Abraham Ibn Ezra's

journal of jewish studies, vol. lv, no. 2, autumn 2004

A Case of Twelfth-Century Plagiarism? Abraham Ibn Ezra’s ‘H. ay Ben Meqitz’ and Avicenna’s ‘H. ayy Ibn Yaqz. ân’ *

Aaron Hughes University of Calgary

hat follows examines an important aspect of the intimate relationship W between Jews and Muslims in the Middle Ages.1 It presents what, at least on the surface, amounts to a case of Hebrew-Jewish plagiarism of an earlier Arabo-Islamic text. In particular, it focuses on a Hebrew treatise by the name of H. ay ben Meqitz2 written by Abraham ibn Ezra (1089–1164) that follows closely on the heels of an Arabic text by the same name (H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân) penned by Avicenna (980–1037).3 Although ibn Ezra’s treatise is usu- ally brushed aside in secondary treatments of his work,4 I present it here as a case study, not of his contribution to medieval Neoplatonism, but as an important chapter in the elucidation of the poetics and cultural ambiguity of Jews living in Muslim Spain (al-Andalus). These Andalusi Jews, according to Brann, were engaged in a complex ‘rereading and rewriting of their tradition in Arabic according to the literary and cultural conventions of that language’.5 It is precisely within this context of rereading and rewriting that

* This study was supported by the generosity of SSHRC (Canada Council), the Maurice Amado Research Fund in Sephardic Studies, and the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture. I would also like to acknowledge the following individuals for reading and commenting on various incarnations of this study: Hava Tirosh-Samuelson, Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, and Lisa Hughes. I am equally grateful to the anonymous reviewers for JJS, who provided extremely helpful suggestions. All remaining mistakes are solely my own. 1 There exists a wealth of studies, many polemical, devoted to this topic. For an excellent historiographic survey, see Mark Cohen, Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1994), pp. 3–14. For a good discussion that problematises this relationship, especially the trope of ‘symbiosis’, see Steven M. Wasserstrom, Between Muslim and Jew: The Problem of Symbiosis Under Early Islam (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1995), pp. 3–14. 2 I have consulted the critical edition found in Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz, ed. Israel Levin (Tel Aviv University Press, Tel Aviv, 1983). The line numbers that follow correspond to Levin’s num- bering. A full English translation of H. ay ben Meqitz may be found in Aaron W. Hughes, The Texture of the Divine: Imagination in Medieval Islamic and Jewish Thought (Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 2004), pp. 189–207. 3 For the Arabic text of this work, I have consulted H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân li ibn sînâ wa ibn. tufayl wa al-suhrawardî,ed.Ah. mad Amîn (Dâr al-maarîf, Cairo, 1959). 4 Notable exceptions are Hermann Greive, Studien zum jüdischen Neuplatonismus: Die Reli- gionsphilosophie des Abraham Ibn Ezra (Walter de Gruyter, Berlin, 1973); Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2); idem, Abraham ibn Ezra: His Life and Poetry (in Hebrew) (Ha-kibbutz ha- meuchad, Tel Aviv, 1969), pp. 181–227; Raphael Loewe, ‘The Influence of Solomon ibn Gabirol on Abraham ibn Ezra’, in Abraham Ibn Ezra y su Tiempo, ed. F. Diaz Esteban Asosiación Es- pañola de Orientalistas, Madrid, 1990), pp. 199–207; and, in the same volume, Zvi Malachi, ‘Astronomical and Astrological Data in Four Literary Works (Keter Malchut, Hai ben Mekitz, and Two Maqamas)’, pp. 211–16. 5 Ross Brann, ‘The Arabized Jews’, in The Literature of al-Andalus, ed. María Rosa Menocal, acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 307 we need to situate ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz. Ibn Ezra’s goal, I hope to show, was not only to create a Jewish and Hebrew version of Avicenna’s work, but also, in the process, to compete with the Arabic original. Both H. ay ben Meqitz and H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân, the former title being a simple Hebrew translation of the latter, belong to a distinct literary genre called the initiatory tale.6 The goal of these texts, as I have argued elsewhere,7 is to provide a narrative documenting in allegorical fashion the career and ad- ventures of the human soul and its relationship to the structure of the universe. Although these texts need to be contextualised within medieval Neo- platonism,8 we must not lose sight of the fact that they are also important poetic and literary creations. Ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz tells the story of an unnamed protagonist’s encounter with an enigmatic individual by the name of H. ay ben Meqitz. The two are often taken to be allegories of the individual soul and the Active Intellect respectively. Upon meeting, the two journey throughout the universe, which ibn Ezra divides into three parts: the lower world (ha- olam ha-shafal), the intermediate worlds (ha- olam ha- ems.a i ), and the upper world (ha- olam ha- eliyon).9 As they journey through these ascending cosmological levels, the protagonist learns the requisite science or sciences necessary for progressing on the journey. At the thresholds separating the various worlds, he must undergo a rite of passage (e.g. immersion in water, encounter with a celestial fire). The tale culminates when the protagonist reaches the highest level of the universe and is afforded an imaginative gaze into the Divine presence. Ibn Ezra’s narrative differs, philosophically, from Avicenna’s in a number of ways. Although both are written in a literary style, the most obvious difference

Raymond P. Scheindlin and Michael Sells (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2000), p. 443. Within this context, also see Brann, The Compunctious Poet: Cultural Ambiguity and Hebrew Poetry in Muslim Spain (Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1991), pp. 23–39. For more specific examples of this tension between Jews and Muslims and the ways in which each used the other to construct identity, see Brann, Power in the Portrayal: Representations of Jews and Muslims in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Islamic Spain (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 2002). 6 For requisite secondary literature on this genre, see Henry Corbin, Avicenna and the Vision- ary Recital, trans. Willard Trask (Bollingen, Princeton, 1960); Anne-Marie Goichon, Le Récite de Hayy ibn Yaqzân commenté par des texts d’Avicenne (Desclée de Brouwer, Paris, 1959); Her- mann Landolt, ‘Suhrawardî’s “Tales of Initiation” ’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 107 (1987), pp. 475–86; Dimitri Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition: Introduction to Read- ing Avicenna’s Philosophical Works (Brill, Leiden, 1988), esp. pp. 299–307; Peter Heath, Allegory and Philosophy in Avicenna: With a Translation of the Book of the Prophet Muhammad’s Ascent to Heaven (University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 1992); Sarah Stroumsa, ‘Avicenna’s Philosophical Stories: Aristotle’s Poetics Reconsidered’, Arabica 9 (1992), pp. 183–206. For a survey of this literature, see Hughes, The Texture of the Divine (as in n. 2), esp. pp. 13–47. 7 See Aaron Hughes, ‘The Three Worlds of ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz’, Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 12.2 (2002), pp. 1–24. 8 Other texts that make up this genre include the likes of Avicenna’s Risâla Sâlâmân wa- Absâl, Mantiq al-T. ayr;ibnT. ufayl, H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. See the discussion in Alfred L. Ivry, ‘The Utilization of Allegory in Islamic Philosophy’, in Interpretation and Allegory: Antiquity to the Modern Period, ed. Jon Whitman (Brill, Leiden, 2000), pp. 154–80. 9 See Aaron Hughes, ‘Two Approaches to the Love of God in Medieval Jewish Thought: The Concept of devequt in the Works of ibn Ezra and Judah Halevi’, Studies in Religion 28.2 (1999), esp. pp. 141–44. 308 journal of jewish studies is that whereas ibn Ezra is interested in the vertical structure of the universe, Avicenna deals primarily with the horizontal structure of the universe.10 Ibn Ezra is also extremely interested in the role of astrology in the noetic development of the individual, which is evident by the amount of time he spends describing the anthropomorphic attributes of the planets. Avicenna, on the contrary, was indifferent towards astrology and devotes very little space to describing the planets. Another important difference between the two works is that whereas ibn Ezra’s protagonist actually undertakes the journey through the cosmos with H. ay, in Avicenna’s text, H. ayy only describes to the protagonist the structure of the universe. Despite such important philosophical differences, ibn Ezra has, on a literary level, essentially adopted and adapted Avicenna’s narrative to the concerns of his Jewish audience. Although he borrowed the basic plot, structure, and characters from Avicenna’s text, he did so in such a manner that the new creation derived its vocabulary, terms of reference and, ultimately, its potency from the Biblical narrative. By doing this, ibn Ezra attempted to show to his Jewish audience, on a religious level, that his own version was better than that of Avicenna’s. For explicit in the ‘judaisa- tion’ of this work is the notion that Jews no longer needed to read the original Arabic version of the narrative.11 It is well known that ibn Ezra was an important conduit in the transmis- sion of Arabic scientific works into Hebrew through his translation activity and, thus he was a central figure in the development of medieval Hebrew science.12 Interestingly, though, ibn Ezra did not feel compelled to make a simple Hebrew translation of H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. He seems to have intentionally made the changes that he did in order to improve the narrative for his own purposes and for his own readers. The evidence for this is based on (1) the contemporaneous cultural context concerning plagiarism and literary production, and (2) indications that ibn Ezra’s intention was to compete with Avicenna’s narrative. The first point is the easiest to show and most of what follows will be devoted to this. As for the second point, there exist certain, admittedly speculative, indications that ibn Ezra intended his Hebrew version to be a better version than the Arabic original. First, ibn Ezra composed his H. ay ben Meqitz in response to a request from Shmuel ben Yaaqub ibn Jama, a wealthy North African halakhist and poet.13 One can also surmise from this

