Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  Our new illustrious language was organized and established to a sufficient degree in the 14th century, along with the new Italian civilization. This still endures and was never lost. Thus the illustrious Italian language of the 14th century was never lost, either, and still endures after a good five centuries. And those fourteenth-century writers who separated themselves more from plebeian speech and from the particular dialects, individual, or (as in [2699] Dante) mixed, such as Petrarch, Boccaccio, Passavanti, the translator of the Lives of the Fathers,1 are, except for a few scattered words or phrases, still modern to us and their language is as fresh and vivid as if it were yesterday. The difference between them and us is almost all in style and concepts. See p. 2718.

  On the other hand, languages that are not well or sufficiently organized and regulated vary continuously and in a brief time vanish almost completely, and make way for virtually new languages, even if the nation is in the same state, whether of civilization (if a civilization ever existed without an illustrious language) or of greater or lesser barbarism. Even though the Provençal language was written by many in poetry and in prose, it died completely, after a very short life, because it was not sufficiently ordered or systematized into a grammar. And, of those fourteenth-century Italians, the ones who were closest to plebeian and regional speech, whether it was Florentine or whatever, had already, like so many Florentine or Tuscan writers of chronicles or other things, long been writers of a language that was largely [2700] dead. For countless numbers of their words, phrases, forms, and constructions are no longer understood in their own regions, or seem strange there, unaccustomed, affected, antiquated, and obsolete. See Perticari, Apologia di Dante, chapter 35, and especially pp. 338–45. (17 May 1823.)

  The reason why one finds greater conformity of words and expressions with Italian in the very ancient Latin writers than in Latin writers of the golden age, and a conformity which is all the greater the more ancient the writers, is because the first writers of a language, while there is as yet no illustrious language, or one which is not sufficiently formed, separated from the plebeian, or yet become particular to writing, make use of a much greater number of plebeian words, phrases, forms, idioms, etc., than following writers do. They are in short much closer to the plebeian from which written languages of necessity start, and from which they only move away very gradually. They make use of a very great part of plebeian language which at that time is the only one in existence in the nation, or which [2701] is not sufficiently distinguished from the noble and courtly, etc., language, both because that language which is spoken (as is the courtly) always has more or less something of the plebeian, and also because at that time courtiers, etc., do not have the example and the culture which derives from national Letters and from the national written language, to make them speak much differently from the plebs. Now the only language which the first writers of a language can follow and take up, is the spoken, since the written does not yet exist. And since Italian and its sister languages do not derive from written Latin but from spoken, and this for the most part not illustrious, but principally from the plebeian and vulgar, there follows the close conformity of these languages of ours with the most ancient and earliest Latin writers. See a passage from Tiraboschi in Perticari, Apologia di Dante, chapter 43, p. 430. (20 May 1823.)

  [2702] The substance of sloth is not, properly speaking, tiring actions, but those, whether tiring or not, in which there is no pleasure at the time, or we might say the idea of pleasure. No one is slothful about eating or drinking. Study is an extremely tiring thing. But if someone experiences pleasure in it, even though he is slothful in everything else, he will not be slothful in study, rather he will labor whole days in study. And perhaps the majority of people who are completely studious are lazy, and yet in study they work and toil continuously. The purpose of man’s thoughts and actions is always and only pleasure. But the means of achieving what man suggests to himself as pleasure sometimes possess pleasure in themselves, sometimes not. These last are the substance of sloth, even though they require very little effort, even though the pleasure to which they would lead is very close and very ready and very certain, even though the individual thinks very highly of this pleasure and desires it, even if finally the purpose to which these means lead is necessary or very [2703] useful in obtaining other pleasures. So someone abstains from appearing at a feast (where he thinks he would take pleasure in being present) so as not to have to smarten himself up, and if he were in good order, or he had not been asked to smarten himself up, he would have gone to the feast, which indeed was a close and ready pleasure, which could certainly have been obtained with an hour of very little effort. So sloth also holds one back from the efforts that are necessary to procure food and drink, because they in themselves do not contain pleasure. So too of a hundred other useful actions, that is, ones which more or less quickly lead to pleasure (since this is the meaning of utility), but are not pleasurable in themselves. And all the more so the further away is the pleasure which they procure, and the more arduous, longer, and less pleasurable they are. (20 May 1823.)

  The popular word bobò which to us means a bogey to frighten children similar to the μορμὼ [bogey] of the Greeks, to the Lammie [fairies, witches] of the Latins, etc. [2704] (see my Saggio sugli errori popolari),1 is no more than a substantive formed by the two words bau bau (with the usual change of au to o), or rather the two substantive words themselves, reduced to the meaning of a person or specter which utters those words bau bau. These are very ancient words and common to the Greeks who used them to express the barking of dogs, and therefore formed the verb βαΰζɛιν [to bark], to the Latins who created from them in the same sense the verb baubari, and to us who have formed baiare and then abbaiare (unless these verbs come from the Latin one mentioned above), whence ancient French abaïer and the modern aboyer for which verbs see Richelet’s Dictionary. See also pp. 2811–13. But from expressing the sound of dogs, the words bau bau passed to mean a word to frighten children. See the Crusca under Bau. Thence our Bobò personal noun. For the French, bobo is equally a child’s word which means un petit mal [a slight injury], that is what our nursemaids call bua, which [2705] word was also used by Latin nursemaids, but with a different meaning, that is with the meaning of the word bumbù, as ours say, or as the Crusca says, bombo [drinkie]. See Forcellini. The Glossaries have nothing to say on the subject. (20 May 1823.)

