Simplicity, Lesson 7

Table of Contents

• [0:00] The Rosh’s dispute about a derivative category of damages
• [1:50] The common denominator and the generalization
• [4:07] Scientific generalization and elimination
• [21:32] Winnowing and throwing — the example of the wind
• [24:08] Expanding the hermeneutic principles: Yishmael and Akiva
• [26:30] Conclusion and a note to the doctoral students
• [28:13] Presentation of the topic of benefit and loss in the Talmudic text
• [29:15] Interpreting the expression “excellent matters”
• [32:11] Classification of the cases of the courtyard and the person
• [33:21] The extreme cases that don’t need discussion
• [35:11] The principled question: benefit or loss?
• [38:46] The connection to modern legal systems
• [46:08] The role of intuition and logic
• [52:21] Visual recognition and the understanding of a Torah scholar

Summary

General Overview

The text presents the dispute in the Rosh regarding one’s stone, knife, and load that were placed on top of a roof, fell through a normal wind, came to rest on the ground, and caused damage, as a derivative category learned from two primary categories, pit and fire. It clarifies three conceptions of its laws: exemption for concealed items and vessels by force of the two primary categories together; full liability with no exemption at all by force of an abstract principle of “your property, whose safeguarding is your responsibility”; and the Rosh’s own view that its law is like the law of pit alone. The text explains that the dispute depends on a logical question: how does a derivative category branch out from two primary categories? Is it through a common denominator based on elimination and abstraction, or through conceptual construction / analogy that combines unique features from two sources? Later it brings the passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose” in Bava Kamma 20, where the Amoraim themselves present a conceptual inquiry between liability based on the injured party’s loss and liability based on the beneficiary’s gain, and connect this to the words of Rabbi Shimon Shkop in the introduction to Sha’arei Yosher about the need for effort and trust in the teacher in order to grasp abstract lines of reasoning.

One’s stone, knife, and load as a derivative from pit and fire, and the views in the Rosh

One’s stone, knife, and load, which he placed on top of his roof and which fell through a normal wind, came to rest on the ground, and caused damage, are basically defined as pit, but the involvement of the wind requires learning from fire as well in order to establish liability. The text reads the Rosh carefully and identifies three opinions regarding the laws of a derivative category learned from two primary categories: one view holds that the exemptions of both teaching sources apply, and therefore there is exemption also for concealed items because fire is exempt for concealed items, and also for vessels because pit is exempt for vessels; a second view holds that there is no exemption at all, because after generalizing to “your property, whose safeguarding is your responsibility,” liability stands as a general principle, and exemption requires proof of full similarity to a particular primary category; and a third view is the Rosh’s own position, that “it has all the law of pit,” and therefore there is exemption for vessels and liability for concealed items. The text sharpens the point that according to the first view, the burden of proof lies on the one seeking to impose liability, and therefore when discussing concealed items or vessels one of the two teaching sources is missing, there is no way to impose liability; whereas according to the second view, the burden of proof shifts to the one who wants to exempt, once the abstract principle has been accepted.

The structure of the common denominator as abstraction and elimination

The text describes the common denominator as a mechanism in which one creates a generalization from the primary categories by removing unique features that are not necessary for liability, and one is left with shared features such as “your property, whose safeguarding is your responsibility.” The text explains that this is a logic of elimination: from fire one removes the parameter “its way is to move and damage” through pit, which is liable even though it does not move; and from pit one removes “no other force is involved in it” through fire, which is liable even though another force is involved. The text compares this to scientific generalization about gravitation, where you erase details like “plastic” or “square” and retain only “has mass,” and the more information you erase, the broader the generalization becomes and the more cases it covers.

Conceptual construction and complex analogy: the Rosh’s method and the Jerusalem Talmud on winnowing and throwing

The text presents the Rosh’s method as a third form that is not a common denominator in the sense of generalization, but rather a focused analogy: one’s stone, knife, and load that came to rest and then caused damage are literally pit, and fire serves only as “crutches” to prove that the involvement of the wind is not a factor that exempts. The text explains that this creates an asymmetry: the liability remains a derivative of pit, and therefore the exemption for vessels remains in place, whereas the exemption for concealed items that applies to fire is irrelevant, because this is not a derivative of fire. The text adds that if the damage had occurred while the object was still flying and not after coming to rest, then there would have been an essential similarity to fire, and opposite laws would follow regarding concealed items and vessels.

The text cites the Jerusalem Talmud on “winnowing and throwing” as a sharp example of conceptual construction that is not based on a common denominator, because apparently there is no common denominator between winnowing and throwing. The text sketches a model in which, instead of erasing unique features and remaining with a shared feature, one joins a unique feature of one source with a unique feature of a second source and creates a “third concept” through synthesis, such as moving something four cubits in the public domain with the aid of the wind. The text presents this as the opposite of scientific generalization: not elimination, but combining unique elements in order to create liability.

The thirteen hermeneutic principles, the development of exegetical methods, and Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yishmael

The text states that there are types of exposition that are not included in the thirteen hermeneutic principles, and suggests that the lists are not exhaustive and that the system of interpretive principles develops over the generations. The text notes that Hillel the Elder lists seven principles, and elsewhere “kal va-chomer and gezerah shavah” are mentioned as two prototypes, while emphasizing that kal va-chomer is logical and gezerah shavah is textual. The text says that Rabbi Akiva interpreted by inclusion and exclusion rather than the general-and-particular method of Rabbi Yishmael, and that the other principles exist in his system as well.

“This one benefits and that one does not lose” in Bava Kamma 20, and the inquiry into benefit versus loss

The text quotes the opening of the passage: Rav Chisda says to Rami bar Chama, “You weren’t with us in the evening in the boundary area, when we raised for discussion excellent matters,” and the question is: “If one lives in another person’s courtyard without his knowledge, must he pay him rent or not?” The text explains the four combinations of a courtyard that is ordinarily rented out or not ordinarily rented out, together with a person who ordinarily rents lodging or does not ordinarily rent lodging, and places the discussion in the case of “a courtyard not ordinarily rented out and a person who ordinarily rents lodging,” where “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” The text formulates the two sides of the doubt as the claim “What loss did I cause you?” versus “But you did benefit,” and states that the passage performs a principled abstraction: is the ground of liability the injured party’s loss, or the beneficiary’s gain? The practical difference comes in situations where one of those parameters is missing.

The text argues that this move is unusual in that it resembles the conceptual inquiries of later authorities (Acharonim) in the Brisker style, where two parameters are set out and one clarifies which is the obligating factor by means of a practical difference. The text explains that the Talmudic text is usually casuistic and deals with cases, whereas here there seems to be an awareness of a general conceptual system, and that is why there is such amazement at these “excellent matters.”

Rava on the mistaken proof from the Mishnah and the continuation of the passage

The text brings the continuation of the Talmudic text, where Rav Chisda answers, “Our Mishnah,” and obligates Rami bar Chama, “When you attend on me,” and then quotes: “If it benefited, he pays what it benefited.” The text brings Rava’s words: “How unwell and unaware is a man whom his Master helps,” and says that according to Rava one cannot learn from the Mishnah, because there it is a case of “this one benefits and that one loses.” The text notes that the Talmudic text nevertheless justifies Rami bar Chama and offers an answer that seems forced, and that the medieval authorities (Rishonim) and Tosafot deal extensively with this difficulty.

Rabbi Shimon Shkop in the introduction to Sha’arei Yosher: trust in the teacher and effort in abstraction

The text quotes from the introduction to Sha’arei Yosher that Rabbi Shimon Shkop knows that his book “will not be accepted by everyone,” because many learners are not accustomed to “the analytical approach,” and because its subjects “require study and effort” and are not grasped “with a mere glance.” The text cites, in the name of his late brother-in-law, an explanation of the phrase “when you attend on me”: it stems from the need for confidence in the greatness of the teacher, so that the student will attribute his lack of understanding to himself and exert himself until he understands, rather than dismissing the ideas as nonsense. The text connects this to the fact that at first glance the proof from the Mishnah appears mistaken, and only someone who gives credit to the teacher will pause and continue examining until it becomes clear that there really is a line of reasoning there.

Intuition versus conceptualization, and the development from earlier generations to later ones

The text describes the work of the Talmudic text and Maimonides as more intuitive work, and the medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim) as trying to “conceptualize” and refine theory out of those intuitions, similar to a philosopher of science who formulates the methodological assumptions of the scientist. The text brings the image of “Moses our teacher in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall” and the tension over whether conceptualization uncovers intentional depth or invents foreign structures, and presents an exchange of views between Rabbi Yehoshua Hutner and the Seridei Eish regarding Rabbi Chaim and Maimonides. The text argues that intuition is a necessary foundation and that the tools of logic are auxiliary tools, but when intuition leads to contradiction it must be rejected, and it compares this to driving on autopilot versus conscious thought.

