Zibaldone
Page 120
The mind that is not capable of, or resistant to doubt is very small indeed. I have stated the reasons for this in the previous thought, and in the one to which it serves as an appendix. (27 July 1821.)
[1393] For ridicule first to please, and second to give intense and lasting pleasure, that is, for its continuation not to be boring, it must be directed at something serious, something important. If it is directed at trifles, and things that are, I might almost say, beyond ridicule, apart from its giving no pleasure at all, it provides very little amusement and soon becomes boring. The more serious the object being made fun of, and the more important it is, the more amusing the ridicule, also because of the contrast, etc. In my dialogues I will strive to bring comedy to what hitherto has been characteristic of tragedy, that is, the vices of the great, the fundamental principles of calamity and human misery, the absurdities of politics, the improprieties pertaining to universal morals and to philosophy, the condition and general spirit of the age, the sum total of events, society, contemporary civilization, the mishaps and the revolutions and circumstances of the world, the vices and abominations not of men but of man, the state of the nations, etc. And I believe that the weapons of ridicule, especially in this utterly ridiculous and chilly age, and also because of the power they naturally possess, will be in a better position to be useful than those of passion, feeling, imagination, eloquence, more even than those of reasoning, [1394] although these are very strong today. Thus to rouse my poor country and poor century, I shall find that I have employed the weapons of feeling and enthusiasm and eloquence and imagination in lyric poetry, and in whatever literary prose works I may write, the weapons of reason, logic, philosophy in the philosophical treatises that I am planning, and the weapons of ridicule in the Lucianesque dialogues and novellas I am preparing.1
Iliaci cineres, et flamma extrema meorum,
Testor, in occasu vestro, nec tela, nec ullas
Vitavisse vices Danaum; et, si fata fuissent,
Ut caderem, meruisse manu
[O ashes of Ilium! O funeral pyres of my own kin!
I call you to witness that in your doom I did not shun the
weapons of the Greeks, nor their answering blows, and had the fates decreed
my fall, I would have earned it by my own hand]
(Virgil, Aeneid 2, 431ff.)2
(27 July 1821.)
For p. 1102. It has also been a most useful and necessary invention and conception to divide quantities not by units, but by parts of quantities containing a definite and invariably consistent number of quantities, that is to say, by tens, i.e., quantities always containing ten units, by hundreds always containing ten tens, by thousands, etc. Without this excellent and admirable discovery, where numbers are concerned we would still be more or less in the same plight as [1395] men without language. That is to say, we would not be able clearly to conceive the idea of any definite numerical quantity (and hence of any other, nonnumerical quantity, because if it is definite, it always has some relation to numbers), except for very small ones.
The idea that man conceives of numerical quantity is a highly composite idea. Man is eminently capable of composite ideas, but the composition must not be so great that the human mind needs, in order to conceive of the idea, to run through too great a quantity of parts all in one go. If we did not say eleven, that is, ten and one, etc. etc., but always went on naming each quantity or number with a name that was in fact incremental, and independent of the other names and numbers, and if the numbers were not given a reciprocal relationship, a phenomenon as arbitrary and dependent on the human intellect as it is necessary and difficult, we would very soon lose the clear idea of a definite quantity that was quite large, because its parts, being pure units, would be too many to be grasped all in one go and [1396] embraced by our understanding. If a hundred were not in our mind ten tens (which, to a careful observer, comes to form not a tenfold, but virtually a single and simple—or at most double—idea, because of the reciprocal relation of the units with the ten, and of the single ten with the ten tens) but were a hundred, pure, disconnected, independent, undivided units, it would be impossible for us to run through a hundred units arranged thus in one go, and hence we would not be able to conceive any but a highly muddled and inadequate idea of that quantity. Conversely, our mind, being accustomed to conceiving clearly and with ease the quantity contained in a single ten, still more easily becomes accustomed to the same conception in ten tens, etc. etc., and with a single act of the understanding, clearly grasps the number of units contained in a quantity, the idea of which presents itself to the mind as being thus well distributed in their parts and intrinsically related one to the other. This is, in fact, how ideas develop in children, who at the beginning, even though adequately schooled in the numbers and their physical quantities, etc., never [1397] form the clear idea of the units contained in a quantity that is more than somewhat large, nor do they ever clearly understand what quantity is, e.g., a hundred, until their minds have become accustomed in the manner that I have said, ascending by degrees from the simultaneous and perfect idea of a ten, to that of two, of three, of ten tens, etc.
