Surprisingly, historians have not yet carefully examined the introductory pages of the unpublished manuscript Divre binah (Understanding Words) by Dov Ber Birkenthal. Although the evidence of a single witness seldom leads to the revision of historical narratives, the material provided in these introductory pages is quite rich and suggests much about a number of topics that will be of particular interest to students of the eighteenth century. Among these themes are Jewish attitudes to Christianity, to the new Austrian regime in Galicia, to the Enlightenment, and to early Hasidism. The author, an elderly successful businessman, wrote the work in question after retiring to his hometown, Bolechów. His book affords us a glimpse into his way of understanding his society and his time.

The emergence of modern Hebrew literature has too often been represented as a straight line from Enlightenment authors' meliẓa to “Mendele's nusaḥ” in S. Y. Abramovitsh's fiction. If we are to move beyond this one-dimensional geometry, we must add additional lines of development: from traditional rabbinic writing in postmishnaic Hebrew, branching out to hasidic narratives and parodies of hasidic Hebrew, and gradually leading toward a more vernacular Hebrew style. Once we have recognized the inadequacy of the older model, which culminates in hyperbolic claims for Abramovitsh's short stories (1886–96), we can better appreciate the contributions of diverse authors such as R. Nathan (Nosn) Sternharz (1780–1845), Mendel Lefin (1749–1826), and their successors.

The question of the existence of Babylonian rabbinic traditions dating from the mishnaic period (pre-220 CE) has not been thoroughly and methodically addressed in the scholarly literature. Historians have pointed out that several rabbis were active in Babylonia during the mishnaic period; some researchers have even suggested that in this early period, organized rabbinic intellectual activity already existed in cities such as Nisibis, Nehardea, and Husal. However, a systematic examination of halakhot whose provenance was Babylonia in the mishnaic period has yet to be undertaken. Most prior attempts to uncover Babylonian rabbinic activity from this period have focused on a few traditions ascribed to Tannaim who had a known connection to Babylonia, such as R. Judah b. Bathyra, R. Nathan, and R. Hiyya (the “Babylonians,” as they are sometimes called in rabbinic literature). In light of the absence of a systematic study of Babylonian pre-talmudic rabbinic traditions, Gafni came to the following conclusion, one that this paper will support with solid evidence:

The past few years have witnessed an expansion of the range of sources that Talmudists regularly employ in their research on the Bavli. Scholars now turn to Iranian epic and folk literature; to Zoroastrian, Manichaean, and Eastern Christian ritual and theological writings; to Sasanian civil law; and to other nonrabbinic sources in an effort to broaden and deepen their understanding of the Bavli and its place in the “splendid confusion” that was Sasanian Mesopotamian society. As Yaakov Elman has pointed out, this research trend serves as a corrective for more than half a century of scholarly neglect, which was only encouraged by a dearth of critical editions of Middle Persian literature and more general studies of Sasanian culture and religions. Now, following a steady output of some long-anticipated editions, and, more significantly, as a result of recent collaboration between Talmudists and Iranists, the coming years hold great promise for a radically new understanding of the Bavli and its world.

Joyous life-cycle events celebrated by American Ashkenazic Jews, especially those belonging to the more liberal denominations, invariably conclude with the singing of the words siman tov u-mazal tov, yehei lanu u-lekhol yisra'eil (May it bring good luck to us and to all Israel). Whether after the long anxious minutes of the berit milah, the struggle of the youngster through the Hebrew text and trope of the haftarah, the calling up of the bridegroom (and the bride as well in most non-Orthodox synagogues) at an aufruf, or the breaking of the glass at a wedding, the spontaneous singing serves as a catharsis to relieve the built-up tensions of the communal ritual event as well as to express an outpouring of joy.

On the occasion of the eighth anniversary of the founding of Czechoslovakia, October 28, 1926, the Neolog Jewish Community of Bratislava (Pozsony, Pressburg) gathered for a commemorative service led by their chief rabbi, Dr. Samuel Funk. They were joined by representatives of the government administration and other religious confessions. Toward the end of his sermon, an increasingly agitated Rabbi Funk turned and pointed with an angry finger at the members of the assimilationist Union of Slovak Jews (Sväz slovenských židov) in attendance from his position behind the podium. He publicly accused them of destroying Jewish unity and making it impossible for the Jewish Party to win a parliamentary mandate. He concluded his sermon by recalling a meeting that he had recently enjoyed with the president of Czechoslovakia, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk. President Masaryk, Funk related, regarded it as very embarrasing that in spite of the 100,000 votes that the Jewish Party had received in 1925, it was not able to obtain even one parliamentary mandate. Funk reported that Masaryk only respected those Jews who declared Jewish as their nationality.

