The Italian language, written for six centuries up to and including the 18th century, and written by innumerable authors on every theme, in every style, of every character, and of every sort of talent, and as abundant moreover as any other living language, and maybe more so, and certainly in advance of them, not only in writers but in writers highly expert in language, who cultivated it assiduously and were expressly dedicated to its study, masters and models of fine speech, eager scholars of the classical languages in order to draw from them all that is good and fitting for ours, and free, full of courage, and felicitously bold in their use of language; this same language, [772] starting, like all others, from small, indeed lowly, crude, and shapeless beginnings, and from barbarous origins, moreover growing, and reaching, if not maturity, certainly adulthood and the height of vigor amid the shadows of ignorance, superstition, and the errors of barbarism—this language, I say, for no other reasons than those stated, and first and alone among the living languages, arrived at such a flowering that in beauty, vigor, abundance, variety, etc., it almost matches the two great ancient languages (for those who know it well, and intimately, and to its full extent), while among the modern it has no rival. If, then, we have seen how the qualities of a language, and abundance and variety in particular, derive mainly from the abundance and variety of its writers, and not from its nature, it follows from this that when the writers fail to enrich it, either through heedlessness or ignorance, or, worse, are prevented from doing so, the language will not be enriched, will not grow, will not climb any higher, and just as human affairs never halt at any given point but always go forward or else retreat, so too a language, once it has stopped advancing, will retreat, [773] and, once it has become sterile, will become still more impoverished, will lose what it has gained, and, finally, will be reduced to such a degree of wretchedness and impotence that it will no longer be adequate to use and need, and then certainly it will have to ask for help from foreign languages and will become completely barbarized, precisely for the reason that was thought to be able to save it from corruption and keep it pure and healthy. And don’t we already see all this happening? How many riches already earned, and, so to speak, appropriated, has it lost, perhaps, though really there’s no perhaps about it! But I will speak about this later.
Do we then want to reduce the Italian language, in regard to both words and expressions, to that same fear, scrupulousness, superstition, slavishness, meanness, and uniformity displayed by the French language in expressions alone? At least the French have an excuse in the nature of their nation, for which society is life, sustenance, delight, and dread, bloodsucking, torment, death. [774] We lack this excuse, if indeed we do not want to Gallicize entirely, in our customs, usages, life, tastes, ideas, inclinations, etc., and to lose even the semblance, aspect, and shape of Italians, as we have more than begun to do.
People will say that the language, albeit by means of the boldness and freedom of its writers, has nonetheless attained a perfection that cannot be surpassed without being spoiled. It reached it, I believe, neither more nor less than at the point at which the last Crusca Dictionary was published, since in that or certainly in the earlier editions very many words are recorded on the authority of writers who were then still living and writing. Indeed, Buonarroti wrote the Fiera1 deliberately in order to provide words for the Dictionary. The latter’s final tome, and the day, month, and year on which it was published, shut off forever the sources of the Italian language, which had been open for five centuries. But, joking aside, I will grant yet not concede that the Italian language has already been [775] raised by writers to that height of perfection which it can attain with regard to all the other qualities (a very blatant error, but we can let it pass). As far as richness, abundance, and variety are concerned, I would deny that any language in the world, whether actual or possible, can ever be perfect until it dies. And that stems from the fact that things, too, are always living, and being modified anew, and what is known multiplies. Now, a language is never perfectly rich, indeed, perfectly supplied with what is necessary, until it can perfectly and fittingly express all the things of this world and all their possible modifications. So that a language will have no further need of growth only when either it or the world has ended.
What effects ensue, and how dangerous it may be to seek to halt a language, on the ground that it is already perfect, and to discourage it from expanding, in the belief [776] that it is no longer necessary, or lawful and beneficial, or possible, can be seen in what I have said about the Latin language.
