Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  It is usually said that the ancients attributed human qualities to the Gods because they had too lowly an idea of divinity. I cannot dispute that this idea was not so lofty among them as it is [3495] with us, but what I will say is that if they did attribute human qualities to the Gods, the cause of this was also largely their having too high an idea of men and human things and this life, much more so than we do. And I will add that in humanizing the Gods, their intention was not so much to bring them low as to honor and exalt men, and that effectively they no more made divinity human than they made mankind divine, both in their own imagination and in popular estimation, and in the expression, etc., of one and the other, in fables, inventions, poems, customs, rites, apotheoses, religious dogmas and disciplines, etc. (22 Sept. 1823.) The ancients had such a great idea of man and human things, they placed so small a gap between man and divinity, between human and divine things (not in order to bring the one low but to exalt the others, nor out of lack of esteem for the one but because of the very high concept which they had of the other), that they esteemed divinity and humanity could be joined together in the same subject, to form one single person. Hence they imagined an entire genus which participated [3496] in both the human and the divine, a participation which to them seemed quite natural, and these were the semigods. Similarly, the fauns, nymphs, pans, and other such divinities, or rather terrestrial, aquatic, airy, in short sublunary semidivinitiesa reputed to be mortal, may be reduced to this type of participants (see Forcellini under Nympha). Although these were inferior to the semigods, such as Hercules (on whom see Lucian, “Dialogue of Hercules and Diogenes,” which is very relevant),1 that is, possibly participants to a lesser degree in divinity and to a greater degree in humanity and mortality, as the heroes, insofar as they are mortal, may appear to be one degree below the Pans, nymphs, etc., that is, less divine. (See Forcellini under Heros, Indigetes, Semideus; and Plato in the Symposium, ed. Ast, tome 3, 498d–500e,2 which fits the case very well—see p. 3544.) The ancients found it no more difficult to combine humanity and divinity in the same subject than they did to combine the two human sexes, male and female, in the imaginary hermaphrodites,3 almost as though the human and divine, no less than the masculine and the feminine, were, so to speak, two different species, so to say, of the same genus, and there was no greater difference or gap [3497] or distinction in terms of nature between them. (22 Sept. 1823.)