10 For comparisons of ibn Ezra’s and Avicenna’s texts, see Greive, Studien zum jüdischen Neu- platonismus (as in n. 4); Levin, Abraham ibn Ezra (as in n. 4), pp. 180–98; Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), pp. 11–44; Hughes, ‘The Three Worlds of ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz’(asin n. 7), and Hughes, The Texture of the Divine (as in n. 2), which also examines ibn T. ufayl’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. 11 On the role of this trope in medieval Jewish philosophy, see the important study of Steven Harvey, ‘Falaquera’s Alfarabi: An Example of the Judaization of the Islamic Falâsifa’, Trumah 12 (2002), pp. 97–112. 12 See Raphael Levy, The Astrological Works of Abraham ibn Ezra: A Literary and Linguistic Study with Special Reference to the Old French Translation of the Hagin (Johns Hopkins Univer- sity Press, Baltimore, 1927); more recently see Shlomo Sela, Abraham ibn Ezra and the Rise of Medieval Hebrew Science (Brill, Leiden, 2003), esp. pp. 75–78, 105–106. 13 Dîwân des Abraham Ibn Ezra mit seiner Allegorie H. ai ben Mekiz, ed. Jacob Egers (n.p., Berlin, 1886), p. 139f. Here I follow the lead of Kaufmann, who surmised that ibn Ezra was responding to a poetic challenge by ibn Jama. See David Kaufmann, Studies in the Hebrew acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 309 that Jewish courtiers did indeed read and were familiar with Avicenna’s pop- ular H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân narrative. Second, there exists, in ibn Ezra’s Dîwân,an Arabic heading appended to H. ay ben Meqitz stating that it was ibn Ezra’s intention to follow ‘in the footsteps of Avicenna’s Risâla H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân’.14 Although ibn Ezra’s treatise follows closely that of Avicenna’s, it is difficult to reconstruct the relationship between ibn Ezra and Avicenna.15 For instance, we know that the former read Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân, yet it is difficult to ascertain what else he read of this important author’s corpus.16 An important question that this study seeks to answer is: why would ibn Ezra de- cide to ‘copy’ Avicenna’s work? For ibn Ezra not only takes over Avicenna’s title, but also uses the same characters and essentially the same plot structure. Since ibn Ezra and his learned co-religionists would have been able to read Arabic,17 why not simply read Avicenna’s original? Why would one need to read a Hebrew version of the work? In order to answer such questions we need to situate ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz in the light of two important features of medieval Islamicate civilisation.18 The first is the various rules as-

Literature of the Middle Ages (in Hebrew) (Mossad ha-Rav Kook, Jerusalem, 1962); see also Levin, Abraham ibn Ezra: His Life and Poetry (as in n. 4), p. 15. 14 Dîwân des Abraham Ibn Ezra mit seiner Allegorie H. ai ben Mekiz, (as in n. 13), p. 139; Levin, Abraham ibn Ezra: His Life and Poetry (as in n. 4), p. 179. 15 This, in part, stems from the fact that ibn Ezra did not compose a philosophical treatise per se; instead he was content to offer allusive and indirect philosophical statements in his Bibli- cal commentaries. On the danger that this poses for reconstructing medieval Jewish philosophy, see the comments in Y. Tzvi Langermann, ‘Some Astrological Themes in the Thought of Abra- ham Ibn Ezra’, in Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra: Studies in the Writings of a Twelfth-Century Jewish Polymath, ed. Jay Harris and Isadore Twersky (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1993), pp. 30–33; Howard Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Kluwer, Dordrecht, 2001), pp. 22–23. Yet, for relevant secondary literature that looks, albeit briefly, at the influence of Avicenna on ibn Ezra, see Aviezer Ravitzky, ‘The Anthropological Doctrine of Miracles in Medieval Jewish Philosophy’ (in Hebrew), Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 2 (1982), pp. 32ff.; Moshe Idel, ‘Hitbodedut as Concentration in Jewish Philosophy’ (in Hebrew), Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 7 (1988), esp. p. 44; Elliot R. Wolfson, ‘God, the Demiurge, and the Intellect’, Revue des Etudes Juives 149 (1990), pp. 190–92; Howard Kreisel, ‘Miracles in Medieval Jewish Philosophy’, Jewish Quarterly Review 75 (1984), pp. 117–18. 16 According to Harvey, ibn Ezra was the first Jewish philosopher to employ Avicenna’s important distinction between Necessary and Contingent existence. See Warren Zev Harvey, ‘The First Commandment and the God of History: ibn Ezra and Maimonides versus Halevi and Crescas’ (in Hebrew), Tarbiz. 57 (1988), p. 208. 17 It is virtually impossible to reconstruct the intended audience of the work. Certainly, ibn Ezra wrote the great majority of his work in Hebrew in order to transmit Andalusian Jewish learning to a, presumably, non-Arabic speaking audience. Yet, the fact that he composed H. ay ben Meqitz for ibn Jama, and presumably other North African Jews, indicates that the immediate audience of this text would have known Arabic. 18 In using the term ‘Islamicate’, I follow the lead of the historian of Islam, Marshall Hodg- son. He writes that this term refers ‘not directly to the religion, Islam, itself, but to the social and cultural complex historically associated with Islam and the Muslims, both among Muslims themselves and even when found among non-Muslims.’ See Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Ven- ture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, vol. 1 (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1974), p. 59. In this manner, although ibn Ezra was certainly not an ‘Islamic’ thinker, we could refer to him as an ‘Islamicate’ one. Even though he was deeply committed to Judaism, Jewish values, and Jewish sources, he nevertheless expressed himself in terms of the vocabulary and categories of Arabo-Islamic civilisation. 310 journal of jewish studies sociated with the Islamicate notion of plagiarism (sariqa). The second is that of the non-Arabic nationalistic movement known as the Shu ûbiyya.Bothof these features take us into the realm of poetics and cultural criticism, pro- viding an important context for the composition of medieval philosophical texts. Rather than regard ibn Ezra’s work as a copy or Hebrew translation of Avicenna’s text, we need to understand the various cultural, intellectual, and religious mechanisms that would have permitted ibn Ezra to lay claim to the work. What, for instance, were the motivating factors behind his desire to appropriate this and make it into a distinctly Jewish creation? And, perhaps more importantly, how did he go about doing this?

Plagiarism (‘sariqa’) in Medieval Arabo-Judaic Literary Criticism The aesthetics of the medieval Hebrew courtier poets was, generally speaking, that of their Arab-Muslim counterparts.19 Arab literary criticism was well established long before the rise of the Hebrew courtier poets in al-Andalus and had already developed an aesthetics that revolved around the literary, the religious, and the rhetorical.20 As established in the medieval period, this aesthetics represented a combination of the poetic sensibilities of the pre-Islamic Arabs with more theoretical discussions that were influenced by Greek philosophical speculation. For Muslims, the one true miracle of their tradition was the language and style of the Qurân. This stemmed from the fact that the pre-Islamic Arabs had always put a tremendous emphasis on the virtues of eloquence (balâgha) and clarity of expression (h. usn al-bayân).21 This, in turn, was given a religious or monotheistic valence with the advent of Islam.22 Ac- cording to the Arab critics, whereas the miracles of Moses and Jesus were, respectively, in the fields of magic and medicine (the fields of the highest human achievement in their respective times), Muhammad’s was in the field of literature and eloquence.23 As in ancient Greece, poetry in Islamic culture was considered an art or acraft(.sinâ a). Like all other arts or crafts, there existed a canon by which a poem’s success was judged. The good poem had to conform closely to the rules that governed its production. Unlike the modern period, which puts overwhelming emphasis on individual creativity, the medieval Arab or He- brew poet was regarded, first and foremost, as an artisan, someone familiar

19 The best example of this influence on medieval Jewish literary criticism may be found in Moses ibn Ezra, Kitâb al-muh. âd. ara wa al-mudhâkara (Sefer ha- iyyunim ve ha-diyyunim),ed.and trans. A. S. Halkin (Mekize Niramim, Jerusalem, 1975). Within this context, see the discussion in Joseph Dana, The Poetics of Medieval Hebrew Literature According to Moses ibn Ezra (in Hebrew) (Dvir, Jerusalem, 1982), pp. 18–37. 20 L. Kopf, ‘Religious Influences on Medieval Arabic Philology’, Studia Islamica V (1956), esp. pp. 33–38. 21 Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, The Mute Immortals Speak: Pre-Islamic Poetry and the Po- etics of Ritual (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1993), pp. xi–xii. 22 See the discussion in Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, The Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy: Myth, Gender, and Ceremony in the Classical Arabic Ode (Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 2002). 23 E.g. Ibn Qutayba, Ta wîl mushkil al-Qur ân, 2nd edn, ed. al-Sayyid Ah. mad Saqr (Dâr al- Turâth, Cairo, 1973), p. 12. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 311 with the rules and conventions of his field.24 Poetry, then, was very traditional; the poem’s success was based primarily upon its formal correctness. Within this context, poetic composition was divided into form (.sûra) and content (mâdda). Poetic beauty resulted when an appropriate form was super-added onto a limited number of poetic themes (ma ânî ).25 Crucial here are the ornaments (tropes, figures of speech) that the poet employed in his desire to improve these themes. Medieval Arab theorists, like Aristotle before them, considered the metaphor (isti âra) to be the best suited poetical ornament,26 because it conceives of one thing in terms of another.27 These tropes are what enabled the poet to invoke responses in his audience. Since originality was defined by improving traditional themes, a crucial dimension of medieval Arabic literary criticism was that of plagiarism (sariqa). This discussion is crucial to our understanding of Abraham ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz, which is, at least on the surface, a copy of Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. After surveying briefly this discourse, it should be apparent that every poet was always conscious of the potential charge of plagiarism. Indeed, although his Dîwân mentions the similarities between the two narratives, it seems that ibn Ezra was never charged with plagiarism. This need not surprise us, however, since the changes that ibn Ezra made to his composition, as I will show later, would have prevented such a charge. The primary way he was able to do this was by grounding the narrative within the vocabulary, texts, and categories of Judaism. My goal is not to make a value judgement based on apologetics (i.e. that ibn Ezra’s tale is literally or actually better than Avicenna’s), only to show how ibn Ezra, based on the literary criticism and poetics of his day, tried to create a ‘better’ version for a particular audience. The concept of plagiarism is connected to the innovative style (bad. î ) of certain Abbâsid poets.28 This new poetry, however, must be understood against the backdrop of the cultural and intellectual trends of Mutazila hegemony.29 This poetry, especially its use of metaphor, was praised by Mutazilî-inspired

