Graziato, aggraziato, disgraziato, etc., for grazioso [gracious], mal grazioso [ungracious], etc. Purgato, épuré, etc., for pure.
Scappare–scapolare [to escape]. Saltabellare [to hop, to skip, to jump]. Scartabellare [to leaf through].
περιστερά–περιστέριον, περιστερίδιον [pigeon]. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 14, ch. 20, beginning.
ENTRO a pochi dì, for FRA pochi dì [in a few days]. Bartoli, Missione al gran Mogor, Rome 1714, p. 72. Thus we say dentro il termine di tanti giorni, and likewise.
For the “Manual of practical philosophy.”1 In order to live peacefully, it is necessary to be occupied externally. My mistake has been in wanting to lead a life which is all and entirely internal, with the aim and hope of finding peace. The more I became free from labor and from extrinsic occupations, from every outside care, even from having to speak in order to ask for what I needed (so that I passed days without uttering a syllable), the less was my peace of mind. Each tiny incident which upset my ordinary routine (and they happened every day, because such small things are inevitable) disturbed my peace. I had continual fears and worries for these and other such trifles. I suffered continual torments of the imagination, dark forebodings, unpleasant daydreams, imaginary evils, panic attacks. Anxiety is very different from labor and occupation, cares and concerns. Inactivity is very different from tranquillity. People, especially those with great imagination, who for this reason are much troubled in their business, in their active life or simply in society, and are most irresolute (as Staël notes in Corinne in relation to Lord Nelvil),2 and who therefore tend to love routine, and flee from action and from society and toward solitude, [4260] are greatly mistaken in doing so. In order to live peacefully, they need, more than others, to escape from themselves and therefore they need great distraction and external occupation. Even if they are bored. They will become bored in order to find peace. Even accompanied by concerns and anguish. The ones without any real foundation which they would inevitably fabricate in their own imagination in their solitary, internal, routine life would be greater. If they wish to find true peace, those who tend by nature to love routine, solitude, peace, avoid these things more than others, or seek to temper them with their opposites. This will help them then to judge and think philosophically about matters and human affairs. But a businessman (without any shadow of philosophy) certainly has greater peace of mind in the continual crowd and under the pressure of worries and business—and also a man of the world in the turmoil and tempestuous sea of society—than does a philosopher living in solitude, in a uniform life and in outward idleness. (Recanati, 24 March 1827.)
The more we escape in this way from such worries and displeasures, the more we encounter them, because without the real (or shall we say momentary) causes which are produced externally, we feign them and create them ourselves and, so to speak, from our own resources, making them much larger and endless. And such worries and displeasures, thus produced, are not only of equal effect upon us as if they were real, but we feel them and they torment us much more than the greatest and foremost troubles of a hectic and busy life, due to the lack of distractions and the monotony of life. That is to say, they are much greater, and each one of them is felt, whereas in a busy life many of them are not felt and consequently they are not even displeasures. (Recanati, 25 March, Sunday, Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 1827.)
Quanto, in quanto, for poichè, perocchè [since], etc.—παρ' ὅσον, i.e., ὅσον, etc. See an [4261] example of παρ' ὅσον in this sense, used by Athenaeus, Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk 15, ch. 2, toward the end, and from the scholiast on Pindar, in the same, ibid., ch. 19, end.
Dimonia. Demonia. Mulina.—plurals.
We are all naturally inclined to regard ourselves as equal to our superiors, superior to our equals, and incomparably better than our inferiors; in short, we raise our own merit excessively and unreasonably above that of others. This is universal nature and comes from a source that is common to all. But another source of pride and of disregard for others, which is unknown to us but has become natural and typical of the French and English because it is instilled from infancy, is admiration for one’s own country. Whatever happens, it is never possible for the most benevolent, well-educated, and open-minded Frenchman or Englishman, when he finds himself in the company of foreigners, not to think wholeheartedly and sincerely that he is with an inferior (whatever the other circumstances might be), not to scorn other nations in general to a greater or lesser extent, and not to make some kind of outward demonstration of his feeling of superiority. This is a trigger, a very distinctive source of pride and self-esteem, to the prejudice or belittlement of others, about which no other civilized populations, except for people from the said nations, can have or form a proper idea. The Germans, who could have just as much right to the same feeling, are prevented from doing so by their division, from not being a German nation. The Russians think of themselves as half barbarous; the Swedes, the Danes, and the Dutch think of themselves as too small and powerless. The Spanish in the time of Charles V and Philip II certainly had this belief, as we see from history, no less so than the French and English of the present day, and with just as much right; perhaps they still have it, without any right, and so do the Portuguese, but who takes the Spanish and Portuguese into account when talking about civilized people today? Maybe the Italians had it (and so indeed it appears) in the 15th and 16th centuries and a little before and after, by reason of their culture, which they well knew, and others recognized, to be superior to that of all the rest of Europe. I will say nothing about the Italians of today. I don’t know if there are any.
