Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  It is very easy to joke about extraordinary things, about bodily defects, etc. The difficult thing is to know how to raise a laugh about ordinary things. A moment’s thought will enable you to discover the cause, and you can relate this to other analogous thoughts of yours. (23 Sept. 1821.)

  [1775] Let us consider the great number of people who are imperfect either in form or in bodily faculties, whether from birth or on account of natural infirmities suffered in infancy or in childhood, in short, before the perfect and entire development of the machinery and maturity of the body. Let us compare this number of imperfect people in their natural maturity with that of the imperfect individuals in any species of animals, having taken into account the respective numbers of each species, and we shall find it to be overwhelmingly greater. What does this mean, if not that man is corrupt, and that his present state is not one that is proper to him? This is certainly how we would, and do judge whenever a similar observation is made to us respecting any species or genus of natural entities belonging to any of the three natural kingdoms. Only with regard to man do we shy away from pronouncing such a judgment, or one like it. Because man [1776] in our opinion, has nothing to do with nature, and his imperfections derive indeed not from his being distanced, but from his not yet being distanced enough from nature.

  I would add that the disproportion between imperfection in the human race and in the animal races will be found to be much greater if the wild, etc., races of animals are considered, rather than the domesticated ones. Although it will be found to be great also with respect to the latter, because they, despite our charitable care, are and will be much less distant than we are from nature. A great disproportion will also be found between the number of imperfect people in the civilized human races, and the number of the same in the savage, mountain, rural, laboring, etc., races, and so going down the scale step by step in proportion to the greater or lesser civilization or corruption of the different classes and peoples. (23 Sept. 1821.) See p. 1805, end.

  I have said elsewhere [→Z 461–62, 658–59, 1260–62, 1554]: you cannot do what you want to do too much. So every day we observe something slipping our memory at the very point when we want to remember it, [1777] and coming to mind spontaneously when we are not interested in it. Indeed, every time that with supreme mental effort we set about recalling a very present memory, which will perhaps come to mind shortly afterward, we can be sure that we will not recover it until we have stopped searching for it. At which point it very often does come to mind. Thus, we always remember what we decided or wished to forget, and we remember at the very moment we didn’t want to.1

  These observations again prove my other thought [→Z 714–17, 1176–79, 1653], namely, that excess is the father of nothing. (23 Sept. 1821.)

  Whatever awakens a host of memories for us, where thought grows uncertain, is always pleasurable. The images of poets, words that are called poetic, etc., do this. Among them, it is noteworthy that images of domestic life in poetry, novels, paintings, etc. etc. etc., are always very pleasurable, gratifying, agreeable, elegant, and give some beauty and sometimes reconcile us to the silliest compositions, and to writers who are the least able to present them well. So, too, with images of rural life, [1778] etc., whose powerful effect derives in large part from the host of memories or ideas they evoke because they are commonplace things that are known and belong to everyone.

  Hence it may be seen what judgment the valiant German, English, Romantics (and the modern French also) display by preferring to choose similes, subjects, customs, etc., of the East, America, etc. etc., as images, etc., for their poetry.1 Which entirely exclude memory. And hence it may be seen how important it is for a poet to handle national subjects, and to use the nature and the existence that surround his listeners in all forms of poetry, the novel, etc. (23 Sept. 1821.)

  For p. 1754. A man of great talent is always and immediately recognized, no matter what the occasion, by anyone capable of recognizing him. It is impossible for him ever to be found to be absolutely incapable of, or inept at anything. No matter how new it may be to him, he will always be proportionately superior [1779] to people of little talent but who are familiar with it, etc. (23 Sept. 1821.) A great talent soon masters anything, provided that he is practiced and habituated.