24 See G. E. von Grunebaum, ‘The Aesthetic Foundation of Arabic Literature’, Comparative Literature IV (1952), p. 325. 25 Von Grunebaum, ‘The Aesthetic Foundation’ (as in n. 24), p. 326. Also, see the discussion in Dan Pagis, Secular Poetry and Poetic Theory: Moses ibn Ezra and His Contemporaries (in Hebrew) (Bialik Institute, Jerusalem, 1970), pp. 51–52; Brann, The Compunctious Poet (as in n. 5), p. 72f. 26 Von Grunebaum, ‘The Aesthetic Foundation’ (as in n. 24), p. 328. 27 See, for example, Moses ibn Ezra, Kitâb al-muh. âd. ara (as in n. 19), pp. 225–31. For an ex- tended discussion of this topic in the thought of Moses ibn Ezra, see Paul Fenton, Philosophie et Exégèse dans le Jardin de la Métaphore de Moïse ibn Ezra, Philosophe et Poète Andalou du XIIe Siècle (Brill, Leiden, 1997), pp. 299–374; Mordechai Z. Cohen, Three Approaches to Biblical Metaphor: From Abraham Ibn Ezra and Maimonides to David Kimhi (Brill, Leiden, 2003), pp. 36–47. 28 See, Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, Abû Tammâm and the Poetics of the Abbâsid Age (Brill, Leiden, 1991), pp. 5–37; idem, ‘Toward a Redefinition of badî Poetry’, Journal of Arabic Litera- ture 12 (1981), pp. 1–29. 29 Stetkevych, Abû Tammâm (as in n. 28), pp. 8–9. Rather significantly, the outstanding bad. î poet, Abû Tammâm, counted as his patrons (mamdûh. ûn)al-Mamun (d. 833), al-Mutasim (d. 842), and al-Wâthiq (d. 847)—all three of whom perpetuated the mih. na (‘inquisition’) on behalf of the Mutazila. 312 journal of jewish studies literary critics who argued that such ornamentation defined the Arabic language.30 Despite this, many other critics faulted this new style for upsetting the old equilibrium. As a result, many critics devoted themselves to the issue of plagiarism (sariqa). Because we are very much the product of Romantic aesthetic sensibilities—in which the highest value is put on the original and the unique—we must be careful not to transfer this sensibility onto the aesthetic milieu of Arabic and Judeo-Arabic literature.31 For the latter, originality is not defined by saying something that no one has ever thought or uttered before, but by how well one is able to reproduce a set stock of tropes or images. Repetition, then, is of central importance since, according to Paul Losensky, it shows that the author has a knowledge ‘of the established standards and models that define literature as a system of signification and give meaning to each individual utterance.’ 32 It was by situating oneself within a previous and well-established semantic or allusive field, then, that the Islamicate poet was able to be creative.33 Every poet used motifs (ma ânî)—which were considered the common property of all learned people—that others had already employed. Original- ity occured when a poet did, at the very least, one of two things: he used either a motif in a new context or with better ornamentation. In his Kitâb al- .sinâ atayn, the Arab literary critic al-Askarî (d. 1005) argued that it is contingent upon the poet to use the motifs in such a way that he adds to the beauty of the overall composition.34 If the poet did this successfully, then his claim to the motif was stronger than his predecessors. Similarly, it is important that the author ‘conceal his theft’ (ikhfâ al-sarq)by,inter alia, either transferring to prose a motif taken from poetry or vice versa.35 Another important literary critic who dealt with the concept of plagiarism was ibn Rashîq (d. between 1060 and 1070), who claimed that it was impossible to avoid plagiarism and that every poet engaged in some form of it.36 Like

30 Of paramount importance here was the way the Qurân used metaphors to describe God. See Stetkevych, Abû Tammâm (as in n. 28), p. 18. 31 See, for example, Franz Rosenthal, The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship (Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, Rome, 1947); G. E. von Grunebaum, ‘The Concept of Pla- giarism in Arabic Theory’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 3 (1944), p. 234. It is important, then, to contrast this discussion with that of the anxiety of influence in post-Romantic thought. For a discussion of the latter, see Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (Oxford University Press, New York and Oxford, 1973). 32 Paul E. Losensky, ‘ “The Allusive Field of Drunkenness”: Three Safavid-Moghul Responses to a lyric by Bâbâ Fighânî’, in Reorientations / Arabic and Persian Poetry, ed. S. P. Stetkevych (Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1994), p. 227. 33 Significantly, though, ibn Ezra was an important innovator in Hebrew poetry, introducing new genres (e.g. dispute poems, satirical poems), developing new strophic techniques and creating new styles. See Yosef Tobi, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra’s Poetry as a Link in the Transition of Hebrew Po- etry in Spain from its Islamic to its Christian Period’, in Abraham Ibn Ezra y su Tiempo (as in n. 4), esp. pp. 358–61; Masha Itzhaki, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra as a Harbinger of Changes in Secular He- brew Poetry’, in Hebrew Scholarship and the Medieval World, ed. Nicholas de Lange (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2001), pp. 149–55. 34 Abû Hilâl al-H. asan al-Askarî, Kitâb al-s. inâ atayn,ed.Ali Muhammad Bijâwî and Muhammad Abû al-Fad. l Ibrâhîm, 2nd ed. (sâ al-Bâbî al-Halabi, Cairo, 1971). 35 Al-Askarî, K. al-s. inâ atayn (as in n. 34), p. 147. 36 H. asan ibn Rashîq al-Qayrawânî, Al- Umda fî mahâsin al-shi r,ed.Muhyîal-DînAbd al- acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 313 his predecessor al-Askarî, ibn Rashîq argued that the motifs were common property, and that the poet who best used them acquired the right to them.37 Unless a poet improved on the ancients, the original treatment ranked higher than the imitation.38 In like manner, he claimed that the best methods of borrowing were those that involved putting verse into prose or vice versa.39 This discourse on plagiarism was also found among the Hebrew poets of Muslim Spain. This, however, took on a somewhat different hue, as one of the main sources of medieval Hebrew poetry was the language of the Hebrew Bible. Indeed, much of Hebrew secular poetry is the weaving together of Bib- lical phrases—either verbatim, altered or elliptical—into a new context that evokes a series of familiar, yet often subverted, images.40 This,ofcourse,is not to imply that the Hebrew secular poets simply plagiarised from the Bible. On the contrary, these poets resignified its language and its verses in such a way that they created new meanings. Despite the overwhelming preoccupation with the fabric of the Hebrew Bible, there still existed the question of plagiarism. This is because the basic form, structure, and thematic organisation of the Hebrew secular poem was the Arabic ode (qas.îda).41 This can be seen in, inter alia, the lyric-elegiac beginning (nasîb) 42 of the qas.îda—including the use of garden and desert motifs—the theme of the praise of others (madîh. ), and the use of the bad. î technique.43 As a result of this, it is no surprise that the Hebrew poets frequently borrowed verses from other poets, both Arab and Jewish.44 Once again, we must remember that the various themes and motifs (ma ânî )were regarded as common property. As in Arabic literary criticism, the charge of plagiarism could be avoided only by improving on a theme or motif of a predecessor. In his Kitâb al-muh. âd. ara, Moses ibn Ezra’s discussion of plagiarism follows that of the Arab critics: If you should employ a motif that existed prior to you, behave prudently in the matter; either add to it or take away from it. An appropriate addition should not corrupt the motif and an appropriate omission should not put it to shame

Hamîd, 5th ed (Dâr al-Jîl, Beirut, 1981), 2:280. 37 Ibn Rashîq, Al- Umda (as in n. 36), 2:266. 38 Von Grunebaum, ‘Concept of Plagiarism’ (as in n. 31), p. 238. 39 Ibn Rashîq, Al- Umda (as in n. 36), 2:277. 40 E.g. T. Carmi, The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1981), p. 27; Neal Kozodoy, ‘Reading Medieval Hebrew Love Poetry’, AJS Review 2 (1977), pp. 111–13; Adele Berlin, Biblical Poetry Through Medieval Jewish Eyes (Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1991), pp. 16–29. 41 See Raymond P.Scheindlin, ‘The Hebrew Qasida in Spain’, in Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa, vol. 1, ed. S. Sperl and C. Shackle (Brill, Leiden, 1996), p. 122. 42 For a rich treatment of the nasîb, see Jaroslav Stetkevych, The Zephyrs of Najd: The Poetics of Nostalgia in the Classical Arabic Nasîb (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1993), pp. 50– 102. 43 For the Hebrew variants and reworkings of these themes, see Scheindlin, ‘The Hebrew Qasida in Spain’ (as in n. 41), pp. 124–28; Arie Schippers, Arabic Tradition and Hebrew Inno- vation: Arabic Themes in Hebrew Andalusian Poetry, 2nd edn (University of Amsterdam Press, Amsterdam, 1988). 44 Pagis, Secular Poetry and Poetic Theory (as in n. 25), p. 104. 314 journal of jewish studies

