Zibaldone
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Second, my argument is borne out by those Greeks who came to Italy in the fourteenth century, and after the fall of the Greek empire in the fifteenth century.2 And while in Italy the ancient Latin authors who had lain buried and forgotten for so long in their own homeland were being resuscitated, the Greeks were bringing their Homer, their Plato, and the other ancients here, not as if they had just risen or been dug up but as if they had always been alive. So well known are the erudition and scholarship of these Greeks, the things they did in Italy, the knowledge they introduced, the works they wrote, partly in Greek, some of them truly elegant, and partly in Latin, stooping at last for the first time to using the language of their former, already destroyed, conquerors, that there is no need for me to do more than allude to them. (29 April 1821.)
[999] For p. 996. And Latin literature could not prevent its language from being extinguished, whereas the Greek language still lives, corrupted though it may be, because if one knows ancient Greek, one manages without a particular course of study to understand modern Greek. It is not the same if you know Latin so far as understanding Italian is concerned, etc. Which is why the present Greek language cannot be distinguished from the ancient, as Italian can, etc., from Latin, which are indeed different, though related languages. And one cannot even understand Italian when one knows French, nor etc. (29 April 1821.) See p. 1013, paragraph 1.
As proof of how universal the Greek language was, and was judged to be, even after the complete establishment and during the furthest extension of Roman dominion and of the Romans throughout the world, one could invoke the New Testament, code of the new religion under the first emperors, written entirely in Greek, even though by Judaean writers (which is what everyone calls the Jews of those times), even though the Gospel according to St. Mark is believed to have been written in Rome and for the use of Italians, since the argument that this Gospel was originally written in Latin has been rejected by all sound critics (Fabricius, Bibliotheca Graeca, 3, 131), even though there is an Epistle of St. Paul, a Roman citizen, addressed to the Romans, and another to the Jews; even though there are the so-called Catholic, that is, universal Epistles, of St. James and St. Judas Thaddaeus. But without entering into the questions regarding the original language of the New Testament, or of its different parts, I would simply note what Fabricius, Bibliotheca Graeca, old ed., tome 3, p. 153, bk. 4, ch. 5, § 9 says, speaking of St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans: *“it was written in Greek, not Latin, even though the Syrian scholiast notes that it was written in Roman, [roma’it], by which term, Selden observed in his comment on Eutychius, [1000] was meant the Greek language, very widespread then in Rome and in almost the entire Roman Empire.”*1 And p. 131, note d, § 3, speaking of the testimonies “of the recent Oriental writers” which say that the Gospel of St. Mark was written in the Roman language, says that either they were deceived, or misunderstood by others, *“for Selden observed that by the Roman language they sometimes meant the Greek language.”* Understand by this the work Eutychii Aegyptii Patriarchae Orthodoxorum Alexandrini Ecclesiae suae origines, edited for the first time in Arabic and enriched with a translation and a commentary by John Selden. Conversely, Josephus, in the preface to the Archaeology, § 2, beginning and end,2 gives the name of Greeks to all those who were not Jews, or who were as it were Gentiles including as a consequence the Romans also. And thus in Scripture *“῞Ελληνες [the Hellenes] are contrasted passim with the Jews, and are called Gentiles, strangers to Christ.”* (Scapula.)3 So it is in the Church Fathers. Which goes to prove my argument. And Josephus, having said that he was writing for all the Greeks (i.e., non-Jews), writes in Greek. See also Forcellini, under Graecus, at the end.4
I further observe that Josephus, having originally written his books on the Jewish Wars in his mother tongue (whatever this language may have been, whether Hebrew, as Ittig believes (in Havercamp’s Josephus, tome 2, appendix p. 80, column 2)5 or Syro-Chaldean as others suppose (see Basnage, Exercitationes ad Baronium, p. 388; Fabricius, 3, p. 230, note p),6 for the use, as he says, of the barbarians of upper Asia, that is to say, as he himself explains (De bello Iudaico, Proem, art. 2, ed. Havercamp, tome 2, p. 48), the Parthians, the Babylonians, the Arabs farther from the sea, the Jews on the other side of the Euphrates, and the Adiabeni;7 (Fabricius, loc. cit.; Josephus, loc. cit., p. 47, note h),8 then seeking, as he himself says, to adjust it for the use of the subjects of the Roman [1001] Empire, “τοῖς κατὰ τὴν ῾Ρωμαίων ἡγεμονίαν” [“for those under Roman rule”], and writing in Rome, he chose, as he actually says (Fabricius, 3, 229, end, and 230, beginning), and as he did, to translate it (not into Latin) into Greek, “῾Ελλάδι γλώσσῃ μεταβαλεῖν” [“to translate it into the Greek language”] (Idem, loc. cit., art. 1, p. 47).1 And thus translated he presented it to Vespasian and to Titus, Roman emperors (Ittig, loc. cit.; Fabricius, 3, 231, line 8; Tillemont, Empereurs, tome 1, p. 582).2 (30 April 1821.)
