Zibaldone
Page 26
[82] I would like to quote a passage from the Notti Romane, not because I think the book can be taken as a model of style but to give an example that I feel to be appropriate. And it is where the Vestal says she struck her head in desperation against a wall, and lay on the ground. The suppression of the verb between hitting her head and lying on the ground, which is falling, has a very powerful effect, making the reader feel all the violence and, so to speak, shock of that fall, because of that verb not being there; it seems to take the ground from under your feet and make you drop like a lead weight from the first idea into the second, which can be connected with the first only by the intermediate idea that isn’t there.1 And this is the true art of giving quality and effectiveness to style, and almost experiencing what you are writing.
I was extremely weary of life, and was by the side of a pool in my garden, looking into the water and bending over it. With a certain shudder, I thought, if I were to throw myself in, as soon as I floated to the surface, I would climb over the side of the pool, and, as I pulled myself out, having feared that I might perish and returning unharmed, I would experience a brief moment of contentment at having saved myself, and of affection for this life which I now disdain so, and which would then seem to me more worthwhile. The tradition about the leap from Lefkada could be based upon an observation such as this.2
[83] The reason I find a naturalness and truth that is even more inward and singular and totally new in Staël’s observations in book 14 of Corinne is that (as well as finding myself at present in the very same state that she describes) she portrays there the man of genius reflecting upon himself, and not on extrinsic or sublime things but on trivialities and the qualities that a man of genius rarely notices in himself, and is perhaps even ashamed of and refuses to admit (or believes they are foreign to his true nature and originate from other baser qualities, and is therefore afflicted by them), and so her portrayal, by focusing less on the abstract and the sublime, possesses greater truth and familiar depth in all the things that Corinne says about her younger self.
Though I found myself in the condition that I referred to above as I read this book, each time Madame describes the envy of those ordinary men, and their desire to humble their superiors, as much in the eyes of the superiors themselves and other people as in their own, I did not find the same certain and precise application to my own circumstances. And, in fact, I think that this envy, and this desire, cannot be found in the kind of small-minded people that she describes because such people have never considered genius and enthusiasm1 as a superior virtue, but rather as folly, youthful ardor, lack of prudence, experience, good sense, etc., and they think much more highly of themselves. Therefore, they cannot feel envy, because no one envies the folly of others, but instead feel compassion, or disdain, and even ill will, such as toward people who are not willing to think like you, and in the way you believe they ought to think. Besides, they think that once those people have grown up they will mend their ways, so they are far from envying them. And this is precisely [84] my experience, past and present. It is certainly the case that should they ever come to suspect these men of genius of being superior spirits, or if they get to know that that is how they are regarded, they will do all that they can—base souls that they are and lovers of their own quiet lives, etc.—to bring them down. And they could conceive envy for them, but envy of them as people whose reputation is mistaken and against good judgment, envy not of their genius but of the esteem they receive from it, for not only do they not believe them to be superior, but they think them very much inferior.
One proof among a thousand of how purely physical systems influence intellectual and metaphysical ones is the system of Copernicus. For the thinker, the Copernican system completely changes the idea of nature and man conceived and thought of as natural in the old, so-called Ptolemaic system. It reveals a plurality of worlds, shows that man is not a unique being, in the same way as the position, movement, destiny of the world is not unique, and opens up an immense field of thoughts about the infinity of creatures that, according to all the laws of analogy, must live on other planets that are entirely analogous to our own, and those planets which, though we cannot see them, may also move around other suns, namely the stars. It diminishes the idea of man, and elevates it, uncovers new mysteries about creation, the destiny of nature, the essence of things, our being, the omnipotence of the creator, the purposes of created things, etc. etc.1
When I felt extreme boredom and total discouragement about life, sometimes I would be a little comforted and eased, and I would begin to weep for the fate of mankind and the wretchedness of the world. I thought then: I cry because I am happier. And in this way, the nothingness of things still left me strength to feel pain; but when I felt it most and was full of it, it left me no strength to grieve.2
[85] Cum pietatem funditus amiserint
Pi tamen dici nunc maxime reges volunt.
Quo res magis labuntur, haerent nomina.
[And it is especially when they have lost all piety that kings wish to be called pious, for when things most fall apart, the names persist.]1
I was frightened to find myself in the midst of nothingness, a nothing myself. I felt as if I were suffocating, thinking and feeling that all is nothing, solid nothing.
Before experiencing happiness—or, shall we say, what appears to be real and present happiness—we are able to feed on hopes. And if these hopes are strong and lasting, that is a time of true happiness for man, as in the period between childhood and youth. But once that happiness that I’ve described is lost, hopes are not enough to satisfy us, and the unhappiness of man is fixed. Apart from the fact that it is much more difficult to hope after a sad experience, in any case the vividness of experienced happiness cannot be compensated for by the lure and limited delights of hope, and man, comparing the two, always weeps over that which he has lost and which is very unlikely to return because the time of great illusions is over.
A man caught in open countryside by a deadly hailstorm and killed or injured by it, sheltering under trees, protecting his head with his hands, etc., subject of a simile.
