There exists in Ein Sof, that is, in the Infinite itself, in the divine source, absolute good, which is the origin and source of all perfection and all good in the world. It is perfection, and perfection requires no alterations, it is dignified and immovable, there can be no movement in it. But for us, who look upon it from the underside of creation, from afar, this motionlessness seems dead, and therefore bad, yet perfection excludes movement, creation, change, and therefore the very possibility of our freedom. That is why it is said that in the depths of absolute good, the root of all evil is concealed, and that root is the negation of every miracle, every movement, and all that is possible and all that might still happen.
For us, then, for people, good is something other than what it is for God. For us, good is the tension between God’s perfection and his withdrawal in order that the world might arise. For us, good is the absence of God from where he could instead be.
Nahman rubs his chilled fingers. He can’t stop, the sentences attack his brain one after the next:
When the vessels broke, and the world came about, it immediately began to climb up to where it fell from, gathering itself from bottom to top, from least to most perfect. The world ascends higher and higher and works to perfect itself, obtaining new goods and adding them to the previous ones, organizing the sparks released from the shells of matter into brilliance and strength. This is tikkun, a process of repairing in which mankind can assist. The process of ascent must transcend the law that is already in place and create a new law, in order to then transcend it again. In this world of dead husks, nothing has been given once and for all. Whosoever does not move up stands still, that is, falls downward.
This last sentence soothes him. He stretches and looks at Wajge?e, sleeping next to him. Suddenly he feels overcome by tenderness.
When we crossed the Dniester, singing, boldly and openly this time, for we had in hand the royal letter that made of us free men in this country, I thought that everything was working out as if in a stone pattern in which each stone is a different color: when scattered, no connection or interdependence can be discerned among them, but when they are reassembled according to the proper order, they reveal a very striking and obvious picture.
Ivanie had to be given to us, that we might create here a great family that would continue for many years, so that even if we were to be scattered again, if we all had to disperse into the world, these ties, these Ivanie ties, would remain. For here, in Ivanie, we are free.
If we were also to be given our own land, as Jacob says, leased to us for our whole lives and for our children’s whole lives, so that we could govern ourselves according to our laws, getting in no one else’s way, we would not even fear death. When a person has a piece of land, he becomes immortal.
There was once a sage in Wilno named Heshel Tzorev, and he taught how according to gematria there exists a numerological identicality between the words Polin, or Poland, and the name in the Bible of Esau’s grandson, Tsefo. Esau’s guardian angel—and that of his family—is Samael, and he is also the guardian of Poland. Poland should rightly be called the Kingdom of Edom. The name Tsefo has the same Hebrew letters as tzafon—north—and they have the same value as Polin-Lita, or Poland-Lithuania. And as is known, Jeremiah 1:14 says that when salvation comes, it will start in the country in the north, meaning Poland and Lithuania.
Edom is Esau’s country, but here, now, in the darkness of the world, Edom means Poland. Going over to Edom means coming into Poland. That is clear. Here we take on Edom’s religion. So Elisha Shorr said back in Smyrna, and so I said. Now everything is coming true, but it could not have been so but for Jacob.
When I look at him, I see that there are people who are born with something that I cannot find the words for, something that means that others respect them and hold them in the highest esteem. I don’t know what it is—is it posture, is it a head held high, a penetrating gaze, a way of walking? Or maybe some spirit hovering around him? An angel who keeps him company? He has only to enter any space, be it the most decrepit shed or the holiest chamber, and all eyes turn to him at once, pleasure and appreciation on everyone’s face, although he has not yet done or said a thing.
I have watched his face many times—even as he was sleeping. I have already said it—it is not a beautiful face, but it can look beautiful. It is not an ugly face—but it can look repulsive. His eyes are capable of being as gentle and sad as a child’s. Those same eyes are capable of looking as ruthless as those of a predator watching its prey. Then a mocking expression appears in them, a derision so cold it suffuses your whole body. I don’t even know what color they are exactly, because even that is changeable. Sometimes they are quite black, without pupils, and completely impenetrable. Other times they take on a golden-brown hue, like dark beer. Once I saw that in their deepest essence they are as yellow as a cat’s, and I realized that he only darkens them for others, like a gentle shade.
I permit myself to write about Jacob in such a way because I love him. Because as a person who loves him, I give him greater rights and privileges than I give to anyone else. But I also fear falling into blind love, exaggerated and unhealthy, like that Heshel, who, if he could, would lie down like a dog at his feet.
Of doubles, trinities, and foursomes
We conducted many investigations into the Trinity in Ivanie, and it seemed to me that I had come to grasp its meaning.
What is our real task if not the establishment of equilibrium between the unity of God and the multiplicity of the world created by him? As for ourselves, people—are we not abandoned in this “in-between,” in between the One and a world of divisions? This limitless “between” has its strange critical point—the double. This is the first experience of the thinking man—when he notices the abyss that appears between himself and the rest of the world. This is the painful Two, the fundamental crack in the created world that gives rise to contradictions and all sorts of dualisms. This and that. You and me. Left and right. Sitra Achra, or the other side, the left side, the demonic forces in the guise of the broken shells of the vessels that could not hold the light when they were broken (shevirat haKelim)—that is the Two. Perhaps were it not for the Two in the world, the world would be completely different, although it’s hard to imagine that; no doubt Jacob would be able to. One time we worked ourselves to the bone, late into the night, trying to complete this assignment, but it was to no avail, for our minds think in this rhythm: two, two, two.