Maimon, The Outcast

I'm continuing to learn as I make my way through books about Maimonides.  As I said, he can't win.  He was too smart, too unique, too out of step with the Jews, too definite and without compromise.  He threatened too many people; and the traditional Kabbalistic/Ashkenazic/Gaonic ways of life were against him.  He wanted for the Jews, what the Jews didn't want. His intentions were the best--for the glory of Hashem (God), and "all Israel."  However, "all Israel" wasn't on the bandwagon with him.

One of his fundamental goals was to organize and settle the totality of age-old Talmudic dissension, controversy, and dispute, henceforth and forever more; essentially, he wanted to separate the wheat from the chaff, deleting argument from Jewish law (halacha); he wanted the Jewish world to be able to cleanly and easily grasp the crux of the law without having to stumble and meander through all the arguments preceding it.  The Jews, however, problematic and divisive to the core, had to argue with someone, so they disputed Maimon instead of Talmud--exactly what he was trying to eradicate!!!

The Jews needed to stick with what they knew--Talmud the old-fashioned way; a "mishmash" of debate. Interestingly, the Jews accepted Judah ha Nasi and his Mishneh; they accepted Joseph Karo and the Shulchan Aruch (Set Table--rules of behavior).  But when Maimon came along in between the two, isolated there in the southern Sephardic/assimilated Graeco-Roman-Moslem world, it was a "Thanks but no thanks."  Maimon was perceived as being too radical.

I love Maimonides.  I understand why he wasn't accepted.  I respect that.  He wasn't wrong; he was different.  He was writing for "the Bunch," and at the same time, he wasn't one of them.  Remember about community--how one has to fall in line.  How community keeps one in line if one falls out, or ultimately rejects him, altogether.  Snius, snius--(Modesty, modesty: Humility). 

That's the answer.  Right there.  Maimon didn't fit the mold.  It wasn't that he was arrogant, or mean, or anything that was a negative.  He was just different, and too bright to know or reckon with how deeply his work and persona impacted others.  He was aware of others' disdain regarding him, and their arguments concerning his dedication to rational discourse. Yet, he hoped that in time--the future--Jewish perspective no longer would be personally directed at him, and objectively would swing toward his way of thinking, instead. It did not.

His was THE greatest mind during all of the Middle Ages (not just amidst the Jews, but everyone)--on a par with Einstein, easily; albeit much better rounded than an Einstein.  Maimonides was a freak, an outcast; too brilliant for the masses--even the educated masses--to grasp. Astounding man.

The truth is, the Jews didn't want him because his expediency, clarity, and organization of thought threatened their established, dithering ways. Maimon, in his zeal for codification and rationalism, was about more than just regimenting the Talmud and Jewish law.  Ironically, and Jewishly, he was about unraveling the "Jewish mind" without realizing it.  He wanted a kind of linear thinking, in a Jewish world that was ponderously circular in ideology and thought. Essentially, he wanted the Jews to think like the Greeks: they were not able, as they were Jews.  There is a fundamental difference between the two cultures in terms of mindset.  This is one element that Maimonides was unable to grasp, in my opinion; quite possibly because he was Jewish, himself.

Perhaps, one could say the Greek mind was about, "either this or that." The Jew is about, "Well, maybe a little this and maybe a little that; but then again, maybe not..."   For the Greek, everything has to add up mathematically; for the Jew, there are always two possibilities; unless there is need for one more.

Alas, Aristotle and Maimon, of the crisp and decisive Greek mentality, must have had fits regarding such willy nilly back and forth discussions and debates.

Thus, Maimon became read and studied as a Jewish philosopher, and a commentator on Jewish law.  His effort to re-write and define the Talmud, was acknowledged, but not rendered authoritative. A first-rate second-stringer at best, others were studied long before him--if he is studied at all. He ran rings around every single Jewish scholar who ever lived.  Even now. But it didn't matter.  He wasn't part of the Bunch.  And that, in Judaism as with all tribes, is the bottom line.

I read about him with tears in my eyes.  It is so hard to be different.  It really is very lonely at the top...

