“Every science and every art has its terms and its words,” says Davanzati, in the “Notizia de’ Cambj” (Bassano 1782, p. 92), who does, however, call Mercatura what we call Commercio.1 Far more important and to be respected will be those words which serve as a name for a science or art, as here. (31 July 1821.)
The physical sciences also advance by decomposing nature, etc., and ordinarily a new force discovered in nature is nothing other than an unknown part of a force of an already known agency, or a force that was believed to be entirely identical to the latter, and in fact was not, etc. (31 July 1821.)
For p. 1420, margin. Furthermore, the enduring nature of the taste that is to be found in this simplicity, for example, Homer’s, etc., the universality of this taste (at any rate among nations of the same kind, etc.), its resurgence in men, even if it is sometimes extinguished by circumstances, its perpetuation, its growing instead of waning, as I have said: all of this is [1425] only proper to and possible for true simplicity, or those qualities of every kind (whether in literature or elsewhere) which are really in accordance with immutable and universal nature, at any rate with nature such as it is in those specific nations. This then, and nothing else, may give rise to what Voltaire says: “pourquoi des scènes entières du Pastor fido sont-elles sçues par coeur aujourd’hui à Stocolm et à Pétersbourg? et pourquoi aucune pièce de Shakespeare n’at-t-elle pû passer la mer? C’est que le bon est recherché de toutes les nations” [“Why are whole scenes from Il pastor fido known by heart today in Stockholm and in Petersburg? And why has no play by Shakespeare ever managed to cross the sea? It is because all nations seek out the good”].1 False, that is, unnatural worth, cannot therefore be long or generally esteemed where beauty is concerned, and my theory which destroys absolute beauty leaves this maxim intact, together with the one stipulating that the consistent judgment of the nations and the ages regarding beauty of every kind never goes astray. And it leaves the rights that great writers, poets, artists have to immortality and universal fame whole and unviolated. (31 July 1821.)
[1426] Christianity is a mixture of elements favoring and opposed to civilization, a mixture of civilization and barbarism, an effect of civilization and hostile to its progress: (1) as are all opinions, etc. etc., which fix the human spirit and stop it from progressing, just as systems have always done, even those drawn from the highest teaching, and culture, etc.; (2) as is natural to an invention of half, or rather, corrupt civilization. Christianity in its perfection (and the nature, property, consequences of things are to be considered in their perfection and not in an imperfect state, that is, such as they ought not to be) is incompatible, not only with the advances of civilization, but with the subsisting of the world and human life. How can something possibly endure that holds itself to be a nothing, etc. etc., and yearns for its own dissolution? Man was not meant to understand from reason that things meant nothing, and were utterly wretched. Yet he was made for them. So he should not have learned it from Religion. The fact of having learned it would destroy life, if man faithfully and exactly followed the dictates and spirit of Religion. [1427] Let us consider Christianity in its first fervor, when everyone was yearning for virginity, when three quarters of the year was passed in prayer, in temples, in vigils, in extreme mortification, etc., and let us ask: if Christianity had not become corrupted or enfeebled, how long could it have lasted physically? And yet that was its perfection, and its pure and original state. The world cannot survive if it does not have itself as its goal. All things are so disposed that, so far as they themselves are concerned, they do not aim at anything but themselves. Man alone is supposed to look not only to all the others in this world rather than to himself, but to a wholly different world, and to consider himself to be as if outside this one. How, then, could the human species and life last, against the teaching and essence of nature, and the general and particular order of all other beings?1 (31 July 1821.)
