s perambulatory contemplations and exploratory deliberations. One can point in support, however, among various verses, to 9-7 through 9-10, which in a sense can be seen as the conclusion of the first part of the book (which begins at 1-12). Arguably, it is the author’s intent is for the reader to discover the point’s salience for themself as they work through the book’s ideas together with the author.
[37] That the present verse’s summary conclusion is a result of the conclave of ideas preceding it is also supported by the verse’s choice of wording, ‘umar hakohelet‘, with the definitive article, ‘the’ kohelet – for it is the gathering together and synthesizing of the various strands of thought through the course of the book that produce the conclusions reached at its end. In this interpretation we translate the word kohelet as ‘a coming-together’ or a ‘gathering (n.)’, as in ‘the results of the act of gathering’, or ‘the things that have been gathered’, conjugating the root verb ko-h-el, similar to words such as toelet and pesolet.

Interestingly, the same conjugation of the root also produces the feminine verb, a point made by wordplay in Chapter 7, verse 27, where, as compared to the word construction in our present sentence, the author changed the word kohelet from a noun to a feminine verb simply by moving the letter ‘heh’ over one word (changing amrah kohelt to amar hakohelet).
[38] 12-3 to 4, in its emotional resonance.
[39] E.g., Chapter 11, generally.
[40] Verses 11-8 to 12-1.
[41] Verses 9-7 to 9, and 11-8 to 9.
[42] Verse 9-10.
[43] Verse 12-6.

Towards Decoding Ha-Yeriah Ha-Gedolah (The Great Parchment), A Cryptic 14th Century Italian Kabbalistic Text

By Ezra Brand

Ezra Brand is an independent researcher based in NYC. He has an MA from Revel Graduate School at Yeshiva University in Medieval Jewish History. His main research focus is currently 13th and 14th century sefirotic Kabbalah, and he is interested in using digital and computational tools in historical research. His previous contributions to the Seforim Blog can be found here, and a selection of his academic research can be found here. He can be reached at ezrabrand-at-gmail.com; any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.^[1]

Sefirotic Kabbalah has its origins in thirteenth century Provence and Spain. It reached its apotheosis in the Zohar, which began to appear in Castile in the late thirteenth century. Kabbalistic literature started appearing in Italy soon after. Moshe Idel, in his masterly survey of kabbalah in medieval Italy, shows how “Rome was a place where Catalan Jewish culture, philosophical and kabbalistic, were already well established in the 1280s.”^[2] And further: “Thus, in one decade, approximately 1280-1290, the Jewish culture in Rome was enriched by the arrival of a variety of Jewish esoteric material: theosophical and ecstatic Kabbalah, as well as Ashkenazi esoteric material.”^[3] Idel raises the possibility that “a massive importation of kabbalistic literature took place in Italy at the very end of the thirteenth century.”^[4] Idel make programmatic statement that “a pluralistic vision of the history of Kabbalah, which entails deemphasizing the centrality of Spain in the history of Kabbalah, will help to distinguish more precisely the specific contributions of Kabbalah in Italy.”^[5]

Ha-Yeriah Ha-Gedolah (from here on: YG) is a fascinating, enigmatic work, which provides a window into this first flourishing of Italian Kabbalah. According to Giulio Busi, the academic scholar who first published YG from manuscript in 2004, “Ha-Yeri‘ah ha-Gedolah was probably written at the beginning of the 14th century by an author whose name remains unknown to us. Most likely, he was an Italian kabbalist, since all the preserved manuscripts have been copied by scribes working on the Italian peninsula.”^[6]

The first modern academic scholar to mention YG was Gershom Scholem in his 1937 list of commentaries on the Ten Sefirot. Scholem also mentioned the line-by-line commentary on YG written by the fourteenth-century Italian kabbalist Reuven Tzarfati.^[7] Scholem’s student Efraim Gottlieb, in a pioneering study on Tzarfati, discusses YG briefly.^[8]

In 2004, Giulio Busi, with Simonetta M. Bondoni and Saverio Campanini, published YG for the first time, based on the extant manuscripts.^[9] It comes out to 71 pages, with at most around 13 lines on a page.^[10] Busi gives an introduction summarizing previous research and presenting his own research on this work, and an overview of the extant manuscripts of YG and Tzarfati’s commentary. (Busi’s introduction is available online.)