The Greek language is easier than Latin, although at first sight it seems to us just the opposite, in large part because of the situation that all we Europeans, etc., find ourselves in with respect to Latin. I mean the ancient Greek found in the best classics and the Latin found in the classics of the best period, and both of them comparatively as each is found in the best period of both languages. And this despite the greater grammatical and elemental richness of Greek. This, then, is the reason why it was better suited than Latin to be universal, and is the reason both in itself and immediately, and on account of the similarity it produces between the vulgar language and the language of literature, between the spoken language and the written. (1 May 1821.)
What I have said [→Z 970–72] regarding the natural difficulty the French have and are bound to have in knowing and still more appreciating the languages of others applies to an even greater degree to the ancient languages and, among the modern cultured European languages, to our own. For French [1002] is the quintessential modern language, by which I mean that it occupies the uttermost limit between those languages whose character, etc., is ruled by the imagination, and those in which it is ruled by reason. (I have in mind here the language as used in its classic works, as it is today, and as it has been ever since it attained a fixed form, as established by the Academy.) Judge then how suited it is to serve as an instrument for knowing and appreciating ancient languages, and still more for translating them; and see just how mistaken Mme. de Staël (see p. 962) is in believing it better suited than others to the expression of the Latin language, because that is where it came from. On the contrary, it is precisely the other way around, for if there is one language that is exceedingly difficult for the French to appreciate, and impossible to render in French, it is Latin, which perhaps occupies the other end or degree on this scale of languages, limiting ourselves just to European ones. For among these languages, Latin is the one (at any rate among the well-known, cultured languages, leaving aside Celtic for now, not well known, etc.) where reason dominates the least. Indeed, generally speaking, ancient languages are all under the sway of the imagination, and therefore very far removed from French. And it is entirely natural that the ancient languages were dominated by the imagination more than any modern language, and therefore are beyond dispute the least adaptable to the French language, its character, and the knowledge and, still more, appreciation of French people. [1003] Thus, on the scale and ratio of the modern, Italian (with Spanish immediately behind it) occupies beyond dispute the furthermost degree of the imagination, and is the most similar to the ancient languages, and to the ancient character. I am talking about modern cultured languages, or at least European ones: since I do not wish to go into the Eastern languages here, while imagination always holds more sway in uncultured languages than in cultured ones, and reason plays less part in them than it does in any fully formed language. We should therefore say, with all due proportion, that the French language stands in the same relation to Italian as it does, in our opinion, to the ancient languages. And the f
acts bear this out, for there is no cultured modern language that is so unknown or absurdly misconstrued by the French as Italian is; nowhere have they displayed so little understanding of the spirit and genius of a language; nowhere do they make so many mistakes in talking about a language not only in theory but also in matters of fact and of practice, despite the Italian language being a sister to their own, and markedly similar to it in the majority of its roots, and in the actual letters of which the roots of the words are composed (be they roots or derivatives or compounds); and despite the fact that, for example, English and German—where they are far more successful (even in translation, etc., whereas a French translation from Italian, Latin, or Greek is unrecognizable)—belong to a wholly different family of languages. (1 May 1821.) See p. 1007, paragraph 1.
