Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  Therefore since dialects cannot supply inflections remote from current use [3015] which are suitable for poetic language, it remains for the poet, in order to distance common words from prose and everyday usage, to bring them closer to the etymology and form they have in their mother tongue, whenever they are a long way away from it in prose and common usage. This method is possible, and good, and frequently adopted by poets when the nation is already cultured and learned, and the national literature already formed. But in the early days it is very difficult and dangerous, first of all because the words that are changed in that way run the risk of not being understood by the ignorant nation; second, because in a nation not yet used to it such an alteration risks smacking of pedantry (and this risk also lasts proportionately afterward) and appearing affected. Hence the same objection which was raised in those early days, as I have said (pp. 2836–37), against drawing more than a certain number of words and expressions from the mother tongue; that same objection was raised against drawing rare inflections from that language that were different from current ones.

  [3016] Therefore to distance common words and phrases from the vulgar, it remains to inflect and modify them in ways that are uncommon in the present, but used in the old days by fellow nationals, speakers, prose writers, or poets, and still known by the nation, and preserved from hand to hand in the writings of those who, looking for elegance, endeavored to move some distance away from the common populace. For these reasons such inflections do not produce either obscurity or affectation, although they are unusual and remote from everyday use, and therefore produce elegance. This method is very commonly used by poets when the nation is cultured, its literature formed, and when the written language has an ancient past. Alongside this a poetic language is principally formed, composed, gradually stabilized which, however, differentiates itself more and more from the prosaic and everyday, until it reaches that point of difference, beyond which it is better not to pass. But this method, necessary for elegance, extremely necessary in being able to have or form a diction which is distinctly poetic and proper to poetry, is missing [3017] entirely in the first writers and poets of any nation whatsoever, who can find no ancient period of written language, and cannot have any knowledge of the ancient elements of the spoken language, other than feebly, confusedly, and inadequately. And even where they do know something of them, or insofar as they know them, they can only use what they know in a very limited way so as not to be considered obscure and affected by the nation which is ignorant and never accustomed to any other national language than the one that it commonly uses every day. Therefore it is the case that those first poets and writers must necessarily turn to the diction which for the most part, and in general, is everyday, and therefore also take up a style which will always have more or less something of the everyday about it, in whichever material they are dealing with and whichever kind of writing they are practicing. (23 July 1823.)

  For how the Sanskrit language, so enormously rich, draws and forms its wealth from only very few roots, by means of the great use it makes of the composition and derivation of words, see the Encyclopédie méthodique, Grammaire et littérature, article “Samskret,” particularly the section [3018] by Mr. Dow.1

  On this subject, there is a notable passage that can be read in the “Oration in praise of Filippo Sassetti” (a Florentine traveler, died 1589) “known in the Accademia degli Alterati as l’Assetato [the Thirsty One]” by Luigi Alamanni (not the same person as the poet)2 which is in the Prose fiorentine, part 1, vol. 4, Venice 1730–1743, pp. 46–473 where you can see it, and it is just before the middle of the Oration. On Filippo Sassetti see Tiraboschi in the Storia della letteratura italiana and Sassetti’s own letters which he refers to there (Rome, tome 7, part 1, pp. 240–41).4 From the place mentioned one gathers that he, if I am not mistaken, was the first to give Europe news of Sanskrit, which was very reliable and accurate; the same language was afterward dealt with extensively by another of our Italian writers, Father Paolinus von St. Bartholomaus, Biblioteca Italiana, no. 23, November 1817, p. 206.5 (23 July 1823.)

  Fatum [prophetic declaration, fate] from for faris [to speak]. —Dicha Spanish (that is detta) for fortuna [good fortune] (like desdicha sfortuna [misfortune], dichoso, desdichada, etc.) from dicta (feminine like ἡ εἱμαρμένη [3019] ἡ πεπρωμένη, la destinée [destiny]) or from dictum, like sospetto from suspectus or suspectum (Du Cange Glossary), the Spanish have the feminine sospecha in place of sospecho. (23 July 1823.)