Like the thirteenth-century Zoharic literature^[11] and related kabbalistic works, YG interprets biblical stories and topics in terms of the interplay between the sefirot. Busi describes it as a “forgotten masterpiece of kabbalistic literature,^[12] and as “one of the most obscure texts of the whole kabbalah”.^[13]

Even after its appearance in print, YG does not appear to have evinced very much interest, either among academic scholars or among enthusiasts of Kabbalistic literature. I am not aware of any further scholarship on this work. In a previous paper of mine, I gave an overview of some aspects of YG. Here, I’d like to revisit this enigmatic work, provide some suggestions for a way forward in decoding it, and hopefully spur further interest and research.^[14]

YG is set up as work made up of sixteen “Sections” (sippurim).^[15] Busi describes YG as “a booklet of a few extremely dense and symbolic pages.”^[16] He further writes: “There is no doubt, however, that the Great Parchment is one of the most obscure texts of the whole kabbalah.”^[17] Busi in his introduction gives an overview of each story based on Tzarfati’s commentary, prefacing: “Obviously, there is no guarantee that Sarfatti’s exegesis always reflects the thought of the unknown author of the work. Nevertheless, the detailed analysis of this early commentator represents the only starting point we possess with which to explore this still unknown chapter of late medieval kabbalah.”

I would claim that Busi overstates the obscurity of this work. I would like to point out a few aspects of YG that would aid in making progress in decoding this fascinating work.

Indexing Sefirotic Correspondences

Busi writes: “Apparently rebelling against the laws of meaning, [YG] is striking for its capacity to evoke waves of esoteric implications without ever mentioning directly the kabbalistic secrets.”^[18] And further: “The key is offered by a scheme of correspondences that the author never enunciates openly but the reader must be aware of”.^[19]

Again, I believe that this is somewhat overstated. Admittedly, the overarching narrative of the sections is often unclear.  The work is dense with biblical and Talmudic quotations and allusions, and written in a kind of associative, stream-of-consciousness style, making the overall narrative difficult to untangle. There are often what appear to be throwaway lines that don’t seem to be relevant in context. As I mention below, it may be that the author was simply writing with stream-of-consciousness, and never intended every line to have a deeper meaning. In any case, YG is by no means the only esoteric work to have been composed in a purposefully enigmatic style.

With all this in mind, the fact is that throughout the work, YG explicitly mentions sefirotic correspondences. Unlike the Zoharic literature, YG is replete with explicit usage of the standard terms for the ten sefirot. The Temple is a clear theme throughout (see below), and YG explicitly indexes the one-to-one correspondences between ten items in the Temple and the ten sefirot, using the sefirot’s standard names.^[20] Another explication of symbols can be found in YG’s discussion of Ezekiel’s Vision of the Chariot, where the correspondence of the Four Faces with specific angels, cardinal directions, and sefirot are given, again using the sefirot’s standard names.^[21]

Certain terms are used consistently for Evil (or closeness to Evil) throughout, such as Sha’atnez, Woman, Snake, Calf, Donkey, Limping Thigh, Mixture.^[22] Specific terms recur with presumably consistent sefirotic equivalences, such as Ruth and Upper Pool.^[23]

Even if YG never explicitly defines the meaning of a symbol, comparison with other thirteenth- and fourteenth-century works should allow for fairly certain elucidation.^[24]

Close Commentary of Biblical Texts or Specific Topics

In many sections, YG very closely hews to biblical texts, quoting the biblical words and performing an extremely close interpretation, sometimes phrase-by-phrase, or even word-by-word. Busi’s edition does a tremendous service by italicizing the biblical quotes, but many quotes fall through the cracks and are not italicized. YG is often written in a way that only a single word is added to biblical text, or a biblical word is paraphrased, the order of words is switched, words are skipped words, or a pastiche between two biblical verses is made. These techniques presumably impart meaning. Closely separating the biblical quotes from YG’s additions or paraphrase helps clarify what exactly YG is attempting to convey.

Even when YG is not closely interpreting a biblical text line-by-line, the topic is often still clearly defined.

By comparing how other thirteenth- and fourteenth-century kabbalistic works interpret these biblical stories and topics, it is likely that much light would be shed on the discourses of YG.

