The fame of Italian literature until the beginning of the last century, and the extent to which it was studied by foreigners, can also be understood from this fact, which is little known today: that in the same way as the famous Journal Bibliothèque britannique was published in Geneva at the end of that century for the express purpose of informing Europe about developments, etc., in English literature,1 so also, at the beginning of the same century, there was a Journal entitled Bibliothèque italique, ou histoire littéraire de l’Italie, also published in Geneva, which had the same purpose with regard to Italy. Our literature was still considered with respect. See Maffei’s Opere, ed. Rubbi, vol. 4, pp. 7ff., where this Journal is described as “a work produced in France with great credit, because it was written by seven learned men,” and extracts are quoted from Verona illustrata taken from tomes 15, 16, and 17 of that journal; and tome 21, p. 8, which quotes from the year 1728 of the same Journal. See p. 4264, end.
For p. 4216, margin. Thus Maffei used the title Storia diplomatica, or rather, as he preferred, Storia de’ diplomi (see his Opere, ed. Rubbi, tome 21, p. 7, end) for his work which described the science or knowledge of diplomatics.
Poetry can be divided, in substance, into only three real, principal kinds: lyric, epic, and dramatic. Lyric poetry is the firstborn of all; it is to be found in every nation, including savage ones; it is more noble and more poetic than every other kind; it is true and pure poetry in its every form; it is to be found in anyone, whether cultured or not, who seeks recreation or consolation in song, and with words measured in whatsoever way, and with harmony; it is a free and straightforward expression of any living and deeply held human feeling. The epic was created after this, and from it. In a certain way, it is no more than an extension of lyric poetry or, shall we say, it is the lyric genre which, among its other means and subjects, has principally assumed [4235] and chosen narration, and modified it poetically.1 The epic poem was also sung on the lyre and with music, in the streets, to the people, in the same way as early lyric poetry. It is none other than a hymn in honor of heroes or nations or armies; it is simply an extended hymn. It is therefore to be found in every nation, including those that are uncultured and savage, especially warlike nations. And most of the songs of savage people, and also those of the bards, are so much a part of epic and lyric poetry that it is difficult to attribute them to one kind or the other. They truly belong to both together; they are long hymns full of detail, most of them about war; they are epic poems which indicate the primordial, early birth of the epic from lyric poetry, examples of the epic genre which is newly born and is separating, but is not yet separate from lyric poetry. Dramatic poetry is the last of the three kinds of poetry, in time and in nobility. It is not an inspiration, but an invention; it is the child of civilization, not of nature; it is poetry by convention and by the wishes of its authors, rather than by reason of its essence. Nature, it is true, teaches us to imitate the voice, words, gestures, actions of a certain person; and it allows us, when it is well done, to obtain pleasure. But it does not teach us to do the same in dialogue, even less so with rule and measure, indeed measure is completely excluded from imitation, harmony is completely excluded, for the worth and delight of these imitations consist entirely in the accurate representation of the thing imitated, so that it is presented to the senses, and we seem to see or hear it. And this indeed is a friend of irregularity and disharmony, because it is a friend of truth, which is not harmonious. In addition to which, nature generally offers such imitations the most unusual, irregular, bizarre, ridiculous, extravagant, defective subjects. And such natural imitations are never about an event, but an extremely simple action, I mean an act, with no parts, causes, means, consequences; considered in itself alone, and only for itself. From these considerations it is clear that imitation suggested by nature is, by its very essence, entirely different from imitation in drama. Drama is not to be found in uncultured nations. It is a spectacle, a child of civilization and idleness, an invention [4236] of idle people who wish to pass the time; in short, it is an entertainment of idleness, invented, like so many other things, in the bosom of civilization, by the mind of man, not inspired by nature, but aimed at providing solace for both author and public, and social honor or personal benefit. Liberal entertainment, indeed, and worthy, but it is not a product of pure, virgin nature, as is lyric poetry, which is nature’s legitimate child, and epic poetry, which is its true grandchild. —The other kinds that are called poetry can be reduced to these three headings, or are not distinct in poetic terms except by reason of their meter or other such extrinsic factors. Elegiac poetry is the name of a meter. Every subject that it uses belongs by nature to lyric poetry, in the same way as mournful subjects were often used by the Greek lyricists, especially in ancient times, in lyric verses, in entirely lyrical compositions, called θρῆνοι [laments], such as those of Simonides, who was quite well known for that kind of composition, and those of Pindar; perhaps also μονῳδίαι [monodies], such as those of Sappho, as recorded in the Suda.1 Satirical poetry is partly lyrical (if passionate, as Archilochian is), partly comical. Didactic poetry, where it is truly poetical, is lyric or epic; where it is simply instructive, its poetry is only in its language, style, and gestures, so to speak, etc. (Recanati, 15 Dec. 1826.)
