Adam Kirsch

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Adam Kirsch

Ger­shom Sc­holem: Mas­ter of the Kab­balah by David Biale Werner Sc­holem: A Ger­man Life by Mir­jam Zad­off and three other books by or about Ger­shom Sc­holem

Ger­shom Sc­holem:

Mas­ter of the Kab­balah by David Biale.

Yale Univer­sity Press, 232 pp., $25.00

Ger­shom Sc­holem:

From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back by Noam Zad­off, trans­lated from the Ger­man by Jef­frey Green. Bran­deis Univer­sity Press, 320 pp., $95.00; $40.00 (pa­per)

Greet­ings from An­gelus: Po­ems by Ger­shom Sc­holem, trans­lated from the Ger­man by Richard Sieburth, with an in­tro­duc­tion and an­no­ta­tions by Steven M. Wasser­strom. Ar­chi­pel­ago, 150 pp., $16.00 (pa­per)

The Cor­re­spon­dence of Hannah Arendt and Ger­shom Sc­holem edited by Marie Luise Knott and trans­lated from the Ger­man by An­thony David.

Univer­sity of Chicago Press, 352 pp., $45.00

Werner Sc­holem: A Ger­man Life by Mir­jam Zad­off, trans­lated from the Ger­man by Dona Geyer. Univer­sity of Penn­syl­va­nia Press, 372 pp., $49.95

Ger­shom Sc­holem was one of the great schol­ars of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury. Al­most sin­gle-hand­edly, he cre­ated the mod­ern aca­demic study of Jewish mys­ti­cism, a sub­ject that had been scorned by ear­lier gen­er­a­tions of his­to­ri­ans. But that achieve­ment, re­mark­able though it is, hardly ex­plains why he re­mains such an ob­ject of fas­ci­na­tion so long af­ter his death in 1982. Other Ger­man Jewish in­tel­lec­tu­als as­so­ci­ated with Sc­holem, like Wal­ter Ben­jamin and Hannah Arendt, wrote about mat­ters much closer to the main­stream of mod­ern life—mass me­dia or to­tal­i­tar­ian pol­i­tics. By com­par­i­son, one might ex­pect a scholar of the an­cient mys­ti­cal trea­tise the Bahir or the sev­en­teen­th­cen­tury Sab­ba­tian heresy to be of in­ter­est only to spe­cial­ists.

Yet the stud­ies of Sc­holem’s life and work show no sign of stop­ping: in the past year alone, he has been the sub­ject of two new biogra­phies, by David Biale and Noam Zad­off. There are also new English edi­tions of his un­pub­lished verse and of his cor­re­spon­dence with Arendt; and there is even a bi­og­ra­phy of his brother Werner, a Com­mu­nist politi­cian in Weimar Ger­many, who is re­mem­bered in large part be­cause of Ger­shom’s fame. (These books fol­low Ge­orge Prochnik’s pas­sion­ate and per­sonal 2017 mem­oir/bi­og­ra­phy of Sc­holem, Stranger in a Strange Land.) Clearly, Sc­holem has be­come one of those fig­ures in which the mod­ern world—in par­tic­u­lar the mod­ern Jewish world—sees its re­flec­tion.

That is be­cause his life and work in­ter­sected with some of the most mo­men­tous events of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury: the birth of the State of Is­rael and the death of Euro­pean Jewry. Not only did Sc­holem wit­ness these de­vel­op­ments, but his schol­ar­ship proved to be highly in­flu­en­tial in the way mod­ern Jews thought about the course of their his­tory. Sc­holem’s schol­arly work on Kab­balah, the tra­di­tion of Jewish mys­ti­cism, did not touch on con­tem­po­rary pol­i­tics at all, but was nonethe­less deeply in­formed by them. In Kab­balah, Sc­holem found an ex­pres­sion of the col­lec­tive hopes and trau­mas of the Jews over the cen­turies.

