Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  For p. 1219, margin. Greek philosophy and science passed to the Latins and the Arabs, and carried their Greek words into Latin and Arabic. The Arabs added some, and invented a number of sciences, or parts of sciences, and Arabic names, along with these additions and inventions, are spread throughout Europe. That is how it has always happened, in ancient, medieval, and modern times. Chinese philosophy, e.g., has a different terminology from our own and everyone knows how much they differ, aside from the fact that Chinese philosophy cannot in any way be called an exact science, or anything like it, by contrast with our modern science. The same is true of the other Chinese sciences. Likewise Jewish philosophy, which, because it has a different terminology, has an air of originality in respect to our own, especially in those parts where their words differ from those of Latin philosophy [1230] (which have since become common to the whole of Europe, etc.), in the language that we know from the Jewish books. Aside from the fact that Jewish philosophy is also imprecise, as I explained above,1 and therefore less abundant in terms and less precise as to their meanings, etc. etc. etc. (26 June 1821.)

  From repere [to creep], which Forcellini also says is a metathesis of ἕρπω [to creep], apart from inerpicare [to creep], upon which I have commented elsewhere [→Z 983–84] and apart from the Latinism repere, for which the Crusca gives an example from Dante and one from Soderini, our ancestors also had ripire, an Italian word in general use by the populace in those days, or so it would seem, and likewise employed to mean inerpicarsi, ἀνέρπειν, or to go up, to climb up, as may be seen from two examples from the Storie Pistolesi in the Crusca, and in those from the Storia della Guerra di Semifonte scritta da M. Pace da Certaldo, Florence 1753, whose author lived between the 13th and the 14th century.2 “Gli Fiorentini appoggiate le scale di già ripavano” [“The Florentines, with their ladders propped up, were already climbing up”] (p. 37) and “Videro … alcuni già avere appoggiate le scale, e far pruova di ripire” [“They saw that some had already propped their ladders up, and were attempting to climb up”] (p. 46). Examples given in Vincenzo Lancetti’s letter to V. Monti, Proposta di alcune correzioni ed aggiunte al Vocabolario della Crusca, vol. 2, part 1, Milan 1819, Appendix, p. 284. Whence ripido, that is to say, steep, awkward to climb, as the Crusca explains, and ripidezza [steepness], an abstract noun drawn from ripido, which are non-Latin words, and from repere, repente, meaning very steep, precipitous, says the Crusca, which gives two [1231] instances from the fourteenth century. Du Cange has nothing of any relevance. (27 June 1821.)

  For p. 1229. And indeed many, perhaps most foreign poems look like and are very profound treatises of psychology, ideology, etc., rather than poetry. And here philosophy harms and destroys poetry, and poetry spoils and impairs philosophy. Between the latter and the former there exists an insurmountable barrier, a sworn and mortal enmity, which can neither be removed nor reconciled nor disguised. And the same is true, in due proportion, for the rest of literature properly and truly understood.1 (27 June 1821.)

  For p. 1125, margin.—that is to say, the roots of Hebrew verbs called perfect, all consisting of three letters, no more and no less, and two syllables, and also the imperfects, apart from the (so-called) Defectives2 in ‘ayin, when through contraction they lose the second radical in the third person singular of the Past of qal in the active voice (that is, of the first conjugation, active), and the so-called Quiescent verbs in ‘ayin/waw, which, also having three letters, nonetheless have just a single syllable as their root.3 I believe that this kind of disyllabic and three-lettered root is also commonplace and normal in Arabic, in Syriac, and in other Oriental languages. (27 June 1821.)

  For p. 1226. I say that we should adopt all those words that do not and cannot have a precise equivalent in Italian, that is, one that is precise in its meaning and precise in our comprehension of it and in its impact. [1232] Because if any word already has a corresponding word in ordinary usage, whether in spoken or written Italian, that has precisely the same impact no matter how different it may be materially; or if one can be created from our own roots, or a disused word brought back into use that signifies the same idea in such a way as to evoke it in the reader’s or listener’s mind with full and complete precision, and without obscurity or the slightest uncertainty, without anything vague or out of place about it: in such a case (which, when you think carefully about each and every one of these conditions, will be very rare) I do not deny, on the contrary, I affirm that we would do well to prefer our own words to those of others, even if they are universal, and although in this case, too, we would not be entitled to reproach them for being impure when in fact they are pure, that is, commonly used and clearly understood throughout Europe. (27 June 1821.)

