Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  It could be said that, if nothing else, youthful beauty is greater than, e.g., elderly beauty. I might reply that it is more pleasing, but is not on the other hand a greater beauty in itself because there is no more propriety about it than about any other. The facts, therefore, are as follows. The universal order of nature, wholly independently of beauty, causes the forms and the faculties of species capable of youth and old age to be found in their fullest flowering befitting their respective species and in their greatest perfection relative to that species, in the period of perfect youth of each individual. Hence not absolutely but relatively to the actual order of nature, it may be said that, e.g., the form of the perfectly young man is more perfect than that of the old man, and the most perfect of all those of which man is capable. The beauty of his youthful form may therefore be said to be greater than that of his elderly form. [2971] But this greater is accidental, and strictly speaking does not belong to beauty, but to the object in which we contemplate it. Because the youthful form to which beauty belongs is more perfect than the elderly one in respect of the nature of man and not in respect of beauty. And hence, to be strictly accurate, it follows that man’s youthful beauty is not a beauty greater than elderly beauty, but pertains to a form that is the most perfect of which man is capable, that is, to youthful form. Whence perfection, and the greater perfection, is here not specific to beauty, but to the object to which it accidentally belongs, that is, to the youthful form of man. And youthful form cannot therefore in itself enter into the composition of what is called ideal beauty. For this form may well be the object of beauty (just as it may also not be, and very often is not) but it is not itself beautiful, and beauty belongs to it only accidentally, and is wholly extrinsic to it [2972] and different from its nature. And one may conclude that youthful beauty is beauty relative to the youthful form, but not absolutely, nor inasmuch as it is youthful, since beauty separated from youth exists, even in the same species. So that youthful beauty is, like all the others, relative, and not absolute. Relative, that is to say, to the youthful form. So far is youth in itself from being a beautiful quality, when it is simply the object of beauty, and it may or may not be the object, and beauty may exist in one and the same species with or without youth. (14–15 July 1823.)

  The stem of poto [to drink] must be po (formed from πόω‒πῶ, like do [to give] from δόω‒δῶ, and no [to swim] from νέω‒νῶ), from which potus, just as the stem of nato [to swim] is no, from which natus. (15 July 1823.)

  Priscian recognizes that the verb legito is from lego [to gather, to read], rather than from lecto or from lectito which do however exist.1 This legito confirms what I have said elsewhere [→Z 1113, 1153–54, 2826–27] about [2973] agito [to set in motion], namely, that the ancient, indeed, original, proper and regular participles of these verbs were, e.g., agitus, legitus, docitus, whence through syncope agtus, legtus, and ultimately actus, lectus, doctus. And this obviously shows us the original, primitive, and lost participle of lego, namely, legitus. And it has nothing to do with rogito, as Forcellini says or Priscian himself as cited by him, which does not come from rogitus, but from rogatus, as mussito from mussatus, and as I have proved at length elsewhere [→Z 1113, 1154]. Since the stem of rogito, that is, rogo belongs to the first conjugation, and not to the third like lego, nor to the second like doceo, and therefore the formation of its continuative or frequentative is subject to another rule, established by me elsewhere [→Z 1113]. Unless rogo had earlier had an anomalous participle rogitus (like domo domitus), regarding which I believe I have commented elsewhere [→Z 1154], causing me thus to suspect the word rogito, that is, rogato (as it were a substantivized neuter adjective), which word is barbarous Latin (see the Glossary Du Cange) [2974] and Italian. (15 July 1823.)

  Urito in Plautus, if this word is genuine,1 demonstrates the lost and regular participle uritus from uro, in place of ustus, whence ustulo, etc. (16 July 1823.) See p. 2991.

  For p. 2864. We also have the positives frate [brother] and suora [sister], that is, frater and soror. The French only have positives. The Spanish frayle, that is, friar, seems to be a diminutive of frater, by which I mean, not that it is a diminutive in Spanish, but that it came from fratellus, or from the Italian fratello. (16 July 1823.) See p. 2983, end.

  If the word eructus in Gellius is genuine,2 it can only be considered a participle of a verb existing before eructo and ructo, from which are formed ructatus and eructatus, as from poto potatus, and not potus, which potus demonstrates a verb which is the original of poto. Ructus us seems also to demonstrate a verb as the original of ructo and eructo, there being formed, as I have noted elsewhere [→Z 2145–48], these verbal substantives of the fourth declension from participles in us [2975] of their original verbs, so that from ructo one would form ructatus us, not ructus. Likewise motus us comes from moveo, not from moto as, potus us from po, not from poto, etc. These considerations lead me to suspect that ructo and eructo are continuatives of a lost stem, with which eructus a um in Gellius is concerned, as also ructus us whence ructuo and ructuosus. Also eructuo see in Forcellini under Eructo. This suspicion is further heightened by the proper and material form of ructare and eructare, which is wholly continuative. (16 July 1823.)

