This is what man would have been like in nature in relation to woman, and woman in relation to man. But once the use of clothes was introduced (and also those artificial, arbitrary customs and laws of society which prevent or make it difficult for them to be removed when desired and necessary), woman has become almost mysterious to man (especially to young, inexperienced men), and man to woman. Their hidden forms have left room for the imagination of the persons who see them dressed. However, [3306] the inclination and natural desire of one sex for the other has not been able, as a result of this change in external circumstances, either to cease or reduce in mankind, any more than it does in other animals. Therefore man (and in the same way also woman with man) has seen himself supremely and above all other things attracted, as he had always been, to a creature which no longer presented itself to him, as previously it had done, as entirely open and plain for all to see, and such and so as it really is, but rather to one almost entirely concealed from him, which right from birth has only presented itself to his eyes or thought, or was only accustomed to present itself to him, as entirely veiled and almost arcane. In this way, from such an extrinsic, accidental, avoidable circumstance as that of clothing, the character and qualities of one sex toward the other have been utterly changed, especially in childhood and early youth. The sight and thought of and relations with [3307] this creature, irresistibly loved and desired above all others, but whose forms no longer (at least habitually) fall within reach of his senses, and who as a result, her forms being concealed from him (forms being such a significant part of man and all things), and free relations with her, and hence also full knowledge of her mind, customs, etc., being impeded or made difficult; who as a result of all this, as I say, has become entirely mysterious as far as he is concerned; the thought and sight, I repeat, of this creature, and her company, now plunge him into a host of conceits, imaginings, illusions, feelings which are strong and profound because that creature is by nature very pleasing and attractive to him, but at the same time they are also highly confused, uncertain, for the most part quite false, sublime, vast, because the thoughts and sentiments which this same creature, being almost mysterious, almost secret and occult to him, awakens in him are all chiefly and almost exclusively governed, modified, and figured, and in large part produced and created, by his fantasy, which is [3308] moved most strongly. In the natural state, the innate inclination of men toward women produced only the simplest, most distinct, clear and material thoughts and sentiments, as everything was open and unconcealed, and no room was left for the imagination. Now when this inclination, this inherent and naturally very strong and ardent love, encounters mystery, and its effects are conjoined in the human mind with the idea of mystery, or rather with an obscure and confused idea, the thoughts and emotions which result from this mixture of supreme desire and natural tendency on the one hand and the obscure idea of the desired object on the other, cannot fail to be most obscure and confused, oscillating, vague, ill-defined, a hundred times less sensual and carnal than before (because the idea is no longer derived directly from the senses, etc.), and ultimately almost mystical.1 And so man pictures woman to himself, both in general and the one he loves in particular, as divine, as a being from a stock that is different from his own, etc. Because nature presents her to him as most desirable and lovable, while circumstances conspire to increase his desire (for he cannot have her easily or immediately), and hide from him what she is really like, etc. In this way, a circumstance as material as that of clothing (like the others caused by social customs and laws regarding women) gives rise in man to an effect which is the most spiritual, [3309] almost, of any to take place in his mind; to the most sublime, noble, and properly spiritual thoughts and sentiments, the persuasion of being moved only by this spirit, etc. etc. A circumstance so real, so tangible and definite in him gives rise to the greatest illusions, the vaguest, most uncertain, indefinite thoughts, the greatest operation of the most fervent, delirious, and dreamy imagination, a circumstance so accidental gives rise to an effect so intimate, so widespread among the majority of young people (at least for a certain time), so constant, so closely linked, and so proper, it would seem, to the character of the individual. Finally, a circumstance that is not natural gives rise to an effect which is universally considered to be the most natural, the most proper to man, the most absolutely inevitable, the least easy to acquire, to be fabricated and produced by any other force than the hand of nature itself, the most congenital, etc., as I have said above.
Thus, and for these reasons, tenderness arose in mankind between the sexes, which savages do not experience and know (nor did primitive man experience it, nor will any nation where clothes are not used, etc., [3310] experience or know it), as they do not experience any of the effects described above, indeed, properly speaking, not even love itself, but only the inclination and impetus caused by it, the ὁρμήν [attack, impulse, appetition], the habit and act of this tendency; because what we experience, e.g., in respect of gold or money, is not properly speaking love. See p. 3636 and p. 3907.
