Returning to our theme, that is, the enriching [758] of a language with the product of its own substances, and passing from Greek and Latin to the living languages: this capacity for enrichment always has been and always will be inseparable from the life of languages, and will not end except with their death.1 All living languages retain it, despite those who would have Italian abandon it. French, which, unlike Italian, has shed its capacity to use those of its ancient and original words and phrases that could come back into favor (as I have said elsewhere [→Z 344, 688–90]), has always, again unlike what would be demanded of Italian, retained and used its capacity to exploit and expand its existing treasury. And the Latin language itself, which, for the reasons stated above [→Z 750–51], in part lost this capacity after Cicero, in fact lost only the most fertile and prolific capacity to forge compounds and supercompounds using a preposition or a particle, or putting several words together, a capacity that almost put [759] it on a par (that is, in proportion to the quantity of roots and stems) with Greek. This capacity can be seen both in the original Latin words that were composed in the manner noted above, or using adverbs (like propemodum [almost] and thousands of others), in short, like Greek words, and which lasted in Latin usage up until the end, without however being imitated or added to, and in those which later fell out of use and can be seen in the earliest Latin writers (as in Plautus, where you find lectisterniator [one who arranged the couches for reclining on at table], legirupus [lawbreaker], lucrifugae [gain-shunning], and thousands of others, and here I simply give the very first I chanced to come across), and which serve to illustrate the original disposition, form, usage, and vigor of that language; this capacity is, in short, the greatest and richest source of abundance in words, and of omnipotence in expressing everything, even the very latest thing—a capacity that is admired in Greek, and might once upon a time have been observed in Latin as well.1 The ancient language used by the first Latin writers to treat sacred things or government, etc. (like lectisternium, an ancient Roman festival),2 thus is full of words compounded in the Greek manner from two or more words, so that any passage from such authors, etc., will no doubt feature some, though most fell out of use. Often they were of excessive length, like clamydeclupetrabracchium, a word used by an early poet and quoted by Varro (De lingua latina, bk. 4) (p. 3 of my 15th-century ed.).3 This splendid, utterly delightful practice, and this capacity, was either neglected or at any rate [760] overlooked, abandoned, and forgotten in the Latin language, which was, by virtue of this very capacity, so far along the road toward omnipotence, in its initial stages. But the capacity to enrich itself with the yield of its own roots in every other way, with derived forms, etc., was never relinquished as long as it lived, nor could it be. Not only the bad or mediocre writers but also the good and excellent writers after Cicero all made use of this capacity, and by means of their writing enlarged the treasury of the language, and the language continued to make good and suitable progress as long as it was employed by good and worthy writers.
There can be no question that this is indispensable for all languages as long as they live. The capacity to form compounds is unfortunately not characteristic of our languages. The fault lies not with the languages themselves but chiefly with a usage in our southern languages [761] (I cannot comment on the northern) that does not tolerate compounds, does not recognize this capacity, and with our ears, which were never habituated to compounds or lost the habit of them a long time ago. Because anyway (1) our prepositions, especially in the Italian language, would appear to be for the most part no less suited to forming compound words than Greek and Latin prepositions, nor are we lacking in particles well suited to the same purpose, many of which were adopted expressly for it (like ri or re, tra or stra, arci, dis or s, in negative or privative, and affirmative, mis, di, de, etc. Indeed, we are richer in these than the Latins were, and perhaps than the Greeks themselves, and indubitably richer, I believe, than the French and the Spanish). See Monti, Proposta, the entry Nonuso,1 and, if you will, p. 2078. (2) Moreover, the Italian language would appear to be strongly disposed in particular to compounds consisting of several words, as may indeed be seen in the case of some in everyday use (valentuomo, passatempo, tuttavolta, capomorto, capogatto, tagliaborse, beccafico, falegname, granciporro, and a great many others); see p. 1076, and Monti, Proposta, etc., see guardamacchie, and also the French language (emportepièce, gobemouche, fainéant, with their derivatives, etc.). (3) Nor do we lack adverbs well suited to use in forming compounds. (4) Our language, although it does not incline to and does not favor innovation of this kind, does nonetheless have quite a few such compounds, including those formed using the