Joseph Dan sets himself an imposing task in Kabbalah: A Very Short Introduction. In a little more than 100 pages, he races through more than a thousand years of Jewish religious texts, explaining a vast, amorphous body of beliefs and practices that have influenced Freemasons, Hasidim, Carl Jung, New Age gurus and, more recently, Hollywood celebrities. It's quite a performance, carried off with only a few stumbles.
"There is hardly a Jewish idea that cannot be described as `kabbal-istic' with some justification," writes Dan, a professor of kabbalah at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. The subject is elusive, and kabbal-istic thought has taken so many twists and turns over the centuries that it makes more sense, Dan argues, to speak of kabbalahs, in the plural. In a sardonic aside, he offers a popular definition of the kabbalah as "something that I have a vague notion of, but somebody,
somewhere, knows exactly what it means."
To clarify, Dan begins at the beginning, on Mount Sinai, where Moses received the word of God in the Torah. The word kabbalah comes from the Hebrew for receive (in Israel it identifies the reception desk in every hotel and the receipt in every restaurant). For a thousand years, Dan writes, when Jews referred to the kabbalah, they meant the divine truth revealed to Moses.
In the Middle Ages, however, Jewish scholars in Spain and Provence, and somewhat later in Italy, claimed to possess secret scriptural knowledge that origin-ated with Moses and was passed down orally through the centuries. These scholars and exegetes, later known as kabbalists, dealt especially with two sections of the Torah whose public discussion is forbidden by the Talmud, the collection of ancient rabbinic writings on Jewish law and tradition followed by Orthodox Jews. The first, from Genesis, describes the creation of the world; the second, from the Book of Ezekiel, describes Ezekiel's vision of the celestial chariot.
Over the centuries, the kabbalists, incorporating ideas first expressed in nonkabbalistic treatises dating from late antiquity, worked out a complex interpretation of the divine order and its creation. They described the kingdom of heaven and, in a few treatises, explained how humans can ascend to "face God in his glory."
Medieval kabbalists envisioned a universe arranged hierarchically in 10 divine emanations, called sefirot, and developed numerical, alphabetical and metaphorical correspondences among them. These esoteric systems and the magical aspects of the kabbalah captured the imagination of Christian Renaissance thinkers like Pico della Mirandola. The idea of kabbalists as a dangerous secret cult lies behind the English word cabal.
Dan helpfully sorts out the most influential kabbalistic concepts, especially the notion that individual human actions can influence the divine order and bring about the tikkun, or redemption. This radical proposition was put forward by Isaac Luria, a 16th-century kabbalist, who believed that the universe was born in crisis,
resulting in a system of divine emanations riven by fault lines. Only by strict observance of religious law could the Jews bring about their own redemption and correct the flaws in the universe, ridding it of evil. This idea gained tremendous force, and, Dan writes, "penetrated all aspects of Jewish culture." It remains central to ultra-orthodox Judaism today.
One large point remains obscure. Dan insists that the kabbalah is not mystical. The very concept of mysticism, he argues, is alien to Judaism and Islam. Yet he freely uses the term throughout the book. This is confusing. And his discussion of current kabbalistic thinking is rushed.
In Riddles of Existence, Earl Conee and Theodore Sider, forming a metaphysical tag team, throw themselves at 10 perennial
problems in philosophy. In brief chapters, the authors, both philosophy professors, pose a question (Does God exist? What is time?) and then explain, for a general audience, different ways of answering it. They offer a series of hors d'oeuvres for intellectual diners not quite ready to commit to a full philosophical meal.
There are no answers. Or rather, there are too many answers. The entertainment value lies in picking one's way through ingenious arguments, encountering along the way basic ideas like the law of the excluded middle and the principle of sufficient reason.
Conee and Sider like to start with a common-sense, real-life question -- Why is the person in my baby picture the same as the person I see in the mirror today? -- and then pick apart the comfortable assumptions that carry most of us through life.
Although both authors write clearly and simply, the waters do get deep very quickly. Most readers will pause, if only briefly, when faced with formulations like "any condition is a necessary condition for itself," but help is usually forthcoming, often in the form of humble examples. "Ontological dependence" sounds forbidding, but Conee, in his chapter on God, comes to the rescue with an irresistible invitation: "Consider a tuna salad sandwich." Two slices of bread do not make a tuna salad sandwich, and neither does a heap of tuna salad, but together they do. Voila! Ontological dependence on rye.
In the mainstream view, the Philippines should be worried that a conflict over Taiwan between the superpowers will drag in Manila. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr observed in an interview in The Wall Street Journal last year, “I learned an African saying: When elephants fight, the only one that loses is the grass. We are the grass in this situation. We don’t want to get trampled.” Such sentiments are widespread. Few seem to have imagined the opposite: that a gray zone incursion of People’s Republic of China (PRC) ships into the Philippines’ waters could trigger a conflict that drags in Taiwan. Fewer
March 18 to March 24 Yasushi Noro knew that it was not the right time to scale Hehuan Mountain (合歡). It was March 1913 and the weather was still bitingly cold at high altitudes. But he knew he couldn’t afford to wait, either. Launched in 1910, the Japanese colonial government’s “five year plan to govern the savages” was going well. After numerous bloody battles, they had subdued almost all of the indigenous peoples in northeastern Taiwan, save for the Truku who held strong to their territory around the Liwu River (立霧溪) and Mugua River (木瓜溪) basins in today’s Hualien County (花蓮). The Japanese
Pei-Ru Ko (柯沛如) says her Taipei upbringing was a little different from her peers. “We lived near the National Palace Museum [north of Taipei] and our neighbors had rice paddies. They were growing food right next to us. There was a mountain and a river so people would say, ‘you live in the mountains,’ and my friends wouldn’t want to come and visit.” While her school friends remained a bus ride away, Ko’s semi-rural upbringing schooled her in other things, including where food comes from. “Most people living in Taipei wouldn’t have a neighbor that was growing food,” she says. “So
Whether you’re interested in the history of ceramics, the production process itself, creating your own pottery, shopping for ceramic vessels, or simply admiring beautiful handmade items, the Zhunan Snake Kiln (竹南蛇窯) in Jhunan Township (竹南), Miaoli County, is definitely worth a visit. For centuries, kiln products were an integral part of daily life in Taiwan: bricks for walls, tiles for roofs, pottery for the kitchen, jugs for fermenting alcoholic drinks, as well as decorative elements on temples, all came from kilns, and Miaoli was a major hub for the production of these items. The Zhunan Snake Kiln has a large area dedicated