In short, the Italian language is easily corruptible, because it can do so very much, whereas, e.g., the French language can do very little. Now it is easier to learn little than much. (10‒12 Oct. 1821.)
Not only elegance, but nobility, grandeur, all the qualities of poetic language, indeed poetic language itself, consists, if you observe it closely, in a mode of speech that is indefinite, or not very well defined, or always [1901] less definite than prosaic or vulgar speech. This is the consequence of its being divided off from the common people, and it is also the means and the mode of its being so. Everything that is precisely defined could well feature sometimes in poetic language, since one only has to consider its nature as a whole, but certainly strictly speaking, and in itself, it is not poetic. The same effect and the same nature may be observed in a passage of prose that without being poetic is nevertheless sublime, lofty, magnificent, grandiloquent. True nobility in prose style itself also always consists in an indefinable indefiniteness. Such tends to be the prose of the ancients, Greek and Latin. And there is therefore not a very marked difference between the indefiniteness of poetic language, and that of prosaic, oratorical, etc., language.
We can thus see how there is no capacity for poetry in the French language, which has no capacity at all for the indefinite, and where even in its most sublime styles you never [1902] find anything but perpetual, and unbroken definiteness.
The fact, too, that French does not have an idiom separate from common speech makes it incapable of indefiniteness, hence of poetic language and, since language is virtually identical with things, incapable also of true poetry.
Not only incapable of poetic language, but also of the noble and majestic language of prose that is characteristic of the ancients and, among all the moderns, of the Italians (likewise of the Spanish, and of the French before the reform), and which I have elaborated upon above [→Z 1901]. (12 Oct. 1821.)
These and other such observations demonstrate that the French, whom I have said [→Z 963‒66, 970‒72, 1001‒1003] to be incapable of properly appreciating and relishing foreign languages, especially the ancient languages and Italian, are particularly so with respect to the languages of poetry, for the same reason that the ancient languages and Italian [1903] are less within their reach than any other. (12 Oct. 1821.)
The young man, whether in a direct and precise way or at any rate hazily and in his heart of hearts, and not only the young man but most men, in fact we can say all men, at least in some circumstances, believe that what is actually ordinary in the world is extraordinary, and vice versa; they think the incidents described in histories are extraordinary, and the ones described in novels ordinary. (12 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 1880. Man, greatly dissipated though he may be, is always more at ease with himself than with others, or with any single other person, and hence is more habituated to his own qualities than to those of others, or to those of any other. Consequently, there is no human quality so extraordinary to a man as those that are the opposite of his own. It is true that this effect is proportionate to the greater or lesser degree to which a man is habituated either to himself, or to society. On the other hand, it is well known that a man more [1904] or less always judges others in terms of himself, and that no matter how much of a philosopher he is and how much he is practiced in the ways of the world, and also as it were forgetting himself, he always goes back to that. It is well known that the vicious man does not believe in virtue, nor the virtuous man in vice, that the judgments and habitual notions that each individual forms of others vary with the alterations to which his character is subject, etc.
Just as I have said [→Z 452–53, 1880], with regard to grace, that wickedness impresses a virtuous person, so also one can and should say the same of virtue with regard to the wicked or vicious, etc. etc. etc. (12 Oct. 1821.)
A great part of the singular effect that human beauty has on man, particularly that of the physiognomy, depends on and is generated by its meaning: this can be seen in children, who, even if very beautiful, do not make a strong impression on the observer, nor do they arouse hatred or a more than superficial aversion, even if they are very ugly. Although this [1905] might also have other causes, it derives more especially from the fact that the physiognomy of children always has little meaning for the person observing it, (1) because the meaning of a physiognomy arises in large part from habituations, that is to say, from character, from the passions, etc. etc., which the individual very gradually acquires, and which set the physiognomy in motion and are represented in it. Since children’s characters are still in the process of being formed, the meaning of their physiognomies is itself yet to be formed, and the correspondence between the inside and the outside is less, or less defined, inasmuch as both await the form they will receive from circumstances, and are still as it were a soft paste to be worked. (2) Because even when children’s physiognomies are, so far as their apparent conformation is concerned, highly significant, the observer does not attach any noteworthy meaning to [1906] this sign, knowing that a child’s character is not yet formed, and cannot be known, nor can adequate conjectures be made from these signs and from the physiognomy, and that what now appears of them is fleeting, aside from the fact that in the end it is of little account, and a mere trifle. Sparkling eyes and a very charming physiognomy in a child therefore only elicit a slight sensation of love from us, and a haughty and evil-seeming physiognomy only elicits a slight feeling of aversion. That’s why a child’s physiognomy leaves a man almost indifferent, as what it may signify is indifferent (at any rate at that moment) and of little account, and as the correspondence between the signifier and the signified is tenuous. Since this correspondence, too, is not only determined by habituations but also in large part derives from them, and consequently cannot be prior to them. See p. 1911.
Yet I do not believe that one can argue thus [1907] regarding the effect of children’s physiognomies on other children, depending on the extent to which they are used to or capable of paying attention, and hence of forming and recognizing relationships. (12 Oct. 1821.)
