On this hypothesis—which is more or less in agreement with general opinion, since it recognizes Homer’s existence and admits to some extent [4322] the single authorship of the Iliad and the Odyssey, unlike Wolf, who attributes those poems to various authors, and B. Constant,1 who attributes them to two—I am quite willing to accept that Homer, having no idea about what was later to be called the epic poem, did not have any plan or intention to compose one either, in other words to create a long poem which had a corresponding beginning, middle, and end, which formed a whole that responded to a certain design, which had any kind of circumscribed and specific unity. I believe that he began his narrations wherever he felt like it, he continued them indefinitely without aiming for a particular destination, he ended them when he was tired of singing, without imagining that he had reached an end, without intending to bring his song to a conclusion, nor having exhausted the material or the events, or his plan, since he had none.
I would add that I still think that his verses were rhythmical, not metrical, in other words made to a certain sound, not to a regular and constant measure, and that they were reduced to this by the diaskeuasts, etc.2 (through the admission of those infinite irregularities and anomalies of theirs, which were and are called exceptions, license, and even rules). Likewise, it is probable that the verses of Dante were originally (and in the intention of the author) rhythmical and then reduced more or less into metrical form in the 14th century. And likewise, the verses of the English poet Chaucer were purely rhythmical, as proven by their eminent editor, Doctor Nott,3 who spoke to me on this subject with great erudition. The same was certainly also true with the oldest Italian, Provençal, Spanish, and French versifiers. See pp. 4334, 4362.
[4323] But what my reason cannot grasp the probability of—not only in the case of Homer, but also in the works of Ossian, and anyone else who could be cited in this respect—is that songs, which were certainly very long, and improvised, e.g., during a banquet or a public feast, among people who were drunk either with wine or joy, etc., by a poet perhaps also himself οὐ νήφοντος [being not sober] at that moment, and in a century when there was no stenography or tachygraphy—songs which according to all probability, ought to have been forgotten by the poet himself a moment afterward, indeed as soon as he had recited them—have been preserved in the memory of the listeners, not only in their subject matter but in their actual words, in such a way as to be faithfully transmitted from mouth to mouth for many centuries, well divided into their verses (irrespective of whether by rhythm or meter) and that now, after 30 centuries, they can still be read, and are printed in millions of copies which will preserve them for future centuries in perpetuity. Müller, who places Homer in the second century after the Trojan war (see p. 4330, paragraph 3), does not apparently recognize in the events and words of the Iliad and the Odyssey those signs of highly advanced Ionic and Greek civilization and literature, which have appeared to so many others (including recently G. Capponi)1 to be beyond number and entirely clear and certain. Otherwise, how is it possible to believe that those poems, by Homer or by others, were not written down immediately? That the use of writing was unknown or so scarce in a highly advanced literature and civilization? And above all, how can it be supposed that there was a flourishing unwritten literature?
But if Müller wishes to persuade me that Homer’s poems were not [4324] written down (to which I will make no resistance, especially as this conforms with the tradition received among the ancients themselves, according to what is said about Lycurgus, etc.), he must find me some other probable means of transmission and preservation apart from writing, without talking about inspiration and improvisation. He must at least tell me that Homer, before singing his verses, composed them; that he then sang them repeatedly (to different listeners, and on various occasions), with the same words as those which he had composed and sung; that he taught them to other people, whether they were ordinary folk, or singers and professionals, who were accustomed to learn from others, not being able to make up their own, and who would earn a living by singing them. Considering then also the superiority of memory before the use of writing, a superiority declared by Plato (Theaetetus and Phaedrus)1 and confirmed by experience and reasoning, I can accept the conservation of unwritten songs, whether by Homer or the Bards, etc., as being probable.
