French society is one in which “l’esprit naturel se tourne en épigrammes plutôt qu’en poésie” [“natural wit turns into epigrams rather than poetry”], says Staël (see Corinne, bk. 15, ch. 9, p. 80, tome 3, ed. referred to above on p. 87), but all of its writing is equally epigrammatic. Accustomed as they are to giving their conversational remarks une tournure [an appearance] of agreeability, an air of novelty, an added grace, a studied politeness, etc., when they start to write, and thinking naturally that writing does not exonerate them from the obligations imposed on them by the refinement of conversation (natural in that country where the spirit of society is so great, where it is indeed the soul and purpose of all life), and believing on the other hand that this obligation is greater in writing than in speech (and rightly so in respect of the taste of readers who would otherwise despise them), they abandon themselves to the same care they employ in conversation to make it agreeable and witty. And that is why their style is so different from [93] that of the Greeks and Romans and Italians, because it is impossible for them to accept the first sentence that presents itself naturally and spontaneously to anyone wanting to express a feeling. And so natural graces are banished from their style; indeed, it is curious to see what they describe as naturalness and simplicity, such as, e.g., in La Fontaine, who is so admired for these qualities. Instead of natural graces, their style consists entirely of the graces of society and conversation, and when these are achieved they describe their style as simple. As they always do in the abstract, as well, when they compare the French style with, e.g., Italian or Latin, etc., whether referring to the actual placement of the words and the construction of the sentence, and division of the discourse, etc., compared with that of the other languages, or to the absence of exaggerated, inflated language, figures of speech that stand out too much, circumlocutions that express the same idea, etc. etc., which can be found in bad stylists in other languages, and which in French are utterly out of the ordinary and would be derided. And this they describe as purity of taste, and in one sense they’re right, but, on the other hand, they fail to recognize the intrinsic and extrinsic simplicity of style that has nothing to do with the elegance, smoothness, tournure [appearance], refinement, polish, sophistication of conversation. Rather, it is to be found entirely in nature, in the pure expression of feelings that is presented by the thing itself, and acquires novelty and grace from the thing, if it possesses it, rather than from itself and from the work of the writer, in that directness of phrase whose graces are inborn and not acquired, in that way of speaking which comes not from the habit of conversation, and seems natural only to those who are accustomed to it (that is, the French and others who have always been fed on French things), but from universal nature, and from the very matter—that way of speaking, in short, which was [94] proper to the Greeks and, with due proportion, to the Italians, Xenophon, Herodotus, the fourteenth-century writers, etc., who are untranslatable into French. It is strange that a language that is always being praised for its simplicity does not have the means for translating the simplest writers, whose style is the most natural, free, unaffected, self-assured, plain, straightforward imaginable. And yet this is absolutely true, and it is sufficient to read the French translations of the ancient classics—those prototypes of clear and indisputable simplicity—to see what difficulty they have in transposing them into their style of society and conversation, which they call simple (and which has become inseparable from their language, indeed almost confused with it), and how far they are from preserving in any way the character of the original style. Here I also include Delille’s Georgics when heard by ears that are not French, and that general observation made by Staël in the Biblioteca Italiana1 that French translations from any language always have a national character and are different from the original style, even in the most essential aspects and in the feelings expressed. And suffice it to observe how Amyot’s translations and his style, which is extremely simple (and therefore not his own but very similar to that of his originals and, among modern languages, to Italian), deviate from the character of modern French, not only in their words and antiquated forms but particularly in the substance of their forms, in their style as a whole, which can now be called French in name only, and which would be regarded today as barbarous, even if all trace of archaic language were removed. And I bet that he is more easily understood by Italians than by French readers without any particular education, especially in the classical languages.
