Cicero’s Philippics contain the last voice of Rome and are the last monument to ancient liberty, the last written words in which liberty is defended and preached openly and fearlessly to the people of that time. From then onward, liberty was no longer the object of public reverence, or of the praises and allusions of writers (not just Roman but we might almost say of any nation, except recently the French. In fact, the end of Roman liberty marked the end of liberty in civilized nations forever).1 Those who came after celebrated it as a good in the past, but condemned and detested it in their own time as an evil. Its ancient champions were praised in histories, orations, verses as Heroes, modern champions were condemned and abominated as traitors. Monuments and statues were erected to ancient defenders of liberty, their modern counterparts were accused, condemned, and outlawed. By a strange contradiction, the praise of liberty was permitted in speeches, writings, and deeds up to a certain time. Beyond that limit, writers change their language, and curse in their contemporaries what they held holy, [460] and still hold holy, in their forefathers. Among them is Velleius, the great extoller of ancient deeds, liberty, etc., execrator of the ancient enemies of liberty, and of its modern friends. He extols Nasica and Opimius, the murderers of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus (whom he regards as great, indeed the finest, men, except in that they attacked liberty), and execrates the plot against Caesar,1 etc. Because as soon as he arrives at this point, all of a sudden the picture changes completely, and his language, which until then had been very liberal, becomes totally abject and servile. And this change is so sudden and evident because he is also the great panegyrist of Pompey, Caesar’s immediate antagonist, and specifically Pompey the republican, since he condemns him wherever he is lacking in his duties toward a free homeland.2 (27 Dec. 1820.) See p. 463, paragraph 1.
On those rare occasions when I have met with some small piece of good fortune or some reason to rejoice, instead of showing my joy outwardly, I have tended naturally toward melancholy, as far as the outside was concerned, even though I was inwardly content. But I was afraid of disturbing this calm and hidden joy, altering it, spoiling it, losing it [461] by giving expression to it. And I placed my joy in the custody of melancholy. (27 Dec. 1820.)
For p. 8, paragraph 1 and p. 10, end. Not only in natural or manual, in other words material, activities but in all human affairs, it is necessary to act freely and confidently. Distrust, on the other hand, excessive desire, haste, concern, and ambition lead to failure. If you have nothing to lose, you will move with complete freedom in the world. And you will have no trouble being well treated and respected when you have no respect to preserve, or in proportion. And vice versa. So that if you find yourself in a place, situation, etc., where you are anxious to make a good impression, you will probably fail. And if you have been talking with someone and gained his respect, it will cost you a lot to lose it, when you realize that you have it, and you will be anxious to keep it. This is something that happens especially in love, or even in paying court, when you lose someone’s love and esteem, which you had won without trying, in the effort to keep it. You can say the same about a hundred other kinds of things. Nature is the only power. Art does not help nature, but often restricts it, and by letting [462] things take their course you obtain what you cannot obtain by wishing. Indifference to the outcome, and confidence in success, is the surest way of obtaining it, in the same way that excessive concern and excessive fear of failure lead to the contrary. Nor is it easy in human affairs to acquire this certainty, and quell this fear, without a certain indifference, or without being prepared “in alterutram partem” [“for either one outcome or the other”]. And therefore desperate men, or those who have lost everything, and have nothing to lose or to keep, succeed better than others in life. Nor is there a desperate man who is so poor and powerless that he is no good for anything in this world, since he is desperate. And this is naturally the reason that, not by chance, “audaces fortuna iuvat” [“fortune favors the bold”]. (28 Dec. 1820.)
Anyone who is intimately familiar with Tasso, even if he does not place the writer or the poet among the greatest, will certainly place him among the foremost of his time, and perhaps first among them.
Quanto a [As for, as to], an Italian preposition, used also in Latin by Tacitus, as I have said in another thought [→Z 150], is derived entirely from the Greek: ὅσον πρὸς, ὅσον μὲν πρὸς, etc., is used with the same meaning and requires the same cases.
