For p. 3343, margin. It should be noted that etymologically, all these terms literally mean only wretched, afflicted, etc., or poor, etc., or fatiguing, etc., misery, calamity, poverty, laboriousness, etc. As this meaning was lost or became less common and archaic or poetic, etc., over time, many of these words and perhaps even most of them came, in ordinary usage, to retain only the meaning of rogue, bad, depraved, evil, iniquity, etc., almost as though the wretch was also automatically evil. The distinction between πόνηρος miser [wretch] and πονηρὸς improbus [wicked], and the different accentuation, only comes from the Greek grammarians,1 who did not consider the many other examples of Greek and foreign words that combine both one and the other meaning, and failed to note that the second is but a genuinely metaphorical usage of the former. (8 Sept., Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 1823.)
It is a fact as marvelous as it is true, that poetry, which by its nature and property seeks out what is beautiful, and philosophy, which fundamentally searches for the truth, that is, for what is furthest removed from beauty, should be the faculties that are [3383] most similar to each other, so that the true poet is supremely disposed to be a great philosopher, and the true philosopher to be a great poet, indeed, neither one nor the other can be perfect or great among their own kind if they do not also participate, at least to some degree, in the other, in terms of the basic character of the intellect, the natural disposition, the force of imagination. I have spoken of this elsewhere [→Z 1383, 1650, 3269–71]. The great truths, especially in the abstract, in metaphysics, psychology, etc., are discovered only by means of what is almost an enthusiasm of reason, and are only discovered by those who are capable of such enthusiasm. (Unless they are discovered gradually, by time and the centuries rather than by man, so that their discovery may not be attributed to anyone in particular, as often happens.) Poetry and philosophy are both equally almost the pinnacles of the human spirit, the most noble and demanding faculties to which the human mind can apply itself. And despite this, and despite the fact that one of the two, namely poetry, is genuinely the most useful of all the faculties, poetry and [3384] philosophy are to an equal degree the most unfortunate and despised of all faculties of the spirit. All the others provide bread, many of them yield honor even during one’s life, open the way up to dignities, etc.: all the others, I repeat, save for these two, which give hope of no more than glory, and that only after death. “Povera e nuda vai, filosofia” [“Poor and naked you go, philosophy”] (Petrarch, Sonnet “La gola, il sonno”).1 Of the ordinary fate of poets while they are alive, it is best not to speak. Whoever proclaims themselves to be a doctor, a lawyer, a mathematician, geometrician, hydraulic engineer, philologist, antiquarian, linguist, or one skilled even in just one language, the painter even, or sculptor and architect, the musician, not merely the composer, but also the performer, all these are received with pleasure in society, treated with esteem in conversation and civilized life, sought after, honored, invited, and more to the point, rewarded, enriched, elevated to titles and dignities. While anyone who proclaims himself merely to be a poet or philosopher, even if he truly is such, and supremely so, can find no one to take note of him, cannot get others to speak of him even with modest testimonies of esteem. The reason for this is that all believe themselves to be philosophers, [3385] and to have what it takes to be poets if only they decided to put it into practice, or at any rate to be able to acquire it very easily and deploy it. Whereas anyone who is not a mathematician, painter, musician, etc., does not think that he is, and on this account regards as superior to him and to the majority of ordinary men, those who are. The gift on which the poetic and philosophical faculty principally depends, and from which it is born, is not measured in the spans that are required in order to be a doctor or geometrician. This means that everyone believes they possess what is actually most rare among men. Hence all men believe they possess, or could easily acquire if they so desire, the two most noble, most rare and difficult, indeed the most extraordinary faculties, which are poetry and philosophy. In addition to the fact that such a gift cannot be judged, felt, known, or aperçu [perceived] save by such a gift itself. Which, given that virtually all men are deficient in this, means that they neither feel it nor recognize it when they do find it. Hence it is only true poets, true philosophers who can savor, or even appreciate to some limited degree, the true value of works of poetry and philosophy, unlike the works of other faculties, etc.
