Insights from the Talmud....and Aristotle.

I am thoroughly enjoying dipping into the Penguin Classics The Talmud: A Selection, being constantly amazed and enthralled with the wide-ranging debates and scholarship that can be found this record of Rabbinic discussion on Jewish law, ethics and their interpretation of scripture as a guide to daily life. One particularly wonderful passage from chapter three of the seventh tractate (Nidda) is this:

'Rabbi Simlai expounded: What is a baby like in its mother's womb? He is like a folded notebook, his hands on his two cheeks, his two elbows on his two knees, his two heels on his two buttocks, his head between his knees, his mouth closed and his navel open; he eats what his mother eats and drinks what his mother drinks, but he does not excrete in case it kills his mother. As soon as he emerges into the fresh air, what was closed opens, and what was open, closes, for otherwise he could not survive. While still in the womb a light shines over his head, and he sees from one end of the world to the other, as it is said When his lamp shone over my head, when I walked in the dark by its light (Job 29:3) - do not be surprised at this, for a man sleeps here and in his dreams sees Spain - and these are the best days of a man's life, as it is said O that I were as in months gone by, in the days when God watched over me (Job 29:2) when there were months not years.'

Apparently during this time the child is taught the whole Torah, but on emerging from the womb into the fresh air 'an angel slaps his mouth and causes him to forget the whole Torah' so for the observant Jew the whole of life is spent trying to regain that former state of blessed knowledge.

There follows an excursus on what it takes to form a whole human being:

'Three partners form a person: the Holy One, blessed be He, his father and his mother. His father produces the white seed out of which are formed bones, sinews, nails, the soft matter of the brain in his head and the white of the eye: his mother produces the red seed out of which are formed skin, flesh and hair, and the dark part of the eye: the Holy One, blessed be He, puts in him spirit and soul and facial appearance and the seeing of the eye and the hearing of the ear, the speech of the mouth, the movement of the legs and discernment and understanding. When his time comes to depart from the world the Holy One, blessed be He, takes his portion and leaves before his mother and father their portion.'

I was particularly struck by recognition of the idea that the foetus is not just the sum of his bodily constituents, but requires additional divine input to make him 'alive'. Aristotle, who also spent a lot of time trying to work out how the foetus was formed, considered that the male contributed the vital heat required to give the soul form (the 'colder' female merely supplied the matter). Indeed, he thought that females were colder, damper, inferior versions of males - but this is the guy who considered that plants were upside-down animals because they had their nutrition-seeking parts down in the earth (unlike animals mouths which tend to be on the upper end of the body) and their generative (seed-bearing) parts waving about in the air (unlike animals who have their generative parts safely tucked away)!

Both the Talmud and Aristotle agree however that the male embryo becomes 'ensouled' at 40 days gestation.....the female embryo somewhat later.

Because they're a bit colder (thought Aristotle) they take somewhat longer to get going, see?

Metamorphosis I am Hoping for, not Dereliction.

I am rather sad at the demise of Borders bookshops as I have spent a lot of time (and money) browsing their shelves and drinking coffee in the in-store Starbucks of the York branch. It's rather unusual in that the back half of the building was originally a chapel, and the cafe area occupies the gallery that runs around the four walls in a squared-off oval.

Ever since he was very young, the Bright-Eyed Boy and I have spent many a happy hour peering over the handrail and playing our favourite game of 'Book Spotting' with a coffee/bun to hand. This consists of one party naming a book that they can see on the shelves on the floor below, which the other party has to locate and describe. Good for both observation and verbal skills, although we just enjoy it. We went to have a possibly final cup of coffee there today, but sadly found that the coffee-shop was shut for a staff meeting. I hope we manage to fit one more in before the doors shut forever. As a venue, it really does hold many fond memories for me and I hope that the building isn't going to be turned into yet another crappy cheap clothes shop. In truth, I guess I am partly to blame for the chain's demise. Although I have bought a lot of books from them in my time, in many instances the limits of stock, the esoteric nature of my wants, or simply cost, have driven me into the arms of online retailers. Which is where a lot of Borders' clientele have ended up, I suspect.
Mea culpa, Borders.
When I was browsing in town on Saturday, whilst waiting for daughter #3 to do her rowing training (in the boathouse gym, as the river has well and truly burst its banks) I went to a favourite antiquarian book shop, Ken Spelmans on Micklegate. This is absolutely lovely, smells just right (ever so slightly musty), is suitably poky and has an open coal-fire glowing in the back room. Up the rickety stairs there is a modest theology and classics section (always a few Loebs to be had) where I chanced upon a wonderful leather-bound copy of Donnegan's Greek/English Dictionary dating from 1837. I was severely tempted, but as it was a tome of considerable avoir du pois and I had only just started my two-hours' browsing, I regretfully put it back. However, when I thought about it over the rest of the weekend, I developed a terrible hankering for it (small Greek font has a strange effect on me). Monday (a teacher-training day) saw the boy and I legging back up the hill to snatch it gleefully of the shelf. I had previously told myself that it would probably have been bought (to guard against disappointment) but when I saw that it hadn't - well, it was like a real chemical 'hit'. The nice thing about Spelmans is that they wrap your purchases up in green parcel paper, so you feel like Mr Brownlow or some other Dickensian character as you walk out of the shop.
I have to admit to taking advantage of the 20% off sign in Borders and bought Alexander McCall-Smith's The Comfort of Saturdays, a Penguin Classics copy of Selections from the Talmud and an Oxford Classics version of Kafka's short stories. I whipped through the first in no time at all (and for a while found myself thinking in a similar fashion to Isabel Dalhousie: wistfully philosophic) and am dipping in and out of the second. I will read the third in dribs and drabs, as Kafka is far too weird to read a lot of in one go. We've been reading some portions of untranslated Kafka in the German Reading Skills classes and he is a most unsettling author. Nothing is comfortable or predictable. All is alienation and rejection. I remember borrowing Metamorphosis and other stories from the library in response to another (similar) author's work. Damned if I can remember who it was now!