  Concerning some causes which even in a late period might lead to the introduction of Greek words and phrases into the vernacular language or languages of Italy, see Perticari, Apologia di Dante, chapter 39, p. 386.1 (21 May 1823.)

  On ancient Vulgar Latin, see Perticari, Degli scrittori del Trecento, bk. 1, chs. 5, 6, 7. (21 May 1823.)

  It is a sad thing that philosophers and people who seek to be useful to humanity or nations, in order to destroy an error or uproot an abuse are obliged to spend that time which they could have employed in teaching or propagating some new truth, or in introducing or spreading some good usage.2 And in truth at first sight a book may appear unworthy of a great [2706] intellect, and of little use, or, if nothing else, only to be placed in the second or third class in the order of useful books, if its entire utility is reduced to destroying one or several errors. (Such are, e.g., Perticari’s two Treatises and the whole of Monti’s Proposta.) But if we look more carefully, we will find that the advances of the human mind, and of each individual in particular, consist for the most part in becoming aware of our past errors. And the great discoveries in the main are nothing more than discoveries of great errors, which if they had not happened, neither would the former (which are called discoveries of great truths) have taken place, nor would the philosophers who made them have had any renown. I say the same about the great benefits brought to customs, practices, etc. They are, in the main, nothing other than corrections of great abuses. The human mind is full to the brim with errors, human life with bad practices. The first and most important part of the benefits which men can be g
iven consists in disabusing them of their illusions and correcting them, rather than in teaching [2707] and instilling good behavior, although the former operations very often, in fact normally, are given the name of the latter. The majority of books, universally described as useful, ancient or modern, are not and never were useful, except insofar as they destroyed or destroy errors, castigated or castigate abuses. In short their utility does not in the main consist in putting things in but in taking them out, either from minds or from life. An enormous number of our errors which have been or are yet to be discovered, are or were so natural, so universal, so hidden, so proper to the common way of seeing, that to discover them required or requires wisdom of the highest order, a supreme sharpness and acuteness of intellect, a far-ranging erudition, in short a great genius. What is Locke’s principal discovery, if not the fallacy of innate ideas? Yet what perspicacity of intellect, what profundity and assiduousness of observation, what refinement of reasoning was [2708] necessary in order to become aware of this illusion of men, extremely universal as it was, extremely natural, extremely ancient, indeed born in the human race, and always nascent in each individual, together with the first reflections of thought upon itself, and the first use of logic? And yet what an infinite chain of errors was born from this principle! A great number of which still exist, and in philosophers themselves, even though the principle has been destroyed. But the consequences of that destruction are still very little recognized (with regard to their extent and multiplicity), and the great advances which the human mind ought to make as a consequence of and by virtue of this destruction must not themselves consist in anything other than continuing to destroy.

  Descartes destroyed the errors of the peripatetics. In this he was great, and the human mind owes a large part of its modern advances to the removal of illusion brought by Descartes. But when he wanted to teach and construct, what was his [2709] positive system? Would he be great, if his glory rested on the edifice erected by him, instead of on the ruins of that of the peripatetics?1 We can argue similarly about Newton, whose positive system, which is already tottering in the schools as well, has never for true and profound philosophers been capable of being anything other than a hypothesis, and a fable, as Plato called his system of ideas, and the other particular or secondary or subordinate systems imagined, expounded, and followed by him.2 (21 May 1823.)

  Comparing ancient philosophy with modern, one finds that the latter is so much superior to the former, principally because ancient philosophers were all trying to teach and construct, whereas modern philosophy normally only sweeps away illusions and demolishes.3 And if the ancients did do this from time to time, there was not one of them who did not consider it his duty and business to create a substitute. See p. 3649. In this way too Descartes and Newton acted at the beginning of the restoration of philosophy. But modern philosophers, [2710] always removing, substitute nothing. And this is the true way of philosophizing, not however, as is said, because the weakness of our intellect prevents us from finding the positive truth, but because in effect the recognition of what is true is nothing other than stripping oneself of errors, and most wise indeed is he who is capable of seeing the things which are before his very eyes, without attributing to them qualities which they do not have. Nature is fully displayed before us, naked and open. To know it well there is no need to lift any veil covering it.1 What is needed is to remove the impediments and distortions which are in our eyes and in our intellect, and these created and caused for us by ourselves with our reasoning. So it is that the most simple know the most. For simplicity, as a German philosopher says (Wieland)2 is extremely subtle, so that children and the most virgin savages outdo in wisdom the most erudite persons, that is, people whose minds are most mixed up with extraneous elements. [2711] From this comes confirmation of that principle of mine that the height of wisdom is to know its own uselessness, and how men would indeed be very wise if wisdom had never been born. And that its greatest utility, or at least its first and proper purpose, consists in leading the human intellect back (if that is possible) as near as can be to the state in which it existed before wisdom was born.1 And what I say here about the intellect, I say elsewhere [→Z 448–50, 491–94, 2668–69], and I say it again here, also with regard to life, and to everything which pertains to man, and which has any relationship whatsoever to wisdom. (21 May 1823.)

