For the previous page. It seems that nature has charged us all jointly with seeing to the preservation of all that is good (note these words, which might greatly extend this thought, e.g., to the moral realm, to beauty of all kinds and nonphysical, etc.), and with preventing its destruction, if this does positive damage to each for his part. In this sense, it might in the long run relate to self-love, or perhaps not.
For p. 468. Furthermore, in the Expedition of Cyrus1 the author speaks of Xenophon in words so tempered with modesty and love that anyone who knows the human heart sees instantly, on reading this work, that the man is talking, cannot but talk, always and only of himself. (17 Jan. 1821.)
[520] Full philosophy is totally inactive, and a people of perfect philosophers would be incapable of action. In this sense, I maintain that philosophy has never caused and could not have caused any revolution or movement or undertaking, etc., public or private; indeed, by its very nature it had rather to suppress them, as among the Romans, Greeks, etc. But half-philosophy is compatible with action, indeed may cause it. Thus philosophy, whether directly or indirectly, no doubt did cause the revolution in France, in Spain, etc., because, whether in France or elsewhere, the multitude and common run of men, even those who are educated, have never been perfectly philosophical, but only half.1 Now, half-philosophy is the mother of errors, and is itself an error. It is not pure truth or reason, which could not produce a movement. And these half-philosophical errors may be life-giving, particularly when substituted for ones that are mortifying by their very nature, such as those deriving from a barbaric and unnatural ignorance, an ignorance opposed to the dictates and [521] beliefs of nature, whether in its original form or reduced to the social state, etc. Thus the errors of half-philosophy may serve as an antidote for errors that are counter to life, although in the last analysis these, too, are derived from philosophy, that is, from the corruption produced by an excess of civilization, which always goes along with the excess of enlightenment, from which, indeed, it largely derives. And, in fact, half-philosophy is the mainspring of such little popular life and movements as there are today. A sorry one, because, although itself an error, and not fully reasonable, it does not have its foundation in nature, like the errors and driving forces of the ancient world, or of childhood, or of primitive life, etc. Rather, its foundation lies ultimately in reason, in knowledge, in beliefs or notions that are not natural, indeed contrary to nature, and it is imperfectly reasonable and true, rather than unreasonable and false. And its tendency is likewise toward reason, and hence death, destruction, and inaction. And that, sooner or later, [522] is where it must end, because such is its essence, unlike natural error. And present action can only be ephemeral, and will end up in inaction, just as by its nature every impulse, every change worked upon nations by any principle or philosophical cause has ended, any principle, that is, of reason and not one of nature primordially and substantively inherent in man. Furthermore, half-philosophy, and not perfect philosophy, caused love of country, or allowed such love to persist, together with the actions stemming from it, in Cato, in Cicero, in Tacitus, Lucan, Thrasea Paetus, Helvidius Priscus, and other ancients who were philosophers and patriots at one and the same time. What were then the effects of the progress and perfecting of philosophy among the Romans is well known.1
Note too that the movement and fervor produced in our day by half-philosophy is daily and inevitably losing many of its champions and promoters, etc., as they gain a more perfect grasp of philosophy through experience, etc., and become or gradually will become not half-philosophers but philosophers. (17 Jan. 1821.)
“Nisi quod magnae indolis signum est, sperare [523] semper” [“But it is a characteristic of true genius never to lose hope”]. Florus, 4, 8.1
“Sed quanto efficacior est fortuna quam virtus! et quam verum est quod moriens (Brutus) efflavit, ‘non in re, sed in verbo tantum esse virtutem’” [“But how much more powerful is fortune than virtue, and how true is what the dying Brutus said with his last breath: ‘virtue exists not in reality but in name only’”]. Florus 4, 7.2
Florus, 4, 6: “Quid contra duos exercitus necesse fuit venire in cruentissimi foederis societatem?” [“What of the necessity to enter into a horrible compact in order to combat two armies?”] Transpose the interrogative after exercitus. This is what the context requires, and indeed a mere glance at this passage, because I do not know how venire in foederis societatem [to enter into a compact] with two armies (of Antony and Lepidus) could be said to be contra duos exercitus [to combat two armies].3 See the most recent editions of Florus. (18 Jan. 1821.)