And before quitting this theme of the richness, abundance, general excellence, and power of languages obtained chiefly through the abundance, variety, and talent of the writers, I would observe that the same superiority of circumstance that Greek enjoyed over Latin, and that led to its actually and always remaining in essence superior, we likewise enjoy over all the other living, cultured languages. Because just as the cultivation of the Greek language by its writers, who existed in significant numbers in every period, began fairly early and covered an exceptionally long span of time, and just as the richness, variety, and power of the Greek language came to reflect this time span and these numbers, in such a way that it could never be matched by Latin, so too the Italian language, [777] written, as I have said, for the past six centuries, and, it is fair to say, boasting in every period a great quantity of the most diverse writers and scholars, has the same circumstantial advantage over all the other modern, cultured languages as Greek had over Latin, and an advantage that no talent, endeavor, or study by any other nation could ever wrest from us so long as we do not wish it. Yet here we are at a standstill, and our language is no longer making progress. The French language expands tirelessly, acquiring all the words it needs. The German language advances and hurtles along like a torrent, claiming ever vaster tracts in every area of growth. We, however, some time ago came to a halt, and are indolent and incapable of movement; we lack what is needed to express and to treat most modern forms of knowledge, disciplines and doctrines, and usages and opinions, etc. etc., which today grow and spread and diversify more rapidly, etc., than they ever [778] did; and we lack it in proportion to the contrast between our present indolence and idleness and our former energy and activity. Thus, the Italian language is losing the lead it gained long ago through the prowess of its ancient and earliest fathers, and the other languages, running more swiftly than ever, and during so long a period in which our own sat and slept, will recover all the ground lost through the inertia of their ancestors, and will very soon catch up with ours and overtake it. And not only will our language no longer be either superior or equal to the other cultured modern languages but it will be so inferior that, once it has become powerless and good only for speaking or for writing to our great-grandparents, it will not be able to say anything useful, or speak and write in any way to contemporaries, or it will do so (as it does already in the case of the handful who speak and write of contemporary things and knowledge, or in the case of those who say nothing of their own but copy and follow foreigners) by calling on others for help, making use of others’ instruments and resources, and practically turning itself [779] into another language, by which I mean becoming a province and subject of a foreign kingdom (as the petty and weak become confederates of the great and mighty), though it was once chief among the living languages. For the other languages (and the other literatures also, and the scientific communities) are redoubling their efforts, and are gaining in energy and vigor as they advance, so that in a short time they will recover the ground their ancestors lost to us and, if we do not bestir ourselves, they will very soon match us at last, and will then overtake us (as has already occurred in so very many branches of knowledge); thus, we must match our efforts to theirs, and thus, not losing the lead we earlier gained, we may remain perpetually superior to all, if not in present worth, then certainly in the lead that was gained by our forefathers and maintained by us.
I will conclude with an observation that, t
hough it has been made before, I believe, by others, nonetheless deserves to be repeated, so that it may be ever more constantly [780] borne in mind and ever more effectively implemented. Not only are a language’s needs perpetually increasing and being renewed, but a language’s means, where there is no innovation in words, are perpetually shrinking. Just think of all those words and expressions and phrases which were once widely used, and were completely natural, clear, commonplace, useful, effective, expressive, and frequent in conversation, but which now, because they are antiquated, are either unclear or, even when they can be understood, and are perfectly clear, should not and cannot be used because they do not sound right or flow naturally, and they express and reveal what above all else should be hidden: study and effort on the part of the writer. This occurs in every language, for they all continually renew themselves, that is, shed old and adopt new words and expressions. If this second part of the process