A further reason for the above effect is contained in what I am about to say. The man who, though in despair, does not for that reason hate himself—and, contrary to appearances, such despair [617] generally occurs not in any way before man starts to hate himself but after he has come utterly and pointlessly to hate himself, whereupon self-love, having tried every means of satisfying itself, is left completely mortified, and the mind, having exhausted all its strength, is reduced to a state of calm and to the quietness of exhaustion, and in fact loses the capacity for all intense feeling—this man, I maintain, who, without hating himself, merely considers himself and his life to be pointless, experiences a gratification and satisfaction, and a (though very slight) consolation, in discovering where to make use of himself and of his life, which would otherwise no longer be of any use. And the use to which he and his life, earlier cast aside as an utterly pointless thing, are now put, although it avails him nothing, although he is no longer capable of illusions, or of believing himself to be good for great things, nevertheless it comforts him, by representing him to himself as somewhat less useless, or, if in no other way (and rather), with the thought of having at least used, of having not in fact cast aside, that residue of existence, and of living, material force. (5 Feb. 1821.)
[618] Seeing themselves excluded from life, they try to live after a fashion in others, not out of love for them, or even perhaps out of love for themselves, but because, although their life has been taken from them, they are still left with an existence to occupy and to feel in some way. (6 Feb. 1821.)
Nature’s despair is always ferocious, frenetic, and bloodthirsty; it does not yield to necessity or fortune but strives to overcome them in itself, that is to say, with its own hurts, its own death, etc. The calm, tranquil, and resigned despair with which the man who has lost all hope of happiness, either in general, on account of the human condition, or in particular, on account of his own plight, yet submits and adapts to living and to bearing the passing of the years, and so yields to what he acknowledges to be necessity: a despair of this kind, although it derives from nature’s, in the manner explained above pp. 616, end, 617, beginning, is nevertheless more or less characteristic only of reason and philosophy, and therefore especially and particularly of modern times.1 And now, in fact, it can be said that anyone with [619] a modicum of feeling and intelligence who has gained some experience of the world and, in particular, all those of that type who, having reached maturity, are unhappy, fall into this state of quiet despair, where they remain until death. A state almost entirely unknown to the ancients, and also today to sensitive, magnanimous, and unhappy youth. The consequence of the first kind of despair is hatred of the self (because man still has sufficiently strong self-love to be able to hate himself), but care and respect for things. The consequence of the second is heedlessness, contempt, and indifference toward things, and toward oneself a certain listless love (because man no longer has enough self-love to have the strength to hate himself), which resembles heedlessness but is still love, though not such as would cause a man to be distressed, to grieve, to feel compassion for his own misfortunes, and even less to strive, and to undertake anything for himself, for he considers things to be indifferent, and has all but lost any feeling or sense of the mind,1 and has covered with a callus the whole of the sensitive, desiring, etc., faculty, in short, the passions and affects of every kind, has practically worn out almost all the elasticity of the [620] springs and forces of the soul through long use and intense, enduring pressure. Ordinarily, the chief concern of such persons is to preserve the existing state of affairs, to lead a regular life, and not to change or begin anything new, not indeed because of a fainthearted or indolent nature, for their nature will probably have been just the opposite, but because of timorousness born of the experience of calamity, which causes a man to fear that through novelty he will lose the rest or quiet or slumber in which after long struggle and resistance his mind has finally fallen asleep, and curled up and all but folded into itself. The world is full nowadays of despairing persons of this second kind (just as those of the first kind were exceptionally frequent among the ancients). Hence one can readily see how much the activity, variety, mobility, and life of this world stand to gain when, one might say, all the best minds, once they have attained a certain maturity, become incapable of action, and useless to themselves, and to others. (6 Feb. 1821.)
