For p. 1650, end. “In this supposed progress” (of the human spirit), “of which we boast so much, I do not see anything but a huge chain. Some selected the metal, others, perhaps unintentionally, forged its links, the shrewdest happily succeeded in joining them together. Glory, to tell the truth, seems to be due to these last; but all the merit lies with the first, or should lie with them, if we were just.” Dissertazione sopra i progressi delle arti by Palissot de Montenoij (that’s how I found it written);1 published, I believe, in Paris, in 1756. It features at the end of tome 1 of Dutens, as appended by the French translator, and in the Italian translation, Venice 1789, Tommaso Bettinelli, tome 1, p. 209. Origine delle scoperte attribuite a’ moderni by Louis Dutens.2 (8 Sept. 1821.)
[1655] Man grows inured to continuous novelty as he does to uniformity, and the new object is then as familiar to him as an old object, and novelty in general is more familiar and ordinary to him than uniformity, etc. (8 Sept. 1821.)
My system introduces a Skepticism that is not only reasoned and proven, but is such that human reason, according to my system, whatever possible progress is made, will never succeed in ridding itself of this skepticism. On the contrary, it contains the truth, and it is demonstrated that our reason can absolutely not find the truth save by doubting, that it distances itself from truth whenever it judges with certainty, and that not only does doubt serve to uncover the truth (according to Descartes’s principle, etc., see Dutens, part 1, ch. 1, § 10),1 but that truth essentially consists in doubt, and whoever doubts knows, and knows as much as one can know. (8 Sept. 1821.)
For page 1632, end. How many men including very profound philosophers were, or are, or will be intimately persuaded of propositions wholly contrary to those of which other philosophers, etc., [1656] are or will be or were likewise persuaded and even deem self-evident! And this not only in physical things which depend on experiment, but in abstract things, etc. etc. (8 Sept. 1821.) See Corinne, tome 2, bk. 14, ch. 1, p. [335].1 See p. 1690, end.
For p. 1113, toward the end. It may be noted that compound continuative verbs, that is, with prepositions or however (such as subvectare, etc. etc.), are sometimes continuatives of other likewise compound verbs (such as subvehere), and sometimes directly compounded from the simple continuative of the simple verb.a2 And hence they sometimes have a meaning analogous to that of the continuative of the simple verb, modified by the preposition, etc., and sometimes are continuatives with the meaning of the compound verb that serves as their positive verb. Sometimes, indeed, very often, they have both meanings. E.g., subjectare sometimes means throw from below, being compounded from sub and jactare; and sometimes place below, being formed from subiectus from subiicere. See Forcellini. (Hence our suggettare, soggettare, assoggettare, etc., French assujettir, Spanish sujetar, which, however, have a meaning unknown to classical Latin, and [1657] strictly speaking stand in for subiicere, which is lost in our languages, just as gettare, jeter, etc., that is to say, jactare, stand in for iacere, and so too with many other continuatives.) In Corippus, too, we find subjactare, millantare [to boast], which simply means sub and jactare, from which it is compounded.1 In any case, these compound continuatives may (1) not have any compound form which serves them, or could serve them, as a positive, (2) not have any continuative of the simple verb from which they could derive, such as adlectare from adlicere, which does not have any continuative of the simple verb lacere, from which it could be compounded, etc. etc. etc. (8 Sept. 1821.) What I have said about compound continuatives is also to be applied to compound frequentatives.
Everything in our minds and faculties is material. The intellect could do nothing without speech, because the word is almost the body of the most abstract idea.2 It is, in fact, a material thing, and an idea tied to and identified with a word is made almost material. Our memory, all of our mental faculties cannot, do not retain, do not conceive of anything at all, except by turning everything into matter, in whatever way, and by attaching itself as far as possible to matter, and by tying the ideal to the sensory, and by observing its more or less distant relationships with it, and using these [1658] the best we can. (9 Sept. 1821.) See p. 1689, paragraph 2.