. . . Concerning the argument of the plagiarists, al-Jâhiz, a leader of the mu- takallimûn, said: ‘I do not know of a poet who has invented an appropriate allegory or a remarkable motif or an original saying without another poet coming after him and claiming it for himself.’ 45 Despite this, Moses ibn Ezra is also quick to point out the dangers of slav- ishly following the Arab poets. In keeping with his desire for the Hebrew poets to be morally upright, he admonishes those who want to imitate Arab poets who write comic (fukâhât) and insulting (muhâtarât) poems.46 Connected to this discussion of originality in literature is that of originality in philosophy. Since ibn Ezra’s H. ay deals primarily with philosophical themes, it is also necessary to examine this latter aspect. Although both philosophic truth and poetic ma ânî were regarded as common property, the former was not seen as conﬁned to one group (e.g. the Arabs). Al-Kindî, for example, claims: it has been clear to us and to the distinguished philosophers before us who are not our co-linguists, that no man by the diligence of his quest has attained the truth . . . nor have (the philosophers as a) whole comprehended it. Rather, each of them either has not attained any truth or has attained something small in relation to what the truth deserves. When, though, the little which each one of them who has acquired the truth is collected, something of great worth is assembled from this.47 For the medieval philosophers, truth was not something subjective; rather, it was an objective reality that everyone who had reached a certain level of intellectual perfection could grasp. Truth, then, was not the private posses- sion of any one particular individual or group: it was attainable by one’s own eﬀorts with the help of one’s predecessors and teachers.48 Central here is the formal unity of intellects, with matter responsible for individualisation. One of the clearest expressions of this view is found in the work of al-Fârâbî: When the soul becomes separated from matter and incorporeal, it is no longer subject to any of the accidents that are attached to bodies as such . . . As one group of them passes away, and their bodies are destroyed, their souls have achieved salvation and happiness, and they are succeeded by other men who as- sume their positions in the city and perform their actions, the souls of the latter will also achieve salvation . . . The more the kindred separate souls increase in number and unite with one another, the greater the pleasure felt by each soul.49 In a worldview that stresses the fellowship of the philosophers, the concept of plagiarism is necessarily foreign. For each philosopher essentially appre-

45 Moses ibn Ezra, Kitâb al-muh. âd. ara (as in n. 19), p. 174. 46 Moses ibn Ezra, Kitâb al-muh. âd. ara (as in n. 19), p. 296. 47 Al-Kindî, Al-Kindî’s Metaphysics, trans. Alfred Ivry (State University of New York Press, Albany, 1974), p. 57. 48 Jeﬀrey Macy, ‘A Study in Medieval Jewish and Arabic Political Philosophy: Maimonides Shemonah Peraqim and al-Fârâbî’s Fusûl al Madanî (Hebrew University dissertation, 1982), p. vi. 49 Al-Fârâbî, The Political Regime, trans. F. M. Najjar, in Medieval Political Philosophy,ed. R. Lerner and M. Mahdi (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1963), p. 38; see the comments in Macy, ‘A Study’ (as in n. 48), p. vii. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 315 hends truths that have already been perceived by other philosophers.50 Each philosopher, thus, has a duty to transmit his knowledge to those who will come after him. Although philosophical truth is universal, it is always expressed in speciﬁc contexts. This helps explain some of the reasons behind why ibn Ezra would compose H. ay ben Meqitz when there already existed Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. Although ibn Ezra’s treatise is also an allegory concerning the career of the soul, its language is Hebrew and its symbols Jewish. As a result, Jewish courtiers, udabâ , no longer needed to read this work in its Arabic version.51

‘Shu ûbiyya’ and the Construction of Cultural Nationalism In this section, I shall focus on the Arab concern for language and show how it influenced both non-Arabs and non-Muslims living in Muslim lands. In Islam, the perceived superiority of the rhetorical and aesthetic dimension of the Qurân translated into the proclamation that Islam was the best religion, and the Arabs, since the original language of revelation was Arabic, its best practitioners. This, in turn, signalled a counter-movement, known as the Shu ûbiyya, which articulated a position that non-Arabs were in fact superior to Arabs. It is partly against this backdrop, I shall argue, that we must understand ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz. Because of the intimate connection between language, rhetoric, and religion, there soon arose in the eighth century the notion of adab.52 This concept—roughly defined as the polite ideal of cultured living—is crucial to understanding medieval Islamicate civilisation. Social graces, literary tastes and ingenuity in manipulating language defined the practitioner of adab, known in Arabic as an adîb (pl. udabâ ). Associated with the notion of adab is the concomitant idea of Arabiyya (‘Arabism’). Proponents of Arabiyya held that the Arabic language and its literary achievements were superior to those of all other nations or cultures.53 Historically, the Arabiyya movement is associated with the rapid expan- sion of Islam outside of the Hijâz in the seventh century. The Arabs relied on non-Arab Muslims (mawâlî;sg.mawlâ) to maintain the already existing bureaucracies in places such as Persia. In the third Islamic century, this led to a counter-reaction among non-Arab Muslims, especially among the educated classes of the Persians. This movement, known as the Shu ûbiyya,proclaimed

50 Macy, ‘A Study’ (as in n. 48), p. vii. 51 Again, the evidence I am using to suggest that Jewish courtiers read Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân is that one such courtier, ibn Jama, appears to have asked another such courtier, ibn Ezra, to compose a Hebrew version of it. 52 S. E. Bonebakker, ‘Adab and the Concept of Belles-Lettres’, in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature: Abbasid Belles-Lettres, ed. J. Ashtiany et al. (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1990), p. 19. 53 For Jewish reactions to Arabiyya, see Nehemiah Allony, ‘The Reaction of Moses Ibn Ezra to Arabiyya’, The Bulletin of the Institute of Jewish Studies 3 (1975), p. 20; idem, ‘The Renaissance of the Bible in the Middle Ages as a Response to Arabiyya’ (in Hebrew), The Book of Shalom Sivan: A Collection of Studies and Essays, ed. A. Even-Shoshan (Kiryat Sefer, Jerusalem, 1979), pp. 177–87. 316 journal of jewish studies the superiority of non-Arabs and non-Arab civilisation over the Arabs and their civilisation.54 In its crudest form the argument went something like: ‘When our ancestors were part of the glorious and ancient Persian civilisation, your ancestors were nothing more than desert-dwelling camel jockeys.’ This movement was initially confined to the eastern Islamic empire; two cen- turies later, however, it made its way onto Spanish soil.55 The conditions that brought this development about were, nevertheless, almost identical to those found in the East; viz., the proud and disdainful behaviour of the Arabs to the non-Arabs. The Shu ûbiyya left its mark on the Jewish thinkers of Muslim Spain. Ac- cording to Nehemiah Allony, much of the Hebrew literature produced in Muslim Spain—poetry, Biblical interpretation, works of poetics, etc.—must be understood in the light of the new Jewish cultural nationalism.56 He claims, for example, that ‘an anti-Arabiyya motif had characterised Spanish Hebrew poetry from its very beginning.’ 57 Allony wants to see, then, in everything from Shmuel Hanagid’s poetry to Judah Halevi’s Kuzari to Abraham ibn Ezra’s Biblical commentaries a means whereby elite Jews could express their dissatisfaction with the hegemony of Arabo-Islamic civilisation.58 Such a functional approach to this literature fails to do at least two things. First, it ignores the actual content of the literature in question: it filters everything through the prism of subverting the hegemony of the majority. Second, it ignores the dynamics of the religious and cultural interaction of Islamic and Jewish civilisation in Muslim Spain. Juxtaposed against Allony’s argument, I tend to side with those offered by Raymond Scheindlin and Ross Brann. They argue that, although on one level a reaction to Arabiyya, this literature better reflects the ambiguity of a minority that is trying to define itself by the dominant culture of the majority.59 According to Brann, for example, it is

54 The two most thorough studies of the Shuûbiyya are to be found in Ignaz Goldziher, ‘The Shuûbiyya’, in Muslim Studies, ed. and trans. S. M. Stern and C. R. Barber (Aldine, Chicago, 1966), pp. 137–63; H. A. R. Gibb, ‘The Social Signiﬁcance of the Shuubiya’, Studies on the Civi- lization of Islam, ed. S. J. Shaw and W. R. Polk (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1962), pp. 62–73. Goldziher, who stresses the literary dimension of this movement, argued that the Shu ûbiyya were spurred on by political movements in the far Eastern reaches of the Muslim Empire. Gibb, in contrast, stresses the social dimension of this movement, and, I think more plausibly, that the Shu ûbiyya did not pose a political threat to Islam. He argues that this group wanted to remold the Islamic Empire based on Persian as opposed to Arab ideals. Two more recent studies of this phenomenon may be found in D. A. Agius, ‘The Shu ûbiyya Movement and Its literary Manifestation’, Islamic Quarterly XXIV (1980), pp. 76–88; H. T. Norris, ‘The Shuûbiyya’, in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature: Abbâsid Belles-Lettres (as in n. 52), pp. 31–47. 55 James T. Monroe, The Shu ûbiyya in al-Andalus: The Risâla of Ibn García and Five Refuta- tions (University of California Press, Berkeley, 1970). p. 1. 56 Allony, ‘The Renaissance of the Bible in the Middle Ages as a Response to Arabiyya’(as in n. 53), p. 186; also see Allony, ‘Halevi’s Kuzari in the Light of the Shuûbiyya’ (in Hebrew), Bitsaron 65 (1973–1974), pp. 106–108. 57 Allony, ‘The Reaction of Moses Ibn Ezra to Arabiyya’ (as in n. 53), p. 35. Virtually the exact same point is made in Norman Roth, ‘Jewish Reactions to the Arabiyya and the Renaissance of ‘Hebrew in Spain’, Journal of Semitic Studies XXVIII.1 (1983), pp. 83–84. 58 See the critical comments in Brann, The Compunctious Poet (as in n. 5), p. 16. 59 Raymond P. Scheindlin, ‘Rabbi Moshe Ibn Ezra on the Legitimacy of Poetry’, Medievalia acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 317