should fail, the language not only will not, over time, grow or improve, as all languages, cultured or not, have always done, and as has always been inculcated in all the cultured [781] languages, but, on the contrary, will steadily lose, and diminish, and finally be reduced to so mean, impoverished, and weakened a state that either it will no longer be able to express and be adequate to its needs or it will have recourse to foreign languages. Here, then, you will find a supposed defense against barbarism, namely, intolerance of sensible innovation, leading you by another path straight to barbarism. And speaking of the Italian language in particular, do we not see in the effects: (1) just how much languages are liable to lose their riches, (2) and how, by losing on the one hand and not gaining on the other, the language, no longer as a result of modishness (since the Gallicizing mode is now shunned, indeed all Italian writers fear rebuke and ridicule) but as a result of marked scarcity and need, is becoming barbarized? Let’s indulge in the pleasure of reading at random a page of the Crusca Dictionary, and then note down all those words and expressions, etc., which have fallen out of use, and which could not be used, or not without difficulty. I think that at least two-thirds of the dictionary [782] is no longer in fact usable or serviceable in any circumstances, and that those wares will never be convertible again. They are lost, yet countless others, though forgotten and unused, are a living and very real (and often very necessary) resource, for they are clear to everyone, and easily and naturally admitted into conversation and to anybody’s ears, but nonetheless they have been abandoned and set aside out of ignorance of the language (which is evident to a greater degree in some, to a lesser degree in others, but is certainly to be found in almost everyone, for complete mastery of the vast treasury of language belongs to no one today, not even to those who are most esteemed in this regard). Finally, the lack of new words suitable and necessary for new things compels today’s writers to have recourse to barbarism, since they find their language completely inadequate for their concepts, even though the concepts are invariably paltry in the extreme, trite, routine, trivial, very limited, very thin, and often, in fact most of the time, hoary and ancient.
I conclude that sensible innovation (and especially everything that can be drawn from our own sources), recruiting new troops [783] into our army, enlarging our city with new citizens, far from doing harm by its nature to the purity of the language, is indeed, when it is done properly, the only means we have available for defense, for resisting, and for withstanding the irruption of the barbarism inevitably threatening all languages that—while the world, and the world’s concerns, and men, and the speakers of those languages go forward, and advance, or at any rate are moving—no longer wish to go forward or are hindered from going forward, or progressing or moving in any way or direction. These languages wish, or are compelled (pointlessly) to wish, for a stability such as never was and never will be possessed by men and the affairs of men, in whose service they are destined to remain, and in whose train nature compels them to follow. I conclude that to deny languages sensible and appropriate innovation is not to preserve them but is the same as taking them by the hand, condemning them, and dragging them forcibly toward barbarism. (8–14 March 1821.)
[784] From torvo [grim], a very Italian word and in the Crusca, Caro in the Aeneid (bk. 2, where he is referring to the statue of Pallas) creates torvamente [grimly], a word that is not found in the Dictionary.1 Can there be a clearer, more natural, and at the same time more Italian word than this? But just because it isn’t in the Crusca, and just because it did not please those Academicians to include Caro’s celebrated Aeneid among the texts they admitted, despite all the rubbish they did put in, is that a reason for the word not to be used? I cite this as just one example, ὡς ἐν τύπῳ [sketched in outline]. Besides, this is a derivative, with nothing particularly bold about it, and although countless instances of this kind arise, and they are also a great benefit to the language, both collectively and individually, nonetheless derivatives fashioned with a degree of boldness, or new uses of already current words or phrases, are perhaps more useful. But I have supplied this example in order to demonstrate how from our own roots new derivatives can be made which, though new, have the very same aspect as old and familiar words, as much in clarity as in naturalness, shape, sound, etc., and hence are as Italian as Italy itself. Countless instances of this arise at every step, as I have said. (15 March 1821.)