[1004] One of the main dogmas of Christianity is the degeneration of man from an original state that was more perfect and more happy, and this dogma is linked to that of the Redemption, and, it can be said, to the whole of the Christian Religion. The main teaching of my system is precisely this degeneration. For this reason, all the countless observations and general proofs that I adduce in order to demonstrate how man was originally made for happiness, how his perfectly natural state (which in fact never occurs) was for him the only perfect one, how the more we distance ourselves from nature, the more unhappy we become, etc. etc.: all these observations, I repeat, are just so many direct proofs of one of the principal dogmas of Christianity and, we might say, of the truth of Christianity itself. (1 May 1821.)
So great was the hostility felt by the ancients (those who had a country and a society) toward foreigners and toward other countries and other societies, that a minor power or even a single city attacked by a whole nation (as Numantia was by the Romans) would not come to terms on any account but would resist with all the strength at its disposal. And its resistance would be measured in terms of its strength, not the enemy’s, and the decision to resist was certain, immediate, requiring no consultation, and depended on the fact of being attacked, not [1005] on an estimate of their attackers’ forces and their own, the means of resistance, the hopes that might be vested in the defense, etc.1 And this was a natural consequence, as I have said [→Z 879–80], of the mutual hatred between various societies, the hatred there was in the attacker that caused those under attack to despair of ever coming to terms, the hatred there was in the defenders that prevented them from consenting to any sort of subjugation, despite any advantage there might be in their doing so, and despite any harm that might arise from their refusing to do so, and even if it were to bring about the utter destruction of themselves and their country, as may be seen in practice in the ancients and, among other instances, in the case cited of Numantia.
Today, on the other hand, resistance depends on calculation as to the forces, resources, hopes for success, injuries, and benefits at stake in yielding or in resisting. And if the calculation comes out in favor of yielding, not only will a city yield to a nation, but a power will submit to another power, even if it is not so very much stronger, even if a genuine and wholehearted resistance could have had some well-founded hope. Indeed, henceforth it can be said that wars or political disputes are decided at a desk through a simple calculation of forces and resources: “I can employ so many men, so much money, etc., and the enemy so many: on my side there is this much inferiority (or superiority): so either we attack (or we don’t), either we yield (or we don’t).” [1006] And without coming to blows, and without putting anything really to the test, provinces, kingdoms, nations adopt the form, laws, government, etc., that the strongest ordains, and the fate of the world is decided by accounting. All else being equal, the same argument will apply to powers that are evenly matched.
In this way, the strong today are not actually but potentially strong. Troops, military maneuvers, etc., do not serve the purpose of deciding who should command and who obey, etc. etc., but are used simply in order to know and recognize and calculate which needs are to be decided upon. If they did not serve the purposes of calculation, they would be of no use, since in the last analysis the outcome of political affairs, and their great effects, are as if those troops, etc., had not existed.
And this is a natural consequence of the wretched spiritualization of human affairs1 arising from experience, from knowledge spread so far and grown so great, from reason and the exile of nature, the only mother of life, and of doing. A consequence that may be extended to matters that are far more general and we may find it to be equally true there, as much in theory as in practice. It follows from this spiritualization, which is almost the same thing as annihilation, that today, instead of doing, we have to calculate; and where the ancients did things, the moderns count them, and what were once upon a time the results of actions are today [1007] results of calculations; and thus without doing anything, we live by calculating and reckoning what should be done, or what should happen, waiting before actually doing anything, and so living, until we are dead. For such a life cannot now be distinguished from death and must of necessity be identical to it. (1 May 1821.)
