## 1. Life and Works




Ibn Ezra was likely born in or around 1093 in Tudela, at that time
within the northern reaches of Muslim Spain. There he passed the first
five decades of his life, apparently eking out his living as a poet.
Like so many other Jews, he fled Spain in the face of the Almohade
onslaughts of 1140. For the next three decades he wandered through
Europe, spending time in Rome, Lucca, Rouen, London, and
Beziers. Nearly all of the substantial body of writing that he
left behind dates to this period. The names of a few of his students,
correspondents, rivals, and patrons are known. We are rather
well-informed about Ibn Ezra's relationship with Judah Halevi; their
exchanges are very instructive for the history of Jewish philosophy,
and we will return to them below. On the other hand, none of his
disciples (who in any event do not seem to have been numerous) has
clarified for us any of the "secrets" that Ibn Ezra is
fond to refer to.




Ibn Ezra's literary legacy consists of short and extremely popular
handbooks in a wide variety of fields: grammar and poetics, astrology
and arithmetic, astronomy and religious speculations, as well as both
short and lengthier biblical commentaries. Most of his astrological
tracts circulate in at least two versions; their Latin versions played
a pivotal role in the spread of that art throughout Christian
Europe. Manuscripts number in many dozens. The biblical commentaries
are also found in very manuscripts, and they are included in the
margins of numerous printings. On the other hand, there are relatively
few critical editions of his writings. This situation has been
largely rectified for his astrological writings, surely the most
important part of his corpus, due to the untiring work of Shlomo
Sela. Moreover, Sela's highly praised editions, studies and translations have
brought to light even more texts, in both Hebrew and Latin. (For the
most recent inventory of primary sources and secondary studies, see
Sela and Freudenthal 2006; newer editions by Sela are listed in the
bibliography.) Several long excursuses, for example to Exodus 3:15 or
Exodus 33:21, recap his statements on the main issues. Yesod Mora, a
monograph on the rationale underlying the biblical commandments
written very late in his life, also contains a full statement of Ibn
Ezra's teachings.




Two other short treatises have each a peculiar focus. *Sefer
ha-Shem* is an enigmatic treatise on God's proper names
written out with the Hebrew letters AHYH and YHWH. The basic idea is
that the special properties of the numbers associated with these
letters, their phonetic qualities, grammatical functions and graphic
representations, all convey information about the godhead. Thus, for
instance, one (A, *aleph*) is the foundation of number, but not
a number itself; both five (H, *heh*) and six (W, *waw*)
repeat themselves as the final digit in all higher powers; and ten (Y,
*yod*) is the beginning of the next order in the decimal
system. All this seems to indicate the unchanging aspect of the divine
in its successive manifestations. The same collection of ideas is
found in non-philosophical writings, for example, the grammatical
treatise *Sefer Zahut*.




Indeed, if Ibn Ezra can be located within any of the major
philosophical traditions, his place is among the
Pythagoreans. *Sefer ha-Ehad* is Ibn Ezra's venture in
arithmology. Like the writings of Nicomachus of Gerasa and Philo, as
well as a relatively short list of medieval Muslim and Jewish
authors, *Sefer ha-Ehad* follows the Pythagorean tradition of
listing which natural, mathematical, and other items, come in two's,
three's, etc. As we have seen in the preceding paragraph, Ibn Ezra
pressed especially the theological implications of these arithmetic
properties.




The two most "philosophical" of his writings are
*Hayy ben Meqitz*, a poetic visionary recital to be discussed
in a separate section below, and *Arugat ha-Bosem*. The latter
is also poetic in style. The doctrine it presents, for example
atomism, is very much part and parcel of the kalam tradition, rather
than philosophy, strictly speaking. For that reason, Ibn Ezra's
authorship has been called into question (Greive 1973, 181-189,
including German translation of the entire text). However, even such a
committed neoplatonist as Isaac Israeli had no compunction about
contributing to the kalam, and there is no reason a priori to think
that the situation would have been different for Ibn Ezra. Allegiances
to streams of thought in that period were not necessarily
exclusivist. 




The two strongest identifiable influences on Ibn Ezra's thought are the anonymous
tract known as *Sefer Yesira* and Sa'adiah Gaon. The
former is his acknowledged source for surveying reality according to
three parallel schemes: Hebrew letters, numbers, and the cosmos.
Sa'adiah is cited very frequently, over thirty times in the
commentary to the Torah alone. Some medieval writers cite from a
commentary to *Sefer Yesira* that they ascribe to Ibn
Ezra. Paul Fenton (2001) has argued that the text in question
is a Hebrew condensation of the commentary by Dunash Ibn Tamim,
originally written in Arabic, and that Ibn Ezra may indeed have
prepared the Hebrew version. However, Dunash was a student of Isaac
Israeli, who strongly criticized Sa'adiah's commentary to
*Sefer Yesira*. Thus Ibn Ezra may, unwittingly, have drawn most
heavily upon two divergent streams of thought. As we have seen, this
is not as shocking as it may seem. Ibn Ezra was interested in ideas,
but not in putting them all together into one tight and fully coherent
system.




A few other sources are named in *Yesod Mora*: *Shi'ur
Qoma*, a cryptic writing that, like *Sefer Yesira*,
nourished a good deal of speculation, much of it mystical, and a
certain *Sefer ha-Yihud*, which is not extant. These works date
to the gaonic period which, in Jewish historiography, corresponds to
very late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. All in all, then, the
sources that Ibn Ezra cites by name are a mix of gaonic kalam and
proto-kabbalistic mysticism. Ibn Ezra adopted the literary format of
early gaonic texts for those of his writings that can be called
philosophical. *Yesod Mora* and *Sefer ha-Shem*,
"The Book of the [Divine] Name", are dense and cryptic,
much like *Sefer Yesira* and *Shi'ur Qoma*.




Ibn Ezra can be contextualized among the Andalusian philosophizing
Hebrew poets, especially Ibn Gabirol and Halevi. These poets were
familiar in varying degrees with what has come to called Islamic
neoplatonism; all sought support for their views in the Hebrew Bible,
suitably interpreted according to each one's preferences; and
all were driven by a strong spiritual thirst. Hebrew poetry was the
vehicle for expressing their deep religious thirst.




Though far less schooled in the philosophical tradition, Ibn
Ezra's thoughts on emanation are similar to those of Ibn
Gabirol. Indeed, Ibn Gabirol is the only undeniably neoplatonic author
cited by Ibn Ezra and may represent his only confirmed link to that
tradition. Ibn Ezra is our only source for some Ibn Gabirol's
allegorical readings of verses from Genesis.




