Infinite and wonderful life

In his editorial entitled, "The Luxurious Growth" from July 15, 2008, New York Times columnist, David Brooks writes:

[S]cience finds itself enmeshed with social science and the humanities in what researchers call the Gloomy Prospect, the ineffable mystery of why people do what they do.

The prospect may be gloomy for those who seek to understand human behavior, but the flip side is the reminder that each of us is a Luxurious Growth. Our lives are not determined by uniform processes. Instead, human behavior is complex, nonlinear and unpredictable. The Brave New World is far away. Novels and history can still produce insights into human behavior that science can’t match.

...

This age of tremendous scientific achievement has underlined an ancient philosophic truth — that there are severe limits to what we know and can know; that the best political actions are incremental, respectful toward accumulated practice and more attuned to particular circumstances than universal laws.

In reading these lines this morning, I could not help but think of the seemingly infinite openness that is the basis of Talmud study as I have slowly learned--an openness that does not allow an "anything goes" type of interpretation or implementation, but one that encourages and nurtures creativity and personal initiative.

Within our finite limits and the infinite possibilities that our imaginations and creativity can produce, we are challenged with the task to strive to build and develop an in-depth, heartfelt relationship with Hashem, with Hakadosh Barukh Hu, with God. We are challenged to find the truth of our lives. It is also my profound belief that that play of poetry, at its best, can also help forge and develop this relationship and help develop this truth.

The philosopher David Michael Levin, who I quote it my essay on the poet Charles Olson, compares this more open sense of truth (in contrast to truth as correctness) that only can emerge is the space of this type of openness:

In poetizing discourse, both sound and sense require a theory of truth which understands and appreciates their ‘ecstatic’ play within an open field. In the phonological dimension, there must be a field for the play of sounds: echoes, resonances, overtones and undertones, onomatopeia, polyphony, emotionally evocative sounds. Similarly, in its semantic dimension, the dimension of signifiers, there must be a field for the play of meanings: ambiguities, allusions, metaphors, shades of meaning, adumbrations of what is to come. Truth as correctness, truth represented in the discourse of statements, assertions, propositions, cannot do justice to the interactive processes essential to poetizing discourse. Truth as aletheia can, because it is hermeneutical: it lets sound and sense play in the interplay of presence and absence, identity and difference. To the poetizing process, the process of bringing experience as it takes shape into words that further shape it, aletheia gives a multi-dimensional field in which to unfold. (437)

Aletheia is the Greek word for truth that Heidegger defined as "unconcealing" and which in some way to my mind expresses the work of Talmud Torah and the creativity that underlies it.

More on multivalence . . . the heart of lomdus

In a recent comment to a post, a good friend wrote:

"Multi-valent" is a good, strong word, though I prefer "particulate", in the sense Blake meant when he referred to 'reality' as made up of "Minute Particulars" . . . Particulars can be collected -- and we don't pick flowers-in-general, we pick these daisies in front of us here and now.

I believe his description of particulars is an important one for each of us to remember in our day-to-day lives as we interact with all the individuals (persons and things) in our lives and strive not to simply generalize or categorize our encounters.

However, for me "multi-valent" has a different meaning. It points to the nearly infinite number of meanings and chiddushim that Rav Rosensweig can seemingly discover within a sugya. It refers to what Shalom Carmy calls "polyphonic diversity" in his essay entitled, "Polyphonic Diversity and Military Music," from Lomdus: The Conceptual Approach to Jewish Learning, edited by Yosef Blau.

Rabbi Carmy opens his essay with these sentences from the Arukh ha-Shulhan, Hoshen Mishpat:

Indeed it is the glory of our holy, pure Torah, for the entire Torah is called a song (shirah) and the glory song is when the voices vary; that is the primary pleasantness. Whoever sets sail in the sea of Talmud will discover varied melodic pleasure in all the varied voices.

A student who is comfortable with the polyphonic world of the Talmud is also comfortable with complexity and ambiguity, and does not seek simple answers, because in the end they do not exist. Rabbi Calmy writes:

Typical of the polyphonic consciousness is the Rav's assertion that when human beings are faced with many crucial dilemmas and orientations of value, Halakhah "tries to help man in such critical moments," but does not provide a formulaic "synthesis, since the latter does not exist."

It is this type of student who appreciates what Rabbi Calmy calls, "the infinite challenge that defines the human endeavor to study Torah."

To help me better understand what lomdus is and how it is lived out, I found this essay on the internet entitled, Humility and Halakah: Placing Derekh Ha-Limud in Perspective, by Rabbi Doniel Schreiber.

