All the battles, wars, etc., of the ancients, given the system of national hatred, which I have expounded at length elsewhere [→Z 879ff., 1004–1005, 1078–79, 1083–84], were desperate, and were fought with the resolve to conquer or die, and the conviction that there was nothing to be gained or to save by surrendering, that today are no longer to be found. (21 July 1821.)
Master *** to someone who was unburdening himself of his passion for a woman, “But she,” he said, “is your rival.” It was his custom to say that all women are the most ardent rivals of their lovers. (21 July 1821.)
[1363] For p. 1347, margin. Likewise the French ch, ge and gi, and j also necessarily end in an i. Likewise also our and the Latin sci or sce, which are distinct sounds, and quite different from that of the s and the crushed c, such as, e.g., the sound of s and c in excitare; and much more so from the sound of s and hard c. The ge and gi of the French, and their j are also in the same way quite different to the sound of s and g such as it is, e.g., in disgiunto. We lack the French sound, the Latins and the Greeks lacked it, the Spanish, etc., lack it. The Spanish also lack (so far as I know) our sci or sce, the French ch, the English sh. On the other hand, the Greeks lacked, and lack, crushed c and g and all the other related sounds. The French also lack these sounds, though they have the other related sounds which we have seen. The Spanish lack the sound of the Italian and Latin gi or ge. The Germans, the English, etc. (21 July 1821.)
The Greeks used to place Greek inscriptions in Rome itself, such as the famous Triopian inscriptions that Herodes Atticus had placed there, even though they are concerned with themes which one [1364] could say, are all Roman, and Roman through and through.1 (21 July 1821.)
We are quite accustomed to judging the misfortunes, privations, etc., that befall us as petty, or reparable, etc., because we know and feel the nothingness of the world, the small importance of things, the paltry weight of the men who slight us, etc. Opposite of the ancients, who judged the things of the world, and men, to be so important that they believed the dead and the immortals were more interested in them than anything else. (21 July 1821.)
When a lesser misfortune succeeds a greater, or vice versa, we tend to say, if only I could be rid of so grave a misfortune, or if only it did not torment me, I would hold this lighter misfortune to be a mere nothing. And in truth the opposite would occur: it would seem much greater to us than it does now. (21 July 1821.)
The imitative faculty is one of the principal parts of human intelligence. Learning is in large part none other than imitating. Now the capacity to imitate is none other than a capacity for paying careful and [1365] scrupulous attention to the object and its parts, and a capacity to become habituated. Someone who is easily habituated will easily and swiftly succeed in imitating well. Take my own case. After a single reading I succeeded in adopting a style, because my imagination immediately became accustomed to it, and I could rework it, etc. So, too, when reading a book in a foreign language, I would immediately become accustomed, in the course of that same day, to speaking, even with myself and without realizing it, in that same language. Now this is simply the faculty of imitation, deriving from the faculty of habituation. The most intelligent of the animals, and the most similar to man, the monkey, is famous for his imitative faculty and propensity. This is what chiefly characterizes his intelligence, and distinguishes it from that of the other beasts. Expand this thought, show the gradation of the inner organic faculties in the various species of animals up to man, and how it all consists of a greater or lesser faculty of paying attention and of becoming habituated. The latter faculty derives in large part from, and is much enhanced by the former, and, seen in some lights, they are one and the same. (21 July 1821.) See p. 1383, paragraph 2.
Grace is very often nothing but [1366] a kind of beauty that is out of the ordinary, and which therefore does not seem beautiful to us but graceful, or beautiful and graceful at once (because there is always grace in beauty). To those to whom that kind does not prove to be extraordinary, it will appear beautiful but not graceful, and will therefore have less impact. Such is the grace that derives from the simple, the natural, etc., which seems graceful to us to the extent that it comes across to us as extraordinary, taking into consideration our usages and habits, etc., as Montesquieu himself observes.1 The simplicity of the Greek writers, e.g., Homer, makes a different impression on us than it did on contemporaries. To us it seems graceful (see Foscolo in the article on Pindemonte’s Odyssey, in which he speaks of his own translation of Iliad, 1)2 because it is distinct from our own customs, and natural. To contemporary Greeks, precisely because it was natural, it seemed beautiful, that is to say, fitting, because it was consistent with what they were accustomed to, but not graceful, or certainly less so than it does to us. How many things in this genre appear graceful to the French, which to us appear merely beautiful, or which we set no store by! This thought may be extended to many topics. (21 July 1821.)