Please see the appendix of this article for a chart comparing YG’s Sections with corresponding biblical stories or topics.

Word Associations

A striking aspect of YG is the continuous flow of writing, using word associations and wordplay. This is true both in terms of how it interprets biblical verses, as well as how it segues into new topics seemingly based on linguistic similarities alone. This interest in wordplay likely ties in to the ideas of “Linguistic Kabbalah,” which were influenced by Abraham Abulafia.^[25] As mentioned earlier, YG was most likely written by an Italian kabbalist at the beginning of the fourteenth century, a time when Abulafia’s influence was strongly felt.

Some particularly notable examples of this can be found in Section 7, which is devoted to Jacob/Tiferet. I’ll adduce one example from there, a riff on the word “Tiferet” (my underlines, italics of biblical verses and biblical citations in Busi’s original, with small changes in punctuation where it seems appropriate):^[26]

ועל כן לא יאכלו בני ישראל את גיד הנשה [בראשית לב לג]. לא יכרתו החוט הבא עליהם בשפע אמיתי, הנשה שלא ישכחו התורה, הה״ד ישראל לא תנשני [ישעיה מד כא]. והחוט הוא הוא״ו הנאצלת על תפארת הה״ד <ישראל> אשר בך אתפאר [ישעיה מט ג] ולקדוש ישראל כי פארך [ישעיה ס ט] זה ואלהי יעקב.^[27] אפריון עשה לו המלך שלמה מעצי הלבנון [שיר השירים ג ט]. ובית תפארתי אפאר [ישעיה ס ז]. ועם כל זה לא תפאר אחריך [דברים כד כ] בעשרה היניקות היונקות ונאצלות מן הקו האמצעי קדוש ונורא [תהלים קיא ט]. כי תחלת העשרה הוא השם הגדול א׳^[28]. על כן <לא> תסיר האצילות מהם. אם הם שפלים (אם) בעיניך, פאר הראש הם וגדולים, כי בן בג בג עומד על גבה. 

The overall message of this passage is fairly clear: First, the author closely interprets the verse in Genesis as saying that Jews should not block the flow (YG interprets “gid” to mean “chut”), and should not forget the Torah (interpreting the next word “hanashe” to mean “forgetting”, using the verse in Isaiah to show that “hanashe” can mean forgetting^[29]).

The passage then clearly begins to riff on the root “Pe’er,” which is the root of the word Tiferet, the sefirah under discussion in this Section. YG brings quotes which use “Pe’er” in five different ways (התפאר, פאר, אפריון, תפארת, פיאר). The passage is saying not to “remove” the ten sefirot which emanate from Tiferet,^[30] since the beginning of the ten sefirot are Keter. It may very well be that the individual verses do not add an additional mystical meaning, and the author is simply reveling in adducing additional verses with the same root.

Post-Biblical Sources

As mentioned, YG is dense not just with biblical quotes and allusions, but also with quotes of and allusions to Talmud, Midrash, and other medieval sources.^[31]

YG mentions the messianic figures of Menachem ben Amiel and Nehemiah ben Hushiel,^[32] who appear in early medieval works, such as the apocalyptic Sefer Zerubavel and Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer.

YG supports an idea with a quote that seems to be an adage that was popular among medieval Jewish authors:^[33]

״הה״ד אשרי המדבר באוזן שומעת״

The first source that I could find for this adage is Ramban in his early work Milhamot Hashem, at the end of a long piece, where he lyrically writes that a certain opinion is correct:^[34]

״והדברים מודיעים שכולם נכוחים למבין וישרים למוצאי דעת ואשרי המדבר לאוזן השומעת״

It therefore seems clear that YG’s ״באוזן״ should correctly be ״לאוזן״ as the Munich manuscript has it.^[35] Soon after Ramban, this saying is used by Meiri and Sefer HaHinuch in a similar way: As an exhortation at the end of passage, and certainly not as a quote.^[36]

Some Greek philosophical concepts are mentioned in YG, such as the Five Senses and the tripartite soul.^[37]

A sampling of interesting scientific statements made by YG: “Water is good at all times and for all living creatures, which is not the case for other liquids”. ^[38] “The dove has no gallbladder.”^[39]

While discussing YG’s sources and quotations, I can’t help but discuss a fascinating passage found in the discussion on the Sotah:^[40]