But given that Homer truly and deliberately composed his songs in such a way as to remember them and teach them to others, then, also excluding any idea of a plan, it would not be out of place to suppose a certain particular relationship between these songs, to think that Homer, while composing some of them, remembered the others he had composed, and intended to continue them, or shall we say, to continue the narration, without (I repeat) thereby aiming toward a particular destination. Indeed this supposition is more than natural, considering that the songs have a common subject matter: it is certain that Homer, in gradually composing each one, remembered those which preceded. And is it not likely that he often sang them all to [4325] the same audience: one song today, another tomorrow? That the audience was then keen to listen tomorrow to the continuation of today’s story (let us remember that the only stories at that time were in verse)? That Homer in singing his various compositions would have followed an order: the order of events (whether the same or different to that found today in his poems)? That he would also have followed this order in composing them, in other words, that after having begun where chance would have it, he would have gone ahead imagining and narrating, adding today onto yesterday’s story, without (I repeat again) ever aiming at anything other than proceeding onward with the narration?
This would provide a plausible explanation for that certain unity—however broad, but nevertheless a unity—which is found in his poems, and especially in the Odyssey, in which it must be agreed that it is very hard not to recognize any link at all between the parts, a continuity in the story, a wholeness, and also a beginning and end, in the fantastic adventures of that hero. And I observe, moreover, that in both poems, but more in the Iliad, there are very many passages of considerable length which could never be given a separate title, other than a trivial one; taken away from the remainder, they have no rational importance, and would become extremely boring; their only interest depends upon the relationship and connection which they have with the remainder of the story, as happens in poems written for a specific purpose; and in themselves they offer no argument which might be considered worthy of being sung in isolation. These passages are too numerous, too long, and form too much [4326] of the two poems for it to be thought possible that they had been intentionally interpolated by the diaskeuasts to create de la liaison [a connection] between Homer’s songs.
The repetitions, redundancies, contradictions, as well as being capable of surprising nobody in poems which are made, as I suggest, without an intention and without a plan, do no more than indicate the infancy of the art, and cannot offer valid objections, indeed, they are hardly objections, to anyone who is acquainted and familiar with the ancient writers, meaning those who are much less ancient, much more artful and learned than Homer, and not just poets but prose writers. How much, and often, must the erudite commentators sweat in order to reconcile and make consistent with himself, e.g., some ancient historian, whose work was certainly written down, and following a plan, and with materials consisting of facts written by others, or preserved by tradition! See p. 4330.1
The infancy of art in Homer is also indicated, for example, by the sterile superabundance of epithets, used out of place, without reason or purpose, and very often, as is known, inappropriately. Children do exactly the same when they write their exercises in rhetoric. They are never simple, indeed they are further from simplicity than anyone else. Homer’s manner thus has a certain naturalness, but not simplicity. Naturalness was the effect of the time, not of the author. Children do not have it, because they have read, they have things to imitate, and that is what they do. But simplicity, as I have stated and examined elsewhere [→Z 3047–
50], is always an effect of art, it is always the work of the author, not of the time. One who writes artlessly is not simple. Indeed Homer sought anything but simplicity, he sought ornament, and that naturalness of his which we feel was not what he wanted.2 The later Greek poets have an abundance of epithets through their imitation of Homer, but the earlier poets have fewer, and more fitting. See p. 4328, paragraph 2 and p. 4350, end.
[4327] This hypothesis of mine, as can be seen, would be a new compromise between the view of Wolf and Müller, and general opinion. According to both theories—mine and that of the two Germans—Homer was an epic poet without wishing to be one; and it would be interesting and curious to note the way in which the epic genre was born, a birth which would almost appear to have been imaginary, and yet this simple idea was to bring about the creation of epic works upon which such outstanding minds as Virgil and Tasso dedicated their lives. This would not be the only bizarre case to have originated from the inclination of man to imitate, and to submit his own genius to rules and forms. In any event, supposing that my hypothesis is correct, there is still space for some well-deserved praise of Homer’s art for the overall effect of the Iliad, even though it was composed without a preliminary plan. The effect is to be found, I suggest, in my reflections on the epic poem [→Z 3095–167]. Supposing, however, that the hypothesis of Wolf and Müller is correct, all of the praise will be due to chance alone, and the result of my previous reflections will be that chance is much more successful in forming and ordering a body of epic poetry than the art of its successors. And those praises which I have given to Homer’s art, for his poem as a whole, will be the result of chance.1 Another humiliating circumstance for the human mind. (Florence, 26–31 July 1828.) See p. 4354, end.