  For p. 2786, margin. ἁρπὼς too, could be a middle preterite either from ἅρπω, as εἰδὼς from εἴδω is from οἶδα, or from ἁρπάω contracted, as ἑστὼς from ἑσταὼς from στάω, βεβὼς from βεβαὼς from βάω, etc. One would, however, not say ἑστυῖα or βεβυῖα, etc. Like εἰκυῖα, εἰδυῖα, ἁρπυῖα, but ἑστηκυῖα, etc., active, or the actives or middles that are ἑστὼς, βεβὼς, etc. Which are only found, so far as I know, in the masculine or the neuter. Which participles many call active, and they are contracted in the manner I have said on pp. 2786 and 2788, margin (and see Schrevel under βεβὼς) but others, I believe with greater justification, call them middles, and contracted in the manner described above. The active past participle of ἅρπω would not be ἁρπὼς but ἡρφὼς or ἁρφὼς like τετερφὼς from τέρπω. From ἁρπάω would therefore be derived ἁρπηκὼς or ἡρπηκὼς, as [2976] I said on p. 2776, and also perhaps ἁρπακὼς or ἡρπακὼς, as by the same token ἁρπάζω, which gives ἥρπακα. (16 July 1823.) See p. 2987.

  Although the point is a material one, it will not prove vain to observe that the poems of Homer and especially the Iliad—bearing in mind the quality of the Greek language, which in a given number of words or verses says far more than modern languages naturally and ordinarily say—the poems of Homer, I repeat, are the longest of all the Epic poems known in the European literatures. Compared to the Aeneid, a poem written in the language that is closer than any other as regards the capacity of Greek already mentioned, aside from the fact that Homer’s poems each consist of 24 books, whereas the Aeneid has only twelve, we find that where the Aeneid has 9,896 lines, the Odyssey has 12,096 and the Iliad 15,703, a computation I did myself. It should be noted that Virgil’s lines are in the same meter as Homer’s. This close parallel could not be drawn with poems written in modern languages, both because of the different meter [2977] of the lines and quantity of syllables that the latter contain, and far more because the modern languages need many more words than Greek and Latin do to say the same thing. So that even when a modern epic poem has more words in it than do those of Homer, I think nonetheless that everyone must agree that as far as number, so to speak, or the quantity of things is concerned, there is not one which is not notably less than his poems, or certainly than one of them, namely, the Iliad.

  Now, it is a wonderful thing to observe how in Homer the spirit, so lively, robust, and ardent, and the inspiration, so rich and fertile in every part, should have been able to stand together, even just in one poem, let alone in two, and for so long a tract of time. Because though all the other epic poets have taken from him, some more and some less, some directly and some indirectly, some mo
re visibly and some more covertly, and then subsequently some from others bit by bit, we nonetheless see that they have not [2978] managed to hold fast for so long a stretch, no matter how vigorous and lively they were, and have settled for a far shorter career, and very often before reaching the end of it they have clearly shown signs of exhaustion, and of lack of breath and eagerness, and all the more so the nearer they came to their goal.1 From these observations one may deduce just how much richer nature and talent are than art, and how it is that an imitator is always poorer than what he imitates. See Algarotti, Pensieri, Opere, Cremona, tome 8, p. 79. And as for Virgil, what has he not taken from Homer? In the second half of his Aeneid he obviously becomes languid and tired, and no longer himself, if not in invention, then certainly in execution, that is to say, in the images, in the expansiveness and vivacity of the emotions, and in the style, and this is something that cannot be denied by anyone who is well acquainted with the manner, the poetry, the language, the versification of Virgil. Indeed, to such as these the difference is immediately perceptible,a2 and it may be seen that Virgil’s imagination through his long labors had grown weak, cold, and exhausted; it did not respond to the poet’s intentions; it did not [2979] obey him; he wrote by design and as it were out of duty, out of art and habit, art and habit that in him were excellent, and may seem to the less expert to be poetic impulse and ὁρμὴ [impulse], but are not, and do not seem such to the better informed, who in those final books crave the gift, προθυμία [eagerness] and alacrity of Virgil. The invention must have been wholly conceived and planned by him from the beginning, as is natural in every good poet, and especially in a poet of such artistry and mastery. If therefore its end is not inferior to its beginning, no one is amazed. His imagination was as fresh when he invented the end of the poem as when he invented the beginning. But no less power, vivacity, activity, boldness, fecundity of imagination is required in the style, that is, in the execution as in the invention. Indeed, one could say that poetic style, and particularly that of Virgil, is a compound of continuous, innumerable, and successive inventions. Every metaphor, every insertion which has about it the wonderful [2980] novelty and efficacy that they tend to have in Virgil, are so many particular and distinct poetic inventions, just as similes are inventions, and require a continual energy, freshness, mobility, and richness of imagination, and an always vivid conception and the ability almost to feel and see the slightest thing that one has to name or express even if in passing and by accident. In every other part of the execution also, that is, in the images, etc., and in the talent for expressing emotions even in situations which, where invention is concerned, are highly pathetic, etc., Virgil in his final six books is inferior to himself, whatever Chateaubriand says about them.1 See p. 3717.

