Wrestling with Faust
A Daf Yomi Approach to Goethe’s Masterpiece
“Thus, book after book, the book of all books would that it was given to us so that we might try to enter there as into a second world, where we lose ourselves, enlighten ourselves, perfect ourselves.” — Goethe
There is a tradition among religious Jews to study the Talmud, the central text of Rabbinic Judaism, with a discipline and reverence that borders on obsession. At the heart of this practice is Daf Yomi, which literally means “a page a day.” It is a commitment to studying one page of the Talmud daily and thus completing the entire text in seven and a half years. This method demands patience, humility, and a willingness to sit with complexity. I never felt a pull toward religious texts, but the concept always intrigued me. I just had to find the right book.
I found my Daf Yomi project in Goethe’s Faust. Like the Talmud, Faust is a text of immense depth, layered with meaning, ambiguity, and profound questions about the human condition. And so, I began my own Daf Yomi journey with Faust—reading a little each day, wrestling with its verses, and returning to its passages again and again. What I discovered was not just a literary masterpiece, but a mirror to my own striving—and my own limitations.
Studying Faust as Sacred Text
The Daf Yomi approach is not about speed or efficiency. It is about immersion. It’s a flat out rejection of how we consume material on the internet that pops into our lives and is seemingly gone in an instant. Each page of the Talmud is dense with argument and allusion to a dense corpus of law, requiring the reader to slow down to understand. Similarly, Faust is not a text to be rushed. Goethe’s magnum opus spans two parts, weaving together poetry, philosophy, theology, and drama. It is a work that defies easy categorization, much less easy comprehension.
In Part One, Faust’s famous opening monologue—where he laments the limits of human knowledge and yearns for transcendence—immediately struck me as a kind of piyut, a poetic meditation on the divine in Jewish texts. His cry, “Daß ich erkenne, was die Welt / Im Innersten zusammenhält” (“That I may perceive whatever holds / The world together in its inmost fold”), feels like plea for understanding that resonates across centuries.
But Faust is not a text that offers easy answers. Like the Talmud, it thrives on tension and contradiction. Faust’s pact with Mephistopheles, for example, is both a betrayal and a leap of faith. Is he selling his soul, or is he embarking on a quest for ultimate truth? The text demands interpretation. Each day, as I read and reread, I found myself grappling with these questions without ever finding resolution. And yet, the act of grappling itself felt meaningful.
The Rub with Faust’s Profundity
There is a concept in Jewish thought called yissurim shel ahava, the “suffering of love.” It refers to the idea that struggle and difficulty are inherent to any meaningful relationship—whether with God, with a text, or with another person. My relationship with Faust has been marked by this kind of struggle. For all its beauty, the text is generally opaque and its symbolism elusive.
Take, for example, the figure of Gretchen. At first glance, her story seems straightforward: a young woman seduced and destroyed by Faust’s selfish desires. But as I revisit her scenes in my Daf Yomi practice, I see her as more than a victim. She is a mirror to Faust’s ambition. A vital reminder of the human cost of his striving. Her final redemption in Part Two raises even more questions: Is Goethe suggesting that divine grace transcends human sin? Or is he critiquing the very idea of redemption? I don’t have definitive answers, and never will. But the struggle to understand has deepened my appreciation for the text’s complexity.
The struggle to maintain my Daf Yomi practice is not unique. Religious Jews who study Talmud often speak of chavruta, the practice of learning in pairs (only pairs of men as women are generally barred from this and most acts of learning in Rabbinic Judaism — queue a Yentl moment). The collective wrestling with difficult passages are central to the experience. In a way, my engagement with Faust has been a kind of chavruta with Goethe. I bring my questions and doubts to the text, and it responds with new challenges and revelations.
Faust’s Influence: Jung and the Collective Unconscious
The profound impact of Faust extends far beyond my personal engagement with the text. It has shaped the thinking of some of the greatest minds in history, including CG Jung. For Jung, Faust was more than a literary work; it was a reflection of the collective unconscious, an exploration of the human psyche. My interest in Jung originally brought me to Faust.
Jung saw Faust as an archetype of the striving individual, grappling with the tension between light and shadow. Mephistopheles, in this reading, is not merely a devil but a representation of Faust’s own darker impulses. The pact between them becomes a metaphor for the process of individuation, the integration of the self.
This Jungian lens adds another layer of meaning to Faust. It suggests that the text is not just a story about one man’s quest for knowledge but a universal exploration of the human condition. It invites us to confront our own Faustian desires—namely, our own shadows.
Why Read Faust?
Given its complexity, why should anyone take on the challenge of reading Faust? The answer, I think, lies in the very nature of the text. Faust is not just a book to be read; it is a text to be lived with. It demands engagement, reflection, and a willingness to wrestle with its questions. And in return, it offers profound insights into what it means to be human. Do you have a book that you live with? Is there a text out there that you have taken with you throughout life’s challenges and is always there like a foundation stone?
If you are lucky to have such a work (or works), I recommend a Daf Yomi-like approach with it. Read slowly, savoring the poetry and the imagery. Revisit passages that resonate—or confuse. Keep a notebook to jot down questions and reflections. And don’t be afraid to struggle. The beauty of Faust, for me, lies not in its answers but in its questions, not in its clarity but in its ambiguity.
In the end, Faust is a text about striving. Faust himself is the eternal striver, always reaching for something just beyond his grasp. And in a way, so are we, the readers. We strive to unravel its mysteries and find a way to connect with its profound insights. But perhaps the striving itself is the point. Humans are strivers.
As I continue my Daf Yomi journey with Faust, I am reminded of the words of Rabbi Tarfon in the Talmud: “It is not your responsibility to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” I will never fully understand Faust, but I will keep wrestling with it, keep returning to it, keep striving. And in that striving, I find not just the beauty of Goethe’s masterpiece but the beauty of the human spirit.
So, join me. Pick up Faust or find your own Faust. Read the slowly with an open heart. Let it be an oasis from the constant chirping of the internet. Let it challenge you, confuse you, and inspire you. And in this nobel process, you may just discover something profound—not only about the text, but about yourself.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the last season of pieces. I’ll be taking a short break from regular writing to focus on other work. There will be more to come, though I’m not sure when. In the meantime, I invite you to read my latest piece in Newlines, where I explore Elon Musk and the Apartheid diaspora in the United States.
Thanks for writing and sharing, Joseph. All the best, mate.