Poetry that requires explanatory notes has always been derided. Nevertheless, these notes referred to auxiliary or secondary matters, names, allusions, facts that were little known or badly expressed, etc. What will people say about poetry that needs explanatory notes about its substance or main subject matter, in other words its characters and the properties and workings of the human heart that it describes, like the poems of Lord Byron? These then are the reformers of poetry? These the great psychologists? But without any help from psychology, we already knew a long time ago that this is not the way to have an effect on the reader.1 See pp. 223–25.
Negligence and thoughtlessness can very often give the same impression and have the same effect as wickedness and brutality. They deserve to be considered among the major and most frequent causes of the wickedness of men and their actions. Out walking with a friend who is quite sensitive and philosophical, I saw a youth with a big stick, casually, in passing, as if in a game, deliver a hefty blow to a poor dog who was minding his own business and no trouble to anyone. My friend regarded this as a sign of the youth’s bad character. To me, it seemed a sign of brutal thoughtlessness. [239] This on many occasions induces us to do very damaging or hurtful things to other people without our even noticing (I am talking about ordinary everyday life, such as a negligent employer who leaves his servant to get drenched in the rain, etc.), and, once we are aware of them, we feel remorse. At other times, as in the previous example, we know what we are doing, but don’t give it a second thought and do it anyway, whereas if we really thought about it, we wouldn’t do it. So negligence looks much the same, and has the very same effect, as wickedness and cruelty, despite the fact that, every time, if you had thought about it, you would have had no intention of producing such a result, and wickedness and cruelty were not part of your character. (11 Sept. 1820.)
Hatred of boredom is the only reason that today we see gatherings of people eager to watch bloody spectacles, such as public executions and the like, which have nothing pleasurable in themselves (unlike the contest, display, etc., of gladiators and wild animals in the circus) but only insofar as they provide a vivid contrast with the monotony of living. The same is true of anything that appeals simply by being extraordinary, even though, far from being pleasurable, it is in itself deeply unpleasurable.
From Cicero’s oration Pro Archia it appears that the Greek language was then considered [240] universal in the same way that French is today, and that the use and knowledge of Latin was restricted to a few: “Latina suis finibus, exiguis sane, continentur.” “Because Greek can be read by nearly all peoples, while Latin remains within its own boundaries, narrow as these are,” Cicero, loc. cit.1 Nevertheless, the Roman empire was probably the largest ever seen, and the Romans of Cicero’s time already had command of the seas and were great traders. Similarly, now the English have command of the seas and trade, and although their language consequently is more widespread than many others, nevertheless it is not known and used universally, but only by a minority in each country, and is far behind French, which has never been favored by such extensive trade. It seems quite clear, therefore, that the spread of a language, while requiring a degree of power and influence in the nation that speaks it (because the French language, though well suited to universality, would never have become universal if it had belonged to a small, powerless country like Switzerland, for example), nevertheless depends mostly on the nature of the language itself. It doesn’t matter that Greek settlements were very widespread. The Romans’ settlements were even more so at the time, and not only their settlements but their armies, governments, tribunals, etc. etc. But when a language spreads by means of colonization, it could be said that it is the nation rather than the language that spreads, since it is [241] quite natural that a city of Romans anywhere in the world should speak the Roman language, and likewise an army, etc. But this has nothing to do with the general adoption of a language by foreigners, with all educated people in whatever nation being almost δίγλωττοι [bilingual] (see p. 684), and with a traveler being able to make himself understood in that language anywhere. Now, this is what gives a language its universality and not (1) its being spoken by its own nationals in many parts of the world, (2) its even being introduced in many countries by means of those who speak it naturally, either with the abolition of the language of the different countries (when actually διγλωττία [bilingualism] presupposes that it is preserved) or with the native language being more or less altered or corrupted through mixing. This is something that we can see happened to Latin, very noticeable traces of which remain in many parts of Europe (and perhaps even outside it) (as, if I am not mistaken, in Transylvania, Poland, Russia, etc.), and it clearly became established in Spain and France, where, through the corruption of Latin, the Spanish and French languages were derived, and in Carthaginian and Numidian Africa, etc.,1 whereas no or very few traces of Greek can be found. Despite all this, Latin was never a universal language in the sense described earlier, just as the English language is not universal today, even though it is established and spoken as the mother tongue in all four corners of the world (in each of the four corners). It is well known, also, that the Greeks never learned Latin, which perhaps contributed to the preservation over a long period of the purity of their own language, the only one they knew. And where [242] colonies are concerned, France has always, or nearly always, come second to England, Spain, and even Portugal, as with trade. Not even literature is a major factor in the universality of a language. Italian literature was paramount for a long time in Europe, and