[54] When poetry, so long unknown, arrived in Latium and Rome, what a magnificent and immense field of subjects opened out before it! Rome herself already mistress of the world, her innumerable past adventures, hopes, etc. etc. etc. Did these not provide material of infinite fascination to fire the imagination and heart of any poet, even a foreign or a later one, but especially a poet from Rome or Latium, one who was contemporary or relatively closer to the times of those deeds? And yet there was no Latin epic that had such exceedingly grand and poetic Latin themes for its subject, except that of Ennius, which must have been a poor thing. The first epic trumpet, sounded by Lucretius, dealt with philosophy.1 In short, imitation of the Greeks during this time had a deadly effect upon Latin poetry, as slavish imitation of the Greeks and Romans did later on Italian literature and poetry at its true beginning, that is, in the 16th century. Hence, despite such a multitude of national events, they ignored these and celebrated Greek ones, nor do I believe there to be a single subject that is Latin and not Greek in Ennius’s tragedy or in Accius, etc. Something that everyone can see was a great loss, especially as there was such an abundance of great national events. And Virgil, in his great wisdom, did see it but did nothing about it, indeed his subjects, too, were in a certain sense Greek (so that the Bucolics and Georgics were Greek in title and inspiration), along with his many imitations of Homer, etc. But he did as much as he could to use national themes, and often found occasion to write authoritatively about Roman deeds. Similarly, Horace, though a man of little value as a poet, often celebrated Roman feats among the many themes of his odes in the Greek style. Ovid, in his great poem Metamorphoses, used an entirely Greek theme. He also wrote the Fasti of Rome, but this was more the work of a versifier than of a poet, as it described the origins, if I’m not mistaken, of those festive ceremonies, etc., in short, he used those events not to write poetry but as if to amuse himself with them. Besides, the greatness of Rome was reflected in Latin literature by grandiosity, which, it might be said, it added to the other properties of oratory inherited from the Greeks, as Algarotti notes,2 with much greater attention to the nobility and cultivation of the oration, the period, etc., than was the case among the classical ancient Greeks, except Isocrates, and perhaps not even him.
Proof of what I wrote above about letters, or rather an example, is the Gallic u (as a vowel), which is unknown to us northern Italians, [55] and I don’t know if it was to the Romans, or to what other foreigners at present. This belonged entirely to the Greek alphabet (and I don’t know if they say the same about the Hebrew vau), as it now belongs to the French, and as our u is written by them ou, exactly as among the Greeks (except that the latter also have it in the diphthongs αυ ευ ηυ ωυ whereas the French do not have it in any other). Thus, I think, unless there is another reason to the contrary, that the French obtained it (this so-called Gallic u as well as the ou diphthong) from Greece during the expeditions they made there when they founded Greek Gaul, etc. (and I believe from St. Irenaeus of Gaul, who wrote in Greek, and also Favorinus, etc., that the Greek language was very common in Gaul—see the Historians). Hence it became ἐπιχώριον [indigenous] and then remained in France and also in Transalpine Gaul, that is, in Lombardy, despite the changes in the inhabitants of these provinces, etc. And are not crushed c and g clearly two different letters from open ch and gh? And didn’t the Greeks lack these, and still do? (what the scholars say about the Romans I do not know) and don’t the French now lack them, and I think the Spanish, the English, etc.?1
If you ask a favor of someone who cannot do it for you without incurring the hatred of another, it is extremely unlikely (all things being equal) that you will obtain it, even though he is a great friend. And yet in return for that hatred he would earn or increase your love, which perhaps would become very great, so that the scales would seem to be equal. But, in fact, men’s hatred weighs much more than love, being much more active. Modern psychologists would stop here, without searching out the reason for this difference, which is perfectly obvious, namely self-love. For he who pursues hatred does so for himself and he who pursues love does so for others. He who seeks revenge does so for himself and he who does good does so for others. And no one is ever so zealous as to benefit another as much as himself.2
Quiet life of animals in forests, deserted and uninhabited places, etc., where the course of their lives is no less complete, with their doings, events, deaths, passing of generations, etc., just because no man is observing and disturbing them, and they know nothing of events in the world, because what we believe about the world concerns only human beings.