To use one of his fa­vorite words, Sc­holem re­stored “the de­monic”—in the sense of the ir­ra­tional, the un­con­scious, the fate­ful—to the mod­ern un­der­stand­ing of Ju­daism. In the twen­ti­eth cen­tury, this di­men­sion of his­tory seemed much more real than it had to the nine­teenth-cen­tury schol­ars of “the sci­ence of Ju­daism,” who tended to see Jewish mys­ti­cism as the des­ic­cated su­per­sti­tion of a be­nighted past. Sc­holem, on the con­trary, be­lieved that Kab­balah had been an au­then­tic and vi­tal ex­pres­sion of Jewish spir­i­tu­al­ity. “The mys­tics . . . were the true rep­re­sen­ta­tives of the liv­ing, pop­u­lar re­li­gion of the [Jewish] masses,” he wrote in his mag­num opus, Ma­jor Trends in Jewish Mys­ti­cism.

Sc­holem rein­tro­duced mod­ern Jews, in­clud­ing many schol­ars and writ­ers, to the cen­tral el­e­ments of Kab­balah: the se­firot, the ten lev­els of God’s be­ing; the sitra aḥra, the dark “other side” of God from which evil springs; and the Shekhi­nah, the fe­male as­pect of the di­vine. In­deed, to the ex­tent that kab­bal­is­tic con­cepts and vo­cab­u­lary have en­tered into the wider cul­ture, it is pri­mar­ily thanks to Sc­holem. In his in­tro­duc­tion to Greet­ings from An­gelus, Steven Wasser­strom writes, with per­mis­si­ble ex­ag­ger­a­tion, that “sec­u­lar­ized ‘Ju­daic’ high-cul­ture of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury is for all in­tents and pur­poses Ger­shom Sc­holem.”

The irony of Sc­holem’s life is that this sym­bol of Jewish knowl­edge was born into a fam­ily that com­pletely lacked it. In his mem­oir From Berlin to Jerusalem, Sc­holem re­called the at­mos­phere in the home of his par­ents Arthur and Betty, who ran a print­ing busi­ness. Like many Ger­man Jews of their era, the Sc­holems were mid­dle-class, as­sim­i­lated, highly pa­tri­otic, and re­li­giously nonob­ser­vant. (Arthur worked on Yom Kip­pur, and while Sab­bath can­dles were lit on Fri­day nights, he made a point of us­ing them to light his cigars.) At the same time, they lived in a com­pletely Jewish so­cial world. No non-Jews ever vis­ited the fam­ily home, and when Werner Sc­holem an­nounced that he was get­ting en­gaged to a Chris­tian girl, his fa­ther cut off all con­tact with him. Yet when Ger­shom an­nounced that he was a Zion­ist, his fa­ther cut him off as well. Any de­vi­a­tion from the line of cau­tious as­sim­i­la­tion struck Arthur Sc­holem as a dan­ger­ous heresy. Al­ready as a teenager, Sc­holem was acutely aware of the con­tra­dic­tions and hypocrisies that reigned in this Ger­man Jewish mi­lieu. His ideas about Ju­daism and Zion­ism evolved through­out his life, but he was ut­terly con­sis­tent in his be­lief that Deutsch-ju­den­tum—Ger­man Jewish­ness—was based on a lie. In the 1960s, when he was asked to con­trib­ute to a vol­ume on Ger­man-Jewish di­a­logue, Sc­holem let loose his fa­mous sar­casm on the very idea:

To whom, then, did the Jews speak in that much-talked-about Ger­man-Jewish di­a­logue? They spoke to them­selves, not to say that they out­shouted them­selves. Some felt un­easy, per­haps even dis­mal about it, but many acted as if ev­ery­thing were on the best way to be­ing set­tled, as if the echo of their own voice would be un­ex­pect­edly trans­mo­gri­fied into that voice of the oth­ers they so ea­gerly hoped to hear.

The Ger­mans never re­sponded to the Jews; they ig­nored them or they hated them, and fi­nally they mur­dered them. Not ev­ery­one saw it that way in the 1910s. In his mem­oir, Sc­holem ob­served that he was one of four sons whose lives, taken to­gether, rep­re­sented the full spec­trum of pos­si­bil­i­ties for Ger­man Jews of his gen­er­a­tion. His old­est brother, Rein­hold, was an ul­tra-pa­triot who fought proudly in World War I and con­sid­ered him­self a Ger­man na­tion­al­ist even af­ter he was forced by the Nazis to flee to Aus­tralia. (“I’m not go­ing to let Hitler dic­tate my views to me!” he in­sisted.) Mean­while, Werner Sc­holem, the third brother, took a di­rectly op­po­site course, join­ing the many Jews of his gen­er­a­tion who looked to com­mu­nism to abol­ish all kinds of in­jus­tice, in­clud­ing an­ti­Semitism. “Ev­ery think­ing Jew be­comes a So­cial­ist,” Werner wrote to Ger­shom in 1914.

