Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  [2130] “If one only examines the matter completely, one discovers in the work of those early writers who brought so much glory to Italy a language unique in its nature, rich in faculties all its own, a language notable for phrases that have the air of their native climate, and are not encountered elsewhere; a language that, to put it briefly, with its facility in a singular variety of sounds is marvelously adaptable to every type of subject, from the high style of the epic down to that of more colloquial narration. In addition, we might say, spontaneous elegance, a flowering of language that has been preserved in precious collections and, within certain limits, in the Crusca dictionary.” Loc. cit., p. XLVI.1 (20 Nov. 1821.)

  It seems wrong, and yet it is true, that the more popular the character of a language, and the more closely it is modeled on domestic and familiar and colloquial language, the more suited it is to the most exquisite elegance and nobility of the most elevated speech and the most sublime style. [2131] The example of the Greek and Italian languages, and the opposite example of French, proves it. The reason is that only that type of language is capable of elegance, which derives solely from the rare, bold, figurative, and not logical use of words and phrases. Now, this use is utterly characteristic of popular speech, by its nature, and in all climates and times, but especially in ancient times, or in those nations that hold on to the ancient, and in southern climates. So it is that being popular in character gives a language the faculty and the facility to separate totally from the colloquial and from the spoken language, and not to be popular, and to vary the tone at will, and to be energetic, noble, sublime, rich, beautiful, tender as and when it pleases. In other words, a language that is popular in character contains all the qualities that a human language is capable of (as nature contains all the qualities and faculties that man [2132] or any living creature is capable of; that is, the disposition toward all possible faculties). It contains the poetic as well as the logical and mathematical, etc. (as nature contains reason), whereas a language whose character is modeled on civil conversation or on any conventional taste, progress, etc., language, etc., contains only that language and no more (as reason does not contain nature or dispose man toward it, and in fact excludes it), as we see in the Latin language, and even more in French, in proportion to the circumstances that asservissent [subjugate] and bind the latter to its model, etc., much more than Latin, etc. (20 Nov. 1821.)

  The faculty for invention is one of the ordinary, and principal, and characteristic qualities and parts of the imagination. Now, this faculty is precisely that which makes great philosophers and great discoverers of great truths. And one could say that from the same source, [2133] the same quality of spirit, differently applied and differently modified and determined by different circumstances and habits, came the poems of Homer and Dante and Newton’s Mathematical principles of natural philosophy.1 The system and order of the human machine is by nature very simple, and its springs and devices, and the principles that compose it, are few, but, reasoning from the effects, which are infinite and infinitely variable according to circumstances, habits, and accidents, we multiply the elements, the parts, the powers of our system, and divide, and distinguish, and subdivide faculties and principles that are really one and indivisible, although they produce and can always produce not only new, not only different, but directly opposite effects. Consequently, the imagination is the source of reason, as it is of feeling, of [2134] the passions, of poetry. And that faculty which we suppose to be a principle, a distinct and fixed quality of the human mind, either does not exist or is but one and the same thing, the same disposition as a hundred others from which we distinguish it absolutely, the same as that which is called reflection or the faculty of reflecting, the same as that which is called intellect, etc. Imagination and intellect are one. The intellect acquires what is called imagination through habits and circumstances, and the analogous natural dispositions. In the same way, it acquires what is called reflection, etc. etc. (20 Nov. 1821.)

  A perfect translation consists in this, that the translated author is not, e.g., Greek in Italian, Greek or French in German, but the same in Italian or German as he is in Greek or in French. This is the difficulty, this is what is not [2135] possible in all languages. For example, to translate an Italian author into French in such a way that he remains Italian in French is as impossible as to translate in such a way that he is the same in French as he is in Italian. It’s easy to translate into German in such a way that the author is Greek, Latin, Italian, French in German, but not in such a way that he is the same in German as he is in his own language. He can never be the same in the language of the translation if he remains Greek, French, etc., and so the translation, however exact it is, is not translation, because the author is not the same. That is, he does not appear, e.g., to the Germans as he appeared to the Greeks or appears to the French, and does not come close to producing in German readers the same effect that the original produces in French readers, etc.