  In truth in so long a poem this weakening and exhaustion of the imagination, of ardor and enthusiasm should not only seem excusable to us, but so natural that it is almost inevitable even in the greatest and truest poets. Especially when we consider how the imagination has to achieve continuity of action, in the manner explained above. But Homer, drawing on no one else, with no models to follow and contemplate in order to recoup his strength, refresh himself, and take heart (as occurs even with the most original poets), without any other source, or [2981] succor, or model, or spur but himself, his own imagination and nature, in one, indeed, in two entire poems longer than all those that others have later produced, never shows, either in invention or in style, the least languor or sterility, but endures until the last moment with the same freshness, liveliness, efficacy, richness, abundance, as whole in powers, as abundant in novelties, as ardent, as vehement, as moved and affected by nature, and by the objects that present themselves to him or that he imagines, as at the beginning. Particularly in the Iliad, where, indeed, the richness, variety, beauty, originality, and power of the invention increase the further we advance, and is greater at the end than at the beginning.

  And truly it can be said that Homer by himself was far richer than all the others later were with their own and the work of the others put together. Nor certainly, following these considerations, should it seem so very surprising or unremarkable to say, although the point is a material one, that the epic poems of Homer are longer [2982] than all those that in one way or another derived from them (since even Paradise Lost and the Messiad derive from them),1 and that in one way or another fed off them. Especially if we add that they are throughout the same, that is, always true poems, and always identical to themselves, something that one cannot even say always of all the others mentioned above.

  It seems that imagination in Homer’s time was like those fields that are naturally very fertile but are never cultivated, and that, when subjected as they are to human industry, yield in the first years two or three times more, and produce harvests that are far more abundant and thriving than they do in subsequent years, for all the study, application, and effort which are devoted to their cultivation. Or it was like those untamed horses that are kept for a long time in the stables, and when let out to race are much more fresh and vigorous than horses that are exercised and trained, after having gone twice the distance. So much so that, when we consider the freshness of style, of the images, of the invention of Homer at the end of the Iliad, it seems as though he only left off composing [2983] and only ended the poem because he wished to do so, and because he had reached the goal he had fixed for himself, or because every human work must have an end, but were it not for this circumstance, he would still have had both spirit and breath to continue, without resting, to run uninterruptedly as great a distance again or a greater, indeed, an indeterminable distance. And it seems that his work reaches its end, but that the richness and abundance of his imagination is very far from being exhausted, indeed, is only a little way short of being intact; and that his race ends but not his vigor.

  And it seems as though the still virginal nature of poetry (virginal in relation to sciences and philosophy, etc., which destroy the imagination and the illusions that nature inspires) supplied the poem in that time with such an abundance of images and sentiments that it was as it were bottomless, and in relation to which whatever the greatest poets in any period obtained afterward from an already much studied and imitated nature seems poor and scanty. (16–17 July 1823.)

  For p. 2974. Cervello (cerebellum), cerveau, cervelle from cerebrum [brain]. See p. 3618. Crivello (cribellum as flabellum from flabrum) diminutive of cribrum [sieve]. The French crible, the Spanish [2984] criva. Cerebro, celabro, cribro, cribrare, etc., for crivellare, etc., are not vernacular words but are taken from Latin by writers. Likewise the Spanish celebro, instead of which the vernacular word is sesso. Likewise also our modern and technical cerebello. Our vernacular words trivello or trivella (Forcellini under terebra [auger]), whence trivellare in the Crusca, are almost terebellum or terebella diminutives of the Latin terebra, like cerebellum and cervello from cerebrum. Vecchio, viejo, vieil [old] are indubitably diminutives of vetus, like pecchia, aveja, abeille from apecula [little bee]. Perhaps from vetulus or from veculus contracted in the vernacular from vetusculus. Vieux is perhaps the same as the positive vetus. For all the above words see Forcellini and the Glossary, whether they have anything of relevance. (17 July 1823.) See pp. 3514, 3557.

  Trapano, trapanare, trépan, trépaner–τρύπανον [borer, auger], etc. (17 July 1823.)

  Usitari [to use] and other such frequentatives or diminutives noted by me here and there, should be added to those that I noted [→Z 1114ff.] all together in order to demonstrate that many verbs have a frequentative in itare without having a continuative in tare, against Forcellini who often says that the former is derived from the latter. [2985] (17 July 1823.)

  If many Latin continuatives do not have a continuative meaning from the original verb, but one identical or not very different from it, that does not detract from the fact that the nature of their formation is genuinely continuative, and that their character is such, although it is not always observed and preserved
by Latin writers, and in some verbs never, for the reasons stated elsewhere. If, then, this objection held good, it would be just as valid against those who call these verbs frequentatives, because they do not realize that they always or all of them have a different meaning from that of the original verbs, and would also be valid for those same verbs in itare that I maintain are genuinely frequentative by formation. E.g., Forcellini under parito says that it is a frequentative of paro [to prepare] (and by formation it may in fact be as much frequentative as continuative), adding *“and having almost the same meaning.”* Likewise under haesito [to stick fast], and very often. The same objection would therefore be as valid against earlier grammarians and earlier namings and theories of verbs formed [2986] from participles in us, as it would be against me and my own namings, distinctions, and theories. If such verbs do not have a continuative meaning, then neither do they have a frequentative meaning. The objection therefore is no stronger against me than it is against the others. (17 July 1823.)