  For p. 2845. Please note that avvisare [to warn] and other verbs indicated by me on p. 3005 which come from videre [to see] preserve the regular and ordinary form of their derivation from the participle in us, while the continuative of video which can be found in good Latin, does not preserve this form, and is not visare, but visere, with its compounds invisere [to visit], revisere [to revisit], etc. Meanwhile the French viser in meaning as well is a true continuative of videre, and it is formed from that, and not from the French verb which corresponds to it, that is voir which never has the syllable vis. Unless however viser comes from visage or from the word vis which properly means viso, although today it is only used in the expression vis-à-vis. (24 July 1823.)

  For p. 3007. That such verbs come from such nouns rather than from the corresponding third-conjugation verbs can also be deduced from seeing how praeceps [headlong], [3020] which seems to come from the same root as manceps [contractor, bondsman] auceps [bird catcher, spy], etc. (like anceps [twofold, uncertain] ἀμφιλαφὴς [abundant], which indeed produces ancipitis and not ancipis or ancupis), according to what I have discussed elsewhere [→Z 1131], having as its genitive praecipitis and not praecipis or praecupis does not correspond to the first-conjugation verb praecipare or praecupare, but to praecipitare. Whereas manceps particeps, etc., in forming mancipis, participis, we find that one in fact says mancipare, participare, and not mancipitare, participitare, etc. (24 July 1823.)

  Plainchant is like the prose of music: florid song the poetry.1 (24 July 1823.)

  For p. 2997. In the same way from a second-conjugation verb is formed sedare [to settle, to assuage, to die away], which undoubtedly belongs to this category, and comes from sedeo [to sit], and in meaning is a continuative of it. Sedare is also found in a neuter meaning like sedeo, and this must be its primitive meaning. So too the second-conjugation miseror aris [to lament]–misereor eris [to pity], unless the former comes from miser. Now compare this passage from Statius: “his [3021] dictis sedere minae” [“when these words were said, the threats died away”], that is, says Forcellini (under Sedeo, last col.) sedatae sunt, or cessarono [they ceased] or si mitigarono [they calmed down], together with that other ancient example “postquam tempestas sedavit” [“afterward the storm died away”],1 that is cessò [it ceased] or si mitigò [it calmed down]. Sedare pulverem [to make the dust settle] in Phaedrus is sedere or considere or residere facio [to make sit or rest]. “Sedare curriculum” [“to stop his chariot”]2 means to bring to a halt insofar as sedere sometimes has the meaning of consistere, fermarsi [to halt]. Forcellini himself explains sedo as facio ut aliquid residat [to make something settle]. See under Sedeo and Sedo and compare the examples and meanings against each other, and also of the compounds of Sedeo, etc. Note that sedeo also has a verb formed from its participle in us, that is sessitare [to sit for a time]. (24 July 1823.)

  Alongside the many remarks I have made elsewhere [→Z 244, 2631–35] to show how Greek only needs a few roots to be very rich, given the infinite use it makes of derivatives and compounds, etc., and how it multiplies infinitely its primitive words, etc., add its possession of the middle voice, and the wonderful use which it makes of the [3022] passive voices of its verbs. Because one can say about many Greek verbs that each of them is not one, but three, and does duty for three, since it has the active, middle, and passive of the verb, each of them with a different individual meaning, in addition to the metaphorical meanings which it has for each of them, and these also different, tha
t is, the active different from the middle, etc. Or we could say that each one of such verbs has three different individual meanings, in addition to the metaphorical. Nor can these meanings be confused with each other, since each of them corresponds to a different and distinct inflection. Hence meanings do not accumulate in the same word, nor do they give rise to obscurity and ambiguity nor to the poverty and uniformity which Hebrew derives from such accumulation. And yet those three are substantially the same verb, and have only one stem. The use which the Latins make of the passive is not comparable to that of the Greeks (in addition to the fact that the Latin passive is defective and limited, since for a large part it needs the auxiliary sum). In these forms the passive [3023] frequently has its own active or neuter meaning, yet different from that of the active, and from that of the middle, etc. etc. (24 July 1823.)