The text gives examples of intuitive knowledge that is not easily formulated, such as identifying the sex of chicks, a Stradivarius violin, and the visual recognition of a Torah scholar in returning lost property, and explains that visual recognition depends on trustworthiness, that he does not lie “except in three matters.” The text concludes by arguing that abstraction and analysis grow stronger over the generations: from the realistic Mishnah, to the Talmudic text with more discussion, and from there to the medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim) with more developed conceptual systems, as an ongoing movement from intuition to conceptualization.

We’re talking about pebbles kicked up, and really we were in the dispute that the Rosh brings in tractate Bava Kamma about a subcategory in damages that is derived from two primary categories. And the Rosh brings a dispute about the case of your stone, your knife, and your load that you placed on top of your roof, and they fell with a normal wind, came to rest on the ground, and caused damage. So basically that’s a pit. But because the wind was involved in bringing them to that place, then in order to learn that one is liable for such a damager, you have to derive it from both pit and fire. And the Rosh brings—I was precise there, I think—three opinions and not two on the question of what the laws of this damager will be, this one derived from pit and fire, your stone, your knife, and your load, this subcategory. Will it have the exemptions of both pit and fire, which is seemingly the logically expected result, or will it have no exemption at all, neither of pit nor of fire? And the Rosh himself claims that it will have the exemptions of pit but not of fire. And I said that behind this discussion—I’m not sure how much I burdened you with this, I just want to finish it—behind it sits the question of how exactly this subcategory branches out from the two primary categories.

The usual structure, and that’s apparently what emerges from the language of the Talmudic text, is what’s called the common denominator. In the common denominator, the Mishnah itself says that the common denominator of all the primary categories is that they are your property, their safeguarding is your responsibility, and when they cause damage, the damager is liable to pay. So the primary categories written in the Torah—we basically create from them some kind of generalization: anything that is your property and whose safeguarding is your responsibility—if you didn’t guard it and it caused damage, you have to pay.

And if this really is a structure of common denominator, then seemingly it follows that—let’s formulate it differently. If it were not a common denominator, if I needed both pit and fire in order to derive this subcategory, then apparently you have only its novel point and no more. Meaning, say, fire is not liable for concealed items. Pit is not liable for vessels—“an ox, and not a person; a donkey, and not vessels.” So what happens with your stone, your knife, and your load if they damage a concealed item? Seemingly it should be exempt because one of your two source categories, fire, is exempt. If you wanted to impose liability for a concealed item, then one of your two source categories is gone; you have only one of them, but one alone is not enough. We saw in the Talmudic text that in order to derive liability for your stone, your knife, and your load, you need both primary categories, both source categories. One alone isn’t enough.

Now, when you deal with concealed items, you have only one of them. Only pit is liable for concealed items; fire is not liable for concealed items. Therefore you can’t derive it. Same thing with vessels. For vessels, you have only the primary category of fire; you don’t have the primary category of pit, because pit is exempt for vessels. And if you need both primary categories in order to impose liability on the subcategory, then you won’t be able to impose liability. So apparently the obvious conclusion is that the subcategory will be exempt from all the exemptions of the two primary categories—both for concealed items and for vessels—which is one of the approaches in the Rosh.

The other approach in the Rosh is that it will have no exemptions at all. How do we understand that? Apparently the claim is that after I abstracted from the four primary categories and said, now anything that is your property and whose safeguarding is your responsibility—you are liable to pay—at that point I don’t care anymore. I used the ladder, climbed the tree, and threw away the ladder. The fact that I reached this generalization on the basis of various examples is no longer interesting. I think I compared it to a scientific generalization. So if I see various kinds of objects falling to earth, I reach the conclusion that all things with mass fall to earth. At that point I no longer remember what the examples were that I used in order to get to that generalization. What I now have is a rule: all things with mass fall to earth. I don’t care that one example was square and another example was made of plastic. I understand that this is no longer relevant, because right now those were just examples that I used and discarded. Now I have the general principle: anything that has mass falls to earth.

So if I now ask whether these papers will fall to earth, the answer is yes, they have mass. Wait, but these papers aren’t made of plastic. I don’t care that they’re not made of plastic because after I made the generalization, I understand that the plastic here is unimportant, irrelevant. So at this point I no longer need to remember. This logical process has no memory. I don’t need to remember what the examples were on the basis of which I built the generalization. I now have a generalization. Whatever is in that generalization—that’s what I use.

The same thing here. Right now the generalization is that anything that is your property and whose safeguarding is your responsibility—you are liable to pay. This subcategory of load, knife, and burden is your property and its safeguarding is your responsibility—so what? You are liable to pay. Now what? You want to tell me, okay, but there are all kinds of exemptions. For example, pit is exempt for vessels. So in order to exempt this subcategory for vessels, you need to derive the exemption from pit—not the liability. The liability you learned from the very fact that it is your property and its safeguarding is your responsibility. You want to exempt it for vessels? Show me that it is really similar to pit. But it isn’t similar to pit, because another force is involved in it. So it’s not clear that you can derive the exemption that exists in pit—exemption for vessels—and apply it to the subcategory as well.

And the same with concealed items. The exemption of fire, which is exempt for concealed items—in order to say that my subcategory is also exempt for concealed items, I have to show that it is really similar to fire. Because what’s happening now is that the burden of proof lies on the one who wants to exempt, not on the one who wants to impose liability. In the first approach, the burden of proof was on the one who wanted to impose liability. Then I say: what is the proof that there is liability for concealed items, that this subcategory is liable for concealed items? You want to derive it from two primary categories—well, fire is exempt for concealed items, so you don’t have two primary categories that can teach you. Pit does, but fire does not. Fire is exempt for concealed items. There the starting point was that the burden of proof lies on the one who seeks to impose liability.

But here we have an approach in which the burden of proof lies on the one who seeks to exempt, because right now it is your property and its safeguarding is your responsibility, so first of all you are liable—that’s the rule. You want to say that it has the special exemptions of pit or of fire or something like that? Show me that it is really similar to pit, really similar to fire. And you can’t show that, because as we said, it’s not completely similar to pit, and it’s not completely similar to fire; that’s why both are needed in order to impose liability for the subcategory. And if so, then it won’t have any of those exemptions—not the exemption of pit and not the exemption of fire.

This opinion that says it is similar to pit—that’s the Rosh, that’s the third opinion. Up till now I was addressing the second opinion. The first opinion basically says: I don’t learn from the common denominator; I remember the details from which I built the generalization, and from the details—there is no generalization, that’s one way to phrase it. I have the two primary categories, and from them I derive the subcategory. And if so, I have no way to impose liability on the subcategory either for concealed items or for vessels. Because in the primary categories, you can’t have in the subcategory more than what exists in the primary categories. And if the primary categories do not impose liability there, then you can’t prove that the subcategory will be liable there. And the burden of proof—you need to prove in order to impose liability, not in order to exempt. That’s the first approach.

The second approach, which I just said, is the opposite. First of all he is liable, because anything that is your property and whose safeguarding is your responsibility is liable. What do I care what the character was of the examples from which I reached that generalization? I’ve now arrived there; for me it’s a law of nature. Anything that is your property and whose safeguarding is your responsibility—you are liable to pay. So first of all you are liable to pay. Now you want to exempt yourself for concealed items or for vessels—you want to be exempt? Bring proof. So he says yes, it’s similar to pit. No, it’s not similar to pit. Because pit does not involve another force, and pit doesn’t involve another force and it doesn’t normally move and cause damage, and all the special characteristics that exist here. So it’s not similar to pit, and it’s also not similar to fire. Therefore you can derive neither the exemptions of pit nor the exemptions of fire, and so he will be fully liable and there will be no exemption at all.

So I think those two principles can be understood reasonably well. The view of the Rosh is that it has all the laws of pit. Meaning, the subcategory will be exempt for vessels but liable for concealed items. Now how was this asymmetry created between pit and fire? Seemingly there are two primary categories, it’s completely symmetrical. I have two primary categories, and from both of them I derive the subcategory. There isn’t anyone here who has priority. I need them both. Without either one of them, if one is missing, I won’t be able to derive the subcategory. So either you have both exemptions from both sides, or you have no exemption from either side. How does the Rosh manage to produce an asymmetrical result, that it has the law of pit—which is one of the primary categories—but not the law of fire? That it is not similar to fire in the sense that we impose liability for concealed items, but it is similar to pit in the sense that we exempt for vessels?

