One of the most intriguing narratives in the Hekhalot and Merkavah (HM) literature is the account of Enoch/Meṭaṭron, included in an elaborated form in 3 Enoch. This version, attributed to the fifth or sixth century C.E., draws together threads inherited from a variety of sources. These include, for example, “angel of the Lord” traditions (e.g., Exod 23:20–21, b. Sanh. 38b, Apocalypse of Abraham), Enochic material found in 1 Enoch and 2 Enoch, and traditions of divinized angelomorphic humans and exalted figures found in Daniel 7 as well as in a host of pseudepigraphic sources (e.g., T. Levi, Ascen. Isa. 6–11, and Apoc. Ab. 15–19). They include, as well, traditions found in several Qumran texts (e.g., 4QShirShabb, 11QMelch), talmudic and midrashic polemics against beliefs in a second deity or an angelic vice-regent (e.g., b. Ḥag. 14a; b. Sanh. 38b), traditions of Meṭaṭron, and uncensored, nontalmudic speculation concerning the angel Meṭaṭron as an enthroned vice-regent in heaven.

The demon of acedia holds an important place in early monastic demonology and psychology. Evagrius of Pontus (ca. 345–399), for example, characterizes it as “the most troublesome of all” of the eight genera of demonic thoughts (). He goes so far as to characterize it as the commander of the demonic host arrayed against the monastic, which distracts the monastic with persistent thoughts. From the monastic demonology of Evagrius, especially as transmitted through his Latin-speaking protégé John Cassian, acedia—equated by Evagrius with the “noonday demon” () of Ps 90:6 In the medieval Latin tradition of the seven deadly sins, acedia has generally been understood as the sin of sloth. Moral theologians, intellectual historians, and cultural critics have variously construed acedia—or “accidie,” among other English spellings—as the ancient depiction of a variety of psychological states, behaviors, or existential conditions: primarily laziness, ennui, or boredom. Still others have attempted to place acedia within the context of Evagrius's highly idiosyncratic anthropology, or they have tried to situate it in the controversies over monastic itinerancy. More recently, acedia has been considered analogous to the modern clinical condition of depression. Andrew Solomon, notably, draws explicitly on the Evagrian monastic tradition for the title of his recent study, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression.

Some years ago a rectangular ceramic panel appeared at auction in London and made its way to Boston (fig. 1). The object was purchased by Cornelius C. Vermeule III, who placed it on loan to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The technical term in English to describe the fabric of this kind of ceramic is “African Red Slip” ware—abbreviated ARS. The term was coined by John Hayes, a scholar who has done important work in classifying these wares. In Italian, the name that is used is “terra sigillata chiara” or “light terra sigillata,” to distinguish it from “terra sigillata,” its counterpart in Italy and Gaul. The latter has a deep-red color and a high-gloss surface, while the African variety is less shiny and light orange in color.

Simone Weil's essay “La personne et le sacré,” known in English as “Human Personality,” is a remarkable piece of philosophy that has not, I think, received as much attention as it deserves among analytic philosophers. And when it has been discussed by such philosophers, they have not always gotten to the root of its oddities and peculiar interest. Granted, it is in some ways extremely difficult to translate Weil's approach to her themes into the kind of discourse characteristic of present-day Anglo-Saxon philosophy. Also, those who are attracted by Weil's writings tend to read her on her own terms, which leaves one with a sense that the hardest questions have not been put to her, and that the difficulties of her work have not been fully brought to the surface. Be that as it may, I wish here to take seriously the central claims that Weil makes and to explore them from an analytic perspective, not least because “Human Personality” contains, in nuce, most of the themes that preoccupied Weil.

Jacques Maritain and Simone Weil never met, and only once exchanged letters. Maritain never cites Weil; she, on the other hand, cites him explicitly in at least three places, but disparagingly. Despite their limited contact, which may have left Weil slightly vindictive, Maritain nevertheless played a significant role for Weil. However, it was one in which he chiefly inspired her to rise to a new level of thought by her conscious attempt to contradict him.

Three times in Scripture, God is explicitly called a “consuming fire” (Deut 4:24; 9:3; Heb 12:29). A few other times he is compared to a “consuming fire” (Exod 24:17; Isa 30:27, 30; 33:14[?]). The church fathers often quote or allude to this notion of God as a “consuming fire.” In particular, Ambrose, Jerome, and Augustine do so a number of times. I want here only to point out that on several occasions these words (“God is a consuming fire”) are strangely misquoted and commentators refrain from discussing the peculiarity. My purpose is to call scholars' attention to this strange quotation and in addition to offer possible solutions to the problem.