Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  All the above observations, and especially those on pp. 2512, end‒13 should be applied to the theory of grace as deriving from what is outside of the customary.1 The reasons for the elegance of words or idioms are eternal, and eternally the same. But no word or phrase, etc., in any language is elegant forever, [2522] no matter how elegant it is or once was, or, vice versa, trite, etc.: not even if the same nature, genius, spirit, character, form, etc., of that language endures. And not only no word or expression but no type or class of words or expressions.

  Often a word is inelegant or (if it’s a matter of verse) unpoetic in one meaning and elegant and poetic in another, because in the former it is common, in the latter not, or infrequently used. So someone who said varii in poetry meaning diversi, parecchi [various, several] would not sin against good language, as there are many examples of it, and among others Tasso (“Discorso sopra vari accidenti della sua vita”), but he would not be very elegant, since this meaning of the word is very common and familiar. But one who said, like Petrarch, “varie di lingue e d’armi e de le gonne” [“varied in language, weapons, and dress”], or like Virgil “Mille trahit varios adverso sole colores” [“She trails across the sun a thousand varied colors”], would be very close to elegance, for the opposite [2523] reason.1 And note that I am not talking just about metaphoric meanings, which can make a very ordinary word poetic, and also unpoetic. I’m also talking about proper meanings, as the example shows, or nearly proper ones. And I would say the same about phrases, etc., that I say about words. (29 June, Feast of St. Peter, my birthday, 1822.)

  Ovid describes, Virgil paints, Dante (and so, relatively, in prose our Bartoli),2 to speak plainly, not only paints like a master with two flourishes and produces a figure with a brushstroke, not only paints without describing (as Virgil does, and Homer), but carves and sculpts his own ideas, concepts, images, feelings before the reader’s eyes. (29 June, Feast of St. Peter, 1822.)

  The youth who is instructed by books or by men and speeches before his own experience not only deludes himself, always and inevitably, into thinking [2524] that the world and life for him must be composed of exceptions to the rule, that is, that life must be made up of happiness and pleasures, the world made up of virtues, feelings, passion; but convinces himself more fundamentally—if implicitly and without his confessing it even to himself—that what is said and preached to him, that is, unhappiness, the misfortunes of life, of virtue,1 of sensibility, the vices, the wickedness, the coldness, the egoism of men, their heedlessness of others, the hatred and envy of other people’s worth and virtues, disdain for great passions and keen, noble, tender, etc., feelings, are all exceptions, and special cases, and that just the opposite, that is, that idea which he forms of life and men naturally, and independently of instruction, and which forms his own character, and is the object of his inclinations and desires, and hopes, the work and nourishment of his imagination, is the rule. (29 June, Feast of St. Peter, 1822.)

  [2525] For p. 2516, margin, end—and he (Caro) always wrote in the language of his century, not of the fourteenth century, and of his nation, not of Florence alone. Now, see the example of Caro, not a Florentine, how beautiful and graceful this sixteenth-century national language was, which at the time was despised, and of which Salviati said you should forget it and wash out your ears1—exactly what they tell us today about our modern language. Certainly no Florentine of the fourteenth or the 16th or any other century ever wrote so beautifully and perfectly as Caro, from a little town in the Marche, did, in both his studied writings and those which were not, the true summit of Italian prose, who even today, read or well imitated, is fresh and without the slightest affectation, as if he were writing now. And note that Caro, in everything he wrote, had little time to ponder, leaving aside the letters, familiar letters, which he wrote in fact reluctantly, as he often [2526] says, and says yet again: “And as for my private” (letters) “I wrote very few that I sat and thought about” (that is, with care), “and of very few did I keep a copy” (letter 180, vol. 2, to Varchi).1 From which it’s clear that that style and that language were natural to him, belonging to him and not others, that is, typical of his century and his nation, although modified by him according to his taste, although he professes himself much obligated to Florence for his language, writing to the Florentine Salviati (last letter, that is, 265, end, vol. 2).2 Also see what he says about the lack of care and attention with which he translated the Aeneid, Aristotle’s Rhetoric, the Orations of Nazianzus.3 These are all works that, like the familiar letters (and perhaps these even more than the Rhetoric and the Orations), to us nevertheless seem to have an exquisite and inimitable elegance. (29 June, feast of St. Peter, 1822.)

