The habit of heroism may be found in a weak body, but heroic actions only with difficulty, and not without great [281] effort, or without repugnance, and almost against nature. And thus we see many people who by habit are far from heroic perform heroic actions; and vice versa. Indeed, we could say that people whose habit, principles, and spirit are heroic are rarely so in practice, while actual heroes are unlikely to be heroic in habit, feelings, and spirit. Extend this observation to enthusiasm.
The nightingale described by Virgil in the Orpheus episode,1 huddled on a branch all night long and grieving for its young, which have been snatched away, expresses with its pitiful song a deep, continuous, and bitter pain, without thought of revenge, without seeking remedy for its suffering, without trying to find the lost ones, etc., and is so very poignant on account of the powerlessness it conveys, along the lines of what I have said in other thoughts [→Z 108, 164, 196, 211].
In his Histoire naturelle de l’homme, Buffon challenges those who believe that the separation of the soul from the body must be very painful in itself.2 To his arguments add the following, which is perhaps the most convincing. If we chose to regard the soul as material, this would immediately rule out the question of separation, and death would be nothing other than the [282] extinction of the vital force, which—whatever it consists of—is very rapidly extinguished. But if we consider it as something spiritual, is the soul perhaps a limb, which has to be detached from the body, and therefore with great pain? Or is it not rather the case that, whatever the bonds between spirit and substance, they are certainly not physical, and the soul is not torn off like a limb but leaves naturally when it can no longer remain, in the same way that a flame goes out and leaves the matter that can no longer sustain it, and in this, to use an image, we neither see nor remotely suppose that any violence or pain is involved for the combustible material or the flame. Death in the hypothesis of the spirituality of the soul is not positive but negative, not a force that tears it from the body but an impediment that prevents it from remaining and, once this impediment is present, the soul leaves of its own accord because it lacks the means of living in the body, not because a violent force uproots it and snatches it away. For if the soul is spirit, it should be regarded not as part of the body but as the body’s guest, and in such a way that its entrance and exit are very easy, light, and gentle, there being no nerves or membranes or etc. holding it in place, or [283] chains to drag it inside when it has to enter. When it enters the body, it does so insensibly, and we are certainly unaware of it. Thus, its exit must also be without sensation, and quite different from our usual way of conceiving it. Just as people do not register or feel the beginning of their existence, so they do not feel or register its end, and there is no precise moment of consciousness or feeling involved in either the former or the latter.1 See p. 290.
Whenever you meet someone new, if he lives in society you will certainly not be wrong in assuming him to be a rogue, whatever his physiognomy, manners, comportment, speech, actions may be. To be on the safe side, you had better immediately take him for such, and you will hardly ever find that you were really mistaken, despite the fact that for a very long time all appearances suggest the contrary. In the same way, and for the same reason, the condition of a decent man who marries today is unfortunately very bitter. Unless he intends to carry off his children to live in the wild, he should unquestioningly assume [284] from the very first moment that his marriage will not bring into the world anything but a few more rogues. This is so whatever their disposition, whatever the attention or thought applied to their education, etc. Because once any man enters society, it is almost mathematically certain that he will become a rogue, if not all at once then certainly little by little, if not completely then certainly in large part, in proportion to the obstacles that he erects, but that in every possible way will certainly be overcome. Equally painful for a decent man who is rearing his children must be the realization that whatever care he takes, whatever inspired hopes of virtue he may cherish, experience clearly and invariably demonstrates that these will be, at least in large part, pointless and vain. So all that the good educator can reasonably expect and aim for is to instill in his children such a strong dose of virtue that, although it will inevitably diminish, some small amount will remain, depending on what was there at the start. This would be a quite different response to offer to anyone who advises you to marry, or demands to know why you have not done so. They say that when Thales was interrogated on this point [285] by Solon he replied by demonstrating the anxieties and pain a father suffers at the dangers and misfortunes of his offspring. But now you could respond: in order not to procreate rogues; not to bring any more rogues into the world.1 (17 Oct. 1820.)
Hope, if only a spark, a drop, does not desert us, even after we have suffered the misfortune most diametrically opposed to that hope, and the most decisive. (18 Oct. 1820.)
