Since the living being loves life more than almost anything, it’s not surprising that he hates boredom more than almost anything, the opposite of life that is alive (as Cicero says in Laelius).1 And if he does not always hate it more than anything, it is because he does not always love life more than anything, e.g., when extreme physical pain makes him also naturally desire death, and prefer it to that pain. That is [2434] to say, when self-love finds itself more strongly opposed to life than to death. And that is the only reason that he prefers boredom to pain, that is, because he prefers even death, unless he hopes to free himself from pain, and the desire for life is thus maintained purely by hope.
Besides, hatred of boredom is one of the numerous effects of love of life (an essential and fundamental passion in the living being) that I have discussed in several of these thoughts [→Z 1988–90, 2017–18, 2415]. And man hates boredom for the same reason that he hates death, that is, nonexistence. And this very hatred of boredom is the father of many other, different effects, and the source of many other, various passions or mutations of them, all of them essentially deriving from that hatred, which I’ve discussed in several places [→Z 2, 89–90, 188–89, 239, 2219–21]. (8 May 1822.)
It has been often noted that the ancient passions were incomparably stronger than the modern, and their effects more clamorous, more prominent, more material, [2435] more violent, and that, therefore, it is appropriate to use much bolder colors and lines to express them than in the case of modern passions. But I believe that an important distinction has to be made between the various passions, precisely in regard to their comparative strength among the ancients and the moderns, and including them all under two general headings, I feel sure (as everyone does) that suffering in ancient times was far more intense, more active, more openly expressed, more agitated and terrible (although perhaps for the same reasons briefer) than in modern times.1 As for joy, though, I would doubt it, and would believe that, at least in many cases, it might be more furious and violent among the moderns than among the ancients, simply because today it is rarer and of briefer duration than ever, exactly as suffering was in ancient times. This observation could perhaps be useful to dramatists, painters, and other imitators of the passions. It is true that in the child both joy and suffering are [2436] more violent, and likewise, for the same reason, briefer than in the adult. And it’s also true that mental habit leads the moderns to contain within themselves any vigorous impression or affection, and to turn it inward on the spirit entirely, or almost entirely, without letting it spill over and operate outside. Nevertheless I believe that the above observation can be of some importance, especially with regard to people who are not very, or not entirely, cultivated and disciplined, either in civilized life or in education and knowledge of things and of man, and with regard to those who have not been sufficiently taught by experience and by habit of life, society, and human situations to conform to the general, or habituated to that apathy and indifference to oneself and everything else that characterizes our century. (9 May 1822.)
The world, or human society in the state of egoism (that is, of that mutation of self-love called by that name) in which it exists at present, can be compared to the system [2437] of the air, whose columns (as physicists call them) press against one another, each at full force, and in all directions. But since the forces are equal, and the use of them is equal in each column, equilibrium results, and the system is maintained by means of a law that seems destructive, that is, a law of mutual enmity continuously practiced by each column against all, and by all against each.1
The system of present-day society operates just like that, where each individual man—not (as among the ancients) each society or body or nation—continuously presses as hard as he can against his neighbors, and, by means of that, those farther away on all sides, and is pressed back by those near and far as hard as they can, in the same way.
The result of this is an equilibrium produced by a destructive quality, that is, by the hatred and envy and hostility of each man toward all and toward each, and by the constant exercise of those passions (that is, [2438] in short, of pure self-love) to the detriment of others.1
This explains a kind of phenomenon. The state of pure egoism, and hence of pure hatred toward others (which is an essential consequence), is the natural state of man. But that’s not surprising, for it can be explained, and has of necessity to be explained, by denying that man’s alleged natural destination is the tight-knit social state (that is, unlike what most of the animals have with one another, especially the most alert). The above-mentioned qualities, natural and absolutely typical of man, are by their nature incompatible with that state (as one can see also in the child, etc.). The surprise is that, with man having returned to the natural state in this respect (through the annihilation of old opinions and illusions, the fruit of early societies and the mutual relations that men had established), society does not reach the point of utterly destroying itself, and can endure with these principles, which are destructive [2439] by their nature. The phenomenon is explained by the above comparison. And this equilibrium (which is certainly artificial, not natural)—that is, this equal and universal attack and resistance—maintains human society, almost in spite of itself, and against the intention and action of each of the individuals who compose it, and all of whom, explicitly or implicitly, always aim at destroying it.
