Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  When we compare the dealings of a merchant toiling away at his complex transactions with those of a young man flirting with a woman, the first strikes us as deeply serious and the second as utterly frivolous. And yet what is the merchant’s purpose? To make money. And why? For the sake of enjoyment. And how does one enjoy oneself here below? By having a good time, and one of the greatest of pleasures is to be had with women. So the merchant’s purpose in the last analysis is to be able to busy himself at his ease, and with abundant means, with the same thing that the callow youth busies himself with, or things of the same sort. If, then, the purpose is frivolous, how much more so is the means. Everything is therefore frivolous in this world, and the useful is far more frivolous than the delightful plain and simple. The same is true of study, careers, etc. (16 Aug. 1821.)

  Brevity is only pleasing because nothing pleases. Even the greatest pleasures [1508] are wished to be, and should be, brief, and should leave us with desire, otherwise they leave satiety. But is there not a mean between these two extremes? Can they not leave us content? No. If man could be content with a pleasure, neither brevity nor variety (which derives from brevity, and includes it, and is important, and is virtually identical to it) would be pleasurable in itself or loved by man. Now, just as man cannot stay content, and his worst state is satiety, for this reason a fundamental attribute of the pleasures and internal or external sensations that give rise to happiness is that they leave us with desire, it is their brevity, and variety, and the variety of life. (17 Aug. 1821.)

  Without a considerable faculty of memory no intellect can acquire, develop, habituate itself, learn, that is to say, no intellect can either become or still less be great. Because sensations, conceptions, and ideas, which cannot help but be momentary, and are lost, cannot produce and prepare others, and so cannot contribute to the greatness of an intellect. All of its knowledge is acquired, and its faculties are virtually null and comparable to those of the least [1509] intellects without the cultivation of experience, and that experience is meaningless without memory. Memory may generally be regarded as the faculty of habituation possessed by the intellect. This faculty is all in all for man. (17 Aug. 1821.)

  A face, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 1356], often strikes us as very ugly because of the resemblance we find in it to another ugly one, or one that is uncongenial to us, or supposed to be ugly. And it can readily be observed that without this idea of a resemblance it would not strike us as so ugly, and sometimes perhaps the resemblance will be such as not to prevent that physiognomy from being completely regular despite the irregularity of the one it resembles. And nonetheless, this idea gives rise to an unpleasant sensation in us when we see it, and we will never call it beautiful, though others who do not have this idea may universally consider it to be so. So a person who seemed ugly to us as children, and whom we are accustomed to thinking of as such, will never be able to please us, or only with difficulty (unless there are other, particular reasons), even though [1510] in the meantime he has become beautiful, especially perhaps if we have always seen that person grow and become an adult. So great is the impact opinion may have on our idea of the beautiful, etc. (17 Aug. 1821.) See p. 1521.

  A baby has no notion as to what men’s physiognomies mean, but as it begins to learn through experience, it begins to judge as beautiful the physiognomy that indicates a pleasant, etc., character or demeanor, and vice versa. Very often the baby is deceived when it judges a physiognomy that has a pleasant expression to be beautiful, very beautiful, when in itself it is very ugly, and remains so deceived for a very long time, and perhaps forever (because of its first impressions), and it is only deceived because it has no distinct and precise idea of the beautiful and the regular, that is to say, of the universal, which it cannot yet know. In the meantime, this meaning of physiognomies, which is quite different from absolute beauty and is simply a relation interposed [1511] by nature between the inside and the outside, between habits, etc., and the face, this meaning is an utterly crucial part of beauty, one of the key reasons that for us one physiognomy produces the sensation of the beautiful, and another the opposite sensation. No physiognomy is ever beautiful if it does not mean something pleasurable (I am not saying something good or something bad, and the pleasurable can very often also be bad, according to taste, and the different modifications of the mind, judgment, and human inclinations), and a physiognomy that indicates unpleasant attributes, even if it is extremely regular, is always ugly. One knows it to be regular, that is, in accordance with the universal proportions that we are accustomed to, and nonetheless one feels that it is not beautiful. But ordinarily, as is natural, the perfect regularity of the physiognomy indicates pleasant qualities, on account of the correspondence nature has established between inward and outward regularity. And it is almost certain that such a physiognomy always belongs to someone with a naturally perfect, etc., character. But because [1512] the interior of men loses its natural state, and the exterior more or less retains it, the meaning of the face is for the most part false. And although we know this full well when we see a beautiful face, and nevertheless feel ourselves to be equally delighted (and perhaps sometimes equally moved), we believe that this effect is wholly independent of the meaning of that face, and derives from an entirely secret and abstract cause, which we call beauty. And in this we are completely deceived because the particular effect of human beauty on man (I am speaking here of the face in particular, which is its chief part, and see what I have said elsewhere in this regard [→Z 1379‒81]) always derives essentially from the meaning that it contains, which is altogether independent of the sphere of the beautiful, and is in no way abstract or absolute. Because, if pleasant attributes were naturally denoted by a wholly different and even opposite form of physiognomy, the latter would strike us as beautiful, and the kind that now strikes us as beautiful would appear ugly. So much so that, since a man’s interior changes, as I have said, and physiognomy does not correspond to its qualities (for the most part acquired), it therefore happens that a particular physiognomy which is in itself [1513] irregular, but which through art or in some other fashion has acquired a pleasant meaning, pleases us and strikes us as more beautiful than another very regular one that had acquired an unpleasant meaning through unfavorable circumstances. In this case, it may even come to displease us and to appear ugly. And if a physiognomy is markedly irregular, but—because of nature (which sometimes has exceptions and phenomena, as happens in so vast a system), or art, or the real charm of the person, which always affects the tenor of the face—it has a notably pleasant meaning, we may be able to apprehend its lack of proportion or fit with universal forms, but we shall never be able to call that physiognomy ugly, and sometimes we will not even perceive irregularity, and if we do not scrutinize it carefully, we will call it beautiful. (17 Aug. 1821.) See p. 1529, paragraph 2.