It is not enough that Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio should have been three supremely accomplished writers. Neither the literature nor the language is perfect and perfectly mature in them, and even if it [1367] were, that would not be enough to locate the golden age of the language in the 14th century. What greater poet, greater writer, greater intellect did not just Greece, so fruitful though it was for so long, but the world ever have than Homer? And yet no one can set the perfect formation and the golden age of the Greek language in the time, nor even in the language of Homer (see, if you will, the letter to Monti “Sulla grecità del Frullone,” at the end, Proposta, etc., vol. 2, paragraph 1, Appendix),1 even though the Greek language was far more mature in Homer than Italian was, especially in Dante, because Dante was virtually the first Italian writer, whereas Homer was neither the first Greek writer nor the first Greek poet. And the Greek language, being devised (as a truly ancient language) according to a somewhat more natural, etc., plan than our own, was capable of arriving at its own perfection in far less time than Italian, which is, however, a modern language, and (necessarily) falls within the province of the modern type. (22 July 1821.) See p. 1384, end.
What a range of different tastes and judgments there really are in men regarding the actual beauty of women! Setting aside passion of every kind, even among the most indifferent of men, one will say, such and such is so very beautiful, while another, she’s beautiful, another, [1368] she passes muster, another, she’s not to my taste, another, she’s ugly. You will not be able to find a single woman regarding whose beauty or ugliness all men agree, if not otherwise, then on questions of degree. How much more discordant is the judgment of women! I say the same about men’s beauty, etc. Where then is absolute beauty? If one cannot even find it where nature itself seems to teach it more than in any other instance, etc. (22 July 1821.)
What is the clean and the dirty, the pure and the impure? What opposition, indeed, absolute difference can we find between these contrary qualities? A dirty thing is a thing that offends us, a clean thing is just the reverse. Well and good, but to one species, to one individual, one thing gives offense, to another, another. Today a particular thing offends me, tomorrow it does not. In this circumstance it does not, in that circumstance it does. Nothing is therefore in itself and absolutely either pure or impure. But we, in accordance with the customary opinion regarding absolute values, take as our exemplar of impurity the pig, which is as clean as any other animal, because that stuff in which it loves to wallow and which offends us, does not offend him and his fellows, and therefore is not dirty [1369] to his species. Indeed, many things that to us are utterly clean will give offense to them and will be dirty to them. (22 July 1821.) Say the same of a hundred other qualities as of the pure and the impure.
What is the natural state? That of the ignorant person or that of the artist? Now, the ignorant person neither knows nor feels the first thing about beauty in art, and little again about natural beauty or about any beauty, etc. A man who is utterly coarse will scarcely even be touched by the most popular mu
sic. Even in the case of music, taste is acquired through habituation both direct and indirect. And yet music seems almost to be the most universal of beautiful things, etc. Now what I say is, the beautiful is not beautiful except inasmuch as it gives pleasure, etc. An unknown truth is still truth, because it is not the fact of its being known that makes truth truth. Nature does not teach the true, but if absolute beauty perforce exists, we cannot recognize it except in one of nature’s teachings. Now, how will that beauty be absolute which, if man is not in an unnatural condition, cannot produce its own characteristic effect, independently of which no one can indeed conceive what thing the beautiful may be or could [1370] be? (22 July 1821.)
Not only is every one of man’s capacities a capacity to become habituated, but the capacity to become habituated itself depends on habituation. By dint of habituations one acquires ease in becoming habituated, not only within one and the same kind of things, but in every kind. The child does not yet have a habit of habituation, and therefore finds it hard to become habituated, and to learn. Someone who has learned much learns more easily, always in proportion to the capacities or dispositions of his organs, which vary depending on intelligence, shifting or stable physical circumstances, other external or internal circumstances, age in particular, etc. etc., I say, learns more easily, either in the same kind of things, that is, either in a kind to which his organs are more inclined, and hence more easily habituated, or in other kinds, or, indeed, in any kind, because every habituation influences the general capacity to become habituated, and hence to learn, to recognize, to equip oneself internally or externally, etc. Learning, so far as memory is concerned, is simply becoming habituated, but in exercising [1371] memory, one acquires facility with this habituation, that is to say, learning by heart. Children, who still lack practice, scarcely know how to learn things by heart, and yet, beginning with just a few lines, they will very soon come to learn whole books, because their organs are more inclined to habituation than they would be at any other age, and in order to develop this capacity they simply have to exercise it, that is, to habituate it. In short, everything in man is habituation. And even if there do exist differences in intelligence, that is to say, organs more or less inclined to pay attention and to become habituated, to become habituated to this or that thing, to a greater or lesser quantity of things, or to all of them—and I, too, believe that such differences do exist—they are, however, such that the various habituations can wholly cancel them out, and even reverse them, that is, make a man of meager intelligence much more discerning, etc. etc., and, in short, of greater intelligence than a man of the greatest natural intelligence. And this not only in physical matters and habituations, or in exact studies, etc., but even in the more subtle disciplines, even in matters relating to the imagination and to genius. [1372] In short, where man in particular, and, after man, the other creatures are concerned, their intelligence, knowledge, abilities, faculties, opinions, thoughts, utterances, deeds, their attributes, not insofar as they are innate but insofar as they are developed—which is as much as to say, not potential but actual, because undeveloped attributes, aside from their infinite modifications, which make them liable to seem to be completely different and even opposed attributes, might as well not exist—are the offspring of habituation. (22 July 1821.)
