[2012] For p. 1271, middle. In proof of what I’ve said, that is, that nations transmitted alphabets reciprocally, and that when this or that nation began to be literate it appropriated the alphabet of the nation that its earliest knowledge came from, since it didn’t have one, and didn’t know how to write, and that that must have led to the greatest alterations in languages, and that it persisted not only in very ancient times but up to the more modern, and would persist today as well, if a similar situation arose, etc., see Samuelis Aniensis Chronica (with Mai’s Eusebius) year of our Lord 418, 423 and Mai’s note on the year 399, that is, p. 44, note 4, and Mai’s preface to Philo, p. LIX, and ibid., note 4.1 See also Malte par un Voyageur françois (Rome) 1791, 2nd part—Language—pp. 61–63.2 (29 Oct. 1821.)
One should not confuse purity of language, which is necessary in all the writings of any nation, with elegance, which is needed only in some [2013] writings, while in others it is not merely unnecessary but impossible. Nor should one think, because it’s very easy to be elegant in the Italian language, and because we have a very pronounced taste for elegance in the majority of our good writers, that didactic writing, etc., if and where it is not elegant, is not Italian. I repeat that modern precision—which is extreme, and which in some writing and genres is of the highest necessity, and which today is sought above all other qualities, etc.—is by its nature absolutely incompatible with elegance. And in fact ours is a century of precision, and certainly not of elegance in any genre. But precision is eminently compatible with purity, as one can see in Galileo, whose writing, wherever he is precise and mathematical, is never elegant but always the purest Italian. For our language, like any other, is incapable of a style [2014] that includes two incompatible and essentially opposite qualities, but is perfectly capable of a precise style, no less than an elegant one, like Greek, and unlike French, which, while it is perfectly capable of precision, is incapable of elegance (or what we, the Romans, and the Greeks meant by elegance), and unlike Latin, which is capable of elegance and incapable of precision, and so was corrupted as soon as it was applied to theological, scholarly, etc., subtleties (our language, on the contrary, was reared among such subtleties, and Greek developed among them), and also to the subtleties of Greek philosophy, after Cicero. And hence it could not be adapted at all to modern things or to translations of modern things. (30 Oct. 1821.)
The Latin language lacks freedom either because in its best period it was applied perfectly to a few types of writing, imperfectly and little and by few to other types, and to others not at all; [2015] or because, as a fully formed language, it was the most modern of the ancient languages, and its development was contemporaneous with the major developments in art among the ancients, etc. etc.; or because it had in Cicero a writer and a shaper of the language too vast for himself, not vast enough for the language, too superior to all others, so that those who restricted themselves to his language lost the freedom of language, those who rejected him lost its purity, and, having regained freedom through violence, corrupted it into anarchy. For freedom both in the people and in language is good when it is enjoyed peacefully and without conflict, and, so to speak, legitimately and by right, but when it is gained by violence it represents the absence of law rather than freedom. It is characteristic of human matters that when they reach [2016] one extreme they leap to the opposite, then jump back to the first, and no longer know how to stop in the middle, where nature alone guided them on their original course, and alone could lead them back. The Italian language ran a similar risk when, in the 16th century, some wanted to limit it, not to the 14th century, as pedants do today, but to the language and style of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, because of their eminence. Indeed, to the language and style of Boccaccio alone in prose, only to Petrarch’s in the lyric, etc. Caro contests these people in his Apologia.1
Besides, the Latin language was, in fact, very free, and similar to Greek in this and the rest, until the time of Cicero and the form it got from him, and from its early (and also best) writers, whom we might compare to those of the 14th century. (30 Oct. 1821.)
[2017] The difference between the pleasure we get from song and the pleasure we get from sound, and the superiority of the former to the latter, is entirely independent of harmony. (30 Oct. 1821.)
Since talent is in large part only a creation of habit, those who admire in another this or that talent, ability, work, etc., admire and marvel at something that they themselves, in different circumstances, would have been more or less perfectly capable of. (30 Oct. 1821.)