  A certain torpor in mind and body, which is sometimes caused by the approach of sleep, is very pleasurable. Sleep itself is not pleasurable except inasmuch as it is torpor, forgetting, respite from desires, fears, hopes, passions of every kind. The praises that Horace accords drunkenness turn for the most part on forgetting, and so the torpor that it causes.1 Thanks to forgetting, there is also pleasure in intense joy, when the mind so to speak relinquishes itself, and becomes altogether torpid on the one hand, and revives on the other. In short, forgetting, and the total quietude of the passions is always pleasurable, whatever cause produces it, just as conversely the life of the passions is pleasurable. (24 Sept. 1821.)

  We say agevole, etc., the French say aisé. This word is patently corrupt and derives from another, to which our own word much more nearly approximates, that is, agibilis, quod agi [1780] potest [doable, what can be done], just like facilis, quod fieri potest [easy, what can become], and so it comes to mean virtually the same thing, as in fact agevole is a synonym of facile [easy]. It is therefore clear that this word agibilis in the sense of facile belonged to Vulgar Latin, and survived in two different languages that derive from it. For the barbarian Latin of the late Empire was utterly different not only in the different nations but virtually in every province, writer, etc. And aisé derives from agibilis or agevole, as then our agio agiato agiatamente adagio, etc., derived from aise [ease], etc. All of them being modern corruptions of the root ago. See Forcellini and Du Cange. (24 Sept. 1821.)

  One source of pleasure in music independent of harmony as such, independent of expression, and also of the sound or nature of singing as voice, etc. etc., is ornamentation, speed, smoothness, fluency, rapid succession, gradation, and variation in sounds or in tones of the voice, things which give pleasure by reason of difficulty, quickness (I have said elsewhere, namely p. 1725, paragraph 2, why [1781] this is pleasurable), extraordinariness, all independent of beauty. Without the brisk mutability and variety of sounds, whether with regard to harmony or to melody, music would and does produce a quite different effect. A very simple harmony or melody, no matter how lovely, would very soon prove tedious, and would not produce the varied, multiple, rapid, and rapidly changing sensation that music does, which the mind does not succeed in grasping, etc. On the other hand, if these difficulties, ornaments, displays of agility lack expression, etc. etc., they are pleasurable only to the knowledgeable. The music of the ancients was certainly very simple, and there is no doubt that it produced a quite different effect to our own.1 If we observe closely what happens when we listen to a piece of music that has a strong impact upon us, we will see how much of its effect stems from the agility, etc., of notation, phrasing, etc., independently of harmony as harmony or melody as melody.

  [1782] Even the least expressive, even the simplest, etc., music initially produces some recreation in the mind, it elevates or touches it, etc., according to the relative dispositions either of the mind or the music, it immerses the listener in a hazy abyss of countless, indefinite sensations, impels him to weep even when the composer had sought to make him laugh, awakens in him ideas and feelings that are wholly arbitrary and independent of the qualities of that particular music and the intentions of the composer or the performer. Let us be careful not to confuse the pleasurable and the beautiful. All this is simply pleasure. And this pleasure derives both from the multiplicity of these indefinite, etc., sensations and from the inclination, the bond that nature has established arbitrarily between the sensations of sound or singing and the imagination, from the capacity it has given them to afficere [to affect] the ear pleasurably (just as flavors do the palate) or the mind, [1783] and to stimulate the imagination, etc., in some to a greater degree, in others
less, in yet others not at all, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes not at all, as it has done, though to a lesser extent, with smells, which no one calls beautiful, but simply pleasurable.

  Those who have no ear (as we say) are not incapable of distinguishing the harmonious from the unharmonious, etc. (this would go against what others maintain),1 but are people whose ear is not very sensitive, and whose soul therefore is not very disposed to being moved or affected by sound and song, just like those who have little sense of smell, taste, etc. Their judgment is not wrong when it comes to the pleasurable or unpleasurable nature of a smell or a food, and so it is not faulty, it is rather the organ that lacks sensitivity. This observation demonstrates how it is that the essential pleasure in music derives from sound and song properly understood, and independently of harmony, which everyone, because of habituation (or, according to others, [1784] because of a universal and innate sense), is capable sooner or later of distinguishing precisely from what is considered by their companions to be discord. And it is certain that someone whose ear is very bad is perfectly capable of this attainment through study, and can even become a great composer or performer, but that will not improve his ear—a sign that the meaning and effect of music divides in two, one deriving from harmony, the other from pure sound. But because the latter is the principal factor, if someone whose understanding of musical or any other harmony is very advanced has a bad, that is, insensitive ear, he can only be delighted to a limited extent by music.