In her bi­og­ra­phy of Werner, which was pub­lished in Ger­many un­der the ti­tle The Red Job, Mir­jam Zad­off shows that he reaped only bit­ter fruits from his ide­o­log­i­cal com­mit­ment. He emerged from his army ser­vice a com­mit­ted left­ist and won elec­tion to the Ger­man par­lia­ment as a Com­mu­nist deputy. He gave fiery speeches on the floor of the Re­ich­stag, of­ten in the face of loud anti-Semitic abuse. But his en­e­mies weren’t only on the right: af­ter sev­eral years of promi­nence, he was purged from the Ger­man Com­mu­nist Party, along with other Jewish in­tel­lec­tu­als, as part of the process that brought the party un­der the con­trol of Stalin.

As a well-known Jewish Com­mu­nist politi­cian, Werner Sc­holem fig­ured promi­nently in Nazi hate-pro­pa­ganda, and he was ar­rested af­ter Hitler’s rise to power in 1933. Ini­tially re­leased af­ter a few days, he in­ex­pli­ca­bly failed to flee the coun­try, be­liev­ing per­haps that his sta­tus as a Great War vet­eran would pro­tect him. He was soon re­ar­rested, and while he was ac­quit­ted by a court—the charges in­volved an al­leged plot to spread Com­mu­nist pro­pa­ganda in the army—he was im­me­di­ately placed un­der “pro­tec­tive cus­tody,” the Nazi eu­phemism for in­def­i­nite de­ten­tion in a con­cen­tra­tion camp. He spent years in a suc­ces­sion of camps, where he suf­fered from both

the hos­til­ity of the Nazi guards and the os­tracism of the Com­mu­nist Party cadres who were usu­ally the most in­flu­en­tial pris­on­ers. Fi­nally, in 1940, he was killed at Buchen­wald, ap­par­ently shot by guards—a ter­ri­ble end to a life that was in­deed Job-like in its per­pet­ual or­deals.

And then there was the youngest son, whose path was the most un­usual of all. Born in Berlin in 1897, Ger­shom Sc­holem was ex­actly the same age as the mod­ern Zion­ist move­ment, which held its first congress in Basel that same year. Sc­holem came to Zion­ism as a teenager, and he em­braced it with the same rad­i­cal fer­vor that Werner brought to com­mu­nism. In his ap­peal­ingly writ­ten and deeply knowl­edge­able short bi­og­ra­phy, pub­lished as part of the Yale Jewish Lives se­ries, David Biale quotes a pas­sage from Sc­holem’s teenage diary, in which he wrote about him­self in the third per­son:

The young man . . . be­lieved deeply that the soul of Ju­dah wan­dered among the na­tions and in the Holy Land, await­ing the one pre­sump­tu­ous enough to free it from ban­ish­ment and from the sep­a­ra­tion from its na­tional body. And he knew in his depths that he was the Cho­sen One.

As that pas­sage sug­gests, there was some­thing quasi-mys­ti­cal about the young Sc­holem’s un­der­stand­ing of what Zion­ism meant. Cru­cially, Biale em­pha­sizes that he was not par­tic­u­larly in­ter­ested in the po­lit­i­cal Zion­ism as­so­ci­ated with Theodor Herzl. Rather, he be­longed in the camp of the so-called cul­tural Zion­ists, who saw set­tle­ment in Pales­tine as a way to cre­ate a nu­cleus for a world­wide re­newal of Ju­daism. As Sc­holem would write much later:

The rea­son I em­braced Zion­ism was not that the es­tab­lish­ment of a Jewish state (which I defended in dis­cus­sions) as the main goal of the move­ment seemed ur­gent and ut­terly con­vinc­ing to me. For me as for many oth­ers, this as­pect of the move­ment played only a sec­ondary role, or none at all, un­til Hitler’s de­struc­tion of the Jews.

Rather, “for me Zion was a sym­bol that linked our ori­gin and our utopian goal in a re­li­gious rather than a ge­o­graph­i­cal sense.”