Performing a vigorous action, whether using one’s strength passively or actively (as in taking a brisk walk, or making strong, energetic movements, etc.), when and as long as it does not exceed the individual’s strength, is pleasurable in itself, even when it is uncomfortable (as in exposing oneself to severe cold, etc.), even when there are no spectators, and even apart from ambition and internal gratification and [2018] self-satisfaction. And not only performing such actions but also observing them, being the spectator of active, energetic, rapid things, lively, strong, difficult, etc. etc., movements, etc., actions, etc., is pleasurable, because it activates the mind, communicates a certain inner activity to it, jolts it, etc., exercises it from a distance, etc., and it seems to return stronger and more exercised, etc.1
I have said [→Z 1953] that every sensation of physical vigor is pleasurable. So, too, in the mind (and therefore a lift in spirit is always pleasurable, whether it is caused by reading, by performances, by prayer, by meditation, by external sensations of every type, etc.), so, too, every act of spiritual vigor, such as virtuous or energetic resolutions, sacrifice, resignation, etc. etc.
In other words, the living being tends essentially to life. Life is pleasurable for him, and so is everything that is alive, even if it comes under the aspect of death. Man’s happiness consists in the liveliness of sensations and of life, because he loves life. And this liveliness is never so great as when it is physical. The natural state provided very well for this fundamental and universal inclination of man. (30 Oct. 1821.)
[2019] For p. 2010, margin. These two verbs, fluctuare [to float] and effettuare [to effect] (effectuer, efectuar), indicate to me another kind of verb formation, however: verbs made from verbal nouns in us (that is, consonant with the participles in us of positive verbs) by cutting off the s and adding are, a type analogous to the continuatives but much less numerous. This type, which had been used in classical antiquity, continued to be used with new formations in late antiquity, where you find usuare, usufructuare, etc. etc. We ourselves have situare, etc., graduare, etc., abituare, etc., and as for verbs in uere one finds statuere from status us. See pp. 2226, 2338. In the vernacular we have questuare from quaestus us, an evidently longer, more regular, etc., action of cercare [to seek]. Quêter, in French, the pure continuative of quaerere [to seek], has a similar force, etc. In short, these verbs in uare derive from fourth-declension nouns that are verbal, for the most part, and are taken from participles in us. Thus arcuare, tumultuare, or ari. Thus sinuare, insinuare, aestuare, exdorsuare. See p. 2323. (30 Oct. 1821.)
Children, thanks to the liveliness of their imaginations, and the simple dictates of nature, discover and see clear similarities and affinities, and find abstruse relationships, between very disparate things. The philosopher [2020] ought to take note of these, and not look down on becoming in some sense a child again, and should do his utmost to see things as children see them. For certainly those who discover significant distant relationships discover significant hidden truths and motives, and so perhaps the child sometimes knows much more than the philosopher and sees truths and causes clearly that the philosopher sees only dimly, or not at all, because he is accustomed to think differently, and to follow in his meditations pathways very different from those that he followed naturally as a child. (31 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 2011, beginning. About the verb vexare, which seems to be a continuative of vehere [to carry] with the unattested participle vexus—rather than vectus—of
which convexus, convexitas, etc., bear witness (see Forcellini under these words, and note that he also says convexare, as well as [2021] convehere, and convectare), observe Forcellini’s quotation from Gellius,1 and note how he digresses, not knowing the property of the formation of continuatives, which have the characteristic of augmenting the action signified by the positives; and note also that vehere, from the usual vectus, also has the other indisputable frequentative vectare. (31 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 1115, beginning. In short, it is clear that the formation of the verbs that I call continuatives is distinct from that of the verbs in itare that I, along with others, call frequentative; and their use is equally clear, except that later it could be corrupted or confused, as I will explain below.
And at the same time it is evident that the formation and use of continuative verbs is distinct from the formation and use of positive verbs, and those continuatives which in Latin writers of the best period preserve their [2022] original characteristic are such that even today anyone who has a taste and feel for Latin knows, and perceives at first glance, that under no circumstances could they be used in place of positives, nor the latter in place of the former, without utterly failing to be proper Latin, and without being totally barbarous, as in versare for vertere [to turn], or vertere for versare. This demonstrates that those other continuatives, which today are not in this category, are not there for reasons that I will explain later, rather than because of their nature and form, whose origins and character is the same as that of the continuatives that appear even today, and always lasted as continuatives in the use of good Latin writers. (31 Oct. 1821.) See pp. 2118 end, and 2187, end.
