Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  Ideas are enclosed and as if bound up in words, like gems in rings, in fact they are incarnated like the soul in the body, making with them a kind of person, so that the ideas are inseparable from the words, and when they are separated they are no longer ideas, they escape the intellect and conception, and are not recognized, as would happen to our soul if it were separated from the body.1 (27 July 1822.)

  [2585] I have elsewhere [→Z 1432–33, 1455–56] compared man’s intellectual organs to the external ones, and in particular to the hand, and demonstrated that, as this does not have by nature any faculty (in fact at the start it’s inept at the easiest and most ordinary operations), so the intellectual organs have none, but only the disposition toward or possibility of gaining them, and this more or less according to individuals. In the same way I do not doubt that if we turned our mind to it, we would find many differences of capacity also in man’s external organs, e.g., the hand, not only in relation to the different habits, and greater or lesser exercise of that organ, but naturally, and independently of anything that has been acquired; as happens in intellects, which are naturally more or less adaptable, and disposed [2586] to habituation, that is, to learning. And perhaps we might attribute to these differences the extreme and astonishing inability of some, who cannot (even if they try) learn to do with their hands what most men do every day without paying attention or thinking about it, and the equally astonishing facility with which others learn without studying and very quickly perform the most difficult manual operations, which most men don’t know how to do or can only do slowly and with attention. It’s true that one finds much less individual difference between the generic capability of the hand of this person and that than between the capabilities of various intellects. But this is because one way or another everyone uses the hand, and this gives it and gains for it a certain ability [2587] and capacity of habituation: not so the intellect. And broadly speaking the variation in the working of different intellects is much greater than that in the working of the hand of different individuals. A difference that is not natural, and does not have to do with the native dispositions of those organs. (28 July, Sunday, 1822.)

  The use of the word termine [term] is very frequent and widespread in Italian and Spanish, especially in the plural, a word which has different meanings according to how it is applied. (These involve for the most part condition, state, being as a substantive, or something similar.) See the Crusca. Not so in written Latin, where the word has the force only of border or limit, etc. But see Forcellini on the last example of the word, which is from Plautus, a phrase that is entirely Italian and Spanish, and which can demonstrate that in Vulgar Latin the word had either all or some of the same usages that it has in those two languages. See if Du Cange has anything. See also the Alberti French dictionary, Terme, at the end. (29 July 1822.)

  [2588] To a young man who, in love with his studies, said that you learn a hundred pages a day about how to live, and the practical knowledge of men, so-and-so answered “but the book” (but this book) “has 15 or 20 million pages.” (30 July 1822.)

  From coquere [to cook] we say cocere (which for more softness, and out of Italian correctness, is written cuocere), with the root qu changed to c, likewise a root. That this letter was a root from ancient times we can grasp from the word praecox (that is, praecocs) praecocis [premature], which (stripped of the preposition prae) perhaps contains the root of coquere. And many other colloquial pronunciations of words derived from Latin might perhaps be shown to be very old with similar observations about their roots (either already known or discoverable), about related words, etc. (30 July 1822.) See Forcellini Coquo, Praecox, etc., and the Glossary.

  From what I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 1072–75, 1101–102, 1394–99] about numbers, etc., we can deduce that animals, not having language, are not capable of conceiving of fixed, etc., quantities, except very small ones, and that is not for want of intelligence, or insufficient or poor understanding, but for the essential reason stated above. (30 July 1822.) Whence the idea of the fixed quantity (although it is utterly material) belongs exclusively to man.

