There is a passage in the Mishnaic tractate Ethics of the Fathers that states: “Whoever interrupts his learning and says, ‘Look at the tree, look how beautiful it is,’ has only himself to blame should something happen to him.” I never understood this saying. What is wrong with admiring the beauty of nature—which, after all, is part of God’s creation? The answer is that there is nothing wrong with admiring nature. What is wrong is the interruption of learning. The emphasis is on “whoever interrupts his learning.” The admiration of beauty must be part of one’s learning, not instead of learning. Learning must never be interrupted by beauty, for there is beauty in learning texts, in exploring their hidden messages, in meeting ancient masters and encountering the secrets they possess. There is beauty even in arguments, and what would the Talmud be without its arguments?
The real meaning of Talmud lies not in monologue but in dialogue. Not in solitary introspection but in confrontation. Hillel and Shammai, Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yishmael, Rav and Shmuel, Abbaye and Rava: the law is decided according to the one or the other, but the decision-making process, the collective debate preceding the decision, is as important as the outcome. No legislative process, no history of ideas and events, no joint venture of intellectual pursuit and discourse is as rich, as colorful, and as liberal: Talmudic debate is centered on issues, not on personalities. The quest for truth is the goal of all participants, winners and losers alike.
No wonder that ta shema come and listen—is a characteristic phrase of the Talmud, whereas ta chazi—come and see—is a characteristic phrase of the Zohar, the book of mystical wisdom. To see you don’t need someone else; to hear you do. If mysticism is an exploration of solitude, Talmud is a negation of solitude. The quest for mystical truth takes one through silence; Talmudic clarity is obtained through language.
A remedy against loneliness and absurdity, the Talmud cannot be comprehended alone. You plunge into its pages at first with a teacher, and later on with a companion. You say the word “Talmud” and your mind is filled with gatherings of scholars and disciples in academies in the land of Israel and Babylon.
You hear their stormy arguments, which often lasted more than a lifetime. An issue is raised by one master, explained by his disciple, disputed by the disciple’s disciple, and resolved one generation later. Four generations of masters and pupils thus participated in the same debate, expressed in one short passage, in one image, in one sound.
Elie Wiesel – Filled with Fire and Light: Portraits and Legends from the Bible, Talmud, and Hasidic World p.72
The Sea Is Not Full 