[3386] And here let us consider the difference between ancient and modern times. For among the ancients the philosophers, and especially the poets, were indisputably supreme, if not in fortune (though many philosophers were supreme in fortune too, such as Pythagoras, Empedocles, Archytas, Solon, Lycurgus, and others of the most ancient, who were lords of their respective republics), at least in terms of public estimation, not just after their deaths, but in their lifetimes too. And yet many more were able to be poets at that time than is the case today, for imagination was the mistress of men, and the weak philosophy of those times meant there was no great distinction between philosophers and the people, nor was much required in order to arrive at their discoveries and reach the heights attained by them.—etc. etc. (8 Sept., Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 1823.)
For p. 3205. A sweet or penetrating sound, irrespective of the harmony or melody which may appear to be related to particular ideas, scents, tobacco, etc., influences the imagination especially, and does so in a way that is entirely physical, that is, without any relation in itself to ideas. Whereas those objects which act on the imagination [3387] and awaken it, etc., through the sense of sight, do so by awakening specific ideas linked to those objects, because of their form, through the recollections which they arouse in the memory, or through images which are in some way commensurate or analogous to the sight itself, etc. None of this happens with sound in its own right, with scents, tobacco, etc., save by accident, and even outside of such accident these things impact directly on the imaginative faculty. The same thing may be said of light in itself, and independently of those objects which it reveals to the eye; for light, too, itself influences and physically awakens the imaginative faculty without any proper and particular relation to any idea. Certainly the imagination is visibly subjected to a thousand, entirely physical causes which move and upset it, or make it drowsy and dull, arouse or depress it, excite or restrain it, heat or chill it. If this is true of the imagination, [3388] why not then also of the intellect? For the former, too, is an entirely spiritual faculty, or one which belongs entirely to that which in man is considered to be spirit. It is a part or faculty of the mind alone, of the spirit, etc., and of the intellect itself. (9 September 1823.) See p. 3552.
There are many Italians today who place the entire worth of poetry, indeed all poetry itself, in the style, who are totally contemptuous and cannot even conceive of novelty of thought, imagery, or feeling, and who with no thoughts, imagery, or feelings of their own, believe that they are poets thanks to their style, and perfect, classical ones at that. Such people would perhaps be surprised if they were told, not merely that anyone who is not competent with imagery, feelings, thought is no poet, which they would expressly or implicitly deny, but that whoever is unable to imagine, think, feel, invent, cannot possess a good poetic style or know its art, put it into practice, or judge it in his own works or those of others; and that the art, faculty, and use of the imagination and invention (see pp. 2979–80, 3717–20)1 are as indispensable to [3389] poetic style as, indeed perhaps more than, the discovery, selection, and arrangement of the matter, the judgments, and all the other parts of poetry, etc. (See in this connection pp. 2978–80.) Hence no one can become a poet through style alone unless they are already poets as to the rest, nor can they have a style that is truly poetic unless they have ability, or if having the ability they do not have the habit of feeling, of thought, of fantasy, of imagination, in short of originality in their writing.1 (9 Sept. 1823.)
In my view the Spanish language can be a sourc
e of good, beautiful, and useful novelty as far as Italian writers are concerned, and can help them enrich our language, especially with expressions and idioms.
(1) I believe that no one can speak fully on any of the five languages that go to make up our family, that is, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and French, if they do not know all five of them more than adequately.2
(2) The Spanish language is the closest sister language to our own. Now, on how reasonable it is to derive [3390] new riches for one’s own tongue from its sister languages, see among other places, pp. 3192–96.