  The nations’ customs very often change their character, especially through the impact of trade, foreign tastes, ways of life, etc. The character of its language is always a most faithful portrait of the character of a nation,1[1514] and the nation is chiefly determined by custom, which is a second nature, and the form of nature, so that when the character of customs change, not only do the particular words and phrases serving to express them individually change, but so also does the nature, character, and spirit of the language. Unfortunately, it is as certain as can be that, because the character of Italian customs has undergone a complete transformation, especially from the revolution onwards, and is now altogether French, the character of the Italian language itself has in effect been lost. There’s nothing to be said. There is no way in which a conversation in the French style or manner, with French refinement, lightness of touch, and elegance, can be held in the Italian language. I mean Italian in character, and one could more readily hold such a conversation by using the purest Italian words than by keeping to the essential character of the language. I would say the same of the character of the writing that is universally favored nowadays. It i
s only too true that one cannot maneuver in the Italian language, and less with regard to its character than to the words. It is only too true that the general influence of [1515] French custom in Europe was bound to alter the character of all cultured languages, and has done so in actual fact, and Gallicized them all, still more in character than in words. In the whole of Europe, people struggle to call languages and literatures back to their own national attributes. But to no avail. So far as words are concerned, the least important aspect, one could perhaps succeed, but as to character, which is everything, it is impossible, if each nation does not take back its own custom and character, and if we Italians especially (who are more subject to influence, and more prone to take on a foreign imprint, because we are not a nation, and we can no longer give a shape to others) do not go back to being Italians. Which we should indeed do, and those who yell at us, “speak Italian,” are in short yelling at us, “be Italian,” and if we do not do so, we shall forever speak in an alien and barbarous tongue. But not being a nation, and losing our national character, the disadvantages that flow from this into the whole of society have been explained by me at length on other occasions.1

  Since the rebirth of civilization,2 [1516] no nation has had a more persistent influence on the custom and character of other civilized nations than France has. Other countries, such as Italy and Spain (and latterly England), had influence as well, in fact, but for less effective or solid reasons, and it was therefore less enduring. But, in proportion to its power, it always went hand in hand with influence over languages. In earlier centuries, however, neither influence could amount to much, (1) because of the smaller degree and lesser proximity of mutual relations between the nations, (2) because of the lesser susceptibility of the latter to lose their character to any great extent, to receive a foreign imprint, and to preserve it for any length of time, etc. And they were less susceptible precisely because it was not something they were used to; and just as a particular habituation is necessary if a specific nation is to assume a specific foreign character, so a general habituation and disposition is most necessary if it is to receive a new character in its very depths and preserve it down to its roots. For habituation is everything, both in peoples and in individuals. But in those times, civilization was not yet so advanced that it could overwhelm [1517] the varied nature of the peoples, both their particular habits and the things they ordinarily held on to, etc., nor could it lead the world to uniformity. See if you will, p. 1386. Now civilization always tends, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 74, 1022–23, 1386–87, 1459], to make things uniform, and uniformity among the individuals of a nation, and among the nations, is always in proportion to the general or particular advances made by civilization. And therefore it always tends to mingle, break down, lose, and flatten out national character, and therefore the character of languages. And because, thanks to a very great and stable advance in civilization, this effect is highly visible nowadays in both the latter and the former, it is no wonder that it should be very remarkable and enduring and that, despite political changes, the universal influence of the French language will not be lost as long as we do not lose, nor are likely to lose, the universal influence of the customs of the most civilized people in the world upon this age of civilization.

  The customs of the Greeks in antiquity, in relation to the times, had a great influence [1518] over the different nations. (As other nations may perhaps also have had in still more ancient times.) Hence the universality of their language. As all over, sciences and disciplines transport and preserve the terminologies they received from the nation that invented and molded them, so too do customs. But the sciences are transmitted to just a few, cover only a limited territory, and have scant influence on the character of the languages into which they pass, whereas customs are transmitted to entire nations, and embrace their entire existence, and hence the whole language that is its exact likeness, and image. (18 Aug. 1821.)

