The only thing a poet should show is that he is not concerned with what effect his images, descriptions, feelings, etc., will produce in the reader. It is the same for an orator or any writer of good literature and, it might almost be said, for writers in general. “Il ne paraît point chercher à vous attendrir” [“He never appears to be trying to move you”], as Cardinal Maury says of Demosthenes, Discours sur l’éloquence, “écoutez-le cependant, et il vous fera pleurer par réflexion” [“listen to him, however, and he will make you weep by reflection”].2 And however much even nonchalance can be affected, and spoiled thereby, nevertheless we can say hyperbolically that if any affectation is permitted to a writer it is simply this, not to realize or try to predict the fine effects that his words will have on the reader or listener, and to have no wish or intention other than that which is obvious or natural: to narrate, celebrate, or commiserate, etc. How utterly wretched and barbarous, therefore, is the modern practice of inserting little signs and [226] dashes, and double or triple exclamation marks throughout a text or poem, etc. The whole of Byron’s Corsair (I am talking about the translation; I do not know about the text or the rest of his works) is interspersed with dashes, not only between one sentence and another, but between one phrase and the next, very often even a phrase itself is split up, and the noun is separated from an adjective with these dashes (all it needs is for the words themselves to be divided in the same way), as if telling us all the time, like some charlatan showing off his wares: “Look closely, watch out, the next bit is really good, take a look at this remarkable epithet, pause to consider this expression, think about this image,” etc. etc. This insults the reader, who, the more he sees himself obliged to take notice, the less inclined he is to do so, and the more something presents itself as beautiful, the more he wants to find it ugly, until in the end he takes no account of these signals and reads on calmly as if they were not there. I will not mention the incredible, continuous, very obvious effort with which his poor Lordship sweats and struggles to make every tiny phrase, every tiny addition seem new and original. There is nothing that has not been said a million times before that he does not repeat in some other way, an affectation as clear as daylight that is exceedingly distasteful, besides being tiresome in its uniformity and in the constant intellectual effort required to understand that extraordinarily calculated, obscure, and unceasing originality.1 (25 August 1820.)
[227] Just as people with little imagination or sensitivity are not capable of appreciating poetry or similar literary works, and read them in the knowledge that they are famous but fail to understand why, on the ground that they remain unmoved and cannot identify in any way with the writer, despite having good taste and judgment, so there are many hours, days, months, seasons, and years when people with real enthusiasm, etc., are incapable of responding and being moved, let alone making a reliable judgment about such writing. And for this reason, it will often happen that someone, otherwise an excellent judge of good literature and the liberal arts, may form very disparate views of two equally deserving works. I have experienced this many times. When I applied myself to reading in the right frame of mind, I would savor everything, every virtue would catch my eye, I would glow with pleasure and burn with enthusiasm, and from that moment, the writer would be someone I admired and would continue to hold in high regard. When so disposed, the judgment may also err in attributing merit to the book that is due largely to the reader. At other times, if I began reading when my mind was completely cold, the most beautiful, most tender, and most profound words were incapable of moving me. In making a judgment, all I could rely on was [228] the taste and tact I had developed already. But as a result, my judgment was restricted to external factors, and internally to a guess at the effect the work might have on others. Consequently, I would feel no lasting admiration for it. I also noticed that sometimes a person who did find himself moved would praise to the skies that book, which he was reading at the same time. These observations should serve (1) to explain disparities in the judgment of people of equal capacity, which are always attributed to something completely different; (2) to teach us not to rely too much either on the judgment of the most expert or on our own, and to introduce a necessary Pyrrhonism here as well. The judgments of the general public and of time are not subject to such inconvenience. (25 August 1820.)
Torno, tornio [lathe], tornire [to turn], torno torno, intorno, attorno [around] derive from the Greek τορνόω, τορνεύω, τόρνος [a pair of compasses probably with a pin], etc., from τερέω [to pierce]; whence in Latin also tornus, tornare, etc. (26 August 1820.)
A man or bird or quadruped killed in the country by hailstones. See p. 85.
The size of fruit in this country varies, not exactly but generally, in inverse proportion to the size of the plant that bears it. Little shrubs produce marrows, watermelons (on our land this year one was seen [229] weighing 28 pounds), melons, etc., a tree slightly bigger than these produces peaches, larger trees produce cherries, almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, etc., and finally the oak produces the acorn. (30 August 1820.)
Abuse of and disobedience to the law cannot be prevented by any law.
Napoleon’s system largely put the possessions of incapable and unproductive private citizens into the hands of the able and active, and as a result, his government, while still being despotic, preserved an internal vitality that you never find in other despotic governments and not always in republics, because people with talent who wanted to work were almost certain to find a respectable, well-paid post. This was helped by the infinite variety of jobs, which meant that every able worker could be maintained and rewarded at the expense of the incapable or lazy. (Besides a certain shrewdness and fairness in the choice of talents and personnel.) And in a sense he was not wrong, because incapable or lazy individuals are neither useful to public life when supported nor harmful when ill-treated. So it followed that the sector that would have been defunct under any government complained about him, and that which partly would have survived whatever the circumstances and partly did so because of the nature and efficiency of his government praised him for it.1 (31 August 1820.)