What I said elsewhere [→Z 14–21, 125, 215] can be applied to poetry (and also to things that are related or have some affinity with it): that great deeds require a mixture of persuasion and passion or illusion. So poetry, whether concerned with wonder or with deep feelings or impulses of whatever kind, has need of a fiction that can yet persuade, not only in accordance with the ordinary rules of verisimilitude but also in terms of a certain conviction that the thing effectively is or could be like that. Thus ancient mythology, or [286] any other poetic invention that resembles it, has all that is required where illusion, passion, etc., are concerned, but is completely lacking on the side of persuasion and so can no longer produce the same effect it used to, especially with modern themes, because as far as ancient ones are concerned, habit supplies us with a certain amount of persuasion, particularly when the poet, too, is ancient. The reason is that the idea of those exploits, those times, those poems, etc., has been made so much a part of ourselves, along with those fictions, that the latter seem to us natural and almost persuade us, for habituation prevents us almost from distinguishing them from the ancient poets, times, events, etc. And so we mechanically allow ourselves to be persuaded for practical purposes that the thing could have been so. But apply these or other fictions again, either to other ancient subjects or, especially, to modern or medieval themes, and we always find them somehow dry and false, because they lack that persuasive quality, even when the part having to do with imaginary beauty, wonder, etc., is perfect. And in this respect, too, Tasso will never produce the same effect as the poets of antiquity, [287] even though his elements of fable and wonder are drawn from the Christian religion. But today, with so much propagation and cultivation of enlightenment, no fiction, whether new or reworked, can find the smallest place in the intellect, because we lack the habituation that makes up for the rest in the ancient poets. And this is a major reason that poetry today can no longer have the same powerful effect, whether with regard to wonder and delight, or with regard to the excitement of spirits, passions, etc., and the impulse to great deeds, etc. All the more so in that the Christian religion does not lend itself to persuasive fiction, as pagan religion did. In any case, it is certain that, in view of the above observations, since pagan religion can no longer have any effect, the poet must turn to Christianity, and that this, if handled with discernment, care, and ability, can create sufficient and notable impressions with respect to both wonder and emotion.1 (19 Oct. 1820.)
Animals also group together in many situations, always for a shared advantage. Besides ants and bees, as I mentioned elsewhere [→Z 210], it is worth noting [288] the so-called wheel that horses and other animals form to defend themselves against common aggressors. Again one can infer from this that animals have sufficient ideas of organization or tactics or, in other words, ways of increasing their individual strengths and using them profitably: (1) by the union of many individuals, (2) by the distribution and shape of the whole herd, (3) by the appropriate employment of individuals. Natural history, I believe, provides very many examples of such offensive and defensive warrior societies. As
in other situations; for example, if what is said about the organization of cranes is true, they use some birds as sentinels or lookouts in their migratory flights. Similarly, monkeys form a chain to cross rivers, and there are hundreds of other such examples of mutual help that animals provide for a shared advantage, and perhaps sometimes for the benefit of an individual who is needy, and is helped.1
We want everything to be perfect with respect to its kind. Nevertheless, because perfection is very rare in every species of things, people who copy or counterfeit objects usually include some defect in the imitation, in other words [289] choose and represent and imitate a defective individual in preference to a perfect one to make the imitation more lifelike and convincing, and so trick people and persuade them that the fake is real. Whereas a flaw diminishes the value of the imitated object and is criticized, it increases the merit of the imitation and is applauded. So if you want to fake a string of pearls you do not make them all perfectly round, even though you would demand this of real ones. And you fake a jewel of average value rather than counterfeit a priceless one. Thus, we will always praise Homer’s flawed Achilles more than Virgil’s perfect Aeneas on the grounds of credibility and of the advantages that illusion and persuasion gain thereby. And we can extend this observation as a rule for all poets in choosing an object to imitate, so that they reject extremes both of perfection and of imperfection, where the case is the same. Apply this last point to Lord Byron’s leading characters. (20 Oct. 1820.)
