[2934] Instead of pisare we find, and more often, pisere. Regarding this I truly have my doubts, and I believe them to be more reasonable than the doubt that those mentioned above have who always read pinsere. I mean that I would not go so far as to deny the existence of that verb derived from pinsere, but I do doubt the manner in which it is conjugated, and perhaps would not concede that it is of the third conjugation, and everywhere would replace pisere with pisare. The latter is more regular, to judge by my theory about continuatives, and it is borne out by the Glossary and by the Spanish and Italian vernacular (since by pure accident and a habit of pronunciation we say pigiare instead of pisare which is the same, and which is certainly said in some dialect or province of Italy, such as, I believe, the Venetian), and confirmed by the other considerations adduced above.
At any rate the verb pisere when said instead of pisare would be an anomalous continuative of pinsere; whether because pisare also existed in ancient Latin, and because through corruption pisere was formed from it, as nexere perhaps was from nexare (see p. 2821); or because pisere was formed [2935] directly from pisus‒pinsus from pinsere before pisare and instead of it (like visere for visare from video‒visus), and because the latter has never been in the ancient or in the illustrious language but only in late or rustic Latin (formed from pisere or directly from pinsere), and hence in the modern vernaculars; or because finally pisere or pisare both existed at some period, contemporaneously, but with quite distinct origins. And see with regard to anomalous continuatives in the third conjugation p. 2885.
Pisare, if you consider it to belong with pinsere (which belonging and kinship, even if Forcellini does not recognize it or express it, and has piso is, and also, or so it would seem, piso as from the Greek πτίσσω [to winnow], whatever this kinship may be, who can really doubt it?) could also be referred to the category treated on pp. 2813ff. and 2930. But the reasons adduced convince me rather that it belongs directly to the class of ordinary continuatives. Perhaps pinso as could belong instead to the aforesaid category, if it were a genuine verb, on which see Forcellini under pinso. (10 July 1823.)
Cespicare, incespicare, incespare. See Forcellini under Caespitator [stumbler, shying horse] and the Glossary under Cespitare. (10 July 1823.)
[2936] The things that exist are certainly not in themselves either petty or base, nor indeed are a large part of those made by man. But all of them, and their greatness and their qualities, are of another kind to the one man would desire, the one that would be necessary or that he thinks is necessary for his happiness, that he imagined in his childhood and early youth, and that he still imagines whenever he yields to fantasy, and looks at things from afar. And being of another kind, though great, and sometimes perhaps greater than the kind that the child or the man imagined, neither the child nor the man is ever content when he gets close to them, sees them, touches them, or in any way experiences them. And so no existing things, and no work of nature or of man, are suited to the happiness of man. (10 July 1823.) Not that they are things of no worth, but simply that they are not of the sort that man would wish for indeterminately, and that he vaguely judges, before experiencing them. Thus they are nothing to the happiness of man, though not nothing in themselves. And who could call the [2937] miraculous and stupendous work of nature a nothing, and the machine and mass, as immense as it is most artfully designed, of all the worlds, although in truth and in essence it is no use to us? Since in no way ever does it lead us to happiness.1 Who could despise the immeasurable and arcane spectacle of existence, of an existence whose limits or causes or origins we cannot even establish or know or adequately imagine, what man, I repeat, could despise this spectacle of existence and of the life of things that to the human understanding is infinite and mysterious, although neither our existence and life nor that of the other beings is really of any use to us, availing us nothing at all toward our being happy? And with our own and universal existence alike being separated from happiness, which is the perfection and purpose of existence, indeed, the sole benefit that existence brings to what exists? And therefore with our being and forming part of the universal scheme of existence, but with no advantage to ourselves? But with all this how can we call base and worthless a work whose limits we cannot see [2938] nor shall we ever be able to see? Nor ever come to understand or sufficiently admire the craft and the method? Indeed, not even the quality of the greater part of it? That is, the quality of the existence of the majority of things involved in that work, or perhaps we should say the majority of those things, that is, of the beings that exist. Very few of which, considering the sheer number of them, are known to us in any way, even imperfectly. Not to mention the causes and occult modes of existence which we do not know or understand at all, not even with respect to the beings we know the best, and not even with respect to our own species and our own individual being. (10 July 1823.)
What I say about the works of nature may also be said in proportion to many either great or beautiful or for any other reason noteworthy and marvelous works of men, whether they are material or belong purely to reason; whether manual, intellectual, or imaginative; discoveries, inventions, sciences, speculations, etc. etc., [2939] practical or theoretical disciplines; feats of navigation, manufactures, buildings, constructions of every kind, works of art, etc. etc. (11 July 1823.)
