In the same period of time French and German literatures have been born, and English literature has been first formed, then established. These three literatures, for what they are and contain, are all included, one might say, from the point of view of time, in the one hundred and fifty years that our literature has been in stasis. The decadence and hence the onset of sloth and inactivity in Italian literature was almost the signal for the other, more famous literatures of Europe to arise and make their appearance [3321] in the world. They arose, and in a very short space of time have reached the stage achieved by us and surpassed it, and the universal progress of literature and human knowledge in the last one hundred and fifty years has been so rapid and considerable, that it is equivalent, so to speak, to that recorded through all previous centuries up to the period mentioned. This is true in particular of philosophy, which, having enjoyed a renaissance since that period, and being completely new, makes the philosophy of all the other centuries put together appear little more than dwarflike in comparison. It has become the science, the character, and the property of the moderns; it supports, dominates, enlivens, animates all modern literature; it constitutes its matter and its subject—in short, it is everything in the world of learning today and in any form of writing, or certainly nothing is anything without it.
Amid such general events and this progress in literature, Italy, as I said earlier, has done nothing for itself. The writers it has produced in this time who were to some extent original, those who might have merited the name of modern, have not [3322] been sufficient either in terms of originality or number to provide it with a modern, national language, in the same way that they have not been sufficient to ensure it had a modern national literature.
And as far as language is concerned, their inability to ensure that Italy had a modern language of its own has sprung chiefly from this cause. Finding literature in Italy to have been interrupted, they found the illustrious language to be interrupted too; the former being ancient, the latter was ancient as well. An ancient language is no good for the purpose of saying modern things, and for saying them in modern fashion, as they should be said, nor was our language in particular any good for the purpose of expressing the new forms of knowledge, or supplying what was needed for so much and such vast novelty. As the news of foreign literatures and disciplines filtered through to us, there were some few Italians who, excited by these new forms of knowledge, found in themselves a wealth of mind which enabled them to add something of their own to them. There were many more who, enamored of novelty, or moved by some other motive, determined, [3323] despite not having anything original to write, to introduce or publish the new genres, literatures and disciplines, the new philosophy, or rather, philosophy, in Italy. When they found the ancient Italian language to be inadequate for this purpose, they dismissed it entirely and, as they did with disciplines and ideas so they also took lessons in language from foreigners; borrowing things from them, both in order merely to repeat them, and sometimes also to expand on and in part improve them, they also borrowed words, manners and forms of speaking and writing.a
Their situation was truly sad and difficult, but the party they attached themselves to was still worse. The situation was difficult, in the sense that as easy as it is for a nation to continue its illustrious language in parallel with its literature, it is just as difficult, once that literature has been interrupted for such a long period of time, and the nation virtually has to re-create it, for it to reconnect the language that is appropriate to it with the already antiquated illustrious tongue of that nation, that is, with the language that was proper to the national literature before the latter was completely interrupted.
[3324] Perhaps no nation has ever found itself in this situation (with the exception of latter-day Spain, when it sought to restore its virtually moribund literature). But this is precisely the situation in which Italy finds itself in today.
We have a language, an old one, certainly, but a very rich, vast, beautiful, powerful language, in short, one that is full of every kind of quality, because we have a literature, it also ancient, but vast, varied, extremely beautiful, abounding in genres and authors, brilliant in its classics, which lasted for a good three centuries and more, so that compared to how old it was when it came to be abandoned, the other literatures are still extremely young. For these reasons, and for others which there is no need to go into at this stage, this Italian language which we find ourselves with exceeds in terms of riches and power and variety all other modern languages with the possible exception of German. In terms of beauty it far outstrips all these languages, without exception and without doubt. In terms of other qualities it is superior, not just to these languages, but also the ancient ones. This is what [3325] the Italian language is like, per se and intrinsically. But it is ancient, extrinsic, and being ancient, it is inadequate, nor in its present state does it lend itself to anyone wishing to write modern things in modern fashion. For this reason a sensible man might perhaps wish or allow this language to be thrown away and forgotten on the grounds that it has become entirely useless, or to wish that in giving Italy a modern literature of its own, it should also be given an entirely new language, as has been done so far, either by taking it from foreigners, which too has been done, or by creating it from scratch, as though Italy in the past had had no language, or only a very imperfect, weak, poor, and despicable one.
But certainly, just as this is absolutely absurd, and, as we see clearly proven, extremely damaging, so it is necessary, evident, and certain that in seeking to give modern Italy a modern literature, it does not make sense to change its ancient language, or dismantle it, or renew it, but rather to remodernize it without prejudice to its foundations, character, and property, and all its merits according to their special, proper qualities, and to ensure that the [3326] modern illustrious Italian language is properly speaking a continuation, a derivation of the ancient one, indeed, that it is the same ancient language continued, in just the same way that the French of the last half of the previous century, and that of the present, is no different from the French of Louis XIV, continued step by step.