[463] For p. 460. If nothing else, one could no longer overtly praise liberty, or expound and preach it to his contemporaries, and liberty was no longer a word that could be proclaimed with praise, in relation to the present or to modern times. Even though not all besmirched themselves with the vile flattery of a Velleius, and Livy was seen as a supporter of Pompey1 in his history, and the generosity of Tacitus is very well known,2 etc. But not even he, you will find, although he condemns tyranny, ever praises liberty in his own name. I am not discussing poets such as Virgil, Horace, or Ovid. For the most part flatterers of the tyrants of their times, even though they praised the ancient republicans. The freest is Lucan.3 (28 Dec. 1820.)
General egoism causes and necessitates the egoism of each. Because, when no one does anything for you, you can survive only by doing everything for yourself alone. And when other people deprive you of as much as they can, and, thinking only of themselves, do not reckon the harm done to you, if you want to survive it’s better that you fight for yourself and oppose them with everything you can. Because, whatever you are willing to concede, do not expect either gratitude or recompense, for the commerce of sacrifice and generosity and mutual benefit has been abolished. On the contrary, if you yield just one step, the others will push you back twenty steps, each striving for himself with all his might; so each must [464] fight the others as hard as he can, and stand up for himself to the very end, and with all his strength. For the reaction has to be proportionate to the action, if the effect is to follow, that is, if you want to survive. And where the action is excessive, so too must be the reaction. And the greater the one, the more the other must necessarily increase. As in a pack of wild beasts crowding around a prey, when each of them is determined not to leave anything to the others except what it is forced to, the animal that did nothing, or gave way to the others, or waited for them to allow room for it, or failed in the end to use all its might, would either go hungry or suffer a loss proportionate to the lack of energy it expended or could have expended. Everything that is conceded is lost, given the system of universal egoism. In other respects, too, this egoism causes individual egoism, that is, not just by example but because of the disillusion produced in a virtuous man by the sad experience of the uselessness, indeed the harm, of virtue and magnanimous sacrifices, and because of the misanthropy that is inspired by the sight of everyone concerned with himself, and not caring about your interests, ungrateful for your favors, and ready to harm you, whether he has been favored by you or not. [465] Such a circumstance alters the character of people, and introduces egoism not just materially but radically, even in the finest spirits. Indeed principally in such people, because egoism enters not as a passion that is base and vile but as one that is superior and magnanimous, that is, as a passion for revenge, and hatred of those who are evil and ungrateful. “Si nocentem innocentemque idem exitus maneat, acrioris viri esse, merito perire” [“and if the same end awaits the guilty and the innocent, it more befits a braver man to deserve his death”] in the words of Emperor Otto, according to Tacitus, Historiae, bk. 1, ch. 21. (2 Jan. 1821.) See p. 607, end.
Velleius, 2, 76, § 3: “Adventus deinde in Italiam Antonii, praeparatusque” (meaning apparatusque as a noun) “Caesaris contra eum, habuit belli metum: sed pax contra Brundisium composita” [“Antony’s arrival in Italy, and Caesar’s preparations against him, produced a certain fear of war: but peace…”] What does contra Brundisium mean? Interpreters rack their brains, and some read circa [near] and some defend the standard text. Read: sed pax contra Brundi
sii composita. Contra is an adverb. “There was a fear of war, but on the contrary peace was made at Brindisi.” But see the historians, and the Velleius editions, after the second posthumous edition of Burmann, Leiden 1744, printed by Samuel Luchtmans.1 (2 Jan. 1821.) “Post Brundisinam pacem” [“after the peace of Brindisi”], Velleius 2, 86, § 3.
[466] One can find respite from all the pain of all misfortune, but not from regret. In regret there is neither rest nor peace, and therefore it is the greatest or most bitter of all woes, as I have said in other thoughts [→Z 188]. (2 Jan. 1821.) See p. 476, paragraph 1.