From my lengthy reflections on what the tree of knowledge, etc., means in Genesis [→Z 393ff.], from the fable of Psyche, about which I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 637–38], and from other very ancient fables or dogmas, etc., that I recall having alluded to in various passages [→Z 63–64], one may infer not only what is generally said, namely, that the corruption and decline of mankind from a better state is proved by a very remote, universal, consistent, and unbroken tradition, but that such a tradition and the records of the most ancient history and wisdom also prove that this depravity, corruption, and decadence of mankind from a happy state arose through knowledge, and through knowing too much, and that the origin of its unhappiness was the knowledge both of itself and of the world, and the excessive use of reason. This truth appears to have been known to the most ancient sages, and to have been one [2940] of the principal and crucial truths that they, perhaps deeming them dangerous to know, declared under the veil of allegory and covered in mystery and draped in fictions, or contented themselves with hinting at vaguely to the people. The people in those days were far more distinct in every way from the class of sages than they are today, and from this arose the arcanum in which the dogmas which were always the prerogative only of the sages and were barely communicated to the people, wholly separate as they were from the wise men, were supposed to be deposited. Aside from the fact that in those times imagination so influenced and dominated the people, as also the sages themselves, that the latter, without at all meaning to assume an air of mystery, and without any ulterior motives, clothed truths in figures, and represented them to others in the guise of fables. And in actual fact the first sages were the poets, or rather the first sages made use of poetry, and the first truths were announced in verses, not, I believe, with the express intention of veiling them and making them barely intelligible, but because they presented themselves [2941] to the sages’ own minds in dress worked by the imagination, and in large part were discovered by imagination rather than by reason, indeed, they also contained much that was imaginary, especially concerning causes, etc., although they were believed in good faith by the sages who conceived or announced them. And furthermore through their own inclination and in order to bolster that of their listeners, that is, of the peoples to whom they spoke, the sages made use of poetry and fable to announce truths, although it was not their intention to render them méconnaissables [unrecognizable].1 (11 July 1823.)
The principal defect of reason is not, as people say, that it is powerless. In truth it can do a great deal, and to ascertain this it is enough to compare the mind and intellect of a great philosopher with that of a savage or a child, or with that of this same philosopher pri
or to his first use of reason, and likewise to compare the present-day civilized world, material and moral, with the present-day savage world, and still more with the primitive world. What is human reason not capable of, as regards speculation? Does it not penetrate to the essence of the things that exist, and even to the essence of itself? Does it not ascend to the throne of God, and does it not [2942] succeed in analyzing to a certain extent the nature of the supreme Being? (See what I have said elsewhere in this regard [→Z 1627–28].) Reason in itself, therefore, and considered as reason, is not powerless or weak. Indeed, viewed as the faculty of a finite entity, it is very powerful. But it is harmful, it makes its user powerless, and all the more so the more he uses it, and as its power grows, so proportionately the power of he who exercises and possesses it diminishes, and the more it is perfected, the more the reasoning being becomes imperfect.1 It makes all objects upon which it is exercised petty, base, and worthless, it annuls greatness, beauty, and so to speak existence itself, it is the true mother and cause of nothingness. The more it grows the more things shrink, the more intense and extended its existence is, the more the being of things diminishes and becomes restricted and verges upon nothingness. I do not mean to say that reason sees little. In fact, its vision extends almost to infinity and is most acute as regards each object, but this vision has the following property, namely, that space and objects appear smaller to it the more extended it is [2943] and the better and the more finely it sees. So that it sees ever less, and ultimately nothing, not because it lacks refinement and is limited, but because objects and space are more easily missed by it the more it embraces, and the more minutely it scrutinizes them. So that littleness and nothingness are in the objects and not in reason (although the objects exist, and are great to any other thing but reason). Because it in itself can see a very great deal, but it will actually see less the more it sees. Yet it does see all that is visible, insofar as it is and can ever be visible to any vision. (11 July 1823.)
The way in which the ancients looked to life alone for consolation even for death (about which I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 79, 116]), and judged death to be a misfortune precisely because it was a privation of life, and how they thought the dead man was greedy for life and action and took a far greater part, at least in terms of interest and desire, in the affairs of this world than in those of the one they nevertheless thought he inhabited and must inhabit eternally, and of which they reckoned he had become forever a member, may still be seen in the very ancient custom of honoring the obsequies and the anniversaries, etc., of [2944] a dead man with funeral games. These games were the most vivid, compelling, energetic, solemn, youthful, vigorous, vital ventures that could be embarked upon. It was as if they wished to entertain the dead man with the most energetic spectacle of the most energetic and exuberant and vivid life, and as if they believed that since he could no longer take part in this life, he might in another one take delight and dispel his boredom by contemplating the effects and exercise of life in others. (11 July 1823.)
There is a cry for poetry to be contemporary, that is, to employ the language and ideas and depict the customs, and perhaps also the accidents of our own times. They therefore condemn the use of ancient fictions, opinions, customs, events. See p. 3152. But I maintain that everything can be this century’s contemporary except poetry.1 How can a poet employ the language and adopt the ideas and display the customs of a generation of men for whom glory is a phantom, for whom liberty, the homeland, love of country do not exist, for whom true love is a [2945] childish fancy, and for whom in short illusions have all vanished, for whom passions, not only the great and noble and beautiful ones, but all passions are extinct? How, I repeat, can he do that, and still be a poet? Are poet and poem, without illusions, without passions, terms which make logical sense? Can a poet, considered as such, be egoistic and metaphysical? And is this not characteristic of our century? How then can a poet be characteristically contemporary as a poet?