While Sc­holem was still liv­ing in Ger­many, Zion­ism gave him the spir­i­tual en­ergy he needed to cre­ate an au­then­tic Jewish life. From the very be­gin­ning, he was clear that this project in­volved los­ing any il­lu­sions about be­ing Ger­man. To un­der­score the point, Sc­holem, whose given name was Ger­hard, adopted the He­brew name Ger­shom, which means “so­journer”: though Ger­many was his na­tive coun­try, he saw him­self as only mark­ing time there un­til he could leave for Pales­tine. This meant that he felt no obli­ga­tion to serve in the Ger­man army in World War I, which he op­posed whole­heart­edly from the very start. Ac­cord­ing to his mem­oir, Sc­holem got out of army ser­vice by feign­ing psy­chosis; Biale sug­gests that he was un­likely to be able to fool a mil­i­tary doc­tor, and hy­poth­e­sizes that “per­haps Sc­holem was sim­ply ex­ag­ger­at­ing symp­toms that were al­ready present.” Sc­holem’s es­cape from mil­i­tary ser­vice marked an im­por­tant point of di­ver­gence from the path of his brother Werner, who served for years on the east­ern front and was se­ri­ously wounded. Per­haps if Ger­shom had un­der­gone the same or­deals, he might have ended up be­ing more sym­pa­thetic to revo­lu­tion­ary Marx­ism. As it was, how­ever, he was free to spend the years from 1916 to 1923 in cul­ti­vat­ing his Jewish knowl­edge. At this time, there was no such thing as aca­demic Jewish stud­ies in Ger­many, and Sc­holem had to seek in­struc­tion wher­ever he could find it. A sym­pa­thetic teacher gave him his first He­brew lessons, and he mas­tered the lan­guage on his own—a step that few Ger­man Jews, even Zion­ists, ever man­aged (just as few Amer­i­can Jews mas­ter it to­day). An Or­tho­dox rabbi of­fered train­ing in the Tal­mud, even though Sc­holem was not, and never be­came, re­li­giously ob­ser­vant. When he grew in­ter­ested in Kab­balah, how­ever, Sc­holem was ba­si­cally on his own. In his mem­oir, he re­calls that in the early 1920s the whole sub­ject of Jewish mys­ti­cism was dom­i­nated by char­la­tans and gu­rus, who drew on kab­bal­is­tic ideas to dec­o­rate their teach­ings. At best there was a fig­ure like Philip Bloch, a pro­fes­sor who col­lected kab­bal­is­tic manuscripts. When the young Sc­holem ad­mired the col­lec­tion and said, “How won­der­ful, Herr Pro­fes­sor, that you have stud­ied all this!,” Bloch replied, “What, am I sup­posed to read this rub­bish, too?” “That was a great mo­ment in my life,” Sc­holem wrote iron­i­cally. It showed him just how lit­tle any­one cared about Jewish mys­ti­cism, and thus how large a field was open for his dis­cov­ery.

In 1923, with his doc­tor­ate in hand, Sc­holem fi­nally em­i­grated to Pales­tine. A decade later, the rise of Hitler would send tens of thou­sands of Ger­man Jews on the same jour­ney; but to go from Berlin to Jerusalem in the early 1920s was an ex­tremely un­usual choice, made only by the most com­mit­ted Zion­ists. Not only was Sc­holem ex­chang­ing a com­fort­able life in one of the most ad­vanced coun­tries in Europe for a hard­scrab­ble ex­is­tence in a poor, re­mote prov­ince. He was also, he be­lieved, giv­ing up any chance of an aca­demic ca­reer. There was no univer­sity in Pales­tine at the time, and Sc­holem’s hope was to be­come a math teacher in a high school. As luck would have it, how­ever, he was of­fered a job in the em­bry­onic Na­tional Li­brary as a cu­ra­tor of He­brew books—a sub­ject about which few sec­u­lar schol­ars knew as much as he did. Two years later, when the He­brew Univer­sity was founded in Jerusalem, Sc­holem was one of its first fac­ulty ap­point­ments. He would spend the rest of his ca­reer there, be­com­ing a highly in­flu­en­tial fig­ure in the de­vel­op­ment of Is­raeli academia.