‘far easier to describe texts and identify their ties to Arabic sources as “influences” and “reactions” borne out of the Jews’ minority status than to attempt a more nuanced conceptualisation of the Jews’ complex interaction with Ara- bic culture in al-Andalus.’ 60 Within this context, there can be no doubt that the Jews of Islam were attracted to the themes and issues that they encountered in the humanistic intellectual milieu of medieval Arabic civilisation.61 Much of Jewish thought in this period represents the coming to terms with these themes and issues, and subsequently making sense of them in the light of familiar Jewish categories (e.g. Biblical commentaries). This, of course, is not to imply that Jews whole-heartedly embraced these ideas; however, these ideas did provide the vocabulary by which even those Jews who rejected the dominant intellectual paradigm (e.g. Halevi) 62 nevertheless expressed themselves. In many ways this is what we encounter in ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz, which is essentially the expression of universal philosophical motifs within the parameters of the images and models afforded by the particulars of the Jewish tradition. Furthermore, because ibn Ezra was such an accomplished poet,63 his H. ay is more interested in the literary and aesthetic qualities of this treatise,64 features that Avicenna does not seem to be as concerned with in his Arabic text of the same name.65 Moreover, as was customary among the Jews of his age, ibn Ezra tried to show how the universal themes of Neoplatonism (e.g. the career of the soul) were grounded in the Hebrew Bible. Implicit in ibn Ezra’s work is the notion that philosophy cannot be separated from literary expression. This, in turn, is related to the notion—so common among the Hebrew poet-philosophers of al-Andalus—that sees in literary expression the foundation of the religious life.66 Poetic sensibility provided a way of cul- et Humanistica 7 (1976), pp. 113–14; Brann, The Compunctious Poet (as in n. 5), pp. 6–8. 60 Brann, ‘The Arabized Jews’ (as in n. 5), p. 439. 61 On the place of humanism in medieval Islam, see, for example, George Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism in Classical Islam and the Christian West (Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 1990); Joel Kraemer, Humanism in the Renaissance of Islam: The Cultural Revival During the Buyid Age (Brill, Leiden, 1986). 62 E.g. Shlomo Pines, ‘Shiite Terms and Conceptions in Judah Halevi’s Kuzari’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 2 (1980), pp. 165–251. More recently, see Diana Lobel, Between Mys- ticism and Philosophy: Sufi Language of Religious Experience in Judah Ha-Levi’s Kuzari’ (State University of New York Press, Albany, 2000), esp. pp. 1–20. 63 On the important place of ibn Ezra in Hebrew poetry, see the comments in Israel Levin, ‘Hold to the Ladder of Wisdom: The Influence of Neoplatonic Psychology on the Poetry of Abra- ham ibn Ezra’ (in Hebrew), Te uda 8 (1992), p. 41; Itzhaki, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra as a Harbinger of Changes’ (as in n. 33), pp. 149–55; Gerard Nahon, ‘La elegía de Abraham ibn Ezra sobre la persecución de los Almohades: Nuevas perspectivas’, in Abraham ibn Erza y su tiempo (as in n. 4), pp. 217–24. 64 In this respect, I disagree with Greive, who ignores the literary and aesthetic dimension of the text in favour of a strict philosophical reading. See Hermann Greive, Studien zum jüdischen Neuplatonismus (as in n. 4), pp. 32–33. 65 It is significant that Avicenna was one of the few Islamic philosophers who wrote poetry. To characterise him as a poet, however, would be an exaggeration as the quality of his poetry is not on the same level as the Arabic poets or the Hebrew poets of al-Andalus. 66 See the discussion in Adena Tanenbaum, The Contemplative Soul: Hebrew Poetry and Philo- sophical Theory in Medieval Spain (Brill, Leiden, 2002), esp. pp. 7–34. 318 journal of jewish studies tivating a personal relationship with the Divine through the Hebrew language by means of metaphor and other figures of speech. The result was a mode of expression wherein the poet could speak of God’s presence in a strikingly personal fashion while, at the same time, acknowledging His utter omnipotence and transcendence. It is perhaps no coincidence that the Jews of this period, even if they wrote philosophy in Arabic, almost always composed their poetry in Hebrew.

Between Muslim and Jew: Stylistic Differences between ‘H. ayy’ and ‘H. ay’ Both Avicenna’s and ibn Ezra’s texts are, on the one hand, allegories sym- bolising the human’s soul encounter with the Active Intellect and subsequent return to its celestial home. Yet, on the other hand, they also belong to the genre of travel literature in that both recount the journey of an unnamed protagonist with the enigmatic H. ay ben Meqitz (or H. ayy ibn Yaqz.ân) through both the material and intellectual worlds. In so doing, they document how the protagonist undergoes a purification so that he may continue his travels through the celestial spheres until he gradually apprehends that which exists beyond such spheres. It would be incorrect to posit that ibn Ezra simply took over Avicenna’s narrative and imagery. For many of these themes—a journey to the world of fire and light, the encounter with different types of angels, and a heavenly guide who aids a protagonist on a celestial journey—are far from foreign to the Jewish religious or literary tradition.67 We encounter, for instance, such themes and motifs in the Apocalyptic literature, such as the Books of Enoch, and the speculative literature associated with the yordei merkavah.68 Before I examine some of the motifs that ibn Ezra uses to connect his treatise to earlier Jewish literature, let me mention briefly some of the stylistic features of ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz.69 The style of this work is neither prose nor poetry, but a rhyming prose known in Arabic as saj .70 Within this genre, we encounter groups of sentences with unfixed lengths, which are connected

67 See, for example, Gershom G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (Schocken, New York, 1946), p. 49f.; idem, Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism, and Talmudic Tradition (Jew- ish Theological Seminary Press, New York, 1960), pp. 18ff. 68 Greive makes no mention of such Jewish precursors; rather, he focuses on ‘Gnostic’ parallels found in non-Jewish sources, such as the Corpus Hermeticum.See,Greive,Studien zum jüdischen Neuplatonismus (as in n. 4), p. 104–105, 112–13. On the unhelpfulness of the term ‘Gnosticism’ in shedding light on Jewish mysticism, see Ira Chernus, Mysticism in Rabbinic Judaism (Walter de Gruyter, Berlin, 1982), pp. 15–16; P. Alexander, ‘Comparing Merkabah Mysticism and Gnos- ticism: An Essay in Method’, Journal of Jewish Studies 35 (1984), pp. 1–18. Although, to be fair, this need not necessarily rule out the phenomenological usefulness of comparing early Jewish material with Gnostic initiatory tales. 69 For much of this I rely on the excellent formal analysis provided by Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Mekitz (as in n. 2), pp. 16–18. 70 For the development of this genre in Arabic literature, see Reynold A. Nicholson, A Lit- erary History of the Arabs (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1930), pp. 74–75; R. Paret, ‘Qurân: I’, in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature,vol.1,ed.A.F.L.Beestonetal. (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1983), pp. 195–98. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 319 by a distinct rhyme that differs from group to group. The sound of the rhyme, in turn, creates an acoustic pattern that contributes to the overall aesthetic of the work.71 The various monotones, according to Levin, are broken by alter- nate rhymes, different lengths of the sentences, and the number of different sections.72 There are certain formal features that mark a number of crucial differences between ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz and Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân.The most immediate difference between the two is that Avicenna’s work is written primarily in prose without the rhyme, tempo and rhythm of ibn Ezra’s H. ay. This, of course, is not to claim that Avicenna was unconcerned with the relationship between aesthetics and philosophy,73 only that ibn Ezra, as both an accomplished secular and sacred poet made, for various reasons, a conscious effort to explore the counterpoints between philosophic and poetic expression. Within this context, ibn Ezra creates a colourful mosaic of motifs, images, words, fragments, and sentences informed by the Biblical narrative and the Hebrew literature associated with the post-Biblical period. Interestingly, Avi- cenna is not nearly as concerned with grounding his H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân within the vocabulary and categories supplied by the sacred scripture of Islam. For instance, he neither quotes directly from the Qur’ân nor does he employ overtly Quranic images to give context to the characters or situations in his work. Interestingly, though, ibn T. ufayl (1110–1185) frequently uses Quranic quotations and imagery in his later, and somewhat more elaborate, H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân.