So I said that the Rosh apparently understood the logic of the move from the two primary categories to the subcategory in a third way. He basically claims that the load, the knife, and the burden that were placed there, fell in a normal wind, came to rest on the ground, and somebody passed by and got hurt—that is a pit. Look at it: it’s simply a pit. So then why could pit alone not have taught it? Why isn’t it similar to pit? Because it got to that place with the help of the wind. And in pit, the person digs it, and therefore you can hold him liable for his own action. But the load, the knife, and the burden that fell—it wasn’t only his action. True, he was negligent in placing it on the roof, but all in all the wind was involved as well. So how do you know? Maybe that’s an exempting element. And here fire shows me that this element does not exempt, because in fire too the wind carries it off to burn, and the Torah says, “When a fire goes out and finds thorns,” and imposes liability. So if the Torah imposes liability despite the involvement of the wind, that proves that involvement of the wind does not exempt.

That does not turn your stone, your knife, and your load into a subcategory of fire. Your stone, your knife, and your load is a subcategory of pit, because it really is a pit—it is lying on the ground and causing damage. I just had some problem: I couldn’t derive it from pit alone when there is this side issue here. This is a pit, but it’s a pit with wind—the wind is involved. So from fire I show—not that it is similar to fire, it’s not a subcategory of fire—it remains a subcategory of pit. I only show that the involvement of the wind is not an exempting factor. Because in fire, despite the involvement of the wind—so therefore fire is just a crutch. Basically I’m walking—so this is similar to pit, I just need some crutch. I can’t completely settle on pit and rely only on it because here there is also involvement of wind. But I bring you a side proof: don’t be troubled by the involvement of the wind. Once I solved that side problem for you, we return to where we were before: it’s pit, simply pit.

If so, then we can understand what the Rosh says. If it’s pit, then it is exempt for vessels like pit. Why shouldn’t it be exempt for concealed items? What does that have to do with anything? It’s not fire. Fire has a law that it is exempt for concealed items. This is not fire. It’s not a subcategory of fire; it’s only a subcategory of pit, not of fire and pit. Fire is only a line, only a side crutch that tells me that the involvement of the wind is not—don’t be bothered by it. We see that from fire. Fine, not interesting—but not that what we really have here is a damager that is a subcategory of fire.

Say, in the Talmudic text at an earlier stage—we read the Talmudic text one stage before the conclusion—the Talmudic text talks about perhaps the possibility that it caused damage while in flight, not after it came to rest on the ground. A normal wind knocked it off the roof, and while in flight it caused damage. Then it really is not pit but fire. There, about that, the Rosh would say that it would be exempt for concealed items but liable for vessels. He doesn’t say so, but according to his logic that’s what should come out there. Because there, in terms of resemblance, it really is similar to fire. Okay? So perhaps there too you need ox or something, some additional assistance. But conceptually it’s similar to fire. In the case where it caused damage after it came to rest on the ground, then it is really a subcategory of pit entirely. Fire only removes a problem, meaning it frees us from being troubled by some side problem. That’s all. After we are freed from that, we return to where we were before: it’s pit, that’s all.

And then I said—I think I said, I don’t fully remember anymore exactly how far I got. Up to here? So I said that I think—but yes, we did talk about the Jerusalem Talmud’s winnowing and throwing, right? And I said that what we have here is conceptual construction and not the common denominator according to the Rosh.

What does conceptual construction mean? When we look at, say, fire and pit as two primary categories, and at your stone, your knife, and your load that fell, came to rest, and caused damage as a subcategory—the common denominator is built on a logic of elimination. Meaning, I have two primary categories, fire and pit, and in each of them there is some problem. I show that this problem is not important from the other side, where that problem does not exist and still there is liability. So therefore that probably isn’t the important parameter.

Say, fire normally moves and causes damage. So maybe that’s why it is liable? Your stone, your knife, and your load, after they came to rest, do not normally move and cause damage. You can’t derive from fire that this too should be liable. So I show you: no, the fact that fire normally moves and causes damage—that is not the important parameter. How do I know? Here’s pit. Pit does not normally move and cause damage, and nevertheless it is liable. Meaning, the fact that something normally moves and causes damage is not the important parameter for being liable, for requiring payment.

Okay, then let’s look at pit. I say, fine—maybe pit is liable because no other force is involved in it. But in your stone, your knife, and your load, another force was involved; the wind was involved. No—the fact that no other force is involved is not an important parameter. I know that from fire, because fire has another force involved and still there is liability. So it doesn’t bother me that there is another force here too; what matters is that the person is responsible for the damage. It doesn’t bother me that another force is involved.

So I’ve basically done elimination. After I removed the special characteristic of pit—that no other force is involved—and the special characteristic of fire—that it normally moves and causes damage—what am I left with? I’m left with the common denominator, with what is shared by pit and fire, not with the special characteristics unique to pit and unique to fire. Those I removed. I showed that they are not important characteristics, because the fact is that both pit and fire are liable. Like with gravity: I said there is a plastic object that fell to earth and a square object that fell to earth. But that one made of plastic isn’t square, and the square one isn’t made of plastic. So I show that being plastic or being square is not an important parameter regarding gravity. You will fall to earth whether you are made of plastic or not made of plastic—that isn’t what matters. Okay?

So elimination—scientific generalization by means of elimination—and here I return to all the introductions where we spoke about abstraction. Abstraction basically means: remove information. The more information you remove, the broader the generalization you make. That is basically what we are doing here. So the common denominator is elimination. It removes information and therefore broadens the circle. It tells me that various parameters are not important; remove them, they are not the important parameter, and then you’re left with few parameters. Few parameters means lots of objects. If you needed only objects made of plastic, that’s a very specific set. But if all objects with mass—regardless of plastic—you neutralized the plastic element, then the relevant information is more limited, only being something with mass. It doesn’t matter what material you are made of. But the number of objects to which this rule applies is of course a broader set, right? The fewer requirements there are, the more objects satisfy them. Okay? Therefore that is the meaning of generalization.

Generalization is always elimination. Meaning, when I generalize, I am basically doing elimination. I see certain examples, and those examples have various properties that are very specific to them. But since I see several examples, and each has different specific properties, I understand that it does not depend on the specific properties. Let’s erase them. We remain with the properties common to all the examples, and we get rid of all the properties that are specific only to some of the examples. And that is the common denominator. “Common denominator” means properties that are equal in all the examples. And now I say: okay, that’s what determines it. The common denominator is what determines it, and that’s it. What is additional in the examples—that is exactly the first two logics in the Rosh.

The third logic is exactly the opposite. The third logic basically says: I’m not looking at it this way at all. The first logic basically says, in pit and fire—what do they share? That they are your property and their safeguarding is your responsibility, and it doesn’t matter that no other force is involved in one and whatever else—it doesn’t matter. I remain with the common denominator, right? Those are the approaches before the Rosh. But the Rosh himself says no. I don’t enter into generalization at all. For me this is not a process of generalization at all; it’s a process of analogy. I say: as in fire, so in what acquired his property—sorry, as in pit, so in his property. Just an analogy.

Wait a second: analogy is not perfect. Pit has some feature—that no other force is involved in it—and in these cases another force was involved. That’s a problem. He says: fire shows that it doesn’t matter. That feature is not important. But I am doing elimination only of one feature. I wasn’t trying at all to learn this from fire and pit; pit solved the issue for me. I am learning it only from pit. Fire is a crutch that solves a side problem. So I do elimination, but I do elimination from the features of pit—not from the features of pit and also the features of fire, leaving only the common denominator, the properties they share. Rather, fire shows me that there is some feature in pit that is not important.

Another way to look at it is really to see it as a composition of specific properties. Instead of elimination of properties—say I have two primary categories, A and B, and a subcategory C. Does anyone have a board? What? Do you have a board? Yes, no matter, I’ll do it here, we’re a small group so it’s fine. X, Z, Y. Here, look. We have two primary categories, A and B, and subcategory C. Now the two primary categories have a common denominator, a shared feature Z. And each of them has a unique feature. This one has X and this one has Y. Subcategory C has only the shared feature Z; it has neither X nor Y.

Now the classic common denominator basically says this: I start learning from A to C. I say: but A has feature X, it has a special feature, right? So maybe the law in A is because of feature X, not because of feature Z. And C doesn’t have feature X. So you cannot derive that the law that exists in A should also apply to C. So I say: B proves otherwise. B doesn’t have feature X. Fine, but B has feature Y. Maybe in B it is because of feature Y and not because of feature Z. Then A comes back and proves otherwise, because A doesn’t have Y. What did I do here? I said X and Y are unimportant parameters. I showed that they are unnecessary. The liability exists even without them. So let’s erase them. Let’s do elimination. Erase X, erase Y. All objects that have feature Z will have the law—in this case, the law of liability for damages. Okay? And that is the common denominator. Now C belongs to this group. It has feature Z. True, it doesn’t have X and it doesn’t have Y, but I showed that X and Y are irrelevant. So it has feature Z, and therefore the law that exists in A and B will apply to it as well. That is the classical approach.