prepositions in, tra, fra, oltra, [762] sopra, su, sotto, contra, anzi, etc. etc., and Dante, along with the other early authors, had introduced at the outset, when virtually creating our language, the faculty of boldly and audaciously coining compounds, a wealth of which feature in his writings (such as indiare, intuare, immiare, disguardare, etc. etc.),1 especially ones formed with prepositions, adverbs, and particles. Likewise with our other early authors. Yet the same thing happened to us as to the Latins: this omnipotent faculty, characteristic of the original nature of our language (though then to a lesser degree than was the case not only with Greek but also with Latin), was wrongly and regrettably allowed to be almost entirely lost, even though a good proportion of the compounds that were in use are preserved, and are used as if they were very recent, thus testifying to the original capacity and nature of our language. Genuinely new and recent compounds, however, have not been welcomed. And much the same happened to the French language also. See p. 805. Today’s writers, therefore, do not have a wealth of compounds, which is not to say, however, that they have none (both in Italian and in French). Indeed, enough still survive for us to be able, without [763] the least affectation, to fashion and to introduce many compounds that are, on the one hand, extremely clear, simple, natural, and attractive and, on the other, very useful, especially those formed with prepositions and particles, etc. As for derivatives of every kind (provided that they conform to the nature and the rules of the language, and are neither obscure nor affected) and new words taken from those already existing in our language, what could be more foolish than to suppose that a word of thoroughly Italian origin and nature, whose meaning is absolutely clear, whose use is neither affected nor odd but entirely natural, whose sound, finally, is not unpleasing to the ear, is not Italian but barbarous, and may neither be spoken nor written, only because it is not recorded in the Dictionary? (And my point about words applies to expressions and phrases, too, and to any new uses of current words or phrases, etc., provided they meet the stated conditions.) It is as if Italian alone, by contrast with any of the other existing languages, by contrast with any that have ever existed, should be regarded as dead, even though it still lives in the everyday usage of the nation, and die though still alive, and be at the same time living and dead. This nation, too, would then have to live as if it were dead, that is to say, as if no innovation, variation, alteration ever [764] occurred in its existence, in opinions, or in customs, or in knowledge (much as, but even more than, people say is the case with China, whose language in that case might well be immobile), and, further, it would have to conform in all respects to the life and circumstances of our forefathers and the period after which they do not want any innovation in words to be allowed.1
And, in fact, what difference will we find between living Italian and the dead languages, once given this crazy principle? What liberty, what choice, will we have in writing our present-day language beyond what we have when we use Greek and Latin, which are ancient and belong to others, and whose sources dried up and were shut off long ago, leaving only what they poured out while they were still open and those languages still lived? Indeed, I am firmly convinced that those Italian writers who in the sixteenth century handled the Latin language so deftly that you almost wonder whether it was natural to them or artificial were much less superstitious than many would wa
nt us to be when dealing with our own language. And we ourselves nowadays (I refer here to scientists and men of letters throughout Europe), when we derive the words we need for our current uses from Greek, as we frequently do, [765] in order to address things that are new and unknown to the speakers of the language, are we not fashioning words likewise unknown to ancient Greek? Do we hesitate if they are not recorded in the Lexicon, and if they have not been authorized by the ancient writers? Are we not innovating in a language that is dead, utterly alien to us, and completely outside our own dispensation? Even where such actions are performed with discretion, and with all due respect for the nature of that language (and in truth few have an eye for the fashioning of such words), one could at any rate split hairs and say that the inheritance received by us from the ancient languages consists of goods that are not interest-bearing, from which we can neither extract nor lay claim to any other benefit than that of using them in the same fashion. But our own language is an inheritance, an interest-bearing capital, that we have received from our forefathers, who made it bear fruit and handed [766] it down to us to do the same, not to bury it, like the talent in the Gospel, not to abandon its cultivation, or to think that we are shielding and defending it by blocking any yield, growth, or proliferation, or to consider and use it as dead capital, etc.
