Textual Mirrors. Dina Stein
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becoming a Nazirite.28 Yet he chooses the ritualistic avenue—to do things with both words and actions—underlining God’s role as the addressee and as the opposite of the yetzer. The yetzer, here a metonym for sexual transgression, is thus rendered synonymous with the yetzer as a symbol of mutiny against God.29 Moreover, the accusation that the yetzer takes pride in what does not belong to him alludes to the One who is the ultimate proprietor. The internal other is seen as the opposite image to, and as the condition for recognizing, what Rudolf Otto termed “the wholly Other.”30
Otherness within characterizes the Nazirite’s self, corresponding to rabbinic notions of subjectivity, and it is also a poetic aspect of the textual self, since the tale as a whole is a tale within a tale, a text within a text. The story of the Nazirite is part of a bigger story: it is framed within a first-person narrative told by Simon the Just. Like his beautiful projected hero, he is transformed (if only momentarily, making an exception that proves his rule), and, like him, his transformation has to do with sight (“I saw that he had beautiful eyes and was good-looking,” “why did you see fit”). Sight is what drives the story as a whole—both the Narcissus tale and Simon the Just’s framing narrative—to its happy ending.31 While the Nazirite realizes the sameness/otherness of his reflection, Simon is granted the utmost gratification of semblance between scripture and reality: “of you, scripture says,” he tells the boy as he finds the missing referent. His apprehension of Nazirites in general, we must remember, stems from what he experiences as a discrepancy between a signifying system and its referents in the world.32 The Nazirite might have been liberated by the recognition of the representational or signifying aspects of his identity; Simon the Just’s quest for an embodiment of the signifying model—scripture—in his contemporary surroundings is only briefly satisfied. Significantly, this ad hoc resolution is expressed in hermeneutical terms as the story ends, when Simon the Just offers a mini-midrash: he now reads the scriptural words yafli lindor literally. The word combination yafli lindor ordinarily, and as it appears in Numbers, means “to vow,” but Simon puts the emphasis on the verb yafli, to perform a wonder.33 Simon’s words transform the shepherd’s experience into midrash: the shepherd’s vow to shave his head indirectly alludes to the Torah’s words “to separate themselves unto God,” but he does not explicitly quote the verse. The narrative draws an analogy between scripture and the Nazirite’s actions and words as he turns to the yetzer and proclaims that his hair (as a metonym of the body) is not his and that he will “shave it for the sake of heaven.” In doing so, the Nazir performs a subtle reading of the verse “to vow a Nazirite vow to separate themselves unto God” (Num. 6:2), which explains the consecration to God as the answer to lurking hubris, in light of other potential beneficiaries (for example, the yetzer). Thus his realization that his hair is not his and should be consecrated to God corresponds to the biblical decree to make a vow to God (and not to another entity).34 I will come back to the narrative’s midrashic grand finale—in keeping with my claim that midrash should be regarded as a rabbinic self. What need to be emphasized at this point is that Simon’s recognition of the Nazir, via midrash, echoes the Nazir’s own practice.
The relationship between Simon’s framing narrative and the Nazir’s internal story involves “the thematizing within the story of its storytelling concerns.”35 Accordingly, one could argue that the mere fact that we are presented with a story within a story is a sign of the text’s metafictional quality. That being the case, it should tell us something about telling stories, about the mediation and representation that this invariably involves, even about the problematic privileged position that the narrated (as opposed to the narrating) event might be granted. More specifically, if Simon’s personal experience is couched in similar terms to those of his hero’s, in what hierarchical order do the two stories stand? Did the internal story generate the framing narrative, or did Simon’s experience project itself onto the other tale? Which of the tales is the source of reflection? Does each story hold a separate identity, or are their identities determined by a same/other relationship that they bear with regard to each other? These narratological issues, relating to a narratological self, become tied up with issues of human self-reflectivity as they are explicitly played out in this text.
Simon the Just: A Possible Self
The story of Simon the Just is not only his own. It is a story told about Simon the Just telling a story. What might be associated with his character as the storyteller does not stand beyond the imagined borders of the tale; it is part of its very fabric. From a different perspective, narratives that are associated with the figure of Simon the Just constitute an identifiable rabbinic discourse, which is defined by having this character as its focal point. It may be the case, as some have argued, that the tale of Simon the Just and the Nazir is an ancient one originating in the Second Temple period, or at the end of the first century CE.36 However, by the time the tale was retold in the Babylonian Talmud, it had become part of a larger tradition, of a discourse centered on Simon the Just (which may very well contain later material). Can one assume, on strictly philological grounds, that the Bavli storyteller knew (let alone made conscious use) of other traditions concerning Simon the Just? Obviously not. Yet the traditions—and here I limit them to the ones recorded in the Bavli—provide a general profile of a towering pre-rabbinic, priestly figure, associated with the glory of the Temple.37 That these (as well as other) traditions abound also in earlier Palestinian compilations, where a version of the Nazir tale appears (e.g., in the Tosefta), further suggests that the story of the Nazir from the south should be construed in the context of a wider discourse regarding Simon.
Simon the Just, as the chain of tradition in tractate Avot tells us, was of the last surviving members of the legendary Keneset Gedolah, the Great Assembly.38 He is the first individual in the ancestral chain of tradition to be quoted (“on three things does the world stand: on Torah, and on the Temple service [ʿavodah], and on the practice of kindliness [gemilut ḥasadim]”). The conspicuous role allotted to him in this genealogy of knowledge corresponds with his imposing presence elsewhere in rabbinic legends.39
Simon the high priest’s connections with Alexander the Great are recounted in a few sources, including rabbinic sources.40 When the Samaritans conspire to destroy (or take over, in other sources) the Temple, Simon the Just dons his priestly attire and makes his way at night—accompanied by other dignitaries bearing candles—to meet Alexander. The Greek leader, having witnessed the delegation heading his way at night, is informed by his counselors that it is composed of Jewish rebels. However, when morning breaks and they reach Antipatris, Alexander sees Simon the Just. Alexander descends from his chariot and bows before him. His counselors are bewildered. “A great king like you bows before this Jew?” they ask. Alexander replies: “I see his image when I go into battle and I win.” This is the appropriate ending for a political-theological fantasy,41 a genre associated in rabbinic literature with figures such as Vespasian,42 Hadrian,43 and Antoninus.44
Simon the Just’s statesmanship, as we learn from the Alexandrian episode, derives its power from his priestly office. When Simon appears before him, clothed in his white priestly vestments, Alexander acknowledges the superiority of the God that Simon represents. The nature of the knowledge and power entailed in his specific embodiment of that institution is further exemplified in other traditions about Simon. For example, in a large segment in the Babylonian Talmud (Yoma 39a–b), he appears as a metonym for the Second Temple in its glory, and his death signals its decline and corruption. As long as he lived, we are told, the “western candle” (in the Temple) always burned—a sign of the abiding presence of the Shekhinah (divine presence). Similarly, the maʿarakhah, the fire of the great altar, sustained itself from morning to evening. Once he died, the candle ceased to burn, and the fire of the maʿarakhah dwindled and required constant rekindling. In his lifetime, the showbread was sufficient and equally divided among the priests. Once he died, the meek did not receive any bread while the gluttonous got double their share.45 As an exceptionally virtuous character in rabbinic literature, he is imparted with the knowledge of his own demise.46 Simon the Just learns of his impending death from the disappearance of an old man,