Biblical and Post-Biblical Jewish Motifs in ‘H. ay’ Biblical expressions, motifs, and fragments are omnipresent throughout ibn Ezra’s tale. Indeed, much like the Hebrew poetry of this age, the entire tale is essentially a reworking of the Biblical text, in which words, images and phrases are separated from their original contexts and given new signiﬁca- tions. Ibn Ezra, thus, seems to imply that he has simply made explicit the latent (i.e. the philosophical) foundation of sacred scripture. A good example of this may be found in the opening section of the tale. Here the unnamed protagonist tells us the reason for undertaking his journey: I have abandoned my house / Walked away from my possessions. I left my home / My birthplace, my people / The sons of my mother put me in charge / But they did not let me attend to my vineyard.74

71 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Mekitz (as in n. 2), p. 17. 72 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Mekitz (as in n. 2), p. 17. 73 See, for example, his Qas. îda al-nafs. The Arabic edition and French translation can be found in M. Carra de Vaux, ‘La Kaçidah d’Avicenne sur l’âme’, in Journal Asiatique, 9e série, 14.1 (1899), pp. 157–73. 74 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 1. 320 journal of jewish studies

Allegorically this refers to the soul’s initial descent from the world or universal soul (nishmat ha-kol) into this world of form and matter. This passage is an amalgam of several Biblical verses. The line ‘I have abandoned my house / Walked away from my possessions’ comes directly from Jeremiah 12:7. Within that context, the prophet refers to the desolation that the righteous encounter at the hands of the wicked, who appear to prosper. Ibn Ezra reweaves this into his text in such a way that the original connotations would not be lost on his audience. For just as Jeremiah found himself alone amongst the wicked, each individual soul finds itself alone in the world of generation and corruption.75 Similarly, just as the wicked seem to prosper in Jeremiah’s world, the body and its passions appear to thrive in this world of mere appearances. The second part of this quotation—‘The sons of my mother put me in charge / But they did not let me attend to my vineyard’—comes directly from Song 1:6. Within this context the beloved refers to her longing for the lover, a longing that remains unfulfilled because she must attend to other tasks. Ibn Ezra once again employs this verse to refer to the soul: The soul, longing for its celestial home, is confronted with attempting to maintain the body and its various desires. What ibn Ezra has done here, then, is to take two Biblical verses and place them next to each other in such a manner that, while evok- ing their original contexts, they now speak forcefully to the new setting. This is significantly different from what we find in Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. Indeed, ibn Ezra also signals with the aforementioned verses an important philosophical difference from Avicenna: Whereas the latter argued that the human soul was created with the body,76 the former held that it descended from on high. Another example of this use of Biblical imagery may be found in ibn Ezra’s description of the world of vegetation. This occurs narratively just after the unnamed protagonist has been purified in a spring, and subsequently begins his journey through the three worlds: He took me down to an orchard / In it was every fruit tree and meadow. There, birds of the sky dwell / Singing among the foliage. Springs gush forth / Plants sprout. ... At its door are fruits / New and freshly picked. Date palms give forth their fruit / Green figs form on the trees. The vine is ripe / Mandrakes yield their fragrances.77

75 Cf. Sefer Yesod Mora ve-Sod ha-Torah,inYalkuth ibn Ezra, ed. Israel Levin (Tel Aviv Uni- versity Press, Tel Aviv, 1985), I.1. 76 See my discussion in ‘Three Worlds’ (as in n. 7), pp. 5–8. 77 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 11. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 321

This section, and the ones immediately preceding and following it, engages the senses in its rich description of the natural world. Once again, the imagery is familiar, since it is essentially that of the Bible. The first part of this quotation (‘In it was every fruit . . . gush forth’) combines the imagery associated with the Psalms and Proverbs, while the second part uses the language of the Song. The Psalter uses the verses ‘in it was every fruit tree and meadow’ (148:9) and ‘the birds of the sky dwell beside them and sing among the foliage’ (104:12) to refer to the beauty of nature. In like manner, the immediate context of ‘Its springs would gush forth’ (Prov. 5:16) is the exhortation to study. In other words, ibn Ezra uses these connotations to make the point that this world, the world of matter and form, is not inherently evil, but the locus wherein one discovers God’s attributes of action.78 This, in turn, is linked to the verses from the Song that comprise the second part of this quotation. Invoking Song 2:13 and 7:14, which express the natural world as the place where the lover and the beloved meet, ibn Ezra reinforces the beauty and lushness of the natural world. In addition, however, he also reinforces an important philosophical point by implying that the world of nature is where we, as embodied creatures, encounter God. This is in keeping with the philosophical axiom that we cannot know God’s essence, only his works. One could multiply these types of examples, as the entire work operates in this suggestive manner, where meaning is not only found in the H. ay text, but also in the connotations that are only implicitly made. I will examine one more example of this in ibn Ezra’s description of Jupiter and its heavenly sphere: In the sixth kingdom are righteous men / Adhering to purity. Their paths clear / Their deeds just. They wash their hands of bribery / Looking upon evil their eyes are shut. They practice righteousness / Despising profit. They dwell in tents / They are teachers and judges. Magistrates and officials / Judges and companions. Prophets / Princes. Priests / Academy Heads.79

78 This is in keeping with Yesod Mora I.2, where he writes: ‘Every branch of knowledge gives life to the one who acquires it. Now there are many sorts of knowledge, each one of which is helpful. All of the categories of wisdom are rungs in the ladder that leads to true wisdom.’ Greive also makes this point although he deduces it from diﬀerent sources, viz., the introduction to ibn Ezra’s Commentary to Qohelet.Greive,Studien zum jüdischen Neuplatonismus (as in n. 4), p. 106. 79 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 22. 322 journal of jewish studies

In this quotation, ibn Ezra describes Jupiter as a kingdom with the stars as its inhabitants.80 The planets, to whom God has delegated the governance of the sublunar world, exert certain influences on the earth. In speaking of Jupiter and its inhabitants, ibn Ezra uses a phrase from Habakkuk, whose original context describes God’s justice: ‘looking upon evil, your eyes are shut’ (1:13). Ibn Ezra also makes this explicit when he uses the phrase ‘magistrates and officials.’ This phrase, as used in Deuteronomy 16:18,81 refers to those individuals who are responsible for enforcing the divine legislation in Is- rael. Similarly, in the last sentence of this segment, ibn Ezra employs another text, this time from Psalm 45:7, to describes the righteousness of God’s rule of the universe. In like manner ‘they dwell in tents’ echoes Genesis 25:27.82 That context describes the difference between Jacob and Esau. Esau, associated with the chaos and unruliness of the desert is juxtaposed against Jacob, a ‘city dweller’. The latter is a symbol of peace and calmness—the virtues of a judge—and is, not coincidentally, the same virtues used to describe the inhabitants of Jupiter. It should now hopefully be apparent that ibn Ezra has attempted to ground his H. ay ben Meqitz within the allusive field of the Biblical narrative. In so doing, he attempts to show how the basic narrative structure of H. ay lies dor- mant in the Bible. Indeed, by composing his narrative in the manner that he does, i.e. by recycling and recontextualising Biblical words and phrases, one could infer, even though ibn Ezra nowhere says as much, that, paradoxically, Avicenna ‘stole’ the narrative from the Jews.83

Mystical Motifs If central to the production of meaning in H. ay ben Meqitz is the Hebrew Bible, the themes and images associated with the Apocalyptic and Merkabah traditions also function as important intertexts. In many ways, ibn Ezra incorporates the motifs and images that are associated with earlier Jewish mystical sources by adopting and adapting them in the light of the categories provided by Islamic Neoplatonic thought. This crosspollination between philosophy and mysticism, Jewish tropes and Islamic categories, would have been appeal- ing to a twelfth-century Jewish Andalusi audience.84 Ibn Ezra reweaves these earlier narratives so that they now become part of his own philosophical tapestry. For example, he writes of the ﬁrst encounter with H. ay:

80 On the role, function and problematics associated with ibn Ezra’s use of astrology, see the important essay of Langermann, ‘Some Astrological Themes’ (as in n. 15), pp. 28–85. Also, see Dov Schwartz, Astrology and Magic in Medieval Jewish Thought (in Hebrew) (Bar Ilan University Press, Ramat Gan, 1999), pp. 62–91; Shlomo Sela, Astrology and Biblical Exegesis in Abraham ibn Ezra’s Thought (in Hebrew) (Bar Ilan University Press, Ramat Gan, 1999). 81 Cf. Levin’s comments in Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), p. 78. 82 Cf. Levin’s comments in Iggeret H. ay ben Mekitz (as in n. 2), p. 78. 83 On this motif, see Norman Roth, ‘The “Theft of Philosophy” by the Greeks from the Jews’, Classical Folio 32 (1978), pp. 52–67. 84 Cf. Elliot R. Wolfson, Through a Speculum that Shines: Vision and Imagination in Medieval Jewish Mysticism (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1994), esp. pp. 171–81. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 323

An old man was walking in the field / Praising God, giving thanks. His appearance was like that of kings / An aura surrounding him, shining like the angels. Seasons had not changed him / Years seemed not to pass him . . . 85 Ibn Ezra’s description of an individual meeting a celestial guide would certainly not have been foreign to a Jewish audience. It is a common motif within the early Jewish mystical sources. For instance, in the first-century Apocalypse of Abraham we encounter the following: the angel he sent to me in the likeness of a man came, and he took me by my right hand and stood me on my feet, And he said to me ‘stand up, Abraham, friend of God who has loved you, let human trembling not enfold you! For lo! I am sent to you to strengthen you and to bless you in the name of God.86 Significantly, though, in much of the Apocalyptic and Merkavah literature, the named protagonist, upon seeing the celestial guide, falls down in fear and awe.87 The fact that ibn Ezra’s unnamed protagonist does not fall down at this point may be owing to the natural component of the philosophical enterprise as opposed to the selective or supernatural one of mysticism. Whereas ibn Ezra’s protagonist is unnamed, those of the Apocalyptic and Merkabah tradition are named (e.g. Abraham, Enoch, Rabbi Ishmael). Ibn Ezra’s protagonist is, thus, a philosophical Everyman. In like manner, although ibn Ezra’s guide, H. ay ben Meqitz, is described in terms that compare him to an angel, he is actually a philosopher. Yet, in invoking the imagery and vocabulary from the earlier Jewish mystical tradition,88 ibn Ezra intimates to his audience that some form of special knowledge or gnosis is to be imparted to the protagonist. Another example of the way in which ibn Ezra incorporates the motifs of the earlier Jewish mystical tradition can be seen in the spiritual initiation that the protagonist undergoes. ibn Ezra writes: We approached the spring / And stood beside it. He undressed me, my clothes he cast aside / He led me naked towards it. He said, ‘Drink the water from its source / The fluids flowing from its well! In it your fractures will be healed / Your limbs will be dressed.