  The Italian language has precisely this capability, and so would Greek have had. For this reason, I prefer Italian to all [2136] living languages as far as translation is concerned.

  What I say about authors I say about styles, methods, languages, customs, conversation. French conversation should be translated into spoken or written Italian in such a way that it is not French in Italian but the same in Italian as it is in French, that the language of the conversation sounds in Italian as it does in French, and yet is not French. (21 Nov. 1821.)

  For p. 1120, end. What is the derivation of the verb aptare [to adapt], from which our attare, adattare, and the French, etc.? From aptus. And what do we think this is? A participle of the very old verb apere. And what is the original meaning of aptare? That of the verb apere, that is, to bind. It’s truly amazing that this meaning, unknown in all the written Latin we know, this meaning, I repeat, of the verb aptare, that is, to bind (a meaning that it took from an original [2137] verb apere, which is not found in any Latin writer, however ancient)—that this meaning, I repeat, so definitely and uniquely ancient and primitive, appears in a late Latin writer such as Ammianus (see Forcellini under Aptatus, end),1 and is seen now—vivid, flourishing, precise, and absolutely typical in a language that originated in a corruption of Latin, that is, Spanish—in the verbs atar (from aptare, like escritura from scriptura, etc.), that is, to bind, and desatar, that is, to untie. Precisely the meaning of the Greek ἅπτω. See Forcellini under Aptus, Apte, Apo, Apex, and also the last example under Adaptatus. I’ve searched the Appendix and the Glossary under all these entries, and under Atare, Attare, etc., but there is nothing. See also Forcellini under Coapt-, where there is nothing in either the Glossary or the Appendix. Those who had any doubt about the testimonials of the grammarians on which [2138] our understanding of the ancient apere, and of aptare in the sense of to bind is based, should lay aside those doubts, in view of the Spanish atar, a conclusive observation, and truly valuable also for research into ancient vernacular Latin and its vicissitudes.

  From that we can deduce, (1) that many verbs, especially in tare, that are thought to be formed from adjective nouns derive in reality from participles, that is, those nouns are merely participles of ancient unknown verbs. That may be the case of putus, from which, according to Varro, etc., comes putare [to think], and is a different pronunciation of purus [pure].1 The same is true of laxus [wide, loose] (whence laxare), of which Forcellini says *“We don’t know anything definite about the etymology.”* We have seen the same thing regarding convexus, etc., in discussing vexare. We can say the same of spissus, whence spissare. So we saw regarding arctus and arctare. So perhaps may be the case of humectus whence humectare. See Forcellini. See pp. 2291 and 2341, paragraph 2. See Forcellini, Cautus, beginning. For arctus see p. 1144, for quietus p. 1992.

  (2) We find apere, and aptus, which as we can see in an infinite number of examples in Forcellini is an obvious participle of a verb meaning alligare, connectere [to bind], etc. This particular participle is not primi
tive but contracted (perhaps from apitus), as I have demonstrated elsewhere [→Z 1153–54]. From that [2139] participle, contracted to aptus, came the verb aptare, following the innumerable examples that I’ve cited, and in the manner and progression that I have demonstrated regarding the formation of verbs in are from participles in us of other verbs.

  Now the Greeks, with the same original meaning of apere and aptare [to adapt], say ἅπτειν, in other words aptare, the only difference being the ending. Voss, in his Etymologicum, derives apo from ἅπτω. (And Servius aptus from ἅπτεσθαι.)1 I would concede if the Greeks said ἅπω. But they say ἅπτω, and this verb, because of its form (and also because of its original meaning), is not the same as apo but the same as apto. Now, if this apto evidently, though not directly, derives from apo, it seems that the Greek ἅπτω should also derive from apo (and not apto from the Greek) and, as a result, the Greek verb derives from the Latin apto, and has a common origin with the Latin—that is, apo—and this origin is Latin, not [2140] Greek. Thus, we cannot assume a Greek ἅπω, from which the Greek ἅπτω, and the Latin apo, is derived, because, aside from the fact that there is no trace of this ἅπω, ἅπτω would not be derived from it, for the Greeks do not have participles in us and do not form verbs from these participles, as the Latins do, which is why from aptus, the participle of apo, they made apto. If, therefore, the Latin apo is earlier than the Latin apto (and much earlier, since its old participle apitus, had, as we have seen, first to become aptus, and then generate the verb aptare); and if the Greek ἅπτω is clearly the same as apto, in meaning and in form,1 it seems that apo must similarly precede the Greek ἅπτω, and that this, like apto, derives from apo. And since apo is Latin, the Greek verb, consequently, has a Latin origin. In addition, ἅπτω has a rough breathing, of which there is no trace in the Latin apto. This is contrary to what usually happens in words that come from Greece to Latium, and so we may believe that that breathing is simply an addition made by the Greeks, a gift of pronunciation that they bestowed on this foreign word, following the character of their speech organs and customs, etc.

