Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  Rather than his bowing to necessity, there is perhaps nothing that leads a great soul to such terrible, unconcealed, savage self-hatred, and hatred of life, as thinking of the necessity and irreparability of his woes, unhappiness, misfortunes, [504] etc. Only the man who is base, or weak, or inconstant, or lacking powerful passions, whether by nature, or by habit, or by long familiarity and experience of adversity and suffering, and a knowledge of the ways of the world by which he has been vanquished and tamed, only such men yield to necessity, indeed take comfort from it in misfortune, and say that it would be madness to resist and fight against it, etc. But the ancients, ever greater, nobler-minded, and stronger than ourselves, faced with an excess of misfortunes, and thinking upon their necessity, and the invincible power that rendered them unhappy and held and bound them to their wretchedness, with no possible remedy or release from it, would conceive hatred and fury against fate, and curse the Gods, and proclaim themselves in a way the enemies of heaven, powerless, certainly, and incapable of victory or vengeance, yet not defeated, or tamed, or diminished, indeed the greater the wretchedness and inevitability, the more desirous they were of taking their revenge. There are many such examples in ancient history. I do not know whether what the dying Julian did is history or fable.1 Of Niobe, after her misfortune, [505] it is said, if I am not mistaken, that she cursed the Gods, and admitted herself defeated, but not compliant.1 We who acknowledge neither fate nor fortune, nor any personified power of necessity by which we are constrained, have no figure against whom to turn our hatred and fury (if we are noble-hearted, and constant, and incapable of surrender) other than ourselves, and hence we conceive a truly murderous hate against our own person, as though it were our cruelest and supreme enemy, and we delight in the idea of voluntary death, of our own self-torment, of this very unhappiness that oppresses us, and which indeed we wish even greater, as in the idea of vengeance against an object of hatred and extreme rage. As for me, every time I convinced myself that my unhappy state was necessary and perpetual, and, turning desperately and frenziedly in all directions, found no possible remedy, or any hope, instead of yielding or finding solace in the idea of the impossible and of a necessity independent of myself, [506] I conceived a furious self-loathing, since the unhappiness I hated had its seat in me alone. Thus, I was the only possible object of this hatred, neither having nor acknowledging any other person outside myself to whom I might complain of my woes, and hence no other object deserving of my hatred for this reason. I conceived an ardent desire to take vengeance upon myself, and with my life to take vengeance on that necessary unhappiness that was inseparable from my existence, and I felt a fierce but supreme joy in the idea of suicide. The unchanging nature of circumstances came up against my own unchanging nature. In the clash between the two, since I myself was incapable of yielding, of softening and bending, and circumstances even more so, the victim in this battle could only be myself. In our day (except in misfortunes caused by men) no person is acknowledged as responsible for our wretchedness, or at most one whom Religion prevents us, in all manner of ways, from believing to be guilty, and hence deserving of our hatred. Nonetheless, even in the Religion of today, an excess of unhappiness, independent [507] of men and visible persons, sometimes drives men to hatred, to the cursing of invisible and higher beings, and this all the more so the more the person in question (who is otherwise constant and noble-hearted) is a believer, and religious. Job turned to complaining and almost to cursing both God and himself, his life, his birth, etc.1 (15 Jan. 1821.)

  Flatterers and friends of tyrants gain nothing except exclusion from the mercy that future generations will extend to their ages and generations. And they share in the hatred, without having been exempt from danger and ills, indeed quite the reverse, and often more so than others.2 (15 Jan. 1821.)

  What company is the most agreeable? That which enhances our own idea of ourselves; that which makes us pleased with ourselves, which convinces us that we are worth more than we thought, which shows us certain qualities as being praiseworthy when we did not think they deserved praise, or not so much; [508] that from which we depart with greater self-esteem, which leaves us better satisfied with ourselves. In man, and in every living being, all is self-love. Only those who flatter or serve, etc., other people’s love of themselves are perceived as being, and are, worthy of being loved. This is one of the main points to note, and strategies to adopt, in order to make yourself welcome in company, to make yourself pleasant and amiable, to make yourself wanted and successful, especially when it comes to courtship. Something that is well known to practitioners of this latter art. See what Lord Nelvil says of Mme. d’Arbigny in Staël’s Corinne.1 We often desire someone’s company; it gives us nourishment, a new and extraordinary pleasure; nor do we quite know why, but we attribute it to the amiability of this person’s manners and character. The true reason is that he knows how to make us esteem ourselves more highly than we did, or confirm us in the good opinion we had of ourselves. (15 Jan. 1821.)

