For the “Manual of practical philosophy.”4 Man’s natural, necessary, and perpetual desire [4250] for a future which is better than the present, however good the present might be. The importance therefore of having a prospect and a hope, in order to be happy. The importance of knowing how to make, compose, propose such a prospect for oneself. Circumstances, age, etc., do not always offer a prospect for improvement and advancement in man’s state, etc. What is more, great advancements and improvements are difficult to achieve, and when they are not achieved, and our hope is deceived, we are disturbed. The great benefit of knowing how to propose day by day a future that can be obtained easily or with certainty, or benefits that arrive hour by hour, daily pleasures that are provided or attainable unconditionally: all is to be found in knowing how to nurture, form one’s own expectations, prospects, and hopes, hour by hour: this is the task of the philosopher, and an incomparably useful practice for living happily.1 (Recanati, 1st day of Lent, 28 Feb. 1827.)
I have written elsewhere [→Z 2752–53] that man tends to feel more unhappy with his situation in the springtime than at other times. It is also the same in summer more than in winter. The reason is that he suffers less at that time. Therefore he desires more enjoyment and immediate pleasure. In the spring, this desire becomes all the more apparent with the end of that suffering and discomfort caused by the cold weather, which comes to an end precisely at that time. Infirmity, anxiety, suffering of whatever sort, turn the desire for pleasure into a desire not to suffer, or to flee danger. In this state, the mind is less demanding. Nonsuffering is more possible to achieve than enjoyment. Therefore we feel less unhappy about our own existence in winter than in the summertime, when the mind resumes its eager search for pleasure and, as is natural, never finds it. (Recanati, 2nd March 1827, 1st Friday of March.)
A vóto for frustra [to no purpose].—εἰς κενὸν. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 11, halfway through ch. 6.
It would appear that all the infinite care which Isocrates put into the ordering of words and the structure of the phrase had no other purpose [4251] than to achieve the most perfect, most exquisite, greatest possible and most particular clarity. This accomplishment is not to be seen in the other writers who possess it, except insofar as they can be read without trouble, in other words, without feeling any hindrance or difficulty. It can be seen in Isocrates because not only is it not a strain to read him but you feel a certain pleasure because of it. In the others this care is a negative quality, in him it is positive; it has a certain meaning, a flavor of its own. The pleasure which is afforded in many authors by the moderate difficulty you feel in reading them, and in overcoming that difficulty easily at every point, is provided in reading Isocrates by his supreme and extraordinary ease. We seem to experience the same pleasure we sense when our bodies feel right, and we want to move, and we walk briskly along a road that is not only level but paved. I do not think that such a clear and comprehensible writer is to be found in any other language as Isocrates is in Greek (where he is certainly unequaled). He is also easy for beginners in that language, which is indeed the most difficult of all languages throughout the world (except perhaps German). This is all the more remarkable when it is considered how studiously Isocrates sought out the other qualities of style, and above all how he avoided the concurrence of vowels (and this he actually succeeded in doing almost throughout), something that was certainly extremely difficult and problematical as anybody who tries to do so will discover; but which did not hinder this marvelous ease in any way.1 (7th March, Ember Wednesday, 1827.)
Grispignolo. Lappa–lappula in Latin, lappola in Italian [burr].
