For p. 804. It is worth pointing out that with dramatists the case is different, because the circumstances that decide success in the theater are infinite in number and highly various, especially in certain nations, and according to the differences between them; and particularly because the theater in any nation, even if it has already reached its dramatic peak, always seeks novelty, indeed demands not so much perfection as novelty in writings; this it requires above anything else, and this very often wins more applause than do the masterpieces of excellent and already well-known authors. Thus, a dramatist always has to earn his place [811] and procure his share of praise, his inspiration for the enterprise, and his reward for success. All these factors are such that even a very talented author may be satisfied and stimulated by them, as well as by the minor incidents in society that inspire theatrical compositions; by those who for professional reasons or out of interest seek and encourage writers of this sort; by the interests or needs of the authors, their commitments, their desire for certain forms of praise or success that we might call civic, or accorded by a party, or in conversation, and by friends, etc.; and, in particular, by the shifting nature of the theatrical customs and usages that belong to plays as much as by those that occur in the life and concerns to be represented. Thus, for a dramatic writer there is always a large enough field. And Sophocles’s great fame did not stop Euripides from succeeding him. The difference between this and other kinds of composition lies in the fact that the consequences, the use, the intended purpose of a play are, so to speak, alive, [812] and always living, and mobile, whereas those of other kinds of composition are, as it were, dead and at rest. This is not how it would be if there still existed, as there once did, those assemblies of the people where Herodotus read his history, and if poetry were still written to be sung to the nation, as the poems of Homer were, and if the times of the Tyrtaeuses and the Bards had not vanished forever. Because such compositions are no longer in fashion, we are satisfied with works in this genre that are already perfect, and we do not really wish for another model of perfection. Things turn out differently when something is still in living use, and if this had been the case with Latin eloquence after Cicero it would perhaps have had new outstanding orators. (18 March 1821.)
In words that start with an impure s, the tongue seems to need a support before the s, that is, before the word. The French and Spanish languages love such a support in words constructed that way, which they got from the Latins or whomever, or created themselves. And mainly Spanish, which has only a very few words starting with an impure s. [813] (Franciosini records only 16, and all beginning with sc and with various vowels following.)1 Now, faced with the need to give the tongue the support of a vowel, e has invariably been chosen. Thus, the Spanish have turned sperare [hope] into esperar, the French espérer. From species [view, sight], the Spanish have made especie, the French, espèce; from spiritus [spirit] the Spanish have made espiritu, the French, esprit; from studium [assiduity, study], the Spanish have made estudio, the French, estude, and then, once the s had been removed, étude; from scribere [to write], the Spanish have made escrivir, the old French, escrire; from stomachus [stomach], estomago, estomac, etc. etc. So true is it that where the tongue needs or welcomes a support in order to pronounce a consonant, and in order to rest on the vowel, without this being predetermined, the tongue naturally chooses and drops down on and rests on the e. And so too, as is apparent from what was noted above, when this vowel serves as a step for the pronunciation of consonants. Where the impure s is concerned, Italy has been no more fastidious than Latin speakers and the Latin dialects.2 [814] It is true, however, that when the impure s is preceded by a consonant, Italy, following a usage that is not natural but grammatical, artificial, acquired, and peculiar to itself, inserts an i, not an e (in ispirito, etc.). I believe, however, that in writing the early Italians did the opposite. On the other hand, our saying ef el, etc., and not if il1 is relevant to the above observation. (18 March 1821.)
