For p. 4085. Here we ought to refer to that elegant usage of ours of adding the pleonastic pronoun in indeterminate phrases, with the optative, as in, che che egli si voglia [whatever he needs], comunque ciò si accada [although that may happen], per quanto egli si dica [no matter how much he says], “non meno che me le sia servitore” [“no less than I am your servant”], Caro, letters on behalf of Guidiccioni, letter 35,2 whether the verbs are neuter or active. In such cases the pronoun is always dative and accidental to the verb, and anyone who, in reference to such examples, gives such a verb the name of neuter passive, is quite clearly wrong, as Rabbi or Bandiera in Sinonimi3 seems to want to do, see Affermare [to affirm], who when quoting Boccaccio, Story 19, “quantunque tu te l’affermi”4 (that is per quanto tu te lo affermi [no matter how much you claim it], an indeterminate manner of expression) and calling it Tuscan mode, deduce the verb affermarselo, a verb which does not exist, because in such an indeterminate phrase and others like it, all or almost all active or neuter passive verbs can take this form and by doing so become elegant (whether that is characteristically Tuscan or otherwise), but except in such cases as these one would never say affermarselo or affermarsi, as in io mi affermo che tu [I claim that you], etc., or egli se lo afferma asseverantemente [he fervently claims it] (1 June 1824); and the quotation from Boccaccio does not prove that you can say it. Chi che si fosse [Whoever he was], qual or qual che se ne fosse la cagione [whatever the reason for it was], qual si sia or qualsisia [whichever], non so chi si fosse che [I do not know who it was that], etc., non so [4099] che or quello che si faccia or si voglia [I do not know what he does or wants], etc. (2 June 1824.) See p. 4103.
Pesado for pesante, que pesa [heavy], in both literal and figurative senses. (2 June 1824.)
It is not possible to explain better the awful mystery of things and of universal existence (see my “Dialogo della Natura e di un Islandese,” especially the end)1 than by saying that not only the range, compass, and power of our reason are insufficient and even false, but also its fundamental principles themselves. For example that principle, which once rooted out puts an end to every discourse, every line of reasoning, every proposition, and the very faculty we have through them to form and conceive of truths, that fundamental principle “A thing cannot both be and not be”2 seems absolutely false when you consider the palpable contradictions there are in nature. Effectively being, and not being able to be happy in any way, because of an innate impotence which is inseparable from existence, rather not being able not to be unhappy, are two truths as well demonstrated and certain about man and every living being as any truths can be according to our principles and experience. Now being, linked as it is with unhappiness, and linked to it necessarily and essentially, is something in direct contradiction with itself, with its perfection and particular end, which is happiness alone, and is damaging to itself and inimical to its own being. Therefore the being of living creatures is naturally, essentially, and necessarily in contradiction with itself. [4100] Such a contradiction is evident as well in the essential imperfection of existence (an imperfection which is demonstrated by and part of the necessity of being unhappy); that is in being, and being necessarily imperfect, that is with an existence not as it should be.1 Moreover that the essence of being should include within itself the necessary cause and principle of being in an ill fashion, how can that be the case, if ill by its very nature is contrary to the respective essence of things and for that reason alone is ill? If being unhappily is not being in an ill fashion, unhappiness will therefore not be an ill to anyone who suffers it nor contrary and inimical to its subject, rather it will be a good since everything which is contained in the particular essence and nature of an individual being must be a good for that being. Who can understand these monstrosities? In the meantime the necessary unhappiness of living things is certain. And therefore, according to all the principles of reason and our experience, nonbeing is better for living things in an absolute sense than being. But can this be understood either? That nothing and what is not is better than something? Self-love is incompatible with happiness, it is the necessary cause of unhappiness, if there were not self-love there would not be unhappiness, and on the other hand there is no happiness without self-love, as I have demonstrated elsewhere [→Z 2493–95], and the idea of the former implies the idea and existence of the latter.