Maimonides by Moshe Halbertal

My review written for Amazon: Try it; you'll like it. 
I suppose it begins with the book jacket, which is elegant, no-nonsense, and straightforward. The content of the book only gets better from there. Mr. Maimon (as I refer to him), happens to be one of my heroes. This volume, which is thorough, laced with appositives and careful elucidating explanations, clearly defines why I feel the way I do.

The author is succinct, logical, exceedingly well organized--no doubt Maimonidean himself--and the book, in my opinion, is exquisitely sensitive to Maimon the man, as well as to the philosopher/logician/astronomer/physician. The book covers his entire life in the initial biographical chapter that is about one quarter of the book. The rest of the book is devoted to Maimonides' most significant works--his "Commentary on the Mishneh," "The Commandments," "The Mishneh Torah" and "The Guide for the Perplexed." Halbertal refers to additional compositions; however, the focus of the book is primarily reflective of these--the best, most influential, and most powerful of Maimonides' writings.

Maimonides, himself, in addition to his incredible mind, was funny, sarcastic, brash, impatient, rude; in short, he was straightforward to a fault, and had no positive sentiment for the "stupid" or the "foolish," as he referred to them. It is important to note that he was as caring and feeling about those whom he loved, as he was passionate about those whose ire he raised. The author covers all aspects of this extraordinarily gifted gentleman; not infrequently exasperating in his insistence that his way was the right and only way: At one moment, Halbertal actually refers to Maimon's behavior as that of a "harebrained amateur!" (This, to add depth of thought, and chuckles, too, regarding the most profound of all medieval thinkers).

I think one has to be a little bit peculiar to relish such a book as this--printed by Princeton, that seems to do a wonderful job of choosing its authors--because Maimonides in today's world, by many would be deemed as somewhat esoteric; even among Jews, themselves. Mr. Maimon took no prisoners when he wrote, slammed head-on into the established Jewish scholars of his day; and those with whom he took issue, all the way back to the time of the "other" Moses. Had he been burned at the stake or excommunicated, it would have been fitting, albeit so hideously wrong. However for me, being an eccentric, I fairly swoon over his principles: Provincially Jewish to the core; but grounded, developed, and enhanced by the classical thinkers of Greece, Rome, and the golden age of Islam.

I say this book "rocks."

It is at once an introduction to the magnificence of Maimonides, and it is a summation, too; depending upon the reader. For the novice such as myself, who craves information about Mr. Maimon, Halbertal's volume is superb. I would imagine that for the knowledgeable reader, "Maimonides: Life and Thought" would be a sublime refresher, synthesizer, and assistant with insightful information.

It's tough going on the one hand; I find myself wanting the primary sources. On the other, it's deliciously rich, beautifully written, not without witty similes and metaphors. It's terrific! What can I say? As for the translator (the book was originally published in 2009, in Hebrew), the 2014 (yes) English edition's eloquence is clean, fluid, and filled with fun vocabulary to delight: Three cheers for Joel Linsider!

So for me, I think "Maimonides: Life and Thought," by Moshe Halbertal, is a million times better than any Harry Potter tome; and between us, many times more spellbinding... Enjoy.

"Hypers, Nancy!" George ejaculated. Response: Political Incorrectness In Nancy Drew Books

[ The followimg post is a response to an article : Was Nancy Drew Politically Incorrect? ]

In every single thing I do, I am a detective.  Some people call that "doing one's homework."  From the moment I arise until I drop, I am a grade-A busybody; whether it is about medicine, law, education, business, or just trying to survive in today's world.

Nancy Drew's, some in first editions (yes, really), have a place of honor on my bookshelves.  I have them printed on cheaper paper for the sake of saving money to support the Second World War; I have them with R.H. Tandy's marvelous illustrations both in glossy black and whites printed from 1929 through the '30's, in pen and ink's from the late '30's and '40's, in their colored covers.  I also have the later illustrators who cheapened and simplified Nancy's style and persona.  It was R.H. Tandy who gave her her beauty.  Not to mention that of chums, Helen Corning, Bess Marvin, and George Fayne; with loyal housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, and Dad--Carson Drew. Remember???