״מה שאמרו ז״ל סוטה לא הייתה ולא נבראת, ר״ל במעשה מפורסם, ואם תאמר המעשה שמביאין שאשה אחת שתתה מי סוטה בחילוף אחותה ולא הזיקו לה ואחרי כן <באה> אצל אחותה ונקשה ומן הריח מיד <וצבתה> בטנה ונפלה ירכה [במדבר ה כז] כי היא הייתה טמאה, זה סיוע לדברינו, ורצו באומרם [זה המעשה]^[41] כי כל הדיעות^[42] חוצבו ממקום אחד ואדם אחד ישיג השגת <העדן ואדם אחד ישיג השגת> גיהנם.״

YG starts off with a(n allegedly) rabbinic quote which makes the shocking statement that the Sotah ritual never actually happened. The quote is cryptically explained by YG to mean “במעשה המפורסם”, presumably meaning that in fact the Sotah ritual occurred, but that there was never a “famous” (or “publicly-known” or “well-known”) case.^[43] YG then continues that if you may question this explanation on the basis of “a story which is brought” (״ואם תאמר המעשה שמביאין״). The story appears as described in more than one Midrashic source.^[44] For convenience, I’ll quote the Midrash Tanhuma’s rendition with the online Sefaria translation:

“[There is] a story about two sisters who resembled each other. Now one was married in one city and the other was married in another city. The husband of one of them wanted to accuse her of infidelity and have her drink the bitter water in Jerusalem. She went to that city where her married sister was. Her sister said to her, “What was your reason for coming here?” She said to her, “My husband wants to have me drink [the bitter water].” Her sister said to her, “I will go in your place and drink it.” She said to her, “Go.” She put on her sister’s clothes, went in her place, drank the bitter water, and was found clean. When she returned to her sister’s house, she joyfully went out to meet her, then embraced and kissed her on the mouth. As soon as the one kissed the other, she smelled the bitter water and immediately died, in order to fulfill what is stated (in Eccl. 8:8), “No human has control over the wind to contain the wind, nor is there control on the day of death […].”

YG goes on to say that on the contrary, this story actually supports his explanation (״זה סיוע לדברינו״). It is likely that what YG means is that since in the story of the two sisters the actual death of the sister occurred in private, it was not a publicly-known case.^[45]

YG next says the story of the two sisters can be understood allegorically to mean that all “knowledge” (or “evil”) comes from one place. In other words, the story of the Sotah water being passed from the innocent sister to the guilty sister should be understood allegorically. The Sotah water has inherent power, but the power that it has really depends on the person imbibing it. The innocent sister was unharmed by the Sotah water, but when it reached her unfaithful sister, it had an effect. In the same way, all knowledge starts off the same, but whether this knowledge is reified as good or evil depends on the person comprehending the knowledge.

I could not find any source for YG’s quote that “סוטה לא הייתה ולא נבראת”. YG prefaces the quote with ״ומה שאמרו ז״ל״, which generally means that it’s a quote from the Talmud or Midrash.  The Talmud Bavli in Sanhedrin 71a uses the formulation “לא היה ולא נברא” regarding the Wayward Son and City of Idol Worshippers (בן סורר ומורה ועיר הנידחת), but not about Sotah.

Ishay Rosen-Zvi made this very same claim from a critical historical perspective in his 2008 book (based on his doctoral dissertation), that the Sotah ritual never actually happened and was essentially a purely theoretical law.^[46] Meir Bar-Ilan harshly criticized Rozen-Zvi’s thesis, in a review article called “Between False Reality and Fictional History”, available on his homepage here.^[47] Bar-Ilan admits that there are instances where even the Talmudic rabbis said that a biblical story or a biblical ritual never actually occurred, but he believes that Sotah is not one of these cases. It would be interesting to discover additional traditional sources that state that the Sotah ritual (or “Sotah ordeal”, as Bar-Ilan believes is the more accurate appellation) never actually took place.

Let me point to another case of YG claiming that a story recounted in an authoritative text was not an actual historical event. This time, shockingly, it is regarding the Sacrifice of Isaac, where YG claims that this was a dream:^[48]

“שעשה חסד לעקוד את יצחק בנו להיות זריז על מצות המלך שעקדת יצחק חלום היה ולא דבר אחר”.

