Bereshit Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, tackles this very question, and it turns out, it's a battle as old as time.
The text starts with a powerful idea: "The Lord said to His heart." What does it mean that God speaks to His own heart? The Midrash contrasts this with the wicked, who, it says, are controlled by their hearts. They can't control their base instincts. Think about it: "The scoundrel says in his heart" (Psalms 14:1); "Esau said in his heart" (Genesis 27:41); "Haman said in his heart" (Esther 6:6). It's always the heart calling the shots for them.
But the righteous? Ah, that's a different story. Their hearts are subject to them. They're able to overcome their evil inclinations, the yetzer hara. "Hannah was speaking to her heart" (I Samuel 1:13); "David said to his heart" (I Samuel 27:1); "Daniel placed in his heart" (Daniel 1:8). The righteous are portrayed as dictating to the heart what to do, not the other way around.
Then comes a fascinating repetition: "I will not continue…and I will not continue." Why say it twice? The Midrash sees this repetition as emphasis, a powerful commitment. It's like God is declaring an oath. The Rabbis say it means, "I will not continue" for the present children of Noah, "and I will not continue" for future generations. It's a double promise.
But Rabbi Ḥiyya the Great offers a rather bleak assessment: "Wretched is the dough whose baker attests in its regard that it is inferior – 'as the inclination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.'" Abba Yosei HaTorati chimes in, "Wretched is the leaven whose maker attests that it is inferior, as it is stated: 'For He knows our inclination; mindful that we are dust' (Psalms 103:14)." And the Rabbis add, "Wretched is the sapling whose planter attests that it is inferior, as it is stated: 'The Lord of hosts, who planted you, spoke evil of you' (Jeremiah 11:17)." It's a harsh analogy – comparing humanity to flawed ingredients.
The text then dives into a discussion between Antoninos, a Roman official, and Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, often simply called "Rabbi," a key figure in the compilation of the Mishnah. Antoninos asks a profound question: When is the evil inclination implanted in a person? Before birth, or at birth?
Rabbi initially says before birth. But Antoninos counters with a sharp argument: if the evil inclination were present in the womb, the fetus would dig its way out! Rabbi concedes, agreeing with the verse "As the inclination of man's heart is evil from his youth [neurav]" (Genesis 8:21). Rabbi Yudan clarifies that ne'erav is similar to the word ninar, meaning "from the moment that he pushes out to emerge from his mother’s womb."
Antoninos doesn't stop there. He asks: when is the ruach, the spirit, embedded in a person? Rabbi initially says after birth. But Antoninos, again, objects. He uses the analogy of meat: if left unsalted for three days, it putrefies. A fetus, he argues, must possess the spirit of life to avoid decay. Rabbi agrees, citing Job 10:12: "You granted me life and kindness, and Your command [ufkudatekha] preserved my spirit." The implication? God placed the soul when He deposited me [hifkadetani] in my mother's womb.
So, what are we left with? A complex picture of human nature. We have the potential for both immense good and, let's face it, immense not-so-good. The key, it seems, is to recognize the power of that inner voice, that yetzer hara, and strive to be the one in control. It's a lifelong journey, a constant conversation with our own hearts. And maybe, just maybe, that's the whole point.