  “Τοὺς δὲ” (χώρους) “μὴ ἔχοντας ἐπίδοσιν” (agros qui incrementum nullum haberent, that is, so well cultivated when they are bought that they [2527] cannot be improved) “οὐδὲ ἡδονὰς ὁμοίας ἐνόμιζɛ παρέχɛιν· ἀλλὰ πᾶν χτῆμα καὶ θρέμμα τὸ ἐπὶ τὸ βέλτιον ἰὸν, τοῦτο καὶ ɛὐφραίνɛιν μάλιστα ᾤɛτο” [“He thought that fields without a margin for improvement do not offer equal satisfactions; whereas every possession or animal that improves delights us very much”]. Ischomachus says this of his father, who did not want to buy lands that were well cultivated but only those neglected by the owner, and says it to Socrates in Xenophon, On the management of the house, ch. 20, § 23.1 Thus all human pleasure consists in the hope and expectation of the best. When it is possessed it is not pleasure, and a condition that cannot be improved, although excellent and much desired in itself, is always deeply unhappy, as was that, more or less, of Augustus, who had become master of the world, and was, as he says, discontent.2 (29 June 1822.)

  I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 1632] about what people generally say about every proposition having two aspects, and have deduced from this that every truth is relative. Note that every proposition, every theorem, every object of speculation, every thing has not only [2528] two but an infinite number of aspects, under each of which it can be considered, contemplated, demonstrated, and believed reasonably and truthfully. And in that it can be said to have two, so of every proposition one can argue for and against, demonstrate that it is true and false, and uphold that proposition and likewise its opposite. And every proposition and truth exists and does not exist in terms of our intellect, and also in itself.1 And of every thing one can say this or that, and likewise deny it. Which most vividly and directly demonstrates that absolute truth does not exist. (29 June 1822, Feast of St. Peter and my birthday).

  For p. 2496, end. As long as we attach importance to pleasures, and our own advantages, and as long as we value the use, the fruit, the result of our own life as something, and are jealous of it, we never feel any pleasure. We should despise pleasures, count our own advantages, and those of youth, and our self, as nothing, as a thing of no moment, and unworthy of regard or care, consider [2529] our own life, youth, etc., as already lost, or desperate, or useless, as capital from which we can no longer get any appreciable profit, as already condemned either to suffering or to nothingness. And risk all these things as trifles, thoughtlessly, and without ever being seized by indecision even in the most important dealings, not even those which completely determine our life, or a great part of it. Only in this way can we enjoy anything. It is necessary to live ɛἰκῇ, temere [rashly, recklessly], a l’hasard,1 by chance. (30 June 1822.) See p. 2555.

  For p. 2521. The conclusion and summation of the argument is that in any time and in any literature a language different from the nation’s everyday speech, however good, useful, and beautiful that may be, is pleasing, and writing that consists of the words and idioms ordinary at that time and in effect current [2530] in the nation is never considered elegant, however pure these are. And this (although there are also others) is one of the principal reasons that the present language of our nation does not please, and is criticized and censured and se
ems inelegant in writings, and we call on our early language. Reasonable, although recalling it as pure is not very reasonable, because it wasn’t pure, nor is purity a necessary virtue of the essence of writing well, and frequently isn’t possible, and in the end is a name rather than a thing, since this purity can never be defined, nor can the purity of an individual language ever be precisely found, in fact it never existed, because all languages are made up of words, idioms, etc., taken, more or less from the start, from many and various other languages. And since so-called purity [2531] cannot even be circumscribed within the terms of national use, because if that were the case all nations in all eras would speak purely and all writers, following the language of their time, would write purely, especially if they conformed to speech, and the opposite of purity, that is, impurity, would not exist, because no language in any era would ever be impure, even if it consisted completely, from top to bottom, of barbarisms. So that the fact remains that we understand as the exact synonym of pure language the early language of a nation, that is, the language that consists for the most part of words and expressions coming from the outside, and that was spoken and written by the ancients. And in particular the language that was contemporaneous with the best national literature and culture, and in short was the result not of the rough outline (which the Italian language got from the 14th-century writers) but of the refinement given to the national [2532] language, and especially the written language, by the writers and men of letters at the time when the national literature and culture most fully and precisely flourished, which for us was the 16th century.