  Necesso as [to make necessary] is a verb used by Venantius Fortunatus. See Forcellini and the Du Cange Glossary. One might though believe it to be ancient, and the ancient adjective necessus a um to be originally the participle of some verb of which necesso was the continuative. In such a case the barbarian Latin and Italian necessitare, the Spanish necessitar, the French nécessiter would be a frequentative of this possible unknown verb. If the position is different, unless we are going to claim that it comes from necessitas, necessità, nécessité, etc., we might say that it is formed from necessatus from necesso, with the usual change of the a to i. Note that in the Venantius Fortunatus example it is not clear whether necesso is active, and means the same as cogo [to bring together, to compel], as Forcellini and the Glossary state, or else neuter, and means the same as abbisognare, aver mestieri, indigere, poscere [to need, to require], as in Spanish necessitar which is constructed with the genitive. (24 July 1823.)

  [3024] For p. 3009. Likewise any sound, and any word from a foreign language which adopts different characters from ours, if—knowing that language not just in oral speech, but in writing, and in being competent and accustomed to reading it—we conceive the said sound or word expressly, by thinking about it, it is represented in the form and the characters which it has in the language to which it belongs, even where that elementary sound is common also to our language, and expressed in our alphabet by its own character. This is always the case, unless in some particular circumstance, in which the mind wishes or has to conceive, e.g., a Greek word using Latin characters, etc. etc. (24 July 1823.)

  For p. 2828, end. Note that the true pronunciation and therefore the true harmony of Latin have also been lost and unknown for a long time. In spite of that, although it is absolutely certain that this makes it very difficult for moderns to write according to the true nature of the language, the turn of the phrase, the rhythm, the construction of Latin, etc., nevertheless, since Latin is dead, so the writer who today wishes to write in [3025] Latin (and the same is true of those who wrote in Latin from the 14th century onward) can in fact ignore the modern pronunciation, can up to a certain point forget about it, can in fact leave aside harmony, and by only considering in ancient writers the pure constructions, the pure periods, etc., independently both of the rhythm which sprang from them then and springs from them today, follow and imitate them blindly exactly as they are, taking no account of the modern pronunciation. But Greek was still alive, although the pronunciation was changed, and for writers it was not easy to forget and clean their ears of the daily current sound of their own tongue, nor if they still wished (as many did) to follow closely and imitate exactly the ancients, was it possible for them to deny completely to their periods a meter which was heard by the whole Greek world at that time. For these periods could not avoid being read and pronounced by nationals who, even though they did not pronounce it as it had once been pronounced, still understood and indeed spoke that language, as their [3026] mother tongue. Hence it was almost impossible in writings to give to the language, which was indeed national and vulgar, a rhythm entirely foreign, in a manner of speaking, and unknown to all, even to the writer himself; which is equivalent to saying not to give it any rhythm at all, (24 July 1823) that is no rhythm which was recognizably such for the nation for whom it was written, nor even to the writer himself. (24 July 1823.)

  Occulto as, from occulo‒occultus [to hide]. Note that, if we did not know the verb occulo, we would certainly take occultus a um, since it is always or nearly always used adjectivally (as with our occulto, etc.), as a proper root adjective, and not as a participle. Therefore one can argue what I suspect and sometimes maintain, that other suchlike adjectives which have all the outward appearance of participles, although never used as participles, and although the verb to which they belong is not known, nevertheless are originally nothing other than participles of verbs which are lost or not known as their root. (25 July, Feast of St. James, 1823.)

