Diminutives are almost always graceful, and bring grace and lightness and elegance to speech, to a phrase, etc. Relate this observation to the grace that comes from smallness.4 (29 Dec. 1821.)
[2305] The Italians, the French, the Spanish use the verb sapio (sapere, saber, savoir) [to taste] in the sense of scio [to know]. What does that signify if not that it was used in that sense in the Vulgar Latin from which, and nowhere else, all three languages derived? See Forcellini and the Glossary and Sapiens, Sapientia [wise, wisdom], etc. (29 Dec. 1821.)
I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 880ff., 1710–11, 2252–55] that the ancients (by nature) considered the foreigner to be naturally and essentially different from their fellow countryman, an entity of another kind. Hence they defended themselves against foreigners or attacked them, as they did wild beasts, or animals or creatures of another species, except that they considered conquering men more glorious, as a more difficult victory. But the ancient and primitive idea of war was scarcely or not at all different from hunting (as is the case among the savages). Hence no quarter, no pity, no magnanimity (which at the time it was believed could not happen with the enemy), no forgiveness toward the conquered; hence [2306] obstinacy, determination not to surrender (and how could they have submitted to the rule of animals or wild beasts, etc.? how, then, to the rule of men believed to be of another species?), despair at being conquered, slavery, pillaging, fires, destruction of the homesteads and towns, possessions and persons of the conquered; hence all the other effects of ancient national hatred, which I’ve specified elsewhere, and which still exist among savages, barbarians, etc. (29 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 1283, beginning. I suspect that I have, in fact, found this root hil in very ancient Latin. Observe. Nihilum [nothing] is virtually ne hilum [not a thing], says Forcellini, and with him the etymologists. See Forcellini also under Per hilum. And there can be no doubt, since Lucretius says neque hilo,1 etc., breaking up the compound, rather than nihiloque [and nothing], as the ancient Romans customarily did, especially the poets (as in Plautus disque trahere for et distrahere [and to tear in pieces]),2 and they did so even in classical times, and so did the Greeks. Not only Lucretius but others, for whom see [2307] Forcellini under Hilum. On the privative particle ne (changed in compounds to ni) see Forcellini under ne and under nego. There could also be a nec, since necopinans, etc., means non opinante [unaware], etc., and nec is simply a privative particle like the ἀ of the Greeks. See also Scapula under νὴ, likewise a privative particle in very ancient Greek, about which see also Helladius Besantinous’s Chrestomathia, with Meurs’s notes.1
(On this subject I note in passing: n is a root characteristic of the negative in Latin, and so as a result in Italian. Hence non, ne, nec, neque (see Forcellini), nihil, nil, nemo, nullus that is, non ullus, as is also said, nego, nefas, nequam, nepus that is, non purus, nolo, nequeo, nequicquam, nedum, nequaquam, etc., on which see Forcellini and observe the force and use of the particle ne in compounds. Not so in classical Greek, since οὐ, οὐχ, οὐκ, μὴ, ἀ, etc., don’t have an n. [2308] And yet it’s clear from the evidence given above, and from the usage of Homer, etc., that in ancient Greek the ν had the force of negation, privation, etc. Here we have further proof both of the ancient fraternity of the two languages and of a property that may have passed from Latin to Greek rather than vice versa, or proof certainly that Latin preserved its oldest and most primitive properties much more than Greek did. And note that in dealing with the property of negation, we are dealing with something absolutely primitive and of the earliest necessity in any language.)
Nihilum, therefore, is ne hilum, as nemo is ne homo, and see the citation of Varro in Forcellini under Nequam.
What this hilum, a very old Latin word, means the grammarians cannot confirm. “Putant esse,” says Festus, “quod [2309] grano fabae adhaeret” [“They think,” says Festus, “it’s what sticks to the seed of a bean”].1 So he doesn’t really know what it means, and it wasn’t known in his time. And that’s perfectly natural, when the meanings of so many words in Dante and other fourteenth- or thirteenth-century writers (closer to us than the origins of the Latin language were to Festus) are obscure or uncertain or lost.