  From these observations, we may deduce that once Greek customs had taken root in Rome, once the Romans became used to going to Greece in order to learn how to live graciously, as we now go to Paris, once the fashions and idle caprices of the monarchy, the influence of Greek literature, etc., had Hellenized the customs and civilization of Rome, once the nobles’ houses were full of Greek philosophers, doctors, tutors, servants, and officials of every kind, [1519] once Roman literature had become entirely modeled on Greek literature, just as Russian and Swedish literature and English literature from the age of Queen Anne were modeled on French literature—after all that, the Roman language was bound necessarily (even if people were unaware of the fact) to grow barbarous by dint of Grecism, with regard both to particular features and to its character. And one should take careful note of the fact that the Grecism of those times was in no way that of Herodotus or Xenophon, and consequently Roman language and style was never simple or averse to artifice. Rather it was that of Lucian, Polybius, etc., that is to say, convoluted, highly wrought, artificially elegant, and markedly similar in its general tenor to Latin. (See pp. 1494–96.) And anyone supposing that this same development had passed from Latin into Greek would be much mistaken. Just the opposite was the case, and it derived from the influence of the Greek of those days, which neither then nor at any other time was subject to the influence of Latin. And if classical Latin language and style were by their essential character much more artificial than classical Greek, this fact should be attributed to the character of the Greekness that was contemporary to classical Latin. (18 Aug. 1821.)

  [1520] Every nation naturally has its own particular way of living, thinking, conceptualizing (just as individuals do), seeing, and forming ideas of things, etc. Hence each language has its own particular and distinct character, to which that of its own particular words corresponds. In 2 different languages you will not find 2 synonyms that, when examined closely, express an exactly and wholly identical idea. A few carefully examined words sometimes suffice to depict the character of the life, thought, intellect, imagination, opinions, etc., of the people that employ them. Hence when custom and character change, the nature of the language ineluctably changes. (18 Aug. 1821.)

  And so what I have maintained elsewhere [→Z 1422–23, 1427–29] is confirmed again, that where it is a question of words whose value lies in the precision of their meanings, and which must universally evoke a particular idea (as in the case of philosophical, scientific, etc., ideas), it is utterly pernicious to alter them, and to substitute for them a word in another language however synonymous [1521] it looks. It will never be perfectly synonymous, and the precision and universality of that idea will be lost if you try to separate it from the word that was given it by the nation that discovered or determined or clarified the idea. (18 Aug. 1821.)

  For p. 1510. How many things strike us as ugly or beautiful day in day out, not because there is any intrinsic reason for them to be so, but because of the resemblances, relationships they have, ideas they recall, either for everyone, and then we call them absolutely ugly or beautiful, or for us alone, and then, if indeed we pay this any mind (which almost never happens), we are compelled to call them relatively ugly or beautiful. I have seen a ceiling painted with tondi, or little discs arranged in a circle. What is there that is intrinsically ugly or vulgar about this device? Yet everyone condemned it because it summons up the idea of a round table with its plates all laid in a circle. (18 Aug. 1821.)

  The past, in our remembering of it, is more beautiful than the present, as is the future in our imagining of it. [1522] Why? Because the present alone has its true form in human conception. It is the only image of the truth, and everything true is ugly.1 (18 Aug. 1821.)

  I have often spoken about beauty that arises from weakness [→Z 108, 164, 196, 211, 234, 281]. This is a beauty arising from pure inclination, and hence has nothing to do with ideal beauty, indeed, it lies outside the theory of beauty. In point of fact, it is wholly relative. Setting aside the myriad other contexts where weakness is out of place and displeases us, not
e how men appreciate weakness in women, because it is natural to them, and how women appreciate strength and the appearance of strength in men. And strength is ugly in women, just as weakness is in men. Except that sometimes a certain masculinity in women, and a certain femininity in men, heightens the contrast and bestows grace (but precisely because it is out of the ordinary, that is, not what is expected). (18 Aug. 1821.)

  The proofs I draw from a consideration of grace, with respect to beauty, are correct, and correctly deduced, and one can argue from [1523] grace to beauty, or vice versa, and the theories regarding the one or the other are interlinked and interdependent, have principles in common, and elements in common, and are like two branches from the same trunk, in the following respect. Beauty is propriety, grace is a contrast, that is to say, a certain impropriety, or at least something that is out of the ordinary in respect of propriety. If, then, impropriety is relative, so too is propriety. If then grace is mutable, if what is grace for one person is not so for another, etc. etc. etc., the same should be said of beauty. So too the other way around. And if that particular feature seems to some to be out of the ordinary in respect of propriety, while to others it does not, etc. etc. etc., the idea of propriety must then be relative. I can therefore, without differentiation, draw my arguments both from the examination of grace and from that of beauty in order to show that neither is absolute, and for any other purpose of a like nature, etc. One can therefore argue from grace to beauty, for a reason and in a manner similar to that in which one argues from ugliness to beauty. From the theory of the one there follows that of the other, and the same goes for all contraries.1 (18 Aug. 1821.)