A measure of virility not only in the body but also in the mind is pleasing in women, and both equally on account of the extraordinary. Magnanimity is also pleasing in women, and this is as much to the liking of women as of men, as it is indeed when found in men, because in them too it is extraordinary, proportionately speaking, etc. Misfortunes, passions, melancholy, generous and more or less heroic sacrifices, etc., are also pleasing in both sexes and lend grace, etc., in part because of compassion, but in part also because of the extraordinary. Likewise great virtues, or great vices, etc. (9 Sept. 1821.)
The Leibnizians’ axiom (if I am not mistaken) nihil in natura fieri per saltum [nothing in nature proceeds by leaps],1 the continuous gradation by which nature habituates things to very different states, and conceals the passage from winter to summer, etc. etc. etc., of which Xenophon speaks,2 does it not all show that nature is a system of habituation? Gradation entails habituation, and vice versa. (9 Sept. 1821.)
[1659] For p. 1284, margin, end. The great difference discernible between the writing and the pronunciation of the French, English, etc., languages undoubtedly arose for similar reasons. I call it a difference if the written letters are constantly pronounced with a different value to the one assigned to them in the respective alphabet of each language (Empire [empire] is pronounced ompeer. Is the e in the French alphabet o or e? Why, then, do you write e having to pronounce it o?)1 when letters are written that are not pronounced (as in Wieland), or when others are omitted which should be pronounced. This difference is a supreme imperfection in the writing of such languages. Italian and Spanish are in this regard the most perfect of the modern languages, perhaps because they were cultivated before the others, and passed into the hands of the educated when they were still soft, and before the mode of writing them was already determined by their everyday use by ignorant and careless speakers. Italian spelling was very imperfect, as is only natural, in the writers of the 14th century, and in Dante himself, Petrarch, etc. See Perticari.2 At any rate, it is very natural that people did not know how to write the modern languages, which were born of corruption and ignorance, and in times of ignorance; that they could neither find nor apply signs; [1660] that they confused ancient sounds and signs with modern ones; that the custom was followed of writing the words as they used to be written in times past although the pronunciation had changed, and their form, etc.; that the spelling of the ancients was borrowed in passages and circumstances where there was some doubt, etc. (as has, in fact, been noted in the case of the Italians who, because our spelling was not well formed, especially in the 15th and the early 16th century, might use Latin, and used to write, e.g., et pronouncing it e, and vulgare, letitia, etc. etc., as Salviati, I seem to recall, observes),1 and that all this produced the imperfections which are found in foreign spellings. (9 Sept. 1821.) See pp. 1945 and 2458.
Just how much man is accustomed to judging everything absolutely, and how much, therefore, he deceives himself, may be seen in ordinary things. The young deride, denounce, cannot conceive, and condemn the tastes, opinions, customs, desires, etc., of the old, and vice versa. Both are mistaken, and yet from their own perspectives they are quite right. The same is true of someone who is impassioned, and someone who is not, of someone who finds himself in a particular circumstance and someone who does not. “If I were in his shoes I would certainly do, or not do that; I don’t see how [1661] he can do otherwise.” If you were in his shoes, you would see. Every day what is quite impossible, false, etc., for the person who finds himself in such and such a situation strikes us as very easy, very true, etc. “It’s not the person giving advice who has the headache” (Crusca), as the proverb goes, and it is highly apposite. (9 Sept. 1821.)
