Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  [1758] For p. 1723. The case of the person I mentioned was actually very similar to that, broadly speaking, of anyone who is unaccustomed to music, the unrefined in particular, and the common people. And its source was not just the scant natural delicacy of the ear or inner organs, but also their scant habituation and their not having been made to conform by means of exercise in such a way that what is naturally not or not very pleasing becomes so by virtue of the acquired disposition. That person and the common people only love loud sounds, etc., like all unrefined, etc., persons and peoples; they only love bright colors, and find no pleasure in delicate, soft ones, which to them seem simpering and maudlin and to be laughed at. See p. 1668, paragraph 1. Pleasures are to a very great extent only pleasures insofar as we have formed reasons and habits for them to be so. (21 Sept. 1821.)

  Apply the above to the pleasures [1759] that the other fine arts, and the various genres of literature, etc., procure, pleasures to which the common people are not susceptible, save in the crudest fashion, etc. And to delicate human forms that are not to the liking of the common people, and to other such kinds and sources and causes of beauty perfectly unknown to the multitude. (21 Sept. 1821.)

  Even the greatest grasp of musical theory will not enable a singer to delight listeners without a good voice. The latter can compensate for the lack or paucity of the former but not vice versa. What, then, is the principal source of musical pleasure? It is often said that good composers cannot sing, because it is not often that the natural and acquired disposition of the intellectual organs is combined with that of the material organs of the voice. And thus the greatest connoisseur and fashioner of harmony and melody for song might be well able to execute the harmony and the melody but not bring about any musical delight on that account.

  We tend to accord high praise to voices that [1760] are engaging, and this is one of the principal, indeed, necessary qualities in a genuinely good singer. Now this attribute, which we don’t even know how to express, nor what it consists of, is entirely characteristic of the voice alone and wholly independent of harmony, whose qualities we do know how to define and express and distinguish clearly and mathematically. It therefore has no more to do with beauty than does a soft color, that appeals to the eye and pleases it on its own account, or a flavor, or an odor, etc. Sometimes this quality resides in something affectionate, tender, expressive, etc. This, too, is independent of beauty. It belongs to imitation, etc., or indeed to passion, affect, feeling that is pleasurable without for that reason being beautiful. (21 Sept. 1821.)

  “The more I spurred him on” (says Rocca of a Spanish mule he once had to ride in Spain), “the more he dug his heels in. I would beat him, curse him, but my threats in French simply served to irritate him. I did not know his name and was further unaware that at that time every mule in Spain [1761] had its own name, and that to get it to move you had to tell it in its own language: ‘Move it, mule, giddy up, Captain, giddy up, Aragon, etc.’” Memorie intorno alla Guerra de’ francesi in Ispagna del sig. di Rocca, Part 1, Milan, Pirotta and A. F. Stella, 1816, p. 55. See also several important observations regarding the mores and society of wild horses, etc., pp. 134–37. Part 2.1

  Therefore (and these observations could be extended ad infinitum), even among animals the different individuals of a single species are susceptible to very different habituations, as individuals, too, are susceptible to varying habituations, always according to circumstances. What, then, is our superiority over the animals but a greater propensity to becoming habituated and to conforming, as among the different species of animals some have these qualities to a greater, some to a lesser degree; some, like the monkeys, little less than man? Once one has demonstrated that all [1762] human faculties, etc. etc. etc., are simply habituation, one has demonstrated that the nature of the human mind, like that of the body, is the same as that of the beasts.1 It merely varies in the kind, that is, in the degree to which such qualities exist, as the minds of the different species of beast vary also. Beasts cling more tenaciously and are more subservient to habituation. This comes precisely from their being less capable of habituation than we are, because the greater the capability of habituation is in nature, the more it is increased by practice, the easier it makes it to change, set aside, vary, modify habituation, as I have explained elsewhere [→Z 1370–72, 1452–53, 1682–83]. Animals are more subservient to habituation the less they are capable of becoming habituated proportionately to the different natures of species and individuals, in other words the less talent, that is, disposition to becoming habituated, they have. See p. 1770, paragraph 2. Hence the mule, which gets habituated only with great difficulty, clings very tenaciously to its habit, and is its slave. It is a stupid animal. Stupid animals are more subservient to habituation than are quick-witted ones, etc. etc. Compare in relation to these theories donkeys and horses, sheep [1763] and dogs, etc. etc., the undocile animals (that is to say, little disposed to becoming habituated, and therefore clinging very tenaciously to the habituation contracted by them or communicated to them) and the docile, etc. etc. (21 Sept. 1821.)