  [2589] Greek literature was for a long time (in fact a very long time) the only one in the world (well known at the time), and Latin (when it arose) was not naturally esteemed by the Greeks, since it derived completely from the Greek, and much less was it imitated by them. Precisely as the French hardly deign to know or even think of imitating Russian or Swedish literature, or English literature of the time of Anne,1 all of which originated from theirs. So, too, the Greek language was the only one formed and cultivated in what was at the time the known world (since, e.g., India was not well known). Naturally, for these reasons, Greek literature and the Greek language were preserved uncorrupted for a long time, and no other example of equal duration is known. As far as the language is concerned, I’ve already discussed it elsewhere [→Z 996–98, 1093–94, 2408–10]. As for literature, aside from Homer, the duration of Greek literature is prodigious not only in its being uncorrupted but also in its being in a state of creativeness. From Pindar, Herodotus, Anacreon, Sappho, Mimnermus, the other lyric poets, etc., it continues uninterrupted up to Demosthenes, except that, from the time of Thucydides to that of Demosthenes it is limited to Athens alone, owing to [2590] circumstances that now is not the moment to explain. See Velleius, bk. 1, end.1 Once the sophists appeared, in fact proliferated and grew up, and Greek literature (not the language) began to degenerate (especially because of the loss of freedom, starting with Alexander, that is, from Demosthenes on), after a very short interval it arose again in Sicily and Egypt, and still was almost in a state of creativeness. Theocritus, Callimachus, Apollonius of Rhodes, etc. Once it stops being creative, and Greek literature is declared the imitator and offspring of itself, that is, has become (as always happens in the long run) the study and imitation of its own ancient classics, the fact that these classics were its own, and this imitation was of itself, preserves it from corruption, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Polybius, and all the φορὰ [flowering] of Greek writers contemporaneous with classical Latin literature emerge very pure in style and language. They are part of this group, and are altogether a φορὰ of imitators of ancient Greek literature, of that enduring φορὰ of classical Greek writers that I call a creative φορὰ. After Latin literature [2591] had already been corrupted, and exploited and weakened, Greek survives its daughter and pupil, and if it produces an Aristeides, a Herodes Atticus,1 and other such rhetoricians worthless with respect to style (not barbarous, however, and very pure with respect to language), nevertheless it’s enriched by an Arrian, a Plutarch, a Lucian, etc., who, although they were imitators, still know how to write so well, and handle the style and the language, ancient or modern, that they almost give it back, in part, the faculty of being creative. Add that at that time Greece, with its literature and language uncorrupted, was a servant, and Italy, with its bastardized and impoverished literature and language, the mistress. (30 July 1822.)

  The history of every language is the history of those who spoke or speak it, and the history of languages is the history of the human mind. (L’histoire de chaque langue est l’histoire des peuples qui l’ont parlée ou qui la parlent, et l’histoire des langues est l’histoire de l’esprit humain.)2 (31 July, Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola, 1822.)

  [2592] Concerning the etymology of favellare [to speak]: “The other two words are favellare and cicalare [to chatter]: the first is to tell favole [stories, fables]; and cicalare is the cigolare [squeaking] of birds.” Cellini, “Discorso sopra la differenza nata tra gli Scultori e Pittori circa il luogo destro stato dato alla Pittura nelle Essequie del gran Michelagnolo Bonarroti,” end. Benvenuto Cellini, Opere, Milan 1806–11, vol. 3, p. 261.1 He discusses three words that are used in the Tuscan language to express speaking, and the first mentioned by Cellini is ragionare [to reason], which is what he says he intends to do, not favellare or cicalare. (2 August, Feast of the Pardon of Assisi, 1822.)2

  The stars, the plan
ets, etc., are called more or less beautiful according to whether they shine more or less brightly. Likewise the sun and the moon according to whether they are clear and bright. This so-called beauty does not belong to the investigation of the beautiful, and means only that what is bright, by nature, pleases our eye, and rejoices the mind, etc. etc. (3 August 1822.)