  To bring back this language, which is not, properly speaking, pure but early, and to bring it back, I repeat, into the literature not because it is pure but because it is early, is, as I have said, reasonable, and sanctioned by the example of other nations, ancient and modern. And it is reasonable both because of its intrinsic values, independent of circumstances, and the truly absolute, independent poverty and ugliness of our modern language, and because of what I have concluded from the preceding argument, that is, that an everyday national language, spoken in the present, can never seem elegant in writing, even when, in itself, it is excellent and beautiful.

  The objection will be made to this last statement, and to my preceding argument, that the [2533] classic writers of the 16th century had great fame and honor, and were popular even in their own time and even when they wrote precisely in the everyday, spoken national language of that time. I reply.

  (1) At that time the writers of the 16th century were more famous as versifiers, and especially as lyric poets, and everybody knows that they were servile imitators of Petrarch, and hence of the 14th century, and one can see in Caro’s Apologia the miserable claim that they made to write like Petrarch, and that they weren’t to use words or expressions not used by him, as in prose, too, they wished to restrict the language just to Boccaccio’s, and we’re still in the same place. Certainly—and for anyone familiar with the spirit that governed our literary republic in the 16th century there is no need for many words to prove it—the summit of literature, to which the lowest nonetheless aspired [2534] as well as the highest, was the Petrarchan lyric, that is, in the style of the 14th century, and not of the 16th. And the greatest writers in every genre, whether prose or poetry, became famous principally for their Petrarchan sonnets and poems, which spread in a flash throughout Italy, were immediately transcribed, were sought after, were the entertainment of Ladies, and they asked writers for them, and the writers asked one another for them and received and returned them with suggestions and responses, etc. And without these verses it was difficult to gain a reputation as a writer. Observe—in order to stay with the example I’ve often cited—Caro, whose rhymes are his only works that are no longer read. Caro was very famous, but from his letters you will see that his fame lay essentially, and principally, in the reputation that he had as a poet (which he never was) and [2535] any remaining literary merit was considered in him, as in all others, purely an accessory.1 And he was esteemed as a great poet, not for the Aeneid,2 which today is admired, and reprinted, and is written in the style and language typical of his time, although embellished in his way, and enriched by Latinisms. This was a posthumous work and didn’t cause much of a stir in the 16th century. Caro was considered a supreme man of letters because he knew how to rhyme in the Petrarchan style, and how to judge such supposed poems. And his famous Canzone was enormously admired (and today it’s impossible to read it all) because it was said that Petrarch would not have written otherwise. (Caro, Apologia, p. 18.) And who does not know the inferno that raged in Italy, and how the entire educated nation took part in the argument about that whole Petrarchan business, considered as an affair that concerned the whole of literature?3 The fact is that Caro’s marvelous prose writings, although respected, [2536] were not admired in the 16th century (in terms of the language). And certainly Caro’s language, like the imagination and genius of Dante, came to be honored, and given the high place they deserve, principally in this century and the end of the past one. In Dante’s case, this can be seen among foreigners, too. And in his case, that is due to the refinement of knowledge, and taste and philosophy and the theory of the arts and the sense of true beauty. In Caro’s, it comes in great part from material circumstances.