The books, complete with running boards on automobiles that required blankets for "motoring" as there were yet to be car heaters; a whopping speed limit of 20 miles per hour; rumble seats in roadsters; or "electrical ice-boxes" as the term "refrigerator' was brand new; were also very real. That is to say, the books reflected the times in which they were written, as the author states.

There neither was nor is absolutely nothing wrong with them.  Nothing.

As several of the folks commented below, it wasn't about "racism" or "anti-Semitism'" in those days.  It was about reality: The way things were.  That's called "HISTORY."   The books, with the nom de plume of Carolyn Keene, were well written--for third and fourth graders--full of fun vocabulary, settings, adventures, and new things for young girls who wanted to be grown-up's.  In those days, when a girl like Nancy was 16, she was already running a household and solving mysteries.  As the books progressed, and our society was ever more protective of its children, Nancy's age upped to 18.  She had to be more mature to do all of those things; it wasn't so much about time passing, as it was about our society becoming less mature.

The bigotry and prejudice, if one wants to look for it, is there--"good and plenty."  But you know, it's how things were.  As the author writes, rather than hide reality from children, talk with them about it.  Learn from it.  Be glad that Nancy offers so much in so many dimensions--historically, politically, socially, culturally--in addition to the simple plots that were ever so adventuresome!  I still "blush to the fingertips" when something exciting is upon me. Don't you??

If one wants to address the 'Drew books, rather than frown upon the culture of the times, one might also take a look at Nancy as a top-drawer feminist--in fact, as are all of the women in these books.  Take Mr. Drew's sister: Eloise Drew, unmarried, a career woman, and living quite successfully in New York.  I believe Aunt Lou was a practicing attorney, and helped Nancy on more than one case...  See, it wasn't about deliberate attacks on this group or that; again, it was about society, commentary, the culture; and authors who used--yes--the ideal Girl Scout, as the epitome of the role model for Nancy's character.

This author did a very good job of discussing the slants in Nancy's world.  I have little doubt that those same slants were in far more books and series--e.g.: Mark Twain--than just Nancy Drew.  Hide the truth of the times, and they will re-live themselves.  Expose them for what they were, and they're valuable  lessons.

Nancy Drew is one of The Best aspects of my life.  She is alive and well, and with me every single day.  I am so glad that the author was as generous as she was, and wise.  Sometimes, people aren't so kind.  I have no patience with the politically correct: It's one thing to be courteous, polite, and civil. It's quite another to hide the truth, and live in a world that isn't or wasn't, or will never be: That is not Nancy Drew; it is the Emperor's New Clothes.

Moses ben Maimon: Cool Dude

"I got a crush on you, Sweetie Pie.  All the day and night-time, hear me sigh..."

Mr. Maimon as I call him, whose name was Moses, son of Maimon (also a distinguished rabbi) additionally is referred to as RaMBam (Rabbi Moses Ben Maimon), or Maimonides.  He lived around the Mediterranean--Spain, Morocco, Palestine, Egypt--from 1135 or 1138, until his death, in 1204.  He was a fox.

He was beyond brilliant, and he was a Renaissance man before there was a Renaissance.  He belonged with the likes of Leonardo, Copernicus, Galileo, and as many greats of the future as one can recall.  St. Thomas Aquinas was inspired by Maimonides and used his work to better understand nature, science, and the realm of God in Christianity. Maimon was without question, the greatest thinker of the Middle Ages. Even today, it's difficult to find an equal who would match the genius and this remarkable and truly worldly philosopher.

Mr. Maimon, in addition to writing extensive commentary on the Mishnah--part of the Hebrew Talmud or books of law based on the Hebrew Scriptures or Torah--and organizing virtually all of said Jewish law until that time--was actually a physician, a scientist, an astronomer, a nutritionist, and a worldly philosopher.  He practiced medicine, was court physician to Al Qadi al Fadil, whose father was the incomparable Saladin--magnificent medieval ruler.

Word has it, dates aside, that King Richard the Lion Heart, in the midst of his travels during the Crusades, wanted Maimonides in his own court; but that for the times, Maimon felt his safety was in better hands with the Muslims.  Remember, this was the time of the Crusades, and expulsions/executions of Jews throughout the European civilized world. Strange bedfellows, eh?

