Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  The reason that Montesquieu puts forward to explain why the beginning of bad governments is often like the end of good ones (ch. 15, p. 160)1 is untenable, because it falls down when a bad prince succeeds a good one. I believe that the true reason is, first, that although he intends to rule badly he does good at the beginning, from inexperience, and bad later on, in contrast to the good prince; and, second, that even wicked people are likely to feel a certain natural generosity [123] in their first moments of prosperity and power—indeed, the opposite would be unlikely. Then, after the novelty of his extraordinary situation wears off and he becomes used to it, his natural character would assert itself, as often happens in life. (11 June 1820.)

  The effectiveness even nowadays of the material and the extraordinary can be inferred from, among other things, the recent example of the young pupils of San Michele in Rome who all walked out and marched to the Papal Palace and protested under the windows of the Minister against malpractice in the administration of their institution. A petition presented in all their names would have drawn attention to the same complaints, but would not have had the same effect. From this example, we could also argue that plotting together is much easier among boarding-school pupils or in military barracks, where each, regarding the others as companions and comrades, places greater confidence in them.1

  We can probably say that the dispersal or transfer of a population from one country to another was unknown in ancient civilized populations, as long as their civilization survived, and that this was a sign of their love of country and loathing of foreigners. The reverse was true when a civilization declined into barbarousness. (See Montesquieu, Grandeur, etc., ch. 2, end of p. 20 and ch. 16, p. 179 and note 6.)2 Colonies were nothing other than an extension of the homeland, where everyone was still among his compatriots, with the same laws, customs, etc.

  [124] The reason for the satisfaction we feel in reading about the lives and actions of the great and virtuous (see Montesquieu, loc. cit., ch. 16, p. 176) is that people (with the exception of those who are wicked in practice and by disposition, who certainly do not share this satisfaction) are either good or, like most of us, a mixture of good and bad, and so everyone feels that his natural inclination is toward virtue, and considers himself more or less virtuous. Now, anything that gives us a great idea of virtue, showing us by example where it can lead and the admiration that it inspires, increases our sense of self, so that no one can think about it without deepening his understanding and respect for this quality, which each of us, even without realizing it clearly, feels to be inherent in his nature and a part of his being. The same goes for courage and heroism, etc. Furthermore, the example given and the resulting praise and fame of those great men act as a spur to imitate them, and each of us at that moment, because he feels a certain desire, ordinarily ineffectual, to do likewise, believes he would be capable of it if the occasion arose: the occasion is distant, and in the distance, many fine things are seen and many fine plans made. Homer always has this effect on people, and a Frenchman said that men seemed a foot taller when he read Homer.1 In this regard, even wicked people are susceptible to the same effect. (12 June 1820.)

  [125] Magnanimous deeds require a persuasion that has the nature of passion, and a passion that has the appearance of persuasion in those who feel it.

  With regard to what I said earlier in my thoughts p. 112, and the source I cited, it is apparent that, in a high style today, it would be shameful to give the listener an epithet that referred appreciatively to the body. It was not so for the Greeks, with regard to beauty or to physical strength, etc. The body was not held in such low esteem in ancient times as it is now. This might seem to be to our advantage, but unfortunately, spiritual concerns do not have as much effect on us as material ones, and you can observe this in poetry, which is the imitator of nature, and see what impact metaphysical poets have as compared with others.1

  Philosophy, independent of religion, is in essence nothing other than a rationalization of wickedness, and I say this speaking not as a Christian, or as so many apologists for religion have done, but morally. Since everything beautiful and good in this world is pure illusion, and virtue, justice, magnanimity, etc., are pure fantasies or products of the imagination, the science that seeks to reveal all those truths, that nature has shrouded in such profound mystery, without putting revealed truths in their place, must of necessity conclude that the only choice in this world is to be completely egoistic and always do whatever profits or pleases us most. (16 June 1820.)