Franz Kafka's short story “Schakale und Araber” (Jackals and Arabs) was published in October 1917 in the monthly journal Der Jude, the intellectual organ of German-speaking Zionism founded and edited by Martin Buber. The narrator, an unidentified and pleasant-mannered European man traveling in the desert, makes a stop at an oasis in an Arab area. The circumstances of his journey and its objectives are unknown. It becomes apparent from his story that the man has come to the Arab desert merely by chance “from the far North,” and that he has no intention of remaining in the area for long. All of a sudden, shortly after his “tall [and] white” Arab host has retired to the sleeping area, the narrator finds himself completely surrounded by a pack of jackals. One of them, who introduces himself as “the oldest jackal far and wide,” approaches the man and implores him to solve once and for all the long-standing dispute between the jackals and the Arabs, as the traveler alone—a man hailing from those countries in which reason reigns supreme, which is not the case among the Arabs—is capable of doing so. Once the jackal elder has related to the European traveler the story of his tribe's tribulations, and how they have been compelled to reside alongside the “filthy Arabs” from one generation to the next, another jackal produces a pair of scissors, which, according to the jackals' ancient belief, is to serve the long-awaited man of reason “from the North” to rescue them from their abhorrent and hated neighbors. But at that moment, the Arab caravan leader appears, wielding an immense whip. The reader learns that not only was the Arab awake while the jackal elder sought to persuade the European man to undertake the salvation project and listening attentively to the jackal's words, but in fact, he has been well aware of the jackals' intentions for a long time:

The Liberating Bride (2001) figures as the most discursive of A. B. Yehoshua's novels. It follows the comings and goings of Yochanan Rivlin, an aging Middle East scholar, as he tries to discover the untold cause of his son's failed marriage and struggles to breathe life into his own moribund study of the causes of internal violence in contemporary Algiers. The novel abounds in the minutiae of everyday life and the often inane nature of human conversation. Its progression is intermittently impeded by eruptions of social comedy and political parody. It dwells on the myriad routines of marital, familial, and social transactions and gives ample scope to arcane academic disputations. But this seemingly sprawling narrative surface generates a carefully crafted deep structure by means of which the novel conducts a wide-ranging exploration of personal and political conundrums. As in many of his previous novels, Yehoshua's practice of constructing analogies between family situations and national issues enables him to engage psychological motivations, moral considerations, and ideological determinants that affect both the private and the public spheres of life.

Students of poverty in Jewish, Christian, and Muslim social, literary, and legal contexts in late antiquity and the Middle Ages have noted the phenomenon of wealthy people who fall into poverty and the provision of charitable assistance to them. This essay's principal purpose is to point out an important difference between the development of attitudes toward the formerly wealthy poor in rabbinic literature of late antiquity and in other religious and legal contexts. Peter Brown notes evidence of late Roman empathy for the wellborn poor, hypothesizing that this empathy can be attributed to a desire to preserve these remnants of the old, proud plebs romana in the uncertain sixth century. Ingrid Mattson demonstrates that between the eighth and tenth or eleventh centuries CE, Islamic jurists moved in the direction of taking the “social and economic context” of a poor person into account in determining that person's legitimate needs. By contrast, as this essay will show, rabbinic literature of late antiquity moved in the opposite direction, from third-century empathy for the formerly wealthy poor to growing ambivalence in the fourth through the seventh centuries.

The publication of the YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe is a monumental achievement. It is the type of text that can transform a discipline, providing easily accessible and reasonably accurate answers to common reference questions and summarizing the state of the field in an evenhanded and inclusive manner. As one of the nearly 450 contributors to the encyclopedia, I personally feel a great deal of pride in its outcome. The two-volume, 2,400-page encyclopedia includes more than 1,800 entries, almost 1,200 illustrations, 57 color plates, and 55 maps. Editor in chief Gershon David Hundert of McGill University has succeeded in producing, as YIVO claims, “the definitive reference work on all aspects of the history and culture of Jews in Eastern Europe from the beginnings of their settlement in the region to the present.”

Not otherwise known as a bright era for the Jews of Christian Europe, the late fourteenth century nonetheless counted a number of thriving Jewish medical careers. One physician who surfaced in this period was Jacob b. Solomon of Avignon (sometimes called Jacob b. Solomon haTzarfati), whose career has been documented in two cities. In northern France, the land of his ancestors, we find him in the 1370s in the orbit of the University of Paris and its prestigious medical faculty. By the early 1380s, however, Jacob was at the papal court in Avignon, where or near where he was raised. There, in his own day at least, he achieved some renown while serving as physician to Pope Clement VII's brother, Count Pierre of Geneva.

During the past decade or so, there has been a “veritable boom … of projects that investigate questions of place and space” in Jewish studies. In this arena, scholars in various fields of Jewish studies have begun to engage with developments in the humanities at large. Since the 1980s, many disciplines in the humanities and social sciences have become more attentive to the cultural challenges of globalization, prominent among them the effects of increased movements of migration. From these movements have arisen questions about the effect and meaning of uprooting and dislocation, the significance of belonging to a place (or to various places), the emergence of diaspora communities, and so on. The spatial dimension of human existence began to move to the forefront of scholarly considerations, and with it, new names of fields of study, such as human, critical, or cultural geography. While Jewish studies has, of course, for the longest time been aware of “diaspora” as a dimension of human existence, often perhaps with the understanding that diaspora was historically a uniquely Jewish experience, to a certain degree our field remained caught in the binarism of diaspora versus nationalism or Zionism, at least until the advance of this new impulse in the humanities, identified by some as a “spatial turn.” Against such binarisms, the volumes under discussion repeatedly appeal to “multidimensionality” in Jewish topographies and in our approaches to them.