Meglio for più [more] you see in the Crusca, as a highly regarded Provençal idiom. “Adflictis melius confidere rebus” [“Put surer trust in his shattered fortunes”] says Virgil, Aeneid 1, 452. See Forcellini under Melior, and under confido, or Fido, and the interpreters of Virgil. (29 Jan. 1822.)
The Italians (I think the Spanish, too) say tra me, tra se, fra te, etc., for the Latin mecum, secum, etc., that is, in myself, in my thoughts, etc. See the Crusca. Here is the same phrase in Latin, and in an extremely refined writer, such as Virgil, Aeneid [2367] 1, 455, where inter se I think certainly has this meaning. See the interpreters. Forcellini under inter has neither this nor any similar example or meaning. See if he has anything under Se, Me, etc., and likewise the Appendix and the Glossary. (29 Jan. 1822.)
For p. 1132, toward the end. Likewise the monosyllabic root of gerere [to bear] is found in aliger, armiger, penniger [winged, armor-bearer, feathered], of ferre [to bear] in armifer, alifer (see Forcellini), mellifer, lethifer, umbrifer [arms-bearing, winged, honey-bearing, death-bringing, shady], etc. etc. etc. etc. etc., and similarly in a hundred others like them. (29 Jan. 1822.)
For p. 2267, margin. “Nate, patris summi qui tela Typhoea temnis” [“Son, who despise the highest father’s Typhoean weapons”] (Virgil, Aeneid 1, 665): oe dissyllable. See the interpreters, Forcellini, the Regia Parnassi. (29 Jan. 1822.)
On the subject of what I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 131–32] about the Priesthood, which among the ancients was not disconnected from the civil and military professions, etc. etc., and did not require any particular type of life, modesty, withdrawal, etc., see Virgil, Aeneid 2, 318ff., comparing it with 429‒30 and above all see ibid., line 201, and note how the priests were chosen by lot from among the citizens, magistrates, soldiers, etc., and not forever but for a particular period of time, or for a single occasion, etc. Not to mention the fact [2368] that private, etc., sacrifices, etc., were performed by the same person who offered up the victim, as Aeneas often does, and see in particular Aeneid 6, 249–54. Among the Greeks the priests were chosen for public ceremonies, feasts, sacrifices, etc., from among the patricians, and the wealthiest, who were able to spend, etc., and it was an onerous burden, like that of equipping a trireme, etc. At times it was hereditary in certain families, etc. See Xenophon in the Symposium, ch. 8, § 40. (29 Jan. 1822.)
It seems to me that you find tristis [sad] with the Italian meaning of cattivo [bad] in Aeneid 2, 548.1 See the interpreters, Forcellini, the Glossary, etc. (29 Jan. 1822.)
For p. 1154, margin, beginning. In the first conjugation, too, such contractions were made in the participles in us and in the supines, with the removal of the a of atus or atum, or it might be that the contracted participles or supines were first changed to the ending itus, like domitus, etc. E.g., partus (when it doesn’t come from pario) is a pure contraction of paratus [prepared], and not a metaphor, as Forcellini says. Which can be seen clearly in the examples that he cites, but even more clearly in this (which he omits) from Aeneid 2, l. 784 (see it), [2369] where parta means not comparata [provided], acquisita [acquired], Italian procacciata [gained], which is how Forcellini explains partus, but simply parata [prepared], since not only was it not yet acquired or gained but gaining it was to cost long and innumerable and great struggles and risks, as Virgil often says later, and of these struggles and risks he makes the entire subject of the Aeneid: which would have ended at that line if parta meant gained.1 (30 Jan. 1822.)
We say fare una cosa [to do something] di buona gana, that is, alacriter [eagerly, willingly]. In Spanish, gana means alacritas [liveliness, eagerness]. The Latin writers don’t have a word that it could have come from. And yet where do you think it originated? In the earliest sources of the two sister languages Latin and Greek. Γάνος in Greek means laetitia, gaudium, voluptas [joy, gladness, satisfaction]. See the Lexicon, with its derivatives. But how could this word, ours and the Spanish—extremely colloquial, indeed plebeian, in both languages, and not fit for elevated writing—possibly be derived from Greek? When, in the barbarian times in which those languages originated, people in Italy and Spain [2370] were scarcely aware that there was in the world a Greek language? How could that word not have come from, and by means of, Vulgar Latin?