But you can do something else. There is no feature Z here at all. The picture is this: X and Y. This one has X, this one has Y, they have no common denominator. Okay? And this one has some structure that includes both X and Y. Now I want to derive this from that. I can’t, because this one has X and Y both. Maybe only what has just X is liable, and what has both X and Y will not be liable. Another force is involved in it, right? And in this one no other force is involved. So maybe that’s why this one is liable and that one won’t be liable. Then this one proves otherwise, right? And maybe this one has only Y, not X, and that one has both X and Y. So I say: let’s take the combination of X and Y. If each one creates liability, then someone who has the combination certainly creates liability.

Then what I’m doing is not elimination—erase X, erase Y, and remain only with Z—but the opposite: I’m doing combination. X and Y. I combine them, create from them a third concept, fuse them into a third concept, and I build a third concept and claim that liability applies to it as well. “The common denominator?” No. Common denominator is the classic common denominator. The opposite. It’s not the common denominator. Rather, it is taking both and connecting them. The common denominator means cleaning away what isn’t important, taking only what is shared. Here, on the contrary, I take what is unique to this one, what is unique to that one, fuse them together, and create a third concept that is the combination of the two.

The easiest way to see this is in that Jerusalem Talmud that we saw about winnowing and throwing. The Jerusalem Talmud that we saw basically said this: when I spit in the public domain—I spit, and the wind carries it four cubits—that is certainly not a subcategory of winnowing, of the labor of winnowing. Because the labor of winnowing is to separate the chaff and the grain; the wind carries away the chaff, the grains fall downward, and that is basically a way of separating food from waste. Now when I spit, I am not separating anything from anything. It cannot be a subcategory of winnowing. It is a subcategory of throwing, right? I am simply throwing something in the public domain. But in spitting too, that’s what I’m doing: I take something—my force plus the wind. Exactly. But in winnowing, the wind is involved. So maybe winnowing is liable but spitting would not be liable. Throwing shows me—even though it isn’t connected at all, and the spitting isn’t a subcategory of winnowing—but throwing shows me that involvement of the wind does not interfere with liability. You are liable even though the wind is involved. Ah, that solved the problem for me exactly like the Rosh.

Look, it is completely analogous to what the Rosh does. The involvement of the wind does not exempt—that I understand—and now I go back and learn it only from winnowing. Winnowing and throwing don’t have—think what the common denominator of winnowing and throwing would be; there isn’t one. There is no common denominator. What is shared by winnowing and throwing? Just two entirely different labors, nothing shared at all. On the contrary, I take the unique thing that exists in winnowing—the involvement of the wind. I take the unique thing that exists in throwing—that he moves something four cubits in the public domain, though by his own force. I combine the two, fuse X and Y, and create a situation where I move something four cubits in the public domain but with the help of the wind. And I say: if for this there is liability and for that there is liability, then I make a synthesis of the two concepts, create a third concept, and claim that liability applies to it as well.

This is not a scientific generalization; it is the opposite. Scientific generalization is erasing unique elements and remaining with the common denominator. Here it is the opposite: taking two unique elements, fusing them together, and producing a third thing. Therefore this is not a generalization at all. It is a complex analogy. It is an analogy where the source categories are two and not one. I make an analogy of C to a special feature in X plus a special feature in Y and B, I combine them together, and this creates a reality. I make a synthesis. Okay?

Generalization is deleting unique elements and remaining with something shared, with some group that has thinner characteristics because it has fewer characteristics. Here it is the opposite: taking the special elements and specifically using them, not deleting them. There is no shared element at all. Rather, I fuse the two special ones together and create from them a third thing, and then I make an analogy between it and them.

Why isn’t this included in the thirteen hermeneutical principles or—? There are many things that aren’t included in the thirteen principles, and it’s always a question why Rabbi Ishmael used specifically those. So Sefer HaKeritut discusses this. He says if there are things about which there is a dispute, then he doesn’t include them; if there are things that belong to aggadic literature, he doesn’t include them. I don’t know, there are various answers to that. It’s not clear what enters the lists and what doesn’t. It could very well be that Rabbi Ishmael had not yet thought at all about this kind of derivation, because after all, methods of interpretation develop over the generations and are formulated over the generations. With Hillel the Elder there were only seven principles. The baraita brings seven principles. With Rabbi Ishmael there are already thirteen. Otniel ben Kenaz—in tractate Temurah the Talmudic text brings two, a fortiori and verbal analogy alone, right? Which is only generic, such as a fortiori and verbal analogy meaning as a general title for all interpretive principles. But there are several indications that the system of principles develops. Fine.

You can take, if already— No, but a fortiori and verbal analogy are different kinds, they really are two prototypes. One is logical and one is textual. A fortiori is logical and verbal analogy is textual, meaning a similar word; there is no logic in the obligation there, it’s a textual hint. Rabbi Akiva has one principle, no? What? Rabbi Akiva has one principle, no? No. Rabbi Akiva interpreted by inclusion and exclusion, but only in the places where Rabbi Ishmael interpreted by general and particular. What Rabbi Ishmael interpreted as general and particular, Rabbi Akiva interpreted as inclusion and exclusion. Besides that, the other principles are also Akivan; they exist. That’s how it seems to me.

Another example like this of constructing a concept. So I say: we’ve seen two examples. One is the spitting case, built from winnowing and throwing, and the second is how the Rosh understands the lyre and the burden—sorry, the stone and the burden. The third example is what I wanted to deal with today, but I’m hesitating. Exactly with the coffee I just got? Yes, that’s the third example I wanted to deal with today. I’m hesitating because it may be worth doing next time when more people are here. And I also thought of doing now some kind of timeout, something else—related to the topic—but first let me just copy the diagram, because maybe I’ll want it, maybe he’ll want to put it on the site. So wait, there are really two diagrams here. I didn’t get to copy the first one, and the second one—I already erased the Z by mistake. Yes. Did you write “doctoral students” here? Yes. About something else. Yes.

Today there happened to be an opening meeting for doctoral students I teach at Bar-Ilan, and in that meeting—it’s for both semesters, but just to get acquainted and meet—we read a bit of a passage in Bava Kamma together with things Rabbi Shimon Shkop wrote in his introduction. And I think it is very connected to what we’re talking about here, so I thought maybe to touch a bit on those things. I’ll give you the sheets perhaps—there are even source sheets here. Yossi, can you turn over the page with the diagram? Ah, thanks.

What is “doctoral students,” at the women’s seminary? Yes. It’s Talmudic text in Bava Kamma. Actually these things—Yossi, were you at the National Library? At the National Library there, with the “Meetings in the Babylonian Talmud” with Meir Buzaglo? I was there once. Meir Buzaglo, and Shmuel Feiner was there too. Yes, no, and there was—what’s his name—Tomer Persico. And before that there was some kind of warmup act, “Kolevet Shabbat.” And that journalist, what’s his name, I forgot, something Benny, I don’t remember. That journalist—what’s the name of the journalist who does “Crossing Israel”? Tzur? Tzur? No. Maybe he also did it—Kobi Midan? Kobi Midan. So it’s on YouTube, I think I saw it. Was it now or something old? A few years ago. So I saw it; it’s on YouTube, yes, I saw it.

So I peeked a bit at their conversations before the evening event, and I thought we’d learn a little, touch on this passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose,” because there are some interesting aspects there about Torah study in general, and I think specifically it touches directly on abstractions, on the process that this topic of abstraction undergoes over the generations.

So let’s see. Talmudic text in Bava Kamma 20a. Rav Chisda said to Rami bar Chama: basically the context there is a Mishnah dealing with tooth-damage—we’re again in the laws of damages, so after all it’s the same set of passages. And tooth-damage is when an animal eats produce for its own benefit. Exactly—if it ate produce for its own pleasure, it pays for what it benefited, but not for what it damaged, because tooth and foot in the public domain are exempt. But it pays for the benefit it received. It ate my produce, saved itself a meal or however we define the benefit—pay me for that. That is written in the Mishnah. And in that context the Talmudic text brings the following section:

Rav Chisda said to Rami bar Chama: “You weren’t with us last night in the study hall, and you missed out. We had an amazing discussion there. Really juicy.” “Excellent matters.” Rami bar Chama gets curious and says: “What were the excellent matters? What did you discuss there?” Rav Chisda tells him: “One who lives in his fellow’s courtyard without his knowledge—must he pay rent or not? This one benefits and that one does not lose.” Yes, that’s the passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose.”