For p. 1116, margin, end. Furthermore, whether those verbs are called, as I call them, continuatives or, as others do, frequentatives, it still will always be necessary [2023] to explain why they are used in place of positives, so my usage does not count against me any more than that of the grammarians who call them frequentatives does against them. In fact, the route from the frequentative meaning to the positive is rougher and longer than that from the continuative to the same positive. For, whereas the difference between the first two meanings is clear, noticeable, easy to hear and understand, and distinct, the difference between the continuative meaning and the positive is often, in fact almost always, subtle and elusive and metaphysical, as I’ve noted elsewhere, and therefore easily overlooked, since it cannot be grasped by those who do not have a long-standing familiarity with and perfect feel for Latin. (31 Oct. 1821.)
For p. 1109. In the case of those continuative verbs, especially in modern languages, [2024] it can be said that the ones that today do not have a distinctly continuative meaning, or are used indiscriminately in place of the positives they derive from, or have replaced positives that are already extinct, were either introduced into our languages in recent times, or their continuative meaning was transformed in recent times into the positive or some other meaning, or they were entirely replaced by their positives. As for those, however (and they are many), which have in our own languages an obvious continuative meaning (whether their positives still exist in the languages or not) and yet are not found in the writers of good Latin, it will be hard to convince me that they are of recent times, and that they did not come to us directly through ancient Vulgar Latin, the father of our languages, and the obstinate preserver of the ancient properties of the language. For it is unlikely [2025] that in recent, corrupt times these verbs were deliberately coined, in accordance with all the characteristics of ancient Latin and all the rules of formation and continuative meaning, when these rules and those characteristics had long since, and in the very flowering of Latin, been forgotten, or were not very distinct and not clearly understood, or were completely ignored and violated by Latin writers themselves and by the best grammarians and experts in the correct spoken language and makers of new words. (31 Oct. 1821.)
The ancient poets and, proportionately, prose writers never spoke of human things or things of nature except to heighten them, exalt them, even when they spoke of miseries and of melancholic subjects, and in a melancholy style, etc. And so grandeur constituted their way of seeing things, and the spirit of their poetry. Everything is the opposite among modern poets and [2026] writers, who neither do speak nor can speak of human things and those of the world except to lessen, diminish, debase the idea of them. So ancient languages always exalt and magnify, especially in the case of poets, and modern languages always diminish and reduce and annul even when they are poetic. In fact, the poetic spirit (which always has close relations with the philosophy of the time, and nowadays especially) today consists precisely in that. The ancient poets distinguished themselves from the common people by exalting things above the common mind, modern poets by lowering them beneath it. In that, too, there is grandeur, but of the contrary kind.1 As a result, modern writings translated, e.g., into Latin, or modern subjects treated in Latin, sound completely different from what is intended, and so there is a discordant effect between the grandeur and loftiness of the language and the modesty and narrowness of the ideas, even when to us they are very poetic. (The same thing would happen if we transported our literature to the East.) And vice versa, if we translated the ancients into modern idioms or treated ancient subjects in such idioms.
It follows that the Latin language, [2027] as a language that, having a wholly and distinctly ancient character, has no freedom at all, is entirely ill suited to modern subjects, to translations of modern writings, etc. (And the human spirit would have encountered a huge obstacle, and advanced extremely slowly, if, after the rebirth of civilization, the custom of using the Latin language, and the need for it, had lasted longer in writers, in business, etc., because of the inadequacy of the vernaculars.) The other ancient languages are more or less adaptable, depending on whether they have greater or lesser freedom, and among them Greek holds first place. (I mean among highly cultured and fully formed ancient languages, since the others are adaptable to everything—not because of a virtue but because of a deficiency—or so it can perhaps be said of German.) Vice versa, modern languages are more or less adaptable to ancient things, and to translation of the ancients, depending on whether they have greater or lesser freedom, and preserve more or less of their ancient character, [2028] either resembling the ancient or related to it. Among these, Italian holds first place (I mean among the cultured languages) and French the very last possible, or, rather, it is completely outside this group. (1 Nov., Feast of All Saints, 1821.)