A. “If I were rich, I’d like to make you precious gifts.” B. “Oh dear, I wouldn’t want you to give up anything for me. I pray God that he never makes you rich.”
The language shared by animals, described according to the obvious qualities of each of them, could be an original and poetic idea introduced just like that into a poem, as Sannazaro does in Arcadia, Chapter 9 (though he uses it foolishly), in imitation of the story, if I am not mistaken, by Hesiod.3
Voice and song of the dewy grass in early morning, thanking and praising God, and so too the plants, etc., Sannazaro, ibid., and it seems to me a remarkable image and similar to the one used by the rabbis in the morning hymn to the sun, etc., as also Sannazaro’s other image there, of a [56] “very strange” country “where all the people are born black, like ripe olives, and the Sun passes so low that, if it were not so hot, you could touch it with your hand.”1
As the most constant and indivisible instinct of all beings is concern for preserving their own existence, so there is no doubt that the fulfillment of existence is not the same as being happy with it, and that to hate or to be dissatisfied with existence is not a contradictory principle. Such a thing cannot be in nature, and still less in that being which, without entering into theology, must clearly be the foremost of all beings in our world, given that the animal order is the foremost in our world and probably in the whole of nature, that is, in all worlds, and that he is manifestly the highest rung of this order. Now we see that in him there is so much discontentedness with existence that not only is he in conflict with the instinct to preserve it, but he goes so far as to cut life short voluntarily, something that is diametrically opposite to the ways of all other beings, and which cannot be in nature unless nature has become totally corrupt. But yet we see that anyone in this age of ours who has some intelligence must necessarily after a short time fall prey to this discontent. I believe that in the natural order of things man can also be happy in this world, living naturally like the animals, that is, without great or particular pleasures, but with a happiness and contentedness that is always more or less constant and moderate (save for the misfortunes that may always happen in his life, such as miscarriage, storms, and many other disturbances—accidental, but not substantial—in nature), in other words, happy as the beasts are happy when they have no accidental misfortunes, etc.2 But I believe that we are no longer capable of this happiness from the moment we have experienced the emptiness of things and the illusoriness and nothingness of these same natural pleasures, which we ought not even to suspect: “Tout homme qui pense est un être corrompu” [“Every man who thinks is a corrupted being”], as Rousseau says,3 and we are exactly that. And yet, even though we are already corrupted, we see that these small pleasures reward us better than any other, in the words of Werther,4 etc., and we see less discontent in peasants, illiterate people, etc. (though even they are quite far away from the natural state), than in educated people, and especially in children, compared with adults. And the natural goodness of man and his inevitable corruption in society can serve as proof of this system, and the fact that animals have no other society among themselves than for certain needs, living together anyway without thinking about one another, and that this instinct lessens in proportion to the extent to which nature is changed by art, and so is great in animals and children and small in grown men. But that doesn’t prove that man is made for
art, etc., since nature had given him those instincts which he then loses, etc. So that it could be thought that the difference between the life of animals and the life of man derives from accidental circumstances and from the different conformation of the human body, one that is more suited to society, etc.5
[57] It has been observed that it was proper to ancient poets and artists to leave much to the imagination and heart of the reader or spectator. This, however, must be taken not as an isolated property but as a very simple and natural and necessary effect of the naturalness with which when they describe, imitate, etc., they leave out the minutiae and detailed description that are so familiar to modern writers, and describe with ease just the general picture, and as a narrator, rather than one who sets out intentionally to describe, to move, etc. In the same way, Ovid, whose manner of depiction is enumeration (like modern sentimental or descriptive poets, etc.), leaves almost nothing for the reader to do, whereas Dante, who conjures up an image with two words, leaves plenty for the imagination to do, and I say do rather than struggle, because the imagination conceives that image spontaneously and adds what is missing to the lines drawn by the poet, which are such as almost necessarily to evoke the idea of the whole. And likewise with the ancients in every kind of imitation of nature.
Our true Theocritean idylls are neither Sannazaro’s eclogues nor etc. etc., but rustic poems such as Nencia, Cecco da Varlungo, etc.,1 which are extremely beautiful and resemble those of Theocritus in their wonderful lack of refinement and admirable truth, except that they are more jesting than his, though the latter also often have a hint of jest.