  (2) The Italian prose writings that were famous in the 16th century were famous for one of these reasons. 1st. being written in the style of Boccaccio (and therefore obsolete in that century), such as Sannazaro’s Arcadia in the prose parts, the prose writings of Bembo, and those of Della Casa, apart from the letters. And note that these prose writers and their like were precisely the ones who were [2537] most respected in that century (unlike in ours) and offered as a model. Which demonstrates unmistakably that the sixteenth century’s taste in language was as I have said, that a language different from their own was prized as elegant, and that the language current in the nation at the present time is always despised, however beautiful and excellent it might be.

  2nd. For the style, for the imitation of the Latin or Greek classics, independent of the language. This endeavor was common among good prose writers (and also among poets) of the 16th century. And since at the time there was a strong taste and inclination for the classical, prose written in the style of, in imitation of, and with the forms of the ancient classics was highly regarded and sought after, although the language was not greatly admired. And this is one of the reasons that importance was given even to the most informal letters, and to every trifle and off-the-cuff remark, even though they were written in the language of the [2538] time, and even in the case of undistinguished writers, and they were collected with a diligence that now would seem ridiculous, and were printed, etc., despite the fact that in terms of content they had absolutely no value. For almost all, or certainly very many, at the time wrote in a good style, because the study of the true classics was widespread. Furthermore, although this study had to do with style—but style and language were very tightly linked—it gave the prose (as well as the poetry) of the 16th century a flavor of elegance independent of the language itself.

  3rd. Because many (and this was the real and principal virtue of the sixteenth century, and to it we owe the refinement of our language) tried to move not only the style but also the Italian language closer to Latin and Greek, and use them as models, insofar as the nature of the language could admit it. This was common to the majority of the truly good writers of the sixteenth century, especially prose writers. And this made them elegant even among their contemporaries. [2539] But this elegance came solely from the unfamiliar (that is, from Latin and Greek), although those writers wanted to refine, bring closer to Latin or Greek, make classical the language of their century, rather than that of the 14th century, even if they spoke, as they did, and well, like men of the 16th rather than of the 14th century, more like modern than like ancient Italians, used the living and not the dead language, modern words rather than ancient, and in short grafted Latin and Greek onto the l
anguage of the 16th, not that of the 14th century, and moreover their elegance did not come from the use of early Italian, or from so-called purity, however pure they are for us today. But that was not how the pedants saw it, who called anything not from the fourteenth century corrupt and barbarous, banned Latinism even more strongly than today’s pedants do, since they ventured to call every Latin word that had not been used [2540] by the early writers, or rather by Boccaccio or Petrarch, barbarous, however appropriate it might be to Italian. And also in style, and the composition of the phrasing, they wanted either that of Boccaccio or Petrarch or that of the uneducated scribes, not writers, of the 14th century, rather than that of the Latin and Greek classics. (See Castelvetro’s opposition to Caro’s canzone, and Caro’s Apologia.)

  4th. The prose writings (or poems) of the 16th century were valued for the content, for the imagination, invention, concepts, opinions, scientific discoveries or doctrines, etc., erudition, etc. etc., but the language was not admired, despite being the pure, true everyday language of that century. Whereas for us those writers seem very pure and very elegant because they are old. But they were considered corrupt then, and negligible, and in short worthless in terms of language. And the pure language of the 16th century—which is abundantly demonstrated in the informal letters of [2541] that century, written with the flow of the pen,1 and which is rich, powerful, etc., and to us pure and elegant, and often the purer and more graceful the more characteristic of the century it is, and the more natural—was then called decidedly corrupt, and, even by true men of letters, the degeneration of the Italian language was deplored, for no other reason than that it was not properly the language of the 14th century, although after the corruption of the 15th century it had arisen more beautiful and powerful than before, which I will assert to anyone who knows its intimate qualities, and the vast and hidden riches and faculties of the true language of the 16th century. I leave aside the fact that it is orderly, while that of the 14th century goes wherever and however it likes, and you can’t figure out the structure, and for the most part you have to guess at the meaning. Besides, those writers of a language that was considered at the time bad and impure, and was despised and condemned, were even then prized for the content, [2542] if that had merit, as happens proportionately with our moderns, independently of the language, purity, and elegance.