[290] Add the following to p. 283. Man is not aware of the precise moment when he falls asleep, however much he may want to be. Now, sleep is not the end of life but certainly an interruption and almost an image of that end. So if man does not feel the point at which his conscious faculties become as if suspended, he will be even less aware when they are destroyed. It might perhaps also be said that falling asleep does not happen at one point, but in a progressive interval that is more or less brief, a little-by-little that is more or less quick, and so the same must be said of death. Moreover, it is certain that the moments immediately preceding sleep, and the point or interval of definitively falling asleep (although imperceptible), are pleasant. This is true even when the cause of sleep, whether languor, exhaustion, illness, or simply fatigue, is not pleasant, indeed the opposite, and so the moments furthest from sleep are painful. Indeed, even the lethargy arising from illness, even when it’s mortal, is pleasant. That torpor can be pleasurable I have already mentioned in the theory of pleasure in these thoughts, giving my reasons [→Z 172]. On the same subject, I believe that the Neapolitan [291] Cirillo was of the opinion that death is somehow pleasant.1 I am in total agreement with him on this and do not doubt that man (and any other animal) experiences a certain comfort, and therefore pleasure, in death. Not that the causes of it or, therefore, the moments furthest from it are pleasant, but rather the moments immediately preceding it, and the actual imperceptible and insensible point or interval in which it consists. This applies to any illness, even the most acute, where Buffon argues that it might happen that death can be painful.2 Indeed, the torpor of death must be the more pleasurable the greater the suffering that preceded it and from which as a consequence it liberates us. The torpor of death therefore must generally and always be more welcome than that of sleep because it follows a much harder struggle. Sleep itself, as I said, is never painful, even when it is caused by suffering and acute discomfort, such as a burning fever, etc. As for those illnesses where a man fades away gradually, fully conscious to the end, it is certain that there is no moment immediately preceding death when even the least deluded person does not promise himself at least one more hour of life, as they say of old people, etc. And so death is never in the forefront of the dying person’s mind, another example of the usual mercy of nature. See p. 599, paragraph 2.3 Finding myself very often in some grave affliction, whether physical or moral, not only did I desire rest but my soul without any effort, without any heroism, took pleasure [292] naturally in the idea of an unlimited and perpetual insensibility, of a rest, of a continuous inactivity of body and soul, and what my nature wanted in such moments my reason expressly named as death, without this alarming me in the least. And many sick people who are neither heroic nor courageous, who indeed are very timorous, have wanted and do want to die when they are in great pain and find some kind of rest in the prospect, which would be much greater if the idea of death were not accompanied by fears for the future and a hundred other extrinsic concerns of a very different kind. Moreover, the rest I sought then was even more appealing for being perpetual, so that on waking I would no longer have to face those same afflictions I was so weary of.
If death and sleep are a point or an instant, we are looking not at the time when a person still retains some consciousness, which gradually diminishes, because this is obviously a progressive state, but at a moment that is unconscious, unknowable, and unrecordable. It seems that it must be instantaneous, since the passage from consciousness to unconsciousness, [293] from being to nonbeing, from something, however minimal, to nothing does not admit gradation but necessarily happens suddenly, and in an instant. (21 Oct. 1820.)
I wrote elsewhere (p. 55) about asking a favor of someone, who cannot deliver it without incurring the hatred of someone else, etc. The reason for this is that hatred is a passion, while gratitude is reason and duty, except in the case where the favor produces passionate love, since undoubtedly this is often more effective and active than hatred and all the other passions. But simple gratitude is all relative to other people, whereas passionate love, though it may seem to be, is not, but is fundamentally grounded in self-love, since the object of our love is someone who interests us, pleases us, and our own person is very much engaged in the attachment. But reason is never as effective as passion.1 Listen to the philosophers. Men should be led to act in accordance with reason as much as, indeed much more than, out of passion; in fact, their actions should be determined solely by reason and duty. Nonsense. The nature of human beings and other things can easily [294] be corrupted but not corrected. And if we let nature take its course, things would run very smoothly, despite the said dominance of passion over reason. Rather than extinguish passion with reason, it would be better to turn reason into passion: to make duty, virtue, heroism, etc., become passions. So they are in nature. So they were among the ancients, and things were much better. But when the only passion in the world is egoism then it is right to cry out against passion. But how can selfishness be eliminated by reason, which fosters it by destroying illusions? And without it, a man deprived of passions would not be motivated by them, or by reason, either, because, things being like that, and unable to change, reason is neither a living nor a motive force, and man will do nothing but become lazy, inactive, immobile, indifferent, uncaring, as in large part he already has. (22 Oct. 1820.)