Throughout his life Ibn Ezra continued to write poetry in a wide
variety of styles. Some of his liturgies make use of concepts drawn
from medieval psychology. However, it is not so much the display of
terminology, as it is the deep, powerful and sincere longings for
liberation and the divine that are instructive for an appreciation of
his thought. Ibn Ezra was no schoolman, but he certainly experienced,
and expressed in rich and evocative Hebrew, a deep alienation from
mundane reality and passionate longing to return to the spiritual
realm.


## 2. Astrology




The central place of astrology in Ibn Ezra's thought must be singled
out here. The query of the rabbis of Provence to Maimonides about the
legitimacy of astrology was most likely prompted by the spread of Ibn
Ezra's astrological teachings (Sela 2004). Though the query and
Maimonides' response both turned upon the interpretation of
traditional texts and their legal implications, de rigueur in
correspondence of this sort, one finds here new probings into issues
such as free will and divine governance. Ibn Ezra spurred a
reassessment of Jewish positions on these points.




Astrology was one of Ibn Ezra's major interests, and it plays an
important role in his thought (Sela 2001, mainly for bibliography;
Goldstein 1996, for precise contents analysis). Briefly--in fact,
as we have repeatedly noted, Ibn Ezra's expositions are always brief,
with little argumentation--Ibn Ezra considers the material
universe to be divided into celestial and terrestrial realms, the
latter totally under the sway of the former. Humans can link up to a
third, divine and super-celestial realm, thus outmaneuvering the
stars, so to speak. However, more often than not, this will bring no
relief to one's earthly plight; in any case, pessimism of this sort
informs Ibn Ezra's commentary to Ecclesiastes. Ibn Ezra advocates a
Stoic-like faith: the connection to the world "above the
stars" affords one the spiritual stamina to endure whatever
earthly misery the stars may dish out (Langermann 1993).




There is no difference between Jews and non-Jews with regard to astral
governance. Here again, Ibn Ezra, in his biblical commentaries, was
vague enough to give the impression that Jews alone are exempt from
the decrees of the stars, thus ingratiating himself to those many of
his readers who were disposed to thinking that way. However, in his
astrological writings, the Jews are no different from other peoples,
in that they too are associated with certain planets and signs; this
point was not lost upon his super-commentators. Ibn Ezra's astrology,
like his philosophy overall, is humanist and universal, not Jewish and
particularist. (See on this point, from a different perspective,
Hughes 1999.)




Astrology offered a rational explanation for some biblical
commandments, particularly animal sacrifices. True, over a millennium
had passed since the Temple temple rituals had ceased. However, new
conceptions of worship led Jews to wonder why such acts had ever been
needed. In addition, new conceptions of Scripture caused Jews to ask
why the details of the sacrifices had been recorded in the Torah, all
of whose teachings were thought to be of permanent value, even if the
rites themselves were no longer performed. Astrology provided a
rationale: a practical reason for doing these performances as long as
the Temple stood, and a lesson in the way the cosmos functions whose
value endures even after the Temple's destruction. It should be added,
however, that there is no evidence at all that these explanations
inspired calls for the restoration of sacrifice. Ibn Ezra's followers
were content merely to ponder these truths. Ironically, perhaps, the
messianic drive exhibited itself more in the thought of Judah Halevi
whose basic outlook, as we shall see, was diametrically opposed to
that of Ibn Ezra.


## 3. Impact




Ibn Ezra's impact was swift and powerful. In the various communities
through which he sojourned, the Arabic learning which he was able to
present in consumable form was widely read. As a cultural mediator,
particularly of astronomy and astrology, his contributions to
Christian civilization were no less remarkable than those to his
coreligionists. (See, in particular, Burnett 1997.) Indeed, Ibn Ezra may
well be the most important cultural broker of the medieval period. His
writings in astrology, arithmetic, Hebrew grammar and poetics, and
Jewish thought all fall far short of the highest achievements set by
Judaeo-Arabic culture in al-Andalus. Yet no one succeeded more than
Ibn Ezra in spreading the fruits of this culture so widely and
deeply.




This seems to be the main reason why he has secured his place in the
history of Jewish philosophy. Even in those domains where he has
relatively much to say, for example, the theory of the soul, he draws
upon stock notions that were widespread (especially among poets), and
which by no means demonstrate a thorough education in philosophy, let
alone the skill and propensity to philosophize. Historians of Jewish
liturgy such as Jefim Schirmann have pointed out that Ibn Ezra was
harping on themes that had been favorites of Jewish poets for
generations. He exhibits a familiarity with many technical terms, and
on occasion broaches some issues; however, he has left us no
penetrating discussions, or anything of the sort that would
demonstrate his mastery of the subject. Thus, for example, in his
gloss to Exodus 23:30, he observes that we do not know whether the soul is
substance or accident, whether it survives the death of the body, nor
why it has been bonded to the body in the first place. However, one
can hardly find, if at all, any substantive discussions on any of
these three questions; he tells us nothing about the options, their
implications, or why the inquiry must end at an impasse.




For many Jews, Ibn Ezra was the spokesman of Hispano-Jewish culture,
the personification of the "Sefardi" sage. His readers
were led to believe that the prestige of Andalusian culture stood
behind Ibn Ezra's pronouncements on issues such as the nature of the
soul or free will, and that the Torah could and should be read in a
manner that accommodates Ibn Ezra's views.




Ibn Ezra's use of the biblical commentary as a vehicle for the
dissemination of his teachings was undoubtedly a major factor in his
success. His commentary (actually two are preserved for several books)
was a concise gloss, offering to his audiences a witty and critical
selection of lexical and grammatical insights concerning the
"plain" meaning of the text; this is the mode of
interpretation that he expressly endorses. Ibn Ezra spiced his
commentary with occasional references to a *sod*, meaning
either (or both?) a secret, i.e. esoteric message ensconced in the
bible--Ibn Ezra will teasingly pull at the veil, but never remove
it--or a fundamental belief (*sod* thus being equivalent
to *yesod*). Ibn Ezra prefaced his commentary with a lengthy
essay on the four improper, and the one proper, way to go about
interpreting the Torah. Finally, he dispersed a number of fairly long
digressions, self-standing essays in their own right, in which, in
which he generally rehearsed the gamut of his trademark views on
grammar, arithmology, and astrology.



 
Ibn Ezra's commentary, mostly by virtue of the terse, enticing,
yet thoroughly abstruse *sodot*, spawned a huge satellite
literature (Simon 1993; Lawee 2017). These
"supercommentaries" constitute one of the major branches
of Jewish philosophical literature of the fourteenth century. As a
rule, they tend to interpret Ibn Ezra along similar lines,
emphasizing, for example, astral governance and the magical aspects of
ritual. Despite the obvious disagreements, these supercommentaries
repeatedly argued that Ibn Ezra and Maimonides are conveying the same
message (Visi 2009).