As to the imagination of children compared with the poetry of the ancients, see the very true observation of Werther at the end of letter 50.2 Dreams are a third source of the same delights and the same romantic ideas.3
The universal origin of human vices is self-love, in that it is directed toward the person himself; the origin of human virtues is the same love directed toward others—toward other men, toward virtue, toward God, etc.4
One reads (more often, or perhaps only, among the ancients) of certain princes who take their own lives in order to escape some great misfortune or because they are unable to confront a misfortune that has already occurred, such as Cleopatra, Mithridates, etc. But I am not aware of any history that tells of princes who killed themselves for reasons that nowadays lead to suicide, such as melancholy, love, etc. And yet discontent with life and boredom and desperation must be so much greater in them [58] than in others, insofar as the latter can suppose, if not through reason (which persuades them firmly to the contrary) at least through imagination (which never lets itself be persuaded), that their life can improve. But princes, who have already reached the height of human happiness and found it empty and wretched, cannot escape elsewhere, even through their thoughts, having arrived, so to speak, at the limit, at a wall. And so they must regard this life as a place that is truly terrible and desperate in every aspect, unless they have already reduced their aspirations to lower levels and conditions, that is, those miserable improvements in fortune that a prince might dream of, such as conquests, etc.
Said the Lady: “You have reconciled me to poetry.” “I am pleased,” he replied, “to have reconciled two beautiful things.”
The sciences would have much less need for the living voice of the teacher if writers of treatises had a more poetic mind. It seems ridiculous to wish, for example, for a mathematician to be poetic. But what can I say? Without a lively and powerful imagination, it is not possible to put yourself in the position of the student and foresee all the difficulties he will have, and his doubts, areas of ignorance, etc. This approach is vital, and yet it is not followed by any scientist, even the most clear-sighted, so that a difficult science, such as, for example, mathematics, is never fully learned from books alone.
From Homer onward everything got better, except poetry.1
For a plaintive Ode on Italy, that thought of Foscolo’s in Ortis, letter of 19 and 20 February 1799, p. 200, Naples 1811, might be useful.2
An example of the kind of humor among the ancients that I referred to in an earlier thought [→Z 41] is that of the people of Antioch, who said that the Emperor Julian had a beard that could be used for making ropes (Julian in the Misopogon).3 This caused great amusement and spread throughout the city and prompted Julian to respond by writing a witty and lighthearted book mocking the people of Antioch (a work that is certainly elegant and one might say Attic and Lucianesque in its jokes and infinitely superior to his book Caesares, free of sophistry in style or anything else, and free of affectation even in the language, although it is elegant and rich, because it is a book written for a particular circumstance and not ἐπιδεικτικὸς [for show], like his Caesares). To our delicate Italians, French, etc., it would now seem coarse and in the poorest taste. See p. 312.
“And man is as wretched as he thinks he is,” as Sannazaro so excellently wrote in the eighth eclogue.4 Now, in that state which I described a little earlier, he who does not regard himself as wretched would no longer be so, in the same way that many in a condition [59] similar to the one I have described, barely considering themselves to be wretched, are less so than others, and likewise all according to the extent to which they consider themselves unhappy.
When a man falls in love, the whole world dissolves before his eyes. He no longer sees anything other than the object of his love. He stands in the middle of a crowd, in conversation, etc., as if he were alone, detached, making those gestures which your ever motionless and overwhelming thought inspires in you, not caring about the curiosity or the scorn of others, everything is forgotten and lacks interest, etc., except for that single thought and that sight. I have never experienced a thought that abstracts the mind so powerfully from everything around it as love, and I mean in the absence of the object of love, in whose presence it is unnecessary to say what happens, except only the great fear that sometimes it just might be compared with.1
I’ve always been sickened by people’s stupidities and by the trivial and vile and ridiculous things they say and do, especially those I live with, who are full of them. But I’ve never felt such a horrible and tormenting disgust for these things (like someone who feels nauseous) as when I felt love or some aura of love, where, made sensitive beyond anything that was normal for me, I needed to withdraw into myself all the time at the slightest pettiness, baseness, and coarseness, whether in actions or words, whether moral or physical, or just linguistic, such as childish quips, tasteless gossip, crude jokes, coarse gestures, and a hundred other such things.2
I have never felt so alive as when I was in love, though the rest of the world seemed dead to me. Love is life and the enlivening principle of nature, just as hatred is the destructive and deadly principle. Things are made for mutual love and life is created from this. Mutual hatred, though much hatred is also natural, produces the opposite effect, namely mutual destruction, and also the inner erosion and consumption of the one who hates.