was known and studied by everyone, by women, too, like Mme. de Sévigné in France, etc., but despite this the Italian language was never universal. And if Italianisms ruined the French language at the time of the Medici queens,1 just as French expressions are now ruining Italian, this phenomenon belongs in the same category as the corruption produced by colonies, armies, etc. (Such corruption happens very quickly and perceptibly. A few Neapolitan soldiers stationed in my hometown for one or two years in my own lifetime introduced many words and expressions of their dialect into common speech. This was because local speakers (1) were struck by the novelty, (2) liked to show off or joke by imitating these foreigners, etc.) Spanish literature, language, and culture became widespread when Spain achieved a certain predominance in Europe and especially in Italy (where a few words still remain that I think were derived from Spanish at that time), but their influence disappeared with that of the nation. So, although Greek literature, especially in Cicero’s time, that is [243] before the century of Augustus, was infinitely superior to literature in Latin, as well as more widespread and famous, this is not a sufficient reason. The universality of a language derives principally from the regularity, geometry, and ease of its structure, from the exactitude, material clarity, precision, and certainty of its meanings, etc., things which everyone can appreciate, being founded on dry reason and pure common sense, but which have nothing to do with beauty, richness (in fact, richness creates confusion, difficulties, and prejudice), dignity, variety, harmony, grace, power, lucidity, qualities that contribute less to the universality of a language, for (1) they cannot be intimately felt or appreciated except by native speakers, (2) they seek out an abundance of idioms and figurative expressions, in other words irregularities, that, however necessary they may be for beauty and pleasure, cannot coexist with monotony and with the rigidity of mathematical precision, and therefore detract considerably from mere usefulness, facility, etc. The Greek language, although very rich, etc. etc. etc., was nevertheless very simple in its native construction (I say native because it was then contaminated by later writers with pretensions to elegance), whereas Latin was extremely figurative, and the correctness of its compound words gave a very material facility and precision to its meanings, although this considerably reduced its variety, which comes not [244] from the wealth of compounds but from that of roots, as in Latin and Italian. And although Greek has a great abundance of these, it can still make do without mos
t of them, and using few roots and an infinite number of compounds fashions everything it has to say. This was, in fact, the custom of ancient Greek writers (Lucian and other later writers1 are much more varied and rich in radicals). Because, if you examine the vocabulary of each one carefully, you will see that it is composed of very few words, which turn up all the time, it being very unusual for these ancient writers to vary a word or phrase to express the same thing. Thus it follows that although the Greek language in itself is vast, you will notice, going from one writer to another, that each has his own particular little vocabulary, with which each is equally content, and the familiar expressions of each Greek author are many and constant, but different from one writer to another, almost as if they were different languages. From this, one could conclude that although the Greek language is very rich, it can still, with only a small vocabulary, suffice for all discourse. These vocabularies can be many and diverse, something that is demonstrated in practice and in seeing that for Greek writers, more than those in any other language, the facility acquired through reading and understanding one author will not entirely enable you to move on to another, because you almost need to learn another language. This applies exclusively to the meaning of the language, but it should [245] be noted also that Greek, like Italian, lends itself to styles of every kind and has no fixed character but acquires this from the subject and the writer, and so its character varies in this respect as well, and for this reason, according to the nature of the work, like the language of Dante or Alfieri compared with Petrarch’s, etc. (12, 13, 14 Sept. 1820.) See p. 1029, end.
Indecision is worse than despair. This maxim presented itself to me clearly and literally in a dream the night before last, when my brother in desperation seemed to have decided to become a Capuchin friar, and I refused to put forward any reasons that would have made him think again, applying the said maxim. (14 September 1820.)
Lyric poetry can be called the summit, the apex, the highest form of poetry, which is the highest form of human discourse. For that reason, the French, many miles short of the sublime as they are in the epic, have even less hope of producing real lyric poetry, which requires sublimity of a much higher order. Say, in his notes on man and society, calls the ode “the sonata of literature.”1 He is mad if he thinks the ode cannot be anything else, but he is quite right if he is talking about existing odes, especially those in French.
[246] The French are not only incapable of the sublime, accustomed neither to hearing it expressed by their fellow countrymen nor to producing it in any form (this observation, taken literally from Lady Morgan1 and universally accepted, should be applied to my notes on Bossuet [→Z 217–18]), but also desublimate things that are truly sublime, as in translations, etc.
With the theory of pleasure expounded in these thoughts [→Z 165–83], it is easy to understand how and why mathematics is contrary to pleasure and, just like mathematics, all those things that resemble or are allied with it, exactitude, dryness, precision, definition, and circumspection, whether belonging to the character or spirit of an individual or to any other material or spiritual entity.
