For many reasons, even trivial ones, man will plunge himself into danger, including mortal danger; what is more, he will resolutely sacrifice [3433] himself, his money, possessions, comforts, hopes, etc. But very few men are found who even for serious reasons, even moved by keen passions, ardent love, etc., submit themselves or are genuinely capable of submitting themselves to some form of physical pain, even if it is not major. The risk of death is encountered frequently and easily, with open eyes and willingly, yet the same people are not capable of going to meet certain, physical pain willingly and knowingly. (15 Sept. 1823.)
That fear, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 458–59, 1303–304], is more natural to man than hope is, and that man inclines more toward the former than the latter, may be seen in the fact that if men do not know the causes of certain effects, whether natural or artificial, under ordinary circumstances they will be fearful of them, and as far as the ignorant in particular and primitives and savages and children are concerned, an effect whose cause is hidden is an effect of which to be frightened. Now when is hope ever so bold? Moreover, if ignorance, superstition, etc., led in ancient times, [3434] or lead today, to some new or unknown effect being taken as an omen of the future or a sign of the present unknown, it should be noted that such omens and signs were generally held to be sinister. I leave aside eclipses, which may naturally appear to be frightening to anyone who does not know their causes, has never seen one, etc., and the idea of evil omen which was attributed to them may well have arisen from this primitive fright, making them frightening for so long among all nations and even right up to today, even though it was already known, and is known, that the darkening would not last forever but would be transient, etc. But what do comets have in them that is more terrifying than any other celestial body, the Milky Way, etc.? And in seeking to take them as signs or omens, why not of good? But you will not find any nation where they were, or are, judged to herald anything other than ill. What the ancients called monsters, that is, extraordinary things, albeit nothing terrible in themselves and materially, were all held to be bad omens. The same was true of victims whose heart was missing, if it is true that this happened on occasions, as the ancients narrate, [3435] or appeared so by mistake to whoever inspiciebat [was inspecting] their entrails, etc. All signs that man is quicker and more inclined to fear than to hope, and that the latter is rarely so irrational and precipitous as the former, or certainly much more seldom, etc. Especially in nature, in children, in the ignorant, and in natural men. (15 Sept. 1823.)
The imagination and the great illusions by which the ancients were ruled, and the love of glory that seethed within them, meant that they always strove for posterity and eternity, and sought perpetuity in all of their works, and always wanted to procure immortality for themselves and their works.1 In wishing to honor the dead, they would construct a monument which was able to withstand the centuries and perhaps survives still, after thousands of years. On similar occasions we often spend almost as much on a funerary display that is dismantled the day after the ceremony, and of which no trace remains. The portentous solidity of ancient buildings of every kind, buildings which still exist, while ours, even the public ones, will certainly not be seen by our much later descendants; the pyramids, obelisks, triumphal arches, [3436] the deep impress made on ancient medals and coins, which, even after having passed through so many hands, still appear to be beautiful and fresh and are legible after so many events, so many centuries, etc., whereas the stamps on our coins minted but a hundred years ago have already been erased; all these and so many other similar things are works, effects, and signs of ancient illusions and the ancient power and dominance of the imagination. If it was for pomp that they constructed, the monuments of their pomp had to last forever, and their pride was not content with the admiration of a century: everyone at all times had to be witness to their power and help feed their vanity. If it was for delight, beauty, ornament, etc., all this had to extend to the future and forever; if for usefulness, all generations to come had to participate in this usefulness; if the prince, the municipality, or private individuals, if out of convenience, honor, individual or public advantage; if in memory of notable public or private achievements; if as a reward for virtue, noble actions, public or private benefits; if in public or private honor of the living or the dead; if as a testimony to love, etc. etc.; whatever purpose they set themselves, whatever [3437] effect may have ensued from this work, it had to be eternal, it had to extend to the entire future, it had never to end. The great illusions by which the ancients were moved did not permit them to be content with a small or fleeting effect, with procuring an effect that would not last for long, that would be unstable and short-lived, or to be satisfied with an idea restricted to not much beyond what they themselves could see. The imagination always drives us toward what does not fall within reach of our senses. Therefore, toward the future and posterity, for the present is limited and cannot give satisfaction to the imagination; it is wretched and arid, and the imagination feeds itself on hope, and lives by always making promises to itself. But for a strong imagination the future can have no limits, otherwise it does not satisfy it. Hence the imagination looks and strives toward eternity.