So he says: someone enters his fellow’s apartment—it stands empty—he goes in and lives there. A month. Fine? Now the question is whether he has to pay for that. That was the topic of discussion. “Without his knowledge” means he doesn’t know about it? Yes. Or at least without his permission? Yes. And without his permission; and the answer is that if he knows and didn’t protest, some see that as consent. There are little disputes there. Let’s say he doesn’t know, for the sake of the discussion, okay?

So then the Talmudic text says: must he pay rent or not? A halakhic question, yes, a legal-halakhic one. At this point it still isn’t entirely clear what exactly is so “excellent” about this, what all the excitement is, because it doesn’t happen so often in the Talmudic text that someone is so taken with the passage they studied. But here he’s really full of excitement. Fine, let’s see.

What are the circumstances? If we say it is a courtyard not ordinarily rented and a person not one who ordinarily rents, then this is a case where one does not benefit and the other does not lose. What does that mean? Can you translate it? Yes, I’ll explain. No, translate the Talmudic text. I’ll translate it, yes. There are two sides here. I am the owner of the courtyard—courtyard here means apartment for our purposes, okay? I am the owner of the apartment, and let’s say Yossi goes in to live there. Now there are two situations. There is a situation where the apartment is “not ordinarily rented,” meaning I’m not about to rent it out. It stands desolate; I’m not renting it out; it’s not meant for rental. Okay? That is called “not ordinarily rented.”

What happens in that state? I basically did not lose anything. The fact that he entered the apartment—since it is not meant for rental, I wouldn’t have rented it out anyway, it stands empty—so someone went in, okay, why do you care? You didn’t lose anything. So you “do not lose.” The parameter that determines whether I, the owner of the courtyard, lose or do not lose is the question whether the courtyard is ordinarily rented—whether it stands for rental or not.

There is another parameter, and that is whether Yossi got benefit from it. Why? If he has an apartment to live in and he just goes into my apartment, I don’t know, just because he feels like it, then he gained nothing from it; he already has somewhere to live without this. If I hadn’t let him, he would have gone to his own apartment. He doesn’t lack a place to live. So he is “a person not one who ordinarily rents,” meaning a person who doesn’t need a place to live. Okay? In that case he does not benefit. If he does need a place to live, then he does benefit. Fine?

So basically we have four situations: a courtyard not ordinarily rented and a person not one who ordinarily rents; a courtyard that is ordinarily rented and a person who is one who ordinarily rents; and yes/no and no/yes—four possibilities. So the Talmudic text begins with one extreme case. It says: what are the circumstances, what exactly did we discuss there in the study hall? What kind of case was it? Who was the resident and what was the status of the courtyard? So the Talmudic text begins: if you say it was a courtyard not ordinarily rented—meaning I would not have lost anything, right?—and a person not one who ordinarily rents—Yossi has a house, he doesn’t need this place in order to live there—then he doesn’t benefit and I don’t lose. This is a case where one does not benefit and the other does not lose. Why should I benefit from someone else? What? It’s a hypothetical situation. As far as we are concerned, there is no benefit in such a case.

So what happens in such a case? Obviously he doesn’t have to pay. Why? I do not lose, so there is nothing to compensate me for, and he does not benefit, so I can’t ask him to pay me for what he benefited from me. So by virtue of what can I collect money from him? So clearly they weren’t talking about that. The Talmudic text says: it can’t be that that’s what they were discussing. That’s too simple.

The opposite extreme case also can’t be it. Rather, a courtyard ordinarily rented and a person who ordinarily rents—that can’t be it either. Why? If the courtyard is meant for rental, then I lost. And if the person ordinarily rents, then he also benefited. So let him pay. He benefited and I lost, so let him pay me what I lost. That’s a case where one benefits and the other loses. So that too leaves nothing to discuss; that too is obvious. In short, in the two extreme cases there is nothing to discuss.

So the Talmudic text says: no, it is needed only for the case of a courtyard not ordinarily rented and a person who ordinarily rents. We are speaking of a courtyard that is not meant for rental, meaning I would not have lost, but he needed an apartment—he doesn’t have one. So he benefits and I do not lose. Fine? And the question is whether he has to pay or not. What are the two sides? The Talmudic text says: what? Can he say to him, “What did I make you lose?” Can he say to me: what do you want from me? Don’t be obnoxious. You lost nothing; the apartment would have stood empty. Why should I pay you? Why should it trouble you that I benefited, if you lost nothing?

So that is one side, and that would mean that he would not be obligated to pay. Or perhaps he can say: “But you benefited.” You benefited from my apartment. Why do you care whether I lost or didn’t lose? That’s my business. I decided not to rent it out. And now I do want to rent it out. Pay me for what you benefited. That is what is called unjust enrichment. You enriched yourself from my property—pay me for it. Instead of my making that enrichment. Even if I decided not to make that enrichment, if someone is going to make enrichment from it, then by law it should be me. I am the owner of the courtyard, not you. Why should you be the one enriching yourself from it? We aren’t talking here about poor people and charity—leave moral considerations aside for the moment. We’re talking about a legal question. Who is entitled to the product, the enrichment produced by this matter.

So up to here it’s a discussion in the Talmudic text. What really lies behind this discussion? The soul saw? Maybe. What lies behind this discussion? Let’s say I rob someone. Then clearly I have to return money, or the money, or pay equivalent value—it doesn’t matter. I have to compensate him, I have to return it to him if I rob him. But the question is why. Do I have to return it because he lost something, or do I have to pay because I profited at his expense, or profited from something that is his? In other words, the question actually begins in the extreme case where you benefit and I lose. There it is obvious that you have to pay. It is obvious that you have to pay, but it is not obvious why. Is the ground of payment my loss, or is the ground of payment your benefit?

Where will the implication be? In a case where one parameter exists and the other does not. “This one benefits and that one does not lose.” If the loss is what obligates, then since I do not lose, you are exempt. If the benefit is what obligates, then even though I do not lose, you pay because you benefited. So basically there is here—if I now translate it—there is a question that begins as a prosaic legal question: you entered my apartment and lived there without my knowledge; do you have to pay? The Talmudic text makes from this some kind of abstraction, which is related to our topic. What does that mean? What is the dilemma? The Talmudic text says: clearly there is some dilemma here that is a principled, general dilemma—not about a courtyard and a person, but a general question. What is the thing that obligates me to pay in general? The loss of the injured party, or my benefit? The practical implication is someone who entered a courtyard not ordinarily rented and all that. That is only an implication. What I’m asking here is a theoretical, principled, analytical question—not a specific halakhic question about a particular case. This is a general analytical question.

Meaning, the Talmudic text here is basically structured in the way—I’d even say—of an Acharonim discussion, of later authorities. Because usually the Talmudic text does not do conceptualization. Usually the Talmudic text raises a case: liable, exempt, compares it perhaps to another case. It doesn’t discuss the conceptual system or the theoretical principles that stand behind the case. Is benefit what obligates, or is loss what obligates? That is exactly the kind of analysis that appears in the study halls of later authorities, like Rabbi Chaim of Brisk, legal analysis.

I now understand that there are two parameters here. You see the connection to the common denominator. There is X and there is Y. The question is which parameter is important, X or Y. So here I see the same thing. When you live in my courtyard, and the courtyard is ordinarily rented, and you are a person who ordinarily rents, then this is a case where one benefits and the other loses, so clearly you are obligated to pay. But that still doesn’t mean the picture is completely simple. Because the question is whether you are obligated to pay because of the loss, or because of the benefit. There are two parameters here, and the question is which one is the relevant parameter. And why do you rule for one of them—why can’t it be both? I’ll get to that. I’ll get to it later.

So right now the question is basically which of the two parameters—this is really a question of elimination, right? The question is which of the two parameters is the relevant one and which is not—which one can be deleted. Just like I deleted the X’s over there. That is basically the question. But what is special in the passage here is that the Talmudic text itself does this analysis, and not the medieval authorities or the later authorities. And usually it isn’t even the medieval authorities but the later authorities who begin to discuss ideas, conceptual planes. What is the principle that stands behind the case?