It would seem, according to all reason, according to the natural progress of the intellect and discourse, that we should have said, and regarded as unquestionable, that matter can think, that matter thinks and feels. If I did not know any elastic body, perhaps I would say: matter cannot move despite its gravity in such or such a [4252] direction, etc. Similarly, if I knew nothing about electricity, about the property of air to be an instrument of sound, I would say matter is not capable of certain actions and phenomena, air cannot produce such effects. But because I do know about elastic bodies, electricity, etc., I can say—and no one disagrees—matter can do this and this, it is capable of these particular phenomena. I see bodies that think and feel. I mean bodies, that is, men and animals which I do not see, do not feel, do not know, nor cannot know, as being other than bodies. Therefore I say: matter can think and feel; it does think and feel. — “No, Sir, rather you should say: matter can never think or feel in any way.” —Oh, but why? —“Because we do not understand how it can.” —That’s fine! Do we understand how matter attracts bodies, how it makes those wonderful effects of electricity, how air makes sound? Indeed, do we perhaps understand at all what is the force of attraction, of gravity, of elasticity? Do we actually understand what electricity is, what force of matter is? And if we do not understand it, and never shall, do we therefore deny that matter is capable of doing these things, when we see that it is? —“Prove to me that matter can think and feel.” —Why should I have to prove it? It is proven by fact. We see bodies that think and feel; and you, who are a body, think and feel. I need no other proof. —“It is not the bodies that think.” —Then what is it? —“It’s another substance within them.” —Who says so? —“No one: but we must suppose so, because matter cannot think.” —First of all, you prove this to me: that matter cannot think. —“But it’s obvious, it doesn’t need to be proven, it’s axiomatic, it proves itself: it is assumed, and taken for granted without further question.”1
In fact, the only way we can justify our many fantastical opinions, systems, lines of reasoning, castles in the air, about spirit and soul, is by boiling them down to this: that the impossibility of matter being able to think and feel is an axiom, an inherent principle of reason, which does not need to be proved. [4253] We have, in effect, started off from the absolute and spurious supposition of this impossibility in order to prove the existence of the spirit. It would be an endless task to describe the absurdities, the crazy arguments and contradictions in our usual method and discourse, that had to be adopted to make the case for this supposed substance, and to arrive at the conclusion that it exists. Here indeed the poor human intellect has behaved more childishly than in any other respect. And yet the truth was there before its very eyes. The facts told it: matter thinks and feels; because you see things in the world that think and feel, and you do not know of anything that is not matter; you know nothing in this world, however hard you try, you cannot conceive of anything, but matter. But not knowing in what way matter thinks and feels, the human intellect has denied that matter has this power, and has then provided the clearest explanation and understanding of the phenomenon, and attributed it to the spirit, which is a word, without any possible idea; or shall we say, an idea that is purely negative and privative, and thus a nonidea; in the same way as nothingness is not an idea, or as a body which has no breadth nor depth nor length (see p. 4256, end) and similar imaginings that belong more to language than to thought.
So that if we have come to the conclusion that matter cannot think and feel, because the other tangible things, apart from man and animals, do not think or feel (or at least so we believe), we ought to have said for the same reason that the effects of elasticity cannot belong to matter, because only elastic bodies are able to produce such effects and not others; and so forth.1 (9 March 1827, 2nd Friday in March.)
A baby, almost as soon as it is born, makes movements from which it can be clearly seen that it understands the existence of the force of gravity of bodies, and acts in consequence of that understanding. This is the same for many other physical understandings that all people have, and which a baby demonstrates almost [4254] immediately. Are these understandings and ideas perhaps innate? Not at all. But it very quickly feels within itself, and in the things that surround it, that its body has weight. This experience, in a flash, gives it the idea of gravity,
and a principle is formed in its head: a principle which a few moments later it would seem absurd for it to doubt, and yet it no longer remembers how it entered its head in the first place. The same happens with both moral and intellectual principles. Everyone accepts and affirms that physical ideas are not innate: but moral ideas are, yes sir. Happy Easter your lordships. (9 March 1827, Recanati.)
Pregiudicato, spregiudicato. Popular Italian.
Gratito, as, avi, atum. Mutito. Mutuito. See Forcellini.
I have noted [→Z 1154, 2986] that the continuatives of verbs in the first conjugation are formed in ĭto, and can therefore be separately or simultaneously continuative or frequentative or both as in mussito [to keep silent], etc. The same with the continuatives of verbs whose supine forms are ĭtum (in frequent use or archaic), such as domito [to tame], agito [to drive, to move], etc. But I do not know whether I have noticed [→Z 3619] that from verbs of the fourth conjugation, with supines in ītum, continuatives are formed in īto (not ĭto), which cannot therefore be confused with the frequentatives, despite the ito ending. Such as, e.g., dormīto as [to be sleepy].
“I know, by my own experience, that the more one works, the more willing one is to work. We are all, more or less, des animaux d’habitude [creatures of habit]. I remember very well, that when I was in business, I wrote four or five hours together every day, more willingly than I should now half an hour.” Chesterfield, Letters to His Son, letter 318. “I have so little to do, that I am surprised how I can find time to write to you so often. Do not stare at the seeming paradox; for it is an undoubted truth, that the less one has to do, the less time one finds to do it in. One yawns, one procrastinates; one can do it when one will, and therefore one seldom does it at all; whereas those who have a great deal of business, must (to use a vulgar expression) buckle to it; and then they always [4255] find time enough to do it in.” Letter 320. “It is not without some difficulty that I snatch this moment of leisure from my extreme idleness, to inform you of the present lamentable and astonishing state of affairs here.” Letter 321.1 (12 March 1827.) See p. 4281.