But Sc­holem’s utopian ver­sion of Zion­ism meant that he was des­tined to be dis­ap­pointed by the re­al­ity of Jewish life in Pales­tine. Seen in broad out­line, Sc­holem’s life was a Zion­ist dream: he es­caped Ger­many in time to avoid calamity, built a suc­cess­ful new life in Jerusalem, and made im­por­tant con­tri­bu­tions to the build­ing of the Jewish state and to Ju­daism it­self. But as Noam Zad­off shows in his bi­o­graph­i­cal study Ger­shom Sc­holem: From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back, Sc­holem’s at­ti­tude to­ward both his home­lands was al­ways com­pli­cated. Far from for­sak­ing Ger­man cul­ture en­tirely, he con­tin­ued to write books and ar­ti­cles in Ger­man as well as He­brew. Start­ing in 1949, he took part in the an­nual Era­nos Con­fer­ences in Switzer­land, where he was able to ad­dress a Euro­pean and Ger­man schol­arly au­di­ence. His mem­oir, whose ti­tle Zad­off sug­ges­tively re­vises in the sub­ti­tle of his own book, was writ­ten in Ger­man and made him an in­tel­lec­tual celebrity in Ger­many.

Zad­off’s book is less a full bi­og­ra­phy than a study of cer­tain themes in Sc­holem’s life, chief among them his am­biva­lence to­ward Jewish Pales­tine and Is­rael. Sc­holem hinted at this am­biva­lence more than once, as when he ex­plained why he con­cluded his mem­oir with his ar­rival in Pales­tine, rather than con­tin­u­ing the story of his life there:

It was much less dif­fi­cult . . . to write crit­i­cally about mat­ters from my youth, than about the dif­fi­cult de­vel­op­ments in the Land of Is­rael dur­ing the past fifty years. There is no lack of great episodes that I do not wish to present to a Ger­man read­er­ship.

This public ret­i­cence dis­ap­peared in Sc­holem’s most pri­vate writ­ing, the Ger­man verse he pro­duced through­out his life. The po­ems col­lected in Greet­ings from An­gelus were never in­tended to be pub­lished; at most they were writ­ten for an au­di­ence of one. Of­ten this was Wal­ter Ben­jamin, whom Sc­holem met in 1915 and soon turned into a close friend and in­tel­lec­tual idol: in his diary, he wrote of this “ab­so­lute, splen­did re­la­tion­ship with one man, who has in­flu­enced my life not by his teach­ing, but by his be­ing.” Biale spec­u­lates, in­con­clu­sively, on whether there was “a ho­mo­erotic com­po­nent” to this friend­ship; what is clear is that in this cru­cial pe­riod of Sc­holem’s in­tel­lec­tual de­vel­op­ment, Ben­jamin was a key stim­u­lus to his think­ing about lan­guage, myth, and Ju­daism. Their stu­dent days are com­mem­o­rated in a piece of light verse, an abecedar­ium de­scrib­ing the imag­i­nary “State Univer­sity of Muri,” named for the Swiss vil­lage where Sc­holem and Ben­jamin lived while pur­su­ing their stud­ies at Bern dur­ing World War I. But the most se­ri­ous po­ems Sc­holem wrote con­cerned his spir­i­tual dis­ap­point­ment in Zion, as in “Me­dia in Vita,” a lament writ­ten in 1930:

I have lost the faith that brought me to this place.

And in the wake of this for­sak­ing, night is my sur­round­ing space . . . .

I don’t know how long I’ll hold my own keep­ing watch on the edge of the abyss in the sti­fling prospect of light sunk into such an enor­mous pit.

Zad­off ex­cels at ex­plain­ing just how the course of events in Pales­tine dis­ap­pointed Sc­holem’s ex­pec­ta­tions. As an in­tel­lec­tual whose in­ter­ests were strictly spir­i­tual and cul­tural, Sc­holem looked down on most of the prac­ti­cal ac­tiv­ity that was go­ing on in Pales­tine. “Now we are dwelling here in a Zion which is not one: 500,000 peo­ple (Jews)—so one must per­haps say—and of them maybe 50,000 of those we were think­ing about,” he wrote harshly in his diary in 1943. “The rest are lies and de­cep­tions.”