(3) The power which the Spanish enjoyed in Europe, and in Italy specifically, at precisely the time when our language and literature were being formed and perfected, that is, in the sixteenth century, meant that many Spanish terms, and many more expressions and forms, were introduced or accepted, not just by the ordinary people and in colloquial discourse, but also by the learned and men of letters, in written and illustrious Italian, in that century and even in the next (from Redi, Salvini, Dati, etc. See, e.g., the Crusca under alborotto [muddle, disarray], verdadiero [true, genuine]. See p. 3728. The adverb giacchè or già che to mean poichè [as, since, seeing that], so common among our best writers in the seventeenth century, also comes from Spanish). For at that time the Spanish language was widely studied, understood, spoken, written, and even printed in Italy. (See Speroni, Oration in praise of Bembo, in Orationi, Venice, 1596, p. 144; Caro, Lettere, vol. 2, letter 177.)1 This, first of all, is one excellent reason why we can continue to draw on the Spanish language, [3391] I mean, the fact that it has already been drawn on so extensively. This is the way it always is with languages. What has already been taken from elsewhere and naturalized prepares people’s ears and taste for what is still desired to be taken from there, smoothes the path, in a way prepares the place or bed, for the novelties wanting to be drawn from the same source, and facilitates their introduction. The channel has been dug, there is no need to construct it, it is up to the writer to let the water flow through it, in the measure he deems opportune. To this should be added that such commerce whereby Italian was enriched from Spanish, took place, as I have said, in the century when our own language was being formed and perfected and was taking on and establishing its character, namely, the sixteenth century. Hence it is quite natural that many parts of the Spanish language not yet accepted by us should fit and harmonize with the properties of our language, since not a few forms and expressions, and not a few Spanish words and meanings of words as well, entered the composition of our language at precisely the time when it was receiving its full form and perfection, and the distinct, specific imprint of its [3392] character. Last, it should be noted that while our ancestors introduced a great number of French words, expressions, and forms, not just in the sixteenth century but as early as the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, many of which are still preserved in our language today, these, from so long ago, together with the infinite number of others which the moderns introduced and continue to do so, still retain, for anyone who chooses to look at them closely, the appearance and features of being foreign. This is true in particular of the expressions and forms. Whereas the Spanish phrases and idioms and even the words that have been introduced into our language, reside there and converse with our Italian terms so naturally that they appear not to have come from outside but to have been born there, not Spanish but Italian, as much as any could ever be, and as much as our own Italian words are. Indeed, I am certain that few people, very few indeed, know, or if they know, actually notice that these are expressions, words, or meanings which are Spanish in origin. I see many of them being held to be and dubbed as absolutely pure native Italian terms. Especially expressions and meanings. Nor does this surprise me, for the difference of origin is not remotely felt in them, and it is quite possible to be aware of it but [3393] not perceive it. And I do not wish to hide the fact that of the so many French words, forms, and phrases introduced into Italian by our ancestors in the thirteenth, fourteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, a very large part, indeed perhaps the majority, has already gone out of use with us and is antiquated, to the extent that today not even the most brazen and impudent Gallicist and speaker or writer of mangled French would dare use them. And for those which were current among us in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, this happened a long time ago, that is, from at least the sixteenth century, when the ancient French-Italian terms which are no longer in use today were equally almost all forgotten, despite the fact that others continued to be introduced. But very few or a minority of the Spanish words and manners of speech introduced into Italian are found to have fallen out of use today, or at least a much smaller number than the French words. The others put down firm roots in Italian some time ago, finding it to be very much like their own terrain, so that their having been [3394] transplanted there rather than naturally and originally created appears to be more by chance than by nature.
