Talmudic imagination has turned him into a sort of superstar. His very name is said to have caused the angels to tremble. We owe him the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea. But also, said an ancient sage, all the sufferings to be endured by Israel until the end of time are rooted in those inflicted on Joseph by his brothers. In the Zohar, his mystery is linked to the mystery of Moses; in fact, his is the greater of the two. Among the ancestors, no other had a right to his surname: Tzaddik. Abraham was obedient, Isaac was brave, Jacob was faithful. Only Joseph was just.

Just—he? He who married a woman who was not Jewish, a daughter of Egypt who brought up his children among pagans? He who led a life of luxury in the splendor of the royal palace? He who wielded quasi-absolute power and seemed to love it? What did he do to deserve this prestigious title?

True, he did send for his old father rather than settling him into an old-age home; true, he was not ashamed to show himself in public with his poverty-stricken family. But were those sufficient reasons to hold him up as an example, to proclaim him Tzaddik?

To gain a better understanding, let us try to sketch his portrait. And see whether behind the façade, the man is really what he appears to be, and whether, after all, it does not conceal an intense and complex inner life.

• • •

Joseph, the just and kindly prince, wise and competent, sure of himself and domineering. What was he really like? Let us first consult the biographical data contained in the Bible, where he occupies a major place: four weekly portions—or Sidroth—deal exclusively with him. Of all of Jacob’s children, he is the only one who is treated as an individual, with a distinct destiny of his own. His life is narrated with a wealth of details: the circumstances surrounding his birth, the nature of his relationships with his father and his brothers, his adventures in the desert and later in Egypt. We are told how his brothers sold him when he was seventeen and how he became prince of Egypt at thirty, and finally, how he died at a hundred and ten. Nothing is held back: his failures and his triumphs, his moods, his habits, his talents, his friendships, his dreams, his political exploits, his amorous conquests. Nothing is left out, not only in the Midrashic tales, where one is used to it, but even in Scripture, where the literary flaws of the text are surprising. The narrative is too long, too slow, too transparent, it lacks both mystery and momentum. Compared with the chapters dealing with the sacrifice of Isaac or Jacob’s encounter with the angel, it seems overwritten and overstated, each episode is retold three times, reiterating obvious points. It all seems clear and simple. Too simple.

And also, not only is the cast too large, its characters all run off in different directions. We have difficulty focusing our attention on any one protagonist, any one crisis, any one conflict. So much dispersion is disconcerting. Abraham’s problem was his confrontation with God; Isaac’s his confrontation with his father; Jacob’s, his confrontation with his brother. But Joseph’s? He has too many problems, involving so many people that the reader is at a loss as to which clue, which thread to follow to untangle the plot. To begin with, what is the major theme? The father’s sadness? The brothers’ malice? The Pharaoh’s candor? The yearnings of a frustrated wife? The intrigues at the royal court? The Aristotelian rules of theater are violated; there is no unity of time, place or action. What we have is an incredible epic, unfocused, panoramic, disdainful of detail and lacking the terseness and sobriety of a work of art.