Of Antony the triumvir, Florus shrewdly remarks: “Desciscit in regem: nam aliter salvus esse non potuit, nisi confugisset ad servitutem” [“He degenerated into a king: for otherwise he could find no salvation except by taking refuge in subservience”] (4, 3).4 This is very well said of a corrupt and depraved man like Antony. He could be only a master or a slave, free and equal to [524] others he could not be. And so it was with almost all the Romans of that and later times, and so it is with the majority of men of today. There is no state that does not befit them other than that of equality and freedom. They would only know how to rule or, as they do, to serve. But in serving, they would be more suited to dominion than to freedom. And such is the nature of men who are slaves by character, and who are corrupted by civilization, devoid of virtue, magnanimity, enthusiasm, great, strong, and noble feelings and passions, integrity, courage, intellect, heroism, capacity for sacrifice, etc. etc. All things needed for maintaining oneself as an individual, and for maintaining the free and equal state of a people, relatively and in general. Those who are governed by egoism can only serve or rule. So it is with our rulers. They rule, and they would know how to serve. (Thus, our public officials, ministers, great men. They rule and serve. They know how to join one thing with the other. They effectively employ both.) But just as they would be most capable of servitude (and that is why they rule as they do, and are such masters), so would they be incapable of freedom and equality. These can neither be proper in particular cases nor be maintained within a nation without the qualities and forces of nature. A denatured man, or nation, cannot be free, [525] much less equal; he can only rule or serve. Freedom demands homines non mancipia, ἄνδρας καὶ οὐκ ἀνδράποδα [men and not slaves], and he who is a slave, either of the masters whom he serves or of himself, of his egoism and his base inclinations when he rules, cannot be either free or equal to others. Self-love is inseparable from man. This leads to self-advancement. Where self-advancement, etc., in short the satisfaction of self-love, is impossible, there man cannot live. And in the state of perfect freedom and equality the individual cannot progress without virtue and true merit, because his fortune, honors, wealth, advantages, etc., depend upon the multitude, which, being unable to judge according to particular affects and inclinations, since these are various and infinite, and irreconcilable, has to judge according to universal rules and opinions, that is, those which are true. Thus, he who lacks virtue and true merit (and such are men who are corrupt) cannot tolerate freedom and equality, or find life in this state. (18 Jan. 1821.)
“Sane quod Poematis delectari se ait, id [526] non abhorret ab huius compendii scriptore, quando stylus eius est in historia declamatorius, ac Poetico propior, adeo ut etiam hemistichia Virgilii profundat” [“Indeed, because he asserts that he enjoys poetry, he is not averse to this author of compilations, when his style, in writing history, is declamatory, and nearer to the poetic, to the degree that he even employs Virgilian hemistichs in great profusion”]: as G. J. Vossius said of Florus (De historicis latinis, bk. 1).1 In bk. 4, ch. 11, where Florus says of Antony the triumvir: “patriae, nominis, togae, fascium oblitus” [“oblivious of his country, his name, his toga, and the fasces”], this seems to be an imitation of Horace (Ode 5, bk. 3, l. 10):2
Anciliorum, nominis et togae
Oblitus aeternaeque Vestae
[Oblivious of the Sacred Shields, the name, the
toga, and Vesta’s eternal flame.]
(18 Jan. 1821.) See p. 723, end.
For p. 477. Florus is known for the poetic qualities we find not just in his invention, his imagination, clarity, fecundity, like Livy, but also in his meaning and expression, in fact, not so much in his natural gifts as in his manner, style, and intentions. At all events, Florus has such gravity, nobility, poise, and also sobriety, in a word his prose has such savor, as is not easily found in any modern, except possibly, and I say possibly, in some of our sixteenth-century writers. And that same measure of qualities (without [527] which, in any case, there can be no good or true prose) would suffice for us to admire a writer of our own time and have him judged outstanding and unique. (To which you might add everything concerning the language: elegance, a very fitting purity, harmony, variety, etc., the shape of the sentences, and their arrangement and connection, etc.) And, with regard to these qualities, the finest and greatest French prose writers are not worthy even of comparison with one of the worst and least of the classical Latin authors. (19 Jan. 1821.)
Children find everything in nothing, men find nothing in everything.