Ibn Ezra succeeded in some sense in making himself all things to all
people. The supercommentators as a rule find Ibn Ezra to be expounding
a univeralist, or humanitarian, philosophy that shares much with, and
draws much from, non-Jewish thought. On the other hand, Moses
Nahmanides, an important exegete in his own right, a very astute
reader of texts, and a staunch opponent of Aristotle, professed his
"open hostility and concealed love" for Ibn Ezra. He loved
many, though certainly not all, of Ibn Ezra's
"hints," which Nahmanides felt were in line with his own
kabbalistic tendencies.




Estimations of Ibn Ezra as a philosopher peaked in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries. Glosses to his Torah
commentary, some of them quite extensive, were written throughout the
Mediterranean basin (Simon 1993). Ibn Ezra's writings became known
within Arabic speaking communities as well. At least one of these
supercommentaries was written in Judaeo-Arabic, and Ibn Ezra is cited,
for example, by Abraham Maimonides in his own commentary to the Torah.
Byzantine Jewish scholars in particular applied themselves to the
entire corpus of Ibn Ezra's philosophical writings. Mordecai
Khoumtianou (Comteano) wrote commentaries to *Yesod Mora* and
*Sefer ha-Shem*, doing his best to read Ibn Ezra along the
lines of the (basically Aristotelian) philosophy that he felt most
comfortable with.




Levi ben Gerson, certainly one of the most systematic and original
thinkers in the medieval Jewish tradition, will cite Abraham Ibn Ezra
just as respectfully as he does Moses Maimonides. Consider, for
example, his discussion of God's knowledge, especially the thorny
question whether God knows a particular event befalling an individual
per se, or whether He knows that event only "generally",
that is, by way of His knowledge of the "ordering of events,
insofar as these events are ordered." Levi argues in favor of
the second option, and at the end of the chapter, suggests that both
Maimonides and Ibn Ezra would agree with him. For Maimonides' view
Levi can refer to the sustained discussion in *Guide of the
Perplexed* 3.20; but for Ibn Ezra, he cites only the laconic
comment to Genesis 18:21, which states: "The truth is that He
knows every particular generally, not as a
 particular."[1]
 It seems particularly noteworthy that Levi musters both Maimonides
and Ibn Ezra for support for the claim that his own view does not
contradict the Torah; both authorities are exploited, not for their
argumentation on the issue, but rather for their reputation as
exegetes. 




Ibn Ezra never fell into oblivion, and his writings generated interest
in a wide variety of cultural and historical settings. However, there
were significant shifts in the perception of his place in Jewish
thought. Thus Judah Moscato, the sixteenth century Venetian savant and
author of a very learned commentary to Halevi's *Kuzari*,
arrays Ibn Ezra together with Gersonides against Maimonides and
Halevi--the former denying creation ex nihilo, the latter
defending it (Langermann 1997, 517).




Spinoza singled out Ibn Ezra for being the first, as far as he knew,
to question the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch (Harris 1993,
130-132). This observation greatly enhanced Ibn Ezra's stature as an
exegete, especially among Christians. Ibn Ezra's emphasis on
*peshat*, the "natural" interpretation of the Bible
founded on philology and free of rabbinic interpretations, gained
thereby considerable prestige. To be sure, Spinoza's view of Ibn Ezra
was not uniformly positive, and, for his part, Ibn Ezra makes it quite
clear that his philological tools are not to be applied against
tradition, but only where there is no tradition, and, especially,
where no normative practices are at stake. However, as we have already
seen, there have been wide fluctuations in the image of Ibn Ezra and
the interpretation of his legacy.




The modern Jewish philosopher most indebted to Ibn Ezra is Nachman
Krochmal. Jay Harris has argued persuasively that "Krochmal's
understanding of Ibn Ezra, and his motivation for that understanding,
can only be understood as the fashioning of a response to the most
interesting and serious philosophical critique of Judaism the
nineteenth century produced" (Harris 1993, 144)--that is,
the critiques of Hegel and Schelling. Krochmal also influenced the
philological side of Ibn Ezra scholarship, for example, by casting
doubt upon the authenticity of *Arugat ha-Bosem*; there is as
yet no consensus on this issue (Greive 1973, 175-177).


## 4. Emphasis upon the Individual




A very important feature of Ibn Ezra's philosophy is its focus upon
the salvation of the individual. His expressions mark a major shift in
religious attitude. Traditional rabbinic Judaism, especially as
reflected in the liturgy, had been concerned above all with the
collective redemption of the Jewish people. Sophisticated circles in
Judaeo-Arabic culture of al-Andalus had, for at least a century before
Ibn Ezra, focused their soteriology instead on the ultimate felicity
of the individual. It is very probable that in this issue, as in so
many others, Ibn Ezra's role was that of the transmitter. The crisp
formulations scattered throughout his biblical commentaries and
topical booklets were far more accessible to the Jews of Christian
Europe than the writings of other Jewish Andalusians, and they were
pivotal in the spread of this key idea.




The focus upon the salvation of the individual comes out clearly in
the opening sections of *Yesod Mora*. Ibn Ezra critically
reviews the different motivations people have for gaining expertise in
the Law. Some do it for prestige, but this leads to social
friction. Others study the Law in order to improve society. This is
commendable; however, this implies that in a just society, the Law
would be superfluous. We can carry Ibn Ezra's reasoning further: the
Law must have some ultimate justification that is invariant over any
and every social or historical situation. With this in mind, we can
see the connection to the next point raised in the passage, which is
this: many laws of the Torah are rarely if ever applied. How, then,
the reader is led to wonder, can the Law be an end in itself for
Jewish life? Moreover, Ibn Ezra asks, how many legal experts do we
need anyway?




Two conclusions follow from this series of arguments. First, Torah
study, in the sense of mastery of all the fine points of the Law, can
not be the ultimate purpose of our existence. Second, the ultimate
purpose does not lie in one's contribution to the community. Ibn Ezra
is now ready to state what the goal of life is:




"The person (*ha-adam*) must set himself aright. He must
know the commandments of God, Who created everything. He must try with
all of his strength to understand [God's] works--then he will
know his Creator...and when he knows Him he will find favor in
His eyes." After citing some biblical prooftexts--standard
fare by then in the Arabic speaking communities for the view that
knowledge is the true form of worship--Ibn Ezra sums up: "It is
for this reason that man was created. Once one has rectified oneself,
he may set others aright, if this be possible" (Cohen 2002,
83-84).