Knowing several languages affords some greater facility and clarity in the way we formulate our thoughts, for it is through language that we [95] think. Now, perhaps no language has enough words and phrases to correspond to and express all the infinite subtleties of thought. The knowledge of several languages and the ability, therefore, to express in one language what cannot be said in another, or cannot at least be expressed so succinctly or concisely, or which we cannot find as quickly in another language, makes it easier for us to articulate our thoughts and to understand ourselves, and to apply the word to the idea, which, without that application, would remain confused in our mind. Having found the word in whatever language, since we understand its meaning, which is clear and already known through other people’s usage, our idea becomes clear and settled and consistent and remains fixed and well-defined in our mind, and firmly determined and circumscribed. I have experienced this on many occasions, and it can be seen in these same thoughts, written with the flow of the pen, where I have fixed my ideas with Greek, French, Latin words, according to how for me they responded more precisely to the thing, and came most quickly to mind.1 For an idea without a word or a way to express it is lost to us, or roams about undefined in our thoughts, and is imperfectly understood by we who have conceived it. With the word, it takes on body and almost visible, tangible, and distinct form.
Often chance has made a word extremely expressive, and it therefore seems to be original and to come from the thing, and yet it is only a pure product of etymology. E.g., nausea, that word which is so expressive for Latin writers and Italians (see these thoughts p. 12), comes from the Greek ναῦς [ship], whence ναυτία, the Ionic form ναυσία [seasickness] and in Latin nausea [seasickness], because sailors suffered from it.
It should be ascertained whether the prophecy about the white sow that Aeneas was to find at the mouth of the Tiber, according to Virgil,2 and that he was to take as a good and final omen, has any other meaning and any known and probable origin that is not artificial and arbitrary. If not, I suggest that it is derived from the name troia that we give to [96] female pigs, and by reason of this prophecy, it seems reasonable to suspect that there was also an ancient and popular Latin word with the same meaning, and in this way the sow came to be popularly regarded as an emblem of Troy, in the same way that many cities and families now have the symbol of an animal or an object that bears a name similar to their own. See Eusebius’s Chronikon, bk. 1, ch. 46,1 and note that even there the history, though written by a Greek, is accepted and attributed entirely to a Latin writer. See p. 511, paragraph 1.
With regard to my observations on pp. 76ff., in these thoughts it can be seen that when we find ourselves for some reason in a state of extraordinary and momentary vigor, as we do after drinking liquors that exalt the powers of the body without affecting reason, we feel greatly prone to enthusiasm, enthusiasm with no trace of melancholy but wholly sublime in its happiness. Indeed, sad ideas and sweet melancholy and pity find no place then in our heart, or at least these are not the feelings that it prefers; rather, the vigor that we experience gives extraordinary prominence to our ideas, and embellishes and exalts every object in our eyes, and that is the time to feel the stimuli of glory, love of country, generous sacrifice (but considered as good and not as misfortune), and the other ancient passions. We can therefore imagine what enthusiasm the ancients must ordinarily have felt, who without any question found themselves in a habitual state of physical vigor, much superior to our normal state. And this, to the extent that
it is and was harmful to reason, favors imagination, and fervent, spirited, exalted feelings. With this difference, that, as we advance in years and become accustomed, unlike the ancients, to take pleasure in painful ideas, and also, sensing some impulses to feeling in that vigor, we may take pleasure much more easily than the ancients did in some of those ideas, though we do not do so out of choice. But I notice that, in such moments, even melancholy ideas have a festive appearance, and happiness no longer seems an illusion. [97] Indeed, such ideas seem to offer us a way toward happiness, and misfortune appears as a sublime good, which makes us bristle with enthusiasm and hope, and we feel great confidence in ourselves and in fortune and in nature, even when such confidence is neither a part of our character nor a habit that we have acquired through our experience of life.