At first he describes various types of iyun or lomdus (in-depth gemara study) this way:

• One end of the spectrum, reflective of classic iyun found in Ge'onic times, would place the elucidation of texts as its main goal. All questions and analyses, in this approach, aim to arrive at a better understanding of the texts.
• On the other end of the spectrum, reflective of more contemporary lomdus, is the attempt to understand concepts by classifying, conceptualizing and defining halakhic matter.
• In the middle of the spectrum, one finds a more balanced system embracing both the importance of text and the centrality of concept. The text generates analysis of concepts, while concepts shed light upon new ways of reading text.

He then defines lomdus practiced by Rav Rosensweigh in the following manner;

More recently, mori ve-rabi HaRav Michael Rosensweig shlita, Rosh Yeshiva at Yeshiva University, has catapulted iyun into a new sphere of analysis. It demands, on the one extreme, a microscopic approach. This entails an exhaustive, comprehensive, and often tedious sifting of the most subtle halakhic minutiae and the most seemingly trivial detail. On the other extreme, it requires one to ascend to a macroscopic perspective, in which one, taking into consideration a wealth of sugyot revolving around a broad issue, peers downward upon the sweeping, halakhic landscape. This method, in essence, expands Brisker analysis to the farthest reaches of both ends of the sugya.

These two polar extremes, rigorous scrutiny and panoramic vision, when concomitantly implemented, enable one to integrate and interpret all forms of nuances and detail into the landscape of the sugya in the broadest sense of the term - the meta-sugya.* For example, elements of halakha associated with the process of beit din (courts) may shed light on how to understand the broader concept of din (Jewish civil law); details in the topic of eidim zomemim (false witnesses) could reflect on the larger picture of eidim and eidut (witnesses and testimony); minutiae in the discussion of gittin (bills of divorce), might clarify the wider topic of shtarot (legal documents). The incessant and rigorous investigation of a detail's relationship to the meta-sugya is the hallmark of this system. To some degree, this may represent the pinnacle of lomdus and the Brisker derekh.

*I use the term meta-sugya to refer to mori ve-rabi HaRav Rosensweig's emphasis on analyzing classic sugyot and then treating each of them as a detail within a broader enveloping sugya, which in turn may become a detail in an even broader sugya, and so on.

I am proud to say that I have listened to many of Rav Rosensweig's shiurim in which he has done very similar to the ones described above . . . they truly are quite a ride.

As Rabbi Schreiber continues in the his essay, he also speaks of some of the benefits and reasons for taking such an approach:

When one is involved in conceptual analysis of sugyot, reaching great depths of understanding, one achieves a genuinely rich sense of satisfaction. While this is partially due to the fact that one is involved in the important and basic mitzva to learn Torah, it is largely because one is engaged in something that is the most meaningful and penetrating experience as humanly possible. It is the endeavor, in our never-ending pursuit to draw close to God, to understand Divine intent.

The only real way finite man has to reach God is to be involved in what God has revealed to us. This, to be sure, includes performance of mitzvot, but especially pertains to talmud Torah, because talmud Torah is THE embodiment of the will of God. While thrashing out questions of kinyanei geneiva (theft law) is not as obvious a method of bringing one closer to God as learning the laws of avodat Hashem is, it accomplishes it as effectively.

Although one may be serious about talmud Torah, if one does not relate to this experience, if one is not animated by it, one cannot be passionate about learning Torah. Anyone who is really passionate about his learning, to the extent that he is actually consumed by, and excessive in, his talmud Torah - not just that he derives a certain pleasure from it - has certainly, whether consciously or not, encountered the Shekhina.

As well as these:

Success [in lomdus], inasmuch as there are always new facts, new definitions and new situations, lies in the ability to perceive new concepts in new facts, to penetrate to their meaning as much as possible, and apply them to new situations. This is the pursuit of Divine intent and its inner logic.

and these:

It is important to keep in mind throughout that lomdus is not a formal method which merely requires a series of steps, nor is it an artificial process consisting of stale categories of thought. Rather, lomdus is a response to internal stimuli; one must always endeavor to be creative, open to nuances, formulations, and shifting winds - flexibility is critical. Thus, while these tools are useful, one must not let them dull sensitivity and constrict creativity.

Lomdus, when successfully implemented, allows one to respond to sugyot with intuitive precision and depth of understanding.

and finally these:

A skillful lamdan, thus, transforms the passive absorption of information into an encounter, an engagement with devar Hashem.