From the above comparison we can also draw a moral corollary. If a column of air becomes rarefied, or presses less than the others, offering by some chance less resistance, each of the neighboring columns, and each of the farther ones pushing against the neighboring ones, without an instant’s pause, hurry to occupy its place, and as soon as its resistance has diminished sufficiently its place is taken. Likewise the pneumatic bell would break into tiny pieces and the air it contained would lack sufficient resistance, if this were not prevented by the configuration [2440] of the bell. The very same happens among men, whenever the resistance and reaction of someone fails or diminishes, whether through weakness, through inadvertence, through will or inexperience. And therefore beginners in life should be warned, that if they intend to live, and not see their place taken immediately, and not be torn to pieces or crushed, they must arm themselves with as large a dose of egoism as possible, so that their reaction, as much as they are able, is either greater than or at least equal to the action of others against them.1 Like it or not, believe it or not, they will have to sustain this unfailingly, and from all, whether friend or enemy in name, and as much as it is within the power of each to do so. Because if giving in unavoidably, that is, because of one’s own powerlessness (of whatever kind it is), is miserable, yielding voluntarily, that is, through lack of sufficient egoism in this system of general pressure, is ridiculous and foolish, the result of inexperience or carelessness. And [2441] it can be truly said that the sacrifice of oneself (in whatever kind or part), which in all other times was magnanimity, indeed the highest work of magnanimity, in these is cowardice, and lack of courage or activity, that is, laziness, and ineptitude, or stupidity of mind: not only in the opinion of men but truly and rightly judged, owing to the order and the actual nature proper to present society. (10 May 1822.) See p. 2653.
Never is someone so willingly named, or heard named, as the person who has a recognized defect, either physical or moral, and is called by the name of the defect. So-and-so the deaf fellow, the cripple, the hunchback, the madman. Indeed, these people are ordinarily called only by these names, or if we call them by their name when they are not present it’s very rare that the other name isn’t added. In calling them or hearing them called thus, men seem to themselves to be superior, they enjoy the image of the defect, they feel and in a certain sense remind themselves about their own superiority, self-love is flattered and gratified by it. Add man’s eternal and natural hatred toward man which feeds on [2442] and delights in these shameful epithets, also when they are directed toward friends or people who do not matter to him. And these natural causes g
ive rise to the fact that the man with a defect, as named above, almost changes his name to that of his defect, and the others who give him the same name, in their heart of hearts intend and aim without thinking about it to remove him from the number of their fellow men, or place him below their species, a tendency that is proper (and as far as society is concerned, first and foremost) to every social individual. I happened to see someone with a defect, a man of the common people, talking and joking with people about his condition, and they were calling him only by the name of his defect, so that I was never able to hear his own name. And if I have any knowledge of the human heart, believe me, I understood clearly that each of them, every time he called that man contemptuously by that name, felt an inner joy, and a spiteful satisfaction in his own superiority to that fellow creature, and not so much because he was free of that defect as because, being free of it, he could see it and mock it and reproach it in that creature. And, no matter how frequent that epithet was in their mouths, I felt, I knew, that it never came to their lips without an external echo of that internal sense of judgment, of triumph, and of enjoyment.1 (13 May 1822.)
Juvare [to help] with the dative, a case commonly used with our giovare [to help, to be useful], is very rare in the Latin writers, see it in Plautus, in Forcellini. (21 May 1822.)