In rhymed verses, no matter how spontaneous and unstilted the rhyme appears, as someone who composes I’d venture to say that the ideas are due half to the poet, and half to the rhyme, and sometimes a third is due to the former and two thirds to the latter, and sometimes it is wholly due to the rhyme. But very few belong entirely just to the poet, even if they do not appear strained, indeed, if they seem to arise from the thing itself.1 (13 Oct. 1821.)
There is nothing more foolish and offensive to nature than to say and keep saying that perfection is not characteristic of created things, that nothing in the world is perfect, that human affairs are imperfect, that perfect man cannot exist, etc. etc. What did that illustrious teacher, nature, lack in order to make her works perfect? Was it intelligence perhaps? Or power? It is certainly the case that nothing is or can be perfect according to the frivolous idea that we form for ourselves of an absolute perfection [1908] which does not exist, of a perfection independent of every kind of thing, and prior to them, when in them alone is every perfection enclosed, from them it derives, and in them and in their mode of being it has the sole cause of its being, and of its being perfection. Certainly nothing is perfect in a mode that is not, in a mode in which things are not, and the nature of things that are cannot correspond with that which is outside of them and is not located in any place. We dream of finding the perfection of what we see in a sphere outside of existence, whereas, in fact, it exists here with us, and coexists with every kind of thing that we know, and would not be perfection in any other possible case. It is therefore not to be wondered at if everything seems imperfect to us, when we understand perfect to mean existing in a mode in which things are not made, whereas perfection does not consist of, and does not have any reason to be, anything else but the mode in which things are made, each in its kind.1
[1909] It is also certain that strictly human things are bound to seem wholly imperfect to us, because in truth
they are so. We fantasize about the perfectibility of man, and after such (purportedly) immense advances of the human spirit we are no nearer to our supposed perfection than before. And even if the faculties and knowledge of a God were to be placed in our hands, in order to frame a perfect man in accordance with our ideas, we would not know how to do it, because once we imagine an absolute and unique perfection, we cannot to all eternity know in what the perfection of man might consist, nor that of any other possible being, or kind of being. For if we imagine a single and absolute type of perfection, independent of, and prior to every sort of existence, all beings, to be perfect, must conform wholly to this type. Therefore, all must be perfectly equal and identical in nature; therefore, once kinds exist, there necessarily exists an immense imperfection [1910] in the actual essence of all things, which cannot be removed save by confusing all things together, extirpating all possible natures, existent or nonexistent, and all possible modes of being, and once again reducing the whole, and all of existence to that type of perfection that is prior to existence, and hence does not exist. What, then, do we understand by the perfection of man? What is it that we claim to be going toward? What is the goal of the purported perfecting of our mind? What is the proper, even indeed the possible perfection of man, even if he is in a state of eternal Beatitude, in Paradise?1
It is therefore not to be wondered at if every human thing always evokes in us the idea of imperfection, and leaves us dissatisfied, and if we cry out that man is imperfect. Such he truly is today, and such he will never cease being, once he left the perfection that he used to carry with him, consisting [1911] in the natural state of his species, and in the natural use of his natural dispositions. Losing sight of the type he had before his eyes, which was himself, or perhaps his own species, he has followed after an imaginary perfection, absolute and universal, which does not have, nor can it have, any type, since a type could only be prior to existence, and hence by its very nature be nonexistent, and vain. For absolute perfection (or its type) and existence are contradictory terms. (13 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 1906, end. Indeed, since the qualities that man brings from nature are simply dispositions, likewise the correspondence that ought to represent these inner qualities on the outside, cannot be more than a disposition on the part of the outside to represent them. (13 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 1880. Kings at the beginning were also more than anything else commanders of armies. The person of the General has separated from that of prince, and kings have stopped [1912] being warriors, and not been ashamed at being unable to command their own armies, or direct and deploy the might of their own kingdom. This did not happen all at once but little by little, as the world and human things lost their vigor and natural energy, and as appearance took the place of substance. In the same way, and for precisely the same reason for which this process continued and gathered pace, princes have not even been ashamed at being unable or unwilling to govern, and at being served by subjects who maintain them only for this purpose, and at their own expense. So that kings have kept no other office but that of lending their names to government or tyranny, representing sovereignty, as they themselves are represented sometimes and venerated in their portraits, and serving Chronology, as the eponymous consuls in imperial times served the annals of Rome. Princes now are little more than portraits of monarchy, of authority. They are the representatives of their ministers, and not vice versa. Thus, today the world no longer knows whom s’en prendre [to blame] for the good or bad it receives from its government, and in the temporal sphere it obeys [1913] the abstract notion of authority, that is to say, a being, an invisible force, just as in the spiritual sphere it obeys a God, and as in Tibet it obeys the real but invisible Great Lama. Blessed is the spiritualization of humankind!1 (13 Oct. 1821.)
Today, if someone knows and has experienced the world, and has not become an egoist, and has a minimum of sense and wit, they cannot help but have become a misanthrope.