To learn more about this approach I came upon this recorded shiurim by Rav Rosensweig, which I intend to listen to shortly: Derekh HaLimud 1 (11/21/05) and Derekh HaLimud 2 (11/28/05).

In a few words, I guess I am drawn to the profound ability and desire to find infinite depths in the finite world around us. While my good friend Gary's words opened this post, about the importance of the particulars around us, which certainly holds much truth, I cannot help but think that a lamdan, might see the same flowers that Gary speaks about and immediately ask him or herself, halakhic questions regarding its permissability to be eaten or planted or uprooted on Shabbat, etc.

To close this too long post, I want to share some quotes from Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik's Halakhic Man:

When a fruit is growing, halakhic man measures the fruit with the standards of growth and ripening that he possesses: budding stage, early stage of ripening, formation of fruits or leaves, and reaching one-third of complete ripeness. He gazes at colors and determines their quality: distinguishes between green and yellow, blue and white, etc., etc., “between blood and blood, between affection and ffection” (Deut 17:8) p21

There is no real phenomenon to which halakhic man does not possess a fixed relationship from the outset and a clear, definitive, a priori orientation. . . . The Halakhah encompasses laws of business, torts, neighbors, plaintiff and defendant, creditor and debtor, partners, agents, workers, artisans, bailees, etc. p22

When his soul yearns for God, he immerses himself in reality, plunges, with his entire being, into the very midst of concrete existence, and petitions God to descend upon the mountain and to dwell within our reality, with all its laws and principles. Homo religiosus ascends to God; God, however, descends to halakhic man. The latter desires not to transform finitude into infinity but rather infinity into finitude. p45

The study of the Torah is not a means to another end, but is the end point of all desires. It is the most fundamental principle of all. p87

Charles Olson, poetry and multivalence

A number of years ago I wrote an essay for a modern poetry class. The topic was Charles Olson and what I called a "Polis of Attention and Dialogue."

I have been silent on this blog for almost a month now for many reasons, but thinking about what I wanted to say, I returned to this essay, which tried to described the multivalent (many meanings) nature of Olson's poetry and in turn the multivalent nature of our world. And I believe that it is my interest in the viewpoint that drew me to the Talmud's multivalence, and why I have been attracted to it over time.

I thought I would share a number of paragraphs from the essay, the whole piece can be found here.

Charles Olson’s Maximus: A Polis of Attention and Dialogue

Don Byrd in his Charles Olson’s Maximus says this about Olson’s interest in more traditional academic work, “His problem was simple: how does the writer manage to finish a project when every day he discovers information which changes the entire picture?”. This is how I feel about my own work with Charles Olson, every page of Maximus seems to open new angles on Olson, on the world, on reality and on myself.

What draws me to Olson’s work is his ability to hold in tension two apparently opposing messages. The first is that “life is strangled by systems” (Christensen 212) and the second is the importance of “making a mappemunde” that includes his “being” (Olson M II 87). While Olson clearly desires to join with Nietzsche and others in toppling the “whole line of life that makes Delphi that center,” (Butterick 7) he does not simply create a mass of ruins. Rather, he takes those ruins and creates a mythology and cosmology out of them. However, these creations are not a Ptolemaic system of perfect circles. Instead, it is a wild, open, becoming, creative, imaginative, unfinished mythology that asks readers for their attention and participation.

A example in nature of this process of both destruction and creation is a terminal moraine–the geological deposits left at the end of a glacier’s journey. It contains everything that the glacier consumed in its path. This image works on many levels with Maximus. First, on a literal level, the section of Gloucester known as Dogtown is actually a “terminal moraine” as Olson says in “Maximus from Downtown–I.” Second, Maximus, itself, can be seen as a terminal moraine created by the movement of Charles Olson–a glacier of a man, whose interests included:

Hopi language, Mayan statuary, non-Euclidean geometry, Melville’s fiction, the austere thought structures in Whitehead’s philosophy, the fragmentaary remains of the Sumerian and Hittite civilizations, Norse, Greek, and Egyptian mythology, numerology and the Tarot, the history of human migration, naval and economic history, the etymology of common words, pre-Socratic philosophy, the historical origins of the New England colonies, the development of the fishing industry off the coast of Massachusetts, accounts of the conquest of Mexico, the collapse of the Aztec and Mayan civilizations. (Christensen 5-6)

Finally, the image of the terminal moraine also resonates with the view of the mythologist, Joseph Campbell, who used this image as a description of the state of myth in our time. Campbell imagined that individuals in the twentieth century were standing on a terminal moraine containing the fragments of thousands of years of myth. And from this great treasure chest of myth he encouraged individuals to create their own personal mythology by picking and choosing from what lies about them. It is with a similar sentiment that Olson writes Maximus.