The Talmudic text is casuistic; it talks about cases. Like I spoke about British law versus German law. British law is casuistic, case-based; it deals with cases. German law is positivistic law, law that works with rules. The later authorities try to abstract the case and present a theoretical analytical problem for discussion. What exactly is the theoretical definition that stands behind the case? Here, in the Talmudic text, the Amoraim themselves are doing that. The formulation here is really a formulation taken from the Brisker study hall. I have benefit and I have loss. The question is whether the obligation to pay is a law of benefit or a law of loss. Basically, is the benefit the cause of the obligation, or is the loss the cause of the obligation? And where is the implication? A real Acharonic discussion. After you set out the two sides of the dilemma, you say: okay, let’s see what the practical difference is. The practical difference is in a case where there is benefit but no loss, or loss but no benefit. Meaning, “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” It’s really a Rabbi Chaim kind of move. It appears in the Talmudic text itself.

I think that’s the reason he was so impressed here by these “excellent matters.” Because in the Talmudic text they aren’t used to doing conceptualization, and generalization, and elimination, and philosophical-logical discussions like this. The Talmudic text talks about cases. It takes rules and derives cases from them. Behind casuistic treatment too there are rules. But you can do that in a way you are aware of, and you can do it in a way you are not aware of. The sages of the Talmudic text generally—I don’t know, maybe they were aware, but they didn’t bother to write it down. Or perhaps they weren’t even aware. They said: this resembles that, therefore this is liable and that is liable too. They didn’t go into the question of why it resembles, in which parameter, which parameter is relevant. That is what the commentators do. The medieval authorities and later authorities try to clarify from the Talmudic process—or really distill out of the analogical intuitions that the Talmudic text makes intuitively—to distill a theory. A theory with a conceptual system, with principles; to place a theory here and thereby basically create positivistic law. To take casuistic law and turn it into positivistic law. That’s an interesting thing.

I think I mentioned this in one of the previous classes, because Rabbi Chaim does this to Maimonides, basically. Also to the Talmudic text, but especially to Maimonides. And the jokes always say—yes, there are such jokes, wicked little jokes—that once Maimonides came to the Brisk study hall and heard Rabbi Chaim’s lecture on what he had written, and said: leave it alone, I didn’t mean any of that, what do you understand anyway? Because people always say that Rabbi Chaim has nothing to do with Maimonides, that these are his own inventions, intellectual structures. “What did the poet mean?” Exactly. Those are famous hermeneutical questions. And then the joke says that Rabbi Chaim tells him: forget it, what do you understand about Maimonides anyway?

What lies behind that joke is something serious. Let’s talk seriously for a moment. There is a very difficult interpretive question here, and very intelligent rabbis argued about it—I think I mentioned this—like Moses in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall. Right. They argued over it. Moses our teacher—why was it that he didn’t understand? Exactly, because he didn’t do the conceptualization. And therefore when they said “a law to Moses from Sinai” he calmed down. Why did he calm down? Because he understood that they had taken his intuition and conceptualized it. Now they are doing the conceptualization in their own conceptual system. So Moses is not there; he doesn’t speak that language. Not the Hebrew language—the language of ways of thinking.

It’s like the grandmothers of old, who used to cook without a thermometer, without measuring cups, without scales, to know exactly how much of each thing. Without digital scales, without scales. We looked here at this matter of intuition. I gave them the analogy of trying to know Hebrew from an ulpan course versus from a mother tongue, where that mother is the Master of the Universe. So Rabbi Yehoshua Hutner, who edited the Talmudic Encyclopedia, and the Seridei Esh argued about this matter. There is a very interesting exchange of letters between them. And one of them claimed that Rabbi Chaim has nothing to do with Maimonides at all. But still, Rabbi Chaim is also an important Jew, and if he says it, then it too is a view one must take into account. Clearly Maimonides did not intend that. And the other says: not true. Rabbi Chaim is really exposing the depth of Maimonides’ intention. But he says: it’s not that Maimonides was actually aware of all this and did all the conceptualization that Rabbi Chaim does. Rather, if Maimonides had been equipped with the Brisker conceptual system and ways of thinking, and had given himself an accounting and conceptualized his raw intuitions—because the intuitions are that this seems similar to that and therefore liable—then, wait, stop here, think about why it is similar. What’s the point? So define it for me. Is it a law in the object or in the person? Is it in the benefit or in the loss? When you formulate it that way, Maimonides would tell you what Rabbi Chaim said.

Again, besides the fact that Rabbi Chaim also missed here and there, but on the principled level, the fact that Maimonides was not aware of this does not necessarily mean that Rabbi Chaim was wrong. When you conceptualize something, you arrive at a result that the person you are interpreting, or the source you are interpreting, did not necessarily think about consciously. But that does not mean you are not exposing the depth of his intention in your conceptual system. You are translating it into your conceptual system, but you are describing his mode of thought—only you are doing it in your language and way of thinking.

And the same thing here. Basically, the Talmudic text usually makes analogies the way Maimonides does—something like this is liable, that is exempt, that’s how it seems to us, and that’s that. You see in responsa of the medieval authorities short things; you don’t get all these systems you see in the responsa of the later authorities—structures and systems. The medieval authorities say: this seems to me similar to the Talmudic passage here, therefore liable; this seems to me similar to the Talmudic passage there, therefore exempt. And that’s it. They don’t elaborate too much. That was enough, and that’s it. But among the later authorities you get systems and two possibilities and if it’s this then that, and implications and proofs from here and proofs from there.

So the question is whether all these things are inventions, or whether they do in some authentic sense continue the tradition of earlier generations. I think they do. It continues, but of course it continues in the language and the reflection and the conceptual system current among us, through which we think about it. Our logical ability is much stronger than theirs, it seems to me. Their intuition was probably stronger. Maybe because of closeness to the source, I don’t know, you can explain it in various ways. So the question of who is right—I believe that intuition usually hits better than what Kahneman says, yes? System 1 and System 2, Daniel Kahneman’s system. When you drive a car, you drive on automatic pilot. You don’t really think consciously what to do and how to do it and when it’s right to do this and when it’s right to do that. You just let the body drive for you. And usually in that state you respond better than when you are conscious. When you are conscious you have to think about every little thing and make decisions. Exactly.

So the same is true in thinking, not only in motor functions. There is a kind of automatic thinking—that’s intuition. Without conceptualization, without giving yourself an account of why exactly—rather simply, it seems to me this way, my intuition says this is right. And many times our intuition is stronger than our logic. What happened to you? I expected that remark. It doesn’t contradict what I’m saying, because logic is always secondary. Logic is not an alternative to intuition; it is an aid to intuition. It does not replace intuition. That’s why I wrote books—mainly for that reason I wrote books. I’m a great believer in intuition. I think it has no substitute; you can’t do without it. But of course, where my intuition leads to a contradiction, it has to be thrown out. I’m not saying intuition is immune to failures. But obviously it is the basis of everything.

So the claim is that the Talmudic text makes the intuitive move, and afterward we follow it and try to conceptualize. It’s like a philosopher of science following a scientist. The scientist grasps his conclusions, does his calculations, and reaches conclusions. He doesn’t even imagine what methodological assumptions he has. Scientists are generally not aware of their methodological assumptions. I’m talking about the most brilliant among them, not weak or marginal people. On the contrary. Rather, intuitively it is obvious to him that this is right and that is wrong, and a discourse already develops and then you come and organize it.

Then the philosopher of science comes and says: wait a minute, let’s see—what you are doing is not at all trivial. You are assuming various assumptions. Let’s put them on the table. Look, there is assumption A, assumption B, assumption C, assumption D. If you present these to the scientist, he will agree with you. But that doesn’t mean that when he actually worked, he consciously used those assumptions. He didn’t. He simply worked. When you build the model, you conceptualize what he does; suddenly you expose various assumptions. You show him how he works.

I think that is exactly what Rabbi Chaim does to Maimonides, or what the later authorities do to the Talmudic text. The medieval and later authorities do this to the Talmudic text. The Talmudic text works intuitively, just flows; it says what is right and what is not right. Usually this is better than logic and more reliable than relying on—Yossi mentioned earlier the example of the ulpan; that is exactly what that example is meant to say. But afterwards we try to conceptualize and understand this intuition, not in order to disagree with it, but in order to understand what underlies it. Sometimes maybe we can also disagree, but I’m saying that the basic tendency is to decipher it, not to offer it an alternative. And that is the role of conceptualization.

Now here in this passage, the one who did the work is the Talmudic text itself, not the medieval and later authorities. And that arouses in me enormous admiration and a spirit of riddle—wow, what a brilliant logical move there was in the Talmudic text. Listen, there were two possibilities, this possibility and that possibility, here’s the practical implication—a real Rabbi Chaim style inquiry. Today, every child in a small yeshiva does this three times a day. It’s a joke. No one is impressed by this kind of move on such a simple level. There are more complex moves, but fine. I told a doctoral student today whom I spoke with: after a month of study, I expect you to do this conceptualization on your own. This is child-level conceptualization.

