A further sad consequence of society and the civilization of humanity is a precise awareness of our own age and that of our loved ones, so that we can know with certainty that so many years from now my own or their youth will necessarily be over, etc. etc., and I will necessarily grow old or they will grow old, I will certainly die or they will die, because human life lasts only so long, and knowing exactly their age or my own, I can see clearly that within a definite period of time, they or I will no longer exist, or enjoy our youth, etc. etc. If we try and think about not knowing our own age, which is the natural state of affairs, and is still common among country people, we will see how much this ignorance diminishes all the ordinary and certain ills that time brings to our lives, for we lack the sure foreknowledge that defines a given ill and anticipates it immeasurably, making us aware of when, without question, this or that good thing which I enjoy at such or such an age will end. Without such awareness, a confused idea of our inevitable decline and end has less power to sadden us or to dissipate the illusions that console us as we age. We can see how terrible for an old person, someone, say, about 80 years of age, must be the certain knowledge that within 10 years at the most he will definitely be dead. It is something that makes his situation like that of a condemned prisoner and infinitely diminishes nature’s great generosity in concealing the exact time of our death, which if seen with precision would be enough to paralyze us with fright and dishearten us for our whole life.
There are three ways of looking at things. The first and most blissful is the way of those for whom things also have more spirit than body, by which I mean [103] people of genius and sensibility, for whom there is nothing that does not speak to the imagination or the heart, and who find everywhere material that inspires them to rise above themselves and feel and live, and a continuous relation of things with the infinite and with man, and an indefinable and vague life—those, in other words, who see everything from the point of view of infinity and in relation to the impulses of their souls. The second and more usual way is the way of those for whom things have body without much spirit, by which I mean ordinary people (ordinary with regard to imagination and feeling, and not with regard to everything else, such as science, politics, etc. etc.), who, while they are not elevated by anything, find something real in all things and deal with them as they appear and as they are regarded by common agreement and in nature, and behave accordingly. This is the natural way, and the one that gives the most long-lasting happiness, and, without leading to any greatness or giving any great prominence to the feeling of existence, still fills life, with a fullness not felt but constant and unchanging, following an even course, in relation to circumstances, from the cradle to the grave. The third way, which alone is grim and wretched, yet alone truthful, is the view of those for whom things have neither spirit nor body but are totally vain and insubstantial, by which I mean philosophers and men of feeling for the most part, who, armed with experience and the grim knowledge of things, move in one jump from the first way of seeing to the last without touching the second, and find and feel everywhere nothingness and emptiness, and the vanity of human cares and desires and hopes, and of all the illusions so inherent in life that without them it is not life. And I would like to note here how human reason, which we make such a show of over the other animals and in whose perfecting we believe the perfecting of man consists, is wretchedly incapable of making us, I will not say happy, but less unhappy, or even of leading us to wisdom, which appears to consist entirely in the full use of reason. Because anyone who concentrated on continuously thinking and feeling the true and certain nullity of everything, in such a way [104] that the succession and variety of objects and events had no power to distract him from this idea, would be absolutely mad, if only because everyone can see where choosing to live by this indisputable principle would lead. And yet it is quite certain that everything we do, we do by virtue of a kind of distraction or forgetfulness, which is directly contrary to reason.1 And yet that would be true madness, but the most reasonable madness on earth, indeed the only reasonable thing, and the only consistent and abiding wisdom, whereas the rest is not wisdom, or only intermittently so. From this, we see how wisdom as we commonly understand it, and which might be useful to us in this life, is closer to nature than to reason, standing between the two and never, as is usually maintained, only with the latter, and how pure, unadulterated reason is a direct source of inevitable and total madness, and is so by its own nature.
Once heroism has vanished from the world and given way to universal egoism, true friendship, capable of leading one friend to sacrifice himself for the other, among people who still have other interests and desires, is extremely hard.2 And for this reason, though it is always said that equality is one of the most reliable bases for friendship, I find that nowadays friendship is less likely between two young people than between one young person and a man of feeling who is already disenchanted with the world and despairing of his own happiness. The latter, no longer having strong desires, is much more capable than a young person of attaching himself to someone who still has them, and of taking a lively and useful interest in him, thus forming a real, firm friendship if the other is willing to reciprocate. And this situation seems to me to be even more favorable to friendship than that between two people who are equally disenchanted, because, if neither of them has any interests or desires, there is no remaining ground for friendship, which would be limited to words and feelings, and excluded from action. Apply this observation to my own case and to my special and worthy friend,3 and the fact that I have found no one to compare with him, even though I have known and liked, and been liked by, men of great intelligence and good will. (20 Jan. 1820.)
[105] Is it not the case that one of the greatest causes of change in the nature of suffering from ancient to modern times is Christianity, which has solemnly declared, established, and, one might say, actively enforced the maxim of the certain unhappiness and nothingness of human life, whereas for the ancients, how could it not be regarded as something worthy of their attention if the gods themselves, according to their mythology, were so deeply concerned with human affairs in and of themselves (and not in relation to the future), and were moved by the same passions as we are, practiced in particular the same arts (music, poetry, etc.), and were, in other words, concerned about exactly the same things as we are? However, I do not entirely consider Christianity to be the main cause of this change, for it could in part be a product of it (as Benjamin Constant maintains in an article on the Fathers of the Church reported in the Spettatore)1 but only as the major disseminator of this revolution of the heart.