[4262] This belief in the inferiority of foreigners, this condescending way of regarding them and treating them, is as naturalized and internalized by habit in the French and the English as speaking and dealing with poor people and plebeians as naturally inferior beings is in someone of rich and noble birth. For even the most kindhearted and the most philosophical man in the world, if he is born to that condition, will treat them in that way unless he takes care and purposely makes the effort to do otherwise. This is because his belief that he is superior to such people is not dependent upon his reasoning, nor his will.
This view that the French and the English have of themselves can be, and certainly is, very beneficial. It would also be beneficial to anyone who has it without cause. Great self-esteem is the primary foundation both of morality and of noble and respected purposes and deeds. Yet, because knowing that others consider you to be inferior, and a certain self-contempt from whatever point of view is always unpleasant, there is no doubt that seeing this national pride in the French and the English is very unpleasant and hateful to foreigners. And since culture and good breeding require, above all, that we hide our belief in personal superiority, and our scorn for those with whom we are dealing, however reasonable and justified it may be, it seems that the French and the English should hide their feelings when they are among foreigners. The English do not pride themselves on their good manners, indeed they flatter themselves that they do not have any, that they are ill-mannered. So we can’t be surprised about them. The French not only pride themselves in this respect, but strive to be, believe themselves to be, and certainly are, the best-mannered people in the world. Indeed their belief in their own superiority is largely based upon this. It therefore seems strange that the most cultured Frenchman, when speaking or writing to foreigners, is unable (or it does not occur to him) to refrain from allowing them to understand in some way (but clearly) that he considers them to be unquestionably lower than him. Even lower when it comes to published writings.
This fact also seems strange when you consider that the French are most sensitive and fearful of ridicule. If that pretension of theirs seems ridiculous to someone, like me, who considers it to be justified, and also beneficial and commendable, how must it seem to those who do not think as much, or who regard it as entirely vain, exaggerated, etc.? This
must [4263] occur naturally with many people, but with the English it occurs by necessity. And indeed all pretension that is made manifest, however justified, is the subject of ridicule, because manifest pretension is ridiculous.1 And it would be less surprising for them to treat foreigners with such ridicule in their own country, where they are much stronger, because general opinion is in their favor, their superiority is considered to be axiomatic, and their audience is entirely on their side. But that they behave in such a way (as is the case) in the country of the foreigners themselves, while traveling abroad, with their actual hosts? This is most strange about the French, but what is much stranger still, when all is said and done, is that they travel triumphantly among us, showing us their disdain, ridiculing us to our very faces and in their manner of speaking to us (not waiting until they have returned home), and yet they do not receive the slightest criticism from us, or the smallest hint of ridicule, neither in words, in our dealings here with them, nor in our letters, nor in print. Where does this come from? From the goodness of the Italians, or their simplemindedness, or their fear, or something else? (25 Mar. 1827.)
Pennelleggiare [to paint]. Tratteggiare [to sketch].
For p. 4249, end. Chesterfield himself notes several times that among the distinctive and principal qualities of our literature, which make it worthy above all of the curiosity of foreigners, are having excellent historians, and excellent translations from Latin and from Greek, and it is later apparent that he is thinking in particular about those of the “Collana.”2 The first point is correct. The second point only serves to demonstrate the great ignorance that foreigners have about our culture. This is because, if our literature is lacking in any aspect, it is certainly lacking in good translations from Latin and from Greek. And with regard to the “Collana” in particular, there is barely a single piece that can be read for itself, in terms of language and style, and which does not state, for at least half of its length, the opposite of what the Greek and Latin author intended to say, and did say. All literature (except perhaps German in recent years) is lacking in really good translations. But Italian, in this respect, if it does not distinguish itself as the poorest, does not distinguish itself at all. It can be said merely that we began to have translations from classical Latin and Greek (not good, but simply translations), long [4264] before all other nations. This is natural because classical literature, and the study of true Latin and Greek, also reappeared in Italy before it did elsewhere. And we also had it in great quantity. And these were perhaps the reasons which gave rise to that belief among foreigners who are superficially acquainted with1 our culture, which Chesterfield along with others shared. Nevertheless during the same period, indeed a little earlier,a2 Maffei wrote from Bavaria (where he was staying) in the preface to his Traduttori italiani, or Notice concerning translations from ancient Greek and Latin writers that are in print addressed to a cultured lady who he met there. “Your custom was to place the French” (language) “before others, for the benefit it afforded you of enjoying the ancient Greek and Latin writers, reading whom pleased you most greatly, their having been translated by the French. Here I tried in vain to explain that this pleasure could likewise be obtained in Italian, and that already since the golden period of the 16th century the majority of the most sought-after ancient writers were available to us in excellent vernacular translations. This placed me in conflict with all of those present, and especially the Italians, who remained firm in claiming that these translations were available in French alone.”3 And here are foreigners actually denying that Italian literature, and claiming that French literature, had that same quality which other foreigners such as Chesterfield attributed to Italian (and around the same time). In the preface Maffei states that “the Italians translated before, more and better than other nations.” In order to prove this proposition, he sought to compile, and did compile, his own catalogue of our translators. For myself, I accept and believe that the first two parts of his proposition are true, at least in relation to the period in which Maffei was writing. I will also accept the third, in relation to that same period, provided that “better than the others” does not exclude the absolutely bad and worst.4 (Recanati, 27 March 1827.) See p. 4304, end.