After all, it is generally certain that in the nature of things a thousand contradictions of a thousand kinds and qualities are discovered, not apparent contradictions, but ones that are demonstrated by all the intellectual insights and the most geometric exactness of metaphysics and logic, and as evident to us as is the truth of the proposition “A thing cannot both be and not be.” Hence we have to renounce our belief either in this proposition or in those contradictions. And in both cases we will be renouncing our reason. (2 June 1824.) —See another evident contradiction of nature, and it can be said, in what we may call physical things, [4101] noted on p. 4087 and also in the dialogue referred to. (3 June 1824.)
Καθ' ὅσον with a meaning similar to the Italian in quanto or in quanto che [inasmuch as], of which, with other similar phrases, I have spoken elsewhere [→Z 4035, 4095]. Lucian, Opera, 1687, tome 1, p. 800. (3 June 1824.)
Εὐθὺς for primum [at first]. Lucian, ibid., p. 805. (3 June 1824.)
Positivized diminutives. Radium–rayon [ray]. (4 June 1824.)
“Oficio descansado” [“a restful job”] that is donde el hombre descansa [where the man rests], Cervantes, Novelas exemplares, Milan 1615, p. 192. (4 June 1824.)
On the subject of what I wrote elsewhere [→Z 3169–70] on a passage in Donatus on Terence in relation to the digamma, where Davus is referred to, in ancient times Daϝus, etc., note that the Greeks used to actually say Δάος, or Δᾷος or Δᾶος or Δαὸς, and see Lucian, Opera, 1687, tome 1, p. 797, and note and p. 996. (4 June 1824.)
En el entretanto que [while]. Cervantes, loc. cit. above, p. 195. (5 June 1824.)
Divido–diviser [to divide]. (7 June 1824.)
In quanto for poiché [since] following the Greek manner, mentioned elsewhere [→Z 4035, 4095, 4101] in several places. See Bembo, Opera, tome 3, p. 129, col. 2, end and Rabbi, Sinonimi under poiché,1 and if there is anything in the Crusca. (9 June 1824.)
Altro [Other] for nulla [nothing], etc. See Caro, in the letters on behalf of Guidiccioni, letter 15, end: “finché non ho altro in contrario” [“unless I have anything against it”] (a common phrase: avere or non avere altro in contrario, with the interrogative or positive, etc.), letter 7, end:2 “senza darne altra” (niuna) “notizia al Padrone” [“without giving other” (any) “notice of it to the Master”]. (10 June 1824.)
Rilevato [raised] for rilevante [outstanding], and likewise relevado in Cervantes, Novelas [4102] exemplares, Milan 1615, p. 252. (11 June 1824.)
Hasta tanto like Italian fino a tanto [as long as], etc., mentioned elsewhere [→Z 4062]. Cervantes, loc. cit. above, p. 263. (12 June 1824.)
Illustratus for illustris [illustrious, famous], the participle for the adjective. See the Latin index in Cicero, De re publica, and Forcellini. (12 June 1824.)
There was someone who used to deny that people could love without a rival. And when he was asked why, he replied: because the loved one is always a passionate rival of the lover (of his or her own lover).1 (13 June, Trinity Sunday, 1824.)
᾿Εκτὸς εἰ μὴ [unless]. Lucian, Opera, 1687, tome 2, p. 28, toward the end, p. 31, beginning. (14 June, Vigil of St. Vitus, patron saint of Recanati, 1824.)
To what I said elsewhere [→Z 735–40] about the supreme power and richness of the Greek language, which is still not exhausted or extinguished, add that today anyone who wants to substitute for his own name some fictitious name expressive of something or other, or give a meaningful name to some imaginary character as Molière does in the Imaginary Invalid, for the names of doctors,2 or to give a name to some new allegorical being, or to give a new name to ones we are used to alre
ady, etc. etc., usually turns to no other language (whatever their own language is, in the whole of Europe and civilized America) than Greek. (15 June, Feast of St. Vitus, patron saint of Recanati, 1824.)
“Τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον εὐθὺς” [“in fact right at the beginning”]. Lucian, Opera, 1687, tome 2, pp. 41–42. (16 June, Vigil of the Feast of Corpus Christi, 1824.)
“῞Οσον ἐν τῷ πλῷ” quanto, per ciò che spetta alla navigazione [“as far as the navigation is concerned”]. Lucian, loc. cit. above, p. 34. (16 June, Vigil of the Feast of Corpus Christi, 1824.)
[4103] Tutto quanto, tutti quanti [everything, everybody]—πᾶν ὅσον, πάντες ὅσοι, μικρὸν ὅσον, μύριοι ὅσοι, ὀλίγοι ὅσοι, πλεῖστον ὅσον, etc. etc. See Scapula, etc. etc. (20 June, Sunday, 1824.)
For p. 4099. It is relevant here to add that idiom of ours still commonly used, especially in writing, from the 14th century to the present day, of adding si (dative) to the verb essere [to be]. Questo si è, questa si fu la cagione [This is, this was the reason], etc. (21 June, Feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, 1824.)
Ficulneus–ficulnus [of a fig tree] in Horace,1 and note that the us is short. (21 June, Feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, 1824.)
Experimentado for esperto [experienced], like our sperimentato and esperimentato, mentioned elsewhere [→Z 4017]. Cervantes, Novelas exemplares, Milan 1615, pp. 354, 432. (22 June 1824.)
Altro [other] for nulla, cosa alcuna [nothing, anything], Guicciardini, tome 4, p. 50, Freiburg ed.: “innanzi tentasse altro”: “and he had not tried anything yet.” (23 June, Vigil of St. John the Baptist, 1824.)
“Il est aisé de voir la prodigieuse révolution que cette époque” (celle du Christianisme) “dut produire dans les moeurs. Les femmes, presque toutes d’une imagination vive et d’une âme ardente, se livrèrent à des vertus qui les flattoient d’autant plus, qu’elles étoient pénibles. Il est presque égal pour le bonheur de satisfaire de grandes passions, ou de les vaincre. L’âme est heureuse par ses efforts; et pourvu qu’elle s’exerce, peu lui importe d’exercer son activité contre elle-même” [“One can easily see the prodigious revolution that this age” (that of Christianity) “has brought about in customs. Women, nearly all with a lively imagination and ardent spirit, engaged in those virtues which flattered them the more the more they made them suffer. It amounts to the same thing as far as happiness is concerned whether you satisfy grand passions or overcome them. The soul is happy for the effort it has made; and provided it exerts itself, it matters little whether it engages in activity against itself”]. Thomas, Essai sur les femmes, Oeuvres, Amsterdam 1774, tome 4, p. 340. (24 June, Feast of St. John the Baptist, 1824.)
[4104] Agnomen, cognomen [surname], with their derivatives, etc., may be added to what I said elsewhere [→Z 2777, 3695, 3727–28] about the g prefixed to several Latin words, like nosco, agnosco, etc. Nomen [name] comes from nosco [to get to know] too. (25 June 1824.)
Someone used to say that coming into this life, we are like a man who lies down on a hard bed. He feels uncomfortable in it, cannot keep still, he tosses and turns a hundred times. In various ways he endeavors to smoothe out, to soften, etc., the bed, always trying and hoping to be able to rest and get to sleep until, not having slept or feeling rested at all, the hour comes when he has to get up.1 Such and for a similar reason is our restlessness in life, our natural and justified discontent with every state; the efforts and exertions, etc., of a thousand different kinds to make ourselves comfortable and to soften this bed of ours a little; hopes of happiness or at least of some repose, and death which arrives before our hopes come to anything. (25 June 1824.)
᾿Εν τοσούτῳ–intanto [meanwhile], mentioned elsewhere [→Z 4017, 4022, 4061, 4082]. Lucian, Opera, 1687, tome 2, p. 48, beginning, p. 51, after the middle, p. 64. (25 June 1824.)