  [126] Although Arrian is called the second Xenophon, and is very similar to him in the simplicity and purity of his style and in the casual variety and irregularity of his constructions, etc., nevertheless, he differs from him (perhaps because of living among the Romans for so long, perhaps because he studied Thucydides, perhaps because the quality I will shortly attribute to Xenophon was not typical of a time that was so alien to the candor of the ancients) in that he was much more serious than Xenophon and lacked that endearing familiarity, affability almost, of Xenophon, who treats the reader as a friend and narrates or speaks to him as if he were present. Similarly, in his historical orations, Arrian is always a semitone higher than Xenophon, who in similar orations is much more a narrator of events than an orator.

  The shock produced by the unexpected announcement of a serious misfortune does not increase in proportion to its greater or lesser gravity. At the time, a person feels it almost as if it were the utmost, and the full force of sorrow is unloaded on it, in such a way that the grief would not double if the seriousness of the calamity reported to him were twice as bad, I mean if it had been reported to him in these terms from the beginning, because if another report follows, the sequence of the thing would give rise to an increase of suffering, even though in that case, too, the increase would not be in proportion to the doubling of the misfortune, for the soul is already exhausted and almost numbed by the [127] original shock. Yesterday during a party, two boys were crushed by a stone falling off a roof. At first, it was said that they were both sons of the same mother. Then people were relieved because it turned out they were sons of two different women. Weren’t they in effect rejoicing because the suffering really does double when it is equally terrible for both mothers, whereas if it had been just one mother her pain would have been more or less the same? She who was stunned by the original announcement could not have suffered any more if her loss had been doubled. Leaving aside the possibility that the death of her two sons deprived her of all her children, which would change the nature of the misfortune, and is not the case. If the one son she had lost was an only child this consideration also would not be applicable here. (16 June 1820.)

  Glory is not a passion of man in a completely primitive and solitary state, but the first time a group of men banded together to kill a wild animal, or for some other activity requiring cooperation, the one who demonstrated the most valor was told “well done” frankly and without flattery by the others, who were as yet unfamiliar with this vice. Those words pleased him, and so he and some other generous souls who were present felt for the first time a desire for praise. And thus [128] was born the love of glory. (18 June 1820.)

  This passion is so proper and natural to men living in society that even in this stricken world, which is so lacking in any kind of excitement, young people still feel the need to distinguish themselves. And since they find none of the alternatives that were once open to them, they consume their youthful energies in studying every art, ruining their physical health and shortening their lives, not for a love of pleasure so much as to be noticed and envied, and to boast of shameful victories, which today’s world nevertheless applauds, because there is no other way for a young man to make the most of his body and win praise for it. For even though they are very few, there still remain today some few paths to glory for the mind, while for the body, which does the most work, and in which, by the nature of things lies what is of value for the majority of men, no other way remains.

 
Nature has created such variety in objects and minds that even philosophers, although they are all searching for the same truth, nevertheless, because of the many different ways in which the same proposition can present itself to different minds, could all be original, if only they did not read other philosophers and did not [129] look at things through other people’s eyes. It’s easy to discover that a very large number of the truths which we are told nowadays by writers who are regarded as original, and which pass as original ideas, have nothing new about them except their presentation, and have already been expounded in other ways. (18 June 1820.) And see how all the non-European writers, such as those from the East, Confucius, etc., although they say more or less the same things as our writers, still seem original, because, not having read any of our Western philosophers, they cannot imitate them or follow them or unwittingly conform to their ideas, as happens to all of us.

  Among today’s poets there are those who neither feel nor think, and write accordingly, and others who feel and think but do not know how to say what they want to. They sit down to write, but they lack skill and immediately find that their minds are blank, with nothing left of their ideas. But still they want to write and so turn to phrase-mongering and an excess of epithets, and they move on to clichés and so conclude the poem because saying something new scares them and they don’t know how to find the right words. Finally, there are those who feel and think and don’t know how to say what they want to, but are nevertheless determined to say it, and make themselves ridiculous by their forced, affected, brittle, obscure, or childish style, even when [130] their sentiments are not to be scorned. (21 June 1820.)