  For p. 2581, margin. Among the ancient languages, Greek not only had an infinite number of writers before it had a grammar but even before any known grammar. Hence its inexhaustible richness, and its absolute omnipotence. As for the Latin language, in [2593] truth I wouldn’t say that it had Dictionaries (although it might have had numerous lists of names, etc., as Greek in time had its books called ᾿Αττικισταὶ, etc. etc.),1 and certainly had many writers before its grammar (if we were to place Cicero among them, we can be certain that they were the best). But it already had grammar in that of the Greek language, and, by studying the principles of that language, in the schools, etc. (something the Greeks had never done with another language in the world), the Latins necessarily learned the universal rules of grammar and the precise analysis of language, and applied all that to their language, not to mention the innumerable books of Greek grammar that existed from the time of the Ptolemies onward. Hence the Latin language, though ancient, ended up less free and less varied than any other. Whereas the Italian language, whose early writers knew nothing of the analysis of language (since they didn’t study another language and grammar, such as Latin, much or at all), became, for a modern language, similar in richness and omnipotence to Greek. The German language truly has a [2594] grammar, but I don’t know how much it is respected by German writers, or, rather, as the number of exceptions exceed the rules, the latter come to be illusory, and all the grammarian can do is chase here and there after the writers, to see and take note of how they write. Further, it does not have a dictionary that is recognized as authoritative, and this in a modern language is very conducive to the language’s richness, power, freedom. (4 August 1822.)

  I have said elsewhere [→Z 111, 950–52, 1704–706] that the Greek words in our languages are merely terms (depending, however, on the time when they were introduced: e.g., filosofia and other such Greek words that came to us through Latin are somewhat more than terms), that is, they express a pure idea, with no other concomitant. For this very reason, besides the ones noted elsewhere, Greek words are infinitely suitable in our schools and sciences, because they consistently and clearly represent that bare, dry, and simple idea for which they were appropriated, and because they serve precision [2595] much better than words taken from our own languages ever can, for those words, even if they were newly formed, compounded, etc., would always carry with them some concomitant idea. But for this same reason Greek words are intolerable in fine literature (and barbarous in poetry, although the French think that introducing them is a gift both precious and charming), where dry, bare ideas are intolerable, or the dry and bare expression of ideas. (6 August 1822.)

  Add to what I said elsewhere [→Z 2455–56] about that line of Alfieri, “Disinventore od inventor del nulla” [“Disinventor, or inventor of nothing”]. This precisely is the marvelous capacity of the Greek language, that it expresses easily, without effort, without affectation, fully and clearly, in a single word, ideas that other languages sometimes cannot properly or entirely express in any way, not only in one word but even in more than one. And Greek achieves this solely by means of its immense capacity for compounds.

  [2596] How great the influence of opinion and habituation is even on the senses I have noted elsewhere [→Z 1733] using the example of taste, though it seems one of the senses most unlikely to be influenced except by physical experiences. I’ll add a clear proof. I well recall that as a boy I in fact liked everything that was praised by those who fed me (for whatever motive they might have) as good, and, indeed, it seemed to me to taste good. Many of those things, which in fact, according to most people’s taste, are bad, I now not only don’t like but dislike. And yet my taste for these foods didn’t change suddenly, but gradually, that is, as my mind became accustomed to judge for itself, and grew independent from the judgment and opinion of others, and from the prejudice that influences sensation. This habituation, which is typical of man, and is very general, may seem ridiculous, yet it’s very true to say that it is influential even in these minutiae, and determines the palate’s judgment [2597] of the sensations that are offered to it, and changes that judgment from what it used to be before it was habituated. In short, everything in man needs to be formed, even the palate: and so it is easily observed that a boy’s judgment of flavors, and of the merits and defects of foods in relation to taste, is uncertain, confused, and imperfect; and that in many, in fact most, cases boys do not at all feel either the pleasure that, on becoming men, they feel in tasting this or that food, or the displeasure in tasting this or that other. I leave aside country people, and people who are used to eating little, or badly, or limited kinds of food, whose judgment about flavors (or rather the feeling they experience in relation to them) is not much less imperfect and suspect than that of boys. All because of lack of exercise of the palate.

