Do I not then acknowledge any difference in individuals in their natural disposition and ability to appreciate and feel the beautiful and the ugly, etc.? Indeed, I do recognize it but I do not attribute it to what it is customarily attributed to, namely an imaginary magnetism that transports privileged minds toward the beautiful and causes them to feel and discover it without any reliance on habituation, experience, comparison, to a sympathy of the mind with a beauty that exists in abstract nature, to a favor that nature bestows of its own accord on these privileged geniuses, etc. etc. This is the stuff of dreams. A gift for the beautiful, like the gift for truth and for philosophy, consists simply of a delicacy in the organs that makes a man of talent (i) disposed and inclined to reflect, to observe, [1190] to take note, to discover minute things and the smallest differences; (ii) to compare, and in the comparison to be diligent, precise, and to identify the most minimal disparities and resemblances, the tiniest contrasts and relationships;1 (iii) to become habituated in a short space of time with little experience, after seeing little, etc. etc., after very little use, in short, of the senses, little material use of his faculties, to acquire a habit; (iv) to be able, through what he already knows, also to guess in a brief period of time what he does not know, by dint of the great capacity for comparing he derives from the delicacy of his organs, a capacity which means that with the scant information he has he discovers all possible mutual relations, and deduces all possible consequences from them. For example (not straying from our chosen topic), a child endowed with what is called genius has less need to see than does another of obtuse and sluggish temperament in order to form an idea of human beauty, because he conceives the idea of fixed proportions more rapidly, by means of a more precise and attentive consideration of the objects that he sees, and a more exact comparison of these objects in relation one to the other. For example, that child of sluggish [1191] intelligence who will not notice the small difference in structure that there is between the mouth or brow he sees and those he is used to seeing. A child of acute, penetrating, sharp, thoughtful intelligence, that is to say, whose organs are delicate, mobile, swift, flexible, and prompt, will notice the difference either instantly or very soon and will attain a sense of and a capacity to judge disproportion and ugliness, because he has better observed the objects that he has seen, and observes better the one he now sees, and both make or have made a more intense, brighter, and more consistent impression on him. Hence the greater facility and accuracy of the comparison he makes in this regard, a comparison which is the sole source of the idea of what is proportionate and proper. That’s all there is to genius. You may reason thus, proportionately, in relation to every other age and every other object and faculty, and you will see how genius of whatever sort is never anything other than an observational and comparative faculty deriving from the delicacy and more or less perfect structure of the organs, which is what is called greater or lesser intelligence.
(2) If a child is surrounded by people who are either notably diverse in appearance, or who are all ugly in appearance, and who all converge in a specific kind of ugliness, the idea he forms of beauty and of proportion is utterly uncertain in the first case and rests solely on generalities (that is to say, only on those proportions which are common to all the people around him), and in the second case, he expressly conceives as beautiful what [1192] is ugly and which later, by seeing more and more other people, he finally ends up recognizing as ugly. Here I would invoke as testimony the experience of all men of the world to tell me how much their idea regarding beauty and ugliness has kept on altering with age, that is to say, in accordance with their experience of what they have seen, and how almost all as children had judged physiognomies, people, etc., to be beautiful who at another age had seemed to them ugly and seemed ugly to others as well. This comes (i) from the reason just mentioned, (ii) from limited practice in seeing which restricted their capacity for judgment and the idea they had of proportions, limiting it necessarily and in every case to the single idea of those proportions that are general and common to all men, (iii) from circumstances that are, in fact, extrinsic to beauty, e.g., our nurse always seems beautiful to us, and so too do all those people who cherish us when we are children, etc. etc. Judgments regarding beauty were then the effect of such impressions (and not of the beautiful). And subsequently we gradually became used to judging as beautiful what resembled the physiognomies upon which we had formed our idea of human beauty, even if they were extremely ugly. And just as the impressions of childhood are exceedingly vivid, so too because of their effect [1193] and the so-called sympathies and antipathies1 that are one of their effects, it happens that for a long time and perhaps forever we find ourselves inclined to pass a favorable judgment on people who are extremely ugly but who resemble those who appeared beautiful to us when we were young, and especially on those people themselves, who, even though ugly, will never again appear to us to be really ugly. Only our new habit of seeing and hence the new fashion that we have acquired of judging beauty will make them be judged ugly, but not appear ugly. And we will always require a period of reflection, and a direct comparison with our new ideas of the beautiful, in order to judge those people to be ugly who at first glance, and without further consideration, will never appear such to us. Especially if our intelligence is sluggish and finds it hard to acquire new habits. Because, in the opposite case, it is easier for us to form a judgment about the external appearance of such people that is in accord with the new idea of beauty we have acquired through greater experience of the senses. I do not believe that one could hope for more certain proofs that the idea of beauty is neither absolute nor innate nor natural nor immutable nor dependent upon a type (with which we could have compared those physiognomies).