  With regard to what I said on p. 96, look how wisely the ancients used music and dance at their banquets, especially after dining, as Homer describes in the first book of the Odyssey and also perhaps when he is talking about Demodocus.1 People are never more inclined than at that time to let themselves be carried away by music and by beauty, and by all the illusions of this life.

  With reference to what I said on p. 128, we may add the following. On entering the world, a young man wants to become someone. This desire is certain and common to all. But today a young man of private means has no way of achieving this other than the one I mentioned, or through writing, which is just as harmful to the body. So glory today is dependent on activities that are bad for one’s health, whereas once the opposite was true. And thus, as a consequence, each generation of mankind is progressively weakened, and this effect of the lack of illusions existing in the world, as they once did, becomes a cause of the lack itself, because of diminished vigor, as I have written in other thoughts [→Z 96, 115], and the necessity of bodily vigor for the great illusions of the spirit. What’s more, the frightening effects of the ordinary lives of young people today, which are gradually reducing the world to a hospital, are only too well known. But where would you find a remedy? What other occupation is left for a young person of private means today, what else can he hope for? Do you think that a young person can be happy with a life of inactivity, [131] with no prospects and no expectation other than unceasing monotony and unrelenting boredom? In the past, vanity was regarded as peculiar to women because women also feel the same need to distinguish themselves and usually they have had no other resource than beauty. Hence their “cultus sui” [“adoration of themselves”], of which Celsus says “adimi feminis non potest” [“women cannot be deprived”].1 The idea persists today that vanity is peculiar to women, but wrongly, because it applies almost as much to men, who are now reduced more or less to the same condition as women with respect to their standing in the world, and older men on the whole are treated as useless and despicable, with no life, no pleasures, and no hope, just as women were and still are, who, having once caused a great stir, outlive their fame and grow old. (22 June 1820.)

  The above does not apply to men of business, farmers, or craftsmen, in short to workers, because the havoc wreaked by these bad habits is evident only among the leisured classes.

  A consequence of the material nature of ancient religious beliefs and the importance they gave to this life was that among the Romans the priesthood was like a secular rank, and among other nations priests, like the Druids among the Gauls, were very much involved in civic affairs both in war and in peacetime, and even fought in the army [132] for their country, the love of which, far from being diminished by their religion, was fundamental to it. The same was true of the ancient Jews, whose civil and military government was all founded on religion. And I would say the same of oracles consulted in the public interest and of the whole apparatus of ancient religions, which were always organized with a view to the business of this world.

  With reference to what I said on p. 80, it might be argued that the dark, murky, cowardly, and strangely cruel barbarism of late antiquity arose not from ignorance alone but from this combined with Christianity. If it had been a pagan barbarism, that religion, open, clear, and material, with no element of mystery, would have given their ignorance a more cheerful tone and their customs a less gloomy aspect. But minds were filled with the sombre [gloomy],1 the mysterious, the lugubrious, the frightening aspects of the Christian religion, contaminated above all by superstition. The spirit of the age was modeled on these abstract, metaphysical forms; man was wicked by the very nature of society, as usual; added to this wickedness were ignorance, superstition, and the dark spirit of the times, and vice took on the character of metaphysics. This is striking, and quite different from the vices of the ancients, which were generally more natural and, however serious and damaging, were nevertheless indulged openly or, at best, under a very thin veil of politics. Thus [133] barbarism acquired a shadowy side, and wickedness became the most profound iniquity. (23 June 1820.) In addition, since pagan religion was more natural than rational it would have been useful to keep an element of nature within that barbarity. And nature is a great antidote and cure for all human corruption and a great beacon in the midst of darkness and ignorance, if it is not extinguished by corrupt reason, as it was then.

