What I have said thus far about courage and fear in danger, that is in the suspicion of future harm, may be applied in proportion to the courage and fear which are found in the certainty of imminent future harm, or when it is more or less near. By this I mean [3540] that harm which is the object of what is properly called fear, and timidity, cowardice, etc., not that which is the object only of affliction, displeasure, grieving, etc., whether anticipated with doubt or certainty (in which case this displeasure too is usually called fear), whether received or present, etc.
The above discussion applies to dangers (or harm, etc.) that are unavoidable and which do not depend on the will of the respective individuals. The courage to confront or seek out dangers voluntarily, when one could avoid them, proceeds mostly and principally from nature or the habit of not reflecting or not reflecting deeply. Or rather of not heeding the danger, that is, of not considering the harm which could ensue from it as harmful, or thinking of the harm as very small and insignificant (despite its generally being considered as enormously or supremely harmful by most men), which comes about from not regarding the danger as danger, or from not believing that this harm can or must easily or in some way ensue, which amounts to the same thing.1 This courage has nothing to do with the idea of perfect courage I have proposed, which prevents fear of danger or harm (1) when it is regarded as actual harm and danger, (2) when it is perfectly known, understood, and considered. These conditions are essential to perfect, indeed true and proper courage, and that which is without them is either not proper courage, or is imperfect, etc. (26–27 Sept. 1823.)
[3541] I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 2324–25] of the verb periclitor [to test, to be in danger], showing that it is the continuative form of an ancient verb periculor formed from its participle, that is, from periculatus, which contracts to periclatus, as periculum [trial, experiment; danger] contracts to periclum, and the a changing to i in accordance with the customary rule, as mussatus [murmured; respected] changes to mussito [to keep quiet, to murmur]. Now see precisely the participle periculatus under this entry in Forcellini. And note that of periculor, as periclitatus sum is of periclitor. (27 Sept. 1823.)
Elsewhere [→Z 111, 1131–32] I have noted and collected several metaphors for the words caput, capo [head], etc. Add to these also Aristotle, Politics, bk. 2, Florence 1576, p. 159, end1 κατὰ κεφαλὴν per capita, per head, that is, per unit, each one, each, individually. And see the Crusca under Testa, etc. (27 Sept. 1823.)
Latin monosyllables. Pes [foot], spes [hope] (see p. 3571), dies [day], nox [night], fax [torch, firebrand], nix [snow], res [thing]. Note that these and all the other monosyllables I have collected are roots (like rex [king], lex [law], etc., as I have shown). And very often the corresponding Greek nouns, as well as not being monosyllables, are not roots either: such as ἥλιος (sol in Latin [sun], a monosyllable), which derives from ἅλς [sea]2 [3542], etc. etc., and πρᾶγμα (res) [thing, fact], which undoubtedly comes from πράσσω [to do, to practice]. And as it is likely that the names of the things that were most necessary and most frequently named, the most material things, etc., the things that seem to have been the first to be named, etc. (like those, at least in large part, signified by the Latin monosyllables I have collected, etc.), were roots as much as they were monosyllables, so it would apparently follow that in Greek, where such nouns are not roots, neither are they the original Greek names for such things, and that these have been lost, whereas Latin has retained them. And this confirms the greater conservation of antiquity in Latin than in Greek. The Latin nouns I have referred to were probably also Greek once upon a time, and came from the same language from which Greek and Latin themselves both originated, but Latin kept them, to the extent that it transmitted them to the languages still alive today, while in Greek they were subsequently lost or fell into disuse, etc. etc. (27 Sept. 1823.)
Verbs ending in uare. Perpetuo as [to cause a thing to continue uninterruptedly], from perpetuus [continuous]. (28 Sept. Sunday. 1823.) Continuo as [to join together in uninterrupted succession], Obliquo as [to turn aside, awry]. See p. 3571.
Continuative or frequentative. Perpetuito as from perpetuo as, perpetuatus. See Forcellini under Perpetuitassint.1 [3543] That is, if this word had not already been made from perpetuitas [perpetuity] (as I do not believe it had), like possibly necessitare [to require, need, call far] in Italian, etc., from necessitas [need], of which I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 3023]. (28 Sept. 1823.)