[230] Della Casa (Galateo, ch. 3) says that “it is not seemly when you see something disgusting in passing by, as sometimes happens, to turn to your companions and point it out. And it is much worse to pass something foul to others for them to sniff, as some people are in the habit of doing, in many cases even holding it right under their noses, and saying, My God doesn’t this stink.”1 It is not only pleasant experiences, therefore, but also many unpleasant ones (besides grief and misfortune, etc.), that people almost by some natural inclination want to share with others, and this sharing delights us and we feel disappointment if thwarted. You might infer from this that man is intended to live in society. But I would say instead that this inclination or desire, while it seems natural, is an effect of society, though one that occurs very easily and quickly, because it is visible in children, and more frequently, perhaps, than in adults. See p. 268 and p. 85, end. (4 September 1820.)
Intertenere is composed of a totally Latin preposition inter [between], which in Italian is tra, hence trattenere [to hold back] is almost a translation of intertenere. And just as trattenere is obviously Italian in origin, so the other verb clearly demonstrates that it came down to us from Latin, it being most unlikely that the ancient Italians would have invented a word of this form. Interporre [interpose], intercedere, interregno are similarly derived from old Latin.
[231] “῎Ελεγε δὲ” (Socrates) “καὶ ἓν μόνον ἀγαθὸν εἶναι, τὴν ἐπιστήμην· καὶ ἓν μόνον κακὸν, τὴν ἀμαθίαν” [“He used also to maintain that there is just one good, knowledge, and just one evil, ignorance”] as Laertius says in Socrates, bk. 2, § 31. Today, we can say just the opposite, and this consideration might serve to define the difference between ancient and modern wisdom.
For their times, Homer and Dante knew a great deal, much more than
the majority of cultured people of today, not only in relation to the times but in absolute terms as well. It is necessary to distinguish empirical knowledge from philosophy, physical science from mathematics, knowledge of effects from knowledge of their causes. The former are necessary to the variety and fertility of the imagination, to the propriety, truth, realism, and effectiveness of imitation. The latter can only be harmful to a poet. Erudition, then, is supremely useful to a poet, since ignorance of causes permits the poet, with respect not only to others but to himself as well, to attribute the effects that he sees or recognizes to the causes that his imagination devises. (5 September 1820.)
“C’est que cela me donnera un battement de coeur, répondit-elle naïvement; et je suis si heureuse quand le coeur me bat!” [“‘That will make my heart beat faster’ was her candid answer; ‘and I am so happy when my heart is beating!’”] says Lady Morgan (France, bk. 3, 1818, tome 1, p. 218)1 of a [232] flighty French lady. These naïvetés in French writers, like, e.g., those in The Temple of Gnidus,1 conflict with the character of their style and the state to which their language is reduced today (while in early French, they would have made a quite different impression), and even with their national character, in such a way that they are affectations rather than being natural, and add absolutely nothing but simply stand out as a pretentious touch, in the same way that, e.g., elegant French mannerisms would stand out in Greek style and conflict with the rest.
The origin of a profound sense of unhappiness, or the development of what is called sensibility, usually comes from the lack or the loss of great and vivid illusions. And, in fact, it was in Latium that Virgil first gave expression to this sentiment, at the precise moment that all great and vivid illusions were fading for ordinary Romans, who had lived by them for so long, and life and public affairs had become ordered and monotonous. The sensibility you see in young people still unfamiliar with the world and its ills, although tinged with melancholy, is different from this experience, and promises and gives to those who possess it not pain but pleasure and happiness. (6 Sept. 1820.)
[233] To a great champion of absolute monarchy who said “The English constitution is old, was designed for another age, and should be redrafted,” one of those present replied, “Tyranny is even older.” (7 September 1820.)
Add the following to the first paragraph on page 206: “Et si elles” (les Françoises) “ont un amant, elles ont autant de soin de ne pas donner à l’heureux mortel des marques de prédilection en public, qu’un Anglois du bon ton de ne pas paroître amoureux de sa femme en compagnie” [“And if they” (French women) “have a lover, they would be as cautious of distinguishing the fortunate being in polite society, by any marked preference, as an Englishman of fashion would be of making love to his own wife, before company”]. Morgan, France, tome 1, 1818, p. 253, bk. 3.1
To what I said on p. 207, you might add what Algarotti said about the immense amount of study required today to become a man of letters of any note in the world,2 where no one passes anymore as a true man of letters unless he has an encyclopedic knowledge, which requires a lifetime of study before he can begin to put it to use with the products of his own mind, unlike the small amount of study that the ancients needed. (8 Sept. 1820.)