Now this was easy for the French, because their literature was never interrupted from the period of Louis onward. Hence, their language was always continued naturally and effortlessly, and in always changing successively according to the times, was modern at all times, but still one and the same language at all times considered together. We, on the other hand, have to distort things and virtually erase and cancel or hide the facts, that is, behave in such a way that what happened appears not to have happened, and that the Italian language seems never to have been interrupted, but to have been continually advanced and developed to the point of becoming suitable, adaptable, and conforming to present-day Italy and its modern literature.
Let us therefore consider the immense difficulties and obstacles which have to be crossed, the troubles [3327] which press in, the true unhappiness of the condition in which the Italian who aspires to be a classical writer today finds himself, that is, who aspires to be an original thinker, to say things which are proper to the times, to say them in a way that is appropriate to the times, and to use his language perfectly, for if even just one of these conditions is not met, literary immortality may never justifiably be claimed or reasonably hoped for. (Which, I might add in passing, was very rarely or never attained through works written in a language other than the writer’s own, as if, dismayed by the difficulties of which I have spoken and shall speak of in due course, we wanted to write in French rather than Italian.)
An Italian—even if he is fully instructed in all that is required of a perfect man of letters anywhere today, even if he has a very fertile imagination and heart, even if he is extremely productive and bursting with appropriate, very significant profound new thoughts and with inventions, ideas of all kinds most fitting for his time, even if he is without peer as an observer, meditator, and thinker, and even if he is most skilled in all the arts and artifices of [3328] st
yle—if he wants to write perfectly in Italian, and is more than capable of writing perfectly in every other respect, finds himself entirely lacking in the language in which he can do it, not just to perfection but even in the most average way. A man such as this has first of all to prepare a language with his own hands. But how is he supposed to do this? It would be less difficult to create such a language. If Italy had but a very imperfect, limited, infantile language, it would be less difficult for a great intelligence to perfect it, enrich it, expand it, and bring it to maturity. But in fact Italy has a language which is as perfect as it is immense, despite having been out of use for a long time, and therefore inappropriate for his needs, as it was never adapted or employed for these by anyone. It is therefore indispensable that the man of intelligence we are imagining, before he sets himself to write, should learn this infinite language perfectly, embrace it all, make it his own lifeblood, become its owner and master most resolutely and fully, have it clearly and quickly at his fingertips as a whole and down to its tiniest parts. [3329] Without this, how would he be able to derive and to cause such a language to be born and proliferate in such a way that it appears to be entirely spontaneous? A language conforming to the nature and the needs of modern times and modern forms of knowledge, but in such a way that it appears to be, and indeed is, entirely one with the ancient language? How would he be able to put the former together with the latter in such a way as to ensure that the join does not show? But as this language is ancient, he is not able to learn it from his nursemaid, rather he has to learn it through study. Since it is infinite and very diverse in itself, he cannot learn it through brief or superficial study either, but only through long toil and deep research of its properties, and constant exercise in reading and writing it, and assiduous and most attentive study of its classics which are very many in number. And in so doing he will find, and be increasingly persuaded, that the same may be said of the Italian as of the Greek language, that it truly is infinite, so much so that it is impossible to embrace all of it, and that the day will never come when new knowledge regarding this language cannot be [3330] acquired, or the journey has ended. But without going to excess—though there is no exaggeration here—without wishing to maintain excessive precision in our reasoning, assuming once again, as is the case, that a great and felicitous intellect may come to understand with his mind and possess, if not all of our language, then at least such a part of it that the knowledge of this part and familiarity with it should suffice for him to build the modern language on the foundations, order, and design of the old language as a kind of continuation of it, see how much he has to suffer before being able to make use of his thoughts. It is indisputable that true knowledge and mastery of a language such as Italian requires without exaggeration almost half a life, and in this I refer to that knowledge and mastery which is indispensable to whoever is seeking truly to restore it. But do not knowledge, wisdom, the study of man, require a whole life? And that vast array of knowledge, both great and small, that universality which [3331] today is required almost generally of all men of letters, but which is necessary to the philosopher above all, the knowledge and use and practice of so many other ancient and modern languages and their authors, literatures, etc., do these require a small amount of time? Certainly the condition of any Italian today who has things in mind that are worthy of being written and appropriate to the times is truly hard and deplorable, for even if he wished to use the greatest simplicity in the world, he would not have a natural language in which to write (as the French, etc., have, ready to start writing immediately, as they have cultivated it and studied it competently), nor would the method of expressing his concepts well rush spontaneously to his pen, but he himself would have to fashion the instrument with which to signify his ideas. Moreover, the condition of even the greatest and most cultured intellect is extremely hard and difficult if, in addition to the great task of seeking to restore Italian literature and to furnish or exhibit a truly modern literature to Italy, [3332] as though this were but a trifle, he had first to pave the way by restoring the Italian language and providing Italy with a modern national tongue, again as though this in itself were not sufficient to occupy an entire life and an excellent mind.