Simply because the pleasure of suffering is a comfort to modern unhappiness, it does not follow that ignorance of that pleasure lessened the happiness of ancient times.
As in hope or any other disposition of our minds, a distant good is always greater than a present one, so generally in fear a distant evil is more terrible.
For great deeds, which for the most part cannot come about except through illusion, deception of the imagination is not generally enough, as it might be for the philosopher, and in the same way that the illusions of our times, so lacking in great deeds, are. What is needed is the deception of reason, as among the ancients. A good example of this is what is going on now in Germany, where if someone sacrifices himself for freedom (like Sand killing Kotzebue),2 this does not happen, as it might seem, as an effect of the simple ancient illusion of freedom and patriotism and greatness of deeds but because of the mystical nonsense with which [106] German students are filling their heads and cluttering their reason, as is apparent from the newspapers of recent days, which also carry their letters full of extravagant, ridiculous ideas that make love of liberty a new religion, with its own new mysteries. (26 March 1820, see the Gazzetta di Milano from the beginning of this month.)1
When I was a child, I sometimes used to say to one of my younger brothers, “You be my horse.” And I would tie a string to him for a bridle, lead him around,
and tap him with a whip. And they let me do this happily, and still remained my brothers. I am often reminded of this when I see a man (often of no special distinction) being served reverentially by this person or that in a hundred little things that he could easily do for himself, or equally do for those who are serving him and perhaps have more need than he does, since on occasion he may be healthier and stronger than those around him. And I say to myself, my brothers were not horses but people just like me, and these servants are people just as much as their master, similar to him in every way. And yet the former allowed themselves to be led, even though they were no more horses than I was, and the latter allow themselves to be ordered around, and I see no difference between the two cases. (26 March 1820.)
People all through the town in bed in their houses would awake in the silence of the middle of the night and hear in terror his horrible cry in the streets, etc.2
French style—the style of conversation.
The usual style of our painters—Arcadian or Frugonian.3
How could it be that matter feels, suffers, and despairs of its own nothingness? This certain and profound feeling (especially in great souls) of the vanity and insufficiency of everything that is measured with the senses, a feeling that is not only rational but a true and so to speak very perceptible and acutely painful feeling, how can this not [107] be material proof that the substance that conceives it and experiences it must be of another kind? Because to feel the nothingness of all perceptible and material things essentially supposes an ability to feel and understand objects of varying and contradictory natures, so how can this ability be a property of matter? It should be noted that I am not talking about something that can be grasped by our reason, because, in fact, reason is the most material of all the faculties we possess, and its highly material and mathematical processes could also be attributed in some way to matter; rather, I am talking about an inborn feeling, belonging to our minds, which makes us aware of the nothingness of things independently of our reason, and so I presume that this proof will have more force, revealing in part the nature of the mind. Nature is not material, as reason is.
The laugh of a sensitive man oppressed by a grave calamity is a sign of already mature despair. See p. 188.
I gave myself up entirely to the barbarous, convulsive joy of despair.1
If we say tomba [tomb] and the Greeks used τύμβος to signify the same thing, who will not agree that ancient Latin took tumbus or tumba from Greek, whence our tomba, with the u changed to o as usual? Because it’s not possible that the vernacular took the word directly from Greek (note that in modern Greek, it’s pronounced timbos, so if this derivation were not very ancient we would say not tomba but timba), and on the other hand the two words are too similar, and with the same value, for the one not to be obviously derived from the other. See Du Fresne and Forcellini2 both for this and for all the other words in these thoughts which I think are ancient and Latin. (15 Apr. 1820.)
Καμάρα expressly for cubiculum [bedchamber] occurs in Arrian, History of Alexander, bk. 7, toward the end.3 Transversare for attraversare is a word not just from late Latin but ancient, and occurs in the Moretum.4 Camminare la bugia su pel naso was used even in the time of Theocritus.5 For the word Καμάρα see Fabricius, Bibliotheca Graeca, note to Photius, Codex 213, old ed., tome 9, p. 449.6
[108] Observe how weakness is such an appealing thing in this world. If you see a young boy coming toward you unsteadily, with an air of powerlessness, you find yourself feeling tenderness at the sight of him and a fondness for the youth. If you see a beautiful woman who is unwell and weak, or if you should happen to witness any woman struggling feebly on account of the physical weakness of her sex, you will find yourself so moved that you are capable of prostrating yourself before that weakness and making it mistress of yourself and your own strength, submitting and sacrificing your whole self to its love and defense. The cause of this effect is compassion, which I say is the only human quality or passion that has nothing to do with self-love.1 The only one because even self-sacrifice for heroism, patriotism, virtue, or a beloved, and, similarly, any other action, however heroic and disinterested (and any other feeling, however pure), always comes about because on that occasion the sacrifice is more satisfying to our mind than anything we might gain. And each and every operation of our soul always has its certain and inevitable origin in egoism, however purified it is and however far from this it may seem. But the compassion that arises in our soul at the sight of someone suffering is a miracle of nature that at that moment makes us feel something truly independent of our own advantage or pleasure and completely concerned with the other person, without any involvement of ourselves. And precisely because of this, compassionate people are very rare, and pity is ranked, especially these days, among the most respected and distinctive qualities of the sensitive and virtuous man. [109] If, of course, the compassion is not based on a fear that we ourselves might experience an ill similar to the one we are witnessing. (Because self-love is very subtle and insinuates itself everywhere, and is found hidden in the innermost places of our hearts, those which seem most impervious to this passion.) But you will see, on careful consideration, that there is a spontaneous compassion, utterly independent of such a fear, and directed entirely toward the unfortunate person.