  Ancient philosophers followed speculation, imagination, and reasoning. The modern follow observation and experience. (And this is the big difference between ancient and modern philosophy.) Now the more they observe the more errors they discover in men, more or less ancient, more or less universal, proper to the people, to philosophers, or both. Thus the human mind makes advances, and all the discoveries based on the bare observation of things [2712] do hardly anything but convince us of our errors, and of the false opinions accepted by us and formed and created by our own process of reasoning, whether natural or cultivated and (as is said) educated. Further than this one cannot go. Every step forward of modern philosophy eradicates an error. It does not plant any truth (except that that name is constantly given to propositions, dogmas, systems which are in substance negative). Therefore if man had not erred, he would have already been supremely wise, and reached that goal toward which modern philosophy proceeds with so much sweat and difficulty. But he who does not reason, does not err. Therefore he who does not reason, or as the French would say, does not think, is supremely wise. Therefore men were supremely wise before the birth of wisdom, and of reasoning about things: and the child is supremely wise, and the savage of California, who does not know thinking.1 (21 May 1823.)

  I have said that modern philosophy, in place of the errors which it extirpates, plants no [2713] positive truth. I mean truths which are simply new, truths of which there were some need, which had some value, some splendor, which were worth announcing and affirming, which were not entirely frivolous and puerile, which were not extremely evident and self-consistent, if the contrary errors had not taken place, or did not exist today in the minds of men. For instance modern philosophy affirms that all man’s ideas come from the senses. This could appear a positive proposition. But it would be frivolous, if the error of innate ideas had not existed, as it would be frivolous to affirm that the sun warms because no one has believed that the sun does not warm, or affirmed that the sun chills. But if the latter had happened, then not even that truth or proposition, that the sun warms, would be considered frivolous. Moreover the intention and the spirit of that proposition, that all our ideas come from the [2714] senses, is in truth negative, and it is as if the proposition stated “Man receives no idea except through the medium of the senses” because it aims expressly and solely to exclude that ancient positive proposition that man receives some ideas through a different medium from that of the senses, and it has been dictated by the keen speculation of one who on looking closely into his own intellect becomes aware that no idea has ever reached it except through the ministry of the senses. This is a completely negative procedure, both in the discovery that it makes and in the enunciation of that discovery, because in fact from the beginning that truth was announced as the negation of the contrary error which still existed. You can argue the same about an infinite number of other propositions or dogmas, etc., of modern philosophy, which have the appearance of positives, but which in their spirit, their substance, their scope, and the process which the philosopher has used to discover them, are, or certainly originally [2715] were, negative. (22 May 1823.)

  Perticari, Degli scrittori del Trecento, bk. 2, ch. 2, pp. 106–107 has the Italian noun carogna [carrion] derive from an ancient Greek word. (22 May 1823.)

  On the subject of those in the 16th century who wanted to restrict the language of Italian poetry to that used by Petrarch, and prose solely to that used by Boccaccio, see Perticari, Degli scrittori del Trecento, bk. 2, ch. 12, p. 178, with the parallels he draws there with Greek and Latin writers, and Apologia di Dante, ch. 41, pp. 407–10. (23 May 1823.)

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bsp; I have said elsewhere [→Z 787ff.] that the French language, poor in forms, is nevertheless very rich and becoming increasingly richer in words. I make a distinction. French is poor in synonyms, but extremely rich in words denoting every sort of things and ideas, and every minimal part of each thing and each idea. It cannot vary a great deal in the expression of a thing in itself, but it can express in varied ways the most varied and diverse things. Which we cannot do, although we can repeat [2716] the things we have already said in a hundred ways. But certainly that writing which can always be exact is always varied, because for every new thing for which it needs to find a meaning, it has its own word different from the others to indicate the meaning. Indeed this is the most true, the most substantial, the most intimate, the most important, and also the most agreeable variety of language in writings. And those which are written in a language which is overflowing with synonyms are little varied in the main, because the excessive number of words leads to each writer, in order to give meaning to each object, choosing from the many one or two words at the most, and becoming familiar with it and adopting it every time he needs to find a meaning for the same object. And so each author in that language has his own small vocabulary different from that of the others, and limited, as elsewhere I have said happens to Greek and Italian writers [→Z 244–45, 2630–32]. And I observe that although [2717] Greek is much more varied than Latin, nevertheless for this reason Greek writings, especially those of the best and original writers, are less varied than Latin in relation to words and expressions. (23 May 1823.) See p. 2755.