. . .

Heidegger’s work is immense and extremely complex, but if one turns to his essay on “The Origin of the Work of Art,” one can find some interesting descriptions of truth and the role of the artist in the revelation of that truth. The essential aspect of truth for Heidegger is “unhiddenness,” which Heidegger uncovers within the traditional Greek term for truth, aletheia. It is this sense of truth that Heidegger refers to when he writes,

The art work opens up in its own way the Being of beings. This opening up, i.e., this deconcealing, i.e., the truth of beings, happens in the work. In the art work, the truth of what is has set itself to work. Art is truth setting itself to work. (390)

For Heidegger, art creates an opening out of which truth is unconcealed. Thus, for Heidegger, much like Olson, truth emerges in the openness of a field created by art, by poetry. In a passage that seemingly could have come from Olson, we hear Heidegger say,

What poetry, as illuminating projection, unfolds of unconcealedness and projects ahead into the design of the figure, is the Open which poetry lets happen, and indeed in such a way that only now, in the midst of beings, the Open brings beings to shine and ring out. (72)

Reality, being, truth only emerge in the Open, not within the confines of a clearly delineated system of classification and identification, which stagnates life. The nature of the Open allows for the freedom of creation necessary to bring art to life­–an art not of measure and control, but one of freedom and creativity:

The more poetic a poet is–the freer (that is, the more open and ready for the unforeseen) his saying–the greater is the purity with which he submits what he says to an ever more painstaking listening, and the further what he says is from the mere propositional statement that is dealt with solely in regard to its correctness or incorrectness. (216)

In this passage from “‘. . . Poetically Man Dwells . . .’” Heidegger could have been talking about Maximus, since it certainly requires a “painstaking listening” and cannot be judged on a basis of “correctness or incorrectness.” It also clearly relates to the nature of reality that Olson is striving to give voice to and create a space for–a reality that demands “painstaking listening” and “eyes,” and cannot simply be measured, organized or classified.

. . .

Olson does not simply tell his readers "to find out for yourself." Instead, he forces them to make those discoveries on their own. He does not provide simple answers or solutions. How could he, if he truly believed in the centrality of process and the fluidity of absolutes? By using unorthodox sentence structures, incomplete statements, obscure references, original layout techniques, Olson forces readers to engage the text in an attentive, conversational, dialogical manner in which new meaning is created in the opening of the poem. One cannot assume that the next word will follow from the previous. Each word has to be attended to and given the space to play. Readers must work; they must use their eyes, ears, breath and bodies to engage the text. If they do not pay careful attention to the text and its nuances and participate in a open, transforming dialogue with it, then they will miss its meaning completely, and will fail to create the “polis of the self” (Christensen ix) that it challenges them to create. Eniko Bollobas describes the participatory nature of reading Olson in the following way:

The rich texture of Olson’s poem demands a participatory (creative) reading from the reader rather than “literate” passive listening. Also, it demands from this reader a certain openness and a willingness to resist and ignore prior expectations, preconceptions, prejudices, and routines of apprehension. The multivalent text, the text characterized by free syntactic and semantic valencies, seems a more faithful transcript of the creative moment, and at the same time promises a more active, activating reading experience. (62)

Olson, in fact, gives readers a hint on how to engage his text by how he uses texts within Maximus. Olson makes the texts he reads (e.g. an Algonquin legend in M II, 21) his own by incorporating them into his poem. He may change a word or two, but that is all. However, the new context Olson creates for the story gives it new meanings of which the Algonquins probably never dreamed. Through juxtaposition with other stories and repetition (Olson repeats this legend in M II 142) the meaning of the story is unleashed from its indigenous roots and allowed to float within the readers’ lives where it can possibly plant new roots. In this way Olson demonstrates that reading is not a passive process, but is an active and integrative process in which readers are challenged to unleash Maximus and make it their own in order to give “daily life itself a dignity and a sufficiency” (Christensen ix).

Even the incompleteness of Maximus, which was only gathered together in its current form after Olson's death, provides yet another entrance, another challenge for the reader. In some ways Maximus begs for the reader to complete it. Or perhaps more correctly expressed, to continue it. By engaging the text and attempting to continue it, to make it their own, readers become part of an ongoing conversation, a never-ending process of creating a “mappemunde” out of the terminal moraine on which they dwell.