85 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 2. 86 The Apocalypse of Abraham 10:4–6. For this text I have consulted the English translation by R. Rubinkiewicz and H. G. Hunt in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha,vol.1:Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Doubleday, New York, 1983), pp. 693–94. 87 E.g. 1 Enoch 14:24–25; 3 Enoch 1:7. For these texts, I have consulted The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha,vol.1:Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments (as in n. 86). 88 For this notion of revelation in the Merkavah tradition, see Ithamar Gruenwald, Apocalyp- tic and Merkavah Literature (Brill, Leiden, 1980), pp. 15ﬀ. 324 journal of jewish studies

You will have wings / To fly in the heavens. I drank from the water of life / The water that gives life to souls. My pains and my afflictions left me / My loyal yet bad ailments. They became like a balsam / To heal my fractures and soothe my limbs. I drank enough / My sickness was cured. He reached out his hand and grabbed me / He lifted me from the depth of the spring.89 In this passage, the water associated with the spring is what purifies the unnamed protagonist. Before he immerses himself in this water, however, his earthly clothes are removed. This act invokes an important trope found within the earlier Jewish mystical sources. In 2 Enoch, for example, we find: The Lord said to Michael, ‘Take Enoch, and extract (him) from the earthly clothing. And anoint him with delightful oil; and put him into the clothes of glory. And Michael extracted me from my clothes. He anointed me with the delightful oil; and the appearance of that oil is greater than the greatest light . . . 90 The earthly clothes symbolise the corporeality of the individual; by dis- carding them, he divests himself of the hindrance of the body. Although this notion of purification by immersion in water is a universal symbol, it is a motif that recurs frequently throughout this genre of Jewish literature. The celestial sojourner often undergoes some form of contact with water (or, alternatively, fire) as a means of continuing his journey upwards. In 1 Enoch, for example, we find: And they lifted me up into one place where there were (the ones) like the flaming fire. And when they (so) desire, they appear like men. And they took me into a place of whirlwind in the mountain; the top of its summit was reaching into heaven. And I saw chambers of light . . . and they lifted me up unto the waters of life, unto the occidental fire which receives every setting of the sun. And I came to the river of fire which flows like water and empties itself into the great sea in the direction of the West . . . And I saw the mouths of all the rivers of the earth and the mouth of the seas.91 By tapping into this genre, ibn Ezra is able to mine a set of symbols and images with which to contextualise the philosophical motifs of Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. Just as he used the Hebrew Bible to sound a set of expectations in his audience, he here does something similar with the various sources associated with early Jewish mysticism. In particular, he signifies for his audience that, just as the mystics must undergo purification before ascending to the throne, so, too, must the philosopher’s soul undergo a form of purification if

89 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 7. 90 2 Enoch 22:8–9; cf. 3 Enoch 12:1–5 (as in n. 86). 91 1 Enoch 17:1–8; cf. 2 Enoch 56:2; 3 Enoch 42:1 (as in n. 86). acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 325 it is to contemplate the Divine. In another part of the tale, ibn Ezra explains the all-consuming fire that one must pass through in order to cross the boundary separating the world of form and matter from the world of the cosmic spheres. He writes of this: After this boundary there is a consuming fire / To the heavens it reaches. Its coals burn / Its sparks rage. Its blades are like swords / Its sparks like stars. Rains do not extinguish it / Rivers are unable to flood it. Rocks are molted by its fire / Boulders melt from its flame. I envisioned it / Staring into its likeness. My hands were weak / My knees trembled. My eyes smoked over from fear / I fell frightened onto my face. I was unable to stand / My whole being was stricken with terror. He came to me / Set me upon my feet. He said, ‘Do not be afraid and do not lose heart / When you walk through fire, you will not be burned; though a flame, it will not burn you.’ He passed before me and said / ‘Come in, O blessed of the Lord.’ He took me swiftly from there / Moving me into the flame. I saw the fires touch in front of him / The sparks surrounding him burned. The flashes encircled us / Although surrounded / We were not consumed.92 In terms of both its vocabulary and imagery, this passage also evokes the language of the Jewish mystical tradition as grounded in the Biblical narrative. It begins with the language of Deuteronomy 4:24, which describes God as ‘a consuming fire, an impassioned God’. From here, ibn Ezra evokes the language of Song 8:7 (‘Rains do not extinguish it / Rivers are unable to flood it’), which, in its original context, describes the unsatiable love of the lover for the beloved. From this initial imagery, ibn Ezra moves to a description of the protagonist’s encounter with the fire. In encountering the fire, the individual

92 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec.15. 326 journal of jewish studies realises how everything in this world gives way and succumbs to the majesty of God. Upon comprehending this, he falls down, prostrate from fear—here described using the language of a verse whose original context describes Daniel’s encounter with Gabriel (Daniel 8:17). After this initial fear, H. ay approaches the protagonist; the language that he uses combines the vocabulary of the call narratives of both Ezekiel and Isaiah: ‘He set me upon my feet. He said, “Do not be afraid and do not lose heart.” ’ The first part echoes the words uttered to Ezekiel (2:2) after his encounter with the divine chariot (merkavah). The second part, in turn, corresponds to Isaiah’s call to go to Ahaz in order to console him (6:4), to tell him not to fear for God is with Judah. This is significant because in much of the Apocalyptic and Merkavah literature, the protagonist, upon seeing an angel, falls down in fear and amaze- ment.93 Ibn Ezra, therefore, had a large repertoire of mythic images to draw upon in the Jewish tradition. Common to all of these ‘ordeals by fire’ is that the numinous quality of the sacred creates in the individual an awareness of his finitude. By vanquishing this fear, whether by a symbolic immersion or the like, the individual overcomes the limitations of his body. In the case of the protagonist in H. ay, the individual, by going through the fire, is able to cross the boundary that separates the sublunar world from the world that exists above the sphere of the moon. Although many of these motifs are universal, ibn Ezra firmly grounds them in the specifics of the Jewish tradition. As in previous passages, ibn Ezra uses the language and imagery of the Jewish tradition to add both depth and context to what was originally a non-Jewish narrative. These examples, while by no means exhaustive, reveal the way in which ibn Ezra created a text that was not simply dependent on Avicenna’s. Rather, the Jewish literary tradition provided him with the images, metaphors, and motifs to construct a text that would have been familiar to a Jewish audience. Signif- icantly, though, ibn Ezra used this inherited literary tradition as a way of creating a new set of significations, those of a twelfth-century poet-philosopher living in al-Andalus. In the section that follows, I shall examine the way in which contemporaneous literary theory would have provided ibn Ezra with a context whereby he could have surpassed Avicenna’s work.

Literary Evidence: A Comparison of ‘H. ay’ and ‘H. ayy’ It is now necessary to situate ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz within the context of the medieval Islamicate discussion of literary and philosophic originality. As a philosophical allegory, ibn Ezra’s H. ay translates universal themes into He- brew; yet, as a literary composition, we have to regard his H. ay in competition with Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân. Since ornamentation and embellishment deﬁne originality more than creation ex nihilo, it would seem that ibn Ezra was trying, on a fundamental level, to lay claim to this work. Here it is important to remember the polemics associated with the related notions of Ara- biyya and Shu ûbiyya, wherein poetry and literature represented an impor-

93 Cf. notes 77 and 78 above. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 327 tant arena in which non-Arabs (whether Muslim or non-Muslim) struggled with the challenges of Arab political and cultural dominance. It is against the backdrop of these two features that Jews began to rediscover the beauty of the Hebrew language. Within this context, recall the discussion found in such Arab critics as al- Asharî and ibn Rashîq, who claimed that, to avoid the charge of plagiarism, an author had to either versify an earlier prose treatment or vice versa.Thisis precisely what ibn Ezra does. Although it is difficult to capture this in English translation, ibn Ezra wrote his H. ay in a rhyming prose, whereas Avicenna wrote his in prose. To illustrate this, I shall examine how each treats of the narrator’s first meeting with the mysterious and majestic H. ayy. First a translation of the Arabic version. And it happened to me that when I took up residence in my city, I went with my companions to one of the nearby parks there, and while we were walking about, a beautiful shaykh appeared to us. He was advanced in years, which had taken their toll on him, yet he was in full vigour and his stature was not weakened. There was no sign upon him of greyness save for the comeliness of one who is wise.94 Compare this with the opening of the Hebrew version: An old man was walking in the field / Praising God, giving thanks. His appearance was like that of kings / An aura surrounding him, shining like the angels. Seasons had not changed him / Years seemed not to pass him / His eyes shone like those of a dove / His brow gleamed as sliced pomegranate. Neither distortion in his height Nor weakness in His strength / Neither darkness in his eyes Nor was his vigour Unabated. His fragrance was wondrous, like that of Spikeman / His mouth was delicious and all of him Was delightful. I called out to him: Your physical state prospers / You will never perish. Whose son are you, what is your name? / What is your occupation? / Is this place your home?95 Both versions describe the meeting between the unnamed protagonist and H. ay or H. ayy, who, although old in years, exudes a healthy and youthful presence. Avicenna’s description begins with the narrator and his friends engaging in some form of religio-mystical praxis (dhikr) followed by a sighting of H. ayy,