Now in the Talmudic text this is something that arouses amazement. These weren’t stupid people, but it is a different world, a mode of thought that’s more primitive—I don’t mean primitive in a judgmental sense, but primary, primordial. Something where you rely on your intuitions and work with them; you flow with them; you don’t give yourself an account. And one who loses the ability to feel the matter in his fingertips, the intuition, needs logical structures to help him nevertheless arrive at the right result. Like in physics, say: a genius in physics sees intuitively what the answer will be. And a physicist who doesn’t have good intuition has to calculate. He can sit for two months with mathematics and calculations until he finally reaches the result. Like a kind of instinct—he can’t say how he got there, but he gets to the right things and they are very precise. Therefore it is very important to insist on the systematic path.

There was a question in artificial intelligence whether one could ever transfer to a computer everything that happens in us—the intuition. They tell there about some Chinese man who knew how to identify the sex of chicks before it could even be known, and he couldn’t explain how he did it, but he always did it correctly. The Chinese child? No, no, not the Chinese room. No, not the Chinese room. A real Chinese man, who knew how to identify the sex of chicks before it could even be known, and he couldn’t explain how he did it, but he always got it right. An example brought in philosophy of science. Several philosophers mention it.

Another philosopher of science—the Hungarian philosopher, what’s his name, George something, I forgot—brings the example of Stradivarius. I spoke about it once. A Stradivarius violin. With all our computers and micrometry and everything, apparently we still can’t imitate the qualities of the violins he made with two hands and a saw. Although in Ilya Leibowitz’s course on wave theory he presented a Fourier analysis of a Stradivarius played by a beginner violinist, an intermediate violinist, a very cheap violin, a beginner violinist. So in any event, the Stradivarius—the Fourier profile he presented, right—was much larger, contained many more frequencies, much richer than a cheap violin. And by the way, a good violinist with a cheap violin also produces sounds whose quality, in terms of Fourier analysis, is almost like what a beginner gets out of a Stradivarius. No, no—but with the same level of violinist, a Stradivarius violin is better than the other violin. Yes, with the same violinist. We know how to measure that scientifically. Yes, okay, excellent. But the fact is that he did it without calculations. And I assume he also couldn’t explain to his apprentice exactly. I don’t know who can calculate that. No, they can’t—that’s the claim in philosophy of science literature; I don’t understand music.

And there they bring that example, and the claim is that nobody really knows how to imitate him. They get close, they get close with all sorts of computerized means, but apparently don’t reach the qualities of his violins. You have to choose the wood, you need it in your fingers, smell it. It’s like the Talmudic text talks about the visual recognition of a Torah scholar, for whom they return a lost object. A Torah scholar—what? Yes. So what does that mean? Usually with returning lost objects you need identifying marks, but a Torah scholar can see with his eye that it’s his and say “it’s mine,” and they return it to him without any identifying marks. Why does it have to be a Torah scholar? Usually in the yeshivot they say: only a Torah scholar has visual recognition. That isn’t true. What the Talmudic text says is simply that a Torah scholar is trusted not to lie. We all have visual recognition; it’s just that with a person who is not a Torah scholar, you don’t know whether this is genuine visual recognition or whether he is lying. A Torah scholar you can believe when he says he recognizes it visually, because he doesn’t lie. Therefore the criterion the Talmudic text gives there—who is a Torah scholar? One who does not lie except in three things where one is permitted to lie.

But in any case, there too it’s really the same thing: you go with your intuition. You can’t even explain to yourself how you identify that this is your book or your wallet or whatever, but you know. It’s yours. I know it. Something similar also in the rulings of judges, where sometimes they say it’s the intuition of the judge. “A secret of divine spirit appeared in our study hall,” as the Ritva writes. And that is usually explained to mean not that a heavenly voice came out, but that we had a strong intuition that this is the truth. So the claim is that intuition often succeeds in hitting the truth better when you don’t conceptualize. When you conceptualize, it can confuse you; logic can take you to all sorts of conclusions. But there’s no choice: we have to conceptualize, also in order to deal with problems we don’t recognize. And so we conceptualize.

Now here the Talmudic text is so impressed by the fact that they made some abstraction, some elimination of the kinds we discussed earlier—which really is not characteristic of the Talmudic text—that I think that’s why the excitement is there. One further example I might bring to this is that there is a Maimonides in tractate Keritot, in his commentary on the Mishnah. Maimonides brings there a wonderful point—this is known in the yeshivot as “Maimonides’ wonderful point.” There, in the law that one prohibition does not take effect where another prohibition already exists—never mind, I won’t get into all the details because there’s no time—but he is tremendously impressed with what he did there. Again, an elementary learned move. Meaning, any decent kollel fellow would say it in a second. Yet Maimonides says: this is a wonderful point, no one ever preceded me in it. Again, it’s that same Brisker-type analysis. From time to time such an example flashes in the medieval authorities or in the Talmudic text, and they are so impressed by it, as if it’s genius, while today for us it’s bread and butter, ABC stuff, the basics. So for him it was the first time? Yes, yes—a thought, he had never had such a thought before. So I think that’s the explanation for the amazement here.

Now this brings me to the continuation. Later the Talmudic text continues and says this. He says to him—so there is a discussion whether one must pay or not in a case where one benefits and the other does not lose. He says to him: “It’s an explicit Mishnah.” He says to him: “Which Mishnah?” What, I thought this was a discussion we invented. What do you mean an explicit Mishnah? He says yes, an explicit Mishnah. So he says to him: “Which Mishnah is that?” He says to him: “Come serve me.” If you want me to tell you which Mishnah it is, come serve me. Fine. So the man took his cloak, folded it for him, and put it away for him—served him. He said to him: “If it benefited, it pays for what it benefited.” He quoted that Mishnah in Bava Kamma. From there it comes out that if it benefited, it pays for what it benefited—sign that the payment is for the benefit. And since the payment is for the benefit, then in a case where one benefits and the other does not lose, there is an obligation to pay.

Now the Talmudic text says: Rava said, how ill and unaware a person can be when his Master helps him. How can a person be so sick and not even realize he is talking nonsense? The Holy One helped him so that even his conversation partner didn’t notice that he was talking nonsense, because it’s not at all similar to the Mishnah. How can you derive the law of “this one benefits and that one does not lose” from the Mishnah? In the Mishnah we are dealing with a cow that ate produce for its own pleasure, so the owner of the produce lost, and it benefited—it’s true—but the owner of the produce lost. So certainly there there is an obligation to pay. We are discussing what happens in a case where one benefits and the other does not lose. It’s not similar at all. So he mocks both of them: two idiots talking and neither of them understands anything. One is talking nonsense and the other doesn’t even catch him talking nonsense. And then he says—and afterward the Talmudic text says that Rami bar Chama nevertheless was not talking nonsense, that this is not correct, and then it finds some explanation. Never mind, I won’t get into it; it depends on the passage there. By the way, it doesn’t spell out so clearly what the explanation is, and on the face of it that’s a bit puzzling. The explanation the Talmudic text gives—seemingly Rava is right. And Tosafot expands on this, and the medieval authorities do too. Never mind. It matters, but we’ll get there in a moment.

Now look at Shaarei Yosher, in the introduction of Rabbi Shimon Shkop. He says this. Look at the second line. Never mind, he wants his book to be accepted and for people to benefit from it and for it to help them, and so on. “And I know,” in the second line, “that this book of mine will not be accepted by everyone.” He says in advance: I know this book of mine will not be accepted by many people, because many learners are not accustomed to contemplation in the manner of analysis that circles and develops in most of the matters said in this book of mine. For there are many paths in Torah, and each one finds taste according to his habit. And in addition to this”—he adds—“most of the matters explained in it are matters requiring contemplation and effort, and will not be grasped even by an understanding heart at a mere glance.” Even a wise person, at a mere glance, won’t understand it; you have to analyze it, labor over it. “And not every person wishes to attribute the deficiency to himself, because of the depth of the concept and the inadequacy of the one grasping.”

If you don’t understand something, your first tendency is to say, okay, the person who wrote this is an idiot. You don’t want to attribute it to the fact that your own mind isn’t broad enough and that the concept is too deep and you’re failing to grasp it. So you throw it out; you say no, it’s nonsense. And really Rabbi Shimon’s book deals entirely with difficulties and conceptualizations. It’s a very hard book. I have some fellows—but I’m a great admirer of Rabbi Shimon—but I have a friend, a veteran kollel scholar, a great Torah scholar in Bnei Brak, and he calls it “The Gates of Crookedness” rather than “The Gates of Uprightness.” It’s all crooked. Now I disagree with him completely; I think it’s a brilliant book. But this is exactly what Rabbi Shimon is talking about here. He says many people will say: “The Gates of Crookedness”—forget it, I’m not dealing with this.