 Marc Shapiro in his book Changing the Immutable cites other medieval sources (including possibly Maimonides) which also say that the Sacrifice of Isaac never happened, and shows how this idea was considered so problematic by a later printer of Moreh Nevuchim that it was censored out of the Ephodi commentary.^[49]

In any case, the two parts of the statement would seem to contradict each other : If YG assumes that the Akedah was only a dream, then what was the great “kindness” (״חסד״) to offer up Isaac? It is very likely that this line in YG needs to be read sefirotically: Isaac is a common reference to Gevurah while Abraham is a reference to Hesed. The Akeda is being read as an amelioration of Gevurah by Hesed. If this is true, the meaning of this line in YG is as follows: Since the Akedah was a dream, and not a historical event, we cannot explain the story in a straightforward way, for example as illustrating Abraham’s submission to God’s will. Rather, it must be understood sefirotically, as illustrating the interplay of Gevuah and Hesed.^[50]

Temple Vessels and Rituals

Many of the of biblical sections interpreted by YG, as well as topics discussed, relate to the Temple. As I mentioned earlier, YG clearly indexes the correspondences between items in the Temple and the sefirot.^[51] A majority of the Sections begin with an item from the Temple. The Scapegoat, sent into the desert by the High Priest on Yom Kippur as part of the Yom Kippur Temple service, is a recurring symbol of evil in YG.^[52] Most of Section 11 is an extended discussion of the Candelabrum, in turn interpreting the verses relating to the Candelabrum in Zachariah, Ezekiel, and the Pentateuch. The entireties of Sections 14 and 15 are devoted to verse-by-verse interpretations of the Bible verses on the Sotah and the Red Heifer, respectively. Both of these rituals were performed at, or at least near, the Temple.

Conclusion

YG is an early, fascinating, and cryptic work. I have attempted in this article to give an overview of some themes of the work, as well as some fascinating statements that I could not find elsewhere. I am hoping that someone will take upon themselves to publish Reuven Tzarfati’s commentary in some form, which should greatly further progress in understanding YG.^[53]

Appendix

Breakdown by Section of Interpretation of Biblical Texts or Topics

^[1] I would like to thank Binyamin Goldstein and my father  for looking over a draft of this article and making very helpful comments and corrections.

^[2] Moshe Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, 1280-1510: A Survey, pg. 99.

^[3] Idel, pg. 102.

^[4] Idel, pg. 111.

^[5] Pg. 113.

^[6] Pg. 23.

^[7] For more on Tzarfati, see Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, pp. 148-150, and index.

^[8] In Efraim Gottlieb, Studies in the Kabbala Literature (Hebrew), ed. J. Hacker (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1976).

^[9] Busi’s book includes Flavius Mithridates’s Latin translation of YG, which Mithridates had prepared for the well-known fifteenth-century Italian Renaissance nobleman and philosopher Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. Busi also includes an English translation of the Latin.

^[10] The actual text of YG is pp. 119-191.

^[11] I use “Zoharic literature” to mean “The Zohar”, as is now common in academic scholarship.

^[12] The Great Parchment. Flavius Mithridates’ Latin Translation, the Hebrew Text, and an English Version, Edited by Giulio Busi with Simonetta M. Bondoni and Saverio Campanini, Turin, Nino Aragno Editore, 2004, pp. 21, 28.

^[13] Pg. 29.

^[14] I still have not had a chance to study Tzarfati’s full commentary to YG. Busi says he has a transcription of it (pg. 29, footnote 19). Unfortunately I could not get access to this transcription. A few manuscripts of Tzarfati’s commentary are available through National Library of Israel’s Ketiv website. I read through a few pages of the commentary in Moscow RSL 134, which had the advantage of being available for download (the manuscript pages on Ketiv’s online reader load very slowly, and often buffer endlessly and don’t load at all).

I was excited to discover a new automated tool being developed for transcribing Hebrew manuscripts, which launched a few months ago, called Tikkoun Sofrim:  https://tikkoun-sofrim.firebaseapp.com/en. I read their documentation and contributed a few lines to each of the two manuscripts they have up, and I was quite impressed. I look forward to being able to use the tool to assist in transcribing additional manuscripts.