  Any habituation or habit is simply an imitation, in this sense, that a present act imitates a past act or acts. And this as much in man as in the animals, as much in the habituations that are contracted by oneself and spontaneously, and without precise will or attention, etc., as in those that are communicated to us, taught, etc. etc., either through force or through love, or through study, and with attention and the will to become habituated, etc. etc. etc. The horse that quickens its pace or starts moving at the sound of a particular command imitates what it did on other occasions, and what man from the beginning compelled it to do while he was making it hear that command. Thus and not otherwise does man learn and acquire both intellectual faculties and disciplines, and skills, and material or mixed faculties. Here, too, the nature of the human mind is the same as that of the beast. (21 Sept. 1821.)

  [1764] It is common for a horse or a dog used to obeying a particular command, recognizing its master by a particular scent, etc., to lose the habit quickly and become accustomed to new sounds, new scents, new ways of receiving commands, etc., from a new master. It learns and gets used to a new home, etc. etc. Other species or individuals that are less easily habituated either by nature or by practice find it harder to lose their habits, in the same way and for the same reasons that they find it harder to acquire them. Does the same not occur proportionately in man, and in human individuals? (21 Sept. 1821.)

  For memory to be able to remember, the object to be remembered must be in some way or other determinate. It is only with the utmost difficulty and to a limited extent that it remembers what is indeterminate, or else it simply remembers whatever part of it is determinate. Someone who wishes to remember anything must in some way define the idea in his mind, and this is what we do all the time without even thinking about it. Words define, verses define.1 Now, this is precisely the [1765] property of matter: the fact that its boundaries are certain and known, and that it never lacks limits in any direction, nor circumscription. The secret to aiding memory boils down to materializing things or ideas as much as possible.1 The more one succeeds in this, the better memory remembers. Indeed, the progress of habituation, that is, of the faculty of memory, consists in its finding it ever easier to remember ever less material things than those it could remember as an infant and a child. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  I am firmly convinced that the newborn child, or even more the child in the first period succeeding the complete development of its organs in the mother’s womb, does not remember the previous moment. This is an opinion that seems to me demonstrated by seeing how the faculty of memory steadily increases by dint of habituation, so that the child remembers more than the baby, the youth more than the child (and we are often amazed at their showing [1766] us that they can remember something fairly remote, which we, however, recall without any difficulty, and regard as a feat of prodigious memory in them what strikes us as utterly ordinary in an adult and in ou
rselves) and so step by step until it starts to run down with the running down of the human machine. I therefore think that in the perfectly organized baby, memory absolutely does not exist prior to the habituation of the senses, experiences, etc.1 (22 Sept. 1821.)

  I have said elsewhere [→Z 1383, 1650–51] that a philosopher, too, can be as original as a poet, and distinguish himself from others in his particular way of handling the same truths. I now add that the very same truths (I mean the same truths, and not the same things from which, if seen differently, different and contrary propositions are drawn) present themselves at different times not only to different individuals, but also to the same individual, one that is accustomed to thinking, under such different aspects that he himself, if he has no more than good memory and discernment and attention, [1767] will scarcely recognize them as truths he has already seen (or even discovered) and considered, etc. So that a philosopher (just like a poet) can in one and the same truth be different from himself and be original, not only in relation to others, but also in relation to himself. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  The strength and ease and variety of habituation, both in individuals and in mankind, always grows as they grow, precisely like the motion of heavy bodies. This is all there is to the progress both of individuals and of the human mind. This thought is of the utmost importance, and there is no more apt image of this progress in mathematics or physics than that of accelerated motion.1 (22 Sept. 1821.)