I think that it has to mean matter, or thing that exists (which for primitive men could not be imagined except within the material; extend this thought). And I think that it’s precisely the ὕλη of the Greeks, or that very old hilh, or hulh, which we have mentioned [→Z 1277–83].
They would have it that nihil is a truncation of nihilum. To me, on the contrary, it seems that nihilum is a word adapted from nihil, so that it became capable of declension. What a barbaric truncation it would have been, and how contrary to Latin custom, to make nihil from primitive nihilum rather than the other way around, [2310] which is utterly natural. When a language mellows (especially languages of a southern flavor, a Latin flavor), endings are not cut off but, rather, added, which has the further advantage of making words that already exist declinable, that is, modifiable according to the various needs of the discourse, and not the contrary. Unquestionably, then, nihil does not come from nihilum, but the latter from the former. Nil likewise is said to be a contraction of nihil (which Lucretius often makes one syllable), but nilum for nil is found in Lucretius just once,1 and who knows if it’s correct, and not an error for disyllabic nihilum. Anyway, it is a given among the most foolish of etymologists that endings should not be counted, and it’s clear that the sole root of nihilum, i, o, etc., is nihil; of hilum, hil. And it is even more obvious in the case of the second, since from it we get nihil and nil, without the declinable ending.
Here we are, then, with this hil naked and plain in our hands, and if you pay attention [2311] to what has been said above, and have an inkling of philosophical spirit, you will see how natural and likely it is that since ne homo, that is, nemo, means no one, so ne hil, that is, nihil, originally meant no matter, that is, no thing (see p. 2309, middle, and my various thoughts [→Z 601–602, 1388–91, 1657–58] on the essential and supreme materiality of all primitive languages, and of all primitive human ideas, indeed, not just primitive but all the basic and fundamental ideas); or rather not matter, not thing—that is, in short, in both form and meaning, nothing. (So the Greeks οὐδὲν neque unum [not one], etc., non quidquam [not anything], μηδὲν, οὔτι, μήτι [nothing], etc.)
Doesn’t this etymology seem completely natural? Doesn’t it seem then very likely that the ancient and almost unknown hilum meant matter, and was the same root as ὕλη [wood, forest], and silva, also used in the sense of matter? Isn’t it clear that the um in hilum isn’t radical but declinable, etc., and that, consequently, the root is hil alone, especially since from hilum we have nihil and nil, which are unlikely words, [2312] and would be both strange and monstrous if they were an apocope, etc.? Haven’t we then, in fact, probably found in very ancient Latin the simple root of silva, of ὕλη, etc.?
Note that in this case it would be likely that the original and proper meaning of ὕλη, silva, etc., among the meanings they actually have, was matter.
I don’t know if it’s pertinent to observe that we say filo [scrap, trace] to mean nothing, a usage that might derive not from filum but from hilum, with the h changed to f, the opposite of the Spanish, who for filum say hilo. And recall what I said [→Z 1127] about the ancient property of the f, that is, of its being an aspirate. Anyway, see the Crusca, the Glossary, the French and Spanish, etc., dictionaries, and whether Forcellini has anything under filum. (30 Dec. 1821.)
The Greeks knew Latin literature almost the way the French today know foreign literatures (especially Italian), and have known them ever since their own language, literature, and customs were [2313] fully formed. The only difference is that produced by the difference in the times and in the commerce between nations, on account of which France certainly knows foreign literature better than Greece knew Latin. But I’m speaking relatively. And this isn’t the only resemblance (albeit extrinsic) that exists be
tween the French spirit, customs, literature and the Greek. (31 Dec. 1821.)