I note the following as well. We pride ourselves, and with good reason, on the great richness, abundance, variety, and potency of our language, its flexibility, suppleness, and ability to assume every form, to put on very different dress according to whatever subject one might want to discuss in it, and to adapt itself to all styles: in short, on what seems almost to be a multiplicity of languages contained in, or potentially contained in, our native tongue. But from what do we think these qualities were derived? Perhaps from its original and intrinsic nature and essence? That is what is usually said, but we are greatly deceived. Languages [767] never possess such qualities by reason of origin or nature. All are more or less inclined to acquire them, and yet may never acquire them, and remain utterly impoverished and weak, and utterly impotent and uniform, that is to say, without richness, abundance, or variety. Such would our language have remained without what I am about to describe. All languages are like that in their early stages, and by this I do not at all mean their origins, but up until the time that they are cultivated, with much study and commitment, and cultivated by many, assiduously and for a long time. What imparts these capacities and positive qualities to languages (setting aside expansion, trade, mobility, energy, vivacity, events, circumstances, civilization, knowledge, and the physical, moral, and political circumstances of the nations that speak them), I would maintain, is chiefly, and more consistently and enduringly than any other factor, the abundance and variety of the writers who use and cultivate them. (See p. 1202.) Since this factor was of more importance, owing to the language’s greater duration and to many other circumstances, in Greece than in Latium, the Greek language possessed these [768] qualities to a greater degree than the Latin, but only once it was used and cultivated by a good number of writers, and always (as invariably happens) in proportion to the growth and increase in the number and variety of subjects, styles, or talents of the writers. Latin similarly did not possess them until it had a wealth and variety of writers (still of high value, even if less than Greek). All the ancient and modern languages that have lacked such resources have likewise lacked these qualities. To supply an example (setting aside the less refined European languages), the Spanish language, most noble, wholly classical in its genius, in which furthermore it closely resembles our own, as it does under many other heads, our sister language as much in reason as in fact, and as much in origin as in resemblance, custom, and nature, would not be inferior to ours in these qualities if it were not inferior chiefly in the quantity and variety of its writers. If the French language, despite the great quantity of writers, and of excellent [769] writers, too, is nevertheless judged to be inferior to our own and to the ancient languages in this regard, that occurred for the particular reasons to which I have several times alluded. The reform of the language, the regularity imposed upon it, the shape imparted to it made all styles the same, and poetry the same as prose; obstructed the variety and multiplicity of the language, in accordance with the different subjects and the different minds; stripped writers of their freedom and their power to invent, in this regard; took away their boldness, indeed made them reluctant and frightened of taking any risks, etc. etc. As a result of all this, France has come to lack variety in its writers, despite having the quantity, and despite having a variety of subjects, because all the subjects are treated by all the writers, we can say, in a single way. And that derives also from the nature and power of the excessive civilization of that nation, and of the influence of society, which is so tight-knit and bound together that all French individuals constitute virtually a single individual. And whereas [770] in the other nations to seek distinction is deemed a virtue, in France it is a virtue and a requirement to resemble, indeed to be the same as, others, each to all and all to each. Since for these reasons they are fearful of opinion, ridicule, etc., and scrupulous in their observance of the norms that are prescribed and held in common in ordinary life, they are also utterly superstitious, fearful, and wary of innovation in language. But all this applies only to styles and manners, because only these have been fixed among them, and have had (very narrow) boundaries prescribed, within which it is proper to stay and outside which it is forbidden to take the smallest step. And these observations about uniform style apply to all writing, and to all kinds of writing, even to translations, etc., forcibly dragged into the standard French style, even if in the most woefully limp style; and they apply, too, in short, to the unity of their style, and their language, which I have commented on elsewhere [→Z 321]. But the above observations do not apply to words, because the capacity to invent them, and the capacity to derive innovations from its own sources—which remain open as long as a language lives—has remained free in France; and the number of words in the French language is growing every day, and will continue to grow. If they always drew them from their own sources, or with proper respect, I would have no cause to rebuke the French, as I have done elsewhere [→Z 50, 110–11, 344], for both the corruption and the aridity they are imparting to their language. [771] Which besides, from the beginning, was, like ours, very well suited to innovation and to bold flights, even in its expressions, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 688–90, 758]. The German language, which remained powerless and humble for so many centuries, even though spoken by such a great and scattered multitude of peoples, has, for no other reason than having had a great abundance and variety of writers in the last century and the first few years of this one, risen to such a high degree of power, wealth, and vigor.
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