Compassion is very much determined by beauty, with regard to both our own kind and other animals, when we see them suffering. The fact that, besides beauty, the most important factor in compassion is the difference [234] between the sexes is all too evident, even when love has no part in it. There are, for example, many misfortunes that while very real may also be ridiculous, and you will always see many more spectators of the same sex as the sufferer laughing much more than the other sex is doing or is prepared or inclined to do, especially if they are women, because just as men are more profound in their emotions, so they are much harsher and more brutal in their insensitivity and thoughtlessness. This applies as much to the sufferer who is beautiful as to one who is ugly or unremarkable. Besides, it is so true that the minor misfortunes of unattractive people scarcely move us at all that we are very often inclined to laugh at them.
Just as weakness is a major spur to compassion, even toward those who are not beautiful, so perhaps nothing is more inimical to compassion than seeing intolerance of suffering, malignity of spirit ready to despise the same or a different misfortune or defect in others, the ill humor or anger of the sufferer. Little or no compassion can be expected by those who have not naturally been given [235] or acquired through misfortune a certain sweetness and gentleness of character, or at least the appearance of it. And this should serve as a rule to poets and authors in creating characters intended to be objects of sympathy. Although heroism, and contempt for misfortune in the sufferer, can also produce a good effect, nevertheless with regard to arousing compassion there is no better attribute than the one just described, a quality that I know from experience is acquired almost inevitably as a result of misfortune, even if we were naturally dominated by the opposite quality.
There is no greater enemy to compassion than seeing someone afflicted who has not improved in any way, who has learned nothing from the lessons of misfortune, life’s greatest teacher. Because prosperity, dazzling and distracting the intellect, is the mother and preserver of our illusions, and misfortune destroys our false hopes and introduces us to reason and the certainty of the nothingness of things. And the unfortunate who has not an ounce of feeling, who even for an instant cannot manage to calm his soul by thinking about suffering, whose words have not acquired, at least when he is talking about himself, some measure of eloquence and emotion, who does not reveal the generosity of mind that does not resent but ennobles suffering [236] with the feeling that he is almost unworthy to experience it, and rather than leaving him defeated permits him to feel compassionate toward himself; the sufferer who tells you about his misfortunes with the basest self-regard and the most egotistical grief, and wants you to understand that he is so overwhelmed by the woes he is experiencing that your sympathy could not even begin (take note) to compensate for his affliction (a person truly filled with compassion believes that the pain of the sufferer is no less than his own, that is, he does not differentiate between the sufferer and himself, being prepared to do anything to help, so that he makes no distinction between the grief of the sufferer and his own); this unfortunate will probably not receive one drop of sympathy, and his misfortunes will be forgotten as soon as we have left him.
Everything I have said in various places about the affectation of the French, about the impossibility of their being gracious, etc. [→e.g., Z 208], needs to be understood in relation to the ideas that other nations, as a whole or in part, either generally or with regard to some particular matter, have about affectation, grace, etc., because as Morgan reflects very well, France, bk. 3, tome 1, p. 257: “Il faut pourtant accorder beaucoup à la différence des manières nationales; et celles de la femme françoise la plus amie du naturel doivent porter avec elle ce qu’un Anglois, dans le premier moment, jugera une teinte d’affectation, jusqu’à ce que l’expérience en fasse mieux juger” [“Much, however, must be allowed to the difference of national manner; and the manner of the most natural French woman must carry with it, to English judgment in its first impression, the taint of affectation, until experience correct the error”].1 (9 Sept. 1820.)
[237] Affectation is also relative, and the same thing can seem affected in one place and not in another, in one language and not in another, or more so in this one and less in that, depending on habits, opinions, etc. The expression of feeling that’s acceptable in France would seem affected to us, what is acceptable to us would have seemed affected to the ancients. The French idea of grace, which we find affected, is not so to them. However, it is obvious that naturalness has some predetermined, universal quality, which is recognizable and appealing to anyone, and which you know as soon as you see it, but habit, etc., often prevents our being choqués [shocked, dismayed] by or even noticing its absence. See p. 201, end.
S
implicity should be something that a writer, or anyone who has recourse to it in whatever circumstances, does not notice, or appears not to notice, much less something for which he expects praise. He should be unaware not just of all the other merits of writing but of its simplicity as well. “Homme d’une simplicité rare” [“A man of rare simplicity”], as La Harpe says of La Fontaine (Éloge de La Fontaine), “qui sans doute ne pouvait pas ignorer son génie, mais ne l’appréciait pas, et qui même, s’il pouvait être témoin des honneurs qu’on lui rend aujourd’hui, serait étonné de sa gloire, et aurait besoin qu’on lui révélât le secret de son mérite” [“who doubtless could not be unaware of his genius, but set no store by it, and if he could witness the honor accorded to him today, he would be astonished at his glory and would require someone to explain to him the secret of his merit”].1 The same thing [238] but to a much greater extent could be said of Xenophon’s writings, especially with regard to their simplicity. (10 Sept. 1820.)
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