Two boys grew up in the same town, studied in the same school, and loved each other deeply. One was a khakham (חכם), clever and sophisticated. The other was a tam (תם), simple and direct. They were not equal in intellect, but they were equal in friendship—and in the early days, that was enough.
Both families lost their wealth. The boys were sent out to make their way in the world. The tam became a shoemaker. He was not a good shoemaker—his shoes were misshapen, the leather was cut unevenly, the stitching was rough—but he loved every pair he made. He would finish a shoe, hold it up to the light, and say with genuine delight, "What a beautiful shoe! What delicious honey this shoe is!" His wife would point out that other shoemakers charged three times his price for better work. He would answer: "That is their business. This is my business. And why must we speak of others?" He ate his simple meals with joy, drank his ordinary wine as if it were the finest vintage, and went to sleep every night deeply satisfied with his life.
The khakham was incapable of such contentment. He apprenticed himself to a tailor, mastered the craft in days, and immediately decided it was beneath him. He became a goldsmith, then a jeweler, then a doctor, then a scholar. Each skill led to the next, and at each stage he found flaws, inadequacies, reasons to move on. He traveled from city to city, always seeking, never satisfied. His brilliance opened every door, but he could not remain in any room. The more he learned, the more he saw what was wrong with everything around him—and with himself.
Meanwhile, the tam was promoted. The king, hearing of a man so content and so guileless, appointed him governor of his province. The tam was terrible at politics—he had no cunning, no strategic instinct—but the king loved his simplicity and his honesty. When the tam judged legal cases, he would listen to both sides and say, "You are right, and you are also right," and somehow both parties left satisfied.
The khakham, hearing that his old friend—the simpleton who could barely make a shoe—had become governor, was outraged. He traveled to visit and was horrified by what he found: a fool in power, making absurd decisions, blissfully unaware of his own incompetence, surrounded by people who adored him.
Rabbi Nachman's ninth tale is his most direct attack on intellectual sophistication without faith. The khakham's brilliance devours him. Every new skill reveals ten new inadequacies. His mind is a prison of perpetual dissatisfaction, because the critical eye that makes him brilliant also makes joy impossible. The tam's simplicity is not stupidity—it is a form of faith so complete that it transforms reality. He sees a crooked shoe and calls it beautiful, because the act of making it with joy sanctifies it.
In Breslov theology, this is the fundamental choice every soul must make: the clever man who sees the flaws in everything and finds peace nowhere, or the simple man who finds God in a shoe. Rabbi Nachman's sympathies are unmistakable. The tam wins. The khakham destroys himself. And the difference between them is not intelligence but the capacity for joy.