*“It is with Aristotle that writers using what is called the common dialect (διάλεκτος κοινή) begin, and Demosthenes himself is no longer as pure” (so pure an Attic writer) “as Xenophon and Plato.”* Bulletin de Férussac, loc. cit. on p. 4312, July 1824, tome 2, art. 13, p. 12.2 [4328] On the supposed dialects of Homer, see p. 4319, paragraph 1. (Florence, 31 July 1828.)
For p. 4318. In fact Phemius and Demodocus in the Odyssey sing their narrative verses to the accompaniment of the lyre.1 In any event, these observations of mine tend to demonstrate that the current and long-held distinction between eulogistic, passionate, etc., poems, called lyric, melic poetry, etc., and narrative poems, called epics, is of ancient origin. (31 July 1828.)
For p. 4326. The artlessness necessary to achieve simplicity was one of the causes of the delay in producing good prose in Greek literature, already rich in verse. Those who did not wish to write in a plebeian style, those who were not in fact ignorant, knew how to write decoratively (which is fine in poetry) but not straightforwardly (as prose requires). The language of the gods, says Courier (preface to his specimen translation from Herodotus), was well mastered, whereas it was still not understood how to use the language of men.2 The first attempts at Greek prose, such as those of Hecataeus of Miletus and Pherecydes, fail mainly, as Courier himself observes, because of their poetic quality, which extends to diction too. The style was overblown, but they could not help it. In poetry they were more at ease, because what was overblown in prose was not so in poetry. Even Herodotus, on closer examination, is rather poetic and bombastic amid the naturalness of the time. We had the same with Dante, and no prose of any importance until Boccaccio. The best prose was the most ordinary, written by the most uneducated, without pretension, without even the intention (so to speak) of writing. But those prose writers who sought to write seemed strangely inflated (amid the naturalness which was the effect of the time and very limited reading), people like Dino Compagni, whose paltry bombast and exaggeration make him sound like children in rhetoric class. (31 July 1828.)
[4329] If a good book achieves no success, the best method is to say it has, to talk about it as a famous book, known throughout Italy, etc.1 These things become true by force of being claimed. A lot of people claiming and repeating it make it true beyond a shadow of a doubt. If, for any reason, this method cannot be used, the best option is to keep quiet, dissemble, and wait to see what time will do. But nothing is worse than de se fâcher avec le public [getting angry with the public], complaining loudly about unfairness, about what bad taste people have today, because they are taking no notice of the book. Such complaints might be perfectly just, the book might be a classic, but once its failure is admitted and made public, the best result that can be hoped for is that it be regarded like those claimants without bayonets who are left with nothing but their rights and legitimate title. (Florence, 10 August 1828, St. Lawrence.)
Alphabets. Orthography. Difficulties and imperfections in writing dialects, e.g., Italian dialects, which have an abundance of sounds that are lacking in the national written alphabet, etc. Arbitrary application of symbols in this alphabet to the said sounds. You can wager that two people who set about writing one and the same dialect without knowing each other, or following an already received method, would not write a single word in the same way. Most of our dialects have an alphabet of sounds which is much richer than the ordinary alphabet. (Florence, 10 Aug. 1828.)
In literature, everything which has beauty written over it is false beauty, is ugly. A most fertile truth, and very rich in its implications, which occur all the time. (Florence, 10 Aug. 1828.)
[4330] For p. 4326, and whose subject was truth, and not for the most part fiction, as in Homer and in the poets. (10 Aug. 1828.)
From my observations comparing that passage by Agatharchides with the story of Mucius Scaevola [→Z 4152–53, 4193–94], it can be seen that one of the principal sources of the fabulous, found in early Roman history, in particular by Niebuhr,1 is through early Roman historians (followed later by others) copying Greek stories and fables when they tell the origins and earliest periods of Rome, and changing the names. The earliest historians did the same in almost every nation, and also more recently, in later periods, etc., among whom a notable example is that of Saxo in the Historia Danica.2 (10 Aug. 1828.)