  Of these two effects of music, one, namely the effect of harmony, is in itself ordinary, that is, the same as all other proprieties. The other, that is, the effect of sound or song in itself, is extraordinary, and derives from the particular and innate disposition of the human machine, but does not [1785] pertain to the beautiful. Exactly the same distinction should be applied to the effect produced on man by human or feminine, etc., beauty and the theory of this beauty can vividly illuminate, and be illuminated by, the theory of music. Harmony in music, like proportion in the human form, really does produce a very vivid and extraordinary and natural effect but only by virtue of the means by which it reaches our senses (namely, sound or song, and human form), or, if you prefer, by virtue of the object in which the harmony or proportion is perceived. Once the object is removed, harmony and proportion taken in isolation, or applied to some other object, are very far from making the same impression. Rather, their presence is necessary for that object to make an absolutely, fully, and enduringly pleasurable impression. Thus it is demonstrated that whatever is innate, natural, and universal in the impact of musical and human beauty does not pertain to beauty, but [1786] to pure pleasure, or to the inclination and nature of man which produces this, as it does a hundred greater or lesser pleasures, general or individual, which no one confuses with beauty.

  I further believe that many men either through some infirmity, or by nature, etc. etc., not only are not delighted, but are definitely disgusted by all or some sounds or voices that are pleasurable for the general run of men. This is exactly what happens in many species of animals with an organization different from our own, although other species organized in a manner analogous to our own appreciate those same sounds, etc.

  I am still more disposed to believe, indeed, I am virtually certain of this point in relation to different harmonies, and the definite disgust and discordant effect they produce in certain men and certain species of animal. (24 Sept. 1821.)

  The more a man is accustomed to learning (that is, to becoming habituated), the more easily he learns. Now, the same thing occurs in beasts. A domesticated, etc. etc., animal acquires, more easily and quickly than a wild one of the same species, a habituation that is equally new to them both. [1787] (24 Sept. 1821.)

  Someone told me how he used to go and take food to some chicks and they would crowd around him as soon as they saw him. But one day he merely indicated that he wanted to catch one of them, and after this one time, all of them fled as soon as he appeared. He was surprised, but this effect seems commonplace to me, and I’m certain those chicks began to cluster around him as early as the 2nd time he took them something to eat. Habituation and dishabituation in animals. (24 Sept. 1821.) See p. 1806, paragraph 1.

  He further noted that the one involved had not been seen by the others. Language of society among animals. (24 Sept. 1821.)

  If someone who wishes or is obliged to follow an occupation in the world wants to draw any profit from it, he cannot but choose that of impostor, in whatever sphere. Literature has always been the most sterile of occupations. The [1788] real man of letters (if he does not mix up imposture with truth) never earns a thing. Yet the impostor succeeds in making even this barren field fertile, and one of the greatest miracles of imposture is that of making literature profitable. Imposture is a necessary condition for all occupations whether true or false. If letters and learning ever yield any profit, it is for the impostor, and by virtue not of truth (even if there is some mixed in), but of the imposture. (25 Sept. 1821.)

  When the unlettered read some famous author, they take no delight, not only because they lack the necessary qualities to enjoy the pleasure he can give, but also because they expect an impossible pleasure, a height of perfection that human things cannot reach. They don’t find it, and despise the author, laugh at his fame, think he’s just ordinary, and reckon they are the first to make this discovery. This happened to me when I was very young [1789] and read Virgil, Homer, etc. (25 Sept. 1821.)

