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When he arrived in Egypt he quickly demonstrated his extraordinary skills. First as “psychoanalyst,” then as “manager,” statesman, counselor and the king’s right-hand man. He was an extraordinarily inventive organizer, a forerunner of long-term government planners. With a difference: luck was on his side, his plans did not fail. In fact, he succeeded in whatever he undertook. Moreover, his predictions had a way of coming true. Also, he was handsome, affable, a ladies’ man; he attracted them and they, in turn, attracted trouble. Never mind, he could handle such problems. He even succeeded in resisting temptation, winning on every score. He had the best of this world and clearly was destined to do as well in the next; he was not a Tzaddik for nothing.

Viewed as an entity, his life is a perfect illustration of Kierkegaard’s concept of man’s existence as divided into four cycles: the first being that of beauty, the second that of morality, the third that of laughter, and the fourth devoted to things sacred.

As an adolescent, Joseph was concerned only with external appearance and behavior. Later, in prison, he discovered the phenomena of good and evil. Still later, when he was king, he ridiculed his brothers, laughing at their expense. And finally, toward the end of his life, his demeanor approached that of a saint.

Thus, there was some logic in his life. Between the adolescent’s dream and its fulfillment, despite the speed and diversity of events, developments did follow a clear pattern. Joseph could not help but become king. And Tzaddik.

The Midrash, as usual, goes even further and suggests that he was just from the start, that he never ceased being just, not even in Egypt, not even in the private chambers of a lady who . . . well, anyway: he was handsome and she was not indifferent to his charms. Nor were other women. Says the Midrash: Whosoever saw him could not help but love him passionately, secretly. It goes on and on, devoting innumerable anecdotes to his romantic experiences.

The Biblical text itself is sufficiently graphic. Potiphar bought Joseph, who promptly turned his master’s good wife’s head. This Lady Chatterley of sorts fell madly in love with her young servant, who rejected her favors. She insisted, persisted. In vain. He ignored her advances, and then, one day when the house was empty, she collared him, used force. In desperation, Joseph ran away, leaving his clothes behind. Whereupon the lady pressed his garments against her bosom, stroking them and weeping, or so the Midrash tells us.

Well, it is always dangerous if not downright foolish to say no to a beautiful woman, but especially if she is in love, and more so if she is wealthy and powerful: Joseph’s next stop was prison.

On the surface, a commonplace episode, one that should have been ignored by the Talmud. Modesty between the sexes is supposed to be a Jewish virtue, so that logically the Talmud should have spared the reader. However, the opposite is true: the reader is treated to scene upon scene, with only slight variations, illustrating the ravages wreaked by Joseph in the hearts of Egyptian womanhood.