  For p. 1583. I have said that everyone sees but few observe. I now add that it is sometimes enough to announce a truth, even a very new one, for all those with real understanding (I exclude prejudices, etc. etc. etc.), to recognize it or certainly be capable of recognizing it immediately, prior to its demonstration. This is what befalls us a thousand times when reading or listening. No sooner has that truth [1768] been found than everyone knows it, and yet no one knew it before. And it happens to the human mind, or to the individual in the ordinary run of things, that just as soon as he is shown something that he had right in front of his eyes, he sees it, and yet previously he did not see it, that is to say, he saw it, but did not observe it, and it was as if he did not see it. This is the ordinary progress of our knowledge in everything that does not pertain to the material sciences, and very often in these also. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  I have praised Italy over France [→Z 343‒45, 1243‒44] because it did not give up its ancient language, and wanted it made up out of five centuries rather than just one. But I would condemn it outright if, in order to preserve the ancient language, it meant to give up the modern one. For if the ancient is useful, the modern is necessary. And far more so if instead of composing its language out of 5 centuries, it composed it like French from just one, but not from the one it speaks (which in the end is tolerable), rather from the one [1769] it spoke four centuries ago. Or even if it wanted to compose it solely out of past centuries and excluded the present one, which in the end is the only one that essentially cannot be excluded. It is certainly laudable that the plant not be uprooted, with the seeds being preserved and transplanted, but why does one have to preserve just the trunk, stripping it of seeds, leaves, branches, indeed, preserve just the root, cutting off the trunk, and taking good care that it does not start growing again, and that the roots stay behind and not produce anything? And it would be really ridiculous if we kept authority over our language in the hands of the ancients who no longer speak, thereby taking it away from ourselves who do speak, which would be the first time that the things of the living belonged entirely to the dead. It would be truly absurd if, while a superfluous word or phrase newly discovered in an ancient writer can always and without contest be used on account of its purity, when a modern newly introduces a useful or necessary word or phrase, one which anyway has everything that is needed, it cannot be used without impurity.1 Indeed, the more diligently our language endeavors not to lose (a very good thing in itself), the more as a necessary consequence it should strive to gain, and not be like the crazy miser who, because he loves money, doesn’t put his money to use, but [1770] contents himself with not losing it, and keeping it without risk. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  I have commented elsewhere [→Z 1607–608] on the lively movements, etc. etc., of natural people. Add their tone of voice, add their liking for loud colors, sounds, etc. etc., about which I have spoken separately in other thoughts [→Z 1663–65, 1668–69, 1721–23, 1758]. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  For p. 1762, margin. It is noteworthy that the physiognomy of animals that are not very open to being habituated, or only with difficulty, presents visible signs of stupidity, and an air similar to the physiognomy of people of little talent or experience. It is certain that there is a very close correspondence between the outside and the inside, between physiognomy and intelligence and natural or habitual qualities.1 Hence it is certain that such animals have, in fact, if I may so put it, little talent, and therefore little capacity for becoming habituated (which may readily be seen), which is identical to talent.

  Some of them (be they individuals or species) may also have all the [1771] vivacity, mobility, etc., which in men, too (and far more in the different species of animals, whose qualities can be very differently combined than they are in man), has nothing to do with talent, and not even with a noteworthy imagination, indeed sometimes (as in children) they are the effect and sign (or perhaps even the cause) of the lack of such gifts. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  From propositions and premises that they knew neither more nor less than we do, the ancients deduced conclusions quite the opposite of those that we draw from them. This shows that they did not know the relationships between the propositions, since otherwise we would not be able to deny their conclusions. But who has told us that we know them better? How do we know this except by dint of syllogisms? For any affirmation or negation requires a syllogism, and each syllogism contains as many syllogisms as there are relations of its propositions with one another. That is, man always has to persuade himself with a syllogism (albeit a tacit one) that [1772] if such and such thing is, such and such other thing is also. Without these intermediate syllogisms, no syllogism holds, and since the former are ordinarily omitted, or are not correct, countless syllogisms are therefore false, because the relation that we, either not syllogizing at all, or syllogizing falsely, posit between the major and minor, and between these latter and the conclusion, is not true.

  Here I could demonstrate that since every syllogism, that is, every act and every notion of our reason, requires several other syllogisms, and these latter yet others ad infinitum, we finish by not being able to discover any beginning or absolute foundation to our reason, since we cannot arrive at a first syllogism that does not need several others. So it is, in fact, and this is the substance, the logic, the explanation, and the outcome of my system, and herein (although it does not seem so) lies the method I use to demonstrate it. In such a way precisely that in order to negate a particular proposition, which does not have false [1773] premises, we cannot nor do we ever do otherwise than destroy the intermediate syllogisms of the syllogism upon which the proposition is founded.

  But I will content myself with saying the following. If syllogisms deceive, and our reason is absolutely nothing else but syllogism, what then is our reason? That syllogisms deceive because of falsely posited propositions may be seen in the example cited of the ancients, in the difference with regard to modern opinions, and in the opposite conclusions that are drawn from identical and equally known truths; and generally in any and every error of men from Adam downward. For all errors are conclusions deduced from as many syllogisms, and even if the premises themselves of a particular syllogism are false, they have been deduced from other syllogisms, and so we make our way back up to propositions to which all men and all of human reason naturally agree, and which have not produced the aforesaid errors save by dint of falsely posited relationships. [1774] But from among all the imaginable errors of any people, time, individual whatsoever, a very great number of them are directly based upon a syllogism whe
re there is nothing false about them save the conclusion, and hence the presumed relationship of the three propositions with one another, or of the two premises, or of one of them with the conclusion. Such more particularly are those errors that are fundamental, simple, childish, and closer to the first and pure and ἄκρατοι [elementary] principles of reasoning. And in the meantime, they are the most ridiculous and the greatest, on account of the utter and patent falsity of the relationships. (22 Sept. 1821.)

  Grace stemming from the extraordinary. Military men are usually particularly attractive to women, even if rendered imperfect sometimes by some misfortune of war—indeed, then perhaps more than ever. I have heard of a German General, presently living, who is disfigured by a missing eye, so wears a bandage on his head, and is extraordinarily successful with women. (23 Sept. 1821.)