It was noted and well known among the ancients (not, I believe, among the early ancients, but several centuries after Xenophon) that Xenophon did not write any introduction to his Κύρου ἀναβάσει [Anabasis of Cyrus],1 even if from the second book onward he includes book by book what Laertius described as an introduction, but what is actually an epilogue, or brief summary of what he said earlier. See Laertius in Xenophon; Lucian, De scribenda historia, etc.2 And Lucian says that many, in order to imitate him, did not include any introduction in their histories. And he adds: “οὐκ εἰδότες ὡς δυνάμει” (potentia) “τινὰ προοίμιά ἐστι λεληθότα τοὺς πολλοὺς” [“not knowing that there are virtual prefaces, even if most people do not notice them”]. I cannot see anything remarkable here. Look closely at that work: it is not a history, but more of a Diary or Journal (so to speak, and for the most part military) of that Expedition. In fact, it proceeds day by day, noting the marches, counting the number of parasangs,3 etc. etc., in fact the work ends with an actual list or total of days, distances covered, nations, etc., a list that is independent of the rest, by reason of its syntax. And enumerations of this kind [467] are spread throughout the entire work. It was therefore not meant to have an introduction, for it was not precisely in the form of a work, but rather a Commentary or Memoir, or recollections and materials. Why do those who express surprise about Xenophon not do the same about Caesar? He begins his Commentaries De bello Gallico and Civili1 abruptly, exactly like Xenophon. And this was because they were not History but commentaries. Nor does he include any introduction to any of the books into which they are divided. The same goes for Hirtius. Except for a kind of instruction addressed to Balbus preceding bk. 8 of De bello Gallico (which was necessary not for the work itself but because of the circumstance that he was continuing it), neither that book nor De bello Alexandrino, nor De bello Africano, nor De bello Hispaniensi (whose author is uncertain) has any preamble and they go straight into their subject.2
From these observations deduce: (1) further evidence that Xenophon is the true author of the Κύρου ᾿Ανάβασις [Anabasis of Cyrus] and not Themistogenes,3 etc., because this is a journal and could not be written or even drafted except in praesentia [by witnessing the events], and by the General himself (like Caesar’s commentaries), or at least by someone in his inner circle. This characteristic of being an account by an eyewitness, [468] indeed by the protagonist and central figure in events, is not shared by any other surviving work of Greek history, or indeed any other ancient work, apart from Caesar’s commentaries. Therefore, it is uniquely valuable in this respect as well, and more suited than the others to give a true idea of the customs, thoughts, nature of the ancients and their deeds, in the same way as the letters of Cicero, though a different kind of writing, provide the most hidden and intimate source for the history of those times. See p. 519, paragraph 2.
(2) That Arrian was unwise in deciding to write the ᾿Αλεξάνδρου ἀνάβασιν [Anabasis of Alexander]1 (in seven books because Xenophon wrote seven) in imitation of the said work. Because he was not able to write (nor did he write, or intend or think of writing) a journal. The two works are therefore essentially of a different kind, that is, one is a diary and the other a history. Not as badly, Onesicritus also wrote about Alexander in imitation of Xenophon. Because he was one of Alexander’s companions on his expedition, just as Xenophon accompanied Cyrus. See Laertius, bk. 6, Onesicritus.2
In any case, if Xenophon’s history ῾Ελληνικῶν [Hellenica] has no introduction, this is because it was intended to continue and to become a single corpus with Thucydides’s history. In fact the ancients, while noting the absence of an introduction in the Κύρου ᾿Ανάβασις [Anabasis of Cyrus], do not mention this other history. [469] And see the last words τῶν ῾Ελληνικῶν [of the Hellenica] and Dionysius of Halicarnassus in the comments on Xenophon.1
It can be noted that Xenophon is less than himself in this other work because he tries to imitate Thucydides, and does so with such slavishness, wanting his style to be indistinguishable from that of Thucydides, so that the two works would seem to be one.2 And all the worse in that the style of Thucydides is almost the opposite of Xenophon’s own style. In fact, anyone with a modicum of judgment can easily detect a strained brevity in the books τῶν ῾Ελληνικῶν [Hellenica], a notable difference from the style of Xenophon’s other works, a powerless desire to be incisive, rapid, forceful, etc. This is contrary to Xenophon’s nature; and see Cicero in the accounts on Xenophon, etc., and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, also in the accounts on Xenophon.3 Indeed, in the very phrases, words, idioms, in short, in the appearance and physical form of the style, Xenophon often abandons his own custom in order to follow that of Thucydides, so that the appearance of the style seems to be rather new to anyone who is familiar with Xenophon’s other works. Even in his spelling, trying to resemble Thucydides, Xenophon writes (contrary to his usual practice in the other [470] works) ξὺν instead of σὺν, and likewise in compounds in which this preposition appears: a habit that I believe is familiar to Thucydides. (2 Jan. 1821.)