Durability and solidity were what distinguished ancient manual constructions, transience and brevity are what characterize modern ones. And this is quite natural in an age that is egoistic. It is egoistic because it is disillusioned. Now, as disillusion [3438] causes man to think only of himself, it also causes him to think only of the present; he cares little or not at all of what will come after him. In addition to which, the egoist is base, both because of his egoism and in other respects and for other reasons. And how can the modern era, which is that of peaceful, bloodless, perfected despotism, be anything but utterly abject? Now a base mind cannot raise itself up or set itself noble goals, nor does the idea of eternity take root in such narrow minds, nor can the abject man place his happiness in the achievement of sublime objectives.
In the intervening times between ancient and modern, if we observe the material monuments that survive, there are many clear signs of both the ancient illusions and the disillusionment that set in. Great solidity is also found in many barbarian works in earlier times (including private works, indeed mainly so), certainly by comparison to modern ones. Who can compare the solidity of the latter with that of the public or private structures of the sixteenth century, especially in Italy? In Rome, where there are monuments from every age from the Egyptians to the present, [3439] the high point, decay, and destruction of the human imagination and illusions may be seen, indeed, even its various high points, decays, etc., and the different ages of the imagination and the history not just of nations but generally of the human spirit considered spiritually, despite the material nature of the objects. One could begin with the obelisk in Piazza del Popolo,1 and conclude, not far from there, in palazzo Lucernari, which is still being built. “That money which among us is spent on tobacco cases and boxes, the ancients used to spend on busts and statues, and whereas now fireworks are lit to celebrate a victory, they used to build a triumphal arch.” Algarotti, Pensieri, thought 13.2 See again the Correspondance du Prince royal de Prusse et de Voltaire, in the Oeuvres complettes du Roi de Prusse, 1790, tome 10, letter 96 of Voltaire, pp. 422ff.3
These considerations may also be applied to literature. In ancient times brochures were not used, nor pamphlets and leaflets or other forms of writing that were destined to die the day after they were born. And even what was written only for circumstance and to serve the moment, was written in such a way that it could, and indeed should, last immortally.4
[3440] Cicero, after giving counsel to the senate or the people to be implemented even that same day, after pleading and concluding a case even for some small inheritance, would sit down at his desk, and from the shapeless commentaries he had used to recite, derived, composed, refined, perfected an oration based on the eternal rules and models of the most exquisite art, and in this form consigned it to
eternity. Thus too the Attic orators, and also Demosthenes, by whom we still have and still read today even 2,000 years later, an oration for a case involving 3 sheep:1 whereas orations made to parliaments today are either read by no one, or are forgotten in the space of two days and that is what they are worth, nor did the person who uttered them claim, desire, or take care to ensure that they lasted any longer. (15 Sept. 1823.) What I have said regarding their endurance may also be said of their greatness and magnificence, etc.
Before a young man has lived his own experiences, he will never be effectively persuaded by any form of teaching he has heard or read from persons he esteems or does not esteem, who are loved by him or not loved by him, believed or not believed, etc., that the world is not a wonderful thing, nor will he relinquish the desire or hope that he has of life and men and social pleasures, or the most favorable opinion he has of them and, deep down in his heart, [3441] the absolutely firm conviction of the possibility, or even the probability, of being happy by taking part in life, in action, etc. Why is this? Because this opinion, desire, hope, on his part is no whim but is nature, nor can it be eradicated from the mind as accidental opinions or passions can, nor do tenderness and flexibility and docility of either age or temperament serve to eradicate these things. Otherwise nature itself could be eradicated, nature that has furnished childhood and youth with hope, and matched with hope the desire of those ages. (15 Sept. 1823.)