It makes no difference. Things are not small in themselves. The world is not small but vast, especially with respect to man. Even the organization of the most minute, invisible creatures is something amazing.2 The variety of nature in this world alone is infinite—what then can we say about the other infinite worlds? So in one way we could say that not the vastness of things but rather their nothingness, so obvious and perceptible to man, is pure illusion. But as soon as man has gained the measure of something hitherto immeasurable, as soon as he becomes familiar with [247] the parts of it or is able to conjecture about them in accordance with the laws of reason, then that thing immediately seems very small, it no longer satisfies, and leaves him feeling very discontent. When Petrarch could write of the antipodes that “e che ’l dì nostro vola / A gente che di là forse l’aspetta” [“and that our day flies to people there who are perhaps awaiting it”],1 that perhaps is enough to allow us to conceive those people and those lands as something wonderful and delightful to imagine. Once discovered, they were certainly not diminished, and those lands are by no means small, but, as soon as the antipodes were seen on the map of the world, all the grandeur, beauty, and magic that the idea of them used to hold for us disappeared. So mathematics, which measures when we do not want to measure, defines and circumscribes when we do not want to set limits (even if these are vast, even if the reality is beyond our imagination), analyzes when we do not want analysis or an intimate, exact knowledge of something we found pleasurable (even when this knowledge does not reveal any defects but rather enables us to see that the object is more perfect than we had supposed, as happens in the scrutiny of works of genius, when discovering [248] all their virtues makes them disappear), mathematics, I say, must necessarily be the opposite of pleasure. (18 Sept. 1820.)
The business of society, like that provided by French society, really does fill one’s life, fill it, I mean, materially, but it does not leave as little space in the mind as the business of providing for one’s own needs, which preoccupied primitive man. A man who has passed the whole day in the liveliest, most varied, and complete of worlds, engaged in the least boring of pastimes, without cares or worries, who in the evening looks back on the day that has passed and considers the one to come, will not find himself nearly as content and satisfied as the man who thinks about the needs he has provided for and makes his plans to deal with those for which he must provide tomorrow. There has to be some serious aim underlying our occupations if we are to achieve a certain level of happiness (more or less serious depending on the individual), and even if everything is equally important in itself and pleasure is our sole aim, nevertheless pure leisure is always unable to satisfy us. The reason is that an occupation needs a purpose, something to aim for, so that added to the pleasure of the occupation there is hope, which will quite often prove to be the only pleasure in the activity. See my other thoughts on this topic [→Z 172–73].
[249] The Hegesiacs (a branch of the Cyrenaic sect)1 said, according to Laertius (in Aristippus, bk. 2, § 95) “τόν τε σοφὸν ἑαυτοῦ ἕνεκα πάντα πράξειν” [“the wise man will perform every action for his own benefit”]. This could be the motto of all modern wise men, insofar as they are wise.
Nature, as an absolute and primitive condition, gave us no idea of duty other than a duty toward ourselves, and the question of justice was limited to an animal’s concern for itself. There can be no doubt that as far as other species of animal were concerned, nature did not dictate any rules of honesty or propriety, because man feels no repugnance at doing harm to animals with no other benefit to himself than sheer amusement, as in killing an ant, etc. And the other animals very often prey on other species. But even among his own kind, totally primitive man does not feel there is anything inherently wrong in harming his fellows for his own advantage, any more than animals, which mistreat, fight, and sometimes eat their own kind, and even (so I hear) their own offspring. As for offspring, however, it seems certain that nature has created certain laws—whether of spontaneous love and affection or also feelings of responsibility—which are not permanent but last only for a limited period, as we can see in animals, [250] which after a certain time are unlikely to recognize their own young, especially animals that produce more than one offspring every year. The same thing would happen to man if the child, when it reached the age when it could provide for itself, left its parents and they separated from one another, as animals do. For the necessity of concubitu prohibere vago [prohibiting sexual promiscuity]1 proves nothing about society, because birds, too, build their nests expressly and live in accordance with the rules of marriage for as long as necessary to rear the products of that marriage and no longer, and yet they do not form a society. Nor does this necessity, where man is concerned, go farther than that naturally, but only artificially and a posteriori—in other words, with the establishment of society, whi
ch creates the necessity for perpetuating marriage, and distinctions of family and property. (19 Sept. 1820.)
An obvious proof, frequent and everyday in our lives, that smallness is popularly thought of as being graceful is the use of diminutives, which are habitually applied to persons or things that we love or want to make a fuss over, ask something of, soften, describe as graceful, etc. And similarly if, on the contrary, we wish to ridicule someone or something that is far from graceful, we use a diminutive so as to make it ridiculous through the strength of the contrast. This practice is so ancient [251] (in Latin, Greek, etc.), and so universal today that it could be thought of as originating in nature rather than as a custom or as a feature of this or that language. The French, who have only a very few diminutives, in the cases mentioned above make great use of these few, or they compensate with petit, demonstrating that the inclination to attribute and express smallness in such circumstances is neither whim nor habit but nature, the effect of an innate opinion that smallness almost invariably goes with grace and pleasingness, things very distinct from beauty, in which this attribute plays no part. And in the same way, when we want to offend, to describe as graceless, or to distance, etc. etc., someone or something, we use an augmentative expression; in general, it seems that an augmentative term removes grace from a subject and is, rather, the antithesis of grace and pleasingness. (22 September 1820.)
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