For. p. 4323. The taking of Troy, according to the Parian marbles, whose chronology is now generally followed, is dated to the year 1208 before the Christian era. Bulletin de Férussac, etc., loc. cit. on p. 4312, tome 3, art. 335, p. 275, end.3 (10 Aug. 1828.) See p. 4378.
Everyone says that good people are very rare. This is true in general terms. But when it comes to the specific, nothing is more common than to hear it said of a family: “they are good people,” of an individual: “he’s a good man, an extremely good man.” Rarely the opposite: hardly one time in ten. And in practice, I have found good people everywhere, even to live with, so that nothing is less trouble now than finding good people with whom I need, or might need, to have dealings. I believe that the goodness of people is much less [4331] rare than is believed, indeed, that generally speaking almost everyone is good. And I believe that to find good people everywhere, and without further examination, it is necessary only to be a good person yourself, and well mannered. (10 Aug. 1828, Feast of St. Lawrence, Florence.) See p. 4333.
They were still very young, but love had been wiped off their faces; you could see that their youth had vanished forever. (M.lles Busdraghi.)1 (10 Aug. 1828.)
*“On the Moldavian Language; Extract from a Manuscript by M. le C.te d’Hauterive (Wilkinson, Tableau de la Moldavie et de la Valachie, translated by Monsieur de La Roquette, 2nd ed., appendix, n. 9.)2 This rough and uncouth language is obviously of romance origin; but on this point the author puts forward a particular hypothesis. He postulates that there first existed in Rome a popular language which had articles, auxiliary verbs, and all the cumbersome forms which, in the author’s view, announce the birth of civilization. While orators and writers created the classical language, remarkable for its precision and elegance, the language of the people spread through the provinces of the empire and was subsequently modified according to the genius of, or relations with, the inhabitants. Thus, according to th
e comte d’Hauterive, French, Italian, Spanish, Moldavian do not derive from the language of Cicero and Augustus: these languages have a more ancient origin; they come from an earlier language, that spoken by the first inhabitants of Rome. Moldavian in particular appears to him to be a remnant of that crude language. In support of this hypothesis the author gives 6 tables, [4332] the first two of which list the tenses of the auxiliary verbs to be and to have, in French and Moldavian. It can be seen from these that the tenses in Moldavian are composed like those in French. The third table includes the Moldavian verb iou laud, je loue [I praise]. The fourth table seeks to prove that the 4 living romance languages, that is to say, French, Italian, Spanish, and Moldavian, have more relationship with each other than with Latin. It seems, however, that these examples are not always well chosen. For example, the Moldavian word zoon is as far away from the French word jour [day] as it is from the Latin, and the Moldavian word pugn is more like Latin pugnus than French poing [fist]. In the fifth table the author has gathered words that are common to the four modern languages and that, although they are romance, do not agree with classical Latin. For example, ignis [fire] is rendered in the four languages by feu, fuoco, fuego, and fuoc; ensis [sword] by sabre (he should have said épée), sciabla, espada, sabbia; humerus [shoulder] by épaule, spale (sic), espala (sic), espal. These examples, however, do not prove that the 4 languages have drawn from an older language than classical Latin, for the words cited by the author could as well date from the time of the decadence of the empire and the Latin language; thus feu, fuoco, fuego, and fuoc are from the time of late Latinity, when the old words had already deviated in part from their true acceptation, and when the word for hearth (focus), which at first designated the place of the fire, was used by the barbarians to express the fire itself. Finally, in the last table, the author has sought to gather words [4333] that are common to Latin and Moldavian, but lacking in the other three languages, in order to show that Moldavian does not derive from the modern languages. Among these examples are to be found verbum, verbe; magis, moi (sic). But verbe and mais (used formerly in the sense of magis) are also French. These examples cannot therefore act as proof. D-G.”* (Depping.) Bulletin de Férussac, loc. cit. p. 4312, Febr. 1825, tome 3, art. 152, pp. 118–19. (10–11 Aug. 1828.)
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