  This observation seems to me very interesting [2141] and could lead to important results (which are largely new, and different from common opinion) about the history of Latin and Greek origins, and of the Greek and Latin languages and nations. This observation may confirm the theory that the Latin language is not the daughter of Greek but its sister, a hypothesis that is in any case much more likely. It may demonstrate that there was commerce very early between Greece and Italy, earlier than the knowledge we have of these two countries and their mutual relations; since this ἅπτω in the sense given above is a very old Greek verb, and, especially in its derivatives (like ἁψὶς, vinculum [chain], in the Iliad)1 and compounds, one finds it used with that meaning, or analogous ones, by Homer, Herodotus, and by the earliest Greek writers and records. See p. 2277.

  And this is not the only observation to be made on the subject, but many other examples and observations could be put forward, [2142] showing the Latin (or Italic) origin of ancient words, phrases, etc., which because they are common to Greek and Latin were until now believed to be of Greek origin, as if finding in Greek a word, etc., corresponding to a different Latin word were the same as finding the origin and etymology of that Latin word. My theories about the formation of continuative verbs, a formation very typical of Latin, and from earliest times, and from then until recently, and not typical of Greek, can provide many opportunities to rectify these mistakes, and transfer the origin of many words from Greece to Latium, contrary to what is commonly believed.

  I have shown [→Z 1120‒21] that, e.g., it is extremely likely that the Latin verb stare [to stand] is a pure continuative of esse [to be], formed precisely according to the usual rules of those formations.1 Now, ancient Greece undoubtedly had the verb στάω or στῶ, which is the root of the verb ἵστημι [to cause to stand], and many parts of the former are preserved in the latter. It seems to have nothing to do with the substantive verb εἰμὶ [to be], whose [2143] only participles are ὢν and ἐσόμενος. Even if εἰμὶ had, or had had, a participle analogous in sound to the verb στάω, this στάω would not have derived from that participle, since the Greeks did not have that method of verb formation, as Latin does. Hence one can hypothesize that the Greek στάω is derived from the Latin sto (which comes, as I say, from a stus or situs from esse), and not the latter from the former, as everyone says.

  Likewise, the Latin sisto [to cause to stand] is the same as ἱστάω, or ἱστῶ (which is spoken, in place of ἵστημι, and is the same verb), and has both meanings of that verb, which is the neuter corresponding to stare [to stand] and the active corresponding to statuere [to cause to stand] or retinere [to hold back], etc. Those two meanings, it seems, were equally characteristic of στάω, which we derive here from the Latin sto. Also, sisto has the s in place of the rough breathing of ἱστῶ. Which [2144] of the two is earlier, however, whether the Greek or the Latin, cannot be decided, since they are absolutely a single thing, as the s in Latin (ancient) is equivalent to the rough breathing in Greek (which itself formerly used the σῖγμα [sigma] in place of the breathing). So the earliest Greeks must also have written or said σιστῶ. And even if one were to derive sisto from ἱστῶ, that would prove only that its root στῶ does not come from Latin, since the Greeks (like everyone, but especially them, because of their circumstances, colonies, dispersion, the variety of their dialects, etc.) varied the ancient roots in a thousand ways, no matter where they came from, varying the roots themselves and their derivatives and compounds (as they also said στάω, with one letter more than sto, although as a result of contraction they more commonly used it in the form analogous to στῶ). Thus they could have easily restored to Italy, under a different form, a root taken from it—that is, the verb sisto, made from ἱστάω, derived [2145] or altered from στῶ, which was taken from the Latin sto. That could have happened during the more recent, or less ancient and obscure, relations that Greece had with Italy, in times that were, however, themselves very ancient (as we know), and that the Greek language, already adult at least, had with the Latin, however crude it was, or having declined from some very ancient perfection, as is more likely. I mean a perfection and form different from that which it received in Roman times, a perfection deriving from or shared with the mother language of itself and Greek, or with the language of that people which spread its colonies throughout Greece and Italy. (22 Nov. 1821.)