  As we say in paragone, in comparazione [in comparison], for rispetto, appetto, verso, appresso [with regard to], so Florus, 2, 15 says of the third Punic War: “et in comparatione priorum, [509] minimum labore” [“much less difficult in comparison with the earlier {wars}”]. Forcellini has no example of this expression except for one from Curtius, where it is indeed found, but not with the equivalent meaning: “quas in comparatione meliorum, avaritia contempserat” [“which their avarice had scorned as they wanted to acquire better things”].1 Nothing in the Appendix. (15 Jan. 1821.)

  Petrarch in his canzone “Italia mia”:

  Ed è questo del seme,

  Per più dolor, del popol senza legge

  Al qual, come si legge,

  Mario aperse sì ’l fianco,

  Che memoria de l’opra anco non langue,

  Quando assetato e stanco,

  Non più bevve del fiume acqua che sangue.

  [And all this from the descendants

  Of that lawless people, to add to our distress,

  Which once, as men may read,

  Marius so wounded

  That the memory has still not faded

  Of how when thirsty and tired

  He drank from the river as much blood as water.]2

  It has not been observed, to my knowledge, that this latter hyperbole is lifted wholesale from Florus, 3, 3, in his account of the same battle against the Teutons that Petrarch is describing: “Ut victor Romanus de cruento flumine non plus acquae biberit quam sanguinis Barbarorum” [“So that the victorious Romans drank as much barbarian blood as water from the blood-stained stream”].3 For the Roman army was parched with thirst, and fighting for water as much as anything else. And perhaps Florus took this image from that passage in Thucydides on the siege of Syracuse, referred to and examined by Longinus.4 (15 Jan. 1821.) See p. 724, beginning.

  [510] Florus, 3, 3: “Iam diem pugnae a nostro Imperatore petierunt, et sic proximum dedit. In patentissimo, quem Raudium vocant, campo concurrere” [“They asked our general to name a day for the battle; and so he appointed the morrow. The armies met in a very wide plain that they call the Raudian Plain”]. I would read: et hic p. d.1 (15 Jan. 1821.)

  For p. 495. Similarly 2, 14: “vir ultimae sortis Andriscus” [“Andriscus, a man of the lowest origin”]. And similarly Velleius 1, 11, § 1: “qui se Philippum, regiaeque stirpis ferebat, cum esset ultimae” [“of his false claim that he was a Philip and of royal descent, though he was actually of the lowest birth”].2 Besides, whether this is an error in the Codices, or peculiar to Florus, and a grammatical figure known to him, I find other examples of him placing the quoque before rather than after what it should in fact refer to, considering the meaning. Similarly 2, 14, end. Although here it might perhaps be explained and accepted. But see 3, 6, where he talks of Pompey being chosen for the war against the pirates: “Sic ille quoque ante felix, dignus nunc victoria Pompeius visus est” [“Pompey, already so successful in the past, was now judged worthy of
the victory”].3 It seems that the quoque can relate only to the ante and not to the ille (although Publius Servilius Isauricus had already waged war upon the pirates and defeated them), because the force of this passage seems to lie in the opposition between the ante felix and the dignus nunc victoria. So it seems that the passage should be amended. See Forcellini where he talks of quoque as linked to et [511] or etiam. See also the latest editions of Florus.