  Lucian says in his Encomium of Fatherland (tome 2, p. 479), “Καὶ τοὺς κατὰ τὸν τῆς ἀποδημίας χρόνον λαμπροὺς γενομένους ἢ διὰ χρημάτων κτῆσιν, ἢ διὰ τιμῆς δόξαν” (vel ob honoris gloriam), “ἢ διὰ παιδείας μαρτυρίαν, ἢ δι’ ἀνδρίας ἔπαινον, ἔστιν ἰδεῖν ἐς τὴν πατρίδα πάντας ἐπειγομένους” (properantes) “ὡς οὐκ ἂν ἐν ἄλλοις βελτίοσιν ἐπιδειξομένους τὰ αὐτῶν καλὰ. καὶ τοσούτῳ γε μᾶλλον ἕκαστος σπεύδει λαβέσθαι τῆς πατρίδος, ὅσῳπερ ἂν φαίνηται μειζόνων παρ’ ἄλλοις ἠξιωμένος” [“And one can see that those who have become illustrious in the period of their absence, either through possession of wealth, or through the glory honor brings” (or on account of the glory of honor), “or through evidence of culture, or through praise of their courage, all hurry” (hasten) “to return to their country, so as to show, as if there were no better people to show, the goods they have acquired. And each hurries the more to regain his country, the more he seems to be esteemed by others”].1 This is quite true, and even when you live in a city that is much larger than your homeland, notwithstanding the great change in ancient opinion in this regard, you will at least want now whatever glory or other good you have achieved to be noted and to cause a particular stir at home. But the reason for this is certainly not love of homeland, as Lucian argues, and as it might seem at first glance. In fact, even without leaving home, you feel much the same effect [134] with regard to your family and close friends. The reason is that we all want our honors and achievements to be noticed most by those who know us best and recognized by those having the most intimate acquaintance with our various qualities, our means, personality, habits, etc. And just as you would not be content with an anonymous fame, that is, being celebrat
ed by people who do not know your name, since fame of this sort would seem generic rather than belonging to you personally, in the same way you need praise from the mouths of those who, knowing you especially intimately, would make that esteem more special and uniquely your own, because it refers to the true self that they know inside out. This also derives from the preference we all feel toward our own kind,1 from which it follows we would care nothing for fame acquired among any species other than human beings, and by extension of this, we would not care about being famous among the Laplanders or the Iroquois while being unknown to cultured peoples, nor would we be satisfied with celebrity in France or England if we were unknown in our own Italy, and so finally we come to our own fellow citizens and also our families. And then there are all the different factors that influence our relationships with the people who matter most to us: emulation, competition, envy, the disagreements we have had, the friendships we have made, etc. etc., to all of which we apply the feeling that comes from the glory we have won or any of our achievements. To conclude, [135] the reason is unmediated love of ourselves, not of our homeland. See p. 536, paragraph 2.

  I don’t believe much of what Montesquieu says, Dialogue de Sylla et d’Eucrate, especially on pp. 293–95, to explain the character and actions of Sulla.1 He makes the common mistake of believing that people start off with a plan of action and follow it through, when our nature, composed of a hundred passions, is always a mass of contradictions, with first one passion then another gaining the upper hand. And people constantly change their ideas about which aim is better than another or, where the aim remains the same, about the means of achieving it. Drawing together the disparate actions of some famous character, like so many lines converging at the same point, only serves to show the brilliance of the writer, and on this count the celebrated Manuscrit venu de Sainte-Helène,2 attributed to Staël, is both admired and skillful. I believe that Sulla was really extremely ambitious, and, like all the rest, wanted to take command, and then, since the vision of glory still held a large and powerful place in Roman minds, he judged that it served his ambition better to give up command than to keep it, and thus he aimed to achieve the same end by a different route. There again, perhaps the idea of becoming the absolute ruler of the country was still alien to the Roman character, which was imbued with immense love and respect for liberty. But Sulla’s consuming passion was civic hatred and ferocity [136] toward his competitors, and to satisfy it he needed to gain supreme command without actually wanting it for himself, so, once satisfied, he immediately put it aside. Because the pleasure of revenge, of crushing one’s enemies and seeing them completely beaten down, subdued, and annihilated is a pleasure, or, rather, ambition, that in many can be much stronger than command in general. And thus Sulla betrayed his liberal Roman principles, and set a precedent that would prove fatal to liberty, in order to satisfy a particular passion. (24 June 1820.)