You may be surprised to hear that the first novel ever written, The Tale of Genji, wasn’t European, or even Western, but Japanese. It was composed more than a thousand years ago by a quirky lady in the imperial court of Japan, Murasaki Shikibu, a woman with an uncanny eye for human weakness and emotional nuance. 

I’ve been reading it recently, in preparation for an upcoming visit to Japan, and it is surprisingly modern in its portrayal of the characters. I had been bracing myself for stiffly described royal shenanigans and melodramatic intrigue, but that isn’t what this book is at all. 

The Tale of Genji is highly readable, portraying the life of a minor royal, Genji, who, despite being deliberately sidelined in the imperial succession, wields enormous behind-the-scenes influence: socially, politically, and emotionally. His presence opens doors, his favor reshapes lives, and his disapproval can quietly undo people. In time, he rises to become Honorary Retired Emperor (Daijō Tennō), but long before that, his power is almost unrivaled.

Imperial Japan of the early Middle Ages was a world where status determined everything, and a careless word or fleeting encounter could alter a life in the most unexpected ways. More importantly, the most powerful figures were not always the emperor or his heirs, but court notables like Genji, who ran the court’s affairs like chess grandmasters.

One of the most unsettling relationships in the book is Genji’s long and complicated bond with Lady Murasaki, whom he first encounters as a child and later raises within his household. He oversees her education, shapes her tastes, and becomes the unquestioned center of her emotional universe. 

Genji is keenly aware that the imbalance in their relationship grants him enormous power over Lady Murasaki’s inner life, and at crucial moments, he restrains himself, hesitating to dictate her future or to press his authority in ways that would leave her entirely without agency. 

These pauses really matter. They do not erase the asymmetry of the relationship, nor do they free Lady Murasaki from dependence, but they do limit the harm that his overwhelming dominance might otherwise inflict on the course of her life.

A similar pattern appears later in the novel, when Genji reaches the height of his political influence and effectively controls the machinery of court life. His patronage determines appointments, and his presence subtly distorts the balance of power around him. Increasingly conscious of this, Genji begins to withdraw from the center of political life. 

The retreat is gradual and motivated by many factors, but it is both deliberate and voluntary. By stepping back, he reduces the extent to which his personal influence dominates the system. Court rivalries do not disappear, but they lose both their urgency and spite, and the political order becomes less tightly centered on a single figure. Genji comes to understand that power, when held in check, is less corrosive than when it is relentlessly exercised.

The reason Genji is such a compelling figure is that he never feels like a literary device or a moral symbol. Clearly modeled on a court patrician of the era in which the book was written — perhaps a composite of several historical figures whose names are now lost — he emerges as a fully dimensional human being: gifted, cultured, and often admirable, but also inconsistent, self-indulgent, and prone to misjudgment. 

What is attractive about Genji is not his moral perfection, but his relatability. He understands, sometimes with painful clarity, that his actions ripple outward, shaping lives long after the moment has passed. He reflects, hesitates, withdraws, and more than occasionally restrains himself — not because he must, but because he senses the weight of what he does.

And what makes reading The Tale of Genji particularly intriguing is how familiar the narrative feels to anyone steeped in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible. Time and again, we encounter the same dynamic: a figure of immense influence operating just below the throne, shaping outcomes while remaining formally subordinate to the king. 

Examples from the Hebrew Bible, such as Joseph in Egypt, David navigating the court of Saul, the volatile triangle of Haman, Esther, and Mordechai under Achashverosh, and Daniel in the courts of Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar, and Darius, illustrate this theme. In each case, real power is not ultimately exercised by the crowned monarch but by those who understand how proximity to authority can quietly determine the fate of nations and individuals alike.

And particularly as we read the closing portions of Bereishit, the parallels between Genji and Joseph become increasingly striking. Like Genji, Joseph operates at the heart of a royal court, navigating the palace of Pharaoh and controlling the affairs of Egypt while carefully shaping the outcome of his relationship with those most vulnerable to his power  —  his brothers. 

Joseph is not the formal ruler of the realm, but he is the man who effectively runs it. His control over Egypt  —  and over the fate of everyone in his orbit  —  is absolute. What distinguishes Joseph is his acute awareness of that power. He does not stumble into influence or discover its consequences by accident. From the outset, he understands that every move he makes will affect the lives of others. 

And so, even as he deliberately orchestrates events and manipulates circumstances to bring about the outcome he seeks, he remains strikingly intentional and sensitive about how that power is exercised  —  determined that his extraordinary authority should never cross the line into abuse.

The Malbim in his commentary on Parshat Vayigash notes that Joseph’s first instinct at the climactic moment he reveals his identity to his brothers is not to announce who he is in the presence of others. He sends everyone out of the room, stripping himself — very deliberately — of the public trappings of power. The revelation is not staged as a triumph or as a vindictive reckoning, but as an intimate act of repair. 

By removing the court, Joseph ensures that his brothers are not confronted like criminals in a spectacle of humiliation, but as family members standing before a long-lost brother who has forgiven them. It is a breathtaking act of moral self-restraint: the conscious refusal to allow power to turn vulnerability into disgrace. 

In his commentary, Rav Hirsch repeatedly emphasizes that Joseph never confused political authority with moral authority. He may govern Egypt, but he refuses to govern his brothers’ souls through fear or domination.

It is against this backdrop that Genji’s restraint feels so familiar. He, too, seems to sense the danger of unchecked influence, which is why he attempts — imperfectly and often too late — to step back when power threatens to overwhelm the dignity of those whose lives he affects. 

The difference, however, is telling: where Genji only gradually discovers the moral cost of dominance, Joseph instinctively anticipates it, acting decisively to ensure that his authority becomes a tool for repair rather than a weapon that harms.

Power always reveals more than it conceals. The question is not whether we will ever find ourselves in positions of influence, but how alert we are to what that influence can do to others. The Tale of Genji shows how easily power can drift into damage, even in the hands of a reflective and sensitive person. 

Joseph shows us something rarer and far more demanding: the discipline to anticipate that danger, and to restrain oneself before any harm is done. 

In telling the story of Joseph’s behavior toward his brothers, the Torah teaches that the measure of a person is never found in outcomes alone, but in how carefully human dignity — and one’s own integrity — are preserved as we pursue them. Remember: true strength is shown through restraint, not domination.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.