  For p. 96. The name Alba [white], given to the city founded by Ascanius, is believed to be derived from the whiteness of that sow, and this may also confirm my own suspicion, Ascanius having founded it as a new troia [sow/Troy].1

  In these passages from Florus, “Postquam rogationis dies aderat, ingenti stipatus agmine” (Tiberius Gracchus) “rostra conscendit; nec deerat obvia manu tota inde” (and he has not stated or even suggested from which place) “nobilitas, et tribuni in partibus” [“When the day for bringing forward the bill was at hand; he” (Tiberius Gracchus) “ascended the rostrum surrounded by a large following; and the nobility was there to resist him with their supporters, and some tribunes were alongside them]” (3, 14); and “Quum se in Aventinum recepisset” (Gaius Gracchus), “inde quoque obvia Senatus manu, ab Opimio consule oppressus est” [“He betook himself to the Aventine where, being assailed by a body of senators, he was put to death on the orders of the consul Opimius”] (3, 15), it would seem that the inde cannot be understood except as meaning ibi or illuc, eo [there], etc.2 And in this sense, Florus’s use of this particle may be compared to the one our ancestors made of onde, quinci, quindi [whence]. See the Crusca, and the Spanish donde, which always means where. And it should be noted that it is with this meaning that Florus links the particle inde to the adjective obvius. And thus it does not seem to mean, nor could it mean, movement from a place, but a state, or movement to a place (as with the old Italians, onde vai [whence are you going] for dove vai [where are you going]). “Quo loco inter [512] se obvii fuissent” [“In that place where they met each other”], Sallust.1 “Cui mater mediâ se se tulit obvia silvâ” [“His mother brought herself to the middle of the forest to meet him”] (Virgil).2 These examples supplied by Forcellini are helpful for the use of obvius as being in a place. Neither Forcellini, nor the Appendix, gives examples of obvius linked to particles or cases that indicate movement from a place, and in any case here they would not seem to be relevant. Nor are there any of obvius with particles or cases indicating movement to a place, such as illuc obvius, or eo obvius, or ad eum obvius or the like. Only this one from Virgil: “Audeo […] Tyrrhenos equites ire obvia contra” [“I dare to go toward the Tyrrhene cavalry”].3 Furthermore, in Forcellini’s examples obvius is absolute, or linked usually to the dative: obvius illi, mihi, etc. Neither under the heading inde, nor under that of unde, does Forcellini or the Appendix have these passages from Florus, or any other example or even remote suggestion of this meaning. (16 Jan. 1821.) But see also in the Crusca altronde [from elsewhere] for altrove [elsewhere], and you might add this example from Bernardino Baldi, eclogue 10, “Melibea,” toward the end (Versi e prose di Mons. Bernardino Baldi, Venice 1590, p. 204): “Fuggiam fuggiamo altronde, / Ch’a noi sen vien a volo / Di vespe horrido stuolo, / E sotto aurato manto il ferro asconde” [“Let us flee, let us flee elsewhere, for a fearful swarm of wasps is flying toward us, and under its golden mantle hides its steel”]. See in Forcellini an example of aliunde for alibi [elsewhere]. See also Du Fresne under inde, unde, aliunde, alicunde, etc., whether he has anything to say on the matter. See p. 1421.

  Rarely does mental suffering, on its own, have the power to kill, or cause extreme illness, and we may more readily invent such examples in novels than encounter them in real life, although [513] mental suffering is often seen as responsible for infirmities that have other causes, or at least in part. And it is particularly unlikely and very odd that mental suffering, or some nonphysical misfortune, etc., should cause death or illness long after this misfortune began, or occurred, etc., in short, that human life should be gradually consumed and fade away purely on account of some particular affliction of the mind. (I am not talking of general illnesses, because undoubtedly a poor state of mind usually has considerable influence on length of life, health, vigor, etc.) Why should this be? Because time heals all the mind’s wounds. But how? By habituation, I know, and this plays a large part, but not by this alone. One other powerful reason for this effect is that illusions are quick to repossess and reconquer our mind, even despite ourselves, and man (as long as he remains alive) will unfailingly revert to hoping for that happiness he had despaired of. He feels that solace [514] which he had believed and judged impossible. He forgets and denies that bitter truth, which had set down such deep roots in his mind. And the most steadfast and total disenchantment, repeated even daily, cannot resist the forces of nature when it revives hopes and illusions. (16 Jan. 1821.)

