Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  [2415] For p. 2402. One should not only not boast of one’s own misfortunes but beware of admitting them, even to those to whom they are well known. One loses not only protection or beneficial love but also simple affection, and I know this from my own experience. (5 May 1822.)

  Life is made naturally for life, not for death. That is to say, it is made for activity, and for all that is most vital in the functions of living creatures. (5 May 1822.)

  A language is not beautiful if it is not bold, and in the final analysis you will find that in the matter of languages beauty is the same as boldness. And what else would it be? The harmony, etc., of the sound of the words? This is a completely external beauty, about which there is little or no agreement, since opinions and tastes differ widely in this area, according to times and places. For us the sound of Oriental words is very ugly, and for Orientals ours must be the same. And what, precisely, do we mean by the harmony of the Greek language, which we nevertheless call very beautiful? What feeling, what taste [2416] do we have for it, except one that is, to say the least, uncertain, confused, and superficial? Certainly the harmony of our own language, whatever it is, even if it’s harsh, pleases us. We hear it much better than that of the Greek language and hence we would have no reason to prefer Greek for its beauty, even over German, or Russian. Perhaps beauty consists in richness? Richness of phrases and expressions exists only in a bold language, because, when it comes to exact and mathematical forms, all languages are or can be equally rich: and this richness cannot be much expanded, being limited by its nature. Since dialectic can vary little—deriving from uniform and simple principles—it naturally tends toward, and produces, supreme uniformity and simplicity of diction. Richness purely of words helps beauty, but it’s not enough by far, and it, too, is an almost extrinsic quality, and without question incidental to the language, which without changing at all, or breaking down in any [2417] way, can and does have a greater abundance of words today, and tomorrow a lesser, according to the national, commercial, political, scientific, etc., circumstances. In fact the French language is, in truth, very rich in words, especially in philosophy, sciences, conversation, manufactures, and in every custom and matter of society, commerce, etc. etc., but that does not make it beautiful, or more beautiful than Italian or Spanish. The true and not incidental but essential beauty of a language—that which cannot be lost, if the language is not corrupted in form—is an intrinsic beauty, and belongs to the character of the language, and this has to consist of boldness. Now, what is this boldness, apart from the freedom of not being exact and mathematical? For when it comes to exactness, I repeat, all languages are equally capable, and all by means of it can become and would become completely uniform in character, for reason is one, and variety is to be found only in nature. Hence if beautiful language is bold and free language, it is likewise not an exact language, and not obligated [2418] to the dialectical rules of sentences, forms, and of discourse generally. Observe all the languages called beautiful, ancient and modern, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish: in all of them, the only beauty you will characteristically find is boldness, and this boldness found only in the things mentioned above. Observe also the writers called beautiful and elegant in each of those languages, and compare them with those who are not. Observe in itself each sentence, form, etc., called beautiful and elegant, and compare it, etc. There is no beautiful language that is not a poetic language, that is, not only capable of but possessing a distinctly poetic language (as all the above have, and as French does not), but poetic, generally speaking, also in prose, although without affectation, that is to say, poetic as a language, and not in terms of style, the way all French prose is excessively and discordantly poetic. Now, poetic language is a language that is not mathematical, [2419] in fact it is contrary by nature to the mathematical spirit. (Sanskrit, among the Oriental languages reputed to be extremely beautiful, is signally bold and poetic.)

  Moreover, those who are jealous of the purity and the preservation of the Italian language, and “make a face,” as Bartoli says (Torto, etc., ch. 11),1 at any manner of speech which is not molded in the form of universal grammar, know neither the nature of the Italian language that they presume to protect nor that of all possible languages. Every sort of beauty, either of a language in general (apart from the harmony and richness of the words, or their inflections) or of an idiom in particular, is a slap at universal grammar, and a deliberate infraction of its laws. (5 May 1822.) See p. 2425.

  The soul that is strong and deep resists even necessity but does not resist time, which alone truly triumphs over all earthly things. That profound, persistent suffering—which disdained and trampled on misfortune’s common consolation, [2420] that is, its inevitability and irremediability, the fact that it cannot be otherwise—suffering that was renewed every day and sometimes with greater force than before, and that for a long period seemed indomitable and inextinguishable, and appeared to increase day by day rather than to diminish; for all that, it cannot reject and not admit the consolation of time, and the habituation that time insensibly and most disguisedly introduces, and cannot so arrange matters that ultimately, after a very stubborn war, it does not find itself vanquished and dead, and that that fierce soul does not bend, and does not adjust to bearing its misfortune without indignation, and without the strength to complain of it.1 And for a long time it might well have scorned and rejected even the consolation of time, but not on that account could it escape it. (5 May 1822.) One can reject the consolation even of necessity but not that of time.