For p. 3177. I will note here, because it is something that is curious and which not many people know today, that the same subject as that of the Gerusalemme liberata, during the same period as Tasso, was used in a Latin poem of 12 books, entitled La siriade, by another Italian, Pietro Angelio, or degli Angeli, of Barga (a walled city in Tuscany, 20 miles from Lucca), who was born in 1517 and died on 29 February 1596 (less than a year after Tasso’s death on 25 April 1595). He was a writer of verse and prose in Italian and Latin, who was certainly not uneducated, and much esteemed both by his contemporaries and afterward. He had traveled in the Levant, through Greece and Asia, had been to Constantinople in the company of an envoy of the King of France and, out of zeal and for the honor of the Italian nation, had killed a Frenchman who had spoken of it with scorn, placing himself in grave danger. See Tiraboschi, 16th century, book 3, chapter 4, § 502 and Dati’s Preface to Prose fiorentine in Raccolta di prose a uso delle regie scuole di Torino, Turin, 1753, p. 633. I do not know which of the two, Tasso or Angelio, was the first to think of this fine subject, or whether one was unaware of the other. This particular alone would be of interest. (19 Dec. 1826.) See the oration in praise of Angelio, given [4237] by the Florentine Francesco Sanleolini, at the Accademia della Crusca in 1597. Prose fiorentine, part 1, vol. 1, oration 7, in particular toward the end, Venice, Occhi, 1730–1735, pp. 105–106, where the orator states and seeks to prove that the first to think of the said subject was degli Angeli. See Tasso, Apologia agli Accademici della Crusca, in Opere, ed. Mauro, vol. 2, p. 309, and the Lettere poetiche, where it can be seen that Tasso sent parts of his poem to Barga1 while he was writing it, in order to have his opinion. (20 Dec. 1826, Vigil of St. Thomas the Apostle.)
“Dice” (aiunt) “che un certo poeta greco, per nome Simonide, diceva di tenere appresso di se due cassette” [“They say that a certain Greek poet, by the name of Simonides, claimed to have in his possession two chests”].2 A. M. Salvini in Prose fiorentine, part 3, vol. 1, letter 99 (letter to Signore Antonio Montauti), Venice, Occhi, 1730–1735, tome 5, part 1, p. 152.
Attachment of the Greeks to their language and their ignorance of others, especially Latin.3 See Dati, preface to the Prose fiorentine, in Raccolta di prose ad uso delle regie scuole di Torino, Turin 1753, pp. 620ff.
Universality of the Greek language in ancient times. See Dati, loc. cit. here above, end, pp. 627ff.
Study and appreciation of the Italian language by foreigners in the 17th century. See Dati, loc. cited above, p. 630: and in the same Raccolta cited above, see the Orations by Lollio, Buommattei, and Salvini in praise of the Tuscan language.4 (Recanati, 20 Dec. 1826.)
Defectus for qui defecit or deficit [one who defec
ts]. See Forcellini.
Zocco–zoccolo. Fagus–fagulus (see Forcellini, Glossary, etc.)—faggio [beech tree].
Scultare [to sculpt] from sculptum, as in the French sculpter. See the Crusca.
Sminuzzare–sminuzzolare [to chop up].
The idiomatic use we, and Latin, make of sibi, or mihi, etc., and of si, mi, ti, ci, etc., actually or apparently redundant, noted by me elsewhere [→Z 4083–85, 4098–99], in the use of verbs, including active verbs, corresponds closely to the use of the Greek middle verb. Very often, at first sight, there is no sign of reciprocal action, and they seem to be used out of pure whim, rather than the active verb; although then, on careful observation, always, or most of the time, especially in good writers, the reason is found for using these, rather than active verbs, and a hint of reciprocity is found in the meaning. (Christmas Eve, Sunday, 1826, Recanati.)
[4238] Πάτανον–πατάνιον or βατάνιον [flat dish] exactly as in the Latin patina–patella.