On the face of it, then, Ibn Ezra conforms to the tradition that the
Torah gives meaning to life. However, the Law is now just one of God's
handiworks, and not necessarily the most important of them. Ibn Ezra
clearly subscribes to the view then current among philosophers that
the purpose and goal of human existence is to know God. This
responsibility devolves upon each individual; it is not a communal
project and, indeed, Ibn Ezra evinces no interest in the "ideal
city". However, he merely states this goal; he has no theory of
the intellect, no refined or even coarse epistemology. He has in
effect grossly devalued Torah study, but he has done this in a way
that is not abrasive. (In fact, there is a long-standing controversy
as to how much "Torah" Ibn Ezra himself knew.) This is a
classic example of the way Ibn Ezra quietly if not elegantly
insinuates radical views into the tradition.    


## 5. Characterizations of his Thought




Ibn Ezra's thought has been located (or fitted) into three
traditions. Many medieval philosophers, and opponents of philosophy as
well, sensed a commonality of purpose as well as the sharing of basic
doctrines between Ibn Ezra and Maimonides. Joint allegiance to
Maimonides and Ibn Ezra was particularly strong in the fourteenth
century. The principal vehicle for this trend of thought was the
supercommentaries to Ibn Ezra, which number a few dozen. These authors
were particularly impressed by the willingness of both sages to appeal
to sources beyond the traditional rabbinic corpus in order to
understand the biblical narratives and commandments. Rationality (in
the sense of seeking rationales for Judaism, its beliefs and precepts)
bonded Ibn Ezra and Maimonides, blurring the differences between the
two, most notably on the important question of the legitimacy of
astrology.




The pseudepigraphic testament of Maimonides, in which he expresses his
admiration in the strongest terms for Ibn Ezra's Torah commentary and
the "great and deep secrets" that he revealed there, is
most likely a product of this same trend. However, as Isadore Twersky
has pointed out, the fact that the "testament" is said to
have been written by Maimonides at the end of his life, after he had
already written his own works, indicates that its author wants us only
to take note of the literary and notional parallels between the two
thinkers; the forger is not prepared to make any stronger claims of
influence (Twersky 1993, 39-40).




Just how much, if anything, Maimonides owes to Ibn Ezra has been
debated for over a century, without any clear resolution. The survey
of Twersky (1993) covers the ground well. The strongest claims extend
Ibn Ezra's influence even to the realm of legal theory, asserting that
the fourteen principles enunciated by Maimonides at the beginning of
his *Book of Commandments* were inspired and to a degree
modeled upon the principles set down by Ibn Ezra in *Yesod
Mora*. Since, by most modern accounts, Maimonides is to be
classified as an Aristotelian (or perhaps neo-Aristotelian), it should
stand to reason that, were he really a follower of Ibn Ezra, the
latter would also be an Aristotelian. Histories of Jewish philosophy,
as we shall see, unanimously locate Ibn Ezra in the Neoplatonist
camp. However, Yosef Cohen has recently argued that Ibn Ezra indeed
fits more comfortably into the Aristotelian tradition (Cohen
1996).




Generations of scholars have found the "neo-platonist"
label to be most appropriate. Julius Guttmann, who may well be
responsible for defining medieval Jewish neoplatonism as a historical
category, declared Ibn Ezra to be "the last in the line of
Jewish Neoplatonists". Guttmann was fully aware, like all
historians of Jewish thought, that Ibn Ezra was not a systematic
thinker, and he was more precise than any later historian in
pinpointing the agreements and disagreements between Ibn Ezra and what
may be called standard neoplatonic teachings. Nonetheless, he averred
that "Ibn Ezra was moved more profoundly than most of his Jewish
predecessors by the mysterious depths of Neoplatonism, approaching its
metaphysical content more closely than any of the others except
Gabirol" (Guttman 1973, 134).




Isaac Husik marks Ibn Ezra's role in the transmission of Andalusian
wisdom, which consists of "grammar... mathematics and
astronomy...the philosophy of Neo-Platonism, and the scientific
and rationalistic spirit generally" (Husik 1969, 187). Like
Guttmann, Husik calls attention to the affinity between Ibn Ezra and
Ibn Gabirol. In 1973, Hermann Greive published a book-length study of
Ibn Ezra under the title, *Studien zum Judischen
Neuplatonismus*. Greive paid particular attention to Ibn Ezra's
psychology; this is indeed the branch of philosophy to which Ibn Ezra
was most strongly attracted, and the topic exploited most intensively
by specialists in Ibn Ezra (Tanenbaum 1990;
Levin 1992). However, Greive is well-aware that the presence of
neoplatonic teachings in Ibn Ezra's writings does not mean that Ibn
Ezra's allegiance was limited to that school exclusively.




The trend is continued in the latest history of Jewish philosophy,
that by Colette Sirat, who discusses Abraham Ibn Ezra at the end of
the chapter on "The Neoplatonists". However, cognizant of
the rich Hebrew literature of the later medieval period (much of which
was as yet unstudied and thus inaccessible to Guttmann), Sirat does
not make Ibn Ezra into the last neoplatonist. Instead she observes,
"The neoplatonic influence clearly marked in the Jewish
philosophers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was
essentially expressed in terms and ideas drawn from Ibn Ezra"
(Sirat 1985, 104).




Aaron Hughes acknowledges the problematic nature of the label
"neoplatonic"; in a note he registers his preference to the view that
"the Neoplatonic 'system' to which he subscribed
permitted one to have many divided, and often competing,
loyalties" (Hughes, 2002, n. 13). Nonetheless, Hughes too cannot
resist the label. 




One term in particular found in some key passages, *kol* or
"all", has attracted a good deal of attention of late.
Building on the observations of several scholars, Elliot Wolfson
(1990; see esp. p. 80, nn. 14-16, for references to earlier work on
the topic) examines closely the two different senses in which Ibn Ezra
uses the term. At times it refers to the totality of created entities,
but in other passages it refers to an entity that comprises all things
within itself in ideal form--not God, but the demiurge (*yoser
bereishit*). This dual meaning can be traced back to Proclus, and
its usage highlights the neoplatonic trend in Ibn Ezra's
thought. Howard Kreisel (1994) has rejected this
interpretation. Kreisel criticizes the emphasis upon
"neoplatonism" here; he encloses the term in quotation
marks, as the present writer tends to do, and for much the same
reasons. Medieval Jewish neoplatonism is an ill-defined term, and all
attempts to explicate Ibn Ezra's "neoplatonism" are
problematic, forcing scholars to note numerous points of agreement
between Ibn Ezra and the Aristotelians--which, in turn, cannot be
divorced from the neoplatonic interpretations informing Islamic
Aristotelianism in general. Kreisel argues that, when read closely in
context, the texts in question display one meaning only for
*kol*--God, the Creator God, and not the demiurge.