As a physician, Maimonides was dedicated to medication, cures for multiple diseases and conditions, and pharmacological study as well as its organization.  The Maimonidean Oath for doctors, is practiced today. His methodology was a precursor for pharmaceutical practice.  He was a health nut, and was firm about diet and exercise.  The famous portrait of him that most see, is a contrivance no doubt, and has been duplicated multiple times.

However, Maimon could not have been heavy-set, or beefy in construct, as it wasn't who he was, nutritionally.  Rather than looking like Chef Boyardee, Moses Maimonides had to have been slender. He walked back and forth to his offices from his home, on a daily basis, saw patients, saw the Vizier in his palace, wrote voluminously, corresponded, spoke publicly and traveled to do so, and led a very active and full life with little time for food or rest.  It's difficult to imagine that Mr. Maimon would be anything but slim.

He was a student of Greece, Rome, and Islam, living in that geographical area.  He was not familiar with northern European thought or influence to any great extent.

His hero was Aristotle: pure and simple. There were others such as Averroes.  But the Greeks were his mentors.  He had virtually no contemporaries with whom he consulted; and virtually no Jews.   Reason was always his guide; nature was his companion.  Maimon wasn't just a Jewish philosopher who sat in a room and contemplated.  He was out and about with the people, working for a living.  He was involved with what he wrote, he practiced what he thought.  His ideas were based not only on his readings, but on his experiences in the real world.

In all of Judaism, I cannot think of a better role model for myself.  Mr. Maimon tried to re-construct Judaism in order to make the spiritual, rational.  He tried to justify God's role in a scientific world.  He did not have the backing of the kind of power or money to be able to do that; but what he left Judaism and the rest of those who were familiar with him--the western medieval world as a whole, and centuries beyond--was a dedication to a God of rational--again, rather than spiritual--existence and rationale that made such a universe possible.

He appeared to some to be arrogant and self-centered.  Instead, it's more likely that he was just himself, and so far above others' ability to comprehend him, that the appearance of superiority was really just honesty. As they say, "It isn't bragging if it's the truth..."

He was quick-tempered, had no patience for idiocy or foolishness; he was not interested in people who couldn't "connect the dots." He did his best to withhold unkindnesses toward others in personal meetings; however, he was candid in his writings or when he confided with certain contemporaries, re: what he felt to be blatant stupidity.  He was schooled in multiple languages, and was at home in Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic, just for openers.

He had to have had an eidetic/photographic memory.  He was funny, witty, had fine senses of humor, sarcasm, and wit; he was very kind, patient with those who were ingenuous and mattered; he was dedicated, responsible, and wise.  In short, he was simply "the best of the best."

When he died, Mr. Maimon's books were burned by many, despite the honor and homage that he received when he was alive.  The fierce discipline to maintain a rational point of view toward God, rather than a simpler unquestioning other-worldly spiritual one, was simply too difficult and too abstract for most to manage.  People wanted a personal god who attended them.  Maimon's in actuality, did not.

Maimon understood that God could not be all of the anthropomorphic components that the Hebrew Scriptures espoused; and he also understood that God, out of respect for humanity, could not intervene in lives; thus, he felt that prayer was really for he who prayed, and not for God, at all.  There was nothing God, as Maimon defined Him, could do.  In order for man to have free will, God could not intervene, deus ex machina, in a person's life. Rather God was present as form, rather than matter--the Greeks--the essences of all.  It was a tough road for the average Joe in the marketplace or herding the flocks.

Again, make no mistake: Moses ben Maimon was one of the greatest innovators that the world has ever known.  He did his best to organize Judaism--the origin of Western religion and thus one of the initial elements of Western civilization-- into something intelligent and tangible.  Rather than tons and tons of arguments, dissensions, and loose documents from the past, Jewish law for the first time, became a practical guide that could be followed. He did the same with medicine, science, diet, pharmacology, nature, preventative medicine, and with God.  He cared, he tried, he did his best.  He was an incredibly sensitive man who was highly in tune, whether or not he appeared that way on the surface.  He worked at all things until he died.  He was devoted to improving the world:  His way, certainly; but isn't that the way we all are... I will speak of him again.