When the sensations of enthusiasm, etc., that we experience are not very profound, we seek out a companion to share them with, and we like to talk about them in that moment (according to Marmontel’s observation that, on seeing some beautiful countryside, we are not satisfied unless we are with someone to whom we can say: “la belle campagne!” [“what beautiful countryside!”])2 because in a certain way we hope to heighten [86] the pleasure of that feeling and the feeling itself by sharing it with others. But when the impression is deep quite the opposite occurs, because we fear, rightly, that it might fade and evaporate on being shared, brought out from the confines of our souls to be exposed to the air of conversation. Besides, it fills us in such a way that, occupying all our attention, it leaves us no space to think about other people, and no means to express it. For that would itself require a certain attention that would distract us, when distraction is not only intrusive but impossible.
Staël (Corinne, bk. 18, ch. 4), referring to “la statue de Niobé” [“the statue of Niobe”], says: “sans doute dans une semblable situation la figure d’une véritable mère serait entièrement bouleversée; mais l’idéal des arts conserve la beauté dans le désespoir; et ce qui touche profondément dans les ouvrages du génie, ce n’est pas le malheur même, c’est la puissance que l’ame conserve sur ce malheur” [“in a similar situation, no doubt, a real mother’s facial expression would be utterly distraught; but in the arts, the ideal retains its beauty even in despair; and what touches us so deeply in works of genius is not misfortune itself but the power over this misfortune that the soul retains”].1 What a fine condemnation of the Romantic system. In order to preserve simplicity and naturalness, and to avoid affectation, which the moderns substituted, unfortunately, for dignity (which the ancients identified easily with simplicity, to them so present and familiar and right and living), the Romantic system eschews all
nobility. As a result, their works of the mind bear no trace of this great feature of their origin, and, as a pure imitation of truth, like a rag statue with a wig and a wax face, etc., have much less effect than an imitation that, with simplicity and naturalness, preserves the ideal of beauty, and transforms the common into the extraordinary, that is, shows in its heroes a great soul and a dignified attitude, arousing admiration and [87] deep feeling through the power of contrast. In the Romantic system, on the other hand, you cannot be moved except in the way you are moved by the everyday events of life. The Romantics express them faithfully, but without imparting to them anything of the extraordinary and the sublime, which elevate the imagination and inspire deep meditation, and intimacy, and lastingness of feeling. And so once again, it can be seen that the ancients left more for thought than they expressed, and the impression of their works was more long-lasting.
When a truly unfortunate man understands and feels a deep awareness of the impossibility of being happy, and the great and certain unhappiness of humankind, he begins by becoming indifferent about himself, like someone who can hope for nothing, and neither lose nor suffer more than what he already knows and expects. But if misfortune reaches its peak, indifference is not enough, and he loses nearly all his self-love (which had already been so violated by this indifference), or rather directs it in a way that is entirely contrary to normal behavior; he begins to hate life, existence, and himself, he becomes abhorrent to himself, as though he were an enemy, and that is when the prospect of new misfortunes, or the idea and act of suicide, gives him a terrible and almost barbarous joy, especially if he succeeds in killing himself while being obstructed by others. That is the time of that malign, bitter, and ironic smile, like that of a cruel man who has carried out a revenge he has long, fervently, and impatiently desired. That smile is the last expression of extreme despair and supreme unhappiness. See Staël, Corinne, bk. 17, ch. 4, 5th edition, Paris 1812, pp. 184–85, tome 3.1
[88] “Je vous l’ai dit souvent, la douleur me tuerait; il y a trop de lutte en moi contre elle; il faut lui céder pour n’en pas mourir,” [“I have often told you that grief would kill me; there is too much struggle within me against it; I must yield to it or die of it”] says Corinne in Staël, bk. 14, ch. 3, tome 2, p. 361, in the edition referred to above. And this is why the ancients, on whom the writer sought to model the character of Corinne, insofar as it was compatible with modern customs and modern philosophy (which she makes generous use of to enrich her character), were overcome by unhappiness in such a way that they expressed their desperation through the most terrible actions and deeds, and misfortune drove them out of their minds, and killed them. That “se réposer sur sa douleur” [drawing comfort from one’s grief],1 that pleasure which the moderns have found even in misfortune itself and in the feeling of being unfortunate, was something unknown to those who, following the instinct of nature that was still not entirely corrupted, ran straight toward happiness, seeing it not as a phantom but as something real, and found their delight where nature had first placed it, in good rather than bad fortune, which, when it affected them, they regarded as personal, not universal and inevitable. Nor was their desire for happiness moderated and repressed and weakened by reflection and philosophy. For this reason, the effect of anything that hindered the fulfillment of this desire was all the greater.