For p. 1424. It is often not enough for a nation to have been the first inventor of a discipline, to have given it a name and a specific terminology. One must look to see where it received its principal [1428] growth and development. And if its growth and development took place among another people, and this led to its first name and terminology being changed, the people who invented it and communicated it to foreigners must not use those first names when they receive it back again as if it were new, because they no longer have a right to, and it wouldn’t be understood even by their own, and would ruin everything. They must perforce adopt the new terms, and the new name of the discipline itself. Thus (see pp. 1422–24), even if Italy was the first to create a science of commerce under the name of mercatura, while it could give it this name in Davanzati’s time (at which time, apart from the fact that Europe was in no fit state to have universal words, or to require them, etc., no precision as to agreements was yet established, etc.), it cannot do so today when this science, chiefly through the efforts of foreigners, and changing its aspect from what it was in the 16th century, has taken on another name, one universally adopted by the cultured nations. And [1429] no matter how much it may be called etymologically synonymous with the Italian, it is not synonymous as regards use and the idea it engenders by dint of convention, the sole arbiter of the meaning of words (which in themselves never mean anything) and of the nuances of such meanings, etc. (1 August 1821.)
The ancient is a crucial ingredient in sublime sensations, be they physical, like a prospect, a Romantic view, etc. etc., or merely spiritual and interior. Why is that? It is on account of man’s propensity for the infinite. The ancient is not eternal, and hence it is not infinite, but the soul’s conceiving of a span of many centuries produces an indefinite sensation, the idea of an indeterminate time, in which the soul loses itself, and even though it knows that there are bounds to it, it does not discern them, and does not know what kind they may be. Not so with modern things, because the soul cannot lose itself in them, and clearly sees the full extent of time, and gets at once to the era, the term, etc. Indeed, it is noteworthy that the soul in one of [1430] these ecstasies, seeing, e.g., a modern tower, but not knowing when it was built, and another ancient one whose precise era it knows, is nonetheless far more deeply moved by the latter than by the former. Because the indefinite aspect of the former is too small, and the span of time, although the bounds are not discernible, is so narrow that the soul manages to comprehend all of it. But in the other case, although the bounds may be seen, and there is nothing indefinite about them, there is, however, indefiniteness in the fact that the span of time is so broad that the soul cannot embrace it, and is lost in it, and even though it distinguishes the extremes, it can only distinguish confusedly the space stretching out between them. As when we see a vast expanse of countryside, whose horizon is yet apparent on every side. (1 August 1821.)
Regarding the sensations that please on account of indefiniteness alone, see my idyll on the infinite,1 and recall the idea of a steeply sloping countryside where the view at a certain distance does not reach as far as the valley, and that of a row of trees, whose end is lost from sight, either [1431] because of the length of the row, or because it is situated in the dip, etc. etc. etc. A building, a tower, etc., seen in a way that it seems to rise up alone above the horizon, and where the horizon cannot be seen, produces a most sublime and effective contrast between the finite and the indefinite, etc. etc. etc. (1 August 1821.)
There is no better way of impressing and achieving success with a proud, disdainful, young woman than scorning her. Now, who would believe that self-love (since from self-love alone the love of others is derived) could produce such an effect, so that when self-love is pricked one feels a fondness for the person who has pricked it? Who would not believe, on the contrary, that a proud woman in love with herself should be won, intrigued, and charmed by deference and homage, etc.? And yet it is so. Not only will deference and homage make you ever more scorned by her, but if by scorning her you have managed to attract her, and to foster a fondness in her
for you, and then, either because of love or by dropping your guard or by believing that you have done enough, etc., you seek to captivate her by more natural means, and you give her some small sign of submission, [1432] of love that is demonstrably genuine, etc., you will have lost everything and she will immediately go off you, and despise you. It behooves you to continue to be imperturbable, and to show her indifference right up to the end. And this is a very simple effect of the hundred different forms of self-love that give rise to the most varied and contrasting effects. So much so that, whereas almost all women are captivated by scorn (even though sometimes, and in certain circumstances, they take offense at it), they are especially so captivated if their self-love is more intense and tyrannical, that is, if they are the proudest and most selfish, etc., women. See in this regard Duclos’s Mémoires secrets, Lausanne 1791, tome 1, p. 95, and pp. 271–73.1 See in this regard another thought [→Z 1083] in which I have noted the same effect when discussing grace. What is certain, however, is that this modification of self-love is not one of its most natural modifications, even though it is not very far removed from nature; and it seeks out a character that is spoiled to some degree, yet very common. (1 Aug. 1821.)