The grand plot of a dramatic action, the complexity of the subplots, etc., utterly distracts the mind of the listener or reader from consideration of the naturalness, truth, and power of the imitation, the dialogue, the passions, etc., and all those beauties of detail that constitute the value of every kind of poetry. Indeed, ordinarily it exempts the author from those beauties, exempts him from the observation and the effective and lively ἐκτύπωσις [representation] of characters, etc. As a result, the sole, [2314] or certainly principal, effect and affect and interest that a drama with a complex plot produces is curiosity, and this alone impels the listener to be interested and pay attention to what is represented, this alone finds nourishment, and this alone is satisfied by the dénouement. No other passion or interest is produced in him by such dramas, however hot and passionate the author intended them to be. Now, this is completely alien to the essence of the dramatic: it belongs to the essence of storytelling. The dramatic, as a vivid and virtually true representation of human affairs, should awaken an interest very different from that of curiosity, as stories can. In this case, the dramatic action is like that of a tale, the drama produces the same effect as a tale, and it doesn’t matter to the listener or reader whether the action happens before his eyes, or is communicated through speech, or whether the situation is simply recounted to him, as in a novel or an intriguing and complicated story. [2315] Hence the necessity and the value of a simple plot in every type of drama, but proportionately more so in dramas where the interest of the passion, and the emotion of the listener, have to be keener, as in tragedy, in which simplicity of action is more essential than it is in comedy. It is still necessary, proportionately, in the latter for the full development, perfect depiction, and prominence of the characters, who are entirely lost (however vivid they may be, however good the imitations) when curiosity about the plot absorbs all the interest and attention of the listener. In short, the listener should not be so interested in what happens, yearning for the unraveling of the plot, that he loses interest in the emotion, etc., that follows and continues and attaches to each part of the drama individually, and to the whole progress of the action equally. (31 Dec. 1821.) See p. 2326.
The human mind is always deceived in its hopes and always deceivable, always disappointed by hope itself and always capable [2316] of being so, not only open to but possessed by hope in the very act of ultimate desperation, the very act of suicide. Hope is like self-love, from which it is directly derived. Because of the essence and nature of the animal, neither hope nor self-love can ever desert him as long as he lives, that is, feels his existence. (31 Dec. 1821.)
Concerning what I said elsewhere [→Z 65] about the vir frugi of the Latins, which signified a man of gentlemanly manners, and properly meant merely useful, see Forcellini under Nequam, which signifies evil, and properly means worthless. Likewise under Nequitia [worthlessness], etc. (31 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2250, margin. Nihil, vehemens, etc., are often used by the poets as, respectively, a monosyllable and a disyllable, etc. See Forcellini. Likewise Nihilum where you must see the end of the entry in Forcellini. And as for making nihil nil, vehemens vemens (see Forcellini, Vehemens, end), making prendo out of prehendo, etc., a practice customary in good Latin writing, also in prose, what else does it mean except [2317] that although according to the rules of prosody those consecutive vowels should be considered an equal number of syllables, nonetheless in daily pronunciation they were either always or very often equivalent to a single syllable? Otherwise such contractions would have been extremely improper, and then how would they have come into general use, even among those who had no need of them (such as prose writers), as in the case of nil, used without distinction for nihil? And note that there is also an aspirate in the middle, which is like a consonant and today is pronounced as such. And nonetheless, the said vowels are considered to be a single syllable, and that is how they are pronounced. (Just as in our early poets, including, if I’m not mistaken, in Petrarch, noja, gioia, etc., were considered monosyllables, Pistoia a disyllable, etc., which shows how they were pronounced.)1 Similarly, mihi was contracted in writing, and especially among the poets, to mi. And it’s not apocope, as Forcellini says, but contraction, like nil, etc. What shall I say about eburnus for eburneus and many other, similar contractions of multiple vowels, as a result of which (authorized by use), [2318] it became in the end completely normal (in every type of writer) and in accord with the very rules of prosody to consider those vowels as forming a single syllable? Doesn’t this bear out what I am saying? The monosyllable queis, either written thus or contracted to quis, is not placed among the Latin diphthongs. See Forcellini and the Regia Parnassi. Not to mention Greek names, where those which in Greek are diphthongs become at the pleasure of the Latin poet sometimes disyllables, etc., and sometimes monosyllables, like Theseus, Orphea, the dative Orphei, etc. Not only names but all kinds of words. The terminal i of the nominative plural in the second declension, which is always long, must originally have been a diphthong, like the οι in the corresponding nominative plural of the third declension.