Florus, 4, 12, toward the end: “Hic finis [621] Augusto bellicorum certaminum fuit: idem rebellandi finis Hispaniae. Certa mox fides et aeterna pax; cum ipsorum ingenio in pacis partes promtiore: tum consilio Caesaris” [“This was the end of Augustus’s campaigns as well as of the rebellion in Spain. Immediately there was loyalty and enduring peace; whether because of the Spaniards’ greater inclination toward peace or because of the wise measures taken by Caesar”].1 Having read all that Florus says about the warrior virtues of the Spanish, 2, 17–18; 3, 22,2 and in the same paragraph from which I have quoted, in the points made immediately preceding the passage referred to (note that Florus, according to the critics’ conjectures, was of Spanish extraction); bearing in mind the greatly celebrated siege of Sagunto; recalling the passage in Velleius where, along with many other remarks about Spanish bravery, he goes so far as to say that it was Spain “in tantum Sertorium armis extulit, ut per quinquennium dijudicari non potuerit, Hispanis Romanisne in armis plus esset roboris, et uter populus alteri pariturus foret” [“that raised Sertorius to such prominence in the army that for a period of five years it was not possible to decide whether there was greater strength in the arms of the Spaniards or of the Romans, and which of the two peoples was destined to obey the other”] (2, 90, § 3)—after all this and the countless other proofs to be found of the exceptional bravery of the Spanish, ancient and modern, it is startling to find Florus describing their character [622] and cast of mind as “promtius in pacis partes” [“more inclined toward peace”].1 But this is indeed a characteristic of southern peoples, and one celebrated as such by modern philosophical authors, especially foreigners. A supreme propensity for activity and for rest, equally disposed to fight with desperate valor and to relish and cherish peace, even to the extent of abusing it and being reduced by it to laxity and inertia. These peoples have so many resources in their imagination, in their climate, and in their nature that their lives are busy internally, though indolent and empty on the outside. “Leur vie n’est qu’un rêve” [“Their life is but a dream”], as Staël remarks.2 So great is the activity of their soul that, just as this is very capable of leading them to a maximum of physical activity (indeed, to the only true external activity, because the only one that has its source in internal activity, as may be seen from the comparison between southern soldiers and northern, who function more as machines obeying every impulse than as living beings), so also it excuses them from physical activity, and compensates them for it, whenever this is lacking: since they find enough life [623] inside, in their individual self. Indeed, this characteristic very often works to the detriment of external activity, and, through a superabundance of inner life, renders the southerner rêveur [dreamy], indolent, and insouciant [heedless] (although, when the occasion arises, bodily activity, whether it is the effect of enthusiasm and imagination, or is powerful and intense when it originates from these sources, suddenly bursts forth, except where habit has made certain peoples, like the Italians, too sluggish). “Ailleurs, c’est la vie qui, telle qu’elle est, ne suffit pas aux facultés de l’ame; ici” (she is talking about the environs of Naples) “ce sont les facultés de l’ame qui ne suffisent pas à la vie, et la surabondance des sensations inspire une rêveuse indolence dont on se rend à peine compte en l’éprouvant” [“Elsewhere it is life that, in the form it takes, does not measure up to the faculties of the soul; here, it is the faculties of the soul that do not measure up to life, and the superabundance of sensations inspires a dreamy indolence of which one is barely aware when one experiences it”]. (Staël, Corinne, bk. 11, ch. 1, Paris 1812, 5th ed., tome 2
, p. 176.) This is exactly what we find with the Italians, formidable in war in antiquity and also in modern times, but extremely idle and slothful, and uninterested in novelty and movement, in times of peace. Similarly the [624] Spanish, who were a wholly peaceful people in the last century, and yet highly warlike and belligerent in the two previous ones, and thus in antiquity very bellicose or certainly very brave in defending themselves, up until Augustus, and from then on perennially peaceful and loyal, as Florus says. And things were much the same at the beginning of this century, when they passed in an instant from a very long and very deep sleep to a war that we may well call spontaneous, indubitably national, very hard fought, general, and exceedingly cruel.1 Likewise the French, who are brave in war but soft and effeminate in peace.