  The tractability and facility of the French language—thanks to which it is so easy to write and to explain oneself well, as much for the foreigner who uses and listens to it as for the French themselves—does not derive from its being a flexible and souple [supple] instrument (a quality expressly denied it by Thomas), etc.,1 but from its being a small, and hence handy instrument, one that is εὐμεταχείριστος, or easy to handle, [1233] readily turned every which way, and used for everything, etc. (27 June 1821.)

  What I have said [→Z 1213ff.] about philosophical terms that are today common to all of Europe must also be extended to names pertaining to commerce, the arts, manufactures, luxury goods, etc. etc., which, irrespective of the language and nation from which they have received the name, retain it in large part in every language and nation, as has always happened. Where the Dictionary I have proposed is concerned, however, the inclusion of these nouns would even so be less necessary than those pertaining to the exact or physical sciences. (28 June 1821.)

  For p. 1212. Sometimes we also employ these phrases expressly to denote interrupted action, and the notion of from time to time, as, e.g., when we say “Il Tasso viene ornando i suoi versi di falsi ornamenti” [Tasso tends to decorate his verses with sham ornaments],1 we mean that from time to time he decorates them, etc., and we mean to signify less continuity than if we had said orna i suoi versi [he decorates his verses], etc. Which would amount to saying that he did it always or almost always, or if we were to say suole ornare [he is wont to decorate], etc. (28 June 1821.)

  For p. 1212, beginning. If absolute harmony existed with regard to articulated sounds or words, all versification in whatever language and at whatever period would have [1234] had and would have the same harmonies and would yield the same consonances, which could be apprehended in the blink of an eye by a foreigner or by a fellow national, and by a contemporary, etc. Whereas in actual fact the foreigner not only finds no correlation with the harmony of his national versification, but very often does not perceive nor can he perceive that such a thing is in fact versification unless it is perceived to be such because of the topic addressed, because it is written in distinct lines or because of the rhyme, which has nothing at all to do with rhythm or measure. (28 June 1821.)

  For p. 1226, margin and at the end. The analysis of things spells the death of their beauty or greatness and the death of poetry. So too with the analysis of ideas, resolving them into their parts and elements and presenting these parts or elements in isolation, bare, without any accompaniment of concomitant ideas. This is precisely what terms do, and herein lies the difference between the precision and the propriety of words. The majority of the philosophical words that have become current today and are lacking in all or almost all the ancient languages do not really express ideas that our ancestors lacked entirely. But the progress of human knowledge consists, as the ideologues have already established, [1235] in knowing that one idea contains another (thus Locke, Tracy, etc.)1 and this one yet another, etc., and consists in drawing ever nearer to the elements of things and in breaking our ideas down ever further so as to discover and define the simple and universal substances (if I may put it like this) of which they are made up (since in any kind of knowledge, or mechanical operations, etc., as well, the known ele
ments are only universal to the degree that they are completely simple and original) (see, in this regard, p. 1287, end). And thus the majority of these words simply express ideas already contained in ancient ideas, but ones that are now separated from the other parts of the original ideas by means of the analysis that the progress of the human mind has naturally made of these original ideas, resolving them into their parts, whether elementary or not (since arriving at the elements of ideas is the last frontier of knowledge), distinguishing one part from the other, giving each distinct part its own name and forming a separate idea of it, whereas the ancients merged these parts, or subdivisions of ideas (which for us today are so many distinct ideas), into a single idea.2 Hence the aridity that stems from the use of terms, which awakens in us an idea that is as separated, solitary, and circumscribed as possible, whereas the beauty of discourse and poetry lies in its awakening groups of ideas in us, and causing our minds to wander through a host of concepts, and all that is vague, confused, indeterminate, and uncircumscribed about them. This is achieved by means of appropriate words that express an idea composed of many parts, bound up [1236] with many concomitant ideas, not by means of precise words or terms (be they philosophical, political, diplomatic, the preserve of the sciences, manufactures, arts, etc. etc.), which express the simplest and barest of ideas. A bareness and aridity destructive of and incompatible with poetry and, in due proportion, with literature.

  E.g., genius, in the French sense, expresses an idea that was included in the Latin ingenium, or in the Italian ingegno, but which was not distinct from the other parts of the idea expressed by ingenium. And yet this subdivided idea expressed by genius, is very far from being elementary, and itself contains many ideas, and is composed of many parts, albeit ones that are very hard to separate out and differentiate. It is not a simple idea though it cannot easily be divided nor defined by its parts, nor by its innermost nature. The human mind, and with it language, goes just as far as it can. Both of them will certainly go further, and will discover through analysis the parts of the idea expressed by genius, and will apply new words, or new uses of old words, to these newly discovered, that is, distinct parts or ideas. Thus egoism, which is not self-love, but one of its countless subspecies, and egoistic, which is the defining quality of the age, and yet we cannot even say it in Italian.