“Τέταρτος” (Ξενοκράτης), “φιλόσοφος, ᾿Ελεγείαν γεγραφὼς οὐκ ἐπιτυχῶς” (Elegiae scriptor non satis probatus) “῎Ιδιονa1 δὲ” (Ita enim se habet res) “Ποιηταὶ μὲν γὰρ ἐπιβαλλόμενοι πεζογραφεῖν, ἐπιτυγχάνουσι·” (si quid prosa oratione scribere velint, praestant) “πεζογράφοι δὲ ἐπιτιθέμενοι ποιητικῇ, πταίουσι.” (si poeticae sibi partes vindicare velint, non assequuntur) “Δῆλον τὸ μὲν φύσεως εἶναι” (scilicet τὸ τῆς ποιητικῆς) “τὸ δὲ τέχνης ἔργον” [“The fourth philosopher” (Xenocrates), “who wrote an elegy that did not turn out well. That’s how things are in fact. If poets set out to write in prose then they are successful, while when writers of prose set out to take poetry’s part, they do not achieve their aim. It is clear that one aspect is characteristic of nature” (namely the one regarding poetry), “the other of technique”]. Laertius, in Xenocrates, bk. 4, § [528] 15. And see whether Ménage has anything on this subject.1 (19 Jan. 1821.)
Like pleasures, so sorrows, too, are much greater in primitive men and in childhood than in our age and condition. And this for the same reasons that delight is greater. First (particularly children), they have not yet been habituated to good and evil. Thus, good and evil must be felt more perceptibly and energetically by their minds than by ours. Second (and this is the principal point and is common to all natural men), sorrow, misfortune, etc., in children and in primitive men prevails over the idea of possible and even present happiness. It contrasts starkly with the semblance of the good, believed to be both real and great, either as already experienced, or as firmly hoped for, or as now seen in others. It is the opposite and deprivation of that good which is believed to be true, important, and most possible, indeed man’s allotted state, possessed by others, [529] and which would be ours if this obstacle did not prevent us from achieving it, either now or forever. And also the idea of absolute evil, that is, independently of comparison with the good, is perhaps greater in nature than in the state of civilization and knowledge.
Note also what deep and keen pain we felt as children when some entertainment was ended, some holiday over, etc. And it is quite natural that the ensuing pain should be equal to the expectation, to the preceding exultation. And that the pain of hope disappointed should be proportionate to the measure of that hope. I do not say compared to the pleasure as actually experienced, because, in fact, not even children ever feel satisfaction in the act of pleasure, since no living being can be satisfied except by infinite pleasure, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 165–172, 177–83]. Indeed, our sorrow in such circumstances was inconsolable, not so much because the pleasure had passed as because it did not match our hopes. From which, on occasion, came a sort of remorse or contrition, as though our lack of enjoyment [530] were our own fault. For experience had not yet taught us to hope for little, prepared us to see hope disappointed, accustomed us to consoling ourselves with ease for this and greater losses, etc.1
In short, since at that age we consider things to be as important as, or more important than, we regard them at another age (both relatively and individually, and generally and absolutely), it is natural that the sufferings as well as the pleasures of that age should be greater in proportion to the importance that the objects of the pain or pleasure have in our estimation.
Likewise in the hope of some happiness, how great was our anxiety, our fears, our tremblings, our anguish at every least obstacle, or semblance of difficulty, that might impede the fulfillment of that hope!
And if the object of our hope (however paltry in the light of our present opinions) was not attained, what then was our despair! So that perhaps later, in life’s greater misfortunes, we did not feel, nor shall we ever feel, such grief and heartache as we did in these trivial childhood misfortunes.
[531] To say nothing of the fear and terror typical of that age (due to a lack of experience or knowledge, and to the power of our imagination, still fresh and virgin): fear of dangers of every kind; fear of figments and chimeras typical of that age alone, and of no other; fear of ghosts, dreams, dead bodies, noises in the night and real images that frighten us at that age and later become of no account, such as masks, etc. etc. (See the Saggio sugli errori popolari degli antichi.)1 This last fear was so terrible at that age that no misfortune, no fear, no danger, however tremendous, has the power, in later life, to produce anguish, agitation, dread, torments, in a word agony comparable to the agony of those childhood fears. The idea of spectres, that spiritual, supernatural, sacred, otherworldly fear, which frequently gripped us at that age, had something so dreadful and frenzied about it that it cannot be compared to any other unpleasurable feeling felt by human beings. Not even the fear of hell in a dying man, I think, can be so profoundly terrible. For childhood or primitive sensations, and this fear in particular, reach, assail, penetrate, and overwhelm the ultimate and deepest [532] part and root of our mind and heart, which reason and experience render inaccessible to any kind of feeling. (20 Jan. 1821.) See p. 535, first paragraph.