Just like children—since this effect, too, derives from the same causes—who, though naturally very active but condemned nonetheless by circumstances to external inactivity, supplement it and compensate for it and occupy themselves fully with the most intense internal activity. And by internal activity I also mean, both in children and in these same peoples, the kind that manifests itself on the outside but occupies itself with bagatelles and trifles, and finds in these enough sustenance and life for the soul, and, as a consequence, does not derive from, [625] is not based upon, and is not adequate to man, except by dint of energy, imagination, and, in short, the faculties and the inner life.
Precisely the opposite occurs in northerners, who need activity, movement, novelty, and external variety if they are to live, since, lacking the inner life, they have no other. And consequently they seem to be much more active than other peoples, but in reality, and if their natural tendency and temperament prevails, they are particularly sluggish.
Peoples of the East may, I believe, be grouped with southerners in this regard.1 (7 Feb. 1821.)
The purpose of governments (and likewise that of man) is the happiness of the governed. Might happiness and length of life perhaps be one and the same thing? People always deplore the disturbances and dangers afflicting ancient states, and claim that they cost humanity much more blood and many more lives than do well-ordered, regular, and monarchical governments, even if they are warlike, or tyrannical. I will grant this, having no wish to dispute it at present. [626] Now, let us balance out the debit and credit side of lives, if I may so put it. Let us suppose that in present-day states, which are called well-ordered and calm, people live, on average, 70 years each, whereas in ancient states, which are called disordered and turbulent, they would have lived only 50 years, if we average out all the lives. And let us further suppose that those 70 years are full of tedium and wretchedness whatever the individual’s rank or station, which is unfortunately the case nowadays, while those 50 years are full of activity and variety, the sole means of happiness for social man. I would then ask, which of the two circumstances is best? Which of the two corresponds better to the purpose of government, which is public and private happiness, in short, the possible happiness of men as men? That is to say, relative and real happiness, both adapted to and achievable in nature, as it actually is, and not hidden in chimerical and absolute ideas of order and mathematical perfection. I would further ask: the true sum of life, where is it the greater? Would it be in that state in which, were men even to live a hundred years each, their monotonous and inactive life would be (as it in fact is) existence, but not life, [627] indeed a synonym for death? Or would it be in that state in which existence, though brief, would nevertheless be true life through and through? Even placing on the one side 100 years of existence, and on the other no more than 40, or 30, years of life, would not the sum of life be greater in the latter? Do not 30 years of life contain more life than 100 years of dead existence? These are the true calculations befitting a philosopher, who is not content to measure things, but weighs them and estimates their value. And does not behave like the dry mathematician, who calculates quantities in general and in abstract, but calculates them relative to their essence, quality, nature, weight, and real and particular force.
I would go further and add the following observation. I would deny that mortality in ancient states was greater, except in appearance.1 I discount tyrants, I discount the whims, passions, and desires of princes, and I am therefore not concerned to know if these cost humanity more blood than the disorder and turbulence of a free people. I maintain that vitality in ancient states was so much higher than in present-day states that not only did it abundantly compensate for every cause or source of mortality but outweighed it [628] and tipped the scales to the side of life. In short, I hold that the sum of life in ancient states was greater than in present-day states, not for accidental reasons, or in such a fashion that it could have been otherwise, but for essential reasons, inherent in the nature of such states. Indeed, once they, or states like them, have been eliminated, the sum of life cannot help but be much less; vitality outside of those or similar states cannot be so high. Exercises and continuous bodily activity, first of all, and then exercises and activity of the soul (which plays no small part, indeed, contributes greatly to physical well-being and to the duration of life), the variety, movement, and strength used in the various tasks and pursuits, the rarity of tedium, idleness, etc., all necessary consequences of ancient states, were such major and indisputable causes of vitality, just as their opposites, namely, softness, luxury, bodily and spiritual vices, etc. etc., all necessary consequences of present-day states, in short, physical and moral corruption, continual tedium or discontent [629] of the mind, etc., are major and certain causes of mortality (and a far more extensive, inherent, and necessary mortality than that occasioned by turbulence). Thus, it is not true that the causes of death (and in my view, the causes of miseries, misfortunes, and sorrows, etc.) were greater in antiquity, indeed on the contrary they are greater today. And even if one understands life in the narrow sense of existence, one comes to the conclusion that its sum was greater in ancient governments, and because of ancient governments, than in present-day governments, and because of present-day governments. (8 Feb. 1821.)