That’s not enough. This root is not only among the oldest in the Greek language but among those which were considered antiquated even in the ancient period of Greek literature. See Xenophon’s Symposium, ch. 8, § 30, where he investigates the etymology of the name Ganymede and, to prove that the root of Γανυ means enjoyment, delight, etc., resorts to Homer. Thus it was already obsolete in Xenophon’s time, and surely it wasn’t colloquial, although it is also found in a few authors who are either contemporaneous with or later than him. This should not be surprising, because the imitation of Homer went on forever in Greek poetry, his words and his language were always considered appropriate for poetry, not to mention the fact that a poet can use old-fashioned words without censure for various reasons that authorize, even require him to do so. Now this word (and its derivatives) is found almost exclusively in the poets, and could be called poetic. Likewise among [2371] our writers, and especially poets, many words, etc., from Dante, otherwise obsolete, etc., endure, and from the passage in Xenophon we can see that the word was at that time in Greece what a so-called Dantesque word would be for us.
How in the world can this very old root, not recognized by the Latin writers, be alive today in two vernaculars derived from a sister language of Greek? So it did belong to the Latin language from its beginnings, that is, from the time when it had a common origin with Greek—not later, (1) because it had already become obsolete among the Greeks, and so the Roman people couldn’t have gotten it from them, which is unlikely anyway; how could they have gotten a poetic word from the Greeks? (2) because it’s not found among Latin writers, and it was they, not the common people, who, later especially, Hellenized Latin. So from that point on Vulgar Latin preserved it up to its most recent period, and it was left in the mouths of the modern Italian and Spanish people, where it remains. And so here is yet another proof that the Latin language clung more tenaciously to its remote antiquity than Greek, when this word, etc., was already obsolete in the time [2372] of Xenophon.
And in order that no doubt remain that our gana has the same root as the Greek γάνος, if the identity of the root letters is not enough, and the close identity of meaning, let us observe that ἐπιγάννυμαι means insult. The preposition ἐπὶ in compounds often corresponds to the Latin in (just as insilire or insultare in the sense of to leap on corresponds to ἐφάλλομαι). Now, whether our ingannare (Spanish engañar) [to deceive] derives from ingenium (see Du Fresne under ingenium, 1) or from gannare I won’t argue now. It’s certainly the case that gannare (whence gannum [jeering, derision], etc., which see in Du Fresne), a word known only in barbarian Latin times, meant to deride, etc., and observe that illudere [to delude] illusione [illusion], etc., which originally had the same meaning, later, especially among the French, unquestionably came to mean deceit, error, etc. See Forcellini and the Glossary. Gannare, therefore, comes from gana, and does so just as ἐπιγάννυσθαι [to insult] comes from γάνος, and with the same meaning. (I don’t know if ganar gagner [to win], etc., can have anything to do with the subject. See the Glossary, etc.)
So here you see that these two words, one barbarian Latin, that is, gannare, the other living colloquial Italian [2373] and Spanish—neither of which you would think was ancient, and from the best period, and whose etymology you would have a hard time figuring out—not only are not modern, not only do not originate in barbarian times, but are identical with an old root that is found in ancient Greek; that, already obsolete in classical Greek, could not pass into Latin, and hence could come to us and our common people only during the time when Latin arose from the same origin as Greek; and that, lost in written Latin, was forever preserved in Vulgar Latin. As a result, our plebeians today commonly use a root that
was poetic, and therefore separated from the ordinary run of people since the time of the oldest secular writer known, that is, Homer. So great is the tenacity of the people, and so many things and words thought to be modern are so ancient, that therefore precisely their extreme antiquity, in fact, hides their origin and the use they formerly had. And hence you can argue [2374] that many barbarian Latin or Italian, French, or Spanish words, phrases, etc., whose origins we know nothing about, and which are believed to be modern or late, because they are found only in modern or late times and monuments, should be regarded as belonging to the most ancient source of both our vernaculars and barbarian Latin, that is, ancient Latin, and hence Vulgar Latin, which is the sole means of communication between our vernaculars and the ancient source, even though in the case of these words and phrases it cannot be demonstrated, precisely because of their great antiquity, which, while it preserved them in Greek or Latin vernaculars, excluded them from writing. As we ourselves see many very old Italian words that are alive among the common people in various parts of Italy but are no longer acceptable in writing. (31 Jan. 1822.)