A perfect image of the organs of the intelligence, and of their development, etc., may be obtained by considering man’s external organs, the skills of which they are capable, and the manner and sequence in which they are acquired. E.g., the organs of the voice with regard to singing. Such skills are [1433] only acquired through practice and habituation but one person has organs that are better suited, another organs which are less so, some need less practice, some more, some can achieve total success, others never do, some are predisposed to have one particular skill, others another. All of us, when we are children, have organs that are more disposed to acquiring any skill that man can acquire, because our organs are more flexible then, and there is almost no possible skill of which any child is not capable with more or less practice, and that he is also capable of succeeding in, in the most perfect manner possible. But once childhood is over the dispositions of the organs vary more, due to the greater or lesser general capacity the individual has contracted, through more or less practice, which itself gives rise to a greater or lesser capacity to contract habits, etc., and to learn. Such, no more and no less, are the organs of the brain, and their differences are of exactly the same nature, and derive from the same causes. (1 Aug. 1821.)
[1434] For p. 1421, end. This habit1 is the principal source of misery both for the world, because of the truths it uncovers, and for the individual. But nature, which has given everyone a greater or lesser capacity to contract it through the unnatural development and modification of the natural faculties and attributes, has also given everyone more than sufficient means not to contract it—means, however, which today are really useless and inadequate for many. (1 Aug. 1821.)
In one and the same period and nation, one person will feel a profound sense of elegance in such and such a word, metaphor, phrase, or style, because he is not habituated to it, whereas another will feel nothing at all, for the opposite reason. One and the same person will feel a great sense of elegance in a writer, yet shortly afterward, when he has become used to other, more elegant writings, that writer will not strike him as at all elegant, but perhaps as inelegant. This is what has happened to me, where the elegance of Italian writers is concerned.2 Thus it is through habituation (and nothing else) that taste is formed, which, just as it renders us capable of experiencing many pleasures that in the past, despite the presence of [1435] the same objects, etc., we used not to experience, so too it deprives us of many others which we used to experience, and generally, or at any rate very often, in many respects, makes it harder for us to feel pleasure. (1 August 1821.)
The pleasure we take in the purity of a writer’s language is an artificial pleasure, which only arises after rules have been established, and when it is harder to preserve such purity, and when it is less spontaneous and natural. Readers of the fourteenth century ne se doutaient point [had not the least inkling] of taking this pleasure in their writers, who are our model in that respect. And those writers did not either think of themselves as possessing such a merit, or that it was a merit, etc., as may be seen from the many Provençal, Lombard, Genoese, Arab, mangled Greek, Latin, etc., words that they employed in the midst of the purest Italian ones. The English, whose language has never been subjected to more than a small handful of rules, and which has lacked, and still lacks, an authorized Dictionary, may not know what the purity of the English language is. This pleasure derives from comparison, and until there are [1436] impure writers or speakers (who are recognized as such and are offensive to taste), the purity of language is not savored, indeed it is not even mentioned nor is it prescribed, nor sought after, although it is achieved without being sought. I have already said elsewhere [→Z 1325–26] that Tuscans are less susceptible than we are to the purity of the Tuscan language, and indeed they understand it a good deal less than we do, now that today there are rules—and purity depends on the rules, and has done ever since they came into being—because they do not know the rules, they pay no heed to them, and haven’t done, generally speaking, since then. (Varchi, and Speroni. See Monti, Proposta, etc., under the entry Becco, in the Dialogue of the Goat.)1 Much the same also occurs where purity of style, etc. etc., is concerned. (2 Aug. 1821.)
How wonderful is the design of nature! The young man does not believe in the histories, although he knows that they are true, that is, he does not believe that they are bound to be realized in the particular circumstances of his own life, of the men he knows and has dealings with, or will know and will have dealings with, and he hopes to find the world a very different place, at any rate as regards himself, and by way of exception. And he believes wholeheartedly in poems and romances, even though he knows that they are false, that is, he lets himself be persuaded by them that the world is made and goes on in that [1437] way, and believes that that is how he will find it. So that the histories that should serve him as substitutes for experience, and similarly also philosophical teachings, etc., are of no use to him, not out of caprice or obstinacy or failure of intelligence, but because of the universal and invincible workings of nature. And it is only when he is inside this world, which is so changed from its natural state, that experience forces him to believe what nature hid from him, because not even in reality was it in tune with her designs. A sign that the world is just the reverse of what it should be, since the young man whose only criterion is nature, and who is therefore a highly competent judge, will always and inevitably judge the false to be true, and the true to be false.1 (2 August 1821.)