“Les habitans du Midi craignant beaucoup la mort, l’on s’étonne d’y trouver des institutions qui la rappellent à ce point; mais il est dans la nature d’aimer à se livrer à l’idée même que l’on redoute. Il y a comme un enivrement de tristesse qui fait à l’ame le bien de la remplir tout entière” [“Since the inhabitants of the south greatly fear death, it is surprising to find institutions that recall it to this degree; but it is natural to like yielding to the very idea that one dreads the most. There is in sadness a sort of inebriation, which eases the soul by filling it entirely”], Corinne, bk. 10, ch. 1, tome 2, p. 115, ed. referred to above. [89] One might note, in this respect, that indistinct yet real urge we have, for example, to sniff some fetid object we are holding in our hands. In the same way, if you happen to pass, let us say, a place where justice is being carried out, you feel disgusted by that execution, and yet I would bet that you cannot prevent yourself from looking up to catch a glimpse of it before averting your eyes. See in this respect a notable passage in Plato, Opera, ed. Ast, tome 4, p. 236, lines 8–16.1 And the same with everything that disgusts us. Thus, if you have been frightened by a dangerous experience, your heart aches to think about it. You do not have the strength to dwell upon that thought, moment, incident, proximity to death, etc., but you don’t have the strength to drive it away, either; indeed, whether you want to or not, you still have to catch a glimpse of it. Similarly, if you have a thought that saddens you, the memory of something that makes you feel ashamed of yourself, etc. The reason for this effect is certainly not the inebriation that Staël describes, and not even curiosity, as anyone with a little thought will realize. Rather, I would say that the unknown gives us more pain than the known and, since that object frightens us or saddens us or makes us shudder, we do not know how to leave it alone. And even if it disgusts us, we still find a certain desire to put it into some perspective so that we can understand it better. Perhaps also, and so I believe, it comes from a love of the extraordinary, and the natural hatred of monotony and boredom that is innate in all men, and if an object presents itself that breaks this monotony and steps out of the common run of things, however much [90] more burdensome it seems to us than boredom (but perhaps, at that moment, we do not notice or think about this), we still find a certain pleasure in the shock and agitation that the fleeting glimpse of that object produces in us. This explanation is close to Staël’s, for boredom is nothing other than an emptiness of soul that is filled, as she writes in that thought, and entirely occupied for that moment. And finally it can also arise, and I think it does arise, at least in part, from the very fear we have of that thought, for the reason that, in all physical and moral matters, wanting too intensely and the fear of not achieving diverts our actions from their purpose. And if a manual operation, e.g., surgery, is carried out overzealously and with a fear of failure, it will end badly. And in literature, or fine arts, searching for simplicity with too much care, and with the fear of not finding it, makes us lose it, etc.
The horror and fear of fate and destiny is to be found more (even today, when superstition is almost banished from the world) in great and powerful souls than in mediocre ones, because their desires and purposes are fixed, and they pursue them with ardor, constancy, and unswerving resolve. This was more commonly found among the ancients, for whom firmness, constancy, and strength and magnanimity were much more common virtues than among the moderns. And, seeing that the circumstances of life often, indeed very frequently, stood in opposition to their desires, they felt terror because of their obstinacy in desiring or directing their actions to that purpose, which perhaps and probably they would not have [91] been able to achieve. In fact, given the infinite variety of possible outcomes, the precise thing you seek unflinchingly is much less likely to happen than any of the infinite other possibilities. So when one event occurs rather than another, it is not an effect of fixed destiny pursuing you but blind accident. However, as is natural, the ancients, as in an optical or mechanical illusion, tended to confuse (and strong and ardent spirits still confuse) their own steadfastness with that of events, and because they were not the type of people to accept them and make compromises, they imagined that the obstinacy was not in them but in the events already ordained by destiny. On the other hand, mediocre spirits, who lack resolve or certainty of purpose, have a multiplicity of aims and stumble more easily on one or more of those which they desire, and even in the opposite case they give in without difficulty to the course of things and let themselves be borne along, subdued, controlled, according to the circumstances. And as they are not obstinate, and have no great difficulty in reconciling their plans with events, their mi
nds are freer. And they have no belief that fortune is in strong and constant opposition to them (strength and constancy exist only in the resistance that great souls set against the most transient and casual events), but think of everything as an effect of chance, and coincidence, as in fact it is. Add the invariability not only of ends but also of means in the former (that is, the great-spirited), which does not allow them to alter their principles, or regulate their actions according to events, but makes them always constant in their intention and in the way they carry it out, while the contrary takes place with the latter. And even in the absence of intention or purpose, you’ll see that firmness and obstinacy of character alone creates an illusion about the power of destiny, which, although it is [92] so variable, seems immutable to those who can see only a single path, a single way of behaving, of thinking and acting, a single type of events, and how these events must, or so it seems to them, turn out. And this fear of destiny can therefore also be found, to a greater or lesser extent, in mediocre spirits, or those who are purely rational and philosophical, etc., when they feel a certain desire or seek a certain goal in such a way that they become inflexible upon that point. See Staël, Corinne, bk. 13, ch. 4, p. 306, tome 2, ed. referred to above. The illusion that I have described can also be compared to the one we experience when we believe that the earth is motionless because we are standing still on it, whereas in fact it is turning and flying at great speed. And it is known that, even among great spirits, illusion is more alive according to whether they find themselves in circumstances in which desires and aims are more vital, determined, and fervent, fierce, firm, etc., during great passions, etc.