On your 70th birthday I wrote you: In the bedroom a drawing of Don Quixote. In the living room a ceramic Don Quixote. In the yard, a sculpture of Don Quixote.

It seems to me that you’ve placed them as an emblem
to remind you of the absurd, or pathetic, aspect of the struggle. In your greatest battles, the small demon of doubt was always there. You’ve acted with the passion of the Man of La Mancha, and the doubt and self-irony of Cervantes. I think it shaped your unique voice, a radical voice. Devoid of self-importance, fighting for what’s right without self-righteousness.

I tried to sit down and write a coherent midrash [Bible commentary] for the elevation of your soul, but I was flooded with so many images, so many different thoughts and emotional torments that I simply wrote an outline to stop the ocean of emotions that was flooding me.

Read the article in full at Haaretz.