For p. 476. See the portrait of Sulla in Sallust, Bellum Iugurthinum, ch. 99.1
For p. 605, end. But even if we supposed the spirit to be absolutely simple and without parts, it does not follow that it cannot perish. Do we know the nature of such an entity, that we are able to pronounce it immortal or mortal? Is there just one way of dying, that is to say, by dissolving? In matter there is no other way, and we therefore know only that way; but by the same token we do not know another way of being except that of matter. If a thing can exist in a manner that is wholly [630] unknown and inconceivable to us, it can also perish in a manner wholly unknown and inconceivable to man. If I say it can perish, rather than it does perish, it’s because I cannot, just as one cannot humanly say the opposite, it does not perish, that is, it cannot perish because matter perishes in a different way, and it cannot perish the way matter does. I say it can perish, because such a way of perishing is no more difficult or improbable than such a way of being (one, as I say, that is inconceivable to man), or such a death than such an existence. Both are equally beyond our reach, which does not extend one iota beyond matter.
I would go even further, and say that, if simplicity is a necessary source of immortality, not even matter can perish. If matter is composed, it will be composed of elements that are not composed. I do not seek at this point to know if these elements are those of the chemists, or others that are more remote and primitive; but however far we choose to go, we must always arrive and stop at some genuinely simple substances, which do not contain “in se quidquam admistum dispar [631] sui, atque dissimile” [“the admixture of any discordant element”].1 So, if there is no way of perishing other than by resolution, what will these substances resolve into? what can they resolve into? So they cannot perish. You will say that even these, being matter nonetheless, have parts, and are therefore divisible and resolvable, and can perish, even if all their parts are equal to one another, and consist of one and th
e same substance. Well and good, but how precisely can these parts perish? —They, too, will have parts, for so long as they are matter. —Go on then, let us subdivide these parts just as much as you please. If you never get to the point where they have no more parts, and are not matter (which will certainly never happen), you will likewise never get matter to perish, either. Because even if it were reduced to the very tiniest parts, one of these tiny particles could be said to be as remote from nothingness as all of matter, or as any other existing thing; in other words, between it and nothingness a gap extends, and an infinite space, for there is no way of getting from existence to nothingness, as from nothingness to existence, by degrees, but only by a leap, an infinite leap.
[632] Consequently, in a being that is extremely simple and without parts, there is no greater source of, or reason for, immortality than there is in matter, and in the most compound of beings.
But if by a source of immortality in a being that is simple and without parts they mean the impossibility of changing nature, and if by perishing they do not mean being annihilated—since not even matter can naturally be annihilated, and since as much matter exists today, neither more nor less, as ever existed—but the resolving of matter into its constituent elements, I would maintain that these very simple substances, of which matter, and any and every compound thing, must necessarily consist, cannot be resolved either, or change their nature, even if divided into as many parts, and as tiny, as you please. And the quantity of these parts will always be the same, and therefore the very same quantity, whether divided or combined, of those original substances, either material or divided as much as you please, will always exist; and all of this quantity, and therefore all of that substance, will always be of the very same nature. So that even in this regard a substance presumed to be entirely simple and immaterial cannot contain [633] more immortality, that is, immutability and incorruptibility, than do the sources of matter, which are no mere supposition but must really and necessarily exist. (9 Feb. 1821.)
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