I’ve spoken elsewhere of the great uncertainty and the many exchanges that are found in Latin usage regarding the tenses of the optative or subjunctive, sometimes exchanged with one another, sometimes substituted for those of the indicative, and I have shown [→Z 2221–24, 2348–49] how these uses, which are considered purely elegant locutions of the Latin writers, were also common in the vernacular, and are preserved in the languages derived not from elegant but from Vulgar Latin. On this subject we might note the Latin present optative used often and elegantly in place of the imperfect optative, and in a certain way also instead of the future indicative, as in Horace, Satire 1, l. 19, bk. 1, nolint for nollent, or nolent; [2443] ode 3, 1l. 66 and 68, bk. 3, pereat, ploret, for periret, ploraret, or peribit, plorabit. And especially (as precisely in the two places cited) if the conditional si or some such precedes, either expressed or understood, in which particular case I have noted elsewhere that variety, and the figurative use of the optative, and its different tenses. And see, among other thoughts relative to this, pp. 2221, end, and 2257. (24 May 1822.)
I’ve noted elsewhere [→Z 741ff., 805ff., 1076–77] that the habit of making new compounds, and of thus fulfilling the need to express new ideas, or new parts of ideas (which is the same, according to the observations of modern ideology),1 was very common in the ancient languages, and in the modern ones at the beginning, and was then almost forgotten, although it is extremely useful. The following reasons, among others, can be given for this.
(1) That all languages are necessarily bolder in the beginning than as they advance, and ancient languages respectively bolder than modern. Now, these compounds require a certain boldness, especially when great use is made of them, and this faculty is applied to almost all the new needs of the language.
(2) That in the ancient languages the need to use compounds was much, much [2444] greater than in the modern, because they had a much smaller number of original words. Roots, as I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 806–807], and given reasons for, are always very scarce in a nascent language. Hence the desperate need for compounds, as the number of things to express increases, along with the desire to perfect their expression, and make finer distinctions, and as men gradually arrive at the point of detaching one idea from another and subdividing them (which is exactly the progress of the human mind), and moreover become skillful with new words. And in fact you can see that, when the growth and perfecting of any ancient language had reached a certain level, it was always the companion, or even the effect, of the practice of composing several words for one, thus enriching the language, in which practice, and in that of derivatives (about which I mean to argue here as well) the Greeks and Latins were past masters.
But since modern languages derive from languages that are already perfected and cultured, we no longer notice a paucity of roots, since the infinite number of words [2445] that, e.g., in Latin, are obviously compounds or derived from others, and have remained in use, e.g., in Italian, have for us become roots, or in some way simple and independent. And in Italian, however obvious and close their provenance and dependence may be to us, they still do duty as, and have, relative to our language, the true nature of, roots (1) either because the elements they are composed of, though separate, have no meaning in Italian, which they did in Latin, or even when one of them has some meaning by itself the other, or others, do not; (2) or because they have been corrupted and distorted in such a way that the form of their elements is completely lost, even when those elements still exist by themselves in Italian; (3) or because they are derivatives in Latin, and the Latin words from which they derive do not exist in Italian; (4) or because, even if those words exist, the practice of deriving other words from them by those Latin methods no longer exists, and so the originals and the derivatives, which they are in Latin, in our language are independent of one another and, with respect to our language, have no relation (maybe not even in meaning, because of the usual alterations), [2446] but in Italian both should be recognized equally as roots.
The result of all these things was that, having a great abundance of roots, we suspended, then abandoned, and finally almost forgot the practice of forming derivatives and, mainly, compounds to make new words, and so made it very difficult for those who want to revive it. This practice, although not as widespread as in Greek and Latin, was still common among the early Italian writers, because the language was still poor in roots, as is the case with all languages at the beginning, and hence it necessarily had recourse to this means, which all languages resort to as they perfect themselves. But then when the language had enriched itself by this means, and had likewise been augmented by an infinite number of Latin words, which, as I said, for us became so many roots, the practice of forming derivatives and compounds was forgotten, as customarily happens in other languages for similar reasons. For example, it happened in the Latin language when Latin, tremendously enriched by Greek words, which in it became roots, had a huge increase in the number of its roots, and the practice of composing or deriving new words from already existing words, to fulfill the new needs, was forgotten or diminished, as [2447] I’ve pointed out in this connection elsewhere [→Z 740ff.].