  The point of honor (as the Spanish say) was known equally by the ancients and by the moderns, and by nearly all societies, even those that were barely or [2421] not at all civilized, in every era, even by the Mexicans, and by savages. And it’s natural to man placed in relation with men. Yet on this point the ancients differ infinitely from the moderns, and the savages from the civilized, and the point of honor, which is supremely useful among the ancients and the savages, among the modern and civilized is null or almost null, or even the opposite of useful. Here are the reasons.

  The point of honor is one of the many illusions of social man, and lies completely in opinion. Now this opinion (since in the substance and truth of things it is nothing) can be more or less useful, and be useful or useless, first of all according to what things it places the point of honor in (and this is already clear), and then according to the intrinsic nature of this honor in itself, and its greater or lesser magnitude, and its different quality, and its specific weight, independent of the objects on which it is exercised or from which it derives.

  Let’s now compare the ancients to the moderns, and in this comparison will be included both the [2422] savages and the civilized, assuming the former for the ancients and the civilized in place of the moderns. For a point of honor those two relatives or friends of Leonidas (look at the story more carefully) at Thermopylae refused to deliver the message that he gave them, and, saying that they were there to fight, and not to carry letters, remained and died with their companions in defense of their country, even though they already knew that by staying they could not escape death.1 For a point of honor the young man insulted publicly by another forces him to fight with swords, and risks his own life, and also that of a close and dear friend, who inadvertently, or in a moment of passion, offended him.

  Here three things should be considered. (1) The force of the point of honor, and the obligation that it imposes. This is the same in both cases because, in both, infamy (according to opinion, which is the sole basis of the point of honor) would have been the punishment for those two Greeks and for this young man, if they had gone against the laws of the point of honor. So this force (note carefully) is not at all diminished from ancient [2423] times to ours, except perhaps in extent, that is, in that it operates in a smaller number of people. But in those in whom it operates it has the same value.

  (2) The usefulness of the point of honor in the two cases. It’s clear that in the first case it’s supremely useful
, in the second not at all, in fact it’s utterly useless, and harmful.

  (3) The magnitude and quality of this honor, or the nature of man’s idea of it. This can be seen by noting that the reward of those two Greeks for having observed the laws of the point of honor were the respect and envy borne to their relatives by their fellow citizens; public burial; funeral honors in their memory that were more like a celebration; hymns and songs of poets and musicians all over Greece, and hence forever in other civilized nations; being remembered forever in histories both native and foreign; immortality, in short, not only among the Greeks but among all other cultivated peoples, up to today. The reward of that young duelist is the esteem of a few young men among his peers, of café society, [2424] or, at most, the province layabouts; and very often prison or voluntary exile, the confiscation of his property, etc.

  In short, on close examination, it can be seen that ancient honor, even as the object of the point of honor, was not distinct from glory, and from a glory recognized as such by all, whereas in many cases modern honor, and among much, and (for the most part) the better part of society, is not distinct from disgrace. This is the most notable and important difference between ancient honor and modern: that the former was glory and the latter, to say the least, is nothing.1

  That difference can also be seen in the things where the modern point of honor would be useful in the same way as the ancient. What glory, what immortality is gained, what zeal moves an officer who for a point of honor stands firm in a dangerous place, or dies there? It can truly be said that in modern times honor is all opinion, and more so than ancient honor was. For in modern times honor, although recognized by many, is all in the individual opinion [2425] each man has of himself, and after he has observed its laws, even with the ultimate sacrifice, no honor is rendered to him, not even from the opinion of others which dispenses it. Like those secret acts of virtue, those good works of thought, which in this world are not prized except by one’s own conscience. Completely the opposite happened among the ancients.

  It was a point of honor among the Spartan troops for each to return with his own shield. A material circumstance but most useful and ethical in its application, since they could not keep their capacious shield (big enough to carry a person stretched out) without the courage to advance, and not flee, which such a shield would have prevented. (6 May 1822.)

  For p. 2419. How can a language be beautiful that does not have its own individuality? A language that in its forms, its expressions, its faculties is not distinguished from the forms, expressions, faculties of general grammar, and from the order and dialectic of discourse, does not have individuality. A language regulated by that alone [2426] has nothing of its own. Everything in it is common to all speaking nations, and all other languages. Its spirit, its character, its genius is not its own but universal, that is to say that it has no originality, and hence cannot be beautiful, that is, cannot be either strong or distinctly noble, or expressive, or diverse (in its forms), or adapted to the imagination, because this is varied and multiform, and at the same time it is the only human faculty capable of beauty, and the creator of beauty. Now, what does a language that has individuality mean? A bold language, that is, capable of moving away in its forms and expressions, etc., from the order and dialectic reasoning of discourse, since within the limits of this order and this reasoning there is nothing that is characteristic of any language in particular but everything is common to all. (I’m speaking about forms, faculties, etc., and not about bare words, or their inflections, considered in isolation.) Therefore, if the form of a language that does not have individuality is not and cannot be beautiful, a language is not and cannot be [2427] beautiful whose form is entirely or almost entirely mathematical and consistent with universal grammar. And so again we are led to conclude that the beauty of the forms of a language (both of forms in general, and of each in particular) cannot but be in opposition to general grammar and in greater or lesser violation of its laws.