A man who is ordinato [ordered] and assegnato [judicious] in everything. Guicciardini, Freiburg ed., tome 4, p. 67.
Patents for inventions were not unknown in the ancient republics. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 12, ch. 4.2
᾿Αριθμὸς, ἀριθμεῖν [number, to count]—ἄμιθρος, ἀμιθρεῖν. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 12, ch. 7.
Androcotus and Sandrocotus (personal names) used by the Greeks. See Casaubon, ibid.
ἐπείγειν [to press, to drive on], κατεπείγειν [to press, to hasten], τὰ κατεπείγοντα [urgent matters], etc., for δεῖ [it is necessary], τὰ ἀναγκαῖα [necessary things, needs], etc.—most urgent for necessarissimo [most necessary] Guicciardini, Freiburg ed., p. 238, tome 2. See Crusca, under urgenza, urgente, etc., which we actually use for necessità necessario [necessity, necessary], etc. See also Forcellini, whether there is anything under urgeo, etc., and in French and Spanish. See Toup, on Longinus, § 43, end.
Of our greatest poets, two were most unfortunate, Dante and Tasso. We are able to visit the tombs of both: both are buried far from their homes. But I, who shed tears over the tomb of Tasso,3 felt not the slightest stirring of tenderness at the tomb of Dante: and I think that this is generally so. And yet there is no lack of the highest esteem, indeed admiration, toward Dante, either in me, or in others; greater perhaps than toward the other (and with good reason). Moreover, Dante’s misfortunes were certainly real and great; as for Tasso’s, we cannot be sure that they were not imaginary, at least in part, so lacking and obscure is the information we have in this respect, so confused and continually full of contradictions is the manner in which Tasso himself writes about them. But we see in Dante a man of powerful mind, a mind that is able to support and withstand ill fortune, and furthermore, a man who stands up and battles against ill fortune, necessity, and fate. He is certainly much more worthy of admiration, but much less worthy of love and compassion. In Tasso we see one who is overcome by his misery, who is weary, prostrate, who has been overcome by adversity, who is continually afflicted and suffers excessively. Even if his calamities are entirely imaginary [4256] and vain, his unhappiness is certainly real. Indeed, without doubt, although he is less unfortunate than Dante, he is much more unhappy. (Recanati, 14 March 1827.) (This can be applied to the epic, drama, etc.)
When comparing civilized nations in ancient and modern times, it is very noticeable that in ancient times they were all situated in the south. In Italy, only the southern part was properly civilized. In the rest of Europe, there was only Greece. In Asia, there was only the south, including that part civilized by the Greeks, as well as India, Persia, etc. I say nothing about Africa, which is entirely southern. Now this had necessarily to produce, and did produce, a very great difference, both in the customs, in the ways of life, the practices and the public and private institutions, as well as in the character of civilized societies and ancient civilizations, in comparison with the customs and characteristics of modern society. In fact, according to the very accurate observation already made by others, that civilization has always moved and always develops from south to north and withdraws from the south, modern civilizations are all northern, or more northern than ancient ones; or at least, since it is clear that most of modern civilization resides in the north (this can also be seen in America), other more or less civilized peoples take the characteristics of their civilization from those of the north. In short, ancient civilization was southern, ours is northern. This proposition, while at first sight it is recognized as entirely true morally, is just as true literally and geographically. A difference that is in fact enormous and very significant, if not indeed the principal one, including all others within itself. Antiquity itself and the greater naturalness of the ancients is a kind of southernness in time.1 (14 March 1827, Recanati.)
For p. 4253. If we say “a body which is neither broad nor long nor deep,” we do not imagine that we have the slightest idea, clear or otherwise, about such an object. Let us change the word; let us say “a spirit”; we seem to have an idea. And yet what else do we have except a word?
[4257] Formica–formicola [ant]. Crusca. Segneri, Incredulo senza scusa, part 1, ch. 5, § 5. See Forcellini.