Man clearly and easily conceives many ideas, even if they are highly composite, in one go, because their object is not compounded in such a fashion that the idea can only emerge through the particular and immediate understanding of each of its parts. E.g., the idea of man is composite, but the mind, without running through the parts, conceives of all of them in a single object in a single body, and hence in a single instant, and from the object descends, if you will, to the parts. So it happens with all material, etc., things. But the idea of a number does not emerge except through the conception of the units, that is to say, the parts of which it is composed, and from the latter the mind has to ascend to the conception of the composite, that is, of a specific number, [1398] because a number is in essence simply a quantity of parts, nor can it be defined except by the latter, nor does it have any attribute whatsoever, or form or mode of being, etc., independent of them. Habituation, assisted by the very fine invention I have described, causes the human mind gradually to become qualified to conceive of a definite quantity, almost before it conceives of its parts, and independently of them, and it then descends from the former to the latter, if it wishes to differentiate its idea better, etc., which indeed can never be done in the moment itself, but only in the course of time.
This discovery, or rather arbitrary establishment of a reciprocal relationship between all the units, and the groups of units, etc., that is, in short, of proportion which for us, and all civilized peoples, ancient and modern, is decuple, was not only assisted by language but could never have been established without language.
I note that one of the main advantages, indeed perhaps the only, but nonetheless great advantage of the system of so-called Arabic numerals, over that of Greek, Hebrew, etc., numerals, though it too was extremely simple, and beautiful, and well conceived, is as follows. In the numerals 10, 200, 3000, etc., the numbers 1, 2, 3 express and directly indicate the quantity of tens [1399] or hundreds or thousands expressed by the aforesaid numerals, and contained in the quantity that they signify. But not so the Greek letters ι', that is to say, 10, and σ', that is to say, 200, or the Hebrew [waw] and [resh], which signify the same quantities. But the Greek numerals α, β, γ, and the Hebrew [aleph, beth aleph, ghimel aleph], that is to say, 1000, 2000, 3000, mean and immediately may be understood in themselves as either the unit or the quantity of thousands involved. Greek is, however, in this regard more simple than Hebrew.
For the same reason that we find little variety in the physiognomy of beasts of the same species, etc., as I have remarked elsewhere [→Z 1196], it happens that in a foreign city everything strikes us to start with as more or less the same, and we always find the country we are accustomed to much more varied (even if it is very uniform), relatively speaking, than any other, at any rate during the first days. And so we can’t distinguish between the different districts,
etc. Especially if there really is some uniformity in the unfamiliar country, even if it is nonetheless more varied than our own, or if it is of a form and style, etc., very different from our own, in which case we shall never find enough variety in it until we have paid it a great deal of attention and grown accustomed to it. [1400] The same thing happens when we read written works that are very alien to us, such as those by Eastern authors, Ossian, etc., or their imitators among us. Likewise with a host of different things. (28 July 1821.)
Regret—which, as I have said in other thoughts [→Z 188, 466], aggravates an evil by as much as half again, when we cannot hide from ourselves the fact that it was our fault that it happened—also exacerbates to the same degree our sorrow at the loss or lack of a good. Indeed, very often it is the sole and exclusive cause of this sorrow, which we would not experience in any way if we lacked that good through no fault of our own, if we had not had an opportunity to obtain it, etc. This same human feeling, which is felt or anticipated, and at the same time impels us, indeed, compels us to profit by it, even against our own will almost, is one I have tried to represent in Telesilla.1 Very often a missed opportunity, even though no fault of our own, causes us the utmost distress on account of the lack of a good that was previously of no importance to us at all. And then our consolation lies, and the ordinary operation of our mind consists, in trying to persuade ourselves that we have no share of the blame for the loss of that opportunity, that it could have availed us nothing, and had necessarily to be of no use to us, [1401] and almost that it had never been, etc. (28 July 1821.)
I am told that as a child of three or four I was always pestering someone or other to tell me a tale. And I myself remember that when I was not much older, I loved stories, and the wonderful things you could imagine by listening or reading (for I could already read, and loved reading, very early). I think these are noteworthy signs of unusual and precocious intelligence. A baby when it is born is not inclined to any other pleasures than sucking milk, sleeping, and the like. Gradually, through habituation alone, it acquires a capacity for other sensory pleasures, and at last by degrees it grows used to them, until it experiences pleasures that are less dependent on the senses. The pleasure to be had from tales, even if they revolve around sensory and physical matters, is nonetheless wholly intellectual, or pertaining to the imagination, and is in no way corporeal or to do with the senses. Becoming capable of such pleasures very early manifestly indicates an extremely happy disposition, flexibility, etc., of the intellectual or mental organs, [1402] a great capacity for, and liveliness of imagination, a great capacity for habituation, and a prompt development of the faculties of the mind, etc. (28 July 1821.)