With regard to supposed absolute proportions, whether as established by nature, or as prior to nature itself and necessary, it is worth noting what the opticians assert, namely, that different individuals see [1438] the same objects as being of various different sizes, depending on the differences in their visual organs, and likewise, I believe, with one and the same person at different ages, with regard to the alterations in his own organs, etc., even though they are not perceptible because they are effected gradually. A similar case might perhaps be made in relation to all the other physical senses, which are very different in different individuals,1 and certainly, and far more so, in relation to the moral senses of every kind, although these latter may be more prone to being made uniform through the development and the modifications which they receive from society. (2 August 1821.)
We find in Christianity the very beautiful institution of consecrating each day to the memory of one of its Heroes, or of one of its noble deeds, by solemnly celebrating either universally those days which pertain to the memory of the noble deeds of the greatest importance to the universal Church, or particularly those days which are the province of a Hero whose memory particularly concerns one or another place, etc. etc. From it come the only popular festivals that this era preserves. And the influence of popular festivals on nations is paramount, well worth calculatin
g by political thinkers, of the greatest utility when it awakens souls to glory through remembrance and the solemn and public celebration and, as it were, proposition of great examples, etc.
One cannot, however, lend credence to the notion that [1439] this highly honorable institution owes its origin to Christianity. Nor that the Christian epoch—an epoch in which the world began for the first time, it may be said, to feel the falling away of life, boredom, nothingness, and death—was capable of producing an institution so very full of life, energetic, a source of greatness, a spur to activity, etc. Rather, what is painful is that nothing today remains of an institution that is far older than the Christianity which imitated it and welcomed it from the ancient world, except for religious festivals, national ones having been completely abolished and lost.
For festivals that are held for the name days, etc., of princes, or those for coronations, or for the anniversaries of coronations, etc. etc., are neither popular nor national nor do they serve any real purpose. They are not popular in a material sense, because for the most part they do not extend beyond the courts, or not at any rate beyond the capitals, and they are limited to displays of etiquette, having nothing animated, nothing enthusiastic, etc., about them. They are not spiritually popular, that is to say, national, because the festival of a living prince is not a festival of the nation, which either [1440] pays him no heed, or probably hates him or envies him, or blames him for a thousand different things, or at least is completely indifferent, and almost alien to its prince and his subordinates. And even if the prince were the father and benefactor of his people (something no longer possible), even if he were loved by the nation as Henry IV was among sovereign princes, or Sully among ministers, etc.,1 a festival for a living and powerful man, which is never devoid of envy, nor could be, is not a national festival, because a national festival requires the whole nation to be in full agreement on the subject of the festival, and all individual passions around it to be dead, and judgment to be pure, free, and spontaneously identical throughout the nation. And even if that came about in relation to a living prince (which is impossible), a festival which those celebrating it suspect of adulation is never a national festival. This suspicion alone, inseparable from the honors paid to a powerful man when he is alive, extinguishes all magnanimous feeling, is incompatible with enthusiasm, and with [1441] that sense of liberty which constitutes the most necessary part of a national festival, and this must include the idea of a prize awarded to virtue, merit, good deeds, but spontaneously and freely awarded, that is, out of pure gratitude, admiration, love, without hoping for anything from the one to whom it is awarded. They are not useful, both for the reasons stated, which submerge enthusiasm, and indeed prohibit it altogether, and all the vitality that is garnered from such institutions, and because the example of princes or of the powerful cannot be imitated, and so is useless to the multitude. And the inequality and distance in rank between the one who is honored and those who honor him further undermines the affection and fondness, the friendship of sorts that in the national festivals of antiquity bound the people to its past Heroes, and was capable of stirring generous hearts.
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