For the past several years, Princeton University Press has been putting out a series of short “biographies” of “great religious books,” which include everything from the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Song of Songs to the Lotus Sutra and C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity. The books in the series describe the origins of the texts under consideration as well as the way they have been received and interpreted over the decades or centuries. Reviewing some of the Jewish-themed volumes, Shai Secunda considers the series’ underlying conceit:
Centuries before Paris became known as the City of Light, it was remembered by Jews as the city of flames, flames which consumed cartloads of Jewish manuscripts following the infamous trial of the Talmud (also known as the Disputation of Paris) in 1240. The burning of books, from the kingdom of France to Nazi Germany, is one of many kinds of outrages perpetrated upon the Jewish people throughout their history, yet it has inevitably been experienced as an unusually cruel punishment inflicted upon the body politic. . . . The  conflagration of sacred books inspired a Hebrew lament that mourned the loss as if it were a real massacre of human lives.
The intimate interrelations between people and books are a remarkable feature of rabbinic society, where Jewish sages are recognizable by the title of their scholarly achievements. Thus, the pious Lithuanian rabbi Israel Meir Kagan is known by the name of his book on the laws of slander, Ḥafets Ḥayyim (“Desirer of Life”), and the Galician scholar Yehuda Heller Kahana goes by the name of his work Kuntres ha-S’fekot (“Notebook of Uncertainties”). Observing a group of rabbis seated around a Sabbath table, the narrator in an S.Y. Agnon tale says, “They sat one next to the other like holy books in a book closet. What one contained the other lacked, and what one lacked the other contained.”
The flipside of this bibliophilic equation is just as true: books are (almost) people, too. When a prayer book or other sacred text falls, Jews lovingly kiss it like a child hurt at play. In the synagogue, Torah scrolls are dressed up in sumptuous garb and presented as kings who divide their time between the dignified repos of the ark and the jubilance of a royal procession. On the holiday of Simḥat Torah, the scrolls are lovingly embraced and twirled like partners at a ball. When they decay, they are buried alongside scholars who dedicated their lives to Torah study.