^[15] Although YG is called in some manuscripts “Iggeret Sippurim”, “sippurim” in this context likely means “sections”, as pointed out by Gottlieb. This is because there are no “stories” per se being told. For this reason I use the term “Sections” for YG’s “sippurim”, contra Busi who uses the term “Tales” to describe the Sections. That YG doesn’t contain any literal tales is in contrast to the Zoharic literature, where kabbalistic and midrashic interpretations are generally framed within tales of R’ Shimon bar Yochai and his circle. For a recent comprehensive study of this important aspect of the Zohar, see Eitan Fishbane’s, The Art of Mystical Narrative: A Poetics of the Zohar, Oxford University Press, 2018.

^[16] Pg. 21.

^[17] Pg. 29.

^[18] Pg. 28

^[19] Pg. 29.

^[20] Pg. 163, beginning of Section 11.

^[21] Pg. 169. The correspondences there are not completely clear to me, as mixed in with the standard names for sefirot are other superlatives, and it’s not completely clear to me how to punctuate the text. The sefirot seem to be grouped there into four parts as follows: 1) Keter; 2) Tiferet, Chochma, Bina; 3) Shechina (=Malchut); Gedulah (=Chessed), Gevurah; Netzach; 4) Hod, Yesod.

As an aside, I want to point out another confusing detail in this passage :

״וצורת אדם גבריאל ד׳ אלפין מרוח ימה.״

It would appear that רוח ימה in this context actually means East, and not West as it typically does. This is for two reasons: First of all, on pg. 183 YG states explicitly that צורת אדם corresponds with East. In addition, it is clear that it is actually צורת שור that corresponds to West, as it says in the continuation of pg. 169, as well as on pg. 183.

^[22] שעטנז, אשה (חוה), נחש, עגל (הזהב), חמור, ירך צולע, ערב.

^[23] רות, בריכה עליונה.

^[24] Eliyahu Peretz’s index of sefirot of selected thirteenth- and fourteenth-century kabbalistic works is especially useful in this respect: E. Peretz, Ma’alot ha-Zohar, Jerusalem 1987. I would like to thank Dr. Daniel Matt for bringing this work to my attention.

^[25] For more on this, see my previous article on YG, as well as my article “Joseph Gikatilla’s “Hasagot on the Moreh”: A Linguistic Kabbalist Reads Moreh Nevuchim”, which can be found here.

^[26] Pg. 144. Another very interesting illustrative example can be found earlier in that page, where one of the words in the association is not explicit:

״ואשרי המחכה ויגיע [דניאל יב יב] לקץ הימין, בזמן שהם עושים רצון השלשלת העליונה, ולא לקץ השמאל, הצולעה שנשמט מירך יעקב, ולא מישראל כי שרה עם אלהים, שאמר <גרש> האמה <הזאת> ואת בנה [בראשית כא י]״.

It seems clear that the connection being made is due to the wordplay of the homonyms spelled שרה, in the two verses, which is explicitly quoted in the first verse (where it means “struggled”), and implicit in the second verse (where “Sarah” is the speaker). Incidentally, this is an example of the word “Limping” being used a symbol for Evil, “Limping” being a common symbol in YG for Evil.

^[27] “Velohei Yaakov” seems to be a reference to a biblical phrase, which appears three times in the Bible. See Mithradates’ translation (pg. 216). It is unclear to me if Mithradates’ interpretation is correct.

^[28] This letter most likely is a shortening of “Akatriel,” which is used throughout the work to mean Keter.

^[29]  This may also be a play on “Yisrael” used in the verse in Isaiah, which can also mean Jacob.

^[30] The idea of each sefirah having its own secondary emanation of ten sefirot emanating from it, is a theme of YG, as Busi mentions in his introduction.

^[31] Busi’s edition does give those sources a handful of times, but mostly does not, even when a source is explicitly being quoted.

^[32] Pg. 165.

^[33] Pg. 133.

^[34] Milhamot Hashem on Rif Shabbat 12a, last line.

^[35] Apparatus fn. 184.

^[36] Meiri in his commentary to Bavli Berahot 3b s.v. “לעולם” (last line); Sefer HaHinuch, Parshat Va’ethanan, Mitzvah  419, s.v. “ומה שאמרו”. In subsequent generations, the adage is almost exclusively formulated in a more biblical style, as ״אשרי המדבר על אוזן שומעת״, on the pattern of Proverbs 25:12. It is formulated this way already by Meiri in his Magen Avot, Topic 1, s.v. ״ואף בשאלתות״ (last line).