94 Avicenna, H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân (as in n. 3), p. 40. 95 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 2. 328 journal of jewish studies and a short description of him. Ibn Ezra’s, in contrast, makes no mention of this Suﬁ ritual praxis and, instead, begins with a relatively lengthy and poetic description of H. ay’s features. Although Avicenna describes the glowing nature of H. ayy, his account does not move beyond the initial description of his youthful appearance. Ibn Ezra, in contrast, describes H. ay in a way that his Jewish contemporaries would contend adds to the original motif (ma ana)of this appearance. Here it is worth recalling Moses ibn Ezra’s comments that an appropriate borrowing must consist of an addition that does ‘not corrupt the motif’. As a result, Abraham ibn Ezra here provides a detailed description of H. ay’s eyes, his forehead, his smell and his mouth. Not surprisingly, ibn Ezra uses the language of the Hebrew Bible. H. ay’s description combines characteristics used to describe both the beloved from the Song and Moses in Deuteronomy. The description from the Song is associated with the longing of the lover for the beloved: just as the lover pines for the beloved, the unnamed protagonist yearns for the company of H. ay. In addition, ibn Ezra’s language also evokes Deuteronomy 34:7, which describes the healthy visage of the elderly Moses prior to his death. The implication of both of these descriptions is that H. ay is a special individual, someone who is very close to God, and who has secret wisdom to impart.96 To use another example that shows the manner in which ibn Ezra attempts to improve upon the Arabic version of H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân,Ishallnowlookat the last verses of each text. Avicenna ends his composition as follows: The shaykh, H. ayy ibn Yaqz.ân, said: Were it not that in conversing with you, I approach Him because I incite your awakening, I would perform duties toward Him that would take me from you. But if you desire, you may follow me, peace.97 Ibn Ezra, in contrast, ends his composition in the following manner: I said to him / May you be forever blessed. You have brought me thus far / To enter and come out again in peace. Happy are you / And happy are your friends. Those who uphold your religion / And pay heed to your wise words. Praised be the Lord your God Who made you governor of His World / Who put you in charge of His people. He who brought me to you. Whomademelistentoyourwords. He is above all majesty and greatness / Exalted above every blessing and praise.

96 Signiﬁcantly, Avicenna could easily have drawn upon the Qurân’s account of Luqmân in Sura 31 or the Companions of the Cave in Sura 18 to describe H. ayy in such a way that would have connected his philosophical tale to the language of the Qurân. 97 Avicenna, H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân (as in n. 3), p. 49. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 329

He alone does great things / His steadfast love is eternal.98 In addition to the significant differences in the content, there are also many distinct ornamental features in ibn Ezra’s passage that enable him to avoid the charge of plagiarism. Whereas Avicenna’s account is rather succinct, ibn Ezra’s plays with words and teases out many of the descriptions that are only mentioned in passing in Avicenna’s text. For example, when the protagonist thanks H. ay for allowing him to travel with him and return in peace, we are reminded of the aggadah in which the four rabbis enter Pardes and only one of them, Rabbi Akiva, returns intact.99 Furthermore, the unnamed protagonist’s praise to H. ay echoes the praise that the Queen of Sheba offered to King Solomon regarding his wisdom and judgement in 1 Kings 10:9 (which, significantly, led Solomon to offer her all that she desired). This is followed by the language of Nehemiah 9:5, wherein the newly returned exiles thank God for listening to Israel. Finally, there is also an echo of Psalm 136:4, one verse of an entire psalm devoted to exhorting God’s greatness, His wisdom in creating the natural order, and His love for Israel. Ibn Ezra’s H. ay, thus, is not simply a pastiche of Biblical images; rather each image or phrase forces the Jewish reader to make intra- and intertextual connections with the rest of the Biblical passage from which it originates. In this regard, H. ay ben Meqitz works as much by association as it does by the actual, physical narrative. In so doing, it opens up a horizon before the reader by allowing the reader to return to the Biblical narrative so as to mine its deeper meanings. As one final example, I shall look at the way in which both Avicenna and ibn Ezra deal with their respective descriptions of the mineral and plant worlds. First, Avicenna’s account: And you will come across a region wherein you will encounter mighty mountains, rivers, blowing winds and clouds heavy with rain will meet you. There you will find gold, silver, and all genera and species of precious and lowly substances. But there is neither growth nor germination there. Crossing from here you will come to a region loaded with what we mentioned above: all types of vegetation springing forth and fruit-bearing and other types of non-fruit bearing trees and seeds.100 Now, ibn Ezra’s: He took me down to an orchard / In it was every fruit tree and meadow. There, birds of the sky dwell / Singing among the foliage. Springs gush forth / Plants sprout.

98 Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), sec. 29. 99 H. ag. 14b. 100 Avicenna, H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân (as in n. 3), p. 46. 330 journal of jewish studies

Its vineyards are ripe / The ground tilled and cleared of stones. Roots are watered by a stream / Rivulets of water cause its shoots to flower. On a carrying frame its gleanings are carried / Upon a shoulder its clusters borne. Its skies concealed by clouds / Furrows saturated by showers. Its branches drip a medicinal sap / Its canopy oozes pleasant fragrances. In its streams the pomegranates are in bloom / Roses radiate in flower beds. At its door are fruits / New and freshly picked. Date palms give forth their fruit / Green figs form on the trees. The vine is ripe / Mandrakes yield their fragrances. He raised me from the gardens / To jagged mountains. There was the gold of Ophir / Precious onyx and sapphire. Bronze and copper / Fitdah and vareqet. Tin and lead / Topaz and emerald. Beryl and crystal / sulfur and salt / 101 and every zaphenath and paneah. . Whereas Avicenna mentions gold, silver, and ‘all genera and species of precious and lowly substances’, ibn Ezra adds to this description by list- ing at least eighteen different types of metals.102 Moreover, in their respective descriptions of the ‘world of vegetation’, Avicenna is content to mention ‘all types of vegetation springing forth and fruit-bearing and other types of non-fruit bearing trees and seeds.’ Ibn Ezra, in contrast, gives us a rich description—branches ‘drip’, canopies ‘ooze’, roses ‘radiate’, etc.—that once again is loaded with Biblical phrases and imagery brought together from various sources and contexts. According to the criteria of medieval plagiarism, ibn Ezra has attempted to outdo Avicenna’s tale. Not only has he taken Avicenna’s prose narrative and put it into a rhyming prose, he has also attempted to add to the original motifs found in Avicenna’s descriptions. Based on such formal criteria, we should not regard his tale as a simple copy of Avicenna’s; rather, it is an original creation

101 Levin Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), secs. 11–12. 102 Here I am basing my comments on Levin, Iggeret H. ay ben Meqitz (as in n. 2), pp. 26–27. acaseoftwelfth-century plagiarism? 331 that is characterised by a beauty of expression that is common to the poetical work of the Hebrew poet-philosophers of al-Andalus.

Conclusions This study has argued that the proper way to begin to understand ibn Ezra’s H. ay ben Meqitz is to situate it against the backdrop of Islamicate literary criticism. Within this context, my analysis has revolved around a speciﬁc set of questions: Why would a Jewish intellectual of the twelfth century want to compose a Hebrew text that follows an Arabic original so closely? Why not just read the Arabic original? In order to answer these questions I exam- ined (1) the immediate cultural, intellectual, and literary milieux of medieval Judeo-Arabic civilisation, and (2) the few indications in ibn Ezra’s own writings that shed light on this issue. I have, thus, tried to provide an important social, cutural, and political context to the composition of medieval Jewish philosophy. I argued that ibn Ezra was not only conscious of Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân, but also aware that in order to create his own version, he would have to compose it in a certain way. He could not, however, surpass the actual plot of Avicenna’s work; all that he could do was to add to the literary and aesthetic dimension. As a result, ibn Ezra composed his H. ay in such a manner that it would be an independent creation and not simply a copy or Hebrew version of Avicenna’s text. Rather than regard H. ay ben Meqitz as a copy of Avicenna’s H. ayy ibn Yaqz. ân, we should regard it as a Jewish adaptation of Avicenna’s treatise and, thus, as in direct competition with it. Ibn Ezra, therefore, has attempted to ‘reread and rewrite’ certain aspects of Judaism in the light of Arabo-Islamic categories. By using the diction, images, and associations of the Bible and the early Jewish mystical sources, ibn Ezra eﬀectively created a narrative with which to uphold and promote Jewish cultural nationalism in Muslim Spain. H. ay ben Meqitz, thus, is indicative of a particular moment in Jewish history. It shows how Jews adopted, adapted, and ultimately attempted to compete with the various themes and issues of the larger Arabo-Islamic culture.