Such is the difficulty of bringing to completion two enterprises of this kind, which must also be the aim and proposition of any Italian man of letters worthy of this name. Furthermore it is so true that literature and language are never separate, and that one is not dissimilar from the other, and that it is virtually impossible to write perfectly, and in a form that appears spontaneous, in a language that has only been learned or invented for the sole purpose of study. So true that since I know for certain Italy will never have its own modern literature until such time as it has a modern national language, so I am persuaded that it will never have such a language until it has such a literature. Hence (we may hope at least), once a modern Italian [3333] literature has been born, a modern language will be born along with it, so both may grow gradually, one with the other, and mutually, one by virtue of the other, but more so the language by virtue of the literature than the latter with the help of the former. But to my great displeasure I predict that if we are ever again to have a modern language proper to us, this will not be born from, or correspond to, the ancient language, but in being born from the new literature it will conform to this instead: and being foreign in origin, it will be gradually appropriating and taking on national forms (whatever these may be, but certainly not the ancient ones), to the same extent as the new literature becomes national and puts down roots in Italy, feeds and grows in our soil, and starts to produce truly Italian fruit. I am brought to this conclusion by considering that neither our ancient writers nor the ancient or modern writers of any nation, past or present, were ever thinkers, original, etc., by writing in a language other than that of their own century or that used generally [3334] by their compatriots, and which came to their pen naturally, certainly refined, reformed, expanded, perfected by them many times (as by Cicero), but never learned by means only of study, and re-created virtually through study alone. Given the immense suffering and continuous difficulty of writing, and writing perfectly, in such a language, even once it has been learned, formed, and possessed, it is virtually impossible to find an original thinker, a great philosopher, a man of genius and great imagination, who is prepared to subject himself to such an ordeal, or who in subjecting himself manages to remain original as a thinker and philosopher, in himself and his writings, without which his subjecting himself thus is quite useless. In the same way as for the purpose of providing Italy with a modern language and literature of its own there is no use to be found in those who today strive to write in good Italian but from which every kind of thought, not just new and modern, has been removed, and when they have to mention something modern, mention or indicate it covertly, and who, having on occasion to demonstrate some item of knowledge, some idea that our ancients did not have, make it a point of merit and duty to do so only evasively, by pretending to be [3335] as ignorant as possible regarding what the ancients did not know. Equally useless for this purpose are those among us today who might even have had some thought (who themselves are few and think little) or bring forward some thought from other countries for our benefit, etc., but who do not write in Italian but barbarian. And I predict that for the above reasons this separation and distinction between people who write in Italian (genuine or supposed) and people who think is destined to last forever, or at least until the latter prevail over the former, eventually coming to form a new illustrious Italian and making it rather than the ancient language universal among us. We are still a long way off this, especially today, when the number and worth of those shades of philosophers that Italy has seen thus far continues to reduce significantly, and when conversely the number, but not the worth, of those who claim and aspire to write good Italian is growing. Hence Italy is focused virtually entirely once again on its ancient language, and does not think, [3336] care, or ask about thought at
all, not in the slightest. See Speroni’s “Dialogo delle lingue,” from p. 121 onward, that is the whole conversation between Lascaris and Peretto, to the end of the Dialogue.1
An interruption to studies is certainly an ill thing, wherever it occurs, because it ages the illustrious language along with literature, as well as the thousand other damaging effects that it has. Thus when literature arises from its slumbers, the lack of a language proper to it, and the time and industry that has to be expended in providing it, will be a huge obstacle and delay for it in growing and forming. How much do we believe that the advances of the human spirit following the rebirth of studies were delayed (not just in one nation but in the whole of Europe) by the lack of languages appropriate to the new letters? A lack which derived solely from the lengthy interruption of literature in Europe. For the Latin language would not have ceased to be spoken or to be proper to Europeans, if Latin literature had continued. Of course it would have changed with the times, so it would be different from ancient Latin today. But it would still be Latin, and in Europe today we would speak and write Latin as our own language, as a modern language in tune with our times (which it would be), and the human spirit would be further advanced than it is, [3337] because it would have used the time in cultivating wisdom and letters which instead had to be spent in forming languages proper to them and to the customs and character of modern centuries. As the first cultivators of the revival of studies wished to avoid and spare themselves this, they insisted on continuing to write in Latin. But Latin was an ancient language, and modern things can never be written nor be written in modern fashion in an ancient language. This insistence was extremely harmful to the progress of knowledge and culture and the formation of the modern, national spirit. Which would never have been formed if the modern languages had not been formed and established instead of Latin. Whereas on the contrary it is clear that these were not formed and established before the modern, national spirit had begun to take shape and assume a form and features of its own, first in Italy then in Spain, then in France and England, and finally in Germany, which last of all these nations abandoned the use of Latin as the literary and illustrious language, and replaced it with [3338] its own national tongue. This example of Europe should be applied and compared proportionately to the case of Italy today, and conjectures derived from it regarding the future outcome of our present circumstances, which will certainly be extremely plausible and well-grounded. (1–2 September 1823.)
Zibaldone Page 233