^[37] Pg. 187. The manuscript on which the text is based only has two parts of the soul, but the apparatus in fn. 1025 says that the JTS manuscript has all three parts written.

^[38] Pg. 187: ״המים טובים בכל זמן ולכל בעלי חיים, מה שאין כן בשאר משקים״.

^[39] Pg. 141: ״ועל כן היונה אין לה מרה״. I also found this, using a search, in the Rashba (in his commentary on Bavli Hulin 42a s.v. “kol”) and in other medieval works.

^[40] Pg. 180.

^[41] This word is added in a MS, according to the apparatus.

^[42] According to the apparatus, one MS has “הרעות” in place of “הדיעות”, which may be the more correct version, based on the context.

^[43] See my footnote below for a discussion of this explanation and how to parse the whole passage of YG.

^[44] This story appears in Midrash Tanhuma parshat Naso (on one of the Sotah verses – Numbers 5:12),  §10 in the Buber edition, and §6 in the regular version, and in Bamidbar Rabbah (on that same verse) 9:9. As an aside, the story is also referenced by Rashi in his commentary on Numbers 5:13.

^[45] I would like to thank Binyamin Goldstein for clarifying this for me. Admittedly, the flow of the passage is confusing, with first stating the story as a question, and then suddenly saying that it’s in fact support.

^[46] Rosen-Zvi, The Rite that Was Not: Temple, Midrash and Gender in Tractate Sotah, Jerusalem: Magnes, 2008 (Hebrew).

^[47] Pp. 12-19. (See there pp.19-22 for an interesting discussion about the authenticity of Mishnaic descriptions of the Yom Kippur service in the Temple and the Red Heifer.) Bar-Ilan there in a footnote (fn. 42) points out that another scholar previously posited in her 1984 book that the Sotah ritual never happened and is totally theoretical.

I’d like to point out what appears to be a clear error made by Rozen-Zvi, not pointed out by Bar-Ilan (even though Bar-Ilan, pg. 13, quotes this passage in Rozen-Zvi verbatim). Rozen-Tzvi remarks, pg. 156, in reference to a story about a Sotah in the Mishnah in Eduyot 5:6 (parentheses and exclamation mark in the original):

״זוהי העדות היחידה (בכלל, לא רק בספרות חז״ל!) שנותרה על מאורע מסוים של השקיית סוטה בתקופת הבית.״

The Midrashic story quoted by YG is at least one instance of exactly such a textual witness. (As to whether the Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah and the Tanhuma are within the bounds of “Hazalic literature” is a separate discussion, but Rozen-Zvi explicitly adds there’s no such witness even outside of Hazalic/Talmudic literature.)

^[48] Pg. 138.

^[49] Shapiro, Changing the Immutable, pp. 67-73. I’d like to thank Marc Shapiro for telling me about this by email a few years ago, before Changing the Immutable was published.

^[50] I would like to thank Marc Shapiro and Jonathan Dauber for their insightful comments on this passage, when I was writing my first paper on this topic.

^[51] Pg. 163, beginning of Section # 11.

^[52] See especially the lines at the end of Section #11 (pp. 169-170):

״ושעיר המשתלח הפך המנורה. שמים חשך לאור ואור לחשך [ישעיהו ה כ], הה״ד בפיו ובשפתיו כבדוני ולבו רחוק ממני ותהי יראתם אותי מצות אנשים מלומדה [ישעיהו כט יג]. ושעיר המשתלח היה מעור סמאל. והמשלח את השעיר [לעזאזל] יכבס בגדיו [ויקרא טז כו].״

It is possible that עור סמאל is a play on אור, mentioned earlier in the section quoted,  as עור being the opposite of אור is a common idea in Kabbalah. In general, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the relevant well-known comment of the Ramban in his commentary on the biblical verse of the Scapegoat, where he makes the surprising comment that sending the Scapegoat to the desert is intended as a way to appease the forces of evil.

^[53] Reuven Tzarfati is an important Kabbalist in his own right, whose works deserve further study, according to Moshe Idel, one of the pre-eminent scholars of kabbalah. See Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, 1280-1510: A Survey, pp. 148.