[1194] (3) Man, if we think carefully, never judges beauty or ugliness other than comparatively, and the idea of the beautiful is always comparative and therefore relative. We judge the extrinsic beauty of man, whether real or imitated, in a much more refined way than we do any other form of physical beauty. Why? Because we have naturally paid and pay greater attention to the forms of our fellows than to any other object; we have taken note of the most minimal parts; we can compare them with one another and those of one individual with those of another, or of the generality of them. And, in this way, we have a distinct and precise and exact acquired idea of what is proportionate and proper regarding man’s appearance and of what is disproportionate and improper, which is the same as saying human beauty and ugliness. But suppose you have a human individual who has never seen any of his fellow beings. He will not have the least notion how to judge their ugliness or beauty when he sees one of them, especially if he sees one in isolation. If, however, he has never paid much attention to his own forms, his own countenance, gazing at his own reflection in, e.g., pools, etc. And then the judgment he brings to bear on the forms of such a man will perhaps be comparative, that is to say, comparative in relation to his own [1195] forms, and it will therefore not accord with the judgment of the generality, or if so only by chance. And if he has had much experience of some other species of animals, such as dogs or horses, etc., he will be much better equipped to judge their beauty than he will man’s. And in such a judgment he will be more in agreement with the common judgment of men. I say of men, not indeed of the animals themselves, which, like men, pay greater attention to the forms of their fellows and judge them very differently, and more clearly and precisely than men do, in proportion, however, to the capacity of their organs that are much less prepared for, or practiced in, observing, comparing, and contemplating than are those of man, and especially of a more or less civilized man or child. But it is true that a man such as we have supposed will perhaps feel more inclined toward his fellow than toward any other species of animal with which he is familiar, and especially if his fellow is of the opposite sex. But this is an inclination that is material and intrinsic to his nature, wholly independent of the idea of the beautiful and of judgment regarding forms. It is inclination
and πάθος, that is, passion and not idea. And a man such as this, should he see many of his fellows all at once and for the very first time, will perceive almost no difference in their forms and physiognomies, etc., as is well known to happen, e.g., when a European sees Ethiopians or Laplanders for the first time. All appear to him to be virtually identical in form and physiognomy, and none more beautiful or uglier [1196] than the others. Precisely the same happens when a child chances to see men for the first time and gradually acquires the idea and the sense of their beauty or ugliness, through comparison alone, beginning by noting the most minimal parts and comparing them and discovering the most minimal differences between individuals. This is what happens to us with animals, all of which seem to us to have virtually, e.g., the same physiognomy (within the limits of one and the same species) and even when they gradually become familiar to us and we are able to deliver a comparative judgment on the comparative beauty of their forms, (i) this only happens to us with animals with which we deal the most and observe the most, such as horses, dogs, oxen, etc., so that no man, so far as I know, either claims the right or even thinks to judge the beauty of, e.g., an individual lion; (ii) this judgment is certainly much less precise than that of the individuals of the species themselves, and one can well believe that very often it runs altogether contrary to the judgment of those same individuals, because we judge their forms using the ideas we have of proportions (different from their own) and comparing rather with other species and with other objects than with their own species, on which I shall say something shortly. A baby or an animal will easily confuse a doll, a statue, a picture, etc., with the things that they represent because they have made very few observations of the latter. But they will do so less easily, or less lastingly, if the thing represented is of their own species and form, because they will naturally have paid more attention to the form of their own species.1
If the man I have posited had not [1197] carefully observed his own color and saw a Black and a White at the same time, he would simply not be able to decide which of the two was more beautiful, nor which of the two suited the human species better. And if he had not carefully observed his own forms and saw at one and the same time a Laplander, an Italian, and a Patagonian, he would not be able to decide which of these three forms was more beautiful and would not feel a difference of beauty or ugliness in any of them. Which proves that he has no innate and absolute rule or norm enabling him to judge beauty, even human beauty.