Hence there seems to be little profit in belaboring Ibn Ezra's
supposed neoplatonism. On the other hand, Ibn Ezra's affinities to Ibn
Gabirol (Avicebron to the Latins, and a neoplatonist for sure) are
relevant. Some of Ibn Gabirol's allegorical readings of the Bible are
cited by Ibn Ezra--indeed, he is our only source for them. Ibn
Gabirol's *Fons Vitae* certainly belongs to the neoplatonic
tradition. Significantly, however, that work (which Ibn Ezra would
presumably have seen in the original Arabic) is not mentioned by Ibn
Ezra at all. By all indications, he would not have had the patience or
disposition for that text's scholasticism.




The role of Ibn Gabirol is indeed pivotal. Ibn Gabirol was accused by
his contemporaries, and credited by modern scholars, with introducing
"Greek" notions into his poetry. All the great Andalusian
poets were to some degree--Ibn Ezra, quite
substantially--students and imitators of Ibn Gabirol. The link
between Ibn Ezra and Ibn Gabirol is significant, but the common thread
running between the two, and other Andalusian Jewish poets as well who
plunged into "the mysterious depths of Neoplatonism", is
to be found in their poetry, rather than in prose expositions of
philosophy. The soul's longing for release from this world and
liberation, or obliteration, in the divine, are themes which found
powerful expression in their liturgies, and which bond them to at
least one important facet of neoplatonism and to each other more truly
than any specific doctrines that they may hold concerning the origin
of matter or the nature of prophetic inspiration.




Historians of Jewish philosophy label Ibn Ezra's thought
"neoplatonic" also on the strength of his deep involvement
in astrology and arithmology, as well as his deep longing for release
from this world. However, the very term "neoplatonic" is
applied imprecisely in the history of medieval Jewish philosophy, and
it usually indicates little more than a gross bifurcation between
"Aristotelians" and all of the rest who, as a rule, are
labeled neoplatonic. It is therefore appropriate to take note of Ibn
Ezra's divergence from some widely accepted neoplatonic
teachings. Ibn Ezra denies the existence of demons. He says nothing of
the soul's descent through the celestial orbs, though this
teaching was known to his contemporary pseudo-Bahya, and would perhaps
naturally have appealed to an astrologer. Finally, he says nothing of
musical harmonies--despite the clear Pythagoreanism of
his *Sefer ha-Ehad* (Langermann 1993, 66).   In sum, then,
it seems most prudent to observe that Ibn Ezra makes use of mostly
stock notions, such as the three "worlds", that inform
what has come to be known as Islamic and Jewish neoplatonism. Wolfson
has made the strongest case for "precise terminological
links" between Ibn Ezra and Plotinus, but even he cannot trace a
path of transmission (Wolfson, 1990, pp. 89-90).




The least well-known characterization, but one which has a lot to
argue in its favor, is given by Abraham, son of the illustrious Moses
Maimonides. In his refreshing perspective Ibn Ezra finds his place
within a list of rabbis who taught the fundamental doctrines that God
is not a body; that God does not manifest any of the properties of
bodies; and that all problematic biblical verses must be
(re)interpreted in order to conform to these doctrines. It is
interesting to note the other names on Abraham Maimonides' list:
Sa'adiah Gaon, Samuel ben Hofni, Isaac Alfasi, Joseph Ibn
 Migash.[2]
 Only the first of these is regarded today as a philosopher, and then
only in the wider sense of the word. It seems that Abraham, like his
father, looked upon the whole lot--Ibn Ezra included--as
*mutakallimun*, that is, kalamist religious thinkers who taught an
acceptable (though not necessarily correct) theology, which, however,
lacked philosophical rigor, and which contained some grave errors.




Indeed, Sa'adiah's *Beliefs and Opinions* is the only
extant, substantive work on Jewish philosophy that Ibn Ezra mentions
by name. The citation occurs at the very end of the first chapter of
*Yesod Mora*; Ibn Ezra observes that some portions of
Sa'adiah's book are correct, but others are baseless. However,
he never tells us exactly which portions are acceptable and which not,
nor does he engage Sa'adiah in a pointed debate on any issue.
Throughout his opus, but most notably in his biblical commentaries,
Ibn Ezra mentions Sa'adiah dozens of times; though he rarely
mentions the specific source, he seems to be referring most often to
Sa'adiah's own biblical commentaries. On the basis of this
statistic, at least, Sa'adiah is, as noted above, the most
important "influence" upon Ibn Ezra.


## 6. What is Philosophy for Ibn Ezra? Who are his philosophers?




The abundance of Hebrew terms in Ibn Ezra's writings that may refer to
"philosophers" or "philosophy"--none of
them very precise, some of them perhaps coined by Ibn Ezra
itself--afford an additional perspective upon the peculiar nature
of Ibn Ezra's "philosophy". The Hebrew homonyms for
"philosophy" or "philosophers" (which entered
the language by way of the Arabic) never appear in the biblical
commentaries. In the single instance cited in Klatzkin's Lexicon, Ibn
Ezra is reported to have used the word in the restricted sense of
astronomers, in a manner similar to that of his predecessor Abraham
bar Hiyya (whose astronomical writings he studied closely). This is
not necessarily the case; in the single instance cited by Klatzkin,
*filosofim* is appears in apposition to *hakhamim*, an
all-purpose word meaning scholar or master of any of the seven or ten
 sciences.[3]
 Nonetheless, it does seem clear that Ibn Ezra has no concept of
*falsafa* in the sense that it was used in Arabic philosophy,
that is, in the restricted sense of Platonic and Aristotelian
traditions.




The term *shiqqul ha-da'at* (rational analysis,
literally, "weighing [in the balance of] reason") is used
in the broad sense of reason or rationality. In the introduction to
his commentary to the Torah, Ibn Ezra writes: "rational analysis
(*shiqqul ha-da'at*) is the foundation, because the Torah
was not given to those devoid of reason; and the go-between
(*mal'akh*, 'angel' or
'messenger') between man and his God is his
intellect." Soon after (gloss to Genesis 1:2) the same term is
used in what could again be taken as a strictly astronomical or
scientific context: "People who employ rational analysis have
sure proofs that there is only one earth." Ibn Ezra was far
better grounded in the exact sciences than he was in philosophy, and
this fact is reflected in his usage of *filosofim*
and *shiqqul ha-da'at*.