Talent is nothing but the faculty of learning, that is, paying attention, and becoming habituated. By learning I al
so mean the faculties of inventing, thinking, feeling, judging, etc. No one learns his own inventions, thoughts, feelings, or the particular judgments he brings to bear, but learns to do so, and cannot do it if he has not learned to do so, and if with a greater or lesser exercise and abundance of sensations, that is to say, of experiences, he has not acquired such faculties, which appear to be wholly innate, and are in reality acquired more or less readily. In origin our minds simply have more [1662] or less delicacy and susceptibility in their organs, that is to say, a facility for being affected in different ways, a capacity and adaptability, either to all or to some definite kind of apprehension, habituation, perception, attention. This is not strictly speaking a faculty, but mere disposition. In our mind there do not originally exist any faculties, not even that of remembering. Rather, the mind is so disposed that it acquires them, some sooner, others later, by means of exercise. And in some it acquires (others say develops) more of them, in others less, in some better, in others imperfectly, in some more easily, in others less easily, in some in a particular way, in others modified, according to circumstances, which diversify almost the kinds of one and the same faculty. In the way that someone with a very slim and agile physique is strongly predisposed to dancing. But he does not have the faculty for dancing if he does not learn it, only a predisposition to be able to learn and execute it easily and perfectly. I say the same of all the other faculties and material skills. In which again, aside from the favorable [1663] disposition of the body, that of the mind, and the acquired capacity for paying attention, for becoming habituated, and for learning is also useful. Without which, even the external organs most disposed to such and such a skill are very often hardly able to learn it, and to retain it. (10 Sept. 1821.)
A slight dissonance in a piece of music is not recognized by ordinary people, just as a child does not recognize minor defects in the human form, not even serious ones sometimes. When a piece of music is rather abstruse, that is, even if the harmonies are the slightest bit unfamiliar, they will not even recognize major dissonances, and the same goes proportionately for cultured persons, and sometimes even for the knowledgeable. (10 Sept. 1821.)
I have said elsewhere [→Z 155–58] that in music we must distinguish the effect of harmony from the effects of sound. The latter have nothing to do with beauty, just as color in itself has nothing to do with beauty, because the question of propriety is not at issue here. I have said that whatever is singular about the effect of music on the mind has largely to do [1664] with pure sound. Indeed, what a difference there is between the effect of a sweet, penetrating sound, instrument, etc., and another that is brash, that does not penetrate, etc. Carefully analyze the effect of music on your heart, and you will see that its singular effect derives precisely from the nature of the sound and varies according to its differences. If harmony, the most melodious melody, or the most harmonious one, is executed on a poor instrument, etc., with crude sounds, etc., it will not touch you, will not move you, will not exalt you at all. I knew a person who passed as and reckoned himself to be unmusical, who was neither moved nor delighted by virtually any music. Yet he observed that a particular harmony touched him deeply when played on certain instruments, but on others not at all. He greatly loved and experienced all the effects of music when he heard loud sounds, powerful voices, soaring instruments, large and noisy orchestras. This was, therefore, a specific disposition of his organs, inclining to those particular sounds, which delighted him, or a coarseness or want of delicacy, requiring strong sounds in order to be roused. This delight was therefore [1665] essentially dependent on sound, and independent of pitch, harmony, and therefore of beauty.1 Sound gives pleasure to man, because nature has given him, or has given us (and other animals) this attribute. Likewise sweet foods, bright colors, etc. Not being concerned with propriety, none of this pertains to beauty. See p. 1721, paragraph 2.
A notable source of pleasure in music is also expression, meaning, imitation. This does not have to do with beauty either, as I have said with regard to human physiognomy [→Z 1191ff., 1510‒13, 1529‒30, 1576‒79]. Now this is of such importance that a nonmeaningful music only delights those who are knowledgeable about particular kinds and sources of pleasure, and they are formed by habituation. And when a man hears a piece of music, expressive or otherwise, if he does not apply it in his own mind to some meaning, or applies it to a meaning that is not proper to it, he will experience either no delight at all, or proportionately less. This is consistently and universally the case. And that is why minds that are not [1666] sensitive take little delight in music. So true is this that the singular effect of music does not derive from harmony as harmony, but from causes extrinsic to the essence of harmony, and therefore to the theory of propriety, and beauty. (10 Sept. 1821.)