One of the most unpleasant things is to overhear a conversation about a subject that interests us without being able to take part. And even more so if the speakers are getting it wrong, or missing a detail, a fact, etc., that we could tell them, or if what is being said is in contradiction to our feelings, so as to lead to a conclusion that is the opposite of what we think or know. This is distressing even when the matter does not concern us personally in any way, and does not even interest us. But above all when it does concern or interest us, it is truly the action of a considerate man to avoid such conversations in the presence, e.g., of servants who cannot say a word, or other inferiors, who might feel great pain on hearing mention of a subject that is close to their heart without being able to take an active part, but who would follow the conversation passively, listening carefully to every word, despite the anxiety they would escape if they could forgo even this part, but it’s not possible.
It’s said that when you’re seeking a favor from someone, it’s a good idea to wait until the person is in a good mood. And when this favor can be done there and then, or involves no commitment or work by the person being asked, I too would agree with this view. But in order to interest whoever it is in your favor, and to commit him to giving some consideration to your affair, however small, there is absolutely no moment more inappropriate than that of great joy. Whenever a man is occupied by some powerful passion, he is incapable of thinking of anything else, whenever he is greatly concerned or preoccupied by his own unhappiness or by his own good fortune, he is unable to give any thought to the activities, the unhappiness, the wishes of others. In [98] moments of great joy or great sadness, man is not capable either of compassion or of interest in others. When he is sad, he is more worried about his own misfortune than that of others. When he is joyful, he is intoxicated by his good fortune and loses the taste and energy for concerning himself with any other thought. And compassion, in particular, is incompatible with the state he is in when he is filled with self-pity or feels so exalted in happiness that he sees all objects in their brightest light and regards misfortune as an illusion, or at least loathes it as something totally alien to what he feels at that particular moment. Only the intermediary states are conducive to interest in the affairs of others, or a certain state of enthusiasm without cause and without real purpose, which imparts pleasure to the opportunity to act directly, to help, to substitute action for inaction, to give expression to feeling, and to transform that impetus of virtuous enthusiasm, magnanimity, generosity, etc., which had hitherto remained abstract and undefined, into reality. But when our mind is already occupied by reality, or by that appearance which we think of as reality, it is very difficult to turn to other concerns. And that is the most inappropriate time to ask someone to concern himself with your affairs, because he is already entirely concerned with his own, and it would be extremely hard to draw him away from them. This is especially true if it is one of those rare joys that happen only a few times in life, and which put us almost into a state of frenzy. It would be foolish then to push ahead with such a person and to express your needs and misfortunes, even with the greatest eloquence, hoping to distract him from the thought that is master of his mind, and is so dear to him. And, what’s more, to persuade him to act or in effect agree to act for a purpose that is extraneous to that thought, on which he is focused even as he listens to you, so that while he is listening to you, if indeed he is listening, he is searching for a way to cut short the discussion, to reduce everything to a summary (which he will then forget altogether), and his every wish is directed toward the moment when you have finished and will let him return to the thought that is uppermost in his mind, so that he can talk about that and turn the [99] conversation immediately to that subject.
You will often hear it said that in order to win sympathy and concern it is better to go to someone who has experienced the same misfortunes or has been in the same situation. If the misfortunes have passed, then that is fine. But there is no one in whom you can have less hope than one who is currently experiencing the same calamity or is in the same plight as you. His concern for himself stifles all concern that he might feel for your misfortune. With each description, each detail in your account, he turns back to himself and considers them by applying them to his own plight. You will see him upset, you will think he feels pity for you, but he feels it only for himself. He will interrupt you every so often to say: “Yes, exactly, me, too. Oh! absolutely, if you knew how I feel: it’s exactly the same with me.” An example of this is Achilles lamenting his own misfortunes with Priam at his knees.1 He will also try to minimize your misfortune, your need, the reasonableness of your desires, in order to magnify his own: “All right then, but wait a minute, you still have this to comfort you, I on the other hand…” and so on. In short, it will always be impossible to turn the great and pressing interest that someone has in himself toward the concerns of others (and I also include, to a certain extent, men of generosity and good will) and, when he is entirely occupied with his grief (or even with his joy or whatever great passion), to persuade him to feel concern for that of another, especially if it is of the same kind. It will always be impossible to confront egoism so directly when it is so difficult to overcome it by more subtle means. And above all, when it comes to action, never count on a young person who, like you, is disgusted with home life and, like you, feels the need to find a way of curtailing it, or on a wretched soldier like you, who runs just as hard and has the same eager desire for honors, or on an invalid who is entirely occupied and afflicted by a sickness like yours, etc. etc.