  If, as children, we take delight and pleasure in a view, a landscape, a painting, a sound, etc., a story, a description, a fairy tale, a poetic image, a dream, that delight and pleasure is always vague and indefinite. The idea that is awakened in us is always indeterminate and limitless, every solace, every pleasure, every expectation, every project, illusion, etc. (indeed, almost every conception), at that age always has something of the infinite about it, and nourishes us and fills our soul in a way that cannot be put into words, even through the smallest objects. When we grow up, whether they are greater pleasures and objects, or the same ones that charmed us as children, such as a lovely view, a landscape, a painting, etc., we will feel pleasure, but it will never be comparable in any way to this sense of the infinite, or certainly it will not be so intensely, perceptibly, enduringly, and essentially vague and indeterminate. The pleasure of that sensation is immediately limited, and circumscribed, as soon as we understand [515] the path taken by our childhood imagination to arrive, by those same means, and in similar or comparable circumstances, at the indefinite idea and pleasure, and to linger there. Indeed, note that possibly the majority of the indefinite images and sensations that we feel even after childhood, and throughout the rest of our life, are nothing other than a remembrance of childhood. They look back to it, depend upon and derive from it, are in a way an emanation and consequence of it, either in general or in particular. In other words, we experience that sensation, idea, pleasure, etc., because we remember, and there appears in our imagination, the same sensation, image, etc., we experienced as children, and how we experienced it in those same circumstances. So that the present sensation does not derive directly from things, it is not an image of objects, but an image of the childhood image, a recollection, a repetition, a reechoing, or reflection of the old image.1 And this is a very frequent occurrence. (Thus, in my own case, if I see once more the prints that gave me such pleasure as a child,2 [516] the places, sights, encounters, etc., and think back to the stories, fairy tales, books, dreams, etc., and hear again the lullabies I first heard in childhood or early youth, etc.) So that, had we not been children, we would—in our present condition—be deprived of most of those few indefinite sensations which remain to us, since we experience them only in relation to, and by virtue of, our childhood.

  And note that even pleasurable dreams at the age we are now, though they delight us far more than reality, nevertheless no longer represent the same indefinite beauty and pleasure that they so often had in our earliest years. (16 Jan. 1821.)

  Besides compassion, we may note another impulse, entirely independent of our love of self, which, although it resembles compassion, is yet not the same thing. And this is the acute anxiety we feel on seeing, e.g., a child doing something that we know will bring him harm, a man exposing himself to some obvious danger, a person close to falling over a cliff without realizing. [517] And so forth. I am speaking here of harm that has not yet come about. Then we also feel an absolute need to prevent it, if we can, and far greater distress if we cannot. What’s certain is that seeing someone doing himself an injury, or about to suffer, whether intention
ally or unwittingly, etc., seeing this, and not preventing it, or not feeling distressed by our inability to do so, goes against nature. Equally, if such harm actually occurs, seeing someone fall, etc., even if the harm done is not the most horrible and sickening of sights, we nonetheless feel great pity, naturally and without pausing to reflect. And, to those who observe closely, these impulses are different from compassion, which occurs after the harm has been done, and does not precede or accompany it. Even with inanimate things or beings of another species than our own, seeing a beautiful, rare, precious, or useful object being destroyed, or in danger of being destroyed or ruined, or, I don’t know, some animal, etc., we feel the same distressing emotion, the same need to cry out, to prevent it if we can, etc. And this in spite of the fact that the thing in question [518] does not belong to anyone in particular, nor is its loss or damage harmful to anyone in particular. So that the unpleasant feeling which we then experience is turned directly upon the suffering object, possibly even when it has an owner, and we have some connection with him. They say that the truly strong woman is one who can look on unperturbed as her porcelain is being smashed. But not women only. Men, too—not only in the case of their own possessions but also those of others, or those held in common, or belonging to no one, provided always that they are worth something—will feel the same sensation, independently of their own will. The root of this feeling cannot, it seems, be found in self-love.1 It seems that our nature has a certain solicitude for what is worthy of consideration, and a certain repugnance at seeing it destroyed, even if it has nothing at all to do with us. See the next page. Horror at destruction (which might in the final analysis be related to self-love) does not seem to [519] play any part in this, at least not a major one. Every day we see, without repugnance or any concern to prevent it, the destruction of a thousand objects that are of no account to us. (17 Jan. 1821.)