Our circumstances today are worse than those of the animals in this regard as well. Certainly no animal desires an end to its life, and none, no matter how unhappy it may be, thinks to free itself from unhappiness through death, or would have the courage to bring about its own death. In animals, nature retains all its original force and keeps them well away from all that. Yet if one of them were ever to desire to die nothing would hinder that desire. We, however, are wholly estranged from nature and therefore deeply unhappy. We very often desire death, and ardently so, as the only obvious and considered remedy for our unhappiness, so that we often long for death, and rightly, and are compelled to desire it, [815] and to think of it as our supreme good. Now, since that is the way it is, and we are in that state, and not through error but by virtue of truth, what greater misfortune could there be than to be prevented from dying and obtaining a good that not only is the supreme good but also would be wholly within our grasp? Prevented, I mean, either by Religion, or by the impregnable, invincible, inexorable, inevitable uncertainty about our origin, destiny, ultimate end, and about what we may expect after death. I know full well that nature with all its might abhors suicide; I know that suicide breaches all of nature’s laws more gravely than does any other human wrongdoing. But since nature was completely altered, since our life has ceased to be natural, since the happiness that nature had destined for us has fled forever and we became incurably unhappy, and since the desire for death—which according to nature we should never even conceive of—has got us in its grip by virtue of reason and in spite of nature, [816] why does this same reason prevent us from satisfying that desire, and from redressing in the only way possible the injuries that reason itself, and it alone, has done us? If our circumstances have changed, if the laws established by nature no longer have any power over us, why, when we no longer abide by them in any of those matters where they would have been of use to us and made us happy, should we abide by them in those matters where today they do us harm, and to the highest degree? Why, after reason has fought and defeated nature in order to make us unhappy, does it then forge an alliance with nature, in order to cap our unhappiness, by preventing us from bringing it to that end which would be within our grasp? Why does reason concur with nature in this alone, which constitutes the furthest extent of our misfortunes? The natural repugnance toward death is destroyed almost entirely in those who are extremely unhappy. Why then should they refrain from dying simply out of obedience to nature? This is how things stand. If Religion is not true, if it is nothing but an idea conceived by [817] our miserable reason, this idea is the most barbaric thing that could ever have arisen in the mind of man. It is the most brutally monstrous product of reason. It is the greatest of injuries inflicted upon us by our mortal enemy, reason, which erased from our minds, our imaginations, and our hearts all the illusions that would and did make us blessed, and kept this alone: this alone, which it can never erase except by complete doubt (which is the same as certainty, and must logically produce exactly the same effects in the whole of human life); this alone, which caps the desperate despair of the unhappy. Our misfortune and our fate make us wretched but do not take from us—rather, leave in our hands—the power to put an end to our misery whenever we please. The idea of religion forbids us to do so and forbids us inexorably and irremediably, because once this idea has arisen in our minds how [818] can we ascertain that it is false? And if there is even the slightest doubt, how could we ever risk the infinite for the finite? The disproportion that exists between what is doubtful and what is certain can never be compared to that between the infinite and the finite, even if the latter is certain and the former as doubtful as you like.1 So that, just as unhappiness, however serious it may be, is nonetheless measured chiefly by the time it lasts—and something that can last, let’s say, just a moment is always small, and our knowing for certain that it is in our own hands to withdraw from any ill whenever we please serves immeasurably to alleviate it—so we may say that today in the last analysis the cause of unhappiness in
the man who is wretched but neither stupid nor cowardly is the idea of Religion, and that Religion, if it is not true, is in the end the greatest ill for man, and the supreme injury done to him by his wretched investigations and reasonings and reflections, or his prejudices. (19 March 1821.)
[819] What is barbarism in a language? Might it perhaps be whatever is opposed to current usage? But a language would then never become barbarous, because every time it became barbarous, that barbarism, since it has to be in current use (for otherwise it would be a partial barbarizing of one thing or another, and not of the language), would not be barbarism, since it would be in accord with usage. What is barbarous in a language is therefore simply what is opposed to its original nature, and whoever reflects upon the matter will agree. For indeed a barbarous word, a barbarous writer are in most cases in accord with the usage of the period, abide by it, and are produced by it, as is the case today in the Italian language. Furthermore, no age would ever be, or would ever have [820] been, barbarous for any language. At most one could say whether the language of one age or another was more or less beautiful, rich, fine, etc., by comparing the ages of a particular language with one another, just as various languages are compared with one another, in order to judge which of them is least esteemed, not if it is therefore judged to be barbarous. Indeed, it would be termed barbarous if against its nature it sought to adopt, and accommodate itself to, the state of a better, more beautiful language, etc., if, for example, the English language wanted to adopt the forms of Greek, etc. In short, barbarism in any language is neither the lack of particular merit, nor that which contradicts current usage, but only that which contradicts its original nature. To preserve which the language must continue to be less esteemed if that is its nature, because merits are relative, and so what is virtue and beauty in another language would be vice and ugliness in this one if it goes against its nature. It is in this that true (though relative) perfection [821] consists, not only of a language but of everything that exists.
From these specific observations, simple and clear and agreed on by all, go on to one that is more general though just as true as the ones preceding, and which cannot be denied if the latter are acknowledged and granted. What is barbarism in man? Is it what is opposed to current usage? No people, and no epoch, would then be barbarous. Barbarism is simply what is opposed to the original nature of man. I would next ask whether our current customs, practices, opinions, etc., would have been compatible with our first nature. How could they be, when in fact nature plainly placed potential obstacles in our path? Their incompatibility with our original nature is so obvious, also as observed by each of us and by children, too, and savages and the ignorant, etc. etc., that it requires no proof. If, then, they are not compatible, this is as much as to say that they are opposed to our original nature, and clash with it. So? so they are barbarous. [822] That they are in accordance with usage and custom is worth no more than the same thing is worth as an excuse for an age corrupted in its language. The fact that they are considered to be good absolutely, and better than natural and original customs, practices, and opinions, is first of all worth no more than it is in language, as I have said. Second, just as in relation to language, this opinion is mistaken, and derives from an illusion, partly of custom, partly of an imaginary and absolute perfection, whereas whatever is opposed to the particular and original character and nature of a species, even if it is virtue and perfection in another species, is essentially imperfection and vice. (20 March 1821.)
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