I leave aside the fact that the ablative singular of the first declension, from the beginning, and perhaps always in classical times, was pronounced (I believe, and see the grammarians) with a double a (musaa, or musâ), and yet that a was always considered a monosyllable. And that those ablatives were pronounced with the double a is, in my view, proved by considering that if it were not so, you would often find in the poets an ugly cacophony and consonance, when those ablatives converge with other words ending in a, which they very frequently do. I will leave aside the ancient writing of heic for hic, sapienteis, sermoneis, etc. etc., where the ei was always [2319] considered a monosyllable. I will also leave aside the fact that all, or nearly all, the contractions used in Latin, either at the writer’s discretion or by the rules, demonstrate the custom of pronouncing several vowels as a single syllable. E.g., Deum [of gods], virum [of men], for deorum, virorum, came from the custom of eliding the r, whence deoum, viroum, disyllables, and hence deum, virum, contracted genitives, a common form, especially among the ancients, that conforms more closely to the vernacular. See p. 2359, end.
But observing that, as a regular habit, since the contrary would have been irregular (as in Virgil’s “foemineo ululatu”),1 the Latin poets consistently elided the last vowel of a word followed by another word beginning with a vowel, and even, very often, from one line to the next (as in Horace: “animumque moresque / Aureos educit in astra, nigroque / Invidet Orco,”2 etc., and in Virgil, Georgics 2, 69: “Inseritur vero et foetu nucis arbutus horrida: / Et steriles platani,” etc. etc.); and not only vowels but also the syllables am, em, im, um; and likewise the vowels that those syllables elided when they followed a vowel and began with an aspirated vowel (as in Virgil, Georgics 3, 9: “Tollere humo”; see pp. 2316‒17); and not only a single vowel but also more than one, etc.—doesn’t all that plainly show that the nature of Latin pronunciation was to form a single syllable out of concurrent vowels? For that is the only meaning of elide them, not that they [2320] were not pronounced (that may have happened only to the m in such cases). Otherwise the Romans would not have written them but put an apostrophe in their place, as the Greeks did when they elided vowels in verse or in prose, and who when they didn’t replace them with an apostrophe never elided them. And the Romans themselves replaced with an apostrophe those vowels or consonants that they didn’t, in fact, pronounce, like ain’, Sisyphu’, confectu’, etc., or if they didn’t put an apostrophe they omitted the letters that they didn’t pronounce, exactly like the s in ain’ for ais ne, etc. etc.
Here is another proof that the Latin custom was to pronounce several vowels as a single syllable; and that the Latin v was originally a simple aspirate, and was slight (like the h); and that the first and third person singular perfect indicative of the first and fourth conjugations, etc., were disyllabic by nature, which
is precisely what we have to demonstrate; and that the ancient Latin preserved in Vulgar Latin resembles the modern daughters of Latin. Amaverunt [they loved], amaverat [he/she loved], etc. were often said [2321] amarunt, amarat, etc. Where did this normal contraction come from? Contractions do not arise, much less become common (you will find amarunt more often than amaverunt, etc.), without a reason having to do with pronunciation. In ancient times, people said amaerunt, amaerat, trisyllables, yet the ae was pronounced not as e but open. Then, with a euphonic aspiration, to avoid the hiatus people said amaϝerunt, etc. Hence amaverunt. But the common people continued to consider such words trisyllables and so, readily skipping a letter and preserving the word as a trisyllable, they said amarunt, amarat, etc. And they ignored the aspirate (that is, the v) just as when they said nil for nihil, etc. See above. That the common people customarily pronounced such words as contractions rather than open is demonstrated by our amarono, amaron, aimèrent. (And as for amarat see pp. 2221, end, ff.) The fact that this usage is common to all three daughter languages demonstrates a common origin, that is, Vulgar Latin. And, vice versa, the above considerations prove that so-called modern usage is of ancient origin, and characteristic of Vulgar Latin, as it was [2322] of writing, too, and had always been, from ancient times.
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