In old people, the reasons for their love of life and fear of death, which seem to increase proportionately as life becomes less agreeable and as death can [295] deprive us of less time, and fewer enjoyments, indeed of greater ills (a phenomenon discussed recently by German philosophers, who have proposed a thousand reasons other than the right ones: see the Spettatore of Milan),1 are, besides those I think I suggested in the draft of the “Vita di Lorenzo Sarno,”2 the following: (1) as the enthusiasm and vitality of existence decline, so courage fades or vanishes, and so in proportion as life becomes less vigorous, men lack the strength to despise it, and to accept or consider losing it. Even young men who are more inclined to despise life, who are highly courageous in battle or anything risky, are often very afraid of illness as much for the reason I mentioned, a lack of physical and therefore spiritual strength, as for the loss of that thoughtlessness, that vitality and energy that enables them to avoid looking death in the face in the midst of active risk. (2) Many things seen from a distance seem easy to face and not frightening at all, but close up are really terrifying, and then there are countless difficulties, heartbreaks, affections, projects, etc., which from afar seemed
easy to give up [296] by dint of ardor, enthusiasm, or passion, desperation, etc., and close up are a source of infinite regret once passion has faded and things are looked at calmly. (3) Nature has endowed human beings with a great love of life and therefore a hatred of death, and has ensured that these passions remain blind, independent of any calculation of utility, of profit or loss, etc. Thus it is natural that the effects of these passions increase proportionately when the thing one loves is endangered and more in need of protection to preserve it, and the thing one hates comes closer. (4) Goods are despised when securely in our possession and only appreciated when they are lost, or when we risk or are on the point of losing them. And just as we despised those things more than we should have, so we generally appreciate many things in excess of their worth. Now, the young person, to the extent permitted, is the true owner of life; the old person owns it so to speak precariously. (5) Happiness and unhappiness cannot be measured externally but only from within. The old, having become accustomed to ills, are therefore less susceptible [297] to them, and less sensitive to those which befall them. Having lost their youthful impulsiveness and anxiety, they are less in need of the goods they lack, less intense in their desires, better able to withstand being deprived of what they desire and to settle for desires that can be more easily satisfied. Hence life for the old is not more unhappy than it is for the young, and may perhaps even be happier in terms of the sixth consideration. (6) A methodical, tranquil, and inactive life is not painful but pleasant if it accords with the routine and quiet and inactivity of the individual. Obviously, a young person dies in such conditions, but the conditions that he desires, especially in the present state of the world, are very difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. He finds only the nothingness he is fleeing; the old want it, seek it, and find it, like others of any age, but unlike the others they are content, or at least do not complain about it, or certainly put up with it patiently, and when someone is perfectly patient, then he cannot fail to love life, because life is lovable by nature. Add the storms of passion, [298] from which the old are free, the storms of the world, society, business, action, even pleasure itself, that storm in which the young, even if they have yearned for it in the midst of their boredom, long for rest and calm. Indeed it is certain that the natural state is one of rest and quiet, and even the most ardent person, the most in need of energy, tends toward calm and INACTIVITY in all his undertakings. Again, observe that primitive man led a methodical life and the happiest of lives was not social but natural. Observe, too, the impression that rural and domestic life makes on the most dissipated or overworked people today, how to them it seems the happiest life that anyone could lead. It’s true that it usually is like that when it consists of an organized routine, as it was for primitive or savage people, who were either occupied with providing for their needs or taking rest, the child and father of toil and activity. But in any case a person accustomed to total inactivity becomes so fond of it that any activity would be [299] irksome. You frequently see prisoners grow fat and content and become quite cheerful while awaiting a sentence that will decide their fate. Where indeed imminent misfortune increases the enjoyment of the present, something observed by ancient writers (like Horace), and well known to them, and felt by me, who never experienced such pleasure in life and such a rush of insane but genuine happiness as I did at moments when I anticipated some impending misfortune and would tell myself, “you have this much left to enjoy and no more,” and I would curl up inside myself, dispelling any other thoughts, especially about that misfortune, and think only of enjoying myself, despite my melancholic and intensely reflective character at all other times. Perhaps this even increased the intensity of the experience and my determination to enjoy myself. Apply this seventh point to old people. See also p. 121, thought 3, and compare, amend, and expand that with this, and this with what I said there. (23 Oct. 1820.)
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