Tonsito as from tondeo–tonsus [to shear, to clip], frequentative. We have the continuative form in Italian; tosare [to shear, clip] (almost tonsare). See the Glossary, etc. (28 Sept. Sunday. 1823.)
In the Bible, consideration should be given to the ancient, oriental imagination (the imagination, indeed, of a people almost entirely primitive in its customs, etc., and certainly the most ancient imagination known today). When these two qualities combined in the Scriptures are properly regarded, weighed, and evaluated,a no one can wonder at the extraordinary force which appears in the Psalms, the canticles, the Song of Songs, the Prophets, in the poetic parts and expressions of the Bible, to provide which possibly even just one of the qualities mentioned above would suffice. And see also the oriental poems, even the ones that are not that ancient, the Sanskrit poems from very ancient but civilized times in India. (28 Sept. 1823. Sunday.)
Regarding the Spanish verb pintar [to paint, to draw, to describe], I have said elsewhere [→Z 1155] that the primitive and regular participles of pingo [to paint], tingo [to tinge] and the like, were pingitus, tingitus, etc. Then pingtus, tingtus, etc., then pinctus (from which pintar, almost pinctare); [3544] and in this 3rd stage many of these participles remained as tinctus, cinctus [girding, girdle, belt], etc. Many others went on to a fourth stage, where they stopped, like pictus, fictus [fashioned, invented], etc. But we mostly retain them in the 3rd stage: pinto, finto in French peint, feint. We also have pitto, fitto, but both these are ancient or poetic, etc. Spanish, which is more regular in its past participles than all its other sister languages (and more regular even than Latin itself as I have discussed elsewhere, pp. 3074ff.) retains the primitive form fingitus in fingido. (28 Sept. 1823.)
For p. 3341. In this connection, see Fabricius, Bibliotheca Latina, Venice, tome 1, p. 76, beginning, bk. 1, ch. 6, “De Cornelio Nepote,” § 3, end. And note that Catullus inclines toward modernisms in his Latin, as though in the familiar style.1 (28 Sept. 1823.) See pp. 3584.
For p. 3496. Plato, in the place referred to, does not appear to believe that demons are a composite of man and God, but an intermediate kind between one and the other, which served, as he himself expressly says, as a kind of stepping stone, to fill the void between the divine and mankind which would otherwise have existed in the sequence of beings. Thus it appeared to the ancients who were also profound philosophers, that between these two kinds, between man and God, there was certainly a gradation, no less than there is between [3545] the different species of animal, between the animal and vegetable kingdoms, etc. And they were so far from believing that the distance between the human and divine was infinite, and the stages between them equally infinite in number, or at least very many, as is believed today, that indeed they held there to be just one link in the chain between the two of them, and that it was sufficient to join them or continue them, and that there was but one degree between man and God, hence just two degrees had to be overcome, and that the sequence between them was continuous for this reason. (28 Sept. 1823.) Add the loves of the Gods for mortal women and the loves of the Goddesses for mortal men (so highly did the ancients esteem human beauty), and the union of the former or that of the latter (as though the human and divine were not even two closely related species, but almost one and the same, as different as the subspecies in many species are, some stronger, more beautiful, bigger, etc., others less so), and the Gods and Goddesses generating or giving birth to mortal offspring, either wholly mortal or demigods, such as Bacchus, etc.
The most decisive
effect, and almost the sum of the effects which the knowledge and experience of men produces in a man of rare and elevated spirit, is to make him highly indulgent toward any greater or more excessive weakness, smallness, stupidity, ignorance, foolishness, wickedness, vice, and failing in others, whether natural or acquired, where previously he was most severe toward such things, and to render it very easy for him to appreciate and to praise the slightest virtues and least qualities, which prior to this experience he used to despise, not care for, hold to be unworthy of praise, and almost confuse with or not distinguish from [3546] the imperfections—in other words, to make it very easy and habitual for him to esteem, and very difficult, unusual, even almost a distant memory, to scorn and not care for, the opposite of what was the case beforehand. So little are men worth. And from this, the true value and worth of men may be inferred and accurately judged. (28 Sept. 1823.) See p. 3720.