In some cases, it is possible to narrow the sense of terms used by Ibn
Ezra. An example is "the scholars who [base their claims upon]
proofs" (*hakhmei ha-ra'ayot*), which is found in
an excursus upon psychology, which we shall scrutinize below. Joseph
Ibn Aqnin employs a very similar expression: "logicians, who
adduce proofs (*ra'ayot*) to strengthen the Islamic
religion, and the Ishmaelites call them
 *mutakallimun* 
 [kalamists]."[4]
 Given Ibn Ezra's attachments to kalam, some of which have already
been noted, it seems clear that the term in question here, and perhaps
others as well, refers to the doctors of the kalam. References here
and elsewhere to logic and proofs thus stand, in fact, for
disputations that are carried out on a rational basis, but not
necessary by the rules of Aristotelian logic.




Another term employed by Ibn Ezra is *hakhemei* (or:
*anshei*) *ha-mehqar*, literally "scholars" (or:
people of inquiry). Bar Hiyya uses the term *hakhemei
ha-mehqar* in the sense of philosophers: "the form
concerning which the *hakhemei ha-mehqar* said that it is
neither body nor attached to a
 body."[5]



*Tushiyya* is yet another term. In one place Ibn Ezra contrasts
the views of the people of *mehqar* with those of the people of
*tushiyya*, in a way that suggests that the former are
*mutakallimun* and the latter *falasifa*.
In his gloss to Psalms 104:30 he notes: "The people of
*mehqar* say that every living being will rise after his death;
the people of *tushiyya* say that the universals are preserved,
but individuals perish." The choice of this term clearly derives
from Sa'adiah's translation of *tushiyya* (Job 26:3) as
*falsafa*. However, this usage is neither statistically significant nor
totally consistent.




Ibn Ezra notes (gloss to Eccelsiastes 7:9; see below) that one must
read "many books" in order to master psychology, but he
does not name a single one of them; this observation as well holds
throughout his opus, where, to the best of my knowledge, not a single
textbook on psychology, metaphysics, or logic is ever mentioned by
name. However, formal study of scientific texts was only one means of
access to the philosophy of the day. By the late eleventh century
Andalusian Jewry had drunk deeply from the fountain of Greco-Arabic
science, and Ibn Ezra could certainly have achieved some familiarity
with psychology and other fields without having undergone any formal
course of study. As we shall see, Ibn Ezra certainly read Ibn
Sina's philosophical allegory, *Hayy bin
Yaqzan*. In general, it would seem that he was attracted to
short, tantalizing and cryptic expositions, rather than lengthy,
discursive prose.


## 7. Ibn Ezra and Judah Halevi




The most interesting and truly philosophical chapters in his writings
have nothing to do with recycling and restyling doctrines of the soul,
but rather with frank discussions concerning fundamental questions of
Jewish identity. In a lengthy gloss to the first of the ten
commandments (Exodus 20:1), Ibn Ezra records a conversation he held
with his close friend and fellow poet Judah Halevi. Why, Halevi wants
to know, did God choose to reveal himself on Mount Sinai as the God
Who took the Jews out of Egypt? Why didn't He instead reveal
Himself as the God Who created heaven and earth, and created man as
well? Why did He identify Himself with an event important to Israel
alone, rather than with an event of universal significance? The
implied criticism of the standard philosophical viewpoint, to which
Ibn Ezra adheres consistently throughout his oeuvre, is
transparent. If Creation is the most manifest and convincing
indication for the existence of the deity, as the philosophers aver;
if God reveals Himself to us through His works--why, then, does
He choose to reveal Himself at Sinai as the God of history, the God of
the Exodus?




Ibn Ezra begins his reply with the observation that people differ in
the nature of their belief. Some believe in God because they have
heard about Him or read about Him in the Bible; but should that belief
be challenged in any way, they are immediately stymied. By contrast,
those who have chosen the path of knowledge will work their way up
from the study of mineral and animal kingdoms to the structure and
functions of the human body, and thence to a study of the
heavens. Thus will the scholar ascend from God's "ways" to
an understanding of the divine name. According to Ibn Ezra, the first
two words of the commandment ("I [am] YHWH") hint at the
knowledge of God that one obtains from creation; it would thus be
superfluous to add "Who made heaven and earth". 




Thus far Ibn Ezra has reiterated, and endorsed, the view of the
philosophers. Now, however, he parts ways with them; astrology plays a
key role in this turn of thought. The intellectuals who follow this
path, observes Ibn Ezra, deny divine intervention in worldly matters.
Israel's astral destiny was such that she should not have been freed
from bondage at that particular time. God however can overrule the
stars, and His doing so precisely at that astrally inauspicious moment
is compelling proof, not only for His existence, but for the operation
of the cosmos that He created.




God's self-introduction as the One Who took you out of Egypt connects
to the truth of God's existence, as evidenced by the cosmos. It adds,
however, the important detail that the Creator is also the
Redeemer. In sum, God's self-revelation as "the one Who took you
out of Egypt" does not contradict the tenet that God reveals
Himself through His works; it rather adds to it an important point,
either overlooked or denied by the philosophers. Immediately
afterwards, however, and quite characteristically, Ibn Ezra continues
his exposition in a somewhat different vein. He observes that the next
word, "your God", conveys our obligation to worship;
finally, the remainder of the sentence, "Who took you out of
Egypt", simply hints at the miracles that are all the simple
folk have to lean upon in their belief.




We have extracted here the main points from one of the longest
excursuses in Ibn Ezra's biblical commentary. It does not require any
great stretch of the imagination to suppose that the dry and concise
resume that Ibn Ezra chose to include in his gloss summarizes
what must have been a lengthy debate, perhaps even a series of
encounters, between the two poets. In fact, in his commentary to
Daniel 9:2, Ibn Ezra describes more fully an exchange with Halevi over
an issue of biblical chronology, recording several barbs and retorts
until, in the end, Halevi fell silent. Perhaps, then, Ibn Ezra chose
to abridge the conversation over the first commandment because that
encounter did not exactly leave Halevi speechless. Quite the contrary:
Halevi expanded upon his theme of Jewish particularism in his
*Kuzari*, one of the most resonant works of Jewish
thought ever.




Armchair philosophy this may be, but it concerns one of the most
fundamental questions of the Jewish experience. Is Judaism just one
set of directives among many for achieving one and the same spiritual
objective, which is the goal of all humans? Are Jews one people among
many, or do they occupy a special place in the scale of existents?
Better analytic minds may have been tested in replying to these
questions, but perhaps not two more vibrant, passionate souls than
these two Hebrew poets. The "philosopher" of Halevi's
*Kuzari* presents a point of view that coincides on major
points with that of Ibn Ezra, most notably in the universalism of his
program for humanity, and the relativism of his approach to ritual and
praxis (Langermann 1993, 70-74). For his part, Halevi demands a much
more real and meaningful cleavage between Jews and the rest of the
nations.