“Senz’altro fiato” [“Without other breath”] (i.e., none). Galilei, Saggiatore, in Opere, Padua, vol. 2, p. 284, a very instructive and notable passage in this respect.1
For p. 4204. Chapter 7, book 6, of Casaubon on Athenaeus is very fine, and to be examined and read carefully where he refers to the ancient books called Διδασκαλίαι or περὶ διδασκαλιῶν2 (which we might translate as Descriptions of Plays, books which contained the histories or chronicles of dramatic works, describing the circumstances of the times, occasions, ways in which they were performed. The first men of letters, and especially the Critics, labored over this subject, beginning with Aristotle. These books, as Casaubon rightly observes, were extremely useful, on the one hand, for their chronology and on the other, for the history both of political events and manners, whether pertaining in general to Greece or Athens (where the plays were performed), or individually to the most eminent and famous people in each period. For the political events provided a thousand opportunities, and provided the entire plot for this or that play, and the characters of the major figures of the day in the republic were represented in them. Such were the history plays of the Greeks. They were books in which, almost without realizing it, one would learn about political history, about the innermost history of national, civil, individual ideas, and ways of life in Greece, year by year. What could these have in common with our own theater history, or the history (if we had one) of our art exhibitions, and similar books? When plays, works of art, any invention of the mind, here with us, have no tradition of representing the circumstances of the times, and no legitimacy, no relationship with our time?3 In fact, what interest do our theater histories have, except perhaps for companies of actors? (Recanati, 29 Dec. 1826.) See p. 4294.
Difference between the ancient and more recent, earliest and latest, mythologies. The inventors of the first mythologies (individuals or people) did not look for darkness in [4239] everything, even where there was light. On the contrary, they sought light in darkness; they wanted to explain, not to mystify and discover; they tended to describe in tangible ways those things that do not fall within the realm of the senses, and to explain in their own way as best they could, those things that man cannot understand, or which they were still not able to understand. The inventors of the last mythologies, the Platonists, and especially the men of the early centuries of our era, most certainly sought darkness in light; they sought to explain tangible and intelligible things in unintelligible and intangible ways; they took pleasure in darkness; they explained clear and evident things with mysteries and secrets. The first mythologies had no mysteries, indeed they sought to explain and clarify the mysteries of nature for everyone. The later mythologies have sought to make us believe that even those things we can touch with our own hand are mysterious and beyond our intelligence, where otherwise we would not have suspected any hidden significance. Hence the different character of the two sorts of mythologies, corresponding to the different character of the times in which they were invented as well as the end or direction with which they were created. The first were gay, the others gloomy, etc.1 (Recanati, 29 Dec. 1826.)
Vi-g-ore [strength] with its derivatives—vi-v-ore [strength] with its derivatives. See Crusca.
Violato for violaceo, violetto [violaceous, violet], or belonging to the violet family. See Crusca. Lanatus (see Forcellini), lanuto for lanosus, lanoso [woolly].
Violetto. Positivized diminutive adjective.
Misceo [to mix], mixtus, misto–mestare (almost like mesto for misto, as meschio for mischio, and meschiare, mescolare, etc.), rimestare–mesticare (in the Marche region, we use the more Latinate forms misticare, misticanza, etc.); with derivatives.
For the “Manual of practical philosophy.”2 Patience, how it mitigates and eases bodily pain, makes it more bearable, and also in fact lighter, as I experienced and observed, when I suffered a nervous attack to my chest on 29 May 1826 in Bologna, where the pain actually increased with impatience and with anxiety. Patience consists of a nonresistance, a resignation [4240] of mind, a certain calmness of the mind during suffering. And this virtue might be scorned as much as you like, and branded as ridiculous, yet it is necessary for man, who is born and destined inexorably, inevitably, irrevocably to suffer, and to suffer much, and with little respite. And it develops, and is acquired even unintentionally, naturally, through the practice of enduring hardship or boredom. Patience and tranquillity is largely that thing which in the long term makes, e.g., imprisonment, the horrible tedium of solitude, of having nothing to do, bearable to a prisoner; tedium that is at first extremely hard to tolerate, due to human resistance to that boredom, and the impatience and desperation and eagerness and anxiety to be out of it. Once that resistance has passed, pain and boredom become much easier and lighter. And this is the nature of patience, which is a negative quality more than anything else. (30 Dec. 1826, Recanati.) See p. 4267.