It seems absurd and yet it is absolutely true that, since all reality is nothing, there is no other reality or other substance in the world but illusions.2
[100] It has been observed of ancient poets and artists, particularly the Greeks, that they were accustomed to leave more for the viewer or listener to think about than they themselves expressed (see pp. 86–87 of these thoughts). And as for the reason, it is just their naturalness and simplicity, which meant they did not go into the detail of the thing, as the moderns do, showing off the hard work of the writer, who doesn’t speak of or describe the thing the way nature presents it but refines, notes the circumstances, breaks down the description, and extends it in a desire to create an effect, all of which makes the intention obvious, destroys natural ease and unconcern, reveals art and affectation, and gives more space in the poem to the poet than to the thing he is talking about. On this, see my discourse on the Romantics1 and various of these thoughts. But one of the most noticeable effects of this custom—I stress effect rather than cause, for it was not something the ancients were deliberately trying to achieve but came about simply for the reason I have stated—is to make the impression of poetry or fine art infinite, whereas that of the moderns is finite. Because, by just using a few strokes to describe and showing only a few parts of an object, they allowed the imagination to wander among those vague and indeterminate ideas of childhood, which are born from ignorance of the whole. And a country scene, for example, painted by the ancient poet with just a few strokes, without so to speak its horizon, would awaken in the imagination that divine surge of confused ideas, glowing with the indefinability of
romance and the excess of precious, sweet strangeness and wonder, which was such ecstasy in our childhood. Whereas modern writers, who define every detail and the precise boundaries of every object, are almost entirely lacking in this infinite emotion and can convey only one that is finite and circumscribed, born from knowledge of an object in its entirety; that has nothing extraordinary about it; and that belongs to an adulthood deprived of the inexpressible delights of wandering imagination that we experienced in childhood. (8 Jan. 1820.)2
[101] The reason that for men of taste and feeling it is such a painful experience to read, e.g., a sequel or imitation that attempts to reproduce the beauty and the style of a classical work (see what Foscolo says of the sequel to Sterne’s Sentimental Journey)1 is that these in some way debase our idea of the original works, toward which we felt a deep attachment, and a sort of tenderness. To see them thus imitated, often with little variation and always in a ridiculous manner, nearly makes us doubt the wisdom of our admiration for those great originals, makes it seem almost a delusion, and depicts those gifts which had so inspired our enthusiasm as facile, shallow, and commonplace. This is a bitter thing indeed, to see ourselves brought almost to the brink of rejecting our former idol, to see the object of our love and our esteem and admiration in some way stolen from us, and stripped bare, and humbled. For in every sweet and sublime feeling, illusion always plays a part, and to see it taken from us and unveiled causes the sharpest pain. So such imitations would be grievous to us even if they rivaled the originals, and took away from us that illusion of something unique and beyond compare which forms the precious magic of our love and wonder. In the same way that it is so painful for us to see the objects of our heart’s feelings ridiculed, distorted, or imitated (see Staël, Corinne, penultimate bk., ch.… p.… fifth Paris ed.)2—something that makes us either suspect or recognize their essential vanity and our own delusion and tears us away from the sweet illusions that make up our lives—so nothing is more guaranteed to have this effect than an exact imitation or a resemblance on the part of another object that we can neither admire nor love (whether it is in some way actually inferior, ridiculous, or distorted or whether the resemblance involves little [102] or no inferiority) in respect of the one that we do admire and love and which fills our heart and imagination in such a way that we are jealous and fearful and try by every possible means to guard it. (8 Jan. 1820.)
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