For p. 2328, end. (Likewise Alamanni, Coltivazione, bk. 6, ll. 416‒17: “O se l’ingorde folaghe intra loro / Sopra il secco sentier vagando stanno” [“Or if the greedy coots are wandering together on the dry path”])1 And it’s right, because the verb essere [to be] is by its nature in all languages applicable to any [2375] thing, quality, action, etc. Now, the verb stare [to be] is essentially and originally a continuative of essere (in Latin, in Italian, in Spanish), and shares its nature, and is useful whenever one has to indicate continuation or duration of whatever thing is. Observe the Latins, observe Virgil, and you will see that wherever they combine the verb stare with noun adjectives, or with participles of other verbs, that verb signifies not so much stare in piedi [to stand], etc., as the continuation or duration of what is signified by the nouns or participles. “Talia perstabat memorans” [“He continued to remember those things”] (Aeneid 2, l. 650), “Stabant orantes” [“They went on pleading”], etc. (Aeneid 6, 313). I also recall other places in Virgil where what I say is even more obvious, and the verb stare is used more definitely the way we and the Spanish use it with gerunds. See the interpreters and Forcellini. (31 Jan. 1822.)
For p. 980, margin. Those nouns passed into Italian with endings in chia or chio, into Spanish in ja or jo, into French in eille or eil, or ouille, etc., because they were originally pronounced clus (oclus, etc.), rather than culus (likewise from avunculus [2376] oncle [uncle]). Since we almost always changed cl to chi, as with claudere or cludere (see p. 2283), clericus, clavis, clavus, etc. Likewise gulus or gula first became glus, then ghio, etc. Unghia, etc. (French ongLE) [fingernail]. Likewise stipula [stubble] was first said stipla, then stoppia, etc. See the Glossary, etc. Likewise the Latins themselves, especially the poets, customarily contracted such words, like periclum [danger], etc., maniplum [maniple] (Virgil, Georgics 3, 297), etc. (31 Jan. 1822.)
It’s a particularly Italian custom to elide and remove the c from Latin words, especially, for example, before t. Now, in many words the ancients, too, and the best writers and monuments oftentimes do the same, saying, e.g., artus for arctus [tight] (where the c is radical, because arctus was originally arcitus, participle of arcere), etc., see p. 1144 if you want (in Heyne’s Virgil you always find artus, never arctus).1 Autor for auctor, autoritas [author, authority], etc. See Cellarius, Forcellini, Manutius’s Orthography, etc.2 And countless examples of this can be found in ancient inscriptions, medals, etc., such as Atium or Atius or Atia for Actium, etc. etc. This practice, whether it’s good or bad according to the norms of [2377] Latin, and with correct spelling (certainly in many cases it must be bad, because this way of writing, while frequent in the inscriptions and medals already mentioned, in the oldest codexes, etc., is inconsistent), serves to demonstrate that the practice, later adopted by colloquial Italian, and finally imparted as the rule to the best writers (who in the early centuries of our language frequently used Latin spelling in this and similar cases), was very old in both colloquial and noncolloquial pronunciation, since it typically produced so many mistakes in writing among scribes, stone carvers, etc. This consideration should be generalized and applied to all those cases (and they are many) in which (with respect to spelling or anything else) ancient monuments and codexes, etc., are typically, and with decided frequency, littered with errors that are the equivalent, or nearly so, of the pronunciation or practice, whatever it may be, of the Italian language or its sisters, etc. (1 Feb. 1822.)