In a small town, especially one where there is little conversation, the tone of society is not determined (not even one proper to that town in particular, such as there is always likely to be in a small town, when we consider that large towns too always have notable nuances of tone proper to them, and differences from those of others, even within one and the same nation),1 hence everyone makes their own, and the manner of each, whatever it is, is tolerated and judged to be acceptable and appropriate. The same is true, in proportion, of a nation in which there is but little society, like in Italy. There is no social tone in this nation: everyone has their own. Indeed, there is no tone of society that can be said to be Italian.2 Every Italian has their own manner of social interaction, whether natural or learned from foreigners, or otherwise acquired. Whereas in a sociable nation, and so too by extension in a large city, the person who does not conform to the common manner of conversing, [3547] and who does not have the tone of others, is not merely not esteemed but is not even tolerated, for this common manner exists, and the tone of society is determined, more or less strictly, and it is not lawful to depart from it, without, in society, etc., being put outside of the law, and considered as less than the others, because different from the others, different from the majority. (28 Sept. 1823.)
On the monosyllabic root of jungo [to join together], which I have noted elsewhere in con-iux or con-iunx [spouse, consort, wife], etc. [→Z 1132, 3006], add also bi-iux or bi-iunx, which I believe is the true nominative of the genitive form biiugis [yoked together], not biiugis biiuge as Forcellini writes. Of course I do not believe this nominative is found, but nor do I believe the second one either, and the former seems to me to be more consistent with the analogy with coniux, etc. Biiugus a um is still used. (29 Sept., Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, 1823.)
Monosyllabic root of capio [to seize], as elsewhere [→Z 1131, 1691, 2879], etc. For-ceps [tongs, pincers]. For-fex [pair of shears or scissors] from facio [to act, do, make]. (29 Sept. 1823.)
g and v exchanged, on which see elsewhere [→Z 1678–79, 2986]. [3548] Parvolo, parvulo, parvulino [small] (the true pronunciation, from parvulus, but which has fallen out of use nonetheless). Pargolo [little child, baby] (ancient), pargoletto, pargoleggiare [to behave like a baby], etc. (all modern and used). (29 Sept. 1823.)
Insetare (which in the vernacular we pronounce, more correctly, insitare, as possibly everyone outside of Tuscany does, for we also say insito for innesto [graft]) is a continuative of insero–insevi–insitus [to sow] (different from insero erui ertum [to insert]); and anyone who makes it the same as the other insetare (from seta) [to wrap in silk], as it appears that the Crusca does, is quite mistaken. The French enter [to graft] possibly has the same origin, if it does not come from the noun ente [graft]. The Spanish have the original verb enxerir [to graft, insert the branch of one tree into the stock of another] (insero, insitum, or ertum) in this meaning, as again we do in addition to the one mentioned above, but with us it is entirely poetic, that is, introduced by the poets, and used by them; although in taking it from them, we would also gladly use it in prose. (29 Sept. 1823.)
The aim of the epic poet (and other poets, to the extent that they are similar to him), must not then be to narrate, but to describe, to move, to arouse [3549] images and emotions, to lift the mind, to warm it, to correct habits, to incite to virtue, glory, love of one’s country, to praise, criticize, kindle emulation, to exalt the virtues of his nation, his forefathers, domestic heroes, etc. All these or part of them must be the true and proper aims of the epic poet, not narration. But the epic poet must do it in such a way that his true and proper aim, or certainly his main one, appears to be none other than narration. A poem which in truth does no more than tell, that is, which produces no other effect than merely to tickle and feed the curiosity of the reader, that is, with a well-woven, intricate plot or by any other means, barely deserves the name of poetry. Such poems, indeed, are more novellas than poems, however noble, sublime, interesting, etc., the action told in them might be. (The Orlando innamorato, the Ricciardetto and other similar poems belong in this category.)1 And poems woven or sprinkled with whimsical inventions and fables, etc., may just as easily be of this kind as true poems. Even when a poem is inventing fables [3550] all or virtually all the time, it is not really doing anything other than narrating. Such texts are not poems, because the poet has as the true and main objective what he should not have, except in appearance, namely narrating. While poems full of long descriptions, dissertations, moral and political declamations, etc., aphorisms, eulogies, criticisms, exhortations, dissuasions, etc., in the person of the poet, etc., and similar things, are not epic poems, etc., because the poet truly shows that his main aims are those which he should not have, except by not showing them. (29 Sept. 1823.) See p. 3552.