Observe how the ancients addressed the people with their poetry, or at any rate persons who for the most part were not learned, not philosophical. The moderns are just the opposite, because poets today have no other readers but persons who are educated and informed. And when we say that the poet should be contemporary we mean that he should conform to the language and ideas of these persons, not, in fact, to the language and ideas of the present-day populace, which knows nothing of poems, present-day or ancient, and plays absolutely no part in them. Today every educated and informed man is unfailingly egoistic and philosophical, deprived of every noteworthy illusion, devoid of intense passions, and every woman likewise. How can a poet, in [2946] character and spirit, be contemporary and conform as a poet with such persons? What is there that is poetic in them, in their language, thoughts, opinions, inclinations, affections, customs, usages, and deeds? What does poetry have, what did it have, and what could it ever have in common with them?
I therefore pardon the modern poet if he follows ancient things, if he employs ancient language and style and manner, if he also uses ancient fables, etc., if he seems to be following ancient opinions, if he prefers ancient customs, usages, and events, if he impresses upon his poetry the character of another age, if he seeks in short either to be in spirit and temperament ancient, or to seem such. I pardon the modern poet and modern poetry when they do not seem to be, are not contemporary with this century, since to be contemporary with this century is or essentially entails not being a poet, and not being poetry. And one cannot at the same time be and not be something. (11 July 1823.) And it is not fitting for philosophers and for a philosophical century to demand a thing impossible by its very nature, and contradictory in itself and in its own terms. (12 July 1823.)
[2947] Intentare Latin from intendo [to stretch out, to threaten], whence the French intenter and also our way of saying intentare un’accusa, un processo [to file a lawsuit] and the like. See the Glossary Du Cange. The participle intentatus. Intentare in our earliest authors (see the Crusca under intentare and intentazione) and the Spanish intentar, from tento with the preposition in, and it means the same thing as tentare [to attempt]. This compound, wholly in the Latin style, but entirely different from the other intentare mentioned above, came, I believe, though perhaps from elsewhere also, from Vulgar Latin, since to me it has the flavor of true Latinity, and it does not strike me as likely that it was created within the vernacular languages, because they are very little used to creating new compounds with prepositions, a practice that is wholly Greek and Latin. The participle intentato, intentado, or intentatus, that is, tentatus. (Likewise obtento, if this is a genuine word, comes from ob-tineo, whereas ostento is from os-tendo, the ancient obs-tendo; see p. 2996.) The other participle intentatus differs from this, and means the opposite, that is, non tentatus [not touched, not tested], made not with the preposition in but with the privative particle having the same sound in, which participle we also have, and it becomes a third participle intentatus different in origin and meaning, although in every respect identical to the other two in sound. Likewise inauditus, insuetus, and [2948] other such words, mean non auditus, non suetus, and so too their opposites, namely, suetus, auditus, from insuesco and inaudio. (12 July 1823.)
Just how wonderful a thing the invention of the alphabet was, apart from anything else, may also be readily considered in the following way. It has been observed that man only thinks by talking to himself and using a language, that ideas are attached to words, that virtually no idea would be or is stable and clear if man did not have, or when he does not have, the word enabling him to express as much to himself as to others, and in short that man barely conceives any clear and lasting idea save by means of the corresponding word, nor does he manage to achieve a perfect and distinct conception of an idea, indeed, to define it in his mind so that it is distinct from others and becomes an idea, obscure or clear as may be, nor does he manage to fix it in such a way that he can recall it, recover it, represent it in his mind and to himself at any time; he never man
ages to do this, I repeat, until he [2949] has found the word with which this idea can be signified, as it were mounting the idea and setting it in the word, whether it be a new word or a newly applied one, if the idea is new, or if he does not know the word with which others express it, or it is the same word as others use to signify it.1
All of the above concerns the elementary sounds of speech in relation to the alphabet. The alphabet is the language by means of which we conceive and define within ourselves the idea of each of those sounds. Someone who does not know the alphabet may speak but he will not have any idea of the elements that constitute the words proffered by him. He does indeed have an idea of speech, but absolutely no idea of the elements of which it is composed, just as men have countless other ideas of elements and parts of which they do not have the slightest idea, clear or obscure, that is distinct from the mass of the others. And this is precisely what the progress of the human mind is: namely, to subdivide ideas, and to conceive the idea of the parts and of the elements of the same, to know [2950] that a particular idea which it took to be simple, was composite, or to decompose the idea that had been simple to him up until then, and having decomposed it to conceive the idea of its parts, either of all the parts, or of some. A new ideaa is ordinarily thus simply but a portion of an idea already possessed, and newly separated from the other portions of the same, and newly determined in such a way that it subsists by itself, is an idea on its own account, and may be conceived on its own account.1
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