That wretched excess of epithets, synonyms, padding, chevilles [fillers], etc., which form the vulgar frippery of our sixteenth-century classics (and, I believe, of Poliziano, too), which are more comparable with the style of Greek writers than of Latin ones, are not to be found or are much rarer in Dante and Petrarch, in whom, on the contrary, you find finely measured words and restrained ornamentation and apt meaning and propriety in all words, etc., as [60] in that passage from Petrarch that Alfieri uses in his Virginia: “Virginia appresso al fero padre armato / Di disdegno di ferro e di pietate” [“Virginia beside her fierce father armed with disdain, the sword, and piety”]. Triumph of chastity.1 Thus, Petrarch’s rhymes are also much more spontaneous, along with everything in the verse that depends upon the need for rhyme, which sometimes makes writers add whole lines that could be completely cut out, etc., as they did in the sixteenth century.
In Girone, Canto 17, Alamanni makes a fine and notable comparison between a mastiff and a wolf that meet by chance (his wor
ds) in a wood, or etc., and their mutual surprise and fear and sudden rage and the fight.2 And also the description by Martelli (I don’t remember which one) of a village girl searching for mushrooms and rushing to where she sees a dry, whitened leaf, etc., that she mistakes for a mushroom.3
Anniversaries are also a fine illusion, so that, even though that day has no more to do with the past than any other, we talk about how that event occurred today, how today I experienced that joy, how distraught I was, etc., and it seems to us that those events which are dead forever and cannot return are nevertheless revived and are present like a shadow, something in which we find infinite consolation and that distances us from the idea of destruction and annihilation, which we find so repugnant, and tricks us into thinking that those things are present which we would really like to have present or which we like to recall along with some special circumstance. It’s like those who go to a place where some memorable event has happened, and say: “It happened here.” And by doing so, they seem to see something more than they would elsewhere, even though the place has, for example, changed so much compared with how it was then, etc. Likewise with anniversaries. And I remember having waited, with indescribable emotion, for the day of the week and then the month and then the year on which I felt for the first time the touch of a cherished passion, and marked it and observed it as sacred. In this regard, traditions, festivals, etc. (civil and religious), are reasonable and sweet, though illusory.4
To what I said in another thought [→Z 29] about the eloquence of people who talk about themselves, we can add both the continual example of Cicero, who gains renewed strength each time he talks about himself, as he often does, and that of Lorenzino de’ Medici in his Apologia, which Giordani believes to be the greatest piece of Italian eloquence and one that no [61] foreigner has surpassed.1 Now, this is an Apology of himself. And it is admirable how someone who wrote for himself and did not have time to waste on subtleties carried the whole of Greek and Latin eloquence, as though he were an Atlas, into his composition, where you see it alive and intact, and yet it seems natural, not handed down by tradition, with ease in the finest artifices of eloquence practiced and taught in equal measure by the ancients, mastery, negligence, etc., both in the style and the conduct, order, etc., whether internal or external, that is, the language, etc., totally free of affectation and wholly Italian in construction when the style and composition and even particular turns of phrase and everything is Latin and Greek. And meanwhile, the other miserable writers of the sixteenth century, who sought to follow the same eloquence and mastery, etc., such as Della Casa, produced their wretched compositions in a style and language that was highly affected and more Latin than Italian. So the only eloquent writers of the sixteenth century are Lorenzino in this work and Tasso here and there in all of his works, as both always speak of themselves, and Tasso more so when he is most eloquent, fine, noble, etc., that is, in his letters, which are his best work. Demosthenes’s most brilliant speech is the one for the crown.
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