Anyone is capable of judging for himself very quickly whether beauty and ugliness can ever be absolute. Suppose we consider abstractly the ugliness of the ugliest man in the world. What intrinsic reason does it have to be ugliness? If all or the majority of men were made that way, would it not be beauty? The same goes for every other kind of beauty or ugliness. Just as what is disgusting to us is not disgusting in itself, or to another kind of being, or to an animal, so [1914] just the opposite can and does prove to be the case; just as no taste or smell, etc., is unpleasant or pleasant in itself and essentially, but only accidentally, so too no beauty or ugliness is such in itself, but is so with respect to us, and is accidental, and not inherent in any way in the essence of the object. (14 Oct. 1821.)
The people who treated us well in childhood, who performed services for us regularly, greeted us warmly, amused us, whose presence gave us pleasure, who regaled us with presents, etc., never seemed ugly to us when we were that age, no matter how ugly they were, indeed, just the reverse. And if with the passage of time we have rectified this idea, we have almost never done so entirely, especially when we think about the time of our childhood. A very normal effect, that everyone may observe in himself, and describe, and have described to him, as I have heard described a thousand times, with a degree of astonishment on the part of the describer.1 (14 Oct. 1821.)
[1915] One cause of the pleasure obtained by simplicity in works of art, or in writings, or in anything that concerns beauty, is the contrast between what is artificial and what is unartificial, or seems perfectly unartificial. (This is a universal cause, and independent of habituation as regards the overall effect, and inherent in the nature of beauty plain and simple.) The contrast may be (1) between the other beauties and qualities of the work that, because of their perfection, do not seem as if they can possibly be unartificial, and the simplicity or naturalness that adorns them all and covers them, which is, or seems wholly unartificial, (2) between the actual nature of simplicity and naturalness that in itself seems to include the spontaneous and the nonartificial, and our knowing or realizing full well (as is natural) that, despite this perfect appearance, it is nonetheless artificial, and comes from study. A contrast producing a sense of wonder that always derives from the extraordinary, [1916] and from the union of things or qualities that seem incompatible, etc. Since it is recherché without seeming to be recherché. The causes and nature of the greatest human pleasures are very subtle, intricate, and fleeting. And the majority of them are found in the last analysis to derive from what is not ordinary, and from the very fact of its not being ordinary, etc. (14 Oct. 1821.) From what does wonder, the principal source of pleasure in the fine arts, poetry, etc., derive, and to which theory does it belong, if not that of the extraordinary?
Many coarse or vulgar words in a language, many uses either of words or expressions that are very ordinary in their language of origin, seem very elegant and noble, etc., when transferred to another language, because of their unfamiliarity. This is what very often happens to us when we transpose Latin words or expressions into Italian. Someone who found such words to be vulgar and shoddy in Latin would be ill-advised to suppose that they would also be so in Italian. Though common and plebeian in Latin, they could well be taken entirely away from popular usage and be eminently noble in Italian. As Petrarch so elegantly puts it in his Preface:
[1917] Ma ben veggi’ or sì come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo.
[But now I well see how for a long time I was the talk of the crowd]1
And yet this phrase could well have been very common in Latin also, where we know that fabulare and fabula were commonly employed for to talk, to chatter, since our favellare and favella, and the Spanish fablar, today hablar, are derived from them. But favola in our own language today does not strictly speaking mean anything other than false report. If it is taken in this sense the word sounds very elegant and furthermore with us is accorded an interpretation as meaningful as it is different from the one that the Romans gave it in the similar phrase, wher
e they usurped fabula and took it to mean favella [language] or ciancia [talk, gossip].
The same goes for other languages, for Italian words and phrases, or different uses of the same that passed into Spanish, and vice versa, etc. etc. (14 Oct. 1821.)
Very frequently either elegance or nobility (as regards language) derives [1918] from the metaphoric use of words and phrases, even when, as very often and very necessarily happens, the metaphoric aspect is scarcely or not at all in evidence. Very frequently, on the other hand, it derives from the propriety of these same words and phrases, when they are not often used in their proper sense, or when they are not commonly used in any way at all, or they are often used in prose but not in poetry, or vice versa, or they are in one genre of writing, not in another, etc. (Precision alone can never produce either elegance or nobility, nor anything other than precision and stiffness of style.) See p. 1925, end.
So it is that speaking generally about an overall style (since the general effect derives from, and conforms to particular effects), in an age and in a nation in which writers rarely use words and phrases with their proper meanings, in which the metaphoric style (within the bounds, however, of elegance) is much used, a style that is correct and even composed of words and phrases that are pedestrian, familiar, and concerned with details, provided that it is done with a measure of art, will be [1919] most elegant. And vice versa in the opposite case. Thus we may observe, conjecture, specify, and distinguish between the different effects that have been produced in different ages, and the different opinions (within the bounds of the beautiful) held regarding Italian writers of differing styles, in Italy itself, as when we compare the 14th- with the sixteenth-century writers, etc. etc. Thus we may also note the instability of reputations and of the effects of a work of fine art, or of writing, regarding which the dispassionate judgment of the public is deemed to be as just as it is unwavering. Just I would grant you but unwavering I would deny, especially across the ages, and the different nations, and customs, etc.
Zibaldone Page 150