For p. 4234. See also Manfredi’s letter in Orsi’s Considerazioni sopra la maniera di ben pensare, etc., Modena, 1735, tome 1, p. 686, end and the Oration by Girolamo Gigli in praise of the Tuscan language, in his Lezioni di lingua toscana, Venice 1744, 3rd ed.5
For p. 4194. I believe that this also includes that anecdote of the Spanish woman [4265] from Buenos Aires in America, by the name of Maldonata (which should be Maldonada) who had been nurtured over a long period of time, and then saved by chance, by a lioness to whom she had earlier done a kind deed, in the sixteenth century. Although this little tale is described seriously and with fine philosophical reflections by Raynal (Leçons de littérature et de morale, that is a French Anthology, by Noël and Delaplace, 4th ed., Paris 1810, tome 1, pp. 16–18).1 But this, mutatis mutandis, is exactly the same as the (much older) story of the fugitive slave by the name of Androdus, who was nurtured in Numidia, and then saved from death in Rome, by a lion to whom he had done a kind deed. (Gellius, Noctes Atticae, bk. 5, ch. 14; Aelian, Historia animalium, bk. 7, ch. 48.) Nor do I venture to say that this was the first and original version of the story. (Indeed it seems to me to be Greek in origin. See other similar stories, which are Greek, in Pliny, bk. 8, ch 16,2 which seem to be the first versions of this.) I say story because of the suspicion (certainly well founded) of imitation; and also because it is well known that in America there are no lions, and never were, nor even, unless I am mistaken, lionesses. (Recanati, 29 March 1827.) Here I am talking about lionesses born there and living in the forests and in the caves, like the one in the story, not those transported from elsewhere and kept in cages and in captivity.
We Italians are mocked for our ceremonies and our titles (which we got from the Spanish), and especially so by the French, who are well known for being most casual in this respect. Yet we do not have the custom, adopted by the French, that Monsieur is, so to speak, inseparable from the names of all persons, that writers add it to their name on the title pages of their works, that it is perpetually preserved, or put there, even when the authors are dead, and likewise. (Recanati, 29 March 1827.)
λοφνία–λοφνὶς [torch of vine bark], λοφία or λοφίη–λοφὶς [mane, bristles–crestcase]. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 15, ch. 18. φρουρὰ–φρούριον [guard, guard duty fort]. ἴχνος–ἴχνιον [footprint].
ἑλάνη–σελάνη. See ibid.
If it were the intention of nature, making mankind so weak and defenseless, that he should reach the state of civilization by using his intelligence to provide for his life and well-being, why then have so many hundreds of savage and barbarous nations in America, Africa, Asia, Oceania not yet reached such a state, not even taken a single [4266] step to get there, and will certainly never get there, nor will they ever be civilized in any way (or would never have been), unless we compel them to be so (or unless we had compelled them to be so)? Yet such nations form a good half, and more, of the human species in nature. Because even if we assume that the civilized populations, altogether, are greater in number of people than the total of those who are not civilized and have never been civilized, this greater number is subsequent to and the effect of civilization, which favors the multiplication of the species and the increase of population. Why has nature therefore been so foolish and improvident as to have missed1 its plan by more than half? (Recanati, 30 March, last Friday, 1827.)
When you seek only pleasure in something, you never find it: you find nothing other than boredom, and often distaste. In order to experience pleasure in any action or occupation, it is necessary to seek some purpose other than pleasure itself. (This may be of use for the “Manual of practical philosophy.”)2 (30 March 1827.) This happens (among a thousand examples that could be given) in reading. Anyone who reads
a book (even the most pleasurable, most beautiful book in the world) for no other purpose than pleasure, gets bored, indeed forms a dislike for it, on the second page. But a mathematician obtains great pleasure from reading a demonstration on geometry, which he certainly does not read for pleasure. See p. 4273. And perhaps for this reason public spectacles and entertainments in themselves, in the absence of other circumstances, are the most terribly tedious and tiresome things in the world, because they have no purpose but pleasure. This alone is desired, this alone is expected; and something from which pleasure is expected and demanded (like a debt) almost never gives it: indeed it gives the opposite. Pleasure (it is perfectly true to say) only comes unexpectedly; and it is found where we are not seeking it, and have no hope of finding it. This is why, in the ardor of youth, when man, filled with desire and hope, rushes headlong in search of pleasure, he finds only terrifying and tormenting displeasure and boredom in life’s most pleasurable things. And he only begins to feel a certain pleasure in the world when that impetus has passed, and coldness [4267] has set in, and he is reduced to caring little about himself and having no further hope of pleasure. (30 March 1827.) In this respect, pleasure is similar to peace of mind. The more it is sought and desired in itself and alone, the less it is to be found and enjoyed, as I have described in another thought a little earlier [→Z 4259–60]. The very desire for peace of mind necessarily excludes it, and is incompatible with it.
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