[785] I wish also to extend everything I have said about the derivation of new words or expressions, etc., from our own roots, or about new uses of already current words or expressions, to new roots, not ones that are foreign, not ones drawn from the mother languages, but Italian, and not ones invented by writers but ones that have come into use in the language of the nation, or even in coarser, more impure writings, provided that such roots meet the conditions stated above regarding new derivatives, etc. And these new roots can be new in two senses, new in written form but old in everyday use or new in everyday use as well. See p. 800, end. I do not wish here to enter into the old, old questions, of which people of Italy, and which class, etc., has the right to supply the language of writers with new additions. I will simply point out: (1) the passage in Xenophon about the Attic language that I quoted on p. 741, in the margin, where I observe that Greece was in precisely the same state as Italy with regard to variety of dialects, and that the one that prevailed [786] was the one that everyone embraced (as Xenophon says here), namely, Attic, like the one of ours that is properly called Italian. For there is a great difference between the Attic used by good Greek writers and spread far and wide, the one of which Xenophon, etc. etc., speaks, and typical Attic. Just as there is between typical Tuscan and the Tuscan that is synonymous with Italian. (See p. 961, paragraph 1.) (2) That without a lengthy debate, it is very easy to tell (at least for men of judgment, because without sound judgment no one will, of course, ever write well, in any case) if a word used in this or that part of Italy but not yet admitted into written texts or into the dictionary, etc., meets the stated conditions, namely, that it be plain, simple, unaffected, and Italian in flavor, sound, and form. (For a word is of Italian origin when it is used by many people in Italy, provided that it is not obviously foreign, and a recent arrival; while there are any number of old foreign words that have settled here and become citizens of our language.) In the latter case, no matter what part of Italy uses it, any word and any expression will always [787] be Italian, and its purity intact, with the fact remaining, however, that for it to be used in writing, or in this or that genre of writing, or on this or that occasion, etc., other necessary qualities for a word, in addition to purity, must be taken into account. (3) That all languages grow in this manner, that is, by welcoming the words newly created by the usage of the nation and storing them in their treasury, and, as such a usage is always fruitful, so the gates of writing and citizenship are always open, by natural law, to the nation’s newborn children, in every language, except our own, according to the pedants. This, then, is the greatest, and most natural and legitimate and reasonable source of innovation, and of necessary
additions to a language. Because with additions to knowledge, and with the resulting variation in customs, opinions, ideas, intrinsic or extrinsic circumstances, etc. etc., the words and the treasury of language in everyday use increase, and from this use they must pass into writing, if the latter is to speak to contemporaries, and as a contemporary, and about current things, etc. Thus, the French language steadily acquires very appropriate French words, [788] on the one hand through the fervor and vitality of society and conversation, which will not let a thing requiring a name remain unnamed, especially if it has a part to play in civil society or in the knowledge shared by the educated part of the nation, and on the other hand through that proper and necessary liberty which prevents the French from regarding a word as illegitimate simply because it is not recorded in the dictionary, or not used in written texts in general or in classical texts with an established reputation, when it is in every other respect correct, and French, and useful, and necessary. (4) Let me repeat what I have said about the need to permit sensible innovation, precisely with the aim of preventing the language from becoming barbarous. Because, since new things need new words, someone who does not have words that are appropriate and recognized in his own language to express them will be compelled by overriding need to have recourse to foreign ones, and little by little every hesitation will be set aside and, with the purity of the language unheeded, a total decline into barbarism will occur. [789] This same process may be observed, setting aside our own case, in the Latin language, which likewise, after Cicero, lacked—because of neglect and ignorance, as I have argued elsewhere [→Z 750–51], with its users finding that they were neither such perfect owners and absolute masters of the language, nor such industrious, prudent, sensible, thorough, ingenious cultivators of its depths, and dealers in its goods and capital, as Cicero had been; or fearfulness, discouragement, the false and damaging opinion that the wealth of the language was already perfect, or that as far as it was concerned it could not be touched or move or grow; or, again, the superstition of pedants who barred the new words drawn from daily use or from the roots of the language, on the ground that they lacked the authority vested in writers (something that actually did happen, as may be seen in Gellius);1 or indeed the erroneous opinion that roots and everyday usage, or in short the language’s own capital, in fact had nothing more to offer, and might be altered at random or else be forcibly reconciled with the written texts, etc. etc.