Caprea–capreolus, etc. Caprio, cavrio (Segneri, ibid., ch. 13, § 1)–cavriuolo, capriuolo, capriatto, etc. [goat].
Inviolato for inviolabile. See Forcellini. Efferatus, efferato for fiero [fierce].
Undatus–undulatus [wavy–undulated]. Ondato–ondeggiato, ondare–ondeggiare, with derivatives, etc., ondazione (Segneri, ibid., ch. 16, § 2)– ondulazione, undulazione (Alberti). Ondoyer, ondoyé. Ondulation.
Observe in all literature, whether ancient or modern, what are the greatest and most outstanding works, and you will always find that they are those written at a time when the nation did not yet have a literature; those which were conceived and composed by writers with a quite different purpose, with quite a different spirit (at least in the main) than the desire for literary fame (which did not yet exist, nor was it desired), or for other literary rewards. It was the desire to create a fine work of literature, of art, of writing. (Recanati, 17 March 1827.)
Sugo is–sugare [to suck]. Crusca. See Forcellini.
Man or thing aggiustata [adapted], aggiustatamente, aggiustatezza, etc.
Falco–faucon, falcone [falcon], etc. See the Spanish. Forcellini, etc. Mugir–meugler, meuglement [to moo]; or beugler, beuglement [to bawl]. Flocon [flake]. Violette [violet].
Uscia [doors], plural.
We say rondinella (or rondinetta) as a term of endearment, in verse and in prose: so did our ancient writers: and it means no more nor less than rondine [swallow]. It is still not a positivized word, in other words it has not lost its sense of endearment, but it can be an example of how other animal and plant diminutives have lost it, by dint of being used quite simply in place of the positive word, the
latter very often gradually falling into disuse. (19 March, Feast of St. Joseph, 1827.) Thus pecorella, etc. etc. The French say hirondelle as a positive word, originally aronde.
There is endless praise for the great perfection of nature, the matchless order of the universe. No words are sufficient to commend it. But what does it have to be so worthy of praise? It has at least as many ills as blessings; at least as much bad as good; as many things that go wrong as those that end well. I say [4258] this not to cause offense, and not unduly to upset beliefs, but I am convinced—and it could be shown—that there is a great deal more ill than good. Is such perfection then so great? Is such order so commendable? But what seems to us to be ill is not actually ill. And the good? Who says that this is actually good, rather than appearing only to us to be good? If we are unable to judge the purposes of life, or have insufficient information to understand whether the matters of the universe are truly good or bad—whether what seems to us to be good is actually good, whether what is bad is bad—then why do we wish to say that the universe is good, by virtue of what seems to us to be good? Why instead do we not say that it is bad, by reason of what seems to us to be bad, which is at least as much? Let us abstain therefore from judging, and let us say that this is a universe, that this is an order. But let us not say whether it is good or bad. Certainly for us, and so far as we are concerned, it is mostly bad; and each of us in this respect would have been able to do better, having matter and omnipotence to hand.1 It is also bad for all the other creatures, and kinds and species of creatures, that we know, for all of them destroy each other, all of them perish; and, worse still, all grow weak, all suffer in their own way. If from these ills that are particular to each is born a universal good, we do not know for whom (or if the ill-being of all the parts results in the well-being of the whole, which whole does not exist otherwise nor elsewhere than in its parts; for its existence, construed in any other sense, is a mere idea or word). We do not know, nor can we know, whether there is any creature, or being, or species of beings, for which this order is perfectly good; or whether this order is absolutely good in itself; or what it is, or whether inherent and absolute goodness is to be found in it. These are things that we do not know, nor can we know; that none of those that we do know make even likely, still less do they authorize us to believe them. Let us therefore admire this order, this universe. I admire it more than anyone. I admire it for its perversity and deformity, which seem to me extreme. But before praising it, let us at least wait until we know with certainty that it is not the worst of all possible worlds.2 —What I have said about goodness and badness can also be said of the beauty and ugliness of this order, etc. (21 March 1827.) To [4259] see whether there is more good or ill in the universe, each person should look at their own life, to see if there is more beauty or ugliness; they should look at the human race, look at a crowd of people. Everyone knows and says that beautiful people are rare, and that beauty is rare.
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