  The hopes which Christianity gives to man are unfortunately unable to provide consolation for those who are unhappy and suffering in this world, to provide rest for the mind of anyone who finds his desires obstructed on earth, who finds himself rejected by the world, persecuted or despised by man, finds his access closed to pleasures, comforts, utilities, temporal honors, or finds himself alienated by fortune. A promise and expectation, admittedly, of happiness which is immense, supreme, and complete, but (1) which man cannot comprehend or imagine, or conceive or surmise in any way what nature it is, (2) which he well knows he will never be able to conceive or imagine or have any idea of as long as this life lasts, and (3) which he expressly knows is of an entirely different nature and alien from what he desires in this world, from what he is deprived of on earth, from what forms the subject and cause of his unhappiness through his desire for it and his being deprived of it. A promise such as this, I repeat, an [3498] expectation such as this, is quite unable to provide consolation for the man who is unhappy or unfortunate in this life, to placate and provide respite for his desires, to compensate for his deprivations on earth. The happiness which man naturally desires is a temporal happiness, a material happiness, to be experienced by the senses or this mind of ours, such as it presently is and as we feel it to be. In other words, a happiness in this life and this existence, not that of another life and an existence which we know must be utterly different from this one, and the quality of which we cannot in any way conceive. Happiness is the perfection and goal of existence. We desire to be happy because we exist. The same is true of anyone who is alive. Thus it is clear that we desire to be happy, not just in any way, but according to the way in which we in fact exist.1 Man does not desire happiness absolutely, but human happiness (the same is true of the other animals), nor happiness of any kind but only one kind in particular, albeit indefinable. He desires it to be supreme and infinite, but of his own kind, not infinite in the sense that it should also include the happiness of the ox, the plant, the Angel, and all other kinds of happiness one by one. Only God’s happiness is truly infinite. Regarding infinity, man does desire a happiness that is divine, but regarding the other qualities and what type that happiness is, man could never truly desire the happiness of God. The man who envies his neighbor’s clothes, food, or palace is not, strictly speaking, ever touched by envy or desire for the immense and full happiness of God, save to the degree that it is immense, and even more to the degree that it is full and perfect. See p. 3509, especially the margin. It is clear that our existence desires its own perfection and goal, not those of another existence which is inconceivable to it. Therefore our existence desires its own happiness, for in desiring that of another existence, even if ours were subsequently transformed into it, we might say that it would be desiring a form of happiness that was not its own but another’s, [3499] and that it would have as its final and true goal not itself but another, which is essentially impossible to any Being in any operation or inclination or thought, etc. Hence the form of happiness which man desires is necessarily one that is fitting and proper to his present mode of existence, and of which his present existence is capable. Nor can he ever leave off desiring this happiness for any reason, nor may he ever for any reason desire any form of happiness other than this. And it is no more possible that mortal man should truly desire the happiness of the Blessed than that the horse should desire that of man, or the plant that of the animal; than it is that the herbivorous animal should envy the carnivore or its nature or the meat with which it feeds itself, or man the pleasure of his studies and knowledge, a pleasure which the animal cannot conceive either that it can be such or how it could be, or what pleasure it could be, and so forth. It is quite true that neither man, nor possibly the animal nor any other being, can define precisely to himself or to others what the happiness he desires is, absolutely and in general terms, because [3500] possibly no one has ever experienced it, nor will they experience it, and because an infinite number of our other concepts, even the most ordinary and everyday ones, are indefinable as far as we are concerned. Especially those which contain more sensation than they do ideas, those which are born more of inclination and appetite than of the intellect, reason, and science, those which are more material than spiritual. Ideas are for the most part definable, but feelings virtually never are. The former may be well, clearly, and distinctly comprehended, embraced and specified by thought, the latter very rarely or never are. But despite this, both animal and man know well and understand, or at least feel, that the happiness they desire is an earthly thing. Even that infinity toward which our spirit reaches (in what way and how I have said elsewhere [→Z 165ff., 179–81, 3027–29]) is an earthly infinity, even though it can only be realized confusedly on earth, in thought and imagination, or in the mere desire and appetite of the living. In addition to which, there is no one alive without a determined, clear, and very definable desire, whether positive or negative, in the achievement [3501] of which, or more than one of which, he always expressly or confusedly, but also always mistakenly, locates his happiness and well-being. To find oneself without any desire in the world other than for something unspecified, to be unhappy without lacking any good thing or without suffering any ill at all, is impossible. And if Augustus said he was in this situation,1 it might have seemed to him that he was, but he was wrong. No one has ever lacked, or will ever lack, for the substance of some specific desire, which may be stronger or weaker, and directed at something which we do not have, or which we have and dislike. Indeed, no one will ever lack for the substance of many strong specific desires of this
kind. Now all these specific desires which we have and always will have, and which make us unhappy when not satisfied, are for earthly things. To promise a man, to promise one who is unhappy, a celestial happiness, even if it is complete, infinite, and incomparably superior to earthly happiness and the trifling goods2 which he himself desires, is like preparing the softest of soft beds for a man who is dying of hunger and who cannot get a crust of bread to eat, or like promising him the most exquisite and blessed smells. With this difference, that the starving man would conceive the pleasure which his olfactory faculty was about to experience from that sensation, [3502] and in this case the pleasure would be of the same nature as that which he desires and does not obtain, that is, material and tangible, like the other. We cannot say the same thing about the celestial pleasures promised to someone who desires and does not receive earthly ones, which is the situation in which man finds himself naturally and necessarily at all times, and the unhappy man especially, although strictly speaking all men are unhappy, and unhappy because everyone always finds themselves in this situation. Now celestial pleasures, unlike the ones I have just been speaking about, are entirely different in nature from the ones we desire and do not obtain, and in not obtaining which we are unhappy; and this nature of theirs cannot be understood by us in any way. Thus it follows that the consolation that may be derived from hoping for them is effectively none,1 because to the person who desires something a promise is made of something else which is quite different from it, to the person who is wretched because his desire is unsatisfied, a promise is made to satisfy a desire which he does not have, and which by his nature he cannot have or form, to the person who yearns for a known pleasure and who is pained by a known ill, the promise is made of a pleasure and good which he does not and cannot know, and which he does not and cannot see how it comes to be good and how it could be pleasing to him, [3503] to the person who is wretched in this life and who necessarily desires happiness in this existence, and who cannot conceive of any other existence or desire happiness from it, the promise is made of the blessedness of quite another existence and life, regarding which he is told only this, that it is supremely and utterly different from this life, even more so than he can imagine, such that he cannot in any way suppose what it might be. As man cannot go beyond matter, even by a single degree, with his intellect, imagination, or any other faculty or any other sort of ideas, and if he believes he has gone beyond it and conceived or had an idea of any kind of something that is not material, he is quite mistaken, so too he is unable to pass, even by a single degree, the limits of matter with his desire, or to desire any good thing that is not of this life and this kind of existence that he is experiencing. And if he thinks he desires something of some other nature, he is mistaken, he does not desire it, it merely seems to him that he does. As, therefore, he cannot desire any good thing of any other nature, so too the promise and hope of such things cannot really in any way [3504] provide consolation for him, either for the ills of this life or the lack of good things in it, or (even if he were not unhappy) cheer him, delight him, and please him with the sweetness of expectation, and entertain him and contribute to his contentment here below. Moreover, in truth man feeds and sustains himself and lives a very great part, indeed all of his life, with hope, albeit far off, which itself is a form of pleasure, but how and why? Because man goes through life, imagining and contemplating the enjoyment he is waiting or hoping for little by little, and experiences delight in considering and representing to himself the way in which he will enjoy it, its qualities and conditions and circumstances, experiencing it in advance and effectively tasting future pleasure with his imagination a thousand times over. But this contemplation, this representation, this anticipation, this taste or foretaste, this delirium or dream which causes future pleasure to appear to us, and indeed makes it present to us, still more than it will be when it is actually present (if it ever is present), how can it take place in respect of a pleasure that is utterly inconceivable, not merely to a greater or lesser degree or specifically, but generally, so that our ideas are powerless to embrace it or approach even the smallest part of it? How is it possible, by means of any delirium or effort of the imagination or intellect, for something to appear present [3505] which neither the imagination nor the intellect can approach in even the broadest terms, which is not made either for this imagination or this intellect, which by its nature is utterly different from that which the imagination or intellect can conceive or surmise, which would not be what it is if it were possible for us to guess at it, which is proper to a nature entirely different to our present one? How can an entirely different nature enter our mind in any way or in any part?