Another proof among thousands of the propositions I listed at the start of this thought, could be the following. What civilized man, on hearing the most joyful melody, ever feels moved to joy? I do not mean to the extent of showing it externally, but even of feeling joy inwardly, that is, he conceives that passion which is genuinely called joy? It is well known that all music generally today, even often the gayest melodies, usually inspires and arouses a kind of melancholy, which, while sweet in itself, is very different from joy; a melancholy and passion of mind, which, rather than manifesting itself externally, prefers to curl itself up, concentrate itself, and, so to speak, turn the mind in on itself as far as it can, and all the more so the stronger it is, and the greater the effect [3311] of the music; a sentiment which serves also as a form of consolation for one’s own misfortunes, indeed, which is the sweetest and most effective remedy for them, but which consoles them only by bringing forth tears, and by persuading and sweetly but imperiously encouraging sometimes even the most hardened of men, inured to themselves and the calamities that befall them, to bemoan their own ills. In short, generally speaking today, music in civilized nations has the effect of inducing tears, or tends to produce tears (perhaps on occasion even tears of pleasure or joy, but of an inner kind, and almost like pain): and it is certainly a thousand times more likely to be tears than it is laughter, with which, indeed, it has virtually nothing in common.1 These effects which music has on us appear to be so natural, so spontaneous, etc. etc., that a good number of people will wish to, and indeed do, argue that it is absolutely within human nature to be affected by musical harmony and melody in this way.
Now, quite different to how it is with us, we know that [3312] savages, barbarians and peoples unaccustomed to music or unaccustomed to ours, in hearing some piece, burst forth into éclats [bursts] of jubilation, into leaping, shouts of joy, they split their sides laughing so happy are they, and in short collapse into a state of enthusiasm and into complete, all-out inebriation, frenzy, and madness of unadulterated joy. (29–30 Aug. 1823.)
Votare, etc. from voveo–votus [to vow]. Persécuter, perseguitare [to persecute], etc., see what I say in my theory on continuatives [→Z 1108] regarding the verb sectari [to follow]. Mercatare [to trade], etc., from mercor mercatus [to carry on, to trade]. See the Glossary, Forcellini, and French and Spanish dictionaries. (31 August, Sunday, 1823.)
Patulus [open] would appear to be a diminutive of patus, which itself has been completely forgotten, with the diminutive form instead taking its place.1 —To what I said elsewhere [→Z 3054–55] about fabula [talk] and fabella [story], whether both are diminutives, or the former positive and the latter diminutive, add the example of the positive forms baculum and baculus [walking stick], and the diminutive bacillum [little staff]. See also the passage from St. Isidore in Forcellini under Bacillum, [3313] end. (31 August 1823.)
Regarding what I said elsewhere [→Z 3208ff.] about melody, s
uffice it to say that the principle, the first origin, the foundation, that is, the original reason why any melodious sequence of tones is in fact melodious, that is, sequentially harmonious, or rather, the first source of and reason for the mutual concordance of tones in sequence was, and is, practically nothing other than habituation alone. It is, however, still open to development, to infinite modifications and variations, the most diverse applications, the most varied combinations of its parts. All these things have occurred and continue to occur in music and the compositions of the musician, whose office originally and chiefly consisted in no more than making good use of general habits regarding harmony, that is, the sequential and simultaneous concordance of the notes of tonalities, of instruments, voices, etc. etc., having preserved the mutual proportion of intervals, that is to say, of tempo.1 The musician may well modify these types of habituation in a great many ways, but must always acknowledge them [3314] and follow them, and pursue them as the foundation and reason of his art. (31 August, Sunday, 1823.)
For p. 3298. A man (or woman) whose character is naturally peaceful, placid, quiet, calm, ordered, and inclined to a certain laziness, is by nature also prone to egoism. The more a man loves rest, peace, order, uniformity of life, either by temperament and original condition, or as a result of age, because he is tired of the world, disenchanted, etc., the more he is distant from the heat of passion, strong desires, vast, impetuous designs, or fervent or active ones, etc., and the more he is given to inaction, to methodicalness, indeed, the more tolerant he is of injuries and even sufferings as a result of his weakness of mind, or body, or both, the more disposed and accustomed he is to renounce resentment, to bow his head to circumstances, to necessity, to sacrifice and to subordinate everything to the preservation of his own internal and external peace and inactivity, the more base and cowardly he is, the more he is accustomed to content himself with the present, to be satisfied with what happens to him, to take things as they come, the less disposed and accustomed he is to sacrifice himself or make efforts [3315] on behalf of others, the less likely he is to be prone to compassion, the more inclined he is to be egoistic, and the more egoistic he is inclined to be. The practice of idleness, in any age, always works in favor of egoism. In short, as a result of these observations, or of any other that one might wish to make regarding the different characters of men, it appears, and always will do, that the nature of egoism is like ice to the spirit, a chilling, a freezing, almost a concreting over, a hardness or hardening, a dryness or a drying out of self-love, a poverty or scarcity of life, an effective inactivity or an inclination to such, etc., whether this be natural or occasional, moral or physical, or both one and the other, brought about by birth then enhanced and confirmed by becoming habituated to the circumstances and events of life, etc., or produced by the latter contrary to and in spite of his original temperament, etc. (31 August 1823.) I believe I may assert in general terms that the men who are least subject to vehement passions, the ones who do not love pleasure, who have never lived for pleasure, have never been carried away by pleasures and the [3316] desire and fury of them (whether these be physical or spiritual), or who no longer are, and those who are least quick to anger, most patient and the like, by nature or habit, are the most inclined to egoism, habitually the most alien from feeling compassion or extending charity, often also the most unjust through deliberate choice. And vice versa as far as the opposite is concerned.