Man gets habituated to being habituated, and learns to learn, and needs to do so. See Staël, De l’Allemagne, tome 1, 1st part, ch. 18, pp. 155, end‒156.1 The most talented man is not exempt from this need. It alone allows his talent to take shape, and without it—as often happens—the best possible disposition remains entirely unfulfilled, and unknown to the very one who possesses it. That is to say that no faculty exists originally in man, not even that for learning, which also has to be acquired. (1 Nov. 1821.)
I have said elsewhere [→Z 519] that nature seems to have entrusted to each individual the preservation and custody of order, reason, [2029] justice, existence, etc., for that which concerns other individuals, or other living things. In other words, the preservation of all nature and all its laws, even where or when they do not pertain to us, seems to be entrusted to each individual. In this originates the anger we feel when we hear of a crime, e.g., a murder, against a person entirely unknown to us, outside our circle of relations, our group, etc., and when the murderer, too, is in the same category. We immediately feel—and the more so the livelier our imagination, and the warmer our feelings, unless we are corrupted and perverted by cold reason—a sharp sense of hatred toward the criminal, a desire for vengeance, as if the offense had been done to us, a sharp pleasure if we learn that he has fallen into the hands of [2030] justice, and dismay if he has escaped. Especially when the story of the crime, for whatever reason, becomes vivid to us, etc., and even more if the crime occurs in our presence, etc. An excess of en
ergy also gives a man the desire to avenge the crime himself, even when it bears no relation to him and he does not have the remotest interest in it. This gives rise to the fact that when news spreads of some notable crime the people are always very pleased when the criminal is captured. They want it, they applaud it, and when he is on trial they discuss his conviction as if it were a satisfaction and a pleasure that they expected and wished for, they complain about the slow pace of the judges and, if the criminal is acquitted, they grieve over it, as if a wrong had been done to them. If he is convicted they rejoice, until compassion for the punishment succeeds anger at the crime.
In any case, compassion for the victim of the crime [2031] is not an essential motivation in these effects. In fact very often, owing to various circumstances, it is either slight or nonexistent and out of proportion to the other effects noted above. And there are also crimes that have no particular victim, and harm the public equally.
Furthermore, all of this, and all these feelings, although they may appear purely natural, innate, and elemental, in truth derive purely from habit. At least to a certain degree, since, as I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 249], I believe that the noncarnivorous animal naturally hates the carnivore, seeing it seize, kill, and devour its prey, although, in fact, it sins not against any law of its own nature but against the laws that nature has prescribed for noncarnivorous animals. Thus the judgment and sense of good and evil, of just and unjust, is only relative, and has no antecedent type or cause, etc. etc. etc. (1 Nov. 1821.)
[2032] The man who is inexperienced in things always has a more or less poetic spirit and character. It becomes prosaic with experience. But often someone who as a youth was by habit or nature conspicuously poetic becomes (even in youth itself) more quickly and strongly prosaic with experience. One excess attracts another, because, contrary to what at first glance appears to be the case, excesses are more alike, familiar, and closely related to one another than to what is in the middle. Someone who has a lively poetic spirit and feels intensely must quickly and intensely feel the vanity and the evil of men and things. He becomes intensely disillusioned, because he was capable of intense illusions, and, in fact, had such illusions. Before the recognition he has strong illusions, after the recognition strong, and prompt, and firm, and complete disillusionment. The very strength of his nature, [2033] or of his acquired faculties, which gave prominence and energy to his illusions, gives the same qualities to his disillusionment. And so the old age of the poet is perhaps (or at least very often) much more prosaic in all senses than that of the man whose original nature is cold, and the more so the more keenly and truly poetic in any sense his youth was, before sufficient experience. Because by poetic I also mean inclined to virtue, to heroism, magnanimity, etc., even if it applies not precisely to poetry but to deeds, desires, passions, etc. (2 Nov. 1821.) See p. 2039.
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