(4) The Spanish language is the blood sister of Italian, not just by kinship, through birth and inheritance, but in terms of aspect, person, and customs. Nor may the French language be compared with it on this account, any more than it may be compared to Italian and Spanish on account of its resemblance, external and internal, to their common mother. The Spanish language is other than, rather than different from, the Italian language. And with good reason, for Italy, Spain, and Greece have the closest correspondence among the southern provinces in Europe in terms of climate, land, and sky.a Now of these, it was only natural that both Spain and Italy, one having given and the other received the same language, should over time have proved to correspond in respect of language as closely and as much as is possible for two separate nations. Whereas France, which also received one and the same language from Italy, had a part too in the northern [3395] climes and temperament and events narrated by history, hence it northernized the language it received, making a new blend which was its own, and was beautiful in its own right as I have said elsewhere [→Z 2989–90, 3252–53]. In moving away from the sounds, forms, and genius of its mother tongue, the French language separated itself to an equal degree from the temperament, spirit, and quality of the sounds of its sister languages, which continued to draw on the mother as much as time and circumstances permitted. And however much the sister tongues too were inundated by the northern languages, partly as a result of the total diversity of their climate and the temperament of their regions, they kept themselves so pure that when they came, so to speak, to dry out, they found that they had taken from those languages very few words, no form and no quality belonging to their own genius and character. In truth, the Spanish language corresponds so well with Italian in terms of character, forms, constructions, sounds, and everything else, that I believe no two other cultured languages corresponding so closely can be found, nor to my knowledge have ever been found. [3396] And these two languages would correspond even more closely if Spain had and could boast a more extensive, abundant, varied, long-standing, perfect literature than it has. When I say corresponding more closely, I mean with regard to quantity, that is, in terms of wealth, variety, and other such things. For certainly, all that was lacking for the Spanish language to be comparable to the Italian language in these parts too is what I have said—to be completely comparable, that is, in terms of quantity as it is in quality, save only for the fact that in its qualities it is also less perfect than Italian. Apart from this, in terms of qualities it could hardly correspond any more closely to ours than it does.
(5) Nor would this be the case if Spanish literature, despite ceding considerable ground to Italian in terms also of quantity, were not completely its equal in terms of quality, save for the lesser degree of perfection in each of its attributes. The same reasons, both natural and accidental, which made the Spanish correspond so closely in language, made them correspond equally closely [3397] in literature. Nor could it be any different, for the two always go hand in hand. Certainly, in the sixteenth century, which was the golden and principal age of Spanish l
anguage and literature no less than it was for Italian, the traffic between these two literatures was intense, and the influence reciprocal. But the Italian influence on Spanish literature was much greater than vice versa, for Italian literature was far superior and taken to a higher level much earlier, that is, in the fourteenth century. Hence, if there was imitation, there is no doubt that it was the Spanish who imitated, and the Italian writers who were their models. But without digressing further on this matter, it is absolutely certain and evident that good, classical Spanish style and good, classical Italian style, are one and the same, save that the former is less perfect. Now, how great a part language has in style (see alongside other references p. 2906ff.), how great the influence is that style has in language, how often it is difficult and virtually impossible to distinguish one from the other, and the properties of one from the properties of the other, whether one is speaking of an author or text in particular, [3398] or of a genre or of a whole literature, are all matters I have indicated elsewhere [→Z 2796–98, 2906ff.]. Suffice it to say for the moment, that a corrupt, barbarous, crude style together with a pure, delicate language, or vice versa, have not been found in any century, in any nation, but crudeness, purity, perfection, decadence, and corruption of both language and style have been found in company with each other at all times and in all places. Especially in prose writers: for poets see p. 3419. For while the language of our own fourteenth-century Italian writers is pure and the style lacks flavor: (1) the style is deficient only in terms of a lack of efficacy, through lack of artifice, art, and culture, but in no way is it vitiated nor does it have any bad quality, hence it cannot be described as corrupt; (2) the style of fourteenth-century writers is simple, and in its simplicity is energetic, as brought by nature, no more and no less so than their language, which generally has no good points other than these which are also good points of style, although not always, and are not sufficient; (3) whatever the pedants say,1 every time the style of the fourteenth-century writers is guilty of coarseness, their language too is coarse; every time it is guilty of barbarousness, the language is barbarous too; every time it is guilty of being excessively simple and lacking in art, the simplicity of the [3399] language too is excessive, as has been well demonstrated in recent times; and lastly, while their style is sometimes bloated, false, or basically corrupt in some way (despite the fact that such corruption is somewhat puerile and based on their ignorance, rather than an indication of bad taste and depravity, which would not have been possible in them), even in instances such as this their language cannot be described by us as pure, save only because and insofar as it is ancient, according to the comments I have made elsewhere [→Z 2520–21, 2529ff.] on what is described as purity in language.
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