For p. 1003, end. Over and above these considerations, the French language is also utterly different from Italian, because of all the cultured modern languages (and consequently all languages) it is beyond dispute the most enslaved, and the least free, which is a natural consequence of its being more modeled on reason than any other. Conversely, Italian is perhaps—and really there is no perhaps about it—the freest such language, as all will agree who know the true character of the Italian language, though this, in truth, is known to very few, and unknown to the majority of Italians and even of linguists. In which liberty the Italian language is markedly similar to Greek, and this is one of the principal and most characteristic resemblances between our language and Greek. By contrast with Latin, which, as established by its best writers, and by those who shaped and first fashioned it, is exceedingly bold, and exceedingly varied, but not therefore exceedingly [1008] free. Indeed, it is perhaps less free than any other ancient language, one of whose primary distinguishing features is liberty. But the Latin language, although not subject in any way to reason, is subject, if I may so put it, to itself, and to its own custom, and this to a greater degree than any other ancient language. And because this custom is fixed and defined in every respect, however bold it might be, the language cannot flout it, nor alter, nor overstep it, etc., in any way. So that although it is in itself extremely rich in forms, it is not at all adaptable to any other form, nor can it bend to any expressions other than those defined by its own usage. And therefore precisely, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 850–61], it was not at all suited to universality, because its boldness was not accompanied by liberty. And a perfect aptitude for universality lies in being, like the French language, neither bold nor varied nor free. Another, less perfect aptitude for universality lies in being, like Greek, both bold and varied and at the same time free. Boldness and variety, though they do for the most part accompany liberty, do not, however, always do so; nor are they the same as liberty, as may be seen in the case of the Latin language, and we need, therefore, to distinguish between these qualities.
Besides, the servility and timidity of the French language marks it out more sharply from the ancient languages than from any others, and, so far as the modern languages are concerned, from Italian.
[1009] And these are the reasons why the Italian language, even if it has very many affinities with French, as I have said p. 1003, is nevertheless so distant from it and so dissimilar, especially in character; and why the Italian language loses all its naturalness and particularity, or characteristic and native form, when it adapts to French, sisters though they be; and why the French are less suited than anyone else to knowing and appreciating Italian, as is borne out by the facts; and finally why the French language is less adaptable to ancient languages, even those languages which were mother to the language and its literature like Latin and Greek, than are the modern languages divided from it by cognation, kinsh
ip, blood, origin, and common stock.
What I have said above about boldness, variety, and liberty should be extended to all the other attributes that are characteristic of the ancient languages and of Italian, and come from their being modeled on imagination and nature, which is as much as to say, power, efficacy, clarity, etc. etc., qualities that also derive in part from the others mentioned above, and from each other, and are therefore fundamentally lacking in the French language.
Nor should it be supposed that when I say these qualities are characteristic of ancient [1010] languages I mean it only with regard to Greek and Latin. I mean it with regard to all of them, and some qualities (such as variety, richness, etc.), with regard to the cultured languages in particular. In fact, these qualities have been observed in the Celtic language (see p. 994), in Sanskrit (see Annali di scienze e lettere, Milan, January 1811, no. 13, p. 52, end–p. 53)1 (highly cultured languages), even though they are utterly different from our own, and also observed in so many others. Nor are examples and factual proofs needed for someone who knows that these and similar qualities invariably stem from nature, the teacher, norm, mistress, and governess of the ancients and their affairs. (2 May 1821.)
On the ancient Vulgar Latin see Andrés, Dell’origine d’ogni letteratura, etc., Part 1, ch. 11, Venetian edition, del Vitto, tome 2, pp. 256–57, note (*). This note is by Loschi.2 The fact that he is mistaken is, however, shown by my observations [→Z 32–34] on the language of Celsus, a writer who belonged not to old Latin, ill-formed, but to perfect classical Latin. (4 May 1821.)