  Certainly, man will always desire to be released from the pain and the ills that he actually experiences, and to attain that which he will believe to be good things in this life, and to be happy in this world in which he lives. And given that he is unable ever to leave off desiring it any more than he is able to actually attain it, and that the Christian religion is unable to satisfy this single and perpetual desire of his, that it does not promise even to meet it in any way, indeed that it does not give him any hope of it whatsoever, it follows that Christian hopes are not able effectively to console [3506] mortal man, or to alleviate his ills or desires. And the happiness promised by Christianity cannot ever appear desirable to mortal man, save insofar as it is infinite, or rather insofar as it is perfect (for if it were infinite and not perfect it would not satisfy him), and insofar as it is happiness considered abstractly, but not certainly so much for what it actually is, or for the nature of which it consists. And I venture to say that the happiness promised by paganism (and in the same way also by other religions), as paltry and scant as it is, must have appeared much more desirable, especially to an utterly unhappy and unfortunate man, and the hope of it must have been much better able to console and quieten, because it is a happiness that is conceivable and material, and of that nature which is necessarily desired on earth.1

  It should be observed that of the two future lives, one promised, the other threatened by Christianity, the latter has a much greater effect on mortal man than the former. Why is this? Because it teaches us that what will take place in hell (and similarly also in Purgatory) is the punishment of sense. Hence the punishment which must take place in a life and a mode of being which is no less inconceivable to us than that of the Blessed in Paradise [3507] is made conceivable in terms of its kind, albeit not conceivable in terms of its extent. And although we cannot conceive of the way in which this punishment may take place in the other life and in naked souls, we are nonetheless told that it takes place “miris sed veris modis” [“in wonderful but still true ways”] (St. Augustine),1 it being understood that it is a sensory, material punishment. Thus, while we do not know and cannot conceive how it takes place, we do know and imagine very well what this punishment is.

  And so it may be said in truth that Christianity is better able to terrify than it is to console2 or to fill with joy, to delight, to feed with hope. And it is quite certain, indeed, that the influence exerted by it on the actions of men, has always been and still is that of a threatening religion, rather more than it is of a promising religion, that it has induced men to do good, and turned them away from evil, and been of use to society and to morality more through fear than through hope, and that Christians observed, and observe, the precepts of their religion rather more out of respect for hell and Purgatory than for Paradise. And Dante, who manages to make us fear hell, does not manage even poetically speaking3 to create any desire in us for Paradise, [3508] and this not out of lack of art or invention, etc. (indeed both are consummate, etc., in him), but because of the nature of his subjects and of men. (Similar things may be said, in due proportion, of the Elysium and hell of the ancients, the latter being much more fearsome than the former is desirable, of the state of the wicked and the happiness of the good in Plato, etc.)

  It is also certain that just as without its hell and its Purgatory and wi
th only its Paradise, Christianity would not have had, or have, that influence on the conduct and customs of man which it had and has, so too it would not have had it, or to a much smaller degree, if it had not threatened punishment in hell and Purgatory of a quality that was conceivable, and if it had only threatened punishment involving harm that was inconceivable in quality, and of a different nature from the punishments of this world—although not by so much as heavenly beatitude is different from earthly blessings, because we conceive too and perceive by experience how unhappy it can make us when we are deprived of and desire good things which we have never experienced, or scarcely know, or which are also not definable, vague desires, etc. Hence even in not conceiving the good thing that Paradise is, we may in some way conceive of how the irreparable deprivation of it and the continuous and eternal desire for it, may make a person unhappy, especially one who knows that he will never be satisfied, [3509] and who yet desires, and knows he will always desire, and one who is certain he will always suffer in the same way and be eternally unhappy without remedy and without any relief whatsoever, etc. We can very well conceive almost at a secondary level how all this may be the cause of supreme unhappiness, even though we cannot not conceive it primarily, that is, the quality of that good thing which in hell, etc., is desired, and the deprivation of and desire for which is what makes the damned, etc., unhappy. (23 Sept. 1823.)