I am fortunate enough to have many heroes.  Today, people don't believe in heroes.  Without heroes, there is no society to emulate, no goals, no role models, no understanding of what could be, no direction or a value system; a warning signal that is a presage regarding the end of a culture.  However, Moses ben Maimon, is as real and heroic to my mind, as any individual whoever lived.

The Old Tailor: Made to Measure Magazine

(This article was originally written in the late '80's.)

When I was a child, I used to see him there, sitting in a non-descript corner, hunched over his machine. Acknowledging my father's watchful presence more than my brown-eyed curiosity, he would look up and nod as I would observe him cut the thread between his teeth.

Worn Singers--maybe six of them--and an old Pfaff, were stuffed into that back room like desks in a schoolhouse.  Instead of books, cones of sewing thread, boxes of buttons, rolls of braid, filled the shelves. And, like mollified students, they all sat there, the numbers of Eastern Europe engraved into their faces, their clothing belonging to a different time.

Trousers and vests hung on skinny men like jackets tossed on barbed wire fence posts.  Faded flowered silks (for there were no polyesters in those years) threatened to cover trundling women as though they were skins on bulging sausages.  They were old then--grey, stoop-shouldered, an dreamless--sewn into the linings of their world.   The years eventually took most of them, but the old tailor remained loyal.

I suppose he was only twenty, in those groping times when the world was righting itself from the War.  I think it must have been that I was so young, that he appeared so old. When he died, he was sixty-six; my memories are from many years ago.

His first name had been anglicized and he had a last name infiltrated with Polish phoneticisms--an infinite number of  "z's."  Medium build, medium height, his pride kept his spine as straight as a measuring stick all his life. But from the close work of the stitching, a roundness had grown into his shoulders, softening that very formal European discipline into an almost friendly stoop.

His eyes were quick to note a mistake, observant to follow a line.  I cannot recall their color, for there was no contrast to the shading of his face. Everything was grey.  The hair, straight and combed to one side, covered his baldness.  Occasionally, when he lost himself in his art, a strand or two would slip down over his brows, creating a casualness that might have made him a part of this world.  He had a sharp Aryan nose, and a large brown mole on his cheek that rose up in a rounded dome like a used pencil eraser. He always wore a too-wide tie and a too-tight coat; he always wore a hat--straw in the summer, felt in the winter.

He worked for my father for over forty years.  He did just about everything, because he was trained in the days when "everything" was what one did; when loyalty to the superior mattered; when quality was more than a quick stitch of a union label.  He had apprenticed as a boy, I imagine, in pre-War Poland.  Afterward, he came here, bringing with him a needle and thread, a pair of shears, and his accent. Nothing more.

In the early years, he did the master tailoring.  Hitch it up here; let it out there.  Dart. Pleat. No gusset. Watch the inseam.  This one is a portly--don't confuse him with a stout.  Sleeve lengths to match.  Careful when you cut, now--those lapels are getting narrower.  Single-breasted for him; double-breasted takes too much cloth and he's too broad across the chest.  Not too much padding in the shoulder.  Slimmer leg, please...

Eventually, the tailoring business became more of an eccentricity than a practicality.  As the shop became a factory, and the company grew to a corporation, the old tailor, in order to continue to survive, should have changed, also.  But he never grew or learned any more than his youth had taught him.  His pessimism over a lost world invaded his dulled being.  Now, they used the word "manufacturer" instead of "tailor."  It was longer, maybe. Fancier.  But to him, its real meaning was death.

He tried to leave once, when industrial replaced hand, when one suit became one hundred, when the single name "piecework" replaced the completeness of the whole garment.  He had in mind to buy his own shop--a small corner, downtown.  At last, out from under my father's shadow, he would be his own man.  Butler becoming boss.  His shop would be in the tradition of his world--suiting fabrics, shirt weights.  A small press in back with a good steam iron ought to do it.  Of course, a really good machine or two.  Maybe, if it went well, a helper.  But most of all, he, the old tailor, would celebrate his trade and his skill.  Tape measure around the neck--like a priest before the altar--he would dress the mannequin to approximate size. Clip the threads.  Check the button holes.  Brush the shoulders.  Amen.