Elsewhere I have compared the pleasure which reading Anacreon gives (it was at the start of these thoughts—on pp. 30–31) to that of a scent on a breeze, etc.1 I would now add, that as this sensation leaves great desire and dissatisfaction, for we should like to recall it but cannot, so too does the reading of Anacreon, which leaves us wanting much more. But in rereading him, as though to perfect the pleasure (for it genuinely appears to need to be perfected, even more than inspiring a desire to be continued), no pleasure is in fact experienced, indeed we fail to see [3442] what it was that produced it in the first place, or what reason there could have been for it, or of what it might have consisted. And the more it is sought, examined, and investigated, the less it is actually found and discovered, indeed, we lose sight not just of the cause but the very quality of the pleasure which we experienced, for in seeking to recall it our mind is confused. In short, as we reason and search, we become increasingly incapable of experiencing any pleasure in those odes, and of feeling again the effect we felt previously, and increasingly they become almost like tow, and grow dry and brittle in the hands of whoever handles and touches them in order to speculate on them. From this it may be gathered how possible it would be to translate Anacreon into any language (and similarly to imitate him deliberately, not by chance or naturally, without seeking to), when the translator could not even reread him in order to know properly the qualities of the effect he is to produce in his translation, and the more he was to reread and consider it, the less he would understand that quality, and the more he would lose sight of it. For studying Anacreon in order to imitate or rather [3443] to savor or understand properly or define the property of the effect and the feelings which he produces is not merely useless, but is more harmful than useful, nor can this property be defined in any way other than by saying that it is indefinable, and by expressing it in the way that I did by means of that simile, etc. Nor certainly can a translator, or imitator, or anyone else, be aware of and clear and informed as to the proper and entire character of Anacreon on a first reading; clear, and having understood in such a way that he may express it exactly and data opera [precisely], nor even signify it distinctly to himself, or conceive or form a clear and precise idea of it, because the qualities of this idea are contradictory and incompatible with the nature of the said effect and character. (16 Sept. 1823.)
“Quante volte diss’io / Allor pien di spavento, / Costei per fermo nacque in paradiso” [“How many times did I say then to myself in fright: She was surely born in paradise”] Petrarch, Canzone “Chiare fresche e dolci acque.”1 “Καὶ γελάϊς δ’ἱμερόεν· τό μοι ’μὰν Καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόασεν” [“and how you laugh charmingly, why it makes my heart tremble in my breast”] Sappho, in Longinus, section 10.2 One property that is typical of the impression which beauty makes [3444] (similarly also grace and the other seductions, but beauty in particular, for it has no need of time to make an impression, and as the cause exists fully at the same time, so too the effect is instantaneous), one property, I repeat, that is typical of the impression which beauty makes on those of the opposite sex who see it or listen to it or approach it, is to induce fright, and this is almost the principal and the most perceptible effect which it produces upon first appearance, or what distinguishes it most and is noted and stands out. And fright comes from this, from the fact that at the very moment it seems impossible to the spectator, male or female, to ever again be without that object, at the same time it seems impossible to them to possess it as they would wish to. For not even carnal possession, which at this stage is not even remotely in their thoughts, indeed is quite alien to them, not even this form of possession would appear to them sufficient to satisfy and fulfill the desire which they conceive for that object with which they would now wish to become one (as Aristophanes in Plato’s Banquet notes profoundly, if jokingly).1 But at this stage they do not see how this could ever be. [3445] The force of the desire which they conceive at this stage terrifies them, because it represents to their thoughts immediately and all at once, albeit confusedly, all the torments they will have to suffer because of this desire, for desire is torment and the strongest, most supreme desire is the strongest, most supreme torment, and everlasting, never satisfied desire is everlasting torment. Now it seems to them that this desire will never be satisfied (or they do not see how it can be, and it seems to be too arduous and difficult and improbable a thing), and that it will never be extinguished by itself, as when we experience sharp pain, it seems at first that the pain will be endless, and that relief for it will be impossible, and that nothing will ever provide relief for it. All this occurs chiefly (and these days exclusively) to young people before they enter the world, or upon their first entering it (sometimes, indeed quite often, even to children). Who are more prone to keenness of impression and keenness of desire, etc., and at the same time inexperienced in how quickly and easily love [3446] either disappears or is satisfied, and in what way; and in there being nothing truly lovable in the world, and in how easy it is to obtain everything they desire from those objects they deem to be inaccessible, etc. etc.
Moreover, generalizing, it should be noted that the first strong desire to be conceived for something that is difficult to attain, which takes place only in children and early youth, is always accompanied by fright, and this is explained by the reasons I listed above. Especially if the thing is or appears to be impossible to obtain; both cases are very frequent in the ages referred to above. For these reasons in these ages desires, in the same way as they are full of torment in their duration and course, are frightening in their birth (and most of all the desire of Love, which causes the most torment because it is the strongest; especially in those who are inexperienced).1 And it is said as a joke, but not without some foundation of truth, that it is necessary for children’s desires to be satisfied, so as not to find them dead behind the doors. (16 Sept. 1823.)
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