Concerning the esteem which the ancients had for happiness, and how they considered it to be one of the main attributes of their heroes, and as the principal subject of praise, it is curious to observe how Georgius Gemistus Pletho, in his brief and most elegant oration on the death of the Empress Helena, who later became a nun by the name of Hypomone, which was published by Moustoxydes and Schinas in their συλλογὴ ἑλληνικῶν ἀνεκδότων [Collection of Unpublished Greek Writings] τετράδιον, i.e., fascicule 3, successfully imitated the ancient writers in this respect, as well as in other ways, by praising that woman principally for the favors of fortune, a sentiment that was alien to his own times.1 (Recanati, last day of 1826.)
Nowadays it can be said in all truth that those who seek and obtain perfection of style, and do so by following the most subtle directions and considerations of ancient art on this great matter, and according to the most perfect examples of the ancients, write solely and entirely for the dead, no less so than those who write in Latin or who might elect to use ancient Greek. Seeking perfection of style in living languages today (and perhaps in the future), with whatever degree of success, is the same as seeking, and also finding, it in dead languages, as many illustrious Italians did in the sixteenth century with Latin. (2 [January] 1827.)
[4241] Brancicare [to fumble]. Zoppicare [to limp].
Spruzzolare [to sprinkle]. Avvolticchiare [to twist]. Svolticchiare [to unroll]. Magalotti, Lettere familiari, letter 8, toward the end, paragraph 1.
I do not know whether I am mistaken, but in the way he both thinks and writes I see a sign and an effect of Galileo’s noble origins. That placid, tranquil, sure and unforced frankness and freedom of thought, that not displeasing and at the same time decorous nonchalance of style, reveal a certain magnanimity, a laudable self-assurance and confidence, a generosity of spirit, not acquired with time and reflection, but almost inborn, because it was there from the beginning of his life, born of the respect in which he was held by others from his earliest years and which became habitual. I believe that this certain magnanimity in thought
and writing, I mean this particular kind of magnanimity, which is neither aggressive nor satirical, nor a mixture of one and the other, is difficult to find among writers or men who are not of noble or respectable birth, if you look carefully. A difference will always be found. Similar considerations could also be made with regard to wealth, which tends to produce a certain splendor, abundance, and perhaps excessive lavishness in style. And likewise in relation to power, dignity, fortune. Also in relation to their opposites. See Alfieri’s Vita, ch. 1, beginning. “Messala nitidus et candidus, et quodammodo prae se ferens in dicendo nobilitatem suam” [“Messalla is clear and luminous, and in a certain sense shows his nobility in how he speaks”]. Quintilian, 10, 1. (6 [January] 1827, Epiphany.) Perhaps Galileo would not have become, as he did, the first reformer of philosophy and of the human spirit, or at least not so independent minded, if fortune had not made him be born into a noble family. See p. 4419.
Dispetto and despetto, i.e., disprezzato [scorned], for dispregevole [despicable].
“But it is sure that the old order of the seasons appears to be changing for the worse. Here in Italy it is a common claim and complaint that the intermediate seasons no longer exist and, with this loss of boundaries, there is no doubt that the cold is gaining ground. I heard my father say that during his youth in Rome, on the morning of the Easter resurrection, everyone wore their summer clothes. Now anyone who doesn’t need to pawn their thick shirt takes very good care not to cast off any [4242] of the clothes they wore in the depths of winter.” Magalotti, Lettere familiari, part 1, letter 28, Belmonte, 9 February 16831 (one hundred and forty four years ago!!). (7 [January] 1827, Recanati.) If those supporters of the gradual and continual cooling of the globe, if the admirable Doctor Paoli (in his fine and most learned Ricerche sul moto molecolare dei solidi)2 did not have, or had no other proof to support their opinion than evidence from our old folk, who confirm exactly the same thing as Magalotti records, claiming the same custom, and fixing it to the same time of the year, it can be seen from this passage that their argument would not be of great effect. The old man, laudator temporis acti se puero [eulogizer of the past times when he was a boy], unhappy with human affairs, wants even natural things to have been better in his childhood and youth than later. The reason is clear: that is, that that is how they seemed to him at the time; the cold annoyed him and made itself felt infinitely less, etc. etc. In any case, it was not that many years ago that our newspapers, relying on the accounts of our old folk, asked scientists, as if it were something entirely new, why the seasons nowadays had changed, etc., and why the weather had become colder, which some blamed on the Simplon woods being cut down, etc. etc.3 What we all know, and I remember well, is that when I was a child there was never a year without heavy snowfalls in southern Italy, and now there is almost never a year when the snows fall for more than a few hours. The same with ice and, in short, with the harshness of winter. And this doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the cold much more now than when I was small.
Zibaldone Page 312