  Thus the word heart, although its metaphoric sense has been common to all the modern languages since their beginnings, was unknown to the ancient languages in this sense, although the idea was not unknown, etc., but it was simply not sharply distinguished from mind, spirit, etc. etc. etc. etc. Likewise imagination or fantasy for the noteworthy and essential faculty of the human mind we refer to by these names, unknown in this sense in good Latin or Greek usage, even though the words come from there. And they had no other names to refer to it, so that even these (eminently Italian) words, and this meaning, come from a barbarous origin. (28 June 1821.)

  [1237] As the human mind advanced, clearly distinct names were given to the various parts of an idea that the ancient languages had named with a word subsuming all of those same parts, or ideas, contained in that idea. Different names were also given to a number of ideas that, because in some way they resembled or were analogous to other ideas, had never before been successfully distinguished from the latter, and were denoted by one and the same word, even though they were essentially different and of another species or genus. See, e.g., what I have said on pp. 1199–200 about beauty, and that which, though pleasing to our sight, is not, however, beautiful, nor does it belong to the sphere of beauty, even though in everyday parlance it is called beautiful, and the vulgar intellect does not distinguish between that and the truly beautiful.

  You may infer from these observations and those in the previous thought (1) that those who reject such new words or terms and ban innovation in languages formally claim the right to impede the advance, and disrupt the course, and stop dead forever the progress of the human mind, in light of which language necessarily progresses and is enriched with ever more exact, distinct, subtle, uniform, and universal words, in short with terms. And [1238] conversely, without the progress of language (and progress of precisely this kind and not of another that has little influence) the progress of the human mind is null, for it cannot fix and guarantee and perpetuate the enjoyment of its new discoveries and observations, except by means of new words or new and fixed, certain, definite, indubitable, recognized meanings. Meanings, moreover, that are uniform, because, if they are not, the progress of the human mind will inevitably be restricted to whichever nation speaks the language in which the new words were created, or only to those nations which have correctly understood and adopted them.

  (2) That such words or terms are wholly incompatible with the essence of poetry, and their misuse is the ruination and loss of literature, transforming it into philosophy or scientific discourse, etc. (29 June, my birthday, 1821.)

  Indeed, there is no need to point out that such universal words in Europe would not strike Italian readers as any newer, nor on any account more difficult, obscure, and uncertain than they would foreigners, in spite of their not being recognized in Italy as proper to the language, that is, as pure words, nor being allowed into the Dictionaries. And the reason for this is: (1) the everyday use [1239] of spoken Italian, which I dearly wish had nothing more foreign and barbarous about it than the use of such words; (2) the usage of many modern Italian writers, who I likewise wish did not deserve any other reproach but that of having employed such words; (3) the understanding and use of French, as familiar to Italians as it is to others, the language from which all or most of these words have come, or in which they are accepted and common, and by means of which they have generally reached us. A circumstance worthy of note and one most conducive to the introduction of such words into our language for as long as almost all modern notions together with their associated words come to us through the channel of a sister language, and already in a form easily adaptable to our idiom, and especially once our ear has become attuned to them through the use to which they are put in that language, which is (1) so common in Italy and everywhere, (2) so akin to our own. (29 June, Feast of St. Peter, 1821.)

  It is often very useful to seek the proof for a truth that is already certain and accepted and not disputed. An isolated truth, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 946–47], is of little use, especially to the philosopher, and to the progress of the intellect. Through seeking a proof, relationships and ramifications come to be known (the supreme goal of philosophy), and many analogous truths, [1240] either unknown or little known, or their interrelations, either unknown or etc., are also very often discovered. In short, we very often retrace our steps from the known to the unknown, or from the certain to the uncertain, or from the clear to the obscure, which is the procedure of the true philosopher in pursuit of the truth. And that is why geometers are not satisfied with having discovered a proposition unless they find its proof. And Pythagoras immolated a Hecatomb once he had demonstrated the theorem concerning the hypotenuse, though he was already certain of its truth and anyone could ascertain it by measurement.1 For that reason, it is worth trying to demonstrate a truth already demonstrated by others, without knowing the demonstration already made. Because, since different intellects take different paths, they discover different truths and relationships, even though they have set out from the same point, or meet up at the same goal or center, etc. (29 June 1821.)