For p. 1318, paragraph 1. It is worth noting that, more than any other modern language, Italian has cultivated ancient philosophy and has an abundance of writers (including classical ones) who expound it either professionally or incidentally and solely for their own use. The reasons are as follows. This philosophy died out as the sciences advanced. So it is not relevant that other modern languages may have had even more philosophers and writers than Italian. We have to see at what time. Now, all the modern languages were applied to literature, etc., much later than Italian. So they could pay very little attention to ancient philosophy. Whereas Italian from the 14th to the 17th centuries, from Dante to Galileo, that is to say, from the rebirth of study to the renewal of philosophy, always cultivated ancient philosophy, enriched itself with its vocabulary, etc. etc. Besides which, because Italians at that time had invested much more love in every kind of study than any other nation, it follows that [1403] ancient philosophy, which later died out, flourished in Italy more than elsewhere, after the rebirth of study, and coinciding with the golden age of Italian literature. So even those who were purely concerned with literature studied it very closely, and made a great deal of use of it, moved perhaps by the example of Dante, their common master, and by the spirit of all cultured eras, which have always given great weight to philosophy. Add that those who dealt with ancient philosophy in other nations did not do so in the vernacular languages, but in Latin, because with the exception of Italian the other vernaculars were not regarded as being capable, and indeed were not, of expressing serious and weighty things, etc. So that even history was written by the Frenchman de Thou1 in Latin, and there is no history written in French, or at any rate no passable one, before Louis XIV. (28 July 1821.)
For p. 1338. Note in this regard, as a demonstration of the influence of language or names on ideas, that sufficient knowledge of Greek and the properties of Greek words is not only supremely useful to the student of medicine for a good knowledge of the nature, etc., of illnesses, etc. etc., not only does it shorten, etc., and facilitate his studies, etc., but it may be that without this knowledge, not [1404] just the student but even the doctor will not manage to have as clear and precise an idea of something denominated in medicine with a Greek name as is conceived at once by the Greek scholar as soon as he hears that word, for all that he is ignorant in medicine. For a great many of the Greek words used in the sciences, etc., have this most beautiful property of being almost perfect definitions of the things they signify. This is because of the precision which that language receives from its compounds, etc., a quality which cannot be found, generally speaking, in any other language to the same degree. (29 July 1821.)
Chinese women maim themselves by binding their feet, and regard what is against nature as beautiful. What is the point of listing all the barbarities, that is, unnatural customs and opinions regarding human beauty? Certainly, however, all these barbarians, the Chinese, etc., find a person who has been ruined in such ways and turned into something unnatural, to be more beautiful than a person who is very beautiful and shaped in accordance with nature. On the contrary, [1405] the latter will even look deformed to them in those particular regards. Therefore they experience the sense of beauty, just as we do in opposite things. Therefore which of the two is right? Why, therefore, are such tastes called barbaric?
Not because such tastes are absolutely contrary to beauty, which they feel where we feel ugliness, but because they are contrary to what is natural. Beauty is propriety, the ugly impropriety. Now, it is proper that things are as they have been made and have the qualities which are characteristic of them, and if your nature is that, you must be thus and not otherwise. Hence that which is contrary to nature is improper. A propriety and impropriety that are, as anyone may see, relative to the mode of being of each thing.
But beauty does not only arise from the propriety established by nature, indeed it may sometimes not arise from it (and there we have to do with so-called bad taste). It invariably and necessarily and exclusively arises from the opinion of man as produced by habituation, inclination, etc. It arises, I repeat, [1406] from propriety insofar as it is judged to be such by man (or by a creature). And therefore the beautiful is simply what seems proper, that is to say, beautiful, to man. So it is. Outside of the opinion of man or other living creatures neither the beautiful nor the ugly exists, and once the living creature has been removed, not only the ideas, but the actual qualities of the beautiful and the ugly (although good and bad, inasmuch as they help or harm other beings, etc., may remain) are wholly removed from the world.
Since, however, the sole enduring and universal thing is the nature both of things and of each thing, enduring and universal opinion regarding propriety and beauty cannot therefore help but be the one that is in accord with nature, that is, which judges as proper whatever nature has contrived and has arranged should belong to beings. (Which it has contrived and arranged not necessarily and absolutely but merely on a whim and relatively.) Hence it is that tastes which are not natural, whether as regards the forms of men, or the arts imitating nature, or in any other sphere which belongs to nature in any way, etc., such tastes, I say, are called bad, and are so, inasmuch [1407] as, being contrary to the real (even if relative) nature of things; they cannot endure nor be universal. Conversely, good taste is good inasmuch as,
agreeing with nature as in fact it does, it is the only taste that can endure and with which more or less everyone can agree.
So it comes about that sooner or later we laugh at an affected style, painting, demeanor, etc. etc., at a disfigured person, etc. etc., and such things are called barbarous, just as all those things that lie wholly outside the sphere of the beautiful, which are contrary to nature, that is, to the manner in which things really are, and therefore have to be, are called barbarous. And here you may see how it is that barbarousness always consists in moving away from nature, and consequently civilized peoples do ordinarily have good taste, because civilization brings men closer to nature, etc.
Tastes that are not natural, insofar as they are contrary to nature, not inasmuch as they are contrary to the beautiful, are therefore barbarous and bad. No taste is contrary to the beautiful. The beautiful is that which is deemed such. In the seventeenth century, beauty consisted in a style employing conceits and metaphors, etc., and it gave [1408] writers of that century the pleasure we find in good style, and which good style did not give them.