  The words lontano, antico [distant, ancient], and the like are very poetic and pleasurable because they evoke vast, and indefinite, and indeterminable, and indistinct ideas. As in that stupendous stanza by Ariosto (1, 65):

  Quale stordito e stupido aratore,

  Poi ch’è passato il fulmine, si leva

  Di là dove l’altissimo fragore

  Presso a gli uccisi buoi steso l’aveva,

  Che mira senza fronde e senza onore

  Il pin che di lontan veder soleva;

  Tal si levò il Pagano a piè rimaso,

  Angelica presente al duro caso.

  [Like a bewildered plowman reeling

  Who rises once the storm has passed

  From where the lofty thunder pealing

  Beside his cattle slain had tossed,

  And gazes at the leafless and dishonored tree

  The distant pine he used to see;

  Thus did the Pagan rise again to fight;

  Angelica to rue his woeful plight.]

  Where the effect of the words di lontano combines with that of soleva, a word with an equally vast meaning on account of the wealth of memories it contains. Remove these two words and ideas and the impact of the line is lost, and it is reduced if you remove one of the two.1 (25 Sept. 1821.)

  Regarding the accidental difficulties in the system of nature see Dutens, part 4, ch. 5, §§ 325‒26. [1790] This matter may, in short, be linked back to the famous question of the origin or principle of evil. (25 Sept. 1821.)

  In the Tentativo di una transazione tra gli antichi e i moderni, added as the third tome by the Neapolitan translator to Dutens’s work, Origine delle scoperte attribuite a’ moderni, last ch., § 2, see two fine passages from St. Thomas in which he comes to affirm the perfection of all that is, not with regard to any antecedent cause, but solely because it is made as it is, and the possibility of other orders of things, differing greatly in their perfection, and infinite in number.1 (25 Sept. 1821.)

  Nothing more foolish than to consider the idea of spirit as essentially inseparable from that of a simple entity, and to confuse the abstract idea of composition with that of matter. As if the component substances could only be material, and there could not be a compound but immaterial substance because it was composed of immaterial substances. Which is as [1791] possible and plausible, neither more nor less, as compound material substances existing. If immaterial substances can exist, substances composed of immaterial substances can also exist, and though compound they will never be other than immateri
al. Hence once the idea of spirit has been discovered, all that has been done is to discover something about which we cannot deny or affirm anything, but not the abstract idea of a simple entity. Spirit will be as infinitely divisible as matter is, and once we have arrived at spirit, we shall find it just as hard to reach the simple entity or its idea, as it is after we have attained knowledge of matter.

  The same goes for the idea of parts. (25 Sept. 1821.)

  It could be said (but it’s a question of names) that my system does not destroy the absolute, but rather multiplies it. That is, it destroys what is considered absolute, and makes absolute what is termed relative. It destroys the abstract and antecedent idea of good and evil, of true and false, of perfect [1792] and imperfect independent of all that is. But it makes all possible beings absolutely perfect, that is, perfect in themselves, having the cause of their perfection in themselves and in this, that they exist thus, and are made thus, a perfection independent of any extrinsic cause or necessity, and of any preexistence. Thus all relative perfections become absolute, and absolutes, instead of vanishing, multiply, and in such a way that they can be both diverse and contrary to one another. Whereas hitherto contrariety has been supposed impossible in everything that was absolutely denied or affirmed, everything that was reckoned to be absolutely and independently good or bad, with contrariety, and its possibility, being restricted to relatives, and their ideas. (25 Sept. 1821.)

  Philosophy is capable perhaps of affording the mind the torpor and possible lack of concern I have called pleasurable [→Z 1779]. But as this unconcern, though it sends hope to sleep, nonetheless contains it deep down, indeed sometimes increases it by means itself of caring about nothing, and despair itself, [1793] so too philosophy, which by itself extinguishes hope altogether, cannot impart a pleasurable state to the mind except by being a half-philosophy, an imperfect philosophy (such as it ordinarily is), or even if it is perfect in the intellect, by its having no influence on the ultimate depths of the mind, or by its deliberately renouncing such influence itself.1 (26 Sept. 1821.)