For p. 2861, end. This proposition corresponds to the other I have expounded on several occasions [→Z 532–35, 646–50, 826–29, 2685, 3525], that pleasure is always past or future, never present, and that there is therefore no moment of true pleasure, even though it may seem that there is. Hence there is not and can never be any moment without suffering, even though there may appear to be such moments (for, as suffering comes to be perpetual, the living being becomes accustomed to it right from the first moments of existence, so that it appears not to feel it, and not to notice it). [3551] Indeed, this second proposition is a necessary consequence of the first, and virtually the same thing expressed in different terms. For where there is no pleasure, there is suffering, because there is unrequited desire for pleasure, and unrequited desire is pain. Nor is there an intermediate state between suffering and enjoyment, as is believed, for the living being, in always necessarily desiring pleasure out of nature, and desiring it precisely because it is living, when it is not enjoying it, suffers. And as it never enjoys, or is never truly able to enjoy, the fact is that it always suffers for as long as it is alive, because it is conscious of life. For when it is not conscious of life, it does not suffer; like when it is asleep, in hibernation, etc. But in such cases it does not suffer because it is not conscious of life, and because somehow it is not alive. Nor can it cease to suffer or interrupt its suffering other than by truly ceasing to live, or by not being conscious of life, which is almost the same thing as to interrupt it, and by ceasing to be alive for a given period. Only in such cases can a living being avoid suffering. In living, and in feeling that it is living, it can never do so, and this because of its essence and because of the essence of life, and [3552] precisely because it is living, and to the extent that it is such, as in my theory of pleasure, etc. (29 Sept., Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, 1823.)
For p. 3550. Narrating must never be anything other than a pretext for the epic poet; the role of narrator must only be a mask as far as he is concerned, like the role of instructor to the didactic poet. But he must preserve this pretext, this mask perfectly at all times, and present it accurately (as to the appearance and on the outside),1 so that he always appears to be a narrator, and nothing else. This is what all the greats did, including Dante, who is not an epic poet but whose subject is
narrative, although he sometimes breaks into dissertations and declamations rather too much, but, I repeat, his poem is not epic, it is a mixture of narrative and doctrinal, ethical, etc., poetry. (29 Sept., Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, 1823.)
For p. 3388. Wine (and also tobacco and similar things) and everything which produces extraordinary vigor, of the body as a whole or merely the head, is not useful merely to the imagination, but also the intellect and the mind generally, to the faculty of reason, of thinking, of discovering truths by means of reasoning (as I myself have found a number of times by experience), to the inventive faculty, etc. Sometimes, on the other hand, a certain weakness of body, nerves, etc., an unusually relaxed state, etc., is useful to the imagination, to the intellect, to mobility of thought and mind, to fecundity, copiousness, facility and alertness of spirit, of speech, of discovery, of ratiocination, composition, alertness of memory, ease of inferring consequences, understanding relations, etc. etc., [3553] as indeed I have observed in myself on several occasions. At other times the opposite.
The passions are independent of ideas, and are useful on many occasions not just to the imagination, but to the mind in general, to reason, etc., because in fits of passion truths are often discovered, even by modest, inexpert, or unreflective minds, which truths are as great as they are solid, in line with what I have said elsewhere [→Z 3237–45] in criticizing the use of bare reason or the dialectical or reasoning faculty in philosophy which is typical of the Germans, etc. And by contrast, the passions can also harm, impede, obfuscate, weaken, etc. etc., both the imagination and the reasoning faculty, and the mind in general, the memory, etc., a thousand times, as everyone knows, etc. So too with wine and the things mentioned above, etc. (29 Sept., Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, 1823.)
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