—lacked, I say, for all those reasons a proper degree of liberty, and [790] of prudent innovation, and therefore resorted, out of necessity, to the foreign, and degenerated into a barbarous Grecism. And as it is necessary, in order to avoid this evil, to accord rightful and reasonable (not precipitate and illegitimate, ill-judged and anarchic) citizenship to foreign words, too, if they are needed, so is it much more important to seek with all diligence, and to welcome, once found, with good grace, and to admit into the treasury of good, writable, legitimate speech, both derivatives from good and already acknowledged roots and those roots which, being as yet unacknowledged, go wandering through the usage of the nation, without being studied or observed by those who might stop them, search for them, call them, invite them, bring them in to join the company of recognized words or expressions, and have a share in the honors owed the citizens of good language. (5) Lastly, I would note that one should not treat as foreign those words or phrases which, though originally such, have already acquired a stable and ordinary residence in everyday usage, and, even more, if in written texts of real merit. These words or phrases are [791] as if naturalized, and deserve to share in the rights and honors accorded those mentioned above. Otherwise we would be back where we started, because a very large proportion of the new words and phrases through which everyday usage is extended come from abroad. And all languages, even the best, even those preserved in all their purity, even if they are extremely rich, grow through dealings with foreigners, and consequently through a moderate involvement of their languages. Knowledge, things of every kind that reach us from abroad and increase the number of objects that show up in discourse, whether written or not, and hence the needs of naming and of speech, naturally bring with them the names they have in the nation from which they came, and from which we receive them. Since they are new, we do not very often succeed in expressing them in any way appropriately and accurately in our language. Inventing new roots from scratch in our language is impossible for an individual, and only with the greatest difficulty and very rarely does it happen in a nation, as may readily be observed. [792] This is true of all languages, because every new word must have some immediate and precise reason for coming into use, and for being as it is and not otherwise, and for being immediately, generally, and easily understood and applied to such-and-such an object, and accorded such-and-such a meaning; and this cannot happen on a whim, through an arbitrary invention. Furthermore, can you name a language that when it began, step-by-step, was not composed of foreign words and other languages? How many words has our language taken from French, from Spanish, from the northern languages, words that have nevertheless been recognized, and have necessarily and justifiably long since become Italian? How otherwise, indeed, would a language take shape? Simply by inventing words on a whim, or by virtue of a pact, an agreement expressly entered into, individual by individual, by the entire nation? Why then would what was permissible, indeed, necessary, in the beginning and afterward not be permissible now, where there is the same necessity with regard to this or that word? That is what the French language always does, and that is what [793] all languages, ancient and modern, have done and do necessarily, by their very nature. And although the Greek language was so wary of every foreign language, in part because of the national character, as is seen in the fact of its having maintained its purity for longer perhaps than any other, and even amid the total corruption of its literature, etc., foreign enslavement, trade, voyages ancient and modern, the residence of so many of its nationals in Rome, etc. etc. (like Plutarch), nevertheless Xenophon testifies in the passage quoted by me p. 7411 that the Attic language, more generally recognized by writers than any other as the characteristically Greek language, and among the Greek languages as the most elegant, beautiful, and pure, was a mixture of not only all sorts of Greek words but also words taken from all sorts of barbarians, thanks to the Athenians’ maritime trade and the knowledge and use of foreign objects obtained through this same trade, as Xenophon again says. So that if necessity, natural, as I have [794] said, and common to all languages, leads to our welcoming as valid foreign words that have recently entered into everyday use, or even ones that haven’t entered it yet (provided they are intelligible), all the more is it the case with words that have been with us for a long time, that our ears have become familiar with and have domesticated, and that have almost lost their foreign dress, demeanor, appearance, and customs, or at any rate the reputation of being foreign. These words indeed should be diligently sought after, and welcomed, and given preference, so that they may be substituted, as far as is possible, for words that are wholly extraneous. For, I say again, we should do everything we can to enrich the language with what is needed, and to do it judiciously, with a careful investigation of the circumstances and of what is required, etc. etc., so that it is not done indiscriminately and without prior examination, and randomly and illegitimately, since a language that does not grow while the subjects covered by that language multiply lapses inevitably, and in a short space of time, into barbarism.
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