## 8. Poetry and the Science of the Soul




For Ibn Ezra, the human soul is the only unchanging, eternal entity in
the universe; it is the only thing that can be said to be similar, in
some sense, to God. For example, the opening sentence in *Sefer
Tzahut* (a grammatical treatise!) states: "Because the human
soul was created in the image of God, her actions are similar to
his" (Levin 1985, 379). At the end of *Yesod Mora* (Cohen
2002, 200-201) he cites the five points of resemblance between the
soul and God noted in the Talmud; and he implies that *Shi'ur
Qoma* professes a similar doctrine. Ibn Ezra takes these
similarities rather literally, as it seems.




Given this state of affairs, it is no surprise that "the science
of the soul" is the branch of philosophy concerning which Ibn
Ezra has the most to say. Ibn Ezra evinces little interest in the
metaphysics of the theologians--that is, questions of divine
attributes, substance and accident, and so forth. Psychology was his
metaphysics; it and it alone delved into questions beyond the material
world and approaching the godhead. In a revealing remark he calls Ibn
Gabirol "a great sage in the secret (*sod*) of the
soul." It comes as no surprise, then, that penetrating studies
of Ibn Ezra's thought, such as Wolfson 1990, Tanenbaum 1990, Hughes
2009, and Labaton 2013, dwell at length on the Ibn Ezra's conceptions
of soul.




Ibn Ezra's attitude towards psychology emerges mainly from his
poetry; it is not simply copied from some sterile classification
scheme. His poetry, more than anything, has nourished his image as a
neoplatonist in the scholarly literature. In fact, psychology was one
arena of sharp conflict between philosophers
and *mutakallimun*. If, as we have suggested, Ibn Ezra
was mainly influenced by Sa'adiah and
other *gaonim*--and thus also by the kalamists--many
of his ideas about the soul derive from the traditions of Hebrew
poetry in Spain. Unlike the kalam, which has little interest in
psychology, and is not obsessed with release from this world, the
Hebrew poets as a rule identify with the classical neoplatonists in
seeking salvation and release of the soul from its mundane
captivity.




Even Ibn Ezra's prose pronouncements concerning the soul's
longing to return to her source tend towards the lyrical (and in fact
has some small but clear borrowings from a long liturgy by
Halevi). Consider this passage from the introduction to the commentary
to Ecclesiastes: 



> 
>  Just as the passerby, who has been taken prisoner, longs to return to
> his homeland and to be with his family, so does the intellectizing
> spirit yearn to grab hold of the higher rungs, until she ascends to
> the formations of the living God, which do not dwell in material
> houses...This will transpire if the spirit whitens, sanctifying
> herself above the impurities of disgusting bodily lusts which sully
> what is holy...then what is distant will be like what is near,
> and night like day; then she will be configured to know the real
> truth, which will be inscribed upon her in such a way so as not be
> erased when she departs the body, for the script is the writing of
> God. She was brought here in order to be shown, and for that reason
> she was imprisoned until the end of her term....(Levin 1985, 288)
>  




This prose exposition is replete with imagery but devoid, like similar
accounts in Ibn Ezra's writings, of any thorough discussion of the
soul's structure, origins, and path to liberation, of the kind that
one does find in the Islamic neoplatonic tradition, including Jewish
works such as pseudo-Bahya. It is really a reworking in rhymed
prose--the medium of Ibn Gabirol's liturgical masterpiece,
*Keter Malkhut*--of the same themes that inspire Ibn
Ezra's poems. Nonetheless, Ibn Ezra undoubtedly impresses his readers
with the great pathos and obvious sincerity of his liturgies. His
hymn, "Tzom'ah nafshi" ("My soul
thirsts") is one of the most powerful expressions of longing for
the divine in Hebrew letters. Ibn Ezra experienced deeply and fully
the soul's alienation in this world and her longing for divine
redemption, and his poetic expressions of these awesome feelings
served better as credentials for his expertise in matters of his soul
than could any academic diploma.


## 9. Excursus on the Soul in a Comment to Ecclesiastes




The best way to grasp all that has been said so far about Ibn Ezra's
interests, influences, and style, is to have look at a sample passage
where the peculiarities of his writing and the difficulties of piecing
together his "philosophy" can be examined *in
situ*, so to speak. The lengthy excursus on the structure of the
human soul in his commentary to Ecclesiastes 7:9 offers such an
opportunity. Ibn Ezra briefly notes the tripartite division of the
soul into vegetable, animal, and rational. This, he tells us, is the
scheme adopted by "the scholars who [base their claims upon]
proofs" (*hakhmei ha-ra'ayot*). One can achieve a
full understanding only after reading "many books". There
is no specific lexical or grammatical problem that requires the
exegete to go to any length here. However, an inquiry into the soul is
mandated because this verse is one of the places in Ecclesiastes where
King Solomon has, on the face of it, contradicted himself, and
therefore the verse requires explication. After citing at length some
of the apparent contradictions, Ibn Ezra proposes an alternative
psychology to that of the "scholars", employing a
different tripartite scheme and different terminology: *nefesh*
(appetite and lust), *ru'ah* (sensation and domineering),
and *neshamah* (wisdom). He intimates that this switch is only
for the sake of convenience, though the truth appears to be otherwise. Ibn
Ezra notes in passing that Sa'adiah too employed this second
classification.


## 10. Rationale for the Commandments: *Yesod Mora*




The most systematic formulation of Ibn Ezra's philosophical ideas is
found in *Yesod Mora* (*The Foundation of Reverence*)
(Cohen 2002). Significantly, this is a monograph on the rationale of
the commandments, perhaps the key field (along with biblical
interpretation, with which it overlaps somewhat) for the development
of a specifically Judaic philosophy. Like his other writings, it is
very short, contains not a few cryptic passages whose meaning has
never been satisfactorily fleshed out, and does not always sit well
with his pronouncements in other writings. There is good reason to
believe that *Yesod Mora* was written shortly before Ibn Ezra's
death, and it thus may comprise his final statement on the issues.




The beginning of *Yesod Mora* contains a valuable survey of the
sciences. This is not a formal classification of the type written by
al-Farabi and many others, whose aim is to put in
their proper place all of the sciences. Instead, Ibn Ezra critically
reviews the various branches of learning which are favored by groups
of Jewish scholars. There are those whose "entire wisdom"
consists in masora, the traditional inventory of letters and phonetic
markings in Scripture. Some are interested only in Hebrew grammar;
others study only the Bible, yet others are interested only in the
Talmud. None of these groups can achieve the wisdom they seek,
however, without studying astronomy (*hokhmat ha-mazalot*).
Astronomy in turn requires a foundation in geometry (*hokhmat
ha-middot*). Also mandatory are psychology (*hokhmat
ha-nefesh*), which in turn has a perquisite physics, or perhaps
more accurately, physiology (*toledet ha-shamayim*, literally
"that which is produced [or induced] by the heavens";
*toledet* refers generally to transformations of matter, but,
in Ibn Ezra's usage, it is almost always applied to biological
processes). Finally, logic (*hokhmatha-mivta*), "the
balance of all wisdom" is also indispensable.