“Quid dulcius, quam habere, quicum omnia audeas sic loqui, ut tecum? Quis esset tantus fructus in prosperis rebus, nisi haberes, qui illis aeque, ac tu ipse, gauderet?” [“What is sweeter than to have someone with whom you may dare discuss anything as if you were communing with yourself? How could your enjoyment in times of prosperity be so great if you did not have someone whose joy in them would be equal to your own?”] Cicero, Laelius sive de amicitia, ch. 6. (20 Jan. 1821.)
Human pleasure (likewise probably that of every living being, in the order of things as we know them) can be said to lie always in the future, to be only in the future, to consist purely in the future. The act of pleasure, strictly speaking, never takes place. I look forward to some pleasure and, in very many cases, this hope is called pleasure. I have felt pleasure; I have had a stroke of good luck. This is pleasurable only in that it gives us a positive idea of the future, offers promise of some lesser or greater enjoyment, opens up a new field of hope, convinces us that we are capable of enjoyment, tells us of the possibility of attaining certain desires, puts us [533] in a better position as concerns the future, whether with regard to fact and reality, or with regard to our thoughts and convictions, to the successes and prosperity that we promise ourselves following upon that test, that trial we have made of it, etc. I feel some pleasure. How? Each individual moment of the act of pleasure is relative to the moments that follow, and it is pleasurable only in relation to the moments that come after, that is, to the future. At this moment, the pleasure that I feel does not satisfy me, and since it does not gratify my desire, so it is not yet pleasure, but surely I will feel it immediately, surely the pleasure will grow and I will be entirely satisfied. Let us proceed further. Still I do not fe
el true pleasure, but now (who could doubt it?) I am about to do so. Such is the mind’s reasoning, its journey, its activity, its working, and its sensation in the act of any pleasure. Then the final moment arrives, and the act of pleasure is over, and still man has felt no pleasure. Thus, he is left either dissatisfied or satisfied after a fashion, as a result of some weak, false, not very persuasive, indeed not at all persuasive [534] notion that he has felt it. And he turns it over in his mind, congratulating himself upon what he has felt, and thus feeling another pleasure, whose object is indeed over, but not the pleasure itself (because how can something be over that has never been, and is forever in the future?), and the realization of this new pleasure is made up of a succession of moments of the same nature as the other one and hence lies equally in the future. Or finally he is left with a certain happiness, and takes heart from this, because although his pleasure can no longer be associated with the moments following that act, which is already over, it is associated with others. Thus the idea of the so-called pleasure experienced gives him an idea of those which he believes he may feel. He forms a better idea of the future, a hope, a plan, a determination to procure himself other pleasures, or whatever it may be. Thus he feels pleasure, but always and equally future pleasure. Thus, for example, if you have been praised, or have found yourself with a chance to shine, to win glory, etc. The act of that pleasure was as I have described it. But once that act is over, you ponder it piece by piece, and another act of pleasure returns, formed in this same fashion, and founded either upon the simple enjoyment of [535] recollection or on the bearing that that so-called pleasure has upon the future, upon those pleasures or benefits which you (as you believe) are thereby able or destined to feel, upon the idea that it gives you of your future life, your plans, your idea of yourself, your capabilities, etc., your hopes, whether they are real or derive from your own opinion and imagination—all future, in short, with regard both to the act of the new present pleasure and to the objects of this pleasure. Thus pleasure is never past or present but always and only future. And the reason is that there can be no true pleasure for a living being unless it is infinite (and infinite at every moment, that is, now), and it can never be infinite, although each vaguely believes that it may be, and will be so, or that, even if it is not infinite, it will be pleasure. And this belief (most natural, essential to living beings, and willed by nature) is what is called pleasure, it is all the pleasure possible. Thus possible pleasure is only future, or relative to the future, and consists only in the future. (20 Jan. 1821.) See p. 612, paragraph 1.
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