Sc­holem was es­pe­cially dis­mayed by the hos­til­ity be­tween Jews and Arabs. As a mem­ber of Brit Shalom, a tiny but in­flu­en­tial group made up mostly of Cen­tral Euro­pean in­tel­lec­tu­als, Sc­holem be­lieved in a bi­na­tional state. Only this so­lu­tion, he thought, would avoid en­cour­ag­ing Jewish na­tion­al­ism, which he saw as a be­trayal of the cul­tural Zion­ist dream. Even­tu­ally, the course of events—above all, the fact of the Holo­caust—changed Sc­holem’s con­cep­tion of what Zion was for; he be­came more sym­pa­thetic to the idea that the Jews needed a refuge as much as a spir­i­tual cen­ter. But he re­mained a dis­ap­pointed ide­al­ist, and af­ter the early 1930s he made it a prin­ci­ple never to in­ter­vene in po­lit­i­cal con­tro­ver­sies.

Zad­off’s in­sights help to ex­plain one of the rare ex­cep­tions to this rule: Sc­holem’s clash with Hannah Arendt over her cov­er­age of the Adolf Eich­mann trial, which is doc­u­mented in

their newly trans­lated Cor­re­spon­dence. Sc­holem and Arendt met in Paris be­fore World War II, and while they were never very close, they had an im­por­tant link in Wal­ter Ben­jamin, whom they both cher­ished. Their let­ters dur­ing and af­ter the war dealt pri­mar­ily with Ben­jamin, and with their at­tempts to find a pub­lisher for the scat­tered manuscripts he left be­hind af­ter his sui­cide in 1940. Later, Sc­holem and Arendt were both ac­tive in the ef­fort to lo­cate Jewish cul­tural ar­ti­facts in post­war Europe. Sc­holem’s mis­sion, as a rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the He­brew Univer­sity, was to bring as many own­er­less books and manuscripts as pos­si­ble to Jerusalem. The dis­pute that ended their friend­ship took place in 1963, af­ter the pub­li­ca­tion of Arendt’s book Eich­mann in Jerusalem. In a scathing ex­change that was later pub­lished in En­counter, Sc­holem took is­sue not just with Arendt’s judg­ments, but above all with her tone in writ­ing about the Holo­caust: “the heart­less, the down­right ma­li­cious tone you em­ploy in deal­ing with the topic that so pro­foundly con­cerns the cen­ter of our life.” This ironic style be­trayed Arendt’s lack of what Sc­holem called aha­vath Is­rael, “love for the Jewish peo­ple.” In her frank re­sponse, Arendt con­fessed to the charge: “I have never in my life ‘loved’ some na­tion or col­lec­tive,” she wrote.

The ques­tion of col­lec­tive loy­alty and iden­tity was the real bone of con­tention be­tween them. While Sc­holem’s crit­i­cisms of Zion­ism and Is­rael were pro­found, he re­mained what Michael Walzer calls a “con­nected critic,” at­tached to what he re­buked. In a late es­say, he wrote:

It is cer­tainly true that through­out my life I have be­lieved in the re­birth of the Jewish peo­ple through the Zion­ist move­ment, but within the frame­work of that be­lief . . . I be­longed much more to the group of those who posed ques­tions than to those who knew how to give an­swers.

What must have in­fu­ri­ated Sc­holem is that Arendt posed some of the same ques­tions about Is­rael that he him­self had in the past; but she did so in an un­con­nected spirit, from the van­tage point of New York, not Jerusalem.

This episode points di­rectly to some of the para­doxes at the heart of Sc­holem’s iden­tity, which Biale and Zad­off do much to il­lu­mi­nate. He was a man who spent his whole life in the study of Ju­daism yet never prac­ticed it, while still claim­ing to be­lieve in God; who ded­i­cated his life to Zion­ism yet was dis­ap­pointed in what Zion­ism cre­ated; who wrote about ob­scure texts and ideas yet made them feel dra­matic and ur­gently rel­e­vant. “There is such a thing as a trea­sure hunt within tra­di­tion,” Sc­holem once wrote, and per­haps that is the best way to think of him: as a trea­sure hunter who found in Ju­daism all the re­sources he needed to live a twen­ti­eth-cen­tury life.

Ger­shom Sc­holem, circa 1970

Ger­hard, Rein­hold, Erich, and Werner Sc­holem, 1904

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