Man can never form the idea of an isolated beauty, which is as much as to say that the absolutely beautiful does not exist, either elsewhere or in the idea, imagination, or natural and original understanding of man. Suppose we have been shown an unfamiliar object, and that it is the first and only one of its kind we have seen. We either do not judge its beauty or ugliness in any way nor feel it, or we judge it comparatively with other kinds of things and other proportions, and thus for the most part we go astray, and we will probably judge as ugly an object that in its own country is judged very beautiful and which really is so in its own kind, or vice versa. Suppose [1198] you see an American bird of a species you have never seen before. This is a species not a genus, and to judge it you can compare it with other species of bird that you know. Nevertheless, the judgment will probably be mistaken. I mean, e.g., that you will see as disproportions what to Americans accustomed to seeing them will appear as proportions and beauty; and conversely many birds of different forms and species from their own, and which they are not used to seeing, will seem ill-proportioned and ugly to Americans. Discuss in the same way every kind of object whether natural or artificial.
And passing on from these observations to the good and the bad, you will see that no conceivable thing may be good or bad, nor more or less perfect, etc., in isolation, but only comparatively. And consequently there does not exist an absolute, but only a relative, good or bad.
I wish to forestall a possible objection. People will say that man naturally, and without observation and scrutiny, prefers one man to another, or a young woman to an old, and that the idea of beauty is therefore absolute.
(1) I might respond by saying that such a thing does not happen with a child before he has acquired [1199] the faculty for making comparisons through experience of the senses. And I would further add that I remember as a child having judged some old people to be beautiful, and more beautiful even than other people who were young. And this for the reasons stated on pp. 1191, end–1193.
(2) But the truest and most complete response is to note that this does not belong to the sphere of beauty.
The metaphysician should not allow himself to be imposed upon by names, but should differentiate between the different things that are denoted under one and the same name. See in this regard pp. 1234–36 and, in particular, p. 1237. An isolated and intense color, one that pleases, is called beautiful and is not. An isolated sound that gives delight, without gradations or harmony, does not belong to the sphere of the beautiful. Beauty is simply harmony and propriety. Ugliness is disproportion and impropriety. No philosopher has ever contested these assertions, so far as my limited observations extend. It is generally believed that the nature of man teaches what things do and do not belong together, and that it depends on the primordial and necessary order of things, but this I deny. The question turns on harmony and propriety, and where they do not enter into it, the question does not arise. A thing that pleases but without harmony or propriety belongs to the sphere of other pleasures. Where an intense color delights us, it is because our organs are so made that that sensation stimulates them agreeably. [1200] This is a sensation (dependent on nature’s decision as to which things are pleasing to one or other species of being) and not an idea, and hence this pleasure, although it comes by way of sight, does not pertain to beauty, any more than the pleasure a meal gives to the papillae of the palate, or sexual pleasure, etc., pertains to it. (I leave aside the fact that these pleasures, too, are not absolute, even within the bounds of a single species, indeed even within those of a single individual, and depend to the utmost degree, or at any rate in large part, on habituation.) Man is better disposed toward his fellow if young than if old. The same goes for the other animals, too. This is not a matter of idea but of inclination, tendency, and passion, and it lies outside the theory of the beautiful, because it also lies outside the sphere of harmony. Tendencies are innate and common to all men, ideas not. But in the case mentioned above, the mind is not judging, even if man in his physical being feels an inclination, and is carried away. Not all the pleasures that arise through sight pertain to beauty, even though the objects that produce such pleasures are ordinarily called beautiful, but only those which come from harmony and propriety, both as regards the parts in relation to each other, and as regards the whole in relation to its end.
I also, therefore, believe that the very idea man has that things should agree with one another is not innate but acquired, and comes from habituation in this way. I am used to seeing, for example, in men [1201] such and such forms. If I see different and contrasting forms, I say that they are improper because they produce in me an effect which is contrary to how I have been habituated. Develop this idea. (20 June 1821.)
Why is partiality always hateful and intolerable when even a man who favors or benefits someone more than he does others does not deprive the latter of anything that is their due, nor of anything that he would give them in any case, nor does he disfavor them in any way? Because of man’s natural hatred for man, which is inseparable from self-love. And in this regard, see the parable in the Gospel of the landowner and the laborers in the vineyard.1 (21 June, Feast of Corpus Christi, 1821.) See p. 1205, end.