  [3027] For p. 2895, end. From sutus one could form sto [to stand], because the u also through contraction, especially in participles, usually disappears, as does the i. From solutus the Spanish have soltar, we have sciolto [loosened], with the u omitted. From volutus and volutare we have voltare and volto, and so too in the compounds involto, rivolto, etc. So the Spanish have buelto or vuelto: the French voûte (that is volta substantive) and then voûter, where the syllable ou is equivalent to our ol, as in écOUter ascOLtare. Volta for fiata, also comes from volvere and is a contraction of voluta. So too the Spanish substantive buelta that is voltata, ritorno, etc. (25 July 1823.)

  I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 826] about that passage in Cicero’s On Old Age, where he says that our soul, though we do not know why, is always directed to posterity, etc., and he deduces from this that it has a natural awareness of its own eternal nature and indestructibility. I have shown how this effect comes from the desire for the infinite, which is a consequence of self-love, and from the constant recourse which, through hope, man has [3028] to the future, since he can never be satisfied with the present, nor find any pleasure in it, while on the other hand he never renounces hope, even taking his hope beyond the grave because he is no longer able to find anywhere in this life toward which he might reasonably direct it. But the said effect is not natural. It comes from previous experience that the memory of famous men is preserved, from seeing for ourselves how the memory of such men is preserved and celebrated, and from preserving and celebrating it ourselves. Hence, once this fame which survives death had been introduced to the world, it was and is desired and sought-after, like so many other rewards either of esteem or other things, for which nature had inspired no desire in us, and which appeared in the world gradually through various circumstances, not from the beginning nor created by nature. In the very earliest beginnings of society, when there was not yet any example of remembrance or praises rendered in homage to the dead,1 even courageous and magnanimous men, even where they desired the esteem of their fellows and contemporaries, never thought [3029] of striving for the benefit of posterity, nor, even less, of disregarding the judgment of those living in the present to gain that of those in the future, or of entrusting themselves to the esteem of those in the future. For if the time I spoke of, together with the circumstances which I supposed, had never existed, supposing however that it did exist or might some time exist in some place or other, certainly the effect which I have argued would follow, that is that no one, even though he were magnanimous, even though famous among his fellow nationals or companions, would have or would conceive any concern or thought for posterity. (25 July, Feast of St. James, 1823.)

  Human life was never happier than when death too was considered beautiful and sweet, nor did men live more willingly than when they were prepared for and desirous of dying for their country and for glory. (25 July, Feast of St. James, 1823.)

  In many other things the course, progress, events, history of the human race is similar to that of each individual, very like the way in which a figure drawn large resembles the same figure drawn [3030] small; but among other things, in this. When men had at least some means of achieving happiness or less unhappiness than at prese
nt, and when if they lost their life they really did lose something, they risked it easily and readily and often. They did not fear dangers, on the contrary they sought them out, they were not frightened by death, on the contrary they faced it every day either with their enemies or among themselves. And above all else they delighted in dying gloriously, which they valued as the supreme good. Now the fear of danger is all the greater the greater the unhappiness and vexation from which death would set us free, or if nothing else, the more worthless is what we have to lose when we die. And love of life and fear of death grew in the human race and grow in each nation in proportion to how much less life is worth. Courage is much less where lesser rewards are at stake, and where it would cost less. Death—sometimes seen as the greatest good by the ancients, active as they were, whose lives, to say the least, were so full—is considered and described more commonly as the greatest evil the more wretched life is. It is well [3031] known that the most oppressed nations, and similarly the weakest, the most wretched, and the most enslaved classes in society, are the least courageous and the most fearful of death, and the most solicitous for and jealous of that life which is yet such a great burden to them. And the more someone oppresses them and makes their life unhappy, the more he makes them care about that life. And in short one can say that the ancients by living had no fear of dying, and the moderns, by not living, fear it, and that the more man’s life is like death, the more is death feared and fled away from, as if we were terrified by the continuous image of death which we have and contemplate in life itself, and by those effects, indeed that part of death which we experience even though we are alive. And vice versa.