  Now, how commonly used, how basic in conversation, how essential in meaning is the verb stare, and ἵστημι or ἱστάω, and ἵσταμαι and the verb sistere, etc.! Consequently, it must have belonged (as we have already seen) to both languages from ancient times, or in ancient times was passed from one to the other, etc.1

  For p. 1121, end. I said a little above, p. 2138, that many verbs, especially in tare, believed to be derived from adjective nouns in us, may perhaps come from participles of unknown verbs. Similarly, I believe that many of the verbs, especially the ones in tare, which are believed to be derived from [2146] verbal substantive nouns in us us, or in us i, derive in reality from participles in us of other, unknown verbs, from which, likewise, I believe, these verbal nouns are derived. (See pp. 2009–10 and 2019.)

  I observe in the first place that these verbal nouns are, in fact, simply participles in us (of the verbs to which they belong because of their meaning, etc.), used as nouns, and converted sometimes to the fourth conjugation,1 and sometimes also left in the second, like the substantive jussum i [order]. Ictus us [blow, stroke] is merely the participle ictus from icere [to strike], used as a noun and converted to the fourth conjugation. We would believe that potus us [a drinking] is the root of potare [to drink] if the participle potus were not preserved, which I think is the origin of both. Etc. There is also potatus us, like gustatus us. Concerning the difference between these two kinds of verbal nouns, see what I
said [→Z 1118–20] about potatio, compotatio, etc. Similarly, effectus us, nutus us, etc. etc. Delictum i and a hundred others belong to the category of jussum. Thus, when such verbal nouns are found with neither a participle nor a corresponding verb, we should, it seems, believe that both formerly existed.

  For example, gustus us [a tasting] and gustum i [a light dish] have neither a verb nor a corresponding participle. We might think [2147] that gustare [to taste] derives from this substantive, but I believe that it comes from a participle gustus from which the substantive gustus is derived as well. And I am confirmed in this assumption (1) by what I said p. 2078, which can and should be extended to noncompound verbs, too, at least regarding the relatively natural inclination of the Latin language, above all in the case of substantives, since one can find many verbs made from adjective nouns, like durare, etc. etc. (sulcare comes from a substantive); (2) by what I said pp. 2010, 2019, from which it can be seen that the verbs actually formed from verbal nouns in us us, or from other nouns of the fourth declension, end in uare, as from fluctus us we get fluctuare, so that if gustare came from gustus it would make gustuare; (3) by observing the Greek γεύω [to give a taste of], which is the root of gusto as or came from a common root. In that verb there is no sign of st, the root letters of gusto. That leads me to think of an ancient guo, participle gustus, continuative gustare (where the st clearly indicates [2148] an original participle in tus), verbal nouns gustus us and um i. (In fact, from νεύω [to nod] the Latins have the old nuo, from which, later, nutare. The only root letters in gustare, then, considering the Greek γεύω, are gu. I mean primitive roots. The others must have come from some accidence of the root: and my observations state what this accidence is.) It can be seen that that verbal noun does not derive from gustare following the rule mentioned above about the formation of verbal nouns from participles in us. The participle of gustare is gustatus; its verbal noun is not gustus but gustatus us, which does exist and has nothing to do with gustus. Therefore, if the original participle and verb of gustatus us are gustatus and gustare, the verbal noun gustus must likewise have originated in a participle gustus of a verb guo, or something like that—the father of that verbal noun, and of gustare. (22 Nov. 1821.)