There are a great number of people who love, preach, promote, and practice justice, honesty, order, observance of laws, rectitude, fulfillment of duties toward anyone, equal dispensation of rewards and punishments, freedom from guilt, not out of virtue, nor as a virtue, not out of refinement or greatness or composure of mind, not out of inclination, not out of passion, but merely out of baseness and meanness of heart, out of sloth, inactivity, internal or external weakness, because in not being able (out of weakness) or not wanting (out of laziness) or not daring (out of cowardice) either to fend for or defend themselves, they want law and society to watch over them, and protect them without any effort on their part, and in such a way that they can rely on it; because the way of the upright is the least dangerous, the only one in the world which [3317] is openly permitted; because as honesty in action has (apparently, at least) fewer obstacles to overcome, it causes fewer difficulties, requires less activity, less suffering, produces fewer harmful consequences; because they do not dare to break laws or make themselves any enemies, much less those who command and watch over the enforcement of those laws; because they fear punishment, rebuke, public reprobation, they allow themselves to be dictated to by the appearance of universal opinion, which shows itself to esteem or not to harm or denigrate those who are good, and to hate and blame the evil, etc., because they do not have the spirit to aspire to extraordinary things, or to procure either good things or pleasures, or to advance their own condition, etc., by suffering some danger, even minimal, by tackling some obstacle, etc., or by attempting something outside the habitual or ordinary, or by risking anything, etc. Such people, although incapable of harming or wronging anyone (voluntarily), or of offending anyone in any way, of imposing themselves, etc., are huge egoists, closed to compassion, ignorant of charity. There are others who practice and love justice in the same way, not out of virtue or baseness, but because they are tired and disenchanted with the world, and since they no longer care for what may be acquired either through injustice or in any other way seek nothing other than peace, which is not to be found outside of order, and therefore are friends of order. Such people are also for the most part egoists, who are either born such or become so. (1 September 1823.)
Italianisms in the use of the term unus [one]. See Suetonius, in Divus Julius, Chapter 32, § 1, and Pitiscus, etc., with Forcellini, etc. (1 Sept. 1823.)
[3318] A Frenchman, Englishman, or German who has cultivated his intellect, and who finds he has something he is thinking about, has only to write. He finds a modern national language already formed, established, and perfected, which, once he has learned it, he has merely to make use of. Not since the start of their literature to the present day has there been a need for a writer of any of these nations, whoever he is, to form a modern language, that is, a language by means of which, in wanting to write in a modern style, as everyone must, he might be able to express his concepts in any genre. In the same way that from the birth of their literatures to the present day these nations have never ceased to cultivate the studies introduced into their country, or that in creating and inventing new genres or disciplines, they also naturally and from the outset created or formed the language most appropriate to them, or that in embracing foreign genres or disciplines unknown and hitherto untreated in those nations, they also embraced without dispute those modes of speech and items of vocabulary, even the foreign ones, that came along with them and were indispensable for treating those genres and disciplines, so there has never been a time when [3319] the writers of those nations lacked the means to write if they wished to do so, nor has there ever been a time when those nations did not have a modern national language for any form of literary genre or discipline treated by them.
The situation in which Italy finds itself today is quite different. We have only a literature which is ancient, and the illustrious language which is proper to the written form is never divorced from the literature and always follows its fortunes, so where literature is lacking or comes to a standstill, the same is true of the language. Thus as literature ground to a halt in Italy, so too did the language, and as of our literature, then, we may say also of our illustrious language that we have it only in ancient form. It is now more than one hundred and fifty years since Italy has created or cultivated for itself any genre of literature, for in no genre has it produced any original writers in this period, and the writers it has produced, given that they have not done and do not do anything other than copy the ancients, may not be called cultivators of literature, because one cannot say of [3320] a person who strolls through his field and
diligently observes it, while leaving things just as they were, that he has cultivated it, nor has any genre of our literature been advanced or improved in any way, nor any new genre introduced through the efforts of these writers. From that time onward our literature has been entirely stationary, insofar as these writers are concerned. Is this to be called having cultivated our literature? We could say that it has been cultivated to no profit, it amounts to the same thing.
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