  The French language is in the situation mentioned above, since with respect to form, precisely speaking, it has no individuality, that is to say, it does not have a quality of its own, but has all qualities common to all languages, and to the universal logic of language. How much this damages originality, indeed excludes it, and how much as a consequence it favors mediocrity, indeed requires and compels it, is self-evident. (Bossuet, who was not a mediocre writer, needed to tame, as the French themselves say, his language;1 and as I say, was tamed and compelled to mediocrity of style by his language. And the same is true of all those French writers [2428] who are endowed with a talent naturally superior to the mediocre. Neither more nor less than the way French society, and the spirit of the French nation, compels the most elevated men of the nation, and the minds that most rise above the ordinary, to mediocrity, in every sort of thing. Since mediocrity is not only a prize but a law in that nation, where the supreme duty of civilized man is to be like others.)

  From the above considerations it follows that the French language, having no or almost no individuality, and hence being incompatible with true, significant originality of style (very different from those slight variations of the ordinary, which the French exalt as the highest originality), cannot have a poetic language, and that is how in fact it is.

  It also follows that, having nothing of its own, but having all the qualities common to other languages, and characteristic of human discourse as human discourse, it must be suited to universality above all others. And so it is in reality. (7 May 1822.)

  [2429] If you want to be praised or respected by others, you have of necessity to constantly roar into their ears, loudly and clearly, I am much better than you, in order that others may say, he is somewhat better than us, or as good as us. The reputation of each of us, of whatever sort, either generally or at least metaphorically speaking, always starts from our own mouth. If, in view of as many people as you like, you produce the most valuable and praiseworthy action or work, etc., imaginable, you are completely deceived if you think that because that action, etc., is manifest, and manifestly praiseworthy, others will open their mouths spontaneously, and begin to speak well of you. They look, and are silent forever, unless you break the silence, and have the skill or the courage to do so. Especially in these times of perfected and purified egoism. Anyone who wants to live should forget about modesty. (7 May 1822.)

  What society, what friendship, what dealings could you have with a blind and deaf person, or he with you? [2430] To whom you could not communicate any of your feelings, with either gestures nor words, nor he his to you? And as a result what communion of spirit, that is, of life and feeling, could you have with him? What sense of yourself would you think you had awakened, or ever could awaken, in his soul?1 And nonetheless you know that he lives, and furthermore lives a human life, of the same kind as yours. And he might perhaps in some way let you understand his needs, and, helped outwardly by you, or affected in another way, could have some sense of your existence, and form some idea of you. Indeed, he would certainly consider you his fellow, not that he had any certain proof of it, but precisely because of the paucity of his ideas, as children do, who always tend to believe that everything is animated, and similar in some way to them, not knowing, and being unable even faintly to conceive of any form of existence other than their own, in spite of the fact that they can see the difference in shape and external qualities.2

  [2431] Now if you nevertheless would not believe that you could have with him any or almost any society, and would not be satisfied or gratified in any way in relations with him, what should we say of the relationship that the German Romantic philosophers want the poet to suppose, indeed, to posit and create, between man and the rest of nature? Which relationship they wish by the force of imagination to be such that everything is supposed to be alive, but not as human life, indeed very different according to each type of being? Isn’t this a worse, more useless relation than that with a blind and deaf man? Who is, in the end, a man. But here although
you may believe, and poetically imagine, that things live, if you don’t assume that this life has anything in common with yours what feeling of yourself can you presume to rouse in them, or what feeling of their life can you presume to receive from them, since you are unable to conceive any form of life except your own?1 How does conceiving that nature lives help your imagination and your sensibility? What relation can your imagination create [2432] with nature in this way? Nature is blind and deaf to you, and you to it. For the feeling and innate desire of most human beings that leads them toward their like, it is not enough to conceive that things live, but rather that things live a life naturally like theirs. If this is taken away there is no society between living beings, as there cannot be between dissimilar things, and even less between things that in no way understand one another, or communicate any feeling, or exchange any sign of themselves, and can’t conceive of or form any idea of the life of one another. Between man and the animals it is not at all like this, and so there can be and is some society between him and them, and especially the more their life and spirit is similar to ours, and the more they show that they understand our affairs, and we theirs. And especially also in general because our imagination (and probably theirs, too) enters into this relation, and depicts them as much more like us than perhaps they are, and similarly we to them. [2433] Certainly there is a great affinity and resemblance between the life of animals and ours, between their passions (basically speaking) and ours, etc. An affinity and resemblance that is not found, or is not apparent, between the existence of inanimate things and ours, but that the imagination of ancient times, and the child’s, and that of more or less all periods, not seeing it, supposes and creates, and yet the good Germans do not want it to be supposed, and nevertheless want to imagine and preserve a mutual relation between man and inanimate things. (8 May 1822.)