What I said above [→Z 466] in relation to specific introductions for each book of the Κύρου ᾿Ανάβασις [Anabasis of Cyrus] apart from the first, is not true of book 6, which has no introduction. Except that chapter 3 begins with a short epilogue, and I thought for a long time that the first two chapters belonged to book 5 and that the sixth began at the 3rd chapter. However, it is true that this epilogue includes only what is said in the previous two chapters, and not what comes in the previous part of the work, as do all the other introductions to the various books. (3 Jan. 1821.)
Nature is not perfect in absolute terms, but nature alone is great, and a source of greatness. Therefore, all that is perfect, or that approaches perfection, according to our abstract way of thinking, is not great. Observe this in all things: in works of genius, poetry, fine arts, etc., in deeds, characters, customs, peoples, governments, etc. A perfect man is never great. A great man is never perfect. [471] Heroism and perfection are contradictory things. Every hero is imperfect. Such were the ancient heroes (in modern times there are none). That is how the ancient poets, etc., describe them, such was their idea of the heroic character, unlike Virgil, Tasso, etc., all the less perfect the more perfect their heroes are, and their poems, too.1 (3 Jan. 1821.)
Let a philosopher come and tell me: If the bones or the ashes of Homer or Virgil, etc., were found today, what worth, according to dry reason, would that tomb, etc., those ashes really have? And what part would they contain of the qualities, the virtues, the glory, etc., of Homer, etc.? Once the illusions and the deceptions were taken away, what use would they be? What real use would be obtained from them? If someone, therefore, found them, and then scattered and lost them, or profaned them, desecrated them, etc., what wrong would he really have committed? Would he not indeed be acting in true and exact accordance with reason? How, therefore, would he merit the condemnation, the vilification of civilized people? And yet it would be called barbarism. Is reason not therefore barbarous? Is the civilization of society and nations therefore not founded on, is it not composed, does it not consist essentially of errors and illusions? You can say the same thing generally [472] about the treatment of bodies after death, burial ceremonies, etc.1 (3 Jan. 1821.)
Velleius, 2, 98, § 2: “Qui
ppe legatus Caesaris triennio cum his bellavit; gentesque ferocissimas, plurimo cum earum excidio, nunc acie, nunc expugnationibus, in pristinum pacis redegit modum; ejusque patratione, Asiae securitatem, Macedoniae pacem reddidit” [“As lieutenant of Caesar he fought” {the Thracians} “for three years; and by a succession of battles and sieges, with great loss of life to the Thracians, he brought these fiercest of peoples to their former state of peaceful subjection. By the accomplishing of this he restored security to Asia and peace to Macedonia”]. What does eiusque patratione refer to? It is glossed eiusque pacis patratione [by the accomplishing of this peace] (as in the Velleius index). Brilliant: having made peace, or by making that PEACE, he restored PEACE to Macedonia. I would read it as: eiusque belli patratione [by the accomplishing of this war] (4 January 1821), or eiusque patratione belli. See p. 477, paragraph 2.
Neither the faculty of knowledge, nor that of love, nor even that of the imagination is capable of infinity, or of conceiving infinitely, but only of the indefinite and of conceiving indefinitely. Something delights us because our soul, unable to see any limits, receives the impression of a kind of infinity, and confuses the indefinite with the infinite, but that does not mean that it effectively comprehends or conceives of infinity. Indeed, in the vaguest and most indefinite, and therefore the most sublime and pleasurable, imaginings, the soul feels particularly a certain anguish, a certain difficulty, a certain inadequate desire, a decided powerlessness to grasp the full measure of the [473] image or conception or idea that it has. And so, even though this gives fulfillment and pleasure and satisfaction more than any other possible thing on this earth, it does not effectively fulfill and satisfy the soul, and on disappearing never leaves it content, because the soul feels and knows, or seems to, that it has not managed to conceive and visualize the whole, whether it believes that it couldn’t, or didn’t know how to, and is persuaded that it should have been able to, and hence feels a certain regret, which in truth is wrong, for it is blameless. (4 Jan. 1821.)
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