He had purchased the shop with his savings.  Received my father's best wishes.  Was ready to own the life for which he had been trained.  But he had a wife--and at the proper moment, her greed coerced her into gambling.

If, for a few months, there actually had been a color to the old tailor's eyes, it was never seen again.  Only grimness and waiting and manufacturing remained.

He needed a job and my father needed a good man to run the shop.  "Shop" didn't mean the whole building, but those rooms confined to the cutting, sewing, and pressing of the garments.  My father never did find that "good man."  But the old tailor was there.  And, he did his best, I suppose.  Mostly pacing between this girl and that, watching how they sewed, wondering what to complain about next.

The flowered dresses were replaced with low-cut blouses and too-tight pants.  The seven machines reproduced themselves into twenty and thirty. The presses became the pressing room.  Electric cutting knives whirred, two and three at a time.  The women had become girls, and the Europeans had been replaced with Spanish, Indian, and Oriental blood.

It wasn't pride anymore.  It was survival and endurance.  Kibbitz with the girls.  Punch in--punch out.  A day's work. Most of all, disdain for modernity. Disgust with the distance between a man and his work; a love affair the old tailor testily missed.  It didn't matter how good the garment was.  To him, it wasn't right--it wasn't done with tenderness, or respect for the beauty of the fit.  The caring, the sighing, the becoming-at-one-with, were not there, any more.

The tailor made a poor foreman.  My father knew it.  The tailor, I imagine, knew it, but didn't care.  I believe for him, it was a simple transfer of professions: From creating, to observing others create.  The world had passed him by.

Almost too late, my father grew tired of the bigness of his work.  He sold the factory, and returned to the smaller shop.  A staff of nothing: Except that he still needed the old tailor.  Only a few days a week. Alterations. Hand stitching. A custom measurement now and then.  It was here that I saw the old gentleman gradually fail, fall apart, and finally die.

The manufacturing of suits had become the making of uniforms--for hotels, restaurants, and specialty groups. He would still take the bus each day to and from his torture, where he would be surrounded by brightly colored cocktail dresses and Mexican waitress skirts, hot-pants, and chambermaid garb.  Once again, rounded over his machine that was lit cautiously with a small refrigerator bulb, he would sit and baste. Snapping the thread between his teeth as he used to do, forty years ago.  He knew the feel of a good wool gab.  He could line up the buttons on a jacket by sight.  He ripped and re-sewed with the steadiness of the years.

I always thought he liked the ripping best, somehow.  When it wasn't his own work, it was a delight to correct.  To remind the others of what real tailoring and genuine workmanship were about.

The months passed. He muttered a lot.  At first to himself.  Then to the cloth.  Finally, to the audience of the presses.

His end was those hot steaming machines.  Mentally, he had grown quite slow, old memories stitching over the cloth of reality.  My father would have retired him, but the tailor's wife still gambled away their money. There was no other means for him to survive, but to work.  All that was available now that his skills were fading, were the presses.

He was as good at them as any other aspect of the trade. He was content to come in, fold his coat carefully on the chair, and place his hat neatly on their top.  He would smoke a cigarette and go to the back, where amidst conversations with himself, he would smooth a pant or two, using all his strength to pull down those big mangles and buck presses.

He worked until his last day.  Dignified, formal, polite.  As gracious to the imagined voices he heard as to the workers behind the cutting tables.  As critical of the twentieth century, as anyone I've known.  Vacant and shyly droll, always the Old World, in a tattered and worn sort of way.  His clothes never changed from those early, ill-fitted years, despite the thousands of hours he spent caressing the seams of others.

I felt sad when he died, not so much for him as for me.  Clearly, he was just too tired.  I wondered if, had I tried, I could have known him better.  I wondered if, had I succeeded, there would have been any greater depth to him than what I had observed.  The old tailor, like a worn suit of clothes, may well have been a disguise for someone very different underneath.