So on this Rabbi Shimon says as follows. You heard that because he has an inadequacy in grasping? What? Your friend? Yes. So he didn’t work—no, he didn’t work enough to understand why Rabbi Shimon really is right. He’s a talented fellow. So in a moment we’ll see. Now let’s read:

“And I heard a fine and acceptable thing in the name of my late brother-in-law, regarding what is told in tractate Bava Kamma,” and now he comes to our Talmudic passage, in the passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose,” that Rav Chisda asked Rami bar Chama and answered him “come serve me,” and he took the cloak and wrapped it for him, yes, the whole story—“which at first glance is puzzling. What is this game? Serve me and I’ll tell you? What information is he withholding from me—what is this, some kind of bargaining?” And that rabbi explained that the matter is as follows:

“In a matter that requires contemplation and effort, the essence depends on whether the student believes in the greatness of his teacher. If you give credit to your teacher, on that depends whether you will succeed in learning. Why? Because if he will not understand at first, he will attribute the deficiency to himself. Since I know my teacher is wise—he’s not an idiot—then let me think again; perhaps there is something here after all. And he will gather strength to labor over it, and then in the end he will understand. But if the words of his teacher are light in his eyes, and it is not worth the effort to work at them, then if he does not accept the words at first glance, he will leave them aside or dismiss them in his heart, and that will be the end of it.” Fine. “Gates of Crookedness.”

Therefore, when Rami bar Chama knew the depth of the matter he wanted to teach him—it was a deep matter and he came and asked him—he said to him: first serve me. Let’s see whether you value me, whether you give me credit. If you give me credit, I’ll give you this matter because of its depth. Now look how this connects to the first point I mentioned. Because there was here a deep matter, such abstract conceptualization, and he was so impressed by it—this legal issue—it’s not a simple thing. That’s why the second phenomenon appears here. Again, there are two rare phenomena here from a Talmudic perspective. One is the amazement—“what excellent matters!” what’s so special here? And the second is the episode of “come serve me.” They are connected. Because this is “what excellent matters,” a complex abstraction and so on, you need to serve me before I tell it to you, because then even if it doesn’t make sense at first glance, you’ll work on it again, because you give me credit. I know that you give me credit, and then you may come to understand. Without that, I’m not willing to teach you.

And on this Rabbi Shimon says: I don’t want you to open my book if you don’t give me credit. He learns that from the passage here. And then he continues.

Now look at something beautiful. Right after that, we read in the Talmudic text that after he said “serve me,” he quoted the Mishnah to him, and the two of them are happy and cheerful—until Rava arrives. Two idiots, happy and cheerful, understanding nothing. One is talking nonsense and the other doesn’t understand it at all. What is this? This is exactly what Rav Chisda was afraid of. Because on the face of it, at first glance, what he said does look like nonsense. After all, it has nothing to do with the Mishnah; in the Mishnah there is loss, here there is no loss. What sort of nonsense is this? Don’t you see?

That is why Rav Chisda said—the Talmudic text therefore brings Rava’s statement. The whole passage revolves around this point. The Talmudic text brings Rava’s words because Rava comes with an unbiased eye. He didn’t serve Rav Chisda; he doesn’t hold Rav Chisda in esteem, and he says: two idiots, what is this? “Gates of Crookedness.” Right? That’s what he really says. It’s all crooked; you’re talking nonsense. Rami bar Chama didn’t notice the crookedness in Rav Chisda. That’s how Rava interprets it. Not true. Rami bar Chama served Rav Chisda, and therefore although he understood that this—after all, you see immediately that it’s nonsense, you don’t need great cleverness for that. It’s such obvious nonsense that clearly someone missed the point here. But Rami bar Chama gave Rav Chisda credit. He knew—he was willing to serve him—and therefore he thought again, and he did understand that there was something here, despite the fact that at first it looked like nonsense. And that is exactly why the Talmudic text brings Rava’s words, to explain the “come serve me” that Rav Chisda said to Rami bar Chama. Because Rava, who did not serve, sees it and says: nonsense. But Rav Chisda—that is why he demanded that Rami bar Chama serve him, so that he would not dismiss it as nonsense and go home.

And that’s why the Talmudic text brings Rava’s words. And then, beautifully, the Talmudic text brings an explanation for Rami bar Chama. The Talmudic text is certain that this is not nonsense. What, Rami bar Chama didn’t notice Rava’s point? And by the way, the question is asked about Rami bar Chama, not about Rav Chisda. “And Rami bar Chama…” Then it brings some answer, which really is very forced, and stops there. The Talmudic text too is not prepared to explain it to us. It says: you think this is nonsense? Think again. I’m telling you it’s not nonsense; there is an explanation here. Even when I read the explanation, it looks like nonsense to me. But now it’s already clear to me that there is something here, because the Talmudic text told me it’s not nonsense and that it has an explanation. So what, is the explanation nonsense too? That can’t be. Do some homework on your own. The medieval and later authorities grind away at this in order to understand the explanation here—it’s a very difficult explanation. But they give the Talmudic text credit that it is not speaking nonsense, and they work and eventually reach an explanation.

And the whole move here uses a legal-halakhic passage—“this one benefits and that one does not lose.” You make an abstraction, you move it to a principled plane, you are tremendously impressed by this despite the fact that today it arouses somewhat less amazement. But because of the depth and subtlety and complexity, you demand that he serve you so he won’t casually dismiss it. And the one who didn’t serve indeed says that you are talking nonsense. And the whole movement of the passage revolves around this point, the subtlety of abstraction. The fact that you do abstraction is a complex move, a move where you have to give credit to the one doing it.

Now by the way, Rabbi Shimon later continues and says that there is a second side to this move, just to complete the picture. He says: on the other hand, I don’t expect you to accept automatically everything I say. Just give me credit. Think again, and again, and again. In the end—I myself disagree with later authorities and with my predecessors, says Rabbi Shimon—and that is perfectly fine. I don’t expect blind acceptance, not some Hasidic thing. What I want is that you give me credit. Meaning, don’t say I’m talking nonsense.

By the way, I mentioned this once. I said to the guys in the yeshiva in Yeruham that an argument from which you learned something is an argument you lost. An argument that you won, you lost. Because where you win, you are right—meaning the position with which you arrived turned out to be correct—so you didn’t learn anything from the argument. What you thought in advance is what you think now too. In an argument that you lost, you came with a certain position, reached the conclusion that you were mistaken—well then, you learned something, you gained something from the argument. I just made a little joke—perhaps that’s what you remember—I said to them: okay, but at least be people of good character; let someone else lose too. Don’t insist on losing every single argument yourselves. In any case, the point is exactly this: when do you learn? If you approach a book and accept only what sounds logical to you, then in the end you learned nothing. Because it seemed logical to you before, and it seems logical to you now too, so what did you gain from the book? You gain from the book only where something doesn’t seem logical to you, then you think again, and because you give credit to the one who wrote the book, you think again and again, and in the end you reach the conclusion: wow, the guy is right. Then you learned something new.

Meaning, the credit you give the author of a book is a learning tool. It’s not politeness, and not “faith in the sages,” or some religious value. It’s a pedagogic value. Without it, you simply can’t learn. If you don’t give credit to the one who wrote the book, you simply won’t learn from him. You’ll leave with what you thought beforehand. What doesn’t fit, you’ll throw away; what does fit, you’ll adopt—but you don’t need to adopt it, because you knew it already. So what did you gain? You gained nothing from the book. That is exactly what Rabbi Shimon says here.

And yes, this already touches less on our topic. What matters for us here is really the Talmudic text’s attitude toward abstraction. And about that I’ll say more: this whole matter of abstraction and analysis and everything we discussed really keeps becoming stronger and stronger over the generations. Even from the Mishnah to the Talmudic text you already see it. The Mishnah speaks entirely concretely; there are no discussions at all. The Talmudic text begins to have discussions. True, they are not done like the later authorities, but there is some conceptualization, some analysis here and there, some descending to the roots of things. In the medieval authorities there is more. In the later authorities there is much more. And this is a process you can see all along the way, a move from intuition to conceptualization.

That has advantages and disadvantages, but it is a process that is constantly happening. The process of abstraction is a process that characterizes later generations, and the later they are, the more they do abstractions and conceptualizations. The earlier generations may have done this unconsciously, or consciously but not on the table. They worked intuitively.