For p. 1114, toward the end. Sometimes Forcellini derives the continuatives from frequentatives (such as ductare [to conduct] from ductitare [to lead; to marry]), and sometimes the latter from the former. Continuatives never derive from frequentatives. As for frequentatives deriving from continuatives, I do not deny that sometimes they may be derived f
rom the participles or supines of these latter, with the a of the aforesaid participles or supines changed into i, according to what we established on p. 1154. In which case the continuative verbs kept on becoming positive in relation to the frequentative that was formed from them. E.g., saltitare [to dance much or vigorously] may perhaps even derive from saltatus, out of saltare, with the a changed into i, and be a frequentative or diminutive not of salire [to leap], but of saltare, that is, ballare [to dance]. Indeed, it does not mean saltellare [to hop] but ballonzare [to leap about] or ballonzolare [to trip along]. The latter, however, granted that it sometimes occurs, occurs seldom, and most frequentatives derive directly from positives, and are in fact independent of continuatives of the same verbs whether the latter do or do not have continuatives. And it is odd that Forcellini very often calls, e.g., cursare [to run hither and thither] a frequentative of currere [to run] and cursitare [to run about], you know what? a frequentative of cursare. See p. 2011. (21 June 1821.)
[1202] For p. 767. Words, which in themselves are mere sounds, and entire languages, too, are only signs for ideas and serve to signify them insofar as men mutually agree to apply them to a given idea and to recognize them as signs for it. Now the principal medium of this human convention in a partially formed society is writing. Languages that either entirely lack this conventional means of making themselves understood and explaining themselves clearly and distinctly and expressing everything precisely, or have it only to a limited degree, always remain either wholly powerless or very impoverished and weak, and this is the way with all languages until such time as they are used extensively in writing. How to come to a mutual agreement across a whole nation to give that precise and fixed meaning to that word and recognize it universally as a sign of that thing or idea? How to enrich a language, increase the meanings of one and the same word, fix the use and common understanding of a metaphor or transferred meaning and give the language a particular capacity to create words or phrases that regularly signify this or that kind of things or ideas? How then to regularize and standardize and make subject to laws consistent throughout the nation both the syntax and the inflections denoting the accidence of one and the same word, etc. etc.? Without writing, all such things are [1203] impossible because the medium of a universal convention is lacking, without which language is not language but sound. The live voice of each person reaches only a short distance and only a few people. Written texts pass through the hands of the entire nation and endure even after the one who made them can no longer speak. The individuals in a nation cannot all agree among themselves and one by one about anything. And an individual, supremely intelligent though he may be, cannot introduce a word, a phrase, a rule of language, or a meaning and render them general and fix the way in which they are to be understood simply by means of his own voice and speech (with which so very few, and only at that very moment, can engage), save very slowly and with the utmost difficulty. Now, the most widespread languages were always born from an individual and there was always a first person who invented and uttered a given word, phrase, or meaning, etc. However the original languages were formed, and men began to understand each other and express themselves to each other by means of the organs of speech, what is certain is that this can only have happened a little at a time, until a language was used in writing, because individual agreement by each person cannot help but be very slow and difficult. Furthermore, it is certain that the use of every language when it first came into the world was restricted [1204] to a very small society, where agreement was less difficult because it involved a small number of individuals. But when it is a question of enriching, expanding, regulating, ordering, perfecting, and in some way or other improving a language already spoken by a nation, where agreement arising out of use is very slow, very difficult, and for the most part incomplete and varying, the principal and perhaps the sole means of achieving universal agreement (without which the common language can receive neither improvement nor detriment) is writing and, in particular, those writings that (1) pass through everyone’s hands, (2) are consistent in their principles and in their rules, that is, literature broadly understood. Because writing that is not literary, or not in some way important in itself, such as letters, that is, epistles, etc. etc., is subject to the same disadvantages as the spoken voice, that is to say it is communicated to few people (perhaps even to fewer than those reached by the voice of a single individual) and is neither uniform nor consistent in its attributes. In short, a genre of writing is required that is national and which can produce, fix, regulate, and maintain universal agreement regarding the language. (22 June 1821.)
Zibaldone Page 105