Nor did the Latin language for that reason become more powerful than it had been before, and likewise the Italian language. Roots, no matter how numerous they may be, are always insufficient to the need, since ideas are infinite, and the memory and faculties of men are limited and so are incapable of retaining as many words as there are ideas and parts of ideas and their variations, if these words are completely different and dissimilar and independent of one another, as would happen if they were all roots. And so man is incapable of having and using a language that, composed solely of roots, has as many words as there are things to be expressed. Forming compounds and derivatives is the simplest and truest means, reducing an infinite number of words into a few elements, as I have explained elsewhere [→Z 1128ff.], comparing this means to our writing, and a language made up entirely of roots to Chinese writing.
Hence since roots can never be sufficient, and we have abandoned the practice of deriving new words and forming compounds from already existing words, we see in fact that though our language has a much greater number of [2448] roots, it is infinitely less rich and powerful, and less exact in and suitable to the expression of slight variations in ideas, than Latin and Greek were with many fewer roots.
The conclusion is that it is necessary at all costs, and in spite of any difficulty, to resume the practice of explaining new ideas by forming compounds, derivatives, and new words from the roots of our own language. This, by the nature of things (that everything operates through the modification of elements, and not through the addition of con
stantly new elements, through modification or compounds, and not through multiplication), is the only, correct, and absolute method of making a language sufficient and equal to any number of ideas, and to any new ideas, and making it such not haphazardly but through its own essence, and not for a few moments, as, e.g., French may be now, but forever, as long as it preserves its character. And this can be manifestly seen in the Greek language, which from ancient times until today has been, and is, eternally capable of all new ideas, [2449] whether they are ancient or modern, and however different they may be from those which were current when the Greek language was in flower. And I think German is similar to it in that. It should take care to remain that way.
All languages are like that at the beginning. But as a language is perfected, and moreover becomes civilized, and has dealings with foreign languages and literatures and nations, and so is enriched by foreign words that for it become roots, it dismisses the practice of forming compounds, etc., and for a short while it fulfills its needs with borrowed roots. But shortly thereafter either it becomes an Augean stable,1 by dint of foreign words whose number is infinitely multiplied, or, wanting to keep itself pure, it can no longer speak, because it has let go the only instrument it had to provide for new ideas while keeping itself pure, that is, the cultivation and fructification of its own roots. And maybe that’s why the Greeks always preserved this faculty, for they took little from foreigners, either because they didn’t want to take anything, thanks to their well-known national pride, or because in fact they were not around other literate and [2450] civilized nations from which they could take anything, although they had commerce with many. But the literature, the sciences, and the civilization of the Greeks, from the time we have knowledge of them onward, were always purely Greek.
And so something happened that can be easily observed: that is, that the Greek language, to keep itself pure, became and remained (and still is) the most powerful and rich and capable of all the Western languages. For the sole reason that, limiting itself to itself alone, it never stopped being fruitful and multiplying its own capital. And, vice versa, by becoming so powerful, it remained pure for a longer time than any other (even after it had dealings with a nation like the Roman that was civilized and its mistress). For it did not need foreign words or idioms to express anything it had to express, and since the Greeks had at hand their own capital, easy and ready and spendable, they didn’t care about that of others, which would have been more difficult for them to use, and less serviceable than theirs. The opposite of what happens to us, because we have neglected to make our beautiful and vast capital bear fruit, which, although it is vast (apart from the fact that most of it is unknown to us), is not sufficient, [2451] and never can be sufficient, for the constant and always new needs of speaking society, unless we make it bear fruit, as its character and nature not only generously allow but support and want. (30 May 1822.) See p. 2455.
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