Towards the end of this disquisition, theosophy of some sort (*sod
ha-merkaba*, *shi'ur qoma*) is mentioned; Ibn Ezra
seems to approve of it, if approached properly. At the very end of the
passage, Ibn Ezra tries to tie everything together into a coherent
study plan: "How can someone attempt to know something more
sublime than he, if he knows neither his soul nor his body? Only he
who knows physics (or physiology?) and all of its proofs and logic can
know the universals that are preserved like a seal. Astronomy can be
known by means of clear proofs drawn from arithmetic (*hokhmat
ha-heshbon*), geometry (*hokhmat ha-middot*), and
proportions (*hokhmat ha-'arakhim*). Only then will he
be able to ascend high above, and to know the secret of the soul, the
supernal angels, and the world to come." The plan calls for
study of the body and soul, and astronomy as well, with the aim of
securing universals. One can then move beyond the stars to "the
secret of the soul" and the world or worlds beyond our own. The
order in which the sciences are to be studied is clear enough, the
connection between them far less so.




Ibn Ezra never makes a clean break between traditional or religious
sciences; quite the contrary, he urges all along that the sciences
that we would call secular are mandatory for understanding scriptural,
legal, and other issues of concern to Jews, not the least of which, of
course, is self-fulfillment. In the course of a long list of examples
that illustrating this need, astrology (*mishpatei ha-mazalot*)
is mentioned only once. Clearly, in this key text at least, Ibn Ezra
does not accord to astrology the major standing it holds in his
legacy. Moreover, none of the disciplines named seems to stand for
"philosophy", though psychology, some sort of natural
philosophy, and theosophy are all mentioned separately. (See: What is
"Philosophy" for Ibn Ezra?) In any case, the separate
listing of psychology lends credence to our claim that Ibn Ezra's
clear interest in the science of the soul is independent of, and by no
means indicative of, any strong interest in philosophy in general.




The second chapter begins with an encomium to logic: "How noble
is the science of logic, and it commences with knowledge of the five
words (*millot*)." Ibn Ezra seems to be referring to the
quinque voces; he names here "high universal",
"lower universal" or "high species", and
"low species". Understanding species and other such groups
are of great use in classifying commandments, as well as in resolving
some apparent contradictions between biblical texts. However, the
logic applied is extremely basic, and once again, we have no evidence
that Ibn Ezra knew more than the basic terminology.




The discussion then moves on to commandments that are contingent,
insofar as they depend upon, or are limited to, a certain group (e.g.
priests), an institution (e.g. temple sacrifices), gender specific
(e.g. circumcision). This sifting allows Ibn Ezra, in chapter five, to
get at those commandments that are absolute, "principles that do
not depend upon a given time, a given place, or anything else."
These commandments, "planted in the heart", were known by
means of reason even before the giving of the Torah. Ibn Ezra himself
thus inserts, at the heart of this very Jewish, and legalistic,
treatise, the rational, humanistic outlook that marks his philosophy:
the core demands of Judaism depend not upon revelation but upon innate
human reason, and they are no different from the rules that must
govern every human. 


## 11. Philosophical Allegory: *Hayy ben Meqitz*




Ibn Ezra has left us one writing that undoubtedly fits into a very
special medieval philosophical tradition: a visionary recital, or
initiatory tale, in rhymed Hebrew prose, *Hayy ben Meqitz*
(Levin 1985, 119-132). The great tenth century philosopher Ibn Sina
wrote a philosophical allegory *Hayy bin Yaqzan*, and the
Andalusian Ibn Tufayl, as well as the Persian expatriate Suhrawardi
penned distinct versions, each tale suited to the message that its
author wished to convey. Ibn Ezra's Hebrew composition fits into this
special theme of philosophical allegory.




 In Ibn Ezra's version, Hayy is the guide--an old man on whom
time has not taken its toll. The narrator, who has fled his home,
meets Hayy, who enchants him with words of wisdom, then invites him to
immerse himself in the fountain of life and imbibe its waters. Hayy
then guides the narrator through eight "kingdoms," that
is, the stellar spheres, describing their astrological associations in
vivid imagery, then to the angelic realm. The narrator asks if is
there anything beyond, something that he cannot see? Hayy replies
positively; there is "the One, who has no second", sublime
and invisible. However, he continues, if the narrator will follow in
Hayy's path, he will yet be able to know and see Him.




This philosophical tale further complicates the question of Ibn
Ezra's doctrinal allegiances. Issues such as the structure of
the soul or the contours of union with the divine, which are not
treated systematically or uniformly elsewhere, cannot be fully
harmonized with Ibn Ezra's pronouncements
elsewhere. *Hayy* is the only one of Ibn Ezra's
philosophical ventures that has no intrinsic connection to Judaism.
Snippets of biblical verses are skillfully woven into *Hayy*,
making the poem amenable to the Jewish reader and making it easier for
the reader to answer the invitation--if one is indeed
extended--to join the excursion under Hayy's guidance. On
the other hand, the ritual immersion in the nude that the narrator
performs, while not totally foreign to Judaism, must have seemed to
carry Christian overtones to some readers. It should be borne in mind
that Ibn Ezra wrote *Hayy* at the request of Samuel Ibn Jami, a learned
and philosophically inclined North African Jew, himself a poet. Is
*Hayy* the response to a literary challenge?



 
Greive (1973, 103-114) characterizes *Hayy* as "a
religious-philosophical work, expressed in a mystical fashion."
It is part of a tradition of *Himmelsreisen* that stretches
back to antiquity and is open to a number of interpretations. Three
central moments can be discerned: (1) The soul's imprisonment in
the terrestrial world, which is foreign to her; (2) the role of
self-knowledge (i.e. coming to know one's true, other-worldly
self) in the process of liberation; (3) wisdom as the means to this
liberation. Greive explores in particular, the literary connections
with Avicenna's recital, also called 'Hayy', as well
as Ibn Gabirol's liturgical masterpiece, *Keter
Malkhut*.



 
More recently, Aaron Hughes (2004, 186) has strongly emphasized the
neoplatonic aesthetics at play in *Hayy*, asserting that
aesthetics and poetry are "currency whereby the imagination and
philosophy are able to tease out and subsequently map the various
relationships between the physical and the metaphysical".