We talk all the time about “the air of a face, a physiognomy,” etc., and “a particular air is beautiful, another one is not,” and “a menacing, sweet, rough, kind air,” etc. etc. So that although very often we find no fault in any of the features, or find no merit in them, flaws or merits, beauty or ugliness are found in the “air of the face.” Is this not a proof that the beauty or ugliness of a physiognomy does not principally depend on propriety but on meaning, and hence is not strictly speaking beauty nor ugliness? Note also that the name of air which is given to this general meaning of a countenance, precisely because it consists of very subtle relations with the nonmaterial qualities of man, is something impossible to define, as though it were airy itself. [1667] So it is that judgments regarding human beauty differ perhaps more than those regarding any other, when one might expect exactly the opposite to be the case. Air, etc., is also applied to nonhuman physiognomies. (10 Sept. 1821.)
If you catch sight of a man or a woman, which part do you go to first? The face, especially if it is someone of the opposite sex. If the face is hidden from you, and the figure or something else strikes you as beautiful, or makes you curious to make her acquaintance? You will not be content until you look her in the face. Having seen it, it looks ugly to you? You immediately alter your judgment, and your mind, and where she had seemed beautiful, now she seems ugly. She had seemed ugly, and her face seems beautiful? In your judgment she has become beautiful. You do not say or think that you know a person by sight until you have seen their face. Not so with respect to animals. You do not experience any of these effects. You only observe the body, because you do not find any differences in the different physiognomies of the same species. You say that you know a horse even if you have not [1668] seen or at any rate observed its muzzle. If you have seen just its muzzle, you do not say nor think that you know it, whereas you think that you know a person when you have only seen or at any rate observed their face, as often happens. An animal depicted in such a way that the muzzle cannot be seen still seems to you to be whole. Not so a person. So true is it that for man the principal part of the human form is the physiognomy. (10 Sept. 1821.)
Peasants, and all the less civilized nations, especially southern ones, love and take particular delight in bright colors. Conversely the civilized nations, because civilization, which weakens everything, introduces and values wan colors, etc. This is called good taste. Why? Why, then, are we to suppose that good taste has constant and invariable norms and models? If good taste draws us away from nature, in what else that is stable shall we have this type consist, this norm? Is this not a further proof that everything is relative and depends on habit and circumstance, [1669] even those pleasures, tastes, etc., which appear the most natural and spontaneous? Without further thought, the gentleman laughs at a countryman who thinks to cut a fine figure with his scarlet gilet, and at the other countrymen and women who admire him. And yet what natural reason is there to laugh at them? Our own educated classes a few years ago, when they were either less civilized or less corrupted, had the same taste as our country people, but to a much greater degree. Now amaranth, barbacosacco, napoleone,1 and other similar mid-range colors are in fashion, and this effect is attributed to minor ca
uses, but in truth it pertains to the general nature of civilization. (10 Sept. 1821.)
The above observation is also a proof of the weakening that is always and in every sense the companion and effect of civilization. (10 Sept. 1821.)
When we see someone in our presence relishing something intensely, it is always a serious matter, and makes that person hateful to us. And it is therefore prudence and good manners not to show in the presence [1670] of others that we are feeling a pleasure, or to behave in such an easy way as to show that we are not concerned, etc. I say the same of some benefit. And see a thought of mine on caressing one’s wife when in company, and the custom of the English that I have noted in this regard [→Z 206, 233]. Something highly displeasing also to us, and which I have heard condemned as intolerable in two spouses who were bestowing extravagant caresses on each other in the presence of others. So true is it that man naturally hates man. Unless the relish I have mentioned was procured for that person voluntarily by ourselves, in which case it redounds after a fashion upon us, and serves our ambition, etc., in short, we have a share in it. This effect is particularly felt with equals and superiors (less so with inferiors, with children, etc.), but with equals above all, and with friends and close acquaintances more than anyone, because it is mainly with these that envy comes into play, and we have a keen feeling of inferiority, etc., in any shape or form. Superiors are subject to a more general hatred, which covers the whole of their person, [1671] condition, etc., and descends less far, or is less sensitive to particular things, all the more so in that our desires cannot compete with theirs, etc. Likewise as regards inferiors, their advantages or pleasures must be of a very high degree (in which case hatred toward them is greater than toward anyone else) for them to prick our self-love and our jealousy, etc. Nonetheless it is true that we always feel some distaste for them. (11 Sept. 1821.)
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