Baggeo [simpleton] is also derived from Latin. See my discourse on the fame of Horace.1 And the French planer comes from the Greek πλάνομαι [to wander], whence also in Latin wandering stars are called planetae, that is, errabundi, and it’s quite plausible that the French word is derived (being unlikely to come from Greek) from planari, perhaps used in Vulgar Latin in the same sense. And note in this regard the two participles palans, tis and palatus, a, um errante, a sure sign of an ancient verb palari coming from πλάνομαι with the metathesis of the λ (as from ἅρπω rapio, and from μορφὴ forma) and with the consequent elision of the ν. Buonus for bonus is in Fronto,2 and see the orthographies of Cellarius and Manutius.3
From ἕρπω serpo, from ἅλς sal, from ἅλλω salio and salto (now we find only ἅλλομαι), from ἡμι—semi—(whence perhaps the French demi), from ὕδωρ, sudor although with a different meaning.
Drunkenness is the mother of joy, as is vigor. What does this mean? Why does drunkenness not cause melancholy? First, because melancholy derives from truth, not falsehood, and drunkenness causes us to forget the truth, and only from that forgetfulness can joy be born. Second, men in the state of nature, that is, in a state of vigor much greater than that of the present, were meant to be happy and abandon themselves to illusions and to see and feel them as if they were living and bodily presences.
Words, as Beccaria observes (treatise on style), present not just the idea of the object they signify but also [110] accessory images, sometimes more and sometimes fewer.1 And it is the most precious gift of a language to have these words. Scientific words present the bare and circumscribed idea of an object, and that’s why they’re called terms, because they determine and define the thing from all sides. The richer in words a language is, the more suitable it is for literature and beauty, etc. etc., and the opposite is true when it is richer in terms, I mean when this richness of terms damages that of words because an abundance of both is not harmful. Because the appropriate choice of a word and plainness or dryness are very different things, and if the former gives discourse efficacy and clarity the latter adds nothing but aridity. The great danger facing the French language at present is that of becoming completely scientific and mathematical because it contains too many terms for every kind of thing, and of forgetting its ancient words. Although this makes it easy and popular because it is the most artificial and geometrically stark language now in existence. So it needs great writers who, little by little, can restore a familiarity with the voice and style of Bossuet and Fénelon and other great prose writers of its best period; the same applies to poetry. Mme. de Staël is obviously aware of this, and her own writing has much of the old pla
sticity compared with the modern dryness and the skeletal (regular but purely skeletal) style of today. And it would do no harm to return to old sources such as Amyot and others, which, used with discretion, would restore to the language the juice it now lacks in the dull and overwhelming regularity of its constructions (which has also contributed significantly to its popularity in Europe), about which Fénelon and other famous writers complained so bitterly. (See Algarotti’s Saggio sulla lingua francese.)2 Let us adapt this observation to less material things. [111] See p. 100 of these thoughts. Applying it generally, we find its basis in the nature of things, seeing how philosophy and the use of pure reason, which can be compared with the use of terms and regular constructions, have made this poor life of ours so arid and sterile and how all the beauty of this world lies in the imagination, which we can equate with words and constructions that are free, varied, daring, and figurative. Borrowings from Greek (single words rather than expressions), with which the French language is so cluttered these days, cannot exist in our language except as terms with precise and limited meanings and a technical, geometric feel to them, without grace and without elegance. And the more we accumulate them to the detriment of our own words, the more we will detract from the native grace and strength of our language. Because strength and clarity consist in awakening an image of the object and not at all in defining it dialectically, as those words do when they are brought into the language. This is why metaphors of every kind are perfectly suited to the natural beauty and color of discourse. And the mannered Italian used by so many scribblers today, which, despite being full of native words and idioms, manages to sound impoverished and dissonant, is like that (besides the affectation, which comes through in too superficial a mastery of the true language, and a labored search for old words and phrases, rather than taste and style judiciously modeled on the old, and the old writers themselves boiled down to blood and marrow) because the modern dryness that these writers cannot avoid is a very ugly sight, compared with ancient freshness, color, softness, brilliance, embonpoint [plumpness], richness, vigor, etc.
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