It is very true that clarity of expression derives chiefly from the clarity with which the writer or speaker conceives and has in mind a particular idea. The metaphysician who does not grasp a particular point altogether clearly, the historian who is not well acquainted with a particular fact, etc. etc., will prove utterly obscure to the reader, as they will to themselves. But this is particularly liable to happen when the writer does not wish either to admit or let it be seen that he does not clearly understand that thing, because even in the case of the things that we see obscurely, we can so arrange it that the reader sees them in the same way, and we will always express ourselves with clarity if we show the reader any idea just as we conceive it, and just as it is and sits in our mind. Because the effect of clarity is not strictly speaking to cause the reader to conceive a clear idea of a thing in itself, but a clear idea of the precise state of our mind, whether it sees clearly or sees obscurely, since [1373] the former is beside the point, and irrelevant to the clarity of the writing or of the expression strictly considered, and in itself.
Now I say, once one has set aside the bad faith described above, and also set aside ignorance and an inability to express oneself, which has as much influence on the clear ideas of the writer or speaker as on their obscure ideas, that seeing clearly (at any rate very often) harms clarity of expression instead of enhancing it. Someone who does not see very clearly, e.g., a philosopher who is not yet fully accustomed to the subtlety of ideas, provided that he does not suffer from bad faith, and has mastered the art of self-expression, studies every way he can how best to illuminate the topic not only for the reader’s benefit but also for his own. And if he has not spoken with the greatest clarity, and not expressed the state of his ideas throughout, he will not be content, because he himself does not understand himself, and therefore senses that he will not be understood, which is something no writer really wants, except in the case of bad faith, or in some unusual circumstance.
[1374] But when the philosopher (to continue with the same example) has entered fully into the field of speculations, when he has become accustomed to examining the matter from top to bottom, has mastered it, and his intellect roams through it at will, or strolls freely at least, when he finds clarity in every topic and is used to reading the subtlest texts and getting to the heart of the philosophical jargon, etc., then he needs to take special and constant care to be clear, and clarity is rendered more difficult for him to attain and further out of reach, because his own immediate understanding of himself leads him to believe that he will be understood immediately, because he measures the other person’s mind on the basis of his own, and being sure of his own ideas, he no longer needs to define and explain them in some manner or other even to himself. So he omits those propositions, premises, circumstances, chains of reasoning, proofs or corroborations or elucidations, those minutiae which, because they are obvious to him, will be taken for granted, he believes, by everyone, he overindulges in the jargon (necessary though it is in itself, etc. etc.) This can happen, and often does happen, indeed every day, with a specific topic, in which the writer or speaker has complete clarity, mastery, and familiarity with the ideas, etc.
What I describe here is borne out daily in the discourse of people who are cultured, enlightened, and well able to express themselves. Take two persons of this kind, and you will ordinarily find that the one whose mastery of the topic is somewhat less, explains his own ideas perfectly, and sheds a great deal of light on these same ideas for others, whereas the one who has it [1375] all at his fingertips, leaves much more to be desired, although this is not at all what he wishes, and although he is eminently capable of clarity in other topics. And hence complaining about the obscurity with which those who profess their disciplines, etc., expound them is an everyday occurrence. Which may also be considered in the following light.
Those who do not have a profession, or are not fully trained and versed in some discipline, believe it to be their obligation, and propose when discussing it, to speak or write for everyone. But those who do profess such disciplines, understand, even if they do not precisely intend it, that they are speaking or writing for professionals. Although this may be fitting conduct in other sciences or disciplines, it ought not to occur in moral or metaphysical, etc., philosophy, and in all those forms of knowledge which, abstract or subtle, etc., though they are, should nonetheless not be presented for a particular class of people but for everyone, indeed, more for those who are ignorant of them or do not know much about them than for the experts.
We also sometimes find that some teachers who may not be very eminent in a discipline, are often well suited to teaching it, and manage to make it clearly understood, provided tha
t [1376] they have the other qualities required or suitable for good teaching, and independently of actual knowledge of the topic. But those men who are distinguished for such knowledge will very rarely be found to be suited to teaching it, and students will leave the school of the most learned man without having learned anything from his teaching, except in the (rare) circumstance that he has the power of imagination and the judgment to take him entirely out of himself, and put himself in the shoes of his pupils, which is what is called the skill of communication. And it is generally acknowledged that the principal talent of a good teacher and the most useful one is not excellence in a particular doctrine, but excellence in knowing how to communicate it.
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