“Plus le lien général s’étend, plus tous les liens particuliers se relâchent. On paroît tenir à tout le monde, et l’on ne tient à personne. Ainsi la fausseté s’augmente. Moins on sent, plus il faut paroître sentir” [“The more our general ties extend, the looser all our particular ties become. We seem to care about the whole world, and we care about no one. And so our falseness grows. The less we actually feel, the more we need to give the appearance of feeling”]. Thomas, loc. cit. above, p. 448. What he says about ties to society taking the place of family ties, close friendships, etc., may be applied to universal love taking the place of one’s love for country, home, etc. (27 June, Sunday, 1824.)
Callado for tacente [quiet, silent], like tacitus from taceo -itum, mentioned [4105] elsewhere [→Z 3970]. Cervantes, Novelas exemplares, Milan 1615, p. 431. (27 June 1824.)
Dilettare–dileticare [to delight–to tempt] with its derivatives, etc., a frequentative or diminutive following the Latin manner, can be added to the examples of frequentative forms of verbs in Italian, which I have collected together elsewhere. Notice though that it has a different meaning from dilettare, and is perhaps a corruption of sollecitare [to tempt], and likewise with diletico, which otherwise might be a diminutive or frequentative of diletto. Farneticare [to rave, to talk nonsense]. (29 June, Feast of St. Peter, my birthday, 1824.)
Habitual unhappiness, and even just being habitually without pleasures and anything to flatter our self-esteem, extinguishes in the long run in the most sensitive soul all imagination, every property of feeling, all vitality, activity, and strength, and almost every faculty. The reason is that such a soul, after suffering for the first time pointless despair, and ferocious and painful conflict with necessity, when he finally recovers a tranquil state, has no other expedient for living, nor can nature herself nor time produce in him anything other than the habit of keeping his self-love continually repressed and prostrate, because unhappiness hurts him less and is tolerable and compatible with calm. Therefore he becomes as indifferent and unfeeling toward himself as possible.1 Now this is a perfect death for the mind and its faculties. A man who is not interested in himself, is not capable of being interested in anything, because nothing can interest a man unless it relates to himself, more or less closely and clearly, no matter what it is. The beauties of [4106] nature, music, the most beautiful poems, world events, happy or tragic, the misfortunes or fortunes of others, even of those closest to him, make no strong impression on him, do not rouse him, bring him no warmth, do not awaken images, feeling, any interest, do not give him any pleasure or pain, even though a few years before they filled him with enthusiasm and inspired him to a thousand creations. He wonders stupidly at his sterility, his immobility and coldness. He has become incapable of anything, useless to himself and to others, when before he was very capable. Life is over when self-love has lost its ressort [resilience]. Every power of the soul is extinguished together with hope. I mean when one lives a life of calm desperation, because the furious kind is replete with hope, or at least with desire, and eagerly craves happiness in the very act of taking up a sword or poison against itself. But desire is totally extinguished in a soul used to seeing its desires always thwarted, and reduced either by reflection or habit or both to stifling them and quenching them. A man who desires nothing for himself and does not love himself is no good to anyone. All the pleasures, the pains, the feelings, the actions, that the things referred to above inspired in him, that is nature and the rest, used to relate in one way or another to him, and their intensity consisted in an intense revisiting of himself. When sacrificing himself for others, he had no other source of strength except from this revisiting and turning in on himself. Now [4107] without any ferocity, or misanthropy or rancor or resentment, even without any egoism, that soul, once just a little time before so tender, is insensible to tears, unable to feel compassion.1 He might be moved to help, but not to pity. He might aid and assist, but only through a cold idea of duty or rather of habit, without there being any emotion to spur him on, or pleasure for him because of it. Genuine and calm indifference toward himself is indifference to eve
rything, and the inability to do anything, and the annihilation of the greatest and naturally most fertile soul.
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