  Besides, what I’ve said of myself undoubtedly happens to all of us, and each will surely remember it. Because although not everyone, growing up, frees himself from the influence of prejudice, [2598] and acquires, generally speaking, the habit of judging for himself, yet, when it comes to physical sensations it’s unlikely that anyone will fail to acquire such a habit, since it’s something that all minds are capable of. Nonetheless even this is relative to intellects, and greater or lesser adaptability, and I have specifically seen men of little, or little exercised, talent remaining satisfied for a long time with the bad flavors and foods that they had been pointed to in childhood. And I have seen few men whose mind from childhood on made notable progress, few, I mean, have I seen, who with food as well did not almost entirely change their taste from what it was when they were children.

  Yet still the external senses might be not very adaptable in a man of very adaptable intelligence. But it can be seen that in reality this seldom happens, and for the most part the nature of individuals (like that of the species and of races, and like universal nature) closely corresponds in each of its parts. [2599] And in this case particularly it’s very natural, since adaptability is nothing but greater or lesser delicacy of organs and structure; and it’s unlikely that you would find any totally crude, hard, and inflexible organs in an individual who is delicately formed in his other parts.1 As in fact the physicists observe that man (of whose supreme adaptability of mind we speak elsewhere [→Z 1370–72, 1452–53, 1718]) is likewise of all the animals the most capable of habituation, and the most adaptable in his body. That is why the human race lives in all climates, and the same individual in various climates, etc., unlike the other animals, plants, etc. Count Paoli pointed this out to me in Florence. (6 August 1822.)

  Uniformity is a sure cause of boredom. Uniformity is boredom, and boredom uniformity. There are many kinds of uniformity. There is also the uniformity produced by continuous variety, and this, too, causes boredom, as I’ve said elsewhere and proved by examples [→Z 51]. There is the continuousness of this or that pleasure, whose continuousness is uniformity, and so also boredom, although its subject is pleasure. Those foolish poets who saw that descriptions in poetry are pleasing and reduced poetry to continuous description have taken away the pleasure, and replaced it with boredom (like the great modern foreign poets they call descriptive). And I have seen people of no literature eagerly read the Aeneid [2600] (translated into their language), which seemingly can’t be appreciated by those who are not experts, and throw away the Metamorphoses after the first books, though it seems to be written for those who wish to be entertained with little trouble. You see what Homer says in the person of Menelaus: “There is sufficiency of all things, music, sleep,” etc.1 The continuing of pleasures (even if they are very different from one another) or of things scarcely differe
nt from pleasures is also uniformity, and so boredom, and so the enemy of pleasure. And since happiness consists in pleasure, so continuous pleasure (whatever the pleasure) is by nature harmful to happiness, since it is harmful and destructive of pleasure. Nature has achieved in all ways the happiness of animals. So it has had to keep from animals and forbid them continuous pleasure. (Further, we have often seen how Nature has fought against boredom in all ways possible, and abhors it as the ancients thought it abhorred a vacuum.)2 See how ills come to be necessary to happiness itself, and take on the true and real essence [2601] of goods in the general order of nature, especially since indifferent things, that is, those that are neither goods nor ills, are in themselves causes of boredom, as I have shown elsewhere [→Z 1554–55], and, further, do not disrupt pleasure, and so do not destroy uniformity so keenly and fully as ills do, and alone can do. Whereas the convulsions of the elements and other such things that cause suffering and the ill of fear in man, natural or civilized, and likewise in animals, etc., and infirmities and a hundred other ills which living beings cannot avoid, even in the primitive state (although one by one these ills are random, perhaps their type and universality is not), are recognized as conducive, and in a certain way necessary, to the happiness of living creatures, and so are rightly contained and placed and welcomed in the natural order, which aims in all ways at the said happiness. And that is not only because those ills put the goods into relief, and because one enjoys health more after illness and calm after a storm,1 but because without those ills goods [2602] would not even be good for long, for they would become boring, and not be enjoyed, or felt as goods and pleasures, and since the sensation of pleasure, as truly pleasurable, cannot last long, etc. (7 August 1822.)