[2378] Memory does not yield recollection or become active without attention. Choose at random one or two or three lines of anyone you like, and read them one time only in such a way that you can keep them in your memory firmly enough to repeat them to yourself immediately, which is very easy at the moment they are read: and repeat them to yourself ten or fifteen times, but mechanically, the way one performs an ordinary action, without thinking about it and without giving it the slightest attention. An hour later you will not remember them, even if you make every effort to recall them. On the contrary, read them only once or twice with attention, and with the intention of learning them, or impressing them in your mind, or let’s suppose that by themselves they have made a strong impression, and your mind is inspired because of that to pay attention, even without any intention of learning them. You don’t even repeat them to yourself, or, if you do, you repeat them only once or twice attentively. Several hours later they will return to your mind, even spontaneously and especially if you want them to, and then if you pay attention to them again, in such a way that the memory [2379] is not purely mechanical, then you will remember them for even more time over a given period. I say all this from experience, finding that I have often forgotten some verses that, in order to remember, I had repeated to myself twenty times mechanically, and have retained others that I repeated only once or twice, with determined attention to the parts, etc. And the same goes for other things, etc. And who knows if these or similar observations were not the basis of the art of memory that was taught and practiced by the ancients, like every other discipline, as is testified by many sources: among others, by Xenophon in the Symposium, ch. 4, § 62.1
To add. Each of us has some routine of living, something that we are used to doing every day, or every so many days, at such and such a time, in such and such a place, occasion, etc. But if this thing or action has become for us (as in any individual many things necessarily do) so habitual that we do it mechanically, paying no, or almost no [2380] attention, very often it will happen that, even shortly afterward, we don’t remember if we have done it or not, especially if there is no circumstance, either particular or ordinary, but present, etc. etc., that at that moment helps our memory (this can be done by thinking back, from moment to moment, to the other activities of that time, the circumstances, the consequences, the antecedents, or by trying to go back from the most recent to the farthest, etc.), in which case there is probably no way that we will be able to remember, and the man with the best memory in the world will be in the very same situation. Generally, we have either no memory or a very faint one of acts said to be of man,1 an infinite number of which each of us performs daily and continually, and, even if we want to, we don’t remember a single one unless some particular impression helps us, etc. Not only the latter but also the former, which, although they are neither properly nor totally of man, are nevertheless performed with little reflection or attention, and are given little or no importance; with this type of action, after a few moments we don’t remember, or scarcely remember, how, when, why, if we have done it. And generally, our memory is always in direct proportion to the attention given not to remembering but to the subject of the memory. (1 Feb. 1822.)
[2381] Girls of 15 or a little older who haven’t yet begun to live, and don’t know what life is, are shut up in a cloister, practice a way, a system of life whose sole direct and immediate purpose is to obstruct life.1 And that is what is achieved, with every
possible means. Strict seclusion, windows placed in such a way that the person can’t be seen, at the cost of losing air and light—the substances that are most vital for man, and also useful and necessary for the comfort of his daily actions, and which all nature enjoys freely, all the animals, the plants, the rocks. Mortification, loss of sleep, fasting, silence: all of these, in combination, are harmful to health, that is, to well-being, that is, to the perfection of existence, that is, they are contrary to life. Besides utterly excluding activity they exclude life, since motion and activity are what distinguish the living from the dead. Life consists in action, whereas the immediate purpose of the monastic, anchoritic, etc., life is inaction, and to keep oneself from doing, to prevent doing. So that the nun and the monk [2382] when they make their profession say precisely this: “I have not yet lived, unhappiness has not wearied me or discouraged me from living. Nature calls me to live, as it does all created or possible beings—not only my nature but the general nature of things, the absolute idea and shape of existence. I, however, knowing that life places me in great danger of sinning, and is consequently very dangerous in itself, and hence in itself bad (this conclusion must follow), am resolved not to live, to act so that what nature has done is not done—that is, so that the existence it has given me becomes useless, and is rendered (as far as possible) nonexistence. If I were not living, or had not been born, it would be better in terms of this present life, because I would not be in danger of sinning, and so would be free from this absolute evil. Likewise, if I could be murdered it would be better, and would lead to the same end. But since I could not help being born, and my law commands me to flee life, and at the same time forbids me to end it, placing voluntary death among the sins that make life [2383] dangerous, the only thing left (among so many contradictions) is to choose the alternative within my power, and the only one fitting for the wise, that is, to avoid life as much as I can. By existing, in short, to cancel out existence as far as possible, depriving it not only of what characterizes it and distinguishes it from its opposite but, especially, of activity, which on the one hand is the first purpose and character and duty and use of existence, and, on the other, is what is most dangerous in it with regard to sinning. And if by doing that I injure my well-being, and shorten my existence, it doesn’t matter. Because the purpose of existence must be solely to flee itself as dangerous, and being is never so good as when, in every and in the greatest possible way, it is far from the danger of sinning, that is, far from the being and the doing that is the task of existence.”1
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